Days Volume Two

* These were the divided times,so infinitely beautiful, as they rallied around the gallows you could tell he had no shame; he was just a child, 20 years of age, and as the Deep Dark Woods echoed softly through the house Michael, who he had known for 30 years, since they were young and thoroughly wild 20-somethings dancing on what some might have thought was the cutting edge, up down and around, and these chronic distemperaments, I wouldn't go out tonight John, they had said, crammed into the smallest room in the house; why? do I look a mess? he asked. No, no, but you can't go out every night, you have to have down time, if every dismemberment, every flash of time came back to haunt, it was such bad timing. Just as he opened the gate to let out his old boy and the girlfriend that lad was now totally obsessed by, perched like youthful triumphants on the bike he had paid for, the new boy pulled up in the silver car he had also paid for. The timing could hardly have been worse,

* He still didn't know where they came from. The malls of ruined statues. The glistening hyper-spun glue that coated every surface. The half formed voices snapping in the unquiet wind. All was at discord and all was at peace. The stabs of pain were a reminder of mortality. The workers watched him as he passed; always at roughly the same time, 4 am. It had been the same in Sydney. Restless in Seattle was the only title that came to mind, trite, as he walked restless, gassap gassai, through this astonishing, 24-hour place, the fleets of neon pink and blue taxis passing beneath the overpass, the soaring high rise condos, the Ascot, The Sathon, Welcome To The Future, Ambience Arriving Soon declare the signs, Starting 3.5 MB, Mingle, Where You Live Says Who You Are, The Riverside, A New Kind Of Luxury, soar above them all they imply, away from the traditional streets, the crowded rooms, the Thais uncomfortable if they're alone, four to a room, a way of life at odds with the soari

* How did that matter? You, me, finished now, he heard the voice shout. He could hear them coming out of all the houses. He could hear every sputter of a bike in the surrounding network of sois, coming for me, coming to see me, he thought, but of course these were all illusions masquerading in a masque, the fabric of things. He had sat in front of the computer finishing off Chaos and now it was time to move on to something else. Fortunes were made and lost. Midlake and the Deep Dark Woods had been getting a bit of a thrashing, inter-cut with Bob Dylan's Desire, Blonde on Blonde and even Stranger Strange, how you listen to the river of my curdled song. These were the days, but were they really? The synapses misfiring. Mistrust all around. Treachery. He knew he was being set up. He walked the other way. He talked for hours to the strange little man. Was there any way around this, or through this? Crashing, crashing. Preoccupations came and went so swiftly. The boys all told him la

* There was an infinity of loss, that was for sure, but equally in his startled and erratic psyche there were moments of peace, destiny, a profound surrender to these oh so short lives. You papa, you gaw, old man, many year, the boys would say, and he would laugh it off because what else could you do. Taking care of papa. There were many times when he could of, should have, sought something else. Timae? Why? Why you sad John I worry you, his old partner in crime would ask. And he would simply shrug. I want you happy. You happy me happy. They were both desolate and exhilarating times. He liked it most when the sky started to lighten and the never say die nocturnal animals would gather outside the karaoke bar. He was, as always in these situations, the only foreigner. They were kind to him. As Thais tended to be when they weren't tricking you out of money, or even when they were. As long as they got their share they were happy, and would protect you against yourself and the city&#

* Well the book was finished. Chaos At The Crossroads. He lost track of time. Had barely slept for ten days; or was it more. Two weeks? Twenty days? He couldn't remember now. He had spent twenty hours a day at the computer and it ultimately came in at 176,000 words, twice the length of the average novel. He first began it in 2004 and an early draft had been up on the web ever since. It was a time to finish things. To forget old obsessions. To move on. But this was beyond obsession, beyond hard work, in a different place, really. Rats scuttled through the grass. The boy stared at him bewildered. He would never be the same again. Not ever. You broke my frozen heart; that was more or less what he said. I know you like me. You old man. Papa. Sure. I like you. Always have, always will. This strange obsession with street boys as they climbed, climbed. She have power over you, he observed. After, after, hah bee, sip bee, five, ten years, she will be big, gangster. You, too, careful, c

* Everything went every which way. Scattered origins, scattered futures, boys idling away the day in back sois. He would never be one of them; that he knew now. Although he still envied, sometimes, Baw's great ability to get lost in the karaoke bars of Bangkok, to get lost in the whisky and laughter and fine scale attempts to divide the heavenly divides. The policeman in the corner. The handsome, should that be pretty, girl in his lap. He had always been the only foreigner. Always. In these places no foreigner ever saw. And even now, when he sat amongst them and watched them touting for customers, it seemed that the French or the Europeans or whoever they were, ugly as sin to a man, never even acknowledged his presence as they were ushered inside. Often enough they would emerge shortly afterwards, underwhelmed or overwhelmed, it was difficult to tell, because they were suddenly the only customer in a bar of semi-naked, increasingly desperate boys. The nights wore on and customer