The ominous Mr. Wong


I then began to examine my friend's house and to my astonishment
it was covered in arabesque writing! Like a grand qasida with no end,
it went on and on. Who can interpret these polymeric symbols that
looked like they were printed on ethereal soffit? Similar to a psychedelic
watermark that radiated with life, to look as it would if it were
under water!

I then began to wonder if, in fact, the dwelling itself was simply a conveyor of information. In the same way, a solar panel reflects heat, words and emotions were translated into codes that were laid out in
text from the opposing side. As unreadable as they were, they were
not opaque in the moon's light, but yet rather only their meaning, muddled. Everything that ever happened in that house had been clearly documented. Every step taken and every word spoken had been cleverly concealed within the confines of the abode. All the love and anger and every word and deed that ever come forth in that domicile was now seeping through.
It was all there for my eyes to see, but I could not decipher the code
to this puzzle of madness.

Maybe this is how Santa knows who's been naughty or nice!

I began to laugh at the sheer asininity of it,
before focusing on my own life in general.

I gazed into nothingness past the trees lined with rows of houses
and tried to imagine a huge mountain was there! Just then a needle
was gently placed upon a record in an old victrola. The scratches
and pops faded to the sound of a lone violin playing softly off,
in the distance. At the very top of that perilous mountain stood
none other than Ed Norton, who appeared to be singing a tune
to Ralph, who it seems had gotten himself into a bind again.

"When you try to make fact out of fiction,
and the answer is nowhere to be found.
Look up to the sky and don't worry,
for soon you'll be coming around."

I smiled aptly for I knew I had my whole life ahead of me and there was
so much I could do with it, but in reality, that road I fear I must travel is clouded with doubt and uncertainty. Subsequently, time will find I am not a dandelion, nor am I a wishing well; I am only a man. A man who must forego his dreams because he learned a very long time ago that if
you put all your hope into something, and it should happen to die, then what have you? What are you? Just a man who will find he solely exists; for no one. Maybe life isn't supposed to be enjoyed. Maybe we're only alive to work all day and sleep all night. Slaves of the big machine going from borough to borough. If that's all you can achieve with your college degree, then maybe there is no other way. As for me, the only degree
I had was in outer space.

I guess we're all doomed to follow in the path we choose to walk.

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As thoughts kindled, I began to observe the Wong's house next door where the writing was noticeably different. It was more like Aztec or a form of Hieroglyphics. A paleographer's dream, I muttered bemused.
I could hear them in the kitchen, chattering away in their native tongue
and conversing freely. The night now had a very peaceful aura to it,
as if it were somehow blessed. Deeply, I inhaled a breath of warm
night air mixed in with the essence of some far away flowers and
sighed. Mr. Wong then caught a glimpse of me and John hanging
out in the backyard and decided to stand by the window.

Motionless he loomed like a surreal picture in a picture frame, till I
thought his brain would unravel. Never blinking an eye this grave fellow stood solemnly, as if in a hypnotic trance. *Over medicated was one guess* Watching John sunbathe in the light of the moon like a deranged vampire he would, before staring bleakly into the margins of my Perimeter. I soon realized he was not looking at us at all but rather through us, into the very corners of that dry fence. Nothing to worry about so I felt no contention. He was merely meditating on things that occurred within the time frame of his busy day. I could almost see a fossilized Mr. Wong shuffling about in the afternoon hours with his briefcase in hand,
giving everyone he meets a graceful bow.

A bow to the left and a bow to the right.
A bow to the North and a bow to the South...
Get your Mr. Wong compass, complete with pivot!    
Now his life's in a hole; buy a rice bowl and
he'll point you to the Hong Kong market!  

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program        ✈

It seemed as though he was completely detached from the world
as if in a state of pure shell shock. After awhile, I came to appreciate
the emotionless figure gloating in the window while his wife and son babbled on. Whatever was inside that narrow oblong head of his must have been irreparably damaged by something, I thought and if by some small chance the spectre should depart, I then believe I will become sad. How intrigued was I to be studying him, and it was now imperative
that he remain!

Never to leave, I shout in silence but to forever inherit that haunting
space, which behooves me. When at last, the grim farewell is echoed,
by the well-to-do in dreamscapes of the night, I will uncover the last ponderance; that final adieu.

They have a different set of values and beliefs than we do that they
still hold dear. While their son has become quite the American they've
grown to be proud of, they continue to remain steadfast in their own
culture and practice what they've learned for better living. A few dishes clanked together near the sink where his wife's voice grew exceedingly louder. "Something must have snapped in her brain," I told myself,
as I sat on the old wooden bench. A rise in vocal pitch meant
Mrs. Wong was starting to get serious! Upon delving deeply
into analysis one would find that through a moral evaluation of the
ethical character she portrayed in life that didn't hardly seem possible!

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Her polyglot words made it sound like she was overacting in a Chinese theater, and I just wanted to approach the window and yell cut!!!

Her son Jimmy soon gets up and walks into the living room.
Such a pleasant fellow was he! Always helping his mom and dad
with anything they asked of him and never did he bother anyone.
He gets up - Goes to work - Comes home - Eats - Watches TV,
and then goes back to sleep and repeats the same process every
morning. How robotic are these Asian people, I thought with a chuckle
before realizing that my parents along with everyone else on the planet does exactly the same thing! The only difference between us and them
is that they accept their chore of duty with nobility and honor, while
we gripe and complain about things, we cannot change.

Sometimes in the evening hours when I'm hanging out with John, Jimmy's friends stop by to greet him. "Ay there Jimbo!" (or) "Howya' doin' pal?" They always shake hands when they meet, and they are always so happy. Unlike any of us characters who only exist to get wasted because we
have either no self confidence, or we just don't care anymore.

I could see the static reflection bouncing around on the living room window and wondered, what show it could be he was watching? How strange I said to John, that they should be banqueting at this hour. They're night owl's said John, stargazing. I immediately thought of cigars and proceeded to light up a Muriel.

As her voice became more prominent, it sounded like she was angry
with her husband over something he did or did not do, though this was all speculation on my part. Mr. Wong now looked like a ghost had taken over his body and judging by the look on his face, it seemed that very soon that fragile shell of a head of his was simply going to explode! Every word she gibbered fell on deaf ears, and it didn't take long before his face started to contort and his jaw began to open wider! (((Wider))) What was going on here? Could she have talked him into a lobotomy with her circuitous voice that was beginning to sound like a record stuck on 78 rpm's? That would explain the inanimate look in his eyes. He's going to have that same look I thought, when they lower him into the ground. The way she was attacking him with those verbal assaults in there, I might as well go inside and call the funeral parlor, because he's going to be dead within minutes at this rate. Oh no, I think he just died. . . No, his face moved! He's still alive. Another stretch of time passed and when I turned to look, he was no longer there. It seemed as though the man from China had suddenly vanished, and I now felt increasingly abandoned. Left alone to ponder
my own thoughts brewing despair. I stared into the emptiness of a dark kitchen and saw nothing; 'cept one solitary candle burning.

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