odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
i. I like a yellow that is neither too bright nor too dark, a kind of transparent mustard, the murky sort of sunlight cast through sullied stained glass onto fragrant wooden floors. Not the floors that surround me right now—these have been owned by too many strangers. No, I am talking about the ones back home: red cedar planks that creak when you step on them, echoing the weight of your own existence. You jump up and down in attempts to amplify the sounds, and your mother shouts from downstairs to quit fooling around and come down for dinner.
ii. In this sense, my mother’s love is too much: the steady stream of WeChat links detailing everything from “How to Get into Top CS Grad Schools” to “The Secret to Happiness,” pulled from suspiciously sourced Chinese websites. The ringing of newly dusted wind chimes and the aroma of sun-baked sheets whenever I arrive home from a long semester. I never did say thank you. I still remember that time in fifth grade when she sat me down on a park bench and spoke about honesty and the weight of words. When she finally kissed me goodbye and said “I love you,” I heeded her teachings and replied with a “I don’t know what love is, so I don’t know if I love you.” And now whenever she tells me “I love you,” I instinctively answer “I love you too” because I hate to see her cry. iii. Too is too easy a word to say. The number of people who enjoy both Beach House and Yoga Lin is too little, so you cry a little too. A spoon fully submerged in fluid radiates a rich crimson. Someone raises it to the light and the metallic glows golden, a spring green, iridescent for only a few seconds before disappearing into an open mouth. He thinks of this fragile pool of liquid as the miniature of all the oceans he never saw. He swallows purposefully, his limp body now an oasis.
He does not mean the physical bodies of water, what with all its impurities: a faint smell of brine, the game of entropy light likes to play, not daring to touch the same place twice. Rather, he looks for the sea that comes to him at sleep, an ancient, lethargic thing. On its back rests a once glorious civilization that has now decayed, slowly swallowed itself. A long time ago, someone once spoke eagerly to him about these waters, tempting him with its compassion to engulf everything a person could possibly feel. But in the end, this thing we call sea remains in the realm of myths, and he continues trudging through miles of sand, specks of which obscure his vision. On this boat, my world is tied to sea, humanly, invariably so: haddock with their glistening skins mitigating tonight’s need for olive oil, lingering horizons as foil for a stupid sentimental post, seagull songs that remind me of off-key melodies sung in the shower, reminiscent of ports I’ve never been. But this is unnatural interpretation.
Take two. A world where red shells line rooftops for miles. They function as a canopy for this quaint little town, devoid of history and more mundane than anywhere else. Caricatures of living things just like us are stationed at the doors of each house, inflated with exaggerated expressions of happiness: still-life on a tourist brochure. I snap a picture for the sweaty fat lady next to us. Posing next to the caricature, the two figures could be sisters. The lady thanks me, and I notice that she draws in her smile lines, remnants of which are now oozing down her flushed cheeks. A stranger world still. I drink peppermint tea for the first time in months and the wisps rising from the cup swirl in a way clouds never would. I mimic their dance routine with my index finger, pretending that the birds above are performing elaborate tricks at my instruction. But they dive headlong into the waters below instead, and I wonder if it is just a mere coincidence, that sky has the same hue as sea. Cobblestone roads that make my feet ache: rocks from different oceans, different stories. When they were once conch shells, people from all over the world used to bring them close to their lips, whispering secrets. Now, these voices are carried away by the wind, escaping through the crevices of glass. Someone stifles them by closing the window. The first half mint chocolate chip, the second half salty caramel. No one cares about the constellations again tonight, especially when a particularly bright airplane mimics too closely the trails of a shooting star. You point your index finger at it—see, it’s an overrated movie! This is absolutely and thoroughly not intended to be vague.
I am petty, get angry quite easily, but I do not like to think that I am a sensitive person. You tell me you are not writing parting letters to people you will see again, but I tell you my attachments do not lie with people. The fuck is a person? Ten years from now, I bet you would stop wearing Abercrombie&Fitch. So instead, this is a placebo, an elegy to memories in your stead: i. cai hong — a song associated with the immense difficulty to prop up a stupid phone so that it would record properly, warm Paresky sunlight. ii. neon kowloon. In which I discover my love for turtle jelly is almost as great as your love for pineapple cake. Almost. iii. 4loko? Everyone is drunk or high or probably both. Thank you for the yakult drinks and lending me your windowsill. And hey, I do like the way you sing, my dude. A list of things that still bother me: the occasional irritation these words bring, your lack of responsibility, my lack of sleep. When I was still a child, I saw pictures of the sea before I saw the sea properly. I remember being disappointed—it was so painfully mundane. These embellished photos, selling at fifty cents apiece, are feeding whose economy? To overcompensate, I told you that we should travel around the world someday, only separately, and you humored me.
I tell my friends that I escape a lot. I guess that, too, is another betrayal of responsibility. The multicolored pixels flashing across this tiny screen are kind of comforting, one of repetition. They remind me of more familiar scenes, like the way seasons in this town like to imitate each other. Or the way your prose is always pithy. But this is yet another example of subjectivity. The way my mother calls me every Sunday morning is a pattern as well, and sometimes, I pretend to be asleep. But year two was a quiet, little thing. The kind of quiet found nestled between retired dust bunnies and seaweed cracker bits on a Saturday night. A warm breeze outside rustles the new oak leaves and your memory drifts to something sweet. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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