Greetings programs, it’s me Seven, reporting from the red-light grid. I’ve found that it’s good for me to, from time to time, reflect back on the hellscape that I escaped from when relocating from California to Bangkok. It renews my appreciation for this Shangri-la of shagging. This Eden for hedonists. This haven for the craven. One way to do that is to re-examine one of my bloviating blogs (blogviations for short, copyright BKK7) from that desperate, desolate time way back in the early 2000s, before I got wise and went trans-Pacific. Back then my coping mechanism was wine. I drank my blues into remission nightly, and somewhere between speeding home from work and passing out with the empty bottle in the bed, I’d clack away at the computer and spit out something doleful. The piece below was fashioned in the dead of winter on what I’m sure was a bleak, lonesome night, with a playlist warbling in the background. Let’s take a gander…
“Friday, January 27, 2006 Current mood: bitchy
That Old Fashion Vino
There’s a song by a new artist, Jolie Holland, that goes, “Gimme that old fashion morphine.” I can empathize. I don’t do drugs, never have, never will. For me, it’s wine all the way. Natural. Like God intended. I’m currently enjoying a central coast blend from La Fond (just outside Buellton). It’s magically delicious. Blueberries, vanilla, and a cherry finish. Que dolce far niente.
So right now in class I’m showing my students “The Matrix” to coincide with our study of philosophy (Plato’s Cave, Descartes’ Clockwork Universe, and Hume’s decimation of causality), so I’ve got escapism on the brain. What cattle we humans are. What variety of illusion and distraction we construct for our feeble psychology. Yet how easily the bitter taste of life can be coated in a mouthful of Petite Sirah.
I know what was missing from Plato’s tripartite soul. Why Socrates couldn’t nail down an answer to truth. Why Descartes just HAD to find God in everything. The answer is time. Every new moment brings enlightenment and disillusionment. So many people dwell on the past, on lost moments, islands of time held onto and held onto like floating wreckage, and survivors unable to let go and swim for land, too afraid of the dark while at the same time mesmerized by the beauty of the night sky. Is that the answer? Is there enough beauty in the breakdown to validate ones drowning in isolation (desolation)? Hume said there is no way to foretell the future–that we don’t even know if the sun will rise tomorrow yet we believe it will based on the patterns of the past.
How many of us would kill to break free from the patterns of our past? Am I certain to choose a heartless lover the same as the sun is certain to rise tomorrow? Will God inevitably thwart my next effort to find happiness/earn capital/avoid destruction the same as He always has? Will women shun me while at the same time pining for men like me as they dash their hearts against the craggy shards of lesser fools? It’s a vicious cycle, and I am no optimist. I leave that to liberals and teenagers. But give me a corner of heaven, is that too much to ask? A taste, a glimpse. A friend with benefits. Why is that such a crime, goddam it? The women, they fuss and preen, and play hard to get. You know what? F*ck you then. This is the 21st Century. Why, oh-why, should I spend my hard-earned time trying to ‘get’ you? Like I’m some kind of golden retriever, are you kidding? Life is short. Life is long. Life is a grindstone, a spot on the drywall, a hissing expulsion of gas, and you want me to dance for you? Play a game, run a maze? Are you shitting me? Life is already a clusterf*ck, I already want to kill everyone on the freeway, I don’t need to see my path to intimacy as a combat zone.
There is a light in the darkness. It’s small, and it’s far off, yet if you make an effort, you can find it. But if you don’t, if you embrace the dark, I won’t talk shit about you. In fact, I might follow you into the shadows. At least there, I won’t have to look into the face of humanity, or worry that you’ll see the shame and defeat in mine. Take me into the cave. Plug me back into the Matrix. At least I might find someone there, however imaginary. However fictional, not as fictional as love. As monogamy. As honesty.
God help us for being so small. God help me for living the best years of my life in the 90’s. This wine is a gift. 2001 was a good year for California red. It stains the glass. It soothes the senses. A balm for what ails me. A veil over the moment. Like a body bag.”
To read this now, as a full-fledged pimp daddy with a harem of doting hotties, I’m amazed and chagrined that back then I would’ve settled for a half-decent friend with benefits. It’s also astounding that I foolishly believed the “journey” of life was some kind of philosophical pilgrimage to the footstool of one pretty young thing or other. Today I sit upon a throne of conquests with scantily-clad hard-bodies kneeling at my feet and grasping for my junk. All I can say is, thank the Lord for Thailand.
Swing back by on Sunday for the weekly, and cheers to another week above ground and fit to pound in this, the greatest garden of girl gash in the galaxy—Thailand.