i think i will be unwilling to change for the break up
its too cliche
it's already been too cliche
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
She believed that scars had a special something about them.
Everything was in slow motion the moment she fell off from the bike that day. She lost balance and stumbled off the bike, fell forward knees first. The gash was the deepest she had ever seen. It didn't bleed, at first at least. The gash was a dead white, and the blood seeped out, droplet by droplet. She got up from the ground and got on the bike. She continued to ride, feeling the blood trickle down. The gash had started to tingle.
Everyone was oddly calm that day. Her dad, the Virgo, simply looked at the gash and said that it would probably take a year for the scar to fade.
She was strangely proud of the gash. She loved the way it hurt. She would cover it up under jeans and feel like she had some wonderfully horrible secret. It proved that she existed.
She always had an inky feeling that the fall had been an omen of something.
She met him the next day, after the fall. He was sitting on his black scooter, his arms leaning on the handles. There were something about his eyes. His eyes didn't go with his complete bad boy attire. His gaze was too soft.
She took off her aviators and looked at him a grin. She would hear later how the aviators turned him off for a second. She would be mocked for wearing them on that not so sunny day afterwards.
She learned fast. She wanted to prove that she was good. She tackled drumming with the kind of ferocity that she approached everything with, at least everything she wanted to get right. Or maybe she didn't learn that fast, and the compliment in the text message she would receive later on was just another polite opening. She would never have the chance to know.
He would take her to a smoky pool parlor the second day. She wasn't used to the smoke and she didn't care that much about pool. She had never been to a pool parlor. Maybe that was why she said yes when he asked her if she wanted to go. Maybe it was the way he made her feel. The chemistry between them wasn't the kind that would spiral out of control. He made her feel safe.
He took her bowling the third day. Blowing would be boring if it wasn't for him. She didn't really like his friend that brought his girlfriend along that day. It made it an awkward double date. But it was fun. It was fun with him. It was easy laughing with him.
This was different from usually happened with guys for her. She didn't have time to analyze. She didn't have time to think about where they were going. She didn't have time to care about where they were going.
He kissed her on the third day.
They both stumbled a bit.
She didn't know what to do with the kiss. She was on fast forward and she didn't have time to think about it. She was going to Taipei for university and he was staying in Tainan. She didn't believe in long distance relationships.
On the fourth day, the death day, they were sitting at Starbucks. His phone rang and he started talking to a friend, boy talk. She sneaked a sip of his latte, and decided that she still didn't like coffee. She overheard him telling his friend that he was at Starbucks with his girlfriend. She waited for the phone call to end. She looked up at him and said so I'm your girlfriend now. He gave her one of his lukewarm bad boy grins.
So that was that. She was his girlfriend now. She had a problem with the his and hers. She would always introduce him as "the" boyfriend. She felt that he wasn't hers and she didn't want to be his anyways.
She would rub on the scar as they talked about life and stuff. He had seen the gash. He didn't like it. Everything about her fascinated him just a little bit more than it repulsed him.
Sometimes it would feel as if they were different poles tugging on each other, trying to find a balance.
He would live on the hope that maybe she would one day become not so obnoxious, and she would live on the hope that maybe one day he would really understand. She knew that he hated and loved her for her obnoxiousness, for the way she would poke at the elephant in the room, for the way she would push him to his limits.
She drove him crazy.
Taking her out to meet friends was always an adventure with a headache involved. She could do nice, but it stretched her. She was always better alone with him. She didn't like his package of friends.
His friends. He wished she could be the same with him when around his friends. She was easy, carefree, light around him. But she couldn't do that around his friends. She was obnoxious. She would unconsciously make them feel uncomfortable.
He didn't know why she had to test people.
He didn't know why because she hadn't had the time to test him.
Somehow she always felt that the scar had been an omen of something.
Sometimes, when she was alone, she would rub on that scar and wonder how long they would last. She couldn't believe in forever. Forever is jinxed, for forever.
Being with him wore her down, bit by bit. Or maybe it was just her. She felt herself fade when she was with him. All what was left of her were the stretched smiles and the yeses and the waiting. It was probably the waiting that tortured her the most. It was her problem. She couldn't really find a balance between him and her world. They were completely different elements.
About every week or so, she would step out of her world and into his, never the other way around. She didn't want it that way, or maybe it was never destined to be that way.
She had started to wait too, when she was in her world. Her life had started to become a prolonged wait for the bus, a five day wait for the ride back.
She didn't know when she decided that it had to stop. Maybe it was bubbling in her for a while now, all the little things that went unnoticed would turn the heat up higher, notch by notch.
It was destined to happen.
Her scar had faded.
She called him on a Saturday. It was a very dramatic Saturday night, dark, windy, raining just enough to get you wet. She was anxious and agitated. She told him over the phone, on the roof top of her dorm. It all seemed so corny. It all seemed so fake, like a very badly directed break up scene.
She didn't love him anymore.
And she didn't know why he wouldn't accept that.
Wasn't that better than any reason she could've given him?
Everything was in slow motion the moment she fell off from the bike that day. She lost balance and stumbled off the bike, fell forward knees first. The gash was the deepest she had ever seen. It didn't bleed, at first at least. The gash was a dead white, and the blood seeped out, droplet by droplet. She got up from the ground and got on the bike. She continued to ride, feeling the blood trickle down. The gash had started to tingle.
Everyone was oddly calm that day. Her dad, the Virgo, simply looked at the gash and said that it would probably take a year for the scar to fade.
She was strangely proud of the gash. She loved the way it hurt. She would cover it up under jeans and feel like she had some wonderfully horrible secret. It proved that she existed.
She always had an inky feeling that the fall had been an omen of something.
She met him the next day, after the fall. He was sitting on his black scooter, his arms leaning on the handles. There were something about his eyes. His eyes didn't go with his complete bad boy attire. His gaze was too soft.
She took off her aviators and looked at him a grin. She would hear later how the aviators turned him off for a second. She would be mocked for wearing them on that not so sunny day afterwards.
She learned fast. She wanted to prove that she was good. She tackled drumming with the kind of ferocity that she approached everything with, at least everything she wanted to get right. Or maybe she didn't learn that fast, and the compliment in the text message she would receive later on was just another polite opening. She would never have the chance to know.
He would take her to a smoky pool parlor the second day. She wasn't used to the smoke and she didn't care that much about pool. She had never been to a pool parlor. Maybe that was why she said yes when he asked her if she wanted to go. Maybe it was the way he made her feel. The chemistry between them wasn't the kind that would spiral out of control. He made her feel safe.
He took her bowling the third day. Blowing would be boring if it wasn't for him. She didn't really like his friend that brought his girlfriend along that day. It made it an awkward double date. But it was fun. It was fun with him. It was easy laughing with him.
This was different from usually happened with guys for her. She didn't have time to analyze. She didn't have time to think about where they were going. She didn't have time to care about where they were going.
He kissed her on the third day.
They both stumbled a bit.
She didn't know what to do with the kiss. She was on fast forward and she didn't have time to think about it. She was going to Taipei for university and he was staying in Tainan. She didn't believe in long distance relationships.
On the fourth day, the death day, they were sitting at Starbucks. His phone rang and he started talking to a friend, boy talk. She sneaked a sip of his latte, and decided that she still didn't like coffee. She overheard him telling his friend that he was at Starbucks with his girlfriend. She waited for the phone call to end. She looked up at him and said so I'm your girlfriend now. He gave her one of his lukewarm bad boy grins.
So that was that. She was his girlfriend now. She had a problem with the his and hers. She would always introduce him as "the" boyfriend. She felt that he wasn't hers and she didn't want to be his anyways.
She would rub on the scar as they talked about life and stuff. He had seen the gash. He didn't like it. Everything about her fascinated him just a little bit more than it repulsed him.
Sometimes it would feel as if they were different poles tugging on each other, trying to find a balance.
He would live on the hope that maybe she would one day become not so obnoxious, and she would live on the hope that maybe one day he would really understand. She knew that he hated and loved her for her obnoxiousness, for the way she would poke at the elephant in the room, for the way she would push him to his limits.
She drove him crazy.
Taking her out to meet friends was always an adventure with a headache involved. She could do nice, but it stretched her. She was always better alone with him. She didn't like his package of friends.
His friends. He wished she could be the same with him when around his friends. She was easy, carefree, light around him. But she couldn't do that around his friends. She was obnoxious. She would unconsciously make them feel uncomfortable.
He didn't know why she had to test people.
He didn't know why because she hadn't had the time to test him.
Somehow she always felt that the scar had been an omen of something.
Sometimes, when she was alone, she would rub on that scar and wonder how long they would last. She couldn't believe in forever. Forever is jinxed, for forever.
Being with him wore her down, bit by bit. Or maybe it was just her. She felt herself fade when she was with him. All what was left of her were the stretched smiles and the yeses and the waiting. It was probably the waiting that tortured her the most. It was her problem. She couldn't really find a balance between him and her world. They were completely different elements.
About every week or so, she would step out of her world and into his, never the other way around. She didn't want it that way, or maybe it was never destined to be that way.
She had started to wait too, when she was in her world. Her life had started to become a prolonged wait for the bus, a five day wait for the ride back.
She didn't know when she decided that it had to stop. Maybe it was bubbling in her for a while now, all the little things that went unnoticed would turn the heat up higher, notch by notch.
It was destined to happen.
Her scar had faded.
She called him on a Saturday. It was a very dramatic Saturday night, dark, windy, raining just enough to get you wet. She was anxious and agitated. She told him over the phone, on the roof top of her dorm. It all seemed so corny. It all seemed so fake, like a very badly directed break up scene.
She felt as that he had a "stray theory".
It had all happened so suddenly that he felt that she was just a pet that had forgotten to come home. He was waiting for her to come back again.
Every phone call that she picked up ended with the same question until she stopped answering.
He wanted to know why.
She didn't love him anymore.
And she didn't know why he wouldn't accept that.
Wasn't that better than any reason she could've given him?
tension
there was far too much tension
She was sitting in front of the computer, muttering to herself. Her chin was resting on her knees, her fingers covered the mouse.
The cruiser was agitated.
It would wander to the blue messanger sign, clicking on it to show all the people, who, like her, had nothing better to do that night.
How could there be so much tension between a computer and her?
It was only a fucking program.
She was waiting.
She couldn't help herself.
She was addicted, a bit, to their midnight talks that didn't really add up to anything.
She was addicted, a bit, to the tension.
It was her game they were playing, or was it his?
It didn't matter now.
She hated being addicted to anything.
there was far too much tension
She was sitting in front of the computer, muttering to herself. Her chin was resting on her knees, her fingers covered the mouse.
The cruiser was agitated.
It would wander to the blue messanger sign, clicking on it to show all the people, who, like her, had nothing better to do that night.
How could there be so much tension between a computer and her?
It was only a fucking program.
She was waiting.
She couldn't help herself.
She was addicted, a bit, to their midnight talks that didn't really add up to anything.
She was addicted, a bit, to the tension.
It was her game they were playing, or was it his?
It didn't matter now.
She hated being addicted to anything.
the ninth cupid
he once wrote a story about los angeles
the city was going glam at the time
and his gf was the piano player in a band of drag queens
who played once a month at a secret club called "the make up"
in the story, he wrote about cupid and the cupid lineage
that all cupids are nothing but hell bent arch angels who must make
some one commit suicide over love in order to release the spirit of the current
cupid. All together there have only been 8 cupids in all of history
on the night this current cupid had found a mortal willing to die for love
his victim, the lead singer of this glam band, jack atlantis, was wearing the darkest leather jacket man has ever seen, it came from a black material so deep it seemed to suck out the light of its surroundings, it was very german...."jack atlantis will die in this jacket tonight" cupid said, as he watched him from the rafters of the stage.
he once wrote a story about los angeles
the city was going glam at the time
and his gf was the piano player in a band of drag queens
who played once a month at a secret club called "the make up"
in the story, he wrote about cupid and the cupid lineage
that all cupids are nothing but hell bent arch angels who must make
some one commit suicide over love in order to release the spirit of the current
cupid. All together there have only been 8 cupids in all of history
on the night this current cupid had found a mortal willing to die for love
his victim, the lead singer of this glam band, jack atlantis, was wearing the darkest leather jacket man has ever seen, it came from a black material so deep it seemed to suck out the light of its surroundings, it was very german...."jack atlantis will die in this jacket tonight" cupid said, as he watched him from the rafters of the stage.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
But mom... I'm in love! I'm in love with THAT leather jacket.
She was whining over the phone.
She didn't really want that leather jacket. It was nice, of course, but she felt like she hadn't searched for long enough. She just called her mom to... to test her love most probably. She just wanted to see how far and much she could get from them.
She was in a mucky part of life right now. She had just split up with her boyfriend and she didn't really know what to do with that.
Her first break up.
She didn't really want to cry. Or maybe she did.
She hadn't made up her mind yet.
She felt like this was all her doing.
After all, it was her that dumped him, wasn't it?
She shouldn't have the right to cry.
So she was acting out on the leather jacket. The over priced jacket that had stood out among all the other opened collared waist lengthed Japanese cuts that were everywhere in department stores right now.
Somehow the more she whined for it the more she knew that she didn't really want it.
Leather jackets weren't the kind of thing you should get in a department store.
Just another one of her strange ideas that she insisted upon. Department stores were too shiny and clean and bright and labeled for a leather jacket. Too bad Chinese people don't usually buy second hand. The Chinese had a phobia of wearing clothes from dead people. Then again, the Chinese had a phobia of almost everything. Except food. The Chinese would eat anything. Then again, Americans could eat everything too, as long as it was well hidden under ketchup and mustard and other sauces with artificial coloring.
Her mom didn't really understand what she was doing. Her mom thought that this was more like break-up shopping. Drowning your sorrow in buying over priced objects that just happened to come across your path. Her mom wanted to let her buy that jacket, but she didn't want to spoil her, but she was wavering.
Her mom was wavering.
She was very good at whining. It was something she was secretly proud of, it was really useful for being obnoxious. She ended the phone call with a "It's alright if you guys don't want me to have it, I'll find a part-time job. Love you mom~"
Chinese parents and part-time jobs.
Another phobia.
She didn't feel better after her whining session.
She felt like she was using her parents love, testing it like that.
But she couldn't help herself.
Family.
She was whining over the phone.
She didn't really want that leather jacket. It was nice, of course, but she felt like she hadn't searched for long enough. She just called her mom to... to test her love most probably. She just wanted to see how far and much she could get from them.
She was in a mucky part of life right now. She had just split up with her boyfriend and she didn't really know what to do with that.
Her first break up.
She didn't really want to cry. Or maybe she did.
She hadn't made up her mind yet.
She felt like this was all her doing.
After all, it was her that dumped him, wasn't it?
She shouldn't have the right to cry.
So she was acting out on the leather jacket. The over priced jacket that had stood out among all the other opened collared waist lengthed Japanese cuts that were everywhere in department stores right now.
Somehow the more she whined for it the more she knew that she didn't really want it.
Leather jackets weren't the kind of thing you should get in a department store.
Just another one of her strange ideas that she insisted upon. Department stores were too shiny and clean and bright and labeled for a leather jacket. Too bad Chinese people don't usually buy second hand. The Chinese had a phobia of wearing clothes from dead people. Then again, the Chinese had a phobia of almost everything. Except food. The Chinese would eat anything. Then again, Americans could eat everything too, as long as it was well hidden under ketchup and mustard and other sauces with artificial coloring.
Her mom didn't really understand what she was doing. Her mom thought that this was more like break-up shopping. Drowning your sorrow in buying over priced objects that just happened to come across your path. Her mom wanted to let her buy that jacket, but she didn't want to spoil her, but she was wavering.
Her mom was wavering.
She was very good at whining. It was something she was secretly proud of, it was really useful for being obnoxious. She ended the phone call with a "It's alright if you guys don't want me to have it, I'll find a part-time job. Love you mom~"
Chinese parents and part-time jobs.
Another phobia.
She didn't feel better after her whining session.
She felt like she was using her parents love, testing it like that.
But she couldn't help herself.
Family.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
18th century enligh lit.
"Pamela"
I could only fly to his generous bosom (for this is a subject whichmost affects me), and, with my eyes swimming in tears of grateful joy,and which overflowed as soon as my bold lips touched his dear face,bless God, and bless him, with my whole heart; for speak I couldnot! But, almost chok'd with my joy, sobb'd to him my gratefulacknowledgments. He clasped me in his arms, and said, "How, mydearest, do you overpay me for the little I have done for yourparents! If it be thus to be bless'd for conferring benefits soinsignificant to a man of my fortune, what joys is it not in the powerof rich men to give themselves, whenever they please!--Foretastes,indeed, of those we are bid to hope for: which can surely only exceedthese, as _then_ we shall be all intellect, and better fitted toreceive them."--"'Tis too much!--too much," said I, in broken accents:"how am I oppressed with the pleasure you give me!--O, Sir, blessme more gradually, and more cautiously--for I cannot bear it!" And,indeed, my heart went flutter, flutter, flutter, at his dear breast,as if it wanted to break its too narrow prison, to mingle still moreintimately with his own.
welcome back sweet devine lunacy:
i went for a walk and saw a street fair
pumpkins and goats, children running around like wolves
did they expect all of us to forget this?
"Pamela"
I could only fly to his generous bosom (for this is a subject whichmost affects me), and, with my eyes swimming in tears of grateful joy,and which overflowed as soon as my bold lips touched his dear face,bless God, and bless him, with my whole heart; for speak I couldnot! But, almost chok'd with my joy, sobb'd to him my gratefulacknowledgments. He clasped me in his arms, and said, "How, mydearest, do you overpay me for the little I have done for yourparents! If it be thus to be bless'd for conferring benefits soinsignificant to a man of my fortune, what joys is it not in the powerof rich men to give themselves, whenever they please!--Foretastes,indeed, of those we are bid to hope for: which can surely only exceedthese, as _then_ we shall be all intellect, and better fitted toreceive them."--"'Tis too much!--too much," said I, in broken accents:"how am I oppressed with the pleasure you give me!--O, Sir, blessme more gradually, and more cautiously--for I cannot bear it!" And,indeed, my heart went flutter, flutter, flutter, at his dear breast,as if it wanted to break its too narrow prison, to mingle still moreintimately with his own.
welcome back sweet devine lunacy:
i went for a walk and saw a street fair
pumpkins and goats, children running around like wolves
did they expect all of us to forget this?
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
"Why is your name Carl?" She never could understand why Taiwanese would pick a phony English name. It just didn't make sense. Americans should learn to call us by who we really are, she thought indigently.
"My first love, her name's Carol. It's close to that, and I wanna be a part of her." He let out a stream of smoke.
"That's sic." She hated the thought of someone being a part of her, forever. Some girls might have thought that was sweet, she thought it was sweet too, cloyingly sweet, like when men tattooed heart Anny on their arm or something.
"Then don't call me that. Your English name's Jenny, isn't it?" He looked at her through the corner of his eye. Through the smoke. Through the yellowish night lamp that the school would light up after ten.
"Don't call me that. It's not for you to call. And I won't call you Carl."
"Fine, whatever." His conversations always had a few whatevers and I don't cares stitched into them.
She didn't like them, those whatevers and I don't cares. They were always like blotches that stained their conversations. They were like a nailed up door, abruptly stopping her.
They were sitting on the steps beside the track. It was late and it had just started to get chilly in Taiwan. The wind blew his cigarette smoke away by sections. The closest part would cling and swirl around him, making him look like some mafia gangster in his territory. The farthest would blow towards her, giving the air just a hint of second hand smoke.
"You wanna try?" He raised his brow and tilted the cigarette.
She held the cigarette between her fingers, seeing how it gave off a coal red glow and how the ashes would stay on the end if you didn't tap if off.
She looked at the cigarette, thinking how years of education told her how horrible it would be for her and how she would die with cancer eaten lungs.
It wasn't peer pressure. If there had been she probably would have crushed it under her heal and walked away scornfully.
But there wasn't, and she was curious.
She brought it up and sniffed it. She was surprised that it didn't give off the slightly nauseating smell that smoke in the air gave off. The cigarette held close gave off an entirely different scent. It was fuller and denser, somehow.
She held it up and inhaled. She could feel the smoke go down and fill her lungs. The smoke seemed to announce it's way down her esophagus. It's presence was hot with a peppery hint in it and charred a bit when going down.
She was surprised. It was the kind of sensation that she thought she could like if she had the chance.
Too bad she wasn't a smoking kind of person and addiction was too heavy a price to pay for her.
She hated being addicted to anything. She hated relying. Or maybe it was just that the years of education had brainwashed her successfully.
She handed him back the cigarette, noticing how the tobacco lingered on her fingers. It was the kind of scent that mixed itself naturally with the scent of tea and warm porcelain and wood.
He started talking, about how his first love is now with his best friend, about how his summer in the states, about how he had accidentally almost fell in love.
"I told her I was leaving, and that we probably wouldn't meet again. I was hoping for her to come, that night. I waited off half the night. I had given up a bit. I was tired and wanted to go to bed."
"No, you were just waiting for her weren't you? You know she would come."
"Maybe. She came in the end. We were making out and she suddenly slide onto me. "
"So you think you were raped."
"Probably, it was all very sudden."
"Liar"
He had finished the cigarette and had taken out another to play with.
"I cried in the airport. My plane kept on delaying and I didn't want to leave.
I wanted to stay."
"You didn't fall in love with her, you fell in love with your life abroad." She was looking at the stars. It was one of the good things about her school, the stars. The didn't shine bright or anything, the gave off a dime glow, the kind that made her wonder whether they were really there. She had started tracing them into geometric shapes, triangles and stuff. The Greeks must have been bored to hell to have been able to see so much from such a mess.
"But she was a part of that."
He changed the subject. He started joking about how she should meet a friend of his. He was tall and gorgeous, the kind that girls would just stop and ask for his number, the kind that worked at Starbucks and had a fan base.
She was only half interested. She had adopted a star. It was in every one of the geometric shapes she traced out.
He started talking about how he saw him sitting alone on the bleachers that day, crying. He had walked over and asked him if his dog had died or something. He had told him that it wasn't his dog.
It was his dad.
They couldn't find him.
He told him not to worry, that hadn't this happened before?
He told him that he had a bad feeling this time.
The day afterwards, outside the research building, he got a call.
"They've found him!" he told them, laughing.
His laughter started to mingle with hot tears.
They hauled him aside and they mourned together, like a pack of wolves howling into the gleaming night moon.
"People die.
That's the only thing all of us will do right, sooner or latter in life." she said lightly, still gazing at the caotic heavens.
"Not in that way."
His dad had hanged himself.
His dad had been gorgeous too.
Her star had blended in with the trillions of billions of other stars in the sky. She couldn't tell which was her's anymore.
"My first love, her name's Carol. It's close to that, and I wanna be a part of her." He let out a stream of smoke.
"That's sic." She hated the thought of someone being a part of her, forever. Some girls might have thought that was sweet, she thought it was sweet too, cloyingly sweet, like when men tattooed heart Anny on their arm or something.
"Then don't call me that. Your English name's Jenny, isn't it?" He looked at her through the corner of his eye. Through the smoke. Through the yellowish night lamp that the school would light up after ten.
"Don't call me that. It's not for you to call. And I won't call you Carl."
"Fine, whatever." His conversations always had a few whatevers and I don't cares stitched into them.
She didn't like them, those whatevers and I don't cares. They were always like blotches that stained their conversations. They were like a nailed up door, abruptly stopping her.
They were sitting on the steps beside the track. It was late and it had just started to get chilly in Taiwan. The wind blew his cigarette smoke away by sections. The closest part would cling and swirl around him, making him look like some mafia gangster in his territory. The farthest would blow towards her, giving the air just a hint of second hand smoke.
"You wanna try?" He raised his brow and tilted the cigarette.
She held the cigarette between her fingers, seeing how it gave off a coal red glow and how the ashes would stay on the end if you didn't tap if off.
She looked at the cigarette, thinking how years of education told her how horrible it would be for her and how she would die with cancer eaten lungs.
It wasn't peer pressure. If there had been she probably would have crushed it under her heal and walked away scornfully.
But there wasn't, and she was curious.
She brought it up and sniffed it. She was surprised that it didn't give off the slightly nauseating smell that smoke in the air gave off. The cigarette held close gave off an entirely different scent. It was fuller and denser, somehow.
She held it up and inhaled. She could feel the smoke go down and fill her lungs. The smoke seemed to announce it's way down her esophagus. It's presence was hot with a peppery hint in it and charred a bit when going down.
She was surprised. It was the kind of sensation that she thought she could like if she had the chance.
Too bad she wasn't a smoking kind of person and addiction was too heavy a price to pay for her.
She hated being addicted to anything. She hated relying. Or maybe it was just that the years of education had brainwashed her successfully.
She handed him back the cigarette, noticing how the tobacco lingered on her fingers. It was the kind of scent that mixed itself naturally with the scent of tea and warm porcelain and wood.
He started talking, about how his first love is now with his best friend, about how his summer in the states, about how he had accidentally almost fell in love.
"I told her I was leaving, and that we probably wouldn't meet again. I was hoping for her to come, that night. I waited off half the night. I had given up a bit. I was tired and wanted to go to bed."
"No, you were just waiting for her weren't you? You know she would come."
"Maybe. She came in the end. We were making out and she suddenly slide onto me. "
"So you think you were raped."
"Probably, it was all very sudden."
"Liar"
He had finished the cigarette and had taken out another to play with.
"I cried in the airport. My plane kept on delaying and I didn't want to leave.
I wanted to stay."
"You didn't fall in love with her, you fell in love with your life abroad." She was looking at the stars. It was one of the good things about her school, the stars. The didn't shine bright or anything, the gave off a dime glow, the kind that made her wonder whether they were really there. She had started tracing them into geometric shapes, triangles and stuff. The Greeks must have been bored to hell to have been able to see so much from such a mess.
"But she was a part of that."
He changed the subject. He started joking about how she should meet a friend of his. He was tall and gorgeous, the kind that girls would just stop and ask for his number, the kind that worked at Starbucks and had a fan base.
She was only half interested. She had adopted a star. It was in every one of the geometric shapes she traced out.
He started talking about how he saw him sitting alone on the bleachers that day, crying. He had walked over and asked him if his dog had died or something. He had told him that it wasn't his dog.
It was his dad.
They couldn't find him.
He told him not to worry, that hadn't this happened before?
He told him that he had a bad feeling this time.
The day afterwards, outside the research building, he got a call.
"They've found him!" he told them, laughing.
His laughter started to mingle with hot tears.
They hauled him aside and they mourned together, like a pack of wolves howling into the gleaming night moon.
"People die.
That's the only thing all of us will do right, sooner or latter in life." she said lightly, still gazing at the caotic heavens.
"Not in that way."
His dad had hanged himself.
His dad had been gorgeous too.
Her star had blended in with the trillions of billions of other stars in the sky. She couldn't tell which was her's anymore.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
this had to be a bad omen
he always thought about how things were happening to him
they didnt just happen, they happened to him
it was selfish
but it was the only way something could be justified
like today
his co worker was looking for the camera,
he wanted to go down and take pictures but his moral
soul got in the way
he tried just taking pictures from the 6th floor
he could only see a part of the body
a hand and jacket
why would someone jump off a building in a jacket
in the summer?
she was calling her friends and telling them what had just happened
that while we were in the office we saw something fly southward
like a sack of laundry
then we heard the sound, a dull thud
she was excited, rapid clip chinese into a cell phone
she could have been a car commercial
or a sale, she was excited
he just thought
this has to be a bad omen
first day in a foreign country
when the ambulance arrived
it didnt move
the driver
got out and opened the hood of the ambulance
like the ambulance broke down or something
it was having car trouble
there were no lights
no sirens
it sat there with the hood opened
nobody moved
the driver climbed back inside and sat there
this had be a bad omen
it was three hours before the police arrived
the photographer fumbled with different lenses
trying to see if he could get a decent picture from
the 6th floor
the 19 year old girl named beatrice, the one who let us in the office
to check our email yelled at him
to stop being a baby
to stop complaining that he couldnt get the action in focus
i think of her name, Dante, Beatrice leading us from the depths of hell
he looked at the banner stretched across the office door:
"english is your passport to the world"
this has to be a bad omen
he was the first one to walk downstairs
he saw a large sheet of plastic
the same hand the photographer
was talking about upstairs
it was laying outstetched on a park bench
it was old
almost frail
the hand wasnt young at all like us
he always thought about how things were happening to him
they didnt just happen, they happened to him
it was selfish
but it was the only way something could be justified
like today
his co worker was looking for the camera,
he wanted to go down and take pictures but his moral
soul got in the way
he tried just taking pictures from the 6th floor
he could only see a part of the body
a hand and jacket
why would someone jump off a building in a jacket
in the summer?
she was calling her friends and telling them what had just happened
that while we were in the office we saw something fly southward
like a sack of laundry
then we heard the sound, a dull thud
she was excited, rapid clip chinese into a cell phone
she could have been a car commercial
or a sale, she was excited
he just thought
this has to be a bad omen
first day in a foreign country
when the ambulance arrived
it didnt move
the driver
got out and opened the hood of the ambulance
like the ambulance broke down or something
it was having car trouble
there were no lights
no sirens
it sat there with the hood opened
nobody moved
the driver climbed back inside and sat there
this had be a bad omen
it was three hours before the police arrived
the photographer fumbled with different lenses
trying to see if he could get a decent picture from
the 6th floor
the 19 year old girl named beatrice, the one who let us in the office
to check our email yelled at him
to stop being a baby
to stop complaining that he couldnt get the action in focus
i think of her name, Dante, Beatrice leading us from the depths of hell
he looked at the banner stretched across the office door:
"english is your passport to the world"
this has to be a bad omen
he was the first one to walk downstairs
he saw a large sheet of plastic
the same hand the photographer
was talking about upstairs
it was laying outstetched on a park bench
it was old
almost frail
the hand wasnt young at all like us
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
She looked down, her hair swirling and the wind cool and emotionless.
She looked down, realizing how dark it was.
She didn't want to jump, not really anyway.
She was too vain for that.
She just wanted to look down and detach herself from everything.
She let everything drop down; her dad's look when she told him for the first time that maybe she had other plans for herself, the masked guilt behind her mother's eyes, her pride, her cynicalism, her fake laughter, her unseeing eyes.
Everything
She didn't jump.
She didn't want to die with all those things she just threw down.
She signed, stepped down, and put them all back on again.
She looked down, realizing how dark it was.
She didn't want to jump, not really anyway.
She was too vain for that.
She just wanted to look down and detach herself from everything.
She let everything drop down; her dad's look when she told him for the first time that maybe she had other plans for herself, the masked guilt behind her mother's eyes, her pride, her cynicalism, her fake laughter, her unseeing eyes.
Everything
She didn't jump.
She didn't want to die with all those things she just threw down.
She signed, stepped down, and put them all back on again.
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