Day 27 -- January 19, 2011 / Holes -- Part III

The young apprentice started every workday by repairing any chipped edges of his father’s chisels, tightening every belt and pulley that may have loosened from the previous days work. He sharpened each of the old man’s pencils and knew exactly how he liked each point. Very sharp on the first pencil for the hidden lines on a drawing that could be seen close-up with careful study, another pencil had a point cut at an angle on one side that the old man held like a stick and drew wide, wild lines from his imagination, and lastly a pencil that was soft and blunt that he used for making notes on the wood that would later be cut. He was excited and ready; it had been a long time since he worked with his father. He was a man but today he felt like a child, eager and bright eyed, for the day held a poignant savor he could feel deep in his bones – a thirst for learning.

            His father surprised him that morning. He didn’t wear the saw-dusted overalls that that he lived in everyday, but shorts and a clean white tee shirt and had his walking cane by his side. The old man was not one to show affection, but this morning he put his arm around his son and said,

            “Walk with me. Today is not a day for work but a day to visit the riverbed and see the water. This will be my third time to see water flow in the riverbed, that means -- my last time. Worry not, there is plenty of time to work tomorrow, for it is easy to wake up in the morning and work when there is something in your mind to work on”.

            The young man couldn’t remember a happier day in his life. He didn’t just walk with his father, he ran and played and sang and fumbled over tree stumps and tripped in the mud. He waited into the steaming current of the river that came up to his knees and formed white suds and bubbles of blue water that passed between his legs and soaked his crotch and splashed onto his chest and face. His father sat near the riverbank in deep thought. He listened to the gurgling rhythm of water but his head was full of wondrous jigs and machines of the likes the world had never known. He envisioned the water pushing huge wheels made from the largest holes in the world, larger than a lizards tail, larger than a dog, even larger than a house.

            And work they did. Each day, well before dawn they would rise together and begin to sketch and design and make jigs, and throw away broken ideas that didn’t work and begin to dream the same dreams and think the same thoughts and do something they had never done before – work as a team, as equals with the laughter and smiles and the arguments and the fights that all go together when two people work as one, striving to build the same dream.

            And … there was more. The master woodworker’s son had the energy of youth and would go back and work in the evenings. Every night after dinner he would work almost until daylight. He made holes. He made the same holes he had been watching his father make since birth. He made those holes so they could be traded for thingamajigs, thingamabobs, gismos, widgets, and whatchamacallits. It wasn’t long before food filled the bellies of the old man’s family and laughter returned to their windowless shelter that was made from sticks and red shale and stuff they found when the dry riverbed wasn’t dry.

            On occasion when the old man couldn’t sleep, for old men are restless from time to time, he would wonder out to the shop under the canopy and see the remains of holes lying about on the floor. He would step in sawdust made by his son and pick up the left over circles of wood and inspect them, holding them up to the light, like a person might look at a Robin’s egg, seeing it for the first time. He would then carefully put it back in the same spot, as not to disturb anything, and return to bed. There he would lie with a proud smile on his face, and he would quietly laugh an old man’s laugh. Somehow his wife would know he was happy because it was during those moments that she would hold him a little closer than usual and snuggle her head into his armpit and fall into a deep sleep.

            He wondered about the holes his son made because he never saw any of them. But by looking at the sawdust and where it lied on the floor and under which machines it accumulated, he knew exactly how and what had been made. When he did see the holes they were usually in the possession of another household and were passed around in the community like pieces in the enigmatic game of bartering.           

            Much time had passed. Please excuse me for disrupting the narrative but I must again apologize, I’m grasping for straws one might say, because it is difficult to measure the passing of time when time is of no importance. The best I can do to describe how much time had passed is to say it was before any water was to be seen again in the dry riverbed. It took that long for the old man and his son to complete their work. Two of the largest holes that anyone had even seen and built exactly to the king’s specifications were loaded onto an ox cart that was to be driven the following morning to the kingdom of the third dynasty of Sukhotorcold. The old man was very pleased with himself, but completing his dream came with bittersweet emotions. It was the work that produced the greatest pleasure. Working with his son by his side was very much like one of the holes lying in the back of the ox card. It was hard to tell where it began and where it ended. But it did end, as all things must, and the pleasure of seeing and discussing their completed holes got boring for both of them after a few days.

It was decided long ago that when the king’s project was over the old man would deliver it him self. His son would remain in the hamlet to care for his mother that had been sick with a disease known throughout the Never Never as the thirsty illness. It was with happiness and sadness that the old man left home that early spring morning when the air still held the chill of winter. When water flowed in the springs, and the brooks gurgled over their rocky edges, and the deer, wild turkeys and rabbits ran with abundance throughout the forest.

He was sad that he was leaving his young son, though not that young anymore by anyone’s standards. He thought of his loving wife that had been by his side before he ever saw the first water in the dry riverbed. He was happy and immensely proud. For in the wagon tucked under his food and clothing and some minimal tools to repair almost anything was a gift from his son. Without a word being spoken, his son had left three blankets tied tightly together on the seat of the ox card. Inside the blankets were three long boards that displayed the finest holes ever made and each board was coated with the resin from the giant white trees that begot the boards originally, and protected them from the sun, wind, and water for the long journey ahead. Tears ran down the old man’s cheeks, tears of happiness that come with deep emotions, for the holes in his possession were made from the soul and strength that came from generations of master craftsmen. These holes would remain as a family heirloom until the dry riverbed would fill with water a dozen times over.

To be continued . . . 

Holes / Part II

In the months that followed very little changed in the hamlet of Yapalap. The weather remained cool and fair as it does every year. The riverbed was dry as usual, and the men made their wooden whatchamacallits as they have done for decades.

Time had passed, but no one noticed or could say exactly to the number of days, or months, or years with any concrete accuracy -- no one in the hamlet wore a watch or owned a calendar. It was during an early spring when the air held the chill of winter and the sun had risen above the tops of the giant white trees. When snow could be seen on the surrounding mountaintops and food was plentiful. When water flowed in the springs, and the brooks gurgled over their rocky edges, and the deer, wild turkeys and rabbits ran with abundance throughout the forest

It was a day just like that when a single rider mounted on a fine palomino horse rode into the hamlet of Yapalap. The rider stood tall in the stirrups riding high above the saddle, wearing shiny handsome leather pants and new brown leather boots. The stranger’s shirt was made of the finest leather in the land and opened at the neck with real wooden buttons. A hood covered the rider’s head. An official banner was pinned at the tip of a lance displaying the proud colors of purple and orange, the colors of the third dynasty of the kingdom of Sukhotorcold.

The old man’s shack was not hard to find and the mounted horseman could easily see the two men working together under the canopy. The boy was now a fine handsome young man, tall and proud and true. The rider slowed to a stop, the pony was covered in raw sweat as both rider and mount were in a hurry to find their destination. The king’s messenger dismounted smartly and removed the hood that covered her head. It was with this one single flowing motion that a thick mop of long curly blond hair fell to her shoulders, like a magicians trick, the young apprentice was transformed into a beautiful young girl. The riding apparel was a rogue disguise, as she did not want to be recognized while traveling. Riding alone through the forest could be dangerous for anyone and this particular young woman was very special. This young rider was the only daughter of the king of the third dynasty of Sukhotorcold. Her clothes hung lose on her frame and were dyed in shades of pale green and browns. Her eyes were crystal green as a warm as a tropical sea, her lips were full and succulent, and she walked with the authority of nobility – having direction and purpose to her stride. 

            The old mans son, a handsome young adult himself, couldn’t keep from staring at this beautiful women. Nervously, he dropped the end of the board he held in his hand. His father gave a ghastly shirking cry from deep in his throat. The wooden hand plane jerked from his hands and flew to the ground. The board fell and cracked, the blade of the plane was badly damaged.

            “You just ruined five days of hard work, you useless son of mine. Go now – be rid of yourself -- while I still have control of my temper.”

The young man was embarrassed to be seen making such a grave mistake in front of this beautiful visitor that he was hoping to impress. The striking young lady smiled and blushed sharing his embarrassment. He was not worried about his father’s anger, the old man was known to throw temper tantrums and fits and have days of depression from losing a good board or misplacing a tool that was needed that very moment, and couldn’t be found.

The young woodworker was mostly upset because he was asked to leave, and could no longer feast his eyes on such a beautiful creature or find out why God had dropped her from he heavens to descend on this hamlet. He thought to himself -- she must be here for one single purpose -- for her and I to fall in love.

The only daughter of the third dynasty of the kingdom of Sukhotorcold pulled a tightly rolled scroll protected in a canvas sheath from her saddlebag and began to read --loud enough for the entire hamlet to hear.

“The King of the third dynasty of Sukhotorcold claims the hamlet of Yapalpe by right of eminent domain and hereby orders the best hole maker in all of Yapalpe to make a hole as wide as a giant lizard’s tail”.

The king had sent a challenge to the woodworkers of Yapalap. The beautiful young maiden continued, “He further orders that the hole be made to specifications that will allow it to be both contractible and expandable, at the pleasure of the king”.

            She tossed three silk purses of gold coins to the ground at the foot of the old woodworker. His son could not keep his excitement contained any longer and ran out from behind the neighboring shack and grabbed one of the bags off the ground. Slowly talking out one coin out at a time, he held them up to the sky and studied them carefully, like one would examine a Robin’s egg for the first time.

The young man turned each coin over in his fingers, seeing the beautifully engraved numbers and symbols imprinted on each side. He noticed that some of the gold coins had holes in them, and showed those to his father. But the holes where irregular and poorly formed and did not impress the old man at all. The young boy noticed that the sizes of the coins varied. With an increase in numerical denomination the physical size of the coin increased as well. No one in the entire hamlet had ever seen a gold coin, much less a bag of them. The people were greatly impressed that the king would be interested in the workings of a poor simple hamlet like Yapalap, but they were also confused, they simply had no idea what to do with a bag of gold coins.

Money had no use in the hamlet, for nothing was for sale. The people had lived by the barter system for centuries. Everything they made was traded. The old man swapped his fine wooden holes for a neighbor’s whatsyoucallit. That tool helped his wife remove the weeds in the garden. The man who made the thingamabobs that hung from the ceiling and held a candle in place to light the inside of the shack traded the extra ones for gismos that made different sounds by adjusting the tautness of the animal gut held slightly away from its bell shaped frame. Gold coins were pointless in the lives of the people of Yapalap. Not wanting to be impolite, the three purses of gold coins were moved to the communal storage shed where they would be kept safe, and placed on a table next to the elephant manure.

The beautiful young woman rider turned swiftly and rode out of town in the same direction she had come from – but not without turning her head for one last look at the old man’s son that was openly smiling and passionately waving good-by.

Within a couple of weeks everyone had forgotten about the strange young visitor. The workers, the wives, and the children went back to their day-to-day lives. No one thought about making a hole as large as a giant lizard’s tail. That was, no one except the old man, and the old man’s son.

The old man never thought about making holes any larger than an egg, until now – when that became all he thought about. It wasn’t the gold coins that interested him, he had no use for gold coins, it was the challenge of creating a hole larger and purer and deeper then he had even dreamed about.

He told his son, “Just because it has never been done is no reason to think it couldn’t be done”.

Everyday and every night he thought about a hole the size of a giant lizard’s tail and how it could be made. On the other hand, his son dreamed only of the beautiful women on horseback with long curly hair and deep green eyes and how he could possibly get to see her again?

The old man fell into a deep depression after that day. He was no longer interested in drilling the same perfect round holes the size of hawk’s eggs. He lied at night in deep concentration, getting up to sketch designs and patterns for tools. In the morning he would tack then to the shop walls, then throughout the day he would add notes to describe how to use the patterns. Days would pass and he would have to add new notes to remind him what the original notes were for. He was obsessed by something larger than himself. He no longer made anything. His family could no longer barter for goods or food or any of life’s necessities. There was nothing more important in the world to the old man than to try and figure out how to make giant holes. Laughter was no longer heard from the old man’s dwelling.

At first his son didn’t mind. He enjoyed not having any work to do and he could sit around all day and dream about the beautiful princess from the third dynasty of the kingdom of Sukhotorcold. He fantasized that he too made beautiful holes, just like his father, and since his holes were pure and natural and more beautiful than any holes anywhere else in the kingdom, she would fall deeply in love with him. They would marry, and live in a small hamlet just like this one, and he would build a fine house just like the one his father built, and they would have three children, two boys and one girl. He thought this through to every detail. He would write letters to this beautiful creature and profess his love. But, because he had no way of knowing where she lived, he would save the letters. He would then go back and rewrite the letters, sometimes making them funny and other times they were very serious and described every thought he ever had in the world.

As the seasons past, his father sank into a deeper depression, and the young man’s fears became real and food for the family became scarce. The young man realized his father’s quest was destroying their family, and he tried reasoning with the old man. He told his father he didn’t like the two men who were ministers for the king. He said they had shifty eyes, and large stomachs from excessive eating. There hands were smooth, like they had never handled a shovel or wield an ax in their lifetime, so they couldn’t be trusted. He made an empty promise to his father that he would stop thinking of the beautiful young woman if his father would stop thinking of making a hole as large as a giant lizard’s tail. It will only bring more strangers to our hamlet, he said. We have no need of gold coins or slaves or cattle, he pleated.

            The woodworker’s family ate only the rice and simple vegetables that grew in their garden. The young boy hardly ate at all. What little food was put in front of him he would  pick at it for no apparent reason? He would play with each grain of rice on his plate and daydream about better times. The young man was once slim and strong with long tight muscles, but was now emaciated and weak. His mother was very concerned about his health but his father never noticed.

Every waking hour the old man spent in deep thought about how he could make a hole as large as a giant lizard’s tail. He would spend his days arranging and adjusting the machinery in his shop. His son no longer had any boards to hold, for they were traded for food long ago. He would sit quietly on a log at the side of the hut and be quiet, not wanting to be in his father’s way. He watched his father get excited, and burst with glee, brimming with the energy of success only to see him dejected and slothful the following day, lost in defeat. He never understood what was happening, only that his father became distant and removed from the things in life he was taught were important. The spring turned to summer, summer turned to fall, and fall became winter -- the seasons past-by like the dreams of young man.

            Then one day in the middle of the night the old man jumped from bed and knew he had solved the problem. It was so simple he thought to himself, why did it take me so long to figure out? The hole could be cut using a scribe, supported at various lengths that rotated in a continuous circle. I could build a spring-loaded machine that would adjust the weight and depth of the cut. He smiled at his own ingenious. Then the rest would be easy, he thought. Once a perfect circle was made I could remove an equal amount of material from any side and the circle would become smaller. When the material was placed back in the same place, the circle would expand to its original size. Now, let me sketch the designs and build the jigs to make the machines that will be needed.

            The old man was energetic and out of bed before dawn. His son sensed his energy and quickly dressed – when they went outside to begin the day’s work they could hear that water was rushing in the riverbed.


to be continued . . . 

Day 24 / January 17, 2011 -- Holes -- A fairytale about the Magic that holds Things Together

I would be a fool to begin a story with an apology. But I must, for I am now old, and the story you are about to hear goes back many years -- to a time, when time wasn’t important, and to a place that exists only in my mind. The time was long ago and the place was somewhere near the ends of the earth – to the north of Never Never, and to the west of the Woop Woop.

            Many miles inland from the ocean alongside a dry riverbed a tiny remote hamlet flourished. The town was called Yapalap, and named after the giant water snake that was said to have lived there thousands of years ago. This peaceful hamlet was nestled along side a riverbed and tucked into a grove of giant trees that grew four hundred feet tall and had pure white trunks the size of a house. The people of this hamlet didn’t count time in years but in experiences, and a man’s age was based on how many times he had seen water in the dry riverbed. If a man were to live to a ripe old age he might be lucky enough to have seen the riverbed hold water three times.

The people of Yapalap were happy and content with their lives. The men were always busy working away on wooden thingamajigs and the women kept themselves busy cooking wonderful dishes of food seasoned with local spices and herbs that could be found in the hills that surrounded Yapalap. 
Unfortunately, one early spring morning when the air still held the chill of winter the fate of this peaceful hamlet would forever change. A caravan of soldiers with slaves and pack animals carrying tents and provisions for a long journey walked straight into the center of town. The caravan was lead by two brothers, the ministers of trade, from the kingdom of the third dynasty of Sukhotorcold. The ministers rode on large white horses as acted confident and triumphant as the great Genghis Khan once had.

The two ministers could hardly believe their good fortune. This hamlet was a gold mine of fine crafted wooden thingamajigs, thingamabobs, gismos, widgets, and whatchamacallits. In all of their travels they had never experienced anything like this. They thought to themselves, that to discover this, in there own kingdom, was truly a miracle, and God had chosen them from all of the others.

There was one main street that ran through Yapalap. It was a narrow dusty road that marauded gracefully around the giant white trees and twelve small shacks that were built side by side in harmony. For the most part they were where the men worked and lived. They were simple windowless shelters, made from sticks and rubbish and red shale rock, with large canopies open to the front – all except for one. It was here that the men of the hamlet worked happily together, listening to the sounds of the cackling birds and monkeys and the yapping of the dogs that ran without leashes in the street. The machines that build the various gismos were located inside the shacks where they would be protected from the strong winds that were well known north of Never Never. The machines were most interesting, gadgets all made from wood having pulleys and springs, hooks and threaders, wooden bolts and screws. The children from the worker’s family would peddle large sprockets and cranks would turn to power the woven belts that would spit this way and that and these wonderful gadgets would hammer and drill and pound and pry into the stark white boards and the various thingamajigs under construction.

 It wasn’t long before the two ministers of trade noticed that one small wooden dwelling stood out from all the rest. It was made of the same materials, the sticks and red shale and debris that had washed up from the riverbed during the times when the riverbed held water. But this shed was different from the rest. It didn’t slouch like the others. It stood erect and proud. The sticks were more uniform like they were made intentionally for the purpose they were being used for. The connections that joined the sticks together worked as two hands and acted as one. The roof was made of tightly woven thatched banana leaves and floated over the walls to let the summer breeze cool the inside or let the smoke or sawdust escape. The small structure the two brothers stopped in front of was very different than anything they had ever seen anywhere in there travels. They stopped and bent down to look inside.

A lanky old man with a stringy white beard was carving at a board of white wood with a hand held wooden plane. His eyes were steady, his left hand held the board tightly and his right hand moved at the speed of lightning throwing slivers of thin paper ribbons high into the air. They would get caught in the natural breeze and drift off into the street. His young son, no more than seven, wore a red Bandera over his mouth and nose and held the far end of the board to keep it from moving. The old man was consumed in his own efforts and didn’t look up. His concentration was intense.

“What are you making? Asked one of the brothers, sitting upright and knightly in his fine brown leggings wearing a purple silk band that wrapped across his chest.

            “Holes," the young lad proudly answered.

            “Not quite holes yet, the old man stopped and interjected.”

The old man stopped working and let the sawdust settle, then slowly looked up to see the long caravan that entered his humble hamlet.

            “First I make the board, straight and true.” He held the two meter white board away from his face, looking down the planed flat edge inspecting every fiber of the board’s length. Then I set up the jigs. The jigs must be exact. Everything must be perfect to create the maximum possible amount of holes to be drilled through each board. I’ll show you.”

The old man was very proud of his work. His voice was soft and clear and came from his heart. His words were of wood but they sounded as if he was wooing the most beautiful woman on earth, words of which the king’s ministers had never heard before; words of texture, grit, density, and pureness.

The two brothers did not listen very well and were off in their own daydreams. Dreaming of things that the old man or the boy could never imagine. They dreamt the dreams of kings and men of power, thinking of wealth and having beautiful wives and land on a fertile river where they would lie forever smelling the sweet floral fragrance of success.

            “Let me take your holes to our King and you will see many fine riches that he will bestow upon you.”

The brothers were eager to return to there homes inside the great stonewalls of the kingdom. Alas, now they could return to their kingdom and boast of a successful journey.

            The old man selected three long boards that displayed the best of his holes. Without a second thought he made the king’s ministers wait patiently for over an hour. He would not release one board without putting a last coat of resin on each. The resin was made from the very giant white trees that begot the boards originally and would protect them from the sun, wind, and water for the long journey ahead. He then carefully wrapped each board in a woolen blanket and handed them to the king’s ministers, never asking or expecting anything in return.

To be continued . . . 

Day 23 / January 15, 2011

I can feel the inklings of my adventure coming to and end. It’s like watching the last fifteen minutes of a good movie. All the bad guys are gone, the mortgage to the ranch has been paid, everyone who was meant to cry has cried and the only thing left to do is ride off into the sunset. That to will come Thursday, this is so like me to get ahead of myself and start thinking of leaving Chiang Mai four days early. I can tell it’s time to move on. I no longer have the desire to go sight seeing. I’ve visited more Buddhist temples than most westerners see in a lifetime. I’ve walked and hobbled through every market during the day and night and purchased more useless things than I hope to admit. I made friends with waitresses, reception staff, bartenders and monks. I rode in every type of transportation available in Thailand and I’ve run out of good music. I’ve lost one hearing aid, the rubber nose protector on my sunglasses and turned my mini portable speaker system into toast by dropping the main speaker onto the hard concrete ground next to the swimming pool. That’s a sure sign its time to move on.

            It’s time close up some loose ends. I never made it to the nice women’s house that invited me for dinner last Friday. Upon reflection, I thought it was a polite invitation but lacking honest desire. YO, the young postgraduate and I had dinner a couple of times but our ages truly came between us. My fault not hers. I lose all desire to be in the company of a young woman, or anyone else for that matter once the sun passes the yardarm. No matter where we were, or the setting, or topic of conversation, I wanted to be in my hotel room punching away at the computer board keys, reading a little of Paul Theroux and going to bed. I believe there are two categories that all great writers can be placed, those that keep the action flowing and the reader is forever kept on the tips of his or hers toes, and those that put you to sleep after two pages. There is a place in my heart for both.

I will see YO tonight. See left a notebook under my motor scooter seat and asked if I was interested in going on a night safari with her. She really is a sweetheart. She knows I can’t walk very far. The night safari is a train driven ride through the Chiang Mai zoo at 7:30. I’ll try to stay awake.

My writing routine of waking up at 5:00 am takes its toll on my energy level about fourteen hours later. This is not a complaint, but a realization that after sixty, sun rises are more interesting to me than sun sets. I am happy with that. I am more encouraged by the human souls that walk the streets at dawn then those seeking the electronic booming sounds and Karaoke machines howling at the moon. I have enjoyed discovering my alter ego that pops up in my erotic adventures from time to time.

I do have a few reflections of Thailand to share. Thailand has very little debris on the streets or sides of there roads. There is no major effort or advertising campaign to thank for this. The people are simply proud of who they are and where they live. The natural environment is important to them and they don’t feel they need to conquer it. There are no beggars or street people. No one I asked could explain this or tell me why this was. Since they had no reference as to what a street person is, it was difficult to communicate that a wealthy country like the United States has this problem. The closest thing to a street person in Thailand is a monk, and they are considered sacred. They do not ask for money only food and that is done only once during the early morning hours and they are polite and neatly dressed in orange robes. The people that give alms feel good about doing so, and the gesture enriches their lives. The medical system here may not have every million dollar spiffy diagnostic machine known to man but it does offer personal, courteous, and caring physicians. I would rather be hit by a Mack truck then die in an American hospital, but I would feel truly privileged to see any of the Thai physicians I have met at my bedside before death. President Obama would do our country a great service to visit and spend some time in Thailand and try to figure out why the smiles of the Thai population are so contagious.

*  *  *

            Most people laugh at there own jokes because the jokes themselves aren’t very funny. I admit I’m guilty. I spent the last two days howling at the stupidity of the screenplay I wrote thinking it was the funniest thing since Woody Allen wrote Annie Hall. Since no one commented I assume I am alone in this regard. Today I will lie at poolside, read, and work on my tan. I miss my bed but I don’t miss Las Vegas.  I have found a love in riding motor scooters that brings me back to the time of feeling like an eagle on a mountain bike. Vegas is not the place for a motor scooter. The Hummers, pick-up trucks, and super-sized SUV’s would spit me out like dust. I miss making my own bed in the morning and reading the morning paper with a cold bowl of cereal and a banana. My acupuncturist strongly disagrees with the monk that suggested a change in my diet. She said mushrooms and bananas are good for me, the monk doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Let the monk stick to universal oneness and Karma dealing and leave the dietary advice to the doctors, a partial quote from Dr. Rungant. Like anywhere else in the world it’s hard to get two professionals to agree on anything. I miss calling my friends and it not being special. I miss Sunday morning country and western music on DirecTV, and pizza and football in the afternoon. I miss my cat Moony, but there’s not much I can do about that.

             

Day 21 / January 15, 2011 / Group Therapy Part II

Scene:            The ladies are pulled apart, with Tom¹ doing most of the work. Tom² isn’t quite sure what part of the two women is safe for him to touch. His non-violence is appreciated but he has little effect on the action. Tom¹ grabs Sandy around her arms. A difficult feat considering Sandy is moving them with lightning speed, punching and clawing at Cindy like at cat in heat.

                        Sandy gets manhandled and thrown back into her chair. Larry is staring at her smiling. She is most sexy like this, with her lungs pumping for oxygen and her nostrils flared open like a wild mare.

                        Cindy is quiet and thankful that Tom¹ was there to break up the very one-sided fight. It lasted as long as Mohammad Ali’s bout against Jerry Quarry.

Larry:            Larry has now regained control and stopped choking.

                        “I don’t think that was a very fair or accurate of a statement Cindy. First of all, I didn’t hit on you; you hit on me. You invited me to your apartment under the pretense that you needed an architectural critique on the color of curtains.”

Cindy:            “You did too hit on me. You touched my ass, and then everywhere else after that. What do you call that, if not hitting?”

Larry:            “I was only trying to keep you from falling off the ladder. Your ass was the largest appealing thing to grab. After that you fell on top of me, then I just kept on grabing things trying to escape.”

Cindy:            “Your tongue did quite a bit of grabbing as I recall.”

Tom²                  This conversation did nothing to calm Sandy down. Tom said, “Are you addicted to sex, Larry? – Please, spare us the details and just admit it. You’ll never be cured if you remain in denial.

Sandy:            Looking at Larry, and still red as a succulent cherry sitting atop of a Shirley Temple, “Don’t fucking even look at me. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

Larry:            ”We don’t talk much anyway, we just fuck.” 

Now looking at Tom¹. “No I am not addicted to sex, I may abuse sex from time to time but I cannot honestly say I’m addicted to sex. Addiction is a non-voluntary compulsion or dependence. That would be like saying I’m addicted to air. I like breathing air from time to time, one could say I breath air regularly, one, might go as far as suggesting I abuse air. That doesn’t mean I’m addicted to air.”

Tom¹            “You’re a fucking moron Larry. You’re addicted to everything. You have a compulsory physiological disorder. You consume anything that is put in front of you. You can’t ride a bike without wanting to be Lance Armstrong. You can’t play chess without wanting to beat Boris Spassky. You can’t take a fucking aspirin without finishing the entire bottle within two days. You are addicted to air you fucking jerk, admit it!”

Sandy:            “Calm down Tom, he’s not that bad. He as a bottle of Vitamin C in his kitchen cabinet that has lasted him two months.”

Cindy:            “How do you know what’s in his kitchen cabinets?”

Tom²                  “Enough Cindy, you better shut up while you still can?”

Larry:            “Me, me, me, me … enough about me, what about your problems Tom?” Now facing Tom¹ with the intention of changing the topic and keeping the girls out of it.

                        “You fucking over age recipient of the perpetual Kindergarten achievement award for pot smoking.” If you would spend one day without toking on a joint you might be able to get a job, or at least get up in the morning and wash your underwear.”

Tom¹:            “Why are you on my case? Ok, so I smoke pot everyday. So does Willie Nelson and it hasn’t done him any harm.”

Tom²:            “You don’t know Willie Nelson. It might have done him a great deal of harm. He might have actually been able to sing if he never smoked pot.”

Sandy:            “Who is Willie Nelson?”

Cindy:            “He’s John Denver with red hair and talent, you slut. If you had any brain cells left you would know that. How long have you been clean anyway? You know you’re not suppose to come to these therapy sessions if you’re still using.”

Sandy:            “I’m clean. I haven’t used in over a week. But that was at a party, I didn’t buy any. Do we have to count that?”

Tom¹:            Yes that gets counted. I thought you were going to quit?”

Sandy:            “I tried, but I met this really cute guy at a party last week, so I kind of gave in.” She said this with her beautiful sexy shy smile that reminded me of Meg Ryan in “When Harry met Sally”.

Larry:            “Who did you meet at a party. It wasn’t that jerk Bert that I saw you with last weekend, was it?”

Cindy:            “You’re jealous, you sex monster.”

Tom²:            “Can we go home now? I for one would like to say how therapeutic these sessions are for me.”

Tom¹:            Get’s up from his chair and thanks everyone for coming. “I guess, we’ll see you again next week, I’m going to wash my underwear now. Thanks Larry.”

Everyone walks out the door with Cindy leading, Sandy following, and Larry and Tom² not far behind.

Tom² speeds up to catch Cindy from behind.

Tom²:            “What color curtains did you buy? I once took a class in interior design as an elective in undergraduate school.”

Cindy:            “Really! Would you like to see them?”

Larry:            Putting his arm around Sandy. “You look really hot when you get mad. Wanna go get a drink?”

The End.

Day 20 / January 14, 2011 / Group Therapy

Note:             This is my first attempt at writing a screenplay. I have no reference material in regard to how this is suppose to be done, but who cares? It is complete fiction and I woke up this morning [without looking at the mirror] and said to myself write a screenplay.

Setting:            A small apartment, like one that might be leased by a graduate student in a college town. A few dining room chairs are placed randomly about with an ugly overstuffed brown couch against the wall and a large side chair that clashes to the side. The furniture is brought together to form a semi-circle in which to hold an impromptu meeting.

Tom¹                  There are two Tom’s in this story. Tom¹ looks like an overweight graduate student that should have completed his college education about fifteen years ago. His heritage is Scottish. His hair is thinning and has a thick brown reddish beard to compensate. He is wearing an outdated sweater vest over a white shirt with plastic collar buttons. He smokes.

                        There are five people in the room. Tom¹ is sitting in a chair and facing Cindy.           

“That isn’t fair. You’re not suppose single out one person and target them like that”.

Cindy:            A young very attractive women in her late twenties. She has rich brown eyes and brown hair. She adds red tint to her hair to give it an auburn tone. The added hair coloring works well. She is wearing a low cut navy blue dress and red framed lightly tinted sunglasses. Her make-up is minimal, as she doesn’t need much. She has on long round earrings and a few dangling silver bracelets to match. Her breasts are ample but not large. Her best feature is her long legs that are wrapped beneath her. She is sitting comfortably on the couch.

                        “Larry asked for it. We are all supposed to be honest and straightforward with each other here. He spent last night at my house and came on to me. Didn’t you Larry? I can’t say I minded, but I want to know if this is serious? I mean are you looking to get married?

Larry:            A thirty-five year old successful and emotionally confused male. His hair is dusty blond and long. He is more cute than handsome. He dresses three pegs below what the image of his profession would normally demand. Today he has on jeans torn at the knees, white sneakers and a T-shirt. The T-shirt reads Drink until you Puke. He does this because he thinks he can get away with it – and he does.

                        He had just taken a sip of a chilled glass of Pepsi and spits out a mouthful chocking after hearing those words. The Pepsi blends nicely into Tom’s old soiled carpet -- no one moves to wipe anything up.

                        “Not anymore”.

                        Larry throws words out like darts, choosing the fewest and right combinations to do the most damage. They hit home because they’re usually accurate.           

Sandy:            The only other women in the room and the most beautiful. She is a dirty blond with natural red highlights. Her eyes are gray and large. Her lips are full. She is wearing no makeup or underwear. Her breasts are smaller than Cindy’s and the tips of her nipples came be seen through her white blouse. Her sneakers have been thrown to the floor and her feet are bare. She is nestled in a large side chair to the left of Larry.

                        She faces Larry with shock on her face and anger in her voice. She has been sleeping with Larry for the last month – no one in the room knew that.

                        “You hit on that psychotic bitch, you asshole?            

Larry:            To shocked to speak. His month is open with Pepsi dribbling from the sides. He is trying to stop from choking.

Tom²                  Tom is taller than Larry by a couple of inches. He has a clean long face with no distinguishing features. He is not handsome or ugly. Tom could rob a bank and no one would be able to describe him five minutes later. He dresses and looks like everybody else. Today he is wearing a brown shirt and blue tie – not that anyone noticed.

                        Tom is sitting to the right of Cindy, and secretly wishing he were the one that spent the night at Cindy’s house. He has known Cindy for three months. They are currently in the same psychology class together. G89.1016 -- A perspective of the psychoanalytic and humanistic traits of social learning. Tom has never had the courage to approach Cindy.

                        Tom doesn’t usually laugh. He laughs now.

                        “This is getting very personal, guys. We are supposed to be discussing addictions, not Larry’s personal sex life”.

Cindy:            “That is one of his addictions,” she quickly retorts. Who are you calling a psychotic bitch – you cocaine whore? You’ll fuck anything that walks for a few lines of blow”.

Sandy:            Is now on her feet and coming after Cindy to punch her lights out. Larry wisely keeps his distance and leaves both of the Tom’s to break up the catfight, that if left to continue would leave Cindy hairless and blind.

The fifth chair is empty and says the most.

To be continued … by popular demand.

                       

                       

            

Day 19 / January 12, 2011 The Lime Green, Red Haired, Freckled Face Monster

It had to happen sooner or later. This is the part in therapy when I must acknowledge the worst of my own fears. I have come a long way to get to this juncture. Toxins no longer pass through my body, I have not swallowed one prescribed pharmaceutical in any shape or color, nor have I consumed any alcohol in the last sixty days. How do I feel? Physically I feel great, my body has been cleansed, my back problems will be addressed when I return to the states, and I feel confident that I will over come that issue as well. I am strong and fearless -- a proud warrior carrying the humility of life’s experiences in a small weather-beaten satchel. Emotionally, it’s another matter. I have one large obstacle that I must overcome. In my mind I see the image of an old fashion time bomb made from one pound cylindrical tubes of dynamite strapped together complete with a hand held detonator ready to explode at any minute.

When will the lime green, red haired, freckled-faced monster rise again to sabotage my life? I picture it living under a rock in one of the dark corners of my mind. I can’t rightly say I’m afraid of this monster; in fact I use to know the monster very well. The monster was once my friend and we had many good times together. Like all things, time passes, and the monster and I have changed over the years. I am no longer sure exactly what is lurking under that rock any more – whether it’s the monster or the shadow of the monster. In either case it is terribly frightening.

            There was a time, not long ago, that I had no fear of this monster. In fact, I wished it would return on many occasions. I did everything I could to locate it. I would gravitate to the places I thought I might find it. I would make sure I would go out in public on full moons or during other auspicious dates looking for signs that the lime green red haired freckled faced monster had left a mark. I even once tried witchcraft and voodoo when I was lonely and happened to be in the French Quarter after Mardi Gras. I don’t imagine I would ever see the monster in Las Vegas. Vegas is not the place that would attract this type of creature – to superficial. This monster goes right for the wholesome core, everything that is good in the world is a potential host, then without a second thought, with a lightning spin of its lizard head it will rip your heart out and suck up every once of blood with a long serpentine tongue. After only one encounter I would wake up in the loneliness of my bed with my temples screaming from electrical shocks and my throat harboring the lingering taste of poisonous venom. I would tremble from severe dehydration and it would take days before I could move to feed myself or get a simple glass of water.

            This reoccurring nightmare started on an innocent Sunday afternoon in 1978. It was a beautiful spring day in Houston. I had just finished the Sunday papers; I was young, fresh and alive with the spirit of a shooting star. My architectural practice was soaring; I had captured some of the largest developers during the oil boom in Texas. I had money, a fast car and the sexual charm of ignorance. The truth was; I was a mere mullet in a vast sea begging to be taken.

            I telephoned the lime green, red haired, freckled face monster at 2:00 that Sunday afternoon. I knew that 2:00 was probably not the best time to call someone for a date – but that’s the way I did things then, without much thought or protocol.

            “Charlie, hi, it’s me Larry, would you like to go out for a drink?”

“You’re kidding, it’s 2:00 in the afternoon.”

“So what, we’ll drink until the sun goes down, I know the perfect bar to watch the sunset. If we get there now we’ll get a good seat”.

“Are you some kind of connoisseur of sunsets?” She asked with playful sexy laughter.

In spite of my ridiculous timing or my bad line, she went out with me anyway. We met at a place called Ninfa’s in the old part of town, tucked away on Navigation. You can’t see the sunset from Ninfa’s, but neither of us cared and it was never mentioned. We drank pitchers of Margaritas until the cows came home. We could hardly walk out the door by the time the sun started going down but we somehow managed to get to my car.

            “Can you drive like this, she asked?”

            “Don’t worry, where alcohol is concerned, I have perfect control.”

“Perfect control?”

             “Four margarita’s just brings me up to feeling normal, I can drive, don’t be concerned at all”.

“You had six, I had four,” she laughed.

            There wasn’t much to talk about. We were both drunk and happy. Life was a ball of tightly woven rubber bands just waiting to be unraveled and bounced around the room for pleasure. I started unraveling her rubber bands, one at a time beginning with the red cowboy boots, then the lime green summer dress, and followed lastly with her white silk blouse. She wore no underwear or makeup. Her hair was red and curly and dropped to her shoulders. The freckles on her breasts matched the ones on her face. Charlie was just the right amount of overweight – which made her voluptuous and I couldn’t help but give her the nickname, Chuck.

            That’s the monster – I can’t get rid of that image and the desire to find someone to get drunk with at 2:00 in the afternoon. Then I want to spent the rest of the night making love and laughing and talking about dumb stuff like what’s your favorite donut and where do the stars go to hide in the daytime.

            As long as I have that memory I’ll always want to go back to that special place in my mind where life was simple and fun and sexy, and love was weighed by the sticky stuff that’s gets wiped all over each others bodies and tastes like the nectar of the Gods.

Day 18 / January 11, 2011

I was sitting in the hotel lobby leafing through The Happy Isles of Oceania when one of the hotel staff invited me to assist in making merit in the morning. It was most likely because they know I’m up before 6:00 am and have a reputation – I’m the insomnia writer that continually asks for coffee regardless of the hour, day or night.

Whether consciously or subconsciously a good portion of this adventure was to allow me, the accidental Buddhist, to connect to my spiritual roots. Allow me this opportunity to provide some background regarding making merit before today’s narrative.

            Making merit means doing good things in Buddhism and it is extensively believed and practiced by the people of Thailand. The concept can be boiled down to an old Thai proverb, “If you do good, you will receive good, if you do evil you will receive evil”. Simple enough, karma represents the evaluation of all events that take place on a day-to-day basis in a person’s life.

            One of the ways to make merit is to offer alms. Monks are forbidden to hoard food or to cook. Therefore alms are an essential daily routine in a monk’s life. Alms consist of food prepared and offered by the general populace and given to the men in orange each morning. Having good karma is very important to any Buddhist, though as I have found out, there is an escape clause. Karma comes in time-release capsules. The accumulation of karma, both good and bad, takes place over the course of ones life and there is no guarantee when it will be returned. It may be come back immediately, or it may not return until a future lifetime.

I think of it as a chess rating. If you win your rating goes up, if you lose your rating goes down, but all in all there are a finite number of rating points in the system, it’s only the distribution that changes. Like energy, and chess points, karma cannot be created or destroyed.

I was ready at 6:30 am, out in front of the hotel waiting for the monks to walk by. The hotel offers alms every Thursday and this morning they set up a table with five baskets of food neatly arranged for the offering. This isn’t a buffet; there is a systematic ritual that must be followed. Once a monk is seen, the food is held to one’s forehead and the word “Nimon” is spoken. The monk/s will then step in front of you, not to close, and open the lid to his wooden bowl. I was then to place the food, in the specific order of rice, savory, fruit, and water into the bowl. Flowers and incenses were also on the table and would be placed on the metal cover of the bowl. The monk would then give a blessing. At that time I could, if I wanted, pour water on the ground. That represented my opportunity to share my merits with someone else. That could be a person that has passed away or a friend or family member that is living, including myself. Since I don’t know exactly how many karma points I would get from doing this, I suppose this is done on a percentage basis. Ten for me, ten for Roger, ten for me, ten for Michael -- you get the picture. It’s kind of like Christmas shopping without going to the mall. It’s important to note that monks walk barefoot so I am suppose to remove my shoes before making this offering. Otherwise it would suggest that I was in a higher place than the monk, a Thai faux pas.

            I am now sitting in front of the table directly outside the entrance to the hotel and it’s still dark. A fine white linen tablecloth formalizes the setting and the baskets of food are decorated with long thin purple flowers. No one from the hotel is there to insure the ritual is done correctly. Alone, with full command of the goodies, I notice one monk toting his bowl with a clear plastic bag of food over his shoulder, proudly displaying his collection of swag. I let him walk by. Five minutes pass and I see two more young monks in orange robes also collecting alms. I look around for help -- help! Then another two monks walk by. I haven’t done a thing, I’m still waiting for someone from the hotel to assist me, knowing if left to my own accord I would probably blow this big time and wind up in monk purgatory.

            Finally at 7:00 am someone from the hotel comes to my aid, though by this time I have already missed five monks. I think to myself, this is like going fishing, the monks don’t wear watches so you have to be there when they go by – and we missed five. What happens now? The hotel receptionist explains the subtleties  – “We must wait for three monks together”. I’m really getting confused now. What about the one or two monks that walked by, they had bowls and they looked hungry. What is so special about waiting for three monks? No one speaks enough English to give me a satisfactory answer. Fifteen minutes go by and I don’t see any more monks. I do see the sanitation truck coming; surely those guys get hungry as well. We have all this food; do we get karma points for feeding the garbage men?

            I am told the monks we are waiting for will be coming from a specific temple, and from a specific direction. This is now making more sense. It appears this is not food for just any monk, but more like an adopt-your-favorite Wat offering. When three specific monks come from a specific temple then we can give away the food, and not a second before? Hum, I liked my idea better, first come, first serve -- the early monk gets the worm. Not very socialistic I suppose. Two monks are now walking toward me, knowingly, from the correct direction. Only two, what am I suppose to do now, I was told three monks would be coming. I wasn’t about to pass up my opportunity and assumed one monk must have called in sick.

            I look around, I am again alone. The hotel staff is busy at other tasks; apparently this is not a big deal for them and I’ll have to handle these two monks myself. I say hello to the young men in orange that appear no older than eighteen. I begin the dialog by apologizing. “I don’t know how to do this”. My apology is the replacement for the word Nimon that I have already forgotten. I’m too nervous to remember the order that the food is to be served. Thankfully, one of the monks speaks English and instructs me in placing the food in his bowl. Then I notice my flip-flops are still on --- I apologize again. We’re standing on the cold earth and I begin thinking this is beginning to take the form of a marriage – there sure are a lot of apologies taking place.

I’m saved by the hotel staff and everyone seems to be doing fine except me. I’m confused and frustrated. The older monk blesses me, which I thought was a good sign. It was in a foreign language so who really knows what he was saying. He could have been asking for last week’s football scores for all I know. His sidekick stood there, as quiet as a Buddhist mouse. At this point I can’t tell whether I’ve gained, lost, or drew on Karma points, and I was to nervous to accurately divide any up with friends or family. I’ll do a better job next week – I promise. If the hotel staff disappears to find better things to do, I personally think the garbage men deserve a little something as well.