Hey bros, what’s up. It’s Seven, with another frowback to those morose days when I was stuck in Los Angeles, eking out brief moments of ecstasy interspersed with long stretches of wretched solitude. When this particular blog got shat onto the internet, I was smack in the middle of my last relationship with a Caucasian girl, after which I swore them off for good. Little did I know that at the time, she already had one foot out the door. She was cheating on her boyfriend with me. I was her side piece, providing something she perceived to be missing, so there were times when she’d disappear to go live her real life, and in her absence I’d try and fail to replace her by creating brief encounters with exes.
“Wednesday, November 29, 2006 Current mood: contemplative
The wine that is and never will be
The wine cellar is filling up. Owen Roe–Abbott’s Table. Orin Swift–Prisoner. Heidi Barrett–Showket Cab. Robert Sinskey, JRE, Tandem, Goldeneye, Concilience. I am drinking precisely none of it.
Rum is what I’m on. And not good rum, at that. The treasure trove of wine at my fingertips feels like an undiscovered country. I have an overwhelming sense of doom, of inevitability, of the other shoe dropping. I believe this wine will go unenjoyed the same way my novel will go unread and my paintings will go unseen. Sweet, sweet secrets.
Lately I have taken up a routine. I walk on the beach for half the day (I know, very Prufrock-esque), getting trim and tan for no one to notice or indulge in. I think out my philosophy in footfalls, in the soft crunch of Zuma sand muffled by my mp3 player. I see the same faces–Malibu regulars either fishing, jogging, or reading, random couples all different but with that same “wonder-whether-it-will-last” expression between them. Homeless men wrapped in sandy sleeping bags. Sea lions, seagulls, dolphins, and surfers. And me and my rhythmic footsteps. The cold, deserted beach is allegorical. It’s a still-life of my life.
After the beach I take the long route home. It winds through the mountains and I’ll not say where (I don’t want you bogarting my solitude) and then I come home for a gratuitous phone call to the family and various responses to semi-interested parties. If I’m unlucky I have an encounter–usually formulated and exhausting–after which I usher said unwanted appendage out the door and cling to silence like a shipwreck victim to floating debris. I make up for the absence of the one I can’t have by painting her as I want to see her–naked and lying in my bed. Then the sun goes down and I am able to pursue the living suicide of alcohol. The elixir of coma. Where I want to be.
Love is a farce. Friendship is an illusion. Connection is a self-lie. It all amounts to one thing–a drug of choice. Denial of verisimilitude. Finite, illusive, illusory, delusional. Diluted. Divergent. My weakness, as it has always been, is belief. I believe too much. I believe in others, in myself, in cliches, in ideals. Foolish, prating, pernicious (I read Hamlet recently). Had I the strength to laugh, I would mock myself. People are in pain, and I am in a vortex. How can I complain? I have no right to write, and yet what else can I do? I am inept. I am trapped in my nightmares. I fear sleep yet bludgeon my conscious with a blind and blinding fury. Escape is impossible. The rum makes me wretch. The wine needs to age at least a year. I am lost for what to do.”
I really like this one, because it’s a stark reminder that I should and am grateful for Thailand. Coming here saved me. I was literally and metaphorically plucked from my awful circumstances and placed into a perfectly opposite environment. From an overabundance of great wine and sparse, sporadic romantic encounters to a dearth of wine and more gorgeous concubines than any one person would ever need. Thank God for Thailand, friends and neighbors. It is no less than a cure for unhappiness. Swing by on Sunday for the weekly, and here’s to 7 more days above ground in the best place on Earth. Cheers.