V Train

At dusk I severed a Hanoi alley to a lake for fresh air and sky to sit at a motorcycle repair shop with iced java. Two females dressed to kill using their hot naked sex passed on a cycle negotiating potholes, dust, and rocks with SMS direct.

A woman burned paper money in an old can to celebrate her new house, prosperity, honor and respect for her ancestors. Your location cannot be determined, said SMS.

On the balcony with pink flowering bougainvillea I enjoy green tea and white yellow clouds with quick rainstorms sharing whistle songs with free raptors as others died on balconies in cages.

After two weeks avoiding whizzing whirling dervish motorcycles, I ventured to the train station before high noon. It is a long faded yellow French cement block. I passed a window with a red sign, Brigade Leaders Collect Team Tickets Here.

I am a leader without a brigade. The narrow room has bolted blue plastic seating and numbered glass windows. At the end of the room next to the W.C. a huge mirror in a heavy brown lacquered frame creates an illusion of surreal space.

Counter #2 is where foreigners get tickets. Options include soft sleeper, soft seat, hard seat and no seat. I’m taking the SE1 overnight train from Hanoi to Hue, the ancient capital on the Perfume River known for art and architecture. Resplendent.

Omar asked me to burn his book A Century is Nothing at Phu Bai south of Hue in a symbolic fire ceremony.

I would like a ticket to Hue please. One way.

A woman behind thick glasses said, Soft sleeper.

It wasn’t a question it was a statement. She knows foreigners taking the night train want to sleep, have children take care of them when they are old and dying of loneliness while cooking over coal fires or forest shards admiring natural scenery before it’s gobbled up by corrupt companies as powerless locals improve their standard of living by hustling a little middle class economic dream.

Tonight, said the woman, sharply.

No, Sunday please.

She pointed to a calendar on the counter.

Number 19.

Yes.

She punched in the numbers. She pulled out a pink ticket.

That’s 533 Dong or $33. She showed me the number on her calculator. I paid. She handed me the ticket and dropped crumpled bills on the counter like leaves fluttering from a dying tree. Boredom enveloped her.

It leaves at 1930.

Thank you. Track #9 Car #1 Room 15/16.

Where are you from? said a Hanoi pedicab man.

I am a ghost from everywhere.

What is your country?

My country is my hand – see, five rivers.

How does it feel to be moving or sitting free and anonymous with laughter dancing down all the days? Excellent. Where do I park this empty vehicle?

*

Memory spoke: My mind is empty, said the sad old man in his small dusty Istanbul leather shop. My mother is 65. She has cancer. She has tried chemo and radiation therapy. I don’t know what to do. People come into my shop asking questions, What’s this price, How much is this, too many questions. How can I help them, what can I do?

Perhaps, said the stranger, You should just be with her. Give her the comfort she needs now. Give her water. Give her your love. Sit with her.

Yes, he said with sad deep eyes, It is difficult to be here now, gesturing around his shop crammed with shoes and bags and leather aroma.

*

A Turkish train chased moon, seawater and oil freighters. Two veiled lovers held hands at a station. Heavy green and purple grapes draped fences around barbwire stations. A sad long-faced man waiting for his life to unfold stared at the ground.

He’s married to his mother and her tomato-based history of love, regret, unemployment and zero opportunities.

A commuter ferry sailed across the Bosporus in elemental light. Visions of a Blue Mosque, spires and silver domes sparkled as blue waves swelled hearing artists carve Churning The Sea of Milk at Angkor Wat in the 9th century.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Dead Dog

Hope is the last thing that dies, yells Dave’s wife. Take out the garbage fat man, lose face idiot, hide your shame, raise your voice like a torn flag of authority, signaling your displeasure with infants, get them in line, shape them up because you can’t ship them out.

You will raise them to yell with the best of them. They will yell and bellow like stuck pigs bleating sheep and cackling crows sending shivers down your spineless pitiful form filled with regret, anger and fear manifesting your tight choking life under long cold florescent lights in a shattering glare.

They will grow up to be passive-aggressive yellers. They will burn you and carry your photo to the village artist who will memorize your face in black and white tones. On the family altar we will look at your frozen 8x10 face forever and give you fruit and water offerings.

We  burn incense so your spirit can eat, so it will not be angry and return as a yelling, demanding, hungry ghost or an invisible reliable scripter. You will perform your filial duty

One day in the near future of now, your dead ancestors will remember sounds, words, phrases and life sentences called talk-speak until they achieve the decibel level required to rejoin the family’s formless form. They will compete in yelling contests with speaking monkeys.

Someone - a parent, spouse, child, boss, lover, or stranger yells. I ignore old yeller. Doesn’t matter who it is, family or friend. Ignore the humans, beasts and gods. Old yeller yells again a little louder. No answer. I wait for them to yell louder, said a ghost hiding in Silence.

Silence is Form, Style, Sensation, Nothing and the Reality of Death.

After I’ve made them yell three times I answer with a whisper. They can barely hear me so they yell again and again. I have conditioned them to my living nightmare. To teach them a lesson I answer with a Whisper. They can’t hear me. They have to raise their voice to compete with other yellers around them.

They are distracted by sensory stimuli overload.

I embrace chaos in the glare of ancestor memories. My sweet revenge.

I reject them with silence, a deadly comprehensive weapon.

Two ghosts whisper - give them 1,000 lashes with your tongue.

I have 1,000 arms and 1,000 eyes.

My name is Avalokiteshvara.

I am a Bodhisattva of compassion for all beings.

I churn the Ocean Of Milk at Angkor Wat.

I am infinite wisdom in the ocean of wisdom.

*

Ha Noise people evolve in small tight spaces where voice people practice perpetual eternal racket over each other and don’t listen and yell louder while others ignore them and the yelling gets vicious like the starving dog downstairs, howling, Feed Me!

Angry Dave pisses in his underwear and his wife lives in her pajamas, the Vietnamese national costume  ... They are a cheap red pastel cotton decorated with brown pandas. He yells at her and the kid because he had no choice in the matter when his father and mother told him he was going to pay big money and marry the slob who learned to yell and ignore her parents while growing up which is how they grew into this higher intelligent life form  ... to reproduce.

Their destiny is to breed, work and get slaughtered down on the killing floor.

I pass narrow minded little hovels guarded by locks, doors and rusting metal curtains. Alleys are crammed with sardine dwellings. Discarded sofas, people cooking in alleys using round perforated compressed coal, workers haul cement, bricks, wire, and stones creating glorious Marxist production methods using a knife, hoe, scythe, axe, hammer, and control stick elephant. All fine well and good being a means to an end everything.

An end to a means the end, the means steams beans, streams data.

Lying in a neighborhood street packed with screaming, beeping careening manic cycles, garbage carts, kids playing fast and loose and women selling wilting produce from broken bamboo baskets was a dead dog. A chilled out sausage dog with splayed legs, glassy brown eyes. Inert. This spectacular spectacle attracted everyone. They escaped homes/shops holding something valuable and precious.

CUT! yelled the Director

Characters froze in place.

Sewing ladies held a thread in air, a woman chopping greens a leaf, a man oiling a bike a can, a woman working meat caressed a knife dripping blood  ...  

a girl held her red balloon, a retired man his glass of urine beer  ...  

a grandmother gripped her grandkid everyone staring at the dead dog as twilight rush hour motorcycles beeped impatient musical cacophonies negotiating through the blind crowd to get home to families, sex, food, television and safety before dark.

ACTION!

A thin old man emerged from his small dark space, perfect for hiding from strangers, invaders and dust. He grabbed the dog’s two rear legs lifting it in the air, dripping blood. He was a hunter holding a wild hare following a successful adventure on the moors. Wild hounds flushed it running wild, filled with fear and free. They treed it, trapped it and killed it.

His inscrutable face showed no emotion. He held the dripping dead dog.

Blood formed a small pool on pavement surrounded by angry confused voices of friends, neighbors, and strangers pealing like bells in his cerebral cortex offering suggestions, advice, warnings, predictions, songs, rituals, chants, musical operas and significant silences minus appropriate words inside or outside the mystery and quality of death personified so he stood there holding the legs until he laid the dog in the gutter and the dog’s body relaxed itself into itself.

He turned away from neighbors and beep-beep fascination. He entered his dark interior space with shadows and ghosts.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged