One Hundred Words a Day

2012-01-31T09:34:00.000-08:00

Chàng cười cùng cái
chỉ cột chịu chưa
cột chống cầu cao
Cưới cho cô cỡi

Cái cười cùng chàng
chưa chịu cắn câu
Cột cong cu co
chức cao chưa có

Cắm cổ chàng cầu
Cầu chức chóng cao
cầu cu chớ còi
cầu cái cho cưới

Các cậu chừa chưa?
Chớ cười châm chế
Cần câu cậu cụt
chắc chắn cô chê

News Headline

2011-09-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

"Casinos in Tunica, Miss.," inundated
Not by people nor money
But water.
God had no better way to keep away
The gamblers.

The pastor kept silent when
the water rose over fields
lifted furniture
swept off the church.
God had better say why
He didn't want pastures
or pastors.

It is better not to proselytize.
Only pray
that you're wise
when disaster would hit.
Your soul fit.
sinless like which of mice.

Poetry Night

2011-08-05T17:58:00.000-07:00

My Son Diya

2011-05-31T12:47:00.001-07:00

Light of my life--a lamp in darkness.
Size-wise a little man. Soul-wise, an unconquerable spirit.
"Mind over matter. Nothing wrong in smallness."
You see, he's all wit,
He makes me proud, I must confess.

He's the best defender in this football game: soccer,
swift as a rocket from mid-field to keeper,
He's his brother protector,
his sister's tormentor, his mother's helper.

He's a violinist (and also pianist)
"full-cup" optimist,
He's intuitive in science,
not impulsive with fists.

He has the wisdom of a Dalai Lama
His goggling, lazy eyes evoke a llama,
Boy as in "boisterousness"
He is my Diya.

8/30/2010

2011 Literary Orange

2011-05-08T12:51:00.000-07:00

This close to touching heaven

and all the fun

of being published.

Upon Listening to Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking"

2011-04-07T21:43:00.000-07:00

My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his grave.

My mother has made sure of that.
that he is long, long dead.
dead the same day she died,
Dead, wrapped in her love for him
in her longing for him,
that no death can part.

My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his bed.
his body near her,
his soul long departed.

A Dream Within a Dream - Edgar Allen Poe

2011-03-31T10:14:00.001-07:00

Read by Alejandre Abaygar

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Purge

2011-03-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted to know who I was
as a young girl,
and gravitate toward my childhood
in order to discover
what I really am
under the carcass of a woman.

Little scraps of paper
a broken ring tissue-wrapped
black-and-white photographs
and, if I could, a page of diary
in that childish flowery imitation of an adult's scripts.
They are nowhere to be found.

The tsunami of time, and the quake of a revolution
had taken my past with it.

And the life rebuilt, year by year re-edified
Memories: hours by hours accumulated
old notebooks, copies of receipts, movie ticket stubs
They are my scrapbooks
that per chance might hold the essence of my soul,
Now and then heartlessly purged
by one who never experienced a painful loss.

Into the black bin,
the monstrous, smelly bin
caked with food scraps
All that could have been.

The footprints of a youthful dream
for the tired adults
to match
The over-sized feet
and remember
This is who I supposed to be.

Writing Prompt: "It's not marked but my feet know it..."

2011-01-26T11:35:00.000-08:00

My home is no longer real--although I know it's there,
more like a corpse--eyes closed, hands folded
more like a couple whose love had been robbed
whose life descends to a merciless routine.

My home is here, beating in my heart--though only I feel it.
My simple bed is there, my white pillow,
window to the sky
sparrows learn to fly.

The tip of the iceberg

2011-01-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Rich,

I found this on the net, one of thousands audio books archived by volunteers and made available on the internet to any listener longing for some meaningful sounds.

You can spend your whole lifetime here. No, Rich, my friend, the underlined words are not the title of a book. In this age, it means it's "clickable," meaning when you click on the words with your mouse (yes, that rectangular area below your laptop keyboard that you've been mistaking as a dried out ink pad; or that flatten football sitting next to your PC keyboard that you thought is your wife's makeup case, and did not dare touch it. No, it's not the poor little creature chased by your cat), a new web page will open for you.

So click on it, my friend, don't fear. You are about to encounter some great literatures, those masterpieces that you thought that cheese-head mouse had chewed all up during your sleep.

Tonight, I am spending my time on "The Wind in the Willows." What are you choosing, Rich? Or are you too stunt to proceed, poor friend? We can share the same book, if you do not think too poorly of my taste. All you need to do is to click--yes, not push-- on that little triangle, like the "play" symbol on your familiar cassette player. There you go. You see, it does not explode, my friend.

Your writing friend, Hong-My

Mountains

2011-01-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

This afternoon at 2 o'clock,
its head reaching the clouds, the mountain climbs the sky.
Its cap blastered ,
its poems scattered
in blotchy white into the sea.

Santa, his belly flat
blood stained the emerald lawn,
eyes strained on the mountain
now sky in puffy white.

"Watch downhill speed,"
defyingly, a sweeper spins,
ear muffed, splashing mud
to the jaundiced sign.
rolling,
like a tank
sweeping brown limbs
bone-fragile twigs
out of sight.
Soft petals like flesh pulverized
bulldozed, drained
wine for the storm gut.

Where are the lights?
Gone is Christmas
Poor wire reindeer perched bare and bored
Pines on the curb
foot severed. Still green.

By a low wall crouches
a laborer
Stuccoing the brick with sandy gold
Brown skin under gray jacket.
boots mud-smeared,
buttocks reared up.

Two mountains meet
and climbs into a man
rises on his feet.

Westbound

2010-12-29T18:35:00.000-08:00

By mistake I veered right
and took the bifurcation to the west
instead of east
and in front of me was the dead sun
when I went to it.

Heck the Hall!

2010-12-14T10:23:00.000-08:00

I am cleaned floor, washed dishes and folded laundry.
I am the busy hands.

Should I continue?
to be just good for cooked meals,
well-warmed and pliable in bed
Is it my lack of courage?

I am a muted spirit, with dwarfed dreams and sabotaged inspirations.
I am useless without a mop, elbow-deep in detergent, folding my life in the grease of expectation.

Heck the hall!
It is my season.

Behind the Red Curtain, a Memoir

2010-12-08T12:04:00.000-08:00

From One Hundred Words a Day

The Clock

2010-11-29T12:02:00.000-08:00

I look at the clock and it stares back at me
open faced, empty of expressions,
its mouth and nose missing
It seems to blink
behind the still hands.
I look away and it signals me,
by a tremulous trick,
the devil has stolen a second
of my life.
while I looks on.
Its hands is the mouth that speaks
and the mouth warns me in simple signals
that it--the clock--steals
life. The most precious commodity.
There's no way to get it back.

The State of Publication Address

2010-10-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

It is the end of Oct 2010 and my publication endeavor has brought me to my "high, wide and handsome" goal--one that was set in a flash of inspiration on a summer day.

On that day, I wrote out a list of fifty-things-I-must-do-before-50. (At the time, I was just being fanciful. Being a "list-person," I've been always drawing out plans of things to do). One ambitious line sticks out like a teasing tongue, "Publish a book."

Well, must I say more, that's what a list does to one's head. It constantly questions one's sincerity and commitment concerning what one sets out to conquer. It mocks one's procrastination to the point that, to have inner peace, one must set out to attack that itemized line.

First, an arrow would be drawn out, as to assure the "list monster" that, "Allright O, I'm working on it." Only then, it would relent, backing off for some times. But it would not forget. It would rake in infrequently, give one a "Giddyup," once in a while, to rest only when one deliver to it that wonderful check mark, like an exquisite bird taking flight.

My arrow was released more than a year now. It's flying far, still shooting towards the intended target, not losing its momentum.

On the way, the "list monster" does funny things to it.

It attaches bells and feathers to its plain tail, making it looking more like an Indian warhead.

From the one-book target, the embolden, richly-decorated arrow now aims for two additional side deals:

- A second memoir/fiction. I have the basic structure of this second book but no title. It will be about the beginning of our new life abroad, from 1982-1989. Maybe I can call it, "The Wonderful Seven," referring to the next seven years after "Behind the Red Curtain." I had one chapter down.

- A third memoir/fiction. All I have is the title, "Give me a year and I'll come back to be a housewife again." I plan to write about my writing years and how I become an author. Not yet know how I would approach this.

I just hope that by the time my arrow hits its target, it would not kill too many birds with one quill.

Frustration is a Writer's Thirst for Clarity

2010-10-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

It's like meeting a person, a stranger, in the market. And over the high pile of yellow onions, while picking out the wholesome bulbs and remarking out loud, "They are mostly rotten today," to hear her speak in agreement, "Yup! These are not worth buying."

A smile, and the person becomes, in that instant, someone one can relate to.

I open an English textbook, Great Writing, a Reader for Writers, to read: "Aiming for contemporaneity, too many anthologies for writers avoid great writing; they may offer readable, serviceable samples, but they rarely show our language at its best or address the great intellectual issues of our civilization."

Right then and there, my heart swells. I love the author(s) of these compelling lines. I can relate to him. To her. (The book was co-authored by Harvey S. Wiener and Nora Eisenberg)

Strange thing! I am poring over the pages, yet it is the author(s) who reads me instead. "As you write, you too will move from states of frustration and despair to states of exhilaration; that is all part of the roller coaster a writer will ride to a finished draft."

I suck in the air. The feeling is great.

I am understood.

Trick or Treat, a Halloween Horror Story

2010-10-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

Celebrating CA Writers Week--Reading from an excerpt of my memoir "Behind the Red Curtain"

2010-10-23T15:32:00.000-07:00

Who Am I?

2010-10-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

A living entity.
A mother of three,
the wife of One.

A sister of eight
a daughter of One.
   Only one parent is left.

My mother has passed
My father is only existing
   seeking his way out.
Out...Where?
There, looking
Looking for the old glory
in money.

Who Am I?

A voice
in this strange language wanting to be sweet honey.
With words as my outlet
   seeking my way out.
Out...where?
out...there,
   looking for the old glory
when a language was part of me
but now dead, unused, forgotten.

Who Am I?
among you
a writer only by virtue of writing
   fumbling with my pen
for thought.

Afraid?
I am not!

An Exercise in Character Development

2010-10-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

They sit down that night to talk to each other, trying to be business-like--civil and polite--patiently waiting for their turn to speak.
  Mia's gaze is glued on her husband's face--following the movement of his lips and the flickering sparks of light in his black eyes, skimming the sharp tip of his Aryan nose. She is intent in her listening but the string of words tended to her, well-measured by him, carefully weighted by him, is still miles too far for her to reach, its weight too light to plumb the bottom of her despair. As he speaks, his left hand's thumb touches his opposite fingers alternately as if he is counting out the beads to string.
  Sitting across from him, with the restaurant's table separating them, Mia lets her silence swallow her revolting thoughts. She drinks her unuttered words all down with her hot tea. Inside her head, she carefully selects her beads to string them into coherent sentences, while waiting for her husband to finish his monologue--as he strings his beads, she removes them one by one and lets them roll off from the edge of her mind, or selects one out for her own string.
  He realizes the impasse and stops talking. "You are showing impatience. Go ahead then, it's futile for me to continue," he says to her, shoving his beads away.
  Mia picks up her line carefully, "I've been thinking....For fifteen years we've been raising the children, we've been working toward a common goal to make them into talented, motivated, loving kids. We work so hard----"
  Forgetting their convention, her husband cuts in, "We've done well. They are good kids."
  She looks up reproachingly, "I'm not done. You don't want to listen. Do you? It's too much for you to spend another five minutes with me. Isn't it? My talk is tiring you."
  He sounds tired, disinterested, "You're concerned too much about yourself. If you've been less critical of everyone, you would note how lucky we are. We have everything anyone would ask for: a good home, steady jobs, beautiful children....Yet, you----"
  She raises her voice, "That's parts of being a wife and mother. I tried...I want to have an orderly home, and that's why I always get upset when things are thrown around. I want the kids successful, therefore, I spend my time correcting their mistakes. What do you want from me?"
  He folds his arms, "Why are we driving here for this same trite? Let's forget this conversation. It's useless."

A Parking Sign

2010-09-23T15:29:00.000-07:00

"Bus, bike, pool ONLY," says the placard
and so I read, perplexed.

Either bussing,
or biking,
or pooling,
but doing all three, yet ONLY...
How?

How do one only bus,
while biking, and,
or pooling?

Whoever wrote this sign,
meant to say this
parking spot is:
"For ONLY bus, or bike, or van. Or all three, one at a time."

Now it makes sense.
No offense!

Twitter

2010-06-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

140 letters
The essence of a message
A poem
of the new age
Follow me
I'll tweet
by wit
140 characters a day
can change the world?
It may.

Summer Reading

2010-06-09T17:41:00.000-07:00

Along the bumpy road, a patch of green

some leafy shade.

A book.

Life is beautiful

when it's most dull

and loneliness,

Bless.

Circle of Life

2010-05-31T13:57:00.000-07:00

Whose hands are
Whose eyes
Whose present
Even Death relent.

Whose hope
Whose dream
Whose life extended
Now blended
In mine.

Whose blue veins
crisscross my pale, freckled, back of hands
Whose future ran through the line of happiness and life, and other unclear folds.

Whose eyes
Reflecting back,
Looking out from our snapshot,
Nestled in my husband's chest
That unmistaken severity
Wounded gaze

Beauty

2010-05-30T13:57:00.000-07:00

Reaching for her face so cold, no trace of imperfection
Black eyes like coal, dark deep in contemplation
glisten
With joy
Soaring,
Until my wings were clipped.

Tumbling towards earth
I'm broken in million pieces
That instant
I had glimpsed at her cold beauty
I melted
in gratitude.

Write

2010-05-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

Whatever you did not write, will never be written.
A door shut tight,
Train out of sight,
Memories erased.
Did they even exist?
vaporous air,
was smoke.

The worse death, to leave nothing behind.
But worst
for me, who love you,
now have nothing to trace back roots.

How will I discover, and uncover, pen in hand
An archeologist bending on her shovel, and dustpan.
How do I follow your handwriting like pebbles
to lead me home on forsaken paths
from the dark wood.

Whatever you didn't write, I will.
Open that door,
bring back that train
Now your memories are words.

You exist.

Sieve

2010-05-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

Take this sieve and sift
Rice from rocks.

It works in life too,
grading good from bad
sifting out
the right friends from wrong.

Bullets

2010-05-18T17:24:00.000-07:00

Ouch! Two bullets from different directions and more to come,
I stepped inside the human circle and into the minefield,
Still smiling, my upturned lips they thought a crescent axe
My dancing feet kick boxing stand.

No more than arrows that pierced, but their directed words shattered nonetheless as metal on impact
Loudly their barks traveled the distance like canine chorus, imitating each other's sounds
Feeding on fears
Territorial fights
An instinct, devoid of reasons.

Childlike, uninhibited... I break into an Impromptu
Following the rising sounds and stepping in sync with the measures, halting where the melody breathes
The notes are flying bullets that were strung into music
And the horror of their smallness, speed, destruction vanishes.

The circle is noose that hangs their spontaneity
Hang them like wet clothes
In sunless days
Until they smell of mold,
Their freshness yielding to decay
To a state tattered
Battered
Old
Frayed.

While I danced away ....

We are One

2010-04-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

In me are you: blue eyes, blond hair
Allah's worshiper, Zen meditator.
In you are my fragments,
fluid particles, semi-waves

We are all one, weaving like straws of a bamboo mat.
The illusion of our separation,
our faulty senses.
Our heritage,
as sons and daughters
of Adam and Eve.

Communism

2010-03-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

Communism is an illusion

Illusion of sacrifice

Illusion of common good

Illusion of contribution

Of patriotic vision.

Communism suggests then … a union

of properties. Party owned, while billions

toiled … while roars that lion

“more, more” We are never done!

It always moves on … to newer slogans

Larger than life are banners where splashed words of passions

For games that’ve gone stale, it proclaims “reconstruction” (ĐổI MớI)

like strong magnets, it attracts. And under its magnets, electrocution.

Communism: a regime that paints well

The picture of a humanity in perfect commonwealth

It elevates the soul of parched individuals, for something beyond, unseen

Then to them who aspired toll the bells.

In remembrance of Black April

March

2010-03-18T16:16:00.000-07:00

Pink blossoms,
strange flotsam dusted through the limpid sea.

the back screen door banged,
a girl in blue
flying on two wheels. She sang
while the white dog dug
his way out of the yard, then sprang
at the grinding of brakes.

Perfume in the air
in the sweet smell paired
two birds
on branches still bare.

Are You a Poet?

2010-03-15T10:08:00.000-07:00

People asked me
"Are you a poet?"
Um ...Yes! No ... I don't know!

I've written verses
and got lost in words.
My pen had run away
with ideas that may
surprise even myself.

I write knowing
my heart would one day stop
and between now and eternal,
are only words, swapped
with my life spent writing.

I've cried, but no one has seen
I submerged my sorrow in verses
Am I a poet?
Not Yet!
until I am gone. My words
then speak for me instead.

Rain Clouds ...

2010-03-07T10:38:00.000-08:00

The Rain Princess sat behind her veil of crystal beads
her chariot pulled by a team of Arabian horses
draped in black
Their noses pushed forward
and necks straining.

This cactus land rarely sees her
The Rain Princess
in such glory.

Broken

2010-03-01T10:32:00.000-08:00

I cannot mend what was broken
but with the irreparable shards
I would go on,
seeking a new mosaic.

Not everyone is a skilled potter,
but we can all be our life's plotter.

It was torn...
Irremediable.
So what?
The myriad possibilities are there
waiting for collage.

The Gate

2010-02-27T10:23:00.000-08:00

A heavy gate that clanks,
with bars. Thick padlocks
to keep away freedom
it had to let the air slip through
it could not hide that patch of blue.

Did you hear the singing voice
of children
as birds, skittering upon a pond.

It was a black, steel-reinforced, formidable gate
closing on my life's chapters.

Grammar ... That gram of Nightmare

2010-02-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

The Power of Clean Dishes

2009-11-12T22:38:00.000-08:00

It is a great comfort to hear the familiar sound of a dishwasher at work in the night, to hear it gurgling and humming, to hear the sound of water being pumped, swirling round and gushing out, as the washing cycle switches phase rhythmically.

It is also comforting to know that, whatever comes tomorrow, there will be hot dishes waiting, sparkling forks and spoons, spotless cups and bowls. Nothing would be wrong that could not be fixed, when the clean dishes are waiting for their share of hot food, when the child is hungry and waiting, and at mealtime, the whole family finally gathers.

To the Unsung Soldiers on Veteran's Day

2009-11-11T00:12:00.000-08:00

You who walk down the dark alley without A gun,
Your enemies are hatred, poverty, ignorance,
You stand in a kitchen washing the days' grimes, facing the sun
You teach at the dining table, spooning out calculus and poetry, a complicated dance.

You the little sister setting up the dishes
You the boy scout leader, walking side-by-side with each boy, until they're well prepared
You the soccer coach, referees, team parent,
You who bite the bullet, giving the time that you yourself have not yet spared.

You the veterans of love,
you the unsung soldiers in the war against humanism
whose fire comes not from a metallic barrel but from within your spirit,
Your battles will never end. I celebrate your heroism.

Paperback Writer

2009-11-09T22:43:00.000-08:00

I wonder if anybody ever took The Beatles' suggestion to write a 1000-page novel about a Paperback Writer named Lear? The storyline is simple: Lear was a middle-age, unhappily married man who, like most middle-age man, was unsatisfied with his life and wanted some ways to escape his reality.

It would be simplistic to assume that Lear's story was banal. Its universal appeal was in its theme of human conflicts: a man's longing, disappointment, stale love, aging, etc.

I wonder how many books it would take to explore the depth of a man's desperation when his life has turned into quicksand? It was too easy to associate Lear's problems with money, the lack of it as suggested this song's lyrics. It was much harder to figure the lackluster vision of men when they possess the world, as in the case of many illustrious men, like Prince Charles, like New York's Eliot Spitzer, like John Edwards.

It would take the imaginations of a writer to put into comprehensible words the fertile landscape in the mind of such men.

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

Paperback writer (paperback writer)

It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

When Wrong Is Right!

2009-11-08T21:29:00.000-08:00

Men long to be with Estella because she never allows one to marry her. She lives up the street with a small dog that barks at every passersby, but louder than her dog's bark is Estella resounding laugh from inside her living room.

Estella does not own a husband, but she enjoys the visit of her guy friends, who come and go all day, bringing her flowers and providing her their housekeeping services, fixing this and that for her, offering her legal counsels, sharing their own problems with their wife and kids with her.

She has a way to carry herself that makes all of these males to wish for her, but do not think it correct to take liberty with her. I suspect that each and everyone of these men often dream to exchange all that they have accumulated in their grown up years: career, status, money, even their family, to be with her for the rest of their life. Only Estella does not allow the trap to come down on her. She often tells me: "Husband and kids are the punishment God sent to Eve's descendants. Love is the disguise of that bottle of poison each married woman mistakes for the fermented wine of happiness. I prefer a dog's faithful companionship to the bondage with a man. But it takes courage to digress from the path well trodden, I reckon."

The logic of Estella is like a fool's logic. It defies the norm, but its contrary simplicity seems eerily reasonable that I often query my own sanity for not perceiving the truth in Estella's wisdom. It maybe too late for me, but I can still save my daughter from the pain of slavery. Should I act on it?

The Enemy is Alive

2009-11-07T23:34:00.000-08:00

Sarah reported this morning that the black spider is not dead, but has resumed her activity, rolling the corpse of the dead pincher bug into a cocoon of sticky web, maybe for later consumption. After her morbid task, the killer disappears into the doorframe, leaving behind the object of her labor, which the house vacuum consumes in no time by the afternoon.

Sarah is no longer interested with the victorious soldier, nor the casualty of war. Her day is immediately filled with other activities that occupy her mind fully. But her mother's mind keeps rewinding the image of a struggling insect with its pincers biting the air. She can not detach herself from what it evokes in her, her fruitless attempts to orchestrate her kids' life into a harmonious concert, fighting against a pop-culture which values are so alien, which power is so strong comparing to her feeble command, which attraction is instantaneous while her guidance takes years to influence.

Like that pincher bug, she is losing the battle fast, while the enemies are many and winning.

She Spins a Web of Death

2009-11-06T23:58:00.000-08:00

From the tone of Sarah's voice, she knows she has to drop everything and run. It is one of those unique moments a mother has to connect, or to instruct, or to salvage. A wise mother knows per her instinct that moment, and cannot choose to ignore her calling. She has no other choice, but to heed it, if she is wise.

Sarah said excitedly: "It's a spider, you need to kill it, a black widow."

Her daughter knows she is the only one in the house who can kill, who has no mercy. For the sake of her children, for the order of the household, it is necessary that someone know how to exterminate. She does not mind to crush, to spray, to poison. To be an effective mother, she has to be heartless, inflexible, practical, and at the same time, loving, adaptable, full of fantasies. She is now ready to kill. But as she bends down with her house slipper ready to strike, Sarah crouches on the floor and exclaims: "Watch! The spider is attacking a pincher bug. Mom! It's scientific. Let's see what happens. "

Both of them sit on the floor observing the killing ritual. The black spider is frantically battling a pincher bug, using all her eight legs. Already, she has wrapped half of the earwig in a sort of white cocoon, while the remaining torso of her prey is writhing, trying hard to free himself.

She agreed with Sarah that it is indeed a rare scientific moment for both of them. At length, Sarah gets up and declares convincingly: "The spider wins the battle. But she is resting now, with all her legs spread out. The pincher bug is dead."

Her mom had left the morose scene, but now returns to verify her daughter's observation. Both insects are immobile, suspended in a fragile web. They both looked lifeless.

That's war ... two enemies entangled in the web of Death, sharing the same fate.

"It's also a life lesson, Sarah!" Her mother murmurs pensively.

The English Grammar

2009-11-05T20:39:00.000-08:00

To me, the English grammar is kilograms of nightmare, especially when I am faced with verb tenses. I was born where the same word was used to express an action made in the past, present, or future. I needed only to add already to express a done-deal act, or will for the future actions. Where I grew up in South-East Asia, all deeds well done are praised for generations. There, a misdeed once committed was judged as if it was committed anew each day, by the father, then the son, then the grandson. The fateful action in the past continues to shadow a person’s path towards his future.

In my culture, the present blends with the past and merges into the future. We were made to suffer the wrongs of our forefathers and bathe in the glory of our children. We were taught to save our happiness for the next life and pay for our past sins. We marry for our parents and keep our silence to secure our children’s future. We sow in the present to reap only in the future and arrive to the end of our life cycle a tumbleweed of regrets. So I embrace this new culture where nothing would be of consequence, where old mistakes could be easily forgotten, and new beginning awaits at each life’s corner, until I walked into my first obstacle in this new land: the English tenses. Here, the weight of the past deforms each action-word, sometimes involving Ed, sometimes not; and the burdens of the future acts are not always lifted with will, but sometimes relieved by would. Wood? Beats me!

An ESL teacher once explained to me about the interwoven relationship between the English past and Ed in regular actions. I often ask myself, “Is it fair that Ed was condemned to a life haunted by his past? or should he be judged and condemned then but exonerated now?” Can anybody explain to me without confusing me further what action is regular and what is not, and why should Ed discriminate the irregular folks?

My teacher further advised me to forget about Ed when dealing with the irregulars. She completely confused me when she added, as if she has found a solution to my problem. “If I were you, I would only dwell in the present. It’s easier for non-English major. Try to keep everything in the present.”

Why my present has anything to do with an English Major is out of my grasp. Why an English officer needs to familiarize himself with the irregulars, I never knew. For my sake, she advised that I memorize the irregular actions the same way I learned the multiplication table. "Do you ever try to analyze why two times two is four when you learn the table? Of course not. You recite it until you know it by heart. Same with the irregular folks. Just imprint them in your heart and you'll be fine." She gave me a long list of lie, lay, lain; lay, laid, laid; do, did, done, etc. and I was forever lost in the kilograms of nightmare she handed me. I missed my Ed by the second recitation of this list.

I still am, thirty years later.

I Wrote

2009-11-04T15:26:00.001-08:00

I cooked, cleaned, picked up the kids, cleaned again, cooked some more, and now I'm done
with cooking and cleaning and kids ... to stare at this page blank face, stunned
It stared at me, questioned, humiliated, challenged:
"You with your thought and ideas, but what have you done?"

I had voted, raised children, fed the dog, and loved a husband
I've written hundreds of words, each day, for over a month
I've driven to writers meetings, submitted my work, explored the options ...
Yesterday, there was a fire almost disastrous, scarring acres of land along 60 Freeway length.

Yet, I wrote. The laundry washed and folded, stacked and put away
I knew I was useful, then I wrote, conquering yet another day.
How reproachful are the eyes of my terrier, his hung leach besought
Yet ...down he laid at my feet, his fur warm, willing to stay.

I wrote, as a deceptive cadence was played
I wrote, while over the strings a persistent bow swayed
I wrote, when the sky darkened and the owl hooted
Oblivious to time, space, wrote as if I prayed.

The Naked Truth

2009-11-03T23:15:00.000-08:00

When I asked my twelve-year old son why on earth he was running stark naked to the family room, crossing in his path the glass door on the street side, he grinned mischievously and said: "I'm a piece of God's art in this living museum."

All I said to him after that answer was to be ware of Weeto, it looked like he wanted to take a sample of that piece of dangling sausage. Dan was not at all concerned about the possibility of being mutilated by our white terrier. So I casually added: "I don't think Mona Lisa is pleased with what she sees. She's used to Rodin's caliber and you look more like a walking skeleton."

Dan was very sensitive about Mona Lisa's glance. He quickly turned his gaze to the reproductive painting in our living room, and there she was, with her enigmatic mirth and eyes that followed and judged. Dan broke into a fast run back into the bathroom, screaming: "Aah.... She is haunting me."

I chuckled, thinking: "Son, you are my naked truth. In you will reflect all my hope, dream, ambition, success and failure, my rebirth and death."

The Agonizing Moment of the Lost Words

2009-11-02T22:56:00.000-08:00

She is a poet but now she agonizes for words
She types and types but only the letters appear but not the words
Alphabets without substance, devoid of meanings
absence of images, mute of sounds
Where are the words that convey?

She is writing but fails to tell a story
Her words crawl like ants on this screen, searching for meaning in the pot of honey
In the beginning the words are created to differentiate men from beast
but the beats retain their hearts while men lost themselves in words cry miserably

She constructs from the crumpled words
from the dust of the caves full of cuneiforms
Her images are the worms of the earth tilting its soil,
In the end she has written ... she has weathered her storms.

Two Brothers

2009-11-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

The brothers speak to each other once a week. Tom usually calls while driving back home from work to catch his brother in his bedroom watching Simpson. Tom knows he should not interrupt Phil's favorite show, but he interrupts his brother anyway. He has no other choice. If he does not call during the time he commutes, he'd never call. There would be no time for any relaxing conversation once he gets home and switches gear to immerse in the role of father and husband. And vice versa, Phil would be asleep by then, and to interrupt his slumber would be an anathema.

There is never much development in the brothers' conversation. Tom always opens the first line inquiring about Phil's state of health, to which Phil politely replies: "I'm fine. Then ...."

Tom: "Nothing much happens at my end. How's Linda?" Linda is Phil's wife.

Phil: "She's fine. Anything else?" This is the cue for Tom to cut short the conversation. In the background, he can hear Marge's voice asking Bart Simpson where his father has gone. He does not understand Phil's taste, what's so good about The Simpson that a person like Phil, who is always pressed for time and impatient to move on to his next social engagement, to dedicate an hour each day in front of his screen following the development of the episodes.

Tom asks his brother: "What did you send Cousin Arthur for the birth of his firstborn?"

Phil gets irritating at his brother: "Why should I send something, he does not need anything from me. He can afford it himself."

Tom: "It's supposed to be a gift, Phil. Nobody needs a gift, you give because you care. It's the thought that counts."

Phil: "Well, I thought of Arthur's son. He's a healthy baby."

Tom: "I can't walk in your shoes, Phil. But anyway, give my regards to Linda and the kids. I'm home. Talk to you later."

Phil: "Bye Tom. By the way, if you need a blender, I just bought a fantastic one. I'll lend it to you for a few days. It is one of the best, they said. Bye, I've got to go."

The Dead Town

2009-10-31T11:46:00.000-07:00

They formed a small group: one screaming voodoo with the back of his head unzipped, one gentleman wearing his black felt hat and swinging his walking cane while "singing in the rain", a two-head monster limping in a large furry coat, a pirate girl, her wild and exotic beauty enhanced by her tattered clothes and her unkempt tresses, a true disorderly band seeking to exchange tricks for some worldly treats.

They charged down the street in exhilaration, following the retreating bright moon westward, knocking on all the doors with a welcoming porch light. But the light was a long ago convention that had long been abandoned by this dead town. Behind each door is only darkness and silence. The souls that inhabit these houses are not accustomed to the idea of strangers knocking at their door in the dead of night. The spirits that dwell in these well-guarded houses are mistrusted and solemn, estranged from the wanton spirits roaming outside under the bright moonlight.

The small rattag group persisted on walking up the small steps from the dark street to the lighted porch, keeping the tradition alive, hopeful to find a friendly face with some treats to offer- a mere token exchange but a pact renewed to brighten up each dark corner of the world with a halo of trust, of innocence, of fellowship.

It was a rather lonely walk for the small group, which despair for treats had insisted on prolonging their hollow strikes a little further. The moon had given up its travel, retiring desolately behind a starless dome. But the little pirate girl dragged on, ringing each doorbell with a renewed hope; and when a human face shone in the opening of a door, she smiled largely to show it her grinning fangs, all the while reaching into the bowl of treats to fill her white bag with the sweetness of childhood.

When the group returned, they pooled together all the treats they collected on that lonesome walk: a high pile of bounties, a reflection of the human spirit, a pact renewed and hope in better tomorrow resurfaced.

No, the town was not dead, only sleeping too early.

Boo ...hoo

2009-10-30T22:38:00.000-07:00

The Halloween parade dragged on endlessly, from one school yard to another, passing scores of parents, some with their camera clicking non-stop, others following the procession through their video recorder screen. The kids' smile were frozen on their impassive face, faces that resemble more to masks, masks that no longer attract any attention.

The initial fun to be someone else, someone glamorous either by their beauty, or their deed, or their ugliness, or their meanness, that fun, was no longer there, dragging on too long until it became an endurance contest. For some time now the kids wanted to get rid of their artificial smiles, to take off their costumes and masks, to return to their foursquare and jump rope, and wall ball, and tether ball.

Tigger lurked in and out of the lines of kids and "Boo" them. Inside Tigger was Mr. Greg the PE teacher. He did not notice the boredom on the kids' face from inside his fuzzy skin. He was having so much fun pounding and bouncing, feeling himself again a little kid.

When he landed in front of Snow White for a third time, and "boo" her louder than the last two times, Snow White no longer flashed her smile back to encourage his playfulness, but "Boohoo" aloud. Soon, the whole procession of kindergartners were "boohooing" all the way back to their classroom, with Tigger trailing behind, his tail in his hand, stupefied and puzzled.

Who Says Hello Win

2009-10-29T23:16:00.000-07:00

Long ago, the nights after the fall harvest were dreadfully boring. All the field works in the farm were completed, and the tools were washed, shined and put away. The farmers retired early to their bed, blew out their candles, and let their fire died early in the wood stove. The whole village was silent, dark, and cold. Not a soul stirred.

The children were also in bed, bundled tightly into their blanket. But their eyes were wide open, fastening onto the various dark forms in their bedroom, following the slight fluttering and rustling of the white lace curtain, horror stricken. They could not sleep, and dared not to move out of the safety of their cocoon. Only their imagination took flight and escaped.

In one such night, a boy decided to hold on tight to his fantasy and flew with it out of his window, snagging the whole length of the white muslin with him, which dangled over his shoulder like a cape and transformed him into a sort of ghost-like figure. Once freed from the confinement of his dark bedroom and its various dark forms, he was also delivered from the grasp of his unnamed fear.

Passing each quiet house in the village, the boy thought of stopping by the bedroom window of all his friends, and calling them out to join him in his fantastical flight.

At first, the children refused to leave the cocoon of their safety. They admired the boy's ghostly look, but could not decide to follow him into the unknown darkness, until the boy dared them: "If you only ring the bell of your neighbor's house and say hello to whoever comes out, I'll let you have all the candies that I've got."

One by one, the children joined the flying boy to their neighbor's house to win the dare. At each new house, they told their friend: " Who says hello win."

Over the years, the one night dare became a yearly tradition called Halloween. The boy who had started the dare was now an old spirit, free and fearless.

Trick Comes A-knocking at Your Door

2009-10-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

"They'll come in mob," described the cousins who were here before us,
"They'll rattle your doorknob, and demand to come in,
They'll say trick, and will ask for treats,
or they'll tear down your house, and all your little chin chin."

So on our first Halloween night in the United States
Our fear was so great of this terrible fete,
We shut down all the house lights, and hunkered down, mute
and our anxiety mounted as the hours turned late.

Then we heard them mob, coming down the street,
the sound of footsteps that we feared to meet,
the sound of laughter reminded us the tricks
so we kept still, stiller than our shadows, watching them in sheets.

Those little goblins, mingled with princesses
Only little children, door to door progress
the incessant barks transferred from house to house
Confused us, tricked us in such fearful mess.

The Violinist

2009-10-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

He is like the rest of the people in that auditorium, until he places his violin on his left shoulder, like Atlas, but more graceful in the way he carries the whole world, tilting his head to reveal the curve of his proud chin.

He inhales slightly, like taking in the breath of God. In that instant, he becomes one with his four strings. With some horsehairs and a hollow piece of wood, he makes them sing, weep, laugh.

The world ceases to be a burden to carry, but a prize. The world wakes and dances with him, twirling round, absorbed in the lyrical magic, unsubstantial yet powerful enough to vibrate all its constituents.

The old men lift their droopy chin and look up alert.

The old women push aside their walking chair.

The old couples reach out their hands for each other.

The violinist no longer sees. He is the music. He becomes one with the waves of sound crashing towards the shore of happiness and mutual understanding.

He is Atlas, only not bent down, but with his chin raised.

My Car Battery Died

2009-10-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

At 6 P.M., Mary clocked out and took off her white coat. She hurriedly stuffed it into her large tote, amidst loose papers with various notes scribbled in jargon and shorthand, a paperback novel bearing the public library stamp for a due date which had passed, pens and lipsticks jumbled together in a tangle of dental floss that had fallen out of its holding spoke. She pulled out her bundle of keys, located the tiny remote control of her Camry, then headed out of the pharmacy low swing door, passing the three technicians busily engaged with the waiting customers, passing the three or four customers patiently waiting in line to pick up their prescriptions.

In Aisle 6, Mary was finally alone. Her head barely reached the fourth shelf of the over-the-counter medicines. In Aisle 7, she began to breathe easily, her eyes scanning the bandage boxes without seeing them. She reached Aisle 8 when her cell phone rang. Her son called to remind her that the seventh-grade parent conference was scheduled at seven in the evening that night, in room 10. The young cashier at the last check out lane had a pile of Halloween candy assortments on her conveyor belt and did not notice that Mary said goodbye to her.

She was somewhat glad for not having to engage in a lengthy conversation. Outside, the parking lot lights were already on. She braced herself at the thought of driving home in the dusk, and slightly missed the departed summer. She opened the car door and threw her heavy bag onto the passenger seat. The bag landed upside down on the car floor.

"Oh no," Mary ejaculated with irritation, but she had no time for self-recrimination. She adjusted her rear-view mirror quickly from its last position this morning, when she had twisted it downward to apply her makeup. Then she turned on the ignition, ready to fulfill her responsibility at her son's school as a conscientious parent.

The car cackled, but the engine did not catch on.

"Come on," urged Mary, pumping the gas pedal.

The car coughed louder, as if to clear its throat before starting to speak, but its hiccup again died, leaving Mary in desperation, on the verge of tears.

"Trouble?" She startled when the clerk asked loudly from afar. She looked up to recognize that it was only Morris, the newest pharmacy tech, who has yet to earn his reputation as a capable member of the pharmacy staff.

"Do you have a jumping cable?" Mary asked out of desperation, without much hope in Morris' ability to help anyone. He can hardly sweep the floor clean at work, so clumsy, so inexperienced.

"You mean a jumper cable?" The voice reached Mary again, but much closer. Morris was already by her door side, poking his head in.

"Something to start the car, that's what I need." Mary was irritated at Morris for not understanding her quicker in this critical moment.

"I have one jumper cable, but not long enough. Your car is stuck in between two cars, I need to be able to reach you. Wait here, I'll go inside to borrow another set."

Mary dialed her cell phone: "Hello, Vincent? You need to come start the car. It's dead. And hurry."

Her husband retorted: "What do you mean hurry, can you not find help from where you are? You just need to jump it. Use a cable."

Mary was furious, furious and exasperated: "I don't have a cable, remember? Last time you said it was too expensive to buy to just sit it in the car."

"So you don't have one. Then go ask someone to jump it. Stop acting like a princess. Go ask someone. I'd come to help, but it's silly for me to drive half an hour to come there when you could have asked someone to do it in five minute."

Mary was about to explode into her cell, when she sighted Morris coming towards her with a cable.

"Go to hell," She snarled into her cell, and slammed it shut.

"I found one in Mike's car. Let me move my car closer first. You just sit there to keep warm. No need to come out."

It took less than five minutes for Morris to move his car and hook up the cable. He switched on his engine, and hollered over the engine sound to Mary: "Start your car."

When they said goodbye, Mary almost cried from relief and self-pity. Morris simply said: "You need a new battery. Bring it back to the same store you bought it from, and they will either recharge for you or exchange a new one for you. It should be free, you are still under guarantee. OK? Now drive home safely, and I'll see you tomorrow. Bye, Mary. And remember, it's a jumper cable, not jumping cable."

The Headstones that Beg "Vote for Me"

2009-10-25T22:16:00.000-07:00

The headstones are quickly erected an October night, crowding the small empty plots at several major intersections of the little town. They are crude and cheaply cut out of thick cardboard, on which a colored name is simply printed on a plain background. In the fall nights, they are a sinister reminder of a fierce battle for the town council seats and for school board nomination.

There are no dead bodies underneath the simple paper tombstones. The names printed there on the makeshift headstones are the names of live people, ambitious townsfolk with a political flair and an inclination for public exposure, a desire to run the town show according to ... not Garp, but a minority group with special interest, perhaps adherent to certain principles, maybe for want of reform.

Anyway, now the town is full of graves with "Vote for" inscription. The ghosts of the past return to visit too, reminding the people that they had failed to secure the town from the invasion of commercialism, that their distraction over the years was the the reason why the cow pastures were traded for a behemoth sport stadium, and that due to their antipathy to the town cause, a new landfill now is commissioned to cut its grand opening ribbon in between two elementary schools, blocking the pristine horizon, slashing the property values, condemning the future generations to a lifetime of congested traffics, noise and air pollutions, not to mention the double-digit crime rate.

By November 2nd, there will be a mass burial, although the city cleaning crew would be out to erase the evidence of all the headstones. Depending on the outcome and wisdom of the town voters, there would be among the buried: the lost visions of a few brave town officials, or the corpse of a wasteful budget, the salaries of more school teacher, or the last land massacre contract.

Watch out for those headstones that beg "Vote for Me."

My Protagonist Killed her Husband

2009-10-24T23:35:00.000-07:00

Even on the rough outline, James, the protagonist's husband, is to die. That's the way to end their love story, to end it realistically, logistically.

He is painted a real villain, no doubt about it. There is no ambiguity about his character: selfish, misogynistic, heartless, etc. He serves as the background of her ruinous life, from which she would rise, like a lotus above the muddy swamp, without bitterness, without being revengeful, without losing her eternal love for James.

But the story takes its time, like life, to evolve. It takes its time, to depict the characters in all details, to reveal who they are, what they think, how they respond to each situation life brings them. Their universal truth touches the reader only after the characters mature, reflect, look backward.

By then, James has carved his space into the story's heart, becomes somewhat indispensable, although a villain. Only through his cruelty that the protagonist realizes herself, promotes herself, redeems.

So when the protagonist has no other logical choice to make the story realistic than to end her husband's life, not by killing him, but by leaving him to move on with her own life, detaching herself from the background of his villainous life, she inadvertently ends her own, killing herself, ceasing to be solely because the ending turmoils of her life has rendered her normal, typical, uninteresting.

Therefore, when the protagonist leaves her husband, ending his presence in the story, it ends. Like all love story, it ends when love dies.

I'm the Kitchen God

2009-10-23T23:56:00.000-07:00

In the Asian culture, I'm part of the family, a gentle God, loved and respected. Once a year, I departed briefly for Heaven to deliver to the higher gods our State of the Family Address, written in a red scroll.

I'm all steel, with a heart of fire. I was not given a first name, but my lineage dated all the way back to the beginning of the Industrial Age, after a new mode of energy transfer was discovered, transmitted through insulated copper wires.

I served this house for over twenty-five years, a considerable longevity enjoyed only by my generation, but considered unprofitable by my maker. My sturdy innards and simple assembly kept me functioning past my expected years, with only a few minor problems. But my end is near. Of my four coil stoves, only two still function, at times intermittently.

Until I can no longer serve, I am this family's noble Kitchen God, with a heart of fire. I am not to be rushed, but to be kindled gently, nursed patiently, tended with understanding and forgiveness.

I am the Fire of your hearth, the love of your heart, the heart of your hearth.

Shanti

2009-10-22T22:42:00.000-07:00

She likes the sound of it, but hesitates still. She knows her baby is coming; its head is now much lower, protruding into her pelvic bone and causing much discomfort. But still she hesitates.

She turns her thought many times over inside her head like choosing a head of pumpkin at the Fall Fair: feeling its weight, judging its size, imagining it as a Jack-O-Lantern with its skull well defined by her husband's knife; but as soon as her decision was made, and as she was about to pay for her pumpkin, she again put it back down on the muddy farm field, again indecisive of her choice.

It has taken her almost nine months to pick out a name for her baby, a girl. She loves to call it Shanti, Sanskrit for Peace, Inner Peace. But a name is more than a word for calling a person. It grows with the person and defines her. Shanti will not be an easy weight to carry around. It will easily turn into a burden. She vacillates at the last minute, before being wheeled into the delivery room.

Now, as she looks at the baby's dark hair, counting her ten fingers and caressing her ten pink toes, she no longer fears, for Shanti is sleeping peacefully in her arms, not yet seeking her nipples, but warm and tiny, needing her protection, wanting her care, crying for her devotion.

"Shanti," She calls softly, liking its effect on her tongue, in her mind.

Shanti

ithetiger's Podcast

LA County Ends Here

2009-10-21T23:07:00.000-07:00

This two-lane winding road, tucked out of the way in between a freeway connecting Los Angeles and Orange Counties and a stretch of low hills, is all that remains of a canyon called Tonner. A big gape in one of the hills faces the fast-flowing 57 freeway is the closest resemblance to the deep gorge that it once was, but no longer is, tamed by erosion, road constructions, and real estate development.

We often take this Tonner Canyon Road to avoid the rush hour traffic that backs up at the interchange between 57 going north and 60 going east. The exit curves a full 360-degree rounding the base of a hill to prepare the commuters of a sudden change of scenery, where after a stop sign, the car re-emerges flanked by a high bank of dirt and the hills with grazing cows.

At night, the dark road seems lost in wilderness, in a time when Ichabod still galloped madly pursuing by the headless horseman. As soon as one's thought is filled with fearful anticipation, the car headlights pierce the eerie night to reveal one white cross, then another, then another, in successive apparitions.

Then a sign reads: "End of Los Angeles County."

Blank

2009-10-20T23:26:00.000-07:00

It takes a lifetime
to fill in the blanks
to connect the dots
to figure it out

Be who one wants be
Refuse, firm and flat
Accept, no matter what
Realize life, a reflection merely.

It takes one second
to erase the slate
to rupture the link
to void one's entire fate.

to cease being whole
Again, dumb and mute.
Helpless, with no role
to fulfill, unsuited.

A lifetime reversed.
...................
What good is it now?
Blank!
The synapses that zigzag and crisscross
are tangled and mangled
The spirit imprisoned and incapacitated,
does not manifest its agitation
to demand restitution.

Time drags on.

Hey, Wait For Me

2009-10-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

The younger boy follows behind her little brother, hands outstretched, rope walking the one-foot block wall. The mother follows behind, on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on both boys. The one in front puts one foot after the other confidently, with ease. Soon, the distance between the two daredevils increases considerably, although the leader is too absorbed in following his imaginary tight wire to notice. But the one lagging behind begins to whimper, and seeing his brother getting too far ahead of him, suddenly loses his confidence and begins to whopper. He calls out finally, his voice trembling: "Hey, wait for me." His mother hastens her steps towards her trembling son, as he extends his little right hand to her, urging: "Takes my hand." Now, it is the mother's turn to call out to the one totting in front: "John, wait up."

Walking behind the trio, the spectator's mind fast forwards the captured scene, to a future time. She sees the trio, now at a different walk of life. On a different type of wall, the brothers, now much older, still follow each other. The bolder one still launches on towards higher and steeper summits, racing after all the promises: money, women, status. His more cautious brother still looks carefully before taking each next step, his calmer face looking up to check the progress of his brother, to urge him firmly: "Slow down, John. You are risking it. Come back, it's not worth your life, John."

From beyond the earthly scene, the mother, now invisible to both her sons, witnesses the rope-walkers silently, tenderly, but sadly, her extended arms outstretched, yet powerless.

The Subtle Passage of Time

2009-10-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

Not only that the birds still linger around in great number, but their morning ruckus is getting louder in the chilly mornings. The prolonged darkness of an autumn morning contradicts with the happy chirps and fleeting movements among the foliage, a tug-of-war between what should take place in the timely order of nature and what is. He looks out often in great concern for the winged creatures, fearing that El Niño has fouled their inner clock. Fly south, it's time, he urges silently. As if answering him, a light-green leaf shakes off the clinging finger of its mother and flutters slowly down, scooped up by the lawn- a shade lighter, fragile and small, but detached and resolute.

Other Calls it Football

2009-10-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

The same intensity is on their faces, body hunched forward in ready position, feet pumping the ground to cover the distance that separates them from the ball, swirling, kicking, marking, and passing.

They start out on a semi-circle, two teams facing each other with disdain, eager to steal from each other, intent on bringing home victory. A long and shrill whistle starts the first quarter. A tiny kick, the ball rolls from one foot to the next, and that is all it takes. The air is instantly electrified. From the sidelines, the roars and shouts rise in the air with each movement of the ball. "Cut her off, it's yours, bring it back, no ,no, not in the middle, kick it out, out ..." In the field, the players' face flushes crimson, floods with their own salty sweat. Their eyes focus on the rolling object, while their feet follow it. The players work in unison, the dribbler moves swiftly towards the opposite goal with the ball in between her feet, dodging the pursuing defenders, while her team mate escorts her at arm length, ready to take over. Together, the team labors to score. "Now, shoot!" Shouts the coach to his offense lead. "Oh!" The crowd laments as the ball misses the goal by a hair. At the most crucial point, when the penalty goal kick is being arranged, the whistle blows sharply, signaling the end of the first quarter. The whole world calls it a football game, but here, we are simply playing soccer.

A Life Extinguished, a Free Soul.

2009-10-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm thinking of a young man named N. and his family, grieving. I am not sure whether to mention his name, to preserve his privacy. Does one still care about one's privacy in this world once departed from it? Because, today, is N.'s last day on earth. His last blog was dated October 5, 2009, in which he promised to return and tell us about the details of his recent trip to India to seek spiritual guidance, help, and perhaps, to visit the place where his parents were born for the last time.

Where are you now, N., free from all suffering, free from your torturous body, free from the pain to be the center of the unspeakable agony of your parents, yet not knowing how to relieve them from it, but to continue being their valiant fighter until the end, when the last option is in God's hand?

What you have set out to achieve you have succeeded: to spread the message of hope, hope until the last minute; the message of sacrifice, give until there is nothing left to give as your parents had done in twenty four years; the message of self-discovery, ponder and examine one's motives and capabilities until one's soul finally takes wings and soars.

We pray for your loved ones tonight, that their memory of you will keep them moving forward, so that they continue their journey of hope, sacrifice, and self-discovery, until your reunification in a lasting world.

When we meet again, we will want to hear about your trip to India.

Farewell, N.

Meet Me at the Wall

2009-10-15T23:12:00.000-07:00

It's a sign to see her coming out of school, pulling her L.L. Bean backpack on one hand, the other still busily digging into her lunch box for some left over snack. The tiny pony tail that I had painstakingly gathered on the back of her head this morning was gone, leaving a wavy puff of messy turf. She found the half eaten fruit leather, and while chewing on it pleasurably, chatted excitedly to me: "Mom, it's so cool. Amy's teacher let us feed her snake a mouse. You've got to see it to believe it."

As soon as she entered the house, she ran to the telephone and took the cordless receiver off its base: "Nat, I'm home. Meet me at the wall." She threw the receiver onto the bookshelf, and proceeded towards the refrigerator, shouting: "Mom, I'm going outside." I picked up the receiver while she pulled the jug of milk out of the fridge. "Mom, can you pour me a cup, no, make it half a cup, I'm in a hurry. Nat's waiting." I was still pouring the cold white milk into the porcelain cup, the pink flowery one that she preferred, when she returned changed into a tiny short, which was too short to wear for school, but was her favorite one. She threw open the pantry door, investigated the interior half a second, and decided on the Joe Joe's chocolate cream cookie. She took the cup of milk from my hand, and with one cookie in her mouth, another in her hand, she hurried towards the patio door to the backyard. She struggled there like Bob, the Bob in "Hi, my name is Bob and I work for the button factory..." when I stepped up to pull the door open for her. Out she flew, like a whirlwind, almost spilling the cup of milk.

I Have Blue Cross

2009-10-14T23:26:00.000-07:00

Eight months ago, the optometrist wrote our son's pediatrician a letter, recommending that he be referred to an eye specialist for a condition called exotropia, a weakness in the eye muscle that causes intermittent double vision.

Six months ago, we went to see a pediatric ophthalmologist, who confirmed the diagnosis. He mentioned a probable eye surgery, a minor outpatient procedure, during which the surgeon physically pulls and tugs at the weak muscle to correct it, a minor tweak kind of, with the fully conscious patient telling the surgeon what his eyes see until he sees right. "It feels only like a slight pinch," winked the amiable doc as he turned to my wild-eyed son. "I know what you think, you think who wants to be pinched in the eyes. But, really, it's not a big deal."

Three weeks ago, as the six-month follow up neared, I called the ophthalmologist office to find out the exact date to bring my son back. "Oh, that doctor is no longer with us," said a receptionist, "I'll have to schedule your son with Dr Takana, at another location within the group." I was baffled, disappointed to find out that the kind doctor we like was no longer with us. The receptionist did not offer any further explanation, and I did not ask. I remembered the doctor had taken an unusual long time to talk to us, speaking mostly to his little patient, explaining him his eye condition, easing his anxiety, and mine. He noticed my son's book in his hand, some fantasy novel by Funke, or one from the Artemis Fowl Series, and tapped him gently on his shoulder like a long-lost friend, confiding: "Keep reading, young man! That's what has saved my life and gave me an education. I used to read and read. But after Med School, I no longer have any time for books. That's how I became a doctor, and dumb." I remembered I had told myself, next visit I'd bring him something to thank him for taking his time with us. But as I received the news that he had left the Medical Group, I did not share my thought to the receptionist, who was cold and courteous, and spoke rather like a robot: "You will have to go to our Pasadena office. Please write down the address. Goodbye."

Two hours prior to the appointment, I remembered that I had saved a copy of the initial referral letter, and thought of verifying the new office address, which was listed there as one of the satellite office. Only then, that I realized, the doctor that the receptionist had scheduled my son with, was not an ophthalmologist, but an optometrist. We have waited seven months for this check up. I called up the office to inquire about the mix-up. The receptionist was professionally annoyed: "Mam, all patients from Dr . ____ were switched to Dr. Takana. You are the first one to complain."

"My son was recommended by an OD to go see a MD. And you are telling me you don't see why I am hyped up when he's switched from his MD to see an OD, without even informing me? Do you know that an OD is not qualified to provide him the care he needs, a surgery, per example?"

"Mam, I'll cancel your son appointment today since you don't want to see the doctor."

A minute after I hung up the phone with the Medical Group, I called Blue Cross. I told the customer service guy my dilemma, and asked him where was my son's doctor, what happened to him (Did he kill someone and got suspended, I thought), was he still with Blue Cross, etc. Yes, he is still with Blue Cross, (I exhaled, I know he's a good doc.)but with another group.

"So how can my son see him?"

"Well, you need to first switch group."

"Does that mean we'll lose our current pediatrician?"

"Basically, yes. And by the way, its location is too far from where you are, Mam. It's almost impossible for you to go there."

"That's all Blue Cross can advise me? Where is my patient's right? Don't you guy have to let the patient know that his doctor is no longer seeing him, and the doctor that is seeing him is not equally qualified? Don't I have the right to that important information concerning my son's care?"

"Mam, all you can do is to go back to your son's pediatrician and request another referral, if you don't want to see the doctor they assign you now. I wish you a good day, Mam. Goodbye."

As a Catholic, I used to look at the cross with reverence, and associate with it, a trust, a love, an unquestioned faith to its healing power. But after I hung up the phone, another image conjured: a dying man, blue from suffocation, hanging on the cross, nailed there by an indifferent network, which markets itself as Blue Cross. I hear its jeer: "It's Blue Cross, don't you get it? Blue Cross."

"Je Sentis Avant de Penser "

2009-10-13T22:48:00.000-07:00

"I feel before I think," wrote Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his Confessions, as if the words were painfully scribed for me, his confidant and great soul mate, across the span of time. Hanging on each and every descriptions of Rousseau's inner world like a kite riding on a summer wind, I drank thirstily the wine of Truth. With such simplicity he had spoken, revealing in all honesty the many dark corners of his soul, thinking aloud the passages of his reflections.

"You had spoken what I dared not to admit," I conversed privately with him, as if he was sitting with me, patiently awaiting my participation, receptive of my objection, discreetly happy at my acceptance of his Truth.

"Mr. Rousseau, you don't know how relieved I am to hear your acknowledgment of this, this innate quality of human feeling which precedes reason, which is natural, which is good to preserve." I almost reached out to hug him, so strong was his presence near me through his words.

Many times, I have relied on my intuitions to arrive at many important decisions, or to draw certain conclusions regarding so and so, or to react certain way to such and such events. I could never explain the reasons behind these intuitions, which were simply irrational and arbitrary, yet seldom aberrant. I had no explanations to defend my position, although I strongly believe in it, until reading Rousseau. Of course, "I feel before I think", that was the vibes behind my voice of reason, the chords that vibrate my thought. I had only listened to my primordial self, the core of my being, the God of my soul.

If "I think, therefore I am," then Mr. Rousseau, I dare to utter after your suggestion: "I feel, therefore I think. Will you, Mr. Rousseau, accompany me to my husband, the next time he argues with my "unfounded behaviors", and teach him how to feel, to get back to the time when he was a little soul following the fleeting sun rays with interest, feeling a deep happiness yet not knowing what that ray of warmth was, where it came from, why it had come to him?"

The Lasting Peace

2009-10-12T22:29:00.000-07:00

Day after day, each animal wakes up to wage a battle.

In my little kingdom bordered by three neighbors and a residential street, the first siren blares at 4:45 in the morning. Stirred but not yet aroused, my husband fought hard to get out of the warm bed. The enemies are already lined up for him. Each time he attempts to raise his head up, the pull of gravity yanks it back down on the soft pillow. Before he can open the garage, he knows he has to lure the dog inside, not with negotiations, but with some coercions and dirty tricks. As he merges onto the 57 Freeway heading south, his blood pressure shots up; he alternates his right foot between the gas and brake pedals, fighting the slow moving traffic.

Back at home, my private battles are not less intense. My high schooler, indifferent to the range of live ammunition I aim at him every few minutes, stays buried under a pile of blankets and refuses to get out of bed for the much-needed shower. I would not back down and continue to attack his seemingly dead body: sprinkling water on his face through his breathing hole, flipping on the light, and bellowing like a cow engorged with milk. I am, each morning, a general without a single follower. My war is the war of the wills in which the opposing sides exert his mental power to wage, "One shall" and counter-wage, "One shall not."

Even the lowly dog carries his tail like a high-flying flag and demands each day to be given his fair share of food and entertainment.

Day after day, the community of animals reconvenes at the end of a fighting day for some rest; a temporary truce only for the opposing parties to re-energize, recuperate, re-strategize. Then the cycle begins anew.

The lasting peace will only come when the animals cease to be living organisms. Even then, the law of entropy will still govern to promote chaos, perpetuating the frenetic dance of atoms.

The real Nobel Peace Prize should be awarded to each valiant fighter, who contents not with Peace, but with Progress: to cohabit without infringing, to promote without depriving, to profit without defrauding, to defend without killing. The real Nobel Prize for Peace should be awarded to each individual who agrees to take only a piece from the universal cake, just enough to keep his private battles going, no more, no less.

Those are Fake!

2009-10-11T22:03:00.000-07:00

At the outdoor party, in a private park looking out to a part of the Pacific Ocean called Crystal Cove Reef Point, amidst the crowd all dressing like the characters in Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby", Sue suddenly misses the presence of her mother and her "non-nonsense" estimation of people.

Aiming her Nikon camera at the party goers, using it deliberately as a sort of official spyglass, Sue zooms in an elegant female figure, clad in a tight white crepe pant that delineate the bouncy curvature of her buttock like which of a great show horse on parade, above which the tan and tight belly shows, veiled only by some white illusion of a voile. Mounted on this strong and firm support,as creamy and lean as the trunk of an acacia, is a pair of marvelous globes carefully carved and cured like the domes of some great temples in the Far East.

"What would she say of these dazzling bosoms?" Thought Sue, trying hard to rekindle the memory of her late mother, her tone of voice when she judged, her piercing eyes observing, above her sagging pair of glasses, the object of her criticism.

"Those are fake," she remembered her saying privately, when her brother Daniel had brought home her first sweetheart, to present the family.

"Those?" had asked Sue, softly but amazingly, indicating with her gaze the pair of shiny black heels, which dangled from a dainty feet at an angle that showed Nine West, engraved in the bottom of the leather shoe.

"No, those." Her mother's head shook lightly, and the direction of her sharp eyes pointed straight to the elevated curves of its bearer.

"Mom!" The heat returns on Sue's face as if twenty years had reversed and she is still sitting conversing through mute communication with her mother, expressing their opinions of this, and that, sharing gossips of those and the others.

"I wish she can tell me about the nonsense of all this," Sue's camera clicks, her lens refocusing on another scene, "which is real, the happiness on those makeup faces, or the tears that many of them hold inside their heart, desperate to see their youth slowly evaporating, and the glitter soon would dull with the dust of time. What will be left when all this, and that, are gone?"

A car is a car is a car

2009-10-10T22:21:00.000-07:00

... until someone mentions Acura. Now, it's no longer a car, but a vision. More than a hallucination, it beckons. More than an imagination, its tenacious clasp fastens on that part of my memory where reside image, sensation, drive, longing, dream, notions of beauty, of time, of shape, of movement. Overnight, I became its torturous prisoner. I fidget a pen, intending on my homework. Instead, the ice-cool metallic feeling ignites another driving horse, one which eyes gleam as two beams in the dark avenues, advances not on hoofs but on gliders, its contact with the asphalt so smooth and effortless it hardly seem moving, the distance it travels only apparent by the speedy winding of the landscape zooming past my eyes. A powerful beast, but an obedient dog to its master. Its will was at my foot, which I press merciless as an insect in the path of falling log.

A car is a car is a car, until I test-drove an Acura. Then I am an accursed son of man, until the day I bring home The Acura. Only then I would be a cured (ah!) boy.

Ah! The moan of a Dog being Rubbed

2009-10-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

... at the place where his itch is crawling with madness
There, no there, higher, to the left, right, oh...
Dig your fingers in, and scrape, scratch, scroll down
down. Rapt at it, run your digits through, Wow...
There, right there. Do hurry, what do you mean, not found?

Ah! How like the manners of a man being enraptured
There. Where his itch screaming with madness
Ah, like a ball of wool being gathered
gently and slowly, under the deft fingers rolling and rallying
tracing, circling, pinpointing the source of an intense sensation,
His nerves on fire. Argh...
There, almost. Not exactly, yes, yes, keep scrubbing
It's gone. No, it's there, to the left
tiptoeing like a thief. Nail it?

For Tea

2009-10-08T20:18:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law was one of those women who thought a trip to the grocery store a pleasurable outing, similar to a visit to the mall. It would be simpler for me to ignore her longing. It would be much less trouble to swing by the store after work for a quick replenishment -five types of vegetable, including a bag of yellow onions, sometimes red, sometimes white; and fruits covering at least five colors, just to obtain the right amount and combination of the needed antioxidants - to reverse the damage caused by our smoke-inhaling, microwave-cooking, car-moving lifestyle.

It would save me some time, if I could bear to meet the old lady at the door, with the evidence of my escapade without her. Locked up inside the quiet house, she has been skillfully shuffling her time between the kitchen, the TV, the toddler, and the telephone for a whole, long day. The American urban life bored her, who, from the third floor of her apartment, each morning, used to shake her “chudder,” - Gujarati for the individual cotton sleeping mat, to the street market below. My father-in-law considered that street his private dumpster, and never hesitated to empty his half cup of water through it, to save himself a few steps to the kitchen sink. By the time my father in-law stepped down to shop for the day’s grocery, the lady next door had poked her head through the front door and inquired: “What are you cooking today, Ben Amada?”

Below is a world milling, where half a million Bombayans jostling shoulder to shoulder from stall to stall, skipping over open gutters, stepping over debris, dashing across traffic. No one had the time, or the mind, to look up. Trash from above was blamed on a bad day. Misfortune tossed down from Heaven was fated by bad karma. One shared one’s bad day and bad karma above tchai, the Indian tea, sweet, aromatic, blackish. With each hot sip, all bad things were forgotten.

So at the market with my mother in-law, I was not too surprised to hear her satisfactory murmur: “For tea,” while picking up different items,until I saw her fingering a package of cut beef labeled “for stew”, still claiming “for tea”. It was beyond my imagination of Indian culinary arts, so I asked, incredulous: “beef also for tea?” using the simplest English to get her fullest understanding. She smiled broadly, after clacking her loose dentures to snap them back into place: “For tea, today.”

“You’re not kidding.” I gasped.

“For tea. You don’t know?”

I shook my head. Unbelievable. That was the price for entering into a crossed-culture marriage. Your digestive system would, sooner or later, be compromised by strange customs.

“I am not drinking tea with beef, especially on my husband’s fortieth birthday. Please.”

Adjusting her shawl over her polyester Punjabi, my dear momma repeated amusingly, seizing for the first time my incredible misinterpretation of her intention: “Forty. Your husband is forty. Big occasion. I cook good. Not drink beef with tea. Jah, jah.”

The Word Count and Genre

2009-10-07T22:09:00.000-07:00

They are my "emperor without clothes." I was not aware of their relevance until very recently, and only after a little boy, disguised under the form of a jovial lady editor "in the publishing business since Orange County was still very white, and the presence of an Asian store in the strip mall had brought on outrage and concerns among the city council members." The little boy pointed out in the lady's emphasis tone: "Watch for the word count," making the sentence as unfavorable as the one used by my husband's doctor at his last checkup: "Watch for the cholesterol count."

She continued to dwell into the subject with a considerable pleasure: "Well, fellows, that's all you've got, the number of words. Too much would ruin you, too little would leave your readers unsatisfied. Where to strike the balance between wordiness and exploratory is what differentiate a newbie and a new writer."

Then she launched into the technicalities of "Genre", not the kind that I had learned in my first biology course, memorized by the timeless mnemonic: "Kings Play Chess On Fine Green Sand"

The "Genre" here mentioned, here discussed, here dwelt, defines the type of writing an aspiring author devotes to: fiction versus non-fiction, then fiction-novel, fiction-mystery, fiction-romance, etc., or non-fiction memoir, non-fiction tech, non-fiction cookbook, etc. I am sure if she was not cut short by the meeting moderator due to the constraint in time, she could go on subdividing the writing "Genre" until the "Kingdom comes", not only for the kings who play chess on fine green sand, but for all of us aspiring to publish.

¿Cómo Se Dice...?

2009-10-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

There are three girls at the front desks, poised and ready to start their first Spanish lesson. The five boys gather in the back in a semi-circle arrangement, stabbing at each other with their pencils, chuckling: "Uno for you, dos for him, tres for ...'

The numbers are written clearly on the board, in numeral, with the equal sign linking to their equivalence in word. On the wall, left to the board, the Spanish alphabets are arranged in successive order, starting from the yellow pocket display, and trailing like train cars onto the lower edge of the white board.

The Spanish teacher walks in all-smile, with an energetic: "Hola, niños! Buenos dias!"

The children returned her strange greeting in one beat, in a distorted echo: "Hola, niños! Buenos dias!"

She bursts joyfully: "No, no! Yo soy Señora Castella. ¿Cómo está? Bien?"

"Muy bien!" chime the children, as if cued. A boy even ventures to say something different: "Asi, asi!"

"Mas o menos," corrects Señora Castella gently.

The introduction is brief, but engages the whole class. The demure girls loosen their reservation with bolder remarks: "Estoy mal y cansado."

"What's that?" Rob's complaints are answered by the smiling Señora Castella: "Como se dice Tired en Español? Cansado. Yo soy cansada. Miss Brigit es mal, (she draws a little girl's face on the board, with her hands grasping her temples) y cansada. Rob es mal y cansado. ¿Comprende?"

In the back of the class the three mothers are astonished. How did their children get it so instantaneously like that? They haven't spoken any Spanish word up until this morning. One of the mom, petite and timid, raises her hand hesitantly to attract the teacher's attention. At Señora Castella's agreeing nod, she speaks up, eyes sparkling: "Señora Castella. Como se dice Amazing en Español?"

The Hourglass

2009-10-05T22:54:00.000-07:00

"The last grain of sand was about to drop in her father's invisible hourglass, ..." She thought somberly on his 87th birthday, as she had feared the year before, knowing that he could not, although he would if he could, go on forever. In his mind, he has not aged enough to let go yet another possibility.

At 72, he took home a woman and secretly bedded with her, and wed her. He found in her a reassuring companionship that he could not find in any of his many children. At night, she warmed his bed, the soft murmuring of her voice lulled him into an easy sleep. She bore some resemblance to his departed wife, her skin fair and her limbs short. She did not mind that he sometimes called her by the name of a ghost that still haunted him.

At 78, he hired a Mexican laborer to bring home a one-gallon size nectarine tree from Home Depot, and ordered a hole in the ground for it. "Make sure you plan it far from the roof, I don't want it leaning onto the house at maturity," He boomed.

At 80, he celebrated his octogenarian with a big party, in which he announced his wish to see all his twenty one grandchildren graduate from the best schools of the country, and become someone important.

As his 87th birthday drew near, she found him irritating for wanting a sofa, of all thing, as his birthday gift.
"Where are you going to put that thing, Dad?" She refused. But he insisted day after day, and said if she wanted to give him a gift, that was what he wished.
"Your brothers sisters need a place to sit when they come to visit me. We can sit and watch TV together," he reasoned. "Anyhow, you don't have to worry about picking it up for me. I already placed the order, and they'll deliver right here on the 20th."
"What's your secret, Dad, for being so optimistic?"
"Not optimistic. I planned it. I picked the color to match this carpet, and make sure they deliver on the day you are home, so you can give them the payment. They want C.O.D."
"No Dad. I mean your life. Don't you feel down sometime? Don't you want to kick off your boots and curse the whole thing off?"
"No, I don't want to go down right now, and I don't want any boots. I want the sofa, and I already bought it."
She looked at him: same face, eyes, mouth. His protuberant belly teetered on his short legs. His shoulders stooped a little. His failed hearing gave him the endearing stubbornness of a little boy. She no longer feared him, but only feared for him. He had no authority over her, but she clung to him for the knowledge of herself, her source, her root, her beginning.

At the last grain of sand, his hourglass would be hers.

All Writers are Readers

2009-10-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

To write well, a writer ought to read well. Reading, to one who creates and interprets through the medium of the words, is feeding oneself, in order to to nurture one's creativity, in order to see what one did not yet meet, to expand one's limited experience to include the many worlds of other lives. Reading widely is traveling across the dimensionless time, to return to a place no longer existed, to skip many lifespans and taste the mysterious future where only imagination can touch, to rediscover the bygone days and uncover the years to come. Absorbed in a book, one becomes another being, whether it is a human with similar features and ranges of emotions, or another life form, completely foreign yet now lives inside oneself.

I write, therefore I read. So you read, therefore you will write. Meanwhile, enjoy this book from the masterful writer P. G. Wodehouse.

The Freeway of Life ...

2009-10-03T22:35:00.000-07:00

At ten o'clock tonight... Marta was lost in an old neighborhood choked with cars. Like an old lady still pined for her lost beauty on glaring makeup and inappropriate costume, this neighborhood pimped itself with many remodeled houses, twice as big as the dilapidated original abodes that surrounded them, three times younger, many times vainer with their brand new roll-up garage door, their manicured landscape, their twin entry door, their double paneled, double insulated glass doors and windows, their shiny lights sparkled at different locations, like diamonds on the old lady's shriveled body.

Marta was not lost alone, but accompanied by her faithful Magellan and her two kids; who understood their common dilemma well and kept an absolute silence in the car, when for the third time they heard Magellan's patient and firm voice announcing that, the route they were taking had to be "recalculated" to include their destination.

On the familiar freeway heading home ...finally, Marta had a million dark thoughts coursing in her mind, as if to mirror the passing landscapes, dark and featureless under a moonless sky. How like life was this freeway, Marta noticed for the first time. She was always fearful of driving at night, especially when she had to navigate the unfamiliar terrains, which required a sharper vision she doubted she still possessed. She was just forced to take this drive. As life, it happened upon her. As she drove along, her misgiving subsided, but her thought continued its monologue. She felt abandoned, disconnected, in her solo drive. If anything happened now, I would be the one who deal with it, head on, unaided, on my own strength, like giving birth to a child, like passing under the arch of death. I did not choose this, but I would drive this vehicle to its destination, not as a passenger, but as the driver of my own fate.

Marta checked in her rear view mirror for her two children, too peaceful together to be trusted. No wonder, only one querulous member was up to contemplate mischief, which had no immediate outlet. By herself, Marta knew she could be weakened by this unjustifiable fear of darkness. Many times while driving alone in the dark she had lapsed in terrifying imaginations of getting lost into the high mountains with deep crevices on both sides, onto an uninterrupted stretch of road that kept pointing higher, without any lights or signs for reassurance, when the needle gauging her fuel tank would slowly veer south. Tonight, however, with her two trusty children in the back of the car, she knew she would survive the ordeal, if only to bring them safely home.

Like on a freeway, people could enter her life unannounced, and exit it without signaling ahead of time. She herself could exit life prematurely. Even Magellan's vigilance could not prevent such mistake from occurring. Best she could do is to avoid distractions, while driving the vehicle of her life. Swear, if she must, to relieve some built up tensions, but keep driving, even when the roads are dark and unrecognizable, until she gets home.

Ardipithecus Ramidus

2009-10-02T17:56:00.000-07:00

The Details

2009-10-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

Pay attention to the detail is her new mantra as a writer. Years ago, as a Chemical Engineering student, she received similar instructions from her Transfer Series teacher, Dr Ng., worded just a bit different: "Stick to your fundamentals," meaning whatever she does, her calculations need to reflect the principle of conservation of mass and energy. She ponders deeply on this connections between two completely separate fields of study, the New Harmony strikes her as interesting. As the writer pens creatively the description of her new heroine, she remembers to methodically apply the basic elements of a good character development, appreciative for her new knowledge. She sketches her heroine carefully, blending meticulously the physical descriptions of her protagonist to her personality. As she progresses systematically, zooming in her camera to the erotic part of the woman's body, she pauses at the detail: "Her 36C figure arches backward as she proceeds to the next calisthenic exercise. He swallows hard, entranced by her extraordinary beauty which is not for him alone, but available to all, a lily in the field ..." She smiles contently at the turn of her thought, and elbows her fellow writer, another woman in her late forties, who, so absorbed in her own writing exercises, does not notice the tiny jab.

"Do you know the equivalence of 36D in men size ?" She solicits at a higher volume, this time tapping gently on her friend's writing pad.

"I beg your pardon?" The writer shakes off her trance, still bewitched, lost to her friend's practical investigation.

"How do you describe accurately a man... there, his measurement?"

"Well, best I can think of is using his underwear size, 32 as fit, 36 or above as fat, and 42 and beyond for fast-ballooning." Jokes the lady, amused.

"Not that, that's not what I mean. That's too general, the term more apt for the masculine waist line, not précising his, what's the term... cup, perhaps?"

"Be creative and suggestive. That's all I can think of. Just don't overkill it. Don't tell them. Show them. Don't forget that in your hunt for details."

Where’s the Conflict?

2009-09-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

That’s the first question she asked, after reading the short story that the woman handed her from across the table. Being used to the routine of our weekly writers' meet up to critique one another, the woman’s submission for the open reading being the last, her writing being a bit tedious and lofty, I began to lose my focus, and the details of her story had failed to pull me through the murk of my blasé mind. The sudden inquiry jolted me upright. “The conflict?”

“It bores the readers because there is no conflict. That’s the hook of any story, the bait to keep your lines interesting. Without it, there would be no fish, rather go home,” said the harsh analyser, looking the woman writer straight into her hazel eyes. “Give this character a few problems, will you, so that it does not look like she lives in a fairy land, unless she’s Barbie, with her beau Ken in tow. Come on, rock it up a bit, you have the great elements of a love story here, but too plain. Unreal!”

That day, I took out my notebook: “Must have conflict.” I have been mulling on the suggestion every day since. Funny, isn’t it, that most of us go through life determined to avoid any conflict. Yet here I am, illuminated for the first time as a novelist, that conflict is the undeniable crux of any good story, the bottom of the boat that carries it, the root that supports its trunk.

It seems, since that day, all I witness about me is the quest for “conflict.” A dentist can only drill if he discovers a tooth decay, which if not treated, will soon “conflict” with the patient’s dentin, leading to further “conflict”, or disagreement between the person, and his tooth. What else is a psychiatrist but a “conflict digger”? Without the fierce competition between the market’s supply and demand, there would be no viable commerce, no product improvement. Capitalism would collapse. Even religions, which deal with the higher intelligence, the greater sphere of life, were born from the conflicts within the human soul.

Conflict, that’s what makes the juice flow, my friends. Blessed are those who know how to profit from it.

The lesson in a Pill

2009-09-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

It’s only an oval pill, chalk-like, the size of a coat button. Engraved on it are the minuscule red word Tylenol and a number 500. I know for a fact, millions of people all over the world are taking it this minute, for a reason or two. I know there are people who utterly depend on it, habitually down it, dispense it freely, never let it expire. In Ra’ sweaty palm, nonetheless, it remains. The boy has been staring at it suspiciously with his goggling eyes, bloodshot with a high fever. I bring him a large cup of Seven Up filled with ice, and coerce him to swallow it quickly and get the business over with. Place it in the back of your tongue, take a large gulp of soda, and tilt your head back to let it run down your throat. It will be over before you know it. It is such an agony to see him struggle with the tiny capsule, to watch him ponder the actions, weighing the consequence, debating silently. Finally, with the courage of a hero, he inhales deeply, looks upward, releases his jaws, and drops the bitter seed in with a gush of soda. “Pah!” He spits into his palm the slimy devil. “I can’t do it. It’s horrible, wouldn’t go through.”

I agree with him. “In my time,” I elaborate, “We used suppository. The pill goes in your butt hole, easily.”

“In where, how?” He cries out, disgusted. “What happens if you need to take it everyday? … You would be scarred for life.”

With a decisive thrust, he pops the pill in and gulps it down. Something must have clicked mentally, and the lesser of two evils is chosen.

Dear Readers

2009-09-28T19:17:00.000-07:00

I am so touched by the overwhelming response and support that some of you are giving me. I struck out on this path on an impulse, rather suddenly. I do not know where I am going, who I am going to see, what is awaiting me along the strange and many roads that I traverse instinctively, following the stars of my fate. Then there you are holding out both your hands in encouragement, looking me in the eyes with so much faith and hope you almost embarrass me for my bold decisions to knock at your private door.

Many of you have asked how you can contribute in this blog. Some of you express the wish to send me money, as if the dollar bill does contain a road map to help me navigate the difficult journey ahead towards authorship. I thank you for your generosity of spirit and monetary. Here is how you can promote my progress. You can jot in your comments under each post, the comment word is "clickable", or email me your comments if you prefer to keep your communication private. Those of you with a Facebook or Tweeter account can share my blog with your friend list, again, the buttons are little gadgets that act upon your "click", like a light switch, click on, click off. For those who definitely insist on sponsoring my blog financially, the DONATE button is for that purpose. Paypal users can make use of this gadget. It's an automated online ATM all by itself, safe and convenient. Just follow the instructions on screen and your money will be safely directed to my coffer. There, it will accumulate in numbers and strength, to launch me forwards to my greatest destiny.

With gratitude,

All Thing Old needs Fixing

2009-09-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

I took mental notes as I pushed the purple Dyson around. Many wall corners are chipped, the Pergo floor connector between the hallway and the living room is partly missing, its broken piece laying on the hallway bookshelf as a stark reminder for the reason of its being there, instead of being an integral part of our floor. My old elephant of a mind retains all of these unpleasant domestic incidents: the day my favorite crystal vase was shattered to pieces by a casual swipe of a careless man's shoulder, the round burning mark in the middle of the beautiful mahogany dining table, the unnecessary washing of the brand new video ipod, and more, much more. The day that the "floor incident" happened, the beloved hubby was all revved up to "rid off the clutter around this place that's been giving me the claustrophobia." Soon said, soon done. Down came all my photo frames, out from the shelves and into the carton boxes lined my books, hutches unhinged stood naked in the living room, miscellaneous knick-knacks filled the various laundry baskets. These were done energetically, feverishly, but randomly, and soon the well-kept home of a twenty years marriage was in disarray, filled with boxes of all sizes amidst keeled-over baskets, displaced furniture, sheetless mattresses.

"What in the world ..." I gasped, coming in from the yard still hot and drenched by the broken sprinklers that I had just repaired.

"Shush, don't say anything. I'll take care of this. This is something I've been wanting to do for a long time. Since we are painting Danny's room, it's best to do it all together."

"We are planning to redo only Danny's room, Shawn, not the entire house. How am I going to start the school year in this state? I have to prepare Danny's lessons, finish my memoir, the stove is working at its whimp, the Odyssey' brakes need work, you can't just tear off the house without planning. It's hard to keep up with the work as it is. Don't you at least have the courtesy to ask me, you know I'm fussy about order."

"You'll see a new order. You'll be amazed, honey, once this place is cleaned up. I'll get rid off most of these junks. You'll not even realize they are gone. Just come give me a hand, Sweet Bonnie."

I swallowed hard, and rolled my eyes at this man that I have chosen to be my life partner, "For better, for worse ... through sickness and in health .." If our marriage vow had been better worded and prepared by real couples, not by some poet, I would have been clearly warned, that I had contracted out my orderly and methodical ways of life to a reckless builder and unlicensed home planner, not to mention his artistic sense as a volunteer interior designer.

"What do you want me for, everything is already everywhere. There is nothing I can contribute to make it worse. And I'm not going to rectify the situation for you one more time."

"Did I even mention about you doing anything? All you have to do is do what I said, easy as one two three. Come push this basket with me. It's kind of flimsy, and I don't want to burst it midway. We're just going to drag it across the hall to the other room. Ready?"

I pushed hard, my hubby dragged with one hand, the other holding on to the overflowing picture frames and ceramic vases jutting out from the basket. Crack, snap, I looked back to see the Pergo transition connector ripped clean off its place.

"Oh shoot!" uttered my other half.

"Don't worry, honey. We'll paint the house, then replace the flooring. No biggie."

My sarcastic remark drove the arrow straight home to the sagging heart of my opponent. He darkened: "I shouldn't have involved you. You're full of malice."

"What do you expect, I came into the house expecting to relax in bed with my book, to see this," I gesticulated, "why don't you sympathize with me for once, once, to recognize your mistake, once, instead of retorting like that, as if I'm the one who has caused this."

The Dyson catches on to the decorative frills of the floor rugs, and shrieks. I quickly cut off the power. I'll have to put that floor transition onto my Remember The Milk's home repair list. Gosh, that list is getting long and nags at me constantly. Nothing has been checked off yet, and Christmas is approaching. Old houses, old cars... like old loves, do need fixing constantly.

Shadows

2009-09-26T23:24:00.000-07:00

"I don't want to live in your shadow, Mom, let me live my life."

I raise my eyebrows at Josh's outbursts, his eyes firing, his fragile frame marking the beginning of manhood- lanky, bony, squarish, but on his small face the vestiges of a little boy still linger, the facial skin still smooth, the angular nose with its nostrils flare out excitedly, two thin lips tremble lightly to betray the violent emotion that ravages him.

"I want you safe, Josh. Your education is all you have to protect your future. You're not staying inside anybody's shadow. I ... We are guiding you towards the sun, your bright future. Six more months of hard work, Josh, and your whole life will be set."

"Set, you mean ... stifled?" mumbled my son, ready to retreat from another futile confrontation.

"Liberated, I mean. Either you work now to secure the rest of your life, to be your own boss, to be free of worries, or take it easy now, and enslaving yourself for life, working for somebody with your eyes on the clock. For what, Josh, for mere subsistence, for a mortgage that never would be paid off. For ..."

"Stop, Mom. You are dramatizing again. There are other kinds of life, not everyone is doctor and lawyer, you know."

"Josh, one door at a time. We're not talking ten years away, we're talking now. Now, your job as a student is to get good grades and apply to good schools. My job is to tell you that you are not doing it."

"You just leave me alone, and I'll be just fine. Stop lecturing me."

"Well .... Don't you walk away from me. You come back here until I finish. Josh, you hear me, Josh!"

The house shook at the impact of the door against its frame. I was left with my sentence hanging, anguishing for an explanation for this failure to communicate. It has come to this, an impasse between two minds, a generation gap, a collapse of ideals. I was left to search frantically inward for the shadow of our broken dream, caught somewhere on our last glorious flight pursuing excellence, perhaps hidden in someone else's top drawer. Where do we go from here, on whose wings do we escape this pain, this doubt, this cynical view of life, this insecurity that holds us hostage in our untried world? When will we be free of our own shadows, to rise up despite repeated failures, to return facing the sun with a conviction that failure happens only to those who have the courage to try?

Merry and her Tough Foe

2009-09-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

In the first few years after we met, I always assumed that Merry was such because she had lived almost in total isolation, in the coastal town of Caen, having for companies only the querulous seagulls and the hardy descendants of the ferocious Normands. Where she took residence was once the fiefdom of William the Conquerors and his Viking relatives. She gave birth to her sons in a hospital that looks out to the desolate seacoast of Normandy, from which the Allied had landed and from which a fierce battle was fought, destroying most of Caen. The love that Merry had hoped from her marriage was quickly chilled by the icy windstorms bearing down from the open sea. Even when she could converse with someone, back then, she felt unsatisfied. How could she compete with the eternal murmurs of the waves in the background, the shrill cries of the swooping white birds, the constant "ding ding" interruption of the door chime each time a customer walk through? From the disrupted talk, Merry looked up and quickly assumed a benign and courteous smile, her chain of thoughts fragmented that instant. It was then by habit and necessity that Merry learned to resume her dialogue in mid-air, linking together pieces that were neither heads nor tails.

Merry speaks like a court transcriber tapping at 120-words per minute, blindly, quickly, mindlessly. She chases after her vaporous thoughts and catches the elusive shape of an idea to fling it out triumphantly, joyous at the magical transformation of her mind's abstract objects into waves of uninterrupted sounds, which she can share with someone else, which she can part from the recesses of her musings. Only then she becomes peaceful, content. She have given what she had longed to give, a piece of her mind, an opinion, her part of the story.

Merry's unsatiated desire for speech did not lessen even when Merry packed up and left Caen. It accentuated at the boundless opportunities Merry had with living on the same continent as her siblings, us. Although French is no longer useful in this side of the ocean, far from the Norman Vikings, Merry's verbal enthusiasm did not dampen. It took one week for Merry to find back all the nuances of her mother tongue to participate, to dominate, in any social gatherings.

It has never crossed Merry's mind that having a flexible tongue she would one day struggle with any particular language. Sure, Merry was mildly encumbered by her newly acquired English. When she could not find the words to express herself fully, Merry gesticulated and filled in the blank space of her sentence with another Latin language, assuming that the similarity in the words' appellation would make up for her strange pronunciation. Anyway, Merry was constantly the speaker, so there was no time for the listener(s) to squeeze in to demand further clarifications, but to look on captivated by Merry's passionate voice and her wild gestures. Sometimes, in her feverish babbles, Merry absentmindedly held on tightly to both hands of her "prisoner in speech" until the person frightfully extracted them out to be disengaged. Even then, Merry did not relent easily.

Speech only became a problem for Merry, poor soul, when she was required to take an oral test, that Merry referred to as her "Tough Foe". "I am given only TWO minutes to complete my thought. Two minutes ... Faster than the time to distill alcohol," Merry claims astonishingly. "What can one say in two minutes, you tell me. It is impossible! By the way, did I tell you about the husband of my neighbor's neighbor's sister. He has a car, an old Toyota. His daughter came home the other day ....."

A Digital Cemetery

2009-09-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

It is a sorriest sight: heaps and piles of old computers scrambling amidst outdated and obese monitors. These gawk blatantly at the broken printers which soar in a column almost to the paneled ceiling, towering above the stacks of discarded keyboards.

The silent machines cower forlornly, huddling close, as if surviving the abandonment in-group would lessen their pain and fear; as if they are counting on their strength en masse to transition into either a better life or oblivion. If only they can withstand the heat, the dust, the casual tumbles, the time. They have been waiting patiently, looking out the glass windows to the industrial mall beyond, to see cars of all sorts, brands, shapes and colors getting in and out of the gray parking lot.

Lately, even the windows are being hidden by the piles and heaps of incoming machines bearing similar names–names that they have long ceased to be proud of. Their names used to be their trophy, displayed with so much pride. Ask them. They were once The Dells, The Hewlett-Packards, The IBMs, etc. Their names alone were worth millions. But look at them now; now used, now obsolete, now slow, now awkward-looking. Their shapes are odd, their faces dull, their innards filthy and loose.

Why are they still here, inside this shop, tagged as "PAID", labeled with, "To be repaired." Why are they here, as if to commiserate a glorious past, when their shapes still count, their looks sell well, their worth are based on their intelligent design, their wonderful memory, their multi-tasking skills, their calculation methods, and their effective solutions.

Now they are a sorriest lot–gray as tombstones, numerous as tombstones, forgotten as unmarked tombstones.

They are here, to bear witness for progress, for the quick automation of life, for the human impatience, for creation and destruction that go hand in hand like two old lovers– hating, yet needing one another.

One Hundred .....

2009-09-23T08:59:00.000-07:00

One hundred is a magical number, it seems. A newly inaugurated American president has 100 days to make his mark. A hundred years constitute a century. With one hundred dollars in my pocket, hey, I feel rich. Then yesterday, someone at the writers club remarked: "If you want to be a writer, put down at least 100 words per day."

Writing one hundred words is not a big deal to me. I can ramble on endlessly. But a hundred words per day, every day, that will be a challenge. You see, I do not write for a living, and words alone do not justify my existence in anybody's eyes but God. I need more than words on papers to keep my household going - food on the table, laundry washed and folded, lessons planned for kids and delivered. I found out soon enough to have no illusion about my passionate occupation; the only written words people appreciate are the ones on the dollar bills. Yet, at the rate our economy is going, even "in God we trust", does not convey much meaning. Someone must have blundered initially at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and had introduced a typo that was too late to revoke. I believe the intended words were "In Gold we trust".

Or was it intentional? Perhaps our Founding Fathers had known long ago that at the rate we are going pursuing Capitalism and the free wheeling markets, we would end up with nothing in our coffers but the trust in God to save us from our final bankruptcy. We may have a hundred good intentions when we designed our economy around the basis of competition and self-regulation, but now looking back we started to question: "Was it the cause of our hundreds problem?"

In my house hung a plaque: "A hundred years from now, it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove...but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.” These words by Forest E. Witcraft have been the inspiration for me to devote my life to my children. However, as the children grow and need more space for personal development, I quite felt that the hundred percent attention that I gave them may become too suffocating. It is time to step back, and return to my core passion: writing. Would a hundred words be sufficient to spell out my need to express myself and my search for meanings in this earthly life?

It turns out that one hundred is only the beginning, the first breakthrough of the mental waves .... After that, the clumsy fingers trail far behind the thought surge, while hundreds of ideas spill forth, colliding onto each other waiting to be rearranged onto the screen.