a little hello

I dreamed about you.

I don’t quite remember what it was. I just remembered you, in bed, in your grey brown shorts, in your olive green shirt, you wore a hat, a cap, the cap I knew so well.

You looked at me and your smile just said everything you’d wanted to say, everything you’d been trying to say, all those years, all those years.

I dreamed about you.

Months after months after months without even a little hello, a little acknowledgement of existence, but I know you’re still there, still alive, still surviving.

I don’t blame you. How can I. I was the one who left. I was the villain. The poison. The bitch. I took everything away from you. Everything everything everything.

Delete me. Eliminate me. Annihilate me. I don’t blame you. I won’t blame you.

You’re a better person than I am.

You’ll always be a better person than I will ever be.

The sun kissed my skin when I woke up and for a moment I wondered why I was so happy.

Canggu Beach, Bali

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another reading

This time of a short story that deals with jealousy, insecurity, and a big, fat, white zit while visiting – what else – West Hollywood. This is a modified version of this post.

Graduate Reading Series at St. Mary’s College of California. Introduction by Michael Caligaris (Creative Nonfiction Writing MFA candidate of 2014).

Ex-bashing included.

the pilot

If I could unburn that bridge. If I could undo it. If I could, I would, but there are forces stronger than both of us.

Or maybe I was just being lazy, maybe I was just being afraid.

Now with all this talk about airplanes, I wish I could reach out to you without worrying that I would hurt you. I wish I could ask you what your thoughts were – you were always so full of opinions, so opinionated, that was what I liked and ultimately hated about you.

I remember the Sunset Steps, the Chinatown, the Indian Restaurant in the Castro, the Castro Fair, the Castro Theater. I don’t think I can ever set foot in the Castro ever again without risking bumping into you, without worrying that I’ll hurt both of us.

I cannot say how sorry I am. All I can do is tell you that I am sorry and repeat those three words, all strung up together. They started from making sense to no longer having meaning.

Every goddamn piece of news. Every goddamn piece of editorial written by pilots. Every flight lingo. ACARS this and Transponders that.

Every time I see the L Line. Every time I pass by Embarcadero. Every time someone mentions The Castro.

I remember your house. Your house. Your house. That bedroom where we made love, that bathroom where I cleaned my face off my makeup, that kitchen where we both cooked for each other, that lonely dining room, those beautiful bird and flower pictures that your mother made.

That sofa where we cuddled and cried as we watched those stupid Thai commercials.

And remember that British sit com of that old gay couple? Remember when you asked me if we would be like that one day? Still bickering but still very much in love with each other? What did I say? What was my reply? Did I give you hope? Did I kiss you?

Do you still keep the peacock figurine that you gave me? You sneaky little sweetheart. You knew I was eyeing that peacock figurine in Chinatown. You sneaky little sweetheart.

I wonder where you are. I wonder if you’ve moved on.

***

Post somewhat inspired by this prompt.

on regrets

There are at least three types of people you shouldn’t trust: 1) those who hunt animals for fun; 2) those who wear real fur; 3) those who tell you they don’t have any regrets.

The first two are pretty self-explanatory. The third one, on the other hand, well…

I have so many regrets in my life. I regret not taking care of my teeth and losing my braces twice and not being disciplined enough to wear the third one. I regret not telling some of my exes to go cut their dicks off as they told me I wasn’t worthy of their time. I regret my growing apart with my siblings. I regret missing out on a lot of things and seeing my parents age. And the list goes on and on and it won’t stop. There will be more items added to it and it won’t stop growing until I die, and the pessimist in me is saying that as I’m struggling to draw my last breath, I will think of my past and all those unfulfilled dreams and ambitions.

When you think about it, regrets stem from making the wrong decisions, or perhaps believing that you’re making the right decision, but then you keep looking back and thinking, “That could’ve been smoother,” or, “I could’ve handled the situation better.” When you have no other options, then you can only do one thing and there’s no reason for you to regret it. But I had the option to be disciplined enough with my braces, I had the option to not be a doormat to my exes, I had the option to stay away from the Internet and hang out with my siblings more, I had the option to stay home more and spend more time with my parents.

Something happened to me very recently and now I’m thinking, have I made the right decision by choosing this path?  Will I regret it tonight? Tomorrow? A week from now? Ten years from now?

On a somehow unrelated and happier note, I passed the DMV written test. I got four answers wrong (I chose twelve months prison time instead of six months for the question regarding DUI).

Snapshot_20131205

on relationships

Relationships are:

Exhausting
All the adjustments, all the quirks, idiosyncrasies, ticks, his loud music, your silent treatments and sarcasm (which can be translated into passive-aggressive by some people, the nerve of some fucking people, and this fucking gets you every time, this Western attitude, this Western belief of classifying, lumping, labeling things and reducing it into a psychological issue, something that must be treated, while you simply call it your Asian heritage), him not taking seriously of your trivial issues of your zits, your ass, your classmates, him wanting you to be free of inks and punctures and you thinking of getting your ears pierced.

Complicated
You’re complicated enough when you’re alone, so many times you don’t know where you are, or where you belong, then you put another person in your life, and you realize that he is not a cat nor a dog nor a goldfish not even a cactus (why can’t he just be a cactus? some days you whine, surely a plant will be so much easier to maintain), and you stare and stare at your phone or your laptop’s monitor for that buzz of the app or the flash of that software you both use to communicate with each other but you bargain to be the first one, because, you think, you love him dearly and you are afraid that he doesn’t love you the way you do although he says it and some days you know he means it, but you’re afraid you’re going to go and do it go and do it go and do what you know but you don’t know because he’s so beautiful and you long for his touch, but your phone never buzzes, the chat software never pops up, and you question why you’re doing this to yourself, waiting, calculating, wondering if it’s possible to go back to that time when you first met when the sparks flew and the horrible restaurant didn’t stop you from kissing him or putting your hand on his thigh and his knee and caressing them.

Painful
After all, it concerns not only your heart, but also your head, and your whole body to be exact, and when it hurts your heart, it hurts your head, and your whole body, every organ, every limb, every appendage reacts to the pain and you, not knowing what else to do, shove things up your fucking mouth, cinnamon bun after cinnamon bun after cinnamon bun and wasn’t he the one who told you to stash spaghetti or mac and cheese just in case you want some hot food and break out of your hermetic confinement of tomato and carrot smoothie and no carb diet because you’re so proud of your chiseled abs that you’ve been working on for so long and yet he says he likes chunky boys so you think comfort eating will please him and therefore please you, and at the same time, you run, you dance, you burn sweat, you gain calluses on your soles, you run movies in the background on loop, so you won’t have to think, but you still think of your failed relationships, this boy did this that boy did that, and you think you may have a chance with this one because, again, because you love him, but sometimes it hurts and you don’t want to die and you can’t cry all you can do is suspend yourself in food limbo where sugar and honey try to balance the bitterness.

Beautiful
For some people, for some very lucky people, who happen to click after the first date, and live rather peacefully together, reaching some kind of a pact, a treaty, a negotiation, a truce, a cease fire, and yet for some, yet for some still, it is a dream, a pipe dream, or even a nightmare that they secretly wish could still happen to them, so they could tell themselves they’ve done it, they’ve tried, they’ve gone and done it, and maybe they’ll do it again, maybe they won’t, and it’s all fair because they’ll have accomplished it, but still, it is beautiful.

Worth It
Because even if he’s more demanding than a cat a dog a goldfish or a cactus, even if he doesn’t get your drama, even if he apologizes by composing haiku after haiku, even if you sometimes question yourself, your love, your sanity, you get his smile, his face, his eyes, his scent, all these things that greet you that moment you wake up and grapple on the walls of consciousness and find him and you in your bed, an island surrounded by his ukulele, his laptop, your jewelry, your laptop, his shoes, your shoes, happiness and bliss are all you feel and the concept of sadness is as alien as that star you can’t see even when you try to get a peek through the most powerful telescope, it’s still there, but its lights cannot reach you, and you know that in that moment, without words, all is not lost, all is not forgotten, yet all is forgiven.

everyday haiku: i’m loving you now

I’m loving you now
but maybe I haven’t seen
parts of you I’ll hate

Red Sausalito Rose

“Everyday Haiku” is updated on random (hopefully more frequent than hardly ever) basis. For the sake of these posts, the definition of haiku is a form of poetry that has three lines. The first line has five syllables, the second one has seven, and the third one has five.