Department of Truth

According to Zeynep, a scripter in the present, I speak because I am not authorized to reveal the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or value meaning. So. Help. Me.

1. Truth is classified. The source of truth about everything is classified. I am authorized to say with complete anonymity without revealing sources that truth is filtered, compartmentalized, abstracted, excerpted, sliced, diced, parsed, fossilized and classified inside a buried locked black box.

1a. The crypto key is top-secret for your blind eyes only. Grave Digger knows the combination and algorithm. The encrypted key is not on a hacked social network site designed to distract your face, mind, heart, consciousness or Lifebook personal profile time bandit. Real friends are few.

1b. Artificial friends are aliens on life support. The key for Time is inside an arrow piercing Greater Complexity with Entropy. A woman, man, child in country XYZ carries the world on their back. They are the key.

2. Truth is a joke. The source of truth concerning jokes is classified. I am not authorized to reveal the joke, the laugh track.  If fate doesn’t make you laugh then you don’t get the joke. Your tears speak and mangle fictional truth-story. They distort and strangle it. Truth is a figment of your imagination. Literary outlaws lie to tell the truth.

3. Truth is a myth. The source of the myth is classified. Read it and weep. As Antonio Porchia, author of Voices, being authorized to speak said, Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.

4. Truth is the Next BIG Thing. It will modify seeds providing billions of humans with a genetic food source. Eat your broccoli, walnuts and almonds. Biolabs will purify water and distribute free medicine and C-19 vaccinations to every human on Earth. Genetics will create Socratic open-ended educational dreams.

4a. Truth is a starving homeless mother pulling a heavy two-wheeled trash cart with flat tires through a dusty Cambodian town as her daughter forages in garbage containers for food, water and medicine. She is a qualifier, a split infinitive in infinity where someone’s leftovers are another’s banquet.

5. Truth will provide more than 1 billion people access to safe drinking water.

6. Truth will enable literacy for 850,000,000 people who cannot read. Women are 2/3 of this number.

7. Truth will employ 2.8 billion people surviving on less than $2 a day. Truth will employ 1.1 billion people existing on less than $1 a day.

8. Truth will assist 70% of the people in the developing world who have ZERO access to electricity in their homes, health clinics and schools.

9. Truth is a terminal disease like peace, love and blindness.

10.Truth is a sledgehammer in Mandalay, Burma.

Love is not truth.

11. Truth is food in your stomach.

This is The Truth Channel. Game, Set, Match.

Media dumbs down sheep.

Technology eats humans.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Pay Attention

A monk asked Yang-chi.

How to escape the clamor of the mind?

Read the ancient text.

What is the ancient text?

The moon is bright in space. The waves are calm on the ocean.

How does one read it?

Watch your step.

*

Creative Hanging Out by Tran

Please put the blue sky on the white table. It is fragile and creased along the horizon.

Pay Attention.

There are:

People who want to control you

People who want to blame you

People who want to distract you

Samuel Beckett was very precise. He didn’t want theories or any level of intellectualization. He paid a lot of attention to the tone of voice and to the relationships among the characters. He cared a great deal about the silences and the pauses. It’s as beautiful as the chance encounter on an operating table of a sewing machine and an umbrella, the essence of surrealism.

Freedom is being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience, said David Foster Wallace.

DFW had the courage to express in absurd detail what it feels like to live, observe and experience life. He knew many humans lacked the sincerity and honesty to really voice their awareness. He gave us deep exquisite work and then checked out. He suffered from depression. Pale King.

Every feeling waits for its gesture. Gestures use people as their instruments, bearers and incarnations. Impressions exist in a distinct serene zone of imprecise calculation. Observations dance with empirical data structure. Art, symbols and metaphor.

Language is a virus, like C-19.

Blue dragonfly eyes create a lightning bolt. Flashes of brilliance in the DNA helix reveal spiritual and truth-value meaning in your play. The poetic inspiration rebels against science and math.                                 

Dancing color spectrum

Jellyfish aqua laughter smells sweet fresh cut grass

Yellow butterfly voices perspiration’s inspiration

Transparent wave energies wash your interior/exterior dream

I love to doodle, said Zeynep. It’s my meditation. Everyone doodles their noodle while splashing in their life puddle.

Good travel writing is The Art of Creative Hanging Out, said Tran.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Natasha From Kiev

Zeynep said, I read about how women are treated in many countries. Here in Turkey health care workers report 65% of all wives are beaten by their husband.  It’s considered normal behavior because women are treated as property.

We’ve all read stories about arranged marriages, child marriages and the desperate plight of women on Earth. Men never learned how to kiss and make up, the women know about makeup and suffering in silence, women are literally and figuratively screwed, she said.

I tell the truth. I don’t have to remember what I said, said Rita.

Zeynep’s story about domestic abuse reminded Omar of Natasha.

On September 1, 2001, ten short days before an Apocalypse in the big apple, passengers at the Amsterdam airport waited for their flight to Casablanca. There was Your Self, a Moroccan man from Fez living in San Francisco going home to see his family after many years. He would stay three months.

There was a woman from Kiev with her 5-year-old son. Her name was Natasha, tall, slim and beautiful. She was married to a Moroccan man. They’d met at the university in Kiev and now he lived in Amsterdam. She had not seen him for three years and he didn’t know his son. He did not come to the airport to see her because he didn’t have the correct papers nor was she able to leave the airport and see him because she lacked the correct papers so she waited for her flight to her new home.

Natasha had heard rumors, myths and fabricated lies about her fate but had never seen it because she was blind. She was taking her son to Morocco where they would meet her husband’s family and live. She did not speak French or Arabic.

Her cheap red, white and blue plastic Russian baggage fell apart at the seams. Her son pissed his pants leaving a trail of urine in the departure lounge. Natasha was beside herself.

I’d finished a draft of A Century is Nothing that summer. I was jumping through a window into hunting and gathering adventures discovering new material.

Everyone spoke the same language as unanimous night collapsed around roaring planes leaving gravity taking people somewhere. We were buried at graveyard gate 54D, miles from gleaming duty free shops with exotic perfumes, electronics, banks, casinos, toy stores, restaurants, diamond rings, watches, customs, clothing stores.

Wealthy shoppers carried yellow plastic bags saying, Buy and Fly.

A homeless Asian elf dragged a purple bag saying, Buy & Cry.

A destitute shadow of a former self had a clear bag saying, By the By.

An orphan had an empty bag saying, Why Tell Me Why.

No one in particular had Papa’s Gotta Brand New Bag.

Everyone carried his or her bag of skin & bones to the graveyard.

At midnight in Casablanca passengers walked through a towering hall of intricate inlaid blue mosaic tiles and waterfalls. Huge framed images of a smiling monarch watched people.

Customs was a formality and the baggage conveyer belt broke down as frustrated passengers waited. Small wheels on useless baggage trolleys were bent and stuck. They careened left and right as people wrestled impossible loads through nothing to declare green zones toward friends and relatives.

I helped Natasha load her broken bags on a cart and she disappeared into humanity with her son. Her husband’s Berber family approached - his father, mother, brother-in-law and grandmother in traditional jellabas. They welcomed her with a hug speaking words Natasha did not understand. They scooped up the boy. As the old couple walked away I knew they would take him forever, this progeny of theirs, their DNA connection to their son.

Natasha, an alien aberration in their world would be relegated to a harsh new reality. She moved into their world with a Ukrainian passport, speaking an unknown tongue to be a slave serving her new family. She would be many things to them. They would manifest their loss on her. She’d carry water and chop wood. She’d cook, clean and slave away. Fate gave her new opportunities.

She’d carry their fading light, hopes, dreams and memories. Their grandson would realize everything. They disappeared into a sprawling chaotic city of five million.

Their son in Holland relied on his mobile. He could do no wrong. He was a grand man in their eyes and hearts. Many women came and went in his dark eyed nomadic destiny life. When Natasha was trapped in the airport he was with a prostitute and he didn’t have the correct papers anyway. He wasn’t lying when he said his family would take care of her.

Omar whispered this fairy tale to Natasha. She didn’t believe it.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Chiroptera

Outside a Hanoi balcony is a palm tree. I am an Old World bat. The family name is Chiroptera.

The sub-orders are Megachiroptera and Microchiroptera. I am the only mammal in the diverse animal kingdom that can really fly, sustaining myself on wind currents, up/down drafts and rough drafts of manuscripts before they get cut down or become extinct.

I am too agile to get cut down. My size is perfect. I am a very valuable important and productive member of the eco-system. I will explain. It happened like this. After a night of flying through black skies illuminated by a faint moon and eating insects with delicious fruit for desert I rested in a fifty-foot tall coconut palm tree between two squashed homes in a Hanoi suburb.

Yangon, Burma

I’m roosting under a long thick leafy branch now. It’s a temporary home until my younger brother gets his wings. Soon I hope because we need to expand our territory. It’s a comfortable habitat away from predators like snakes, cats and humans who enjoy tasty grilled bat meat. I’m a flying delicacy with C-19.

Anyway, like I was saying, I was upside down which is normal for bats during the day using my claws to grasp green fibers and I had an itch. I needed to stretch out my voluminous wingspan membranes. Natural enough. I rustled around and then, due my superior enhanced navigational audio and visual systems to find food and survive, I detected a pair of eyes on me. Yes me. I was seen. Discovered.

I shriveled into myself. I pondered this dilemma. After remaining as quiet as a mouse, easy to catch at night when I'm feeling hyper aggressive, I peeked out from under my wings through the leaves. Much to my surprise, sitting in a third floor room looking at me was a strange creature. I hung on for dear life. He seemed harmless enough. I smiled.

To tell the truth I am a hybrid bat and to be scientific about it, a CHIROPTERA. Write that down. Try and say it fast three times and you can impress your friends at nocturnal parties using sonar. I am the MEGA and the MICRO in the Bat Kingdom. Like the Alpha and the Omega.

I have the most highly developed combination of DNA characteristics found in bats. The Mega has large eyes, excellent vision and claws on their second digit.

The Micro has small eyes and uses echolocation to find nourishing insects. I have amazing visual and hearing genetic traits. Twilight calling. I roost in the shade and protection of wide green fronds. Nap time  ... Shhh.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Yangon, Burma

Ang

Way of the empty hand.

Be inwardly humble and outwardly gentle, said Ang, a Hanoi student lawyer with a 5th degree Dan black belt. She was small fast and deadly. A quick tiger without a motorcycle license.

We rode around Hanoi. I knew the city and showed her diversions.

It’s strange having a foreigner give me directions in my town, she yelled into the wind as we negotiated a dusty section of congested road works for a new subway while speeding south near Lenin Park.

Take it easy baby I whispered as we swerved through a phalanx of cycles, cars, trucks and bike spokes.

We stopped near a lake for iced java. Hanoi has many lakes. The Vietnamese coffee comes from the Central Highlands. It is high quality. Vietnam is the world’s second biggest coffee exporter after Brazil.

Hanoi, like Beijing, is the conservative cold capital. It was bombed during the war. Hanoi survived the Chinese, French, Americans and Vietnamese. War by proxy like now elsewhere. Same-same but different. Saigon is the new young economic vibrant city where anything goes 24/7.  Beijing-Hanoi. Shanghai-Saigon.

My name means heart in Vietnamese, said Ang.

I am a Bui Doi, I said.

I know what that means, she said and she wasn’t laughing when she said it.

Dust collector whispered Tran.

An old man with heavy ropes eating his shoulder skin, tendons and bones pulled a wooden cart filled with bags of cement down the street. His rhythm, cadence and rubber sandals slapping pavement burned his energy doing his daily labor inside the people’s labyrinth surrounded by horns, cycles, cars, bikes, push carts and pedestrians as he strained forward, shoulder muscles bouncing, flexing, extending his action, thick thigh muscles grinding his momentum like a shark always forward.

Iceman arrived with his cart and long crystal blocks. He sawed ice into manageable chunks and carried bags of frozen water into the cafe. Light glimmered crystals.

A man in a white government shirt stood on the sidewalk picking his teeth with a sliver of wood demonstrating his ability to eat food.

It’s a slow gradual invisibility, said a witness at life’s moveable feast.

Today would be a good day to be a kite, I said to Ang.

You’re crazy, no one wants to be a kite, she said and I said, Maybe you’d rather be the string. She didn’t think this was funny.

Sure, I said, If you were the kite and others the string they would, could, should, control you, as a willing victim of circumstances outside your control with no free will. You’d have no responsibility, flying free.

Yes. I like having no responsibility except for myself.

You’d have free choice with amazing potential, I said stringing her along with The Analysis of Consequence.

Teach me something about photography she ordered in a domineering tone because she was small powerful AND angry with repressed regret because her mom abandoned her for economic reasons to work in a town 150 clicks north so Ang went to school to be a lawyer, to hopefully immigrate to England someday and attending daily karate practice with displaced aggression while taking care of her spoiled whining 11-year-old brother then her older sister had a baby and it meant more housework for Ang as a domestic servant being younger so she was frustrated at the mean dirty tricks life played on her.

I have a camera on my phone, she said. Advice?

Move slowly. Incorporate your karate skills into street movement. Practice. Be. See. Shoot a lot. Always have your camera ready. Anticipate. Try new angles and see geometric patterns of light. Paint with light. Prowl the streets. Ignore the main event. Focus on the spectators. Shoot through things and get close enough to touch your subject, dance around your subject, use RAW format.

I grabbed my Leica, got down on hands and knees angling between bamboo chairs, framed, composed, exhaled and squeezed the imperceptible impeccable shutter. The image of bamboo lined close to the eye, depth of field, legs, and blurred feet. Visual metaphors. See?

Yes, thanks.

It’s like karate or sex, I said. Practice. Do it 10,000 times until you get it.

A man walked by. He saw a foreigner with a local girl sitting on a bench near the Lake of Swords. Milk him, he joked. Ang walked over and severed his spinal cord in a blue flash of beauty and dexterity. He crumpled, dying instantly.

She sat down. That’ll teach him. A blind man with a cart collected the body. Physicians at Peoples’ Hospital #4 dissected the cadaver to recycle organs. Where do the eyes go, asked Doctor Death. In the eye bag, said a blind nurse.

See Beauty and Cruelty without hope or fear with a sense of humor, said Tran balancing on his strong leg in deep shadows.

What is the purpose of Beauty, asked Rita. Beauty held up her mirror, See for yourself flaneur.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged