She was hanging in an unnatural position, her legs battling down the swing. There was this screeching sound in the air, as the rope rubbed the metallic hold. She was gently balancing her head, absent. That’s what it was like. Or what it looked like maybe.

Her hair was filled with the premises of a storm but no whisper would find its way out. All it looked like was stroking of white rope and immortality.

Why have words deserted me?

Strains stains saints sins symphonies

Jingle juggle jungle juggernaut

Brink brick breeze beast binge

They’re playing their own games, shuffling the strands.

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Some drink, some drug, some lay down their guts in the gutter. Some crave for blades. Visions of somber leaks have nestled again.

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Nights without sleep have this dense texture about them. Time has its ways, damned mysteries and senseless curls.

Tonight, my thoughts are too foggy to be stuffed into nicely labeled boxes.

I wrote this some time ago, totally forgot about it and just picked it up again… I decided to put it up here, as a warning:

Do not lean towards the dark side.

 "

T. says there’s certainly a good reason for my being unsettled. Yes, there’s something I never came to terms with, I just can’t figure out what it is. I gradually broke free of depression and gloom but I am still at their mercy, constantly on the verge. Perhaps I am not; perhaps I live in the fear of falling prey to the disease again. Perhaps I am right and it’s just on hold, hidden behind a thin layer of scented leaves. Evil inside is very artful at times.

"

It goes on an on in vicious circles...quite pathetic ones indeed. I'll spare you the rest because I couldn't imagine inflicting my sick prose on anyone but myself. Because I don't EVER want to be this fragile little thing again, I need to be reminded how blistering the darts were and how far I've gone away from them.

It was in broad daylight but I badly freaked out. I was squinting through the thin rays of rain when this bus stopped right in front of me, letting a couple of people out. He appeared in the door frame, trying to keep a hesitant stance. He was wearing a neat sports outfit, but he looked completely wreaked. He seemingly couldn’t decide whether to get down or not until his eyes met mine. I could feel all his energy focused on me, literally going through me the way a sword would. I froze. He started pointing at me with a dry shaky hand, an insane expression on his face. As the bus was already moving on, he jumped off and ended up losing balance. He crumbled for a minute. When he stood up again, he saw me sneaking away hurriedly and he awkwardly hit women who were standing there. I had taken refuge upstairs in a nearby mall, overlooking the scene and I couldn’t stop trembling. Finally, I took advantage of the security guard’s intervention to rush into the first bus (Bless reckless drivers for this one took me away faster than ever). It took me a long time to release the tension; I was in a proper mess, on the verge of tears and shaking. I don’t even know how I gathered enough presence of mind to get off at the right stop but I did get home eventually.

Some people are plain mental. I believe he’s one of them. So was the pervert I came across in China some months ago. I wonder what it takes to turn a man into such a freak. What have their lives been like? What kind of trauma have they been through? Have they ever loved, been loved?

I’m dying to call you but I don’t think I am going to.

My hair is flowing down the curtain, I want to blow up.

Streets and streets won’t make my young flame vanish.

Dots of rain might vanquish it.

So I am here facing up to the infinite crowds in the sky. 

 
Insanity is creaking in from all breeches.

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There’s a magic in first encounters that I never could decipher. I love this mystery about people you don’t know the first thing about and I always reflect on the way we started to penetrate each other’s worlds. So much is left to non-verbal signs, so much is conveyed by pure speechless interaction. What I cherish most is probably the feeling that anything is possible.

I am living on the margins of my notebooks, in the middle of roundish patterns. Here I skip a red curve, there I lean towards a petal. It all merges into a frail bundle of pages. There it is, neatly put together and yet so dark.

In case you ever want to take a bus in Thailand, here is the way to go: Wave at the reckless banger passing by, run after it (yes, even if you are wearing heels and there are muddy streams and holes all over the place. Girls, get a grip!), get hold of a prominent structure – namely a bar – and climb on board while the thing is already racing off. If you have managed to keep you balance until then, spot a seat, preferably near a functioning fan or a window so you can greet your crowds of admirers on the way. It’s a good way to kill time when you are stuck in a traffic jam. If the eventuality occurs that there’s no available seat, grasp the roof bar firmly and wish for better days while scanning your bag for coins. That’s when the ticket lady/guy comes into the picture. A person in blue pajama-like uniform will approach you: don’t be scared, all they want is your money! They do look creepy sometimes, I must say. You usually get a grumpy woman who tries to speak Issan instead of Thai to you, although you are obviously unlikely to be from a north-eastern Thai village…You get a tiny piece of paper as a ticket that you can either stuff into your wallet or stack in a random pocket. Sat next to a sleepy woman in a similar pajama-like uniform, grey this one, you then watch out for your stop.  When you think you are getting near your destination (it’s all a matter of approximation), reach out for the red button somewhere on the roof or above the open space left by the door. As soon as you get a chance to do so, be it in the middle of the road, jump off and pray for your life, for you may very well be run over by a motorcycle. There you are, you survived this one!!

I have to pay tribute to ticket ladies/guys here. They are true characters of city life in Bangkok. You can’t but feel for them. Well I can’t. These people basically spend their lives walking up and down busses alleys. Their primary duty is to ensure that everyone pays the due fee, and they keep a clinging metallic box for that purpose. That box is THE ultimate accessory; it is treasured and personalized, often wrapped in some colourful glittery paper. They can evaluate a pile of coins at a glance and throw them artfully into appropriate compartments. Their gestures are so fascinating. So is the way they lean out of the door to get the attention of potential passengers.  One of the essential qualities of a good ticket lady/guy is an attractive voice, as they shout the destinations on top of their voice to cover the roaring of the engine. Some of them literally belch the names out with incredible high pitches. I don’t recommend those as a morning treat on the way to work. Of course, there are all kinds of figures on the ticket selling scene but some are monumental in my eyes. Let’s be honest: you mostly get frustrated middle-aged ladies who mumble the price and give you a complacent look as they count your change. So there is them lot, and there is my favourite ticket guy. Outstanding indeed. He is this ever-smiling, mild-mannered man who knows everyone on the route the bus travels and makes you feel like a privileged guest even in the busiest of times. You can tell that he loves being on the road and he loves each of his passengers as part of a composition that is his world. A journey on this bus is a different experience altogether, one of smoothness. I admire the way this man seems to create waves of friendliness and even familiarity. That’s it, he makes me feel safe and cared for, and that in the middle of a notoriously hectic city.

So today is officially my last day as a desperate houseteacher :) A friend of a friend, responding to the sweet name of Mr N, is moving in tomorrow in my not-so-humble abode.

Here is the deal…

The guy: I have never met him before but I believe in the old saying “My friend’s friends are my friends”. Not really, to be completely honest, I just choose to believe it this time. As you might have noticed, I am a woman with changeable principles. It’s called instinct…and it makes you break your own rules when you feel that it’s the right thing to do. The good news is, it normally works out for me and has been tested by others as well, with mind-blowing success. Anyway, we have e-mailed a few times and he sounds like a decent bloke, in his late twenties if I am not mistaken, Spanish-speaking on top of that. I bet he is penniless but, well, so was I less than a year ago and not only have I survived in south-east Asia but I have built up a respectable life. The respectable quality is due to fall apart pretty soon though (see the reputation section below for more information on that).

The place: It’s a proper palace in my eyes…Keeping in mind that all my previous places were swampy tiny rooms where you could hardly fit a desk, a bed and a cupboard, all that delivered with shared facilities, you get an idea of my standards of comfort. I have now upgraded to a nice apartment in a bunker, with broken air-conditioner and washing machines downstairs that don’t even fall out of order every other week, and –miracle- a balcony and a huuuuuuge bed (king size, as they call it, but I won’t use this term because I might commit a deadly crime of lese-majeste). Oh and I even have my own private bathroom, how splendid is that? I could ravel for hours on the numerous niceties that I enjoy here but I won’t. Let’s keep this post short and to the point. I don’t mind living alone but I prefer sharing, especially when I have the luxury of space and space I have.

Reputation: My reputation on this street is ruined, to say the least. Every day I walk up and down my street with my friend and colleague Mr T. so everyone just assumes that he’s my boyfriend. Now I am going to turn up with a new guy who stays at my place…Well, Thais think that us westerners are sex pests anyway so they won’t be ultimately surprised.

It appears as the final stop of a cycle for me. Over a year, I have gone from this bold clueless girl who came out to see the world, to a position where I can offer shelter to a random newcomer. Many people have given me help and support all the way through, which I feel most grateful for. I am more than happy to have the chance to give back now.

Fleets of strangeness were running through the room yesterday. I had no choice but to spin and spare the moment a stolen grace. As they finally got me tightly entangled, I felt the spur of their laces, slightly scratching the skin until it hurt.

When I am in a stressful situation, my body sometimes goes mad. I might start shaking (classic) or (less classic) double myself.  It used to happen to me oftentimes when I was in school: I would be in the middle of a heated conversation or a test and suddenly start seeing it from the outside, just as if I was holding the camera. I would completely lose my sense of reality for a few minutes. I was simultaneously playing my part and overlooking the scene.

It was a bit disturbing at first and I dreaded those moments because I was afraid that someone might read through me and bring it up at some point. No one ever did though; it was probably just one of these paranoid thoughts. I felt like I was breaking into a forbidden dimension and that for a moment, I was aware of the ineptitude of it all. Characters would turn into puppets, words would resonate, meaningless, situations would be devoid of any logical bearing. My detached self just couldn’t get what people were on about, what the point was, and would stare at my involved self in disbelief.

The show completely lifted my spirits. That’s what acting does to me: it sharpens every single feeling to an amazingly acute degree. While doing it, I am swept away by a wave of strangeness with no familiar ground to fall back on. Since I haven’t got the energy required to swim against the tide, I just go along with it, indulging in a parallel world where no detail is left unnoticed, where character responds to character. The amusing thing is that I never come out of this state exactly the same person. In the meanwhile I have questioned reality, I have explored shady areas of myself, I have stretched the lines of my imagination to match my partner’s, I have gone far beyond anything I could ever picture.

I don’t know anyone who has a van (such a pity, by the way) but I came up with this yesterday night. A piece of “impulsive writing”, you could say.

It’s written all over those endless blue strips you always stack up at the back of the van. It’s an elegy to skinny roads that dust their way through. It’s a song to the outer space, left unheard because there’s so much people care about and care more than your soaked melody. They used to say that those words are no longer in the dictionary because you took them out into brisk air and instilled love into them.

I am in one of those electric days where everything looks illuminated by a neon-light that’s too bright for my eyes to contemplate. I’ve always thought of neons as jewels in the lab and vulgar lights in the city. There’s a world of indifference between them, between the carefully laid tubes surrounded by bended frowning heads, and the blinking letters covered in dust and restless souls.