It doesn’t start here. It started quite a while ago.

Is it a formula? Chess moves to attract a woman? An actor, chess player, writer. I get these glimpses sometimes. Like you let me see you in between the act. More and more.

Does he ever give you glimpses of his short lived epiphanies? He does, everytime I’m able to see his act. His moves. Which move is he using now?

Obsession.

“I’m not boyfriend material, darling.”

Honey, darling, sweetheart. Those words sound really cool.

You are always playing a game. But make it a dance. Not winner or loses. Dance with him.

Before him, every time she would see 11:11, she would make a wish. Before, she would wish to be rich. For a time, it became, just to be happy. Then it became, I wish he would be happy. Then, today, I wish for me to be happy.

First thing first, you have to be in a position to make him happy. And then, you can deserve him. And then get the king.

Ah this is hard. Obsession/Romance so intertwined with goal-driven, against all odds, reward based system. This is an integral part of the manipulative tendencies of people.

It’s easy to roll a naive person into your manipulations. To force the card of trust.

You have a sweet face and a sweet voice. But I think I’m being taken advantage of.

I am wise but I’m a fool.

Being alone. How do people deal with this? They create some kind of army of people wiling to give them attention when they’re lonely? The more manipulative you are, the more you attract?

Yes I need a friend but friends don’t do this each other.

“It’s only a fantasy.”

 

I forgive you Joey. For this hell you created for me. I forgive you.

 

 

Reality.

A man narrates a feeling he had years ago. Someone he met. Someone he ran away from. Synchronicities and overwhelming emotions. It was too much. It couldn’t have been real. Or he didn’t think he deserved it. Self destruction. He squints as he drags on a joint.  The smoke floats up on the lone greenish light in front of the apartment complex. Beers sweat on the concrete steps. The past.

–

“It all starts with a dream. Or is it a memory?”

–

The bells ring on top of the door to signal someone had come in. He enters and sees the familiar woman there. All smiles in recognition of him. “I think I’ll have the orange chicken this time. Is that good?”

“Yes very good.” She nods twice and smiles in assurance.

“OK I’ll trust you.” He turns to the familiar chair he always occupies on the corner of the room. There is one girl sitting on the opposite side, reading stacks of gossip magazines. She never looked up. He reads his book. A small breeze escapes the bottom of the door and pop hits from the late 80s, Diana Ross, Linda Carpenter, Whitney Houston, play to calm any visitor. She gets up from her chair and moves across the room. His eyes follow her atop his book.

“I’m sorry I know I said I was getting take-out. But can I get a plate? I’ll help you. I’m just going to eat here.” The woman and the girl start a dance. She tries to walk behind the counter to grab plates and utensils. And the woman calmly doesn’t let her. She shuffles and gets the plates underneath the counter. Only she knows the spot. And she ushers the girl back to her seat with the food.

“What did you get?” He talks at her across the room.

“Chicken curry and won tons. What did you get?” She tries to yell out.

“Orange chicken.”

“Great I like orange chicken.”

“I haven’t had it here before. I’m going to try it.”

“What?”
 

“I haven’t had it here before so I thought to try it.”

“Oh OK.”

“Do you live around here?”

“What?”

“Do you live close to here?”

“I’m sorry I can’t hear you. It’s hard to hear across the room.”

His food is ready. He asks for a plate as well and moves to stand in front of her.

“Can I sit here?”

“Sure! Do you want some of my won tons?”

“Yes. Do you want some orange chicken?”

“OK.”

They share their first meal.

—

“We’re having fun right?” He says to the scrunched up face he holds inches away from his.

Memories. Laying in a field surrounded by people, pointing at the stars. Laughing as a homeless man proclaims them “the newest couple in Hollywood.” The train shakes as he stands over her, holding her hand, staring into her eyes. Always holding hands. Kisses. Tiptoes. Closed eyes.

She pauses. Her eyes blink twice and the creases form slowly beside them.

“Yes, I’m having fun.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious…. Is that fucked up?” Their hands are still intertwined.

Her teeth graze her lips. “Is that a defense mechanism?”

“…I don’t know.”

She smiles at him again. “I’m having fun. Are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Stop being so serious.” She kisses him and walks away. She slings a backpack over one shoulder and her scuffed combat boots clunk heavily towards the side door. He follows her sluggishly.

She moves to leave but he pulls her back and kisses her. Her eyes close automatically, tiptoes again.

When the door closed behind her, the gun shot rang in her head, the sprinter’s sign. And so, she ran.

–

A view of a sea of lights. The city, embraced by the mountains, the stars trailing above it. They share a bottle of wine between it all. Kisses in the shower. Her hands run through his hair. He looks at her across a crowded room. She hides behind a gossip magazine as he walks through sunlight and enters the small restaurant.

–

He has a green cargo jacket on. His breath comes out in puffs in the cool night air. He tries to hunch so his neck could hide between his cuffs. His hands are deep inside his pockets. They stand in front of the neon lit diner. Legs constantly moving to generate heat. She wears a sweater that’s too long for her and a black hoodie to hide her hair. Those combat boots beating against the sidewalk.
He reaches over to try to rub her shoulders but he stops and puts his hands in his pockets again. The cars drive by as he waves his hands, emphasizing a point to her. Something that would make the knots on his forehead show. Something that would make him walk back and forth, furiously running his fingers through the curls on his head. She stands there listening to everything. Her hands rubbing the sides of her arms. She only looks up. Not a word passes out of there. And then, she reaches up to his cheeks. He stops moving and the couple stand still forever. For a moment. Tiptoes again and she whispers in his ear. An embrace. A brief but momentous kiss. She pulls away and turns around. She walks slowly away, head held high, fingers in her pockets. And he stands there. And he lets her.

–

“What did she say?” His friend coughs through the smoke and passes the joint on to him. He refuses this time.

His eyes look down. The memory again.

Her lips graze his ear. The midnight chill briefly escapes from them. “I love you.”

–

 ****

The sun beats down on his furrows.

“Where am I?” The horizon stretches for miles. Sand flurries rise up and whisper an ominous song. Something feels strange. Can he really feel here? Something is different. He looks down at his shadow. It is undecipherable. He tries to move his hands.

I have no hands

The motion prompts something else to move. His body is heavy. He can’t look to the side, only down. Something else is in the shadow. Paws? Hoofs?

Oh fuck, I’m a horse…. Fuck, fuck, fuck

The horse whinnies and starts to move in circles.

Wait, there’s something. There’s something on my back.

A moan. A hand falls sideways. A heartbeat. His heartbeat. Erratic.

***

What if the future is the past?

***

A woman sings hauntingly in the shower. Her eyes are closed.

“Dance me to your beauty,

with a burning violin.

Dance me through the panic,

til I’m gathered safely in.

Lift me like an olive branch,

and be my homeward dove.

Dance me to the end of love.

Dance me to the end of love.”

Her feet follow an invisible beat. And her hands move up above her eye line. A faint image appears. A ghost of a memory of a man is looking lovingly at her as they shuffle sideways. She sings to him.

***

They are singing to each other in a country dance hall. String lights illuminate the patrons. And we whirl with them as the band plays.

“Let me see your beauty,

when the witnesses are gone.

Let me feel you moving

like they do in Babylon.

Show me slowly

what I only know the limits of.

Dance me to the end of love.

Dance me to the end of love.”

***

He wakes up, in the same position as the image. He is looking at the empty space. Did he dream it?
He narrates.

“This would always happen. I never knew if I was awake or dreaming with her. Somehow the two worlds overlapped when she was around. Even when she wasn’t.”

He

***

Chase Bank neon sign lights up. His hands are in his pockets. He looks up. I remember this. Green cargo jacket. He turns around. He knows where she’s gone. He starts to run after her.

***

“Please tell me to go away. Tell me you don’t love me. Give me something to run away from.” She pleads to him. “I need it. Be mean. Please.” He tries to stop the flood of tears but the words come out first in rivulets.

***

Log: A pragmatic man must learn to believe in the extraordinary in order to save the woman he loves from a coma-induced dreamworld.

Log2: A woman lives in a coma-induced purgatory of dreams and memories; A rational man must learn to believe in the irrational link of a soul mate in order to save her.

Log3:

 

 

 

The moon is non-existent. The room is red. I’m pounding drums into my ears, headphone volume on too loud. There is something here that’s almost tangible. It’s a thread floating between everything. Does it connect me to you? Are you asleep?

There is a breeze that moves the red and yellow fiesta banners hanging between the lights illuminating the car dealership across the street. I stare between the letters U & S on a glass window in front of the 24 hour cofee shop I’ve planted myself in. I knew the madness will come slowly so I sat and waited for it. 2.9% “APR.” Calling me? There is a man behind me that is scaring the shit out of me.

Vampire Weekend soothes my uneasiness. Lull the fight or flight instincts to a maybe false sense of security. Do I want to write about the past? No, only the present matters for now. And the night. It is starting to embrace me.

Please go away, man who is stalking me. Go away. Go Away.

I won’t go home until the sun shines.

“How am I supposed to pretend I never want to see you again?” Campus, Vampire Weekend

Wouldn’t it be great if you could actually hear me? How do I act here when I want nothing more than for you to be with me? But I don’t want to control you or make you do what you don’t want to do. So I fantasize that you could hear me. And in half a hour, you will show up at my new, secret haven and kiss me and embrace me and take me to sleep. But you won’t. Will you?

This is how it starts.

I sat there at the corner of a small Thai restaurant. My only companion, the little proprietor, a woman in her 50s, hunchback, with a fixed, genuine smile on her face. I had placed an order to go and waited patiently, turning the corners of a worn gossip mag she had decided that I wanted to read. My cell phone lay on the plastic laminate table cloth, edges peeling, reminiscent of some birthday party I had when I was very young, worrying about missing teeth, skinning knees, and soiling dresses that a little tomboy shouldn’t be running around in. Sometimes, my hands would reach up to run through the short stubbles portruding from my head. A week ago, I had walked into a barber shop and asked the stylist to “cut it as short as possible.” He graciously accepted the responsibility as he knew some quivering self-discovery lay in the horizon. And the change happened as soon as the first foot length of hair floated down to the linoleum. Light crept in somewhere between the grooves of his hand and my changing reflection in the mirror decorated with cut-outs of Audrey Hepburn, Natalie Woods, and a woman who reminds me of Gene Tierney in “Laura.”

And it was that light again that made me look up as he walked in the door. Everytime I dare to remember, he glides in slow motion, blindingly so. I hold a gasp. The handsome man with the button up shirt, clutching a leather messenger bag was an image I remembered so clearly. Maybe the second turned into a minute. I looked down. My heart would betray me, I thought.

 

It all started a year ago.

There were a handful of days in the summer of 2011 that I could remember clearly. Most of 2011 was an invisible, suffocating screen. It lay over my head, almost tangible if I would outstretch my fingertips. I started looking for the culprit. At a point, I’d become convinced that the cause of my worries was my hair. I wanted to tear it out, burn it, shave my head bald.

He didn’t want me to cut it.

“What if I do it like Carey Mulligan?”

“Who’s Carey Mulligan?”

“You know, the girl from ‘An Education’? She was nominated for an Academy award?

“I don’t know her.”

“Look,” I point to the Google Images of Mulligan in sexy, short hair. “Do you think she’s cute?”

“She’s OK. Not my type”

“But what if I cut my hair like hers?”

“I’d break up with you.”

It was always said in jest but he would repeat the same punchline whenever I’d ask again. Yes, I was asking for permission. This is what relationships are built out of right? You make a contract with each other to follow certain rules, and make sure to consult and vote on any addendums to said rules.

So, I didn’t cut my hair. For a while, I colored it, straightened it, deep conditioned it. But never cut it to the length I wanted.

Finally, the day came. It was a particularly hot summer day in JulyI youtubed Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday over and over again. The clip where she cuts her hair off and starts to look like a real princess. That’s what I wanted. The look she got after it was done.

“What do you want to do?” The clippers hovered on my scalp.

“I want to cut it as short as possible.”

That day I had put on a great dress. I took pictures of my long hair, blowdryed, styled, backlit by sunlight. It pleaded to me, clinging to my shoulders, whispering behind my ears, caressing my fingers as I ran through them. But nothing could save my hair that day. Even the threat of him leaving me.

Michael, who held the clippers, hid them behind his back.

“What do you mean? Cut it all off? Like a boy?” He pushed his glasses up to meet the squint in his eyes.

“Yes, please.” I had to assure him through the mirror. The decision was made.

 

Tomorrow, I leave LA heading North. I’ve never done that for myself. I’m very excited about the prospect of it. Complete freedom from all responsibilities. Next part of the story.

I must make everything a story. I think, sometimes, I write my life.

When you write, is it like SOS signals, hoping that the person on the other side can be patient enough to put the beats together, the trains of thought, into a cohesive impression of oneself.

Listen to the signals, see my smoke signs, hear the whale song. And hopefully I can also ignite what you smell and feel.

Tomorrow is going to be the beginning.

date 1: coffee/dinner with books. somewhere you can talk and intimate. let it last forever. then, get a call. bad call. have to go now. ill miss you. see you again soon.

date 2: busy, so hiking and breakfast. after that have to go to a meeting. or something that doesnt take too long. but have to go home. there is a ticking clock as soon as the night starts

 

date 3: dancing, best date ever, long, before the trip to bed happens not on the trip. tell him the truth. you dont want to sleep with him. you want to know him. you want to be his friend. you want to hang out with him and share stories and maybe laugh. and make out everywhere. but not sex.

It starts with a bar you can’t get into.

“Do you have a Reservation?”

The “bouncer/manager” was wearing a bowler hat. He had on a three piece black suit, black shoes, and white gloves.

 

“It’s so mysterious the land of tears.”

“I was born the same time as the sun.”

“in those days, I didn’t understand anything. I should have judged her according to her actions, and not her words. She perfumed my planet and lit up my life. I should never have run away! I ought to have realized the tenderness underlying her silly pretensions… But I was too young to know how to love her.”

“One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”

“You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose…”

“I can’t remember anything without you.” –Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Old I love you postcards in shoeboxes, polaroids, forgotten sweaters, a motorcycle helmet. Packing is taking longer than it should.

Watched the whole season of New Girl, Definitely Maybe, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Punch Drunk Love.

Movers Came.

Apartment Owner, old Hispanic with a hearing problem. Thinks I’m Chinese. Tells me about Chinese soldiers marching in lines.

Was up for 32 hours. Took my sleeping bag into my empty apartment to go sleep in the middle of the day.

Get a text to see Weezer private rehearsal.

The lead singer Rivers ignores me while talking to my friend Luis. Awkward standing around eating cream puffs. Waited outside instead.

Passed out for 15 hours.

About to throw a fortune cookie into the trash then dig it up. “Courtesy opens many doors.” What the fuck kinda fortune is that? Now my hands are dirty.

Watching Swingers, then Sliding Doors.

It’s funny packing to move out after a break up. It’s like meticulously breaking down whatever you had meticulously built up in the last couple of years. Like toothbrushing the dirt out of all the grout on your kitchen tiles. All of the little, microscopic things you’ve looked over through the years are now bigger, and harder to erase. Oh there was the tomato juice I threw up on New years Eve 2011. Oh there’s that slingshot a couchsurfer from Australia left for him after staying at his place for two days. Oh there’s his motorcyle helmet for the motorcycle he just sold. I threw it away and then felt bad and took it back from the trash. I’ll put it in the box of T’s things. Hopefully I’ll be brave and throw the box through his front window.

Purposefully emptying out an ice tray into the sink seems symbolic somehow. It sounds that way anyway.