Cheetah's Worth Words

Not a soul out. Seagulls are racing the waves. Sun has not come over the dunes yet. Their wet suits next to them, eyes on the ocean, they sip in their morning coffee slowly, not saying a word. A fisherman by the shore, a clay pipe un his mouth, looks out for fish, his giant cane set firmly into the soft sand.

Boards waxed, wet suits on, they walk in. Small waves, but they don’t really care. Being out there in the swell, paddling out west, listening to the wind, the sound of the waves on the rocks, the nothingness of the open waters. Finally the first rays of sunlight pop from behind the dunes, covering them in orange. Riding the first waves, they realize that they’re not alone. A couple of surfers paddle out towards them. The fisherman is walking  back towards his car. 8 a.m. Ocean Beach. February. Water freezing, wind blowing, sun is shining. No loud speakers, no crowded towels on the sand, no sunblock smell, empty car park.

10 a.m. They walk out to their bags. The boards are sticky with salt and wax and sand miwed together into a hard shell. They take off their suits, shivering in the winter air for a good five minutes. Still not a word. Their bicycles ready, holding their boards under one arm and driving with the other, they ride back home. Black suits white shirts black ties, they sit at their desk half an hour later, looking like anyone. But in their mind the only sound, the only memory is of a wave, silent and blue, curled like the body of a woman, foamy like a good beer, and their board sliding, silently, effortlessly. Winter session, surfers’ delight.

His IQ is 40, his age 26, his skin colour light brown, his hair cropped short. His eyes shut, his mind absent, his will resigned. The crime he’s said to be guily of, he doesn’t even understand. His family tried everything. Associations brought out complaints, huge banners outside the courthouse and hundreds of people to manifest their anger. Justice for all, the judge said, even if the person is “simple”. Psychiatrists forgot to type their report, the kid is about to get legally put to sleep. Did he commit the crime? Probably. Does he deserve some humanity? He sure does. 11 a.m. The clock rings. The guards bring him in. A smile on his face. He still doesn’t realize where and why he’s here. He sees his mom on the other side of the thick bullet-proof window. He waves, smiling. She waves back, crying. They tie him up to the chair, prepare their instruments. Close your eyes. Please close your eyes kid. The audience keep theirs open. Justice for all, 21st century style.

April 4th 1945, Washington D.C., USA. In the Oval Office, four men are sitting in the presidential sofas and talking aout the future of the modern world as they know it. Are present: Harry S. Truman, President of the United States of America, Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, Henry L. Stimson, War Secretary and Paul Tibbets, US Air Force B-29 pilot. Their discussion could have been as follows…

Harry S. Truman (HT): Gentlemen, the solution to the end of this war is near, and the man responsible for it is right here with us today. Robert, tell us more about it.

Robert Oppenheimer (RO): Thank you Mr President. Indeed, what I’ve come up with in my last experiment could very well be the end of  the Second World War. A powerful yet containable weapon, to be used in last resort, if the enemy won’t surrender. Lots of casualties and long-term regional radio-activity so to be used with extreme caution.

Henry L. Stimson (HS): Exactly what we needed! How long to have such a bomb ready? I was wondering what to do if the Japanese refuse our ultimatum in June…

RO: Bombs could be ready by July-August but we would have to test it properly some place deserted first.

HT: The New-Mexico desert would be perfect, we’ve already got training grounds there, desaffected years ago. Robert, I let you supervise the tests, Henry, prepare the locations for the drops in Japan, Paul here will be flying one of the B-29, he might have questions for you both. Mr Tibbets, any questions?

Paul Tibbets (PT): not right now Mr President but thank you I won’t hesitate to ask questions to MM Oppenheimer and Stimson if I have any.

HT: So that’s settled then, we’ll bomb Japan if they decline the ultimatum next June!

HS: Excuse-me Sir, just one request: please don’t target Kyoto, there’s too much history and beauty there. I was there on a honeymoon with my wife a few years back and it’s really worth keeping, if I may.

HT: You may. My advisors told me about Nagasaki and Hiroshima, would that be good targets?

HS: Perfect Mr President, lots of population but not much sight-seeing monuments. I’ll arrange meetings with the Joint Chiefs.

HT: Well, we agreed on your bomb A Robert, now make it work!

The meeting was adjourned, everyone returned to their daily tasks and we all know how it turned out… Enola Gay and her sister killed more than 200 000 Japanese on August 6th and the following weeks. A sad day for the history of mankind.

Whatever music you like, you know what I mean. Certain songs make you smile, others make you sad. Put on Colorblind or Mad World and make sure you’ve got a boxful of tissues ready by. Play anything by Wyclef, Vampire Week-End and get ready to get your body rockin’. Listening to music is like reading: you’ve got to practice and get to know new sounds, get a grap of your favourite artists’ new album or some random artist you’ve heard on FaceBook or MySpace.

You might not be a great dancer but stop me if I’m wrong: some tunes just make you want to get up your desk and move your feet around. Even if doing so would imply looking like a moron. Head bangers in their baggie pants and flashy t-shirts know what I’m talking about: how music can change the way you see the world, how it can metamorphose someone, an occasion, a roomful of people with previously no special connection.

Loud speakers blasting, nobody hears the engine. Caps tilted to the side, golden chains around their neck. Baggy pants and expensive designer shoes, fancy tatoos and huge obvious ear and finger rings. Bimbos flying around like seagulls after the fishing boat. Guns on display under their armpits. West Coast gangsta. Their mothers are closing their eyes. Their brothers’ eyes shine with pride. Their fathers are departed.

Muscle museum for the pimps.

Lying under coconut trees with a fruit cocktail in my hand, the warm sun heats up slowly the sand underneath by feet. Seagulls for neighbours and giant blue and red crabs for friends. The sound of the waves breaking on the reef out at sea like a childhood melody, nursing my mind in a calm, relaxing way. Surfboards next to me, my girls by my side, I’m waiting for the perfect wave. Suddenly it starts snowing. Temperature drops all of a sudden. Sky turns grey, heavy with winter snow. Summer is still far off, I should stop dreaming or else I’ll end up in my bathing shorts out there in the freezing cold!

Every year the same thing: people drinking and dancing and just before midnight, checking their watches, the final countdown. Rising glasses of champagne, looking in the eye, kissing and hugging, yelling at the top of their lungs the same phrase: Happy New Year!!

The day before was just the same, the year to come basically the same as the one that just passed. People tend to make promises, new year resolutions they won’t keep (most of them), decide on foolish things not to come true anyway. A good occasion to party, to gather up with friends or family, eat just another fancy dinner, suit up and dance till the end of the night

Sometimes I wish years would just go by and look like the last one, sometimes I wish they would all be different and better and better. Sometimes I think I’d be better off on some far island with my glass of champagne and palm groves and white sand and sea shells and the sun for only companion. But this year hols great expectations: a daughter to raise and a wife to please, a family to feed and a future to find. Today is the first day of a new year, hopes are the same, regrets as well as moments of joy. Tonight is cold and promising, our baby sleeps like an angel in her crib and we’re off to ours, till the little one screams for her mommy’s boob, hungry for love.

I was quite sure I had seen him some place before. the reddened face and the dirty beard, the loud manners; the whole scene seemed so much like a deja-vu.

His bench was the center of his world, house and workplace, holiday resort and family country house. People passing by didn’t even see him anymore, for the color of his ageless overalls was that of the park and the bench, brown and grey and orange and green.

He left last Tuesday. Without a warning, no farewell party, no note left behind him. He knew that his friends had died years ago and that the rest of the road he had to walk by himself. I sat on that bench today. It felt strange, a mixture of awkwardness and guilt: but he was gone for good. the wooden bench would go back to its more traditional even if transitory occupants.

Buffaloes peacefully grazing in the fields. Kids on their bicycles racing each other on their way to school. Marine uniforms. Farmers at work since sunset, ordering rice paddies, cleaning and digging out new sprouts, carrying on their never-tiring backs huge loads of either firewood or tools, bags of rice, gallons of oil or branches and branches of fresh tea leaves.

From my train window, this all scenery is like a garden of Eden, green landscapes of moving forms, quiet living beings carrying out their day as they did the day before and as they probably will the next. Some passengers are still asleep but despite the early hour – it’s half past five only – most of us are wide awake, taking in the passing world as morning coffee: sipping slowly the peacefulness, the bright colours of an Asian sunrise. The orange-red of the first sunlight over the green of the rice-fields littered hills of eastern Thailand.

The doors are wide open and some are already sitting there on the train steps, smoking home-made cigarettes, chatting away the last of the way. Beds are being unmade, turning back into their seat-like form for the day to come. Only two hours left and we’re in Laos. Same green hills there I heard. Hemingway wrote about the African ones. Much greener, much more widespread, green hills of South-East Asia. So green they blind you, so fresh and alive with vegetation and wildlife and people and emotion they make you smile. With that our our faces, we got off the train and hitched a ride to the Laotian border 100 km East. Goodbye green hills of Siam, hello green hills of Laos!