Hello, and happy Friday. Bangkok Seven here, with another frowback to help wile away the remaining hours between now and the weekend. The wine-soaked whine below was written in the years leading up to my exodus from the prison known as The United States, and it depicts my state of desperation, inebriation, isolation, and social castration, and perfectly illustrates why relocating to Thailand has made all the difference in my pursuit of happiness. Let’s take a gander…
“Monday, July 18, 2005 Current mood: distressed
Can I be franc?
Tonight, it’s a cabernet franc from Paso Robles. 1998 vintage. Can anyone say, delish? Mmmmmm, it’s like drinking chocolate and strawberries. And I need it tonight, America. Besides being heartbroken and alone, I’ve just been informed that the EDD has taken me to collections over money that I don’t owe them, but that I’ll wind up having to pay them anyway because they don’t listen, and all of this is just in time for my credit check to be bad, as it is being reviewed for a home loan, which I now will probably not get, and the stress of it all is making my hair fall out. No, literally, fall out.
The wine, concentrate on the wine. . .hints of spice, a little mint, some currant. . .truth be told, America, I have recently lost a friend–well, someone I considered a close friend–who it turns out, was apparently…not. And I want to say I don’t care, but fuckadoodle-do, I guess I do, because I can’t seem to stop being sad about it.
This wine is one that I was saving to have with someone near and dear to me–not like a girlfriend–well ok yeah, like a girlfriend, but there isn’t any sign of one of those on the path I’m walking, so then I was thinking, you know, just some random stranger I might wine and dine and seduce, but. . .alas, there isn’t even one of those. So America, I am drinking it, because who knows if I might get hit by a bus tomorrow, and I would’ve saved this effing bottle for 7 years and then died without ever knowing what it tasted like. Ergo, dammit, here I am.
Where I am sitting, where my computer is, I have paintings, many of them, adorning the walls, stacked together against file cabinets, rolled up behind bookshelves. . .some are unfinished, and every day I try to drudge up the desire to work on them, but. . .I can’t. I’m not sure why. Although it might have something to do with the question. You know the one I’m talking about don’t you? As Trinity said to Neo, “It’s the question that drives us.” The question, the one about purpose, about destiny, about belonging, and the reason behind it all, behind the pain, behind the bad experiences that litter our histories like carrion, behind every secret in every shoebox under every bed that cannot be reopened for fear of the wound being reopened, that cannot be brought into the light for fear of the truth blinding us (how did Dickinson know? she never left the house!), what we attempt to crush under the weight of a naked body, or a bottle of Jack Daniels, or a hookah full of vodka, or a 1998 cab franc. . .the question that we long to answer but run from when it rears its ugly head. Is there an answer? or is it just us, screaming into the abyss, calling out for a bit of something precious in an empty mine shaft devoid of anything but the echo of the same bald question. . .
Speaking of bald, I wonder if I can trade any of this wine for Rogaine.
Maybe these paintings should remain unfinished, as I am unfinished. Maybe they should be my legacy, like the start of a sentence, like the first few bars of a great pop song, and let that be that. No denouement, no fruition. Would it be that bad? Would anyone know the difference? They see me, do they not? And what am I, but incomplete? What am I, but a sentence stopped in mid”
Well, it’s been 14 years since I wrote those words, and thankfully there’s been no need for Rogaine in that time. And as far as ‘being unfinished’ goes, these days I feel pretty much done. Stick a fork in me. The question I referred to way back then–the one that dare not be spoken–was “Will this sense of crushing loneliness ever end?” or more specifically, “Will I ever have someone to hold, someone to connect with, someone who’ll place her head on my chest in an act of complete trust and acceptance?” Flash forward to 2019, and I have six of them. They take turns coming over Sunday through Friday, and I keep Saturday for myself. So far, Thailand has been the answer to all of my problems.
And Jeezum-crow, how happy am I today that I didn’t get that home loan? I’d be half-way through a 30-year mortgage, trapped in that hellhole (Los Angeles) with nothing good in my life except wine. It’s true that by moving here I had to give up easy access to quality vino. But that sacrifice pales in comparison to all the good gifts Thailand presents every single day, usually on my doorstep, and usually dressed in a tank top and short-shorts. So let’s all be grateful that we found our way through this wild world to the best of all destinations. That shining beacon of freedom, stress-free living, and super-hot chicks known as Thailand.