Fighting the good fight and falling in love

I haven't slept in 42 hours. I haven't eaten in about 25 hours. And my shoulders are so tight that I can't breathe deep without wincing because all the muscles in my back have seized up. This is what happens when you live an 'interesting' Slinky life. I am counting down the hours until I can sleep. And I finally have time. And so, I blog. This will take a while....

The Raj and I met for one of our unfortunately infrequent verbal grouphugs, me forsaking my commitments even though they screamed bloody murder in my head All.Evening.Long and her graciously forgiving the sweet clove smoke which drifted like lazy silken threads through the air. I have conversations with her that you only can have with a precious handful of people. Where we can laugh and tease and split our sides, but we can also get to the core of things. The shit that really matters.

Maybe it's the suffering.

It is our considered opinion that yes, we suppose we could live that charmed life, and yes, we do envy people who do, and that some small, secret part of us who knows enough to be ashamed sometimes says "It's not fair! Why should it be hard for me but so easy for her?" These people seem to drift through life as though they were borne on the gentlest of breezes, whereas The Raj and me (and a whole lot of people I know) have to brace themselves against tempests too often, while they inhabit a different world. The sweetest fruit falls into their lap from the tree of life without their even having to reach for it, whereas the rest of us scrape ourselves raw and bloody just trying to get the pith.

But.

But we wonder. Is the charmed life unattainable simply because of the paths we choose? We are jealous of the ease that other people's lives fall into place, but we do not envy them. Not for Slinky the jc-uni-9-5-job-get-married-2.4-kids-holiday-in-Genting-get-cheated-on-and-retire-at-65. No. When you walk away from the path less traveled, I suppose you must expect it to be harder. No one's interested in making it easier for you. Zee calls it being outside the Matrix.

Maybe it, as we talked about, a forging of some sort. For whatever lies ahead. Maybe it's to grow, and learn. And to get better.

I wish we could have talked longer, and I wish we could see each other more. I always feel better after having spent time with you. But as always, dear girl, it was great.

And the chocolate martini was fabulous.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And Bangkok

There is nothing simple about living the Slinky life. And so it is for vacations. Last minute packing saw me sleeping 3am for the fourth night in a row, and I woke up feeling half-fucked but ready to go. Unfortunately, in keeping with the game of God vs. Slinky, we missed our plane. God - 265, Slinky - 0. Liability for this mishap remains a sensitive subject so we won't talk about it. Some frenzied hamstering around Terminal 1, temper tantrums (yes, me) and a quarter-pack of Djarums later, we are on our way to Bangkok, although not without almost missing our flight again by about a minute or so.

But there. Indulgence. In mysterious meat, heavily seasoned, very salty, fried and dripping with oil, and a strange pink-orange color, your fingers all sticky with khao and drippings. Water buffalo. Or wild boar. Best not to inquire too deeply into these things. Sweetness came in small crispy pancakes with whipped rice flour and coconut. Rich, sweet and terribly decadent. In the firm, sweet flesh of grilled river prawns, sold 10 for S$2 outside the girlie bars where we drank. In grilled sotong which came in unfamiliar shapes, strange grassy Thai vegetables, goose, scallops which The Boy swears came out of a can and then were artistically arranged on the top shell, curry powder crab, steamed kim bak lor, more strange grassy Thai vegetables, Baskin Robbins avec whipped cream, Dunkin Donuts, some truly excellent deep-fried chicken, deep fried chicken skin, mandarin juice, sugarcane chunks and barbecued pork.

I cannot imagine that Eve was tempted by an apple. If Sin were carnate as food, then shouldn't it be something screaming of decadence, of seduction? Shouldn't it have been a peach, a mango, Eve eating it and having the rich, sweet juice dribble down her jaw as she crammed it into her mouth, guilt and greed lending it a lusher, more complex flavour? Maybe, oh the flight of fancy, it should have been a melting chocolate cake, fresh from God's Kitchen of Sin. Or it would have been meat, rich in red raw bloody juices. But not an apple, so sterile and smug with it's "I'm so GOOD for you" shininess and pale unyielding flesh.

I think strange thoughts when I'm tired, yes.

There were deep fried grasshoppers, which I refused.

"It's not like you not to be adventurous." The Boy remarked. He was taunting me.

Bugs are what you swat, scream at, or run away from. They are not a food group.

In Chatuchak, where the heat presses on you like something alive, a smothering, stifling wet blanket and you could feel sweat run down your back, your thighs, between your breasts. Where you are overwhelmed by color, smell, scent and a bewildering number of choices. And losing my heart a hundred times a minute. I'll talk about that some other time. But in three words: puggies, ferrets and RTBs. Gorgeous, beautiful little babies which wrapped themselves around my wrists and fingers like living pieces of jewelry, their eyes like milky gems and their bodies cool against my skin. Lovely. It broke my heart to leave them behind, when one could have so easily come home with me.

Watching the sweat and blood fly in Lumpinee Stadium, where the shrill keening accompaniment to the Ram Muay makes the violence almost ceremonial. Screaming with the crowds, standing on the wooden bleachers where undoubtedly fat rats scurry below. Watching some of what must be the hardest bastards in Asia kick the living shit out of each other but refusing to go down. And walking over to bow to their opponent's coach at the end of the match.

Playing with 8-foot pythons, in a place where there are more reticulated pythons than you can shake a frozen rat at. Watching near-naked girls dance on a platform, having one gesture cheekily at me. A vision. The madam eyeing me and wondering how much she could make from my sweet honey-colored ass. "Where you from?" she asks me, sure that I'm a Thai popsy because I blend so well with the locals. I tell her, and perhaps she is surprised. "Are you sure you're not adopted?" The Boy kept asking me as we walked down that soi and through Patpong. "Maybe when we get home you should ask your parents about where you really came from?"

Not sleeping til the wee hours of the morning, watching Djarum send up scented trails of curling smoke into the night air as I sip my Heineken or hide in the coolness of the shade.

The days were hot. But the nights.....mmmmm.....immeasurably hotter. Awake one morning, and he holds me tight, and there is an all-too-brief moment of blissage, where the world seems to recedes just a little and only he is foreground.

"We need a long holiday," he says.

And before I can ask, he tells me.

So many things to do. So little time.