布丁

you call me "little princess" behind my back, little storm cloud.

i wish i knew the world like you do; i wish i had a car.

i wish i had to think about where to park it when i want to fly to another state, just like you've gone and done.

i wish my older cousin had lemon trees in her front yard.

who, between the two of us, is more likely to smoke cigarettes?

one familiarity after another, i'm just waiting for fremont to bring us together again.

back when i really really wanted to be white, i guess

In my mind, the grandmother sets a glass of sweet tea in front of me. The tassels on the checkered picnic blanket tickle my legs as lean forward to take a sip. I tell her I want to go out back, to the murky pond where I lost all my toys so many years ago. She tells me okay, but only after I look at her scrapbooks.

She clicks to the shelf behind me and I am delighted that she smells more like homemade strawberry jam than expensive perfume. I hear her cough as she slides a thick album out from the array of selections. She holds it to her chest and makes her way back around, plopping it on the table and opening it up like a wizard and his book of spells. My sweet tea nearly jumps out of the glass.

In my mind, the scrapbook is full of pictures of me skating on the frozen pond, swinging on the neighbors’ broken play structure, and drinking Mountain Dew on the deck--the deck that hasn’t been repainted in 7 years and 16 days.

The grandmother closes the book at last and I wheeze and sneeze again. She tells me to go on out-- and to be wary of the Asian tigers who live next door. I realize now that this isn’t in my mind. My heart is very close to my home, and the past 5 years were just in my mind. 

Afire love // I am the diplomat

“Don’t make that face,” he laughs. “It’s ugly. Come on. Let’s go get breakfast.”

It’s 4 in the afternoon, and my grandpa wants to get breakfast with me. I shake my head, impatient but never annoyed. No. Now’s not the time to get breakfast. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

“I’ll go get my tail,” he tells me as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Wait here.”

He doesn’t move from his place on the couch. All he does is bore his lifeless eyes through my body, telling me over and over that he is going to get his tail. To wait here. To wait for him while he gets his tail. His hand rests rigidly on the armrest and I reach for it. I shake my head, petrified and eyes stinging. No. You don’t have a tail. Do you mean your socks? Are you looking for your socks?

His delayed laugh sounds like that of a mule hauling lumber, coal, and hay across the countryside. He knows every inch of the way, but just isn’t able to put the pieces together. I am his granddaughter. He always gets breakfast when he sees me. His socks are white. His wife’s rabbit has a white tail.

His laughter stops and his eyes are vibrant again. My hand leaves his to wipe away an escaping tear. He is remembering...!

“Are you my daughter? Can you get my banknotes for me? I need to go to the bank.”

I give up! I let my oxygen get cut off by sobs. I should have just gotten breakfast at 4 in the afternoon. Please, Grandpa. Let’s just go get breakfast. Grandfather and the only granddaughter who has ever cared. Let’s go get breakfast. Then you can go the bank with Mommy.

Please. 

Let’s go get breakfast.

Choose Your Own Adventure

//wip// I guess like Bri I have a habit of writing about myself or the people around me, so here's sth different ooopsss I think this is about a group of 13 year old boys mourning the death of Jim Morrison the day after his death (explaining it makes it lose its charm but wtv)

It's the 4th of July, 1971

Scott from next door calls me over to his backyard

There's a couple of cherry bombs and sparklers

Still loud and psychedelic in their big matchbox

He says, "Danny, do you wanna start up a fire?"

We've always been good boys, Sugar, Sugar

But tonight, it's a dry and red evening on the boardwalk

And we get chased off for lighting up the stalls

Our final salute to the Lizard King

..connie..

Guess the SONG

我不在乎別人怎麼想我
你活在過去，這是新世紀

..connie..

sowing the seed

I had the most beautiful dream last night, but I somehow can't understand it.

Mr. K was undoubtedly my most important teacher. I was lucky to have met him in a difficult time in my life; he taught me to breathe and keep myself hydrated, and he taught me to look myself in the mirror every morning and understand that nobody could ever be the same as me. He taught me about love, and he taught me about trust. In this dream he was my teacher again, but he seemed to be either a professor or a master in some institute. I never saw him in the dream. I just knew that he was there, and that he was once again a part of my life.

Professor K had a very unique morning ritual, in which his students sowed seeds in a dry, yellow field of grass. Three students every morning, and each time it was a different group of 3. It began with a salutation to the earth; the student assigned this task bowed before the field, and I can't remember if the air was stale or balmy. He/she seemed to have a spiritual connection to the earth, and seemed to be asking for its blessing? But blessing to do what? The second student ran around the field, seemingly infinitely because he/she was more of an aura than a being. I didn't see the end of the field; I believe the second student just existed across the field, and he/she was most likely spreading seeds all around. I know this because the third student was the one to water the field. The second student was running, but it wasn't clear for what. The third student stood at the edge of the field (it had a beginning but no end), and expelled water (not sure if it was from the hands or from the chest or whatever), feeding the seeds. That's all I remember, but I was aware that this process happened every morning. And although the scene seems lifeless, it was actually very beautiful to experience. It felt like life was being created, and that something was being learned.

The song I immediately had in mind to go along with this visual was Ryuichi Sakamoto's "Sowing the Seed," from Nagisa Oshima's Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence. A close second was Joe Hisaishi's "Path of the Wind," from Studio Ghibli's My Neighbor Totoro. Both remind me of nature, growth, and cycles. They sound like they may never end, and they sound like this limitless quality has a purpose. I think of God, and of fate.

..connie..

cheesy line from a cheesy taiwanese rom-com

一個女生對你好是因為她關心你，絕對不是因為她認為你有什麼資格可以去愛她。不要讓她失望，好不好？

..connie..