Dear Stinger:
You said today that no one knows love except you. We don't know it but you're here to tell us. You are like Moses. Or Socrates. And you have a message. That message is: I cannot convey to you what you think you know, except that you don't really know it. Did this disturb no one else but me? Everyone scoffed the dust of your message away. It was so easy to dismiss. But the more I defend you the more I am pulled in. And now I've worked myself into a whirlpool of disturbance. I am deeply worried by your preposterous claims. Like your hero and mine, you have put me in a state of aporia. Stung me and flown away. You fly away unharmed, back to the side of your lover, I suppose. And I'm left with an insect sting, the locus of pain slowly traveling outwards. You would be pleased, because you've already found the antidote, and so you get out safe and sound, while I sit here examining the small puncture in my skin.
Why is it that only I felt this effect? Like a honeybee, you had only one sting, and I was the recipient. How did everyone else manage to get away sting free? You want to know what I think? I think it's because you and I are the same. We are selfish people who want to be loved. We are selfish because we think no one is like us. We think more about ourselves than anyone else, because we think we're the most interesting. Unselfish people do not have this problem. And selfish people who do not need to be loved do not have this problem. But we have this problem. You said we love a particular. And you are right, I do love a particular, and I have given her so much analysis that her particular is more and more apparent to me the more I fall. And I might never find this particular in anyone else, and so I might never love another, and so I might never be loved. And here is what you said to me today: "I have found someone to love me. And because of it, I know the odds are even slimmer than we have imagined. Today, I dig the hole you are in a little deeper, after that, I will fly upwards and outwards while you look on in your winglessness and jealousy. Today, I am leaving you." I watch you with so much fascination I don't realize I am watching alone. I wish you hadn't done that. I wish you hadn't done that to me.
Love, (isn't it ironic how that word sounds now?)
Me
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
frankenstenian creations
I'm currently reading Notes of a Native Son. (Before you become mildly impressed by my literary curiosities, let me confess that it is for a class, for though I'd love nothing more than to be the person who reads great things for pleasure, the spare hours of my time are mainly devoted to facebook instead.)
Back to James Baldwin, a self-proclaimed black writer who writes of his awe of his father. He is certainly preaching to the converted with me. I hold something similar for my own mother. I used to be unable to explain it to my American friends, but thanks to a currently popular memoir, the term "Tiger Mother" now seems adequate enough. Before the Yale Law tiger mom came forward, the closest anyone came to speaking my words was Amy Tan. My mom read her first, a story out of The Joy Luck Club. She hated it. "This is how she repays her mom?" She said, her outrage spilling into a hard look that she gave me, as if daring me to write a story as well. I promptly got her the entire novel for Mother's Day. My own cowardly form of taunting. It sits unread by her to this day. I, on the other hand, lapped up the book's contents voraciously.
Asian-American transitions, however, is not where I envision my final destination as a writer. I desperately immersed myself in Tan in hopes of moving past it, of writing something more universal, politically-void, and beyond cultural lines.
I'm afraid of being cast into the realm of Amy Tan before I can even do any such thing. Maybe I really am an Asian American writer before I am a female writer, or a college-educated writer, or a funny writer. But am I the person who gets to figure that out? Maybe it will turn out that the critic (the proverbial failed writer--"those who can't write, become critics") gets to decide. Or maybe it will be the public. Or the ink flowing from my pen. At the risk of sounding deterministic, my most hated of all philosophies...
do I write my subject or has it already written me?
**
Back to James Baldwin, a self-proclaimed black writer who writes of his awe of his father. He is certainly preaching to the converted with me. I hold something similar for my own mother. I used to be unable to explain it to my American friends, but thanks to a currently popular memoir, the term "Tiger Mother" now seems adequate enough. Before the Yale Law tiger mom came forward, the closest anyone came to speaking my words was Amy Tan. My mom read her first, a story out of The Joy Luck Club. She hated it. "This is how she repays her mom?" She said, her outrage spilling into a hard look that she gave me, as if daring me to write a story as well. I promptly got her the entire novel for Mother's Day. My own cowardly form of taunting. It sits unread by her to this day. I, on the other hand, lapped up the book's contents voraciously.
Asian-American transitions, however, is not where I envision my final destination as a writer. I desperately immersed myself in Tan in hopes of moving past it, of writing something more universal, politically-void, and beyond cultural lines.
I'm afraid of being cast into the realm of Amy Tan before I can even do any such thing. Maybe I really am an Asian American writer before I am a female writer, or a college-educated writer, or a funny writer. But am I the person who gets to figure that out? Maybe it will turn out that the critic (the proverbial failed writer--"those who can't write, become critics") gets to decide. Or maybe it will be the public. Or the ink flowing from my pen. At the risk of sounding deterministic, my most hated of all philosophies...
do I write my subject or has it already written me?
**
Sunday, April 3, 2011
gate doors
One of the biggest dreams on my bucket list is dangerously teetering on the edge of possibility. More insultingly, it's about to be thwarted by something totally unforeseen. When the problem you are confronted with is supposed to have been the smoothest part of your ride, there's something extra pungent about its odiousness.
Like the cliche about a rug being pulled from under you, there is a moment of suspension as you hover unsupported in fragile air, the weight of gravity looming underneath, taking its delicious time to inflict inevitable bruises. Realizing that something is only merely possible when you have taken it as unquestionably certain--it is the most destabilizing of all problems. It is in these moments that you learn how important some dreams are--the moment they seem unable to be realized, not when you planned, not a little later than you planned, maybe not at all in the visible horizon.
We are young enough that unfulfilled dreams can always be postponed into the future, rather than written off entirely. But as we transition into the more permanent stages of an adult life, are some gates threatening to close before us? Will they start deadbolting their black, iron bars instead of hanging up "come back later" signs? Is the luxury of indecision merely a introductory price rather than a fixed rate?
Time time time. Youth always thinks you were partners till death do you part, youth just never thought he'd do the parting.
**
Like the cliche about a rug being pulled from under you, there is a moment of suspension as you hover unsupported in fragile air, the weight of gravity looming underneath, taking its delicious time to inflict inevitable bruises. Realizing that something is only merely possible when you have taken it as unquestionably certain--it is the most destabilizing of all problems. It is in these moments that you learn how important some dreams are--the moment they seem unable to be realized, not when you planned, not a little later than you planned, maybe not at all in the visible horizon.
We are young enough that unfulfilled dreams can always be postponed into the future, rather than written off entirely. But as we transition into the more permanent stages of an adult life, are some gates threatening to close before us? Will they start deadbolting their black, iron bars instead of hanging up "come back later" signs? Is the luxury of indecision merely a introductory price rather than a fixed rate?
Time time time. Youth always thinks you were partners till death do you part, youth just never thought he'd do the parting.
**