Delirium Days Part 9

Well hello there, friend. Thanks for stopping by Bangkok Seven’s record of his life before Thailand. 99% of it was misery, being that I lived in Los Angeles, a kingdom of vapid, self-absorbed, status-obsessed, money grubbing females who for the most part never deigned to look in my direction. Occasionally, however, I did manage to lure one into my circle for a brief respite from isolation. Last week’s frowback marked the start of one such encounter. This week, the tale continues, motoring along to its inevitable destructive end. It was written while in the midst of that wild ride, before the crash, when the pervading emotion was exhilaration. The girl in question was cheating on her boyfriend with me, so I only got to see her in short, unplanned bursts when she could sneak away from him. The affair lasted two years, which for me meant months of uncertainty, of being on call, of waiting in the wings for my brief scene before retreating back behind the curtain. And it played havoc with my psyche, as you will see…

“Monday, August 28, 2006 Current mood: maudlin

new blog, old Epiphany

Epiphany is the winery, in lovely Los Olivos.  The son of the famous Fess Parker (aka Disney’s Davey Crockett) and avant-garde wine maker has created a petite sirah worth mentioning.  And your intrepid winographer has picked up the gauntlet after months of blissful sabbatical from soul searching.  Lost have I been, in the wasteland of the Valley, tiptoeing through my right brain like a minefield, scarcely peeking over the hedges of self-indulgence trimmed trimly round my conscious, skipping through a foliage-maze (I have visions of The Shining) created by unrecorded debauchery and trips to wine country, having returned with a trunkfull of delicious elixirs and imbibing of them over warm naked flesh.  A kiss is certainly sweetest when tinged with wine.

So back to the wine.  It is deep purple.  It stained my tongue for 10 hours.  I taste chocolate, plum, a hint of vanilla and tobacco, boysenberry and black currant–what I imagine garnets to taste like, were they edible.  It coats the cerebrum.  It strengthens one’s resolve.  Like a candle in the dark.  The back alleys of my self-image.  Throwing light on what I hide as if the light might let it escape.  As if my own memories are as we speak digging at the fences, biding their time, waiting to make a run for it.  Away from my reality.  Ha!  Reality.  As if I even had a grasp of whatever that is.

I have raced through the summer like a muscle car through a Kanan tunnel, barely remembering to breathe for fear of losing my breath.  It has been a blur–a respite from solitude, yet to be truthful, nearly all together alone.  She is here but she is not.  She speaks and it is an echo.  She is divine and she is absent.  She is absent-minded and sporadically laying against me.  Her body like a gift.  Her touch is hypnotic.  Her skin tastes like a dream.  She proves herself on celluloid.  A record of her presence.  The beach?  Oh she was there, see exhibit A.  Dinner?  Why yes, see here, she had the salad.  It’s in the camera.  She was even at Epiphany, when this wine was purchased.  She laughed at my jokes.  Her hand rested on my thigh through Cachuma.  There’s pictures of us at the rest stop.  She flowed like the wine.  She’s naked in the hotel mirror.  The flash almost obscures.  She makes me heady, like the petite sirah.  Intoxicating is what she is.  Everyone sees it.  Every man longs for it, for her, to drink her. They lose their senses clamoring for her.  And yet she is mine, sometimes.  Like a light switch, on–off–on–off.  I never know when or for how long and when it’s light I drink without breathing and when it’s dark I quell my thirst with other things.  With Epiphany.  It’s nothing new.  It rises up as if from ashes, reborn and familiar, a lover in its own right.

It is either feast or famine.  Either too much to take or silent as the desert.  Desolate.  Isolated.  I entertain my dreams in the interim.  They are resilient.  They are resolute.  They vie for attention and they have their place.  I value them like a couch potato values re-runs.  Memories like commercials but the pillow still smells like you-know-who-you-are.  You ebb and flow like this wine in my veins.  I wish I could be addicted.  I wish for one last gasp of youth, for the chance to believe in something more.  But as it is, it is enough.  Sweet and sporadic, like morse code-kisses.  Like your body in intervals, drinking you in binges.  Of all my vices, I like you best.  Even better than this Epiphany.”

That life, back then, of watching her walk to her car never knowing when or if I’d see the girl again, was like a thousand small acts of torture in between moments of profound ecstasy. I thought at the time that the highs justified the lows. I thought that was the best I could hope for. That that’s just life for guys like me. And then I found Thailand and acquired a harem, and life has been nothing short of perfect every day since. Here’s to us, gentlemen. We lucky few who have escaped the Matrix of the West and broken out of the prison that Western women constructed for us. Hallelujah, we are free.

Swing by on Friday for the weekly, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.