This piece was written sometime during the end of the last century while living on Koh Samui, Thailand...

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it's not likely to do me any harm. I've developed a very effective defense against it. Boredom. I looked up the word in my little Oxford Dictionary. Boredom n. Being bored. What a boring definition!  It's also misleading. "Being bored" could mean that I'm having a hole drilled through my head, which is an operation I may consider if things don't start to perk up around here.

        I can't think of anything I want to do. I can't think of anything I even kind of sort of want to do. There is simply nothing that interests me. This has been the situation for several days now. I've tried reading. I just finished a book about a Canadian fellow who spent three months at a Buddhist monastery in the forests of Northeast Thailand. He was seeking enlightenment, whatever the hell that's supposed to be. The meaning of the universe?  Who am I?  The monks told him to forget about that stuff and just keep the leaves off the footpaths. Fallen leaves are a cozy nesting place for scorpions. Never mind, said the monks, "I" isn't important. Quiet your ego and lose your attachment to self. Not surprisingly, the Canadian found the whole experience to be pretty boring. A bunch of middle age white guys with shaved heads wearing muddy orange colored bed sheets sweeping leaves, living in wooden huts and meditating on their breath. The book was pretty boring, as well.

        Maybe I'm just locked into a boring frame of mind for the time being. Sex doesn't even interest me... can't be bothered. What I need is a good ol' fashion natural disaster. An earthquake, a massive typhoon, etc... I should move to Bangladesh for a few weeks. Those people have it made - never a dull moment. Floods, droughts, famines, outbreaks of viral plagues. Now, that's entertainment!  And, it's all for free. They've got no money problems, because basically they've got no money. The average dude in Dhaka rakes in about 175 bucks a year. There are black kids living on welfare in America who spend that much for a pair of basketball shoes. I don't mean to suggest that life is unfair. After all, Bangladeshis never grow much, so they probably aren't that keen about basketball anyway. Mostly, they're awful busy trying to stay alive. Why, I don't know. They live in a shit-hole country. But, on the other hand, they do have challenging lives. I'm bored, partially, because I lack a challenge. There's just a wee bit too little struggle in my daily routine lately. Like I said, it's boring.

        Every morning I wake up at 5:30. I lie in bed for fifteen minutes working the glue out of my joints, which is like trying to wiggle out of the confines of an internal straightjacket. Then I brush my teeth, void my bladder, pour half a coconut shell of cold rainwater over my head, curse, light a cigarette, sit on a bamboo chair on my verandah and watch the sunrise over the bay. It's a gorgeous spectacle. It's always gorgeous. Day after day after day it's gorgeous. You'd think once in a while the sun might skip a day or, maybe, rise from the West for a change. But, no. Always the same... gorgeous every morning. It's boring.

        Following the sunrise ordeal, I amble fifty meters down to the shore, say howdy-do to the small colony of fishermen cleaning their nets and check out the catch of the day. Sometimes I'll buy a few fish for lunch. A long time ago the fishermen used to jabber away at me asking a lot of questions. I could understand their good-natured curiosity. What I don't really understand is why they continue to jabber away at me asking a lot of questions when, by now, they must know I don't speak Thai. I guess when you spend all night out at sea by yourself you want to talk to somebody whether they understand what you're saying or not. Hell, they probably talk to the fish. Anyway, while they're talking at me I go for a swim. The water is wonderful. It's always the right temperature... Always ingratiating, invigorating and enveloping. Always. It gets boring. How about a tidal wave now and then?  How about a little undertow to struggle with?  Damn it, I don't care, toss a shark in there!  Anything to break up the monotony.

        After my swim I head for the toilet, squat down as far as the calcium deposits in my knees will allow and purge the bowels. For the sake of a modicum of variety, sometimes I'll shave and sometimes I won't. Then I torch another cigarette and read for an hour. By 8:00 o'clock it's time for breakfast although since I'm not going anywhere I refer to it as "breakslow". Porridge, sliced banana and honey. That's right... same as yesterday and the day before that and the day before the day before that.

        Next, I'll write a letter or a few postcards and wait for the mail to arrive around 10:00am. I almost never get any mail but, nevertheless I check every day. The few letters I do get are from family or friends telling me about their boring lives. (So I'm not alone; so what?)

        Lunch, generally, passes into the system around 1:00pm. I wash it down with a couple of beers and take a siesta. By 4:00pm I’m doing sit-ups and push-ups and chin-ups and then off for another swim. This exercise period is followed with a shower whereupon I loll about waiting for 6:00pm, which is the time I allow myself a drink. I pour myself a Scotch on the rocks and settle on the beach to watch the sunset. Of course, it's gorgeous. Same as the sunrise more or less. Who can tell the difference anymore? Then I return to my bungalow to read for a while. Then I stop reading, pour another Scotch and start to fix dinner. What I eat hasn't interested me either lately. It could be anything. Fried fish with onion and garlic, chicken and rice curry, a tofu omelet... It doesn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, it's all just food. You ask me what I had for dinner last night and I'll say, "Food". Same for lunch and breakfast. Always when I eat, I eat food. Boring, uh?  In Calcutta, people have been known to rummage through hospital garbage bins eating discarded poultices. That's something different. India is full of surprises; never boring. I could go there for a few weeks. Imagine eating used poultices. Now that would be something to write home about.

        After dinner I wash the pot and bowl, the fork, spoon and knife. I brush my teeth, void the bladder and sit up in bed reading some boring book till it puts me to sleep. Three or four hours later I half wake up, turn the lights off and go back to sleep. At 5:30am the whole blasted affair starts all over again.

        So what's the problem?  Am I spoiled?  Life is too easy?  I'm living in the lap of luxury?  No cares, no responsibilities. Perhaps I should buy a wife and rent a couple of children for a few months. Wait a minute... hold the phone. I do feed the chickens twice a day. That's a chore. They chicken walk over to my bungalow early every morning and late every afternoon. I toss them breadcrumbs and coconut shavings, dried oatmeal, rotten bananas and, occasionally, some diced garlic. They never eat the garlic. Once I tossed them some left over fried chicken. I just wanted to see what they'd do with it. Well, they ate it. Chickens like to eat themselves. No wonder they call these critters fowl. Scavenging cannibals they are, but they taste good.

        Somehow the prospect of earthquakes, floods, droughts, famine, disease and a meal of discarded poultices, though guaranteed remedies for the relief of boredom... Well, there must be another way. I'm sure it's my fault. Boredom, like beauty, lies in the eyes of the beholder. I'm bored because I'm bored with myself. So what to do?  Go to a forest monastery in Northeast Thailand, shave my head, sweep leaves and meditate on my breath?  I'll forget about my ego and just slip into some sort of blissful, astral coma. Or, I could simply relax, pour myself a Scotch and seek refreshing solace in the realization that everybody gets bored from time to time. Of course, I could turn on the television. That's a great boredom-killing appliance except I don't have one. I don't have a radio either. Several days a week I do browse through a newspaper. They're great for killing time. It's the printed version of the world as a soap opera. There's still a war on in Europe, a famine in Africa, a serial killer rapist in London, the stock market is up and the dollar down, the Chicago Cubs lost a double header ("Lets lose two today!"), Andy Capp went home drunk again and Modesty Blaise (the love of my life) hasn't taken her clothes off for three weeks. The world is a dreary place when Modesty Blaise is fully clothed for that long.

        Twenty-five years ago there was a popular poster hanging in the dormitory hallways of most liberal American universities emblazoned with the immensely profound slogan, "This is the first day of the rest of your life".  Whenever I read that I always went back to bed and fell asleep. I figured if every day was the first day of the rest of my life, then whatever seemed so important could wait until mañana. Twenty-five years ago the market was loaded with mañanas. Not so these days. I'm much more apt to be provoked by the notion that this may be the last day of the rest of my life. With that in mind I don't go back to bed and fall asleep. What I do is think. I think about whom I'd want to see if this was my last day. Who I'd want to hold and be held by. Who, never what, I'd want to smell and taste and hear. How would I employ my senses and how awfully damn sensitive they would be?!

        Well, tonight when I go to bed I'll think about this. In fact, I'll pour myself a Scotch and say a prayer. If I wake up in the morning odds are I'll be pretty thrilled sitting in my bamboo chair, smoking a cigarette and watching that sunrise. It really is gorgeous. And, who knows, maybe tomorrow, Modesty Blaise will take a bath.

Excerpt from 'All Over the Map' available via Amazon