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.

Dimsum at the China Club - at random

There I was, young, ignorant and quite out of touch with reality, to be honest, striding with an air of determination and vigor towards the old Bank of China building. Head bent, knees awhir and heels clacking on the uneven Hong Kong pavement, I nodded eagerly to whatever nonsense a firm executive was half speaking and half spitting into my right ear. The sleek Coach briefcase I clutched tightly encased a handful of presentations still warm from the printer, presentations full of useful information that would eventually be yanked fresh from its fine carrying case and dutifully discarded into the trashbin under my desk, three and a half hours after the stress involved in proofing, printing, and binding them.

We hurried up the steps that led to the elevator lobby of the venerable and humble predecessor of the tremendous steel and glass giant looming close by that now represented the Bank of China. The elevator doors closed upon our party of four and reopened to a dimly lit, carpeted foyer. A sense of old Hong Kong suggested itself through the oak finishings, antique ornaments and plush armchairs that rested like distinguished elderly gentlemen lounging in an afternoon salon, a bit worn, a bit wrinkled, but with an air of history and refinement. We were conveyed by a pleasant hostess through heavy frosted glass doors, past the general sitting area humming with executives engrossed in high class dimsum and important conversation, and entered a private room in the back. The first thing I noticed about the well-lighted dining room were the rather anachronistic wall hangings. Large modernistic paintings in bold blues and reds hung against a backdrop of softly toned wallpaper, the most promininent being a juxtaposition of the old and new Bank of China buildings standing one next to another, a nondescript matronly form in the foreground dressed in what seemed like soft silk burgundy pajamas.

Two of the five invited guests had already arrived, and after a round of introductions and fumbling with namecards we were all seated at the round table, patiently engaging in polite conversation as we waited for the remaining guests to arrive. Mostly I attempted to appear as interested as possible, bobbing with a complaisant smile between two lines of conversation split across the table. Intently I stared at the quivering waddles of each person as he or she spoke, taking in the details of a tie, a gesture, a tone of voice and the range of accents that skirted the table. Perhaps I should be just as involved in the actual content of the conversation, I thought to myself as "content is king!" erupted from one particularly stubbly waddle in a rather predictable manner, commenting intelligently on the telecommunications industry. I couldn't resist taking the time to notice the China Club design that sprouted on the napkin and glossed the fine china. A small red star, overlaid by a large yellow star which in turn enveloped a smaller white star, suggesting what I could not begin to fathom. Just as I was happily surprised to find the same star logo embossed on the wet handtowel I was using, someone said something delightful and a round of chuckles and nods rippled around the table. I participated, of course, seemingly engaged and truly enthralled by whatever I had missed.

As the food began to arrive, placed neatly before each of us in nicely sized portions, the usual fear began sneaking into my psyche- will I make an absolute fool out of myself by dropping a chopstick, dripping a sauce or projecting some morsel, Pretty Woman-style? "Slippery suckers," I would say with a laugh to recover my composure. I wondered then if anyone else at this table harbored the same concerns. Glancing around the table I detected no visible traces of consternation within the animated faces of three high-powered executives from blue chip corporations, two partners from a renowned American law firm that dominated the Asia Pacific legal world, and four finance gurus from a struggling international investment bank. Ho-hum. Snapping back into the flow of conversation I abandoned the wanderings of my slightly neurotic mind and refocused instead on the dimsum. [tbc]

Silence Ajar - a poem

Wonder if I’ve felt like this before,
Standing about, talking nonsense.
The door to my heart ajar,
no welcome mat to greet.
Only periodic cries of silence,
Wafting from the windowsill.

And here I am, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Watching my life like a movie reel,
Reality tepid brown and faded.
Heart’s grown bland,
No use for the door
Just no longer here anymore.

Shards of my heart,
Fragments of my mind,
What is it worth?
Palms on the windowsill,
Scream out into the night,
And silence retorts,
Sneers mockingly at me,
My mouth agape, face aghast.

Then turning once about,
Even silence disappears,
Slips ‘round the corner,
Sarcastic lips upturned.

And still, watching the clock,
Watching the door.

Herman's Birthday - a fragment

It’s Herman’s birthday today. I have not seen that guy in so long. It seems like ages ago since we sat on the steps of the Asian American Activities Center, puffing on cigarettes and sketching plot twists with dramatic, overkill enthusiasm and complaining, forever complaining, about the love or past loves that soured our hearts at that particular moment. How would we incorporate our own rich (oh, but rather trite) life experiences into a dramatic catharsis, shouted from the very rooftops of over-privileged college youths playing playwrights in between classes? But what a pleasure, what a thrill, truly, to eke a bit of drama from our daily microcosms, mold it into some metaphoric butterfly or melancholy melody, and send it fluttering from our souls to grandiosely greet the world, inevitably flying smack into the concrete wall of reality. Every event could be fodder filling a scene, every personality a character building a cast. So completely self-serving and self-indulgent and so completely gorgeous was life back then.

Perhaps this third post-collegiate year that I am now living has broken my optimism a bit. This rut that I have freshly dug for myself proves even more suffocating and unfulfilling than I predicted. So happily ambitious were these plans, to move on once again and start anew in a cosmopolitan urban sprawl, new position, new title, new team of happy investment bankers, new friends, new apartment, new neighborhood, new country. So long Midtown, Soho and my beloved Meatpacking District, sets once called home yanked across the plankway and off the stage during the second long intermission of life post-college, curtains opening to a freshly painted backdrop of Central, Causeway Bay and Midlevels.

And in all actuality it is a rather fresh new act that I’ve stepped into. Hong Kong is fascinating, there are roots here that have broken through the topsoil, entwining the core of who I am to the undercurrents of this city. My relatives, the language, the general Cantoneseness that pervades with its callousness, materialism, trendiness, all enshrouded in the sweet and sticky musk of money. But dramatization aside, career-wise I am definitely unsatisfied and stifled. [tbc]

Work - a fragment

So what is going on? Well, job-wise, such pressure, latent, hidden pressure, most likely one of the key molders of that horrendous knot lodged in my upper right shoulder blade. It is quite strange, the way that I have been handling the responsibilities, most of the time wondering how in the world I am at the fore of representing the company at these meetings with millionaires and their asshole lawyers, but then again looking around the room at these millionaires and thinking what a bunch of idiots, sniveling, is the word, sniveling idiots trying to underhandedly squeeze every drop from their “guanxi”. No, that’s a bit harsh, fine, skip the sniveling, just idiots does the trick. Guanxi, big fricking deal. It is rather annoying to sit there sometimes, as Mr. Millionaire Number One asks me if he is being too GREEDY. WHAT?!?!? “Um, yeah, Mr. Millionaire Number One, you are a greedy idiot bastard. Now back to the process…” Millionaire Number Two fills in with an aside, dramatically sprung in a lowered voice, “Yeah, I actually have the money to fund this thing, but we’re trying to get some legitimate support…” “You mean for this illegitimate bullsh*t guanxi-based bullsh*t operation?” Things not to say to clients. Hmph. So meaningless, but then what is? I like the fact that I am sitting there, rounding out the table with so few years of experience, as old as most of their daughters, trying to enforce some sense of credibility with nothing but ideas on organization. Organization, hah! It’s all a crock, really. Comical crock of sh*t.

I can sit here and lament and complain, but at the end of the day (banker phrase, beware) is there anything else that I could be doing with my life that would be more fulfilling? Writing, great. But who’s to say that what I write is trite stuff that will never be interesting to anyone other than my inner heehee self. Writing, great. But who’s to say that if I have a job that is writing-oriented I wouldn’t be bored out of my mind?? Doing interviews, seems fun. Reporting on restaurants, events, movies, even? Nah, I don’t think so. So then what? I don’t know if I have enough in me to create, to innovate writing that’s worth reading. Just don’t know.

These are times - a fragment

These are times when you cannot help but wonder what you are doing and why in the world you are doing it. I find myself in an occupation chosen not as much through personal preference but rather through the push-and-shove of what seemed “right,” according to the campus career center and various other constituents, for a college graduate with little to no skills whatsoever. And as I sit back in my herman miller-design office chair, pensively perusing the maple décor of my cubicle, rendered oh-so unprofessional by a collage of friends and family on one wall, chinese calligraphy on the other, and two dogs on my Windows NT screensaver, I cannot come up with a single answer to my question that comes from the heart. Sure, it is a good experience, a great professional stepping stone, a sure ticket to business school, and a boot camp for any fuzzy major, but when it comes down to it, who really cares? Do I want “J.H.C., spent good portion of her youth slaving away at an investment bank” on my tombstone?

Yesterday, after a 128+ hour week of continuous work on minimal sleep, I took a day off to recuperate. Yet I had to take a sick leave, and not only that, I also felt incompetent and guilty for doing so. For that to be my instinctual reaction to such a situation makes me realize how warped my psyche has become when it comes to my job. It is a thankless job that I do, where not only are there inordinate expectations on your mental performance, but even more so, a ridiculous demand on your physical stamina. What am I doing here? If I am to throw myself into work in such a manner, should I not be working for something that I truly believe in? I can feel that something has slipped from my grasp, some integral part of myself, the self that I liked better than the one I see now, grappling in my cubicle with little sleep, little time, and little reprieve.

I want to find the self who could appreciate the dance of the twinkly lights upon the trees in the wintry breeze, where green leaves, then brown and red, once danced a season and another season past. I want to find the self who used to laugh with careless abandon, throw her head back and guffaw with a reckless enthusiasm that warmed the heart with a shred of optimism so scant in the melancholy world about her. Where is the power that once flourished inside me? “Late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our power.” This is what Wordsworth warned of, this materialism that surrounds me, this humongous metropolis looming above me, threatening to strip me of my appreciation of the sky, the clouds, and of any semblance of Nature that reminds me how alive I am, how alive I should be. But it is not the forbidding skyscrapers, nor the red glow that replaces the stars at night, nor the streets lined with telephone poles and lampposts replacing trees, nor the blackened puff of an exhaust, nor the discord of honking taxi-horns that dampen the spirit and cloud the mind. For within these objects we too can find an imprint of Nature with a bit of imagination.

Rather, it is human nature that truly looms above me. I find myself a complete amateur, naïve and unwilling to let go of my naivete for it is too familiar of a companion. I am not good at “the game,” and yet I watch it unfold around me, a breath here and a comment there. I will not succumb to anything that is against what I believe and against the grain of who I am. Whether or not that is noble or naïve or stupid or cowardly, I do not care. Yet I still am mired in the process of finding what I believe and recognizing who it is that looks back at me from a steamy bathroom mirror every morning of every day. I want to discover where there is room for improvement, and realize where there is value. I am still struggling to capture what it is that drives my personality and what is it that drives my beliefs. The least I can do is act with my heart and abide by what I have come to define as “right.” Yet this fuzzy, foggy definition of right and wrong becomes fuzzier and foggier by the day.

In the matters of the heart I am equally confused. I am in love with a man who can potentially never make me happy. Not because he has no intentions of doing so, but because the things I need are so aberrant from the nature of his personality. This love is wearing me thin. I want to hug him with joy and be joyfully hugged in return. I want to look deep into his eyes and find a better sense of myself there. But the nature of who he is, that very same nature that drives his kind actions and genuine concern for my welfare, precludes the romance and giddiness that I need. He will never allow himself to be happy, for he is too laden with responsibilities and self-imposed encumbrances. And I realize that I have begun to shine a little less brightly, to laugh a little less loudly, and step a little less lightly than before. How ironic can that be? I meet someone who is so nice to me, so incredibly nice that I cannot even believe it at times, and yet, he is so emotionally unreachable. I am drowning in his kindness. I do not know how to let him go, for he is so kind to me, yet I do not know how to be happy with him.

And this is the ground upon which I stand, so uncertain, and so real- where do I begin with myself? What road should I follow to discover who I truly am? How do I let go of someone who is so right, yet so wrong all at the same time?