Pedal Red Road by Rita

Rita pedals her New Star bike into Siem Reap for ice java. Cold and delicious.

Men playing chess slap wooden pieces, gesticulate & yell at high decibels.

On the idiot box in a tea house Thai kick boxers pummel each other with knees and gloves and violent fury to the endless delight of millions suffering displaced latent aggression.

WHAMO. KILL HIM. KILL HIM. YES.

Saturday and Sunday afternoons at 2 p.m. features local boys and men screaming at a TV, Kill Him. Kill Him. Kill Him.

Fernando Pessoa

Idle men playing cards sit with their backs to a river in the shade of empty white tourist vans waiting for bodies brushing dust. Looking busy is fun.

She pedals across a bridge over a wide brown river bisecting the town. She goes to a car wash business with a small restaurant. The woman owner is pleasant and happy with high cheekbones. Pregnant with her second child. She employs four kitchen kids and six for the car wash. Her husband is a driver. He sleeps in a green hammock. She plays cards with the workers.

The car wash business has two raised cement bays for cars. Today it is empty.

Rita eats a simple meal of wide egg noodles, carrots, bamboo shoots, pork and eggs.

A car wash boy wears a green sarong towel. He lays his one white shirt on a rusty brown cement platform. He scrubs his shirt with a bar of soap, turns on the high-pressure hose blasting flying soap from the shirt. He rinses it.

He walks over to a metal rack shakes out his best shirt and hangs it up. He adjusts the collar and fixes the top button. He slaps water out of a yellow t-shirt, a small towel, another dark shirt and hangs them.

He owns two pairs of long dark pants. He turns them inside out on hangers to dry in tropical heat. He disappears behind a green plastic screen for a nap. No cars today. Dreaming in dust he hears hysterical males across the river of time yelling, Kill Him. Kill Him. Kill Him.

Culture is what you are. Nature is what you can be.

Down south two French women arrive at the Blissful Guesthouse in Kampot. Kampot is famous for pepper and old decrepit French colonial buildings filled with literary hooks along a river flowing to the sea and packs of vicious starving canines.

It took Iraqi gunmen three months to kill 58,000 stray dogs in Baghdad after the war.

A traveler writing in a bougainvillea garden said to the women, Welcome to Paradise.

Is this paradise, said one woman.

Paradise is wherever you are, said traveler.

One woman with a cloud of white hair smiled, You give us a great power.

You already have the power, said traveler. You are a light warrior.

We can talk about that later.

I am a now not a later.

They went to reception. There were no rooms. They wheeled their bags through sands of time. They discussed life’s vagaries in fluent French while laughing at the absurdity of it all with existential wisdom.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged
 

Hand Luggage by a Nurse

The Australian nurses prepared to return home to family, friends and medical school after three weeks on Ground Zero living short-term personal evolutionary variables of medical, emotional and scientific truths.

Before leaving one arranged her heavy deep real life changing Cambodian experience in her hand luggage. She wondered, How can I get my entire heavy deep real humbling life changing experience into this very tiny bag?

This serious question troubled her for a second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year and remaining sweet existence. It’s her experience. She knows it’s impossible to check it all the way through. She will have to carry it. 

She assembles it on the floor along with fragrant spices, Khmer cotton cloth decorated with elephants and yellow silk scarves.

Her profound experience is a poor slum village near Siem Reap. She loves everyone there because she lived with them. She took care of the people. She held them. She gave children medicine and water. She cried herself to sleep every night. She suffered from nightmares surrounded by dying crying children, Save me Save me.

One woman in the village takes care of sixteen children.

Thirsty, hungry, exhausted sick children, women and men exist.

She puts the survivors of this one little village into her bag. She discards everything else.

She saves weight because there is no clean drinking water. She throws in handfuls of rice and fried bananas for nourishment during the long flight to Sydney.

She doesn’t know how many will survive. She’s ready to carry her experience home.

She knows it will scare the hell out of her friends, family and colleagues.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

 

Fear Mentality

People in Cambodia love to look back, said Rita, It is a passionate DNA genetic molecule of fear, doubt, healthy uncertainty, adventure and surprise, a childlike innocent curiosity wanting or needing the past tabla rasa. Yes. Focus on needs, not wants.

Needs manifest desire. A desire for something to believe with clarity. We are all passing through. They look back to see if they see a ghost in their vivid reptilian imagination.

Hungry ghosts of family, friends and lost strangers seek identity. They seek clues and meaning at their personal ground zero. Post genocide reality and perpetual fear of the dead. One point seven million (+-) hungry ghosts wander around looking for relatives, homes, fields and imaginary memories.

They’ve arrived from distant galaxies. Human habitation sites were discovered in Khmer jungles 500,000 years ago. Primitive agriculture began 7,000 years A. Go. So it figures, mathematically speaking with evolutionary premise and factual data, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today.

We live in talking monkey zones. They pretend to be exactly who they are. They use their faint star energy to look w/o seeing. All the wondering. 

They look without understanding.

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education are expensive.

This has nothing to do with simians, said Devina in Jakarta. It indicates two women sitting in a neighborhood food joint. Plastic chairs face a tall cinderblock wall. Chickens, goats, cats and orphans prowl, peck and forage through garbage dreams.

One woman sits in a deep meditation. Chattering oral storytellers play Bronze Age drums, pounding out 3rd century you tunes.

Heal the people with music.

Males wash their literary typing machines. They study accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess at knight along roads waiting for passengers. People eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies and green and red chilies.

Have you eaten yet is what we ask people first in Utopia, said Leo.

Eat your dreams. Masticate. Emasculate. Procreate. Protect. Kill.

One human creates a Brave New World.

See literary outlaws create new futures with existential joy. It’s their assessment on process in a data based star cluster. Dream mask mirrors swim to Cambodia.

We are Visceral Realists, said Devina, Zeynep, Rita, Leo ToldStory, Tran, Omar, a Grave Digger and Laughter, a reliable narrator. 

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Spirit Dream

Spirit dream rides clouds. Ancestor ghost eats incense. Feeling slow and clean in the temple zone.

Leo discovered new Chinese ink, stone and brushes. He remembered Mr. Li, his calligraphy teacher in Utopia.

How to stand.

How to hold the brush.

How to rub the ink stone inside the black oval with water.

How to caress the brush and black ink along an edge.

Create simple strokes.

Be the ink, be the brush, be the paper.

Museum

The Saigon Museum is filled with glorious death defying historical struggles: wars, artifacts, diagrams, maps, tanks, planes, final assault plans, old cars used to haul the dead dying wounded and ammunition, statues of men making pistols, old medical equipment, typewriters for propaganda material, flags, posters, pamphlets, a burning monk in 1963 as Kodachrome blazes his life, villages, corpses, soldiers, politicians, dog tags, gas masks, knives, guns, tools, radios, helmets, baskets, pots and pans, shoes, shirts and skeletons.

Papier mâché people exhort the masses, Independence or Death!

They’ve traded illusions of independence and freedom for a one-party Socialist state filled with greed, corruption, nepotism and economic opportunity.

Life - contradictions and paradoxes.

Where does the artificial end and the real begin, asked a blind beggar.

Thich Quang Duc

The Amputee  - Knife Sharpener

After eating noodles in a cold alley, a man, 60, remembering how wars and hard survival ages humans, sat sharpening a knife for a woman customer redefining steel. No left foot. He rested his curled leg stump on a boot.

In the afternoon he walks past with a shuffling gait. He’s wearing a green fatigue shirt, floppy hat, motorcycle helmet and carrying his worn red plastic bag of simple tools. I know his truth not his story. A landmine or a stray bullet?

His left boot is a discarded war object and split down the front.

It is brutally hot. The sun is behind him. How does he feel? Where is he going? Home for lunch and rest? Looking for more dull edges.

I am always walking, he said. I stop, find work, sit, sharpen an edge, get small money, put away my tools, put on my boot and walk. I eat noodles or rice on the street. 

I walk and work until dark. Then I go home. Home is where they have to take you in. I am a storyteller with tools for sharpening life’s dull imperfections.

I am surrounded by amputees, he said. They approach me on their crutches, their hands out. Without legs they wheel themselves down the street on little trolleys low to the ground truth.

____

A one-armed young man wears an old blue baseball hat. He sees local businessmen approaching. They wear fresh pressed white shirts, leather shoes, and pressed pants with shiny belt buckles.

He takes off his hat. Holds it out. It is empty. They ignore him. He puts it on his arm stump, runs his good hand through his black hair, puts on his hat and moves down the street.

I am in the army now, he said. An army of the legless armless physically and emotionally wounded forgotten humans. They know you and you know them. 

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

October by Rita

Affect your environment. Do not let your environment affect you.

Take the blue line … celebrate red ink with a Chopin fountain pen … see how the ink bleeds on new paper … how it feels, this dancing wind song, point and line … take a line for a walk.

Hanoi air is cool before dawn when the landlord’s dog trapped in a long cement tunnel howls at 3:30 a.m. The dog is an apt metaphor for residents trapped in long cement tunnels called home sweet home.

Elsewhere the canine is grilled and basted on a spit at low heat allowing the flavor and juices to penetrate meat for a family feast.

Someone passing through is awake seeing stars, hearing the shriek of fruit bats returning to roost in long green palm branches gathering membranes, silent before dawn amplifiers at Lenin Park sing heavy DUTY patriotic songs with yellow grumbling bulldozers moving dirt, filling in lakes, drowning algae, plankton and fish habitats before the Party Leader plugs in her cassette machine to play aerobic madness in orange light before brainwashed human-birds preen ruffled dream feathers, screw their darling, feed incense to the dead, turn on plasma televisions, cook rice, fire up motorcycles and well before women sweep leaves from night’s tears.

Who will write the history of tears?

Free air raptors and Finch, destined to die in a bamboo cage, sing. Bats sleep in deep green leaves near the balcony of a narrow Hanoi home.

I don’t remember the century. Maybe it was The Glorious Year of Reconstruction.  Men hammered, shoveled and hauled Hanoi toward a glorious future.

Night stars dream before dawn hearing heavy machines at the park. Workers truck rocks to fill in the lake. Old Russian bulldozers shove piles of granite along paths creating new boundaries in citizens’ imagination limiting their curiosity and freedom. The ceaseless mechanical rumbling of machines sounds like a broken Teutonic alarm clock with geologic earthquake Richter intensity.

Echoes of crashing, tumbling granite stones shatters stillness. Reconstruction machines have a schedule, a deadline, a force of progressive development.

Inside bamboo an invisible scripter blends into a natural environment weaving a thread with unconditional love. Music perforates starlight silence.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged