Monday, May 30, 2011


A slow post. Something to come back to like little bites of dark chocolate in between the pages of a boring novel (somehow intermittent guilt feels less guilty than a full block of guilt even though it will collectively sum up to the same result).  I am reviewing a document from hell that makes me wish zombies were real and I could turn into a mean certifiable one instead of being the half-dead work-slaved zombie that I am now.

The weekend in Bali seems distant and other-galactic from my cold office room. The wedding party was fun and riotous but I wish it had felt more Bali than simply the rooftop poolside party that it was.  I don't complain. The single girls were desperate for action but not me because I am tranquil and collected and I simply tell myself these boys are too stupid to approach me and that's why none did. One lucky fellow ended up kissing three girls in a row. It is funny because I am guessing he thinks he's got game whereas he is simply the whore of the night. Somehow in the exact same situation girls will be whores but guys will just be lucky or good at his game.

I danced with a young old friend instead and he tells me I'm gorgeous and he admires me "somehow". I don't get why Indonesians love to use "somehow" in the wrong moments.  It is probably a Javanese effort at euphemizing everything. He escorts me into my cab and as I give him my cheek he sneaks a dry peck on my lips. I get inside and Woody asks me: "Did he just kiss you?!" I giggle semi-consciously and say "That fucker. Yes. The bastard."  The next day Woody tells me that if I seriously end up with that silly guy it will break his gay heart. I dramatize my hurt offense at such a suggestion. His gay heart confuses me sometimes. Somehow (and this is the proper use for the word), I feel as if he might really love me.  But love comes in many shapes and sizes.

The next day Woody and I head to echo beach at Canggu, just the two of us as usual, armed with style. His scarf and shockingly stylish sunglasses, a bottle of wine, and three joints. The skies opened out limitless above us.  I lay back on the warm sand staring at the white cirrus clouds rippling across the sky like the surface of a light blue lake being gently stroked by the breeze. The actual breeze was stroking my skin. The scent of marijuana was as familiar and comforting as the sound of crashing waves. Nothing else I wanted to do, nowhere else I wanted to be.  But I sent Mr. Ten a picture message right there and then and told him I wish he could feel the breeze from where I was. Woody asks me whether I am going to date Mr. Ten.  I say I don't know, and why complicate things by asking questions?  

"I could fall for you." Mr. Ten once said.
"Does that scare you?"
"I live my life by heart, like a moth to a flame."
"Me too."

Ideally.  The word "want to" was missing from my sentence. "I want to live my life by heart."  But as Mr. Eight so wisely reminded me, even free spirits are limited by their own freedom. "You're a classic existentialist" he said. He told me that existentialists are people who want to be free but in so doing they limit themselves by the consequences of their own freedom.  I miss Mr. Eight too. With the mellowness of a cherished memory and the comforting warmth of having a truer friend than most true friends.

And then there are the random multitude of other men who are merely anthropologically interesting. I don't know why I talk about them but for some reason, and at the risk of cheapening down my life in this blog to flirts and affairs, they feel natural to write about. These days married men are making quite a comeback. I oblige with a dinner or two sometimes and I make a subtle but firm point of being purely platonic. They are happy with that. They tell me how interesting I am. God, they are so lonely. 

Woody tells me it is because they got married in order to fulfill society's expectations, and not because they had found the one, after first of all finding themselves.  It was a personal choice, but one that was wrought by social conditioning. I almost don't want to believe that. Woody tells me he decided to be gay so no one could pressurize him into getting married. He says the silliest things sometimes.

I don't want to be married and lonely.

No comments:

Post a Comment