No dreams to report today. I got home this morning and chucked down a couple of tablets and quickly fell into a codeine coma. Woke up 9 hours later feeling totally refreshed. The day of Australia Day is over and now I’m just working through the double-time overtime night.
Amy has been picking through catalogues of tiles as we start thinking about the details of our house. There still feels like a lot of work to be done but the contract is to have it finished in the next two months. In those two months, I will eventually have quit my job and left Australia. It still feels less than real. I’m not as stressed as I should be!
I continue to write up the 1994 diary entries, up to the end of March so far. I had a habit of writing with no paragraphs or breaks and when typing without capitals too. It’s a pain to keep track of where I’m up to in the text.
Each entry brings back evocative memories and it’s interesting to compare those times with these. Do I not feel stressed this time because I have some idea of what I’m getting into this time? When I moved to Australia I would say it took me a good 18 months to feel settled. I missed all my friends and the things we got up to before I left, knowing that it would be a long time before we would be able to do those things again.
This time is a little more detached. It’s like we’ve already done the move but I’m not quite there yet. As I’m just quietly beavering away in Adelaide I’m not thinking about partying my way to the last day. Australia is a great country to live in really. It has its fair share of problems but it has greater potential possibilities too. I may be tipping my rose-tinted glasses somewhat. Either way, the future is now.
The house was empty now but my mum was here somewhere. So was my stash; gotta find it before she does; we got a plane to catch.
It’s not here. Where is she? I started running around the plaza. Got it! A big bag of blue and white crystals, I dip a wet finger in and suck my digit like a lollipop. Shit! There she is, she’s coming. “The plane leaves soon, we have to catch the train now! What are you doing?”
I run off. “Nothing!” I dig a finger in again and pull out a huge amount of amphetamine. Shit, shit, shit. I can’t take this on the plane but I don’t want to leave it behind! I’m going to be hyper if I take any more though. Mum will wonder why I can’t stop talking (I’m usually pretty quiet). I sniff some up and rub the rest on my gums. Fuck it!
The Beastie Boys wake me up. Damn it’s hot. Why can’t I just sleep for another 12 hours?
Last night I moved house. Two suitcases and bedding and I was done. I have to trim that down to one suitcase and a carry on in the next 7 weeks.
It’s actually my housemates who wanted to move, this was after the landlord fixed the dodgy bathroom shelf after one year of being hassled, and then decided to put the rent up an extra 30 dollars a week.
The new place is a nice spacious 2 storey, 3 bedroom house. Much nicer than the old place – more modern and more homely. I did, however, have a weird affection for that old place. For me it’s all about counting down time as cheaply as possible – I would live in a drafty garage and be ok. So this new place is nice but doesn’t really affect me much. I’m still using the same uncomfortable bed and that’s where I spend most of my time when I’m at home anyway.
For my housemates, it’s making a big difference though. It has them energised and should be something they can make into a home. The old place wasn’t conducive to putting much effort into making it nice really.
With fully ducted aircon, ceiling fans, a double garage and two toilets, between the three of us we don’t own enough things to even fill it. It’s not costing me any more in rent but as my housemates know I’m leaving soon they’ll be able to charge a bit more for the next person which covers the ten bucks a week increase from the old place.
The house is situated at the end of a cul-de-sac so it’s pretty quiet but the interesting thing is the house on the corner just up from us.
A bit of a web search reveals this place to be called Barton Vale House. It even has a Facebook page, which seems to indicate it is a private residence, though someone posted the review about the food being amazing. Seems that at one time it was a ‘home for wayward girls’ and of course, once the house fell into disrepair for a while, it became the subject of so-called hauntings. It’s something more interesting than the usual suburban houses pretty much everywhere else on my route to work.
My housemates are an interesting couple. Bram is 60 and his girlfriend, Katrina, is 30. They met when he was travelling around China, ended up travelling together and finally living together in Adelaide. With me working shifts, Katrina working nights and Bram working regular hours it’s not often that we are all at home at the same time.
Bram reminds me of me a little bit, though he is much more of a man’s man than I am, not blokey though. He’s into bikes, cars and fixing things and he looks like an ex-biker. Despite the rough and ready exterior he has a gentle demeanour and is a bit of an old softy really. As his mother passed away recently he is becoming more conscious of his age and often self-debates about his worth in their relationship.
Katrina is, to me, a bit of a stereotypical Chinese woman. I can’t really explain the meaning of those words though. She has struggled to adjust herself to Australian life, particularly as it was not the easy life she had heard about. The house we were living in definitely hasn’t helped as she never felt like investing any time into making it a home. I think the new place will be good for her so long as she can focus on the good things. I know it will be a struggle for them to save money for the futures that they are discussing.
She’s waiting for Bram to propose and she constantly reminds him that his age doesn’t matter to her. She’s not sticking around for his money, that’s for sure. I hope they can both can achieve their dreams. They are nice people.
—
Amy was in Bangkok today, paying a quick visit to Fah. Fah has mostly been spending time sick in bed this last week or so but her mother said she has picked up significantly knowing that Amy was coming to visit. She’s in constant pain and had to get around in a wheelchair but wanted to go out and eat just like she used to do all the time. She is staying positive and still doing chemo when she has the strength. I don’t want to think what I would do in her situation – I hope I never have to.
Working Monday mornings only come around about once a month and they suck as much for me as for everyone else. Day shifts are relatively boring, or I should say, even more boring than night shifts. This whole job is an exercise in dealing with boredom. I joke about having finished reading the internet.
Talking about reading I’m about to finish the 3rd book this week about bikers. This one, ‘Outlaws’, is about the history of the clubs in the UK and constantly reminds me of my one time run in with a Hell’s Angel (which, on further thought, reminds of another run in).
Fatty, his girlfriend Sally, and I were on the 2-hour drive home from London after a gig and stopped at the service station to fill up on some food. It was probably around 1am and the place was empty. The food in bain-marie looked unappetising but we needed something to fill our empty bellies. We filled our plates and sat down, having the choice of the whole room to sit in. As we nearly finished a biker came in, got some food and chose to sit down next to us. Of course, we immediately became nervous and finished up as quickly as we could. The biker looked straight at Sally and said ‘do you want to fuck?’
Thankfully she was too stunned to say anything, which was unusual for her. I could see her mouthing off and getting us all punched down. We picked up our things and left swiftly. I think I heard the biker say ‘guess that’s a no then?’ as we got through the door. Thankfully he was alone.
And the other story that came to mind was in a pub one early evening Fatty and I were standing next to a pillar, happily drinking away. We stuck our drinks on the shelf around the pillar in between gulps and continued chatting, putting the world to rights as per usual early 20-year-olds shooting the breeze. I turned to pick up my beer, almost full, and it was gone. I looked around the pillar and three Hell’s Angels were talking to each other, paying no attention to this little runt who’d just lost his drink.
I tapped one of them on the back and as he turned I smashed him in the face and stomped on his stomach. As the other two pulled out their pistols I karate chopped one and high kicked the other and then……oh wait. That’s not what happened. We went somewhere else to get a drink instead.
Hopefully, the next book I read is a little less hateful.
Time is short. Our time is short. Have you done everything you want to do yet? What do you want to do?
Do you already look back at a life fulfilled? Will anyone remember who you were once you’re gone? Next year, next century, next millennium?
The week has been ok. It’s my last day of six twelve hour shifts, the last four as night shifts. I’m tired and slightly out of it.
We are often reminded of our fragility.
There’s always a lyric that can be found to echo my thoughts. Often, from Nomeansno.
Thin voices call out of thin air
“Do you really care?”
“Do you really care?”
There is no reason to be afraid
All of the bodies have been laid to rest
Nobody passes the test of time
The long climb
Into thin air
Thin air
There is no one there
You think you have time
You have no time
An image may be left in place
Of what was felt there is no trace
In words recited without a sound
By voices buried underground
There is no meaning to be found
“Do you really care?”
There is no one there
You think you have time
You have no timeThere are no castles without ghosts
And no spirits without hope
But nobody passes the test of time
You stand in line, you have your place
Then in the space of moments fall
From again and again and again
To not at all
From again and again and again
To not at all
I do not fear the buried sounds
Of words that echo underground
A memory is a loaded gun
And I remember everyone
I remember you..
“Do you really care?”
There is no one there
“Why are you scared?”
There’s no one there
You’re clean, strong, and free
Like you always wanted to be
You’re alone, alone, alone
There is no one there
Don’t complain about the weather. Don’t complain about the weather. Don’t complain about the weather. It’s boring!
Faaaaark it’s hot!
It was 42 degrees today here in Adelaide. Luckily I slept through it and it was only 41 degrees when I woke up at 5pm. Dropped down nicely to 31 degrees when I went out for my walk at 10.30pm.
Yes, it’s boring to talk about the weather. But when you live in Australia and plan to move to Thailand it’s quite a relevant topic. I didn’t own a jacket for the first 7 years of living in Australia, and I only had one after that because it was a present from a girlfriend. I do appreciate some warmer clothes during the winter here these days though, these old bones are getting creakier. I have seen frost in Sydney once too – about 12 years ago.
Amy has suffered through the Thai winter where there is a regular annual news item about how could it is each year. This year the lowest overnight temperature was around 8 degrees. Looks like I might still need a jacket then. For the two weeks that it lasts anyway. Kind of the reverse to an English summer.
I’m promising myself not to ever complain about hot it is in Thailand. Let’s see how long that lasts.
Amy has gone from bored-to-stressed in 24 hours, as she has been running around dealing with the people who will build our kitchen and walk-in wardrobe. Figuring out who will build our bed base design and special wardrobe in the second bedroom. Expanding the outdoor kitchen area and deciding to put the washing machine out there and renaming the laundry to Amy’s craft room. Choosing the wall paints and figuring the guys building our fence deserve a bottle of rice whisky when they finish – to keep in their good books if we need any other help in the future.
Hopefully, the paint goes on in the next few days so Amy can see how everything will look and change anything before it’s too late if she decides. It’s still so weird for me to be here just looking at photos and only being able to visualise living in a finished house, rather than be involved with its development so closely. I hope I like it!
I emailed off my application for the CELTA course in Chiang Mai, starting in April, after Songkran. They wrote back quickly and I’ll need to do an interview with them sometime soon. I want to do a video interview but need to make sure the internet is stable enough. I also need to be on top form and with only have a day and a half break between shift changes again this week I can pretty safely assume I won’t be up for it. As well as this, I’ll be moving house on Tuesday evening and there won’t be any internet connectivity for a week or so. I guess by then though I should have a long enough break to be alert enough to what I already know will be a difficult interview.
I’m just a little petrified about my ability to do this course – it’s been so long since I’ve been in a study situation where I’ve had to actually care about what I’ll be learning. I was sent on so many useless courses in my old job that I never really paid much attention. I know my focus and concentration is not as good as it used to be too.
But hopefully, with a more meaningful result and benefit at the end of the course as the reward, I will be motivated enough to push on through and do my best. I really want to learn to do something that has more meaning, to myself and to others. I hope that I can be a good English teacher, and a great mentor to those I will end up teaching.
Once done I’ll start investigating opportunities to work in schools and also to do some private tuition, which I think will be what I might end up doing longer term, once I’ve done a couple of years to get a good grounding on the best way to do things.
I’m still nervous though. If I can’t pass the course, what will I end up doing? I do take comfort in the knowledge that other of friends have passed so if they can do it, so can I!
Each night shift I usually head out for my second coffee at around 10.30pm. Obviously, there’s no coffee shops open but luckily the OTR service stations are 24/7 – their catchphrase is ‘We never close’. Their coffee is not great but the caffeine quota is perfect.
There is an OTR about 15 minutes walk from the office so I can get a little exercise for bonus points too. The first time I went there I just followed the main road which was a little dull and unexciting, as trucks roared past on their night runs from warehouses to stores and others returned home from their evening adventures.
I looked at the map and found a parallel back street that is a million miles away from the dull orangey-yellow flourescence of the main road. The street lighting here is whiter and paler and mostly blocked out by trees. Some places are pitch black underfoot and you have to step heavily to avoid tripping on pavers raised by the roots of the trees. The other thing you notice is the quiet. No one is around, not even cats seem to bother with this street. You get a nervous excitement when someone else is walking on the street, will I get stabbed or punched or who knows. I generally call out a ‘hey’ as I pass and usually just receive a surprised grunt in return. Oh well.
Halfway down is one the opposite side I usually walk, there is a graveyard. I didn’t think too much about it until one night I decided to take some pictures. Some folks had decorated their relatives graves in Christmas lights which offers a jolly juxtaposition. I considered how some people find graveyards spooky but I think that is a result of the gothic architecture of some of the memorial stones. I mean what could happen here – everyone is dead already.
There’s a nice graveyard near where I live. Actually, Adelaide seems to be full of graveyards when I think about it. Anyway, this one is almost like a landscaped park, sectioned off to cater to different ethnicities, cultures and religions. Not so much of the olde Euro-gothic stonework. I had a nice walk around there one evening, only saddened when I came across a marker for someone who had died young. I thought about the lives these people lived, what they may have seen, which parts of the world they came from to get to Australia. I used to look at people in random non-descript places, walking the street or wandering the shops, and zap myself into their heads and try to look through their eyes and take on their entire histories that brought them to this place, right here, right now. A momentary flash of an existence that someone else lived, though nothing you can hold on to and maintain. Now I mostly just ponder my own existence and how someone I never met or knew might browse my death mark one day and wonder about my life. Round and round we go.
I was reminded of the times a few of us used to hang out drinking in a graveyard in Bournemouth before we would head to see a show at Capone’s just across the street. The time when we had finished school forever and took our old textbooks there, burned them on an old grave and then got drunk to celebrate our freedom.
But down this street there is little sign of life and to me, it is the perfect playground for childish mischief. But no kids are about, no underage drinkers in the park or graveyard, barely a barking dog or passing car. Is everyone tucked up nice and early in their neat clean houses, living the dream? Will I be doing that in my little piece of paradise being built in Thailand?
Talking of which, Amy was overrun with paint charts today, having to decide tonight the colours that would be in and outside our house. She asked my opinion, and I’m pretty easy, so I just said paint everything inside white. This is far too boring for her but she can’t tell if any colours that she does choose will work because it’s just too hard to imagine right now. Again, as a typical man looking for a quick solution, I told her to choose what she wants and if it doesn’t work out we can just repaint it later, no problem. I think by the time she went to bed she still hadn’t picked anything for the indoor colours.
As I was walking from my desk to the kitchen in the office, I got this sudden urge to kick a football. I almost took a swing at an invisible ball mid-stride. Do you know that feeling when the ball strokes your foot at the perfect point and shoots off ferociously towards an imaginary goal, avoiding the desperate stretch of the imaginary keeper? Since school days I mostly did this by myself against a brick wall. When I’m settled in Thailand again I’ll have to get a football and then all I’ll need is the brick wall.
I was on the school football team from middle school until I left high school, aged 16. I was pretty passionate about it for a while there. Actually, I was passionate about it until I came to Australia really. There wasn’t much of a league going on at that time and there were no live games or much in the way of replays from England then either. I got interested in cricket for a while, especially as Australia couldn’t lose a game for trying for a while there. But Australian Rules football ended up being my new passion, but that’s another story.
In middle school, the best players from years 1 and 2, and from years 3 and 4 would make up the school teams. This was a big honour if you were in the lower year of the two but, as is the way of school kids, everyone stuck to just being friendly with kids in their year. Even though you had the privilege to play with the older kids against other schools, no one talked to you.
In the summer break between years 3 and 4, I had been picked to go to a soccer selection camp but as the date drew nearer I lost my nerve and told my mum I was too sick to go. I’m not sure why I felt like this now. Was I too shy, too scared, too insecure? It’s possible I missed a great opportunity and my football coach at school was disappointed when I told him I didn’t attend. I’d like to say I paid him back by helping us win every game and scoring lots of goals that year but to be honest I can’t remember now.
In high school, I maintained a place in the team as the centre-forward but I recall us losing more games than we won. I don’t recall scoring too often either. The worst, although possibly the best, memory is when we played another school that just didn’t give a shit. We tried so hard and they just kept kicking the ball back and laughing at everything we did and everything they did too. They cracked up at each other’s mistakes and unbelievably ended up beating us something like 3 goals to 2. I think I knew it was over then. Football wasn’t for me. Particularly as my only other memory is playing in a hail storm and though we stopped the game, there was nowhere to hide as those painful little pellets peppered our faces and legs. Fuck that for a game of football.
Our inter-school games were on Saturdays and I used to ride my bicycle the 4 miles to town and then up the hill to school. It was around this time I started getting into music very seriously. Our tiny local record store, which still thrives to this day, would attempt to track down rare imports from America for me. I would bring them lists of records I’d heard about in borrowed copies of Maximum Rock ‘n’ Roll or that were occasionally mentioned in Sounds or NME. I can’t clearly remember the day picking up Bad Brains 12″ on Alternative Tentacles and Black Flag’s ‘Damaged’ album on Unicorn. Our football game was in the late morning this day and I picked up these records before riding up to school. It was a bit of an annoyance to have to lug them around with me but I was so excited I couldn’t help looking at the covers as we travelled on the bus to our away game.
I recall nothing about the football game that day and know that when I got home I would hide the records under my shirt as my mother was sure to ask where I got the money from to buy them. Well, mum, that lunch money you gave me…. never had a lunch in the whole 3 years I was in high school. I would beg and borrow pennies from my friends and just eat a couple of lollies from the ice cream van. This may explain why I became such a skinny-ass weakling and my lack of enthusiasm for playing sports so much around this time.
Those two records I bought that day had such a huge impact on me. Black Flag spoke directly to me somehow, even though they were singing about getting beatings from the LAPD and I was sulking because my mother made me do my homework. ‘No More’, ‘Room 13’, ‘Depression’, ‘Padded Cell’, the intensity, the passion, the violence! I was 15 at the time – hearing those songs now will take me right back to then.
With Indian ink, a needle and the aid of a mirror I tattooed myself the bars, smart enough not to reverse them in the reflection. It wasn’t until years later in Australia that I got them tattooed properly and they sit proudly on my upper right arm, a reminder of who I am and where I am now.
I did a whole bunch of my own tattoos with a simple needle and ink, though all but a few have been covered over with more professional art since. I was partly inspired by a heavy metal girl at school whose name I now forget. She was mad as fuck, not to be messed with and had ‘666’ tattooed on her forehead, though hidden by her ginger hair. I later heard she became a born-again Christian though I’m guessing that might’ve been someone’s idea of a joke.
My own dodgy work, including ‘LIFE IS PAIN, I WANT TO BE INSANE’ (again Black Flag-inspired, more specifically a tattoo that adorns their singer Henry Rollins) seems to have served me quite well in some instances. Whilst they might’ve been a reason for a beating when I was younger, these days it tends to keep people at bay and an indicator not to mess with me. Which is amusing because I generally will run a mile from any trouble anyway. I’m also a pretty friendly guy too. These days I tend to actually like people.
Thinking about tattoos also reminds me of a couple of experiences in China. The first I was walking through some back allies in Beijing, just enjoying the experience of being lost. I ended up a small square with just a couple of older folks around. One guy was pulling a cart along and stopped to look at me out of curiosity. As I got closer he reached out and grabbed my arm and just ran his hand up and down my tattoo, laughing in wonder. I laughed with him for a minute before we both went on our way, realising we had no other form of communication to take this encounter any further.
The other time I was travelling with a bunch of Aussies from all walks of life, as part of a dragon boat team. One of the ladies was an Occupational Health and Safety officer, hard to say how old she was, but she seemed much older than me. Even now, I feel most of the people I meet are older than me, perhaps a refusal to believe that I am not in my early 20s anymore. This lady looked at my tattoos and started asking questions about them and then finished the conversation with ‘You’ll regret them when you’re older.’ I was 41 at the time.
My tattoos are my own historical document. Memories for me to consider, a past to ponder. Anyway, as I often tell people, ‘They come off when you die.’
—
Amy is getting excited and it’s infectious. We have some locals building our fences and as we’ve given them no time frame they’ve arranged themselves a party table in our garden where they can kick back after a day’s work with BBQ and whisky. Apparently, around 5pm cool breezes waft across the valley and it’s a perfect indicator that it’s time for a relaxing icy cold drink of your preference.
The Burmese builders have finished building their shacks and have also set themselves up a party table, though for them it’s also their breakfast, lunch and dinner table. Our house is a party house before it’s even complete. I get the feeling the locals might still come around to party after they’ve finished here too.
Amy is choosing wall paint colours, inside and out and looking more seriously at bathroom fittings now. It’s exciting, though as we discuss, a little weird as almost everything should be complete by the time I get there. I can just breeze in and go to bed in a brand-new home. I hope, anyway.
One of the very few nights I managed to sleep the recommended amount of hours and so far, I feel suitably alert. That could soon change after a couple of hours staring numbly at this computer screen.
It’s Monday morning and it’s been a while since I was working a regular day shift. Night times and weekends it’s so quiet here it makes you nervous to even sneeze. It’s somewhat comforting to hear the bustle of work and the earnestness of people discussing technical solutions.
One thing that I have developed as a pet peeve though is the absolute authoritative statement. There are a few folks here who talk as if their word is definitive and their tone implies that there is no point to discuss anything further. How can people be so secure in their knowledge of the world, of everything, that they already know that they cannot be convinced otherwise? This shows me a stagnant mind. No room to grow, no room to learn.
These people are usually men and usually older. Though it’s even more excruciating to hear younger men talking like this, you can almost hear their minds closing up already, sealing shut. The older men’s voices sound authoritative and dead. A resignation that things just won’t get better. ‘Things were better in my day’. Maybe it’s the work environment, some kind of unsaid competition. I never want to subscribe to this thinking, despite sometimes catching myself doing the same. I think I avoid it mostly and it is a reason little kids like me so much, they can recognise the essentially childish wonder I have, the interest in the details, the awe of the world.
This attitude seems less prevalent in women and the one or two times I have come across it, it has been scary. I’m not a macho kind of person. I was raised by my mother after my father died when I was 18 months old. I naturally learned the female perspective, a different view of things. I fought against this as a teenager, trying to put my own stamp on my personality and eventually on the other side of it, became more comfortable in a more feminine environment. I generally prefer the less competitive company of females. I’m not into cars, muscles, action movies and getting pissed with the boys. Not that I have rejected everything masculine – I can still be a beer drinking, sports-loving yahoo from time to time but mostly I enjoy these things alone where I can make an ass of myself, just to myself.
The Crass album ‘Penis Envy’ also made a big impression on my developing teenage mind too.
Sordid sequences in brilliant life!
Supports, and props, and punctuation
To our flowing realities and realisations
We’re talking with words that have been used before
To describe us as goddesses, mothers and whores
Describe us as women, to describe us as men
Set out the rules of this ludicrous game
And then it’s played very carefully, a delicate balance;
A masculine/feminine perfect alliance
Does the winner take all? What love in your grasping?
What vision is left, and is anyone asking?
I still had lots of growing pains when it came to love, sex and relationships with women though. I could be a master manipulator when I wanted to be. There are things I have done in the past that I now wish I hadn’t but I must acknowledge they were part of my own learning process and got me here where I am today. It takes a lot of effort to be 100% true to your convictions and there are times when we fail. Things aren’t always black and white.
—
The last few days my phone calls with Amy have been pretty short. There’s never much to report on my side and work on our house has slowed somewhat now.
I’ve been thinking about this period of time that I’ve been in Adelaide, away from Amy. It’s never felt like you imagine a long distance relationship to be. The goal we are working towards keeps us bound together completely. Just because we don’t see each other every day doesn’t mean we are not together. This is helped by our own securities, something that I may not have had the strength to contemplate when I was younger though.
I am already visualising looking back on this time as some kind of dream. It’s just something I’m doing rather than something I’m being. It was a bit of struggle before and during Christmas but with the turn of the new year, it finally feels like a countdown to the realisation of our plans.
Writing up the diary entries for 1994 has made me think about why I don’t really enjoy Christmas and new year celebrations. I’m not a big birthday or holiday celebrator in the first place and have often been alone at these times but looking back at the events at the end of 1993 I wonder how much of an impact they have made on my psyche. It’s not something I’ve really consciously considered for a long time. It’s also not that I mind joining in celebrations either, though I don’t find anything particularly special about certain dates to participate in them – let’s enjoy ourselves every day. A cliche, I know.
After my last night shift ended on Friday morning I managed to force myself to stay awake until about 5pm, with the aid of cheap coffees from the local service station. I chucked down a couple of Panadeine in the hope they would ensure I didn’t wake up wide awake at 2am and they worked a treat. I’d forgotten to take my alarm setting off from last week so I was gently awoken at 5.50am to a mellow Beastie Boys tune. I picked up the phone and noticed Amy had sent a message whilst I was asleep. The message was a little disconcerting:
“If I died tomorrow just do what you want to do OK. Life is just today we don’t know what will happen.”
I still wanted to sleep some more but these words tumbled in and out of my consciousness. What motivated these words with no context at all? There was nothing I could do to answer this question right now and eventually I fell back to sleep for a few more hours.
Later she called me after she had just woken up. She sounded sleepy but happy. I asked her about her message and she told me she’d received some bad news about her school friend Fah.
I’ve met Fah a few times on previous visits to Thailand. An attractive girl who loves to eat and drink in nice places and works for Thai Airways. Last year she complained of stomach aches and went to the doctor to have some tests done. They discovered she had cancer and that it was quite advanced already but still hoped to be able to treat it with chemotherapy. She started that treatment but was often not healthy enough to be able to do it. The bad news came this week that they found the cancer advanced to her pancreas and that is was untreatable. She might only have 6 more months to live. 6 months ago she was fine (as far as she knew).
Amy said Fah’s parents were with her at the hospital in Bangkok and I mentioned how tragic it is for a parent to have to watch their child in pain and to lose them. Amy told me that Fah’s only sibling, her brother, was killed in a car crash years ago when he was just 11 years old.
I thought of my mother and how I hoped that she wouldn’t have to go through anything like this. She already lost her husband, my father, when I was just 18 months old. I thought of my son and how I hoped that I wouldn’t have to go through anything like this too.
Amy and I agreed that she should go and visit Fah as soon as possible. There’s nothing one can do, nothing one can say, except to give each other comfort.
—
It’s interesting to be posting my old diary entries – I haven’t read them since they were written. I can look back at certain events with a more distant eye and reflect on what my true motivations were at the time and ultimately how trivial they seem now that they are in the past. It was so serious to me at the time. I guess that’s the wisdom of age.
Right now though, I’m struggling with concentration and direction. I can’t get all my thoughts out quick enough and will have to come back and try again tomorrow.
