Drug-induced Ramblings 170828
Earlier I wrote down some heads of the drunk rambling distillation process, where my random impulses, and faint, half-baked and faded memories somehow coalesce into thoughts, narrative, and keystrokes.
You’re reading drug-induced ramblings written to the sounds of a fan, falling rain drops, and intermittent door-slammings in an echoing, distant hallway in the background.
I just called both my parents, gave them a rambling life update while I was residually high, eating chicken, sticky rice, and drinking a coffee while pacing around the small L-shape of my bed-with-a-room-around-it.
My body is sore, but I’m high and stretching. Sitting in half-lotus on the bed with a pillow under my ass, typing in frenzied bursts like a madman. Alternating with staring at the wall, feeling a chill run up my spine, or introspecting about things until the weed haze carries me along again, to some new, great, even-more-novel-than-the-last idea. Or at least allowing you to feel extremely salient about your own thoughts.
Isn’t that funny how the perceived importance (weight, salience, relevance) of your thoughts is itself a function of your mind?
Now I’m staring straight ahead at the wall, typing without looking while my laptop is tilted up, actually in my lap, angled with the screenside on the bed and the greasy wrist-side of the keyboard end on top of my legs. A comfortable and natural angle for your wrists.
With the screen this way, Sam can stare straight at the wall, and type without looking at the bright, unnatural “alien light” directly.
When I get back in the zone, I stare straight ahead and type without looking. My thoughts are less on the words on the screen, trying to finish the last sentence I thought of, or looking back and over-evaluating what you’ve written, thus changing your natural thought process… This way (I’m still staring directly ahead at a nine-by-ten foot expanse of sheet rock) I’m just in the zone.
. . .
Tom said to me once, “Sam, I know you are quiet… not too quiet, but quiet. But I look at you, and you’re like ‘dum de dum dum’ (*mimics looking around)… but I know in your head, it’s a PARTY, man. Like crazy shit is happening”.
I’m sore, inhale deeply, making me feel briefly more alert and starting my heart pumping.
One night at English camp, we all wanted to get fucked. So we gathered in our room, with two wide beds, like four beds put together, and a small square table jammed with beer bottles, whiskey, lighters, and cigs (we just smoked them inside)… blaring music and dancing around on the beds, telling stories.
As Darren the Irishman would say, having a craic (prounounced “CRACK”).
He’s a good craic. It was a craic. “Hey, what’s the craic?”
And as Tom would say, with a young chainsmoker’s musical French growl, “…ah fucking LOVE Irish, man!”
But first, back to the story.
There we were, at English camp looking to get fucked. Except for no alcohol to be had… and we being far from any 7Eleven.
It’s thunderstorming, dumping water. We stay inside, drink the last of whiskey with Pepsi (a very nice, artificially-sweetened, low-calorie mixed drink… an interesting, smokey, twisty, “funky” taste).
*Sam takes another toke, and decides “getting funky” shall be added to his repertoire of epithets for inhaling marijuana smoke.
We were at camp. The director told us our bedtime was 12… for good reason. (He kept moving this up, from the first camp (no enforcement, 2:30am), to earlier and earlier, with penalties of chronic nagging forever after.)
We were getting fucked and running low on ethanol rations. I wanted to go out, first I goose-stepped (what does that really mean?) through (what’s that bone on the side of your foot that sticks out?) anyway, nearly ankle-deep water, thundering, making my way down the road to this booming music. It was a group of Thais, and I snuck up on them like some wide-eyed, wet, fucked up farang ghost attracted to alcohol, food, and music.
They were sort of shocked to see me. One dude with quite wide eyes talked to me, they were a faculty of a local university gathering for their director’s retirement. There was Thai karaoke going on, which I find is an extremely efficient way to learn language… exposing yourself to sounds paired with letters, in real time, in a song, it can be slow, you learn, it’s fucking great…
This image stuck with me — the director standing on two lengthwise-oriented bricks to a avoid a puddle, with a rather large toad crawling between them, while the karaoke blared, the thunder punctuating the background of the rainstorming.
I bullshitted with them and left as they were asking me to sing.
Went back, took Matt and Tom to the corner store, which was closed. It was now after 11pm, and we were in the final hour until all the stores closed at 12am. Tom peeled off as we made the long walk in the rain down to the main drag, the most dangerous highway in Thailand, stretching from Bangkok to Pattaya.
We snuck across the highway, parkouring over a deep ditch in the middle of the highway. The gas station on the other side was a family gas station, or some shit like that — no alcohol. We stood around getting sundry items at the dry gas station, which was kind of blue-themed branding, and very… big boxy.
Outside, I hollered at some wet scooter gang of Thai teenagers,
“Kun bai arai kap?”, pointing “ni?”, and “ni?” in the other direction.
(Confused stares, looking around at friends)
“Pom bai 7”, I continue, and breaking into English, fuck it “Can you take me to 7Eleven?”
It’s a pretty contextually clear situation. We easily get on the bikes (two dudes took us), and the Thais stop with some EMT crews to talk and say what’s up. We pull onto the most dangerous highway in Thailand, in the rain, and pull a U-turn. Speeding up, our drivers each take a hand off the bike to shield their eyes from the rain drops. I can’t even keep my eyes open, from the stinging raindrops speeding directly into our eyes. We get to 7Eleven anyway.
Our offers to buy beer or food were refused (we think they were teenagers, and didn’t get fucked up yet), and the guys drove us back home. I tried to put my raincoat on my dude, but I think he was already soaked anyway.
The rest of the night was pointless. At one point I recorded a snippet of a conversation between us, telling tales and having a craic.
It started off with Darren swearing at his granny, which was hilarious, dropping him off falling-down drunk at his parent’s house. His neighbors (who he hated) were there, and the story ended with him puking on his neighbor’s leg, and his mom “pissing herself laughing” at how funny it was while she was sipping her wine in the kitchen.
. . .
Bangkok is interesting. I feel like people here (right beside the airport, but in local neighborhood) are disgusted with farang, or are distant from them.
I thought this guy was ripping me off, asking 55 baht for a sticky rice and a piece of grilled meat… until I actually bit into it, and it was the most delicious piece of salted and grilled pork, chopped up into pieces, easily in the top 10 of all the fried meat I’ve ever had.