November 1, 2019 By bangkok7
Happy Friday, internet roamer. You’ve found your way to my frowback series—at present, a collection of blogs that harken back to my days as a deperate misanthrope in Los Angeles, before I got wise and came to this dreamlike paradise called Thailand.
Back in the US, my life consisted mostly of solitary contemplation complimented with expensive wine. Occasionally, though, a pretty young female did happen to pass by and get briefly entangled in my lecherous web. The following excerpt from my 2000s diary records the appearance of one such lass and her finite influence on my senses and my sense of self, and as I so melodramatically explain, finding her was a complete accident.
“Wednesday, February 15, 2006
In the wine store the other day I meant to pick up a Robert Sinskey Pinot Noir, and accidentally grabbed one from Buellton whose grapes were grown in the Santa Rita Hills. Not surprisingly, I was dismayed. The worst thing a wine snob can do is buy a wine by mistake. I thoroughly test and retest them before purchasing, and I cursed up a storm when I pulled this one from the cellar.
Happily though, it’s been delightful. Only a slightly overheated flavor, as if the grapes endured a long hot summer on the vine. Apart from that, a genuine surprise, which in my life are few and far between. Love, I have found, has been like that. Accidental. Unintended. A surprise. A shock to the system. Most times I haven’t even known it was happening until it was too late to turn back. Too late to protest, my fragile heart neck-deep ere I know what’s sunk me. Picture Helen Keller as captain of the Bounty and you’ve got it. Problem is, it feels so much like being helpless, in my old age, I tend to shrink from it in defense.
You are an accident to me. You surprised me with your beauty, with an expression that invaded my world like a lone conqueror. Shameless and unafraid. I started. I blinked. I stood awed. Covered, as always in sardonic rhetoric, but there just the same, simmering beneath my skin like slow-burning embers. Then you walked out the door with pride, the victor, resolute yet alone, satisfied yet unfulfilled. Leaving me straining at the sinews, screaming your praise and calling out for a life preserver.
The wine sinks into my bones. Saturates the edges of my tongue, floods the walls of this chamber, the Wednesday atrium. Like a bottled vampire is my lover, breathing life in a dead heart. She sings an elegy to me, sweetly, in the key of raspberry and smoke. From palate to eyes, it permeates diffusing and suffusing, seducing and dreaming a dream for my shattered senses, licking the wounds of the past like acceptance of shame, like approval of scars. This is who I am. Who will embrace it? Who will step forward? Who will answer my call? Will it be you? Do you see in me what I long for you to see even as I hide it among the shadows of the tombstones in my mind? Can you penetrate the propaganda? Will you break down my philosophy and rename my ideals? Can you let go of your dogma and replace it with this, my heart’s elegy, my soliloquy, my joy, my pain?
Put your ass on the line. I dare you. I beg you. This thing, between you and I. . .it’s no accident.”
This little dalliance would prove to send my world into a spiral that I only recovered from by moving to Thailand. When it ended, I first retreated to the UK and spent a year in exile on that isle. Then I did a brief stint in Korea. Following that, I dropped off the grid and bummed around the beaches of Central America for a while. And then, finally, I found where I truly belong—the land of smiles. Tune in next Friday to see how my final liaison with a lady farang ended (spoiler alert—it was bad), and swing back by on Sunday for the weekly. In between time, keep your balls warm, your beer frosty, and cheers to all the girls we’ve loved before. Especially the Thai ones. Peace!