Emancipation
“We go to a hotel. He wants me to talk to the concierge. I ask her for room number three. She says it is thirty francs. I say, “You will give it to us for twenty-five.” And I take the key off the board. I start up the stairs. Henry stops midway to kiss me. We are in the room. He says with that warm laughter of his, “Anaïs, you are a devil.” I don’t say anything. He is so eager I do not have time to undress.
And here I stumble, because of inexperience, dazed by the intensity and savagery of those hours. I only remember Henry’s voraciousness, his energy, his discovery of my buttocks, which he finds beautiful—and oh, the flowing of the honey, the paroxysms of joy, hours and hours of coition. Equality! The depths I craved, the darkness, the finality, the absolution. The core of my being is touched by a body which overpowers mine, inundates mine, which twists its flamed tongue inside of me with such power. He cries, “Tell me, tell me what you feel.” And I cannot. There is blood in my eyes, in my head. Words are drowned. I want to scream savagely, wordlessly—inarticulate cries, without sense, from the most primitive basis of my self, gushing from my womb like the honey.
Tearful joy, which leaves me wordless, conquered, silenced.
God, I have known such a day, such hours of female submission, such a gift of myself there can be nothing left to give.”
- Henry and June, by Anaïs Nin
Possession
They do not know my name, have never met me. Others don’t know I exist. I am his secret. I get jealous of how they possess his attention—even if it was for a short while—because it meant he’d rather not give me any.
But I possess him when he’s in my bed. His eyes, his mouth, his hands, all mine. For those moments. Yours, he says, when he sees the thirst in my eyes. I engulf him with my love, my desire, my hatred, my pain. I whisper the name only I have for him and he responds.
Mine. Secretly mine.
The Bad Things
I had something to say about the year that has just passed.
It was a bad year. My worst ever.
But I’ve been happy, so the memories of the unkind faces, the cruel words, the painful loss—the bad things—shall just remain unwritten for now.
Hopefully, my mind will dissolve the hurtful details into nothingness so that in the future, if I’m masochistic enough to want to recall all the bad things that have happened to me, I won’t be able to. Hopefully.
One thing I’ve learnt: the existence of Karma. So get rid of whatever you’ve accumulated, the bad things.
I wish you happiness.
Yes, I remember that.
“I used the word ‘complicity’ a bit ago. I like the word. To me, it indicates an unspoken understanding between two people, a kind of pre-sense, if you like. The first hint that you may be suited, before the nervous trudgery of finding out whether you ’share the same interests,’ or have the same metabolism, or are sexually compatible, or both want children, or however it is that we argue consciously about our unconscious decisions. Later, looking back, we will fetishize and celebrate the first date, the first kiss, the first holiday together, but what really counts is what happened before this public story: that moment, more of a pulse than of thought, which goes, Yes, perhaps her, and Yes, perhaps him.”
- Complicity, by Julian Barnes
小儿歌
I’m wide awake on Christmas morn, thinking about a little ditty my grandmother used to sing to me as she rocked me to sleep.
新的棉花 新的布
妈妈给我 缝衣服
衣服穿在 我身上
妈妈脸上 笑嘻嘻
I was barely six when I had learnt that ditty from nursery school. I had gone home and sung it to her. My grandma often sewed little outfits for me, so this song thrilled her to no end. After learning it, she’d sing it softly into my ear every time she put her arms around me and gently rocked me to sleep.
Sometimes, I wish I could turn back time.
You.
You don’t understand.
It’s not that I haven’t been inspired lately. It’s just that… you can’t know. You would judge me. Judge my actions—or non-actions. I can’t have you judge me like that, no. You don’t know me. You don’t know who I really am. You read my words and form your own impression of me. If you knew what I had done—have been doing—to myself, you’d look at me with that hurt look in your eyes. I can’t bear it. You’d hate me. You’d hate me for lying to you. You’d be disappointed that I am not who you think I am.
No. You can’t know.
I already hate myself.
Don’t go.
The Simple Life
I want a simple life, really.
I realise I can be happy on my own. I have a beautiful cat that likes his own space, but can be extremely adorable when he’s in the mood. Perhaps when I have a place of my own I’ll adopt two more. My little tiger will, of course, live forever.
I don’t need a big house. I just want a place that belongs to me. So that I can lounge on a sofa that I bought. So that I can cook and bake in a kitchen I designed. So that I can wear as little as I can.
My parents will have a place of their own somewhere far enough. But hey, this is Singapore, yeah? Everywhere is a short taxi ride away. They will visit once in a while for the mandatory nag and to make sure I make enough money to feed my cats. No, I will not be the woman who gets eaten by her cats when she falls dead in her apartment.
If I find a man, it would be a bonus. He must love me sufficiently—if not more than I love him—to want to marry me, though marriage, I think, is not for everyone. I don’t want children. Not now, not in the near future. I have purely selfish reasons for this. If I ever tell a man that I want to have his babies, it’s most likely because I enjoy the process of making them. I like staying at home, but I insist on an occasional date, or a periodic sexcapade. The man need not be rich, or handsome, but he must have a BIG brain.
Money is hard to come by. I’ve discovered that I am not a career-minded person. Career would never make the Top 3 on my priority list. I want to make enough money to sustain my rather low-maintenance lifestyle, yes, but I don’t climb imaginary corporate ladders. My dream job is one that lets me stay at home, and be able to do work that I enjoy doing. Perhaps I already know what that is. Perhaps I’m still looking.
Is this really too much to ask?
The Beginnings
The Bride Stripped Bare and Norwegian Wood.
And a layer of dust three years thick.
Have you ever been in love?
ROSE: Have you ever been in love?
DESIRE: You might say that.
ROSE: Horrible, isn’t it?
DESIRE: In what way?
ROSE: It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They don’t ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like “Maybe we should just be friends” or “How very perceptive” turns into a glass splinter working its way to your heart.
DESIRE: How picturesque.
ROSE: It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.
The Sandman – The Kindly Ones – Neil Gaiman
(via @Dulcinia)
A wake-up call
Him: Was clearing the mega mess in my room and the faithful stack of email correspondence we had in 1999 was staring right at me. I took the stack of papers from the folder and placed them in the trash.
Me: You’re happy now. That’s all that matters.
Him: Was just a matter of minutes before I took that stack of papers out of the trash and transfered it to the “to deal with later” box. Thought I’d give it up, didn’t you?
Me: Why won’t you?
Him: I don’t know. Maybe the answer lies with you all this while.
Me: I treated you unfairly; I don’t deserve your memories.
******
How cruel it is that, on the morning I start my journey towards letting go, someone else is reminded that he still hasn’t.
