journal 19/12/10 (manila)
Things I like:
Endless corridors of lucky 777, a fashioned darkness & sky full of portals. The cotton zones of dimenhydrinate. Christmas carols in Narita, fried potatoes & memories of you, the ergonomics of furniture, another sparse piano trio of ice in a class, transcendental charcoal dust & a brief but vivid irritation, refusing perfume samples outside of a future duty-free.
The bruise on my bicep, holding hands during sex. The near urban sprawl of his tattoos — their perfect momentum, candy colour palette. The vague rain-silence of all Vancouver mornings, falling asleep with the stereo on, the walk of my fingers into the hidden lake of his sternum, a natural nakedness. The sparrows & jet-drone every morning out Manila windows. The sleepless, humid nights. The dawns spent walking a wolf-dog thru pale village streets. A morning swim in cricket-quiet, cool water.
Businessmen learning Cantonese in a Tokyo cafe, darkening skies & a fleeting stagnancy within travel, the different hue the air takes on at a different latitude. The intrigue of culture & the kindness of strangers; the trance you begin to enter with certain minimalist electronics, the reoccurring themes of global spendthrift, tax-free whiskey and cartons of cigarettes.
The dream-omen of a train’s yellow light. An older airport, time logged in carpet, red clocks & steel maps & an occassional commercial brightness, past & future, time existing simultaneously. The international date line, long & essential as a spine. Josh’s eyes in amber suspension, unfixed, transcendental. The cradled buzz of afterthought — our travel easy, expected, removed.
