Letting go of your hand, I felt fear
In case you would forget me, long after I
Had already begun to move on.
“Why do you think we want to be
Remembered?” You asked once before.
I stopped making believe
Of our fake dialogues since
I can remember.
We said we would
Keep in touch
And not let the distance beat us.
“Talk to you tomorrow,” was meant
To be sincere, against the odds
Our last message expired
Since then,
And outlived our promises
Gesturing with her hands, fingers poised to
Orchestra the perfect string of words, composing
Her sentiments, “Just ever since, I’ve begun to feel
Okay with myself.” A pause, suspended self doubt on a
Tenuous note, she continues, “sometimes I still feel lonely,
But the dichotomy of that versus
Just being myself – by myself – I’m okay with that now.”
‘Does that make sense?’ It was a
Rhetorical question as she spoke inside
Her head, but she smiled and agreed anyhow.
I recently came across a beautiful blogger who decided to share very eloquently her experiences and transcendence regarding the daunting sexual tightrope our society holds over women of certain ages, or for that matter, for women of all ages.
Now, I don’t know if she would ever be notified of this rather random across-the-country link, but if you do happen to come across this somewhere on the blogosphere, I thank you Erica for the liberation you have given so many women out there. And although I do not prescribe to your outspoken audience as an eighteen year old blogger, I think yours was single handedly the catalyst for this young naive not-yet-women lady to feel pleased with her sexuality, in a long while now.
Note: for the photos in between, it was inspired dearly as my own representation of a personal phone-idea of a boudoir photoshoot, so please don’t try for measure against a professional. It was simply a first ever. Cheers to that. I now enthusiastically agree that every women should indulge in this art form. It makes you feel absolutely ethereal.
From time to time over this global journal I share, in between all my none practical humor and occasional intelligent comment, I talked about my past sexual experiences. None of which were something you would giggle over with a few past-time girlfriends over coffee. Deep down I do think I have a trust issue. I have an issue with relying on people. I have an issue with not being able to stop myself wanting to trust somebody, and sometimes, sometimes, acting on it. And of course, instantly regretting it, and then goes questions of my sanity, but that’s another story. At nights I remember a similar issue on a sort of abandonment or another. I would recall how incredibly awkward and unsatisfying sex was. How cheap and thickly tangible you would feel in the discomfort of your own skin, speaking largely and fairly accurately of teenage-hood; it wasn’t even vanilla sex. It was arguably worse. It wasn’t something I necessarily dug up, unless I really felt like being a bitch to myself. Then maybe, but I’d get over it.
This past January of 2015, I was let go of my job. It wasn’t that shitty to be relieved from an overcompensating manager who threw his weight around. I was sad, but I tried to get over it. It just so happens that the male coworker whom I sat across had developed quite the sexual theory regarding my supposed representation of a certain kink, promoted most thoroughly in modern pornography. An Asian female with large glasses and tongue piercings among my other body modifications. So he acted upon it, very much so aggressively over text message. It kind of threw me into a time loop. It’s like I have not improved at all since two years ago, the last time I indulged physically – Man it has been awhile – It made me feel sadly unattractive; I questioned my ability to be a character – as if my entire persona was overshadowed by a few choices in the way I liked my body decor.
So I drew the line, and I cried when he got mad even if it was just an almost-stranger-coworker. It made me cry all the way to the gym where I worked out some stress. In retrospect, I think that’s where the sexual tension came from. The next day I might have pursued ever so secretively in that feminine way all the ladies in the world knows how to work her way into. Well I got it, this fellow coworker’s number, whom was rumored to be into me, so we chatted. Sexted to be precise. Casual words were thrown around, fantasies were indulged. I told myself it was cute, something I was entitled to enjoy as a single female with needs. Two days, then three days, and now five, that’s all we had spoken about – all we had in common really. We never actually did anything though, as ironically mother nature was overstaying her welcome. In between I told him about my age, as he was 25. I didn’t really care for it, but another thing I loath myself for is my age among other things. I struggled with my humble cleavage. I compared myself to fellow Caucasian peers – their eyes, their hair texture, everything. And perhaps all the people reading this who are to the right of that figure may think I’m crazy, and you are perfectly right to do so, practically everyone around me thinks so too, but it’s just a thing.
I hated how I was the last to be independent. I hated how my mother would curse and moan about finally packing up her bags after she was done raising me. She loves me, but those words never, ever ventured further than the back of my head where it lingered when I needed an extra self beating.
So I told him. And that I hadn’t been with anyone for these past two years while I worked through the junk in my head, running the marks down my arms and doing other mentally incorrigible things. He told me I worried too much, ironically. I was relieved, but still all we talked about was sex. All he messaged me for was how hard he got and how we need to just get together, so I took a court case against myself: Here’s a perfectly attractive guy who was actually decent while I was on the job, and here was my shot to just do something out of character…And here’s a small version of myself who binges on Disney and watches her close family members, mother, sister and cousins fall in love and stay devoted to a partner for the last 5 years. I said that those crazy things just don’t happen for people like me.
I ultimately told him I couldn’t do it. After reading Erica’s word, granted she’s much more wise in the subject, sex seemed such a beautiful euphoric place that everyone should explore ideally with a trusted partner. And between this man and I, there had not been one formal conversation where I could test any chance of a witty banter against my closet sarcasm. He says he’s not mad, but we haven’t really spoken since.
It feels alright though. Somehow this event made me catch up with a few of my past male friends. Two of whom I actually trust without having to compensate sexually. So tonight, I toast that I no longer banter with myself morally(for the moment anyway, who knows where this nutcase will put herself through next). I celebrate my own body shape and feel delight in my sexuality; that it makes me not a victim, nor a tease, that most importantly I don’t owe anybody a god damn thing with regards to my body, but just someone who’s starting to get more comfortable in her own skin.
Oh and one last thing, for a happy ending, because I believe in that stuff – This Duck went for an interview in a downtown hotel hospitality position and chances are high that she landed herself a more suitable role ! Keep posted !
Thus the time has come for the Duck to grow a little bigger, that is in no way to say that she is alas emerging as any mythical swan of any beauteous kind, far from it, but that she has gotten sick of her small Duck pond. Namingly, the same ripples of stories that she has grown up with – her old books.
It is rather sad to clean out the bookshelf, close, but not as sad as the appearance of the overtaxed bookshelf itself. The Duck actually had this process delayed until she herself could no longer stand the fact that books were relegated to being strewn on the side of her room and atop her dresser table. It is time.
One of the hardest thing to go about this is not just that she is personally a vicious crow with guarding her books, but also that many of the younger teen ones, especially series collections were gifts from the Duck’s sister. Over the past two weeks I spent mopping round and re-reading the ones I have come to just benignly put aside in my mind. They are still great stories, but nowadays I recognize the humor and the style of writing, the way the authors would cut short a certain description and the way the story moves along at a steady pace towards an ultimate goal; or the repetitiveness of an action to be associated with the teens. They are writing catch phrases that once had me staying up into the wheeze minutes of the morning on a school night (true story), and now makes me feel humored on the inside. Maybe an occasional laugh, but I still see the silver lining. I even remember the exact book that I had gotten obsessed with, and reading it now, though it is still capturing, it is not the deep insightful profoundness that I want to slowly dissect in a book.
Was that far fetched? Has the Duck ever been so deep a creature herself? Pa-Ha.
Regardless though, the drama and the exaggerated speech is no longer suitable for me, and that makes me sort of sad that I can differentiate and name almost the exact elements the authors use to create the story.
Among the pile of old books, there’s also the collection of fan-girl vampire books which boomed alongside the werewolf parasite when the dundundun, Twilight became infamous. I am not proud to admit, but at that time, I was definitely one of the kids that wanted to embrace this new cultural obsession. I don’t even know what to say to you guys. Don’t abandon me quite yet.
When I expressed this to my friend, he told me to just imagine the joy I would be giving to another kid somewhere who thrifts like I do, and would be delighted to receive almost-brand-new books that has not been tarnished. Oh gush. Sweet son, why don’t you do me the favor of breaking the news to my sister. Particularly over and over again as she has a bad habit of just forgetting these unpleasantries.
In my defense though, I am keeping the series of faerie books that my sister went through the trouble of getting me multiple times, always for the next new piece. I guess my dream bookshelf (someday) can tolerate some of my old teenagery essence.
The last big hurdle to deal with is the largest collection of comic books of witches that I inherited from my cousin when she was done with them. I think she was even about my age when she gave them to me, and as I am the youngest line in my family, there is no one else to pass this along to. No doubt, my two younger boy cousins would just be devastated to not receive this. It’s a dilemma between saving these good old tricks for not-so-possible baby Ducklings (if you know my stories with children) and just giving them to good old kids now, who may or may not wreck 5 whole years of good care. Sigh. My good old friends, we had fun.
A secret confession: at my school library I found the continuous series of the old vampire books I had stopped collecting. I read those too.
Now you may abandon me.
I know the legend, I know of hope. But sometimes when it comes down to it, can’t we just gather our tools and lock up the box?
It opens when the coffin closes,
It’s ugly, and plentiful – the way weeds devour your carefully nourished garden. It ruins everything, and though you know you can always replant the seeds it’s never really the same. I’m not a green thumb, I’m not the least bit providing in this large garden. I find I ruin a lot of the flowers, just by accidentally trampling all over them. Sometimes they devoured each other, in reach for precious essentials. Other times it rained, and some days it never let up. I can’t do much to help them. I’m a beginner gardener who has all the tools and no experience.
The flowers are easy to hate, sometimes I do; they’re hard to maintain and easy to ruin. A complex pattern of connection that continues all the way down to the root. They are deceiving until the day you see the extent of their rot. They may not thrive together, but in the rare moments they do, it’s a wonderful sight. Though when it’s decided that one gets infected, the rest are vulnerable too. They thrash in that silent lip-locked way, battling constantly in senses I cannot understand nor reach. I am merely a seed. Sometimes I turn black and moldy within that tainted garden. But I am a seed nonetheless and I do what I was planted to do. Little by little I unravel to the sunshine, which may just as soon be swept away, but I reach anyway. Hope.
I am the young gardener, but I’ve yet to know it. I see the horizon and beyond, but right before me dances the white oleanders. Beautiful and poisonous, they grasp me so I die crying in tender fear. I am the young gardener and I see your effect. You fertilize them and keep them blooming, but you’re not permanent, you’ll wash away, but as this inexperienced juvenile, I’ve still yet more to learn. I’m the young gardener and my garden decays before me so I begin to hate them, though I try not to, because they say love is the only way, but angry and bitter I give up and walk away. I’m the young gardener and I see the bees swarming my garden, are you perhaps my savior to help me salvage this situation? No, you’ll all fly away. The stupid gardener looks into the soil and sees – Hope.
It had been bad soil the seed grew up in. It had also once been good. But a flower wilted and withered and died alone, so the roots mangled and nutrition couldn’t get through. Then all the flowers went haphazard and bent every which way. The flowers all struggle to survive, they disregard their intertwined roots and ran all bout in their search of a route for themselves. They spread everywhere in this small garden and keep safe their own pocket of water. It’s an evil that contaminated everyone and the gardener wonders what have I just caused. I might just pinch off a leaf or two while I tend you, because I hate you so, but I still tend to because this is my garden.
We all knew it was bound to happen – It’s a world of ugly. But maybe if I look twice, I’ll see hope.
She keeps staring and mumbling it frightens me. This room where I once built a fortress made of pillows and blankets is strangely forlorn, canvased by the blank florescent light and crowded with the borborygmus mumbling, like someone had left the radio on low and it just keeps playing. But it’s such a broken record I don’t want to hear it. It’s frightening so I crawl into the corner with her. Surrounded by the blankets that I jumped upon to play pillow fights and fell asleep many a times with a child’s innocence. What am I supposed to do? What does everyone expect of me? They all say I should be here but I don’t. Why is she calling out. I can’t comfort you, I just want to leave. I have a game to get to. A very important game online with my cousins that I’m missing out on.
Such a scrunched up face turns towards me that I focus on not flinching and turning aside. Those beady little droplets of hurrying sweats are tears. Why are you crying. Why are we crying.
It was six am and my sister and I were playing board games. We’ve never been awake this early it was quite refreshing. Felt so rebellious to beat the stifling heat of summer before it settled upon the dried dew and ate away at the moist morning. We played games online and we laughed. Then it was eight and we had to go. I don’t like this place; so saturated it hurt my eye, like everything was going slow and fast at the same time it was hard to tell. Some plenty more of those white ubiquitous gowns. Hands groping and nudging, whatever happened to personal space? Oh but how nice of my uncle to visit from China. In fact what a gathering we have here around her. What’s the special occasion. All’s well gone well, what a cry baby she is to be this moved to tears. And into the small room we go.
It was four am and who the hell turned on the lights. God I’m sleepy; men in my room? Who else is on my bed, and what do you think you’re doing? Are we playing a game? I stare at the glassy eyes, peering right at me, but I’m not afraid.
But then I’m young again. I’m sick, as the flu has it’s way with the whole parade. The TV room with the brown couches and the antique revolver, I know this place. Follow the spiraling cord, it’s black and shiny and refracts like a slingy, how fascinating. But what did you say? How could you. It’s hard to breathe. My face is hot. But the afternoon is still warm , and it shows a warm tone. It’s the color red and it likes to jump up and down like a thermometer gone wrong. I focus to watch for a tingly feeling, and I don’t know whether or not I’m glad there’s none. But I watch, it’s taunting me. Like a swimmer that runs to the edge of the board, but never walks the plank. What would happen if it reached the top though? Would the red explode?
I recognize that cold thing sleeping in trance. I don’t like this place either. It’s solemn and we are all dressed white. I snatch my hand back, no, I don’t know this thing she is caressing. The world’s gone mad. Because I have ran out of tears. As do only a robotic creature, otherwise mutated being, can even begin to demand themselves to cry.
What a pretty day that I stand before you. But I can’t talk to you because I feel silly. I doubt you’d feel proud of me. Or you just might. I don’t know much of you. I don’t remember much either. I hope you like the flowers though. We picked fake ones so they never wilt.
How can all of us fit into this small room? I don’t quite saunter, but I walk as if directed by a bad movie. Too many distractions and too many words. I don’t feel it yet, a stupid character does not feel fear. I’m not afraid.
Then up goes my blood and I hold my breath, in anticipation and in anxiousness. Does a child get in trouble for being fascinated by their IV drip? I stare and breathe slowly, no longer paying attention to the murmurings of her voice. As it retreats I work into a climax and it peaks precariously at the end of it’s containment, just before it taints the entire bag of bones.
All these stupid people giving me condolences and breathing your hot breathe in my face. Who are you – The other day I was making cards and posters with my cousins in bed. They said we’ll burn them together.
Hello again, you can’t see me. I’m quite glad. They said you would like this spot. You won’t get a sun burn in the summer, nor a frostbite in the winter. Do I know you? Or just feign to? Fellow greetings and casual goodbyes to our annual meeting. No I won’t speak to you, because that is weird.
Hey, why are we crying. The room is dark and we cuddle in the blankets. I take the car license from her hands and stare. Then I look up at the ceiling and say, ‘but I got an A’.
writer & artist
Daily Discussions of craft and the writing life
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Immersive Tales for the Curious Explorer
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