alvin.pang.abroad

booksactually:

DOOR

I keep out. I keep in. I keep safe.

She never really did understand that. She doesn’t like me shut.
As a child she used to walk from one room to another,
sometimes even one house to the next, no matter that there
was no way in. She’d wait, patiently ringing the bell till
someone came. Unabashed and unruffled by the angry or
sometimes pitiful looks she’d get, she’d ask if anyone wanted
to play with her.

She’s still that way. Never learnt that people close me for a
reason, that there are walls nor meant to be walked through,
not without being invited in. She knows her house is empty
but still she keeps me open, waiting, hoping to laugh and play
in ways as yet not known. Closed, she confesses to me, is
alone. Closed behind, she adds in a terrified whisper, is worse.
It’s homeless.

I speak to her sometimes, in my wordless, creaky way. I tell
her to shut me tight, to hold on to those who sometimes come
in to look around, wondering if what is emptiness to her could
be their space. She refuses. I remain open, watching as those
who come in go out.


— from Objects of Affection by Krishna Udayasankar

(purchase your copy online now !)

booksactually:

WHAT TYPE DO YOU LIKE ?


Deciding

always gets me confused. I’ve never been into
designer labels : butch, femme, andro, dyke,
crew cuts, china dolls, jeans that fit to different

degrees

of gender. Top and botton, who pays for what
where, who says what when, who pulls out
chairs, wears the pants. Are we so short of

pants

that only one of us can wear them ? Strange
to be framed through boxes of words when
our eyes say more than we are able to

hide

from each other. What ‘type’ do I like ? I like
the tradition of Times New Roman, slender
capitals of her body like pillars found in the

hearts

of Greece; am drawn to the curves of
Helvetica, smiling and friendly, flesh round
like the moon, disguising the edges of her

voice

with laughter. Courier because she believe
in Bohemia. Blackletter because she’s hard
to discern. Throw in some Wingdings for the

purpose

of obscure conversation. There is no “type”
that fits the drop-down menu of the things
I desire: a lover who draws lipstick heart

beneath

the creases of her shirt. Who hikes up her
skirts to get to the third step of that ladder
in one go. Whose presence breaks

boundaries,

routine and the ice. Whose heart
reveals like a mirror, full-length and
full-breadth, reflects the way

light

does off the water, conceals thinly
that crevice cut out by rivers,

that ravine of what it means to be
human.

— from Tender Delirium by Tania De Rozario

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