Thai Nights

Midnight Mourning

Fri, 01 Aug 2008 00:00:00 -0800

I don't want to talk about war or the election
or race or religion.
I don't want to talk about oil or recession
or islam-nazi or cancer.
I want to talk about love, the love between two people
that cannot be shared with a third or anyone else.
I want to talk about extreme, forever love between two people,
this most dangerous expense of lives, that spends
all breath and all blood and all reason to live,
this only full expense of life that only two can share, once.
I don't want to talk about the smart-ass smirk on your face,
your rolling eyes, your hissed and hip comments.
I don't want to talk about what you know and what you think
and what you feel.
I only want to talk about love, the love between two people
that cannot be shared with a third,
what you do not know, what you cannot feel, except for
the extreme, forever fear of it.
And I will talk with you,
if you are patient with me,
and wait.

Lima

Thu, 29 May 2008 20:08:09 -0800

Before the acting, before the directing, before the playwriting, and at times afterwards, I did myriad things to earn a living (haven't we all!). Among sundry income-producing activities were stints with magazines and various media. I cut my teeth as a journalist with a news magazine and then went on to the glory and gluttony of a prestigious restaurant magazine in New York. My first international, over-the-seas assignment was to travel to Peru and capture an intriguing story or three about restaurateurs, chefs, and dining out in the not so voracious nightlife of Lima. Peru was and still is on the west coast of South America which was and still is considered to be the "hick" coast sans the vibrancy and chic of the East, of Caracas and Rio De Janeiro and Buenos Aires. It was okay by me.

I traveled on one of the last transoceanic Clipper flights with its all-night, in-flight restaurant, the overhead comfort of a bed for every passenger, and the charm of lovely and loving hostesses, stewardesses, now known, in our current politically-correct banality, as flight attendants. (Attendant. A name I always associated with the guy who gave me a hand-towel in a washroom.) Needless to say, I gathered my first story on the flight itself along with numbers and look-me-ups for a possible later survey of the East Coast (the "attendants" were all from Rio and Buenos Aires).

In my arrogant Manhattan innocence, I had made a naive mistake and so did my editor. I went to Lima in April, on a Friday, Good Friday, which provided a challenging scenario: nearly everything in this religiously over-burdened country was closed, for the Easter holiday, and the heavenly production designer art-directed a nearly unbearable heat wave for the celebration. It was an auspicious beginning.

After slowly, ever-so slowly making my way from the airport in a non-air-conditioned taxicab to the thankfully air-conditioned Gran Hotel Bolivar in the center of Lima, I called my photographer. Though I usually shot my own photographs for most of my stories, this assignment was long and broad enough to require a separate photographer, Tim McElhenny--a former news guy, National Geographic photographer and all-around shooter. Personal turmoil had reduced him to a stringer for news services, primarily in South America. But this was also his first trip to Lima. We were a couple of innocents and not too ugly Americans.

We met up at the Bolivar bar, which became our headquarters, and pumped up with the Bolivar's famous Pisco Sour, which became our anti-heat, anti-dust, anti-anti drink. Pisco is an indigenous liquor in Peru and Chile, made from grapes, a bit like brandy, but quite distinct. It taught me a lot about the hegemony of European spirits. After all, alcohol is not just alcohol, it's a fat drug.

After a restful dose, we wandered out into the thick heat of the Plaza De Las Armas (Plaza Mayor) where a huge crowd was building for the launch of the holiday. First shock to the eye: a helmeted, machine-gun toting soldier on every street corner. A scary, unfamiliar sight except in movies. Then a motorcade pushed its way though the crowd. Second shock to the eye: the government officials were arriving in brand-new shiny American Chevrolet automobiles (this before the Black SUV). The church officials including the Cardinal (who was not Peruano) arrived in Rolls Royces. Welcome to South America!

As the speeches began, newshound McElhenny decided to capture a few photos. He wormed and squirmed his way through the mass of people, as an experienced pro would do, and bounced up and down on barricades and lamp-post bases. His postures attracted attention and two soldiers, who shouldered him and grabbed his camera. He began to protest and one told him in Spanish, "No photographs!" The uniform opened the camera, stretched out the film, and threw it exposed to the ground along with the camera, a rather expensive Hasselblad. Then the other uniform leaned in nose to nose and said, "No photographs!"

A short time later, we needed to get out of the blistering sun and away from all the bombast of the speakers platform. We edged around the huge cathedral of the plaza and found a shady spot at the back wall. Suddenly, there was a familiar sound, the exciting purr of a sports car. It was a bright green racing-striped MG and it pulled up to a jolting stop just short of us. The driver was a gorgeous-looking young man, black curly hair, square-jaw, sharp roman nose--obviously a model, an actor, a playboy. But, no. When he popped out of the car, he turned his white collar around, smoothed out his shoe-length black cassock, tucked his square-cut Italian sun glasses underneath the folds of his robe, took a deep breath, put his hands together and walked quickly but easily around the corner of the church to where the voices and music were blasting. Yes, indeed, Welcome to South America!

I spent five weeks in Peru, picking up four good stories with exhilarating side trips to Cusco and the magic of Machu Picchu, and Mira Flores where... well, whatever you can't find in Lima, you can find in Mira Flores. Among many memories, two stand out.

One Tuesday, there was a power outage all over Lima. It lasted for two days. Even though the hotel had emergency generators, they only powered essential facilities which didn't include air conditioning or ice. No ice, no cold liquids of any kind, not even water. McElhenny came banging on my door. He wanted to see if maybe my water was cold enough to drink. It wasn't. Then he discovered something in the bathroom, a hilarious something which satisfied what he was looking for. The bidet--it actually looked like a water fountain with its recessed seat and skyward spout. It shot out a high stream of cold water, not just cold, ice-cold, refrigerated. Why, he chortled and wondered, is the water from the faucet warm, hot enough to take a warm bath in while the water from the bidet was frigid like ice in the heights of the Andes? It was a media question, was it not? I still wonder about it today.

A few days before we left Lima, we were lounging one night at the bar of the Carillon, a friendly place that gave us a good food service story. As the Pisco Sours multiplied, in walked a group of politicos with blonde trophies on their arms. McElhenny recognized one of them, an important Judge, and immediately whipped out his little sneak-shot Leica and began to photograph the man. Two non-uniformed guys immediately stopped him. Tim was buzzed and struggled. In a few seconds, they clipped him in the belly and dragged him and his camera out the door. As I moved to interfere, another non-uniform stepped in front me, took off his sun glasses and shook his head 'no'. I shook my head 'no', and sat back at the bar. A few hours later, I collected Tim at the local lockup, paid his fine, and understood that both our visas had been cancelled. We had 48 hours to retrace our steps to the airport. I remember thinking: I had already traveled through Europe and seen this happen there but not so blatantly.

I remember thinking: I'm happy that I live in the United States where this never could happen. That's all it is, a memory of a naive thought. "Never" is a spike that the naive sit on!

A Brief History of Time

Thu, 08 May 2008 17:14:54 -0800

A shaft of light falls on a large, crumpled, dark gray, dusty mound of cloth at the center of the stage. A pole extends straight up from the center of it and ends in a dark shadow just out of sight., After a moment, movement can be seen as if something or someone is trying to get out from underneath the mound. Gam pops his head through, sneezing and coughing. He shakes the dust off his face, grabs at the pole and begins to scramble up it. A hand pokes though the mound reaching wildly in the air. The hand grabs the bottom of Gam's pants. Bet pulls his head and shoulders out of the mound.

Bet Ho, whoa, I can't hold on.

(Gam kicks his leg free, scoots up the rest of the pole and slams his head into what is obviously a ceiling in shadow at the top. He screams as the collision knocks him back down the pole. He lands with a thump on Bet's head. The two sit there for a moment, Bet's face in the other's crotch.)

Bet Something's wrong.

Gam I know.

Bet We seemed to have stopped moving...

Gam True.

Bet ... and the smell is awful.

Gam It should be... look at your nose.

Bet (crossing his eyes) I can't see it, I can't see much of anything.

Gam It's dark all around us.

Bet And very quiet.

Gam Why is that?

Bet Because we've stopped digging, ergo, we've stopped moving, ergo, there is no light and no sound.

Gam Precisely.
(He looks up for a moment and squints.)
Why is that?

Bet Why... is what?

Gam All of that... what you said.

Bet Because... that's what I said!

Gam I see.
(The two stretch their necks in an effort to get a better view. Bet pushes hard and causes Gam to wince.)

Gam (breathless) I... see.

Bet What?

Gam I... see... stars...

Bet Where?

Gam All around... my head.

Bet Oh... sorry.

(Suddenly the two are thrown into the air as another pushes himself out of the mound. Alf shakes his arms and wipes the dust off his face.)

He says...

She, Her Husband, His Wife and Her Lover

Thu, 08 May 2008 16:58:42 -0800

The stage is set with a series of platforms at different levels. We begin in the dark with faint light high up in the background. There is the suggestion of a window with a piece of curtain moving easily in a breeze. A touch of music, soft drumbeats in the background. Then a moan, anxious and erotic. Another moan joined by a low humming voice. The dim outline of a couple appears. They are turning and rolling together in what appears to be a bed. Flashes of moist skin as they move through and around each other. Her moans linger, his hum becomes constant, louder.
SHE. Yes, yes, oh yes.

LOVER. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

SHE. Yes-yes, yes-yes, yes-yes!

LOVER. Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmmm.

(Their sounds rise to a peak and stop suddenly as a door opens and a shaft of light cuts across the space. )

HUSBAND. I'm back early. I didn't think you'd be...

SHE. Oh my god!

(HUSBAND reaches for a lamp and turns it on, flooding the space with bright light. The two are stunned for a moment. Then they panic, frantically scrambling to cover their naked bodies, but unable to find a blanket or a sheet. SHE ends up holding his boxer shorts in front of her, stretching them in an effort to cover herself. LOVER can only find her bra, which he spreads between his legs like a jock strap. The three are frozen in amazement, unable to move.)

SHE. You're... back... early.

HUSBAND. I... am.

SHE. This is... my friend. And this... is my...

LOVER. I know.

SHE. ...husband!

LOVER & SHE. Oh my god!

HUSBAND. And she... is my...

LOVER. I know.

HUSBAND. ...wife!

LOVER & SHE. Oh my god!

(HUSBAND suddenly screams.
The other two join him in a chorus of screams.
They stop. HUSBAND begins to walk in a circle around the bed. )

HUSBAND. I'm trying, very hard, to be calm, to be reasonable.

LOVER. Please, don't kill me.

SHE. What?!

LOVER. Oh, sorry. Don't kill... us, please.

(HUSBAND stops pacing and stares at them. He begins to laugh, louder and louder. It's infectious, they laugh too, until all three are almost screaming again.)

HUSBAND. Stop!
(They do)
I can't think.

LOVER. (hesitantly) About what?

HUSBAND. I can't get a clear picture in my head.

LOVER. Be calm.

HUSBAND. I am. I just don't know what to say, I don't know what to do.

SHE. Don't say anything. Don't do anything. Just go back out and come in again. Everything will be all right.

(LOVER is shocked. He looks at her, then at him.)

SHE. Shhhh... just go.

(HUSBAND turns and leaves.)

LOVER. I don't believe it.

SHE. Don't say anything. Just get dressed... quick!

(They scramble looking for their clothes. She comes up with a couple of towels.)

LOVER. Why are you speaking with British accent?

She says...

Letters from Rune - 1 August 1998

Mon, 05 May 2008 16:55:18 -0800

It was time, the day, the month, the year. So instead of going non-stop to New York, I side-tripped to Boulder. You know how difficult that decision was. You've been there. I had to see him, I had to. It was a cool day and the taxi took me just as dusk was settling in. Still, the light was bright enough to see that nothing had changed, nothing. As I walked up along the front path, they were just herding other patients into the side doors. I felt, not tension, dread. I hadn't called before or checked on anything. I didn't even know if he was still there. And when I asked for him by name, it was as if someone was standing next to me and I was listening to another voice. The split, the drift between what was and what happens from moment to moment is a permanent perception, a pervasive perception that grips all of my senses. They signed me in and took me far up the stairs to the top floor and down the long corridor to the end room, just as it always was. They let me into the room and closed the door. I was alone, he was there by the window sitting. I moved to his side and sat next to him. (Am I telling you anything new? How many times have you and I gone through this ritual, this rite?) He didn't look at me, even when I sat in from of him. His eyes looked through me. He looked well, the same as he looked two years ago. I talked to him, I whispered to him because I didn't know who might be listening. I talked to him about everything, a loose association of words in hope that one note might bring one note back from him. It didn't. It's the same, I'm the same, you're the same. Oh A., will it happen, will one day he not be there? I left without talking to anyone else. It made no difference. Will one day we not be there? And if not, who will see him?
Rune

Letters from Rune - 18 April 1998

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 23:03:46 -0800

You've been pressing me to tell you how it began in the house by the church, so here it is.

They, all of them, are laughing, making fun of me as they always do. She is making a meal, a seafood meal, with a live creature, an octopus. I have always loved these creatures. I have discovered how intelligent they are, how sensitive they are with their gift of seeing by touching. I have always believed they belonged to another world, perhaps, even another dimension. I can't begin to tell you how upset, how frantic I am. I try to stop her. I cry and scream but they just laugh and she laughs. Then they take the small animal out of the pan of water and slap him on my back. He wraps himself around me and I can hear him desperately trying to breathe. I run from one room to another with him draped on my back. They laugh, running after me. I frantically try to save him, to find wet things, cloths and water, to keep him alive. Desperate, desperate. I finally get him into the bathtub and fill it with water, the wrong water, fresh water. But somehow he survives. He just lays there watching me and moves when I move. We look at each other for a long time.

Later, finally, I have him out and up, in a long coat, standing next to me. He is much bigger and longer than I realize and it is so difficult to support him, to keep him standing, but he does stand, alongside me, in a coat, standing upright, leaning against me, my arm around him. It is very dangerous because we are going to try to escape.

The rest you know.

Rune

The Chanchala Journal

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:55:02 -0800

In 2000, Terence Taylor Gold privately published the tormented journal of a man whom he claimed was neither an acquaintance nor a patient of his, but which he felt compelled to put into print. Though no longer available with few extant copies, Gold has consistently refused to explain the circumstances surrounding the publication and the disturbing events that followed it. This is an excerpt from the original journal.
excerpt

Why the new music is so ugly

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 14:56:36 -0800

Because of:

Phillip Glass
Michael Tilson Thomas
Bob Dylan
50 Cent
Stephen Sondheim
and
Walt Disney

Modigliani

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 15:22:34 -0800

In Scene4 I wrote: "Amadeo Modigliani was a good painter, not a great one. He didn't have the breath-taking, explosive color madness of Van Gogh or the eclectic, mind-boggling genius of Picasso. He was a good painter like a 1000 others in the 20th century. "

I was wrong. Among the 1000 others, including Picasso, there was only one Modigliani.

In the article, I was making a smug, sneering comment about the merchandising of art. It's really irrelevant especially with regard to him. If he had sold his work for more than a few francs, if he had acquired patronage and some comfort, he wouldn't have lived much longer than he did. He was a haunted man and he was dying of a physical disease for which there was no medical control. Like Rimbaud, Modigliani created works with perspectives and color that linger and in turn haunt the viewer. Like Rimbaud, he was a stranger and could not live in the world in which he found himself.

Death Is A Guitar, and Dancer

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 17:15:47 -0800

And she said to him...
I didn't need him. There was no time, no void or empty space in my life.
When my father held me and whispered to me in front of the fire I thought
of God... but he was outside and we were tightly enclosed... and
I didn't need him. And on the shore near the sea when you made
love to me I thought of God. But he was everywhere except inside
of me... and I didn't need him.
Oh, why was it you who came after, you and the dancer.
The dancer!

And he said to her...
I don't understand what she understands,
but I know her. I've seen her at night and at dawn and I've been afraid,
too afraid to be consumed by my own love for her. And we've talked
about all things until words and gestures are meaningless and
I had to sleep, but she didn't. I whispered come back and sleep with me, let the sunlight wake us, together.

And she said to him...
Not together. No sun will ever find us together. There is only the night
and my dancer. See see how he moves his body, his beautiful
rippling body... how his skin glistens, see the naked beauty? Where?
There... he dances to the song of the guitar... he is the song
of the guitar. And he wants me to dance with him....

In the first month...

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 17:33:30 -0800

On the first day in the first month, she wrote this to me...

Sing to me... singer of you and me
The night is ending.
In the dark warm shadows, whisper my name...
I cannot whisper yours... you are my name.
I am the outer chamber of your heart,
Pulsing as it pulses, quieting as it quiets.
The night is ending
Light streams from the rim of the sky and flashes along
the curve of your body... dark in front, thigh on fire
Touch it, the cat's fur of your skin...
The shape of you vibrates, shimmers
There is no need to sleep.
Sing to me.

On the sixth day in the first month, I wrote this to her...

The light is green beneath the sun
The grasses reflect and sway to your moving body
Every part of you is open... spread, unafraid.
I lick your naked skin until my tongue becomes
warm and numb
The heat of your blood bakes the moaning rising music
of your throat into a taste...
A cream taste of sweat and yeast and tender flesh.
Every part of you spreads, stretches to cover the horizon.
You are the planet of woman and I am your moon.

On the 11th day in the first month, I wrote this to her...

How many times can I kiss you?
How many places on your lips
can my tongue stop and taste
the salt sweet sap that rises...
Up from your garden roots...
Through the stem of your body...
Into the petals of the flower of your face?
Your face shines and moves...
Moist, the rain from my eyes is transparent,
Liquid glass, the faintest trace of silver.
It washes the delicate flower you press against me.
How many times can I kiss you?

In the second month...

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 17:43:22 -0800

On the fourth day of the second month, I wrote this to her...

You said to me
stand on the bridge between sleeping and awakening
the moment between twilight and night when one can remember what the eyes saw but can no longer see it...
when the outer world's light is gone and the other senses become bright.
Touch it, you said, in total darkness
and you will see all of the light inside.
And I said, that is the way, and it is a way to make love, that's what we should do.
And you laughed and said
yes, but first you must awaken the dream, you must touch it inside and let the light grow inside
then let it spread out
then we can do what we should do.

On the 10th day of the second month, she wrote this to me...

Tearing
Twisting
Tumbling
Rolling
Ripping
Riding
Searing
Seething
Spent
We are not dead
We are not awake
We are open.

In the third month...

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 17:47:43 -0800

On the fifth day in the third month, I wrote this to her...

Why have you left me?
Come back to me
Come back to me
I hear the touch of your voice
the faint touch of your breath on my neck
I am blind without your eyes
Come back to me.

The Voice of Eugene O'Neill

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 11:14:26 -0800

Only in America... a dumb, somewhat educated, often mean-spirited man, who played stooge and door-keeper to the moneyed clique that only enhanced its own interests, drove the nation into severe debt, disenfranchised and disengaged a vast portion of the population... Ronald Reagan, heralded in death as one of the great presidents in American history. Only in America... his heir, a dumb, uneducated, bubba, who would play stooge and door-keeper to the moneyed clique that would only enhance its own interests, drive the nation into severe debt, disenfranchise and disengage a vast portion of the population... George W. Bush, was first elected president by less than fifty percent of the voters.
Only in America... a dumb, somewhat educated, successful film-actor, who did a few stage performances when he was young, delivered some entertaining and intriguing film performances... Marlon Brando, heralded in death as the greatest stage and screen actor of his time. Only in America... would a major news publication Newsweek, herald Bob Dylan as the greatest poet of the 20th century.
And, Only in America... the only American playwright to win a Nobel prize... is best remembered for a lesser, melodramatic work that is heralded as his masterpiece, Long Day's Journey Into Night.
Who actually does all this heralding? The people or the press? At the time O'Neill was honored, 1936, the Nobel prize was a carefully protected, deeply weighed perspective of an artist's work, not the political, promotional, product of lobbying it has become. It recognized O'Neill, not only for his daring and innovative explorations of the theatrical art form, but also for his contribution to literature. O'Neill wrote to be read as well as to be played on the stage. He was a playwright, a constructor of plays like his mentor, Strindberg, and like G.B. Shaw, not a poet-dramatist like Shakespeare. Mostly, he wrote about large, universal themes, even when he created small, seemingly inarticulate characters -- he didn't offer characters with four-letter, four-word vocabularies. O'Neill's work has been translated into most of the literary languages of the world. His plays are performed consistently--at any given time, there is an O'Neill play on the boards, somewhere. Some of his extraordinary explorations remain in defiance of production even today: The Great God Brown still plays better in the theatre of a reader's mind than it does in the hands of any self-regaled auteur director.
To date, there have been no successful cinematic adaptations of O'Neill's work (including Sidney Lumet's films), with the exception, perhaps, of Ah Wilderness (O'Neill's only comedy), a couple of obscure European and Japanese films, and some films of live stage performances. Hollywood has never been able to digest O'Neill and O'Neill never cooked for Hollywood.
The arched criticism that attempts to capture this failing and has always elbowed O'Neill's work is tainted in disdain for his language; "turgid", "awkward" are the most common labels. But the fact is that O'Neill presents a powerful, confrontational eye-to-eye challenge to both the actor and the director. Screw with his dialogue, screw with his vision of the staging, and the production is screwed!. A good example of this was the appearance of The Iceman Cometh. When it premiered in 1946, this rolling concerto of a play is performed as a flat dirge. Ten years later, in the hands of José Quintero, it is a piece of music. In 1973, the film version of it is once again, a flat dirge. Even Tony Kushner, who reveres O'Neill and who is one of the few American playwrights since O'Neill to lunge at universal themes, labors with the criticism of O'Neill's voice. He, too, genuflects that Long Day's Journey is the masterpiece. In today's Pax Americana disposable, dyspeptic, American culture, where theatre is a trivial pursuit and the functional illiteracy rate inches toward 30 percent, O'Neill remains a unique, almost unimaginable American artist. He wrote only for the theatre, he shared little of himself but his art, and he died in the terror and privacy of his own vision. Here is a part of his voice: .....I thought to myself, well, it's funny, there always have been wars and there always will be, I suppose, because I've never read much in any history about heroes who waged peace. Still, that's wrong. War is a waste of money which eats into the profits of life like thunder! Then, why war, I asked myself? But how are you going to end it? Then the flash came! There's only one workable way and that's to conquer everybody else in the world so they'll never dare fight you again! An impossible task, you object? Not any more! This invention you see before you makes conquering easy. Let me demonstrate with these models. On our right, you see the fortress wall of a hostile capital. Under your present system with battering rams, to make an effective breach in this wall would cost you the lives of ten thousand men. Valuing each life conservatively at ten yen, this amounts to one hundred thousand yen! This makes the cost of breaching prohibitive. But all of this waste can be saved. How? Just keep your eyes on your right and permit my exclusive invention to solve this problem. (He addresses the fortress in a matter-of-fact tone) So you won't surrender, eh? (Then in a mock- heroic falsetto, answering himself like a ventriloquist) We die but we never surrender! (Then matter-of-factly) Well, Brother, those heroic sentiments do you a lot of credit, but this is war and not a tragedy. You're up against new methods this time, and you better give in and avoid wasteful bloodshed. (Answering himself) No! Victory or Death! (Then again) All right. Brother, don't blame me. FIRE! ...
Epilogue The play is over. The lights come up brilliantly in the theatre. In an aisle seat in the first row a MAN rises, conceals a yawn in his palm. stretches his legs as if they had become cramped by too long an evening, takes his hat from under the seat and starts to go slowly with the others in the audience. But although there is nothing out of the ordinary in his actions, his appearance excites general comment and surprise for he is dressed as a Venetian merchant of the later Thirteenth Century. In fact, it is none other than MARCO POLO himself, looking a bit sleepy, a trifle puzzled, and not a little irritated as his thoughts, in spite of himself, cling for a passing moment to the play just ended. He appears quite unaware at being unusual and walks in the crowd without self-consciousness, very much. one of them. Arrived in the lobby his face begins to clear of all disturbing memories of what had happened on the stage. The noise, the lights of the streets, recall him at once to himself. Impatiently he waits for his car, casting a glance here and there at faces in the groups around him, his eyes impersonally speculative, his bearing stolid with the dignity of one who is sure of his place in the world. His car, a luxurious limousine, draws up at the curb. He gets in briskly, the door is slammed, the car edges away into the traffic and MARCO POLO, with a satisfied sigh at the sheer comfort of it all, resumes his life. (Excerpts from Marco Millions)

The Terrorism of Books

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 14:53:41 -0800

In a Thai village, a few years ago, I sat in a little, outdoor bar in the heat of the afternoon, drinking a cold beer. Sitting next to me, a villager, a farmer, taking a break. Between my broken Thai and his fractured English, we managed a reasonable conversation. At one point, he reached into his shoulder pack to get a cigarette and a book fell out. It was a paperback, yellowed and dog-eared. He told me it was a novel by a famous Thai writer and he carried it around with him for the past 20 years. Why? Because the book was a friend, which made the writer a friend and they were always there when he needed them. He smiled when he said that, and so did I. There was nothing embarrassing about the moment and its intimacy.

Recent surveys show that less than 45% of the U.S. population read books (or magazines or newspapers, for that matter). The numbers are similar in Europe and much higher in many other countries. The obvious and most demeaning factor is the explosion of media--the pixel is replacing the ink drop.

The internet, in its quick-fix, here and there way of comprehension doesn't lend itself to reading books. Amazon and Sony notwithstanding, the experience of reading a book on a screen is like dining alone in a delicious Italian restaurant--the intimacy of sharing is missing, in this case, the sharing of your mind with the mind of the writer. You can't get through the glass. As with all screen media activities, you're passive, sitting there as the display takes you along. With a printed book, you can touch each page with its not-perfect paper and its not-perfect ink. To experience a printed book, you have to join it, it doesn't do it for you the way a screen image does. You and the writer talk to each other and share, almost as if you and the writer were the same. You don't need an on-off switch or batteries or protocols or rules. You just need light and quiet privacy. And if you're visually impaired, you have the voice of a reader, holding a book, almost as if it were the voice of the writer.

This may all seem a bit odd coming from me as you read what I write on a screen in Scene4 Magazine, which is an electronic publication, designed as a print publication but presented only on the web for the past eight years and not by choice. A few years ago, a group approached Aviar proposing investment financing to take this magazine into printed distribution. Given its large readership and the idiosyncrasy of its content, they believed that it should have a printed edition (to preserve its "intimacy") and that it would make a profit (which was equally important to them). After much discussion and some irreconcilable editorial differences, they realized that only 50% of the readership was in the U.S. and reading was on the decline. It deserved a print edition, said they, but who would eventually read it?

This is not a "luddite" tainted treatise--I find evolution and the evolution of technology exciting, thrilling and rich with hope and a vista of personal freedom. And I believe that the book will evolve and maintain its place as one of the grand devices of human history. To that I offer a vision. It's not just science fiction. Isn't all science - fiction - until it's not? Just think of describing a movie to Cicero or a cell phone to Alexander Pope. In the relatively near future, you will be able to hold and read a book, page for page, printed in a medium that will allow you to make your book as small or as large as you like and with any material feel you desire. It will be opaque or transparent; you will be able to see all pages including both the front and the back of any page at any time. And you will be able to make a page as large as a wall, free standing, so that you can walk along as you read and step through it to read another page. You will be able to walk into a book, touch the words, listen to the words, read the words, remember the words. The variations will be almost unlimited and yours alone. All with the privacy and the intimacy of a written, printed book--just your mind and the mind of the writer.

Try describing that to Gutenberg.