edits

1 files changed, 30 insertions, 38 deletions

diff --git a/signalandnoise.txt b/signalandnoise.txt
index a7fe50f..d156b7d 100644
--- a/signalandnoise.txt
+++ b/signalandnoise.txt
@@ -4,7 +4,7 @@ He pauses in the doorway downstairs, overwhelmed by the glare and heat. The sun
 
 As always Martin walks around the corner and places his order. The old woman patiently turns the tiny skewers of pork. The thin strips of meat hiss on the grill. The heat from the smoldering coals make the beads of sweat on his forehead reach a saturation point. They begin to run down his cheeks. He watches her impassive face, there is no trace of sweat. She pours the sauces together in a plastic bag, dunks his pork and hands it to him.
 
-He buys a bag of pineapple on the dock and munches on it, watching the brown river undulate past. It flows like a restless sleeper thrashing at the sheets. Longtail motors churn and chop and the longer rolling wakes of ferry boats. The water burps bunches of soggy earth clinging to roots of water plants. Martin hears the calmer water behind him begin to bluble and roil. He turns and watchs as hundreds of the fish surface in the impossibly small area between docks, their sliver bellies streaking in the morning light. They wriggle and squirm like eels, fighting their way to the little pelts of food thrown by bored commuters. 
+He buys a bag of pineapple on the dock and munches on it, watching the brown river undulate past. It flows like a restless sleeper thrashing at the sheets. Longtail motors churn and chop and the longer rolling wakes of ferry boats. The water burps bunches of soggy earth clinging to roots of water plants. Martin hears the calmer water behind him begin to bubble and roil. He turns and watches as hundreds of the fish surface in the impossibly small area between docks, their sliver bellies streaking in the morning light. They wriggle and squirm like eels, fighting their way to the little pelts of food thrown by bored commuters. 
 
 People begin to stand as the ferry approaches from upstream; it's already crowded. He wads up the rest of the pineapple, shoves it in his pocket and climbs aboard the ferry. The boatman calls out in Thai, something he doesn't understand, and pilot guns the engine, pulling out into the river. 
 
@@ -12,19 +12,19 @@ He stands near the bow, watching the banks pass by, Wat Rakhang, Memorial Bridge
 
 At Saphan Taksin station Martin exits with the rest of the crowd and makes his way up the stairs to the sky train. At one stop he spies a group of Red Shirts gathered around a soup stall, hunched over tables. The brazenness surprises him. And the train accelerates off again.
 
-Martin is midway through sorting two new piles of refugee immigrations information when Jerry descends on him. Martin keeps his head down, give no sign of acknowledgement. He stares straight down a the words on the page. Burmese have no real concept of surnames, no patronymic or matronymic system that anyone knows of. And they often change their names several times in the course of their lives. It makes Martin's job very nearly impossible, though he suspects the Thai authorities simply throw away the forms Martin processes. His boss Michele and presumably her boses somewhere back in Geneva likely feel different.
+Martin is midway through sorting two new piles of refugee immigrations information when Jerry descends on him. Martin keeps his head down, give no sign of acknowledgement. He stares straight down a the words on the page. Thw Hmong have no real concept of surnames, no patronymic or matronymic system that anyone knows of. And they often change their names several times in the course of their lives. It makes Martin's job very nearly impossible, though he suspects the Thai authorities simply throw away the forms Martin processes anyway. His boss Michele, and presumably her boses somewhere back in Geneva, likely feel different.
 
-He is aware that Jerry is speaking, he can here is voice, but the words have not reached him yet, they move slowly toward him, if he looked up he thinks he could probably see them, floating down like the little pastic rings Martin used to play with at the community pool when he was a boy.
+He is aware that Jerry is speaking, he can hear his voice, but the words have not reached him yet, they move slowly toward him, if he looked up he thinks he could probably see them, floating down like the little pastic rings Martin used to play with at the community pool when he was a boy.
 
 "They're sending us out in the field."
 
 "What?" Martin glances up to see Jerry pulling the last of some mysterious ball of meat off a long skewer with his teeth. Jerry licks his finger tips and smacks his lips. "You and I, Martin. We get to go out," he waves his hand to the north, "there... somewhere. Chang Mai I believe."
 
-Martin stares blankly at Jerry, remembering the one and only time he had agreed to go with Jerry for drinks after work, how Jerry had brought along his Thai girlfriend, how much Martin desperately wanted to punch the main in his sweaty red cornfed Ohio face every time he pawed at the woman's ass on the Skytrain. But he had not. Martin simply squirmed in discomfort and tried to step away from the couple, ignoring the ugly stares of the other Thai's on the train.
+Martin stares blankly at Jerry, remembering the one and only time he had agreed to go with Jerry for drinks after work, how Jerry had brought along his Thai girlfriend, how much Martin desperately wanted to punch the man in his sweaty red cornfed Ohio face every time he pawed at the woman's ass on the Skytrain. But he had not. Martin simply squirmed in discomfort and tried to step away from the couple, ignoring the ugly stares of the other Thai's on the train.
 
 "Relax old boy, it'll be fun, get you out of the city, dip your wick even." He smiled. "Oh shit, Here comes Michelle now. Back to work." Jerry scurried off back to his cubicle at the other end of the room.
 
-Martin watched as Michelle made her way across the office toward Martin's cubicle. 
+Martin watches as Michelle made her way across the office toward Martin's cubicle. 
 
 "He told you didn't he?"
 
@@ -32,11 +32,11 @@ Martin watched as Michelle made her way across the office toward Martin's cubicl
 
 "He's such a worthless piece of crap."
 
-Martin arched an eyebrow. "Can't you fire him?"
+Martin arches an eyebrow. "Can't you fire him?"
 
-"And replace him with whom exactly? he's an asshole, but he shows up."
+"And replace him with whom exactly? He's an asshole, but he shows up."
 
-Martine ponders taking on Jerry's workload simply to never have to see him again, but decides it isn't worth it. "So, Chang Mai?"
+Martin ponders taking on Jerry's workload simply to never have to see him again, but decides it isn't worth it. "So, Chang Mai?"
 
 "Chang Mai."
 
@@ -50,65 +50,57 @@ He remembered the desert night, the small arc of headlights carving out. The whi
 
 He woke up in the hospital. His legs were broken. Every movement sent searing shocks of pain through his body. After a while he began to see them coming, like white lines rushing out of the darkness toward him. He stopped crying so much. He became quiet. He became still. The doctors said it was good. The nurses smiled, left contraband candy in his hands when they changed the bedpan. Feelings swelled inside him like enormous balloons of light, threatening to burst out of him if he did not lay incredibly still. He lay still and dreamed of his parents. He dreamed of the wind pulling at the hair of his arm. He cried. 
 
-The bus pulled off at a Caltex station. Martin sat up and wiped his eyes. He jammed the memory back down in the floorboards of his mind, where it belonged, where it stayed, asleep and unknown, save for rare nights when he he was awake late enough to hear it get up and rummage about in the refrigerator, looking for something to feed it. 
+The bus pulls off at a Caltex station. Martin sits up and wipes his eyes. He jams the memory back down in the floorboards of his mind, where it belongs, where it stays, asleep and unknown, save for rare nights when he he was awake late enough to hear it get up and rummage about in the refrigerator, looking for something to feed it. 
 
-The driver stepped outside and lit a cigarette. Martin followed him. He blinked in the harsh glare of florescent lights and nodded at the driver before walking away, toward the well lit insides of the Caltex mini mart. In the bathroom he washed his face and threw the Ambien in the toilet.
+The driver steps outside and lights a cigarette. Martin follows him. He blinked in the harsh glare of florescent lights and nodded at the driver before walking away, toward the well lit insides of the Caltex mini mart. In the bathroom he washed his face and threw the Ambien in the toilet.
 
 He bummed a cigarette from the driver. A gradient of light fell across the parking lot, fading fading into darkness around the white lines of parking spaces. There was no else around. The driver grunted behind him. They climbed back into the bus.
 
 --------------------
 
-Here is the form. Here is the woman to fill out. The woman can't write. Martin can't speak much Hmong. A young boy acts as interpreter. The days roll away. Men, women, children, Martin writes for them. Then Jerry types it up and sends it back to Bangkok. Sometimes papers come back. The men and women and children are grateful, some clutch his hand, others cry. And then there are gone. 
+Here is the form. Here is the woman to fill out. The woman can't write. The woman can't speak English. Martin can't speak much Hmong. A young boy acts as interpreter. The young boy spells out the names, Martin fills in the boxes on the form. The days roll away. Men, women, children, Martin writes for them. Then Jerry types it up and sends it back to Bangkok. Sometimes papers come back. The men and women and children are grateful, some clutch his hand, others cry. And then there are gone. 
 
-The camp is twenty miles north of Chang Mai, in the low foothills that lead up to the Burmese border some five miles northwest of the camp. Martin and Jerry stay in temporary trailers that have been erected by the Army. He glances up from his desk at the tent city beyond the window. It starts as tents, with orderly, if muddy streets running between them, some two thousand people camped in a sea of mud. The less fortunate ones, the late arrivals, the tents give way to a squatters village, scraps of metal sheeting braces against bamboo poles, car doors held up with baling wire, tires stacked to form a wall, cardboard tables, stones piled for a fire pit, scraps of heavy cloth torn from the military trucks that bring food drape over doorways. The DWB man, Chambers, says a a Typhoid outbreak is imminent. 
+The camp is twenty miles north of Chang Mai, in the low foothills that lead up to the Burmese border some five miles northwest of the camp. Martin and Jerry stay in temporary trailers that have been erected by the Army. He glances up from his desk at the tent city beyond the window. It starts as tents, with orderly, if muddy streets running between them, some two thousand people camped in a sea of mud. The less fortunate ones, the late arrivals, the tents give way to a squatters village, scraps of metal sheeting braces against bamboo poles, car doors held up with baling wire, tires stacked to form a wall, cardboard tables, stones piled for a fire pit, scraps of heavy cloth torn from the military trucks that bring food drape over doorways. 
 
-Weeks pass. Little changes. Government trucks haul some away, off to life in the city, some small town perhaps, somewhere else. But always more come. Martin begins to suspect that the only way he will ever escape this place is to jump on one of the trucks, quit his job and just disappear. He considers the idea while sharing a drink with Chambers in what passes for a common area, the mess tent after mess have been served.
+There are a dozen westerners in the camp. Most are volunteers, college students saving the word. They drive down to Chang Mai on the weekends and come back with cases of beer. They keep to themselves and Martin makes no effort to join in. He isn't sure what to say to the young anymore. The world can't be saved? The world can be saved. There is no world to save. There is nothing but world and it doesn't need saving. 
 
-"How did you end up here Ives?"
-
-"Got transferred."
-
-"Not here, I mean, here at all, in Thailand, working."
-
-Martin shrugs, "I needed a change," as if surely this covers it.
-
-"Originally?"
-
-"Arizona. You?"
-
-"Berkley. Hippies you know?"
+The summer heat is just starting. There is no air conditioning. Martin lies awake at night sweating, tossing in his cot, wondering what saving means. The first night he dreamed of Havasupi, plunging from the cliffs into the cold, clear water. He dreamed of the Everstons, his step sister Emily and her boyfriend Tom. The took him hiking, up behind the waterfall over slippery smooth rocks until they reached the top. The sky was endless, long sweeps of thin cloud written from one end to the other. Contrails of airplanes. Tom jumped in the water and disappeared over the falls. Emily went next. Martin waited. Afraid. He sat down in the water, but did not push off. He woke up drenched in sweat.
 
-Martin nods, thoughtfully he thinks, I am nodding thoughtfully. Increasingly Martine finds himself outside himself, narrating his own life, watching, making sure his actions fit the scene he currently in.  
+He got up and wandered the camp. The Medicines Sans Frontiers doctor, Chambers, is sitting up in the mess tent, drinking Mekond whiskey by the light of a small candle. He invites Martin to join him, pours him a paper cup of whiskey.
 
-Chambers drops the topic. Swirls his Mekong whiskey in a paper cup. "Have you met Daw San Suu Ma-Lee?"
+"Terrible stuff, rot your gut," he chuckles, "but it's all we got."
 
-Martin doesn't want to say it, but Hmong names all blur together for him now, a long mashed together string of nearly unpronounceable syllables that simply stands for everyone, names everyone. Everyone all at once. The name of god Martin thinks.
+Weeks pass. Little changes. Government trucks haul some away, off to life in the city, some small town, somewhere else. But always more come. Martin begins to suspect that the only way he will ever escape this place is to jump on one of the trucks, quit his job and just disappear. He drinks late into the night, enjoying the warm burn of Mekong firewater in his belly. And Chambers seems to enjoy the company, though they don't speak much. Mostly listen to the night, watch the mosquitos zigzag through the candlelight. 
 
-Ma-Lee? I don't know, perhaps?
+"How did you end up here Ives?"
 
-She wouldn't have come into the office, she's got no plans to stay here.
+"Got transferred."
 
-Oh. Where is she going?
+"Not here. I mean, here at all, in Thailand."
 
-Back.
+Martin shrugs in the dark, "I needed a change."
 
-Back? But...
+"Originally?"
 
-I know. She tried again day before yesterday. Thai soldiers damn near shot her.
+"Arizona."  You?"
 
+"Berkley." 
 
+Martin nods. Chambers seems to have no more interest in subject, it is mearely a means of classifying. Everything here can be reduced to location. Really there is only here now, Martin thinks. There was there, but Martin is no longer sure that he was really there when he was there. Here was still here when I was there, still waiting for me, but now I am here and there is everywhere. But there is something I can remember, I think. But when I was there was I really there? 
 
+Chambers swirls his whiskey around the bottom of the paper cup. An old woman walks by the tent, waving a smoking bunch of plants, whispering something in Hmong. She stops to watch the men. Chambers smiles, waves, calls out good evening in Hmong.
 
+He turns to Martin, "have you met Ma-Lee?"
 
+It's dark, Martin can barely make out the womans face floating somewhere in the darkness beyond the candle lit table and mosquito netting of the tent. Martin doesn't want to say it, but Hmong names all blur together for him now, a long mashed together string of nearly unpronounceable syllables that simply stands for everyone, names everyone. Everyone all at once. The name of god Martin thinks. He shakes his head in the dark.
 
+"She wouldn't have come into the office, she's got no plans to stay here." Chambers waves her in, pulls a chair up to the table and pours her a small cup of whiskey. She smiles and takes a seat. 
 
-The TK were nothing like his parents, but
+Daw San Suu Ma-Lee looks to be in her eighties, though Martin has a hard time telling the age of Hmong or Thai or Cambodians, they seems to have only two ages, young children and then old men or women, where they exist inbetweent he poles, Martin is not sure.
 
 
 
 
-He gets to the office, sits down shuffling of papers, Jerry comes by the protypical american midwesterner in Bangkok, pasty reddened skin, "They're sending us into the field. Out to TK (slang term for the Burmese Camp.
 
-Bus ride to Chang Mai, night bus, Martine can't sleep, Jerry is snoring next to him. He listens to TK, watches the road. waiting for something to happen, the intro of memory, he's from arizona the desert roads at night, the snakes on the highway, the warm wind
 
 He gets to the Burmese refugee camp, it's chaos. He meets an old woman who was deported and who walks every day to the gate, begging to get back end. He forms a friendship with her in halting Thai. He takes her fishing. She bolts acorss the river, back into Burma.
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