He stands alone, looking at everything, wondering; when, how, who, what happened? How did it end up this way? How did it return to the start of where it all began? Even more alarming, he wasn’t aware of anything having changed. It was the merry go round that really didn’t stop. He knew it so well he didn’t need to count the arches on the tied arch bridge there were “24” to be exact… Jesus, he had to stop mid way his thought, dam he was counting the arches on a bridge every day. Christ, he’d gone mad. You might have called this being in a rut, if it was in any way a normal existence, and now he was aware that he was on autopilot. This was how my mate lived. Every morning he found himself stuck in traffic on a bridge thinking about how many days until Friday.
How odd he had to work for so many things that he then had to pay for so he could work for someone else. He was sitting in a car to get to work, in clothes to wear at work for 50 + hours in a 168 hour week. Wow, he spent 40 hours at work, another 10 preparing and coming home from work, then another 56 hours sleeping. The math’s swirled in his head 168 hours in a seven-day week. Less work + prep (50 hours) less sleep (56 hours) left him with 62 hours a week roughly 8.8 hours in a 24 hour day. All this sacrifice to pay for clothes to wear to work, car to get to work, and a house he was hardly in… any wonder he was counting the Arches on a tied bridge?
Ground hog day exists for so many; blissfully unaware of a machine that controls us – the corporate robot. His whole life he realized he had worked for someone. Been told what to wear, when to wear it, when to eat, when to shit, ever since he could remember. For some reason now, in a blissful way he became aware of the ‘machine’.
He pulled over and decided to change the track.
Where does one take their carnal rage? Thailand, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Cuba, New York, Paris, Sydney, Auckland, Rio De Janiero, Barcelona, London, Edinburgh, Moscow. For him he chose Bois town, where blue and pink fairy lights are on chases in a House of descendent colors. Neon’s blare in Bangkok, “Ha ha” screams your dream boy or dream girl as they single you out for attention. A place where boys are girls and know body cares to spot the difference. Tourist and clients in oversized Hawaiian shirts strutting a body posture of either an innocent trying to blend in, or they act as arrogant dickheads. The boys acting more like girls, chat to bouncer’s with shiny shoes and tucked in shirts with ties. Staff serving drinks are for the most part are a tribe of “too much attitude podgy queens”. The packs of clients laughing slap their Thai girls asses, grimacing crude facial expressions instantly morph into disgusting pigs. Lady Gaga blasts out over distorted speakers outside the clubs. Muscle Mary’s with limp wrists scream in an effectuated laughter as the bouncers watch football through a glass window. Mother Queen springs them and changes the channel to Julia Charles cooking. The guys laugh and moan. Mother Queen struts out the club ordering her “girls” inside, it’s hurting trade the clients seeing in the light what they might pay for in the dark of her club. Live sex shows are somewhat gross as Justin Bieber and Ludicrous screech out of bad sound systems. Every whore flirts with everything. Fag hags arrive with their drag diva GF who to them are the star of the club and the key to VIP Entry. They have no clue that any queen in a gay bar is a celeb. Why had he never experienced this in his own home? Why is drag so liberating?
In the morning he awakens, then running towards solitude feels a gentle monsoon wind blow throw their hair. It awakens thoughts. Wind, feel, smell, touch awaken the senses. It is a Thai monsoon wind, not everyone is awakened by it. Some hide, others brush it away, it is not part of their vacation. They choose to stay hidden from the winds magic elixir. She relaxes him now, he breaths he exhales. He releases. Days grow yellow then turn to blue. He blinks – its night, running nowhere, he stops. He exhales with the wind. He cries with the rain, a joyous free flowing of tears not engulfed in sadness, tears that are alive with revelation.
He no longer wakes in ground hog day
Wellington mist descends over a waking city … lost on the haze I seek refuge in a café … argh the joys of morning coffee