June 23, 2011

Random Notes From Rawai #1

"Where are you from?"
"California, San Francisco. Bay Area. Born in Iran, but raised in a town called San Rafael, but I currently live in Jakarta."
He stares into the distance at a passing boat. We are in Rawai on Phuket Island.
"We don't get many Americans here."

That was yesterday morning as I was waiting for a few chocolate croissants and a latte to take back to the house. It is now almost eight pm; it feels like midnight. My skin is toasting to its natural color- a  cappuccino shy of milk. The girls are asleep. I am listening to some songs by Steve Earle and the pool ripples beyond the glow of this machine.

I haven't much to say, but feel the need to sharpen this knife nonetheless. I was supposed to be working on the book, but I keep making excuses- focusing on these stretching exercises more than the main event. A few hours ago, Kaia and I sat on the side of the road on the motorbike watching a man wash a baby elephant. We were our way back from a reconnaissance trip to Kata Noi, before that we had surfed the waves at Nai Hern beach. I am loving this southern tip of Phuket. Rawai is a quiet sleepy town distant from the nonsense at Patong and even Kata. We are staying at a little house in a local neighborhood, a five minute ride from a nearly empty beach. It is a bit windy, so we are deprived of the tranquil aqua waters this place is known for, but a little tumble in the surf never hurt anyone.

The nights are filled with music and these words. I am missing my guitar as I usually do, think it might be time for a travel guitar. It's when we are without our instruments that we feel the need to sing.

Let this little light of mine shine and lead you against the night
Maybe someones watching and wondering what I got
Maybe this is why I'm here on earth maybe not

Not sure whether it is angst or understanding that forces me to push through these tender nights, but it feels natural to take a few minutes each night to let a few ideas spill from me. Apparently, the world rolls on beyond the waters of this island, but the events there matter little to me. The air is warm and the hours pass slowly. The mind is still running a bit too fast, worried about "doing" things, but I am sure with time it too will quiet down and halt to a slow crawl.

Till then there is little but the struggle to document each passing moment in song and poetry. There is this quickly fading and impermanent post, lost in the shuffle of so many others like it.  Another pixel lost in this ever expanding eternity.

Would you hear my voice
Come through the music?
Would you hold it near
As it were your own?

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again

If I knew the way, I would take you home...

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