If You Say It Is

“Well what do you want”

“I want to fuck ur pretty little mouth”

“Is what I want so badly”

Commonality is a dangerous thing. Too many people confessing their wrong doings, their bad behaviors, their immorality and downright faulty self. Too many self-loathers and hungry seekers that can’t argue with themselves. What do we all want?

I never quite drew the line that the three messages above sent to me by an ex coworker were something I should be offended about. It’s been about a month of similar interaction. The fact that I wouldn’t brag about this to my sister should have been a clear sign, that hey Sarah, maybe this isn’t so right. Isn’t quite the way a man should treat a woman. Of course there’s perspective on this area. It happens too often for people to not have opinions. Happens way too often to too many people to decipher between what they want and what they adopt wanting others.

Like I said, commonality is the thief that takes away our sense of judgment. No doubt I would have told a girlfriend to manhandle him. We would have all been so steadfast to stand somebody else’s ground. Shoulder the hero weight. Just like so many fellow bloggers stand up for one another during our individual struggles. I am definitely not bashing on anyone, but be honest, do we give the same credit back? Not to yourself. Not for us.

Since I read recently a very introspective post from a fellow blogger regarding compassion, commenting on the complex empathy upon reception of the emotion, I’ll put it this way: the position of third party heroes should only be heroes in the light of uncovering another. So much easier for us to give (unintended) empty kind words and gestures – to help a disabled stranger, to give up a seat – and so very hard to take the most simple compliments. So silly of a child to hate being a child, but so very hard for an adult to withdraw the pinching fingers and be in a pinch ourselves.

These sort of communication has always gone on in my life. It’s sad and it’s empty. When I have the sliver of courage to say that aloud, it’s like:


Empty. Sad. A sheer waste. Not sex, but as a person. 

“Like what?”

Like having boobs as your only virtue. Like as if my most defining moment in life were sexual photos according to your libido and your brain.


Well anyways, an optimum 10 days later –

“Babe I can’t stop dreaming about you.”

Then most of the time, as it has been, I would recompose myself and ask: Am I really upset? Do I believe in fairytales? Like, fairytales? Yeah I do ! You mean for me? Oh. 

I don’t know.

Actually, if I were to be perfectly honest now, before I ask that, the first emotional reaction would be : Oh, he still thought about me.

Isn’t that sad? To be at all flattered, happy, relieved that somebody thought of you. Even in this way had thought you were attractive. Never mind your any attributes or emotional brilliance as an individual; at least they still thought of you.

Strange. I should be okay with this, I say. It’s just casual. We’re all liberated here in North America. There’s pornography on the internet for crying out loud. Yes, we should take pride.

Except, I’m not. I’m not attracted to an immature 25 year old male who can’t (or just really chooses not to) respond when I don’t reciprocate sexual messages. Or only reaches out when he has 13-year-old-boys wet dreams. And neither should you. Whomever you may be. You shouldn’t be yelled at. Or hit. Or blamed. Or asked ridiculously psychologically twisted questions that are as simple as : What’s wrong with what I want?

Your body is your own and you should honor it. You should have intelligent conversations face-to-face (if you hadn’t already guessed, no guy dares to say this aloud) that serves as much towards engaging foreplay as they think a picture of their junk would do. You should come to and walk away from a present date and not worry about deep throating him that night – why? just because he prepped himself with his favorite porn (with you as the lead) tonight?  And told you about it, as if that changes anything? Because he asked you to watch him on Skype and then expected you to moan for him?

All of this sounds so wrong. So degrading and so sad. It’s truthfully embarrassing to share, because I still can’t say whether it’s right or wrong according to me. Where are my standards, my rules, my boundaries? What of my playfulness, my open-mindness – that very silver lining that might just make me different. Is that what I think? If so, then how does that differ me from the very same presumptuous assumptions these very same offenders makes of me.

And the wheels keep turning…

To say that I have allowed it to happened, and happened it did while I was in the midst of telling myself I was enjoying this. Games and fun. Smoke and mirrors. I don’t deserve a relationship. No, that’s too self-depreciating – I’m not ready for one – ah, that way I’m allowed to be stupid. I should have fun. We’re entitled. It’s common. Would that in fact make me a bad person?  Was it misleading as they say or “not as nice of a person as they had thought me as” before.

It’s a confusing period during the phase of this time line. I look around me and see couples all around. And not to be condescending, but hardly one that comes up to par with a coexistence I would admire. The fundamental argument being the glaring mutual settlement I see when you really look at people. The awkward silences, the discretion when they roll their eyes at the partner for the billionth time they talked about this or that subject. Or worse, when they just stand next to each other texting. When dating is just a hang out with a friend with a title slapped on to it.

To be fair, most of them are just young. My age really. I shouldn’t even be allowed to comment. It’s more than just age though, for sure. The greatest emotional connections I’ve ever made were with men 9 and 14 years my senior during their respective stay in my life. It’s not so much about superiority or status. It’s just…sexy being grounded. A grip on their masculinity, a solid stance on their ground. Something about being vulnerable. Carrying an attitude of honesty and grace. Them being entrancingly quaint and delightful. Sometimes serious. Ambitious. Driven; With care. Something about learning to be wholesome and the want to be above, in no demeaning way, but to not just swim in precarious waters together. To arrive in a matter of senses.

Somebody else feel free to chip in.

I can’t even tell you what it is, having never been close myself. The point of the matter though, in what I do have experience in, is just to read that one paragraph reminding yourself what you should and are allowed to uphold to. I know it’s common, but it’s still much easier to take in when compassion is confusingly misdirected back to someone else. ‘You’ is just ‘me’ after all, for so many people out there. For the young females growing into womanhood. Adulthood does not start at 18.

And you know what, all those great guys and gals out there, they can be well-balanced, respectful and sane individuals with a healthy sexual appetite up for discussion. It’s totally possible. For one, you should be an example.

| Nostalgia :

Upstairs, the room is stuffed,
The room is hungry
For air,
Where the children play
Our draft tank tops
Sweaty, the floor thumps
Background paraphernalia
Muffled music
They dance downstairs, inebriated,
Adults, supposedly
My parents and your’s
Going rogue
Loud karaoke
– just childhood memories, on a Friday night.

It’s the sweet sense of used blankets,
Both dirty and new
We cling to,
The smell of children
How their future inevitably leaks out
Going skywards in the balls of our eyes
We’re all together now,
Stupidly excited to grow up –
To never grow up –
We all have to grow up –
In morning light we stay up till dawn
Play Nintendo,
Swap games and
Swap lives,
As if anyone still remembers how now, just like
We once remembered
Time never runs out.

Our blueprints on the couch
Bony elbows and dangerous games
One pillow over your house
Dare to breathe now
“Stop! Stop!” and flailing arms


It’s something about the smell of that house
That kitchen
And the overstuffed, haphazard cabinets
Fridge with food from last night,
A slice, a warp, a couple of bottles
They’re called cocktail jello.
“Don’t eat it.”

“One day.”

It’s not perfect
Those askew hair strands on the comb, the bathroom floor.
Our life on “pre” mode the whole time
My aunt; your mother
Dutifully slapping our ass
Eyes red, and pupils
The day after.
We look in blank understanding
To one another,
Promised to tell the truth
The whole truth and nothing else, forever and always
Fingers crossed;
When was the last time
We came home satisfied ?
A day well spent, time well deceived,
If this were the truth…


The Memory Keeper

I grew up with the distinct idea that I had very few memories of my childhood. Once in grade 5 I curled up quietly in our apartment’s sofa bed and let the tears quietly roll down my cheek because I had come to the deep understanding befitting for a 11 year old that the family road trip we had taken around the states since we moved to Canada was the one and only we will ever have.

I don’t know. That scared me.

I felt it such a waste, knowing that I had a very blessed childhood, but had such an effective block on it, it was always spottedly blank. Then last night at dinner I suddenly had the clarity to recall all those tiny details in flashing memories that made a by passed event so real. In retrospect, the way the memories surfaced were in the same way a child might continuously spin a kaleidoscope and watch the random patterns appear. And suddenly I was constantly retorting one event or another in between bites. I couldn’t help but have the need to say aloud what had happened before. Although the universe will never reverse or answer, and certainly my mother and sister do not recall much of what I spoke of; something about solidifying its existence into a statement gave me comfort.

Talking about the small details, I wonder if its just my writer/reader brain that’s over actively making up for the lack thereof. Was it just humorous trauma that made me remember the time my mother forced a young Duck to shower in her master’s bedroom in order to inspect that her behind was well cleaned. And then sent her back in because it was not up to par. Or that eventually she used a wet napkin, not only since my dad had once told me any normal dry tissue was not good enough for my mom, to make sure everything was spotless. Rather, is it normal for a 6 year old girl to remember the way her matching bed set with her sister could feel quilted and sort of rough? And that, rather than sleeping in that spacious but lonely bedroom, while my sister lived in Canada with my aunt, back in China I slept in the play room where the two mattresses were thrown together on the floor.

I talked to my mom about the multiple live in nannies we had. I originally brought it up to tell her how I took my first puff of smoke at 7, but we never got to that. Instead, I talked about how in my very sheltered and spoiled childhood, I had witnessed a different side of Shang Hai for the first time when I accompanied one my mother’s favorite house keeper’s to her own home. I pointed upwards towards a hung garbage bag and asked, “Is that for garbage? Why don’t you throw it out?”. And she had laughed kindly and told me that, no, it was her clothes, because not everyone can afford the space to have a closet.

On our way there, I was constantly battling car sickness and twisting my young brows, while her daughter of the same age stared at me blankly. This was probably the most luxurious thing she had ridden. The other was a pull cart most likely.

She had a blinking problem though, where she would blink too many times too harshly. I went and tried that out myself, but thought it was too much of a chore to keep up daily.

Thinking back, I wonder how these people felt taking care of me in that big house. In my short memories, they were all kind.

My mother and I laughed, talking about the time when our family decided to take a New Years trip together and my father got robbed eighteen hundred dollars from his fanny pack between an elderly couple. I still vaguely remember their faces. It was the first time the constant stream of people was abruptly disturbed and stopped from travelers getting their passports verified. I remember looking down from the elevator and there the man was hurriedly scuffling with his very own fanny pack. I hadn’t thought much of it though.

Then my mother was lounging naked in another city apartment, vexing about the issue at hand, while my father tried to calm her more than for his sake by saying, “Let it be, say it was a New Years bonus for the old couple.”

I spent many hours playing with my plastic make believe kitchen in that apartment. My sister and I shared a cramped room that I always recalled to be awashed with a transient dusk/dawn pale blue light. When I couldn’t find any memories of us being together in that apartment, I felt bad. But then memories told me that we were both young toddlers sitting crossed legged together in the middle of the living room. A blanket spread across beneath us for a bed, and a giant mouse stuffed animal for me and a big Pikachu one for her. We would watch a silly children show, (or was it a movie?), and she would promptly tell me to shut up if I imitated the main character’s distinctive and cruelly whiny laughter and soon impeding complaints into a full blown cry.

My mother laughed at that.

Apparently her and my father went out a lot in those times.

I didn’t feel sad knowing, knowing now that they had many more private memories than I’ll ever speak of now that he’s gone.

So since I had come to understanding that between my mother and sister, they tend to receive my tales of the days before as a sort of fictional childhood story, I felt even more the need to retain these precious thoughts. To say them aloud time and time again. To become the family’s memory keeper. It’s a bit lonely to relive the sensations alone, but I suppose I don’t mind. The idea is to some day pass on these colorful tales to a grandchild or another, and they will probably unknowingly adjust them and tell on. Like I am doing now.

Dipping Them Elbows Into The Water

To sum it up, the basic lesson in life is that what we want most we sometimes do not get. Not because life is bad bitch or anything like that – that too – but also just because sometimes we’re not ready for it and haven’t grown ourselves enough to handle it.  Like how crabby lessons are always repeated until you get it right. Or something to that figure. I had it down in my head better yesterday, but of course, like all self indulgent writers out there I told myself I would remember without having to jot it down. It could have been a life changer epiphany I’m sure, but for now, we’ll just have to deal with this sort of half assed statement.

I reviewed my current lifestyle at the moment before I went to bed last night and went through a mental check list for the decent ‘adult’ life I had always imagined as a child. I have moved out after graduating. I had actually gotten that hospitality position downtown like aforementioned;  and I absolutely love it, both the pay grade and the people. I am finally exercising regularly – though sometimes begrudgingly. These were just my basic checklists since I was 13 years old and my mom really caught on to saying, “Everyone in the household should do their part.” I mean in other words, Asians are just known to be running child labor in every household. What are you going to do right?

This morning before work, my mother mentions to me, “Do you think your landlord is secretly upset that I have been sleeping over at your place so often?”

Now I can’t say I had never thought of this conclusion before. Particularly when she was caught several times coming back to my place at 3am in the morning while the landlord smoked outside. She would tell me the next morning as if she was proud. I didn’t get it. It seemed natural to me, all the more so since my mother was a landlord before, to imagine that if a reported single tenant of 18 uses the electricity and heat and water on par with that of two, sure, I might be a little upset.

I recall when I had first settled down back in October of last year, my mother would tentatively ask me whether or not she would be able to stay over for the night. In the beginning she would sleep over on my couch. Eventually, and somehow without my much noticing, she began to regularly sleep on my bed. Along the way she also became almost a house maid. She would cook my food and make my bed. Before long she did not hesitate to walk in and immediately begin cleaning up and opening up packages I get at the door. I had gotten myself a wife.

The sarcasm is certainly not lost, I’m sure. Among us bloggers, we’re experts in that area. With that, I could not help but think to myself how I had subconsciously battled this in my head, thinking that well, she does provide for me in food & beverage, so much so that its almost her payment to stay over. And naturally…she cannot stay with her partner of two and a half years, since his faith requires for him to be married in order to live under the same roof. And just in case anybody is wondering, she does in fact have a house – she’s not just a landlord over my kitchen alone – but it’s a house in which she has not slept in alone since a break-in during September of last year.

I get it. The house is out of the way across the bridge from the main part of town. Its a big space, especially being so spectacularly clean, it becomes down right depressing to feel that its almost a show room. I get that her room and belongings were particularly targeted as it was the masters bedroom. I get that she loves me, and is probably making up with that small conscientious part of her trying to make up for not being more of a homemaker back when we all lived in that home. I also get that I would sometimes leave the kitchen light on for her, expecting her very very late arrival into the night. I get that I would regularly wonder whether or not she would come to my place or her partner’s tonight. I have certainly become lenient and spoiled in the desperately awkward struggle to be a ‘grown up’.

Several nights ago, during dinner, her and I chatted for 4 good hours about her indecision to marry her partner. At the least I can say I have finally grown from those days when I first screamed at her for meeting a man after my dad passed. I mean, life’s got to let us have some leeway, sometimes. Otherwise, who else is going to play, right?

Anyway, when I reflected on how defiantly strong I was in my stance for what I imaged to be a healthy relationship, I recaptured the text messages I have received on my phone. Ex coworkers with very tinder like approaches. Is that a thing for guys to speak as if you owe them something? Like, all arranging females in the world just swoon for those 5 words. I know you like it. Right, precisely why the worse of my sarcasm is oozing through the screen. Now call me out on it. You know honestly, I took you for a much nicer person.

Sorry, I did not agree when you said, Cmon babe, you know it would be so hot. We would be so hot.

So what the hell am I doing giving relationship/marriage advice to a widow?

Am I perhaps advocating in secret to avoid confrontation and just have her naturally move out with more gain on her end?” 

Hm. Dangerous thoughts.

Even then, a even smaller wicked part of myself whispers, “Even she is in a relatively communicative long term relationship.” I look at my cousins, my sister – those are old wounds now, so I won’t quack that much. They were practically high school/college sweethearts – but then my coworkers, them and their 9 years as high school sweethearts. My manager and his new brood of vibrant personalities stuffed in the body of a 3 and half and 5 years old.

Now the following news is certainly not for the faint of heart. To think you would have read all the way down here, just so you can be witness to the following over populated words: I knew I was never quite ready to be in a functional relationship. After all, I still wasn’t kind enough, nor as sincerely humble as I would wish, or just simply wholesome enough as my own person to become codependent. Here, my sister chimes that I’m twisted. She’s 5 years older and has never ‘arrived’ as I had worded it. I get that too.

Doesn’t matter though. The glass can be viewed as half empty or half full. As a girl, I have a full closet and a variety of excessive choices in shoes, bags and general accessories in my choosing. I have a working phone and freedom to eat without overt guilt. But for the life of me, I have never proven myself to be capable of a friendly continuation between opposing sexes without the actual interference from the intermediate difference between the two: sex. In words or otherwise. Do I honestly think that’s my only redeeming feature against all other girls?

Gosh, I know that’s not true but I think the Duck can buy it enough to screw herself over.

Just tonight, feeling like a sack of potatoes after gym,  I watched my fellow Vancouverians walk their respective animal companions. That proud perching poodle and the sniffling twin Corgies. Or that famous wagging tail of a chocolate brown Labrador, openly looking up to its owner in affection and love. I thought, if only I could be as blindly loyal and unabashedly forever loving as all the pups in the world. But not be so completely docile I thought as well that deviant trait must be combined with the rude insolence of a cat. And of course, retain the flamboyant “Idaf” attitude of a paddling Duck on a calm palm. Wouldn’t I just be built for survival then in this cruel old play pen.

But like I said, I think the basic lesson in life is that we never quite catch the ripple of wave we really wanted. I don’t know, maybe cause I’ll drown. Or it’s poisonous. I mean, sister life deserves some leeway as well to be vacant from her alias, sometimes. Not all bad. I can only “Eat. Pray. & Love.” So you say Julia Roberts. Whenever I come across Mr. Edwards and become a ‘pretty woman’, I’ll let you know.

We’re All Headed For Home

Sometimes when you have too much time on your hands, spending your day(s) at home, your head gets into pondering too much deep shit for your own good.

I vaguely remember asking myself, “What if we were all headed into the same direction at life, ultimately.” Like at a convergent point, that’s where we’d all meet.

It wasn’t so much a question relating to death as it was to the brink of our cognitive sanity. People discuss all sorts of things over the blogosphere. Stupid things. Funny stupid things. Stupid things that sometimes need a kick in the ass to be funny. All in all, a lot of people out there struggle with something I have always taken an interest in since middle school. Depression.

Sure, there are tons of definitions out there. You can string together a cohesive line of literary term to box together this state of mind. To me though, it appears depression happens in such a way where you’re slowly slipping, and it all happens in your head. You may appear perfectly normal, but it’s happening. It starts with the supposed ‘normal’ syndromes. You always feel lethargic You’re more isolated. You become mechanical in your day to day life. Wherever you’re slipping to is something I would challenge those wild scientists out there to define for me. Though there have been impressive statements out there allowing us a peek into the mind of madness, I think without having been medically diagnosed, I am playing with something very close, or at least similar.

Right now, it feels like a dark waterfall. Maybe it’s in a cave somewhere, with no lights. And the place smells strong of something earthy, a sort of rock or another. Nothing expensive, but it fills up your senses like too much chlorine does at the public pool. It sounds like a waterfall. The sounds are somewhat comforting to know that it could be a beautiful sight, only you can’t peer further than the edge of the drop. It’s dark at the deep end. I imagine it would be cold, very very cold.

It reminds me of when I used to swim with my cousins at our aunt’s pool. We were so terrified of the 8ft ‘deep end’, where the water became a deep dark blue. You couldn’t see your toes there, and that scared us.

Anyway, this whole waterfall idea I thought of while doing my dishes. Moments of clarity happen in strange ways. They come in the same train that a smart sentence might come to. Somewhere in my head floated the thought, “Well, perhaps we have to intentionally drift off. You have to fall off the side and become the worse version of yourself. Now whether you get any better from there, or whether that’s a sort of salvation… I can’t answer that. Of course, it was a conversation in my head. It’s not that weird until you put it into words aloud.

Now I’m sitting in my bed. Re-reading what I just wrote, I think along the lines of over medication in our world. So many little things that could be easily explained, but somehow so much more soothed with just the name of something that sounds vaguely terrible without the consequences. I sure hope I’m not one of them, thinking to myself at times whether or not I may actually turn out to be bi-polar. Just food for thought when I recall how fragile my emotions can be. How one can burst into tears that you never even knew were dwelling. Or how amazingly one can put up a front for show when the pressure of obligation hits you just the right way, without cracking the code to your mental skull. Maybe I’m just perfectly ‘normal’ in this world.

I wonder how many people out there search up all they can without professional help on this subject and go over a mental check list. The con’s probably never being severe enough for them to go enlist for help. Not enough conviction, I think. For those that went as a pre-emptive strike, I wonder if those same professionals were made so immune to the way the faint of heart visit for for such trivia, that they are conditioned to unknowingly scoff at the sight of someone so apparently normal turning in questions of their sanity.

How would that feel?

Maybe that fear is the most imminent obstacle beyond all other doubts. The deep end can go where it belongs in the face of such terror, such humiliation; Right up your deep end.

After all these years of researching, reading and watching documentaries and productions made under the central idea of our psychological state. Even tampering with it in my own mind. Maybe it’s the author’s imagination. A creative soul can be called either blessed or just wickedly cursed. God, if I was ever that creative.

I remain neither. In cryo. Suspended. It’s like a bad dream; I’m told there are only two ways for you to wake up in real life – I forgot the first, but the second is to feel the sensation of falling. I am floating above the deep end in an impossible situation. I cannot tell whether that body, the very one that looks like me, is under my control. From this mental perspective, I can pan in onto the face, where my eyelids may or may not be rocking back and forth, I cannot decide, because if they were, that means I’m dreaming. Am I? I do not know whether or not I will turn over, and if it does, I somehow know for sure that the current impossible suspension will be dropped. I will fall.

Then what?

Feel Out The Notes

I’ve got a tattoo on my right thigh that says, : “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” Complimented with an enzo circle. Back in the day when I used to a so called band geek – further complimented by the fact that I do in fact wear glasses, and was only saved by a slight hand of fate to not end up with braces as well – I used to feel out the notes in my music sheet. Meaning that whenever my teacher called out individuals to play their part, I was lucky to sound out the composition in its proper measurement over half the time due to an intuitive sense of beat that carried me through those years. Because let me tell you, I can’t even name what that beginning swirly is called at the beginning of a line. Yeah, high school was tough.

I don’t think there is a word for what it feels like to be in the midst of a symphony. I played an alto-saxophone, and sometimes, all I felt were the vibrations through my brass instrument to understand that I was making music. It was overwhelming, how your senses are flushed, as all around you are sections doing their part; the flutes by my furthest right corner, trilling and young; the clarinets, my friend playing a sophisticated solo, his sound whirling and lingering above the rest of us. It was amazing really, considering there were 40 of us against the one. On the left were the keyboards and the electric base, which to be honest, I heard almost none of the time when we played together, but its funny how it still adds to the completion of things.Then the drums and the trumpets blasting lascivious belts towards the back, just to wrap it all up. It was practically a crime in the scheme of things, supposing us being a whole composition and all.

There were no words.

My teacher said that simply reading off the music sheets did not mean we played music. He told us that music was not just the sounds made by the exhale of our breathes in combination with a twisted metal…To be fair, when I try to recall right now what was it that he said exactly, I am embarrassed to say that I cannot remember. All I know was that, whenever he would repeat this mantra, it made me feel ever so slightly better about myself, to know that perhaps my way of imperfectly feeling out the tune was what equated to the sort of music he wished to conduct.

I was thinking about this experience when I read back on my two recent posts. This is not a sex blog, if you haven’t figured already from the sardonic Duck painting on the home page advocating something to blast out of your ass. Intuitive right? It just made me rethink the way I can describe to you what sexuality is.

Now there are some talented people out there that know what they’re doing when they’re talking about this sensual subject. And I applaud them heroically to be able to make even the most conservative soul curl up in their seat in anst. It really feels like they may be just as well to put in words the exact origin of an erotic painting or a boudoir photograph.

I’m not one of those people.

I was just thinking to myself this afternoon how to describe to even a friend, what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re in that perfect setting for a romantic encounter. Or more importantly, what is that universal spark we’re all looking for. What’s the big idea with the rapport and the connection, like really, any tangible factor at all would put it somewhat at ease. If for reality’s sake, it’s just called a simple girl’s dream – even then, if it’s so simple, why have I had the hardest time trying to find the words for it.

Then I think about what it felt like to play in my band class. Short lived, but I would sometimes take my mouth off the instrument (no pun intended) to just smile, because all of the otherwise awkwardly composed notes alone could all of a sudden be so beautiful when juxtaposed against each other in synchrony – that was music to me. A constant blend, it came to me like an amorphous blob of vibrant colors. Molten and challenging to the senses, and I was right in the middle of it.

To spare you, that was no metaphor to say I’m in some sort of tranquil love. Far from it, that is just to say, so many things in life, love being one of the most common theme, and my tattoo being relevant without intention, goes to say that we are always searching for the right words. I actually thought the tattoo went towards the complexity of the mother/daughter relationship I have struggled with through the years. The kind that catches your tongue and drives your insane. With more thought, I would actually tell you that’s the one feeling most closely related to this universal topic than any. But that would just ruin it for the most of us, so I won’t say that. Or the fact that I have written and written, and like many authors out there, have yet to come across the most magical thing that was ever put into words. Of course, we keep trying. I mean, I’ve gone to counselors for 6 and a half years of my life. That’s a lot of words, and I have still yet to find the right ones. But when I do, if ever – unless that was the meaning of life, then aren’t we screwed, haha –  they’ll be simple, I’m sure.

We’ll see. You’ll be witness for sure, if this blog doesn’t stop rambling on.

Unclasped : Self Composed Comatose

“Up to date, I do not envy the birds. For while dumb beasts like you and I can admire the lurid beauty of the sky, they are but a piece, blinded from the inside, this mantle of a work of art.” 

It’s a weird thing when you become more intellectually aware of your sexuality. This is something I became recently conscious of. One of those things where you look down and realized, oh right, I’m a mammal. But on some levels, it’s more in depth than that, and hopefully much more romantic as well.

Kidding aside, maybe it’s the lack of grounding in our obnoxious North American discussions, but questions arose surrounding my role in perpetuating the way a modern screen can offer so much leeway for absolute bullshit in the fields of sexual release. In hopeful terms, we otherwise referred to the field as romance, back in the days when people actually spoke to each other and if dared to, used the precise pick up lines they do today. I recently read a public comment stating that one could say anything, anything at all and offend somebody in our Western culture, as it will be most absurdly taken in retort to attack racism, sexism, ageism, degradation etc. Truer words have not been said. On that note, I wondered to myself as the posting was regarding the way our current generation sort of folds on top of itself in ridicule of the very same crowd leering after each other on social media exchanges, should I be in accusation of integrating this stigma?

While a typical stranger can be told off as harassment in their sexual advances over text message, I asked myself what of those mutually consented exchanges ? What about the honesty and trust in pushing buttons and feeling out boundaries in a new relationship? An area I did not necessarily care to tread too deeply into, but had a fair share of in the least. It seemed so emotionally disconcerting how quickly one became removed after exposure to the presence of a trending stupidity in explicit expressionism. Its as if, the arguably most blessed continent in the world could not exercise its rights to its inner asshole enough.

I no longer understand the behind-the-scenes gestures that may provoke the obscenity that is made to eclipse for the most part, how our culture decidedly chose to speak out in the freedom of their sexuality. There is simply no more taboo, apart from personal discretion, of any terribly disturbed coupling that could take place today. While I may bravo the gals that stand their ground in the face of constant direct advances, I find a part of myself doubling back on the true intentions of why we put ourselves out there in the first place. Why display ourselves and write a short bio to try and encompass something so much more, to state even that the females (in most cases) are not looking for a casual encounter, in presumably one of the most casually taken places for mixed matches.

For how much of this influence actually took root in my mind, I battle with constantly. I mean to say that I know perfectly respectable women and men alike who have taken the former route and I say to myself well, “wouldn’t it all be so much easier?” For sure, its akin to casting a wide net and just seeing whether or not you still have the game, even if there was no intention to bite the bait thereafter. Psychologically speaking, perhaps it has more to do with an ego boost and self optimism to know that you’re still desirable. At this point, and I do hope this applies to beyond myself, I wonder what are the percentages of people, and once again I feel this applies to females (in my experience) that would actually translate the above ego boost to a physical connection in which they would feel just as sexually liberated. For me, there’s been a huge disconnect. That supposed lineage to gathering your arms for when you will need them showed to be only a tangent from the full circle you were looking to discover. Not in the least fulfilling at all.


From this remark, I started taking time in front of the mirror to simply examine my bare body. There’s nothing flattering under bathroom fluorescent lights so I ask myself, “Do I like what I see?” – the way the lines of the female body sensually glide into each other; how the eye naturally follows the lines from the arch of our back to how the shadow of the pelvic bones beautifully compliments the subsiding abdomen, where further upwards the soft fall of my breasts crave out their own share towards the truest form of femininity, and above them the deep indentation at the collarbones nestle with ease; it always reminds me of a sharp intake of breathe, like it can’t handle the image it’s faced with. Maybe its another placebo ego boost, but one that is slowly imprinting its genuine acceptance on the physical being. I’ve started to like it.

For one, you might actually be able to compatibly fit the image of yourself into a sexual fantasy. Not everything unfolds like porn after all, but I wouldn’t be on any level of disappointment.


Now when I walk out on to the street, just sitting at a coffee shop or exiting a doorway onto a busy downtown sidewalk, I was taken as of recent to the perhaps illusion that I was missing out on so much potential. Like the other day having a tall gangly gentleman interrupt my line to the mall entrance, “sorry” he said, and it was a shy smile he gave despite his casually reserved appearance. A few minutes later I found the both of us passing each other on the street, our respective umbrellas bobbing along under the Vancouver rain. If he did perchance saw me and gave that same shy smile to himself, would I spark enough of an interest for a conversation? What if just one party had enough guts to do something about that devil we call our inner flirt – a sorely underrated lost art that should be reassessed with no particular invitation, but just as a simple engagement. Treat it like foreplay. Stimuli to our natural nerves, above the hustle and bustle of day to day life. I walk away in my long fall coat and my knee high boots, and I simply dare someone to approach me. I think it would shock people in how naive my reaction may be, in contrast to how sophisticated they may have originally gauged my impression. Reading through the many real life scenarios of current men and women bypassing each other in strings of morbidly funny and sadly disengaging conversations over text messages and internet exchanges, I can’t help dreaming otherwise.

A smart remark. A grounded sense of self. A wicked smile, a softness to your eyes, or whichever your most striking feature may be. Give me a hard time. Laugh. Have the best sex of your life because now you’re only starting to see that the person you’re holding in your arm represents in their own way a whole universe. Every star and galaxy in the sky – there are some dark spaces in between those overlooked brilliance of pure cosmic energy – a supernova does indeed happen. Then of course that energy is fed off, taken apart, once again among vast uncharted spaces. And that’s how sex and our individual sexuality should be, if you wouldn’t mind taking my words for it.