Blue Dress Under the Sun

In the bar, I patted my friend on the shoulder and left. She is a supporter of Germany--simply because she want to see Germany play Brazil, many people support the host country because of that reason.

I don't understand that. Soccer to me is a loyalty thing.

I walked out of the bar to go back to the office. The sun is bright and it is a beautiful day in New York. I walked along Madison Avenue on the east side of the street. I had my sunglasses on. My eyes were filled with tears, walking on the street that is so familar to you and I, for knowing that I won't be seeing my beloved team at this game, or you.

Then I worked attentatively for another 3 hours to make up for the sneaking out, then I was chatting with my co-worker who is showing me his photos of London, another city that I deamed of going.

Then I heard some baby's voice and the voice of J. Then I know they are here. The babies you are so close to. The baby that when he was born, we loved each other the most.

I rushed out and saw them. The beautiful boy with such large blue eyes and the red sox outfit. I knelt down infront of his cart. He looked at me, checking me out. He then smiled. Both of his hands were holding his juice bottle first and the he reached out to touch me with one hand, the tender hand that have touched you. I wanted to hold him. My eyes got moisted. But I had to hide my feelings.

I did not see their mother, a great woman, from what I heard from you and our brief exchange of emails.

It breaks my heart to see them. It breaks my heart to miss you so much and can not see you. To see them is like to remember the cute conversation we had on the street of Lexington on a winter night: "You know we could have beautiful babies like that too."

They were lost in the wind, in this sunny beautiful day when I walked home, my eyes teary behind those sun glasses, for my team, for the beatiful babies, for promises and dreams lost, for heart hur, for your remaining unseen, for distance and silence, for no longer knowing.

Yet it is the beautiful day of summer, sad people should be shamed.

I was wearing this beautiful blue dress. I thought that you saw me wearing it years ago, when we were not close yet, you must have liked it, even you won't remember it. I wish I wore it more when we saw each other regularly. We never had a summer together. It makes me feel sad to think about it.

Yet I remember the portrait your friend did for you, before I even saw it, I asked: Is there color blue in it? You said: how do you know?

Then you sent me the email she sent you: I saw the blue in you. I am glad I have it.

We both saw the blue in you. I may not have loved you well, but I do know you, and love you for what I know.

The Ability to Laugh--at Myself

I burst into laughter on the street with myself while thinking of this little incident a couple of months ago. My heart was aching from missing you, but was able to laugh, at myself.

I was in my grocery store--the Wholefood in Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. I was paying at registra and randomly glanced through the little eat out area where usually there are lot of young professionals having their dinner alone at dinner time of a week day.

I noticed a guy that is very good looking, with stunning profile, eating alone, looking ahead, seemed to be lost in his thought.

Being certain that I will pass by him, I determined to make an positive impression, just for the sake of Aestheticism.

That is weeks after your call, so I was in a very weird self-love and self-hate mood.

I know I looked very sleek with the blue Armarni Exchange cloth jacket, short skirt and the pair of soft and sexy looking long boots. I was very sure of myself.

I walked forward, grocery bag in one hand, raising my head high, imagining I am wearing little black dress like Audery Hurborn in Breakfast in Tiffany.

Two old gentlemen stood at the far end in front of the flower stall, chatting to each other, paying attention to me. I tried to avoid eye contact with them, I was looking at the handsome guy through the corner of my eyes. I was almost sure that he was starting at me, the beautiful and sophisticated me, when I felt my left foot suddenly s-l-i-p-p-ed.

Next thing I know, I was lying on the ground on my back, literally lying there, not sure my underpants was exposed because my shirt is short enough, but very likely so. The two gentlemen came up and leaned over and asked: Are you OK?

Yes, I inevitably blushed and got up on my feet as soon as I can. I was brave enough to look at the handsome guy whom I tried to impress, he had the nerve of looking at me, with a smile at the corner of his mouth--he turns out not to be my type even.

I collected my stuff and run to the escalator and never looked back.

15 minutes later, I walked into the shoe repair shop of that Romanian man, drop that pair of boots on his counter, and yelled: "You really need to do a better job on these heels, you know. "

I was laughing at myself, last night, on the side walk of 9th Avenue, on this humid summer day. I miss you like my heart is going to split into pieces. I was wondering why I was so dramatic, one thing is for sure, I love you very much, but there are other inherent reasons. And I am getting closer to clean them up the more I have been living my life by myself, stronger.

I wish I was a more light-hearted girl, postive, happy and carefree, rather than being sad and sentimental.

My friend Gawain has determined his future love would be Salina Saleh or the like.

Sounds great. Right for him, right for you, right for you all.

Seattle, I Can Not Go Just Yet

Can not go. Should be on the plane last night, reschedule it. Of course, there is also a legitimate reason. I have to stay here to work on some new account, on which I will work with your best friend.

How do we take torture like this? Tell me.

Can not go. Even the potential boat ride on lake Washington, the cute PM who hit on me, the planned good time and vacation after that could not make me enjoy it.

Can not go. I feel relieved when I cancel it and my trip to SF afterwards. I can not run away. I have to stay and face it. And the wound is too new for me to go there. At least, here, is home, home city, where you may or may not be.

Seattle, is full of our memories that I could not face it just yet. But I know, the time will come.

My friend said: it is like that restaurant or bar, you can not make it yours and his so that you can never go back without him. You have to make it yours only.

And I stay to face the torture of not knowing, yet when I look into the eyes of your best friend, I can not help wondering and I don't know how long I can last like this.

There is a limit for what we can bear. They say.

Faith Healer--A play I saw

I was in awe. I love story telling, and it can not be better done than this. It is a one-to-one experience, it is up close and personal. It is divine.

To own that moment with Rlaph Fiennes, or Frank Hardy, is a blessing. To listen to Ian McDiarmid's in his drunk British accent about the tale of a woman in red dress and a black ribbon in the back takes you to a fareaway places, dreamy, in the small villages of Ireland. To feel the anxiety and love and despair of Grace that is so intense you feel you can cut it through, is emotionally draining.

Structure of the story reminds me of Rashômon, and the ending reminds me of that of another story that I love dearly: The South .
by by Borges .

But it is the performances of the finest actors on stage, that make it so powerful.

Please, you, go see it.

Dry Cleaning Ruins it All

It had to be the shirt, I looked down. My boss pointed out she can see my pink bra and some skin during our weekly meeting, before everyone else shows up. So I sat really close to the conference table, seeking covering.

It is my favorite summer shirt to go with the white pant, but it is tighter now, compared to last year.

I will have a talk with my Korean Drying cleaner--what have you done to my shirt?

Or what have I done to myself? Kick boxing is in order now.

Bikini wax was done, for which I did not get my money back, never did, but am I ready for the tiny Bikini I got from somewhere near the so-called original birth place of Bikini in southern Italy?

Mirror, Mirror, tell the truth.

A politically correct silence.

A Letter

Thumb hurt, neck hurt, eyes hurt, heart sang, I wrote a letter, on the leather patterned paper.

I hope it reach you--the person handling my package was insulted since I insisted on seeing him put it in the padded envelope. So it is all fate now.

Is this seventh-grade love stricken behavior or urban tales of love and pain?

I was told foreigners love differently on this land.

Here is more proof of that--I wrote a letter and I watch world cup.

Or I just really love you.

Sheer Beauty

That is the second goal, and all the goals before and after it, by Argentinean in the match against Serbia on this world cup. The game started approximately two hours ago.

Argentinean players are young, with darker skin, and shy smile. They have the beautiful faces from that land with strong wind, the horseman's country, from the knife fighting and guitar playing and tobacco chewing and story telling land of Borges.

This is a sheer beautiful play of my beloved team. I am in tears.

And I hope I am cheering with you when the goal happened, when this world cup is playing out, when summer days are blinding with this bright sun light, when night belongs to lovers.

Red Studio - Continue

I am posting more photos here to entertain the readers who like to see more of the red studio.

New York Red's Red Studio, in a red building, on 55 and 9th, full of dreams, and love and memories with her love, the crazy girl red.

Following conversation proves that:

MM: I am the most seemingly girly among us...
me: I could be girly too sometime (was about to say I could be a needy chick and prefered to be called woman)
MM: I am talking about girly not crazy
me: ...What does that suppose to mean

Green Tea, Honey, Adina, Astrid, Chipewee, Jasmine

I was drinking Green Tea with Honey tonight to try to get back my crisp and girly voice, to not to have the cold explode and to fight off the rain and chill of of this week in the city.

Then I feel like re-reading the little fiction that was in the New Yorker of May 15, 2006, titled "Adina, Astrid, Chipewee, Jasmine" by Mattew Klam. They are babies's names.

It is a chilling, true, funny story with weighted darkenss and humor. I was in tears and in uncontrollable laughter while reading it.

It is about a plain documentary film making guy's fear to be a father, a familiy man, so scared that he wanted to kill his pregnant wife who ate 3 chickens in a week, who was the most beauitful woman in his life and he knew he love, but he deperately want an affair and has the urge to strangle his wife.

"Instead of wondering how to fix it, he gave himself a gift: despair without shame. Freedom from the necessary revulsion with himself. Like some miserable Goth Kid, his thoughts went straight to hell and made him stronger."

"Look at the mess, look at what he'd done. He was the only guy he knew liked his wife and still tried to cheat on her every chance he got. That wasn't progress. It was nothing he'd recommend".

That is how bad things are. But in the end, when he looks at the little girl that looked a little like George Costanza, " A new motor inside him was running on high."

I am a women, yet I identify with him, I identify with that fear and worries and the need to face it, the longing to be someone else.

I identify with him as I feel your fear.

The fear is, maybe, the natural immune reaction in the stage of transformation, of making it to the next stage in life. We all went through it, like standing at the start line of another race, the waiting at the pre-start time is the worst. Then things will only get better from there.

We adopt, we get out little motor running ultimately after overcoming the fear.

There are some type of us who enjoy fear and pain more than fun time, in other words, I enjoy love and I am still in love. That is why.

06/06/06

People here told me this is a evil date number, since it is related with the demon or Satan.

I remember the movie Rosmary's Baby and The Omen. Mia Farrow was so lovely in that Polanski movie.

In Chinese culture, however, 6 is a lucky number and 666 is just super lucky.

What a difference! And I, live in the space between the two culture, just think this is a special day, when the number combination is simple and elegant, where it marks the time that we passes by on this planet, this space, this time.

In China right now, 10 million kids are trying to sleep tight and wake up to the most important days in their life--the start of the 3-day nationwide college entrance exam. The exam that will determine their destiny and experience, that will lead them far or near, happy or unhappy.

Soccer World Cup is coming up. It is a beautiful game.

Encountering an Old Writing

This man, who told me the story of the wind-up bird chronicle, has long eyelashes. In his eyes, once set upon me, I can’t read what I see.

He gave me this Open Letter from Birds. He feels their anger and contempt.

During his crazed day, he thinks of the mystery between birds and language. I am touched.

This man, walking besides me, on the street of New York, makes me smile and silent. He talks, and he stops. I almost can’t bear, when he stops talking. I will want to touch him, when I don't listen to him.

To me, it is the essence of truth, the feel, the touch, the reaching out to and withdrawing from, the uncertainties of certain certainty. He makes me feel alive.

Like in a birdcage, we live on separate floors and separate cells, we do not see each other often. They are not real to me, those moments between our encounters.

They are prelude to anything, however trivial and meaningless, that happens during those brief pass-bys, controlled and quivering. What comes out of my mouth is never what I want to say. I no longer know myself.

"Like a little bird, my lover left and never comes back..." so told me by an ancient Chinese folk song. This man, who handed me the letter from birds, is not my lover, yet.

The time I took over the letter, I know all the birds in this big city is no longer nameless to me. I name them after him and I shall recognize them. Lovely birds.

They come and go, these birds of his. I hear them but never see them. Like those kisses and touches under the night sky, at the corner of some unknown street, I do not know where they have gone, or if they have ever been.

Like a little bird I once held softly in my hand, when I open it, it is not there. Not a stroke of wings, but it has flown away and never comes back.

Only the gentle and trembling feeling, from a falling feather, left little warmth on my skin, on my icy-cold hands, that he once held in his palms, but no more.