Flight

I am too near
for him to dream of me
there is no ocean
holding up the flight
of wind

Daughter country

THERE is a place in China called Daughter Country. There are no husbands and every night, men knock on women's doors looking for a warm bed.

I am sure that there are favorites, given the privilege of flinging open unlocked doors in the short hour between afternoon and darkness. For them, the bed comes with a cooked meal and warm lips to kiss after a shared shot of mao tai.

The children will then be sent to bed with quiet admonitions of respect and equitable distribution of attention for significant others. And the adults will play, maybe even weave dreams of life together.

Or will they?

In Daughter Country, how can you scheme to fill a bowl of rice for next day's evening meal when there is no certainty as to whom you share this bowl with? This day's catch is yours, but tomorrow's could be handed over to the lady next door. Then again, your bed will still be warm, if someone else knocks.

"Will someone knock?" you ask yourself. The trick is in recognizing his. Rather heavy because of callused working hands, the slight shuffle of feet as he waits for your greeting. What happens if you open your door and find his friend smiling sheepishly?
Do you close the door on his friend's face and wait for that right knock, except that you hear it answered next door?

Ah! Many envy the lives of women in Daughter Country. Imagine, being able to choose the man you wish to be with! Your prerogative to have someone different every night or just one for the whole week.

But that is cold comfort.

We all live for forever. Chucking our choices for that one favorite who sees himself growing old beside you. A choice between hangover mornings and quiet nights nursing coffee with a shot of brandy. A choice between comparing notes and conversations about growing mangoes.

But still, how I envy the women of Daughter Country! Their ability to ask for no more than a night, a quick toss in the hay without so much as drunken good byes in the morning. Instead, we are tied to the burden of generations of tiyas and their unwritten rules of womanly conduct. One night has to mean forever.

Or, should it? Who says we have to hide under the cover of tequila and vodka? Unhappy spirits that fling the cloak of repression off our shoulders. Throw the rulebook to the stars and ask them to rewrite it! Maybe they will laughingly fling it back at you and say there are more interesting things under the night sky.

Kissed By Someone Else

Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be kissed by someone else. A fleeting erotic brush with someone you've not pledged undying love to.

How is it going to be, I wonder? Maybe it should be after evening goodbyes, just as the night is ending and you can both dismiss it as part of drunkenness.

That way you can say the next time you meet, "The alcohol got into my head."

Or you can credit it to raging hormones, the moon cycles, or the blatantly musky perfume he wore. But why find an excuse for two adults sharing a pleasurable biological moment?

I remember old maid grand aunts who died one after the other, one cold December. I'd always wondered if they ever "made it" with any of the muscled island boys who went spear fishing before dawn and tilled earth by break of day.
Did Lola Blasa ever hide in the shadows of banana trees for a quick stolen kiss on the way home from the farm? Or, did Tiya Ling ever sneak out at midnight to exchange perfumed touches with high school classmates?

How I wish they did and felt the fire of passion stir in their loins.

It is unbearable to imagine them leading ascetic lives confined to hearth and earth. There must be more to farm living than cooking, baking, washing, and waiting for tired brothers and fathers to come home.

For sure, these questions do not even enter the minds of single women today. Questions change in these times when high school girls consider it a disgrace to graduate without the memory of their first kiss.

Ahhh ... the first kiss. Where did you have yours? Did he bend your will to his in the backseat of his parent’s car? Or did you wait for that special moment, the requisite sunset, glass of wine and you dressed in a sheath with just a flimsy wrap around your shoulders? I hope you let your hair fly free, let his fingers run through the strands.

If you've not had your first kiss yet, just wait and allow yourself the choice of time and place. This memory is for rocking chair moments, when arthritis has gripped your knees and forced you to live on warm tea and solitude.
Other than that, I still wish for the pleasure of stolen kisses. Especially when it rains, just when you are about to say goodbye, and most of all ... with someone you don't share anything with other than a cold night. That way, goodbyes are sweet and final.n

yay for originality

I got pissed today. One of the account executives (well, okay two...joy & joy) walked in waving what i thought was a poster. Horrors! It was the pale attempt of former employees to copy the magazines we are publishing. Oh well. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery?

The new team (see above). Way more experienced and better attitude. Cheers!