I’m way too far behind on this blog. I’m returning in under a week and plan to write this trip up in greater detail later, this time in a much more personal light–and on paper.
So.
Goodbye.
“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
~ Edith Sitwell
last-minute we joined a tour of tunnels used by the Viet Cong during the American-Vietnamese war nearby Saigon in the rural jungles. after an hour on the bus we disembarked and toured a factory that employed people disabled by Agent Orange or landmines to sell arts and crafts. i bought a little jar to support the cause, though i am not sure how much of the profits went to the actual workers.
another hour drive took us to the location of an extensive network of underground tunnels, kitchens, armories, towns the locals had developed to fight the occupying coalition forces. we saw the physical and psychological booby traps the Vietnamese used against US infantry, the remains of bombs dropped by US warplanes, the tunnels guerrillas used to escape incoming explosives, and the ruined husk of an American tank.
people climbed up and posed for pictures on the tank, laughing and smiling and admiring the bullet holes and dents in the metal. it was strange to see them, where forty years earlier the tank would have been full of men my age driving through an unknown warzone. the forest was thick with foliage and hot. you sweat simply standing up. there were mosquitoes, swamps, rain. it was a war no soldier wanted to fight in a country they knew nothing about, killing men, women and children who set for them barbarous pits and hellish prisons a thousand miles from home.
i wondered what terrors they saw, the nightmares they had at night.
i wondered what became of them.
we returned to the city in the rain, the pouring, constant traffic packed full on every highway for rush hour. there was nothing but headlights one way, brake lights the other. a sea of drenched, shiny rain coats and umbrellas, taxis, tuk tuks and scooters. the light of the city danced in the rain, hard neon against an inky backdrop.
we ate pizza and fried rice (again) and watched as people walked by. that night Steve and Josh stayed out close to three and i woke to Steve vomiting in the bathroom.
all the following day Steve remained in bed, hot, nauseous, weary. i said goodbye to Josh before he set off south to the Mekong Delta, and later purchased tickets for a bus to Cambodia. Steve stayed inside till dinner, when we went to find something to eat. down the alleys were pretty girls in tight dresses and old white men visibly appreciating their attention in restaurants and bars.
after eating Steve ran down one of these alleyways and vomited. i washed it away with my water bottle but he sat on the curb of the street and retched again. i had no water left and he was weak so we walked on, people watching, an old lady following us with her judgmental eyes. just another two, i have no doubt she was thinking; just another two, falling and retching their way to the carnival.
“Tourist, Rincewind decided, meant ‘idiot.”
~ Terry Pratchett
Ho Chi Minh. Saigon. the image of US troops grabbing hold of helicopters, grabbing hold of babies held out by their mothers as smoke and fire followed after them. the North was coming, they yelled, the North was coming. gunshots, gunshots, explosions, the helicopters in the sky, the jungle burning below. people clambered on the transports trying to flee. they were pushed off, reaching hands, desperate hands, the gunshots, the gunshots. colonial power gone, neocolonial power gone, the vacuum was filling in violently. it was the end of ten years, the end of an era, a people, a city, a war.
Ho Chi Minh was big. bigger than Hanoi. and modern. some still called it Saigon, the center of the city, the power of Vietnam–a remnant in language of past times. we found our hotel down a narrow alleyway not more than eight feet wide in which windows were above us, roofing, clothing, wires above us. the sky could hardly be seen down these labyrinthine, concrete canyons. people grouped, cooped up, crowded in their little apartments, unseen and forgotten behind the façade of tourist restaurants and bars.
the tourist hub was nearby–literally the next street over–and we went to investigate. sitting drinking iced coffees in a café, we spotted Josh approaching and asked him to join us as rain began to fall. it fell hard for a short time, pooling up in the gutters, the potholes in the ground. people took cover, drove through running through to get home.
it smelled of everything dirty and clean. oil, cardboard, grease and noodles and smoke and asphalt–wet asphalt–shit and cloth, wood and car. a vibrant, excessive, overabundance of all.
they went out at night, i stayed in to write. the amount of life was overwhelming. there was no night, it was too bright to be night; it was too light in the dark, it made the eyes hurt, the smells made the eyes hurt. it hummed and thrummed outside the walls, weighed down by the gravity of itself.
“What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.”
~ Charles Baudelaire
he•ro: \ˈhir-(ˌ)ō\ n. 1. in mythology and legend, a man, often of divine ancestry, who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated for his bold exploits, and favored by the gods 2. a person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life
how does one measure a man if there are no fair maidens to save, no enemies to vanquish, no capital to earn, to burn, to profit from? shall i erect an empire? do the ruins not reveal the folly of raising another? does the act of constructing outweigh the reality of collapse?
all empires fail.
all monuments fall.
i have seen things since i left home that shall shape my life. the long, green rice paddies and horned, jewel-encrusted temples. the slow, gargantuan rivers and towering storm clouds belonging more to the days of gods than the days of the 21st century. indeed, many of the sights i’ve looked upon seem to defy age. others come straight from science fiction accounts of cities of the future.
it has changed me as travel so often does.
i have grown accustomed to this ever-changing world of ours. the modern, ancient, local, foreign cultures of high and low, trust and profit. there is sin, yes, but there is also honor. there is bravery. there are old things that lay in ruin, and new things that stand bright with glittering mirrors. and, sometimes, these modern creations hide traditional ventures beneath their shiny exterior, bringing them forward into the digital age without the dust.
it is a confusing, terrifying thing, being human in the midst of all that is human. and progress. and dirty for all its steel causeways and fleshy, leather, semi-artificial, god-like miracles.
and melting clocks in the field.
Mui Ne was better than Nha Trang. our hotel was a bungalow in a line of other, beach-themed bungalows behind a trendy Mexican bar. it was a strange combination, but the owner was friendly and soon we had checked in, deposited our passports–as is the custom in Vietnam–and exited to find the beach.
the beach itself was surprisingly narrow, cut in half by the never-ending rows of hotels and resorts along the coast. for miles it went, but we found a nice spot just across the street from our place of residence beside some who were jet skiing. just as i took my shirt off to jump in the water, however, i heard a yell from behind us. looking back, i saw a local calling to me.
he was part of the outfit that had rented the jet ski to the visitors. running down to us, he said not to enter the water. i asked why, suspicious of his intentions–i did not doubt he was trying to sell me something. but he said simply, jellyfish.
jellyfish?
yes, jellyfish
what about jellyfish?
they’re all over this beach.
really?
yes! in the morning it’s fine to swim, he said, but in the evening there are jellyfish that gather in the shallow waters. further out it’s clear, but closer in…he nodded to some Chinese tourists frolicking in the water nearby.
there’s a reason you don’t see locals at this time, only tourists.
what could i say? i thanked him and he smiled and waved as we parted ways, me putting my shirt back on and sitting in the sand with Steve for a while, watching one of the children of the Chinese group getting stung and running with his mother back to land.
there was a shy girl who advertised a restaurant as we walked down the main street of the town. upon looking at the menu, we said we might come back later and she looked at her feet, saying okay in a defeated tone.
my heart went out to her. she reminded me of myself when i was young. i had been shy, and trying to talk as everyone else talked–loud and confident–took its toll on me. it was not in her either, and you could tell the slightest rejection took a serious toll. she just wanted to shrink away and have no one know she was there. i knew it when i heard it, when i saw it. it was in her response and i wanted to lift her chin and tell her that it would be okay. she would find solace in all this noise, someday.
so after walking further down to inquire about the morning’s bus ride to Ho Chi Minh, i convinced Steve to go back to find the girl.
i could not find her, though, even after passing every restaurant. finally we entered the one i was sure she had been standing in front of when we had walked by. upon being seated i looked for her, waiting to see whether she would appear from out of the kitchen in back or from behind some dividing wall.
she did neither.
Nha Trang with its white concrete buildings. more than Da Nang it felt like a foreign land, with Russians everywhere. it seemed to suit them. the cold statues, the blocky architecture, the long beach with shallows sinking rapidly into the deep. it was warm, but it didn’t look it. there were garbage bags and dead chickens and food floating and laying on the sand. we swam for a brief while, but that was before we found these things further down from our towels.
but maybe i’m too harsh. it’s simply hard not to be jaded when you’re coming from Hoi An.
so Steve ordered some beer at a beachside bar while i explored the city, looking for a toothbrush. returning empty handed, we went elsewhere. then back to our hotel, then out for dinner. while eating someone approached us with a box full of books for sale. that’s when i picked out the life of pi. another followed but i had already used all the money i had on me. it was unfortunate, because i saw some that i wanted, but also good, for the space in my bag was limited.
nighttime was aglow with signs as we stepped from the restaurant, with pretty masseuses and club girls beckoning us on. but we bought some snacks and returned to our hotel to get some sleep for the next day.
we left early on the sleeper bus, bound for Mui Ne. with not much food offered on these generally long trips, we resorted to our snacks of Oreos or Ritz crackers (which, for some reason, were sold in almost every convenient store in Vietnam). because we purchased open tickets for these sleeper buses up north in Hanoi, we were able to jump off and back on at any of the major cities this bus line ran through. during the nighttime drives, because the seats were able to fold back into semi-beds (though they were still too short for taller Americans like us), the lights were turned off and everyone onboard fell into a fitful sleep until our arrival. however, in the morning i did not feel tired and instead continued to read one of the books i’ve already mentioned, looking up every now and then to take in a particularly beautiful sight.
travel is a strange thing. the reasons for which one travels are as diverse as he or she who does the travelling. very few of the inhabitants i met while in Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, had travelled. they all, the young especially, have dreamt about leaving the confines of their homeland, but lack the resources needed to cross the sea or purchase the ticket for the train, the room, the board, the sight-seeing journeys along the way.
it is an expensive thing, expedition. worth it in many ways, but reserved mainly for the wealthy of the world and
often times lonely.
the only ones you meet on the road are those who have also chosen to be on that road. sometimes you speak, but if you do it is in passing, and very often when you are weary and dirty and red-eyed from too long on the bus or tuk tuk you simply walk by each other. and they understand. they’ve been there too. and any relationship you build with one another is temporary anyway–each using the other as an instrument to combat their loneliness or boredom for a few nights more.
this is not to downplay the glory that is travel. and there are many we have met on our trip who have been excellent companions and hosts. however, there are few i have even added on Facebook due to the fact that i won’t see them again in the near future. i also grow weary of the overenthusiastic children, those with the newly purchased equipment still smelling of REI. we all started there at some point, i agree, but the ones who openly declare how much better it is abroad than home, these eager explorers, i have found, are simply so taken by the fact that they are in a different land than they are accustomed to that they will allow any transgression by said foreign land on account of the novelty factor. to me, these types have not had enough time to contemplate on history, humanity, or culture long enough to understand that there are in fact many sides to every place of residence–and though Bangkok may be more interesting to you than London from whence you came, it is often only because you are a tourist and the powers that be show you only what they wish you to see.
no conspiracy theory: that is the way of the world. we travel abroad, pay for our tickets to paradise, laugh and take pictures of the locals, and return home, or come back one day to make for ourselves a comfortable living in a permanent abode in the form of one of most luxurious bungalows outside of town.
that is not everyone, it just seems to be many. there are of course teachers, aid organization volunteers, doctors, people with a general interest in the natural communities of these countries. it’s simply hard to find them. i suppose to do so you would have to venture off from the sleeper tour buses, beach towns, and traveler hostels.
either way, the ride was pretty, and air conditioned, and i reflected on all these things as i considered the economics of Vietnam, the memories of my childhood, and how strange it is that everyone has a brain.
“Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.”
~ Ernest Hemingway
you lose pieces of yourself as you go and look for what can replace them, but there is nothing that can replace them. so you pick things along the way that might fit where they need to fit, though not necessarily where you want them. this is the downfall and the art that is life. don’t forget it. and eventually there will be too many pieces falling and too many pieces missing. then you will fall to your knees, and then to your hands, and there you will remain until maybe someone comes and sees you and picks but the choicest pieces of you to put where she really wanted someone else.
we left Hoi An after the fifth night, just before the sixth night, taking another sleeper bus further south to Nha Trang. leaving around 6:30, we were expected to arrive twelve hours later at our destination.
my head had begun to hurt earlier in the day, so full of thoughts and concerns, that i lay back in my seat and took to sleeping almost immediately. it helped my headache, so that when we stopped i could get out for a snack without feeling blood pumping in my ears.
sitting, looking around at our stop–some square including a quiet restaurant, public restroom, and small collection of local food vendors–i was struck by the lives of each person i’d passed, and was currently sitting beside. and me, just one more tired face to them driving through. they would not remember me, and i would not remember them–only their condition, both tourist and local. there were cracks in the tile of the restaurant, and someone knew how they came to be. someone had built the concrete lavatory, had stirred the mixture, had fetched the water and poured the foundation and laid the pipes. things had been new at one point.
and we all move past.
the bus did so, boarding everyone and leaving the vendors sitting sleepily in their stalls to wait for the next bus to arrive.
Nha Trang greeted us in the morning. i woke first on the bus, and was rewarded with a view of the slumbering villages and hills on the coast. just a few early fishermen were rowing their canoes out, their lanterns hanging on the smooth waters, leading them towards the pink and red horizon. it painted the sky, the still sea, and i was reminded of Forrest Gump when i raised my camera to take a picture. it stopped me, considering the scene in which he talked to his buried wife recounting all the things he’d seen–the stars in the war, the beauty of the sea, the moments when he ran and the earth and the sky seemed to merge together as one. sometimes life deserves not to have its picture taken. sometimes it deserves to be seen and forgotten, or remembered only as we remember each other–not by faces but interactions–and recounted only in words, that the teller might convey the sunrise with his emphasis alone.
the big, towering resorts stand with their pearly walls looming over the hunch-backed workers picking up and sorting through trash on the pavement. glowing lights highlight the Western and Russian and Chinese visitors’ faces walking by, holding hands, hurrying by, laughing, partying to their music, growing quiet and offering somber faces to hide their guilt or disgust as they avoid the vendors and trash men and women.
i work on, writing my novel, reading my books. Che Guevara’s early travel log and Count of Monte Cristo following Moby Dick; then Les Miserables and Hugo; Marx; the Life of Pi; a Clockwork Orange. i cannot stand people serving me. it brings only awkwardness to have others lift my things, bring my food, clean my clothes, my sheets, my bedding. sitting on the balcony of a restaurant, i realize that i am no better than those who i condemn simply for cheerfully walking. am i so calloused?
i look around. who can i blame? is there anyone? we are not our fathers, or our mothers. nor are we their parents. nor their parents’ parents. yet it is hard for me to reconcile the differences in the world that have accompanied the sins of past generations.
i check myself. is this naïve? ignorant? patronizing? every generation is simply heir to the mess that is mankind, handed down graciously to the new from the old, who themselves were once new and hapless. there is no right way. man is but beast after all, struggling to survive against the elements and himself. i think sometimes it’s easy to forget that in America. as champions in a sport, we forget how hard we toiled to achieve our position and do not notice the challengers in the corner frantically preparing.
there is no black and white then. there are no evil conquerors and noble savages. there are individuals in each category and between and chaos and dignity and denial within each. yet, how did we, the downtrodden revolutionaries of America, become the force under which and against whom so many others struggle to free themselves? this neo-colonialism, is it done? how can it be done? i cannot give all my money away, but then what?
others follow the West in industrialization. but the earth cannot handle that. too many are scrambling to get what only a few can have. the great experiment of the republic, of capitalism, of communism and socialism and the welfare state…it goes on. to what end? tempered by real life experiences, the idea of socialism has grown jaded for me. yet maybe..?
the bustling affairs of other countries concerns me. i ask America: what has happened America? why do you prop up your bloated empires of commerce and stifle the risky newcomers? what is that hesitancy in your step? why do you no longer yell into the night, reaching, striving if only to see what might lay there? where is your haste, your urgency? your pride? your sticky, never-ending, overtly optimistic heresy? is it still there? because i want your sex. i want your anger. your mixed, drunken disorder. throw at me Molotov cocktails and post-post-modern romanticism grown out of the asphalt. because over here it is chaos too, just like in Chicago, only with less guns. and maybe the guns are a metaphor for something. the lost innocence, the unchecked masculinity responding to feminism and recession-era economics. the country is on its knees, but be strong. be hopeful. there is strength yet in those tendons. when i return i believe i will see it. we must get up. get up i say! get up! show the world where to go, and in so doing earn for yourself some solace for past failures.
when crossing streets in the cities of the East you almost close your eyes before stepping out in front of the vehicles, stepping, placing one foot after the other staring straight ahead or looking to your side but never stopping, and, if stopping, you must hold still and tight in that one, singular place long enough to become as a rock to a stampede that will diverge about you as an accepted immovable object. you tempt the traffic, as a fighter tempts the bull, only in this case the fighter must prove his valor by standing still to face the horns as opposed to dancing aside of their thrashing.
in reality, human beings are the most adaptable of all creatures, and it is very rare–though not altogether unheard of–to be struck by a native driver, even while he or she is trying to merge into a busy intersection. nonverbal cues are used more often than verbal communication, regardless from which culture pedestrians originate, and the way roads have developed in these countries has forced the drivers to become very good with improvisation.
still, this knowledge is sometime hard to conjure up as you face a fresh wave of trucks, buses, vans, motorcycles, scooters, bicycles, taxis.
Hoi An did not have a traffic problem, thank god. it seemed the perfect beach town, boasting miles of sand as well as a tourist hotspot in the center of the community where a little river ran out to sea. a thriving collection of businesses, shops, cafes and restaurants huddled around this area, and at night thousands of paper lanterns lined the Mediterranean-colored corridors that were prohibited to vehicles after a certain time every day. we enjoyed going here, the bars, the people-watching, the cafés playing reggae music in the morning.
one night we found ourselves talking to a nice waitress named Hang, after which we frequented that restaurant nightly, joking with the staff and eating our fill of spring rolls and fried rice and watching the various foreigners wandering up and down the avenue.
walking home alone one night close to two in the morning, i took a different way and saw piles of debris and garbage in the gutters and skeletal dogs and cats running away. the small houses, the tarp houses, i was overwhelmed suddenly by it all. it was clearer in the day, the bleached countenance of the concrete, but in the night one can stand and look on uninterrupted.
they were trying. god, they were trying. they were building, working harder than any American i’ve seen. and i wished them the best.
but the world.
oh, i wish there was enough in the world. and there is, really. but rarely does power transfer hands bloodlessly. there will be war. and the world will eat itself.
the things we do to each other. to animals! to babes! burning and beating and hanging in trees, dragging through the streets laughing merrily and smiling big, toothy grins. it makes me shudder just thinking about it. and its a beautiful culture we cling to, all of us. a beautiful language and hope and heartiness. and one should love mercilessly. not calmly, but furiously. with passion, and rage, and courage. one should never stop to think otherwise, just do, even when your knuckles are broken on the way down.
but too often one does not.
i do not hate man. i hate the universe he creates and is in turn consumed by.
we rented scooters, Josh, Steve, and i, and the first day i was to ride the scooter with them i lost control immediately after starting and almost crashed into the main street. thankfully i was stopped by a pile of garbage.
but, my stomach already not feeling good, i decided to skip the trip and remained at home sick the first half of the day while the other two explored further north.
after eating some dinner that night my stomach felt better and the following day we rented scooters again. after some time getting to understand the dynamics of the scooter, and by the time we reached the fourth largest city in Vietnam–Da Nang–i could traverse the many intersections with, if not ease, certainly a certain amount of confidence. like Hanoi, there were very few stop lights. but the flow of traffic wound its way easily in and out and around the bends and circles of buildings, trees, and fountains.
Steve went to the hospital to receive his fourth rabies shot, but only after the three of us quickly plunged into the empty beach waters. no one was there besides us and some workers behind the open bar counters.
as Steve got his shot Josh and i explored the town more, got petrol, and took shelter beneath a stadium on the outside of town. the stadium itself appeared closed, but there was a bar nearby and we had some iced coffee as we watched the rain come down and the clouds, the wrinkles in the pools serving as dividers between us and the stadium entrance.
we drove back to the hospital once the downpour had lessened, but still became soaked in the process. heading out and around the outside of the city, we passed over sweeping bridges overlooking the river and its harbor, the towering Ferris wheel and “Dragon” bridge in the distance. the scenery was stunning, seeing the city in such a natural light with all its cogs and wheels unaware of our observations. but i was chilled and shivering by the time we stopped for food. we ate at a seafood place overlooking the beach and after putting warm food in me i felt better. meant for many people, the vaulted ceilings of the restaurant provided service only to us this lonely, big-skied afternoon.
afterward we tried to scale a nearby mountain but Josh’s scooter began to overheat and smoke so we quit early in the venture and returned to the beach to watch the locals as the sun began to fall. in southeast Asia a lighter skin tone is thought to represent higher status, so many–especially the women–dress in jackets and love sleeves and cover their faces in the day, and swim only at night or early morning before the tourists hit the beaches during the hottest parts of the day. upon hearing this i recalled a conversation in a Thai restaurant in San Francisco in which the waitress commented on my sister’s pale features, saying her skin was exceptionally gorgeous.
we headed back to return the bikes, but not before i almost ran myself back into oblivion as i clambered aboard my scooter for the last time. thankfully i wasn’t too badly scraped, and neither was my scooter. with a few hours left in the rentals, we stopped once more at the less frequented beach in Hoi An and jumped into the five-foot waves that often gathered there in the evenings from a long way off coast.
the sun set as people attempted to surf and lights came on beneath the palm trees along the beach for miles and miles in every direction. it pink and crimson over these trees and in the distance you could see where the coast arched in its half-bay shape where Da Long’s tall buildings stood, and the mountains too, hidden partially in cloud. all was frosted in a light, rosy hue and orange and gold and foggy with distance, as subtle shades of purple and blue clung to the lines of things and danced in the water reaching up on sand and pausing just long enough to appear motionless and clear and reflecting the heavens against the earth.
i once more floated in the sea’s warm embrace, lying washed over and under by the waves of the more intimate seclusion than bigger, busier beaches. this was one of those gems of the world–rare though they may be–where human sound still does not drown out the roll of the tide.
we left Hanoi on a night bus within which we could scarce manage a few hours of sleep due to the bumpy roads, cramped sleeping quarters, and inconsistent shrieks and shrills of an infant across the aisle from us. poor mother, she slept in the aisle, as did a number of others–the aisle itself a pad for such a purpose–constantly waking to tend to her child. i offered my seat to her, but she denied, preferring proximity to the babe than personal comfort.
we met a German couple, a girl from Spain, and a man from America. upon arriving in a town a few hours north of our eventual destination, we were pulled over by the police of the area in a suspicious manner and asked to exit the bus. we were directed toward several taxis and took one to another tourist agency where we were admitted onto another bus, this one without sleeping cots, or, it seemed, air conditioning.
through this confusing process we became acquainted with the American, a thirty year old named Josh, and the two Germans and Spanish girl, all of whose names i forget.
the second bus lasted hours and involved a short stop during which one or two of the tires had to be replaced for fuller ones. it was hot, and stifling, and i read my kindle while my stomach growled and i tried to distract myself from my discomfort.
in the back Steve talked to some new German girls and Josh with someone from Australia? Britain? i did not hear the accent.
beside me sat someone from a different Asian country than Vietnam–i’m not sure from where. his English was not complete, and i, being an American, knew no other languages besides my indigenous one.
at last we arrived, and, taking the first motorbike taxis that were offered us, Josh, Steve, the two blonde German girls, and i set off to a homestay a few minutes from the bus station.
we paid the drivers, settled in, changed, acquainted ourselves with Josh even more as he was our new roommate, and invited the Germans out to dinner and the beach.
this is what Steve and i had longed for, soft sands reaching along the Pacific towards the origin of our travel, so far in the distance all you could see was blue and white haziness. and we waded into the clear waters lapping about us, warm and enchanted, rolling in smooth waves about our chests and the sun upon us, the girls in their bikinis all along the coast and the men looking at them. i wondered at the places that had brought me here. i was at once a new man, and an old man, looking out in that infinity sky.
i had many friends, and perhaps enemies, back home. many loves lost, many loves never had, or never wanted in the first place upon further consideration. they were people. just people. and i had always concerned myself with their wants, their demands. so much so that sometimes i found myself prey to their personal whims or notions about myself, going along with a touch, a whisper, a sad, corrupt, ideal thought in the mind of some lonesome blossom who wanted to see in me someone they wanted to see. someone to love, and hate, and make war with as if making war meant making reason or intimacy. and i thinking, why not? what is the harm of allowing people to think of you in one way, that they should be happy? especially if you have the power to walk and be forever in their minds as only a catalyst upon which they might build a fuller life, and fading always with passing time.
why not play a thousand roles in a thousand fantasies?
the water reflected about me a thousand broken skies, and i fell below its placid surface as if falling from those skies, drifting in weightless space and eyes closed, the world spinning, the world forgetting yet watching even as i drifted on.
yes, i could drift there forever, caught somewhere between heaven and earth. i could float without sound and wash onto a million shores devoid of all mankind and call myself lucky.
breaking surface again, this time to catch my breath, noise flooded my ears. i heard Steve talking and Josh laughing and the girls playing Frisbee with them, lying on the sand sunning themselves. i went back under and thought of V as i hung suspended, wondering where she could be in all that space before me. i do not know if she is reading my postings, but if i had to choose one who did, i would choose her. for she asked me for me most often, and did not shy from who i was, or am–or could be. she asked me questions others did not care to ask, questions i can think of even now, lying upon a beach four thousand miles from our last parting.
beware: when someone quits asking you questions about yourself, it is because they have already come to some conclusion as to who you are; or, worse, they have decided upon who you are going to be, and would prefer not to ask more questions lest it put cracks in the façade. these people dance about you and sing, almost beautifully,
“I love you so much that nothing can matter to me–not even you…Only my love–not your answer. Not even your indifference”
~ Ayn Rand
so i was content in floating alone, for now.
These Our Moments 