Tuesday, November 29, 2005


Intensity Boy. Mmm ... can't get enough of his sexy side-glances. Oh boy, you can keep laughing at my jokes and monopolize my break, I ain't complainin'.

He better ask me for my number soon or I might just, uh, go surf the 'net or something. That'll show him. Not that I'm waiting. I've been very happy being alone. My friends have been understanding; they've respected my willful solitude. I've been making new acquaintances for the first time since M. Biologique -- he used to actively discourage all my burgeoning friendships. And NorIda told me today that her interview subject for TV class was, miraculously, 6' Amazon! Complete coincidence! She had talked to her roommate on the phone and who should open the door, but the Bob-Barker-ignorant farmer. It was on dumpster diving. Or, what I call, rich kids feigning chicpoverishment. That's where she gets her food from when, I suppose, organic health stores are scarce. So I feel good knowing M. Biologique is being taken care of ... from cash to trash to the (unenviable) table.


I remember being in a darkened theatre, hand clutching the guardrail as I hopped down the narrow staircase. My mother and I had been watching Chow Yun Fat on the big screen, his oversized face lining the hallway like dusty street lights at dawn. She and I used to attend movie screenings at the library across the street from old Chinatown. Miniature columns framed the ornamental doorway. An asylum -- or was it the city jail? -- confidently stood nearby. I don't know what provoked this memory. I've forgotten all about it. She'd take me with her; I'd run ahead. The grass, so green; there was enough to hide behind. I remember one particular time, the first of many, when she cried. Uncontrollably. A steady flow of grief. The young boy was found dead from malnourishment. His impoverished family unable to pay for funeral arrangements. Mud-caked body caressed by beasts, he had worked himself to death. She lived it. She related. I was four. Maybe, five. I didn't know it then, but seeing her like that, a fissure made its way to the surface of my heart and never left. I perceived her to be weak; her visible display of emotion, confusing. But I still remember the soundtrack -- I sing it absent-mindedly. About a mother's unconditional love: infinitely irrational, yet perfectly profound.

Despite all that, here I am, 15 years later unable to hold back the waterworks whenever I allow myself to be the fairer sex. I never meant to alienate her, demeaning her good intentions, belittling her, soaking up her resources. Her quiet confidence made me ill, I was bent on being mediocre.

I found out yesterday that "Three ... Extremes" will start playing next week. Three, forty-minute horror films in Japanese, Korean, and Mandarin and Cantonese. My mom's Cantonese, too. A reminder of my mortal coil. Asian cinema help me reinforce my emotional connection with her. Enter Wong Kar Wai's "Fallen Angels" and "Chungking Express". Appetizers, mere appetizers.

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