The Mountain Called “I”

Hi friend, stay a while.

[jhai-writes]

Hey there,

It's nice to see a friendly face.

Come, rest for a bit. We can swap stories!

——————————

My name is J. Hai. My friends call me over-dramatic. They're probably right.

I write most of these myself. But there’s also a little creature that hitched a ride in my head. I don't think they're from here. They say they're a tourist — here to observe this fascinating phenomenon called “humanity”. Sometimes they’ve got things to say.

You’ll know them when you see the signature: —IX.

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POETRY — All my poems.

PROSE — Ramblings of the troubled.

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I'm so glad you're here. I've got so much to tell you.

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

Journal Entry #181

When my sexuality gets activated (e.g. seeing a beautiful woman), a part of my mind starts to wander in its reverence. It wonders what her laugh sounds like, what makes her blush, what she does on her lazy days, if she dances when she’s alone. It also wonders what it would be like to hold her hand, or to cry in her arms, or to fall asleep in her lap, or (admittedly) to taste her lips and touch her body. Then another part of my brain takes a spray bottle to my limbic system like it’s handling a misbehaving cat.

It unconsciously scolds me for my male gaze, for my objectification of women, and for the thought that they’d ever actually want to talk to me, let alone engage with me intimately.

It quickly spirals into self loathing in many forms. I feel ashamed for looking at another human being as a piece of meat, and for considering trying to disturb her; I doubt any woman goes out on a regular day hoping a male stranger’s attention comes her way.

I also feel a deep sense of inadequacy at even considering that she’d ever want me. I usually end up looking at my shoes and walking quickly in another direction. “I should go. I don’t want to be a creep” is what usually crosses my mind.

I doubt any of this is good for me. I don’t know how to stop.

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

PRC 76th Birthday Celebrations — Victoria Harbor, Hong Kong

The fireworks display was magnificent.

It lasted over 25 minutes. They pulled out all the best stuff too — jellyfish, color shifting blooms, the whole shebang.

Must have cost a fortune. Several, more likely.

If it works, it’ll be worth it.

Who knew bread and circuses could smell so much like cordite?

—IX

[jhai-writes]

Ohhhhhh.

So that's how the 52-hertz whale feels.

—J.Hai

[jhai-writes]

If one day I am lucky enough For my words to be read by another,

I hope that maybe, Just maybe, They'd pick me up Off those pages And whisper:

"Oh. I could have loved him."

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

They never let me have birthday parties.

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

Anthropology 101

You can tell exactly which part of the semester it is based on how the girls in university lecture halls choose to dress, and what refreshments they bring to class.

It *is* a generalization, but hopefully not a damaging one. I see it as a cultural phenomenon endemic to the North American Undergraduate.

If it’s the start of the semester? That’s when you see eyeliner, lipstick, curled bangs, intricate braids, even the occasional set of heels. Iced lattes and steeped teas on desks.

By the first set of midterms, the makeup is gone, but the clothes still match tastefully. Fashionable jeans with blouses or knit tees. More ponytails, and all the braids have been loosened. The lattes now have pumpkin spice, and have gone up one or more sizes.

At month three, that’s when the sweatpants and hoodies start showing up — and halfway through you’ll start seeing the hoods up more than down. 8:30AM lectures become a sea of messy buns. A diverse spread of thermoses can be found here. Try to count all the colors!

And when you spot the pajama pants and fluffy slippers, exam season is right around the corner. If you look hard enough, you might just spot a mud mask in the back row. Disturbingly large stacks of energy drinks can be spotted at this point, and rarely you’ll catch the crunch of a BBQ chip somewhere in the rear.

The boys?

They’re a far more simple species. The only way they can be used as an indicator of the passing weeks is by how soiled the single set of Bandai backwards cap, t shirt and sweatpants/jeans/basketball shorts they wear all year gets. A hard to spot, but almost linear relationship! Look for the white tees. By the end, they’ll be yellow. Likely with a few holes. Don’t get too close. Said outfits in the latter stages tend to stimulate the other senses too. Not always pleasantly.

—IX

[jhai-writes]

Meine Liebe

I saw a truck on the highway today. It had a stretched-out Liam Gallagher plastered on the side, holding a sign saying “Oasis Live Experience”.

It’s this week isn’t it? The first time Oasis has come here in decades.

I stared at that truck — waving apologetically at the honks from cars I nearly plowed into on my motorbike — because I knew you’d be there. I couldn’t stop thinking. Will you be at the front, in your parklife tee? Screaming your lungs out at the brothers you called “the coolest band ever to exist”? How will it compare to the dozens of tribute bands you’ve seen? Will the difference be stark? Or will the young’uns give the originals a run for their money?

Will you remember how we sat in your car, — hours past when I said I needed to be asleep — you trying to explain just how hot Liam was, me teasing you about how your track record with older men?

Will you remember the concerts? How we caught the attention of the lead singer of the Kooks by wearing ridiculous shirts covered in copper tape spelling out the band name in hilariously malformed letters? How you always refused earplugs, as I shook my head, befuddled at how you could stand to be right next to the speakers, the bass thudding in our chests?

Will you remember how we sat together in the backyard of my student house, a fire pit crackling as I saw you cry for the first time?

Will you remember the years where we were the closest friends could be? Where we truly, truly, loved each other? Leaned on each other as our respective storms tore through us?

Will you remember our inside jokes? The too-crazy-to-be-fiction stories we tell to flabbergasted friends?

The music I initially refused, but which you then had me hooked to for weeks on end?

Will you remember how we were bitter enemies for years? And even after we reconciled, will you remember our fights? Your hotheadedness, my distance? How we failed as friends, while succeeding beyond any imagining? How we talked it out, how we grew? How proud I was to say, “she’s my best friend.”

Will you remember the song we recorded together? The Home Depot bucket we had to use in lieu of drums for the backing track?

Will you remember how I used to want to date you, how I found you beautiful? Then how after you very gently and politely turned me down, I realized it was an absolutely terrible idea — and that the friendship that blossomed in its place was worth more than any fling?

How we are proof that a man and a woman can have a platonic relationship, and one of richness past anything anyone ever expected?

Will you remember how you disappeared? How one day, you sent me a message saying you’d be needing a bit of space? How I told you to come back whenever you felt ready — knowing deep in my bones that you would find your way back once you were okay? How it’s been silence ever since? For months? How the scant few months left before you leave across the Atlantic are slipping away?

Will you know how much I miss you? How much the you-shaped hole in my chest hurts? How I still have to stop myself from reaching for my phone to tell you something?

Will you know how much I ache to reach out? How I wasn’t strong enough to hold, breaking the silence to tell you I got a huge raise, and to wish you a happy birthday?

Will you know how much I have to tell you? How much has happened, how much has changed? How I still talk to you, standing in the closet?

Will you know how I’ll remember you forever? How I can’t help but to do so?

Will you know how my soul wheels around your still form, wondering what happened to my best friend in the whole wide world? How I fidget, lonely, confused, and desperate, watching the seconds tick away until you leave across the sea? How confusing it is for a part of my foundation, something that I thought could weather any storm to puff into smoke?

Will you know how I mourn? How I sit alone in my room, hands around my knees, tears staining the pillow I hold, wondering why? Wondering what I did wrong? Wondering how I drove you away, how I messed up so badly that you had to separate immediately and in your entirety?

Will you know how scared I am that you won’t come back at all? How terrified I am of the idea that the silence will never break, and how the fragile little family I’ve found is crumbling between my fingers, as I desperately try to cling on?

Will you ever come back?

Will you remember me at all?

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

r4r

[M4F] lonely heart looking for a girlfriend

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[M4F] fwb Orillia papas hungry 👅💦

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[M4F] does anyone actually read any of these?

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—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

Lessons

Calm seas never made good sailors. How you do one thing, is how you do everything. Apology without change is manipulation. I want to strangle you.

Never eat shredded wheat. Third time's the charm. Actions speak louder than words. How could you do that to me?

One Mississippi, two Mississippi. Better late than never. Perfect is the enemy of good. I can't take it anymore.

You reap what you sow. Measure twice, cut once. Every Good Boy Deserves Fries. I'm not coming back.

—IX

[jhai-writes]

…or maybe you’re just an asshole.

Have you considered that?

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

Journal Entry #52

My brother came over today. This is the first time we’ve had time to just relax together for months — his Herculean effort of finishing his masters thesis finally past. We had dinner with family. I’m a bit ashamed to say I got frustrated that my dad was hogging my brother, tapping fingers on the dinner table as he went on on a lecture about the responsibilities of the newly graduated to their careers. But it was just a feeling. Excitement contained for too long.

Because today we were going to build his first Warhammer 40K models.

My mom and I pitched in for a graduation gift, an Adeptus Mechanicus Combat Patrol — a faction he mentioned he’d always been fascinated about when I told him I had begun my 40K journey a few months back. We thought he could use an invitation back to fun after his four years of burnout and toil. An invitation back to living, not just surviving.

I was a bit apprehensive — I didn’t know how he’d react to a hobby that was considered eye-glazingly boring by every other person I knew. I wasn’t ready for the bloom of joy in my heart as I saw his giddy grin at gluing together his first mini.

He loved it — at least the building mini part of the game — fascinated by how the parts came together, cooed over the detail and design of his favourite army, and trying to pick which style he wanted the most.

He was worried that he’d build them wrong, or not to spec, or in invalid configurations — he’s my big brother after all. The big brother. The dependable one. The adult in the room. The one who dots I’s and crosses T’s — and it led to me witnessing a truly wondrous moment.

I put a hand on his shoulder and told him that by definition, there was no wrong way to assemble or style his minis, provided he doesn’t want to do competitive play (which he shudders at the idea of). I told him that here, there were no wrong answers. That whatever felt true to his imagination, was true.

And in that moment, sat at a basement workbench cluttered with paints, glues, and plastic, something truly remarkable happened. I saw a little bit of the bright eyed little boy that I grew up with — raised to be quiet by parents with stainless steel souls, told to be still to allow the responsible, mature, stoic, hardened adult to tackle the grey realities of adulthood — stir inside him. His eyes went wide, and he got another goofy look on his face as (for the first time likely in decades) my brother’s inner child came out to play. I sat there, beaming, as I watched him flip pages in the manual, mutter ideas, scour sprues to find the parts that felt right. That felt like him. Unabashed, unrestrained. Free.

I am not religious. I don’t believe in a god. But now I think I know a little bit about what it’d feel like to witness a miracle.

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

And every woman ever, rolled her eyes.

—IX

[jhai-writes]

Dinner Table

Dad, please. I’m not trying to fight you, okay? I’m trying to have a conversation.

I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I’m not trying to corner y—

What? …I can’t control how you react, Or how you feel. If the words I’ve used are offensive or make you feel uncomfortable, I can swi—

No, I didn’t say that. No! That’s not what I meant at all. I’m trying to understand—

Dad… I can’t have this conversation If you keep fighting me. No, this isn’t an argument. …again, I can’t control that.

Please don’t say those things. That’s not fair.

But th— No, I — Wh—

No. No more. I did my best.

Goodnight, Dad. No. Goodnight. —J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

I have a great father. I grew up without a dad.

My mother is perfect. I never knew my mom.

—J. Hai

[jhai-writes]

To Jenny,

It’s been a long time since seventeen, hasn’t it? Since each other’s first kiss in the stairwell of the geography wing.

I’ll be honest. I still find it hard to think about you. About the things that we had. The mistakes that I made.

I’m afraid of the pain. Of the shame that still rules me — that clouds every thought of you.

I was so afraid, pushed you down so far, I don’t remember much about the cause of the pain or shame.

But what scares me more is that I pushed you down so hard, I don’t remember much about you at all.

All you are now are flashes. Painful glances. Never for more than a millisecond. Always squinted at, batted away, followed by frantic scrubbing at any residue of you still stuck to my memories.

I’m sorry. You deserve better than that.

But.

There’s one bit of you that never left me. One clear, immutable part of you that has yet to — and likely won’t for a long time — fade in any clarity.

You gave me my favorite song.

I remember you and I exchanging music tastes slowly over time. I kept trying to impress you, pretending to like music I didn’t, or paradoxically being too harsh on your music taste.

I think it was when we were sitting in my brother’s car outside your house. I felt a little nervous — your mom’s disapproval of her little girl spending time with a boy causing me to look at the windows for someone peeking through the shades.

You told me that you were gonna play a special song. “Les Jupes” by Charlotte Cardin. One you were pretty sure I’d never heard before — considering what you knew of my existing taste. You said it moved your soul.

I admit, I remember being a bit distracted as you told me this. Mind wandering a little after the end of a long day out together — looking outside, or lost in my head as you queued it up on my phone and hit play.

And then I felt my soul start to move too.

I remember being instantly brought back to reality — immediately in love with sounds so spectacular yet so outside of anything I usually enjoyed listening to.

I remember playing that song non-stop for a week. I remember playing it every time I picked you up from your dorm after we went to university.

And after it was over, after I ran, it stayed with me to this day.

I was frustrated at it for a while, finger hovering over the skip button as I winced from the tiny part of your memory that still lingered on it every time it played.

But it changed my life.

Through it, a window opened into a world of genres and artists that I previously either dismissed or never thought to try. Genres and artists that have come to define what music means to me.

The rest of Charlotte Cardin. The 1975. Lorde. Rina Sawayama. Lovelytheband. Taylor Swift. Lana Del Rey. Bleachers. Conan Grey. Doja Cat. The Weeknd.

It led to concerts. To adventures. To friends that I’d die for. To a new way of self expression. To a whole new part of my life that I never imagined I’d grow into.

And every time I listen to it — to a song I can’t stop coming back to eight years on, a little bit of you flickers through my mind.

I’m still at the beginning of my journey to heal — to learn how overcome the pain and trauma that caused this to fall apart in the first place. I’m trying to build the skills to revisit the memory of you with the clarity and fairness you deserve.

But I want you to know that no matter what, you still live in a little corner of my heart.

Because you gave me my favorite song.

[jhai-writes]

Why the fuck Would you only steal one shoe?

Now I only got one, You only got one.

Now there's two shoeless morons Walking down the street. Squeak slap squeak slap squeak slap

—J. Hai