Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Dear Danang,
I am here, on your sand, staring out into the vast horizon. It has been so long. The sun is sinking, streaking the clouds orange. soon it will be dark.
I am watching the waves licking the shore. I am watching the wind blow the sand on and off my bare feet. I'm listening to you, listening to you sigh.
the lights from the resort are coming to life one by one. they cast orange patches on the sand. It is dark. Time and space seem to have condensed into one infinite moment. there is no one around except me and you, and the night guard. i can sense he is looking at my back, wondering. I wrap my arms around my knees and let you cradle me. it is my dream Danang, to be in your arms like this. to have this intimate moment with you, when you speak to me and me alone. but it doesn't feel right Danang. it doesn't feel quite right.
Two weeks from now I will be walking towards you, just that you are nowhere in sight. the green fence run along the road for kms. What used to take my aunt and uncle but 5 minutes' walk to touch your sand now takes us 20 minutes. and I can't help worrying that what little that's left of the beach will be walled up too.
What is going on Danang? Why are you becoming a coastal city where its people cannot even see the coast? What are they doing to you?
I am angry Danang. I'm angry that they sold you out so completely, that they made an expensive whore out of you. and I'm angry at my own hypocrisy, because when I sat on your white sand in my bikini and sunglasses I really didn't give a damn. i loved it. that you were so clean and spacious. that you were entirely for me for the time being, while I could still afford the 4-star bill.
But those people out there, who grew up breathing the salt in your wind, and woke up to the sound of your waves, when will they earn enough to be able to touch you again? And the people whose houses are demolished, who I will witness holding out with the little that's left as their surroundings disappear and their neighborhoods are mowed down to make space for 5-star resorts. What are they moving for?
I am here, on your sand, staring out into the vast horizon. It has been so long. The sun is sinking, streaking the clouds orange. soon it will be dark.
I am watching the waves licking the shore. I am watching the wind blow the sand on and off my bare feet. I'm listening to you, listening to you sigh.
the lights from the resort are coming to life one by one. they cast orange patches on the sand. It is dark. Time and space seem to have condensed into one infinite moment. there is no one around except me and you, and the night guard. i can sense he is looking at my back, wondering. I wrap my arms around my knees and let you cradle me. it is my dream Danang, to be in your arms like this. to have this intimate moment with you, when you speak to me and me alone. but it doesn't feel right Danang. it doesn't feel quite right.
Two weeks from now I will be walking towards you, just that you are nowhere in sight. the green fence run along the road for kms. What used to take my aunt and uncle but 5 minutes' walk to touch your sand now takes us 20 minutes. and I can't help worrying that what little that's left of the beach will be walled up too.
What is going on Danang? Why are you becoming a coastal city where its people cannot even see the coast? What are they doing to you?
I am angry Danang. I'm angry that they sold you out so completely, that they made an expensive whore out of you. and I'm angry at my own hypocrisy, because when I sat on your white sand in my bikini and sunglasses I really didn't give a damn. i loved it. that you were so clean and spacious. that you were entirely for me for the time being, while I could still afford the 4-star bill.
But those people out there, who grew up breathing the salt in your wind, and woke up to the sound of your waves, when will they earn enough to be able to touch you again? And the people whose houses are demolished, who I will witness holding out with the little that's left as their surroundings disappear and their neighborhoods are mowed down to make space for 5-star resorts. What are they moving for?
September 21, 2008
We climb out the window
and perch on the sill,
giggling like high school delinquents.
The smoke rises and the vodka sinks
and the ship sways to the sound of the night
moon melting on the water.
And the shadows of the surrounding cliffs
cast over us
a soft indigo shade of security
of peace and happiness
and we're back in a space where we're content to be, to be happy
and self sufficient.
Where your company
wraps mine and mine embraces yours
and there is nothing to worry about
no other place we wish to be
no person from another time
who we wish had continued loving us.
Just you and me.
Though we know tomorrow
even if we hold hands and splash head first into the water
it will be once again your world
apart from mine
But tonight,
we melt with moonshine and fire water.
and perch on the sill,
giggling like high school delinquents.
The smoke rises and the vodka sinks
and the ship sways to the sound of the night
moon melting on the water.
And the shadows of the surrounding cliffs
cast over us
a soft indigo shade of security
of peace and happiness
and we're back in a space where we're content to be, to be happy
and self sufficient.
Where your company
wraps mine and mine embraces yours
and there is nothing to worry about
no other place we wish to be
no person from another time
who we wish had continued loving us.
Just you and me.
Though we know tomorrow
even if we hold hands and splash head first into the water
it will be once again your world
apart from mine
But tonight,
we melt with moonshine and fire water.
the dead between the living
Monday August 10th. We got to the burial ground on mom's side of the family a little before noon. The sun beat down on the sand and the heat rose up, and black grasshoppers sprung back and forth before our eyes, between the world of those beneath the earth and that of our own.
My grandparents were born in the same village and grew up watching the same fishing boats leave and return each afternoon. They played on the same sand banks and walked the same narrow twisting dirt roads, and I am tempted to say they were childhood sweethearts, but they weren't. love in the traditional sense was something you learned after marriage and grew into. love came with responsibility, with knowing that your lives were tied to each other and there was little else but to make the most of it. it came with no guarantee and was often confused with the sheer convenience of being together, like two pieces of wood leaning on each other. talking one away will cause the other to fall.
I don't know when they started loving each other but in his old age my grandpa wrote poems to my grandma, etched with sentimentality and gratitude that she existed in his life. and when he died 5 years ago her heart broke. but she went on living, struggling with having to stand alone with the weight of 86 years on her shoulder. a weight so heavy it injured her spinal cord and confined her to bed.
After they got married my grandparents moved from town to town with the escalation of the war, chased by air-raids that ripped the sky and burst open the earth. Once a bomb shattered the ground and half buried my grandma. But she survived and perhaps when i was a child people still talked war but i never paid attention. the stories never seemed real, never seemed believable. How can words be enough.
Coming from the same village their families were buried in the same graveyard. And we stood, daughters and sons, grandsons and granddaughters, heads bowed in front of the main altar, 3 sticks of incense between our hands, shook them and prayed. The oldest tomb in the family dates back to pre-Tran, roughly 900 years ago. We go way back.
I had always considered this ritual a custom, a way of life but by now have to reassess it as a religion. People in Vietnam travel great distance back to the family burial ground and altar partly to pay respect, and partly to ask for protection and guidance. There is a firm belief that those who'd loved and protected you all their lives will continue doing so after death. Blood ties are stronger than steel rods, enough to penetrate the wall between life and death.
My uncle died from a car accident last year. My mom whispered that the fortune teller said his time was up many years ago but some great great aunt in the family held some high position in the other world and has protected him until then. I told her so even in the world of the dead there is still hierarchy? Life is never fair. neither is death. The Vietnamese sense of heaven and hell so closely resembles the system of a monarchy. There is a king for each world and different levels of aristocracies below.
My aunts and uncles brought fruit and flowers, and a lot of paper money, paper clothing, paper hats, paper suppliants for the dead. Paper so they can be burnt and transferred to the other world. But i kept wondering what makes them think live people can print money for the dead. and if the dead still need money to survive they're probably not doing too well. A lot of things we do are remnants of the past, done half out of tradition and half out of fear. What if it's true? that the dead need money? if we don't provide our ancestors with what we can then they will suffer... that kind of mentality.
There are the rich dead and the poor dead; the remembered and the forgotten; the released--those who cross safely to the other world, as well those who're left behind--who died on a bad day at a bad hour and missed the boat, condemned to eternal wanderings between the living and the not. These lost souls then returned to their families or villages to voice their bitterness. My paternal grandma talked of the woman in her village who returned to haunt her husband's new wife, entering the poor woman's body and commanded that the family keep things in order. shouting. screaming Do you know who I am?
I wonder if the dead bore nationalities like we do, even though the nation state is a modern concept. maybe they're regional instead. Perhaps when you die you become what's left of your imagination. and those who lacked it lacked ways out.
It started drizzling but the paper offerings continued to burn, until black ashes got stirred up by the wind and stuck to our clothes. We got back into the car and headed for the Nguyen family temple. I have a family temple on each side of the family - the Nguyen temple on mom's side, and the Bui temple on dad's side. The Vietnamese family follow the paternal system and thus, technically, I belong to the Bui temple. but we always visit both sides.
We swept through the Nguyen temple and placed our offerings of food and drink on the altar. Phoenix and dragons curved the walls in bright colorful paint strokes, and Chinese verses praising filial piety hung from the ceiling and along the columns of the building in pairs. People in the family who still live in the village take turns maintaining the place. A Rules and Regulations on Entering hung at the entrance with last February's lunar new year guarding shifts pinned next to it. On the last day of the old year and the first of the new the temple was to be attended to at all times.
The temple head put on his silk ao dai and sounded the drum to call up the ancestors. Everyone got on their knees and bowed. the smell of incense filled the place.
The dead in Vietnam live among the living. so that if you're masturbating you can't help feeling that maybe your ancestor's standing at the foot of the bed disapproving. and if you're tempted to lie about your origin, not out of shame, simply just to lie, to imagine being anything else, you see your grandpa sit up in his grave and curse what have i done that you'd reject me? So on. But people not only fear the dead. they turn to them to consult all sorts of matters. There is the phenomenon of psychics who let the dead speak through their bodies, or who call up the dead and install them into family members so they can talk. And in the cases when the dead do speak through such manner, people whose words no one listened to when they were alive suddenly become precious teachings.
My mom has been to one of such psychic sessions and recalled with awe. i listened, neither agreeing or disagreeing. life is a big mystery. so sure, why not add a little more mystery. and the more dimensions we bring to it, perhaps the more interesting.
Ancestor worship, it's so deeply ingrained in the Vietnamese way of life. my friend's sister was baptized last year but she still prayed to the ancestors before each major examinations. today the moon is full, my grandma brought flowers and fruits for the altar and lit the incense. the smell permeates the house, making me wonder how long tradition will last. whether I will do the same each full moon like my parents and their parents and their grandparents used to do. i'd looked at the practice with interest but up until now the idea of carrying them out has never really occurred. but if i stop the tradition perhaps the ancestors will be lonely...
My grandparents were born in the same village and grew up watching the same fishing boats leave and return each afternoon. They played on the same sand banks and walked the same narrow twisting dirt roads, and I am tempted to say they were childhood sweethearts, but they weren't. love in the traditional sense was something you learned after marriage and grew into. love came with responsibility, with knowing that your lives were tied to each other and there was little else but to make the most of it. it came with no guarantee and was often confused with the sheer convenience of being together, like two pieces of wood leaning on each other. talking one away will cause the other to fall.
I don't know when they started loving each other but in his old age my grandpa wrote poems to my grandma, etched with sentimentality and gratitude that she existed in his life. and when he died 5 years ago her heart broke. but she went on living, struggling with having to stand alone with the weight of 86 years on her shoulder. a weight so heavy it injured her spinal cord and confined her to bed.
After they got married my grandparents moved from town to town with the escalation of the war, chased by air-raids that ripped the sky and burst open the earth. Once a bomb shattered the ground and half buried my grandma. But she survived and perhaps when i was a child people still talked war but i never paid attention. the stories never seemed real, never seemed believable. How can words be enough.
Coming from the same village their families were buried in the same graveyard. And we stood, daughters and sons, grandsons and granddaughters, heads bowed in front of the main altar, 3 sticks of incense between our hands, shook them and prayed. The oldest tomb in the family dates back to pre-Tran, roughly 900 years ago. We go way back.
I had always considered this ritual a custom, a way of life but by now have to reassess it as a religion. People in Vietnam travel great distance back to the family burial ground and altar partly to pay respect, and partly to ask for protection and guidance. There is a firm belief that those who'd loved and protected you all their lives will continue doing so after death. Blood ties are stronger than steel rods, enough to penetrate the wall between life and death.
My uncle died from a car accident last year. My mom whispered that the fortune teller said his time was up many years ago but some great great aunt in the family held some high position in the other world and has protected him until then. I told her so even in the world of the dead there is still hierarchy? Life is never fair. neither is death. The Vietnamese sense of heaven and hell so closely resembles the system of a monarchy. There is a king for each world and different levels of aristocracies below.
My aunts and uncles brought fruit and flowers, and a lot of paper money, paper clothing, paper hats, paper suppliants for the dead. Paper so they can be burnt and transferred to the other world. But i kept wondering what makes them think live people can print money for the dead. and if the dead still need money to survive they're probably not doing too well. A lot of things we do are remnants of the past, done half out of tradition and half out of fear. What if it's true? that the dead need money? if we don't provide our ancestors with what we can then they will suffer... that kind of mentality.
There are the rich dead and the poor dead; the remembered and the forgotten; the released--those who cross safely to the other world, as well those who're left behind--who died on a bad day at a bad hour and missed the boat, condemned to eternal wanderings between the living and the not. These lost souls then returned to their families or villages to voice their bitterness. My paternal grandma talked of the woman in her village who returned to haunt her husband's new wife, entering the poor woman's body and commanded that the family keep things in order. shouting. screaming Do you know who I am?
I wonder if the dead bore nationalities like we do, even though the nation state is a modern concept. maybe they're regional instead. Perhaps when you die you become what's left of your imagination. and those who lacked it lacked ways out.
It started drizzling but the paper offerings continued to burn, until black ashes got stirred up by the wind and stuck to our clothes. We got back into the car and headed for the Nguyen family temple. I have a family temple on each side of the family - the Nguyen temple on mom's side, and the Bui temple on dad's side. The Vietnamese family follow the paternal system and thus, technically, I belong to the Bui temple. but we always visit both sides.
We swept through the Nguyen temple and placed our offerings of food and drink on the altar. Phoenix and dragons curved the walls in bright colorful paint strokes, and Chinese verses praising filial piety hung from the ceiling and along the columns of the building in pairs. People in the family who still live in the village take turns maintaining the place. A Rules and Regulations on Entering hung at the entrance with last February's lunar new year guarding shifts pinned next to it. On the last day of the old year and the first of the new the temple was to be attended to at all times.
The temple head put on his silk ao dai and sounded the drum to call up the ancestors. Everyone got on their knees and bowed. the smell of incense filled the place.
The dead in Vietnam live among the living. so that if you're masturbating you can't help feeling that maybe your ancestor's standing at the foot of the bed disapproving. and if you're tempted to lie about your origin, not out of shame, simply just to lie, to imagine being anything else, you see your grandpa sit up in his grave and curse what have i done that you'd reject me? So on. But people not only fear the dead. they turn to them to consult all sorts of matters. There is the phenomenon of psychics who let the dead speak through their bodies, or who call up the dead and install them into family members so they can talk. And in the cases when the dead do speak through such manner, people whose words no one listened to when they were alive suddenly become precious teachings.
My mom has been to one of such psychic sessions and recalled with awe. i listened, neither agreeing or disagreeing. life is a big mystery. so sure, why not add a little more mystery. and the more dimensions we bring to it, perhaps the more interesting.
Ancestor worship, it's so deeply ingrained in the Vietnamese way of life. my friend's sister was baptized last year but she still prayed to the ancestors before each major examinations. today the moon is full, my grandma brought flowers and fruits for the altar and lit the incense. the smell permeates the house, making me wonder how long tradition will last. whether I will do the same each full moon like my parents and their parents and their grandparents used to do. i'd looked at the practice with interest but up until now the idea of carrying them out has never really occurred. but if i stop the tradition perhaps the ancestors will be lonely...
July 20 - Grand Canyon
Yes yes, because I'm forever behind and will probably stay behind for a long time I've given up trying to update chronologically. Here is a picture of me today somewhere inside the Grand Canyon. It was amazing.
July 5th - Cleveland to Chicago
8:57am. Sleeping makes time go by a bit faster. I'm almost in Chicago. The landscape is rather flat and unremarkable but nevertheless, it's always exciting to be in a new place.
Now, a few words for Cleveland before I get caught up in other things.
Tiff lives in a mansion - a huge 4 bedroom, 2 storeys + basement + 2 pianos type of house. And it's in the suburbs between the woods at the end of a long winding 2 lane road. all by herself. yes. all by herself. a lonely princess in the woods waiting to be rescued. And that was where I entered the picture.
I arrived with the early morning rays, following the deep hues of the sun. Her house, though primarily American, has a touch of Japanese and Taiwanese tastes, making me feel all relaxed and comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable because before I knew it I was ushered into a yukata and handed a wooden sword to march around the house with. Tiff also put on a yukata but we had a terrible time tying on her obi. it was in general a complete failure.
Tiff's the secretly crazy type of person. she'd sit in class quietly minding her own business and smiling agreeably when the teacher called up on her. and then would turn out essays on knives and family heirlooms, well written for that matter. Back in Japan she'd always told me oh, that's bad! but would still hang out and wait for me to finish lunch each day, despite my incredible slow chewing speed. She still tells me that's bad, shaking her head slightly, and then would laugh because it doesn't matter too much that I'm bad as long as I'm me. I always tell her she lives in a box and now that I've seen her house I sort of know why. it's a pretty box though.
We went to see Mongol and it made me want to gallop full speed to Mongolia and befriend a horse. then we spent the night chasing after fireworks across the city. never catching them and finally giving up and going back home to cook dinner. Tiff cooked, i ate. She spoiled me because I was only there for one day and I was happy. so very happy. to the point I considered staying another day, but that would have lead to something on the line of yeah, i try to be a good host and then finally I can't take it any more for poor Tiff. So i refrained and we ended up lying on the bed skimming through old photos and talking, and drifting off for an hour or two of sleep before the train.
the sounds of 4th of july fireworks came in gentle beats through the windows.
Now, a few words for Cleveland before I get caught up in other things.
Tiff lives in a mansion - a huge 4 bedroom, 2 storeys + basement + 2 pianos type of house. And it's in the suburbs between the woods at the end of a long winding 2 lane road. all by herself. yes. all by herself. a lonely princess in the woods waiting to be rescued. And that was where I entered the picture.
I arrived with the early morning rays, following the deep hues of the sun. Her house, though primarily American, has a touch of Japanese and Taiwanese tastes, making me feel all relaxed and comfortable. Perhaps a little too comfortable because before I knew it I was ushered into a yukata and handed a wooden sword to march around the house with. Tiff also put on a yukata but we had a terrible time tying on her obi. it was in general a complete failure.
Tiff's the secretly crazy type of person. she'd sit in class quietly minding her own business and smiling agreeably when the teacher called up on her. and then would turn out essays on knives and family heirlooms, well written for that matter. Back in Japan she'd always told me oh, that's bad! but would still hang out and wait for me to finish lunch each day, despite my incredible slow chewing speed. She still tells me that's bad, shaking her head slightly, and then would laugh because it doesn't matter too much that I'm bad as long as I'm me. I always tell her she lives in a box and now that I've seen her house I sort of know why. it's a pretty box though.
We went to see Mongol and it made me want to gallop full speed to Mongolia and befriend a horse. then we spent the night chasing after fireworks across the city. never catching them and finally giving up and going back home to cook dinner. Tiff cooked, i ate. She spoiled me because I was only there for one day and I was happy. so very happy. to the point I considered staying another day, but that would have lead to something on the line of yeah, i try to be a good host and then finally I can't take it any more for poor Tiff. So i refrained and we ended up lying on the bed skimming through old photos and talking, and drifting off for an hour or two of sleep before the train.
the sounds of 4th of july fireworks came in gentle beats through the windows.
July 4 - Cleveland
We're passing by some industrial factory puffing columns of smoke into the sky. Columns and columns of smoke. stuff coming out of one column actually looks like it's on fire - blue fire of some sort. Then dark houses deep in sleep. They're built so close together it's hard to tell if they're residential or warehouses.
The darkness stretch time - not being able to see beyond the window planes it feels mildly as though we're moving in a black box. The windows reflect so when lighted objects are visible it's hard to tell if you're looking at them through the glasses, or whether you're simply staring at their reflections coming from the other side.
I brought a copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road with me. Funny how for the first part of the book all he talks about is heading West to Chicago and Denver. Makes me think Yeah, I'm heading there too. All coincidential, but of course he's doing it the hard way - hitchhiking.
It's hard to form any sort of impression of a city simply by what's seen from the tracks. They go through back alleys where houses are low and dank, even when the train station is in the middle of the city.
Finally arrived Cleveland. 5:18am. 13 hours of train ride, which isn't that bad but for the temperature. the compartments were freezing. It was so cold my muscles ache. and I had most of my warm clothings on! I don't understand why Amtrak has to punish its users that way. Take that customers! That's for using our service! !?!
Poor Tiffany has to wake up in the middle of the night to come pick me up from the station. It's already light out. And departure's roughly around the same time tomorrow. Argh!
The darkness stretch time - not being able to see beyond the window planes it feels mildly as though we're moving in a black box. The windows reflect so when lighted objects are visible it's hard to tell if you're looking at them through the glasses, or whether you're simply staring at their reflections coming from the other side.
I brought a copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road with me. Funny how for the first part of the book all he talks about is heading West to Chicago and Denver. Makes me think Yeah, I'm heading there too. All coincidential, but of course he's doing it the hard way - hitchhiking.
It's hard to form any sort of impression of a city simply by what's seen from the tracks. They go through back alleys where houses are low and dank, even when the train station is in the middle of the city.
Finally arrived Cleveland. 5:18am. 13 hours of train ride, which isn't that bad but for the temperature. the compartments were freezing. It was so cold my muscles ache. and I had most of my warm clothings on! I don't understand why Amtrak has to punish its users that way. Take that customers! That's for using our service! !?!
Poor Tiffany has to wake up in the middle of the night to come pick me up from the station. It's already light out. And departure's roughly around the same time tomorrow. Argh!
Thursday, July 3, 2008 - D.C. to Cleveland
2am. Somehow ended up discussing art with D.H. I realized I dislike talking to people about art. it's like talking about a love affair where you care too much about the other side but you don't know whether your friends and family will like him and where it's all heading to.
it's like over-exposing myself, leaving me hollow afterward. like letting out too much not knowing how they're received - or rather without receiving enough to fill up the chunk of me I'd just given out. it's a strange feeling.
5pm. the lounge is beautiful with glass overhead so you can see the sky. The train has two storeys. it's interesting seeing the world from up so high.
Passing through farm land - corn fields, vegetables and various plants I can't identify, herds of cows, barns, tractors. bare fields harvested last week, ripe gold under the sun. rows of trees turning green blurs. a house with white fences and a man in shorts walks across the lawn. unaware of being watched. and recorded.
railroads that curve off to unknown distance.
Under a green canopy we proceed.
Hay barrels roll the earth yellow, leaving trails of dried grasses on bare golden fields.
and we enter the green canopy again, letting the leaves brush the windows, watching butterflies flirt, swirling round and round each other.
We come out on grasses dyed orange dotted with purple blooms. A broken brick house in the distance, its roof curving in, a sad sight in the city but strangely poetic in this overgrown field.
People walking back and forth pushing onto my chair. I look at my pens and paper scattered on the couch.
Martinsburg Station, West Virginia is composed of several abandoned brick buildings. They harmonize a sad song, repeating Why? there was once a time splendid, filled with people and sound. they kept the roof above the walls and the walls straight above the ground. now there's only air. and the meadow creeping in.
my hair's limp on my shoulders and the bags beneath my eyes deepen. Exhaustion. I am mildly lonely but plenty relieved. Being with people of a different kind is interesting but exhausting. I'm grateful plenty that people invited me into their privates space however.
A few words for D.C.
D.C. has big roads, big buildings, plenty of parks and museums. I didn't like downtown D.C. when I visited 2 summers ago and I didn't like it when we got off the subway at the Smithsonian station. Everything was so clean and grand, and organized. Everything screams "authority" not comfort. But the museums are all free! This is the place for those seeking knowledge! though perhaps not so much for those seeking to create.
I want to hug a hay barrel and roll.
it's like over-exposing myself, leaving me hollow afterward. like letting out too much not knowing how they're received - or rather without receiving enough to fill up the chunk of me I'd just given out. it's a strange feeling.
5pm. the lounge is beautiful with glass overhead so you can see the sky. The train has two storeys. it's interesting seeing the world from up so high.
Passing through farm land - corn fields, vegetables and various plants I can't identify, herds of cows, barns, tractors. bare fields harvested last week, ripe gold under the sun. rows of trees turning green blurs. a house with white fences and a man in shorts walks across the lawn. unaware of being watched. and recorded.
railroads that curve off to unknown distance.
Under a green canopy we proceed.
Hay barrels roll the earth yellow, leaving trails of dried grasses on bare golden fields.
and we enter the green canopy again, letting the leaves brush the windows, watching butterflies flirt, swirling round and round each other.
We come out on grasses dyed orange dotted with purple blooms. A broken brick house in the distance, its roof curving in, a sad sight in the city but strangely poetic in this overgrown field.
People walking back and forth pushing onto my chair. I look at my pens and paper scattered on the couch.
Martinsburg Station, West Virginia is composed of several abandoned brick buildings. They harmonize a sad song, repeating Why? there was once a time splendid, filled with people and sound. they kept the roof above the walls and the walls straight above the ground. now there's only air. and the meadow creeping in.
my hair's limp on my shoulders and the bags beneath my eyes deepen. Exhaustion. I am mildly lonely but plenty relieved. Being with people of a different kind is interesting but exhausting. I'm grateful plenty that people invited me into their privates space however.
A few words for D.C.
D.C. has big roads, big buildings, plenty of parks and museums. I didn't like downtown D.C. when I visited 2 summers ago and I didn't like it when we got off the subway at the Smithsonian station. Everything was so clean and grand, and organized. Everything screams "authority" not comfort. But the museums are all free! This is the place for those seeking knowledge! though perhaps not so much for those seeking to create.
I want to hug a hay barrel and roll.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008 - to D.C.
There are only 2 bags but they weighed heavy on my shoulders and arms. Getting to the I.C.A. took longer than I thought.
The gallery lies on the 4th floor with huge glass windows overlooking the pier. They have a special Anish Kapoor exhibition and other slick pieces on display - true to the term contemporary.
Made it to the station 10 minutes before departure. Hurriedly bought a croissant and an OJ. wishing i'd bought 2 croissants and another bottle of water.
There's a lot of marshland along the coast. the train run alongside the beach every now and then and it's beautiful. People on the sand, some backs against the sky, some bellies towards the sun and a hundred or so colorful umbrellas scattered about. they all scream fun and splash into the water.
We're going through New Haven. New Haven, like Boston, is one of those places of familiarity - a place I have some idea of what's what and what's where, but never any solid sense of direction.
Sometimes i feel my life is a bar of soap. The used parts turn into bubbles and wash down the drain.
We passed through NY. It felt strange to stay on board rather than grabbing my stuff and go home. But the adventure has barely started.
In Baltimore all the residential houses on the outskirt are squeezed together thus they are tall and skinny. They're usually 3 to 4 storeys and look roughly a bit bigger than the width of this car - 3.5ms or so. This part of the city looks shabby. There are not many tall buildings, everything stays at pretty much the 4-storey size. their matchbox structure reminds me of Vietnam.
The gallery lies on the 4th floor with huge glass windows overlooking the pier. They have a special Anish Kapoor exhibition and other slick pieces on display - true to the term contemporary.
Made it to the station 10 minutes before departure. Hurriedly bought a croissant and an OJ. wishing i'd bought 2 croissants and another bottle of water.
There's a lot of marshland along the coast. the train run alongside the beach every now and then and it's beautiful. People on the sand, some backs against the sky, some bellies towards the sun and a hundred or so colorful umbrellas scattered about. they all scream fun and splash into the water.
We're going through New Haven. New Haven, like Boston, is one of those places of familiarity - a place I have some idea of what's what and what's where, but never any solid sense of direction.
Sometimes i feel my life is a bar of soap. The used parts turn into bubbles and wash down the drain.
We passed through NY. It felt strange to stay on board rather than grabbing my stuff and go home. But the adventure has barely started.
In Baltimore all the residential houses on the outskirt are squeezed together thus they are tall and skinny. They're usually 3 to 4 storeys and look roughly a bit bigger than the width of this car - 3.5ms or so. This part of the city looks shabby. There are not many tall buildings, everything stays at pretty much the 4-storey size. their matchbox structure reminds me of Vietnam.
Monday, June 30, 2008 - Boston
I've lost track of time, forgetting that today is Monday and that Mondays are not good days to visit museums because that's usually when they close. But here I am, sitting on the steps of the I.C.A staring out into the waters. Seaweed quiver, clinging on to the bay, bobbing up and down. A seagull glides low to the water. I watch in fascination.
The pier is quiet but for the sound of cranes and machine operating a block away. Construction sounds. After seeing the short film City of Cranes I've never quite looked at them the same way again. What usually dismissed or consciously ignored and avoided (such as construction sounds) now pop out against the blue sky. There is something fragile and elegant about the way they stretch their neck up high and balance steel rods from their hooks - ballet of cranes.
There are several other people here, sitting in the shade, staring at the water. perhaps watching the orange balls that mark the pier's territory rise and fall with the waves - as the chest of a sleeping person. they burn orange and the heat of the day settle on my skin, heavy and moist.
With the tall buildings in sight I head across the bridge and along the ferry dock. Matt works not far from South station so I met up with him by the fountain in a park above a parking lot. It was a nice park. It would be nice if all parking lots are built this way. Matt couldn't stay long so he gave me a few smiles and some good-bye hugs. Poor Matt, I agitate him with my random comings and goings. What? You're here?!? Why didn't you tell me??!!
I continued my wanderings after the brief good bye, walking aimlessly into a used bookstore and walking out with 3 books. I should stop squandering money on books I might not be able to carry home.
Now here I am in Quincy market, brushing bugs off my notebook, wondering all the while if there are bugs in my hair. And the two men at the bag stand in front of me zipped and unzipped zipper bags. People stopped to look but not one pulled his/her wallet out. I feel bad but I definitely don't need a zipper bag. Once in a while they say out loud in a sing-song tone It's only one zipper bag~~
I mildly want food but having spent money on water and books I'm refraining myself. Being poor for life would be somewhat problematic. Ah well.
Renee cooked me dinner - one last meal before a while. perhaps a long while. Jack came over too but he had a big lunch so I ended up eating pretty much 2/3 of the food, emptying all the plates and bowls. Good homemade food. How can I resist?
Even with that much food all we ended up talking about before drifting off to sleep that night was food and more food - all the lovely tropical fruits at home that aren't available here. hmm...
The pier is quiet but for the sound of cranes and machine operating a block away. Construction sounds. After seeing the short film City of Cranes I've never quite looked at them the same way again. What usually dismissed or consciously ignored and avoided (such as construction sounds) now pop out against the blue sky. There is something fragile and elegant about the way they stretch their neck up high and balance steel rods from their hooks - ballet of cranes.
There are several other people here, sitting in the shade, staring at the water. perhaps watching the orange balls that mark the pier's territory rise and fall with the waves - as the chest of a sleeping person. they burn orange and the heat of the day settle on my skin, heavy and moist.
With the tall buildings in sight I head across the bridge and along the ferry dock. Matt works not far from South station so I met up with him by the fountain in a park above a parking lot. It was a nice park. It would be nice if all parking lots are built this way. Matt couldn't stay long so he gave me a few smiles and some good-bye hugs. Poor Matt, I agitate him with my random comings and goings. What? You're here?!? Why didn't you tell me??!!
I continued my wanderings after the brief good bye, walking aimlessly into a used bookstore and walking out with 3 books. I should stop squandering money on books I might not be able to carry home.
Now here I am in Quincy market, brushing bugs off my notebook, wondering all the while if there are bugs in my hair. And the two men at the bag stand in front of me zipped and unzipped zipper bags. People stopped to look but not one pulled his/her wallet out. I feel bad but I definitely don't need a zipper bag. Once in a while they say out loud in a sing-song tone It's only one zipper bag~~
I mildly want food but having spent money on water and books I'm refraining myself. Being poor for life would be somewhat problematic. Ah well.
Renee cooked me dinner - one last meal before a while. perhaps a long while. Jack came over too but he had a big lunch so I ended up eating pretty much 2/3 of the food, emptying all the plates and bowls. Good homemade food. How can I resist?
Even with that much food all we ended up talking about before drifting off to sleep that night was food and more food - all the lovely tropical fruits at home that aren't available here. hmm...
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Youkyung's on a plane back to Korea. Marcela is already back in Mexico.
We drove to a farm after breakfast. This part of Massachusetts is similar to parts of CT and even residential neighborhoods in Charlottesville. Cute houses, mostly one story, some 2, and a few 3, lined up along the street between frontyards and backyards, their lawns cleanly mowed. It is a peaceful scene, full of trees and plenty of space for each family. But just the idea of living in one of those houses is unimaginable for me. I can never enter such domesticity. I will be sedated. Well, never say never, but yes, at the moment such lifestyle and future is rather dreary. On the other hand, becoming a cat lady sitting in a falling-apart house with 10 cats is not exactly appealing either...Ahh crap talk. Why should I even think about this. Que sera sera.
Back to the farm story. It was not very big and Cass refused to walk into the fields with me so we only stayed at the front where there're animals and shops. The baby goats were adorable but unfortunately I forgot my camera.
We drove to a park (Look park) in the afternoon and waddled into the water. Cass' slippers slipped off and floated downstream. She chased after them, caught one and tumbled into the water bruising herself. It would have been as she exclaimed, standing on a rock waving one pink slipper, Oh, a bad day!, if some guy from downstream hadn't rescue her other one .
We got home with flip flops intact and made delicious vegetable curry.
Mrs Guild: Why don't you go to a bar?
Cass: Why are you always telling me to go party? You go party yourself!
Mrs Guild: There're no more bars for older people any more. It's all for teenagers, or 20s...you know.
Cass: That's not true. Go to Divas.
Mrs Guild: Oh pu-leeese. I'm not going to old pick-me-up men's bar.
Ahhh...family. I'm moving back in roughly a month. It worries me somewhat.
We drove to a farm after breakfast. This part of Massachusetts is similar to parts of CT and even residential neighborhoods in Charlottesville. Cute houses, mostly one story, some 2, and a few 3, lined up along the street between frontyards and backyards, their lawns cleanly mowed. It is a peaceful scene, full of trees and plenty of space for each family. But just the idea of living in one of those houses is unimaginable for me. I can never enter such domesticity. I will be sedated. Well, never say never, but yes, at the moment such lifestyle and future is rather dreary. On the other hand, becoming a cat lady sitting in a falling-apart house with 10 cats is not exactly appealing either...Ahh crap talk. Why should I even think about this. Que sera sera.
Back to the farm story. It was not very big and Cass refused to walk into the fields with me so we only stayed at the front where there're animals and shops. The baby goats were adorable but unfortunately I forgot my camera.
We drove to a park (Look park) in the afternoon and waddled into the water. Cass' slippers slipped off and floated downstream. She chased after them, caught one and tumbled into the water bruising herself. It would have been as she exclaimed, standing on a rock waving one pink slipper, Oh, a bad day!, if some guy from downstream hadn't rescue her other one .
We got home with flip flops intact and made delicious vegetable curry.
Mrs Guild: Why don't you go to a bar?
Cass: Why are you always telling me to go party? You go party yourself!
Mrs Guild: There're no more bars for older people any more. It's all for teenagers, or 20s...you know.
Cass: That's not true. Go to Divas.
Mrs Guild: Oh pu-leeese. I'm not going to old pick-me-up men's bar.
Ahhh...family. I'm moving back in roughly a month. It worries me somewhat.
New York to Springfield
So I actually got around to buying an Amtrak month pass on the 21st - a mere 6 days before the planned departure date. and by the 22nd have managed to reserve all of my tickets to Springfield, Boston, D.C., Cleveland, Chicago, Denver, Sacramento, Portland, Seattle, L.A., Tuscon, New Orleans, Charlottesville, and back to NY - a month's worth of train travelings. Yes, i'm a last minute biiiach but life is still good and things have been working out fine. I know, i know, i need to stop pushing my luck but that I'd actually have one month planned ahead of me is quite an achievement.
And here goes the travel journal entries. They're mostly all handwritten on the train and then retyped here.
---------------------
Finally on the train. It took me more than half an hour to line up and get tickets. Then the man at the counter forgot to give my debit card back and I forgot to ask him for it. It was only 20 minutes later when paying for what I thought was OJ (but was actually grapefruit juice, ugh) that I realized it was missing. Got it back. Quite a thrill.
Lesson 1: Card is VERY IMPORTANT. Never lose sight of it.
The city was out of sight in barely 10 minutes. This part of the route is quite ugly - through backyards littered with garbage and out of the way suburban industrial wasteland. Nevertheless it is still fairly interesting.
2pm. We are passing better scenery. Stamford is a port town - I'd never realized. trees lining the bay and the boats fold their sails, resting on the water.
The train is crowded so they let us sit in the dining car. There's much more room here.
Cass and her mom picked me up from the station right as the train arrived. Apparently Springfield is not the safest place to sit around.
The Guild live in Chicopee, in a one storey house (plus basement) with a good sized backyard and frontyard, and plenty of trees lining the driveway. Cassie and her mom talked like siblings, quarreling and joking with occasional outburst and shut ups (mostly coming from Cass). It is of course unimaginable in Vietnam to behave this way but the ease and intimacy is quite endearing.
Back at the house Cass got attacked by a bug straight into the eye while watering the trees in the backyard. She came in half crying, rushed into the bathroom and broke down on the floor. It was of course painful and unpleasant but rather comical when she rolled on the floor and wailed, it's going into my brain. i'm going to die. OMG i'm going to die. Mrs. Guild immediately dropped whatever she was doing to come to the rescue and rushed to the store on realizing that there's no eyedropper left in the house. She was smiling but undoubtedly was quite worried. Meanwhile, Cass tried to flush the bug out by blinking her eye in a cup of water. But that didn't work resulting in eww, EWWwww, there's a dead bug rolling around in my eyeball!
Eventually the bug did come out and peace regained.
The Guild took me out to dinner - to a steak house. Now that I think about it I don't think I was to one in NY, ever. On the car much of the discussion was on discounts and a particular underwear store which had 8 for $25 deals during sales. I think the last time I bought underwear was 2 years ago...yea, i'm not one of those sexy inside.
By now, having lived in the states for 4 years, I'm still not used to how big the portions are. I ate a fair amount but still had leftovers.
And here goes the travel journal entries. They're mostly all handwritten on the train and then retyped here.
---------------------
Finally on the train. It took me more than half an hour to line up and get tickets. Then the man at the counter forgot to give my debit card back and I forgot to ask him for it. It was only 20 minutes later when paying for what I thought was OJ (but was actually grapefruit juice, ugh) that I realized it was missing. Got it back. Quite a thrill.
Lesson 1: Card is VERY IMPORTANT. Never lose sight of it.
The city was out of sight in barely 10 minutes. This part of the route is quite ugly - through backyards littered with garbage and out of the way suburban industrial wasteland. Nevertheless it is still fairly interesting.
2pm. We are passing better scenery. Stamford is a port town - I'd never realized. trees lining the bay and the boats fold their sails, resting on the water.
The train is crowded so they let us sit in the dining car. There's much more room here.
Cass and her mom picked me up from the station right as the train arrived. Apparently Springfield is not the safest place to sit around.
The Guild live in Chicopee, in a one storey house (plus basement) with a good sized backyard and frontyard, and plenty of trees lining the driveway. Cassie and her mom talked like siblings, quarreling and joking with occasional outburst and shut ups (mostly coming from Cass). It is of course unimaginable in Vietnam to behave this way but the ease and intimacy is quite endearing.
Back at the house Cass got attacked by a bug straight into the eye while watering the trees in the backyard. She came in half crying, rushed into the bathroom and broke down on the floor. It was of course painful and unpleasant but rather comical when she rolled on the floor and wailed, it's going into my brain. i'm going to die. OMG i'm going to die. Mrs. Guild immediately dropped whatever she was doing to come to the rescue and rushed to the store on realizing that there's no eyedropper left in the house. She was smiling but undoubtedly was quite worried. Meanwhile, Cass tried to flush the bug out by blinking her eye in a cup of water. But that didn't work resulting in eww, EWWwww, there's a dead bug rolling around in my eyeball!
Eventually the bug did come out and peace regained.
The Guild took me out to dinner - to a steak house. Now that I think about it I don't think I was to one in NY, ever. On the car much of the discussion was on discounts and a particular underwear store which had 8 for $25 deals during sales. I think the last time I bought underwear was 2 years ago...yea, i'm not one of those sexy inside.
By now, having lived in the states for 4 years, I'm still not used to how big the portions are. I ate a fair amount but still had leftovers.
predeparture
the blinds are down in this living room, letting in sparse sunlight, dim and delicate.
As usual I went to the screenings at MoMA alone last night. I enjoy it. taking my time. walking out of the theatre with all the space and time to muse about the film, letting the pictures loop and the mood linger, unbothered by such questions as how did you like the film? or what do you think? my thinking process is very slow. give me time to chew and swallow.
it struck me as I was strolling down Fifth Ave towards the subway. At close to 11pm with all the shops closed the pavement was quiet with only a few people now and then. the lights from the display windows were turned a shade down and glowed more pleasantly. It was a nice feeling but as my feet made their way uptown i became increasingly lonely. like having a yarn ball full of dust and whatnot stuck onto the threads stuffed into what should be your heart. it was a confusing kind of loneliness, a loneliness which i do not know where and what to attribute to.
as I am sitting here trying to untangle the threads it is clear that part of that loneliness comes from the fact that i'm leaving the city tomorrow to start my travels. it is not traveling alone for the next month that's causing this anxiety. it's knowing that when i come back it'll be a flash before i'm gone. and verman and youkyung will not be here. marcela had left. time certainly is not even. it flows lazily and then all of a sudden speeds up and everything you know warps into something else. we meet and we disperse. like fireworks.
just like that.
fireworks.
As usual I went to the screenings at MoMA alone last night. I enjoy it. taking my time. walking out of the theatre with all the space and time to muse about the film, letting the pictures loop and the mood linger, unbothered by such questions as how did you like the film? or what do you think? my thinking process is very slow. give me time to chew and swallow.
it struck me as I was strolling down Fifth Ave towards the subway. At close to 11pm with all the shops closed the pavement was quiet with only a few people now and then. the lights from the display windows were turned a shade down and glowed more pleasantly. It was a nice feeling but as my feet made their way uptown i became increasingly lonely. like having a yarn ball full of dust and whatnot stuck onto the threads stuffed into what should be your heart. it was a confusing kind of loneliness, a loneliness which i do not know where and what to attribute to.
as I am sitting here trying to untangle the threads it is clear that part of that loneliness comes from the fact that i'm leaving the city tomorrow to start my travels. it is not traveling alone for the next month that's causing this anxiety. it's knowing that when i come back it'll be a flash before i'm gone. and verman and youkyung will not be here. marcela had left. time certainly is not even. it flows lazily and then all of a sudden speeds up and everything you know warps into something else. we meet and we disperse. like fireworks.
just like that.
fireworks.
Sunday, May 11
Mo walked up the subway steps and I followed closely behind. She stopped and checked the schedule on the screen once more before proceeding to the main lobby. She passed the flower store, turned and examined herself in the displaying mirrors, flashed a smile and continued on. This forms her weekday routine - her path from Astoria to the subway, to Grand Central, to White Plains. i'm sure it happens all the time, but it does feel a bit peculiar to be conscious that you are walking another's well-treaded path.Late Sunday morning, off-peak, but the train was crowded. People with newspapers, people with flowers. people heading home for mother's day. we, too, are holding flowers. i don't remember celebrating this particular day in Vietnam. not that i remember many specialized days to be honest. but who would, unless they see tons of signs on display in the stores, winking "mother's day" - "buy something." I rather prefer coming home on random days with flowers. it's easier on the mind and more true to the heart. a rupture of feelings, an occasion when my heart swells with the thought of you.
New Haven was in full bloom. dogwood cover their branches with white and pink, decking the sidewalks like millions of butterflies gathering for a ball. Jim picked us up from the station and when he pulled into the parkway of the red Hadlerian house it felt like coming home.
We made dumplings. hundreds of them from scratch. i rolled the dough, a long strip that could wrap nothing. a square piece. a small piece. an oversized piece. finally a round decent one! the desire to improve glued me to me seat for 2 hours. and indeed they got better. then the shoulder got tired and more people arrived. so i sneaked to the back yard and talked to the lilacs. they smelled achingly sweet and i kept sniffing. in in in all those sweetness of spring. this time next year i will see you no longer. smell you no more but in my memories.
Mo took a good picture of me sitting on the back porch. the sun was shining. shining. and it was so green. and sweet. ahh... if love could bloom this brightly.
Madison
Madison lied on the edge of the sea but from the road it looked like it bordered the sky. for some reason the name always rings with the sound of jazz music to me. perhaps, because of that boy…Madison in bold black across his chest, his hands sliding across the keyboard, swinging chains of melodies.
well, Madison is anything but jazz. quiet and low-keyed. soft and somewhat empty. and we came on a gray day, when the sky was the sea.
there are certain things in life that can only be captured and withheld by the mind's eye. the moon was big and orange, melting onto the ripples like molten gold, taking me back to that night some time ago. i sat on the black sand. and she sat beside me, pointed up to the sky and spoke. It appealed to her, the moon behind the clouds. much more than the full overt moon. I’d loved it, the mystery, the potential, the hidden. but it occurred to me, the full moon, too, has its beauty, a generous sort, unpretentious, and without reservation.
you light the fireworks, forgetting to turn it to the sea. it ignited and headed straight for us, landing short a couple of feet. i looked at you, seeing nothing but your silver outline. and i still wonder...
We sat around talking. talking late. talking tired. talking happy. talking sighs. most people swell into shape over time. gradually, unconsciously. and they are to you. and you be to them. with some, you realize that switching point. your brain twitch. and you see. suddenly you see them! solid. with depth and weight. with dimensions. with colors and tones. joy. as each of you materialize into my existence. and i, into being.
well, Madison is anything but jazz. quiet and low-keyed. soft and somewhat empty. and we came on a gray day, when the sky was the sea.
there are certain things in life that can only be captured and withheld by the mind's eye. the moon was big and orange, melting onto the ripples like molten gold, taking me back to that night some time ago. i sat on the black sand. and she sat beside me, pointed up to the sky and spoke. It appealed to her, the moon behind the clouds. much more than the full overt moon. I’d loved it, the mystery, the potential, the hidden. but it occurred to me, the full moon, too, has its beauty, a generous sort, unpretentious, and without reservation.
you light the fireworks, forgetting to turn it to the sea. it ignited and headed straight for us, landing short a couple of feet. i looked at you, seeing nothing but your silver outline. and i still wonder...
We sat around talking. talking late. talking tired. talking happy. talking sighs. most people swell into shape over time. gradually, unconsciously. and they are to you. and you be to them. with some, you realize that switching point. your brain twitch. and you see. suddenly you see them! solid. with depth and weight. with dimensions. with colors and tones. joy. as each of you materialize into my existence. and i, into being.
New York
New York. People. lots of people. trash on pavements and scattered cigarette buds. tight tank tops and protruding nipples, bandanas and purple tights. dreadlocks and dirty blond hair. horse tattoos. crystal earrings. brand-named clothes and impeccable suits. wheelchairs. high heels. dog pee and mouse-like dogs. coffee shops and thrift stores. vendors. long sexy legs, tanned and pale... the list goes on.
He laughed over the phone "I've been meeting tons of people and gettin better at it. It's all about putting yourself out there. I kiss girls, kiss anything, actually!"
City influence. You got to push and grab. otherwise you get nowhere. get nothing.
The heat. the excitement. So many things to do. so many people to see. But what if after a while you realize among the thousands of people out there there're only so many types. and that the faces start looking one and the same?
He laughed over the phone "I've been meeting tons of people and gettin better at it. It's all about putting yourself out there. I kiss girls, kiss anything, actually!"
City influence. You got to push and grab. otherwise you get nowhere. get nothing.
The heat. the excitement. So many things to do. so many people to see. But what if after a while you realize among the thousands of people out there there're only so many types. and that the faces start looking one and the same?
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