Rocks and shit

"Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there." "Where we going, man?" "I don't know but we gotta go."

Jack Kerouac.

God I never knew things could be this good. I always hoped they would get this big. Never thought I'd miss the heaviness that soaked me to the bone, but here I am floating from one good time to another and I feel a little displaced. Flushed along with all the droll the dreams and passion are mostly distant stirrings now.

Got a great lady to miss and be with on the weekends, got better friends that a selfish moody lemon puss should ever expect, and even still on top of that, have a job I don't half mind.
Recently though the dreams of old have been swilling around my skull again, arousing a faintly warm emotion with an edge of excitement.

I want something big again.

I'm on the verge of something huge, but have no idea what it is. Its something I can't avoid, and something I can't even fight, but something I could probably screw up royally with my propensity to cling to myself through change.

Look, this has turned into a horoscope.

So moving right along to something far more pragmatic, if not exciting, the Bangkok Rock Festival is upon us! This will be unquestionably the biggest music event I've ever been too.

Maybe not the ideal lineup, but a pretty cool lineup nonetheless.
Also, this weekend is the opening of the Bangkok International Film Festival and on saturday at 4:30PM I will be sitting at the feet of none other than Terry Gilliam!!
This weekend and the one to follow will be blissfully movie fulled.

There you have it. Its all good.
Peace out.











Hahahaha.

The night is here.

I never thought a naked woman dancing centimetres from my face would make me feel ill, but then I never thought I would like this city either. Of course, being my mate's birthday, and gyrating pussy being his cup of tea, I couldn't really argue. Instead I tried looking elsewhere, which, as most rubber neckers will know, is almost impossible. Luckily, just before losing all hope of ever getting my beer down, Rie phoned and asked if she could meet me. As my beer smashed coldly into my foot, having been knocked down by a girl desperate for a tip she could sense wasn't coming, I stood up and half ran out of the blue neon mirror hall.
The street outside was like a carnival of debauchery and light. Making a wide berth around the lumbering elephant bleating pathetically at the Japanese tourists, I darted towards the end of the soi, stopping just short of the taxi drivers hungrily awaiting drunk pockets.

Leaning against the concrete wall just in the shadows, I waited. And while I waited I started thinking. Thinking how its been a long time since I've written anything. Not sure why that should be. Its been a month of amazing highs, and fairly shallow lows. And yet, I feel less like myself than I have in years. Perhaps thats growing up. Maybe its just closing my eyes and trying to forget. I honestly am at sea when it comes to my inner workings, so for now I'll just cast that aside and concentrate on the business of living.
And what living its been.
Spectacular parties, new friends, fabulous food, and suprising new encounters.

And yet, I've not been keeping in touch with the people important to me. I sincerely apologise. I have been swept away by it all, and in the breaks I've just been too tired to write anything of substance, so I don't write anything.
But never fear. I have some new ideas for something a lot lighter than the current annals, although I hope to keep this intact.
So stay near.

I have a new photo for you too. This one was taken on Samet last month when Annie and I went for the long weekend. Annie 我想你!

So thats about all for now. Check www.bangkokrecorder.com for new pics of me Don and Seth, and I hope to be writing soon.

...Rie eventually saved me from Soi Cowboy and I had a really good weekend with her. Finally caught up on a lot of much needed sleep...

Goodnight all.

A man walks into a bar.

She wore red bunny ears on her head, like her own personal joke.
I chose a small table on the terrace overlooking the small tree lined stage and ordered a glass of red wine and an ashtray.
Although the band strictly played smooth jazz, she lead the band with closed eyes and a forehead wrinkled with joy into something more exciting, something which transcended the usual innocuousness of cafe jazz and drew the audience in.
Overhead the half moon shone behind a haze of cloud, casting a wide circle of light onto the black sky.
Leaning on the piano, eyes closed, she smiled to herself and walked over to her saxaphone. Bringing it to her mouth she softly licked her lips and gave a slight grimace.
A low vibration shook the garden and a hush softly descended.
Lifting her leg behind her, she blew her passion with such restraint you could feel the goosebumps in the air. The band behind her added their own notes and beats, each with a such different personality they seemed at first to clash.
But soon the swirling piano and the drum mis-beats seemed to flow into one another and melt into the now mecurial saxaphone. The air was charged, and people not sure what to do with all this energy, burst into spontaneous applause which only lifted the now feverish band to even greater heights.
Slowly, and with amazing self control, they returned to earth with warmth and satisfaction.
My wine almost finished, I felt exhausted but exhilirated.

And so ended a day which, despite not having any particular feature to speak of, seemed almost perfect.
Ballet dancers on stilts, deliciously stocked bookstores, wonderful Portuguese food, and a good old Japanese art film all melded together to provide for the perfect evening.
Melancholy has at least taught me to like being with myself.

After Lava

The red glow disappeared and was replaced by the anaemic flourescent light revealing the cavern for what it really is.
Of course two bottles of Sangsom helped any detail escape unnoticed.

Up the stairs, bursting out onto the street, we paused for a moment to breath in the fresh air and let the sweat cool us.
Dodging sweaty tourists and horny girls, we headed to Bangkok Bar's streetside cafe.
Down the street, right and then left onto the soi.
I don't remember any of this, but it had to have happened because my next memory is ordering two gin and tonics, and a plate of cheesy whatsits.
My head was just slowing to a manageable spin when behind me I heard the clink of ice as the waiter deftly placed the drinks on the table and spun away to take care of some other drunkard.
Well, it looked deft to me anyway.

The girl to the right of Don, was particularly attractive (again - to me anyway) and I started talking to Don about her in Afrikaans, which despite being a horrible thing to do, is especially convenient when you are unable to judge the volume of your voice.
Don, fortified with whiskey, leaned over and told her I was interested in her, and would she like to talk to us...
Bastard.

"I'm writing in my journal" she shifted uncomfortably, and continued writing.
"Where you from?" Don, uncharacteristicley continued.
"Belgium".

Shit.
Belgium.
They speak Flemish there.
Shit.

Flemish is remarkably similar to Afrikaans, meaning she understood every word we spoke.

I laughed and asked her if she understood what we were saying.
She said yes.
Shit.

I lifted my G&T and took a deep swallow.
She was still talking to Don, which was a good sign, so I joined in again.
Of course, we'd not said anything bad about her (wasn't anything bad to say) so she didn't care much.
I sobered a little, and we spoke for a good hour. Chinese origin, but Belgian raised, she made for interesting conversation.
Before leaving, we traded numbers, and suprisingly, she has stayed in touch.

On the way to the taxi, A (not a.) called and routine took over...

Gaiety

This weekend is Bangkok Pride Parade, which as I overheard someone say, is a little like having a two eyes and a head parade, alluding to the fact that being gay in Bangkok is definitely not unusual.
Not unusual perhaps, but definitely not on a par with being heterosexual. People are always amazed to see how lady boys, and extraodinarily effeminate men integrate so easily into society here.
But maybe they wouldn't need to place their sexuality on such open display if they were accepted as normal, and not encouraged to make themselves into something different to find identity.
Gay men are accepted. But not as they are. They must first transform themselves into something in which people can find entertainment value.
And don't even get me started on lesbians. I've watched as a co-worker has been laughed at and ridiculed for being lesbian. And this from 10 year olds.
Gays and lesbians are not hated here. No, instead the hatred is turned into ridicule and joke material.
Maybe that is a step in the right direction. Maybe with more exposure, and a more visible presence in society, mind sets will shift.
But the circus into which homosexuality is sometimes made can sometimes be painful to watch.
I'll be there nonetheless, waving my flag and cheering.

At home.

There is a petrol station just next to our apartment, which sports a big blue sign that reaches about ten storeys high, and at night, just before I go to sleep, I like to watch the cars stream past it in a line of red and yellow.
I stand on the balconey with my knees pressed hard against the whitewashed walls, and lean over the side so the walls are out of my peripheral vision, and the sky hems in black around my head.
I especially like it when it rains, and the city turns into an expanse of black velvet onto which diamonds are thrown haphazardly and ruby streaks are threaded along its seams.
Those are pretty happy times.
Which starts me thinking that maybe I don't need to be travelling so much. Maybe what will make me happy is just staying where I'm happy.
So thats what I'm doing.
For at least one more year I'll be staring out my balconey late at night, waiting for nothing, practising being happy.

Into thin air

Arriving back in Bangkok on Saturday was like coming home. This place really does feel like home now. Comfortable, friendly and familiar.
I had an amazing time, although at times I was extremely uncomfortable and heart sore.
Beauty always does that to me.
Mountains usually bring out a reverential melancholy in me, and this time was no different.
For laziness sake, and also an attempt to convey a more accurate picture of the inside of my head, I'll copy a few extracts from the quasi-journal I kept over the course of the month.
By no means complete, this is only a glimpse into the very personal thoughts I kept.

Day 4
Namche Bazaar

To my suprise, all I can think about is her. I'm not trying to, but each brisk step churns out another memory.
I dreamed of her last night. It confused and disoriented me.
The chances of me being deep in the Himilayas if I was still with her are remote at best. The irony of it is that its the type of trekking she would have loved to do.





Day 5
Khumjung

The stillness bears heavy on me tonight. The air is desperately thin up here, an alien atmosphere compared to the rich air we wallow in at home. Each breath hard fought, and each step hard won.

I still have no clarity of thought, but the beauty of this place is changing something in me. There is no denying the beauty of this village, tucked high in the mountains. Neatly arranged fields enclosed by stone walls and surrounded by brightly coloured houses, are all connected by a warren of tiny paths and walkways, along which the local children run and play, their bright red cheeks glowing.
The harsh surroundings are starkly contrasted by their warm smiles and crisp laughter.
I wanted to run with them, and explore the village and mountains but my short sharp breaths and aching heart thumping in my chest reminded me I don't belong up here. I'm still not sure where I belong, or even if that matters, but it does give me joy to see other people belonging somewhere.

Day 8
Machermo

It occurred to me that I'm attracting the type of women I do because of the aspect of my personality that I portray when I meet them.
The girls I've really loved in my life have been attracted to a different side of me. One that I've not openly displayed for a long time. In part I sense this to be a reaction to what I perceive most women in Thailand want; A man who likes to have fun, is not too serious, and who pays her a lot of attention.

And to a degree, I do fit the bill.
But there is a much stronger facet to my personality that is perhaps less attractive to these girls, which ultimitely makes them unattactive to me.
But its not all that bad. I'm glad to have explored this lighter side of my psyche, even if the darker side is where my strengths lie. I need balance.
Ironically I had to sacrifice what needed that balance in order to get it.

Day 9
Gokyo

The sun is gliding across the icy blue waters in defiance of the snowy peaks and resting warmly on my weary body.
People are venturing out to the lake but still not shedding any layers.
Here I write, layed out on a bench golden in the delicious sun, pondering love and ultruism.
"The Himilayas will change you" reads the park entry.
I'm not sure about changing, but its definitely reminding me.
Embers of memories of dreams are glowing faintly, warmed by my proximity to the sky.
I like whats been happening to me these last two years. I like that I know a little more aabout what I like aand don't like.
This unfurling can be uncomfortable sometimes. Mostly when I'm reminded of what I've lost, or when I realise that I'm not really found.

The sun is preparing to slide behind the mountains and wisps of cloud are joining forces in anticipation of the coming dark.
Tomorrow we head up Gokyo Ri to a height of 5360 Metres above sea level. My body is tired, and I'm growing tired of this nomadic life in this freezing sherpa kingdom. I'm doing it because I know how much I'll value it once I've done it.
My bed is still cold, but I know that it warms up after a couple minutes of me lying in it.
I'm think I'm ok with that.

Day 15
Darjeeling
The cold is a wall of damp grey, sitting heavuly on this hill. I'm in bed at 5 o'clock with my socks pulled over my long underwear, just like mom used to show me how.
Again I can't shake this heaviness from my chest. Its silly and I know it is.
I'm too sensitive.
Too much of a crybaby.
But I just can't shake it.
in time
memories fade
senses numb
one forgets
how it feels
to have loved completely.


Why does the rain affect me so? I almost wish arthritis and a warm heart on myself, rather than this drenching sorrow. Yesterday on the plane, as we broke through the clouds, my heart leapt to see the golden wisps dancing in the cerulean evening.
My heart, the ever accurate weather indicator.
When I'm this lonely I find the tendrils in my brain reaching out for any warmth, hastily making short sighted plans to meet J again, to hold P's hand, to sleep over at A's.
I know these people bring me none of what I really want, but is it so bad to take the inferior as a soothing balm every now and again?
Why am I so desperate?


Soft black roses
lay on her shoulder
skin on tragedy
hand in hand

when skin folds
around your azure eyes
teares fall slower
than before

winter falls again
on your red tree
walking laps around
i still can't find you.






***All photos are courtesy of Donovan Richards. My photos are undeveloped.***

Our mountain bed

Sliding uncomfortably into a week between two worlds, I find myself unable to process routine thoughts, or complete simple tasks.

The cold granite wall of Everest approaches steadily, casting shadows of doubt and fear, and behind me lies a marshy 6 months of relentless working, and weekends of debauchery, which, although being really good fun, have really squeezed whatever surplus energy I may have had.

The work is not over; reports still need to be written, second semester science curriculum still needs to be planned, and re-testing must still be done.
And yet, I just can't sit down and actually do it.
I wish it were a simple case of being worried about the Nepal/India trip, but its more than that.
It has to be, because this feeling is always with me and despite sometimes moving to the periphary i'm always aware of its presence.
I guess it just gets stronger when I'm under any sort of pressure, or when a potentially life changing event is about to happen.

Its usually triggered by a song, or by a passage in a book, and this time was no different.

Billy Bragg singing Woodie Guthrie's "Mountain Bed" swept me to a brown, green and blue memory, lying in the grass with her, deep in the Dragon mountains. Leaves lay softly in her hair splayed out golden on the ground as her fingers played in the icy stream of crystal water flowing beside her. Her other hand was entwined in mine, and we knew without saying, that we were both happy.
We spoke about the future that day, not with trepidation or doubt, but with a sure contented peace.

The stage then shifted right with a blur, and I was at the S.P.C.A second hand book shop with musty paper and ink filling the air with words. She left me to look at poetry books while she pottered about the children's section burying herself in her childhood.
It was then that I found a passage that struck such a chord within me, that in less than 8 months, I would be in a new country, away from the person I loved the most, trying to find the elusive life I dreamed of.

I found the passage today and it again struck the same chord. It sounded a little tired today, but it was there nonetheless.

I started here:
"... born in the pain of ending one life and beginning another, born in the excitement of the continuing search for life's meaning. Some people do not have to search, they find their niche early in life and rest there, seemingly contented and resigned. They do not seem to ask much of life, sometimes they do not take it seriously. At times I envy them, but usually I do not understand them. Seldom do they understand me."

My heart beat a little harder, as I read on with hot eyes:

"I am one of the searchers.There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover it's ultimate secret. We continue to explore life, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn to the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know - unless it be to share our laughter."

Slowly, the bad memories started trickling through. Memories of me manipulating, and distorting fact and reason for my own selfish ends.
It boiled down to me being afraid that the person I loved didn't really share the same passions I did.

"We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide. Most of all we want to love and to be loved. We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or to compete for love."

And in reverse, I didn't want to be trapped in a relationship that kept me from what was bubbling inside me.

And for my singlemindedness I received all this...

I still don't know if its what I want. But I'm pretty sure I couldn't have lived without it.

Its what I've lost that I still mourn for.
Is all this really just an attempt to justify my decisions?
I earnestly pray that it isn't.

So all day, I've chewed on these words like a ball of black tobacco.

"Passion, you see, can be destroyed by a doctor.

It cannot however, be created"

So no matter how much I long for what I've lost, I have to reconcile myself to the life I've created, and the future possibilities it holds. Losing passion would surely have been the wrong decision.
It the reconciling that takes it out of me.

"When Equus leaves--if he leaves at all--it will be with your intestines in his teeth"

absent

drift home on a storm
slide through the fizz
of air escaping in slow hiss
floating up the side
of this white building


she turns to him
i turn to her
she turns to me
i turn away

so nothing now is better
than something i did not receive
nothing is what i wanted
nothing now is what i get
and nothing you can tell me
will make it any different from this.

she turns to him
he turns to her

i turn away

and someday maybe
in these tomorrows grey
we'll meet again

and with a little salt and clover
i will no longer blame
you
or i.

After six

I should have known that I was expecting too much. Or perhaps just expecting the wrong thing.
People arrived in dribs and drabs, chatting amongst themselves, talking on phones, waiing every now and then to the dry hum of the monks chanting. The rain fell disinterestedly just a metre from where I sat, while stray dogs weaved in and out of the chairs sniffing for scraps.
Then without warning, or any discernable change in gear, it was over. The boy's father walked out and chatted to some of the mourners.
But it seemed starkly apparant to me that he was the only one who was really grieving. It occurred to me that his Japanese heritage played a part in his being more open to grief, but then him being the father of a newly dead 6 year old was probably the biggest factor.
I may be misjudging an entire population, and if I am I will be very pleased, but it seems that so many Thai people have a diminished ability to empathise. Not only empathise, but to face up to difficult situations, and face sadness squarely.
Many people have just passed this off as their culture, but it seems to me to be terribly unhealthy, manifesting itself in other areas of Thai life, such as outbursts of anger, high suicide rates, and a general intolerance of people different to oneself. These things are in no way isolated to Thailand, or Thai people, but perhaps its time that people started naming it for what it is, and stop calling it an integral part of the Thai culture.
It is an integral part of the Thai psyche, thats for sure, but as long as people allow it to masquerade as "culture", people will hurt with no relief or outlet.

I'm probably talking rubbish.
But there are so many things in this country that really disturb me.

The low point of the evening was when she called the father over and asked him if he had been to Patpong yet.
The look of horror in his eyes bored straight through me, leaving a hollow deep in my gut.

Rest in peace Yo Tashiro.

Rest in peace.

Six

He fell from the sixth floor of his school, six years after being born.

Thats about all I know. That and he's dead.

And tomorrow, dressed in as much black as I can muster, I'll be going to his funeral in the monsoon rain.

I mostly don't know why I am going, other than she asked me to go with her. That and I wouldn't mind grieving something real for once either.
I want the cold rough edges to show love's meaning to me again.

6 o'clock tomorrow, in the yellow evening bangkok rain, i hope to extract some life from death.

as selfish as that may be

We live together in a photograph

When she came over two months ago, we lay on my bed most of sunday and looked through photos I'd brought with me from home. And through the oohs and aahs that poured out, my sighs and goosebumps were probably quite apparent.
At night when I lie awake and watch the lights through the curtain, my mind always climbs back into those photos and the skin I used to have and share with you, but it never does my any good.
If there were something I could do to make this all better, believe me I would do it.

"...this is the sound of settling..."

I just can't see what to do.

"...coz i'm optionless and turkey free... and blind."

To the girl at the back (please stand up)

Do you remember that time I bought you a blender just before 10pm? You were sick at home and I was working late, and I promised to make you potato and leek soup to cheer you up.
I was so excited on the way home. I thought a blender would be the perfect gift to say I'm sorry for the failure I had been.

Perhaps the very fact that I thought that should be a clear indication that I was still failing miserably at giving you what you really needed.

I told the taxi to drop me at Shirble, and I quickly climbed the stairs past the grumbling security guard nervously eying his watch, past the whiskey and past the cashiers, up the escalators three times, and around the corner to the scores of salesmen waiting in their green suits with faces agape.
In broken Chinese and gesturing wildly I managed to convince one of them to part with one of their very best blenders.
Two, three steps at a time I bolted downstairs to get the potatoes and leeks and to pay for the blender.
Out the door, around the corner, sliding on the glistening tiles I eventually made it into the lobby and up to floor 23.
Door 5 on the left, two knocks and a kiss.

Even seeing you now in my memory, my breath is caught on the strand of wonder that wound its way through 5 years.

Into the kitchen, stern instructions to lay down and let me take care of you blazenly ignored, I start the soup.
Two hours later, the cities lights spread out before us through open curtains, we sit down to a bowl of steaming soup, proudly blended in your brand new blender.



They come and go with startling clarity. With no respect for time or place, they often reduce me to a wholly inappropriate silence, met usually by blank stares and uncomprehending faces.

I just wish there were some way of telling them.

But I suspect people just won't understand the importance of late night blender shopping.

A word or two

I apologise to those of you who've stopped by for words from me, but I've just not had it in me the last two weeks.
They really should have been two great weeks, and on the surface they were, but I've come out feeling confused and weary.
The last two weeks saw a wedding, beautiful but sad; going to a real live premier league football match; the consuming of a breathtaking book; time wonderfully spent with someone who makes me feel alive again; a job interview for a job I'll never get and an unexplainable heavyness thats settled slowly but ever so surely.
So, forgive me for not writing and for my rudeness in not contacting you. Its all I can do to just make it through the day.
Here's to lightness.

I am a Bird Now

...Wonderful...

Across the sea.

I know you can't read this because of a paranoid government's mind control games, but I wanted to tell you that thinking of you still makes me happy.

Despite my good life here I always feel like I've left something wonderful behind.

I miss China.

Photo Credit - Donovan Richards.

Bitoey

Bitoey is one of my favourite students. She's popular, talented, and pretty, and despite all these shortcomings she's still a sensitive girl who tries hard to include people.
Om im is new to the English Programme and speaks barely any English at all, making her studies very difficult.
Bitoey sits next to her in class and over the weeks I've watched with an ever increasing respect, her resolve to help Om im without letting on that she's helping her, or making her feel stupid in the progress. She has a keen sensitivity to people and as a teacher its inspiring.

Ok, I know I'm gushing, but I think that if there is one subject about which gushing is forgivable, its children.
Ok, I'm done.
Bitoey is on the right, and Om im on the left.

Transcontinental

when staring out of an airplane
window
the horizon never lets you see
it moving

homes with people you know and
like
approach and recede but never
settle

into time like children into
bed
at night with milk and cold
pillows

softly remind me of those
winters
in our few habit forming
years

of trying to figure
it
all of it
out
and still i
lean

across oceans and continents
and
families and friends we dream of
daily

almost never let us see them moving.

In class I've been taking photos of my students for their projects. I asked them to make journals and the photos were to be put on the front page. They loved having their photos taken and I managed to get some really sweet photos. I posted this on photosig and didn't receive much response. Feel free to comment on this photo. *grin*
As a side note, thank you for the encouragement some of you given me about my writing. I appreciate it, and like to hear what you think.

Even if I don't always show it.

The roots beneath my feet

Friday again and I'm not sure what week we're in.

One year ago, I was home with big eyes and a displaced heart, trying desperately to figure out what the hell I wanted.
She was there with me, but I remember well that I wasn't there with her, choosing almost unwittingly instead to be elsewhere.
Time should have taught me by now that it doesn't matter, but my stomach still knots when the memories inevitably come floating back, like oil on the surface of my brain.

Moving on isn't as easy as I first imagined it would be. The weeks roll over each other like the ocean pulling me relentlessly towards the open future with no hope of escape. People come and go, days are good and bad, girls faces change, and it all melts into a blurred landscape that I'm not sure is even real.

I've tried finding the key to loosen this whole affair from me, without much success. I've tried the usual suspects; beer, women and drugs (no not really drugs) without relief; although perhaps relief is not the most appropriate word here - I'm not really afflicted by anything so grandiose that I'm in need of relief, but I would like to be a little more convinced that I have something to look forward to other than what I have now.

There is a girl in my life, who, despite only having known for a short time, is quite special to me, and has the promise of actually being a significant person in my life, a stark contrast to all the other girls I've spent time with this past year or so. I don't wish to jinx this or anything, its not even really that newsworthy, but I think it deserves a mention for the simple purpose of providing some perspective on the situation.

The "situation".
Ha.
My life is once again a "situation".

Perhaps this is part of the reason this has floated to the surface again, although the memories seem to work in a tidal fashion, coming and going with the regularity of a menstruating adolescent.
And they are wearing down.
Not the importance I place in them, but in the amount of pain they bring me. Now its mostly a dull recognition that I don't have what I really want, and I'm afraid that I'll never have what I really want.

Because buried at the base of my dreams lie the fairy tales and the irrepressable hope for true love, and it is from the roots that the discontent flows, seeping into every relationship I try to form.

But worry not.
Its Friday.
And that means jeans, beer and long nights, my only respite from the irrepressable thoughts that hammer me day in and day out.

Monday is two hangovers away.

We've been changed.

drink the ink from your pen
swallow the words that surface again
and again you'll sink down
live under your frown
for more than a couple of days.

nights are green with the glow
that buzzes as you follow
the light with your eyes
darkened t.v lit goodbyes
never sound quite like they should.

baptise yourself in wine
and try and follow the red line
drawn in a haze
it never conveys
quite what we wish it would.

green sunday grass bliss
lawning about with your deep kiss
has vanished behind the mirror
don't think i've never felt queerer
than the way i do now.

The girl on the grill

I read the story of the girl whose hair was firmly stuck to the grill of the train in a mess of blood and flesh, with a certain relish.
Pedro was singing his particular brand of tragicomic tail stinging tunes, and the image of the girl standing back to the train on an orange autumn evening was branded onto my brain, sizzling between my synapses.
I'm sure she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes and fists in one last frustrated plea for that salvation that never seems to come, as the train, whistles screaming, wheels gritting their teeth, bore down on her in those final moments.

I play these images in my head repeatedly, and I do get an unusual sort of satisfaction by retaining the emotion this raises in me.
I've never thrived on happiness. There is a slipperiness to happiness that always threatens to slide out from under my feet, and I'm perpetually waiting for the fall.
Its when I'm sad that I am most comfortable. A dependably heaviness that wraps itself around me like an old coat warming me in melancholy.

Before you write me off as another emoslashmywristshatemyselfteenangstgoth hear me out.

There is an honesty in sadness. I don't mean your average hallmark cheesy "i've got cancer and i'm dying and all my husband wants to do is dress in woman's clothing" bullshit.
I mean the sadness that is in us all. We're all hurt in some way or another, and its a line we can all follow to each other. We can all connect when we talk about our hurt, we can all empathise.

I've always been drawn to sadness, be it in music or movies or books. And more recently I've been drawn to what I'll call "redemptive sadness".
An honesty, not emotional bombast, that calls everyone out of their calcified hearts for a just a brief moment to face themselves.
I've always dwelled in my sadness. Sometimes to the point of unhealthy depths, and I almost always didn't enjoy it.

"Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor
And cry your guts out 'til you got no more
Hey man now you're really living"

Not the greatest song, but today at the photocopier the words behind the cheery handclaps struck me for the first time, and I thought I'd include them here as an anchor of sorts for my floundering words.

I've been pretty up and down the last few days and the symptoms point to something I've not had for a good while now. I don't dare to even think of what it could mean if I'm right, but the thought has been flashing in the periphary like a warning light or a parking brake symbol.

For now, I'll meditate on the plight of that nameless girl who knew she'd never find what it was she needed.

There is comfort in her death.

The grey morning

Every now and then, I'm overcome with an urgent desire to escape to somewhere wide wide open. So wide that life just falls out of the sky painting the world more vivid.
Many years ago I made a living from being in the great outdoors. Not really a living now that I think about it. Probably just enough to not die.
But whenever I really think about it, I remember how happy I was in those spaces and how my dreams were fresher.
Once I applied to work in the States, in the Outward Bound programme. I'm kinda glad I didn't actually do it, but I do wonder how life would have been different if I had been accepted and done it.
And would my life be any better than it is now? Because in all honesty, my life is pretty good here. I have a job that I quite enjoy, I have some good friends, and I meet a lot of pretty interesting people. I have a very decent apartment with all the home comforts you could hope for, and I still have money to spare at the end of the month.
But beneath all that is a constant shifting of discontent.

I put it down to a lack of wide openess.

I miss being able to walk outside into a wet garden looking at the dripping moon in the black sky.
I miss short drives to empty beaches.
I miss long drives to mountains asleep on their backs, where night fires warm more than just our cold bodies. Where morning wakes you with an icy bite on the nose and the delicous heat in your sleeping bag keeps you in for just 10 more minutes.
I miss clean places. I don't mean cleaned places. I mean places that are just perfect without any intervention.
I miss blowing smoke out into cold fresh air on country roads late at night.

I still have a dream that someday I'll be able to live in a place like this without having to worry about how I'm going to survive or justify it.
Linford Detweiler captures the sentiment of this silly persistant dream in his latest letter. I'd like you to read if you have the time.

Letter

Thanks for stopping by if this is your first time.

 

Me on Khao San a couple weeks ago when my dad was here. These are his photos and he doesn't have the steadiest hand it seems.  

Five more fingers

It used to be that I could count the number of girls I've been with, been with of course being a euphemism for those not inclined to read between any lines, on one finger.
Now, I've worked my way all the way through one hand, and am contemplating what to do when my other five fingers are all used up. Its not something that I especially want or am proud of, but opportunities are knocking me over.

Khao San was glistening in the freshly fallen rain on Saturday night.
The lights fizzed in the reflections and all around was the usual crackle in the air as the prostitutes waited in the wings for the rows of club's nightly regurgitation of drunk foreigners and amorous girls.
I had taken a taxi all the way from my apartment in Bang Na, 30 kilometres away, and was enjoying the buzz that two Singha's had just given me. For once I had brought my Ipod, and I put some Grandaddy on and got myself a couple more beers from the 7-11.

I was having an extraordinarily good time. Being alone in a crowd can be tremendously exhilirating.

Finishing my beers, I made my way into Immortal.
Immortal is a black box filled with green lasers and sweaty bodies gyrating madly on the dance floor in a pathetic attempt to find someone to go home with.
Its wicked.
Buying another beer at the door, I pushed my way past the grubby bouncers, and into the heart of the beast.
Usually my tactic is to stand there looking bored until someone notices me, and starts dancing with me and I wasted no time in assuming the position.
As usual it worked like a charm.
Within a couple seconds I felt someone brushing against my arm. She wasn't like the usual desperate Thai girl you find in these clubs. She seemed a bit shy, and not really sure what she was doing here. I looked over at her, and she avoided my eyes.
The song changed, but her dancing stayed the same. It crossed my mind that she might be deaf, but the music was so loud that deafness would be no obstacle to hearing it.
I leant over and asked "Ow beer mai kap?"
"Mai ow ka."
Still she kept her shuffle going like an unsure child determined to persevere until coolness sets in.
Her friends joined her, and introductions were shouted over the music.
Pla, Bee and Lizz, the latter being the shuffler.

An hour was swallowed by a minute and before I knew it we were caught by the 1 o'clock surge up the hall and coughed up onto the wet streets.
Now, I'm sure you're all thinking I went home with Lizz and that is why I now have a whole hand of fingers up.
But fate's mind was elsewhere, and Lizz went home just after giving me her number, a small wave and a smile.

Sunday was only an hour old, and the night wasn't giving in so easily.

The most interesting time on Khao San is after 1am.
The clubs are all closed, and the streets are full of people determined to have a party. The buskers play guitar with the tourists, and oasis and bob marley ring out in the streets, competing with the roar of drunkness and bravado brought on by the deadly cocktail of being drunk in a country where fun rules with an iron grip.

I like to spend this magical time walking up and down the road pretending that I'm going somewhere, watching people.
I also like to be looked at.
Outside Lava, I saw someone I had met inside Immortal and I stopped to say hi.
She was talking to some other girls and a foreign guy. I recognised the guy from another school in Bangkok, and we reluctantly said a few genial things. He obviously didn't want me there with his harem.
I started to walk off but he beat me to it. Two of the girls stayed behind.
The reflexive question dutifully came flying out of her mouth.
"So where ya from?"
"Samut Prakarn".
In case you missed it, this is my funny line. There is no way that I could come from Samut Prakarn; I'm not Thai. Of course I mean that I live there now, and I know they aren't asking me this.
Funny isn't it?
Haha.
Gets them every time.

After the ubiquitous introductions she grabs me by the arm, and starts walking me down the road saying "you can't go home tonight its too far. You can stay with me, but we don't have to have sex. But first lets go have a drink."

Well now.

So, having nowhere in particular to be, and being slightly flattered a little amused and completely confused, I followed her laughing.
Walking around the corner to a cafe serving drinks illegaly, I felt a little ill for a moment, but managed to swallow it easily with my beer.
After being harangued for three hours by a drunken australian lecturing on the perils of living in a country with crazed aborigines hiding behind every second bush, many many more red, blue and golden drinks, and seventeen trips to a marvelously kept toilet, we finally started to make our way home. I was still not sure where I was going, but my mind was finally made firmly up by fingers interlocked in mine pulling me into a waiting taxi.

The black sky was just getting its blue morning highlights and by the time we'd arrived at her apartment the wonderful bangkok clouds were just visible.
We both remarked on the attractiveness briefly before heading up to the 16th floor.

...

Waking up the next morning in a bed 60km from my apartment with someone i was a million miles from knowing, I strangely felt no regret.
Didn't feel much actually. We chatted amiably for a couple hours, her telling me all about her strangeness, and I felt nothing more than amused.

After a late japanese lunch, I said I was going.
She said goodbye.
That was it.

Now with half my fingers done, I can at least say I have a fist full of experience.

Or perhaps thats an unfortunate choice of words.

Perhaps there are no words fortunate enough to tell this story.



Lizz called tonight.
She sounded cute on the phone.
We'll probably meet again this weekend.


I'm not holding any thumbs...

Pen

the forgotten fountain pen
drapes its lines sadly over the
ridges and yellowing edges
looking back at the words which left the corners of her mouth without being spoken.

citing examples
biting cheeks
words fell to the floor
sinking without slowing
falling without knowing
the inside of my head.

floating by your window i
looked through your yellow drapes
and onto a desk decked out in lamps and books
and a single notepad with shiny silver rings and neat blue lines
that you wrote on.

and in the corner of your bloodshot eyes
was the coffee we'd enjoyed on the cafe in the street
many times before.

how they found their way past your shaking fingers
is not for me to say,
but when the words sprang from the just straightened paper
they ran up my arms in fear and haste
brought on by recent losses
and broke through with electric arcs
lighting me up like a welder's torch.

so thank you
i guess
for wrapping your fingers around
the black
dripping
pen.

reminding me.
again.

and
again

of the blackened blood that we still share.

A view from our balconey. The sunsets of late have been astounding, and I have been sulkily avoiding them, in an equally astounding bout of spite. Luckily Donovan has been documenting them excitedly on his new D70. See more of Don's work >>>here<<<  

A hapless infatuation

A return to blogging after a three year absence, this will hopefully be an exercise in becoming more aware of what i'm really doing and why I'm doing it, without delving into the depths of self depracation that my previous writing found itself wallowing in. I'm glad I wrote what I did, and I'm glad it is recorded, but I hope this time to move towards something that is more honest, and at the same time, more opaque. I want my writing to be more accessable to the average person. In the end I hope to have at least documented what I now sense to be a transitional period in my ever changing life. I hope to do with a little more grace and style than before, and I am ever hopeful that you the reader get something out of this exchange.

One thing has remained true throughout.

If I can press anything out of my existence that could be said to be beautiful, I will be happy.

My hapless infatuation with beauty and meaning continues to provide me with a tragic sense of joy and pain. I am desperate to someday be able to document it.

Here's to hope.