will people in this room not respect me because i am asian
will people in this room not respect me because i am small
will people in this room not respect me because i have feminine traits
will people in this room not respect me because i can't express myself freely in english
will people in this room not respect me because i can't express myself freely in canto
will people in this room not respect me because i didn't grow up in this culture
will people in this room not respect me because i am gender non-conforming
will people in this room not respect me because i am not allo
will people in this room not respect me because i do not present as "straight"
will people in this room not respect me, want to be near me, or like me because i am asian, small, have feminine traits, can't express myself freely in english/canto, didn't grow up in this culture, am not gender non-conforming, allo, and do not present as "straight"
every fucking second of every day
and how much lighter or heavier life like this, or not like this, would be in a different timeline
last night i fell out of the sky with my family
in a car or something, i don't really remember
veered off that famous path overlooking happy valley
where we used to drive past when i was smaller all the time
the path i used to be scared of falling off of, all the time
i can recall feeling an overwhelming sense of vertigo as we were flung into the mountains
though strangely, we were all very calm
as we landed softly in between these rolling hills
decorated with millions of pastel flower houses
after a long day of trying to trying to prove to an immigration officer
that our friend has a right to be here
"i can't believe we never knew about these, after all these years," says my dad
though it probably wasn't in english
or in any language, now that i think about it
up close they weren't actually flower houses at all,
just blobs of petals and fresh colour
there were some public washrooms off to the side, however
taller establishments than that of the former
so we wandered around until i woke up and left them behind.
but i miss it already
even though it's been less than a day
for it was all very beautiful.
i would like it very much if i could visit a big field soon
grain against the head
ground coffee reappearing in the form of fallen bugs,
dead (but good morning nonetheless)
pick them up with dancing feet,
sweep them away under precarious furniture legs with our own
small lights total five, as to remind they are still
alive and kicking
vito by mikey; champion eats al this week
vocals heard through the glass window but not outside
waste, team, summer,
microwaved homemade bread
dimmed the mirrors for a good cry about it
ashtray traces apathetic now
it's not enough now
graduation flowers wilting now
hammock bridge healing now
berger bridge forgotten now
two more days left in this guesthouse now
wow, it's been a while! attached are two playlists that i've been curating for the past year or so. they're not all technically the best-sounding songs, but all of them do make me feel something, which is what really matters.
the one on the left is meant for someone who is about to graduate high school; the one on the right should pertain to everyone that is still growing up and contains some of my all time favourites.
for the past couple of years i've always believed––and subsequently proven to myself––that i end up missing things less than i anticipate to. but i feel like it might be different this time.
wouldn't it be strange when we're all fully grown?
anyway––back to this emma goldman essay that i've been trying to write for a month. maybe i'm subconsciously trying to prolong the process because i know this will be the last high school essay i'll ever write. but it's more likely that i'm just a horribly slow writer and that socio-political philosophy isn't existential enough to viscerally move me.
disconnection, distance, anticipation, not feeling ready, approaching event, eclipsing anyway, change, outgrowth, returning to new self, distance, disconnection
over and over and over and over and over until
there is nothing left to push
(it has devoured it all)
if there is truth in poets' prophesies,
a faint memory lives on
(but only in your audience):
you are out of the picture as you once were
~
it is 8:03am. my windows are patterned with streaky droplets like condensation that coats a soda can. are the effects of this typhoon my doing for chilling my bedroom at such low temperatures? yes, probably, maybe. the water is swimming downwards, barely casting their unpredicted shadows, and i am reminded of the snake game i used to play on my nokia. that being said, this rain is self-cannibalistic enough without my interference. i wonder where they will host their grand reunion in a few weeks when all these small things become one single thing
~
i sketched this timeline out in my journal in april in hopes of rationalizing my aversion towards adopting roles of traditionally older, archetypal figures, and by extension, aging (a recurrent theme on this site– i'm aware). the animation sort of shows how although you must surpass a certain age/ milestone/ role (assuming they are contingent upon each other), that it often feels unmanageable until you actually eclipse the actual event, since temporally you are in front of something you cannot see beyond. alternately, in retrospect, younger figures can also assume the identity of the constant, the unchanging– one moves away from instead of towards them. youth becomes evermore obstructed by personal experience
∴ (for now) i feel like these 'constants' are just generalized ideals/ concepts/ expectations that we make up due to a) a lack of empirical understanding, or b) forgotten empirical understanding. but hey, what do i know? it's probably much more complicated than that
~
tasty passages from de rerum natura (translated by rouse):
thus each man tries to flee from himself, but to that self, from which of course he can never escape, he clings against his will, and hates it, because he is a sick man that does not know the cause of his complaint
there is an end fixed for the life of mortals, and death cannot be avoided, but die we must. again we move and have our being always amidst the same things, and by living we cannot forge for ourselves any new pleasure; but while we have not what we crave, that seems to surpass all else; afterwards, when we have attained that, we crave something else; one unchanging thirst of life fills us and our mouths are forever agape. and it is uncertain what the next years may bring, what chance has in store, what end awaits us.
therefore you may live to complete as many generations as you will: nevertheless that everlasting death will still be waiting, and no less long a time will he be no more, who has made an end of life with to-day's sun, than he who fell many a month and year before.
some writing i did standing at the bus stop on the 22nd of january, 2017
the fog tonight:
cars left wisps of tangled air behind themselves as they queued in the streets, pausing to see their own breath. headlights and street lamps glowed and mellowed out into their darker surroundings– green, red, and yellow spotlights reached out further than usual, less shy, searching for the right story to tell. the scene was painterly, theatrical, and it made me wonder whether i was waiting for something big to happen
i can still taste the glue
from the last letter sent
flavourless and drying;
what a feeling, peering
from behind the same dimpled, post office cornerstone
on that dimly lit, cloud-scattered street
both last year and three hours later
stubby toes once betokening long fingers,
only now they are all entwined, decorated
with sixteen-year-old veins as wrapping material
this did not hurt if i recall correctly
(i would have to ask to make sure)
both next year and three hours ago
so different
it almost feels the same to me
and on that badly lit, cloud-covered street
a whistled tune lures a seedling
into bowing its head towards the pavement
(but certainly not out of respect)
my eyes hear this humming as white noise
