I struggle with words for you. More specifically, I struggle with writing about you, about us. It’s not that words are inadequate, but the immutability of the written word can’t seem to do justice to this. Words, when written down, set up expectations for what’s to come. I don’t want to have expectations; I already know what I want. I want to remember this – but not by recording it. I want to remember this by reliving it every day, with you. I don’t want this to ever stop.

I have to confess that sometimes it’s hard when you know that your girlfriend’s parent is rooting for you to break up (preferrably sometime not too long in the future so it won’t be too late for her to find someone else), and for really no other reason than the fact that I can never be a husband to her daughter. What am I supposed to do when my girlfriend’s mother expects me to be just a fling? I mean, it’s weird to think that the longer we stay together, the more upset she gets. The thing is, it’s not that she has a problem with us per se. She’s the kind of parent who’d say, “I have no problems with gay people, as long as my child isn’t one of them.” Now, maybe some people who say that are being homophobic, but I don’t think she falls under that category. She’s more the kind that my parents were when I first came out to them – they worry about their child’s prospect in finding happiness in life. (According to my sister, they still wish that I’d have a husband one day, but for the most part they just want to see me with someone who could make me happy.)

Reality is, there are times when even I want a husband, in an abstract kind of way. All over the world, marriage between a man and a woman is recognized as something special and worth celebrating. Last summer, my sister and I spent a few days in Thailand with our parents and celebrated their 29th anniversary. Somehow, the occasion was made known among the hotel staff, and everyone – from reception to housekeeping – was so happy for them! I had a realization then that I would probably never get that kind of recognition. I mean, yeah, some people in some cities in some countries might treat my life-long relationship with a woman the same as any other, but with some other people in some other places, a union between two women is absurd at best, and a fast-track to hell at worst. I was daydreaming about working for Médecins Sans Frontières the other day and then thought, what if I end up working in more conservative areas? If I am on a mission for 4, 6 or 9 months, inevitably people would ask whether I have a family or not, then do I lie about it? Say I’m single? Say I have a husband?

There are just certain things that would be simpler and easier, I guess, if I end up marrying a man. In our parents’ eyes, perhaps simpler and easier also means a smoother road to greater happiness. I don’t know if that’s necessarily true though – I have had a few friends, frustrated with men or finding a man, tell me: “You’re lucky you’re a lesbian! I wish I were a lesbian!”

It was really well-done, which made it really intense. I guess the personal part of seeing something like this – the portrayal of the kind of violence that is possible and the kind of violence that is directed towards people who are different – is the part where the inevitable thought passes through your mind and you realize it could be you. I don’t mean it in a vicarious, “I could lose my best friend tomorrow to a car accident too” kind of way. It’s recognizing what kind of social attitude had allowed that event to happen, and knowing that you live under the mercy of it yourself.

It’s not so much that seeing that have made me more fearful of the world or distrustful of people, but it’s just kind of a sobering moment where you realize that sometimes, by virtue of being who you are around other people, in public, you are making yourself vulnerable. It becomes a moment of strength and a moment of weakness: you know you can’t stop now, but at the same time you’re not sure how you can find enough courage to go through all that. You remember moments when you’ve felt that fear and not known what to do. You remember moments when you’ve failed to stand up for yourself. You remember moments when you’ve faced that kind of hate and wondered what it is exactly that you have done wrong.

And I guess what hit home was that you never know which moment of weakness, of failing to stand, might lead to your defeat.

p.s. if you live in Vancouver, Fighting Chance Productions will be remounting the show at the Havana from Jan 21-31, 2009.

Mary had hip replacement surgery almost a year ago. She fell down some stairs at a shop. “It’s not the same anymore. The hospital changes everything. I’d never go in there again. Never.” She steadied herself on her walker as we walked down the aisle to the cereal section. Her eyes, magnified by her bifocals, shone with indignation.

Mary hasn’t been able to cook for herself since the accident. It’s too much of a pain for her now, she said, so she eats frozen food. She started giving me brief reviews of each brand and varieties of microwave meals she has tried. “The chicken nuggets were not as big as they look in the picture. They turned out okay though, just very small. I quite like the macaroni and cheese. I try to add some fresh tomatoes and vegetables to it.”

Mary uses the word “lazy” to describe succumbing to packaged food. She also thinks that taking the elevator is “a very lazy thing to do,” but she has no choice in the matter now. She walked across the aisle and started to examine the boxed and bottled juices. “How about these? Do you have these often?” I had to admit my lack of expertise on juices other than Tropicana’s Orange Juice with Lots of Pulp. We discussed the supposed merits of blueberries and cranberries as well as the correlation between the “approved for the heart” stickers and how palatable the product is (a microwave meal that had the sticker was very bland, she observed).

Mary hit her head against the wall when she fell. She can still hear the bang inside her head today and she thinks it will never go away. As we parted in the middle of the frozen food aisle, I asked Mary if she would like to have my number for when she wants a chat or wants a shopping buddy. In my heart, what I really wished to do was to pay her a visit and cook her a proper meal, but I thought to suggest that so soon might sound a little creepy. Neither of us had a pen or paper, so we let fate schedule our next meeting.

I always feel that something is fundamentally wrong when I see old people being sad. (Maybe that explains why seeing happy old couples never fails to cheer me up.) I guess what upset me the most about this was that I have always associated microwave meals with lazy middle-aged people who eat their dinners in front of the TV, and now this old lady tells me that SHE eats them because she has no choice. She’s not lazy. She eats microwave meals for the same reason she has the take the elevator instead of the stairs, and why instead of going for a walk to the beach, she hangs out at the nearby grocery store feeling terribly lost.

She’s 80. She shouldn’t be paying attention to little heart stickers on microwave meals. She should be eating the fattest piece of steak or the biggest cup of gelato that she can stomach, if that’s what she enjoys. Or a nice dish full of grilled vegetables and potatoes and the creamiest piece of cake.

Just not damn microwave meals.

The problem comes in the lack of expertise. They call the phenomenon “verbal overshadowing,” initially observed in some experiments done where subjects who verbally described a previously seen face were less able to recognize the same face again. They replicated the experiment with wine tasting, and they found that wine experts were not affected by verbal overshadowing. They had adequate wine-vocabulary.

Even after the many times lying with you, the landscape of your body remains foreign to me. I say that because every time I discover something new, something to be fascinated with: the way your lips thin when you pull them into a smile, the tiny hair on the back of your neck, the shifting contour of your back when you’re propped up on your elbows. I avoid words because I want to remember all this. I want to learn the language of your body so I can recognize you; I want to be able to close my eyes and still read your smile with my fingertips.

I don’t want to mistake your face for someone else’s for having described you with a language I have not mastered; I don’t want to risk forgetting your presence by prematurely putting you into words. So until the day I collect a vocabulary competent enough for you, you will have to accept quiet smiles and silent avoidance as temporary answers.

Having met you in Vancouver’s grey – the gloomy overcast skies of fall and the tireless drizzle of winter rain – I never got to fully appreciate how truly remarkable you are. The brilliance of the sun reflecting in your hair; your smile giving a whole new depth to the meaning of “radiant”. While providing the perfect back lighting to the scene, the sun paled in contrast to how that one smile lit up my day.

The image is simple, yet when I try to recall the details, I realize that perfection, when it comes to memory, is an illusion. I guess in this instance I envy those with photographic memory. But even then, remembering your face isn’t a single-sensory task. Psychologists may attribute my urge to smile when I see you smile to a particular set of neurons they name the Mirror Neurons. They explain it as a mechanism by which we learn – through imitation – and why we can identify with some one else’s emotions. The motor act of frowning, triggered by an image of another frowning face, elicits in oneself similar emotions. Emotions, they say, are connected to the physical.

Maybe they’re right, but only partially at best, because that doesn’t explain why every time you smile, and make me smile, I feel this pulse inside me that is entirely new. It’s almost like coming to a revelation. The only part that doesn’t fit is that the feeling isn’t exactly foreign – I know what it’s like to fall.

all simultaneous but forced into order
by:
temporal nature of language
and thought
time-lag for processing

so when i looked up again
you were gone

encouraged by the summer warmth
in the sun-showered streets
we proclaimed with pride
the world changed
for the better, into the brighter
i listened to the whispers
to hear another ‘i can’t’
translating into another life of falsehood
and the same echo of angst
still haunting