Every year, around the same time, I breakdown from weariness and the overwhelming feeling of infinity.
I am not angry at Calvin, but my tone is loud and angry, uncontrollable like burning wildfires. I can't hear my self, tone deaf.
They torture me, the voices, that yell in my head.
"I don't want to fight anymore," I chant to Calvin as he cradles what is left of me. I sob as if to purge what memories, pains, joys, and writings that have yet to escape, that have been replaying over like a scratched record. There are a lot of scratches in my life.
The "I", ai, love was made up of all these collective experiences that keep running through my head, that strings me karmically to a past and to all these voices that talk so loudly.
This is the only time in which I hurt loudly, openly, physically. I keep my left hand to my left eyebrow, pinching my self back to the tangible world. It doesn't work.
And this is the first time, there was a witness--Calvin who kissed me, stroked my temples with the gentle of his fingers, scooped me in his spoon, swallowed my tears, and brought me out of my head.
The back of my head throbbed, pushing out swells from my eyes, and the frontal lobe was bursting against my skull, locked in physical limitations of bone and skin.
"Think about it: There is so much blood going through your brain right now because your thoughts are shooting electrical pulses everywhere!"
Mental explosions, visual explosions, war. "I am so tired. I don't want to fight anymore. I just want to sleep, but I can't because everything hurts," I cry, longing to forget.
I didn't mean to yell; I am not angry at Calvin. I reflect on my brother whose voice is loud and assertive, who always talked to our younger sister protectively. He says, "Bao, I'm not yelling. I am only talking. " But I hear the volume of his decibel. I did not believe that he did not have control.
Now, I understand why we talk so loud. Chinese families are known for talking like they are yelling, but it is merely spirit, overflow of collectiveness. For me, it is like a possession of the soul, this anger, a gaping wound of animosities--relocation, alientation, daily frustrations in middle class--and the torture of potential--wanting more, for knowing more, and for believing in being better.
I am in the process of developing a book, my family, my self. I have been doing this all of my life: listening, writing, imagining, crying, breaking down, and rebuilding. This is the only way I know how to exist.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Misteryou
this obsession is dehydrating
who are you?
i want to know the depths of you
your affiliations
your affinities
your aspirations
lock eyed in light shows
i am blinded by lust and stuck
looking at you looking at me looking at you
did i start it? or did i catch you? does this mean anything?
to whom does your soul belong?
(and can get in on that)
i want to be the shadow to your
sun-stained skin
and find all the spaces to hide in
touch your fingertips
with my lips
and lie head to neck
immersed in the understandings of the beat
the love, our love of music
and lights
who are you?
i want to know the depths of you
your affiliations
your affinities
your aspirations
lock eyed in light shows
i am blinded by lust and stuck
looking at you looking at me looking at you
did i start it? or did i catch you? does this mean anything?
to whom does your soul belong?
(and can get in on that)
i want to be the shadow to your
sun-stained skin
and find all the spaces to hide in
touch your fingertips
with my lips
and lie head to neck
immersed in the understandings of the beat
the love, our love of music
and lights
Ecstacy on a Friday Evening
ideal
binds our tribal community
with love
and understanding
in the space we are in,
there is no one but us
we will care
and support one another
my memory in fragments:
water
lights
vaporub
menthol
gum
massage
daft, cynic, infinity, kaskade, tiesto, benny,
the beat the beat the beat the beat lives
me
you
we
live
attraction
another half pill
beauty
water
let the good times roll.
binds our tribal community
with love
and understanding
in the space we are in,
there is no one but us
we will care
and support one another
my memory in fragments:
water
lights
vaporub
menthol
gum
massage
daft, cynic, infinity, kaskade, tiesto, benny,
the beat the beat the beat the beat lives
me
you
we
live
attraction
another half pill
beauty
water
let the good times roll.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Love Brings Change
our love is simple: we love each other.
sometimes so simple that it becomes complex: we care too much.
but i believe in our love and our want for change that the complex process is worth going through to reach the simple truth.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sneaking In
We meet at the door, smiling.
It is cold in the night, yet our shivering is more from the adrenaline pulsing through our veins. “Come in,” she says, “Stay close to my body
and follow my every movement as though we’re one person.”
She turns around, grabs my hands, and tugs me into a hug. I can feel her heart dancing across my sternum. I hold my breath,
fearing her parents could hear a difference in the family’s air. We step in,
in unison,
left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
I am her shadow in the night.
The hard-wood floor creaks under our weight, and surely echoes throughout the wall-less house.
She smells like pears and lime from her evening shower.
That is how close I am to her,
basking in whatever traces of her she will allow me to have.
At the room door, her father snores from his, but we take a right step into the warmth of hers.
The carpet is soft, comforting, inviting, and safe from exposure. She smiles and takes off my coat. I am all hers, nervous, smiling still.
The lights are off but in the middle of the floor a picnic of blanket and pillows are laid out as a surprise,
a nest, our nest that is
different than her bed,
different than the backseat of her car,
and different than the movie theatres.
She lies down, holding my hand
to lead me,
to guide me,
telling me that safety and home is an arm’s length away, within reach. I lie down next to her,
a loyal dog, waiting to be pet, domesticated, affectioned.
On our sides facing each other,
I let her fingers roam up my arm,
down
my back, and around the waistline of my jeans.
Our lips touch like feathers on a wing, overlapping, complementing, patterned, and resistant to the wetness of our tongue swapping saliva.
This mixing and fusing of selves.
She puts my hands on her ribs,
as though she was saying, “Here’s the point of where four corners meet.
Now choose which way to start first.”
I go northwest for her breast.
Maybe I’m too eager but her breasts are an asset to which I have fallen so hopelessly victim.
She moans in agreement,
and rolls onto her back,
so I could explore them on a different plane.
I indulge.
I lift her shirt to add waterfalls to the mountains. I can feel something growing between us, a yearning that only one another’s presence could fully satisfy.
She kisses me hard to put me in my place,
underneath
her straddle; I don’t mind. She kisses me again and glides the tip of her tongue down the profile on my ear and sucks on the lobe. Truly a tease that sends electricity down paralyzed limbs. She has found a path: going down the side of my neck, the top of my collarbone, my chest, and decides to reciprocate nipple action.
She is gentle. Neither pulling nor nibbling, just allowing the natural scoop of her kiss embrace them, then she holds them in her smile.
She makes eye contact to see if I’m enjoying my self. With her eyes she asks me if she can continue down, and eagerly my eyebrows signal flirtation, some form of control.
Yes.
She kisses my ribs, finding a spot between the bones to push pressure from her tongue, a tickle, and I jerk instinctively, but she kisses it away.
Oh, a tease,
using my weakness to seduce me.
And how I am seduced as she unbuttons my jeans, unzips, and part my legs to creating a home for her body. I can’t hide my frustrations that keep pulsing through my head! I nod before she could even ask. I digress to caveman, grunting and wanting without understanding why, only knowing that I am presently here, and she wants me too.
She grabs my thighs, spreading them farther apart so she can see all of me, take in all of the folds, wrinkles, veins, hairs.
Throbbing with a pulse is torture; I thirst. She,
an angel in my drought, puts her breath onto me, her lips, tongue, starting from my balls up to my shaft, and around my head before taking me whole.
I am hostage but alive!
The warmth of her mouth is almost too much. I have to pull away, reaching for her hands to come up. She doesn’t. Her resistance makes her even sexier. She is dangerous, a rebel, but after coaxing her breasts,
she finds her self in the middle of me,
smiling, and kisses me.
I am a sailor washed ashore and blinded by such light, joy that I could only be waking in Heaven. I put her on her back, and because she brought me back from my digression, I do not ravage, but savour every mouthful. Her neck, breasts, navel, pelvis, hips, waist, thighs are
all owned by her.
So I tread as though stumbling into a national park.
I am quiet, all is quiet, and the wind of her wanting breath and shifting faults shake me closer toward this intimacy. Our intimacy. She still shows me how to love her body the way she does. She lifts her hood so I can see the dawning clit;
it is beautiful, and wet.
I put my mouth on it,
and I can feel all
her humanly tensions melt.
She has digressed, or progressed because my chin, too, is wet.
I enter; however, not leaving her clit to fend for its self,
I leave a hand.
She doesn’t take it, gives it back so I am not pieced.
Instead, she rubs herself and I fall into the rhythm of her rhythm.
She moans,
but also self consciously pushes me away before she climaxes. I want to give her more,
but I understand that a geyser loses its magic if all the world was to see it.
Call it performance anxiety.
Still,
we gush into,
onto,
upon,
within each other.
We meet
again in the middle, smiling, ready to immerse,
soak, bathe in celebration of our genitalia’s natural wonders.
It is cold in the night, yet our shivering is more from the adrenaline pulsing through our veins. “Come in,” she says, “Stay close to my body
and follow my every movement as though we’re one person.”
She turns around, grabs my hands, and tugs me into a hug. I can feel her heart dancing across my sternum. I hold my breath,
fearing her parents could hear a difference in the family’s air. We step in,
in unison,
left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
I am her shadow in the night.
The hard-wood floor creaks under our weight, and surely echoes throughout the wall-less house.
She smells like pears and lime from her evening shower.
That is how close I am to her,
basking in whatever traces of her she will allow me to have.
At the room door, her father snores from his, but we take a right step into the warmth of hers.
The carpet is soft, comforting, inviting, and safe from exposure. She smiles and takes off my coat. I am all hers, nervous, smiling still.
The lights are off but in the middle of the floor a picnic of blanket and pillows are laid out as a surprise,
a nest, our nest that is
different than her bed,
different than the backseat of her car,
and different than the movie theatres.
She lies down, holding my hand
to lead me,
to guide me,
telling me that safety and home is an arm’s length away, within reach. I lie down next to her,
a loyal dog, waiting to be pet, domesticated, affectioned.
On our sides facing each other,
I let her fingers roam up my arm,
down
my back, and around the waistline of my jeans.
Our lips touch like feathers on a wing, overlapping, complementing, patterned, and resistant to the wetness of our tongue swapping saliva.
This mixing and fusing of selves.
She puts my hands on her ribs,
as though she was saying, “Here’s the point of where four corners meet.
Now choose which way to start first.”
I go northwest for her breast.
Maybe I’m too eager but her breasts are an asset to which I have fallen so hopelessly victim.
She moans in agreement,
and rolls onto her back,
so I could explore them on a different plane.
I indulge.
I lift her shirt to add waterfalls to the mountains. I can feel something growing between us, a yearning that only one another’s presence could fully satisfy.
She kisses me hard to put me in my place,
underneath
her straddle; I don’t mind. She kisses me again and glides the tip of her tongue down the profile on my ear and sucks on the lobe. Truly a tease that sends electricity down paralyzed limbs. She has found a path: going down the side of my neck, the top of my collarbone, my chest, and decides to reciprocate nipple action.
She is gentle. Neither pulling nor nibbling, just allowing the natural scoop of her kiss embrace them, then she holds them in her smile.
She makes eye contact to see if I’m enjoying my self. With her eyes she asks me if she can continue down, and eagerly my eyebrows signal flirtation, some form of control.
Yes.
She kisses my ribs, finding a spot between the bones to push pressure from her tongue, a tickle, and I jerk instinctively, but she kisses it away.
Oh, a tease,
using my weakness to seduce me.
And how I am seduced as she unbuttons my jeans, unzips, and part my legs to creating a home for her body. I can’t hide my frustrations that keep pulsing through my head! I nod before she could even ask. I digress to caveman, grunting and wanting without understanding why, only knowing that I am presently here, and she wants me too.
She grabs my thighs, spreading them farther apart so she can see all of me, take in all of the folds, wrinkles, veins, hairs.
Throbbing with a pulse is torture; I thirst. She,
an angel in my drought, puts her breath onto me, her lips, tongue, starting from my balls up to my shaft, and around my head before taking me whole.
I am hostage but alive!
The warmth of her mouth is almost too much. I have to pull away, reaching for her hands to come up. She doesn’t. Her resistance makes her even sexier. She is dangerous, a rebel, but after coaxing her breasts,
she finds her self in the middle of me,
smiling, and kisses me.
I am a sailor washed ashore and blinded by such light, joy that I could only be waking in Heaven. I put her on her back, and because she brought me back from my digression, I do not ravage, but savour every mouthful. Her neck, breasts, navel, pelvis, hips, waist, thighs are
all owned by her.
So I tread as though stumbling into a national park.
I am quiet, all is quiet, and the wind of her wanting breath and shifting faults shake me closer toward this intimacy. Our intimacy. She still shows me how to love her body the way she does. She lifts her hood so I can see the dawning clit;
it is beautiful, and wet.
I put my mouth on it,
and I can feel all
her humanly tensions melt.
She has digressed, or progressed because my chin, too, is wet.
I enter; however, not leaving her clit to fend for its self,
I leave a hand.
She doesn’t take it, gives it back so I am not pieced.
Instead, she rubs herself and I fall into the rhythm of her rhythm.
She moans,
but also self consciously pushes me away before she climaxes. I want to give her more,
but I understand that a geyser loses its magic if all the world was to see it.
Call it performance anxiety.
Still,
we gush into,
onto,
upon,
within each other.
We meet
again in the middle, smiling, ready to immerse,
soak, bathe in celebration of our genitalia’s natural wonders.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
