Words

Uncle Bill passed away today.  To Bill, I wish you as much fun in your
journey to the next life as you had spending down here.  To Guili and
your wonderful family, I hope that the best memories (of which there
seem to be so many) keep you warm through the times to come.  To the
community, I can’t help but feel we’ve lost someone great, that’s made
us laugh through the worst.  But at the same time, Bill would knock me
upside the head for saying that, ’cause I can feel him smiling at me,
telling me that this ain’t no ending to some sad story, it’s not even
the beginning of a new one.  It’s a reminder that we should all live
life just like he did, with passion, love, and humor.  I know, he
wouldn’t say that, ’cause he’s too humble to say it.  But that’s what
you’d walk away feeling after he’d talk your ear off while enticing you
with great smelling food.

What can I say about Uncle Bill?  The man had a knack for cutting right
past those defenses you fought so hard to erect.  He saw your soul and
didn’t flinch no matter how funky you felt like you were.  In fact, he
basked in that glow, he enjoyed it, and enjoyed sharing it, as if he
gathered the warmth to pass out to others in golden fortune cookies.
He went so far beyond being a simple "people person," or extroverted,
or sympathetic, that there may be no earthly word to describe him.  The
man knew things that people just shouldn’t be able to figure out in one
life time.

It’s a trip, you know…  I realize that in some way he molded some of
who I am from before I was even born, well before I had the privilege
of working with him.  He and my parents go way back before the thought
of me even existed.  They laughed together, fought for justice
together, probably fought with each other, and forever challenged and
changed each other in only the way that friends really can.  And by the
time I arrived, a few years shy of my sister, I was already enjoying
the amazing people my parents had become.  Of course, I didn’t know it
back then because I was busy being a selfish little brat.  But still, I
appreciate it now.  It’s a trip, you know…  The man’s touched so many
lives that we’d never be able to count every one.

Bill, if you’re reading this, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were,
I deeply appreciate the words of wisdom shared and the smiles you left
for us.  Thank you, and have a safe trip.

-Lung San

An old post that I neglected to post.  8/22/06:

Black ink builds on my finger tips, the powdery darkness gathering between
finger prints, as I sift through the SF Chronicles’ pages for knowledge.
My eyes are drawn to a familiar word, Oakland, usually it brings me a home bred
sense of familiarity and warmth.  But I never see the city’s name
mentioned in good light when stamped across a newspaper headline.

Another teenager, 16 years old, high school football player, son, brother, shot
and killed on his way to a party in East Oakland.  His friend watches him
die after a spray of bullets took him down.  Andrew Porter is the 27th
teenage homicide victim out of the 89 total this year.  Teenagers are
dying with a frightening rapidity in Oakland, metal dropping our youth into
coffins too quickly for comfort.  I try to remember, was it this bad when
I was growing up?

There is another article, just beside the report by a Chip Johnson.  He
brings up the idolization of gangsta culture.  Are urban youth dying
because of this infatuation with bein’ gangsta?  Is it fueled by the fear
of not being black enough or being too white, i.e. educated, well-versed, white
collar?

When I was younger, not that I’m an old man now, acting tough was a survival
mechanism.  It still is.  And we discovered what it meant to be tough
from what we saw in the world around us.  I am from a generation of Tupac
and Biggie, from Bruce Lee.  Oakland lays claim to two of those names, and
like so many attached to my city’s legacy, both died prematurely.  I do
not wish for death for anyone, but for once I would like to hear about a
passing occurring from old age.

Who is standing to make something from this?  Who profits from this
gangsta image?  Who is cashing in and who is cashing out?  If human
life has no price, why does it continue?  Too many inconvenient questions
falling on tears and sadness.  I believe that the answers are inside us,
somewhere so deep we refuse to listen.  That’s how blinding truth can be,
it’s too bright to look at directly, so our mind’s eye shies away.
Perhaps collectively, the truth lies between the lines of these articles in the
Chronicle, tapped and typed in these blogs.  Or maybe the solution resides
in the resident mind of an Oakland Youth, deep in the world described in these
words, needing only the rest of us to hear his or her voice when the time
comes.  I desperately hope that time comes soon.

-LS

Funny how much this subject has popped up in the last
month.  Hanging out with old friends, one falling in from China, some recently arrived from trips to Japan and France, one in preparation to head out
to Vietnam.
Even amidst the far flung travels, it doesn’t take long for us to fall into our
old selves, recalling the past like TiVo, playing the memories out for
viewing.  We speak of old crushes and desires, secret feelings and
thoughts, the truth comes out and we all laugh it over as only adults can.

Somewhere among the shift of memories, both old and recent, the complaint
comes, it comes in strong, in unison.  "Yeah, Asian guys suck.
They just stand and stare, they never approach.  What’s up with
that?"  The idea stumbles forth from three separate women’s mouths,
different words, same gist.  They speak in reference to the clubbing
phenomenon where men mill about the dance floor watching women through the
night. Don’t they get tired of it?  Like those British guards with the
foot tall black furry hats, who never move from their spot no matter how much
you act the fool in front of them.  Do they enjoy peering into the
fishbowl, but too frightened to touch the swimmers?  They leer, converse
with other voyeurs, and… nothing.  They do nothing.

But this is just a clubbing phenomenon, they’re just uncomfortable in a social
setting.  Pfft…  How many of you know how untrue that statement
just was?  C’mon, Asian men don’t just sit at home meditating or staring
at blank Zen walls.  They’re the same as any other American, with slight
cultural differences.  They have hobbies, fallacies strengths, and genuine
greatness.  They snowboard, rock climb, and jump from planes.  They
breakdance, bball, and tackle each other a plenty.  But let’s face it
lads, some of y’all suck at talking about anything more than rims and
sports.  Really, it’s okay to speak like that with the buddies over beer
and pretzels.  But pull out another tidbit somewhere, throw her a morsel
of interest, please.  (Exceptions only when she’s really into the A’s)

One of my friends sighs, she’s given a few men more than a few chances, but
they don’t step up to the plate.  They seem quite content on the bench,
under some notion that everything will work out, the game will be won without
their input.  A hot guy she dated, past tense, was just so boring that she
was forced to kick him to the curb.  Notice the wording, who does this
termination fall on?  How?  Analyze, go on, do it.

I offer my two cents on an Asian man I’ve dated, one that seemed vaguely able
to hold an IM conversation online, but stumbles over himself in person.
Look, it’s cute and endearing for the first few minutes, but I prefer it when
people talk me in the eye.  A man who can carry a conversation past work,
mmm… that’s oddly hard to find.  And at the end it’s like he wanted to
take it somewhere, but, umm, no.  No kiss, no hug, no nothing.
Why?  Cause I got nothing from our talk but a meal (which I paid half for
anyway). 

I think some of us suffer under that Asexual Asian male stereotype a little too
much, because too many of the Asian men I know are hyper male, spraying
machismo in heavy layers until the cologne stifles and stagnates.  Damn
stereotype of smaller ^#$%s.  I’ll show the world, damn it.  I’ll poor
every cent I have into the car I own until everyone knows how manly I am.
I’ll live at the gym until my muscles of steel can cut the ice for me.

All great, all fine.  But step up to the plate men, please.  Take a
few swings.  You might strike out, but you also might hit the damn
ball.  I could make analogies to bases, first, second, third, and
homeruns.  But you don’t get to hear it unless you swing.  And you
know what?  The women that I’ve spoken to want you to try.  This
shouldn’t really come as a surprise, but on the whole they want men to succeed,
to converse, to grow a backbone.  No, not like those weirdo creeps who
keep their eyes about chest high during the course of the conversation, not
like the men who need to be completely wasted with alcohol permeating down
through their nails, but like a gentleman who steps up, asks for a dance, and
lights a spark.  Isn’t that what we’re all looking for, a spark?
Well, all the single people are desiring that spark, y’all couples shoulda had
that spark blaze into a towering inferno by now.

This conversation reverberates through the rest of my life.  Other circles
of friends, coworkers, even my family complains about it.  I stepped into
a club this weekend, knowing only one or two people there, and had the time of
my life.  Except, the Asian men were downright frustrating.
"Get up, go dance," I’m smacking a guy’s arm, I can’t remember his
name at all.  "Dude, she wants to dance with you, she asked
you," don’t you notice what’s wrong with the picture here?  I didn’t
say the last out loud, but oh, so true.  These sisters are trying to help
you, now step up.  Even if you dance the fool, that is sooo much better
than being Mr. "Cool" wallflower.  Stand or sit in the corner
some other time.  He shakes his head.  I give up, and get up to
dance.  Come on y’all, this ain’t even just a stereotype no more, it’s an
affliction.

-LSD

I’m in the gym, doing what any normal person does in a gym -
cartwheels and kicks - when realization roundhouses me square in the
jaw.  Damn, them feet are white, like a trail of whiteout streaking
across the mirrors following my every move.  Wait, I have my sneakers
on, no wonder they’re so white.  This over-loved, cracked, and
deteriorating pair has run through college hip hop groups and jogged
through Southern to Northern Cali.  I take them off caringly, followed
by my white cotton socks, but to my surprise there is no change in
appearance, still white.  My feet are so pale they look like the socks
are still on.  Ewww….  Yes, it’s a nasty case of sock tan, folks.
And there is no one to blame but myself.

I don’t see enough
sun.  If I was a wuss (which I may be), I would blame it on working too
much, winter, sock gnomes, or the rain that soaks my toes into
shivering marbles - anyone and anything but myself.  But nope, not
tonight.  Tonight I swear to get my ass out of the house more, even
during the night when there is no possibility of my feet becoming any
darker (save for the absence of light).

It is once again time
for a fast.  Not from food, I like food, food is my friend.  From today
on it is goodbye to TV, goodbye to watching mind numbing junk on my
computer.  What does this have to do with hideous sock tan? (not much
really, but watch me make a connection anyway).

There was a time
when I quit TV, radio, and videogames in high school (that goes with
the TV), I gave up being a hermit.  Even with a good book collection I
was severely bored.  I went out and got a life, for pretty cheap too.
Hung out with friends, played basketball, walked in the rain, shot
spitballs at windows, stole watermelons, and had fun.  In other words,
I did what people did before the advent of televisions, I basked in the
sun, and filled my lungs with the fresh air of the city (cough, cough).

So
wish me and my feet luck.  Does anyone want to quit TV with me?  It’s
more fun together.  We can feed the ducks, feed ourselves, visit a wig
shop, boo people at a poetry night, and dance about the town painting
it red until the cops come.  In fact, I challenge anyone who reads this
odd sleep deprived post to quit one vice that they know is bad for
them, and come entertain me, ahem, and go enjoy yourself damn it.  Go forth and thrive.

-LS

It is so cold right now that frost tingles its way across the tint scratched window panes of the Oakland Public Library.  They creek against ice particles crawling across the edges, freezing the tall panes shut against the biting chill of the late afternoon breeze.  My breath floats across the computer screen in a trailing white mist, obscuring even the typically warm monitor with fog.  The teens shiver against the cold bundled together like sardines in the teen zone, forced to conserve their energy, jaws locked tightly to prevent their chattering.  An eerie quiet settles amongst the tweens and up.  For a few moments, the Oakland Public Library actually sounds like a library.

Through the ever abundant, sometimes overflowing, resources of the city an Ice Cream Truck sits patiently in the center of the Magazines & Newspapers section, resting between Bitch Magazine & and the Siskiyou Daily News.  It offers fresh, ice cold refreshments to patrons and workers alike, free or at tax payer’s expense (it’s all a frame of mind).  Tall ice sculptures depicting world famous Eskimos smile down at each passerby, taunting every patron to rub their noses against the life-like translucent humans in the ever-comfort invading closeness of Inuit greetings.  One patron bends uncomfortably stuck to an Eskimo’s butt, where a friend dared him to lick.  He will remain there until security manages to locate a hair dryer. 

The stairwell is piled with fresh white billowing snow, where the younger children sled their way downstairs, Calvin & Hobbes style.  In the youth room, miniature igloos have been arranged with the aid of a small ski hat adorned penguin with a striking resemblance to a cartoon character (can you name our avian amigo?).

Without warning, the invasive cold freezes century old wiring, cracking, then fusing against all statistical possibility.  A surge shatters the lights in taking out every computer in the library.  The patrons are too cold to notice.  It is a catastrophe, or a present in disguise.  I am free of my duties running the computer lab, soon to be replaced by state of the art computers during my paid vacation.  I head home to my Jacuzzi installed apartment, scratch that, my Jacuzzi installed mansion, where I plan to relax and have some friends over for an exclusive party.

Obviously this is not true.  Present in this fable are several instances that could represent reality, but the teens keeping quiet in the teen zone?  Hell would have to freeze over before that happens.  But mind over matter, damn it, it’s cold in this unairconditioned box, a.k.a. the Oakland Public Library.

Stay cool if you can.

-LS

Like a scavenger hunt, I’ve left tiny clues pointing in the
direction of my closet, a trail of bread crumbs leading up to the door.
You’ll find it on friendster: dating men and women, relationship men and
women.  You’ll find it on myspace under Orientation: "Not Sure,"
a half joke until recently, now blatantly "BI."  You’ll
find it next to the Intellectual Bisexual a la xanga.  You’ll find this
needle hidden in the haystack of words and blogs.  Even absent the
internet, come on…  I majored in World Arts and Cultures, the Dance major
at UCLA (not that all the guys who were there were gay, just most of us).
Despite these tiny cries for attention, few people have glimpsed it, nor
guessed correctly, fewer have followed these clues to the gold at the end of
the rainbow.  In fact, few people may even care about it.  But for
those who do, the fear of coming out pulls me back tightly like a wound mouse
trap.

An inevitable question awaits me as I come out to men: have you ever felt that
way about me?  For some the answer will be yes (an uncontrollable
affirmative born from dreams and/or mindless thought).  But for others: Never,
Ever, have I been even Remotely attracted to you.  But
rewind.  Why does this even matter?  Does a man have to answer this
question whenever (shock, gasp) a woman discovers that he is straight?
For some, why must I lie to keep a friend?  Women know men who are
attracted to them and can still be friends, yet many straight men have problems
dealing with this.  It’s not like the LGBT community is out to turn
straight people to "the dark side" (well, not all of us anyway).

Honestly, I fear losing friends, even though many have told me that those who
aren’t strong enough to know me, the full me, without running away or judging
me are not really friends.  There is still hope.  One close confident
in this whole coming out process told me several old friends have grown up and
come back to him recently.

I am lucky.  My parents know, as does my sister, and they love me.
They don’t love me despite my orientation, they love me as I am, and I can’t
say how much I love them for this and everything else (I’m getting all teary
eyed as I’m writing this).  I’m coming out to people in the Bay Area - the

Gay

Bay

.  I have progressive friends
and I know they will be accepting.

However, some will be accepting because of pressure.  This may come as a
bit of a surprise for some, and it may require some deeper inner thought, so
bare with me.  Accepting a friend as LGBT because you care for them
and want to be supportive is wonderful (if that’s you, kudos, you are a
great person).  Supporting the LGBT cause because it is "right"
(or left), because it is the progressive thing to do, because you are a
revolutionary and therefore subscribe to progressive ideology may be
great for a spoken word piece.  But off paper, off the record, it’s not on
the micro level enough to be considered personal support.  Politics=Macro,
Micro=People.  One on one, human to human, I don’t want to be supported
out of obligation.  Who does?  Some people are
"accepting" because it affirms who they are, it makes them feel
superior to bigots, part of a larger movement.  Don’t trip, many argue
that self-motivation is always present, no matter how altruistic an act may
appear, right?  But if that is your primary reason for supporting a
friend, then you are living for yourself and not others.  I’m not making a
judgment call on this, just presenting a reality that few people ever take
notice of.

On a lighter note:

To all my Asian sisters out there: you are amazing.  Can I begin to
applaud you for the sh!t you have gone through?  Okay, forgive the brief
venture into an over discussed topic, but…  Straight Asian Male =
Asexual.  There have been books, articles, movies, overdramatic displays
of Asian manliness that prove this point so I won’t go into depth here.
Asian female = Exotic, sexy, ____ (insert some sexist male testosterone induced
stupidity here).  Once again, so much has been written on this that any
words here would only be redundant.  For a long time I’ve lived with this
male asexuality and in the large part didn’t give a rat’s ass about it when it
comes to myself (but if you sleaze your way to one of my Asian sister’s with
that racist crap spewing from your mouth and eyes I will kick your ass!).

Anyway, me = asexual Asian male.  But oh how the tables have turned.
OMG, I did not know I was a walking fetish for soooooo many men out
there.  I have turned from lanky straight stick boy with no hair on his
chest and arms to tall, thin, cute, hot mixed Asian boi, with smooth chest,
nice abs, biker ass, etc.  If I only had a developed sense of style I’d be
unstoppable.  And it’s not just the white guys, the sticky rice bois have
been looking me up and down too.  And sometimes, to be honest, when the
guy is cute I’m willing to let it slide a little…  (Girls, you know
you’ve done that once or twice too).

What I’m trying to say is this: I’m simultaneously scared shitless about coming
out and loving every moment of it.  There are times when you have no
control over who loves or hates you.  These times are extremely
frustrating.  If I’m going to be hated I want it to be for good
reason.  I’m not a saint, there are people out there who have valid reasons
for despising me.  But just how much of other people’s insecurity do I
need to fear, put up with, combat, ignore?  When do I need to be an
undercover LGBT so I don’t get my ass kicked?  And more importantly, how
the hell do I develop my gaydar?  Is there a gaydar for dummies book out
there somewhere, or do I need to suck the ability from some hot gay guy’s neck?
(if that’s what it takes I’m more than willing to oblige)

On a side note, I’m still single.  So if you know any cute bois or girls
you have my  full permission to give my number out .  Sorry for the lengthy pile of
words.  But these words have been hidden for so long that they kind of
just surfaced in this fashion.

Adios.  I hope you’re still a friend after reading this.

-LS

"Slow down, slow down…" I keep telling myself,
cruising down the 13 freeway with the rain slashing against my furious
windshield wipers.  My Guan-Yin sways over my arm, dangling from my rear
view mirror, protecting this impatient young man who desires nothing more at
this moment than to snuggle between warm dry sweetly scented sheets.
"Slow down…" I tell myself.

I saw the results of an accident yesterday, stone still dead car resting on its
side, firemen rushing through the rain.  But well before the scene of
twisted metal, while I slowed for the hazy red brake lights peeking through the
rain, rising impatience reared its cruel indifferent head.  I didn’t know
it was an accident.  I knew only my selfishness, these brake lights merely
an inconvenience on the way home after a long day at work and the 2 hour round
trip commute.  Traffic on the 13 at 7:30pm on a Friday (Why name a freeway
after such an ill-fated number)?  What’s the deal?  At a virtual
standstill, I played that guessing game in my head, "Should I take this
exit, or stick it out?  Exit?  Keep goin’…?"

There I was thinking of only myself, how this traffic was effecting me, my
finger tapping restlessly against the wheel.  Then like a cold bucket of
water to the face, I finally realized, on a water drenched day like this, the
traffic was likely due to an accident.  Someone could be dead or dying,
struggling between the possibilities while I complained about the weather,
while I sneered at the slow crawl forward.  My selfishness drenched me
through the windshield, the heaven sent showers soaking the world outside the
safety of my car.

A pair of cars crept up the shoulder, the drivers jumping out of their cars and
running up the hill towards the scene of the accident.  Concerned
citizens?  Close friends?  Family?  One was in shorts and a
t-shirt, another with a determined look on his face.  Neither wore
jackets, neither cared about the rain, nor stopped to check if their cars were
ok.  They ran up the shoulder, water cascading in splashes at their
feet.  Damn, I’m a selfish bastard.  Should I get out and help?

I merge into the right lane, one of the two closed by sputtering flares, bright
red candles drenched to the core.  A fireman is doggedly lighting more
sticks as the others die away prematurely.  I slowly rubber neck my way
past the flattened car.  I see no blood, no arm protruding from the car
window (a terrifying sight I have witnessed once).  I think of the many
friends I’ve lost through car accidents.  I think of the rain, I think of
the driver, I think of invisible passengers and loved ones.  I hope he or
she is okay.

Up the road I see a pair of people walking up towards the exit.  One is
the same man who left his car idling in the rain to rush up the hill.  I
pass too quickly to halt, but I wish that I had seen them sooner so I could
have given them a ride.

I no longer have to say "Slow down," the rest of the trip home.
I wonder, if that accident hadn’t occurred, and if I hadn’t heeded my own
warning, could that have been my car tilted on its side?  Seriously, drive
safely people.  I don’t want to see any more cold young faces in
caskets.  Some of us know how important one life is, how it touches so
many others, how important each moment is.  And for those who have never
lost a loved one, I hope you don’t find out any time soon.

Best wishes to those involved in the accident, and so many thank yous to the
people working to help them.  They may never know I said it, but I like to
think that the sentiment is still felt.

Parking can be a gauntlet downtown.  Like Gladiator
with the Chariots mowing people down.  Rounding the arena in circles
searching for the kill.  Okay, maybe not as violent, but I’ve gotten into
several arguments with drivers in the past.

This morning I finally taped down the button in my beat up Camry that
will
allow me to listen to cds, albeit without the control of the volume (oh
radio
faceplate, where art thou?).  So I was jammin’ to some relaxing
Brazilian
music while spinning around the black asphalt like a record.  All in
all,
I was feelin’ pretty good, which is how I remained calm after 20
minutes
searching for a parking spot.  Everything was taken, and several other
contenders were circling as I was.  Briefly I wondered about rising gas
expenditures when I stumbled upon a tight spot, which several other
drivers had passed up as impossible just as I was informing my Boss
that I
would be late thanks to parking yet again.  I grit my teeth and
prepared
for my trade marked "that’s what bumpers are for" parking technique
into a two hour spot.

Then I paused, there’s an all day spot opening up, right now, I know it.
It’s on Oak Street.  Somewhere on Oak street, at this very moment, this
very instant, there is somebody pulling out of a spot where I can park all day
instead of moving my car every two hours for the remainder of an 8 hour work
day.  I can feel it in my fingers, through the telepathic communication I
share through the steering wheel down to the engine of my old Camry.  I
almost fishtailed around the corner getting to that open spot, cutting across several
slow moving cars, each turn a jab like I was delivering a final boxing match combo - a right, a right, another right, floor
it, a left, another left, and there it was.  Shining pristinely just
beyond a long red strip along the edge of the cement.  Room for one sedan
sized car.  All day parking.  The parking gods have spoken and I have
heeded their call.  I squeeze into the spot, my rear bumper inches from
the red line.  I smile at a passerby who responds to me as though I’m crazy.
I don’t care, I got all day parkin’!  Days like this are special.  Ah, yes, it really is the small things in life…

-LSD

Why, Ms. Miner of Nose Gold, do you feel the need to dig with your long painted nails while standing a foot above me with a clear view of the long hairs that reside within said cavity? It is nice that you are comfortable enough with your own sense of worth to share this activity with the world without embarrassment, but some people, myself included, do not enjoy having people loom above in clear violation of comfort bubble air space while they are engaged in pick ‘n’ flick.

And during this repeated digging process, you leave me with no polite form of recourse, ignoring my edging away from your persons, growing impatient and offended when I shift a few inches out of bombing range. I know that this is a library, a repository of information older than my grandparents, but at this time we are only interested in accepting donations of a literary manner. Please, keep your green gold to yourself.

Sincerely,
The Lab Monitor Peon in the Oakland Library

PS. Care for an altoid?

Random memory of the day:

Few people have fascinated me so much to the point where I am unable to turn
away.  Synapses flaring into a jumbled chaos as hands twiddle uselessly in
search for their proper place.  While working at UCLA Used Texts a college
aged Chinese girl, adorned in a fashionable Goth black outfit, stepped into the
store.  She was strikingly beautiful in the way that the tiny thin

Hong Kong

girl look was popular.  Typically, that is
not enough for me to completely lock my attention to one person.

I can act.  Even as my heart stumbles a thousand fluttering paces a second
I can look a person in the eye and carry on a serious conversation.  I can
smile, I can be serious, I can maintain a respectable demeanor as my inner wolf
howls at the full moon.  I can pluck the strings behind my movements like
a dancing marionette.  But yet, I could not turn my attention away from
this woman’s face.

She had several questions, spoken in clear English words amongst broken
grammar, as to where she could find which book for each class.  Think
Chinese Goth Vampire and an image may spring to mind.  Skin as white as
the moon.  Long pitch black hair tied back into a collection of falling
curls.  Spiked neck collar drawing attention to a well defined collar
bone.  Each word poured past thin dark red lips to be pierced by intense
almond eyes.

The eyes, that was what was different.  Ignoring her completely shaved
eyebrows, which gave the illusion of an endlessly long forehead, those eyes
were strange.  The whites did not end where it was supposed to.  It
stretched right up to her pupils, giving the appearance that her eyes were
simultaneously open wide while languidly looking me over.

I divided my brain accordingly, a survival mechanism I have long made use
of.  A part of me answered every question succinctly, matter-of-factly,
professionally.  Back straight, shoulders broad, inflections chiming off
at the right times.  I nodded to emphasize a point, waved my hand to
accentuate a word, and continued to breathe despite my body’s desire to do
otherwise.  But my eyes were locked into position, a phenomenon I had no
control over.  My contacts threatened to dry out but my lids refused to
blink.  This other part of me studied every detail on her face, curiosity
moving my mind in circles.  If I hadn’t set my body on auto pilot I would
have been forced to wipe the drool from my cheek.

Instead she gathered her books, leaving a surprisingly sweet crisp scent behind
as she stepped away from the counter, very different from what I imagined Goth
leather to smell like.  When she returned my body went through its trained
motions without problem.  She left and my eyes followed her for a few
moments as the next customer stepped up to the counter.

Looking back I cannot call the incident love at first sight, lust, or even
attraction.  It was just - fascination.  Every person is unique, the
contours of the face tell thousands of unspoken stories through a variety of
hidden languages.  But that one girl, who’s name is unknown to me, moved
so far past the norm that her face is burned into memory.

-LSD