Happy New Year

Confusionism: Happy New Year 2015. Beer LaoWell the small team at Confusionism are still around and still have some plans, but have little time right now. So it is just time to say have a great new year and don’t find stupid reasons to not enjoy yourselves. Go party.

And next year, yes we do have some plans to add some more artwork and update the theory posts. As confusionists, we do not think it necessary to tell you what ius going on, but to let you work it out yourselves via the confusionist tools and analyses that have been discussed many times. So we will not waste our or your time in 2015 analysing what is described as news in the media industry of control and on

In the meantime though it is time to party, so share a little drink with us. After all partying is a real human action.

Happy New Year.

 

Cheers

G

Reality

My reality is a reality of beautiful sunny mornings

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of green trees, blue skies and green fields

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of real friends and good acquaintances

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of loving those close to me and working hard to achieve a greater closeness

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of realising you don’t have to eat huge meals of unnatural products

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of time being for doing things you want to do and for spending with those closest to you

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality where people are more important than things

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of realising I don’t have to listen to their noise machines and propaganda and if I do I don’t have to believe any of it

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of knowing I don’t need a place bigger than I can live in

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of realising I don’t need a new car every few years

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality is a reality of enjoying the few comforts I can’t deny myself but realising I don’t need excessive amounts of them

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of knowing I do not have to do a job I don’t want to do

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality of realising I don’t need to own much

Theirs is a reality of…

My reality is a reality that I actually live

Disconnect

Today the clouds rolled in from the sea and mountains meeting over the new road and encircling the entire town from cape to cape and across the sea to the furthest horizon, a plethora of grey low-lying intimidating layers sitting waiting. There was little heat and little humidity even as the cooling breezes touched all exposed coming from varied and ever-changing directions. The aromas of coffee, grilled squid and soup mixing heavily with the whipped up dust and exhaust gases along the main drag on the race inevitably to be lost back to shelter to watch the full coming of the glory of the opening of heavens from behind glazed frontiers protected from any of its meaning and fury and elemental rending, to once again exist in the cosseted realm of normality and the accepted.

The island lay somewhere in the Irish Sea. The hotel lay somewhere on the long inlet filled winding coast of the island. The wicker chairs painted white surrounded the glass top table in some windowed alcove to the side of the restaurant viewing the short emerald lawn falling rapidly to the short cliff and the sea. The sea of grey and majestic white tops on the rising waves, that were coming more frequently now. The sea stretching to the distant indistinct juncture of sky and sea, both grey and heavy, so heavy that even in the alcove the weight could be felt. The whistle of wind through cracks in the aging wooden windows rising in crescendo to the challenge of the distant rolling booms of the clouds colliding. And now the crooked line of light from cloud to sea. The plate of unnoticed battered fish and overly green peas on the glass top table with the frothy pale brown foam headed glass. Eyes and attention timelessly drawn to the unfolding legacy of scene one of an unproduced undirected stage.

The two-hour journey on the red funneled island ferry had already turned to six hours as the ferry meandered seamlessly in the eddying currents and tides with no power of its own anymore gradually drifting to a halt as the fog bank drifted in, the only thing moving in the becalmed heavy hanging atmosphere on the deck of the ferry. With the wet damp but not unappealing odour of the fog comes a silence and an envelopment in aloneness even a few mere yards from the bar on the ferry, the light of which still haloes its way across the deck to the rail. The bar appeals.

I had had just about as much as I could take and I was not going to stay there any longer. I was going home. The road ran over the top of Huay Yai and was usually a veritable racers track, but as I started the journey the wind rose quickly coming in surges battering the side of the car and throwing foliage from the tops of the trees lining the road across the fields of potatoes grown not to feed the masses but to feed their vehicles desire for fuel. The flying foliage would, I knew from experience be quickly followed by whole tree themselves, and so it was as the wind built the first tree crashed into the road mere metres from the car. The wind that soi often stops as the first drops of rain come in the tropics this time had no intention of abating as the heavy first few slow drops hit the roof of the car and brought the thick sludge hanging in the air onto the screen. Within seconds the few slow drops turn into a deluge on full throttle with visibility down to the length of your car. There will be no racing here today as the lights of the truck or car in front are almost invisibilities. The road now a river of water and light dirt with trees crashing down in the wind as the first bolt of lightning explodes against the power pylon to the left of the road with a shattering realization that the clouds are mere metres away from the road. The next bolt is shattering a full-bodied tree. It explodes into hundreds of pieces showering its shrapnel across the road, followed by another to the rear.

The bar remains a warm light alcohol and smoke-filled haven existing in isolation from the nothingness and quiet around, a mixture of pleasure, relief, avoidance of reality and seasickness. Even those who don’t drink or smoke are finding their way into this packed small box of humanity awaiting release.

The wind no longer whistles through the aging wrinkled white window frames, or maybe it does but unheard as the hotel shudders under the barrage of light and sound hanging over the cliffs as the waves move in quicker and quicker to crash unseen from the hotel against the low cliffs, at time rising up over them and onto the lawn sometimes seen as the wind takes a breath before blinding all sight from the alcove with another gasp of fury sending a wall of grey rain crashing against the aching limbs of the building that has seen so many decades of the same, and that knows that at some stage it will succumb to the roaring assault of ages. The meal and drink still remain unnoticed but no longer in isolation in the alcove where those inside are gathered awaiting an interlude.

As the tree explodes in front of me I realize that it was a car that I was trying to keep the lights of in sight. I slowly pass it now in the ditch at the side of the road still with lights on and wipers going. But there is no time for more to be noticed as rising into the cloud, rising into the source of the storm on the top of the plateau everything lightens and becomes still and quiet. A peace, a harmony falls on the scenes of destruction of only moments before.

Without warning the water falls hard and straight. There is no wind. The light breeze and aromas have gone. It is a cooling falling rain and shelter lies only a few minutes away. As I feel the cool rain run down through my hair and soak through onto my back, I know the drought is gone, and that it is not cosseting or protection that I need but a return to reality and I feel life once more flow into me to course round my veins and to remind me what life is. To feel, to experience, to be, to love and to not need to know or to have or to understand. Peace.

The Absolutionist

I find myself perpetually dispensing absolution. Who raised me to this I no longer know, but it wasnt a position or chore I sought. But reality is what it is, and this is where I who have led such a flawed and unfulfilling life find myself. I who have no religious ideal, feeling or moral, I who have no right in which to judge others, I who am a simple, distraught and ordinary man find myself so cursed.

The above is the first paragraph of a long and tortuous true story that few will chose to believe.

Sweeping Up

It is almost two years now, and I suppose it is time to record the actual true events before they fade or my memory decides to exclude such things that don’t fit with preconceived and taught ideas typical of someone raised in the rational and heartless late 60’s and 70’s. It also seems fitting as I sit once more where I did that day on the raised dot mypai with a pencil and cheap paper notebook feeling the breeze from the small green fan as the heat of the summer rises once more past body temperature.

My mother-in-law Reua had died in mid-June that year. I cannot without asking remember the exact date so lets keep it vague. And vague is a good starting point or reference for something that probably has no exactitude in it, or at least none beyond what I personally hold in my own head.

We had gone through the three-day ritual of the body being in the temple with most of the close family, including by marriage myself, spending the full three days there with nights spent under a mosquito net sleeping on the temple floor, and mornings in offering alms to monks and receiving throughout the day respects of visitors. But the details of this are not part of this story and are better recorded in the pieces Drinking Beer with a Gunman in a Temple at a Funeral and The Funeral.

Today, the day it happened, was the day of the cremation. The body had been taken to the crematorium and the mourners had paraded around the building before the body was burnt and ashes retrieved. Tears had flowed at the final moment when the body was ready to be burnt and was on display for the final time. Oddly enough among westerners living in the country the myth that funerals were happy events existed probably based on the drunkenness, gambling and eating associated with them. A myth though is what it was, and like in other cultures the time for the final farewell of body brought tears and sadness.

After the cremation, those remaining as was tradition headed for the house of Reua where food and alcohol were readied as a form of wake or thank you or celebration of the life of her, and while this was going on the house was cleaned and readied by the family for a visit of nine monks to bless the house and release the spirit. The preparations were led by the northern dialect speaking resident expert on Buddhist tradition, this being a northern rather than Thai family. Nine monks was the full amount from the temple and an auspicious number too. Originally my wife had planned on five but as with many family affairs irrelevant details or details that seemed irrelevant to me could change on a whim usually at the behest of an older family member.

The monks arrived and the chanting and splashing the house and congregation with water was completed as was the surrounding of the entire house with a single long thread of twine. I was cramped in and uncomfortably kneeling upstairs behind my wife and daughter in the kitchen area of the wooden house on traditional stilts. I could not see how so much weight from all the people crammed into he house could be supported or how so many kneeling people could escape the now creaking swaying structure. Such thoughts though were far from those used to such tradition and practice and the somber events progressed.

After the monks had completed the ritual and left, it was downstairs and to the food, locally and illicitly distilled rice liquor and beer. The family was mostly seated on the bamboo diases called dot mypai that people sat on to leave feet above the dry warm red dirt and under the rudely thatched straw and bamboo shelters that kept the sun from those below. Abutting th structure was the underside of my mother-in-laws house beneath which beyond a central open area lay another dias upon which lay a pile of wood chopped for use on the barbeque and of course the plethora of pieces of wood, bamboo and curved rusty and contradictory sharp and rusty chopping implements needed for whatever farmers used such things for.

As was tradition, or seemed so from experience of attending a multitude of such events, the men gravitated to an area and the women another area. I found myself on the outskirts of the male almost exclusively farming group. In the heat I found my desire for the alcohol and merriment they were enjoying was muted. Being on the edge made it easy to withdraw intercourse and I began to look around.

It was then that I heard the noise. A rhythmic noise of a traditional twig brush on the earthen dirt of the floor under the house. It was an enchanting sound to hear in its perfect following of its own beat and a sound that always reminded me fondly of times spent here. The warm, too warm airless atmosphere combined with what little alcohol I had consumed seemed to take me away from the banter on the dias, which now became another complimentary rhythm to the sweeping sound with words lost in a poetic or even musical progression. I felt light and heady, somehow removed from the others and at the same time ignored or even unnoticed by them. Time seemed impossible to gauge.

Within this atmosphere, for the first time my head turned to look towards the central open area where a saw the slight thin figure in a tradional earthen coloured sarong and silk shirt with open toed sandals sweeping the loose dirt from the packed mud under the house. My mother-in-law was cleaning up. It was a scene I had seen a multitude of times before, but this time it held my attention with a fascination in the sheer beauty of it in time to the surrounding rhythms. To see the small wisps of dust rise in time to the brush and the brush move in time to its own swish and the backing banter. Perfection. I don’t know how long I sat looking and watching or why I turned away breaking whatever spell or enchantment had me in its grip, but when I did turn the rhythm disappeared and the disjointed uneven cacophony of the partying came roaring back. On turning back to glance one more time at the central area nobody was there and the ground lay still and marked with the loose dust and cigarette butts discarded by the drinking smoking men.

There is little more to add beyond on enquiring of my wife and other family members and mentioning my story, I found that everyone knew that when Reua held a party or celebration in her house she would always be quick to take up the broom and sweep away the debris, not wanting guests to think that however modest was house that she kept a dirty one as she was a proud woman. Of course, this being the rural areas nobody questioned my story as they were used to such stories in these areas. Even though others had glanced in the same direction as I had at the same time, or at least some surely must have and yet they didn’t see what I saw and yet nobody doubted me.

I have often asked why is it me who doesn’t believe in ghosts who is destined to see them.

The Eggman

It was around seven or eight years ago that I first noticed him, this aging man. Quite exactly how old he was, was hard to tell as he had the start of a curved back and looked constantly at the floor with his bewhiskered jowls hanging from each side of his mouth. His hair was white or silver but not in a distinguished looking way but more in a mop of short but unkempt hair hanging over his head and down onto his forehead as he shuffled forward with his brown scuffed sandals around his brown feet and his blue fisherman pants swaying with movement and breeze. His arched back inside his plaid long-sleeved shirt was letting out a little perspiration as he lugged the wide basket containing his collection of about thirty boiled eggs. He manoeuvred from table to table along the stretch of seawall at Laem Than where the young people sat and drank and chatted trying to sell an egg or two or three at each table for the drinkers to snack on. Occasionally he was even successful in getting someone to buy three eggs in a little plastic bag with a small sachet of sauce as he manoeuvred surprisingly rapidly between the jovial groups.

All night he would ply the pavement stretching along Laem Than with its couple of small bars, such as Sin’s, right up to the vendors on the corner at the cape where the cacophony of the birds grew immense at dusk and through the car parks where people sat and ate a mixture of what they had brought with them, bought from the vendors and could buy from people like the old man. The car parks where they sat in families, couples, friend groups on the floor and felt the fresh sea breezes that cooled the heat of the tropical dusk and night as they ate and drank and talked and whiled away time, hardly noticing the rhythmic rotation of the old man trying to empty his basket before heading off home wherever that may have been.

Over those years I saw this scene repeated again and again right up until the completion of the third car park and right through the rise and fall of the seafront Japanese seafood restaurant and the collection of boutique pub restaurants that would spring up before fading back into oblivion or a new facade with new ownership. And always the old man on his tour with his aim of selling just one basket of eggs. At some point I stopped going to Laem Than. It had become less fashionable except with the aging Bangkok visitors and the young crowd moved to the Wannapha end of town with its multitude of bars, restaurants and potential for beach front partying to unknown morning hours, not that I was part of that crowd. I just stopped going to Laem Than.

The other evening I was sitting with my wife at Mr. Coffee on the roundabout at Bang Saen where Wannapha, Long Haad Road and Beach Road all meet. It is and has been, for an unfashionably long time, a place far too popular for the space and number of chairs and tables with the young people from the university and all the businesses. A place where the mix of alcohol, coffee and assorted blended drinks, ample parking, sea breezes and an opportunity for those sitting there on the deck, outside the air conditioned inner sanctum, to be seen from multiple direction by each other and passersby. It was the perfect place for beautiful young people, and the mixture of low volume music, laughter and the high pitched women’s voices overshadowing the more bassy men’s voices, and all the sound mingling with smells of cigarettes, barbeque chicken from the nearby vendor and that salty sea smell that is so difficult to put your finger on.

My wife and I were enjoying a little time together, a little quiet time with our daughter still at home. A time we rarely got these days as parents, but one we both cherished and enjoyed as often as we could. The sun was now fast setting as it does in the tropics going down over the sea and leaving the coconut trees as mere silhouettes shadowing us from the weakening heat but still blinding light of the dropping orb. It was one of those times where tranquillity, nature and feeling merged to leave a feeling of isolation in a crowd as just an observer or dreamer.

Among the younger people sat on the deck came a shuffling old man. He was moving very slowly with one of those nondescript plastic bags with maybe thirty eggs inside swinging from his plaid clad arm. His back arched almost to ninety degrees and unkempt silver-white hair matted into his forehead and in places joining the grey and silver and white whiskers that ran down his sagging jowls. He manoeuvred between tightly packed groups with surprising skill so the bag of eggs never once came into contact with anything hard, unlike the flowing faded blue fisherman pants that flapped in every direction above the scuffed and ripped fading brown sandals on his feet. Feet which now seemed to match the colour of the cement on which he spent so much of his time walking. And moving between the young people and into the inner sanctum and out and along the rest of the deck he slowly ambled. This time not a single egg was sold.

The sun was almost gone now and the dusk had been replaced by a sudden darkness as my wife and I sat together not saying anything but just taking in the scene. A scene we knew so well and yet one which was so different every time. And as the sun was gone, we began to talk about a time years ago on Laem Than. As we talked the sounds of young people enjoying themselves scudded around combining with the chinking of ice cubes entering glasses and the first breath of the evening wind crept across us. It was a hot breath and one that didn’t bring relief from the heights of the summer heat even after dark. And as we reminisced an old bent man hobbled along the beach road away from us.

Another Half

B

Dont worry about differencez between words n concepts. In my experience such things have no impact on what really matters Rem i like especially the early stuff. Long story but wen they were based in london early 80s met n hung out with stipe n buck a fair deal. Things change with time. Memories…

G

____________________________________________________

 

B

Good story. “runaway train” has been the only song i always play over the last 5 years. Theres even a 3 track version of me doing vocals n 2 guitar versions somwhere online, but i cant find it any more and lost my original due to hard drive failure Destiny

G

____________________________________________________

B

He looks a state.

G

____________________________________________________

B

Spending time teaching meself to play whatever sing gets stuck in me head on the guitar. Happens to be brudda iz “somewhere over the rainbow” n jackson browns “doctor my eyes” right now. Quite fun and a variation on gettin annoyed at ditties u cant get out of your head

G

____________________________________________________

B

But keep it up Nothing ive posted on the blog took more than 60mins I like sponteneity

G

____________________________________________________

B

One more post i see It is good i think

G

____________________________________________________

B

You ll regret that tattoo If u r like me you will find in your 40s however much u drink u never get sick. Arsehole behaviour gets worse, vomit never, hangovers dont happen. And then one day in your late 40s u just start falling asleep on alcohol and it is all over. Unless u enjoy having your wallet etc stolen every time u go out drinkin

G

____________________________________________________

B

It sounded quite an honest email to me. It certainly sums up how most people react to you

G

____________________________________________________

B

Spending time in solitude with no intoxicants and no company is something I have always found rewarding. If I ran low on dosh and was waitng the arrival of some I would indulge very heavily in that pleasure. It can, in my experience, also lead to the most productive of creative times. 30K would probably allow a month or so of such.   Its good when there is someone there.   Enjoy

G

____________________________________________________

B

I guess it beats sleeping in the toilet at Brent’s place too

Probably a little late in life to become a rent boy

G

____________________________________________________

B

Id avoid the tent on the andaman in the tropical summer if at all possible. Hell working beats that.   I will call you somtetime   Are you really that skint?

G

____________________________________________________

B

I spent a night in a hippy run green crusty type place in nong khai and wanted to nut the owner, untie his floating veggie restaurant and set it ablaze, turn his european hippy staff into immigration, dynamite his adobe huts, hire a hummer and drive it over the rubble, oh and then report the ruined owner to interpol as he looked and acted like a grade A gay pedo using his eco world as a cover. But i didnt do any of it. Still I guess not everyone has my patience. Good luck with rehab by yourself Chennai sounds a mistake but maybe not as big a one as joining the green cultists Take care

G

____________________________________________________

B

So what is happening B man?

G

Futures

Rick told me yesterday that he and his girlfriend had decided they weren’t going to have babies. I felt a deep and morbid sadness as I saw their future together. An aging couple in their small condominium in the heart of the metropolis with no shared interests, no hobbies, no real agreement of anything and no real liking of each other as they just sat co-joined and awaiting a mutual death. In fact not really any different from today or even since the week after they met. Two people who have no reason to stay together, but two people unwilling in their individual selfishness unwilling to even move to find a single point of shared feeling, hope, desire or enjoyment. Two people too stubborn in their self esteem and to even admit a parting would be better than the death they have been assigned to since meeting. A death slow and destructively ruinous except in the level of bank balance built for no future. A death of feeling and removal of life that happened long ago and now only awaits the final terminal mortification of the body to match the long already reached state of the spirit.

Creeping

Facism walks amongst us and criticism is not allowed: facism walks amongst us and truth is not tolerated: facism walks amongst us and is dressed in the vestiges of democracy and freedom: facism walks amongst us and few are those that notice

Forgranted

Sitting here trying to control the newspaper in the ebbing breezes swirling round me in the coffee shop next to the roundabout with two plastic fish, as I try to change pages, I notice the grey of the sea as it swells slightly in its wind whipped way. For a moment it takes me back, and I don’t know why for everything looked different then and there was no wind and nothing was grey and I was a lot younger, but it takes me back and I remember the first time I ever saw the sea at the age of twenty.

That time I remember being on the bus for what seemed like many an hour but was probably only three or four as we headed south out of Bangkok. I had before that had to cross the traffic jams that gridlocked Bangkok and predated th financial crisis that had reduced the problem by seperating the emerging middle classes from their ability to make the repayment son their cars. Two hours to get to the hot dry colourless bus statin and then another three to four heading south. I was in a bad mood. And I was famous for how bad my bad mood were. I was hungry and I was thirsty. I never ate nor drank while travelling in case it meant a trip to some filthy or unlocateable toilet. So there I was dirty, sweaty, hungry, thirsty and tired and in a bad mood stood where the bus dropped us at the side of the road.

A short, a very short, trip in a pedal powered samlor mastered by a man who looked a hundred years old with his weather-beaten thin face, but of course who was a lot younger and with those gnarled sinewy thin legs that just went round and round as we headed slowly to the guest house just through the temple.

After dropping the bags in a room rented for three nights and still hardly talking we headed off for something to eat, going down the long soi that headed downhill past a line of shops and bars and laundries and other guest houses. It was hot in the mid afternoon sun and that didn’t make things better for me. And where were we going. It was my first time in the town  and we went right and then left and past the parked samlors and songthaews and the little stalls built at the side of the road with their vendors sleeping sheltered from the hot sun as nobody was out to buy their wares in those tropical conditions. And why were we walking? I could feel my temper rising, screaming to come out. Ever hungrier and tired and now wishing i had never even agreed to come.

On past the two large resort complexes for the wealthy sat either side of the road glaring at each other in some terminal challenge to attract the most well-heeled in the biggest cars.. Past these and then I was looking at the blue sky, but it didn’t seem quite right for it went on and on as my eyes dropped ever lower. the sky shouldnt be so low, I thought. This wasnt right. And then in spite of all the moods and hunger and thirst and hatreds and hurts I was trying to imagine, I found myself running and smiling as I as short as I am leaped down the entire little set of stone stairs leading to the sand, and through the sand and ion until I was knee-deep in my jeans in the cool dark water. All of my thoughts of food, drink, anger, my apartment in Bangkok and that horrible journey now washed away and drown in the gentle cool blue water reflecting the sun into my eyes. All now was calm and we were in harmony again.

And moving on skirting the beach while always keeping so the water was on toes, feet or knees but never deeper as I had never learnt to swim but not being able to leave and draw of this new feeling for some fear it would be gone. And skirting the beach past the monument top the boxer who had won a medal in the olympics at some time and to where the rocks were and went into the sea. For how long I don’t know but at some point the sun was going quickly as is its nature in the tropics and with it the sea was disappearing too leaving just a collection of pools among the rocks. A new fascination finding fish, and miniscule crabs and starfish in little pools of their own with the little grey crabs running all over the damp perfectly flat and sloping beach to their plethora of little holes. This was perfection and I was never ever going to leave this again. By some means I would find a way to always stay.

We spent several days, maybe many days that time and every morning and every evening I would religiously go to the beach whether alone or not. Nothing would stop me. Not blazing sun, sickness nor rain. I had to be there. It was me.

Now somewhere to the east of Bangkok I live in a small town with a beach of its own and a long narrow sandy beach. And as I look over the flapping pages of the Daily News I realise this is actually the first time I have looked at the sea for many a week. Sure I have driven past it on my motorcycle and even gone to the coffee shop regularly but I no longer look. I no longer see and and I no longer feel. Looking through the umbrellas on stands to shelter the deck chairs below from the sun that will come later I remember another time and another feeling and for once I feel young again. But I know it will pass and I will back to how I have been for the years I have lived in this town. I never go to the beach anymore. I never feel the sand between my toes or in my shoes. I never feel the sometimes warm and sometimes cool wetness of the sea on my jeans anymore, and I feel at the same time a sadness at something lost as we sit together drinking coffee and trying to control the newspapers that distract us from anything worthwhile.