Thoughts at the end of April:
Trying to take yoga classes during the day. Mostly feel overwhelmed by the very fit, very buff crowd of hong kong Tai-Tais (housewives). Twice my age and they could easily bench-press me in between manicures and luncheon. While we are trying to relax with downward dogs and Warrior Is, I look at the mirrors, all I can think of is "SPARTANS ~ Hoohaa... For Tonight we shall dine in HELL... I brought more soldiers than you Arcadian... What Does a man want of his queen?" And then whatever zen I had been seeking is permanently lost.
But it is rather awe-inspiring, and I guess it's an effective way to keep status and husband.
---
I can't believe it is already the beginning of may.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
contrast
what is love. I have heard many things. A man says to his grandson, regretfully, it was softness. she was softness, bu-duh-ruh-wuh.
"But then it is too simple to say that you love someone. It hides a list of things. Tangles of things… the way I could forgive him, and he has been forgiven.
If I lost him and he were a ghost, he would be the first thing I’d call for, the imprint of his shoulder in my bed, the touch of his hand on my waist, the fights, the games. sight, touch, taste… and then… the bond of what we’ve seen and promised never to tell."
Poem
Sole Survivor
He walks away
No surveying
the catastrophe
Of covers and torn sheets
An open diary of past mistakes to fill.
He puts on his clothes quickly and doesn’t turn to see
Her lying
hand outstretched -
Doesn’t turn to check if she’s breathing .
His hand lingers on the door
Where hers will be
When she shuts it in the morning.
"But then it is too simple to say that you love someone. It hides a list of things. Tangles of things… the way I could forgive him, and he has been forgiven.
If I lost him and he were a ghost, he would be the first thing I’d call for, the imprint of his shoulder in my bed, the touch of his hand on my waist, the fights, the games. sight, touch, taste… and then… the bond of what we’ve seen and promised never to tell."
Poem
Sole Survivor
He walks away
No surveying
the catastrophe
Of covers and torn sheets
An open diary of past mistakes to fill.
He puts on his clothes quickly and doesn’t turn to see
Her lying
hand outstretched -
Doesn’t turn to check if she’s breathing .
His hand lingers on the door
Where hers will be
When she shuts it in the morning.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hole in the sky
It always comes as news. The news that I heard today... as though phones are still only the styrofoam cups with strings - hello hello. over.
the sadness of a small town spreads across the world. prayers.
and hope becomes something smeared across the glass-
or just a hole in the sky for the stars to pour through.
It seems silly because it's been years, and the memories I have are those of a child, dream shadows, laced with giggles and whispers and deteriorated by time.
catching ahold of what is left. candy hearts I remember, spun sugar, greased hair and shaky valentines.
a boy with elvis curls and a wide grin.
screaming around the playground - 2nd graders enacting our version of romance, love as war, girls against boys, stolen kisses and laughter, the swinging of ponytails, plastic barrettes and jump rope.
paused
as you screamed that a girl should not kick a boy 'there'
even if it was for a kisser team war and the odds were tight.
middle school tag as the sun sets in the church garden, stomachs full - pigs in blankets, baked beans and chili cheese, cinnamon apples. Ran past the grey statues and warnings of ghosts or after-dark wanderers. a game of tag in the dark turns to accidental hide and seek, screaming until the statues echo back, admitting the night time terror of being alone.
basketball game in the afternoon - laughing mouths open, back and forth.
braiding hair. moving past ocean water.
not all was kind: games became more cruel, chasing a wasp til a girl cried, charades of heartbreak and flirting, the sketches of naked women with bodies like vases, women with legs splayed, posing in impossible ways - posted on the windows of the church van. alcohol and detergent.
but still you laughed. everyone laughed. reckless and proud, youth and beauty.
and then childhood and memory were put away, folded and tucked, left and abandoned to shadowland.
---
i don't know how the story got so much worse.
It shouldn't have been written. It wasn't meant to be written that way. A cruel game? A joke, where somewhere the string pulls and it all comes apart, and we are all left laughing. Hope for that.
But it seems too much has gone for that now. Maybe in another life, in another place. It is wishful.
Or maybe
it's like we are all running in the dark, looking for that hole in the sky, and you found the stars first.
the sadness of a small town spreads across the world. prayers.
and hope becomes something smeared across the glass-
or just a hole in the sky for the stars to pour through.
It seems silly because it's been years, and the memories I have are those of a child, dream shadows, laced with giggles and whispers and deteriorated by time.
catching ahold of what is left. candy hearts I remember, spun sugar, greased hair and shaky valentines.
a boy with elvis curls and a wide grin.
screaming around the playground - 2nd graders enacting our version of romance, love as war, girls against boys, stolen kisses and laughter, the swinging of ponytails, plastic barrettes and jump rope.
paused
as you screamed that a girl should not kick a boy 'there'
even if it was for a kisser team war and the odds were tight.
middle school tag as the sun sets in the church garden, stomachs full - pigs in blankets, baked beans and chili cheese, cinnamon apples. Ran past the grey statues and warnings of ghosts or after-dark wanderers. a game of tag in the dark turns to accidental hide and seek, screaming until the statues echo back, admitting the night time terror of being alone.
basketball game in the afternoon - laughing mouths open, back and forth.
braiding hair. moving past ocean water.
not all was kind: games became more cruel, chasing a wasp til a girl cried, charades of heartbreak and flirting, the sketches of naked women with bodies like vases, women with legs splayed, posing in impossible ways - posted on the windows of the church van. alcohol and detergent.
but still you laughed. everyone laughed. reckless and proud, youth and beauty.
and then childhood and memory were put away, folded and tucked, left and abandoned to shadowland.
---
i don't know how the story got so much worse.
It shouldn't have been written. It wasn't meant to be written that way. A cruel game? A joke, where somewhere the string pulls and it all comes apart, and we are all left laughing. Hope for that.
But it seems too much has gone for that now. Maybe in another life, in another place. It is wishful.
Or maybe
it's like we are all running in the dark, looking for that hole in the sky, and you found the stars first.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
lessons.
I now spend most of my evenings tutoring a succession of Korean students. I wish someone would study how a Korean mother network works.. it has the same efficiency necessary to deploy weapons. I started with one family, and somehow it all began after that.
So I end up tutoring from 5 to around 9 on most weekdays.. SAT verbal, essay writing, middle school history.. Working in the evening makes my sense of time interesting. Sometimes when I'm on the subway and hopping on mini-buses, I wonder how night-shift workers or prostitutes feel - I see that the sun is setting, thus my workday begins. Not that I'm comparing being a tutor to prostitution.. besides a strange time of day, going to the students' apartments, charging by a clock. heh. ok no. :)
Overall I like tutoring, and I think I do a relatively good job. Parents like me because I don't short them on time, and I guess also because I am strict. Sometimes when I'm starting to raise my voice, I notice that outside the room is suddenly quiet, so the mother can hear what I'm saying. I've always thought of myself as a patient person, but I guess not.
Twenty minutes of patiently explaining and arguing - so much that my throat is dry and my voice is shot to a semi-baritone:
Student 1 (yet again): "But why do I have to map out my essays? Can't I just write it?"
me (patiently): "no, you must map and plan. Otherwise it's like you're shooting a gun with a blindfold on." (nice metaphor - mentally pats self on back)
Student 1: "But.. I don't think I have that much time to do it. I think I should just learn to write well."
me (starts to silently shred bits of paper): "Planning is writing well."
Student 1: "But .. but.."
me: "OK. Look. Right now what grade do you have? What grade do you have???"
Student 1: "A 17 out of 40.."
me: "Yes. You have an F. Not even a high F. If you want to keep getting Fs do it your way. It's the lazy way and it's not particularly smart.(pounding desk with fist) Just. do. It. MY WAY! Ahhhhhhhh.
Update: 2 weeks later and the mother called to quietly tell me her son "just didn't want lessons with me anymore."
Bahhh
So I end up tutoring from 5 to around 9 on most weekdays.. SAT verbal, essay writing, middle school history.. Working in the evening makes my sense of time interesting. Sometimes when I'm on the subway and hopping on mini-buses, I wonder how night-shift workers or prostitutes feel - I see that the sun is setting, thus my workday begins. Not that I'm comparing being a tutor to prostitution.. besides a strange time of day, going to the students' apartments, charging by a clock. heh. ok no. :)
Overall I like tutoring, and I think I do a relatively good job. Parents like me because I don't short them on time, and I guess also because I am strict. Sometimes when I'm starting to raise my voice, I notice that outside the room is suddenly quiet, so the mother can hear what I'm saying. I've always thought of myself as a patient person, but I guess not.
Twenty minutes of patiently explaining and arguing - so much that my throat is dry and my voice is shot to a semi-baritone:
Student 1 (yet again): "But why do I have to map out my essays? Can't I just write it?"
me (patiently): "no, you must map and plan. Otherwise it's like you're shooting a gun with a blindfold on." (nice metaphor - mentally pats self on back)
Student 1: "But.. I don't think I have that much time to do it. I think I should just learn to write well."
me (starts to silently shred bits of paper): "Planning is writing well."
Student 1: "But .. but.."
me: "OK. Look. Right now what grade do you have? What grade do you have???"
Student 1: "A 17 out of 40.."
me: "Yes. You have an F. Not even a high F. If you want to keep getting Fs do it your way. It's the lazy way and it's not particularly smart.(pounding desk with fist) Just. do. It. MY WAY! Ahhhhhhhh.
Update: 2 weeks later and the mother called to quietly tell me her son "just didn't want lessons with me anymore."
Bahhh
defined.
In any statutory definition of a crime, malice must be taken.
1. A desire to harm others or to see others suffer; extreme ill will or spite.
2. Law. The intent, without just cause or reason, to commit a wrongful act that will result in harm to another.
1. A desire to harm others or to see others suffer; extreme ill will or spite.
2. Law. The intent, without just cause or reason, to commit a wrongful act that will result in harm to another.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Real
happiness is best when unrealized. Or unconsciously felt. Because the discovery of it is so beautiful that it's worth the not realizing.
It creeps on you, so then with a sudden awareness - a different bodily sense - a calm and euphoria that everything is all right.
I'm sitting at the Hong Kong version of Times Square.. Which is actually a building with a department store with Times Square written on the side. Deceiving, but still it feels like a link.
There is a big tv screen which plays music videos. Actually I'm never sure what they are, but the music is very empowering and operatic and so I always look up and stare while people grumble past me thinking, Why is she watching the refrigerator commercials?
I like this area a lot... it pulses like a living thing, from the movement of people. maybe it's just because I have a bad sense of direction, but each corner brings something different. on one side, the chestnut man, on another a mcdonald's and american brands, on another a japanese snack store... other way sweet pork or mango drink shakes, there's the arm-less man who paints names with the brush clenched in his mouth, the fish market, the store with yellow buns in the window.
walking there's not enough time to think. just image.
gingko nuts with green hearts. the threat of rainstorms with no thunder.
--------
my mother called to tell me that the tree my brother and i used to climb on had lost half its branches in an ice storm. It was a very elegant tree, it still is I hope... a maple with low-reaching branches. I think we'd called it Marigold or was it Meredith? I can't remember.
'I try to think of us playing in the trees during thunderstorm season, in the yellow calm when the storm is about to come. We are in the maple tree, the one with the shaky third branch. He sits where the branches begin to spread, the tree's heart. I'm waiting on the first branch, because I know I'll have to help him get down. The air smells like bourbon and we can hear the storm and thunder that's about to come... We wait as long as we can, shaking in anticipation as the sky changes and the trees around us turn gray. Our mother calls us in, and I help him down so that we can run to the house before the downpour.'
It creeps on you, so then with a sudden awareness - a different bodily sense - a calm and euphoria that everything is all right.
I'm sitting at the Hong Kong version of Times Square.. Which is actually a building with a department store with Times Square written on the side. Deceiving, but still it feels like a link.
There is a big tv screen which plays music videos. Actually I'm never sure what they are, but the music is very empowering and operatic and so I always look up and stare while people grumble past me thinking, Why is she watching the refrigerator commercials?
I like this area a lot... it pulses like a living thing, from the movement of people. maybe it's just because I have a bad sense of direction, but each corner brings something different. on one side, the chestnut man, on another a mcdonald's and american brands, on another a japanese snack store... other way sweet pork or mango drink shakes, there's the arm-less man who paints names with the brush clenched in his mouth, the fish market, the store with yellow buns in the window.
walking there's not enough time to think. just image.
gingko nuts with green hearts. the threat of rainstorms with no thunder.
--------
my mother called to tell me that the tree my brother and i used to climb on had lost half its branches in an ice storm. It was a very elegant tree, it still is I hope... a maple with low-reaching branches. I think we'd called it Marigold or was it Meredith? I can't remember.
'I try to think of us playing in the trees during thunderstorm season, in the yellow calm when the storm is about to come. We are in the maple tree, the one with the shaky third branch. He sits where the branches begin to spread, the tree's heart. I'm waiting on the first branch, because I know I'll have to help him get down. The air smells like bourbon and we can hear the storm and thunder that's about to come... We wait as long as we can, shaking in anticipation as the sky changes and the trees around us turn gray. Our mother calls us in, and I help him down so that we can run to the house before the downpour.'
Monday, February 9, 2009
morning
found yesterday from 2006 - in a box of paper:
I'm a step behind -
trying to catch up from a world of shadows.
Not enough air in my lungs, breath to push.
falling back - only there's nothing to fall into.
becoming a map of bones
just enough for traces to tell-
for people to remember
the curve of a shoulder
the slit of a mouth.
But
It seems silly to feel desperate when there's nothing dangerous threatening me.
I'm not running from a robber or trying to fight a fire. There is no gunfire, no bombs falling around me.
Instead
I am sitting on a bed with cotton sheets and pillows with daisies on them, and yet it might as well be a raft on an ocean, with sharks on all sides. Quiet desperation and the sense that somehow I am suffocating from the inside.
----
I'm a step behind -
trying to catch up from a world of shadows.
Not enough air in my lungs, breath to push.
falling back - only there's nothing to fall into.
becoming a map of bones
just enough for traces to tell-
for people to remember
the curve of a shoulder
the slit of a mouth.
But
It seems silly to feel desperate when there's nothing dangerous threatening me.
I'm not running from a robber or trying to fight a fire. There is no gunfire, no bombs falling around me.
Instead
I am sitting on a bed with cotton sheets and pillows with daisies on them, and yet it might as well be a raft on an ocean, with sharks on all sides. Quiet desperation and the sense that somehow I am suffocating from the inside.
----
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