Monsters

Monsters. There are so many in this world that they influence every human life. This week I heard on the news the case of a monster that had been captured and is now awaiting trial. He had snatched away an eleven year old girl as she walked to school and taken her home where he then locked her away for 18 years, sexually abused her and made her pregnant twice, the first time when she was 14. She had children, and they became his captives too. This monster did immense harm and the news made me sick, for I cannot help but imagine the darkness and unanswered cries for help. And this leads me to look to God. I remember my own daughter Naomi during the last two years of her life was fighting a wicked, relentless monster, called cancer. This beast gave her no rest while it tortured her. It deformed her body, isolated her, took away her youth, inflicted severe and continual pain, taunted her and made her feel powerless and eventually locked her in small room with death as her partner. Many times, while I watched helplessly as my valiant daughter struggled, I prayed and when the situation got worse not better, then asked, “How can a loving God allow this?” (See my book, A Heart Traced in Sand) I knew there was an answer but also knew that many people do not believe in God because He created a world where monsters are so powerful and do so much harm . . . even appearing to transcend the powers of good. And sometimes it appears that God creates humans that are afflicted by monsters from birth! Humans are born with two heads and one body, or so retarded that they are never able to hold a conversation their entire lives.
Monsters exist everywhere in many forms. Think of the millions, maybe billions of people whose lives have been marginalized and made hellish by corruption and greed on the part of monster men and women who wage war and command through intimidation and violence. Monsters can appear as hunger, or as the clouds that infiltrate human life and bring Alzheimer’s and a host of other infirmities that drain our happiness.
Several weeks ago, I wrote about an experience I had on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. A young man approached me and immediately I knew he was in the grip of a monster. His face was horribly deformed so that it was painful and frightening to look at him. He was begging. I gave him money and asked to take his picture. I wanted him to leave the harsh sunlight and to stand in the shade of a nearby building. Just then a woman rushed from a shop and scolded him for standing close to her place of business. Her chastising froze the youth so that he could not move. So here we have it; a story of human interest that is very telling psychologically. I learned from a friend that this young man had acid thrown on his face during a gang fight. From that moment forward his life turned into a living hell. He cannot close his mouth or hide his teeth. He cannot have a satisfying public life because he is shunned and made to be an outcast. He has longings for intimacy but will never marry or be sought by the opposite sex. He is forced into a life of homelessness and wanders the streets begging for mercy and hoping people will feel sorry for a poor fellow that was beset by a monster and forever made ugly. Meanwhile, the woman that scolded him was afraid. She did not stop to think of him as a fellow human, but only saw a monster. She thought, “this monster will drive people away from my store and my business will suffer.” In other words, she had no connection to the young man except repulsion and in this, she herself became monstrous. The true monster was not the young man’s disfigurement, but the woman’s reaction. Really, what is monstrous is psychological and arises from fear, loathing, greed, anger, pride and a host of other empty emotional disconnects.
Moreover, the monster in the case of the kidnapped girl who is now a young woman retarded by years of imprisonment and torture along with her two children forced upon her by her rapist tormentor, is a bleak and ugly creature that takes its place among the many other monsters that roam our earth.
This leads me to believe that monsters exist only to test the quality of human spirit, like heat is necessary to test for the pureness of gold. The light cannot be known without darkness, and neither can humans be known without monsters, however gruesome and perplexing that can be.

Indian Market

This is typically the biggest weekend of the year in my hometown of Santa Fe. From across the United States, Native Americans come to the annual Santa Fe Indian Market, where they sell their handicraft and participate in indigenous competitions. All the vendors are juried beforehand, so the quality of goods is very high. The challenge to be accepted is fierce because so many people come to see and buy. For many of the Indian artists, this is an opportunity to earn the bulk of their incomes for the year. During the event, they dress in their finest clothing to mingle, feel at one with other natives, and sell. Booths are set up around the city plaza, at the heart of Santa Fe, and each vendor has his own space with a placard indicating their name and tribe. Throngs of people converge during opening hours, some lining up from the break of dawn on the first day to be the first to buy from their favorite artist.

Some of the fun events are traditional singing and dancing, and native fashion shows. I like walking among the crowds and noticing the Indians from different tribes across the land. Usually they are brown people with jet black hair, brown eyes, broad faces and high cheekbones, who come from their home reservations; mostly rural locations.

“The world is one country, and mankind its citizens.” Baha’u’llah

Whirling Streets

I traveled almost half way around the world to return home to Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA, from Vietnam. The trip took about 24 hours—Saigon to Tokyo to Salt Lake City and then to Santa Fe. I am appreciating the clean air, majestic spaces, relative quiet, and urbane modernity of home. Yet, I miss my friends in the Far East and being in the flux of Asian life.
All humanity is coexisting simultaneously on this planet. Every human activity is occurring at the same moment somewhere: sleeping, eating, working, charity, thievery, sex, birth, death, laughter, argument, et al. Humans are a family, but have great variation in customs, language and ethnicity. Wherever I go, the warmth of a smile and loving look is universally recognized and welcome.
At times I have felt lost and bewildered, almost insane in unfamiliar surroundings. But then, I choose to enjoy the mind-bending experience of seeing life as child; vulnerable, and with innocent, fresh eyes. For example, last Sunday afternoon in Saigon, I took a long walk through the whirling streets and arrived at the city zoo. It is humble by many standards, and does not have the assortment of animals or facilities of many other zoos. I paid my entrance fee, began walking along shady pathways and came to elephants. A small crowd was gathered, and occasionally an animal extended its trunk to grab a sugar cane someone had offered. I took pictures, trying to capture both human and elephant together. Slowly, I wandered around, viewing exhibits. Seeing the hippopotamus reminded me of when I saw them in the wild on Safari in Tanzania last year. I came to a bandstand area where a crowd was gathered watching circus performers. A man onstage climbed on top of an assortment of cylinders and teetered precariously, then an assistant handed him a small sword which he held in his mouth, then took a longer sword and balanced that on the tip of the small one. Next, a beautiful young woman in a tight red costume walked a tightrope, standing on her head, doing splits, and eventually placing a ladder on the rope, climbed up two rungs, then did the sword trick with two swords balanced tip to tip from her mouth. Music played, children ran around in glee, and every time someone spoke, I could not understand a word. As I left the zoo, I had the distinct feeling of being lost in another world, but not caring. The elements played on my mind like a dream and moments flowed in a stream of consciousness that left me dizzy and euphoric.

Dust and Dirt, Silk and Marble

I have returned from Hoi An to Saigon, (Ho Chi Minh City), and been here five days now. It is not as hot; there are breezes and occasional rain pours. My hotel is near a city landmark called Ben Thanh market, a huge, bustling indoor market crammed full of merchandise stalls. Each day, I wander out in the streets observing and photographing. I cannot walk one block without repeatedly being accosted by people pleading for my business or charity. A young man came up to me whose face had been mutilated. He was missing his chin, most of his nose, he could not close his mouth and his teeth were bared, both eyes were twisted by scarring, and burns mottled most of his flesh. I gave him some money, and had him stand for a picture. Immediately, an elderly matron of the nearby jewelry shop stormed over and scolded him for standing near her shop. She figured he frightened away clients. Then there is the young beggar woman who sits in the same spot each day selling packets of chewing gum. She cannot walk because of birth defects in her twisted legs, and hobbles around on her hands, lifting and dragging her legs. Yesterday, a little girl in ragged clothes touched my arm, looked up to me and motioned to her mouth that she was hungry. She walked an entire block tugging at me and motioning she was hungry and please give her some money. When I help, I realize that my offering is so infinitesimally small that it amounts to only a symbol of caring, because suffering is everywhere in the world and will always exist. When I am in the streets, I do not put up barriers, but mingle freely in the elements—the dust and dirt no less than with the silk and marble. What matters is the message that THE DREAM brings with it, and staying positive with the flow.



As for my idea of living in Vietnam, I now realize I would not be content. Utility is valued far above aesthetics, poverty is grinding, infrastructure is lacking and the language would be nearly impossible to master. I can deal with living simply, but need access to an abundance of art and philosophy.



I have posted two albums for viewing: Vietnam images, and Thailand images

Woven Together Into Eternity

Occasionally, the languid and hot moments in Vietnam seem woven together into an eternity. After two weeks here, a sense of interminable time, and even malaise, surprises me. It is something I have experienced as a traveler, but only in rare, fleeting instances.
Many of the local people in Hoi An stop and simply lay down on the floor where they are at mid-day, and then rest until about 2PM. The heat and jungle climate simply drags me down, and I too rest during the afternoons. My routine is that after the siesta I go to a café and drink a coffee ice shake. A few days of seeing the same people gives opportunities to make friends. The three questions Vietnamese people ask foreigners most often are: Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married?
Today I invited a young woman who works at the café to model for me. She is pretty, and in her broken English complained about her work not giving her enough, so I offered her 20.00 to pose for two hours in traditional dress, which is what she makes in four days normally. Her friend hearing this, exclaimed, “How about me?





The last two days I have been up at 5 AM and rode my bicycle to the local fish market to watch as local fishermen bring in their hauls to give over to the women gathered in throngs at the pier. It is quite a spectacle of sights, sounds, and smells. Tons of fish trade hands. I’ve seen tuna, mackerel, red snapper, shark, many varieties I do not know, crabs, squid, eel, and more. There is jostling and bickering as everyone is animated and trying to get the best deal. Other vendors are there setting up, including women selling live chickens, vegetable and fruit sellers and even ladies with baskets full of live frogs. I get in the midst of it all and take my pictures. Sometimes someone will stop and pose for me a moment, and I give them money. That can be dangerous though, because eager ladies wanting to pose can mob me. Nobody is dressed fashionably, just working women in work clothes, but what I am looking for is authenticity, not façade . . . and so this genuine place without pretense is perfect for finding what I seek.

Mister, what are you looking for?

Living in THE DREAM, where flux is ever present is wonderful, and also full of surprise. I should have known better than to show up at the Bangkok, Thailand, airport without a proper visa for entry into Vietnam. I was turned away. Fortunately, I went to the Vietnamese embassy in Bangkok, paid extra, and received an approved visa the same day—so I only stayed an extra night in Thailand. I forgot that Vietnam is one of the countries where a visa cannot be obtained at the airport upon arrival.


When I arrived in Saigon, I needed money, so went to an ATM, but forgot the exchange rate. I thought 20,000 would be a good amount, but the machine said I had to choose 50,000. I got the 50,000 and quickly discovered it was worth $2.85. Meanwhile, my bank charges $5.00 for foreign ATM transactions. I went back and got 1,000,000 dong; about $57.00.

Fortunately, I am okay with chaos in my life . . . otherwise by now I would be frazzled, especially after losing my iPhone in the motorcycle choked streets during a rickshaw ride. 

I am getting good photographs and find people generally open and warm, although as a foreigner, I am often seen as a wealthy person and invited to spend money; Vietnam is a country with one foot in poverty and the other climbing toward affluence. Sometimes in the crowded markets, women grab me forcibly and literally pull me into their stalls, saying, “Mister, what are you looking for?”

After Saigon, I arrived in Hoi An a few days ago, and it is lovely. If not for the heat and sweating so much, I would be out all day long exploring. Amazingly, this town has over 400 tailor shops. It is known internationally as a place to get clothes custom made for prices less than ordinary clothes cost elsewhere.

I am surprised how many people remember me from my visit here last year. I have already been motorcycling with a new friend who showed me around while I looked at houses and shops for rent. It is funny, but when I tell people I am an artist, they act surprised because I do not have long hair. Another thing is how often I am told, “You are a handsome man.” I like it, although maybe it is perhaps an often used compliment.

Sawatdi Ka

Chiang Mai is Thailand’s second city, the northern country cousin to Bangkok. In this city of 150,000 (1 million in the cosmopolitan area), skyscrapers do not exist, but there are more than three hundred temples, among them some of the most beautiful and revered in the entire Buddhist world, giving the city an atmosphere of calmness and timeless elegance. It is international, since so many visitors arrive for the authentic Thai experience, often going trekking into the mountains, riding elephants and river rafting.


My friend Noy and I enjoy each other, and it helps to have a local buddy to make me feel at home and show me around. From the back of the motorcycle, I am given instructions in Thai- Sye (left), Qua (right) and Darong (straight). After seven days, I feel expert in the congested roadways.
Thai people have a nice way of greeting—they bring their palms together in front of their heart in a prayer-like fashion and bow slightly, smiling, and saying sawatdi ka the traditional welcome. Their language is impossible for westerners to read, since the characters are unique.
The markets are always good places to visit for local flavor. Vendors often just spread a blanket out on the pavement and sell their fresh fruits and vegetables. Flowers are plentiful and the variety is wonderful—I saw varieties I had never before seen.
Although I am entranced by the people, way of life, and low cost of living, the art scene in Thailand is not sophisticated enough to convince me to live here. Traditional crafts are plentiful, but I need a contemporary, vibrant and developed art culture to participate in. Nonetheless, certainly I will return.

Tomorrow I travel to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam.

What Happened to July 8th?

Certainly, traveling long distances is mind altering. I boarded a plane in New Mexico that took me to Los Angeles, where late in the evening July 7, we took off on a sixteen-hour flight to Bangkok. I had already booked a hotel for my arrival on July 8, and made arrangements with my Thai friend to meet me at the airport at 9 AM. Then, during the flight I heard an announcement that startled me. We were landing July 9. Quickly, a nightmare unfolded in my mind of my friend waiting for me. I checked with a flight attendant who suggested I use the airplane telephone and call. My friend does not speak English so the attendant had to do the translating. Fortunately, we spoke, but I learned that my friend had been waiting five hours. Ughhh! I felt as though I was in an episode from the Twilight Zone, completely vaporizing a calendar day—July 8, 2009.

I have been in Thailand four days now, and although it is the rainy season, it has not rained and the days have been beautiful. After Bangkok, I am now in Chiang Mai, the second largest Thai city, in the north of the country, and getting a feel for life. Thai people are very polite and warm. I am getting used to seeing occasional elephants, hearing strange instruments played in the streets and riding a motorcycle everywhere. Last night I went with my Chiang Mai friend to dinner in a restaurant that has a huge buffet with raw foods of every kind. Servants bring drinks and then, after selecting your courses, you return to the table and cook your own meals over a big round broiler that looks like a big hat, with a raised middle for cooking meats and seafood, and a circular pan (brim) that boils water and makes a flavorful broth to cook vegetables, shrimp and more. It takes only minutes and is fun. You can cook and season to your own taste, and eat when you like, going back for more ingredients whenever you desire. The food stays hot and fresh right in front of you. All for less than five dollars a person. This one meal a day could be sufficient to live on.
Could I live here as an artist? I will begin to find out in the next days.
Some facts about Thailand.

Lovingly Present

Today is the tenth anniversary of Naomi’s death when she was nineteen years old. She is a touchstone for my life. Her spirit inspires me to live to the fullest with joy, and care for all living beings. At the cemetery, her mother, step-mother, uncle, a friend and I all gathered and laid roses on her grave, remembering her, and read passages from her journals. She had such remarkable strength and devotion, and was precocious as a child, starting her first diary when only eleven years old. Later, as she was struggling for her life, she wrote: Show up and be lovingly present, no matter what it looks like out there or inside of yourself. Always speak the truth of your heart. To read more of Naomi’s writings about life and death, go to: http://www.heartsand.com/journal.html
I am leaving for Thailand this Tuesday, July 7. I will be there for about two weeks, then go to Vietnam for another two weeks. I have friends in both countries, and I am considering moving to one or the other because the cost of living is low and quality of life is high. Here in the USA I am not earning enough as an artist because of a soured economy, and my cost of living is high, so that I am spending my savings. I am not worried, but neither am I stuck in a rut. I enjoy flux and trust that I can be homeless and happy . . . I can live where the wind takes me. I can be creative anywhere.
I recently finished a new art piece. It is a mixed media diptych on canvas attached to board. I used encaustic (hot wax) as a medium, and enjoy the process, although it is difficult getting a handle on it. The wax must be hot in order to be fluid, and as soon as it cools, which is immediately, it hardens and is impossible to work with. So I have to use a heat gun and hotplate to keep the process flowing. After I return from Asia, I will continue producing new work in this fashion and make a collection.

We Manifest Our World

It came as a shock to hear that Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009) died. Certainly, he was a giant among entertainers, and had millions of fans. Nonetheless, it is incredible the amount of attention that has been garnered by his death. It is as big a news event as any, and I dare say if a nuclear bomb went off somewhere in the world, it would not provoke any more news coverage.
Here is another story. Years ago, I was outdoors with my easel and paints, making a picture along a quiet road in Santa Fe when a man my age approached and struck up a conversation. He was an artist, and before he departed we arranged to see each other again and go painting together. Over time, we became good friends. Eventually he moved from Santa Fe with his young family and lived in Michigan before later moving to San Luis Obispo, California. Occasionally we met each other and always shared an easy ambience of artistic brotherhood.
Ken perhaps was the more bohemian, not caring much about money or fortune except for his family, enjoying good times when they came and indulging in marijuana and drink if it was available. The family seemed to live on the margins, but he remained a conscientious father and faithful husband. His daughters grew, while I lost my oldest, Naomi to cancer and eventually my second wife and I divorced when our daughter turned twenty.
Ken often confided his own discontent in marriage and ruminated about the life he wanted to live as a free spirit. Before he had married, he had led the life of a vagabond artist, bicycling around France, living in Paris and becoming fluent in French. In marriage, he barely managed to support the family from his meager earnings as a painter. In San Luis Obispo, his wife became the primary breadwinner as a school teacher.
About 1 week ago, Ken called and informed me that he and his wife was separating. I felt bad, but understood. He asked me for my new address and told me he wanted to send me a letter. A few days ago, I received a packet from Ken. I opened it and there were some newspaper clippings and his letter. I always enjoy Ken’s letters because he writes poignantly about his life and immediate experiences, and also adds a bit of philosophy.
He wrote about the difficulties of his separation, the family, his plan to go to France for a break, and then he wrote a sentence that did not make sense: “Naturally winning a million dollars is a good thing, but it has created a lot of headaches too.” I read on and he told me he hoped to relax and paint more in France, and that he had been playing golf. He closed by saying he hoped I was well and that maybe we could get together “one of these days.” I put the letter down and reached into the large envelope, pulling out the paper that was folded neatly in half. Imagine my shock when I saw that it was the front page of the San Luis Obispo newspaper with a picture of him beside the headline: LOCAL ARTIST WINS 1 MILLION DOLLARS. The article was titled, A Painterly Stroke of Luck, COLOR OSOS ARTIST RICH. The newspaper quoted Ken: "I think twice about going out to lunch. It's very rare that I spend money like that. I did not tell my wife because I didn't want her to know I had spent money on something so frivolous."
I am still incredulous. Of course I called Ken, and he explained that he had been reading a book called Ask And It Is Given, about how we manifest our world by the way we think, and around the same time, he saw an advertisement in the Los Angeles Times for a raffle to benefit a charitable arts organization. The price of a ticket was steep—one hundred and fifty dollars, but the prize was a house in Santa Barbara or 1 million dollars. Ken never gambled or entered lotteries, but for this time, he dug under his mattress and without telling his wife bought a ticket, thinking that he would win. And then a month later, he was announced the winner. “I was not surprised”, Ken told me.

Not Burned By Fire,

I find it fascinating that people are so wrapped up in the material world. It is as if life and its meaning depends on being comfortable. Then, the more wealth a person has, the happier they will be. For me, this is illusion. THE DREAM is where my treasure exists, and it will never be exhausted.
This is not to say that the material world does not matter. Recently a friend in Nairobi, Kenya sent me a text message asking if I could send her some money to see a doctor, and mentioning that she and her daughter had no food in their house. In those situations, it is more difficult to be philosophical. I often wonder how I would face the world in similar circumstances.
I think that the death of my daughter Naomi brought me to the state I am in now. During her final days, I felt that all the wealth in the world was only dust scattering in the wind. Deep down, I knew how remarkable was THE DREAM that continually unfolded and that I am privileged to witness. I saw in Naomi a being that had surpassed the physical, and in my book, A Heart Traced in Sand, I quoted these words from the Bhagavad-Gita:
The bonds of his flesh are broken.
He is lucky, and does not rejoice:
He is unlucky, and does not weep.
I call him illumined.

Not wounded by weapons,
Not burned by fire,
Not dried by the wind,
Not wetted by water;
Such is the Atman,

Not dried, not wetted,
Not burned, not wounded,
Innermost element,
Everywhere, always,
Being of beings,
Changeless, eternal,
Forever and ever.