Dream, in Iceland

Last night I had a reoccurring dream that kept me up all night.
In my dream, I had a lover who lived in Scandinavia. He once told me how much he loved Iceland. For his birthday I got him cuff links made of vintage Icelandic stamps. At dinner he reached across the table and said “I love you.” I fell in love with him. It was not love at first sight but after a year of seeing him, sporadically, I fell for him. Hard.

The rest of the story, as you had predicted, was nothing short of stereotypical. When it all ended, I wondered if everything was just a dream. Then I came to Iceland. For a visit, to see the volcanos and hot springs on my own. And to win a bet of eating fermented shark meat.

I realized he did not love Iceland. He loved Greenland, I was mistaken. About the place he loved, and about his alleged love for me.

Magic, and moving On

Rebecca’s been meaning to say this to Jack, “I want love. Specifically, be loved. That’s what I want. You asked. So I’m telling you, I want to be loved.” 

Jack had not asked her that question again. Instead he told her that he is seeing another woman. “Right, I can’t have relationships. I’m not ready for one. So I see you and I see her. Two half relationships, make one relationship. That’s how I justified it. Are you upset?” He asked Rebecca.

“No, I’m not.” Rebecca answered it over the phone, a little too fast. She already knew, but the discussion of why he was doing that, she did not know it before. She called him from abroad, on a business trip in London, she used her VoIP to call Jack for free. It was crystal clear when he asked of her, “Are you upset?” But her mind was not so clear.

She knew Jack was dating another woman. He made it clear on their second date. He cooked her dinner that time and told her that he didn’t want relationships. She would be perfect, she was his “erotic encounter.” She was different than the rest of girls he saw. He liked her from the beginning. She was smart, low maintenance and funny. They would get together and have hour long conversations before having ex. The best part was that she was not really available. She had children, and was married to a man who traveled a lot for work.

Rebecca told her life story by the first date. She also told Jack that she was fresh off another relationship. 

“I had been seeing someone. My heart was broken. I was loyal to a fault. I loved him. Then he just disappeared. He left me and therefore I was broken. When he resurfaced again, I was not so love in with him, I liked him but as a friend. I stopped loving him. Being with you is great. I don’t feel any pressure. You won’t hurt me. I can tell.” She said.

On their third date, he asked her, while being inside of her, “I can’t figure you out. What is that you want? Why are you here?” She just closed her eyes, so that he couldn’t see her expression at all, and she said, “Don’t you worry. You need not to worry.”

There used to this woman writer Rebecca liked, she was from Taiwan and she wrote lovely stories. She traveled everywhere and wrote stories that took place in exotic locations, some were love stories, and others were simply her travel logs. One day she died, there had been a bus crash, she was in a remote village in Africa, and she died alone, without a husband, without children, not even with a lover by her side.

Rebecca thought she was like that, she’d die alone, without husband or children, except she was married and had children. And when her lover left her, she thought of dying, not literately, but figuratively, she wouldn’t kill herself, she was depended on, she had obligations and responsibilities.

Jack had been in several relationships.  Jack liked blondes. Rebecca was a brunette, and she was not white. An Asian woman with large tits and wide hips and faint accent, no one could tell where she was from. She did not even have an Asian last name. Jack’s other woman was a blonde, and the woman before her, and the woman before her. Jack liked all women, he didn’t have a type, and he obviously was not one of those men, THOSE who dated only Asians. Rebecca, was not a typical Asian. She liked stories, adventures, and lived by her own rules. She went on trips by herself, she took on lovers. Not one, not two, sometimes three, other time four. They varied. They were all white, some were younger, some older, some were Scandinavians, some were from the East Coast. She bounced from one guy to another, she was happy and content, she had them for different reasons, and all of them liked her.

She was not always like this. She had only one boyfriend. She was in love with him. He was bored of her. Often did not write to her for weeks on end, and when he did write, it became clear to her that he was not that interested in her, and when all of that became a little too clear for her, she started to date others. It was easy. First one person, then another, then another. She was whoring, in a selective, healthy way, until she met Jack. Jack reminded of her the ex. In more than one ways, Jack was a nicer version of her ex. They were quite different, Jack had an even temperament, her ex was more like her, sometimes up and sometimes down. They were both manic depressive. They fed off each other, and they were two peas in the same pod. Until they were no longer in sync.

Jack read to her, hugged her, gave her massages, and made her dinner. He spent hours on end talking to her on the phone. She adored Jack as she did with other men. But she was not in love.

On occasions, she remembered her lover who she fell for, she’d cry. It was not that she still loved him, it was that she was in love with the feeling of in love. She had loved the man so much so that she thought she’d not be complete without him. But when he hurt her she sealed that part of life and just went on to live her life as if it never happened. She shut off her memory and started a new chapter. That defense mechanism always worked. She was able to move on without having to feel any bitterness, or lose contact with the person, she just shut off her feelings.  She treated him like someone she’d met for the first time, there were no history to go back to and there were no lingering feeling of obsession or passion. There was not even any pain. It was fresh and new. It was still fun, but she’s no longer the person she once was, not with him anyway. Everything got reset. Life, got reset.

Magic was just like this. Magic was there, magic was gone. Sometimes, reset is the only thing that could reignite magic, or at the very least, wipe away all pains. That’s why we are what we are and who we are. Our ability to rebound, to rebuild, to reinitialize is vital in our survival. It’s true for everything.  It was the only way to move forward. New people. New experiences. And forgetting anything that had ever happened. 

Rain follows me

Weather changed tonight. It had been hot and humid. But tonight it dipped into 6 Celsius, which was cooler by about 15 degrees from this morning. I was getting exhausted. Last night I was on the phone too long. I was a little drunk so I drunk dialed. C answered so we started to chat. First about the books we were reading, then the design process and then onto relationships. His, mine, whatever came to our heads, we talked.

Was at a bar with a girlfriend tonight across the street from where I stayed. It's the club district and where I'm at, the talent was quite good. There were plenty of good looking men and women. I could move here.

I found C's youtube videos. I showed it to girlfriend. Girlfriend said, "he's very cute." He's good looking, not just cute, I knew that he knew that he was good looking. He acted humble and chill but he knew that he was good looking and he knew that he attracted women. He knew that he could get a lot of women falling for him. He was a local mini celebrity, I think. I googled him. He was easy to find. He told me that I should be free. I should see whomever I desired to see, and I should be with whomever I wanted to be.

I started to question why. But then I stopped. I should not question him. I should not wonder because I don't think he knows what I'm really like.

I was having a Belgium beer at this Belgium pub down the street. I told my girlfriend who's been heart broken since last October about my view in relationships. There had been twice in my life that I felt something. I had a type, the type had me. I was 22 the first time. A man who was quiet, beautiful, smart, and intense loved me. We had a long distance relationship, he lived in D.C. and I lived in San Francisco. We traveled everywhere, and felt in love in Boston. I would have married him except he hurt me, bad. He was fucking around, that part did not bother me at all, he proposed to me, and then he hurt me. Violently. I was seeing other men at the same time, being monogamous was never in the equation. I simply loved him. It was easy to love a man who he loved you back, intensely and seductively. We spent our vacation in Sandals and Hedonism II in Jamaica. He proposed to me in Miami and Key West. We were in Cape Cod, Maine, Boston, New York, Philly, Chicago, San Diego, Mexico, Virginia, Maryland, D.C., and then some. It was a love story that should have had a different ending. He was of English and German decent, beautiful blond hair and blue eyes, he was fit and slim, and he loved me and hurt me. I had never felt that intensely about anyone before him. It would then take me a good decade and half to feel that way again. I had met someone who reminded me, me. I was in love, he hurt me, and I had to stop loving him.

It was a simple equation. The heart wanted what the heart wanted. But when the heart is broken it remains broken. It's much easier to move on when you stop loving. You still remembered the feeling of love, you still think that you are capable of loving someone, but you have to stop hurting yourself. You take a break and you try something new.

Girlfriend says she's a Scorpio and left handed. Like me.

I get along with left handed people. I fall in love with left handed people. We are sort of weird and unconventional. We are sort of whacked. I like whacked, kinky, intense, fucked up people. They remind me of myself.

C sends me a photo of his new invention. He's staying up to work on his new project. C also tells me what men really think. They will say and do anything to bed women. That's it. Men don't give a shit about how women feel but they will do things to make sure women don't slip away and not want to sleep with them any more.

I'm slipping away. I had loved someone once, intensely and completely, and then it just got burned out. I don't know what happened. It was easy to stop, in the end. When he stopped returning my affection, he stopped communicating to me, he simply did not give a shit about me, and in the end, when I felt that I no longer mattered, I stopped loving him, and I started to move on. I still remember the feeling of loving him, Nothing would have mattered to me, whether he was seeing others or not, whether he was around or not, whether he returned my emails or not, butt then it became silly. I became obsolete, and when that happened, I realized that all that I had wished for, was just an illusion. There was nothing out there, it was just imagination.

Others showed up. Others who paid attention, and wanted me for the things I could offer.

C wanted me. He's a brilliant man who let me see whomever I wanted to see, be with whomever I wanted to be with, and C adores me.

C won't break my heart.

C would never share the same level of kink as I had with my ex.

I would never love C. And that's how it ought to be.

At the end of the day, I don't want to cry any more. I don't want a patch of cloud following me. I don't want any more rain. I want sunshine. I want someone to hold my hand, reaching across the table, and calling me by my full name, and I want to feel that I matter to them.

I don't look for monogamy.

I want to be loved, adored.

I want my affection returned.

I want to dance with music.

I want to laugh and hold hands.

I want to write silly words to each other.

I want phone calls and humor.

I want long conversations.

I want sex that lasts for hours.

I want to please and be pleased.

I want the rain to stop following me. 

It rained in the Northeast

It rained. All day. I was not liking it. The raining part, as you said, just went on and on in the Northeast, not like the misty rain we'd get in San Francisco.

I received your email, it was a nice one. I need emails and reminders that I exist in your world. I'm high maintenance that way. I hate silence. I hate that I don't mean anything to the people I care about.

My manic episode has worsened. I have been taking more drugs. Manic people tend to need a lot of sex, sexual partners to feel anything at all. I am in serious danger of under-sex. I don't know how to rectify the situation. I don't just jump into bed with anyone. It's a much involved process. It requires real emotions. It requires love. I can't tell you any of that of course, it would ruin everything.

The show was a good one and no I did not meet up with any of my ex'es, you needed not to worry. I have grown up a little. I did, however, exchanged text with one of my old liaisons, who was just getting on a plane to somewhere. He traveled for work a lot. I liked him in that he rarely lied. He would always tell me where he was at and when he'd return. I don't know what prompted any of this, I think I was missing him, He's also gone to college in Boston, grew up near it, and I thought to myself for a brief second, Hmmm.. what's wrong with me? The other day he asked me "How are you?" I just replied, "Great. working hard." I knew that he traveled a lot, and I also knew that he had other women, but I didn't care. People like me should not expect others to be monogamous, the fact of the matter is no one in my circles would stay that way, it would be pointless. I had a lover once, he was married and we got along fabulously. He'd tell me how often he had sex, and I knew that he had sex often with his wife, and it did not matter to me. I'm a French woman at heart. I could handle it. The only time that it backfired was when I felt that I was betrayed, but even then, I knew that I was being hypercritical. I caught him as he was boarding the plane, so I sent him a text of a drink I had the other night, I sent you the same picture actually. He did not seem like a predictor, neither did you, the only predictor I ran across was the person I had fallen in love with once, and I was his pray, but then again, we were all playing an dangerous game, I just lost my hand sooner that time. But I changed my strategy, and since then it was a game that we both enjoyed, until one day I needed some change, to shake it up a little. So I did. I don't know the purpose of that texts exchange, perhaps I just wanted to feel wanted and desired. I knew that I was wanted and desired by a few others, but I wanted his approval and I wanted him to desire me. Maybe because he and I had such an intense relationship that we did end it rather suddenly and we never had a closure that we both deserved.

I don't like it when you call me "sweetie". I also don't like it when he did that. Why did you guys always call me "sweetie?" Seriously, it's an overused word, so was "baby." I detest that. I had a boyfriend who used to call me such things. He called me baby or sweetie, and when we ended, I developed an allergic reaction to that word. I loved him so, but I never had a nickname for him, I just called him baby back and I wish that I had something clever and unique to call him. Perhaps I should instead call him "You bastard who fucked with my heart." But that would be too lengthy of a nickname.

Ever since you told me about tumblr, I started to use it. I don't want you to use it or find me there. I just think that it's a good venue to explore writing. Then I started to have naked women following me. It's a strange place.

Glad that you are making progress on your project and you went out last night and today. You seem to have an active social life. One that did not involve me.

I don't ask much in this sort of brand of relationship. I just want to do things, have fun activities planned, a sense of regularity, an implied trust that we don't lie to each other, and someone who accepts me for who I am.

But, everything ends. What if at the end the day all I have left is false hopes, and withered passion, what if you are no longer the person who I care about, what if at the end of the day I still love my old love and make the same mistakes? I am not sure if that makes sense to you or not. I am not sure if you'd eve read this. I hope not. I hope you never find this.

I hope that I could know the answer. The only thing that I do know, is that it may rain tomorrow. And even that, at the moment, is a maybe.

Is that all there is? Sleep No More New York

The first time I saw Sleep No More, my heart was broken. Then I thought the world had ended but it had not. I listened to Peggy Lee's Is that all there is, which was played at McKittrick's hotel, and I kept on feeling the heart broken into millions of little pieces. I didn't know what I'd do, I just saw myself crumbling into pieces. It was difficult, the depression lasted two to three months, and when it was all over, I remembered asking myself, "Is that all there is?" 

Sleep No More NY had that effect on me. It was love, passion, betrayal, homoerotic, witchcraft, sexual, erotic, and satisfying. Because my favorite movie of all time was Rebecca by Hitchcock, and because I was kinky, crazy and unconventional, this play appealed to me. More important than the fact I could relate to the play, the show was actually quite remarkable and original. 

I followed MacBeth, and Mrs. MacBeth, I then followed the king, the pregnant woman, and finally the witches. I even slept at the King's bed, and touched his clothes. At the dining table where the nurse and the pregnant lady danced, I examined the drinks' menu in detail. I stopped by the baby's room, as the pregnant lady sang "Good night Children Everywhere", I opened every single drawer that I could open; I turned every door knob that I could turn.  

But my very first stop was at the psych ward on 5th floor. I liked the beds, the rocks under one bed, the claw-foot bath tubs, and the nurse washing the bathtubs and drying clothes. I dipped my hand into the wash basin before the king washed his face. I went into the library and checked out the book titles. I went to the doctor's table and found urine sample bottles (No I did not open them, but I was sure that they were not urine either). At the dentist office, I sat on the patient's chair and then examined the dental equipment on the desk. I pushed out the shoe storage unit and looked at each pair of shoes. When the witches and MacBeth were dancing with disco lights shining through, I was feeling dizzy. Then when my eyes were acclimated, I noticed that the witches were naked and there were one other man who was completely naked and there was an orgy going on. A dark clothes man was burying something in a grave site, I almost tripped over a cross. A polar bear standing in the middle of chilly white lights shining forest, and I was lost in the maze.

There were someone shouting, a fight broke over a billiard table inside a  barn. The king had fallen asleep but was only awoken by a triangle clock. That same clock I had dug out of the trunk at the end of his king size bed (pun intended), previously. I wondered what would have happened if I had removed it in its entirety. I also found King's dress shirt lying on a chair, which got put on by his man servant later on. In the drawer I found an old fashioned shaving knife, and it was then used by the King's man's servant. What if I took that one out and did not put it back?

As I sat at the dining table reviewing the details of very elaborate, fashionable dishes served at McKrittrick Hotel, which was established in mid 1800s, the nurse came over and grabbed my hand, I had been occupying their performance space. As I walked away, I began to wonder if such restaurant existed and if so when could I go?

I finally saw Misses MacBeth and the very own MacBeth naked. There was a passionate bath scene, and two nurses were making out, hot! There were lots of ropes being hung on the clothes lines. It felt rather eerie, and it reminded me of French countryside.

The children's rooms had an excellent selection of kids' books, but surprisingly more words than illustrations. There was a dirty rag doll, laying on a child size bed. I somehow missed the room that had a crib and bunch of headless dolls hanging from the ceiling, serving as mobiles on this visit.

Back on the 5th floor, I used the bathroom. Then back out to the psych ward, which clearly I can identify. If you have not read my Silver Linings Playbook and Bipolar note (http://crankyvic.tumblr.com/post/50662237853/silver-linings-playbook-and-bipolar), you should because you'd understand why I was attracted psych ward. I went to the desk where doctor's notes were left for us to read. It had several check boxes checked, some familiar diagnosis I've read before. I wondered briefly if I were born back then, would I be tied down to the bed post and get electric shock treatment from time to time? Would my brain be so manic all the time? My manic episode had worsened lately. I had been working day and night, and when I was not working, I wanted to work out or to write / read. It's a good thing I enjoy working but at some point I'd crash and burn. But I digress.

MacBeth had to die.  But before the finale, you must follow him or the witches to the strobe light orgy scene as I described earlier. I missed it last time but I didn't this time. I enjoy watching good looking naked people, it's been a thing of mine as I became more comfortable with my weird, kinky, unconventional self that was full of contradictions between good and bad, but never unkind or unforgiving. 

My heart had been broken the first time I saw the show. I knew because the journey I was on was near the end. I knew but I struggled, I tried to resurrect it, I tried to make sense of it all. I didn't have an opportunity until four months later. I knew what I didn't know before, I knew that I had to fall off the cliff twice before I could let go of my love. My unconditional, over promised love that had gone awry, just like MacBeth.

So it was this visit back to the McKittrick Hotel that gave me the closure I was looking for. It's not your traditional end-all closure; it's not that I required a finale. It didn't even need an explanation. But truth, truth would set me free. I knew that. 

MacBeth had to die.

I had to die and be reborn.

Once I was innocent and naive, once I thought that I could love until I had nothing left to give, once I thought you knew what love was and how much I loved you. Then it stopped. As all the hopes had gone, and all promises were broken, one day I was lying on the bed, my eyes met yours, I saw your tortured soul, and I could feel your pain, finally heard you say, "I love you. I love you. I love you."

It was already too late.

MacBeth had been hung.

It was the finale I had accepted. It was pitch black in the end. There were no shining lights or renewed love. It was not a fairy tale. It was the real world.

The song of "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" was playing as the audiences were on their way out. I wore a mask like everyone else.

You were in a mask for all of those time. When the mask came off, you were not who I thought you'd be. Neither was I.

It was over. I was alone. And you were no longer the man I once loved.

Is that all there is? 

The lost earrings

Was brought to a comedy show by this friend of mine who went to see his friend Kate Willett performing. I was usually not a big fan of live comedy but seeing that I had really no choice I went along with it as it was not far from the restaurant we were eating dinner at. There were others comedians who were funny, and I was entertained, but I can't remember much about it. There was this one bit performed by his friend Kate who was really quite actually good. I can't remember the exact lines but it was about whether she had boyfriends or not, and she said something like does having five earrings missing at five different boys' apartments count?

I began to count the lost earrings. My issue was the back of the earrings. They fell off easily. In my formative years of dating, I had lost many pairs. One time I asked for one of the guys who I was seeing to find the back of the earring, after we had been fucking for sometime in his bed, and he responded by saying, "Aren't those backings interchangeable?" As it turned out, he was right. But then I was thinking, how would he know that? And why was his toilet seat down all the time? Was he trained? Who else were in his life before me?

My most favorite story of all time involving this man I was dating, no, scratch that, fucking, who brought back my dress, torn but washed stockings, and one single big hoop silver earring. Sadly though, the earring was not mine. The same person also thought he had taken me to some place to listen to some comedy show, and no, it was not me, I saw him rarely, so rare that I could not remember the last time I had gone out with him. He often declared that he loved me whenever he saw me. He also always told me that he loved everything we did together. But poor guy had no idea most of the time what he did and with whom. Who am I to correct him?

So as I became better at dating, I sort of learned to do the following: #1. remove the small earrings I wear before the action; #2. Set them down at a place you can find them later on, and make sure they were easy to find; #3. Never EVER leave anything behind at a guy's place, no matter how much you want to "mark" your territory, because you don't know what you'd get back.

By the number of lost earrings, my dating career was quite colorful. However short these relationships were, I always managed to lose one or two earrings but never the same pair with the same guy.

As far as for things went missing, earrings were not as big of an issue as dresses. In an effort to appear seductive, I'd wear dresses with zippers on them. I liked zipper dresses from Bebe's. Zippers did not have a friendly relationship with my peekaboo body hugging black sheer tops or those men who did not know how to operate them. Thus in the battle among zippers, sheer top and men, sheer top, being the more fragile one, won, and dress with zipper, not so much of a winner. Thankfully I learned that lesson quickly and no matter where I went or however long I'd stay with the man - 1 hour, 2 hour, 30 minutes, all nighter, I always had several backup outfits, in case of zipper issue, which happened on more than one occasions.

On that note, one of my favorite Bebe dresses were left at a man's house. He had promised that he'd spend his time studying up on the mechanics of zippers and replace the one he broke, given the important history zipper held, and given that I was very rather upset when he torn my Bebe gray silk dress.

I had not seen the dress returning back to me - it's been so long that it'll be out of fashion anyway.
By now, presumably the man who broke my dress had learned everything about zippers, and found the backing of my earrings, and likely, had given them to the next woman he was seeing by mistake. The way I looked at the situation, it would be highly unlikely the next woman could fit into my dress (Bebe's petite dresses were designed for big boobed petite woman, and big boobs and petite women usually do not jive, present company excepted of course.)

In which case, may he hold my dress and wish he had never let me go. And as for me, it was an easy decision once the decision was made.

Fuck earrings. Fuck dresses. Be happy. Ditch the man who couldn't locate the back of your earrings or hand your dresses to some other woman.

Find a good man. Buy yourself lots of fabulous jewelry.

Love?

You told her that you loved her. In the middle of fucking. “I love you.” She told you, “No, you don’t.” You insisted that you did. Later on, she told you that she fucked others. First one person, then you asked, “Did you just fuck one other?” She did not answer. You told her that you were seeing others, fucking others, scattered around the country, there were five you said. Five others. Then you asked her, “how many?” She said, “Five.” Five was the magic number.

She was not just seeing you. She did. For a while, then it broke her heart. You knew how it felt. Heart, could be so easily broken, with the right person, with the right way, you knew, you would be afraid too.
You knew she always loved you. That was the one thing that you didn’t expect. You knew she’d love you until the day she died. Until the day you died. That was not in the deck of cards. Love, had nothing to do with fucking. Then it just happened. Love was meant for those who got married, had perfect house, little children and all that. You had none of that. She had all of that. Then somehow you two had to fall in love. In a twisted, unimaginable way, you knew it was the way it was always meant to be.

She belonged with you. You belonged with her. There, as you told her that you loved her just so, after she’d told you that she too had been fucking around, you told her again, “I love you.” There and her head turned towards you as you continued to thrust yourself into her, and you saw the smeared make up, and there she was crying. Her voice broke. “I don’t love you.” She said, and you insisted on it, “You do. I know that you love me.” And you kissed her as she laid flat on her stomach, and her head slighted tilted.

“I love you.” She finally said. “And we are no longer together. We broke up.” She continued.

Love came in all shapes of forms, all sorts of imperfections. The most fucked up love, the most imperfect love, came from the two of you. You knew that, she knew that. You both knew that. But no one else would. The world would be a better place if people could love one another and still fucked others.
That was the strangest part. You knew you had her, she didn’t know you had her, and she didn’t know if you’d still exist after she broke up with you. One day she was minding her business, the other she was falling in love, unexpectedly she was in your life in such an incomplete, haphazard way.

You knew why you loved her. She was like you, in so many ways, she was the twin you never had. She was like you. She needed constant admiration, she needed constant reminder of herself being fabulous, while she needed attention, she did not feel whole until she had other lovers, but she was incomplete without you.

“When I was twenty, I read this book by Henry Miller. There was a scene in the book, about young hookers getting fucked by many different men. Men who fucked and pissed in those hookers’ pussies.” She’d say such things after you had fucked her the same way, and she’d say it in such a nonchalant way, as if she was simply telling you about the park where wild flowers were blooming and little ducklings are waddling into the pond. Sex with her was unconventional, yet it was the most natural thing to the two of you.

She may be fucking others, she could not fuck others the same way she was fucking you. If that was not love, you would not know what love was.

Perhaps the reason you two loved one another was the fact that you both were kinky, conniving, and unapologetically truthful. For once. She loved you for who you were, not who you pretended to be. You loved her, because you knew, beyond anything else, you never had to worry about losing her because you fucked other women. She was bonded with you and loved you no matter what.

Most people can’t handle the truth. The truth was that you were fucking around, and she was too. The truth was, you loved one another, in that strange, twisted way, you knew her as if you knew yourself. And there was never once in your mind would you ever consider losing her. She was yours and you were hers. If she were gone, you would be lost.

She didn’t tell you that she saw her therapist after you two broke up. Her therapist told her the closest person she could compare her with, was Anais Nin. No other patients of hers were like her. None of her past and present patients, none of her colleagues’ patients either. No one but Anais Nin. And once that was out there, she was more settled. She was no longer alone, no matter how fucked up she was, she was not alone. She was simply herself and she loved men who were like her. Those men did not come by often. You were the only one. She had never loved another like you.

“Don’t ever leave me.” She demanded.

“I won’t.” You answered.

“We’d still be fucking. When you are a little old lady. I’d still be pissing in your mouth and fucking you.” You then added.

She knew that. She always knew that. Your face was aging. You had wrinkles now. One day you’d be frail, she’d be gray.

“Can we just be friends? With no fucking involved?” She’d ask earlier on
.
“No, I’d always want to fuck you.” You said it in matter-of-factly way. Her illusion of you two being platonic friends, doing whatever platonic friends did best, were thrown out of the window.

She couldn’t tell if you were angry with her about her fucking others. You seemed forgiving, and you even encouraged her. “I like you are a slut.” You fucked her and asked if she enjoyed having other dicks in her pussy. She said, “Yes” as she spread her legs for you.

“We are fucked up, aren’t we?” She’d comment. “We should see a therapist.” She suggested.

“Together?” You had asked. She was being noncommittal. She didn’t want anything to change. This level of intensity scared the shit out of her. She wanted to disappear after this. She wanted to say nothing, hear nothing from you, she wanted to reset. Pretend none of this ever happened. Pretend you did not exist.

How could you tell her such things? How could you tell her you loved her so and then disappeared? She asked you. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” You answered.

“It’s because you are scared. It’s too much.” She combed through your curly hair. She didn’t need to know. It was never as simple or as complicated as she made it out to be. It was just that. Love. Love in a color-blind way. Love in a fucked-up way. But it was love. What else would it be? She was going to be Anais Nin of her generation. You were going into her diary.

She would never be the perfect wife, devoted lover, or adoring wall flower. But you loved her as if you loved yourself. And for one reason or another, you knew you’d be tied to this mysterious, fucked up, emotionally screwed up and unavailable woman. She was going to be there, no matter what. She always loved you, and she always would. She knew. You knew.

From the moment you met her, fifteen years ago, a girl in a white dress came into your life. On your first date, she told you that she did not believe in wearing underwear, and she had a completely shaved pussy. She loved watching transvestite porn and bounced from one boy to another. She never really left you, and she never would.

It was the finale you had always hoped for. It was love.

San Francisco Stories - Part II, Story 1 - Don't Fall in Love

"So I will see you on Saturday?" She asked.

"Maybe." His answer was less than certain.

"Why?" She inquired.

"Because, don't you think it's too much, twice in a week. We set such a precedent, and everything after that will be downhill. I don't want you to get bored of me." He stated.

"Beside, you are coming over to sleep over next week. We will see each other next week." He continued.

He counted the days between this visit and the proposed upcoming Saturday visit. It would have only been four days. It's too soon. He didn't want to be that soon.

"Call me on Saturday day." He suggested. He was not sure whether she should see him, but made concession.

“Why not? I would be traveling soon. I just want to have sex." She was being frank. Her weekend was fully booked. She would be in his neighborhood later that evening. A stop would be ideal and convenient.

"I know what you mean. You already told me. The averaging math. I just don't want to overdo it." He continued.

She looked at him. Then she touched his face with both of her hands.

"I understand. You are right. I won't be seeing you on Saturday. You are right." She said.

This time, she was determined and was not going to renegotiate. She knew how to pick her battles. She didn't want him to see her as a needy, demanding woman. She appreciated his honesty. She understood a man should not be pushed. She did not want to become THAT woman.

THAT woman = a woman a man get bored of easily, the cliche.  She wanted him to want her. And she had learned from her prior relationship that as a woman, the more you pushed, the less he wanted you. You were only wanted when you were no longer available.  That seems to be the formula. It never failed.

He looked surprised. Her resolve unsettled him. It was as if by her agreeing with him, he all of sudden wanted her to see her on Saturday. She knew that. She knew that against her instinct, she must withdraw or she’d risk becoming a cliche, THAT woman. She was THAT woman once, when she was with B.

Earlier in the evening, they sat on the bench, where they first met, hand holding hand.

He said, “When I was younger, I got burned. I learned that women don’t want men to give into their demands. If men do, then the women would lose respect. If the men treat them like toys, they seem to want them more. It’s like a wolf pack thing. You don't want to roll over. Women don’t want men to roll over.  It’s just a slight twist in women’s mind. I do treat women like sex toys. I think of them as sex toys. But I can like them too. I like you, for instance.” 

She smiled.  

He liked her. He also wanted her. She’s new. She’s brand new. Everything about her was new to him.

She asked about his relationships. Past ones. Present ones. The booty caller. The girl who he saw on occasion. Now, and recently. He saw her when he got horny. A girl who was once his neighbor. A white woman. Some miscellaneous white woman. When he was with his last girlfriend, the German, the booty caller came knocking on his door one night, all drunk and upset. She wanted to see his other woman, the German. And he finally gave in and she stumbled into his house, went to see his girlfriend, who was lying in his bed, all naked, under the cover, and told her how he was bad for her. How she should not trust him. How she’d get hurt eventually by him. It was a scene.

The German and the drunken American woman from San Francisco. Fighting over him.

She laughed. Visualizing that scene. She then said, “I’d like to meet your booty caller. She sounded interesting. I wouldn’t mind meeting her at all. And if she tells me that you are not good for me, I’d agree with her. I’d tell her that of course you are not good for me. Of course not. You are terrible for me.”

“Yes, I think you are right. You two may even get along.” He looked at her. Squeezing her hand. And then he sat quietly with her on the bench.

“I met you here, on this bench I sat. You came over to talk to me.” She recalled their first meeting.

“I liked talking to you. You were interesting. I also liked your necklace.” He remembered it too. She was attractive and he was interested. The night was slow and she was sitting still, not animated like the rest of the crowd. She seemed, either bored or just stoned.

He told her earlier about his other girlfriends. He dated smart professor types. Women who were significantly younger than he was. She was in fact the oldest one he’s dated in a while. He liked them young. He was a lookist.  

Lookist: n. Someone who liked to look at women and is only turned on by good looking women.

He always appreciated women who were attractive, and smart. Women liked him. He was rather smart, and good looking. They went after him. He knew that. He was good with women. She learned that quickly. She learned that she fit his type. And men who were like him, fit her type.

Men who were players, not the jockey type of players, but those quiet ones, the ones who were smart, kinky, sexual and adventurous, they  were the hardest to find. They would appear to be almost too good to be true. They knew how to please women, yet they were intelligent and not at all demanding. They knew how to play the game. She knew. She’s fallen into those traps too.

Later in the evening she learned more about his stories. His love stories. He said that he didn’t mind her interrogating him. He knew she wanted to know about his past to learn about his pattern. He made it clear that it was okay for her to be with other men, and they’d just hang out until they no longer wanted to hang out with one another. There was no obligation or any type of emotional attachment. He didn’t want it to be a committed relationship. He told her that he was not there emotionally. Wherever "there" it was. He couldn’t do relationships.

The last two girlfriends, the German and then the Dutch, had spent years with him each, separately. They spent lots of times together, until he got tired. And he wished for them to move out, and engineered for their exits. And they did. They did leave him. And he was happier as a result.

He was fucking her. The way he fucked was different than other guys. He started slow, slow but steady rhythmic, he talked all the time, he expected her to be engaged in these conversations.  In the middle of the fucking, he decided that he should look at her. So he did. He was looking at her face, staring, turning her from one side to another, and then he sighed, “You are intoxicating. You have a beautiful face. You are hypnotic.” She tried to cover her face. He held her down in one hand and grabbed her long brown hair with the other hand, and stared at her as he made the above conclusion.  She was shy one moment and then she regained her composure.  She returned his stare and said, “Sure I am. You say that to every girl you bed.”

He did not want to argue. She did not know if she was right, or he thought she was too jaded. Either way it did not matter. Sex was a lei surly activity, which he engaged in with her, and she knew that she was attractive in a sexual, erotic way, unlike his other women, who were smart, down to earth, and dressed like normal, good women, she did not. She only came to see him in dresses, seductive dresses that were not appropriate for workplaces, in those incredibly sexy high heels only high end call girls wore, she wore her long hair loose, curvy at times, and mostly straight, she was dressed as if she was going out for the evening, when in fact she was going to be undressed and fucked in his place. She never wanted it to be ordinary. She wanted him to see her as a call girl, someone whom he had to pay money for. She didn’t want her to be remembered as an ordinary woman. She wanted him to feel aroused the moment she walked in, in her six-inch heels. He liked that. She knew he’d like it. ALL men liked that.

She was a kind and thoughtful woman. She always brought a bottle of wine, sometimes treats, and other times gifts that only he would appreciate. Gadgets. She was always generous to the person who she was involved with. But only if they impressed her. She only did sweet things to those who deserved her kindness and engaged her intellectually.

She brought him presents. Presents that made him giddy with joy, like a little boy. She knew what he wanted. She gave him exactly what he wanted. She knew him. She knew his type. She knew them like the back of her hand because she dated many of them.  She had a type. The type liked her back. It was a symbiotic relationship.

When it was over, he wanted to talk. He enjoyed talking - before, during and after. He loved to talk to her. From Russians getting beaten up by the Fins on skis and white coats during WWII, to Norwegian's WWII shipwreck diving sites. It started when he told her about his second to the last girlfriend, the Dutch, left him to move to Helsinki for a tenured position job at an university, and how he didn’t want to move with her to Finland, to leave San Francisco, thus ending their three year long cohabiting relationship, and how he was relieved, to his surprise, when she finally left with a man she met with him at Burning Man. She was a pretty girl, who was young, smart and wanted to get married and have kids. She taught at Stanford, where he worked. He worked on her for six months, nearly every lunch every day, before she finally became his girlfriend, then they lived together for three years.That seemed like a good story. A man who decided to keep his bachelor lifestyle, giving up an exciting future in Scandinavia with his Dutch girlfriend, a professor on an tenure track.

He meant to impress her. She thought, by throwing Stanford around. He should know that she dated men with pedigrees. Stanford did not make to that list. He asked if she was interested in coming to visit him at work, on campus.
  
She said, "No, I don't do Stanford." He asked, "Why?"

"I have a history with that school. I dated a man. He was a John Knight Fellow. I was terribly in love with him. He broke my heart, I was 22, he was 39. I then dated him on and off, on a casual basis, until he moved back to New York. Then he moved back and lived in North Beach until September 2010. He moved back east again, this time for good." She paused. Then she continued, more talking to herself at this point, "I knew, because I googled him. He's the only person I ever consciously googled."

He laughed. He said, "You must be really hot when you were 22. Have you done it in his office, on campus?"  She corrected him by saying that the 39 year old man never had an office, he was doing a fellowship, not teaching, not like his ex girlfriend, a beautiful, smart Dutch woman who was actually teaching there.

But then she realized the boyfriend she had when she was 22, was then holding a powerful job in New York, and he also taught college. He taught at the graduate school of Journalism at Cal. That she knew because they were finally Linkedin.

Then came the German, a "technically" married woman, who also left him to move back to Germany, and how relived he felt when she finally took off.

She asked questions. And then she listened. He said that he nearly had a threesome experience, with this bisexual young stripper he was dating, but then he met the German and they got together so he had to break up with the stripper. Six months after the break up, the German moved back into his place because she had a terrible injury and he was the one she called. She was an artist, and did not know many people. So he took care of her, like her nurse, and then when she recovered, he couldn't wait for her to leave. He didn't like people living in his place. He wanted his space, alone.

When that story was over, she said, “Well, you missed out. You see, every relationship ends. You should never put your eggs in one basket. You should have done the threesome with the stripper and her girlfriend, and kept on seeing your German.”

He nodded his head. "Yes, you are right. I should have.”

She mentioned about a club that she belonged to, the hosts threw wide parties in his neighborhood, orgies and swinger parties, you name it, they’ve got it. But based on the participants in the past, he might not find anyone particularly attractive there. However, he agreed to try it sometime with her.

She was happy, “Great. It’s a date. All the guys I dated in the past didn’t want to do that with me. What’s the big deal, really?”

She knew he couldn’t figure her out. She was kind, successful, pretty, sexy, sexual, erotic, caring, and smart. She had traveled to many parts of the world, had her own money, and she was the relationship kind, but she did not seem to want a relationship. A man recently came into her orbit called her a walking conundrum.

To him, she was his intriguing supergirl. She wanted to keep it that way. To have a persona that was both distant and affectionate; caring and nonchalant. Perhaps she was a walking conundrum. 

It was late and she got up to leave. He wanted her to stay but she had not ever wanted to do that. He knew not to push her.  She wanted to stay but she didn't want it to become a real relationship. The only person she ever spent evenings with on a semi regular basis, was the person she fell in love with. And look where that ended up. A fucking mess. She's not going to do that again, not soon anyway. But he did not know that. He needed not to know that.

“Good night. I will see you next week. I will stay over then.” She said. As if to assure him that it was okay to not see each other on Saturday.

He kissed her tenderly, as if to tell her that he was regretting his decision to not see her on Saturday night.

She had removed her dress and put back on her business suit. He squeezed her tight. 

She caressed his face with her delicate hands, and she said, “Promise me, don’t fall in love with me.”

Childhood

Holy mother of god. I figured it all out. Have been obsessed with this man. I mean  not entirely but close enough. He makes things. He’s an artist. He makes mechanical things. HE reminded me of my father. When I was young, father ran a company that made instruments. From raw materials. He built TV, short wave radios, and did everything by hand. He even made furniture and stereo equipment. I admired him. He was left handed and charismatic, every successful but very volatile as well. He had a lot of girlfriends. He was abusive to both my mother and me. He was inappropriate with me. I was molested as a child by a man on a bus, for a year, going in and out of primary school. Escaped a rape from a family friend. Then I had a man who was supposed to protect me who failed me greatly. Yet he was my role model for so long. He was the first man in my life. I get imprinted. So I’ve always been attracted to left handed men, men who could build things, who came from science and mathematical background like my father, men who are engineers. Men who traveled lots for work. Men wear classes. Men who are attractive.

Father and I do not have a functional relationship. I do not talk to him. I don’t share anything with him. I can’t connect with him. But I now know deep inside I was always that little girl who was abandoned, hurt, insecure and needed to be loved. I do have a functional relationship, maybe even a few, with people. but I cannot feel the emotional intimacy with anyone, except those who have resemblance with my father. And I try to sabotage those relationships because I want each one to end the way my father left me. I can’t stand my father. But part of me still is trying to relive my childhood. 

Photograph

Why? Why do you photograph me? Long lens, stolen moments, as if I was the subject under study, as if you needed to capture me, and forever I was yours? Under your lens, under your observation, a collection, be lumped into your photographs of exes, women you were once involved with? 

I don’t want to be there, living only in your memories, I want to become part of you, a history, a reminder, of that history we shared, a path we embarked on, I want to know that I meant something, I existed, I imprinted on you, so the next woman you would meet, you would want to be with, you would be drawn to, reminded you of me. The scent, the breath, the touch, the way my body curved, the glance I stole, the way I looked at you, the way you tasted, I tasted, I want that, in addition to the images you captured, to be in your well, in your collection. 

So the next woman you’d be drawn to, was an iteration of me.

You said, “Perhaps I do have a fetish, you have that effect on men. I bet you do.”

I didn’t say a word, I was on my my side, I simply looked at you, my eyes locking yours. 

I knew that you knew, I had you, at that moment, time stopped. I was captured in your green irises. 

I knew, I was in your photograph, now and forever.

Muji, Mechanical Pencil

I found Muji. 549 9th Street, next to Bryant. Opened in November 2012, and just spotted it. Was recently passing JFK and saw it in the terminal. I was in the one in Singapore and Paris, and New York of course but never in San Francisco. It's always been one of those places that secretively gotten me off. I like good looking stationary, even though I don't write often, certainly not in real pens. I type, mostly. Because I'm a leftie who was forced to write right handed in a country where being a leftie might as well be as strange as a three headed beast. Got so excited about finding 2 Way Mechanical Pen + 5 Colors Ballpoint Pen, called someone who would appreciate it. I thought he'd appreciate it, because he is really into note taking and often go to Japan town to find one of kind pens and pencils. A man who appreciates finer things in life. A man who appreciates pens and pencils and stationary. A man who is neat, organized, decisive, eccentric, not into sports, but into artistic things.

So he answered the phone right away. "So you called me to tell me about pens you found."
I said, "Yes. And I want to send you a link to Muji page. It's got five colors and a mechanical pencil. It's only $5.95. And I plan to stop by the store on my way over. Unless you want to come with."

Man does not want to go. He does not want to be with me where I had to pay for things. He only wants me to be with him in private. Never out. Never outside. Unlike the other. Who always want me to be seen with him. He does what he does. He has a definitive way about him. It's always, yes no, but no maybe's.

I said, "Fine. I'll just stop by and get you some."

"When should I come over?" I asked.

"Whenever you are out of work, just come by straight after work." He replied.

I ran out of things to say. I'm at work. I had exactly 10 minutes to say the things I want to say and I ran out of topics.

Man proceeded to tell me about the cop show he's watching from the 1960s. Describing it animatedly. Tomorrow he's working on a new project. He can talk about everything but his feelings. His feelings for me is conflicted. He can't go there. The less I share the more he wants.The more I share the less he can say anything. I have to stop pushing.

"Alright. My dear. Have a good day." He said.

I was going to visit him down south. Where he worked. I have not decided yes or not. He's so afraid of intimacy that he develops a headache if he is anticipating visits.

I have enough of emotions stored for the two of us. I need to park my emotions somewhere. Without someone, the other self withers. I cannot wither.

The beginning

"In general, I’m good at beginnings, the drama of wooing and seduction, the honeymoon phase. That’s what it’s like with me and relationships; I’m not very evolved when it comes to attachment." - The last city I loved: Tel Aviv by Shaun Levin

When the door bell was rung by a woman in ivory high heels matched with her ivory linen top, a man in his forties opened the door. He was wearing a velvet blue shirt and black jeans. His hair styled and wet. It would appear that he had just stepped out of the shower. He took a look at the woman in high heels and pulled her close and started to kiss her before she had dropped her bag. The woman blushed and kissed him back. She had long straight brown hair and large sunglasses. She was carrying a cell phone and seemed to be just finishing up her call.

"When did you get home?" She asked.

"About five." He answered. His back now towards her as he started to prepare drinks. "Cocktails? I want you to meet Captain Jack." Captain Jack, as it turned out, was the neighbor's cat. A big, fat, lazy, beautifully blond and gray haired cat who was in the courtyard, waiting to be received, properly.

Woman wanted to kick off her heels. Man eyed her shoes and said, "No, keep it on, baby." She smiled and immediately knew what he had in mind. Man had taken some limes and cut them up. He was then bringing two tall glasses to the counter, where a mini bar was built and set up just so. She began to drink this tropical drink filled with lime, rum, coke and mango juice. An odd combination, but in a hot summer day like this, it felt natural.

"Here is to Florida." She said.

Man in his forties smiled. His mother, as she learned, was remarried and moved to Florida after she and his father divorced. He had sometimes visited her in Florida. He's the younger son and had a older sister. He grew up in New England and schooled in Boston, and moved to San Francisco in early 90s and found a home in the Haight, then in the Mission. Man worked at the Ivy League of the west during the week, but often had downtime to create his art projects, elaborate, funky, one of kind art installation. He had a following. When he had shows, sometimes women lingered after, and stayed in his place. He liked women. There was no type per say. Blondes were his favorite. Older, younger, Jewish, German, Swedish, and occasionally, Asian. Women who thought he was creative, smart, and terribly handsome tend to linger after his exhibits, and when he had too much to drink, he was not so choosy. Then there were those old flings from the 90s. Women who stayed in his life sometimes, would contact him for a quick hook up. Everyone wanted sex sometimes. And those that were not the complicated kind, conducted between two consenting adults in their late 30s and 40s, were the best. Everyone knew everyone from before. A quick get together, easy sexual encounter, then people went back to their lives, as if nothing happened. Those were the lives of unmarried people. It never changed. He never had to change, and he saw no reason to change.

Woman remembered this man she once dated. He told her that his parents moved to Florida after retirement. It was one of those places every retiree from the Midwest and the East Coast moved to. She wouldn't move there. She'd move to France, like any respectable woman who's independent, she'd move to Europe. Four seasons, rain, snow, sun and leaves turning brown and grapevines were ripened to be picked. Not like Florida, it's always humid and hot, even in the winter.

Man was gorgeous. Every time the woman decided that she was unsure, she just needed to remind her that the moment she set her eyes on him, she'd be fine. Man was slim, 5'10", and had an incredible sex drive.  And he liked to talk. Talked nonstop about any and all subjects under the sun. He knew so much. All she needed to do was to ask a question and they were off to the races. He had an opinion on everything, radical views, and a perfect, elegant way to convey his thoughts to her. She wanted sometimes to just listen to him talking. Listen to him talking about the world, the economy, the political and social injustice of America, the changing city that is called San Francisco, his childhood, his days in Boston, his observation of the disappearing bums on the street in the Mission. His art projects. She would listen and find herself getting wet. She was turned on by his words, and that was before she even knew that they were going to be good in bed.

Through the door into the next house into the garden filled with fragrant flowers and fruit trees was when the next unexpected thing happened.

One moment they were sitting in a secluded section of the garden, completely private, then the next moment she had her dress hiked up high, exposing her garter belt and black stockings, her left leg lifted onto the patio table and he was inside of her as she was leaning on the patio table. A mirror behind a bunch of bamboo trees leaned against the wall, reflective of what they were up to. From the mirror she saw him entering her, first gently then with a force. Her left leg was resting on the table and her right leg stood and she looked back at him as he thrust himself into and out of her.. She admired herself in the mirror. She was curvy and erotic. He was slim and handsome. Sex outdoor. Sex in the broad day light surprised and excited her. The man was gentle and kind one moment, but then he had taken control over the situation and put her in a receiving mode. So she purred like Captain Jack and let him. It had been a long few months. Her last boyfriend had vanished. No explanation, no "I'm sorry". He just disappeared. She thought her heart broke but even with a broken heart one must move on.

 She could use a break. He was going to be her break. And with that, she rested her head on the table, and let the evening begin.

Oliver the cat / Modern Relationship

Olive the cat joined us for an impromptu birthday celebration. Olive the cat was happy and fat. French decor throughout, and the roof deck was excellent for star gazing or twin peak tower look out. Bernal Heights was not far, but to hike up there takes a bit of an effort. Olive wanted to cuddle but both of us were allergic to cats. A cottage apartment left nonrented and unused. Rum and pineapple juice did the trick. Take off your high heels, the spiral staircase, metal ones would otherwise cause serious damages. Can’t get over how lucky one feels when one finds a parking spot right out in front of the house in San Francisco. It’s like finding gold. A white convertible. A hard top. Can't miss the car. Can't miss the spot.Then just as soon as you found the perfect spot, the other two perfect spots opened up, you wish you had three cars. Someone was cooking up something delicious and home made. One could not believe how lucky one was. To be fed each and every time, with home cooked meal, with conversations that flowed, to enter a room filled with laughter, with a meal prepared for you. I had once heard such stories. It did happen on occasion.


The story of pigeon was a really good one. Olive was not laughing but if he could understand he’d laugh too. The bird seeds, excessive amount of them, industrialized form, scattered around the Mission, so that millions of pigeons descend, and therefore the gentrification process would stop. Too many damn pigeons landing on fancy cars. People were discouraged about the prospects of moving into a neighborhood infested with pigeons.

"I have a history with pigeons. When I lived in the Haight, there were some pigeons always making noises early in the morning, making it difficult for me to fall asleep. So I climbed on the roof and installed wires. They stopped coming for a while. But then one day they reappeared, this time there were twenty of them. As it turned out, they had somehow pushed the wires all the way so that now the wires were laying flat, and they were able to reoccupy the spots. When I first moved to the Mission, there was a boy who was a bit slow. He was more like a young adult at this point, the highlight of his day was feeding those damn pigeons. He'd come in a giant bag every day, and he'd bring pigeons bird food from that giant bag. One day I felt that I had to stop him. So I did. I told him that the more he fed the pigeons, the less they'd learn to fend for themselves. It's time for them to grow up. The boy started to cry. He cried so much that I felt bad for manipulating him into not feeding the pigeons. He disappeared. So did the pigeons. But one day I spotted him, he took up another corner, and there he was, still feeding the pigeons. Now there are only two left in my neighborhood. In the morning the pigeons would come and stare into my living room, waiting to be fed. I fed them corn chips for a year. Then one day I realized that corn chips were sitting on the ground, untouched. It appeared that the pigeons had gotten tired of the corn chips. They still loitered around outside. But they didn't want the corn chips any more. I finally decided to feed them sunflower seeds. They loved them. Soon several pigeons showed up to ask for more sunflower seeds. I don't want the gentrification process to continue. This used to be cool. Now a new restaurant called Local just opened up. I don't mind them to go gentrifying some other street, but let it not be mine. Do you know if Costco sold bird seeds? Perhaps one day I'd be like that boy, feeding pigeons out of the bag hanging behind my bike. There will be hundreds of pigeons, and those BMW drivers would be tired of parking under the tree."

Here is the thing. I like the process of having Mission district be cleaned up, dressed up and pigeon poop free. I like that I can take my car and park there and not have to worry about how safe it is going to be like it like this. I like good restaurants and hipster crowd showing up.

Relationship talks, even theoretical ones that might implicate you, made you unease. Not married, not into a relationship. Not in a place for one. I said that’s fine but here was the thing. You could tell whatever you tell yourself, your heart would want what your heart wanted. One minute it was just a fling the next you declared love. That’s the problem. You thought you knew what you wanted but you didn't. And then everything crumbled. It’s easy to just stay a certain way if your heart was not tangled up in it. Most relationships, one party would eventually go off, because one party felt more deeply about the other party. Inevitably, relationship ended because emotions were not as easy as the rational side of thinking.

Relationship was only fun when you were not vested in it, when you didn’t get freaking emotional. But if one party lied. What if one party misled and then the other party went off on you because of it? That was when things could go terribly wrong.

No one wanted that.

Not you, not me, not even Olive the cat.

Therefore, compatibility was important. To be compatible. To know where you stood. To be open and never lead the other person down the rabbit hole. Never get emotional. That was an easy thing to say? But who could follow? Heart matters were not as simple as creating a new art object, writing codes, developing a new programming language, creating something mechanical to simulate a movement, however graceful they appeared, they were simply simulations. Machines that were enslaved to human's control.

I'm not a robot. I'm not a machine. I'm emotional. I cannot be controlled. I need you to understand that. I need someone to love me, for me.

Letter from the South

Yes, I’ve had a lot of seafood. For starters, I had turtle soup, lots of raw oysters and yes dishes with shell fish in them. But each meal was hurried, and I did not enjoy all of them. Going to New Orleans was fun in the past because they were all for fun, until this time. Do you like seafood besides Salmon? I never asked. I need to get on board with your view in living a happy life. It seems that you are able to create a lifestyle that is low in stress and hence more productive and more enjoyable. I should try to look out the window, and take it easy, like you said. Maybe I’ll find something interesting. Maybe I’ll be enlightened.

I enjoy the evening walks down the cobblestone streets of French Quarter. That’s what I did nearly every night, usually past midnight. When most of the drunks have decided to turn in for the night, not out of their conscious decisions, of course, and often on the street. Every misfit seems to congregate on Bourbon street. I stayed away from it and walked up and down Royal street, where my hotel was. It’s quaint, with lots of antique stores, art galleries, and shops that sold knickknacks or confederate memorabilia. Turning to the right midway down on Royal Street towards water was Jack London Square, and then it’s the famous Café Du Monde where fresh beignets dusted with, or rather, bathed in powdered sugar, were served alongside of a cup of hot Au Lait, $7.95. In the early 90s when I came here for Mardi Gras, I used to see old African American men selling Jambalaya scooped out of a large wooden barrel right by Café Du Monde. $5, served in a plastic bowl, hot and steamy, topped with Louisiana hot sauce, perfect for the raining afternoons after a tall glass of Hurricane in the morning.  When I was here this time, it rained every day. On the clock, between 11:45 and 12:45. I’m not talking about misty rain like you’d occasionally get in San Francisco, I’m talking about storms not unlike summer in New England, where you grew up and schooled. Bigger than tear drops, bigger than the largest pearls you can find. It’s a bona fide Southern rain, needed for those lush plantations. One year I came here for a plantation tour, and there were bunch of beautiful peacocks wandering about the property. For years and years I had fantasized about moving to the South, buy a large plantation house, with wooden, painted white shutters covering the windows, wide wrap-around porches, and ceiling fan that hummed all day long. I’m no Southerner, I’ve only been to the South a dozen or so times, but it seemed like a charming concept to have a southern retreat to call home. The day is filled with large breakfast, and sweet tea served in china set on a hot, humid summer afternoon.

Now I dream about France, an ancient stone farmhouse requiring restoration in the middle of nowhere, yet only an hour and half to Paris. You would be my perfect partner to fix it up, I’d see you in it, making everything perfect, beautiful and renewed. I’d grow a garden full of vegetables, and every morning I’d ride a bike to the local bakery to fetch us baguette. We’d vacation in Italy and Germany.

How do we go from here to there? How? How could we? What if this was going to be a path and somehow we’ve already missed it? Two decades too late. Chance encounter that was missed. And now we are here. Perfect for each other, in such an imperfect, unchangeable world.  

In the south, like North Carolina, the sweet tea is brewed under the sun. I had a boyfriend who lived in Long Island who was from North Carolina. One year I spent New Year with him. He’d make me sweet tea, and tell me about his childhood where his grandmother taught him how. I missed having okra this time. I like the texture of okra, most people don’t like it. It’s slimy when sautéed, but fried them up they become crispy. Quite a contrast.  I’m a big fan of southern cuisine.  Though I don’t eat it often. I imagine it won’t do much good to my body.

The design process fascinate me. Like a perfect English garden, even the weeds grown between the cobble stones are left on purpose. An order among chaos. Nothing is unintentional, yet it looks as though it has always been that way. I imagine each of your pieces is like that too. Do you ever go back to the beginning and start the sketching process again because one part could not fit or be made just so?

Well, until next time. I wish you a good evening.