And if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones. ‘Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong The lovers that went wrong.
“Once upon a time, there was a Candy and Dan.
Things were very hot that year… All the wax was melting on the trees. He would climb balconies, climb everywhere. Do anything for her… Oh Danny boy.
Thousands of birds. The tiniest birds adorned her hair. Everything was golden. One night the bed caught fire.
He was handsome, and a very good criminal… We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars… It was the afternoon of extravagant delight. Danny, the Daredevil. Candy went missing. The day’s last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks…
“I wanna try it your way this time!”
You came into my life really fast, and I liked it. We squelched in the mud of our joy. I was wet thighed with the surrender…
Then there was a gap in things… And the whole earth tilted… This is the business. This is what we’re after. With you inside me… Comes the hatch of death.”—Candy (2006)
Last night I went to a cross dressing party very briefly (don’t ask). Everything was fine, it was mostly just a bunch of guys dressed up as women.
But then, in the corner of the bar just lurking, was an old white man … wearing a net on his head.
A full body fishing net.
Not talking to anybody, just sitting and sipping a drink through his net.
I keep thinking about him this morning and laughing inside my own brain.
Somehow ended up at a French embassy party tonight, celebrating Bastille Day. I wish I remembered all my conversational French from two years ago, but nonetheless, managed to make conversation and spend the night drinking Pastis and eating macaroons. Walked home with a light buzz, under some light Lao rain, and a typical girly heart to heart. It’s been a rough week, but I do not regret coming to Vientiane for a minute.
i feel old today, as old as twenty three. the uncomfortable thing about growing up is the decisions that need to be made are no longer about instant gratification. i feel a bit worn. not just by this past year, but by everyone who’s ever tried me on before. “he wasn’t insecure because you made him feel that way. it was because he was punching above his weight … well why am i insecure then? because you’ve been burned too many times before this” i feel like there’s miles in between this now and all of that, was it just two years ago? i wish the answers to the questions i asked were evident from the piles of washing up in the sink, or all the clothes he wouldn’t let me wear. the older i get, the more tired i get, and the less i want someone to set fire to the rain, and the more i want someone who won’t drive me crazy, and will love me the way that i want - just a lot. i’d like to trade neuroses for a night in, and the assurance that i’m done getting hurt. “take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.” i’m not even asking for that anymore, just don’t take me for granted. and for you, maybe i’ll reel it in, or maybe i won’t have to. maybe i’ll be put together like the day we met, and you’ll never feel like i tricked you into anything. i think i finally answered my own question. i’ll take partnership over passion; eight hours of sleep instead of any spent in bed wondering; a steady heartbeat and dry palms over that drop in your stomach when… you shouldn’t have to choose, but now i would like to. i’ll take a safe bet, please.
people be crazy but I met this one girl (who’s only here till monday unfortunately) who reminded me, “6 weeks isn’t that long, no one expects you make friends or do anything here, and there always kindle books.” i don’t have a kindle, but i love her and we will go get massages on sunday.
“i wanted to blog about today but just don’t have the energy anymore. in the meantime:”—
Oblivion of words will form the exact language for understanding the glances of our closed eyes. = You are here, intangible and you are all the universe which I shape into the space of my room. Your absence springs trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of light; you breathe through the mirror. From you to my hands, I caress your entire body, and I am with you for a minute and I am with myself for a moment. And my blood is the miracle which runs in the vessels of the air from my heart to yours.
Frida Kahlo, to Diego Rivera from The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-portrait
the fact that home isn’t home is just getting frustrating. driving home in gale force winds, and it’s just a week or two, maybe a bit more till it’s on to the next hellhole. that’s another thing, i don’t even know where i’m staying in VT yet. finding a shared house for just 6 weeks is not so easy. i can’t even picture myself there, so i’m beginning to doubt this is actually something i’m doing.
holidays back home are kind of exhausting, i hate answering the question how long are you here for. just because the answer is, not long enough. i like seeing everyone everyday. i hate how there’s always the pressure to make the most of your time cos you know it’s limited but then how much can you make the most of anything without just getting grumpy.
i adore reminiscing about old school stories, remember the time i passed a note to you saying ‘i hate miss m,’ we both got detention for it and cried. i like being able to bring up things like little orbit donuts at sports meets and have people know what those are. i like short eats, 4 layer party sandwiches, and loot bags. i like all our shared childhoods, i like that the darkness h is still the darkness h.
this is home, this should feel permanent but it’s not. even the mcdonald’s drive through is different.
i like that feeling of days stretching out in front of you like miles, there are so many of them. i like having the time to read two books at once.
i hate the corrosive emotions of insecurity biting away at my sensitive guts, that doesn’t get easier depending on location i suppose. maybe worse. oh him, i know him. i met him through x, a few times actually. sorry, you’re nice but my gut doesn’t feel like talking to you anymore. it feels a little sick actually.
maybe i’m just tired but i feel all over the place. just like my things.
this is the thing I most looked forward to and most dreaded. routine. this routine. a groggy wake up call in the morning; the late sunlight on the hardwood floors of your room; basketball on mondays at 7:30; watching you eat; the black leather of your chair; walking up the stairs to the gym; protein shakes and nausea afterwards; amicable decisions to postpone dinner dates because we have time, so much time; asking if you have plans today even though i know; the digits of your phone number because suddenly i don’t have to dial international to call you; the front seat of your car; my shoes under your bed; the way you narrate pedestrian activity as you drive; everything not feeling like a hot mess for just one long moment; the rusty latch on your gate; being “the last human voice i hear before i fall asleep”; the ghost lanterns on the way home; knowing your nothing but a phone call away; one of your hands on the wheel, one of them holding mine…i want all of this, all the time.