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Expatriation Is A State Of Soul ?


orang37

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Whilst contemplating the glut of water hast fallen from the sky in Chiang Mai this year, and trying not to think about if the horrors swept under-the-rug are high enough to withstand flood: we pick up the road-map once again, and try to find where we are. We knew where we were, we thought, but the road-map changes so frequently, on-again, off-again, we get topsy-turvy, a different flavor of dizzy than the 'Amazing Thailand' version.

How did the road-map remain even partially legible through all these rains ?

We began to formulate a hypothesis: every single official in a certain country, in the government, and the military, the police, people in one color shirt, people in another color shirt, and people in multi-colored shirts, had all completed their complete denial of an astronomical number of acts of commission, and omission, with which they have been charged/indicted/named in numberless lawsuits, criminal warrants, various legal torts in diverse and sundry courts, etc., etc., Oyez, Oyez.

Then, like the surface of a frozen lake cracking at random, a second wave of denials began in which first-wave deniers denied they had denied the charges. A further complex (fractal ?) form of denial then also spread like swine flu: those who had made charges, filed suits, etc., denied they had done so irregardless of whether there was still a warrant, or a writ, or a habeas, or lawsuit pendulous.

Which then led to fresh accusations (by the original accusers) of lack of "showing responsibility" by not maintaining the first, ab origine, denial on life-support. And, au naturel, fresh accusations that a withdrawn denial of the first accusation then becomes, prima facie, evidence of culpability, and guilty as charged even though the power went out.

But, the beauty of a retroactive denial of a denial is it that tosses the grenade back in your opponents hands, and its hazard is that the last person who catches it may have more than their hands blown off. This is actually a deadly form of the old "hot potato" game.

And thus, its energy sucked away by a vortex of an infinite regress of denials and accusations, the "road map" became so soaked in tears and blood: it became indelibly illegible, and no one could remember who had promised what to whom, or which tit was required to reciprocate for which tat. Pitiable to see the jots left howling without a tittle in sight.

Some claimed the people in one color shirt "split the road map down the middle:" others denied there had ever been a middle to split.

It was just as Jonathan Swift once wrote: "A flea hath fleas that on him prey, and so on, 'til infinity."

Meanwhile watermelons abound, and durian season is here, and it's damned hot in Chiang Mai.

What, we ask ourselves, can we do to get the primordial chthonic water-serpents, the Nagas, to stop making rain ?

If you laughed while reading this you are doomed, but you are also doomed if you didn't, but that's not the same thing as "Catch 22:" ask Yossarian about that: he lives, you know. Probably in a witness-protection program that involved a surgical change of face, not just a mind-switcharoo in the face of multiple indictments.

Is to say: "nothing is funny," when you experience nothing funny: unreasonable ?

We religiously avoid the hypothesis that Ockham's Razor yearns to slice fine as prosciutto: the road-map has always been 'plain as day,' and illegibility is on us.

Expatriation means never having to ask yourself: "who's your daddy ?:" is it a jungwat, or a mere moo-baan ?

~o:37;

Edited by orang37
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The road map that I recall was not merely diaphanous, it was fragile. It was not only a wisp, it was illusory in the first place. Who was surprised when it disappeared into the ether?

Reconciliation might help me feel settled here, expose the soul somewhat, but for the present Thailand's a village - and I can move on.

If they don't mean floods, I love the rains.

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