(originally a handwritten entry in one of my notebooks)
finding forester. the hunger similar to that of a starved man has returned in its entirety. I am starved for words, cheap paperbacks, endless cups of strong coffee and french music in the background. lost in words. the pen feels unnatural in my hand even though I have filled more than a dozen notebooks and endless pieces of lined paper with words coming from the depths of my mind; emerging from the darkness.
writing during daylight has never come easily to me, however, lately it has been the only period of time I am able to keep my mind still and focused. I have written more than two hundred thousand words this year and summer is barely half way through. but what does that mean really? how, how do I know when or whether I am ready? how much time, how many nights do I need spend frowning over a couple of partially finished paragraphs before I reach the stage of acknowledgement and more importantly, appreciation of their quality? perfection would be too much of a strong word; I am not wiling to understand or define its meaning. poetic expressions are escaping me and all that is left is my self-invented hate corner and sarcastic remarks in the direction of the contemporary society. the events of my daily life force me to indulge myself in everything that I have but not necessarily own.
I am listening to music that will never be mine, not because I don’t belong into the world it represents but mostly because generations before mine have imprinted irreversible distrust of people like me. I am not sure whether this should be classified as a racial issue because I am just as sensitive when it comes to it as jamal wallace. but the line is so thin and it is within such proximity I can feel its heat. the heat of fire that had been ignited some five hundred years ago but has never burn out entirely. and so I sit on my bed, covered in various mess, seated in accordance to turkish customs, writing down words of meaningless thoughts. and the same time pretending that I understand the lives of individuals that live around the chungking mansions (the slums of hong kong located not far away from my apartment building.) maybe filmmaker was right.
I am back to where I started. fighting hard not to fall in love again. the boy from belgium with the heavy french accent came to my life out of nowhere. I picked him up in a street corner bar of the red district and ever since we have become friends. or some version of friendship. he asks questions constantly but at the same time promises he is not trying to invade my life. because he can feel it. the way I flinch, the way I hold myself back. it’s there. I stay out all night with him but at the end of it all I leave alone. I have never had any set of conditions; it has become a habit I am comfortable with. I am trying to find someone who will actually have the patience and understanding. those will then stand out. right now, though, I feel there is only one person who would understand this; a certain someone in far away california, an entire world away. but I am used to that phenomenon. my whole life is based on it. the sun is about to set down in south east asia and I have only been awake for a couple of hours.
waking up to a clear blue sky. coffee in bed. a whole hour of lounging around before leaving the apartment. favorite tones on the stereo. the thickness of air as I open the balcony door to invite the new day in. beautiful messages from friends. missed calls. missing mommy in los angeles. wanting/waiting to leave hong kong for a while. making plans with friends half way across the globe. finding forrester. reading lists. making notes on various subjects. listening to yale university lectures on the american civil war and post-war reconstruction area. look in the archives of academic earth if you’re interested in educating yourself. I also recommend the introductory lectures on ancient greece. but only if you get kicks out of studying history.
the daily writing routine is beginning to show as beneficial. my days are long but somehow the time flies by at such speed most of the time I am not entirely sure what day it is. because it only feels like tuesday. looking forward to a walk this evening and some time in librairie parentheses. maybe a dinner with a friend and a couple of drinks. tomorrow is already friday. nine days until I am home.
how is your day?
you are crazy. heavy french accent mixed with tribal languages of the congo river. I spotted him about a week ago, almost immediately. it was three o’clock in the morning. I was sitting at the bar, listening to music, writing. how many times have I heard boys say to me. I can’t pretend anymore that it affects me. my own sobriety magnified the drunkness of people around me. he kept stealing my looks. one by one; the air was filled with indescribable energy. it was a hot summer night but the breeze was there. my writing papers kept flying.
I was drinking my third coffee, chain smoking. writing, filling one page after another, tiny handwriting penned in a dark haze of early morning hours and glow of neon lights. whores outside the window. for some reason I know their names. maria, anna, anna-maria. three sisters; all wearing crosses on their revealed cleavage. red district is a strange part of hong kong but it has always belonged to it. I kept writing. but I knew it would only take a couple of moments before he walked over to my side. you write a lot? I smiled but didn’t answer. I am not comfortable with questions about my writing. I always think of writers who do public readings.
he danced with everybody but me. he made sure he was close enough for me to see him. and I stared at him. I let him see that I am looking. he was looking at me looking at him. our reflections in the mirror looking at each other, our shadows holding hands. siamese twins. his dance moves impressive but shameless. and then she’s always a woman to me. I walked over to him, took him by the waist and whispered, dance with me. he didn’t even think about it. took me to the centre of the dance floor, pressed his sweaty warm body against mine. holding me in his strong but gentle arms. I put my head on his shoulder, breathed in the scent of his neck. he kissed my ear. we barely moved. what are you thinking? he kept asking me, and still does. what are you thinking? I want to know what you are thinking. sunrise washed away our desire and I left him there.
but he waited for me. two three days. then he came for me as I didn’t know where to go. he held my hand as we crossed the road because I was a little more than intoxicated. we sat together, breathing the same air. much later after we changed our locations, I sat close next to him. resting my head against his shoulder. he leaned into me, our heads touching. I want to kiss you. it was beautiful. his large lips, soft skin on the back of his neck, curly thick hair. we didn’t move a lot. eventually he walked with me to get a taxi, and just before closing the door he leaned in and kissed me one more time. today there have been four missed calls.
some of the things that keep me afloat during these long afternoons.
+ boubacar traoré’s kongo magni
+ notes on world history starting from paleolithic era. thousands of pages to read.
+ occasional missed calls from m. why I refuse to pick up the phone is a story for another time.
+ counting off the days. ten left before my departure.
+ endless cups of coffee and instant noodles.
+ long emails from a friend who is never more than half an hour away.
+ we feel fine.
+ writing down lists.