the nineteenth

Today, at dusk: a thin little snake, hanging out in the gushes of tide on the shoreline. It looked inert, drowned, but then it moved, swimming further out, disappearing into the grey water.

Books I have finished reading on this island:
1. Out of Place: Edward W. Said
2. 13 Stories and 13 Epitaphs: William T. Vollmann
3. Civilwarland in Bad Decline: George Saunders
4. Rabbit, Run: John Updike
5. Platform: Michel Houellebecq

Tomorrow I return to Bangkok, for kilt-fitting and 'practice'.

Oh, and a newly arrived Canadian, who spent a while last night talking to me about his mid-life crisis which involves his inability to escape the desire for 'success', which he has more or less achieved in his less-than-fulfilling career as a salesman of plastics with which to wrap packing boxes, a job which makes him feel worthless and a liar, when what he really wants to do is teach business English to newly arrived immigrants to Canada, fully qualified professionals who have to resort to cleaning hotel rooms etc; this Canadian, sad and frustrated, apparently ended up shacking with my friend Pom last night and today, as well, throughout, presumably paying her the requisite one or two thousand baht required, thus rendering her unavailable to hire a motorcycle with me today and head to a nearby waterfall which was our loose plan, which actually was totally alright by me, given that it allowed me to read, in total, the Houellebecq book, which was fairly outstanding, and particularly good to read here, what with its subject matter being the Thai (and worldwide) sex-tourism industry, an element of tourism which I did not at all notice when here as a 16 year old, noticed in passing, at times, at age 21, but which now, this trip, is so glaringly omni-present and ingrained it is almost entirely and unfortunately, unavoidable, but hugely, gigantically, facinating.