Prosaic recyclings:

Cultural distress in taxi on Petchepuri Road, Bangkok, march 2008:

I know not where I could be going but the taxistand on the corner three blocks from here is having a sign saying “Taxi to anywhere”, and that covers the commotion well. It could go anywhere, anywhere matters or don’t.
I grap a cap even though driving taxis in this city stinks and reminds me way too much of the way I feel, I cant close the book, I cant get out of the taxi because most of the time its jammed, it is too public, I sit there, stare from taxi to taxi constantly relating to the choices that takes me – or should take me from a to b, and just that – it should take me, more and more means nothing has really changed.
So anger finds no room, love is contained and cribbled by conditions, it moves in and out of consistency, blood rushing or piss boiling, neither red or sound, just pale and compromising.
Morning comes with the deftones of unconditional love and devotion. I should travel in time alongside or beyond but what is there? Solitude, circular ménage and my ass. I love people more than I hate stuff. Traveling doesn’t do anything for me here. Tim said it. Backpacking is so 90s.
I yield and I don’t understand, should have been in Vietnam by now but who the fuck cares or why should I even bother? I have had it with emerging developing countries but then again, where does shit work?

Spending most of my day in a kingsize bed times two, I am a tourist in me. My life. Thrust towards the shore, a wash up, everything is left behind and then what is there? Democracy doesn’t eventually feed you enough, and if it does it is because eating is the root of democracy.

The choice here is really whether or not to move into a topend hotel of boulderless charm. A luxurious pile of bricks with seaview, pool patio and flatscreen and breakfast included maids offering happy endings to ensure affluence, odourless.
Anybody can do this and everybody does. There is noting to it, tourism is more about stigmita than confronting new frontiers.