1.

The sun flares red in dark clouds. I’m in bed but my bed is outside in a muddy field, and the first Indochina war is raging around me. It must be the 1950s, but, honestly, the spirits take me anywhere. There’s a child at the edge of my bed playing the bagpipes. She’s picking laments from a playlist on my chest. My magazine articles are lying in the mud and the words seem to be deflecting bombs, thank goodness. I’m a well-known war correspondent who listens to paddy fields for breaking news. The child is grateful and cheers my spirit with her playing, but she has to go, and I’m terrified that her absence will create an infinite chasm. It does. I look up and the rebels are marching to the lingering drone of the bagpipes. The French aren’t up for it. Charcuterie and colonisation don’t mix. I must remember to use that as a headline, but, for now, the examination of mud seems like the only way out.

2.

So they called it Vietnam, then fried some dumplings in hot oil; but that only caused more mud, and there are bicycles going nowhere in the mud. It’s like a museum of mud-stuck bicycles in my bedroom, which is really a dysfunctional paddy field. French soldiers are running around in a panic. That’s the story, but there’s no way to write it without the child and her bagpipes. I decide to call the spirits; they’re so angry at my charcuterie joke, having developed a taste for cold meats and cheeses during the occupation. It’s the only thing about the French they’ll miss. In my mind, I’m in the office, in the city, and the drama of the war gets me going. Then I hear the sound of bagpipes and feel really guilty. The spirits suck my words out and spit them at the French. It’s like the knowledge of cheese has totally gone for them and they just can’t handle it. You can’t build a colony on fromage, mon frères, I say to the spirits.

3.

The spirits are now a gang of ravens eating street food in the astral. The stalls are steaming and huge metal pans are sizzling hot; the smell is wonderful. Vegetable oil and mud have an endless fascination for me, even more than bicycles and dumplings. I totally forget the war to focus on the sensuality and symbolism of Vietnamese mud. I’d love to become a street food vlogger on YouTube, but it’s still 1952, so I’ll have to wait. In truth, I have no clue about South East Asian cuisine, but the spirits know Anthony Bourdain and are putting in a good word for me.

4.Anthony whisks me off to Java, then abandons me in a hut in the forest. I can’t play the gamelan, so won’t even mention it, but it never stops raining here. The spirits are lodged in a volcano discussing Malcolm Lowry. There’s a man in the village with fire for hands. The women love him but the younger men are jealous and tell scurrilous stories about him to the local newspaper. I get a job for the paper and write the story about the man with fire for hands. He tries to read the article, but the paper combusts and newsprint drips all over his bare feet. Naturally, he’s mad, and accosts me in the street, despite my ridiculous posturing; he says he’ll be reporting me to Anthony Bourdain, who’s now the local chief of police. The continual rain puts out the fire in his hands, and I feel really safe; I’m carrying an umbrella. The best thing for me to do would be to learn to play the gamelan, but I still have street food on my mind; and mud; and vegetable oil.

5.

Java and Laos have merged under lowering skies. The spirits play the bagpipes. It seems it was the child who drove out the French all along. My bed is in the clouds now and I’m choking on dumplings. I collect melted newsprint and fry it up in oil. It turns to mud but I eat it anyway. I’m putting on weight and when I move there’s the wheeze and skirl of the bagpipes and a regiment of marching cheeses. Soon it’ll be the turn of the Americans, who will try to steal Buddhism from its natural habitat in the rice paddies. It’s November everywhere except here.

♦

STEPHEN NELSON’s last book was a Xerolage of visual poetry called Arcturian Punctuation (Xexoxial Editions). He has exhibited visual poetry and published prose and poetry internationally for a number of years. He lives by a burn in Central Scotland, drinks Brazilian coffee, and listens to the deep, resonant tones of the Rudra veena. See his asemic writing on Instagram @afterlights70.