Not Every Chinese is an Evil Demon
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your comments: Gabriel Leigh (interesting that we have the same last name. hope we can meet someday), Aubrie Marrin (will I ever know you compeltely?), John Eckard (I know you well and yet I know you not), Randy Kaplan (I know you as well as any man, but less than so many women), Digger Dick (merely an imaginary friend; often the best kind) and so many others (the nameless ones, dwelling in shadow) who have made this blog what it is today. Namely, nothing, but in the best sense of the term. As in No-thing, the absence of a thing, which, in Zen terms, is the equivalent of unlimited potential. At least in theory.
Nevertheless, to show my appreciation, I'm suspending the usual flow of my own desperate attempts at irony and humor to bring to your attention an excerpt from my good friend Lucy Lee's new novel ( soon to be published and already copyrighted, just in case any of you uninspired writers out there are not above cyber-theft). Lucy, despite her on again-off-again mental illness and a rather well-documented history as a rather ruthless, albeit gorgeous, Chinese slut, has an undeniable gift. I only wish I could write as well, or at least be a gorgeous Chinese slut.
Hope you enjoy. Any comments to Lucy should be directed here.
"Or not. Getting a grip might also be a good idea. It's not every normal,
happily married young woman who sits in her car alone screaming. Could easily
attract unwanted attention. Correction, already is. Looks like a family of five
out for a fun day on the town. On foot, no less. Somewhere between the mall and
the amusement park they had the misfortune of running into an hysterical serial
killer, in an SUV, no less. The woman's expression confirms that this is
the absolute worst thing that's ever happened to her. It isn't, of course, but
pretending it is makes the rest of her hopeless existence easier to bear,
even brighter in some sense. Her two hands are clapsed firmly over the eyes of
two of the kids. The third kid is too busy picking his nose to care. The man, a
flat-faced giant with little or no hair, isn't quite sure what he's encountered, but
vaguely hopes it leads to his family suddenly and mysteriously disappearing and him
getting to have sex with me. Probably in the car. His eyes, needless to
say, are glued to my boobs. I'm tempted to pop one out just to shatter the apparent
tension, sending the entire episode spiraling out of control into the depths
of some psycho-serial-erotic-familial conflagration. The woman, not quite so far
beside herself that she has lost sight of her husband's inability to ever get
beyond the mundanely sexual, even in moments of real crisis, traces the line of his
vision, her lips curling into what must be a very familiar expression of disapproval.
She stares into the side of his large head with the intensity of a pissed off
viper, which snaps him nicely out of his sordid little fantasy. His expression feigns
innocence, as if to say, What? What did I do now? I don't know what you think I was
looking at, but it wasn't her big, lucious tits. Jesus! Give me a little
credit, will you?・She'd like to rip his eyes out, maybe pull down his pants and show
the world precisely why she has never experienced sexual satisfaction, but she
has the children to consider. I'm almost tempted to give them all a ride home,
maybe go in for coffee and cake, make some effort to get to know them as people,
rather than merely blobs of organic, dysfunctional annoyance.
Hi, I'm Lulu.・
Lulu! What a charming name. I'm Betty and this is my husband Ralph. And
these are our children, Debbie, Darla and Desmond.・
Hope I didn't scare any of you.・
Oh, not at all,・ Betty says. I know only too well the degree to which
hysteria can be a perfectly valid response to a variety of existential contingencies.
Wow! Betty has a brain. Either that or she reads way too much. Tends to remember
things which only make her suffer more at some later time. Or possibly she
is insane, on loan for the day from the local nut house. Ralph and the kids
picked her up, as usual, at 10:45. He and the children make positive small talk,
remark on how good she looks, how everything is proceeding smoothly on the home
front. Homework is getting done, baths are being taken, the TV is on only two hours
a night. Meanwhile, the kids would rather be anywhere but here. They fear
their mother because Daddy has told them repeatedly that Mommy is crazy. Although
it's probably not her fault. Ralph is wondering why he even bothers to come?
It's not like anything actually means anything, and he's weary of the whole
fucking pretense. Betty is insane. She wouldn't know her own kids from a
pile of dog shit. Look, see how she sniffs them before allowing herself to blink.
Not that she still doesn't have a body. Just too bad she never figured out how to use it.
He'd almost like to fuck her, but what would be the point? Where would the
connection be? No telling what a crazy woman would do while you were fucking
her. Might suddenly urinate, or bite your ear off. No thanks. Just get it
over with. Let her be with the kids, take her for a walk in the park, hope the
medication holds out.
I, on the other hand, already like Betty. She's been through hell, but
still has a glimmer of sweetness there in her eyes, beyond the conditioned
stiffness and hysteria. Ralph is the real question mark, as well as the obvious source
of Betty's discontent. How she ended up with him is probably not a story it
would be easy to listen to. Sullen and vaguely opinionated Ralph. Remote and
retroactive. Overweight and sweaty. His lives off the fumes of the
misunderstanding of others. Typical mass of male discontent. Loves it when
people don't get it. Betty never quite got it, never could give him what
he really needed. Which is? Less observation and more oral. Definitely less
analysis and expectation. Much less talking. More food and commerce. Life edged out on a
smooth surface of deceit. It wasn't the marriage plan he bargained for. He
wanted the raw pulse of things happening. Something he read somewhere, in a
magazine maybe, back in the days when he could still read without having a
convulsion. He liked the sound of it. Had no idea what it meant, except
that it referred to things which never happen, the things men need to know so that
they can blame women for their unhappiness. The predictable is what happens.
The plan carved in fake marble. Sex at sensible, regulated intervals. Kids
with dental problems and behavioral abnormalities. A job smelling of death. A shrinking
sex organ. Hair loss, love handles (the pain of irony), a diminished attention
span.
He blames it all on Betty; first for repressing him with imposed normalcy,
then for losing her mind. Betty doesn't blame Ralph so much as wishing he was
dead. Or, better yet, had never existed. If only his sperm had come from a
laboratory.
If only marriage had been purely theoretical.
Maybe I can help?・
That's sweet, Lulu,・Betty tells me, But really, at this point what are
the chances?・
You'd be surprised.・
I'd like that, being surprised, I mean, but I'm due back at the asylum at 3.
May I visit you sometime?・
I was hoping you'd ask."
Nevertheless, to show my appreciation, I'm suspending the usual flow of my own desperate attempts at irony and humor to bring to your attention an excerpt from my good friend Lucy Lee's new novel ( soon to be published and already copyrighted, just in case any of you uninspired writers out there are not above cyber-theft). Lucy, despite her on again-off-again mental illness and a rather well-documented history as a rather ruthless, albeit gorgeous, Chinese slut, has an undeniable gift. I only wish I could write as well, or at least be a gorgeous Chinese slut.
Hope you enjoy. Any comments to Lucy should be directed here.
"Or not. Getting a grip might also be a good idea. It's not every normal,
happily married young woman who sits in her car alone screaming. Could easily
attract unwanted attention. Correction, already is. Looks like a family of five
out for a fun day on the town. On foot, no less. Somewhere between the mall and
the amusement park they had the misfortune of running into an hysterical serial
killer, in an SUV, no less. The woman's expression confirms that this is
the absolute worst thing that's ever happened to her. It isn't, of course, but
pretending it is makes the rest of her hopeless existence easier to bear,
even brighter in some sense. Her two hands are clapsed firmly over the eyes of
two of the kids. The third kid is too busy picking his nose to care. The man, a
flat-faced giant with little or no hair, isn't quite sure what he's encountered, but
vaguely hopes it leads to his family suddenly and mysteriously disappearing and him
getting to have sex with me. Probably in the car. His eyes, needless to
say, are glued to my boobs. I'm tempted to pop one out just to shatter the apparent
tension, sending the entire episode spiraling out of control into the depths
of some psycho-serial-erotic-familial conflagration. The woman, not quite so far
beside herself that she has lost sight of her husband's inability to ever get
beyond the mundanely sexual, even in moments of real crisis, traces the line of his
vision, her lips curling into what must be a very familiar expression of disapproval.
She stares into the side of his large head with the intensity of a pissed off
viper, which snaps him nicely out of his sordid little fantasy. His expression feigns
innocence, as if to say, What? What did I do now? I don't know what you think I was
looking at, but it wasn't her big, lucious tits. Jesus! Give me a little
credit, will you?・She'd like to rip his eyes out, maybe pull down his pants and show
the world precisely why she has never experienced sexual satisfaction, but she
has the children to consider. I'm almost tempted to give them all a ride home,
maybe go in for coffee and cake, make some effort to get to know them as people,
rather than merely blobs of organic, dysfunctional annoyance.
Hi, I'm Lulu.・
Lulu! What a charming name. I'm Betty and this is my husband Ralph. And
these are our children, Debbie, Darla and Desmond.・
Hope I didn't scare any of you.・
Oh, not at all,・ Betty says. I know only too well the degree to which
hysteria can be a perfectly valid response to a variety of existential contingencies.
Wow! Betty has a brain. Either that or she reads way too much. Tends to remember
things which only make her suffer more at some later time. Or possibly she
is insane, on loan for the day from the local nut house. Ralph and the kids
picked her up, as usual, at 10:45. He and the children make positive small talk,
remark on how good she looks, how everything is proceeding smoothly on the home
front. Homework is getting done, baths are being taken, the TV is on only two hours
a night. Meanwhile, the kids would rather be anywhere but here. They fear
their mother because Daddy has told them repeatedly that Mommy is crazy. Although
it's probably not her fault. Ralph is wondering why he even bothers to come?
It's not like anything actually means anything, and he's weary of the whole
fucking pretense. Betty is insane. She wouldn't know her own kids from a
pile of dog shit. Look, see how she sniffs them before allowing herself to blink.
Not that she still doesn't have a body. Just too bad she never figured out how to use it.
He'd almost like to fuck her, but what would be the point? Where would the
connection be? No telling what a crazy woman would do while you were fucking
her. Might suddenly urinate, or bite your ear off. No thanks. Just get it
over with. Let her be with the kids, take her for a walk in the park, hope the
medication holds out.
I, on the other hand, already like Betty. She's been through hell, but
still has a glimmer of sweetness there in her eyes, beyond the conditioned
stiffness and hysteria. Ralph is the real question mark, as well as the obvious source
of Betty's discontent. How she ended up with him is probably not a story it
would be easy to listen to. Sullen and vaguely opinionated Ralph. Remote and
retroactive. Overweight and sweaty. His lives off the fumes of the
misunderstanding of others. Typical mass of male discontent. Loves it when
people don't get it. Betty never quite got it, never could give him what
he really needed. Which is? Less observation and more oral. Definitely less
analysis and expectation. Much less talking. More food and commerce. Life edged out on a
smooth surface of deceit. It wasn't the marriage plan he bargained for. He
wanted the raw pulse of things happening. Something he read somewhere, in a
magazine maybe, back in the days when he could still read without having a
convulsion. He liked the sound of it. Had no idea what it meant, except
that it referred to things which never happen, the things men need to know so that
they can blame women for their unhappiness. The predictable is what happens.
The plan carved in fake marble. Sex at sensible, regulated intervals. Kids
with dental problems and behavioral abnormalities. A job smelling of death. A shrinking
sex organ. Hair loss, love handles (the pain of irony), a diminished attention
span.
He blames it all on Betty; first for repressing him with imposed normalcy,
then for losing her mind. Betty doesn't blame Ralph so much as wishing he was
dead. Or, better yet, had never existed. If only his sperm had come from a
laboratory.
If only marriage had been purely theoretical.
Maybe I can help?・
That's sweet, Lulu,・Betty tells me, But really, at this point what are
the chances?・
You'd be surprised.・
I'd like that, being surprised, I mean, but I'm due back at the asylum at 3.
May I visit you sometime?・
I was hoping you'd ask."
posted by Bruce Leigh at 10:33 PM
2 Comments:
No-thing. Isn't that the name of Siegmund's sword in Wagner's Ring Cycle? It, too, has unlimited potential. Maybe you could stage a Zen version of the 20-hour saga in Sendai. Hey, isn't Lucy Lee your dog? Or is that Lucy Leigh? And did she write your first novel? You know, the one about life as a dog? Is she some kind of political dissident and you merely some beard, some front, some pretty face employed by marketers and publicists? And I didn't know the misunderstandings of others gave off fumes. No wonder it stinks to high heaven in this city. Love, your nephew in Brooklyn, New York, Randall Leigh.
Japanese warning signs:
http://www.juergenspecht.com/documentations/?number=1&overview=1
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