WORLD OF FORM - CHAPTER 4: Lynda's Story

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of cinnamon. When I sat down to a breakfast of pineapple-cranberry bran muffins and creamy Greek style yogurt, I showed the note to Masako who, not being Christian and being totally turned off by Catholic ostentation, frowned. "Any time any Filipino talk about God, it cannot be good thing," she said.

"Filipina," Meg said. "for a woman. Sounds sort of cryptic. Just what do you know about this Lynda?"

Yes, what did I know about Lynda? I tried to remember her. She had first contacted me over the Net. I had been skeptical, but Anna, or Tiffany, had said, "Why not? She single? She woman? She almost Asian? If she not journalist, she welcome?"

Just to be sure, I had met Lynda. Petite, with dark brown straight hair that fell almost to her waist and dark skin that could have gone darker if she ever adopted our Southern California ways. She always wore large circular framed sunglasses and a hat during the day. She favored blue and green suits and rarely wore pants. Instead of a string of pearls, she wore a gold chain with a small cross.

"Do you remember what publication she wrote for?" I asked Meg and Masako.

"Ne, I don't remember," Masako said. "I did write her like she asked just after I went home. Never heard back. Never saw a copy of the article."

"Chris might remember," Meg volunteered.

"Speaking of Chris, does he still see Arnold?" Masako asked.

"I don't see much of Arnold and that's enough to keep our marriage at least 20 percent happier," Meg said, laughing.

Meg, Masako and I went out to the beach for a walk. When we got back, Masako needed a nap to combat jetlag and I took one out of sympathy while Meg prepared dinner. When Chris came home for dinner and Meg and I set the table. Tonight was tortilla soup and salad.

"So you opened the mystery letter?" Chris asked me after he kissed Meg.

"Yes, Lynda said she had pleasant memories for me. And there's some sort of mystery," I said. "What to you remember about Lynda?"

Chris looked at Meg. "I think we should sit down and have some wine."

"So just exactly what did she say?" Masako asked after we were all seated.

"She was a bit," Chris began, "self-absorbed." He looked over at Meg.

"She really thought Chieri was so helpful. She was surprised," Meg offered. "You were so nice about helping her find that small storage space for her books, newspapers and stuff."

"That's right. As I recall, she used to meet her cousin in Highland Park or San Marino?" I replied.

"No, I think it was Pasadena or Sierra Madre," Chris said.

"So I found her a place between Little Tokyo where she liked me meet me after church and the San Gabriel Valley," I said. "I think it was in Lincoln Heights. I used to pass it on my way to work every day when I was still working downtown," I added.

"Yes," Meg said, after taking a deep breath. "She really thought you were so nice."

"But," Masako asked, lifting one eyebrow.

"She thought that was because you led such a boring life," Chris said.

"Because?" Masako asked.

"Because you seem to have been so helpful," Meg said, giving Chris a sharp glance.

"Gee. I guess no good deed goes unpunished," I said.

"Didn't she tell you that she didn't know much about America?" Masako said.

"Yes," I said slowly. "She said she wanted to understand why American men were so eager to have Pilipina wives."

"She had that friend of hers…what was her name?" Masako said.

"Rita? Raquel or something like that," Meg said.

"No it was Rosa," Chris said, with confidence.

"And what makes you so sure," Meg asked.

"Same name as that taco stand in East LA," Chris said with a laugh.

"No, that's not the name of the place. That's the name of the woman whose family owns the place," Meg said with a laugh.

"Always made me think of tacos and carnitas," Chris said, "before you made me leave the room."

"We didn't make you leave the room," Meg said.

"It became girl talk," Chris said. "When women are bashing husbands, husbands should clear the room."

"We weren't bashing husbands," Masako said, coming to Meg's defense. "We were talking about one husband. The kind that has to find a mail order bride because no American woman would want him. For that matter, no Japanese woman, either."

"So this Rosa, her husband thought she should be grateful," Meg said.

"Oh, yes. I remember. Lynda said her friend didn't believe in therapy. Not marriage counseling. Not personal counseling," I recalled.

"So what did she believe in?" Chris asked.

"The pope," I said.

"Prayer," Masako volunteered.

"That woman's husband was evil," Meg said.

"He knew enough about the Pilipino culture to be dangerous," I added.

"Meaning?" Chris asked.

"He knew that no Pilipino would want to marry her. She was a bit too old," I began.

"Christmas cake," Masako said.

"I think she had a Master's," I added.

"Too smart for most Filipino guy," Masako explained.

"The Catholic church doesn't recognize divorce," I said. "So she thought she was stuck. How old-fashioned."

"But what about this Lynda?" Chris asked.

"So why was Lynda so concerned?" Meg asked.

"Maybe her brothers couldn't understand," I said. Didn't she say something about Rosa's brothers?"

"Yes, I think they still lived at home with mother," Masako said with some disgust.

"Even now?" I asked in mock horror.

"For all we know, mommy's dead and sister is now housekeeper," Masako said with a laugh.

"From what she said it sounded like American men were flocking to the Philippines to marry any girl they found willing," I said.

"It wasn't just American men, was it?" Meg asked.

"Oh, that's right. She said English, Australian, South African and German," I said.

"I think at first she thought Filipinos were the top of the marriage market," Masako said. She laughed and said, "I think she was shocked that in Los Angeles men preferred Japanese women. We're clean and pure. American men are sometimes so charming in their simplicity."

"Well, thank you, ma'am," Chris said with a chuckle.

"I mean hakujin no, ne," Masako added, laughing.

"Yes, but I think what they want isn't what they get: real women," I replied.

"That's what happens when you buy from a catalog," Chris said.

"Now, it's just like eBay," Meg said.

"Not quite, the highest bidder doesn't always get the girl," Chris said.

"Are you sure?" Masako asked.

"So I wonder what she meant by sin?" I asked.

"I think she was disappointed to find her thesis was wrong. She probably couldn't sell the article after all," Masako replied.

"You think she felt guilty about wasting everyone's time?" Meg asked.

"Well, wouldn't you?" Masako replied.

"And then she didn't even have the guts to tell us," I replied.

"Oh, that's not unusual," Chris added. "I think a lot of reporters follow stories that don't pan out or get cut. Think of all the stories that got cut after 9/11? Didn't something happen with some movies?"

"Yes, I heard about that in Japan," Masako said.

"Think of all the jobs that got cut," I replied.

"That's true. Things are more stable here than in the Philippines," Chris said.

"And what does that say about the people?" Masako asked.

"So what's next on your list of mysterious packages?" Chris asked.

"Tapes. Cassette tapes, as you guessed. The first one has my name on it," I said slowly. "I think they are the interviews she did."

"Ah, now that will be like a time capsule," Meg said, clearing the dishes. Masako shuffled through the DVDs that Brent had burned for her and chose "Across the Tracks" to watch in the living room as Meg and Chris began to correct papers. After a few minutes, I decided to retire to my room and listen to the first cassette tape.

Dating in LA could be damned depressing and even deadly, but talking to journalists was just like planning your own funeral. I would get to haunt myself and the auto exhaust fumes would become ghosts of my more deliriously reckless past.

THE WORLD OF FORM - Chapter 3 The Letter

Meg lived in a bungalow that had first been rented by her sister whose friend had rented it before that and perhaps that friend's friend, too. Passing it down via an indulgent landlord, they had the benefits of rent control in an otherwise insane rental market.

The guest room was decorated by her sense of flea market chic: 1970s bedspreads, 1950s radios and clocks, old Simpson memorabilia and Disney cute, Snoopy knick knacks, Laker stuff, baseball cards, hundreds of lucky frogs and probably a thousand thimbles and hundreds of snow globes. Masako probably had dusted her room because she was also allergic to cheap, but I think she changed her mind when Chris, Meg's husband, mentioned that they also had a healthy eBay business going and wondered if Masako might be interested in some bicoastal exchange.

Meg and Masako started taking inventory over the contents of the room Masako would be taking. The computer room was also filled with junk and Meg went over approximate prices and the log of things Chris and she had in the past. That evening, I fully expected Masako to be on the phone with hubbie for a transpacific business conference.

As I was resting, Meg whipped up a simple burrito buffet with boneless, skinless chicken and homemade salsas. Apparently, mango was all the rage now, Meg told us so besides the usual tomatillo salsa verde and the salsa fresca there was a mild mango salsa, ginger-spiced pineapple salsa and lime habanera. She topped that off with a mango and coconut flan.

After dinner, I settled down as Meg, Masako and Chris discretely left me alone to check out the packages that Lynda had sent. "We've already shook them and determined there is nothing fragile or ticking," Chris said with a laugh, but lent me his old tape player adding with a wink, "I think she included some cassette tapes."

First on the list, in her neat handwriting was a letter.

Dear Cherry:
I thought you'd like a little time capsule and to be honest, I cannot rest unless I know everything is taken care of. I know you sometimes wondered if you could really trust men, but sometimes you can't trust women. Not everyone is as giving and trustworthy as you. Desperate women do desperate things. I dread the loss of heaven and because I have offended my God, I have firmly resolved with the help of God's Grace to confess my sins and do penance and to amend my life.

I have asked for reconciliation and must serve penance.
Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread, and drink this cup of the Lord, unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord."

I am heartily sorry for what happened. I did not expect this to happen as it did. I realize that I must make restitution to my fellows, and I thought the only way I could do so was through you.

When I met you I was determined to commit a mortal sin. Things became so complicated and I lost control, but I trust in God who works in mysterious ways. I hope you can forgive me.

It would be so hard to explain everything that needs to be explained, so I thought first I would remind you of what was before I can tell you what is.

I hope these are pleasant memories for you and say hi to Anna.

Lynda

I looked at the numbered packages. Some were small packages. Others were parcels that looked like a thick stack of papers only. Shaking only brought some rattling.

I remember last talking to her over the phone. She seemed happy, very happy. That was unusual. Usually she seemed tense. I put that down to deadline pressures and her concern over her friend.

I had been preoccupied with a doomed romance that ended with a sob soiree, hosted by Anna and my brief return to the group. The girls had asked repeatedly about the article, wondering who and what would make it into print.

Yet, after a while, her emails bounced back. The mailbox was overloaded. Then the address no longer worked. That wasn't unusual. Some people just used a free email address for a particular project. I had done the same so I wasn't surprised.

I was disappointed that I never got a copy of the article. In time, I had other things to concern me. A promotion with my company took me north to a place where a rainy day didn't cause panic on the freeways and rush hour wasn't a good time to read proverbs in your car or listen to the latest novels on CDs. Yes, for me summer was no longer a time of local fires, freeway firings and Disneyland fireworks.

Without me there and with Masako leaving for more serious romantic relations, the group slowly fell apart. Anna decided to hold court in NoHo, making the scene being seen and being a drama queen amongst too many wanna-be stars until she met her match, Brent.

Sophisticated as Henry Higgins without the growl and Pygmalion psychosis, manly in his reserve as Gregory Peck romancing a princess incognito and as elegant a dancer as Fred Astaire. Anna added that one for me, knowing how much I loved ballroom dancing, but hadn't yet found a man similarly in love.

"We foxtrot. Very breathtaking, specially in girdle. We so close, no room for secrets. He very 1950 guy. Cocktail. Dinner jacket. How can one enjoy martini without cha-cha-cha?," Anna asked over the phone.

"Does that mean you have the lift-and-separate bra and catepillar false eyelashes?" I had asked.

"Asian have no hair. Need fake eyelash for batting lashes, I think," Anna said with a giggle.

"So how many cans of hairspray per date," I asked.

"That secret. Even my hairdresser no know. I just advise: Buy stock in sticky stuff. New natural hold okay, too," Anna said with mock gravity.

In time, they moved in together. "Very cozy. Little cottage. Little yard. Nice kitchen. You know, keep man happy by keep his stomach happy. Oh, the bedroom also important. Bathroom a little small, I think. You must come visit. Meet him.

"You know, I just like other girls. I find good man. I have no interest in group so I hardly see them now," Anna confessed one day over the phone when Brent was away on business.

This was true. The women mostly came to complain about their dates or the kind of men who flamed them or even for a bit of revenge—give a guy a bad rep among Asian women. What was important, what was heartfelt was always hidden from the group. Misery loves company but joy sometimes needs to be nurtured in private.

Gloating in the glow is best reserved for small audiences of a few good friends.
A wedding reception, like any reunion, can be an opportunity to preen. Like any reunion, there were people I wanted to see, people I would rather never see and I'd remember people I would never see again.
You never know what will happen when you go to a wedding--tears of joy and envy? Drunken relatives? Skeletons creeping out of the closet?

Who'd have thought I'd end up at some storage area with men scrapping someone else's cerebral matter off the walls?

THE WORLD OF FORM - Chapter 2 The Phone Call

"I'm married!" Tiffany said.

"Who's this?" I demanded. I had just returned home and decidedly ignored the many messages that my telephone answering machine told me I had waiting. At this hour, people could wait but my stomach couldn't. In my haste, even a microwave minute was too long. Chopsticks ready, I was standing by the refrigerator door, stuffing some cold orange chicken into my mouth, when the phone rang, not once, but again and again and again. Obviously, someone was trying to get my attention and wasn't willing to leave another message. So I answered it using the speakerphone and divided my limited attention span.

"Anna, now Tiffany," she said. "My man loves the association with Audrey Hepburn."

"Really? Married? You mean Brent?" I asked. I had dropped a choice piece of chicken on the floor and was contemplating the 5-second rule.

"Yes, my lovely, wonderful, spontaneous Brent. We just flew to San Francisco today. Brent woke me early and say go Chez Panisse. We stop at my favorite Nordstrom and Brent buy me new dress and show me ring and say go court, see judge and marry now. We wait in line for few wonderful hours. Then we go Chez Panisse for dinner. Everyone was so wonderful, so loving. I want let you know and invite you back to Los Angeles. Brent and I want to have you and my other friends for special weekend. A weekend of love and happiness. A reunion. Wouldn't that be so wonderful? Anyway, I been begging you come down. Help me plan the reception and invite everyone, everyone we used know."

"Everyone?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," Tiffany said. "I think those girls think I never get married, never settle down. I think some of them not married. Really, I don't care so much. But I always dream of wedding, wonderful wedding. Besides, I been asking you come down for ages. Take vacation. Visit old friends. Email so cold.

"You know I ask you before. Someone, now who was that? That Filipina reporter sent you something. It just gives vibes of being so important you know?"
How could I say no? Anna, or Tiffany had spent so many nights listening to my stories about men, talking about other women and their men and helping me find another style.

Shopping in Noho, Anna, who favored dresses, matching porcelain nails and stiletto heels, had told me years ago, "You no need really find your inner geisha, girl. You just need look like you know how be great geisha. Underneath, I think all geisha have steel bones."

"Are you sure you don't mean whale bones?" I asked.

"I don't confuse geisha with those Victorian type. If you must, girdle enough. I wear girdle. Men like slender waist. Corset, not every day wear. And never whale bone. What PETA think? Corset good for wedding night or just plain naughty night, you know?" Anna had said with a laugh.

"You just need to find your style. California dragon girl, I think," Anna said. "Sweet, but sexy. You're problem, you too smart. Men no like smart girl who smarter then them."

"So should I play dumb?" I asked.

"No I think you not Marilyn Monroe type. You no look good as blonde anyway," Anna said taking a cheesecake pose.

Shopping on Melrose or NoHo with Tiffany had always been fun and we would stop in the quaint coffee shops and plan our next meeting of the Guerrilla Geisha Girls. I liked the name 3G, even if some other Asian women objected at first because we weren't all Japanese Americans. Tiffany was born and raised in Bangkok, but had come to Los Angeles looking for true love in a land of artifice.

"I think that what all men looking for when they see Asian girl, so I like," Tiffany had said, quelling all other objections with that mischievous smile.

So now that Tiffany was asking, how could I refuse? When one of your best old friends gets married, why not celebrate? Weddings are better than funerals "better clothes, better food and better music," Tiffany added.
Of course, the 30 messages on my machine were all from Tiffany. "Hello. Girl, when you get home?" Or "Never turn on your cell phone still?" It made me laugh as I finished off the chicken and turned on my computer.
So after some finagling, I got the month off, packed light because Tiffany needed to shop for her wedding dresses and wanted me to be coordinated as her maid of honor. "This like Asian wedding. I need 3 or 4 dresses. You need match."

"Why are we going to be smoking?" I said.

"No, funny girl. Funny face, okay. Funny girl, no okay. Streisand, too diva.

"We need look color-coordinated. Brent not think all Asians look alike, you know. He not color blind, either," Tiffany said.

No awful brides maid dress in poofy pastels. Not with Tiffany. Of course, we would talk food. Food for the welcome party. Food for the post-ceremony bridal shower and food for the reception when family and co-workers would be invited.
When I got off the phone with Tiffany, I immediately sent an email to the major domo of those days, Masako.

"A wedding? Honto ni? Anna, ne, Tiffany. Kangaerarenai wa ne," she wrote. "I can hardly believe. I'll ask Kenichi. He won't mind. You know he likes me to go and practice English and find out the latest about America in America."

"The problem is," I wrote in my email, "I don't live there any more so we don't have a base camp and I think the newlyweds will be too busy."

"Yes," Masako wrote back. "Best to keep out of the center of confusion." I could just imagine her laughing. She liked Anna, but Masako was all business and didn't have the soft social butterfly flutter of Anna. Yet together they had been the perfect combination and over the years we had been together, Masako had helped harden up Anna's business sense and Anna had softened Masako's hard edges.
Masako and I approached Meg, one of Masako's old friends. Meg was much married, even then, and her gourmet healthy cooking had drawn Masako in when her relationship with their mutual friend had cooled into a mere acquaintance-hood.

Tiffany wouldn't be meeting me at Burbank, "Oh, I too busy, honey. I have so much do and I want new dress—two or three because you know that Asian way. I want to narrow down to 10 or 15 before I take you for a look-see."

Masako and her friend Meg would be there. Masako had once dated a friend of Meg's husband, or as Meg put it, the man had been Masako's temporary sponsor.

"Students on a budget need someone to take them to dinner, even if their budget includes Armani," Masako once said.

As the airplane circled on approach, I thought of what my colleagues up north had said about the smog…so thick you can't really tell when there's a fire or who or what to hose down. My office mate had opined, "They don't have to snort drugs up down there with all the CO2 in the air," and the receptionist retorted, "That's why they can snort coke. Their noses are already damaged so they don't notice the difference."

Yet it wouldn't be the smog choking me. This time—the guilt. The dead don't always stay dead and how would you see a ghost when the air filled with mysterious angels?

Meg, dressed in her old button front jeans that I'm sure she'd picked up at a garage sale or flea market and cotton shirt that was so old it has come back into style, stood waiting for me near Masako. I recalled that Masako had a yuppie allergy to denim, particularly the old American jeans for which her fellow country men and women yenned. Yet the cultural tolerance she now displayed could only be considered remarkable. Cool and crisp linen in conservative beiges and blacks, Masako pursed her red lips with impatience, but broke into a wide smile when she saw me.

On the way to Meg's Santa Monica house, Masako, who had donned a hat because of her irojiro bijin allergy to the California sun, mentioned that her mother had begged to take care of her children, if only to lessen the grip Masako's mother-in-law had on their affections. Masako's mother probably left her husband in Osaka with a refrigerator full of prepared dinners and hopped on the Shinkansen to Tokyo with 24-hour notice from her daughter and probably less notice to her husband. I was certain that grandpa would be there long enough to re-arrange his golfing schedule before he joined her. Whatever their relationship, they always presented a united front against the other grandparents who lived in Tokyo like Masako and her husband. Japan is one competitive nation.

"This is my little vacation, ne," Masako said. "My husband doesn't mind. He wants me to practice my English and will join me later to practice his."

He probably couldn't wait to get out from under his in-laws eyes and out from in between any grandparent contest. School was in session and between the cram school schedules where grandparents and parents united to pressure the children to achieve the best score to get into the best schools so what could go wrong?

"Did you get in touch with everybody?" Meg asked. "I dug up an old address book and sent out some emails, but we have a lot of work to do. Some people have moved and some people seemed to have evaporated into thin air," I told Meg from the back seat as started up the motor and began to get on the freeway. "Have you met Brent yet?" I asked Masako.

"No. He was out of town when I arrived, but I think he must be one special guy," she replied. "Look…he burned all these Brad Pitt DVDs for me, ne. Very thoughtful."
I looked at the writing on the jewel cases that also had colored photocopies of the original covers. His handwriting was neat and stylish, with large capital letters and flourishes on the t's. "I guess I know what we'll be doing at night. Just like the old days—popcorn and eye-candy."

"Our Tiffany found her old address book, too," Masako said, pulling out a worn 4 x 6 book covered with leopard faux fur. "I have mine, too." Masako pulled out her PDA. "She also gave us cell phones. Look, so old they have no color, no camera, no email. You can just phone and reception isn't that good. Must be real old."
"Bad reception is normal here," Meg replied. Why do you think that guy wanders around asking, 'Can you hear me now'? On my block you can be in front of a house and still not get reception to the person inside. You might just have to walk up and knock on the door. One of Chris' friends calls from two doors down."

"You're kidding?" Masako replied in mock horror. "That primitive?"

"LA people get out of their cars to knock on doors?" I asked.
"Only if they have to," Meg said laughing.

"Wasn't that what cell phones were made for?" I asked.

"I took the gray one. I think the yellow one was meant for you. I thought you'd have gone for more sensible colors in the rainy country," Masako said looking at my bright yellow plaid coat. At least my jeans were black.

"Just because the days are gray, doesn't mean I have to wear gray," I replied. "Not even when gray is the new black."

"Usually, when I wear too old black it's gray," said Meg.

"You wear too many old clothes. Anyway, I also have something else for you from Tiffany," Masako said, indicating the large purple designer paper bag that was behind the passenger seat.

"Wow. This is like Christmas," I said, looking at the packages wrapped in brown grocery bag paper and sealed with silver duct tape.

"Christmas usually comes better wrapped," Masako said, laughing somewhat snidely.

"That's not all," Meg added. "Each is numbered, so I think you should wait until we get home." I pulled out a few of the packages and shook them and then replaced them in the iridescent purple bag which I suspected Tiffany had bought. I'm sure she too had sniffed at the practical but artless way the packages had been wrapped. "Don't worry," Meg said, laughing. We checked to make sure nothing was ticking."

"And if anything was fragile, it's already broken," Masako said.

THE WORLD OF FORM: THE PRESENT - Chapter 1

A few centuries ago, Spanish missionaries looked at the hovering clouds over this basin and thought them angels, giving this city such a hopeful name. In more modern times, the Angels would be in Anaheim and the haze would be called smog.

Los Angeles is filled with contradictions and subcultural contexts that either coexist in ignorance or collide disastrously.

Here men can be called Angel, women may wear commemorative angel broaches, a ghastly creation of enormous pulchritude called Angelyn is famous for being famous and angels are played by hairy men like John Travolta and Nicholas Cage.

This is a city with no notable lakes that hosts a basketball team called the Lakers. Like so many, they are immigrants from colder states who have come to stay.

Considering the traffic, frequent bank robberies and drive-by shootings, one can easily see why Los Angeles would be home to the Dodgers. Kids don't consider playing dodge ball a game; it's practice for everyday life.

This is a city that supposedly defines Southern California--palm trees sheltering buff and beauteous long-legged blondes in bikinis. Yet this is a city where Caucasians make up only 40 percent of the population and the average Los Angeleno is actually ethnic and brunette.

In one section of town, bouncy young teenage girls get together to have their noses done while others celebrate quincineros with frothy dresses modeled after Barbie doll birthday cakes.

It's a place where bilingualism is increasingly necessary for successful job seekers, but where residents recently voted down bilingual education.

Overly bright smiles and touchy-feely phrases like "Have a nice day," are as commonplace as waiters waiting to be discovered, but this sunny temperament somehow translates into road rage and indiscriminate highway shootings.

This is a place where bald is not beautiful and even a rug (also known as a hair replacement system) like William Shatner's is better than a beaming red pate. Yet other bodily hair is mercilessly stripped. Those unwanted follicles are electrically singed or ripped out by the roots with wax--bikini waxes for both sexes and full body waxes, presumably for men only.

This is a place where both men and women suffer deep emotional scars when they realize that the most beautiful woman in the room is in fact a man. More gender bending than any Shakespearean comedy, Los Angeles has men who would be women and women who would be men and some from either sex who would be neither or both.

In other areas of the country such people might be relegated to the nether parts of the society, but here they seem to create the culture. The Laker girls may be on TV, but the West Hollywood cheerleaders--those burly men of false buxomness and hairspray-hell big hair--seem to have more fun.

This is a city where silicone is a major resource, a place where the human landscape can too often be described as carefully liposuctioned plains and slopes set off by silicone mountains. It's a place where people's breasts, lips and chins may outlast the rest of their body, much to the consternation of crematories.

This is a place that has survived various disasters: firestorms, rainstorms, earthquakes, riots, Magic Johnson's talk show, Rupert Murdoch's purchase of the Dodgers and the O.J. Simpson trials.

It's big enough to encompass a Koreatown, Little Tokyo, Little Bangkok, several Chinatowns, but too small to bridge cultural misunderstandings. The closest to cross-cultural exchange some people get is ordering at their local ethnic restaurants.

It's a place that worships cars and sunshine. The cars manufacture more of those angels the missionaries saw and the sunshine wreaks a slow revenge on the light-skinned foreigners who came to rule this land called Los Angeles.

It is a place where I was once single and dating, entangled in the Web, searching for my inner geisha in the unknown wilderness of Cyberspace and in the coffee shops and small restaurants of the brick and mortar city.

The search was a directive, indirectly willed into my consciousness by the disappointed emails and phone calls of men, searching for their perfect woman, unsullied by what they believed as Western ways, unencumbered by the need to be treated as an equal, unaware that the 20th century had opened on this global community and unwilling to enter the 21st century when it would open. Geisha as imagined by these American men had probably never existed and yet the Edo period institution had come to represent Japanese women to these men and centuries of real, notable Japanese women, anarchists and rebels, feminists and artists were completely erased from the Japanese history and culture in their minds.

Because, after all, Japanese women were rare and precious jewels that shine with a demure light of submission.

Returning, unexpectedly to a reunion, I thought of those days. I thought of those women I had known then, our little group of Asian Americans women and girls. Who would have thought?

Really, who would have thought?" Paige said when I called her.

"Tiffany, really?" Tina screeched over her cell phone before the connection dropped.

"Who would have thought Tiffany would finally settle down?" Martha commented via text messaging on her cell phone.

Who would have thought? Yet in the land of celluloid and silicon, Botox and liposuctioned buttocks, a land of lounge lizards and painted lovelies with better facades than a Hollywood movie set, anything is possible. I thought I'd never return after the second funeral until I got the phone call. Weddings and funerals, a time for bonding and angels.

Guerilla Geisha Girls in LaLaLand : THE WORLD OF DESIRE - Preface: How to Make a Man Remember You

Men forget, my mother warned me. Even so, how do you make a man remember you? I thought I knew. When I met him, he needed my family. When I became a woman, he needed me. I was younger and older men can't be young; they can only wish to have what they once were.

My mother warned me, that won't be enough. A woman's fate is to wet her sleeves with tears a thousand times, my mother told me. Yet he was ten years older than I and I knew him so well. Since I was three, I knew this boy who grew into a man. I knew how he became a man. I was his family.

That won't be enough, my mother warned me. A woman has no home in the three worlds. And in the world of desire, women who grow old are no longer desirable.

Yet it wasn't all I had. He needed me. Without my family, he had nothing. The whole country was against him. A woman saved his life once. He spoke of her with tears in his eyes as he wooed me. Much later, he had buildings and a sutra mound constructed at Meisekiji for her, Ike no Zenni. He understood that women could change the destiny of the world. After all, they say, the disagreements of women birth wars he would tell me. He knew his place then.
And he understood that to have anything he needed me and he needed my family.

Father was against my marriage. I remind him of this now but my father seems to have forgotten that but for me, he wouldn't have climbed so high. He would have remained a minor character in a minor province, but for I, his daughter, and my ambition and my foresight.
My father and the debt my husband owed my father and family would not be enough, my mother warned me. As the years passed into decades, and my mother left me alone. I was alone. And she was right. My father and my husband no longer remember her and her kindness except as a mere duty. My husband now barely remembers that a woman saved him. She was a woman whose wisdom ended at her nose, he says now. He wouldn't let the wailing of women save children. His own brother's baby was ordered slain.

I saw my father's affections cool quickly or perhaps because I was too young, I was too naïve to notice it before. And my mother didn't have power. She didn't know how to make a man remember. Yet I still thought I knew how because my father needed me. My husband, needed me. Through me, he had everything.

And yet, long after my mother has passed away, I heard her voice as I saw my husband's affections cool. His words were no longer sweet. Instead, he'd remind me that there is no drought of women. If he wanted one, there was one he could have. Pretty peasant women were easily charmed by a trinket. Women of lower status hoping for something better in life were more than willing to grovel in front and underneath a great man.

Men forget. They forget the debt they owe their wives and lovers. They mock women for looking into our mirrors, yet sometimes I wish to yell out, "Kagami ni sodan shite koi." Take a good, hard look in the mirror.

Just like I thought he needed his younger brother, I thought he needed me. In the end, he thought he didn't need either of us.

In the end, I wasn't young enough. Men don't see themselves in the mirror. They only see their desires. A flower paired with rotting wood. Who will save the flower? These women wouldn't have wanted you when you wooed me. Now atama hagete mo uwaki wa yamanu! Even though you are bald you do not stop. You think they find you handsome? You think they find you manly? They want your power and that power could belong to anyone. Such atsui koi wa sameyasui. You find them; you discard them. And if they could find a more powerful man, they would just as surely discard you.

When you wish to humor me because you need some small favor, you comfort me by saying, "They are nothing to me." In the morning after I have waited for you and you forgot to come to my rooms or when you need me to appear somewhere and meet someone your words become sweet and you say, "They are nothing to me." Yet I see them laugh at my face when they hold your fancy only to crawl before me when you are done.

My husband, you vowed to me, you would be faithful. That was when you needed me. But my mother warned me, eggs and vows are easily broken. My husband, you think my feelings are nothing more than a common egg to be broken and discarded?

I hear you and your men whispering and laughing, a woman without jealousy is like a ball without a bounce. Keep your wife worried and she will treat you well. She will give you what you want.

And that I gave you all of Japan was not enough?

So I asked a woman who should know, "How do you make a man remember you?"
She smiled. She was so graceful. Like your brother, she had the air of the courtly nobility that only made me feel clumsy and awkward. Yet, she spoke and somehow made me feel relaxed. She was still beautiful and so peaceful.

"How do you make a man remember you?"

"It depends upon what you want him to remember," she said softly. I could smell her scented robes with every move.

She carried with her the atmosphere of Kyoto and as I perspired, I thought of how I smelled of dirt and sweat and commonness. "Can you teach me?" I asked.

"If you wish," she said with a small nod.

My husband thinks he knows how to make his men remember him. Fear. I smell fear when they see him. Our sons, they fear him. They have grown up like the lowest of dogs, cowering when they see him. They have no backbones. How shall they rule in your place? Your brother didn't need fear, he asked for love instead.

And so his mistress told me her secret. "Make them love you, " she told me. A man would prefer to have a flower in both hands. She was, after all, one of the flowers your brother Yoshitsune had.

Yoshitsune was loved. How it must have tortured you to know that with every passing year, with every passing month, with every passing day, your brother was being immortalized in song, in poetry and in the hearts of your own people.

He was young, he was full of life and he will never, never grow old. Shizuka, now hidden away, will also never grow old. She will always be the woman who was left behind, told by Benkei to stay, becoming a vixen for a moment in time, dancing her heart out so that the men pursuing her lover would be delayed. Your brother left her in the Yoshino Hills and escaped to Hiraizumi, gaining protection from an Oshu Fujiwara. When Hidehira died, the Oshu Fujiwara would not protect Yoshitsune. Your brother killed his wife, his daughter and then himself.

Shizuka and Yoshitsune, their love would be remembered, not my sister-in-law who was with him at the end. Their love, this woman, Shizuka, now a nun, would always be remembered because of their great love. Even you desired her. I heard you whisper her name in your sleep. Your brother's mistress was too risky an adventure for you though. Yet her love and her lover haunt you.

And who will remember our love? You have forgotten it.

Shizuka taught me how to make you remember. She gave me the secrets of haunting a man's mind. In your pores was the scent, an underlying tone that rose when you perspired. I put them in your bath that I faithfully prepared even when you went to visit your mistresses or one-night distractions.

In your clothes was another. The undergarment and then the overgarment were both separately steeped with different scents. When your body heat released the scents and they mingled with the scent from your pores, they made you remember.

You would turn around, looking for someone who wasn't there. You looked perplexed and you remembered. Your men said sometimes you suddenly turned around, looking over your shoulder, and then you would grow pale. I've heard from the maids that sometimes you suddenly wake up with a start, calling out a name and frightening your bedmate. Sometimes, you catch yourself and were unable to finish off your intentions, because you think someone was there, someone was watching you.

And on that fatal day, how did you die? From your own impatience, they say. The great warrior was defeated by a horse because a wasp stung your horse, they say. Yet on that day when you were thrown from your horse, 10 years after your brother died of treachery, you were looking. Your face was contorted in fear. From your sweat arose the specter of your brother. Your horse smelled fear. You were engulfed in his aroma, as if embraced by a man long dead.

Shizuka would be proud because I made you remember her own great love. And while the men became silent when you entered a room and the poets pretended not to write the praises of your brother, all the time you were forced to think of him.

He brought you victory. Your fates were intertwined like Takasago. You let the emperor play you against your brother. Yoshitsune journeyed from Kyoto to speak with you. You sulked, half-afraid of this man and knowing that refusing to see him would mean war. You won your war of spears and swords, but lost the battle of hearts and souls. You gained the north by rewarding your brother's betrayer with death. In his last moments, I am sure he asked Yoshitsune for forgiveness and cursed you. Your life was always a dying limb of half a tree. Your bad karma was living ten years to witness how much your brother was loved, even in death, even as a failure.

There is a time for celebrating victory, a time for love and a time for death. Yoshitsune and Shizuka had their time. You had yours. Now is my time and I shall play the widow as the monks chant and the incense rises. I pray, not for you, but for my own success. Your generals and lieutenants carefully eye each other. They nod and speak quietly of their greed. They are, of course, clever men, but with your death their avarice seduces their fears into a foolish calm. Now the tentacles of betrayal begin to spread. Your men speak freely in front of their servants, their concubines and the maids they use for sexual relief. For what can these lowly men and women do? So we are too low to figure in their plans. Yet as surely as the sword united you with these men, the contempt you and your men aimed at so many unites us into a swordless army. My husband, knowledge is power and the unloved and underappreciated must find comfort and protection somewhere.

And was it really a wasp? Some wonder if it wasn't someone you once knew, on a long journey from wasp to man to nirvana. Perhaps bad karma kills.

How can I make men remember me? Not as you did. Your sons were berated into submission by you. They will not be remembered. I will be remembered by men even if you forgot me. I will be remembered by my father and by my husband's vassals. No more men shall rule me. I will rule what I began with a marriage to one man who forgot.

There is no place for women in three worlds unless we make one for ourselves. Now that you are gone, now as the monks burn incense and your men and my father whisper between themselves, thinking the housemaids are nothing more than specks of dust, I gather my information, I gather the noises of small men and women and I will find a place for myself. Perhaps some day, I will return to a second world and a third, but for now, I will make sure that I am remembered by men in this world of desire.

Weddings and funerals are fine times for families and friends and planning the future.