Chinese dumplings
Photo by François
Imagine a world where your pleasure is of singular importance, where everyone eagerly caters to your every whim and defines the quality of their very existence through your level of comfort.
Damn, I should be writing their brochures.
Welcome to your typical Chinese Spa.
Six Chinese women bowed to me as I walked through the glass doors, greeting me softly in two languages. An attendant took my arm and led me to the front desk; good thing too as my legs weren’t going anywhere.
‘First time sir?’
‘First time for everything I guess.’
The attendant wrapped my wrist with a numbered elastic bracelet, led me to the locker rooms and yelled something in Chinese, presumably: ‘Scared Arab coming through. Be gentle.’
If you don’t know what a Zerg rush is then you really can’t imagine my expression, but after a few minutes of adapting I picked an escort from the swarm of Chinese teens that surrounded me. I named him Bruce.
Bruce took me to my locker, flashed my bracelet to the sensor and set up the seating area. Then pulled my shorts off.
‘Excuse me?’
Got money, and you know it
Photo by Volker Neumann
I've never been much of a rapper, and this is something I now deeply regret.
At first glance rap may seem to be something of a grammatical blender. And in the mash-up of words and concepts you might be hard-pressed to believe that there's an underlying order to the Ebonics, or any sense or reason behind the lyrics. You're missing out.
Rappers are philosophers, and while we've been mining into Confucius and Plato, these young men have had the answers to life, the universe and women all along.
'Got money, and you know it. Take it out your pocket and show it, then throw it, like.' I assume he's referring to the money.
But let me take a step back.
I've never been much a fan of material possessions; I figured I'm born with nothing and I'll die with nothing but the clothes on my butt – if I'm lucky. And if the journey in between is the whole point then materialism can only be counterproductive; all I'd need on my way out is a clear head and clean underwear.
I took my brother's convertible Mercedes this weekend and, as it turns out, I'm an idiot.
Philosophical journeys be damned; this is the only way to drive. As my moral fabric melted into the leather bucket-seats, I reached to signal right but only managed to blast on the stereo. There he was, Lil' Wayne, wheezing on about money, cars and dem beeches.
Jesus H. Benz.
Kung Fu Redhead
Photo by Andre Lucca
Every once in a while creation gets quirky whilst molding a woman.
With a steady hand it forms her curves, sprays on the shade of tan that communicates directly to your desire, rips out a few dust-bunnies from grandma's attic to make the eyes, and sets her hair on fire. Red, red fire.
Then parents call her something silly. Like Nelly.
One of these women came into my little circle of friends recently. And as if mocking creation's understanding of my libido she had written a story on her body, via tattoos that lead your eyes from her shoulder, down her back and along her right leg.
As though they needed an excuse.
Now I'm not good with affection. Somewhere in the mess of neurological pathways I call Karl (when I'm referring to myself in the psychotic third-person) I've managed to equate affection with violence; in other words, if I like someone, I hurt them.
'Snake Bite!'
I heard it too late. Two fingers dug into my chest and attempted to dislodge a rib. His Kung Fu was strong.
Whither thou goest
Photo by Rachel 'Monroe'
I have a love-hate relationship with social labels.
On the one hand they're a useful set of tools: often people will take the liberty of labeling themselves, making it easier to find common ground. Leftist? Let's chat about Marx. Redhead writer? Let's talk marriage. But, there are times when the label picks the man, for better or worse. And as the guy in the gasmask locked eyes with the distressed girl in black tatters sitting to my right, I could all but taste the dramatic prelude.
'Why do you tarnish your beauty with such a sad face?' (muffled)
'What beauty? I'm easily the ugliest girl in the pub.'
He was goth. She was emo.
Fuck me.
They stared at each other for a long time, him through the mask and her through a wispy cloud of existential angst. She picked up her Bloody Mary and took a sip, and he watched as though an invisible rope linked his face to her chin, via a pulley situated somewhere around his testicles. Whatever magic they seemed to be sharing was absolutely lost on me, and I'd nearly succeeded in ignoring them when she licked the Bloody Mary and said:
'Sometimes I like to pretend that this is real blood.'
My liver silently wept at the amount of alcohol I'd need to get through the evening; his gasmask remained expressionless. She pressed on:
'Why do you hide your visage? Are you also ugly?'
The 5 stages of the angsty woman
Photo by Gabriela Camerotti
Preamble: The opinions expressed and implied within this transcript reflect the author's meditation on one (1) woman only; the author therefore kindly requests that all feminists sheath their carving knives, and allow themselves to be entertained by any means (if such means prove to exist) presented through this document. The author realizes that there are many women who surpass him in a number of ways, and it simply is his profound sorrow and grievous misfortune to not have partnered with any. The author would like to thank you for your patience at this time.
What follows is an accurate transcription, with some [clarifying side-notes] of the notebook I lived in prior to my summer lit examinations. For those of you who wonder, these notes concern themselves with T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland. I even managed to pass, ah but where were we...
'twas a stormy summer night...
...this takes its title from a line in the Anglican burial service. It is composed of four vignettes, from four seemingly different...
[Stage the First: Curiosity - due to lack of lavished attention]
‘What are you doing?'
‘Nothing much'
‘Can you do something else then?'
‘...' [Author fails to comprehend alien request]
...seemingly different speakers. The first is a German - not Russian - aristocratic woman who meditates on the seasons, and relates...
‘Whatcha doing?' [Author braces for redundancy]
‘Writing an analysis for a poem'
‘You write poetry?'
‘Sometimes'
‘Am I in it?' [Author patient, perhaps he was unclear]
‘I'm not actually writing anything, just studying it'
‘So I'm not worth a poem now?'
‘...' [Author momentarily stunned, attributes brain-fart to estrogen-hoodoo]
...relates a sledding story from her childhood, while remarking on the barren state of her current existence. ‘I read much of the night, and go South in the winter' she states. The second is a prophetic...
[Stage the Second: Irritation - due to hormonal imbalance?]
Posts
Help me, I’m linear!
Recent love, or not
- Chirine: Are these names real? Are they? Really? Teenage years man… what WERE we thinking? (and the scarier...
- Joanna: Oh wow, I remember her. When I was a kid I used to say she was my mom. Somehow, I had lots and lots of moms....
- Agénor: Final dot missing. Also, could you translate the top cartoon, please?
- Agénor: Outstanding! Both the style and content. You asked questions and didn’t comment at the start of any...
- Joanna: Can I call you Kaal? I could never master the English “arl” sound, and I have to pronounce it the...
- Agénor: It’s not enemies of the environment that they are, it’s just that they don’t care about it,...
- Ants: I was crying of laughter! Wo Ai Ni ya Helo! hehe
- roupen: Ohhhhhh am bored so bored!
))) - Sukoon: hahaha! Wei ni hao? Oh man, at first, I thought you were just being out of control with your need to break...
- Agénor: How come your number ended in their database? Anyhow, thank you for the emotions swing. I’ve felt the...
Linearity is overrated
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