Two men at the hostel today are here visiting, to pay for sex with Thai women. The men are old and white. They have large stomachs and drink a lot of beer. Maybe some of the women will be my age (23) but many of the girls will be much younger.
I consider that for women, sex work has always been an option.
I consider that for some, this is the only option.
Sometimes it is not a choice.
I want to experience moments of ecstasy without actually taking ecstasy.
And where is that golden land of balance between intimacy and solitude? I know the dark pangs you describe. They are sharper than the sharpest thing. I hope the remedy is that love and beauty you describe. When love and beauty and satisfaction become life rather than just a part of it… I think these pangs disappear. Lately and maybe forever I crave being alone. There is stimulation here, in the newness. My mind needs quiet spaces. I dream of still gardens and mango lassis. You are in my heart.
There have been many times that
Thailand fit the bill of heaven.
A third world above our own!
Paradise in a visual sense!
And in matters of the heart!
But
there is cruelty everywhere
no matter the beauty.
Our insecurities grow the teeth
that rip into peace.
Sitting on the porch with a bowl of papaya, I observe the water buffalo standing lazily in my neighbor's yard. Two are always tied together. And so they have to cooperate to get anywhere. Sometimes one will try to walk but the other one does not move and it becomes a stand still.
I remember playing a game like this with my sister using a jump rope.
Tied to each other and walking harmoniously until
as a joke
one sister stops in her tracks
jolting the other
and we both laugh.
My neighbor across the street, Anong, speaks Thai quick and sharp. Her words spill out directly to recipient, pushed out with emphasis so no words are left floating around, no sounds are caught lingering in the spaces between two speakers. She speaks with the determination of someone who will be listened to. And she speaks in a way meant for someone who does not like to listen.
Thus, the words are directed towards me and she looks on, silent with a mix of expectancy and doubt. She does not help me with hints in English though she knows many words in my native tongue. But I am in a small village with no friends. I have not seen my own mother in months. So I love her. So I cross the street carrying gifts; mangos, cakes, bowls of papaya, things that carry the heavy sweetness of my own ache for belonging. And I ring the bell and wait at the gate for her or her husband to let me in. These gifts are given only to her hands, and never to those of her husband, the one who will not listen to her, the one who treats me with so much kindness, as men inevitably do in the beginning.
I have spent so many days in Anong's courtyard with her dog Panda, a spoiled chitzou who only eats bananas. We sit and speak Thai in the mornings with coffee. We sit and speak Thai after I finish teaching at the public highschool. We sit and speak Thai in the evenings, sharing a meal that is too spicy for my stomach. We sit and speak Thai while her husband is away at work or with women.
I don’t learn quick enough, but I learn.
My neighbor watches Thai game shows at 3AM
I lay in bed and stare at the wall
I needed to leave America to know America
To know myself
To look across the world
at patterns
My body floats
Drifting between home and another life
the nervous system becomes desperate
you have to commit to this new ground
before you disappear
I hold myself close
I whisper outloud
like I am my own mother
You came here to tear open
To break down and rebuild
And so here is the breaking
Slowly, now rewire