China Journals: Shanghai, the Trip back Home, Relationship ramblings

4pm 11 March ’04 – (China Time) Midnight 10th/11th Stateside, somewhere in the air with a tray of food in front of me and my father balancing his tray on his belly

Mi Padre and I discussed my future, his future, plans, ideas and ideals looking at the top of the Peace Hotel overlooking the Bond, TV towers and overpriced soda. More honest with him than I’ve ever been, but we still don’t have a dialog. At least we’re at a stage 10 years after the “Do you know what that means” moment in the U District, we call, listen to one another, listen and it seems, actually hear what the other is saying. An uphill struggle to the Peace Hotel, our relationship turned swamp to TV tower.

Part of me is deeply offended by the fact that not only did I not get laid this trip, but even though I tried, was approached by no women in the red light district, found no porn, and had only a few men even hit on me. But then I pause and realize that’s not who I really want to be anyway, want to be in my Furry’s arms, be rocked to sleep by my Mars, be woken in the morning with my Lamb holding a cup of mint tea for me. The triad of my men… so important so fast. Flashes of fear that the novelty of me will wear off, especially in the case of Lamb, who I feel so gifted to be the one he offered his service to.

So I’m not so bothered by it all. I got my stack of art nude books and a book on the history of sex in China, condoms that made me laugh for Mars… but beyond that… I should bring a man next time, find a woman for me. That sentence offends me. Fucking breasts and long hair. Why can’t = = the issue of body to mind rises again.

Flipping channels, I find Little Mermaid and I flash to LA to comedy to 4th grade choir to Mars singing Brittany Spears to Pina Coladas.

4600 miles to SFO, my fingers find their way home as turbulence bumps the plane in violent spasms as wide eyed I stand in the toilet and my body rocks in tune with violent spasms. I am rocked by the wind, my breath the wind, my breath forced into my lungs as thighs tighten and back arches, breasts heaving in violent spasms.Stevie Nicks belts out “I’m getting older too” and the grey hairs make me smile. 24 as if it were 50 years of life, and yet so young, too young. I imagine children, multi-colored babies, heritage and future as I breathe in and wonder if the landslide would bring me down. How do you raise children from the road? Could my triad of men, my shaman, warrior and artist, raise them for me, raise this for me, my lantern and tie to the soil? Would I fall asleep on the couch smelling of booze and fish, tales of Thai prostitutes, popping rivets and secrets under my belt?

But part of me really wants to try. Try it all. Ring, baby, picket fence…

3ish am Pacific Time (Just crossed the date line)

Apparently the porn was in the grocery stores. Frag. Oh well, nice art books and history of sex book in tow and a stack of art catalogs. Next time.

Over the time in Shanghai, I got a custom silk suit made with fur trim, did lots of clothing shopping, hiked Nan Jing Road. Think Times Square back to back to back with a walking-only road for shopping and for guys, more. I walked the Bund, wandered the city, attended museums, galleries, People’s Square, ate street foods, the Yu Garden, Mao watches wake on from every window as 20 yuan signs of Mickey Mao Mockery. 15 years ago, it didn’t exist, skyscrapers like wild weeds.

Unlike Xi’An and Beijing, there were few “big moments” – no Great Walls; no warriors staring out from 6000 years buried broken in rubble of revolt. It just was what it was. NY on steroids. No… it was Shanghai.

4amish

I’m back to flannel and baggy jeans, tight jeans, longing for no hair and big piercings. I want tomboy me, boy me… but the suit is so stunning, fur and silk to bare skin. Can I work with no hair? How do I continue? Do I stop modeling? And yet, the feel of fingers through long hair and the look of pigtails and his hands pulling my head back as he fucks me… So torn.

5amish

A while back, someone was smoking in the lavatory. Announcements, commotion, now some folks are upset that they made a big deal about it as they got scared. Sigh.

Watching “Something has to Give” again. Why does she have to choose?

I need to learn to see myself through the eyes of those around me.

Not all of us “Broads” want all or nothing. I’m happy to just be a part of someone’s heart, or they mine. But once in a while knowing that it means something is very nice.

My pen keeps heading towards men. But my mind back to Natalie. My far flung love, miles away and yet not so far and yet… Where do we go from here? I know where to place my men in my life – sort, categorize, organize, blend, make all work together, but with Natalie so far away, she’s like this amazing shining gem who seems so elusive to my heart. I think I get her and then she flies away into the night. Through her I get to understand how others say they feel about me: an advent, a comet flying through the night. But I close my eyes and imagine the triplex and she’s still in Seattle.

R joked about the Triplex idea and in my brain the image revolves… Furry, Mars, a child or 2 and I in one part. Lamb in the next, and R & Boymeat & R’s light in the 3rd. Dream? Yeah. Hard to believe that 6 months ago Lamb and Mars were just a passing part of my life – And now? And now I want to ask Furry to be mine, but the part of me that grew up in a society with wedding rings and glittering things feels it isn’t quite right. Hmmm. Do I jump? Do I get him a ring? Do I wait? Do we do this by open vote to the public and our lovers? Do I write epic poems in the sky in his honor?

You are

My Dharma

Light and dancing life force

Opening doors

To me

And to us

You are

My shaman

Dark and mysterious possibilities

Showing truths

To me

To us

Weave me our future

In runes and broken bones

Weave me my brilliance

In stars and drops of wax

Weave me your love

In tears and silent nights

You are

My love

My partner

In life

In beauty

In future choices

In today’s possibilities

Will you?

Dare I?

Ya know, Rock really wasn’t a bad actor in that film name unknown. Very clever, actually good. More blend of action, humor, more action, drama, political statement and Christopher Walken. I do adore Christopher Walken.

Outside, the sky is a deep azure, unlit by sun but no long drowning in night. Blue that ballads of azure eyes speak of. Blue the color of Fremen, of the water of River World, of forgotten world sapphires and Cleopatra’s eye shadow. Clouds like ice flows crack and flow beneath, some where an hour off the coast of the bay I love.

My nails are still decked in chipped black from the demon shoot, my feet sore from days on the road, my belly a bit bigger from good food and too many flights. Under half-lit tungsten, one of the LA boys sips tea as he rolls up his sleeves, married couples play cards, men in masks try to sleep and our theory for who the smoker was wanders by wearing sunglasses at night. Mi Padre stares off like I tend to do, his 50+ frame heavy and peppered grey, a comb-over that I don’t understand (he has a full head of hair), eyes peering out through glasses and graying eyelashes. That time of morning for another read-over of magazines and United Airlines breakfasts. The first signs of light turn clods pink on the top layers in the distance, yellow dashing across engine exhaust pipes and wing flaps. Soft neon blues in the distance drizzle into golden whites, soft pink and grey become clouds lining up in layer upon layer, a Mai Tai of Mother Nature’s bartending creation.

As each minute passes, another layer of cloud, of color. The clouds look solid below, frost and broken ground, wisps of white flying by. Wingtips glow like snowy peaks, blades in the blue. Plane on the map points towards Humbold and I want to curl up with R and just BE. 1 hour to touch down. 1 hour ‘til I can wait my way through Customs and declare bootleg DVDs and books of art nudes. 1 hour of pink lines on blue digital maps – of stream of consciousness poetry meets Elvis.

They asked Jack to close his eyes and think of something peaceful, happy. I did the same thing, and I keep getting images from recent times. Sitting at the head of the table. Being human furniture. Living, loving, being. Thank the Goddess, the gods, the divine… Thank whomever, whatever exists within and without for those I have in my life. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, what injustice I was served in a past life, but blessed be this time around.

6pm 11 March ’04 – Bus from Seattle to PDX

3 women outside are crying at the Tacoma stop. The 3 muses… one strong in the middle crosses her hands over her stomach, the one on the left cries into her shoulder, facing away from their sister who is leaving, while the third leans her head on the center one’s shoulder and stares off, trying to be strong but looking impossibly small.

In Montana, the drifts of snow are still covering houses.

Thanks for joining me on the Jornals. The pictures from the trip can be seen here:

Ten Day China, a Photo Journalistic Journey by Bridgett Harrington