Ghosts and Muses - Short Short Stories (Book Trailer)

Here you go, finally, the stories in a book -

A Drive to Remember - The WoW is Gone, but the Wind Still There

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you simply, without problems or pride: 
I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, 
In which there is no I or you, 
So intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, 

So intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” 

                                            
                                                 - Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Only once in your life, you find someone who completely turns you on. You tell him things that you have not shared with anyone else. You cannot wait to tell him your hopes and dreams, knowing that he will share in your excitement. He builds you up, showing the things about you that make you special and beautiful, things that you don’t even notice yourself. There is never competition or pressure, but quiet contentment when he is around.

Memories of your time together come back so vividly like you have never left. Colors seem brighter, and laughter seems more brilliant. A phone call from him helps you through the long day, and always brings a smile to your face. Things that never interested you before become fascinating because they are important to this special friend. You think of him on every occasion and in everything you do. Simple things like the gentle wind, stormy rains, a note, a song, bring him to mind.

You open your heart knowing that there is a chance that it may be broken one day. In opening your heart, you experience the love and joy that you never dreamed possible, yet you feel so vulnerable that it almost scares you. Life seems so exciting, different, and worthwhile with him nearby, that you find the courage to believe that you have found a true friend and possibly a soul mate who will remain loyal till the end of time. 

I will tell you stories of such love and lovers.

A Drive to Remember

She grew up in Taipei, and now lived in New York. Whenever she went back to visit Taiwan, she felt she had never left. Her friends from Taipei told her that it had changed a lot, but she didn’t see much of a difference. There might be more buildings and cars and modern conveniences, but people were the same, perhaps crazier and talking faster. She liked Taiwanese culture a lot, from the over-abundance of warmth of the common people, to the crammed exhibition of colorful, vivacious arts and festivity in every street corner, to the heavenly notorious street cuisine. There is everything in Taipei – it may not be a pretty city, but it’s a real city. 

Taiwan was in a state of depression when she got out decades ago. Even thought she was now firmly based in New York, in a weird way she had nothing to say about New York or America, whereas she could go on and on about the endless joy and surprises she had discovered in Taiwan - that jewel box of a small island. She missed Taiwan, and everything that place might hold in her heart. 

This time, she was returning to visit an old friend. They met when they were in their early 20s - she was luminous, he was handsome, both wildly insecure, each unhappy in their own way. They fell in love, but it didn’t work out. They then went on each other’s separate ways. 

Many decades later, they ran into each other online accidentally. He was a renowned novelist in Taiwan, married with kids; and she settled into a middle-class life in America, married with kids. There was something immediately nostalgic about their relationship. They started talking and laughing over the phone, and soon that sense of the past became very much in the present. She was surprised at how much intimate detail of their time together he had remembered. It melted her heart to know that he still cared. And what made him interesting was that they had met when they were very very young. 

When she looked back at those intervening years, he was largely a figure faded into the space of her heart like the other dead or lost lovers who, when once in a while flipped over to be examined, never appeared a day older, and whose hearts never changed. Now she had to imagine him growing older in a hurry. It was hard. There were plenty of weather-beaten wrinkles in his not-so-young face, added pounds around the waist, unforgiving grey hair around the temples; but there were also plenty of bantering, discreet flirting and laughter in his voice, not to mention the wisdom, maturity and compassion. He was as charming as ever, maybe more.

He invited her for a drive in his VW, their second face-to-face. It was a windy day with low-hanging clouds. Their initial exchange was a little awkward, tender yet tentative. She didn’t want to ask him how he thought of her by now, still beautiful, still heart-breaking? She already knew the answer, and it would be too narcissistic to even propose such a question, she thought. There was a certain sweet boundary developed in their subsequent conversations, like two adults trying hard to sound and act perfectly natural in a most unnatural situation.

Taking a walk along the dock of port Tamsui, feeling the chills in the air, he responded by throwing his own cashmere sweater over her slender shoulders to keep her warm. She felt the instant surge of emotions inside her belly toward this special man: What a gentle soul he is! Why didn’t I see that side of him long ago? What happened to us then?

After two hours’ drive along the blustery northeastern coast, she finally caught up with his life, his romances, triumphs, regrets and fears. He became less of a fantasy, more of a hot-blooded reality to her. She couldn’t say if she truly understood him, but she completely believed in him – as an honest, decent, caring man who had loved a lot, hurt and been hurt a lot. His greatest sin was his ravenous appetite for love, for story.

They stopped by a roadside restaurant to get some fresh seafood. In the restaurant, she promised herself that she would never let go of him again, as a loyal friend.

Just before circling back into the Taipei City, he asked her, “Where else would you like me to take you to see?” 

“I’d like to see my old house on Bo-Ai Alley. I know the house is gone. I just want to see what’s left.”
“I remember you taking me to your house once. No one was there. I remember your bedroom and everything. I drove by your house twenty years ago, looking for places and memories, when I first came back from overseas to settle.”
“Mm,” she hid behind her hair, “What did you do in my bedroom?”   
“Well, you know,” he chuckled. “Doing what lovers do.”

They fought through heavy traffic to get near where the old house could have been, but were unable to locate Bo-Ai Alley. It didn’t help that several neighbors they had asked directions from sent them to the wrong paths and dead ends. 

Half an hour of wild goose chase later, she sighed, “Let’s just go back now. Old streets get demolished all the time. We may never find this place.”

He looked at her seriously as if he were determined to make her dream whole, “We must be very close. I remember seeing the street sign driving through this neighborhood three weeks ago…” 
So he kept on driving and looking. Few minutes later, he spotted Bo-Ai Alley while it completely escaped her, “Here it is. I found it.”

The old house used to be the first house on Bo-Ai Alley. Sitting in its place now was a non-descript eatery. “Go take some pictures,” he told her, in great relief.

She jumped out of the car with her camera, shot some pictures of the street sign but not the eatery, turned around and discovered a house on the opposite end of the street looking exactly like her old house - in fact, the only house intact in this neighborhood from decades ago. She shouted at him who was waiting inside the car, “Look, look, this was my kind of a house!” Her excitement was palpable as she ran toward that house, click, click, click, shot after shot. He was visibly pleased.

To her, it was an afternoon to be remembered for many years to come. 

A Dream to Remember

One night in May there was a full moon, and the sky was dark blue covered with floating clouds. She woke up and remembered her fleeting dream. In it, he had come back to visit her in his full splendor of youth, and she was kind of faceless, yet everywhere to welcome him back. 
She lay still in her bed looking through the double windows at the dancing moon in the sky, and all the time gently scooping up the fragments of her dream in her mind:

· His hair was thick and straight, so beautiful it took your breath away.

· He had that pale, well-bred face with a sensuous mouth, a strong nose and eyes that blink and shimmer mysteriously behind the mask of thick hair.

· In the dream, he was the prince, renowned for his poetry and his hair.

· A prince needs protectors. She belonged to the secret society of his protectors.

· The prince’s left eye was badly injured by some evil spirits. He was in agony. He slumped outside her room, hurt, agitated and scared.

· She found him, laid him down on her soft bed, stroking his hair with her enormous hand.

· Surrounded by this tightness and warmth, he relaxed, feeling the pressure of her hand. It was wonderful and crushing at the same time.

· He closed both his eyes. He had no more strength for anything. She peeled off his thin clothing, tucked him naked under the sheets.

· He heard her murmur something, but her voice didn’t quite reach him. It sounded like the word “prince”. He reached out for her hand, pulling her closer.

· She hesitated. Then she lied down next to him, looking into his eyes, hands rested on his porcelain skins, fascinated by this male body of desire and sorrow, full of life and secret loss.

· As they met each other’s eyes, she understood that feeling which could be love, that anything could happen, and everything could change, so strange, and so sweet.

· “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “There is still too much evil here, waiting to catch you and make you ill.” “Where shall we go?” he asked. “A secret place where you can hide and be safe. Let’s just go now.” “But how?” She thought for a moment, “I don’t want to carry you. I’ll have to put wings on you so that you can fly with me!”

· She watched him metamorphose into a man-dragon creature with wings of golden feathers, blossoming out of his sleek torso. “Don’t go too fast,” he said, with new-found adrenaline. “I won’t.” she replied.

· They lifted their wings, and the world fell away. The dirty city, the dust, the weight of humanity and old connections, all slipping away. The ghosts and evil spirits and bad dreams, gone.

· She turned her head once in a while to check if he was following. In the dark world behind her, she saw bursts of red excitement in the blackness whenever his wings rose and fell, and her stomach rose and fell with them.

· It seemed to take only a few minutes, not long enough, before she signaled him to land. “We are here,” she said, amidst a green forest of crowded trees, damp, air smelling fresh, branches blocking out the sky and light like a roof. They landed with ease, folded their wings, and turned into their human forms.

· “Where are we?” he asked. “Somewhere different, not any country you would know. People who live here call it Eou.” “What does Eou mean?” he asked. “Forest. I lived here when I was small. I liked it because it would be hard for anyone to find me in the forest. The people who don’t live here call it Gremnon which means ‘a place where things get lost’.”

· He had not done more than walking for many earthly years in the past. Here in Eou, he found himself dashing and running with so much joy, like discovering that he could fly. “I’m strong! I’m young! How is that possible? I’m light and I can run,” he shouted at her in exhilaration. She didn’t look as surprised as he, “In Eou, you get to be young forever.”

· “Then, can I stay here forever, with you?” he asked.


She rolled up her quilt. She let her mind float out to the horizon of emptiness. Just before she fell asleep again, she got up to close the window curtains.

The White Pig

My name is Miss Spring Ho. I am a Taiwanese. When I was growing up in Taipei in the 1960s, they called me by my nickname White Pig, because I was a plump, pale-faced girl, and because kids were cruel, no matter where they came from. But I wasn’t bitter. I was happy and outgoing by nature. How can I not be? I am the daughter of a bargirl. My mother came from Southern Taiwan, and she worked at the Red Light District behind the Dragon Mountain Temple near the Western City Gate for as long as I remember. She was not dumb, she just didn’t know what else she could do in a big city like Taipei, the capital. I was born in the little apartment behind the brothel. My mother never told me who my father was. She was a good mother, even though she had to go away several nights a week to be with customers, men who had wives at home, but sneaking out to pay my mother visits and money.

I was looked after by my mother’s bar girlfriends when she was away working. Most of them were not well educated, and some of them had bad habits like exposing too much skins in front of little children, like chewing beetle nuts that stained their teeth pretty badly. But they were responsible and treated me like their little sister or daughter. They and my mother raised me in a world full of women and phantom men.

When I was old enough to go to school, I was sent to Western Gate Elementary School. It was a hugely popular school with kids from all over the city, for it was known to graduate kids to the best middle schools in town. Girls and boys were in separate classes. I had nice memories of the girls I had spent six years with. Because I grew up nearby, I got to show off to my out-of-town classmates my vibrant neighborhood, with its non-stop actions of temple parties, celebrations and processions, gods and spirits, devils and ghosts, snake-oil salesmen, junk shops, monkey tricks and puppy shows. Things I took for granted, but were a big treat for the classmates who lived much quieter lives in the suburbs. They were nice friends with me. I remember one of the girls who was a mainlander, children born to Mandarin Chinese who retreated to Taiwan with Chiang Kai Shek and colonized my Taiwan, who was especially dear to me, followed me around like a little worm tail of mine. (That was the expression we Taiwanese used to describe close friendships, inseparable.) I showed her all the weird fun things and rituals that old people with deep roots with the land did on earth, and she soaked it up and just couldn’t get enough of it. Those girls from my own neighborhood - They weren’t so nice to me; they knew my mother was a bargirl. That was the last little bit of my childhood.

But I didn’t do well in school. I was given poor grades, and had to sit in a separate area for poor students in the classroom many times. I was sad and embarrassed. It was tough for me to find a quiet place to study at home, where all the shouting, crying and loud music in the street sounded very near.

I barely graduated. As soon as I was done with school, I asked my mother if I could start as a working girl like her. I was ready, I said. She looked at me with a little sadness, and she said okay baby. (You see, I was a strong-headed girl, and she was tired of fighting me.)

I slept with men as my mother did. Because of my age, I slept with only one at a time, and I did not steal from them. I gave them love when they were lonely and frightened and wanted something soft to touch. I took money for the loving I was giving, but I did not ask them for jewelry or gifts. I would not take a man to my room and love him if I did not want to. The others could buy me blossom tea in the bar. They talked to me, and played some music, and put their arms around me, but I would not take them to my room. If they wanted to give me money, I would refuse.

Over time, I lost touch with my few close friends from the elementary school. Most of them probably went on to middle schools, high schools, colleges and bigger things like all good girls you know. Life was a blur until I was twenty. My mother had retired from the business. She stayed home to care for my son.

Yes, I have a son. One Chinese man gave me my son when I turned eighteen. My mother said my lifestyle was not the best for my son. I told her that someday I would bring my son to someplace different. But I never could. So my boy still lives with my mother in Taiwan.

It was the Vietnam war, and Taiwan saw a lot of American GI’s passing through. They mostly stayed in Beitou, north of Taipei, a famous destination for hot springs and prostitution, during their vacation from the war in Vietnam. I heard that you could earn a lot more money by working the bars in Beitou than in the Western City Gate. This was 1974. I was twenty years old, and I went to Beitou for work. I had learned many English words to use on American men, like “You buy me a drink, okay?” “You from America?” “You like Taiwan?” “You are in Beitou long?” “You listen to Jazz music?” “What is your work?” Things like that.

Then I met an American man from the embassy who said he would take me away across the ocean and he would marry me. He said he loved me and I said I loved him too. The idea of marriage scared me a little; but what the hell, I loved him. Then, here I am, in America; and the man was different from when he was in Taiwan, and I guess he thought I was different too. I came thinking I would be a housewife with a vacuum cleaner and a toaster oven. Then when he started beating me, and I thought I didn’t love him anymore, and I tried one last time to ask him to tell me about the love he had for me in Taiwan, he thought I was one crazy Taiwanese girl and he said ugly things that could burn through me. So, bam, I was gone from that man. I could not go back to Taiwan, and he gave me all the right papers so I could be an American and he could look like a good man.

I am a Taiwanese girl, and I came to Washington DC to get away as far as I could from my ex American husband. I knew no one in DC, and I did not speak English too well. I found a job as a receptionist at a Chinese restaurant. The Four Seasons restaurant is part of a motel, owned by a Chinese family. They were very kind, but they kept to themselves and their people, not much with me and other waiters. The motel was a large, rambling, rundown building sitting on a busy street. But it was very inexpensive for an expensive city like Washington DC. So it was always busy with tourists on a budget or students on team sports or something. The restaurant was doing great business because of the motel, and because it served cheap and reasonably good Chinese food that other Chinese people in the neighborhood liked. The restaurant must feel like a refuge for homesick Chinese, full of pungent foreign smells, ginger and Chinese spice, and fried wonton. I liked working there. I felt secure in DC. I found a little apartment nearby.

I was sleeping that day when he came in the restaurant. It was Christmas Eve and the business was slow. I am not a Christian. My mother and I are Buddhist. The front tables were for customers waiting for carry-out, so there were large stuffed comfortable chairs. My head was leaning against the back of the high chair, and I was falling asleep to the slow ticking of the Grandfather clock at the corner. My eyes were half-open, and I could see the sky still half blue, half orange, and the air quite warm for December.

Perhaps I was dreaming. I dreamed of my first Christmas Eve in America in a distant place, in Ohio. I awoke to new snow, the first snow I had ever seen. It somehow frightened me so deeply I could not explain. I awoke from my snow dream to see Mr. Bao. I came to myself with a little jolt, and sitting up to face him – he was sitting in one of the stuffed chairs, his eyes jumped when he saw me sitting up. “Sorry, do you have a take-out order?” I tried hard to turn off my misty dreams. He hesitated, his eyes fixing on my face, and he said, “Yes, for Mr. Bao.” He had very dark eyes, and the dark skin of a Southeast Asian, of Malaysian, or Indonesian, or someone who had been in the sun too long. His voice was very deep, slow and steady like a grandfather, with a foreign accent like mine. I went into the kitchen and the order was not ready. I didn’t know how long Mr. Bao had been waiting, but it wasn’t right to keep the customer waiting long while there were no other customers, and the cook was just hanging around. But I didn’t want to make trouble, so I went back to Mr Bao. He saw that I didn’t have his take-out order. “It’s not ready yet, sorry.” I said. “That’s okay.” He smiled at me. “They shouldn’t let you wait a long time on a Christmas Eve.” I said. “It’s okay. I am not a Christian. I don’t celebrate Christmas. I am from Cambodia.”

He said no more, but he kept looking at me and I had nothing to say but glancing down at my hands. I let him be quiet, and I was quiet too. Finally he said, “Miss, it was nice to see you sleep. You were very beautiful when you slept.” This was 1986, I was thirty-two years old and I was glad to hear a man say it that way. But I could not help but worry that he might report to the owner that I was a lazy receptionist sleeping on my job. “I’ll check on your order again,” I turned and walked away to the kitchen and waited there until the order was done. Carrying the paper bag to the front desk, I rang up the bill and took his money. When I gave him back his change, he asked, “Are you Chinese?” I said, “No. I am Taiwanese.” He sounded excited and sad, “I’ve been to Taiwan once. I was very happy there.” Then he went away. I didn’t know what to make of him. He sounded sad when he talked about Taiwan because he was happy there…

Two days later, Mr. Bao came in again. This time, I was awake and would not let him think I was a lazy girl.

He said, “I am early today.”
“I am not a lazy girl.” Words just jumped out of my mouth like that. 
“I know you are not,” he said as he sat down in the stuffed chair. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, handsome and relaxed.
“I am always sitting here,” I said.
“And the last time you were sitting here, you were sleeping,” he smiled, “This is a slow time of day. I have trouble staying awake myself.”
“Then you won’t tell the owner that I was sleeping.”
He laughed. He leaned toward me and said, “You had a bad dream the last time.”
“I dreamed of my first Christmas Eve in America. I went to sleep when it was a little rainy. I woke up, and there was snow on the ground. It was the first snow I had ever seen. I had no idea things could change so quickly here, everything was covered and I was frightened.” I felt myself sounding like a crazy person. Now I was lazy and crazy both to Mr. Bao. I stopped talking and stared down at my hands.
“Your country Taiwan was very different,” he said, “Warm climate. Gracious people. I was there two weeks in 1972 representing Cambodia in an international ping pong tournament. I loved your country very much.” I asked him why but he could not explain. Instead, he turned his head and I thought it was because he did not want me to see that he was crying. Maybe he had met someone or did something in Taiwan that made it unforgettable. Maybe he was thinking of his own country that he left behind, a home that was ravaged and turned into a killing field.
“I should check on your order,” I said.
“Miss, may I ask your name?”
“Miss Spring Ho,” I said.

I saw all types of men, though I didn’t understand them deep down. But I could tell that Mr. Bao was a sweet man, with a few words, a foreigner like me. I felt very happy because he laid his hand on mine and asked if he could call me. I said yes. It turned out that Christmas could be celebrated as Taiwanese New Year. Mr. Bao and I would go to some restaurant that was not Chinese, and all I had to do was to sit there and listen to his grandfatherly voice.

We went to my apartment after dinner. It was a small place. I closed the shade and turned to him. He was sitting on my bed. I went and sat next to him.

“Tell me one thing you like about Taiwan,” I said.
“Everything,” he said.
“Everything means nothing. One thing. Just think of one thing about Taiwan that you like.”
“Okay, okay,” he wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes, and stayed like that for a long time.
“So?” I asked.
“It was hot. Hot springs in Beitou made a warm night hotter. I was walking through your night markets in the open air and I was sweating. There were a lot of people rushing around me, all of them pretty. I walked on to an embassy party, my sweat smelled like the sweet fruit in your night markets. I sat down among my Cambodian teammates, and met some of the most amazing Taiwanese folks.”

I looked at Mr. Bao and his eyes were on me and he seemed serious. I did not understand a word he was saying, but I knew he meant what he said. I started to tell him about the good fruits and vegetables and snacks I liked very much at the markets – watermelon, star fruit, mangoes, guava, papaya, fried oyster cake, prawn soup, crushed ice.

Once upon a time, there was a simple white pig with a plump white face and wobbly steps living among the ducks with dark feathers, long necks and long beaks. Because she was different, she had few duck friends and she was sad. When she lied down to sleep, you would think that she was dead, but she was just sad and still. Then one day, she wandered off to the other part of the land, and she found a strange animal with a nice coat of furs. She lied down beside him, even though he was different. She seemed to be all burned up and dead. But the animal didn’t think so, and he licked her and made her feel better. Then he took her to live in the forest where he built her a nice little house, and he hunted and she planted a garden. Every once in a while, they would go fishing in the high mountains. She felt she had found the place where she belonged.

The Monk and the White Snake

- The Power of Love Made Her Do It

Once there was a young man named Yoshi, who when he turned eighteen, was sold to the Master of a prosperous temple, the Dragon King Temple, as an indentured laborer by his impoverished parents. His parents had hoped that the kind-hearted old Master would finish their son’s education, and train Yoshi to be a respected monk in the community, doing good deeds in ways they couldn’t. 

Well, Yoshi was by nature a cunning and mean-spirited creature, never intending to study Buddhism as he should. Instead of working hard chopping wood, grinding millets, planting yams, or meditating, he busied himself with socializing with the Master’s political allies in the local government, trading favors with the officials on behalf of the Master himself, or plotting ways to ascend the temple throne someday.

In those dark days, there were many things roaming the earth alongside people and animals: ghosts, demons, and spirits of all kinds. There were gods, beings, and creatures, both evil and benevolent.

The old Master was a good man, and had possessed magical power to tame the tempestuous dragon king, so as to protect the livelihood of the local fishermen. As a young man, he had traveled to central Asia to study Buddhism, and acquired knowledge of portents and omens to tell the future, and magical implements like amulets, wands and scrolls of spell to power over the evil spirits and demons. Officials from many provinces, nearby and afar, came seeking his advice and blessings for their fortunes and high positions. But he had foolishly seen in Yoshi a rising star with the brains and heart of a good god’s servant. He trusted Yoshi, and took care of him like his own son, his heir apparent, unselfishly sharing his temple wealth and secrets of his magical power. Yoshi was just as happy playing along with the old Master’s emotions, waiting for his turn to rise up to the top of the temple mount.

Many years later, the old Master passed away, leaving the temple to Yoshi’s care. Once Yoshi became the new Master, he was a changed man. He no longer bothered to feign modesty. He cast a mighty spell over the surrounding community, hypnotized its citizens into surrendering all their possessions to the temple. The merchants, peasants and fishermen alike became poor with little to live on, while the new Master and his temple became mighty rich. Yoshi and his close associates enjoyed an opulent life of guilty pleasures inside the temple, hidden from public view. People called Yoshi the “Golden Monk” because he was a very rich monk full of gold and treasures.

**********

A young monk, whose parents were disgraced, was adopted by the “Golden Monk”, but soon sent away to tend to a remote temple on the side of a mountain, as part of his monastic training. The temple was small, and the mountain was not the most beautiful. The young monk passed his days in peace and solitude, meditating, preparing for devotions, hoeing the little garden plot of yams which fed him for most of the year, digging for wild ginger roots and herbs, or chopping wood to prepare for the cold winter to come. 

He lived like this, alone and content, for a couple of years.

One morning, in his little garden, the monk was down on his knees weeding the patch of herbs when he spotted a white strip slithering through the weeds and mud. He was horrified to find out that it was an albino snake, pearly white with faint yellow stripes. He jumped to his feet, grabbing his hoe, ready to attack the snake.

Then he had a thought, “I shall not kill living things. Buddha would not approve. Besides, the snake, although a wild thing, meant me no harm.” The monk stared at the white snake; it stared back with its glistening amber eyes. He looked at his hoe, and he sighed, and laid down the hoe, “You can take the green from my garden if you wish. It looks like you are hungry,” he spoke to the snake. The snake seemed to understand, paused, then slithered away into the woods.

A few days later, in the evening, a blanket of thick, dark clouds gathered around the mountaintop. The monk knew a drenching rain was on the way. He didn’t even stir when the lightning struck, followed by growling thunders so loud that it felt as if the mountain was shaken from its gut. He remained calm inside the temple doing his devotions.

The rain poured down, pounding the rooftop of the little temple like the beating of a hundred drums, almost drowning out the weak weeping sound from the courtyard. But the young monk did hear someone sobbing, and he went out and saw a young woman standing in the rain, soaking wet, her silky robe clinging to her pearly white body like a second skin.

The monk was ashamed, painfully aware of the young woman’s beauty and her glistening body in the wet. He helped her to her feet into the temple where they could be out of the rain.

“I am the daughter of the governor of the YuNan Prefect. I was traveling with a group of guards and women to a Buddhist retreat when we were ambushed by a band of robbers. I alone escaped,” she told him as she wrung out the water from her robe and her long black hair before entering into the prayer hall. The monk sat her down and offered her a bowl of rice and yams. She gobbled them up hungrily as she stared at him with her bright amber eyes.

She continued, “I also overheard the robbers as saying that they are coming to this temple to rob and kill anyone they find here, when the rain stops. We must flee this place before they come. If we don’t, we will both die. If we leave together and if you can bring me back to the YuNan Prefect safely, you will be richly rewarded by my father. Thank you for your rice and yams. They tasted really good.”

The young monk was thinking, and began to see something. “I guess we must leave this place immediately. But, before we leave, Could you explain one thing to me first?”

“And, what would that be?” said the girl.

“Why does the daughter of the governor of the YuNan Prefect have eyes like yours, amber and not black? They don’t look human.”

On hearing that, the girl confessed, “I am sorry that I lied. I am the white snake whose life you have spared a few days ago in the garden. I have seen bad omens coming your way, and tried to forewarn you.”

The monk said nothing. He walked out into the courtyard, and thinking over the pouring rain.

“I will not leave this place,” he said, “I am duty-bound to my Master and the temple to stay. Now, whatever you are, snake or human, you are free to stay or leave.”

“I shall leave if you desire it,” whispered the snake in her girl’s voice. “But I have lived all my life in a den by the waterfall, in the woods, and it would hurt me to leave,”

“Then stay,” said the monk, “if you will not play any more of your snake tricks on me.”

“Of course,” said the girl, as she stepped slowly off the temple, into the misty rainy night.

Since that stormy night, the monk caught sight of the snake from time to time, slithering through the hedges and shrubs, and the sight of her always made him smile. He remembered the touch of her skin, when she pretended to be a girl, and it was a sweet memory of bonds and affection that he thought he had put behind long ago.

The young monk did not know that the snake had fallen deeply in love with him when he spared her life by the garden. After the stormy night, it was unquestionable that the snake would devote herself to her beloved till the end of time. It was a beautiful thing, the monk and the snake, living side by side in harmony and joy.

And that was to be the beginning of much sorrow in the journey to come, for people then didn’t believe in humans messing up with unclean animals. “Nothing good will come of it,” they told each other.

**********

The Master, the Golden Monk, who inherited fortune-telling power from his old master, had seen that there would be death to him and big trouble for the temple, brought on by the young monk, who was long cast-away and forgotten by him. He decided that the young monk must die. So he sought counsel with the demon who was a strange, grotesque creature glowing with ghost-like blue hue.

“I want the young monk to die, but not violently. I need your counsel as to how he shall die.”

This is what the demon told the Master, “I shall send my dark knights to take care of him. The young monk shall have an evil dream. In his dream, my knights will steal his shadow, and slice his shadow into shreds. Without his shadow, the young monk is without a soul. He would wake up losing connections to the living world, and no food or water. He would soon die.”

The Master nodded, satisfied, and thanked the demon for his clever idea.

**********

In the young monk’s dream, he was standing in front of his childhood house, which was lost to his parents’ enemies after they were disgraced. He went inside the house, entering the room where he grew up in, and seeing the monkey which he had rescued from a wildlife market from slaughter as a young boy and raised as a pet. The monkey was his best friend for many years until it was killed in a valiant fight against his parents’ enemies when they came to possess the house.

He tried to pet the monkey on the head, but the monkey suddenly jumped to his feet, and started chewing and tearing at his robe violently. This was unlike anything that his pet monkey had ever done before. The young monk quickly exited the room, closing the door behind him (although, in his dream, he thought he had seen the monkey glowed with the flickering blue hue.).

When he woke, he was drenched in sweat, feeling deeply troubled, wondering if the dream was an omen or warning. “If it was something bad, may Buddha take it away,” he said a silent prayer, and began to rise up to do his chore of bringing in water. As soon as he stood up, he stumbled, and collapsed onto his sleeping mat, limp and lifeless.

The snake had waited in the vegetable garden all day for the young monk. When he failed to show up, she was worried, and decided to go inside the temple to check on him in her maiden form.

The snake-girl found the young monk unconscious in his sleeping mat. She immediately squatted next to him, holding him by her chest to keep him warm, desperately trying to save his life. In the end, she wasn’t able to revive him. The monk was breathless by the morning, his eyes shut, and his skin turned purple. “Oh I would have given my life for you,” she wept over his dead body. “Let me die with you!”

“Live,” said a gentle voice from the sky.

The snake-girl threw herself to the ground, “Buddha, please help me - tell me who had killed the monk?”

The voice told her what had happened to the young monk in the dream. “His body is now on the sleeping mat; his spirit will go where it is meant to go.”

“The Golden Monk must pay for this, taking something from a snake spirit,” said the snake-girl, gritting her sharp teeth.

“Seek not revenge, but the Buddha.” said the voice. “You are a fool to meddle in the human affairs.”

“I shall seek the Buddha,” said the snake. “but only after I seek revenge. It is the right thing to do. Buddha, please, please help me.”

“As you wish,” said the voice. The snake could not tell if it was happy or unhappy, satisfied or dissatisfied. “You may have a little time to say farewell to the monk.”

There was a mirror in one corner of the prayer hall. From the mirror came a gentle glow, as if the sun was shining at the final hour of the day. The snake-girl picked up the mirror. She saw in the mirror the young monk as if he was painted out of light. When he observed that she was looking at him, he turned, “Why did you come here? Why did you search me out?” although he knew already why. “Because I care for you,” said the snake-girl sadly. “Now you saw me – you must know that it is time for you to leave.” “I shall do something for you. You shall not die like this.”

The young monk rose out of the mirror, while the snake-girl watched him in the dark. Perhaps they bid farewell to each other, between a man who had forsaken the world and a snake spirit – a chasm that could not be crossed, but was crossed somehow. One might think, at that time, they made love, or that they dreamed that they did, perhaps.

When they were done with their farewells, the monk went inside the mirror. “You shall be revenged,” whispered the snake-girl. The monk looked at the snake-girl one last time, “Seek not revenge, but the Buddha,” he said; then he turned and walked into the heart of the mirror and was gone.

There was a funeral for the young monk in the little temple, and he was buried on the mountainside, beside the other monks who had tended the little temple centuries before him.

**********

The Golden Monk was relieved that the young monk was dead, and he was still alive.

Then one night under the full moon, he dreamed that he was visited by a mysterious maiden of high status. She came to seek his advice of her fortunes.


The maiden was so fair with her hair long and shining black like cascade of ink, her eyes the shade of amber like green trees of life, her skin pale white glowing like pearl, her delicate hand swaying her fan softly back and forth; her voice like singing songs. She was respectful and seductive in his presence. She paid for his advice with antique gold coins of the highest quality. Then she left his temple in a magnificent sedan carriage.

The Golden Monk was impressed and sent a servant to follow her, to discover who she was and where she lived. The servant returned several hours later, and told him that the maiden lived several "li"  north of the temple in an old but splendid big house.

For days, the Golden Monk could not get the maiden’s face out of his mind. And since the Golden Monk was someone who indulged in lies and sins all his life, he imagined touching her, owning her, and ravaging her. When he closed his eyes at night, the maiden was right there in front of her, naked.

He asked his scroll oracle about her. The scroll replied, “The man she loved is dead.”

“That’s good. Then I shall pay her a visit,” the Golden Monk thought.

He prepared a poem telling his feeling toward her, comparing it to a pool of calm water being stirred by the autumn wind. He gave the poem to the servant to take to the maiden.

The servant came back with her reply, a poem in which she described the reflection of the moon in the calm pool of water stirred by the autumn wind. His heart was swollen with desire as he read it, impressed by the elegance of her brushwork.

He couldn’t wait, rushed to the maiden’s house by the evening. He begged her pardon for his sudden appearance, claiming that he was traveling north for a fortune-telling appointment, and needed to stay overnight before leaving for his appointment.

She invited him to dine with her.

The house was magnificent. Her servants brought them the finest foods he had ever eaten. “I have never tasted anything this exquisite!” he said, nibbling on a piece of exotic meat in cold sesame sauce.

“And to think,” she said softly, “if I had not been here with you, you might have been sitting in a tumbling old house somewhere, feeding on mice and spiders…”

At the end of the meal, the Monk made it clear that he would like to enjoy her physical company. She told him that it was quite impossible.

“I can never be yours while you have your temple. After you have made love to me, then you will forget me and leave me all alone here. You’d better go to another house for the night. If ever you are free to love me, I should want you to come and live in my house with me. With the temple, you might always want to look after it, and one day would leave me for your temple.”

The Golden Monk caught a glimpse of her smooth white breast, with the nipple as pink as a baby’s lips. He was burning with lust, “I shall dispose of the temple and come live with you, only you, if it pleases you.”

“One more thing” said the maiden, her amber eyes staring into his, “and that is your magic. How can I be your love if I know that you, in your scroll oracle and magical wands, have the power to change me into a toad if I displease you?”

She bent over to pour him more wine, which caused her robe to open a little more, exposing both her breasts to his view. At this, the Monk could no longer contain himself, and he leapt to grab her. But the maiden deftly avoided his grasp, and bade him goodnight. The Monk was groaning with disappointment, and a certain madness.

On the next night, there was a huge fire at the Dragon King temple, the magnificent structure burned to the ground. It was a tragic fire that engulfed all the servants and the Monk’s associates while they were asleep inside the temple, and it took their lives. The Golden Monk had left the temple early in the day, carrying a cart load of all his scrolls, wands, implements of magic, and some decorative gold.

The Golden Monk arrived at the house of the maiden in the evening. “My temple is burned down, and my people are dead. I have no one to love but you, and nowhere to go but here.”

She smiled at him, visibly pleased.

“And I have in this cart all my knowledge and power, all my scrolls, my magic wands and amulets. They allowed me to command the spirits and demons, and tell the future. I have brought all of them to you.”

The servants of the maiden took the cart, unpacked it, and took the magic implements he had brought away.

“Now I am yours,” said the Monk. “There is nothing that can come between us.”

“There is still one thing between us,” she told him. “your robe. Take it off and let me take a good look at you.”

The Monk was mad with impatience and lust. He slipped off his robe and stood there, stark naked. He opened his arms wide to embrace the maiden. She picked up his robe and held it close. “Now you have no temple, no servants, no friends, no magic, no clothing. You have lost it all for me. And it’s time I will give something back to you.”

She held out her hands, pulling his head toward her lips, as if she were about to kiss him on his forehead.

“But you shall keep your life,” she whispered, “for he would not have wanted me to kill you.”

A snake’s bite can be very painful.

With a hiss from her tail, she was gone.

**********

The Golden Monk was found alone in an abandoned empty house on the border of the community, naked and quite mad.

Some said the burning of his temple drove him to madness. Others said it was the loss of his eye, which some superstitious folks believed was caused by magic gone wrong.

The town people and his old associates avoided him when they saw him begging in the streets, with only rags to cover his wretched body, and a rag about his eye to hide his hideous face.

He lived in misery and squalor and madness until his death, with no happiness or sympathy to be found anywhere.

**********

This is the tale of the white snake and the monk.  Rumor has it that those who dreamed have sometimes seen two figures, walking hand-in-hand in the distance, and that these two figures were a monk and a white snake, or it might be a man and a woman.

Others didn’t think it possible, that whether in dreams or in death, a monk and a snake are from two different worlds, and in different worlds will they forever stay.

But in dreams, strange things can happen; and none of us can say if they are true or not.

Art and Ambition

She was to bring him happiness and teach him how to enjoy life and art; and in return, he would cherish her, take care of her, always and forever – That was the promise of their marriage.  But the marriage was doomed, from the start, despite (or because of) the well-meaning intentions.

She grew up in the Midwest.   A gifted painter from a young age, she was known for her ethereal beauty and her artistic promise.  She drew and painted the nature and objects where she lived, in meticulously constructed splendor.  Her work resembled that of no other artist of her time and place.

Her parents, both from the bourgeois background, indulged their daughter’s unusual talent, to compensate for their own lack of education and interest in things artistic.  Unlike her siblings, she was allowed freedom to roam and day dream, whenever and wherever she pleased.  No one complained about her sitting there, staring off into the distance, doing nothing – she was actually busy in her head dissecting the labyrinth of life and things around her to imagine the images of her next paintings.  Not surprisingly, she spent a whole lot of time “being still”, while others seemed in constant motion.  When asked what she was doing there sitting so still, she would simply reply, “I am painting in my head…” 

She was a lonely child, by choice.  Her work was laborious, but time was of no essence.  She preferred to work in solitude.  It was necessary to concentrate her attention on the canvas at hand, thinking only about those inspired images, without the intrusion of audience.  For a while, she became indistinguishable from the work she created.  The final product was always less than what she had expected, but a miracle that it existed at all.

She had a cold heart, rough manners, and she wouldn’t compromise.  She was only curious about people and relationships as far as they would enrich her art.  She was one of those who were in love with their art more than anything else.  But her paintings were superb, and they sold well in her hometown.  Her reputation grew despite her mercurial personality.

She was beautiful, but she didn’t take care of her beauty much.  “If you are ugly, you are ugly; if you are beautiful, you are beautiful.  You don’t have a comparison.  But when beauty begins to matter to you, then you can’t do anything else except being beautiful: You are beautiful all day long and into the night, and soon that will be all you are, and all you can be.  It’s not a crime; it’s not the worst thing; and it may even be your life’s edge.  You begin to live in a dream world where everything is easy.  Think of this: If Van Gogh had looked like Cary Grant, could he have seen what he had to see, and have felt what he had to feel to paint those emotionally charged, haunting pieces?  Not a chance.  To paint those pictures, you have to stand in a distance, unknown and looking like a toad.  Art comes first, everything else second.  So, try not to make too much of looking good; because, if it was worth anything, why were you chosen to have it instead of Van Gogh?”  She was wise beyond her age about beauty.  But people would just laugh at her and say, “You take things too seriously.  Pretty girl like you, you can have anything you want.”

Commerce was always difficult for her.  She liked the money, but the process was deeply unsatisfying to her as an artist.  Once a woman bought a picture from her, a self-portrait she painted at a moment of extreme distress.  The woman paid a lot of money for it, because of what it represented to her – a statement of feminist grit, sort of.  She knew that the woman was projecting too much of herself onto the painting, and was bringing home an idealized image of herself; and over time, the woman would learn to hate it for whatever reasons, and take down the painting to put it in the attic, unless it would suddenly become valuable in the art market (then she would congratulate herself for being such an art connoisseur, making such a shrewd investment.)  She felt misunderstood and disappointed; she felt like telling the woman to save her money and go buy the stock of the art-auction house instead.

Her agent explained to her that she should not be involved in the selling of her paintings, those matters better left to the professionals.  The buyer was not obligated to understand what she was buying.  The painting was hers, and she had a right to see whatever she wanted to see, to pin whatever her dreams and nightmares as she wished.  As an artist, her job was not only to paint, but also to cultivate a branded, specific “public personality” that the buyers wanted to buy, as Andy Warhol and Picasso had done with their careers.  “Establishing a foothold in the art marketplace is as important, and must be carefully planned, as the drawing of the canvas.  If you choose to be mysterious as your artistic personality, you had better be alluringly mysterious, you had better be more Vermeer than you are now.” said her agent, “The consumers are buying the personality of the artist, not just her paintings.  They want to know you, they want to know your personality, they want to own you, and in return you get – adoration!  You owe it to yourself to give it to them, any works as long as they are alluringly mysterious…” 

She clenched her teeth, “I am a painter.  I am not an entertainer.  I didn’t choose a performing art.”  It was all too complicated – the marketing and branding of an elusive merchandise – that it gave her a pounding headache.  She figured she didn’t want it badly enough; she just wanted to get back to her work.

Then, in her early twenties, thinking that she had exhausted the material in her hometown, she decided to decamp to New York.  New York was where the new material might be, and where she could get her work done without interference.  There had never been a great painting made in the Midwest, whereas there were so many in New York.  A childhood friend who lived in New York once told her, “You don’t belong in the Midwest.  If you’re smart, leave.  Don’t wait until thirty.”  She moved to New York where she studied art at the Parson’s New School for Design.  After two years, she dropped out to paint full-time in her small studio apartment in Brooklyn, had few gallery shows, did commission works for individuals.

She met him at a party at his home.  He was a successful hedge fund manager on Wall Street; and she an on-and-off employed artist.  A month later, without any hint of love, he expressed his desire for marrying her, “You will teach me how to enjoy life and art; and I will cherish you and take care of your needs always.”

“Have you no sense?  You don’t even know me.” 

She wasn’t in love with him, and he knew it.

“You will grow to love me.” 

Before him, she could have never imagined a married life.  To her, married life was mysterious and better left mysterious.  It was better left to the married ones, who were the only ones who understood its ritual, rules, and ethics, or its deception and petty terrorism.  In a marriage, there was always the long-suffering saint versus the devil.  Quite a miserable life with all its hollow victories and hollow defeats.

But he was unlike any of the boring or sly boyfriends she had dated before.  He was kind and generous, a gentleman, doing a masterful job at something precisely what she had not been doing: building a serious and lucrative career.  One by one, he struck down her arguments against their marriage until she had none left.  She began to believe that there was no better course for her to take than to bring happiness to this man who worked so hard and seemed to enjoy so little.

Her handful of artistic friends couldn’t agree.  They were horrified, although none said so to her.  They dutifully came to their beautiful wedding, but soon disappeared from their life. 

Her parents were ecstatic about her incredible luck.  They flew into the big city, attended the wedding, joined them for weekends in their Connecticut country house, completely charmed by the bright light and luminous future bestowed on their daughter, “You’re burning with ambition, but you won’t admit it.  You want money, you want fame.  You’ll need someone to help you get it.  Now you have it.  Now is your chance.”  “But you have no idea what I want.”

Years later, she learned that her artistic friends couldn’t bear to watch what was happening to her – She failed to teach her husband how to experience life and art.  Instead, she became a handmaiden of his jaded palace.

Soon after their marriage, her previously aimless days of wandering and day-dreaming became ordered by endless parties, meals, and domestic chores, by managing the increasing responsibilities of maintaining two homes and the attendant details.  They was the dog which required walking and fussing over; there were the doorman in the Manhattan apartment, the guy in the garage who tended their car, the stream of her husband’s colleagues who had babies or birthdays that had to be shopped for, etcetera, etcetera…

Their life together was privileged and enviable, but something was rotten at the core.  Instead of transforming him into a dancer in the rain, she grew grim and unhappy about herself. 

How arrogant of her to think she could remold a grown man? 

How foolish of her to strike a bargain where love was unbalanced?

How naïve of her to believe that good intentions were sufficient for a lasting marriage?

Saddest of all, how could she let her role as a high-priced domestic eclipse her art?

How many times had he interrupted her creative fervor to do the cleaning, sweeping, and washing of the dishes at their old country house?  By the time they drove back to the city, she was exhausted, and her inspirations gone.  The curtain had dropped, and the stage was dark and empty.

“What would I have left to do after a life yielding to the demands of domesticity, with the vast assemblages and tender care of people and things it entailed?  Memory, scraps of my brilliant, yet disastrous artistic career?” she mocked herself.

Four years and one month later, they divorced.  Four months after their divorce, her ex-husband was getting married to an old friend, a woman who had been a guest in their Connecticut country home.

 As for the artist, she was adrift for a while, like a new-born animal in her new skin of freedom, shivering and lonely in the wind.  But the interesting thing about loneliness is it forces you to confront yourself.  Thus began the really hard work of getting back to making art. 

Did she solve the great mystery of love, art, and ambition? No.  But these days, she spends a lot of her time staring off into the distance, thinking about the characters and arrangements in her paintings. She is busy, happy.

Living with the Ghost

Ever since Eve got in touch with James of her 20s, thirty years later, she could not stop thinking about him.

She thought about her intense feelings toward him as a young man.  She imagined the lives they would have shared as an artistic couple – he would paint like a Picasso, Cezanne, and photograph like a Richard Avedon, Helmut Newton of his generation; she would write the greatest novel of the century.  She dreamed of making the trip half-way around the world to Taiwan to meet the onetime love-of-her-life:

                                        **********

They meet for a cup of coffee.

He is handsome now in the middle-aged way, thicker-set, 
slightly stooped, with graying long hair, more neurotic and
faster-talking than she remembers about him, same soulful
eyes and luscious lips, wiser and a bit tired.

She is pretty with graying long hair and small wrinkles, still 
slender and naturally elegant, more thoughtful and reserved
than he remembers about her, same luscious lips, her smiles
marked by one distinctive, massive dimple. 

The conversation between him and her goes like this:

“I think I started seeing you after your photography show when I was 19.  I was dreamy and clueless, you were charming and driven.  I survived various doubtful moments about our relationship because you were so sweet and genuine.  What I remember about you was your full mop of hair, your eyes, and the Greek leather sandals that seemed never to leave your feet.  You looked like a free-spirited Picasso, with a camera in your clutch instead of a paint brush.  You showed up in my life like the fresh air of spring, and you were so sensitive, so kind, so reassuring that I just wanted to fall in love with you, and I wanted the relationship to work for us.”

“I really enjoyed your company, and that probably came across…” He stares at her, trying hard to connect the woman in front of him with the woman of his past long ago, in the old black-and-white pictures he took of her.  He likes what he sees.   He likes the faint milk and honey scent of her.

“I loved school.  I went off to college to study history.   But once I got there, I became unhappy with the narrow, boring, dreadful Confucian scholarship.  I read translated novels by Virginia Woolf and philosophy by Nietzsche, and decided that art and literature had the answer to the questions that interested me.  I looked around and found you, someone who was unafraid of following his free will to become an artist, against all the naysayers of his times.  You were my love, my idol and inspiration.  It was a beautiful thing.” 

“I would move away and move back to Taiwan after you, but the memories of you always stay with me.  I still keep those delicately hand-written letters that you sent me the first year after we parted ways.  I’ve driven by your old house several times after I moved back, wondering where and how you have been all these years.  Your hand-writing is so alive that I could almost smell and feel your touches.  The old house is still there, giving only a glimpse of what could have been inside…Could it be you, your mother, or your sister?”  

“Oh my god, what kind of a man would keep letters of an old girlfriend for thirty years?  You surprise me!”  Their romance was nothing but a series of accidental surprises.  He was unlike most other people she has ever known.  But the biggest surprise is to find out that she would have meant anything to him after all these years.

“You were special…I am sorry I had let you down.”  He seems to hold back his emotions.  Those early years were complicated times for him - so much was going on in his personal life, and so little he could afford to confide in her. 

“My heart was broken when you left.  I always wondered how difficult it would be for me to meet another man like you.  I thought I would probably never get married.” 

“Ah, but I had married and divorced twice since.  And I had never set out to become anyone’s husband.”

“Well, I did get married to a good man, few years later.  We packed our bags, and went to America to start a new life.”

“How is America treating you?”

“It wasn’t as easy as I thought.  Do you remember high school?  Before high school, everything was so easy, I was coasting in my class and still getting good grade; in high school, I learned for the first time that I was getting a C in my chemistry class, and nothing was easy after that.  Coming to America was a bit like going to high school.  After thirty years, I am coping better, but not coasting yet.”

“I see your point.  I had lived in France for twenty years.  Challenges and rewards always go hand in hand together.  I wouldn’t know where I’d be creatively without those twenty years.  My French experience has expanded me in every other way.  It illuminates what I am doing now. It shows me the possibilities I haven’t thought of.  It broadens my eyes, enriches my heart and soul.  It makes me more human, it makes my life much more worth living.  At the same time, life there as a foreigner was a daily struggle, as simple as that.” 

She understands the life of a foreigner – free and alone.  The foreigner is free from the rules and responsibilities imposed by his old country.  The foreigner is lonely because he has no ties, no connections, no background.  Not until he finds meaning in his wandering, he leads a pointless sort of life.

“I turned to writing to ease my loneliness.  Writing takes me out of time and releases me from the pain of being myself, being a foreigner in those early years.  I write about my childhood to give comfort.  I write about life in the Northeast, specifically in the woods and hills and lakes of upstate New York, because it is home." 

“Can I tell you that I enjoy your stories about us (I think)?   They read like glasses of fine wine - timeless, smooth, deeply romantic.”

“I like your old photographs too.   They trigger all sorts of memories, grounded in the personal stories of our lives…like good poems, murky, mysterious, beautiful.  We live in a world that we explore, absorb, remember and forget.  You were gone - then my memories of you faded.  You were the love of my life - then I forgot you.  Thank you for preserving all those precious moments.”

“But I wish you had written your stories in Chinese, instead of in English, so that more Taiwanese people can read them.”

“James, I write in English because my English is already so much better than my Chinese, after thirty years.  Culturally speaking, I am almost 70% American and 30% Taiwanese.  Someday, I may become 99% American if I live long enough.  I don’t mind, for all the good things I’ve gotten out of living in America.”

“You have grown up…”

“I should hope so.  After all, I am thirty years older,” she says.  “Now I came back to you, where do we go from here, James?”

“I have no idea…I just wish I could be young again, and relive the dreams and excited passions like a child, like love.  Every time I closed my eyes, I wished you were here…”

Oh James, you haven’t changed…

                                        **********

Vicky, Eve’s older sister, knows Eve’s feeling all too well.  When Eve told her about her plan to make the long trip to Taiwan to see James, she warns her that nothing good will come of it,  “Eve, you are wasting your time.  If you go to see him, you will never stop seeing him again, in spite of your families and friends or his.”

It is complicated for Eve.  Rationally the more she knows about James, what he has done in the past thirty years, all the men and women who have crossed paths with him, the more likely she will be puzzled by his motive for hanging on.  Truth is that she really doesn’t believe him.  James is a wild cat, difficult to pin down, bound to be unreliable.

“Why keep his ghost around?  It is unhealthy.  I need to move on.”  But the fantasy of the unknown, re-acquaintance with a long-lost love is simply too beguiling to give up.  She misses him after thirty years of separation.

The choice makes her queasy - To chase after the ghost for one last blast of excitement?  To abandon the ghost of the past that never existed?

Fools!  Sorrow is the favorite sport of the ghosts.