there are times to sail on sailboats and not have any internet or phone connection.

there are times to be absent.

there are times to break silences

there are times to know the difference.

“Never mind if he calls, the places you get
through inwardness take time, and to drift
down to the shore of the island, you know
by the sand moving, even the coarse sand here
It’s hard to say if you can even stand up, there
but there is blue sky, and blue water tipping up
the same distance from you as your face. Its face
goes further behind the eyes, without weight
or haze, and the horizon is just a change where
from going deeper you go wider, but go”
— Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge (via cassie)

earlier this year, for a moment in time, everything stood still. and this man saved (changed) my life. he was more romantic than he'd admit, more intelligent than people give him credit for, and more tender than he'd like to seem.

we wrote letters back and forth for a little while, but it tapered off as we both became busier and more distant.  i still read this particular excerpt often:

"Your mom's lectures sound pretty extensive and hardcore. I think that's good though. She really cares and wants the best.

"I understand your issues with your father. My family actually has some tough communication issues, with my mom and dad. I'm trying hard with my mom though. Sitting on her couch as a write this.
I think my communication troubles stem from my relationship with my mom and dad actually. I'm trying to work on being a better communicator and being honest and open as well. It's really tough though and I feel like I'm always opening myself up for ppl to judge me. I don't deal so well with that. For men, communication is really tough. Men are taught to be doers and not really communicators. It's good that you are trying to keep strains in your relationship with your father from effecting your other relationships. That's not easy to do, but it's important. Everyone deserves a fair shot to be understood and loved without comparison to someone else. We are each our own individuals and though many types of people may share traits, comparison is really not fair.

"Also your statement about men letting you down and your father letting you down really stood out to me. I can really relate and understand where you are coming from. The sad truth is that men are going to let you down. They just are. It's a certainty. Your dad is going to let you down . . .  again. Unfortunately, I'm going to let you down. Your closest friends will let you down. The funny paradox is that the way humans are wired makes us desperate for relationship and so dependent on one another. But interestingly, other people can never fully be all that we may need them to be. Thus they are bound to disappoint us. It's a really hard reality to swallow and something that I understand on an intellectual level (and I'm sure you do too) but hard to realize emotionally. Humans are gloriously tragic beings. Our capabilities, passion and beauty are truly amazing. We are truly something to behold. But our brokenness and shortcomings are so immediately present. It's truly an amazing paradox. I write all that to say that you have to take the glory with the tragedy. Even when the tragic seems so overbearing, fight for perspective to see the good. If you think the fight is worth it. So take the glory with the tragedy with your dad, with men, with everyone. It doesn't mean that you have to lower your standards for support, just change your perspective so that you can really SEE everything. But then again, you and I both know that this is all very easy to preach and very hard to practice. But just make the decision for yourself to see if it's worth practicing.

"And that's all I have to say about that. . . Forrest Gump style."

- June 17th, which was 4 days before my birthday, which was 4 days before his flowers arrived at my front door. And my father's orchids appeared on my desk in my room. Because life is like a box of chocolates.

There are things unbearable. And there are unbearable things worth bearing.

Today, during my lunch break, I got utterly lost among the mountains and hills of Pennsylvania. and I was really happy about it.

This is my 500th post in this blog. I have been blogging since 1999, when my friend Elissa and I started fooling around with the concept of journalling online. Coding our own simple, HTML-based journals hosted by Angelfire. Then we were hosted by a girl we had never met on Silverfire.net, which also still exists. Then we got ourselves into Livejournal (somehow mine still exists). I've blogged with friends at phuzzymath.net, and I've blogged on my own. I've blogged at tigerose.org, which I still own, but now redirects to rosekuo.org. I've written about food, humor, relationships, and professional life. There have been many attempts and iterations of blogs under many different aliases, and I have never been sure about how to express myself online. I change my mind all the time and sometimes my inconstancy is my constancy. I've tried collaborations and different mishmashes of photos and words and thoughts. I've tried to be perfect. I've purposely striven for imperfection. I've spelled things wrong and then corrected them later. I've spelled thing wrong on purpose. I've spelled things wrong and never bothered to correct them. I've edited and re-edited. I've kept the original. I've tried to use correct punctuation, and I've tried to use no punctuation at all. I've been inconsistent in my use of capitalization. I've changed my mind about who I share my online presence with. I've struggled with how to reconcile my personal writing and photography with my professional life. I've struggled with how to reconcile what I write online with what my significant others have wanted me to write. I use pronouns instead of names. I use initials instead of pronouns. I use names. I've gone through periods of writing nothing at all, for months and months. I've gone through phases of only writing down what others have said to me. I've gone through phases of only writing down what I've read.  I've identified myself as a person who writes, but not a writer. And vice versa.

The thing that matters most is that we haven't stopped trying to create. and I really think that's why I share. It's all a process, creation, creativity, art, writing, sharing. Perhaps it helps us become who will be, or perhaps it helps others realize who we are. In the end, I'm grateful for the opportunity to read others' writing and to share my own. My earliest dream, as told to my mother when I was old enough to scribble in plastic pink diaries, was to be an "arthur" (which was my incorrect pronunciation of author). Without this outlet (and the devoted friends who encouraged me to keep this outlet), I am sure, I would not have continued writing.

holy shit i found this tonight


deeper
December 25, 2008 – 10:49 am
"
what’s so frustrating is that not everyone shares the thirst to really understand the moments, and speak about them, and communicate about them. we all live on this one physical planet, but there are all of these wavelengths, all of these dimensions, all of these planes. and we’re all hovering around each other, making contact where it hurts, joined at the hip, grinding at the hips, smoothing over skin, and still we’re in different places. “long distance” isn’t just geographical.

and i’m going through the different phases of realizing why i was with you.
before, i thought you had tricked me. it was all a lie, the words, the letters, the conversations, your eyes. everything. i thought that you words flowed nonsense from the pages, and i was sucked into a love that never actually existed except in writing.

but now i realize, you spoiled me. everything might have been true, the way you felt, the way you spoke, the way you wove everything into stories and explanations and imagery while waxing poetic. but what i held onto desperately was the fact that you had a voice that could respond to mine. that when i said “i feel guarded around you,” you would know exactly what i meant. that you used those same three languages (only two of them spoken) to the fullest extent, and you carried me along with them.

and now i know why i despaired at your absence. i may not ever find you again.

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.

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.

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

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.

He was fond of movies, movies of Latin America and disillusioned liberals, old-fashioned heroes and not-so-ordinary couples in love. He was fond of making them too, fitting scripts into cafes and plots into narrow alleyways. They met alone at a coffee shop, and in a matter of moments, they were convinced of each other's stories, and of that age-old idea that "there is something out there that is bigger than the both of us and we have to find it, you and I, we'll find it."

She sent him miradas in Catorce, he remained unsettled through December, and just as suddenly the stories ended. And that “something out there” remained out there and bigger than the both of them. In a fit of sadness, he dove back into self-imposed solitary confinement and the Moonlight sonata, and his individual dreams suddenly seemed like performances lost in their own expired cinema. But stories remain, whether of winged goddesses or Garcia Marquez's fortune tellers, and those shared between a boy and a girl remain more tangled than most.

"Aching is happiness," he read somewhere, and he realized that it would outlive his soft, melting heart and this lack of defense was perhaps the best defense to its presence. And as the months passed by, he began to smile with ease at the melodies of the Spring mornings that begin too early, stretching, to seemingly never end.

On a southern Wednesday night, he remembered her as he passed by the choreographed escalators, her with her funny-shaped nose and curious brown eyes. And on one, mythic, fabled night, he looked at her, those soft cheeks, and whispered to her rosy lips, "Sweet girl, tell me those stories again."

With a mischievous look on her face, as if she had known all along, she began, "There is something out there..."


----


i was really in love with him.