My father died just before Christmas. I wasn’t ready to make the announcement to my friends during the holidays, partly because I didn’t want to face it all at once, and partly because sympathy condolences don’t mix well with holiday cheer. But, it’s the new year and now it’s time.
Today I cried for him. I broke down a bit as I was writing this in my notebook at an Indian restaurant, Namaskar, in Koh PhanNgan, Thailand. Best Indian food in Thailand, highly recommended... also they politely ignored me crying into my Chai. Anyway, the point is, now it’s time to look forward in my life, but also, even though I don't feel ready, it's time to look back on his.
Full Moon. Or not. Perhaps the memory is a dream. Perhaps it was just the security lights from the beachhouses that illuminated the night instead of the moon as I remember. Whatever it was, the light darkness of the moon, or the dark lightness of the security lights, it was gentle; the night. The air was still, the aftermath of a storm passed. Entirely still. Completely. The air almost mischievously mockingly still against the subtle intensity of the sea.
Time, once again, time to take all my scraps of paper and digitize them one-word-at-a-time.
I‘ve never understood the rules of life. When I was about 10 or 11 years old, as we were driving down the rural cascade mountain highway I asked my father to explain the different meanings of the stripes on the road. Why was there one white stripe on the side, yet double yellows in the center. He told me that you were not allowed to cross the double yellows in the center. Not understanding that meant just for passing other cars I asked what about if a deer jumps in the road in front of you. I was serious, laws don't make sense so it seemed to me a reasonable question concerning police enforcement. (This note has shown up multiple times and although the original intention was to digitize these scraps of paper so I can be less cluttered, I just can't seem to throw it out now)
The tourists flock to the beach late in the morning. The locals had arrived hours ago and as it gets hotter, and the sun moves over the hill to shine down directly, they depart, one by one to abandon the scorching sand to the pasty skinned peoples of more northern latitudes. The vacancies allow the pale vacationers a place to squeeze in and find relief in whatever little bit of shade that’s left.
It is from desperation I attempt to be a writer. It is from this moment of sitting in a loud, crowded public Tesco Lotus food court and watching the movements, robotic and trained by years of repetition, of the staff, the table cleaners, the cooks, and even the patrons. I feel seasick watching their daily motions of formulated responses; cells of a machine that operate according to lifelong consumer programming.
I am just another, but I must believe for my own sanity, that I can break free; if only in my mind, in my words, in my expression. Free from the complete and utter ridiculousness of this script we all follow, like rats of the pied piper.
