This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

# # # # #

13 January 2018


‘Found and Lost in Phnom Penh’



(A little piece of creative nonfiction… Add as you like?)

I. Humility

I haven’t found it easy to bring up all of this, not at all, not in these past twenty four hours. But whatever. I’m gonna any it. All of it. Without getting worried if it’s okay or not. I’m not angry but yes, yes I am. How to talk about it? I’m not angry. No. I’m not. I’m seething.

II. J.

I wonder if this is why J. freezes up in the replying thing. Whether to me or in other instances he’s told me of? If he knows, I wonder, that he has a lot of contradicting statements and actions; but I don’t think I want to tell him that because this confusion and mood-dependent opinion-stating is why I enjoy spending time with him. I really do. Did. Lost J., somehow. Knew this would happen. We had talked about it. Letting go. Still, it was fun while it lasted. I knew he was really young when he said movies from the nineties were ‘old.’ Didn’t know what AOL IM was, either. Plus when we parted, how he gave me his address. Like, a real live address, on a piece of paper. In pen. With lines on the paper. His whole name. So that’s your last name. How do you say it? Z. But me thinking: your address? Like, mailing? Like, a letter? But htis is Cambodia! Letters… Are not going to. Wait. What am I saying. I’m not going to write you a letter! What am I, in high school?

III. Sense of time

It’s an easy thing; an unusual quality of space–friendship. So, A. says I’m being very patient with him. JZ. Usually, I’ll storm off without explanation, leaving without any goodbyes, not talking to anyone anymore because of my own staunch stubborn nature of wanting things to be Superior or Not at All. I’m talking again about the quality of space. My checklist; the rain; the disappointing jazz at the so-called jazz club. Its lack of luster. Its misogyny. Its dearth of real intrigue, the conflicting story of what’s free today and what isn’t. (Huh?) My abrupt impatience, my angry scale of 5 on that quiz, that damn quiz. J’s calm explanations, him working with the others to leave it nicely, me wondering how and why but learning that the gap between us isn’t just in age but in finesse, in poise, in the acrobatic agility of maneuvering in social situations. Dumbfounded, I stand there, holding my bicycle, waiting. Thinking other places will close. Me not caring about the French toursists here for six months or whatever. Not a bit. B. motoring by, glancing at me, at J., particularly at me. I wonder why. Oh, wait. I know why! Women must not fraternize with men, in general, especially if said men are more attractive than average, or even, hey, let’s say it, are outright gorgeous, and if said women are engaged in relationships involving commitment and fruit.

I imagine B. thinking all this, not knowing that in some months, maybe seven, maybe ten, he will meet me accidentally in a cafe and buy one of my six zines, ‘S.,’ which I will have written for ‘S.,’ of course, it is a cut up from this pop psychology magazine I have toted about Asia for five years, and finally released the source pages this week to the bins of the sometimes-recyclers of Phnom Penh, but not before cutting out specific passages and zining them. Yes, that will happen. So even then, in the past, now I’m back at Street 308, the Bassac Lane arena, with J. And strangers and me in a semicircle (my bicycle is the rest of hte circle) talking about nothing them talking, really, and me waiting, wondering if we will go to dinner or not, minus these bores, and then finding out that this is the only thing that we are going to do, because dinner must be eaten and friendships that are new are one way to enjoy new dinners, too, and we are going to go, but not before I go into a tailspin of self-talk about why B. is frowning at me. Which was up there, a few sentences ago. Upstairs. Now, let’s head down, into the basement.

IV. Masculine-feminist anger

Is it the lack of awareness that women, like men!, have interested outside of their roles as child bearers and milk makers, of babysitting male egos when they want to slap out the pity parties and say, You bear a child! Then you’ll see what real pain feels like, lovey! Placements of these exclamatory statements will beget raised eyebrows from the Establishment-influenced, let’s say drugged, ‘a spade is a spade is a spade, isn’t it, darling?’, and yeah, women shouldA, they say, and women shouldn’t Z. They go on and on with their list making tenacity, fired up to the eaves of castles in London (what?) High and mighty makers of the Way Things Are, brushing away the glitter in the interstitial spaces, the wisdom of the all of us. Man, oh, man. I have to make this into a cosmology thing? I do.


V. Continuity

HL is talking with me in the other room. About the multiverse. Who wants ‘in?’

So I did some more thinking here. Or just looking at the question of Sex, in general.

Out of sheer random blind luck, I found and read Lady Chatterly’s Lover, sort of finally. After trying to, a long time ago in Seattle, I still remember having it under my arm and walking around on the street behind Top Pot in Capitol Hill, or maybe that street itself, which was really close to my office at the time, on Olive Way. Probably I was on the way to it, no, no, I was going to some pizza and pasta joint that I had seen and never tried. I had gotten all dressed up and put two books together to go and eat and read, just me. Even then I was into solo time. I still am, big time. Aske knows this. Because going on solo tours and running into chance encounters is a big deal to me; it’s part of who I am. Becoming part of a long-term relationship doesn’t have to cancel that out. Though it tends to, for some reason, int he world of people I know and watch, slowly, how their relationships deteriorate and then voila, guess what. ‘I’m getting divorced.’ Or, ‘I just got divorced,’or ‘I’ve been divorced for a while but didn’t want to tell you until I have something interesting to report, like how I just got a condo/degree/oneway ticket to Mongolia. ‘ Etc.

Listening to Feist at this cafe. Used to have thi DCD. Went to see Feist at the suggestion of my little brother, who was always jealous I made a life out in Seattle, who wished he could get into an art field (comics), who didn’t, who followed my parents’ agenda, who became a psychiatrist, like my mom.

*A pyschiatrist. Like my mom.*

Will let that sit there for a bit. ESP. Because F, who isn’t here in this room, had called me ‘Dr. Jas,’ as of late, which made me laugh, and also squirm, because… wasn’t separating my identity from the old world, the world of people who listen and talk and listen and listen and then they give you a prescription, wasn’t that so NOT what I was about? It isn’t is it? It isn’t. But identity and search and asking questions will always, always, be of interest to me. Anyway, the story… Let me continue.

Over the last few days I’ve come to understand that Sex is really just a channel for conversation. Really great conversation, usually, if you know the person and there is trust between you. I think playing music must be like this, too. Music, also, is a kind of conversation. And it’s good when, yeah, there is trust and you know the people well. Friendship is also a conversation channel, but it’s different, right? But you need friendship for both of the other kinds above to work. Then there is another kind. Meditation. I m not bit into this kind of thing but I believe that other people can be, are, have always been, better t it than me and so many people I now (who are anxious and living n the world of ennui and angst). Used to be worried about ‘making it’ but I got over that in the last two yers becasue I found out what matters to me isn’t what is interesting to the World of the Art Gallry people etc. I just don’t care about them. I care about what I care about. I care about the people whom I care about. I care deeply, especially when things build up over time. Trust comes from this. And getting to know you. So then, when you talk to each other like we are doing now, when you do that after patching up the awkward time frame of ja long time between seeing each other or talking or whatever, and you realize that yes, you still have things to say together, to one another, and you want o include people whom you have had great conversations with into th new spaces because, old and new together, isn’t that interesting? We can talk about time and space being one thing (Minkowski) sometime if you like. Maybe in ‘New Geometries, Week #12. That will be inte
Eating!!! And yes. Let me continue now. Back to our topic.

Sex without sex. I think this is where I am taking this conversation. If it’s really good, and really intimate: conversation in music, conversation in friendship, then is it like sex??? I mean, the intimacy thing. I mean, ask me about L.

Depending on the mood, I might tell you more. Lol.

Wow this is such a tricky topic! As an asian, i have to be completely honest that I’ve grown up in a household, which like many others, have completely avoided/ignored the topic of ‘sex’ altogether… It’s just one of those things that aren’t discussed!
Since we’re on the topic of sex, and Sara talked about Sex & how it relates to violence/power, while Aske touched on the topic of societal pressure on women – how women having too much sex makes them ‘sluts’, i thought to bring up a recent incident i read in the media. Not sure if you guys hear of the incident that US comedian/writer Aziz ansari got into recently? There’s quite a lot of debate relating to whether his behaviour was approriate, and if it constitutes sexual assault.
Here’s a low-down for those who haven’t read it:

What do you guys think?

Way to start things off, Aske – a difficult endeavor, and I’ll continue weaving into your thread…

I’ve been listening to a podcast called My Favorite Murder. Like, obsessively, all the time, whenever I’m in the car driving or walking somewhere (not when the kids are with me, clearly). I have always been drawn to true crime, to horrible things, unsolved mysteries, horror movies – the so-called lurid fascination. Maybe because my life is so comparatively calm and safe, vanilla? On the podcast, which is hosted by two female comedians, every episode includes the synopsis of a murder told by each host. Stories of serial killers, serial rapists, cannibals (Albert Fish?!), cult murders, black widows – the list goes on. There are so many murderers, so many horrible people. And then there are the survivors, whom they honor just as much. There is almost always a sexual component to the instances of brutality, whether it’s against women or children or the elderly. I listened to one the other day that I can’t get out of my head. A 15-year-old girl was hitchhiking in California – maybe in the 70s or 80s – she’s so tired and she just wants to get home. A man pulls up in a van and she goes with him, even though the two hitchhikers beside her say no don’t go, because the old man says there’s only room for one and he picks her, and his van is empty. She falls asleep. When she wakes up she realizes they’re going the wrong way – she confronts him and he says sorry it’s an honest mistake, I’m an honest man. What follows is so horrible I won’t describe it here, yet I keep imagining it so vividly. She miraculously survives. This horrible monster gets only 14 years in prison for rape & sexual assault on a minor, sodomy, attempted murder, kidnapping, and more … and he gets out after 8. He kills again. This time he gets the death penalty (because he was caught in Florida), but he dies of cancer before he gets to the chair.

There’s something that ties together sex, murder, power, desire, lust – and then on the other side of it there’s love and family and reproduction and tenderness. Two sides of the same coin I guess – and the fear of being more one than the other keeps us from talking openly about these things, yes, probably to our detriment

I guess this one is hard to start.
I was hoping someone else would, as it is almost always interesting to hear about. Especially from the opposite sex.
I was checking a couple of times a day to see if someone had made a comment.
But even though it is so damn interesting, it can be so hard to talk about, especially with strangers. Or family..
But its a wierd thing. That society has created a feeling of shame in connection to sex. What a stupid thing to do.
And the idea that having too much sex is a bad thing, especially for women, making them “sluts”, is just horrible.
It must still exist because of jelausy. People not getting any and condemning the people who do.
I think we need to get rid of the shame. It does not belong. We should do whatever we want and whoever we want. And how often we want and just feel good about it. We should talk about it, cause that will make the quality better. I love when women tell me what they like, so i do not only have to guess and listen. Or do the standard routine that often seems to work but gets predictable.
Still i sometimes struggle to do the same. Telling them what i like and what i dont like. I am not sure why that is.

Ok i will try to get rid of some of the shame. Yesterday night i had a sex dream. It started as a survival kind of thing where i was shooting and fighting for my life. An appocalypse situation.
I was down to only my knife, when i was attacked by a very attractive woman. After a bit of fighting i overpowered her and had her locked down with my knife at her throat. Then i raped her.
And she loved it. So did i.
When i awoke i was on the brink of orgasme, so it clearly turned me on a lot.
Maybe it sounds a bit fucked up, but i reckon it is pretty normal. I mean, if its mutual of course. A sure fact is, that if the woman in the dream had not liked it, then it would not have happened. I would not even have been able to perform.
Because the thing that by far turns me on the most, is the other person being turned on. If i get a sence that she is not enjoying it, then i wont either.
I guess i really like woman who like to be raped. And that is fine by me. It is just one of many things that i like.
But how can we ever figure out what we like, if we feel ashamed about it?
And isnt the best way of getting rid of the shame, by talking about sex? And having it of course.
All praise the fetishes! Lets hear them!

Replied to this! Added to it, rather. Do you need the password? Let me know if yes. Hope all is going well there, Aske. Thinking about the next chapters, here. Finland this summer, with boss-man. Then maybe back to Asia. Then I don’t know. Keep me posted on your plans! DK

Leave a Reply