Old Heads

Being an adventurous eater in Thailand is a gift. I just ate a $30 bowl of seafood Tom Yum on a plastic table in the back corner of a hut behind a building for $2. Tootsie-roll sized hunks of ginger, chopped stalks of lemongrass, onion, tomato, herbs, a thousand year old broth and a pocket sized buffet of ocean candy in bowl, with sticky rice on the side. Seafood usually makes my joints explode, but whenever I’ve had it here it is paired with enough anti-inflammatory ingredients to sit pretty and stay loose.

I’m sitting outside in a mostly closed food court that services the extensive bar scene in this area. It’s adjacent to some artist residences and feels rebellious. It’s covered with street art and makes space for people to be outside with each other in a way that defies the looming towers of new development that are amassing at the gates of what’s left of this neighborhood. I wasn’t here last night, but I could hear it from the hostel. It sounded fun. It’s peaceful and lovely this morning. An aggressive breeze is cutting the heat and carrying the smells of the food stalls warming up. It’s a nice place to write and feed the street cats. 

Bars aren’t really my scene, but I may take a look tonight; the Monday night crowd is likely to be more my speed than the weekend folks. I spent my Sunday walking to a Jazz bar a few dozen blocks away to sit in on an open jam. The last time I played an open jam, I was one of the better musicians in the house and the crowd let me know it. This time, I was playing with some pretty serious people and it was kind of fun to be the young whippersnapper no one knew what to do with. At 40 I was suddenly transported to the emotional landscape of my punk rock teens hanging out with the seniors.

The kinds of guys who wind up in a Jazz bar in Bangkok are almost guaranteed to be interesting, weird and of questionable social capacities. Everyone I spoke with had a casual adventure behind the story of their landing here. I played a few and held my own, but even despite a genuine and meaningful connection with William, (the sax player, show-runner, and deep well of calm curiosity), after they threw in a funk tune “for the kid,” it was my time to roll. I walked the hour home enjoying the wide light-soaked aperture of my new lens on the street.

William is among the handful of old men I’ve met that seem to be knowingly or not, holding some secret key. What I mean is: they sound like me and share a sentimentality for what I’ll charitably call an overly examined existence, but they’re still here, they are old and still young. They have struck some deal with the devils of consciousness to sit in witness of the indifferent absurdity and carry on with their saxophones and their love like any of this makes sense. And they have no plans of stopping. I’m in awe of their Zen.

It was before 9pm when I made it back to the hostel and this young whippersnapper was suddenly an old man again. I was thoroughly “pooped”, which I’m realizing now while typing it out is likely a delightful Harter-ism and needs translation: I was very tired. So, as the rest of the dormitory was readying themselves for a night out, I was taking an ice bath in the brick wall of air conditioning against my super-heated skin (and sweat drenched clothes) and falling into the even stranger absurdities found one layer below this level of consciousness. I remember nothing, but it was a good sleep.