Posted in: Writings
Nothing about him now deemed to be special, or important. He’s just a younger guy with a girlfriend, gangly and self-evident. I think, there was a time when I nearly opened everything up to you.
To my friends, he was considered to be one of the fillers; guys I dated or went out with a couple of time to pass time and get inspirations, nothing much. After my ex-boyfriend, the rebound guy was the closest I was getting to a real relationship, second would be my ex-colleague whom I owed a lot to. But they all paled compared to my heartache.
Dating him, I wasn’t content, or happy or excited; instead, I was worried, and unsure and self-conscious. I was worried about the age, because it felt serious and I was worried my parents would be against it. I was unsure about how he felt, how our mutual friends would take on us. I was self-conscious because his elder brother is my age and I felt old and big and large, whether he would look at me one day and call me Sister. I was scared, terrified at one point because I was losing control - I allowed him to pay for my dinner, wanted him to pick me up, let him make me feel safe. I never let it get that far with any of the fillers. Now I thought, dude I almost lost myself to him.
I could never really write about it here properly, because maybe he would read it, or his girlfriend would, or our mutual friends. There was a time when we were across each other on the road, and cars whizzed by like colorful blurs, it was nighttime so the streetlights glowed orange, and the whole world was chaos, so noisy, but I felt so good, so good, because he was at the other end, and he was waiting for me to cross and join him. He was waiting for me. I swear the whole world just turned quiet like that.
May 20th, 2008
Posted in: Writings
So when we’ve touched down on another B city, and since we were allowed only a day, we ate their culture.
The guide that took us around was short and stocky. He was also seedy looking, I sometimes caught him looking at me when P isn’t looking. But then he used the word rampant, and I liked him immediately. As a product definer I am always looking out for words that describes a nail polish, a board game, a scrunchie. I was working on a pair of gladiator sandals and the manufacturer wanted a tough sexy name to go with the image. Rampant sounds just about right.
In the meeting room everyone congratulated us, wedding pleasantries. P was professional so I followed his route. Later in the room I told him that he made me nervous when he played and twirled his wedding ring around, especially in front of people who’d just wished us congratulations. He said board meetings always make him restless. I tried not to point out that maybe the hot young executive present in the room was the cause of his restlessness, since he never really saw the appeal of wearing a wedding ring in the first place. So we dressed for dinner.
The seedy looking guide took us to a nice homey restaurant in the remote, deep village area. There we had seafood and tandoori, since the owner was born in Pakistan. The guide heaped tons of Midi, a type of vegetable, and Ambal, which tastes like oyster but looks like a miniature version of bamboo canes, on our plates. We had a one sided fish all steamed to perfection. The fish lies superbly flat on its side. P chatted with the guide and I let my mind wonder with good food.
In bed we did it soft but speedy, since it was already 12 midnight.
The meeting in the morning was exhausting, but eventful. We reasoned with the managers. We explained our decisions. When P was overwhelmed, I took over and used my power with words to put the understanding in its place. On the way to the break area, P ambled towards me and squeezed me shoulder, all last night’s affection. We had Laksa Sarawak which tasted awesome especially with shrimp paste.
Lunchtime they served us Umai, marinated raw fish; P commented they taste like pickles. We were in a good mood; he was in a good mood. He was laughing and relaxed, loose and funny - the undrunk drunk P. This P held my hand and called me ’sweetheart’. We were a team, the power couple.
In the plane we watched the Rajang River’s impressive coils across the green lush forest; I tried to nuzzle P’s neck but he moved aside - he had turned businesslike again; the effect of the food had worn out.
I still have the taste of Umai in my mouth; sour and piercingly salty.
May 19th, 2008
Posted in: Writings
The rain blankets our conversation. I am thinking of the papers I have to write for, the research on sexual harassment hibernation in modern office culture, also, the abrasion and tensile loss of automotive seating fabric. My lip prints smear red on the coffee cup. I hear your heart goes dub-dub, dub-dub, across the table. You comment I hardly wear lipstick as your eyes fall on to the cup. You comment that you can smell the chemicals when you sip. I tell you that the prophet Muhammad (p.b.u.h) would drink from the exact same place that that his wife drank from the cup. You take it all in, said, “But we’re not married.” I respond silently, and for a moment we both understand, and then we go back to being the exact opposites.
May 11th, 2008
Posted in: Misc
On Sunday, my cat hassled and bugged me while I was sewing; sat on the fabric, pawed my ruler back and forth, dove under all the textiles, and chewed the ends of my threads. She won’t leave me alone, and I was honored by that fact.
It was the best goddamn moment/day in my life.
May 6th, 2008
Posted in: Poetry
I am in a gooey mood. I used to say that whenever I was feeling all hearts in my eyes. Contrary to your perception, I’m no tough motherfucker. I may shoot at them guys off with my brashness, but I’m lil sweet jane inside. Liek srsly.
This is a wonderful love poem. So heartfelt, and honest, and stripped down to the essence. It makes me think of comfy moments under the covers while the rain lashes against the windows, or sniffing each other’s hair and the television looks on in glee. I can picture the mood of this poem, and I love that everything he describes plays a part in the relationship. My favorite line is, “you are wearing one of my shirts.” My favorite stanza is all.
A slackening rain offers its small rhythm
to the rooftop, a soft shudder runs
through the house. On the radio,
Roethke is reading
of a woman he knew.
You are wearing
one of my shirts.
Now, I know it’s no more
possible to own a moment
than a person, but sometimes
we can settle into one,
like a tide returning from the shore,
a soft relaxing back into the sea.
Wind slides the unlatched door
open, mist from the rain
catches the ends of your hair.
On the tips of your fingers,
my body seems achingly beautiful.
Today, we could begin to grow
back every limb we have lost.
May 6th, 2008
Posted in: Self
I am going to write about the longest three minutes of my life.
This happened a couple of days back, while I was running. Everybody who knows me well enough or who has read my site knows that running to me is a chore, something you feel rewarded at the very end of the activity, like a prolonged bikini waxing session or… nothing else. Well I have always been able to cope with the dread of running, and for the most part sometimes time just flew by. A lot of it has to do with how I motivate myself; I either pretend I am chased by a rapist or a mad dog, or I am in a race and I am beating every single shitfaced women out there, and the guy I like is truly impressed with my strength and speed (he’s at the sideline cause he’s of a lesser species). At the final leg of the race everybody would be cheering me on, and I’d just put a lone girl running ahead and I’d have her looking back at me with an exhausted face and I am gaining speed and I would be running and running and passing her and hitting the finish line! And as I am catching my breath the guy would ask for my phone number in awe… okay that’s not in the story and I haven’t thought of the suitable plot to continue yet.
Last Thursday I was off my game. I was already exhausted even when I was warming up, which worried me, because once I start to feel tired, I would never ever be able to stop thinking about it. Which meant that the whole time last Thursday I was feeling tired for about twice as long as all the other runs I did in the past. It went something like this, hmmm *randomthoughts* damn, I’m tired, *random thoughts* wow, I’m tired and it’s only been 1 minute, *randomth-* REALLY I’m TIRED! until I stop.
The longest three minutes in my life felt like a pounding in my chest, so loud that I thought everybody could hear it and my heart was about to explode. It felt like a giant wave crashing and flopping in my belly, stitches running up the sides and my neck pulsating wildly and aching… for no reason. I was looking at the seconds moving and was wondering why the hell one second took that amount of time to move…it actually felt long enough for me to say, STOP RUNNING DAMN IM TIRED. I forced myself to look everywhere left right, but all that I was aware of were the pounding of my chest and the thought; I really need to stop why the fuck 3 minutes are taking SO BLOODY LONG??
But you know what the best part was, when it reached minute three, it felt awesome - like a hot air balloon ride, or the after feeling of a really good date with the person you fancy, or the happy jibs you get after a bellyaching laugh - that I continued on for a while, because I could, and because I am superwoman!
That dude should just get my phone number.
Oh when randomness strikes. Just bear.
May 6th, 2008
Posted in: Writings
The excursion only took three days. It started on Friday, your belongings piled high like an imagined trip to Timbuktu, barraging onto the driveway. Straight away the white cold squares in your saved space are layered with what makes you you. You carried with it a whiff of your scent, filling up high into the plaster ceiling, shying away when the doors were opened or closed. Your voice was louder than the people in the idiot box, more vibrant than them saying that the oil price is hiked up still. I didn’t need a radio. Your feet left dirty imprints everything, brown against the cream tiles. The living room carpet lost themselves beneath the layers of mess you made.
Saturday felt very long. Dirty footprints, empty juice bottles left on the floor, papers that littered everywhere.
Sunday came, and before you left, you said Thank You to me. You took away with you all the noise, the chaos, the filth that are your essence. I turned and walked in the house, and saw that you’ve wiped clean all the evident of yourself inside. The carpet looked vacuumed. The floor didn’t feel sticky. And just like that, it was as if you were never there at all, and suddenly, the house felt very very quiet, and empty.
May 5th, 2008
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