Get lost in a book

I sometimes think that the lives led by obsessive people can never be clean.  There will be collateral damage, harsh words, unsaid farewells, heartbreak, shameful acts. But then I backtrack. Clearly I am thinking of myself in comparison to people I have deigned to label unobsessed. On bad days I think of these people with some derision mixed with more than a healthy dose of jealousy.  But who is anyone to judge another person’s life and actions? No one is allowed but we all do it anyway, don’t we?

The reason for this rant?  A book by a beloved author.  I was reading the Times an hour ago and came across a review of a book by Amy Bloom.  I went a little crazy, called the bookstores in neighborhood (there are two) and found out that the title isn’t due to be released until tomorrow. I begged the manager to unpack it and let me buy it.  I went to the store and it turns out I know the manager.  Eight years ago, when he was a grad student and we were next door neighbors, we dated. Or more honestly, we slept together for a few months. Small world.

We fell into a strange kind of conversation that lasted all of three minutes because I wanted to get back home to (a) write about how crazy books make me, (b) how I used to sleep with the manager of the bookstore and (c) obsessive behavior.

Amy Bloom does not generally get me all riled up but this collection of stories has a story about Lionel and Julia.  Every year or so, I reread the stories she has written about them. I don’t know why – it’s twisted and doomed and unclassifiable. At least to me. My plan is to read the old Lionel and Julia stories and then to crack the new book.

The bookstore manager is from Kashmir. We met when I first moved to New York and we had sex on 9/11. I don’t own a TV and went to his apartment to watch the coverage.  Together Amit and I watched that guy jump out of tower on CNN at least 20 times. Post apocalyptic sex that lasted longer than I thought possible.  Anyway, we parted amicably and I haven’t thought of him in years. I forgot that his eyes are that strange shade of green and that I used to have a hard time looking at him because those eyes of his were a little too intense for me (he wasn’t creepy, I was simply uneasy about everything when we were “together”).

My obsessive behavior amuses me most of the time. (I was never obsessed with Amit, we were a diversion to one another.) It makes me wonder if I am hurting myself in some way.  I come form a long line of crazies after all.  The book thing is what gives me the most satisfaction. I do not like to borrow books (I won’t want to return it). I don’t like the books with a cracked spine unless it’s from a used bookstore. I don’t like to lend books. My favorite book about being a book freak is Longing and Literacy in L.A.  It’s chicklit really but it hits home with me.

My friend Wendy is the only one who can judge if I will like a book and gives me books knowing she will never see it again.  I trust her judgement.

I’m hopped up on cough medicine right now.  Forgive me for sounding a little manic.

I'm thinking of my friend Alice. She is one of the unobsessed. I have always been jealous of her even though I don't want any part of her life. Sometimes we talk and I wonder how we remain friends.  We're past the two decade mark at this point and no matter what happens, she and I always love each other even though we might not understand the other much anymore.

Alice doesn't hurt people or say mean things. She's never had her heart broken. She's never been through a break up. She has the quietest, most stable life. What is that like?  She is the person I understand the least -- what I cannot imagine. Sometimes I think I love her because she is like a fairytale to me -- I don't want to live her life, but I like being able to see it once in a while because it does seem to have its charms.

Guada

I am sick again.  My immune system has let me down and I am a little pissed.  I should probably not anthropomorphize this or else people will think I am mentally ill on top of everything else.

A childhood friend from International School in Manila found me on Facebook. It's hard to explain what it is like for me to be remembered by people I knew in the Philippines.  With relatives, it's expected. But the 3rd grade, not so much.  Maybe it's because of the circumstances of how I left school in Manila or my intermittent attendance -- whatever it is, I have always thought of these classmates. 

This girl was the richest person in a school of rich people.  I can't even begin to describe her house -- a white mansion with a blue tile roof, a guardhouse, dogs patrolling the property. She had a Hello Kitty bedroom. 

If I ever go back to Manila, I wonder how I'd feel. There is a deep attachment even now.  I think it's a bit unusual because I was fairly young when I left and I am, for the most part, completely assimilated.  But my Tagalog is almost perfect, I know big words.  People are surprised at what I remember when kids who left later than I did claim to remember nothing.  

My good memory is a kind of currency.  I didn't set out to do this, but I have learned that people like you simply because you remember small details about them.  And why not?  I can see the allure--it's the same thing as my getting happy that Guada remembers me--it is existential reassurance.  

This weekend, my friend CHS was here.  I admitted to my clinginess and she was surprised. She said she thought I was a person who could take it or leave it (I'm paraphrasing). I won't deny that it's easy for me walk away, but it comes at a high price. When I fall in (romantic/family/friend) love, it's pretty much a guarantee that it will last a long time.  

I can't manage any more than this tonight. 

Next time, don't come.

A year after we moved to America, my mother, faced with the burden of supporting me and my sister and herself for the first time in her life, had a kind of nervous breakdown.  One day, she dropped us off at school and disappeared. 

Over time, I've begun to wonder if abandoning us was a strategic move or surrender. Make of it what you will.  I don't suppose I'll ever know and I have tried with all that is in me to make that time a minor episode rather than a pivotal event in my life (I've been to therapy, I know there's damage). 

No one wanted me or my sister.  We got shuttled from one relative to another.  Years after my mom came back and life got better, I refused to see the relatives because seeing them made me hate my mother and reminded me of being unwanted. 

For three months or so, my sister and I stayed with my cousin CB in the Bay Area.  She couldn't keep us for reasons I didn't understand when I was 13.  Who could blame a person for not wanting to take on two adolescents? She never knew what to say to us, me especially. She watched us do our homework, she picked up my textbooks and my dictionary and studied my vocabulary words. Cousin CB began to study the dictionary the way I did. This probably sounds silly to Americans but to immigrants, learning new words is a big deal. 

One day she said, "Do you know what vex means?" Yep. 

"Do you know what ejaculate means?" She meant the other definition -- to exclaim, to yell. 

And so CB and I developed a way of talking to each other by using malapropisms and hyperbole. She used every opportunity to use the words vex and ejaculate. And even though it stopped being funny, I laughed every time.

Then one day in June after the school year was over, CB apologetically announced that my sister and I were moving to L.A. to live with other relatives.  My sister and I were driven down in the (covered) flatbed of a pickup truck to Carson, CA where another cousin's ex wife lived.  She wanted to take us in.

I avoided CB for years.  I eventually moved to the Bay Area as an adult and she called me repeatedly to ask me to visit.  At first I said no and then eventually stopped taking her calls altogether.  It was not until I moved to New York that I became comfortable around her again.  Each time we talked, she talked about those words and I faked a laugh.  No fail.  

This year, my cousin Danny's family moved to L.A.  His wife F is much older than him, religious and conservative and uncomfortable with my family's kind of excess.  His children are awkward and shy.

One day over the holidays, my brother asked me, "What does finagle mean?" So I told him. He tried to use it in a sentence, incorrectly.  So I corrected him.  He tried again. Bingo.  Then I told him about Finagle a Bagel in Boston.  My mother started laughing and making up stupid things just so she could use the word finagle.  My other brothers joined in and so did my dad.  After we wore the word out, I told them about CB, how she used to say vex and ejaculate all the time. 

This made everyone hysterical.  Cousin's wife F sat there staring in disgust while we laughed when one of my brothers said "F., you look so mad. We're just joking around. Please don't ejaculate."

Our mother, out of politeness, said, "Don't talk to your cousin like that.  She's not used to us." And then she started laughing again.

A few days later, we all drove to the Bay Area to CB's house.  CB looked at me (we had not seen each other in at least four years) and said, "You never visit even though I know you come to San Francisco every year. I am vexed." 

My mother and my brother said in unison "Don't ejaculate!"

F walked right out of the room and CB said "what's wrong with her?" 

That was the end of that.

This entry is about to get overlong and repetitive.  It's been a trying day.  A emailed wanting to get together.  I said no but I felt like shit about it.  M called and I didn't answer.  Instead I went home and tried to cry.  I was unsuccessful.  

I wonder now if my sadness is more intense than it was six months ago. I keep saying it hurts less but I realize I'm working too hard to not feel bad. The hurt is not so visceral anymore. Now I feel humiliated and reproachful and rational. Bitterness coexists rather peacefully with the longing.

It's probably fair to say that everything I wrote above has always been in me but it's only now that I can face it.  

Caught Blogging

A fit of paranoia. My cousin saw me writing and asked me if I kept a blog. What could I say? He asked for the address and I refused to give it to him but who knows if he might have gone through my computer later.  He is 17-years-old.  Hardly an innocent at this point, but I don't want to share this.

So I have deleted my photo.

It always surprises me how little I disclose to people, especially when I think of what they share with me. The other night, a friend told me she'd been trying for weeks, without success, to have an orgasm. I know someone who has a massage parlor/happy ending habit. My 17 year old cousin got a blow job in the fitting room of a JC Penney in Glendale. My ex's new girlfriend was a virgin (at 30!) when they met (this knowledge I would pay a pretty penny not to have because this makes me think my ex has no standards). I know someone who has to do everything in multiples of four (the optimum number being 16). I am fascinated by the things people do and how they live and I want to know everything. 

I just realized almost everything I listed has to do with sex.

Saw CC yesterday.  She is in the west coast with her family.  When she returns, someone is throwing her a party. I have no idea how one is supposed to celebrate under the circumstances.  She is getting a double mastectomy in a few weeks.  When we were saying goodbye, we both began to cry. I wished I could be the kind of person who could come up with some positive aphorism but that is where I come up short. All I could do was cry and I felt like I had failed CC in some way.

On my way home from work today, a beautiful girl got on the train at 103rd Street. She belted out an old Donna Summer song called Radio. She sang so well I considered staying on the train just to keep listening even after we arrived at my destination. I gave her five bucks. I don't money to anyone on the subway so that was a first. 

Today is an anniversary. Or close to the day anyway.

NO TEARS.

I even forgot about it. I was tired at work, didn't sleep well so I couldn't concentrate.  But other than than, not much else to report.

No tears!

Nowhere

I hope this doesn't turn into a sleepless night.

I am thinking of the word vacillate -- it reminds me of limbo, emptiness, and of course, indecision.  Vacate, vacuum, vacation.

Vac is the Latin for empty.

This is probably not the kind of conversation that will get things started at a party, but what the hell. It's a word that defines itself when you look at it on a page -- before I even heard it used, I saw that word once and knew what it meant.  Static but moving.  Vacillate is pendulous and weightless.

I've out-nerded myself.

Another thing I think of often and for no good reason:

WHOLE
HOLE

Get it?

Why a pair of pants but not a pair shirt?  A pair bra? What makes pants (two legs) a pair but not a shirt (two arms)?

And I don't know the right time to use despite and in spite.  Are they interchangeable? One would think I would just look this up rather than spending too much time thinking about it. But one day it'll come to me.

January

I had one day alone in L.A. because I worked for a few hours at my friend's shop in downtown. If not for the sandwich adventure, there would have been no solitude at all.

After my tour of duty was over, I wandered around in search of this building.  I passed Bunker Hill and the Los Angeles Public Library, walked up the hill of Grand Street and wandered into the MoCA store where I bought a calendar for 2010. Further up was the Disney Music Center.  For years, I've wanted to go there but this was my first time.

 I had dubbed the building Frank's Folly before I ever saw it up close. I think Frank Gehry is silly, the guy people go to if they want something monumental but ultimately end up with something prefabricated. Didn't he already do this in Bilbao? And how are the acoustics? In a way he really is a Los Angeles architect.

That said, this cynical diarist fell a little bit in love. And it was then, standing in front of this building, that I realized that I am a little foolish and a lot romantic.  The kind of person who admits to falling in love with a building, who goes out and buys a calendar with a not-that-great picture of a skinny man whose resolution is to stand up straight, who talks to strangers with hope of hearing about an interesting non-creepy life.

Here is my January man:

and skinny cartoon man's New Year's resolution although I doubt it will be readable in this tiny space:

I was in a sentimental mood, I guess.  I bought a Beethoven CD and some woman named Kristina Train.  If I weren't heartbroken, I would probably find her annoying but now her songs resonate with me, a new way to say what I've been thinking all these months.

M called me on Christmas to say hello and on New Years Day, a few hours after I returned to New York, he came to my 'hood and we ate ice cream in the cold and walked around. Romantic one might say. He showed me the apartment he is buying -- ten blocks south of me.  And the end of the story is this -- still nothing happened.  I guess I would be more surprised if something did happen between us at this point.  We are a done deal, destined to be almost something.

One might ask why *I* don't do something about it. I'm chickenshit hiding behind the excuse of being an old-fashioned kind of girl.  It's pretty simple. And anyway, is he interested at all in me? I was thinking maybe he is a little bit interested -- who the hell calls someone to say Merry Christmas anymore? But then, there is the NOTHING.  So maybe he isn't interested.

Thirty six year old women writes like high school girl.  Jeesh.

So in my nine days in California, I saw my oldest friends, the ones I've dreaded seeing all year.  I saw my relatives.  It was a fucking reunion tour.  And I liked it.  And I loved all those people. And I was so happy to come back to my little apartment.

I didn't freak out at all.  When I saw my friends Daniel and Maya, I was afraid I'd break down. But nothing.  Is that progress or compartmentalizing?  All my friends and their lovely children. And then there was me. I think about it now and I get sad but while I was with my friends, it was fine. I have not lost my ability to be happy for people.

A called while I was in L.A. I didn't answer and I didn't call him back.  Is that progress or is that putting off the inevitable phone call I will make in a few days?  To my credit, I could have called by now and I have not.

I missed him while I was gone.  What a stupid thing to say.  It's not as if I have been not missing him before. What struck me was how I could miss him so much but have no desire to make contact and how whenever he asks me anything, I get angry and share nothing of value. Back to the drawing board, I guess. But I'm a little further along.

Old Love

Los Angeles

12/24 – 12/28

In my mother’s house on a Saturday night, the TV is blaring, two computers whir a slow drone and there at least three conversations going.  It’s hard to discern if anyone is listening to anyone.  We all compete to be heard. I am sitting at the dining table looking for quiet that will only be found if I zone out.

In my house on a Saturday night, it is usually dead silent but my home is 2000 miles away and I won’t miss it all that much until it’s time for sleep.

Two dining chairs away from me, my cousin Danny is watching a movie on his computer.  Danny is here with his daughter and his wife.  Four years ago, he gave up a very lucrative career at Johnson and Johnson in the Philippines for the promise of America. 

Now he rents a room (an illegally converted garage) in a bad neighborhood in Long Beach.  The room fits a double bed and he sleeps alone most nights.  When his wife and daughters are in town, the four of them sleep on that bed.  The room has no insulation and so small that they often go to my mom’s house just to find breathing room.

This must sound dire and pathetic.  But they are grateful for everything they have --   everything being jobs where they work too many hours for too little pay, substandard living conditions, a sort of condescending kindness from my know-everything mother.

Not that I blame my mom.  It is tiresome to hear about exploitation that is recognized but tolerated. If you plan to keep on living with something, then don’t complain.

When I look at my cousin, I wonder if he regrets giving up his life for this.  What pushed him to come here when what was in Manila was not bad at all?

The promise of America will never cease to amaze me. It is a testament to hope and ambition and folly. 

 The little girl cousin just peered into my computer screen and asked me what I was doing.  Nothing, I said.  “Are you writing a story?” she asked. Yes, I said.  Her father gave me an apologetic look as she skipped away yelling, “Whoa, author!”

It is always entertaining to be here.  I get a good dose of regular life and realize that I live in a kind of bubble in New York.  I keep singling out the city where I live, but really, it is a bubble all single people live in regardless of geography.

San Francisco

December 31

I went to Union and Laguna in San Francisco.  Modest and almost pretty was not the way I remembered this part of town but things have changed in nine years.

Now this city is like an old love – fondly remembered but not quite the thing that you want anymore.

It has been a wonderful sojourn to California.  I don’t think I’ve ever said that in all the years I’ve been coming and going.  Most visits are fraught with negotiation. This time is no different but somehow it is okay.

I am ending the year with family. My oldest friends will be coming around in a few hours to say hello and to have a few laughs.  It is a fitting way to end my very bad year and I will say, in spite of everything, that today I am not unhappy. I feel quite fortunate and loved. 

When I reread this post later, I will be dissatisfied with what I’ve written. But I wanted to get one last word in before we all bid this year a collective adieu.

The downside of all these reunions is that I also have zero privacy.  Last night when I was trying to write, my 16-year-old cousin sat next to me, peered at my screen and said, “do you mind if I sit next to you?” Then she slept next to me on the floor. If I go outside to smoke a cigarette, someone will follow me to “keep company” and now, other relatives have arrived and they are asking when I’m leaving.

How can it be that all this minding is so nice and so awful at the same time? Right now, my youngest brother and I are both in search of quiet but there are five people sitting with us at the dining table.

One more cousin and her boyfriend arrived.  My friends – one group of six and a solo will arrive later.  There will be about 26 people here. The youngest cousin just asked me (as she did in L.A.), “are you writing a story?”

That is my cue to post and be done with this—it isn’t getting any quieter in the house of family.

I will try to post a picture of everyone and write a little better. But that is for later. 

Here's to a happier next year.

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009/12/31/opinion/20091231_opart.html