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Entries in survival (2)

Thursday
Oct172024

Visceral Realists

By Rita

We are in a small sleepy river town in southern Cambodia, said Rita. Faded yellow neglected French colonial buildings face a river, corroding iron bridges and green mountains.

A block long incomplete cement shell of a new market to revitalize neglected downtown failed. $70,000 start-up costs. Nada. No takers. It will never be built because of Fear & Superstition & Ghosts.

From 1975-1979 the Khmer Rouge hung severed heads along the walls to teach survivors Life Lesson #1.

Shut your mouth and blend in.

Survivors stir woks and sell the same thing. Boredom.

Don’t speak of gruesome true facts, said Leo, It reminds me of atrocious atrocities, genocides, purges and 40 million peasants starving to death. Let them eat grass, bellowed Mao waving his little Red ideological book. Eat my red words comrade. Peasants stole copies from the Friendship Store. This makes great toilet paper, said the proletariat.

Kampot is famous for black pepper, which is nothing to sneeze at, said Rita. The Shakers live in Ohio. One minor quest of the literary outlaws is to get the pepper from Cambodia to Ohio. Buy land. Two buy sea. Water dilutes the effectiveness, taste and aroma. The pepper will need to be grinned down by hand. A Khmer laterite stone pestle and mortar is ideal. Most adults here are confused and sullen and apathetic breeding happy children, said Rita.

For good reason, said Tran. I know how it feels to be an abandoned ghost with a disability in double jeopardy. I’m laughing because I am a survivor … everything is fucking hysterical above ground. I lost my right leg when I stepped on a landmine playing in a field near my village south of Da Nang. I was five. I lost my family in the war. Maybe they died. Maybe they wandered away.

You never know.

The sleepy town, villages and country are famous for people experienced in Milling Around, said Rita. For cultural, historical, educational, environmental, emotional, intellectual and economic reasons milling around is a popular daily activity.

This unpleasant fact cannot be denied or ignored or forgotten like Tran’s missing leg. It needs to be up front because it is a clear immediate fact and way of life.

Limited job opportunities, substandard education, lack of medicine, faint hope and inconclusive futures enhance Milling Around.

It kills time alleviating boredom, the dreaded lethargic tedious disease. Milling Around kills the human spirit. No Initiative. Period. How sweet. How charming. It’ll take another generation to clean it up with high hopes. Cambodia is alive with ghosts.

Zeynep, Rita, Tran, Devina, Leo and Omar are invisible ghosts feeling comfortable with energies, vibrations and frequencies. They are floating experiences.

Immediate and direct, said Zeynep. I am western on the outside and eastern on the inside, a chameleon and a prescient systems analyst.

This is a talk-story.

Impermanence and non-attachment is reality. Movement is my mistress and my meditation. WE are here to go. The deeper the silence means deeper the bliss.

I am the music between the notes. I am the silence between hammer and anvil music. I am the poetry between the lines.

I became my ghost-self in 1970 after 364 days in never-never land, leaving Vietnam in one coherent piece, said a reliable narrator. Where I met Tran in a hospital. He taught me courage. After a war everything is easy.

Z: As a writer and artist I bear witness revealing my imaginary sense data using a Mont Blanc 149 piston driven fountain pen, Moleskine notebooks, watercolors, brushes, and cameras. I won’t go into the technical details about the optical equipment.

I am two cameras said Rita. Kinds?

I am a sweet little Leica D-Lux 6. I am a bulky Nikon D-200 with a 35mm 1.4 lens. Ya gotta Leica the Leica. Play sounds. It’s small with excellent optics. Black with a cool little red circle on the front. Small and powerful like me. One for my left eye and one for my right eye. Dual dynamic visual acuity.

How do we interpret visual sensation? I am chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of my eyes, said Omar the blind seer.

Begin with a telescope then use opera glasses then a microscope.

I am a prime lens, said Z. From the spotlight to the floodlight and back to the spotlight.

I am the truth of your imagination, said Leo.

I am synesthesia personified possessing the ability to hear colors and see sounds, said Tran.

I may grow old, but I will never grow up, said Rita. She shared a story about Cambodia. The kingdom has a long violent history. Remember the Killing Fields, S-21 high school prison, and genocide with 1.7 million people killed, slaughtered, raped, mutilated, gone, erased. Year ZERO. Can you wrap your mind around that factoid?

It was a third of the total population. People don’t talk about it because they are super superstitious. Survivors live with the cold hard unpleasant fact. Old people are rare. It is curious. It’s 2023 in the long now.

Writer: After writing and editing The Language Company in Kampot for five months I moved to Battenbang for three months. A Khmer boy in a java & tea joint said the reason everyone stares at me is because all my generation was killed. They see you as a ghost, he said.

I am Happy Ghost.

I am surrounded by happy, laughing, curious, kind, childlike, grateful and beatific humans. Comedic. Sweet. How simple life is. How monosyllabic.

Yeah, yeah. Let’s dance, said a survivor.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Tuesday
Oct012024

Mystery Personified

Earth, this is God … I have someone who’s interested in the property and I want you OUT by the end of the month. How’s that? Imagine an accelerated space program? said Z, Only the very rich can afford a shuttle seat. So it goes.

Everyone else fights for their survival. Noble Savages are free to do anything; rape, plunder, take a vacation, build an ark, move into abandoned mansions, run businesses, grow gardens, buy and sell dreams and have unprotected sex with strangers. A doomsday scenario plus or minus links, tags, categories, electronic social networks and technological wiz gadgets, said Z.

Do not give me punctuation marks like parenthesis, said the agent. They stop me cold. Give me thesis, coma commas. Rational certainty.

How about quotation marks, asked Z.

Periodically. Just capitalize the first letter when a character speaks. That’ll work.

 

Have you read The Stone Raft, or The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, asked Z.

No. I only read the first five pages of everything that lands on my desk. I’ve got a slush pile higher than Everest. Talk about mountains of trash, water bottles, equipment, and frozen bodies.

Z: They’re by a Portuguese writer named Jose Saramago. He wrote about the human condition. How people feel isolated and struggle with their need for community and individuality. He addresses their need to find meaning and dignity outside political and economic structures.

Fascinating, that’s all well and good. Mainstream readers do not want a slow paced, intelligent thought provoking memoir, or non-linear esoteric eclectic threaded saga. They like fiction with Swedish journalists, oligarchies, smart and crazy tattooed misfit computer hackers. Remember her t-shirt? The Apocalypse was yesterday. Today we have a problem.

Mystery personified. Throw in some hardcore sex. Readers want dreams, fantasy, magical realism, desperate heavy deep real situations, romance and delicious recipes filled with hope illustrated by language animals like pigs and talking monkeys living on an Animal Farm in a Brave New World.

Some pigs are more equal than others. Oink.

How about talking chickens in Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam? Chickens with beautiful faces? Innocent naive dirt-poor chickens?

If you must. Sex sells. Can they read?

No.

Can they write a synopsis?

No. They fuck for a living.

Yes, well I sell manuscripts for a living. Same-same but different.

I prostitute myself for money, status, recognition, leverage and eyeballs not vaginas and erect phallus symbols. The average reader in the United Snakes of America has an 8th grade education. Reading paper is declining, even though 175,000 books are published here every year. Newspapers are history. Weep. They line birdcages and wrap fish. Read the fine print.

Average human worldview is limited to electronic mass media entertainment bullshit. Make me laugh. Ha. I am a cynical realist with the attention span of an infant. I eat distraction morning noon night. Many humans are too poor to pay attention. Their life is a constant struggle for food, clean water, medicine and education.

One billion humans do not have access to clean water.

17,000 children die of starvation every single day.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged