Me-Lo-Dee

The car was black and so shiny I could see my reflection staring back at me as it stopped at the curb. A startling revelation at 6AM. Toyota Camry. The inside was clean as if somebody has just finished wiping every inch. Michael Jackson was playing. Billy Jean.

“How is your morning,” he said, smiling broadly. Strong accent. M pushed his Kindle back into his bag. “Great.” Big smile back.

The car sped down the side road that ran parallel to the freeway. A group of people were waiting idly for the Transbay Bus.

“Not everyone feels comfortable taking casual carpool.” That is a fact. “Sometimes the cars are good, sometimes, they are a liability.” Laughter. “You don’t want to not make it to the other side.

The light turned green and we merged onto the crawling traffic. The car slowly makes its way to the carpool lane on the left. Precise movements, the left signal turned on every time.

“Do you always drive?”

“No, I ride sometimes. But I have to go to different places in the city. Besides, like my car. It is comfortable, and safe.” I sink a bit deeper into the back seat. The music was growing quieter. Roxette was playing.

“Which station is this?”

“It’s Pandora, Michael Jackson station. I always have it on in the morning. Good music for the morning commutes. I put in better loudspeakers.”

“Yes, it sounds nice.”

“Where do you work?”

“UCSF, but I have to go to their different locations. I work in the … Office.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“A few years.”

“Have you live in El Cerrito for a long time?”

“Maybe 5 years. I love it. Everything is close by. Are you new.”

“Yes, we just moved a few months ago.”

“It’s a great location. You know what is the best bar? Mallard. It has a Tiki Bar in the back. All local people. Some of them have been going there since they were young. I like talking to them. You know there used to be a bar right behind Ace Hardware?” Chuckle. “I also like Melodee. Right next to the Bart station. That’s where my people go.”

“Who are your people?”

“Tibetans”

“Is there a big community here?”

“Not big, but many of us, and we hang out at Melodee on Fridays.” “I saw Tibetan restaurants in Berkeley. A couple of them.” “Yeah, they are no good. If you want good Tibetan food, you need to eat at home.”

“When did you come here?”

Hesitation, “a long time ago. 10 years maybe. Came to study, then stayed. Like everybody else.” Laughter. “I came as a student too.” I said. “Really? You don’t sound it.” “You know it helps to have an American boyfriend.”

More laughter.

“I will take you guys closer to Market. But you should go to Mallard. And come to Melodee. My people are there.”

Commuter's Notes: Infanta

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“Here it is” the man shifted in his seat, turning the book slightly towards her.

“Her name is Marguerite. And she sits here surrounded by seven bridesmaids. The innocence of her face contrasts with the … That is why she is infanta.”

“Fascinating,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “You know I always hear, Infanta this and Infanta that. And all the while she was right here. Marguerite.”

We merged into the carpool lane. Traffic this morning was especially light. As the car sped by, the thin layer of fog slowly lifted revealing water of the Bay glistening under the rosy pink sky.

“Really beautiful, don’t you think,” she whispered, a bit loudly. He shifted in his seat again, put down the book and looked out the window.

It is always curious to see how casual people are with their conversation, when there is a stranger sitting in the backseat of their car, or perhaps the way that people act overly casually precisely because there is a stranger sitting in the backseat of their car. A curious thing, casual carpool, where absolute strangers are suddenly thrown together for half an hour, 45 minutes, an hour, depending on traffic, as they seek to cross the bridge to the other side. Some mask the awkward moment with loud music and news from the radio, most of which concerns weather and traffic. Others just continue on with their conversation, as if the stranger was not there, so that the passenger, rider, is privy into the dullest and most fascinating conversations. This morning, it is all about art.

“So what are you doing with them today?”

“I am not sure,” she chuckled, again a bit loudly, “but I have an ironing board in the trunk.”

“An ironing board?”

“Yes, I always wanted to give them something to do, the models, so they can hold their pose, and the ironing board, well I just happened to see it. So here it is in the trunk.”

“And you are going to have them iron?”

“Yes, so they can hold the pose, and maybe it will be less awkward for them, the students. You don’t know how uncomfortable they are with the idea of nude. They always are.”

“Maybe it is the fact that the model is nude and they are clothed.”

Chuckle.

The car slowed down and she turned her head towards him, glancing at the book still open on his lap. Her hair was curled into a long bob, with some strands of grey. Horn-rimmed glasses and furry coat collar swaying slightly as the car picked up again.

“You know, I wonder,” the man raised his voice slightly, “what if we reverse the situation and have the students paint the clothed model while they are nude. Or, have clothed students paint clothed models and nude students paint nude models in the same room. Wouldn’t that be fascinating?”

Chuckle.

“Yes perhaps it is the fact that they are clothed, but making them take off their clothes...They are always so uncomfortable about it.”

The car merged left, nearing the less crowded exit to Harrison.

“This is the most curious thing. You know that corner, at Washington. There is never a soul there, every time I go by. But that morning, and it was a cold morning, a bit of fog, you know, like always. Early morning. I had to go in for a meeting, and I just saw that woman standing there wearing nothing but a frock.”

Chuckle, a bit dry.

“Do you know what a frock is? It is a sort of sweater, but with no sleeves and no buttons, just the back and wide open in the front. And her hair was plastered down, probably from the fog, but she wore make up and red shoes. And she stood there, statuesque, absolutely nude but for that frock and the shoes. Just standing there. And there is never a soul at that corner. And I always look for her again, after that, but I never saw her again.

Silence.

I pulled my coat closer around me, grabbed the backpack and stepped out of the car into the cold morning.

Photography

lang thang
tìm vài bông hoa
chọn một ngày nắng đẹp
mỗi góc nhìn được chữa và sửa
vài ba lần
đậm thêm những nhạt nhẽo đời thường
xoà mờ đi vài điều vô lý
vốn dĩ rất nhiều
vốn dĩ bình thường như cuộc sống
Ống kình cầm nặng trên tay như muốn chạm vào sự thật
từng đường từng nét phơi bầy
trên những màn hình
cho nhìn thoáng qua
sắc màu vẫn sáng
nhưng ngón tay lướt qua không chạm vào chút nắng
rơi rớt trong ngày gió thổi hôm qua
bước chân lại thèm lang thang
rong ruổi
nhưng mùa hoa không còn
nên ống kính thẫn thờ
chụp một chút hư không
hai chút đợi chờ
không có cách nào làm cho mờ nhạt
hôm nay
© Anh Đào 2011 

Thank you note

tôi nợ bạn
một lời cảm ơn
dẫu có hơi muộn màng
vì những ngày tháng rong chơi của một thời thơ trẻ
vốn nhanh quên
cảm ơn bạn đã nâng tay đỡ những trăn trở đầu đời
giọt nước mắt tuổi mười sáu lăn dài trên trang vở
lem nhem nét chữ, nụ cười
và bạn nhắc lại cho tôi những câu chữ tưởng đã quên
những con đường, góc phố của mẹ cha
chợt gần hơn
chợt không còn xa lạ
cảm ơn bạn tặng cho thêm một vài kỷ niệm
một chút mộng mơ được viết thành lời
một thời mình ở bên nhau là chút ít của cuộc đời
nhưng những gì đọng lại trong nhau
sẽ mãi còn như nỗi nhớ
về những ngày đã qua
cho những ngày chưa tới
cảm ơn bạn đã cho tôi thêm vài ký ức để mỉm cười
© Anh Đào 2011

Insomnia

I am home and it feels good, as always, to be surrounded by those closest to my heart, by smiles and laughter and love, endless love that only grows with time and distance. I see the twinkle in my mom's eyes as I walked through the door, the way my nephews run around my bags, re-placing me within their world, their life. I shudder in the piercing cold, so familiar, never forgotten even after five years of sunshine and sandals. I
But then, there is a longing in my heart, not too big, not too small, for another shore, another city only recently encountered. Another room, only recently turned into a home. In a night of insomniac delirium I miss a hand holding me through the night, a kiss on the cheek, a look in the eyes, a person not recently met holding so many future promises and dreams. And I understand that home is in the heart, and we hold it within us, wherever we go, always to be returned to.

Writing

is an isolating process. Days after days of trying to formulate thoughts into words and sentences render me speechless. I am loosing the ability to communicate other thoughts flowing in a maddening matrix in my mind. I doubt my ability to ever be able to explain what I mean, if I will every know what I mean.
Writing used to be a blessing, when tears are no longer enough to alleviate frustration, when the voice becomes hoarse from shouting unintelligible phrases. The linearity of the text makes it possible to arrange anger and sadness, organization calms a raging soul. I think while I write and the end result is understanding, acceptance and new possibilities. I write in the light at the end of a dark tunnel.
These days, writing means groping in the dark, the fear of impossibility looming, condensing the invisible air. I choke on my own words, which always seem wrong, empty, unnecessary. Every finger touching the keyboard is pierced with a growing sense of hopelessness, what am I writing, for whom and why does it matter. Questions without answers piling up inside, a material weight heavy on my heart, and I can't breath.
If there was a way to make a hole, just enough to let thoughts trickle through, the way poison needs to flow out from your body through a cut, no matter how painful, because there is no other way.
If there was a way to pick up that burden, throw it against a wall until it breaks into thousands and millions of little pieces.

I would pick them up, drop by drop, piece by piece and start from the beginning. The most simple things first. Why do I care? A puzzle of my own mind.

On the way home

I grew up with public transportation. No scratch that. To start from the beginning, I would have to say, the first method of transportation I remember are bicycles. Not the pretty pink barbie for little girls, not the cool BMX for restless teenage boys, not the tall ones for professionals that cost a lot of money to buy and to fix - you know the ones the cool environmentalists ride to save the world, or to save themselves from the boredom of a car. No, the bicycle I remember is so old it has no color other than the color of rust, and the wheels have been fixed so many times the bicycle guy would shake his head if we bring it over one more time. With that bicycle my mom took us to school, everyday, my sister in the back, me in the front. With that bicycle we go every other week to the countryside where my grandparents lived to carry back rice, and vegetable and occasionally a chicken or some meat (all stack up behind my sister on the seat). The town and the countryside are divided by a large river. So to cross over, we, a woman and 2 little girls, and other people, men and women and children would wait by the side of the river for a small boat, which is also so old its has no color other than the color of mud. All of us, adults and children and bicycles would get on board scrambling to find a spot to stand. And we  cross the river, while my mom tries to hang on to both her children and the only other valuable thing she owns.
When I got a bit older we moved a bit further away from the countryside. My sister would still be sitting in the back of (a slightly newer) bicycle for the 3 hours ride from Hanoi to my grandparents house 4 times a year, but I was still too small for such a trip. The road after all is more dangerous than the river, and it was difficult to fit four people on a bicycle, no matter how small and skinny they are. So while my sister enjoys her rides with my father, I get onto a coach car with my mother and many many other people, goods and oftentimes animals, chicken, ducks, cats and dogs, and piglets. I don't remember much from those trips, because I am usually so sick throughout the trip I would vomit and pass out, then wake up only to repeat the circle.But I do remember the moment I get to get off the coach car. At the side of the river, from where we will continue with the bicycle like the old days. My mom has learned to not give me anything to eat before the trip, so when we get off the car, I would get a treat, sometimes a piece of rice cake, sometimes, if my mom has enough money, a bowl of porridge the ladies sell at the station. I remember those moments fondly, just like the ice cream I used to get only after loosing a tooth. They are my rewards after suffering.