Books

I invite them to Phu Bai. We stood in the shade of the old small faded airport building. It’s a clear memory of my arrival when I was a green nineteen. I needed to see and feel the area again.

I’ve carried a copy of Omar’s book, A Century Is Nothing from Turkey to Indonesia to Nam. I considered making a sacrifice in Nam. Burn it.

First thought, pure thought, said a Zen monk.

Together with Omar we used fire, crucible alchemical combinations, diversities, sweat, blood and tears to create it so I’d use fire to release it.

Save books, build a library.

Books are universes of ideas, experiences, feelings, visions and paths, destinations obliterated through discovery, reminding memory. They are worlds of dreams, stories, dramas, plays, songs, histories and guides into new visceral experiences.

Pages sing their laughter with wisdom, song, and poetry. Grow Your Soul.

Live forever with paper’s tactile sensation. Voices of reason, comedy and tragedy are skintight drum stories. They are oral transmissions recorded on parchment, vellum and illustrated manuscripts in Gaelic talking tongues, etched on Sumerian clay and painted on Asian scrolls.

I didn’t burn it. Down the road I gifted the brick to three Asian women passing through Saigon in late 2009. They had Chinese ancestry from Hong Kong and lived in Australia. I said a blind friend named Omar wrote it so I signed it laughing letting it go with them.

Thanks for the book.

You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy it.

It took all three to carry it. They staggered up guesthouse stairs with the epic opus. After breaking down a wall they struggled to get it through an opening.

People need to break down before they break through.

They discarded cheap Vietnamese souvenirs to maneuver the monster into a bag. We’ll have to check this beast all the way to Sydney.

People use words to make walls, said Zeynep.

People use words to make bridges, said Rita.

Bridges over walls, said Devina. It’s a mind map.

Show someone a rectangle, said Z. Ask them is this a door or a wall?

When you build a wall think of all the things you leave outside, said Tran.

Yes, said Leo who knew a lot about dynasties and firewalls.

Some veterans return to Europe, Korea, Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia and the South Pacific. Others remember to forget or forget to remember returning in their memories, dreams, reflections, flashbacks and nightmares. Some write it down and make sense of it later.

Don’t try. Do.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you.

– Heraclitus (c. 540–480 BCE)

Train to Hue

A friendly grandfather, grandmother and their g-daughter are on the train going to Saigon to visit friends and relatives. Born in Hanoi, she’s been studying in Czechoslovakia for seven years. Sprawling Hanoi is new for her.

We roll though night lulled by the rhythm of click-clack rail language. At 4 a.m. a bone white moon dances with clouds and silent stars over rice paddies, forests and black mountains.

I went to the dining car for java at dawn. I saw a Hobbit inside a dark blue hooded sweatshirt framing wisps of brown hair, angular face and perfection facing a woman.

Wow you are a beautiful elf, I said. She looked up, smiling. Thank you.

I join her and her mom. They were away from Switzerland for five weeks, doing the SE Asia circuit. Simone, 19, is sincere and direct with piercing green eyes. She will begin a Hotel & Tourism management school in Zurich in the fall. She’s been traveling the planet since the age of two.

Her mom is a journalist and businesswoman. No nonsense. World wise. She leaves to find her husband.

We talk about the hospitality business and attention to detail. It’s called MBWA, I said, Management by walking around. I worked in Hyatt, Shangri-La and Ramada International operations. It’s about guest service and marketing. Get out of your office and on the floor. Get a head in the bed.

I’m really excited to learn so much, she said. You will make an excellent General Manager. I hope so, if I do I will give you a meal and bed.

 

Her stepfather wanders in after dreaming. He’s a professional cellist, teacher, diver and photographer. We talk about music. The cello is closest to the human voice, he said. In an opera when the music drops in a romantic or high drama point it’s the cello you hear. He mentions Jackie Du Pre and her genius. She did it all at 42 yeah, it’s strange for me and other professional musicians, after the performance and all the applause it feels so strange to return to a hotel room alone.

We met by chance on purpose with destiny dancing in the wood paneled dining car, a memory of an era with slow meandering train travel.

Hue was the ancient imperial capital of Vietnam from 1802 to 1945. We walked to the Citadel near the Perfume River and across a bridge toward long walled interiors. It’s filled with exhibits, temples, rooms, black and white photographs, art objects and paintings. One image shows an arena where they staged fights between elephants and tigers.

It rains heavy and the women disappear. Sam and I shelter under a pagoda roof with a young Vietnamese couple. She teaches poetry. Sam asked her to tell us a poem.

Thunder & Lightning. She jumps. Rain pours on fields, old marbled stones inside green.

Initially shy she recites a poem. It is musical and mysterious. It is about love and two people missing each other. Her voice is strong. She feels this poem through her, it is her life and history, all the creation stories and songs and poetry she learned growing up. Her voice is angelic. Her melody, rhythm and voice flows as rain thunders. Lightning flashes and dances. We applaud her performance. She is retiring, relieved.

Sam and I sing and perform Singing In The Rain for them, circling around stone pillars, twirling with the lyrics, feeling the music. Rain dance. They laugh.

The intensity of the rain slows. We walk through drizzle. The sun reflects diamonds off stones inside shallow water pools. Prussian blue skies decorate mountains. Sun drenched fields lie emerald green. A solitary gray elephant stands near a banyan tree anticipating a golden stalking tiger.

We walk over a bridge, over a river, over a world.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Hue

The House of the Artist at Night with 12 Emotions.

30 word breaths whisper leaves turning color,

invisible memory dialects dance mysteries,

open hand women embroider,

30 tourists with guidebooks in wheelchairs

behind a white haired woman in a rickshaw dawns attention spans,

30 single minded awareness diamond minded white butterflies flutter,

Perfume Rivers flow women laughing at unknown potentials,

30 singing girls on 30 bikes under 30 trees on 30 paths,

30 lightning bolts escape 30 clouds inside 30 central nervous systems. three o

Jumping Thunder

"Find whatever freedom it is that you need or whatever freedom from need that you seek" - a post on Hanoian from a writer in the Botanical Garden. Everyone lives in their personal garden, visible, secret, serene and portable.

Now then. From the notebook extolling recent Hue travel. On our first afternoon in Hue, Joe, Andi, Isabella and I walked to the Citadel. It sits along the Perfume River, long walled enclosures. It's huge with many exhibits, temples and rooms filled with photographs, art objects and paintings. Old images show an arena where they staged fights between elephants and tigers. 

It rains heavy and the girls disappear. Joe and I take shelter under a pagoda roof with a young couple.

She teaches poetry. Joe asks her to tell us a poem. Thunder. Lightning. She jumps. Rain pours on fields, old marbled stone stones, inside green. Initially she is shy, then she recites a poem. It is musical and mysterious. It is about love, about two people missing each other. Her voice is strong. She feels this poem through her, it is her life, history, all the stories and songs and poetry she learned growing up surrounded by friends and family.

She gets into it. Her voice is an angel. Her melody, rhythm and voice flow as the thundering rain and lightning flashes and dances.

We applaud her performance. She is retiring, relieved. Joe and I perform "Singing In The Rain," for them, circling around stone pillars, twirling with the words, feeling the music. Rain dance. They laugh.

The intensity of the rain slows down and we all walk through the drizzle. Say farewell.

The sun comes out, reflecting diamond light on stones inside shallow water pools. Deep dark blue skies fill the air above mountains. The sun drenched fields are an amazing brilliant shade of green.

We walk over the bridge, over the river.

Metta.

Augustus Firstus

Greetings,

A heavy rain greeted train SE4 arriving in Ha Noi at 0544 this morning. I rolled out of the upper berth, said farewell to the parents with two little girls dressed like elves in purple prose and hit the bricks. The area was swarming with taxi hustlers and motorcycle drivers.

The last 10 days were celebrated in Hue, Hoi An and points in between. The food was excellent; landscapes, temples, pagodas and ancient historical artifacts were inspiring; however, as in all travels, it's always the people, the amazing diversity of characters who make it real, alive and meaningful.

Finished reading The Road...

Now on The Time Traveler's Wife...

I am a time traveler without a wife.

I edit 500 images and journal words.

Follow your heart.

Metta.