Two Old Friends

Always up early to get out and capture light inside the old city. It's always a delightful feeling to be free, curious and wandering. Before noise and lightning bolts of laughter's language fill the air.

And so it was in Hoi An. Down to the river and Japanese Bridge to sit near two elderly women.

They were surprised to see a foreigner sitting alone with coffee. Good thick and black, mixed with ice. I smiled. They smiled and whispered. Strange man. Alone. Has a camera. It's so early for him.

They invited me to join them. We had our humanity and morning in common. It was enough.

I imagined their lives extended all the way back to childhood, growing up here and now meeting every morning for conversation, walking and tea. Then, holding each other's arm, they'd walk through deserted quiet streets, passing yellow walled homes with red tile roofs protecting long deep brown interiors.

Interiors where ancestors whispered stories from the 15th-19th century when Hoi An was the major port in Southeast Asia and the first Chinese settlement in southern Vietnam.

Ships from all over the world arrived to purchase, among other things: high-grade silk, paper, porcelain, tea, sugar, molasses, Chinese medicines, elephant tusks, sulphur and mother-of-pearl.

Couples played badminton, stretching, talking. A boat woman set up her small portable clay figurines.

The two women finished their tea, gestured goodbye and walked across the wooden bridge to continue their morning exercise. Taking care of each other.

Metta.

Ulus Club Scene

I came across a story in the NYT today about a hot new expensive trendy fancy pants nightclub in Istanbul called Ulus 29. I lived in Turkey for a year, teaching English, finishing my little opus, A Century is Nothing, making images and staying alive to tell the tale.

In Ankara there is an ancient part of town called Ulus. The excellent Museum of Anatolian Civilizations is in Ulus.

Ulus was my favorite area in the cold boring government city filled with Russian hookers, Mafia, faceless paper pushers and friends. Did I mention the well adjusted people and anxiety ridden urban population wearing huge watches to tell time something important and popping pills to relieve themselves of anxiety, passionate guilt, remorse, loss and fear? Probably.

I went to Ulus on my day off to sit with cafe owners, carpet makers and dealers, ceramic artists, painters, booksellers, antique junk sellers and the working class. Here are nine images.

These people probably have no idea there is a club named Ulus 29 in Istanbul and they could care less. You may as well be talking about extraterrestrial life in a distant galaxy.

Metta.

Buy the ticket, take the ride

We've all heard various people say over the course of their life, "There's no such thing as a free lunch." Free. As in no cost, gratis, gratuitous, complimentary, costless. Cost nothing.

The other day I invited Nga to visit the Bookworm, an excellent well stocked bookstore in Ha Noi.

We found a couple of books. She loves politics and history and picked up one by Obama. My choice was The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. He'd been on my list and a used copy had just arrived.

Outside as we were leaving Nga spotted a a box of books on a table. "What's this?" she asked. The owner said, "They are free."

"Really! May I take them all? My school library needs more English books."

"Yes."

A heavy thunderstorm had saturated the books. I was loading them into plastic bags and spotted a dog eared paint splattered thin bent spine rag of a book near the bottom of the pile. I picked it up and the cover stuck to my hand because of the water damage. It was an abstract paint job with black and yellow smeared with white. Pure Jackson Pollack.

I could make out part of the title, "Fear and Loath.... by Hunter S. Thom...."I smiled. An excellent find. Perfect renewal of wild rambling Rolling Stone adventures.

As Hunter said, "True Gonzo reporting needs the talent of a master journalist, the eye of an artist/photographer, and the heavy balls of an actor." He established the style and standard. Often parodied, never duplicated.

A gratis spirit.

Metta.

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.

220 Volts of Stupidity

Hi. My name is Mr. Electric. I am the energy driving your machines, tools, lights, music systems and biology. I am the current flowing from here to there, in and out, up and down, before and after, left and right, top to bottom, and circular momentum of gravitational forces.

I am the current surging through your left ring finger when you try to reconnect the broken adapter to the floor strip of plug outlets. I am the immediate surging supply of 220V electricity blasting, tingling up your arm through muscles, tissue, veins, tendons and flesh before petering out near your left shoulder blade.

I am the after effect of a numbing sensation near the tip of said finger and various meridian points along your left arm. This will eventually fade away into a blur like some almost forgotten face, heartbeat, musical note, dust particle or breath of air.

Yet, it will always remain with you, this charge, this bolt of flying electric buzz. The light is steady. You are now fully charged and you may disconnect from the energy source. Congratulations.

Metta.