Kerouac Attack

The light of the downing sun flickers palm tree shadows on the wall in the shapes of twisted bar windows, giant banana leaves sweeping in the breeze, in this moment I am peace, so peaceful with my lonesome traveler, Jack Kerouac on the top of Seattle mountains and the Avalokiteshvara bear there beside him, invisible, invincible, and yes I am there too, with the coffee boiling black and bubbles dark brown, I am there, in the scraps of torn wet books shredded by mountain mice in the pouring rain.  I am there, in the fresh buckets of snow and chilled morning sunlight.  I am there with my family in Colorado watching them sleep, watching my father toss and turn in perpetual dream, I am there under the Midwestern American skies watching the stars shine so clearly, not a cloud in sight, on Kev's birthday I am there to sing. Listening to Moby, In my heart, in my head, earbuds spread the tune, I am there with the wisdom of the bright moon, the pale sliver of peace hanging night light of the world, I am there with T.S. Eliot’s yellow smoke curled about the windowpanes, the oyster shells, yes, the coffee spoons, yes I am there, measuring my life, biding this precious time digging for seashells and calling mermaids to sing to me dreams of the Disney undersea, I am there with Robert Frost digging his son’s grave, listening to blue birds and babbling broken brooks fade into forests, and I am there with him in the night, when he walks alone looking into other people’s abodes and wondering, I am the youthful face he turns to, and I am there that visionary, that luminous clock the moon waiting for him in the black bedroom.  Yes, in my heart, in my heart I am there, I am all of these things, I am a fresh spring air William C. Williams come to share new life, I am there, I am everywhere as God and God is within me, that feeling free, loving just to be, being just to love, and prayers for the luck floating just above each move I make, constantly directed, not knowing which path to take, but just the option of so many paths, so many people to love, so many things to have, magic two hands and fingers, and I am there with Benjamin in his pornographic pieces of me, Marquis de Sade decipherings, I am there with his big bear arms, his strong charm enchanting, I am there with all the raging and ranting, political rallies coasting east, police forcing mase on wallstreets, I am there too.  I could be you, could be so Van Goh blushing blue or mossy Picassy green, dirty or clean, anything, I could.  I am.  There with the wine-red blood that Christ bled, under the tree enlightening Buddha, I am Moses parting the waters, I am the epic poet plotters weaving the loom, I am every sailor reading the moon and stars to tell us where we are. It’s in my heart, in my heart.  Working together, whether alone or apart, oh Frost I am there. Oh Eliot, my air, prelude to a thousand gold-flecked stairs, walk me up the pinnacled temple to share spectacular views, we can stare for hours, absorb the potent peace powder, then go home and snooze on the couch, like my little brother, mouth slobber one eye slit barely open.  I am every wrecked and reborn lover, I am turning into my mother and it makes me proud.  Downward dog, the yoga mat, I am the mad hatter’s purple hat, the caterpillar smoking sheesh, the mushroom cap, ecstatic release, I am that perfect peace.  I am the visionary.  And you are with me there, you are with me here, Dr. Suess trees everywhere, Shel Silverstein streaks in my hair.  I am there. I am there.  I am there.  So much literature I can hardly bare to let it go.  Hardly know how to breathe when the magic sneaks up on me like this.  How filled I am with the people I miss.  How twisting it is, this traveler’s business, this seeing the globe, this longing for home.  How twisting.  How, oh lord, am I even existing? 

Books and Floods

I’ve not written in quite some time.  I suppose I have been on a reading spree lately.  Here is a list of all the works I’ve read in the last few months: 

Bangkok Noir short story collection

Are You There Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea

Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

Tom Robbins- Jitterbug Perfume

David Sedaris- Naked

Adrienne Rich- Poetry and Commitment

Kahlil Gibran- The Forerunner

Willa Cather- My Antonia

The Watchmen graphic novel

The Sword comic book series

Michael Chabon- Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay

Cormac McCarthy- All the Pretty Horses

Lander- Stuff White People Like

Bangkok: A Cultural History

The King Kong Effect- Paul Adirex

Demo comic book

Less Than Zero- Bret Easton Ellis

John Irving – The World According to Garp

Maxine Kingston- The Woman Warrior

All of those books are now forever locked in my heart.  It’s no use going through which ones are the best, because so many of them are simply incredible stories by magnificent storytellers.  I think storytelling is the coolest, most important job any culture can have.  My dad is a great storyteller.  I have some of his stories recorded in mp3 format and I listen to them whenever I get homesick. 

This week was the start of finals.  I can’t believe we are already done with our semester.  The time here plays tricks on you.  Sometimes it seems so slow, like a camel walking drunk and exhausted through the desert, or a river lazily meandering the countryside.  Other times I look at the calendar and it has swept by as swift as an afternoon monsoon. 

I will miss my kids.  But I grow tired of this small town.  Tired and restless.  Ready for the next adventure in the big city of Bangkok.  These past few weeks have been a tedious preparing for job interviews, endless applying, editing and further editing of my resume and curriculum vitae, making sure I have all the proper documents.  Nothing makes me feel as much like an adult as looking for work.  Even teaching, while I am an authority, affords me a playful environment where I get to be silly when I feel like being silly.  I tire of having to work for a living at all.  But then again, money doesn’t buy happiness, and I am hard pressed to admit that I would be the same person had I been born into wealth and worklessness.

We’ve been warned that the damn in the big river may not hold if it rains tonight.  We’ve been warned to be prepared for a flood that may move two or three feet high through the house.  We are watching and preparing accordingly.  The older teachers showed us pictures of a flood that happened here in 2005, before the tsunami in the south.  It was a proper flood, the water level halfway up to the air-conditioning units installed in the walls, furniture inside the office floating around.  I must admit, it is quite scary.  I don’t have much, but the things I do have are so important to me (computer, journal, technology, music, kindle, maps and books) that it is nigh impossible to imagine having them destroyed before my very eyes.  And then again, could I climb a palm tree if I had to?

A word to the wise: backup backup backup.  Everything technology related you can at least find free or cheap ways to backup online.  And then if the internet crashes all over the world, I suppose we are all fucked.  It’s kind of sad and scary how much of our cultural memory is now stored in digital form, how technologically dependent most of us are.  What would happen to the modern world if the system went down?  Chaos perhaps, a kind of time travel back to pre-industriality.  Then again, being in this particular part of the world, even with internet access (most of the time) and all my kids having two cell phones, I still feel an old world feeling that seems to seep into everything.  A world where spirits and back breaking labor and hunger are still the mainstays of the everyday pattern. 

In other news, I have been learning Thai for about a month now.  It’s a pretty laid back deal, the guy just moved here from Bangkok and his English is fluent.  He was looking for someone to practice English with, so there is no money involved, just a linguistic exchange.  I suppose, however, that I have the better end of this deal, because not only do I get to learn the most difficult parts of the language for free (the script and the tones), but his mom is a great cook and always cooks for me. 

The first time we went to his house, I brought my roomies, and she made us Massaman curry.  The other times I have gone alone and was able to experience homemade green curry, tom yam gung (spicy shrimp soup), and some other things that I wish I could identify better: gourd mixed with egg and spicy sauce, some other exotic vegetable in a sweet sauce – yeah, I will have to ask again.  The dishes here all have a specific name, so it’s never just “gourd with egg” because they probably have five other dishes that use “gourd and egg” too. 

Ok well I think I am going to take a drive and check up on this “flood.”