Wendy Wan Yi Chen, November 2013

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
A RRRR adaptation by Ignatz Ratzkywatzky

On ChrRRRR xcarol shows 2013istmas Eve, Ebenezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchit, Scrooge’s underpaid clerk, are the only two people that are still not at home celebrating Christmas. Bob Cratchit is still working away at his ledgers, and on the other hand, the only reason that Scrooge is not celebrating is because he despises this holiday, the joys of the Christmas carols teeming outside his house are unbearable nightmares to his ears. The only music to his ear is the sound of his underpaid clerk mumbling out the numbers while working on the day’s accounts.

“Humbug!” Scrooge says of Christmas and it emphasis on charity. When a gentleman knocks on Scrooge’s door to inform him that he is gathering donations for the poor, Scrooge responds that the poor and the ill-stricken can go to the workhouses and prisons for shelter and care.

Consumed by greed, Scrooge is no longer able to comprehend anything beyond their materialistic values. And he does not realized how damaging this is until the ghost of Jacob Marley, Scrooge’s old business partner, appears to him in the middle of the night. Marley’s apparition is wrapped in chains and weighed down by padlocks, cashboxes, and many other other objects that symbolize the heavy burdens of greed. Marley has come to warn Scrooge that if he does not change his avaricious ways, he would suffer a worse fate than Marley. The only hope and redemption Scrooge has, Marley says, is to receive visits from three ghosts–the Christmas Spirit of the Past, the Christmas Spirit of the Present, and the Christmas Spirit of the Future.

After the ghost of Jacob Marley disappears, Old Scrooge is confronted one after another by the three ghosts of Christmas. The Christmas Spirit of the Past takes Old Scrooge to visit his past, and Scrooge is reminded that he was happy once and loved by a woman–but those were quickly taken away when young Scrooge became a greedy businessman. Then the Christmas Spirit of the Present arrives and brings him to see Bob Cratchit’s disabled son, Tiny Tim. Scrooge seems to have regained his compassion but he stands helpless as he finds out that Tiny Tim is also slowly dying. Old Scrooge cries and begs for help, but the grim Christmas Spirit of the Future silently creeps in and shows Scrooge the crude reality of death. Just as Scrooge is becoming overwhelmed with trepidation, he wakes up to find that he is still in his bed. Will Scrooge remember what he has just seen? Has he learned anything from the three Spirits of Christmas?

Come to the Red Room Theatre to find out!

Wendy Wan Yi Chen
Class of 2014
Department of Foreign Languages and Literature
National Taiwan University
wendocheno@gmail.com

Love is all you need

Jason Hoy, September 2013

This was inspired by listening to the Beastie Boys one night, finding myself bored in the MRT the next day, and the headlines of September 2013: the Miley Circus, Taiwan politics, Middle East conflict, continuing ecological disasters, trade deals secretly negotiated with very insufficient scrutiny (such as ECFA and the TPP), internet surveillance, ubiquitous advertising…There is one invented word in here, “anthrobscenic” (from anthropocene + obscene). “Anthropocene” is a proposed name for a new geological era marked by human activity becoming an epic-scale force of nature, like a slow-motion asteroid hitting Earth. The term “pale blue dot” refers to a passage written by Carl Sagan upon seeing a Voyager 1 photo of Earth taken from the outer reaches of our solar system, worth a read on this page http://mister-walter.deviantart.com/art/Pale-Blue-Dot-189064960 (click image to enlarge). I must also mention Yogiraj Gurunath Siddhanath (see youtube), whose guidance in Kriya Yoga meditation has helped me along the spiritual path (“the crack in my cave”).
So where shall we ride this stream of human consciousness?
September 2013
A rhythm’s in my mind but there ain’t no words yet
So I take my pen from pocket and the thoughts that come out I set
Down to the ground and on some paper too
With a beat and a brain to be bored there’s no excuse.
Where will I go with this poem – I don’t know,
Poetry’s more than parsing it’s also body flow.
Thoughts in my head like yarns in all directions
Pause and pick out one, now that’s an aspiration.
Do I choose some news to criticize and analyze
Or publicize just what my ears and eyes
Should keep to themselves as private porn
Not sell it to the world – but hey that’s the new norm!
Domestically Ma is slinging mud at Jin-pyng
Among all the ads saying “Buy more bling!”
Globally it’s Syria and World War Three maybe
Whatever happens there we’ll see on FB.
Don’t wanna start on melting icecaps and nukes, we
Just need a new diet to digest all that sushi
Which is now just a little more radioactive…
I tell ya someone’s mistaken if they think that we’re gonna live
By plutocrat rules nicely misnamed free trade
People power’s superior, we’ll show the NSA.
Voyager 1 leaves the sun and us to contemplate
The meaning since her launch of what’s become the anthrobscenic age,
Still on this pale blue dot we grope and grovel
Like adolescents solely governed from the genital level.
But who am I to preach and teach when I have yet to reach
Deeper for those higher thoughts, speech and deeds that each
And everyone of us has lurking someplace in our consciousness,
That some around this planet will insist we don’t possess
Though being born human believe that you are blessed
With a key you can use called creativity
Which beats waiting to be saved by Ironman Seventeen.
So that’s the crack in my cave that I share with you all today
From my higher self to yours I say for now, namaste.

Jason Hoy

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Isao Kato, August 2013

Isao Kato

Isao Kato

Whenever I meet a new Taiwanese friend and strike a short conversation, I have an obligation to answer two standardized follow-up questions: 1. You speak Chinese so well! 2. Why are you in Taiwan?

And I reply with an equally standardized—but equally honest—answer: Thank you, it is because I love Taiwan. (This answer catches three birds in one stone by issuing a preventive strike against the third question: Do you love Taiwan?) Technically I am not answering anything but we both become happy and that’s what a conversation was born for.

To be precise, I love living in Taiwan because I can be myself in this country. (I do stay inside a special privileged category called “foreigners” where local people generally leave me unbothered.) The strange thing is that living here for eight years has been turning me into a “local” year by year, but at the same time my self-identification of “this is who I am” is reinforced. It is just contradictory: I am assimilating and identifying myself at the same time.

But anywhere in Taipei city, you may just stop in the middle of the street and look around. You will realize that despite being a bustling city with three million residents, Taipei is green. Plants somehow find a way to invade everywhere: on a porch, on a rooftop, and sometimes inside a house.

You will then realize that the old and the new, the East and the West, the soft and the hard, all occupies their places, welding each other across their boundaries, forming a symbiotic system.

I don’t care if I am a Japanese or a nomad or a translator or a business owner anymore. I am I. You may define me however I am, but I myself is just a fluid being, blending my identification like a chameleon, comprising a small part of this Taiwanese landscape.

I become this comfortable myself by allowing myself to melt into my surroundings, and vice versa. I have no doubt that various “Taiwanese-ness” is infiltrating my skin. I might even be thinking like a Taiwanese unconsciously. But no matter what, I am becoming free from associating myself with any label and am comfortable in my own skin. And that has been achieved by learning to co-exist with my environment.

In my olden days I defined myself by being separate. I had to “lift” myself up artificially to call myself, because I was in fact too weak and insecure and the only way to claim my identity was to put myself into a mentally sterilized cage. Imprisoning myself was how I claimed my independence.

I might look identification-less these days. I might not fit into any category. I might look no different from other “Taiwanese” elements. Yet I am being myself, more so than ever.

You will become more “You” by allowing yourself to be influenced, and to influence back. That is the beauty and power of Taiwan. I will continue to morph and melt into my surroundings. I might not remain distinct, but I will certainly broaden my existence—by fusing with others.

Isao Kato is a long-time Taiwan dweller, originally born in the land of the rising sun. He writes, translates, daydreams, runs his small company, rides his motorcycle, and shares his insights on RR. Check out isaokato.com for more.

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Manav Mehta, August 2013

Sharing is Caring

“Sharing is Caring”, thats what they say.
Being reserved & withholding is considered selfish play.

Whether you’re whimsical or sturdy,
extraverted or nerdy,
splash words with flavour; we’re all ears,
smells linger for us to savour.
Juicy shrines that serve as feasts to the eyes

“Germans like Ringo, or sweet American Pies,
Chocolate cakes layered with marmelaid, thats where it starts.”

Eid is upon us, so throw more words into your grocery carts,
Synonyms, metaphors, analogies & antonyms

Lets wine & dine,
sharing in Kolkata’s newest ADDA, Red Room @ Living Design.

My mother’s birthday brought me home,
where humidity levels feed the frenzied crows.
Bongs, konks & Ambassador honks strum the wind chimes on a sunny day.

Let us mingle within this space,
share chai from mugs of clay.

Doors to India were opened to me by Roma,
Doors to Radical, Ramblin Roma were opened to me by ‘Incredible India’

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Andrew Chau, July 2013

andrew chau rr45(Calligraphy)

Like (Chinese) brush strokes I shall find the point on which I’ll pivot turn
Differentials woven in as bristles spin
Ink across the surface although it appears as a two-dimensional space
It seeps further through capillaries reaching depths
Often forgotten

The infinite dimensions within the page
Some inked some are not
Are bound by their nature of objective existence
Only made possible by the grace of a hand
Devoid of any further essence or fate
(save the essence of ink is to be writ
the essence of paper is to be written on
save the fate of ink and paper are in
subjective hands)

And now a bond emerges from this pair
In a dreamlike movement fact has come
To act and bind as brush binds ink and paper
Fiber Flesh Fluid Foam
A single stroke of inspiration turn
Inward and ‘round the perimeter
Of the page there sits an image of me
(Chinese) Character

You can find more of Andrew’s poems at:

http://hellopoetry.com/-andrew-chau/

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Lulu Fogarty, July 2013

lulu fogartyThe acquittal of George Zimmerman in the murder of Trayvon Martin is the latest round of bad news that I have gotten from the States since moving to Taiwan over 7 months ago.

I wish I could say that I am surprised by the ruling.

I am livid.

I am heartbroken.

I am confused.

What hurts me most is that I am not surprised.

I am a white woman who grew up in an affluent New York City neighborhood. My parents have been supportive of my every move since before I was born. I’ve been lucky since day one.

I have been surrounded by loving friends + family of every race, religion, sexual orientation + financial background. I have always understood that people are people + are equal despite the fact that many institutions would like to force you to believe otherwise. Words cannot describe how grateful I am that I was taught + accepted this view point, no questions asked.

I moved to Taipei, Taiwan in December to conduct an immersive research project during which I would study Chinese + write an interview based play about politics + ethnicity in Taiwan. I start my interviews on Tuesday.

So far I have written one play that addresses the issues of segregation + racism in the United States. I have always seen parallels between race + power in the U.S.A., + ethnicity + power in Taiwan. However, when news like this reaches me, I am confronted by the strangeness of my decision to travel to the other side of the world to tell a story that will foster understanding, when there is so much understanding that still needs to be happening in my home country.

Before I moved to Taiwan, I lived in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn for three years. Bedford-Stuvesant is a predominantly black neighborhood of Brooklyn, famed for being the drug-filled, gang-banging birth place + stomping ground of such rappers as Jay-Z + The Notorious B.I.G.

Middle-class + white, I have been part of the gentrification of Bed-Stuy. That being said, as a New Yorker aware that I am not from Brooklyn, I made it my business to be friendly with my neighbors. Why wouldn’t I say, “Hi!,” to the people that I saw every day? On one occasion, a group of men who I greeted each morning on my way to work told me that I was the only white person in the neighborhood who acknowledged them, saying, “She must be the delegate of her community because she speaks.”

In Bed-Stuy, I did not feel like “the other.” Even as a high school student, taking the train to + from school in the Bronx, having garbage thrown at me or having friends verbally or physically picked-on because it was easy for some to go after the only white kids on the train, I have never felt like the other. This is because in America, the land where white is the “majority” + everyone else is a “minority,” white people are inherently not the other.

But in Taiwan, a place where there are two recognized ethnicities–Taiwanese + Mainlander–I stick out like a sore thumb. I did not grow up speaking the the languages of this place. I did not grow up learning the customs of this place. Even if I had, I doubt many strangers would see me as much more than a waiguoren–a foreigner.

As polite + generous as most people I have met in Taiwan are, girls + women often blatantly trash talk, + make fun of my foreign friends + I. They laugh at our bug bitten, strong legs, say that we are “easy,” we are fat, we must be sad because we “always do things alone.” I have recently found a way to confront this: kill them with kindness! I just embarrassed the heck out of two girls who were pointing, staring + talking about me as I passed them on the street by smiling widely + waving at them.

But this is not about me. I am not trying to liken my experience to that of Trayvon Martin, or any man, woman or child of color. While I have experienced racism, I have never had reason to fear that justice would not be served if anything genuinely horrible happened to me. If anything, I am trying to explain how different my experience has been because of my skin color + to give those of you who have never met me a sense of how I like to conduct myself in the world that I live in + share with billions of people.

For people of color in America + around the world, it is not that simple. For a black man confronted by a white woman clutching her purse more tightly to her body as he passes by, a smile + wave probably won’t cut it. It won’t break the pattern of engrained, institutionalized racism + white supremacy that has taught her that black men should be feared. (Check out this article by Aura Bogado, “White Supremacy Acquits George Zimmerman.”)

For those hemming + hawing about the media twisting the story “unjustly” into a matter of Civil Rights, I say this: If Trayvon Martin had been a white 17-year-old boy in the same position, George Zimmerman would not have stopped his car. He would not have called the police. He would not have gotten out of his car to stalk the child. No one would have been shot.

The Stand Your Ground laws in Florida have made it very easy for white men–the group who has always held the power in the U.S. of A.–to turn our streets back into the Wild West + get away with murder in the name of self defense. Statistics show that such laws help white defendants more than black ones. This same law worked against Marissa Alexander, a black female, who got 20-years in prison for firing warning shots–which hit no one–to scare off her abusive husband. By the way, this is also happening.

How can the letter of the same law bring about such dramatically different, nonsensical results? To me, the answer is obvious + points to institutionalized racism–racism that may be included in loops holes of such laws, + the racism of jurors that the defense plays on when justifying the poor white folks actions against the “up-to-no-good” of-color victims.

It’s about time that the people in power–ahem, white males in power–admit that maybe some laws aren’t working so well + change them. But when the people in power are the ones who oppose change the strongest, then what?

It sometimes feels as though our leaders see these flaws in our system as the stitches that hold the American quilt together–that cutting them away would lead the country to unravel, lead to chaos + anarchy.

We have been confronting the same problems for generations + generations. Enough is enough. When these backward laws are rooted out, the country will not fall apart. White supremacy might suffer a blow. A blow which might finally allow people to come closer together + live in a culture of mutual respect.

Killers of the Dream was written in 1949 by the subject of my first play, Lillian Smith. In it, she wrote,

I have sometimes thought: Had there been a few men in the South with enough strength to be humble and admit their region’s mistakes, with enough integrity and energy to act out their own beliefs and with a strong belief in freedom and a clear vision of a new way of life, our people might have been swung around with their faces turned to the future. But we had no leaders of moral and intellectual stature, no one of the quality of a Nehru in India; certainly no one comparable to Gandhi […] But our leaders were, for the most part, hotheaded, immature, defensive, often greedy men, unwilling to accept criticism. Or else they were so tortured and ambivalent that they found it impossible to make important decisions quickly enough. So the South walked backward into its future. It is no wonder people were hurt on the journey.

It can be argued that the jurors in the case followed the letter of the law to the T. So, we need to be addressing how we can change these laws that are failing us. Too many laws have become “God Given Rights” in America, protecting the wrong people + the wrong ideas.

Any law that makes it possible + acceptable for any man, woman or child to be murdered in the streets, in movie theatres, on playgrounds, in their schools, in their homes, needs serious + immediate reassessment. We need to not only be looking at abolishing such Stand Your Ground laws, but also implementing stricter gun control laws. For a fantastic article about America’s gun laws, I am bringing back an article that I cited in response to the Newtown massacre, “Battleground America: One nation, under the gun.”

In “The Zimmerman Jury Told Young Black Men What We Already Know,” Cord Jefferson of Gawker writes,

Trayvon Martin is dead—and so many young men like him are dead or in prison—because in America it was his responsibility to take it. It was his responsibility to let a stranger with a gun follow him at night in his own neighborhood and suspect him of wrongdoing. It was his responsibility to apologize for being a black kid who scared people. It was not George Zimmerman’s responsibility to let a boy get home to his family.

The fact of the matter is, the murderer of a child was allowed to walk free yesterday. He is once again allowed to own firearms.

I will never know how it feels to be a man or woman of color. I do know the rage inspired by injustice. I do know that I have a voice + I will continue to use it. I do know that I will continue to bear witness. I do know–I honestly do believe–that change will come.

Until we can break these patterns so that justice is served when innocent children are murdered on the street, until we can break these patterns so that race, religion + sexual orientation are no longer grounds for murder or fear, I will continue to fight to educate people against prejudiced thoughts of “the other.”

I hold Trayvon Martin’s family in my heart + hope that justice will be served in the most peaceful way possible.

I pray for the protection of the innocent under the law.

I pray that we will not continue to walk backwards into our future.

More of Lulu’s words on:

www.lulufogarty.com and applesandazaleas.com

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Tim Nathan Joel – June 2013


RED READING RED

Dearest Red Room,

It’s been a painting since we last spoke. I trust you’re as healthy as ever

And getting accustomed to the freedom we seek.

My prose has been lacking, being away from you like this.

My painting on the other hand, is never without its purpose.

Feeling in the dark as it does, knowing the truth is out there.

What it feels suggests there is a roulette at play during all parts of our day.

Every now and then I take a risk and gamble,

Much to the dismay of Winston, Sophia, Loren and Mellow, (my dogs).

Like the night my motorbike rode me into a blossom tree.

Leaving me stunned on the ground then spinal tap bound.

An episode resulting in a true love found, (my nurse).

Tell me Red Room, with all one’s rehearsing, ranting, ravings and romanticizing.

What do those people in front of you, who so kindly un-shingle their chastised feet for you, have to say about where we are?

Is the enclosed writer free to read your mind? Does the view seem real to you?

What would you hear if we remain silent?

I am without a doubt a very naïve post modern expressionist by day

And a surreal impressionist by night.

A midnight toker, a self critical insomniac and a red wine prophet in need.

A thinker, a lover, a dreamer, a doer and a prover.

Am I talking to myself again or are you there with me?

A dead man once told me “Be accommodating to all those souls, but always allow time for your own.” Red to me is the colour of the soul.

It is that which flows throughout us and came from a place we have no fine knowledge of. Knowledge these days is over stated. It is tainted.

It is steered with its horns by invisible clutches.

It is a rooftop with no visible ledge. It is outside this space.

Red Room, you are coursing through all our veins. You are always here when we appear. We won’t forget to lend an ear. What we learn from you is nothing new.

We come here because of you.

And if every generation has its beat, then why wait for the stomp of feet.

Or the climate change to raise the heat.

Are we here to raise a glass?

Are we here to stop a farce? Are you the one to ask?

Should we treat your stage as our mask?

Is your wine table there to help us read our line?

All these questions are answered in time, and time is all it takes.

Once you’ve realized what time takes from you.

But back to the point and the point being sharp.

All the world is a stage and all in the world light up their rightful time.

Yet when the world whines not all of us hear in time.

Is this why when I need water all I want is wine?

Is it darkest just before the dawn? How would so many know,

Lost in their cities of polluted night.

Red Room, must we come here to be read?

What if I am blue and know not what to do?

What if I am green with envy?

What if my words have a silver lining?

What if my golden tongue knows no rest?

And if from darkness comes the light, then one’s truth must surely be revealed.

At which point, as a soul would state, there is no turning back.

There exists no choice.

Alive is felt once out of one’s hive.

There is more than one sky in which one must try.

Blake noted all men seeing life through narrow chinks of his cavern.

May we not let that happen.

The dead man is me, I just like projecting ahead.

And here resides my biggest clue to each and every red rumor of you.

By

J O E L

2 0 1 2

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Charlie Storrar, June 2013

A Letter to Nivea

The story of this poem dates back to 1997, when I returned home to my native Britain after a period of six months living and traveling in Austria, Switzerland and former Yugoslavia. While away I had used Nivea shampoo, mainly because it was inexpensive. I looked for it at home but Nivea in the UK seemed only to sell skincare products aimed at women. I decided to write to them to complain, and because I’ve found that a poem tends to brighten the day of often beleaguered customer service staff, I wrote them the following:

In recent times in Europe have I traveled,

Where many a fine adventure has unraveled.

I have sampled of the fare and dwelt among

Folks of the German, French and Slavic tongues.

Their culture and their customs are diverse,

Yet all agree that few things can be worse

Than the abuse, or the inadequate care

Of the strands that crown our heads – our hair!

O excellent mop! Thou glorious plume!

We all delight to wash and style and groom.

Though dead, you decorate and display.

I always wash you every other day.

 

Yet such is the fussy nature of today,

Confounded by the frightening array

Of haircare products – someone help!

I merely want clean hair and healthy scalp.

Not ‘Pantene protein penetrates profound’!

Wonderful! That on my travels then I found

Your Nivea brand! To my great delight,

Packaged in a stylish blue and white,

Classic yet simple, honest and demure,

And well-priced too – that instant I was sure

Here was a shampoo of a noble distraction,

Not just aloe, jojoba, or henna extraction.

And thus it proved – thereafter, months on end,

Nivea shampoo was my constant haircare friend.

 

Yet now to native climes do I return.

And now do native chemists cause concern.

Yea, though I seek and search the shopping strand,

Alas! No more, no more my favored brand!

Were I a lovely lady I would rub

Your lotions and your toners from a tub.

But no! Young man am I – as such

I cannot but spurn the glaze and silky touch

Of creams and salves and firm foundations.

It took no leave, yet vanished from this nation

Is your shampoo! Your products condition

But you have cast your head soap to perdition!

 

Please, kind sir, I feel I must insist:

Did you really feel that nobody would miss

Your fine shampoo? Am I doomed to delve

In dated crates or dig at backs of shelves

In hopeless quest that one day I might find

One bottle to ease my greasy hair and mind?

Dear sir, I find it hard to act my age

In the face of such a farce and gross outrage –

But to remove from sale your Nivea shampoo

Is more than just a sham – it’s poo!

(In response, Beiersdorf, which owns the Nivea brand, thanked me for my “charming” letter and confirmed my fears that Nivea shampoo was no longer available in the UK, though they were kind enough to enclose a bottle for my trouble.)

Charlie is from the UK and currently works as an editor in Taipei. He also hosts the comedy quiz show Charlie Storrar’s Death Panel. You can find him on Facebook or add him on Twitter @CharlieStorrar

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Lulu Fogarty March 2013

lulu fogartyLulu Fogarty

Just friends doing friend things
Movies, dinner, museums, beer.
Summer in the city
Always scheming to have you near.
Neither wanting to make the first, the wrong move
Reading each other, stalking like lions on the planes,
I’m the queen of my jungle, baby, you wanna share the reins,
Be my king? Keeping our distance, patiently watching.
Your next step my permission to take one more, sidewinding, circling.
The plane’s tall grass provides protection—a scrim, a screen like our Nook spot’s got, listening to each other but not sure if we can trust what we see because, baby, you’re too good to be true.
How could this remarkable, smart, funny, sexy, ambitious person possibly be ready or willing to give himself to me, too?
So we wait.
Play the game a lil more.
Find more ways, places, things to do to fill our time with each other—
Sitting on kitchen counter tops of fake marble,
Cooking together, talking about the ways of the world, the fucked up shit, injustice, our passions—
we’re movers’n’shakers, kid, and if you stick with me, we can DO shit.
Maybe we both sensed this before we could put it into words.
Like, Damn, this could be different. You could be wonderful, you ARE wonderful. With you I could take this step, this trip, jump off the fucking precipice and never look back.
And since we both see that
It gets convoluted—we pollute it with pepperings of self-preservation
If I make this leap into my dream this time with this person, I might actually feel. This person could break my heart.
And so we meet again.
Neither of us sure if tonight will be the night that we’ll say something,
Like, I wanna let you know that I got a crush on you…
Both knowing it would be appropriate—we’ve already spent the entire day and night together and decide to get another beer—the fear of losing the other to the night too strong to play timid.
“So what is this?” You ask.
Sharing the corner booth, dark wood shining in the bar’s soft light… Christmas lights? candles? or just the dimmed setting of the overheads?
I can’t remember because you shined the brightest. Adrenaline of finally asking, finally being asked coursing through us, simultaneously activating and cancelling out the alcohol already in our veins.
Sighing sweet release, I say, “I’m glad you said something cuz I thought I was gonna have to.”
The gleam in your eye like a diamond but brighter, something I see in you every time you look at me.
And the pure adoration pouring my way proves that in this moment…If only for this moment, L’Engle’s wrinkle in time, I am the only one you see.
I grip your shoulders, guide them to the dark shining wood behind you, climb on top and kiss you, like, a kiss that would have the city spinning around us—exploring this new aspect with you with thorough care type shit.
But first you kiss me and I shy away, not one for PDA, “Who cares?” You say, “I just don’t want to be that girl making out at a bar on a Sunday night, OK?”
The spot’s closing down, it’s a nice night, I’m walking home. So you’ll walk with me until you catch a train.
Hands entwined, all but skipping, we set off, passing one, then two, then three train stations, until the only destination could be the crib,
you making some remark about the loudness of my boots attracting unwanted attention.
And at my gate, both of us do cartwheels inside, giddy with that out of body thing that comes with finally snagging the one that makes you shine.

Lux Music #1
31 Mar. 2013

(c) Copyright 2013 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.