Swings in the Dark

I sit, clutching to rusted chain link handles,

Next to you —

(A ghost) laughing and crying and staring strangely

At the bleached night sky:

Blurred, blinking and moving stars

That cross over each other

Like vanished pencil strokes.

And the swings creak rhythmically,

An ugly tune that calls to my past,

To times that slid by like diluted syrup —

Sweetness that seems so dull now…

My toes skim the tanbark gently,

Creating gentle ruffles to contrast the swing’s aching joints;

And the swing slows down every so slightly

As you watch me now stop and get off,

Walking out, turning into a silhouette, disappearing,

The veil of darkness hiding tears,

Falling as a silent rain.

A Wheady Mile

On the starboard side, green lights flourished. Passengers and crew alike staggered to the deck and to the cold railing, peering over the frigid boundaries between ship and sea to glance at the strange phenomenon. We are on the Titanic, and the iceberg has just sunk in a fury — the ship creaked and lunged like a woman full of sehnsucht. The captain screamed, predictably, “Damn the icebergs! Full steam ahead!” A poor old woman lost her footing as the invincible ship lurched in a moment of rare mortality, slipping on the ice-coated hardwood floor, landing on her side with a thud. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

And here is the beginning, a mess. The cacophony will subside accordingly, with respect to the destination. There it is (the beginning), in front of you:

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We go from here, a short little journey — long-winded perhaps, but short. By the docks. The clouds twisted thick and dark, and people in long black formal wear march onto the ship in roves and clusters. What follows is a polite non sequitur. Watching the birds dance overhead, cawing atonal tunes, torrents of sounds, intersecting with the lapping of waves ashore, Harold meets Cathy for the first time. He bends down a little, reaches her hand and kisses it gently. His voice comes out rough and coarse, but he quickly catches himself by coughing slightly and restarting his sentence. Politely smiling, Cathy avoids Harold by excusing herself to her imaginary husband, which she quickly names Germain. Foghorn blows, twice — three times before the last passengers and crowd members turn around to look at the ship, ready to depart.

The first three days consist of almost constant diving into black holes, swerving across whirlpools and gusts of tremendous winds. Several crewmembers, including the generic black cook, were tossed overboard, never to be seen again, giving off Wilhelm screams as they flew upwards and fell downwards in beautiful arcs. The captain is also generically old with a thick white beard, wearing also white. He speaks with a slight French accent, or so it seems — he might be Belgian, or something along those lines.

Furies are furious — obvious, yes, but the hisses are quite piercing, like none other. The type that blows up windows and slices eardrums open, leaving sloshes of blood on the deck for poor boys to mop up. They appear once in a while, usually when the clouds turn red: full red, red enough to gloss over the ocean ripples and give the horizon a hellish tint. Psychedelic shit.

Waves rolling on and on and on.

==

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  ==

     ==

They do get broken up by the gigantic hull, the peaks stretching upwards desperately against gravity. Over yonder, gravity flips out every so often — twisting and turning, pushing and pulling at different rates at different times, depending on the Earth’s mood and the sun’s generosity. When gravity feels angry, as it did some two and a half weeks into the trip, it tosses the boat and the sea sideways, so we were sailing up the sky, like a rocket, or more like a reverse shooting star.

I am the other side of Twombly’s canvas; I am Pollock’s brush; I am Picasso’s circle. So it follows, that our ship is the Queen Anne’s Revenge’s nuclear engine. Fling your (my) arms on the deck, and spin around like this insane world, and breathe in the insane fire-infused air. Such is the volatile oxygen we love — and then the helium that lifts up the sails and suspends our disbelief and the sweet water below. Ick ter ram bles tem frim              dur

        klik               sorat                                     fa— maday do re

king of                                  jack le  greer

                    heart (less)                                                                         1261997

hilde                                                 shobmetu…

                                                                                                        gard

Let us, as Eliot enjoys saying, bring ourselves out of this circumstance of confusion and absurdity, to more of the same. Except this time, we have become elevated, in an inverted sense, like Virgil tugging your arms, coaxing you to see Brutus. “Look at him, laughing his liver out. Prometheus would do the same, but he has to make do with his goddamned gallbladder.” Yossarian would say the same about Snowden, while I’m stuck at the front of the ship, looking through binoculars at Zeus and his small “thunderbolt,” oh what a wrinkly sight. Cue the censorship that inevitably comes, like greed with capitalism and stupidity with general humanity. And oh the humanity, and this pathetic monologue that continues with spite and inscrutability and your utter [negative emotional response]. Sing a Christmas carol for Uncle Ben; we have just arrived at a snowcapped village in the Alps. Say hi to Santa; he’s working on some brandy at the moment.

Sailors dance and laugh and clap their hands. Oi oi, yes?

…and the mast crashed down, with a surprisingly quiet thud, but conjoined with terrifyingly loud shrieks from the scampering crew. I arrived with but a bucket in my arms, probably with a panicked look on my face, whole body shivering, unable to take a single step in any direction. Beyond this initial spasm of shock, I realized that I was also utterly confused; having only woken up minutes prior, I had no idea what the origin of this commotion was, and that the sky was perfectly blue dispelled my first suspicion that it was a terrible storm. This confusion refused to subside, even after I most convincingly saw with my own acute eyes two large tentacles drag across the watery deck two sailors, and then yank them with alarming force down to the sea. I must have dropped the bucket at this point and ran — and I ran towards really nowhere, stopped by the torrent of water flooding in, and then stopped in the opposite direction by flailing tentacles thrashing every inch of lumber into wooden shards in front of me. This, as interpreted by me, my cue to jump ship. And I did, without hesitation or second thought, though the moment my feet ceased contact with ship, the falling sensation brought my mind back to rationality for just a brief moment in time, in which I flashed through highlights of my life — but it was so quick, it was only a crumpled collection of sounds and blurred images — and I was back. My eyes widened and then slammed shut as my body prepared to meet the waves face first, and the second it did, I felt an electric tingle go through me, followed immediately by the complete loss of control. The next memory I can remember is waking up in a white room, and thinking to myself with the greatest amount of certitude that I was in heaven. When I had regained full consciousness, I asked the nurse (a young and pretty brunette) if I indeed was. She chuckled, and said cheerfully that most people think so, and then added with an ironic sense of glee that this was Hell’s waiting room; Satan has a sense of humor, she quipped before walking away.

As the sun sets, we now can see dolphins following our little ship. Look how happy they are! Shall we have them for dinner? I’m kidding of course; dolphin is not a proper dinner item. We’ll save them for tomorrow’s breakfast. Harpooning is a wonderful and fun sport, and I’ll teach you for free. Assuming that you decline, I think we have more space for weird…“anecdotes,” if we may call them that.

Scylla has hives.

Charybdis retired last year to a shit pension.

Remember Odysseus? He dead.

Land is not yet in sight, and I doubt it will be for some time. Nonetheless, the band has begun playing a lovely, catchy fanfare to celebrate the occasion of it being Thursday yesterday. To be clear, we’re currently sailing towards the day after tomorrow; if our maps are correct, then there is a passage that is approaching quickly that would allow us to cut across tomorrow. Time is of the essence. The ship’s traversing a difficult patch of sea, so patience would be good to have at the moment — in the event of a wheady mile, one must be prepared for nothing.

The crew spotted dancing eggplants the following morning, right after sunrise, dancing little purple things on top of oversized lily pads. The boat slowed considerably, rocking and creaking, pushing the lily pads out of the way with conviction but without force. The photographer emerged and pulled out his camera, snapping tens and hundreds of pictures of the curious sight. Curious, yes, because some of the eggplants, once under the long morning shadow of the ship, stopped their jolly dance and leaned in towards the ship, as if inspecting it, or listening.

In the middle, there is a dream. It’s full of fuzzy lines and slurred words, foggy and such. Neither of us is in control. You’ve become possessed, you and I are puppets of the unconscious, and of society. Tada, you’d say. Look at this mess of blood you’ve created. Wielding a rusted dagger — pointing at a child. You have the sin of loneliness. Drifted off course, floating aimlessly, where the horizon no longer exists, and sea and sky are melded together into a choking mix of air and water.

And. Here…

        We.

        Go.

She and I were sitting on the porch, watching the birds fly in circles in front of us caw and sing. It had been a terrible week, for the both of us, having lost so much. We never bothered looking behind, where we knew it was still smoking, and smelling of burnt bodies. We sat there forever, not saying a single word; only placing our fingers on top of each other’s, and breathing quietly. Then, perhaps after several hours, once we could feel the heat on our back, we looked at each other — there was a smile below the sad eyes.

        I ran out to the street to the snow and the fire. The flames were blazing loudly so that I couldn’t hear myself shouting in glee. Next to me, June ran alongside with her hands flailing and her face gleaming. It no longer felt cold. The moon was smiling from above, up in the cloudless sky that was just starting to disappear amid the smoke. We ran for a long time — I can’t remember — until we were out of breath, panting heavily, and the sound of fire felt distant. I turned towards her, and her sweet little face, hidden behind that long, brown hair. She smiled, and we sat down in the middle of the street and held hands, and looked around at the dark woods surrounding us, those tall skinny trees that somehow looked so innocent now. Away from the fire the air was chilled and quiet. And we just sat there, silent, for hours probably, waiting, faced towards the oncoming storm. I think she fell asleep, leaning on my shoulder. I must have fell asleep too, but when I opened my eyes, the sky was still dark. By then, June was up, staring into the woods to her left. The trees had started bending, its trunk buckling, the branches swaying slowly.

        Sooner or later the temperature will start rising. The sky will turn orange and red as a hot wind blasts through the helpless, feeble forest. I’ll hold her close by as the radiance becomes piercing, and the intensity leaves us breathless. And before this final sunrise takes us, I’ll turn to her with watered eyes and a wide, nostalgic smile:

        “Let’s go now! Let’s go somewhere extraordinary!”

We’ve come to a dark place, and you’re not welcome.

Ambience

soft soft          my gentle

 and

            could not the piano     stop?

hush hush           dear

it is only a car passing      swiftly       urgent

                           so may i run?

now now         here    here

                tis something strange   wonderful

yes?       

  lovely how rain sparkles down

silky    soil  through

space

oh yes yes delicate skin

                        oh how those sweet chords do hang

    aromatic air    exquisite every        breath

            shall we pause for a minute?

                                     each sound must die first

each with its own        personal

                                                moment

mournful ambience for each dying

                                                moment

                           so in its                    final

breath a tinge        kind         

so kind            a hint

            so you must say           and   think

oh beautiful sound

oh pretty noise

                                                and then

                        out of pure      love

silence

To Adulthood

When I was two years old, I ran down the narrow hallway of my house and into my parent’s bedroom, and jumped onto my mom, who was pregnant with my little sister. The lights were turned off. I think she scolded me or something, but I only remember her vaguely shushing me, and then walking out back into the living room a little embarrassed. That is my earliest memory, though it’s become more of a collection of words, a narration; the images are fading, like old photos.

When I was six years old, I was put into the ESL class in kindergarten because I had only spoken Chinese at home, so my English was less than proficient. I remember my friend asking me if I had farted when we were in the car; I nodded meekly—I didn’t know what “fart” meant. Despite the embarrassment, I kept speaking Chinese at home and let my English slowly improve as the years went on, new words finding their way into my head. They’re still coming in.

When I was nine years old or so, I threw a tantrum during recess, and Ms. Anderson gave me detention. I was to stay in the classroom the next day, but I didn’t. Ms. Anderson found me on the blacktop and hauled me into the classroom. I don’t think she was pleased.

When I was twelve, my family moved to Saratoga. I didn’t want to leave my friends in Los Altos, so over the summer I came up with a list of excuses that I could use in order to stay in my old school district. But the first day at Redwood Middle School rolled around, and I never ended up saying anything. All those thought out plans just crumpled that morning; I suppose I did not have the courage, the will, though I can’t say I remember exactly why. I walked into Mr. Steffan’s room and sat next to a boy who was also new to the school: his name was Jay. We became best friends through seventh and eighth grade, and although he was Indian, he had a big nose so we joked that he was secretly a Jew.

In eighth grade, I was bullied by some kids in PE. They would especially target me when we played dodgeball or capture the flag, and would verbally taunt me. I thought it was quite funny and entertaining actually, but when they were caught in the act once, near the end of the school year, I got called into the principal’s office to tell the story. I don’t know why, but I ended up crying in there. It was weird, because none of the “bullying” actually hurt until I had to talk about it in front of those discerning adults.

When I was a freshman, I began hanging out with the overachieving Asian guys. Jay began hanging out with the drama kids, and another one of my best friends from middle school attempted suicide. I got a B+ in freshman English, so I didn’t think I was good at English. I was good at history, and did well in math and biology. I didn’t think much of engineering at the time though.

Between sophomore year and junior year, I took a three week long summer course at Stanford in Philosophy and Literature. We watched a movie called Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind as part of the curriculum. It was a good movie, so I searched it up online. Its genre was “postmodernist”. The following day, I went to the bookstore to find some postmodernist books, and I ended up buying a copy of Donald Barthelme’s Sixty Stories. It was intriguing—unlike anything I’d read before. Something happened in that moment, and I started writing my own stories the beginning of junior year.

During junior year, I got a girlfriend. We met in eighth grade in an outside orchestra. It’s a long story for those first three years, but she confessed the day before the SAT that she liked me, and we wound up dating for almost five months. We had our first kiss on top of a hill at sunset on Valentine’s Day. Towards the end, even though it became apparent that things weren’t going very well, I kept on being optimistic, perhaps in vain, and believed that things would get better. She obviously didn’t; she was always more negative and pessimistic, and dumped me over Facebook the second week of summer.

We live in fragments: first period, second period, Monday, Tuesday, October, November, seventeen, eighteen, little events that compound on each other, points of time that mold us constantly but intermittently. We are little more than fragments, the amalgamation of events and conditions and consequences: a fractured narrative.

So as I trace my way back to the boy that was four feet tall and spoke little English, I get lost. Somewhere along the way, the thoughts and decisions no longer match up with who I am now, and what remains is but a vague, distant reflection of me. I don’t know quite where that place is, and every time I look back, that peculiar point in life is different. I think that is where adulthood begins: it is the time and place where I can relive, look back, and still understand, remember, connect. Where I can start piecing together fragments and make them cohesive again. Where the images are vivid enough and the events close enough for me to say, “Yes, that is me.” The rest can only remain as they are—shattered pieces of a past existence.

Perhaps there is some continuity to a life, a common thread to be found in the chaos of human existence. But either way, its fluidity is eroded by the imperfection of memory and my ever-shifting nature. I suppose in some ways I am still that little kid that used to bounce on his mother’s pregnant belly. We have the same name, after all. But time passes and things happen, and I guess now I’m a little more “grown up,” whatever that means.