Dreamscapes I

        Hitchhiking along a Colorado mountain highway, lined with the autumn hues of red-gold Aspen, dusky-dry brown brush and grasses, firs, Engelman spruce, evergreens, and snow-clad peaks soaring into the spacious clear sky. The small towns I can almost recognize, but they’ve changed now to accommodate hordes of Easterners, city-dwellers on weekend sorties, Texans in giant RV buses, and cyclists (motor and pedal variety) with bright-colored, tight-fitting suits or the obligatory heavy black leather wear, depending on the size and noise of the bike itself! These mining camps and isolated villages have become pit-stops of fast-food joints and gas station mini-marts, clearly sacrificing their quaintness and charm to modern commercial enterprise.
         So be it, for in this dream I have no need of their junk food or plastic wares. I am traveling ever so lightly, enjoying my home state again after such a long absence.
         The sublime autumn scene – wide sub-alpine meadows dotted with lakes and the occasional ranch building, populated by a smattering of livestock and the wary wild antelope – turns into winter quite suddenly. Snow and wind force me to find some shelter in the next town, a ski village nestled among giant escarpments and ridges. In this dream it reminds me of Crested Butte, Colorado, population approximately 5,000 hardy folks, who tolerate 9 months of winter every year. They feel amply rewarded, being nicely removed from the madness of a greedy and violent society raging in the lowlands of America far below.
         I stop at the first “watering-hole”, a two-story saloon called The Gold Mill. Inside the large first floor of the old frame building, a huge wood-burning stove dominates the middle of the room, surrounded by large circular tables with comfortable, western-style armchairs. The entire length of one wall is decorated by a large mirror and dozens of bottles of distilled spirits. A handsome saloon-style bar runs parallel to the mirror, manned by two bartenders with 1880’s clothing and handle-bar mustaches. Ragtime piano provides the ambience necessary to complete a quick trip back in time, when hard work, high living, whoring, gambling, and lawlessness were the lifestyle of Colorado mining town folk.
         “What ya havin’, mister?” the bartender calls out.
         “Beer. A large draft of your best.” I settle into a chair at an empty table near the door.
         She first appeared in this dream as the bar-maid, bringing my large mug of frothy beer from the bar to my table. Dressed as a saloon girl from this long=lost era when gold was the only currency accepted in even the most disreputable establishment, sashaying like a young filly should when every man in the room is watching her, she fixed her dark eyes on mine.
         “Lisa is my name…I’ve been waiting for you,” she proclaimed, and the scene began to shift, rematerialize.
         Ever so slowly she melted before my eyes, becoming pure molten platinum/gold alloy. Oddly enough, her voice continued to purr, increasing the pleasurable excitement of her strange and wonderful presence.
         “You are trapped now. Out there. Lonely, yet caged with so many…men.”
         “I’m trying to understand…” I began to cry, now remembering the waking reality I was escaping. “…but it’s so hard, so very hard. Lisa…”
         “Shhh…”, she hushes me while changing form. From molten, glistening, feminine allure she changed into a beautiful Bengal tiger – wild, majestic,  yet obviously unthreatening in this dreamscape.
         Together we walk up the long staircase to the second story, she bounding easily ahead of me. I was reminded of the tiger I had seen recently in north Thailand, pacing nervously in its jungle-cage habitat at the Chiang Mai Zoo.
         “Come. There’s something we have to do.” By the time she reached the top step, she’d become a new young woman again – the saloon image replaced by a quite modern, though modestly attired new millennium model – a quintessential American female. Her eyes were kind and sympathetic, though, a contrast to this cool image. She motioned me forward until we stood together in front of one of the second-floor rooms. Slowly, she opened the door for me.
         Instead of a furnished hotel room, a tremendous vista opened before my astonished eyes. Beyond the door was a seemingly unlimited horizon, a broad western prairie grassland, wide rivers, and sunny skies. The lady named Lisa disappeared, but walking toward me came someone I knew and loved so well – my young Thai girlfriend, Aoi.
         “Ted, ja…Ted, ja…” she repeated softly in the way she always greeted me. She was naked, and, of course, I was transfixed by her little brown body.
         My tears flowed, in pain, yet wonderfully happy also to be with her again. It had been so long, so long…so many terrible empty hours since I had last seen her.
         We made love for a purely magical period that was far too brief. Then, remembering this was a dream, I reluctantly surrendered to the nightmare outside my mind…

Living Nightmares I

         It’s probably the roar of an incoming arrival to Bangkok International Airport that awakens me. The huge jets are routed directly over the prison during nighttime hours, shattering the little peace and quiet one might enjoy after a day of nonstop racket and confusion created by over a thousand men crammed into a facility built to accommodate a hundred or so.
         Wiping the very real tears from my eyes, striving to retain Aoi’s wondrous beauty in my mind’s eyes, I shifted my body in the narrow space given for my sleeping berth on the floor. Everyone sleeps on the floor in this prison – fifty to seventy men are crammed into a “dormitory” room measuring 5 X 18 meters – and everyone has to fight for his own space. I feel fortunate at the moment because I have a space in one corner, which gives me a tiny amount of precious privacy since I can turn to face a wall. Nobody likes this corner because it’s close to the toilet, but I feel the trade-off for a little illusory solitude worth the disgusting odors and sounds of the vile shit hole. I usually keep my ears, eyes, and nose plugged most of the night anyway.
         I look at the small clock above the toilet. I is now 4 AM – two more hours before wake-up call. Before I allow myself more sleep, I replay the marvelous dream I had just been given over and over, relishing every fleeting detail of the erotic encounter with my little Thai sweetheart.
         She is the only thing keeping me alive now – memories of her, and the fading hope that I might still achieve release somehow so we can be reunited. It has been 60 days since I left her to travel to Bangkok – 58 days since my arrest – and the thread of hope stretches ever thinner.
         Sleep is a real survival mechanism under these conditions. Sometimes it comes easily, as each day causes extreme nervous exhaustion, but many nights I lie awake thinking – sweating in the close, warm, humid air of the Bangkok summer, watching the ceiling fan turn lazily above our restless bodies, waiting for sleep to rescue me; waiting, thinking, reminiscing of the weeks before my arrest.

Dreamscapes II

         Sam Carter and I are traveling together, as we often do from time to time, riding the long highway west (“the West is the best!” Jim Morrison once sang). Sam likes to drive – we’re in his machine, as usual – so I can just sit back and enjoy the scenery, be it ever so warped and surrealistic!
         “Time for another bowl, Sam.” I pull out my stash of Nepalese temple ball and load the trusty hash pipe.
         “I don’t need anymore! It’s hard enough keeping my mind focused on driving.”
         “UH-huh.” I mutter in agreement, slowly exhaling the first hit. “Nevada highways have got to be the most boring in the world.”
         “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Come across a couple of teenyboppers in hot pants, looking for a good time al the way to Reno.”
         And, of course, this is exactly what happens. They appear on the highway ahead of us – not two, but three sexy young ladies – right on cue, even though there isn’t a sign of habitation anywhere.
         Sam is happy to do most of the talking, and I’m happy to survey the individual terrain of each new prospect. Dreams can be so much fun!
         “We’re really thirsty!” long red hair licks her lips.
         “Why did you pick us up?” Curly blonde and perky has the cutest blue eyes.
           “No beer or soda, but plenty of fruit juice, and ice water.” Sam suggests, distracted from driving and loving it. “Ted has hash, though, if you like good smoke.”
         “Are you guys old hippies?” Thick raven hair is the most serious, which really turns me on.
         “Ted’s an old hippie.” Sam chortles, happy to be a few years younger than myself. “He even went to Haight-Ashbury and took mega-hits of acid.”
         “Did you really? How sixties!” but she smiles nicely, and suddenly I find her sitting in my lap as everything fast forwards in the dream.
         The sexual encounters happen as Sam’s car keeps moving down the deserted Nevada highway. It really seems quite normal, even when there’s nobody behind the steering wheel. Truckers just wave, the girls engage in small talk, and Sam and I take turns wondering why life can’t always be what you really want! Soon the girls are let off somewhere, and we notice for the first time that something is very different about the landscape we’re driving through.
         “Must be a big forest fire nearby,” Sam comments.
 The normally clear blue Nevada sky has turned an ugly, smoky color – burnt-orange, ghastly at midday, nearly blocking the sun’s rays completely.
         “But we’re nowhere near a large forested area.” I respond, sickened by the implications of this observation. “This part of Nevada is 99% desert! It’s something else, Sam. We’re in the near-future now. We’re being given a vision of something to come – something that’s not just a local phenomenon.”
         We travel ahead, crossing the entire continent very quickly in our dream-machine. The burnt-orange continuum covers every square mile of North America, and beyond.
         Our dream consciousness soars into the stratosphere, where we can survey a world on fire. The last of Earth’s great tropical rain forests are the major source of this terrible conflagration, but there are many smaller fire sources visible – entire cities ablaze; oil fields and refineries pouring copious amounts of thick black smoke into the tortured atmosphere; grass and crop lands being swept clean by fire.

Living Nightmares II

         The weeks in Chiang Mai, North Thailand, just before my arrest in Bangkok were the best and also the strangest of times for me. I’ll not forget the lore I shared with my 18 year old sweetheart (and also with another lady friend – I’ll explain later!) which gave me the greatest emotional and sensual satisfaction I’ve ever known. Simultaneously I experienced the hand of fate closing round me; an exceedingly desperate feeling which presaged my fall from grace.
         My name is Ted Sawyer  - just another lonesome white boy who was fortunate enough to grow up in the mountains of Colorado. Except for my parents’ divorce, my childhood was a happy one. My adult life has been a steady string of unspectacular failures, now culminating with my bizarre arrest in Thailand.
         I came to Thailand in 1998, and immediately fell in love with the people and setting of Chiang Mai, a small provincial capitol about 500 miles north of Bangkok. On my second trip back, I brought enough cash to begin a small import and export trade between Thailand and the U.S.A. Lightweight plastic items were easy to import into Thailand in an extra suitcase – miscellaneous junk like guitar picks, baseball caps, cups, and other trinkets with U.S.A. logos stamped on them. These are easy to sell anywhere in the Orient. I found a small market in Hawaii, Colorado and California for certain Thai products like coffee, jewelry, baskets, and other handicrafts which are very cheap in north Thailand and can be sold to rich yuppies in American for a healthy profit. Everything went fine for about 18 months so I mistakenly assumed that my days of wine and roses had finally begun.
         Life in Chiang Mai was simply wonderful; the climate is perfect except for a few hot months, the food and rent are cheap, and the women…well, that’s the real story of Chiang Mai – one that couldn’t possibly be exaggerated! At 50 years of age I rediscovered love and sex and all those good things that TV commercials in America only promise you can buy. In Chiang Mai, they’re always available, sometimes for a price, and sometimes without even trying.
         In the course of this narrative, I’ll be sure to recall many of my indoor adventures, so, for now, it would be best to keep things in order by telling of the time before my arrest. Strangely enough, even now, I have few regrets, because, for a few brief shining months, I had everything I ever wanted.

Dreamscapes III

         A young Polynesian boy walks along the shoreline of a verdant, sun-splashed Pacific island. Giant cumulus formations, pregnant with trade-wind showers, parade across the skyline to bring nourishing rain to the island’s mountainous interior. Ambling slowly, the boy searches the blue-green reef pools for his morning’s catch – perhaps a juicy octopus or even a fat, tasty ono-ono left behind by the receding tide. Between tides now, the vast ocean breaks in regular 6 to 12 foot crests against the island’s surrounding reef. There is no sign of industrialization or urban civilization to break the spell of Nature’s finest spectacle – land, sea, and air in perfect harmony and unmolested order.
         Alone for most of the day, he takes a narrow trail which skirts the steep cliffs on one side of his island home as evening approaches. His favorite vantage point for sunset watching is at the highest point on the trail, nearly 2000 feet above sea level. From here he can see many miles in every direction: westward lies the great expanse of ocean, the fathomless source of life; to the south stretch precipitous cliffs and hidden valleys of the rugged wilderness coastline he calls Hana Pali; and below him the trail leads to the north and east shores where his people live in lush jungle valleys and costal flats.
         The sun’s disk is nestled among temple formations of thunderheads, a glowing red-orange pearl diffused into pure pastels against sea, sky, and jungle cliff. Time and space are not measured here, so evening and approaching velvet darkness alone determine when he must descend to his valley home. Reddish-violet hues cast soft rays to guide him along the rocky trail, once the last golden shafts of sunlight have disappeared for another day.. When he reaches the flat alluvial plain below, the trail widens, leading through guava, hemp, and banana groves to the taro and rice terraces lying at the mouth the great valley called Nualainai. Now he hears music and laughter, and he eagerly lopes toward the village clearing where a large bonfire illuminates the jungle canopy.
         Maidens decked in leis of orchids and bright red bougainvilleas sway rhythmically to the sound of drumming and tribal chants. For this full moon ritual dance, they are invitingly naked, their lithe brown bodies oiled and made fragrant. Male dancers stand solemnly in a large enclosing circle, waiting for the moon to rise. Now dreaming, incarnate as the teenage boy, awake to the raw sensuality of this moment, I join this circle, accepting a gourd of intoxicating awa root drink from a village elder. Almost immediately, the brew takes effect, and the great valley itself seems to pulsate and throb – a moist and verdant vagina of the Earth goddess herself, eager to receive my fertile seed.
         When the dance reaches its fever climax, a young girl chooses me from the circle. We spend the long moonlit night together, as Nature intends and the dreaming moon seems to command.

Living Nightmares III
 
        “How’s the export biz, Ted?”
         Handing me a cup of fresh-brewed hot coffee, Jack Terrel settled back to enjoy his own coffee and the Danish bakery items I had brought for snacks. Almost every evening, Jack and I had coffee and conversation after sunset, both of us happy to share some American-style male bonding, gossip, rumor, zen philosophy, and perhaps our latest bedroom capers.
         “Business is hurting, man. All of a sudden my orders have just stopped coming in. Also, some people in Honolulu owe me a couple thou U.S., and they’ve just stopped answering my e-mail! I really need that money now, but I don’t have enough spare cash to fly back to Hawaii and collect. I’m trying to figure out a way to keep afloat, but….Oh, well, strangely enough, my love life just keeps getting sweeter! Life is too strange!”
         “Just hang in there,” Jack commiserated, “If you are happy, that’s even better than a bank full of money.”
         “Yeah, I’m actually real happy. Little Aoi makes me feel better than Trump or Rockefeller or Bill Gates could ever imagine! Still, you know it’s impossible to stay here in Thailand without income.”
         We shot the breeze for a few more minutes, until Jack got a phone call from one of his many lady friends. He told me to stay, but I needed an excuse to go back to my own apartment. We lived just opposite each other in some very comfortable Chiang Mai apartments, complete with terraced roof, gardens, and friendly maid service. It was one of the best accommodation deals in Chiang Mai. In fact, I had never been happier with my living arrangements after months of searching for a clean, quiet, inexpensive apartment, which is very hard to find sometimes.
         I took a shower to relax, then laid on my huge king-sized bed, luxuriating under my efficient ceiling fan. I tried reading, but my thoughts kept interfering. What would I do when my money ran out? How could I come up with some cash to get me through this little financial slump? Why now, just when Aoi and I were so happy?
         This week the local Sonkran Festival was in full swing in Chiang Mai – an entire week of parades, beauty contests, assorted cultural attractions, and the famous non-stop water-throwing which all Thais engage in to celebrate the advent of spring. I was having trouble enjoying the festival this year because of my money woes.
         Aoi finally knocked on my door about midnight. She was the only tonic that could soothe my anxious mind and body. I jumped to the door. Her smile lit my room.
 “Ted ja…” her voice purred softly as she nestled into my arms. “Ted ja. Aoi loves you.”
         I couldn’t help but cry a little. I had never known such emotional ecstasy. She would be 18 this week, and I had turned 50 a few months ago.
         No one believed that someone so young and absolutely stunningly beautiful might actually love me, but, lately, I had become a believer. Something had changed in the last two months; a feeling that’s there when she would hold me tight and whisper her soft love coo.
         Anyway, it didn’t matter, because I loved her enough to keep us both seriously attached. I wasn’t about to let her go, in spite of all the good reasons others might have to end such a relationship.
         But…what would happen in two weeks, if I couldn’t raise some cash? I was troubled, and she sensed it.
         “Ted ja. Worry you mak-mak?”
         “Yeah, baby girl. Mak-mak! No have money mak-mak. I worry you. I want give you happy birthday A-OK? But maybe only nit-noy. Kao jai mai? You understand?”
         She pouted a little, betraying her desire for a nice expensive gift such as I had always given her when the occasion arose. We made love slowly and very passionately. It just kept getting better with her sexually, even though we had been steady lovers for almost a year.
         Watching her sleep contentedly as the soft morning moonlight streamed through my window, I couldn’t imagine what could happen next. Where would we go from here? Why was life so difficult, just when I had found someone like her, and the happiness I’d always longed for?

Dreamscapes IV

         Where is she now?
         The Moonlight Sonata plays ever so dramatically, lending the perfect poignant tone to this haunting dream. I am disembodied, floating across a bleak urban landscape, searching…
         I remember that I am dreaming, and that the place where I must return to consciousness is a human snake pit, a filthy den of thieves, murders, and demented drug addicts. All the more desperate, I search for my lost baby doll – my reason for cling to this mad existence. My darling Aoi – my lost baby love.
         Then she appears. Once again I drink the wine of her body and soul. Once again I thrill to her long embrace and the magic of her beauty.
         The dream is shattered somehow. Beethoven’s music trails off, and a harsh prison hell jars me awake.

Living Nightmares IV

         By the end of April my financial situation became a personal crisis. After spending as much as I dared for Aoi’s birthday present, I found myself facing total bankruptcy. I borrowed a little from Jack and even did some English teaching on the side, but it wasn’t enough to rescue my sinking bank account.
         I couldn’t understand how business could just stop on a dime. I went out of my way to provide export, at a cut-rate to people who seemed to genuinely want quality Thai products, but now several small businesses in America owed me for my last consignments, and I could not make them pay from 10,000 miles away. Worse, I hadn’t had a new customer contact me for nearly a month.
         I considered several options: robbing a Thai bank; pilfering from phone booths in the early morning; contacting someone – anyone! – for a high-interest loan, and so forth. Not very good plans, these.
         Around May 1st, I ran into a Thai lawyer who said he wanted to study English with me. Someone had given him my phone number. At first, we just talked about the English lessons, but, after a couple of days he made me another business offer.
         “You like go America, maybe carry money to my family in Los Angeles? Come back, carry U.S. dollars to Chiang Mai?” the lawyer, who called himself Tak, smiled as he perceived my definite and immediate interest.
         We haggled over the arrangements for such a risky venture, and I settled on a fee of $2000 plus expenses (U.S. dollars). If this deal could be done, it would certainly provide the instant cash I needed. He gave me about $100 (U.S.) that day to keep me afloat until I decided whether or not to accept his offer.
         “It’s probably counterfeit currency,” Jack said when I discussed the idea with him that evening. “You better check it out real good, Ace, or you might end up in deep shit!”
         “I don’t know, Jack. I’m running out of options. This trip could help me kill two birds. I can check out my dealers in California and Hawaii and maybe personally collect what they owe me. Plus, I get the cash from this deal – some of it up front. I think I need to take a chance. Just one time, you know.”
         Jack met Tak, the lawyer, a couple of days later. He was convinced the guy was a shifty operator, and I might really regret getting involved with him.
         Unfortunately, I didn’t listen. Tak kept giving me more loose cash, and, by the second week in May, I was getting prepared for a one week excursion to America.
         To make things more difficult, my sweetheart Aoi begged me not to go. She was happy about the money that Tak was giving me lately, but she seemed to understand I was heading for trouble. Also, just recently, an old girlfriend (21 years old) had re-appeared in my life, so there was another problem between us. Foolishly, I wanted both of them – Aoi and La – and they both began competing for my attentions and my oversexed, overage libido.
         Basically, without embellishment or exaggeration I had the strangest two weeks of my life just before the day I left Chiang Mai – you know, the best of times, and then the worst of times (to follow).
         As I said before, I really could feel that fate was dealing to me from a stacked deck; but, like the lousy gambler I really am, I fell for the con game, certain my luck was due to be good. Oh, how very wrong I was to feel that way!

Dreamscapes V

         Running, being chased, hounded by disembodied entities, I struggle to maintain equilibrium in an urban construct. Rooms without walls are stacked together like children’s tinker toys. I vault to and fro, but cannot elude whatever chases me. I become trapped in an attic space, yet, crawling upward along the ceiling like a spiderman, I find an exit onto the roof.
         I catch a glimpse of my pursuers. They are really just children, it seems, but their countenances betray a sinister, malevolent intent. One of them holds a mirror in front of me as he approaches along the steep inclined outdoor roof. The image in the mirror doesn’t resemble me at all – thick, curly dark hair and a young muscular body. The eyes are shocking. I jump over the edge of the roof.

Living Nightmares V

         The currency courier excursion became a bit more complicated as the date for departure nears. Tak wanted me to stopover one night in Bangkok and pick up an extra suitcase from his uncle before traveling on to Los Angeles. I protested, but it seemed there’s no way to avoid this extra hassle since the “uncle” is Numero Uno in the operation.
         OK, I should have realized right then that this was becoming a potentially dangerous fiasco. I detest Bangkok and everything it represents – a polluted urban jungle where greed and corruption are the only things thicker than the air. It’s a true hell-hole in every sense.
         Jack warned me again. He’d been reading the Bangkok newspapers, and there were a lot of police busts daily – drugs, gang activity, and counterfeit raids. Why didn’t I listen? The warning lights were everywhere, including inside my mind. However, I decided to risk everything on this one throw of the dice. If I made it, my money problems were resolved; if I didn’t…the unthinkable…
         Aoi spent every night with me those last two weeks, leaving for school in the morning. She knew that La would probably come by sometime during the day, but, as long as I didn’t mention it or make it somehow obvious, she accepted the situation. Thai women are conditioned to believe that men will always play around – another fringe benefit for any male of the hetero variety who lives here.
         La was my first steady girl in Chiang Mai. I met her in spring, 1998, when she was 19. We had a rocky time of it, and finally in the summer of 1999 she left me to go to Bangkok. Before I met Aoi in August last year, I spent a lot of money on quite a few different women of various ages and proclivities. Even after those first thrilling nights with Aoi, I tried to have someone else occasionally, but soon enough I realized that I had found the one I had always been waiting for; the girl of my daydreams, if you will.
         So why jeopardize a good thing when La came back from Bangkok? Simply, I never could resist her and she’s got a way of getting your clothes off before you even have a chance to say no.
         The day before I left on my fateful trip, La spent the entire afternoon with me. I knew it was near evening and that Aoi might come by any time after sunset, but La was particularly horny and kept me busy makin love until…
         “Ted ja.” It was Aoi at my door. The moment I dreaded finally arrived. “Ted ja…Aoi come.”
         I tried to keep La quiet, but, perversely enough she only giggled and made suggestive noises in bed. Aoi persisted by knocking. It was obvious she knew what was happening.
         I really didn’t want to hurt her, but I’ve always believed honesty is the best policy when sexual matters come to a crisis point. I pointed La toward the bathroom and let Aoi come inside.
         She was smoldering and just sat on the bed, waiting for La to appear. I didn’t try to explain the obvious, so I sat down beside her and stroked her warm body soothingly.
         “Beautiful lady here,” she finally said. I nodded my head. “Aoi no happy! Aoi loves Ted number one!”
         She was crying. What a fool I really was. I couldn’t help but think that I must be insane to even tempt Aoi to break it off with me!
         When La came out, I just asked her to leave. It was so easy, because now I knew in my heart that I would never need her again. I knew that Aoi really loved me, and that she would forgive me. It was the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life.
         (And 24 hours later I would be heading into a black hole that would utterly remove me from this love I had just realized: but that was unknown to me then.)
         Aoi and I had dinner after La was gone. She settled down very quickly – a gift of youth – and we had one of the best nights of our lives. She gave me all her love, in every possible manner that it could be demonstrated. I know now that it was her way of trying to keep me from traveling, and, because she knew I was already committed to the job, it was also her way of saying goodbye.
         When she left that morning, I told her I would be back within a week. She only nodded. I guess I was the only one who believed I would return.
         Now my heart and mind can only suffer savagely, it seems we’ll never meet again. I’m facing a long prison sentence and there’s no chance of early release on bail – it has been denied by the court.
         Effectively, my life is over. My reason for living is gone, and in my mind’s eye I can still see her clearly – the way she looked, the way she smiled, and they way she always spoke my name…”Ted ja. Aoi loves you.”

         I left Chiang Mai on a Friday afternoon. Tak had booked a room for me in a luxury hotel close to the Bangkok airport. After checking into my room, I waited for his “uncle” to show up with the extra suitcase. The “luxury” suite was typical of modern standards – artless, tasteless, purely plastic functional. It was 9 PM before the uncle called my room with the news the he would be delayed until midnight.
         Thai people can never keep appointments, so I just decided not to worry and find some company for a few hours. The hotel bar was a basic tourist trap with inflated prices and nary a young Thai female. I took a tuk-tuk into central Bangkok, where the action is always hot. I really didn’t intend to pick up a girl, but I needed to kill a few hours. I spent them at several topless joints, watching lazy Thai hookers gyrate to the monotonous beat of nonsensical disco music.
         Returning to my hotel a little after midnight, I was gratified to find the uncle and his ugly bodyguard waiting for me. Thais don’t mind if they’re late, but they get upset if “Farangs” make them wait.
         “Where you go?” he was belligerent and tried to push the suitcase his blocky friend was holding into my hands. “I no wait you. Take…go!”
         “Deeo. Just a moment.” I responded. “I take suitcase, you give 3000 dollars American – now!”
         He hesitated, looked around the deserted hotel lobby. I should have guessed something wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t he go to the room with me, I asked.
         “I no go room! Busy! You take…go!” he kept blustering.
         I just waited for him to produce my fee for this crazy business. Even though the bloody was air-conditioned I began to sweat uncomfortably. Tak had promised I would receive $3000 extra for this little side trip, so I wasn’t going to let his uncle give me the shaft. I already had one bag full of funny money, so I didn’t need an extra trouble unless there was extra pay.
         The bodyguard shoved the suitcase into my legs. He loosened his coat slightly and pointed at the holster inside his waistband. For a moment, I almost panicked, but I took a deep breath and then just walked away, leaving the nonplussed Thais and their suitcase behind.
         I waited for them to follow me up to my room. Once inside, I chained the door and kept a vigil through the peep-hole in case they decided to come after me. It was obvious they had no intention of paying me the promised $3000, so I just let them keep their phony money.
         Looking back to this period with 20/20 hindsight, I realize now that I should have immediately checked out of the room and hustled back to Chiang Mai. I did consider that, but for reasons unknown I just decided to wait until morning when I was scheduled to leave for Los Angeles. Actually, I felt that Tak would probably contact me before I left, and maybe we could get things straightened out.
         Jack used to say, “Never trust a Thai lawyer!” How right he was! About 2 AM the phone rang. I picked it up, expecting to hear from Tak. Instead, the line was empty. A little puzzled, I tried to go back to sleep. (It’s obvious to me now that I had just blown my last opportunity to escape what was coming my way!)
         I was nearly asleep when the door to my hotel room was bludgeoned viciously. With only a pair of shorts on, I jumped out of bed. The small chain held for a few seconds, but then the door flew open.
         Two men in plainclothes with vests on burst into my room – unannounced, and obviously looking for my suitcase. I used my natural athletic ability and Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat training to actually push them back out into the hall. They were visibly shocked at my ability to resist their intrusion. I was enraged by this assault.
         “Who are you?” I screamed. “Get the fuck out of here – now!”
         Before I could close the door again, one of them drew a pistol and shot wildly in my direction. According to the way my luck was going, it was just natural that the bullet would cause more pain and frustration than any real damage. My left hand was hit first, the bullet going cleanly through the fleshy part between my thumb and index finger. The pain was terrific – my whole hand felt shattered. I hardly noticed the graze wound on the left side of my body.
         As I slumped to the floor just inside my hotel room, the two men advanced and roughly began searching me. They were angry and kept hitting me with their fists and pistols. I hardly noticed – my wounded hand became the center of a very painful universe, and I began to approach a swirling black hole.
         Up to this point, I had naturally assumed my assailants to be some of Tak’s “uncle” goon squad. I was surprised when one of them finally pulled a badge. He shoved it in my face.
         “You! Under arrest!” the biggest cop sputtered in English. I think the goon squad would have been better.
         By this time, the hallway in the luxury hotel began to fill with people. Some of them were tourists, some of them hotel staff. No one cared to get involved, but everyone just watched with various degrees of curiosity. The police stopped beating me and continued to search my room. After confiscating everything I had, they wrenched both arms behind my back and handcuffed me. My bleeding left hand couldn’t take this extra shock treatment, so I mercifully passed out as they carried me roughly to the nearest elevator.

Dreamscapes VI

         I struggle to find consciousness. Something extremely painful has attached itself to my body. In fitful dreams, I visualize teeth gnashing, razors slashing, gnome-like creatures prodding me with knives, bayonets, even letter-openers! It’s obvious that sleep can’t relieve my pain, but there’s something waiting for me when I wake up…something I just can’t bear to face right now.

Living Nightmares VI

         “You lucky mak-mak. Only small hurt. You OK soon.” A soft, low voice beckoned me into awareness.
         I managed to focus my vision on a lovely face which seemed too close, too beautiful, too kind, considering the trauma I had just experienced. The generic brand pain-killers they had given me dulled my senses, but did little to actually relieve the intensely throbbing thing I once called my left hand. Inside my hospital room was a bored policeman who barely noticed me as he alternated between watching the nurse and the noisy TV on his side of the room.
         “Where…am I? Yoo tee nai?” I asked the nurse, who seemed ready to leave me alone with the stupid-looking cop.
         “You Bang Na hospital. You come morning – now late tonight. You like…arai?”
         “Nam. Water. OK?” my mouth felt like the inside of a dusty grain elevator back in Colorado farm country.
         She tended to me happily while the cop pretended to watch TV. He seemed more interested in catching a glimpse of her underwear as she moved around the room. The water didn’t help my thirst, and my swollen left hand seemed to catch on fire beneath the heavy bandages wrapped around it. I began to moan a little – this wasn’t the way my trip was supposed to happen!
         “Proong-ni, tomorrow make new wrap.” The nurse referred to my monstrous appendage, wrapped and hanging on the left side of the bed like a piece of bad meat.
         “OK. Thank you.” even a few words spoken caused me intense pain and nervous exhaustion.
         I watched her leave the room, not realizing that she would be the last woman I’d be close to for – who knows? - maybe a lifetime! The extra pain-killers she’d given me helped to pass the long night. Every time I woke up, it was the same scene – the same dozing cop watching TV; the same pain and discomfort of being strapped to a hospital bed. There was also a growing realization that my life had just spun out of orbit into a great and terrible free-fall.
         I was fully awake and in real pain when a doctor showed up about 8 AM next morning. He was accompanied by two policemen in uniform – not the ones who had been at my hotel room. They surrounded my bed and began chattering in Thai, oblivious to my condition.
         “Doctor! More…I need medicine! Jep mak-mak! It hurts…bad!” I was visibly squirming after maybe 8 hours with no pain-killers.
         They seemed surprised to hear my voice, as if I had just walked into the room. However, the policemen tried to keep the doctor’s attention on their conversation instead of my injuries. I screamed, giving them my best banshee wail.
         One of the cops almost hit me, but the doctor kept him at bay. He found my pain medicine and finally allowed me to swallow a few weird-looking blue capsules.
         While they talked, I tried to take stock of my situation. There was an element here I had never before dealt with in Thailand – cruelty, indifference, and sheer mean-spirited brutality! Every policeman had exhibited these traits since my arrest. What did it mean? For a few moments, I even thought that maybe I wasn’t in Thailand any more! It certainly wasn’t like Chiang Mai, wherever this horrid place might be; but, of course, I had always known Bangkok was different – the way Los Angeles is different from the rest of America. That helped to explain, but didn’t bring me much comfort.
         “Mister. Today police take you prison hospital.” The young doctor spoke a little English after all. “They say…they want you confess now. OK?”
         In spite of the pain, I managed to chuckle.
         “Confess? To what? To being raided without any warning in the middle of the night! To being shot down in my underwear! To being kicked and beaten and treated like a goddamn murderer! Is that what they want? Because that’s all I’m going to confess to!”
         No one understood my angry little diatribe, but the police could tell by my tone that I wasn’t in any mood for light-hearted confessionals. The doctor tried to mediate, but the police just shoved a piece of paper under my right hand. It was probably all my crimes, real and imaginary, and they were looking for a quick confession so they could go grab the Thai equivalent of coffee and donuts, or maybe a Patpong quickie.
         I tossed the pen across the room, somehow landing direct shot at the TV which had never been turned off since I’d been in the room. The cops shrugged, and the doctor offered apologies (“Just a stupid Farang. No respect. So sorry.” Something to that effect).
         “Police come take you prison. Afternoon.” The doctor led the surly cops out of my room.
         For about 45 minutes I was alone in that hospital room. As I considered my position, I felt that this period without direct police supervision might be my last chance for escape. I even tried to get my left hand free from the cursed sling it was hung upon, but the pain of only slight movement was too overwhelming. Drugged and in a state of total despair, I became too easily resigned to my fate. I spent this free time deep in thought, silently staring out the window, which featured a great view of the murky, skyscraper-dominated skyline of downtown Bangkok. The air was notoriously foul and poisonous, which must affect the 8 million people here in a negative fashion.
         “It could be worse,” I remember thinking. Yet even my new-found fatalism couldn’t prepare me for the shocking, stressful, and hopelessly maddening days just ahead.

         Before I go any further, let me say a word about justice in Thailand. There ain’t any! “Thai justice” is a misnomer, ranking right up there with “cowboy poets”, “feminist logic”, etc., so forth and so on. It would be a tiny bit humorous, I suppose, except that so many lives are wasted and destroyed in this otherwise happy realm.
         The Thai justice system is locked in a medieval mode, whereby an all-powerful judiciary (there are no jury trials) works in close coordination with corrupt ruthless police and prosecutors to secure as many convictions as possible. This is no exaggeration. One look inside nay Thai jail or prison will convince you, because they are all severely overcrowded – especially in Bangkok.
         For any American, Australian, or any citizen of a northern European country, Thai prisons are pure torture. Likewise, the system itself, with virtually no rights given to those merely accused and not yet convicted, is a shocking experience – perhaps similar to a sudden trip back in time to pre-revolutionary France.
         Needless to say, in the last 2 months I’ve rediscovered a healthy appreciation for what happened after the American Revolution, when a handful of men made human rights, the rights of the accused, and rights of individuals facing police and government prosecution the core of new concepts in social justice. Unfortunately, these concepts have no meaning to Thai people, who have been conditioned since birth to servitude of royalty and nobility, mindless obeisance to all authority figures, and pure fatalism individually.

         The prison hospital turned out to be two very small wards with about 20 beds in each wing, and a dozen mattresses in the middle of each room on the floor. Both wards were full when I was transferred that afternoon, but they kicked someone with a mere foot infection onto the floor area to make one of the beds vacant for me. My room had all the miscellaneous ailments – severe colds or flu, infections, broken limbs, etc. – while the other ward was where they placed all the AIDS patients, officially classified as TB (tuberculosis) patients since that was the most prevalent symptom shared by most of them. Most hospitals in Thailand don’t recognize the AIDS (HIV) virus, preferring to treat the individual according to the major symptomatic ailment he or she has contracted due to the weakening of the immune system by HIV.
         At any rate, I was locked up that night with a group of prisoners from the Remand Prison, where one is held awaiting trail. From the size of the hospital, I guessed the Remand Prison might house a few hundred prisoners. Of course, this estimate was revised upward to nearly 10,000 when I found out what conditions were like on the inside.
         After evening lock-down at 5 PM there were no nurses or doctors on duty at this little hospital. One was then at the mercy of two or three inmates called “staff”. The staff inmates were prisoners who worked in exchange for some time off their sentences. None of the ward room staff demonstrated anything resembling compassion or aptitude for their duties at the hospital. In fact, their main occupation was harassing other inmates staying at the hospital. Since I was the only Farang, they left me alone, being unsure whether they could harass me without possible repercussions. Treating the ward room as their personal fiefdom, the staff played stupid, demonic little games to make sure no one might actually enjoy rest or relaxation while recovering.
         My first few nights in the new prison were spent in a state of fitful nervousness with a bit of sleep now and then. During the day, doctors and nurses came to work, treating dozens of patients from the prison by dispensing pills and hustling them back to their squalid habitats. I could only guess what the rest of the prison was like, but I wasn’t optimistic about conditions inside based upon what was happening at the so-called hospital. The doctors and nurses acted nearly as unsympathetic towards prisoners as the guards.
         I was still in a state of semi-shock from the arrest and my gunshot wounds, and the pain pills were keeping me somewhat sedated, but I was also replaying the events which led me to this point over and over in my mind. Quite understandably, I was depressed and disgusted with myself. I hadn’t even prepared for the possibility of arrest and/or imprisonment in Bangkok (that was the “unthinkable” I mentioned earlier), but it had most definitely happened. I still hadn’t notified anyone that I was in jail, and it seemed to me that the police were in no hurry to help me contact anyone in Chiang Mai.
         On the third or fourth day after arriving at the prison hospital, I was able to move around pretty well. My left hand was in constant pain, and the graze wound on the left side of my abdomen made any exertion difficult, but I began to recover my equilibrium – and I wanted to try to get the hell out of jail!
         My first plan was self-evident. Having no friends or even acquaintances (Tak’s uncle? I don’t think so!) in Bangkok, I decided to contact the U.S. Embassy ASAP. I finally was able to find a young doctor who spoke English. He said he would call the Embassy for me, since prisoners weren’t allowed phone calls. I found it hard to believe that someone awaiting trial couldn’t even make a phone call! It wasn’t until much later that I realized this follows the logic of Thai in-justice – that is, one is guilty until proven innocent in Thailand. At any rate, the doctor did call the Embassy, and they sent someone a few days later.
         “Hello, Mr. Sawyer, my name is Lousie Deming, from the Embassy. How are you?” she was about 30, officious, bright, and remarkably all-American looking, blonde to the teeth.
         “Not too well.” I told her about my gunshot wounds, and briefly covered the story of my arrest.
         We talked for about a half hour through the chicken-wire separating me from freedom. She informed me that the Embassy couldn’t give me any legal aid or advice, other than to recommend certain law firms available in Bangkok. However, she did give me a detailed brochure which pretty thoroughly outlined the legal process I was facing under the Thai system of remand awaiting trial. I asked her to contact Jack Terell in Chiang Mai and a few people in the U.S. Then she left for Central Prison, where those already convicted are held.
         I didn’t feel a whole lot better after her visit, but at least it was human contact with someone who might actually give me sympathy and assistance. She had also promised to send an American doctor soon, even though my left hand was beginning to get better. It would be long time before I would be able to grasp anything, but I’m a typical right-handed whacker-offer anyway.
         The Embassy info sheet confirmed in black and white what most of the inmates had told me in broken English already. I would be held in the Remand Prison for at least 12 weeks before a trial date was set. Then I would undergo a lengthy trial process that might take many months, since Thai judges would only hear each individual case – both prosecution and defense – one day per month! No such think as a speedy trial in Thailand – that was pretty obvious! The more I read, the more confused and frustrated I became. No wonder the prisons were so overcrowded! This legal system was the most horrendous example of bureaucratic lunacy I had ever encountered. I might have expected this kind of nonsense in Russia, China or Iran, but I had thought Thailand was a modern emerging democracy. Once again my illusions were dashed.
         About 10 days later I was released from the hospital. My left hand was still useless, but the doctor assured me no one would make me work or do anything to cause me extreme pain. An American doctor living in Bangkok had given me better prescription drugs, so I felt I could handle the pain.
         It’s nearly impossible, however, to describe the shock of those first nights inside the Remand Prison. I was put through the processing stage with about 100 new prisoners who were herded from place to place like cattle at a stock show. We were fingerprinted, photographed, interrogated and re-interrogated, sealed, stamped, and eventually delivered into the “dormitory” section, where 50 to 60 men were made to sleep in one large cell every night. Sleep was practically impossible because the space allotted me was smaller than my height and shoulder width. Every time I moved during the night, I somehow managed to jar my left hand against the man sleeping next to me. It drove me crazy with pain.
         I did meet some English-speaking foreigners, so I was able to find out more information about prison life. Several Englishmen and Australians were held in my section, but it seems I was the only American. Everyone expected me to get bailed out soon, since most Americans have managed to get out fairly quickly. When I told them the facts of my case, they began to understand how serious the charges were against me.
         “They’ve charged you with attempting to murder a policeman?” an Australian named Mel was amazed how the police had twisted the circumstances of my arrest.
         “I guess so. That’s what I’ve been told by an interpreter at the court. I guess that’s how they can justify shooting me. But I didn’t have any weapon, so I guess they’ll have to plant a knife or gun with my bags.”
         “What else are you charged with?” Mel wondered.
         “Two or three counts involving counterfeit money. They supposedly found 100,000 Canadian dollars and 50,000 American dollars in one of my suitcases. Actually, I think there was 3 or 4 times that amount, but I never really counted it. I’m sure police kept a lot.”
         Since my case was officially still in the investigation stage, I wasn’t actually sure how many charges would eventually be filed against me. Mel told me they would probably come up with more charges, because Thai police and prosecutors were notorious for manufacturing false charges to support their cases.
         “They charged me with forging my own signature!” Mel told me. “How in the hell can you forge your own signature? I was given a 7 year sentence on 2 counts of possessing stolen travelers checks and 2 counts of forging my own signature! Australian police advised me to plead guilty by convincing me I would only get a 6 month sentence. But Thai judges make their own fuckin’ rules, so now I’m stuck for at least 3½ years, unless my appeal gets me a reduction.”
         “I thought you said it was a 7 year sentence?”
         “Yeah. It was; 7 years with time cut in half since I did plead guilty. Rotten Thai judges don’t give a damn about facts or circumstances. You’ll find out, mate, just like everybody in here has found out!”
         At least I was getting a realistic picture from Mel and the other Farangs held in this madhouse. I could hardly be cheerful about my situation, but I tried to hold onto some grim hope that maybe someone would see through the obvious lie about my so-called “murder” attempt. Maybe even a grim hope is better than none at all.

         Have I mentioned the leg irons yet? In case anyone might believe that these tales have been invented, they are welcome to go downtown on Ratchapislek St., Bangkok criminal Court Building, and watch the prisoners from the Remand Prison walk around with their legs chained. (a clear violation of the International Treaty governing the rights of the accused, according to Amnesty International).
         Having been a virtual invalid when I was first brought to the Remand Prison, it was not thought necessary to have me wear leg irons, even though all persons accused of murder or attempted murder are required to wear them 24 hours a day. I’m not sure when it was noticed that I should be wearing these medieval torture toys, but one day they informed me that I was now required to wear them constantly. Before anyone could stop me, I stormed over to the prison commander’s office. Several other inmates tried to restrain me, but I fought my way into the commander’s den.
         “I will not wear leg irons! Mai dai! I will tell the U.S. Embassy and you will have to deal with them!”
         The elderly 3-star chief policeman – dubbed “Adolf” by my friend Mel – probably only recognized the words “leg irons” and “U.S. Embassy”, but I’m sure he got my message. He motioned for me to sit down.
         “OK. You like we talk?” he smiled rather kindly so I decided to calm down and be diplomatic.
         Eventually, an inmate was found who could interpret for me. I reiterated my refusal to wear leg irons (except when taken to court, since every other prisoner must wear them on court dates), mentioning the International Treaty, Amnesty International, the U.S. Embassy, and any other agencies or organizations I could think of which might impress him. The young interpreter told me that the commander was very sympathetic, but rules were rules – I was accused of attempting to murder a policeman after all.
         “That’s a damn lie!” I couldn’t restrain myself on that very sore point. “Tell him it’s a lie, and I’m going to prove it!”
         The commander discussed the situation with the interpreter and a few of his subordinates. They kept eyeing me suspiciously, as if I might try to leap over the 25-foot wall at any moment. Finally, they all came to some sort of agreement.
         “OK. The commander say you not have to wear leg irons because you good American man. He say he trust you. But he not want you talk to U.S. Embassy, because he help you this time.”
         Somewhat mollified, I excused myself and returned to the prison yard. It was a victory, of sorts, and the other inmates seemed impressed by my moxie. However, the leg irons on my tortured soul had not been removed.

Dreamscapes VII

         I am camped just above the beach at Hanakapiai Valley, a remote wilderness sanctuary on the island of Kauai. My friends Patrick and Larry are sharing a joint of primo bud with me, and even in a dream I can feel its glorious mood-enhancing effects.
         “Where you been, Ted?” Larry asks.
         “Thailand. It was good for a year and a half, but then I got busted and went to jail.” Somehow I feel that I’ve forgotten something important.
         We finish the joint and decide to walk along the shoreline before the sun goes down. I never tire of this scene – the huge pounding surf; the fantastic towering pinnacles of eroded rock laced with ferns and fauna; the natural caves formed by eons of wave erosion.
         Patrick points to the cliff face above us.
         “Did you ever see the sign on the trailhead up there? It says, ‘In case of tsunami warning, stay above this point on the trail’. It’s almost hidden by jungle, but I noticed it this morning hiking in.”
         “I’ve seen it. It’s about 100 feet above sea level.”
         “Can a tsunami be that big?” Larry wonders aloud.
         We all instinctively turn toward the ocean. A mountainous wave approaches Kauai at an astonishing speed. We are spell-bound as its height increases until it towers over us, filling the sky above us. Reverent and awestruck by this spectacle, my dream-state is enveloped…fades into oblivion.

Living Nightmares VII

         Each day became a struggle to retain hope and the will to survive. Although my superficial wounds were healing, my psyche was being stressed to the absolute limits. Suicide was becoming the major subject of my inner contemplative thought.
         Almost daily I received another punch below the belt. One day I got a letter – my first mail from outside – but I couldn’t figure out the return address written in Thai. I hoped it might buoy my spirits, but instead it turned out to be a hospital bill. I was charged 20,000Baht (about $500 U.S.) for the treatment I’d received at Bang Na hospital. This infuriated me, and I tore it to shreds.
         Jack Terrell showed up one day. His visit gave me a spark of new hope (later to be extinguished).
         “Why don’t you say it?” I asked him. “You know…’I told you so’.”
         “Ahh…I’m not that cruel. Any chance of getting laid in there?” he noticed the few women kept in a separate cell.
         “Only if you like incredibly ugly lady-boys! But…look…Jack, can you contact some people for me? I’m not even sure that bail is possible, but could you check it out for me-at the court, I guess?”
         “Sure. I’ll do what I can. But my own financial condition ain’t real good right now. Maybe later I can do more.”
         “Just do what you can. Right now, I don’t have anybody else. Have you seen Aoi? Does she know?”
         “Yeah. She knows. But her mother has told her to stay away from you now. You’re officially no-good, pal.”
         Jack tried to leave me with an up-beat promise to help, but I could tell he had more or less written off my chances. After his visit, I decided it was probably better if he and Aoi or anybody else I knew just stayed away. I was actually more depressed, realizing that I’d likely lost Aoi forever, understanding that no one could really help me now.
         Conditions worsened inside the prison as the long summer dragged on. More new prisoners were being jammed into every room, straining facilities and tempers to the limit and beyond. There was no clean water for drinking (unless you bought it yourself) and the water used for bathing and laundry often ran dry. Food unfit for man or beast had to be rationed and was actually fought over, reminding me of scenes I’d witnessed as a kid feeding the livestock on our ranch. Prisoners who refused to work or who committed other infractions were either beaten with batons by guards or forced to do exercises in the blazing midday heat. Little fights were common, usually over space.
         Lousie Deming made a second visit. She told me that bail was denied because of the attempted murder charge. She also gave me some donations, and some news from Jack.
         “This is not unusual, Ted. Any serious charges against foreigners usually means denial of bail. They’ve had too many leave the country…you understand.” She explained.
         “I sure do! Well…any other news. From Chiang Mai?”
         “UH…your friend Jack called me.” She seemed reluctant to go on. “He told me the police came to visit your hotel. They wanted him to be witness, since they can’t find the man who hired you to carry the suitcase.”
         “Jesus!” I flipped out. “What’s he going to do?”
         He says he won’t testify, unless…well, unless they cause him too much trouble. Apparently he was seen together with you and the suspected counterfeiter, so police think he’s involved. I’m sorry.”
         “Damn…somebody working for the apartments has spilled their guts! Jack only talked to the guy for a few minutes, but we were in the garden having a drink. Fuck!…Excuse my language. What a mess!”
         “He told me that he’d probably go back to the United States before your trial. Also…something about Aoi your lady friend. She’s gotten married to a Thai man, he said.”
         I didn’t want to cry in the visiting room, so I just waved goodbye and mumbled a ‘thank you’. I stumbled out into the prison yard and fell to my knees, sobbing my guts out. I can’t remember how I managed to keep myself from slashing my throat with the nearest sharp object.
         I became a zombie – one of the living, walking dead who populate concentration camps everywhere. It was very easy to become numb to this version of reality. I rarely ate and only drank water when the need was great, thus losing about 30 pounds very rapidly. When someone like Mel would try to cheer me up, I just walked to the nearest empty corner of the prison yard and clung to the knot of pain inside that wouldn’t go away. After a week or so, everybody left me alone. Many of the Thai inmates became frightened when they looked into my eyes.
         There was a holographic vision constantly appearing inside my frontal lobe; I could see Aoi in a beautiful white wedding dress, a happy smile on her face, talking and laughing gaily with her friends and, of course, with her new husband. I couldn’t shake this image from my mind – it even invaded my dreams.

Dreamscapes VIII

         She walks across a spacious lawn and sculptured garden in her new white dress, coming toward me with a warm smile. At first, we seem to be alone in this carefully landscaped setting, but then I sense the presence of others – there are other people behind me; they are her close friends and her family. There are many faces I don’t recognize; yet, in my mind, I know who they are.
         As she comes closer, I feel that old thrill of joy. Maybe everything is OK now, maybe…
         But then I can tell she isn’t really looking at me. In face, she’s looking right through me as though I’m invisible. She passes so close that I can smell her perfume and the other natural scents I remember so well, but she does not acknowledge my presence. I call her name, but she doesn’t hear, walking right on by.
         Now she’s with someone else. He’s very young and handsome. They are really happy, oblivious to my abysmal agony. I want to speak…to wish them good luck, but there’s a terrible knot in my throat. I’m choking…can’t breathe….

 
Living Nightmares VIII

         OK, now I can write in the present tense, unless there is some need for regression. I’ve been in Bangkok Prison for two months now, and have spent a great portion of that time recounting the past. I’m sure everyone here does the same thing – it’s unavoidable after you’ve made a big mistake in your life. I’ve asked myself the same questions many times: Why didn’t I listen to the warnings my friends gave? Why didn’t I try some other way to raise money legally instead of risking arrest? Why did I trust Tak or his uncle, knowing they were crooked and corrupt? Why didn’t I leave the hotel room when I had a chance? I don’t know…I can’t find any answers. There are none.
         Now an even bigger question looms before me. With all hope gone, where do I go from here?
         Mel and my other new friends keep telling me that I must adapt to these intolerable conditions, that I must develop a sense of humor, and that I must accept my fate. I admire their resolve, but I’m not sure I can adopt their attitude. Perhaps they feel somehow deserving of such harsh punishment and unjust treatment, but I don’t. I consider myself a prisoner of war, being held by a corrupt, authoritarian government which feels free to ignore human rights and the rights of the accused in the name of stability and “law and order”.
         No one deserves to be held incommunicado in a grossly unsanitary, overcrowded concentration camp while awaiting trial on criminal charges, no matter the severity of those charges. The Thais have been conditioned to accept the dictates of police, prosecutors, and judges, who operate on the assumption of presumed guilt. This is contradictory to all modern enlightened political thought or any civilized standards of social justice. Only in war zones or police states are people held without regard to their individual rights and the right to just representation and legal review or appeal. If a nation allows those persons yet to be justly tried and convicted by fair process to be treated the same as prisoners of war, then that nation should be regarded as an outlaw regime by the United Nations, the World Court, and other international organizations devoted to progressive international governance.
         I think if I were younger that I would join the fight against impossible odds; even accepting a role as a martyr – charged and convicted unfairly, bravely resisting and surviving to be released someday. But just now that “someday” is too far away, and, in the spirit of the great warrior clans – the Vikings (my long-lost ancestors), the samurai of Japan, and the Great Plains Native Americans – I have the feeling instead that…
“Today is a good day to die!”

         Tonight on the prison TV they are showing a version of the American classic, “Last of the Mohicans”. It is, of course, made sexier and more dramatic than the Victorian era novel was actually written, yet the scenery and authentic Native American actors make it compelling – especially in counterpoint to this bizarre Thai prison setting.
         “The whites too shall pass – perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle. Gone. This marks the end of living and the beginning of mere survival.”

-Chief Seattle (1855)
Letter to the U.S. President

         I have decided to fight back with the only weapons I have available – my life and my integrity, until they also are relinquished. I will begin a hunger strike on August first, and I vow to continue without eating until I am released – dead or alive via bail or court procedure. Even though a guilty plea would mean an automatic sentence reduction according to the warped Thai code of justice, I will also enter a plea of NOT GUILTY and fight my case in court instead of accepting the ridiculous charges made against me. It is a matter of principle – something that Thai lawyers, police, and court officials couldn’t possibly comprehend or relate to.
         Today I went to the courthouse to meet my court-appointed lawyer. For these trips to court, all inmates are required to wear big leg irons (as mentioned before, this is a clear violations of the International Treaty concerning the rights of accused). Approximately 80 prisoners are taken downtown in a small bus, and today it was sweltering and horridly cramped inside this paddy wagon as we slowly negotiated the few miles through Bangkok’s normal rush-hour gridlock traffic. At the court, we are required to wait in a small holding cell for our individual court appointments. My wait was particularly long and frustrating, because my court-appointed lawyer didn’t show up.
         I am not particularly surprised, but it’s certainly helped me decide my future course of action. Exactly how I am supposed to believe that I might have a fair trial when the defense attorney is obviously apathetic is beyond me. Of course, I haven’t expected fair treatment from witnesses, prosecutors, police, or judges, but it’s become apparent that NO ONE is the least bit concerned about my fate.
         Once again I am reminded of the magnificent tiger pacing back and forth in his cage at the Chiang Mai’s Zoo. Did he realize he’ll likely never be free again? Did he constantly contemplate escape, or is he now complacent and pacified? No, I think his dominant thought was…how can I find freedom?
         Yet, even that tiger has been accorded respect and semblance of dignity befitting its wonderful aspect – but I have not. I must endure disrespect, extreme physical discomfort, harassment, and all sorts of petty indignities because my own foul species (that is, the Thai version thereof) has so little respect for individual freedom and the inherent dignity of each human being.
         Why is this so? In the case of Thailand, I’m afraid that I’ve found a deep underlying streak of national/racial psychosis – a mania for persecution of the poor and downtrodden, combined with a mindless worship of authority, and made positively evil by a lack of self-respect or respect for the worth of each individual. These same traits can be found anywhere, in any country, but Thailand is mired in a sickening swamp of cultural phobias that constantly prohibit any progress toward the democratic ideal, thereby entrenching these social injustices.
         Well, you could say its just my bad luck to have been caught in the quicksand here, but, unlike the majority of unfortunate ones here, I’ll make every effort to extract myself, honorably or dishonorably (depending on one’s viewpoint). I have no choice, really, even as any bear in Rocky Mountain Colorado will chew off his own leg when caught in a steel trap. Death, pain, and mortal combat are preferable to stagnating, undignified, humiliating survival!

Song for Dornjai (Aoi, of Chiang Mai)

My sweet baby love, my pretty baby love,
How much I’ve been missing you
You’ll never know it’s true
I’m sorry if I hurt you, so sorry that I left you,
So many nights without you
Now I can’t forget you.

My sweet baby love, lovely lady baby love,
Please, please forgive me now
Let me snow my love somehow
So many nights I’ve cried for you,
I gladly would have died for you,
For your sweet loving charms, to hold you again in my arms

My sweet baby love, darling lady baby love,
No one can ever take your place
I’ll always see your smiling face, in sweet dreams of you
Where my love is forever true.