kevin, why don't you date asian women anymore
What do you see in the face of a local white American woman?
I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.
I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.
I see nothing exotic. I see home.
What do you see in the face of a Taiwanese woman?
I see plaster of Paris. I see a windowless room in her cold, hollow pupils, its brutal concrete dry and cracked, searing with the spiritless glow of a white xenon tube. I see a piano with muted hammers. I see the sharp, tintinnitic bark of a furious parent over a gurgle of pink noise. I see sheets of shipping-grade corrugated steel, rusted brown and seawater grey, plated over every surface. I see Hello Kitty douche rags. I see meat sludge over hard, day-old rice, laid over sweetly with a slice of neon ginger and a veneer of raw, runny egg.
I see an involuntary twitch in her right eyelid. I see a thin paper tape of black glyphs vomiting endlessly out of a cast iron typewriter, silently churning ribbons upon echolalic ribbons onto a polished bamboo floor. I see an imagined, omnipresent bamboo switch (there's the twitch, again). I see sweat boiling in a cauldron under a canopy of rotting palm leaves. I see the sensation of falling, of forever slipping off the edge of a sand-blasted cliff. I see a piece of another woman's small intestine, clenched tightly and desperately between her teeth.
I see, caught in her lips, the pent-up squawk of a voice unused to speaking above a whisper.
I see a horrific spiked phallus, its filamented, garrote-like needles dripping with viscera. I see a schoolgirl uniform cut for a thirty-year-old woman. I see a thirteen-year-old slathered in makeup. I see an opera sung entirely in shrieking, high-pitched sobs. I see a cracked stone altar at the shrine of innocence, slick and acrid with steaming virginal blood. I see pink--pink pencil cases, pink notebooks, pink earrings, pink elephants, pink eye, pink pockets. I see a trembling, androgynous overgrown fetus.
I see thick lines, delicately painted, in black and white. I see a tall, cool cup of green tea, sweet with mint and crushed ice, sealed with plastic film, on an endless cobblestone square. I see a flock of transparent kites over the harbor, soaring quietly in place over lush, verdant hills. I see a lump of crushed sesame dough on a glass table in front of a blaring television. I see a shattered glass table. I see the long, crying trails of raindrops down a double plate window. I see a fine bone teacup filled with water. I see a red-eyed ogre in a greasy wifebeater shoveling a mouthful of boiled fish into his toothless maw with a pair of steel chopsticks.
I see, in the reflection of my eyes in hers, a dragon. Not a shimmering golden dragon, but a reptilian one, its horns migraine-hot, breathing smoke from its nostrils and drooling semen from its lips. I see a foot bent halfway to the ankle, bent so far the ligaments rip apart and the bone snaps. I see fear. I see anger. I see endless surrender, over generations and generations and generations. I see resignation.
I see a long, terrible silence in a lightless dream.
那美國女人呢？看到她們的臉， 會想到什麼東西？
I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.
I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.
I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.
I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.
I see nothing exotic. I see home.
What do you see in the face of a Taiwanese woman?
I see plaster of Paris. I see a windowless room in her cold, hollow pupils, its brutal concrete dry and cracked, searing with the spiritless glow of a white xenon tube. I see a piano with muted hammers. I see the sharp, tintinnitic bark of a furious parent over a gurgle of pink noise. I see sheets of shipping-grade corrugated steel, rusted brown and seawater grey, plated over every surface. I see Hello Kitty douche rags. I see meat sludge over hard, day-old rice, laid over sweetly with a slice of neon ginger and a veneer of raw, runny egg.
I see an involuntary twitch in her right eyelid. I see a thin paper tape of black glyphs vomiting endlessly out of a cast iron typewriter, silently churning ribbons upon echolalic ribbons onto a polished bamboo floor. I see an imagined, omnipresent bamboo switch (there's the twitch, again). I see sweat boiling in a cauldron under a canopy of rotting palm leaves. I see the sensation of falling, of forever slipping off the edge of a sand-blasted cliff. I see a piece of another woman's small intestine, clenched tightly and desperately between her teeth.
I see, caught in her lips, the pent-up squawk of a voice unused to speaking above a whisper.
I see a horrific spiked phallus, its filamented, garrote-like needles dripping with viscera. I see a schoolgirl uniform cut for a thirty-year-old woman. I see a thirteen-year-old slathered in makeup. I see an opera sung entirely in shrieking, high-pitched sobs. I see a cracked stone altar at the shrine of innocence, slick and acrid with steaming virginal blood. I see pink--pink pencil cases, pink notebooks, pink earrings, pink elephants, pink eye, pink pockets. I see a trembling, androgynous overgrown fetus.
I see thick lines, delicately painted, in black and white. I see a tall, cool cup of green tea, sweet with mint and crushed ice, sealed with plastic film, on an endless cobblestone square. I see a flock of transparent kites over the harbor, soaring quietly in place over lush, verdant hills. I see a lump of crushed sesame dough on a glass table in front of a blaring television. I see a shattered glass table. I see the long, crying trails of raindrops down a double plate window. I see a fine bone teacup filled with water. I see a red-eyed ogre in a greasy wifebeater shoveling a mouthful of boiled fish into his toothless maw with a pair of steel chopsticks.
I see, in the reflection of my eyes in hers, a dragon. Not a shimmering golden dragon, but a reptilian one, its horns migraine-hot, breathing smoke from its nostrils and drooling semen from its lips. I see a foot bent halfway to the ankle, bent so far the ligaments rip apart and the bone snaps. I see fear. I see anger. I see endless surrender, over generations and generations and generations. I see resignation.
I see a long, terrible silence in a lightless dream.
那美國女人呢？看到她們的臉， 會想到什麼東西？
I see swaying maples. I see hazel in her irises, and hair the color of warm earth, and gentle, soft skin. I see memories of Saturday morning cartoons, of the prick of rocks and shells in the sand along a hot July beach, of the sweet tang of varnished libraries and ancient drywall. I see hands sticky with toast crumbs. I see the coppery sting of combination locks and patent-aluminum lockers, and the grassy bite of wild grapes, and the one spot on the fingerboard of an old steel-string acoustic guitar where your finger sticks to the grain.
I see a quiet moment in a convenience store parking lot, engine thrumming, stars out--a pebble of oranges and cream snow, wet on a plastic straw. I see a long, quilted scarf flapping against the bite of an ice-bright October morning. I see Robert Frost branches spidering upwards into an Annie Dillard sky. I see a single autumn leaf, woody and defiant, green with life.