Monday, June 26, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
For Devin
Every time I use the word lover in my blog, Devin emails the next day, and tells me that my definition is askew. I think what he really wants to say is that my word choice sucks. I adore him for this.
Being a woman, it’s difficult to write about sex without romanticizing it. I cannot peel away the last skin and admit that sex can be without love, or love can be sexless, of course, it can. I’m talking about romantic love though. Its future hope, and all the things we place on it, to increase its value. With the exception of Iris Murdoch, this is the reason why most of the authors I enjoy reading are men. They handle sex far better than most women authors. They describe sex in multi layers, whether it is a fuck, love, sex, recreation, it seems so much more accurate. They don’t tend be sentimental. Sex is sex. It is an act. The act can be with love or loveless, something that women tend to trip on.
Anyhow, over a year ago, I attempted to write about sex not in a manner of someone in love. I tried to drop its glossy luster and this is the result of that.
No one can really tell you where he was born or for a matter of fact where he was born. Many whores from Los Angeles claim that Luis is their child. There is certainly credibility among the whores for they raise their children communally. They feed any children that still suckle. The only time they took a break from entertaining American and Filipino soldiers are to breast feed their children. General Mendoza is known for his big appetite for breast milk that he’ll only sleep with a whore who has swollen breasts. The whores knowing his weakness allow him to suckle for few seconds and then withhold their breasts away from him. Often, in the corridor, you could hear the General pleading, “But I am still hungry.” The women know that the General is powerless so they brush him aside. And they scold him for not having shame of wanting all her milk when all the children need it more than him. The General responds by standing angrily, “There are plenty of milk to be had around this town” and buttons his pants.
“I’ll go to the next whore who’ll feed.” He threatens.
But then a few minutes later, he would knock on the same whore’s door, the one he just left, and pleads that he’ll pay double. Pleased, she allows him back to her bed. After sex, she allows him to suckle on her breasts. Happy, he falls asleep with dried milk around his lips.
All the whores’ children enjoy seeing the General. Their older siblings taught them that if they go up to him and say, “I won’t drink so much milk General. I’ll save some for you.” The General would give them a peso.
_________________________
Congratulations on the new place. Happy swimming!
Being a woman, it’s difficult to write about sex without romanticizing it. I cannot peel away the last skin and admit that sex can be without love, or love can be sexless, of course, it can. I’m talking about romantic love though. Its future hope, and all the things we place on it, to increase its value. With the exception of Iris Murdoch, this is the reason why most of the authors I enjoy reading are men. They handle sex far better than most women authors. They describe sex in multi layers, whether it is a fuck, love, sex, recreation, it seems so much more accurate. They don’t tend be sentimental. Sex is sex. It is an act. The act can be with love or loveless, something that women tend to trip on.
Anyhow, over a year ago, I attempted to write about sex not in a manner of someone in love. I tried to drop its glossy luster and this is the result of that.
No one can really tell you where he was born or for a matter of fact where he was born. Many whores from Los Angeles claim that Luis is their child. There is certainly credibility among the whores for they raise their children communally. They feed any children that still suckle. The only time they took a break from entertaining American and Filipino soldiers are to breast feed their children. General Mendoza is known for his big appetite for breast milk that he’ll only sleep with a whore who has swollen breasts. The whores knowing his weakness allow him to suckle for few seconds and then withhold their breasts away from him. Often, in the corridor, you could hear the General pleading, “But I am still hungry.” The women know that the General is powerless so they brush him aside. And they scold him for not having shame of wanting all her milk when all the children need it more than him. The General responds by standing angrily, “There are plenty of milk to be had around this town” and buttons his pants.
“I’ll go to the next whore who’ll feed.” He threatens.
But then a few minutes later, he would knock on the same whore’s door, the one he just left, and pleads that he’ll pay double. Pleased, she allows him back to her bed. After sex, she allows him to suckle on her breasts. Happy, he falls asleep with dried milk around his lips.
All the whores’ children enjoy seeing the General. Their older siblings taught them that if they go up to him and say, “I won’t drink so much milk General. I’ll save some for you.” The General would give them a peso.
_________________________
Congratulations on the new place. Happy swimming!
Monday, June 19, 2006
i hate to bug you man but how do you dial 911
1986 is full of surprises. The construction is finally finished and there’s one remaining suite downstairs left to be filled. My new roommate and I are convinced that something fishy is going on underneath us. His take on it, is illegal merchandising. Mine, is gambling. Right now, the parking lot is filled with Lexus, Hummer, Mercedes, Land Rover and two BMWs. I can hear the clink of clay chips and stomping of mahjong tiles. Sounds I stored in my head as a child and almost forgotten about till now.
Oh, 1986. You never cease to amaze me. I’m not sure how they are going to get away with this. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone come in or leave. I’ve only heard muffled voices of a language I cannot speak. I’m certain, it’s Vietnamese. After one year, my ears have gotten accustomed to the way the speakers of this language bend their tongues.
Sharad’s composing his own story. He’s supposed to be studying for GMAT but, guiltily spends time opening and closing the living room window, in hopes of proving his theory. He said, he saw a man on the phone and a badly dressed hooker several nights ago. I liked the way he said, “A badly dressed hooker.” I chuckled at the way he describes a woman he isn't brave enough to kiss.
Oh, 1986. You never cease to amaze me. I’m not sure how they are going to get away with this. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone come in or leave. I’ve only heard muffled voices of a language I cannot speak. I’m certain, it’s Vietnamese. After one year, my ears have gotten accustomed to the way the speakers of this language bend their tongues.
Sharad’s composing his own story. He’s supposed to be studying for GMAT but, guiltily spends time opening and closing the living room window, in hopes of proving his theory. He said, he saw a man on the phone and a badly dressed hooker several nights ago. I liked the way he said, “A badly dressed hooker.” I chuckled at the way he describes a woman he isn't brave enough to kiss.
Becoming a Vancouverite
Vancouver is a lover I slept with for nine months but barely knew. Once while walking on Broadway, Jen remarked how she loves the way he smells of barley and maple on windy afternoons. I glanced at her and acknowledged that I’ve never smelled his belly. My experience had been confined to UBC then home, with the occasional visit to NewWest and even more occasional visit to Vancouver Art Gallery. We moved together at the same time, yet she knew him more intimately. She could compose maps of his alleys on the back of her hands.
The last two weeks, I’ve been exploring Vancouver greedily. There are so many things in this city awaiting to be learned. On my morning commute to work, I watch old people in the park by my house do Tai Chi. They’re neighbours, I’ve never seen. Taking the downtown bus, and then, the sky train is equally interesting. Faces and the coffee cups they carry become familiar. The varieties of people I see are endless, in comparison to riding the 43 bus filled with students.
I have two more weeks before I start my second job and the weather is gorgeous. Back in January and February, I was ready to pack my bags and relocate. I’m glad I stayed and waited out the rain. It’s unusual for me to take nine months to get intimate with a place. Usually, when I move, I fall to the ground and let the grass stain my skin.
The last two weeks, I’ve been exploring Vancouver greedily. There are so many things in this city awaiting to be learned. On my morning commute to work, I watch old people in the park by my house do Tai Chi. They’re neighbours, I’ve never seen. Taking the downtown bus, and then, the sky train is equally interesting. Faces and the coffee cups they carry become familiar. The varieties of people I see are endless, in comparison to riding the 43 bus filled with students.
I have two more weeks before I start my second job and the weather is gorgeous. Back in January and February, I was ready to pack my bags and relocate. I’m glad I stayed and waited out the rain. It’s unusual for me to take nine months to get intimate with a place. Usually, when I move, I fall to the ground and let the grass stain my skin.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Unspoken Pick-up lines
1. bring your hot girl-friends to the bar and watch your studness soar
2. Yeah, these will convince Paolo that we actually have a life. Huh, take that, he'll be sorry he never invited us to LA.
3. Hey, how you doing? Here's a 20 girls, now split.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
broken...i did it, but blame it on the rich, i don't know, maybe the rain
How can you rationalize it? How can you make sense of anything at all? You’re here and they’re there. Everything breaks down to borders. Even the poorest poor isn’t as poor as third world poor, we all know that.
I finally applied for my BC health card. Mostly, it’s because I need to go to a doctor and I’m afraid my Visa wouldn’t be able to sustain the damage. Only if this damn infection would go away and, would let me hear on my left ear again, then I could push away admitting that I’m a BC resident. The messed up thing about paper work, heck about everything and anything, even leaving my house, is that I’m faced with economic classification. I hate filling out an extra page because I’m a low income; I hate riding the bus with people trotting their fake Louis Vuitton purses, what statement are they trying to make— I’m broke and I have bad taste. I hate living in the East side slum and having to see that glitter of admiration from my recent immigrant neighbours, one day I’m going to shake them and scream, I’m as broke as they are and like them, I have a family I cannot save. I hate privilege whinny people that see the world only for their comfort. They have this veneer of fakeness that deserves to be spit on, here patronize this.
Why am I so angry? My body slides and shifts. I don’t know where I’m heading. I’m annoyed with my insufficiency. I read that BC minus NY produces more literature than any place in North America, that UBC’s creative writing program turns more published author than any university in Canada; that the ocean and mountains…being so closed to the American border….different ethnicities living together…the lines that separate East and West Hastings, the rain…the rain…the rain…whatever paradox you want, it is here.
I haven’t written anything since I moved here.
Today, I dusted my novel. It’s cold and dead.
I finally applied for my BC health card. Mostly, it’s because I need to go to a doctor and I’m afraid my Visa wouldn’t be able to sustain the damage. Only if this damn infection would go away and, would let me hear on my left ear again, then I could push away admitting that I’m a BC resident. The messed up thing about paper work, heck about everything and anything, even leaving my house, is that I’m faced with economic classification. I hate filling out an extra page because I’m a low income; I hate riding the bus with people trotting their fake Louis Vuitton purses, what statement are they trying to make— I’m broke and I have bad taste. I hate living in the East side slum and having to see that glitter of admiration from my recent immigrant neighbours, one day I’m going to shake them and scream, I’m as broke as they are and like them, I have a family I cannot save. I hate privilege whinny people that see the world only for their comfort. They have this veneer of fakeness that deserves to be spit on, here patronize this.
Why am I so angry? My body slides and shifts. I don’t know where I’m heading. I’m annoyed with my insufficiency. I read that BC minus NY produces more literature than any place in North America, that UBC’s creative writing program turns more published author than any university in Canada; that the ocean and mountains…being so closed to the American border….different ethnicities living together…the lines that separate East and West Hastings, the rain…the rain…the rain…whatever paradox you want, it is here.
I haven’t written anything since I moved here.
Today, I dusted my novel. It’s cold and dead.
rain rain go AWAY
Day like this makes me understand why Vancouverites read more per capita than any other Canadians. Everything is grey and flat. And, I’m reminded of the injuries my runners sustained during the 29 days straight, January rain. I hate replacing things I’ve only had for less than two years. And due to my stubbornness, I walked forty blocks carrying my criminal record clearance, completely miserable. These runners would have lasted me four years in the prairies. Thought like this runs in my head when I’m frustrated and I can’t remember the feel of the sun on my skin.
Nothing made me laugh today, not even the thought of stealing flowers. During my walk, I didn’t make any mental note of people’s houses that I could return to at night with my shears. I’m bored and DISENGAGED.
Nothing made me laugh today, not even the thought of stealing flowers. During my walk, I didn’t make any mental note of people’s houses that I could return to at night with my shears. I’m bored and DISENGAGED.
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