"Damnit!"
(enters talking) "Say something?"
"Nothing, I didn't say anything."
"Well what are you yelling for?"
"I'm not yelling. I'm just trying to focus, can you leave me alone?"
"Yeah, I'll leave you alone once you stop calling me."
"I didn't call you!"
"You quitting your job?"
"What?"
"I heard you quitting your job. Nice place hires you, gives you money, you'd think you'd have to sense to save some money. You're no kid anymore. You got shit to take care of, you gotta man up and do it."
"I can take care of shit just fine."
"Oh okay, and how you going to do that without an income?"
"I'll have an income."
"You'll have an income. (beat) He's only getting bigger."
"He's going to be fine. Just because you had money doesn't mean people who don't have money can't raise their kid up to be a good kid."
"Son you don't know shit."
"I know enough to know you lived your life a certain way and I'm living mine a different way."
"What makes you think you're so different?"
"I'm not going to do something I hate just to support my family."
"Just? Just to support your family?"
"I mean, I'm not going to make them suffer what you made us suffer."
"Shit, the way I treated you has nothing to do with my job. Can't you see it yet, I'm just an asshole, and I've always been one. My job didn't make me a hard mother fucker, I am a hard mother fucker. And you know what else?"
(beat)
"What."
"I did my job because I wanted to. I didn't run away from shit, I did what I wanted. Are you sure you're doing what you want to do? and not just pussying out of the shit you have to deal with?"
"I'm not running."
"Yeah you are, you know how I know? You're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"I wasn't ever scared. At least not after what I went through when I was young. We didn't have anything, but we were smart. Some of us were too impatient, some of us wanted revolution, some of us were just looking to get laid. Me, and a few of my friends, we were smart. We didn't get beat down by the police unless we had to. We didn't go chasing pussy, pussy chased us. We had to evade that shit! (laughs) We made a bad situation into one we could work with."
"Then maybe we're not so different."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I got a bad situation myself."
"What the fuck is so bad about your situation."
"Well, there's you, isn't there?"
"That's cold. (laughs) I work my ass off for your life and that's what you think of me?"
"You enjoyed it, it only gave you a reason to treat us like shit."
"How am I your problem? You got problems... like being a tight little pussy. That's a problem."
"I'm not afraid. And I'm not you. And him, he's not going to be like you. He's going to learn what's important."
"Like you learned to be a pussy?"
"I learned to be a man."
"(laughs) I'm glad you learned something in that school of yours. If you finished you might have learned a man has a pair of testicles, not just one. You might have learned a man doesn't just talk, he does something."
"I'm doing."
"What? What you doing?"
"I'm writing."
"Then why don't you shut the fuck up, and pick up a pen." (starts leaving)
"What are you doing? (beat) What do you do with all your newly acquired free time? Drink? Drink on a boat? Why do you even come here?"
"Isn't it obvious? (beat) Make up for lost time" (exits)

keep your eyes on the final hour.

Ten Minute Break: good start

I got invited to a birthday party, and it'll start off with mac'n'cheese, then move on to pirates of the Caribbean, then an after-movie custard. She's 25.

I find that to be kind of amazing.

Plus I got in two minutes ago at 9:11. First time I've gotten in early in weeks, and it feels pretty good.

Good start, let's see how the rest of this goes.

Song on shuffle at the moment: concrete schoolyard.

So uh
Let's take you back to the concrete streets
Original beats with real live mc's
Playground tactics
No rabbit in a hat tricks
Just that classic
Rap shit from Jurassic

"There must be something wrong with that kid."
"He's just doing things his way."
"He's lazy, and he knows it."
"Kids his age are all like that."
"Yeah they are. Then they find themselves all grown up and it's too late."
"Too late?"
"Too late to do anything about all the shit they've let themselves regret."
"That isn't true.."
"Kids should be hungry. They should jump at the chance to do some good-to-honest work. Find out more about themselves and the world they live in. Kids should be naiive and bury their noses in something no one else gives a shit about. That way, they're old, and they won't go around doing stupid shit, not acting their age."
"And you do?"
"Shit no, I'm going to get drunk tonight with some buddies and try to get laid. If that don't work we'll go drink some more on my boat, maybe go for a night swim. I spend my whole life making money and earning a living, there isn't a fat chance I'm going to sit around let the rest of my life pass me by. Funny thing is, after having spent so much time planning for a life with wifey, kids, and a house, none of that shit matters anymore. My friends aren't like me. They still haven't figured out what they want. See? I knew what I wanted, I got it, and just like everything else, things change. I want something else. And I'll chase that until I get it."
"Well dad, why don't you leave him out of it. He'll do it his way."
"Yeah I'm sure, just like you're doing."
"That's right, just like that."
"Just like that, eh?"

Ten Minute Break: we were where?

wait,
lunge! hold
cry, sleep
laugh! love
fight, sleep
wait,
remember?

EDIT,

I remember.

Getting Ready:

Watching the TV show, been following these characters for weeks, boy and girl been in love since their first meet, and only now in episode fifteen, they say hey, how would you like to be my love? and even though they've known for quite some time, how sweet.

This is how it works, this is how it works, this is how it works

Caught the feeling like a fever, like a gliding plane jumped off the cliff, like a list where ten is ten times better than the first, now here I sit after lift off from fake sets and fake smiles, no matter because when they cry I believe the sadness, how sweet.

This is how it works, this is how it works, this is how it works

Already sick, never been well, now I have the right excuse to let it all go to hell, fire caught my heart, from a trash bin spark, hold on to my pen, palm on the page, I swear to god I won't stop until I've set free this bird full of blood from its cage, there's a lion from the city, there will be a storm in my room, and it'll catch me as I fall, how sweet.

This is how it works, this is how it works, this is how it works

Ten Minute Break: interesting

You could be boring.

You could stop doing all the things you do to get along with other people. You could stop drinking, smoking, and staying out late. You could sleep early, stay sober, and simply say no.

You could let all the opportunities slide away, far from your grasp. The chances to meet new people, make new friends, and hopefully get laid. You could relinquish many of these chances for one purpose: to gain a firmer grasp on what you know you want.

You could do what you've always been strongly against, which is to cut out the extra, get rid of the mixing, and make an attempt at purity.

But you wouldn't really be going against your principles (to mix, to embrace impurities, and to always stay connected). You'd simply be wiping the slate clean. Clearing off the desk.

The externalities are important, but it is also important to know which outside influences actually make contact with the heart, the soul, and the mind. It is easy to get confused. Look back and ask yourself, what have these elements done for me and my wants? Framing everything this way, things become a little clearer.

I once wrote an article and tried something different with it. I wrote roman numerals between every paragraph, trying to play with chronology and narrative. It might have worked, but I simply hadn't put enough thought into it. The theory was there, but the execution was lacking. My friend asked me again and again, what do these roman numerals do? He told me they were annoying and that I should remove them. I think I sort of grasped what he was saying when I asked him, "Is it pretentious, and therefore useless?" Is it pointing, but never really moving towards the place? Is it holding a cigarette in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other; is it loud and aggressive, pushy and insistent; is it quiet, reserved, and ultimately shallow?

You could be boring.

And love it.

Fourth Angry Mouse, by David Schickler

Evening Thoughts: this, here, now

Everything feels incomplete. Transition doesn't capture the feeling. The feeling is not of transition. Transition sounds almost like an excuse.

Incomplete is more like it. Like when you don't finish your final paper, or when your school doesn't give A's and F's, you get an "Incomplete." Failed until proven otherwise, incomplete is what I feel.

The word also conjures up lonely romantics who talk about looking for someone to "complete" them. Or, hey, you complete me. Sometimes I think I could easily feel complete because of someone else. Fall in love and feel like the world makes sense again. Of course, the world makes a whole lot of sense now, actually. And of course, very little of what I'm going through has to do with anyone but me.

There's no moment of clarity, not tonight. I feel awkward writing, and I only do so because I've been missing my Evening Thoughts for a while.

So that's what I'm working on, in general. Completeness. It's a funny project because it's not supposed to ever end. Not while I'm still living and breathing. I expect that as I grow older I'll start to mellow, and maybe even settle down. Maybe completeness will come like sleep. Maybe I won't realize it, and I'll fall into a deep state of peace and quiet.

I do not think this will be the case. It's scary to think that I might die unsettled and incomplete. It's scary to think that the only peace and quiet I'll ever have is in death.

It's scary, but then I do think more deeply. And like most fears, I find it unfounded and silly.

The fear of dying alone or never achieving ones dreams is a feeling predicated on the belief that there is such a state of completion. That there is a place before death we can reach to feel as if we've finally arrived.

I read this great story once. It was by David Schickler and it was called "The Fourth Angry Mouse."

It's funny, I cut it out from this book with a box cutter, and stapled the pages together to carry around and eventually give to a friend. So now I have these two pieces of a book, with the middle missing, in my book shelf.

Anyway, I mention the story because it had this really anarchistic feel to it, as well as having a feeling of nihilism, all surrounding this one final scene, centered around the phrase, "I have arrived!" Though it was chaotic and ultimately it's protagonist had lost his mind, the phrase shined through as a declaration of humanity and identity.

It doesn't really make sense for me to talk about it without your having read it.

But nonetheless, here is what I have to say, it seems: do not despair, and also, do not give up. Nothing is over until its over. We shall not arrive any one place, or one time, but in fact, we shall arrive again and again.

hm.

Ten Minute Break: day dreamin'

skin sweated like paint wetted the paper
mouth open invitation for taste testin'
ten different kinds of salt flavors,
ear on the earth, lips on the wind
truly curious? be my guest and let your mind rest
give it more fuel for day dreamin' in your absence,
palms on ice, feet on the grass
the day shall pass as people on the streets
while we wait for water drop, like glass,
fresh flesh collages legs arms in rawness
we concoctin' long lastin'
lozenges for longin'

Ten Minute Break: Love note to a poet

Of course, like any honest love note, you will never read this.

Like any love note, I hope that you will.

When I first saw you speak, I didn't even know what I was listening for. I knew only hip hop rap rhythms and was just beginning to learn the spoken word iambics, the slow drawn out sentences, the emphasis of words spoken.

Then there you were.

I re-imagine the moment, knowing now what makes you a great poetess. I re-collect the few pieces of memory, and with charcoal, listening to your recorded voice in my ear, I draw the rest:

Frailty is as good a tool as stubborn strength in drawing emotional landscapes. You seemed to balance brash strokes and intricate lines. When you said the word "love," it opened like a flower, finally arriving in the heart, a lost son of language coming home. You were both generous and fiercely defensive. You seemed to inhale and absorb the wisdom of a room, and exhale and exude youth. It was as if you were fighting, and dancing. I hardly knew you. I hardly know you. But your sense of justice is in every word I've heard; constantly searching for right, acknowledging the dark, reasserting your right, leading many distant stars through the dark.

Sunday

Hello! It's sunday and I feel great.

Love and love again.

Ten Minute Break: The Game

One of my coworkers talked to me about getting a retirement fund, and advised me to try to focus on building up a little capital after college, because as he said, "There's nothing better for when you want to do your thing than a nice trust fund." No doubt it's good to build up some moneys for supporting my dreams, since I ain't got rich parents, or whatever. I guess starting from the bare bones, I gotta have a hungry mental. Can't forget where I'm coming from while I keep my eyes on the prize. It's a balancing act: Can't let the money game lock your spirits down in a fear state, and equally, you can't ignore the game and pretend you're above it. Guerrilla's gotta utilize all things--the enemies weaknesses, the environment, and the equipment. I guess I'm kind of a pacifist, but the worst kind. I just shun action. Cuz I'm scared.

Evening Thoughts: hello

Today was crazy. Love.

Ten Minute Break: What are you working for?

"Well, for a guy like me..." The words spill out as if there's been no other thought for years.

***

Nina Simone's "Baltimore" - Amazing.

***

I had a dream last night that I picked up a bag, packed it with a few items, and left for a plane to Korea. I realized I had nothing with me, and that I was totally unprepared to leave, but that didn't stop me. I was ready to go. There were all these people around me, going to Korea also, and it felt a little weird. Weird because I felt my trip was private, and totally unrelated to anyone elses voyage.

***
Some thoughts on identity physics:

Shedding the other, over and over again, is the true art of self creation.

Like a game of peek a boo, your hands close, then open, then close, then open.
The glimpses of self in the mirror play with memory and mirroring, showing you present while the past is still fresh. The physical placing of hands over eyes, or hiding, is the constant game we play with ourselves. Peek-a-boo!

Now, when we walk around, living life, and going about with our various obsessions, we have this mirror image in mind. This image can be, sometimes, the image of the other, or mirror self that does not reflect who you are, but instead, who you are not. This is a kind of condition, human or not, that constantly poses a question regarding identity--if what I am not preexists what I am, where is agency? What part of existence is self activated?

There can be a method of dealing with this condition which involves the individual's acceptence of this condition, and there are several derivatives of this method. One is the acceptence that the self is naturally progressing towards some kind of ideal, and this method can be known as "the role-model." Secondly is the often discouraging realization that an ideal is precisely the antithesis of reality, and that an individual can only react to the "villain"--this is the "comic book" method. The third and final kind of method is a more dynamic kind and one that this writer would reccomend to anyone who finds themselves in a system of self-identification through otherness.

***

My friend said, it's weird when you think of all these things you want to tell someone, and you realize they're gone. They've been gone for a long time. It's sad. To think these people who fill up our lives can just dissapear.

But also, I don't say things like, I don't want to see you ever again, or I'll never forgive you. You shouldn't say things like that.

Evening Thoughts: Question

Is this all you got?

Ten Minute Break: These Things

Working on my resume, making it look shiny and impressive.

Drafting ideas for a comic, thinking of the beautiful black ink that will bless
big white pages in the near future.

Seeing my writing posted on other blogs, working on a new webzine with friends.

Going to concerts, museums, and readings. Listening and watching
filling up my hungry heart.

Seeing a draft of a poem I've been working on sitting on my desktop,
and making changes to it, watching it unfold -- reverse origami.

Getting a new issue of a magazine in the mail, more inspiration.

Editting someone elses resume or cover letter.

Editting someone elses writing, talking about it, and seeing "us" work.

Job searching, seeing possibilities, feeling a future.

***

These things, almost make me smile.

Waking up someplace else

I'm in my fren's house today, woke up from a night of conversations and some of us blazed (not me!) so we play some halo and some of us are writers so we write what we say so, playing with the dog and the cat, drink green tea to relax, god damn, brother ali track playin' impressin the whole fam, this is my keystyle freestyle inspired by elements like elephants roaming the land my soul is escaping this man and alone i stand with plenty of homies to get my back! god damn.

and then my fren says what's next?

I said i thought that was it but since you spoke you had me convinced, lips move as i clickity click, stick and move stick and move, this is the boxing life jab and thrust, we always fillin rooms with love, so listen up, the dog scratches on the door, the cat let's out a primal meow, in the end it's all translated to we want more so let's get up and get out!

and ya giggled, wiggle wiggle

imagine a life, no wait, don't dream, cuz we awake! the fantasy is happenin', this is the thought i git when i knock on the bathroom door, yo man, what's up, i gotta take a shit, so you say come on in! aiight that's tight, out of sight but we smell the stink, but you say you don't like the poopie part so let me paint it pink, what we do is hard, we work and study, and we grind and we live off love and dreams of what's coming, ha you thought i was gonna say money, nah honey, don't you worry.

Ten Minute Break: stay focused

If my body were a landscape, the tatoo would take millions of years, and the blemishes and scars would come and go, as the sun rises in the East and sets in the West.

Good luck, today.

Evening Thoughts: Sol Park

Tonight, greatest show I've ever experienced: Brother Ali, the undisputed truth.

And I thought:
I'm done, people taking me for granted.
I'm done, needing love from the unloving.
I'm done, looking for home in a space too small.
I'm done, trying to hold it all in, just because no ones listening.
I'm done, fighting ego with ego, my heart will win.
I'm done, disrespecting myself and worshipping others.
I'm done, looking for alternatives to love.
I'm done, validation through fulfillment of your expectations.
I'm done, trying to fill the cracks in your dam, let it flood
because I got a soul that can never get enough.

Just a word
but word is bond
so I keep it coming hard
soft, heart.

Ten Minute Distraction: there's room

Here are a few things that interest me:

1. Webdesign. In high school, I took a webdesign class and beginners C++ class and since then I haven't much touched programming or webdesign. I've always been pretty good with computers, which basically means I've never let it become foreign to me--being tech savvy is simply having an active curiosity and confrontational (and sometimes stubborn) handle on tech problems that arise everyday. I want to get back into the programming world. Perhaps a good first step will be learning how to use my MAC OS X Terminal. Maybe look into the easiest and most efficient way to produce websites. Learn a few languages. Think of a simple idea, and launch a small website. Collaborate.

2. Art. Again, since highschool I've lost my grip on the charcoal. My father was a painter and he never encouraged me to aggressively pursue art. I don't resent him for this; he merely wanted me to have a broader outlook. But now that I look back, I see a lot of missed opportunities to have developed this particular talent of mine. It can be daunting to start drawing, or do anything that's creative, when one thinks of the level of competitiveness in this incredibly saturated world of ours. But hey, that only means more voices, and more choices. Most importantly, I need let my hand and eye travel across the page more often. I have to figure out what it is I want to do with the white space.

3. Dance. Shit, this is definitely something I have to get into and definitely something I've been putting off for too long. I should probably try taking care of my body better. ;) This whole, mind to body thing has become more and more difficult since college. It's like there was this disconnect once I left high school, and suddenly my thoughts were aloft, and my body a floating log in the black waters of time. Time to get grounded.

This is already too much. One step at a time. Gotta stay hungry.

Love.

Ten Minute Break: Inspiration

What is inspiration if not the swift kick to the balls (or cooter) followed by a breathless, "Oh, cool." It's that pit in your stomach, the knowledge that, yes, this is what I want to do. You inspire me, means you impress me. And I, am easily impressed.

It's both great and kind of fucking tiring that everyday I find something or someone out there, in this absurd planet of ours, that opens my eyes, and wakes me up. Thing is, I'm always nodding off. I don't know what it is, but I keep falling asleep, and losing focus. The blurriness sharpens, as I see things like this: Theme Magazine

What do I love about Theme Magazine? Well, to be honest, I've only read one of their issues (there are nine). But it was amazing. It was about artists and the homes that they inhabit. It was about space, and creativity, and it was about geography, god, and the grind. It has sweet layout, both diverse and consistently bold, and I love the typeface of the title. Often, I look up words in the dictionary to re-root myself in the meaning and Theme can mean "a unifying or dominant idea, motif, etc., as in a work of art." While unification has to do with the cohesion of ideas and elements integral to a work or works of art, it also has a sweeping, popular, and communal element to it. A Theme unites, a Theme coalesces, and most importantly, as a word, Theme maintains its ideal and at the same opens itself up to change, re-definition, and constant displacement.

Word em up.

Evening Thoughts: yawn II

OH man. Contact, is a great movie, and I am tired. Catch you tomorrow.

Love.

Evening Thoughts: yawn

I guess sometimes, you don't need no one to tell you, you just know it. You feel it.

Solid.

Sorry about the short entry tonight; spent some quality time with my brother. We saw the premier of Spiderman 3. Thoughts on that, perhaps, tomorrow.

Love.

Ten Minute Break: coffee break

I woke up this morning feeling worse than I have in a long time. I sort of over did it on the weekend, and despite a pleasant evening last night (a long walk and a good book before sleeping), the first thing I felt this morning was defeat. It makes me think: restraint is necessary. Overindulgence leads to wasted energy. Save your strength.

To save is to save for something.

It's very difficult for me to think forward, and in fact I wouldn't say I'm stuck in the past either. So I suppose I live in the moment, except not in the sense that I cherish every waking second of my life. I simply live here, and lately, am a little stuck here.

That's why it's weird when I told my co-worker today that my dad writes a blog, but he doesn't show it to me, and occasionally talks about how nice it is that he'll have something to leave behind when he passes away.

This makes me envision myself spending countless nights pouring over a Korean/English Dictionary, and my father's words. This makes me feel the expanding of time, from here to there. This makes me feel anxious, wondering what my father's written thoughts are like.

Evening Thoughts: none!

I came home at a late 12:30 AM and accidently posted on my other blog, solpark.blogspot.com. I deleted it, but it basically said:

"it's 12:30 AM and I just got home from work, so this post might get cut short. I'm talking to Josh now, good night."

OH man, it's Friday, and I don't care what you say, what you do, but I'm happy the week is over. Almost.

There's a lot to be done, To-Day.

Ten Minute Break: it's been a long day

I spent ten minutes thinking of what to write, only to feel as if any words worth saying have been snatched from my mind. That is as far as this confession goes. Sometimes, there I am, in an empty room, robbed of memories I never had.

Still, love.

Evening Thoughts: much thanks to Jose and Josh

And I quote my friend Jose, on the "working world"--

"But I want the World to judge me, and so I got to do something that matters to the World."

Brave and sturdy words, he spoke. We sat down for dinner for the first time after months of not speaking, simply coming and going from our shared apartment, caught up in the emotional, physical, and spiritual grind of work, life, reality. We sat down tonight and realized there is a strand of common experience connecting us, and that this strand is essential, crucial, and that it is necessary to nurture and nourish this strand, so it becomes many strands, a thick rope, a bridge, an isthmus. The task is individual, yet everything about it is connecting and shared.

My other roommate, Josh, and I have been spending more time together. We've been talking a lot about where we are and where we would like to go. We've also had some serious discussions that have led to disagreements and exchanges of strong words. But Josh and I are also sharing an experience, one where the same essential ingredients are playing their pivotal roles in each of our lives; I see the importance of writing, routine, and most of all, I see the importance of acknowledging each others struggles, saying, I see you, and I see how far you have come, and I believe in where you are going.

Jose also said, happiness is not something you can have, not something you can grab and own. It is something you must maintain, it is a state of being: it is seeing where you are now, here, and it is at the same time believing you will someday be somewhere else, there. I said happiness is overrated and we agreed, perhaps because we both knew the word was too loaded, and at the same time too light, to encapsulate what it is we're all trying to become.

And so, perhaps, patience, discipline, and motivation are simply words to describe a much more complex vision we have in store for our futures. Perhaps in shedding these jangling terms, which for so long have been like tiny stone figures I gave offering to, there can be a silence like none the world has ever heard.

Ten Minute Break: flailing

I was doing so good, too.

Evening Thoughts: blogging and venting

The ten minutes of blogging is my experimentation with catharsis in the workplace. The virtual space allows me to express myself as an individual, instead of as a part of the office community, which involves speaking with reservations.

But the blogsphere is a public space, accessible by anyone who cares to look. This made me think about the post where I vented about annoying co-workers. The public aspect of the blog brought to my attention interesting questions of principles: although the blogsphere is public, the possibility of my co-workers reading what I write is slim; does that mean my public voice is in fact a compromised one? As I write on this blog, I hope to uphold at least one principle, and that is sincerity. Would I write what I write if my co-workers could read it? And if I don't write about my co-workers, is it because I'm concerned for my reputation?

I started thinking about this especially after I cooled down from my rant. My cubemate is essentially harmless, and so I felt guilty talking about him in public as I did. And then I began to wonder if it was because there was a chance that he might read it, or someone he knew might read it, instead of a sincere feeling of regret. I talk about my co-workers with my friends liberally. On a bad day, I'll say some terrible things. So why is a blogpost different?

So I edited my post to include a note: if you are reading, I hope you know I mean every word.

Now, this doesn't change the nature of the blogspace, accessible to everyone yet accessed by a limited few. My opinions are still privy to a select few. However, I wrote the added note after I reflected on my actual interaction with coworkers and found that only an idiot wouldn't realize I had problems with a few of the good folks I work with. I'm always cracking jokes about how they're only arguing because they want to be right, that they believe something only because they're insecure of their manhood, and I'm always telling them straight up that they make my life a stuffy hell. These jokes and jabs are the way I let people know I feel uncomfortable, get people to leave so I can get some work done, and ultimately assert a particular set terms of interaction I expect from my co-workers.

Still, it's always weird to talk about people behind their backs. The sense of paranoia and uneasiness that comes along with speaking of family members and friends is especially enough of an incentive to allow grudges to fester and objections to fall to the wayside, but these conversations are necessary. It's necessary to talk to other people about your feelings, in honest and raw terms. I don't want to be a gossip fiend or a back stabber. I'm talking about letting someone know how you really feel, despite the anxiety that word will get around, that the listener might judge, and worst of all, that no one will agree. This kind of talk isn't just venting, this kind of talk is testing what begins as a nugget of conviction against the eyes, minds, and mouths of the people who share our everyday experiences, to see if what we see is what they see.

This isn't advice on how to behave in the office. These are simply my thoughts.

Sincerely,
Sol

Ten Minute Break: Stomach Ache & Heart Break

I have some kind of attention-span problem. I think the kids are calling it ADD, and there's this cute blue pill that'll help me concentrate. I start doing one task, and as soon as I complete some small part of it, my nose is in a magazine, or I'm chatting on gchat. Distractions are lovely. I get distracted from my own conversations sometimes! I'm talking, I'm talking, I'm talking, and then suddenly I notice that the person I'm talking to, friend forever, is confused. I've somehow strayed.

Something I've noticed about this short attention span is that it's very closely related to my emotional intensity. That's right, I'm kind of emotional. Meaning, I get caught up in excitement and brought down to doldrums at the speed of the Internet. And this affects my productivity. Not just office work, but school work, creative work, and anything else that requires me to focus on something for long periods of time. So while I'm on a roll for about an hour, plugging away at a document, I will hit a speed bump, and I will slow down to the crawling pace of an emo kid talking about his feelings. It, like, sucks.

Like everyone, I have to learn to balance. But I have this feeling that while some people juggle maybe two or three apples at a time, I'm kind of dealing with a dozen raw eggs.

Speaking of raw eggs, my stomach is killing me. It's like a hundred bottles of bubbly are poppin and they just won't stop.

Love.

Evening Thoughts: on the summer, over a cool one

Man, I am too tired to write.

hehe

Today, was beautiful. The weather changed suddenly, giving breeze, giving sun, giving summer vibes so warm and so bright. Man, this is why I love New York. Every time this city does to me, I can't help but fall in love all over again. Changing seasons, this shit is so emotional! My favorite part of all this summer mayhem is the nights. I can't wait to chill on rooftops, walk the streets in a white t, and have many drinks, dinners, conversations, in open restaurants and bars all over the city. I can't wait to sit on steps, stand outside to say good bye, and fall asleep to open windows. It's going to be hot, it's going to be humid, and it's gonna get stiiiiiicccky! But shit, we'll glisten on the A all the way up to my place...

Summer work'll be sweaty commutes. Not quite the grimy Seoul city days of cigarettes breaks on rooftops and roaring remote controlled air conditioners spewing artificial ice cubes into tiny fan filled rooms. No, this summer is gonna be a different kind of grind. I'm back home and I got fam to take care of, friends to back me up, and business as usual. And luckily, this city never lets you get too comfortable, no, not me. This city will keep me stayin' hungry.

Love.

Ten Minute Break: In a bad mood already

I was going to save these sweet ten minutes of blogging heaven for a later slice of the day, but too late. It's 10:18 AM and I'm pissed off already. My awkward cubemate walks in talking about how beautiful it is out, asking me, "Makes you hate to be at work, huh?" Thanks buddy. Then he starts talking about baseball, so I chip in with my Mets angst, hoping we can talk about how both our teams sucked this weekend (he's a Yanks fan). He simply goes, "I didn't know you were such a big Mets fan." I guess I'm not. Thanks for killing the conversation. He then starts to sputter into his speakerphone while eating cereal, annoying me further with his general sloppiness and lack of consideration for other people. Then antoher co-worker walks in, and stands at our doorway, smiling. Mind you, he has a large beard. So he's smiling, with a large beard.

"How's about those Yankees?"
"What about them," my cubemate replies.
"Better get out the brooms! Sweep, sweep..."
"Yeah, I'm not worried."
"Okay, well. What's this deal you're working on?"
"Oh, it's something you don't know anything about."
"What is it?"
"It's a Grantor Trust."
"What the fuck is that."
"Ask... ask someone about it."
"Okay, that's all I got."

Ruffled feathers, bearded co-worker leaves. This is too much. I'm in a bad mood already. Just wanted to share. That's my ten minutes.

EDIT: and to the above mentioned co-workers, you guys ARE that awkward, and not like in a cute nerdy way, but in a my-ego's-so-massive-I-can-barely-walk-straight-
gosh-what-if-people-think-I'm-gay kind of way. Yeah.

Bigger thoughts

One of the main reasons I haven't been writing here for so long is that I have not been staying hungry!

I sort of lost my appetite and got tired of eating these half assed meals and lonely take out dinners. This kind of life will make your stomach shrink and your penis stop working. Seriously though, it's tough to keep doing your thang when you ain't got nourishment: encouragement, companionship, and mentorship. You gots to get your food on! That's like Lasagna, Kim-Chee Jiggae, and Kong-Bijee, respectively. Sure, hate and resentment can fuel some righteous tirades and beautiful ballads, but then your liver takes a huge hit for the team. "Pat, pat" to my liver. Thanks, buddy.

So yo, talk to me, I'll talk to you. I'll try not getting hung up on heart break and you try not to break my heart, we'll do just fine.

Peace.

I can't sleep

Because I've been getting 5 hours of sleep everynight for the past few weeks, and tonight, I went to bed at 10 PM for the first time in a long time, I woke up at 1:30 AM, thirsty and kind of ready to go to work.

I tried a couple other things to fall asleep before I hopped onto my blog. Let's hope this does it.

I had this dream where I was writing an email to a friend of a friend, telling her the correct name of some company someone had quit from--it was a long dream where I kept drafting this one email over and over again. The dream had two distinct qualities: 1.Desperation for human contact 2. Occupational Entrapment

Somehow, writing this email was the only way for me to get to know this person. The whole email was about some minute detail, like the spelling of the word Cadwalader, or something. But I kept drafting the email, sometimes forgetting I had drafted it already, and it seemed when she responded, we were still talking about the same shit. Fucking maddening.

I woke up in a sweaty panic.

I also pondered what it meant that so many of my friends had rich parents.

It's not a big thought. Small thought. Highschool thought.

Big thoughts: ...??

In the News Today: Cars, Television, and Cows

U.S. and South Korea in Landmark Trade Deal.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/02/business/02cnd-trade.html?hp

This bilateral trade deal has been in the works for some time now, and the most recent breakthrough indicates success for proponents of the agreement. Generally speaking, the agreement will tear down the wall between the two countries that has slowed trade and created a substantial trade deficit for the United States.

Most recently, Korea enforced a ban against American beef due to Mad Cow Disease. President Roh had been losing popularity (as, I am told, Korean presidents have a tendency of doing) and tensions between the United States and North Korea have steadily been increasing.

The ban against American beef follows the wider context of Anti-Americanism that has followed an unsuccessful war in Iraq, tensions with North Korea, and a long history of American Military presence in South Korea which has never stopped having its share of controversy. Nationalism sentiment surged in choosing Korean beef over American, and the trade agreement in today's news is not only an indication of how unpredictable nationalism-driven politics' can be but it is also warns of the temporary nature of the agreement itself.

The tensions at work in South Korea are immense, and should not be taken lightly. The big losers are, after all, Korean agriculture. In the agreement, Korean farmers are going to sustain their hold on rice, but for the most part their recent hold on beef will be lost. There are protesters calling President Roh's agreement an attempt to make South Korea the 51st state, urging that "mad cow" be fed "to Bush."

South Korea is a fast changing country with a large influx of American culture constantly streaming into its brain waves. It is also a country with a long history of tension with America, as younger generations feel more nationalism, and less fear of North Korea. The hit taken by Korean Agriculture and the increased nationalistic reactionary sentiments to the agreement will give critics of the agreement plenty of ammo in the propaganda war against the policy.

It will be the Korean Government's prerogative to make sure they seize the agreement opportunity to strengthen Korea's export in America and expand its technology and industrial base in the homeland. The mass of unemployed farmers will have to be displaced with the educating of rural citizens in preparation of their taking part in the new technology/communications industry. The name of the game for Korea is development.

The United States stands to gain a lot in this deal, decreasing the trade deficit with Korea by increasing American automobile sales in the country, revitalizing the export of beef, and somewhat increasing accessibility of American cultural products such as televisions shows and films. The Bush administration gains points in creating an important economic deal in Asia, creating an opportunity for better diplomacy through increased interdependence. South Korea is, after all, an important economic and cultural center in Asia, influential in China and Japan, as well as in South East Asian nations.

The deal is meant to strengthen relations, but again, that remains tentative. The deal is good for big business, on both sides, and consumers will benefit from cheaper products. But also, the deal increases anti-American sentiments, weakening the popular support for the current administration, and creating a chance for opportunistic nationalist politics to seize control. The idea is, of course, that a smaller developing country has a lot to gain, depending on the development "stage" it is at, in such an opening up.

****

It dawned on me today, that while not a realistic possibility, things could change so much in Korea in the next decade, that many of its current policies could dramatically change, including mandatory male military service. This false hope washed over me as a sad reflection on how our choices are limited by nations. As an American, I have taken for granted the ability to travel wherever I would like. I have taken for granted the ability to choose. However, in Korea, there are many who cannot travel to America due to visa limitations, who must spend over two years of their lives in the army.

Of course, it isn't necessarily a bad thing to be unable to come to America. If anything, my desire to go to Korea is a driven by a more naive desire to go home (fueled ironically, by the same Korean culture that refuses me) than the purely practical reasons that drive South Koreans to send their children to American.

But what if?

What if I could freely travel to South Korea and freely live there and freely reeducate myself of the culture, the language, the politics? What if I could see my extended family on a basis less superficial than as their American cousin who has IVY League education. These are naive dreams. But perhaps they are not. In many other countries, foreign raised children return to their homelands and struggle but succeed in forging new identities, and contribute largely to their respective nations.

What if I could? Would I? And why would I? Am I that distant from my American identity that I would forsake it for a distant homeland that accuses of me of the same crime as my birth-nation? Why move, when no matter where I go I am foreign?

Because fuck that, I know who I am. Nationalist fuckers on both sides of the same fence can go fuck themselves. I'm tired of being called a chink in New York, as much as I am tired of feeling ashamed of my weak Korean language skills. Exclusionary cowards can live in their deluded world of homogeneity and bipolar identity, I'm moving on to more complex equations.

Once again, the limits placed on my life push me to find greater things. Complications with my national identity force me to limit my stays in South Korea to 6 month intervals per year; my race, my nationality, my socioeconomic background, my personal flaws--all make me unique, and less easily palatable to generalizations and single color/single word categorizations.

And who would have thought: Kaleidoscope comes to mind.

So here it is, my latest post. It's been a while.
This is my affirmative action.

- Sol

big pictures

The tall masses of pine begin to sway
and a loud hush swarms the afternoon air

I suggest watching "Syriana"

My Kind of Shower Scene

I love to shower in the afternoon, because bathing in sunlight reminds me I'm alive.

The Importance of Recognizing Your Talents

Check this essay out:

http://www.designobserver.com/archives/023156.html#more

It's one design professional's account of how realizing he was "good at art" as a child changed the way he grew up. I found a couple things about the essay to be interesting, as well as moving.

One was the distinct giving of credit where credit is due. His teacher, and his parents, and many of his peers, were all important influences for him as a child since they allowed his curiosity to expand on what he felt was a talent, and ultimately carve out quite a bit of confidence on the tablet of his personality.

Secondly, I like how his talent translated into his life. There's a correlation between what we are naturally good at and what we decide to do with our lives, and that connection is something I think a lot of us post-college people are coming to terms with. The trick is, it seems, one does not predict the other, and our talents, as intrinsic elements of our personality, are not to be rejected or embraced on the basis of their utility in our vocational search. Our talents are with us as a part of who we are, and no matter how specialized a profession is, there must be room for one to be oneself. And like most things in life, there are very few circle slots and square pieces and vice versa; fitting in is a matter of adaptation and improvisation.

Finally, it's important that the essay points out whether or not he would have realized his particular talent today, as a child. Since children have such advanced graphic tools to design everything from their paper covers to their birthday banners, would a child be as likely to recognize talent? Would an onlooker? If anything, it may be more difficult to see who's "good at art" than it was before, in science projects, and other school activities, but it is also true that today's young artist, once he realizes his abilities, has tools to manifest, amplify, and disseminate his creative products in ways unimaginable to previous generations...

New Blog

I just moved all my reviews of concerts, books, and movies (and other things to come!) to another blog:

Sol Park

It kind of feels nice to separate the critical reviews with the staying hungry; because the two are now separate entities, I feel I can do both with more sincerity and purpose.

Well, I hope you enjoy reading, because I just can't, and won't, stop.

My head feels as if its swelling. It might explode. I hope that it will. I hope that my head will burst and everything locked up inside will splatter all over inside my empty and bare-walled apartment room.

Talk to me. I want to sit down or walk with someone and just exchange brain fluids. I might catch something. That exxxcites me. I want to get sick, you know, like how people talk about love being a virus, or an idea catching on like an epidemic? Maybe my brain is swelling because its too healthy, too sterile and maybe my immune system is getting bored and attacking healthy brain cells because their boring and because my immune system is sexually frustrated.

Anyway. I just read some notes David Choe includes in his book of art, Bruised Fruit, and also an interview of August Wilson, and Wilson talks about how he's trying to find a place to write in Seatle and is having a tough time--he went to this place where a bunch of writers sit down and write and he wasn't feeling it. He playfully says that it's like his muse got into an argument with someone elses muse and got kicked out of the restaurant. He says in the interview that he liked to write in restaurants and bars when he was a 20 year old poet, and once when he was writing on a napkin, the waitress sayd something profound: "Do you write on napkins because it doesn't count?" I mean, wow. I wonder if she went home and hammered at her memoir, or maybe she's an actress who writes screen plays and works at a restaurant. I know this girl who moved to New York a couple years ago and she's doing what she called the "starving actress in new york" thing, working at restaurants and going to auditions, but then she got sick and tired of working at restaurants so now she teaches at the Princeton Review and she pretty much rocks at it. Wouldn't you like an Actres-Teacher?

So yeah, I love you. Love me, back, harder and faster, and god, I hope this feeling lasts forever.

Laughter

"The tradition she wants to join is that of Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor, and in some ways she faces greater challenges than they did. Not just because she is a woman in a profession defined and dominated by men, but also because it is not as easy as it used to be to separate the hip from the square. What Bruce did with obscenity and Mr. Pryor - especially in his first concert film - did with race was to find the outer boundary of the audience's tolerance and push beyond it, confronting and confusing the satisfied self-image of the liberal, sophisticated public."

"This kind of transgression has long since become ritualized and normalized, and Ms. Silverman's act is the latest evidence that mocking political correctness has become a form of political correctness in its own right. Her version of insult humor is actually flattering, both to herself and to those who find it funny. She depends on the assumption that only someone secure in his or her own lack of racism would dare to make, or to laugh at, a racist joke, the telling of which thus becomes a way of making fun simultaneously of racism and of racial hyper-sensitivity. (Like many young, otherwise deracinated Jewish comedians, Ms. Silverman falls back on her ethnic identity as a way of claiming ready-made outsider status.)"

"Everything she says is delivered through enough layers of self-consciousness - air quotes wrapped in air quotes - to make anyone who finds it offensive look like a sucker. She even makes fun of the idea that she might be thought of as an "edgy" comedian. And indeed she isn't. Ms. Silverman is a skilled performer, and "Jesus Is Magic" is occasionally very funny, but don't be fooled: naughty as she may seem, she's playing it safe."
---------------------

A.O. Scott's reviews are incredible. But, he might be dealing harsh cards to someone who doesn't deserve it. Sarah Silverman seems harmless enough, and from what I can tell, means well. I haven't seen "Jesus is Magic" but I like the title, and the trailer's are a good indication.

And it isn't her movie that really concerns me. I'm persuaded to stay up on a worknight to write this entry because of A.O. Scott's criticism. His point about political correctness, and "edgy" humor, is a good one, and should be remembered next time someone says "he/she is too sensitive"--"racism is a reality, and you might as well accept it"--"the only way to fight racism is to be as politically incorrect as possible!"--"you need a sense of humor."

And you know, it's very myserious what makes us laugh. I laugh very easily, and at things "I know I shouldn't laugh at." But my reaction to something doesn't explain much. Laughter can be nervous. Laughter can be madness.

Some laugh at everything. To think life is at all serious is to ask for a lot of heart ache and dissapointment, because, life is nonsense! The world's crazy; why take it seriously? The painted face of a clown can be the most absurd as well as the most tragic thing.

"Laughter is the best medicine"--indeed, it heals, and it is one of the most redemptive kinds of release, next to crying, and screaming.

Is this laughter madness?

At whose expense?

Another exercise, 1/2 an hour

Jason looked away from the computer monitor and out the window. He was thirsty.

The hallway down to John's room was narrow and long, and often Jason would announce his arrival way in advance as he left his room: "Hey John! Want to go out for a beer?"

John looked up from his book and eyed the stack of papers he had to grade for tomorrow. He had left them alone all weekend, not out of laziness, but simply because he had so many other piles keeping him busy. There was Shakespeare and Film, American Film Genres, and, possibly the worst, the Musicals and Comedies. Not that he disliked the students--outside of class, they could easily be a fun group, great for hanging out and watching the game, but in class it was all too clear these kids were just looking for an easy "A." The last and lingering pile was for this class.

"Yeah, let's do it."
Jason knocked on the only closed door in the apartment, "Jen, let's go."
Jen opened the door: "You know, all our names begin with a J, and I know that, too, but really, we don't have to do this."
"Yes we do, I'm bored."
"Don't you have a website to build?"
"That can wait, but now, beer."
"Well, shit. I can't lie, I want nothing more to do with this junk."

As Jen collected her jacket and keys, she had to dance around the scattered papers and dirty laundry.

John leaned on the doorway, "The only girl in this house, and you're a pig."
"Oink fucking oink."

Jen hardly had time to think, which was unfortunate, since she tried to juggle writing her novel with working at a law firm as a legal assistant. The papers on the floor were "drafts" and they were as scattered as her unfinished story, yet it didn't seem to bother her; there was always some kernel of a direction she seemed to chew on.

Jason had been playing counter-strike for five hours straight, and he was thirsty. The three apartment-mates huddled out in their winter jackets and locked the door behind them.

Across the street, there was an Irish pub that attracted a crew of drinkers as diverse as the public schools in the neighborhood. A gray haired woman kept things in order as the lady in charge, and a pretty young blond served drinks. Most of the patrons were over 40, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Irish, Italian, Greek, and tired after a day of bullshit jobs and aching prides.

This was the scene our three friends walked into--a latin chick, and two korean dudes, after having graduated from college in the spring, shared an apartment and this pub was their hang out spot, every Sunday night.

"Hey Anne, how are ya?"
"I'm good Jason, you kids grabbing a booth?"
"Yeah, can you give each of us a heini?"
"Sure Jason, be right with you."

The pretty blond swung the top half her body like a blade down under the counter where she'd open the fridge to find three cold green bottles for the kids. She held all three in one hand and three coasters in the other. Jason always stared at how her skinny fingers could manage the most impossible orders.

20 Minute Exercise

His footsteps echo throughout the dark theatre as he walks on to the brightly lit stage.

"Here, is a gun."

A loud bang cracks as he fires the gun into the darkness.

"So what?"

Someone darts out from left stage, wearing a red cape, and tackles the man with the gun. They struggle until the man with the gun overcomes the hero. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He fires the gun into the man's mouth before he can answer.

There's blood everywhere.

Then, applause, along with a few boos.

The theatre crumbles, and the sun shines, and the man with the gun stands in the middle of the stage which remains standing, the huge red curtains strewn over the rubble. The man walks off-stage, over the steel and broken wood, and into the front yard of a house that stands directly in front of him. A puppy runs out the door and on to the yard, wagging its tail, and jumps up on its hind legs towards the man with the gun.

He puts the gun into the front of his pants and proceeds to pet the dog lovingly.

"Aw, puppy. Hi, puppy. You're a cutey, aren't you?"

The man feels the desire to beat the puppy with the butt of his gun, until the puppy is a small wet pulpy mess, but then checks himself: "No, I would regret that, and I would be upset all day afterwards."

Police officers have snuck up all around him, creating a circular perimeter. They move in mock bushes, and several dog houses seem to be slowly meandering towards the man and the puppy. They get close enough to smell his deodorant, but he's too preoccupied with the puppy, or perhaps he willingly ignores them; it is uncertain how they could possibly get so close to him, except that perhaps there's no reason why police officers should even be there, nor is there any explanation for their disguises, and certainly no context for a crime chase. Arms reach out from the bushes, and the roofs of doghouses are raised. They snatch his gun first, then him. He screams. The dog jumps several feet away only to turn around and start barking at the commotion. "Stop!"

"Stop," he says. "Stop!"

Flux

It's been one hell of a time, and I miss you dearly.

This life

I would like to learn it all over again.

The Moral High Ground and Standing Up For What You Believe

So today, while I was at work, I went on thefacebook and found myself jumped by an uncontrollable hate and anger I have not expressed in a long time.

Read my previous post and you can see what happened.

What happened next was that one of the people I called out on decided to respond:

Mr. Park, your posts are really dumb.
Reread what I asked (it was a question, not a statement), think before you decide the conclusion, and then maybe your posts will be worth paying more attention to.

Mr. Wang, thank you for continuing the discussion (something Mr. Park espouses the virtues of, yet then scurries from). I'll respond once I get home to a computer with sound so I can relisten to Rosie's stuff because it's been awhile.

I felt two things:

1. Shame--although he chose to ignore my points, he did point out that I had lost my cool, and that I had acted more from emotion and less from a cool minded detachment that such a serious topic might deserve.
2. Outrage--he was the one who started with the foul language, the disrespectful tone, and he was the one who pushed me to feel personally assaulted by the accusatory tone.

Then, two things happened that I am very thankful for.

1. I didn't call him names, and I didn't tell him I'd hunt him down and kill him. I held in my outrage, and, also, my shame. I picked myself up and told myself I did the right thing. I had acted on emotions, and that was not the smartest thing to do, but it's also the most honest reaction I had in me. And I value my honesty more than anything. Most of all, I am thankful that I learned from my mistake. I responded by pointing out that although he had asked a question, I had trouble taking it seriously because of the way in which he asked his question:

Though it might surprise you, I know you posted a question. I chose to ignore it because of the phrase "whiney bitches" and the word "salivating"--next time, if you expect respect from others, act like someone who cares.

and yes, please go back to the origin of your statements, and watch the clip again.

I can't say none of my resentment found its way in to my response, but I can say I practiced restraint--in both not lashing out at him, and in refusing to simply concede that my reaction was unfounded, if not miscalculated in the context of the debate at hand.

2. It was then my conversation with Sixiang Wang that made me realize that the person who had responded to me (Sean Sweat) had originally spoken in a tone that was in line with many of the other people on the Forum. Only, the other people on the forum were expressing their general outrage at the Rosie incident. Their comments were just as virulent, personal, and disrespectful of both themselves and the topic at hand.

What we had gathered to discuss was the racist explosion that occurred on "The View"--the continual complacency of the person who committed the racist act, and the continual ignorance of those who felt she had done nothing wrong. The forum's purpose was to make a statement that her actions are unacceptable and why they are unacceptable.

Sean was right. We should have started to discuss the reasons for our outrage, instead of sounding like what he called "whiny bitches... salivating to be victims."

In fact, it was my conversation with Six that made me realize much of what I have written in this post. Without his listening and telling me how he felt, I would not have been able to settle down with today's events. I would have been unable to sleep. I would have felt disappointment in my inability to remain cool headed, and I would have been depressed at how impossible the debate about racial intolerance and ignorance has become, with everyone's opinion polarized to either extreme hate or complete irreverence--my voice being unable to be an exception, and instead a example of the rule.

But instead, I feel good that I was able to restrain myself.

Why would I lash out and try to burn anyone?

Well, Because: I was afraid I would act the coward. I was afraid I'd fall into deeper shame
if I didn't hurt him.

However, it's very clear, now--it's this fear that drives all of us to be paralyzed with hate. Hate can become the fuel for something great. Hate can drive an individual to murder the master, and save the slave. Hate can be the ringing voice that lasts the test of time.

But not hatred from fear. To take blood when I have no blood to lose?

That's losing. And we need to win. Take back the high ground. Stand up for what we believe in.

Believe

Allow me to explain: the following is a link to a facebook group I was invited to--then, there are some comments that made me feel a kind of anger I haven't felt in a long time--it's inexplicable, why I am suddenly so pissed off.

I used to be one problem child when it came to race politics--I never heard anyone out, I aggressively argued anyone who even remotely implied that identity politics were not the most important problem we faced as Americans, and I hated white men as if they were hoards of barbarians.

Needless to say I grew up and mellowed out. I realized that hatred only hurts me, and that to generalize a group of people would be to act as hypocrite. To argue so aggressively is to close my mind, and to close my mind is to end any chance of resolution.

But I am pissed off, fed up, and fucking sick and tired of this bullshit. Poeple have to wake up, have to wake up, have to wake up, because this flame is lit, this fire is alive, and this mother fucker is burning down.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

http://columbia.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228618755

Adrian Bruns (Southeastern OSU) wrote
at 5:50pm on January 4th, 2007
I agree with the guy below me. Every single race in the world has had moments like these but you really do not see them making a facebook group about it. Grow up and realize that people say rude and ignorant shit...welcome to America!!
Message - Report



Sean Sweat (MIT) wrote
at 10:56am on January 3rd, 2007
Does anyone want to explain why what she said was offensive and, by extension, why this group isn't a bunch of whiny bitches salivating at the chance to be victims?

Adam Goldberg replied to Michael's post on Dec 16, 2006 at 1:36 PM
I think this is a fair example of hyper-sensitivity.

Every language has distinct sounds as heard from the perspective of one's native language. For example, native Spanish speakers often say English sounds like "washa washa, washa washa ..." Hebrew and French, similarly, make use of a throat sound which is often mimicked by clearing one's throat. There is nothing inherently offensive about the sounds of a language.

Granted Rosie O'Donnell's comment was ignorant; I would not go so far as to call it unacceptable. I laughed when I heard it.


---------------------------------------------

I feel my reponse was meek at best, and I was trying to use some restraint. But still, these were my most virulent retorts about this subject matter in a long time:

Ms. O'Donnell's problem is that she is out of touch with her own (our) culture. Maybe when the members of the View are hanging out drinking coffee her chinaman jokes are a hit, but most people know that it's not funny unless your russell peters; which brings me to my question--at what point is this shit funny? Is racism inherently funny? Would we be laughing if it were a better 'impression'?

and who the fuck is this sean sweat? are you making a point, or being an asshole. another mystery. adrian burns, when's the last time this happened to "your" people? Welcome to america, indeed.

-------------------------------------------

I seek no apology. For these words, or for my spending valuable work time writing this post. It was simply a matter of urgency.

Caravaggio slips the book out of the man's hands.

"When you crashed in the desert--where were you flying from?"
"I was leaving the Gilf Kebir. I had gone there to collect someone. In late August. Nineteen forty-two."
"During the war? Everyone must have left by then."
"Yes. There were just armies."
"The Gilf Kebir."
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Give me the Kipling book . . . here."

On the frontispiece of Kim was a map with a dotted line for the path the boy and the Holy One took. It showed just a portion of India--a darkly cross-hatched Afghanistan, and Kashmir in the lap of the mountains.

He traces his black hand along the Numi River till it enters the sea at 23 30 latitude. He continues sliding his finger seven inches west, off the page, onto his chest; he touches his rib.

"Here. The Gilf Kebir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer. On the Egyptian--Libyan border."

-- Excerpt from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.

This is what I should be doing

I have yet to feel what I imagine would be the rush of doing something I love with an intensity to match that love. And though my imagination draws images of it, I know the limits of imagination, and the distance one travels in doing.

And I think many people relate... do you?

But also, I think there must be some unseen part to this perspective, some unrecognized triumph that's been lost under piles of papers, mounds of effort. We stare and we stare.. and in the end all we see is a mess. But maybe... maybe also that mess is our triumph. Maybe this is more than an untidy room.

Am I letting myself get off the hook, too easily? Is this the talk of a mollified mouse, nibbling on a piece of cheese? where's the roar? where is the bristling mane?

To be continued...

My thoughts on the past few months...

At first, I wanted to write to myself. I wanted to speak so that only I would hear, write so that only I would read. I wanted to do this because I wanted a closeness to myself where I could be honest, and most importantly, so that my voice would create change in the tomorrow, nudge my soft body into action, and be the harbinger for a new day.

I want change, of course, because I am unsatisfied. I am unhappy with the state of things, the way I am. And there simply hasn't been enough time, or rather, I have not made enough time where I can plainly lay before me the many pieces. To view the many elements in my daily weather. The many voices in this truly never ending conversation.

I then realized, and you are witness to this realization, that this would not work. Writing to myself, for myself, for a selfish reason, would not have the same power, the same spirit, as writing to you, whomever it may be, generous enough to read.

~

I have been working at a law firm for about three months now, and working has left me filled with so many new sensations, yet I have not been able to sort through them all.

For one thing, I have never expected much from life, and this job offers me a lot. Another thing, I have always sought so much out from life, and I have yet to find nearly any of it.

Good pay, professional environment, benefits, and responsibilities. I have never felt more a part of the adult world--far from my parents' world, and instead, a world where people take for granted the control they have over their circumstances, where outrage is a form of expression that is listened to and heeded, not simply tolerated, ignored, by god, always, but also by he who owns your misery.

I have always had a privileged life, but as a generally quiet child, who preferred the sideline, but craved the limelight, the world felt ungraspable, and I often expected the indifference I received as deserved, and the attention from others as a blessing. I always felt my Asian race as the opposite of easy access to community, identity, and general cultural pride. It always left me feeling uneasy in any social group, since I suspected, as I am sure others have felt, where I am from, and who I appear to be, was a sliver of who I am, and where I want to go.

It's strange that the sterile environment of the office space offered me a sense of ability, and deservedness I have never felt before. In the office space I felt for the first time a new and raw sense of empowerment. Crazy, what having some money in your pocket can do. I can have my own apartment. I can buy my friends' drinks. I can help the family I love. As a professional, I am entitled to my say in things as long as I am right. There are no opinions, there is only the simple statement of fact. I am at times the Asian guy, but only when the atmosphere becomes relaxed enough so that we stop talking about work related things. When we work, we don't bring our personal lives, we are a sterile group of egos and iq's. I am not your buddy, I am not your friend, I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect--and this feeling is new to me. I am Mr. Park, and I am someone you should respect. That is not how you pronounce my name, and my name is not another Korean. That I should deserve respect, that someone should speak to me as an equal, and not some other. I liked this. From standing in the shade, I walked into the light, and the blinding cloak of whiteness felt warm, and comforting, and almost Godly.

~

I have always wanted so much from this life. I have always believed in beauty, and in love. I crave peace, and humanness. I respect generosity, and I am grateful for all gifts. And life is a gift. Every single voice, as it quivers in the darkness, with its small distinct vibration, is a feather of a giant phoenix and we all live, and we all die, and we all miraculously burn and fade into ashes, and the process is a million years old, timeless, and infinite as the stars. I wish to open my arms, my mouth, my heart, and show the world what I mean. And I have always believed, as I do now, and I pray I will until my final day, that what I speak can have some say in the magnificent conversation that is this burning world, this dying day.

So I cannot stay cloaked. And I cannot remain comforted by a blinding light, in the stead of a darkening shade. Such extremities are the result of a hungry heart, and I have hungered for a long time. But after gorging myself on this, and on that, at the age of 23, what I really crave is a calm. A peace where I can steadily see myself and the world before me in the soft glow from my open mouth.

I will always love the sunset, and I will continue to drink from the starry night, but such indulgences are not for the human heart. The human heart beats at a constant tempo, sometimes a little more fervently than other times, but throughout life the human heart is a room, and a room cannot grow, cannot shrink; but there, there is the place where it all begins.

This act is an act of arrival. These words are a delivery of light.

This is the only way I can see who I am, and how beautiful you really are.

And that will get me through the day; that is how I choose to burn.

We are not simple beings of hunger, we are more than fuel, more than fire, we are the flame, the dancing shadow and the light, with dimmer thoughts of desperation as well as glimmering dreams on our minds.

Be

here

It was all a dream

I woke up to the metalic door sliding shut. He said something to me.

"Where you going?"

I told him, "207th Street."

"You better get off now, you'll end up at JFK."

I jumped up and ran out to find myself standing on the far side of the platform, and staring at the uptown train coming, and going. I knew the next one wouldn't come for a long time. It was 5:30 AM. I called Su:

"Hello? Hello? Su, are you asleep? I'm in Queens."

I uttered the last bit with a swallow.

"Hello? I'm sleeping..."

"Oh, sorry. I'm in Queens. Sorry, good night."

The station stands solitary in the clear night sky. A small crescent moon dots the distance. I'm on the other side now, and it's as cold as hell on this platform. I feel as if I'll freeze to death, and my body will float up into the massive black sky, my body just another shell wandering the bitter cold, my body trembling to the merciless schedule of the patient A train, my body, so close to having been dropped off, like luggage, at JFK.

It's 7:30 AM. I climb into the living room couch and under the covers.
I sleep.

Anything dead coming alive.. feels that way

First thought: I hope this can last.

Second thought (more like a fear) : If it does last, where will it take me?

I went down to the gym tonight to start working out again. I took a three week hiatus after two weeks of working out at the gym downstairs from my office. I drank a can of "Tab" (the original redbull?) this afternoon and was buzzed all day. When I went down I must have been sustaining the high heart rate, or at least the chemically induced enthusiasm, because I went at it a little too quickly. After half an hour, I was burnt out. I huffed and puffed, and climbed up to the locker room to take a shower. I could feel the muscles glow. The flesh around my bug bites shimmered red, and the scabs looked as if they were going to erupt like little volcanoes.

Itch Itch Itch Itch

The last two weeks have been difficult. After pulling an all nighter, and coming in on Sunday, I felt the weight of a job that I do not enjoy and that takes up most of my time. Everyday I would work up the energy and motivation to get through the day with various exercises: drinking ice water, red bull, coffee, or tea; nibbling on pastries, potato chips, and gum; getting up to stretch, walk, chat, and poop.

Also, the last two weeks have left my body riddled with bug bites. I have a bed bug problem.

I sat there in my cubicle thinking of how boring the job was, and how pointless life felt, and all the while scratched, and I scratched, and eventually there formed a patch of red scabs on my chest. Gross, really.

After showing my rosey scabs to person after person, grossing out each unsuspecting onlooker, I went home this weekend and I fell into an itchy, bleeding, depression.

There's nothing more unsettling than being unsettled. I have yet to get a mattress for my bed frame, itself missing a piece that I must have forgotten at IKEA when picking up the item, and the air mattress I have been sleeping on has left me full of bug bites.

So tonight I'm going home. I've packed my bags, and I'm ready to leave. But before I do, I am going to open the closet door, take apart the drawers to my clothing chest, and deflate my air mattress, laying it out on the floor. Then, I will pop open a can of bug fumigation and shut the door behind me in hopes that when I return tomorrow, the bugs will be gone.

Remember to:

SCREAM

You, your best thing

What you do, and where you've come from: believe that this is it. Believe that there's nothing more. And listen to the wind, hear its language--this is everything. Find a way to love. Do your best. Simply remember that this is your time, and you'll not let anyone take it away from you. Struggle because you want to, not because you have to. You are not a martyr. You are not a sage. You are not a poet. You are not a peon. You are the complexity of human experience, not a peg in the sand of time--we are either all nothing, or all everything. There are no classes, no races, just a terrible storm of skin, hurt, and homes. I haven't written in so long. Perhaps I have no voice. Maybe we're not talking. Let's change that.

Love is...

It's good to sing about it
Good to need it and not have it
Hurts to know it and leave it
It's good to dream about it
Bad to know it and beat it
Abuse it even though you believe it
Make it wait and it leaves
Tell it to go away and it'll stay
Hold it and it holds you back
Hurry and you'll fall
Slowly you will crawl
And above it all
You will risk your life to keep it alive
Give away all your self
To have it inside
It's good to write about it
Good to cry about it
Because it cries for you
Trust it, and tell it no lies
Because it knows how you hurt
Every night.

Believe

Do I have any regrets? No.
But do I know where to go from here? No.

Dedication to: work? Family? Friends? Myself? My art? Love? Lover? Stranger?
Every answer already taken, by others, like seats on a subway car.
Everything rattles, and everyone's a stranger I've known so long
we unknowingly wear each others secrets.

"Seat?"
I blink in disbelief.

Dog

Have you ever witnessed and experienced the energy that runs through the animated body of a dog?

The pit bull has been treated as the bottom of all dogs for a long time. It's ugly face a symbol for an unrelenting jaw-grip, the pit bull has been abused and neglected. It has been bred to naturally feel aggressive towards other dogs, and combined with a preconceived notion that the dog is no use except to strike fear into people and dogs alike, we have an animal that cannot seem to escape its miserable reputation and its genetic conditioning.

I saw a 60 pound gray pit bull one night running with its owner. The man was stocky and muscular, and his gray tshirt was dark with sweat. The dog's name is Santana. He was excited to meet me and seemed ready to play rough after an invigorating run. The owner handled him for a couple minutes, and had to yell at the dog when it would use its teeth in play--this is a common practice to train dogs not to bite. The man smacked Santana on the side of his stomach and hind legs, and of course, Santana was unfazed accept for feeling slightly ashamed. Santana licked my hand with his thick tongue and I could feel him contemplating a nibble, which would have been fine; he meant no harm at all. The man had found Santana at the pound; the dog had been abandoned by its previous owners and if the man had not taken him home, Santana might have been killed. Santana has beautiful eyes that are alive with excitement and curiosity. The life had not been killed in this one.

Something to get you by

Audre Lorde wrote this poem, "Sacrifice"

Sacrifice

The only hungers left
are the hungers allowed us.

By the light of our sacred street lamps
by whatever maps we are sworn to follow
pleasure will betray us
unless we do what we must do
without
wanting to do it
feel the enemy stone give way in retreat
without pleasure or satisfaction
we look the other way
as our dreams come true
as our bloody hands move over history
writing
we have come
we have done
what we came to do.

Pulling down statues of rock from their high places
we must level the expectation
upon which they stand
waiting for us
to fulfill their image
waiting
for our feet to replace them.

Unless we refuse to sleep
even one night in houses of marble
the sight of our children's false pleasure
will undo us
for our children have grown
in the shadow of what was
the shape of marble
between their eyes and the sun
but we do not wish to stand
like great marble statues
between our children's eyes
and their sun.

Learning all
we can use
only what is vital
The only sacrifice of worth
is the sacrifice of desire.

I hope Autumn

Another morning, but today's morning is the first autumn morning of the year. Students are returning to school. The body aches a little more to stay in bed. I get up at 8, but it's still dark. The morning chill is a special sign. It means we're entering the dark period. It's a sign that everything can get cold, but that warmth is the greatest possibility. I always feel I might be reborn in the autumn season. Sometimes it turns out that I die. But every year, I feel hopeful, and this is the time perhaps most full of romance. If anything, there should be a few good love poems. If anything, there should be a longing, pure and crisp as the air, as nature finds its most poetic state, blushing and dying. This morning, I thank the maker for this reminder. Afterall, that's all we have. Signs to trigger the only flesh we have, memory. Quivering as the naked branches do, vitality is in the wind. Shivering, good morning.

Help

Thanks for all the...

Fighting

Okay Readers! Ready for another pep talk?!
Here it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Every single step forward blotches red with pain, because every step is the wrong step, and you've just fucked up for the 13th time in a row. You've said the wrong thing, You've done the wrong thing, You ARE the wrong thing. You don't have a damn thing to be proud of, and all you can do is feel sorry for yourself, and maybe cry yourself to sleep, because baby, ain't nobody calling your sweet ass for a warm cup of coffee.

yes, That's right. You are, at this very moment, a loser.
no favors, no help, no understanding glances of empathy.
just this: Fuck, You.

But you just give them a fuck you right back because at the end of the day the only person you have to answer to is yourself. You will not be a bitchy coward about your feelings, your dreams, and your thoughts. You will give yourself the ass kicking you deserve. No one else cares enough to give it to you, so you will proceed to look yourself in the mirror and see how pathetic you are, and you will yell at yourself.

And then you will leave the room and leave your self to sit by himself and think about what he just did. He will get his shit together, open the door, come back to you, and say, please sir, give me some more. And then, you'll feel like a goddamn person, again. And then, you'll sober up and apply to a few more jobs, scrutinize some more writing, and plan tomorrow's ass kicking.

and THAT, is how I feel right now.

Reading a book

Writing in this blog is like climbing atop a small steel cast children's ride outside the local bodega. I feel a little stupid most of the times, but when I'm really in the mood, I just want the world to know it.

I'm currently working on several books (reading! not writing.. Unfortunately).
Native Son
Moby Dick
Native Speaker
Freakonomics
Guns Germs and Steel
7 habits of highly effective people

I probably won't finish any of those books any time soon, but I'm almost done with Native Speaker, Chang Rae Lee. My friend said he sat down with the man once in an English Class. He didn't remember much about him. Nothing striking. Smart, suave, and soft, was how he described Mr. Lee.

Disappointing. Because I would like to talk to him about his book.

A book that seems to strain with its "problem" more than any other book I've read. It's a book about how difficult it is to write a book. Well, more accurately, it's a book about how difficult it is to write a character--and perhaps, it's a book about how writing a character close to home is like betrayal, spying, or worse, lying. And at one moment in the book, the main character talks about a hypothetical figure, a brother figure, a strong Asian man who's outspoken and confident. He also has an assignment to write profiles on a highly influential New York Politician, John Kwang. The main character struggles with painting pictures of the Korean Man. He ends up painting his own portrait as a sordid rant and tirade on his disfunctional and pathetic father and mother; he talks about his failing relationship with his wife, and his dead son. He sprinkles in some intimate details about New York.

Mr. Lee, is it so difficult? I mean, you write beautifully. Am I just missing the point? I have to say, I'm about 3/4 of the book done, and when I finish, I hope to have discovered some huge twist in this narrative of yours.

I'll tell you how it goes.

He once wrote:

"And I return to the simple task"

Rehab

Here's a story for you: In the May 29th 2006 Issue of Sports Illustrated, in the "LeadingOff" section, there's a two page photo of a horse in bandages, being held up in the air over rubber tubing. Countless straps cover the horse and there appears to be a hook hanging in the air keeping the horse suspended:

"Following more than five hours of surgery on Sunday to repair multiple fractures of the right hind leg suffered in the Preakness the day before, Barbaro was placed in a pool so that he wouldn't put pressure on the leg or reinjure himself by thrashing. A metal plate and 23 screws were used to put the shattered bones back together. Surgeons at the University of Pennsylvania's veterinary hospital said that horses so severely injured are usually destroyed."

The absence of the fact made a shotgun blast ring in my ears. I suddenly felt the horse was not being suspended against the force of gravity, but instead held up from fate, put together despite history, and saved from a cruel society.

Barbaro, the horse, is recovering and making good progress today.

Listening Session

Today: 하나하면 너와나
(FIFTH ALBUM)

Closed my e y e s and relaxed, listened to the tracks from A to Z, from 1 to 3, and meditated on the structure of the track listing, each song's significance to the rest of the album, the overall msg of the album, meaning of it, if any exists. Tried to focus on the lyrics and the instrumentals, how the two connected, the context surrounding the production of the album, Shine's imminent departure, the growing strength of the other Movement members. Of course, I was pretty lost in terms of many of the references and lyrics, the Korean is too quick and playful for me to get it all. But there was one moment where JK yells out, Move something! I enjoyed getting that Talib Kweli reference.

A good moment of clarity. Haven't made time for it in a while.
Tiger uppercut!

Your world disgusts me

I open the fridge this morning and as is the case most of the times, there's nothing good to eat, but the fridge is packed. I pick out a plastic cup of yogurt, hopeful that it might be regular, and not lowfat.

"Light n' Fit" -- Dannon Peach Yogurt. Terrible.

The worst moment, though, is as I decide without thought to visit my MySpace page, I shovel a small load of yogurt into my mouth and, there she is. A huge picture of some bikini clad girl advertising whoknowswhat pops out. The sensation is like nothing I've vomited before. The lowfat yogurt, the turquoise bikini blond, the saccharine smile, the plastic pose.

I can't go on.
This is the end!

Still Life

I always loved how baseball seemed to move at the same pace throughout the whole game.

What keeps changing is the atmosphere. The mood. When a team starts to rally, looks a little more focused, feels a bit more confident. Maybe it's a home game, and the stadium is vibrant. The crowd is a loud roar. The pace of the game is kept at bay by the pitcher and the batter. They take their time. They look at each other and think deeply about one thing: victory. Then in an instant everyone moves, even the man who's farthest from the action flinches. And it's over. Back to plate, to the mound.

I always loved how people would say, baseball is boring, it's a game about statistics. The boring game, the quiet storm.

Hey!

Far from figuring out what makes my life work, I am constantly baffled by the challenges that lie before me.

Honest.

The biggest blocks in my heart and mind preventing me from feeling at ease with myself and the world are huge and complicated, inexplicable and probably impossible to solve or change.

Oooh, suddenly that self-help book I half-way read is coming back to me: "Recognize what you can change, and what you cannot." Wise words, my friend. Funny how some generic advice can gel with personal experience... I've always believed in the universality of human experience, but also the uniqueness of individual expression. Self help book, meet Sol Park?

Anyway, my point was to explain to you, reader, that the main struggles in my life are massive and living complexities that no one could possibly hope to explain to me or resolve for me. And it isn't even that the challenges before me are unchangeable, necessarily, just that there are too many of them, and they are too large, for me to possible face them all.

Of course, they face me. They face me no matter where I turn.

I think those ads are funny, the ones that go, "Are you overweight? Depressed? Funny feeling in your stomach? Then we've got the product for you!" I think that if you took out the punchline, then it might actually be more valuable.

Do you feel you have potential for great things?
Do you feel you'll never reach that potential?
Maybe you feel it's too late.
Maybe you're fooling yourself and in actuality
you're nothing but a average person.
Maybe feeling like a normal person feels also like defeat?
Maybe all your life you've been lead to believe
that special is the way to be.
Is there no where you can turn to, to find a different perspective?
Can you not speak to anyone?
Are you alone?
Are other people just assholes?
Does no one see what you see?
Is everyone else pretty much blind,
in search of trivial things,
superficial?

Okay. I Understand.

You were meant for more

Photo, Ian Park

Everything in its place

That shelf over there, by the clock has all the books about human history. Since I was young I had a interest in history. The dry text books and oftentimes militant teachers would kill the stories of their energy by emphasizing dates and names. But they couldn't fool me. The stories were told despite their every effort to have them untold. I knew the betrayal, the risk, and the relief that escaped from the pores of time. Like sufluric gases, or hot searing steam. When I was a kid, I loved those things.

The books for that story are over there, on that shelf.

And if you want to see the clothes I wear when I go to work, you have to look here. Just slide open this closet and you'll find a small room that has three walls. The wall on the right is the wall you want to look at. It's got all my shirts, ties, pants, and dress shoes. There are small drawers on the bottom for cuff links and watches. This is where I have managed to collect and organize the masks I wear to project my confidence and ability at the world. This is a very important.

To find my masks, look inside the sliding doors, on the right wall.

This is my desk. This is where I have only what I need to connect and control the many facets of my life, through papers, pens, keyboard, printer, and stapler. The small tools are in this drawer. The big flat screen here glows with a comforting light, and I can virtually place all the complexities of life on to this large living painting. This is my Michelangelo. My point of creation.

This is my center. This is my space. This is where I have placed what I own as an extension of my history, my future, and my present.

Welcome.

There is a very special spot in my heart for Alanis Morissette's album Jagged Little Pill

Oh my

Oh my how beautiful you will be. How you will dance, and how you will sing. How you will speak and sit and stand. Oh how you will hold the world around you with a relaxed posture. Oh how confidence will be your dog, and how despair your beloved. How wise you will be. You will be, so wise.

Myspace

Where the lines between you, and me, melt
this is the place where I sleep
where an explosion is but a sneeze,
god blesses you, wipe away the snot
this is where people come to listen to me rock
mistakenly tumble, trip,
that's my improv,
grace does not belong to god

it's mine, and yours,
so instead of what we're not
we are we are we are

sincerely,
mortal.

It's been a long day, friend

I'm telling you, right now, I feel lost. I feel like I haven't got a friend in the world, and everything I do is to no avail. I breathe because I'm afraid to die. I work because I'm afraid to be lazy. I stay silent because I'm afraid to fight.

I'm teling you, right now, this is a moment where I need your help. This is a moment where I need anyone. I'm desperate for an embrace, but I don't know how to walk the distance from here to the living room. I don't know the language to speak ask for love from my father. I don't have the courage to be creative.

I'm telling you, right now, that I feel stronger than I did a 30 seconds ago. I'm telling you that suddenly I feel a slight surge of strength that has mixed in it some hate, like blood in a bathtub. I'm stronger, now, than I was before.

I'm telling you, right now, that I was lost when I started to write this this blog entry. But I began writing with the full intention of emerging from this fight with nothing less than victory.

I'm telling you, right now, that there is value to this. These words are worth something to me. This page. This voice. As I walk through the valley of life, I fear evil, and see no shephard by me. But I see others. And I'm telling you, right now, that I feel at peace. A kind of peace one feels as they fly across a green field, remembering the many days and nights spent struggling to get up. The bleeding knees. The broken feet. The years it took to stand up. To take a first step. To find intention. Then direction. Then love. Then grace. Now I'm flying.

I'm telling you, right now, this very moment is but one of many, but I started somewhere, and I was honest, and I spoke with a voice I earned, I worked for, I strugled to have.

I'm telling you, because this is much too important to keep to myself.
Simply.

Question:

Where have all the ninjas gone?

Peaceful Night

On a cool evening, I took a shower. The hot water massaged my head and I could feel blood rushing through hands running through my hair. I smiled and I could feel love flowing from my lips down into my chest. I washed. then I rinsed. then I dried.

When I returned the towel to the rack, I noticed a smaller towel hanging there, dirty, and old. I picked it up and went into the kitchen and picked up the another small towel that rested on a tea kettle. It had food stains and I had used it in the afternoon to pick up the hot metal. I turned on a song I wanted to hear earlier.

A piano rippled, a guitar strummed a hollow tune. The song was about feeling lost, but the music meandered gracefully.

I turned on hot water in the bathroom sink and soaked the two towels in with some detergent. I waited for the water to run and then I sunk my two hands in, feeling the warmth, and then pulled out one to turn off the hot, and turn on the cold. The cold fell into the hot pool of soap like a cloud that had been kept in the refridgerator. It wrapped around my fingers as I tightened my hands around the towels. I massaged the thick wet cotten towels, straining my shoulders, my arms, my hands. My fingers were red. Pushing away the shower curtains, I hung the two towels to dry on the rusty bar.

So Much Work to Do

Comfort is the devil, he said.

Finding myself soft, digesting my food well, I realize what I have to do. I've grown too comfortable in this state. I've left the fields of blood to come home and grow old, too soon. My children laugh at me. My wife no longer loves me. The house creaks, and opens its windows, allowing dead leaves to spread through its hallways, bedrooms. Beauty mocks me. Dangles its grace before my atrophied body. I can not even remember what it felt like. We were not invincible when we were young, we were in constant state of pain. Our bones stretched, and our stomachs swallowed with desperation. And now we resign ourselves to wisdom? To experience? to knowledge? Be prepared.

You will be young, whether you're ready or not.

Attempt #5506

I'll take this old receipt
rub away the charcoal
script, watch the white
paper wrinkle between my fingers
flutter away white dove
fingers spread--
I'll lose every coffee
and biscuit we bought
in the web,
fall through like silk scarves
a snake seems forever
consuming my youth
clenched fist--
new evidence like new kiss
printed on dove's feather
death will be quiet
when we are together.