Ample Flesh Post

I just really love these images, and basically anything Frank Frazetta paints.

The last one makes me giggle...Tarzan meets Lao of Par.

The Leak, Part II.

39 minutes.

Animal panic rose in Ingrid's throat the instant her feet left the chamber platform. The force of the airlock release sent her careening through blank space, spinning. She batted against the insulated walls of her suit, trying to swim.

She screamed, and screamed, and the tears ran down her face until her voice and her tear ducts and the strain in her head wouldn’t allow it anymore. Her brain decided for her that she must relax, and so she fell asleep.

Ingrid opened her eyes to black space. The moisture of her exhalation fogged the plate of her helmet and dissipated from it just as quickly. She heard the sound of her respiration from far away. In and out, life and death.

Breathing, she knew it was her only constant.

30 minutes.

In the blackness, without a single point of reference, it was impossible to determine her current movement. She tried to reason through it, to understand her position and direction upon release from the airlock, which was on the port side of the ship. Where were they when everything stopped? She tried to bring up the control panel on the back of her eyelids.

Ingrid had been sitting with Peter on Main Bridge adjusting their course, when they heard the alarm.

Peter was singing a melody with no words, the strains of his soft tenor voice bouncing around the metal walls. He stopped to speak.

“Let’s have a baby. Will you have my baby?”

Ingrid had smiled at this. It was the third time he’d asked that day, after bringing it up solemnly the night before. For Ingrid the request was amusingly redundant. But to him she said nothing, only smiled. She wanted to wait until they were naked in their bunk to tell him that she would, that she’d just found out she was. She wanted him to be able to kiss her stomach, express his joy directly in the presence of the little thing. Ingrid knew their little one would grow up well, with such a beginning.

She snapped out of the past and into her terrible present moment.

23 minutes.

And what of it all now. What of her child now. A life that ends with its beginning, no escape, no first bleating breath.

Keep breathing, she told herself. Go on for it a while longer.

21 minutes.

The blackness. Ingrid could feel her baby writhe within her womb.

20 minutes.

Impossible. She began to shake and wriggle, hitting her head hard against the faceplate, trying to pull her suit apart at the seams.

“Let me GO!” she screamed.

18 minutes.

Sweaty. Sweaty and exhausted. Ingrid decided to hyperventilate herself into unconsciousness.

10 minutes.

The air in her suit tasted thin.

8 minutes.

A beam of light in the distance. Ingrid saw her own hazel eyes in the reflection of her faceplate. A blood vessel in her right eye had popped.

What? Light? She held her hand up to shield her eyes and get a glimpse, but it bathed her and she was blinded.

6 minutes.

The light no longer shined on her, but Ingrid could see that a ship was approaching, another military vessel. She felt her true exhaustion at this moment.

4 minutes.

Her lungs gasped for the last of the oxygen, but her mind was silent and utterly fixated on the ship.

The ship floated by on her left side, just six or seven meters away from her extended fingertips. As it passed her, she saw inside the wide windows of the brightly lit canteen. A handful of men sat eating from trays. Ingrid recognized their orange uniforms. They were Fuel Men.

The Fuel Man closest to the window was the first to look up. After a second, he stood up suddenly to cup his hands around his face against the window and peer out.

His hair is on fire, she thought. Such nice blue eyes. Peter?

Refrigerant Season Has Begun.

Lock up your cylinders of 134a folks, cuz we're out to SELL them at COMPETITIVE PRICES!

"I was a Fat Girl, now I'm an Average Woman"

I got the blues.

Homesick, lovelorn, and lost in thought.
Tired of being stared at,
for wearing tan leggings home from the gym.
Being talked about with disdain by a woman linked arm-in-arm with her daughter
Words I've heard before, read in the lips
"ta chwan shuh-muh ee-foo" = "what is she wearing"
Makes me want to pull her skirt up and expose her enormous underwear
Irrational. Like this Rosie O'Donnell-esque blog entry.
If my leggings were dyed to look like denim, with a few pockets and rivets sewn on,
I'd look like every other Shanghainese chick.
Except for the big ass.

Speaking of which,
I love seeing a big fat foreign ass on a woman here.
The bigger the better, honestly.
I feel no disgust, no pity. No preference as to color or shape.
Shake that thang, let me slap it!
Because this country is so seriously lacking in ass fat, I can really appreciate the women who carry an extra load.
Provided that they carry it well.

Sigh.

Land of Contradictions

The Leak, Part I

THE LEAK, PART I.

One hour after the explosion and already down to 15% oxygen. Where was the goddamn leak?

It didn't matter, really. Peter and Ingrid had already resigned to the fact that they were going to die on the ship, out in the cold invading blackness of space, their young bodies all but immobilized, the numb blue entering their extremities and aiming for the heart. The only thing left to do was sit together.

The corridor on C deck was the largest single space on the ship and thus had the most available oxygen. They'd gathered some blankets and put on their suits, leaving the helmets off for now so they could commune for a time. Peter sat with his back leaning against the wall, staring up at the corridor's white light ceiling trying to detect any warmth radiating from it on his dry blue lips. Ingrid straddled his lap facing him, resting her head on his shoulder. The metal neck hole of her suit pressed against both of their clavicles, but there was no urgency at this point.

***************

"We could have sex, you know," Peter rasped into the silence. Ingrid felt the vibrations of his voice on her cheek.
"Don't use up the oxygen," she mouthed back, wanting to smirk.
"Just trying to think of things to do."
Ingrid pressed closer to him, readjusting her legs, wiggling for his benefit.

***************

Peter roused her from a dreamless doze. Touching her chin with his gloved hand, he took a big sip of air, pressed his mouth to hers and exhaled slowly. Ingrid felt her lungs fill, the cloudiness in her head clearing slowly. She pulled his air in, took more and more, felt blood return to her eyes, her ears, her lips. It only lasted a moment.

When she separated from him, Peter's head fell back against the wall with a thud. His eyes were empty and open. She saw the rounded vein in his neck sag, the blood flow subsiding.

She shook him gently, a rising panic in her limbs. "Peter."

"Peter, come on." The corridor lights flickered.

"If you come back to me, we can..." she spoke to his nose but couldn't finish.

"WAKE UP!" she screamed at his mouth.

"I'm pregnant." Blinked her dry eyes.

She shook his shoulders, smacked his face. The exertion was exhausting. He was gone.

Slowly, deliberately, Ingrid stood up from his lap and straightened the neck hole of her suit. She was panting lightly. Air too thin, air too thin, oh, air too thin. Peter's slumped body looked heavy, his eyes preternaturally blue.

He's still alive, she thought. He must be faking it. Playing games with me.

She straddled his body once again, pressing her forehead into his. He feels warm enough. He just needs...some encouragement, she thought. You wanna play, huh? She smacked him on either cheek.

Nothing. She reached down and punched his groin, then collapsed against him.

God damn him! Head resting on his chest, she pulled the knife out of her belt and held it tremblingly up to his neck. Her husband's eyes stared out past her, as if witnessing something shocking occurring just behind Ingrid's back.

"Wake up, you son of a bitch." She pressed the metal edge into Peter's stubbled skin. "I'll kill you for this, don't think I can't do it."

What black void he was caught in? To rouse him out of his state of shock, she would need to take drastic measures. She slid the knife lightly over the skin of his neck. A light stream of blood dripped out and soaked the collar of his shirt, then more poured out, thicker and faster.

"Come on, baby, time to get up," she cooed. She stood up to allow him room to rise. Was someone there? she looked around.

A loud clang of metal on metal came from the rear end of the ship, followed by a violent shudder. Slowly, Peter's blood lifted off his skin and drifted into the air in little red beads.

Ingrid found herself floating. She scooped up her helmet and placed it over her mussy blond hair, sealing it onto her suit. As the suit pressurized, the oxygen pack released and flooded her with air. She sucked it in through her nose, laughing and giddy. Memories of impossible happiness came back to her in flashes. Her first kiss with Rohan, the mechanic on her father's ship. Her officer's stripes. Running her hands through Peter's thick hair. She reached down and felt the soft bump of her abdomen through thick layers of the impregnable pressure suit. Succumbing to her exhaustion, she closed her eyes and treasured each slow, deep, vital breath.

***************

She opened her eyes as a single drop of blood landed on the faceplate of her helmet, then three more drops landed in succession. Then Peter's body floated by, and Ingrid screamed hysterically.

"Whaaat, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." She flailed her arms and legs, hitting her helmet to the ceiling of the corridor with a thud. She scrambled to grab a hold of the railing, not daring to look back at the body of her dead husband, wrapped in their bunk blankets.

Ingrid had to get off the ship, away from the scene of this crime, not her crime. Couldn't be her crime. She pulled herself rung by rung up the main tube to Deck B and over to the airlock. She swung open the lock and closed the door behind her. The intermediate chamber was tight. Her eyes swelled with tears as she held her finger over the button to release the chamber.

With the 10-second countdown to airlock release playing over the speaker in familiar feminine neutrality, she read the gauge on her sleeve indicating her suit's status. She acknowledged it in horror -- oxygen time remaining: 39 minutes.

"Three...two...one, the airlock is released."

A Week's Worth of Media

Exposed to lots of good stuff this week. Like a suntan that never reached a burn, I remain emotionally unscathed (I'm very impressionable) yet enriched with Vitamin D (for distribution, dissemination, divulgence). What a lame intro! I'll stop right now.

Movie of the 星期：ZODIAC: THE RACE BEGINS
Singapore's first full-length CGI film. The Jade Emperor, King of Heaven, has declared that a race be held to determine the order of the Zodiac. As the animals move towards the Heavenly finish line, their strengths and weaknesses (as the Chinese see them) are revealed and legendary relationships between certain animals formed. Some of the myths are tweaked for dramatic effect, but the Chineesy tradition of it all blasts through the story with all the power of Heaven's command.
Highlights: the Snake Mother's song about leaving her egg babies to pursue a higher calling; the animation of the Dragon as it cracks its tail to make rain; the Jade Emperor's hat.

**spoiler alert (can you spoil a Legend?)**

And of course, for those of us born in 1984, the Rat wins by confidently navigating a fine moral line and following through with his great ambitions. And he sings a song. Basically, we're the best ever. ilLEGAL DVD AVAILABLE in a CHINATOWN near you!


Websites of the 星期: www.2point6billion.com
A blog about business, trading, and economic issues in China and India. The tax/trading stuff is beyond boring, but if you visit, check out the 'Culture' entries. I particularly liked the linked article from China Economic Quarterly exposing certain myths in sociopolitical analysis of the two economic giants of the East, i.e. the economic benefits/downsides of a democracy versus communist rule.

www.pandafix.com
For when you need a fix.


Television Show of the 星期: LITTLE BRITAIN

Wacky comedy show following the lives of fat, stupid British people (played by two talented guys, David Walliams and Matt Lucas), with an amazing narrator to tie it all together. Well, they're not all fat and stupid (like Vicky Pollard here). Some of them are gay. And the Prime Minister is old-hottie Giles from Buffy. A cross between Monty Python and Mr. Show. Injected with crystal meth. In a fat suit.


I can't comment on much else by way of Media...it's mostly Western stuff and that all arrives here late and Censored. I'll leave you with this:

Activity of the 星期: MAKING UP SONGS ON THE SPOT

Check these lyrics:

Ev'ry convenience store has its own smell
This one smells of licorice
That one's a sulphuric hell
Actually it's old zongzi
The bamboo leaf's gone baaaad! (oo, it's soo baad)
China is a smelly place
But You smell totally raaaad.
You smell soo rad...
So totally rad...

Post College Let-/Melt-/Slowdown

Dearest Bai Ji Tang is visiting me in Shanghai these two weeks. So lovely to summon the olden days: reclaiming our fast and luminous insider language, feeling exuberance beyond belief at times, wearily leaning on shoulders at other times. I think there may be nothing more precious than an old friend.It has been difficult to write and produce art in the same way I did in college. As BJT put it, there are so many things to reevaluate about how life works, beyond and alongside an intellectual understanding. And living alone means missing out on the smaller means of artistic expression: the scrawled-on collages of dismembered magazine models stuck to the Fridge with four Hello Kitty magnets; found objects modified into obscenities, MS Paintings, gifts made of trash, hair bows made of trash (Subtle Marcus)...there is a lovely transient communal joy in that shit.

Not to say that I am unhappy with my new loner-foreigner-observer status in Shanghai. Ships pass in the night, ships sit together at the dock. The ending is a bit dodgy. The end of the story, I mean.


“Hi, Da,” I said, amused by the Chinese syllables I’d used to greet Daniel as he opened the door. He was brushing his teeth and greeted me with a wide palm rub to my back. I took off my black dusty boots and coat, slipped into house sandals and scuffed over to the couch.

Today he wore tight jeans and a large knit sweater of oddly matched colors. I watched him as he walked into the bedroom with that familiar loping gait, how his jeans hugged his legs, listened to him as he spit into the sink. He brushes his teeth for so long. I never brush for more than two minutes, but he could spend ten minutes with a mouthful of foam. Is my mouth clean enough?

I couldn’t think of what to do, so I picked up a TIME magazine and waited for him to reappear. THE CHINA THREAT, I read with bemused anxiety. I’d read it before. I walked onto the balcony with the headline in my head, looking for some sign of the threat. Next door to Daniel’s service apartment complex in Shanghai’s French Concession was a construction site, well lit and still crawling with migrant workers despite the setting sun and rush hour deluge of cars and pedestrians on Fuxing Road.
Rising up to my eye level was the ever-present Tower Crane, now as much a part of the Shanghai skyline as the Pearl Tower. I saw the operator in his cab, lit by a single bare bulb and turning the jib a full 180º while pulling in a load of I-beams, an astonishing display of human authority over impossible machinery. Down below, a couple of migrant workers were hanging their pants and shirts up to dry outside on the narrow balconies of their temporary on-site housing.

A loud shriek drew my attention to back inside the white walls of Daniel’s apartment complex. A little toddler was chasing after a small dog, his ayi standing with arms folded nearby. Wrapped in all those layers, he was a precious little waddling ball of red. I watched him teeter in the grass until ayi ran over and briskly scooped him up in her arms.

“And how does she look to you this evening?” Daniel surprised me, poking his head out from the sliding door.

“Who?”

“Miz Shanghai, of course.”

“Ah,” I said smiling, nodding my agreement. “She is busy at life as ever.”

“What?” he said politely. At this I felt beleaguered. A native speaker of French, sometimes he cannot understand what I say. Or perhaps I mumble.

“Busy as ever.”

"Yes,” he said as he turned away and slid the door ajar. “I’m making tea…”

I took one more look over the balcony before going in. The waddling toddler and his ayi were gone. Another ayi was sweeping leaves with an outdoor broom, a tight bundle of dried leafy hay stalks. The sun had moved behind a skyscraper, and the last of the light settled over the courtyard and construction site in a fleeting twilight haze.