Hunkering Down in Trumpland

Things are going baa-baa-bonkers in Trumpland, and pretty much everywhere else these days. 

It's Bedlam, folks. And there's no refuge for anyone anywhere. Fact: I was due to fly home to London to attend Mum's investiture (CBE) at Buckingham Palace on April 30th. That, and a whole lot of else, got put on hold. Open ticket on Delta or not, do I really wanna fly back to 2 weeks quarantine in plague infested London? Maybe when the pubs open up proper again. Then again, pause for consideration, no point in me forking out 5 quid for a pint on the pavements of Ladbroke Grove, not when I could score a 4-pack from Tesco to drink in the gutter instead. 

Blooming heck. It's exactly eight years since we landed on the shores of this savage colony from the exotic kingdom of Siam. How odd. It took no time at-all to feel "at home" in the alien landscape of Bangkok. Atlanta: several years. Yep. That's how long it took to "adapt" to life in the Deep South. After a decade in South East Asia, you arrive in the USA discombobulated and out-of sorts much like a grunt returning from the Vietnam War in the 1970s. But one with a strange voice. "Is that an accent I can hear?" is the oft-asked question. Then the guessing game. Australia. New Zealand. South Africa. Never England. No way, dude.    

Hunkering down. Sheltering in place. Quarantine. I'm not so fussed about life on "lockdown" in 2020. Coups. Martial law. Curfews. Had enough of this bollocks in Bongo Bangkok Land from 2003 to 2012. And, what's more, I've got work to do. That means staying indoors and grafting. The routine: get up, drink coffee, read press, switch on computer, check emails, send outline for article to magazine that won't get commissioned, start work on another outline, go gym, return home, do a few hours on the novel. Give or take a few items of order, and chores and tasks of necessity, that's been it of late. Any complaints? Nope. Like the Murphy's, I'm not bitter. And I need to get back to clacking on the computer coz I've got a bonkbuster on the go. Five chapters in and counting. Having a literary agent would be nice. Got shafted by the last one in 2019. Ho-hum. Mustn't grumble. He was a useless git, anyhow.  

Been nice having "the Contessa" work from home in her new high-powered corporate gig. And I try not to get in the way. This means no playing of loud music or vacuum cleaning the house during office hours. It also means that I can't bring any mistresses home for love in the afternoon. Drat! However, I do have an army surplus tent that I could erect in the back garden for sordid bunk ups, but that would only give me a bad rep, and appearances are everything in this puritan colony. 

Work beckons. But get this. I'm returning to the sordid trade of journalism after a TWO YEAR hiatus. Do the old emails for contacts work? Has the news editor at Vice been fired? Is that cheeky deputy editor still on the gig or cast upon the heap? Make a hole! I've got a funny idea for a story about buying an AR-15 rifle! Double think that proposal. Hmmm, best not send to the shrews at the Huff Post or the maneaters at the New Statesman. Still, at least I'm not flogging outlines about Covid-19 panic attacks and binge watching TV shows on Netflix. 

Bangkok was a theme of conversation, again. A true crime mystery, no less. It's been 10 years since the mysterious death of an American friend in the city of angels. Every year since, on the anniversary of his death in Thailand, friends and family meet up in New York City to share stories and reminisce. "Any sight or sound of the black widow?" I asked his best bud from Cooper Union. Nope. The "black widow", the half Yank half Thai wife of 11 months, is unavailable for everything. Who. How. What. Why. The true crime mystery continues.  

As to the present, and life in Atlanta. Hmm. No museums. No art galleries. No concerts to go to. Fortunately, I have a huge library of stolen books at HQ. My cadged books of the month: a controversial book about Thailand and the collected essays of Aristotle. Yep. It worked for Alexander the Great, it might work for me. The sun is out and there is no need whatsoever to go to the beach when I can sunbathe on the front lawn reading "posterior analytics" by the old Greek. On an off moment, I put the meaty tome down to check the Press. Oh no, I spy a worthy hatchet job on the need to consign Aristotle to Pandora's Box for posterity. The old Greek was into slavery, you see. And the times they are a changing. Better finish Aristotle before any folks get ideas.

Another thing is restocking my spiritual interior. I've been good at meditating but lousy when it comes to being a Buddhist. I completely forgot about lent, and, as penance, I'm reading the Dharmapada to compensate for any recent shortcomings. The good news? I've been pretty adept at life within the letter of a lay practioner (like avoiding the company of fools) and seem to be demi-enlightened (maybe). The bad? Dear oh dear, I must read more scripture (and avoid the company of fools!) Perhaps it's time to go whole hog and learn Pali, the lingo of the faith? Small steps, old man. Small steps.