100 mph, Random

I drove 100 mph on Hedgcoxe Rd. at 1 am Thursday morning. Then I went to bed. When I woke up in the morning and drove down Hedgcoxe again, one of those "this is how fast you're driving" contraptions had been set up on the side of the road. I felt totally awesome.

That same night, I went to the theater by myself to watch the last showing of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, and it was fabulous. I had an entire row to myself. The movie was great. Willem Defoe as Klaus is hilarious, I had no idea he could do comedy like that. The next day, on a somewhat Wes-Andersonian high, I rented The Royal Tenenbaums at Blockbuster. I also picked up Garden State. The Royal Tenenbaums is incredible. It has so much quirk, personality, and humanity. It has a great look. And Gwyneth Paltrow is simply superlative. Garden State was also very good. It was sappier than I thought it would be, but in a way that was not unenjoyable, maybe because even the sappy scenes were still... realistic. Natalie Portman is also superlative in it. I also went to the movies with Jason Ho, David Phillips, Alison Moy, and William Hsu to see Meet the Fockers. Coupled with the two Wes Anderson films, that might have been a Ben Stiller/Owen Wilson overload there, but oh well. The movie was pretty funny, although about only half as funny as the first one. Dustin Hoffman makes this one face near the end of the movie that was really great, after he's told he's not in anybody's circle of trust.

I was able to be this active because my parents took my uncle from China to New Orleans for a couple of days, so I was home alone. I have more on my uncle's experiences in the French Quarter, but that ought to be a separate post. Dirty pictures involved (I won't post them).

Oh and Happy New Year--2005 sounds like a nice year to be in. I can't wait.

Indelible Suburban Memories

- The girl I saw at Wal-mart one summer afternoon wearing cut-off jeans and dancing quietly with herself to Sugar Ray's "Someday"
- Buzzing flourescent lights, clean linoleum floors, white-washed walls
- Fast-food, drive thru, the manager at Pizza Hut
- Riding in the backseat
- Walking home from school
- Dinners and movies
- The park
- Joy, numbness, complacency, contentedness, angst
- Television, Nintendo, Super Nintendo
- The public library on a Saturday morning, books about dinosaurs
- A lawn, a backyard, a swing set, a treehouse (sort of)
- Buried treasure, a time capsule (Is it still there?)
- Baseball caps
- Grocery stores
- STOP signs, sidewalk gutter drains

Every year I get older. How much of this am I leaving behind?

An Update (Merry Christmas)

My parents took me to a rodeo in Fort Worth for Christmas. A fucking rodeo. I mean seriously, guys. C'mon. They took me to a rodeo. Horses and cows and boots and cowboy hats, all in a giant dirt oval. To say nothing of how inherently dumb rodeos are, what does this say about how well my parents actually know me? I love them. They love me. But how little do you have to actually know about me, how little about my passions and interests and personality do you have to know to actually think taking me to the rodeo for Christmas would be a good idea?

I'm On Vacation

I'm on vacation. So is this blog. Do not expect updates. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, all of that. Bye.

Walden II

He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the rippling face of the water. A small zephyr created ridges on the surface, and the sun bounced off them, like thousands of electric tadpoles darting around in a charged frenzy over the water. He squinted in the bright light, and suddenly, the thousands of tadpoles became millions of exploding sparks. Mesmerized by the white fireworks display, he found himself lost in thought. He was alone, but not lonely, for a man thinking, lost in contemplation, lost in memories, is never alone, but always in the company of himself. He was clutching the letter in his hands, unaware that he was crinkling it. Suddenly, a duck swam into the shimmering sparkles, then another, and another, and another, breaking his trance. The brilliant sun was becoming too blinding, anyway, so he took the opportunity to transfix his eyes on the gliding ducks. He watched and pondered their plight.

The pond was small, but the ducks seemed oblivious. They just paddled around and around it, only understanding, only knowing, only seeing what they swam in. Any reality beyond this concrete bowl was never even thought of. They were trained, over time, in their interactions with the mass body of teenagers that frequented the area, to plunge their heads into the water at any splash, thinking it was food being thrown to them. He admired their creamy, suave feathers, their sleek, polished beaks, and their dark penetrating eyes, like little black metal beads. Yet he also felt sorry for their situation, of having their world confined to bleak concrete and artificial food dropping from the sky. He stared, and he empathized. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured.

Suddenly, out of the blue, one duck began to beat its feathery, downy wings, flapping desperately, almost for dear life. It seemed to stand erect, straight up on top of the water, rising above the other ducks, rising above the concrete of man. It seemed to be looking, with anguish, with yearning, far into the unknown distance, at the parking lot, at the street beyond. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it settled back into place, smoothing out its ruffled feathers contentedly, and all the ducks went back to their business of swimming around the premises, as if nothing had, or ever will, happen.

Stricken but inspired by something he could not define, he nervously, desperately fumbled with the letter, smoothed it out, flipped it over to its blank side, took out a black pen, and began to write. But his writing was quickly interrupted by strange plopping sounds in the water. He looked up, and to his bewilderment, he saw all the ducks in the water right in front of him, diving head first into the water, only to resurface again, and then plunge in again. When they came up, the water rolling off their oily feathers, they blinked a little in the light. But they kept going at it, urgently. They would almost flip their entire bodies upside down, their behinds up towards the sky for all the world to see, their orange legs pushing and pushing frantically in the air. They looked almost like they were trying to... escape. Perhaps it was frustrating, he thought, maybe even infuriating, to be stuck in this purgatory of sorts. They could neither fly away nor go underwater. They were in a suspended state, half their bodies in air, half in the pond. Knowing they were not born with the faculties to fly, maybe they were trying to escape to the world under water. “I agree,” he whispered. “To be neither here nor there is the most horrible feeling in the world. I’d rather never be, at all.”

So why should he continue trying, as the ducks did ceaselessly everyday? And then he knew. He thought of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s definition of hope: “It eludes us now, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And then one fine morning—”

Pop Music

I am a sucker for pop music. Whenever I hear a song with a catchy hook or snappy beat, I fall right into it, right into the trap. I listen to lo-fi indie rock, weird trip-hop crap, ambient noise music, etc., but nothing gets to me like an infectious Maroon 5 song, or a happy, bouncing Hanson track. Honestly. Michael Jackson can still rock my face. Of course, I don't limit myself to Top 40 radio pop. When I say pop, I also include chamber pop like Belle & Sebastian, noise pop like the Flaming Lips, power pop like the Dandy Warhols, and indie pop like Rilo Kiley. I also include old pop music like the Beatles and Beach Boys, too. As long as it has that indescribable pop sound to it, that pop snap that crackles with happiness and joy, I secretly like it. I am a sucker for it.

Calm Down People!: A Public Service Announcement

Finals week at Penn officially began today, and I'd like to get on my soap box for a bit and preach, if you don't mind. It bothers me when I scroll down my buddy list and see such frayed nerves, distraught intensity, and ridiculous worrying. A measure of academic discipline and a sense of responsibility is good, but as a person who can claim to have neither, I keep seeing these good virtues going horribly wrong. I am perturbed to continually come across away messages that read things like, "STUDYING FOREVER!", "STUDYING FOR 50 HOURS STRAIGHT!", "STUDYING UNTIL MY EYES BLEED!", "STUDYING UNTIL THE END OF TIME!", or simply "FUCK!!!" If this is you, please calm down. If this is someone you know, please tell them to calm down. What these people lack is perspective. Life is long. Life goes on. Moreover, all of this is meaningless. You think your GPA determines the course of the rest of your life? You think what you do (and how well you do it) in these four short years here equates to your life? Well here's some news: your GPA is meaningless. It's a silly number that says nothing and means nothing. What is of far greater import than how well you do in college is what you learn in college, and I don't really mean what you learn in your classes either. I mean what you learn from and about people, and what you learn about life. That's what's important. Life consists of so much more than these textbooks and grades. Life is about being a happy and good person, not a straight-A student with a 4.0 GPA. Life is about doing everything you can to be able to die with a laugh escaping your lips, rather than a sigh of regret. Life is about love. Life is about life.

Sadly, I know no one who actually needs to read this message will read it until it's too late, since none of you ultra-intense super-students could possibly be bothered to come read my blog at this critical, life-turning watershed juncture in your life known as Finals Week. Which is just too bad, I guess.

As for me, I probably have a little too much perspective, which will explain my underperformance and underachievement this semester. But do I honestly care? No. I lived and am living my renaissance with a happy heart and a smile. To interpret the message of a great Radiohead song, "Fitter Happier More Productive = A Pig In A Cage On Antiobiotics." Don't let that become the story of your life. Rather, go live instead. And good luck on your exams.

Fourth Period, P.E.

a poem by D.X. Liu
Based on "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered, dull and listlessly,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of educational lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my right shoulder.
“ ‘Tis some classmate,” I muttered, “tapping at my right shoulder—
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the heat of late August,
And each separate dying soul wrought its heart upon the floor,
Eagerly I wished the sound—vainly I had frowned
On my books filled with ennui—ennui from the still present Loiter—
For the slow and tedious action which Coach Brown stated Loiter—
Always here for evermore

And the cottony, sad, uncertain rustling of each persons’ clothing
Irritated me—exasperated me with fantastic dullness never felt before;
So that now, to start the beating of my heart, I sat repeating
“ ‘Tis some classmate entreating conversation at my right shoulder—
Some tired classmate entreating conversation at my right shoulder—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact that I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my right shoulder,
That I scarce was sure I felt you”—here I turned, head to shoulder
Sony there, and nothing more.

Deep into that CD-player peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no stranger ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and Johnny gave no token,
And the only phrases ever spoken were the whispered ones, “Can I listen? I’m bored!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “Forget it, chump, I am bored!”
All of this, but nothing more.

Then back to my backpack turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I felt again a tapping somewhat stronger than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my left shoulder;
Let my heart jump-start a moment and this mystery explore—
‘Tis Johnny, and nothing more!”

Turn around I flung my shoulder, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Next to me there sat stately Caitlin of the good ol' days in '94;
Not the least obeisance made she; not an instant stopped or stayed she;
But, with vanity of lord or lady, sitting next to my left shoulder—
Perched upon a plastic bleacher just right next to my left shoulder—
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this beauty bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance she wore,
“Though thy crest be low and tedium, thou,” I said, “art sure not bored,
Ghastly grim and dulled-out Caitlin wandering from the gymnasium floor—
Tell me what that Mrs. Crook assigned for homework long ago!”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

Much I marveled this little flower to hear discourse so plainly,
For its answer plentiful meaning—much relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing girl next to his left shoulder—
Girl or boy upon the trash filled stands next to his left shoulder,
With such response as “What a bore.”

But Caitlin, sitting lonely on the placid stands, spoke only
Those three words, as if her soul in those three words she did outpour.
Nothing farther then she uttered—not a hair then she fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before—
On the bell I will leave this, as my hopes have flown before.”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what she utters is her only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy teacher whom unmerciful Malaise
Followed fast and followed faster—so, when Fun she would adjure
Stern Humdrum returned, instead of the sweet Fun she dared adjure—
That sad answer, “What a bore!”

But Caitlin still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a loaded backpack away from girl, seat, and shoulder;
Then upon the bleachers sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous girl of yore—
What this doldrum, dull, dreary, weary, and ominous girl of yore
Meant in croaking, “What a bore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the flower whose monotonous eyes now bored into my brain’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the hardness of the bleachers that the sunlight never washed o’er,
But whose bleachers that the sunlight never washed o’er,
It shall press, ah, what a bore!
Then methought, the air grew sweeter, perfumed from an unseen wrapper
Swung by others whose faint teeth-chewing tinkled on the hardwood floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these others he hath sent thee
Starburst—Starburst and Skittles from thy memories of Candy Store!
Let me quaff this kind Skittle and forget this horrible Snore!”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

“Pessimist!” said I, “thing of evil! —pessimist still if girl or boy!—
Whether the Principal sent, or whether a Teacher tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this boredom land enchanted—
On this gym of Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there hope in Plano?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

“Pessimist!” said I, “thing of evil! —pessimist still if girl or boy!—
By that Heaven bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with boredom laden if, within the distant state of Texas,
It shall end a tedious waiting whom Coach Brown named Loiter—
End a never-ending waiting whom Coach Brown named Loiter.”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

“Be those words our sign of parting, girl or boy!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the left side of the stands and the homework due before!
Leave no denim thread as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my dreariness unbroken! —quit the seat next my left shoulder!
Take thy breath from out my brain, and take thy form away from shoulder!”
Quoteth Caitlin, “What a bore.”

And Caitlin, never flinching, never flirting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the plastic stands of Gymnasium just next to my left shoulder;
And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the gym lights o’er her streaming throws her shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that gym that lies adjacent to the school
Shall be bored—until the bell!

This Sonnet Was Just Seven Words Long

[Straight outta 9th grade, y'all better make way!]

This phrase is just seven words long;
I couldn’t think of anymore,
But who are you to say I’m wrong?
Today, my brain is strangely poor--
Poor from lack of inspiration,
Poor from no ideas for rhymes;
But maybe with some perspiration
I will come up with fourteen lines.
You know, it seems this just might work,
Writing about how I can’t think;
I know ‘tis Shakespeare whom I irk,
Since it's poetry at which I stink.

Oh, look, just one more line to fit:
This sonnet is done! I did it!

Donnie Darko vs. The Graduate

Eric Chen, you have found something deeply intriguing. If you like good movies, please visit this link: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ericcc/128077.html.

Once When I Was A Little Kid

Once when I was a little kid, I dreamed about becoming a cowboy. I dreamed about being a tough guy on a horse, a thick layer of dust perpetually encrusted over my clothes, tired lines on my face from squinting into numerous sunsets as I galloped ever westward. I had my trusty six-shooter, my only weapon, the only thing I would ever need to get me out of any situation. I battled the Indians that wanted to kill me out on the plains, dozens at once sometimes. I made friends with the ones that accepted me as an honest man with fortitude and integrity, because I exuded honesty, fortitude, and integrity every time I spoke. I had a white horse who was my most trusted and loyal friend. I drank whiskey like a motherfucker, played poker in saloons, and won fights at the bar by tossing the mean cowboys out the window. And it would never be fights about money or drinks or cards or anything. The only fights I ever got into were ones where the mean cowboy was treating women poorly and I would step in and say something, and he'd be a jerk, and I'd punch him in the jaw and toss him through the glass, ksshhh. Nobody would stop me or say anything to me because they all knew he was a jerk and were secretly glad and thankful that I did that, especially the women. But I never got with any of the women myself, since they had cooties. *sigh* That was a long time ago.

Siamese Heart

This is a personal favorite of mine.

LOVE:

Like a thousand volcanoes
erupting in my heart,
the Lava flying high into the air--
red, yellow, gold; a Liquid flame
singeing the bottom of the clouds
and falling to the floor of my stomach
with a thud.

Like an ocean wave,
cool green and blue and white,
arched like an arthritic's hand,
ready to close--
ready to crash--
ready to come down and splash the world
with all abandon
--a well; a surge; a crest;
a moment in time.

Like sitting on the grass
(green and spring and blue sunshine);
a flagrantly fragrant floral zephyr
passing through the space
between us,
which grows smaller by inches
as the hours fly by,
until the gap is closed,
and i am one and done with you and this world,
and i whisper your name.

PAIN:

like a harpooned whale
writhing and crashing in the water,
struggling uselessly against the line,
not even feeling the sharp cold metal
Puncturing the skin and Piercing the heart
--grand and apocolyptic,
fighting in a Pool reddened with blood.

like an empty chasm inside,
black and bleak and deep;
an abyss of nothingness,
with dismal winds howling of rage and loss,
flying, Plummeting ever deeper and deeper
into an endless hole of a vacuum,
with nothing to hold on to.

like a Phrase and a glance
ending it all;
the smallest things
burrowing into the farthest places
and shredding a tenuous hope--
snuffing a weak flame;
the smallest things,
the biggest disappointments,
a needle Prick on a ventricle,
and an endless rivulet of tears down your tired face,
as i whisper your name...

[1.28.02]

my war

by d.x. liu

mud mud everywhere
rats rats eat the dead
lice lice in my hair
and shells flying through the air

pain pain all around
blood blood flowing free
death death on the ground
and gas slowly killing me

tell me has the world gone mad?
i can not think - my lungs burn blue
they said fight - my eyes are red
but now - White Death - it’s up to you

tell my mother there was no pain
she need not worry for me
i feel feeling begin to wane
her face is the last thing i see

my war was not with a country
instead it’s with my shattered mind
our father-land lied to us, to me
to a generation too young, too blind

Basketball Is

Basketball is a blur;
It sounds like the boom of a bouncing ball in a silent gym;
It smells like old rubber on old wood;
It tastes like salty sweat and stuffy air;
Basketball feels like a ball
Lightly grazing twine on its way through a metal hoop.

I'm In USA Today!!!

I'm quoted in USA Today! Check out the link and search for "David Liu": http://www.usatoday.com/life/lifestyle/2004-12-08-cereal_x.htm. Apparently there's a picture of me as well that you can see if you buy a hardcopy, but I haven't seen it yet. If you have, let me know!

The Heist

Inspired by a true story:

“Halt!” cried someone from behind.

Henri and his partner Bernard immediately broke into a run in the other direction. They ran through the interior of the train station, weaving around little clumps of people. Henri slammed his shoulder into a glass door. It screeched a little, but the two still ended up outside, breathing the Paris night air.

“This way,” said Henri. The two streaked through dimly lit alleys, over brick walls, with the wind whistling in their ears, and soon, the heavy patter of feet behind them faded away.

Bernard’s face flushed as red as a tomato as he gasped for air. “So, what do we have this time, Henri?”

Henri fumbled with the little leather bag and finally got it open. “Wow, a million dollars! Just kidding... I knew you would fall for that.” Henri chuckled at Bernard’s confused expression. “But still, five hundred dollars in U.S. currency! And the guy’s passports and identification to boot! These stupid tourists,” Henri said laughing, “Thank God for ‘em!”

“That was a close one though, Henri.”

“Oh shut up. Constable Lukoph never has nor ever will fool the great Henri Shadeu. You know that. I’m like a shadow, always there, but just out of reach. I never fail... I’m always perfect. Now don’t waste time, we must prepare for next week. I’ve dirtied my suit a little, and I think I’ve cracked the camera. Remember, I’m just an innocent looking tourist trying to find his way...” They laughed. “So take care of it all before I see you again tomorrow, Bernard.”

“Oui monsieur. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

* * * * * * *

Henri licked his lips and rubbed his palms together in anticipation. A week had passed since his last heist at the train station. Clad in his newly cleaned suit, he toted a new camera around his neck. Henri had already selected his prey. It was an Oriental family with a newborn child. “Yep,” he thought, “this is going to be easy meat...”

Suddenly, only for an instant, though, he felt a pang of sorrow at what he was about to commit, at his entire life’s commitment. “What if I take their passports too? They’ll never be able to leave France. And the poor kid...” It was so cold outside that you could pour out a cup of water and it would freeze before hitting the ground. Even so, the baby, not even a year old, was wrapped in only one cloth diaper... and the mother and father were dressed humbly as well.

They had in front of them a little cart with their belongings piled on top. There was a handbag or purse of some sort right on the top. The whole picture was one of meek existence.

Henri sighed and forcefully shoved those thoughts from his mind, out of his ear, and onto the floor. He smiled and stomped on the linoleum with his leather shoe, as if crushing those thoughts underneath his heel. “This is why I’m the best in the business. No sympathy, no second thoughts. We go for the handbag, and that’s all. Everything worth our while will be in there.” He signaled to Bernard, who was sitting some yards away and pretending to read a magazine. Henri indicated that this family with the handbag was the target. Bernard nodded in confirmation.

Henri put on his best out-of-town-and-I’m-lost face, went up to the father of the family, and said, “Excuse me sir, but where can I find this address?” He showed him a piece of paper, a piece of paper that had beguiled thousands and thousands of dollars from tourists before that night.

“Uh, I do not know. Let me see here I have a map I’ll check.” The wife said something to her husband, and even though it was foreign to Henri, he could tell she was showing disapproval to her husband for wanting to be so helpful all the time. While all of their backs were turned away from the cart, examining the map, Bernard stealthily walked passed them briskly, and hooked the precious prize from the stockpile on the cart. He nonchalantly looked over his shoulder as he walked away, as if he were curious at what was going on there. Then he walked out of the train station.

Henri smiled at his victims. “Well, it seems to be no use. I guess I’ll just have to find this place on my intuition, huh? OK, well thanks very much anyway.” Henri turned and walked slowly out of the train station, faking concentration on his piece of paper, as if that would help him find his destination.

Henri and Bernard met at a nearby local bar to open the handbag. “How much do you suppose these people had?” asked Bernard earnestly.

“At first, I thought there wouldn’t be much, but now I have a feeling that this is something big, Bernard. I don’t know what it is. You know, these Japanese, or Chinese, or whatever, I can never tell the difference, they carry a lot of money when they travel. All cash. What’s in here could change the way we live for a long time, mon ami. Let’s see.” Henri always found particular excitement when finding out what his planning and labor produced. Carefully, he opened the handbag and peered inside.

“DAMN!” exclaimed Henri extremely loudly, causing the other folks around him to jump. He flung the bag against the far side of the bar, startling some patrons and drawing a frown from the bartender. Two cloth diapers and a blue plastic box of baby wipes dropped out of the bag—nothing else. Henri, smoldering with frustration and anger, slowly got up and began to leave.

“Where did you get that handbag?” a low voice asked. Henri felt a hand grip his shoulder brusquely. He pivoted, fearlessly, and stared into the smiling face of Constable Lukoph. Henri's face dropped. Lukoph's grip tightened. Without even a glance backward, Bernard quickly slipped out the door, never to be seen again—and as abruptly as that, the incredible career of the great Henri Shadeu came to an end.

destructure

this is it.

i'd like to write a poem.
but i don't know what.
maybe if i just keep typing.
and using carriage returns.
it'll at least look like a poem.
but who am i kidding?
this is no poem.
there is no rhyme, or simile.
like nothing there you can not see.
okay so i had a little fun with that one.
but other than that.
how could this possibly be a poem?
without all these carriage returns.
this would just be prose.
boring, dull, purple prose.
maybe if i italicized this.
it would look like a poem too.
i'll remember to do that when i'm done.
i'm not even thinking.
i'm just typing on and on.
i have a really big ass.
actually i have a really small ass, but.
(no pun intended.)
it must also be a really huge ass.
because i can pull such an endless stream.
of bull shit out of it.
or maybe not.
maybe it's just my head that's big.
as in ego.
self.
it's a funny thing about humans.
ego.
self.
that they can have such perception of themselves.
animals don't have it.
but man.
ego makes us human.
self makes us human.
self-ish makes us human.
selfish.
the selfless ones are not human.
they might as well be automatic robots.
or animals.
it is not that i think, therefore i am.
it is that i am, that i am.
that i am to myself makes me be.
ego.
to be to oneself is the essence of existence.
i am, therefore i am.
and what a crappy poem this has turned out to be.
not nearly as good as the first one that got lost.
because blog fucked up.
oh well, that's okay.
this is it.

[3.15.02]

Spiral

Twisting and turning,
Falling and swinging,
Trying and fighting
To stop the bleeding;

Running and chasing,
Grasping and missing,
Winning and losing,
And faintly grimacing;

Walking and waiting,
Ignoring and stopping,
Flouting and flailing,
Living and dying;

Twisting and turning,
Spinning and falling--

And going nowhere at all.

[2.11.02]

and i love you

and the rainbow fades in and out in the wind,
and the yellow moon wanes behind clouds,
and the sun sets over restless waves,
and the candle flame darts wildly around,

and a smile shows and a smile fades,
and words spoken float off in the air,
and an act of consciousness is forgotten,
and a thought is lost away somewhere,

and a hummingbird shifts around in space,
and a nostalgic mind shifts around in time--
and i dream of broken shards and haphazard haze,
where some days i'm yours and some days you're mine;

and through the softly falling rain,
and through the wildly thrashing rain,
and through the bright and blue sunshine,
and through the burning white sunshine,

i will always love you with the fire that burned on our first day.

[2.2.2002]

In Throes

You are bored of me,
When my heart aches,
When my heart gapes
Wide open like a split in the earth;

You yawn at me
While I'm all torn up inside,
While I'm hurting in pain inside,
So much it feels like I'm dying inside;

You say you're going--
I watch you walk away,
And I don't know what you're looking for,
Or if you'll ever find it;
All I know is that no matter what,
Wherever you are, wherever you go,
You're always going to be taking my heart with you,
And leaving me with nothing--
As I stand here alone in the dark.

I am all by myself when you are bored,
But I guess in a way, so are you;
We're both so very alone,
Everytime,
When you yawn,
And when I break.

[5.27.02]

Haloscan

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog. Thanks to everyone who has ever commented on this blog through Blogger's own commenting system. I decided I didn't like their system, however, and that Haloscan's is much better. I'm sorry your old comments can't show up anymore. Please feel free to comment again, though! All those 0's are looking mighty lonely.

destination summerland

i've been falling since the day we met
but not once have i stumbled
you can lean on me
together we'll fall
glimmer
sparkle
and
fa
d
e
.

[3.4.02]

Thank You

Six days before my eleventh birthday—the year was 1996—my grandpa died at the age seventy-seven. He had some kind of heart problem, and the dubiously professional rural Chinese hospital he was in failed to save him.

Mommy, Daddy, and I all flew from Los Angeles to China for the funeral, which was scheduled for July 7... my birthday. “Great party this is gonna be...” I thought grimly, joking to myself to avoid any thought that might make me start bawling right in my window seat on the airplane.

We arrived at my mom’s parents’ place soon enough. My other grandma and grandpa greeted us with open arms, and Mom soon began to chatter with her parents. Dad and I trudged silently up the stairs to the third floor of the five-story apartment complex. It was a pretty cramped place, which barely fit its three bedrooms. One was reserved for me, one was for my parents, and the last for my grandparents. I slept surprisingly soundly that night.

The next day, at the funeral ceremony, I couldn’t help beginning to think about Grandpa. People were, one at a time, walking up to a stand and talking in Chinese, so I couldn’t understand them very well. From what I could gather, it was basically eulogy after eulogy about his contributions to the world. I stopped trying to figure out what they were saying partly because I couldn’t understand them and partly because Grandpa’s body was lying face up in a plastic case as if he were an action figure toy. I just let my mind drift.

The last time I saw Grandpa had been about five years previous, when he visited America for the first and last time. He had stayed for about two months, but left an impression that would last forever. He was tall and thin and wrinkly. He had a failing left eye which perpetually looked bloodshot, short, thinning white hair, stubble on his chin, and a funny-looking smile which either revealed his beautiful white dentures, or his one lonely front tooth which he brushed carefully every morning while never failing to remind my six-year-old self of the dangers of candy in combination with not brushing your teeth.

Because I was so young, only a few incidents remain seared in my brain.

Grandpa always liked playing games with me. At times when I would normally be sitting on the floor by myself because my parents were watching TV, if he was around, we’d be in my room playing checkers or some other board game. When I got back from school, before I began my homework, he would make me a bite to eat and we would play some mind games he made up. The one I remember most was when I would write a sentence without him looking and flip it upside down. He would then have to decipher it upside down. Now, I realize the ease of this game now, but back then, I marveled at the way he somehow psychically knew what I wrote. Then, he would write a sentence upside down for me to figure out. We would go on, back and forth, me always losing and him almost always guessing it right (he missed a few on purpose, I bet; that would be so like him). Then, he would write, “DO YOUR HOMEWORK, LAZYBONE!” upside-down and the game would be over.

Grandpa could even make waiting fun. One early Saturday morning, we had both awoken around 6 AM, and knew we couldn’t do anything until seven, because that was just a rule in the house. So he whispered, “David, whoever yawns the most from now until seven o’clock wins, OK?” I smiled and nodded my approval. The hour flew by in about one minute with me winning 23 yawns to 19.

Grandpa was really a great person to be around, especially for a peewee first-grader. My dad tells me that I would’ve liked him even more now, because, unbeknownst to me back then, Grandpa had been an English major, and knew a lot about almost everything. He had actually been a college professor.

Suddenly, I realized the funeral was over. People were crying all over the place, and a lot of people were walking past us shaking our hands and sobbing like there was no tomorrow. There was a line forming. I guessed at the time that shaking the hands of relatives of the deceased was some kind of tradition. I wondered if any of the people that were all red-faced and bawling had any last thing they wanted to say to Grandpa, and had decided that shaking an eleven-year-old kid’s hand would do the trick of sending a message up to Heaven, or wherever people go when their bodily systems cease to function.

I wondered if I had any last messages that I wished I had given to Grandpa. Well, I guess I wished that I could’ve thanked him for all of the fun and laughter he brought into my life. I really appreciated him spending time with me, and playing all those fun games. Right then, I wanted to go up to him and tell him exactly that... but of course, it would have to be then that it finally hit me. It took me a week, but it was right there, when I had something to say to Grandpa, that I realized… he was gone. I couldn’t thank him. He died uncertain about what he had done for his oldest grandson. I was too late. My gratitude didn’t come out quickly enough. I could do absolutely nothing.

I am reminded of a short story I once read by Alex Haley called “Thank You.” In it, Haley got to do what I missed out on. On board the USS Murzim—Thanksgiving 1943—he began to reflect on the meaning of Thanksgiving, and finally came to this conclusion: “There were people to thank, people who had done so much for me that I could never possibly repay them... I’d always just accepted what they’d done... Not one time had I ever bothered to express to any of them so much as a simple, sincere ‘Thank you.’” For me, Grandpa could have certainly fit in that category. However, Haley did something about it with his father, his grandmother, and his grammar school principal. He wrote thank-you letters. To each of them, he briefly recounted actions or events in which he wanted to express gratitude. He got back replies, which, in turn, thanked him back for even considering them for doing such fine deeds. Haley had done what most of us have only thought about. He got to thank the truly significant figures in his life, something that I will never be able to do with Grandpa.

More people need to follow in Alex Haley’s footsteps. Sure, everybody thanks waiters, clerks, and people that hand you the butter knife, but how many have actually thanked the important people in their lives for all that they have done? Gratitude is due (probably over-due) in places not just where some stranger hands you the quarter you dropped. We need to take action, and really thank those people that have made genuine contributions to our lives. The teachers, the moms, the dads... how many times are they thanked for all the lives they put in the right direction?

In the last line of Alex Haley’s essay, he says this: “‘Find the good—and praise it.’” Well, I would like to end this essay with this: Find the good—and praise it quickly! Otherwise, it’ll probably be too late.

So I guess this is my Haley-esque thank-you letter, to my mom, my dad, my teachers, my friends, and everyone else I fail to acknowledge on a daily basis as making my life infinitely better and happier than it would be otherwise. I am always in a constant state of gratitude and indebtedness for everything you do. Thank you.

a moment

cold. so cold.

long. so long.

low. solo.

[4.9.02]

Computer Desk Nightglow

My headphones dance with sound.
They twirl around each other,
Left right left right left right.
They dance on my head,
In my ears.
Furious dancing
Infuriates a paperclip,
Infuriates me.

I have no moves,
My dancing is gross.

My lamp sings with heat.
The sound resonates,
Reverberates.
It washes over my skin,
My room.
Warm music
Warms a cold cup,
Warms me.

Now my milk
Tastes gross.

[2.7.03]