Get Up Eight

What tethers us to here and now, as we loop through time and space?

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We’re nestled into a tiny bun cha stand, situated on low plastic stools at the green plastic table, our legs slightly bent and snuggled underneath.

The two busy women, hard at work, arrange rice noodles, greens, and freshly-grilled meats, prepping for the mid day past. They, clear besties over many years of serving together, banter joyfully, barking orders and sharing laughs as they do the work of adulthood.

The elder wanders over with a smile and two bowls of steaming, sweet broth, immaculate dipping options for the slurpiest of noodle fare.

We partake, gratefully.

A long-tailed friend pokes his nose from under the basin, then scurries away again, business to attend. He exists in not-so-secret secret, nibbling in plain sight then retreating to scout his dinner.

We are simply tethered here, in this moment, to our next meal, after all

I peer out into the lane when I see two pairs of light purple pants and flower-patterned t-shirts. Each balancing deftly as they cruise the well-worn path on their two-wheelers. Could be twins, or at least, clear besties, with nothing to do but whittle the day together. Maybe 8 years old, mature enough to be on their own and practiced enough to ride with confidence.

They banter joyfully, barking orders and sharing laughs as they do the work of childhood. They tease one another as they circle and loop. Always just a loop, never a broader journey into the traveled alley outside their door.

At least, not yet.

But I know this: their time to branch out will come, and for their parents,

it will be all too soon.

The journey of raising a child, at times interminable, whips by

in a flash.

あっという間に

Their parents, all too soon, will be looking back on these mundane moments. Seeing the two meandering, smiling together, being kids.

These parents, all too soon,

will loop back,

and yearn so strongly to push rewind

while gazing at photos of what was, once.

And they, too,

will marvel in disbelief

at what now, is.

It has all gone by,

so, so quickly

I wonder whether these two are sisters,

or just long, long friends in their (to now) short, short lives.

I revel in their giggles and shouts, echoing across the narrow walls, as I dip, then slurp, my rice noodles

and give myself permission

to loop back.

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He appears hopeful.

Can’t be more than 10 years old,

the man behind him cresting 80.

Sun pierces water as the boy finds his rhythm,

casting

He shouts something to his grandpa.

Wait. Great grandpa?

then continues his quest.

The skinny rod in his hand knows this ritual well, the task he has taken on, Sunday afternoon. 

Whip back 

Cast 

Reel 

Whip back 

Cast 

Reel

no bites, yet

I don’t think it matters, for him 

He changes his rhythm

An attempt to greet, cajole whatever might be cruising these murky waters.

What does it mean, to fish

We take it all, this mortal coil, for granted

and in our minds perhaps it’s simply what we see this young boy manifesting

Won fish, to fish, read fish, blew fish

But, if we’re gonna get existential 

There might be a scaled bard under the waters of Tay Ho

Musing,

asking the big questions,

existentially

to fish or not to fish

That, is in question.

I’m certain that for both this boy, and the scaly cruisers underneath the ripples alike

It’s not a question worth even pondering 

Their main purpose at this moment in time

Is to be.

And, to be is to fish 

And, to fish is to be 

And this ritual,

regular, and entrenched

At its heart,

is a hopeful act.

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We move, often, through this world,

woefully unaware

that we are passing it by.

Take a seat

No work today?

My team sent me home, not well. I’ll stay over here and keep my mask on

He is a craftsman, honing his work and art for years.

He cradles my broken screen and gently removes the backing case. Nimbly inserts the fine tool and cleans the speaker and charging port.

100% present and invested in his task. A model for all of us.

be present

he says to me

be well.

Why do we get distracted

And what do we miss

Life? Passing by?

This thought enters,

so, I slow myself down.

Where normally I’d be scrolling the latest hockey news

Tut tut, can’t scroll mindlessly on your phone if he’s fixing your phone

Checkmate, o mindless one.

So,

instead,

I listen

to the animated conversation from the men next door. Do my best to parse the flow of their words,

once jumbled, now pull themselves apart. I can track sounds and tones, but clear meaning still eludes me. Progress, though.

They are friends, this much is clear. This is one chat nestled within thousands of others, a familiarity and brotherhood in their tone.

Instead,

I look up

and out

Motorbikes cruise, but they are not urgent. Their pace is leisurely.

The single tree framed by the doorway perches, 70 degrees, dancing in the breeze.

I take solace in the movement of leaves.

It’s alright

They whisper

This too shall pass

We’ve gotten in the habit of asking ourselves, will this matter in 6 months?

And the answer, most always, is no.

So with this in mind, I take a beat

and

instead,

watch the world pass me by

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I count them, yellow linked-up beasts. 

Dragons, in the city of dragons 

They bring fire, and smoke, engines of the build.

And, progress?

There are eight on the single construction site. I look for the operators, straining my eyes. This massive government building has been a work in progress for the past year. It’s moving fast, maybe too fast.

Tay Ho is a peninsular maze. Alleys, side streets, hidden gems dot the lakeside. A cycling, Gramming, and running destination for Hanoians from far and wide.

This previously (somewhat) undisturbed gem has in recent decades changed, as Hanoi and Vietnam has driven to catch up.

I’m not sure what race they are running, and I don’t always appreciate the same goal. But there’s only one true religion in this world, the tentacles of capitalism maneuver their way into the tightest spaces.

(yes, I know that I am only here in this gem because of capitalism. Takes one to know one, eh)

I’m not sure exactly how much money is involved in this project and frankly, I don’t care to find out. But I hold out hope that it becomes a badge of pride, and a place of enduring community.

An icon, that still allows this amazing city of dragons to maintain its soul.

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The in breath

and the out breath 

The lead up to Tet, and the in breath is

Deep

An all encompassing inhale, filling the collective lungs. All apace and flurry. Every other motorbike carrying a tree in its adorned, symmetrical beauty. 

These trees make their way across the city destined for front porches, where they sit in wait for the auspicious first visitor of the year. 

Deep breath in

and hold

Everyone, and everything, is in motion. Traffic, horns, organic to and fro, ebb and flow akin to major holidays anywhere in the world. 

Everybody has places to go, people to see, to do, to done.

And then, in an instant 

It all stops 

Exhale 

Says the country 

Exhale

Say the people

Take a beat and a breath and a moment to be with the ones you love. 

To be home.

With the exhale comes quiet. A pause in the midst of it all.  A chance to take stock, reflect on what has been, and look forward.

Take a break.

And, in a flash, the break is took 

Then.

In the interest of progress, of life, and moving on 

The city stirs again 

And when it stirs, things happen quickly 

Big inhale.

With the in breath, comes motion.

A garbage collector, resplendent in beige, stuffs the edge of the cart with a fruitless branch, all too recently adorned with blossoms. 

She works in the midst

of a flow of hundreds upon hundreds of motorbikes dotted with cars, everyone rushing this way and that, here and there.

This massive, tiny village of 8 1/2 million people. 

Takes an in-breath

and comes back to life.

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Over the past nine years, writing here has been a source of joy and pride.

Joy comes from interaction, from reading the work of talented colleagues around the world, hearing perspectives I would not have a chance to otherwise understand. From responses from dedicated readers.

Pride comes from putting in the work. Showing up, doing the thing, especially when I don’t want to. Being able to say,

I did that

Discipline is a tough one. Feelings of inadequacy, and the imposter syndrome, are real and challenging.

welcome to life

Asking the question,

am I enough

am I doing enough

persistently nags.

But I tell myself that it’s worth it, to keep showing up. 

We are in an age where we are told through the signal and the noise, to love AI. The refrain is shouted from the mountaintops.

It’s making our lives so much easier.

It’s happening, whether we believe in it or not, and we need to be able to navigate

So, we trot it out in front of kids. Gimmicks, shortcuts, ways to make life easier.

We note but ignore the depletion of our freshwater to nourish server farms, we note but ignore the notion that it steals, standing on the huddled backs of talented artists around the world, the ones who came before. We note but ignore the ones who put in the work.

I’m an 18% guy. As in, 18% ‘this is amazing’ and 82% ‘we’re all screwed’. So I try to keep an open mind.

Some of these tools and methods are indeed better. Easier. They save time and allow us to work less hard. But I’m still not sold on whether it is, on balance, working smarter.

Easier, sadly, does not always mean better.

We are entering the age of slop, the age of

what is real

A wise friend and colleague who happens to be a seasoned sailor regularly uttered two phrases that have stuck with me.

Being bored is an insult to your brain 

and 

life is effort

There is value in try, in cognitive load, in firing your synapses.

I could write a prompt to say:

1. parse the writing of getupeight blog, read and learn about it for writing style and particular writing craft moves
2. use this style to compose a daily piece of writing
3. capture the same style and share tidbits of interesting information about Hanoi and Vietnam
4. make the piece somewhere between 200 and 300 words
5. post to Slice of Life every day in March, with a quick descriptor

Job done.

But, why?

Easier is not always better 

Life is effort.

The glaze handed to AI around the interwebs on a regular basis gives me pause. People love AI like they love sport, like they love Tay Tay, like they love puppies.

Might as well spell it glaizing.

But my main counter is the value in struggle, in effort, and

in what is real.

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Two of them flit here and there, alighting on a chosen balcony, on the 15th story apartment building next door.

Another seems to be on its own

A lone wolf

This seems like a good spot

it must think to itself

But, does it really think things through much, this birdbrain?

I spot a fourth bird, wandering around the glass roof below. It follows the lines of the rectangular panels.

Pathways to where, I’m not sure exactly

I marvel at the neck, constantly in motion, back-and-forth, a massive logging saw, metronoming as the pigeon makes its way

And I still wonder what’s going on inside their heads.

This seems like a good spot

Am I safe?

What’s that thing?

Can I eat this?

And I wonder whether trading spots with these winged heads would be a step up

A less stressful life

Empty your mind

Focus on what’s right in front of you

Be present

And enjoy the ride.

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I’m a bit indifferent towards hospitals

Michael Scott didn’t like hospitals mainly because he associated them with sick people.

I’ve been at a few over the years. They’ve without fail been places of resilience, calm under pressure, and always, hard work

The one we’re at today has more of the same.

Service, with a compassionate smile

I don’t know whether I could have taken up a life in healthcare. I admit parallels to teaching exist.

We too are about mental, emotional, and physical safety. We too are about healing. We, too, are about making the world better, full stop.

But I don’t know that I could take on a career here. 

To wit, as I’m composing these words, a woman walks by, cradling a wee one in her arms. Couldn’t be more than a year old. Head shaven, and a line of stitches spanning her cranium.

On its hardest days, teaching is like brain surgery. 

But all analogies, subject to scrutiny, eventually break down.

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I’ve been a hockey fan all my life. 

Growing up just beyond the shadow of the Canadian Rockies, a life in and around hockey

is just what we do.

And the Olympics made me sad.

I’m not mad, just disappointed 

Never meet your heroes.

I grew up thinking hockey players were good guys, just out there, playing a game, living the dream.

oh, you sweet summer child

I know a lot of them are decent humans.

Albeit as interesting as a slice of buttered toast, controversial as a bag of pretzels.

We look to the famous, the stars in our eyes, to rise above.

Like Ali, and Kaep. Legends, who chose to use their platform and take a stand.

Whether justified or not, we ask them to use their lofty perch to push us all toward a more just world. Not just charity, but change.

Perhaps we are misguided. At the very least, we can ask them, at a bare minimum, to err on the side of kindness.

You’re playing a game, you know

As it turns out, growing up in an entitled, privileged, and whitewashed world entrenches biases.

And enables misogynistic buffoonery.

Who knew?

In these truculent times, the MAGA refrain has been to ‘keep your politics out of my sports’. Kaepernick? Out of line.  Black Lives don’t Matter here, unless they’re scoring touchdowns (and even then it’s a temporal, superficial love). Pride Nights? Keep your woke crap away from my rink.

Keep your (I mean your) politics out of my sports.

Unless, we win.

Then, we have our trophy of young athletes

paraded 

a white bread and sno-ring circus

Because, winning trumps all

These young beavises and buttheads kiss the ring, pounding beers with the Frat Boy In charge, squarely aligned

on the wrong side of history

I want to say they are pawns, manipulated, and like all useful tools, eventually tossed aside. But I won’t extend that much credit to the peeling orange. Chess, a cerebral endeavor,

is beyond him.

They are checkers, soon to be tossed behind the well-worn sofa when no longer amusing or useful.

I’m not sad, I’m just disappointed

At the end of the tournament, and at the end of the day

There are larger things at stake.

Like families, and futures, and hope.

And you, young he-roes,

are blind to what should be as clear as day.

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I skitter the bike up onto the brick sidewalk, turn off the ignition, and perch my helmet atop the side view mirror

Wander across the street and enter my favorite shop

Choose a low metal table adorned with chopsticks, napkins, spoons, and a tiny tray of chopped garlic and red chilies

As I squat onto the low plastic stool, I make eye contact with the bubbly woman, busy snipping at rice noodles with her kitchen shears, and placing small grilled balls of pork into bowls

She smiles at me, already knowing what I want

I wait only a couple minutes before she brings over a bamboo basket of greens, lettuce and shiso freshly washed and glistening in the sun.

With it, a plate of freshly cut rice noodles, and the fishy not fishy sweetened bowl of soup, sliced green mangoes, and carrots dotted with chunks of grilled meat

It’s a dipping meal,

One where process is equally as important as product

I find a balance. Greens, rice noodles, greens, rice noodles, back-and-forth

I allow the noodles to take on the flavor of the soup

Sweetened, just right

Slurp

Just as I’m starting to really enjoy my meal, he decides to sit, facing me

There’s not much room at any of the tables, so it’s common to have others sit down less than a meter away.

We barely make eye contact, and his phone immediately comes out,

Nothing to see here

And nothing to say.

I am not here to chat

it says

The wall is raised between us

As phones do

So, as I enjoy the slurp of my noodles, I lose myself in the latest news about my hockey team

It’s a brief moment to be here, by myself

Away from the stress of school. As I age, I’m realizing that I’m more of an introvert than I thought.

Need some time to recharge my battery.

But, his phone battery is full

As demonstrated by the all too loud, all omnipresent TikTok of the obnoxious person rating potential mates

She’s a

Zero

Zero

Not my type

How do I diplomatically ask him whether he’s aware that earbuds exist

But I hold my tongue for the moment

Until he swipes to the next reel

The one with the shrieking baby, followed by a smash cut to the baby and her mother dancing

It repeats three times

Blaring at the rest of the diners

LOOK AT ME

No one looks

Or says anything

I am being serenaded by the worst possible

Em oi

I quietly attempt to get his attention

Em oi

He doesn’t hear me at first, but when he finally does and makes eye contact, I make a dismissive wave towards his device

He’s not beligerent,

just completely unaware

As phones do

But once I communicate my distaste, he is quick to respond, and with a nervous smile, turns down the sound

And I am grateful.

I’m often nervous how these things might go. In this case he is sufficiently contrite and was simply unaware

The last thing I want is a confrontation

And luckily, he feels the same.

He continues to swipe, this time volume low, allowing the rest of us to fully taste this delicious meal, and avoid the distaste of his current diet.

I thank him, and give him a nod of appreciation

And wonder yet again, how lunch dates have gotten to this point.

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