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.