Some of the mental inner injuries never realy seem to cure, to heal right without leaving scars in the outer recesses of my Farang mind, scars that represent bitterment and regret...though Bangkok probably posesses truckloads of people who would quite willingly trade them in for the limp of the nightmare that is daily life in the hell of Krung Thep, uncurable traffic jams, lung cancer caused by clogged up Bangkok polluted air, water shortages in the hot season and floods during the monsoon, never mind the agressive temple dogs, rats bigger than stray Thai cats and montrosities that some people call cockroaches...yeah, once again I wander in the laberinth of the Minotaur..
I arrive from the outside and find myself once more in a fluid situation where everything is up for grabs, sitting on the back of a motorbike taxi going full speed in the early morning direction travel hup Khao Sarn Road, high rises towering above me, no more skinny kids in dirty rags looking at the crazy Farang passing by at top speed, heavy backpack and superwhite skin, the vast population of homeless refugess scuttling through the knee deep water left behind by the latest monsoon rains like zombies without direction or purpose as I remember from more than twenty-five years ago, somehow reminding me of the Vietnamese refugees abandoned in their leaky boats on the way to fabled America but ending up in Huize Lasalle in my native Boxtel, that stupid Dutch village I left more than a quarter of a century ago but where I had a cleaning job for HANS VAN KASTEREN encountering the frinces of poverty for the first time in my young life when we were in charge of keeping the place proper and tidy...
Nowadays the poor and undereducated of King Bhumipol's Asian realm seem to appear to be cut loose from years of imprisonment, pushed out of the cages of the upper and middle class but no idea where they are going to, shoes all over the place but no sense of direction...
Elections are in the air, streets empty but for the roadblocks, those that opressed are no scared of those who were civil slaves'' masters, the hierachy of the poor and theirempty brains are to be feared, their sheer numbers taking the reins but lacking a clear leadership's enlightened path to economic and political stability...
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Life could be worse
The house is full
with the result of freaking around with my jars of acrylics but tomorrow
it will all be over, one twenty afternoon I will - hopefully - board my
plane and once again be on my way to the tropics, nothing more but my
sketchbook to keep my paint stained fingers busy with...seven weeks of
cherished freedom and having to break my tongue on that nearly impossible to pronounce Thai Lingo again...life could be worse
Sunday, January 26, 2014
A drink in Cafe De Wildeman with Paul, Kateryna, my latest couchsurfer from Ucraine, and of course yours truely.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
Wandering in the laberinth of lustfull intentions
Amsterdam, Jan. 2014.
An ex-wife is most certainly not a relative, nor are one night stands in the Dutch capital by yours truely, Pauvre Moi trying to bolster my ego and self-confidence by hitting the infamous Amsterdam Red Light District bars, the pick-up joints in the heart of the Dutch capital according to Tony Wheerer's Lonely Planet hard and furiously, with a sort of determination born by another week long nocturnal torment, if my number of Back On The Bicycle Riding Home excursions - not alone, mind you dear reader of this blog - were an indication to my number of relatives I would have more of these stinking money grabbing family members as customers at the world famous Anne Frank House during summer...
Not tonight though sitting at the leidestraat Mc. Donald Hamburger joint watching Paulina finishing her native American born Double Cheeseburger, juice from the meat, slimy mayo and bits of tomato dripping between her sausage like fingers, licking the stuff from her knucles like a kid, jaw muscles moving feverishly while chewing another hunk of greasy substitute meat, listening to her talk about the good old US of A, how all the jews own the banks and the Italians are all good for nothing mob members...
I listen patiently, the sort of patience gathered from listening to numerous American tourists feeling comfortable in this little invasion of American crazy food culture on Dutch soil, watching Miss Fatty Paulina pay the bill with the inevitable platina credit card company proof of millionaire status, wondering silently where she managed to get one of these highly sought after plastic crapper shits, maybe a crooked employee she bribed with a pair of balck nylon stockings as she did with Miss Receptionist back at her hotel on the Fredericksplein last X-mas when first I met her...
Wondering silently if tonight I should play the saint, do not wander in that laberinth of lustfull intentions by this nutty female tourist from across the big blue waves, let her snigger or crackle in her self-misguided anticipation, it takes more than a Mc Donald's Double Cheeseburger to get me going in the wrong direction, diet free coke free of charge does not make me waver my self-doubt...
An ex-wife is most certainly not a relative, nor are one night stands in the Dutch capital by yours truely, Pauvre Moi trying to bolster my ego and self-confidence by hitting the infamous Amsterdam Red Light District bars, the pick-up joints in the heart of the Dutch capital according to Tony Wheerer's Lonely Planet hard and furiously, with a sort of determination born by another week long nocturnal torment, if my number of Back On The Bicycle Riding Home excursions - not alone, mind you dear reader of this blog - were an indication to my number of relatives I would have more of these stinking money grabbing family members as customers at the world famous Anne Frank House during summer...
Not tonight though sitting at the leidestraat Mc. Donald Hamburger joint watching Paulina finishing her native American born Double Cheeseburger, juice from the meat, slimy mayo and bits of tomato dripping between her sausage like fingers, licking the stuff from her knucles like a kid, jaw muscles moving feverishly while chewing another hunk of greasy substitute meat, listening to her talk about the good old US of A, how all the jews own the banks and the Italians are all good for nothing mob members...
I listen patiently, the sort of patience gathered from listening to numerous American tourists feeling comfortable in this little invasion of American crazy food culture on Dutch soil, watching Miss Fatty Paulina pay the bill with the inevitable platina credit card company proof of millionaire status, wondering silently where she managed to get one of these highly sought after plastic crapper shits, maybe a crooked employee she bribed with a pair of balck nylon stockings as she did with Miss Receptionist back at her hotel on the Fredericksplein last X-mas when first I met her...
Wondering silently if tonight I should play the saint, do not wander in that laberinth of lustfull intentions by this nutty female tourist from across the big blue waves, let her snigger or crackle in her self-misguided anticipation, it takes more than a Mc Donald's Double Cheeseburger to get me going in the wrong direction, diet free coke free of charge does not make me waver my self-doubt...
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Lord Buddha in acrylics and oil crayons
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
The restraints of morality
Electrical currents pulsating through my half awake body, colored lights dancing inside my eyelids, my semi-consciousness doing a bad job trying to open them, I gasp for a treasured gasp of fresh air though that life's necessity in this chaotic house of mine is clammy, thick and smelly like the john in the slammer, time goes by like eternity in this limbo of Lord Morpheus...it might be seconds or maybe plain and simple a few hours of the predawn in this rainy Dutch capital before the reality of my present existence hits me...
"Promise me you bar-fine me tomorrow when you come to bar"...
Bar-fine, what bar-fine...a voice from the past, a voice out of many, a voice soft and feminine, Asian, probably thai in its origins, one out of many hunderds, small and slender softly brownish colored fingers extending toward me wanting a pinky-promise...maybe come before Demark or Gemany come, "big Tompui, me not like, like you make bar-fine me before HE come...
Just two more weeks of unpatient waiting before my departure and Pas D'Interest to spend any time at all in that sexual galaxy that is sometimes refered to as Pattaya but better known as a kingdom for single European males, where German krauts with oversized bellies speak the queen's English like it comes out of old and dusty Leo cans, where elderly Poms and Rileys knock down Chang like there is no tomorrow, where crowds of Hindu males hassel any unattached female with lustfull dark shiners and dark brown Indian hands wander to bodily female areas where they do not belong...
I am still in the capital of the Low Countries but the restraints of normality are already hitting me hard, fluttering through the field of my primitive impulses and leaving me with a reknowned sense of Deja Vu...the airport is looming close, a giant time machine threatening to send me back to the way I was, consuming me of my Dutch society inflicted flaws and inperfections, the restraints of morality brought about by a European Farang upbringing...
"Promise me you bar-fine me tomorrow when you come to bar"...
Bar-fine, what bar-fine...a voice from the past, a voice out of many, a voice soft and feminine, Asian, probably thai in its origins, one out of many hunderds, small and slender softly brownish colored fingers extending toward me wanting a pinky-promise...maybe come before Demark or Gemany come, "big Tompui, me not like, like you make bar-fine me before HE come...
Just two more weeks of unpatient waiting before my departure and Pas D'Interest to spend any time at all in that sexual galaxy that is sometimes refered to as Pattaya but better known as a kingdom for single European males, where German krauts with oversized bellies speak the queen's English like it comes out of old and dusty Leo cans, where elderly Poms and Rileys knock down Chang like there is no tomorrow, where crowds of Hindu males hassel any unattached female with lustfull dark shiners and dark brown Indian hands wander to bodily female areas where they do not belong...
I am still in the capital of the Low Countries but the restraints of normality are already hitting me hard, fluttering through the field of my primitive impulses and leaving me with a reknowned sense of Deja Vu...the airport is looming close, a giant time machine threatening to send me back to the way I was, consuming me of my Dutch society inflicted flaws and inperfections, the restraints of morality brought about by a European Farang upbringing...
Sunday, January 12, 2014
I seem to be shifting more and more from acrylics to oil pastels.Friday, January 10, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
Another lady in the nude
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Je ne sais pas que passe ici.Wednesday, January 1, 2014
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