The Hunting Game

Man. Boring man. Why are you here? Why is it a good idea to be friend with your ex who invited you even though she is now with someone else? Why talk to me? Why? I need to use the restroom. Go somewhere else. Meet other people.

Check out the dancing booty shaking blonde chick from Munich via Toronto. She is friendly and loves to sing along with the accordion player who is jamming German songs. I am the only Asian but I am not your typical Asian so leave me alone I could be with someone else stop interrupting my solitude and let me relax and talk to others. The other, at the moment, is a graceful belly dancing instructor by the name of Asia, whose husband calls the owner of the pad the new Michaelangelo.

Michaelangelo is handsome and possibly Roman. As any handsome man who is brilliant, he is perpetually bored. MA is used to being complimented and has the same blank face as I have seen before in his other shows. MA is preoccupied by a woman in CFM shoes and mini body hugging red dress and exposed calves. In lust. In heat. MA is bored of admirers and is trying to figure out a way to put his moves on the woman with the kind of shoes MA finds exciting. Women with latex outfit or CFM shoes. Women who don’t look like a geek or in jeans. Women who are, women. CFM is stuck with a tall man next to her insisting on asking her what she does for living.

A woman in glasses and awkward posture with small purse hanging crossed from her chest approaches the tall man and CFM, introducing herself as Kathy who justcannot believe how amazing the exhibit is. She says this type of things belong to MoMA. Tall man says “I’ve never been to MoMa”. CFM asks, “Which one? MoMa or SFMoMa?” Knowing the man must be referring to SFMoMa because tall man does not appear to be the traveling type. Tall man says, “Neither.” Kathy goes on to say “I go to New York once a year but have not made it to the MoMa.” CFM again is bored. CFM travels plenty and has been to MoMa a dozen or so times and SFMoMa is all but a lunch pass time. CFM knows MoMa and SFMoMA like the back of her hand. Tall man asks “Isn’t there any free museum day?” CFM says, “That happens with Asia Art Museum, First Tuesday of each month. But not with MoMa or SFMoMa.” CFM then regrets to further engage tall man. Tall man murmurs, “That’s kind of expensive.”

Kathy attempts to explain to the tall man about the brilliance of a piece of moving art installation and the space shuttle that is hovering above. CFM appears to be less interested in the discussion but more interested in getting away from the tall man. She sees this as a sign to bid goodbye to both of them and heads to the other room. MA followed CFM and introduces himself and whispers in her ears. CFM laughs and touches MA’s arm while looking away. Tall man comes into the other room oblivious of what transpires minutes ago and continues the pursuit of CFM. MA wraps his arm around CFM’s delicate waist while whispering some more into CFM’s ears. CFM blushes and looks away now with her eyes on the floor and her eye lashes batting. Tall man is startled by the unexpected turn of event, He’s stunned and feeling defeated, so he walks away from CFM/MA.

Ad hoc D.J. is a musician with long hair. He approaches MA from the front room and asks MA how the sound system is connected to iPhone. MA shows the iPhone plugs extending from the sound system which presumably is built from scratch by MA. D.J. plays other worldly dance music not unlike the set the previous musician played. German blonde dances and the other dancers types and not so dancer types joining in. An awkward middle age man tries to grind on the floor with these women but does not succeed. He retreats to the outer circle. Tall man all of sudden feels defeated and wanders off to a corner where a 3D glass display is lonely sitting, waiting for some attention. Tall man seems to feel more settled as Kathy approaches again, this time tall man pays attention.

MA and CFM disappear into the back room and resurface after half an hour. CFM’s hair is now messy and she is reapplying lipsticks in front of a small mirror. MA is more relaxed, warming up to the scene, and greets his guests enthusiastically. He occasionally steals glances from CFM who seems to be checking her phone, busy emailing or texting. MA brings a piece of chocolate to CFM and asks if she needs anything else. CFM says no and looks away, visibly bored. The music is getting louder.

I am invisible. I observe as the world passes by me, as if I don’t exist. Just the way I want it to be. Another night in the lonely but lively city that is called San Francisco.

Hunt. And be hunted. Not everyone who hunts wins an award in the end. Even when you think you win, the prize can slip away so easily. But you must keep on trying.

Happy hunting!

Untitled

She was soft, as she should be. He told her that she was rather beautiful. He described the three body types: ectomorph, mesomorph, endomorph. She's an cross of the later two. Men like that, he told her. Ectomorph was for gay designers who want women to be just hangers, all models are ectomorphs. He said. She was soft, had smooth skin and robust hips. Birthing hips. He liked to grab onto them. He liked her on top so she could dangle her ginormous breasts in front of his face. She drifted into sleep when he was inside of her, not because he was boring, but because she had not done regular sex for a while. She never got turned on by regular sex. It had to be something unusual, unique, with brute force or kinks. He asked her to talk to him while he fucked her, but she just wanted to drift, into her own thoughts, her own world. It would be nice to have a fake mouse, sitting in the corner of the carved space, that would be funny. She'd think that to her self. It would be nice if he was not so big, because it had completely changed the way she perceived this relationship.

Earlier, when they were just friends, when they had done things like two friends did, before he told her that he was attracted to her and he had always wanted to fuck her, she thought to herself, "it would be awfully terrible if we were to ever get involved and I find out that he has a small penis." She'd tell herself this so that the image of him having a small penis forever stuck in her head, so much so that she was convinced that sex would be awful.

She also pictured him calling fucking making love. Which again, would ruin it for her.

But instead, the opposite happened. He stripped naked and got under the cover, brought her in bed, and said that he never sleep with anything on him. He slept naked, just like she did. When she asked of him, "Isn't it too soon for us to fuck?" He looked at her, all seriousness, and said, "No, not too soon to fuck." She was still uncertain, but he just got on top of her, and put his penis in front of her face like he had expected her to suck. This was again an unexpected move. She was horrified at first, imagining that it was a small penis, with funny smell, the usual nightmare of a single woman's dating life. The dreadful truth. But instead, she found the exact opposite. The penis was erect, long, clean, beautiful and bigger than she's ever seen. "You have a giant penis." She stroked it as she checked out the lamp just above her head. She discovered for the first time, there was a mirror that covered the entire wall just behind his bed posts. He laughed. "It is above average." He said. At that moment, her unexpected fear kicked in. "What if I like this?" She found herself asking this question. It would also ruin it all.

The friendship. Ruined. They were to be known as fuck buddies. No longer deep discussions and book club meetings. No longer bike rides or movie nights with popcorn. This changed it all. She was to bed him and his penis would be firmly planted in her pussy, and they would no longer be friends.

He created one of the earlier version of fuck machines. A component of it, anyway. He was not happy with what's been put on the market. He thought it would be better if the machine was designed to sense the female's body and not just a mimicking of male's fantasy  - to go all night, in that unison motion of movements. It would be a better design if the f-machine sensed women's reaction and changed its rhythm accordingly.

Earlier that night, when they were eating left overs and conducting a little bit of people watching, he'd say, "Tonight's garbage night, they are out there collecting cans again. They are pretty neat, but for every three cans, they get fifteen cents. What kind of life is that? That does not make much money." He was talking to himself again. He liked to do that, as if she did not exist, as if she was just there to read a book. The intent of the meeting, as she had reminded herself, was to gather for their usual book club, expect everyone else had been out of town, it was just he and she, and then as you, the reader would know, it's "the rest was history."

The book club book was on his bed end table. She wondered if it would be too rude for her to read while he fucked her. He could fuck for hours. He was clearly enjoying it and she was clearly just killing time. She didn't want to go home. Her kid's dad was watching the kid, and she didn't want to go and run into him. She had argued with him about her kid's eating habit the other day, and she didn't want to get into it again with him. She was hoping to finish her book club and then hit the wine bar down Polk street. She had expected a little wine and a little pot, but instead she was in his bed, this man whom she had always liked, found attractive but had not expected to have sex with, to have his bodily fluid

Suppose that was how they would start. The beginning also marked an end to her relationship to the baby daddy. She had never thought of herself as committed. But she knew she was not single either.

This man adored her more than her ex ever did, the man who fathered her child. He was polite, extremely smart, and never wanted a child or a wife. It would appear that they'd be perfect for each other. Except he would never meet her son. It would be too much.

As she was drifting into her thoughts, she sensed a jolt and then followed by his sudden urgent movement and his stillness.

Afterwards, he informed her that he was attending a birthday dinner on Saturday, and if she was interested in going with him.

She always thought that he was an eccentric man with no friends. But she was wrong.

There was a ladder in the living room that took one to the attic, there was a ladder in the front room that took one to a sleeping quarter. Then there was the ladder that led her down to the basement. She counted three custom made ladders. Each ladder led one to a stranger place.

She had not climbed the ladder in the front part of the house. She wanted to know if she could ask him to take her to one of the ladders in the front room.

But instead, she asked, "How was it? Did you enjoy fucking me?"

Cave and a Case of You

Cave

Make dinner for me. Yes make dinner. Pour me drinks. Let’s catch up on the Disney museum in the Presideo. The beginning of Walt Disney. The interesting aspect of the Disney inspiration. I like such things. Random topics. Dinner is incredible. Brussels Sprouts, roasted, pork loin, baby potatoes and cherry tomatoes. Salt, pepper and butter. Simple and delicious. Wine was from a French shop. Cave was amazing. Whoever makes that cave was a genius. Cave was made by you. Apparently. This is what I need. When are you out of town? Will you leave a key for me? I want to babysit the house. So I can sleep in the cave you built. Leave me detailed instructions. I like instructions. Do you have green eyes? Green eyes and left handed. Interesting combination. Why, you say? I say nothing at all. Party Friday. Friend’s birthday. You are welcome to come. I never want to get married, or have kids. It’s me not wanting any type of serious commitment. You are honest. The unmarriable men, men-child, are a dime a dozen in this part of the town. They seek women who want no marriage nor children at any cost. I will trade my two hours of companionship that I provide to you, with your cave. When do you leave town? I need a place to rest, decompress, no TV, no music, just a book and wireless internet.

So I’ll be your companion, food sampler, your pseudo-date, if you will. I will be that person so that I can hang in your cave, when you are not around, alone. Clean, Spare, nothing, nothing at all. Built by you, and perfected by you. I want your cave to be mine.

A Case of You

You appeared from nowhere and now I’m drunk because of you. This is unexpected, I’d say to myself. Afterwards I marveled at my own decision. An unexpected but intuitively feeling-right. How about a party? Do you want me to come as your date? I’d ask and you’d say whatever you want is fine. You have the greenest eyes. We can sit together and have a meal and not worried about bumping into each other. I do so love left-handed people. I get along with them. They are my peeps, my tribe. There is a case of you, and I’m now drunk. See you soon, I’d say. It’s just that simple. See you in not distant future, know that you are there, and this is a beginning not to be missed. I’m lost in your eyes. Deep dark, green, that changed colors from green to brown to blue sometimes, Shower, let’s shower after. White comforter, beautiful bed frames. Spare, clean, nothing that is not supposed to be there were there, no more no less. And this is a place I belong. In bed, reading, read an actual book. I can get used to this. This is my place too. 

"Come Hard and Happy Shopping"

Supposed that's the close line of a certain someone.

I'm not exactly what you'd call an optimist. I'm sort of getting by, day by day, each and every day, the pain is less and the fun continues.

Having spent a good week in a foreign land and understanding life is not all that complicated, I try to talk myself into seeing things for what they are, and learn to deal with set backs.

No one expects to anyone to change, and no one expects me to change. I tend to deal with things day by day.

I like what tomorrow brings.

I like that where one ends another starts.

I like that we don't need to feel that we are completely tied down to someone or something.

I think it's grand that we could just be free.

C writes back, C works late in a lab on Thursdays and Fridays. C is mildly obsessed with me. I like his attention but not really into this sort of heavy relationship stuff.

What I like is exchange of information, and I like learning stuff, but not interested in exploring things happy or intense. I operate the best when I'm removed emotionally with people, or things. I don't do well in an exclusive relationship where I was the object of affection.

I like solitude and the opportunity to think and be alone.

C signs his email, "C", and that's great. I need a C. I started with A, then B and now C.

C thinks that I'm attractive. I think I'm attractive. Not because of how others think about me, but because I'm more confident and less concerned about others.

Tomorrow I need to get up to run a race, and then some hard core shopping at Eaton Center. All of my fave brands and then some. Busy day shopping on Queens Street. Must wear comfy shoes. I love Toronto.

Rain, Calling on the telephone

C calls. I did try to call him but didn’t expect to talk to him. It started to rain in the evening. So I lay on the floor listing d to the rain hitting the skylights. It feels soothing. C, being an inventor, and a creator of all things scientific, says that perhaps there is a way to create these raining sounds and have it be played every night. C said that he missed New England’s summer storm. When he was young, his family had a beach house and in the summer his father would drive from one house to another to close the windows when the storm hits. I have been to the coast of New England many times over, with several boyfriends in my youth, so what he told me made sense. One time I was standing at Kennebunkport beach looking at the Bush compound from a distance. It was all very fenced off and protected. The coast line in Massachusetts is spectacular. We get on the subject of Brown. I said, “It’s barely an Ivy League.” He thinks that it is funny.

C is making these golden hands for a project for his friend’s company. They are building robots for artificial intelligence research. He’s also making a very interesting thing he called it something rather scientific and he has to make these cylinder molds. I want C to make me something inventive, but he thinks that the vibrator field has been fully tapped out.

He thinks that I have a nice voice. I rarely talk on the phone. I don’t like talking on the phone. I sound like a kid when I’m on the phone. The last person I talked on the phone daily married me. But I like talking to people when they are interesting and have things unique to say. I like that because I feel that I’m learning something.

Asking C if I should go to Niagara falls this weekend or should I just stay in town and do some shopping.  C says that I should tour because he does not care for shopping. Of course not, he’s a guy’s guy.

So I ask, “What are you making on Tuesday?” C says, “So I’m seeing you on Tuesday.” More to himself than to reply to me. He has asked but I have not replied, until now. I ask why he does not want to go out to eat with me. He said that restaurant is too noisy and he wants me all to himself. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of that. Men tend to want me to themselves. I just want to have a good time and not get all heavy or personal. But sometimes I fail. It is what it is I think.

We have not talked about Boston. About Boston’s shooting incident. I don’t like to talk about  Boston with C. I would rather focus on the present.

C asks me about my adventures in Toronto. The horse meat tasted like chicken. Flavorful. He laughs. He eats everything which is great. He also likes to cook. Though not always. He just likes to cook for me and pour drinks for me.

We talk about his projects. His work. What he’s doing for the weekend. But the rain distracts me. I can’t remember what he says. He works in the basement, where the lab exists. Often very lonely. Scientists come and talk to him from time to time. He does not have a very strong ambition. He just does what he does and creates what he creates. He’s brilliant and self-taught. He’s always been very creative. He reads. He hangs out with friends. He has a cult following but he does not care. That much I know. I’m a different creature. He’s different from what I know as well.

C goes back east twice a year. C likes his alone time. I like my alone time. I enjoy it in fact.

C does not have a cell phone. He does not like to be tracked down. I respect that. 

I want to create something. Something grand, something from scratch. I don’t want to deal with corporate stuff when I’m not at work. I work in a stressful work environment. One of those days. I think.

C wants to make me pork tenderloin with garlic. I don’t want anything with garlic, unless after dinner we go and hunt for vampires.  C laughs to my comment.

I tell C about the new thing called authentic Japanese ramen. And the pot smoking business in Toronto. C has good weed. It’s practically legal in San Francisco, as is in Toronto.

I don’t need to try hard with C. I am just me. I picture C as Walter, but younger, and much better looking. Walter is the scientist who works in the basement lab at Harvard from Fringe. A Sci-fi tv show, now cancelled, about a not so great alternate universe. I don’t think C thinks much about his looks, his demeanor or his charm. I think C is always just C and has always been this weird, science driven genius who’s often engrossed in his project. I think of me as his muse. I don’t ever want to be anything more.  I’m not excited, nor conflicted about my platonic relationship with C.

If this is a beginning of a sort, a new beginning, then why do I not feel anything? Perhaps that’s exactly what I need. A relationship that is built on mutual admiration, and not physical intensity. I can use less of intensity and more calmness. I’m high energy, and I need someone mellow and calm to take care of me. I think that’s what I need. Someone to take care of me.

Long day and it's only starting

Not-lover aka C writes. Funny message about his job at that famous college down in the Peninsula. He works there. I have a history with that college as well. Therefore not surprisingly he'd work there. I have an well known, well established pattern.

He's in a good mood because I wrote back. I like writing. Correspondence is good. I like correspondence more than anything else. I was surprised that he wrote back today because I know he's busy. I think it's because I mean something. I'm new. Every man likes the beginning. I do too. The beginning is fun. Then I get bored. Each and every time. With some minor exceptions. Like Plan B. Like the famed journalist.

It appears C knows a lot of things. He tells me about his day at work. He tells me what he's working on at night, his project is his project. He's a brilliant, absolutely brilliant man. I love brilliance. That's my thing. Brilliant man who is also kinky? That would have topped my list. Left hand, plus. Moved from Boston, that will seal the deal. If there is a deal to be sealed.

I think perhaps I've been so hung up because my ex boyfriend, the left handed guy who I almost nearly married, the guy I'd probably still be happily married to, had decided after his grad school in Cambridge, MA,  that he would take a job in Manhattan instead of moving back to SF, and ever since then I've been trying to rewrite a past that was irreversible. It was a fact. Thus dated men from the same circumstance who decided to move back, one after another, eventually married a man who came back to SF to work after Cambridge, MA.

C wants to make dinner and pour drinks for me again. Ask me when I'm back and when I'd be available. C happily gave phone number for me to call him at. C says that he would be so busy throughout this week, but then afterwards I'd be back. I'm his highlight and his priority.

And I'm in charge. I like being in charge. To some extent. I like being chased, and I like the beginning. It does not mean that I will be interested, but I like the feeling of being chased. It's just in the head. I do not, however, want to break his heart. I'm good at this heart breaking business. That's what you do after you've been heart broken for a few times.

C writes so eloquently. Describing his campus cafeteria.  C has a cult following. I think he does not care about the followers. He likes me because I'm not available. I'm not available, and I'm screwed up in the head. I told him that I'm bipolar, came off a heart broken situation. C likes to fix people. C likes to chase because C is a brilliant man who is in awe with me, someone whom he's attracted to and someone whom he admires. Someone who is different, so incredibly smart, so unlike others. Even though I'm a little crazy.

I would have started writing to C if he was not brilliant or left handed. I liked left handed men. C grew up in the city where my ex went to college. C is quirky, into photography, and thinks in shapes and color. C likes to read, lots of non fiction, C likes to tell me about his life. His daily routine. I have only seen this type of men twice, I married the first one.

I don't want to break C's heart.

I have to keep on telling C that I like him as a friend. I like that he's brilliant. I love brilliance. But I can't break anyone's heart. It would be cruel.

C wants me to call him tonight. Maybe, maybe not. 650 number. I know the school well. I had been broken hearted with a man who was doing a fellowship there. I was 22 and he was the love of my life. Now we are on linkedin.

I want C to make me a pipe to smoke pot in. I think that would be so cool. I think C wants me to meet his friends. Be seen with me. I don't want to meet his fans. I think that's too much risks to take. C rides his bike around everywhere. I like his bike.

His life is so predicable. He wants me to be part of his life.

So sweet. So new. So not-going-to-lead-anywhere.

I wonder sometimes if I'd run into that man again. I hurt his ego too. He too was from Boston. He too moved here. I told a big fat lie. He was into me for a while, wanted to see me. Then I stopped seeing him and he stopped seeing me. Then one day I told him that I only saw him because I was hurt by the man I was in love with. I wonder sometimes if he thinks I am messed up. I wonder if he misses me sometimes. But he's a footnote. Footnote should only be wondered once in a great while.

And then you have to move on. You can't be hurt forever. You can't park your emotions on those people who hurt you.

This is what I know.

The weather is going to warm up soon. I bought a pair of earrings, it matches the necklace B bought for me during Christmas. I miss B, but I can't linger and expect B to miss me. He's moved on. I must too.

It's almost 7 PM. I am exhausted. I think I'll crash early tonight. I may or may not call C.

Tired and not written

Dear C,

Did you know the word "Whom" is in the process of dying? I read that in this issue's Atlantic, while eating ramen noodles at a Ramen shop on Dundas by the campus. You are right though, even the smallest things in a foreign place may be worth savoring. The cold air, when not breathed for a while, is also refreshing.

Do you ever miss Boston? Do you? Why did you move to San Francisco? Ah yes, you told me, you moved for your girlfriend. Do all of you guys move for your girlfriends?

I'm glad that I was able to be honest with you. You know my past, I don't have to wipe everything clean, it's not a clean slate. I've had a very complicated life, and I had most recently fallen for someone and I'm slowly working on resolving it. I say slow because I still miss him, and I have loved him, and he had simply, fallen out of love with me. That's all, no more intensity or love, it's just a chore. I was his chore. He's onto someone  or something else. I think we had fun, and I should have never taken it seriously. But I'm a serious kind of person. I love intensely. I get obsessive, but if he returned my intensity, I'd get bored. I only want it because I knew it was safe. One day, one day things get better, maybe one day I could see the light again.

I love your writing. I love that you take the time to write to me. I love that you are brilliant, incredibly incredibly smart, and I love that you are ready to receive me. A messed up woman who has had a lot of faults and disappointments and who are emotionally complex but too afraid to show. I love that you are able to let me be honest, from the get go so that there is no pretense. But I can't do heavy. I like the notion of being in love more than actually in love. I like the notion of being with someone but not. I miss B because I fit well with him, physically, and he's hollow inside, he has no real emotions that I could feel. He's a machine. He imitates feelings. He does not even know how much I've been hurt. I can't even discuss any of this with him. He does not care. Perhaps. But I can't continue wonder. I have spent too much mental energy on this hopeless, ridiculous emotional roller coaster that led me to nowhere land.

You ought to understand I'm changeable. I have broken a few hearts. I go through men. I go through them quickly, expeditiously. I only fit well with one person physically. I wear men out like clothes.

But men are important part of women's life. We all want to be loved, adored, feeling the intensity from time to time.

It rained tonight. I like raining nights. I like falling asleep in the rain. The two young men were complaining about their professors over dinner, just one table over. They were young and full of opinions. I hoped that they could shut up. I was reading this great article about why women don't get ahead despite the fact they have more education than men, because women don't tend to ask for things. They work hard but they don't ask for a raise or ask for a promotion. They wait for the tiara that would be put on their head, but the tiara never shows up, in a working world, women need to be more aggressive.

Like me.

Today our big shot majority shareholder rolled into town. I work with all men, I'm the only woman. The only attractive woman to boot. He and I have talked on the phone before. Everyone told me that he's super wealthy and is a total playboy. So he showed up, and everyone greets him by Mike, and he came into my office, shoot my hand, and then says, "Hello, I'm Michael." Right. He's clearly trying to impress me. Playboy or not, big wig or not, I don't buy that charming thing. I deal with all men, lots of good looking men who fear me. Let them. I wear very professional clothes and never flirt. It's never good to flirt, or try to be a girl in a work place. I'm hired to do the things I need to do, and I shall do them professionally.

Private life is a different matter.

What is that I need in private life? I don't know but I know I don't have all of it figured out.

It's raining droplets now. I am going to shut down my computer and say good night. Sorry you'd never get this letter. I don't do heavy well on an 1:1 basis. I will write to the world, but not to you.

Good night then, C. Yes I will be back to the Bay Area soon. Yes maybe we could do dinner. But no, we will not be having sex. Sorry. But thank you for your understanding.

A really good story

I think my search may be finally coming to an end. What I'm looking for, at least for the short term, is emotional fulfillment, a connection, spiritual fulfillment. When you find that incredible linkage with another individual, it does not need to be sexual, it could be just wonderful in its own ways.

I think I may be on the way there.

Encouragement, a different way of approaching things, a truly unusual way of seeing things, adoration, connection, mind over body, and that incredible feeling after.

I've been away. I have been feeling conflicted in many aspects of my life, my longing and search for something completely different from my own world.

I have learned in my ripe age that a certain type of men attract me. He needs to be extremely smart, brilliant,  an expert in his domain, well read, thinks deeply, writes extremely well, from the east coast, educated in Boston (that has not changed since I was 21!), has lived in both coasts, lives and works in San Francisco, adores me, thinks that I'm beautiful, can connect with me at an intellectual and emotional level, into science, a scientist of a sort is preferred, works with academics (in their own profession), European decent, left handed (like me), works in a field that is completely different from mine, have a lot of different types of friends (does not need to be all like themselves), and must be creative. He must be able to keep up with me. I must admire him. He must give me what I need.

He must keep me interested because I'm easily bored.

I'm bipolar. I'm a woman with many enthusiasms. It's all just a mind fuck. A man needs to keep me interested by engaging my mind.

When that fails, the relationship fails.

I know myself well enough to know that's how it needs to be.

When I was 22 and met this mysterious award-winning journalist, I idolized him. I thought that I'd never love again. I was clearly wrong. I had fallen in love many times over, but the ones I remembered were those who wowed me, those who intellectually stimulated and challenged me, and that's what I need. It's not that difficult, a man who's brilliant is difficult to find in general but I find them, rather, they find me. A man that fits my above description, whom I'd meet? Apparently not hard either.

A very good looking guy friend who fits 80% of the description once said to me, "It's so easy for you, you are attractive, all you need to do is to show up and men will be going after you."

He does not have the other 20%, and despite his good looks I'm not interested in him. So he's just a friend. But we are close. And he knows me more than I know myself.

I feel like telling him - "I didn't believe you, but you are right."

So this is a new day, and I want to write a really good story. 

Stories

For each of my story it should all start like this:

A white male, of European decent, mid to late 40s, educated in Boston, extremely intelligent, possible one of the best, if not the best in his field, never been married / divorced, moved to the bay area in the 90s, never left, love the culture, said that Boston is great, and it looks rather European just like San Francisco but love it here so much more. Everything and anything goes here. Into alternative culture / art scene, open minded, liberal, left handed, smart, well read, articulate, writes well, and often did not have a type when it comes to dating. Younger, older, married, single, Caucasian, mostly, and then he met this woman.

Always intrigued at first, always fascinated, always wanted something more than she could give, but he tried to get to her, worked on how to appeal to her, eventually he won her over.

And the story should always end like this:

Her fear increased as his intensity diminished. She thought that everything would end anyway, why not end on a high note. So she'd create a conflict of a sort, made it up in her head, broke a promise or two, but convinced it was really he who broke her heart. She never asked why and how it ended, one day she just stopped writing, and one day she disappeared. Man wondered why, what happened but he already saw the sign from the very beginning, he knew that she'd leave, so he started to look elsewhere, he eventually found someone, someone who was there for him, and who was a better fit, and he moved on before she could.

She mourned her loss, until another man, of the similar qualities appeared in her life. She molded her self differently each time, tweaking her behaviors and her strategies, each time she reinvented herself, in hoping to find that ever lasting love, but she would not, she could not, and she continued down the pattern, each and every time. Like the movie the Groundhog Day, each story a repeat, each story ended just the same. 

On being honest

Have never been truly honest with anyone I was involved with, not in the past, and probably never be in the future either.

So when I'm actually being honest - even being 40% truthful, it felt good.

But my instinct is always right and his unstinct is going to be wrong.

I don't believe in coincidence. I believe people come into and out of your lives at the precise time. It must be right. it has to be.

On that note, I am going to continue ponder, and try to be honest, sometimes, at least enough so that I can feel good about it.

On that note, I'm going to sleep on it, as they say.

Ponder some more tomorrow. And figure stuff out along the way.

But it's true. It is the way it is.


You can't help whom you fall in love with.

You can however, choose a path that harms you little.

You can't help those others who may fall in love with you.

You just have to keep on going. And feel good about the choices you make.

Prelude

I feel like a city arts and lectures interviewer, cramming on the internet for an artist’s work before the meeting. As one of my investigative reporter friends told me, you need to do your homework to have a fruitful discussion. I’m not an interviewer nor an investigative reporter. I’m finding, instead, that this artist has a bit of cult following, dating back in early 2000s. Either I’m going to go in as some crazy fan (which I’m sure the artist has met plenty of), or I could just be like myself, which is a bit off center, a whole lot crazy, a tad bit emotionally removed, and a whole lot of mystery.

White Rope, Cigarette, Silence, Reunion, Give me a Moment, to Breathe

Let me breathe.

Let me rest.

Just give me a moment.

Nothing had changed but everything had.

This was a new season, a new season without new expectations.

Just the same.

Finding white ropes. 50 feet of them. Why so much? Did you want to tie me up and put me in your bedroom on permanent display?

I wanted another man to satisfy me. You said you should tie me up because you wanted me to be yours. 

Smoke a cigarette. It's good, it's menthol, it's making you sick, and making me sick.

We'd die of terribly painful death but we'd die stylishly.

On the deck we saw the bay; the sun was setting and you said, "You are putting on a show." I was in a short dress and you were bare chested and bare feet. I won't see you for a long while. You were to travel afar. I were to travel afar. Both for work. Both knew this was coming. You took a drag and handed the cigarette to me. I blew out white smoke. 

"We've just scratched the surface." You said earlier. 

We'd embarked on a new journey. A journey where you were no longer you. Not the young beautiful man. But this adult who took charge. 

Of me. In that new brand of style, I was teaching you, to be a man.
   
Drank a bottle of cheap wine that tasted like grape fruit juice. You took a gulp and handed it to me. I drank because I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel because I didn’t want to feel.

You said. I have a distinct smell. I smelled like an affair. I thought to myself. You called me "mistress" the other day.

Wash it off then, with a hot shower, wash your taste away from my mouth with a cigarette and cheap red wine.

Let me fall asleep in your arms like I used to.

You felt exactly the same. Nothing had changed. Nothing would. Nothing ever changed between you and me. 

I fell asleep in your arms as I used to. 

I buried my face in your pillow. But then I was turned over. My back towards you. You traced your hand over my newish tattoo. On my left upper shoulder. In honor of me being a leftie. Like you. Like me. You liked it, admired it, and then said, “It’s an abstract scorpion.” When the heart broke a tattoo was born. May it only be born once.

I wanted to say something but I fell asleep in your bed. Bed covered with not white sheets. They were light gray or light blue. I had never seen it before.

I wanted to say something but nothing could come out.

Should I take a 12 step program to rid of you? Are you my addiction?

I found a way to curb my desire for you. By shutting down my emotions. For how long could it last? I parked my emotions elsewhere.

The sun was setting. "You should write about us. You have plenty of materials." I gave you a sly look. I couldn’t write about you. I had no emotional space in my life for you.

This is what I think.

We are built for one person and one person only. We are all but one halves. We are not complete until we find the other half. Most of us never find the other halves Or we find the wrong halves but mistaken to be the perfect match. We are built physically perfect for one person and one person only. That person is not necessarily the most compatible person. Emotionally, and otherwise.  But we are brought into this world o find our missing halves. The missing halves that complete us. If we are extremely lucky, we will eventually meet our other halves. It may take a number of years. It may never happen. But once in a great while, we stumble onto the other halves. We know because the other halves echo what we feel. We fit perfectly, just the way we are. It may only come along when we have lost all hopes and faith. But then when we find the missing halves, the perfect ones who complete us in an utterly, profound way, we may lose our souls. Ask yourselves - what price would you be willing to pay?

You parked your car in the opposite direction of mine. We were to part ways. At the end of the marble stairwell, we embraced. You tried to kiss me but I turned my head so you planted a light kiss on my cheek. In your ways you adored me so. In your ways I was perfect for you. In your ways I was yours and yours only. In your ways I had never been away and never would. In your ways I knew that I was loved by you.  

We said in unison. "Have a good trip." You were leaving. I soon would be leaving. It was awkward in an endearing kind of way. You knew how it was like to travel for work; I knew it too. I couldn't breathe when you vanished.

I wish that I did this - to assure you, I walked up to you. to give you one last kiss.

But all I really did, was to walk away. 

I played it cool earlier. "I should make an appointment with you." My missing piece. You. My appointment.

I traveled from one appointment to another.

So did you.

The street was quiet. It was still early in the morning.

I knew your name. I knew your face. I knew everything I ever needed to know. 

And more. Perhaps. 

Your kiss lingered.

Your words echoed. 

I was once again.

Empty. And. Whole.

Dancing Robots

You sat on the bench. You were not talkative. Lots to process and you were not ready to discuss anything with anyone. Wearing a long green dress with silver dangling necklace, your hair and face were made up and you were quiet as a mouse. You and your girlfriend, who had a permanent bored look on her face, were sitting on a bench below an art exhibit. You were not talking because you were tired and slightly out of sort. It had been a long while since you were back here, it was a dark gallery with intricate art work. And dancing robots.

People gathered around, stoned, mostly. They chatted. They gathered. But they ignored you so you were left to your own devices. A man with a handsome face and flannel shirt came into the room. He looked familiar, he was the artist. The creator. His eyes locked with yours. You looked at him, did not smile, did not look away, just returned his glance.  Then he disappeared. You whispered to your companion, the girl with permanently bored face. “That’s the owner of the gallery. He created these things. I had spoken to him before. He is brilliant.” She nodded her head. “Everyone here must be stoned. Look at these things.” She said.

You said, “Perhaps. But I’m not stoned. I still like looking at these objects. The dancing robots. They dance to the music. They were expressing the emotion of love. Longing for love.”  You always had a fascination for robots, dancing ones in particular. Robots were machines, without emotions, feelings, or any kind of attachments. They followed orders. They had no hearts. They did not bleed. These dancing robots were called SLAVE 0. You envied robots. You gave your heart out, your heart bled, your heart broke, you had nothing left. You picked up your pieces. You reinvented yourself. You moved forward. You gave in to your desires. You cried. You wanted him to hold you. He disappeared. He reappeared. Your heart broke and your heart mended. Your love, gone. Only sadness remained.

Man reappeared. This time he lingered in the room, locking stares with you. He came closer to your bench, but was afraid of talking to you. You extended your hand to introduce yourself and your companion. Complimented man’s art. Man held a round spinning gold door knob, he was nervous and he wanted to talk to you. He complimented your necklace. Your silver rings ridden necklace. Said that he created something like that, in Stanford, where he worked, where he earned paychecks developing tools for neuroscience department. Instruments. Things that he made to make a living so that he could create pieces of art, like dancing robots and serpentine arms. Spinning objects that flew across called the Reaper. Things that fascinated you, attracted you and made you happy. You liked machines. You liked science fictions. You liked men who created things and were scientists themselves. You disliked businessmen. You liked intellectuals who thought deeply but who were oddly disconnected with the world. You felt bonded with them because they were emotionally distant and you could never risk really getting your feeling reciprocated. It’s complicated and you were damaged. You were attracted to men who created things, but could not be in touch with their own feelings. You liked when they were afraid of emotions and couldn’t communicate. You worried if your love could be returned. What then, what then, because you got bored if that was the case, you ran away because men got fixated on you.

The phone blinked. Texts came in. From a man who was a model and ex soccer player from South America, a man who had thousands of followers and who thought he was the shit, until you stood him up and rejected him. He went crazy and then apologized. Wanted another chance. You disappeared. He wouldn’t give up. It was not the first time men got crazy about you because you were hot and cold. You liked to disappear. The moment you detected any surge of emotions from men, you ran the other way. You did not like to admit it but you liked distant men. Men who were emotionally distant and consequently broke your heart. You wanted to be abandoned. That was your curse. Men who won’t let you go scared you. You showed the text to your companion. The girl with permanently bored look on her face. “What do you want to do with him? Do you want to meet him? He’s good looking.” You tried to pawn the model to your companion.  “Not sure.” The girl was uncertain. The girl was not that interested in men.  You were not interested in men who thought they were hot.

Man reappeared. This time he was getting severely interested in speaking to you. He talked over your companion, as if your companion did not exist. He had lots to share. He wanted to talk to you and hold you and make love to you. That part you sensed. He was awkward and timid. He was attracted to you because you were calm and you did not seem to be that impressed with the brilliant work. And you had a lot to say about his art and challenged him to create other things. For instance, pollen with different shapes but colored to resembled the actual colors of the flower. An installation piece in SFMOMA for the dancing robots?  So he tried to offer you with complimentary weed. You took up his offer. They were high quality weed. You seemed happier after. Proceeded to play with his film device. Broke it. He came to fix it. You tried to apologize, but he held your hand and showed you how to fix it. Skin touched skin. You pretended that did not just happen. You saw 3D film of Rome. Venice and Istanbul. Man grew up in Rhode Island and went to college in Boston. They were always almost all educated from Boston. Of course they did. Men educated from Boston all move to San Francisco.  And then they met you. Stories always started from there and ended in whichever direction, 18 years of the same theme, still the same. Nothing ever changed. Absolutely nothing.

Man wanted to talk about Burning Man. MoMa grant. Italy. India. Man wanted to see when you could get together with him. Man wanted you to stay. But you knew it was time. You never overstayed your welcome. You always left when they wanted more. You broke hearts too. It was always two way streets. Man handed you a card. “We should get together sometime.” Man was sad to see you go. You walked out of the gallery with his card. You looked back, and there he was looking out, waiting for you to turn your head, and as you did, he felt reassured.

You’d write back. He’d ask you out for dinner. You’d break his heart eventually because you have no more love to give out. It was a story that you’d written many times before. You saw the ending before the man did. You always knew how it was going to end. You fell in love once every blue moon. Once every fifteen years. Everyone else was all but a footnote. But you may take up his offer for a drink or dinner. To talk about dancing robots. To smoke good weed, and to see if you could create something together, an art piece perhaps. You were always someone’s muse. And muse was the only thing you should be.  

Still write, still ponder, still try to figure stuff out

Saw a friend for lunch. A friend is a general term to describe people who are not husbands or boyfriends. In my world, it's really that simple.

We talk about his trip. We think alike. Regardless what happens in the future, he's in my life. We don't have a complicated relationship. He's younger, a lot younger.

We think alike and I think he likes me slightly more than I like him. Which makes a difference in relationship dynamics. He reads all my FB postings. Asks about them. He says "It's great to see you." I ignore him, then I realize I should be polite, so I answer back, "Good to see you too."

It all boils down to who has the upper hand. Inherently every relationship is established based on an upper hand or lower hand.  Who will break whose heart in the end.

Men are attracted to me because I'm head strong, confident, experienced and take charge. I call the shots.  I suggest things and they follow. It's really simple.  Some of these men are quite attractive and successful, and young. But the moment they listen to me, and agree with me, the minute I lose interest.

He's kept my interest for a while because we are friends. I genuinely like him. Think he's super smart, incredibly down to earth, totally likes me and respects me and transparent. Plus he's cute, Scandinavian cute. I like blond guys with blue eyes. Always did.  I like tall guys, freakishly tall guys. But more importantly, I like good guys. He's a good guy.

It is not to say men who go against my wishes and treat me poorly makes me want them more.

it is a fine balance. I have yet to figure out the tipping point.

I need men to feel inspired to write. I need love to feel strong and settled. But I don't know what love is.

I have recently talked to a girlfriend, warned her about her relationship. Told her not to be involved with another. "She's broken. It takes one to know one. You will get your heart broken." She wouldn't listen and her heart is now broken.

I'm broken. I seek something. But I don't know what I am looking for. There is a part of me that is hollow and unfulfilled.

A few men came into and out of my life. A great way to break their hearts is the hot and cold strategy. I did that expertly. But nothing was gained. I felt miserable. Not a good thing. Karma is a bitch.

I do think there must be a great way out of this.

I'm still pondering. I have time to figure this out. I must figure this out.

Until then, I will write. I will write in my transitioned blog sites. About now, past, and a future unknown.