The Flower On The High Shelf
"Because I am a man?"
"And I, a woman?" she demanded, not really a question but more of a statement actually stating nothing much to begin with. She stood there in her red silk robe that was something between that and a kimono, the golden flowers embroided on it sparkling in the lantern lights.
He did nothing, as he was, on the wooden floor, his robe of black, deep red and gold all around him, the auburn silk undergarments just the same, making him seem endless, which was not an understatement at all, at least as far as his being was concerned. He avoided her eyes though, as his own were lost somewhere in the golden pattern of her robe, the flower texture dancing left and right in the flicker of the candles.
"Man and woman. When did we lose sight of that so much that it actually became so important?" she said, mockingly, though not without a trace of anger and regret.
It was as if until Xiao hadn-t uttered the words, man and woman, assessing their sex and the qualities and faults that seemed to come attached to those words, they had not been aware of their gender.
And now here they both were, in this large room of the tea house, the Zen garden profiled beyond the porch and everything around them lit by paper lanterns, the woman standing, the man at her feet. He, Tora, kind and gentle, his bones fragile and his skin delicate and she, Maria, aggressive and offensive, her shoulders straight as if they could carry the weight of mountains and her character in every like hood of a stone.
"I need some air" Tora said, the folds of black and auburn gaining the flowing shape they always did around his slender body as he got up and headed towards the porch.
"I will not go through with this just because they found fit to command me!" she said without moving an inch, decision clear in her voice and even if he had his back to her he still felt the defying rise of her eyebrows as she said that "I need no man!"
"And I need no woman." he replied without thinking, looking at her over his shoulder, his hand close to a paper lantern he was almost ready to grab. She always got him because she counted on his quick temper and mutual understanding of both their feelings and character. That was why Tora could see the corner of her mouth almost going up but she hid it well in the flickers of light.
"I demand someone kind." Maria did not mind saying, her voice lower.
"I demand someone strong." came the reply. Tora looked at her over his shoulder for a moment then grabbed the paper lantern he intended to and stepped out of the porch and on the stone path barefoot and turned to her fully, holding the lantern to his side "Take a walk with me?" he asked and her face lighted up like a child-s because for a moment she felt forgotten and pushed aside.
The silk of their robes made that distinct sound it did as it molded on every shape it touched, the wood of the porch, the stones in the garden, while they started walking, Tora putting his arm through hers and even though taller, he was the one that rested his head on her shoulder every now and then because he found comfort in it and she was one to give it to him.
Xiao was watching them from the window of his room while absently tying his long hair in a loose tail. He saw Maria chasing away the night butterflies with her fan because Tora was as displeased about insects just as much in his human form as well as a tiger, in return, Tora just held on to her arm tighter. Xiao thought that, if he indeed possessed a heart, he would have felt displeased at the prospect, but heart or no heart, those two had to be separated and thrown back onto their own paths.
- The Flower On The High Shelf
B.
uncover me/like silver tears again/and again and again and again
Not cryptic. Just an excerpt from something I wrote a while ago.
Just because it fits the 3:46 a.m and the rain outside.
To be uncovered like this, gently, passionately, like the storms clouding over cities and countries, mountains and seas, like he made made the other uncover.
To be covered like this, with a violent, burning desire, like evening rain over cobblestone streets, like he covered him.
They were here now.
Them, moving in time and nothing else, the sounds of the rain covering up and making up for the sighs and the shadows.
B.
Just because it fits the 3:46 a.m and the rain outside.
To be uncovered like this, gently, passionately, like the storms clouding over cities and countries, mountains and seas, like he made made the other uncover.
To be covered like this, with a violent, burning desire, like evening rain over cobblestone streets, like he covered him.
They were here now.
Them, moving in time and nothing else, the sounds of the rain covering up and making up for the sighs and the shadows.
B.
Changelings,
Your support ever since I told you guys about me participating in NaNoWriMo is the win even if I sometimes fail.
So here it is, my author profile on NaNoWriMo, word count and random crack included: clickety click
And also the blog I made separately for the story itself. Please keep in mind NNWM is about not editing and not musing over the story and the words too much, it-s just writing on a whim, so don-t expect a great work of literature, I seriously try to write in mind with the big picture but be spontaneous about everything else. So, to anyone who is interested: clickety click click [ the password is shimmer]
Thank you!
B.
Your support ever since I told you guys about me participating in NaNoWriMo is the win even if I sometimes fail.
So here it is, my author profile on NaNoWriMo, word count and random crack included: clickety click
And also the blog I made separately for the story itself. Please keep in mind NNWM is about not editing and not musing over the story and the words too much, it-s just writing on a whim, so don-t expect a great work of literature, I seriously try to write in mind with the big picture but be spontaneous about everything else. So, to anyone who is interested: clickety click click [ the password is shimmer]
Thank you!
B.
At Crossroads, In Dreams
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Why does my heart stop / Why does my heart stop
Cup of coffee, some pen thrown on the table, scribbled notes on paper. Some cotton blouse and comfortable pants, too long for my height, barefoot, glasses on and my hair is a mess.
The Cat & The Full Moon, started in 2006.
Love and Death on Marocco Street, created around 2005 in a teashop.
Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner, created around 2004, never really started, never really in between.
To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep, started in 2007 in an August I will never forget, when Demian came around and did not allow me to eat or sleep.
Crows Who Cannot Act Like Crows, in 2008, made sense to me for one night exactly.
The PostHuman Paranoia at the start of 2009, for a couple of days.
Requiem for Dana in 2008 merged in The Cat & The Full Moon, then didn't fit anywhere at all.
Raise Me To Your Lips in 2006-ish, goes back and forth between fitting in The Cat & The Full Moon and not fitting at all.
Cigarette shouldn't even be mentioned....
Shanghai Nobody, concept created around....er...I don't even remember, it's that old, hasn't even been started yet. But I made a decision some years ago I will not put down a single word down until I land in Shanghai.
I won't even mention the other dozen doodles, half-note half-making sense stuff written across earlier years.
The article on underground rap in Korea and Eastern Asia is going nowhere, my research is reaching brick walls and I won't get anywhere unless I chit chat with someone but neither my Korean, Chinese or Japanese are worth it much than 2 words per language (if even that) so I suppose it's just gonna stay there as an unfinished draft for god knows how long.
That being said, I realized some days ago I threw away the small notebook where I wrote the draft for Room 369, but I remember the exact moment and circumstances under which I wrote it (visually) so it's not hard to re-create those feelings inside and re-write or re-use the original idea.
I also stopped sending people my drafts. Don't get me wrong, James is always so wonderful and taking his time to read through everything, but he only follows it as more of a beta, he never gives me insight and more important, what I really need to know from people, the ever constant question I ask and demand an anser for : how did it make you feel inside ?
I mean I know you liked something when you tell me you liked it but I want to know why ? Because it reminded you of something ? Made you happy ? Sad ? Changed your opinion about something ? Was so intense it was almost bothersome to read ? I need to know.
I can never speak to anyone or write about the writing process. I am always writing because everything inspires me, I write when I am dancing, I write when I notice a flicker in someone's eyes, I write when I watch the city lights, have a walk or notice someone's behaviour or gestures, my mind never stops because there is so much to say about everything, especially those filler moments because those filler moments are what excite me the most.
But I can't talk to anyone about it or write it down because the process in itself is of such a highly intimate level it's hard to be explained, thoroughly, because it's hard to make someone understand how it functions for me without being looked at with a blank or shocked face. Yes, the expressions on people's faces vary from nothing to too much. I did try to explain it to someone, but I got a very serious "What the hell..."glare and stopped. It's too much and maybe it's too intense, maybe there are things people don't want to know about me.
But it's like that. You can't write from what you don't know, when you do, the story only reflects an idea but does not touch it, the process of going through it is not tangible, it's just an image flashing before your eyes and you're just a spectator, but never a participant.
I obsessively take my time. That's why it took me a month to write the 3 paragraph monologue/intro for To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep, because if the feeling is not there, there is no way in hell I am writing just for the sake of saying I finished another chapter.
I'm obsessive. In The Work Of Our Lord's Hand, everything has a meaning, from the colours I picked, to the words spoken and gestures made. That short story is one of the closest things to my heart I ever wrote, I know what it's about, but I never told anyone, I always like it when they tell me what they think happend.
I was supposed to finish Requiem for Dana in the NaNoWriMo month, but I don't function like that. Dana ran away in day 3 of writing and there is no way I can find her through the depths of that unnamed city if she decides to hide behind her inner monsters and her hallucinations, unless she wants to be found.
We try not to allow fiction to clash with out lives but it's close to impossible for me not to mold the two together, get drawn in, scared out of my mind, troubled and restless, until life is sucked out of me and spat back at me again.
All of the above being said, this entry was not supposed to be this long, but my thoughts took over.
What I intended to let out was that Decadence fucks me up, spins me around and turns me inside out and that doesn't even mean it's going anywhere.
The Pianist (I think is the right name for the book) made me sick to my stomach like so many other books of the kind because I never understood how people can see eroticism, pain, pleasure and obsession in such a disgusting way, but maybe it's just me, because I am just on the line that divides sexuality/pansexuality (in my case) and asexuality, so my vision on such matter is blurry, almost as if I feel more than I touch.
I think that's why Decadence is so hard to grasp on, on all levels, because it's so ambiguous when it speaks of touching and feeling.
I avoid satistics. Like in hollywood blockbusters, when a plane crashes, a building burns and what not, we don't grasp on it, we don't really feel it, we don't see the faces in pain and we don't hear the horrified screams or see the limbs torn apart, we're not really there, we just see a statistic, casualties, and we take it lightly.
I don't want a statistic and also Decadence demands the truth delivered in a tangible but yet not sickening form like in The Pianist, that 'what if fiction is real?' question. There is nothing there that I have not touched, no sparkle of light that did not hurt my eyes and evolved into the flickering lights of a city at night, but Decadence is throwing me beyond that and I like it, but the ways it twists me around demands more breathing time for me and a different type of focus.
My obsession for writing about moments probably reaches its peak here, almost like the constant, almost sickening search for answers in To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep. I don't even know if it's safe for me to let out the person who is writing Decadence, that's why there's only a snippet here and there so maybe Decadence will be finished in Hong Kong, somwhere where I can unleash things it will be hard to recover from.
But regardless, regardless of all that, I will recover sooner or later, because it needs to be written, it needs to be out there because I know I cannot, cannot, cannot be the only one who will understand it.
B.
The Cat & The Full Moon, started in 2006.
Love and Death on Marocco Street, created around 2005 in a teashop.
Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner, created around 2004, never really started, never really in between.
To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep, started in 2007 in an August I will never forget, when Demian came around and did not allow me to eat or sleep.
Crows Who Cannot Act Like Crows, in 2008, made sense to me for one night exactly.
The PostHuman Paranoia at the start of 2009, for a couple of days.
Requiem for Dana in 2008 merged in The Cat & The Full Moon, then didn't fit anywhere at all.
Raise Me To Your Lips in 2006-ish, goes back and forth between fitting in The Cat & The Full Moon and not fitting at all.
Cigarette shouldn't even be mentioned....
Shanghai Nobody, concept created around....er...I don't even remember, it's that old, hasn't even been started yet. But I made a decision some years ago I will not put down a single word down until I land in Shanghai.
I won't even mention the other dozen doodles, half-note half-making sense stuff written across earlier years.
The article on underground rap in Korea and Eastern Asia is going nowhere, my research is reaching brick walls and I won't get anywhere unless I chit chat with someone but neither my Korean, Chinese or Japanese are worth it much than 2 words per language (if even that) so I suppose it's just gonna stay there as an unfinished draft for god knows how long.
That being said, I realized some days ago I threw away the small notebook where I wrote the draft for Room 369, but I remember the exact moment and circumstances under which I wrote it (visually) so it's not hard to re-create those feelings inside and re-write or re-use the original idea.
I also stopped sending people my drafts. Don't get me wrong, James is always so wonderful and taking his time to read through everything, but he only follows it as more of a beta, he never gives me insight and more important, what I really need to know from people, the ever constant question I ask and demand an anser for : how did it make you feel inside ?
I mean I know you liked something when you tell me you liked it but I want to know why ? Because it reminded you of something ? Made you happy ? Sad ? Changed your opinion about something ? Was so intense it was almost bothersome to read ? I need to know.
I can never speak to anyone or write about the writing process. I am always writing because everything inspires me, I write when I am dancing, I write when I notice a flicker in someone's eyes, I write when I watch the city lights, have a walk or notice someone's behaviour or gestures, my mind never stops because there is so much to say about everything, especially those filler moments because those filler moments are what excite me the most.
But I can't talk to anyone about it or write it down because the process in itself is of such a highly intimate level it's hard to be explained, thoroughly, because it's hard to make someone understand how it functions for me without being looked at with a blank or shocked face. Yes, the expressions on people's faces vary from nothing to too much. I did try to explain it to someone, but I got a very serious "What the hell..."glare and stopped. It's too much and maybe it's too intense, maybe there are things people don't want to know about me.
But it's like that. You can't write from what you don't know, when you do, the story only reflects an idea but does not touch it, the process of going through it is not tangible, it's just an image flashing before your eyes and you're just a spectator, but never a participant.
I obsessively take my time. That's why it took me a month to write the 3 paragraph monologue/intro for To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep, because if the feeling is not there, there is no way in hell I am writing just for the sake of saying I finished another chapter.
I'm obsessive. In The Work Of Our Lord's Hand, everything has a meaning, from the colours I picked, to the words spoken and gestures made. That short story is one of the closest things to my heart I ever wrote, I know what it's about, but I never told anyone, I always like it when they tell me what they think happend.
I was supposed to finish Requiem for Dana in the NaNoWriMo month, but I don't function like that. Dana ran away in day 3 of writing and there is no way I can find her through the depths of that unnamed city if she decides to hide behind her inner monsters and her hallucinations, unless she wants to be found.
We try not to allow fiction to clash with out lives but it's close to impossible for me not to mold the two together, get drawn in, scared out of my mind, troubled and restless, until life is sucked out of me and spat back at me again.
All of the above being said, this entry was not supposed to be this long, but my thoughts took over.
What I intended to let out was that Decadence fucks me up, spins me around and turns me inside out and that doesn't even mean it's going anywhere.
The Pianist (I think is the right name for the book) made me sick to my stomach like so many other books of the kind because I never understood how people can see eroticism, pain, pleasure and obsession in such a disgusting way, but maybe it's just me, because I am just on the line that divides sexuality/pansexuality (in my case) and asexuality, so my vision on such matter is blurry, almost as if I feel more than I touch.
I think that's why Decadence is so hard to grasp on, on all levels, because it's so ambiguous when it speaks of touching and feeling.
I avoid satistics. Like in hollywood blockbusters, when a plane crashes, a building burns and what not, we don't grasp on it, we don't really feel it, we don't see the faces in pain and we don't hear the horrified screams or see the limbs torn apart, we're not really there, we just see a statistic, casualties, and we take it lightly.
I don't want a statistic and also Decadence demands the truth delivered in a tangible but yet not sickening form like in The Pianist, that 'what if fiction is real?' question. There is nothing there that I have not touched, no sparkle of light that did not hurt my eyes and evolved into the flickering lights of a city at night, but Decadence is throwing me beyond that and I like it, but the ways it twists me around demands more breathing time for me and a different type of focus.
My obsession for writing about moments probably reaches its peak here, almost like the constant, almost sickening search for answers in To The Frontiers Of Your Sleep. I don't even know if it's safe for me to let out the person who is writing Decadence, that's why there's only a snippet here and there so maybe Decadence will be finished in Hong Kong, somwhere where I can unleash things it will be hard to recover from.
But regardless, regardless of all that, I will recover sooner or later, because it needs to be written, it needs to be out there because I know I cannot, cannot, cannot be the only one who will understand it.
B.
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