On a quest to find the things I have to write about isn’t going to be easy, or maybe it is…Here and there things hit me that bring about a pure inspiration something I couldn’t turn off if I wanted to. Cooking used to be that thing. I would work my ass off in hot sweaty kitchens with a chef coat two sizes too big hunched over a cutting board for 8, 9, 10 hours a day and I loved it! In that few years I learned more, worked more, studied more and drank more than any other time in my not so long life. And I loved it because it made me feel like I was doing something, like I was important or special or knew things that other people didn’t. I’d take the subway and growl at all the soft mother fuckers taking the late night train because they weren’t cooks, because they hadn’t done 120 covers and were therefore not on my level. Sizing them up you know they’d never make it, you know you couldn’t trust them under pressure. I could trust my other line cooks though they could trust me. I could trust the dishwasher to run into the walk-in and get another tenderloin for me or to stuff some more squash blossoms. The Chef, he trusted all of us and if for some reason there was one in the group that he didn’t it was made known and they earned his and our trust or they were soon replaced with someone who did. The front of the house, waiters, runners, maitre d were always a little suspect and passively aggressively/aggressively aggressively resented because it was known, but never acknowledged or god forbid mentioned that they made more money than us cooks. The front of the house trusted each other though and that was the important thing. The kitchen was a place of intensity, of immediate focus and attention to detail, a place that consumed you and dragged you out of the sunlight and into a brick oven basement to streamline all the energy that the average office worker pisses away day after day for half their life into a single practice, cooking.
After some globe trotting and a taste of an easier life the concept of levels wormed it’s way up into my brain and found some thing to grab onto because it seems to be expanding day by day. Social levels were never something I took the time to notice. Never took the time to see that in my kitchen rags I wouldn’t have been allowed out into the dinning room where the civilized patrons were seated. I was the no name grunt someone threw money at to entertain them with his skill , cooking, I’d been able to absorb and recreate. Next to the Latinos, who looking back seemed to have far more understanding of the situation than us crazy white boys, who cooked because we loved it. The main reason why I can’t go back to a kitchen, aside from my new found fear of hard work is a sense of shame, of failure and bottom line bottom of the food chain mentality. It got to the point where I tucked my tail between my legs and had to get a job at a café for $11/hr. I save a little face by finding a number of excuses why its acceptable and why it’s just an instance of convenience. Trying to make myself feel better, that I’m still the one the people give the order to, still the one washing dishes, still the one on payroll and still the one on the bottom. Fuck the bottom!!!
In another world I worked as an English teacher at a local kindergarten and made a great salary doing a fun and respectable job. I was the one trading money for services and seeing the levels magnified and blown up a thousand times. Another world where I’d buy meat kabobs and hashish off a Muslim street vendor who made in a month what I made in a day. Wondering if he had any idea how much space was in between us. In truth I pray that he didn’t because ignorance isn’t bliss it’s a bubble and once you pop it your stuck swimming in the shit you knew about and all the new shit you never realized was there. Careful now because to many people start talking that way and emotions get nasty, tempers get sharp and throats get opened. It’s happened before and history may not repeat itself, but certain cycles are hard to redirect.
In this world I’m starting to see just how well they’ve worked it out a place where we middle man peasants have houses, cars and kids in college. How we have dignity and pride and how we tell ourselves that these are choices not designations. That where we are is where we want to be, not where we’ve been put. God bless the bubble because it keeps us floating, keeps that energy streamlined into a society of life, levels and the pursuit of happiness.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Beggars
I’ll venture towards society and a few experiments I hope to conduct over time. The first of these will be to pose as a street beggar and see how it is for money, dignity, danger. Bums must be pretty damn protective over a good spot to beg at. So inside of this test there should be a number of different approaches. One you could just put a cup out and see who gives. Another would be just putting out a cup and shaking it all the time (this really annoys me when a beggar shakes the cup) Next you have to play on the pity response trying to wear really beat up clothes. Putting a brown bag (40oz) next to you. Personally I try and give a little something to people doing something, like in China there are usually blind street performers who play an instrument called Erhu, its played with a bow and only has two strings. Gives off a very sad tune, some have real skill others just play. There are also some beggars that are very friendly and outgoing, they’ll say hi to you tell a joke dance…These kind of guys are on the lighter side others can be intimidating and although that really rubs me and most people in the wrong way it does probably scare some people into giving a few coins. In New York City I saw the photograph of a big black guy with a sign that read “Ninjas Killed my Family, need money for Kung Fu lessons…Must take revenge” That makes me want to give him a dollar for no other reason than he came up with a funny, creative idea and it put a smile on my face and gave me a little laugh.
I’ve spent a little bit of time talking to some homeless guys and from what I saw something wasn’t right. One was a bad alcoholic and he used to buy six or so forties to last him through the night, I’m not sure how he got the money for them, but I guess he would beg through the day and then have some cash at the end. He was also convinced that his ex-lover’s father was the leader of the Hell’s Angels and would kill him if he went near this woman he claimed to be in love with. He said they were watching him and that she wouldn’t see him because she knew her father would have him killed if they met. (something about the story didn’t fit for me, but hey who’s to say what’s reality) One night after I had spent a while talking to him the night before I was going to dinner with a friend and saw him. I said hey why don’t you join me and let me buy you some dinner. He agreed and so we went in, the place was a small Tibetan restaurant and they seemed a little uncomfortable with him being there (he smelled pretty sour) he decided he wanted black pepper beef, they didn’t have black pepper beef, he thought it was a regular Chinese restaurant? He ended up getting their equivalent of black pepper beef (it was the most expensive thing on the menu) after eating a few bites he says “Hey thanks, but I gotta go” to be honest I was a little happy to have him leave with the funky smell and all. So he gets his food wrapped up in a to go container opens up his bag and puts it on top of another already full container of black pepper beef? Having felt a little duped by the guy my friend and I change the subject and move on, about 10 minutes later he walks by waving at us with a bag full of 40oz’s over his shoulder. Needles to say I felt a little stupid.
That helped me think about things a little more and even though it became more clear that he wasn’t totally helpless he was living pretty far out on the edge and like he put it “God didn’t make me to sit in an office” I countered that “God didn’t make you to drink all day either.”
It’s a crazy place
The mind of a man on the street
The one with the can and no where to sleep
A funny kind of thing
A funny thing that makes me think.
I’ve spent a little bit of time talking to some homeless guys and from what I saw something wasn’t right. One was a bad alcoholic and he used to buy six or so forties to last him through the night, I’m not sure how he got the money for them, but I guess he would beg through the day and then have some cash at the end. He was also convinced that his ex-lover’s father was the leader of the Hell’s Angels and would kill him if he went near this woman he claimed to be in love with. He said they were watching him and that she wouldn’t see him because she knew her father would have him killed if they met. (something about the story didn’t fit for me, but hey who’s to say what’s reality) One night after I had spent a while talking to him the night before I was going to dinner with a friend and saw him. I said hey why don’t you join me and let me buy you some dinner. He agreed and so we went in, the place was a small Tibetan restaurant and they seemed a little uncomfortable with him being there (he smelled pretty sour) he decided he wanted black pepper beef, they didn’t have black pepper beef, he thought it was a regular Chinese restaurant? He ended up getting their equivalent of black pepper beef (it was the most expensive thing on the menu) after eating a few bites he says “Hey thanks, but I gotta go” to be honest I was a little happy to have him leave with the funky smell and all. So he gets his food wrapped up in a to go container opens up his bag and puts it on top of another already full container of black pepper beef? Having felt a little duped by the guy my friend and I change the subject and move on, about 10 minutes later he walks by waving at us with a bag full of 40oz’s over his shoulder. Needles to say I felt a little stupid.
That helped me think about things a little more and even though it became more clear that he wasn’t totally helpless he was living pretty far out on the edge and like he put it “God didn’t make me to sit in an office” I countered that “God didn’t make you to drink all day either.”
It’s a crazy place
The mind of a man on the street
The one with the can and no where to sleep
A funny kind of thing
A funny thing that makes me think.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Every Coin has Two Sides
My head jerked back at the sound of an explosion
Grabbed my gear and hurried fast toward the commotion
All I saw were bodies and smoke
Frank, my fellow soldier screamed out “Help, my leg is broken.”
The smell made me nauseous
Trying hard, had to be cautious
Maybe more of them around
Felt my hand wet on the ground
From blood that sizzled on hot black top
Frank is passed out and the bleeding I cannot stop
Three of my brothers were down
Six civilians, three women
Two men and a boy
By this time they’d deployed
Reinforcements and medical staff
Later that night I found out Frank had died
I had to hide the tears I cried
For all my heart I really tried to stop the bleeding
They said that there was bleeding from inside
He’d fractured ribs
Also found out that it was a Twelve year old kid
That blew him up with grenades
He had concealed inside his stuff
The kid took the life of my best friend in this desert
This hot as hell, disgusting smelling fucking desert
What’s wrong with these people don’t they know
We’re here to help them, bring them freedom
Better lives, but instead they help to hide
These insurgents from the east
Who target us, destroy the peace
They’re crazy talk about Allah
Then blow up kids with bombs in cars
Animals is closer still
That’s why I cannot wait to kill
A terrorist with all my will
They attacked us first
9-11 sent to heaven
Thousands in New York
Still we protect them
Just glad that Bush
Has done so much to protect us
Because of him we fight them here
Not at home, back in America
I miss my home and all my family
Miss my girl, just hope she waits for me
Makes me sick to think of all those cowards we protect
Protesting back at college while we’re here risking our necks
Half way across the world in the desert
Long beard Bin Ladin and his towel head troops
If I see them lord knows waste no time before I shoot
When I first came I wanted to help these people and their country
Now I’ve given up they should deal with their own problems
They messed it all up, so why should we be forced to solve them
Next day receive the news
We’re out on raids
gained some ground we cannot lose
There is a chance for volunteers
And so I choose
To go along to help the cause
It is time to get inside
Find the places that they hide
Take them back dead or alive
I am a patriotic person
Here’s my version of the truth
This is not a war that
America can afford to lose
We pull out of the base
Middle of the night
Vision gear is packed in the back
Full vest and helmets strapped tight
The desert is a cold place
Once the sun goes down
It’s another hour to the town
Where they’re hiding
Intelligence gave us a list
Of where to hit
And who to take
My heart is pounding as we line up ready to rush the first door…
“Wake up!” my mother cries as she pulls me from my bed
A smash kicks in my door, a man’s words I do not know
Screaming pointing at the floor
He holds a gun, he is a soldier
There are four men moving swiftly
Aiming rifles at us quickly
Barking orders
My brother’s head is dripping, with blood
His clothes their ripping
Pants their pulling and unzipping
He begs “why my clothes you’re stripping?”
What have we done I’m thinking
We must have done something?
Why are the soldiers beating my brother?
Strongly snatched from the arms of my mother
She tries to stand to pull me back, but she is pushed down
Soldier grabs me by my collar lifts my feet up off the ground
He yells words at me in English
I stare stupid in his eyes
Shaking his head slowly
He just drops me by his side
I can see now that they’re loading my brother in their tuck
Screaming, “Stop!” I stand up.
Butt of a rifle sits me down
As they drive away I’m thinking
Their path grows smaller, shrinking
Fifteen minuets ago we lay in our beds sleeping
Now my brothers bruised and beaten
Dragged him off and left us weeping
We spend the night just sitting, praying
“He’ll be alright,” I keep on saying
Truth is I don’t know
Don’t know where they took him or why?
Alone along the streets I walk
Half in fear and whole in shock
“I can help you with your brother,”
Words are whispered by a stranger
I turn to look…
“Let us leave” he says, for here we are in danger
Down an alley way we dart
Hear the pounding of my heart
He calls out “Quickly!”
“For the meeting soon shall start”
“What meeting?” mumbles from me
There are no meetings on a Sunday
At a door we stop
The man gives twice a knock
Two large men undo the lock
I freeze up with hesitation
The two men are not so patient
Pull me in and lock the door
Explain “we’re only here to talk”
We walk into a room filled with people speaking softly
A man tall and thin with a beard long and slim
Walks to the front of the floor
All attentions on this fellow
As his words begin to bellow
I’m in awe to stand and hear his words
Spoken strongly and so true
Of occupation for our oil
Political powers and abuse
Propaganda of insurgents and
Of time becoming urgent
People spoke were just like me
Some lost homes and family
One woman spoke of her son
He was 12, same age as me
Her words still haunt my mind:
“The bombs were falling from the sky,
That were filled with tearful cries
Asking why?
To our God unseen by eyes
Why was my son so young to die?”
The meeting ended with a prayer
And my personal realization that something had to be done.
I attended meeting after meeting
Pamfleets and my prayers
Everyday I’d spend them reading
Late at night I woke up wet
Dripping wet from body’s sweat
Trying hard, but can’t forget
Wish we had guns of our own
For then we should have shown
Who was weak and who was strong
When they came into our home
I can never change the past
But I can arrange the future
Never be a coward sheep
Nor a leech or lying looter
For the cause I’ll be a shooter
My head is holding high
Heart and mind is filled with pride
As I stare up at the sky
Yell, “I am not afraid to die!”
The next morning myself and four others sat in prayer
With thoughts of heaven
I know my cause is true
Feel no fear for what I’ll do
My only worries for my mother
She’ll find comfort with the others
For I must avenge my brother
And in heaven help I love her.
Grabbed my gear and hurried fast toward the commotion
All I saw were bodies and smoke
Frank, my fellow soldier screamed out “Help, my leg is broken.”
The smell made me nauseous
Trying hard, had to be cautious
Maybe more of them around
Felt my hand wet on the ground
From blood that sizzled on hot black top
Frank is passed out and the bleeding I cannot stop
Three of my brothers were down
Six civilians, three women
Two men and a boy
By this time they’d deployed
Reinforcements and medical staff
Later that night I found out Frank had died
I had to hide the tears I cried
For all my heart I really tried to stop the bleeding
They said that there was bleeding from inside
He’d fractured ribs
Also found out that it was a Twelve year old kid
That blew him up with grenades
He had concealed inside his stuff
The kid took the life of my best friend in this desert
This hot as hell, disgusting smelling fucking desert
What’s wrong with these people don’t they know
We’re here to help them, bring them freedom
Better lives, but instead they help to hide
These insurgents from the east
Who target us, destroy the peace
They’re crazy talk about Allah
Then blow up kids with bombs in cars
Animals is closer still
That’s why I cannot wait to kill
A terrorist with all my will
They attacked us first
9-11 sent to heaven
Thousands in New York
Still we protect them
Just glad that Bush
Has done so much to protect us
Because of him we fight them here
Not at home, back in America
I miss my home and all my family
Miss my girl, just hope she waits for me
Makes me sick to think of all those cowards we protect
Protesting back at college while we’re here risking our necks
Half way across the world in the desert
Long beard Bin Ladin and his towel head troops
If I see them lord knows waste no time before I shoot
When I first came I wanted to help these people and their country
Now I’ve given up they should deal with their own problems
They messed it all up, so why should we be forced to solve them
Next day receive the news
We’re out on raids
gained some ground we cannot lose
There is a chance for volunteers
And so I choose
To go along to help the cause
It is time to get inside
Find the places that they hide
Take them back dead or alive
I am a patriotic person
Here’s my version of the truth
This is not a war that
America can afford to lose
We pull out of the base
Middle of the night
Vision gear is packed in the back
Full vest and helmets strapped tight
The desert is a cold place
Once the sun goes down
It’s another hour to the town
Where they’re hiding
Intelligence gave us a list
Of where to hit
And who to take
My heart is pounding as we line up ready to rush the first door…
“Wake up!” my mother cries as she pulls me from my bed
A smash kicks in my door, a man’s words I do not know
Screaming pointing at the floor
He holds a gun, he is a soldier
There are four men moving swiftly
Aiming rifles at us quickly
Barking orders
My brother’s head is dripping, with blood
His clothes their ripping
Pants their pulling and unzipping
He begs “why my clothes you’re stripping?”
What have we done I’m thinking
We must have done something?
Why are the soldiers beating my brother?
Strongly snatched from the arms of my mother
She tries to stand to pull me back, but she is pushed down
Soldier grabs me by my collar lifts my feet up off the ground
He yells words at me in English
I stare stupid in his eyes
Shaking his head slowly
He just drops me by his side
I can see now that they’re loading my brother in their tuck
Screaming, “Stop!” I stand up.
Butt of a rifle sits me down
As they drive away I’m thinking
Their path grows smaller, shrinking
Fifteen minuets ago we lay in our beds sleeping
Now my brothers bruised and beaten
Dragged him off and left us weeping
We spend the night just sitting, praying
“He’ll be alright,” I keep on saying
Truth is I don’t know
Don’t know where they took him or why?
Alone along the streets I walk
Half in fear and whole in shock
“I can help you with your brother,”
Words are whispered by a stranger
I turn to look…
“Let us leave” he says, for here we are in danger
Down an alley way we dart
Hear the pounding of my heart
He calls out “Quickly!”
“For the meeting soon shall start”
“What meeting?” mumbles from me
There are no meetings on a Sunday
At a door we stop
The man gives twice a knock
Two large men undo the lock
I freeze up with hesitation
The two men are not so patient
Pull me in and lock the door
Explain “we’re only here to talk”
We walk into a room filled with people speaking softly
A man tall and thin with a beard long and slim
Walks to the front of the floor
All attentions on this fellow
As his words begin to bellow
I’m in awe to stand and hear his words
Spoken strongly and so true
Of occupation for our oil
Political powers and abuse
Propaganda of insurgents and
Of time becoming urgent
People spoke were just like me
Some lost homes and family
One woman spoke of her son
He was 12, same age as me
Her words still haunt my mind:
“The bombs were falling from the sky,
That were filled with tearful cries
Asking why?
To our God unseen by eyes
Why was my son so young to die?”
The meeting ended with a prayer
And my personal realization that something had to be done.
I attended meeting after meeting
Pamfleets and my prayers
Everyday I’d spend them reading
Late at night I woke up wet
Dripping wet from body’s sweat
Trying hard, but can’t forget
Wish we had guns of our own
For then we should have shown
Who was weak and who was strong
When they came into our home
I can never change the past
But I can arrange the future
Never be a coward sheep
Nor a leech or lying looter
For the cause I’ll be a shooter
My head is holding high
Heart and mind is filled with pride
As I stare up at the sky
Yell, “I am not afraid to die!”
The next morning myself and four others sat in prayer
With thoughts of heaven
I know my cause is true
Feel no fear for what I’ll do
My only worries for my mother
She’ll find comfort with the others
For I must avenge my brother
And in heaven help I love her.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Cat Up a Tree
Cat Up a Tree
You once were exotic
Guess it is a bit ironic…
I played with you a little
Fill my mind with tiny riddles
Eyes like glass, a goofy smile
More it seems your number dialed
In beginning gave me feelings that I’d never felt before
And never feel again!
And still I date you more and more
Chasing something that’s behind me
Like a cat runs up a tree
For at the top I look to see
Coming down is not so easy
Now you have a voice
I give in, I have no choice
Next morning swear your gone
Till at night I hear your song
Almost half knows that its wrong
But even more is feeling drawn
Give it back my soul possession
Here it is a true confession
Learned a lesson,
But the hard way
So up this tree I’m trapped
Alone, a course unmapped
Your not alone you still have me
Don’t you like it up this tree
Listen close I’ll set you free
It’s so boring on the ground
So much talking, not a sound
Had me lost, but now I’m found
I’ll bring you home In just a while
Truth I speak.... its only but a mile
So relax, enjoy your time with glassy eyes and goofy smile
You once were exotic
Guess it is a bit ironic…
I played with you a little
Fill my mind with tiny riddles
Eyes like glass, a goofy smile
More it seems your number dialed
In beginning gave me feelings that I’d never felt before
And never feel again!
And still I date you more and more
Chasing something that’s behind me
Like a cat runs up a tree
For at the top I look to see
Coming down is not so easy
Now you have a voice
I give in, I have no choice
Next morning swear your gone
Till at night I hear your song
Almost half knows that its wrong
But even more is feeling drawn
Give it back my soul possession
Here it is a true confession
Learned a lesson,
But the hard way
So up this tree I’m trapped
Alone, a course unmapped
Your not alone you still have me
Don’t you like it up this tree
Listen close I’ll set you free
It’s so boring on the ground
So much talking, not a sound
Had me lost, but now I’m found
I’ll bring you home In just a while
Truth I speak.... its only but a mile
So relax, enjoy your time with glassy eyes and goofy smile
Friday, August 17, 2007
Phone Booth Kids
Thomas was on his way back from a few drinks a in a local dive. It was his first trip to Bangkok and as of yet he didn’t feel it a place he’d be coming back to soon. Around where he was staying it was all westerners. They drank all night and partied in the streets, buying bootleg clothing and catchy phrased t-shirts. In the mornings they would still be in the cafes, drinking and smoking cigarettes, dragging from the night before. Maybe a few years ago he’d have loved it, but that was then, today it wasn’t for him.
Crossing the street in the rain Thomas landed in a puddle, he shivered a little, looking down at the black water, not wanting to think about the street vendors scrap buckets and plump rats who ran the streets. As he got to the far side of the street he noticed a woman, her back was to him, laying on her side and she was facing a small metal stove, no higher than a foot off the ground. Inside there was a fire burning and lots of orange coals. She seemed to be holding something close to her chest, a baby guessed Thomas. As he passed to the other side of her he looked back. Startled he realized her shirt was up and she was rubbing her breasts, her eyes looked up at him as she kept rubbing. A few rain drops hissed as they hit the top of her iron stove. Obviously she had lost control of her mind.
After passing a few street folks on this darker side of the road Thomas came to a phone booth. Inside were two young kids, sitting on the floor, playing. The older one looked up at Thomas, he winked back and the young Thai gave a smile. A short ways up Thomas stopped, he thought about the kids for a second and about the book he’d just finished Welcome to the Bangkok Slaughterhouse about a priest who had spent the past 30 years working and living with children in Bangkok’s hardest slums ( www.mercycentre.org ) Thomas stood there for a moment and pulled a 20 baht note from his wallet, he folded it up and slid it into the middle of his notebook. He turned around and walked back toward the kids in the phone booth. Getting closer he noticed that the kids were keeping themselves entertained by kicking the door open as foreigners walked past. They caught the father of a French family as Thomas approached. The man didn’t seem too pleased. It made Thomas laugh.
Knocking on the glass of the phone booth Thomas motioned for the kids to come out. Squatting down he showed them his notebook and motioned for them to open it. It took a minute for the kids to realize what he was asking them to do, but finally the older one looking at the younger one lifted the cover. “Just some words,” said their questioning expressions. No, no, keep going Thomas motioned. Quickly they flipped through page by page, stopping to point and giggle at a few of the doodles. Finally they hit the cash. They looked at each other and looked at Thomas. He pushed it across the page towards them and they quickly grabbed it, saying “thank you” as they tucked back into their phone booth play room.
The rain came on a little stronger as Thomas walked back to his room. He wanted to give something to those kids that could help them, he knew the cash was nothing. Their parents would probably take it once they saw the kids with it and at best they might get some sweets out of it. It was putting the money inside the book that he wanted them to catch. Thomas wanted to show those two kids that turning the pages of a book can lead you to good things. That inside the cover of what looks like just some pages you can find secrets, you can find knowledge, power and money. A book can contain another world or the same world through different eyes. Nasir Jones said “Through your existence become wealthy, knowledge is King’ Thomas knew it was a stretch, and that chances were the two kids couldn’t read, but at least he had tried, he hoped those kids could catch the point and find the power of a book one day.
Back in the room, after his shower Thomas told the story to his wife, she was half asleep and said she didn’t think they would get it. She was always to the point in that way.
-stephen faulkner
Crossing the street in the rain Thomas landed in a puddle, he shivered a little, looking down at the black water, not wanting to think about the street vendors scrap buckets and plump rats who ran the streets. As he got to the far side of the street he noticed a woman, her back was to him, laying on her side and she was facing a small metal stove, no higher than a foot off the ground. Inside there was a fire burning and lots of orange coals. She seemed to be holding something close to her chest, a baby guessed Thomas. As he passed to the other side of her he looked back. Startled he realized her shirt was up and she was rubbing her breasts, her eyes looked up at him as she kept rubbing. A few rain drops hissed as they hit the top of her iron stove. Obviously she had lost control of her mind.
After passing a few street folks on this darker side of the road Thomas came to a phone booth. Inside were two young kids, sitting on the floor, playing. The older one looked up at Thomas, he winked back and the young Thai gave a smile. A short ways up Thomas stopped, he thought about the kids for a second and about the book he’d just finished Welcome to the Bangkok Slaughterhouse about a priest who had spent the past 30 years working and living with children in Bangkok’s hardest slums ( www.mercycentre.org ) Thomas stood there for a moment and pulled a 20 baht note from his wallet, he folded it up and slid it into the middle of his notebook. He turned around and walked back toward the kids in the phone booth. Getting closer he noticed that the kids were keeping themselves entertained by kicking the door open as foreigners walked past. They caught the father of a French family as Thomas approached. The man didn’t seem too pleased. It made Thomas laugh.
Knocking on the glass of the phone booth Thomas motioned for the kids to come out. Squatting down he showed them his notebook and motioned for them to open it. It took a minute for the kids to realize what he was asking them to do, but finally the older one looking at the younger one lifted the cover. “Just some words,” said their questioning expressions. No, no, keep going Thomas motioned. Quickly they flipped through page by page, stopping to point and giggle at a few of the doodles. Finally they hit the cash. They looked at each other and looked at Thomas. He pushed it across the page towards them and they quickly grabbed it, saying “thank you” as they tucked back into their phone booth play room.
The rain came on a little stronger as Thomas walked back to his room. He wanted to give something to those kids that could help them, he knew the cash was nothing. Their parents would probably take it once they saw the kids with it and at best they might get some sweets out of it. It was putting the money inside the book that he wanted them to catch. Thomas wanted to show those two kids that turning the pages of a book can lead you to good things. That inside the cover of what looks like just some pages you can find secrets, you can find knowledge, power and money. A book can contain another world or the same world through different eyes. Nasir Jones said “Through your existence become wealthy, knowledge is King’ Thomas knew it was a stretch, and that chances were the two kids couldn’t read, but at least he had tried, he hoped those kids could catch the point and find the power of a book one day.
Back in the room, after his shower Thomas told the story to his wife, she was half asleep and said she didn’t think they would get it. She was always to the point in that way.
-stephen faulkner
1st 3
Expensive
I’ve yet to cut off an appendage
For I’m young, naïve, inoffensive
Tragedy is no friend to me
So my art probley’ won’t
Be expensive
White Boys
White boys we dream of the struggle
Dream to be one of the rebels
But the same skin as us
Is the first to discuss
Who takes the shot
To make sure that they stop
“That nigger making all of the trouble”
Difference
Differences I have made little
Fill my mind with mental riddles
And watch the world go by
I’ve yet to cut off an appendage
For I’m young, naïve, inoffensive
Tragedy is no friend to me
So my art probley’ won’t
Be expensive
White Boys
White boys we dream of the struggle
Dream to be one of the rebels
But the same skin as us
Is the first to discuss
Who takes the shot
To make sure that they stop
“That nigger making all of the trouble”
Difference
Differences I have made little
Fill my mind with mental riddles
And watch the world go by
Thursday, August 16, 2007
thailand
Last night I watched as a few feet from my eyes a man and woman had sex to Simon and Garfunkel’s “hello darkness.” They were both robotic, the man was thin and dried out like a raisin. He looked around nervously as some stood up and walked out. They were facing the other way when she gave him a blow job, it was the only thing that turned me on. Bangkok did not allow me to feel comfortable.
The girl had her feet up in the air against the mirrored wall. Lying with her back on the floor. She would shoot a carved out vegetable penis over her head and slide back to catch it. On the third toss she missed and the dildo landed with a slap sliding across the stage and onto the floor. An old woman with a flashlight came over, it was under the chair next to me. No one dared to touch it. The girl looked very embarrassed and left the stage.
Walking down Kho San road and older man caught my attention among the constant waves of people. He was white in his forties or so, big build and wearing jean shorts cut real short like a pair of bikini bottoms. More than anything it put a question mark in my brain and made me suddenly aware that there are so many stories around me everyday. Not that all are worth hearing, but that they’re there all the same. A million stories all around, the book of the world. I need to read more pages.
Sitting in a hole in the wall off the main road, I’m starting to appreciate Bangkok, (not like or admire.) There are a few Thais sitting around me drinking beer. The light here is soft, it is a good place to write. On the walls there are black stencils, about 6 inches high of stripper women grabbing their ankles? Underneath is the caption “The FCUK Public House.” The only thing behind this place is an alleyway, in fact the whole bar really is an alleyway, no wall in front or behind. I’m pretty sure the waitress here isn’t going to be grabbing her ankles, I’m also pretty sure no one would want this waitress grabbing her ankles.
Maybe the happy brownie kids will be out when I make my way back to bed. Not sure if I’ll be indulging, I’m tired and have been reading books on the horrors of the Thai justice/prison system. Brownies here have the potential to be not so happy.
In more than general Bangkok feels a free mans city. Not that I didn’t enjoy going through the markets
around Chinatown today, but things really wake up at night. Everyone gets hungry. There are a hundred
right and wrong turns and being with my wife that puts me on the defensive, worried for her safety,
burdened with the role of protector. Solo though these same turns are what call for another drink, they drag
me deep into places of strangeness, places that vibrate with a surreal intensity. They make me vibrate from the inside out and feel for real the dangerous and exciting energies. The tuk tuks are breaking my concentration and the Bee gees are on the speakers, Night Fever, Night Fever.
A Thai man just came up and started, I guess begging from two other Thais. He is wearing a tang-top and had lots of tattoos. They looked away ignoring him, he dropped to his knees and spoke loudly. Quickly he moved on. I’m sure he was drunk…
The girl had her feet up in the air against the mirrored wall. Lying with her back on the floor. She would shoot a carved out vegetable penis over her head and slide back to catch it. On the third toss she missed and the dildo landed with a slap sliding across the stage and onto the floor. An old woman with a flashlight came over, it was under the chair next to me. No one dared to touch it. The girl looked very embarrassed and left the stage.
Walking down Kho San road and older man caught my attention among the constant waves of people. He was white in his forties or so, big build and wearing jean shorts cut real short like a pair of bikini bottoms. More than anything it put a question mark in my brain and made me suddenly aware that there are so many stories around me everyday. Not that all are worth hearing, but that they’re there all the same. A million stories all around, the book of the world. I need to read more pages.
Sitting in a hole in the wall off the main road, I’m starting to appreciate Bangkok, (not like or admire.) There are a few Thais sitting around me drinking beer. The light here is soft, it is a good place to write. On the walls there are black stencils, about 6 inches high of stripper women grabbing their ankles? Underneath is the caption “The FCUK Public House.” The only thing behind this place is an alleyway, in fact the whole bar really is an alleyway, no wall in front or behind. I’m pretty sure the waitress here isn’t going to be grabbing her ankles, I’m also pretty sure no one would want this waitress grabbing her ankles.
Maybe the happy brownie kids will be out when I make my way back to bed. Not sure if I’ll be indulging, I’m tired and have been reading books on the horrors of the Thai justice/prison system. Brownies here have the potential to be not so happy.
In more than general Bangkok feels a free mans city. Not that I didn’t enjoy going through the markets
around Chinatown today, but things really wake up at night. Everyone gets hungry. There are a hundred
right and wrong turns and being with my wife that puts me on the defensive, worried for her safety,
burdened with the role of protector. Solo though these same turns are what call for another drink, they drag
me deep into places of strangeness, places that vibrate with a surreal intensity. They make me vibrate from the inside out and feel for real the dangerous and exciting energies. The tuk tuks are breaking my concentration and the Bee gees are on the speakers, Night Fever, Night Fever.
A Thai man just came up and started, I guess begging from two other Thais. He is wearing a tang-top and had lots of tattoos. They looked away ignoring him, he dropped to his knees and spoke loudly. Quickly he moved on. I’m sure he was drunk…
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Bangkoked in Thailand
My first Bangkok sex show. Mind boggling tricks performed by the vaginas of women past their prime. Including such classics as hide the razor blades and the ping pong show.
Ps a smoking pussy cannot be healthy.
Ps a smoking pussy cannot be healthy.
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