love, read, write

You are sitting in a patch of grass extending into the sea of asphalt. The sound of childhood and after-school tag rings far away in the background. Your fingers are planted into the dirt, tufts of green between your fingers: soft, like the fur of an animal. The entire lawn sways together, a single instrument wavering indecisively with the sweet wind that combs through your hair. Gleeful screeches echo in the distance, as if recalling a past that you remember as faintly as the little voices sound to you now.

A curious ant crawls up your index finger:

Hi, ____ – it's me. I didn't see you in class yesterday. Or last week. 

→ read more

→ read more

i. 

Once, I was drinking with a friend. It was in my apartment. It was late at night — maybe around midnight? Maybe later than that. We’d known each other for a while. I believe two years counts as a while.

“You know,” she said, suddenly (I don’t remember if she was interrupting herself, or if there was a poignant silence that added weight to her next words, like they do in the movies), “sometimes, I feel like I don’t know who you are.”

“Oh?” I said. I paused.

Two years was apparently not enough for me to know what to say next. I was at a loss.

Eventually, I provided her with a very helpful, “Who I am, huh?” and then we moved on to talk about other things.

ii.

I am a Russian doll. 

Well— more specifically, I’m the Russian doll two layers in. I promise you I have friends, I just don’t know what they look like. The me that is two layers out — the representative me, perhaps — knows their names. I’m sure they are great people. I leave that to the outer me. I’m sure she knows what she is doing. I’m two layers in: it’s cozy. It’s dark. It’s safe.

There are more dolls deeper within, presumably. Maybe they also have egos, and maybe they also write their own little stories about how they are Russian dolls three layers in, or four layers. Or five, even. Might be a stretch. Regardless, that’s not my problem. I’m only aware of the two beyond me. Sometimes I’m jealous, because the outer dolls know more than me. They know the people in my life better, can recall their names better, can close their eyes and remember what they look like, whether they wear glasses, what kind of hairstyle they usually have, what kind of ice cream they like. They probably have funnier stories to tell.

I’ll admit it: I’m jealous of them. But I’m sure they already know, because I’m just a layer within them.

iii.

Occasionally, I will talk to someone, and it will be like a breath of fresh air. A little direct line to oxygen. We will talk for four hours. Five, maybe. Given that we would have time. I will feel like my words are being understood— translation-less, interpretation-less. It will be enthralling, the speed at which I will just say something and I will hear something back and there is nothing in between, no resistance to slow down the growth of an idea. I will lose myself, but in a different way than usual. My body will disappear under the transit of words, under the idea that we are nursing.

I will take the bus home afterwards. On the bus, there will be someone muttering to himself across from me, a little kid clinging to his mother’s sleeve several rows over, and a person staring at their phone leaning against the rail. I will be two stops away from getting off.

My body will disappear, again, but this time not under the benevolent transit of words, but under the hostile transit of perception.

But it is okay that I have disappeared. I will see all of this through a film — later, with popcorn. I know it sounds funny, but I can’t help it. And maybe it is easier that way. Maybe it is what makes me further away. Either way, I don’t have much of a choice.

iv.

Bathrooms cannot help it but have a mirror. In this day and age, it cannot be helped. On top of that, it cannot be helped that I see myself in that mirror. I stand there, each evening, staring at myself until my eyes blur and I start to unfurl into an unraveling roll of film. Eventually there is no reflection. It is a screen. The day reveals itself, frame by frame, until I am immersed in the spectatorship of my life.

The words I have said, the people I have met. Maybe that is what they look like, I wonder to myself. Maybe that is the life I am living.

 You come to me in waves:

The first is silence. You’re invisible. For a mistaken moment, I believe you are no longer there. I move on with my life and marvel at how smoothly life continues in your absence. The calmness is unexpected; it preoccupies me, seeding a question: perhaps you were not that big of a presence. Perhaps this is a sign. Perhaps this silence was sent to deliver a message, that you were nothing, after all.

The second is the silence, held longer, turned inwards, flipped inside-out, and turned outwards. It is loud. I realize, suddenly, that for the silence to be visible I must have looked at it. The silence was not silence all along. It was an excuse to think about you while feeling above the waves, when I was not. I was under the surface, looking at the sky refracted through the movement of the tides just above me. Suddenly the silence hurts, and I dare myself to look at photos of you. It takes me less than a minute to succumb: it is two in the morning and I have looked at every photo of your beaming smile, your nonchalance blurred in a momentary capture, your silhouette against the adventures we took. The silence is gone.

The third is melancholy. I wallow in the mistake of swimming in our past, because now the ocean is blue, so incredibly blue. Not a day goes by where I wonder what you are doing, suddenly afraid that the silence I first felt is the silence you are feeling now, of me, but more truly. Have you moved on? I want to know, but I cannot, and so I continue to wade in the viscosity of my sorrow. I am addicted to photos of you, though at the surface I tell myself that I am doing it because I have moved on. That is a lie. I have not.

The fourth is an unsettling peace. Eventually, the sorrow wears thin, and the ocean is blue but transparently so; I can look up at the sky, break the surface, breathe the air. Sometimes I am back underneath, but I know how to swim upwards. It feels like silence, but I am not sure it is the same as the one I first encountered. Suddenly, I realize that the ocean is vast, that I have been wading in place, and that maybe it is time to think about swimming towards something new.

i.

I look up from my phone (opened to the News) and realize I’m no longer alone in my room. A bonfire flashes before my eyes. It’s young one, still feeding off of fresh wood, writhing out of control. Its body occasionally extends to my toes. My room feels otherworldly with dancing shadows that sway at the same rhythm as the flames. I rub my eyes.

It reaches out from its body to beckon to me in. The edge of its flame extends five little fingers as a shy greeting and I have the strongest urge to shake its hand, as if maybe its touch will feel like a cool balm. It’s silly. I know it’ll hurt.

When I look at the fire again, it has resumed its soulless shape. I turn back to my phone and keep scrolling.


ii.

How are wildfires born? I imagine it begins like a thought: circumstance, chance, and a bit of my own fault. Wind, a poorly kept campfire, a little bit of dryness, and a single persistent piece of glowing firewood -- that's all it takes to catch the world aflame. What a determination that last piece must have, waiting patiently for the hour in which it will grow thousands of times its size. A seed waiting for the world to provide it its due glory.

But imagine once it's grown -- it would be horrible for the people. What if I woke up to a fire in my room? How helpless would I be? The heat will press against my face and my eyes would open to a looming figure at my door. Between smoke and tears I'd watch it rapidly hug the periphery of my room, seep closer and closer until I cannot breathe. All of my previous thoughts at silly little bonfire events (“How much does fire weigh?” I had wondered) will seem absurd.

How crazy that a trivial thought, given time and circumstance, will grow so quickly. Left unkempt, a seed grows overnight into an inevitable beast. A beast that teasingly dances to a music I can't hear.

If I am to die this way, maybe I will shake its hand to see how it feels.

The Whites never had to buy words.

The words were handed to them, crowned upon their lips like little stars between their teeth, words they swallowed with their toothless mouths when they were born. They trickled down their stomachs.

The Whites never bought those words, mark my words. They didn’t buy them like my parents bought ours, dirtied and washed and washed and washed again, in umpteen attempts to maybe next time make the scars disappear. Our words have no stars. Our words do not get swallowed. We bought them, second-hand and slightly too small for us, too frowned upon.

We bought our words with our blood. With the purchase we are here. Not the Whites.

Words cannot be stolen. They are not exchanged. They are bought or taken, but I cannot cover your mouth to prevent you from speaking my words. I cannot stop anyone from saying what they want. All I can say is that I know some words are mine, some yours, and some unclaimed.

I bought my words.

Words which have been bought can never be taken; every instance is a borrowed one, unless spoken by the owner. Words which do not belong to anyone are always taken. Those words are nomads. Those words stay afloat. Each speaker is its owner.

I borrow your words which you have purchased (if you have). You borrow mine. But shall I not return your words with less scars? Shall I not return them, once it leaves my mouth and the expression is complete and the concept is conceived in my listener’s head--shall I not return them like new? Why should I slash more scars into your word, your word which I borrowed? I am humble; I speak your word with care, and I minimize my damage. Like borrowed books, I do not add more dog-ears, do not rip out pages, do not write over the meaning.

Sometimes we forget that we are borrowing. We let the scars stay open, still fresh to the stings of the rain, the dirt, the glares.

Sometimes, words should not be borrowed. Sometimes a word was so expensive that there is no chance that I will return the word with no more scars than it already has, because it has been bought with scars. The currency was blood, the middleman death; some words should not be borrowed. Some words belong only to their owners because these words weigh heavy even on their own tongues.

We are exchangers of words but borrowers as well. Forget not the words which have been bought with blood. Forget not to return your borrowed ones in good condition. Remember these words were bought by someone. They are not yours to keep, not yours to mutilate, not yours to toss in light jest when the word was bought with blood.

Eddie looked off into the distance. "I don't know." She sighed. "It's always been like that."

I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry about all that."

Several leaves danced in front of us in a colorful waltz. I shivered from the cold. I could feel the icy metal of the bench through my jeans.

"You know, my name wasn't always Eddie."

"Oh, yeah? When did you decide on Eddie?"

"No, like--"

A dog owner and his dog jogged past us. He looked pretty content about his life.

"It's just. My parents."

"Your parents? They made you call yourself Eddie?"

"No, well. I chose that name myself. Nickname, I mean." She paused. "I mean, my name is actually Edward."

"Oh," I said. "Edward."

Eddie laughed. "Yeah, I know. I don't know why they chose it either. When I was twelve, too."

"What?"

"Look," Eddie turned to me. "There's just things I can't explain. My parents weren't very... normal. I didn't know that then. I thought names weren't permanent things. I never lived in places long enough to realize that nobody changed their names every two years. I never... I never got to stay. I never got to build myself up."

I rubbed my nose because there was nothing to do, but immediately regretted it upon feeling the chilly wind bite my exposed fingers.

"I see," I said slowly.

She looked at me in a strange way. To this day I can never explain that look. It was a rare expression.

"You don't have to say that, you know." She sighed, then shrugged. We sat in silence for a bit.

"I feel--I feel like I'm saying too much--"

"No, no," I said. "It's good that you're talking. It's good. To um, build yourself up."

"Yeah." She bit her lips. "Yeah."

Silence.

"You know," she turned to me. "I think everything about who I am is... is because of my parents. Or everything about who I am not."

"They do seem like an interesting bunch," I said.

"Interesting, yeah." She smiled weakly, her eyes searching desperately around the park for something to distract herself with. It was excruciatingly calm.

"You know I had five names before Eddie? And I lived the first two years of my life without one. They refused to give one. I was named 'Baby' for two years. That was my name on my birth certificate.

"And they never let me in on the names, either. They always decided. They had all this money, from god knows where. Ellen--my mom--said she inherited a ton. And so did Phil."

"Phil's your dad?"

"Yeah. Never call them by their titles or whatever. They were never really a mom or dad to me, anyways. They were so lost and indecisive about themselves that when they had me, they couldn't bear to be decisive for the sake of this poor living soul. I inherited all of their insecurities."

"They changed your name because they were indecisive?"

"Well, I mean. They thought it was cool. That it would make me a more creative person or something. They had the connections and the money. Legal issues aren't too big of a deal if you have a lot of money and know a lot of people, you know. I grew up with everything like that.

"But I guess I also grew up with nothing."

She wiped her eyes. I didn't know what to say. So I didn't.

We stayed like that, sitting on the bench, looking out at the quiet lake. The water was calm. I felt calm, but unsettled.

"Let's go inside," I said eventually. "They might be waiting for us."

earthquakes are at once terrifying and beautiful; they speak of the fragility of even mother nature but they are so great, so powerful, so grandiose. we shiver at the idea of earthquakes, the beauty of soft soil crumbling into an even deeper abyss we are too afraid to venture into.
her fingers, brown and warm and welcoming, at once become claws, angry at us (for what reason? what have we done wrong?) and she swallows us, scratching from the inside outwards, raking in bodies and edifices and things in which we take pride. she swallows our pride. she eats our pride.
but in doing so she also swallows some of herself, letting trees and beautiful animals fall into the unidentified hellscape that is below, where perhaps fragments of buildings, leftover limbs, and misshapen animal carcasses all gather to have a tea party mourning for those above.
her children, the beauty which she has birthed (though prematurely--they are still attached to her) are taken back into her insides, where they will lay for the rest of eternity. why so? perhaps she is embarrassed of the creation she has made, and it is her way of bubbling up her anger and taking back some of the terrors she has caused, though inadvertently. she did not wish for this in the beginning. everything begins with a benign cause; catastrophe is never intended - it is only an effect of the element of existence. we cannot help but be impure and a curse to mother nature.

To let you all off from the non-fiction style writing that I exhibited in the previous post, here is a smidge of my prose poetry.

Hum hum hum sings the bass of the computer. Tap goes the keyboards and shht goes the pipes and I don't hear insect legs or crying trees or singing mothers but I see nothing but emptiness, dark, black, abyss, while hum hum hum goes the bass of the computer. Whir goes the computer and type type type goes the keyboard and there is nothing but scatters, scatters of writing and papers and pencils and binders and books but look oh look! There are no grounds. There are no beginnings. There is just me, suspended in air, surrounded by words and ideas and expectations and hum hum hum sings the bass of the computer and I open my eyes and I'm back on the uncomfortable chair in the basement with a hum hum humming computer with work and duties, names and labels, life and society.

It's that time of the year, guys! I'm here again, and I have so much to say.
I am currently attending a creative writing program at Columbia University (taking the train/subway there and back every day, talk about independence). To be quite honest, I had no idea what to expect and I was actually fearing disappointment rather than difficulty. If the class was phenomenally difficult and rigorous, I would have been rather pleased, because despite the difficulties, I would have been able to learn a lot. I was more scared, therefore, of some elementary level class on "how to write" or rather, "how to put your pencil on the paper." Thank god that I can say that Columbia's writing program is probably one of the best experiences in my writing 'career' so far. It really is.

Going to this program has definitely opened my eyes to the vastness of writing and art itself. I'm not trying to sound cliche or mushy or even advertise the program. I am being very candid right now when I say that I am extremely excited about this program. We workshop each other's work (and I must say, everybody's passion for writing is absolutely beautiful, to say the least) and sort of "conference" with each other to improve our work and debate on its topics. This is definitely helping me improve so much. So so so much, and I am so happy that I've applied and that I've been accepted into this program. It's just... an amazing experience. I know it sounds cheesy. Bear with me.

In the program, we aren't exposed to "normal" writing that I thought were the only ones in existence in the literary world. Poetry was flowery and maybe sometimes funny; prose was in paragraphs. That was as far as my knowledge went.
I had no idea about prose poetry, about Tao Lin (whose poems are amazing), about the different ways writers challenged genre distinctions--it was a whole new revolution in itself. Reading all of these bizzare genres and forms of writing opened my eyes up to a completely different side of literature. And I love it so much.

I realize that writing isn't about just words or form; it's about the meaning and the way you manipulate or break or piece back together that form and genre. I think I'm beginning to get a grasp of how vast and, just, open the world of literature is. I mean--who ever thought of writing a book of Wendys?
I'm serious. Reading so many surrealist writings and minimalist shorts has made me even more excited about writing. It has sparked a new area of interest. I'm a fan of modern art and minimalism, and I'm more than excited about the discovery of similar parallels in writing as well.

With that said, here is a short story I wrote for an assignment for class. (It's actually due tomorrow.)

Here goes.
(It's flash fiction.)

There was a cigarette in between his teeth—his perfectly aligned, white teeth.

It was summer. A starched, bleached, bland summer day. The heat was swaying the trees in a lazy rhythm. The sweat dragged down my sagged face languidly, like it still wanted to linger at home, on the couch under the heavenly fan whirring out the now-coveted cool, oh—cool breeze.

I wasn’t too sure he was there—then again I wasn’t too sure I was there. I could feel the sun’s teeth were sinking into my skin, mocking me as it slowly let my sanity ooze out of the scorching teeth marks. I wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody woke me up just then to tell me I had fainted on the way to Quick Check.

He was standing across the street. Was it a mirage? But mirages were the sorts that you saw or hallucinated because you wanted it—you desperately needed it. I did not need a boy.

It was appalling, almost, the way he dared to have white teeth with that ugly cigarette. Actually, he seemed to be mocking me—that was it. He was mocking me. He knew I was thinking exactly what I was thinking, and he was flashing those tantalizingly white teeth at me. Maybe the white teeth were a mirage. God knows I need white teeth.

Another wave of heat hit me then; the wind sort of sluggishly slopped around my face. I almost fell over from the stagnant current.

But he seemed completely unaffected by the heat, that boy, the way he was listlessly grinning. Heck, he was wearing jeans—in this weather? It was the hand-me-down sort. Folded at the cuffs. Nobody folded at the cuffs. Definitely hand-me-down.

His grin sort of reminded me of those southern boys—the sort you would never want to meddle with. But he had an uncannily handsome look about him that I couldn’t quite place; was it his eyes, or his nose, or his eyebrows? He wasn’t quite muscular or skinny or fat. He was avoiding any sort of conventional description, that sly boy.

The way he was grinning, though—it gave me no view into his personality. What was he? An arrogant rich kid? Well—definitely not rich. But what? I mean, each word was rolling through my head like some lethargic turtle on two hours of sleep. Words were not feeling invited to my brain that day.

He was looking at me, though; his eyes were definitely fixed upon me. What color were his eyes? Were they blue? Green? Brown? Hazel? Oh, I had a thing for hazel eyes—but I needed no boys. No boys.

What was it about him? Why did it strike me as oddly handsome, the way his folded-cuff hand-me-down jeans were drooping over his tennis sneakers stained brown, the way his hoodie said something that I obviously couldn’t read because of the sun and the scorching heat? (I hoped it wasn’t anything explicit; that would certainly lose my interest.)

(But I wasn’t interested in boys. No, I was not.)

I gave the crosswalk button a few more impatient punches before slowly turning to face the other side of the street.

A breeze reluctantly made its way up the scooped hill of the sizzling town, as if it were some sort of stroke of God. A breeze—warm, but at least not hot. It entered my left ear, whispering ice-cream before leaving through my right. Then it hit me.

By God, I realized, what a fool I am!

He was mocking me!

He knew I was not in need of any boys. So he had decided to be there.

Jesus Christ—that was it. He was mocking me. He knew I was avoiding any sort of emotional attachment.

Ice cream cravings perching its very heart at the freezer aisle of Quick Check soon dissolved away into the pollen decorating the next breeze. I needed not to cross this street. It was for another day. Ice cream cravings, I apologized, you’ll have to wait for later.

Just then the crosswalk sign turned the cordial white of a walking man.

So I walked right back home, leaving the cardboard cutout wavering in the breeze.

Greetings, readers and writers of the world. I welcome you to my undernourished and famished blog.

Recently (today) I started reading Anthem by Ayn Rand, which I assure you is a very very interesting book, to say the very very least of it. It… hm… I have not quite finished formulating my thoughts on the book, due to the fact that I have only reached the halfway mark of the book. It, however, got me thinking even when I was traversing the first few pages. I think that reading the book will give me decisive opinions about the book and its content, but for now I will leave it with a question mark ?

Here is a writing response I wrote on a lonely blank Microsoft Word document once I got home (I was reading this book whilst waiting for my mother to finish doing her religious duties). I read it over and realized that it quite nicely summarizes what I have gotten out of the book so far.

I encourage you all to attempt to read at least the first page of this book (excluding the Author’s forward and Editor’s note because neither the Author’s forward nor the Editor’s note will get anybody remotely interested in reading the book. Though I must say, the Author’s forward was interesting considering it being an Author’s forward. But nevertheless what I mean to say is that you should read the first page of the actual book, Chapter One of Equality 7-2521).

A man once said, “Every man for himself.” But today, no man is for himself. No man is for the self. Man is for the society. Man is for others. Man is to do what other man is to do. Man is to smile, man is to laugh, but man is not to smile and laugh at what society thinks man should not smile and laugh at. Man is to do what man’s neighbor does, as long as man’s neighbor does what his neighbor does. Man is to think about his role in society. Man is to give up some ideals for the good of the other man, and man is to wonder if man should pursue his dreams or pursue money. Man is to think that he is living a life full of freedom and liberty and choice. Man is to live happy, man is to live free, and man is to live content. Man is not to think about why society is created. Man is not to question the rules in which all man follow. Man is allowed to dream big, but not dream far. Man is to assimilate into the crowd, and man is to stay that way, blending into the sea of monotonous unicolor revealing no personality and no opinion. Man is to think about what others might think of him, and man is to resist from doing his own wants which lay outside of the social norm. Man is to be social, but in the way society wants man to be. Man is to do what he thinks will make other like him. Man is to do what he thinks is thought of as normal. Man is to be normal. Man is to obey.

A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question. And such a question held not one answer, but many. Yet it was a question which required knowledge of the social norm, which required an answer which was open to many but accepting to one. It was a question which tested the very essence of Man, is Man for himself, or is Man for society? Is man for his own opinion, or is man for pleasing others?
A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question. The man blinked once and soon he was simply asking one man a question, and he replied with one answer. It was not any man, but Man. Man did not hesitate and Man did not think.
A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question—only to realize he was mistaken, for he was simply asking one question to one Man for one answer.

(Note: the Man and Society mentioned in my writing above do not correspond with the Man and Society in the book Anthem by Ayn Rand. Though it very closely relays the ideas of the society in the book, this writing is actually my thoughts and opinions on our society that we live in today.)

Long has it been since I last typed words into this text box that would print itself onto my blog.

Here I am, my butt bones perching at the rim of the wooden chair, crouching over, my feet on the chair next to me, my laptop atop a pile of books stacked at the table. The table, it's cluttered with books, all sorts of books. Math books, music books, library books, textbooks. It has pencils and pens, chapsticks and staplers, hole punchers and Shop Rite receipts. It reeks of home. Home, home, home. It is cluttered and messy, but it is not dirty. The yellow tablecloth is underlying the little pieces of memory, little pieces of home.
The house smells like the subtle aroma of dinner, of that dinner that makes us all running downstairs, upstairs, down the hallway, into the kitchen, when we smell the food and hear our mother shout at the top of her lungs, DINNER!
I hear my brother humming cheerfully, happily, downstairs in the basement, I hear the water running as my mother chases to wash the dishes, I hear the dishes clink and clank, greet each other and talk, I hear the tat-tat-tat of the rain outside. I hear it rise, I hear it stand up, I hear it roar. I hear the rain slapping our roof, hitting the side of our windows in line, throwing the occasional spear as it crashes onto our soil with a loud BOOM!, letting out yellow sparks and pushing dogs under beds and kids under covers.

I lean in to the screen, looking at the words, my eyes squinting at the letters, bigger now, but pixellated, looking at each letter appearing at every click of the keyboard, the silent, patient, blinking line that leads my letters to be typed on the page; I look at each square that displays a color, black and white, grey and red, orange and blue, forming together to make a picture on the screen, a word on the screen, making that 'e', even though, if you look at it close enough, press your nose close to the screen, you can see the little squares separating that 'e' into black pixels on their own, by themselves, separated into tiny cells of a computer screen. Then, I realize that this might not be good for my eyes, my eyes are throbbing, purple lights are dancing in front of me, and I lean back and look back at the yellow tablecloth under the textbooks and under the pencils, looking just as pixellated with the threads weaving to and fro to form that fabric that lies atop the table.
And then I sigh, and I close the laptop, and turn to good ol' ink and page, read and turn, open and close.