Herman visits the War Museum in Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon). Among his comments: “… One section shows how since the war, Viet Nam and the US have become trading partners. We are treated well here, and people are friendly and very helpful. This city reminds us in many ways of Mexico City…”
The image in the mirror
Is you or it might be someone else
How can you tell?
Have you memorized yourself
Are you certain that an imposter
Hasn’t appropriated the ego
That sets you apart from me
And him and her and them
And tried to use your credit card
And sleep with your husband
Or wife. Voted for a candidate
You cannot abide, even committed
A crime. The only way you’ll know
Is if you turn yourself in.
Let someone pore over your DNA,
Your most personal possession,
More personal than a certain shirt
And the watch that tells imperfect time
But has some forgotten meaning.
Best to avoid mirrors altogether,
Forget the length of your nose
And the droop of your chin
And the baggy weight of your cheeks
And the lips half open with an observation
That vanished before it got that far.
© Dennis Hathaway
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Some more just came in. I will post here until Herman finds a venue for publication (so we can just send links instead of having to repeatedly handle the image files). Captions based on Herman’s notes.
The Incident: Intersecting with Kim and Charlie on their walk while I return from my workspace, Charlie is menaced by a dog less than half his size, but its owner apologizes and seizes the miscreant before any contact occurs. Charlie is nonplussed.
And In Other Developments:
Herman is traveling again and sends us some photos from Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City). This is one place on earth I wish I could return to. Here are my curated selections from his send.
Early morning walk to the dentist. Traveling light with an old P&S.
Where shall we go today?
To the beach to watch the waves
Break one after another, sloshing
Onto the sand like spilled foam
From a glass of beer, a moment
Of seething drama, then the
Quick furtive withdrawl, as if
The sea knows that it has
Exposed too much.
Or shall we trudge into the mountains
On a broken trail, wishing for silence
Instead of the drone of an airplane
And the thrash of a helicopter
Looking for a fool who has stumbled
Who has lost his bearings and will die
Without realizing his fantastical dreams.
Somewhere in the sanctum of chaparral
The mountain lion creeps upon the
Unsuspecting hare, and the simpleminded
Lizard allows its tail to go missing,
Certain that a new one will grow,
And the gopher snake peers out of its hole
At humans oblivious to all but the
Sound that runs through wires to their ears.
Where are we? The melting sky drips
Onto the ruined earth, which pushes
Forth weeds like children, the ones whose
Parents seek admiration and esteem
For an act so common that no license is required,
No training, nothing but a desire to emulate
The endless repetition of the sea,
The jagged rise of the mountains,
That sink, slowly, ponderously,
Into the darkness of the light.
© Dennis Hathaway
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You can lose your money,
You can lose your temper,
You can lose your mind,
You can lose your sense of direction
You can lose track
Of almost anything.
Once I lost my balance
On the edge of a mountain cliff
And fell thousands of feet.
Once I lost my appetite
For no apparent reason
And ate nothing but rice cakes,
Because they have no taste.
Once I lost a favorite pen,
And couldn’t write anything
But notes to myself
Which made no sense.
I’ll gladly lose myself in ecstasy,
Once I find its hiding place.
Someday I’ll lose weight,
But not until the bacon
In the refrigerator is gone,
And the chocolate chip cookies
Have disappeared.
Proust became famous
Searching for lost time.
But how do you lose time?
Does it hide somewhere,
Along with single socks
And books you always
Meant to read but didn’t,
Because you watched TV.
Is it in the dark recesses of the closet,
Or under the bed,
Or has it simply diffused
Like an odor, into the air?
You can have too little time,
Or too much time,
But you can’t lose time,
Because anything lost,
Can surely be found.
© Dennis Hathaway
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In a chance encounter this morning while walking to the workspace, I meet Bill, a woodworker, and his son, Colton, along with other important members of their household.
