From the Klong's Edge

It has been raining. Rain isn’t the word that truly describes /grey sky in torrents, sheets blankets, cats and dogs with raindrops the size of gumdrops at 32 ft. per second per second, as caused by that nasty effect known as gravity, creating a thundering earth-bound tattoo on every tin, concrete or plastic overhang anywhere you care to think of, but most especially at the edge of this klong. Wet noise is the only way to describe it. Wet, wet noise and the sun is simply a memory.

A quick, no call it a cursory glance around the room reveals an empty existence. Well, not entirely empty. There is a bed (comfy), three pillows (a number barely sufficient for one person), a table (with pencil), a wardrobe (almost empty), ,a dressing table with mirror (to be avoided at all costs, remember what happened to Alice), an empty chip bag (original flavour), an ashtray (full), two old puzzles from the Bangkok Post (unfinished), and a laptop (ancient). The ancient laptop is the very one being used for this composition. O, and the typist. Other than that the room is empty.

There are certainly the invisible things there because there are invisible things everywhere (air being the most necessary example). Cooking and coffee odours that waft in from the stalls near the rapidly rising klong swirl around the room. And the echoes of every past occupant that ever passed through the room must resonate off the walls. But being invisible they cannot possibly count.

What no TV? Of course there is no television. Television is antiquated, barbaric and boring. Besides there is an extra charge for the useless box. So, no, there is no TV.

It is 7 am. Not that it could be noticed by looking at the sky which is almost as black as any ordinary night. Nor can the roar of the tuk-tuks on Samsen Road, indicating the morning movement of people be heard above the din of the rain on tin. But there is no book to bury a nose in. There is no coffee to curl fingers around and sip knowingly. There are no comforts in the room, a truly empty existence.

Staring out the window the air is slivered with rain, rain, rain, rain and the morning’s choices are limited. Watching the rain would be the number one choice. But there is a second choice. Running (speed would be needed) around the corner to Soi 2 and a quick, yet dripping entrance into the BookBar to satisfy both morning needs: coffee and a book. Damn, a person could get wet enough on that run to need do drink a beer to take the chill off. So, faced with only these two choices for morning entertainment, and after a short time of hemming and hawing, a decision is made. And after a few stretches and deep knee bends this typist will be prepared to make that mad dash through the rain (no singing will be needed) that is part of activity choice number two. Who knows, there may be another intrepid soul (fool) who prefers coffee and a book to emptiness and has come to the same conclusion and with whom wet stories may be traded.

It also means that I no longer need to type this.