Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Romance is dead, unless you order it "To Go".
In the beginning
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed
We were surprised
To find so much inside
- Wilco
And the entire waiting staff could feel it, a presence wafting with the stench of Disney movies, threatening to break the harsh reality that the restaurant was closing, and they all had to rush home for urgent plans to sit in their computer chair alone, or make castles out of Vacation Bible School milk cartons or something.
The couple had sat down at the corner window table, too engrossed in the words that leaked from each others' lips, too distracted by hints of smiles and playful dialogue, to remember to order. Instead they held their forks and knives outright at arms length, as if waiting to devour each other at the first sign of weakness in the other corner of the boxing ring, or at the first sign of nobody else watching- which, as far as they honestly noticed, nobody was. They were both listening to the same soundtrack- a rustic, warbling tune from a mediocre guitarist and a worse singer. Heartfelt though it was, you had to know the guy to stand his music.
The busboy intentionally dropped a plate, watching with a mixture of fear and righteous wrath as the pieces danced across the floor, windup porcelain ballerinas from your grandmother's house.
Your grandmother certainly would not have lost her patience here, however, like the errant busboy. Grandma has no vapid xbox game to return home to at a reasonable hour; grandma would most likely say something along the lines of "well, just look at the young people," either with an air of wistfulness and admiration, or judgment and disdain, depending on the grandmother. My grandmother, after all, was quite the smartass, for which we buried her with all the more love.
I played pickup football with friends in my backyard the day she died in our living room. She would have wanted it.
The couple, suddenly looking around, decided to order drinks. Hitherto they had been sucking on the lemons from their now empty glasses of water.
They promptly received two entrees, neither of which they ordered and one of which they were charged for on the accompanying bill. Both were boxed neatly in plastic containers.
The staff were all wearing their jackets. The busboy dropped his car keys.
---------------------------
And I swear I'll pull you from the clay, where the motes of dust drift down... just grab my bony wrist.
Raise your wraith fingers, trembling in the light, as crisp and brittle and fresh as pretzel rods in a resealed ziplock bag, not too fresh and not too stale.
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed
We were surprised
To find so much inside
- Wilco
And the entire waiting staff could feel it, a presence wafting with the stench of Disney movies, threatening to break the harsh reality that the restaurant was closing, and they all had to rush home for urgent plans to sit in their computer chair alone, or make castles out of Vacation Bible School milk cartons or something.
The couple had sat down at the corner window table, too engrossed in the words that leaked from each others' lips, too distracted by hints of smiles and playful dialogue, to remember to order. Instead they held their forks and knives outright at arms length, as if waiting to devour each other at the first sign of weakness in the other corner of the boxing ring, or at the first sign of nobody else watching- which, as far as they honestly noticed, nobody was. They were both listening to the same soundtrack- a rustic, warbling tune from a mediocre guitarist and a worse singer. Heartfelt though it was, you had to know the guy to stand his music.
The busboy intentionally dropped a plate, watching with a mixture of fear and righteous wrath as the pieces danced across the floor, windup porcelain ballerinas from your grandmother's house.
Your grandmother certainly would not have lost her patience here, however, like the errant busboy. Grandma has no vapid xbox game to return home to at a reasonable hour; grandma would most likely say something along the lines of "well, just look at the young people," either with an air of wistfulness and admiration, or judgment and disdain, depending on the grandmother. My grandmother, after all, was quite the smartass, for which we buried her with all the more love.
I played pickup football with friends in my backyard the day she died in our living room. She would have wanted it.
The couple, suddenly looking around, decided to order drinks. Hitherto they had been sucking on the lemons from their now empty glasses of water.
They promptly received two entrees, neither of which they ordered and one of which they were charged for on the accompanying bill. Both were boxed neatly in plastic containers.
The staff were all wearing their jackets. The busboy dropped his car keys.
---------------------------
And I swear I'll pull you from the clay, where the motes of dust drift down... just grab my bony wrist.
Raise your wraith fingers, trembling in the light, as crisp and brittle and fresh as pretzel rods in a resealed ziplock bag, not too fresh and not too stale.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Kid thung thuk wuan.
I will miss you, my little Thai woman.
I will miss you, Thailand.
Don't go anywhere without me...
I will miss you, Thailand.
Don't go anywhere without me...
Saturday, October 16, 2010
How do you say goodbye to a part of you? the cultural equivalent of that chocolate chip ice cream your 5-year-old self has been craving since you got home from school, with bated breath for Mom's Honda Odyssey to pull into the driveway with a slight crunch of gravel (Dad has been too busy building birdhouses with Home Depot lumber and watching HGTV, and has neglected the resealing of the driveway, much to Momma's chagrin- and we all know, if Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy except the 5-year-old who gets ice cream).
But, to continue the analogy, even ice cream makes you fat and unhealthy despite the initial support of your dopamine, and you eventually have to eat vegetables... In fact, vegetables are better for you.
Return inevitable or impossible or imbecile?
But, to continue the analogy, even ice cream makes you fat and unhealthy despite the initial support of your dopamine, and you eventually have to eat vegetables... In fact, vegetables are better for you.
Return inevitable or impossible or imbecile?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Bangkok Corn Man
The Corn Man, on the Street Corner of Bangkok
Boils his Corn for all Around,
Shakin' his You Know What,
His Piece of Corn for your dolla-dolla baht.
Boils his Corn for all Around,
Shakin' his You Know What,
His Piece of Corn for your dolla-dolla baht.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Bangkok Rain
Flash floods enter our lives on the evening news, spilling over the sidewalks and makeshift bridges and land-masss asphalt with which we connect the places we go, to and fro, the places we go without actually goinjg anywhere in between. The shades of patchwork are strong if only the sun were bright enough during the rain; it is just as well that it is not, for a rainbow would serve only as a welcome distraction.
Rain is compliments we wish to bestow, but are afraid of the cost; it is the small child's cry, the myriad of stories pressing in upon us, stories oozing through the pores and running from the eyes of the saccharine faces we encounter, the unshaven faces, and the faces dyed the color of blood. Rain is lovely things,rain is terrible things, rain is things that we think about, but cannot calculate into our flesh's compass; it is the single use of a word that means so much more, though its gravity is lost upon the black-hole sidewalk, it is the missed connections of every day, the day you walk past your future best-friend-to-be or the willing bride-to-be, the unwashed stone on the riverbed, the current forcing weeds and brown water and swimmer's feet, ignorant of treasure.
As such, life is a game of checkers which will never be won, with your red pieces, crying for air as they sit cringing on the border between the bright and dark squares, the evil and the good.
Life is the questions that will never be answered, the ever-fading inquiries that bounce off the canyon wall after dark, as you stand, your neck bruised from stranger's grip, teetering among the shale and loose stones, screaming for a voice that will not come.
If this is life, and life is rain, give me a tattered umbrella and moth-eaten rain boots.
Rain is compliments we wish to bestow, but are afraid of the cost; it is the small child's cry, the myriad of stories pressing in upon us, stories oozing through the pores and running from the eyes of the saccharine faces we encounter, the unshaven faces, and the faces dyed the color of blood. Rain is lovely things,rain is terrible things, rain is things that we think about, but cannot calculate into our flesh's compass; it is the single use of a word that means so much more, though its gravity is lost upon the black-hole sidewalk, it is the missed connections of every day, the day you walk past your future best-friend-to-be or the willing bride-to-be, the unwashed stone on the riverbed, the current forcing weeds and brown water and swimmer's feet, ignorant of treasure.
As such, life is a game of checkers which will never be won, with your red pieces, crying for air as they sit cringing on the border between the bright and dark squares, the evil and the good.
Life is the questions that will never be answered, the ever-fading inquiries that bounce off the canyon wall after dark, as you stand, your neck bruised from stranger's grip, teetering among the shale and loose stones, screaming for a voice that will not come.
If this is life, and life is rain, give me a tattered umbrella and moth-eaten rain boots.
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