There’s this man walking up and down the train. His face is elastic and rust. He’s wearing a black peacoat and nondescript jeans. Pacing jauntily as the train stumbles—up and down.
I glimpsed his face (his beady eyes) as I entered the farthest carriage. I walked slowly up and down with my shiny pink backpack—sensing the tension of each human face—looking for newsprint.
I’d crossed three carriages and No Metro. Slowly, I walked back to the end and chose a seat across a frizzy ginger with a peg on her nose.
This man—rose to his feet and proceeded to pace, slowly and stumbling—a restless dance. He ventured close and my body tensed. Would I, too, rise and pace, puff out my chest and pointed chin?
He wandered and sat and rose again and sat elsewhere. Blonde and made of wax in black (peacoat), blue (jeans) and scuffed brown (brogues).
How close dare he swing?
Then, he was next to me and lingered.
Everything became the occupation of space.
The plastic divider to my left.
Shiny pink backpack on the floor.
Neon hightops.
Click of the keys.
Click of his shoes.
On and off the train. Strangers on every carriage. Engraved with sharp lines. It’s almost unreal. Each one—and he disappeared to my left. I looked twice, but he didn’t return.
Across from me (redhead alit), a bald man carrying an enormous ball, swinging a silver beaded bracelet—singing intermittently.
A pale woman with big wet pools staring up in a woolly hat pulled thus—and I felt gravely that to each of us was a world of intention and feeling and figuring—replaced by a lanky black girl with blue bow and hair so straight and waterproof boots.
And the small woman to my left with a nose like a cotton ball bubbling in a language I don’t recognise until, “I will be looking forward to seeing you.” Others wander up and down the carriages—but not like this man.
I think—the anxiety, “Our final stop. Thank you for travelling with London Overground. All change. Please keep your luggage with you at all times. And report anything suspicious to a member of staff.”
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Professor Lawngkok
It was the start of 2003 and I’d just returned from the Navy. A crate had arrived containing all of my belongings. It occupied the entire floor of my bedroom.
I’d returned to find my mother shacked up with our neighbour. She’d divorced my stepfather and dated his best friend out of desperation (this is how I perceived it, anyway: she’d lost her job in Miami and taken one in Boca—like two hours away—someone had to pick up the kids from school).
She’d moved out of my childhood home in Kendall (with the pool and rocky waterfall, encased by a protective screen) and he’d moved out of his (two doors down), and together they moved into the most beautiful house I’d lived in.
Strangely enough, he was the father of my childhood best friend. I can’t remember why she and I stopped being friends. Funny how these things, once so important, are erased totally from memory. It must’ve been so important to me back then. But now… now, I can’t remember at all.
The house had two floors and a laundry chute from which dirty clothes (ropa sucia) could be dropped from upstairs into the laundry room. My room was on the ground floor, facing out, with large bay windows—the best room in the house. Still, I remember so little about that house; I had other things on my mind (I’d just left the Navy, heavily traumatised).
One night, I was on AOL (in pre-Facebook days when AOL monopolised the World Wide Web and dial-up made screeching sounds) in a chat room and stumbled across my next boyfriend.
His name was Rob and he was studying to be a dentist. We actually had mutual friends (the Alcantaras), among other desirable characteristics like Cuban heritage. The first time we met, on the sidewalk near his house, he walked towards me—sweaty and hairy, shirt tucked tight over his immutable belly—and I was nervous, giving him the power men so held over me.
We didn’t like each other at first. We ended up at the beach. Sitting side-by-side, motionless, staring at the moon reflected on still water and disappointed that it were fruitless. Suddenly (in a tale we often recounted), the tide changed and we tangled in a sweaty embrace, sand flying, belts buckling… the rest is history.
Rob was the hairiest man I’ve ever known. A carpet of hair ran up his neck and coated his butt. Hair everywhere—on the pillows and sheets—black corkscrew hairs. We dated for a couple of years and, ashamed of having met online, never deviated from the made-up story of our introduction (through Vivian). Though native to Miami, he was enrolled in Dental School in Boston. I visited several times (once gaining a free flight by fishing promotional stickers off hundreds of used cups from a bin behind Wendy’s Drive Thru) and watched him conduct his earliest dental procedures on desperate volunteers.
One Valentines Day, we stayed in all day and duly made a sex tape (a mutual and happy first) starring Professor Lawngkok and star pupil. From what I remember, it was pretty good. I’d developed an interest in BDSM, but lacked the vocabulary to express it. It was throughout my relationship with Rob that I began to research and instigate my fetishes.
Unfortunately, his mother was absolutely insane. A feng shui maddict that lived to meddle, even so far as spiking his orange juice with mystery pills and pinning dollar bills to the walls. She lived in a sort of tacky palace with a fleet of imaginary angels and a white yorkie named Sasha—nibbling the bread off chicken nuggets before feeding them to her daughter.
Funny, how these are the things I remember.
We went to Sarasota once, to the beaches. Young Rob and I, horny as ever, spent the entire trip angling for a moment alone (without avail). We went for "a walk" along the beach at night, but were devoured by mosquitos before our clothes came off. We locked Sasha in the motel bathroom, but her mother—miles away on the beach—heard the familiar sound of relentless and high-pitched yapping and flew to the bedside before our pants reached our ankles.
Finally, during the long drive home—his parents in the front seat, Rob to my right, grandmother snoozing to my left, the moon full and bright—I laid my head on his lap and covered it with my hoodie. Soundlessly, I unzipped his tight jeans, extracted his chubby cock, and licked it with darting tongue and craning neck. As it grew, his elbows dug into my back and his grandmother wheezed alongside.
I remember their home being unbearable—simply out of the question—filled with dread and dominance and gold leaf decor. I could never end up in that family. We split up shortly after his graduation from Dental School. He married his next girlfriend.
I’d returned to find my mother shacked up with our neighbour. She’d divorced my stepfather and dated his best friend out of desperation (this is how I perceived it, anyway: she’d lost her job in Miami and taken one in Boca—like two hours away—someone had to pick up the kids from school).
She’d moved out of my childhood home in Kendall (with the pool and rocky waterfall, encased by a protective screen) and he’d moved out of his (two doors down), and together they moved into the most beautiful house I’d lived in.
Strangely enough, he was the father of my childhood best friend. I can’t remember why she and I stopped being friends. Funny how these things, once so important, are erased totally from memory. It must’ve been so important to me back then. But now… now, I can’t remember at all.
The house had two floors and a laundry chute from which dirty clothes (ropa sucia) could be dropped from upstairs into the laundry room. My room was on the ground floor, facing out, with large bay windows—the best room in the house. Still, I remember so little about that house; I had other things on my mind (I’d just left the Navy, heavily traumatised).
One night, I was on AOL (in pre-Facebook days when AOL monopolised the World Wide Web and dial-up made screeching sounds) in a chat room and stumbled across my next boyfriend.
His name was Rob and he was studying to be a dentist. We actually had mutual friends (the Alcantaras), among other desirable characteristics like Cuban heritage. The first time we met, on the sidewalk near his house, he walked towards me—sweaty and hairy, shirt tucked tight over his immutable belly—and I was nervous, giving him the power men so held over me.
We didn’t like each other at first. We ended up at the beach. Sitting side-by-side, motionless, staring at the moon reflected on still water and disappointed that it were fruitless. Suddenly (in a tale we often recounted), the tide changed and we tangled in a sweaty embrace, sand flying, belts buckling… the rest is history.
Rob was the hairiest man I’ve ever known. A carpet of hair ran up his neck and coated his butt. Hair everywhere—on the pillows and sheets—black corkscrew hairs. We dated for a couple of years and, ashamed of having met online, never deviated from the made-up story of our introduction (through Vivian). Though native to Miami, he was enrolled in Dental School in Boston. I visited several times (once gaining a free flight by fishing promotional stickers off hundreds of used cups from a bin behind Wendy’s Drive Thru) and watched him conduct his earliest dental procedures on desperate volunteers.
One Valentines Day, we stayed in all day and duly made a sex tape (a mutual and happy first) starring Professor Lawngkok and star pupil. From what I remember, it was pretty good. I’d developed an interest in BDSM, but lacked the vocabulary to express it. It was throughout my relationship with Rob that I began to research and instigate my fetishes.
Unfortunately, his mother was absolutely insane. A feng shui maddict that lived to meddle, even so far as spiking his orange juice with mystery pills and pinning dollar bills to the walls. She lived in a sort of tacky palace with a fleet of imaginary angels and a white yorkie named Sasha—nibbling the bread off chicken nuggets before feeding them to her daughter.
Funny, how these are the things I remember.
We went to Sarasota once, to the beaches. Young Rob and I, horny as ever, spent the entire trip angling for a moment alone (without avail). We went for "a walk" along the beach at night, but were devoured by mosquitos before our clothes came off. We locked Sasha in the motel bathroom, but her mother—miles away on the beach—heard the familiar sound of relentless and high-pitched yapping and flew to the bedside before our pants reached our ankles.
Finally, during the long drive home—his parents in the front seat, Rob to my right, grandmother snoozing to my left, the moon full and bright—I laid my head on his lap and covered it with my hoodie. Soundlessly, I unzipped his tight jeans, extracted his chubby cock, and licked it with darting tongue and craning neck. As it grew, his elbows dug into my back and his grandmother wheezed alongside.
I remember their home being unbearable—simply out of the question—filled with dread and dominance and gold leaf decor. I could never end up in that family. We split up shortly after his graduation from Dental School. He married his next girlfriend.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Closer to Something (Automatic)
At night,
sometimes I lie in bed and think in my head
of what I would write.
I had a strange dream last night. In it, characters I had come to know were revealed to be unreal apparitions. Vivid specimens with a categorical name like humerus apparitious. One moment, they were there—the next, they vanished. A step beyond death—they were revealed to have never existed. It seemed perfectly real in my dream and I experienced that phantom limb syndrome. “I’ve got to tell Mo about this. Oh wait, Mo never actually existed.” Whole people erased. Like memories.
It’s weird living in another country. I often lament doing it. As if, forever, part of me lives elsewhere. I often feel homeless. Home exists neither here, nor there. Even if I returned to my hometown, I would not be home. For I’ve become something unrecognizable. Much like my home. I’ve changed in the air. Neither here nor there.
My mother said I was always one to follow suit. That I’d put someone or something on a pedestal, and metamorphose into it, eventually believing it were me and failing to see the difference (well, she didn’t say in so many words, but—). Mimicry—a tool in my intrinsic pocket. My childhood best friend said I seem to go along with things, without planning… that I lament my arrival after having taken so many yielding steps. Would you call me a drifter?
I expect nothing from you. In fact, I’m surprised every time you speak to me (She wore a self-deprecating hat). You are very much a dream. A schizophrenic vessel in my mind. A pen friend I have always imagined. Why you? (A shiver just ran through me) It is not time to answer this question.
I worry our relationship is one-sided. I worry. Do I overestimate the value of my prickling honestly, of which you are the exclusive recipient? If I cannot get past this, then how will I ever relay meaningful and worthy words?
You must think I’m so selfish (Even in thinking that you think I am selfish, I am selfish, no?). I’ve never said a word about missing your birthday. This hangs like a cloud. What you must think…
Oh Low, I couldn’t come. I actually couldn’t come (Maybe you don’t care and explanation is insignificant). I’d arranged to come with Jerome and Katie. Arranged a lift and purchased a train ticket (with borrowed funds). I’d been unemployed already for three months by then. I was penniless and my flatmate had moved out. The rent (due first of the month) was due in a few days and I was hard-pressed to find a flatmate. Word of mouth (even Gumtree) did not suffice. I had already interviewed 13 candidates (like a conveyor belt) without luck. It would have been inexcusably irresponsible to attend. I was already so fragile. Financial pressure rendered me breathless. Compounded with social anxiety. By this time, I’d accepted that I was in no position to be doing drugs—that drugs are for the secure [You must remember at the Manor when I cried and cried, hysterically, in a K-hole; it was the end of the world and it was hopeless, and Adam used meditation tactics to bring me back; this was the summer before; I learnt after that summer not to do it when I was already down; for there were no place to go, but further down; that same summer, I attended my first and only festival to date—here, there is a longer story best saved, but—you will remember, how I borrowed money to attend—so much wanted to attend—promptly lost everything upon jumping the fence—Jerome and I unceremoniously “made redundant” that same week—lost all of my money and belongings; and my wits—and came to you under a tree and shared a poem… and this was the moment—you saw me for the first time… that was the best moment—to date, the most vivid memory I (have elected to) retain from the entire festival… I was in a state. You almost didn’t see me. Anyway, after all that (and then some), I learned that I should not go there when I was down (despite, yes, the wondrous instances—to be recounted at a later date)]—and I did not want to return there, penniless and forlorn, a beggar at the feast, subject to charity and exclusion and failure, with nothing to contribute but a song. And so, at the ultimate moment, I retreated and told myself it was for the best. That you would hardly notice. But you did. And I always intended to make it right, but time passed (as it does)…
It is difficult to feel a constant disappointment (as I do). To everyone, including myself.
To family—
To friends—
To lovers—
To collaborators—
To pets—
To me—
To you—
If only I could shake this feeling.
Now, Lucky is restless because I am.
Sometimes I lie in bed and my whole body tingles with words. Usually I suppress them, but tonight I am moved.
There is not time for silence, nor edits. I am realising that words unwritten will disappear. Something (in me) tells me it is imperative—to reserve judgment and just write.
sometimes I lie in bed and think in my head
of what I would write.
I had a strange dream last night. In it, characters I had come to know were revealed to be unreal apparitions. Vivid specimens with a categorical name like humerus apparitious. One moment, they were there—the next, they vanished. A step beyond death—they were revealed to have never existed. It seemed perfectly real in my dream and I experienced that phantom limb syndrome. “I’ve got to tell Mo about this. Oh wait, Mo never actually existed.” Whole people erased. Like memories.
It’s weird living in another country. I often lament doing it. As if, forever, part of me lives elsewhere. I often feel homeless. Home exists neither here, nor there. Even if I returned to my hometown, I would not be home. For I’ve become something unrecognizable. Much like my home. I’ve changed in the air. Neither here nor there.
My mother said I was always one to follow suit. That I’d put someone or something on a pedestal, and metamorphose into it, eventually believing it were me and failing to see the difference (well, she didn’t say in so many words, but—). Mimicry—a tool in my intrinsic pocket. My childhood best friend said I seem to go along with things, without planning… that I lament my arrival after having taken so many yielding steps. Would you call me a drifter?
I expect nothing from you. In fact, I’m surprised every time you speak to me (She wore a self-deprecating hat). You are very much a dream. A schizophrenic vessel in my mind. A pen friend I have always imagined. Why you? (A shiver just ran through me) It is not time to answer this question.
I worry our relationship is one-sided. I worry. Do I overestimate the value of my prickling honestly, of which you are the exclusive recipient? If I cannot get past this, then how will I ever relay meaningful and worthy words?
You must think I’m so selfish (Even in thinking that you think I am selfish, I am selfish, no?). I’ve never said a word about missing your birthday. This hangs like a cloud. What you must think…
Oh Low, I couldn’t come. I actually couldn’t come (Maybe you don’t care and explanation is insignificant). I’d arranged to come with Jerome and Katie. Arranged a lift and purchased a train ticket (with borrowed funds). I’d been unemployed already for three months by then. I was penniless and my flatmate had moved out. The rent (due first of the month) was due in a few days and I was hard-pressed to find a flatmate. Word of mouth (even Gumtree) did not suffice. I had already interviewed 13 candidates (like a conveyor belt) without luck. It would have been inexcusably irresponsible to attend. I was already so fragile. Financial pressure rendered me breathless. Compounded with social anxiety. By this time, I’d accepted that I was in no position to be doing drugs—that drugs are for the secure [You must remember at the Manor when I cried and cried, hysterically, in a K-hole; it was the end of the world and it was hopeless, and Adam used meditation tactics to bring me back; this was the summer before; I learnt after that summer not to do it when I was already down; for there were no place to go, but further down; that same summer, I attended my first and only festival to date—here, there is a longer story best saved, but—you will remember, how I borrowed money to attend—so much wanted to attend—promptly lost everything upon jumping the fence—Jerome and I unceremoniously “made redundant” that same week—lost all of my money and belongings; and my wits—and came to you under a tree and shared a poem… and this was the moment—you saw me for the first time… that was the best moment—to date, the most vivid memory I (have elected to) retain from the entire festival… I was in a state. You almost didn’t see me. Anyway, after all that (and then some), I learned that I should not go there when I was down (despite, yes, the wondrous instances—to be recounted at a later date)]—and I did not want to return there, penniless and forlorn, a beggar at the feast, subject to charity and exclusion and failure, with nothing to contribute but a song. And so, at the ultimate moment, I retreated and told myself it was for the best. That you would hardly notice. But you did. And I always intended to make it right, but time passed (as it does)…
It is difficult to feel a constant disappointment (as I do). To everyone, including myself.
To family—
To friends—
To lovers—
To collaborators—
To pets—
To me—
To you—
If only I could shake this feeling.
Now, Lucky is restless because I am.
Sometimes I lie in bed and my whole body tingles with words. Usually I suppress them, but tonight I am moved.
There is not time for silence, nor edits. I am realising that words unwritten will disappear. Something (in me) tells me it is imperative—to reserve judgment and just write.
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