Friday, December 31, 2004
I lost a rather expensive personal belonging of Dr. Seuss, and perhaps he was annoyed for a little while, but he said he’d let me off, for a price. I had to meet him for coffee, because he’d really missed me while I was in Sarawak. I’d been running slightly late for the date, and thought that he’d be annoyed (along with having lost his things), and was quite surprised to find a very cheerful, much delighted greeting when he’s arrived. (He had decided to get some shopping done while I waited at the café, because I was simply going to be too late). Apparently, I light a spark in him the moment he sees me; I vaguely remember the feeling from my first boyfriend, where my heart would lurch with fondness every time I saw him, even if it was every day. It has been very long since I felt that way. I feel it, certainly, here and there on occasion, but they are far milder sensations. With Martine, I feel something else altogether, something like… possession.
It was a most delightful afternoon, and we were seated in a sheltered courtyard roofed with a translucent material held by a wooden lattice, through which the silhouettes of fallen leaves could be seen. And through which the sun-light was dissipated. Along with the light drizzle that had been going on for most of the afternoon, it felt like three hours of dawn. And every time we kissed, there were bells in the background, and at this I’m not being cheesy. As much of a cheesy coincidence as it was, there indeed were the ringing of bells every time we kissed –which is to say three times, since the bells ring once ever hour.
He looked quite good today, and something sparkled in his eyes, I told him so and he said it was just one of the effects that I produced. We talked a little about my future, and I told him I was getting out of the country to continue my course of study. He asked me if there wasn’t a local alternative, and I told him I was just sick of living here. But most of all, I was sick of living with my parents. He said I needed an apartment, and started talking like he was going to get me one. (In my opinion, with the rates he’s paying for hotel rooms, he might as well get me an apartment). Of course I looked at him with incredulity and asked if he was saying what I was thinking.
‘I didn’t say I’d get you an apartment, I just said you should get yourself one.’
‘Indeed I should, and the only way is to find an excuse to move out of the country so my dad will pay for it.’
‘How much is an apartment around here anyway?’
‘Oh, I’m guessing for someone with needs a frugal as mine –like say, 800 sq feet- perhaps slightly over 1k, for a place in a good location.-‘
‘That’s pretty sensible.’
Then he goes on to talk about how he’d love to be a patron for my art and some of the things I like to do. All very delightfully fascinating, but while I would like to believe he isn’t kidding, I hate expecting things from anyone. Especially in pseudo-romantic relationships where everything hangs on so fine a line. They can like you now, but as with all romances, grow tedious soon enough.
Before he left however, he told me to take care of the check, and slipped a hundred into my purse. Telling me to have a great dinner with my friends and buy the canvas for which was the other reason I’d come down to town this afternoon.
Ethan then called me later in the day to say that he’d booked a flight into Singapore mid next month, and a flight out late in February. I was to purchase the Manson tickets and the flights to Bangkok. It was then it dawned upon me that, oh goodness how has time flown. I can’t believe we’re finally going to meet again. Truth is, I’ve actually grown quite attached to him, or at least to our little romance, and there’s no one else I feel so comfortable with. Besides, he’s the only one that ever bothered to attempt to make things work for this long, everyone else had a projection of their own lives in the next year, and it didn’t have me in it. And I didn’t have them in it either, so they all naturally had to die out to a ‘we’re-still-friends’ situation. Which is good in its own way, I’m sure.
This is the painting I've just completed. I'm not too fond of it, but I know I've got alot of room for improvment and practice so that's a consolation; as opposed to beliving I simply have no talent. If you feel otherwise, it's not in your place to tell me: there are reasons why I do not leave a comment function. Because some people are just nasty. Unless you can do better, you've no right to criticize, but considerate personal opinions are welcomed :)
Thursday, December 30, 2004
This is odd. I know I've a fair amount of readers (and just like the number of people I've slept with, I'm not telling how many) and I know I write relatively well, and even if not, then I write relatively engagingly, but to be nominated Best Journal? That’s nice, whoever initiated it, and I’m grateful. Although for what, I don’t really know. Of course, all recognition is good, and to have your effort acknowledged is very pleasant indeed.
I just found out about it though Mr. Brown today. I’ve been peeking into his site starting late last year when I realized we’d gone to the same JC. I could be tragically wrong on this, being told quite sometime ago.
Whatever it is, I could do with an increase in readership. More people reading and giving feedback and critiquing on the occasional painting can be rewarding. I mean hey, I like to write pseudo-philosophical trash and paint pictures that look like I conceptualized them fucking while on LSD (I’ve finally finished the one I’d been working on, will post as soon as I sort through the mess of a room and find the digital camera, you’ll see what I mean.) and the blog has been a great outlet for me to exhibit all that. Otherwise I’d still be accumulating half written novels on my PC and canvases smothering my bedroom wall to which only a select few will get to see.
I like the internet, and I like the idea that more people are reading me now then if I’d actually got a book published. Although I must say I’m infinitely envious of Melissa P. and maybe I’ll copy her and pull off a novel in half a years time. hmm… In the meanwhile, I’ll start on my version of Van Gogh’s Café Terrence and attempt to paint it on the door of an old shop house where I’ll do my next set for Suicidegirls on.
It’s time for bed, and if think I’m endearing enough darlin’ go vote for me.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
If I can help it, I’ll not go without sex for a week again, ever. Élan took time off work yesterday afternoon, firstly because he had nothing to do since the people in the
I felt like I really needed to fuck, so after telling the dirt to screw it, took a cab down to his place. For some odd reason, we always sit apart on the couch still (as it was before a couple of weeks ago when we fucked) and we sat apart for half of a really retarded 1980’s movie with Goldie Hawn in it, until he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me towards him. We started to make out, or rather, he started trying to eat me up. He was kissing me as if there was no time in all the world, and like there was some sort of race to the finish in getting me to orgasm in 30 seconds. I started giggling, silently at first, before it became a little uncontrollable. He got up, kissed me, than looked at me very seriously asking what was the matter.
‘Relax! You’re making out like you’re trying to catch a train. I’m not going to run away in the next few hours, and I do feel like I’m in such a lazy mood today.’
He didn’t relax, and I do not know what to make of it. I really wanted to fuck him, but he ate me out till I came and got me to blow until he did. That was weird because I kept on wanting to slip his dick into me, but he continually begged for me not to stop, and I didn’t have the heart to. I wasn’t interested in having an orgasm though, I just wanted to fuck. You know, to feel a dick inside, because that feels lovely, and like you’re really connecting, and your pleasure is shared. Bummer.
We went for dinner and he had a steak and fries smothered in tomato sauce, I of course severely disapproved. We talked a little about the Tsunamis, and he told me some an odd story about his boss carrying his 96 year old grandmother onto the middle Phuket, and about silly people who went running onto the beach when the water drew away to check out the gasping sea-creatures. I’m not going to even bother commenting much on the Tsunamis, what more is there to say? Nature is unfair; that these people in developing nations with their finances just managing to scrape them through year after year and crisis after crisis should have such a thing befall them. Something like that hits so fast you don’t have time to be angry about it, there’s no one you can blame aside from God, and no one can write lengthy political essays about it, although in a matter of hours, more people died then in that same about during any period at say, the war in Iraq or the crisis in Dafur. Oh and that I'm absolutely convinced the parting or the Red Sea in Exodus was the result of a Tsunami.
He started talking about monogamy, and I asked him how many women he’s slept with. Then something I thought rather odd happened. He told me his number, which is about 3 times as much as the number I’m used to, which is 3 times as much as the number I’ve slept with. It was outrageous and I nearly died. Of course you can try to make something out of these things, like mainly, he’s a high-risk subject for STDs. But then again, there are men who sleep with whores who have slept with more then he has, so whose to try to make anything out of anything. But I am still shocked, and I told him I thought he was a crazy bastard. Who the hell needs to sleep with that many women? And he’s still going through the quarter life crisis (i.e. he's too young to have slept with that many women). I honestly wished he hadn’t told me, because now I just think there’s something wrong with him. Certainly I sleep with a fair amount of people, but I know them. Like, I actually know them. Their odd little habits, their favourite topping on the pizza, the name of their last girlfriend or their current girlfriend, the breed of dog they own. Stuff. But to have slept with that many women? Ah, but if he wants to abuse and use an abusing and using stranger; what can I say? Fair’s fair.
Oddly though, he’s lousy in bed. The first time I attributed it to too much alcohol, and now I’m blaming it on the size of the condoms you get here. Sure they are free size, supposedly, but his dick is abnormally large and for some damn reason you don’t get Trojans here. You probably could, but they don’t have them at Cold Storage anyway (ah certainly, sex is as important as food). But I can say I’m not keen on sleeping with him again. I like him, and he is very cute, but the sex is really mediocre and that’s annoying. Thinking about it now, I know why I’m so obsessed over Martine, he’s about one of the best sex I’ve ever had. The other guy must have been the G-Spot, but it’s a different sort of pleasure. G’s nice to make love to, he’s good in bed, and the sex is always pleasant and truth be told, calming. It never hurts, he’s big but not too big, and he’s really lean and it’s nice to have muscle slamming onto you, each thrust is just… how should I put it, more definite. Martine gives me sex like I want to cry and scream and die and he exhausts me and burns me up, literally.
Élan is *sigh* What can I say, I thought there was potential, but so far the two times I’ve slept with him have been disappointing. He’s perfect in every other way, except maybe for the promiscuity part. I’m not too keen on getting cervical cancer from HPV or something. He’s got nothing –insurance health checks can give a girl a peace of mind- but there are some things you can’t check for, and yes, technically I’ve slept with every women he’s fucked in the past 10 years, but most STDs aren’t a bother really, and your immune system normally takes care of most in a couple of weeks. I’m not talking about the really nasty ones, common nonsense like herpes (which I do not have; and anyway, you can get that shit for a toilet seat). I’d not like to get them in any case, and to continue sleeping with him would just be uncomfortable for me.
He asked me in return how many I’ve slept with (about 9 times less then what he has) and for some reason I inflated the number to the next 10, then immediately thought it was dumb and told the truth. I had a fine time laughing at myself. Imagine, trying to compete with him on who’s scored the most, what a silly thing to do, and if done, what a pointless pastime.
Went out with the girls today. Princess and XJ. Interesting conversation on the number of women Hugh Grant has screwed (I think maybe 300), Paris Hilton’s pussy- XJ thinks it's ugly and why some girls don’t wear panties (my reason: because I’ve lost them. My mother made a sarcastic remark about me leaving them at other people’s houses today after a long bout of complaining that I simply didn’t have sufficient knickers) and a lesson on how to tie the perfect French Braid. I’m a lousy student.
The colour of the day is
I’ve lots of shit things to say, as usual, but am in too bad a mood to do anything about it. I hate Singtel. It’s the epitome of an evil ex-monopolist, and thank God it’s no longer a monopolist. I hope it folds and dies. The cheating, sniveling, shitty public relations and stupid shitty rates and outrageously troublesome shit you’ve to go through to switch plans. Fuckity, fuckity, fuck. I’m going out to get drunk tonight.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Martine called me up from HCMC yesterday where he’s apparently presently vacationing with Liz at the moment to ask if everything was allright. I can’t remember exactly what he said, but he begged a little caution out of me with regards to the situation with you-know-which-relative. If I told you how I’d behaved around him (like what I’d told Martine) you’d say I’d deserved it. But I’d been behaving like so around him for as long as my memory can go back, and since I’ve not been alive for too long, it goes back till the year I became capable of memory, and thus, rational thought.
So when I got up, I was in my underwear and he’d seen me in it. No one in my whole extended family cares if your walking about in your underwear at bed time, or just after dawn. Everyone walks about in their underwear from the shower to the bedroom, that’s normal. I don’t know how it’s done in other places outside laid-back, under-developed ASEAN nations, but up till now, there are places where whole families still shower out-doors, walk around barely dressed most of the time, and so be it. A cousin of mine goes back to that old place of his occasionally where the house is actually several individual rooms built separate on a small compound, with something like an outdoor kitchen to which the shower is adjoined.
And may be I should not have gone on that walk with him if I didn’t wish to encourage any illicit behaviour, but while on one hand he couldn’t have forced me to go to the park with him, I could not have refused, and didn’t think it was right. We’d always had a pretty decent relationship, and I’ve spend more time with him over the course of my life then with any other of the adults. He was the only one that didn’t annoy me with pointless questions about what I’d wish to do with my life, where I’d been the whole day, the method to which I applied to my Ginger Snaps. Of for God’s sake. So I really didn’t want to refuse him my company, it would just have made things worse I think.
That morning itself, he’d made an attempt already, which I rejected quite sarcastically (‘Watch it, you don’t want to go too far’). If I’d said no to his offer at taking me to the park thereafter, it would have come across as ‘I know you’re going to try something funny, so no’. The possibility that he might didn’t elude me, but I believed he probably offered without any intention to do so (I normally go jogging, so anything illicit would not have been possible then). I didn’t want to ruin years of goodwill because of a silly little weakness, and if I’d said no, I’m sure it would have stung and caused unnecessary embarrassment. I am being too kind, I know. A lot of other people think that if something like that happened to them, they’d have told him to go to hell. And sent him to it too.
I doubt they will though, if it really happened. Most people are normally not crazed, and I am really unfazed by it; I’ve been assaulted a fair number of times in my life, most of which during my adolescent years, and I certainly could have reported their stupidity to my parents or the police, but why ruin their life. And besides, it was never a big deal to me. If I got raped, may be I’d make that an issue, but otherwise, while yes I’d been violated, nothing has been demanded or taken from me that I didn’t want to give. It normally stops as, ‘Watch it, idiot, or I’ll cry so loud you’ll be sorry’. Most of the time, they were sorry. The pathetic fools.
I’ll never comprehend what manner of stupidity inflicted those people I used to spend my pre-teen years with. They were well over the age where they became responsible for their own actions, and what took in them to attempt anything with a 12 year old is something I’ll never know. They are just stupid, that is all.
Tori’s best buddy (cum errand runner cum computer technician, no puns intended) had one of her friend lean on his shoulder once and attempt to cozy up with him. Smart boy, he nudged her gently away. At least he has sense.
All that aside, this season has been rather mediocre and I cannot wait to go on holiday with Ethan soon. Have I mentioned this before? He still insists on taking me out late January, and I’ve persuaded him to watch a Manson concert with me in Bangkok. Am very excited about it now, have been wanting to see Manson in concert since I was in Secondary School. I know I will not be disappointed, Manson’s exciting to watch even on DVD.
Plus, I’m going to redecorate my room once again. I’ve finally hit upon a convenient, aesthetically pleasing way in which I can store the excess of pillows and bolsters. Rattan baskets hanging from the ceiling. And I’m going to purchase new sheets and nail up a couple of paintings that are about to be finished.
I’ve also got a mild case of mumps I think, at any rate, the left side of my neck’s swollen. I’ve only one Christmas present this year, and I just got it in the mail. It’s the Suicidegirls Calendar, and it’s gorgeous, much better (not to mention far more tasteful) then the one that came in with last years FHM. Illustrations of tattooed, naked women that you recognize? So much fun. Goes with the new paintings in progress too, and the new illustration on my chalkboard.
Oh, and I’m thinking of going to a liberal arts college, to study illustration, along with hopefully some 3D animation and well, whatever else it is that teach in liberal arts colleges. As long as it isn’t in Singapore, all suggestions will be welcomed.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
‘We’re still part of society, and we’ve to follow it. Law, blood whatever, relation is relation and yes this is the 21st century, and certainly I’m not up-tight about a lot of things. But while you or I may think it is all right to flout convention, other people won’t. And they will be sorely hurt.’
‘Respect for society is certainly important. I’m not going to do something like behave inappropriately with a young woman in public, but there’s no one around here. Except maybe for that old guy who’s probably jealous I’ve such a pretty thing by me.’
‘Look, I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what’s going on any longer, and anyway, you know I’m pretending. To put it very blatantly, I’m not vaguely attracted to you, and cannot comprehend anything carnal, keep it and that, and please don’t do that again.’
I’m amazed at how normal I can treat the whole situation, but I suppose it’s a result of getting hit on all the damn time by men older than your own dad. I would have very much liked to have asked him what if my father did likewise to his daughter. I suppose he’d have spat something really sharp and slung the most vulgar insults. He’s all right in many respects, and when we’re talking and kept a distance apart, he’s not poor company. But I’d wished he’d stop pushing it. It’s insane how he behaves he’s bereft of sufficient self-control.
I’d told him really firmly ‘Please Don’t’ when he’d come up from behind me, grabbed me, and squeezed my breasts. And even after I’d told him to keep away; he’d still have the cheek to say I’d very firm breasts. What am I to say in response?
‘I know, but you must not do that again.’
Christ. He’s really intelligent, really rich, not too bad looking for his age; I don’t see how acquiring a mistress, or several for that matter, could possibly be a problem. And as far as I know, he’s done so in the past, however many times, I have no clue and it’s honestly none of my damned business. But I’ll not betray my father, my aunt and my dead grandmother. Whether they know or not is inconsequential, I just don’t like the idea of it. It’s just like stealing from your own parents. They’d never know it, but why do it? These people have given me (and I’d like to remind him, that they’ve also given Him) so much, and is this how you repay them? His wife is so pure and so loving, a little fanatical no doubt, but she’d never done anything to deserve this sort of behavior out of you. In fact, she’s only done everything of the opposite!
He’d only try to argue of course, and since I know that it is impossible to impose personal values onto another person, I’d eventually settled for the explanation that I simply wasn’t attracted to him. ‘To put it very blatantly’, just for the sake of getting him to stop with the lame arguments that biologically it wasn’t incest and all that. I’m not stupid, and I know every argument that you can put across to me, and still it would change nothing. I like you as part of my family, and I like you as an individual, you had always been nice to me and treated me like your own daughter whenever I visited. I’m just terribly disappointed with how things got wrong this time round and I’ve no idea why.
Oh I’m not sickened now, but I feel so annoyed when he touches me! It was all right initially before it clearly got past what was appropriate and could pass off for paternal affection.
But anyway, I’m all-right. It’s not so much about me as it is about my constant questioning as to how he could do this to his own family. If it’s just between your wife and yourself and perhaps your kids, it’s honestly none of my business. But how about mine? My parents played guardian to your girls for half a decade, and this? My dad would be devastated, it would be tragic. And even if he didn’t find out, the thought of his reaction would kill me.
At least things are still under control, I’m amazed at how well I can handle the whole situation. I’m not behaving any funnier around him, but I know for damn sure I’ve been firm. The only problem is, I’m completely left un-fazed, and that in itself might have come across as a sort of willingness to participate in the stupidity.
My life will never be in want for drama. I swear.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Of course I have no wish to experiment on myself, but at any rate, in a couple of days, I’ve managed to find so many occupations for myself once again relaxation is no longer a guaranteed condition as a result from isolation. All right, I’m not really isolated, the fact that there’s a computer at my disposal some 3-4 kilometers away from the place I’m staying at means I get to amuse myself for a couple of hours a day and stay connected. And plus, while I’ve taken to staying with my uncle and he has to work, he’s still around quite a lot, and goes to manage his work when I’m asleep. (I thought Singaporeans were extreme, but he amuses me during the day and spend his nights at the office).
Martine and I were musing about the problems of being completely unengaged in any worthwhile occupation, and how it usually results in stupid, irrational, self-centered behavior. Like how the manager of his apartments have nothing better to do then to observe every single visitor that enters the block, and work out who’s having an affair with whom. Or how odd it was when he had gone back to some luxury boutique the other day, to which we had spent sometime browsing in for a dinner jacket for him previously, and the guy that had served us previously kept on mentioning me. What business of it was his? Sure as hell we look an odd couple. He’s old enough to be my dad (given sufficiently liberal assumptions), twice my height and I’d been dressed like a fairy, but you don’t probe customers on their relationships with every person they go shopping with! But we must forgive them, they are all the time without the pursuit for any definite goal.
But before I digress too much, this would be the general presumption I’d make about my relatives living here. Not to undermine them in anyway, they are good people and have found a purpose in life; but not one I’d agree with. In any case, I think there’s some manner of psychosis under laying the whole family situation. The last half year has been nothing short of tragic. My grandmother had been dying since January and was due sometime in June (a deadline which she met) but as the cosmos would have it, an uncle died in some sort of freak accident. Because everyone pretty much lives a 10 km proximity of each other, it was a very big tragedy indeed. Now everyone goes to church twice a week, and have two alters collectively. One with a portrait of the Virgin Mary across grandma’s and one that was something from a Buddhist/Taoist past before they turned Catholics. And the incense is burning all day, and there is all the time fruit and steamed rice in front of the alter. (I doubt it’s any part of the catholic belief, because the last time I checked, Christendom had been partial to unleavened bread).
They are quite fanatical, but when you’ve no purpose in this life and everything’s just none too peachy, and nothing exciting ever happens, what are you to do but look on to the next? Where you’d sing in a heavenly choir all day long, which is not very interesting either.
I’d gone for lunch with my uncle; he’s been paying me quite a bit of attention, which I do not mind, as long as he keeps his hands to himself. Saying my legs are nice and very muscular is all very well taken, thank you. And that you’re very ‘fond’ of me is fine too, but please let’s keep it at that. I like drama, but am not into Virginia Andrews, and as much as I enjoy De Sade, I’ll not be Eugenie. I told him so of course, because I just didn’t like the way he said some things, and thank god that’s been cleared up. I’m not entirely sure if it was paternal affection (because I’m relatively close to him when I visit) or something else… possibly a mix. But I didn’t want to take any chances or compromise anything. Experiences are great to acquire, but there comes a certain point in time when too much is honestly too much. It would have hurt far too many people that I cared far too much about. If it had been anything more then the paternal relationship I am convincing myself it is.
I’d told Martine all of this, and got mildly annoyed when he asked if Uncle was Christian, because ‘it would be an interesting note for an agnostic’.
No he is not, and in fact, we spent most of lunch time discussing God (my favorite subject of late. Sex has been left to a backroom for the time being, the practical part not possible over here, and my theories on morality often turning to the questioning of spirituality and relative morality these days).
He couldn’t stop saying his wife was crazy though, but I don’t blame him. I think some people are fanatical in their disbelief, and these people think I’m fanatical in my ‘stupidity’, fair’s fair. I do suppose reading nothing but books on Christ and always falling back to the ‘will of God’ as an excuse for every shit thing that happens is a bit extreme. Not to mention, completely illogical. And getting told every night in bed that you shouldn’t question God can be very annoying, especially if you’re an academic at heart.
The following will be some of the ideas I put across to him (he didn’t have anything that I’d not already heard, although there was an odd obsession for the possibility of aliens in place of angels).
Firstly, yes it is annoying to be asked to believe in God by blind faith. God created mankind to strive for some semblance of logic, and when you resort to blind faith, your either too lazy to want to think about it, too hard-headed, too afraid, or too fatalistic. He couldn’t have made us creatures of logic, and then tell us that we must not seek to make sense of the Christian faith and of Him. It’s nearly as whacko as depriving oneself of every physical pleasure, when he made our flesh to desire.
‘It seems to me a curious fashion
To give a man an appetite
And tell him a starving ration
Is all he’s due for’
-Vikram Seth – The Golden Gate
We had been talking about the new house he’s building, and how some people have asked him what was the point? He’s not got much longer to live, why invest so much money into property when you’ve not got long left to enjoy it.
‘Then what should you spend your money on? Are you to wait till you die, for your mansion in heaven? Those people are ridiculous, I see what you mean.’ I said, putting another piece of fresh spring roll (as opposed to fried) into my mouth.
‘And ironically, or perhaps not, those same people will say that what we are eating is hospital food.’
‘Who cares? We’re eating “hospital food” and enjoying it, while they’d be the ones to end up in hospital. But they are eager to meet their maker I suppose.’
The thing is, I’ve nothing against Christianity, and I believe in Christ and in the entitlements people have upon the acceptance of his death. But what I do have a problem with is how people sometimes try to impose their way or the highway sermons on those around them. It gets even more annoying when they preach blind faith, and use an evoke the ‘will of God’ more times than can possible be sensible, if God had truly given us free choice. It’s even worse when their life seems like it’s falling apart, they lack drive, and all they can do is cling onto that elusive vision of God. Because I really do think God is elusive, should there be no present, material blessings to be seen right Now.
I did tell him though (I believe) that the fact that human beings have all yearned for some sort of spirituality all throughout history is sort of revelation that there is a life after death, or at least a semblance of the spiritual. Because (I think) every biological function has a purpose. And as throughout time, religious feeling has not made life throughout earth as a whole any better, then its purpose must be because there is a higher spiritual order to things. So that we will do something to attain that higher spiritual order (if not for blessings on earth, then for that, at least). But just like how our biological capability to eat does not always necessarily mean we will live or live well (think French Fries and Diet Coke) not all our means to utilize this ‘spiritual’ function will result in the desired end. Be it a blessed life on earth, or attainment of heaven. (Please note I’m not saying that anything aside from the acceptance of Christ is ultimately doomed to fail, because I really do not know, and I don’t think any one has the claim to the right that they do) Religion, like food, has its fads.
I can go on forever, but it’ll be pointless. We’ll never know till we die, and that’s that. God is just fooling around with us and doing things for his own amusement I honestly believe. But whatever it is, for my part, I’m playing by his rules, regardless of how whimsical they may be. (6 days? Why 6 days when just as easily 6 seconds or 6 centuries?) Goodnight.
Monday, December 20, 2004
But I’m absolutely bereft of any vague semblance of intelligent conversation, firstly because there’s a new born in the house and every one will not cease with the baby talk, although the baby is the most silent baby I have ever known. And his brother, older by a few years, will not cease in his attempts to teach everyone snatches of German phrases from a translation of a Beatrix Potter novella inscribed on his dinner mat. And my Sarawakian cousins live in such over-bearing simplicity it’s almost charming in a rustic, small town manner. Lee’s 21 this year, and thinking of marriage, something I cannot comprehend but have long stopped teasing him about it. He behaves as if he were married already anyway. Two, three years back he was really hot and completely way-ward. These days, he’s possibly 15 kilos heavier, all soft, and spends his time watching past seasons of Babylon 5.
I could never comprehend all of this a year or so past. ‘How can you be so simple minded! Marry at 21? Are you completely mad, have you no ambitions? What do you want to do in the future?’
‘Graduate I guess, and figure out if I wish to live in this town or the next. There’ll be a job with the company I did an internship for last semester… Maryann and I will wed, I don’t know when, but whether sooner or later, it’ll be her…’
Angel completes her final year in college, and plans to go back to an even smaller town to be with her father. She’s a very fetching sort of girl, beautiful and a little plump; wonderfully pleasant to look at, the sort of girl who will be eternally devoted to her man. Only, she’s already found that man, and it’s her father. Her room is littered with those weird little picture frames on which is inscribed with odd engrish verse like ‘a moment of picture, happy in time’ and they are all of her and her father. I love my dad, but my attempts on an outward show of filial piety go as far as pictures of him in my cell phone. Of course we lead immensely different lives, and my dad doesn’t care much if I lived with him all the time, or not.
And on that matter, I am contemplating moving out temporarily, to work on my art without the clutter (I’ve done quite a lot of work on it lately, and I think I’m getting better). Dr. Seuss has put in my pocket a fair bit of money which I’ve nothing to spend on (I shopped incessantly for a couple of days, and simply got sick of it when I bought all the little knacks I wanted, and grew tired of attempting to find the rest) and I think it would be fun to spend a little time in isolation. Although, chances are, I’ll probably end up traveling with Ethan on his insistence after the holiday season. Yes we are still in contact, and yes, we will not cease with the stupid ‘I still quite like you, so let’s do this’ nonsense.
But the melodrama for the time being should shift back to the little suburb in the jungle where nothing of real import actually happens. The only eventful thing that did transpire today was a little argument between my mother and me, over the necessity of bringing along a whole backpack full of my underwear. Including the kitschy, kinky shit I wear for aesthetic appeal alone. (This would also incidentally mean that she’s seen my all my sex toys – 2 defunct vibrators from which the batteries exploded because I left them in unused for too long, a dildo, some of the SM shit I have that are more for play then real SM shit, and all golf balls Dr. Seuss is so fond of stuffing into hankies and gagging me with. But I doubt Mom would have ever guessed-)
I had told her I needed to buy new panties when we landed, because the old ones I had were simply not comfortably usable anymore. She took it as: I had to buy more underwear because I forgot to bring sufficient quantity.
The women who are unable to translate the speech of men correctly and so often derided in Non- Sequittar are, I believe, just generally incapable of translating anything someone else has said or anything they have read, accurately. Trust me, my mother –I love her, but every one has their quirks that must be tolerated, however damned annoying- is one of those women who packs too much, concerns herself with every damned detail, and enjoys lamb kebab, until she knows that it has lamb inside. Not because she’s vegetarian, but because she loves saying she hates red meat (she doesn’t).
Because I’ve not had much to do, and was robbed of a day’s workout in such wonderfully fresh air because it has not stopped raining, I was left contemplating how I really hoped never to become like my mother. And how odd it was that she had once told me she’d hoped never to become like her mother. And thank God she lived up to it, if only partially through, because my only remaining grandparent is one of those matriarchal figures from hell. I just think both of them need more engaging occupations to keep them from paying too much detail to things that honestly do not matter, and serve not the greater good of art. Heh, the last bit was just thrown in defense of my own innate sense of paying attention to every thought and feeling I perceive from that often seemingly unattainable paramour of mine.
Oh yes, Martine. He has begged me to let him breathe easy and just live out our relationship as it is. Forget worry and thought; I should find pleasure in sitting naked at his feet, my head resting between his legs and drinking in the smell of sex. I’ve told him he was crazy to even bother asking that of me. Crazy that he should even think I actually needed much more. I wish Liz would not be a constant obstruction to the little bits of time we get to spend together, but aside from that, I’m asking for no promises, and for that matter, asking for anything at all. Only that he be honest, and please tell me what he felt all the time. But of course I couldn’t help but want to write that long winded letter, simply because it delighted me to have my thoughts dwell upon him, and stay so focused upon Us.
No prizes for what he’s given me this Christmas. A CD, Khaled’s Sahra (he’s the guy that recorded that really famous dance hit, Aisha. I’ve liked it for ever, just never gotten down to knowing who actually sang it) and a book which I’ve just finished, Vikram Seth’s The Golden Gate. I’ve heard a couple of people mention it before, it’s a very interesting book by way of craft alone, being written completely in tetrameter (I think it’s tetrameter anyway). But I’ve never had any desire to read it, simply because it seemed to lack the sort of extremity of circumstance and of psychology I generally like to have in the novels I read. This book is a book about perfectly normal people, about circumstances that could have chanced upon any one. A little melodrama, but with so much thought and intensity of feeling, and such an amazing use of the language and the form of poetry, I found myself curled up into a little ball, feeling a sort of melancholy consistently though every page. It’s definitely a must read. You’d be missing something amazing if you didn’t. He puts ideas many can only explain in lengthy paragraphs and only with an astounding amount of verbosity (i.e. me) in a few lines. While being confined to the structure of verse and rhyme.
Now that is art.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
How is it that some people will choose to be loved out of duty and humanity? And isn’t it a paradox when they cry because they don’t wish to be loved like so, because it’s painful not to be greatly desired by the object of your affections. I suppose some concern is better then none; I don’t think I could understand it. I live in love, and I live comfortably. I’ve never known any hardship, and I’ve never been alone. There has been no vast loss that has struck me all my life and I certainly do not wish to find out what my reaction would be like. But it is true that circumstances do not really matter in the long run. You know it as well as I do that what really matters is the intrinsic quality of a person’s character. If a person has a personality with a drive for life, then whatever the circumstances are, in a matter of months (and it’s been studied; at the most, 6) , that drive will come back, regardless of whatever misfortune had befallen the individual.
If women ‘know these things’ and therefore Liz knows your concern for her is out of consideration, and as you have said, you find no pleasure in it because it’s very hard work (and I believe it’s also problematic when you cannot love whoever else you wish to, freely. I live with my parents, I know what being beholden to someone else on a near daily basis feels like, and for me, it’s annoying. Not suffocating, because they know me and have accepted me for what I am. L knows you, I’m sure… but if you have to hide all your other affairs so stringently as how you are hiding me, then she mustn’t have come to accept it then). Oh no doubt, I believe in hiding all affairs from a significant other, simply because people like to believe other people have been faithful, even if they know otherwise. I do, anyway. And at least when something illicit is hidden, you can still behave as if she were the only one, even though there is some other one. Even if you half acting the affection, it doesn’t matter, because sometimes, if you act it enough, then maybe it’ll start to grow on you and you’ll love her anyway. Which I think you probably do. I don’t know, I would if I were you, just because I’ve gotten used to it. But then again, as you are always implying, women are so terribly creatures of habit. When they finding a relationship in someone, they’d keep on coming back (but I think men are the same).
I cannot understand though, if you’re not passionate for her, then how can she dare to live in this insane fantasy where she delights in an illusion of love? How can she know that she’s deluded, yet be torn apart when the day-dream is over? But then you can tell me that as long as this illusion of hers is real enough for her, then it’s as good as real to her, even though everyone else looking in will say that it isn’t.
Your relationships all sound straight out of some sort of epic romance, with so many, many women and over such long periods of time. Very époque! *laughs* ‘long’ here is of course clearly relative to how long I have lived, but since you are so often saying you are old, you must believe it has been a pretty long time too!
Oh well, I’m not writing all of this because I’m jealous of Liz, although being the self-righteous bitch that I can be sometimes, there is some resentment that she should have such power over your actions. But you are too wonderful, and too sweet. Being cruel, I’d sponsor her final year and leave it at that. It’s brutal, but it’s honest, and it wouldn’t infringe on the way you wish to live. But, I believe cheating on significant others holds some sort of pleasure. The way you do it… I swear, there’s a significant measure of artistry involved in it. If you keep doing it throughout your life, then you must like some part of it. Of course if you got married, then the stakes would be so much higher, and cheating on a spouse would be tragic, as opposed to romantic, as cheating on a significant other is. (But marriage is so flippant these days I don’t think there is any vast difference in the two any longer). I’d like to say we’re both very epicurean, but I wouldn’t dare to make presumptions, although I know I’ve made so many already by this point, and am certainly not liking myself for it.
There’s resentment also in me that she should infringe upon my desire for your time. I’m a very self-centered and self-loving person. You’ve always known this, I’m sure. After all, there’s only one person I love in this whole world, and that is me. Yeah, I told you this while sitting naked at your feet, looking at the curves on my body and thinking ‘god-damn I am hot’. And I think everyone’s like that, everyone’s full of themselves, but consideration is possible for the human race because it makes us feel good when we do something good for someone else. As I’ve said, I’m glad I’m hot, and I’m glad I have you to delight in it with me. (And therefore I’ve always presumed you found some sort of pleasure by helping and trying to love Liz. Give and you will receive, indeed, darling).
I’m just a little sad that I cannot spend the time with you, when and how I wish it. That I cannot just come by whenever, and that you chastise me when I’m already being as accepting of the whole situation as I am.
It almost feels as if you are taking advantage of me, which is why I questioned you about taking me home the first time we met the second time round. If you were afraid of L’s relationship with the manager of your apartments, then why would you even dare let them see us together. How about the first time we met, and I suggested taking a dip with you in the pool, to which you didn’t claim to see a problem with, would he/they not have seen us together and would that not have been unwelcomed? But since you hadn’t caught me then, since it was still fresh, and my company was not completely guaranteed –not that it is now, and neither is yours to me guaranteed; but I do not care for security of such anyway. I know how seeing a person for sometime can put an individual into that sort of pseudo comfort that they’ll be around forever (the sense of security more often springs from habit then from conviction, eh –George Elliot ;) But since you’d not known me then, you’d not know what I could tolerate and what I would not… And now that you know I’m generally very accepting of the whole situation. God damn you, I do feel like my malleability is being taken advantage of. But I am just now consoling myself all that paranoia is simply the result of the reason that L is coming down in a day. But don’t for a second think I think you’re a dick, I doubt you’d tolerate such a perception of yourself anyway. I’ve my feelings too, and this is just what they are, regardless of whether they are based on accurate perceptions or not.
I don’t resent the fact that you consider her more then you consider me (because I’m not a fool and I can see that she clearly needs it more, even though I honestly can’t say if she, or I, or another woman perhaps, would be more deserving of it). What I do resent is how that consideration imposes itself on the way in which I want to have this relationship. I wish that you could be free to do whatever you will, with me, and with some other girls –with me too, or without, it does not matter- I resent how my pleasure is being marginalized, despite the fact that you would rather it not (I wouldn’t, if I were you anyway) because you must consider L’s feelings. You must, I know that of course you do have to consider her heart. But the irony is annoying. You would like it, I would definitely like it, But…!
Ah, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m bored in Sarawakian surburbia, I had the urge to write, and hence. I know this letter’s really full of myself, so please forgive me if some of it has made you upset. It was no intent of mine, I really wanted you to know how I felt (when sober). It’s all very stupid, and I almost have this feeling that you’d tell me to fuck off already if I didn’t like how things are. But the truth is, I do like how things aren’t so simple, and I do like being bossed around, and chastised, and maybe even taken advantage of.
I can stand all of that, find pleasure in it, feel that stupid sense of nobility that comes from my own damn delight in my own damned acceptance of everything as long as I continue to feel you think I’m more incredible then her. Maybe I’m not jealous after all because if she’d known it all when it was over, she’d be the one jealous of me. Because I think you like me for what I am intrinsically, while you love her out of duty, consideration, and that she deserves better then the hand life has given her.
I’m very selfish inside I think, and quite brutal. But I’m like that to myself too. I love living in disillusions, but I’ve no problem knowing that they are just that, and no problem coming to terms with things, if I have to.
I told you dear Martine, I’m really full of myself. Please don’t be angry, because I really am still yours (regardless of whether because it gives me pleasure to be so), and yours, for as long as you want it and as long as I keep wanting to be. So conditional, but so what.
*kiss* I’ll see you when you’re back. I’m returning on the 28th it would seem, and the weather here is terrible. But nothing compared to the pollution in Shanghai.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Him, for all his ‘man, that girl’s a crazy whore’, is actually a completely lovely boy. I met him after watching the Phantom of the Opera with the Girls, which wasn’t terrible, but a vast disappointment. He’s always trying to get me to go out for drinks with him, but as circumstances would have it, I was always busy. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have played a little harder to get, it would have made it all the more fun for him. But I honestly couldn’t help it, not because I’m such a horn dog I’ve no control over myself. Everything just seemed right, and it wasn’t the sex I enjoyed so much as the cuddling and the consideration he gave me. The sex honestly wasn’t stellar; he asked, and told me to be brutally honest. And I told him so.
I was a little surprised that a guy would ask that of me though, I generally thought most of them would like to think of themselves as gods in bed, regardless of whether they really were or not. Most of them talk like they are anyway, and sometimes it gets too much for me to stand, up to the point where I want to tell them, look, the girl only says that hoping it’ll encourage a better performance.
What I really liked about him was how he never really tried to hit on me. Up till last night, we’d always kept an uncomfortable distance (not cuddling someone I’m on a couch with is certainly something I’m not used to) between each other. Kinda like I was a bloke, although we both knew I was an attractive specimen of the opposite sex; and he wasn’t all that bad himself. In fact, he’s actually really good looking. We’d sit around getting drunk at any time of the day (usually whatever time he finishes work) for a couple of hours, and amazingly, keep our hands off each other. Aside from the one time I’d lost my panties and let him feel my ass through the silk cocktail dress I was wearing, just for the heck of it.
But aside from that, he’d never insist on trying anything. I wouldn’t say I didn’t want it, but I had been pretty obsessed with Martine for quite awhile the past few weeks, and Élan had always struck me as a little too cruel to some girls for my taste. Of course I can handle it, but I simply didn’t want anything affectionate conspiring with a bastard (he wasn’t a bastard to his friends or to me, just a little off with some of the girls he’d slept with. But of course those girls were off in their minds as well, so I never blamed him).
Then last night, it hit me that damn, he is a decent guy. Promiscuous, certainly, but possessed of a very sincere character. Of course that can come across as rather undesirable to some people, because he says and does it like he wants to. And I am glad I’m on the right side of his affections. It’s a silly triumph, but it feels good to have him like me more then the other women who are into him.
Anyway, he never really hit on me, never insisted on taking me home, and didn’t mind that I was going to meet Martine after I’d hit his place for drinks. He was always insisting that I cancel on M, and then offering to call a cab to take me home. ‘It’s for your own good’ He’d tell me. ‘Play hard to get’. I’d shrug and reply with some shit like how after you’ve slept with someone for as many times as I’ve slept with Martine, and more importantly, let him see my soul and how I felt about him and how he touches me deeply in so many ways (all puns intended), playing hard to get was perfectly useless. And besides, while being desired greatly is very fulfilling indeed, I get more out of being in his arms then in being wanted from afar.
I was sure he was absolutely exhausted last night, but nonetheless, he’d waited up and quit his friends, to hang out with me. Without expecting anything. Nothing. Of course he’d like a little cop and cuddle (who doesn’t) but the thing was he didn’t try anything. Even in the complete privacy of his living room, on the couch, and while cuddling. I found myself thinking how odd it is that women never really give a thought about which part of a guy they touch. He didn’t even stroke a boob until I got fed-up and made him palm me.
He’s good at understanding how girls think, I do believe so. He knows I’m no iron panty, but I get annoyed when guys hit on me for no reason other then I’m attractive. I’ve no idea why some really attractive girls don’t have a problem with that, I’d presumed they’d get sick of it, but if Élan’s escapades are anything to go by, they all just seem keen on purchasing a date at the ROM with their sex appeal. And that sort of ‘liberalization’ is definitely not gender emancipation. And I bet he knew I was the sort of girl that loved to hit as opposed to getting hit on, so he let me. Most men that strike me as worthwhile don’t need to do that bit of the relationship, and as far as I’m concerned, have never been wrong on this count. I just like that self-assuredness.
If you thought about it, hitting on a girl, like really hitting on her, is technically sexual assault. And that’s happened to me a number of times, and I’m referring to really serious cases where he drives into an alleyway and starts trying to snoggle me. I usually drop the case in a couple of minutes after demanding that I be sent home right away, but if there’s one thing I’ve found out, these sort of people are insanely insecure. And that’s annoying.
I don’t think Élan behaved the way he did last night and in the past few weeks with me in general, consciously. Clearly not hitting on a woman would make her think (as it did make me think) that, ‘hey, this guy is no horn-dog. He likes me for the person I am, or he would like to get to know the person I am’ and all that’s a very attractive thought. And trust me, the women that sell themselves off to him really freak me out. I’ve never seen that side of him, or in fact of any one I’ve slept with. The sort of feeling where you want to kick someone out of bed the next morning and never ever see the person again. I suppose it must be a very terrible feeling, to have given yourself under the presumption you’d get acquire acceptance. And maybe for awhile you did, which makes it all worse the next day when you realize in fact, that you haven’t.
The only time something like that came close was the night I turned up completely drunk and very emotional at Martine’s doorstep. He’d fucked me and sent me home right after, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t want me (and as the relationship has turned out now, all the skeptics who said he’d just used me can go to hell). Nonetheless, to be thrown out of somebody’s place right after you’ve given so much of yourself to them really sucks. Somehow, I’ve the feeling that men don’t take it as hard, because in a sense, it’s social and scientific (biological) convention that it’s allright if they screw around and leave it at that.
But I digress!
I’d gone over to Élan’s, and he’d gone out to get a bottle of wine because I asked for it, and we’d taken it back to his place where I popped in the De-Lovely sound track (which I must say, is absolutely delightful). I’d been in a wine and jazz mood last night, and it was all perfect. He has the most striking pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. I’d only started noticing them this week, and I thought they were a really gorgeous pair. All this while, I’d been telling myself, keep my hands off, keep my hands off. But looking at them, with the jazz and wine, and the fact that he’s just really sexy anyway… By , I was all, screw self-control.
He’s really know how to worship a girl. I doubt there was even an inch of flesh that wasn’t kissed, and he could feel what I really liked and did loads of all of that. Which essentially, if you’re wondering, is spooning while having my back kissed and breathed upon. Unfortunately, with him, doing it like they do it on the discovery channel (not the aliens, goddamnit) drives me to orgasm faster and better.
After he came, he got up and pulled me to the edge of the bed and spread me out, pulling my arms high above my head so that my elbows touched my ears, and straightening my legs.
‘You really do have an incredible body. You’re perfect, you really are. Such an amazing, amazing body. I love your shoulders, they’re just broad enough. Your arms are great to seize you with and pin you down, and that tummy of yours. It’s so sexy, you should love it…’
‘I wish I did. Maybe now I’ll stop fighting against it eh.’
‘I think it’s very nice to look at and very nice to touch. You’ve a perfect body. Those legs, your legs are amazing. You’re breasts aren’t all the big, they’re quite small in fact, but they’re firm, perky, and that’s what matter. They are wonderful.’
He said a lot more things about my legs, and I told him they were all completely appreciated. You know the relationship I have with those appendages that help with the only sort of therapy I put myself through this days. I’m talking about contemplative cross-country running.
The next morning, he couldn’t keep his hands off me, and was almost sad I had to leave so soon. I’ve just way too much work before my bloody flight to Sarawakian suburbia hell for Christmas.
I want my own harem with many pretty girls and boys in them. Send them to me in a garden with a fountain that pours out wine, and make sure there are many pillows. I’ll share them with you, promise.
Friday, December 17, 2004
If you read me on a regular basis, you’d know I’m pretty much a level headed person for all my seemingly wild encounters (this is of course relative to what ‘wild’ is determined by local convention), you’d know I’m generally happy with my life, and glad to have know all the people I’ve slept with. At this point in time, the people I spend much of my time with are people I’ve made love to, and regardless of whatever that had conspired between us, the relationship’s are usually pretty platonic pretty good, and I do not regret a single one. I think a couple of encounters were pointless, certainly, but even those have lessons to be leant.
Also, if you’re reading me on a regular basis, it would mean my endeavors hold some manner of fascination for you. Possibly out of a few reasons. But I’ve just this feeling that some do so that they may console and pride themselves on how much morally superior their living is. Darling, If it disgusts you, why do you insist on engaging yourself with my the deprivation of my soul, as you so call it.
Believe it or not, I went to a little sermon with Mr. Big today (He was very proud of himself that he finally went to church), and the pastor was talking about perfection and good deeds, things like that.
There was always something that puzzle me about what the fundamental tenet/s of his preaching entailed, and it was this: If Christ had had to die for us since we all fall short of the glory of God, and that by acceptance of Christ, we are all instantly of perfect spirit and will not want to sin, (since right believing produces right doing,) then how do you explain me? I am sure I’m believing right, you can’t argue with this, because that’s the very nature of faith. You can’t know through certain moral markers if you are believing right. Then, it wouldn’t be faith. Faith is the belief you have to have in things that you cannot experience solidly, without relativity.
You can tell me yes, you know you are believing right, because you are a happy person. That’s relatively easy for yourself to judge; then I tell you I must be believing right, because overall, I am a happy person. By the law, my lifestyle is fairly sinful, I covet all manner of things all throughout the day for starters, and that’s just for starters. But that does not stop me from being happy.
Essentially, I must be believing right, because I believe that I am. And you cannot argue with me because your opinion will undoubtly be made upon social convention and it’s prejudices. Also, it isn’t that difficult to believe right, because the bible has made it easy to do so. Christ died on
Besides, if you were to judge my lifestyle from the law (which is where all moral judgments comes from), that that would negate the work of Christ. You cannot be living under grace and under the law simultaneously. However, you can easily argue that the moral judgment was impressed upon you, by God. But if so much of the bible ordains the conduct of judging not, least ye be judged, then why would God impress upon you such a thing, just so you can impress your judgment (not that I care) upon me? Would it be infinitely not more effective if he simply crafted a way for me to live morally? And if God were all that great, then he would create a passage, a means, for me to achieve that moral lifestyle painlessly, but more importantly, effortlessly. God delights in rest, so I believe that more than anything, if a moral life were to be achieved, it would be without, nay, it has to be without, self-effort. Because Self-effort is the law, and the law was designed to bring out our sin. To prove to man that we are indeed fallen short of the glory of God.
I am not insisting upon living the way I live. It cannot be insistence, when it feels as natural as if does, and when it has caused me no unhappiness, any more then the sort of unhappiness that people feel anyway in any sort of relationship, because there is no such thing as a perfect relationship. I love loving people in all manner of ways and if I were to deny myself that, deny myself the sort of love that I find so paramount to my life; then that would be insistence, because that would not be natural for me to do so. When I mention ‘love’ it’s not just the physical satiation, and it’s not only the emotional or intellectual fulfillment and connection. It’s all of that, and more than that. It’s the feeling of truly being engaged in another person’s existence.
You cannot determine anyway, what sexual promiscuity is. Socially you can, what’s acceptable and what is not, that’s not very difficult. What’s promiscuous here is completely normal say, in the
Think about how vastly different people’s personalities can be. A lot of people would agree that sleeping with one or two persons in your lifetime is allright and does not make you an immoral/promiscuous person. As long as you truly love the person, it’s fine. But then how, pure is our love for another human being anyway? But more importantly, how are we to judge that the way in which you have loved that one (or two) people is any more noble, pure and true, then the way in which I’ve loved, say, the more-than-just-a-few people that I have. The way I am makes that possible, and the way in which you are makes that impossible for you. If your personality is the sort that can only function in the love of an eternal One for this transient life, then you cannot try and understand how I can find as much fulfillment at the end of my life through loving many, and loving them all, passionately. Just as I cannot claim to understand the fulfillment of loving One, since that is simply not me! At the end of the day, we might all just die equally happy (or equally unhappy… but the glass is always half-full in my world).
And stop saying my nature delights in sin. I delight in people, in their ever changing characters and in all their variety. It is all that makes it delightful to be human, the connections you’re able to make with them. My attitude towards sex is not even vaguely destructive, in fact it’s completely inclusive and I believe the people I’ve loved and am still loving all help me to grow, to understand and to be tolerant and accepting. The last two traits (tolerance and acceptance), of which are the two things that this world lacks, but needs, badly.
Before any one misunderstands me and say I am using scripture, or am twisting spiritual faith (I don’t like the word religion, because faith and religion are to me two very different things –Faith establishes the need for God in order to live a good life, religion ordains that we live a good life in order to find God)… I must say that I am not using anything, to justify anything. My believes are as is, and there is certainly much of the Christian faith I do not understand. But then again, the thing is, is it the Christian faith that I do not understand, or the many interpretations of the bible that I do not understand and that contradict one another.
I’m not saying that the Christian faith is about accepting Christ and then living however you wish, because technically if I’m believing the right thing, then I will by default, live the right way. It is though (and I must stress, is so, to me) about accepting his grace and living in that grace, and not simply ‘however I wish’. I sin, certainly, I cannot be doing right all the time just because I live in grace. The reason I need to live in grace is because I am incapable of living perfectly, and therefore need to live in the pardon of God. If by living in grace I am perfect all the time, then why should it be called living in grace in the first place, because I will not need grace if I were perfect then. Do you see the paradox? And all Christians live in grace because that’s what the death of Christ is all about.
When I’m about to do something that will be wrong, I feel it, and there are therefore certain things I won’t do and some people I won’t like sleeping with. I’ll feel wrong and feel like there will be consequences, even if the consequence is confined to a discomfort in my soul. The rest of the way I live, my lifestyle as a whole, does not feel that way though; But there are individual instances that do.
The whole spiritual-moral questions is impossible to address because so much of it is based on relativity, and so much of it is a paradox unto itself. How do you lampoon bad behaviour when 1) you can’t determine it, since it is relative 2) it is pointless to determine it by the law, because the law is constructed precisely to bring out bad behaviour, so put it beside any human being, and they will fail for certain and 3) how do you advocate a moral life, under grace, when morality is determined by the law, and you cannot demand that a person live like so and so and so, and under grace at the same time. Because self-effort will automatically negate that grace!
Oh my God, I’m so confused now. I’m sure you are too, but these are questions that have been around in my head for like, ever. I thought structuring them would give me an answer, but it has not. But nor does that matter, because philosophical discourses, and especially spiritual ones, were never meant to yield any answers. Don’t send me email to tell me to stop thinking about how I live, and just start living it. I AM living it, but part of what’s great about living it all is how I get to think about it too. I like talking/writing about stuff like that because it gives me pleasure to, so there.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
I got up at 9 this morning, two hours after the alarm had gone off. It was too hot to run outside, so I decided on a few kilometers on the treadmill. There was a boy who entered after I did, he seemed like he really wanted to chat me up, I didn’t feel like it. I look none too fantastic when I’m running, and I had a blocked nose. Was definitely breathing like an animal. But he waited around reading the news-paper, intent on lingering until I’d finished my run. I had all the time in the world, so I decided to do a few extra minutes. He got more and more awkward. Didn’t look like the sort who could handle any amount of exercise. Skinny, pale, cute, but at this point, rather reminiscent of Colin Craven from the
Being mean, the moment I finally got off the treadmill (one hour after he’d come in), I made for a dash out of the gym, headphones still in my ears. He caught me though, I could have just left, but I thought it would amuse me to stay for a little chat. It was boring, I think I intimidated him, although I was very nice. Disagreed with everything he said, he didn’t seem to really know what he was talking about anyway. Started blundering and babbling about the
And Élan’s the one saying I’m cruel now. Was having a quick drink with him after work and after some grocery shopping from the Christmas Presents I’m making for all the people I love this year. I asked him how his girls were and as expected, they were all in that state of mind where they think they’re engaged.
‘Let’s stage a little show for them. Ask them to come by and meet you, and when they walk past the café, pretend you are saying goodbye to me and you’d not seen them coming by, and snog me.’ I didn’t mean it, it’s not something I would do sober, although I must say it wouldn’t hurt me to see a guy like Élan snogging another woman. I cannot expect anything of him, neither do I find any desire in myself for a man that finds romance only in a challenge.
He’s so villainous. When I give him his season greeting tomorrow night, I’ll bring along a blind-fold, strip him to his pants and give him a hand job. He certainly does not deserve it, but he makes me want to play his excessive games. I can be as sexed up and fucked up as he. Pointless competition, but so fun. I told him I will not have a threesome with him last night. He’d called me up at 1, asking if I’d like to drop by. One of his best buddies was with him, they were both really drunk, but had Viagra lying around.
‘No. Two guys? Too much work. To please one can be an effort as it is, to do so to two guys, eh, forget it.’ They are both cute, both probably amazing in bed, but I was absolutely sure I would have had to pretend my passion.
But before that, an afternoon sojourn with a very beautiful girl. Her boy was there, and had her on a leash, her hands bound by little plastic switches I had provided. He pulls her with such violence on the leash he’d noosed around her breasts. I asked him not to; she was immensely beautiful and I didn’t wish to have her hurt. She could not be treated with such crassness, god-damnit.
I didn’t want her tied up. I wanted her hands free, to touch me.
Nervous. She must not hate me after it was all over, she was so beautiful, and so soft. Then I thought to myself, ‘what would I want, were I her. What was the one thing that made any female feel good about herself’.
You know the sort of voice people adopt in bed. The soft, monotonous (but not quite), the dreamy, sensual tone that people take into their speech when they talk in bed as they make love. Her body intoxicated me, every part of her was beautiful, she was the epitome of that Chinese Asian perfection all men would die for. Pale skin, jet black hair, a Barbie doll figure, but far more delicate. Oh of course God is not fair, but I didn’t mind it. Sometimes some women are just too beautiful to be jealous off. She was infinitely more perfect then I was, there was no doubt about that.
I told her every part of her body was completely amazing, and in a way I felt like Anais Nin in Henry and June, while she was with June.
She had the most delicate, the most amazing pussy I had ever seen, touched, tasted. But it was best appreciated by just looking. I’d never seen a minou (and hers was aptly so the paradise of all paradise) as finely made as hers. I’ve seen a few pussies, and they are all fascinating to me, and I can definitely match the pussy to the girl, with the exception of my first girlfriend. Who didn’t shave, so that was a problem. Also, I had been too frightened (boy or girl, the first encounter with the genitals of another person, regardless of gender, will always present a problem). A lot of pussies are just like very well carved up alabaster. Hers was blown glass.
We lie together in her bath, facing each other, her feet on my breasts. I love placing my feet, they are small, about a size 5, smaller perhaps, on the chest of whoever I happened to be cuddling with. I always thought that was sexy. But it was even sexier to have her feet on my breasts. Her toes squeezing them as they crawled up towards the curvature of my neck, and back down.
Women are such amazing things in bed. So, so amazing. If they are soft, and delicate, small and filled with grace. She was not a stupid air-head, for all her beauty. We sat by the little balcony after that, and talked over little sandwiches and grilled aubergine salad. Her mind is so sharp. Her personality is beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. How can someone with such astute intellect as she has be altogether so humble as she is!
I love her, I love her, I love her. I have never been in love with a woman as much as I am in love with her. Completely. And I doubt it’s the same sort of passion I find with discovering a new guy. Certainly, she is new, there’s so much I’ve yet to find out about her, but that’s just not it. She is amazing.
I pity the girls that are always trying to compete. There’s nothing I have against men, oh certainly not. But I think it’s silly to go against your own species, just because you desire the affections of someone, say, like Élan. It’s just one of those things about people that never make sense. Pretty girls are for making love to, not competing with. Because you’ll never be as pretty as they, as I’ll never be as beautiful as she is in her own way.
Beside the driver sits a woman. Why doesn't the man tell her something funny, why doesn't he put his hand on her knee? Instead, he's cursing the driver ahead of him for not going fast enough, and it does not occur to the woman either, to touch the driver with her hand. Mentally, she's at the wheel with him, and she's cursing too. -Milan Kundera; Slowness.
Just one of those things, indeed.
I am in love. With a few people, certainly. But that doesn't stop me from genuinely being in love. In the feeling of it, in it's presence, in it being in me. If I tried to comprehend it, I'm sure I would die.
My christmas baking is coming along very nicely, I'll stop thinking about love before I explode and get back to it. For all of you who are looking for a good, easy to follow and very felxible stollen recipe, this dude called Mick Hartley has one of my favourites. I used it last year, and an ex-lover forgave me from not returning his calls for a month.
Whenever I miss a couple of days blogging, its usually because I’m just living too hard and too much to have any time I can set aside to write a little something. And when the time does present itself in a little slot trap in the morning after workout and before I leave to either meet my girlfriends or Dr. Seuss, I’m just too tired to do much with it.
The more I think about it, the more I think my relationship with him resembles on some level, the same emotional dilemma (trauma?) Dolores had in ‘Lolita’. With the exception that I’m probably more aware of what I’m doing, and am definitely not dependant on him. But the whole bit about sex play for material benefit, yet still liking the person but not feeling anything beyond the cerebral or the sort of paternal transferences that tend to happen with young girls like myself and men older then their dads… I do not know how to describe how I feel. It’s tiring to think about it, it’s annoying, fascinating, yet altogether so sickening.
He paid me a few days ago, and whenever he does that, I feel guilty for it. Not that I was getting paid to be tied up, but rather over the fact that my love had to be bought. It's not that it can be bought that sickens me, but that he had to buy it. Like I said, it’s just something in me that disagrees with how affection can be bought a large percentage with cold, hard cash alone. It’s the dilemma of where something so precious; my time and my capacity to feel fondness, affection etc. has been reduced to the most basic, the most cold, means of exchange.
Martine cannot stop mentioning how I have many, many lovers. And I cannot tell him enough that I do not. I told him not to ask me about the one other (to which of course I’m referring to Dr. Seuss) because there was no way I would like to talk to him about it just yet. I will, one day. But I’d just rather not at the present. He would disagree, I am so sure he would. He’s got all these fangled ideas on what sex should be about, and as far as I know, completely disagrees with sex done out of the need to find self-confidence. Which I agree with very strongly, and which is why I’m so against the women Élan’s sleeping with, who all presume they can find marriage and security in him. That guy is a sheer hazard. He’s very sweet looking, and that throws most of the girls onto the wrong track, I suppose.
The truth is, I don’t feel like messing about with anyone new just yet, and if I would want to help it (look, the extra cash is lovely to have… and as far as I know, people are all sold to money. How ironic and how apt. To be slave to a master whose sole purpose is to please us, but yet can never do so) I’d not fuck around with anyone other than him. I’ve got nothing to complain about. He’s fantastic in bed, he’s always immensely considerate towards me, and we connect very well. And he engages me all the time. I have no idea how he does it, but he does it. He makes me feel rejected and accepted all at once. Make me feel like he’s in control, when I know that’s not altogether true all the time.
Certainly, he’s made of one of those domineering characters that constantly need things to go their way, but he’s such a slave to pleasing people. I’m sure if it really hurt me, he wouldn’t… unless of course it would hurt someone else even more. For example, if I constantly seemed like I’d threaten to reveal to his girlfriend that he had many other women in love with him, he’d tell me to fuck out of his life forever, even if it would kill me for a few days. But he knows I get over shit fast.
He was very nice to me tonight, and the foreplay was nothing like I’ve ever had. It wasn’t better or worse then how foreplay normally is, for me, but I felt immensly conscious of things. You know how it’s like with things you see everyday until you’re so used to them you don’t particularly give them any thought? Then one day you decide to notice them. Like really become conscious of the thing; that particular scenery, the Ixora bush on the side walk, the damp leaves on the road. You just notice them. Their colour, the way the sunlight falls on the object... and the feeling is incredible. For me, it’s always brings the sense of newness and discovery that is, paradoxically, beyond the fulfillment of curiosity or the need for variety.
I was straddling him on my knees, legs on either side of his waist. I kept my eyes closed and just, touched him; Running my fingers down his chest and feeling them run down his chest. I noticed every dip and rise and curve, ever strand of hair, the smoothness where it was smooth, and the roughness, where it was so. I told him to feel it too, to close his eyes and just be conscious of nothing but the feeling of skin rubbing against skin. Because you get so used to that after a time, you're no longer all that aware of it. You get so acquainted with naked flesh upon naked flesh that it starts to become a biological motion. Foreplay, sex, bang and cuddle and so good night. Being conscious of it was like allowing myself the pleasure of novelty, the sense of freshness, coupled with a familiarity that made me feel intensely comfortable.
Security and novelty, they usually contradict, but at least in for myself, I’ve found out (I think) how to realize that satisfaction.
As I talk more to him (he actually calls me up, something like every night) he’s slowly beginning to lose that initial mysterious appeal that initially drew me to him. But I still love the sense I get from him being a naturally very private person and the intensity and focus most people with such characters normally have. He reminds me too much of my father, way too much. The over indulgence in insolation, the humbly generous nature, but more than anything, it’s the discovery of that softness under all that intensity and cold intellect. I know it’s there, and that’s why I love them and they don’t intimidate me. But I’ll never tire of constantly revealing that aspect again and again. Like the pleasure from the motion of opening a present again and again even though you already know what is there. Maybe that's why babies like peek-a-boo.
When I’m out in public with Martine, he’s so proper up to the point of coldness. Even sometimes when I’m stripped to my panties and placed on top of his desk (tonight, it was amidst Kundera’s Slowness, which I would quite amusing) and even as he caresses the insides of my thighs, the cold demeanor does not seem to abscond. But out of no fault of his- rather, more a mis-perception on my part. Which I do not mind a drop. When I ask him how he feels, and beg him to tell me all that is going through his mind, when he touches me like that, he gives beyond satisfactory answers. And when he tells me I’m so beautiful, and my cunt is such an amazing, delicate thing, and I’m such an wonderful girl, it feels like looking into a new part of him that I could never have expected. Partially, the bit that he finds me as facinating as I find him, but also because he makes me feel like the most beautiful creation ever, although he does say many other women are beautiful too. And thank god for the reality of the fact, because I would be sad if that were not the case.
There had been a number of cards- postcards, cards for every season that he had gone through in
I don’t know. Whatever. For now, what’s important to me is that he knows I’m not exclusive, yet treats me like I am. And in a way, that’s not altogether untrue. I’ve not felt for anyone like I feel for him. It isn’t the blind sort of necessity I’d felt earlier on in the year when the whole dating a hell lot of people was new to me, and every one seemed so precious. I’m perfectly conscious of the fact that I can be completely alone and fully independent, and be very happy, and feel liberated. But there’s something about him that makes me want to want him, and to spend more time with him.
My God, we have such engaging conversations. And I’ve read an excerpt of a book he’d written, and I must say he really does use the language with such dexterity. And ah, I just love men who can write about things that engage me (it was about how human societies solve a host of different problems… I didn’t see how his arguments would have solved anything, just because I’m a bit of a fatalist –hey sara, sara, what ever will be, will be-), but not that that should come as a surprise.xoxox
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Some guy I shot with awhile back, let’s called him Video, gave me the link to his webpage and I’m completely grossing myself out looking at it. It’s not as if the photos are bad, or anything like Terry Richardson’s but it’s the story behind all the girls that really get to me.
His gallery is really a collection of South East Asian whores. We had a conversation sometime back, and he gave me a break down of the all the little streets in indo-china that he treated like a SGD$3.50 a-la carte take-away. And he told me the strangest story of a little isolated village in
It was terrible. I know money can get women to whore themselves out. It’s easy, I know so. A lot of girls will, and for an incredibly lousy price too. But to fuck someone who you don’t really want to fuck… Look, Dr. Seuss is not all together un fuckable. He looks decent, is very well groomed, intelligent and has a life beyond a little bit of bondage whacko time with young women. Video lives for brothels. He works 9 months a year and blows all of it on whores in
And after telling me all that, he had the nerve to ask me to sleep with him. Christ, you diseased, dirty, dirty man! I liked him out of pity, I cannot help it. But I wouldn’t dare let him touch me with my clothes off. What kind of life is his anyway? How much more fatalistic can you be.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Morning. Martine. Hard-on. Got up and went straight to the bathroom.
‘Your bladder must be exploding.’ He said to me.
‘Not really, but I’d rather not fuck on a full bladder.’
‘Who says I’m going to fuck you?’
I look at him like he’s mad. I did fuck him, it did feel good, but it really hurt too. He’d done me sore the night before as it was. As he tied the little rubber sack, I lie down spread eagled on the bed in a parody of extreme exhaustion, fanning my fanny.
‘God-damn it’s on fire.’
‘That’s precisely why I had decided not to come on to you earlier. But what man can refuse...?’
‘Definitely not you.’
The past couple of days have been incredibly emotionally draining, and all these damn men can be real egoistic bitches sometimes. Starting with Ethan, who called me up at 7 in the morning yesterday, asking me if I still loved him. The truth is, I’ve been incredibly confused for the past week or so, and at 7 in the morning, the performance enhancing pills would have just started to kick in (I run at dawn these days) so I’d been extra irritable and very inconsiderate. He sounded completely despondent, and was crying. I felt like the guiltiest woman on earth, and very cornered. I’ve believed in this relationship for so long I don’t know anymore why it’s still there, even though I’ve already stopped feeling for him.
Is there someone else? No one, to be honest, or many other people. Either or. I thought about it long and hard, and placed myself in different frames of mind throughout the day. One moment, he’s still my constant, the next, he’s not there, and the truth is, I felt a lot better with him being not there. Élan was talking about it the first time I had met him, but I wasn’t really listening because I’d still been completely in love then. Anyway, I thought it a good idea to give him a call and ask him what he thought. He had been very nice the whole week to me anyway, messaging me all the time and asking me how I was doing. That guy is one funny nutter. I’ve never known a guy I could have adequately called a jerk, but this dude meets it, and it’s not his fault. It’s never a guys fault when he’s a jerk, and someone that can admit the fact that women have all the power cannot possibly be a jerk out of his own accord.
He asked me how my day was and I told him I sort of broke up with Ethan, but I’m still just really confused about it all. He called me up and told me to stop being stupid.
‘Come on! I thought you were a tough girl. You have to make a decision, you either love him still, or you don’t. And in this case, assuredly, you do not. Do you still feel for him, or you don’t.’ He demanded out of me.
‘I suppose you are right. I don’t’
‘Yeah bitch, don’t go staying on out of pity or whatever, imagine yourself in his shoes, what would you rather? Anyway, when anyone puts on the you don’t love me anymore act, you’re doomed to not love them. Rejection darling, is desire in disguise.’
‘It’s a fucking catch-22 then. You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. Either way, we’re not going to love each other fairly.’
‘So it is. Until you settle down, and you will know, for fucking sure who, when you finally decide to. You’re still way too young to be bothered about something like that. I’ll be fucking around till I’m 56, I bet.’
It was there and then I decided that it was over. The fact that it barely hurts to have it over, and that the only reason I feel uncomfortable about it is because something I’ve believed in for many, many months has evaporated, and any new situation will take a little bit of breaking in, I feel fine. In Before Sunrise, Ethan Hawke gave the perfect example. The relationships is pointless when you get to a point where the feelings of the other party are so completely insignificant to you.
All along, I had been planning a long holiday with him, and all of a sudden, bingo, I start to find it a drag. The truth is, I don’t feel like back-packing, I’m a lazy fuck and only want to stay in luxury hotels and live off room service and read De Sade.
Dr Seuss completely annoyed me, and I don’t know what the hell he’s playing at. We had a good time, as usual, and he was about to leave without giving me cash. He wasn’t trying to leave with out doing so, he was playing at it. Kinda like testing me; did I love him? Because that’s exactly what he said while spanking me, weird fucking shit. I have nothing against someone saying that, but to imagine I love you? I like you, for certain, it’s partially paternal transference, and partially because your money’s lovely. People would really be a lot happier if they just came to terms with the reality that there was no such thing as unconditional love. My rational behind getting paid is that, while the platonic relationship was mutual, and I’d no problem meeting him for coffee, lunch, whatever, anything more would just be difficult for me if I wasn’t being compensated in hard cash for it. Trust me, money makes a whole lot of difference. And a lot of money make you feel worth it (maybe less cheap); if you were doing weird shit like getting tied and spanked by someone you that does not incite a drop of desire.
I went on down to meet Élan at about 10, and we talked about sex –he thinks about it all the time, and I’m glad, because there’s nothing more that I like to talk or think about- and it was then he told me my stupidity in the situation concerning Ethan. His phone went off the rocker at some point in time with a bunch of weird messages from a couple of girls who were trying to snag him. He let me read them for a laugh. It’s the same old shit that turns guys off. Mr. Big is the least brutal about it, he just replies the weird, ‘thinking about you, hope to see you everyday’ bullshit with a smilie face (and nothing else) until they get the hint. The G-Spot pretty much does the same, but sometimes he gets them knocking on his door and has to tell them they really can’t share the same bed (so you get the hint girl, I don’t like you). Élan is completely brutal, but I don’t blame him.
‘Oh, loads of white girls tell me to fuck off the next morning, big deal. Asian women just gonna have to get used to it.’
I should have told him that there was some sort of virtue to be found in cultural sensitivity, but I suppose it is too much when a girl you’ve’ dated for a total of three weeks, no matter how gorgeous, thinks she’s your wife. That was the other thing we were bitching about. He thought it was pathetic of them to try and get into his pants and then proceed to tell him their whole life story (fatherless child, dying grandmother – I didn’t plan on seeing you again, but now I’m fucking sure I don’t want to see you again!) And I thought it was completely denigrating to the independence of the female species. If you think sex can be used to snag a guy, you’re stupid. Sex is part of it, but that alone is not going to do it. And besides, you may be pretty lousy in bed, and then what? And anyway, why the hell are you constantly pushing onto the guy marriage and other relevant stupidity like so.
In the past week, I’ve had a total of 3 guys tell me the girl they’re screwing are all talking about marriage. And these are all girls under 25. Look, you want stability, you’re going to have to stick to the local boys, or someone well over 40 otherwise. But the truth is, if you’re independent enough, stability is going to find you, and you’ll not want it. Because the less you want something, the more of it you’ll have. Catch-22, rejection is the best form of attraction. Clichéd, but true. Of course, there’s only so much rejection and aloofness you can inflict upon a person before he/she just says fuck off. My tolerance is very low.
Mike’s roommate texted me a couple of times before. Yes I fucked him, and no, I don’t care if I did. There’s nothing wrong with him, aside from the fact that he doesn’t care about me, and doesn’t see anything in me aside from a hot little body. I like being adored for that, but when it’s all that I end up amounting to, I’m not going to pretend he means anything, when he doesn’t deserve it. You screwed him, so what? If he treats you like shit, leave. For the love of god, it’s no big deal, the sea is inexhaustible.
Ethan said something that really annoyed me, and that was me trying to tell him I still cherished him, just because he was materially desirable. I am still insulted. Certainly I have thought about it a couple of times. He is materially desirable, but I am most certainly not subjected to it. Dr Seuss could have offered me a lot of luxuries, and I believe he had been testing me yesterday, but the fact is, I don’t care for them if the luxuries offered come under conditions that I cannot want to accept.
When I loved Ethan, all of it had been desirable, but now that it has started to feel like a trap, I’d rather not. Even if he paid for our holiday, but I would rather stay home, what was the point?
I am sad this is what it has amounted to, and I still do like him. But it’s starting to suffocate, and he is not the one. The is no, ‘The One’ for an entire life time, but at this point in time, he is not the One for the moment.
I told him there was no other person, and in a way, there isn’t. Martine isn’t ever one bit as stable as he is, but I don’t care. I will have my way, and I desire him and only him. (We’re talking about the male species here. I’m even more promiscuous with my love when it comes to women.)