All Over The Map

By Morgan McFinn

More Amusing Ways and Woes of Morgan McFinn - the World's Most Committed Leisure Activist.
A year after the publication of his 'paradise journal' Out of the Loop, slacker extraordinaire Morgan McFinn finally relinquishes his hammock on the glorious shores of Koh Samui in the Gulf of Siam. In an attempt to widen his orbit of earthly experiences, McFinn sets off to other exotic locales around Southeast Asia and even further afield. Taking up residence in a series of charming hotels, he attempts, as usual, to make himself as comfortable as possible ... Several sojourns take our man to Phnom Penh, where he stays at the Hotel Paradise, hobnobs with members of the ex-pat community, and undertakes a daunting philanthropic enterprise. On an island in Greece, he stays at the Hotel Rex, visits his old friend the "hermit-poet" of Patmos, and wades through the choppy waters of two holiday romances. At the Hotel Rockholm by the Arabian Sea in Southwest India, McFinn does his best to rekindle the pleasures of a bygone era when the British Raj was the toast of the town. And in the midst of all this, our boy even manages to inject some action into his idle and idyllic lifestyle - by planning a murder in Marrakesh ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan McFinn
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201059705

Book preview

OVERTURE

Two years into McFinn’s sojourn on Koh Samui he sent several of his scribbled pieces to a fellow ex-pat writer by the name of Steve R. who was living on Phuket. Mcfinn had had no success, at that point, in getting any of his work published whereas, Mr.Steve’s stories were appearing in virtually every English language magazine and newspaper throughout Southeast Asia. The hope was that Mr. Steve would impart some helpful advice.

A month later, the pieces were returned with a note attached. The note said, Get a life! It expressed Mr.Steve’s opinion that McFinn was leading a much too sedentary existence to be of much interest to the reading public. One or two pieces about the life and times of a beach bum in a bayside bungalow on some tropical island would be more than sufficient to sate the public’s curiosity. Beyond that it was suggested that McFinn start engaging the world. Try interacting with people, you sod. You ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe’? It’s a god-awful bore until Friday hits the beach. What are you, some latter day Crusoe wanking off these stories while stretched out in a hammock between a couple of coconut trees? Get up. Start living, for christsakes! (McFinn rather enjoyed reading ‘Robinson Crusoe’.)

Being the stubborn Mick that he is, McFinn ignored this advice and continued cranking out his people-less prose. He took particular umbrage at Mr. Steve’s referring to his work as ‘stories’.

Stories, McFinn barked, denote beginnings, middles and ends. My stuff rambles discursively. They are pieces of a whole; not the whole itself.

Make sense? This is what happens to people who fancy themselves artists. They start talking bullshit.

Bill P. is another writer who thinks McFinn needs a good kick in the ass. He feels McFinn should use he vast reservoir of idle-time to seek out adventure. McFinn responded that then his idle-time would no longer allow for his much cherished idleness. What’s the point of having idle-time if you’re going to use it running around tracking down adventures? he reasoned.

Nevertheless, as McFinn’s ‘pieces’ continued to be rejected by every newspaper and magazine on the planet, he began to re-evaluate this aforementioned advice from his fellow scribes.

I write that McFinn’s pieces were ‘rejected’. In truth, they were mostly ignored. He considered a rejection notice cause for celebration and would polish off a bottle of the local rice whiskey accordingly. What really rankled Mcfinn was to be completely ignored. To illustrate this contention, I submit, for the reader’s perusal, a copy of a letter that he wrote to the editor of a well-known Bangkok newspaper. McFinn had hazarded the journey all the way to Bangkok in order to personally place into the hands of this editor a dozen pieces that he had labored over for months and more months. When it became obvious that no acknowledgement would be forthcoming, McFinn sat down with pen in hand and tongue in cheek to write the following:

"Would it be possible to divert someone's attention to the

fact that nearly a month has elapsed since I personally delivered fourteen expositions of my talent into the hands of a Bangkok Post editor, and I've yet to receive any response? Speaking as an artist and, ergo, a sensitive fellow with a fragile ego, I can only say that I would rather be rejected than ignored. Suddenly I feel a vastly expanded sympathy for the pathos of Van Gogh and the frustrations of Sisyphus. Have you people nothing better to do than burden my gallant, though delicate, spirit with your impudent neglect? Perhaps I should fax you a severed ear. Would you have me prostrate myself and beg?

"Well, I'm sorry ladies and gentlemen but begging is not in my bag of tricks. I will not compromise my pride. I will not embarrass myself for the sake of rousing your attention. If you choose to continue ignoring me, then so be it. You may just as well ignore the dry, claret-colored spittle on this letter. No, damn it, I haven't been drinking. It's merely that I have this nagging cough. Either it's because of something in the air, or from smoking four packs of cigarettes a day. More likely it's due to a nerve ailment. With a little income I could see a doctor. But, never mind. What do you care?

"No doubt, if I could simply afford one extra bowl of rice in the evening, the cough, not to mention the curvature of my spine, would begin to heal. Shortly, I shall have to write while standing. That is the only way now that I can sip my buffalo bone broth without drowning in it. And yes, I know cigarettes don't grow on trees. You are curious why I can cough up the money for four packs of cigarettes a day when I'm not able to purchase an extra bowl of rice in the evening. Do you think it has something to do with my nerve ailment?

Then again, I was never breast fed as a child due to having been adopted at birth by two male homosexual life partners. Surely a competent psychiatrist could resolve my oral addiction to suckling cigarettes, but I'll have you know that psychiatrists don't grow on trees either. They cost money. And where, as an author, am I supposed to get money if publishers flippantly disregard the harvest of my labors?

Art is my life. As Oscar Wilde said to the customs agent, I have nothing to declare but my genius. Naturally, given my upbringing, I'm fairly fluent with Oscar Wilde's quotes. Here's another one, just for the hell of it. The only thing that ever consoles man for the stupid things he does is the praise he always gives himself for doing them." There, see? I am quite literary.

"Please excuse me for a moment. A nice young man has presently delivered a telegram and...

"Oh Dear, Dear... Oh woe, woe... Alas, say it isn't so?

"One of my fathers is ill... very ill... very, very ill. In fact, he's gravely ill. Shame on me for sharing this personal tragedy with you... you heartless arbiters of my fate. I only do so that you may understand why this letter is now additionally besmeared with parched alkaline secretions.

"This man was like a mother to me. Well, I mean to say, one of them had to be, don't you think? He's always been the nurturing one. Sure, Bruno meant to be the provider, but I guess you know, by this time, how sterile his efforts have been. Leslie, on the other hand, poor, dear Leslie, wet-nursed my innate gifts. He knew, he believed with all his precious heart that the day would dawn with my name on the doorstep. That is, with my name to a story in a newspaper on the doorstep. Must he perish without gratification?

"Oh, forget it! You have loftier concerns. We'll find the money, somehow, to bury him. Of course, Bruno is flat broke. Typical man, damn him.

"Just please, pretty please take sixty seconds out of your busy, busy day to fax or post me what you intend to do with my stories. Here, I'll even give you two responses to choose from: 1. Dear Mr. McFinn, ‘Brilliant’ is the only word to describe the scintillating genius manifest in your work. Mucho dinero contract being drawn up for your, soon to be the trophy of autograph seekers, signature. No doubt, Pulitzer Prize in the offing. Or B. Sir, What utter rotgut! Rather sniff glue than read this rubbish. Be so kind as to dump your toxic waste elsewhere in the future.

"Feel free to send your response collect. However, I would prefer you do so when the weather forecast is for rain. On rainy days, I catch my own water and am thus usually flush with a few extra Baht.

P.S. I don't want to sound overly self-promoting, but I did deliver newspapers as a boy.

As it turned out, McFinn never mailed this letter, but he claims to have very much enjoyed writing it. And, that brings up a point which is fairly crucial to appreciating McFinn’s approach to his craft. The point being that he writes for his own enjoyment. It’s his belief that if he doesn’t enjoy what he’s writing, why would anyone enjoy reading it?

Anyway, as I mentioned, McFinn gradually became more receptive to some of the advice being hurled at him. For one thing, he started exposing himself to members of the beach community—women, mostly. They seemed to be more offended by this than the men so he stopped exposing himself and simply partook of their company, so to speak. He also, considered the prospect of seeking out adventure. Not the sort that Mr. Steve had embarked on by marrying a native girl and siring a litter of half-breeds with whom he would, ultimately, return to Iowa for the sake their educations. No, that would be more adventure than McFinn could possibly cope with. Activities involving extreme velocity, heights and depths were not likely to be part of his itinerary, either. Climbing mountains, jumping out of airplanes, deep sea diving and speeding vehicles, though formidable challenges for the standard adventurer, hold no allure, whatsoever, for our man, McFinn. He would seek out adventures in his own fashion and if they seem a tad mundane to the casual observer, well, so be it and c’est la vie.

McFinn considers Mr. Bill to be an advocate of the linear bias with regards to fiction writing. That is to say, a story needs a beginning, middle and end. There should be a definite coherency of action centered around a plot (Mr. Bill is very keen on plots.) within which the protagonist is the subject of some movement: be it geographical, emotional, intellectual, metaphysical or whatever. In other words, the protagonist should experience a certain degree of growth during the course of the story. He should grow as a human being as is the vogue expression. Mcfinn’s response to that is, What the hell other kind of growth is there, assuming your protagonist is human? Would he grow as a hamster or an ear of corn, perhaps?!

McFinn figures he did enough straight-line movement from the age of 27 to when he settled on Samui at 42. Since then, going around in circles has satisfied him quite nicely. He found his orbit, you might say. And, what is even more important, he discovered the star that is the point of gravity for this orbit, i.e., My own damn peace of mind. He first realized that on Koh Samui in the Spring of ‘82—A place where he could settle, out of harm’s way, beside a tropical bay, where the palms sway, and amuse himself scribbling such hackneyed verse as that. But, he is of a circular bias. Possibly stemming from the influence of Buddhism. No beginning; no end. Just an infinite, interminable middle movement that goes round and round, on and on, until many incarnations hence, we ascend to another level of being.

The only ascension that Mcfinn has embarked on recently is up from his hammock. He has, also, ventured extensively from the cozy confines of Koh Samui. In this new collection of ‘pieces’ we find him pretty much all over the map—Morocco, India, France, Cambodia, Greece and, of course, Thailand. All the while seeking out escapades that he might enjoy writing about and that his esteemed readers will enjoy reading.

He does not break his circle and start moving (as a person, of course) in straight line stories between clear-cut beginnings and ends but, rather, enlarges the diameter of his orbit. Still going around in circles but, now, Morocco, India, Greece, etc. He finds that moving circularly around a larger orbit does not make him so dizzy as he was when confined to the smaller orbit of Samui. Then again, hard as it may be to believe, McFinn is not drinking quite so much booze anymore, so that may have something to do with his improved equilibrium, as well. And no folks, he is not an alcoholic. As he is quick to retaliate against such suspicions, Why is it that the minute someone says he doesn’t care for a drink, everyone assumes he’s an alcoholic? Alcoholics are people who drink too much, for christsakes!

McFinn explained to me once that most of the noteworthy events of his life were those that simply happened to him as opposed to events that he deliberately tried to make happen. I hasten to add, however, that his idea of a noteworthy event is rarely of Homeric proportions. For example, a year ago he sent me something he had written while sipping a glass of chilled house wine at the Foreign Correspondence Club of Cambodia in Phnom Penh:

"Just going through the mechanics of writing. There is a young woman at a table beside me with a live bird nestled in her hair. The hair on her head, that is. A sparrow or a finch, not sure. Writing words on paper can often be very comforting. It soothes the frustrations a little. Even though none of them will ever be worth anyone’s time to read. I honestly have no idea what a finch looks like other than it is small. Merely holding the pen, moving it across the paper between the lines, ink flowing into letters forming birds and the concentration that even an exercise as simple as this demands. Then, who knows, maybe a miracle happens and you actually find yourself writing something compelling...

A couple came along my table and asked about the wine. They noticed my two glasses of red. I said it’s ok, not great, wouldn’t bother to take a case of it to France with me and so on. They asked why I had two glasses. For two reasons, I said. One, it’s ‘Happy Hour’ and you get two for the price of one. Two, they serve it chilled and I don’t like red wine chilled so, by the time I finish the first glass, the second one is close to room temperature. The girl said that made sense to her and the guy said, for no apparent reason I can think of, that red wine is often served chilled in Spain. They thanked me for the information and moved on. Probably never see them again as long as I live.

"I guess we can just forget about miracles tonight.

Although, the bird is singing."

Need I point out that Mcfinn was still drinking quite heavily at this time?

DESPITE HAVING DISASSEMBLED himself from the hammock and set sail from the idyllic harbor of his beloved Koh Samui, McFinn has not exactly jumped headfirst into the fray of earthly turmoil. No doubt, the ten months of residence in Mama’s womb whet his appetite for similarly provisioned habitats. He clearly seems to have a knack for discovering such places. From the Hotel Rockholm in far southwest India, he writes:

"Well, I rang for breakfast around 8:00 a.m., as usual.

"That is correct...I ring for breakfast here at the Rockholm. Ring for and, actually get it, in case you were wondering.

"Although I could very well have it served in bed, I generally opt to venture down to the terrace where a table, bedecked in white cloth, is reserved for my ‘good self’. The table rests in the shade of a palm tree and, of course, overlooks the sea. Always I have a tender young coconut fresh from the tree with its top lopped off and a nice red straw inserted. In addition, either a long slab of Halloween-orange papaya anointed with several juicy lime wedges or two round chunks of sweet pineapple deftly shorn of its knarly husk. A small pot of Darjeeling tea with honey rounds out the ensemble.

"This bell ringing for breakfast procedure is quite simple as, I believe, such procedures should be. After all, if the thing were on a par with all the struggle and toil Quasimodo had to endure I might just as well start learning how to climb trees. As it is, very little effort is required. There is a button on the wall above my bed. I would like to report that I have merely to raise my right hand to push it but, as a consequence of shortsightedness on the part of whatever genius electrician installed the item, I must first hoist myself slightly, not completely, mind you, from the full slumber position in order to reach the button. I only need to hold this position long enough to press the button ever so gently and then I am free to tumble back down upon my pillow. Believe me, it’s not as stressful as it sounds.

"Unless the staff is advised otherwise, breakfast will consist of the same fare as the day before. It is not unusual for me to have coconut and pineapple three or four days running. Additional strain on my part is required, however, when I decide to switch from pineapple to papaya or vice versa. But then, I’ve lived long enough to realize that change is a part of life and does tend to generate varying levels of stress. In this case, after I have raised my hand to press the button I carry on raising the balance of my carcass until it is on its feet. I thereupon walk out to the verandah, lean my head over the balcony and inform the staff member, smartly attired in white jacket and black trousers stationed below, of my alteration.

"Then I’m into the large bathroom where I sluice myself with pails of cold water and clear the cobwebs with several manly exhortations. After toweling off, I return to bed where I assume a sort of poor man’s lotus position with my back straight up against the wall and proceed to meditate for ten minutes. I try to keep my mind and body still as possible and concentrate on my breathing. This helps to relax me.

"I find that this meditating nonsense is a better way of getting out of the gate in the morning than the ritual of plugging in my anxieties, such as I was doing on Patmos. A blank mind is a good deal more manageable than one cluttered with barbed wire apprehensions. The longer I can go in a day keeping my mind blank, the more pleasant the day.

"Ten minutes of meditating is plenty for me. Breathing in through the nose and exhaling through the mouth. It is always gratifying to know that I’m breathing and important, I believe, to find this out early in the day.

"Next, I dress. In the days of the Raj, the British sahibs were often dressed by their manservants. Alas, this no longer seems to be the custom. Thanks to Gandhi, we sahibs have to dress ourselves now. What did Gandhi care? The little weasel barely wore any clothes and looked as if he slept in them, anyway.

"Just before I leave the room to begin the two storey descent to the restaurant terrace, I push the button once more. This simply alerts the staff that the master is on his way and so they may proceed to place his breakfast on the table. Always the same table. Northeast corner of the terrace, beside a white picket fence, beneath that shady palm tree and just above the waves crashing on the rocks below. It’s cozy.

"A habit I’ve been meaning to break for years is that of reading newspapers. The Hindu Times and The Indian Express are the rags available here and are delivered with breakfast. I could probably do better without them. Yesterday, for instance, I read of a man arrested for ‘interfering’ with two Shetland ponies that were a gift from England to a local amusement park. The constabulary took exception to the manner in which a park employee was amusing himself with the stunted creatures.

That story rather put me off the papaya. I may ask the front desk gentlemen to start editing the newspapers from now on. Only buoyant, cheerful news. Cubs win the World Series"...That sort of stuff. Otherwise, cut it out.

"After eating, I lean back in my chair, place a cig between my lips and draw on it easefully as one of the boys holds a match to the unfiltered end. Then I sip my tea and enjoy the view. It’s been a good day so far.

But, disaster can strike at any moment when you live your life on the edge and so it did this morning. As I rested the cig in an ashtray I heard a menacing sizzle. That, of course, meant there was still a trace of water along the inside contours of the recently washed ash receptacle and so my cig was ruined. Most annoying! A boy was dispatched to fetch another one but by then, as one might imagine, the harmony of the moment was sorely disturbed. These are the kind of adversities that make one appreciate the hardships endured by the British during their reign here. Obviously, it wasn’t just a walk in the park. No siree!

A SUBJECT THAT MCFINN seems to take great relish in groaning about is the lack of attention he receives from his family. As usual, he inclines toward exaggeration. Relationships of this kind tend to feed off of each other so, in truth, he probably gets as good as he gives. Nevertheless, when he’s in a vexatious temper, his loved ones are a convenient, though remote, target. The following epistle arrived this afternoon:

"Well, I’m afraid it has gotten to the point where I shall, once again, have to take matters into my own hands regarding communications with members of my family. It never ceases to amaze (annoy) me how little interest people I love seem to have in my life and times. Just last week, for instance, I called my younger sister, Mary. I had an older sister for twenty plus years who made the unfortunate mistake of dashing in front of a speeding vehicle with a drunken teenage boy at the helm. Her name was Beth and that was the last mistake Beth ever made. A wonderful, sweet girl but, no longer in the phone book. Mary is, also, a wonderful and sweet girl. In fact, she’s a saint as far as I’m concerned. A saint, however, with one glaring flaw—her lack of interest in yours truly.

"I had called her from India. Upon identifying myself, which took longer than I should have expected necessary, she exclaimed heartfelt joy for hearing from me. Said she missed me ever so ardently, wished I would be coming home to visit soon and would, no doubt, have carried on further with these warm endearments had I not cut her off saying please call me back. The phone rates are preposterous in India so I always ask people to call me back and send me the bill. Seems fair to me. God knows they’d never call me otherwise.

"So, I gave Mary the phone number, asked her to repeat it, which she did correctly (very bright girl, my sister, Mary) and I hung up the phone and waited.

"Well, like I said, that was a week ago and I haven’t heard boo from the bitch! See, this is what I mean. No wonder I feel neglected.

"Her husband isn’t much better. First of all, I must admit that Danny is one of the finest men I have ever known and I say that despite the fact that he’s been bonking the bejesus out of my dear sister for years.

"Now, I realize that they have five young children and, granted, they have their own lives to gad about. Sure, I know that. I’m not asking for twenty-four hour a day devotion. Although clearly, having five children does seem a bit extravagant. If they lived in China, Mary and Danny would have