Tag Archives: i am not insane

Where I’m From

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I am from sunshine, sweat, and bricks of humid air.

I am from have you eaten yet.

I am from rice, salted fish, stir-fried greens, from soy sauce, sesame oil, vinegar, from ginger, star anise, and cayenne peppers.

I am from concrete jungle, clothes lines stretched-across the rooftops, the smell of sun in the fabrics, of gardenias, jasmines and sweet osmanthus.

I am from morning glories winding along random barbed wires, coconut trees lining the streets crowded with motorcyles, from white azaleas strewn on the ground after thunderstorms like discarded Kleenexes.

I am from greetings, and salutations, from strangers in the streets who are also uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and grandmas and grandpas.

I am from blood is thicker than water, from you don’t turn your back to your family, from families stick together.

I am from proper, ladylike, and demure. From handkerchiefs and silk scarves and pocketbooks. From you should always make sure your hand is not empty and idle. From knees together, ankles crossed.

I am from politeness, decorum, and unwritten rules that everybody abides by.

I am from hospitality, from it takes a village, from gossips and busybodies.

I am from if you swallow the watermelon seeds it will sprout from the top of your head, from don’t point your finger at the new moon otherwise she will come and cut off your ear when you are sleeping at night. From if you cry or misbehave, Auntie Tiger will come and eat you up.

I am from humility, gratitude and contentment.

I am from nobody owes you anything, from be grateful even if someone gives you a mere roll of toilet paper, from nothing you get is because you deserve it.

I am from temples, incenses, and gods and deities.

I am from reincarnation, from Karma, from eighteen layers of hell.

I am from lurid ghost stories of vengeance, from spirits within magnificent rocks and towering trees.

I am from convention, contradiction, and confusion. I am from Post-Colonialism, Late Capitalism, and Rampant Materialism.

I am from the proletariat.

I am from the hushed wrath of my father, the quiet disappointment of my mother.

I am from a bottle of Aspirins.

I am from the deafening silence of a mid-summer afternoon when the only thing you could hear was the cicadas.

 

Many thanks to Elly over at BugginWord for writing her beautiful piece “Where I’m From” and for alerting us to this wonderful writing exercise. Of course, I did not follow the rules in the template, not because I am some rebel chick but because I am not good at writing descriptive scenes. 

A Night with the Band (with Twitter along the way)

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Friday, 22-April-2011

22:03:12 On my way to see the band The Boxer Rebellion that started at 10. It’s 10 now. Am nowhere near Double Door the bar/concert venue. Panic attack

22:04:58 I’m going by myself again. [I went to see them for the first time last September]. With extra tickets. Maybe I’ll give the ticket 2 some random passerby, reassuring them that they don’t have 2 talk 2 me

22:06:38 Forgive me 4 tweeting you sweet nothing nonstop. Going 2 see band by myself. Not yet used 2 it. Started having panic attack early on.

22:09:11 Tweeting helps calm my nerves. Like I have someone w me. Anybody write an academic paper about social media? Invisible Strangers as entourage?

22:11:27 I almost didn’t. Panic attack. Would’ve been easier 2 just stay home. I kept on delaying till husb said, Why are you still here? Get the F out!

22:13:59 It’s just a band. Not a big deal. After the last time [and the first time when I went to see them also by myself], I now know there’s no risk of me having to struggle to say no if a band member asks me to elope with him [because it did not happen and it will never happen, of course.]

[I actually felt quite embarrassed going all gaga when I met them last September for the first time. I think I managed to keep my excitement under wrap, appearing to be nonchalant. Not that it would have made any difference, but all four band members are married. More importantly, they don’t seem to be that kind of band attracting crazy psychotic screaming fans.]

[Fine. I guess telling people that their song “Flashing Red Light Means Go” saved your soul is by no means being nonchalant… How pathetic it was to have failed at being nonchalant in front of your favorite band?]

 

22:42:21 @SunnySingsBlues Thanks! I’m in! One vodka cranberry down and I’m one cool kitty. Inside my head at least!

22:46:47 @SunnySingsBlues Thanks!!! I am on 2nsd Vodka cranberry! [Less than 5 minutes. I was rather impressed by myself too!]

22:59:22 At the Boxer Rebellion concert! Sold out bitches!  [From “OMG I don’t know what to do. I am so scared I don’t want to go!” to rubbing it in people’s faces. All in under one hour…]

 

The Boxer Rebellion at Double Door

 

[From @deathbydonkey: Hope you’re having fun. Solo concert outings can rock if you just go with it. It beats dealing with a non-fan companion, anyway.]

23:14:02 @deathbydonkey OMG. Totally agree!!!!

[And that’s why when The Husband said “Go and have fun by yourself!” I did not cry. I would have been so worried about him or whichever person I managed to drag with me not having fun and unable to fully enjoy the experience]

 

23:14:57 @melme thank you. Tweeps are the best people to go to concert with!!

[From @melme: Damn right!! Woo! Take it off!! 😉 ]

23:28:42 @melme Ok! Let’s just say I did! LOL

 

[Tried not to tweet too much during the concert. Most of the time I had my eyes closed and it felt like I was there all alone, with the band. Just the music pounding, pouring, seeping into every fiber. The most gratifying thing to witness was how much fun they’re having on stage. It almost made me feel jealous. I wish I could play an instrument, or sing, or paint, or sew, just anything really.]

 

Saturday, 23-April 2011

00:24:50 @doubledoor Here’s a shout out to Mark the bartender who loves his job and Andy who’s adorable!!!

[Here I was sufficiently buzzed that I became extremely friendly and talkative, in a non-slutty way, at least I hope so… I was even able to talk to Mark at the bar. Probably because he called me Sweet Heart. I wished him a happy weekend, to that he replied, “I will be working though.” I asked, “But not bad if you love your job, right?” A pause. “Yes, I do love my job.” “Well, that’s more than what a lot of people could say.” He nodded somberly.]

[Regarding “Sweet Heart”: I knew not to get carried away by terms of endearment such as this. That’s merely a sign that I have aged. When you reach a certain age, people start being nice to you and calling you “Sweet heart” “Young lady”, thinking they are doing you a favor. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate that.]

00:25:44 I’m at the “I am lucid but I care no shit” stage. 5 vodka cranberry later.

[See? Tru dat!]

 

00:29:50 It’s endearing when the band is small enough that they are at the mercy table to talk to the fans

[It’s supposed to be MERCH, for “merchandise”, table. But the typo was kind of correct in the way that the bands are at the mercy of their fans when they are on their way to make it]

 

 

[They’re really really awesome and sweet. I did tell Todd the lead guitarist (See? I am hinting that I am on the first name basis with the band!) that I am a psychotic fan. ZOMG. I really should have kept my mouth shut. But I cannot control what comes out of my mouth whenever I am nervous. Perhaps next time I should preemptively put my foot in my mouth… He asked me what my Twitter handle was. “So, you are subWOW?!” Ok, he probably did NOT sound that excited. Just let me think that he did, ‘k? He and Piers the drummer (pretended to) remember meeting me last year. See? I told you they are very kind…]

 

Todd and Piers at The Empty Bottle last September

Me as an apparition (last September)

 

[Here’s something else that I told Todd, “I look forward to the day when you are so huge that I would no longer get to talk to you like this.” And I mean it.]

 

00:45:24 Asked the band mebers of @BoxerRebellion to sign my arm, Nathan the lead singer responsibly told me I’d regret it. We shall see.

 

Picture from last time: Todd & the lead Singer Nathan who told me this time that I'd regret having them sign my arm. Nathan's a Southern gentleman, naturally.

 


01:06:15 Do people know, for realz, in details, what they have to give up when they have kids and move to the burbs?

01:08:21 Like a pseudo bipolar that I’m, I’m coming down from the high from talking to my favorite band straight to the pit.

01:09:31 On the train back to the burbs. Feeling like being turned back into a pumpkin. Do men feel the same way too?

[Before I stumbled off the train, I saw this guy with a big giant tattered duffel bag eating peanut butter out of the jar. I have no idea what came over me, not pity nor sympathy. I think it was closer to a sudden surge of love that I felt towards my fellow human beings. I pulled out a $20 bill and handed it to him. “Happy Easter!” I said, and I quickly ran off. He did not even look up but smiled to himself.]

 

[Intermission: Driving. I really did not want to be turned back into a pumpkin…]

 

01:43:06 2 am. At the quintessential American melting place: highway oasis. Here everyone is passing by

 

 

01:46:25 I do appreciate the fact that my husb is ok letting me out by myself being a tramp.

01:48:37 Sitting here at the empty oasis, I’m humming Hallelujah. I’m not even Christian…

01:59:25 I really like the oasis like this: quiet, with free Wi-Fi. I enjoy watching the cars, imaging jumping off. Of course I won’t.

[Did you know this French word, L’appel du vide? “The call of the void” would be the literal translation. It refers to the urge to jump from high places…]

 

02:35:00 Listened to Queen’s A Night at the Opera all the way home. Truly my favorite album. What I would not give to watch Freddie Mercury live.

02:59:18 You know how they made Mama Mia with Abba song? Someone should make a musical based A Night at the Opera.

03:00:50 Why? Yes! I have been sitting in the garage listening to A Night at the Opera since I got home. How did you know?

 

 

 

p.s. I did update the tweets to correct the typos and grammars, update the abbreviations, so it is easier to read and understand.

Arms akimbo in the land of lotus eaters

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This paragraph from A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, which won the 2010 National Book Critics Circle Award (ETA: AND the 2011 Pulitzer Prize!) for fiction, is one of the most hauntingly vivid descriptions of a marriage that I have ever read. At the same time the description sounds clinical, meticulous, it strikes me as one of the saddest things I have ever read.

 

Yet each disappointment Ted felt in his wife, each incremental deflation, was accompanied by a seizure of guilt; many years ago, he had taken the passion he felt for Susan and folded it in half, so he no longer had a drowning, helpless feeling when he glimpsed her beside him in bed: her ropy arms and soft, generous ass. Then he’d folded it in half again, so when he felt desire for Susan, it no longer brought with it an edgy terror of never being satisfied. Then in half again, so that feeling desire entailed no immediate need to act. Then in half again, so he hardly felt it. His desire was so small in the end that Ted could slip it inside his desk or a pocket and forget about it, and this gave him a feeling of safety and accomplishment, of having dismantled a perilous apparatus that might have crushed them both. Susan was baffled at first, then distraught; she’d hit him twice across the face; she’d run from the house in a thunderstorm and slept at a motel; she’d wrestled Ted to the bedroom floor in a pair of black crotchless underpants. But eventually a sort of amnesia had overtaken Susan; her rebellion and hurt had melted away, deliquesced into a sweet, eternal sunniness that was terrible in the way that life would be terrible, Ted supposed, without death to give it gravitas and shape. He’d presumed at first that her relentless cheer was mocking, another phase in her rebellion, until it came to him that Susan had forgotten how things were between them before Ted began to fold up his desire; she’d forgotten and was happy — had never not been happy — and while all of this bolstered his awe at the gymnastic adaptability of the human mind, it also made him feel that his wife had been brainwashed. By him.

 

I read this book over the winter holidays and till this day, I am still haunted by this passage. From time to time I would take this book off from the bookshelf, flip to this page and read this passage again, word by word, while caressing the rough edge on the side of the book as if it were an adequate substitute for human warmth.

Of course, per usual, I identify with the wrong character. I want to jump in and rescue Susan.

Wake up, Susan. Wake up. Remember what it was like. Remember what you were like. I want to give her a blog.

Here’s to being decidedly alive even if at the risk of being miserable. Here’s to kicking and screaming. Here’s to never be folded up into a tiny pocket.

Here’s to never forget.

 

This post is dedicated to a dear friend who is standing arms akimbo in defiance in the land of lotus eaters.

“How to Be Alone”

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I was going to write something about BlogHer… But my besties that I have had the good fortune to meet and grope in magical New York City have all done a much better job than I could have, esp. since after three days, I am still pissing and sweating vodka… So if you haven’t been bored to death by the blah blogher blah blah are curious about what went down (PUN FULLY INTENDED) last weekend, go read about Buggin Words’ No-Pot-Needed Hallucination, Brilliant Sulk’s brilliant musing on the vaginas and vodkas she’s consumed, Patty Punker’s suggestion for an alternative FuckIt10 that we have all signed up and are seeking attendee registrations, Dufmanno’s encounter with a naked cowboy which was not the most skin she saw last weekend, For the Birds’ restrained song that is really not about you, and yes, Vapid, I am drumming my fingers waiting for your BlogHer report here… Pull yourself together, woman! Stay away from the Dish even though I know you’ve missed him and the Python (Dear Soren Lorensons, this is surprisingly not what you think, you perverts!) terribly.

ETA: The blonde vampiress came through with poetry in motion…

Instead, Serendipity! I came across this video/poem today.

“How to Be Alone”

It is the perfect remedy we need in order to recover from the highs and lows after fighting through our fears of opening ourselves up and meeting strangers. The powerful reminder to combat that gnawing insecurity, that tiny voice, that propels you to down five shots of vodka within the first 30 minutes of setting your foot in a party so that you can be the Dancing Queen that you dream of being. The talisman to arm ourselves with next time we attend any social occasion when ironically we often inadvertently feel so alone within the crowd.

Watch this.

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I came across this beautifully written and performed poem through It Is Monday… Thinking Moment. The filmmaker is Andrea Dorfman, and the simple yet profound words were written and performed by Tanya Davis.

I cannot help but reprint the entire poem here just so I can read the words, slowly, hoping to absorb them into my being, to have them become part of the fiber of my soul.

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How to Be Alone

by Tanya Davis

If you are at first lonely, be patient.

If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There’s also the gym. If you’re shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.

And there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you’re hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid being alone principals.

The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they — like you — will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You’re no less intriguing a person when you’re eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching…because, they’re probably not.

And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.

Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might of never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after awhile nobody is dating them.

But lonely is a freedom that breaths easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You can stand swaffed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.

But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them maybe lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experiences unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relived, keeps things interesting, life’s magic brings much, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.

Take silence and respect it.

If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.

If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

The white flag goes up…

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Remember the tagline of my blog? These posts are supposed to be my therapy sessions. Ranting about the demise of Thanksgiving and gloating about making shotgun Christmas ornament is not very healing. The following is one of my therapy sessions. I am getting on the coach now. You have been forewarned…

I am not quite sure about the whole Twitter and the blogging thing any more. First I have the follower counts to obsess about. Then I agonize over how few of the @’s I have been getting. Now there are the LISTS that scream “Popularity Contest” more than ever. The same with this blogging thing. I installed the WordPress Blog Stats plug-in. Now I get to watch the pot boil.

Don’t worry. I am not going to whine. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. There is actually a funny story I want to share with you. I want to explain why I am scared to death of popularity contest. Literally. Anxiety attack type of reactions. Chest closing down on me. Disorientation. Hard to breath kind of thing.

As soon as I sense that something is in essence a popularity contest, I never bother trying. I just give up. I am scared to death of popularity contest. I am also scared to death when I have friends. When people take a liking to me.

In short, I am afraid to disappoint.

I am not a shrink, but my guess is that you would be scared of popularity contest if you went through fourth grade through sixth grade with NOBODY in your class speaking to you. The entire three years… Silence. As if you were not even there.

No violin in the background. I will save you the drama and just list the facts:

  1. I was one of the popular kids in my class from first grade to third grade. I remember that because I remember being one of the first ones to be chosen whenever a game demanded such cruel device of pitching innocent children against each other.
  2. One day, out of the blue, during fourth grade, I noticed that nobody in my class would talk to me. They willfully ignored me. I was suddenly invisible to them.
  3. Since all the kids stayed in the same class throughout the remaining grades, this silent treatment lasted till I graduated from grade school.
  4. I thought about running away from home because my mother would not believe me. I was unable to convince my parents to transfer me to a different class or school.
  5. I started thinking about suicide early on because I had no idea how to end THAT. Please don’t be alarmed: When you believe in reincarnation, the thoughts of suicide do not carry the heavy concept of sin and ending.
  6. This childhood experience affects what I do, think, say from that point on.
  7. I still have nightmares about THAT.

This is actually a funny story. Well, what happened AFTER the grade school is. As the years went by, I would see some of my tormentors classmates in the senior high school we went to. Apparently there was going to be a class reunion the year we entered college.  “You are like the ugly duckling turning into a swan now.” Code for: you cleaned up good. Mind you: we all went to same-sex senior high schools so the person that said this to me was female. Would you like to go?

Of course, as needing therapy as I am, I went. I was curious. I wanted answers. I of course also wanted to show that I turned out ok. Despite everything. Somehow I also managed to charm.

On the long bus ride home, the man-child sitting next to me was very obviously smitten. I have been wondering for six years why they all treated me like shit, actually, worse than that, like NOTHING, back then, but I was also lucid enough to have guessed that probably nobody else remembered THAT but me. I took my one chance and gingerly brought THAT up.

“Do you remember when in grade school, none of you talked to me for three years?”

“Huh. Oh. Yeah. You still remember THAT?”

I proceeded to describe in simple terms how it felt to be me in those years. I was looking out the window when I spoke. The last thing I wanted to see was the expression that proved my suspicion that none of my sufferings were real to anybody else, that I might as well have imagined them. Soon I heard sobbing. I turned and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. Then came the Confession of the Century that I was not expecting:

“It was ME!”

“Huh?”

“It was me that told everybody to stop talking to you.”

Then I remembered that we were best buddies in the third grade. I recalled watching him hogging the Pacman machine until the store owner came out to give him his coin back. I even recalled going to his house and playing with him and his younger brother, and his mother saying, “Come back again soon!”

“… why?”

“Hmm. I guess because I liked you.” More sobbing. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know it was so difficult for you.”

“There. There. It’s ok. I am ok now.” I ended up having to console him.

The truth of course was: I was not ok.

Later, through college years, he wrote me several love letters. I did open them but could never bring myself to read them.

Hi. My name is L. I am forty years old and I still have nightmares about my friends not talking to me. In my nightmares we are all still 10 years old.