Friday, December 18, 2015


Is seduction a promise of things that may or may not be there, and therefore is intrinsically unethical?

Sunday, November 15, 2015

a warm cabin or a cold forest

I wonder if I might go back into that warm cabin. If I could forego this dark freedom. (But look, there is the moon in the cold sky!). I think to myself, maybe if I could go back into that cabin and never look out the window, I might be able to forget I ever felt this wilderness around me.

"How can I tell if love of life is not a delusion? How can I tell whether a man who fears death is not like a man who has left home and dreads returning? Lady Li was the daughter of a border guard of Ai. When the Duke of Chin first took her captive, she wept until her dress was soaked with tears. But once she was living in the Duke's palace, sharing his bed, and eating delicious food, she wondered why she had ever cried. How can I tell whether the dead are not amazed that they ever clung to life?"

"Those who dream of a great feast may weep the next morning. Those who dream of weeping may enjoy the hunt the next day. While they dream, they do not know they are dreaming, They may even interpret their dreams while still dreaming, Only after they awake do they know it was a dream. By and by, there will be a great awakening; then we will know that this is all a great dream.."

- Chuangzi

Saturday, November 14, 2015


In the wild,
there is also silence.
And darkness.
I look back at the light
in the
perhaps, too
distant cabin,
and wonder if I have gone mad.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

the touch that can hold all my desires

My love and I have decided to love each other without a container.

The very first day we sniffed each other, more than seven years ago, he said, "I don't like caged beasts". In that moment, I knew that I would fuck him.
Then I fell in love with him.
And I loved him wildly. Deeply. Also goofily.

Yesterday, we released each other into the wild, bits of his heart embedded in my heart,
bits of mine embedded in his.

Sunday, October 25, 2015


So, apparently, Jean-Paul Sartre (yeah, that guy again) said, at the end of his life, that you know you are loved because you feel freer in the company of the lover, the other, than you feel when you are alone.

This reminds me of what Linda Putnam said: That the touch you never want to leave is the touch that can hold all your desires.

I am thinking hard about these right now.

Sunday, October 4, 2015


Lately, I have been thinking about my orgasms as territory.
Between the mounting excitement in my own body and the eagerness of my partner’s anticipation, is a territory of sensations shaped by both primal pleasure and social obligations. 

I begin to wonder, whose territory is this? Whose orgasm is this anyway? 

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Mourning my Father

So my father died a couple of months ago.
Here are some random notes from my notebook.

At first, a grin. Ah, the moment has arrived. But I cannot locate a feeling. The overwhelming need to tell jokes takes over.

But a few hours later, the first sadness is a sadness that he couldn't be a better human before he died (though after talking to my brother, maybe he did learn a little wisdom, a little grace)

Then, in the middle of the night, tears leaking out of my eyes, the sadness was one of abandonment, Oh poor me, poor me....

Later still, there is a sadness that I couldn't love him enough to make things better. That I couldn't, or wouldn't. That I didn't have my brother's grace.

My father was a man of big successes as well as big failures.

There is a fruit fly in the casket with my dad.

The priest and 2 parishioners came by to pay their respects and lead a prayer, I pretended I was Catholic. I made the sign of the cross, mumbled the Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary. Said Amen where appropriate. No one suspected I was a heathen inside.

The chants and gongs from the Daoist/Buddhist wake next door in the funeral home mingle with the Catholic prayers and hymn from my father's wake.

Stories about Dad:
"Clever to talk"
"Clever to make money, clever to spend"

A cousin talks about having to break down the door after climbing over the balcony to "rescue" Dad after he threatened to commit suicide. He had to carry an inebriated Dad down the stairs. This would have been after Mum left him.

The aunties can never forgive Doris. They think a woman should stick with her man, even if he abuses her, beats her.

Tonight under the full moon, under a tent, more than a hundred people. I am related to most of them. A common ancestor four generations back.

The aunties ask me why I am not staying with my brother. I say, I need my space. They say, oh, that is the western way.

Aunty Rose talks about carrying Sandra to her mother's after Dad and Frances broke up. How she cried as she carried Sandra in her arms. Aunty Jenny talks about how cute and beautiful I was as a baby, as a child. She also remembers carrying me in her arms. I saw the love in these women. They have all been my mother.

My Love

My Love told me some years ago, "I will love you a long time".
When we have not seen each other for a long time, or if we are not to see each other for a long time, he touches every part of my body - every square centimetre, every nook and cranny from the inside of my ears to the spaces between my toes.
To remember me by, to remember me again.
And I feel whole again.
I feel re-membered. My bits and pieces put together again by his love.
And I go off into the world and be brave.

Monday, March 2, 2015

the heart is not a wallet

"I fell in love once, if love be that cruelty which takes us straight to the gates of Paradise only to remind us they are closed for ever".
(Jeanette Winterson, Sexing The Cherry)

But I don't think it doesn't have to be that way. Here is something I found recently

"Many people believe that a person who has multiple loves can’t give their “whole heart” to any person. The belief goes that if you love one person, you can express your love wholeheartedly, but if you love multiple people, your love is divided up and is therefore not as deep. This is based on the “starvation model” of love—that is, you only have a limited amount of love, and if you give your love to one person, there is none left to give to anyone else—so if you fall in love with another person, you have to “pay” for it by withdrawing your love from the first person.
Love is not the same thing as money. With money, you have only a limited amount to spend, and when you give it to one person you have less left to give to another. But love behaves in wonderful and unpredictable and counterintuitive ways. When you love more than one person, you soon realize that the more love you give away, the more love you have to give. Yes, you CAN give your whole heart to more than one person, and when you do, you realize it’s the most beautiful feeling in all the world.
Don’t think of the contents of your heart the way you think of the contents of your wallet; it doesn’t work like that."

Which is pretty much what Junhong told me years ago when he was little!

Friday, February 27, 2015


Last night, I had a dream of being in Malaysia again. Hugging someone, I don't know who. An old friend. A family member. In this dream I wept, I think, tears of joy.

This morning, I woke up in my hotel room in mid-winter Montreal, feeling like I had really wept. But it didn't feel so joyous.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015


I am currently in the process of researching the porousness of my body, the porousness of the combined body of me and my lover.
It's all going tremblingly well.

Somehow, this is related to building a dance machine that is going to install the notion of dancing with, instead of dancing for, an audience.

Somehow, this is related to learning how to dominate my submissive.

Somehow, this is related to finding my whole voice.

Somehow, this is related to making a good ceremony.

the inhale

I recently felt the experience of the inhale as an expressive act.
I knew this before. But only as an idea. This time, I felt it.

It feels like I am standing in some kind of paradoxical buoyant quicksand.

Now I have to learn to trust it.

Monday, January 12, 2015

my fucking tongue

I have had to learn to fight for my space
my right to speak
my right to be heard
my right to be seen the way I want to be seen.
All this fighting.
I long to have space to be generous.
I long to have enough voice to say kind things,
not just fighting things.

I want to find words to love with
Words to fuck with.

Words to order my sex slave with.