Diagram For Heartbreak
I love making these little diagrams. It’s so cathartic. I remember reading this xkcd comic (Do you know the functions? Answers in the footnote1.) a long time ago, and thinking, “Yeah, I don’t get it either”.
I’ve always been a visual person, but I never realized that doing something like this would make things so much clearer. All those years earning a degree in computer science — learning Venn diagrams, flow charts, and the like — have finally come in handy.
- From left to right, top to bottom: square root of love, cosine of love (trigonometry), derivative of love (calculus), matrix multiplication of love (linear algebra), and someone help me out with the last one, it seems like another calculus equation with some constants thrown in the Fourier transformation of love (Hat tip to Edd Sowden for this one). [↑]
The Kissing Map
There were patches of skin on her body that would build, and turn white, and flake.
She was always self-conscious of those areas, to the point of tears, but I called them my kissing map, as each patch would lead my lips to the next. In the dark, the spots revealed themselves in their texture, like delicate wounds. How different they tasted, how strange that skin felt against my own.
I would always kiss those spots, in hopes that my lips would convince her that she had nothing to be self-conscious about around me. To ease, and share their burden.
To acknowledge that she was flawed, as we all are on earth, but I still loved and accepted her, despite it all.
Largo Ma Non Tanto
Show me Bach, she said with her hands.
Show me love, I said with my lips.
Goodbye, Love
On our last day together she brought me a bouquet of tulips and carnations, and a Joe Hisaishi CD — a childhood memory of mine she ordered from Japan. I had mentioned it in passing on one of our walks as the only album I’ve been unable to find for download or purchase, and there it was, in my hands.
We watched Before Sunrise, and afterward, we laid next to each other on the couch, silent, unsure of what to say, because there was no comfort to be had. Soon, I was kissing the tears from her face, over and over again.
She asked what she was going to do without me. How long it was going to be before we saw each other again. Whether a simple phone call was allowed. I could say nothing, because I understood the necessity of it all.
So she said she was being reduced to an observer, and I grew cold and distant. It was the first time I had considered my own feelings, when I had felt reduced to much more than that, and she wasn’t making it any easier. With her lips on my neck and her hand through my hair, she comforted me in turn, and our passion took hold of us one last time.
Before she left, I hugged her, felt her tears grow cold on my shoulder, and kissed her once more on the cheek. Thank you, she said.
My heart has been filled with a calm sadness ever since. A struggle between the pain of being away from her, and knowing that it’s for the best. That we would be stronger, and more stable when it was all over.
In the days since, I’ve remembered the things I wanted to say to her before she left my back porch, running to car without looking back before the emotion could overwhelm her. Things that didn’t come to my head because I was too focused on keeping myself together.
Don’t stop creating. Take care of yourself. I love you.
Finding Love For Two Bachelors
The fact that my dad and I are the eligible bachelors in the family means we get a lot of advice around the dinner table. They bring up available women. Friends of friends, daughters of dance partners, or this-person-I-know.
It’s strange to come upon the sudden realization that my dad and I are at the same point in life. Does that make me old, or him young?
They ask us our tastes: Looks? Personality? Older or younger? I say, “Money”, but they know me well enough to know I’m joking. A joke to hide my answer, for to reveal myself in this way is to expose a certain vulnerability. So they sidestep the question and ask me if I’m after anyone, thinking that if I describe a person I’m interested in, they’ll be able to figure out what I’m looking for. It’s complicated, I think to myself, so only reply with a “No”. They ask me if there’s anyone after me. “No”. That’s even more complicated.
Last week, my grandmother asked me how old I was. “28”, I told her. “Already! You’re almost 30. It’s time for you to get married.” She says if I stay in Hong Kong all the girls will be after me because I have some kind of gentleman scholar look. My dad too; he’s the man’s man, who’s always been fun and popular. And we have Canadian passports. Apparently, we’re in demand.
But they also want to make sure we’re not getting involved with the wrong type of women. Someone who will take our money once we’re married, or force alimony once they trap us with children. They tell us to keep an eye on each other. I say that my dad doesn’t need my approval if he wants to get married, but I don’t need his approval either. So they tell us to bring our girls to meet them, to be sure they’re okay.
I wonder; is love this easy for other people? Something others can control, when I can’t control it myself?
Relationship Advice From Chinese People
My family always ask me if I’m dating anyone right now. They assume I prefer Caucasian girls. I tell them I don’t mind either way (the other side of “either” being Chinese girls). That’s when they warn me about mainland girls. Chinese mainlanders are commonly viewed by Hong Kong people as being low-class, crude, and provincial. It’s said that even if a girl from there is pretty, they lose all attractiveness as soon as she opens her mouth. On top of that, they’re gold-diggers, just looking for a way to get money or a green card.
They tell me I’ll be fine as long as I don’t marry a mainland girl.
My grandma used to tell me to find a Chinese girl, because Chinese girls treat their men better, or to find someone who loves me more than I love them. She’s filled with all sorts of funny aphorisms, like “Women are to be loved, not hit.”
Accepting My Baggage
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have so much baggage. How my relationships would be different. Which ones would have worked, and which ones wouldn’t have changed at all.
Love, in all it’s multi-faceted wonder, levels, and types, is never a sure thing for me. I may feel it, but feel that it’s fleeting and conditional at the same time. Other people have the luxury of taking love for granted. They assume they’re loved. How comforting it must be. For me, it’s always been a struggle for stability. “We won’t love you if you don’t do well on this test. We won’t love you if you don’t practice piano. We won’t love you if you don’t finish your dinner. No one’s going to love you if you always stay this skinny.”
It feels like I haven’t survived my childhood yet. And I arrive at this fact so many times when trying to figure out the source of my issues that it’s starting to sound like an excuse. Therapy has helped identify my issues, but it’s still taking work on my part to resolve them, along with patience on the parts of others. I’m beginning to question why people would accept and love me. I guess it’s worth it to some, but things would be so much easier if they didn’t have to deal with my insecurities.
