Prose Poem: Thailand nurtures writers. (Dedicated to Hanna Ingber.)

 

Thailand nurtures misfits and writers.  Especially writers.  In a cheap un-airconditioned room with cross ventilation you can create sprawling novels, short stories, poetry, or even work at journalism as a stringer.  Work as a news stringer to earn your room and board so you have time to parse words together for, say, an epic poem about the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.  That was my current project; it happened in Boston when a huge vat of molasses meant for fermenting and distilling burst apart -- actually killing people.  I labored over my epic poem at night while running down light travelogue stories during the day.  The Songkran Water Festival in April, when everyone throws water at each other from small silver buckets.  Loy Krathong in November, with millions of tiny candles floating in the water and drifting through the air.  Like Victorian fairies.  How to make green papaya salad with a mortar and pestle.  The riot of orchids growing on everything from telephone poles to bamboo birdcages.  Since I speak fluent Thai the stories were easy to get.  The Thais love anyone who speaks their language.  They are very open and gregarious.  They'll talk about anything, tell you anything, after a few bottles of Chang beer.  For a long while I had the field all to myself.  I only worked a few hours in the morning, filed my stories, and then worked on the crew manifest of the USS Nantucket the rest of the day and into the night.  The Nantucket was in Boston Harbor when the molasses tsunami occurred.  Then Hanna Ingber showed up.  Ambitious. Beautiful. Literate. Witty. And she spoke the Thai language with a melodious tonal quality that enchanted everyone from the Prime Minister to the ladies of the night in Soi Cowboy.  Suddenly my normal Thai contacts had no time for me.  They preferred to talk to 'Khun Hanna.'   I scrabbled hard to pick up the few news crumbs that Ingber deigned to leave me.  My poem suffered for it.  In fact, I have put it away and work as a full-time English teacher just to make ends meet.  I catch fish out of the klong behind my apartment building for dinner.  And even when Ms. Ingber finally left Bangkok to go write stories in New York City I couldn't get my writing rhythm back again.  After all, there's not much that rhymes with molasses.   But I don't mourn my demise as an epic poet.   When you fail in Thailand you just light some incense, then get an hour long foot massage.  After that, the Buddha comes to you in your sleep with wise and comforting sayings.