* There were thousands of them, thousands of them, camera eyes cruising high over football fields packed with shy boys bad at sports, high over ancient villages and inserted into the middle of packed carriages on the Bangkok sky train, watching everything, seeing everything. The distant heart had fractured long ago. The boy showed him porn movies on a mobile camera and suggested a threesome with a lady; claiming, despite his evident popularity, he was too poor to afford a lady himself. They numbered them in cages. He remembered his shock when he first saw it, those sad girls behind glass in the dark club, in those days when all he wanted to do was get smashed and his memory, already torn to shreds at the youngest age, grasped at darkened images for a record that would never be made, a story that would never be told because stories required narrative, structure, characters, events, time sequences, beginnings and endings; and this was only one fractured image following another, set against a terrible, gathering, growing despair he could never understand as the fabric of things thickened and ran into evil black and the sky loomed lower and lower by the day. Already the full harvest moon which had blessed the Chiang Mai nights, had made them so astonishingly beautiful, was half burnt out, fuelling hell in the sky and longing in his heart.
Life's Simple Mottoes
Life's Simple Mottoes
Life's Simple Mottoes
* There were thousands of them, thousands of them, camera eyes cruising high over football fields packed with shy boys bad at sports, high over ancient villages and inserted into the middle of packed carriages on the Bangkok sky train, watching everything, seeing everything. The distant heart had fractured long ago. The boy showed him porn movies on a mobile camera and suggested a threesome with a lady; claiming, despite his evident popularity, he was too poor to afford a lady himself. They numbered them in cages. He remembered his shock when he first saw it, those sad girls behind glass in the dark club, in those days when all he wanted to do was get smashed and his memory, already torn to shreds at the youngest age, grasped at darkened images for a record that would never be made, a story that would never be told because stories required narrative, structure, characters, events, time sequences, beginnings and endings; and this was only one fractured image following another, set against a terrible, gathering, growing despair he could never understand as the fabric of things thickened and ran into evil black and the sky loomed lower and lower by the day. Already the full harvest moon which had blessed the Chiang Mai nights, had made them so astonishingly beautiful, was half burnt out, fuelling hell in the sky and longing in his heart.