"seriously."
::sigh::
because, well no one is ever honest with wants me
unless plied with alcohol, 4am pst, alone with no repercussions, pick
your poison... and it always knocks the wind out of me, as if i should
have expected it but didnt (because of course i only nurse my onesided
obsessions on a single railroadtracked mind, and feel icewater shock
when they become more than 2dimensions, 2sided, 2... i cant be anything
but singular.)
i cant. i wish i could. i wish i could feel like a normal person, and
not modern art-- lookersin interpret themselves on my canvases,
leaving once Truth and Beauty is found. onto the next piece... and making me nothing more than a
soundingboard, nothing more than a funhouse mirror, noting the vulgarity of "piece." and not me.
years of this makes me feel unreal, unloveable. (cue moz, "unloveable"
track, pls. its my party and ill play as much morrissey and the smiths
that i want, thanks.)
its... ::sigh::
and it is years. im only 27 but its been always, always this way. ive
never been more than a novelty to anyone but myself, and lately i think
ive even become one in my own eyes.
see, you grow up in a small town looking "different," the only version
of asian within 20km, and highschoolers all want the asian chick notch
on their belts. filipino boyfriends with a non-Pride dalliance (who
thought singing the starspangledbanner in my presence was the ultimate
insult demonstration of my hapa-ness), caucasian
jocks and jerks with nothing but (japanese) schoolgirl porn on the
brain, hentai anime nerds wanting nothing more than
to be "real..."
secret: im not asian. my dad is japanese, but ive been raised by my mom
since birth and shes a tallerthanpaul white woman with blue eyes and
blonde hair-- i carry no culture, no ethnicity other than hers. asian
people dont think im asian (enough... tho i carry grandpa's 442nd
stories and grandma's b&w photos close to my heart), and non-asians
think, yeah of
course shes asian/not white. and im just me-- i dont even think on what
i look like until i walk by mirrors or people so *politely* seem its
their place to ask, "what are you..."
but see, these distinctions dont matter to teenagers and scuffles in
borrowed beds when the parents arent home. and i guess i understood
that after the sheets have been changed theyve meant less than nothing,
as ive already been thanksseeyoulater-ed on my merry way by then,
knowing it was only a ghostimage anyone ever wants of me. (not that these scenarios have been limited to highschool, either.)
and ofCOURSE not just limited to race/sex struggles, since i gave up avoiding whitemen when i got to
college... dalliances in other ways, i obviously am. [yodaphile.] too
many things to talk about... ive lived my (sexual) life as a
novelty in so many ways... not really realizing that novelty is that
for a reason-- not a wife, not a girlfriend you take home to mom, not
anything but moments and short ones at that.
i dont want it anymore. i dont want it so much that i want to remain a
bright singularity, instead of a dimmed, heartbroken one.
im always the broken one, always the one left behind, always always.
its so not fucking fair sometimes. i still really believe i deserve the
brightest star, the biggest lowest moons in the sky-- and i sit
dayindayout nursing their existence in my mind, making up scenarios to
lovefucklust someone bigger than me so, so well i dont matter...
its gotten easier to be alone and fantasize about living a normal life,
a normal love with someone who can eclipse all of these tiny,
hodgepodge things that make me desireable in a singular way but end up
just fragmenting my identity... fantasies about not being a novelty,
about being painfully normal and
not my checkbox category census self. im really (fucking) fun for, a
few months... but it always just ends up being boiled down to *just me*
and, its not enough. not enough to stick around for joy, not enough to
keep someone to me alone and mine alone.
and i get along fine sometimes, with my daydreams occupying 12.4% of my
thoughts for the day, until ... until i get gobsmacked with the fact no
one lives in my head but myself, until i remember that real love and
real people are so much better than historical recreations of tragic,
exponential lovescenes played out via goodvibes and a healthy back...
i just want things i cant have. so much it hurts, and reminds me of my
place in the world. ive pretty much receded into living here in my
non-hurt, no-human-interaction world... living out life on keyboards
and realizing i express myself far better with the help of a computer
than my painfullyshy vox.
that i am nothing more than words, and fail outside of them.
but yeah, "seriously."
me too.
crazyharder than youd imagine, since id take so much advantage of a
sparks short life cos no one knows mobetter than me that it
cant wont last outside the dirty day and nightdreams
i already have about it. and id need a whole lifetimes volume, if not
length, to fuel on and keep slowly combusting with the memory itd leave
and id be left with.
fuck this. im going to go the the farmers market in oakland and gorge
myself on kettle corn, walk around chinatown and know that whatever
they think of me, i cant understand... nurse this daydream seed that i
thought hadnt had the willpower to germ inside, hoping no one
recognizes the scent of selfpity being keenly nurtured once again, or
notices me trying so hard to (not) wonder what itd be like, you know,
seriously.
aK
GamesGrid, you know the drill.
10:00:25 AM 
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Friday, July 15, 2005
