After a good month of traveling, things in general starts to settle in. You forget that you ever left, though you still miss something, somethings different, but I cant say thats a new sensation. Its like this: when you have more qustions that you get answers, everything is exactly the way it is intended to be. A nadir that keeps you running. Here or there.

back in Kholat, left Yokam today, two weeks of rice, chicken, rain and frogs. The pool smoothes me like a tailorcut suit. Cool, yes but safe, never!

today,
in real time: I dont know if the rainseason started today, but it sure has hell is raining. Apocalyotic roars of water colour the village in a fluid red and brown, a paradox the dust turns to water. At night everybody hunt for and eats the gigasize frogs, but me: im the falang (thai for white) with the chicken in cultural distress asking for a knife and fork.

dreamtime:
I wrap up my few belongings in a little backpack. A notebook, a laptop, a luger, and not the least your favourite levis jeans, which I now, after a summer of 100 push and sit ups a day, look, if not good, then decent in. I disappear at a Cambodian bordercrossing.

it aint africa but it looks like it
it aint vietnam but it smells like it
its thailand and i didnt now it looked like this
it looks like africa
but it isnt

touchdown but a nightmarish one. three attemps, the last a dramatic pull back from decent to a quick rise, the plane shaking and making unsetteling noises, people under cuishins and pillows, some laughing some cryimg, but non the less, this is bangkok, but not yet grounded.

tomorrow is liftoff, no postings untill well after succesfull touchdown.
my fairy and hairy mates, have a wonderful summer.

and pia k: how long before the paparazzi nudeshot? can anything oust the ugly duckling? the more housetrained they are percieved to be, the more shrude the spin.
the presidents of southamerica plus castro: get that latino free trade rocking.
the latino immigrants of The USA: Even though you couldnt care less I am with you all the way. A Day without a mexican-day. Brilliant concept
People of Iraq: dont worry, we are now biulding four superbases to emphasize our not-presence.

and the rest: two words

A SMALL TALE OF A SMALL REALITY BUT ALAS BY JOVE IT ROCKS

Four cuban exchange students, 3 thais, 1 out of slovakia, one romainan, one italian, a slovenian have for the last three months be living and studying in viborg. thats basicallly it. the transport. the stratification. they have been hosted and they have hosted. no surprise, the cuban exchange students fired up the remains of the old school socialistic romantics. the laid back back bona fide ethnic joy de vivre, the rythm, the dance, the...in other words...the salsa, the salsa nights, the salsa events the four cubans organized, were local cultural highlihts. and not without reason, as Retroville per se is desereted from anything with a ryddim!
What I want to say? I want to say that tonight was the last salsa night of three. Everybody is leaving anyone always. But I was there to bid my farewells. I was there to drink, I wasnt there, as it turned out that I would be, to surpress the tears or to dance.
About 60 people had gathered tonoght for this last dance. The cubans had been living with, the thais had, the slovakians had, the italieans had and the slovenian had. For three months they had been living with us, in the houses, bed-nesting and shaking their scary tanned asses to the wet dream riddim of the predominant caribiean dream. But nonetheless...They there were, the cubans on stage, stating their farewellss and appreciation, the open hearted yet limited linguistic far cry. But Oh Lordie, how we cried, and oh my, how the shit worked: For a minute there or more, the beers to come, the rum, the beauty of their farewell, the feeble but consious strive to grap globalization, the momental feel of control, the return of youth and idealism, the going going gone lust of kitchen and houses and favourite gardens. I swallowed. The shit worked. It was real, adresses was exchanged, hugs and kisses and sincere plans of more travels, of small revolutions: Me, wrapping up yet another apartment for a short term project felt right, bonded with the thai, because going to Thailand I wanna look as thai as I can thai get, I baffled, I borrowed I blurred the world, the systems, the random factors dispite, the beers, the last jack I shouldnt have downed, the kareookee song I should never do, but I do, and I dont care, the samll stuff that means stuff that is the only stuff that will ever mean stuff and the only way that you will ever make sense of suff: I mean, I cried: I drowned in my tears, I drowned between A and B and the alphabet have never been enough, its just a small tale of a small reality thats rocks.

oh egypt.

the undisciplined squads of emotions. at the still point of the turning world, human kind can not bear very much reality. the intolerable wrestle with words and meaning the houses are all gone under the sea, the wounded surgeon plies the steel, footfalls echo in the memory, teach us to care and not to care because I do not hope to turn again because I don not hope, because I do not hope to turn, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper

hell is oneself hell is alone
there is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to one is alwyas alone
between the idea and the reality
between the motion and the act


(todays lecture are based on writing by T.S. Elliot, torn witout respect from context to fit a contemporary situation, an almost therapeutic action, but in particular elaborating my status as a second rate poet)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._S._Eliot

as the international community raves further east banging the drum and waving the flags while the hords of migrants slips like sand through fingers to the west, the status is a gridlock north and south, todays quote goes as follows:

"there has been an accident!" they said,
"your servant`s cut in half, he is dead!"
"Indeed!" said Mr. Jones
"and please, send me the half that´s got my keys."

Harry Graham (1874-1936), from Ruthless Rhymes (Mr. Jones)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Graham_(poet)

about my last posting about assholes. well it almost go without saying but there are ofcourse exceptions to the rule: here is one.
i once worked at a cafe where i met this guy, lets call him Allan. He called himself Allan, though I doubt it was his name. Allan The Goldtooth. It took me good amount of time to even want to talk to him, because he frequently entered the cafe with bruces, black eyes, swallen lips, limping...clearly marks of a violent life, which just basically made him not very attractive to even try to get in contact with.
Then one night, as I was closing the cafe down, Allan entered with yet another black eye, sat down at a table and humbly asked for a glass of water which I couldnt deny him. And then, I didnt ask him - he started to tell me of how he for the last three years had been trying to get rid of his very violent reputation and behaviour, by getting into fights and letting himself be beat up, and how he now slowly was losing his streetcred for being the one to watch. he was now the one you could beat up, the pussy, but still not the violent asshole he used to be.