Thai Nights

I don't want to talk about war or the election
or race or religion.
I don't want to talk about oil or recession
or islam-nazi or cancer.
I want to talk about love, the love between two people
that cannot be shared with a third or anyone else.
I want to talk about extreme, forever love between two people,
this most dangerous expense of lives, that spends
all breath and all blood and all reason to live,
this only full expense of life that only two can share, once.
I don't want to talk about the smart-ass smirk on your face,
your rolling eyes, your hissed and hip comments.
I don't want to talk about what you know and what you think
and what you feel.
I only want to talk about love, the love between two people
that cannot be shared with a third,
what you do not know, what you cannot feel, except for
the extreme, forever fear of it.
And I will talk with you,
if you are patient with me,
and wait.

Before the acting, before the directing, before the playwriting, and at times afterwards, I did myriad things to earn a living (haven't we all!). Among sundry income-producing activities were stints with magazines and various media. I cut my teeth as a journalist with a news magazine and then went on to the glory and gluttony of a prestigious restaurant magazine in New York. My first international, over-the-seas assignment was to travel to Peru and capture an intriguing story or three about restaurateurs, chefs, and dining out in the not so voracious nightlife of Lima. Peru was and still is on the west coast of South America which was and still is considered to be the "hick" coast sans the vibrancy and chic of the East, of Caracas and Rio De Janeiro and Buenos Aires. It was okay by me.

I traveled on one of the last transoceanic Clipper flights with its all-night, in-flight restaurant, the overhead comfort of a bed for every passenger, and the charm of lovely and loving hostesses, stewardesses, now known, in our current politically-correct banality, as flight attendants. (Attendant. A name I always associated with the guy who gave me a hand-towel in a washroom.) Needless to say, I gathered my first story on the flight itself along with numbers and look-me-ups for a possible later survey of the East Coast (the "attendants" were all from Rio and Buenos Aires).

In my arrogant Manhattan innocence, I had made a naive mistake and so did my editor. I went to Lima in April, on a Friday, Good Friday, which provided a challenging scenario: nearly everything in this religiously over-burdened country was closed, for the Easter holiday, and the heavenly production designer art-directed a nearly unbearable heat wave for the celebration. It was an auspicious beginning.

After slowly, ever-so slowly making my way from the airport in a non-air-conditioned taxicab to the thankfully air-conditioned Gran Hotel Bolivar in the center of Lima, I called my photographer. Though I usually shot my own photographs for most of my stories, this assignment was long and broad enough to require a separate photographer, Tim McElhenny--a former news guy, National Geographic photographer and all-around shooter. Personal turmoil had reduced him to a stringer for news services, primarily in South America. But this was also his first trip to Lima. We were a couple of innocents and not too ugly Americans.

We met up at the Bolivar bar, which became our headquarters, and pumped up with the Bolivar's famous Pisco Sour, which became our anti-heat, anti-dust, anti-anti drink. Pisco is an indigenous liquor in Peru and Chile, made from grapes, a bit like brandy, but quite distinct. It taught me a lot about the hegemony of European spirits. After all, alcohol is not just alcohol, it's a fat drug.

After a restful dose, we wandered out into the thick heat of the Plaza De Las Armas (Plaza Mayor) where a huge crowd was building for the launch of the holiday. First shock to the eye: a helmeted, machine-gun toting soldier on every street corner. A scary, unfamiliar sight except in movies. Then a motorcade pushed its way though the crowd. Second shock to the eye: the government officials were arriving in brand-new shiny American Chevrolet automobiles (this before the Black SUV). The church officials including the Cardinal (who was not Peruano) arrived in Rolls Royces. Welcome to South America!

As the speeches began, newshound McElhenny decided to capture a few photos. He wormed and squirmed his way through the mass of people, as an experienced pro would do, and bounced up and down on barricades and lamp-post bases. His postures attracted attention and two soldiers, who shouldered him and grabbed his camera. He began to protest and one told him in Spanish, "No photographs!" The uniform opened the camera, stretched out the film, and threw it exposed to the ground along with the camera, a rather expensive Hasselblad. Then the other uniform leaned in nose to nose and said, "No photographs!"

A short time later, we needed to get out of the blistering sun and away from all the bombast of the speakers platform. We edged around the huge cathedral of the plaza and found a shady spot at the back wall. Suddenly, there was a familiar sound, the exciting purr of a sports car. It was a bright green racing-striped MG and it pulled up to a jolting stop just short of us. The driver was a gorgeous-looking young man, black curly hair, square-jaw, sharp roman nose--obviously a model, an actor, a playboy. But, no. When he popped out of the car, he turned his white collar around, smoothed out his shoe-length black cassock, tucked his square-cut Italian sun glasses underneath the folds of his robe, took a deep breath, put his hands together and walked quickly but easily around the corner of the church to where the voices and music were blasting. Yes, indeed, Welcome to South America!

I spent five weeks in Peru, picking up four good stories with exhilarating side trips to Cusco and the magic of Machu Picchu, and Mira Flores where... well, whatever you can't find in Lima, you can find in Mira Flores. Among many memories, two stand out.

One Tuesday, there was a power outage all over Lima. It lasted for two days. Even though the hotel had emergency generators, they only powered essential facilities which didn't include air conditioning or ice. No ice, no cold liquids of any kind, not even water. McElhenny came banging on my door. He wanted to see if maybe my water was cold enough to drink. It wasn't. Then he discovered something in the bathroom, a hilarious something which satisfied what he was looking for. The bidet--it actually looked like a water fountain with its recessed seat and skyward spout. It shot out a high stream of cold water, not just cold, ice-cold, refrigerated. Why, he chortled and wondered, is the water from the faucet warm, hot enough to take a warm bath in while the water from the bidet was frigid like ice in the heights of the Andes? It was a media question, was it not? I still wonder about it today.

A few days before we left Lima, we were lounging one night at the bar of the Carillon, a friendly place that gave us a good food service story. As the Pisco Sours multiplied, in walked a group of politicos with blonde trophies on their arms. McElhenny recognized one of them, an important Judge, and immediately whipped out his little sneak-shot Leica and began to photograph the man. Two non-uniformed guys immediately stopped him. Tim was buzzed and struggled. In a few seconds, they clipped him in the belly and dragged him and his camera out the door. As I moved to interfere, another non-uniform stepped in front me, took off his sun glasses and shook his head 'no'. I shook my head 'no', and sat back at the bar. A few hours later, I collected Tim at the local lockup, paid his fine, and understood that both our visas had been cancelled. We had 48 hours to retrace our steps to the airport. I remember thinking: I had already traveled through Europe and seen this happen there but not so blatantly.

I remember thinking: I'm happy that I live in the United States where this never could happen. That's all it is, a memory of a naive thought. "Never" is a spike that the naive sit on!

A shaft of light falls on a large, crumpled, dark gray, dusty mound of cloth at the center of the stage. A pole extends straight up from the center of it and ends in a dark shadow just out of sight., After a moment, movement can be seen as if something or someone is trying to get out from underneath the mound. Gam pops his head through, sneezing and coughing. He shakes the dust off his face, grabs at the pole and begins to scramble up it. A hand pokes though the mound reaching wildly in the air. The hand grabs the bottom of Gam's pants. Bet pulls his head and shoulders out of the mound.

Bet Ho, whoa, I can't hold on.

(Gam kicks his leg free, scoots up the rest of the pole and slams his head into what is obviously a ceiling in shadow at the top. He screams as the collision knocks him back down the pole. He lands with a thump on Bet's head. The two sit there for a moment, Bet's face in the other's crotch.)

Bet Something's wrong.

Gam I know.

Bet We seemed to have stopped moving...

Gam True.

Bet ... and the smell is awful.

Gam It should be... look at your nose.

Bet (crossing his eyes) I can't see it, I can't see much of anything.

Gam It's dark all around us.

Bet And very quiet.

Gam Why is that?

Bet Because we've stopped digging, ergo, we've stopped moving, ergo, there is no light and no sound.

Gam Precisely.
(He looks up for a moment and squints.)
Why is that?

Bet Why... is what?

Gam All of that... what you said.

Bet Because... that's what I said!

Gam I see.
(The two stretch their necks in an effort to get a better view. Bet pushes hard and causes Gam to wince.)

Gam (breathless) I... see.

Bet What?

Gam I... see... stars...

Bet Where?

Gam All around... my head.

Bet Oh... sorry.

(Suddenly the two are thrown into the air as another pushes himself out of the mound. Alf shakes his arms and wipes the dust off his face.)

He says...

The stage is set with a series of platforms at different levels. We begin in the dark with faint light high up in the background. There is the suggestion of a window with a piece of curtain moving easily in a breeze. A touch of music, soft drumbeats in the background. Then a moan, anxious and erotic. Another moan joined by a low humming voice. The dim outline of a couple appears. They are turning and rolling together in what appears to be a bed. Flashes of moist skin as they move through and around each other. Her moans linger, his hum becomes constant, louder.
SHE. Yes, yes, oh yes.

LOVER. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

SHE. Yes-yes, yes-yes, yes-yes!

LOVER. Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmmm.

(Their sounds rise to a peak and stop suddenly as a door opens and a shaft of light cuts across the space. )

HUSBAND. I'm back early. I didn't think you'd be...

SHE. Oh my god!

(HUSBAND reaches for a lamp and turns it on, flooding the space with bright light. The two are stunned for a moment. Then they panic, frantically scrambling to cover their naked bodies, but unable to find a blanket or a sheet. SHE ends up holding his boxer shorts in front of her, stretching them in an effort to cover herself. LOVER can only find her bra, which he spreads between his legs like a jock strap. The three are frozen in amazement, unable to move.)

SHE. You're... back... early.

HUSBAND. I... am.

SHE. This is... my friend. And this... is my...

LOVER. I know.

SHE. ...husband!

LOVER & SHE. Oh my god!

HUSBAND. And she... is my...

LOVER. I know.

HUSBAND. ...wife!

LOVER & SHE. Oh my god!

(HUSBAND suddenly screams.
The other two join him in a chorus of screams.
They stop. HUSBAND begins to walk in a circle around the bed. )

HUSBAND. I'm trying, very hard, to be calm, to be reasonable.

LOVER. Please, don't kill me.

SHE. What?!

LOVER. Oh, sorry. Don't kill... us, please.

(HUSBAND stops pacing and stares at them. He begins to laugh, louder and louder. It's infectious, they laugh too, until all three are almost screaming again.)

HUSBAND. Stop!
(They do)
I can't think.

LOVER. (hesitantly) About what?

HUSBAND. I can't get a clear picture in my head.

LOVER. Be calm.

HUSBAND. I am. I just don't know what to say, I don't know what to do.

SHE. Don't say anything. Don't do anything. Just go back out and come in again. Everything will be all right.

(LOVER is shocked. He looks at her, then at him.)

SHE. Shhhh... just go.

(HUSBAND turns and leaves.)

LOVER. I don't believe it.

SHE. Don't say anything. Just get dressed... quick!

(They scramble looking for their clothes. She comes up with a couple of towels.)

LOVER. Why are you speaking with British accent?

She says...

It was time, the day, the month, the year. So instead of going non-stop to New York, I side-tripped to Boulder. You know how difficult that decision was. You've been there. I had to see him, I had to. It was a cool day and the taxi took me just as dusk was settling in. Still, the light was bright enough to see that nothing had changed, nothing. As I walked up along the front path, they were just herding other patients into the side doors. I felt, not tension, dread. I hadn't called before or checked on anything. I didn't even know if he was still there. And when I asked for him by name, it was as if someone was standing next to me and I was listening to another voice. The split, the drift between what was and what happens from moment to moment is a permanent perception, a pervasive perception that grips all of my senses. They signed me in and took me far up the stairs to the top floor and down the long corridor to the end room, just as it always was. They let me into the room and closed the door. I was alone, he was there by the window sitting. I moved to his side and sat next to him. (Am I telling you anything new? How many times have you and I gone through this ritual, this rite?) He didn't look at me, even when I sat in from of him. His eyes looked through me. He looked well, the same as he looked two years ago. I talked to him, I whispered to him because I didn't know who might be listening. I talked to him about everything, a loose association of words in hope that one note might bring one note back from him. It didn't. It's the same, I'm the same, you're the same. Oh A., will it happen, will one day he not be there? I left without talking to anyone else. It made no difference. Will one day we not be there? And if not, who will see him?
Rune

You've been pressing me to tell you how it began in the house by the church, so here it is.

They, all of them, are laughing, making fun of me as they always do. She is making a meal, a seafood meal, with a live creature, an octopus. I have always loved these creatures. I have discovered how intelligent they are, how sensitive they are with their gift of seeing by touching. I have always believed they belonged to another world, perhaps, even another dimension. I can't begin to tell you how upset, how frantic I am. I try to stop her. I cry and scream but they just laugh and she laughs. Then they take the small animal out of the pan of water and slap him on my back. He wraps himself around me and I can hear him desperately trying to breathe. I run from one room to another with him draped on my back. They laugh, running after me. I frantically try to save him, to find wet things, cloths and water, to keep him alive. Desperate, desperate. I finally get him into the bathtub and fill it with water, the wrong water, fresh water. But somehow he survives. He just lays there watching me and moves when I move. We look at each other for a long time.

Later, finally, I have him out and up, in a long coat, standing next to me. He is much bigger and longer than I realize and it is so difficult to support him, to keep him standing, but he does stand, alongside me, in a coat, standing upright, leaning against me, my arm around him. It is very dangerous because we are going to try to escape.

The rest you know.

Rune

In 2000, Terence Taylor Gold privately published the tormented journal of a man whom he claimed was neither an acquaintance nor a patient of his, but which he felt compelled to put into print. Though no longer available with few extant copies, Gold has consistently refused to explain the circumstances surrounding the publication and the disturbing events that followed it. This is an excerpt from the original journal.
excerpt

Because of:

Phillip Glass
Michael Tilson Thomas
Bob Dylan
50 Cent
Stephen Sondheim
and
Walt Disney

In Scene4 I wrote: "Amadeo Modigliani was a good painter, not a great one. He didn't have the breath-taking, explosive color madness of Van Gogh or the eclectic, mind-boggling genius of Picasso. He was a good painter like a 1000 others in the 20th century. "

I was wrong. Among the 1000 others, including Picasso, there was only one Modigliani.

In the article, I was making a smug, sneering comment about the merchandising of art. It's really irrelevant especially with regard to him. If he had sold his work for more than a few francs, if he had acquired patronage and some comfort, he wouldn't have lived much longer than he did. He was a haunted man and he was dying of a physical disease for which there was no medical control. Like Rimbaud, Modigliani created works with perspectives and color that linger and in turn haunt the viewer. Like Rimbaud, he was a stranger and could not live in the world in which he found himself.

And she said to him...
I didn't need him. There was no time, no void or empty space in my life.
When my father held me and whispered to me in front of the fire I thought
of God... but he was outside and we were tightly enclosed... and
I didn't need him. And on the shore near the sea when you made
love to me I thought of God. But he was everywhere except inside
of me... and I didn't need him.
Oh, why was it you who came after, you and the dancer.
The dancer!

And he said to her...
I don't understand what she understands,
but I know her. I've seen her at night and at dawn and I've been afraid,
too afraid to be consumed by my own love for her. And we've talked
about all things until words and gestures are meaningless and
I had to sleep, but she didn't. I whispered come back and sleep with me, let the sunlight wake us, together.

And she said to him...
Not together. No sun will ever find us together. There is only the night
and my dancer. See see how he moves his body, his beautiful
rippling body... how his skin glistens, see the naked beauty? Where?
There... he dances to the song of the guitar... he is the song
of the guitar. And he wants me to dance with him....

On the first day in the first month, she wrote this to me...

Sing to me... singer of you and me
The night is ending.
In the dark warm shadows, whisper my name...
I cannot whisper yours... you are my name.
I am the outer chamber of your heart,
Pulsing as it pulses, quieting as it quiets.
The night is ending
Light streams from the rim of the sky and flashes along
the curve of your body... dark in front, thigh on fire
Touch it, the cat's fur of your skin...
The shape of you vibrates, shimmers
There is no need to sleep.
Sing to me.

On the sixth day in the first month, I wrote this to her...

The light is green beneath the sun
The grasses reflect and sway to your moving body
Every part of you is open... spread, unafraid.
I lick your naked skin until my tongue becomes
warm and numb
The heat of your blood bakes the moaning rising music
of your throat into a taste...
A cream taste of sweat and yeast and tender flesh.
Every part of you spreads, stretches to cover the horizon.
You are the planet of woman and I am your moon.

On the 11th day in the first month, I wrote this to her...

How many times can I kiss you?
How many places on your lips
can my tongue stop and taste
the salt sweet sap that rises...
Up from your garden roots...
Through the stem of your body...
Into the petals of the flower of your face?
Your face shines and moves...
Moist, the rain from my eyes is transparent,
Liquid glass, the faintest trace of silver.
It washes the delicate flower you press against me.
How many times can I kiss you?

On the fourth day of the second month, I wrote this to her...

You said to me
stand on the bridge between sleeping and awakening
the moment between twilight and night when one can remember what the eyes saw but can no longer see it...
when the outer world's light is gone and the other senses become bright.
Touch it, you said, in total darkness
and you will see all of the light inside.
And I said, that is the way, and it is a way to make love, that's what we should do.
And you laughed and said
yes, but first you must awaken the dream, you must touch it inside and let the light grow inside
then let it spread out
then we can do what we should do.

On the 10th day of the second month, she wrote this to me...

Tearing
Twisting
Tumbling
Rolling
Ripping
Riding
Searing
Seething
Spent
We are not dead
We are not awake
We are open.

On the fifth day in the third month, I wrote this to her...

Why have you left me?
Come back to me
Come back to me
I hear the touch of your voice
the faint touch of your breath on my neck
I am blind without your eyes
Come back to me.

Only in America... a dumb, somewhat educated, often mean-spirited man, who played stooge and door-keeper to the moneyed clique that only enhanced its own interests, drove the nation into severe debt, disenfranchised and disengaged a vast portion of the population... Ronald Reagan, heralded in death as one of the great presidents in American history. Only in America... his heir, a dumb, uneducated, bubba, who would play stooge and door-keeper to the moneyed clique that would only enhance its own interests, drive the nation into severe debt, disenfranchise and disengage a vast portion of the population... George W. Bush, was first elected president by less than fifty percent of the voters.
Only in America... a dumb, somewhat educated, successful film-actor, who did a few stage performances when he was young, delivered some entertaining and intriguing film performances... Marlon Brando, heralded in death as the greatest stage and screen actor of his time. Only in America... would a major news publication Newsweek, herald Bob Dylan as the greatest poet of the 20th century.
And, Only in America... the only American playwright to win a Nobel prize... is best remembered for a lesser, melodramatic work that is heralded as his masterpiece, Long Day's Journey Into Night.
Who actually does all this heralding? The people or the press? At the time O'Neill was honored, 1936, the Nobel prize was a carefully protected, deeply weighed perspective of an artist's work, not the political, promotional, product of lobbying it has become. It recognized O'Neill, not only for his daring and innovative explorations of the theatrical art form, but also for his contribution to literature. O'Neill wrote to be read as well as to be played on the stage. He was a playwright, a constructor of plays like his mentor, Strindberg, and like G.B. Shaw, not a poet-dramatist like Shakespeare. Mostly, he wrote about large, universal themes, even when he created small, seemingly inarticulate characters -- he didn't offer characters with four-letter, four-word vocabularies. O'Neill's work has been translated into most of the literary languages of the world. His plays are performed consistently--at any given time, there is an O'Neill play on the boards, somewhere. Some of his extraordinary explorations remain in defiance of production even today: The Great God Brown still plays better in the theatre of a reader's mind than it does in the hands of any self-regaled auteur director.
To date, there have been no successful cinematic adaptations of O'Neill's work (including Sidney Lumet's films), with the exception, perhaps, of Ah Wilderness (O'Neill's only comedy), a couple of obscure European and Japanese films, and some films of live stage performances. Hollywood has never been able to digest O'Neill and O'Neill never cooked for Hollywood.
The arched criticism that attempts to capture this failing and has always elbowed O'Neill's work is tainted in disdain for his language; "turgid", "awkward" are the most common labels. But the fact is that O'Neill presents a powerful, confrontational eye-to-eye challenge to both the actor and the director. Screw with his dialogue, screw with his vision of the staging, and the production is screwed!. A good example of this was the appearance of The Iceman Cometh. When it premiered in 1946, this rolling concerto of a play is performed as a flat dirge. Ten years later, in the hands of José Quintero, it is a piece of music. In 1973, the film version of it is once again, a flat dirge. Even Tony Kushner, who reveres O'Neill and who is one of the few American playwrights since O'Neill to lunge at universal themes, labors with the criticism of O'Neill's voice. He, too, genuflects that Long Day's Journey is the masterpiece. In today's Pax Americana disposable, dyspeptic, American culture, where theatre is a trivial pursuit and the functional illiteracy rate inches toward 30 percent, O'Neill remains a unique, almost unimaginable American artist. He wrote only for the theatre, he shared little of himself but his art, and he died in the terror and privacy of his own vision. Here is a part of his voice: .....I thought to myself, well, it's funny, there always have been wars and there always will be, I suppose, because I've never read much in any history about heroes who waged peace. Still, that's wrong. War is a waste of money which eats into the profits of life like thunder! Then, why war, I asked myself? But how are you going to end it? Then the flash came! There's only one workable way and that's to conquer everybody else in the world so they'll never dare fight you again! An impossible task, you object? Not any more! This invention you see before you makes conquering easy. Let me demonstrate with these models. On our right, you see the fortress wall of a hostile capital. Under your present system with battering rams, to make an effective breach in this wall would cost you the lives of ten thousand men. Valuing each life conservatively at ten yen, this amounts to one hundred thousand yen! This makes the cost of breaching prohibitive. But all of this waste can be saved. How? Just keep your eyes on your right and permit my exclusive invention to solve this problem. (He addresses the fortress in a matter-of-fact tone) So you won't surrender, eh? (Then in a mock- heroic falsetto, answering himself like a ventriloquist) We die but we never surrender! (Then matter-of-factly) Well, Brother, those heroic sentiments do you a lot of credit, but this is war and not a tragedy. You're up against new methods this time, and you better give in and avoid wasteful bloodshed. (Answering himself) No! Victory or Death! (Then again) All right. Brother, don't blame me. FIRE! ...
Epilogue The play is over. The lights come up brilliantly in the theatre. In an aisle seat in the first row a MAN rises, conceals a yawn in his palm. stretches his legs as if they had become cramped by too long an evening, takes his hat from under the seat and starts to go slowly with the others in the audience. But although there is nothing out of the ordinary in his actions, his appearance excites general comment and surprise for he is dressed as a Venetian merchant of the later Thirteenth Century. In fact, it is none other than MARCO POLO himself, looking a bit sleepy, a trifle puzzled, and not a little irritated as his thoughts, in spite of himself, cling for a passing moment to the play just ended. He appears quite unaware at being unusual and walks in the crowd without self-consciousness, very much. one of them. Arrived in the lobby his face begins to clear of all disturbing memories of what had happened on the stage. The noise, the lights of the streets, recall him at once to himself. Impatiently he waits for his car, casting a glance here and there at faces in the groups around him, his eyes impersonally speculative, his bearing stolid with the dignity of one who is sure of his place in the world. His car, a luxurious limousine, draws up at the curb. He gets in briskly, the door is slammed, the car edges away into the traffic and MARCO POLO, with a satisfied sigh at the sheer comfort of it all, resumes his life. (Excerpts from Marco Millions)

In a Thai village, a few years ago, I sat in a little, outdoor bar in the heat of the afternoon, drinking a cold beer. Sitting next to me, a villager, a farmer, taking a break. Between my broken Thai and his fractured English, we managed a reasonable conversation. At one point, he reached into his shoulder pack to get a cigarette and a book fell out. It was a paperback, yellowed and dog-eared. He told me it was a novel by a famous Thai writer and he carried it around with him for the past 20 years. Why? Because the book was a friend, which made the writer a friend and they were always there when he needed them. He smiled when he said that, and so did I. There was nothing embarrassing about the moment and its intimacy.

Recent surveys show that less than 45% of the U.S. population read books (or magazines or newspapers, for that matter). The numbers are similar in Europe and much higher in many other countries. The obvious and most demeaning factor is the explosion of media--the pixel is replacing the ink drop.

The internet, in its quick-fix, here and there way of comprehension doesn't lend itself to reading books. Amazon and Sony notwithstanding, the experience of reading a book on a screen is like dining alone in a delicious Italian restaurant--the intimacy of sharing is missing, in this case, the sharing of your mind with the mind of the writer. You can't get through the glass. As with all screen media activities, you're passive, sitting there as the display takes you along. With a printed book, you can touch each page with its not-perfect paper and its not-perfect ink. To experience a printed book, you have to join it, it doesn't do it for you the way a screen image does. You and the writer talk to each other and share, almost as if you and the writer were the same. You don't need an on-off switch or batteries or protocols or rules. You just need light and quiet privacy. And if you're visually impaired, you have the voice of a reader, holding a book, almost as if it were the voice of the writer.

This may all seem a bit odd coming from me as you read what I write on a screen in Scene4 Magazine, which is an electronic publication, designed as a print publication but presented only on the web for the past eight years and not by choice. A few years ago, a group approached Aviar proposing investment financing to take this magazine into printed distribution. Given its large readership and the idiosyncrasy of its content, they believed that it should have a printed edition (to preserve its "intimacy") and that it would make a profit (which was equally important to them). After much discussion and some irreconcilable editorial differences, they realized that only 50% of the readership was in the U.S. and reading was on the decline. It deserved a print edition, said they, but who would eventually read it?

This is not a "luddite" tainted treatise--I find evolution and the evolution of technology exciting, thrilling and rich with hope and a vista of personal freedom. And I believe that the book will evolve and maintain its place as one of the grand devices of human history. To that I offer a vision. It's not just science fiction. Isn't all science - fiction - until it's not? Just think of describing a movie to Cicero or a cell phone to Alexander Pope. In the relatively near future, you will be able to hold and read a book, page for page, printed in a medium that will allow you to make your book as small or as large as you like and with any material feel you desire. It will be opaque or transparent; you will be able to see all pages including both the front and the back of any page at any time. And you will be able to make a page as large as a wall, free standing, so that you can walk along as you read and step through it to read another page. You will be able to walk into a book, touch the words, listen to the words, read the words, remember the words. The variations will be almost unlimited and yours alone. All with the privacy and the intimacy of a written, printed book--just your mind and the mind of the writer.

Try describing that to Gutenberg.

My family and I were in the Cameron Highlands at the time of Mr. Jim Thompson's disappearance back in 1967. I personally, though a young boy of only 15 then, used to hike in the "jungle" regions opposite and surrounding the tea plantations near Mr. Robertson's flower villa. I never had any problems within them though I did explore some previously abandoned buildings covered then by vegetation and full of bat dung and presumed to have been used by the Communists during the "Malayan Emergency"...now they are nice homes again. Mr. Thompson, I believe, never disappeared per se...he merely "withdrew" as the article ("As Promised") below states and this, I believe is the truth about it!

Alan

A friend of mine recently posted a moving tribute to the late composer, Basil Poledouris, whose work and music I've admired and collected for years. He called him: "a quintessential artist of cinema, a filmmaker's composer." And that he was. Like the great John Barry and others, Poledouris not only composed and orchestrated wonderful music he also had a magnificent talent for scoring film, absorbing the visual and breathing it back in layers of sound and subtle underpinning--a costuming of music, if you will. It was a gift of the gods that cannot be trained.

One of my favorite films, and one of the best Westerns ever made (John Ford notwithstanding) is "Quigley Down Under" which features and is elevated by a Poledouris score. The depth and dimensions of the music is stunning; the main theme (and its modulations) unforgettable. Immediately evoking a lineage with Jerry Goldsmith's classic theme from "The Magnificent Seven", Poledouris' "Quigley" is equally beautiful and far more complex and enveloping. Beyond Goldsmith, there is, in this score, a transient and embracing influence of the surprise and mystery of Kurt Weil, who also had the gift, though sadly unfulfilled.

I never met Basil Poledouris. I wish I had. But I do know him, a friendship built through his music. That is how he lives on, through his music, and, no doubt, through the artistry of his daughters.

I swiped this title from a delightful article by Devorah A. N. Bennu about the breathtaking wonder that is the... Hummingbird.
Here along the coast of Southern California not only is the light sneeringly fading but this year so are the temperatures. It collapses down to the 40'sF. and recently into the 30's. Payback for a glorious summer. My brave, fearless friends, the Hummingbirds are my friends because I keep their feeders stocked with a favorite rosy nectar.
At dusk, now with the cold, they still arrive at the last moments before the light skidoos to load up their depleted energy tanks. And then they disappear. And I think, sadly, they'll never survive the lousy, leering cold.
Yet, the next morning, they're back, at the first peep of dawn, like helicopters rising and flying and landing to refuel. How, in all of this lonely planet, do they do it? You and I couldn't survive in that cold with nothing but feathers on, without a steam vent or a cardboard box and maybe then not. But the Hummies do it with amazing survival... with magic? No, there's an answer: it's called torpor, similar to hibernation, but in this marvelous situation, it's called, noctivation.
Here is Bennu's article—she describes it so much better than I can. I just watch and wonder.

Torpor in Hummingbirds
Eats Like Godzilla, Sleeps Like the Mummy!
[10 January 2001] Copyright 2001 By Devorah A. N. Bennu All Rights Reserved. This article appeared in the Winter 2001 newsletter published by the Biology Department at the University of Washington.
A flash of scarlet and emerald zooms past me as I poked my sleepy head out of the kitchen door, a vibrant splash of holiday cheer against the sullen winter sky. Suddenly, an indignant Anna's Hummingbird confronts me, beak-to-nose, demanding his breakfast. Shivering, I retreat quickly into the kitchen to prepare warm sugar water.
Equivalent to the average human consuming an entire refrigerator full of food, hummingbirds eat roughly twice their own body weight of food each day to meet their high metabolic requirements. Hummingbirds, among the smallest of all warm-blooded animals, lack the insulating downy feathers that are typical for many other bird species. Due to their small body size and lack of insulation, hummingbirds rapidly lose body heat to their surroundings. Even sleeping hummingbirds have huge energy demands that must be met simply to survive because they cannot forage during the night.
So, how can such diminutive birds survive the long cold winter nights in Seattle without eating constantly? To save energy, hummingbirds lower their internal thermostat at night, becoming hypothermic. Their night time body temperatures are maintained at a point, called a set point, that is far below what is normal during the day. "If you try to cool an animal down below this new set point, it will generate enough heat to maintain the set point," says Sara Hiebert, hummingbird expert and associate professor of biology at Swarthmore College in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. This physiological phenomenon is called torpor. There are several types of torpor, classified mostly by duration and season. For example, when torpor takes place for long periods of time during the winter, it is known as hibernation. Hummingbird torpor can occur on any night of the year so it is called daily torpor or noctivation. Even tropical hummingbirds have rigid metabolic budgets so they commonly use daily torpor to conserve energy, too. Torpid hummingbirds exhibit a slumber that is as deep as death.
In 1832, Alexander Wilson first described hummingbird torpor in his book, American Ornithology. He said, "No motion of the lungs could be perceived ... the eyes were shut, and, when touched by the finger, [the bird] gave no signs of life or motion." Awakening from torpor takes 20 minutes or more. During arousal, the hummingbird's body can warm up by several degrees each minute and the bird awakens with enough energy reserves to see him through to his next feeding bout. Interestingly, hummingbirds reliably arouse from torpor one or two hours before dawn without any discernible cues from the environment. So, it appears that the circadian clock triggers arousal.
What are hummingbirds doing during those pre-dawn hours when they are warm but not yet active? "One suggestion is that they might be using this time to sleep," explains Hiebert. "Although there is some evidence that torpor is an extension of slow-wave sleep, there is also evidence that the body is too cold during torpor for the normal functions of sleep to occur."
Torpor is not limited to hummingbirds; it has also been observed in swallows, swifts and poorwills. Additionally, scientists think that most small birds living in cold regions, particularly chickadees, rely on torpor to survive long cold nights. Even though rodents, bats and other small mammals show some form of regulated hypothermia when it is cold, they can only rely upon daily torpor during the winter when they are not breeding. In contrast, noctivation is possible on any night of the year for hummingbirds. Because daily energy balance is progressively more difficult to maintain as body size decreases, hummingbird torpor is finely tuned to preserve their daily metabolic budget. "Hummingbirds are the 'champions' of this kind of energy regulation because they have to be," concludes Hiebert.

The biggest mistake I ever made
was to quit smoking cigarettes
and, even worse, exotic Brazilian Valencia cigarillos.
For those of you who never acquired this addiction, move on. You'll never understand it. To you, it is a health catastrophe--it stinks and pollutes. All true! To tobacco junkies and recovering addicts, it is a delusional demon that provides both cerebral music and the companionship of a physical rhythm that no drug, no food, no other physical activity, not even sex can provide. Not better, just unique. Not more fulfilling, just intimate, private, and sensually self-defining. Smoking Marijuana is not smoking at all--it is inhaling a drug that alters your state of consciousness (or for many stoners their lack of consciousness). Smoking tobacco is smoking... it is the physical act that is sensually self-defining. It is an experience of art.

To you who live in the clean world, the smell, the taste, the health threat of tobacco is the Congo's echo crying: "the horror!" It is enough to drive you to exterminate every trace of smoke and everyone who blows it into the air. To us, the addicts, who also hear Conrad's song, "the horror" is the dream. It isn't the nicotine, which we now know is one of the most addictive substances one can ingest. If it were, we could simply chew the gum or lick the patch and live with you... smiling, secretly smiling. No, it's not just the drug... it's the physicality in the hands and fingers, between the lips, up the nose and above all, the waft of smoke that drifts and changes light, changes taste, changes smell, and is intricately woven into a thousand movements, thoughts, events. It is an experience of art.

Nothing... not cocaine or opium or guns or fundamentalism or unsafe sex or global warming or child pornography or foreigners or aliens or skin color or obesity or old age or rock&roll or myspace or alcohol... will ever approach the growing awareness that smoking cigarettes is the demon, and tobacco is the Anti-Christ. That's right, "the horror", the antichrist. In the soon-to-come future, smoking will not only be totally banned, it will be bannered as the ultimate crime against the state, against humanity, against gods and goddesses everywhere. Punishable by death, smoking will be totally eradicated and every flake of tobacco with it. No longer a dream, no longer an experience of art.

Until then, breathe deeply but don't inhale. Kiss deeply, but don't swallow. And try not to dream when you're asleep.

Her name is Lat, and she is a Thai "daughter" of Jim Thompson. I met her through her step-sister, same mother, different father. No more details, for reasons that will become apparent.
Two days after he "disappeared" in Malaysia, he collected her and her mother in Nong Khai and they traveled across the north of Thailand (only at night) to Mae Sariang, and then crossed the border into Burma. In the following years, they traveled a great deal in south Asia, always returning to Burma, where she spent most of her childhood. She told me - he had been planning this for a long time. There was more to his business than just silk. His involvement with certain groups and governments had reached a point of "no control" and would explode just prior to the American escalation in Viet Nam. He was "marked." He survived. He died in 1984. Lat's mother died four years ago. I saw photos and documents. I believe her. And some day, when her safety is no longer an issue, she will release them.

Read this recent recounting of one of the most intriguing mysteries in SE Asia. And then patiently wait a short while. The mystery is over—I have the answer.

March 2007
Mystery of missing Thai Silk King
By Jonathan Kent
BBC News, Kuala Lumpur

It was an Easter Sunday on 26 March 1967. At around 3pm that day Jim Thompson, already well known as the "Thai Silk King", walked out of Moonlight Cottage where he was holidaying with friends in Malaysia's Cameron Highlands and was never seen again.

It was not simply Thompson's fame and wealth that guaranteed his disappearance would become one of South East Asia's greatest modern mysteries - it was his past.

He had spent World War II with the OSS, the US intelligence agency that was the precursor to the CIA.

After the war he settled in Bangkok and in 1948 started the Thai Silk Company.

In doing so Thompson played a pivotal role in reviving the Thai silk industry.

He introduced modern dyes, better looms and oversaw production and marketing while allowing his weavers, most of them women, to work from home and share in the company's profits.

It made Thompson a millionaire.

I've never accepted the theory that he could have been lost in the jungle
Tristan Russell
Tea plantation owner

But it was also rumoured that Thompson maintained his links with American intelligence.

So when he vanished it was front page news and the theories about his disappearance started to multiply.

"I got a call from a friend that an American millionaire was missing, jungle walking," remembers Chou Chuan Sheng, who at the time managed a local hotel and acted as a Cameron Highlands stringer for much of the Malaysian press.

"I got all the story from Jim Thompson's close friend, Mr TG Ling, Mrs Ling and Mr Thompson's friend Mrs Mangskau."

The Lings owned Moonlight cottage and Mrs Mangskau had travelled to the Highlands as Thompson's companion.

For the first couple of days Mr Chou had unimpeded access to the group.

"Thompson went for a walk that Sunday alone without telling anybody. Dr Ling, from his room adjacent to the hall, could hear footsteps and he took it that it was Thompson's footsteps and that he went out for a walk."

He was expected to return for tea but when he failed to appear Dr Ling went to the police station at the nearby town of Tanah Rata that evening and reported Thompson missing.

But then the security net closed around Thompson's friends, and reporters were prevented from speaking to them.

Meanwhile, the search was stepped up with British troops and two Royal Army Air Corps helicopters joining their Malaysian colleagues.

Brigadier General Edwin Black, a long-standing friend of Thompson's and commander of US support forces in Thailand flew in to assist, as did some of his senior colleagues.

Conspiracy theories

This was the 1960s in South East Asia.

Vietnam was 10 months away from the Tet Offensive and while the Communist Party of Malaya had been driven north over the Thai border its reach still extended to the Cameron Highlands.

The most common rumour up here is that he was abducted, but I've come across a couple of other stories
Phil Rivers
Former Malayan police officer

Despite there being a manhunt on an unprecedented scale, with 400 or more people involved in the search, no trace of Thompson was found.

The official explanation was that Thompson had probably become lost in the jungle or had fallen down a ravine while out walking.

Tristan Russell, whose family has run tea plantations in the Cameron Highlands since the 1930s, does not believe it.

"He apparently only went for a short walk. There's no deep jungle there so how one could be lost in the jungle and not be found I can't see. I've never accepted the theory that he could have been lost in the jungle."

As the days and weeks passed the search began to attract rather more unorthodox helpers, including Malay bomoh (traditional magicians) and Chinese mystics.

"In Malaysia we have these temple medium people and they claimed they could tell where Thompson was," Mr Chou recalls.

"Because of the reward for Thompson alive or dead, four or five of these temple mediums formed themselves into a band with cymbals, drums and so on and went into the jungle. But they didn't reappear so the police had to send people to rescue them."

Then there was Peter Hurkos, a renowned TV "psychic" and entertainer, who was accompanied to Malaysia by Lt Denis Horgan, a member of Brig Gen Black's staff.

His explanation fell into the group of theories that stemmed from the belief that Thompson was working for the CIA.

"He has been abducted to another country but is not being held for ransom," Hurkos told Mr Chou at the time. "I stake my neck on this."

Hurkos claimed he "saw" 14 men in dark green uniforms; Communists, abducting Thompson and bundling him into an army truck.

Others claimed that he had staged his own disappearance possibly because he feared being exposed as either gay or as a double agent.

Phil Rivers, a former officer in the Malayan police and a long-time resident of the Cameron Highlands, says the conspiracy theories became more and more outlandish.

"They had convoys of Thai cars racing up and down the hills, they had mysterious strangers showing up saying they'd been told he was hidden nearby in a bungalow, or in a cave or he was on top of a mountain somewhere."

There were further theories that Thompson had been taken by a tiger.

Some believed he had fallen into an animal pit dug by the indigenous people of the area, known generically as orang asli.

Mr Rivers thinks his end may have been rather more mundane.

"The most common rumour up here is that he was abducted, but I've come across a couple of other stories.

"One of them is that he was knocked down by a timber lorry and that his body was taken away and run through a buzz saw and another one is that he was knocked down by another chap who was doing some work locally and was buried."

Mr Rivers says he is investigating reports that a local man made a deathbed confession to this effect.

Forty years on and the mystery of Thompson's disappearance seems no closer to being solved than it ever was.

However the Thai Silk King's name lives on - used by silk shops and restaurants and in the annals of modern Asian mystery.

We're talking about scam and fraud but there is also a thriving, highly profitable and legal industry in Faux Art--paintings that are fakes, copies and presented as such with "buyer-beware" certificates and upfront, incessant winks of the eye. In both cases, fakes or faux, the driving motive is outsourcing, shadow contracting, tempered with compulsive consumption and no small amount of greed. It's a motive that can be applied wholesale and reveals a bewildering array of assumptions.

Fakes, Forgeries and The Madnesses of Crowds--such as:

The U.S. government and its "virtual" President, a clone of one of America's most beloved public philosophers - "Howdy Doody".

So-called Reality television, with actors who cannot act, writers who do not write, and producers who trained a McDonald's.

The "virtual" music in Rap.

YouTube and Myspace.

The "virtual" photography of mobile phones.

The army of private contractors who conduct the "virtual" war in Iraq.

The army of private contractors who are creating new "virtual" American towns and cities without the need for elections.

read the full article Here

read the comments about this article Here

On July 30th, Ingmar Bergman died. He was the last of the great master filmmakers of the 20th century. None have emerged yet in this century. For lack of a better cliché, Bergman created literature on film, visual, audio, musical, spoken literature. His influence in perception and portrayal ranks with that of Picasso.

Two issues ago in Scene4, I wrote about Bergman's last work. It is seemingly apropos to publish it again.

Ingmar Bergman--His Theatre of Film

Four years ago, the remaining master filmmaker of the 20th Century, Ingmar Bergman, released a made-for-television film, Saraband. It was unanimously acclaimed and cited as the 'coda' work to his long, creative career. Today, in ill heath and 89 years old, it is apparently true.

Saraband is a sequel of sorts to Bergman's 1973 Scenes From A Marriage-- it features the extraordinary actors, Liv Ullman and Erland Josephson, creating the same characters from the prior film. And it adds a marvelous performance by Börje Ahlstedt. In short, the acting is superb.

The film has Bergman's characteristic master's editing style: in-camera, long takes, surprising jumps. It suffers because Bergman's long-time collaborator, the artist Sven Nykvist was no longer at his side creating the cinemaphotography, and shot for television on digital video all of the nuance and rich-color texture of film is missing. But Saraband has one treasure that these deficiencies cannot diminish. It has the writing--Bergman's writing.

He was mentored by the great Swedish theatre and film director, Alf Sjöberg, who conquered the "flashback" barrier in 1951 in his classic, Miss Julie. Bergman wrote for Sjöberg, learned from him, and went on to create his masterpieces both on stage and in film. Above his brilliance as a theatre and film director is Bergman's writing. He is an incomparable playwright and screenwriter.

Saraband is not a theatre piece adapted to cinema. It is a film--with a filmmaker's vision and rich visual skills. The gift it offers is a rare one today: words, language that actors can dive into as if it were a pool of music. Show me a film among all of the shit that is produced in Hollywood and, frankly, the rest of the world. Only here and there--perhaps one by Carlos Saura, perhaps another by Alan Rudolph. We live in the age of Mamet and teen-marketing, where grunts and valley-speak tax film actors who have tiny voices and rarely have the skill to portray emotions and responses when the words are absent.

At least we have the Kubricks, the Kurosawas, the Leans, the Fellinis and the Bergmans to calm the yearning and whisper hope for the future.

From the Lyriana Nocturnes...

You lose them! That's what happens in death. All that love, all that happiness--you lose it.
There are two forms of death--the causal and the inevitable. To protect against the causal would require a sheath, a capsule, an absolute 360° impenetrable cucoon. Where is that armor? Better to focus on the clone of the brain and its perpetual update. Death from physical cause is preventable--but excruciatingly difficult. It is a race against time, where time is the emergence of the clone. Believe that the race will be won, that discovery will create your immortal mind. If you cannot believe, if this hope is dope, a monkey on your back, then consider this:
The purpose of life is not to die. The way not to die, and be reborn again as the Buddhists believe, is to achieve enlightenment. The way to achieve enlightenment is to to travel the middle way between the extremes of indulgence and denial--to always move forward in the present, always selecting in favor of--never rejecting. If the journey can survive, if the traveler can survive, then enlightenment, immortality will come when the mind is no longer dependent on the shell that contains it. But beware, again, of the monkey.

This was the voice she heard when everyone had vanished, when Lyri was alone and no longer chained to herself. Not asleep, awake and unafraid.

No scientist to date has ever proved that the species Actorus Necessarus exists or has ever existed. There is no fossil record and Charles Darwin blatantly ignored the rumor and myth of this lost mammalian link in favor of a Caribbean butterfly, Mariposa Emotionala. So without the revelatory light of evolution, it is left to Intelligent Design to take Actorus to its bosom. Rightfully so. The evolution-by-faith answer of Intelligent Design to what was and what will be traces its record to Noah’s Ark. Without question, Actorus was there on that craft of survival, as a pair of, I suppose, Actori − sexual orientation indeterminate. What would we do without Intelligent Design, and alcohol and cheap marijuana?

It has been nearly 3000 years, long after Noah, since a Greek mutation appeared and declared himself (itself) to be a member of the species, to be… an Actor. And in the modern timeline, it has been over 100 years since Konstantin Stanislavski turned his penetrating mind’s light on a prime specimen of the species, Feyodor Chaliapin, and poignantly asked: “How do you do it?” To which he received the equally poignant answer: “I have no idea!” From that eruptive, thoroughly disruptive event the species multiplied and became fruitful and went forth and multiplied. Actors begat actors and actors begat directors and directors begat actors and actors begat acting teachers and acting teachers begat actors cascading toward the great Rapture. The holy books of Christianity and Judaism and Islam will soon have to be rewritten. The fishes in the sea, the birds in the air, the animals on the land, man (and woman of course!) and… actors, all god’s creatures, big and small.

It is this latest intelligent phenomenon of the cascading Design that is most odd and worthy of being called an anomaly: acting teachers begetting actors. It would be like thumbs begetting index fingers, which, incidentally, recent research revealed that very possibility, parallel to stem cell activity. (But the Design doesn’t tolerate stem cells fooling around like that; it just approves of ‘begetting around’.) Acting teachers creating actors. By the 21st century, this anomaly has become big business, providing many jobs, a vast amount of discourse, and an even vaster amount of social intercourse… among other kinds. The Design dictates that the begetter (acting teacher) completely shield the begotten (the actor) from the metaphysical and somewhat alchemical question: Can acting be taught? This incidence of truth-by-avoidance is a boomerang (q.v. Australian jazz) from a law laid down by a master theatre critic of the 19th century, Nobel-awarded playwright of the 20th century, and Fabian-Socialist-bon vivant, George Bernard Shaw, who said, in a begetting sort of way: "Those who can, act and those who can't, teach." That is the burden of the dark side of the bosom of the Design that harbors the mystery of the Actorus species. And acting teachers are burdened, beyond the reach of modern medicine's burden-lifting potions. They can only beget, oh, and pray.

Hundreds of thousands nay millions of people have and do take acting classes. Do they have good experiences that enhance their awareness, their sensitivity, their appreciation of cultural finery? Of course! Does it teach them how to act? Of course, not! And that fingers a shadow in the dark bosom-mystery – the actor who has never known an acting teacher – an immaculately self-begotten creature who breathes the sulfur-laden fire called, Talent. Without question, a mirror image of the 'original sin'.

This is not to dismiss a vital nutrition for the rise and growth of the actor: the shaping of the instrument – the voice, the body, the craft skills, the awareness of language. Without it, you have a mutant mess such as what was seen in a recent piece of swamp-art by the pop-up image creator, Baz Luhrmann. Unwilling, unfit or unable to don the master's coat, he took only the words and none of the music and injected them into a throbbing fantasy-sans-fantasy which he begat as Romeo and Juliet. Here are some actors with the fire of talent who could move and speak and deliver the language; most were hopeless and hopelessly ugly. In the Intelligent Design, ugliness is not next to holiness, and it knows what holiness is next to… or does it?

Is there still time for another begetting? Or is the Rapture upon us? Broadway and Hollywood think not. What, then, is the new? Perhaps it is the digital actor (Shrek comes to mind). All 1's and 0's, pure, uncomplicated, and not burdened by Workman's Compensation or Health Insurance. And if there's time, who will they beget? Perhaps the proton actor, pure light, streaming out into the galaxy and beyond like fairies, whispering to any audience they can find: "Phone Home!"

Will there still be acting teachers? Will there still be death and taxes?

The first time I went to Europe, many years ago, I found myself in the center of Copenhagen surrounded by the amazing Tivoli Gardens, the haunting Ströget, and the glorious Glyptotek, the museum filled with stolen antiquities from Egypt and Rome and other molested cultures. Standing in the plaza among these wonders, I was overwhelmed...and hungry. There were a few food stands about so I bought what I thought I recognized. One was a cheese sandwich, but what a cheese sandwich. Not what I knew. It had only one slice of bread with cheese melted on both sides and sprinkled with sugar. It was called, the Parisièn. My other purchase was a “hot dog.” But what a hot dog. It was served in two parts–the bun in one napkin and the “dog” in another. First you took a bite out of one part, then you chewed in a piece of the other. As a young, typical, first-time American tourist, I not only found this strange but also barbaric. How oxy-moronic of me. As I grew with experience, I stopped eating fast-food in Europe and learned to love the food of the country, the food of the people. Naturally, there were limits to my affection, especially in the Northern nations, not known for their cusines. That includes Denmark. But I tell you, there are few gastronomic experiences that compare with strong coffee, a side of Aquavit, country bread and a delirious seafood smorgasbord in an offstreet Danish café.

A couple of years ago, during a short visit to Hanoi where food street vendors are as prevalent as slot-machines in Las Vegas and often as risky, I came across a little stand that was selling the Parisièn. It was dumbfounding dejá vu. I laughed so hard, I began to dribble and sneeze which prompted the little woman in the food stand to chase me away with her towel, which hip-hopped me down a few more stands and there, you guessed it, was my infamous Danish hot dog. It looked infamous and not too hot.

I could go on. I won’t begin to tell you about parallel experiences in Thailand and Peru.
I can only tell you that it’s true... we are what we eat. The pleasure of it all is to eat when we’re hungry and to eat when we’re not. Food is a very happy thing.

Remembering a sweet friend and a precious woman...


Oshun, the Yoruban Goddess of love, delights in the creation of beauty and art, sensual delights and self-adornment. Her symbols are mirrors, jewelry, honey, golden silks and feather fans. Creativity in decorating home and temple is a way of honoring Oshun, who will bless any beautiful space created in Her honor. There is no object so common that Oshun will not appreciate more if it is made artistic and pleasing to the eye. Creativity in dress and self-adornment please her as well, and when Oshun is pleased, her blessings know no limits.

Oshunyomi Mugwana was the promoter of The "Jazz In The Alley Festival" for over 20 years. Jazz In the Alley was an annual one day music event that was one of the South Side's favorites. Oshun's family moved to Chicago from Dumas, Arkansas in the early 1940's and became lifelong residents of the Bronzeville community. Oshun lived as an expatriate in Spain and travelled the world as a photographer. In the 1970's she attended The Community Film Workshop, and from there she was among the first African-American employees at WLS-TV Ch. 7. From WLS she went on to WTTW where she took on the role of broadcast engineer from 1978 until her death, July 16, 2006. In 1979 Oshun founded OM International, and revived the original "Jazz in the Alley" music festival. She produced the free neighborhood festival in Bronzeville with little or no funding and at often at her own expense. A warm, caring, witty and humorous personality, Oshun was a treasured friend of local jazz greats such as Art Porter, Don Moye, Kahil El-Zabar, and Ari Brown. She also has promoted the careers of many filmmakers and photographers, such as Barbara E. Allen, Mary Pat Kelly, Bill "Onikwa" Wallace and Stephanie Moore. She was a tireless advocate for young people. In the 1980's, she sponsored a tribute to Captain Walter Dyett as well as arts and social programs for DuSable High School students. In the 1990's she sponsored and promoted an annual tribute concert in honor of John Coltrane featuring local music giants.

She will be missed with wonder and affection.

The arts of Asia abide - as expansive and merchandised as any other part of the world. What supports this is the lingering vibrancy of colonialism. There are only small traces of the political colonial powers of the last century. Today, it is the rampage of the corporate colonial powers that divides and sub-divides the Asian world-and they don't need flags with marching bands. In fact, colonialism never left, it just changed its clothes. In fact, colonial conquistadores and robber-barons have always been with us and... with Asia. Most of the newly independent nations in that large region of this small planet were at one time or another independent empires, imperialists who conquered and colonized and ruled, some in a fashion that would make the French and British look benevolent. Just roam into the history of the Khmer, or Siamese, or Burmese empires: hundreds of years of "king and country and your daughter, if you please." And, of course, there was the Chinese empire, the largest and greatest colonial power in history.

Equally striking - the numerically tiny upper classes frantically trying to keep the fattening middle classes off their backs, trying to keep entré to a trickle through the cracks in the garden wall. And both of these grinning but perspiring upper echelons are desperately trying to swat away the numerically larger lower classes from swarming into their privileged lives like mosquitoes swooshing over a downed net. It is at once pathetic and disturbingly hilarious. It is, in this day of instant communication, an instant portrait of three primordial elements of human life: blood, oxygen, and hypocrisy.

Asia, especially the economic tigerville of SE Asia, is having a disruptive time handling the explosion of communications and goods, plus here-today-gone-tomorrow cultural influences that Westerners pour through their borders. Most are having a hellish time envisioning what they are "supposed" to look like and reconciling the ancient unquestioned difference between men and women (the only difference between human beings said Strindberg, one lonely night in Uppsala!). Arrogantly and incredibly, it includes the Japanese, as well.

But not in Thailand, a centrally positioned cultural crossroads. The Thais have a cultural ether that absorbs. It is their historical legacy. In the heyday of European haute-cuisine-d'imperiale and American manifest-destiny, Tha