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Beginnings and Ends

Friday, November 18, 2011

The other day, I happened upon a blog of a stranger struggling through a breakup, and her writing moved me. It wasn’t that her posts were impeccably crafted, or even particularly insightful, but that they were so nakedly honest; no riddles, no posturing, no defenses. She was so honest it was painful to read. A broken heart isn’t a dignified condition, but we try. She didn’t seem to try, and stripped bare of pride and pretense, what was left was her plain writing full with the heartache that comes with loving someone who doesn’t love you back.

There’s a part of me that wishes I could be as open about my personal life as she, but I’ve never been able to, and I probably never will.

But if someone were to ask me how it feels to be in love, I would tell them this:
Being in love is like an all-consuming dream — illuminating, obfuscating, intoxicating; it sets all the world’s weariest, cheesiest clichés ablaze in flames, and makes them feel as fierce and true as the sun. There’s nothing you couldn’t overcome to be with him because there’s not much else that matters in the world when you’re in love. Just him. And when you’re with him, the seconds and minutes and hours that slip by feel like more than just time that’s passing – they’re perfect, singular moments, short and long colored reels of conversations, looks, smiles. The happiness you feel when you’re with him feels truer, more complete; the pains more poignant. Everything feels more. Being in love is wonderful. No, more than that.

I lost it. It happened piece by piece, over the drip of the seconds and  minutes and hours. The fade was slow, but it came and it went and it took whole parts of me with it until I felt like I was empty.

I’ve been living in New York for almost ten months exactly now, and when I think about that, it surprises me. Strange how a relatively short amount of time can feel so much longer than what it is.

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Tales of Childhood

Saturday, August 27, 2011

 

I found it easy to fall into their pattern. We were all very serious and dignified gents taking the train to our offices in the City of London where each of us, so we thought, was engaged in high finance and other enormously important matters. Most of my companions wore hard bowler hats, and a few like me wore soft trilbys, but not one of us on that train in the year of 1934 went bareheaded. It wasn’t done. And none of us, even on the sunniest days, went without his furled umbrella. The umbrella was our badge of office. We felt naked without it. Also it was a sign of respectability. Road-menders and plumbers never went to work with umbrellas. Businessmen did.

I enjoyed it, I really did. I began to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn’t go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.


Roald Dahl, Boy

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Postcards & Paintings & Small White Cows

Saturday, August 27, 2011

There are three postcards sitting in my room right now that I have kept around me for the past several years for no more special reason but that I like them and they remind me of a pleasant evening I had in Berkeley with friends. I found them (the postcards, not my friends) in a bookstore next to Zachery’s on Solano selling for only 50 cents each. A definite bargain, for the curiously long company they’ve kept me. (I usually buy, then promptly lose, most of these types of purchases.)

They all have slightly odd illustrations –  two of them which are a little disturbing and ominous, which I love, and one that’s silly, which makes me happy.

(Continued)

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Lost in Time

Thursday, August 25, 2011

I flew to California for a short visit last Thursday night, then flew back to New York on Sunday.

Going home was like easing slowly into a hot bath after a long, hard day in the cold. And while it was gradual, this relaxing of body and mind, there was no exasperation in the wait, which is rare for me. It seeped – patiently, until finally, it went through and through me in as nice a way as the feeling of home can be in times of want.

I’m back in my apartment now, and all I’m left of my short trip is a pretty, black box, decorated in the middle my parents’ living room, where my good friend and I sat on the floor, enjoying the sunlight and the clean and warm summer breeze wafting around on that lazy Sunday afternoon just hours before my flight back to New York.

And, of course, I’m also left with memories.

(Continued)

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Life in Suspension

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Neigh

Most of you reading probably know, but still, for the purposes of this blog, I’d like to officially acknowledge in writing some recent developments in my life: I’ve quit my job, moved to Manhattan, and I’ve been living in Greenwich Village with my boyfriend for the past two and a half months. As Januarys go, it was an eventful one.

As if to balance things out a bit, February was the exact opposite. March decided to follow in February’s footsteps – just for good measure.   (Continued)

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Hopes of a Tentative Spring

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

To say it’s been awhile is an understatement. So let me try to be more precise: it has been exactly eight months, eight days, ten hours, thirty-six minutes, and eight seconds since I last wrote anything new in this restlessly hibernating blog.

I say “restlessly hibernating,” patient readers, because that is the precarious state in which my blog has been existing. It’s tossed, turned, moaned, and groaned; there were times when it almost arose from its resentful slumber – (false alarms, all of them.)

But now the real alarm has sounded and it’s finally awakened – though who knows for certain if this isn’t just one of those particularly lucid dreams. An unlikely possibility, I’d venture, but a definite one. And lucid dreams aside, other, more dangerous, obstacles loom. It’s hard to wake up, and harder still, sometimes – especially when the weather is chilly – to stay up.

So I’ll just say this: I think it’s up now, for good, but I’ve been wrong plenty of times to know that I’m wrong plenty of times. So we’ll see.

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Conversations with Robots

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Something very odd happened to me at work yesterday – let me start from the beginning:

(Continued)

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A Canal to the Moon

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Moon

I’ve been sleeping with this song about the Erie Canal playing softly in the background every single night for the past week and a half. It’s a simple tune, but there’s something about her voice, or maybe it’s the melody or the lyrics or the guitar strumming — or all these things —  that’s comforting to me. I love it!

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Expectations of Memory

Saturday, June 5, 2010

n3

Thirteen years ago, four hours after departing from Shanghai, my dad and I stepped off a rickety train and onto a platform in Nanjing. The air was crowded and dense, heavy with the weight of summer. The sky hung over us like a grey curtain and littered sparsely along the dirt road in an erratic formation were tall raggedy trees, their hot breaths occasionally lingering on my cheeks, making me feel warmer than I was already. I looked around and felt restless; after the train, there was still another leg of distance to travel before reaching my grandpa’s house.

(Continued)

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Spectacle and Shame

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Something lurid and sensational was brewing in the air.

I was making my usual lap around my local bookstore, looking for just the right books to cozy up with for the afternoon, when I noticed that someone, somewhere in the store, was speaking quite loudly. The voice was vague and distant as I ambled through the history and biography aisles, but by the time I reached McCarthy, Cormac, the voice had become angry — rising in sharp dramatic peaks and cutting vigourously through the usual quietness.

(Continued)

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Second to the right and straight on till morning

Friday, March 19, 2010

The last time I remember feeling excited about a movie aimed for kids was when Aladdin finally came out on VHS. Most animated movies are like goldfish crackers to me: mildly pleasant, but ultimately forgettable (apart from the disgusting goldfish-cracker afterbreath) and I almost never feel like eating them when there are other snacks in the cupboard.

So when a good friend of mine strongly recommended to me the 2003 live-action Peter Pan, I was a little skeptical. I’d already seen three versions of Peter Pan on film: the 1950’s Disney Peter Pan, the 1960’s Peter Pan musical, and Steven Spielberg’s Hook (if you count that). Was my life really missing yet one more retelling of the boy who would not grow up?

Apparently, it was. This Peter Pan flies in a different sky from its more light-hearted predecessors. For one thing, the 2003 Peter Pan is more faithful to the darker mood and uncomfortable themes of J.M Barrie’s play, Peter Pan, and novel, Peter and Wendy. As a result, it is an unusually daring children’s film, presenting viewers with characters and story ideas that are refreshingly complex. Hook isn’t a simple-minded buffoon or a thoroughly evil monster, and Peter isn’t a good-natured goofball or a perfect hero; conflicts don’t resolve neatly and predictably on the protagonist’s most favorable terms. There exists ambiguity and regret; there is sadness that isn’t cured, emptiness that isn’t filled.

(Continued)

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Celluloid Bliss

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

I love movies: the way a shot is framed on the screen, a brief picture of a moment, captured as it’s still living; the carefully-prepared details of a movie-set in all its eclectic clutter or precise neatness; all the wonderful sounds – the music, sighs, whispers, clicks, rustles, crunchings, ticks, whooshings; the way light falls, filtering through a scene, glowing, flickering, illuminating, and shading. I love great directors and what they can do with all of these things — how they make it all work together as they show us a story, an idea, or a mood.

(Continued)

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Talking

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

My dad tries to put his arm around me, but I shrug him off.

“I don’t want to talk,” I say again, and inexplicably, frustratingly, I start to cry. I had thought for sure I wouldn’t, when I walked in the front door just minutes ago.

But then he had said “You look sad,” as I walked past him in the living room where he was sitting, waiting for me, and I felt so angry he said that – that he was here, waiting for me instead of shutting himself in his room like usual; that he’d guilted me into coming home when I didn’t want to; that we were going to have to have a talk now, to make him feel better. And now, looking at me with that face, and speaking to me with that tone — especially that face and that tone — so familiar and yet so inconsistent with how he behaves normally. It felt exploitive.

I walk into the dark bedroom next to the living room and put down my bag. I can hear him waiting for me to respond and I know he’s going to come in any second now, if I don’t say anything. But even if I do, I know he’ll come in anyway.

“I do not. want to talk about it,” I say loudly and clearly.

But that’s a hard thing to say to a member of the Zou family. We talk because that’s what makes everything okay again. We don’t stop.  It’s like we can’t stop. We brute-force our way into feeling better and I’ve only started to realize in the past few years the limitations of this conflict-resolution approach. This was one of those times.

Right now, I didn’t want to have deal with all his inconsistencies, his contradictory behaviors. I wasn’t his little girl anymore, readily taking in his mood swings and only all too eager to laugh along with his jokes and please him when he’s feeling happy and being nice. I need some consistency now.

So I shake his arm off. And when he tries to hug me, I pull away more vigourously, like he’s poison. My movements feel almost automatic, like I don’t even mean to do them, but my body just won’t tolerate his kindness.

“Do you dislike your father so much?” he asks, the third time I brush him off.

“No, I don’t.”

And it’s true, I don’t dislike him. I love him.

But I just don’t want to talk.

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Do Not Want.

Monday, February 8, 2010

My first real blog post back from my month-long silence shall be one about Truth, Art, and Justice.

And it is this:

(Continued)

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So.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Sad Computer

(Ahem)

It’s been awhile huh?

-silence-

This is a little bit of awkward eh? Heh heh.

-silence-

Oh come on Limy, I’m sorry. I am! It’s been…well, you know. I’ve been very busy.

You’ve been busy.

Okay, you know what I mean. Obviously, I wasn’t so busy that I couldn’t have made any time for you, but you know how these things are. The longer you walk, the harder it is to start jogging again.

(Humph)

And also, I was busy: Christmas; New Year’s; a lot of activities happen around that time block you know! Good friends come back for the holidays, and then there were all these holiday parties I had to attend, Indian buffets I had to eat, movies I had to watch, and a new three-hour-long boardgame I had to play; and did I mention that I got sick for like, two and a half weeks and produced more nose mucus than I ever have before in my life? Buckets full. Oh! and then there was this Christmas program I put together and performed, and…

I see. Sounds like you had a chock full o’ fun time. Well, I’m glad that you’ve been alive and well this whole time, blowing out buckets of mucus, attending holiday parties, and playing long boardgames. And there I was, silly old me, starting to wonder after weeks and weeks of isolation and desolate loneliness whether something had happened to you. But no, your fingers weren’t somehow tragically incapacitated by some horrendous freak accident, you just forgot about me.

Oh Limy! How could I forget you? You’re my one and only in this whole world! I created you! You’re like my baby!

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

Oh Limy, all I mean is that I didn’t forget about you.

Oh, so you just consciously ignored me for a whole month.

Well, technically, it’s still one full day short of a whole…month.

You’re joking right? Are you really nit-picking about this with me right now? While I’m in this state? You’re going to SIT there and argue with me about the semantics of whether it’s really been a complete month or not??

Okay, okay, I’m sorry Limy! You’re right. I really am sorry for forgetting about you and getting carried away with my big fun. Will you forgive me?

-silence-

Limy?

Okay fine.

I love you Limy.

Shut up.

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Painful Epiphanies of a Closet Snob

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

snob

I have recently come to the terrible realization that readers of this little blog may not fully understand my posts — by which I mean, people don’t seem to find my posts to be very funny. Upon further examination of this matter, I then came to the more terrible and disturbing realization that readers of this little blog (aka: my closest friends) may not fully understand me as a human being — by which I mean, people think I’m a pretentious snob-ass.

(Continued)

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Prickly Me

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Criticism is a bitter medicine to swallow. This is why Dale Carnegie, self-improvement guru and writer of How to Win Friends & Influence People (don’t knock it until you’ve read it), warns that to criticize is “dangerous” because it “wounds a person’s precious pride, hurts his [or her] sense of importance, and arouses resentment”.

Me? I am the exception to the rule because I can take it — it being anything. In fact, I’ve always (surreptitiously) thought I handled criticism remarkably well for my age and I assumed this self-assessment would only become truer as I became older. And this private conviction only grows stronger whenever someone in my peer group will act, like, soOoO immature if I happen to throw some helpful criticism their way from time to time. Ever witness a porcupine whomp its quilled tail at those whom it perceives to be a threat? Talk about overreaction, right?

(Continued)

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I say, “Dear Chap…”

Friday, December 11, 2009

Everybody loves good dialogue. Which is to say that everybody loves a good conversation. Name a single person in this whole wide world–go ahead, I challenge you!–whose heart and mind does not openly, or at least secretly, leap, pirouette, and whirligig at the particularly witty, insightful, or humourous, or best yet, witty, insightful, and humourous exchange of sentences between two people.

And of course, for those who are slow in the mind, by which I mean dumb, the qualification must be made clear that different people, of course, find different things to be witty, insightful, humourous. To further elaborate with a specific example, some philistines may find amateur Youtube videos to be riotous fun, while I catch myself laughing most uproariously at the many puns and ironies of Shakespeare’s tragicomedies from his “late” period.

(Continued)

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The Slow Rhythm of the Sweet Fruit

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

O Patience(!), too often you elude my desperate grasps as I plummet into the pit of passion! (Continued)

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A Journey into the Night

Monday, December 7, 2009

At exactly 11pm I decide to go for a quick walk around the neighborhood. The weather’s been quite chilly lately, so I bundle up. When I say “quite chilly”, I mean cold enough for me that I shrivel and mentally brace myself every time I leave the comfort of a heated room. There’s an actual mental bracing involved. So when I say “bundle up”, I mean Eskimo-style. I already have the rosy cheeks down.

Actually, that’s probably not a fair thing to say about Eskimos. What do Eskimos wear anyway? Is it Eskimoes?

(Continued)

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