J-Horror

4:17 a.m. I had been staring at the same sentence for hours: “…is to be understood as obeying the moral demand for intelligibility.”[1] I don’t care what that guy from Shakespeare & Co. says. This is not easy reading. Perhaps moral reasoning is a necessary justification of life and conduct, but my brain refused to be so engaged. Comfort has a way of squelching inspiration for deep thinking which is why I suspect that many philosophers are possessed of melancholy and tortured dispositions—like poor Kierkegaard. I do experience frequent moments of agonizing introspection, but not nearly consistent or severe enough to be profound. And, at the moment, little would be further from this than the image of me, well-fed, well-loved, sitting upon generous suede cushions, and wrapped in a blanket woven from the softest underfur of who-knows-how­-many Tibetan animals. Yet, neither suede nor a whole Tibetan herd could exceed the sheer luxury of wearing this sweatshirt, his shirt, the same one he had on the entire day. I thought: If I could just bottle this smell, I would be a genius…

“Don’t you ever sleep?” He startled me, emerging out of the dark from the next room. He had put on a pair of shorts. Between the two of us, we had one complete outfit.

I had a nightmare, I said. His look, a mixture of tenderness and amusement, made me defensive. No, it wasn’t just a bad dream. And, it was not one of those cute nightmares. It was an evil nightmare. Evil, like something out of J-Horror. In it was a wraith, all hair and cartilage, which moved with erratic unnatural movements. It lacked a visible face. I had summoned this unholy thing inadvertently by labeling items with yellow Post-it® Notes. “Photographs.” “Piano.” “Computer.” As a playful gesture, I affixed a Post-it® square in the center of his chest: “D.H.” Unbeknownst to me, the Post-its® carried a spell which conjures and directs malignant spirits—like an inverse of those Chinese paper charms upon which people write sutras to ward off ill fortune. The physical act of committing a name to paper endangered the very thing or person named. Everything the wraith touched turned to ash. Photos. Piano. Computer. He was asleep with a little yellow square over his heart. I shook him violently to wake him, but the evil already had its grip on his arm, which began to dry up and crumble.

Words (at least, mine) are inadequate to communicate the full experience of a dream because even the manifest content in the retelling seems so unconnected to logic. Maybe dreams are rooted in a more elemental and emotional part of the brain. Like describing a smell or music, I could only explain how it makes me feel but never fully recreate that experience. And with him, my telling of the J-Horror nightmare did not have the intended effect. He didn’t really understand the inchoate terror and plot fragments, but collected me in his arms and said, he had a bad dream, too. He dreamt that he was late for tomorrow’s very important 10 a.m. meeting with the bank.

Perhaps dreams really are random firings during the REM cycle. But if one believes the cognitive psychologists who posit that they are a way of understanding a person’s thought processes, then this may an early warning sign foretelling the hazards of forming deep emotional attachments to a workaholic. Too late. I put my cheek and nose where the Post-it® Note had been, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply.

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[1] Stanley Cavell, City of Words: Pedagogical Letters on a Register of the Moral Life.

Gaudi

I always thought that people loved Gaudi just because he was wacky, what with the garish candy colors and drippy mosaics. I had never been impressed and thought all of that was downright ugly.

I take back everything I’ve said to underrate Gaudi’s work. Initial thoughts: These spaces do not follow standard conventions and makes no pretense to elegance. The beauty feels natural and inadvertant. And what I didn’t expect was the wit or charm of those oddball confections. These spaces suggest a kind of prehistory before life seemed serious.



Photos are inadequate to replicate that experience.

“Having a great time in Barcelona...”

“. . . oh, except for the part where I get robbed in near daylight.”

Maybe we do all those little things to stand out. No one wants to be average, a wallflower, or the everyman. I once nearly murdered someone for calling me “homely and crafty” even though I’m positive that’s not what she meant. It’s all just vanity, this need to feel unique and attractive. And, a Chinese American woman travelling in España needn’t do or say much to stand out. Let me be clear that here we’re talking about male attention. Let me also be clear that I am certainly not averse to receiving it; the little Vanity Smurf in me craves that kind affirmation so frequently and so whorishly that it embarrasses Brainy. But, pandering for attention wasn’t the purpose for my trip to Barcelona. At least, not directly.

I was giving myself the chance to prove a simple point: I had it in me to enjoy my life. Alone. I want to think that my sadness is non-inherent and that these anxieties come from so many sources of stress: from mounting grad school debt to a dismal future in journalism, from my sister’s low-grade depression to my mother’s erratic recent behavior, from low job satisfaction to dysfunctional company politics, from rampant sexual insecurity to the ever-decreasing prospect of thirty-something fertility, from climate change to Dick Cheney, etc. You get the picture. I needed to remove myself from this debilitating way of living so that I could feel strong again.

And there are so many sources of strength. The strength one gains from feeling attractive is the cheapest form of power. Like sugar as a source of energy, it is also quick, temporary, and easy to achieve. This is probably why this solution is the first and sometimes only resort for the vulnerable. And Barcelona nearly sent poor Vanity Smurf into insulin shock.

I pretended not to notice the frequent looks from passers-by on Las Ramblas. “Hola, guapa!” I enjoyed the attentiveness of the staff El Quatre Gats; I had the pleasure and distinction of being the only table at the cafe to be served by five waiters. I felt apprehensive, at first, of the groups of men in the park who turned their heads in unison as I passed. But seeing the frank appreciation in their smiles, I returned one that communicated, “Gracies, señores.” I was charmed by the goofy British tourists and their oblique approach at flirtation. I felt flattered by the gentleman who discreetly took my photograph after watching me for five solid minutes, as I in turn stared agape at the Sagrada Familia.

But there is a point where this all crosses out of the neutral territory of deference and where one attracts the wrong kind of attention. This is the kind that is distinctly predatory. This is beyond the ni hao and sayonara harrassment, which appears to be de rigeur in Europe. This is about having the Italian equivalent of frat boys surround me speaking in a language I don’t understand, but speaking in a tone that was clear to everyone on the Metro. This is about having one insinuate that I should service him as he unbuckled his belt. “Leave me alone,” I said. No one in the train car bothered to intervene.

Inside of a single hour last night, two men approached me independently as I was strolling down Las Ramblas. What's my name? Where was I going? Where was I from? Where was my hotel? How long was I staying? They differed from the packs of other men out for a good time, out on the prowl. They were lone, lean, and hungry. One was more explicit about his need for “woman company” than the other. The other felt compelled to describe his love for all Chinese women. At the time, I was perplexed that these men believed that their overtures even had a possibility of success. Did they think I was a hooker? Or do Europeans assume that Asian women have looser sexual morality? Perhaps these incidents should have triggered extra caution, but I was overconfident. It wasn't as if there weren't Asian fetish perverts in New York. But, in retrospect, it was dangerous for me to carry the sense of inviolability to Barcelona, where I was exposed in ways that do not apply at home.

Vanity got in the way of Brainy's ability to understand just what makes me an easy target. Here I was framing justifications of culture, migration and sex, while avoiding the simple and obvious truth. The lowest prey on the weak. That’s why Trey told me to watch out for the areas where I wander; “Paternal instinct,” he said. That’s why DH worried aloud about the profusion of “sleazy guys.” That’s why the hotel proprietor looked concerned that I was staying in Barcelona by myself; “Keep your belongings close. Please. Please.” I regarded all of this as the natural overprotective proclivities of men who have daughters. Surely, I am too savvy to fall prey to these dangers. But, really, they were able able to see me as I could not see myself: a weakling.

In the aftermath of the robbery, I must have replayed the incident in my mind hundreds of times. I've relived those split seconds of premonition, the spidey-sensation, immediately preceding the attack. I've relived being overpowered from behind and feeling the handbag forced from my arms. I've also seen myself in third person from the perspective of those three youths—how I must have appeared to them. I don't know why it should bother me how my assailants perceive me, but it does. The fact that they had as much regard for me and my romanticized notions of identity as they did for any stray cat on the Passeig Joan de Borbó creates such a feeling of powerlessness. It makes me flinch at every reliving.

I chased them for three blocks, screaming, not knowing what else to do. I asked the young woman leaning against the building if she saw where they went. She pointed with her cigarette, shrugged, and gave an amused smile as if to say, “And what are you going to do about it anyway?” I continued after the shadowy figures, which by this point was retreating further down the narrow street until I realized that I had no plan. Even if I caught them, I only had a few options open to me: (1) ask them to give me my handbag back and hope they comply, (2) wrestle three guys and and flee with handbag, or (3) get myself dragged into a dark place and get myself seriously roughed up. And, I would say that the probability of options 1 and 2 is less than one-percent, even with a generous assessment of my own wrestling skills.

The police station two blocks away was closed. CLOSED. And the nearest one was not for miles. (Let me tell you, dear reader, that I am not at all impressed by the Barcelona police force. From the handful that I encountered that evening, a surlier bunch of nincompoops I have yet to meet). I didn’t know how to dial for emergency. I didn’t even know how to dial the telephone. I had no money for transportation. I had nothing. Nada.

I did the only thing I could think of; I ran into Pitta Hut, the nearest restaurant. “Necesito el policia,” I said. Apparently, people don’t really call the police, which accounts for their popularity and presence around those parts. The men behind the counter looked stunned. Then after hearing me repeat several times, “I was robbed. Ladron. Mi Bolso. They took everything. No tengo nada. Pasaporte. Caja. Nada. Please!” The main Pitta man nodded knowingly, “Ah, sorry. Yes, always a lot. Those Moroccans.”

I could only assume that he was referring to the immigrant and class tensions in the area. After he said it, it did occur to me that the three youths did appear to be middle eastern, Moroccan maybe. And, I am ashamed to admit it, dear reader, that for some moments, I felt a boiling hatred for all Moroccans—lazy fucking underclass! The moment passed but I was startled at my own ready racism, so easy to access the minute my own person and safety was at stake.

A patron, who walked in during my pleas for help, gave the main Pitta man a look and said, “I don’t know about that, but yes, it happens a lot. Especially around here unfortunately.” Even in my distress I could recognize kindness and beauty. Denis. (Not the sort of dark Spaniard that Waldorf loves—rather, blonde nearly to the shade of albino. Still, he embodied that same lean and well-defined elegance). It was only at that moment that I knew I was going to be okay. And, this is the third occurrance that night for which I feel shame and self-loathing. I used female distress to appeal to what I hoped was male chivalry. This trip to Barcelona was about strength, and here I was, trembling and batting eyelashes, making the most of my vulnerability and weakness. This whole wretched Scarlet O’Hara routine wasn’t all an act. I was desperate. I was alone. Still, there was a moment of choice where I could have resisted the urged to cry, remained composed, and put myself in command. Instead, I held back the brimming tears just enough to allow a single tear to spill out.

“First, call your hotel so they can’t get into your room,” said Denis. “I’ll get the numbers for your credit cards. Write down the names of the ones you have. And I’ll call up the U.S. consulate.” I watched as Denis spent nearly two hours in and outside of Pitta Hut on his mobile phone, pay phone and Pitta phone.

“I guess I ruined your evening, too. Thank you for doing this, Denis.”

“My evening was over already. It is nothing. Here, talk to Mastercard now.”

My hand shook as I held the phone. I made no effort to control it. Denis went outside to hail a cab and negotiate with the driver. He returned. “The taxi will take you to the police station. I’ll take care of it. Do you have any money to go home? No. Okay.” He pulled out two €20 from his billfold. “Do you have any Euros at the hotel?” He sighed. Then he pulled out a €50 bill. “This is my last Euro, okay? You take it.”

He refused all offers to repay him. “No, forget it. I’m giving you my number and my email. In case you have trouble. Write to me when you are fine.” He smiled.

I didn’t know what to say.

The Pitta men wrapped a shawarma and placed it in plastic bag along with a bottle of water and a can of Coca-Cola. “You’ll be hungry later.”

Unauthorized Absence

Chiik has gone AWOL.



The Conformist, The Leopard, The Edukators, The Asphalt Jungle, and La Notte have sat on the DVD player, unopened, for the entire month of December.

Someone has flipped absentmindedly through the first 20-or-so pages each of Stanley Cavell, Pauline Kael, Virginia Satir, Michael Chabon, James Baldwin, and Peter Singer—and have abandoned them, one by one, in a pile by the foot of the bed. Peter Singer has since been chewed on by a bored biit.

An Epoisse and a piece of Grès de Vosges ooze next to the moldering table grapes in the fridge. The glorious washed-rind stink has been replaced by reek and putrefaction.

Rolls of film, which contain shots of autumn foliage and family snapshots at Thanksgiving, remain in their canisters undeveloped.

The voicemail mailbox is full: “Hey, I think it might be easier to get a hold of the pope at Christmas. I give up! Call me back!!!”

But the biits know a fake when they see one. Because their real mommy wouldn’t come home at 3 or 4 a.m., pass out on the floor and forget to feed them. Their real mommy wouldn’t come home with vegetables from Food Emporium.

Whoever this feebleminded imposter is—the one lolling around in bed all day obsessing over some guy—better snap out of it or she’s going to get her ass kicked.

As for the real Chiik? Let’s hope we’ll find her (and some perspective) in an impromptu trip to Barcelona next weekend.