everyone is born into this world alone

but i wasn't

i wonder how much of my life this explains. probably a lot more than i think.

to be honest, most days i have as many meals as hobbits (breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper). today someone at work noticed that i'm always snacking at my desk and asked me if i'm expecting.

someone else said i eat so much because i'm in love.

i wonder if everyone else knows things that i don't.

the only moment we were alone
you put your hand in mine
and what a glorious alone it was

if we were volcanoes

i can't stop listening to drumming, or cello-playing because all i can hear is how it echos the way my heart pitter patters and splatters all over everything

it's dark, darling. you're not here. like most days.

my headphones are on, the big bulky ones that you always say must have cost me a lot of money. the bigger the things the more it costs, it seems. and Wake Up is blasting, over and above everything, darker than the darkness and louder than the words that you never even spoke. there are three blankets on top of my thighs but i feel colder than i did on the glaciers
oh how dare you, but now my life is being saved and my breath is shallow
in between or in the seams i can't tell
or i can't remember,
one of the two.
i think i'd be prouder of the latter, but the former would have let me sleep.

he held me as i cried your tears
and he held up the architecture he never designed
and he cleaned up the messes he never made

The music we listen to defines our shared identities even more poignantly than the books we read. There is no more challenging question than the seemingly casual "what music do you like?"; the right answer makes two people soulmates, the wrong one makes them strangers.

- bill davenport on tierney malone's exhibit

it's your fault i spend all of my time listening to music
it's your fault i can't concentrate
it's your fault i'm dissatisfied with beige walls
it's your fault i eat more fruit
it's your fault i play my guitar
i blame my happiness on you

my eyes can't shut, and my ears can't stop listening

music of the month:
- vampire weekend
- the xx
- lykke li
- thao & mirah
- beirut
- lenka
- balkan beat box
- stars
- the section (quartet)
- coeur de pirate
- arcade fire (still! because they saved my life)

tastes this weekend:
dark semi-sweet chocolate chip walnut honey pancakes
oatmeal with nutmeg, cinnamon, and dates
omelettes stuffed with with serrano peppers and onions and tomatoes
bananas, sliced
sauce guessing game at my mom's
egg drop soup with corn
snap peas
mushrooms and onions
mom's famous chicken wings
spicy garlic sauce
rice
lasagna, baked with peppers, broccoli, spinach, meat sauce, no cheese
mangoes, both sweet and sour
plums
truffles
homemade guacamole and CVS tortilla chips
biscuits with corn, with lime
rocky road before and after every meal

let me count the ways.

in seven years, i will wish that i had taken more photographs of my mother. in seven years, i will wish that i had gone swimming more often. in seven years, i will still chase the sunlight. in seven years, i will wish that i had had the guts to climb more mountains. in seven years, i will no longer be afraid to ride a bike. in seven years, i will still hate cheese. in seven years, i will wish that i had laughed instead of cried. in seven years, i won't remember the scars on my thigh. in seven years, i'll still be in pieces over the ocean. in seven years, i will further understand how lucky we are that we can see. in seven years, i will wish that i had practiced the piano when my teacher asked me to. in seven years, i hope i still feel as much and often as i do now.

if you're right, then all love is a lie

where our endings were the same as our beginnings.

"Because I will come home to you at night and make love to you until you cry out for me to stop. I will leave you in the morning with the taste of my kiss on your lips. I will live my life for you. I will fill your days with gladness and if God sends us heartbreak, I will hold you in my arms until your tears have passed and then i will teach you how to laugh again."

- judith mcnaught

as i stepped onto the plane, i was still furiously trying to mend my heart. i remember the anticipation thick in the air, the kind that is incited only by red velvet cake or something of the same richness. i drummed my fingers against the plane window. the plane arrived.

i walked through the airport, calling your phone. nervous, because i knew you were sort of dependable, but not always. i know, that is a purposeful paradox.

i left you a message after you didn't pick up several times. i walked some more. i sat in different places.

i walked to the gate. i looked around. i probably looked for your curly, messy hair. i didn't find it, so i kept walking.

i listened to music to keep myself from getting too frustrated.

and then i walked again to the gate, tired. this time finding you. and our eyes probably had the same tone, some kind of misguided hue, wondering, curious, because it's been 4 years. your eyes were bigger than i remembered, you hair (or lack thereof) trimmed close and receding a little (in an endearing way), which is why i didn't recognize you. your skin about the same, your lips a little wiser, your teeth a little whiter from your obsessive brushing. still as minimalistic as i remembered you, for your carry-on was a neck pillow and a book. you were holding your phone, which had proceeded to die as you landed in miami. you said that you thought you saw me, but my hair is longer, unrulier, and you said I looked Latina. so you didn't wave me down.

and we laughed, kind of the start of all the bells of laughter we'd play in the coming weeks.

untitled
July 1, 2008 – 6:43 am

last night, before you came to bed, i dreamt about the ocean. there were children and lovers and hopeful mothers and it was a funny time of year (when the sun sets so slow and all you can hear is wind).

the calligraphic clouds draw fearlessly from our strength, and i watch the waves wandering closer.

i’ve been waiting all this time for something to break. i’m balanced here earnestly waiting for inevitable collapse, and still you patiently build sand castles around my feet.

i strum

March 11, 2009 – 1:04 pm

i’m dancing unconsciously again, to whatever music they are playing in the Starbucks downstairs.

my god, she says.
i wonder what your mother was doing when she was pregnant with you, because music courses through your veins like this unstoppable force.

–

i think about the one a lot.

he’s probably a poet, throwing verbal tantrums and spreading it across pages of moleskines like peanut butter on bread. he probably has a bit of money tucked away in various tattered pants pockets so that at any moment’s notice, he will suggest that we run away to a different continent and experience each other in a different context of life. he’s probably an amateur chef who loves to cook simple breakfasts, and he will let me photograph him in colorful aprons even if he forgets to wash the dishes most of the time. he’s probably a photographer who finds his muse in my eyes and composition in my unruly hair. he gives me piggy back rides. he lets me stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. he kisses me in the rain. he’s probably a musician, who is fascinated with the bandoneon and the piano and plays the djembe. he only snores when he’s very tired, or has a cold. he’s probably a computer nerd who used to play computer games, but has converted to being well-read instead. he looks good shirtless and he drinks dos equis with lime. his dark hair is curly and untamed in the mornings. he knows his current events, and has strong political opinions. he is fiercely loyal, too pragmatic for my taste, but he still loves me for who i am, and listens with sincerity when i have romantic volcanic catharses. and damn, he can move his hips on the dance floor, and he doesn’t care who sees. he sings in the shower, and is more successful at folding laundry than i am. he forgets to put the toilet seat down and i work on biting my tongue. he is a swimmer, and when he swims, he carries me with him.

–
i don’t have time to feel, so in turn i have nothing to process.
but i will say that last night i had the window down, and i was driving to the yoga studio, and i was singing alanis morisette or jason mraz or something that falls between those genres, and i smiled and felt good again.

–

in austin, tu and i studied the art of a heart on a fork.
our hearts are little strawberries, roots stretched across the soil, feeling deep, delicate and they can get cold and sick so easily but when they finally come through, oh, how sweet they are. and we have festivals to celebrate them, and it’s a cycle, you know, one day again after the frost, they’ll ripen again

Monday, July 3rd, 2006
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9:00 am - when we part



i am back in the country. i contemplated writing "i am back in my country", but gradually i am not so sure.

i left the mighty mountains of yunnan armed with too many photos of the sky and memories overflowing my heart.

i turned twenty one on my first day in Tainan. i cried in front of the starched paleness of my grandfather's hospital bed. my cousin got me drunk that night on Smirnoff and karaoke songs.

my last three days in beijing were composed purely of heartbeats in an inmeasureable rhythm. i looked into the reflection of his sunglasses as i pressed my palm to the window of the taxi cab. his mouth was set in a pin-straight line, and he did not move as the taxi pulled me quietly out of his view. "boyfriend?" asked the taxi driver. "no...no. a very very good friend." leaving him meant leaving china.

my flight was delayed two hours.
i got into san francisco and dashed toward the gate where my transfer flight was waiting. in slow breaths and 4/4 time, i passed matthew scheer- curly hair, green eyes. falling hard while walking across the golden gate bridge and falling asleep while watching waking life. life moves in cycles. i catch my breath. i can't stop smiling when i hear Tu's voice.

the plane slipped into the houston air just in time for me to witness the golden clouds of the Texas sunset. i cried as the escalator brought me into view of my mother's smile. 800 renmenbi are still carelessly stuffed into my purse. my plastic credit cards stretch and smirk in their sudden usefulness. the future rushes at me with sickening certainty. i have not yet learned how to stand still. i think about being single. i am tired of answering questions about what i write. i seek change with far more dignity than i should be allowed,

"You are what disappears: you are the thing that someone has let go of, you leave a trail of words behind you simply to continue existing." stephen bor
.

我们第一次见面
却好像认识了一百年
谁回相信
这么美丽的开始...


during lunch, yesterday, i discovered that my hands still hadn't stopped shaking.

the problem with being straight is that i completely emotionally exhaust every man i'm with.

saturday, march 17, 2007

i took down this quote.

"... in whatever one does, there must be a relationship between the eye and the heart. One must come to one's subject in a pure spirit. There must be time for contemplation, for reflection about the world and the people about one. If one photographs people, it is their inner look that must be reflected. One must reveal what goes on inside them, as well as their relation to the outer world."

Henri Cartier-Bresson, on Portraits.

Having troubles telling how I feel
But I can dance, dance and dance
Couldn't possibly tell you how I mean
But I can dance, dance, dance
So when I trip on my feet
Look at the beat
The words are, written in the sand
When I'm shaking my hips
Look for the swing
The words are, written in the air
oh, dance...
I was a dancer all along
Dance, dance, dance
Words can never make up for what you do, hey
Easy conversations, there's no such thing
No I'm shy, shy, shy
My hips they lie 'cause in reality I'm shy, shy, shy
But when I trip on my feet
Look at the ground
The words are, written in the dust
When I'm shaking my hips
Look for the swing
The words are written in the air
oh, dance!
oh I was a dancer all along
Dance, dance, dance
Words can never make up for what you do
Dance, dance, dance


Lykke Li, dance dance dance

"live through this, and you won't look back."

from here:

i am becoming increasingly aware that the things that make me an interesting writer (i can say that, no? interesting? let's go with it) make me a less than skilled liver-of-life.

i spin stories and fill in the blanks and make illogical leaps that i then get to justify. and that justification is awfully tricky and awfully fun when done on the white blank page (or screen, as it turns out).

it's the best part, actually: making real the illogical. making true the impossible.

and yet, in life, this contortionist's act is...less than helpful.

i'm working on it, on taking things at face value. and trusting that if someone says something, they mean it.

but what this really means is, i get insecure. terribly, so. and i may not always be able to distinguish if we've talked about something or if it's just a conversation i lived in my mind.

so, do me a favor won't you? squeeze my hand. and pull me the three feet down to solid ground.

love, love,

the one hoping she learns to plant her feet before you find her

out of the 16 things that i wrote down to do in 2011, i've been practicing 10. not too bad.

"Every widow wakes one morning, perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving, to realize she slept a good night's sleep, and will be able to eat breakfast, and doesn't hear her husband's ghost all the time, but only some of the time. Her grief is replaced with a useful sadness. Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again. The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens. Every love is carved from loss. Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildren's will be. But we learn to live in that love."
— Jonathan Safran Foer

"With writing, we have second chances."
— Jonathan Safran Foer

it's funny because i think, if we are no longer together, well, it makes me sad but not so much

i know that the next girl you are with will never know how much you have worked at yourself. and grown. but i do.

i am convinced that the absurd happens in life until it convinces you that it no longer is absurd, and suddenly everything changes again.

"We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it" - George Eliot

fear of being alone versus fear of being hurt

we seldom do things that make sense
but maybe that's what will make this work

recently i examine my status as a chameleon.

tango instructor, tango dancer, occasional tango DJ, even more occasional pool party DJ, obsolete web designer, easy guitar tabs guitar player, sort of photographer, sometimes writer, casual salsa dancer, rare swing dancer, former token-asian-girl-on-hip-hop-team, shower singer, lover/fighter depending on the cause and the rebellion, self-proclaimed writer both humorously and food-ily, shy poet, alpha-female in the workplace, people-observer extraordinaire, mountain-climber, 4-inch-stiletto heels wearer, riot causer, proponent of peace, runner, retired casual bicycler, park rollerblader, arguably "half" or "whole" of anything, american but chinese, chinese but american, taiwanese not chinese, chinese and taiwanese, something like mexican, traveling technology consultant, stumbling Spanish-speaker, travel-bug-infested backpacker, posh-hotel-stayer, hopeful human being, doubtful, certain, and everything in between.

what must it be like
to not feel at every turn
every look

There's an art
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoingness like
that of song until at last

it ends.


"..."

I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said:
I love you. There's an art
to everything. What I've
done with this life,

what I'd meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still-flowering dogwood. Not

the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory...As he said to me

once, That's all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost—
because addicted—do:
resigned all over again. It

only looked, it—
It must only look
like leaving. There's an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How

eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.

-carl phillips

may 23rd, 2009. he wrote to me and sent me this poem:

We weren't exactly children again,
too many divorces, too many blood panels,
but your leaning into me was a sleeping bird.
Sure, there was no way to be careful enough,
even lightning can go wrong but when the smoke
blows off, we can admire the work the fire's done
ironing out the wrinkles in favor of newer ones,
ashy furrows like the folds in the brain
that signal the switchbacks and reversals
of our thought and just as brief. Your lips
were song, your hair everywhere.
Oh unknowable, fidgeting self, how little
bother you were then, no more
than a tangerine rind. Oh unknowable
other, how I loved your smell.
- Dean Young

this morning i woke up and did yoga facing the sunlight... before going to yoga class.
how 'bout them apples?

but aren't we the powerful ones?
the soft ones, the alive?
the treble clef in our hands, the music in our eyes?

x

in tense territories, we learn how not to fall

funny how
in this manner,

anger became my greatest companion
and compassion my greatest fear

it makes me giggle stupidly to remember how you told me this story.
we were on the phone, again, it's been two weeks straight that we've talked every night- and your mom walked in

and she gave you a knowing, cheeky smile while gesturing to the phone
"it could be a boy... it could be a girl..."

and closed the door.

my finger tips are bruised. also, i bought yet another plane ticket today. i have 6 pending flights from now through november.

the songs i learned (or re-learned) on the guitar yesterday:

follow through
(oh, this is the start of something new... and we can build through this destruction... oh, look what i'm holding here in my fire, this is for you)

arms
(i never thought that you would be the one to hold my heart...
you put your arms around me and I'm home
how many times will you let me change my mind and turn around?
i can't decide if i'll let you save my life or if i'll drown
i hope that you see right through my walls
i hope that you catch me, because i'm already falling
i'll never let a love get so close)


i will follow you into the dark
(love of mine
someday you will die
but i'll be close behind
i'll follow you into the dark
if heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
then i'll follow you into the dark)

between the sky and the sky
our hands met in the darkness
violently trembling

but curiously, this time, not from the glacial cold.

god of the night
tell me more about your sun


--

i treat so many things with the utmost urgency. i like reading on my sister's blog,
"life is not an emergency"


---

"It's that easy. It's dangerous how quickly I let go of things. With how much force I pick things up.

And then, of course, is what sticks around. In spite of me letting it go. That we call love."
- traci

i found the perfect man for me when i was 19. but i wasn't ready yet. and now he's no longer perfect.


and since then, i have loved the same kind of man, over and over again.

Wednesday, May 9th, 2007
8:53 pm - i know how he felt





in a city that doesn't belong to me anymore, in a bed that isn't mine, there are the not-so-fleeting moments that i remember how it feels to be away from you. your absence has the consistency of tango rhythms and the texture of constellations. the wind will change again, and i'll see you clearly again. the tides will turn and the sun won't feel so hot, and the piano will sing again. i like my moonlight sonata, on the rocks. just let me cry a little while it plays, and i'll be okay.

i think about the way my arms pooled around your ankles, like discarded pants. it is impossible to forget the way your hands pressed against my shoulders as you held me away from you, and how the blue hood of your sweater rimmed your cheeks. you only think about how much sleep you're losing while in the midst of breaking my heart.

you are so gentle with the cultivation of desperation that shadows me in my dreams. careful not to let me feel more than i am, but so forceful to make me feel less than i've ever felt. a girl throws away friendships for you, and you just look away.

but aren't we the leftovers of our own dreams?

aren't these the moments we should spend reveling in life, and color, and words, and young love, and drumbeats, and footsteps? not video game controllers, not dollar patrons or burning martinis? i remember your fingers lacing across my thighs. i get drunk off of touch. i could care less about alcohol.

you are fearless, he said, watching me throw my body against the little sailboat. it was raining.

yes i am. i said, while thinking about you. yes, i am.

does it all end the same way? it seems like it. it's just one big circle, and every moment i'm just at another one of the points that is just like the last.


i've made a fucking lot of mistakes in the past

i haven't processed it all yet.

the wet, freezing air. possibilities of movement everywhere.
our breath, heaving, pushing, and hanging there.

the tents like caves, our hearts like rivers.

the faces of Peruvian people- etched with carvings of the land, the history, the politics, the hope and the patience. the throb of excitement in sharing the stories. the slow, winning smiles.

i sit here now, in the lull of air conditioning, surrounded by the theme beige walls. i bore myself, looking at the wrinkles on my hands. thinking about the scars on my right ankle from tripping on mountains, skipping across the sky.

dear r,

i feel all of this hope, this life. but i'm not sure where to put it, where to hide it. and why should i?

the lights in the city speak to me of a different past. one that i tried on like flimsy socks, the kind that move around and don't fit quite right. i am terrified of the strength of how i felt for this past, i am terrified of the oceans of fear that ruled me and gave way to undertows of ruin. perhaps our tenderness would have been enough, perhaps our pieces whole.

is shallow better because it hurts less, or allows fewer unknowns to lurk inside of it?

i will publish the letter one day, but until then, i believe in you to make it real.

with tentative love but certain light,
rose