To You. Yesterday.

How can fools be tired?

Today

Today I mentioned some rather unsettling news about my work situation to my friend Paul, an English gentleman (i.e. a truly courteous and generous man) who has a lovely family in Hong Kong. He reminded me:

There're a lot of top-rated cunts in this world.

Sleep (II)

Clyde called me last night when I was drifting off to sleep. A ring in the dark and I spoke, breathing surprise into the receiver. Clyde is in Singapore at the moment. He has read the draft of a story I have been working on. The story began with a simple impetus and quickly metamorphosed into a web of images and emotions that goes way beyond my usual limit.

'It's the first time in years when I can't tell what moods you've been in from reading your fiction,' he said. 'These guys are...crazed.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'How are you doing?'

'About the same as you.'

'Do you have your guitar?'

'I'm in the office tonight. As always.'

After we hung up I laid with my crazed characters for a while--they should continue to beat me! As for Clyde, we are the kind of friends who grow more similar as time passes, though we have always lived in remarkably different worlds. For the earlier parts of our fourteen-year friendship we met and bonded--he had his music and reserve, I had my writing and tears, we marched on through the confusion of youth. In recent years we have grown together in our separate spheres. Now he can study his emotions like the lines on the palm of a child's hand, while I have learned to turn away. Our situations keep changing: he relocates, I live as a nomad in my own space.

***

Fellow story writer and blogger girlgeum said there is sleep of rest, and there is sleep of deprivation--of escape from uncertainty, and thoughts like bad tenants to which we lease our mind to. My uncertain state (I am mostly referring to work here) continues, and I shall stay quiet until a change comes along.

My sleep is no longer one of escape. In between oblivion I still see the lingering plot lines of a story I gave up on, the many shades of grey and red I brushed past to make my exit. A few times I dreamed of my protagonist in the guise of someone else, and I chased them, chasing ridicule and doom. I woke up to doubt--doubt is an emotion I rarely feel because time passes quickly for me, but sometimes it does not.

And here's some consolation from Rilke:

The Panther

(In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris)

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,

has grown so weary that it cannot hold

anything else. It seems to him there are

a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,

the movement of his powerful soft strides

is like a ritual dance around a center

in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils

lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,

rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,

plunges into the heart and is gone. 

My Tango Friends

Time to introduce my lovely tango friends. Outside of tango we hang out sometimes and support all things Argentinian, including the second-class Argentina soccer team at this year's World Cup. Here's some of us at a local bar watching the team's 0-4 defeat to Germany.

From left to right: Paul and Eunice, George, Ryan, Johnson, Winnie (in black top), Phoebe and a new classmate whose name eludes me (she speaks Mandarin and I am deficient), Rosa and me. Kan isn't in the photo as she had the camera. I could go on forever about these guys but let's say Paul is one bold dancer and has plenty of stories about his youth to share, while Eunice smiles amid the other ladies. George comes to our milongas and gatherings, is a little quiet but always cracks up at just the right moment. Ryan and Winnie had a baby boy this spring named Bosco, which was the name Ryan wanted for himself in his younger days. Johnson is a generous, funny guy and a poser. And his girlfriend Kan--who's just as generous--says: 'I have an artist's temperament. No one orders me to shoot pictures'. Phoebe loves tango, music, writing and is already planning her next trip to Buenos Aires. Rosa is a kind person who makes some pretty sharp observations when it matters.















Outside of the dance floor our life is still very much about tango. Here Paul and Phoebe were 'simulating' a sacada with chopsticks at the birthday dinner for Rosa, George and Tori. The two girls next to Paul in the background are Kathy and Terri. Kathy is a young doctor and popular on the dance floor--which means she gets harassed by some guys she doesn't like but she hasn't learned how to turn them down. Terri is a talkative, curious and down-to-earth girl. Tori, not pictured here, went to the same graduate school as I did, though we didn't meet until we both ended up at Trio Spin where we whined a fair bit about the education we received. Fei, also not pictured here, is an architect and recently nicknamed 'Shark Girl' by Paul for her quick wits and biting (in a funny way) remarks.























Wing, Bond Bond and their daughter Yuet Yi. They have another baby girl on the way in a couple months. Bond Bond was the first guy who invited me for a dance on my first visit to Trio Spin. The whole time I was staring at my feet on the floor but Bond Bond was very patient, as he is with all the newcomers. Yuet Yi darts around a lot, is already showing early promise of a great dancer.


























Candy and Anita, the tango sisters in HK and our beloved teachers, at Candy's birthday dance in May. After lunch we had some coffee in the studio and watched them dance in the afternoon sun. Candy is a thoroughly musical person--besides tango she teaches piano and violin--and is one of the most patient and meticulous teachers you could ever have. In class Anita teaches the leader's part though she's just as good dancing in the follower's role. At our milongas she gets very busy entertaining the guests. Towards the end of the night she often sits down, rubs her eyes and starts to laugh. ('I'm hiding my weariness behind my smiles, haha,' Anita says.)

















One funny anecdote about Candy and Anita. Last year I took piano lessons from Candy for a few months, and the three of us would have coffee before the tango class later in the evening. On one of those nights I was telling them about the junk that had been piling up along the stairway in the Chinese styled building I lived in. Just as Anita and I were half laughing over the image of cardboard boxes and stinky shoe racks, Candy said, in all seriousness, 'Call the fire department. It's a fire hazard!' 'How wise!' Anita said. We all cracked up.

Yes, our teachers are serious, wise and great fun to be around.

A Writer Writes

Back in February when I was going through a somewhat complicated and unhappy episode, I left an elusive status update on my Facebook. Fellow blogger and American novelist Donigan Merritt left this comment:

'You're a writer. That's what you're supposed to do. Write about it.'

I took his advice. In recent days I have been writing a bit more than I did last year, both on this blog and in my fiction. When I find myself walking around my studio flat or lying face down in bed, running an interior monologue in my head, or feeling frustrated or hopeful or ambivalent about the reality of things, I find consolation in those words: 'Write about it.'

The stuff I end up writing may not necessarily be about what is going on--the short story I am slowly working my way through, for example, revolves around a couple images/concepts I saw at some hidden moments in the past, the characters are strangers born out of the dream. Only the emotional impetus comes from me, so the motto 'Write about it' still applies.

Those are happy times. And I am single-minded about guarding this freedom.

Publicity

I have organized some my art writing--reviews, interviews, reportage--into a separate blog here. The stuff I have posted so far covers my past work for China Daily (HK) and current work for Hong Kong Gallery Guide. The title of the blog, 'Some Summer They Drop Like Flys' is the name of a Dirty Three song. I chose this title because it was a scorching summer day when I started the blog. And the ideas--all this thinking and grinding away at art reviews--felt like they could drop and bury me if I stared any harder at the words.

More writing to come.

I will be adding links to artist/gallery web sites of my friends'. If you have one you'd like me to add, please contact me.

***

Filipino artist in Hong Kong Noel de Guzman now runs his own design and illustration business, aptly titled Artmazing. Check out the design blog here and his personal web site here.

I met Noel at an interview a couple years ago during the Philippines Arts Festival. He is known for his concentric circles/universes and painting with his fingers. There're a group of talented Filipino artists in my town and some of them are looking at starting a street art festival in my neighborhood. Looking forward to the news.

indifference/slingshot

A lover departs, making a last display of his ugly tendencies. I do not know whether he plotted the ending like I did, or if it was just another failed exercise in twisted logic. I have no clue if the said person will wake up in his shell and reemerge as if everything was understood and could now be resumed--blindness isn't my biggest talent, I have little idea how others make use of it.

I am not the most decisive person when it comes to cutting people off. For better or worse, I tend to insist on leaving room for weird occurrences and temperaments. After all, how did some folks put up with me when I was a manic depressive, crying, screaming bitch? As long as I could find one plausible reason for your behavior on the list I dream up for you, you're likely to be off the hook for now.

That is, until we reach the limit. Yesterday I ran into a former best friend who I now shun. According to all reports it is an unresolved mystery for him, but I do not look back on abuse or love that is broken. Anyone can think they rule and I am an eccentric who should be avoided or rid of. Since my late twenties I have lost my flair for arguing, or I only speak if there is something to be saved.

It is easier to feign innocence when people explode. It does not always make me happier, but I cannot care enough to play straight most of the time. Back in the days when I could still provoke or be provoked, I once burnt my hair in someone's kitchen. You can have a glimpse into the story here.

p.s. Josh, the editor, is looking for poetry and flash fiction submissions. Send him something now.

Over

After watching a demoralizing defeat of Argentina at the World Cup, my tango classmates and I left the crowded pub and waved goodbye to one another on the street. I hopped over to where T was with his friends--I was again caught up in my compulsion to see someone on a nice end note before the whole thing blew over.

Once T and I were on the pavement to get some air, he mentioned his upcoming job loss and that his flatmate, or a friend he took in in an emergency situation, had moved out. One morning the flatmate was locked out by accident in a way that almost appeared intentional. So he called the locksmith and broke in at 5am. The next day he was gone.

'That's a lot to deal with within a few days,' I said.

T has ginger color hair, pale skin covered with freckles and eyes that at times look vacant or inauspicious when he is deep in thought. After a brief pause he turned to me.

'I want to ask you. Why are you interested in me when I'm someone who has so many issues? How is it that I seem to have a track record in upsetting you when I'm just being myself?'

Silence.

'I'm concerned that someone can be upset on my account or I'm obliged to live up to standards that you obviously have. It's caused me strain.'

'Does it matter why I'm interested in you, or those conflicts happened?'

'It does to me,' T looked at me for a long while, in wait for an answer. 'I see.'

For camouflage I lit a cigarette.

'Sorry, I'm very careful about articulating what I try to say. In this case I want to be sure what I say is exactly what I mean. Why exactly do you want to tell me this? Because you want to get it off your chest, or you want something to be resolved?'

'You know I'm very protective of myself. I'm very slow in building personal relationships of any kind. The baseline is I'm alone a lot, spending time with people is the exception. Seeing you has freaked me out a lot--I'm not used to people wanting to hang out with me.'

I finished my cigarette and lit another one.

'What do you want me to say? I'm the opposite: when I'm interacting with people I'm there. A lot of people misinterpret my intensity and think I'm more interested in them than I really am. I get an adrenaline rush and I act like this with everyone...for a short time, then I calm down.'

'Regardless of all this...Can we...not start over...but slow down and chill out so we can find some kind of understanding and develop our relationship, whatever it is?'

'If that's what you wanted, it'd have helped if we could have just gone out to do something fun and normal for one night. Much more so than talk.'

T's friends exited the scene and we went back inside. I tried to smile and give T a quick kiss. It failed.

'I don't disagree with what you said, but I'm not a normal guy. So what normal and fun thing do you want to do?'

I buried my face in my hands; I leaned back in my seat, sat up, collapsed again to play with my hair and watch men come out of the restroom, to stare at the ceiling until I caught myself acting like a child and stopped.

'Look, I appreciate you bringing this up. If I were you I'd just disappear. The best thing I can tell you for now is I understand and respect what you're trying to say.'

'I like you and I want to see you. I just think there needs to be more clarity and space before we go on hanging out.'

We headed over to the sidewalk cafe we all go to. For a few minutes T was gone and his former flatmate passed by. He greeted me with a peck on the cheek and asked me how I was.

'I'm good. I heard you moved out--I'd have done the same.'

He smiled. 'You're biased.'

'You're in my favor coz you seem like an easy-going person.'

'I am, usually.'

T reappeared and I was back to playing with my see-through floral-pattern top, looking into the distance down the street, fidgeting, half dancing on the pavement. The night had gone breezy at 1am and the crowd gathered outside the music lounge. Finally I smiled.

'Do you feel better now? I asked.

'A bit more relieved, but not necessarily happy because this is unresolved.'

'What's there to be resolved?'

'There're really a couple of paths we can take from here. We should spend non-committed time and have no expectations....'

I was no longer following his speech. When it was over I wanted to wipe my forehead. T gave me a look that said it was pointless to carry on this conversation. I had no wish to remedy the situation--I had been mute over this scam all along.

'Does it matter to you what I think or feel about any of this, or what I want to do with you from now on? Is it something you actually care about?' I asked.

'It is.'

I held onto my bag. The time had come for me to say my peace but I was utterly unwilling to do it--why would I open up to someone's 'my way or the highway' speech when it was not even backed by any genuine intention? Why should there be any discussion when there was nothing to save?

'Here,' I said, 'I came unprepared for this conversation so I'd rather not talk about what's on my mind. What about we get a bite next time?'

'That's a perfectly reasonable answer. I've got to go,' T said.

We had a hug and I went to get my cab. In half an hour there was a text message from T: 'I know it's not much but thank you for understanding.'

We will not meet again.