Coincidence Plus

Greetings,

Coincidence: an event that might have been arranged although it was really accidental.

Two days ago I was waiting for Christina, a 50-year Belgium born French teacher currently teaching at John Hopkins in Baltimore for a day trip to a floating village and forest near Tonle Sap Lake. She'd suggested the idea the previous evening before returning to ice and snow with limited visibility after visiting her daughter in Laos and seeing Angkor Wat.

Kunn, the owner of Jasmine Lodge, walked up to the table with a man.
"He is going with you." "Great," I said, and we introduced ourselves, "Hi, I'm Brian." "Nice to meet you."

A soft spoken man with piercing eyes and gentle manner, laughing, Brian explained his family history. "This is the short version of a long story."

"My grandfather's father came from Switzerland. He was a preacher. He was persecuted and escaped to Italy. He returned and was beheaded. His son took up the cause and was also persecuted. He escaped to Holland. His family eventually moved to England, then Scotland, then Ireland. During the potato famine they managed to get to New York and settled in Arkansas. It was the Civil War and life was hard. They moved west and eventually settled in Fresno, California where I was raised."

We rolled through the flat countryside and reached the end of a long bumpy dusty road where we jumped on motorcycles to reach boats moored in shallow water. We left land, gliding through marshes toward the Kampong Pluck Village. Christina asked Brian about his life.

"I am a poet," he said, " and I am traveling the world for a year on the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship award."

Hearing this I turned in surprise. "What is your last name?"

"Turner," he said.

Mr. Brian Turner. I laughed. "Sure! I know you. Last October when I lived in Ha Noi I read your Home Fires blog post on The New York Times after you visited the Bedlam hospital in London. I wrote a piece about my becoming a ghost after returning from Vietnam. Your essay generated many comments from a diverse range of voices; veterans from all the wars, health care professionals, and the public. It was great."

"It's important to give these people voices," he said.
"I wrote seven poetry books before submitting Here Bullet."

Over lunch he talked about his book, Here Bullet," published by Alice James Books. Brian served a year tour in Iraq and returned to the states in 2004. "I wrote the poems in Iraq. I worked from my notebooks to create the manuscript from November through March, 2005. I submitted it. It won the Beatrice Hawley Award among others. 

"Later, an anonymous person nominated me for the Amy Lowell award. There were 360 poetry books in the competition. One day I received a phone call from the law offices representing the estate. They said my book was selected for the Amy Lowell Scholarship. I was amazed."

Brian received his MFA in writing from the University of Oregon. I also graduated from the UO. Another small coincidence. 

"You're a famous poet!" I said. "Congratulations! And here we are, two writers, two veterans, both graduates of the University of Oregon, meeting on a small boat near a floating village in Cambodia. Long live the creative geniuses!"

Brian reached Cambodia via England, Switzerland, Italy, Turkey and Thailand. His second book of poetry, entitled Phantom Noise, will be published this April.

The three us enjoyed a fine day sharing stories, exploring the village, local primary school, delicious seafood along the river, and gently traversing the amazing water world forest. 

So it goes in the world of joyful coincidence.

Metta.

Brian Turner, right. Two traveling writers and explorers in Kampong Pluck village, Cambodia.

  Explore a natural Impressionist painting.

Dancing away

Greetings,

After a wild wonderful educational week with an intense secret friend gathering new material for poems, stories, novels and wild imaginings I leave Saigon and Vietnam tomorrow. My work here is finished. Six months is long enough, or as someone said, 'We haven't been here very long but we've been here long enough.' True.

As some of you know, I was here in the U.S. Army back in 1969 for one solid character defining year. I was based near Hue. While teaching English in Indonesia I decided to return and pay my respects. As I told my 4th graders, 'Congrats, you've graduated to Grade 5 and I've graduated to Vietnam.' Pure and simple motivation.

Return is a strange word. Like making a U-turn or a spinning whirling Dervish dance celebrating Rumi the Sufi poet, seer and mystic. Rumi knew life, transitions, celebrations and expressing the spirit with love and devotion. Joy.

I begin a new chapter in Cambodia. As a ghostwriter said, 'To travel is better than to arrive.'

Metta.

Myth's Mask

Shaman's mask, Vietnam.

Greetings,

People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.

Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through. 

They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero. 

They've arrived from distant galaxies. Human habitation sites were discovered here 500,000 years ago. Primitive agriculture began 7,000 years ago. A. Go. 

So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today. 

I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. 

They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering. 

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark neighborhood food joint. Plastic chairs faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.

One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests.

Chattering oral story tellers play Bronze Age drums, pounding out 3rd century tunes.

Healing the people with music.

Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. People eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, and green and red chillies.

One human creates a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.

Dream mask mirror and swimming...

She showed me how to swim with gigantic sea turtles and practice sitting.

How to dive deep exploring coral and amazing underwater life forms. How to explore below the surface of appearances.

Experiencing the Temple of Complete Reality on a Taoist mountain in Sichuan once upon a time. Climbing through primal forests with young mature smart Mountain-Nature Girl. She lives in the mountain. Some live below. Others live on. She lives in. She knows every herb, plant, flower, tree, river and medicinal process in the forest.

Mountain-Nature girl with Vivian.

How the heartbeat was an eternal rhythm.

Then we were going up. Now we are going down.

How to breath through a mask. "What kind of mask? Is it hand carved from the wood of tribal memories?" I asked her. 

"Yes," she said, "it is a manifestation of long lost symbols, a primitive culture. It is a shamanic ritual, a dance trance. When you put on the mask you become the thing you fear the most, your basic human nature."

"Does this mean I will evolve into a being filled with the ability to scheme and deceive?"

"Perhaps. This is a highly evolved trait of human intelligence. Do you remember what you wrote about J. Joyce, how he went into exile with silence and cunning?"

"Yes. He knew how to put seven little words in order. He was a cunning linguist."

"Well, this ability to scheme and deceive is your cunning, your instinctual learned behavior. It separates you from less evolved life forms like apes, plankton and sea enemies-anemone (fish eating animals) and androgynous androids in the deep subconscious."

"Are you a clown fish?"

"Look in your dream mask mirror."

Play your drum music.

Metta.

vision

Greetings,

This is my image on SpaceBook, a legendary sight. I live in Vietnam, a country in Southeast Asia. 

My brother and I dream of freedom. Are you the hunter or are you the prey?

 

My brother experimented with a filter to perceive the world with new visionary acuity.  

Gator Aid

Greetings,

My name is Ali Gator. I live on a farm with 200 friends near Saigon. I used to live in the Mekong River but was trapped by some greedy animal poachers and brought here. Many humans are too greedy and clever for their own good. They use me for breeding. The babies are sold to restaurants. Bye-bye baby.

One tropical afternoon a group of us were relaxing by the pool after our weekly vegetarian lunch. Surely initiated the idea. She knows a thing or two about consumption habits.

"You know what we need to do is expand. I suggest we create a line of bags, belts, shoes, purses and accessories made of human skin."

Aghast, a strong-willed female member of the dwindling population has a degree in marketing.

"I agree," she said. "Considering the passion carnivores crave for designer wear so they can make a fashion statement, it's only logical to assume Italian, French and English skins will provide us the color, texture, suppleness, elasticity, diversity, durability and above all the QUALITY demanded and expected by millions of animals."

"Remember their eyes," said Esther.

"What about them?" sang the chorus.

"They make great buttons."

"Yes," replied Grace. "We should respect them and recycle everything."

Scales, with a background in finance and dodgy mergers spoke up.

"I've done a cost-benefit-analysis and it's doable. Human skin resources are cheap and plentiful. Sweatshop labor manufacturing and production facilities are already up and running. Our biggest hurdles are the ethical values of the end consumer. I mean, why would a Siberian tiger, whale, Malayan sun bear, elephant, cobra, eagle, or pileated gibbon be caught dead wearing anything made of human skin? It's beyond me."

"Everything is beyond you," countered Minksy a new member of our slumbering tribe. "It's all a matter of personal taste."

We took a vote. It was unanimous. "Hooray! Let the hunt begin!"

We celebrated with a round of drinks made with human blood. This is perfect timing, I thought, seeing all my friends in a new light. We'd create a new line of human skin products to be introduced worldwide before the holidays. It's a wonderful life.

Metta.