Granted, I’m not the most experienced of woman in this strange world of dating.

I’ve learned how easy things can be up to the point of realization that there exists deeper feelings for a person. But how wonderful this painful struggle is in itself! The heaviness brings you a melodramatic romance of significance. Of consequences, of change and growth within oneself. The pain of existence as proof of existence.

My strategy thus far has been to treasure friendships as they are instead of framing them into potential “dateable” candidates. As a sucker for variety, I am also not looking for “types” of people outside of physical traits I appreciate. What’s most charming? Being surprised at how endearing certain characteristics are in certain people.

This goes for everyone I meet, though. Stereotyping or judgements are naturally automated social behaviors, but you can choose to appreciate or depreciate the people you meet, whether or not they “fit” with your sociology economic or cultural class.

This can still be difficult to remember when they’re boring you to tears, or dancing in a way that makes you want to cry silently.

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.

Coincidentally, he was also the Red Power Ranger.

*ohmygod* he is so ugly out of costume

Oh, Jason. You coy, emotionally elusive man boy. We would argue. We would make up. Sometimes he would climb trees with me, but he was never there when I read the thirty books from the library in an evening, or when I was wickedly flirting with my other imaginary boyfriend Tobias (who also coincidentally was an Animorph).

Our relationship was on and off. I don’t remember when we finally broke it off (for our lengthy involvement– I will not divulge the magic number of months lest people assume the randy details of our private lives) but when we did, it was surprisingly clean.

And Tobias was just a fling. As I recall, he stayed in morph for too long and became a hawk.

Whatever.

I recently watched an indie movie called “The Freebie” which has to do with this married couple who freaks out about the inevitable decline of their sex lives (within the dungeons of monotonous monogamy…) and decides to give each other a “freebie” night for a casual one  night stand.

Needless to say, it gets complicated.

What infuriates me is the stubborn narcissistic neuroticism that sprouts up as some undefeatable roadblock in the relationship. Nonono, I should rephrase and reshape this:

1. Agree to have casual sex with others

turns into

2. Nervous sex with others

3. Hate each other

This is not a logical sequence of events. Okay, so the movie’s point was that you can’t ‘control emotions’ and that monogamy is ‘righteous’ and ‘morally trustworthy’… but you CAN control how you think about perspective. Intelligent animals are know for their capacity for empathy, right? It’s empathy that distinguishes the idiots who fight the reflection in the mirror rather than note the fake mimicry.  So why is it so difficult for intimate couples to step into each other’s shoes?

There is a lot in American culture that encourages the prudish, ideal romance of ‘One Love’, where you ‘belong’ to each other, and your bodies are each other’s ‘temples’; this sick idea of possession disturbs me more than a cheating husband does. The expectation that people absolutely must be willing to sacrifice their bodies and souls to each other ‘in the name of love’ is dangerously self destructive, delusional, and mostly retarded. While the best relationships are symbiotic, you don’t see animals who are monogamous *dying* for each other, or torturing themselves in order to reassure their husband or wife that they are “meant to be”– if that is the case, it’s one of the first obvious signs that it isn’t.

So when Brad Pitt falls in love with Angelina Jolie (or for cynics, he sees publicity opportunities and a rebirth of national attention as well as an erotic bod) he doesn’t do it to hurt Jennifer Aniston. Quite the opposite, because Jennifer Aniston doesn’t occur in his mind… at all. And who can honestly blame him?

And it’s not as if Angelina would be thinking about her, either. When the smug rats of the red carpet gasp and giggle and sneer at her as a “homewrecker”, they’re assuming her active aggression– or perhaps they just haven’t gotten over the fact that their last boyfriend left them for someone else.

What disturbs me about this hip indie movie trying to attempt the ‘progressive love fails’ approach is that they build up a new, complex frontier for a more honest relationship and then tear it down with a stubborn, short sighted and typical perspective. Marriage is an economical design, America. Crossing the threshold you’re suddenly faced with mortgages, shared bills, the off-spring/spawn which is easier with a shared name on each contract… but also, the impending weight of a sadomasochistic responsibility: only knowing one person intimately for the rest of your life. Not only that, what you would like to do with your body takes priority over your very own will.

Why has love become slavery? If it is positive and overcomes all obstacles, if it stops wars and heals deep wounds, why must we end up using it as a bloody whip against ourselves and the people we do ‘love’?

This is why Jason left me. HA/JK

Why can’t you want me like the other boys do
They stare at me while I stare at you
Why can’t I keep you safe as my own
One moment I have you the next you are gone

Rehearse steps on an empty stage
the boy’s got my heart in a silver cage
Why can’t you want me like the other boys do
They stare at me while I crave you
It’s true, I crave you

I walk into the room dripping, in gold
yeah dripping  in gold
I walk into the room dripping, in gold
Dripping  in gold
A wave of heads did turn so I’ve been told
Oh so I’ve been told
My heart broke when I saw you kept your gaze controlled
Oh i cannot so

Why can’t you want me like the other boys do
they stare at me while I stare at you
Why can’t I keep you safe as my own
One moment I have you the next you are gone
Rehearse steps on an empty stage
the boy’s got my heart in a silver cage
Why can’t you want me like the other boys do
They stare at me while I crave you
It’s true, I crave you
Crave you
It’s true, I crave you
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no
crave you
No no no no no no no no no no no no no no

let’s just stop and think before I lose face
surely I can’t fall into a game of chase
around his little finger that boy has got me caught
I try to reach out but he’s in his own world
This boy’s got my head tied in knots with all his games
I simply want him more because he looks the other way

Why can’t you want me like the other boys do
they stare at me while I stare at you
Why can’t I keep you safe as my own
One moment I have you the next you are gone
Rehearse steps on an empty stage
the boy’s got my heart in a silver cage
Why can’t you want me
like the other boys do
They stare at me while I crave you

I am craving you

The song is mostly crap, but the beats and her wistful voice make the production. So who doesn’t love a little yearning? An easy girl or boy is no fun, while I’m not wanting my own Justin Bobby or anything (by the way he’s freaking gorgeous) to rankle my patience, earning any keep– affection. wealth. or a clean Celine bag.– brings a feeling of quiet, full satisfaction. So Ayn Rand defines that as “living”– to live and earn for oneself only, not at some sacrifice for others and the weak who merely want and wish– it is, of course, quiet morally suspicious for Prince Charming to proclaim his love for you as he slips you ten drinks and carries your sloshed body over the forbidden threshold– but if you like that sort of thing… not to condone or condemn. Some nights you just need.

Most of my crushes, are in fact unreturned, so my (sad? pathetic?) nonreciprocating affections tend to rot in the shade until they finally sort of hunker away and turn into fungus (which I would love to think end up dancing to classical music like the ones in Fantasia). It is funny (to only myself) that I remember these crushes and turn to Facebook for some vindictive proof that there was indeed a reason why feelings were not reciprocated: 1. They are, in fact, homosexual 2. They are not as cool as I thought 3. They turned out to be massively obese and/or 4. Pregnant.

4. meaning, impregnat-ors, in which they are chained to a sweetly daft-looking women who managed to grant the earth her reproductive abilities at the tender age of 20.

Actually, 4 applies to none of my crushes; but mostly pertaining to acquaintances of them.

Sadly, 3 is a fact for those who lived in the middle of America, despite there being a giant city called Chicago 40 minutes away.

My number one crush is a victim of # 3. Actually, he was the most popular boy in kindergarten and first grade. He was bossy but had a great smile, and was cute for the first 18 years of his life. Apparently things went downhill after that. Why I liked him: he was tan, and white teeth, and was good at soccer. Even if he never passed to me (I was notorious at missing a kick but very good at foul play, i.e slide tackling the other team and making kids cry while getting away with it because I’m just a tiny Asian girl), I admired his stories about how his father used to beat him with a paddle punctured with holes (to negate air resistance). We were desk group mates once but I have blocked 2nd grade out of my life, as the teacher hated me and practically told me so.

My second crush… hmm, was a boy who became way popular in middle school and rumors of his sexual prowess and the appearance of his good looks were too much to resist. Parents may find this disturbing. I find this disturbing. The fact that everyone was envious of the fact that the most popular girl in school might have hooked up with him had us underlings scowling in our own sub cliques of book nerds, Harry Potter fans, and … outcasts in general. He was also very nice, so it was hard not to like him. He actually turned out alright. Because he’s the best. At life.

Third crush in high school had to be … well, I don’t even know. Bellevue High had little room for different types unless you were in the tight cliques of 1) Other 2) Sexually active band geeks 3) Sexually active and experimental drama/theater types 4) Jocks and their rich clique of friends, after whom “Hot Tub High” was named. There was drama between close friends and this Romanian boy who ends up to be my very good friend, but I wouldn’t say I started out with a crush on him. I might have a friend crush on him, but the >friend< comes in where the history does. You should have seen me in high school. I’d probably say I gave up and instead delved into Newspaper and collaging instead. Oh, oh, I had a crush on Michael Vartan of Never Been Kissed. That’s how much I gave up.

I’m pretty sure I’ve had mini crushes in between all three of these disasters, but they’re obviously rotted away so far as to have me forget they ever existed. Or perhaps there are some that are not ripe and rotten enough to discuss just yet.

]]> http://www.hearandsay.com/eyelove/tea-and-fries/feed/ 0 http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/conversations-that-will-never-happen/ http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/conversations-that-will-never-happen/#comments Tue, 14 Dec 2010 15:18:49 +0000 admin http://www.hearandsay.com/?p=1576 When you were an asshole, I slept with you. The few times you were sweet, I fell in like. You thought I was cute, but spared me the details– mostly because I didn’t want to know. Fading in and out of my life like starlight. Like wane, watery reflections. And then you left, and it was as if nothing had happened. I didn’t know where the time had gone, and paradoxically, it felt strange to feel back to normal.

And you, who never has an idea of who I am or where I’m coming from– yet intimate moments were shared, you were always a complete stranger. We never saw eye to eye. Who knows why it happened, or even how– everything happened so fast. I remember your stupid movies. One Missed Call was a mistake; missing calls from you was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.

For you, I send my deepest dreams. The will and testament to who I aspire to be. As nerve-wracking and bothered I was to share our time together, nothing made me happier; more self-content. Yet I find myself troubled to think that there are less people I can be at ease with. And then I’m back at square one: a brooding, introverted mess.

And you: what history we’ve shared. I feel so close to you, even if our time together is sparse and infrequent. A strange chemistry; complete opposites, but completely content in each other’s company. I feel as if what we could have together is in another lifetime, but our bond is so natural and unassuming that I think about you more often then I realize. I sincerely hope we will be in our lives forever; I believe we will.

And you: reunions turned right. Your kindness and chivalry (yes, chivalry) is frighteningly perfect. Perhaps we are too compatible in some ways– in others, unspeakably unalike. You mean well all the time– if I had acted that night, I would have felt as if I were taking advantage. So congrats, for making a girl feel so empowered. You’re good at that. Whoever wins your heart is a lucky person, and they will know it through and through.

To you all, I send my love.

And what does it mean, to be alone? Can one be alone, or is it all just a perception of loneliness? When the world dims itself through the winter of your heart, all may seem desolate…you are withdrawn. The world has always been there, and so has the people. It takes sweat and tears to be loved, to love. A simple conversation may hold the deepest of treasures, and you may hear yourself singing notes of a happier tune if you throw off the suffocating cloak of misery.

Graceee

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.

“Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.” –Sylvia Plath

via merricat.tumblr

by celeb photog terry richardson via terrysdiary.com

I’m trying to think of what sexuality  means to people my age, in the “contemporary” sense. Sex is “just” sex; I think the weight of the “just” is more evaluated at the individual level rather than a general/provincial consensus (i.e. sinful vs. meaningless physical act, etc.); but what of the mind and body? Some separate it– certainly, Don Draper does (ahem, a quote that endlessly amuses me– “fuck the pain away”) in a conventional way, but he’s still trying to fuck the pain of Dick Whitman away. So perhaps they aren’t so separate, in his case. He is who he is when he orgasms– just some man on top of a well-dressed broad.

Unless when I say “separate”, it really means deviate from emotional reflection. As in, denying that there is this “pain” (or whatever emotion) and pronouncing sexuality (at my age) to be predominately controlled by lust and some good dirty fun. I think most of us can agree that males are more successful from that angle/ it is socially acceptable and admirable to “have more fun” (see: Angelina’s situation versus The Situation in the last season of Jersey Shore) where lovemaking and sex are easily two different things.

"Wanna smush?"

For women? It’s a bit harder. Starting from the physical: we don’t have a “third limb”; perhaps this is symbolic as to why we can’t externalize “meanings” of sex as easily and without regret. Socially, you’re a whore if you try, and ironically, you are condemned on both sides of the gender spectrum. But everyone knows this, and continues to perpetuate it (this most definitely includes me. I’ll, uh, work on it).

So to echo Sylvia’s words without the stereotypical English major angst (O phony World!), I can’t stand being one out of ten– much less twenty, thirty, etc.. Maybe I have too much time to think about it, or not enough (good) experiences. Those who know me probably understand that I have no fantastical delusion of making love to my future husband or whatever dreams of happy endings that may not come. I have often wished I were more easily amused, and could embrace more lustful frippery; but alas, my body cannot soak in the alcohol. My attention span is lacking; often, I find myself spacing out or thinking to myself when I’m in some sort of social interaction.

This is not an “O Woe Is Me” sort of conclusion. This is also not meant to be a confession that I, prudish lurker, muted wallflower, awkward girl in her sober corner who won’t dance with you, am in love with personalities (although, I think I am. This doesn’t mean I don’t lust for fantastic bods, or Johnny Depp, or even Marion Cotillard for that matter– not to say that it is or isn’t gay, but she cannot help but evoke lust. Methinks). It would be wonderfully fun to make-out. I daydream about it. Hypocritically, I’m also equally if not more terrified of being in love with the person whose face I’m sucking.

What gives? It’s not a conclusion at all; perhaps it’s slowly spelling out the foundations of my sexuality. Or it’s a really good sign that I need to get out more often. Blog less and live more?

Chyeah right.

Graceee

]]> http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/my-body-is-a-jungle-in-a-temple/feed/ 1 http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/asians-azns/ http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/asians-azns/#comments Tue, 02 Nov 2010 19:22:48 +0000 admin http://www.hearandsay.com/?p=1180 Time to indulge the Eastern culture.

Just saw a movie poster off a blog for Wang Kar Wai’s collaboration with most successful martial arts choreographer Yuen Wo Ping (Kill Bill, the Matrix, and any other blockbuster kung-fu flick you can recall):

…it’s too bad the title really sucks.

If you haven’t seen Wong Kar Wai’s other movies, I would highly suggest it. A friend referred “In the Mood for Love”, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was visually and emotionally stimulating– Maggie Cheung looking amazing in her gorgeous textiles of mandarin dresses, and Tony Leung sort of just is himself: the quiet, unassuming, but mysteriously seductive man. If you’ve seen Ang Lee’s “Lust, Caution”– well, the sexual brutality might be the opposite of subtle nuances of emotional conflict in “In the Mood”, but the nature of its emotional complexity and the depth of how it portrays human nature and love is equally impressive. A characteristic of this portrayal tends to show how the power of love may end up betraying oneself; and this is tortuously, deliciously agonizing.

Graceee

]]> http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/asians-azns/feed/ 0 http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/a-fullish-circle/ http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/a-fullish-circle/#comments Mon, 01 Nov 2010 02:22:14 +0000 admin http://www.hearandsay.com/?p=1156 …and it’s a curious thing, because of his affairs with these three distinct woman must have a kind of connection: bashful moments turned passionate by a clever phrase, a certain male posturing that baited their carefully poised coyness and burdened the flutter of their usually weightless wings. They can’t possibly play both parts; but they try. They try to avoid being just a notch or a good laugh, a fast act. A cool facade fails to hide their conflicted passion, and they become quick to defend and awkward to dismiss. He, on the other hand, seems to float effortlessly, spontaneously, without a retrospective glance backwards to confirm who he is with the first, second, or third. And to me, a quiet spectator of his sport through gossip, hearsay, whispered words pushed through mouth corners and squeezed through teeth, I see him as a caricature of life. A great player in the proverbial game, as he is probably the stereotypical all star on any team– and these ladies, who fancy a fantasy where their mere beauty and well-manicured girlishness can capture him and make him theirs…

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