WILL YOU BE THERE

There is a small rock in my shoe

There is a small rock in my shoe.

Probably accumulated from walking these dusted roads—

when and where, I do not remember.

But on this cold day, my feet feel nothing

except for this rock that has

lodged itself conveniently under my big toe

eagerly toying with my strings.

A resilient old friend

carrying such minute annoyance

but a grave one also,

the only consistency in my life.

Nieve

Todo lo que necesita está en esta agotada bolsa,
sombreros y guantes de lana,
mi tejida bufanda de abrigo y calcetines gruesos.
Siempre el olor tan fuerte del sótano-
bolas de naftalina del armario, madera de pino.
Estos pantalones de nieve, un poco apretado
estas botas, seguramente ampollarán los dedos.
Pero, yo todavía me abrigaré como una larga astronauta
Yo seré el primer hombre en la luna.

Igual que el año pasado, los árboles parecen pesados hoy, un poco caídos
con sus suaves mantas dobladas en capas y capas -
casi tanto como dos años atrás,
cuando se dejó caer un pino tan bajo a la tierra,
Sarah y yo podía fingir que era nuestra casa secreta
y mamá nunca nos encontraría.
Y al lado de nuestra casa de pino,

montábamos en nuestros caballos de nieve hasta que
se arderían los dedos.

Estoy casi lista.
Las mangas de la chaqueta apretada al puños de mis guantes,
y los pantalones metidos perfectamente en las botas.
Hoy en día, no la nieve ni el frío
me va a impedir que quedarse fuera.
Hoy tomáramos la carrera
y yo seré el primer hombre en la luna.

'!Sarah! ¿Estás lista? "

Escucho por las botas corriendo apresuradamente,
el crujido de sus pantalones astronauta?
la cremallera de su abrigo?

                               Nada.

‘Mi tarea!’

‘y qué?’

Me dirijo arriba a su habitación.

Botas no, ni la bufanda

ni pantalones astronauta

Nada, sino un montón de libros en su mesa.

Me dirijo hacia abajo-

El césped sigue siendo blanco, los pinos todavía pesados

Se me acaba haciendo los pasos primeros,

dejando la puerta entreabierta.

Me acuesto en los surcos de mi ángel de nieve

esperando a que ella corra tras de mí

Caiga al lado de mí

              O tal vez mamá me llame—

A mí, en mi cama ángel de nieve,

Y me diga que esta anocheciendo.

Así que el sol se ha ido,

escondido en su casa secreta

con las ramas de pino caídos bajo la tierra.

Y me pondré aquí hasta que ya no siento los dedos.

Expired milk is us

Two of my favorite artists combined in one. Who could ask for more? 
//Voice Project

Empty House

 

 E m p t y   H o u s e

//Priscilla Ahn

Leaves falling down

"Sam and Patrick looked at me. And I looked at them. And I think they knew. Not anything specific really. They just knew. And I think that's all you can ever ask from a friend."

-Charlie

Shoes

Happy birthday K.Wu

Twenty-One cheers to one of my best friends back at home. 
Happy birthday K.Wu.


Check out his videos!



I'm So Startled from Kenny Wu on Vimeo.

Underwater Sculptures

This is incredibly touching. 





Dear Jason de Caires, you've just graced some of my heartstrings. Thank you. 

Collaboration

I came across this and am still amazed.


Try for yourself!


<COLLABORATE>

Contreras Road, Oxford OH

                 

I went for a run this morning. I hurried up High Street to meet up with my friend in her neon blue shoes. We left before the Sun awoke from beneath his fluffy white sheets. Afraid that he might see us running through this sleeping college town, we left and headed towards the open country road. My feet were feeling more comfortable as we reached Contreras Road towards the edge of Indiana, with Andrew quietly whistling his smooth tunes in my ears. We continued along the wall of corn and soybeans, black cattle munching away their morning meal. The air was clear and the roads quiet except for the occasional old couples, which I supposed were hurrying to Sunday service. They tell you that when running longer distances, you should make a target ahead of you and run towards that sign or curve in the road until you reach that mental flag you placed and then you make another target and it keeps you running and running, even if your guts feel healed over like a floppy pancake. Today, I didn’t have to make those targets. Three miles in, at Scythian Empires, archers of an afterthought, I was taken aback by the flirting birds heading left and right above me. Together they made beautiful patterns that reminded me of the handful of black sesame my mom sometimes puts into the rice while it’s cooking. We turned around to head back; where I imagined the girls would begin to walk back to their dorms in last night’s dress, sometimes their feet bare or blistering in cute black heels. I had not realized the Sun had arisen into its place in the sky, ready for the day’s work. His jealous rays now softly wrapped around my face and the front of my shoulders. I couldn’t help but to think about a couple things; some things I needed to get done, dental things that stress me out, things for school and class, some things about people and friends I have left at home, and other things like when I could stop and take a rest. I am not the best distance runner; I wanted to stop fifteen times while he glared down at me--his fierce eyes could easily burn holes in my salty skin. But, we kept going. That’s the great thing about running with a friend, with a friend and her neon blue shoes. I could feel that it was a good start to the day, a good start to a new week, and to a good school year back in Oxford, Ohio. 

Poem of the day

Another Reason I Don't Keep a Gun in the House by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Nothing

I COMPLETELY WASTED MY ENTIRE DAY TODAY. THERE IS NOTHING MORE TO SAY BUT THAT. 

Buttons and Buttons

Have you ever, as a child, found something precious but by making it your own, turned it into something completely and utterly useless? Well, I once I strung together a necklace; a collection of buttons of different sizes and colors. I found them inside the dusty cupboard beneath our old black metal sewing machine. Through the years I had collected these loose buttons that had fallen off of Grandma’s thick winter jacket, mom’s white blouse and Dad’s knitted vest. There were a couple of silver plated ones with beautifully carved engravings, some others that smelled like old Chinese medicine cabinets and some others that were so covered in rust, that I couldn't even make out what sort of fashion they may have once displayed. There are a bunch of pink pastel buttons on there, please excuse them, they’re just a foolish mix up. (Those were added on last minute to finish the job). Those Crayola-dyed colors, a million shades of pinks and reds-- like flowers today. Those luxury bouquets sitting as centerpieces, their petals flaunt out at you and their chests puff out in daunting ways. Unnatural. They lounge around in homes. They witness the crying of young fellows and friends of friends. They sit beside my grandfather and they loom quietly over his grey patched on makeup, his stiff suit and folded limp arms, their scents almost enough to cover the lifeless room.

He looked so different, like one of those famous figures you see at the wax museum, each characteristic, each wrinkle carefully constructed to mirror the man who had tucked you in to bed just last week. I remember staring down at him, holding my breath as if my breathing might wake him from his peace. I looked at his eyes, small slits like paper cuts; and I couldn’t help but to notice how his eyebrows looked bushier than ever; like those thick black tent caterpillars you can find crawling around the driveway in the spring time. It's unsettling to see them all over the place but not to panic says Debbie Hadley in her About's Guide to Insects, they complete their life cycles by the summer time.

I strung those pink buttons on after the last of my button collection was through. No more vintage buttons. It was finished and here I had created something my hands  could touch and I could hold onto forever; I could have as mine. And today, I don't even wear this as an accessory. To be honest, I don't even know where I last put it. This long dangling necklace of buttons and buttons. 

Perks of Being a Wallflower

You never really know how you're doing until someone tells you


I finally finished reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. 


Sam says to Charlie: 

"Charlie don't you get it? I can't feel that. It's sweet and everything. But it's like you're not even there sometimes. It's great that you can listen and be a shoulder to someone, but what about when someone doesn't need a shoulder. What if they need the arms or something like that? You can't just sit there and put everybody's lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can't. You have to do things...Like take their hands when the slow song comes up for a change. Or be the one who asks someone for a date. Or tell people what you need. Or what you want."

Sometimes I can relate to Charlie. I think he spends too much time thinking and worrying about how other people may think or whether they will be happy, so much that that becomes the priority-- so much that it doesn't matter anymore what he feels as long as things go as planned and everyone has a good time. I don't think he realizes that by not making himself vulnerable to his friends and showing them himself and what he needs and wants and cares about, he creates in himself a person that is just there, among other people. You can see him, talk to him, hear him, laugh with him but really that is all because he is not really there. 

A poem that my sister and I once wrote together with some good songs in mind

Untitled


Beauty comes to those who have been waiting  
for something bigger than themselves.                                                       
This heartstring is stretched taut already,
and all that remains is for us to give way.
I’m tired of flying my kite in this ashen sky,
and my calloused fingers let go,
as my dull eyes watch the breath of the hurricane catch his tail.
I hope that by night, he will make it up to the heavens
before crashing down like the burning rocks
that people waste their wishes upon—
before I find out that you're not my star.
But there's beauty in the supernova.
I would call it my own. 


And I have never been afraid of opening myself up to a dream—      
visions of reaching the sun with wax and feathers intact,
of clocks that melt but never distort time,
of changes for the better. 
But I make myself vulnerable
when I live in the real
and live for the surreal.
Sometimes it hurts to dream too. 

A couple of things from Philly (Monday night)

I am currently in Philly. My sister and I drove from Rhode Island on Monday and we arrived at night. It has been quite nice here--I took some pictures the first night but haven't taken one photo since! 

And the wine made our minds too loose

Andrew Bird is my favorite song writer/musician at the moment. 

Spare-ohs:

The finches and sparrows build nests in my chimney
With remains of small flightless birds that you failed to protect
But their yoke isn't easy, in fact it's a drag
As they're blowing through cornfields and mountains of rags
All over the suburbs, across the great lawns
And they're crop-dusting gardens all over this town

But nobody cares when it gets in their hair
It gets in their lungs as it floats through the air
It gets in the food that they buy and prepare
But nobody cares when it gets in their hair

Across the great chasms and schisms
And the sudden (m)aneurysms
Where the black ink will drip across the crespice of your eye
And your teeth are worth more than you can spare
Oh don't tell me that it just isn't fair
Don't speak about the cycles of life
'cause your thoughts are so soft
I could cut 'em with a spork or a bride's knife

And the wine made our minds too loose
Such a reckless choice of words
And you tell me that I'm too abstruse
I just thought I was a kind of bird
I said,
I just stood there not saying a word
Not saying a word 

Chandelier Series

 

Tissue Earplugs

Yesterday I went to visit and bring my grandma and grandpa their dinners. My grandma could not hear a thing because she had tiny pieces of tissue paper stuffed in her ears (just as she does when my mom gives her a bath), she said she didn't want bugs flying into them (they had a fruit fly infestation in their home). I walked in and sat by the couch near the side of her bed but she couldn't see me for the longest time and began to worry. I guess muted hearing can sometimes hinder your peripheral perception. Just last week we installed a fly trap that was made of a roll of sticky-- we hung it on the ceiling in hopes that we could rid the room of these small annoyances. The fleas are pretty much gone now (I saw them stuck to the sticky), but she continues to stuff her ears today. The only reason I can think of is because maybe she doesn't want them buzzing in her ears, but small fleas and fruit flies don't buzz like honey bees do in the summertime. I remember the day my mom first saw it she said my grandma had stuffed her ear holes as well as her shirt (at the neck) with tissue paper. She asked her what the reason was for all of this, and my grandma replied in the dramatic manner that she always does: "It is so that they don't fly inside because if they do, it will be the end of me" (a not so great translation of the canto phrase that literally means 'i'm going to die'). My mom, having heard this not just on several, but all occasions, knew just what to say. She told my grandma that if that was the case, then she should stuff all the holes in her face, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, everything with tissues to prevent any possibility of this from happening. That made my grandma cackle until her dentures dropped loose--she realized that she may have been just a little bit ridiculous. However, she still wears tissue stuffed ears today.

Weekend in Philly

GW Bridge at night. Almost lost my camera for this shot.