On Solitude: Fingers Crossed But Legs Always Open
“What is hurting?”
“My heart”
For me, Milky Chance means the summer; Angus and Julia Stone means Australia; Cigarette after Sex means insomnia or in love; Dreamhorse by Still Corners means the night I went out chasing the lightning on my own; Widow’s Peak by Odetta Hartman mean heartbreaks.
A boy was trying to find a word that rhymes with my name. I thought about how he would never know my real name, the one without being Latinized, the one he would probably cringe when trying to pronounce. I thought about how I used to know another boy who is very good at rhyming, who once wrote a tiny poem about me. He must know. The boy came up with a word that rhymes with my name, “Sin, but I don’t like it.” He said. Spring has come again. I’ve spent four seasons in this foreign land.
“Fingers crossed but legs always open” is an inside joke between me and my gymnastic pal because my legs were opened when I need to close them and vice versa. I don’t seem to be able to close (or open) them at the right time but hey I’m a woman, I need to keep my legs open. I’ve been going to gymnastic training for the past five months and before this, I’ve never thought I would be doing it. I always see myself more as a dancer but then again I never thought I would settle in this foreign land either. I’ve picked up some habits since I started living in Bulgaria. Things like pairing almost everything with yoghurt (or sour milk as it’s called). Or crossing the street knowing all the cars would stop (have you ever experienced our traffic?). Or cleaning up my plate with a piece of bread in my hand. Or having higher and higher alcohol tolerance (that bothers me a bit as I need to pee a lot before even feeling tipsy). Gymnastic or foreign land or not, it’s simply a matter of seeing how far one can go. And you wouldn’t be able to know that if you keep on walking on the same road, so sometimes I take different buses to the same destination just for a change. You’re nothing therefore you can become anything.
On a usual Wednesday afternoon was the day that marked my 400th day in this foreign land and the day I’ve received my second-year residency card. The trip to the immigration office is always fun. So much frustration, so much language barrier, so much back and forth, so much “I can’t hear you in that mask.” The status of calling “Taiwan” a country, especially to a country like Bulgaria who has a rather tight and friendly relationship with China and whose citizens generally don’t have any clue about Taiwan, would always stir up some confusion. The immigration office spent a very long time ruminating over what to do with us — us in terms of two Taiwanese holding the very same passport yet we were registered with different nationality in Bulgaria. One as a Chinese and the other as a Taiwanese. They were legitimately confused. I did not learn my Bulgarian for nothing yet this is a rather simple sentence: I’m a Taiwanese. Nothing is confusing for me, for us — us in terms of 23 million people.
On a usual Wednesday afternoon, I’ve received my residency card with Taiwan on the backside, where you need to pronounce the W as V in Bulgarian. On a personal level, this is a very boring change where I feel like it should be the most basic human right, same as walking on the street without being assaulted or followed or whistled at simply because you’re a woman/Asian/person of colour but that’s not the case so there must be something missing in between.
“purple housewives
fingering 75 cent avocados
know my shopping cart is an
oversized cock “— <99 to one>
Charles Bukowski’s poetry style is one of the easiest to imitate because he doesn’t really rhyme nor care much about the format; his poems are more like a song or diary in small segments; he seems to be writing whatever is coming into his mind. He seems to be drinking a lot; he seems to be fucking a lot and I haven’t been drinking nor fucking lately. The concept of female writers entered my mind very late. It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized there are people who think we need to separate the gender role in the writing world. The word “writer”, either in English or in my language appears as a neutral word for me. Unlike “men” (when referring to all humans) or “firefighters.” A writer is a writer. But no, there’s something very important about female writers because, after all, who are telling all these stories about me for me?
After spending 400 days in this foreign land and picking up various food-related habits, one thing that always bothers me a little bit is how “flat” I have become. How flat a young female Taiwanese are being portrayed and not being portrayed.
“Because I want to see the world” is a way too simplified answer; what I am really trying to do is “to see this world, which is built and dominant by a certain group of people, under my own perspective and retell the story in my narrative.” Why? Let’s admit it: this world does not serve females, people of colour, “the minority” (no matter what does that mean). People whose voice got hushed. We do not put their interests into consideration and instead, someone else is telling their stories for them. Just like someone else is telling the world Taiwanese are Chinese; Asian women are exotic and wild in bed; no means yes; feminists are all men-hating angry lesbians; you-name-it.
Through whose perspectives are we learning about this world?
“Each time your eyes open,
I only take what’s mine.
I leave faithfully behind
your earth, your fire.” — <Comic Love Poem>
On the other hand, Wisława Szymborska’s poems are not so easy to chew on. She writes about love, war and nature. In a very light tone; so light that it hurts sometimes.
“What is hurting?”
“My heart”
“I don’t have one” He joked and I laughed.
Gin.
Gin is the word that rhymes with my name and suits me better.
