i think i have internalized george bailey from it's a wonderful life as my ideal man. neurotic, emotionally extreme, dependable yet occasionally erratic, idealistic but constantly having his aspirations crushed by social responsibility. attractive but also a little funny-looking. tall.
strike that: i have internalized george bailey as a model for myself. except for the attractive and/or tall part. funny-looking i got down.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
notes on a modern history
The wrinkles on the yellow face
of the papers he carries, conform
to his narrow hips. His pockets
swell from a volume of Li Po, stones; a paintbrush
dribbling on the tail front of the borrowed shirt
he wears when he can to hide the skin
above his bruised collarbone,
strictures of coarse rose, in a photograph,
tunneling into the marrow.
This is no simple mug shot, no words
of dissent written across his forehead: a young
dark-haired boy passed out in a schoolyard.
Guangzhou is underpasses beneath stairwells
behind concrete blocks, sodden, smoldered—
the day they become homes there are no words.
His father’s dress shoes
are caked in slick black shoe varnish
and loose dirt from no sidewalks, no pavement—
only dull earth, darkness tied to wood, paraded,
thrown into jail cells with cement overhead
and surrounding, the frontispiece of the manifesto—
one light, one chair, and no end of rope; there is only
one place to rest your head at night.
On the drive from Nanjing to Shanghai
where dissent began and shuddered
towards the metallic spine of the waterfront,
I speak to myself in uncertain tongues, as the woman beside me
talks of this place, 43 years before we walked: a soldier,
round face, smooth-skinned Jap, dragged the last few
yards of entrails from her mother, striations of bile
left on the wrong side of the road. The postcards in the street carts
on the road leaving Nanjing and much later, in Beijing
are not of my grandfather who left for San Francisco in 1923
before upheaval. He did not want the glory of having survived,
his letters to his wife are stricken
with eloquence, she receives envelopes
without words, pledged to die in his homeland;
she is too demure to even be unskilled.
The god of war who stands before every pagan doorway
to the right of the quiet eyes of Guanyin—sexless, artless
figure—holds a serrated blade and a snake,
one in each hand; the snakes’ head is lost. The grey entrance,
the ruthless sneer decaying within politics that leaves
no corpses, only trails missing
ends to stories shuddering to a close.
Her lips turn in profile
to the dust rising over a road
where she is too young to recall for certain
if their house once stood;
one could think of the families
outside on the bare plot of red clay that cakes the ground,
one child running out to brace her hands around another,
to trap her in tenderness, mosquito netting for fingers,
ink on silk scroll for Nanjing
but this is Hangtzu, crossing a bridge
where the water beneath
courses red. She could have come across, trading
rape for parchment, ink block, bookmark,
words in pictures containing some patina
of truth but the photograph I hold burns the insides.
The man could be wearing
the same red I have imagined all this time
but I am riding this bus with only myself and
a handful of memories, not even my own, who might
hold my hand in late afternoon into the predestined sun?
The press of wrinkles that have appeared
across the map held by the tall, thin girl
who blankets her voice over the passengers who took this bus
from Changdu, is forgetting the history:
beneath this tree, the trunk of its body
worshipped the passing of the poet
who wrote, drank, and drowned in the river,
humming the words of a song to the moon
or about it, but I cannot sing it, not in Mandarin,
not anymore than I can in any other dialect—
the song must be pressed into the rocks along the riverbed,
that I may find it if my footing
is sure and does not slip as a man
has before I could claim his as my own.
***
(this was originally written as a writing exercise based on a michael s. harper poem for poetry class circa 2006. recently, i found a draft of it in an old notebook. i tried to revise it a little but one of these days i will have to find a more polished version of this among my piles of paper back home and work from there.)
of the papers he carries, conform
to his narrow hips. His pockets
swell from a volume of Li Po, stones; a paintbrush
dribbling on the tail front of the borrowed shirt
he wears when he can to hide the skin
above his bruised collarbone,
strictures of coarse rose, in a photograph,
tunneling into the marrow.
This is no simple mug shot, no words
of dissent written across his forehead: a young
dark-haired boy passed out in a schoolyard.
Guangzhou is underpasses beneath stairwells
behind concrete blocks, sodden, smoldered—
the day they become homes there are no words.
His father’s dress shoes
are caked in slick black shoe varnish
and loose dirt from no sidewalks, no pavement—
only dull earth, darkness tied to wood, paraded,
thrown into jail cells with cement overhead
and surrounding, the frontispiece of the manifesto—
one light, one chair, and no end of rope; there is only
one place to rest your head at night.
On the drive from Nanjing to Shanghai
where dissent began and shuddered
towards the metallic spine of the waterfront,
I speak to myself in uncertain tongues, as the woman beside me
talks of this place, 43 years before we walked: a soldier,
round face, smooth-skinned Jap, dragged the last few
yards of entrails from her mother, striations of bile
left on the wrong side of the road. The postcards in the street carts
on the road leaving Nanjing and much later, in Beijing
are not of my grandfather who left for San Francisco in 1923
before upheaval. He did not want the glory of having survived,
his letters to his wife are stricken
with eloquence, she receives envelopes
without words, pledged to die in his homeland;
she is too demure to even be unskilled.
The god of war who stands before every pagan doorway
to the right of the quiet eyes of Guanyin—sexless, artless
figure—holds a serrated blade and a snake,
one in each hand; the snakes’ head is lost. The grey entrance,
the ruthless sneer decaying within politics that leaves
no corpses, only trails missing
ends to stories shuddering to a close.
Her lips turn in profile
to the dust rising over a road
where she is too young to recall for certain
if their house once stood;
one could think of the families
outside on the bare plot of red clay that cakes the ground,
one child running out to brace her hands around another,
to trap her in tenderness, mosquito netting for fingers,
ink on silk scroll for Nanjing
but this is Hangtzu, crossing a bridge
where the water beneath
courses red. She could have come across, trading
rape for parchment, ink block, bookmark,
words in pictures containing some patina
of truth but the photograph I hold burns the insides.
The man could be wearing
the same red I have imagined all this time
but I am riding this bus with only myself and
a handful of memories, not even my own, who might
hold my hand in late afternoon into the predestined sun?
The press of wrinkles that have appeared
across the map held by the tall, thin girl
who blankets her voice over the passengers who took this bus
from Changdu, is forgetting the history:
beneath this tree, the trunk of its body
worshipped the passing of the poet
who wrote, drank, and drowned in the river,
humming the words of a song to the moon
or about it, but I cannot sing it, not in Mandarin,
not anymore than I can in any other dialect—
the song must be pressed into the rocks along the riverbed,
that I may find it if my footing
is sure and does not slip as a man
has before I could claim his as my own.
***
(this was originally written as a writing exercise based on a michael s. harper poem for poetry class circa 2006. recently, i found a draft of it in an old notebook. i tried to revise it a little but one of these days i will have to find a more polished version of this among my piles of paper back home and work from there.)
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
it occurs to me that i might hate medicine. i don't know; it frightens me, it frustrates me. it just seems like this all encompassing entity. it requires so much from people, some level of eternal fascination and discipline i don't think i have.
i kind of fell into the field by accident. that is both my luck and my curse. people ask me what i want to go into and then lay out the brickwork of their dreams before me. i'm in my 3rd year and i have no idea. a 12 year old i was doing an exam on asked me if i wanted to be anything else besides a doctor when i was growing up. i didn't know if i should tell her that even now, i'm not sure if this is what i want. honestly, i don't think i ever wanted anything growing up other than to be happy. i've done a mostly shit-poor job of that too.
when i started this academic year, i watched patients receive emergency intubations. i watched them dying but not die. i really admire physicians who can tread that line between caring and professional composure. it is something i'm trying to attain; how to care without taking it to heart or how to heal without indifference.
in other news, i can't focus on anything any more.
i kind of fell into the field by accident. that is both my luck and my curse. people ask me what i want to go into and then lay out the brickwork of their dreams before me. i'm in my 3rd year and i have no idea. a 12 year old i was doing an exam on asked me if i wanted to be anything else besides a doctor when i was growing up. i didn't know if i should tell her that even now, i'm not sure if this is what i want. honestly, i don't think i ever wanted anything growing up other than to be happy. i've done a mostly shit-poor job of that too.
when i started this academic year, i watched patients receive emergency intubations. i watched them dying but not die. i really admire physicians who can tread that line between caring and professional composure. it is something i'm trying to attain; how to care without taking it to heart or how to heal without indifference.
in other news, i can't focus on anything any more.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
in defense of kanye west
i've heard a lot of negative things about kanye west even before this whole VMA debacle though it's hard to deny that what he did the other night wasn't a dick move. Grabbing the mike from a 19 year old winning her first real music award (ironically for what i consider more muzak than music) isn't exactly the noblest of acts. in the very least, he did it on behalf of beyonce although goodness knows beyonce has earned enough accolades that one less ugly trophy won't cause her to lose any sleep at night.
yes, kanye often acts like a jerk. and yes, he speaks his mind a little too often and sometimes what's on his mind is incredibly stupid. but i respect that. i think for the most part what comes off as ego is compensation for a man who has had a difficult life. what little i know about him: i know he grew up in a single parent household, struggled with dropping out of school and the repercussions of that, worked a long time for respect as a producer and respect as a rapper. he has lived through a serious car accident, an intense breakup with his fiance, and the sudden death of his mother. he is a man who seems to struggle with what he has gained through fame and what he has lost.
perhaps it's the deep cut that early exposure to greek tragedies has had on me but i can't help but see the pathos in all of this. at times listening to his music, i can pinpoint the lines that reflect on his own knowledge of his shallowness and the ridiculousness of it all. this is probably me projecting aspects of myself on others but i've always felt akin to mr. west in that sense. i suspect that he knows, like i do, when you're not being a loud shallow asshole than you're just dealing with your own shit.
anyways, i thought i had something meaningful to say about all this but now that i reread this, i realize--not really. in the very least, i'm pretty sure this will be my last rap or pop culture-oriented rant for awhile lest i become the written word equivalent of that weepy, runny eye-linered mess defending brit-brit on youtube.
yes, kanye often acts like a jerk. and yes, he speaks his mind a little too often and sometimes what's on his mind is incredibly stupid. but i respect that. i think for the most part what comes off as ego is compensation for a man who has had a difficult life. what little i know about him: i know he grew up in a single parent household, struggled with dropping out of school and the repercussions of that, worked a long time for respect as a producer and respect as a rapper. he has lived through a serious car accident, an intense breakup with his fiance, and the sudden death of his mother. he is a man who seems to struggle with what he has gained through fame and what he has lost.
perhaps it's the deep cut that early exposure to greek tragedies has had on me but i can't help but see the pathos in all of this. at times listening to his music, i can pinpoint the lines that reflect on his own knowledge of his shallowness and the ridiculousness of it all. this is probably me projecting aspects of myself on others but i've always felt akin to mr. west in that sense. i suspect that he knows, like i do, when you're not being a loud shallow asshole than you're just dealing with your own shit.
anyways, i thought i had something meaningful to say about all this but now that i reread this, i realize--not really. in the very least, i'm pretty sure this will be my last rap or pop culture-oriented rant for awhile lest i become the written word equivalent of that weepy, runny eye-linered mess defending brit-brit on youtube.
Monday, September 14, 2009
a short discourse on jay-z
listening to the blueprint 3, certain things occur to me.
first: i will enjoy anything with a horn section (which is probably why i like the first half of this album more than the second). tied to this, however, is the fact that jay-z sounds most comfortable rapping over actual melodies than blips and beats. his flow seems most fluid over the sweet sax and guitar lines of DOA than that swizzy crap near the end. more evidence of this, is the comparatively strong lyrical outing on american gangster compared to this album. it is bizarre when he tries to use progressive beats and at one point he drops a line that seems to reference clipse (keys open doors). yes, clipse can use clanging, futuristic sounds because that's their thing. but jay that's not you and that's a good thing. you shouldn't be cross-referencing anyone but maybe 'pac, biggie, and ironic head-nods to nas--certainly not clipse. you should be able to stand on the strength of what you say not name-dropping.
two: this is really weak rapping. i guess the old saying about glass houses comes to mind because i could only imagine how terrible my rapping would be in comparison but honestly, terrible. i gotta give hov some credit; this is still a much better album than most of the stuff i hear on the hip hop stations and i would (and will ) gladly roll down my windows and pump this from my ride. but the strong storytelling, humor, and bravado i've come to expect in a jay-z album is just not here. it is not even that he is resting on his laurels but he is a man who is comfortable in his achievements and has earned his way to the life he's wanted. by all means, he should have all that he's worked for. but satisfaction is not the greatest motivation for art. the humor, the sense of injustice, the hunger for success that he exhibited in the past are not here.
three: okay, disclaimer, but this last point is probably really closely related to pt. 2. jay-z is getting older and if there's one thing i respect about his style now is that he doesn't insist on playing the gangster card. he knows that he can't rap whole songs about pushing coke or pimping anymore because that's not his lifestyle. at the same time, he seems to have a hard time finding meaningful things to say now that he delves less into his past. while it's probably a hard topic to broach, jay-z stands at a good vantage point to rap about what it means to be an elder statesman in hip-hop, the stresses of maintaining success, shifting values from hood to mansion, and what role he sees himself in the music scene. it's probably a sensitive issue (i can barely think of turning 30 without wanting to cry) but it's something that jay might have more insight into than anyone else in rap. hopefully, his next album will say something brilliant about that.
first: i will enjoy anything with a horn section (which is probably why i like the first half of this album more than the second). tied to this, however, is the fact that jay-z sounds most comfortable rapping over actual melodies than blips and beats. his flow seems most fluid over the sweet sax and guitar lines of DOA than that swizzy crap near the end. more evidence of this, is the comparatively strong lyrical outing on american gangster compared to this album. it is bizarre when he tries to use progressive beats and at one point he drops a line that seems to reference clipse (keys open doors). yes, clipse can use clanging, futuristic sounds because that's their thing. but jay that's not you and that's a good thing. you shouldn't be cross-referencing anyone but maybe 'pac, biggie, and ironic head-nods to nas--certainly not clipse. you should be able to stand on the strength of what you say not name-dropping.
two: this is really weak rapping. i guess the old saying about glass houses comes to mind because i could only imagine how terrible my rapping would be in comparison but honestly, terrible. i gotta give hov some credit; this is still a much better album than most of the stuff i hear on the hip hop stations and i would (and will ) gladly roll down my windows and pump this from my ride. but the strong storytelling, humor, and bravado i've come to expect in a jay-z album is just not here. it is not even that he is resting on his laurels but he is a man who is comfortable in his achievements and has earned his way to the life he's wanted. by all means, he should have all that he's worked for. but satisfaction is not the greatest motivation for art. the humor, the sense of injustice, the hunger for success that he exhibited in the past are not here.
three: okay, disclaimer, but this last point is probably really closely related to pt. 2. jay-z is getting older and if there's one thing i respect about his style now is that he doesn't insist on playing the gangster card. he knows that he can't rap whole songs about pushing coke or pimping anymore because that's not his lifestyle. at the same time, he seems to have a hard time finding meaningful things to say now that he delves less into his past. while it's probably a hard topic to broach, jay-z stands at a good vantage point to rap about what it means to be an elder statesman in hip-hop, the stresses of maintaining success, shifting values from hood to mansion, and what role he sees himself in the music scene. it's probably a sensitive issue (i can barely think of turning 30 without wanting to cry) but it's something that jay might have more insight into than anyone else in rap. hopefully, his next album will say something brilliant about that.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
my life has always been tethered to a sense of nostalgia i could never quite account for. these days i like to think that it runs in the blood, some deep immigrant longing, the loss of something visceral and unnamed. the way some people's bones ache before rain, my sternum presses against my skin and a weight inside my stomach pulls me closer to the ground as if something in my life were about to come pouring down. but nothing gathers on the horizon; i've always suspected that what i feel is my body pulling me back towards a half-remembered dream, trying to shape my thoughts into something it has known before, something distant but real.
lately, i find myself reaching back. i watch the teenagers leaning against their cars on cool summer nights and children riding their bikes on empty concrete roads. i drive my car with the windows rolled down, playing the radio, singing along loudly to the songs i know. i snap my gum, dress up, dress down, and let my thoughts wander. in my mind, i want to be 14, 15, 16, anything but a 23 year old with too many responsibilities and a wavering sense of duty. i wish i were 5 or 6, round cheeks and scraped knees picking squash blossoms off the spiraling vines in my grandparent's yard, playing make-believe on an abandoned boiler.
but not quite. there is something deeper but i just don't know.
lately, i find myself reaching back. i watch the teenagers leaning against their cars on cool summer nights and children riding their bikes on empty concrete roads. i drive my car with the windows rolled down, playing the radio, singing along loudly to the songs i know. i snap my gum, dress up, dress down, and let my thoughts wander. in my mind, i want to be 14, 15, 16, anything but a 23 year old with too many responsibilities and a wavering sense of duty. i wish i were 5 or 6, round cheeks and scraped knees picking squash blossoms off the spiraling vines in my grandparent's yard, playing make-believe on an abandoned boiler.
but not quite. there is something deeper but i just don't know.
i am pleased that obama did not cop out on including a public option in his speech about health care reform. i am not pleased by his explicit need to say that the health plan would not directly fund abortion or provide care for illegal immigrants. i am still on the fence about how he thinks it's possible to fund a system without creating any deficit. not that i am opposed to debt, i just don't think that there are that many self-sustaining government programs that keep themselves in the black and it is best to just own up to that fact. but what do i know, i am probably just a liberal/socialist. i would still like to see something more concrete (i.e. policy written down to the T) before making any kind of judgment call on any of this.
anyways...canadian-like single payer system all the way!
anyways...canadian-like single payer system all the way!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
distance
i want a cupcake so badly.
in theory, i could go get one. there is a bakery less than a mile from my apt. hell, i could probably walk there in 3 minutes.
except this is long island and apparently i'm not allowed to walk anywhere without getting funny looks or being run over by oncoming traffic unaccustomed to pedestrians. i'm too lazy to find my car keys, start my car, drive out, park there, and re-park my car in my driveway. it's just a little too much effort, time, and carbon emission for one measly pastry.
alas, my longing will go unrequited.
in theory, i could go get one. there is a bakery less than a mile from my apt. hell, i could probably walk there in 3 minutes.
except this is long island and apparently i'm not allowed to walk anywhere without getting funny looks or being run over by oncoming traffic unaccustomed to pedestrians. i'm too lazy to find my car keys, start my car, drive out, park there, and re-park my car in my driveway. it's just a little too much effort, time, and carbon emission for one measly pastry.
alas, my longing will go unrequited.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
okay so i know that obsessing doesn't help. and i know that in the end (or at least so far in my life), things tend to work out okay, albeit never spectacularly. it's a kind of ritual of sorts that i promise to turn over a new leaf or expect better outcomes from the world but everything more or less equilibrates back to where it started. i don't know i'm just so frustrated and each time i have to go through this cycle it feels like more of me gets trapped in it and never comes out again.
jesus, jesus, jesus.
jesus, jesus, jesus.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
medicine for real part II
so i have had a dry sore throat with non-productive cough, fever (okay i think it's fever, i don't actually own a thermometer), fatigue, and muscle pain for the last two days. hope it's not swine flu.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
medicine for real
it's been a long day. at least i stopped myself from throwing up or crying in the bathroom.
then i went out and bought myself a pair of shiny shoes.
balance.
then i went out and bought myself a pair of shiny shoes.
balance.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
some honesty
there are probably better things to do on a friday night than having a beer by myself and writing this. i could probably try and be social (too tired) or study (also too tired). even though my life is already filled with too many breaks to "clear my head," i'm having a hard time getting myself together.
this week has been frustrating. i'm trying to make the best of it. what i've suspected for so long, that i am inadequate, socially awkward, and stupid, seems to be proving itself true. all the things i've kind of half-assed through are coming back to haunt me. i can't decide if this is motivating or spirit crushing. i've never wanted to curl up into a ball and cry more than i do now but for some reason i can't. instead i'll just finish off the 2nd beer of the evening and contemplate a 3rd.
it feels like there's so much for me to do. maybe too much. but then i start thinking if i have gotten this far--much farther than many others who have worked harder and wanted it more--then maybe i just need to pull myself up by the bootstraps and keep at it. rotations have shown me that the task of being a competent doctor extends far beyond med school and that i will forever be trying to keep up, learn, and prove myself to an escalating hierarchy of people. i haven't quite wrapped my mind around whether this is good or bad. i keep vacillating between commitment to this field and a strong desire to bail, if only i still felt like there was something which i could safely or at least competently bail to. any talent i once perceived myself to have is gone. most of the time i feel like medicine is the only thing i have left.
moving to long island, i felt like it would be an appropriate change of scenery and backdrop for personal change. i can say quite easily that i'm tired of the person that i am. i keep falling back into the same patterns but i realize now overnight transformations are more fantasy than fact. after ignoring all those occult strings that pull at me for a long time, i returned to reading my horoscope and tarot this year. all those predictions seem to indicate a good year for me. i am still waiting for it. my life, no, maybe more specifically just me, feels like it is diminishing.
and if i'm going to be honest, i might as well be honest. after ignoring it for so long, i realized how much i missed my ex. after so much stupid shit with men: some too serious for me, some too ridiculous, and some just kind of random--there is really only one person i think about when i think about these sort of things at all and i don't know why. it's been such a long time and i only knew him for a little bit and really, i didn't know him at all. seeing him after so long only goes to show how even those tenuous beliefs i had about him were wrong. it's probably a reflection of my own dissatisfaction that i keep returning to situations that cause me grief because i think i can somehow make things right. i really can't.
these are hard times and i can't decide if i am at a point of impasse or revolution.
and now i am on beer #3.
this week has been frustrating. i'm trying to make the best of it. what i've suspected for so long, that i am inadequate, socially awkward, and stupid, seems to be proving itself true. all the things i've kind of half-assed through are coming back to haunt me. i can't decide if this is motivating or spirit crushing. i've never wanted to curl up into a ball and cry more than i do now but for some reason i can't. instead i'll just finish off the 2nd beer of the evening and contemplate a 3rd.
it feels like there's so much for me to do. maybe too much. but then i start thinking if i have gotten this far--much farther than many others who have worked harder and wanted it more--then maybe i just need to pull myself up by the bootstraps and keep at it. rotations have shown me that the task of being a competent doctor extends far beyond med school and that i will forever be trying to keep up, learn, and prove myself to an escalating hierarchy of people. i haven't quite wrapped my mind around whether this is good or bad. i keep vacillating between commitment to this field and a strong desire to bail, if only i still felt like there was something which i could safely or at least competently bail to. any talent i once perceived myself to have is gone. most of the time i feel like medicine is the only thing i have left.
moving to long island, i felt like it would be an appropriate change of scenery and backdrop for personal change. i can say quite easily that i'm tired of the person that i am. i keep falling back into the same patterns but i realize now overnight transformations are more fantasy than fact. after ignoring all those occult strings that pull at me for a long time, i returned to reading my horoscope and tarot this year. all those predictions seem to indicate a good year for me. i am still waiting for it. my life, no, maybe more specifically just me, feels like it is diminishing.
and if i'm going to be honest, i might as well be honest. after ignoring it for so long, i realized how much i missed my ex. after so much stupid shit with men: some too serious for me, some too ridiculous, and some just kind of random--there is really only one person i think about when i think about these sort of things at all and i don't know why. it's been such a long time and i only knew him for a little bit and really, i didn't know him at all. seeing him after so long only goes to show how even those tenuous beliefs i had about him were wrong. it's probably a reflection of my own dissatisfaction that i keep returning to situations that cause me grief because i think i can somehow make things right. i really can't.
these are hard times and i can't decide if i am at a point of impasse or revolution.
and now i am on beer #3.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
A Reminder
Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.
-Kahlil Gibran "The Prophet" (pg. 33-34)
And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.
-Kahlil Gibran "The Prophet" (pg. 33-34)
Thursday, July 2, 2009
night driving
it's terrifying: watching the darkness unfold along the road, the slope of the tar skimming below my tires. the car pitches forward and swerves when i don't mean for it to. every street seems like staring into a lump of coal.
after the fear subsides, the night is so beautiful. the headlights peer out only far enough to illuminate the black roads and outline the trees. there is only me and this spot of light ahead.
after the fear subsides, the night is so beautiful. the headlights peer out only far enough to illuminate the black roads and outline the trees. there is only me and this spot of light ahead.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
moved
long island is extraordinarily quiet at night.
a few minutes ago, some teens were biking and yipping down the street; even their exuberance was more muted than i'm used to.
the place i'm living in is cute in a bizarre way--all jagged angles from being, technically i guess, a converted attic. but then cute in a bizarre way could just as well be used to describe myself. what i really want is to find elements of myself in everything.
i can feel the breeze from my window. even though i have lived away from home for five years, this is the first time i've really been completely by myself: no fear of someone walking through the door, no stranger peering over my shoulder as i eat. it has never occurred to me how nice the wind feels blowing through an open window facing out into a darkness thick with the sound of crickets and rustling trees.
i am hoping that this is what i need.
a few minutes ago, some teens were biking and yipping down the street; even their exuberance was more muted than i'm used to.
the place i'm living in is cute in a bizarre way--all jagged angles from being, technically i guess, a converted attic. but then cute in a bizarre way could just as well be used to describe myself. what i really want is to find elements of myself in everything.
i can feel the breeze from my window. even though i have lived away from home for five years, this is the first time i've really been completely by myself: no fear of someone walking through the door, no stranger peering over my shoulder as i eat. it has never occurred to me how nice the wind feels blowing through an open window facing out into a darkness thick with the sound of crickets and rustling trees.
i am hoping that this is what i need.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
once everything settles down...once i'm done with school, once i'm working--paying for my own shit and being an adult--what then?
it's getting closer & closer to a point in time when i will need to have an answer for this. i've split my life into so many compartments of objects, actions, concepts, and people; studying medicine has been the steadiest artifice that i've been able to carry this out.
but i can't sustain it. i can't manipulate this one tired excuse forever.
what am i going to do with myself once the greatest stress and burden in my life...is just me?
it's getting closer & closer to a point in time when i will need to have an answer for this. i've split my life into so many compartments of objects, actions, concepts, and people; studying medicine has been the steadiest artifice that i've been able to carry this out.
but i can't sustain it. i can't manipulate this one tired excuse forever.
what am i going to do with myself once the greatest stress and burden in my life...is just me?
Thursday, June 4, 2009
1. hello june. june means oncoming anxiety attacks and 100+ practice questions a day. oh and memorizing mnemonic devices but not the meaning behind them. oh and future homelessness.
2. it is still raining, it is still cold. dammit nyc, it's june.
3. according to my 2009 horoscope reading, this is supposed to be my year. so far i feel like shit.
4. at least i can stop waking up at 6 soon.
2. it is still raining, it is still cold. dammit nyc, it's june.
3. according to my 2009 horoscope reading, this is supposed to be my year. so far i feel like shit.
4. at least i can stop waking up at 6 soon.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
1. i wish it would stop raining. i am so sick of rain.
2. graduating in 23 days. i don't know how to feel. mostly, i feel tired. there is a list of grievances that i have associated with graduation, rotations, myself, etc. not really in any mood to go through it though, at least not verbally.
3. i'm trying to pare down my life to bare essentials.
2. graduating in 23 days. i don't know how to feel. mostly, i feel tired. there is a list of grievances that i have associated with graduation, rotations, myself, etc. not really in any mood to go through it though, at least not verbally.
3. i'm trying to pare down my life to bare essentials.
Friday, April 24, 2009
tell me where to keep this
in the circuitous way that life works, events are coming to an end and it all feels so familiar.
i am slightly disappointed with how things have turned out. other times in the past, eras that now feel like a million years ago, i would've managed, i would've sojourned on. the idea has never been to merely cope but to take every setback as a form of impetus, barreling faster towards some vague sense of future and happiness. people make the mistake of assuming that i am a pessimist because i recognize too quickly the ugliness in the world. but my fallacy has never been cozying up to the bad but believing for so long, that some good comes out of everything.
it is hard for me to accept this. lately, i have noticed the creeping shade and the slow turn inwards. the growing list of things i am sorry for: i don't mean to be so angry all the time, i don't mean to be so sad. often at night, i walk back home and it feels like every day there is less. Less time, less light--everything is diminishing. i wish i could take handfuls of it all, store it in boxes and hide it beneath planks of wood before it disappears but i can't.
i realize now how little good is left. there isn't enough to pass around. lately i stand very still, this frozen palm pressed to my hip.
it just gets harder.
i am slightly disappointed with how things have turned out. other times in the past, eras that now feel like a million years ago, i would've managed, i would've sojourned on. the idea has never been to merely cope but to take every setback as a form of impetus, barreling faster towards some vague sense of future and happiness. people make the mistake of assuming that i am a pessimist because i recognize too quickly the ugliness in the world. but my fallacy has never been cozying up to the bad but believing for so long, that some good comes out of everything.
it is hard for me to accept this. lately, i have noticed the creeping shade and the slow turn inwards. the growing list of things i am sorry for: i don't mean to be so angry all the time, i don't mean to be so sad. often at night, i walk back home and it feels like every day there is less. Less time, less light--everything is diminishing. i wish i could take handfuls of it all, store it in boxes and hide it beneath planks of wood before it disappears but i can't.
i realize now how little good is left. there isn't enough to pass around. lately i stand very still, this frozen palm pressed to my hip.
it just gets harder.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
paramount
i am keeping my ear very close to the ground.
i am listening harder than ever to hear what is approaching.
i am listening harder than ever to hear what is approaching.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
lately, i have been mistaking the sound of my refrigerator for the sound of my ceiling fan. for some reason, they are remarkably similar. oh my fridge: chopping the still air with its imaginary blades. woosh woosh woosh. a familiar rhythmic churning every hour or so. i find myself sitting in my room thinking "hmm better turn off the fan."
even though it is nearly mid-april, it is still so cold in new york. it is becoming a little dispiriting to remind myself that, no, it is not the fan, it's just the fridge. it's not nearly fan-weather yet.
in other news, i'm moving out by the end of the month. while i have a bunch of things to finish up beforehand, i'll be leaving the city soon too. it's surprising but i'm really looking forward to it.
nyc is the kind of place you either love or hate and if you grew up here and live your whole life here, you can't help but love it. at the same time though, you end up obsessing about the parts of it you are losing. the nature of this city is change and all the familiar elements that you have known eventually become supplanted by the alien and the new. every loss starts feeling like a memory slipping away and the longer you stay, the more the city starts feeling like a memorial of your own life.
in between fighting with myself about what it is that i hate about "new" new york and what it is in the grit, cement, and oddly out-of-place tree that keeps my finer feelings afloat, i've come to accept that living in long island will not be so terrible. in every aspect of my life now, i expect the worst and i figure that things can only surprise me by turning out better than i planned.
if nothing else, it will let me do something i have never really done which is to miss the city. i'm looking forward to shifting my perspective away from what it is that is disappearing before me to what it is that will still be there when i return.
even though it is nearly mid-april, it is still so cold in new york. it is becoming a little dispiriting to remind myself that, no, it is not the fan, it's just the fridge. it's not nearly fan-weather yet.
in other news, i'm moving out by the end of the month. while i have a bunch of things to finish up beforehand, i'll be leaving the city soon too. it's surprising but i'm really looking forward to it.
nyc is the kind of place you either love or hate and if you grew up here and live your whole life here, you can't help but love it. at the same time though, you end up obsessing about the parts of it you are losing. the nature of this city is change and all the familiar elements that you have known eventually become supplanted by the alien and the new. every loss starts feeling like a memory slipping away and the longer you stay, the more the city starts feeling like a memorial of your own life.
in between fighting with myself about what it is that i hate about "new" new york and what it is in the grit, cement, and oddly out-of-place tree that keeps my finer feelings afloat, i've come to accept that living in long island will not be so terrible. in every aspect of my life now, i expect the worst and i figure that things can only surprise me by turning out better than i planned.
if nothing else, it will let me do something i have never really done which is to miss the city. i'm looking forward to shifting my perspective away from what it is that is disappearing before me to what it is that will still be there when i return.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
whenever my life starts feeling like it is stable, things arise to make it quietly unbearable. worse, it is always the same things. once i had been accustomed to the territory of conflict but with time i have let myself recede from the greyness of the past, letting the lingering pain dissipate as i fled. but i return again like thick fog descending upon a war-torn city. the clarity of day that my eyes have seen becomes lost. i wander through.
Mamihlapinatapai: noun a look shared by two people each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start.
The word is from the Yaghan language, and its morphological structure is as follows:
mam- (reflexive/passive morph.) + -ihlapi- ‘to be at a loss as to what to do next’ + -n- (stative aspect affix) + -ata- (achievement affix) + -apai (dual, here reciprocal, marker).
The word is from the Yaghan language, and its morphological structure is as follows:
mam- (reflexive/passive morph.) + -ihlapi- ‘to be at a loss as to what to do next’ + -n- (stative aspect affix) + -ata- (achievement affix) + -apai (dual, here reciprocal, marker).
Sunday, February 8, 2009
more old poetry (march 2006)
“What the mice are thinking”
The world is filled with beautiful things,
grave and incomprehensible things
that are always busy being bigger than us.
Almost like the others who can bend
their backs and rest in the necks of spoons,
I am lithe, not nearly as the others but almost,
I try; I scamper and we scamper—
we get caught up in the swirling
way of things or at least we try.
The world is a place filled with looming
mysterious clicks of mysterious things—
the light that flashes on and off or the foot
that falls in the back room; we yelp
our war cry, we whip our tails—
we are menacing.
Like the sugar bowl and the pits of tar
where one or two have been caught over time,
I am walking, no, running, scuttling
with eyes closed; there is a sweetness to life
that I am not sure of but also the fear of things
so many times bigger than we can measure.
The world is fair, we are watching it, watching.
Sometimes crumbs fall and we are there to pick them up
and other times we are exhausted by the push of things,
the stop of things, there isn’t time enough; but if we could,
we would unsnap the traps and lift our heads.
The world is filled with beautiful things,
grave and incomprehensible things
that are always busy being bigger than us.
Almost like the others who can bend
their backs and rest in the necks of spoons,
I am lithe, not nearly as the others but almost,
I try; I scamper and we scamper—
we get caught up in the swirling
way of things or at least we try.
The world is a place filled with looming
mysterious clicks of mysterious things—
the light that flashes on and off or the foot
that falls in the back room; we yelp
our war cry, we whip our tails—
we are menacing.
Like the sugar bowl and the pits of tar
where one or two have been caught over time,
I am walking, no, running, scuttling
with eyes closed; there is a sweetness to life
that I am not sure of but also the fear of things
so many times bigger than we can measure.
The world is fair, we are watching it, watching.
Sometimes crumbs fall and we are there to pick them up
and other times we are exhausted by the push of things,
the stop of things, there isn’t time enough; but if we could,
we would unsnap the traps and lift our heads.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
old poem (circa '05-'06)
"Valentine's Day does nothing for me"
The chatter is inevitable, the clacking of jaws—
the girls hold their mugs of coffee by the cupful.
Their need is desperate; I've yet to learn
how to panhandle desire, holding up a cup—full
of solitude—to catch some last coin or opportunity
lost. Outside, children play in snow cupping full,
firm chunks leaving the rest to fall from the gratings of fire
escapes.
There was a time when all this would remind me of you but I cope,
I fold
my hands. Once, you talked. I listened and we drank hot,
black coffee from a thermos until our cups that had been full,
stopped scorching our palms. Blood can't be thicker than wine,
you say; there must be ways to take me in by the cupful.
But words failed—the need was there for me to crack
beneath a rib to find some part of you I could recall. It is too hard
to find the vessel empty; it is a full cup.
The chatter is inevitable, the clacking of jaws—
the girls hold their mugs of coffee by the cupful.
Their need is desperate; I've yet to learn
how to panhandle desire, holding up a cup—full
of solitude—to catch some last coin or opportunity
lost. Outside, children play in snow cupping full,
firm chunks leaving the rest to fall from the gratings of fire
escapes.
There was a time when all this would remind me of you but I cope,
I fold
my hands. Once, you talked. I listened and we drank hot,
black coffee from a thermos until our cups that had been full,
stopped scorching our palms. Blood can't be thicker than wine,
you say; there must be ways to take me in by the cupful.
But words failed—the need was there for me to crack
beneath a rib to find some part of you I could recall. It is too hard
to find the vessel empty; it is a full cup.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
dreams
over wine last week, my friend mentioned that there isn't much worse than people who talk about their dreams.
i've never really thought about this. i mean, it's pretty terrible to have to hear about ridiculous yet boring dreams (e.g. "i was riding in a hot rod with my ex-boyfriend. we were in the same seat and his dog was next to us. what do you think that means?") but is it so bad if they are at least sort of interesting?
i say this only because for the last couple of months, i've been having very disturbing dreams all the time. at first, they took on a more physical nature; people i knew would appear before me with large pulsing blisters on their faces or i would find myself wandering dark catacombs. but lately, they've started taking on a different form; more realistic, more emotional. people who i haven't seen in ages reappear to break my heart in ways far worse than reality and family and friends become entangled in conflict and rage and somehow, i am the linchpin to all the aggression. in each dream, i am breaking apart or on the verge.
i find myself waking up in the middle of the night a lot lately.
what could this all mean?
it probably is lame to talk about dreams.
i've never really thought about this. i mean, it's pretty terrible to have to hear about ridiculous yet boring dreams (e.g. "i was riding in a hot rod with my ex-boyfriend. we were in the same seat and his dog was next to us. what do you think that means?") but is it so bad if they are at least sort of interesting?
i say this only because for the last couple of months, i've been having very disturbing dreams all the time. at first, they took on a more physical nature; people i knew would appear before me with large pulsing blisters on their faces or i would find myself wandering dark catacombs. but lately, they've started taking on a different form; more realistic, more emotional. people who i haven't seen in ages reappear to break my heart in ways far worse than reality and family and friends become entangled in conflict and rage and somehow, i am the linchpin to all the aggression. in each dream, i am breaking apart or on the verge.
i find myself waking up in the middle of the night a lot lately.
what could this all mean?
it probably is lame to talk about dreams.
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