Shanghai Vixen

Tuesday night was a whirl of art openings, and D and I bounced one to another to another, ending up at one curator friend’s final show at that venue.

She had invited me to a grand finale dinner afterwards, apologizing that it was a small intimate crowd so D couldn’t come along, and she was cool about that.

I was wearing a lively-patterned turquoise dress, which previously I associated with that first night I saw Ah Ren a year and a half ago, paired with the gorgeous four-inch-heeled blue and green suede Mary Janes I bought in Jakarta. The dress has a plunging neckline that shows off my boobs to great advantage: they are the one upside of being overweight, I call it my Cleavage Dress; and the heels perk up my lower assets not unflatteringly. I was looking good that night.

It was a sumptuous spread in a sumptuous old villa. “Everyone must have fun and get drunk!” my normally cautious friend declared. Apart from a few other white foreigners, including La Turqa and her man, it was mostly an East Asian affair, heavily Francophone Japanese, a smattering of Koreans. I had met several of them, including a hunky Japanese filmmaker, who I recall crushing on when I first and last met him last year, and a rather quiet, pinched-face Japanese journalist who is my friend’s constant sidekick; I never can remember her name.

I ended up sitting accross from La Turqa and a Chinese artist, and between a Taiwanese businesswoman, who I know fairly well, and an elegantly-dressed, handsome if slightly feminine Japanese entrepreneur I hadn’t met before. He looks younger than his 35 years, and has a sensuous suppleness to his face; similar to me, his expressions stretch all over his round baby face.

He has been in Shanghai for nine years, and we quickly bond over our shared time here and compare memories like scars. Seguing smoothly from English to Mandarin and back, I am more fluent in both but he can keep up, even as both languages waxed drunkenly, dangerously fast as the night boozed on.

We chat, joke, discuss, flirt throughout the dinner. He is very attentive, very interested. I learn about his businesses, in design and entertainment, and his charm and confidence both vouch for him and make me suspicious: how is it that this handsome, charming, successful, wealthy man could be single?

The Japanese journalist, seated to the other side of him, glares at us in disapproval. Quite the unmistable stink-eye she gives me. At first I wonder whether she is his wife, but I quickly abandon that theory. Either she likes him, unreciprocatedly, or was but no longer is involved with him, or is friends with his girlfriend/wife. I wonder. He wears many rings, but they are all more decorative than “wedding”, and I can never remember which finger wedding/engagement rings go on, that is a culture foreign to China. But here and later was he hitting on me quite blatantly, in front of his close friends; it seems unlikely that a married man would do that. More likely, he is a player.

Dinner finishes, and most guests retreat, leaving just the Japanese core and myself, in no hurry, lolling on the sofa and drinking even more exquisite wine. My new friend is accross the table from me now, and I am sitting next to the hunky filmmaker. And, wait, is he now flirting with me too? Ah, Cleavage Dress, the trouble you get me into! The sensual enterprenuer meanwhile makes eyes at me accross the coffee table; he keeps catching my eye and smiling or winking, I waggle my eyebrows back at him, and he laughs. The other journalist frowns at us.

I don’t know what to call this fellow. For now “Tan”, as there is that Chinese character in his name, I guess. Calling him “The Japanese guy” would be in poor taste, I know.

So, we all traipse out. I can outdrink a room of Japanese any night, and was less drunk than most there, but my heels and gravity and uneven lane ground betrayed me, and I took a stumble and skinned up my knees. Tan offers to drive me home, he has a fancy schmancy car and I was on his way out to Hongqiao. I tease him about living in the Japanese expat ghetto.

His car is half-way down the block, and as we walk I link my arm through his, for balance as much as gesture. Tan immediately responds by wrapping his arm around my waist, quite tight, and nuzzling my head; I rest my hand loosely on his shoulder. We reach his mini-van, he opens the door for me and takes me hand to help me in. Driving, we play with each others’ hands at the stoplights.

We reach my lane, and after a brief hestitation we lean in for the kiss. We are both drunk, and it is sloppy but earnest. But I have little chance to process: Tan IMMEDIATE grabs for my breasts. Okay, I realize “the girls” were rather front and center that night, but oh come ON. I remove his hands, “I don’t know you well enough yet for that!” I try not to sound annoyed.

He complies, and we resume kissing. This time, his hands lunge immediately for my ass. Man, this is hilarious, I think. At least the man knows what he wants - which is somewhat a nice change after Worm. Yet it signals just another for of WEIRD! Geez, men! I bid him goodnight, with a rather less slurpy final kiss, and climb out of his car.

It seems he took my “no boobs yet” policy fairly well, better than my last over-eager turned sulky paramour last fall: emails have been exchanged, and he’s invited me to a party with our mutual friends at one of his restaurants this coming Monday. Promising. I still long for Worm, but I have to move on. Maybe Tan is just what I need - even if I continue to look over my shoulder, hoping Worm will step up, will come claim me. I don’t suppose he will, though.

Zip, zip, zip!

Life has gotten good and busy again, good-bye boring, although it remains far from pre-crises spring madness. The weekend before, Manila Moxie visited; then this past week another friend, a Chinese woman who emigrated to the US fifteen years ago, was in town, and also staying with me. Good company, albeit a bit exhausting. Tonight is my first evening alone, and it’s rather nice.

Last weekend was the big Weihai Lu open house, an annual thing now in its third year. Zipping previously to openings at IFA and M97, and managing to lose a pair of vintage Dior gloves in the process, I collected my visiting friend and then zipped along to Weihai. My gal Kazza has a gallery there, and I had volunteered to make martinis for her show’s opening.

She’d hired two waiters, “your bitches!”, to mix and serve, and I joined Kazza in playing hostess, we got a lot of people in, and some press and some sales. It was fun, and even without my Dior gloves I was in full swishy mode, dahling.

About 45 minutes in, I escaped to the bathroom, and coming back in I heard a still if by now barely familiar voice come at me, “Oh! Hey there…” It was Worm.

It had been exactly a month since I’d last seen him. I barely recognized him, his hair is out of control shaggy now, and he had shed the WASPy peacoat he huddled in all winter.

I got pulled back into other social whorls, he chatted briefly with our mutual friend Happy Fish - who is privvy to the whole secret drama - and then he retreated with his friends to sit at the back. I brought them martinis, and Worm “cheers”ed me, before I had to rush back to make more drinks.

He skulked there for a good half hour, even after the friends he came with left. Watching me, it seemed; whenever I glanced his way, he quickly averted his eyes, then looked tentatively back at me, then away again. Finally I went back over - not to force any discussion of what if any remnants there are in the wreckage of “us”, just to catch up, see how he is.

“How’ve you been?” I ask lightly.
“I gotta go now.” Worm puts down his drink and flees. Pushing through the crowd, out the door.

I pause for a few minutes then follow him outside. I see Worm’s figure retreating down the lane, only a few meters away; obviously he had stood just outside the gallery for several minutes more before really leaving.

“What was *that*?!” I puzzle to myself. Not the first time I have asked that with regard to our introspective old Worm.

“What *was* that?!” Happy Fish asked me a few days later, at another opening. I shrugged. “He’s SOO weird. You need to, like, get in his face and be all, “Why are you so weird?!”

But I know why. He’s wounded, fearful, prefers fleeing to dealing. I know him. That’s the problem.

That night.

So, I hopped into a taxi and headed back to the Worm’s bar in residence, texting him that I was coming, that I was craving to see him again. “I’ve already left,” he replied. He said he’d gone home, felt like staying in, I asked to come over, he equivocated.

By then I was standing, shivering, on his corner. I have never been to his flat, but had walked him this far before. Awkward texing ensued; then deteriorated. “Fine, whatever, see you around then,” I pissily sent. “Ok” Worm responded. “What the hell?” I sent back.

Finally I called him, hearing the buzz of a bar in the background. Home, my ass. The glare from the women staffing the Family Mart I am standing am sends me out on the street, but the noise sends me ducking into some cheap hotel’s entry corridor, lined with grimy fish tanks.

“What the hell, [Worm]?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what’s going on here?”

“I can’t deal with being around you tonight. There’s too much to process.” He proceeded, over the following fifteen minutes, to delineate why he is freaked out, why he felt our situation was so complicated: his reluctance to get seriously involved right now, his fraught emotions towards me, that he’s already seeing someone else casually, that he needs to figure out his life, etc etc. But that that Saturday had been wonderful and intense and that he does really care for me, which is why this is difficult for him and I need to give him some space for him to sort everything out.

All this filtered through the bar noise on his end; on my end standing feeling bludgeoned in this greenish-lit dingy hallway with tank upon grimy tank of fish staring beadily at me, mouths moving in seeming mockery.

I didn’t cry then, and I haven’t since. I have felt confused and annoyed and estranged than sad.

The next day I emailed him, apologizing if I fucked things up by pressing to see him, promising to give him some space, saying that it was too early for him to be worrying about where this could be going, adding that my body already misses his.

That was two weeks ago.

Radio silence since, apart from some neutral online chats, and his leaving town without telling me. I finally called two days ago, to see if he still wanted to come along on a trip I’m planning soon. He was enthusiastic, has obstacles but will join if he at all can. I extended a lunch invitation, he deferred as his parents are incoming and he has to know their plans before scheduling anything. I had to pry him off the phone, as I was waxing late to an appointment.

It has been an irritating two weeks.

With anyone else, with a “normal” guy, I would know from this that I was dumped. But the Worm is not a normal boy. Whenever I second guess him, I am wrong, it is an impossible paradox. It has been three months now of limbo, not just since we hooked up. I know the ambiguity results from his ambivalence, and from his larger issues - he is a man-boy very much lost in the angsty pool of his own navel.

Some of it I should take personally, but not all of it. The problem is knowing when it’s him, and when it’s about me. And, regardless, it’s a shitty situation. I can deal with a lot, but I have to know WHAT I’m dealing with. I’m tolerant and understanding of his bullshit and issues, but not when it’s directed at me. It’s not like I’ve done anything to him to deserve such maltreatment.

I won’t say I deserve better. What we deserve is what we demand, and I need to demand better. I don’t want perfection, I don’t want commitment - I’m not even offering commitment, I don’t know whether I can do this either. What I do require, though, is a baseline of communication, companionship and courtesy. It is not a lot to ask. If he cannot do even that, then I need to walk away - sadly and reluctantly, but at least I will not end up hating him, or myself.

I have a useless wealth of spam blog comments to delete, as I play a mix from Kaoru and steel myself for the next social outing, a French Consulate party.

The Worm is already gone. Literally. On a plane to somewhere.

He didn’t call to say goodbye, he didn’t even tell me he was leaving, I found out via his internet oversharing, which is such a passive-aggressive form of communication, this Western man puts his Chinese peers to shame.

My heart feels a bit ripped out, even while knowing the Worm and his weirdnesses enough to be flattered that I freaked him out enough to run him out of town. However, he spooks easily. I miss him so desperately, can’t believe it’s already over, even as I don’t even know whether it’s over, because I know him.

We finally consumated on Saturday, the 14th. That, another story. I was Giddy! Giddy! Giddy! afterwards, even know what a mess I had plunged myself into, even aching for another hit of Him.

It buoyed me two days, then the following Tuesday I went to see a talk by a certain Australian-Asian author, incredibly successful and gut-punchingly handsome. It reminded me, that I am not so far away from being able to land a man like that, it just takes losing some weight and getting my career a smidgeon more together to be in that league. That chap even writes about the angst that plagues semi-successful writers, making me want to nibble him even more, although I failed abjected at chatting him up; too nervous, and too preoccupied with Worm.

I, too, had spasms of buyers regrets. Presuming this would or could work, should I whirl with this odd-looking smart slacker who makes my heart sing, when he’s not breaking it? Shouldn’t I hold out for better? But, those standards are stupid, what matters is whether two people work together. (And probably, it’s seeming so far, we don’t.)

I next saw Worm on Wednesday; he joined me for lunch with L, a stunning galleryist who is my favorite new friend and, as a hot sinofied mandarin-fluent artsy white chick with a Chinese artist boyfriend, a member of my tribe. Worm and I gossip dangerously, or used to, and had a conversation where we couldn’t figure out whether we knew the same mandarin-fluent redhead caucasian named L—- since I was blanking on “mine’s” surname. A week later, I met “his” L—- through another friend and was like, Oh! It’s you! That it was partly through Worm’s secret ex-girlfriend didn’t make it less awkward.

Afterwards, we walked to L’s gallery, saw and discussed the show, she made us coffee. Worm wouldn’t look at me. I had laptop, intent on cafe and book-write, and it was his neighborhood, so we headed to one of the two that he haunts. I angled to head to his nearby flat, excuse of meeting his cat but really wanted to snog some more. We did not hold hands, accidental brushings made him jump; he was so flummoxed that he kept getting lost and going the wrong way despite being on his own block.

We spent the afternoon at adjacent tables, me writing, him fucking around on the internet and getting a trip cancelled. Occassionally shifting over to read something on the other’s laptop, with some gentle snuggling the only acknowlegement of what had transpired between us. Oddest sensation, sitting next to a new man I could fall for while writing about my history with the old one who once so defined me.

Worm only looked at me, really talked to me, when I was on my way out, late for an appointment to get all my fucking hair cut off. I asked him what he wanted to do later. Stay there? Meet up at my friend’s gallery opening? He huddled into himself, “I dunno”.

I stared at him, extended my arms to my side, and shrugged in confusion with all of my body and every expression in my rubbery face. “What do I do here?”

Worm turned away.

I left. I should of kissed him again. Perhaps not the mouth, perhaps that place 2/3s down his shoulder that I already have gotten quite fond of, well, not exactly kissing.

But, I didn’t.

I suffered through a haircut. Then to Ice Queen’s opening. I was going nuts with the confusion and sexual frustration, and several of Worm’s net buddies/my frenemies were there. I wanted nothing but to go back to him, and preferably to resume where we had left off Saturday night. I conversed with my Japanese transexual friend, we always communicate in haiku, discussing gardening and balance and hope and ambition and love. Ice Queen suggested I go find him.

So, I did. Sort of.

New boy, new feelings, new music to express and explore it.

He’s been avoiding me. I made a big mucky mess about it by trying to demand communication, and now I’m avoiding him. He’s such a girl: he angsts over feelings and the future, I just want him to shut up and take off his shirt.

I equally feel that this is intense and scary, but right now is not the time to deal with that. Now is the time for long picnics and sweaty snogs. The rest will come in its own time - or not at all.

Out with Kazza last night, and partly with some friends mutual with Worm. I met the woman I suspect could be “Elsie” - the “someone else” he’s “seeing but not superserious”. Which I so so so can’t let myself sink into. Better to walk away and never see him again, purge my soul, than get sucked into that swamp of jealousy and insecurity and competition. Jifu put me through so much of that, the prospect and memory alone makes me cry. I love Kazza, but she feeds me booze and giddiness sometimes to excess. “Call him!” “I can’t.” “Call him!” “I won’t.” “Call him!” “No.” “Give me your phone, I’ll call him!” “Fuck off.” I’m afraid to check my phone now, afraid she may have drunk-dialed him while I was in the loo.

In the meanwhile, as I hide from Worm, music.

Stars - Tonight

come around and say you love me
hang your heart in lights above me
is that too much to ask for?
When the night descends upon us
take a shower dry your hair by the furnace
I’ll watch you from the corner

Telephones and old typewriters
words of love along the wires
Let’s make it work tonight
Telegraphs and birds that fly
through air so still you hear me sigh
Let’s make it work tonight
Tonight, tonight

Then furious you threw the picture
eye cap in hand an awful mixture
That kind of hard love is the worst
I try to speak but you don’t hear me
when you’re gone you still feel near me for a while for a little while

I’ve tried Telephones and old typewriters words of love along the wires
But nothing is working tonight
I’ve tried telegraphs and birds that fly through air so still you hear me sigh
But nothing is working tonight
Tonight, please let’s make it work tonight
Please let’s make it work tonight, tonight

Matchbox Twenty - If You’re Gone

I think I’ve already lost you
I think you’re already gone
I think I’m finally scared now
You think I’m weak - but I think you’re wrong
I think you’re already leaving
Feels like your hand is on the door
I thought this place was an empire
But now I’m relaxed - I can’t be sure

I think you’re so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I’m just scared - I think too much
I know this is wrong it’s a problem I’m dealing

If you’re gone - maybe it’s time to go home
There’s an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you’re gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there’s a little bit of something me
In everything in you

I bet you’re hard to get over
I bet the room just won’t shine
I bet my hands I can stay here
I bet you need - more than you mind

I think you’re so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I’m just scared - that I know too much
I can’t relate and that’s a problem I’m feeling

If you’re gone - maybe it’s time to go home
There’s an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you’re gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there’s a little bit of something me
In everything in you

I think you’re so mean - I think we should try
I think I could need - this in my life
I think I’m just scared - do I talk too much
I know this is wrong it’s a problem I’m dealing

If you’re gone - maybe it’s time to go home
There’s an awful lot of breathing room
But I can hardly move
If you’re gone - baby you need to come home
Cuz there’s a little bit of something me
In everything in you

And, two from Dido; mine:

Dido - Stoned

When you’re stoned, baby
And I am drunk
When we make love
It seems a little desolate
It’s hard sometimes not to look away
And think what’s the point
when I’m havin to hold this fire down
I think I’ll explode
if I can’t feel this free now
Cause if you won’t let me fall for you
Then you won’t see the best that
I would love to do for you
Instead you will be missing me when I go
Cause I’m bored of hangin out,
in your cold
When I feel loved, baby,
I join the road
And the world moves with me
When I feel lost I just slip away
Silently, quietly take my things and go
And think what’s the point,
think where’s the hope when coming home
Cause if you won’t let me fall for you
Then you won’t see the best that
I would love to do for you
Instead you will be missing me when I go
Cause I’m bored of hangin out,
in your cold
And if you find one day,
find some freedom and relief
With this freedom maybe,
maybe you will find some peace
And with this peace, baby,
I hope it brings you back to me
Bring you home, take me home
Cause if you won’t let me fall for you
Then you won’t see the best that
I would love to do for you
Instead you will be missing me when I go
Cause I’m bored of hangin out,
in your cold
Wha-oh…. take me home
Wha-oh…. take me home
When you’re stoned, baby… take me home

…and his:

Dido - Look No Further

I might have been a singer
Who sailed around the world

A gambler who wins milions
And spent it all on girls

I might have been a poet
Who walked upon the moon

A scientist
Who would tell the world
I discovered something new

I might have loved a king
Been the one to end a war

A criminal
Who drinks champagne
And never
Could be caught

But among your books
Among your clothes
Among the noise
And fuss
I’ve let it go

I can’t stop
And catch my breath
And look no further
For happiness
And I will not
Turn again
Cause my heart
Has found it’s home

Everyone
I’ll never meet
And the friends
I wont now make
The adventures
That they
Could have been
And the risks
I’ll never take

But among your books
Among your clothes
Among your noise
And fuss
I’ve let it go

I can’t stop
And catch my breath
And look no further
For happiness
And I will not
Turn again
Cause my heart
Has found it’s home

Position open: Mr. Vixen. Auditions ongoing.

I’ve had enough of angsting over mediocre men. I shall go out, hunt, recruit, but ultimately THEY need to be convincing me. I’m a great gal with a great life; smart and successful, loving and beloved, sweet and sarcastic. I’m a great friend and a great girlfriend, and will make a great partner and parent.

I make a bad narcissus. I sell myself short. It is a fundamental structural flaw in my romantic paradigm. I pick a single recipient of affection and am rendered at the mercy of his moods.

It’s not a gender role, to pursue versus be pursued, thing. It’s practical: once you’re invested and involved, it’s another matter, but until then it’s an audition for the most appropriate candidate. But it should be more an interview than head (*dirty*) hunting: if they don’t want the gig, no matter how good of one it is, it’s their problem, not mine.

A gray winter gloom hung over Shanghai this morning, making the forklifting of myself out of bed even creakier than usual. A flu turned head cold that has vascillated through my system for a month returned with new phlemmy vengeance yesterday morning, repayment for my tiring myself out on the party I threw the night before.

I like staying home over Chunjie, Chinese New Year. Quiet puttering about the house, catching up on cleaning and errands and emails, mellow hang-outs with friends. There’s not much I can do work-wise this week, with all offices closed and their staffers far flung to their native provinces, so it privides a rare moment to be still.

The party two days ago was a big success, only extra work since I departed from my usual cocktails only format and cooked up a storm, with people rambling in starting in the afternoon. I actually am a pretty good cook, and concoct the bulk of my meals at home, mostly out of fresh produce from one of the three wet markets in my neighborhood. However, I do not come off as a particularly domestic woman, my Cancerian core is hidden under the public face of the gadfly. So, it was nice to show off: my pumkin and feta pasta, my stuffed mushrooms and peppers and zucchini, my crustless quiche, and my salad…and I didn’t have a chance to make one of my excellent soups or curries.

Good crowd of about twenty people, mostly Shanghainese, including filmmakers, a rock star, a government cultural organizer, an art historian, an interior designer, a professional socialite, a photography curator…fun, food and many martinis were had by all.

My fuck buddy Gym Boy also showed up briefly, and although there was little language issue with the Sinophone crowd, he was intimidated and fled. My gay friends backslapped me for having a hot stud in waiting.

On Chinese New Year’s eve, right after I had run a bath and was deliciously plotting all the reading I’d get done that night, Gym Boy called suggesting we go to Longhua for the ringing in of the New Year. Not in the actual temple, that’s too expensive, but the area around it is known to be very lively.

He picked me up, dried my hair for me, and we headed over. It was actually pretty disappointing, very schlocky, cheaply commercial, and not at all the old style temple fair it reportedly used to be. Gym Boy bought us the ribbons to write our wishes on toss on the fortune tree. There were four: one each for health/longevity, work/money, love/family and luck. The first two were easy for me; the latter two stumped me. I still have them in a pouch on my desk.

Luck - that’s the thing with luck, it’s not for what you hope for or expect but what you chance upon. Otherwise, it’s not luck, right? It is more what La Turqa calls “gifts from the universe”. Surprise me, universe!

Love…I suspected Gym Boy was writing on his that I would finally cave and marry him. Sigh. What could I write? I didn’t want to write Net Boy while out on a date with Gym Boy, and I don’t even know if Net Boy is who and what I really want.

Because I don’t know who or what I want; I’ve never been opportunistic in love, I’m not out for a financial windfall. All I know is a vague outline: someone on my mental and emotional wavelength, someone I can really talk to, someone whose company I enjoy as much as my own, someone who “gets” me. Someone who fits me. The rest - looks, background, profession - are comparatively insignificant. Surprise me, universe?

“So, what WAS that?” I puzzle as I stalk the final half-block home. After the latest Hmm Net Boy has walked me most of the way home only to disperse suddenly into a taxi.

It was a six or seven hour coffee session; I missed the gym, and dinner. It is rare for me to have so much to talk about with someone, and afterwards the idea pings continue, the threads and jams that we didn’t get to as our riff rambled on.

On the first non-date, we discussed at length child-rearing. On this second non-date, we explored marriage and our respective aversion to traditional models thereof. Compromises, the challenges of being cultural hybrids, the sticky messes of our respective personal baggage claims.

Net Boy is a rare kindred spirit. A person I could spend endless hours rambling and dissecting and non-sequitoring with. On one hand, this is the sort of budding friendship I treasure too much to risk with the romantic aspect; on the other, he is too strong and striking a possibility for me to walk away from.

He initially reminded me of Yaya, the American man-boy in Shanghai, and of similar provenance. As I know him more, though, he seems like elements of Kazza but mostly a male, more angsty…me.

Our rambling conversations are these waltzes through intense emotional terrain set to a soundtrack of intellectual jazz riffs. Synchronized, synchopated.

Something is there, but flighty and frightened by…by what? My own fear, of another Yaya-type loss, of destroying a friendship I cherish. I do fear his baggage also, but have gotten over that; what terrifies me more is the opposite, that he feels too perfect (for all his imperfections), that my sensation of a “fit” is illusory. That I will fall for him and he will reject me and break my heart.

As for what’s going on in his head, I’m at a loss. I think I am being pretty obvious, but I do oblivious better than obvious, perhaps. Perhaps these long coffees are cautious explorations of healing hearts, risk assessing. Perhaps I am overanalyzing, looking for meaning where none exists.

Its a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

And you read your emily dickinson,
And I my robert frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what weve lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theater really dead?
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
Youre a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

Ah Ren is safely dispatched back to his native shores, albeit not without fair shakes of awkwards. From the night he first arrived back, briefly, into my life - when I was having a party organizer, and a co-organizer unwittingly brought along Belt, an old photographer friend who I hooked up with in the throas of the Yaya summer of 2007 and who had avoided me since - it was a succession of situations.

We went out the following Friday night, to an opening and then to dinner, and Ah Ren wielded me as a shield against a mutual acquaintence who has always liked him and is very, very aggressive with men she likes. She sulked accross the table; we had a nice yammer. The next night we met up at another opening, Kazza and his sidekick along, and then parted as he wanted a power nap; we met up later at Shelter.

I knew Little Building would be there, and sure enough he was, albeit very busy. It was a quick and nice hello, but he doesn’t seem scared of me from the last time. All good.

I hung out with Ah Ren and sidekick for part of the night, circling the block as the lads needed feeding, then returning. Another friend of mine showed up and as I was talking with her, he wandered off. He looked rather lost in the crowd, suddenly seeming rather old and professorial; since I dragged him there I felt rather badly. So I ducked through the seething Eurotrash after him, eventually catching up. “Do you want to join me dancing with C?” “No. I don’t dance.” I see that… “Do you want to go to the conversational audio area in the back?” “No. I just want to walk around.” “But you look like a big dork,” I thought, didn’t say. Instead, “Okay, have fun.”

I went back to C. “I was just totally blown off.” It was rather brutally obvious that he had had enough Vixen for one night. Perhaps telling him I have a crush on Little Building was ill-advised, but hey, it came up randomly - it wasn’t like I was being random manipulative psycho bitch about it. I don’t come with that function. Just with the too-honest, babble when awkward/nervous setting.

I left shortly thereafter. I sent him a text that I was tired, and neither of my crushes were being entertaining.  He did not respond. I have not sent the email in the previous post; I debate whether I will. Instead, I sent him a light note to the extent of: Sorry if I was clingy, didn’t register at first that you wanted solitude. Yes, I’ve always had a crush on you, I know it’s very oppressive but am sure you’ll soldier through. Ah Ren replied similarly jokingly. Yes, it’s painful! I’m flattered, and good getting to know you better. Then he suggested that we say our farewells for this visit at a mutual friend’s upcoming birthday party - which I was not technically invited to, although neither he nor our friend registered that. I compromised by showing up very late - busy work day - and leaving early. But, there was no awkward. He informed he’ll be back in town pretty soon.

I still don’t know what to make of it. I’m usually pretty oblivious, but there definitely is something going on there, and more than just mutual light affection. He’s very Mr. Darcy, hot-cold confusing. *Shrug* I try, and then I shrug. I just don’t understand these “Western” men. They’re so strange.

Anyhow, I look forward to having him back soon. Despite the headache-inducement, he’s a good reminder that there are good men out there - and someday I will find one who IS into me.

I had two dreams about him last night, both weird. In the first, we were married with kids and contemplating buying a house in I think Australia (where the fuck did that come from?). Yet another mutual “friend” visits us to check out the house, and while there “accidentally” almost kills me.

In the second, I was in Los Angeles, and with past/present/future LA-based guy friends Dodo, King Yellow and Cali Boy (old crush turned casual buddy who I still quite like). We were all staying together, and Ah Ren also came to visit, but also in town and around was a woman called Nita who is a dream fictionalization but was a composite of several rather bitchy, backstabbing, dumb and opportunistic Huaqiao women I know China. Somehow my Lala Lads all knew and loathed her too, and had had their own bad experiences with her. I was trying the usual to figure out WTF was up with Ah Ren and his semi-flirting, and found in the living room a subtexted note that had fallen out of his things during arrival. I had a bad suspicion about it, and sure enough Nita showed up, cattily claimed the note, the Christmas present from him it had fallen out of, and the boy himself. 

In the dream, Ah Ren lingered to half-apologize. I was all, “Really?! Rejection I can take, but that you would pick her over me?! You have horrible taste in women. Who even are you?” He looked sheepish, lamely apologized that for now he’s seeing her, but maybe…, and then shuffled out.

I walked back down the hallway, arm in comforting arm with Dodo and King. Even my subconscious remembers who always has my back. ”Oops, wrong species of men, that,” one of us remarked, all still stunned.

I think these have more to my subconscious’ reactions to certain recent social situations with “friends”/frenemies - many of whom I share with Ah Ren - than to him. Nonetheless, they put me in an odd mood today.

I should work more on that delicious yoga teacher who’s been flirting with me. Yeah. The thing is, ultimately I like ‘em kinda complicated. Not JUST pretty.

Snow continues to cascade over Shanghai, a rare phenomenon especially given that it has lasted for three days, and today it is cold enough that some of it is sticking. The GaoWan Xiaoqu is quite white, and this time it’s not the smog of pollution providing the monochrome. There is a community of pigeons and sparrows in my lane: the family accross the way keeps a lot of caged birds, and much of the seed from his 2F balcony falls to the roof below. A handful of wild birds have now taken up residence there, and today about six pigeons and four sparrows are huddled up pathetically as the snow piles upon them.

It is thus a good day to stay in and work, huddled over the heater in my womb-like bedroom with computer and cat vying for lap space. I don’t know whether it’s the weather or the lingering illness that has my body insisting upon sleeping ten hours per night, but that plus an overly active weekend has me much in need of a few quiet days on the ketchup.

Friday was a delightful afternoon spent interviewing author and historian Lynn Pan about her new book on Shanghainese design heritage. Cool, funny, knowledgeable, Pan is always fascinating to chat with. I consider myself quite lucky in my life and work, that I get to be friends with some of my favorite authors. That evening was a dinner party at the home of wacky honkey [Diamond Ho]; these events are always enjoyable but very strange and calculated affairs. I took Cloudy as my “date” this time, she was entertained and shared my assessment of the whole scene. We are both friends with plenty of people who are famous for actually doing stuff, and so someone like Diamond who is “famous” because she has a rich daddy and has hired an army of PR agents is rather underwhelming. At dinner, I sat with a museum director, who recruited me to co-curate a show with Taipei Trixie. This could turn out fun, although no doubt also a massive headache.

I rejoined Cloudy on Saturday. She and her chef boyfriend have been consulting for new restaurants, and recruited me to train the bartenders at their newest. I went over that afternoon, and we redid the drink list, some from my cocktail book, others improvised and expirimented. I had tippled the night before at dinner - those events require it - and then again at cocktail class. We had quite a lot of trial drinks to finish off between the three of us and the bartender, and all got quite loopy. Next time, I’ll have to bring Kazza along as the booze disposal. I tried to teach Cloudy how to tie cherry stems in knots with her tongue - I find it so easy - but it evaded her. Then I headed to the opening of a photography show at MoCA, and since I’d already been drinking I had some wine there too. Not much, though, and after learning some new Shanghainese terms from a few strange, scruffy artists, I headed home early. And Sunday was quiet, my only outing being to Brilly’s lecture, and back to the dourness of being the only person in the room not drinking.

So, Ah Ren is back. I gathered he was from a spike of activity on what Mr. Kaoru calls Crackbook, so I knew he’d probably surface at MoCA. I’ve spent the past month trying to purge him from my system, boy detox, but just seeing him online made my heart flitter and twitter. Dammit, Vixen. Seeing him Saturday night, more and worse of the same. I’m not sure if the earlier cocktail tasting made it better, or worse. We had a few nice chats, punctuated by his leaving whenever the scruffy artists accosted me, and his apologizing after that he can’t deal with those weirdos. Which, fair enough. Then he fled very suddenly when Gallery Girl showed up, of course she pinned him first, and watching that body language accross the room was fascinating: her being very aggressively forward and flirty, Ah Ren crossing his arms and leaning back as he does when uncomfortable, but also being very superficially polite. I really wonder what the story is there, but doubt either will ever tell me - and if they did, they would probably tell very, very different stories! Hmm.

When I got home, I sent him a - I hope - nice but neutral email saying it was nice to have him back, that I missed him, and joking about the Shanghainese phrases from the scruffy artists. I wonder if it was too much? I know he doesn’t “like” me that way, and I know he knows I do like him that way, but we are friends so that is the dominant narrative. I don’t want to be another Gallery Girl, throwing myself at him, embarassing myself and annoying him. I enjoy having a crush on him, crushes are fun dammit, even though I know it will never pan out. Whether it is because I am too fat, too white, too weird, because he wants to leave China or doesn’t want to date within the social/work crowd - who knows? It doesn’t matter. While crushing is fun, I need to get over it, and the best way to do so is to find a new crush.

Gym Boy is still around, hot sex on autodial, should I want it. I haven’t seen him since before I started hanging out with Ah Ren, and now I am only temped to fuck Gym Boy to assuage my ego. Which isn’t good. Not that Gym Boy minds my using him for sex, oh, not at all. Another problem is that Gym Boy kinda annoys me, so I can only enjoy the hot sex when drunk, which is problematic in a mostly dry spell. Not really sure what to do: I need to formally, finally dump him in person, but we’ll probably have break-up/good-bye sex. And part of me does want to keep him around for the physical comforts.

Last November, at a dinner of cooler Shanghainese artists than the guys Saturday, the only young chap in the group kept giving me flirty little looks accross the table. He was cute, although looks a bit like the Boy Toy I dated briefly in college, which is really not my type when it comes to the variations of Chinese features. We chatted, he’s the nephew of the artist who’s show was opening, we swapped contact info. It was that weird night when a hot young stranger then tried to hit me up on the street, and then a few minutes later Ah Ren called me up suggesting a late dinner. All too much, I went home and hid under my bed. The Artist’s Nephew has emailed me a few times, I didn’t respond as was crushing on Ah Ren, but now finally has. Probably blown him off for too long for him to still be interested, and I am probably more relieved than anything about that - off the hook! - but we’ll see. Sure, give it a try.

Then there’s a friend of mine who I need to find out whether he’s single or not. He’s very cool, kinda shy but once he gets talking we have great blathers. Cute, overaccomplished, creative doing some awesome stuff. On paper, he sounds perfect. Find out his status, then concoct excuses to hang out more and see if there’s clickage.

Yeah, I really need a new crush. The one on Ah Ren is getting moldy and unpleasant - he’s so last year! And while crushes are abstractly fun, there is an errosive element to rejection.