Jan 6, 2013: Hoi An Vietnam, along the river.
All I can do is leave little traces at times. Bread crumbs to be followed. Little clues of a life being lived very well.
Not that it matters, I know. Except to serve my own vanity, that I'm being of use somehow to another. That I serve some purpose for them.
That in those moments, surrounded by such ecstasy and wonder, in elation of the senses, in spheres no one could ever comprehend, or in the oftentimes banal and mundane, when boredom is tyrannical, or even in the softest of sweet instances when the rush of ink and hands scatter thoughts... that's when I hope these traces are found.
Because in those moments, I am here. I have always been here.
Today I sat by this little muddy river in the mystical village of Hoi An and listened to the rain beat down upon the archways and over the stone bridges and against the mustard stone walls the French left here centuries ago. Rusted bicycle propped beneath a tree. Ancient shutters tied with coiled string. Canoes calm upon the river surface, their riders tucked neatly inside earthen caps.
I pulled out a little Dylan Thomas then. This old book I have in my memory banks. I wonder if the Welshman left these stories just for me. Little bread crumbs to follow and know that someone else understood, and that I wasn't alone in my love for this world.