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Hammering Through the Way Home.
The plane descended with the best laid schemes of mice and men. I knew the two-hour drive home would set me straight. To sleep. Thirteen hours of air time strapped in a seat that would wreck the posture of yoga instructor. I can sleep anywhere. Sitting. Standing. Slipping chopsticks under layers of steamed wonton. Grand plans. Get home. Collect the mail. Discard the bill collectors. Sleep and wake. Fast forward the calendar. The seven day Real World Asia episode is over. Back to it. Four chocolate bars. Three bottles of San Pellegrino. Two Ashtrays full of Duty-Free Cigarettes. Interpol Antics on repeat. Six episodes of 24. And one stick of butter, scraped clean from the plate with whole grain crackers. At exactly 5:49 a.m. I realized that I did not leave the porch lights on all night. The sun was up and so was the pounding in my head. The throbbing. The 24-hour sting that inserts itself like a Bic pen in the back of your neck, takes a right turn behind your left ear and pushes your frontal lobe into the back of your eyebrows. I unpack. One duffle of dirty clothes. Sweat filled clothes that increased the humidity inside the plastic and polyester to protect the Cuban Cigars I smuggled through Customs at San Francisco International. A modest endeavor that took little promiscuity on my part. Rifling through my bag I realized that the journal entries of days in Asia were discarded. All notes scratched on airplane and car-parking itineraries were handed to check in counter girls and gruff parking attendants. The stories of snakes eating baby rabbits in front of screaming groups of kids in Taiwanese night markets. Eating Kyoto dragon meat fried on a skewer. Drinking absinthe and smoking contraband in the back of barbershops that were once brothels. Watching the de-shelling of turtles, for fun. Tails wiggling. Heads beheaded. Having Singapore whores fondle each other for nickels. All the stories that make Gentlemen blush and Ladies sweat. It was a seductive seven days written on sheets of paper in my own blood. Blood that dripped from eyes not shut for sleep for one hundred and sixty eight straight hours. Asia is a pinball machine with fire-hot bumpers blasting you deep into the abyss of back alleys only to spit you out under the exotic neon lights of seductive streets. All the stories are lost. All the details shredded and crumpled on the floor. When I make it through the waking hours of this day, I will sleep and settle up with my conscience. But right now. I must shower, shave and live my respectable life. Ooh she gave me mekong whiskey
- Rememberance of things lost:
Post - July'07 Back to home...
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