Sunday, March 24, 2013

Just Like Little Dogs, Dylan Thomas Along the River Hoi An, Vietnam

 "We watched the boys returning from the oily sea; they shouted under the echoing arch, then their voices faded.  Soon there was not a couple in sight; the lovers had disappeared among the sandhills and were lying down there with broken tins and bottles of the summer past..."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

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.
 "The two young men were statues smoking, tough-capped and collarless watchers and witnesses carved out of the stone of the blowing room where they stood at my side with nowhere to go, nothing to do, and all the raining, almost winter, night before them."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

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.
 "I was twenty-six years old and I'd never been in love, and there I was, gawking at Norma in the middle of Tawe sands, too frightened to put my finger on her gloves."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

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. 
 "And I never felt more a part of the remote and overpressing world, or more full of love and arrogance and pity and humility..."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

Because in those moments, I am here.  I have always been here.
 "I don't want to be home, I don't want to sit by the fire.  I've got nothing to do when I'm in and I don't want to go to bed.  I like standing about like this with nothing to do, in the dark all by myself..."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

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. 
"All at once I remembered how cold it was.  I rubbed my numb hands together. Fancy standing all night in the cold.  Fancy listening.  I thought, to a long, unsatisfactory story in the frostbite night in a polar arch.  What happened then?  I asked."  -Thomas, Just Like Little Dogs

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.

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