So last week, someone told me that I was “striking looking”.
You know who else was “striking looking”?  The Elephant Man.

Were they calling me ugly? I don’t think so.  I was there and that is not how the conversation was going.  But “striking-looking”?  People who are described by that term usually have freakishly large noses – or eyes that are set alarmingly far apart.  Calling someone “striking-looking” is a polite way of saying: I’d paint ya, but that’s about it.

Striking-looking…it’s not even a proper adjective.   So non-committal.  Like a semi-compliment.  Or a quasi-diss.

Striking-looking…

Color me perplexed.

Nicked from a friend’s status update on Facebook – but apparently it’s a famous quote.

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” Billy – Age 4

I’m doubtful that “Billy, age 4″ ever existed (Bravo, clever marketeers.) but still, this is the freshest, least contrived description of love I have heard in a while.  I really dig the idea of a sacred part of you finding refuge inside someone else.

once. what does it matter
when or who, i knew
of love.
i fixed my body
under his and went
to sleep in love
all trace of me
was wiped away

This is an extract from Sonia Sanchez’s Ballad.  It’s been swirling around in my brain for a while.  I think I might be nearing girl time because the last few days, this bit, my favorite part of the entire poem, has also made me feel incredibly…disconnected.

All trace of me was wiped away.

I adore So-San.  No-one can make words massage you the way she can.

All trace of me.  Wiped away.

I do love me a strong cup of existential anguish first thing on a Sunday morning.   It’s how I feel about Shanghai now.  As I get ready for the last of my deserting friends to leave in nine days I feel like I’m having a cloak of reluctant anonymity thrust upon me.  Like I’m entering the world of anti-Cheers. Like there’ll only be people who know Contextual Me left

On the upside, Contextual Me is cool.  Depending on the context in which you know me her.

Work Me: She’s awesome.  She dresses super-businessy these days and gets stuff done.  Hire her.  I’d totally be friends with her.  You know, if I wasn’t already her.
Weekend Me: Her, I could take or leave.  All my stupidest decisions seem to be made on a Friday or Saturday.  And not just during the evenings either.  It seems that judgment lapses are not purely a nighttime thing.
Church Me:  She has not made an appearance all year.  This is bad.   But she will be around a lot during the coming weeks.

All trace of me.  Wiped away.

Gah!  Can you tell my birthday is just round the corner.  Can ya?

Last week I was doing some audio recording for this publishing house’s English books aimed at youngsters between 11 and 15.  It was me and one other guy and it went a little something like this.

Question 11…
Me (“Jane”): That cake looks delicious.  Can I have a slice?
Other guy (“John”): Sure, help yourself.
“Jane”: Question:  What does Jane want?

Question 12…
“Jane”: I haven’t seen Tom today.
“John”: Tom died last night – in his sleep.
“Jane”: Question: Where is Tom?

A little bit jarring, to say the least.  Not sure what the answer is meant to be, either.  Where is Tom?  How very existential it all is.

Hi Blogitita,

It really has been too long.

What is on my mind today?

Too much. A lot of it family-related stuff, and therefore not really for here and now. But I was thinking about pedantry a little bit yesterday.

We were in Chinese class and the teacher, who, for the record, I adore, said:

我忙的时侯不胖。

Translation: When I am busy, I am not fat.

So I asked her, what does that mean? She looked me straight in the eye and simply repeated the sentence in English. Except she articulated it like it was two sentences this time.

When I am busy. *exaggerated pause* I am not fat.

Oh, ok. Much clearer.

Now I like my pedagogy…pedagogical. I really think clarity and rules and linear thinking are the best ways of learning language. This is not everyone’s way of thinking, I’m sure, but it’s my way so let’s call it “The Right Way”, just for fun.

You can’t say, “When I am busy, I am not fat.” As a fatty I feel obliged to point out that being fat is something you first become and then be. You’re not fat today, skinny tomorrow. Even if you were busy for a crunching 3-week spell, you’d have to have been pretty porky before to get fat in that space of time. Or if you were thin before, you’re not suddenly fat now. You make the transition from skinny to slim. But you’re still not fat. You’re busy. And gorging yourself on Quality Street chocolates and coke (o’cola, not o’caine) because you need the sugar rush, the caffeine high, the focus to keep going through an incredibly stressful time. But you can’t just “be” fat. It’s not like getting struck by lightning. It doesn’t come from nowhere. Laoshi, I reject this sentence. So, did you in fact mean:

When I am busy, I don’t put on weight.

Or

When I am busy, I lose weight.

Because your offering – When I’m busy I’m not fat – that don’t mean diddly. It’s just a garbled mélange of nonsense words. Much like this blog. “Garbled mélange” is fun to say, tho, isn’t it? I will see if there are more opportunities to use it more today. But it’s bugging me. You can tell because after the two weeks that I have had, the fact that this is the thing that is dancing on my brain says something about how I have letting go issues.

I’d like to blog about something more substantial (as huge as the fat-busy thing is) except I haven’t read a newspaper or talked to my family or rang any of my friends or watched a TV show in about 10 days.

Is that swine flu thing still about?

I’m going to a barbecue today. It is sooooooooo far away. About 45 minutes in a taxi. 45 minutes or a kerjillion dollars, depending on how tight your budget is and how you measure taxi rides. But I do dig the chick who is hosting it – she’s a grown up. Lord knows those can be hard to find in Shanghai. And I’m 30, you know.

Hey Iris, Where are u & ur naughty lttl sister going 2 b tonite?

This is the text message I got a few minutes ago. Just after 10 pm. When I was in my pyjamas, in bed, scouring the internet for a definitive answer on whether AP Style required Greek letters to be capitalized. The sentence: “Blah blah blah is the Alpha to blah blah blah’s Omega”. It’s for an article I’m editing and I really want to use the words alpha (Alpha?) and omega (Omega!) because a) I know what they mean and that makes me look smart and b) it’s the perfect way of chopping down a three-line sentence into one punchy line. Hang on, switch reasons a) and b). Editing isn’t all about me.

*…*

Really.

So anyway, I’m blogging about the text because a) I have no idea who it’s from and b) it gives the impression that I am the kind of person who would be out painting the town red on what is effectively a Sunday night (work and class tomorrow).

Ok, I lied. I do know who it is from. It is from someone who met me on one of my decompression nights. I’m a freelancer. This means that sometimes, if the projects fall that way, and because I am petrified of turning down a good project, I go on long, weekendless spells of intensive graft. At the end of such a spell, one might, once in a while, need to let one’s hair down.

Person X met me on what can only be described as a Rapunzel Night.

And now, because this was our first and only encounter, Person X a very skewed impression of who I am and how I roll. Where am I and my “naughty little sister” going to be tonight? Deary me. Context really is everything, isn’t it?

I’m at home, Person X. Working. Where are you? Whachudoin’? That girl you met that time, she barely exists. Which is why she’s not going to text back.

Unless you want to read some poetry. Or listen to some jazz. Or have a DMC (deep meaningful conversation) about nothing at all and everything under the sun.

No? Bummer.

1. Hoarding.  If it’s tiny, if you’ll never miss it until it’s gone, if you got it eons ago from a boy you’re no longer sure you didn’t imagine into existence, hold on to it. 
2. Saying goodbye to beauty sleep and getting used to large dark rings under your eyes
3. Having a nephew who is gorgeous and funny and able to make all the other stuff seem inconsequential with one gooily mispronounced syllable.
4. Walking away rather than putting up your dukes.
5. Planning extravagant holidays, that you’ll probably never be able to afford, with people you love.
6. Giving up on make-up during the sticky Shanghai summer
7. Giving up on make-up altogether.  
8. Learning what the cool kids are saying in Chinese slang.
9. Letting your phone run out of credit and not topping it up for a week.  The silence will be sublime.
10. Finding someone who is not freaked out by your special brand of “weird” – then never letting them go.

What do you recommend?

Act I

At the bus stop…

Me: Hello, kind Sir. Here is a note that I have handwritten.
Him: Hm, kinda cacographic, isn’t it?
Me: (inside voice) Cacographic? *Swoon*
Me: (outside voice) I love you.

Act II

At dinner..

Him: What do you think of this Sauvignon Blanc?
Me: I don’t know. It tastes kind of…loud.
Him: What a charming catachresis.
Me: Seriously, marry me yesterday.

***Curtain***

Yesterday I gave an interview for an article about Twitter people (tweeple?) in Shanghai. Here’s the thing with me: I have no filter when I talk to new people. I am invariably very nervous and this manifests itself as chattiness. I have to fill the air with words or else…Well,it just doesn’t bear thinking about.

So anyway: interview. Yesterday. The guy seemed a bit of a Twitter-skeptic. And I get it. In fact, I think I am one too.

At one point he said something along the lines of: Twitter is for losers with no life. Obviously, these were not his exact words, but I watch American legal dramas, I know what insinuation sounds like.

I didn’t know what to do with that. On one hand, he was articulating an opinion – nothing wrong with that. On the other, he was kinda talking smack about me since, I have to admit, twitter is something I have come to rely on quite heavily for a lot of things: like feedback, grammar surveys, idea-diving…

Where me and the Interviewer Man found we were in agreement, though, is that Twitter is not really for making friends. It’s about networking. About finding people who can help you to fulfill a specific aim. It’s not about warm feelings and cybercuddles (not those kinds of cybercuddles, Mind-in-the-gutter).

I went to writing group again last night. One of the things we did was write about a protagonist and his/her foil as two sides of the same coin. Earlier in the evening we’d written some poetry and, for probably my first time ever, I read out one of my poems to a bunch of virtual strangers. It’s not people reading my stuff that wigs me out. It’s me reading it aloud in my own voice that I find so scary. I felt incredibly exposed. Like there was a giant magnifying glass zooming in on all my imperfections. Like all the flaws I work so hard to disguise were ringing out in each word I uttered. It freaked me out a little bit. But am glad I did it.

Here’s my villain/heroine thing. One’s a dealer, one’s junkie. Their backstories are anybody’s guess.

Villain

Sweet-kissing Chrysanthemum. Chrissy for short. She had a way about her. A ravenous, unspoken thing that devoured the men she toyed with. Sometimes, the women too. If she was fluid, then her morals were vapor. Barely there. She didn’t need them. Morals were the brakes. The red light to her fast existence. She was all go, baby. Sweet-kissing Chrysanthemum. The girl with a pill for every ache. Just tell her where it hurts. She might make it better. She might fix you. Or she might just be fill you up with her poison because you want it. And because she can.

Heroine
It kept on growing. This gaping cavern inside her which she’d been struggling to fill. Struggling for years, it felt like. Lord, when would this uphill be over? It was so steep and she so tired that everything ached. From the frazzled tips of her raggedy hair to the hardening scabs on her battered feet. She needed a release. Or a boost. Something to numb the pain. To launch her high over this landscape of desolation and despair. She needed Chrissy. Just for tonight. Something to make the sweet sweet again. To wash out the bitter from her mouth. Tomorrow she’d started start. The repair work would begin. But today she just needed her head and a one way ticket to anywherebuthere.