This is the plan--I will write something long related to therapy, related to me, but not necessarily only about me. I get writing materials from my personal experience, of course, but I'll fib, like I always do, to make it interesting for me. As a way to dream, because I think there is a permeability between fiction and possibilities. Just don't ask me what's true or what's real, because everything in it happened, even if it wasn't true, because the line between the real and the fictitious is porous, definitely porous.
The inspiration came from my own therapy sessions, my therapist, and from Eve Sedgewick's "Dialogue on love." I wanted to incorporate my therapist's notes during our sessions like Sedgewick does as well. I told my theapist about it, and he was going to give me copies of his notes. But something happened, and I ended my sessions much too quickly and awkwardly for me to get them. But more on that later.
In any case, here's hoping this will run its course completely and not haphazardly.
Showing posts with label misc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label misc. Show all posts
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
love, therapy, cliche (iii)
Wednesday March 8
Poor guy. I really think I scare him. He takes such deep breaths, as if each inhalation is an attempt to preserve himself. I tell him, I haven't been honest with you. I think I should be, but I haven't been. I wonder if therapy can be effective at all if I am not honest with you? He doesn't know. He says he'll have to think about it. And he does. He comes back with this answer, he says, you know, I think even if we are in therapy forever, I still wouldn't know everything about you, all of your thoughts. I say, that's true, but I'm not talking about just my thoughts or just anything. I'm talking about the thoughts that are relevant to the problem. If I am not honest with you about the problem, how can you help me fix it, right? Right. Right, so I will be honest. I show him my letter.
It does not go well though. I mean, it does, but at the same time, it doesn't. I've let go of that burden, I've exposed the truth, and I feel relieved, free to not be hurt, free to not need anymore. I always need to do this, confront them, expose them for what they are, then goodbyes are easy to do. So that part works. But the other part, the one I fear but hope not to happen, that part doesn't work. I'm scaring him. I overwhelm him. He is too young, too inexperienced to fend off my emotions. Now I've gone and ruin him. He is left speechless, his feelings muted amidst the ramblings of my own.
I try to explain to him that while he is the intended receiver, he is not the object of my emotions. He is only the priest who forgives in place of God. I know why. I tell him, a disturbance has caused it. I tell him, part of it comes from the victimized psychology of sexual violation. That's why I, the subject that's been violated, think it's the only form of relationship available to the violated self. And in red, I say, my obsession is for the body language. Because my body was violated, I now love the body in place of the love I lack for my self. I tell him, but it doesn't have to have a tragic ending. From this, perhaps, we can arrive at an entirely different place, where the body speaks a language completely void of violence. My body may have came from violence, but your body does not, and that is why I am so in love with it. In your body, my violence does not exist. Instead, it is where love begins. That's why physical presence takes over me. I confess, I cannot resist the body that is in front of me. I notice every little thing, especially little things, like fingers, and eyebrows when they are raised. Then I notice the length of the face and I compare it to the length of the torso. The flexibility of the antecubital joints. The smell it gives at different times of day. The hairs on each knuckle, each arm, and from these I imagine the rest. I cannot deny the presence of a body, it overwhelms me. This is why no matter how much I want to love God, I cannot be convinced. Maybe this is how it is possible to be free of our violent past even if we cannot erase it, through the body of another.
+++++
Friday, march 9, the phone call.
My suspicion is confirmed. My fears have made me into a perpetual liar. I lie all the time, everywhere. This knowledge makes me feel more wretched, which compels me to lie in order to cover up my self hate. I want to call him and tell him this, but I am afraid that he will find this truth to be repulsive, and then I will have no hope left of redemption.
+++++
Saturday, March 10, the phone call I want to make but did not.
I want to call him. I want to say, hi, this is quan. I have a heartache. I believe I am displaying somatic symptoms of a heartache. I can't breathe. I have shortness of breath. I feel a sternal pain. I have palpitations, a heavy feeling like the mountains are lumbering on my chest. I am fatigued, experiencing insomnia and loss of appetite, except I eat all the time because I feel so empty I have to fill myself up with food. I also want to say, I don't know how I have survived these heartaches before, I have completely forgotten, and I have this intense desire to cry but I can't, it's stuck. Help me get through it. Stay, until I dont' need you anymore, then you can go, and I will have learned this lesson for sure this time and will not repeat it. i swear i will not repeat it.
So many things I want to tell him. For example, I want to tell him too about the improvement that I must have made because of therapy. My husband tells me I seem much better, less combative, less angry, more open to reason and discussion. I know what he will say. he will ask me, how that makes me feel. i will tell him, it doesn't make me feel anything. i don't have a feeling to respond. i only have a thought, as i listen to my husband praise my progress in therapy. i think, i am a very good liar. i have fooled him. and it seems, i will have to continue to be an even better liar. i still have myself to convince.
++++++
Monday, March 12
I am an asshole. I call and call and call, because I feel an intense immediate need to tell him that I am an asshole. I need forgiveness. My congregation of disappointments. Actually, before I think I am an asshole, I first think I suck, and I'm depressed. My congregation of disappointment paid me a visit. I feel like my legs have been chopped off, and now I am even shorter than before, except I am not any closer to the ground at all.
+++++
++++++++
Thursday, March 22.
This week spring begins, so you leave to go on a hiatus. I am left to survive my weeks on my own.
This week I was sick. I got sick on Sunday, the day you went on vacation. It is now Thursday, one week and one day since you've been on vacation. I am still sick.
This morning, the sun is a big round dish of red facing me at the end of the road. It seems to say that if I can just drive to where the road ends, I can touch it. So I make myself large, then reach out and pull up all the telephone poles and electric lines and radio towers and railroad tracks and sad sagging houses and cold dark buildings and blinking traffic lights, the criss-crossing of wires on more wires, pull them up like weeds until there is nothing left except me, the road, and the pulsating sun rising where it ends.
I keep thinking, when it's a choice between music or church on Sunday, I would choose music. You're more likely to know God that way.
Bây giờ bạn đang làm gì vậy? Bạn đang nghỉ mát ở đâu? Bạn đang ở cách tôi bao xa? Hay bạn đã không đi đâu cả mà đang ngồi ở nhà đọc sách? Bạn đang nằm, hay đang ngồi gác chân lên ghế? Bạn có nhớ tôi không? Tôi thì nhớ bạn lắm, và không biết làm gì với bản thân trong những ngày không có bạn bên tôi.
+++++++
Monday, March 26.
I've decided that my therapist looks like an ape. In real life he doesn't look like an ape so much, but in pictures, he does, especially when he takes it standing next to a gorilla. He's quite ugly, in fact.
+++++++
Wednesday, March 28
I want to bake him a cake, but that would be too cliche. Very traditional, in fact, when I'm trying to be anything but traditional. I come early, sat in the car for twenty minutes, smoked my cigarette. I want to slow my breathing down, to take it easy, to prepare myself for when I see him again. it's been two weeks. and i have not died, my self has not dissolved, neither in ecstacy or in pain.
++++++
Monday, March 12
I am an asshole. I call and call and call, because I feel an intense immediate need to tell him that I am an asshole. I need forgiveness. My congregation of disappointments. Actually, before I think I am an asshole, I first think I suck, and I'm depressed. My congregation of disappointment paid me a visit. I feel like my legs have been chopped off, and now I am even shorter than before, except I am not any closer to the ground at all.
+++++
Wednesday, March 14
I tell you, I am an asshole. I tell lies. And my husband congratulates me on being a better, happier person. I tell him, my therapist will be happy to hear that. In fact, my therapist doesn’t say anything about that. Instead, he asks me how I feel about that. I say, I don’t feel anything. Just like I said before. In fact, I think it makes me a very effective liar. He asks me what I mean. I say, my husband thinks therapy has made me a happier person, more reasoned and logical, less angry, less confrontational. But I am not any of those things. I simply don’t care enough to be sad or angry, and that, funnily, is making for a better marriage. My therapist asks me, what do you mean you don’t care enough? I say, simply that I don’t care enough about my husband or the marriage. I don’t care to invest my emotions into it. Therapy didn’t make me different in the relationship. My therapist asked, what about being different for yourself? Do you feel any different for yourself? I think he is right. Yes, I guess so, I say, I feel I am different, even if it is only because I don’t care, but whatever the reason, the fact that I am not so emotionally invested and taxed all the time makes me happier for me. And that was good. That was a good ending to a good session. The better ending was after the end, while on the way out, I said again how nice the weather outside is, how warm. He said, yes, spring is here. I say, it feels like so, but there are no flowers. I am always pessimistic. He says, not yet. He is hopeful like that. And he is right, of course.
++++++++
Thursday, March 22.
This week spring begins, so you leave to go on a hiatus. I am left to survive my weeks on my own.
This week I was sick. I got sick on Sunday, the day you went on vacation. It is now Thursday, one week and one day since you've been on vacation. I am still sick.
This morning, the sun is a big round dish of red facing me at the end of the road. It seems to say that if I can just drive to where the road ends, I can touch it. So I make myself large, then reach out and pull up all the telephone poles and electric lines and radio towers and railroad tracks and sad sagging houses and cold dark buildings and blinking traffic lights, the criss-crossing of wires on more wires, pull them up like weeds until there is nothing left except me, the road, and the pulsating sun rising where it ends.
I keep thinking, when it's a choice between music or church on Sunday, I would choose music. You're more likely to know God that way.
Bây giờ bạn đang làm gì vậy? Bạn đang nghỉ mát ở đâu? Bạn đang ở cách tôi bao xa? Hay bạn đã không đi đâu cả mà đang ngồi ở nhà đọc sách? Bạn đang nằm, hay đang ngồi gác chân lên ghế? Bạn có nhớ tôi không? Tôi thì nhớ bạn lắm, và không biết làm gì với bản thân trong những ngày không có bạn bên tôi.
+++++++
Monday, March 26.
I've decided that my therapist looks like an ape. In real life he doesn't look like an ape so much, but in pictures, he does, especially when he takes it standing next to a gorilla. He's quite ugly, in fact.
+++++++
Wednesday, March 28
I want to bake him a cake, but that would be too cliche. Very traditional, in fact, when I'm trying to be anything but traditional. I come early, sat in the car for twenty minutes, smoked my cigarette. I want to slow my breathing down, to take it easy, to prepare myself for when I see him again. it's been two weeks. and i have not died, my self has not dissolved, neither in ecstacy or in pain.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
love, therapy, cliche (ii)
It has not been long. but it has never needed to be long. somethings they just happen suddenly and unexpectedly, and they disappear just as quickly. that's what makes it so difficult. i never expect it to come, so i am never prepared to receive it. then, before i could get use to it, properly take part in it, it is gone, and i am forced to mourn for a something that i hardly knew. i know tonight i will not be able to sleep, but it doesn't matter now, it's too late. love is like that, i already know what will happen but it's too late to do anything different. i've been sitting there for too long. long not because i was there long. not because i've loved long, not decades in years long, but centuries of feelings long. isn't that another cliche. centuries of feelings. and i didn't even know that i loved him. i just one day decided that i do, just because it does not seem right to call it anything other than that. no other name fits what i was feeling. it's strange that way. i say, i've loved him, not because i know for sure that it is love, but only because do not know what else to call it, so i give it this name which carry the most emotions that i can think of. it seems fitting, this not-quite-love, because while it carries as much need and want and longing as love, it has no purpose as love has. it doesn't have an end in mind, only what it would like to do, places it would like to be, things it would like to say. perhaps because it is inappropriate. it knows that it is inappropriate. that it will destroy that which it loves and also itself. maybe that's why it doesn't quite dare to call itself love, only i call it that because i don't know what else to call it. nothing else to call it but that. desperation maybe. wordless desire to name my feelings. to name it so i can recognize it and know it. because to know it is better than to agonize and drown in it. drowning, that too is a cliche. the problem with naming is that which you name will out-grow its name. it is inevitable, it will become too big to be contained in the name that you give it. and then, once it has escaped from its name, you know you have lost another one. that is why i hesitate to name. it always takes me a long time to find the right name for things. friend takes a while. care takes longer. love is the longest. because it grows the fastest and is the most fickle.
++++++
the great thing about therapy, it seems to me, is that the therapist is both one and all, a spokeperson for the universal. like a priest who can forgive in place of God, and God is God for love and acceptance and community. how many times i look up at windows and wonder about the people behind them. their lives. where they come from. what they need. who they love.
++++++
the great thing about therapy, it seems to me, is that the therapist is both one and all, a spokeperson for the universal. like a priest who can forgive in place of God, and God is God for love and acceptance and community. how many times i look up at windows and wonder about the people behind them. their lives. where they come from. what they need. who they love.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
love, therapy, cliches (i)
I tell my therapist, I feel so stupid. I always love those I cannot love. Miss those who do not miss me. Give so much to those to whom I don't matter.
It's a curse. The consequence of my mad history. A branding. Over the years, I feel it has become my fate. He says, but it is not fate, and because I have recogized that it is not fate that I am here, I want to change. I say, it feels good to love someone, even if it is a no good love. I would rather have my heart ache than have it not feel at all. When I feel love, I feel inspired, beautiful, full of gloriousness. Life is fast, is slow, it doens't matter, because I am in tune with it. He reminds me, but the other side of it is, you feel bad about yourself, you feel insecure, tormented by doubts and fear of rejection and abandonment. I say, yes, but who cares, when I'm in love, I have love, you know what I mean. He says, but that's why you're here, right? because you want to change the way you fall in love? I didn't know what to say. Wasn't sure if this was true. Did I want to change it? Do I still? Maybe I did. But I"m thinking I don't anymore. I tell him, I'm not sure I want to change. I tell him, but don't you see, that's just how my heart is. Then I thought, how cliche, right? How cliche, to say, "that's just how my heart is." There are other things I say during my therapy sessions that are cliche too. Like, when I cry and cry and cry because he's leaving in June and won't be my therapist anymore after June. To counter the feeling of abandonment, I tell him, I'm leaving first. I'm not coming to therapy anymore. Today is my last day. I come up with a good-bye gift. That's very cliche. I also say, I don't know about you, but I will be taking home a basket of missing today. That's even more cliche. He says, when he thinks about me, he will think about all the work that I've done, how much I've changed since therapy started. I want to tell him, I don't want him to think about my progress. I haven't made much progress at all. I want him to think about me, as I am in front of him, just like that, just as I am, crying and wondering and sad and excited and lost as I follow the thickened fog this spring that came too early or is it winter that never arrived. I want to tell him, I haven't figured out how it is that I feel so bad about myself so often, why is it I don't think I deserve to be loved even while I want it all the time, or what could have happened to cause a person so much hurt. I want to say, we haven't figured all that out yet, you can't go, because if you do, I will have no one else to do the listening, to ask me what I'm thinking and pay attention as I tell them about the morning light and its gullibility. And then who will ask me about my day, tell me I'm alright when I think I'm crazy, say words that normalize my silences and get me to talk instead of choking my feelings back and then explode. I am going to miss our sessions, I tell him, when instead what I really want to say is that I will miss him. Miss him as he is and him as my therapist. Of course I don't know him as anyone else other than my therapist. I haven't seen him laugh or cry or get angry. I haven't seen him sad except when he is sad for me. I haven't seen him smile except when I made the joke. I havent' seen him lazy, asleep, or hungry. I haven't seen him dirty or smelly or scratching his nose. No, I haven't seen any of the important stuff, but still, I feel like I recognize him, as he sits in front of me each week, as he struggles to be my therapist and searches through his schooling and training for words to say to me, except those words dont sound like they come from the books, they sound like they come from his heart, his real heart, the heart I want to know. When I get that heavy feeling that comes as certain and stubborn as I am, even if I don't know what I am most days, or when I have a small reason to be excited, he's the only person I want to call. I call and say, hey, guess what happened, I've been offered a job, or hey, I'm so bummed, people were mean to me today. Then he calls me and leaves me a message, hi, I got your call, I'm sorry you're upset, but I"m glad you think of me as a resource. I listen to his message and is crushed. I don't want him to be my resource. I tell him, I don't like that word, I wasn't calling a resource. I was calling a friend. He says something about of course, he understands the difficulty... but I am not listening, because what he has to say does not please me. I tell him, I feel like I'm eight again, crying because I thought my best friend had become somebody else's best friend, or when my parents went and left me behind, it's stupid. He tells me, it's not stupid, Quan. I don't believe him, but I like the way he says my name.
It's a curse. The consequence of my mad history. A branding. Over the years, I feel it has become my fate. He says, but it is not fate, and because I have recogized that it is not fate that I am here, I want to change. I say, it feels good to love someone, even if it is a no good love. I would rather have my heart ache than have it not feel at all. When I feel love, I feel inspired, beautiful, full of gloriousness. Life is fast, is slow, it doens't matter, because I am in tune with it. He reminds me, but the other side of it is, you feel bad about yourself, you feel insecure, tormented by doubts and fear of rejection and abandonment. I say, yes, but who cares, when I'm in love, I have love, you know what I mean. He says, but that's why you're here, right? because you want to change the way you fall in love? I didn't know what to say. Wasn't sure if this was true. Did I want to change it? Do I still? Maybe I did. But I"m thinking I don't anymore. I tell him, I'm not sure I want to change. I tell him, but don't you see, that's just how my heart is. Then I thought, how cliche, right? How cliche, to say, "that's just how my heart is." There are other things I say during my therapy sessions that are cliche too. Like, when I cry and cry and cry because he's leaving in June and won't be my therapist anymore after June. To counter the feeling of abandonment, I tell him, I'm leaving first. I'm not coming to therapy anymore. Today is my last day. I come up with a good-bye gift. That's very cliche. I also say, I don't know about you, but I will be taking home a basket of missing today. That's even more cliche. He says, when he thinks about me, he will think about all the work that I've done, how much I've changed since therapy started. I want to tell him, I don't want him to think about my progress. I haven't made much progress at all. I want him to think about me, as I am in front of him, just like that, just as I am, crying and wondering and sad and excited and lost as I follow the thickened fog this spring that came too early or is it winter that never arrived. I want to tell him, I haven't figured out how it is that I feel so bad about myself so often, why is it I don't think I deserve to be loved even while I want it all the time, or what could have happened to cause a person so much hurt. I want to say, we haven't figured all that out yet, you can't go, because if you do, I will have no one else to do the listening, to ask me what I'm thinking and pay attention as I tell them about the morning light and its gullibility. And then who will ask me about my day, tell me I'm alright when I think I'm crazy, say words that normalize my silences and get me to talk instead of choking my feelings back and then explode. I am going to miss our sessions, I tell him, when instead what I really want to say is that I will miss him. Miss him as he is and him as my therapist. Of course I don't know him as anyone else other than my therapist. I haven't seen him laugh or cry or get angry. I haven't seen him sad except when he is sad for me. I haven't seen him smile except when I made the joke. I havent' seen him lazy, asleep, or hungry. I haven't seen him dirty or smelly or scratching his nose. No, I haven't seen any of the important stuff, but still, I feel like I recognize him, as he sits in front of me each week, as he struggles to be my therapist and searches through his schooling and training for words to say to me, except those words dont sound like they come from the books, they sound like they come from his heart, his real heart, the heart I want to know. When I get that heavy feeling that comes as certain and stubborn as I am, even if I don't know what I am most days, or when I have a small reason to be excited, he's the only person I want to call. I call and say, hey, guess what happened, I've been offered a job, or hey, I'm so bummed, people were mean to me today. Then he calls me and leaves me a message, hi, I got your call, I'm sorry you're upset, but I"m glad you think of me as a resource. I listen to his message and is crushed. I don't want him to be my resource. I tell him, I don't like that word, I wasn't calling a resource. I was calling a friend. He says something about of course, he understands the difficulty... but I am not listening, because what he has to say does not please me. I tell him, I feel like I'm eight again, crying because I thought my best friend had become somebody else's best friend, or when my parents went and left me behind, it's stupid. He tells me, it's not stupid, Quan. I don't believe him, but I like the way he says my name.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
những điều làm tôi rung động
trong thời gian gần đây, tôi ít khi được cảm giác rung động mạnh, trừ những ngày gần đây nhất. nhưng sẽ chừa cảm giác này lại, chưa thể viết xuống được, vì nó vẫn chưa hình thành.
còn thời gian gần đây, tôi may mắn được những điều nho nhỏ, như chiếc lá rơi nhẹ xuống mặt nước, vừa đủ để nhắc tôi không được quên.
chúng chính là:
những bụi hoa nở lộn mùa.
khả năng đánh lừa của chiều nắng muộn.
khoảng cách một cái bàn.
một con đường dóc đá tôi đứng nhìn lên.
ánh mắt của ngày hè.
chiếc áo da khoác sau cửa.
đôi bàn chân tôi chỉ có thể tưởng tượng từ những ngón tay
và hơn nữa, hơn sự gần gủi của lời nói, là cảm giác an toàn bao bọc từ giây phút lặng im.
còn thời gian gần đây, tôi may mắn được những điều nho nhỏ, như chiếc lá rơi nhẹ xuống mặt nước, vừa đủ để nhắc tôi không được quên.
chúng chính là:
những bụi hoa nở lộn mùa.
khả năng đánh lừa của chiều nắng muộn.
khoảng cách một cái bàn.
một con đường dóc đá tôi đứng nhìn lên.
ánh mắt của ngày hè.
chiếc áo da khoác sau cửa.
đôi bàn chân tôi chỉ có thể tưởng tượng từ những ngón tay
và hơn nữa, hơn sự gần gủi của lời nói, là cảm giác an toàn bao bọc từ giây phút lặng im.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
nỗi sợ hải, và những cành hoa dại
này bạn, nếu bạn có một điều gì đó làm bạn sợ hải, hãy đừng hét lên, đừng run rẩy, mà hãy gọi tên điều ấy trước mặt một người, hãy nói sự thật, tự nhiên nó sẽ không còn đáng sợ nữa. tin tôi đi. tôi đã thử. và đã không còn sợ.
tôi đã gọi tên nỗi sợ hãi của mình trước đôi mắt của ngày nắng ấm, sự thận trọng giữa chủ thể và khách thể không cho phép người ta chồm dậy để ôm nhau, chỉ có thể nhướng cặp chân mày đậm lòng trắc ẩn và một vòng tay dài nhẹ như không. bao nhiêu đó cũng đủ cho tôi khóc òa.
nỗi sợ hải đã bỏ đi.
---
rồi nỗi sợ hải trở về. nó nhập vào một thân thể khác. nó ồn như thác đổ, nhẹ nhàng như suối. nó đã trưởng thành. nó cao hơn so với trí nhớ của tôi.
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bạn này, bạn có biết, tấm lòng nhẹ dạ là điều tự nhiên nhất trên đời. nó không màng tới cái chết hay sự sống, nó chỉ biết làm những gì mà lòng nhẹ dạ phải làm để tồn tại đúng với bản thân nó. thí dụ, vào những ngày cuối thu, khi cây đã trụi hết lá để chuẩn bị vùi mình cho mùa đông, bổng dưng thời tiết lại thay đổi, không lạnh hơn như người ta chuẩn đoán mà nắng lại ấm hơn, gió lại thổi ngang một mùa xuân giả tạo. nhưng những cành hoa vàng rực đâu cần biết gió mát này mang đến mùa xuân thật hay giả. chúng chỉ biết, trời đang ấm, gió đang mát, nên chúng tự nhiên lại đâm chồi để trổ hoa, để những mầm non lí nhí trên cành chưa được hai hôm đã chết cóng. tôi nhìn mà thấy thương cho chúng, thương lắm, cái sự nhẹ dạ của loài cỏ cây, đã sống thật với bản chất của chúng không cần đắn đo điều gì, luôn cả sự tồn tại lâu dài hay ngắn ngủi. nên tôi ngồi khóc cho những cành hoa dại.
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Bạn nhé, đừng trách tôi lơ đễnh. Tôi đang nhớ tới cặp lông mày và đôi vú đẹp, những gương mặt trước và sau khi làm tình, những lời nói của những người sắp nhưng không hề biết mình sẽ chết, họ đang tìm cho mình một cái hố để chôn thân, để trốn trí nhớ dai dẳng và tiếng vang vọng của sự cô đơn như chuôn chùa thường nhật.
tôi đã gọi tên nỗi sợ hãi của mình trước đôi mắt của ngày nắng ấm, sự thận trọng giữa chủ thể và khách thể không cho phép người ta chồm dậy để ôm nhau, chỉ có thể nhướng cặp chân mày đậm lòng trắc ẩn và một vòng tay dài nhẹ như không. bao nhiêu đó cũng đủ cho tôi khóc òa.
nỗi sợ hải đã bỏ đi.
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rồi nỗi sợ hải trở về. nó nhập vào một thân thể khác. nó ồn như thác đổ, nhẹ nhàng như suối. nó đã trưởng thành. nó cao hơn so với trí nhớ của tôi.
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bạn này, bạn có biết, tấm lòng nhẹ dạ là điều tự nhiên nhất trên đời. nó không màng tới cái chết hay sự sống, nó chỉ biết làm những gì mà lòng nhẹ dạ phải làm để tồn tại đúng với bản thân nó. thí dụ, vào những ngày cuối thu, khi cây đã trụi hết lá để chuẩn bị vùi mình cho mùa đông, bổng dưng thời tiết lại thay đổi, không lạnh hơn như người ta chuẩn đoán mà nắng lại ấm hơn, gió lại thổi ngang một mùa xuân giả tạo. nhưng những cành hoa vàng rực đâu cần biết gió mát này mang đến mùa xuân thật hay giả. chúng chỉ biết, trời đang ấm, gió đang mát, nên chúng tự nhiên lại đâm chồi để trổ hoa, để những mầm non lí nhí trên cành chưa được hai hôm đã chết cóng. tôi nhìn mà thấy thương cho chúng, thương lắm, cái sự nhẹ dạ của loài cỏ cây, đã sống thật với bản chất của chúng không cần đắn đo điều gì, luôn cả sự tồn tại lâu dài hay ngắn ngủi. nên tôi ngồi khóc cho những cành hoa dại.
---------------
Bạn nhé, đừng trách tôi lơ đễnh. Tôi đang nhớ tới cặp lông mày và đôi vú đẹp, những gương mặt trước và sau khi làm tình, những lời nói của những người sắp nhưng không hề biết mình sẽ chết, họ đang tìm cho mình một cái hố để chôn thân, để trốn trí nhớ dai dẳng và tiếng vang vọng của sự cô đơn như chuôn chùa thường nhật.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
linh tinh
Lung tung quá. Trong đầu đang nghĩ lung tung quá. Chắc vì chiều nay đi gặp bạn. Đã tìm ra một quán cà phê mới để ngồi với bạn, không lâu lắm, nhưng đủ thích cái quán ấy. Có cái tên rất là khoa học viễn tưởng--Jupiter Outpost. Y như là outpost thật, nằm ở góc đường vắng hoe, nằm lọt thỏm giữa những warehouse, không có quán xá chợ búa nhà cửa gì cả. Vậy mà vẫn có khách đều đều. Vì cà phê ngon, không khí thoải mái, đồ ăn cũng ngon, và nhất là barista dễ thương nhiệt tình. Và tất nhiên là free wi-fi để ngườ ta tự do lướt mạng. Tiếc là quán chỉ mở đến 6 giờ chiều là đóng cửa. Ở khu vực đó nếu mở cửa trễ ắt không an ninh cho khách.
Lâu lắm, cả hơn nửa năm trời mới gặp lại bạn. Hỏi mày dạo này thế nào, công việc ra sao, gia đình vui khỏe cả chứ. Bạn kể chuyện ở chổ làm, trong khoa Neuro Intensive Care Unit. Nghe rất hào hứng và rùn rợn. Bạn kể, vợ ở nhà buồn lắm vì mẹ vợ đã vào nhà dưỡng lão hồi trước Thanksgiving. Hai vợ chồng không thể vừa đi làm vừa lo chu đáo cho mẹ được, nên cả nhà đã quyết định đưa mẹ vào khu nhà dưỡng lão ở Iowa, gần nhà người con út với đứa cháu gái. Hai vợ chồng đã phải trằn trọc nhiều đêm vì quyết định này và bây giờ vẫn còn cảm thấy có lỗi với mẹ. Thấy bạn vừa vui vì có công việc thích hợp, vừa buồn vì chuyện của mẹ vợ, mình không biết nói thế nào. Thì vui với bạn, và cũng buồn với bạn. Mình nói, mình biết tánh bạn, không có ở đó với mẹ nhưng không bao giờ bỏ rơi mẹ. Bạn nói, ừ, vợ thì gọi điện trò chuyện với mẹ hầu như mỗi ngày, còn bạn thì cách một tuần lại gọi mẹ để nói chuyện thuốc men. Bà cụ xem ra rất thích nói chuyện với bạn về những loại thuốc mà bà phải uống.
Gặp bạn mình đãi bạn ly cà phê nhưng mình lại uống nước trái cây. Bạn hỏi, ụa, đổi tánh hả, sao lại không uống cà phê. Mình nói, sau 12 giờ trưa rồi, uống cà phê bây giờ tối sẽ không ngủ được, ngày mai vào làm không được tỉnh táo, bây giờ già rồi, không như trước được đâu, cần ngủ đúng giờ dậy đúng giấc. Chán thật.
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Lâu lắm, cả hơn nửa năm trời mới gặp lại bạn. Hỏi mày dạo này thế nào, công việc ra sao, gia đình vui khỏe cả chứ. Bạn kể chuyện ở chổ làm, trong khoa Neuro Intensive Care Unit. Nghe rất hào hứng và rùn rợn. Bạn kể, vợ ở nhà buồn lắm vì mẹ vợ đã vào nhà dưỡng lão hồi trước Thanksgiving. Hai vợ chồng không thể vừa đi làm vừa lo chu đáo cho mẹ được, nên cả nhà đã quyết định đưa mẹ vào khu nhà dưỡng lão ở Iowa, gần nhà người con út với đứa cháu gái. Hai vợ chồng đã phải trằn trọc nhiều đêm vì quyết định này và bây giờ vẫn còn cảm thấy có lỗi với mẹ. Thấy bạn vừa vui vì có công việc thích hợp, vừa buồn vì chuyện của mẹ vợ, mình không biết nói thế nào. Thì vui với bạn, và cũng buồn với bạn. Mình nói, mình biết tánh bạn, không có ở đó với mẹ nhưng không bao giờ bỏ rơi mẹ. Bạn nói, ừ, vợ thì gọi điện trò chuyện với mẹ hầu như mỗi ngày, còn bạn thì cách một tuần lại gọi mẹ để nói chuyện thuốc men. Bà cụ xem ra rất thích nói chuyện với bạn về những loại thuốc mà bà phải uống.
Gặp bạn mình đãi bạn ly cà phê nhưng mình lại uống nước trái cây. Bạn hỏi, ụa, đổi tánh hả, sao lại không uống cà phê. Mình nói, sau 12 giờ trưa rồi, uống cà phê bây giờ tối sẽ không ngủ được, ngày mai vào làm không được tỉnh táo, bây giờ già rồi, không như trước được đâu, cần ngủ đúng giờ dậy đúng giấc. Chán thật.
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Thursday, October 20, 2011
miscs
Let me figure out the themes of this grey song
repeated forever too long in my head
all the while you keep not talking
to me in fact I am not
I am not at all
sleeping
repeated forever too long in my head
all the while you keep not talking
to me in fact I am not
I am not at all
sleeping
Saturday, October 8, 2011
praying
Hello. I miss you, friend. There isn't a day when you are not on my mind, one time or another, but I have not had the time to sit down and write something decent, and when I do, it's late in the night and I'm tired, with nothing significant to say. I'm so wrapped up in the mundane of everyday life, and it's not a tiny bit interesting, not even when I try to think about the "possible explosiveness" of the mundane.
In your last letter , you asked me to pray for you. The question is strange to me, mainly because I think I have always been praying for you, even before I know what praying is. When one wants only good things to happen to another person, isn't that praying? Isn't love itself a prayer?
So, with all my prayers, which you will always have,
q.
In your last letter , you asked me to pray for you. The question is strange to me, mainly because I think I have always been praying for you, even before I know what praying is. When one wants only good things to happen to another person, isn't that praying? Isn't love itself a prayer?
So, with all my prayers, which you will always have,
q.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Et cetera
Hai tiếng đồng hồ nữa tôi sẽ đi, tiếp tục công việc trị liệu tâm lý hằng tuần. Người trị liệu tâm lý của tôi còn trẻ măng, da trắng, chắc không phải là con nhà nghèo, và xem toàn diện thì khá là lành mạnh. Nên tôi cũng có phần đa nghi, không biết hắn sẽ giúp tôi thấu hiểu được điều gì về bản thân, khi quá khứ, tư duy, và cách nhìn cuộc sống của tôi và hắn chắc là rất khác nhau.
Nhưng có lẽ vì tôi đã đến đường cùn, cần trút xả những suy/cảm nghĩ đang bị dồn ép nên tôi đã một lèo ngồi kể cho hắn những bức xúc và ghút mắc trong lòng, một mình tôi ngồi nói còn hắn chỉ ngồi nhìn và lắng nghe. Tôi than vãn, kể lể, khóc lóc. Nhiều lúc xúc động quá không nói thành lời. Mỗi tuần tôi đi một lần, mỗi lần 60 phút, và sau mấy tuần như vậy tôi tính chắc hắn chỉ mở miệng được chừng 15 phút, thời gian còn lại tôi chiếm trọn. Và tôi nhận ra rằng tôi vô cùng quý trọng quan hệ này của tôi và hắn, vô cùng, vì tôi cần nó, cần hắn ngồi lắng nghe tôi như vậy, nghe tất cả, nghe những nỗi buồn, nghe sự phẫn nộ, nghe cảm giác chán chường, nghe sự thất vọng và chán ghét bản thân, thèm muốn được yêu và để yêu, được tự do để làm tất cả và không làm cái gì cả. Lần nào cũng vậy, hắn yên lặng ngồi nghe và không hề phán xét hay chê trách. Hắn cũng không bảo những suy nghĩ và cảm giác của tôi đúng hay sai. Hắn chỉ nói, những điều này, không phải chỉ một mình tôi đang trải nghiệm, rồi hỏi tôi những câu hỏi thật ngắn gọn để giúp tôi thấu rõ hơn những điều mình muốn. Và đó chính là điều tôi cần.
Vì vậy mà tôi yêu hắn. Chỉ cần mỗi tuần tôi có thể ngồi với hắn sáu mươi phút như thế, đủ để tôi cảm thấy bình yên hơn. Lần sau khi cơn bảo lại nỗi dậy, ít nhất tôi sẽ nhớ là tôi đang có hắn, và nếu tôi cố gắng đợi đến ngày đã hẹn, tôi sẽ có cơ hội trút bớt sự dày vò ra khỏi bản thân, và hắn sẽ lắng nghe, vì tôi đáng được như vậy. Tôi đáng. Vì hôm nay là ngày đẹp trời, hôm nay lành lạnh gió, lá bắt đầu chuyển màu, bầu trời xanh thẳm, tôi đang mang một đôi giày đẹp, đôi bông tai to lủng lẳng, cà phê thơm, và nỗi buồn, cùng sự cô độc, đã như mưa dồn dập lên tôi rồi chảy mất xuống đất. Hẹn lần sau.
Nhưng có lẽ vì tôi đã đến đường cùn, cần trút xả những suy/cảm nghĩ đang bị dồn ép nên tôi đã một lèo ngồi kể cho hắn những bức xúc và ghút mắc trong lòng, một mình tôi ngồi nói còn hắn chỉ ngồi nhìn và lắng nghe. Tôi than vãn, kể lể, khóc lóc. Nhiều lúc xúc động quá không nói thành lời. Mỗi tuần tôi đi một lần, mỗi lần 60 phút, và sau mấy tuần như vậy tôi tính chắc hắn chỉ mở miệng được chừng 15 phút, thời gian còn lại tôi chiếm trọn. Và tôi nhận ra rằng tôi vô cùng quý trọng quan hệ này của tôi và hắn, vô cùng, vì tôi cần nó, cần hắn ngồi lắng nghe tôi như vậy, nghe tất cả, nghe những nỗi buồn, nghe sự phẫn nộ, nghe cảm giác chán chường, nghe sự thất vọng và chán ghét bản thân, thèm muốn được yêu và để yêu, được tự do để làm tất cả và không làm cái gì cả. Lần nào cũng vậy, hắn yên lặng ngồi nghe và không hề phán xét hay chê trách. Hắn cũng không bảo những suy nghĩ và cảm giác của tôi đúng hay sai. Hắn chỉ nói, những điều này, không phải chỉ một mình tôi đang trải nghiệm, rồi hỏi tôi những câu hỏi thật ngắn gọn để giúp tôi thấu rõ hơn những điều mình muốn. Và đó chính là điều tôi cần.
Vì vậy mà tôi yêu hắn. Chỉ cần mỗi tuần tôi có thể ngồi với hắn sáu mươi phút như thế, đủ để tôi cảm thấy bình yên hơn. Lần sau khi cơn bảo lại nỗi dậy, ít nhất tôi sẽ nhớ là tôi đang có hắn, và nếu tôi cố gắng đợi đến ngày đã hẹn, tôi sẽ có cơ hội trút bớt sự dày vò ra khỏi bản thân, và hắn sẽ lắng nghe, vì tôi đáng được như vậy. Tôi đáng. Vì hôm nay là ngày đẹp trời, hôm nay lành lạnh gió, lá bắt đầu chuyển màu, bầu trời xanh thẳm, tôi đang mang một đôi giày đẹp, đôi bông tai to lủng lẳng, cà phê thơm, và nỗi buồn, cùng sự cô độc, đã như mưa dồn dập lên tôi rồi chảy mất xuống đất. Hẹn lần sau.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
pre-test angst
ngày mai thi. hôm nay quyết định không ôn bài nữa.
because it's hot like a mother fucker.
mà hôm nay nóng. nóng đến không thèm đi bộ ngoài trời, dù là dọc bờ hồ, dù đó là việc thích thích nhất trên đời, trừ việc ngồi lì ở quán cà phê.
còn đang nợ hai người hai bức thư. một là để thông báo tình hình sức khỏe. hắn cứ hỏi tôi ra sao, ra sao, chuyện gì. còn lại là để thông báo rằng đã hết thời kỳ chờ chết. thật ra là qua cũng lâu rồi, nhưng vẫn chưa viết thư thông báo vì không tự tin lắm về mức độ quan tâm.
tâm lý của một kẻ muôn đời thiếu tự tin là thế. bước đầu sẽ rất hào hứng, sẽ phiên dịch lời nói và cử chỉ của người khác một cách quá độ, sau đó sẽ thu hồi lại suy nghĩ của mình, rồi lầm lì không phản ứng gì cả để tránh tình trạng hiểu lầm thêm. sau nữa sẽ là tự hủy. tôi đã mất bao nhiêu người bạn cũng vì thế.
cũng là lý do tôi thích ngồi giửa một đám người hơn là ngồi nói chuyện riêng với một người, trừ khi là tôi và người đó đã quen nhau từ lâu, đã hiểu và chấp nhận những giây phút im lặng với đối phương.
cũng là lý do tôi thích dùng phương tiện email để liên lạc. nó chuyên chở được sự cấp bách của tình cảm và tâm trạng. nhưng điều này cũng là điều tôi lo ngại nhất, vì đã gửi email đi rồi thì không thu hồi được, phá hoại nhiều cơ hội yêu đương mà vẫn không chừa.
hời. nếu phải liệt kê ra hết những điều ngu xuẩn, nhăn nhố, chưa tín bồng bột, mà mình đã làm thì sẽ phải ngồi đây mấy tháng trời.
thôi thì tha thứ cho bản thân. dễ chịu với nó để nó còn dễ chịu với mình. nghe nhạc cho thư giản tinh thần.
because it's hot like a mother fucker.
mà hôm nay nóng. nóng đến không thèm đi bộ ngoài trời, dù là dọc bờ hồ, dù đó là việc thích thích nhất trên đời, trừ việc ngồi lì ở quán cà phê.
còn đang nợ hai người hai bức thư. một là để thông báo tình hình sức khỏe. hắn cứ hỏi tôi ra sao, ra sao, chuyện gì. còn lại là để thông báo rằng đã hết thời kỳ chờ chết. thật ra là qua cũng lâu rồi, nhưng vẫn chưa viết thư thông báo vì không tự tin lắm về mức độ quan tâm.
tâm lý của một kẻ muôn đời thiếu tự tin là thế. bước đầu sẽ rất hào hứng, sẽ phiên dịch lời nói và cử chỉ của người khác một cách quá độ, sau đó sẽ thu hồi lại suy nghĩ của mình, rồi lầm lì không phản ứng gì cả để tránh tình trạng hiểu lầm thêm. sau nữa sẽ là tự hủy. tôi đã mất bao nhiêu người bạn cũng vì thế.
cũng là lý do tôi thích ngồi giửa một đám người hơn là ngồi nói chuyện riêng với một người, trừ khi là tôi và người đó đã quen nhau từ lâu, đã hiểu và chấp nhận những giây phút im lặng với đối phương.
cũng là lý do tôi thích dùng phương tiện email để liên lạc. nó chuyên chở được sự cấp bách của tình cảm và tâm trạng. nhưng điều này cũng là điều tôi lo ngại nhất, vì đã gửi email đi rồi thì không thu hồi được, phá hoại nhiều cơ hội yêu đương mà vẫn không chừa.
hời. nếu phải liệt kê ra hết những điều ngu xuẩn, nhăn nhố, chưa tín bồng bột, mà mình đã làm thì sẽ phải ngồi đây mấy tháng trời.
thôi thì tha thứ cho bản thân. dễ chịu với nó để nó còn dễ chịu với mình. nghe nhạc cho thư giản tinh thần.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
some distractions from studying
đang cố gắng tập trung ôn bài. nhưng cái quán cà phê hôm nay lại mở nhạc hòa tấu của tàu, cảm thấy rất khó chịu. cảm giác này cũng giống như hồi xưa đi học thái cực quyền với thằng bạn trai mỹ trắng, cảm giác rất ngượng, y như mình đang ở truồng, hay chính sát hơn là cảm giác mình đang phải đứng trong ô kính cho người ta dòm ngó, like a mannequin.
suy nghĩ về sự tự hào (hay không tự hào) dân tộc, nhất là khi nó được thể hiện qua những hành động như đặt tên con bằng tiếng việt (hay không bằng tiếng Việt), hay ở nhà nói chuyện với con bằng tiếng việt (hay không tiếng việt). những điều này, theo mình, rất ít khả năng chứng tỏ mình có sự tự hào dân tộc hoặc gắn bó với văn hóa mẹ đẻ. có khối người có tên việt, nhưng sự liên hệ với văn hóa việt chỉ nằm ở đó. rồi có khối người biết nói tiếng việt, nhưng chỉ trong lĩnh vực ăn, ngủ, địch, ị. tôi có đọc ở đâu đó, lâu rồi, một bác bảo phải đặt tên việt cho con vì có đặt tên mỹ tên tây đi nữa thì nó cũng chả trở thành mỹ hay tây được. bác ấy nói đúng. nhưng tôi lại nghĩ, cho dù nó có tên việt đi nữa thì nó cũng đã lai mất rồi, và nó có cái tên việt hay tên mỹ tên tây thì cái xã hội mà nó đang sống cũng sẽ xem nó là người ngoại bang thôi. như vậy tại sao không làm một cái tên cho nó tiện và dễ gọi? tôi biết nhiều người bạn có tên việt đẹp như Phước, Dung, Dũng, nhưng lại bị cái lưỡi của mỹ nó chém thành Đụ và Cứt. có phải tội nghiệp không? và lại tôi nghĩ ai có âu lo sợ con mình mất gốc cũng đừng ..lo âu quá, vì nếu như có lỡ đặt cho con một cái tên tây, muốn trở về với cộng đồng mẹ đẻ cũng dễ lắm, chỉ cần nó nổi tiếng thì cho dù nó có tên Michelle hay Danny hay America thì người ta cũng sẽ tự hào (dùm) rằng nó là người gốc việt. nếu không nổi tiếng cũng không sao, chỉ cần viết một cuốn sách là được, tức thì nó sẽ có gốc lại thôi.
còn như tôi, chỉ chủ trương làm sao dạy cho con cách để diễn đạt cảm giác, suy nghĩ, giúp cho nó có được một tư duy cởi mở, để mai này lớn khôn nó biết cách chửi thề có văn hóa, chứ bằng tiếng việt hay tiếng anh hay tiếng mễ hay tiếng swahili cũng đều tốt cả.
thôi, tiếp tục ôn thi.
suy nghĩ về sự tự hào (hay không tự hào) dân tộc, nhất là khi nó được thể hiện qua những hành động như đặt tên con bằng tiếng việt (hay không bằng tiếng Việt), hay ở nhà nói chuyện với con bằng tiếng việt (hay không tiếng việt). những điều này, theo mình, rất ít khả năng chứng tỏ mình có sự tự hào dân tộc hoặc gắn bó với văn hóa mẹ đẻ. có khối người có tên việt, nhưng sự liên hệ với văn hóa việt chỉ nằm ở đó. rồi có khối người biết nói tiếng việt, nhưng chỉ trong lĩnh vực ăn, ngủ, địch, ị. tôi có đọc ở đâu đó, lâu rồi, một bác bảo phải đặt tên việt cho con vì có đặt tên mỹ tên tây đi nữa thì nó cũng chả trở thành mỹ hay tây được. bác ấy nói đúng. nhưng tôi lại nghĩ, cho dù nó có tên việt đi nữa thì nó cũng đã lai mất rồi, và nó có cái tên việt hay tên mỹ tên tây thì cái xã hội mà nó đang sống cũng sẽ xem nó là người ngoại bang thôi. như vậy tại sao không làm một cái tên cho nó tiện và dễ gọi? tôi biết nhiều người bạn có tên việt đẹp như Phước, Dung, Dũng, nhưng lại bị cái lưỡi của mỹ nó chém thành Đụ và Cứt. có phải tội nghiệp không? và lại tôi nghĩ ai có âu lo sợ con mình mất gốc cũng đừng ..lo âu quá, vì nếu như có lỡ đặt cho con một cái tên tây, muốn trở về với cộng đồng mẹ đẻ cũng dễ lắm, chỉ cần nó nổi tiếng thì cho dù nó có tên Michelle hay Danny hay America thì người ta cũng sẽ tự hào (dùm) rằng nó là người gốc việt. nếu không nổi tiếng cũng không sao, chỉ cần viết một cuốn sách là được, tức thì nó sẽ có gốc lại thôi.
còn như tôi, chỉ chủ trương làm sao dạy cho con cách để diễn đạt cảm giác, suy nghĩ, giúp cho nó có được một tư duy cởi mở, để mai này lớn khôn nó biết cách chửi thề có văn hóa, chứ bằng tiếng việt hay tiếng anh hay tiếng mễ hay tiếng swahili cũng đều tốt cả.
thôi, tiếp tục ôn thi.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
love letters, batch #2: profanities, the breakdown, and survival
Mon, 8 June 2004
Dear Rob,
No need to call. I don't think you'll want to hear more complaints and rants anyway. Last night I
went out drinking. Got drunk enough to tell them that I have decided to try it again with you and am roomming with you next year and that I am asking them to understand and trust that I've spent a lot of time thinking about it and that it was not a rash decision. Long ass run-on. I realize the risk and am willing to take it, and I want them to support me. One said she does not support my decision, but she'd be there for me when I need. The other went off the handle, accused me of making "rash" decisions (she specified that just because you spend a lot of time thinking and debating and doubting does not necessarily mean that the decision is not "rash." I guess now I know all the parameters of what constitutes a "rash decision," and I completely agree.) She also said that she does not respect me, because I am weak, because I don't have strength in myself, because I am so dependent on a man. And that no, she won't accept it, and that if i choose to room with you, then when i fall, when the decision turns out to be wrong, she will not be there, etc. I was drunk, nauseated, pissed off, hurt, and every other goddamn peachy feelings, so i couldn't help it--i cried and hiccupped and wanted to get the fuck out of there. This morning I drove the landlady to the airport, then cried some more when I got back. Now I'm thinking, "Fuck it." I want to give it another try with you; I believe that you do have something you genuinely want to offer, and that's all I need to go with. I want to know what's it like to have a peaceful relationship, even if it means I have to adjust to a different kind of relationship with different rules. So you see, no need to call me back, because I'm not crying anymore.
I also want you to know that this has put me in an awful mood and I dont really want to talk to anybody for a while.
Remember Rob, the gate is always open; leave when you have to; change your mind whenver. I would be fucking bored out of my mind if both of us have to think that we're stuck with each other just because we fuck. I want you to be clear: I am only two dimensional. No expectations of further depth, further strength, further whatever else, okay? I can't handle being reminded that I am two dimensional like this all the time. There's a lump in my throat and I am imploding into it. Fucking A.
q.
Fri, 18 June 2004
Dear Rob,
In Clarice Lispector's "Passion According to G.H.," there is a quote: "For now, the first timid pleasure
that I feel is being able to say that I have lost my fear of the ugly." This quote is even better: "During
the time that I am writing and speaking, I'm going to have to pretend that someone is holding my hand. ...In the mean time I am inventing your presence...I shall invent your nameless presence and with you I shall start to die until I am able on my own not to exist, and then I'll let you go. For now, I have you, and your warm, unknown life is my only internal organization, I who without your hand would feel unattached within the enormous space that I have discovered."
"I'm going to create what happened to me, only because living isn't tellable. Living isn't livable."
Love you--you know that, don't you? Tell me if you still love Christina and still want to live/be with
her, because that would be okay too. Don't know why I have this damn nagging idea that you do. I would still care for you--I don't think it's something that one can just cut out or delete.
I'm slowly reading Fanon's biography, along with Said's memoir, Culler's book on structuralism, and
finally, finally, finally, Foucault's Archaeology of knowledge. The Culler book goes very well with
Foucault's AK--at least the ideas in there are making connections for me. Reading these two makes reading the two biographies very difficult.
I'm going to munch on some bread then head out to the bookstore to read. Still sick and nose running, but I have to get out of the house for a while--have been couped up in here for two whole days.
It's raining outside. Perfect weather--so very me!!
Don't forget to miss me and love me!
later.
q.
Tues, 6 July 2004
hi rob,
i'm at home. got back yesterday. this morning my brother took a butcher knife, cut down all the plants in the back yard, then drove somewhere with the knife with him. my mom sat at home, scared into immobility. she was thinking that he was gonna kill someone with that knife. she asked me if i know how we could get him into a ward. i said not unless we can prove that he's a threat to himself or others. fuck. i guess let's wait until he kills someone, or chop their arms off. then he came home,
eyes all red and bleary like he'd been crying for hi life. relief to my mom--no sign of blood. my dad
asked me in hushed tones if i could go see the nun at the local budhist temple and ask her if she knows of any ancient indian way of curing madness, since she was in india studying for her phd in budhology.
Wed, 7 July 2004
hi rob,
my brother's in the hospital. inpatient treatment. he talked and cried so much while we were waiting for the doctor. i'm going back to the hospital in a little while to drop off his clothes and things. i'm
tired. warning: i may change plans about next year. i want to save money, so maybe i'll do the work
exchange thing. if i get my thesis in at the end of this summer, then i could do some part time job in the fall and maybe full time in the spring. lots of possible plans are going through my head right now, with strong preference for quitting school and looking for a job.
anyway, gotta go. talk to you later.
q.
Thur, 8 July 2004
hi rob,
i'm sorry. thanks for understanding. i have headaches. my mom cries all the time. i have been
driving my parents to see my brother for the past two days, and it's been very hard. i was with him when they took him to the hospital, and i was hardly able to keep calm. now everything reminds my parents of my little brother. he tells us and the doctor that he wants to try to fight the voices himself, but they're trying to convince him to take medicine instead. my parents are so upset...they don't like the restrictions of the hospital (makes them think he's in prison) and wants to bring him home. they're also freaking out because they'll be in vn for a month. i told them that i'd come visit him everyday while they're away, but that doesn't seem to help any. don't know, maybe they're gonna cancel that trip.
i'm trying to think structurally...i don't know, grab onto something stable. my mom is a huge believer in the vnese traditions of spirits and feng shui and stuff, which is great thinking material. for ex: we're going to have to throw away my brother's bed and repaint his room. only my parents or two of my brothers (two specific brothers) can do this, for reasons that she won't tell us until it's done. she also said that a couple of days before he went to the hospital, she saw his "aura" changed into something very strange. she also saw some kind of vase that he had in his room, very "dark" and "foreboding" looking, so she took it out and smashed it. she would tell me all these fun things in between sobs.
i think my mom's reactions are very typical of the southern colloquial culture. there's certainly a lot
of fun materials in this particular stream, and certainly influenced by other southeast asian
cultures.
my dad told me earlier today (after going in to see my brother and seeing how strictly guarded the place is) that the reason the place has security all over the place is not to ensure the safety of the patients but to ensure order for the outside world. and he's never read foucault.
i've been playing billards on the computer a lot. no reading at all.
it's good to hear you are doing well and reading and writing and working hard on your persian and stuff.
my whole jaw is hurting..i have a habit of crunching my teeth together under extreme conditions. now i have to go prop my mouth open.
don't worry, i'm doing well. i just need to know that you're thinking about me and still want to be with me and i'll be good.
q.
Fri, 30 July 2004
you fucking me over again, rob? will you please get the fuck off your ego and be there when i need you, you fucking selfish asshole? you need to stop screwing me with these irritating little hints. you've already used them once, no need to use them again.
q.
Sun 5 September 2004
dear rob,
thanks for your email. i'm healthy. i have gotten a new place in the hills, and i like it much. it's
quiet and peaceful. and it's mine. i have your things. i'm in hiding at the moment, but i can box
them and leave the box in the office for you on tuesday.
k, bye.
q.
Dear Rob,
No need to call. I don't think you'll want to hear more complaints and rants anyway. Last night I
went out drinking. Got drunk enough to tell them that I have decided to try it again with you and am roomming with you next year and that I am asking them to understand and trust that I've spent a lot of time thinking about it and that it was not a rash decision. Long ass run-on. I realize the risk and am willing to take it, and I want them to support me. One said she does not support my decision, but she'd be there for me when I need. The other went off the handle, accused me of making "rash" decisions (she specified that just because you spend a lot of time thinking and debating and doubting does not necessarily mean that the decision is not "rash." I guess now I know all the parameters of what constitutes a "rash decision," and I completely agree.) She also said that she does not respect me, because I am weak, because I don't have strength in myself, because I am so dependent on a man. And that no, she won't accept it, and that if i choose to room with you, then when i fall, when the decision turns out to be wrong, she will not be there, etc. I was drunk, nauseated, pissed off, hurt, and every other goddamn peachy feelings, so i couldn't help it--i cried and hiccupped and wanted to get the fuck out of there. This morning I drove the landlady to the airport, then cried some more when I got back. Now I'm thinking, "Fuck it." I want to give it another try with you; I believe that you do have something you genuinely want to offer, and that's all I need to go with. I want to know what's it like to have a peaceful relationship, even if it means I have to adjust to a different kind of relationship with different rules. So you see, no need to call me back, because I'm not crying anymore.
I also want you to know that this has put me in an awful mood and I dont really want to talk to anybody for a while.
Remember Rob, the gate is always open; leave when you have to; change your mind whenver. I would be fucking bored out of my mind if both of us have to think that we're stuck with each other just because we fuck. I want you to be clear: I am only two dimensional. No expectations of further depth, further strength, further whatever else, okay? I can't handle being reminded that I am two dimensional like this all the time. There's a lump in my throat and I am imploding into it. Fucking A.
q.
Fri, 18 June 2004
Dear Rob,
In Clarice Lispector's "Passion According to G.H.," there is a quote: "For now, the first timid pleasure
that I feel is being able to say that I have lost my fear of the ugly." This quote is even better: "During
the time that I am writing and speaking, I'm going to have to pretend that someone is holding my hand. ...In the mean time I am inventing your presence...I shall invent your nameless presence and with you I shall start to die until I am able on my own not to exist, and then I'll let you go. For now, I have you, and your warm, unknown life is my only internal organization, I who without your hand would feel unattached within the enormous space that I have discovered."
"I'm going to create what happened to me, only because living isn't tellable. Living isn't livable."
Love you--you know that, don't you? Tell me if you still love Christina and still want to live/be with
her, because that would be okay too. Don't know why I have this damn nagging idea that you do. I would still care for you--I don't think it's something that one can just cut out or delete.
I'm slowly reading Fanon's biography, along with Said's memoir, Culler's book on structuralism, and
finally, finally, finally, Foucault's Archaeology of knowledge. The Culler book goes very well with
Foucault's AK--at least the ideas in there are making connections for me. Reading these two makes reading the two biographies very difficult.
I'm going to munch on some bread then head out to the bookstore to read. Still sick and nose running, but I have to get out of the house for a while--have been couped up in here for two whole days.
It's raining outside. Perfect weather--so very me!!
Don't forget to miss me and love me!
later.
q.
Tues, 6 July 2004
hi rob,
i'm at home. got back yesterday. this morning my brother took a butcher knife, cut down all the plants in the back yard, then drove somewhere with the knife with him. my mom sat at home, scared into immobility. she was thinking that he was gonna kill someone with that knife. she asked me if i know how we could get him into a ward. i said not unless we can prove that he's a threat to himself or others. fuck. i guess let's wait until he kills someone, or chop their arms off. then he came home,
eyes all red and bleary like he'd been crying for hi life. relief to my mom--no sign of blood. my dad
asked me in hushed tones if i could go see the nun at the local budhist temple and ask her if she knows of any ancient indian way of curing madness, since she was in india studying for her phd in budhology.
Wed, 7 July 2004
hi rob,
my brother's in the hospital. inpatient treatment. he talked and cried so much while we were waiting for the doctor. i'm going back to the hospital in a little while to drop off his clothes and things. i'm
tired. warning: i may change plans about next year. i want to save money, so maybe i'll do the work
exchange thing. if i get my thesis in at the end of this summer, then i could do some part time job in the fall and maybe full time in the spring. lots of possible plans are going through my head right now, with strong preference for quitting school and looking for a job.
anyway, gotta go. talk to you later.
q.
Thur, 8 July 2004
hi rob,
i'm sorry. thanks for understanding. i have headaches. my mom cries all the time. i have been
driving my parents to see my brother for the past two days, and it's been very hard. i was with him when they took him to the hospital, and i was hardly able to keep calm. now everything reminds my parents of my little brother. he tells us and the doctor that he wants to try to fight the voices himself, but they're trying to convince him to take medicine instead. my parents are so upset...they don't like the restrictions of the hospital (makes them think he's in prison) and wants to bring him home. they're also freaking out because they'll be in vn for a month. i told them that i'd come visit him everyday while they're away, but that doesn't seem to help any. don't know, maybe they're gonna cancel that trip.
i'm trying to think structurally...i don't know, grab onto something stable. my mom is a huge believer in the vnese traditions of spirits and feng shui and stuff, which is great thinking material. for ex: we're going to have to throw away my brother's bed and repaint his room. only my parents or two of my brothers (two specific brothers) can do this, for reasons that she won't tell us until it's done. she also said that a couple of days before he went to the hospital, she saw his "aura" changed into something very strange. she also saw some kind of vase that he had in his room, very "dark" and "foreboding" looking, so she took it out and smashed it. she would tell me all these fun things in between sobs.
i think my mom's reactions are very typical of the southern colloquial culture. there's certainly a lot
of fun materials in this particular stream, and certainly influenced by other southeast asian
cultures.
my dad told me earlier today (after going in to see my brother and seeing how strictly guarded the place is) that the reason the place has security all over the place is not to ensure the safety of the patients but to ensure order for the outside world. and he's never read foucault.
i've been playing billards on the computer a lot. no reading at all.
it's good to hear you are doing well and reading and writing and working hard on your persian and stuff.
my whole jaw is hurting..i have a habit of crunching my teeth together under extreme conditions. now i have to go prop my mouth open.
don't worry, i'm doing well. i just need to know that you're thinking about me and still want to be with me and i'll be good.
q.
Fri, 30 July 2004
you fucking me over again, rob? will you please get the fuck off your ego and be there when i need you, you fucking selfish asshole? you need to stop screwing me with these irritating little hints. you've already used them once, no need to use them again.
q.
Sun 5 September 2004
dear rob,
thanks for your email. i'm healthy. i have gotten a new place in the hills, and i like it much. it's
quiet and peaceful. and it's mine. i have your things. i'm in hiding at the moment, but i can box
them and leave the box in the office for you on tuesday.
k, bye.
q.
Love letters, batch #1: movies, Murakami, and nightmares
Thur, 20 May 2004
Dear Rob,
I tried calling you calling you calling you but you weren't there. I woke up exactly 1 hour and thirty
minutes ago. I dreamed of a girl--a rebel, my age, sometimes she was me, sometimes not. But I saw her, and I saw her rebel. She walked on top of things--cars, chairs, tables, climbed out of the window up high in the wall. She had locked all the doors to the house and lit it on fire from inside, before she climbed out to the balcony and watched the flames flare up. It wasn't regular fire. It was
congealed air; plasmic; globs of clear plasma, thin enough to move like fire.
Then she was running. And I was running with her. And there was another girl. We were
running from something evil. I was very scared, not scared for my life, I wasn't afraid to die, just afraid to be caught, because if I was caught, it would be by something greater than death.
We were trying to find a hiding place. By this time, there were only two of us--the girl, and me (and sometimes, I would be her). We ran into a club. It was something like a dancing club, and there was a moving stairwell, like an escalator except instead of steps there were round metal rollers, and we were rolled up towards the upper floor. At the top of this rolling escalator was a room; we were approaching it from the side--there was no door, just a whole side of the wall opened to us. There was a body, bloody, dead. A man dressed in white took a gigantic brush with red paint, stroked it once over the body curled on the floor, consecration of some sort. He said something, but I don't remember now. Then he took a hammer, a big hammer, and smashed the head of the dead body. He scooped out the brain, dipped it in flour of some sort, like how the chefs in Chinese movies often do, then dropped the flour soaked brain into a bowl, for soup. A woman dressed in black drank it, commented on its consistency, how the mental state of the brain matter when the body was alive immediately before death affected the consistency and taste of the brain. The she showed it to me--a clear liquid with clear bubbles, like fish bubbles. I remember an image of a girl--she was screaming, or something... I woke up, and I was scared. So scared. I also had a nightmare a few nights ago. I remember waking up with my eyes shut tight, afraid to open them, afraid to look over to where the chair was else I might find some black shadow sitting there staring at me. I went to sleep because I couldn't stand being awake and not thinking, not living in a way, but now I can't go to sleep, too scared to go back to sleep else I might go back to my nightmare. It might catch me in there. I might burn.
So I woke up and began reading Murakami again, just to finish reading that book that started so horribly. Dance dance dance--that's what it's called. What do you know, another nightmare. The book is about nightmares. I woke up from one, then opened up someone else's. From one to the next. Everything's so dark. My dream was dark; this book is dark; outside it's dark. Better someone else's than my own. Wish I could go to you now.
love,
q.
ps/ the john felstiner's biography on paul celan came today! and yesterday i read an interview with murakami--i really really like him! superstar. wonder if i will cross path with him someday....when i'm 50 and visiting tokyo, and if he's still living there, perhaps i will?
Tuesday, 25 May 2004
Hi.
Hope you are well and content and happy with family and mom's cooking. I finally finished my paper in 2 hours yesterday (after a couple of days of not being able to write a word). I wanted to write you yesterday and tell you about it, but the excitement fizzled out when I remembered that you're not here to go to the movies with me.
Anyway, it looks like I'll be moving my stuff to a storage after all. I was just told about an hour
ago that I need to rent storage to put my stuff because my best friend who is moving into my old apartment is going to need the closet space. I said I would move my stuff, of course.
Moving and boxes and things--these are too big for me. Usually I would have somebody else do it, that's what brothers and boyfriends are for. Now I have a headache just thinking about it. Of course, this means that I'll be sorting out all my stuff again, throwing out more books and more clothes. I just may give them all away, leaving just the bare necessities--meaning 75% of my books and clothes for a month.
This email must be very boring. I am very boring. I am also bored. I think I'm going to walk up the hills and hide there somewhere until evening. Then I"ll go to the movies. I want to see Shrek 2 and Spring Summer Fall Winter.
I miss you, did I tell you that already? I know I don't have you--you have not ever really loved me, you were always busy loving too many people--but that's okay, doesn't change the fact that I miss you.
Last week was great--greatest week as far as I can remember being happy. But let's be honest--you
probably can't give me more than a week's worth of your time out of a year--the rest is divided between your work, your self, and your other loves. Somethings I should never ask.
Sorry, I guess I'm tired, uninspired, unconvinced, and feeling so damn alone...as if i've been fucking abandoned....feel like packing up and going home. You don't want to live with a person like this, do you? You may have seen the side of me that gives a lot, but you haven't seen the side of me that needs a lot, and it seems that a lot of the things that I need others for are the same things that you need others to do for you. The practical stuff. The big stuff.
I'm off to the hills. I send you love.
q.
Sunday, 30 May 2004
Dear Rob,
I accidentally erased the message you left on my voicemail, and now I'm mourning! :(
But, I look forward to getting a letter from you! Yay! It's been four or five years since I last received a letter from someone. So I guess visiting you in Ohio is out of the question huh? In any case, it'll be good to be back home. Can't wait to take my brother driving all over the place. I'm sure my dad will be going along too; he'll want to. I want to drive for a week...to do nothing but drive and sing along to love songs, for a week.
I miss you. I try not to form expectations as far as you are concerned, because that will (as it did) put
pressures on both you and me. That, of course, means "no LOW expectations!"
I like writing emails, can't you tell? Helps me feel like I'm actually in communication with you (duh!).
When you called today I was out in Thoa's little garden, weeding. Weeding can be a lot of fun. I did
hear the phone ring once, but it was somebody with the wrong number. I had thought it was you; what a bummer it was when it wasn't you!!
I go now. I've bored you enough, yeah? Oh, forgot to tell you: last night I dreamed about you.
There were two of you--one was real, one was a double. When I finally figured out which one of you was the real you, you told me that you were married--and with a mistress!! What do you think that means?? Rhetorical question. Its cause and significance are already very obvious.
Good night, sweet.
q.
Thur, 3 June 2004
Dear Rob,
I received your letter on coffee filter paper, recycled and too thin, ink running and smearing your
thoughts. I want to write you a reply, but my thoughts ran out and smeared as well. I read your
letter while walking to the elevator, by the way, while stepping down the Dwinelle front steps and while sitting on the benches next to nobody. So no, I wasn't drinking. Neither was I smoking. What I did do afterwards is drive to the bookstore. A grand partnership, you and I.
I also realized that when you asked me about writing, you meant my thesis. Well, as far as that goes, it's not going--I haven't written a word or given it anymore thought since I last talked with you about it. However, earlier today, I did stop by the library and got the call numbers to a bunch of books
from the Cornell stacks.
From margaritas and barbecued fish, I got myself two ibubrofens and sporadic minglings of sleep and dreams. That was last night.
Today, I know that you don't really care for this email, this kind of babbling uncontrol-ability, so
I'll stop.
q.
Friday, 4 June 2004
Dear Rob,
I went to the Serendipity bookstore on University Ave this afternoon. The place is a great mystery. I
spent about an hour in there, still couldn't figure out what their shelving order is or how much they
charge for their books. It was overwhelming, the amount of books and journals and leaflets they have in there. Next time I go back to that place, I would like to go with you; I think you will figure that
place out quicker than me.
I also went to the Signal bookstore on Euclid. Bought a book of poetry by Paul Celan (it's great! AND it has the german version next to the translation), the first volume of Robert Musil's "The Man Without Qualities," and Murakami's "South of the border; west of the sun." Didn't you say you like this one of Murakami's?
I've also been on a movie marathon, one movie per night. Saw Dirty Pretty Things, but don't like it so
much. It was great at first, but by the second half of the movie, the hero's clean-cut righteousness and
the filmic cliches about love and justice really went to overkill. Have you seen Russian Ark? I like it--es ist sehr schon! (there, i can now claim my knowledge of the german language!)
"Under My Skin" is morbid (to the max!), but highly captivating and ruthlessly haunting. I recommend it!
I miss you, Robert. This is unnerving; you are becoming metonymic of a safe space. I have to be
careful.
Wish you more luck finding a place for the summer. If worse comes to worst, you can always cook your heart out in the fall. Revenge of the chef, part I.
q.
Dear Rob,
I tried calling you calling you calling you but you weren't there. I woke up exactly 1 hour and thirty
minutes ago. I dreamed of a girl--a rebel, my age, sometimes she was me, sometimes not. But I saw her, and I saw her rebel. She walked on top of things--cars, chairs, tables, climbed out of the window up high in the wall. She had locked all the doors to the house and lit it on fire from inside, before she climbed out to the balcony and watched the flames flare up. It wasn't regular fire. It was
congealed air; plasmic; globs of clear plasma, thin enough to move like fire.
Then she was running. And I was running with her. And there was another girl. We were
running from something evil. I was very scared, not scared for my life, I wasn't afraid to die, just afraid to be caught, because if I was caught, it would be by something greater than death.
We were trying to find a hiding place. By this time, there were only two of us--the girl, and me (and sometimes, I would be her). We ran into a club. It was something like a dancing club, and there was a moving stairwell, like an escalator except instead of steps there were round metal rollers, and we were rolled up towards the upper floor. At the top of this rolling escalator was a room; we were approaching it from the side--there was no door, just a whole side of the wall opened to us. There was a body, bloody, dead. A man dressed in white took a gigantic brush with red paint, stroked it once over the body curled on the floor, consecration of some sort. He said something, but I don't remember now. Then he took a hammer, a big hammer, and smashed the head of the dead body. He scooped out the brain, dipped it in flour of some sort, like how the chefs in Chinese movies often do, then dropped the flour soaked brain into a bowl, for soup. A woman dressed in black drank it, commented on its consistency, how the mental state of the brain matter when the body was alive immediately before death affected the consistency and taste of the brain. The she showed it to me--a clear liquid with clear bubbles, like fish bubbles. I remember an image of a girl--she was screaming, or something... I woke up, and I was scared. So scared. I also had a nightmare a few nights ago. I remember waking up with my eyes shut tight, afraid to open them, afraid to look over to where the chair was else I might find some black shadow sitting there staring at me. I went to sleep because I couldn't stand being awake and not thinking, not living in a way, but now I can't go to sleep, too scared to go back to sleep else I might go back to my nightmare. It might catch me in there. I might burn.
So I woke up and began reading Murakami again, just to finish reading that book that started so horribly. Dance dance dance--that's what it's called. What do you know, another nightmare. The book is about nightmares. I woke up from one, then opened up someone else's. From one to the next. Everything's so dark. My dream was dark; this book is dark; outside it's dark. Better someone else's than my own. Wish I could go to you now.
love,
q.
ps/ the john felstiner's biography on paul celan came today! and yesterday i read an interview with murakami--i really really like him! superstar. wonder if i will cross path with him someday....when i'm 50 and visiting tokyo, and if he's still living there, perhaps i will?
Tuesday, 25 May 2004
Hi.
Hope you are well and content and happy with family and mom's cooking. I finally finished my paper in 2 hours yesterday (after a couple of days of not being able to write a word). I wanted to write you yesterday and tell you about it, but the excitement fizzled out when I remembered that you're not here to go to the movies with me.
Anyway, it looks like I'll be moving my stuff to a storage after all. I was just told about an hour
ago that I need to rent storage to put my stuff because my best friend who is moving into my old apartment is going to need the closet space. I said I would move my stuff, of course.
Moving and boxes and things--these are too big for me. Usually I would have somebody else do it, that's what brothers and boyfriends are for. Now I have a headache just thinking about it. Of course, this means that I'll be sorting out all my stuff again, throwing out more books and more clothes. I just may give them all away, leaving just the bare necessities--meaning 75% of my books and clothes for a month.
This email must be very boring. I am very boring. I am also bored. I think I'm going to walk up the hills and hide there somewhere until evening. Then I"ll go to the movies. I want to see Shrek 2 and Spring Summer Fall Winter.
I miss you, did I tell you that already? I know I don't have you--you have not ever really loved me, you were always busy loving too many people--but that's okay, doesn't change the fact that I miss you.
Last week was great--greatest week as far as I can remember being happy. But let's be honest--you
probably can't give me more than a week's worth of your time out of a year--the rest is divided between your work, your self, and your other loves. Somethings I should never ask.
Sorry, I guess I'm tired, uninspired, unconvinced, and feeling so damn alone...as if i've been fucking abandoned....feel like packing up and going home. You don't want to live with a person like this, do you? You may have seen the side of me that gives a lot, but you haven't seen the side of me that needs a lot, and it seems that a lot of the things that I need others for are the same things that you need others to do for you. The practical stuff. The big stuff.
I'm off to the hills. I send you love.
q.
Sunday, 30 May 2004
Dear Rob,
I accidentally erased the message you left on my voicemail, and now I'm mourning! :(
But, I look forward to getting a letter from you! Yay! It's been four or five years since I last received a letter from someone. So I guess visiting you in Ohio is out of the question huh? In any case, it'll be good to be back home. Can't wait to take my brother driving all over the place. I'm sure my dad will be going along too; he'll want to. I want to drive for a week...to do nothing but drive and sing along to love songs, for a week.
I miss you. I try not to form expectations as far as you are concerned, because that will (as it did) put
pressures on both you and me. That, of course, means "no LOW expectations!"
I like writing emails, can't you tell? Helps me feel like I'm actually in communication with you (duh!).
When you called today I was out in Thoa's little garden, weeding. Weeding can be a lot of fun. I did
hear the phone ring once, but it was somebody with the wrong number. I had thought it was you; what a bummer it was when it wasn't you!!
I go now. I've bored you enough, yeah? Oh, forgot to tell you: last night I dreamed about you.
There were two of you--one was real, one was a double. When I finally figured out which one of you was the real you, you told me that you were married--and with a mistress!! What do you think that means?? Rhetorical question. Its cause and significance are already very obvious.
Good night, sweet.
q.
Thur, 3 June 2004
Dear Rob,
I received your letter on coffee filter paper, recycled and too thin, ink running and smearing your
thoughts. I want to write you a reply, but my thoughts ran out and smeared as well. I read your
letter while walking to the elevator, by the way, while stepping down the Dwinelle front steps and while sitting on the benches next to nobody. So no, I wasn't drinking. Neither was I smoking. What I did do afterwards is drive to the bookstore. A grand partnership, you and I.
I also realized that when you asked me about writing, you meant my thesis. Well, as far as that goes, it's not going--I haven't written a word or given it anymore thought since I last talked with you about it. However, earlier today, I did stop by the library and got the call numbers to a bunch of books
from the Cornell stacks.
From margaritas and barbecued fish, I got myself two ibubrofens and sporadic minglings of sleep and dreams. That was last night.
Today, I know that you don't really care for this email, this kind of babbling uncontrol-ability, so
I'll stop.
q.
Friday, 4 June 2004
Dear Rob,
I went to the Serendipity bookstore on University Ave this afternoon. The place is a great mystery. I
spent about an hour in there, still couldn't figure out what their shelving order is or how much they
charge for their books. It was overwhelming, the amount of books and journals and leaflets they have in there. Next time I go back to that place, I would like to go with you; I think you will figure that
place out quicker than me.
I also went to the Signal bookstore on Euclid. Bought a book of poetry by Paul Celan (it's great! AND it has the german version next to the translation), the first volume of Robert Musil's "The Man Without Qualities," and Murakami's "South of the border; west of the sun." Didn't you say you like this one of Murakami's?
I've also been on a movie marathon, one movie per night. Saw Dirty Pretty Things, but don't like it so
much. It was great at first, but by the second half of the movie, the hero's clean-cut righteousness and
the filmic cliches about love and justice really went to overkill. Have you seen Russian Ark? I like it--es ist sehr schon! (there, i can now claim my knowledge of the german language!)
"Under My Skin" is morbid (to the max!), but highly captivating and ruthlessly haunting. I recommend it!
I miss you, Robert. This is unnerving; you are becoming metonymic of a safe space. I have to be
careful.
Wish you more luck finding a place for the summer. If worse comes to worst, you can always cook your heart out in the fall. Revenge of the chef, part I.
q.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Thêm một lý do để tôi cảm ơn cuộc đời
Một buổi tối tôi đang chìm trong bình yên giấc ngủ của kẻ khác, tôi lại nhớ bạn. Sự tình cờ. Sáu năm trước, sau khi tôi đi khỏi nơi ấy, về lại cái thành phố này, cũng một đêm chìm trong giấc ngủ của kẻ khác, tôi lục tìm và rốt cuộc phát hiện rằng bạn cũng đã dọn về thành phố này, cái thành phố lẽ ra chỉ có tôi.
Tôi nghĩ, cho đến ngày tôi chết, tôi sẽ nhớ thật rõ từng chi tiết của buổi chiều hôm ấy. Không, tôi chẳng nhớ gì về đoạn phim, hoặc có ai đã cùng ngồi trong căng phòng chiếu phim với chúng ta. Tôi chỉ nhớ rằng tôi đã đến đó vì bạn, vì tôi biết bạn sẽ ở đó, và tôi đã biến thành một khúc gỗ trước sự hiện diện của bạn. Trước đó chúng ta đã liên lạc qua email. Tôi đã tỏ tình. Chắc bạn thấy tôi rất tội nghiệp, một con bé thật ngây ngô, vụn về và quê mùa hết sức. Tôi nhớ bạn ga-lăng lắm. Sau khi xem phim xong, bạn đã cùng tôi tản bộ về nhà. Trời lúc đó khuya, tối đen nhưng thoán mát lạ kỳ, không khí của một bầu trời sắp đổ đợt mưa xuân. Khi đến ngã tư đường, tôi nhớ mình cứ nhìn ngọn đèn đường chăm chăm, ra lệnh cho nó phải đỏ, đỏ đi, để tôi được đứng lại với bạn thêm tí nữa. Đi bên bạn tôi chẳng suy nghĩ được điều gì, chẳng biết chung quanh mình ra sao. Lúc đó, thế giới có nổ tung chắc tôi cũng đã không hay biết. Chỉ biết tim mình như đang muốn tông chạy khỏi lòng ngực, và trong tâm trạng đang nỗi cơn nội chiến, giữa thèm muốn được nắm tay bạn, hít mùi nước da ngâm nâu của bạn, và sự hèn nhát, cái sự hèn nhát được sắp đặt trong tôi từ rất lâu đời.
Rốt cuộc thì bạn đã đi London. Và tôi vẫn ra ngồi quán càphê đợi ngày bạn về. Nhưng bạn biết không, có quá nhiều sự việc xẩy ra trong lúc tôi ngồi đợi. Một đàn kiến đã bò lên người tôi, bọn chúng cắn vào da thịt tôi đau điến. Tôi vẫn không hiểu tại sao chúng lại cắn tôi. Chỉ có một lần, tôi nhớ rồi, một buổi trưa dư nắng lâu lắm rồi, vào cái năm đầu tiên tôi đến nơi ấy, tôi có đứng nhìn một đàn kiến bò qua khung cửa sổ, một số đã mất mạng trong bát nước ai đặt ở dưới tường nhà, và tôi đã đứng nhìn chúng ngoậy ngọ đến chết. Sau đó tôi có làm một bài thơ, để ghi lại hình ảnh bò ngang cửa sổ của một số con kiến và cảnh tượng chết đuối của một số khác, nhưng bài thơ rất dở, bạn tôi đã nói như vậy.
Tất nhiên tôi vẫn ngồi cho chúng cắn. Tôi phải đợi bạn. Chúng cắn tôi sưng phù. Người tôi phồng lên như cái bong bóng. Đến nỗi tôi không còn nhận ra mình được nữa. Lúc đó tôi mới đứng dậy ra về, vì tôi nghĩ, nếu chính tôi còn không nhận ra mình thì sao bạn có thể nhận ra tôi, khi bạn từ London về, đến quán tìm tôi, bạn sẽ chẳng thấy tôi đâu, chỉ có một cái bong bóng khổng lồ ở góc quán. Rồi bạn sẽ nghĩ gì? Bạn sẽ làm gì? Bạn sẽ thất vọng không? Thất vọng của bạn có được lộ qua nét buồn nào không?
Chắc tôi sẽ không chịu nỗi, nếu phải chứng kiến sự thật vọng ấy, nên tôi đã ra về. Tôi muốn viết như vậy, chứ thật sự sự hèn nhát đó là cho chính tôi. Tôi không dám ngồi cho đến lúc bạn về, vì bạn sẽ không tới, và tôi sẽ phải, nhưng không đủ can đảm để đợi mãi.
Bây giờ tôi phát hiện bạn đang ở thành phố của tôi. Thế là cái thành phố chật nít người này, trong đó có bạn. Điều này mang đến sự thấp thỏm bất ổn cho tôi. Những buổi sáng, những buổi trưa, những buổi chiều, chúng không còn có thể bình thản trôi như nước.
Trong những lúc đen tối nhất, khi tôi một lần nữa (đã hơn một ngàn lần) nhìn thấy mình là một cái bong bóng khổng lồ sưng phù, tôi vẫn ý thức được những điều tốt đẹp mà mình đang có trong cuộc đời, dù ý thức này không giúp biến tâm trạng tôi tươi sáng hơn. Tôi vẫn có nhiều lý do để cảm ơn cuộc đời, và bây giờ, tôi lại có thêm một lý do nữa, đó là sự hiện diện của bạn trong cái thành phố chật nít người này.
Tôi nghĩ, cho đến ngày tôi chết, tôi sẽ nhớ thật rõ từng chi tiết của buổi chiều hôm ấy. Không, tôi chẳng nhớ gì về đoạn phim, hoặc có ai đã cùng ngồi trong căng phòng chiếu phim với chúng ta. Tôi chỉ nhớ rằng tôi đã đến đó vì bạn, vì tôi biết bạn sẽ ở đó, và tôi đã biến thành một khúc gỗ trước sự hiện diện của bạn. Trước đó chúng ta đã liên lạc qua email. Tôi đã tỏ tình. Chắc bạn thấy tôi rất tội nghiệp, một con bé thật ngây ngô, vụn về và quê mùa hết sức. Tôi nhớ bạn ga-lăng lắm. Sau khi xem phim xong, bạn đã cùng tôi tản bộ về nhà. Trời lúc đó khuya, tối đen nhưng thoán mát lạ kỳ, không khí của một bầu trời sắp đổ đợt mưa xuân. Khi đến ngã tư đường, tôi nhớ mình cứ nhìn ngọn đèn đường chăm chăm, ra lệnh cho nó phải đỏ, đỏ đi, để tôi được đứng lại với bạn thêm tí nữa. Đi bên bạn tôi chẳng suy nghĩ được điều gì, chẳng biết chung quanh mình ra sao. Lúc đó, thế giới có nổ tung chắc tôi cũng đã không hay biết. Chỉ biết tim mình như đang muốn tông chạy khỏi lòng ngực, và trong tâm trạng đang nỗi cơn nội chiến, giữa thèm muốn được nắm tay bạn, hít mùi nước da ngâm nâu của bạn, và sự hèn nhát, cái sự hèn nhát được sắp đặt trong tôi từ rất lâu đời.
Rốt cuộc thì bạn đã đi London. Và tôi vẫn ra ngồi quán càphê đợi ngày bạn về. Nhưng bạn biết không, có quá nhiều sự việc xẩy ra trong lúc tôi ngồi đợi. Một đàn kiến đã bò lên người tôi, bọn chúng cắn vào da thịt tôi đau điến. Tôi vẫn không hiểu tại sao chúng lại cắn tôi. Chỉ có một lần, tôi nhớ rồi, một buổi trưa dư nắng lâu lắm rồi, vào cái năm đầu tiên tôi đến nơi ấy, tôi có đứng nhìn một đàn kiến bò qua khung cửa sổ, một số đã mất mạng trong bát nước ai đặt ở dưới tường nhà, và tôi đã đứng nhìn chúng ngoậy ngọ đến chết. Sau đó tôi có làm một bài thơ, để ghi lại hình ảnh bò ngang cửa sổ của một số con kiến và cảnh tượng chết đuối của một số khác, nhưng bài thơ rất dở, bạn tôi đã nói như vậy.
Tất nhiên tôi vẫn ngồi cho chúng cắn. Tôi phải đợi bạn. Chúng cắn tôi sưng phù. Người tôi phồng lên như cái bong bóng. Đến nỗi tôi không còn nhận ra mình được nữa. Lúc đó tôi mới đứng dậy ra về, vì tôi nghĩ, nếu chính tôi còn không nhận ra mình thì sao bạn có thể nhận ra tôi, khi bạn từ London về, đến quán tìm tôi, bạn sẽ chẳng thấy tôi đâu, chỉ có một cái bong bóng khổng lồ ở góc quán. Rồi bạn sẽ nghĩ gì? Bạn sẽ làm gì? Bạn sẽ thất vọng không? Thất vọng của bạn có được lộ qua nét buồn nào không?
Chắc tôi sẽ không chịu nỗi, nếu phải chứng kiến sự thật vọng ấy, nên tôi đã ra về. Tôi muốn viết như vậy, chứ thật sự sự hèn nhát đó là cho chính tôi. Tôi không dám ngồi cho đến lúc bạn về, vì bạn sẽ không tới, và tôi sẽ phải, nhưng không đủ can đảm để đợi mãi.
Bây giờ tôi phát hiện bạn đang ở thành phố của tôi. Thế là cái thành phố chật nít người này, trong đó có bạn. Điều này mang đến sự thấp thỏm bất ổn cho tôi. Những buổi sáng, những buổi trưa, những buổi chiều, chúng không còn có thể bình thản trôi như nước.
Trong những lúc đen tối nhất, khi tôi một lần nữa (đã hơn một ngàn lần) nhìn thấy mình là một cái bong bóng khổng lồ sưng phù, tôi vẫn ý thức được những điều tốt đẹp mà mình đang có trong cuộc đời, dù ý thức này không giúp biến tâm trạng tôi tươi sáng hơn. Tôi vẫn có nhiều lý do để cảm ơn cuộc đời, và bây giờ, tôi lại có thêm một lý do nữa, đó là sự hiện diện của bạn trong cái thành phố chật nít người này.
beginning, middle, and end of a love story that didn't happen
Mon, 5 May 2003 10:43:33 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan
To: rahul
Subject: coffee?
dear rahul,
i want to ask you out for a coffee-date (if i have permission from your girlfriend to do so:) after you're done with the semester. i would take you to a more date-like atmosphere (like a library or a church or something), but i thought that would be a bit intimidating. i've been meaning to send this email for sometime, but, you know....yeah, that's how it goes.
we can go someplace that serves alcohol if you're more comfortable with that idea, but if that's the case,i hope you would not mind if i drink milk there--i have a tendency to spill all secrets when i'm drunk (my secrets, other people's secrets, even made up secrets) and i don't want you to know that i've got mad love for you on the first date. maybe later. i'm kidding (try to believe it). don't be scared. let's go have some coffee in a few weeks; allow me to cut in front of you, yeah?
q.
To: quan
From: Rahul
Hi Quan,
That sounds really nice. Let me know when you would like to get together.
After Monday I am relatively free until I go to India on the 25th. Talk to
you soon.
Best,
Rahul
Mon, 19 May 2003 12:28:07 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Dear Rahul,
There's a song:
Trời mưa mãi mưa hoài
Thần tiên giấc mơ dài
Vào cuộc đời sỏi đá, biết mình si mê
Buồn ơi đến bao giờ
Còn thương đến bao giờ
Khi muà thu còn mang tiếng buồn đêm hè
Vòng tay đã buông rồi,
Chán chường in trên nét môi...
Realize that I'm on my cheesy, sappy, sentimental streak...so i'm going to translate this, just to share this moment with you. It's only part of the song...
The rain keeps falling,
while the immortals dream their long, long dreams.
As the rock becomes a mortal, it knows that it desires...
How long will love last
when sad summer nights linger on your smile
when arms have already let go,
and despair imprints on your lips...
[[Thus my horrible translation. This is an illusion to The Dream of the Red Chamber--in which a rock from Heaven descends to Earth to pay back the tears that a fairy has shed on him. As an immortal, the rock falls in love with a girl (who is the fairy incarnated) but because of various reasons, their love could not happen. In the end, she dies, and he disappears---supposedly he goes back to Heaven. Well, at least that's what I think the song's alluding to.]]
Anyway, I dropped the book in your mailbox in the department's office. I hope you will like it.
q.
ps/ I envy Penny. I truly do.
From: Rahul
To:quan
Subject: Re:
Hi Quan,
I will try to pick the book up as soon as possible. Thanks very much. I have
to go and pick up my passport now so I'll write a little more later. Take
care. I hope that you feel better and the despair departs. By the way, don't
envy Penny, I put her through hell daily.
Best,
Rahul
Thur, 23 May 2003 11:30:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan tran
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Rahul,
can i call you tonight?
q.
From: Rahul
To: quan
Subject: Re:
Sure!
Thu, 29 May 2003 13:36:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan tran
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Dear Rahul,
I hope you arrived in India happy and well. I was walking along the pier down to fisherman's wharf yesterday when i saw a badly drawn map of the world. of course, i had to locate where you are--could only locate the city, not precisely the street corner as you would have done. i take it you're still in calcutta? hope you have a beautiful week with your family and that you're enjoying yourself.
a note to say hello, how are you, and the like.
my best,
q.
btw, i am building up my alcohol tolerance so that when you come back, i can hold a longer and more
reasoned conversation with you over beer. :)
From: Rahul
To: quan
Subject: Re:
Hi Quan,
I am still in Calcutta and I don't want to leave. It is really wonderful to be here. Thank you for writing me. I hope that you have a nice summer and learn to speak French with a real snobby accent. Good luck with the drinking. It is not easy to be a drunk. It takes patience, perseverance, tenacity, courage, money, and other such words that I can't spell.
best,
Rahul
Sunday, November 23, 2003 1:48PM
From: quan tran
To: undisclosed recipient
Subject: None
Dear Rahul,
This is a Non-Email. Do not read. It contains sentences that are of little or no value to you (or to anything) except the chitty, blathering ..me, whose incessant feeling of ..something is gnawing at a particularly pesty pace. Unfortunately, the chit does not believe in private diary entries (that would be as useless as unwritten thoughts) thus she writes them as emails and sends them to the intended unfortunate you. However, there remains enough conscience in her contorted ego to prompt her to put this disclaimer at the beginning. You read on at your own risk, and truly, you must forgive her.
++++
Dear Rahul,
A number of things crumble, and together, they create a hole that could only be filled by Danish tobacco. When I was little, my grandfather told me that tobacco could help sterilize a cut and stop the bleeding, promotes coagulation. It would hurt like hell though, my brother was warned thus when he chopped a section off his finger along with the chicken leg. It's a good lesson to remember, except there is no cut for me to stop the bleeding. So what to do with this tobacco that I have? There is only one thing for me to do. Either Danish tobacco is spicy, or it is beginner's tobacco that is spicy. And potent. Almost as potent as my grandfather's tobacco, which he rolled into rolls the size of cigars, rythmically inhaled and exhaled in his little corner by the south china sea. What a long and winding sentence. Doesn't tell you much about what I want to tell you, does it?
When I told you your cigarette smells good, I meant it. Although I was unprepared for the taste it leaves in my throat. And certainly very unprepared for the gliding feeling afterwards. I only wanted to know what you may smell like; did not initially plan on smoking it. My grandfather's tobacco did not have that effect, although it may be because I was too young to remember.
The first time was excellent. The scent was intoxicating, and it brought back to me what I wanted to bring back. The second time I cannot remember because I was too deep into what went on at that moment. The third time made me want to stop breathing. But, this fourth try, I am loving the taste and its smell. I imagine that this is what I would smell if I press my nose against your body.
My friend at first scolded me when I told her about you. She said, Would you please stop and remove you from yourself? He is not in a position to do anything. Leave the man alone. stop being so preoccupied with yourself. Then, a week later, she changed her mind. She said, because she saw how truly happy I was. It wasn't much, was it Rahul? But it was enough to make me high for a little while. It was a very nice moment, and it truly made me happy, and remembering it makes me happy still. For that, she said, she is happy for me. Furthermore, I recognize that it does not extend outside of that moment, thus it is perfectly safe to be happy and accept it as special and bask in it.
But, in this particular minute, I am tired of basking in a suspended moment, dangling, removed from all things, as if those hours have been cleanly excised from the mumbling whole. As if such a thing is possible for more than one single second. Thus I am also in suspension. Who knows, perhaps a minute from now I will return to embrace them again.
I'm sorry--you are receiving this email as a result of many knotty things. I have written enough. I am beginning to have second thoughts about sending this to you. I will stop here before I change my mind. Perhaps that would be a good thing, but you know, I never do things that are good. Try, but most of the times I fail. Like now, or in a few seconds, when I press the send button. I'm very afraid. Torn, actually. Afraid that you will find this so utterly beyond stupid. That perhaps you will read this and raise your left eyebrow in utter disdain. My friend says, in being crazy and crazy as I am (like now, in this email and many other emails besides), I set myself up for failure. That perhaps I do this to purposely freak people out, chase them away. Do you think so? I dont' think so. I'm so used to doing things this way, in telling things this way, that I know of no other way to do it. I will insist on being stubborn. I cannot hold things within. I do not want to keep things to myself. And what is the use of thoughts written down when they are not read? For countless reasons, I have always hated not knowing and not making things known. My philosophy: bring everything out and make everything known, so that nothing is hidden, nothing is kept, nothing is suffered or manipulated.
Will you respond to one question, Rahul? Will you tell me if these emails irritate you? Will you tell me if it is alright for me to keep sharing with you these kinds of thoughts? If you want me to stop sharing with you these thoughts, tell me, and I will stop. I share them with no expectation, except to share, with you only, and, in a sense, to seek(or demand? or force?) acknowledgement. Of course you know already, but you don't know how it is from moment to moment. They come in waves, you know. Like storms. Except there is no weatherman to predict. Atmospheric science is not that sophisticated here. One cannot know before hand when the storm comes. It just come, and one can only hunch down and survive until it passes. I am still wondering why it's acting up now, now of all times. Perhaps El Nino operates here too.
I began this email early this morning. But was afraid to send it, so it sat in my draft box until now.
q.
And in the draft box it remains.
I wrote my reply to you yesterday. I don't think you will write to me again until at least a week later, and only if i send you a nonchalant email, one that does not reveal anything, thus threatens nothing. then you will reply to me, with one or two sentences, telling me about the weather or some other unimportant topic of sort. My friend says she admires you, for the way that you have been responding to me, but I do not. Of course, it is effective, because after a while I cannot help but give up. Then all will be well.
Months later: and why not? all is well.
From: quan
To: rahul
Subject: coffee?
dear rahul,
i want to ask you out for a coffee-date (if i have permission from your girlfriend to do so:) after you're done with the semester. i would take you to a more date-like atmosphere (like a library or a church or something), but i thought that would be a bit intimidating. i've been meaning to send this email for sometime, but, you know....yeah, that's how it goes.
we can go someplace that serves alcohol if you're more comfortable with that idea, but if that's the case,i hope you would not mind if i drink milk there--i have a tendency to spill all secrets when i'm drunk (my secrets, other people's secrets, even made up secrets) and i don't want you to know that i've got mad love for you on the first date. maybe later. i'm kidding (try to believe it). don't be scared. let's go have some coffee in a few weeks; allow me to cut in front of you, yeah?
q.
To: quan
From: Rahul
Hi Quan,
That sounds really nice. Let me know when you would like to get together.
After Monday I am relatively free until I go to India on the 25th. Talk to
you soon.
Best,
Rahul
Mon, 19 May 2003 12:28:07 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Dear Rahul,
There's a song:
Trời mưa mãi mưa hoài
Thần tiên giấc mơ dài
Vào cuộc đời sỏi đá, biết mình si mê
Buồn ơi đến bao giờ
Còn thương đến bao giờ
Khi muà thu còn mang tiếng buồn đêm hè
Vòng tay đã buông rồi,
Chán chường in trên nét môi...
Realize that I'm on my cheesy, sappy, sentimental streak...so i'm going to translate this, just to share this moment with you. It's only part of the song...
The rain keeps falling,
while the immortals dream their long, long dreams.
As the rock becomes a mortal, it knows that it desires...
How long will love last
when sad summer nights linger on your smile
when arms have already let go,
and despair imprints on your lips...
[[Thus my horrible translation. This is an illusion to The Dream of the Red Chamber--in which a rock from Heaven descends to Earth to pay back the tears that a fairy has shed on him. As an immortal, the rock falls in love with a girl (who is the fairy incarnated) but because of various reasons, their love could not happen. In the end, she dies, and he disappears---supposedly he goes back to Heaven. Well, at least that's what I think the song's alluding to.]]
Anyway, I dropped the book in your mailbox in the department's office. I hope you will like it.
q.
ps/ I envy Penny. I truly do.
From: Rahul
To:quan
Subject: Re:
Hi Quan,
I will try to pick the book up as soon as possible. Thanks very much. I have
to go and pick up my passport now so I'll write a little more later. Take
care. I hope that you feel better and the despair departs. By the way, don't
envy Penny, I put her through hell daily.
Best,
Rahul
Thur, 23 May 2003 11:30:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan tran
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Rahul,
can i call you tonight?
q.
From: Rahul
To: quan
Subject: Re:
Sure!
Thu, 29 May 2003 13:36:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: quan tran
To: Rahul
Subject: Re:
Dear Rahul,
I hope you arrived in India happy and well. I was walking along the pier down to fisherman's wharf yesterday when i saw a badly drawn map of the world. of course, i had to locate where you are--could only locate the city, not precisely the street corner as you would have done. i take it you're still in calcutta? hope you have a beautiful week with your family and that you're enjoying yourself.
a note to say hello, how are you, and the like.
my best,
q.
btw, i am building up my alcohol tolerance so that when you come back, i can hold a longer and more
reasoned conversation with you over beer. :)
From: Rahul
To: quan
Subject: Re:
Hi Quan,
I am still in Calcutta and I don't want to leave. It is really wonderful to be here. Thank you for writing me. I hope that you have a nice summer and learn to speak French with a real snobby accent. Good luck with the drinking. It is not easy to be a drunk. It takes patience, perseverance, tenacity, courage, money, and other such words that I can't spell.
best,
Rahul
Sunday, November 23, 2003 1:48PM
From: quan tran
To: undisclosed recipient
Subject: None
Dear Rahul,
This is a Non-Email. Do not read. It contains sentences that are of little or no value to you (or to anything) except the chitty, blathering ..me, whose incessant feeling of ..something is gnawing at a particularly pesty pace. Unfortunately, the chit does not believe in private diary entries (that would be as useless as unwritten thoughts) thus she writes them as emails and sends them to the intended unfortunate you. However, there remains enough conscience in her contorted ego to prompt her to put this disclaimer at the beginning. You read on at your own risk, and truly, you must forgive her.
++++
Dear Rahul,
A number of things crumble, and together, they create a hole that could only be filled by Danish tobacco. When I was little, my grandfather told me that tobacco could help sterilize a cut and stop the bleeding, promotes coagulation. It would hurt like hell though, my brother was warned thus when he chopped a section off his finger along with the chicken leg. It's a good lesson to remember, except there is no cut for me to stop the bleeding. So what to do with this tobacco that I have? There is only one thing for me to do. Either Danish tobacco is spicy, or it is beginner's tobacco that is spicy. And potent. Almost as potent as my grandfather's tobacco, which he rolled into rolls the size of cigars, rythmically inhaled and exhaled in his little corner by the south china sea. What a long and winding sentence. Doesn't tell you much about what I want to tell you, does it?
When I told you your cigarette smells good, I meant it. Although I was unprepared for the taste it leaves in my throat. And certainly very unprepared for the gliding feeling afterwards. I only wanted to know what you may smell like; did not initially plan on smoking it. My grandfather's tobacco did not have that effect, although it may be because I was too young to remember.
The first time was excellent. The scent was intoxicating, and it brought back to me what I wanted to bring back. The second time I cannot remember because I was too deep into what went on at that moment. The third time made me want to stop breathing. But, this fourth try, I am loving the taste and its smell. I imagine that this is what I would smell if I press my nose against your body.
My friend at first scolded me when I told her about you. She said, Would you please stop and remove you from yourself? He is not in a position to do anything. Leave the man alone. stop being so preoccupied with yourself. Then, a week later, she changed her mind. She said, because she saw how truly happy I was. It wasn't much, was it Rahul? But it was enough to make me high for a little while. It was a very nice moment, and it truly made me happy, and remembering it makes me happy still. For that, she said, she is happy for me. Furthermore, I recognize that it does not extend outside of that moment, thus it is perfectly safe to be happy and accept it as special and bask in it.
But, in this particular minute, I am tired of basking in a suspended moment, dangling, removed from all things, as if those hours have been cleanly excised from the mumbling whole. As if such a thing is possible for more than one single second. Thus I am also in suspension. Who knows, perhaps a minute from now I will return to embrace them again.
I'm sorry--you are receiving this email as a result of many knotty things. I have written enough. I am beginning to have second thoughts about sending this to you. I will stop here before I change my mind. Perhaps that would be a good thing, but you know, I never do things that are good. Try, but most of the times I fail. Like now, or in a few seconds, when I press the send button. I'm very afraid. Torn, actually. Afraid that you will find this so utterly beyond stupid. That perhaps you will read this and raise your left eyebrow in utter disdain. My friend says, in being crazy and crazy as I am (like now, in this email and many other emails besides), I set myself up for failure. That perhaps I do this to purposely freak people out, chase them away. Do you think so? I dont' think so. I'm so used to doing things this way, in telling things this way, that I know of no other way to do it. I will insist on being stubborn. I cannot hold things within. I do not want to keep things to myself. And what is the use of thoughts written down when they are not read? For countless reasons, I have always hated not knowing and not making things known. My philosophy: bring everything out and make everything known, so that nothing is hidden, nothing is kept, nothing is suffered or manipulated.
Will you respond to one question, Rahul? Will you tell me if these emails irritate you? Will you tell me if it is alright for me to keep sharing with you these kinds of thoughts? If you want me to stop sharing with you these thoughts, tell me, and I will stop. I share them with no expectation, except to share, with you only, and, in a sense, to seek(or demand? or force?) acknowledgement. Of course you know already, but you don't know how it is from moment to moment. They come in waves, you know. Like storms. Except there is no weatherman to predict. Atmospheric science is not that sophisticated here. One cannot know before hand when the storm comes. It just come, and one can only hunch down and survive until it passes. I am still wondering why it's acting up now, now of all times. Perhaps El Nino operates here too.
I began this email early this morning. But was afraid to send it, so it sat in my draft box until now.
q.
And in the draft box it remains.
I wrote my reply to you yesterday. I don't think you will write to me again until at least a week later, and only if i send you a nonchalant email, one that does not reveal anything, thus threatens nothing. then you will reply to me, with one or two sentences, telling me about the weather or some other unimportant topic of sort. My friend says she admires you, for the way that you have been responding to me, but I do not. Of course, it is effective, because after a while I cannot help but give up. Then all will be well.
Months later: and why not? all is well.
Monday, June 13, 2011
letter to a one night love
Saturday, March 27, 2004, 1am.
Dear C,
I am extremely tired, but not for lack of sleep. For a variety of reasons, I am feeling too disturbed. When I got back home, I spent the rest of the day with two friends of mine, catching up (for us, one week is a very very long time to be away).
Reading your email last night was painful--too emotional a response. I swear, that'll be my undoing--overly intense responses to things. As hard as it may be, I just have to say it, I guess. It's over, C. I'm sorry, you're so wonderful and kind and interesting and awesome, and I am not. I can't give you what you need. I'm sorry.
I write this email for two reason, both of which are for my benefits:
1, to share with you what I'm feeling and thinking with regards to Friday night. This benefits me, because it will help get things off my chest and let me breathe a little better. And 2, to allow you an opportunity to look through the crack into the 'Inner Circle of Fabulous ME.' This benefits me because...because it'll help get things off my chest and...get you on it. Ha.
Okay, so, to begin. Where do beginnings start? Mine started at the car. No, even before that. A different beginning, but a beginning nevertheless. Even before
that beginning too, but maybe that's going back too far, and its significance would have little meaning to this present beginning (whose meaning rides on its direct relation to you and me after Friday). Well, so I choose--it's that beginning, that one, where I began to contemplate without reservation the possibility of us--you and me--getting together. I was then still calm and very cool--something that I have learned to acquire...you know, talk the talk but sit the walk. But that beginning wasn't supposed to begin anything until much later, after you've left, after which I
was going to decide to write an email (or perhaps a letter...or perhaps send a telegraph, or invisible message, or message in a bottle, or postcard from the North Pole, or in codes) letting you know of my then current contemplation. So that was the very different beginning.
I was happy to be seeing you again, but I was cool, until I saw you approaching in the car. In that beginning, I experienced a little jump, and that was very surprising, so surprising, in fact, that I allowed myself to slip into cruise control and just...let things slide. [Fact to know about Quan: she uses a lot of commas and parenthesis.]
And then the rest, you were there. [Fact to know about Quan: she's a lazy writer, which affects her semantics.]
I know you are hurt, which explains why receiving your email was painful. You are hurt because you feel rejected--of course, it's natural, that one should feel hurt when one is rejected. I had a doubt--when you said, "I've said it (I am sorry; I cannot give you what you seek)" two times...in Chinese." I had a thought to ask you if you think you're going to need to say it again in English, but, eh, that was before everything started to happen. The jist of it is that I think I have reason and control, and I always think I can handle it, but in the end, always, my emotions get the better of me, so I slip and let myself slide, and then afterwards, unable to get up.
It was a one night stand, C. But despite my rationality (rational and rationing; personality of me), despite what I may be saying and what it may sound like, I've somehow managed to invest quite a bit of myself (physical nakedness aside ...from aside, and that's how a song was born, Louis Armstrong, That's How A Song Was Born).
So, after coming back, I started to replay the story, scene by scene, checking and rechecking, reading and rereading the dialogues, diatribes, even the elegies
and silly-loquies (had there been any, which would still make perfect sense). Then I didn't like you very much for a moment because you, your tenderness, your quiet patience, are making it very difficult for me to be rational.
In the end, it has gotten so much more complicated than I had anticipated from the beginning, but then again, that's how it always goes. I asked my best friend, whose opinions I trust, whose heart I find precious, why that is--why it hasn't ended when the clock said 6 A.M. She said, that's because you really like(d?--I couldn't really tell--that's my non-native speaker ear, could never really tell when someone's speaking the past tense or not, except when it comes to matters
of the verb to be) C, and you were exposed. Then I laughed and said, well, yes, I was, but there were blankets all around. [Fact to know about Quan: repeat:
she often talks the talk and then go hide, cause she gets scared shitless after the fact.] [Fact to know about Quan: she always could not prevent herself from
doing.] [Fact to know about Quan: when she's in her head running around in a closed room, her sentences suffer.] [Fact to know about Quan: you are able to
see read this because she wants you to see this incoherent part of her; now it's up to you to listen to what she says, but don't jump to the conclusion that this is all there is.] [Fact to know about Quan: maybe it is.]
Make up a tune, any tune, as long as it fits, and that's how jazz was born, and that's how jazz was born.
So I end up: I don't know. Friday was weird. Yes, it was a weird Friday. But, today is only Saturday, and there's still Sunday left.
Which leaves my request: do not go out of your way to be kind--it won't do me any good. I know you already as kind and gentle, so you don't have to do anything to be so. When I stabilize, I will write you.
Salute,
q.
Dear C,
I am extremely tired, but not for lack of sleep. For a variety of reasons, I am feeling too disturbed. When I got back home, I spent the rest of the day with two friends of mine, catching up (for us, one week is a very very long time to be away).
Reading your email last night was painful--too emotional a response. I swear, that'll be my undoing--overly intense responses to things. As hard as it may be, I just have to say it, I guess. It's over, C. I'm sorry, you're so wonderful and kind and interesting and awesome, and I am not. I can't give you what you need. I'm sorry.
I write this email for two reason, both of which are for my benefits:
1, to share with you what I'm feeling and thinking with regards to Friday night. This benefits me, because it will help get things off my chest and let me breathe a little better. And 2, to allow you an opportunity to look through the crack into the 'Inner Circle of Fabulous ME.' This benefits me because...because it'll help get things off my chest and...get you on it. Ha.
Okay, so, to begin. Where do beginnings start? Mine started at the car. No, even before that. A different beginning, but a beginning nevertheless. Even before
that beginning too, but maybe that's going back too far, and its significance would have little meaning to this present beginning (whose meaning rides on its direct relation to you and me after Friday). Well, so I choose--it's that beginning, that one, where I began to contemplate without reservation the possibility of us--you and me--getting together. I was then still calm and very cool--something that I have learned to acquire...you know, talk the talk but sit the walk. But that beginning wasn't supposed to begin anything until much later, after you've left, after which I
was going to decide to write an email (or perhaps a letter...or perhaps send a telegraph, or invisible message, or message in a bottle, or postcard from the North Pole, or in codes) letting you know of my then current contemplation. So that was the very different beginning.
I was happy to be seeing you again, but I was cool, until I saw you approaching in the car. In that beginning, I experienced a little jump, and that was very surprising, so surprising, in fact, that I allowed myself to slip into cruise control and just...let things slide. [Fact to know about Quan: she uses a lot of commas and parenthesis.]
And then the rest, you were there. [Fact to know about Quan: she's a lazy writer, which affects her semantics.]
I know you are hurt, which explains why receiving your email was painful. You are hurt because you feel rejected--of course, it's natural, that one should feel hurt when one is rejected. I had a doubt--when you said, "I've said it (I am sorry; I cannot give you what you seek)" two times...in Chinese." I had a thought to ask you if you think you're going to need to say it again in English, but, eh, that was before everything started to happen. The jist of it is that I think I have reason and control, and I always think I can handle it, but in the end, always, my emotions get the better of me, so I slip and let myself slide, and then afterwards, unable to get up.
It was a one night stand, C. But despite my rationality (rational and rationing; personality of me), despite what I may be saying and what it may sound like, I've somehow managed to invest quite a bit of myself (physical nakedness aside ...from aside, and that's how a song was born, Louis Armstrong, That's How A Song Was Born).
So, after coming back, I started to replay the story, scene by scene, checking and rechecking, reading and rereading the dialogues, diatribes, even the elegies
and silly-loquies (had there been any, which would still make perfect sense). Then I didn't like you very much for a moment because you, your tenderness, your quiet patience, are making it very difficult for me to be rational.
In the end, it has gotten so much more complicated than I had anticipated from the beginning, but then again, that's how it always goes. I asked my best friend, whose opinions I trust, whose heart I find precious, why that is--why it hasn't ended when the clock said 6 A.M. She said, that's because you really like(d?--I couldn't really tell--that's my non-native speaker ear, could never really tell when someone's speaking the past tense or not, except when it comes to matters
of the verb to be) C, and you were exposed. Then I laughed and said, well, yes, I was, but there were blankets all around. [Fact to know about Quan: repeat:
she often talks the talk and then go hide, cause she gets scared shitless after the fact.] [Fact to know about Quan: she always could not prevent herself from
doing.] [Fact to know about Quan: when she's in her head running around in a closed room, her sentences suffer.] [Fact to know about Quan: you are able to
see read this because she wants you to see this incoherent part of her; now it's up to you to listen to what she says, but don't jump to the conclusion that this is all there is.] [Fact to know about Quan: maybe it is.]
Make up a tune, any tune, as long as it fits, and that's how jazz was born, and that's how jazz was born.
So I end up: I don't know. Friday was weird. Yes, it was a weird Friday. But, today is only Saturday, and there's still Sunday left.
Which leaves my request: do not go out of your way to be kind--it won't do me any good. I know you already as kind and gentle, so you don't have to do anything to be so. When I stabilize, I will write you.
Salute,
q.
never ending story
i should be cleaning. doing something really serious.
but instead i'm sitting here grinning
from ear to ear, for no good reason.
i'm not even happy.
or feel like grinning. but i'm grinning anyway, because there doesn't seem to be anything else more fitting. or necessary.
on our date i had half a hot dog.
a half bodied hug, but it felt complete and left me satisfied. there are things that need to be done, aren't there? there are always things that need to be done. and i am always not doing them. things that would help make me a better mother. a better person. a better daughter. lots of things that i could be doing to be better. but i am always not doing them. i don't know why i am not doing them. i want to. i plan to. but somehow they never happen. but i am beginning to notice that i am not unique. this is not something that only happens to me, (or i happen to it.). i've been going to group (so that's what all this is leading to, going to group). it's stupid, really. it's like a feel good session for yourself except you don't feel very good afterwards and it's not really for yourself and it's not just yourself. i go to group and i sit and listen to people tell each other bits and pieces of their problems, and then i tell mine, and afterwards i am not sure if the stories i tell are my own or theirs. i always walk home with the unshakable suspicion that i've just co-opted their stories, took little parts here and there and put them into one big fabrication and called it mine. i do so as the story progresses, of course, as their stories progress, so does mine.
who am i sitting next to now? i don't even know. i don't dare even look up to find out. cautionary tale: do not look up to see who is sitting next to you. don't do it. for no reason other than fear. it's a trap. i fear everything, because everything is a trap. no, it should be like this: i fear that everything is a trap. i am continually scared into inaction.
i would go now. it's getting late. not really late late, but it's getting late, and i should go. i should get up, go home. i should.
but instead i'm sitting here grinning
from ear to ear, for no good reason.
i'm not even happy.
or feel like grinning. but i'm grinning anyway, because there doesn't seem to be anything else more fitting. or necessary.
on our date i had half a hot dog.
a half bodied hug, but it felt complete and left me satisfied. there are things that need to be done, aren't there? there are always things that need to be done. and i am always not doing them. things that would help make me a better mother. a better person. a better daughter. lots of things that i could be doing to be better. but i am always not doing them. i don't know why i am not doing them. i want to. i plan to. but somehow they never happen. but i am beginning to notice that i am not unique. this is not something that only happens to me, (or i happen to it.). i've been going to group (so that's what all this is leading to, going to group). it's stupid, really. it's like a feel good session for yourself except you don't feel very good afterwards and it's not really for yourself and it's not just yourself. i go to group and i sit and listen to people tell each other bits and pieces of their problems, and then i tell mine, and afterwards i am not sure if the stories i tell are my own or theirs. i always walk home with the unshakable suspicion that i've just co-opted their stories, took little parts here and there and put them into one big fabrication and called it mine. i do so as the story progresses, of course, as their stories progress, so does mine.
who am i sitting next to now? i don't even know. i don't dare even look up to find out. cautionary tale: do not look up to see who is sitting next to you. don't do it. for no reason other than fear. it's a trap. i fear everything, because everything is a trap. no, it should be like this: i fear that everything is a trap. i am continually scared into inaction.
i would go now. it's getting late. not really late late, but it's getting late, and i should go. i should get up, go home. i should.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
những cơn lửa
tôi đang tưởng tượng những cái tô nằm chồng
chất trong sink, nồi canh bên cạnh đang thiu dần,
là một loại nghệ thuật sắp đặt.
sáng mai, những cái tô sẽ vẫn còn
chất trên đó, nồicanh thiu sẽ vẫn nằm
i trên lò, kiểu như nó vẫn đang chờ tôi
bật lửa.
tôi tưởng tượng một cơn lửa cháy rực rở
cháy thành tro những hình thể
ngày nào cũng lan tràn, lấn áp. tôi sẽ phóng lửa
đốt hết.
hoặc tôi sẽ đập chúng tan tành,
bằng một cơn phẫn nộ đủ để nổ tung vũ trụ,
a big bang,
and life can begin anew.
but instead, my anger folds itself
into patterns on my body, and nothing
happens.
i stand
for a long time
looking,
just looking.
chất trong sink, nồi canh bên cạnh đang thiu dần,
là một loại nghệ thuật sắp đặt.
sáng mai, những cái tô sẽ vẫn còn
chất trên đó, nồicanh thiu sẽ vẫn nằm
i trên lò, kiểu như nó vẫn đang chờ tôi
bật lửa.
tôi tưởng tượng một cơn lửa cháy rực rở
cháy thành tro những hình thể
ngày nào cũng lan tràn, lấn áp. tôi sẽ phóng lửa
đốt hết.
hoặc tôi sẽ đập chúng tan tành,
bằng một cơn phẫn nộ đủ để nổ tung vũ trụ,
a big bang,
and life can begin anew.
but instead, my anger folds itself
into patterns on my body, and nothing
happens.
i stand
for a long time
looking,
just looking.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
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