December 30, 2019 By bangkok7
Hey everyone, I’m Seven and this is my blog. On Fridays I’ve been posting a series dedicated to illustrating the difference between the misery of my past life in America with my now blissful existence in Thailand. The current series is called Delirium Days. It’s a collection of old blogs I wrote while living in Los Angeles, where I self-medicated with wine to compensate for my sense of loss and isolation. Today isn’t Friday, but it feels a bit like one, as tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, so I’m gonna go ahead and post one more chapter of DD. This is Part 17 and like the previous two, I was drinking wine and got more drunk and incoherent as I wrote, and I turned to speaking directly to my ex at the end. It was in the middle of writing this blog that I finally admitted to myself that she was gone for good…
“Saturday, April 07, 2007 Current mood: morose
Sex in a bottle
I am not an alcoholic. This depresses me a bit, because it diminishes my credibility when I write about wine. I feel like a charlatan. Like I have less right to wield the glass and the pen in concert. Like Hemmingway is rolling over in his grave. But when I taste the right flavor at the right moment—a moment mixed with solitude, hate for those I love, and not too much melodrama—I can’t help it. The keyboard begins to clack. They say pinot noir is like sex in a bottle, that it makes one wax romantic. But since I abhor romance, I cannot say what waxes within. But at least it’s something.
An artist has to be kicked. When all is well and humming along in stasis, nothing happens. The muse is in limbo. Kinetic but static like a coma. It takes a spark—an impetus to get the work out of the dark and into the world. The easiest of these, of course, is pain. Heartache is a catalyst and a crucible. But there are other things. For me, there’s wine. And the infectious art of others. Bukowski. Roxy Music. A glimpse of a Basquiat painting and I’m off and running. It’s like osmosis. Like smelling salts. I’m suddenly awake, and the pen is scribbling or the brush is on the canvas.
The cruelty of women used to be cause #1, but not anymore. I have one girl to thank for that two-edged truth. She left so slowly and sweetly that all trace of her was gone before I even knew it was over. And somehow it has inoculated me against all other agony at the hands of women. The upside is, my heart no longer bursts with the anguish of being rejected. The pain is replaced with a sort of static, like an air conditioner out of Freon blowing a breeze at room temperature. Like my chest is plexi-glass and empty. The downside is, what’s left of my heart is so punch-drunk and semi-conscious that there is little hope for ever really feeling love again. Instead, I slake my desire with the wine. It comforts the same way the women in my life do. Fleetingly. Saying goodbye as they are saying hello, loading their pockets with my knickknacks as they edge toward the door. I hate them and I long for them. Like youth and memory and worth, they slide away.
The pinot is from Opolo, and no, it’s not Goldeneye, or Viader, or Showkett. But sometimes when your expectations are low and you’re surprised, the effect is that you think you’ve really got something. So here I am with a garnet treasure. I taste smoky pomegranate, raspberries, earth, even a mild hint of chocolate and a warm nutty finish. It’s supple and lithe on the tongue. It slips away from me unawares like the girl slipped away, leaving hints of her perfume on my sheets and clothes the way the wine lingers in my nose and throat. A seductive goodbye. How I’d choose to be abandoned, were I consulted. In this case I was not. She was out of reach before I knew she was gone, her promise to return as palpable as this wine but as empty as the glass.
I know I am nothing to you. That every moment, every savored kiss, every time you cried in my arms and cried out in ecstasy at my touch is worthless to you. Ridiculous, like commercials on your screen between the important episodes of your days. You never wanted my love, just what I could give your body in the stolen moments of an afternoon. You find no value in that, in me, in us. You spit it out and give it no thought. But I want you to know something. I relish the taste of your skin. The sound of your moan in my ear, the softness of your lips, the weight of your body on mine. The song of your laughter, the sweeping illumination of your smile like clouds releasing the sun I sounded into you to the depths of your potential I know there is a heart in there that you hate and hide and drown in vodka and cement over with trysts and strangers and a boyfriend you pity. Your self-loathing is so thick I can taste it when I lick your thigh I see it in the strength with which you fight the straps I use to tie you to the bed. I see your grief like Morse code along your spine when I caress your back I feel it when you collapse beneath me I catch it in the corner of your eye before you fall asleep.
What I want you to know, what I will never tell you, what you don’t want to hear is that even as it ends, even as you pass out of sight like the sun spun away from me, what you don’t dare to dream of, what you’d never ask for because you think you’re unworthy, what would heal your heart and burn you alive is the fact that even though you’d hate me for doing it, and even though it will never happen,
I could have loved you.
But instead there is only an empty glass, and my muse sung back to sleep.”
I find it both interesting and sad that, once I realized my relationship was over, I immediately turned to painting as a distraction. At the time, I believed that great art could only come from great pain, and so turned to channel my sense of loss into my creative work. Fittingly, in 2019 I started painting again, and have exhibitions ongoing here in BKK. And none of my current work springs from pain. Rather, it’s a celebration of the contentment I feel for my life now—a life rife with the affection of women, the thrill of nightlife, and the blissful fulfillment of a life less ordinary. Thank God that farang woman left me, because if she hadn’t, I’d probably still be hopelessly addicted to her, broke and irrelevant, dysfunctional and empty. Instead, her rejection propelled me out into the world where I was able to find direction, a direction that led me inevitably to the greatest place on Earth: Thailand.