| Diary part one--Sept.3rd |
[Sep. 3rd, 2005|09:09 pm] |
Whenever I begin to doubt my own self worth, I write. Alcohol helps freeing my strained brain, no longer an uptight weirdo. How smooth my words on the computer paper, all this emotion. Candles fly, air thick with the force of autumn. I am writing my life; the thought gives me chills.
I see no point of elevating my philosophy; Muse bites my tiny ass and urges me to sing. I will just start where I am now, tearing down the bars please don’t tear apart my memory.
I am living in an international area of Beijing although my apartment remains the very profound Chinese character—old, conservative and filthy outwards but luckily got it all made up inwards. There’s this elevator girl I see every day and she’s from the same province as me. But she’s living a distinctively different life, killing time by reading palm books and working 9 hours in a stuffy box seven days a week. I don’t pity her and I can’t. There are always people living a sad life—I just chat with her asking about how her days go. She will give me a look and she stares me long when I am all dressed up for a party.
There is a small supermarket on the street behind my building. I like the convenience, but products they have got there are very very Chinese. One time I bought two bottles of Qingdao and the plastic bag broke. I was paralysed when the bottles fell on the floor into beautiful pieces of glasses soaked in beer foams. I felt teeny glasses between my feet and my summer sandals; I stood, not saying a word. An old guy was bursting into a heroical gesture, running to me with a cloth in hand. He seemed very nervous and I pushed him away when he tried to grab my foot and cleaned the glasses off with the cloth. That was too much. Five minutes later I got myself out of the mess and nodded to the manager when he got me two new beers. I still go shop there, just more careful about those bags. A knee-jerk reaction.
Tonight I went to change some more beers, and saw a very funny board at a BBQ shop on my way back. It said: “Freshly baked vegetable-definitely break the desire.” It sounded more like a shop for adults. Then this massage place, outside sitting the boy who’s only 19 and he’s already left home doing magic to my painful back twice a week. Those white uniforms they wear casually, not the least like my dad, who is a doctor himself, who used to put my hand in his before I went to sleep. Dad, a remote call, a title that I could never understand. I carried my bags, my eyes hurting to the change of the weather, but I didn’t have a cold.
Lightened all the candles, music on, so safe and calm. Yes I feel calm, a bit bored maybe, calm in the smell of my Dove bar soap. I am still single, however I tried not be. Perhaps I was cursed perhaps it’s better this way. So many intimates told me things, but I see it as screeds. I will start tracing down my life, from this minute on. People talk, let them do.
So intense the fire burns in; it dances miracles. I am all unfolded, not judged by any human being. This is me, my life, through all these years. Smell, and pretty in the transition, reality and dreams, not so tethered. |
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