"Perhaps the reason we cry at funerals and rejoice at births is because we are not them."

- Mark Twain

The Mariner
A new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part IV

The mariner fished around the canvas bag hanging near the ship wheel and pulled from it a telescope. He put it to his eye and saw the island’s wide beach bobbing at the other end, the sand the color of dark rum. Directly behind the beach was a thick patch of trees and underbrush where no light penetrated. A settlement could easily hide in those shadows, in which case he had already been spotted—he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. There was no time for precaution.

He unwrapped his shoulder when the sun was still high, dark lines spiraling outward from the wound like jeweled spider webs. It felt like rusted metal, the painful throb growing with every breath. It had become so sharp he wished he could give up breathing altogether. That wish, unfortunately, he knew would come true. All too soon.

He drank brackish water from the skin and cursed his luck, steering the ship towards the limestone cliff that jutted above the island’s tree line. With foliage hanging off the top and peaking around the sides of the cliff face, it looked like he was sailing closer to the open jaws of a massive sea dragon.

When the boat came close enough, the mariner weighed anchor and stepped off into the shallow water. He fell to his knees, still weak, having not eaten all day, then got up and stumbled over the beach towards the foliage. The sand was hot under his bare toes but he couldn’t move any faster. He squinted in the bright glare of the sun, the jungle vibrating like a mirage behind the heat coming off the sand. In a moment, he was in the shaded area, where he sat on a rock and rested.

Water. There was the sound of water. Not like surf crashing on the sand—more like water slapping on rocks. Fresh water. He lifted his head and looked through the jungle towards the interior of the island but could see no waterfalls, no flowing water. That was definitely where the sound was coming from, though.

He got up and made his way, step by step, deeper into the island. Vines hung between thin branches, some so low they touched the ground. Sunlight drifted across his face like panther camouflage. Silhouettes moved in higher branches, miniature monkeys in packs of four or six, swinging branch to branch, stopping to peer, imitating him loping across the landscape. Their hides were gray with tan breast patches and fleshy noses, long, loopy tails like fifth limbs, moving gracefully between saplings, eating, picking at insects, blending into the landscape. The land sloped downwards into a dry riverbed of smooth, pearly stones. His bare feet moved across them like a ghost’s.

The rock face stretched along the east side of the jungle, then cut across his path. It appeared he could go no further without scaling it—an effort he deemed too difficult in his state. He listened but could no longer hear the sound of the water. Could it have been a trick? He scanned the jungle but there was no sign of movement. His senses told him nothing. Wait… no, nothing. A bird called out and its native exclamation echoed off the jagged cliff before seeking the deeper reaches of the jungle. The man wished he could understand that language. Perhaps it would tell him something he needed to know. Do you know how to cure this poison, bird of paradise? A breeze blew, moving the humid air like a heavy blanket across his chest. The man turned around, confused about where to go. Tired. I’m so tired. I’m going to sit down and just cut off this arm and be done with it. At least then I’ll bleed to death. Maybe that would be better. Quicker. Though he was far too weak to carry out such a course of action, he pulled the dagger from the hip sheath… when the water sound appeared again.

The mariner tracked back to the dry riverbed of pearly stones. A cloud moved and they shone like diamonds across the jungle floor, illuminating a path he had not noticed before. He followed them to the foot of the cliff, where they cut a thin artery through the rock. When he could put it off no longer, he started his climb.

Panting heavily, the man grasped at a jagged boulder and pulled his body to the top of the slope with his left arm. Though it was not a difficult hike, he was extremely weak, and on reaching the apex, even closer to death’s door. It’s just a matter of time now. I’ll just wait right here and die. There’s no more I can do…but what’s this? Looking down on the other side of the ridge, he at first thought he was hallucinating. A small pool of water stretched out in a perfect oval before him, totally cut off from the sea by a wall of rock.

The pool was an iridescent sapphire, blinding in its luminescence, and fed by a waterfall streaming from high above. Patches of wildflowers sprang from ivory pebbles in sporadic bunches around the water’s edge. The grotto seemed to pulse with a psychic power. The sight completely entranced him, and in spite of his condition, the man smiled at the natural bounty.

In a few moments, he summoned the energy to stand up and walk down to the pool. With mild ecstasy, he dropped to his knees and plunged his head into the virgin waters. They tasted sweet and clean, like crystal honey. He drank deeply and the fresh water filled him. Snapping his neck back, the mariner knelt upright, feeling immeasurably better.

The pool was surrounded by a tall ring of hexagonal cylinders of stone so geometrically perfect they looked unnatural. Side by side, the cylinders abutted one another as if placed by someone to form a fence—yet they were obviously natural, probably fashioned by some singular seismic event eons before. No man possessed the power to shape stones to that degree… at least no man that he knew of. The only section of the wall that was low enough to be scaled was where he had entered. The mariner marveled at the place, kneeling in the water. He realized that if he did not arrive on that exact beach, if his ship approached the isle from any other direction, he probably would have never heard the waterfall, nor detected this spring. What peculiar luck.

The mariner stripped off his dirty clothes and waded deeper. The water welcomed him, seeping under his bandages and easing the pain in his shoulder. Just floating in it felt sublime. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, his worries quickly becoming dim flames in the face of a spectacular star filled sky…

Swimming back to the shore, the man washed his clothes as best he could, and spread them on the rocks to dry. Then he lay down on a large boulder and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm his naked skin.

*

When he woke, the western sun cast long shadows across the pool. The mariner felt hungry, but was surprised to find the pulsing pain had faded. Without opening his eyes, he let his left palm examine his right shoulder, passing over the wound like a cloud on a quiet battlefield. His fingers sought the edges of the damp bandages, sneaking beneath the creases to get at the skin.

Could it be?

He slowly opened his eyes. With shallow breath, he pulled the clotted bandages back and saw the new skin. What brand of trickery is this?

“It’s no trickery, young man,” said the voice.

The mariner turned onto his hands and knees, his eyes searching. A talking waterfall?

“No, son, it can’t talk.”

“Who’s there?” said the mariner, looking about.

“No one who hasn’t been here for a long, long time,” said the voice.

The mariner looked for his clothes. Ten meters away, his trousers lay on the rocks where the sun once was, his dagger underneath.

“You won’t be needing that, my boy,” said the voice, but the mariner was frightened. He made a quick move towards his dagger, but just as he reached it, it skittered farther away, as if blown by the wind.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” said the voice. “I know you better than you think. You already swam in my waters, after all.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the spirit of the waterfall, of course. I protect her. Oh, very well.”

An old man emerged from behind the stream of falling water wearing all white. From his chin sprang a white beard that ran down to his navel. On his head was a tall, round, white hat.

“I’ve taken on this form to make you feel more comfortable,” he said. “I don’t really look like this, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I suspect my natural form would frighten you, so I’m appearing to you like this. Does it please you?”

Then the spirit smiled and laughed lightly. “Oh, I see. Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

As the words came from his lips, the spirit’s form liquefied, the light of the fading sun glimmering through the translucent shape before it solidified again as a shapely young woman.

“Hmm, I can see this form does please you…”

The mariner grimaced and ran to put his pants on. “What is your name?”

“I’ve had many names over the years,” the spirit said, already changed back into the old man, “but you can call me Murzium.”

“Murzium…”

“And you are Jacob…” The old man suddenly covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, but you do not favor that name any longer.”

“No... I mean, yes, correct,” said the mariner. He swallowed and tried to control his breathing. The spirit seemed gentle and lithe, but there was something unsettling about him. Perhaps it was his pupils… Blind men always made him feel uncomfortable.

“You… you can…”
“Read you thoughts? Why, of course. It is commonplace where I come from. And please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I’m sorry if my eyes make you uncomfortable. It is… one aspect I cannot control… But, here we are. You have come to my waters and I have healed you. You would have died, you know, had I not brought you here.”

“Brought me here?”

The spirit smiled and floated across surface of the water, tending to a patch of bright pink wildflowers on the opposite shore of the pool. “There is little I can not do, at least when it comes to creatures as simple as yourself. Please, do not take offense.”

The mariner shook his head, confused. He looked around the enclosure, feeling his healed shoulder absently with his left hand. “This place is enchanted, then.”

“I supposed you could call it that.”

Murzium weeded the flowers, his back turned to the mariner. In the silence, a nameless dread grew in the pit of his stomach. The mariner felt an intense urge to escape, and quickly—but at the same time, he felt he owed the spirit something.

“Thank you,” the mariner said at a loss, then started to say something else but stopped himself. “Thank you very much,” he said again, this time narrowing his brow, “for helping me, I mean.”

He tried to think of some way to repay the spirit, but what could he possibly offer such a being? How does one repay a man for saving your life?

“Well, the simple answer is—you can’t,” Murzium said peering at him across the pool with a handful of weeds, “which is why you can never leave this place. Ever.”

The Mariner

A new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part III

The night ended with the light of a searing sun breaking over the eastern horizon. It woke the mariner, who had passed out lying on the quarterdeck. Too unsteady to walk, he crawled on his hands and knees to a skin hanging near the ship wheel and drank from it. Then he lay back down, the pain in his shoulder driving chills through his whole body, though it was a warm morning. For a moment, he just lay there, looking at the fair weather clouds floating high above him. He listened to the creak of the sloop’s timbers. The earth revolved under the weight of hundreds of kilometers of rock and molten lava, on top of which were dozens of kilometers of ocean, on top of which was a small, wooden ship, on top of which lay a weak, 24-year-old man, living the last few hours of his life before he joined with the eternal. God forgive me.

He struggled to the starboard edge of the boat and pulled himself up to a sitting position. There was no land, as far as the eye could see in any direction. With the use of a compass and a sextant, he could deduce his latitude, and make a decision on where to head—but what did that matter now? How much longer did he have left?

The mariner crawled below, sweating from the effort. He unlocked the drawer where he kept his captain’s journal and a quill.

February 13, 1688

Morning. Seventh hour. Coral Sea. 12th day from San Cristobal. Drifting. Sea high and wind quiet. Color of the sea dull green and bottomless. Running before the wind on a South-South-East track.

Yesterday ran into a band of islanders in a praus. They came on quick and I wounded one with musket shot. May have killed him. Sustained injury from arrow, probably poisoned. Feeling very weak and tired.

No land in sight. Will continue on present track in hopes of making New Caledonia before nightfall. Remote chance they have antidote.

The mariner stuck the quill in the waistband of his trousers, took the journal under his right arm, and dragged himself back on deck. He was so exhausted when he got back there, he passed out again.

When he awoke, his shoulder ached more sharply. It felt like something was growing in there—something evil and unpleasant. He thought he smelled something strange and then it went away. He dragged himself to the skin and wet his parched lips, then managed to get to the rim of the boat and prop himself there.

Looking out at the expanse of water stretching out in every direction, a desperation began to well up in him. This is it. This is how it all ends for me. Here. With no one to blame but myself. A loneliness appeared in him so raw that it felt like it was gnawing his insides out. He felt this kind of desperation before in the cities of the world, but never here… never out on the ocean on his own. This was always his space, where he was commander of his own destiny.

“Out here, you got the time and space to think and be alone with your thoughts,” his friend Jerome said to him long ago. They were sailing the Arafura Seas in those days, going from one isle to the next, fishing and trading and just having fun. Those were easier times. Special times. Why did I ever leave that?

“Must be running away from something” said the old woman sitting on the port side of the sloop. “That’s what I would say. A boy your age don’t find himself out on these open oceans, much less alone, unless he’s running from something.”

“Who are you?” the mariner said, frightened by her haggard appearance and drooping face. She didn’t look up from her knitting.

“Don’t look so surprised. What, you don’t recognize me? Just like your father. Left home at a young age and never looked back. Never looked back at what you did, who you left behind. Dirty rotten…”

The mariner shook his head. “You never wanted me there. I was just getting in your way. Another mouth to feed.”

“How do you know? You ever stop or think to ask? Oh no. You just up and run. That’s the only solution you have—run. Keep running, keep running… well look where it got you now. Nowhere left to run. Death caught up with you. It’s right there, over your shoulder. Ha! Made you look!” The hag started cackling, her tooth hanging like a lone bat guarding the entrance to a cave.

The mariner bit his lower lip and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the hag was gone but he could still hear her sickening laughter. He drank from the skin, tasting how foul and brackish the water was. He poured some out on the deck and it made a small yellow pool.

The sounds of a flute drifted over the boat. The mariner turned his head and saw a tall islander floating nearby on a large lily pad. He was sitting cross-legged, wearing a only a white loin cloth. Red dots were painted on his forehead, chin, between his breasts, and above his navel. On a long purple flute, he played an enchanting and disarming melody. The mariner looked around but no one else was there. No one but the two of them. The islander floated nearer, and as the music got louder, the mariner could hear a conversation between two people inside that melody.

“What do you mean?” said the boy.

“Oh come now, Jacob, you must know what I’m talking about. This is our only chance. There’s only one way out of this,” said the girl.

“I can’t. I can’t do that… I’ll be an outcast. We’ll never be able to live here. They’ll never accept me.”

“Yes they will. They are an open-minded people. You don’t give them due credit.”

“I’m not the last one to come to this island, though—you know that, right? And those who come after me… they aren’t going to be interested in just trading… you have no idea. Those people… I’m afraid what they will do. I’m afraid—”

“YES, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared!”

“I’m not scared.”

“Jacob, listen to yourself. You don’t want to try because you’re afraid of what some unseen men might do? It doesn’t even make sense!”

“This isn’t going to work,” the boy shouted. “It can never work!”

“I’m tired,” the mariner said, visions swirling in his head. “I’m so tired. Go away. Leave me to die in peace.”

The islander floated away into a thick, oncoming mist.

When he woke, it was noon. He looked over the side and the islander was gone. The sloop had drifted into new waters. The mariner marveled at the bright aqua shade of the water, transparent strait to the bottom, about ten meters below. A long coral reef ran there, alive with every manner of colorful fish one could imagine. The reef stretched out as far as he could see, though no land was visible. The water seemed to have a luster all its own, glowing with its own energy.

“Where are we headed?” he asked his grandfather, who stood at the ship wheel.

“Along the Tropic of Capricorn, where you will meet your guide. If we don’t drift into the horse latitudes, that is.” He kept his eye firmly set on the horizon. “Do you know why they call them the horse latitudes? I found out when I was just a boy, working aboard da Gama’s flagship. We left Sagres with a warship escort, but once we reached Cape Verde, it left us and we did something I thought crazy at the time. Instead of hugging the African coast as I heard so many men predict we would, the Captain swung the Sao Gabriel west, out into open ocean. Without land in sight, I was scared witless. For three weeks we sailed ahead on white flecked seas, with strong winds abeam, making the voyage pleasant. Then, without warning, we changed course towards Africa and our luck ran out. Calms beset our four caravels and we sat becalmed for weeks, sharks feeding on garbage, swarming in a long line behind the ships… In two months time, the food went rotten and the water stank, and there was too little of both to go around. The first thing jettisoned was the horses… and the sharks loved every last one.”

“How did you make it out?” the mariner said.

“Blind providence. After three months, when half the crew had started boiling the calfskin that wrapped the mainmast, we spied Africa rising out of the water in the distance. I never thought I would see such a beautiful sight. But little did I know that was only the beginning of our troubles… Before that journey was over, only 76 of the original 350 were still alive, and I was marooned with my uncle and two other men for suspicion of mutiny in the Banda Sea, not far from the island where you were born.”

The boy ran across the clearing of trees with a coconut in his arms.

“Daddy, can I open it?”

“I don’t think so. Not unless, you can handle that machete on your own.”

“I can. Watch.”

The boy picked up the machete, unsteady with its weight in his small hands.

“Whoa, whoa, I think you had better take it easy yet, son. This is a man’s instrument.”

“No, please Daddy, let me try. I can do it.”

“No, lad, you’re too young.”

“Daddy…”

“No!”

The man took the coconut and hurled it across the clearing where it disappeared under the brush.

“You never let me do anything, you bloody bastard,” the mariner said, looking at the coral at the bottom of the sea. “You were afraid of me.” He turned over and saw his father hanging from the main mast by his neck.

“You did it anyway, without me. You ran and you ran and now you will die just like I did—pathetic and alone.”

“At least I wasn’t a bloody pirate,” the mariner said.

“You’re a pirate the same as I was,” the hanged man said. “Where did you get that gold from? Where did that money come from, boy? You think those islanders wanted to give those spices? You’re a pirate, same as all the other half-breeds in this ocean. A pirate through and through, same as I was.”

“I didn’t cheat anyone. I gave them their fair share.”

“OK. Keep telling yourself that. May help your conscience eating you up from the inside, like the maggots in your fruit, heh?”

The mariner looked at the bag of fruit hanging from near the wheel. It was dripping with worms.

“Ha ha… You see it too, now, eh?”

“Leave me, infernal ghost! You’re not real. You’re dead, dead 5 years now! What more do you want from me?”

The mariner leaned over the edge of the boat and scooped cool water in his hands. He splashed it on his face and neck, then ran his hands through his hair.

Am I really going crazy? Is death too big for me to comprehend? What have I been running from all my life, on this sloop, sailing from one island to the next, the only driving force being “repeat pleasure, avoid pain.” Where do I belong in this world? Have I even given myself the chance to find out?

He looked out at the undulating waters stretched out in front of him like a field of grass the ship cut through like a scalpel. He blinked and the light refracted. He blinked again and it refracted more. A stone dropped into the dead still lake inside him, and as the ripples expanded outwards, he felt hot, wet tracks streaming down his cheeks.

What a waste. What a waste of a life. Look at all I have been given. So many things, so many beautiful things… and what have I done? I’ve chased money and women and rum and reaped nothing but deceit. And soon it will end. And then I really will have nothing.

The mariner fell on his knees.

“Is this what I was brought on this planet to do? To live a short life and die alone in the middle of this wasteland? You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to leave me to die here. Give me another chance. Please, let me try this again. That’s all I ask.”

He raided his eyes and an albatross flew overhead. He looked starboard, and saw a small island in the distance.

The Mariner
the new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part II

The mariner turned to see a small boat of islanders bearing down on him at a distance. There were six men in the dugout all told: four with oars and two stringing their bows with new arrows. The mariner took a length of rope that was tied nearby and fastened it to the wheel so the rudder stayed its current course, then he ran towards the front of the boat and yanked on the strings to raise the two foresails. In his haste, he lost his grip, and one of the ropes flew out of his hand. He swore aloud. Another arrow slammed into the starboard hull of the boat. As calmly as possible, he caught the loose rope and pulled up the remaining sail. Only then did he notice that the wind had all but died.

The islanders were gaining fast. In the elevated front portion of the dugout, the lead archer stood wearing nothing but a loincloth, his dark skin striated with tribal markings. With one leg propped on the front rim, he strung another arrow, a methodical poise in all his movements. He looked up at the mariner, judging the distance between them, then tipped his bow towards the sky, pulled back the string, and let it fly. The mariner watched as the projectile sailed in a high, elegant arch, and was forced to duck a moment before it struck the mast, exactly where his was standing. Bastard.

“Come on now, wind, blow. Blow, for Christ’s sake, BLOW!” said the mariner. But nothing blew. The wind that had the sloop moving swiftly before had just disappeared. Going the rate they were, the islanders would be on him in a matter of minutes. He ran below deck and grabbed a long dagger and his musket, swearing aloud. He rummaged through his waterproof box and found only a handful of gunpowder remained. He swore again and stomped back on deck.

Steadily the islanders closed in, and they did not look in the mood for tea. The mariner dropped his dagger on the quarterdeck and began loading his musket. May only get one shot at this, he thought as he rammed down the musket ball with a metal cylinder. Then again, even if I do kill one with this shot, five to one are still terrible odds… Come on, wind!

The man took a wooden barrel and rolled it until it stood in the far rear starboard corner of the quarterdeck, the whole time keeping an eye for incoming missiles. Then he knelt down and steadied the musket on top of the barrel as best he could.

A rower would probably be best. That would slow them down. He could duck from arrows all day long, but if they came aboard, he was finished. Unfortunately, the chances of hitting an rower, with only his head showing above the rim of the dugout, seemed less likely than his chances of hitting an archer, whose whole body was exposed. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t… The mariner decided hitting anyone would be better than missing, and so took aim at the most exposed person—the lead archer.

The two men gazed at each other across the waves. The mariner squinted his left eye, setting his sights in the fading light. His right forefinger came to rest against the trigger, waiting for his best chance, holding out for the dugout to draw a little closer…

The lead archer stood in his boat, both eyes wide open, the three fingers of his right hand stretching back the drawstring further and further, waiting for the perfect shot…

Two sets of eyes locked on each other, staring from one world to another. Two men who had never met; between whom nothing stood but waves and water and air and fading sunlight and the sound of threshing oars… At the same moment, they fired.

At first, the mariner thought it was the musket kicking back that caused a zing in his right shoulder, but when he turned his head he saw an arrow impaling his skin. He confirmed it hadn’t broken through the other side, then turned over onto his back and laid flat on the quarterdeck. He felt no pain yet. Moving swiftly, he clasped the shaft of the arrow with both hands, clenched his teeth, and tugged hard. There was a sharp, hot pain, but the arrow came out clean and blood flowed freely out of his shoulder, wetting his chest and pooling under his arm. He held the projectile in his fist for a moment, the rough-hewn arrowhead dripping red with his blood, then threw it overboard. He lay still for a moment, breathing heavily through the nose and listening.

The threshing had stopped. Peeking over the edge of the sloop, the mariner could see that the lead archer was down and the rowers were attending him. He was making angry sounds and someone was responding in their native tongue. Soon the rowers began again, and the other archer took the lead position in the front of the dugout.

The mariner turned over and lay on his back again. “Blow,” he said. “Just blow. Blow now and I’ll give up grog.” He took deep breaths, trying to ignore the deep, aching pain in his shoulder. “Blow now and… I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

A gentle breeze brushed the sails of his sloop, barely inflating them before dying once more.

“Come on!” he said pounding his fist on the deck, then immediately wincing. He got up on his elbows and peeked back at the islanders, not more than 100 meters away. He could see they all bore the same skin striations as the man he had wounded, though less elaborate. Another arrow pounded into the quarterdeck hatch. In a panic, his mind raced back to the last time he was caught in Polynesia… the fire, the screams, the pain of bamboo slats being shoved under his fingernails, expanding when they broke the skin, wet with blood…

“Blow now and I’ll forget this whole thing, OK? The gold, the girl, the god blasted jewel… everything. I’ll give it all up. Just blow. I’ll forget it all and never come back here again. I’ll never come back here. Never.”

The sound of the islanders’ oars threshing the water grew louder.

“Never.”

The wounded archer screamed an angry exclamation that sounded like a death vow. An arrow stuck into the barrel above his head. The mariner rolled over and clasped his dagger in his left hand.

“Never!” he screamed and stood up to face his enemy.

Out of nowhere, a huge gust of wind filled his sails and the sloop bucked forward, then rocked back, bridling the wind and skating across the waves. The remaining archer hastened to fire missiles off, but none reached their target. The mariner laughed aloud, his eyes widening with shock and joy. Though the islanders rowed ever harder and the wounded man continued to scream bloody murder, the wind quickly widened the distance between them. The mariner took the wheel and pointed the sloop further out into the open ocean. Before long, the dugout was just a speck blending into the landscape of black sea and navy blue sky.

Night descended and the mariner turned his attention to the wound. The aching had worsened and it was still bleeding. He felt weak and very tired, but he had to dress it properly before he slept, otherwise he was dead for sure. As carefully as possible, he did so by the light of an oil latern.

When he was finished, he walked to the main mast and pulled from it one of the islanders’ arrows. He felt the arrowhead in his hand; the hard, grooved stone cool to the touch. He noticed it was coated in a translucent substance, which made it sticky. The mariner rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and smelled them. His eyes glazed over in the light of the latern, and he tossed the arrow into the waves like a dead flower.

He knew then he had but one day left to live.

The Mariner

The new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part I

The man rose at dusk. He came on deck. The wind picked up from the northeast and he hurried to raise the sail. No sooner was it up than it was engorged with wind, and the sloop shot off across the pink waters on a swift track into the sun.

From the ship wheel, a fine mist sprayed his face, leaving the taste of brine on his lips. In the distance he spied the first of the Apollonian Isles, looking quiet and wild. Even high on the vertical faces of the limestone cliffs, trees had somehow dug in, their roots finding purchase between the rocky slits. God knows what evil runs through that jungle in the dead of night, he thought. I hope I never find out.

But he already knew. He knew exactly what happened when you drifted too close after dark. The parting of the water, the ropes, a short raft ride then getting dragged halfway across the island so they can show the chief what they caught… They don’t want to talk. They don’t even want to trade. They only thing those heathens are interested in is hearing the high, lolling sound of your voice when they do unspeakable things to you... Christ. If it wasn’t for that Jesuit missionary, those noises would have went on for days.

The wind changed direction and the man compensated with the sails. The sky told him it would be a quiet night. In the west, the sun kissed the horizon, and the sea hemorrhaged orange and purple in a long, diffused triangle. A gull passed overhead, calling out to a ghost he couldn’t see. When it passed, he was once again alone with his thoughts and the sound of the waves lapping against the boat. Moments like this made the man wonder why he ever came back to land at all.

What the hell am I doing out here again, he said to the wind. He picked an overripe apple from the bag of fruit that hung near the wheel and took a bite, swallowing the worm with it.

“You must be a glutton for punishment,” Brooks told him in a pub the night before he set out. The old sailor thought it was his god given right to tell the man things he already knew. “You lose a goddamn eye looking for some slag, and you’re going back for more?”

Yep. But he couldn’t explain that to a moron like Brooks. Guy like that would never understand. It was more than a matter of attraction. This girl had done something to him… something unnatural. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t even pay for it. Made no sense.

He finished the last bit of his apple and tossed the core into the waves. The moon was already up, though the light hadn’t disappeared totally from the sky. The wind settled down to a light breath, just barely enough to carry the small boat on its way. Yep, it’s going to be a beautiful night.

That’s when the first arrow struck the starboard side.

After thinking about it long and hard, I've decided to start a new blog dedicated solely to my new obsession: sake. This blog will continue to publish my fiction writing, but for those of you interested in the Japanese imbibe, hit up Sake Safari! See you there.

When you left them back on the farm
for the city at dawn
the drone of youth and the hum
of the pretty were songs
you thought you'd never forget
it's a pity they're gone.

-stephin merritt

photo by hinius

There's an awesome show on the online television station VBS now called Balls Deep. In the first episode I saw, the host (Baby Balls) goes to some New York leather bars and investigates the dying leatherman scene. Interesting, especially if you have seen one of my fave Al Pacino movies, Cruising (1980) (BTW, here's a cool interview with William Friedkin, the director of Cruising).

In the other episode of Balls Deep, the host goes into the sewers of Bogota, Columbia to meet some of the poor street kids who live down there. Originally these kids went down there to escape the violence on the streets--a total nightmare. In order to deal with the fact that they are living in complete darkness, knee deep in human waste, they take a lot of drugs. To add to their problems, death squads made up of cops and off duty soldiers periodically go down into the tunnels to perform "urban cleansing." This either consists of shooting them, torturing them, or dousing them in gasoline. It's a frightening documentary.

Check it out on VBS.

Last weekend I was reminded of the incredible transformative power that music can have. Seeing Arcade Fire on Randall’s Island--the feeling and wonder they brought into that place was simply awe inspiring. It’s not often you see a group so sincere. There was no gimmick, and not even a hint of fakeness. It was just pure energy, feeling, soul, and heart.

This video really doesn’t do them justice, but of all the ones I’ve seen, I think it at least imparts a fraction of the insanity and scale of it all.



Right before the first encore, one of the musicians went berserk and started climbing the scaffolding. The place was just going nuts. The crowd went on humming the chorus of this song until the band came back out. Pretty rad.

FOUNTAINS OF WAYNE
Traffic and Weather / Virgin

Over the course of their 11-year career, Fountains of Wayne have succeeded in, if nothing else, being scribes of the American suburbs. Songwriters Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood have proven themselves adept at capturing the apathy, angst, laziness, and smart-ass cleverness characteristic of the ‘burbs, usually within the context of a sunny, hook-filled power pop song. Traffic and Weather diverges little from this formula. While there’s a fair amount of sub-par material here (a good 25% being filler and nothing really approaching the infectious nature of their 1996 self-titled debut), when they get it right, it really works. As with their previous work, their strength is in their storytelling. FOW have the uncanny ability to create quirky characters in their songs, zooming in on the minute details that make them who they are—what they eat, how they move, when they dream—and in doing so, make it easy for the listener to identify with them. “New Routine” depicts a series of characters who dream of escaping the limitations they were born with by first getting out of their dead end towns. “I-95” rattles on about the lengths we go to, intolerable truck stops we tolerate, and bad radio stations we endure to make long distance relationships survive. And like that nine hour drive to a long, lost lover, so is listening to this album beginning to end: difficult but survivable, with brief patches of pure, unblemished joy.

SPOON
Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga / Merge

It’s not everyday you get to review the sixth full-length release from an indie rock band. Putting out six albums is usually reserved for guys like the Rolling Stones or Bruce Springsteen—legends—whereas most indie rockers are usually checking into rehab or singing up for the night shift at McD’s somewhere between the second and the fourth.

That said, this is Spoon’s sixth album. No small feat.

I guess we shouldn’t be surprised then that Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is shockingly good. To stick around this long, you’ve got to have more than just talent. This heavily melodic and tuneful album pulls off the envious trick of being intricately detailed, yet surprisingly lean. Running just 36 minutes, Spoon obviously understands that we live in a digital age where you can no longer get away with releasing filler. There are no mistakes here. Every sound on every song is exactly where it should be, and is deployed with explosive accuracy.

That said, the album is still very much “indie” in the sense that it was recorded with a casual rawness throughout. The margins between tracks are hazy at best with studio chatter running far into the songs, as if the band wasn’t really sure which mics were recording. Enjoyably surprising listening.
The album’s unusual title stems from a jarring, repetitive piano on the most singular song on the record, and surely the one it will be remembered best for: “The Ghost of You Lingers.” Like the lost lover to which Britt Daniel whispers desperate pleas on that track, this album will surely haunt the listener like a glorious dream awoken from at the sound of the alarm.






BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB
Baby 81 / RCA

BRMC founded their reputation on creating the kind of amped up psychedelic blues that few have since communicated as effectively. After incessant touring supporting the release of their second album, Take Them On, On Your Own, the band fractured as the result of hard touring and hard drug use, prompting drummer Nick Jago to walk out. Their third album, Howl, was therefore semi-acoustic, created primarily by remaining members Robert Levon Been and Peter Hayes exploring a tripped out version of Americana. Jago did eventually return, though, and the result of their combined efforts on Baby 81 sees the boys picking up right where Take Them On… left off.

The material on this record is largely composed of variations on well tread themes of loneliness, alienation, and empty promises of revolution. Nevertheless, they pull it off with such roguish sex appeal and panache, the listener can’t help but want to join in. Harley Davidson guitars rev hard and fast on the first single, “Weapon of Choice” setting the stage for a loud, blown out series of rock rampages that sound like Oasis covering Jesus and Mary Chain. “All You Do is Talk” suddenly switches gears with a stirring ballad that opens with a pastiche of string and keyboard sounds so gorgeous, powerful, and elegiac, the track could be mistaken for a 21st century church hymn. Amen, lads, amen.

The Beginning of Something Beautiful

Hey…sorry, I didn’t hear you knock. Come on in. How you doing today? You look a little tired. Why don’t you take off that wet coat and come into the living room. Just leave that umbrella out there, don’t worry about it. Maid’s night off, ha ha. Gosh, it must have really been coming down, huh?

Here you go, most comfortable seat in the house. Isn’t it great the way you just sink into it like that? It’s almost as if the chair was waiting for you all day long to just come along and plop down into it. Ooh, can you hear that? The water’s ready. Let me get you some of that tea you like. Don’t worry about the time—there’s no rush here. Just relax. Yeah, that’s right. Now take off those shoes, and when I come back I’ll give you one of my famous foot massages…

I can see you found the chocolates. Those look wonderful. Oh no, I don’t mind. I’m actually allergic to chocolate, believe it or not. Just one of those family things, I guess. My boss gave me those for Christmas and they’ve just been sitting there since then, so please, help yourself. Here, put your feet up on the ottoman. Nice socks! Oh, those are cute. Where’d you get them? You know, I have to tell you a little secret—I’ve always been secretly jealous of your fashion sense. Yes! I don’t know, it’s like you just have a certain sense of style that is so…you. You know how sometimes you look at someone and you see that they really put some thought into planning an outfit, but it just comes off looking forced? Ha, ha…yeah but with you, it’s effortless.

Now let me see those feet. There we go. Yeah. Mmm. How does that feel? I can tell you have a lot of tension in your life right now. You can tell so much about a person by touching their feet, actually. Don’t laugh—I’m being serious! Oh sorry, I didn’t know you were ticklish there, ha ha. Yeah, just let it all go. Feel the deep relaxation washing over your whole body, from the toes, up... That feels good, doesn’t it?

Have you ever found yourself completely fascinated by someone? Maybe you were just sitting there, looking at him, all his attention was directed toward you, and the sound of his voice just captivated you and wrapped all around you, so that the environment just disappeared and your entire world became what was right in front of you. It’s funny, because sometimes the warmth of someone’s voice can just spread throughout your whole body, and you can’t help but think about that person in a…mmm, special way, you know?

I was just talking to my friend Marisa the other day—I don’t think you’ve met her—but anyway, we were just discussing the difference between attraction and love. It’s weird because when you think about it, at first, they feel quite similar, but they actually happen in different places. What I mean is, attraction happens when you are in the presence of the person. You’re sitting there, maybe just relaxing or having a drink, and you start to think to yourself…hmmm. Soon enough, you begin to realize that you have particular feelings for them. You know what that feels like, right?

But love, that happens when you’re not with the person at all. I’m sure you can remember the last time you fell in love with someone…that feeling of love. Here’s how it happened: You spent some time with someone, and then when you went home, you started to picture in your mind what it would be like to be with them. Maybe you started to imagine different situations with that person, having fun with then, being romantic or whatever... You can remember that, right? Then you might start listing in your head all the qualities you love about them: oh, he’s so funny, or he’s so cute, or he knows exactly how to make me feel comfortable, or whatever they were. And then little by little, you start to have a funny sort of feeling, starting from deep in your stomach. It’s like a little glowing plant, and as that glow begins to spread all throughout your body, you begin to realize that you really, really love this person. That’s a magical feeling. Sometimes it takes months to happen, but when it happens instantly, you know it right away—and that’s an incredibly powerful sensation, isn’t it?

Would you like some more tea? I have some brandy in the cabinet if you prefer…no, no, it’s no trouble at all. Really. Gosh, I can’t believe how the time is just slipping by. I always feel so comfortable and at ease when I’m around you. I don’t know how you do it, but I feel like I could tell you anything.

I know we really haven’t known each other for so long, but I want to tell you—I always thought there was something really special between us. I mean, can I be completely honest with you? I know this is going to sound a little crazy, but I used to have a crush on you. Nothing obsessive or anything, just a little crush. I realize now, looking back, that it wasn’t really love, but I used to find myself sometimes at work daydreaming about us having so much fun together…maybe taking walks through the park, watching the sunset, or going away for weekends to the beach, relaxing, enjoying each others company…I used to look forward to the idea of us growing closer and supporting each other, kind of helping each other through the years, making our dreams come true…Ha, yeah I know it sounds silly, but is it really so hard to imagine that someone would want to be in a relationship with a person as beautiful and intelligent as you? It’s kind of funny looking back at the whole thing, and I guess it was a little immature for me to imagine things could be like that.

Have you ever hung out with someone that maybe you weren’t very attracted to before, but then, for one reason or another, you suddenly started to see them in a whole new way? That kind of thing has happened to me a couple times, and I could never really put my finger on what the trigger was. I think what it comes down to, though, is that sometimes people don’t really know what they want. You go through life thinking you know how to make yourself happy, but the truth is, you don’t. You chase down your desires for people and things, but once you have them, the satisfaction is always short lived, and before you know it, you want something or someone else. But once in a while, a person comes along and really makes you stop and think. They say a certain word or make a certain gesture, and you suddenly start seeing them completely differently. For example, my friend Debbie came up to me the other day and said, “what would it be like if we were just making out, and I was kissing you tenderly, exactly as you like to be kissed, touching you exactly as you like to be touched?” I was like, “what are you talking about?” And she just said, “It’s not necessary to feel incredibly turned on as the passion between us builds and builds, until you feel like you might not even be able to contain yourself anymore.”

Can you imagine how that made me feel?

A Cat in the Hall

I’m not a boy who goes to the mall
I’m just a little cat who hangs out in the hall
My ears may be brown and my head’s kind of small
But I’m still just a cat who hangs out in the hall.

My tail is made of rabbit fur, hay, and old shoes
When I play Uncle Wiggily, I never lose
My cousin likes to stay up late at night and sing the blues
But when she does, I don’t stay there ‘cuz I’ll drink up all the booze.

To eat, I have to beg; sometimes I have to steal
But I never went a day without eating every meal.
No one ever blamed me for having too much sex appeal.
I don’t know many people, and those I know, they aren’t real.

Imaginary friends, I guess, are just my lot
They never ask to borrow money, and they never smoke my pot
I dance around from here to there, and talk to my robot
Oh look now, here he comes. Let me introduce you lot.

Robbie, this is Buttons; Buttons this is Rob.
You can call him Robert, or you can call him Bob.
Don’t expect him to be chatty—today he’s on the job.
Oh Rob, wait a second, don’t get all angry, we just wanted to ask you a few questions!

So that’s the long and short of it, I guess I’ll leave you all
There are hallways to be walked in and problems to be solved
I would give you my number, but I know you’ll never call
The loneliest cat to ever walk in the hall.



(I stole the pic from Patti Haskins)

Blonde Redhead played for free last Sunday at McCarrin Pool in Williamsburg. It was mobbed, but it was also really fun. As I was walking through the park approaching the pool, I could hear a DJ blasting a Peter, Bjorn and John remix and got all excited. Then I saw the line... that led ALL the way around the exterior. I waited for a full hour to get in and missed the first few songs, but it was fully worth it. They were great.

Also, for all you little audio freaks: do yourself a favor and go to my boy Keith's website. Click on "Euphony" to get a selection of his work. My fave is a jackin' little jam he did called "Heaven's Gate." Whooo weee!

I Used to be a Dancer

I used to be a dancer. Did you know that? I got it from my father. He loved to be on stage, too. Never got him anywhere, and I guess at the end of the day, I was as big a fool as he was.

Show business... ha! Even when I hear that music today, that “da da na na, da daaa,” Oh, I wanna scream! It just drives me crazy. But he used to sing, and he used to dance. He loved all that. Loved to be on stage. Him and his friend Terry used to get into all the vaudeville shows. What’s that? Oh, you know, over there in Union City, Jersey City, Hoboken… all over. They’d pay you nothing. Peanuts, maybe a few drinks or a couple dollars if you were lucky, and you go jump around on stage, make a fool of yourself. Him and Terry used to do it all the time. Terry ended up going to War II, but this was 1913. Cost people ten cents to see the show. Ten cents! Fifteen if you wanted to get up close. He quit all that when he met my mother. She wasn’t putting up with none of it. No way. She said, “If you’re gonna marry me, you have to go get a real job.” And he did. He gave that all up when he got married.

Well, sort of. He never lost his love of the stage. The next job he got was as an ice shaver, selling ice in the streets and in the bars. And of course, once he got into the bars, he couldn’t resist doing a little song or a dance or something. “Hey, we’re having a drink here, why don’t you sing us a song or something?” And he did. He loved it. Huh? Yeah, he did have a good voice, yes. He got up there and sang, you know, maybe for a beer or something. Pretty soon, he got this little magic show going in the bars, too, and that’s when he got me in on the act. I was still young. What’s that? Oh, I don’t know, maybe 12, 13 years old. I memorized all these little phrases he had, and he’d go up to someone and say, “Did you know my daughter is a fortune teller?” And then they’d go to a telephone and call me at home. “Hey Peggy!” he’d say. Oh, and my mother hated this. She couldn’t stand it! But he’d say, “Peg, what color is this young lady’s shirt that I’m touching now.” And I’d go look up the little code of phrases he taught me, and I’d say, “Uh, uh, yellow!” And they’d love it! “Hurray, hurray!” Clapping like mad. I loved it, too, and all I was doing was looking up the phrases. That’s how we used to do it. But oh! It drove my mother crazy. She used to hate it, hate it, hate it.

Before you knew it, I got the same bug. My father, pff... he got stuck in the bars. But me? I loved to get up there on stage and sing and dance, and the people start clapping… it was like nothing else. Nothing in the world like it. But you got to really love it to do that, you know? You got to love it. Every single time I’d see there was a casting call for something, they needed an actress or a singer or whathaveyou. Boom! I was there, first in line. I was in there in a flash. And I’d get up there and sing and dance… oh god, I was crazy for it.

And just to show you how ignorant we were back then: Me and my sister Louise heard that some famous director or star or something from Hollywood was going to be in town one time. So we thought, “Oh, this is it! This is gonna be our big break!” And so we just opened the window of our little apartment on 7th Street and started singing. Opened the windows to West New York and just went at it. “La, la la, la laaa!” Singing our little hearts out like idiots, hoping maybe this guy would be passing by and, “oh, oh, where is that beautiful music coming from? What, what am I hearing?” Meanwhile my mother’s banging on the door going, “Will you two please shut up in there?!” Ha, ha, ha…

Every single casting call I saw, I was the first one there. I got a couple roles here and there, nothing big though. I’d come on stage and bring the lead actors a cup of water, then walk off. Ha. The biggest role I got was in the Passion Play at St. Andrew’s. I played Herod’s Lady of the Veils. I had to do a little dance… Nothing obscene, mind you! No, no.

The little success I had in show business (and it was a very, very small amount) I can tell you this—I made it all happen for myself. I made it happen by myself, with no help from anyone. I did it alone and I made it work, no matter what anyone else tells you.

You kids--you have a very enriched life, do you know that? You’re lucky you had a chance to go to college and get bachelor degrees and masters’ degrees and doctorates and all that. When I was growing up, I didn’t get that much of a formal education. Not much of an education at all. I never had a chance to go to college. Too busy raising a gang of rowdy kids... But I wouldn’t trade it for the world, you hear me? Not for the world. Because you all ended up so wonderful and successful and smart and beautiful. Every single one of ya. Ah, ya too much…

summer polaroids _5, originally uploaded by jivasom.

I just put some polaroids from bangkok up on my flickr site. check em out!

Due to the discussion about weird fetishes at Marc and Becca's place last weekend, I feel it only appropriate to re-print this little ditty I wrote a few months ago. Apologies to those who've seen it already.

Diaperhood

My name is Reginald J. Williams. You can call me Reggie. Or Reg. Just not Reggie Baby. At least not until I get to know you a little better.

I divide my life into three distinct stages: infancy, when my parents lovingly wrapped me in diapers; childhood, when for some bizarre reason I was weaned from nappies and forced to conform with the tyranny of briefs; and adulthood, when I became an independent, self directed grown-up, finally free to do as I please. Only recently did I gain the perspective to look back at my life and see the reason why my young adulthood was marred by such deep seeded unhappiness. I was a monster by all accounts and I admit it. A surly and compulsive drunk, I was no joy to be with. I had no way of truly demonstrating who I really was because I was unable to fully express my inner desires and joys. That’s all changed now, though, and I couldn’t be happier.

I work in a corporate clothing company called Petersons that supplies uniforms for hotels in the Bangkok area as well as several resorts in Thailand. About six months ago, I was invited along with my wife to a dinner with some colleagues celebrating the closing of a big deal with the Evason Six Senses—a very exclusive resort chain with branches throughout the region. The morning of the dinner, my wife got a call from our usual babysitter saying she wouldn’t be able to look after the kids. We called my wife’s sister as well as her mother but neither could fill in. It looked like we were out of luck, until I suddenly remembered that one of the girls from my office, Fon, had mentioned that her sister had some kids and that she just loved to play and spend time with them. I knew Fon was a darling girl—just the sweetest person you could imagine—so I asked if there was any chance she might be able to come by and look after our kids for while. To my delight, she agreed.

Fon was 23 and had graduated from ABAC several years before. She worked at the desk at the Dusit Thani Hotel for two years before she decided that aspect of the hospitality industry was not for her, and came looking for a job at Petersons. She was not pretty, but cute and innocent in that way Thai girls can be, with small features and stringy black hair. She was always laughing and jovial at the office and everyone liked her…well, everyone except our Chief Financial Officer, Somkiat, but I think he just realized he was gay after being married for three years, so he had a lot on his mind at the time.

That evening, Fon arrived at our house around 7pm. We introduced her to Sam and Des, our two little ones, and they seemed to get along immediately. Without incident, we said our goodbyes and left her there, saying we’d be home by 10pm.

My wife and I met with my colleagues at the Four Seasons, and I got quite intoxicated over dinner. As usual, I ended up offending my colleague’s wife, making lewd suggestions that she used to sleep with one of her former bosses— which I know for a fact that she did, the slut, but whatever, that’s not the point right now. The point is, on the way home, my wife drove. She was not speaking to me because she was angry that I had ruined another dinner with my uncontrollable drinking. Honestly, though, I couldn’t help it. At that time, I was an extremely unhappy person. I didn’t even realize the reason for my unhappiness—although now, of course, it’s quite clear. I was unfulfilled—emotionally, sexually, excretionally…you name it. Imagine if you had to live never being able to even have the satisfaction of a good bowel movement. That’s how I was living. I never got to really go.

The good thing is, I realize that now and I’m admitting it to the world. Hear me say it—I was unfulfilled, and it’s not my fault. My parents raised me in a certain way, indoctrinated me with a certain set of principles, taught me to believe this and that, as they thought was right. But they were wrong. They didn’t know, and by all accounts I really shouldn’t be blaming them for doing what they thought was best for me, but I realize the truth now. It’s OK though. I’m cool with it. I just wanted to complete that with you.

As we arrived home, I petitioned my wife to stop the car at the curb, so I could step out to vomit, which I did, promptly. This infuriated my wife even more, so she just drove into the garage, closed the door and turned off the lights.

I laid down on my front lawn and stared up into the sky, the stars just beginning to shine through the ages of space where they began. Why am I so unhappy? I thought to myself in the cold sobriety that followed the puke session. What is my effing problem?

I went inside to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The door was closed, and I unthinkingly just opened the door without knocking. To my surprise and delight, Fon was standing there above the toilet wearing what looked like children’s diapers. I couldn’t help but notice they had elastic leg bands and pink and yellow teddy bear illustrations on them. Thinking back, they were probably Medium Absorbency Mommie Pokos. She looked like a little child in them, but she was not. I was shocked into silence, and it wasn’t until she reached down to pull up her jeans (with no rush, I may add, almost as though she was planning on being walked in on) that I started to apologize for barging in on her. I was greatly embarrassed, but I must also admit—enormously excited by seeing an adult wearing diapers.

The feelings I had years before when we had our first child, Sam, came rushing back to me. I was very forthcoming with my wife at that time in volunteering for diaper duty. I rationalized it as a husband’s responsibility—she had carried our child for eight months, it was now my turn to take care of it.

But it was more than that. I really enjoyed the act: not the messy bits, but the act of putting the diapers on her—the process of powdering the bottom, slipping the nappies on, then wrapping her up nice and snug. We kept Sam in diapers for almost eight years, at my suggestion, and it was only when the family doctor suggested we potty train her that I immediately told my wife we should have another child.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was gaining joy not from the act of changing diapers, but from the intimate fantasies I would entertain while doing it—fantasies that always involved the thought of someone putting diapers on me, powering my bottom delicately, wrapping me up nice and snuggly. I still wasn’t prepared mentally to admit this, but it’s the truth. I also fantasized about making them messy, but that was usually later in the evening.

I offered to drive Fon home that day, but she insisted on taking a taxi. I said the least I could do was walk her out to the main road and she obliged. On our way out, I heard that familiar swish sound she made, a sound I had heard frequently in the office but discounted as some kind of female undergarment she wore at “that time of the month.” Now I realized the truth, and I must admit, it made me smile.

Once we were out of earshot of the house, I thought it was only right to apologize again for my rudeness.

“I really am sorry about walking in on you,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said and smiled.

“So...I hope you don’t think this is too direct, but I…well, I couldn’t help but notice, you have unusual underpants on.”

She was quiet and I feared I had gone too far.

“Do you like them?” she said. My heart leapt.

“Well, I would be lying if I said they didn’t make me feel… a certain way.”

Her eyes looked into mine like two amethyst crystals searching for light in the darkness.

“Yes, I thought you might. Maybe we could talk about it some time…” she said.

A taxi approached, she waved it down and said goodbye. I went back into the house, my head spinning from the realization that I had found another adult who enjoyed wearing diapers. It seemed to me like the world had just turned on its head.

I didn’t want to face my wife, so I went into our pantry and started rummaging around the drawers and cabinets until I came upon what I had been looking for—a few of my sons’ leftover diapers. I tenderly opened the package I had stashed away here for the past few years. I took the first piece my hand touched, and I pressed it to my face, as if I were greeting a long lost lover. I breathed in deeply, embracing the scent of baby freshness. Suddenly I heard the door behind me open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” my wife said.

“Uhh, nothing,” I said pulling the diaper off my head. “Fon had mentioned she wanted a few of these for her sister’s kids…I just wanted to check to see if these were still fresh.”

“Still fresh?” my wife said, “Reggie, I don’t think diapers go bad.”

“Oh yes, they do,” I replied. “They most certainly do. But not these. These are still good, I think, though their absorbency probably couldn’t handle a really heavy load.”

“Oh God,” she said with a face like a dried prune. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

She left me and went to bed. I put the remaining nappies back in their hiding place in the pantry and soon followed her.

✈✝ ✆

The next day I went to the supermarket and browsed through the adult diaper section, admiring the range of product choices on offer. It was a real cornucopia of options. I bought the cloth variety; as I thought it would be more economical to hand wash them myself.

When I got home I was delighted to find my wife was at a soccer game with the kids, so I had the place to myself. I went into the bedroom. The sun was streaming through the windows in translucent golden rays. I took out my purchase and placed the package on the bed. With sweet temperance, I took the first pair out and strapped them on. Heavens, they felt good! Nice and tight in the crotch area, like someone was giving my package a firm hug. I was really excited by the whole thing. I was going to put my pants back on, but didn’t get that far. As I stuck my right leg into the pants, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and realized what a critical turning point this was in my life. This was it, a regression to my true and natural state, a triumphant return to diaperhood from which I could never again have to leave. So I decided to just enjoy it.

I was watching America’s Most Wanted in the living room about an hour later when my wife came home with the kids. She saw me sitting on the upholstered couch with nothing on but a cloth diaper, eating a family sized package of Lay’s Potato Chips, and immediately told the kids to go to their rooms. They looked at me, but didn’t seem to see anything wrong. I think they appreciated me getting back to being myself—I can see that now. They knew I was just being me, so they didn’t say anything like, “Hey dad, why are you wearing a diaper?” or something stupid like that. They saw me, and they understood right away. Sometimes, kids just know.

My wife was another matter, though. From then on, she was always giving me shit about wearing diapers around the house or under my suit going to work. She just didn’t understand the liberty they afford. I love it. I can shit or piss in them, and do whatever else I want in them, too. I clean them all by hand afterwards, so I can just make a mess whenever and not worry about damaging the environment. I don’t really do it that often—once or twice a day, maybe. But it’s not really about that. It’s more about the security I feel wearing adult diapers. And it just feels right. I don’t know if you can really understand that, but you’re just going to have to believe me on this one. I’m returning to nature. I’m finally being myself.

About five months after that, my wife left me and gained custody of the kids, too, so I had to say goodbye to all that. Sucks, sort of, but whatever. Fon and I became close friends and we met some really cool people in town, too. We have baby parties and stuff, and it’s a cool scene, you know? It’s just chill. I even stopped drinking. I am who I am, and that’s all I can ever be. How can you blame me for that? I’m just me, Reggie Baby, the Diaper Man. You’ll know me by the swish.

This weekend I went to Fire Island with Becca, Marc, Aliza and Monica. Man, i haven't seen a beach that beautiful on the East Coast in a long time. It's so quiet, tranquil, and chill. No fat Jersey/LI trash with kids running around, making noise and just being annoying in general. There was a nude beach right next to where we were sitting, which was actually really amusing, but other than that, it was really relaxed.

On Sunday, I went walking around lower Manhattan, kind of re-acquainting myself with the area since leaving almost 3 years ago. The Lower East Side, Union Square, and the West Village haven't changed much really. A couple shops and restaurants have moved out, others have replaced them, but other than that, it's pretty much the same. I did notice a whole lot more street punks than before, looking as cracked out and nasty as ever. I think much more perceptible, on a personal level, is that I'VE changed quite a bit. Not sure how to pin-point it really, but I have this creeping feeling like I'm an outsider or something. I don't know. Maybe it's a momentary thing. Maybe it's one of those passing "Sunday feelings," like you used to get when you were a kid on Sunday afternoons, knowing you had to go to school the next day. Like trying to enjoy that last meal before execution...

Last week I went to Los Angeles on my way back from Bangkok. Kind of like a one week pit stop. It was pretty cool. I stayed with Keith and his crazy little dog Suzy, who tried to eat my Spirulina pills! Anyway, it was great to see him again and also to enjoy the laid back West Coast lifestyle for a week.

Aside from just chilling and partying in LA, we also made an excursion to the Sierra Nevadas. We hiked around the Mamoth Lakes area, which is just southeast of Yosemite National Park. It's a beautiful little area. Some of the lakes are not so nice, but others are as clear and clean and the New England ones I am more familar with. Here's some photos from my week out there. More photos on my flickr page!

Released in 1962, spooky spook house thriller Carnival of Souls spent precious little time in the theaters, but gained popularity on late night television. Watching the re-released DVD from 1989, it’s easy to see how this film has become a cult classic.

The film starts with the central character, Mary Henry, a church organist from Lawrence, Kansas, crawling out of the Kansas River, the sole survivor of a car wreck involving two of her friends. She has no memory of how she survived, and in the post-event freak out, decides to move away to a church in Salt Lake City, Utah. Along her drive to Utah, a ghoulish apparition known only as “The Man” (played by director/producer Herk Harvey) begins visiting her, who’s frightening appearances become more and more frequent until she starts questioning her own sanity. While slow in parts, the film is certainly entertaining for the majority of the way through.

Why has this low budget, black and white horror film lasted the past 40+ years? Three obvious attractions stand out. First, it works on the most obvious levels. Though the film may be old, it’s fun to watch and definitely still freaky where it should be. And when the film isn’t scary, it’s funny. Though probably unintentional when being created, the hokey nature of the characters (for the most part clichés with bits of gooey cheese dripping down the sides) make the film an entertaining watch. The leery neighbor who is trying to score a date with the main character is a laugh the whole way through. Second, Carnival of Souls looks great. The cinematography is wonderful, with rich, crystal clear black and white images and deep focus. Technically, the film is a joy to watch. Lastly, the music is awesome. Having the main character be a pipe organist is a great device for splashing spooky music all over the soundtrack (she even listens to it in the car).

All in all, a cool watch for those who dig the freakiness.

Dinner parties totally rule.

In the past couple weeks, we’ve finally gotten around to having some at John’s pimpin’ pad on soi 33, and they have been good (not quite as healthy and jiving as the infamous Juice Party Yeen and I had a couple weeks ago, which entailed swimming, too, but still one heck of a groovy time). The company has consistently been (all 2 times) Pim, Yuka, Taeko, John and myself. The first time, Pim’s dog Power came too. And peed on the floor, thank you very much.

This time around, John was lazy and so all he made for HIS OWN dinner party was fruit salad (HORRAY for Home Ec class), which was good, but he left the other dishes to his guests. Luckily, that was fine as Pim brought some fried rice and gyoza, while I brought some salads. But the real stars were the Japanese ladies.

Taeko made unrolled sushi, which consisted of fluffy white rice, sliced Japanese omelet, seaweed, and some other little assorted goodies inside. It was delicious-o, even if she said her mom would be ashamed of the rice’s light consistency (the Japanese are a bit more fastidious about their rice than Westerners, I think). Yuka made a simple yet fabulous rocket salad with smoked salmon. But here’s the thing—the dressing was AWESOME. Here’s a little before and after, action/reaction shots, which I think say it all.

Afterwards, we went to Ad Makers, which rocked, then dipped into Fallabella, which was too expensive, then went to Nana.

Around 3:30am, Yuka, Taeko and I wound up at Foodland on soi 5 getting some grub. Next to me, some guy sat down and almost immediately started complaining to the cook, “I don’t like this salad… It’s uh… I don’t like this salad.”

He should have joined us about 7 hours earlier.

Check here for the Japanese version of this wonderful little tale, probably in much more concise format: taeko's blog.

Thanks to Taeko for the pics!

BLONDE REDHEAD
23


The number 23 has an occult reputation as representing change, chaos and disintegration, probably gained from its hexagram in the I Ching epitomizing disorder. Appropriately, this is the title taken by New York art rockers Blonde Redhead for their seventh album, which marks a shift by the band to a higher profile, more approachable sound that will probably result in more sales and new fans. The album itself was initially self produced, but the band supposedly lost sight of whatever demons they were channeling and they brought in the big guns midway through in the form of U2 wizard Alan Moulder, who bewitches the album with trickery fans of his prior works will be pleased with. 23 is a fantastic mix of murky, Depeche Mode-type electronic elements and phased, far off guitars that make Blonde Redhead sound like a gorgeous, updated shoegazer act. The title track opens the album with My Bloody Valentine string work and thunderous drums that roll in the distance while Kazu Makino’s vocals shift like rain drenched ghosts in the foreground. “The Dress” sounds vaguely like a Wire track with an odd, mechanical melody and rattling pianos that somehow disquiet and comfort at the same time. “The Publisher” is a moody and melancholy rant against misunderstanding (or is it misrepresentation?) with a chorus that deserves to rock stadiums. Lush, dark and magical, 23 has a rare style and sound that begs the listener to consent just a little to allow the full extent of its rapture to begin.





FEIST
The Reminder


Leslie Feist may not as yet be a household name, but she’s definitely paid her dues in the music industry, and it shows on The Reminder. Having made her entrance playing guitar for indie rockers By Divine Right, she released a debut solo album in 1999 to limited acclaim. She later honed her craft playing with Broken Social Scene and got her stage persona in check touring Europe with her roommate, electro raunch artist, Peaches. All this prepared her for her more mature solo efforts, including a praised second album, Let It Die in 2004, and this, her third work.

Produced by Canadian keyboard player Jason Charles Beck, better known as Gonzales, The Reminder is a solid collection of freak folk, melancholy ballads and thoughtful songs of loss that prove unpretentious and astute. She possesses a quiet power in her tender voice somewhat reminiscent of Sarah McLachlan. Though some of the ballads can drag a bit, “The Water” has a smoky mystery that sounds like it’s emanating from a piano in the shadowy corner of a 1930s speakeasy. The more upbeat folk rock numbers, like “Past in Present” have a flint-edged honesty that’s hard not to like. In “My Moon My Man” she betrays a road weariness, breathing cryptic phrases like, “My moon and me / Not as good as we’ve been / it’s the dirtiest clean I know” in a silky voice, sexy as hell. A memorable release from an artist to watch.