There is an old saying, that we are judged by the company we keep. If true, I tell you, I must be a saint.
For my company is nothing short of divine.
* * *
My birthday has always been important to me. I don’t always say it – in fact, between you and me, until now I’ve never really said it – but it is. Has been and will be. Every year, when it comes around, I see it a month ahead of time. I’ll never “forget it” like I’ve seen some people forget theirs, and I’m embarrassed to say I do notice when others do forget mine. (Though, I’d like to think my vanity is rather in check on those occasions). I know that it’s “just a day” and I know that at the end of it, another one will appear. I know how important it is that we put emphasis on our lives rather than on a calendar. But you know what? Even knowing all that, I’ve never been able to shake the importance of March 28th.
I suppose, were I to sit and wonder why, I’d say that it’s important because it gives me a chance to be legitimately selfish. Not materially selfish (though, in that I’ve always been lucky), but reflectively selfish. Easter is about Hershey’s Eggies, Christmas is about giving and expressing love, and birthdays are a time for us to hold up metaphorical mirrors. Mirrors and windows.
“When God closes a door, he opens a window.”
I don’t believe in God, of course. And if he did exist, I certainly wouldn’t blame him for my recent struggles or my reasons to celebrate. But if we’re going to lean on the expression, as I’m want to do, I have to say that for all the doors I’ve had slammed on my face in the past year, I’ve been absolutely blown away by the number of people who keep an open window in my life’s house.
Part One – Windows
It is both a common courtesy and curiosity to ask what one does for their birthday. “Do you have any plans?” “ What did you get up to?” The expectation is that on this day of days, you should be indulging. If you’re a drinker, you should have a can of your favourite beer open before noon. If you’re a lounger, there had better be a massage on the list. Books or booze, birthday blow-jobs or solo hikes. As long as you get to celebrate.
With that pre-disposition I know it must sound odd that prior to my evening outings, I spent my birthday baby-sitting. That sounds like work, and to any true bachelor (as my friend recounts), detestable work. But it’s not.
See, until March 28th, I’d never baby-sat before. I’d helped out. I’d been around others who were. I’d been shown the ropes. But I’d never done it on my own. My two married friends of very long standing had purchased a house recently and were moving in. And, on my birthday, some of their moving plans got re-arranged and they would be much easier to resolve if they had had a baby-sitter. So they asked me.
I can’t think of a better birthday gift. My two friends entrusted me with the life of their 8 month old son. They trusted me to protect and provide for him, look after him and look over him. For about 7 daytime hours, I was given the privilege of interacting with this child – this new life, and this continuation of my two friends – on my own. Just him and me, in their new house. In his new house. Being a welcome and invited part of that has value beyond measure.
He couldn’t help but have my entire focus and attention. His wide-as-the-world grin has more beauty than the view from the top of Notre Dame and his curious eyes are more awe-inspiring than its stained glass insides. I know, because I’ve seen both.
I can read a book any day.
Part Two – Mirrors
The word I kept thinking of that evening was “blessed.” I hardly ever organize a party, let alone for myself. But I wanted celebrate with everyone this time around, and that meant celebrating everyone that made me, me. I wanted to celebrate all of the wonderful experiences I’ve been able to have and expose everyone to all of the other amazing people I know. So, I tossed out a few invites for the evening at my favourite pacho-pub. No one was to feel pressured: pressured to come, pressured to stay, pressured to spend money, pressured to drink, pressured to be anyone but themselves.
I was absolutely blown away by the response. As I took a moment to digest a shot of Butterscotch Ripple and Crown, I looked over at the tables filled with my friends, acquaintances, and family. I was giddy. School girl giddy.
There, in the reflection of my life, I recognized what I had always known: that I have received the company of some of the most brilliant, wonderful, talented, moral, honest, passionate, well-meaning, devout, and capable people that there ever was. This sounds like empty flattery – just big words. But spending time with these people, listening to their stories, being influenced by their struggles, seeing their trials and experiencing their passion... reminds me that those big words aren’t nearly big enough.
And they all wanted to come out to my birthday.
My dad once said that there is a difference between knowing it’s raining, and getting wet. Well, all my life I’ve watched the rain come down around me – but that night, I was soaked.
Part Three – Doors
One of my favourite characteristics of Hell has always been that its doors are locked from the inside. That God doesn’t put us in Hell, he wants us to be out of there: free and happy. But only we can open those doors, because we’re the ones that lock it.
You don’t need to be religious to appreciate that sentiment. You just have to believe in free will.
I don’t always understand why doors close, but I think we lock them for lots of different reasons. To protect ourselves. To bar entry from all the scary things out there in the world. To stop bad people from coming into our lives, or bad thoughts from entering our minds. There are a lot of bad people and countless bad thoughts and it can all be very, very scary. I certainly have no problem understanding why someone would want to keep a door closed. We might even be convinced that doors closing are blessings.
I don’t know. Maybe they are.
But I don’t think so. If I, myself, locked the doors that others had shut on me, where would I be? What would I have done? Only made myself a prisoner: never to experience what I see out the window, and always hating what I see in mirrors.
If there is a time and a place to close and lock a door, I’ll relent. But my 26th birthday taught me that I should always keep the keys handy.
And otherwise, it's an open house.
* * *
Epilogue
Thank you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio..."
While sitting on a couch I hadn’t sat in before, a monologue on a TV show that I don’t normally watch, quoting a line from literature that I’d never read, told me: we are a single life weaving together with all others, a tapestry.
Do you believe in destiny?
I don’t believe that the keys to our existence are found in the scientific belief of inevitable cause and effect. I also don’t think that there is an eternal, all powerful being that is externally guiding us through hula-hoops of purpose. Both of these explain – and explain wonderfully – our existence. But neither endows me with the sense of trust that the word “destiny” ought to.
This sense of trust that I do, in fact, have.
In a book I did read the protagonist had a choice. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, so to speak. And the traveller, on about page 56, he made a decision. That decision led to his meeting someone, which led to another decision, which led to the end of the book. When I closed the book, and put it on the shelf, the protagonist had finished his life. As far as I knew, he had lived, and he had made choices, and then he had died. It was beautiful.
It is true that he lived, purely because the author had created him. If there had never been an all powerful being externally guiding him through the hula-hoops of chapter headings, he would have never had the opportunity to make a decision. Prior to the work of this diligent creator, he existed only as a dream.
It is true that had I never finished the book, he would never have died. As the reader, I witnessed the inevitable cause and effect that his life had been victim to. As I turned every page, I saw that his life was written in stone, and could not have been any other way. For truly, when have you ever known a book to change its words?
But why did my young traveller, on about page 56, take the road less travelled? Was his choice free? Did he really make it? Was it ultimately meaningful? If no one ever read the book, would it have happened? Did it really happen at all, since I found the account in the Fiction section of the bookstore?
I don’t know. And though I want to get into all of my answers for the subsequent questions (yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes), none of them really matter. No answer, no matter how profound, pinpoints exactly why I enjoy an idea of destiny. It’s not about being trapped against my will, or glorifying my will. It’s about recognizing that I am a player in a story.
Maybe no one will read it. Maybe no one’s really writing it. Maybe I have a choice, or maybe I just think I do. Maybe I take the road less traveled, or maybe I take the road that everyone else took. But I am in a book. Its chapters are years long, and it has numerous plots and sub-plots. Sometimes I’m a main character, sometimes I’m that quirky guy on the side, and sometimes my role is barely noticed at all.
It’s the biggest book that there ever was, and we’re in it. That’s destiny.
- Z
Do you believe in destiny?
I don’t believe that the keys to our existence are found in the scientific belief of inevitable cause and effect. I also don’t think that there is an eternal, all powerful being that is externally guiding us through hula-hoops of purpose. Both of these explain – and explain wonderfully – our existence. But neither endows me with the sense of trust that the word “destiny” ought to.
This sense of trust that I do, in fact, have.
In a book I did read the protagonist had a choice. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, so to speak. And the traveller, on about page 56, he made a decision. That decision led to his meeting someone, which led to another decision, which led to the end of the book. When I closed the book, and put it on the shelf, the protagonist had finished his life. As far as I knew, he had lived, and he had made choices, and then he had died. It was beautiful.
It is true that he lived, purely because the author had created him. If there had never been an all powerful being externally guiding him through the hula-hoops of chapter headings, he would have never had the opportunity to make a decision. Prior to the work of this diligent creator, he existed only as a dream.
It is true that had I never finished the book, he would never have died. As the reader, I witnessed the inevitable cause and effect that his life had been victim to. As I turned every page, I saw that his life was written in stone, and could not have been any other way. For truly, when have you ever known a book to change its words?
But why did my young traveller, on about page 56, take the road less travelled? Was his choice free? Did he really make it? Was it ultimately meaningful? If no one ever read the book, would it have happened? Did it really happen at all, since I found the account in the Fiction section of the bookstore?
I don’t know. And though I want to get into all of my answers for the subsequent questions (yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes), none of them really matter. No answer, no matter how profound, pinpoints exactly why I enjoy an idea of destiny. It’s not about being trapped against my will, or glorifying my will. It’s about recognizing that I am a player in a story.
Maybe no one will read it. Maybe no one’s really writing it. Maybe I have a choice, or maybe I just think I do. Maybe I take the road less traveled, or maybe I take the road that everyone else took. But I am in a book. Its chapters are years long, and it has numerous plots and sub-plots. Sometimes I’m a main character, sometimes I’m that quirky guy on the side, and sometimes my role is barely noticed at all.
It’s the biggest book that there ever was, and we’re in it. That’s destiny.
- Z
Monday, March 15, 2010
Dawn and Twilight. Part 2.
Part 2 - Twilight.
(1)
After she laughs and we both take a swig of beer, her hand lands easily on my upper thigh. It's a practiced motion, done deftly and without hesitation. I immediately know it to be too perfect – the contact without inhibition, but also without reaction, is a dead giveaway. It's the first step into a world of evening business here in the Land of Smiles.
Of course, “giveaway” suggests that it's something that is kept hidden. That would be, in another word, incorrect. It's flouted, touted, and endlessly advertised. Not just by the girls howling after any white walker's-by, but by the many old retired men who enjoy a very cheap fuck. And here, the advice of my father's friend does ring true for these young female employees: They never fall in love with their business.
But you might not know it. Sex feeds a fish for a day, but appearing to fall in love feeds for a lifetime. That is the story of Thailand – a single white man visits, and returns married. Old men walk with women half their age and have children that could be their grand-kids, or even great-grand-kids. And they're all well fed.
The bar girls up the ante. The bars are more explicit, they need not dress up their sale of sin. After dark, there is no cultural cover to abide by. Although they sell sex figuratively and literally, they do not look like your hookers on the streets of Vancouver or New York. Their every action is sexual, but their pose, posture and prose do a fantastic job of diverting your attention away from the fact that they've “seen more pricks than a pincushion.” And in a world where our currency makes anyone with white skin rich, there are plenty of pricks.
The bar is lined with several white men well over 35. Horn-dogs, self-made “locals”, and the odd undesirable here on vacation. I can feel their “casual” gaze on me as I am attended to by the young woman. There are plenty of other targets for her, but I am obviously the most desirable. The youngest man there, I am a welcome change of pace for the girls. Probably more fun. Also my age makes me far more likely to have a cultural naiveté and closer to my sexual prime; I'm a safer financial bet for whoever wins me over.
But her hand on my thigh has the opposite effect intended. In this country, I can have sex very easily and very cheaply. There is no raw, passionate, hunt here - merely shooting fish in the barrel of your choice. Unfortunately for this business-woman, it’s the chase that I’m willing to pay for. Prey that rolls onto its back sells nothing that will sate me. The run is what builds the hunger.
She swings her leg over mine, she tries her best to convince me across our language barrier that she's genuinely interested – it's not just business. But there is no illusion and no charged give and take of sexual tension. I know my good qualities, and my bad ones, and she has touched on neither. Nothing lay hidden between the lines. The continued patronage of the older men across the way has guaranteed that she’ll never understand how important it is.
Indeed, the truth is, it isn’t really important to her. I’m a pretty small minority in her trade.
~
(2)
They call him Crazy Joe.
He seems like the stereotype of a guy that did way too many drugs and now, though clean, his brain is a little fried. An old white guy, he lives out of his bar, and has purple John Lennon glasses, greasy black hair, and shouts across the street any time he feels like it. His bar rarely has anyone in it. Joe doesn't have time or interest in employing bar-girls. The bar beside him has enough for the both of them, and he’s vocal about his distaste for them. That bar next door is his wife’s. Or ex-wife's. Their marital status is unclear.
What is clear is his attitude – he's independent, off the wall, and doesn't give a damn. Crazy Joe claims to have disproved the Big Bang theory during his PhD thesis in quantum algebra. He believes that people shouldn’t bother going to hospitals, because if you don’t go, then you can’t find out you’re sick. If you sit and have a drink, he’ll tell you all about how evolution is simply not possible while he hangs up his clock with a mirrored face. He’ll trade tidbits about getting rich in stocks while he finds you some good 40’s and 50’s music. He’ll certainly invite you to get your own beer in the back while he goes to do his own laundry. You’ll settle the tab, or you won’t. Whatever. Does it look like he cares?
He doesn’t. This is Thailand. This is the rest of his life. His advice? Make a big chunk of money while you’re young – and retire here when you’re 35.
That last one’s not so crazy.
~
(3)
The night bazaar teems with unphotographical moments. There are no statues here, no cultural icons to be noted on a map, or worth anything more than a paragraph in a Lonely Planet. But, in fact, here is everything.
Every night the whole world is put up and taken down. The chairs from rows and rows of tables are unfolded, and the stalls of food open up shortly before sundown. Every kind of food, western or otherwise, can be found and deep-fat-fried on the spot. There is Pepsi and Coke and no end to the beer. In the foreground entertainment begins and in the background an endless scaffolding of material goods for sale materializes.
The people mix intermittently. The ugly and the pretty, the old white men of means and the young women willing to follow them. The groups of locals in for an evening's beers. The proud and the quiet. And for all, the evening air is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day. Everyone smiles here. Everyone, at least for the night, is happy.
I am reminded of a short story I read once. It was about old photographs, and love. Every line was at pains to describe the thousand words that each photo held. Each word was inspired by some meaty meaning or bubbly memory. I remember reading it, yearning to see those photographs; to know life that meant so much.
As the sunset disappears behind the sight of the buildings, and the whole sky turns a subdued pink, those photographs come alive in my mind. Not everything can be captured in a picture, or in a word.
~
(4)
After the last customer is taken care of around midnight, the workers break out their own bottles. This side of the island is more tame than the north side. People go home around 11:30pm, when the tide starts coming in. As the musicians pack up their stuff and the three or four workers start bringing in the tables and chairs, glasses of rum and coke start getting passed among them. Having worked since 9am, now is finally their turn to party. By the time everything is brought in and taken care of, laughter abounds and a quarter of the tall bottle is done.
It will only take another hour to finish the other 3 quarters.
These are young people, and some things about young people are universal. The desire to cut loose and have fun is not a cultural construct. It’s a primal excitement. Another long day of 9am-midnight looming on the horizon is powerless to dissuade them. Chok Dee!
When the bottle is done, it’s time to party. Jump on the motorcycles and head to the north side. There, the clubs are still going. The music is loud, the shots are cheap, and anyone who is not sleeping is there. The dance floor is teaming with drunken white partiers, Thai island workers done for the day and lady-boys. The music is in English and everyone knows the words. Sweat drips from the bodies of laughing dancers. And when it is too much, they disrobe and head to the waves merely steps away.
Every night, the club on the beach closes at 4 with a full crowd. Every morning, the workers are awake, on time, and diligently at their posts. They catch a nap where they can, because tonight they may want to go again.
~
(5)
The best part of the island is the constant sound of the water. Nothing sounds quite like the marriage of ice in a glass and waves on the beach. I love it in the morning and in the constant heat of the afternoon sun. But I especially like it in the evening, when you can’t quite see them coming.
I don’t take any pictures of the beach like every other tourist. I need never worry about forgetting the feeling of cool water on my feet and the warm breeze against my skin. Walking along the edge of the water in the dark of night, hearing the sound of a wave crashing right before your naked feet are again refreshed; there is an indescribable peace about the experience. And it has nothing to do with a view. That’s why it can’t be captured in a photograph. That peace can’t be captured, or transported.
That is what I come to the beach for. That is what the whole journey is worth.
Everything else is a bonus.
~
(6)
It’s raining as my plane touches down in Vancouver.
Everyone stands up as soon as the plane stops. Overhead compartments must be opened. Bags must be arranged and gathered. Many are eager to get off the plane that has held them captive for over 10 hours. Others, more proactively, want to be the first in the line-up for passport checks and customs declarations; a full B747-300 makes for very long waits inside Vancouver’s terminal.
I am in a window seat. There is no need for me to rise with the rest of the crowd. Even if I had the same inclination, there is no room left in the isle for me. Outside, it is evening. It is surprising how similar every airport looks. A raindrop here splashes on the tarmac puddles and against the glass exactly the same way that it does in Taiwan. Exactly the same way it does in Thailand, and in England.
I know, because I’ve looked.
In a moment, I will lift the bag from underneath my seat, stand, and file out of the plane and into the airport. I will join a long line, smile to the custom’s officer while handing my passport over and answering polite questions about my trip. Then I will walk past the baggage claim, carrying my only backpack, and continue out into the airport proper. There I will meet my friend of over 10 years who has agreed to pick me up. In a moment, I will be home.
My father commented that when he went away on trips, he used to feel as if where he was going and where he was coming from were two totally different worlds. His whole concern and thought process was on the world he was in. Making sure everything was set and taken care of. Eventually, the time would come for him to step foot on a plane, or a boat, or into a car. As soon as he did, that world disappeared – it became a dream: real but intangible. Taking its place was the world of his destination. And when he returned, the same process would happen the other way around.
On this plane, in this moment, I am in a strange limbo. All reality and no substance. I am neither what I left behind or what lay ahead. But both of them have unmistakably brought me to where I am. I am that I am.
The rain is the same.
(1)
After she laughs and we both take a swig of beer, her hand lands easily on my upper thigh. It's a practiced motion, done deftly and without hesitation. I immediately know it to be too perfect – the contact without inhibition, but also without reaction, is a dead giveaway. It's the first step into a world of evening business here in the Land of Smiles.
Of course, “giveaway” suggests that it's something that is kept hidden. That would be, in another word, incorrect. It's flouted, touted, and endlessly advertised. Not just by the girls howling after any white walker's-by, but by the many old retired men who enjoy a very cheap fuck. And here, the advice of my father's friend does ring true for these young female employees: They never fall in love with their business.
But you might not know it. Sex feeds a fish for a day, but appearing to fall in love feeds for a lifetime. That is the story of Thailand – a single white man visits, and returns married. Old men walk with women half their age and have children that could be their grand-kids, or even great-grand-kids. And they're all well fed.
The bar girls up the ante. The bars are more explicit, they need not dress up their sale of sin. After dark, there is no cultural cover to abide by. Although they sell sex figuratively and literally, they do not look like your hookers on the streets of Vancouver or New York. Their every action is sexual, but their pose, posture and prose do a fantastic job of diverting your attention away from the fact that they've “seen more pricks than a pincushion.” And in a world where our currency makes anyone with white skin rich, there are plenty of pricks.
The bar is lined with several white men well over 35. Horn-dogs, self-made “locals”, and the odd undesirable here on vacation. I can feel their “casual” gaze on me as I am attended to by the young woman. There are plenty of other targets for her, but I am obviously the most desirable. The youngest man there, I am a welcome change of pace for the girls. Probably more fun. Also my age makes me far more likely to have a cultural naiveté and closer to my sexual prime; I'm a safer financial bet for whoever wins me over.
But her hand on my thigh has the opposite effect intended. In this country, I can have sex very easily and very cheaply. There is no raw, passionate, hunt here - merely shooting fish in the barrel of your choice. Unfortunately for this business-woman, it’s the chase that I’m willing to pay for. Prey that rolls onto its back sells nothing that will sate me. The run is what builds the hunger.
She swings her leg over mine, she tries her best to convince me across our language barrier that she's genuinely interested – it's not just business. But there is no illusion and no charged give and take of sexual tension. I know my good qualities, and my bad ones, and she has touched on neither. Nothing lay hidden between the lines. The continued patronage of the older men across the way has guaranteed that she’ll never understand how important it is.
Indeed, the truth is, it isn’t really important to her. I’m a pretty small minority in her trade.
~
(2)
They call him Crazy Joe.
He seems like the stereotype of a guy that did way too many drugs and now, though clean, his brain is a little fried. An old white guy, he lives out of his bar, and has purple John Lennon glasses, greasy black hair, and shouts across the street any time he feels like it. His bar rarely has anyone in it. Joe doesn't have time or interest in employing bar-girls. The bar beside him has enough for the both of them, and he’s vocal about his distaste for them. That bar next door is his wife’s. Or ex-wife's. Their marital status is unclear.
What is clear is his attitude – he's independent, off the wall, and doesn't give a damn. Crazy Joe claims to have disproved the Big Bang theory during his PhD thesis in quantum algebra. He believes that people shouldn’t bother going to hospitals, because if you don’t go, then you can’t find out you’re sick. If you sit and have a drink, he’ll tell you all about how evolution is simply not possible while he hangs up his clock with a mirrored face. He’ll trade tidbits about getting rich in stocks while he finds you some good 40’s and 50’s music. He’ll certainly invite you to get your own beer in the back while he goes to do his own laundry. You’ll settle the tab, or you won’t. Whatever. Does it look like he cares?
He doesn’t. This is Thailand. This is the rest of his life. His advice? Make a big chunk of money while you’re young – and retire here when you’re 35.
That last one’s not so crazy.
~
(3)
The night bazaar teems with unphotographical moments. There are no statues here, no cultural icons to be noted on a map, or worth anything more than a paragraph in a Lonely Planet. But, in fact, here is everything.
Every night the whole world is put up and taken down. The chairs from rows and rows of tables are unfolded, and the stalls of food open up shortly before sundown. Every kind of food, western or otherwise, can be found and deep-fat-fried on the spot. There is Pepsi and Coke and no end to the beer. In the foreground entertainment begins and in the background an endless scaffolding of material goods for sale materializes.
The people mix intermittently. The ugly and the pretty, the old white men of means and the young women willing to follow them. The groups of locals in for an evening's beers. The proud and the quiet. And for all, the evening air is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day. Everyone smiles here. Everyone, at least for the night, is happy.
I am reminded of a short story I read once. It was about old photographs, and love. Every line was at pains to describe the thousand words that each photo held. Each word was inspired by some meaty meaning or bubbly memory. I remember reading it, yearning to see those photographs; to know life that meant so much.
As the sunset disappears behind the sight of the buildings, and the whole sky turns a subdued pink, those photographs come alive in my mind. Not everything can be captured in a picture, or in a word.
~
(4)
After the last customer is taken care of around midnight, the workers break out their own bottles. This side of the island is more tame than the north side. People go home around 11:30pm, when the tide starts coming in. As the musicians pack up their stuff and the three or four workers start bringing in the tables and chairs, glasses of rum and coke start getting passed among them. Having worked since 9am, now is finally their turn to party. By the time everything is brought in and taken care of, laughter abounds and a quarter of the tall bottle is done.
It will only take another hour to finish the other 3 quarters.
These are young people, and some things about young people are universal. The desire to cut loose and have fun is not a cultural construct. It’s a primal excitement. Another long day of 9am-midnight looming on the horizon is powerless to dissuade them. Chok Dee!
When the bottle is done, it’s time to party. Jump on the motorcycles and head to the north side. There, the clubs are still going. The music is loud, the shots are cheap, and anyone who is not sleeping is there. The dance floor is teaming with drunken white partiers, Thai island workers done for the day and lady-boys. The music is in English and everyone knows the words. Sweat drips from the bodies of laughing dancers. And when it is too much, they disrobe and head to the waves merely steps away.
Every night, the club on the beach closes at 4 with a full crowd. Every morning, the workers are awake, on time, and diligently at their posts. They catch a nap where they can, because tonight they may want to go again.
~
(5)
The best part of the island is the constant sound of the water. Nothing sounds quite like the marriage of ice in a glass and waves on the beach. I love it in the morning and in the constant heat of the afternoon sun. But I especially like it in the evening, when you can’t quite see them coming.
I don’t take any pictures of the beach like every other tourist. I need never worry about forgetting the feeling of cool water on my feet and the warm breeze against my skin. Walking along the edge of the water in the dark of night, hearing the sound of a wave crashing right before your naked feet are again refreshed; there is an indescribable peace about the experience. And it has nothing to do with a view. That’s why it can’t be captured in a photograph. That peace can’t be captured, or transported.
That is what I come to the beach for. That is what the whole journey is worth.
Everything else is a bonus.
~
(6)
It’s raining as my plane touches down in Vancouver.
Everyone stands up as soon as the plane stops. Overhead compartments must be opened. Bags must be arranged and gathered. Many are eager to get off the plane that has held them captive for over 10 hours. Others, more proactively, want to be the first in the line-up for passport checks and customs declarations; a full B747-300 makes for very long waits inside Vancouver’s terminal.
I am in a window seat. There is no need for me to rise with the rest of the crowd. Even if I had the same inclination, there is no room left in the isle for me. Outside, it is evening. It is surprising how similar every airport looks. A raindrop here splashes on the tarmac puddles and against the glass exactly the same way that it does in Taiwan. Exactly the same way it does in Thailand, and in England.
I know, because I’ve looked.
In a moment, I will lift the bag from underneath my seat, stand, and file out of the plane and into the airport. I will join a long line, smile to the custom’s officer while handing my passport over and answering polite questions about my trip. Then I will walk past the baggage claim, carrying my only backpack, and continue out into the airport proper. There I will meet my friend of over 10 years who has agreed to pick me up. In a moment, I will be home.
My father commented that when he went away on trips, he used to feel as if where he was going and where he was coming from were two totally different worlds. His whole concern and thought process was on the world he was in. Making sure everything was set and taken care of. Eventually, the time would come for him to step foot on a plane, or a boat, or into a car. As soon as he did, that world disappeared – it became a dream: real but intangible. Taking its place was the world of his destination. And when he returned, the same process would happen the other way around.
On this plane, in this moment, I am in a strange limbo. All reality and no substance. I am neither what I left behind or what lay ahead. But both of them have unmistakably brought me to where I am. I am that I am.
The rain is the same.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Dawn and Twilight. Part 1.
Part 1 - Dawn.
(1)
She looks out the window. Just like me.
Traveling is such a lonely endeavor. Those security checks stand for far more than just a long line up and an early arrival time. They are the markers of a man-made limbo. It hangs thick in the air, this incorporeal thing, between the wayward and the rest of civilization. Airports are full of people coming or going: farewell hugs from the jet setter, smiles from the homeward bound. Then the gates line up, one after another after another. The gentle conveyor belts sterilize the process. The consistent hum of suitcase wheels replace elevator music. And slowly, somewhere between Gates C8 and D54, you're alone.
He's alone. That guy over there by the washrooms is alone. That girl is alone while her partner naps across the plastic benches. The grandfather is alone, asleep in that chair that looks out across the runways, while the children play in the playpen.
Even she is alone, looking out the plane's emergency door window. She only glances for a minute. She only has a minute to think, before the plane lands and there are too many things to do again. Her hair is done up with a dozen pins and clips. She has a skirt that is an appropriate length, and its green matches all of the others. Her name is translated on a shiny gold name-tag for English speakers.
I look too. It's dark and raining outside. It feels like it's always dark and raining when I land. I wonder if she feels that way too. In a moment, we're all going to get up, and file out. Not her, of course: she'll have to wait and politely smile and say in 3 different languages “goodbye and thank-you.” Her smile will welcome us home or her eyes will encourage us on our jet-setting adventure. But inside, it always feels like it's raining.
~~
(2)
For every trip there is a destination. To every trip there is a dawn.
Our own purgatories are not readily forgotten. They linger like comfortable and terrible lovers. Far after they have has been left behind, they can be remembered, mourned upon, chewed and distilled. They can be broken down, analyzed and perspectivized. They can always be called upon and built onto a pedestal. And in those memories, like in their time, they stretch for all eternity.
But light, for all its temporary nature, is inevitable.
It has arrived. I have arrived. And there are people here. An entire world sings and dances and goes to work oblivious to the nuances of my kind. Next to it, the charms of my other life are revealed for what they are: charms. Dangling pieces of distraction or decoration.
For every woman there who takes to the tanning booth to ensure her beauty, there is a woman here putting on whitening cream to do the same. For every carton of organic, with the pulp, Simply Orange(tm) that is shipped to the supermarket there, here there is a juice stand on the corner with a juicer and a bag of oranges and a willingness to be squeezed. For every animal saved by the SPCA there, here there is a cock-fight to the death for cash prizes.
How can the simple pleasures of home seem like anything more than happy contrivances next to these realities? How can we ever again feel trapped in our own culture's skin, when presented with such obvious proof that it is both relative and insignificant?
The British had it almost correct: The sun never sets on the Human empire.
~
(3)
The mornings are so much more subtle here.
The morning chill is a gentle thing, polite and unassuming. It is the welcome mat that politely awaits the day's heat, hours away. Birds chime in with roosters to beckon the day's light. And even with the morning stirring of cars on the road and trucks idling in the driveway, they do not stop. Their song will last until the faint hues of blue and grey are completely replaced with the brightness of the rising sun.
Tiles soothe freshly woken, naked feet. The breeze still flows into the house from the windows. The water flickers on, splashing to the floor below and slowly heating up to a mild temperature. No one sweats in the shower. As the water makes contact with bare skin, it explodes in a cascade of shivers – the first and only of the day. Toweling off is an imperfect exercise: everything dries here.
Breakfast tastes like the morning dew was stolen up from the grass itself. Fruit is fresh and readily available. Everything left the earth merely days ago. Taste buds celebrate. The warmth of tea and coffee lingers in the cups.
The day does not start, it begins. It does hit the ground running, it saunters that old familiar trail.
~
(4)
“Ya never fall in love with your business – that's the key, iddn't it?”
The British sounding words came from a man wearing an Australian hat, a breezy open shirt, gold around his neck and old green tattoos. A self made man. His frame was strong, built from labour, and his face showed the wrinkles of his successful age. He was apparently the very symbol of success: acquiring rice fields, building new buildings, living in Thailand and expanding his own personal empire.
And those were the words of advice he provided me. Sitting on a bench in the marketplace, drinking coffee, watching all the beautiful women 20-40 years his junior walk by, and rolling his own cigarettes. His laugh was genuine, as was his statement, and as was his life.
Nothing went against the grain more, though I'll tell you he is a very likable man. But the very nature of my understanding of new business is that one has to love their job. Indeed, that is what we are now taught, in North America, about our life's path: find a job that you love doing. Getting paid for your heart's enjoyment is the neo-American dream.
And it is certainly that we find two things ultimately attractive of other people: success and genuine passion. Both are relative – both to the beholder and the beholdee.
When you love what you are doing, you are happier. And, for the businessman, when you are happier, you work harder. Nothing has ever been more successful than the business of religion (and it's recent name-change “spirituality”). Nothing is more infectious than evidence that we are, in fact, having an impact. Families toil day in and day out, remembering fondly all of the good times, all in the name of that four letter holy word. I've seen all 3 first hand.
And so, to hear that these two things ought to be divided – that success necessitates a distance from genuine passion – sounded rough against my ears. It sounded incorrect. And yet, much like I cannot argue the reality of what I have seen, I cannot argue that the man is, in very point of the fact, successful.
Strangely Plato agreed with him to some extent – that money making should be considered a separate art from that of shoe building or street cleaning. But it is Plato's division that also reconciles this seeming paradox for me.
It is the advice of an employer, not an employee. The advice of a man who does not love his business(es), but loves business.
We all answer to something.
~
(5)
When I was in university, I was provided with an interesting sociological insight to my generation. We have lived isolated from palpable change on a global level. We have not ever experienced a world war, or a revolution in our own country. We have seen nothing but upward progression with the ideologies that are current. Democracy, capitalism, human rights.
The insight was this: without experiencing radical change, the progression of current modes of thinking and being seem inevitable. To put it another way, we forget that we can have an influence on the world, as much as the world has an influence on us. Big brother and big business are a result of our continued support or complacency, not in spite of them.
Heightening of conspiracy theories at parties confirm this. We dream up realities that must be, confirming the ineffect that our lives could have against such well oiled machines of subtle deceit and control.
Instead, healthy inquiry into the secretive nature of government should be couched in terms of contingency, not necessity. These systems of control, like every other system, is dependent on people. People are not well oiled machines. And systems built by people can be changed.
Here in Thailand, I witness a revolution that disconcerts me. It is, like everything else in this place, subtle. Nevermind the near constant, first-world discussion of political revolutions, red-shirts, or poverty. I'm talking about a revolution that is having an impact on daily life. A sustainable impact on our generation, brought on by genuine revolutionaries of our generation.
Giant Budda statues line streets, and sit atop wild mountains. Monks are a common sight in the streets of every city, village and town. Temples are tourist attractions as well as national places of worship. It was this way the last time I was here, just under four years ago, and it is the same now.
But this time, when the locals look at me with big smiles and genuine interest, we struggle across the language barrier using fundamentally different questions than before. This time, instead of asking where I am from, they ask me what I believe in – Budda or Christianity. This time, I have heard Thai people, my age and younger, sound out the English word “Protestant” in an attempt to describe themselves. They recognize the word “Catholic.” I drank tea beside a man who claimed to be a pastor. A lady working in the market was excused on Sunday for a few hours so that she could go to church.
Prior to this, I had heard of missionaries, and missionary trips. I had heard about the dangers of sneaking the bible into China, and of ambitious and well meaning people going to spread the Good Word. But never had it been met with such a tangible reality as this. This was evidently taking hold. This was change, perhaps not born but certainly bred in a time period that I had lived.
I am disinterested with the political or social facts of which religion is better for them – that is a different forum. What is to be noted here is that we can and are carving what the next statue on the hill will be.
(1)
She looks out the window. Just like me.
Traveling is such a lonely endeavor. Those security checks stand for far more than just a long line up and an early arrival time. They are the markers of a man-made limbo. It hangs thick in the air, this incorporeal thing, between the wayward and the rest of civilization. Airports are full of people coming or going: farewell hugs from the jet setter, smiles from the homeward bound. Then the gates line up, one after another after another. The gentle conveyor belts sterilize the process. The consistent hum of suitcase wheels replace elevator music. And slowly, somewhere between Gates C8 and D54, you're alone.
He's alone. That guy over there by the washrooms is alone. That girl is alone while her partner naps across the plastic benches. The grandfather is alone, asleep in that chair that looks out across the runways, while the children play in the playpen.
Even she is alone, looking out the plane's emergency door window. She only glances for a minute. She only has a minute to think, before the plane lands and there are too many things to do again. Her hair is done up with a dozen pins and clips. She has a skirt that is an appropriate length, and its green matches all of the others. Her name is translated on a shiny gold name-tag for English speakers.
I look too. It's dark and raining outside. It feels like it's always dark and raining when I land. I wonder if she feels that way too. In a moment, we're all going to get up, and file out. Not her, of course: she'll have to wait and politely smile and say in 3 different languages “goodbye and thank-you.” Her smile will welcome us home or her eyes will encourage us on our jet-setting adventure. But inside, it always feels like it's raining.
~~
(2)
For every trip there is a destination. To every trip there is a dawn.
Our own purgatories are not readily forgotten. They linger like comfortable and terrible lovers. Far after they have has been left behind, they can be remembered, mourned upon, chewed and distilled. They can be broken down, analyzed and perspectivized. They can always be called upon and built onto a pedestal. And in those memories, like in their time, they stretch for all eternity.
But light, for all its temporary nature, is inevitable.
It has arrived. I have arrived. And there are people here. An entire world sings and dances and goes to work oblivious to the nuances of my kind. Next to it, the charms of my other life are revealed for what they are: charms. Dangling pieces of distraction or decoration.
For every woman there who takes to the tanning booth to ensure her beauty, there is a woman here putting on whitening cream to do the same. For every carton of organic, with the pulp, Simply Orange(tm) that is shipped to the supermarket there, here there is a juice stand on the corner with a juicer and a bag of oranges and a willingness to be squeezed. For every animal saved by the SPCA there, here there is a cock-fight to the death for cash prizes.
How can the simple pleasures of home seem like anything more than happy contrivances next to these realities? How can we ever again feel trapped in our own culture's skin, when presented with such obvious proof that it is both relative and insignificant?
The British had it almost correct: The sun never sets on the Human empire.
~
(3)
The mornings are so much more subtle here.
The morning chill is a gentle thing, polite and unassuming. It is the welcome mat that politely awaits the day's heat, hours away. Birds chime in with roosters to beckon the day's light. And even with the morning stirring of cars on the road and trucks idling in the driveway, they do not stop. Their song will last until the faint hues of blue and grey are completely replaced with the brightness of the rising sun.
Tiles soothe freshly woken, naked feet. The breeze still flows into the house from the windows. The water flickers on, splashing to the floor below and slowly heating up to a mild temperature. No one sweats in the shower. As the water makes contact with bare skin, it explodes in a cascade of shivers – the first and only of the day. Toweling off is an imperfect exercise: everything dries here.
Breakfast tastes like the morning dew was stolen up from the grass itself. Fruit is fresh and readily available. Everything left the earth merely days ago. Taste buds celebrate. The warmth of tea and coffee lingers in the cups.
The day does not start, it begins. It does hit the ground running, it saunters that old familiar trail.
~
(4)
“Ya never fall in love with your business – that's the key, iddn't it?”
The British sounding words came from a man wearing an Australian hat, a breezy open shirt, gold around his neck and old green tattoos. A self made man. His frame was strong, built from labour, and his face showed the wrinkles of his successful age. He was apparently the very symbol of success: acquiring rice fields, building new buildings, living in Thailand and expanding his own personal empire.
And those were the words of advice he provided me. Sitting on a bench in the marketplace, drinking coffee, watching all the beautiful women 20-40 years his junior walk by, and rolling his own cigarettes. His laugh was genuine, as was his statement, and as was his life.
Nothing went against the grain more, though I'll tell you he is a very likable man. But the very nature of my understanding of new business is that one has to love their job. Indeed, that is what we are now taught, in North America, about our life's path: find a job that you love doing. Getting paid for your heart's enjoyment is the neo-American dream.
And it is certainly that we find two things ultimately attractive of other people: success and genuine passion. Both are relative – both to the beholder and the beholdee.
When you love what you are doing, you are happier. And, for the businessman, when you are happier, you work harder. Nothing has ever been more successful than the business of religion (and it's recent name-change “spirituality”). Nothing is more infectious than evidence that we are, in fact, having an impact. Families toil day in and day out, remembering fondly all of the good times, all in the name of that four letter holy word. I've seen all 3 first hand.
And so, to hear that these two things ought to be divided – that success necessitates a distance from genuine passion – sounded rough against my ears. It sounded incorrect. And yet, much like I cannot argue the reality of what I have seen, I cannot argue that the man is, in very point of the fact, successful.
Strangely Plato agreed with him to some extent – that money making should be considered a separate art from that of shoe building or street cleaning. But it is Plato's division that also reconciles this seeming paradox for me.
It is the advice of an employer, not an employee. The advice of a man who does not love his business(es), but loves business.
We all answer to something.
~
(5)
When I was in university, I was provided with an interesting sociological insight to my generation. We have lived isolated from palpable change on a global level. We have not ever experienced a world war, or a revolution in our own country. We have seen nothing but upward progression with the ideologies that are current. Democracy, capitalism, human rights.
The insight was this: without experiencing radical change, the progression of current modes of thinking and being seem inevitable. To put it another way, we forget that we can have an influence on the world, as much as the world has an influence on us. Big brother and big business are a result of our continued support or complacency, not in spite of them.
Heightening of conspiracy theories at parties confirm this. We dream up realities that must be, confirming the ineffect that our lives could have against such well oiled machines of subtle deceit and control.
Instead, healthy inquiry into the secretive nature of government should be couched in terms of contingency, not necessity. These systems of control, like every other system, is dependent on people. People are not well oiled machines. And systems built by people can be changed.
Here in Thailand, I witness a revolution that disconcerts me. It is, like everything else in this place, subtle. Nevermind the near constant, first-world discussion of political revolutions, red-shirts, or poverty. I'm talking about a revolution that is having an impact on daily life. A sustainable impact on our generation, brought on by genuine revolutionaries of our generation.
Giant Budda statues line streets, and sit atop wild mountains. Monks are a common sight in the streets of every city, village and town. Temples are tourist attractions as well as national places of worship. It was this way the last time I was here, just under four years ago, and it is the same now.
But this time, when the locals look at me with big smiles and genuine interest, we struggle across the language barrier using fundamentally different questions than before. This time, instead of asking where I am from, they ask me what I believe in – Budda or Christianity. This time, I have heard Thai people, my age and younger, sound out the English word “Protestant” in an attempt to describe themselves. They recognize the word “Catholic.” I drank tea beside a man who claimed to be a pastor. A lady working in the market was excused on Sunday for a few hours so that she could go to church.
Prior to this, I had heard of missionaries, and missionary trips. I had heard about the dangers of sneaking the bible into China, and of ambitious and well meaning people going to spread the Good Word. But never had it been met with such a tangible reality as this. This was evidently taking hold. This was change, perhaps not born but certainly bred in a time period that I had lived.
I am disinterested with the political or social facts of which religion is better for them – that is a different forum. What is to be noted here is that we can and are carving what the next statue on the hill will be.
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