Thang Nguyen 555

A lot of data are stored up in our little head. A fragment over here, over there, at times, co-join to form a tapestry, a patched up dream-like continuum.

Proust knows. We are our memories. So he tapped onto the undercurrent – his museum of memories – to re-surface and re-shape them in some fashion or form.

Voila. People spending their leisure time, the Swann’s way. Unlike the way we now live, mostly digitally.

I saw on the news today: people died more of covid in counties where mis-information used to prevail (npr news).

Such was the nature of the beast. You can’t have enough of good information.

And it’s up to us to curate and filter out bad actors. To let what’s in, and eventually, significant to us enough to take space in our museum of memories.

How do we build our filters? to remember or not to remember!.

To be or not to be.

What made us remember something, someone and some event more than others?

We don’t have to will ourselves to forget unwanted information and unpleasant conversation. It comes natural as survival mechanism.

Can’t be a doormat for people to walk right over. Or worse, can’t stand in the middle of Manhattan holding a sign “the end is near” for instance.

So we pick and choose. How we spend our time. What good book to read and good people to see (people are like books anyway). (as of this edit, daddy and daughter spent another 100 bucks at Book People. Who said Boat People remain forever on the boat or fresh of it! We read too, but first need to dry ourselves off).

My book, me, is in bold and large print. Easy to see. Easy to read. Easy to understand. With title and bylines.

With people saying a few words in the back cover, for you to overcome initial resistance, to flip through he pages.

It will have designer’s calligraphic fonts. It might even have pre-underlined passages to catch and keep your attention.

And most of all, it will differentiate itself (need to stand out since people – the ones I have come across – do judge the book by its cover).

My stories, my points don’t show great discoveries (not a scientific publication). Just a life illustrated by love and illuminated by loss, marinated by betrayal and matured by hardships. Most people chew on the pain of the past. I thrive on the pain of the present (soon become the past). Hence, the book subject has yet been reaching the end chapter. Still it is in its nth revision, perhaps online, machine-aided and printed.

So I move beyond today. To tomorrow yet looking over my shoulders: still fear of the advancing army, the approaching variant and the calling of debtors (social more than financial).

Life is funny. When you stop searching, it finds you.

I only remember certain flash-bulb moments, aided by black/white photos. Then I remember the songs and sound from my youth e.g. Band on the Run or Superstar. Finally, the taste of home cooking, of kindness and laughter. Those relatives are now ghosts. But they still exist in my heart, full of warmth and assurance from an extended family. Of one-level-away connection. Not online, but off. No pretension and randomness. Shared meals and memories.

I was privileged to some of those occasions when relatives gathered to remember our grandpa: the burning of incenses, the breaking of bread and of course, playing of a now-extinct card game. Like Proust, often, I am in search of time past. Each relative always said goodbye, but not left on empty stomach or empty-handed (just a little of something for the road.)

That road is still traveled by me. All the way to greener pastures. Don’t ever look back. Keep going. You need to cover for us all the miles we couldn’t ourselves imagine. So I keep going. looking forward, all the while, wanting so bad to turn around. To take one last look at that which has no rewind button. And while traveling the road, I make sure those memories are stored up in a locked compartment with coded password: I love you so much. Might be long a pw, but it’s so easy to remember and so close to my heart.

See my book is simple: it has a chapter on how I come about, people I grow up with, circumstances that drove me out of my home and how much I can salvage after the crash. Others might have a more elaborate and winding outline. But if you were to take a look, all you’ll remember is that boy had a lot going in such a short life. And you might feel more fortunate, or you might feel sorry for me. It might stir up and trigger some of your past blessings and your better choices. But one thing it won’t do: it will not bore you to tears and waste your time. I certainly wouldn’t want that on myself.

A la reserche du temps perdu. In the way she moves, something,…that attracts me like no other lovers. That madeleine and the table corner. Elegant and eternal. Yes, I remember now. She is a Gypsie woman, or perhaps a Boat People…I can’t recall, but certainly she moves around a lot, in search of a better life, like you and like I.

I was told to write from the heart (or just use Google speech, then have it translated into Vietnamese).

If I were to follow this advice, then how could I send those cultural nuances across the softwares, at least, not yet.

For now, we can’t just yet paint a picture of “blush”, “shame” and other emotional hues (crying in tears rules as 2021 most used emoji).

I was on a campus date, and it happened to be with an ardent Catholic-raised Christian gal, friend of mine. We happened to see “Last Tango in Paris”. Of course, half-way through the flick, mind you, it’s Marlon Brando of the Godfather and Apocalypse Now, she asked us to walk out.

I to this day only remember the scene where she posed with one leg on his as they were sitting in a Parisian cafe. Now, it’s schools and girls, not necessary in that order, two topics closest to my heart (then why not blog about it).

While waiting for the SAT-equivalent test scores, I had my first real dating experience. In fact, she (B) was the only girl present at our celebration party.

Schools then girls. A pairing like two train tracks.

Going no where at times, but going.

Fear of the future (what if we were to have a baby before a college degree – translated into career and job security).

Fear of losing her forever (what if things don’t turn out as we thought – the war and all, then permanent separation: turned out to be so true).

Fear of never again “swimming in the same current” ( let’s dance….many nights, many clubs, many partners….last Tango that takes Two).

And that’s the way it was. Stalemate my butts.

Cronkite my behind. Kissinger kisses my asses. The other day, I saw a bunch of guys standing and waiting in front of the Social Security office. Wonder if they were Afghanese, applying for their first papers.

Quite a repeat, a deja vu (one of the girls was among them, very much like our high-school bunch). Yes, they were smoking outside. Young with a lot of life ahead.

We too were pouring beers —but then we had just turned 18, partying under supervision. Unfolding before us was a world full of possibilities. No time to die. By then, my parents had already churned out tuition for Martial Arts school, English schools, French school, private middle school, private High School and music school.

I owe them a chunk of change.

Yet that New Year, I had a premonition. That life would never be the same. Fewer MP’s policing Saigon streets – to catch the ammunition-supplies thieves, the PX’s thieves, the black-marketeers of US dollars and US goods.

Rich kids and influential kids, straight A+’s kids and orphanage kids got on their seatless cargo planes, all dressed up, with planes to catch and English words to look up, idioms and slangs to learn by heart (rote learning: like the French taught us in conjugation. which takes us back to Je t’aime, to Last Tango in Paris).

So I danced those ten nights away, last chance. Last dance that I could feel: the fear, anticipation and anxiety. Nothing makes you feel more alive than knowing there is only a little left to live.

I felt the vibration from various female bodies. Girls of Saigon, not Miss Saigon, were apprehensive too. Everybody felt the rumble, except the US Ambassador who told his wife NOT to move the furniture like our x-President Thieu, who did (his stuff on previous flight to Taiwan – wonder who would continue to move his furniture onto London and Boston, where he eventually passed away).

Later, when schooling in North of Boston, yours truly was staying overnight, of course at the invitation of another date, at the home of former Ambassador Lodge. It was my highlight. At both the movie, starring Marlon Brando, and the sleep-over, at the Lodges’; clean like a whistle.

Healthy dating. Three-dimensional friending. There was never s/t called the internet back then. Schooling and learning about ourselves through the eyes of others. Students of life, of loss and learning to manage parental expectations.

My freshman year saw the war unraveled.

To tango, one must first sprinkle the floor with powder, preferably hard-wood floor . Tous les garçons et les filles de mon age…ballroom danced (pre-Le Freak Disco).

Now I have these episodic memories. Post Vietnam War saw many memoirs, most of them revisionists: “honour”, “honourable”, “decent” …you name it.

Owing it to paranoia and premonition, I made my last Tango last (already had a taste of disaster in 1968, the year I started high school). That year, there was mass grave in Hue, and an extended lockdown that haunted our 68-75 school years. Like the date that walked out of the movie, we walked out on our own 16-mm film torn apart from the sprocket holes. (We knew all along we were living on borrowed time and US tax payers’ money, soon out of bodies and bullets.)

Took a while to splice the frames back. Now it’s Last Tango 2.0, a misnomer (like the Last Emperor, part II on world stage, as people keep forgetting lessons of the past – while dancing as if there were no tomorrow).

San Francisco.

“Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair”…You sure will find some gentle people there.

That was more than 50 years ago.

Today, this past week, be sure to hold on to your purse.

Warren Buffett once said, I paraphrase, “I’d rather keep the money than buying a wallet with that money”.

A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush.

In last week’s case, $25,000 worth of snatched purses, organised flash mob.

They must have pre-planned, the way J6 was: you drive, I snatch, we run.

Chuck Finney, our SF patron saint, must be chuckling: with all the money I raised and donated, they still learn nothing.

And so it goes.

The story of a city. With Big Money and homeless population. Inequity further skewed.

Quite a Pier and a prison if you boarded the scheduled ferry. Creative destruction.

The Golden Gate bridge.

Without a heart of gold.

“Streets paved with gold,..” Gold rush.

Chinatown. Sold them the pix and pixel.

The golden dream. IPO’s and Metaverse.

Zuckerberg and his pyjamas.

Google and founders’ first check spent at Burger King.

Apple and Jobs’ last words “stay hungry, stay curious”.

The orchards, the org charts and a dream. Of making it big in America.

Come, techies and technologists.

Teach your children well, teach the machine well…

Alice Restaurant, now hiring.

“Take the load off me….” Change change change.

It’s a different city from what I once sang Scott McKenzie’s “If you’re going to San Francisco…”

But then, it’s always been “selling a dream” from Steve McQueen and Jaqueline Bisset to Sinatra to Gaga.

From Hollywood to Redwood….looking for a heart of gold….and I’m getting old. If you’re going to San Francisco…..be sure to bring your luxury purse….

Chuck Finney says ” the casket cover has no pocket – or purse -…i.e. to hold and keep your money when you’re gone.”

Warren Buffett himself, once said he would never waste money on buying a purse/wallet, has been quite impressed with Mr Finney, our SF saint.

Every city has a few of those. And that’s all we need to counter the (bad) weight of let’s say a flash robbery.

I’d rather they wear some flowers in their hair, as opposed to selling those purses at swap meet.

Somehow, we’re built to hold two opposing ideas/concepts simultaneously. People died ; not me.

Climate change happens somewhere else. Not here (what if someday you want to travel or live there).

Bad guys take from me (how about me you, at times, live a mix bag non binary life – conveniently acting like a jerk – e.g. when starved or deprived of Black-Friday sales due to “supply chain” challenges).

We made millions of mili-and-mis calculations in our heads for survival.

Our conscious life is a selective continuum of memories (or else, I can’t live with myself, if every morning, I get up, that damn bad past keeps replaying while I brush my teeth).

So we unconsciously forget. Sometimes we forgive but mostly we forgive ourselves first (Sales pros were taught to stand and say to the mirror thousands of times “I like myself” since Sales is a numbers game, facing hundreds of rejection a day).

No one can swim in the same river twice ( esp. those bad and stinky stuff I’d rather forget).

We pick and choose: a moment in time, somewhere in time, someone in time ( my first daughter used to fall to sleep on my chest, once, both of us wore the same T shirts – on sale – hers oversize).

Still Alice.

Still remember.

Only if we can move back and forth, even just as an observer (of that film, which we all starred in).

I once blogged about my unmade bed as recounted by my nephew who came by after the 9 of us fled Vietnam in a hurry.

More than just a pillow and a blanket (I used to hold on to it, my security blanket).

Beyond material things were unresolved relationships, unsettled debt of honour, or a father/son unfinished lesson (ironically, I was listening to Cat Stevens’ Father and Son, the year the album came out – and thought to myself, when would I ever have this kind of back-and-forth duet with my Dad).

He indirectly continues to teach me, via my older brother to this very day. Both served a stint in the Army: my Dad before the rise of Communism, and my brother, on the side of the US against it.

The decade that my Dad and I were apart was painful. I scrambled to make a living, to re-build and refurbish myself.

A decade later, after having re-established himself, my brother sponsored my Dad over to live under one roof. Now he – my brother – is officially “promoted” to take over my Dad’s lazy chair: belling out advices and reprimands at me.

I appreciate the concerns. Didn’t have it for quite a while – someone without family’s tough love could very well form decade-old sticky habits. Now, it’s like remedial learning. Make-up sessions. Albeit indirectly but distilled guidance via my brother. Polygamist family, dressing up in sheep clothing on the other side of the Pacific ( but in compliance, here , per US Civil law).

But we always pay and pay out dearly. To the last dime. With Army’s proper comes temper. PTSD if you will.

Good luck to those who think they can just cross us (from Dad on down). My Dad threw a knife (that stuck to the door frame) at an intruder who with long pole tried to fish out my mom’s purse (laid open on the table, middle of the house, whose windows designed for ventilation, quite common in tropic living).

So, two simultaneous wives for my Dad. Two simultaneous kids, with two simultarneous opposing households to be visited in one single day (snacks and entree).

Somehow my Dad made it through. Somehow the four adults I grew up with made it through: 1945 (Japanese occupation and famine), 1954 (partition of North and South Vietnam, after Korea’s blue prints, without the forever aid of the US to S Korea), 1963 revolution/assassination of the Diem’s brothers, 1968 Tet, 1975 End of “Vietnam” (or the American War – then thought of as the longest until Afghanistan came on to the global stage).

My Dad faded away on a Winchester Winter. No fuss no fanfares funeral with snow-padded six-feet under. C’est fini (Capri).

All that love and longing. Of pre-war songs (our cousin came by the house and asked for those song sheets the day my Dad left Vietnam).

She knew. It’s the last time. Wish I knew moments like that. To ask for things ….NO. To cherish those near “Fini” moments. To look into those eyes that once insisted “No it’s not me who will someday die – or fade away”.

We live in continued denial of that: I , you, we all men are mortal. We might win today, lose tomorrow. Or get even like Count Monte Cristo. But we will never ever get our loved ones back. They ( younger ones who live on) will never someday get us back. Only those songs and song sheets. (Now they have Spotify, paid or free.) All the copyrighted pastimes now made available in public domain. But we need to face the mirror and the music: our own “bell-bottom blues” ..”..Give me one more day….I don’t want to fade away…”. Built that way, fashioned after bell-bottom, all the while, thinking: “I never will or don’t want to fade away” (until the day, everyone wears sweats and pajamas out on the street)….

OKay, so the arrows will cover the Sun, then we will fight in the shade…(still in denial and refusal to face the inevitable….as you led the 300 with two opposing ideas). Write a memoir, wear some sweats and get on with reality, Bell-Bottom Blues. Enjoy the moment.

If I had known….I would have slept in the morning of April 29, 1975. Just held on one more second to that security blanket. Haven’t found one that fits the bill since. And that’s just one little material thing, quite doable, yet unaccomplished still this side of that major loss.

It’s Thanksgiving. Can’t think at all, but if I have to, I would put 2 and 2 together.

To know that nothing is permanent, especially our problems (per Charlie Chaplin, who also said, “a day without laughters is a wasted day”).

So let’s begin with some “impernanent things”, like Covid, Napalm, Agent Orange, Opioid, Injustice of the Native American – our fellow American, host of this land of “our” land…

By the way, what were those photographers in fatigue, taking Putlizer-prize photos of displaced children, scared to death of their then-destroyed homes?

I debated in Journalism class about Ethics in Photo-Journalism: should I, as a photographer of an unfolding drama, drop our gear to intervene and miss a moment. Of course, we could rescue this one and that one, but only have two eyes and two hands for this sort of mission creep. Or we cover it as precisely and professionally to enlist help, from around the world, and for ages….

Hemingway, once a Medic driver during WWII and the Spanish War, decided to live through those dramas himself in order to write, economically and empathically.

I had my moments of fear, trepidation and loss. Yes, I left everything and jumped on a unmoved barge (it was not even a boat with a captain).

Damn barge.

At times, it moved. Other times, it didn’t. Can’t say nothing to it. Just sit, hold your breath and your pees.

Fate in the hands of the Unknown.

No lights, except for occasional flares and flashes from afar, whatever distance we put between ourselves and what just hours before had been Home.

I understand and empathise with those kids…running naked, not toward an unknown future, but away from familiar home and unfamiliar danger.

Who wanted to become an US citizen in that life-and-death moment. Who wanted a Lexus, a Louis Vuitton bag…or even some clothes (she must have taken a bath when napalm rained down on her over bathwater..BTW, the girl in the picture later became whole, married with a family who loved her…something to be thankful for).

So on this Thanksgiving morning, I thank God for the four adults(2 down, 2 to go) of my original family (themselves refugees of war to begin with). The two survivors called me, one in assisted living, the other, can still drive to visit our oldest sister, in ICU after just her first day in Assisted (mild strokes).

No one invited them over for a Thanksgiving dinner just yet (between them, they got 6 kids, grown and accomplished. Bastards!).

For me, I’ve got 2 daughters of my own, and one adopted who have just become an US citizen (after I saw her inhaling second-hand smoke, not Napalm’s – the journalist’s ethics in me creeps up….keeping me busy….”Dad, this, Dad that’” for the past 7 years).

I thank God for protecting me so I can protect others.

I have lived a life “skinned my head and skinned my knees”…having enrolled in at least 10 schools at my last count.

Learning my “ABC’s” in three languages…being proficient in none.

Being grateful that I still am breathing during this forever pandemic, and after our longer and longest war (Vietnam, Afghanistan etc…).

Always running, once looking backward….fearful for my life…along side many others….

Together, we run, we cry, we laugh at the absurdity called life….which is not permanent…

Charlie Chaplin once said “Nothing is permanent”… He is so right….especially, about “a day without laughters is a day wasted.”

So I laught at myself. At how quick at times I found myself in tears…even as grown man, crying at love and loss e.g. lost links and loyalty, a lost house we had just repainted, the moss-covered alley through which to and fro schools. At many failed dates and fates. Had I known then what I know now..( I would linger and never let go…to store photographic memories of those faces….which we both knew were our last. “On Earth we were briefly gorgeous”.

On second thought, perhaps Nick Ut was right to capture “the napalm girl” (which won him his Putlizer). Or else, we wouldn’t have a graphic..to illustrate the point. The point is even our WORST moment of War is not permanent. Time heals both ungrateful and grateful heart. Mine is very much the later. How about yours? On this day, I hope yours join mine, in saying “Thanks”. That’s all we have to say, and meant it. The Maker knew both kinds, like in the back of his hands, who is His Judas and who is his Johns. And the Word made flesh….the Logos…among which the word “Thanks.” (non-verbal language count)

My oh my…. I once thought it was end-game: no more “Je t’aime” , a chance to say “Thank you God”, “Cam On Ngai” . Now we can all laugh til tears running down our cheeks…Don’t let Thanksgiving 2021 go down as a wasted day i.e…..without love in our hearts…or.whatever is left of that wounded organ of ours, napalm girl’s included. If she can do it, we can do it.

Just Yes or No. Black or White. Heaven or Hell. You get the gist.

No nuances, context, or even human lies (selective memories).

As we grow older, we store more memory. It’s harder to recall a particular incident or name.

Filter it.

Narrow it down, the Search.

Forced choices, alternate only.

When I first arrived to College Campus, not knowing a single soul. Campus Crusade for Christ approached me, at my most vulnerable point of my life. “May we sit down?” they, two of them, Scott and Dean, said. “Sure”, I replied, trying to finish my Whopper (w/out cheese).

Would you like to go to Heaven or Hell? (Bill Bright, their founder, was a Sales man). Alternate choice.

Later, a well-versed in Sales myself, I learned that people tend to gravitate towards choice B, when asked a binary question (close-ended, not open-ended).

I went on to have a bunch of degrees in Communication, Broadcasting, Cross-Cultural communication….you name it.

I even went overseas, to live among different people, of races, classes and cultures. Just to get it down. From person A to person B, without a lot of noise.

Message intended never equals message perceived. Hence, comes the lying, misperception and reading-into the situation. (that’s why palm reading is still around today).

We will never have PERFECT 100 per cent communication break-through. Even among spouses or best of friends. Teachers/students, politicians (esp this type) and constituents.

I don’t even venture to mentioning Priests and Believers….I am in total surprise that after Martin Luther (not Marin Luther King) with his “priesthood of all believers”, we still see priests’ abuse to the degree that the Church has to use its “holy” coiffeurs to settle out of court.

Back to my Barbie World and Binary World. These “damn” machines are learning, while we are sleeping. (So does Henry Kissinger, whose name appears in more recent AI publication along with Eric Schmidt of Google).

It learns how to “auto complete” our thoughts. Our spelling. Our everything.

Binary world. No nuances. No fuzziness. No changing of mind. Of second thought. Second guessing. Or context and cultures. It is all about “quantisation”, of our vocal chords, our biological rhythm. In China, the Machine dictates. Where you can work, what street you can cross (not jay walk – or drunkard’s walk).

In short, enjoy, while it (freedom) lasts. When the machine has done with its learning. Oh my. I am out of here. Back to Barbie’s World. Back to the Jungle Book. Africa is rising anyway (By any and all demographic indications).

In the jungle, nobody knows your name. Just shake the proverbial tree. I am still hanging in there.

But against the machine? I am out.

It remembers. It stores. It recalls. It retrieves….with 99.99999 per cent of accuracy.

Of late, I have done all the ghost work a man my age can muster: cashier (self-checkout), print my boarding pass (and while at it, my luggage tag), reserve my rental, book my hotel, make my own in-room coffee (while still leaving behind a tip for whoever make the bed for the next guest). etc… All started with a self-serve island at the pump (except for New Jersey) – as if it helps reduce gas prices.

Automation. Artificial intelligence. Machine and man, working together. Efficiency.

But….there always is a “but”.

I don’t get to chat (as an extravert, this denial and deprivation is akin to death). I can’t voice up my doubt, my uncertainty and my fear.

Just choose. No room for guess. For ambiguity or ambivalence. Yes or No. Black or White. Left or Right. Heaven or Hell. Heck with this. I am going to bed. Let the machine run and rule the world. Along with dictators and their henchmen. There is a quote:” the world is getting worse, not because of bad actors, but because good men stood by and turned heads”.

Freedom? Democracy? Justice? All Jokes? how about beauty, honesty and truth? Dream and memory. Kindness and compassion? and God forbid, Love and hate, plus a thousand shades in between. (I had my shares of heart breaks, of misreading the body language vs spoken one “If I stayed here just a little bit longer…won’t you listen. to my heart oh my heart”). Want those? Go back to your Barbie World…..and even then, it’s not even safe there. I read yesterday, some guys picked a fight with a muppet on Sesame Street. Saying it’s Korean American. Not White American, hence, not a true one (No wonder, “On Earth, we’re briefly gorgeous”.) He threatened to de-fund PBS. Good luck to land an interview with the Newshour to voice his grievances.

Barbie World is behind us. Binary World, ahead. We are living in a limbo, a purgatory of our own divided making. And I feel both tired and eager to fight for what’s left of what I know the world should and could look like. Well, at least, you may say, as a legacy for my grown daughters. Love them. Will die for them. Any time. (“I am a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world….”).

Of late, we’ve been pre-friending online. Then came our face to face get-together: dress and cross-dress to impress. Pressing the flesh. Pushing the schedule, re-arranging the furniture, setting up the sound system and of course, bringing in the food. Voila!

We’ve got a venue, a mini-event. A party.

Every fifteen minutes or so, as if seeing a ghost, we heard a loud scream: someone arrived unannounced and unexpectedly.

A three-dimensional friend joins in. As if jumping out of the screen. Still with roaming personality (hovering), same winding speech ( village people during oral tradition) and of course, our action-oriented MC who just wanted everybody to dive in to eat (different time zone in his stomach).

Either from Sarasota if not Saratoga, Saigon or Little Saigon. We got lost. Or we showed up. Voluntarily. Decades ago, the opposite way (ditching classes for a matinee at Vinh Loi – French last bastion for cultural propaganda: Alain Delon…”Je t’aime”, Je t’aime toujours. )

We came. On foot or on wheel chair. Drying or dyeing our hair. with cholesterol pills and glucosamine pills.

Still recognisable? That’s good.

Still alive? Cool.

Still with hair or no hair, no problem. You’re in.

OK, this is for you, for you, for you. Who is this in the zip lock bag? Co “Tea”..”Cu onion”, “number 2”, “Principle Cinnamon” and of course, last but not least, “stinky socks”……hahaha ( I lost a fortune on prizes, underestimating my classmates’ IQ).

My body is aching (came home really late last night). Had seen my daughter (undergoing chemo therapy) before the get-together. I had to drag myself there. Sensitive friends saw through my facade, “somebody got to get this guy out of stress mode…give him a drink”.

We made concious choices: eating or greeting, dancing or dressing up like a drag queen (at least, in my case).

“We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the Sun..” Wine and cigars, upgrading to first-class…why not. It’s the package (severance or retirement).

Partying at any age. Lucky nobody rented a Party Jumper out front. Or else, some of us might have tried. (Sorry, got interrupted by a text, my oldest sister finally moved in to Assisted Living. She used to go to the all-girls Trung Vuong, CVA’s counterparts,( Rain in Saigon Rain in Hanoi).

Time flows one way.

Upper classmen often quoted ” one cannot swim in the same river twice”… Class 71 are harbingers of what we someday find ourselves.

Down that road, by any measure , we will be cut short by attrition. Decent interval. Just like the winding down of the Vietnam War that plagued our school years.

The remnant will continue just as we did last Sunday, and many Sundays after that.

But per “Song with no Name, # 8” “Ve sau va nhieu nam sau nua, co Buon nhung van khong bao gio bang hom nay:”. (melancholy might resurface now and then at unguarded moments, but it wouldn’t be as heart-wrenching as today). Class 71 lost another one right after their 50th Re-Union in San Jose. Yet they managed to leave behind a publication…whose conceptual founder tried to “bond” with me in between customers (he operates a one-stop business mailing center in his retirement).

I’d rather us meet up than never. It’s been worth it . I failed – 67- and tried again for the 68 entrance exam, only to change horse mid-stream 72. Van, my new friend, recounted a bus trip he was on…looking out the window, seeing young Malaysian riding bikes, male and female (not main dans la main) but girls sitting cross-legged in back; so care-free and blissful. He, at the time, was “housed” on that island under duress and anxiety, ill at ease given local hostile reception. The grass always seem greener…

On the plus side, we’ve got Thoa – our writer/designer who felt the warmth of a thousand fires.

Perhaps in a few years, Thoa and Truong Nong (B3 and B1, respectively) can collaborate on OUR 50th issue.

It would be our last great gathering, on canes and on wheel chairs, grey hair and glucosamine.

Who can go backward? Time waits for no one.

So long my old/young friends. who “skinned our heads and skinned our knees.” ——–

penned by Chau (lop dem) – AKA Chau 10 checks, who alone, escapes the curse of time.

Please friending me (if you can even recognise me). Virtually only. No more incident at the Beach.

Looks as if we were stuck with one another for a while on spaceship Earth. Did not ask for it. Can’t get off it. Might as well live with it.

“It” here involving the virus, with Climate Change and as in the case of my daughter, breast cancer.

I have travelled a lot, stepped on the plane, at times, with one-way ticket.

But lately, the vessels I were on were mostly smaller, for shorter hops, fellow travelers younger, nimbler with larger carry-on. All masked up. All staring harder for facial engagement.

Then I found myself seeing old friends, far away friends, more frequently.

The “animals” feel the crumble first. Of extinction and destruction.

Of erosion and final end.

We know. When it’s time. When the End Game is approaching.

Many of us rushed and exited the Stadium before knowing the final scores to avoid traffic. The same with our existence, when those threats are looming: infrastructure, a heated climate and a cooling economy.

Kids are living in anxiety, though they don’t show it (vaccination? increased pressure to live up to yesterdays curriculum – pre=covid one).

Educators are expected to hold the standard (academic), but politicians are not to constituent pressures.

Kids are more adult-like, while adults kids.

An upside-down society where norms are abnormalized.

More cultic than cultured.

More digging our heads into the sand than lifting up our eyes above the horizon.

Only when we reached the peak can we see the other side, and enjoy the majestic and magnificent view from the top.

If it were only nature (the Garden of Eden), we then wouldn’t last long, emotionally.

We need other people, not for their service alone. But for companionship and contest. They also need us, to bounce off their views, to vent their frustration and to applaud our accomplishment.

Lately, I have attended old-friend reunions.

I have seen people grow, people died. Many never out-grow their given personality.

But most are successful. We were the ones who passed the exams, passed the challenges life threw at us, at our generation.

Who would start high school only to be delayed due to an invasion. Who would end high school due to a collapse of a regime.

Yet we tried and thrived despite. To complete our assignment (class) and our mission (life).

Never look back. It brings nothing but regret and remorse. “Just move on”, they said.

To the next peak and valley. Still ahead. There always are, those unknown.

Do or die, as a friend said.

The force of circumstances. Of nature, of trials and tribulation. Of known risks.

Still moving on. Yesterday and today. Often without a manual. Without pedagogy or philosophy.

Just be, just do, just live. Then add style to pepper it, spice it with arts, music and poetry.

At times, it’s not just passing the school exams but passing the challenges of life that counts.

Life is what it is. To many, it’s a blessing, others curse. To me, it’s a journey, an uphill one. Many times exhausting. Tearful even.

Then the last time I checked, I have become, though not yet overcome. But the man I am today came about with a price.

Price paid for joy, for fun, for lessons and for discovery.

And then God made man….leaving him alone to find out what’s it’s all about.

Those who venture more find out more. Those who venture less, miss out more.

Life is a long and winding road, of self-discovery (as the “self” interacts with other elements to find out what’s it is really made of). Our Maker gave us life, with best intentions and poor instructions. Partially abandoned, we are here to help one another to make it through. Hence, it looks as if we might be stuck with each other for quite a while, with masks on and on an empty stomach. Time to eat, again.

What kind of Creator who allows the worst to happen to my most loved?

What in the world does He think He is, playing God, throwing the dice around.

My daughter, barely out of the gate, with full life ahead of her.

Now, unrecognizable (no hair, thick glasses and covid mask).

That face which I kissed a thousand times.

It were as if I had faced my cancerous self.

And I hated the Maker. His product needed recall.

A factory reject. Irregular. Returned merchandise.

I am not perfect. Then so does He, a 99.99999999 per-cent Manufacturer .

Yet God demands and desires our bowing down in reverence (like the Last Emperor expecting underlings to walk backward).

Fear doesn’t make a lasting relationship, not when it’s unwilling.

I am right now very unwilling.

Perhaps it’s pre-mature. He is testing us, all of us. From outside threats to inner well-being.

To see if your beliefs and faiths hold.

As if we’re containers and vessels, stuck at the port of entry.

God has a supply-chain problem. Can’t deliver the boosters.

Can’t affect change and renewal in stubborn people.

Can’t shed more lights in darkness, where we all are and cursing at.

With dawn comes new hope (and hunger).

The poor shall always be with us. So are the alm bearers and pall bearers. Tree planters and tree profiteers.

We destroy, disappear and deny.

Just a little bit of footprint here, and over there, another firepits. Smokes get in your eyes.-

Until our bag is full, mouth over-stuffed and stomach over-filled.

When time for inventory, they are not blessings. Most were loots, from innate greed and unchecked desires.

We lust and loot, as if everyday is Black Friday.

Then return and exchange.

But life flows one way. No return, no exchange.

Can’t go back to pre-cancerous stage. To pre-teen and pre-med.

To pre-marital stage.

To pre-exam dates.

So we live on, in denial, in grief (as in my case, in anger).

Last night I hated God.

Not because He blessed others (Positive Thinking, Your Best Life Now, in Spanish).

But because his definition of goodness and beauty is in stark contrast to mine.

In short, God and I are not twins.

We don’t see eye-to-eye on many issues. He by definition lasts much longer.

So it’s an unfair match from the start. The cards were stacked against you and me. Creator vs creatures.

God, Man/Woman/Animal/Machine. Sometimes, not in that order.

We go along, and get along. Rant and rave, but move forward as bi-pedalist nonetheless.

We even invented the wheels, front wheel/ all-wheel drive.

We move, as if we knew where we were heading. Just drive.

Don’t put the gear in reverse. Heck with the camera and geo-location assist.

Just be. On the Road. Like Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg. Pot holes and poetry.

Life is an extended experience. Of getting to know ourselves, our reactions to circumstances and people.

And even to God.

What’s your belief? Is it helping you. When you ‘re down. Do you still need a friend. Or your faith is sufficient to carry you through, like a crutch. Like Chemo.

Can’t stand current culture wars. Current climate and current undercurrent. First they de-legitimized a lawful election. Then they undermine our elected leader. Everybody has a right to criticize, to opine. I exercised my freedom of speech (the speech God gave me out of his spoken word: “Let there be light”) to voice my complaint, to the Highest. More Supreme than any Supreme Leader, more than Chinese or Russian Leaders. Certainly, higher than North Korean’s. I said ” I hate you”. How about that.

Emotional man I am. My Dad (a brave and brawly one) in me. Now it’s my turn. To “play” Dad. To provide and protect. To stand down and up. Against invaders, against foreign forces and agents. Against virus and cancerous cells. Against forces unknown and threats evident. Sometimes I wish it were as easy as sending out an Amber Alert. To solicit for eyes on the street and help in the world.

But I know breast cancer is a private battle. Good things, we are not all alone. Like hair on our head, they do grow back. People, lots of them, do care. Even when God doesn’t seem to (He appears to be both Manufacturer (product) and Outsourcer (Service).

Last night, I hated God for the right reason. And I meant it. With as much force as I once loved Him. Just the other side of the coin.

In Sierra Leone, a fuel tanker and a truck collided. Both drivers got out unharmed. But the crowd converged to “conserve” fuel (that leaks out). Result? lots of burned deaths.

In Houston, a crowd surge at Astroworld, resulted in 8 dead and many injured.

Two societies, two mentalities. Same results. One saves resources, the other surges for celebrities, to be near the “Holy of Holies” (Stardom).

In Copenhagen Climate Conference, young people turned out in drove, demanding immediate curtail of coal.

Take me home, Country Road.

We live in a new world. Machine-assisted living. Lots of tube, of chemical and industrial products (vaccines). We transform and bend nature to our likeness, for our longevity and to suit our view of what society should look like. What do we end up? Crowding ICU’s. How do we get here? By mistrust and division. Who gives us guidance and guardrails? Pastors who quit, prof’s who can’t testify.

A society that drifts, that can only agree on those objective measures (Key performance Index) like roads and bridges, broadband and EV charging stations.

It’s always been hard. And harder of late. The stoking of hate and fear, the negative emotions (that certainly unite the crowd against the Other, whoever they may be. Damn them. It’s them. They who did this…).

Uniformity is mistaken for Unity. Pass the hats around. It’s free. Wear it as a new badge of honour. Hell, “I am white, blonde….no chance in Hell I will be in Hell hole (jail)”.

Wow! Karen and the gang. Sisterhood and sorority. Live above the crowd and fly above the cloud.

Judge jailed her too. After bargaining, down to one misdemeanour…trespassing Government property (ain’t your private jet, which by the way, is in long-term airport parking). The D.C. Jail is now home to many J6 criminals. No leader came for them. Supposed to. Where is Q?

Every one is a martyr. Death for a cause. Rightly or wrongly. But the law of the land is where the bucks stop.

It’s in the above mentioned instances, where it’s not quite clear cut: can I move up a step to get near the stage? Can I scoop up a gallon of free gas. That’s when crowd madness trumps individual judgment. It’s what killed you.

When I was about three, I joined a crowd, chanting crowd, marching through our neighbourhood. With torches, and sticks. Going no where. Just around, full of passion and purpose….I got lost. Until my sister spotted me, yanked me out of it, to go home. Where I belong. Impersonal crowd might provide “togetherness”, a feeling we need and miss (sense of belonging), and the numbers are always strength etc… But it more than often drives you in a wrong direction, echoing the illusion and madness. Crowd is certainly neutral, but it takes on a life of its own with propensity for destruction.

Yesterday, we read about all the wrong reasons for not being in a crowd, from Sierra Leone to Astroworld. Then there are crowds that tried to draw our attention to humanity’s impending doom (Greta and friends). Finally, there is a huge crowd, virtual crowd, on Social Media, targeting us for Key Performance Index. They make money of us. Sheep to the slaughter house. We have been had. Out of our own volition and will, without a fight.