The alarm bells. I wake up. The TV's still on. I look out. Gray skies blanket the city. Oh boy! Today i'm gonna get the "Monday-Blues." I look at my Buddha-tattoo. Shit! Most of the ink's come off. Means i'm gonna have to sit and have that inked again. The underarm is sensitive; there's a lot of pain and pleasure there.
My right eye pricks. I can't open it full. I look at the mirror and there's an infected eye-lid.
Its been a weird weekend. I feel like an orphan. Then i think about my son- he's eight. I hope we see each other this summer. I try not to think about him; not because i'm in denial but because it hurts. I feel like a fcvked-up father. I was a good father i'd like to believe. I been with him since he was three-weeks old. I was trying to find that "American Dream" in New York. Living in Queens and working out of a ware-house; trucking the eastern-coast delivering dry-wet-goods.
9-11 changed the world and changed me. My son was born in a pool in The Hague a week later on 9-18. I was clueless. What do you do? The only thing i knew was i had to go see him.
I saw him at the airport in Schiphol. He was in a li'l plastic-basket. The bugger smiled at me! I probably understood my father better than i'd ever done. I felt i was my father. Its weird!
I been with him ever since; we played. I did diapers, stories, boredom etcetera. He grew into a god-looking boy. We went to zoos, the movies, science-fiction exhibitions etcetera.
He was good company with a good sense of humor. He loved animals. I nurtured that part of him as well as i could. Told him stories of the yak and the yeti. Told him stories of my 'ol man dishing it out or running for cover from an enraged buffalo in Manas.
He loved to sketch. There's drawers filled with his sketches and drawings in 'our' l'il apartment in Amsterdam. We'd get him sketch-books and sketch-pens. He'd lie on the floor and sketch one after the other. Random spontaneous subjects. Animals mostly. I began to feature as he got older. He'd sketch and throw them aside. I'd gather them and put them in the drawer. Someday i thought these would make great memories for him and for me and for us.
I couldn't sustain the family life. I had to leave. Find my own li'l corner; my own l'il spot. The moment of painful-clarity had come.
We journeyed for the last time together. We'd traveled before. He's a cool customer when it comes to traveling. Loves planes, trains, cabs and hotels!
We flew home together. He stayed with my mother, brother and sisters. I'd wanted to come that particular year: the year of the centenary celebrations- the enthronement of our Fifth King and the Polls. I'd wanted to be a part of this historic-time in our kingdom.
My thanks to the gods for giving me easy access to all of these. I revived my relationship with the media in Bhutan. Things worked out for me. I'd found my cozy-corner. Three months into 2008 and Mipham had to leave. Go back to school in Holland. He'd be eight soon. When he was i wasn't around.
Black-holes were beginning to appear on our horizon. His English suffered as i wasn't around. My utility-Dutch wasn't good enough.
We had communication problems. But he's still a kid and i'm manipulating one last move: get him home and have him study here in Bhutan.
Shit! The eye's swelling up some more! the office is even quieter than when i walked in. The papers are filled with Lyonchen and his ramblings! Some of the stuff being espoused sounds desperate. But that's "Bhutanese and the Art of Saying Something in Denial."
I thought this blog would be about the weird weekend and how i miss certain people. This is why i love writing. You sit with a fvckin' agenda and you'll never get that across! You sit with an idea and it'll start conceiving still more ideas. The punchline is out of your hands. The headline is out of your hands.
All you can do is "Just-Start-Thumping-the-Bloody-Keys!"