The Old Fisherman of Snake’s Mouth*.

Fishing wharf at sunset, originally uploaded by James Yin

He had seen it all. When Shekou* was just a sleepy fishing village seemingly untouched by time at the southern tip of the land mass called China. What happened in the rest of China did not matter much here except as news during breaks dictated by the weather and tides. The sea matters more than China. The sea matters more than anything. It is their life. That is all a fisherman needs to know. And the sea is good to the fisherman who understands.

The old man thinks he understands the sea. For seventy odd years, he could not leave its sight for more than a day without feeling a tremendous loss. He is too old to go out to sea now but he still needs to hear its endless whispers and to feel its salty embrace. He could not sleep otherwise.

Especially after that day when he returned to find a silence so deep it drowned out even the mourning of the sea. He knew even before he stepped through the door. Tears welled up in this eyes and his heart sank like an anchor into the deep. He stopped in the middle of the hall. Something made him wanting to turn and dived into the sea from the balcony of his stilted hut to seek its solace. Instead he covered his face with his calloused hands and openly wept. Before long, he was bawling like a kid expelling his grief. Sank to his knees and cried loudly. Not even in his mother’s funeral had he cried like that.

“You’re all I had now” he said to the sea. “And it is not enough. I missed her too much.”

But he continued living with the sea. And it sang to him. Every night before he went to bed, he listened to the familiar song of their courtship to her death. Sometimes it is as sweet as the honey lemon that ripened under the mid-day sun. Other times more bitter than the gourd from farmer Lee who is said to water them with his tears. He swallowed them all. Then he went to sleep on his side of the bed. Titled his head to whisper a gentle goodnight. Stretched his hand out under the blanket to hold a phantom hand.

In the morning everyone treated him as that cheerful old man with plenty of advices and wisecracks that he freely dispensed. Younger fishermen came to him for advices on the sea. Older friends came to share his cup of tea. Young men asked him how to approach young girls. Young girls asked him how to attract young men. Children came to hear his tales. No one talked about his loss. No one offer consoling words. That is the way of the village. That is their ways to help him heal. And that is how he became “a most respected elder” in his village.

I never met him in person. Though I had walked along the beach made entirely from the discard of oysters and cockle shells. I loved the crunching and crackling sounds made when I stepped on them. How many generations did it take to produce this quantity? To fill this beach, I wondered. I imagined this must be the same pleasure people in the North got from threading on dried autumn leaves. Further ahead, I saw several shirtless young boys running on the cockle beach. The youngest was completely naked and chasing the others. I felt some concern. Wouldn’t the shells cut their feet?

Years later, on a quiet night when I recalled that evening by the beach, I got my answer without asking for it. “No. Their feet have eyes and your leather is not tougher than their soles”.

He never told me about his life. I just knew. I do not know how I knew. I just did. And as he paid me more visits I knew more about him. Maybe I am absorbing his memory as he recalled them. Maybe he is doing the same to me. Maybe that is why he can provide answers when I am not asking for it.

To be continued...

Conversation with Ghosts.

gates1, originally uploaded by Nachosan

The Gate of Hell will be flung open this month and all manner of ghosts will descend to Earth. No weddings would be held in the Ghost Month and the Chinese will refrain from going out at night. Yet they will turn out in force to shows held by temples to appease the spirits. To gawk at sexy young girls in scrimpy dresses gyrating on purpose built wooden stage.

There used to be an air of respectability for such shows when opera singers trained by their ancestors from one generation to the next performed solemn acts of despairs. The painted faces and long sleeves in high pitched unintelligible renditions were no match for the advent of the broken voice exposed body parts. The spirits must be pleased for they did not object.

If I will to tell I can talk to ghosts, they would ask in all seriousness what they looked like. For in my culture, you are not mad if you can see ghosts. You are just “gifted”. And will be consulted. By learning or faking some rituals, you will be in demand, respected and can earn a decent living acting as a medium between man and ghosts.

But if I will to tell that my ghosts do not conform to the generally accepted notions of what ghosts look and behave like. If I will to say I don’t see hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts out to right a wrong, vicious ghosts whose sole purpose is to harm the living, female ghosts that floats with long hair in long white gown or cheongsam red out for revenge, ghouls in the employ of those practicing the black arts and demons of all descriptions, always horrid and blurry. If I don’t see their dead relatives. If I will to say my ghosts just appear to have a quiet conversation without speaking, then they will know I am mad.

So I tell no one.

If I am mad, I rather keep it to myself. If I do not behave according to their generally accepted notions of how a madman behave, then to them I am not one. So I tell no one about my conversations with ghosts.

To be continued...

Blame It On The Moon.

Moon1, originally uploaded by mellow-d)

A very long time ago. In a small town called “little apple” for it was also named Manhattan. They took me to a small mound of a hill and proudly told me “on a clear day, you can see all the way to Wichita”. All I saw was a flat land golden with ripening wheat that stretched for ever until the gold met the blue. It was breathtaking and when the wind blew, it was as if the land moved. Maybe my eyesight was bad, I could not pick out Wichita.

But my eyes picked her up immediately that night they took me to the best chicken restaurant within driving distance from the university. Even before we were seated.

There was a noisy commotion as we joined tables to form one long enough to accommodate all of us. I was the only Asian among the cowboys. My heart was not into the conversation. I was not hearing what were said. It was pounding madly as I made up my mind to approach her.

Her face was shielded by her long hair as she bent over the piano but I knew she is beautiful. Her hands were raised and she plunged them down with dramatic yet graceful flourishes. Fingers flew over the keyboards and melody filled the room. I wished my new-found friends would just shut up and listened. The beers came and cheers were raised. It never tasted so bitter. I was in love.

I stood up and walked over. Prompting loud cheering, hooting and piercing whistles. I ignored them all. I was amazed that in my first trip to a foreign land, my behavior was so uncharacteristically me. I would never dare if this was back in my own country. If I stopped walking, I knew my legs would fail me.

I stopped by the piano as she finished her song. She looked up.

And smiled.

My heart stopped beating. Time froze. The world around us stopped happening. I did not remember whether I ate any chicken that night. If I did, I could not remember its taste. I could not remember how I got home. I only remembered smiling on the bed, unable to sleep. My heart swirling, swept by caressing waves of raw emotions.

Then.

She was a Vietnamese. She was married. My world crashed.

I received a phone call. She wanted to meet. I callously asked why. As if, she had done me wrong. She said she wanted to invite me out to look at the moon. There was a long pause. I wanted to go. I wanted to find out whether there can be anything between us. I fervently hoped.

But I was an honorable young man back then. My first love. My first heartbreak. I gave some silly excuse. She never phone again. And from that night, the moon never looks the same. I know it accused me of betrayal and cursed me with endless heartbreak. And the one songwriter whom I have always wanted to meet is the one who wrote “Blame it on the moon”.

I suspect she is one of those who come to visit.

To be continued...

Their Sound of Silence

They talk to me.

But I never hear them speak. I hear clearly what they say in the silence. I don’t know how. But I know it is not telepathy. Most of the time, it is like the whispers of soft wind moving through silk curtain. Or I imagined it as such. Sometime, like the low growl of an animal.

Most of the time, it is like the conspiring conversations of trusted friends. Though I hesitate to call them that. For they are ghosts. And I don’t know if they are friends.

Sometimes they tell me stories. I listen. If I ask a question, they may or may not answer. It can be frustrating at times especially when I don’t understand what it is, they are saying. I hate the silence when there are still things left unsaid. But they won’t humor me. I can’t demand answers. I have to accept with not knowing. And that is difficult. Answers, answers! Why can’t they just reply something, even a lie? How I hate silence!

Sometimes they prompt me to talk. Not to say I need a lot of prompting. Their mere presence on a day when I’m under the weather is enough to make me reflect, to reminisce, to pour out my heart like red wine on a white table cloth. I’m suspicious, of course. But after the first few times, I threw cautions to the wind for who are they to repeat my miseries. To other ghosts? I laughed and drew comfort from my recklessness. I laughed again when I realized that I would not trust my secrets to any human being but I will trust them to ghosts.

To be continued...

My Ghosts & I

I don’t know how many of them there are.


I do know there must be at least 3 – male, female it.


But there could be many males, many females and many its. Often I can’t tell them apart. Especially when most of the time, they don’t take on distinct forms. And sometimes, I’m quite sure a single entity takes on different forms and different voices.


Maybe I’m mad.


Maybe I can talk to ghosts.

To be continued...