Allergy to Silence

2004
Pattaya

It’s the start of the Songkran festival and the temple across the our house on Moo 9 in Pattaya has set up loudspeakers to harangue the city dwellers into not drinking too much during the holidays.

Debicel level 110.

24 hours a day.

Thankfully I can’t understand a word they are saying and also that my relatives don’t listen to their advice. Last night we drank five liters of palm wine. No hang-over in the morning other than the monks’ droning. Finally someone pulled the plug and the world was serenaded by a chorus of birdsong for several minutes, until a Loso fan decided to play KAO MOTORSAI with the volume knob locked on 11.

Anyone who has lived in Thailand will notice almost immediately that the Thais are allergic to silence. The blare of TVs drown out quiet in every corner of the land. Loud music assualts the ears from every possible stereo device and they don’t seem bothered by two TVs competing with a boombox in the same room. Any time I mention the cacophony the Thais stare at me as if I’m anti-sanuk or anti-fun.

Maybe I’m getting old, but years ago in New York I would have a day of silence on Sunday. No talking. No conversing with anyone. Only reading and later break the fast with THE SIMPSONS.

I even went so far as to unplug the telephone, although not many people called on Sunday, due to my friends suffering from life-threatening hang-overs. It was so peaceful.

Thais love noise. The more the better, although the world’s noisiest people have to be the Taiwanese. Never heard anyone talk so loudly. Almost as if shouting is the only way to get someone to understand you.
My father did the same with a Spanish foreign exchange student. He could speak Spanish, so he turned up the volume of his voice. The poor kid’s grasp of enlgish was rudimentary and he thought my father was alays angry. I could hear him crying in his room after my father asked him if he wanted to go to the movies.

I shouted for him to shut up.

Muted sobs.

Some health authorities see no danger to the public from the incessant noise, however one irate Thai went next-door to his oblivious-to-noise neighbors, who thought they had the right to make as much noise as they wanted in the privacy of their own home. He shot the eight of them dead.

Now that’s a health hazard.

April 16 is Noise Awareness Day, on which organizers want the world to share a minute of silence from 2:15pm to 2:16pm.

What’s the hand of one hand clapping?

A click of the fingers.

Cool like beatnik.

Yes, I really am that old.

Trouville France – 1985

In the summer of 1985 Candia and I took the train to Deauville for a vacation from Paris. Deauville itself was out of our budget, so we stayed in the neighboring town, Trouville or ‘city of a hole’. The weather was pleasant and we might have gone swimming during the day. The first night I intended on dining my girlfriend to Les Vapeurs, except the famed seafood retaurant was closed, so we went to another eaterie. Starting with a bottle of Sancerre I decided to be adventurous and ordered something other than sole for my main course, however the raiee au beure noire was abominable and I sent it back. The cook came out and insulted me as an ignorant American. The waiters took his back. He might have been right, but I stood up, told Candida to leave, and then picked up a fork, asking ,”Oui, veux perde un œil?”

The threat of loss of an eyeball was made in Boston-accented French.

The answer was silence, pobably not udnerstanding what I had said, but the fork in my hand translated to danger.

I dropped 200 francs for the bottle of wine and carried it outside.

Out on the foggy street Candida asked, “So now where do we eat?”

We had a crepe.

Candida was not happy, but was happier after I got us cups to drink the wine. It was nice to be out of Paris with someone you loved.

La Ruche Petite Dejeuner 1985

A rainy morning
Impasse de Danzig
La Ruche
The gray morning light lays as an allure
On your bare skin
My hand glides up your divine spine
To rest beneath an angel wing shoulder.
Heartbeat steady
My fingers memorize the eternity of your youth.
This touch will last forever.
I think___
The door opens
Your mother
Cafe et croissants.
You groan wanting more sleep.
I whisper
“Je revendrai avec le petite dejeuner.
I descend from the loft.
Bare foot a towel around my waist.
Simone smiles
I say
“Elle dors.”
Your mother smiles.
Her daughter is safe.
I smile back.
Not as young as you
But not as old as now.
And you ever young on that day
April
Paris
1985

HoJos Hot


1971 I was hitchhiking out out of Boston to the South Shore after the closing of the bars. I was picked up by a youngish couple, who drove south with the woman between us in the front seat. It was a warm night and the man pulled into a highway HoJos to buy ice cream, leaving the woman with me.

She wiped her face and squirmed closer, saying, “It’s so hot.”

“Yes, it is.” I opened the window.

“I meant me.”

She placed my hand inside her bare thighs. Hot indeed. I spotted her boyfriend approaching with ice cream cones. She didn’t stop and he opened the door, saying, “I see you met Aline. My name is Bob.”

Ah the age of the Sexual Revolution

White Condo Fog

An April overcast overwhelms
A white luxury condo
O’er
Jay Street Brooklyn
Obscuring the upper floors
Earth warm
Sky cold
My fingers chilled
Not by Winter
But by the damp of Spring.
The new season
One month in
My joints ache in the damp
Old
Some of me
My mind 15

1967
Ruby Tuesday
The South Shore
Wollaston Beach
The Quincy Quarries
The Surf Nantasket
The Mattapan Oriental
Making out with Hyde Park girls
In the dark of the balcony
My fingers warm.
I write of my youth
My fingers
Manulyxic
Tripping over consonents
My fingers
Fumbling with a bra
In the balcony of the Mattapan Oriental
Fifteen

Forever
Young
With a white fog
Without gloom
For me
Alive.
As are the Rolling Stones