Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My Father
Lately, my thoughts have been on my father.
When I was fifteen, I started to hate him. Too many reasons. My mother once said—You two are very alike. That is why you fight. The truest reason of all the countless reasons. When I still lived at home, and if the both of us were angry at the same time, it was unbearable for everyone. Among all my cousins, I am the first to go away to college—two hours away. And it was because of my father. I loved my family, but needed to escape my father. I hated him all the time we drove up to my university, all the time he helped me unload my luggage into my dorm room, all the time he kept giving me advice. And then we were standing next to the family van. Everyone else—my mother and my three siblings—were in the van already, and it was time for the family to go away and leave me in peace. My father stood next to me, and then started crying. Loud sobs, sniffles, a big mess. He reached out and hugged me. He whispered—I will miss you so much. Take care of yourself. I knew he was asking for more—he was asking me to forgive him for all the mean ways he had treated me. My anger and hate melted. I couldn’t say anything. How can it be that this is the only time I can remember my father hugging me? I was 19, and it was the first time my father had ever hugged me. Even though it took months, I learned to love and respect my father again.
Sometimes, people ask me if I love women because I hated my father so much when I was a teenager. No. I love women because I fall in love with women. What does my father have to do with it? I am not a man-hater. I have more guy friends than girl friends. If anything, I aspire to be more like my father because I respect the way he treats women. His whole life—except when he fought in the Vietnam War, his best friends have been women. I’ve never told him that I’m gay, but I don’t think it’s necessary. We talk about women very matter-of-factly. I ask him to describe a beautiful woman for me, and he does. I ask him to tell me about his relationships with the women he’s loved before my mother, and he does. I ask him about the best ways to treat a woman, and he does. One of the few ways that my father and I are different is that he can easily approach women and I can’t.
Sometimes, I wonder if I was meant to be a boy, his son, and then things would make more sense, but my father treats me like his son/daughter now, and I am content with that. He’s passed down his history to me, he’s slowly teaching me how to make a home a home, and with his life, he’s showing me how to deal with pain, disappointment, and loss.
I think—of all the people I know, I know my father best. And yet, he harbors more secrets than he’ll ever tell me. I have written more words about him than about anyone else I know. He is the villain and hero of my stories. He is the most complicated, complex person I know. Someday, when I finally publish my first book, it will be about him. By writing about him—his weaknesses, mistakes, prejudices, all of the ugly as well as the good—I have learned about myself too.
When I was younger, I would look at women I loved deeply, and I would say to myself—There, that’s a woman who I aspire to be. I admired women who were most unlike me. I admired women for their strengths without seeing any of their weaknesses. That sort of admiration is not something I can grow on. These women don’t show me what to do with my weaknesses, fears, self-hatreds. My admiration for these women was false, based on surface appearances. Finally, now, truly, I think that I aspire to be like my father. If someday I can give a woman and our children as good of a home as my father has given all of us, then I would have become as good of a person as I’m capable of being.
When I was fifteen, I started to hate him. Too many reasons. My mother once said—You two are very alike. That is why you fight. The truest reason of all the countless reasons. When I still lived at home, and if the both of us were angry at the same time, it was unbearable for everyone. Among all my cousins, I am the first to go away to college—two hours away. And it was because of my father. I loved my family, but needed to escape my father. I hated him all the time we drove up to my university, all the time he helped me unload my luggage into my dorm room, all the time he kept giving me advice. And then we were standing next to the family van. Everyone else—my mother and my three siblings—were in the van already, and it was time for the family to go away and leave me in peace. My father stood next to me, and then started crying. Loud sobs, sniffles, a big mess. He reached out and hugged me. He whispered—I will miss you so much. Take care of yourself. I knew he was asking for more—he was asking me to forgive him for all the mean ways he had treated me. My anger and hate melted. I couldn’t say anything. How can it be that this is the only time I can remember my father hugging me? I was 19, and it was the first time my father had ever hugged me. Even though it took months, I learned to love and respect my father again.
Sometimes, people ask me if I love women because I hated my father so much when I was a teenager. No. I love women because I fall in love with women. What does my father have to do with it? I am not a man-hater. I have more guy friends than girl friends. If anything, I aspire to be more like my father because I respect the way he treats women. His whole life—except when he fought in the Vietnam War, his best friends have been women. I’ve never told him that I’m gay, but I don’t think it’s necessary. We talk about women very matter-of-factly. I ask him to describe a beautiful woman for me, and he does. I ask him to tell me about his relationships with the women he’s loved before my mother, and he does. I ask him about the best ways to treat a woman, and he does. One of the few ways that my father and I are different is that he can easily approach women and I can’t.
Sometimes, I wonder if I was meant to be a boy, his son, and then things would make more sense, but my father treats me like his son/daughter now, and I am content with that. He’s passed down his history to me, he’s slowly teaching me how to make a home a home, and with his life, he’s showing me how to deal with pain, disappointment, and loss.
I think—of all the people I know, I know my father best. And yet, he harbors more secrets than he’ll ever tell me. I have written more words about him than about anyone else I know. He is the villain and hero of my stories. He is the most complicated, complex person I know. Someday, when I finally publish my first book, it will be about him. By writing about him—his weaknesses, mistakes, prejudices, all of the ugly as well as the good—I have learned about myself too.
When I was younger, I would look at women I loved deeply, and I would say to myself—There, that’s a woman who I aspire to be. I admired women who were most unlike me. I admired women for their strengths without seeing any of their weaknesses. That sort of admiration is not something I can grow on. These women don’t show me what to do with my weaknesses, fears, self-hatreds. My admiration for these women was false, based on surface appearances. Finally, now, truly, I think that I aspire to be like my father. If someday I can give a woman and our children as good of a home as my father has given all of us, then I would have become as good of a person as I’m capable of being.
Saturday
On Saturday, my father and I planted my garden. We dug trenches and placed large wooden blocks into a high barrier on all sides of our long garden. I cut open seven 40-pounded bags of soil and laid it out and pounded it down into our rectangular garden patch. In the middle of the garden patch, we tied together white wooden stakes and trellises onto which the vines of morning glory will climb. We tied small white platforms onto which humming birds can rest between their sips from our blossoms. On the left side of the stakes, we planted lantanas, flower clusters with yellow on the interior and pink on the outside and leaves emerald green. On the right side of the stakes, we planted basil and mint and purple leaved herbs. We sprinkled seeds everywhere. Exhausted, we went inside to rest and nap.
I woke up at 7:00 PM and we went to Stephens Lake Park, strolled around with my father, older brother T, and little sister Kim. We sat on white yellow speckled rocks with our feet in the water. Kim asked—Are there fishes in here? I said—Yes, and octopuses and sharks, and look there, a giant blue whale. Kim—Really? T and Kim climbed a small tiered cliff. Father and I walked and looked at the ducks as they crossed the calm lake. There were four adult ducks and fifteen little ducks. We all walked closer to the ducks. Father said—Look at how long and graceful their necks are. These are swans. That’s the leader. Look how big he is. The children and really big too. Duck children are smaller. These are swans. Or maybe geese. I looked closely. Their feathers were black, their necks were gray, and they have the majesty of swans. I said—Yea, I think you’re right. We waited and waited for the lights to come on and light up the lake, but we finally left. I said—Next time, we’ll see the lights.
At home, we all showered and got ready for a movie--The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went out to water my garden and admire it. As I watered the central part, I saw someone grayish and dark move awkwardly sideways. A frog? No, on closer inspection, it is a bird, and its feathers are disorderly and fluffed. I had accidentally watered it and it weakly cleaned itself. I watered around the bird and dashed inside, telling everyone about the bird in my garden. My father nodded and smiled solemnly. I go outside and sit with the bird for a while. It does not mind my presence. It sits with eyes closed.
Finally, we settled down, sprawled on various parts of our long couch, and turned on the movie. I watched a baby born old, abandoned by his father onto the steps of an old persons’ home. I watched him grow up in a wheel chair, beset by arthritis. I watched him grow younger old, his legs straightening, walking across the stage, his back straightening, his wrinkles disappearing, his eyes clearing, his saggy, skinny chest and limbs growing strong, muscular. I watched him befriend a young girl. I watched them fall in love, she growing older, maturing, dancing, graceful, he growing younger, more clear eyed, face more defined and strong. I watched them separate, the time not being right for them to love each other fully. I watched them close their eyes each night, saying, in their separate beds—Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy. I watched them meet again, finally, in the right time, and I watched them buy their house, dance on their mattress, have a daughter. I watched him leave, because he is growing younger, and one day, his lover will have to raise him, and he does not want that. I watched him leave, I watched her grow older. I watched her meeting him again, she older, sagging, he young, handsome, a beautiful teenager, with a face unsure and bewildered, a young face with decades of life to look forward to, but I watched his eyes, which tell the truth, the truth that his young body hides. I watched her grow older still and meet again with a young boy, a young boy that becomes a little boy, who becomes a baby, who becomes an infant. I watched as she—wrinkled, feeble—holds an infant in her arms. The infant has deep black eyes that look up into her face one final time before he closes his eyes. I watched her cover the infant’s face. Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy.
In the morning, my sister woke me up and told me that the bird had died. I walk outside, and my father is burying the bird in our newly planted garden. My father said—I knew there was something wrong. It is not right for a bird to come down here to us unless it is hurt. Still, I am glad that the bird found our garden a good enough place to die in.
I woke up at 7:00 PM and we went to Stephens Lake Park, strolled around with my father, older brother T, and little sister Kim. We sat on white yellow speckled rocks with our feet in the water. Kim asked—Are there fishes in here? I said—Yes, and octopuses and sharks, and look there, a giant blue whale. Kim—Really? T and Kim climbed a small tiered cliff. Father and I walked and looked at the ducks as they crossed the calm lake. There were four adult ducks and fifteen little ducks. We all walked closer to the ducks. Father said—Look at how long and graceful their necks are. These are swans. That’s the leader. Look how big he is. The children and really big too. Duck children are smaller. These are swans. Or maybe geese. I looked closely. Their feathers were black, their necks were gray, and they have the majesty of swans. I said—Yea, I think you’re right. We waited and waited for the lights to come on and light up the lake, but we finally left. I said—Next time, we’ll see the lights.
At home, we all showered and got ready for a movie--The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went out to water my garden and admire it. As I watered the central part, I saw someone grayish and dark move awkwardly sideways. A frog? No, on closer inspection, it is a bird, and its feathers are disorderly and fluffed. I had accidentally watered it and it weakly cleaned itself. I watered around the bird and dashed inside, telling everyone about the bird in my garden. My father nodded and smiled solemnly. I go outside and sit with the bird for a while. It does not mind my presence. It sits with eyes closed.
Finally, we settled down, sprawled on various parts of our long couch, and turned on the movie. I watched a baby born old, abandoned by his father onto the steps of an old persons’ home. I watched him grow up in a wheel chair, beset by arthritis. I watched him grow younger old, his legs straightening, walking across the stage, his back straightening, his wrinkles disappearing, his eyes clearing, his saggy, skinny chest and limbs growing strong, muscular. I watched him befriend a young girl. I watched them fall in love, she growing older, maturing, dancing, graceful, he growing younger, more clear eyed, face more defined and strong. I watched them separate, the time not being right for them to love each other fully. I watched them close their eyes each night, saying, in their separate beds—Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy. I watched them meet again, finally, in the right time, and I watched them buy their house, dance on their mattress, have a daughter. I watched him leave, because he is growing younger, and one day, his lover will have to raise him, and he does not want that. I watched him leave, I watched her grow older. I watched her meeting him again, she older, sagging, he young, handsome, a beautiful teenager, with a face unsure and bewildered, a young face with decades of life to look forward to, but I watched his eyes, which tell the truth, the truth that his young body hides. I watched her grow older still and meet again with a young boy, a young boy that becomes a little boy, who becomes a baby, who becomes an infant. I watched as she—wrinkled, feeble—holds an infant in her arms. The infant has deep black eyes that look up into her face one final time before he closes his eyes. I watched her cover the infant’s face. Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy.
In the morning, my sister woke me up and told me that the bird had died. I walk outside, and my father is burying the bird in our newly planted garden. My father said—I knew there was something wrong. It is not right for a bird to come down here to us unless it is hurt. Still, I am glad that the bird found our garden a good enough place to die in.
Update on Squirrel Carcass
Today, I walked to the bus station and thought about the squirrel carcass. In the three weeks I’ve been out of town, everything has changed. The mound of dirt has become a field of grass, blossom-shaped weeds, and tiny yellow flowers on short stems. The carcass is almost invisible, covered as it is under bowing grass stems. Its arms and legs seemed bound by strawberry vines. Its fur is still visible. Where its tail used to be is now a large green blossom-shaped weed.
I wonder how many other people look for that squirrel each time they pass by its resting place. What do they think? Are they curious? Are they afraid? Maybe they think about nature and how life is a complete circle, and that no matter how cruel and painful and bitter the death was, all bodies rot and return to the earth the same way. What I think is—When it is my time to die, it would be nice and peaceful to walk deep into the woods where no one would ever find me, and lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. It would be wonderful this way because I’ve seen what happens to the squirrel--how worms eat away its insides and how its fur collapses into emptiness once the worms leave. Animals may come and carry pieces of me away. Eventually, however, around what’s left of my body, the grass will grow. Blossom-shaped weeds will surround me. Crimson flowers on long, long stems will bow over me. Rains will wash and polish my bones. Vines will wind around my limbs and over me, crown my head, and tangle around my fingers, holding me tight.
I wonder how many other people look for that squirrel each time they pass by its resting place. What do they think? Are they curious? Are they afraid? Maybe they think about nature and how life is a complete circle, and that no matter how cruel and painful and bitter the death was, all bodies rot and return to the earth the same way. What I think is—When it is my time to die, it would be nice and peaceful to walk deep into the woods where no one would ever find me, and lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. It would be wonderful this way because I’ve seen what happens to the squirrel--how worms eat away its insides and how its fur collapses into emptiness once the worms leave. Animals may come and carry pieces of me away. Eventually, however, around what’s left of my body, the grass will grow. Blossom-shaped weeds will surround me. Crimson flowers on long, long stems will bow over me. Rains will wash and polish my bones. Vines will wind around my limbs and over me, crown my head, and tangle around my fingers, holding me tight.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Shopping with my father
My motto is that I don’t shop for pleasure. The only things I enjoy buying are food and books and toys (magnets, water buffaloes, legos—all thrift store brought). I realized I have been lying to myself when I went shopping with my father. He makes shopping fun. We went looking for a vacuum filter on Sunday. The bunny we babysat for had peed and pooped all over our townhouse’s living room carpet and when we vacuumed up the nastiness, the dampness had set into the filter and rendered it dead—or suffocated it to such a degree that future vacuuming ventures created enormous billows of dust. Hence, we went to Lowe’s and Super-duper Walmart to get a replacement filter.
In Lowes we walked all over and I had the chance to ooo and aahh over how enormous the shelves are and how I feel like Jack in the giant’s castle. We found the shelves of filters and shrieked at the prospect of spending $30 or $25 for the wrong kinds of filters.
We exited the giant’s castle and entered Walmart, the giant’s dollhouse. We went looking for the vacuums section and I lost my father. I had turned around to backtrack and look at something and when I turned around, my dear father was gone. I looked and strolled and gave up after three minutes. I had no cell phone on me, but I knew that I would find him—by his coughing or the way he talks to himself as he analyzes prices or by the fact that he just yells my name when I’ve disappeared for too long.
I went over the posters section, because I wanted to find a movie poster of Heavy Metal, because of the gorgeous warrior chick featured on it. I should have known a 1981 movie poster would not be there, but I hoped. Instead, I saw posters with babes in bikinis, Twilight, messaging shorthand, Twilight, guitar fingerings, Twilight, babes in bikinis, Twilight, wrestling champs, Twilight. And heard my father calling my name and so used my powerful sense of echo-location to locate my father, who was standing in the vacuum section. We shrieked furiously at the prospect of spending $20 or $15 for a new vacuum filter. Then my father used his considerable find a cheaper solution powers and we ventured forth into the air conditioning filters section. It was here that we combined our powers of bargain detection and found a $4 filter which could be cut up to fit vacuum’s filter compartment. Triumphant, we exited Walmart and went home. Our dear vacuum still coughs a little dust, but much less.
I think the reason I do not like to shop is that I can expect to spend a lot of money. I can expect to enter the store, grab a shopping cart, and if I want panties or soap or jello, I roll my cart to the shelves labeled thus, and then I have to stand there among numerous brands and look and look and read labels, trying to calculate the benefits of cost verses how carcinogenic is this brand of soap? Booorrrriiiiinnngg!! Stuuuuupidd!! I don’t want numerous options—I want to learn to think. I want to escape the system. I want to stand there and say—Ha, so you companies think you can make me buy your $30 vacuum filter or your $5 teeth whitening tooth paste or your $5 soap that can peel the dirt off of me—well, I have another solution! I can fix up an air conditioning filter to fit my vacuum. I can brush my teeth with tree bark. I can use dishwashing soap to bathe in.
In Lowes we walked all over and I had the chance to ooo and aahh over how enormous the shelves are and how I feel like Jack in the giant’s castle. We found the shelves of filters and shrieked at the prospect of spending $30 or $25 for the wrong kinds of filters.
We exited the giant’s castle and entered Walmart, the giant’s dollhouse. We went looking for the vacuums section and I lost my father. I had turned around to backtrack and look at something and when I turned around, my dear father was gone. I looked and strolled and gave up after three minutes. I had no cell phone on me, but I knew that I would find him—by his coughing or the way he talks to himself as he analyzes prices or by the fact that he just yells my name when I’ve disappeared for too long.
I went over the posters section, because I wanted to find a movie poster of Heavy Metal, because of the gorgeous warrior chick featured on it. I should have known a 1981 movie poster would not be there, but I hoped. Instead, I saw posters with babes in bikinis, Twilight, messaging shorthand, Twilight, guitar fingerings, Twilight, babes in bikinis, Twilight, wrestling champs, Twilight. And heard my father calling my name and so used my powerful sense of echo-location to locate my father, who was standing in the vacuum section. We shrieked furiously at the prospect of spending $20 or $15 for a new vacuum filter. Then my father used his considerable find a cheaper solution powers and we ventured forth into the air conditioning filters section. It was here that we combined our powers of bargain detection and found a $4 filter which could be cut up to fit vacuum’s filter compartment. Triumphant, we exited Walmart and went home. Our dear vacuum still coughs a little dust, but much less.
I think the reason I do not like to shop is that I can expect to spend a lot of money. I can expect to enter the store, grab a shopping cart, and if I want panties or soap or jello, I roll my cart to the shelves labeled thus, and then I have to stand there among numerous brands and look and look and read labels, trying to calculate the benefits of cost verses how carcinogenic is this brand of soap? Booorrrriiiiinnngg!! Stuuuuupidd!! I don’t want numerous options—I want to learn to think. I want to escape the system. I want to stand there and say—Ha, so you companies think you can make me buy your $30 vacuum filter or your $5 teeth whitening tooth paste or your $5 soap that can peel the dirt off of me—well, I have another solution! I can fix up an air conditioning filter to fit my vacuum. I can brush my teeth with tree bark. I can use dishwashing soap to bathe in.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
It began when I watched the SouthPark episode “Major Boobage”—afterwards which I decided that it was my favorite episode ever because it features—animated—a statuesque shaggy haired blonde woman with slim waist, long, long legs, and a pair of spectacular breasts. It is so wrong and yet so right that I would be mesmerized by her breasts. Plot goes like—Kenny, high on cat piss, enters an alternate reality—enters riding a rocket powered 1981 shiny black Pontiac Trans Am. He encounters described goddess, and next sequence reveals him riding shotgun with goddess driving—and one of my favorite activities in life is sitting shot gun to a goddess with one hand on the wheel. Kenny, pre-adolescent boy that he is—watches the bobbing and dancing of spectacular breasts. They proceed to her kingdom, where the prize will be that Kenny will proceed to the pool with goddess and where he will rub soap suds on spectacular breasts.
As she uncovers—Kenny is interrupted.
Blah, blah, blah goes the plot, and then Kenny finally returns and he finds the goddess trapped by brutish villains who have imprisoned her in a metal frame. She is naked—the metal bars barely covering her nipples and her privates, and the villains are laughing with ill intent and holding a mean whip over her. Then—this is my favorite part—goddess gives Kenny a look. The look is calm, but it conveys annoyance and forbearance and displeasure at the stupidity and beastly behavior of brutish villains. She is not frightened, she is simply annoyed. The look says—Can you believe these idiots? Kenny cannot, and he proceeds to kill the villains. Very bloody. Then next sequence features Kenny riding in front of goddess on winged creature. Kenny—short pre-adolescent boy that he is—gets to enjoy the nice sensation of spectacular, heavy beasts bobbing up and down against his shoulders as he soars magnificently through the skies.
Is it wrong that I enjoyed this episode very, very much? As a feminist, should I feel outrage that goddess is a silent sex doll who must endure soap suds being massaged onto her breasts by pre-adolescent boy? I think not. There’s a nice innocence about this adventure story. Heck, I want to be the one riding shot gun, soaring through skies, and floating in pool doing the massaging.
As she uncovers—Kenny is interrupted.
Blah, blah, blah goes the plot, and then Kenny finally returns and he finds the goddess trapped by brutish villains who have imprisoned her in a metal frame. She is naked—the metal bars barely covering her nipples and her privates, and the villains are laughing with ill intent and holding a mean whip over her. Then—this is my favorite part—goddess gives Kenny a look. The look is calm, but it conveys annoyance and forbearance and displeasure at the stupidity and beastly behavior of brutish villains. She is not frightened, she is simply annoyed. The look says—Can you believe these idiots? Kenny cannot, and he proceeds to kill the villains. Very bloody. Then next sequence features Kenny riding in front of goddess on winged creature. Kenny—short pre-adolescent boy that he is—gets to enjoy the nice sensation of spectacular, heavy beasts bobbing up and down against his shoulders as he soars magnificently through the skies.
Is it wrong that I enjoyed this episode very, very much? As a feminist, should I feel outrage that goddess is a silent sex doll who must endure soap suds being massaged onto her breasts by pre-adolescent boy? I think not. There’s a nice innocence about this adventure story. Heck, I want to be the one riding shot gun, soaring through skies, and floating in pool doing the massaging.
Week in Review
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.
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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Dad’s birthday on the 24th. We ate together as a family, and even though my brother and I fought, everyone else have been getting on well with each other. We went to Walmart and brought two kinds of cake—a rolled up carrot cake and a German frozen chocolate cake. First we tried the carrot cake. Overall consensus was that it was too sweet. Little sister Kim said—let’s try the chocolate cake. Since I had devoured two platefuls of carrot cake roll, I had no room for chocolate cake. Dad and sister approved of chocolate cake.
Now, a day later, it is raining hard, thundering right now and sister Kim is whimpering. I feel hungry, but I am hesitant about eating. These past weeks, I usually feel bloated because once I start eating, I don’t stop until my brain realizes that it is freakin’ hot, I’ve been eating oily foods, and I feel mighty uncomfortable because of the combo of the two.
My sister—after staying for a week by herself at our college townhouse (it is lovely to say—ah yes, our college townhouse)—has returned and told me how great it feels to control her eating.
During dad’s dinner party, when I looked greedily at her slice of carrot cake, she said—you want to eat it, don’t you?
Yes. [Looking greedily at cake]
Oh, you can have it. I don’t want it.
After eating that slice, I of course felt bloated and awful. Henceforth, I will endeavor to control my portions.
I feel guilty and sad for not making my father’s birthday more of a big deal. He has been feeling poorly and ill lately, and I wish I was less withdrawn and more able to celebrate life. I asked dad—how does it feel to grow older? Is it good? My sister Christine sneered at me, sending evil brainwaves at me—why ask such a question? Maybe I’m an idiot conversationalist—I don’t mind being one—but I was asking that question earnestly, thinking my dad has gone through a lot in his life, and he should feel content to celebrate the variety of such a life. But no, my dad had disappointment in his eyes and shook his head.
I am not one for making gestures, but I wish I was capable of expressing how I feel. Life—such as it is—should be celebrated for all the things that went wrong as well as went right.
Now, a day later, it is raining hard, thundering right now and sister Kim is whimpering. I feel hungry, but I am hesitant about eating. These past weeks, I usually feel bloated because once I start eating, I don’t stop until my brain realizes that it is freakin’ hot, I’ve been eating oily foods, and I feel mighty uncomfortable because of the combo of the two.
My sister—after staying for a week by herself at our college townhouse (it is lovely to say—ah yes, our college townhouse)—has returned and told me how great it feels to control her eating.
During dad’s dinner party, when I looked greedily at her slice of carrot cake, she said—you want to eat it, don’t you?
Yes. [Looking greedily at cake]
Oh, you can have it. I don’t want it.
After eating that slice, I of course felt bloated and awful. Henceforth, I will endeavor to control my portions.
I feel guilty and sad for not making my father’s birthday more of a big deal. He has been feeling poorly and ill lately, and I wish I was less withdrawn and more able to celebrate life. I asked dad—how does it feel to grow older? Is it good? My sister Christine sneered at me, sending evil brainwaves at me—why ask such a question? Maybe I’m an idiot conversationalist—I don’t mind being one—but I was asking that question earnestly, thinking my dad has gone through a lot in his life, and he should feel content to celebrate the variety of such a life. But no, my dad had disappointment in his eyes and shook his head.
I am not one for making gestures, but I wish I was capable of expressing how I feel. Life—such as it is—should be celebrated for all the things that went wrong as well as went right.
Uteri
Brother’s birthday on the 23rd—none of us had gifts. We ate—it seems to always be about the eating—hot pot, which is a boiling pot (on the table) of coconut juice and chicken broth. There are various things to dip into gently simmering broth—slices of beef, mussels, clams, shrimp, mushrooms, octopus, the usual . . . and this time, a new delicacy. I looked at the new container of pinkish, interconnected globules. It’s pretty, like gently waving sea anemone, only pinker and rounder. The package says—uteri. My dad says—baby pig intestine. I think—hmm, okay, intestines, familiar. Then I think—uteri is the plural of uterus. I start laughing and snorting—it’s uterus, it’s uterus, I’m gonna eat uterus. My sister and brother look at me in irritation, because they don’t think it’s funny, because there’s no way they’re going to eat uterus or intestine or whatever it is. I, on the other hand, am fair game for it. I eat a few pieces, and there’s a fishy smell to it. Not to mention the texture makes me feel sickish. And I feel, as a should feel, that there is something wrong with eating uteri—I’m eating womb—I’m eating the thing in which babies grow. No, only two servings of uteri for me, and I’ll be okay with the other offerings.
I behaved atrociously during my brother’s birthday dinner. Looking back, I am confused about how badly I behaved; however, considering the fact that I was drinking my father’s homemade rum, I am not 100% surprised. There’s always someone behaving badly during special occasions, and I always seem to be the idiot of the party.
I behaved atrociously during my brother’s birthday dinner. Looking back, I am confused about how badly I behaved; however, considering the fact that I was drinking my father’s homemade rum, I am not 100% surprised. There’s always someone behaving badly during special occasions, and I always seem to be the idiot of the party.
Friday, May 22, 2009
DREAM (FRAGMENT) #8
I am holding a container of plants. It is gross because there are pieces of meat in it. I am mournful about the meat because I would like to salvage that meat, and I wonder what possessed me to put meat in with plants. It smells delicious and edible even when soaked in plant water. I seriously consider taking the meat out and washing it off. I dig my finger inside the container and find lots of bean sprouts and a large plant with fresh green leaves. Excitedly, I pull the plant from the pot and am horrified that its stem is a rib cage. A rib cage! Ew! Is it going to breathe?! I am absolutely disgusted by now, feel nauseous, and decide to give up my quest to be a gardener.
I am holding a container of plants. It is gross because there are pieces of meat in it. I am mournful about the meat because I would like to salvage that meat, and I wonder what possessed me to put meat in with plants. It smells delicious and edible even when soaked in plant water. I seriously consider taking the meat out and washing it off. I dig my finger inside the container and find lots of bean sprouts and a large plant with fresh green leaves. Excitedly, I pull the plant from the pot and am horrified that its stem is a rib cage. A rib cage! Ew! Is it going to breathe?! I am absolutely disgusted by now, feel nauseous, and decide to give up my quest to be a gardener.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Pianist
I am watching/listening to Martha Argerich, pianist extraordinaire, play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto. She is old and a bit dumpy, but the black dress contrasts nicely with the demure display of her white bosom. Her face looks old and tired, but her hair is magnificent—black with the shine of brown. White strands near her temples and along the parting of her hair. I like her concentrated, frowning look.
There is also a fetching picture of her younger years. Her chin is held high. Her body is facing right, but her head is turned to the camera. Her eyelids are slightly lowered. Her mouth is closed, corners held low, a beautiful mourning look. Her lower lip is fetchingly full.
The first few minutes of Piano Concerto are magnificent. Her white hands depress the chords, and then fly up again. Straight off the keyboard. They remind me of white frightened birds. She seems to leisurely strike out the deep, thunderous notes, her hands touching the keyboard on three specific places, down the keyboard—one, two, three—and then moving her hands swiftly to do it again—one, two, three.
There is also a fetching picture of her younger years. Her chin is held high. Her body is facing right, but her head is turned to the camera. Her eyelids are slightly lowered. Her mouth is closed, corners held low, a beautiful mourning look. Her lower lip is fetchingly full.
The first few minutes of Piano Concerto are magnificent. Her white hands depress the chords, and then fly up again. Straight off the keyboard. They remind me of white frightened birds. She seems to leisurely strike out the deep, thunderous notes, her hands touching the keyboard on three specific places, down the keyboard—one, two, three—and then moving her hands swiftly to do it again—one, two, three.
Dreams
Wrote this yesterday. Was too bored to post it.
Whenever I try to write a story, I feel absolutely bored with my lack of imagination. Author blogs that I read [Robin McKinley, Malinda Lo, Sara Ryan] often explain that writing—real story writing and not blog writing—is like a job, where I need to have goals and keep at it day after day no matter how I struggle to form a coherent story-line. I’m still an adolescent-apprentice writer, which means that when I get kinda good ideas, I slap them all together and then forget about them for months (while I go to school/work), and then look at them again when I’m on vacation to see if they’re salvageable. None so far have been salvageable. I have dozens of little story projects going on, and I think I should focus on just one, but when I focus on just one, my imagination dies.
Since I’m a failure as a storywriter right now, I like to explore my dreams, because I seem to have plenty of imagination when I dream. I take my dreams very seriously, i.e. when I wake up from a dream worth recording, I spend my whole day returning to the dream-world, trying to remember tiny details and straighten problematic plotlines. I try to stay true to the dreams, i.e. not making stuff up or resolving details when the dream was cut short or when I don’t remember. Some dreams, I write down months after I dreamed it. Geez, am I self-absorbed or what? But no, I like writing about my dreams not because I want to interpret them but because they’re little stories. Maybe over time, I can look back at them, and make them into real stories. Which reminds me—
DREAM #7
I am running with a woman who is wearing a red dress. She has long black hair and white, white skin. She is tall and slender. She is so beautiful, and I am mesmerized. We are running along hallways carved exquisitely with birds and trees. When I look at the birds, they take flight and their wings are made of multicolored textiles. A story forms in my mind—there is a man dressed in black robes looking for the woman. He has grey hair and a pale face. Suddenly, we are on a cliff and looking down on a waterfall. I see the glitter of golden scales. The man grabs the woman and makes her look down at the waterfall. I do nothing but watch. The man pushes her off the cliff and she falls, silent. I watch the way her dress ripples as she falls. I am horrified and sad. I say—You murdered her. You are guilty. He looks at me calmly, and I notice how grey his eyes are. He says—Yes, I am guilty. I need to pay for my crime. He walks to the edge of the cliff and falls off. Before he falls away from my sight, his body suddenly curves upward and he is floating, circling me, flying. His flight is joyous. I ask—Why? Why does she die and he lives? The answer comes—Because he has been forgiven. She was too afraid, and that’s why she fell.
Whenever I try to write a story, I feel absolutely bored with my lack of imagination. Author blogs that I read [Robin McKinley, Malinda Lo, Sara Ryan] often explain that writing—real story writing and not blog writing—is like a job, where I need to have goals and keep at it day after day no matter how I struggle to form a coherent story-line. I’m still an adolescent-apprentice writer, which means that when I get kinda good ideas, I slap them all together and then forget about them for months (while I go to school/work), and then look at them again when I’m on vacation to see if they’re salvageable. None so far have been salvageable. I have dozens of little story projects going on, and I think I should focus on just one, but when I focus on just one, my imagination dies.
Since I’m a failure as a storywriter right now, I like to explore my dreams, because I seem to have plenty of imagination when I dream. I take my dreams very seriously, i.e. when I wake up from a dream worth recording, I spend my whole day returning to the dream-world, trying to remember tiny details and straighten problematic plotlines. I try to stay true to the dreams, i.e. not making stuff up or resolving details when the dream was cut short or when I don’t remember. Some dreams, I write down months after I dreamed it. Geez, am I self-absorbed or what? But no, I like writing about my dreams not because I want to interpret them but because they’re little stories. Maybe over time, I can look back at them, and make them into real stories. Which reminds me—
DREAM #7
I am running with a woman who is wearing a red dress. She has long black hair and white, white skin. She is tall and slender. She is so beautiful, and I am mesmerized. We are running along hallways carved exquisitely with birds and trees. When I look at the birds, they take flight and their wings are made of multicolored textiles. A story forms in my mind—there is a man dressed in black robes looking for the woman. He has grey hair and a pale face. Suddenly, we are on a cliff and looking down on a waterfall. I see the glitter of golden scales. The man grabs the woman and makes her look down at the waterfall. I do nothing but watch. The man pushes her off the cliff and she falls, silent. I watch the way her dress ripples as she falls. I am horrified and sad. I say—You murdered her. You are guilty. He looks at me calmly, and I notice how grey his eyes are. He says—Yes, I am guilty. I need to pay for my crime. He walks to the edge of the cliff and falls off. Before he falls away from my sight, his body suddenly curves upward and he is floating, circling me, flying. His flight is joyous. I ask—Why? Why does she die and he lives? The answer comes—Because he has been forgiven. She was too afraid, and that’s why she fell.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sunny Day
It feels nice to have plenty of time to get caught up in my correspondence and to talk again to the people I stopped talking to a year ago. For the first time in a long time, I feel peaceful and in control of my life. A life out of love is swell, like I’m in my mind and heart again. Like I pulled back the pieces of my soul, glued it back together, and shoved it back in my chest. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to see people again and not feel panicky. I’ll see my friends again, and tell them—Yep, I’ve been out of commission for a whole year, been going through some rough times, but I’m ME again. Well, maybe I won’t be able to see my friends again soon—still have some weak moments—but maybe in a few months.
This is the person I like being. Not that love-sick, pathetic other creature. I hate being crippled by my emotions.
We three are sitting outside half in shade and half in sunlight. Me, little sister Kim, and bunny. Bunny is on loan to us for a few weeks—we are bunny-sitting. I will miss bunny when she is gone. She is tawny and feisty, but there are times when she lays quietly in my arms with her head tucked into the crook of my right elbow.
I’m tanning my legs. It’s embarrassing when my legs are so white, they glow. Flies and bright yellow bugs are landing on the white expanses and walking around. Kim is next to me drawing trees, honeycombs, and sunlight. In between some grass blades, the sizeable torso of a worm glistens. Maybe the worm is sunning too? The worm arches its torso, and I wonder what would happen if I slice it perfectly in half. A fly has landed on the heel of my right foot. The calluses on my heel make it strange to watch the fly walk along the side of my foot.
In the distance, bees are hovering, dashing down from flower to flower. The fly walks nearer my big toe. I flex my foot. The fly doesn’t mind. The ice cream truck is making its rounds—absolutely stupid music—a few trumpet blasts every few seconds. Most annoying. Tawny bunny is feasting on strawberry leaves. Kim and I stand up and play kick ball. Every time I glance over at bunny, she glances at us between the strawberry leaves.
A red-breasted bird hops about on the grass. Should I tell bird about fat worm? I think not. The shadows of larger birds pass overhead. The trees are dancing in the breeze. Sounds like the pitter patter of gentle rain. The sunlight sparkling on the leaves makes me think that it’s a party and the trees are waltzing with each other.
There’s so much life in a trailer park on a warm summer day.
This is the person I like being. Not that love-sick, pathetic other creature. I hate being crippled by my emotions.
We three are sitting outside half in shade and half in sunlight. Me, little sister Kim, and bunny. Bunny is on loan to us for a few weeks—we are bunny-sitting. I will miss bunny when she is gone. She is tawny and feisty, but there are times when she lays quietly in my arms with her head tucked into the crook of my right elbow.
I’m tanning my legs. It’s embarrassing when my legs are so white, they glow. Flies and bright yellow bugs are landing on the white expanses and walking around. Kim is next to me drawing trees, honeycombs, and sunlight. In between some grass blades, the sizeable torso of a worm glistens. Maybe the worm is sunning too? The worm arches its torso, and I wonder what would happen if I slice it perfectly in half. A fly has landed on the heel of my right foot. The calluses on my heel make it strange to watch the fly walk along the side of my foot.
In the distance, bees are hovering, dashing down from flower to flower. The fly walks nearer my big toe. I flex my foot. The fly doesn’t mind. The ice cream truck is making its rounds—absolutely stupid music—a few trumpet blasts every few seconds. Most annoying. Tawny bunny is feasting on strawberry leaves. Kim and I stand up and play kick ball. Every time I glance over at bunny, she glances at us between the strawberry leaves.
A red-breasted bird hops about on the grass. Should I tell bird about fat worm? I think not. The shadows of larger birds pass overhead. The trees are dancing in the breeze. Sounds like the pitter patter of gentle rain. The sunlight sparkling on the leaves makes me think that it’s a party and the trees are waltzing with each other.
There’s so much life in a trailer park on a warm summer day.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Loss of True Love
Two weeks ago, my aunt’s husband passed away. They had been married for thirty-nine years. They were truly, deeply in love. He had a stroke, lost consciousness, and never woke up again. No chance to say good-bye. My aunt was inconsolable—her husband once said that if she died, he would die too—he would not know what else to do. My aunt feels the same way.
Two years ago, I was corresponding with my aunt, and then I stopped—because I was too lazy, too sad, too busy, too self-absorbed maybe. I have never spoken to my aunt on the phone—only ever wrote her letters. My mother went to Los Angeles for one week, and during that time, she called me twice, telling me that my aunt would like to talk to me on the phone. I refused. Why? I was selfish. I was too scared. I was too concerned about myself. Even though I didn’t know my uncle well, I feel for my aunt. I regret my inability to offer comfort—I regret, I regret so much. My mother told me yesterday that my aunt would like a letter from me because it would comfort her.
I finally wrote my aunt a letter tonight, trying to offer comfort, feeling with each word I wrote that everything I said was inadequate. Such a loss—the loss of true love—there is no comfort someone else can offer. My mother told me that when my aunt is home alone—in the home where once she shared with the love of her life—she walks around, calling for her husband, wishing that if he had become a ghost, he would come back to her.
The only thing that I could think to offer to such loss was my own loneliness. I have never known true love, and I cannot imagine the devastation such a loss would cause. I’ve made a promise that I’ll write her a letter every week, no matter how busy, how depressed, how wretched I am. It is going to be difficult to write those letters.
If I were a character in a fairy tale, I would be the hard and bitter old witch, sitting in my tower room, brewing my potions, reading my spell books, weaving dark spells. I have spent my life avoiding people, because I always get hurt when I get too close. Something always goes wrong, and each time something does go wrong, the deep and dark forest around my witch’s hut becomes more and more impassable. Loneliness becomes my bad addiction. It becomes my way of life. It is so difficult to care about someone else.
A year ago, a friend told me that my life would be guided by love. Of course I laughed bitterly—I’m chained to love, more like it. I’m addicted to love. Most of the novels I read each year are love stories. The stories I tell myself before I go to sleep are all love stories. The stories I write are all love stories. The most bittersweet dreams I have—the ones that I dare not write about—are all dreams of love. Every year, I tell myself—it’s over, no more of this pathetic letting-love-guide-your-life nonsense. Find something else. Let ambition guide your life. Or the quest for knowledge. Or hope for peace. Or your need to understand religion. Anything but love. I tell myself—living like this—longing for love, hoping for love—this way of living will kill you. If I knew which part of my brain is love, I would cut it out, with no regrets whatsoever. I would cut it out and throw it away. That may seem harsh, but I know—surely as I know anything about myself—that my cyclic bouts of depression are because of unrequited love. Every time I fail in my quest for love, I shut down—I lose the ability to function, I lose the will to live. My emotional stability is pathetic. My loneliness becomes a monster crawling inside my mind.
That is why I fear writing to my aunt. For only one precious month so far this year, I have not suffered because of love. I have been free of hope, of fear, of desire for love. I have been functioning like a normal human being. I have been okay, and I have been feeling that I will be okay forever because I know my weakness, I have made the same mistake too many times, and I am stronger than this sick need for love. I feel like I am being tested. Am I strong enough to write to my aunt and hear her stories about her true love? Am I strong enough to offer comfort, even when I feel awful, just plain awful, that my aunt, who has suffered so much in her life, has just endured the worst loss in her life? I think I am. I am so angry, so sick, so freakin’ bitter about the way love makes me feel that I think I am strong enough. I am strong enough on the strength of my negative feelings. If it helps to be a bitter, hard, lonely old witch, then by Thunder, I will gladly take on this persona. Am I closing myself off to love? Yes. Yes. Love belongs in my stories and my imagination, but longing for it in real life is akin to seeking my own death.
[Self-Commentation: Whew, I seem to be having a bad day. Where’s my sense of humor today?? Actually, it’s a relief to write all this out, because that’s really how I have been feeling for three years—been too afraid to admit these things to myself, I suppose. The truth surely hurts, and I hope my sense of humor is back tomorrow.]
Two years ago, I was corresponding with my aunt, and then I stopped—because I was too lazy, too sad, too busy, too self-absorbed maybe. I have never spoken to my aunt on the phone—only ever wrote her letters. My mother went to Los Angeles for one week, and during that time, she called me twice, telling me that my aunt would like to talk to me on the phone. I refused. Why? I was selfish. I was too scared. I was too concerned about myself. Even though I didn’t know my uncle well, I feel for my aunt. I regret my inability to offer comfort—I regret, I regret so much. My mother told me yesterday that my aunt would like a letter from me because it would comfort her.
I finally wrote my aunt a letter tonight, trying to offer comfort, feeling with each word I wrote that everything I said was inadequate. Such a loss—the loss of true love—there is no comfort someone else can offer. My mother told me that when my aunt is home alone—in the home where once she shared with the love of her life—she walks around, calling for her husband, wishing that if he had become a ghost, he would come back to her.
The only thing that I could think to offer to such loss was my own loneliness. I have never known true love, and I cannot imagine the devastation such a loss would cause. I’ve made a promise that I’ll write her a letter every week, no matter how busy, how depressed, how wretched I am. It is going to be difficult to write those letters.
If I were a character in a fairy tale, I would be the hard and bitter old witch, sitting in my tower room, brewing my potions, reading my spell books, weaving dark spells. I have spent my life avoiding people, because I always get hurt when I get too close. Something always goes wrong, and each time something does go wrong, the deep and dark forest around my witch’s hut becomes more and more impassable. Loneliness becomes my bad addiction. It becomes my way of life. It is so difficult to care about someone else.
A year ago, a friend told me that my life would be guided by love. Of course I laughed bitterly—I’m chained to love, more like it. I’m addicted to love. Most of the novels I read each year are love stories. The stories I tell myself before I go to sleep are all love stories. The stories I write are all love stories. The most bittersweet dreams I have—the ones that I dare not write about—are all dreams of love. Every year, I tell myself—it’s over, no more of this pathetic letting-love-guide-your-life nonsense. Find something else. Let ambition guide your life. Or the quest for knowledge. Or hope for peace. Or your need to understand religion. Anything but love. I tell myself—living like this—longing for love, hoping for love—this way of living will kill you. If I knew which part of my brain is love, I would cut it out, with no regrets whatsoever. I would cut it out and throw it away. That may seem harsh, but I know—surely as I know anything about myself—that my cyclic bouts of depression are because of unrequited love. Every time I fail in my quest for love, I shut down—I lose the ability to function, I lose the will to live. My emotional stability is pathetic. My loneliness becomes a monster crawling inside my mind.
That is why I fear writing to my aunt. For only one precious month so far this year, I have not suffered because of love. I have been free of hope, of fear, of desire for love. I have been functioning like a normal human being. I have been okay, and I have been feeling that I will be okay forever because I know my weakness, I have made the same mistake too many times, and I am stronger than this sick need for love. I feel like I am being tested. Am I strong enough to write to my aunt and hear her stories about her true love? Am I strong enough to offer comfort, even when I feel awful, just plain awful, that my aunt, who has suffered so much in her life, has just endured the worst loss in her life? I think I am. I am so angry, so sick, so freakin’ bitter about the way love makes me feel that I think I am strong enough. I am strong enough on the strength of my negative feelings. If it helps to be a bitter, hard, lonely old witch, then by Thunder, I will gladly take on this persona. Am I closing myself off to love? Yes. Yes. Love belongs in my stories and my imagination, but longing for it in real life is akin to seeking my own death.
[Self-Commentation: Whew, I seem to be having a bad day. Where’s my sense of humor today?? Actually, it’s a relief to write all this out, because that’s really how I have been feeling for three years—been too afraid to admit these things to myself, I suppose. The truth surely hurts, and I hope my sense of humor is back tomorrow.]
DREAM #6
I was watching a lesbian movie—two women in the desert loving each other. I think—must be Desert Hearts, and it is. I am watching the movie with my mother and wondering why because there is a lesbian love scene and I don’t want my mother to see it. I leave, hoping my mother will leave too, and she does. I go to the bathroom, and the floor is covered with seaweed, and the toilet is gross, as though it has flooded with the ocean. I try to fix the toilet. I lift it, and it is suddenly cleaved into two perfect pieces, and the water in the top portion collapses onto the floor when I touch it. [Dream time shifts] My father is with me, and he asks—Do you want to see where I hide my things? It is the safest place in the world. We drove into violent white rushing water, and my father opens his car door. Somehow, we are not soaked by the water. I cannot feel the water. He reaches into the water and I can suddenly see into another car. There is another car under the flood waters and it is locked into place. My father looks at me and says—This is the safest place I could find. I look at his treasures and I see old, ragged, tattered books, carefully placed on a makeshift shelf hammered on the dashboard. How sad, I think, these are all he has, and they will be swept away. This place is not safe.
I was watching a lesbian movie—two women in the desert loving each other. I think—must be Desert Hearts, and it is. I am watching the movie with my mother and wondering why because there is a lesbian love scene and I don’t want my mother to see it. I leave, hoping my mother will leave too, and she does. I go to the bathroom, and the floor is covered with seaweed, and the toilet is gross, as though it has flooded with the ocean. I try to fix the toilet. I lift it, and it is suddenly cleaved into two perfect pieces, and the water in the top portion collapses onto the floor when I touch it. [Dream time shifts] My father is with me, and he asks—Do you want to see where I hide my things? It is the safest place in the world. We drove into violent white rushing water, and my father opens his car door. Somehow, we are not soaked by the water. I cannot feel the water. He reaches into the water and I can suddenly see into another car. There is another car under the flood waters and it is locked into place. My father looks at me and says—This is the safest place I could find. I look at his treasures and I see old, ragged, tattered books, carefully placed on a makeshift shelf hammered on the dashboard. How sad, I think, these are all he has, and they will be swept away. This place is not safe.
DREAM #5
She said she had come from another world to release the animals. I said, cool, because I liked all the animals, loved to go down to the zoo, gawked like everyone else, and yet felt a little bit of pity for these wild creatures locked in cages. So I took her down to the zoo and showed her the animals. She was fascinated, but I knew these were not the right animals. I had shown her the wrong kinds of animals. She was waiting for me to see the world, truly, so she made me look into darkness, into mirrors. She put pieces of glass near the window and made me look at them as the sun colored them, but I saw nothing. I took her to see fireworks, and the strangest thing happened when the first burst of light took place—everything stopped. The sparks in the sky stopped, frozen, like the outlines of a glowing umbrella above our heads. I told her—let it go, let everything go, it is alright, the fire is harmless. She let go and the fire in the sky fell, glittering, and disappeared around our shoulders. All I can say is—the fireworks were weird that night—they pulsed and stilled and flared strangely, a strange pattern like a creature breathing, and I turned to the woman next to me, and saw them reflected in the expression of her eyes. I felt as though I was looking into her mind, falling, like those sparks of fire falling from the sky. She wanted me to trust her mind. She wanted me to follow her, and we went back into the caves, deeper and deeper. At some point, she turned off our flashlights, and for awhile, we stood still in the darkness and breathed next to each other. But I couldn’t help it, and I began to cry in terror. Trust me, she said. I told her, I trust you, but I don’t trust the dark. But I knew, I could not escape, because after all, she is the dark.
She said she had come from another world to release the animals. I said, cool, because I liked all the animals, loved to go down to the zoo, gawked like everyone else, and yet felt a little bit of pity for these wild creatures locked in cages. So I took her down to the zoo and showed her the animals. She was fascinated, but I knew these were not the right animals. I had shown her the wrong kinds of animals. She was waiting for me to see the world, truly, so she made me look into darkness, into mirrors. She put pieces of glass near the window and made me look at them as the sun colored them, but I saw nothing. I took her to see fireworks, and the strangest thing happened when the first burst of light took place—everything stopped. The sparks in the sky stopped, frozen, like the outlines of a glowing umbrella above our heads. I told her—let it go, let everything go, it is alright, the fire is harmless. She let go and the fire in the sky fell, glittering, and disappeared around our shoulders. All I can say is—the fireworks were weird that night—they pulsed and stilled and flared strangely, a strange pattern like a creature breathing, and I turned to the woman next to me, and saw them reflected in the expression of her eyes. I felt as though I was looking into her mind, falling, like those sparks of fire falling from the sky. She wanted me to trust her mind. She wanted me to follow her, and we went back into the caves, deeper and deeper. At some point, she turned off our flashlights, and for awhile, we stood still in the darkness and breathed next to each other. But I couldn’t help it, and I began to cry in terror. Trust me, she said. I told her, I trust you, but I don’t trust the dark. But I knew, I could not escape, because after all, she is the dark.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
DREAM #4
I am trying to pick up our tawny rabbit. I reach one hand under its chest and lift while my other hand curls around its hind-quarters. [Dream time shifts] There is a university where the official flag is two black crossed blades on a background of red. There is a trial going on for the local superhero. He is not in disguise. He wins his case and now there is a long row of cars—rich college kids in their jaguars, corvettes, porsches. They are all ready to race and at the far end is our superhero masked and dressed in red. Everyone is laughing at his car, a red toy car which encases the lower half of his body. As the race is about to begin, his car vibrates, time-shifting quickly and its edges are no longer definable [Dream time shifts] Couples are trying to pirouette, where pirouette is two partners, the ballerino holding the ballerina to his side, his arms wide and flipping her upside-down and around. One couple is having an especially difficult time because the ballerina is too heavy. The superhero comes up to them and asks the ballerina—what are you going to do about it? The ballerino becomes violent and takes her away to another room. There is screaming. [Dream time shifts] I am in a bathroom. There are two books on the floor. One of them is Wild Child. I go into the next room and it is a library. I look around and it is my high school library—I look around and I see my high school best friend—the librarian. She has grey hair and she is smiling, serene and happy to see me after all these years. I’ve missed her so much and I have so much to tell her . . . [Dream time shifts] There is an Asian guy and he is trying to poison our tawny rabbit. We are sitting around watching him. He grins at us and puts his hand in the rabbit’s bowl of water, flicking the water around. He takes out a bottle and pours green fluid into the rabbit’s food bowl. He is still grinning at us. My father comes into the room and nods.
I am trying to pick up our tawny rabbit. I reach one hand under its chest and lift while my other hand curls around its hind-quarters. [Dream time shifts] There is a university where the official flag is two black crossed blades on a background of red. There is a trial going on for the local superhero. He is not in disguise. He wins his case and now there is a long row of cars—rich college kids in their jaguars, corvettes, porsches. They are all ready to race and at the far end is our superhero masked and dressed in red. Everyone is laughing at his car, a red toy car which encases the lower half of his body. As the race is about to begin, his car vibrates, time-shifting quickly and its edges are no longer definable [Dream time shifts] Couples are trying to pirouette, where pirouette is two partners, the ballerino holding the ballerina to his side, his arms wide and flipping her upside-down and around. One couple is having an especially difficult time because the ballerina is too heavy. The superhero comes up to them and asks the ballerina—what are you going to do about it? The ballerino becomes violent and takes her away to another room. There is screaming. [Dream time shifts] I am in a bathroom. There are two books on the floor. One of them is Wild Child. I go into the next room and it is a library. I look around and it is my high school library—I look around and I see my high school best friend—the librarian. She has grey hair and she is smiling, serene and happy to see me after all these years. I’ve missed her so much and I have so much to tell her . . . [Dream time shifts] There is an Asian guy and he is trying to poison our tawny rabbit. We are sitting around watching him. He grins at us and puts his hand in the rabbit’s bowl of water, flicking the water around. He takes out a bottle and pours green fluid into the rabbit’s food bowl. He is still grinning at us. My father comes into the room and nods.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Raccoons
I didn’t go to sleep until 7:00 AM this morning. Before I went to sleep, I packed for the bus trip at 1:30 PM, emptied the fridge, and took out the trash—listening to PokerFace all the while. When I opened the front door, lunging upwards of fifty pounds of filth, I looked over and saw a raccoon, about the size of a small dog. It had seen me half a second before I had locked eyes with it.
There’s a six foot tall reddish brown wooden fence surrounding our row of townhouses—no way to climb or dig a hole quickly.
The raccoon, utterly shy and panicky, kept glancing my way as it clawed and pushed at the fence, as though by the sheer force of its jumpiness, it could scale the heights. Of course fascinated, I stood there gripping the trash bags, wondering how to offer it choice pieces of refuse. Raccoon finally gave up on the wall and—I don’t know how else to describe this—sneaked towards the side of the end-townhouse. It wasn’t scurrying. It was sneaking, as though by putting itself into sneak mode, it would render its body invisible to my human eyes.
I went on my way, walking towards the other end of the townhouses, towards the parking lot where the dumpster sits on one corner. Now, I despise lunging trash to the dumpster, so I was looking around, trying to entertain myself, thinking—ah, the magnolias are still in bloom, a bit brown around the petal edges, but still deeply pink . . . hmm, my violet irises are all dead, stupid darn lawn mower guy plowed into them . . . yellow irises are still looking lively, better water them before I leave . . . darn stupid college kids and their parties, looks like beer cans everywhere, gotta complain one of these days . . . here we go, almost ther—Holy moley!!—
Remember Raccoon? Seems like its target, before I interrupted its peaceful dawn prowling, was the same dumpster where I was headed. I, burdened by the heaviest trash bags on earth, was slow enough to intercept it as it made its way around the end-townhouse and through six backyards and towards me. I don’t know who was more shocked. Raccoon recovered sooner and scurried under a hole in the wooden fence. I blinked a few times, dumped my trash, went back inside, sat for awhile thinking about Raccoon, and finally collapsed into bed.
I like raccoons. I know they bite, and they’re dirty, and they’re trash-pickers, but so am I when I’m in my natural state. If I could talk to a raccoon, I know it would understand me. There’s something indescribably appealing about the way a raccoon looks at you. Maybe it’s the bandit eyes, but that doesn’t account for how it can express embarrassment and shyness with its whole body.
Two years ago, when I was still living in an apartment complex on the edge of campus, one day, I was crossing the street, and there was a large raccoon crossing the street—crossing a busy, busy street, with cars honking and dozens of college kids everywhere. It was a beautiful raccoon, very large—size of a large dog, and finest fluffy tail I have ever seen. The poor dear was obviously scared out of its wits. It looked like it was surprised to discover itself in such circumstances and that all of us were being inexpressibly rude by gawking at it. It was ambling sideways, or maybe moving diagonally—imagine a large creature trying to glance on all sides—trying to keep its eyes on everyone as it tries to also move in one direction—hopefully a direction away from everyone. Also, if you please, imagine a ballet dancer—a large, furry, overweight ballet dancer—slowly trying to pirouette, but not succeeding, and so trying again and again. Or maybe imagine a furry train falling off its tracks and skidding sideways . . . It was the most painful, awkward gait I have ever seen. I don’t remember what happened to Raccoon-Crossing-the-Street. I was too busy cataloging its expression.
Raccoons look the way I imagine I do when I’m caught leaning on my tiptoes with my two arms dug deeply in a dumpster.
There’s a six foot tall reddish brown wooden fence surrounding our row of townhouses—no way to climb or dig a hole quickly.
The raccoon, utterly shy and panicky, kept glancing my way as it clawed and pushed at the fence, as though by the sheer force of its jumpiness, it could scale the heights. Of course fascinated, I stood there gripping the trash bags, wondering how to offer it choice pieces of refuse. Raccoon finally gave up on the wall and—I don’t know how else to describe this—sneaked towards the side of the end-townhouse. It wasn’t scurrying. It was sneaking, as though by putting itself into sneak mode, it would render its body invisible to my human eyes.
I went on my way, walking towards the other end of the townhouses, towards the parking lot where the dumpster sits on one corner. Now, I despise lunging trash to the dumpster, so I was looking around, trying to entertain myself, thinking—ah, the magnolias are still in bloom, a bit brown around the petal edges, but still deeply pink . . . hmm, my violet irises are all dead, stupid darn lawn mower guy plowed into them . . . yellow irises are still looking lively, better water them before I leave . . . darn stupid college kids and their parties, looks like beer cans everywhere, gotta complain one of these days . . . here we go, almost ther—Holy moley!!—
Remember Raccoon? Seems like its target, before I interrupted its peaceful dawn prowling, was the same dumpster where I was headed. I, burdened by the heaviest trash bags on earth, was slow enough to intercept it as it made its way around the end-townhouse and through six backyards and towards me. I don’t know who was more shocked. Raccoon recovered sooner and scurried under a hole in the wooden fence. I blinked a few times, dumped my trash, went back inside, sat for awhile thinking about Raccoon, and finally collapsed into bed.
I like raccoons. I know they bite, and they’re dirty, and they’re trash-pickers, but so am I when I’m in my natural state. If I could talk to a raccoon, I know it would understand me. There’s something indescribably appealing about the way a raccoon looks at you. Maybe it’s the bandit eyes, but that doesn’t account for how it can express embarrassment and shyness with its whole body.
Two years ago, when I was still living in an apartment complex on the edge of campus, one day, I was crossing the street, and there was a large raccoon crossing the street—crossing a busy, busy street, with cars honking and dozens of college kids everywhere. It was a beautiful raccoon, very large—size of a large dog, and finest fluffy tail I have ever seen. The poor dear was obviously scared out of its wits. It looked like it was surprised to discover itself in such circumstances and that all of us were being inexpressibly rude by gawking at it. It was ambling sideways, or maybe moving diagonally—imagine a large creature trying to glance on all sides—trying to keep its eyes on everyone as it tries to also move in one direction—hopefully a direction away from everyone. Also, if you please, imagine a ballet dancer—a large, furry, overweight ballet dancer—slowly trying to pirouette, but not succeeding, and so trying again and again. Or maybe imagine a furry train falling off its tracks and skidding sideways . . . It was the most painful, awkward gait I have ever seen. I don’t remember what happened to Raccoon-Crossing-the-Street. I was too busy cataloging its expression.
Raccoons look the way I imagine I do when I’m caught leaning on my tiptoes with my two arms dug deeply in a dumpster.
Friday, May 15, 2009
John Donne
I had my last final today at 8:00 AM. I was exhausted until three hours ago, when I napped, woken up thirty minutes ago by thunder and rain. When you open your eyes to a darkened blue room, your mind groggy, and the rain is pounding away incessantly, it feels like the world is drowning. I am now refreshed, ready to listen to music for the next 12 hours, take my heart out, lay it on my sleeve, and write.
Good news! There is an ant next to my keyboard. My sister cooked yellow cake yesterday, so there are plenty of crumbs. Have at it, ant!
I will be going to my parents’ home tomorrow and staying there for three weeks until summer school starts. Two nutritional science classes this summer. My father is also interested in this stuff, so I hope I get some interesting tidbits to tell him. Next school year will mark my sixth year on my journey to get my undergraduate English/Science degrees. As of now, it will be my last year. I will walk next May. Most of the time, I feel like a loser for being in college for so long. And what have I learned all these years? Sometimes, though, I know I am in the right place. This is the only place where I can explore all my options.
How about some English Renaissance poetry from my final this morning? These dead dudes—Shakespeare, Donne, Milton—they were all interested in only two things: love and death. If they weren’t moaning about unrequited love, they were tearing their hair out about the fact that we all return to dust. Most of them weren’t kind to women. For example, dear, dear John Donne had this to say:
Hope not for the mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they’re but mummy, possessed.
~Love’s Alchemy
My reply: Well, excuse us if we seem a tad bit embalmed while in your delightful company. Perhaps it’s because of your very witty conversation that makes us want to have our brains sucked out of our nose holes and encased safely in a jar. The Good Lord preserve us from the likes of your wit.
Donne on women’s fidelity:
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
~Song
My reply: Huh, so all women are whores, are they? Well, God bless them for enjoying themselves with two, or three lovers at a time. Can’t stand a little orgy, can we? I like nothing better than a woman with a ravenous appetite.
Donne using peer pressure to get a woman naked in bed:
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What need’st thou have more covering than a man?
~Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
My reply: Why? Why? Well, you’re kind of desperate, aren’t you, if you’re willing to bare that hideously puny thing!
About Donne: So, he ran away with his true love, married her, and during the sixteen years of their marriage, proceeded to impregnate her twelve times! Twelve. As my sister Christine would say—ouch. Did she ever leave her bed? And guess how she died. In childbirth. Surprised, anyone? Couldn’t put the darn thing away, could we? What’s interesting is that after her death, Donne, for all his vast sexual appetites, swore off women and turned to God. He then proceeded to write his Holy Sonnets. Let’s take a look at one:
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
~Holy Sonnet #10
For those of you confused, me is Donne and you is God. Huh. Seems like he wants to be raped by God. Or, if not that, to have very, very good sex with God. Donne seems to be a bit of a sado-masochist, especially since earlier in the poem, he wants God to o’erthrow me, and bend / Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.
My reply: So that’s why you turned to God! Well, Donne, old boy, if you got into Heaven, then by all means try to seduce God. God knows, God needs a little relaxation away from all his ruling and everything. But I warn you, if your dear wife got into Heaven too, she won’t take kindly to your infidelity! What’s that? Til death do you part? Okay, okay, fine, but don’t come complaining to me when she hurls your ass down to Hell.
I’m just poking good fun at Donne. If my humor’s a little offensive, I blame South Park. Donne’s a good poet. Gave us some of the best lines about love:
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name
~Air and Angels
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
~The Good Morrow
This one’s for us queers; the [Blah, blah, blah] are skipped lines; however, let’s pretend that the [Blah, blah, blah] are the idiot Prop 8 people and let’s imagine that Donne is speaking for us:
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
[Blah, blah, blah]
Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?
[Blah, blah, blah]
Call us what you will, we are made such by love.
[Blah, blah, blah]
We can die by it, if not live by love.
[Blah, blah, blah]
And thus invoke us: You whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage [place of refuge];
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses [lenses] of your eyes.
~The Canonization
The last five lines are confusing, so here’s my take on it: You who revere the power of love, you made refuges for each other and for your love. If you can love with deep passion, if you can understand what love is, how can you not understand us? How can our love enrage you, when we too love with as deep passion and reverence as you do? Look into our eyes and you will see the whole world’s soul reflected back at you. Look into our eyes and you will see the grief and violence you have created reflected back at you.
[Sigh] Thinking about Prop 8 has made me blue.
Good news! There is an ant next to my keyboard. My sister cooked yellow cake yesterday, so there are plenty of crumbs. Have at it, ant!
I will be going to my parents’ home tomorrow and staying there for three weeks until summer school starts. Two nutritional science classes this summer. My father is also interested in this stuff, so I hope I get some interesting tidbits to tell him. Next school year will mark my sixth year on my journey to get my undergraduate English/Science degrees. As of now, it will be my last year. I will walk next May. Most of the time, I feel like a loser for being in college for so long. And what have I learned all these years? Sometimes, though, I know I am in the right place. This is the only place where I can explore all my options.
How about some English Renaissance poetry from my final this morning? These dead dudes—Shakespeare, Donne, Milton—they were all interested in only two things: love and death. If they weren’t moaning about unrequited love, they were tearing their hair out about the fact that we all return to dust. Most of them weren’t kind to women. For example, dear, dear John Donne had this to say:
Hope not for the mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they’re but mummy, possessed.
~Love’s Alchemy
My reply: Well, excuse us if we seem a tad bit embalmed while in your delightful company. Perhaps it’s because of your very witty conversation that makes us want to have our brains sucked out of our nose holes and encased safely in a jar. The Good Lord preserve us from the likes of your wit.
Donne on women’s fidelity:
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
~Song
My reply: Huh, so all women are whores, are they? Well, God bless them for enjoying themselves with two, or three lovers at a time. Can’t stand a little orgy, can we? I like nothing better than a woman with a ravenous appetite.
Donne using peer pressure to get a woman naked in bed:
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What need’st thou have more covering than a man?
~Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
My reply: Why? Why? Well, you’re kind of desperate, aren’t you, if you’re willing to bare that hideously puny thing!
About Donne: So, he ran away with his true love, married her, and during the sixteen years of their marriage, proceeded to impregnate her twelve times! Twelve. As my sister Christine would say—ouch. Did she ever leave her bed? And guess how she died. In childbirth. Surprised, anyone? Couldn’t put the darn thing away, could we? What’s interesting is that after her death, Donne, for all his vast sexual appetites, swore off women and turned to God. He then proceeded to write his Holy Sonnets. Let’s take a look at one:
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
~Holy Sonnet #10
For those of you confused, me is Donne and you is God. Huh. Seems like he wants to be raped by God. Or, if not that, to have very, very good sex with God. Donne seems to be a bit of a sado-masochist, especially since earlier in the poem, he wants God to o’erthrow me, and bend / Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.
My reply: So that’s why you turned to God! Well, Donne, old boy, if you got into Heaven, then by all means try to seduce God. God knows, God needs a little relaxation away from all his ruling and everything. But I warn you, if your dear wife got into Heaven too, she won’t take kindly to your infidelity! What’s that? Til death do you part? Okay, okay, fine, but don’t come complaining to me when she hurls your ass down to Hell.
I’m just poking good fun at Donne. If my humor’s a little offensive, I blame South Park. Donne’s a good poet. Gave us some of the best lines about love:
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name
~Air and Angels
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
~The Good Morrow
This one’s for us queers; the [Blah, blah, blah] are skipped lines; however, let’s pretend that the [Blah, blah, blah] are the idiot Prop 8 people and let’s imagine that Donne is speaking for us:
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
[Blah, blah, blah]
Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?
[Blah, blah, blah]
Call us what you will, we are made such by love.
[Blah, blah, blah]
We can die by it, if not live by love.
[Blah, blah, blah]
And thus invoke us: You whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage [place of refuge];
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses [lenses] of your eyes.
~The Canonization
The last five lines are confusing, so here’s my take on it: You who revere the power of love, you made refuges for each other and for your love. If you can love with deep passion, if you can understand what love is, how can you not understand us? How can our love enrage you, when we too love with as deep passion and reverence as you do? Look into our eyes and you will see the whole world’s soul reflected back at you. Look into our eyes and you will see the grief and violence you have created reflected back at you.
[Sigh] Thinking about Prop 8 has made me blue.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Ants
Before my sister set poison, our townhouse was crawling with ants. Set out a cup with residual soda in it and minutes later, there are ants crawling all over it. Set out a cup of water, and minutes later, all the ants in the vicinity have decided to go swimming. And just because the ants are floating still on top of the water does not mean that they’re dead.
I kinda miss them.
Ants would crawl around on my desk. During my morose, listless moods, I would sprinkle bread crumbs across my desk and watch the ants lug the crumbs around in their orderly little lines. Sometimes, there would be an ant crawling on the page I was reading, and when I needed to turn the page, I would have an unholy need to slam the book on the ant, but I never gave into my killer instinct, and more often than not, I would not turn the page and just reread, which is not a bad option if the book is good and I want to linger on the anticipation.
Sometimes, (well, quite a few times really) I would carry a few ants around in my bag. I would take my books out during class or at work and see the ant crawl out and crawl across the table. Now, when ants are a common sight to you, and you are so used to being friendly to them for so long, you can forget that squishing ants is an automatic human habit. At work one day, after I reached into my bag to get a pen, and saw an ant crawling along the length of it, I placed it gently on the table—on the table where two other tutors (I tutor) were sitting too. I set it gently down and thought—how about you go play while I finish writing this sentence. The ant crawled across my paper and I gently brushed it toward the center of the table, thinking—no, no, honey, go play. A few seconds later, I see the tutor across from me slam down her hand really hard and sweep it quickly off the table. I said (or yelled quietly, since this was the library)—Noo!! You killer! You killed my ant! I explained, but I guess my explanation sounded a little crazy, because she felt no remorse.
Sometime, when I get annoyed, I flick the ant away, and imagine the ant flying away on wings of glory. My sister, in her ant-killing craze, would stand next to my desk and squish my ants. No! I usually cry in alarm, My desk is an island of refuge! Get your killer hands away!!
Ants aren’t bad. They bite, but—this sounds gross, but it works—I lick the bite and it disappears in a few hours. It really works. For mosquito bites too. Hey, cats and dogs and other animals with tongues lick themselves better. Why can’t Homo sapiens? I’m not stupid enough to lick myself if I have a gun shot wound, but for bites, there’s no harm in licking myself better.
I need to go steal some ants from an ant hill, because our townhouse is sadly ant-free right now.
I kinda miss them.
Ants would crawl around on my desk. During my morose, listless moods, I would sprinkle bread crumbs across my desk and watch the ants lug the crumbs around in their orderly little lines. Sometimes, there would be an ant crawling on the page I was reading, and when I needed to turn the page, I would have an unholy need to slam the book on the ant, but I never gave into my killer instinct, and more often than not, I would not turn the page and just reread, which is not a bad option if the book is good and I want to linger on the anticipation.
Sometimes, (well, quite a few times really) I would carry a few ants around in my bag. I would take my books out during class or at work and see the ant crawl out and crawl across the table. Now, when ants are a common sight to you, and you are so used to being friendly to them for so long, you can forget that squishing ants is an automatic human habit. At work one day, after I reached into my bag to get a pen, and saw an ant crawling along the length of it, I placed it gently on the table—on the table where two other tutors (I tutor) were sitting too. I set it gently down and thought—how about you go play while I finish writing this sentence. The ant crawled across my paper and I gently brushed it toward the center of the table, thinking—no, no, honey, go play. A few seconds later, I see the tutor across from me slam down her hand really hard and sweep it quickly off the table. I said (or yelled quietly, since this was the library)—Noo!! You killer! You killed my ant! I explained, but I guess my explanation sounded a little crazy, because she felt no remorse.
Sometime, when I get annoyed, I flick the ant away, and imagine the ant flying away on wings of glory. My sister, in her ant-killing craze, would stand next to my desk and squish my ants. No! I usually cry in alarm, My desk is an island of refuge! Get your killer hands away!!
Ants aren’t bad. They bite, but—this sounds gross, but it works—I lick the bite and it disappears in a few hours. It really works. For mosquito bites too. Hey, cats and dogs and other animals with tongues lick themselves better. Why can’t Homo sapiens? I’m not stupid enough to lick myself if I have a gun shot wound, but for bites, there’s no harm in licking myself better.
I need to go steal some ants from an ant hill, because our townhouse is sadly ant-free right now.
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