Eschatological Myth-Making in The Seat of Siam


DSCF0525In the afternoons it is cool and our heads are caged in blue, blooms of white and purple and orange shine amid deep green foliage where the light choose to dance.

Thailand is new music in outer space emanating from the gramophone that lies at the end of time–my blood’s routine cascade is conducted from the clouds of ancestors; I feel like a splash of paint that escaped form and blossomed in flashy strangeness.

Thailand keeps pouring forth from me, like honey from a jug, in that way it keeps pouring. Would you like a taste?

I confess my obliviousness to these air currents of gossamer and silver pierced by blades of luminosity having been inside me, but where else could they have come from? My self must be particularly open for them to get out, the doors swung wide and quivering, but I must be forgiven–if the invisible permits–for not having known

about the presence of pearly mountains swathed in dizzy solar hues and congealed into the stretchy fabric of time, the presence of those gentle giants rising in my chest unseen until now, this moment where they appear on the horizon, I can see the lips that pushed them softly with a sound into actuality.

Are you undergoing the famine of existence too? Are you chased and terrorized by the little riddles, like how an object’s nature is concealed in its own nakedness before you? Being confused together is like a waltz, let us join the others in the grand chamber–

Sometimes I look too closely at things; once I found myself plummeting into the crease of an eyelid like it was the Grand Canyon. Other times I engage in the formalities of self-exporation when suddenly I realize that my self is watching, and what can I do but

stare back in defiance?

I gawk at Thailand’s pastoral glare to know what my insides look like, the digital violets, the data-laden prairies, the soily nape of the grassy dale and fuzzy fairies therein, the scruffy mane of barly on the hillside and the great roar of the organic unborn, how these colors shake hands in absurd conspiracy.

Yes, I suppose in retrospect I can remember this stimuli when still locked inside me in the pose of emotions raucously felt for another, unaccused by detail, indistinct eddies of chromatic ooze and looping comet tails of mercury–do you see how this land is pouring forth from my urn, how the words of its native language

jump from my mouth like lily-hopping frogs?

I am a piece of dirt blown outside by the air from the inside and blown inside by the air from the outside. Greece is home to some, but what is called home is Greek to me.

In that approaching surprise there lies much happiness, Siyyid.

Lips that coaxed from a glass

chardonnay from France

grew rosy and loose in

swooning ebullience,

inflamed with an essence that

was presented in a whisper, for

the vineyards in their emerald

clamor were at the proper dusk

tilled and only secrets are left to

be said on these cobbled lanes of

confidentiality, cashmere castles cast

aloft in your speech and a thousand and

one thin satin veils brushed aside to reveal

the jewelled clitoris of your

beautiful daydreams–

Let the lonely be driven to the extremes of imparting

their desires within the vacuum of our fictional gaze,

scriptures peppering the warm wet earth like wartime confetti.

Sitting cross-legged we spoke of home in reverant tones, something unknown, as from our chest Thailand pours forth. My psychology, Siyyid, has become a tactile object entwined in the brunette, lilac and icy green of Lanna’s woody bosom wherein expanding outward is a syrup-musk that licks the crystal-tipped vines and settles across my absence of winters, the smell of something massive and nameless and personal.

And who, might I ask, are you Siyyid, whose perked ear suddenly enjoys communion with my prose? A narrative cannot create its audience yet here you stand with your listening blushing like an iris. You have soothed me into unlikely performance and while your skin and flesh cannot be touched I can’t imagine that you are too far away.

We can be friends, Siyyid, but let us not get carried away with speculation.

At the end of the world the weather is pleasant and we echo our ancestors’ appearance with unassuming zeal, we are waiting for something but don’t know that we’re waiting, we are waiting for something but don’t know that we’re waiting, lovely and terrifying the impression

the wait makes on our moonlike faces which already shine from the blast, when the frost of age-laden history is melted down in eschatological conflagration and the home, your home and mine Siyyid, that was hidden from our looking is laid bare in our burning, when we join the parade of myth where

beings smile with aluminum teeth and dance like demigods.

I am sure that I am not drunk my friend, yes, do not grow restless, for in every end there is a beginning and that fact alone loses most of our extremists. In the beginning the universe curled from a smug word issued by Indra, made apocryphal by the very laws and attributes that described it.

Beauty, lust, wonder, despair, rising and falling, appearance and its reflection, the vastness of things within things, the interminable march of multiheaded ambition and the subterranean mechanics of emotion, all at the snap of a finger, Siyyid. The Buddha holds the forest’s leaves in his palm and tells us that he hasn’t told us everything, gesturing at the great forest above our heads.

Something created must be concluded, but it can only be terminated within a better version of itself. When one friend fades, does another one not appear in his place?

We keep hiding from ourselves, covering our face when we look into the sun. Suspicious of improvement, trembling at transformation, cozy in the now-bursting chrysalis which our sky is the inside of, O Siyyid! Light is bursting through the cracks, stars are falling on our heads, it’s time we head home!

Our biology is only the living ruins of the first stage, our heads are too dizzy on the wheel. Inside of me is the ending of your world and the beginning of all its sequels–find me within you if you’d like to see them for yourself.

There is so much to tell and not enough time….your ears are quite the weapon, my friend, that they can extract such oddities. In an earlier millenia of soul-time, before the end-of-the-world parties were assembled, I left America to the backwaters of memory so that Thailand could arrive in my chest. I have been lost ever since, happy for the gift of this confusion.

Directions are merely obstacles to enjoyment.

Now follow for a moment:

me and you,

you and me.

We have made an error in that supposition before even speaking! The ensuing conversation must be a valiant compensation for that crucial error. Like a soldier in battle who grips his sword by the blade and points his hilt at the opponent, how we have misused our tongues in the eternal clash of language!

Convinced by a mirage-gap we become jaded in our speech and entire Meccas of love and understanding are left unpilgrimmed. A mirror is supposed to manifest the nature of your self, not congest it. One mystic said that

love   is   a   veil    between   the   lover   and    beloved

…and if that is the case it is the best veil on the market! let us choose it and do away with the rest.

Yes, Thailand is pouring forth, its Mekong River rambling from my atoms and surprising itself with its own force. I entertain the thought that if I practice yoga more, then perhaps I will die in a yoga position.

An absurdity, yes–I only wanted to test your wakefulness, Siyyid. If you don’t think I’m crazy then certainly you are crazy, too. Take my hand, then, and let us disappear into the plush and crimson vistas of insanity where all my favorite people own vacation homes. Between me and you, the dream has started to wear thin, growing threadbare and tattered at the edges like the carpets of an old Iranian heiress, its self-consistency

taking a descent into implausibility like a flawless cathedral seen through the lens of a cubist wunderkind.

Because of this, you see, it is hard for me to say what I mean. Your patience becomes another grotesque aspect of surrealism.

It is falling, falling apart artificialized, falling, falling apart artificialized by the fact that my end of the world has already occured for the word “apocalypse” literally means to reveal what is hidden and here is Thailand, Thailand the shadow-land and inner sanctum of my being, less a geography and more a frequency, recovered from the deep-channeled mines of dormant archetype and placed before me as a spectacle of reality’s infinity,

look at how a million Gautamas beckon to us in a row!

I speak to you from outside of time, where the weather is pleasant.

Are either of us awake? Do the patterns in that wall-portrait not appear to liquidly leak into themselves? An answer would be appropriate, Siyyid, for there are as many kinds of silence as there are shapes of snowflakes and yours is the kind that confounds.

Cylinders of ash crumble from the tip of the incense stick and the fragrance of flame is the only response to my babbling. You must have been with me all along, that I only now make your acquaintance when everything has been turned inside-out.

Let us forsake this midnight-scene and

its feverish languor and faultless embroidery

to find our skin washed in a sky’s cool feather-light,

and now a plunging set of terraces as white

as milk and eucalyptus bark winding down

breeze-tickled pineapple fields, looking down,


there! can you see? the city of temples that lies at the center of my heart, a metropolis of Dharma right there before you–see how its chedis puncture the sky like a frozen fleet of rocket ships! Into the streets now of strolling orange monks and fleshy white tourists who point mobile devices at the nobile viharn of Wat Phrathat Lampang Luang to your left,

and to your right is the lime-and-turquoise mosaic snakeskin slithering from the entrance of Wat Chedi Luang, and just down that alley past the glass facade is Wat Phra Kaew and a bit further down the monkied hinterlands of Wat Tham Pla with its ancient chain of caves, and stepping past the prosperous pork-on-a-stick vendors the colossal scorpions of Wat Doi Tun now tower over us in arachnidan dignity with the open claws of enlightenment–keep up, Siyyid.

Of some temples you only see a black form whose content is devoid of detail, left blank by the artist’s hand. They are the ones that remain unexplored, waiting to be decorated by my lifegiving perception of them. There, candles burn ceaselessly in expectation from an altar, defying the cold air of nonexistence behind them.

And here we are, Siyyid, in front of the contrastingly vivid vision of Wat Phra Singh, its doors swinging open in recognition as we glide across the red threshold flanked by stone lion-faces of fury, and the familiar relics and faded murals inside and…what’s this?

The image of Siyyid has just now flickered and vanished into a single spark next to me, and now I stand alone in this canvas of palatial silence, alone save for the Buddha image that looms in front of me, a lone shadow in the gaze of sovereignty. I have spent a lifetime talking to a ghost about how the apocalypse has origin in my heart and now,

perhaps the end is nigh.



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