Alas, I have ended my spree of oily overeating. Instead, this last whole week, I have begun a dizzying spell of no sleep, oversleeping, no writing, overwriting. I have written about immigrants, love-obsession, Beauty and the Beast in space, and quiet letters to my grieving aunt. I have read books about death, depression, suicides. I have started reading a fantasy which will have a happy ending, but I have stopped, not wanting to reach a resolution. I have discovered that happy endings bore me.
I have mocked and screamed at my little sister Kim until she cried. I bonked her on the nose until she went running to my father. Then I slept. Having woken up groggy and foul-moody, Kim and I out on the baby swing, onto which she squeezed into a corner while I plumped my huge body down, squishing her even further. I am fascinated by how easily children forgive our mature immatureness. I told her—Hmm, it seems like I am squishing you. Kim replied—You’re big. A good seat belt. First, I proceeded to swing us both, until the metal squeaked and sawed and the metal legs of the swing came off the ground. We smiled and screamed and pondered the likelihood that we will be dumped onto the ground. Then I got bored and said—Alright, I’m tired. Now you swing me. Kim set her skinny, skinny legs on the ground and tried to swing us both. Alas, my Asian obesity is too much against skinny seven years old legs. Oh, but look here. Kim’s determination has set us a-swinging, and we are laughing and hollering and pondering if my weight will ever break the baby swing.
And then, oh beautiful night, we went to watch Up at The Great Escape, a minor theater in our backcountry of Fenton. My tender-heartedness overcame and I wept during a silent sequence—[SPOILER ALERT) beautifully rendered with snap-shot quick successions of a marriage—running up the hill, buying a shack and making it a home, buying two armchairs, one low and squatty for the husband, one pale pink and elegantly tall for the wife, putting a big glass jar on the table, placing coins in it for the great adventure, laying on the grass together, pointing out pictures in the sky, the car breaking down, smashing the glass jar, pointing out all the clouds and all the babies in the clouds, setting another glass jar, sitting in grief next to a doctor, the doctor’s hand on her shoulder—a life childless but full of love, smashing glass jar again and again, growing old, husband thinking back on his dream, husband buying two plane tickets for grand adventure, husband hiding plane tickets, wanting to surprise wife, wife is now is bed, dying, and they are looking at one another, realizing that one has to leave and one has to stay for now, and now husband sits on his low and squatty chair, and next to him, the pale pink and elegantly tall chair remains empty.
Sigh. I have no idea why I just wrote that, but I needed to.