Building Painting   16 photos Photos are from  haha.nu 19 Aug 06.

Body Painting   15 photos Photos are from  haha.nu btwn  03 Jun 05 & 02 Jul 06.

Go here for: Strange Statues around the World

In California, there’s a famous city, Santa Monica. It has a street with its name, Santa Monica Boulevard.  On its crossed street, 3rd, every Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, musicians would play outside, under the starry sky.

All my Dreams? Is to take his hands, dance in the middle of the street with strangers passing by. We would leave the world behind to enter the realm of our very own. We would dance to the music that is playing in our hearts.

Will he dance with me? I don’t know. But there is Hope and certainly, the Desire for it is always burning…

But until I can take his hand and walking down the street named Santa Monica Boulevard, I can always be in my room with my eyes closed, listening to the music playing in my heart, and imagining asking him:

…dance with me?

dance with me by Orleans

I’m as guilty as the next convict. Sometimes I look at the clock and be thinking about three hour time zone ahead. I know I shouldn’t. My boyfriend lives two time-zones away and not three. Then I realized. It must be D. He used to live in New York. He used to call me when he got off work, everyday. He used to come to CA every two weeks to hang out with his friends and would stop by to see me everyday while he was here.

I was 14 when we first met. As a person who lived in the States less than 2 years then, you could imaging how my English was. He, who was born in Vietnam, came to the France when he was 2 months old and to the States when he was 2 but speaks French and English his entire life. He stayed in France with this grandparents during summers and in the States for school year. We used to call my English and his Vietnamese “Com Tam” because they were so broken. I, sometimes, still wonder how we can conversate with one another. By words, by signs, or by hearts?

Poor as we were, my family and I lived in a ghetto appartment just a couple of blocks from the ocean in Long Beach after moving from New Orleans. He, who lived in upscale New York, visited his “ghetto” friends who lived in my appartment complex. I never paid much attention to those who live surround me because I rarely, almost none, talked to them. But I remember: I was cleaning my glasses outside in the drive-way. He came forth, looked at me, and smiled. He spoke in strange language–it was English alright; but for a person who could only sing the first 2 verses of the Purple Dinosaur Barney’s “I Love You” song, every word that was coming out of his mouth was like French to me. I had my eyes wide open, starred at him and was well wondering what that guy was saying and why he was smiling.

He was 17 then but finished High School the year before. His father was a successful Vietnamese business man, who married a French woman, his mother. D has a look of European touched Asian. He was gorgeous. Heavenly like. Warm, charming, and bright. We started talking, seeing each other on the playground. I learned my English from him, he started speaking Vietnamese with me. It was fun, innocence, and magical. We grew up with each other, learnt from each other, and bonded with one another but never a relationship.

He asked me to marry him once every two years. When I was 18, 20, and the last was 22. Each time, I pushed him away. I shut him out of my life. Completely. I asked him to go back to France to be with his family since he was by himself in the States. In tears, he told me that I am the only family he has after his father passed away. All he know was me. I was greatly touched. I saw the engagement ring he bought for me years back the last time I saw him. He was wearing it as a pendant for his necklace. Beautiful ring. Beautiful person he is. But I guess ignition for a romantic relationship between he and I never sparked, at least on my end. Through those eight years, we hugged, held each other and gentle kisses on the forehead from him to me. For eight years, he had never done wrong but respect and a great friend. I miss him sometimes.

It’s amazing to know how someone’s come and gone in your life but never left your heart. They touch your heart deeply because they care for you like no others do. If you do find one, hold on to them. They might be one of the greatest relationships you’ve ever known in your life, be it romantic, platonic, or just friends.

Most relationship started by a simple “Hello.” In my case, it was all started by him saying: “So, you wear glasses. I do too.”

I woke up in the middle of the night, through the dim light on my desk, I saw my mother holding Lilo and gently stroking her fur. For the first time in two weeks, I saw Lilo stayed quite when being held, being petted, being touched. She fell asleep in my mom’s hands. Gentle. Peaceful. Calm.

Seeing my mom sitting on the floor and petting Lilo touched my heart. I have never seen that softer side of her. Caring. Loving. Warm.

I wonder if one day I have children, will I be gentle and loving like my mother?

I found myself wake up 2 in the morning and again at 4 just to put a blanket on her so she could stay warm. When she calls me in the middle of the night beside my bed, I would be up, hold her and play with her for a bit then put her back to her crate. I found myself care for her food and water and make sure that she eats. I would sit next to her watching her eating her meals, because if I got up and leave, she would follow me and ignore her meal.

Everyone in the family says that Lilo loves me, but little do they know, she also loves teething, especially with my fingers. My hands and arms got scratched but I don’t mind. I love playing with Lilo, running around the house with her, petting her, combing her fur, and playing tug war.

I wonder if one day I have children, will I be good to them? Will I be gentle? Will I take care of them as good as a mother should? I don’t know.

Too many uncertainties in the future. Too much worrying for the uncertainties. Right now: One step at a time.

Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because –
because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?