ZEN Bitchin'

About two weeks ago the winds suddenly blew cold in Phnom Penh. Nights began feeling too cold for me to use the a/c in my room. This happened for about a week before becoming balmy and dry like a summer night again. The trees in the small yard facing my building began losing their leaves weeks before that. It started with a few leaves falling on the brick walkway and on the stairs going up to my house, progressing to a handful or so finding their way unto the porch–courtesy of the wind. Three days ago, I woke up to find the ground littered with leaves, almost covering the bricks and the stone steps. I looked at the trees and saw that only one seemed to have completely lost its foliage. The other trees had significant losses, but at least remained covered with green leaves. As I looked at the brick walkway, my eyes began to differentiate the yellow and burnt sienna of the dried leaves against the ochre and reddish orange of the bricks. Shapes began to take form against the other shapes and I would’ve continued to stare at the patterns I were seeing had it not for the ding of the toaster, which reminded me that my bread was done.

Since I learned to count, I have been fascinated by patterns. I would measure the area of a room my counting the tiles, count how many books would fit on a single shelf, or decipher the order of colors in a printed fabric. The word ‘obsessive-compulsive’ comes to mind. Over the years, this fascination did not bloom to be an obsession (fortunately) but instead distilled into a quiet interest that nudges me time and again. I guess this is why I always excelled in abstract reasoning exams and why I love jigsaw puzzles.

However, this quiet interest has also caused me to look for, and see, patterns in my own life. My behavior, my decisions, even the things that have happened to me. Please don’t be so quick to dismiss my hypothesis; twenty-five years or so of scrutiny have led me to make this pronouncement.

For example, in the last 3 decades of my life, I have met at least one person who became close to me and later s/he betrayed me in one way or another. In my teens, my social ineptitude made me vulnerable to manipulation that resulted in a social disaster that tainted my entire high school experience. In my twenties, a colleague who’d become my confidante betrayed my trust for his own career advancement. A couple of years ago, I experienced quite a public betrayal in the hands of two supposed-friends (one old and one new) who not only tried to appear to be the aggrieved party but also tried to malign me to our common friends. Did they succeed? Let’s just say that my remaining friends deserve to be my friends and those who chose to listen to their shit-talk do not.

I have written in this blog what my physical type is: curled hair, high forehead, wide eyes, lanky body, and bowed legs. All of my past lovers possess these characteristics (with the exception of 2, who had almond-shaped eyes). However, the first 3 shared something more common. Their family names all started with ‘M’ and ended with ‘S’. All of them had asthma. All of them considered me as their first same-sex lover (one regarded me as his first-ever). And all of them are still my good friends, even if we don’t keep in touch as often as before. My fourth was an ‘O-O’ while my fifth was an ‘M-O’. If there is a common denominator between these last two, it is most likely the fact that I am not on speaking terms with any of them after our respective relationships ended.

Patterns, by definition, emerge when there is repetition. So when it comes to choosing friends and partners, do my repeated decisions cause the development of these patterns–morbid and otherwise? Do I keep making the same mistakes? I have long ago surmised that I am an inept judge of character. However, these past experiences I’ve had with friends who became my non-friends have taught me to be more discerning about the company I keep. I like to think that the quality of my friends and the quality of my friendships have tremendously improved over the years. The friends and friendships I have kept through the years have more or less kept me honest, strong, and afloat in times of dread (such as the days of late).

Sometimes, these patterns (or my consciousness of their existence) throw my equilibrium back in place when it is askew. There are times when it brings sparkle to my otherwise luster-less eyes. This year, when I went to Singapore, I finally met a guy who I came to know through blogging. We read each other’s blogs. When he writes he seems to attack you with a barrage of words but the words themselves, having been selected carefully, do not overwhelm the reading experience. In person he is self-placating yet confident, brimming with a combination of impish glee and unforced virility. I have never paid much attention to chinky-eyed guys but for him I will make an exemption. Obviously, I am infatuated with him. And I think he knows because, yes, I think I am quite obvious about my feelings. In fairness to him, he’s been very gracious. I’m not sure if he likes me the way I like him (because we never discussed anything that remotely resembles the topic of sex and relationships when we met) but I felt very welcome in his presence. In any case, it is impossible for us to get together (even in the fortunate event that the attraction I’m feeling turns out to be mutual) simply because with me living in a developing country and he in a developed (mini) country, we are not only geographically apart, we are also worlds apart.

Two months ago, my friends and I decided to spend the Cambodian All Saints’ Day (called Pchhum Ben) in Saigon. Because of prior commitments, they had to return to Phnom Penh a day ahead of me so I was alone in the 6-hour bus ride back to my dear PP. Usually, when I travel alone by bus I purchase 2 tickets so that I wouldn’t have to sit with a stranger. I, however, managed to buy only one because of the holidays. The night before I sincerely prayed I wouldn’t sit next to any of the following: (a) a woman; (b) a child; (c) a breast-feeding mother; (d) someone who stinks; (e) someone who eats incessantly the whole trip; (f) someone who is as large or larger than I am; and (g) a combination of any of the previously mentioned. I went to the bus station early to see in advance my possible seat-mate. My heart leaped up to my throat when I saw that he was already there. Why? Over the years as my reading list grew, I have often encountered the word ’strapping’ when referring to men. But when I saw him, the first thing I thought was that he was the embodiment of that word. He was wearing a cotton shirt, cargo shorts and walking shoes. He stood about an inch short of six feet, muscles in appropriate amount in all the right places. His head was shaved but I suspected he was a blonde, judging by his brows and the hair on his forearms. He had gray-green eyes framed by lashes you can almost paint with watercolors. His nose rose delicately from his face, tapering to nostrils that slightly flared when he exhaled, or laughed. He was from Czech Republic but he spoke with almost a French accent. He spoke 4 languages. When he spoke to you, you’d feel as if you’re the only people in the room (I certainly felt like we were the only 2 people in the bus). Maybe this was because he was a police officer in his old country. His attention is so focused and precise, it is almost physically impossible to ignore him. We shared a rainy, muddy and bumpy motorcycle taxi ride from the bus station to our homes that evening. And until now we exchange a few text messages.

Now, one might want to know why the heck did I decide to write extensively about these guys. Is there a pattern within these seemingly disparate men? Well, their initials are the same: J-Z.

Like I said, sometimes these patterns provide me with sparks of joy that momentarily light up the darkness that seem to hover around me lately, like a haunting spirit. But the darkness, like the paralysis to write I’d been feeling, is another story. One I’d hope to share one day, when the leaves have returned to the trees, so that the patterns they create are no longer against the brick and the dirt, but against blue skies and white clouds.