the great 0’s making sense of men’s egocentric 1’s with their single-minded obsessions and hardened points of view. The great 0 can soften those rough edges to its own level of nothingness. All the dreams and schemes, all the cities and civilizations fade into nothingness under the spell of a woman, IOU, a baby being born, a fruit ripening, a blank canvas summoning someone to come paint it for sheer love of the paint. Sympathetic magic is like reading a letter and hearing the voice of the person who wrote it, all in a subliminal effort to bring that person closer to you, face to face. Sex implies possession the way face implies personality. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and penetration implies possession, somewhere in the back alleys of the male subconscious. The act of penile insertion marks a territory as ‘taken’, giving notice to competitors that they should exercise other options, or be prepared to engage in battle. For all our human pretentiousness, we’re just dogs leaving our scent, or even better yet, pandas competing to see who can piss the highest and ultimately get the girl. The biggest and best might get many girls, thus strengthening the species and the progenitor’s dominance, while others get none. Sound familiar?
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They’re international after all; they’re pragmatic; they’re compromising; they’re the future; they’re nothing; they’re available. Interzone girls further the progress of evolution, for a price. Interzone girls are fresh meat, trading at $100 per kilo on the FTSE exchange, price inversely proportional subject to legal age requirements. The eastern dark crude can be had for a discount at the well head, good value when compared to the northern light partially refined stuff. It all tastes like chicken. All you need is some elbow grease and a little TLC and you can turn a nifty little profit. The mail-order bride business is booming as global warming shuts down the traditional means of communications and citizens dig in for the long dark winter that usually accompanies global volcanic activity. Everything is different now. The old rules don’t apply. Long after humans cease to reproduce sexually, men will still need the illusion to function effectively, just as humans still need physical exercise even though the majority have never plowed a field or hunted an animal. The memories rule; the genes control. The memories all carry weapons. Don’t forget to wear protection.
and jerk you into line, jerk you into submission. This is where the algebra of need meets the geometry of desire, and this is the turbulent fractal edge of chaos that I inhabit. The encyclopedia states that in time of famine, an animal will sell itself into captivity to secure the food it needs. That sounds really pragmatic on an animal’s part, but how can they know that? How many animals did they interview? Nevertheless, this sounds like an opportunity for everyone, not that I’m advocating sex with wildlife, just cultural exchange. No offense, but I can hardly get it up for white girls any more, no matter how physically appropriate. They’re too much like me. I already know what sex with me is like. I want the Other, the more ‘otherness’, the better. The Red Dzao girl got away, but she knew; she knew everything. She was from Outer Space, and that’s just fine. The official form asked ‘Frequency of sex?’ My preferred frequency of sex is about 108 mhz, broadcasting live into the future.
the connection between seminal fluid levels, images of femininity, the formation of complex emotions, and the urge to merge them all with the presumably equally mysterious nexus of another, damp with fecundity and erect with possibility. Thus the mystery of Creation, biology begets image begets desire begets biology in a never-ending dance. What’s it like without image? Do dogs get images of the bitches they want to fuck? Do they get any other images? Do they feel emotion? Do they miss their mates? The females will sacrifice everything but their own lives to save that of their offspring, then walk away like nothing happened when the battle is lost and life goes on. Humanity produces sages and saints, masters and magicians, who live and die and devote their lives to tell you nothing more than what you already knew before you got ‘civilized’.
but it’s definitely good for Evolution. Evolutionary success, after all, means reproductive success, nothing more and nothing less. Species don’t go extinct because of lack of food or water or clothing. They go extinct because they don’t reproduce fast enough. Thus was born the ancient expression “fuck you”. Love is a by-product, industrial waste, a wet spot on the bed, logic used to back-fill a gap in understanding that’ll never be bridged by conventional means. Considering that human populations have sextupled in the last three hundred years, I guess we’re doing pretty well. That ‘love’ shit really worked. Cancel the visual aids. Bring on the birth control. Bring on Islam; bring on the veil; bring on four jet planes flying at the speed of sound crashing headlong into skyscrapers and window-washers uttering oaths of communion to a God they expect to meet any moment now. The guys on the other side of the plane’s front window are saying the same thing, expecting to soon see all the virgins that they couldn’t see in high school, because they were all wearing veils. The God they worship and the Prophet who fingered him have no faces, either. It’s probably better that way. They won’t be able to see the mockery that’s been made of the universal Truths that they stand upon as foundations. When religions are no longer capable of teaching anything and are too flimsy to use as doorstops, they are best utilized as pretexts for good old-fashioned racism. The jihadis never figured that out, or did they? Where does the race lead if not perdition? Everybody can’t win, unless we all tie, bind ourselves to the same God, timeless and eternal, and leave the dirty work to the politicians.
You can back-fill the logic later; you can send love letters and postcards, but at the end of the day you’re just planting seeds and watching them grow, plowing fields and digging furrows according to the lay of the land. We all work for the big D here, DNA writ large over the entire field of human endeavor no matter how you spell it, watching and waiting with all the patients in the world. God works in strange ways, the end of all paths, the beginning of all endeavors. God picks up where Ego leaves off, soothing the fried and battered soul, feeding the famished affections. If I could understand it, then it wouldn’t be God.
is MANIACS. The second word you need to know is PRAY. You need more than a good car to drive in Thailand. You need a good religion. Size rules; there is no other law. If some behemoth road machine wants to come down the wrong side of the road, then you have to pull over on somebody’s shoulder and let him pass. If you think you need to teach some incompetent driver a lesson, then first you should go return your car; then you should leave the country, immediately. You’ve been here too long. They say there are worse drivers in the world, but I wouldn’t want to witness it. They say that in Saudi Arabia, if a car wants to pass and you won’t pull over and let him, he’ll bump you, all the while driving at 100mph down the road. If you want to know what a person or a people are like, then ride with them first. Put them behind the wheel of a car and the nicest people in the world might become the world’s biggest assholes immediately, like Jekyll changing his hide. This is better then a Rorschach test.
It’s got all the bad things that go with a big city, and very few of the good. I suppose a lot of Thais without extensive families appreciate the strength in numbers. Thais are scared of ghosts, of their shadows, and ultimately, themselves. The most horrible thing in the world for a Thai is to be alone. When Thais travel, it isn’t a question of how many people go along, it’s a question of how many cars go along. But even though Bangkok is a huge and growing city, Thais tend to not pull up roots to move there. They maintain their roots ‘back home’ even if they don’t live there. If an American went back ‘home’, there’d probably be no one there, not even his parents. Some places are still like that in America, poorer places mostly, but not much. Thailand is changing, too, what with smaller families now.
Many of them are running from something ‘back home’, debts mostly of the credit card sort, something which you can only do once in life, on the way out. Many of the middle age ones are just slackers who couldn’t succeed at much and like the odds of finding a pretty young girlfriend here. There are some Trustafarians, but most of those tend to stay down at the beaches rather than up here in the Golden Triangle, which is a bit less glamorous than the hot spots, but not very ‘outback’ really. Up here it’s mostly Brits and Americans and French and Swedes with a smattering of other Europeans and Asians, but down south they get a lot of strange characters, Arabs and Russians and Nigerians and such, some pretty bad dudes as a lot, many of them up to no good. Of course this doesn’t count the Indians and Chinese who are permanent features of Thai history or the Pakistanis and Bangladeshis who come here to do honest work. Many of the Farangs teach English, which is not a lot of money, but good enough for Thailand with its low costs. Others open bars and restaurants if they’ve got money, but they’re competing with Thais there, so it’s hard. In Chiang Mai there’s even a sizeable export community. Thailand could be accused of too much freedom, and it’s debatable. Certainly there doesn’t seem to be much of a plan to things, and the foreign presence is large and growing. Future archaeologists will probably assume that 7-11 was a Thai phenomenon that got carried elsewhere.
This is where you end up when the trip is drawing to a close. This is where you get those Social Security checks sent. I’m not ready for that. Actually, where I’d really like to go is Madagascar. The idea of Asian forebears on the African coast, speaking an Austronesian language without a clue as to why or wherefore, sounds pretty exotic to me. Maybe they’re the ones who brought the bananas that revolutionized African agriculture that allowed a Bantu expansion that ultimately passed them by and hemmed them in. They weren’t the only ones. The Dutch reached Southernmost Africa before the Bantu speakers, as did the Khoisan speakers, but were eventually overwhelmed by them. The Malagasy have had Bantu and Arab admixtures onto their racial origins, but without losing their traditional culture. On the contrary, from what may have been no more than a single maiden voyage, Malagasy culture has diversified into several distinct lineages and languages, while never losing its mutual inter-connections. It is also a laboratory for biology as well as culture, rivaling the Galapagos Islands for the uniqueness of its species.