aric with an a

I got there…here, just down the road from here, actually. It’s…oh, wow, why in the world I’m more apprehensive about this than anything I’ve ever done is strange. You get there, read the rules (posted below) and then go for an interview. The lady was nice enough, but didn’t interview me, just shared her thoughts on Buddhism. They had merit, sure, but I sat there for 30 minutes. Listening. If this is going to be what it is, then I’m leaving early. I dig the silent part of it, I would actually like to know how to meditate properly, hell, even an insight to another fascinating religion…but listening?

I hate what happened to the ‘church’ in that it went from being applicable to indoctrinated and should this be nothing more than a week-and-a-half worth of lectures, I’m going to be annoyed. I’m sure it’s not. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy - maybe a feeling of, as I eluded to before, uncovering something I’m not ready for.

The property is quite nice, not much in the way of color or decor, but quiet and peaceful. We had breakfast this morning (one of our two meals served a day), it was rice, fresh cucumber and tea. That’s it. You wash your dishes in the back. I like that. I went to my room which turned out to be a cell. A 4×3 meter cell. Concrete floors. Concrete walls. Concrete bed. I was given a mosquito net and a blanket. Near the raised bed was a small stool, raised not 5 inches from the floor with a curved seat. I quietly asked the monk outside where I could get the pillow that I was told to pick-up and he walked me back inside my ‘room’ and pointed to the stool. It’s a wooden pillow. They’re serious about this suffering thing.

I’m not to slap bugs on my body nor am I to attempt to kill any harmful insect. I’m to let it be.

This place scares me and I don’t know exactly why. Maybe I’m just scared of discomfort. Maybe I feel like this has the possibility of being a waste of my numbered traveling days.

Maybe I just don’t know.

Have already started taking bets on how long I’m going to last in this 10-day meditation course on the east coast of Thailand.

Here’s the rules and why the spread is attracting so much attention from pals:

• Keep complete silence

• Refrain from

* destroying all forms of life

* taking things without permission

* harming the other by speech

* any sexual activity, mentally, verbally or bodily

* smoking or intoxicating oneself with any intoxicant

* having a meal in between afternoon and before dawn

* beautifying or entertaining oneself

* sleeping or sitting on luxurious bed or seat

• Stay the whole 10 days

• Observe the schedule strictly (see the attached schedule)

This is to keep oneself to oneself only, no one else!

…am I nervous? You bet I am. Never mind the no smoking/drinking/Facebook(!)/talking aspect of it, that part actually intrigues me. but no matter who you are, you’re damn well bound to learn a lot about yourself and I just don’t know if that’s an education I’m ready for.

Apologies in advance for whatever I try and pass onto you from this the next time we talk.

Photo of the living quarters provided in the $30 (total) price tag

 ’I know to you, it might sound strange, but I wish it would rain’ - The Temptations

Not just lyrics to one of the all-time greatest songs by Otis Williams and the boys (although, as my old neighbor and musical guru showed me, their later psychedelic stuff rivals any), but something that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed.

This, from obviously a drunken afternoon a month or so back, was found scribbled in the back of one of my favorite novels:

Is there any greater day than one spent exiled from a thunderstorm in a place where the spirits are served almost as strong as the conversation they interrupt?

Fine, it’s a well-known fact that after a few drinks I consider myself quite the writer, but it did bring me back to one of my best days I’ve ever had. See, I’ve got this friend named Tracy, who will forever be my favorite gal pal, even though we’ve only hung out 4-5 times. We first met the week before I moved back to the U.K. from Central Florida, which made me sad, as there were very few girls in Orlando worth hanging out with and she possessed what can only be described as a ‘it’. It made me nervous and I acted nervous around her. I still do. It’s weird. Anyway, she asked me for my mailing address which I also found to be both cool and intimidating. A few months later, having come home from my dish washing job at the pub, I had a package waiting. It was a diary, complete with pictures of her life, words of her own and loads of blank pages for me to do the same.

When I say it was the most impressive present ever, I mean it. I’ve gotten some good ones in the past, some generous and thoughtful ones, but this one just…oh, I don’t know. I freaked out. My next year or so after that seemed based around ‘How can I make this into a page to send to her?’, which worked for both good and bad. I tried to hard at times, much like I did when I first came back from Europe moaning about the coffee in America, playing up my Irish anscestry, et al. Hang on, I’m way off base - damn these island cocktails…

Anyway, this was the beginning of my ‘friend-crush’ on Tracy. I got a few occasions to see her after she first sent it and it was great, we hit up the old antique stores in downtown Orlando and I went for my old faithful ‘Bachelors Casserole’ when it came time to have a dinner party at her home. Good times, but deep in the heart of my ‘trying really hard to impress everyone with my previous year spent traveling’ mentality. I suppose I still do try to impress, but not as much. Your 30’s help you laugh at the asshole you used to be and help you come to terms with the one you still are. Anyway, last year I had my one-month whirlwind trip to see everyone and flew into NYC to stay with Tracy’s sister Amy and meet up with the both of them, which you can see here:

[You can catch a glimpse of said vibe at 0:47...it's like, 30's cool meets a coffee commercial - I don't know]

After that, Tracy and I took a train to Philadelphia, where I met up with her boyfriend Justin (you thought this was leaning towards romanticism, yes? No. It’s weird, thus the ‘friend crush’. She’s stunning, you can see that, and…she’s got something, I’ll call it ‘moxy‘ for lack of a better word. You just want to be around her. She’s…enchanting).

Anyway.

That day, T and I took a bus tour around Philly and were about to go see something important (the Bell? Constitution? Forgot), but it looked like it was about to start pouring so we made our way to this little dark pub, parked ourselves down on the old wooden benches and divided our strong drinks with a game of Connect 4:

We were stuck there for hours with nothing more to do than drink and talk - thus, the fond remembrance of rainy days in pubs.

Goodness, I could have just showed the video’s, couldn’t I?

Take 2:

I like it when it rains ’cause I can sit in the pub with a friend. That’s nice.

So, after 2 [would insert adjective here, but have none that would do it justice] weeks in Myanmar sleeping in $3 rooms that, had I possessed one of those cool U.V. lights you see in every ‘C.S.I. _______’ show, might have turned me into a 9-to-5 guy, I was lucky enough to have my friend Chris invite me to share in his 5-star hotel down in Phuket (’poo-ket’, not ‘fuk-et’) before heading off for 10 days of no reading, writing, email or talking (!) meditation session on the other side of the island.

Oh, this will help - Burma doesn’t have any Western Unions (or accept credit cards, have foreign banks, et al), something I failed to realize before getting there. Meaning I was living on less that $18 a day. But I did it - quite easily, actually, and had even managed to find out exactly how much the taxi from the Phuket Int’l Airport to the hotel was…he had brought some cash owed to me for some project meaning all I had to do was get there and I was sorted.

So I did what the one woman who still haunts me today once told me I did best: ‘Show up‘.

Was greeted at the ridiculously posh hotel (read: free welcoming mojitos, hot water, windows) and after crop-dusting all the nice Dutch families sitting in the lobby with my scent of ’shoestring travel’, walked up to the big ole teak desk and asked them to call him, as he was due to come in a few hours prior.

‘His reservation is for tomorrow, sir.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I check my email quickly?’

‘Of course - it’s $8 for the first hour.’

‘I don’t have that’.

‘I’m sorry sir’. [Thai smile]

Hmmmm, well, that makes it interesting, as I have no credit cards and less than $4 in combined currency from 3 different countries.

‘Can I just leave my passport and then you all charge an extra night?’ I asked, already doing the math in my head about how many months of $10 installments I would be indebted to him for.

‘I’m sorry sir, unless you can call him, we can’t allow that’.

‘Well, he’s in the air, how can I do this?’

[Thai smile tightens]

‘I’m sorry sir’.

This went on for about an hour, me telling them that of course I wasn’t a backpacker and just came from doing good in a neighboring state that I could have very well been arrested for so I didn’t take my credit cards and how-about-if-I-leave-my-nice-Leica-with-you-as-collateral (even though it would barely cover the peanuts I would probably have to dine on) No? Well then what should I do?

‘Wait here’

[Insert 20 minutes of worried waiting, wondering which of the older Japanese ladies who seemed to be recreating 'The Bucket List' I would have to play with that evening in order to get a bed]

‘I’m going to have to call our G.M, sir’.

[More waiting. Well, at least they age well]

10 minutes later, they came back, having caved under the fear of someone reporting not to have a nice time in Thailand and reluctantly handed me a card to the room (I’ll leave out the numerous surcharges they added in all of this).

‘Thank you - but, how can I eat?’

‘You can use that card at any of our restaurants, bars and gift shops’.

Oh, Thailand, I shall.

Granted, what I ended up spending yesterday would have taken me for 2 weeks to my upcoming destinations, but I went all out. More whiskey sours than I could count, room service, ‘Ironman’ on pay per view, the works.

Did it hurt? Yes. A lot. But it couldn’t have been too bad, as I went to sleep with more giggles than Egyptian thread count on my pillow…sans retiree.

I had forgotten all about this movie. In fact, all I could remember was a scene where ‘Sho’nuff’ [vid] was holding someone underwater and asking ‘Who’s the master?!’ I think the last time I saw this I was around 10 and had snuck over to my neighbor Kenny’s house, ’cause he lived with his grandmother who was too old to enforce any kind of discipline. He was also the one who got me drunk on ice tea after his claim that ‘alcohol is a placebo and anything taken in excess would have an effect’. Seriously, he talked like that…at 13. Anyway, was tired and broke and had nothing to do here in the town of Yogyarkta at night but drink beer in my room and watch whatever the Indonesian Public Television deemed worthy. Mostly it was talk shows and news but for some reason, whatever hipster was in charge of programming decided to up his cred by choosing, amongst all the films he could have, ‘The Last Dragon‘.

Classic. Some of the best one-liners ever (’Bow down and kiss my Converse!’). Oh, what a treat. Even a cameo by William H. Macy before he got all serious. And Keisha Knight Pulliam from the Cosby’s, mmmmm. Plus one of the best comedic bad guys ever, Mike Starr (you’ll know his face).

Who’s the master? Javanese Channel 12, that’s who.

I like people who are supportive, yet opinionated. Andy Best is both, so I like Andy Best. Even more after he wrote my Shanghai obituary. Very sweet of you mate, thanks.

I’ll never forget the intersection I was at yesterday when I got the message, as it will always be associated with a sick feeling. Kind of the way I can never listen to Inner Circle’s ‘Rock With You’ as that was the last song played in my car before I walked up to greet (name removed), my junior-year girlfriend, back from her summer holiday, and she broke up with me…I digress.

There I was, enjoying (as you can see from the previous post) the wonderful town of Solo and I get an SMS from someone who is not known for their over-dramatics saying ‘Please call. Urgent’. This person has never said ‘urgent’ about anything. In fact, this person isn’t the ‘urgent’ type. 3 seconds later they called to inform me that the police had just shown up at their office looking for me, as I had done a few projects out of there. They confiscated my phone number, email address and bank records claiming I was somehow involved with Tibetan support. No doubt this comes down to ‘the diaries’ , but thank God I walked when I did. I don’t think I’m headed back. Anyone who knows anything about the current climate knows they could make my life hell, as they have done for countless others. One friend thrown in prison for 10 days without his contacts (rendering him legally blind…in a cell with 10 others) and the police did not notify the consulate for 5 days (it’s supposed to be 2). Another friend of a friend had her passport confiscated (highly illegal) without given a reason why. This is happening all over China, so when I say it’s becoming a police state I’m not exaggerating.

So why go back? Sure, my stuff is there, but thankfully, a friend of mine helped out and it’s now in a safe place. Clothes? Yeah, sucks, but only a few things were worn enough to justify a moment of silence. Books and DVD’s, sure, it’s also a pain, but I’d read/watched most of them. The important stuff is safe. I don’t think I’m headed back. I didn’t like it there. I have a few weeks left on my flat (one of the things I’ll miss the most, not the apartment itself, but the coffee talks with Scott, that’s what hurts) so I might just have a big ole free yardsale and let those who I’ll soon call ‘old friends’ inherit my ever-changing tastes. I’m still pulling in a tiny bit each month, might even be enough to get me over to India instead of rent (half, actually, Scott was paying the other half as ‘it was worth it not to have anyone else in there’) and a phone bill. I’d like that. Even Nepal. Maybe Sri Lanka. Could work out nice. I’d be eating rice and drinkin’ water, but hey, Mom promised me her enchiladas if I can get home soon. What was it Proust said, ‘We are healed of a suffering only by expressing it to the full’, right? Who wouldn’t trade some dirty cots and a dance with dysentery in exchange for sunrise on the Ganges and a sore neck from the Taj? Fuck it. I’m doin’ it. At least, I’ll try. Seems strange though, having just given my Facebook a peek that I might not see these people ever again. That’s weird. But goodbyes usually hold more cliches than a fraternity brunch, so I’d be okay with that. The people that matter I will either see again, or know I’ll miss them. Man, talk about ‘when one door closes’ (oops - see you at brunch) mine just got slammed shut. But it’s kind of the same feeling a girl slapping you after you just requested break-up sex is. In the overall sense of things, it’s over - but man, it would have been cool to end it slightly differently.

It hadn’t really sunk in until I wrote this whole thing…now it’s surreal. This could be it. Wow.

Wow, what a difference in life 24 hours makes if you let it.

I hate prefacing. I hate people that preface. It makes whatever they have to say appear to be unable to simply stand alone. That being said, I should point out a few things…

I know nice and I know friendly. I’m only a few weeks out of living in the mountains of Thailand with the locals. On opium. Trust me, there wasn’t a bad word spoken about anyone. Hell, I was raised in the South to Irish-decent parents and as we all know, the Irish, much like the Southerners, are the nicest people in the world when they’re drinkin. So…you know; always nice.

But.

I can honestly say that I have never been to a town more warm than Solo, Java, Indonesia. They smile and say ‘apa kabar’ because they mean it. China ruined me in that sense. I cringe when I hear ‘halo’ back in Shanghai as it rarely denotes pure friendliness. It took me a while to acknowledge it here, but wow. I haven’t smiled so much (and meant it) since having that mushroom shake on my birthday and listened to Collin lament about throwing up his lobster.

Go to Solo. It’s a travelers/photographers dream. Funniest part is that this is considered a ‘hotbed of terrorism‘. Think I’ll take my chances. The poor ‘kopi’ seller wouldn’t even let me pay. The 70+ year-old woman who could barely clutch the small amount of money I gave her with her sickle cell anemia ridden hands shared a laugh with me when my head wouldn’t make it under the street sign. They say ‘hi’ and keep walking. Wanting nothing in return but the same back. And to think I woke up this morning moaning about a headache.

I like places that make you feel like shit. See, that feeling is not a good one so upon return to a familiar place, one sidesteps all-the-more occassionans to revisit said poo.

And oh yeah, for $9, I’m sleeping in one of the previous king’s store rooms.