a Chris Jaymes place
afloat – sunday rain
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A long sleep and late afternoon has arrived. The sound of a
subtle rain gently taps upon the roof above and a confusion
comes over me. Recollecting the perfect weather from recent
days, it’s impossible to comprehend that rain is now upon us.
Sliding the curtain and stepping out onto the balcony, the
sky is blanketed in grey and the colors of the surrounding
gardens are vibrant. The leaves extend, fully stretched up
and outward yearning to grasp each and every flailing drop
with an awareness that the wealth that is being momentarily
granted may be short lived. A nostalgic calm encapsulates me
within a serenity that accompanies an unscheduled and
unexpected rain. Almost a blissful sorrow with a hint of
joyous isolation vibrates through me as I decide to join the
outdoors and feel the warm rain fall upon me.
Stepping onto the pathway, the mist from above stimulates an
intense presence and today is the first of it’s kind,
blocking me from falling victim to the pattern of days prior.
Slight hints of question arise from my being, as the simple
energy addictions and habitual routine is being distracted
and altered. The faces and movements that have become
indicative of my existence have shifted and the space that is
usually filled has now become empty and different. It’s
surprising how simple changes can stimulate subtle fears
within your functional being forcing you to include your
thought process within your moment to moment awareness.
The velocity of the mist increases and a more passionate rain
begins to fall as I step foot on the empty beach. The
restaurant to my right is quiet yet there are a few guests
dining in the rain underneath the covered garden patio. My
thoughts converge with two opposing desires, one based on
eating and sitting quietly as an observing, the other based
on participating on a more visceral level with what nature is
presenting. Accepting the reality that this may be the last
rain I see here, my body abruptly pushes towards the ocean
observing the colors that stain the horizon.
Pulling off my shirt and emptying my pockets into my hat, I
head with unbending intent, directly out and into the ocean.
The currents move about with a force that I had not
experienced previously, and though there was a strength
within the movement of the tides, it was not angry or
threatening. It was animated with a childlike excitement
that was giddy to have you as a guest. It was almost showing
off it’s power in a manner that including you, like a dolphin
pulling you for a ride and waiting to be rewarded with a fish
at the end. Lying flat in the water, floating on back, I
allowed the currents to push and pull me wherever it wanted
me to go.
My body was weightless and calm and the movement was like a
maternal sway though not enacting a paternal role, but
instead felt like a brother or best friends tossing you
around playfully and never once stimulating fear.
The sky above was filled with millions of shades of grey and
in the distance there were darker grey V-shaped shadows where
you could confirm the strength of the storm. Glancing up and
down the coast, the ocean was empty. I was the only one in
either direction for as far as I could see. I closed my eyes
and bobbed for an unknown duration of time in an effortless
meditation. Leaning forward, I noticed that magically and
with no warning, there was another man swimming approximately
thirty yards away from me. He looked Eastern European of
some sort and within moments I could feel his energy. It was
experiencing the exact same sensation as was I. I continued
to watch him, trying to identify what it was that we were
embracing. His eyes were looking to the sky and in one
gesture, I could comprehend what we were both attempting to
fulfill. A moment that will be ours, individually, forever.
His movements are confident and there is a smile that shines
from his presence, and by describing the gesture that he was
about to carry out, is the most articulate way I can describe
the sensation that was living inside of me.
He gently laid back into the water with his face pointing up
to the sky, closed his eyes and opened his mouth to feel the
water fall inside. Stretching his mouth wide, he absorbed as
much of this moment as possible hoping the rainfall would
scar itself deep within his being, ingraining this moment of
presence in his emotional memory banks forever. He continued
to hold his face absolutely silent and still for nearly ten
minutes, swaying with the moving tide.
As I returned to my body, allowing him to leave me in my
space, I floated within effortlessly on my back while the
warmth and the salt keep my face and feet above the water.
My stomach and chest begin vibrating with a higher frequency
of energy as I think of it now. My body rotates with the
tides until my face heads towards the coast instead of out to
sea. Feeling absolutely no fear and trusting that the waves
that would fall over me were nurturing and harmless. My body
would thrust gently upward as the swell passed and then
quickly drop flat again coming into my line of vision and
crash upon the shore. The rain fell hard and created an
illusion of sparkling bubbles that surrounded me in every
direction. My senses were getting such an abundance of
stimulation that again, I was experiencing a drug induced
state of being without ingesting anything that would cause a
false sense of presence and/or hallucinatory experience. The
bubbles had the appearance similar to a pot of boiling water.
They were rising from the sea floor and upon reaching the
surface they would pop as they had reached a temperature high
enough to break the oxygen molecules apart, altering their
form and sending them back up and into the atmosphere.
I was trapped. Nothing in my body could pull me away from
this moment and though I felt like it was time to go, I
couldn’t impose the action upon my body. Think of the most
potent lust that reaches such an intensity and for the first
time you have the opportunity to embrace the human that has
stimulated this lust within you. You don’t want it to end.
It can’t end. There’s no need for it to end, and if it is
going to end, let it end on it’s own without my influence
prematurely ending it. I remained motionless within the
moving tides for well over an hour and finally decided it was
time.
The entire time I had floated about, the awareness of the
tsunami had faded and I was reminded of the loving qualities
that the ocean possessed. It almost felt as if it had it’s
own personality and it was trying to rekindle the kindness
that it was so accustomed to receiving. The demeanor that
the water possessed felt almost like a humble insecurity. It
reminded me of a puppy that had unknowingly wronged you
somehow and was tapping on your leg, dropping a ball at your
feet while you’re in the middle of working. As if it were
asking forgiveness without the comprehension of what it had
actually done to upset you. Maybe this was nothing more than
a self-imposed illusory thought that I had conceived, however
it felt as if it had been approaching my awareness from the
outside in, as my mind had been silent and judgment was on
hiatus when the sensation entered.
Returning to the beach, my shirt, towel, and cigarettes were
drenched. I passed through the restaurant to find a group of
travelers huddled around a TV screen intensely watching
Batman Returns with Thai subtitles. As I walked through the
man made jungle that led to my room, the colors were more
alive than ever and the rain had brought out all of the life
that secretly inhabited the land. Baby frogs jumped past my
feet as I approached. Geckos scurried up trees to escape the
potential approaching danger that I represented.
Cracking open my door, the pain of the air conditioning was
excruciating, it was like diving into an ice pool on an
already cold day. Throwing myself into the shower as the hot
water arrived, my brain was still silent. There was no
thought. There was no noise. Not just within me, but within
the environment around me. It was uncommon for this space to
experience silence. It was serene. This was the first day
that I had honestly spent alone since my trip began and I was
happy.
As I opened my bag to find something new to wear, a hint of a
rotten odor snuck out of the bag and into the atmosphere. It
is a smell that will always live in me and when approached
with something similar will function as a button that
triggers the emotional sensations from moments and glances
that occurred while that smell encompassed me. Like the
smells that scarred images from your childhood into a storage
area for odors in your mind. A type of bubble gum. A
certain animal. The breath of your grandmother. The smell
of bacon as you open your eyes and realize that it’s
Christmas. The stench of a massive arena of decomposed
bodies had now scarred itself into the category of sense
memories that I would now carry with me for the rest of my
life.
Within a millisecond of the molecules entering my nose, my
muscles quickly tightened, desperately attempting to keep it
from entering my body. The fear of my energy shifting away
from the moment of presence that I had been gifted to receive
on this rainy day was precious. My desire to protect it from
disseminating was fervent and unbending. Today was not the
day to sit inside of the newfound memories I had acquired
over the past weeks, but to relearn what it felt like to be
alone with myself, without the crutches and parasites that I
had been relying upon, and without the cell phone, and
without the E-mail, and without all of the external entities
that I would usually embrace in a day, to justify and confirm
my existence without taking responsibility for it.
Pulling my focus back to the rain, I stepped out onto the
balcony and a gentle humidity of warmth reminded me where I
was. A childlike feeling emanated from my body as the
parenting rain was dictating what and how all of the humans
that usually filled this beach, with bodies and beer bottles,
would live this day out.
Some days, it’s nice to be guided.
Nuang Yan
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There was a small private island called Nuang Yuan just off the coast, about a
ten minute boat ride so I figured I would head over. It was
the only location in Thailand that had an understanding that
conservation might be a good idea. There was no public
awareness instilled at any level that throwing trash into the
ocean wasn’t a good idea. It wasn’t just the ocean, but the
country in general was not really aware of the destruction
that they were supporting with all levels of non-
conservationist activity. Nuang Yuan was covered with signs,
insisting that plastic bottles were not allowed on the island
and anyone carrying plastic bottles would be punished by law
and abolished from the island. It almost felt like if you
did secretly bring some over, there might be a black market
trade going on and an opportunity to make some quiet cash.
Instead of venturing into a new possibility of generating
income, I snorkeled.
A month prior to coming here, I had contacted a childhood
friend of mine informing him that I would coming here. He
had spent the early years of his life in Thailand until his
family moved to California twenty years ago.
When I brought it up, he seemed to have a strange reaction
that was undecipherable. In the past, his entire demeanor
would light up at the mention of Thailand, so this was
somewhat abnormal. After investigation, he informed me that
they had recently returned from Thailand and while they were
here his younger brother had died. They had come to Nuang
Yuan to snorkel and prior to the boat departing realized that
he wasn’t present. They found him floating and assuming that
he had suffered from a shallow water blackout. He was in his
early thirties and I had met him a few times and being here
now, again, I was presented another peculiar occurrence
resulting in death. I floated around the island imagining my
friend’s expression when he realized that his brother had
died. Filling in the blanks of the experience and feeling
the energy of my friend’s presence here. The most disturbing
aspect was the awareness of the unbending affinity my friend
had always held for his family. They were ridiculously
closer and more functional than any family I had ever
witnessed. Subtly, I cried as I effortlessly let my body
float about and imagined what it would be like to die here.
The most optimistic thing I could conjure was the simple
reality that going unconscious and never returning from a
place such as this would at least be peaceful. There was
nothing present here that could be labeled imperfect. It
was a nonexistent perfection that was nearly
incomprehensible. It was impossible to conceive that it
wasn’t manipulated by man to achieve this kind of aesthetic,
both above and under the water. A glowing sadness vibrated
through me as flashes of my friend’s face passed before me.
The beauty of the environment forcibly altered the sadness,
transforming it into a liberating nostalgia. I smiled with
the knowing that there may not be a more perfect place to
die. Unfortunately, timing is always questionable.
The sun hid behind the horizon and I spent the night
peacefully alone surrendering to the theme of mortality that
had satiated every last particle of my so-called vacation.
Strangely, there was a warm quality about a theme that would,
by nature, be associated with a vacuous quality of an
isolated and empty cold. At this point, anything outside of
absolute submission to my externally imposed discourse was
indisputable suicide. The simple, yet incomprehensible
concept of death could no longer be misconceived as an
anomaly. This had been removed from my available list of
options. Instead, it had grown into something that was
simply an obvious and expected part of life that could show
up at any moment, in any direction. And if you were faced
with it, you were blessed… as it wasn’t you who were dead.
Boxing Day – cut out chapter – False Independence
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Early that morning, we boarded a boat back to Samui. My
plans to finish the trip out in Koh Tao had evolved and my
most immediate concern was to get the girl back to Bangkok
and relieve myself from the caretaker role that I had
accepted. Surrendering to an unnecessary circumstance was no
longer an option as my trip was quickly coming to an end, and
I wasn’t interested in sharing my final days with a stranger.
One night was enough and it was time to send her back to her
life before she became too comfortable in mine.
The boat was half full and composed of a smorgasbord of
passengers from around the world. I was exhausted and made
no efforts to communicate with my accidental travel guest.
Speaking in single-syllables at a twenty word per minute pace
was too much work at this point so upon sitting down, I
immediately opened a journal and started writing.
The deck of the boat was painted green and covered with
uneven patterns of triangles constructed from aged yellow
duct tape. The myriad of characters were sprawled across the
floor embracing the aphrodisiac of freedom that comes along
with being a traveler. We had all found a similar dress code
where skin was much more prevalent than clothing. Scanning
the surrounding strangers, it was blatantly apparent who had
recently arrived and who had been traveling for a significant
period of time. Those more settled in, seemed to carry
themselves in a hyper-grounded state, almost an elated moment
of sustained self discovery. In some it was a bit more pure
than in others, who seemed to embrace a fallacy summarizing
their current state as a first encounter with a distant
stranger. That stranger being the true and honest version of
themselves, that has finally surfaced and come to stay.
This is a common illusion to fall victim to when you find
yourself in a place where everything is possible, and more
specifically, affordable. Someone with a First World bank
account living within a Third World economy for the first
time in their lives are blessed with an inconceivable
experience. For the first time ever, you are a controlling
factor in your own kingdom without obstacles or
prerequisites. Nearly anything you might desire is
effortlessly attainable. It almost psychically anticipates
your presence, respectfully waiting to fulfill your desires.
Looking at myself and then to those around me, there is a
similar evolution that begins from the outside and works it’s
way inward. Our appearances have taken on a pirate-like
quality, carelessly clothed in a ragged, beach-ghetto-y
manner. The more experienced pirates confidently approach
with a warm, untrustworthy smile and wit that is somehow
sincere, to some degree. The more I observe the passengers,
the more apparent are the layers they are attempting to shed.
One by one, I reconstruct their pre-travel clothing which
begins to create a projected image of the pre-travel person.
I begin imposing illusory moments of their actual lives and
personalities back home. None of whom would exist in class
stature above the middle, and most of them would
unquestionably linger towards the lower end of the scales.
Here, that is nonexistent. Here, they are not reminded on a
moment to moment basis of what is out of range and nothing is
unattainable. This would normally be a fantasy that they
would consistently long for, but here the fantasy is actually
alive.
Taking it further, I impose all of their usual day-to-day
problems and issues. Family, work, money, love, no work, no
money, no love. Human nonsense. A clarity surfaced,
exposing the simple humans that we all actually were, formed
and dictated by a structured society, living in a state of
hope and yearning for liberation from the empowered
structure. This was freedom. At least, momentarily. A
fleeting moment of life within a temporarily liberated
persona. And that’s all it will be. At least for the
intelligent ones. The others will actually become Western
pirates indulging in the effortlessly attainable luxury of
the East. Returning home for short bits of time, scrounging
enough to return to their position of power in a society with
a weaker economy.
My thoughts return to my home and my friends. My family and
dogs. And just as it had been effortless to experience a
human empathy on my way to Khao Lak, now it was effortless to
feel the love I had for those who blessed my life with their
presence. One by one, they passed through my thoughts.
Observing their gestures, I could feel the love we shared. I
could see the web that was created between us all, by us all,
that would never diminish. It would remain, only to be taken
for granted. Regardless, it would sustain.
For the hundredth time on this journey, my eyes filled with
water as my face passed through the warm ocean air. Looking
out, the island of Phangan sat in the distance. I was passing
over the path of water where the fifteen people had died on
the boat that I was fortunate enough not to board. A surreal
quality painted an image around me and my perspective was
altered. I felt more alive than usual. The world around me
also seemed magically alive. It appeared to be three or more
dimensional, but I knew it was no more than an idea in motion
that surrounded me while I sat motionless. It would continue
moving for all that were currently watching… And sustain
it’s movement, even when our eyes were closed eternally.
I try to believe… that I am.
However, I could not comprehend my current state.
A travel blog from a moment in a Bangkok Canal…
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A travel blog from a moment in a Bangkok Canal…
Bangkok has an extensive system of canals stemming from the Klong Bangkok Noi, (formerly known as the Chao Phraya River, kind of like Prince, only a river) the main river that runs through the center of town. Shortly after sunset, I wandered around Khao San Road in search of sustenance and stumbled upon a water bus heading through the canals. After a full day of inhaling eternal gusts of ass (aka less-than-gentle fumes from a society lacking smog checks), avoiding the streets sounded quite pleasant.
So… in the boat we go. A good sized boat. Twenty rows, four people to a row, big engine… stable and sturdy. Very exciting… and eccentric, right? No tourists. No bullshit. Just an idealistic traveler, immersing himself into some “authentic” Thai culture. Finding my seat upon the little red wooden bench, my ass sponges up leftover drizzle from splashes of previous trips setting the tone for what might end up a memorable moment. as we cruise through the not-so-Venetian version of Bangkok. A slim and somewhat fetid Thai man fearlessly climbs along the edge of the boat collecting the coins from public in a somewhat impressive manner, as the boat quickly accelerated to at least thirty M.P.H. during a traffic hour liquid that was the antithesis of calm.
Two dark blue plastic curtains are then pulled, concealing the cabin on both sides in attempts to keep the water out. The view was eradicated and the tone shifted intensely. Instead of a pleasant boat ride/visual tour of the canals, our experience was transformed into a group of thirty passengers on a claustrophobic, little red Willy Wonka boat… in the dark. A single fifty-watt light bulb hung from the ceiling, giving it the feel of a traveling opium den while a hyper-vigilant tension began stirring and my vulnerability began to swell. I was under attack. From what? Who the fuck knows, but I could feel it! Turning to my right, I converse with a woman sitting next to me. This quickly extends outward, as the four surrounding rows begin talking amongst one another, excluding me completely.
Five minutes later, there is a conclusion. No one speaks English.
Fifteen minutes later, the boat reaches it’s first stop, but who knows where since I can’t see shit and have no means of communication. Assuming I would be blindly exiting the boat, I start to situate myself and gather my things. The boat pulls to a stop. People jump in and out and just as I lift my ass from the seat, the boat speeds off, tossing me harshly back upon the little, red wooden bench. Guess I’
ll continue on for a bit?
Thirty minutes later. Two more stops, and still incapable of throwing myself from the boat fast enough, the money collector helps me from the boat leaving me stranded upon a dim lit ledge in the middle of nowhere. My ass was sore from beating on the bench and my masculinity had been somehow misplaced.
Five minutes later. An approaching boat. A small, longtail boat with no roof and eight rows of two seats. The driver seemed younger than desirable, fifteen at most, however now was not the time for judgment. The passengers had their heads pressed into their knees and didn’t even glance to check the location of the stop. At first glance, it would appear to any simple-thinking human, that there were no available seats, but apparently, this was inaccurate. The backward-hat wearing Thai-kid driver points to the front of the boat and banters in gibberish. Attempting to decipher what he was suggesting, I look to the front of the boat to find a small section of wood that was never actually intended as a seat, resting two inches above the water at most. And…
there was no actual plank to sit on. The person in the front would act as the big blue curtain from the previous boat blanketing the passengers from the splashing water. The instantaneous surrender of traveling kicks in and I reluctantly submit.
“Okay.” I exclaim with a cynical shake of the head as I gently climb aboard, attempting to keep my balance, as the boat was definitely not keeping it’
s own.
So, I’m on and prior to actually getting myself situated, we’
re off. Now, remember… it’s somewhere around seven PM which is still considered traffic hour in the waterway. The canals are filled with something subtly resemblant of water. Technically, it is water. Extremely rough, stinky, disgusting, disease-ridden, burn-your-skin, flavored water, which is irrelevant at this point… and better off forgotten. There is no visible portion of the boat in front of me, only this disgusting, fucking, grimy water. The edges of the boat barely rise above my legs, as I sit Indian style on the wooden platform. Searching for a place to hang on, a core panic rings through me as there is absolutely nothing to hold onto and I can see a series of wakes from a passing boat just ahead. My hands slip from the sides of the boat, searching the edges, reaching behind me. There is nothing. No handle, no seat belt, or life vest, or rope of any kind anywhere near me. We hit the wake. Ass rises and death is imminent. My arms desperately fling around the edges of the boat.
Yes!! Safety!! Whoa, a bit slippery!! That’s okay!! Safety!! Oh, but wait? My hands are submerged in this shit water and if they stay here for long, they might melt or grow nipples, or something along those lines. Fuck safety!! Save my hands!! Okay, AAHH!! Big wakes, ass bouncing, mouth flying open and closed… accepting my death, again.
For the next three minutes or so, the situation did not improve and I knew I was done, either from flying off of the boat and into something, or from a water-borne disease of some sort. Desperately, I scan the edges of the canal, mentally marking exit routes, as the majority of the walls were six to ten feet high, with breaks of stairs every few hundred yards. The speed of the boat was seemingly twice as fast as the previous one, and our veteran video-game-trained driver seemed intent on mastering the art of wake jumping. Each time a boat would approach, he would slow down and pull to the edge, properly scoping out the angle. As the boat would arrive at a specifically calculated distance, approximately thirty yards or so, the throttle was yanked open and our little longtail would hit the wake with an intimidating precision. It was impressive, however… the continuation of my life was fleeting.
Again, I see another wake coming. In a moment of panic, my hands reach down finding that the floor is constructed of planks with small spaces between the wood. The spaces are barely large enough for my hands to forcibly mush into, but enough to allow me to pull my ass down onto the wood. There is a chance that I will actually live through this!! My life may continue!!
The precise moment my hands grasp onto the wood, a passenger sitting behind me decides that I need to be saved. Just as my hand locks onto the floorboard and glory was mine, she grabs my right arm and pulls it back behind me, attempting to keep me from flying out of the boat. Five seconds of torment as we bounce across a series of wakes. My balance was stolen, and again, I was flailing upon the lip of the boat with an unbending confidence that my moment had come, certain I would be flying into the acid-face peeling water momentarily. The woman’
s intentions were good, however my initial instinct was to elbow her in the face while communicating emphatically… “get the fuck off, you cock sucking whore!!”
However, I refrained. And, instead of saying one of the million things traveling through my mind at that moment, I tilted my head back and in a very low tone muttered…
“Let go of my arm.” Simple, concise, and yet quite warrior-like.
And that was it. Liberation. With a naive innocence, my head lifted itself high into the wind as the joyous sewage water graced my face, with an occasional drip finding it’s way into my mouth. Lost in a self-gratifying moment, feeling like Super-Buddha perched upon the front edge of this dinky longtail… watching the houses pass by… smelling the curries and the stench of the water… And, smash!!
A huge wave hits the front of the boat. A six-foot wall of water hits our left side, barely skimming past me, drenching the man behind me. Glancing back, I watch as he instinctively turns to eradicate the vile, venomous, canal sewage from his mouth. Without thinking twice, he spits the water directly at the face of the woman who tried to save my life. She unfortunately, happened to have her mouth hanging open and his purging shot directly into the wide open tunnel and entered into the poor woman’
s body. Within seconds, she was crying.
The act of taking the water into her mouth would certainly invade her mind for quite some time forcing her to question her health and well being for eternity. And as unfortunate as this was, better her than me.
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