mong 2 tet
the 2nd day of the lunar calendar. insomnia had somehow slipped in with the new year on the 1st. i laid awake till dawn, streams of thought racing through my mind, crossing each other as they head off in every possible direction. stopping nowhere, getting nowhere. simply running, endlessly, into the darkness.
tonight, i've decided to sort what i can into 3 piles. and maybe my head will clear up and sleep will return. the things i like, the things i don't like and the things i don't care abt. at least at this moment. tomorrow i might change my mind.
things i like/want/care about:
1. Freedom. i can write pages and pages on what i mean by freedom, but for now imagine blank whiteness, free of form and meaning. and whatever that is exactly is to be discovered in the coming year.
2. 頑張る気. Hard work. aha. but i still need to find paid work.
3. Being curious. the key to progress and to get my lazy ass off the ground.
4. A number of people. yes, that includes you.
5. Being comfortable. very crucial to being me.
6. The ability to want and care about something. apathy is truly a terror.
7. simplicity. working towards simplifying and minimizing.
8. Creating. a joy. be it in the form of words or shapes and colors
9. more materialistic stuffs - Food. crucial to sustaining happiness and the mortal body.
10. walks.
and so much more. starting this list was a foolish attempt.
things i dislike:
1. lack of imagination. leading to all sorts of "lackness". a serious disease.
2. laziness. like dust collecting on shelves, or rust on bicycle chains, requires regular check ups and clean outs.
3. depression. ahh...the hormones.
4. discussion of the self. a frequent and on-going mistake that paves way to nothing more than boredom and confusion.
5. the exhibitionist streak. an unappreciated quality. very much so.
6. inability to carry through a promise. better not say anything in the first place.
7. self-pity. cry and spit it all out if necessary. but pick yourself up and move on.
8. phonies. fake conversations and procedures. they kill me.
things i don't care about or rather don't care enough about: 1. money. while this is a serious concern and the main cause of aging in the last year i just can't seem to care all that much to make improvements. sigh. other than that since they're on the "don't care" list there's really no point in thinking about them in the first place.
phew. this listing business is getting me all worked up. maybe i should lie down and count sheep. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5...
Food and You
the room smells of baked cookies and as my hand reaches for the 5th one there is this smugness of sitting on the carpet surrounded by you. it is not the first time i feel grateful. i wish there is a way to paint my love on your walls. instead of putting nothing but words up here.
it has become a tradition. i float around, wear myself thin searching for a point in life. and you patch me up, pound in plenty of food, some common sense. and repeatedly tell me i need to eat more protein.
"Eat more protein!"
doesn't tofu count?
You lean back. the weight of you anchors me. It has been so long...
It's not a bad place to be, don't you think? the spot between friends and lovers.
I like to look at the way the shadows of your hair dance across your face. the way she laughs and raises her voice at the end of each sentences. the way you pretend to ask for opinions while you know exactly what you want. the way she hums as i run my hand across her hair. the way you all try so hard. cook a storm, box and build those muscles. keep and endure unbearableness. you strive to live strong. and i, to be like you.
i embrace you all. though i know i can never embrace enough.
it has become a tradition. i float around, wear myself thin searching for a point in life. and you patch me up, pound in plenty of food, some common sense. and repeatedly tell me i need to eat more protein.
"Eat more protein!"
doesn't tofu count?
You lean back. the weight of you anchors me. It has been so long...
It's not a bad place to be, don't you think? the spot between friends and lovers.
I like to look at the way the shadows of your hair dance across your face. the way she laughs and raises her voice at the end of each sentences. the way you pretend to ask for opinions while you know exactly what you want. the way she hums as i run my hand across her hair. the way you all try so hard. cook a storm, box and build those muscles. keep and endure unbearableness. you strive to live strong. and i, to be like you.
i embrace you all. though i know i can never embrace enough.
Mourning
Mourning with one's body.
When they danced their version of mourning i am able to feel my own loss. their jagged movements, slow and deliberate, delicate and intense, their dance of raw being, of living and suffering somehow created a space that enabled concentration. a space that allowed me to look straight and not to the side. a sad silent space of understanding.
There are many kinds of mourning. mourning of death. mourning of loss, of the irretrievable nature of certain things that happened in our lives. things that we cheerish and adore, things we wish we had a little bit more of. more time. more love.
more time. more love.
more time.
there are mournings that hover over you like a darkened cloud, heavy and wanting to rain. but unable to. you expect a downpour every second, only to hold your breath. one minute. two minutes. three days. four months... it hovers. and you anticipate rain every minute. and you keep anticipating. one day it'll pour. and then, not only the rain will wear you out. the waiting has.
i have never been to a single funeral. death came in words over the phone lines. more than once. a week late. unexpected. cold. unclear. with realizations always a year too late. with its heavy drooping clouds hanging over me for the time being, for the days and months before reality pours in in the land on the other side. i fear. i worry. i don't want to be the outsider looking in. not when parts of my inside are lost.
loss leaves its marks in many forms. scars, memories, bodies. lives. marks of sadness. marks of violence. marks of loss.
the lost of you was like coal on fire tossed on raw skin. it burned. but i bore no visible scars. the lost of you left me facing myself, mirroring enola. the word bouncing off the wall. echoing.
perhaps i mourn with the hours of the night, listening to the sound of cars. and of silence. Three types of silences come through the bedroom window. The sound of silence after a passing-by car -- the sound of emptiness. the space misses the seconds it was filled. The sound of silence before a car comes -- the sound of anticipation, of waiting. and the silence between the "empty silence" and the "anticipating silence" -- the silence of resignation and settlement. A silence that accepts its solitude.
When they danced their version of mourning i am able to feel my own loss. their jagged movements, slow and deliberate, delicate and intense, their dance of raw being, of living and suffering somehow created a space that enabled concentration. a space that allowed me to look straight and not to the side. a sad silent space of understanding.
There are many kinds of mourning. mourning of death. mourning of loss, of the irretrievable nature of certain things that happened in our lives. things that we cheerish and adore, things we wish we had a little bit more of. more time. more love.
more time. more love.
more time.
there are mournings that hover over you like a darkened cloud, heavy and wanting to rain. but unable to. you expect a downpour every second, only to hold your breath. one minute. two minutes. three days. four months... it hovers. and you anticipate rain every minute. and you keep anticipating. one day it'll pour. and then, not only the rain will wear you out. the waiting has.
i have never been to a single funeral. death came in words over the phone lines. more than once. a week late. unexpected. cold. unclear. with realizations always a year too late. with its heavy drooping clouds hanging over me for the time being, for the days and months before reality pours in in the land on the other side. i fear. i worry. i don't want to be the outsider looking in. not when parts of my inside are lost.
loss leaves its marks in many forms. scars, memories, bodies. lives. marks of sadness. marks of violence. marks of loss.
the lost of you was like coal on fire tossed on raw skin. it burned. but i bore no visible scars. the lost of you left me facing myself, mirroring enola. the word bouncing off the wall. echoing.
perhaps i mourn with the hours of the night, listening to the sound of cars. and of silence. Three types of silences come through the bedroom window. The sound of silence after a passing-by car -- the sound of emptiness. the space misses the seconds it was filled. The sound of silence before a car comes -- the sound of anticipation, of waiting. and the silence between the "empty silence" and the "anticipating silence" -- the silence of resignation and settlement. A silence that accepts its solitude.
Home
"Home is where the heart belongs"
But if home really is where the heart belongs then for many in this era home becomes "homes."
It is not possible to live in a place for an extent and not grow attached to it in some ways. attachment comes in many forms. be it the fondness of a location that holds a sparkle of genius, a moment of understanding, of realization, of appreciation; or a place that holds moments when one feels loved or falls in love. even the spot where one's heart breaks into two, or three, or more, carries the impact of home. for it is when the heart breaks that it understands where it wants to belong.
be it welcoming arms. or even be it a space you had to push your way into and claim yours. be it routines and repetitions that verge on dullness, but in moments of unrest in foreign places carry the sense of security and familiarity only time can build. be it street corners. be it a type of music that frequents a room. be it the smell. the sense of you filling into a space.
The heart belongs to the people. and It is not always possible to gather everyone you love into the same corner. People travel, people move away. you travel. You move away. and when you part, home is once again broken into pieces. of course over time you find other things to fill in the chunk that had chipped off, but it will never fit the same way again. home is always fragmented.
home. it is hard to point out where home is. here or back there. or back when.
you carry space and air. Travel to a new place. live in an unfamiliar location. the unfamiliarity will become familiar over time. not complete, but enough to create a crust around your skin. enough to seep into your pores. enough for the ones you left behind to figure out that you no longer smell or taste the same.
can your heart feel just one place, just one person? you wonder. demand it and perhaps you will rip.
But if home really is where the heart belongs then for many in this era home becomes "homes."
It is not possible to live in a place for an extent and not grow attached to it in some ways. attachment comes in many forms. be it the fondness of a location that holds a sparkle of genius, a moment of understanding, of realization, of appreciation; or a place that holds moments when one feels loved or falls in love. even the spot where one's heart breaks into two, or three, or more, carries the impact of home. for it is when the heart breaks that it understands where it wants to belong.
be it welcoming arms. or even be it a space you had to push your way into and claim yours. be it routines and repetitions that verge on dullness, but in moments of unrest in foreign places carry the sense of security and familiarity only time can build. be it street corners. be it a type of music that frequents a room. be it the smell. the sense of you filling into a space.
The heart belongs to the people. and It is not always possible to gather everyone you love into the same corner. People travel, people move away. you travel. You move away. and when you part, home is once again broken into pieces. of course over time you find other things to fill in the chunk that had chipped off, but it will never fit the same way again. home is always fragmented.
home. it is hard to point out where home is. here or back there. or back when.
you carry space and air. Travel to a new place. live in an unfamiliar location. the unfamiliarity will become familiar over time. not complete, but enough to create a crust around your skin. enough to seep into your pores. enough for the ones you left behind to figure out that you no longer smell or taste the same.
can your heart feel just one place, just one person? you wonder. demand it and perhaps you will rip.
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.
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