Recycling

            Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos. From the beginning it was never anything but chaos: it was a fluid which enveloped me, which I breathed in through the gills. In the substrata, where the moon shone steady and opaque, it was smooth and fecundating; above it was a jangle and a discord. In everything I quickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal the irony, the paradox.

            Henry Miller, The Tropic of Capricorn

            Once you give up the ghost everything else naturally follows...

            In this natural season of the monsoon,

            where mists block out the horizons.

            Seeing in the distance more rain clouds,

            like an entity that never rests.

            For once in the city,

            the streets feel cleaned out.

            No gawking.

            No loitering on the streets.

            No people standing outside with no place to go

            In these rows of bars

            massage parlors

            art galleries

            where everything is a deja vu

            Of cheap imitation

            Of Cheap furniture

            cheap whores

            with their cheap make-up,

            Cheap lipstick

            Cheap alcohol

            cheap blood

            cheap sex

            cheap clothes

            and their cheap thrills.

            The rain forces them into these holes.

            Off the streets.

            Keeps away the street vendors,

            the stray dogs

            the stray street children.

            Turning corners,

            you meet the ubiquitous presence of muted television sets,

            sport channels

            game channels

            With the same music playing in all the red neon [bars]

            each corner punctuated by a 7-11

            Family Mart

            and Local marts

            Selling the same beer

            the same cigarettes

            the same condoms

            the same potato chips

            Ventilated solely by air conditioning

            With their heaving hum

            metallic resonances

            Everything is wrapped in plastic,

            Sold on a shelf

            Pictured in posters and displays

            The only thing left to do is gather around pool tables,

            lounge around television sets,

            Chat

            Play Darts

            Around the exchange of business smiles with

            Broken English

            German Splatter

            our fake smiles

            drunk smiles

            lustful smiles

            And in between lighting up cigarettes

            bored smiles

            Yawns on tables with candle and liquor

            Overflowing ashtrays.

            With everyone gone, I

            walk down to the beach

            where the water drains with sewage

            Condoms, Cigarettes, beer-bottles, pads, plastic,

            the insignificant dead

            floating out into the ocean

            Consumed by sea-animals

            Recycled back into human-bodies

            In the sea-food restaurants

            that line the pier

            Back into town

            Humans consuming their own shit

            High-heels and sneakers

            Hip-hop clothes

            Football jerseys

            The drainage pipes never stop flowing

            Black is everyone's favorite color

            As their dragging them around the bars

            Always waiting, legs crossed

            All I am able to do is write back drops

            Chasing my story to a close

            Perhaps these metaphors mean nothing

            Like words

            Like life-style

            Like impositions

            A system caught onto itself

            Like Telephones & Televisions
            [ Sealed and wrapped
             In ac(c)ord ]

Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn

Argghhh... lost my flashdrive... going to have to think up of something new to write. Wouldn't that be so easy now. So easy...

Again lost those moments I'll never have back
Hey it's just my cynical nature, isn't it?
The voice coming back
I'm keeping them now
They are mine

And they'll find you
And they'll love you

And they'll love you
And they'll find you

And I can't keep this now. It's a moment too lost.
It's 14 after
and I'm my life is written in paper menus at the bar
I didn't think it'd be like this
Like a
dry
unprotected
kiss

close your eyes

On a train, winter to home

Up the green slope, the train rose, dragging its compartments finally out of the endless two lanes of patty fields and into the mountains. Mountains finally! And as if in home greetings, hooting birds, the croaking frogs, the crinkle of crickets, and the faint sound of falling water welcome me back, beneath the ever-present clacking of the track. I folded the blanket tighter around myself, wondering how long I’ve been gone. It seemed like nothing’s change. Night now, and the mist gather outside the window panel.  In third class, people open up the windows to catch the crisp earthy breeze. In second, we’re stuck with moldy smell of air-con, gone musty now after twelve hours. Outside I can smell the fresh drizzle, working into the soil. The sun finally sets to the west, cutting across grey-greens hills, sparkling off gold pagodas, echoing the heavy dong for evening prayers. Small drops drip form on the glass, through the night, and unnoticeably the fog hand low obscuring the sunrise. The cock-a-doodle-do welcomes me, to that last green-platform, at the end of the line. And there I’ll be looking for my dearest anchor in that red and green sweater. She’ll be looking for me across that platform. And then, I’ll finally be home, with that first hug from my mother. 

I was never meant to be the poet...

the hunger in my eyes
is the beauty of my fall

touch me
irrelevant

sleeping inside my fire
while i lift the pen

sipping on this desire
never end

Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn

The Pianno Girl

“This is a failed experiment.” I’m p[l]aying for the Girl in Blue. I’m writing pages in a manuscript for a diary in a journal. Am I pretending to be somebody else?

Everything you’re hearing right now does not necessarily have to be true. When reality is too solid it weighs you down. This is not a “chill out, man” kind of saying that’s aimed at avoiding the problem—or really showing {how you don’t care}. I’m saying that, everything you’re going through right now is not what’s necessarily happening—and even if it is, how important is it really? What’s the use of thinking that everything has to go a certain way; to be harsh about it; to force it to happen as you imagine it. You make reality with your thoughts and your worries; and how much it can weigh on you is really up to you. It is not what is happening.

All this started because my first girl-friend was great at inventing codes. Codes, you used to think that the whole world can be understood if you could read the codes, read the signs. {You’re getting closer to me.} The mystery can be solved; and code is the process. Codes also means there is something to hide. Someone, or something is being hidden, being secretive. What is it that they don’t want us to know, or want us to know, what do they mean, by trying to keep it secret?

So now here I am, playing Piano for the girl in blue playing in the corner… and she’s signing on the counter leaning against the TV. BBC on mute. Me right here across writing, watching, smoking. Still trying to solve this mystery.

Music is also a communication system, and those that can express themselves purely through sound are artists. But what distinguishes writers from other categories of writers? Perhaps, it is which part of you that you allow to write.

For the lover of music. The keyboards are a powerful instrument.

[Such] Intensity of description.

Acoustic.

The image; the word.

The humidity of the streets. The crowds you’re against. Facing it; a wall of indifference, a wall of hate.

You’re right. You’re a whole different person when you write. People choose which parts of themselves to choose to write. It’s because I know you in real life—in living with you, being with you, in reflecting off you. I sometimes can’t reconcile the difference between the two. I think of something to say, to reply to the you I know in this written universe, but then I think of the you I know of experience, from memory, from real life—and I don’t know how best to reply. Who you can be, and how you can reply, in this written universe is also so much different, vaster in some ways than in real-life. I can’t see your reply, as I do when I’m talking to you face to face—to see what your face says, to reflect what my being is changing or not changing in you right then and there. All I can do is reaching out to you, through writing. What we all do in real-life—minus reflecting on a faster reply. Such trying to reach you… a way of being with you.

I can’t say sometimes; just sending and receiving. If anything is happening. I’m more worried about what the response would be—if I’m going to send this to you. What should I do to best get through to you? What should I say, and what can’t I say?

Some people get lost in this world. In this separation… not wanting to get lost in life, in the crowd, the masses.

Starts serenading from the computer, in one palm, silent with the other.

[Such] Intensity of description.

Acoustic.

The image; the word.

Memory is different here. All the words written… [become a trail]. Clues to this self… clues leaving closer to that self--that self that writes. On this journey into the self… Retreating….

Some people get lost in this world. In this separation… not wanting to get lost in life, in the crowd, the masses.

Just ignore it.

TV is like medication. You want to be happy, and this is a distraction, it is never as good as the real thing. Because you don’t create. Something is missing. And, when you create. When you invest your psychic energy. That is when you can be in love. In love, and joy. Perhaps that is the feeling from first love… you create something, in your mind, that you’ve never loved before, and love it. I remember, one of the first girls I’ve ever loved, I puzzled her. It is the greatest sense, and source of curiosity to get to understand her weird and erratic pattern. To bring order to her system. And perhaps, this is the most beautiful way two people can get to know each other. When I really want to understand, with all my curiosity and passion, how this person is. To find joy in such true communication, to such understanding.

Music

Never try to write a memory; memory is passing; and this moment is a rememorizes the next. Where would we be if we stopped trying to remember? In oceans is not about being blameless; it Is not about being guilty. When we smoke we sometimes become more blameless; we might feel like it. But we also become more easily influenced; we are not on longer responsible for what happens or is happening; we might feel no guilt for things; but that never means we’re not blameless; everything we do is imprinted;

The reasons are sometimes too easy… or weak, the child not yet learning to be a man in male rock. The way we were as children, this beautiful word becoming not what we thought it was. Growing up becomes a process of taking this essential ignorance; this essential goodness; and not losing it. These changes; polar opposition; logic; turns people’s natures upside down.

Pop culture: taking everything in; leaving your eyes wide-open without judging folly for sin. Guiltless enjoyment. Uncensored.


Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn

0 - Oblivion

Oblivion...

I’m standing here almost at the beginning. One more assignment to go and I’ll be the proud owner of that sheepskin. The one your parents are always egging you on to achieve. Yes it’s limbo all over again as you’re asking the question: So… what now? Motivation Zero. Was it suppose to be some kind of success or was I again mislead. I am standing here trying to confront what I am disgusted at (our happy capital city of Bangkok), sky high bar looking down at pollution crowds and the cloud buildings, feeling much the same really; scammed. Really now, was it worth it? You read the front pages of the smiling faces and happy testimonials, and you make a fantasy of yourself walking around enjoying the sunshine, lying in the yard talking to friends, meeting strange wonderful people, and getting a through academic education at the same time. To give the dream credit, I didn’t go to a good school. Still I can just shut my stream of mental rotations for a second and listen to the conversation going on next to me, some two blond chicks from somewhere or there, or the old man sitting around sipping liquor, or the group of wealthy something something networking young professionals all getting drunk (like me) to realize we’re all missing something.

Don’t remember who said it (maybe it was Stephan King) when we’re puking in the gutter the color’s the same. Well from personal experience I’ll say there’s not much difference in the price of liquor, but there is a discernable difference in pigmentation if you’re looking for it. Or if you’re trying to feed fish.

Maybe I just have a problem with society. I've been told I have an attitude problem; an authority problem; (Had) a drug problem; (resuming) an alcohol problem; (had) a smoking problem; some sexual dysfunctional fixation problem; etc. ad neasuem. 

You know. Maybe I just have a smiling problem. Or even worse; a writing problem.

And I’m tired of trying to fix it. I'm looking back for that time. It seemed so long ago when everything was perfect; seemed perfect. Naw, I just didn't care. Floating there in chemical oblivion, master of my own universe... and perhaps that was really the answer after all.

... at least to the writing problem. 

ARE YOU THE COMERICAL AUDIENCE?

Donate $10 to know what I really really really think! Heh heh…


Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn