Vacancy - at random

Her eyes were vacant, as if she was staring out at the sea. She could feel her helplessness welling up inside her, pushing past any reason, any sense of propriety, flooding eyes that were already swollen and exhausted and forcing her to acknowledge its presence. In a few seconds, the tears began to ebb and she was not betrayed. Telephones rang, keyboards chattered, people moved around her. Her heart quieted and her eyes regained their focus. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mini hand mirror propped up on her desk. First the rising bump on her chin (must be lack of sleep, stress, being pissed off, all the usual culprits). Then the naked, chapped lips, not yet forming the infamous pout, but fixed in a stoic, frightening way. She was more used to seeing those lips jutted out in defiance, or slightly upturned in gentle joviality, right before the careful application of lip liner, or the dabbing of lip gloss. A sense of grief seemed to manifest in all her features, in those stony lips, the unrelenting nostrils, the drawn face, and the circled eyes with their deadened gaze. She flared her nostrils, once, then twice, just to add a bit of the ridiculous into the picture, but to no avail. She had the look of someone beyond consolation.

Her phone rang and she answered mechanically. It was her cousin, the annoying one. After listening for a few moments, responding as needed, she hung up the phone and returned her gaze to the mirror. The slight animation of her features had smoothed away the look, and now she only saw her rounded face, slightly puckered. Her little indulgence had passed. An indulgence in self-pity, a wallowing of sorts in the middle of the workday to appease her low spirits. Her face lost interest and her thoughts turned elsewhere. Just as well. Time for lunch then, she thought.

The End of 23 – a fragment

It is Tuesday afternoon, a nondescript, Tuesday afternoon in Hong Kong. The sun has declined to make much of an appearance today, lazily meandering in and out to produce hazy overtones throughout the afternoon that are now receding quickly into the dusk. All day long I have not eked out a single verifiable ounce of productivity and it almost seems as if I could easily melt in this ergonomically efficient office chair without attracting much noise or attention. Perhaps the smell of a melted person would get to those around me. They would cock their heads to the left or right, depending on their relative position to my little square meter of space, if it could be called “space”, just for a moment, wondering perhaps even aloud to the person beside them, “What’s that strange, putrid odor? Wasn’t there someone sitting over at that desk just a moment ago?” Shrugs all around followed by the repositioning of all heads to face their respective computer screens, not even a moment lost really. It would only have taken about 10-15 seconds to notice, acknowledge, and dismiss.

Strange thoughts on a strange, languid afternoon, the insipid and uneventful hours of the day compounding together into a gigantic pounding in my left ear...no, actually, that’s Bjork. Nice try. There isn’t even a pounding, actually. Frustration has ceased its beating on the door, has thrown its hands up into the air, announcing to no one in particular, “Whatever. I’m getting paid for zero professional growth. Fine. So be it.” Packed and ready to go at 6:30 pm sharp. Unless of course, one of the higher ups that I answer to is still brooding in his little corner of the office. That usually involves another minute by minute manufacturing process of things to make you look productive when you actually are far from that, until the moment arrives when the higher up logs off and finally makes his exit. When will that be tonight? 6:15? 6:17? Or will I truly have to sit here until 6:45??

I think I’m getting hives on my face. Or perhaps even my face is bored and trying to create some sort of diversion from the vapidity surrounding me. I would love to go running tonight, raise my heart rate above “Almost Dead”, sweat to verify at least my physical presence, stretch to feel the aching of muscles and joints in action.

So the topic of the day is the impending end of my 23rd year as JHC. In less than a week I will be 24 years old. I will be firmly lodged in my mid-twenties. I will no longer be mistaken for a college senior (not that I was this past year, but anyway). I was writing to M the other day, trying to lift her spirits but at the same time finding myself mired in a little conversation with myself that materialized unexpectedly, disguised as a conversation with her. It’s great how so very often the advice that you are actually imparting to a fellow or friend really pertains more to yourself than anybody else within the 20,000 mile radius. Definitely hives. Here’s an excerpt:

Aside from the breakup factor and what you may have desired within the framework of one relationship, the Sally-like symptoms can also be shoved into the "Just Another Woman Thing" category of life's psychoses. Seems like there are all these benchmarks notched into the wood of the door, except rather than marking our height, after a certain age, oh, say 18, these notches begin marking our "status". Are we all planners? Some of us are the day-at-a-glance, month-at-a-glance variety, others mentally pack decade-at-a-glance organizers programmed into our heads at the age of five when we had our first stuffed animal family. Ages begin to creep up on you, reminders of those ridiculous benchmarks still etched mentally in a certain block of a certain year, e.g.:
Benchmark 1: "Find love of my life."
Benchmark 2: "Married."
Benchmark 3: "Mother."

But as we actually make our way out of the greenhouse and into the wilderness beyond, we can either let the significance of these benchmarks consume us, or let them fade away, soft impressions worn smooth over time. Life takes its own bullying course, and most of the time you are just dragged along for the ride, not even noticing the dusty at-a-glance volumes falling out of your pockets every bump of the way. The trick is how to maneuver the bumps and roll with the punches as they say, and in this, my dear, you are doing just fine and better than most. Takes bravery to do what you are doing. You go girl.”

The truth of it all is, that whole sh-bang was more about me than about her. I am definitely beginning to feel the creeping of the years, less on the personal and emotional side and more on the professional and career-oriented section of the brain. The dissatisfaction with the job in general is laughable. I have no real clue of what I want to do, and on days like this, a position as a mocha-happy barista seems more enjoyable than the forever feigning associate with no “deliverables” to clock. Things will crop up, I’m sure, and then I’ll be screwed. But aside from these waves of non-productivity, the bigger question remains to be answered: “When the hell am I getting myself out of this?” It’s been three years. Three years sucked dry to the marrow, three years witnessing leaves of interest and ambition falling withered and dry around me, crunching goodbye beneath my feet, three years of a pruning soul, wrinkling in disgust at the complete lack of heart in the deeds I accomplish during the insipid hours of insipid days.

But what deeds of tomorrow could I replace the deeds of today that would un-prune this soul? At this time, it seems that having a job at all is reason enough to keep your complaints to yourself and those that are still employed. It’s a tough environment out there and the fear pinching my eyes into right triangles gives me away- I am a coward. An almost-24-year-old coward. Call me Leo. Hear me roar my financially-enabled, soul-disabled roar.

My eyes are tearing from two consecutive yawns, my face itches, those darn hives. A puffy bubble has formed underneath my thick skin, a pillow of venom rising on the rugged landscape of imperfections, craters, blemished spots and overly enlarged pores that comprise of my complexion. It’s really not like I needed another flaw, but thanks, thanks for playing. The bold SINOPEC sign is the first to glow of the neon corporate ads that form Kowloon’s capitalist waterfront display. I wonder if these darn hives are as conspicuous as that obnoxious, tomato-red sign, pulsing red and emboldened by nightfall.

I suppose I could turn towards happier thoughts but that is so much less fun and always edges on smugness.

Okay WHOA. Major chills. I just checked my hotmail account and apparently M decided it was time to take our friendship to the next level by sending me a link to the play by play details of her sex life. Great. I really needed to be accosted with that. It’s like you’re watching Bambi and 30 seconds of hardcore somehow found it’s way into the reel- reminds me of Fight Club. Okay, that was seriously gross. I did not need to read about the shapes and sizes and colors and textures of other couples’ sordid sex or lusty lovemaking or whatever the HELL you want to call that. Talk about breaking the TMI boundaries, GEEZUS! I have a sick feeling in my stomach. *bleah* *CHILLS* I guess she didn’t think that her typical revelations of how horny she is etc. etc. etc. was NOT enough information already.

UGH.

People are really weird, man. Let’s NOT take it up a notch. SHEE-AT. God, get that out of my head NOW!

Hate it when disgusting images remain in your head. Like a few nights ago we made the simple mistake of watching an indie flick about the Cultural Revolution that entailed some very disturbing images of a young girl being voluntarily mauled by nasty men and I could not get the image out of my head, that horrid vision of youth and innocence raped.

UGH.

And there I was, just about to get into “happy” thoughts, up a few paragraphs above, before this disruption. Deep breath. Okay, back on track.

So at the risk of sounding way too HAPPY for a mid-twenties singleton (in the “unmarried” sense of the word), some thoughts need to be absorbed into this diatribe of what sucks about life, for undeniably a huge portion of it is more amazing and wonderful than I could have ever expected it to be. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s true. I was re-reading the issues we'd had in February, and all those issues have completely dissolved since. That is amazing. Usually, couple issues take months and months of heartache to dissolve. With Ryan, life is different. Things actually get fixed, gripes are understood and resolved, apologies are sincerely made and sincerely accepted. It’s nice. He challenges me in every way, and I have never been more inspired. Now, it remains for me to determine where to apply such inspiration.

Aha. Back to the Cowardly Lion.

HK Library - a fragment

It’s been more than a month since I have been able to record anything, thoughts, sights, sounds, emotions, revelations…that is assuming that I have been experiencing any of the above. Heh heh. The past month has been as eventful as the month prior. Let’s just say that since mid-December life has been in a surrealist state of upheaval and total chaos set against a rich comforting cornflower blue backdrop of joy. I don’t even really know where to begin, what thoughts rank first amongst the ranks of thought ghosts crowding around me, silently begging for attention. A short story perhaps in the making, based on, who knows, experience of a 20-something year old in Hong Kong, a 20-something year old in love, a 20-something year old freaked out and afraid of the future suspended, a unfocused, faded motion picture still taunting her, as if to say, this is what’s to be, this is the next step, all in cloud puff lettering that dissipates with your next exhale.

I don’t want to fall into another session of self-analysis but I can see I’m already knee deep. I think that the main issue I am contending with now is how to be happy in the present without worrying so much about the future. I am always, always too concerned with the next step, the correct next step, that I can barely sense what is around me and enjoy the energy that surrounds me now, energy from being in love, being loved, being with a wonderful person, being with myself, being myself.

I feel nauseous. Those oysters at the Excelsior Hotel brunch/lunch this afternoon did not do me good. Bleah. My neck is sore and itching like a million razors are chipping and flaking away at the dried, inflamed rash that has settled upon my throat, remnants of diving and snorkeling and pernicious plankton. I am about to make myself feel better by sneaking half a crunch minibar into that rashy throat of mine. Ah, forgot to locate myself. Ryan and I are at the Causeway Bay Public Library, on the fourth floor, sitting almost next to each other but not quite, in seats A12 and A10 respectively, with a prickish fool in between us occupying A11. To the right a vast row of basketball courts open up beyond the floor to ceiling windows, chalkboard green and dusty from a myriad of rubber sneaker bottoms. A line of tall nondescript trees beyond that, then an expanse of grassy lawn, most likely made up of that stubbly coarse grass that usually graces football fields, followed by a whirring rim of cement highway before the bay itself waves lazily from one shore to the other, back and forth, deceptively blue from a distance. Whoops, chocolate streaks my right palm for a second before a lick it off, as the crunch bar half goes down the hatch, unnoticed by the busy librarians and library chaperones that patrol the premises. No food or drinks allowed, missy.

I am slow, unfocused, writing about nothing, just writing for the sake of putting words in a row on the screen, words that sound delicious to me, phrases that taste splendid to ears, teasing, taunting touch. I am also not making much sense at all. Nice. Can I blame it on vacation vacancy? Or perhaps the all-purpose PMS excuse will suffice for now. I am tired and I don’t really want to be here. I would much rather be at the Peak, at PCC, plinkering away at my lovely laptop with a nice fat latte steaming at my right. There’s a kid across the thoroughfare to the left that looks like a younger Jay Chao. My face continues to peel with a renewed vengeance. It is so uncomfortable here. Jay Chao looks up every thirty seconds or so, bored from his studies no doubt, perhaps just as uncomfortable as I am, sitting here, no coffee, peeling.