Today I walked to the coffee shop. In remembering yesterday, I catalogued your facial expressions and matched them with your postures, from indolent sprawl of legs wide open to the grinning tips of socks propped on desk. Your words were lovely and round, but your meanings pointed, heavy, sincere.

I like furrowed eyebrows, they lend a subtle drama to any situation at hand.

As for that guy, how easy to please. Intimate encounters of a fourth kind; tacos were delicious, the lengua- cow’s tongue- sweet, tender… Too sweet. To think of all the wonderful things to be uttered by a cow years before it’s ripped from it’s throat to feed the drunk, the thoughtlessly hungry, the casual, faceless pedestrian… The sweetness was overwhelming. How many tongues do we wag uselessly? You had wonderful eyes and a boy’s smile. Ours was a strange stumble of chance pushed by your persistence… I felt like I was 19.

To my dear friend, you fought yourself to make conscious decisions to appear as the girls who share their life stories to crowds of companions wide eyed and dreamy, where infamy is borne from adventure and casual flips of the hair flirtatiously announcing mystery, sensuality, the hidden desires that are trimmed hastily by a self conscious social anxiety. Your are sweet, kind; know that it was, in the bigger picture, a silly, hysterical hiccup of circumstance filled with cigarette breaks… “How fortunate we are to have each other, despite any stretch of time and distance”, was my own conclusion. The walk back to east Wacker was a glad, happy one.

Chicago is a beautiful city

Chicago is a collection of art

Of buildings with secrets, with personality, with quiet stairwells and smiling window molds, of wide streets and the canopy of pale, blue sky hanging over the tips of towers. As you crank your neck upwards, the gradient of windows shrink into a marvelously tight grid.

There is wind, sure, but just as any city finds its streets walled into literal Lego blocks and made into wind tunnels as cars, busses, trucks weave like ants between the stuttering stop and go of traffic lights.

I love the city. Perhaps I am not an introvert in the least: I leave the window open at night to fall asleep to boats honking on the river and the groan of busses grinding up ramps, the murmur of pedestrians and drivers, of the movement of life and orbiting universes of existence sending me off into a comfortable sleep.

I realized last night that perhaps the key to falling in love is not the projection of perfection in seeking love, but rather, finding it like treasure among those whom you least suspect. Although I’m not entirely sure of my belief in this fantastic myth of love, it sure makes for good poetry:

” … And Claude Barron says, ‘I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sky was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn’t be you.’ and then he dies.” – pg. 189 “Middlesex” by Jeffery Eugenides.

To open an entry like that was not purposely for sensationalism; also, I don’t consider myself a loose woman– but what kind of loose women does? Wink, wink. But seriously. I’ve encountered more fedoras in Fremont than anywhere else. Fremont should be named Fedora, and Lenin and the troll will need some serious new wardrobes.

This time, I was there to drop in on my friend who works there. Marmalade night was bumpin’, people were jumpin’, no one was krumpin’, if they could that’d be sumthin’. I was out on the patio for some quiet time when I met a man who conversed 1. business 2. life, values, morals 3. a joke about him falling in love with me, living in a hut, having 13 children, and being completely happy 3. building non-profit organizations 4. aliens 5. pyramids.

In between some of this came that strange, subconscious ritual where the other person explains to you what they think– but they’re convinced that they know– about you. I’m always astounded– offended after too much brooding, maybe, but not at the time– at the audacity of this particular venture.

To explain to someone that they know you, they ‘sense’ and ‘read’ the qualities you put forth as a person (and they’re always quite animated when retelling the motives of your grand life, where you’ve conquered the abilities to discover and dominate all corners of your universe… keeping it all so positive, naturally) becomes more of a strange labeling process that slides through small talk so you can get to “reality”, the grit and dirt of life… which can become the faux-humblest cheese talk.

Perhaps I’m not very good are receiving compliments (not to say I ‘get them ALL the time’), but the more simple the compliment, the much more genuine. I’ve found that most compliments given are filled with empty adjectives or hollow meaning; lately, I’ve interrogated them rather than display polite gratitude for generally very nice things being said (that said, ‘very nice’ is a vaguely empty adjective as well). Usually, these are the sort of men that tend to lose interest quickly; after all, how could you presume you know anyone at all, even your best friend?

To guess at the essence of a person, whether or not their name is “Grace” or “Hope” or “Destiny” or “Desire”  (after all, who can hypothesize the full affect of a name on an identity and fate?), is a chancy, touchy topic to pursue. While saying what someone wants to hear (via horoscope-lingo; the vaguely positive to the vaguely negative) or placing them in the position to positively confirm what they like about themselves is a very clever move. Who doesn’t like to be told how awesome they are? But it’s risky: pulling off an earnest attitude is difficult. For people who are actively listening, the meaning of your words have a weight, and the more you say, the more weight accumulates. To pull out a flattering adjective is easy; to earnestly back up words in these “getting to know you” moments must be a challenge. Which is why I love asking these boys or men, these males with their scripted sass and oiled experience of saddling up on placid ponies, what they mean by their beer slick words. In turn, you can read their intentions by the stumble of their words, inconsistenciesand the lack of steady eye contact. The weight of their words crushed their confidence.

(Compliments should mean something; unsolicited compliments are appreciated, but best taken with a grain of salt. It is that compliments you hope for from the right person that matter, but somehow they always miss their cue…)

So to the men who gracefully weave through women like an eel through coral: good move. I say this without bitter angst; I say this because I’ve only experienced this kind of conversation with older men and frequently. Essentially, you offer me a golden idol of all I may achieve, or lauded my accomplishments; yet you do not know me as you think you do by the way I dress, the way I talk, even what I may post on my blog, or how I update my Facebook. My motives and agendas are always private, despite any public appearance and behaviors; so are yours. The idol is false, and nothing more useful than glitter and rainbows tumble from your lips.

It is at that moment that I realize: you and I will know me even less if I’ve thought about this and we still hook up tonight.

1:37 AM

I am out back for a guilty cigarette. My backyard is divided into a large cement area and a grassy lower terrace; the grass is long and the crowd of bamboo waves lazily from the northwest corner (they are  quiet and polite). The night is mostly still, and if you stay still you can hear the whispering crackle of the highways (over yonder hills! and the Diamond S Ranch, where a smelly pygmy horse grazes). I lurk quietly, diagonally making my way across the cement (as if I were) a Ninja of the Night.

I make my way behind the large, white van parked facing the house; large logs placed on their sides made a private bench overlooking the grassy, lower terrace  (there is where I take my Vice; secrets trapped in  wormholes in the wood). I lay down and watch the cotton like clouds float up above; the black of the night glowed a deepest, darkest blue, and the mild wind whispered late night sighs into my ear… as I lay on the log, I suddenly thought of the danger of a raccoon jumping out from the bushes to throttle me or worse! slay my jugular. My body tensed up, but I talked myself into calming down. Because I’m a Ninja of the Night. (At this point I would like to confess my obsession with being a double agent for the C.I.A. I would frequently berate myself for the inability to compartmentalize emotions and become a master amongst gullible fools. Instead, I am A Gullible Fool).

1:40 AM

I realize that I’ve grown to be an extrovert, or am exhibiting extrovert tendencies. This gives me bittersweet feelings and slight crisis of self identity because I feel as if angst is much cooler when obsessed about… rather than being busy with Reality Life. I wonder if that’s why it’s been excruciating to write (or reread anything I write/wrote). Am I being needy for attention and social love? Is it the spring air?

(Nimby Nation is in heat; she was writhing and meowing wantonly in prone positions. I can’t say I don’t empathize with her frustration)

1:45 AM

I worry about the raccoon again, and think about makeshift shields for my jugular. I think this idea is brilliant, until I realize that soldiers probably  have neck guards. Do all animals go for the jugular? Do crows?

1:47AM

I debate a small quote I read in Middlesex when the main character discusses how scientists tested him for gender normative behaviors– writing by men, it was mentioned, tended to follow linear ideas rather than circular abstractions… which is supposedly characteristically feminine. I recognize this, as many of my ‘angst’ posts are angsty because my reasoning draws flawless circles… without answers. Flawlessly useless. But I do believe in the Power of the Circle: or at least, cyclical-ality … the cyclical nature of time– the seasons, the weather,life and death. Or perhaps not life and death, I’m afraid that’s me placing my culturally Buddhist bias on the table. Or I could be emphasizing the passing of generations instead of reincarnation. Questions demand answers; answers demand questions (may I remind you that being deep is appropriate at this hour). We constantly use history and experience to facilitate our decision making. We mimic behaviors of our past and bring them into the future. There is no end of the world, or beginning… just refresh. Perhaps global warming will destroy humanity; but who is to say that isn’t natural? Perhaps a smarter miracle will take the stage. Our history will be done; but we are but humans. Let us have an existential attitude of “Hey, it was like one giant party!”.

1:55 AM

I decide to re-enter the household. Not only do I gracefully slow dance towards the back entrance, but I patiently grind the sliding door open with the methodological science of an extremely smart person. Venturing back inside the safe domains of my picture-laden walls (I have a picture of this stranger woman on my wall that my mom absolutely hates. I like it because it’s some really awkward random older woman from the 70′s in an extravagant setting, but she doesn’t get it) is like playing Super Mario Bros basement level. Or Bowser level, depending on how daring and tense I get (maybe no fireballs, but definitely more jumps, and a sleeping Bowser).

1:59AM

I floss, then enjoy brushing my teeth. Barney once said it was like a gum massage, and I’ve liked it ever since.

At times, I enjoy sitting very, very still.

If I concentrate, I can feel the corpuscular vehicle of my body: the weight of my cheeks, sagging from my cheekbones, or the strange view I have of the end of my nose. The blink of an eye, however quick and faint with the flutter of lashes, is wrung with flesh, greased moist by sensitive oils and unrealized tears of last night’s dreams. Sometimes, I wake up and stare at my fingerprints at the tips of my fingers- bald, pink, ridged with millions of curious lines readjusting my fate, one minute gesture at a time.

Deep cheeks, suck it in, smoky sin, get it right, roll it tight, light the end and puff n grin, watch as eye whites rollll back, watch as their necks growww slack, gotta bowl? got no soul, gotta keep it smoookin,

cold air, messy hair, stack another flannel layer, goosebumps, blood pumps, shakin’ shake that hot rump, who’s there? dark lair, wide nights flashlights do tear,

Smash a bottle break the gin, down the drink, make a din, running naked, cold soul, nipples rockin’ hard grow, feel the ice, hot like spice, burning numb but on you go,

Down the hill, off the sill, jumpin’ down to water rocks, there’s the sky, up so high, head so hard cement knocks, blood spills, red so brill, cracks on asphault does it fill,

Wakin’ up, nothings wrong, go to school, go to prom, watch the dead, livin’ life, waiting for Jesus H. Christ, to lead the way, the blind astray, through that alley of shadows dark, find yourself, walkin’ stealth, takin’ SOMA  for your health.

by grace yang

Ah, this material world we live in. I hesitate to surround myself with luxurious mounds of clothes: yes, it is a luxury, but it is also a burden.

It’s hard to believe how suffering is all relative when you compare the stress of procrastinating over homework with the starving belly of an African child (er. I went for the cliche). For example: this recent Seattle snowstorm there was a hullabaloo over traffic and how long it takes to get home. I felt sorry for those who didn’t have a home to go to; their lives are one giant traffic jam. Or what of the working mother, who needs those snowed-in-hours to buy a toy for her child at Christmas? Not to be a boner-killer; but really, how luxurious can one get? Will one be satisfied when they can helicopter everywhere?

It is as if once we feed our outer turmoils, our inner turmoil emerges. A balance must be met. I guess this is where the element of passion enters to cure you of empty selfish profiteering greed. I never want to live life and work just to pay the rent. I want to work on what I love to do, and I’m not going to short-sell my time to do something that’s less than interesting to me.

I’m so excited to visit China! To see what there is to see, to experience another world in December other than the schizophrenic rush of the holidays. Life is exciting after college. I’m still growing up, still growing into myself, and I feel like the people I’ve met lately have helped me test and strengthen the trust I have in myself and the decisions I make. I’m growing more and more comfortable into being alone; I’m never bored, because I always have something I would love to do.

Living at my mom’s is not the ideal situation, sure. I’m lucky to have this safety net, though, and I feel like I’m making the best of it. Besides, I see and visit and talk to the people that mean the most to me in my life, and I’m pretty sure they know who they are.

]]> http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/like-beauty-like-hell/feed/ 0 http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/falling-in-love/ http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/falling-in-love/#comments Tue, 16 Nov 2010 04:24:24 +0000 admin http://www.hearandsay.com/?p=1297 Falling in love only to drown. It’s like faith: a horrendously beautiful, miraculous phenomenon: used for the purest of intentions, misused for the most terrible deeds. But who’s to say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions and pit stops at self-justification-junctions. And what if hell’s only as bad as an eternal frat barbecue with people like Mike Sorrentino?

Yeah, that’d be pretty bad.

What’s worse; love, just like anything, can be misplaced, mistaken, lost, found, or churned down a metaphorical garbage disposal. Behaves like a mere noun, yet we trace incredible times and distances with its intangible bonds. What flaw, what beauty.

In the case of misplacing love, there’s a love that manifests itself in conceptual ideas: of people, of places, of yourself. I’ve tripped falling in love with a certain idea of people every day– but when you come down to bare naked attraction, of things you’ve espied out in more intimate settings, or just the chemistry and valences of everyday interactions– it’s a far fall from the lofty vision of Mcdreamy Mcknight Mchottie Mcperfect.  Why, being beautiful  must be a curse. To be compared to the likes of Athena and Aphrodite while you’re insides reflect something quieter, less obvious, more meaningful. Or not? Who knows? A social rumor that beauty damages the potential for an appealing personality is spread, but it’s obviously the other way around and in a positive light: an appealing personality is what makes someone sensually beautiful. And even that implies hard work.

Racially, my parents are of the old school– stick to your own color, they say. A hilarious thing, not to be taken very seriously– perhaps a sarcastic “oookay” with plenty of eye rolls– but there’s something haunting about nature vs. nurture that revisits a life’s romantic set. In no way do I agree with their narrow, elderly outlook, yet the theme of privilege and struggle seems to pop up in the theme of my friend’s relationships, especially concerning dirty dishes… but petty complaints aside, how funny that customary tokens of appreciations can be lacking on one side while the other lives on obliviously.

So how does the untouchable, pure idea of “Love” begin to stink of dirty dishes? How disturbing, how intimately correlated your parental relations determine your own personal success in finding the girl/guy of your absolute dreams. And how serious all of these ideas quickly become– what starts as a simple, carefree fling becomes as tedious as taxes!

To tie all of these silly ideas together: when you fall in love, there’s the projected idea of your appeal and personal conceptual ‘brand’ that you advertise on the first couple of dates:

I’m fun. I’m creative. I’m smart. I’m hot. I’m so fun. I’m not like all the other girls. I’m carefree. I’m not like other girls; go ahead and watch football. I love football. We have great conversations. You thoroughly enjoy my company. I’m spontaneous. Love to party. Don’t love to party. Chill. Home girl. All woman. All about fun. Flexible. Salacious. Modest. Coy. Humble. Fierce. Sassy.

There’s usually a gamble at the beginning of the relationship. You toss the die and wait for your idea to manifest and realize itself in this one person that anchors this romantic idea and kisses your mouth with promises that it will come true. You hope that the idea and the person don’t fissure and separate and you’ll be left with a shell of what you hoped.

Does this sound dire? It does, but this is actually encouraging, in a way. Once you know that these ideas are milling about, ordering salad on the first date when all they really want is a giant steak but it’s difficult to eat and converse fluidly with someone you’ve met for the first couple times, it’s encouraging to think that everyone else is gambling on finding the one person that fit their lovely idea. Or they discover new lovely ideas as they meet new people.

One thing is, I think, definitely true: there is no selfless love. There will only be selfless love when desire and want is eradicated, but then love wouldn’t exist either.

Is it truly so difficult to climb to the top?

Like cursive, college, and not smoking pot;

They got it all wrong. When I took my last step,

and breathed in the clouds, the wet air and yet–

it all seemed so easy, wandering through fog;

and at times so hard, like streets for a dog.

Two decades plus two, the 90′s repeating fresh,

Will Smith’s daughter? The young are such pests.

To swat them away like flies on dead meat,

but my own dead meat of the future I seek–

to conquer, be crowned, like a god on high cliffs–

again ascension, avoiding fatal trips.

Stumbles so subtle your confidence gleams, until it’s too late–

the path ain’t what it seems.

Graceee

A strange feeling of distraught came over me as I sink into the plot. And what for? I ask myself how it affects me at all. It shouldn’t, reason follows; but the knot of terror rolls over and ties itself once more. There is something bigger about being a witness to these silly romances that troubles me, and I don’t know how to express it.

Graceee