The communicative brevity in Thuy's voice is indicative of her honesty, and her clear soul, of sonic vibrance in her words, imbued with such complicated emotion and sweeping literacy. With references to Soviet, French and Vietnamese literature, she affixes her personalized sentiment in historic immediacy as with the timeless genius of contemplative humanity. Her anger towards the imperialist aggressors, the Americans, is always buttressed by a stern will in defending the fight of her fellow brothers and sisters dying around her with the visceral intimacy that only a doctor would be able to elucidate with such clarity. You can almost feel her breath, and indeed, I was powerfully moved many times with a whole spectrum of emotions, as her intense character and youthful innocence enlightens even the bitterest soul with universal intention toward human grace.
Throughout the book, she calls on her dreams, both emergent in sleep and her daily life, and from those around her, pressing her on into the obscurity of the ruined jungles. Her dreams are shared dreams, and in that sense are a constant offering of refuge within, giving reason and stability to her tested mind, fulfilling her with inner community. As the book moves on through her astute witnessing, her dreams become increasingly present as she pours out her uninhibited thoughts with an awe-inspiring magic, reminiscent of the phenomenal dream world exhibited from her inmost reflections, as with the highest ideals of her united comrades.
I could praise this piece of literature on and on, by referring to its unprecedented impact on literacy in Vietnam, or the innumerable anecdotes which resonate with masterful purpose in the mind of the reader, as a daughter speaking to her parent with such loving presence, bridged only by the purity of the listening, however, I'll leave the rest to your own reading.
A family friend of mine is now making a feature documentary on the story behind the book called, "Finding Thuy" check it out, and remain aware of the dream legacy of undying peace from the Vietnamese heart of the world.
Off the plane, at the airport hotel in Vietnam, a troupe of American country musicians and a Malian music duet see the receptionist for their rooms. I sit on my luggage as my wife, in full regalia for a performance, shoots off through a glass doorway, unseen with the swift flap of her flowery dress.
After a bitter wait, she re-enters the lobby, sweaty as a marathon runner in mid-race. The performance is finished. My jaw drops as we board our flight, returning to Canada after the most instantaneous long-distance travel experience I have ever had.
And in our hometown, she lights a stage at a Chinese arts festival. Before her set, a glowing dance company exhibits the icy decadence of masterful classical costuming, their white-painted faces mirroring their paper fans. I eye the stage from afar, sitting with old friends. Then, she walks onstage, without her instrument. To the nervous curiosity of the organizers and select audience members, she begins to sing.
She is gorgeous, and stuns with an evocative elegance with the articulated genius of high emotion and well-trained harmonies. Her upper register fills the audience with recognition of the one mind, a fortuitous stretch into the harmony of collective being, as a sitting admiration of beauty.
Proud, I am ever separate, an eye afar, while with a heart imbued with hers between powerful lungs, emanating together, one voice of honest humanity.
"To hear singing in you dreams, betokens a cheerful spirit and happy companions. You are soon to have promising news from the absent." (iDream)
_______yes, and woo over the sonorous
blush in the taste of her feminine blossoming
steaming with the cooled anger of Japan's cherry mind
in the sake spring of our zheng-doumbek interpretive madness
following the playful muses of a drunk and bold life,
granting wishes and boons to each other's heart homes
peaceful and sonorous
breast of ice silver purity.
- excerpt from "woo over the sonorous blush"