Delirium Days, Part 4

Hello again, Seven here. Returning to the interweb to post another Frowback in the vein of the last few Fridays. It’s a drunken, wine-soaked litaise (literary malaise, copyright BKK7) on the topic of impending death. I confess, it’s something I think about a lot, though the nature of that introspection has changed over time. When I was a teenager, it was characterized by the stereotypical goth angst to prevalent in the minds and music of 80s British rock (think Bauhaus, The Cure, Joy Division, Siouxie, Echo and the Bunnymen). You know…death romanticized.

Then in my 30s, I began to think of death as a kind of comedy. Life thus far had handed me failure after failure, humiliation after humiliation, defeat after defeat. So death–the final defeat–started to feel like one last cosmic pie in the face after what I thought would be a lifetime of being the butt of the gods’ favorite joke. That’s when I penned the pitiful declaration below. I’m happy to say, things have changed for the better after moving to Thailand. But more about that later…

“Thursday, May 19, 2005  Current mood:  crushed

The Grapes of Wraith

I want to die on a sunny spring day in Paso Robles.

I want the last thing my eyes fix upon to be the green tops of grape vines below a bright blue sky.

I want my body to be left undiscovered between the rows of some nameless vineyard, for my flesh and soul to seep into the earth, nourishing the fruit that will one day be bottled up and laid in some dark wine cellar. Let that be my crypt.


I want to be part of someone’s drunken half-memory.

I want to be that taste, that red tooth stain, a cabernet-flavored kiss between two delirious lovers on a random, half-forgotten-but-magical night of careless lovemaking, or between rounds of sweet arguing over the sounds of the Pacific, hanging onto the rail of the Pismo Beach pier. I want to be the catalyst for some twisted-logic monologue spoken by a confused romantic about unrequited or refused advances.


I want my bones to be picked clean, shrouded in autumn fog, washed by winter rain, bleached under summer sunlight, discovered by some unidentified harvester, a mistaken archeological find.  I want to be transported in pieces to the tasting room and put on display: ‘Fossilized Remains of an Ancient Californian.’

I want the winery tour guide to invent stories about me to the intoxicated visitors, about how my spirit ‘still haunts these rows of grapes,’ tongue in her cheek, the awkward Mid-Westerners chortling between sips (mm, I can really taste the malolactic fermentation!”) except the funny part will be that unbeknownst to all it will be true and only barely detectible to two simple lovers under a moon, red-stained and heavily scented whispers moving between them (what is that–black cherry? pomegranate? dark chocolate?)

No. It’s me. It’s me. It’s a stopped yet untapped heart, a soul aged by intimacy, a voice prolific and unheard, an unwritten love epic, a clean conscience, a pair of arms denied an embrace, a smile unseen, two legs that took up a fruitless journey and wound up fruit.

They’ll say of me, ‘such balance,’ ‘such complexity,’ ‘a thrill to the tongue,’ ‘pure rapture,’ ‘a sacred delight,’ not comprehending, not fully appreciating the gift. My words poured out, imbibed and inebriating. Two lovers loving just a bit more deeply and not knowing why. Not realizing.

It was me.”

Thankfully, shortly after producing this melodramatic manifesto (melodrafisto for short, copyright BKK7), things took a turn for the better. I relocated to the Land of Smiles, became a successful whoremonger, and have been living a life of hedonistic bliss ever since.

Now I no longer want to die in a vineyard. Instead, I want to die in Thailand. Chances are likely that it’ll be death by one of two ways: either in bed, whilst mounted atop a tiny Thai gogo dancer, or in the gogo. In the case of the former, the girl will likely be trapped under my corpse for a length of time before she’s discovered and rescued. In the case of the latter, it’ll either be a heart-attack whilst bouncing some PYT on my knee, or murder by a random jilted Thai boyfriend or crazy-angry chick. Whichever one it ends up being, I’ve instructed my friend Lucky to burn my hard drives, claim all my belongings for his own, and to just throw my body in the nearest klong. No ceremony aside from maybe having a beer in my name somewhere on Patpong. That’s all I ask. A few gogo dancers will shed a tear, and I’ll die content, with a smile on my face after all.

Tune in Sunday for the weekly, and cheers to another week that didn’t end with my corpse in a klong, in this the greatest country on Earth—Thailand.