Maybe people here have problems being intimate with each other. People keep distance because they want independence, so lovers don’t live with together, instead they only see each other at weekend or sleep together twice a week. A family doesn’t live with together therefore the intimate inside of a family disappeared. Maybe that why Westerners much more separated, lonely, and have more Old People’s House. Maybe also why newspapers always report cases of peterfiles and perverts.
We are in your old white van. You want to show me somewhere special called the Burnham Beach.
“Is it the British ocean?” I ask, excited to visit sea for first time. You are laughing.
“B-e-e-c-h, not b-e-a-c-h. In English, a beech is a type of tree, not an ocean. I’ll take you to the sea another time.”
How I ever understand your complicated language-not even any change in accent like we have in Chinese. We have four intonations, so every tone means different word. Like:
mi in first tone means to close eyes.
mí in second tone means to fancy something.
mi in third tone means rice.
mì in fourth tone means honey.
Anyway, on the highway of M40, I have my dictionaries to check out what exactly that beach/beech is. Collins tells me that is a European tree, but when I look my little Concise dictionary, says it is a tree called “Shan Mao Ju,” which grows everywhere in China. We cut those trees for lighting fires in kitchen. We used to carry baskets and collect their nutty seeds when we were little.
The woods are dark, lush, and wet.
Trees are huge, tall, and solid.
The whole woods are growing silently and secretly. The whole woods are decay. On way to woods it was a beautiful day, but inside woods the climate is totally different. Is chilly and rainy. Rain drops from those hundred-year-old greyish branches and leafs, and the rain fills the ponds stuffed by weeds.
In the muddy and greeny pond, lotus gently floats, and the dragonfly dashes. You hold me and caress me. We are in each other’s arm. You lift my denim skirt, and you touch my garden. My garden is warm and moist. You stroke my hip, and I unzip your jean. We make love. We make love. We make love under the silent beech tree. So quiet, so quiet. We can hear children on the football field in the distance are yelling. Only the rain drops, fall on our hair, our skin. Rain drops on the cowslip flower by our feet, without disturbing us.
free world
free world esp. US hist. non-Communist countries.
You say:
“I feel incredibly lucky to be with you. We’re going to have loads of exciting adventures together. Our first big adventure will be in west Wales. I’ll show you the sea. I’ll teach you to swim because it is shameful that a peasant girl cannot swim. I’ll show you the dolphins in the sea, and the seals with their babies. I want you to experience the beauty of the peace and quiet in a Welsh cottage. I think you will love it there.”
You also say:
“Then I want to take you to Spain and France. I know that you’ll love them. I wish we could live over there for a while.”
Later you say:
“I feel so good about the love that you and I have with each other because it happened so quickly and spontaneously, like a forest fire.”
And you say:
“I just love the way you are.”
Everything good so far, but from one thing-you don’t understand my visa limited situation. I am native Chinese from mainland of China. I am not of free world. And I only have student visa for a year here. I not able just leave London English language school and go live somewhere only have trees and sea, although is beautiful. And I can’t travel to Spain and France just to fun-I need show these embassy officer my bank account to apply my Europe visa. And my bank statements is never qualify for them. You a free man of free world. I am not free, like you.
May
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custom
custom n. 1. a long-established activity or action; 2. usual habit; 3. regular use of a shop or business.
The café is name greasy spoon, Seven Seas. All windows is foggy from the steam. You order tea as soon as you walk into. Noisy. Babies. Mothers. Couples. Lonely old man. You are opening the newspaper and start drink thick English Breakfast milky tea. And me being quiet.
I want talk to you. But you are reading paper. I have to respect your hobby.
“So where are you from?” I ask handsome waiter in white suit.
“ Cyprus.” He smiles.
“Are these chefs also from Cyprus?”
“Yes.”
“So your Cyprus chefs cook English breakfast for English?”
“Yes, we Cypriots cook breakfast for the English because they can’t cook.”
I see from open kitchen that sausages are sizzling on the pan. And mushrooms, and scrambled eggs, they are all waiting for being devoured.
I love these old oily cafés around Hackney. Because you can see the smokes and steams coming out from the coffee machine or kitchen all day long. That means life is being blessed.
In this café, there is a television set above everybody’s head. The TV on but doesn’t have any images, only can hear BBC news speaking scrambly from the white snow screen. It is a little disturbing for me, but it seem everybody in this place enjoy it. Nobody here suggest fix the TV.
Suddenly white-snow-screen changes to green-snow-screen, and the BBC voice continues. A man nearby eating some bacons with the Daily Mirror says to the chef:
“That’s an improvement.”
“Yes, Sir,” replies the chef. “Well, at least you don’t have to eat your breakfast, read the paper and watch the TV all at the same time.”
“That’s true.” The man chew his bacons and concentrates on page with picture of half naked blonde smiling.
I want to talk. I can’t help stop talking. I have to stop you reading.
“You know what? I came this café before, sit here whole afternoon,” I say.
“Doing what?” You put down the paper, annoyed.
“I read a porn magazine called Pet House for three hours, because I studied English from those stories. Checking the dictionary really took lots of time.”
You are surprised. “I don’t think you should read porn mags in a café. People will be shocked.”
“I don’t care.”
“But you can’t do that. You’ll make other people feel embarrassed.”
“Then why they sell these magazines in every little corner shop? Is also even sold in the big supermarket.”
I believe everything to do with the sexuality is not shameful in West.
The man next to us finishes his bacons, half naked woman photo with huge breasts still being exposed.
“I think I go now buy another porn magazine,” I say, standing up.
“OK, you do whatever you want,” you say shaking head. “This is Hackney after all. People will forgive you for not being au fait with the nuances of British customs.”
You dry up your cup of tea.
fart
fart vulgar slang n. emission of gas from the anus-v. emit gas from the anus.
Suddenly the man next table reading newspaper with naked-breast-woman made a huge noise.
“What is that noise name?” I ask you.
You cannot understand what I mean. Too much involving in looking house property advertisement on the newspaper.