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Douglas Dies

Wed, 04 Jun 2025 22:12:03 GMT

Last night Douglas died in my dreams. We were imprisoned in my 4th-grade classroom, with collars around our necks that would shock us if we tried to escape. I was trudging back after a long day of hard labor, dragging my feet to savor the fresh, at least fresher, air of the outside, when Douglas charged past me leading a bunch of faceless men, all in black combat gear and taser guns. An insurgence. I remember shouting What the fuck, Douglas before collapsing onto the floor in pain. The collar around my neck. I didn’t feel it, of course, but in my dream I was in too much pain to move. I couldn’t see what was happening to Douglas, only that there were black shapes writhing by the windows.

When I woke up, all I could hear in my head for five minutes straight was Douglas. I didn’t see it, but he was dead. How, I didn’t know exactly, but it wasn’t hard to figure it out—tortured or instant death in combat.

The dream itself wasn’t particularly alarming—it’s a scene from a novel I recently finished. The real question is, why was Douglas, a high school classmate I barely talked to, in it? Of all the guys I know, why was he, a tall, wiry blond guy with dimples from the Yukon Territory who was soft-spoken and well-liked, the one my brain subconsciously cast for a role associated with such a violent death?

My most vivid memory of Douglas was him saying that people could strip him buck-naked at his funeral, whatever, he didn’t care. It was our senior year in high school, and we were in the spiritual center, a small wood cabin overlooking the bay that our boarding school was by. I was shocked, although I was careful not to let it show. Beside me, Maggie, the founder of our club Death Cafe, seemed equally at a loss of words. It was like we didn’t know this spectacled guy with freckles on his nose at all.

Maggie was the one who pitched the idea of Death Cafe, a safe space where people could go and discuss death, but not in a suicidal manner or anything like that. She wanted me to lead the club with her, and she even showed me the official wechat accounts of Death Cafe in Shanghai and Beijing to give me a better idea of what they did. I didn’t really have a reason to say no. It was college app season, and I figured something a bit unorthodox might help with my stress levels. Plus, I needed leadership experience to put on my resume, and I bet with some finesse, I could package this into some student-led initiative to drive cross-cultural philosophical discussions.

That day we were in the spiritual center drawing our ideal funerals. I don’t remember what I drew, which is probably for the best. Kaze, a Japanese American from Hawaii who surfed and from what I could figure out was pretty popular in our year, was also a part of our club, which did not make sense to me. He also drew his ideal funeral. Maggie, me, Douglas, we all did, and then we went around in a circle, showed each other our drawings, and talked about it.

Now that I think about it, it’s crazy how our school let Maggie and I run this club for an entire semester instead of scheduling us both for an appointment with the school psychiatrist. How I just went with it without asking Maggie if she was ok. I mean, what did she have to be searching online to stumble across something like this? And six students gathering every week in a wooden cabin above the waters talking about their own funerals for an hour, not one of them with an inkling of mental health training? Maybe we all thought ourselves in control, but in retrospect it did seem an awful lot like a tragedy waiting to happen.

My theory is that the club was Maggie’s closest way of thinking about death without having to say that shit, this thing is actually personal. Of talking about something taboo without being vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe to her, Death Cafe genuinely was just the product of her curiosity towards something that will inevitably happen to every single one of us. And if that’s the case, maybe I can feel a bit better about not asking her if everything was ok.

Death Cafe fell through the final semester of high school because we couldn’t get enough people to join. Go figure. I was a little disappointed because a semester-long club leadership experience sounded a lot less impressive than a year-long one. I ended up joining a Chinese poker club that the students in the grade below us started. It was fun, easier, lighter. A lot more comfortable than sitting in a wooden cabin thinking about and discussing death.

Douglas’s dream-death brought all of this back—I’d really forgotten about that one semester of leading Death Cafe, and with it, how lost and anxious we must’ve been to cook up something like that. Maggie’s at Yale now; the last time I checked she was having a lot of fun hiking all around America and doing geology or plant stuff? As for me, as disappointed as I was over not getting into Berkeley EECS, I gradually got over it. Now I truly think I would’ve been much less happier if I’d gone there instead of here. I like it here—the weather is nice, the culture is less cutthroat, and I feel free enough to catch my breath and pursue things outside of engineering. I’m graduating in less than two weeks, and at least in this moment, in my room typing out this essay, thinking about reading it aloud tomorrow, I’m the best thing a person can hope to be at the brink of adulthood—happy, or at least hopeful, excited, and a teeny bit nervous. And if there’s one thing I could go back and tell myself, it would be that all that worrying and anxiety and discussions about death weren’t worth it. It does get better, and things will—probably—be fine.

Jessica and Harry Potter™

Sat, 17 May 2025 23:46:37 GMT

At the foot of the hill where visitors line up for the blue Universal Studios Hollywood shuttle, a couple sits on a silver bench under the gloomy gray sky. They’re a bearded man in his late twenties, wearing khaki shorts with sunglasses resting above his forehead and a girl in a yellow sundress who tells him she spends an hour each morning taming her curly hair before driving two hours one way to get to school. The man shakes his head, chuckling. Girls, he probably thinks, when he gives the most generic male answer “I just brush my teeth, change, and am out the door in ten minutes.” On the shuttle, they sit side by side, and he asks her if she’s ever been to the park. She says yes, and before she can finish saying what her favorite ride is, he launches into a speech about how he loves taking first-timers on the Mummy ride. She sinks back into her seat, silent except for the occasional, noncommittal mmhmm. But it’s too late to run; the shuttle has dragged itself to a halt in the parking lot behind CityWalk.

In the dim, expectant hush of Ollivander’s Wand shop, three aunts hover behind their niece, a girl of about ten with pigtails and flushed cheeks. The room buzzes with anxious anticipation—the lucky person who will get to be chosen by their wand will be announced soon—although there’s really no doubt who will be chosen; there is only one child in the room, with not two, but three! adults who might pay up. When the lady at Ollivander’s solemnly asks for her name, she turns around, seeking her aunts’ approval. They bob their heads frantically in encouragement, one going as far as giving her a small shove forward. “Jessica,” she squeaks. From the towering wall lined with wand boxes, the lady pulls out a brown box. The whole room holds their breath, except for her aunts, who fumble over their iphones to record the moment. Jessica gives the wand an excited wave. Drawers rattle violently above. The lady at the counter gives a disapproving tut. Giggles ripple through the room as Jessica herself laughs nervously. Unflustered, the lady rummages through more boxes of wands. Another wand, another mishap, but the third time’s the charm. The room begins to ring with soft chimes after Jessica ventures a timid wave; the wand has chosen its owner. Then the lights turn back on, the show ends, and the lady thanks us for visiting Ollivander’s and ushers us—except Jessica and her companions—through the door into another giant room full of wands for sale. There is a reddit post that warns about what might befall Jessica next—one parent complained that he had refused to pay 60 dollars for the wand that had “chosen” his son. His son then threw a tantrum, ruining their holiday. Luckily, this did not happen to Jessica, who is seen half an hour later brandishing her new wand, trying to make teacups float in Madam Puddlefoot’s Tea Shop’s display window.

Outside of Honeydukes, a dad and his two kids march past the Hogwarts Express parked across the street without even giving the cheerful conductor in his red uniform a glance. The girl walks quietly ahead, while her younger brother trudges beside his dad, moodily swinging a plastic bag with a picture of Hogwarts and Daniel Radcliffe’s face plastered on with cheap ink. There’s something he wants to buy from Honeydukes, and the dad reprimands him. “Do you know what you have in that bag you’re holding? There’s 75 dollars worth of stuff. Do you know you already have 75 dollars worth of stuff?” The dad quickens his pace, annoyance clouding over his face as the kid struggles to catch up. Soon they disappear into the crowd.

This disaster unfolds as I lean against the wall between two bay windows of Honeydukes, a small haven from the untimely May drizzle. I’m enjoying my 10-dollar apple toffee and Butterbeer™ soft-serve ice cream (which noticeably does not taste like apple toffee or Butterbeer™; it’s just sweet) that I let myself order after spending, coincidentally, 75 dollars on Chocolate Frogs™ and Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans™. As the family disappears into the crowd, a new wave of Mario Plush Hats and The Big Pink donuts push their way into The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I carefully wipe away the drops of ice cream that stained my Florean Fortescue pink paper cone, tuck the cone into my bag, and slip out the exit.

The amusement park blasts See You Again on the way between the exit gates and the parking lot; the screams and laughter of everyone inside are still audible. The setup feels like a cheap way to lure customers back into another round of family-friendly fun that costs at the very least a hundred and nine dollars per person. What’s worse, it works. As I walk to the Frankenstein Garage to get an uber, I find myself nostalgic and reminiscing about all the fun I had—frozen Butterbeer™, Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey™ where I got to race after Harry for the golden snitch, signed copies of Lockhart’s books in the display windows of a closed store—and feel guilty about leaving so early. Perhaps I should go back, visit the Owl Post, and get that cute Hedwig plushie? Maybe I should try to like the other themed attractions a little more, maybe even join the virtual line for Toad Cafe? Universal Studios Hollywood is working its magic to convince me that this is the most unforgettable trip in my entire life, and I can make it ten times better if I simply turn around, go back, and throw more money.

But I didn’t actually have that much fun. I got sick on Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey, and the ride glitched midway. At least I wasn’t hanging upside down in a tete-a-tete with Aragog. Frozen Butterbeer on a cold, rainy day began to feel like torture to my hands pretty soon. And perhaps the two most damning moments were these—the bookshop with Lockhart’s books was just a prop, and the Owl Post only sends postcards within the US.

On my uber ride back, I keep thinking about the people I saw. The almost-thirty man on a date with the college-aged girl who probably would never want to see him again. Jessica and her aunts, now sixty dollars lighter but still giddy. The fuming dad who didn’t want to spend another cent, the quiet daughter who knew too well to provoke him, and the brooding son who already had 75 dollars worth of stuff and wanted more. I wonder about where they are. Are they still in the park? Are they also on their way home? Do they regret going with who they did, do they regret going at all?

As for me, I’m grateful. Grateful for the freedom to roam wherever I want for however long I want, to make irresponsible purchases without being judged or yelled at, to have no one to please and no expectations to be pleased, all of which perks of someone still in that strange short window of being old enough to own a credit card, young enough that someone else pays the bills, and free enough from responsibilities and commitments to go to Universal Studios alone. It’s a window that is closing in June; who will I be the next time I go?

Rebecca

Sun, 08 Sep 2024 22:40:32 GMT

I loved this book. I loved the writing, I loved the imagery, I loved the suspense, I loved everything.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me.

This is such a wonderful opening paragraph. It sets up the suspense and the melancholy that seeps through the entire book. Du Mourier just has this lovely writing style that’s very straightforward and rich in detail, and it creates this very immersive reading experience. It’s like you’re watching a movie through the protagonists’s eyes. I wish I could write like this.

Our protagonist is a young woman employed as an American woman’s companion, and during her employer’s retreat at Monte Carlo, she meets Maxim de Winter, owner of Manderley, who lost his wife Rebecca around a year ago. She falls in love with Maxim, and he proposes to her and brings her back to Manderley.

It’s like Rebecca never left Manderley. Beautiful, charming, well-bred Rebecca, who ran the estate effortlessly, throwing parties and entertaining guests and being loved by everyone. Our shy protagonist with a humble upbringing sprials into jealousy and self-doubt, comparing herself to this perfect image of Rebecca she begins to conjure up in her mind. Meanwhile, upon returning to Manderley, Maxim has begun to grow cold and distant, and our protagonist fears that he does not love her. That he is still in love with Rebecca.

Personally, I really empathize with the protagonist. Du Mourier portrays insecurity so so well, the feeling that by not being good enough you’ve ruined your own happiness, the spiraling, the disappointment, the shame of being found out as an imposter, it’s so believable and it makes the protagonist feel so real.

After making a condemning mistake at a party, our protagonist finally confronts Maxim about all her insecurities, accusing him of still being in love with Rebecca. It is finally then that Maxim tells her the truth. The perfect, kind, lovely Rebecca our protagonist spent weeks comparing herself to did not exist. Rebecca was a selfish sociopath, and he killed her to protect Manderley when she told him she was pregnant with someone else’s child. Maxim tells our protagonist that he really does love her, but everything is too late now because Rebecca’s body has been found.

If you look up Rebecca you’ll see so many different interpretations of each character, and I think that’s another charm of this book. Our protagonist is very much an unreliable narrator—she spends the first three-quarters of the book grossly misunderstanding the situation (which isn’t her fault), and the last quarter devoted to helping Maxim get away with murder. She doesn’t give readers the full picture. It’s almost as if we’re watching the story through the cracks between Maxim’s fingers covering her eyes.

This is my take. I think Rebecca was a bad person. She’s not some oppressed wife who got murdered by an abusive husband who is now trying to manipulate a young, gullible girl into helping him get away with it. From Mrs. Danvers’s, who’s devoted to her to the point that it honestly feels a bit problematic, account of her character, it’s clear that Rebecca is callous at best and psychopathic at worst. And to be honest, although I’m not saying that murder was the correct solution, I understand why Maxim felt that he had to kill her, without even having to be an abusive husband. As for Maxim, is he emotionally abusive to the protagonist? Yes. He could’ve prepared our protagonist for what was going to happen when they arrive at Manderley. The time schedule kept at the house, arranging for a personal maid and nicer clothing, and above all giving her emotional support at Manderley so she wouldn’t spiral into thinking that she didn’t belong in a house that still belongs to Rebecca. It felt like he was deliberately belittling her at Manderley so she would grow even more desperate for his attention. And finally, our protagonist. Despite all her faults, I really do sympathize with her. I know some people find her shallow, but being so alone and isolated at Manderley from everything she’s ever known, it’s understandable that she’d want to make a place for herself, and the only way she knew how to do that was to win Maxim’s approval and love. Of course, the scene where Maxim confesses murder and all she thinks about is how he said he didn’t love Rebecca is kinda messed up. But all in all, I really don’t think she’s that bad of a person, and her slowly gaining more confidence is truly encouraging.

The ending was brilliant. I actually went back to read the first two chapters after the ending, and it made the ending even more beautiful in a devastating, haunting way. There’s a quote from Maxim where he talks about his love for Manderley that I find gorgeous

I put Manderley first, before anything else. And it does not prosper, that sort of love. They don’t preach about it in the churches. Christ said nothing about stones, and bricks, and walls, the love that a man can bear for his plot of Earth, his soil, his little kingdom. It does not come into the Christian creed.

and at the end when Manderley is burnt down, it might seem like Maxim and our protagonist are set free from Maxim’s love for Manderley and with that, Rebecca. Yet when you go back to the beginning, the book starts with our protagonist dreaming about driving back to Manderley in ruins. It feels like they’re forever trapped in the ghost of that house, forever in the aftermath, Rebecca’s ghost hovering above. It’s such an ingenius way to connect the end with the beginning.

Rebecca is an amazing book. It’s beautifully written, it’s gothic, and it opens up discussions about so many different topics. I can’t wait to read the book again knowing what I know now and see how my perception of all these characters change. Please read it.

Point Molate Beach

Sun, 18 Aug 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Marcovaldo

Fri, 26 Jul 2024 22:40:32 GMT

Marcovaldo is a collection of 20 short stories about weird episodes in Marcovaldo’s life. I loved the fantastical and lyrical prose. My favorite pieces are:

The Forest on the Superhighway, where Marcovaldo and his children chop down firewood in a forest by the superhighway, which turn out to be huge billboards.
The Wrong Stop, where Marcovaldo gets lost in thick fog on the way home and ends up on an airplane. The imagery of wandering around totally lost, blindly hoping that your next step won’t be a steep fall or a deadend, and somehow ending up alright in the clouds is just beautiful and magical.
Moon and Gnac, where Marcovaldo’s children break the neon sign across from their building. I loved the opening of the chapter, and how everything unfolded for Marcovaldo’s family was hilarious.

When Sunlight Pours from Above

Sat, 06 Jul 2024 22:12:03 GMT

You arrived early at the tiny apartment I shared with my roommate, stood outside, and waited. When I finally got home, you looked up from your phone, strands of hair falling over your eyes, and gestured at the door. I think you should check on your friends inside. They might be trying to tear your place apart. I’ll wait here for you.

The sun was bobbing like an orange beach ball in the bay when we finally headed out, cruising through the hilly streets of Chinatown and into a dumpling place. In the tiny restaurant, you asked if I’m ticklish, and I lied and said no. You leaned towards me, and the next thing I knew, your hand was cradling my palm, your fingers dancing. I froze, my face heating up, and when you finally let my sweaty, ticklish hand go, you smiled and said now I can be sure you weren’t lying.

We sat far away from the screen at the movies. As I leaned over to face you, the armrest separating us sagged under my weight and sunk into the cushioned chairs. I lost my balance, and the chairs began to stretch like bubblegum, sending us away from each other like waves on a pink, sweet sea. Toppling back, I met your eyes and mouthed what the fuck, and drawn by your half-startled, half-amused laugh, I pretended to cast my hand desperately towards you. With a gentlemanly bow, you reached over and caught me gently, your eyes never leaving me. As the lights dimmed, you lingered.

I pressed my forehead against yours, and with your fingers fluttering over my eyelids, the world spun and unfolded as shots and shots of scenery burst into and out of my vision. From tangled webs of gnarled roots at the base of an ancient cypress towering over a floating island, I raced up with the squirrels, hummed with the cicada, and finally burst through the canopy with the wind. Sunlight flowed down my hair, splashed against the massive leaves shielding the island from everything else, and rained down. For a moment everything disappeared, and in the darkness all I could feel was the ghost of your fingers pausing and pressing lightly against my closed eyelids. Confused, I tried to grasp for you, but your fingers slipped out of my hands and resumed their dance. Once again, sunlight poured from above, dragging me down, beckoning me to go.

I floated in front of a gray balcony. A pair of pink flip-flops were propped against the glass door. Through the half-drawn curtains, I saw someone inside stretch and turn towards me. You looked older. Your arms were wrapped tightly around someone’s shoulder, and slowly, you turned away once again. The TV screen in your room was frozen on the last scene of the film you’d been watching. It was me, sitting alone in a seat far away from the screen in a movie theater. I watched as you lifted your fingers from my eyes one by one. As you stood up and my eyelids began to flutter, the screen grew dark, and a waterfall of light cascaded down from between the gaps in the canopy. Through the light, I saw the person you’d been holding fade away. You turned towards me for one last time, smiling, and let me go.

Ocean Beach 3

Wed, 03 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Ocean Beach 2

Wed, 03 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Ocean Beach 1

Wed, 03 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Turned 21

Fri, 21 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

Mon, 13 May 2024 22:12:03 GMT

He fell in love with a pair of white, pointy shoes when he passed by a small shoe store about to go out of business. It was the only shop on the lonely road he walked every day. The door was left ajar, beckoning him in.

The shop was a sea of wrapping paper. He stood still, waiting for someone to come and greet him. It was eerily quiet, save for the rustling of the waves of paper licking at his feet. A sharp sting on his ankle startled him, and he instinctively reached down and slapped. There was nothing on his palm except a thin layer of dust. A thin layer of dust had settled on everything in a short span of minutes.

Behind him, he heard a click. The door had shut itself. With deafening rumbles, a towering mountain of half-open shoe boxes shot rapidly from the ground, guarding the door, and began spewing out a deluge of wrapping paper. A faint beam of light that had escaped from behind the waterfall beckoned. The torrents of paper grew more turbulent. He forced a step toward the direction of the light. The maelstrom was now violent, swirling around him, sniping, biting, sweeping him off of his feet. Panicked, he yanked himself up and spun towards the display window. To his surprise, the display window had disappeared. Instead, the walls of the shop had become entirely transparent, revealing the night sky outside. Stars twinkled.

Dust fell like rain. The torrents of paper slowed, churning sluggishly as layers of dust squeezed out the empty space between crumpled pieces of paper. Wrapping paper hailed down, stoning his bare arms, as he thrashed wildly in the treacherous marsh conspiring to haul him underneath. The twinkle behind the waterfall of paper had disappeared.

There had to be a way out. There had to be. His body was now buried by a mixture of dust and paper almost up to his chest. The storm showed no sign of relenting. Paralyzed by fear, he strained his neck, his eyes desperately darting from one corner of the shop to another, looking for any hint of escape. Amidst the chaos, he caught sight of the pair of white, pointy shoes, perched calmly in a shoebox at the base of the waterfall.

He clawed his way towards the shoes against waves of dust slamming him back. Writhing masses of wrapping paper reached to ensnare him. The shop watched as he scrambled to stay afloat under the pouring dust, his labored breath barely a panicked whisper against the storm.

Trembling, he stood on his tiptoes, his face tilted upwards as if in a prayer, at the base of the waterfall. The shoebox bobbed tantalizingly before him. Summoning a final burst of energy, he wrestled his arm free from the swamp of dust and paper and grabbed at the box with desperate abandon.

His fingers wrapped around the pair of shoes, and the mountain of shoeboxes blocking the door crumbled into the sea of dust and paper. The ensuing vortex pulled him beneath. Instinctively, he gasped for air and screamed out. But an onslaught of dust slammed into his mouth, stealing away precious air, burning his throat as it ripped its way deeper within. The weight of the swirling tempest above clamped his mouth shut, and he swallowed, gagging and choking. His body contorted against the storm that had devoured him, fighting to keep his mouth open and force everything out. Swirling pieces of paper ripped open tiny wounds over his body and stole away any sound in deafening rustles.

It was a blind, deaf, suffocating eternity until a current slammed him against the door. His grasping hand found the doorknob and twisted desperately. The door swung open, and he crashed onto the pavement. Bleeding, he retched sand while gasping for breath. His body wracked with pain, fear, and relief.

Sounds of applause and jeering echoed his coughs in the empty night. On his knees, his frail arms barely able to support his own weight, he lifted his head towards the source of the sound. The twinkling stars descended.

A round orb, much larger than his head, floated a couple inches above him. Milky white sloshed within, lightly rolling the smaller dark orb pressed against the translucent, glass-like surface. In the depths of the smaller orb, a cold light twinkled as it peered.

A voice boomed from afar, “You know, this is the first time you’ve actually made it out! Congrats! But seriously, a shoe shop and wrapping paper? Who came up with this idea anyway? Rigel?”

Another voice piped up, “I thought it was creative! Also, look at how horrified he looks. This is so much more fun than watching him do whatever that was in that stupid snowglobe.”

He twisted up towards that thing right above him, anger, disgust, fear burning in his eyes. A lone star twinkled within the dark void that stared back. Dust—tears of amusement—trickled from the glistening orb and coalesced into a ribbon in the air that wrapped itself around his head and slammed it hard against the ground.

“You’re certainly a fun one. I can’t wait to see how you amuse us next.”

His arms gave out underneath him, and he lay limp on the lonely pavement, underneath the twinkling stars.

Tomorrow

Fri, 03 May 2024 22:12:03 GMT

The beginning of any old story should always be exciting.

Stepping off the plane after a thirteen hour flight, hit by the blast of cold air and unfamiliar language, she walked the air bridge. In the immigration office, she waited beside her mom for the officer to call her name, her hand clutching the clear folder holding her identification documents.

She faced the officer sitting in his tiny booth and pushed her passport and other paperwork through the semi-circle opening in the thin pane of glass separating her from the Canadian, her fingertips trembling. The officer flipped through her documents for a long long time. Waiting, she stood.

I don’t remember my early days in Canada clearly.

It all went by in a blur—the auditorium at the mouth of the forest where we learned about how to react if we were to run into a bear, the boat trip to the little island just outside of Peddar Bay, where we saw otters, a barbecue at my advisor’s house by the seaweed-covered beach. One of my first culture shocks was what they called a barbecue—there wasn’t even a grill!

As I gradually memorized the locations of the buildings in my high school and the names of my peers, things slowed down and began to fall into place. In November, I was invited to a bonfire by a new friend, a year older than me. Let’s call him my bonfire friend. Someone in his friend group who was from Quebec had grown up gathering firewood for his family, so he had us gather wood from the forest and showed my roommate how to split wood. We roasted marshmallows. The Canadians in our group preferred to smoke their marshmallows slowly atop the wood at the bottom of the fire till the marshmallows turned a pretty shade of gold; I didn’t have that sort of patience and would always thrust my marshmallow into the fire, watch it burst into flames, and throw away the charred outer layer. Grinning at my new group of friends through the flickering flames, it was as if I had found a second home.

Soon, it was winter break. I went back home with outstanding grades, giddy, and to be perfectly honest, feeling just a bit obnoxious for having successfully made a place for myself at school. I went back to my old school, wearing new black boots I had bought in Canada that made me stand taller and straighter. As I walked to my friend’s classroom, I passed by someone I had stopped talking to after a huge argument. She was part of the clique of students that received bilingual education growing up and thought about studying abroad in the future. Well, I’d made it, so I stalked past her, heels clicking.

Covid hit soon after I returned to school in January, and my school shut down in March. After it was announced that juniors were to return home while seniors were to stay until they finished their IB finals, the seniors rushed to organize the Circle. The Circle was a tradition normally done at the end of the year, where seniors, holding hands, formed a circle and had us juniors form another circle around them. Slowly, the seniors would rotate, stopping for a couple moments in front of each junior to say something, before moving again. I spent most of my time staring awkwardly into space while the people beside me cried. Then came my bonfire friend. We had grown closer, although there was always some sort of weird distance between us, and looking back I could never be sure if we were actually close, or if I was simply playing the role of the kind of person I thought he would want to be close to. I thought I should cry at the thought of not being able to see him next year, so I did and averted my eyes. When I finally lifted my head, I saw that he wasn’t crying.

The night before we left, my bonfire friend and his friends set up tents in the forest, and we played board games inside for a couple hours. Then I walked back to meet the other friends I had made, one of whom was staying up the whole night for us. We talked in front of the crackling fire in his dorm’s common room until it was time to leave and get ready. Before dawn, I went to see my bonfire friend one last time. We hugged goodbye, and he said he was probably too tired to see us off at the bus stop. That was the last time I saw him in person.

At the bus stop, my friends crushed me so hard in their arms that for the first time in my life, I had the chance to cry out, “I can’t breathe!” while flailing my arms about, as they do in movies. But then the bus came to separate us, and we drove away in the darkness. Droplets of dew condensed on the bus window, coalescing into thin streams as they slid down.

That summer, I learned that someone had faked a conversation of me confessing to my bonfire friend that I had something for him and put it in their yearbook. My roommate insisted that he must’ve felt something for me. Neither of us ever said anything, and I’ve never been sure. But of course it doesn’t matter anymore.

I returned to Canada for my senior year in September. We were forced to quarantine in a hotel for fourteen days before being allowed on campus. Ashes from wildfires in Washington state drifted northward to where I was, and from my room’s balcony, I could see the sky bleed red every dusk. I started to write again; the plastic shower curtains, the blood red sun, the vague feeling of uncertainty for the year ahead, the ashes covering the sky and the sickness spreading across the land, an end to a world I knew how to navigate.

Things sort of got better when I went back to campus. I saw my friends again, and after Canada gradually lifted restrictions on student visas, new people came just when it started to snow. Life crept into the dreary campus for a brief moment. I remember watching the newcomers hugging my friends outside of the window while doing practice problems on my makeshift bed table, a piece of wood perched on my bed posts. A thin sheet of snow covered the ground; people were hurling snowballs at each other. One of the new kids who was hugging some other kid let go to join them. But he looked up first and met my watching eyes.

Stanford decisions came mid-December. The night before decisions were released, I sat in the girls bathroom, shouting at the chimney-shaped chute connected to the second floor’s bathroom that the only thing I wanted for Christmas was the acceptance letter. I was driving myself mad at this point. A couple months later, Berkeley decisions came out during my chemistry class. I watched the girl sitting in front of me open her portal, let out a squeal of excitement, gesturing at her friend to look, and I knew I probably wasn’t getting in.

I don’t remember my last days in Canada clearly.

After all the waitlists and rejections, everything started going by in a blur. I sat at the docks and gazed at a tiny spot of light bobble in the dark waters. I watched my friend scream when she learned she’d gotten into her dream Ivy before Ivy Day. My thoughts sank into the nights I walked to the school library thinking how nice it would be to just fall asleep under the blocks of ice still floating in the bay when she told me a couple days later that she was so excited for Ivy Day, since that’s when you get to see your hard work pay off.

There was also tension simmering on campus; feelings of restlessness boiled under frustration, and anger began to swell, pushing against the restrictions imposed by the school. Two hundred teens had been confined to campus for months at that point. Vandalism spread; the auditorium windows were broken, swear words were written with chalk on the road before dorm buildings, the fire alarm in the physics classroom was tripped when someone sprayed perfume everywhere to cover up the smell of them smoking weed. Within all this turmoil, some students asked to leave, while others were asked to leave.

But of course, there were still moments of sweet clarity in this haze. During creativity week, a small group of students gathered in the floating building and wrote. The trees bobbed up and down as I concentrated on the scenes that were trickling into and taking shape in my mind. That entire week, all I could think about was writing. One night, after getting out of the shower, I stayed up in the common room, beside the electric fire, and typed down my first story. The next day, I showed it to the faculty advisor for writing, and he said he loved it. I ended up making my story into a book with the art supplies our advisor brought. My own tiny, perfect book, which I displayed proudly during Nuit Blanche, an annual all-night art festival.

The night before I left, I knocked on my houseparents’ (dorm RA) door. Most people had already left that morning, including my best friend, and I was wallowing in the regret of not having tried to make more friends. I was also lonely. My houseparents, S and B, were watching a cooking show on Netflix with their kids. I asked if I could watch the show with them, and S repeated my question. I nodded. He let me in. And then he left. I think he just didn’t know it was my last night. With B, I watched American chefs make the most amazing Halloween-themed cakes, and together we tried to guess who would win the competition. The two ladies who crafted a glow-in-the-dark witch statue with cake ended up taking home the grand prize.

The grand prize I ended up taking home was my gift for my eighteenth birthday. A covid shot I traveled all the way to New Jersey to get, three precious weeks spent with a childhood friend. MoMA, the Met, Barnes and Noble, the sun never setting in New York. Her baby cousin crushed me at scrabbles and Super Mario Smash. When it was time to go, I spent my plane ride thinking I’d spend the rest of summer mad and bitter towards my parents after a rough senior year I wasn’t ready to forget. But when my mom opened the door and thanked the taxi driver for driving her daughter safely back, I found that I just felt glad to be finally home.

And then it was September again. UCLA. I struggled to find friends that first quarter but was somehow lucky enough to make one lasting friend, who is now my roommate. My intro computer science classes intrigued me—I mean, how cool is it to give life to something that moments ago was just words on the screen—so much that I eventually switched into CS, but that’s something to come later. Yet despite all my excitement and trying my best to put myself out there, I found myself alone often, and I began to reminisce on my high school days, focusing on the days of pure joy that I spent lying around, basking in the sunlight and gazing at the ocean with friends who knew me so well. I wanted nothing more than to go back.

In February, a Taiwanese girl on my floor introduced me to a Taiwanese guy who was an alum and had been in the area forever. We went to the Studio Ghibli exhibit at the Academy Museum. On our way back, he played studio ghibli songs as we whizzed past closing shops. Neon lights bled together, sparks of light danced, and I was on a merry-go-around, watching my childhood, glazed and golden, spinning around me until I fell down, too giddy and dizzy to stand up straight. Through the magic of LA, I thought I saw my past, present, and future. I didn’t want to wake up.

That summer, I went back to Taiwan. Things felt different. My friends were busy with college activities. I had an internship that required three days in person. Suddenly, it was making plans weeks ahead to meet for a couple hours instead of them being just a couple rooms away and always there. It felt like I was trapped in the wrong time, expecting that time would still be abundant even though it had thinned as my friends became semi-adults. Taiwan was, and still is, comfortable yet jarring because I was able to remain a child there.

The following summer, I had a wonderful time interning for a company in the bay. My American dream came true. Everyone was super nice and supportive in the beautiful office, and I successfully delivered my project. Both my manager and mentor seemed happy with what I had managed to build. The last day of my internship, my manager began our final one-on-one with “Congrats.” Yet three months in the bay made me realize how fast the time I had remaining with my family was slipping away. I was graduating in two years. Summer was no longer family time. The clock ran faster than I was able to.

This winter, the Taiwanese guy I went to the Studio Ghibli exhibit with left LA. People come and go, but I never expected it to be him. On the way back from our last dinner, he dropped another masters student off at her apartment. I was left alone with him. As he drove through the underpass beside Luskin, I told him about being rejected by Palantir. It was such a random thing to mention, but I didn’t know what else to say. Keep in touch? I never thought you’d leave before me? I brought up the girl who introduced me to him. How is she doing? I’ve lost track ever since I quit instagram. Now we were driving past BFit. She made new friends at work, seems to be doing great. We were at Holly now. I opened the door and shifted so that my legs hung above the pavement. My feet hit the ground. Take care, ok? He gave me a smile and drove away. Will I ever see him in person again?

Tomorrow when I open my eyes I will spend a second in panic about where I am because it doesn’t feel like my bed at home. I always do. And then I’ll remember that I’m in America, in LA, in that same glistening city I saw atop the Griffith Observatory last spring, living the golden dream that they granted me when they let me cross their air bridge and welcomed me in.

The officer looked up, his lips pursed and his fingers drumming the surface of his desk. For a second she thought she had heard him say Sorry, we can’t give you the visa. Her mom’s sharp intake of air, swelling and swelling until she squeezed out I’m sorry I don’t know why, at which it pops like a balloon that’s been pricked, the air whooshing out of the dreams they’d been dreaming, the friends she’d make, the life-changing experiences she’d have, the golden future that she’d work so hard for.

But of course that’s not what happened. The man in the booth gave them a tight smile, slid her new study visa toward her sweating palms, and said

Welcome to Canada.

笛卡兒的惡魔

Wed, 17 Apr 2024 22:40:32 GMT

這是一本邏輯上虛實交錯的小說。

在第一篇〈笛卡兒的惡魔〉中，作者導入了哲學家笛卡兒的惡魔論證，順勢提出「我們永遠無法知道我們所認知的世界是真實而非虛構的」的論點。〈笛卡兒的惡魔〉中，最後我們得知，其實男學生遇到的惡魔、向男學生伸出援手的林若平，都是透過催眠對男學生展現的幻境。男學生在離去前，他和林若平有了以下的對話

我要怎麼知道現在沒被笛卡兒的惡魔所欺騙呢？「這就是我所說的後遺症啊，」哲學家苦笑。「你已經變成一個懷疑論者了！」

「操縱我們認知的惡魔」和「懷疑我們所知的一切」兩個概念貫串之後的幾篇短篇，而讓我印象最深刻的是〈夢澤居事件〉和〈第五大道謀殺事件〉。

〈夢澤居事件〉當中，林若平向兩位學生提出了應用華語系學生所撰，沒有解答篇的虛構小說《夢澤居事件》，讓學生根據文本推理，揪出犯人。兩名學生雖然各自提出了解答，卻無法完美解釋作品中所有不合理之處。林若平最後提出自己的看法：乍看之下無解的案件，其實使用了「不可靠敘述者」的敘述性詭計，混淆了犯案時間。只要還原犯案時間，就能推理出真正的犯人。不過，因為沒有解答篇，林若平也無法確信自己的推理完全正確。故事就算在這裡結束也不會讓人不服氣，但有趣的是，學生們最後又提出了「其實不可靠敘述者有兩個！」將《夢澤居事件》遞給學生的是林若平，說沒有解答篇的也是林若平，也就是還有種可能，《夢澤居事件》是林若平自己寫的。沒有解答篇的推理小說的解答，當然是由作者林若平自己決定啦。

〈第五大道謀殺事件〉算是本書最複雜的故事了。最初的敘事者是選修林若平開的哲學通識的大四學生小櫻。課堂上，林若平向學生們提出挑戰—解開虛構小說《伊斯特街謀殺案》的謎底。最後，沒有任何人提出林若平能夠接受的推理，於是林若平翻到該書的解答篇。解答篇以書中偵探埃瑞里的一席話作結

如果任何破案解答都有反駁的餘地，我們怎麼確定哪個答案才是真相？有沒有可能，根本沒有真相呢？也許整個事件只是想像的產物，故事裡面的一切都是杜撰出來的。既然是杜撰出來的，那麼這件謀殺案也就不一定要有真相。我們跟讀者為了一個根本沒有答案的問題絞盡腦汁—真的是徹底被玩弄了啊。

然而，小櫻發現，《伊斯特街謀殺案》並不是純然虛構的故事，而是真實事件改編而成的小說。既然是真實事件，那必然存在真相。在期末報告提出這樣子論點的小櫻終於讓林若平提出自己的推論，故事於此完結。

只是，讀者接下來會發現，這只是〈第五大道謀殺事件〉中的其中一層故事罷了。實際上，小櫻是林若平虛構的人物，林若平在課堂上提出的也並非《伊斯特街謀殺案》，而是現實中發生的第五大道謀殺事件。但這又其實是博士生李孟璇所寫的小說兼畢業論文，林若平只是受邀參加他的大綱口試，讀者這才終於到了林若平存在的現實。

誰能確保這樣子的向後推演能在自己所認知的現實結束呢？就向林若平所說，我們都可能是虛構角色。書中登場的華語系教授氣呼呼地反駁，既然小說家永遠無法把故事的細節完整呈現，但關於我的一切都是清楚且確實存在的，那麼我又怎麼可能是虛構角色？

說實話，我認為這個問題雖然很有趣，但實在沒什麼討論的意義，畢竟我們也不可能得知真相，就算得知了真相也無能為力。但假設我們真的是虛構角色好了，或許作者書寫他認為對讀者而言重要的資訊（例如「這是位華語系教授」）而細部留給角色自己決定（這位教授擁有家庭）。也就是說，在不干擾故事的前提下，角色是有某種程度的自由意志的。以這位教授來說，他的一生終究只有「華語系教授」、「李孟璇的指導教授」等等要素是不可改變的，其他隨他愛怎麼樣就怎麼樣。當然，你也可以說這件不可改變之事會像蝴蝶效應一樣影養他做的每個決定，那我也沒辦法反駁。但也可能，作為虛構角色的我們只是被賦予了作者認為重要的細節的空殼，而我們知道的「關於我的一切」只是作者為了不讓角色認為自己是虛構的人物而設計的某種機制而已。

不過扯遠了。總之，我認為《笛卡兒的惡魔》是部很有趣的的推理哲學小說。他沒有什麼晦澀難懂的哲學，連我這個沒有人文素養或哲學背景的理科生都能很輕鬆地閱讀，其中的推理也都很有趣，真的很推薦給大家。閱讀的同時，我們好像跟著林若平一同在日常中解謎，進入一個令我們熟悉又陌生的神奇世界。

另外，我覺得 Amazarashi 的「古いSF映画」跟這本書的主題蠻搭的，一併推薦給大家。

Close Your Eyes and Hope You Get There

Wed, 27 Mar 2024 22:40:32 GMT

The bus ride to LAX felt like galloping into the sunset at the end of a cowboy movie, except after disappearing into a tiny spot at the edge of the horizon, all that awaited was another vast piece of barren land, and another, and another, for me to disappear into. The sunlight outside was a murky yellow that tainted the trees with a sickly hue. Shiny white apartment buildings leaned into dirty yellow complexes, a visual summary of before and after thirty years in LA. There was a Target and a CVS and a torn-down seven-eleven all packed up in one block, and the next block was a psychic boutique, tire replacement shop, and taco food truck 3-in-1. The bus jerked and jolted as the driver swerved, and I tried my best to keep my balance so that I could still see the subtle differences between each stretch of land, enough to convince myself that the bus was still headed somewhere.

Bus rides are pretty much my only opportunities to interact with parts of LA and America that isn’t campus, where everywhere you walk you see flowers and green trees flourishing upon the money and labor pulsing under your feet, and for me to see fully fleshed out people, with significant others and grandchildren and bags of groceries, responsibilities that aren’t just going to classes, worries that balloon beyond getting a B, and weekend plans that are more than grabbing lunch and studying together. I tried to observe some of them but found that I was too dizzy from my motion sickness, so I closed my eyes. The last thing I saw was a beige two-story apartment and the dusty sedan steering in.

I thought about all the places I’d traveled to in America. A day trip to New York on another bus, trapped in traffic to pass through an underpass to actually get into New York. There was a guy lounging in his red convertible breathing in the exhaust from all the trucks and buses waiting with us, and I whispered that’s got to be really bad for your lungs. When we were finally there we went to the Met and I almost died from the excitement. Sunlight spilled in through the roof into the room that housed the Egyptian temple, and we sat beside the water after exploring all the collections, envying the locals strolling leisurely, some with kids in tow, as if all of this was the most natural thing to do on any Saturday afternoon. A three-week stay in suburban New Jersey, where to walk my friend’s baby cousin to the bus stop, we passed by a lush meadow where my friend pointed out blue jays. On the last day of school, my friend’s uncle drove us to the carnival, the sky light blue against my friend’s delighted screams on flying swings. That night we had chocolate cake. Three months in Santa Clara, where I got used to seeing this cute couple waiting for the bus together, the guy leaving to catch another bus minutes before ours would arrive, the girl texting him throughout the ride. From what I could make out sitting three rows behind the girl, her phone’s wallpaper was their prom photo. When I moved to another airbnb and had to start taking another bus to work, I wondered if they ever wondered about me. On the bus back from work I’d sometimes see this homeless old man, who boarded one day with a big scratch on his elbow that had barely started to scab. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as his injured arm hung lifelessly against his frame, the wound brushing against his grayish white shirt, leaving faint specks of blood, all while he stared outside, at the traffic that had started to build up. I started taking a different bus the next day, the old man slumped on the bus seat, his arm with the scabs like flaking fish scales too much for me to see.

I opened my eyes as the bus limped to a stop. The city bus center. I got off, no longer worried about getting off at the wrong stop after three years in LA, as a plane took off in the distance. There was a gray sign that read “LAX shuttle” beside an employee-only parking lot and a small line of people already waiting, so I dragged my orange suitcase over. A couple minutes later, a man swaggered over and started singing “Jesus, oh Jesus,” shaking a cup half full of melting ice cubes and pacing along the line of waiting passengers. If I’d been alone I would’ve seriously started freaking out, but since there were others I settled for inching farther away when he wasn’t looking. Whenever he got louder, closer, I would stare at the golden line piercing through the middle of his white, pointy left shoe. The shoes that had carried him here and made him cut in front of me to board the gray shuttle that finally pulled in. On our shuttle to LAX, he and his shoes continued to sing their song about Jesus. I closed my eyes and wondered when we’d finally get there.

On Writing

Sat, 09 Mar 2024 22:12:03 GMT

I haven’t written in more than a year. The post from February is a revision of a piece of writing I wrote years back, when I was still doing high school in Taiwan, having no clue where life would take me five years from then.

I do have a lot of ideas. I wanted to write about living alone in the bay for three months for my summer internship at the start of this school year. I wanted to write about purchasing envelopes at the USPS store in Ackerman to send in my tax documents (non-resident aliens can’t file taxes online) last week. I wanted to write about the awesome day I had yesterday, about running into Sylvia and convincing her to take Japan 130B with me next quarter, about attending math office hours and feeling that rush of excitement that is learning, about how I opened my mouth to silently squeal at how cute the squirrel by the lamp post outside of MS 4000A was when a dark-green honda with its window slightly rolled down strolled by, and the guy in the passenger seat also peeked down in wonder at the same little squirrel.

I tried, but I didn’t.

Some of my old pieces of writing are, I’d like to believe, objectively beautiful. If not beautiful, human. Meaningful. Things I’m genuinely proud of. I reread them whenever I want to write something now, as if my present had become so barren that I needed to reach into my past to find something new to say.

When I wrote “There’s this tattered bag I have tied around my waist that I drag as I trudge forward” almost two years ago, I saw a silhouette alone against a dusty plain, a tattered bag dragged over a trail of blurring footsteps and lost names, and a straight path leading into the horizon. I think that was how I imagined myself back then, a bit alone, a bit lost, but also a bit hopeful for what I’d find at the end of the road.

I’ve ended up right back behind her. To be precise, maybe I never really moved forward. The scenes along the road have changed, as in I’ve grown older and made new friends and learned more about computers and languages and math and what I love and don’t love, but maybe I’ve always really remained there, moving my legs in thin air that I mistook for solid ground, thinking I was the one moving when it really was the world.

Does that matter? Not really, since for all practical purposes, what really matters is that two years have passed, and I’ve become a “better” person—more confident, more knowledgeable, more employable. The dusty road is a metaphor, it’s weightless words, it’s something I saw in the back of my head when I was sleepy and cold and dying to write something.

I haven’t written in more than a year because I was scared. Nothing I wrote met my expectations. I was happy, I was sad, I was frustrated, I was content, but I wasn’t anything deeper than that. It was as if before the end of the road was even in sight, I had lost my own special way of interacting with the world. And whenever I looked back, I’d see her, reading aloud her essays, essays I could no longer write.

But maybe it’s too egotistical to think that I’ve moved against the world. To think that I’ve changed so much that I’m now at a point where I can’t write as I used to anymore. To lament about reaching up into the past and reaching and reaching and still not being able to touch whatever it was that made me start to write, when my past might as well be my present.

I don’t know, does it matter? Writing frees yet writing shackles. But what’s there to lose to try to write more again, even if all I can write are boring pieces of garbage? What am I scared of?

方舟

Tue, 27 Feb 2024 22:40:32 GMT

七個好友及當地人矢崎一家遭逢地震而受困於深山裡的神秘設施方舟。地震使地下水位快速上升，七天內無法逃脫的話便會全體淹死。唯一的逃脫方法是在方舟裡留下一人，操作機械以移開堵住入口的大石塊。如果犧牲一人能拯救其餘的所有人，那最該被犧牲的不就是已經有罪的殺人兇手嗎？

《方舟》大概是我這一兩年看過最好看的推理小說之一。與世隔絕的密室＋連續殺人事件對我喜歡的本格推理來說是完美的舞台。不斷上升的水平面、瀕臨臨界點的絕望感、以及方舟這個建築物本身帶給讀者的詭譎感，讓我一頁接著一頁，不知不覺就把整本書啃完了。

推理過程嚴謹，邏輯沒什麼漏洞，但是偵探推理出的動機實在很牽強。為了讓自己討厭的丈夫孤獨淹死，不惜冒著事跡敗露、自己被留在方舟內等死的風險而殺了三個人並試圖嫁禍，一般來說應該有成功率更高的做法吧，而且實在很難想像兇手痛恨自己的丈夫到這種地步。就算什麼都不做，矢崎家的一人大概也會為了保護兒子而決定留在方舟內，兇手大可等逃脫之後再擬定其他計畫。不過，因為感覺本格的很多作品並沒有那麼強調動機，而是著重於手法，所以我那時並沒有想太多。

結果完全被騙了啊，動機才是重點。兇手一開始就知道，獨自被留下才能獲救，而除了知道這點的自己，其他人都死定了，殺掉那三個人反而是給他們救贖。其他人在感到罪惡感的同時，不停說服著自己留下殺人兇手，必要時甚至逼迫兇手留下而讓其他人活命是最合理的做法。真相水落石出後，敘事者看著其他人哀求兇手犧牲自己來拯救其他人，一方面覺得醜陋，另一方面卻敵不過對自由的渴望，和其他人一起離兇手而去。沒想到，本來或許能和兇手一起獲救的自己，最後沒能通過兇手的試煉，和其他人一起死在方舟裡。

看完《方舟》的那一個禮拜內吧，腦中不斷浮現最後的那十來頁，想像著聽完兇手自白的敘述者和其他人在漆黑的通道裡等死時的懊悔和絕望感。好厲害又好可怕的一本書。

The Astronomer

Wed, 21 Feb 2024 23:46:37 GMT

She stands alone under a spilling sea.

Loose threads sway at the edge of her fraying shirt as she traces her fingers across the setting sun. Colors crash into each other, a star shatters into a million.

She traces shapes into the universe, creating collisions after collisions until blue spills over, sloshing over every street and alley. The flood washes over you, coaxing and swirling and soothing. Night runs rampant along cobblestone streets.

She watches as you learn to breathe underwater, as threads holding your consciousness together loosen and liquefy and leak into her cupped hands. She drinks.

In the mathematician’s dream, he’s fishing, casting chalk worms as bait into pools of dark green. In the writer’s dream, he’s making pottery, molding clay in his bare hands and sculpting stories with his bare mind. In the astronomer’s dream—

well, the astronomer is awake.

and he’s watching her back.

He picks up a thread that must’ve fallen from her fraying shirt, a thread that has been dipped in every color except the color that is the astronomer’s eyes behind curved pieces of glass, that is Mercury and Venus and Saturn and Sirius, that is the void to some and the light to others, all mixed into one. He places the piece of thread in his palm and offers his hand to her.

They stand together under a spilling sea.

Japan 2023 10

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Burning Little Things

Fri, 27 Jan 2023 22:40:32 GMT

I open my eyes.

In her apartment, she’s making tea, I’m sleeping, snow’s freezing in the streets.

Water into a kettle on the stove, another saucer full of milk. Black tea leaves tumble at the bottom, little kids in the adult side of summer swimming pools. I’m not awake yet. Frozen bread in the freezer, she takes out two pieces and pops them into the toaster. There’s blueberry jam in the fridge, I think she takes some.

I wake up and brush my teeth. Her cat sneaks into the bathroom with me when I’m not looking. He meowls in the closet, I stand on a chair, we glare at each other over a pile of hand-knit sweaters. Neither relents, but ice-cold water is running.

She sees me and pulls out a tea strainer from the third drawer to the left, the one that reminds me of Hermione’s time-turner. You can use this. There’s also some tea in the kettle, but I like my tea a lot sweeter than you do. I peek into the kettle. There’s not much left.

Her sister asks me to prepare lunch. I can’t cook, and she knows it. OK, I say. OK.

And I try my best, I really do. But the rice sticks to the frying pan before the sprouts are cooked, the sprouts burn before I add enough seasoning, and the seasoning plays hide and seek with me and who has time for that anymore.

They all tell me the food isn’t that bad. Just a bit bland.

Just a bit bland.

Just a bit bland. I tell myself that life here isn’t that bad.

Because I try my best, I really do. But the conversations slip through my fingers before an interesting reply deigns to sashay up to the tip of my tongue, the memories blur before they have a chance to soak and settle into paper, and the years and the relationships play hide and seek with me but I still have forever for that.

I ask my friend how she knows so many people. I can’t talk to half of the people here, and she knows it. You just talk, she says. You just go up and talk.

I see Powell cat and crouch down to pet him. Black and white, he reminds me of Dragon. You’re so cute and fluffy, I squeal as I scratch his ears and smooth his pelt. He stares away at the leaves still hanging on the trees before Kaufman. There aren't many left.

I wake up and brush my teeth. It’s 4:30 in the morning, and my twin slips in with me when I’m not watching. She stares into my eyes, so I close them, she doesn't know there's nothing to see through a piece of glass. Neither relents, and ice-cold water is running.

It used to be like this. Water into an electric kettle, a paper cup full of milk. Black tea leaves stuffed into a tiny red tea strainer, little kids in the kid side of public swimming pools. I had just woken up. Fresh toast from the cafe on paper plates, she takes none because she was just about to go to sleep. There’s packaged strawberry jam in the dayroom, I think she takes some.

In my dreams, she’s cooking, I’m eating, fried rice burns on the stove.

I open my eyes.

Questions to Ask a Banana

Tue, 06 Dec 2022 22:12:03 GMT

I have, at best, a lukewarm feeling towards most fruits when it comes to choosing the perfect exam snack. Here’s a brief list of why.

Apples: They’re good, a classic I’d say. I don’t have a problem with them, but my broken-once-and-glued-back-on front teeth sadly do. I suppose there’s also a chance you’d get your hands sticky if you munch too fiercely.
Oranges: I love oranges. Just not the peeling process. Oranges are great when you’re sitting in bed on a cold winter night reading murder mysteries, but not so great when you’re scrambling to eat something before your exams, and your nails aren’t sharp enough to cut through, and when they finally do there’s orange juice everywhere.
Tomatoes, blueberries, strawberries: These are some other fruits you might think would be nice exam snacks, but I’d argue they employ other mechanisms to save themselves from sleep-deprived, starving college students who care enough about whatever goes into their mouths. Simply imagine all the fingers that must’ve touched the piece of fruit you’re about to enjoy, and you’d swiftly realize no, they’ve got to be washed thrice under the tap, preferably with soap and more soap. Also, just as another complication, they come in bite-size pieces, so you’d need bags to even pack a somewhat decent meal.
Pineapples, watermelons, cantaloupes: Yeah, good luck with that.

I could probably go on and on, but I wouldn’t want to bore you. Suffice it to say, I’ve long arrived at the conclusion that bananas are the best kind of fruit to bring to exams. They’re a bit too dry for me, and yellow’s not my favorite color, but they’re nutritious and do the trick.

Until last night.

It was 8 pm, and my roommate mentioned an 8 am math final she had the next day. Feeling empathetic, I offered her a banana I had taken from bplate. I opened my backpack, a really pretty leather one too, and realized my laptop had crushed the banana. Now, instead of a cherished morning snack, I was left with a banana stain I don’t know how to clean, a roommate that found the entire ordeal hilarious, and a deep feeling of betrayal.

But it was no more betrayal than a long overdue gesture of defiance. A final stand from the banana that screamed you chose me only because I am convenient, not because you like me the most, and in your carelessness in treating me you have crushed me and I have no choice but to break and stain our relationship.

And it’s true. Bananas aren’t my go-to fruit in general; they’re just my go-to when it comes to exams. And when I pack my bananas, it’s never ok I’ll put you here please don’t break I love you so much, like I am with my laptop, but only a swift toss and quick push to make sure my bag closes. On rare occasions I forget they exist until they turn black and brown, and when that happens I frown and chuck out the inedible parts. Once I put myself in the banana’s shoes, I couldn’t really stay annoyed anymore. It’s a feeling we all know, really, a compilation of questions we’ve all hoped to hear from someone we desperately wanted to be friends with.

What’s your favorite childhood memory? Would it be the smell of the dirt after a summer shower, the first new leaf on a neighboring tree that marked the start of your first spring, the siblings you must have had that shielded you from typhoons and the scorching sun? What’s your favorite color? The blue of the sky you grew under, the pink of the countless sunrises you greeted across the field, or perhaps a color you have never seen before, maroon, cyan, neon pink? Do you have a favorite show? What do you do in your free time? If you could be any other type of fruit, what would you be?

Tomorrow I can go grab another banana from bplate. I can ask it every question I could ever think of, we’d hold a delightful conversation I’m sure, but no matter how many other bananas I speak to in the future, I’ll never get to hear from the stain in my bag.

So go ask these questions. Go before it’s too late.

Mike and the Overflowing Cart

Fri, 21 Oct 2022 22:12:03 GMT

The bridge to Olympic Hall is packed. I shuffle around awkwardly, trying to avoid the crowds, and end up behind a dad and his daughter.

The dad is pushing a move-in cart while the daughter walks ahead holding nothing. She pulls out her bruin card from the back pocket of her jeans, swipes herself in, and holds the door for her dad and me. They disappear into the elevator as I beep myself into the staircase. I hold my own door, careful to let it shut without slamming.

The road to the dorms is packed. I arrive a couple of days late, trying to avoid the crowds, and end up behind a family driving a white Toyota.

The mother is somewhat leaning into the father, holding a bag of groceries from Trader Joe’s. The two brothers—they look so much alike that they have to be brothers—both in white hoodies, hug. They embrace each other until they catch me staring, at which they awkwardly release each other, the slightly taller sibling wordlessly moving to grab his grey luggage from his dad.

The sky between school and home is packed. I fly alone, this time I’m part of the crowd, and I end up in a horrible TSA line in San Francisco.

I bump into a Taiwanese guy who goes to UCSD. His name is Mike, and I secretly think he swears too much. Nevertheless, he’s Taiwanese, he’s my age, and he’s CS, which checks most of the boxes for people I’m comfortable talking to when I’m jetlagged, lugging five books in my carry-on, and in a line that reaches the far end of SFO and wraps right back around. Eventually we get to security, and one of the officers gestures for me to line up at another station. I walk into the X-Ray machine, holding my hands up, and watch the piece of grey metal (plastic?) swing before me. Once, twice, alright you’re good to go. When I am done packing up my bags, Mike is gone.

Where did everyone go? I only closed my eyes for a second, and Mike’s gone, my best friend is married, and I still remember another dad pushing another cart for another daughter who stacked an iMac on another already-full cart. If it already feels this way when I’m 19, in that when I see someone else’s parents I think of my own, my dad driving to work listening to podcasts instead of my chattering, my mom setting down three plates for dinner instead of four, my room clean and pristine and so empty, missed calls on Friday mornings and missed birthdays in January, how will it feel when I’m 25 and trying to find a job here, or when I’m 35 and trying to settle down somewhere, or when my parents turn 70 over there and I’m just a little, just a little lonely over here because I still remember how when we used to go on walks at night we’d count to three and they’d swing me towards the moon and it felt like I was flying. And it’s when I catch myself glancing longingly at strangers who live like they’re still soaring that I know I’ll never be the girl whose dad pushed an overflowing move-in cart out of the parking lot just for her. I simply can’t.

Taitung 2022

Mon, 22 Aug 2022 00:00:00 GMT

Taipei 2022

Mon, 22 Aug 2022 00:00:00 GMT

夏天的最後一場雨

Sat, 06 Aug 2022 22:40:32 GMT

回過神後已經站在鐵絲網的彼端了。右手抓著鐵絲，身體微傾，只要放手就會成為在水泥叢林裡被拍死的蚊子。一直以來不斷地向前奔跑，現在只要再邁出一步就能抵達終點了哦。身後，鐵絲網的另一端會有追著我上來的人嗎？身前，看不清的水泥地上會有拉著彩帶，微笑著對我說「你辛苦了」的人嗎？

太陽逐漸升起，天空從地平線開始染上一片火紅；我逐漸落下，天空從天際開始龜裂出一道淺淺的裂痕。爾後，陽光綻放，淹沒破碎的身影。

住在五樓的高中生伸了伸懶腰，嘴裡叼著吃了一半的三明治在玄關穿鞋。「會遲到喔」，媽媽從廚房裡催促著。左手抓著書包的背帶，說句「我出門了」後又回來抓了一罐貓罐頭。他會幫路上的野貓取名字、餵他們吃東西，書包裡大概只裝著中午的便當和昨晚沒來得及寫的作業。他沐浴在陽光下，生命仍然撲通撲通地鼓動著。到了班上，他笑著問鄰座的同學，有沒有聽到清晨的雨聲。

「今天早上沒有下雨啊，你看，地上根本沒有濕。」

但他跟那場雨跳了一場舞。那是那年夏天漫長的暴雨之後，最溫柔的陣雨，轉瞬即逝。

台北的蚊子

Sat, 09 Jul 2022 22:40:32 GMT

我坐在田裡的木頭凳子上，讀著梅岡城故事。無辜的人死了，我腳邊的地不平。我爸叫我把地上的黑色帆布掀開，他用鏟子把土從縫隙往內推。推完後我將帆布放下，在凹凸不平上跳呀跳的。地還是沒有平，但我爸說這樣就夠了。他把固定用的鐵桿重新敲打入土裡。

天越來越暗，山裡似乎開始下雨，從遠遠的地方傳來雷聲。我翻著書頁，抬起頭看到月亮在雲層後閃著微光。一隻鳥向我俯衝，但我來不及按下快門，只能在這裡記錄下他的鳴叫聲。遠方傳來摩托車的聲音，我腦海裡浮現像流星劃過天際一般的車尾燈。腳踝很癢，被蚊子咬了，台南的蚊子好毒。我突然想到台北，無論和人講幾次Taipei都不習慣，少了抑揚頓挫，ㄅ甚至被硬寫成ㄆ，中文轉成英文就像是被展開的泰勒級數，我的家鄉精確到小數點下第一位。

現在若有人問我來自哪裡，我會說台灣。偶爾會有人問，是台北嗎？我會笑笑地搖頭，說I’m from the south。是啊，南方，熱帶季風的南方。

台北的蚊子也是那麼兇猛嗎？台南的蚊子啊，上星期二我被叮了幾包，今天一看，腳上還留著被叮咬的痕跡。我總覺得台南的蚊子應該要很懶惰的才對，畢竟在濕熱的天氣下怎麼提得起勁呢？這麼想來，蚊子真是令人佩服。想想已經有大半年皮膚上都不曾沾上一層黏膩的汗，短暫回家以後，手臂上的汗水層倒比較像小時候寸不離身的小被子了，稍微沉重卻能帶來滿滿的安心感。

這樣一想，大概台北的蚊子，應該說全世界的蚊子，都很兇猛吧。

食龍眼

Fri, 08 Jul 2022 22:40:32 GMT

阿嬤的田裡有幾棵龍眼樹。近年來天候異變，收成皆不好，今年甚至連一顆龍眼都沒有。

小時候經常去田裡，夏季最喜歡從龍眼樹上抓一整把的龍眼，現採現吃。初夏，有時阿嬤的龍眼樹還沒結果，我便會去偷對面人家的龍眼。大概是大人睜一隻眼閉一隻眼，雖然技巧拙劣卻也從來沒被抓過。

有時候下午後雷陣雨，我們就站在阿嬤搭的鐵皮屋工作區下，一手俐落地擠開龍眼殼，張嘴讓彈跳出束縛的龍眼ㄅㄛ地一聲滑進嘴裡。牙齒輕咬直到碰到龍眼子，再讓舌頭順著剛剛留下的齒痕將龍眼肉刮下。舌頭輕輕一勾，龍眼便順著口腔的弧度滑出，此時只剩骨頭。貪心的我偶爾會用牙齒把蒂頭的最後幾瓣果肉也嚙回嘴裡。

當然，並不是將龍眼子吐出就結束了。龍眼子出口的霎那，雙眼必須緊緊盯著在空中畫出的小弧，將其中一隻手彎成碗狀，小心翼翼地將龍眼子收藏起來，等會自有用途。當自覺龍眼子將從手掌漫出時，就靠近兩塊鐵皮屋頂之間的空隙，隨手向上一丟。龍眼子向下雨的天空衝，隨即降落，砸到鐵皮上就像雷陣雨聲。龍眼子會順著屋頂的斜度滾下來，轟隆轟隆，雷聲陣陣。

今年沒有龍眼，也沒什麼雷陣雨。我去高雄考試的時候，爸媽買了一束龍眼，一斤兩百，擺在家裡的電鍋之上。我拔下一顆想吃，太過使勁，龍眼略過我的臉龐，啪地一聲落到廚房地板，像是最近總是要下不下的雨。

可能龍眼也感覺到了吧，沾在我身上的是洛杉磯的空汙，再也不是阿嬤田裡泥土的清香了。

Taipei 2022 2

Sat, 11 Jun 2022 00:00:00 GMT

I Wrote This because I Love You

Fri, 10 Jun 2022 22:12:03 GMT

I’ll start with the lady sitting beside me on my flight from Toronto to Newark. Her acrylic nails pressed tightly against her phone as she spoke, voice steady but stretched thin. She dabbed at her eyes, and that’s when I realized she was crying. Should I have offered her a piece of tissue? I pulled out a pack of alcohol wipes instead and scrubbed at my seat handle, once, twice, thrice, as if that could stop me from being uprooted, strands of me still clinging to Canadian soil, and tossed into a hastily dug hole on the other side of the border.

Life was static in the hotel; I threw my clothes into the bottom dryer and paid for the top one. A pot of soup from last night’s meal cold on the stove, my graduation dress strewn across the bed to dry. Alice’s uncle would visit me every two days, and I’d peel myself from the bed to greet him. I had hoped for solitude for so long but I had forgotten how to enjoy it. Air drowned aside me, drunk on memories that had too little time to ferment.

Alice didn’t go home that year, but at least I got to spend my birthday with her.

Where do you call home, anyway?

Beside you, I would say, the dusty floor outside of an art museum, under the tropical sun, scrambling to balance a bowl of cold noodles on my knees as I chase after a rogue plastic bag. Beside you, kneeling on a plank of wood, scooping ice-cold sea water into a wheelbarrow. Beside you, scrunching my eyes as we laugh about how we’re so bad at switch mario, pouring water through straws to dilute 50% sugar milk tea. Beside you, your brownies, your grin, your writing, I can’t even think of anything else to say but just you. Beside you, wearing your shoe actually, poring over draft resolutions and then snippets of your school life and now anything that pops into our minds. Beside you, dumping indomie water from your window, never mind if that would attract bears at midnight; we’d be awake anyway. Beside you, as I steal one of your shoes from under the table and sneak away, as Salma knocks on my door asking if I had seen your shoes and I die laughing. Beside you, as you bend down to measure the water level of pedder bay for your IA, as you come up with a math problem not even mbm could solve, and I realize how lucky I am to have you in my life. Beside you, as we try to watch a movie but end up just talking, as you complain about my passive-aggressiveness and I laugh and say and that’s why you love me. Beside you, playing volleyball in your room with you and your sister, your mom had made me her special porridge. Beside you, as you indulge me in my ridiculous obsession over cute stationery, as you smugly boast about your girlfriend, you’re such a simp. Beside you, staring at your slipper that somehow ended up on top of Woodward, and contemplating if it would be worth risking my life climbing up a frozen roof for you. Beside you, beside you, beside you, until I was no longer beside you.

I was uprooted, and it felt like I couldn’t breathe, that without the bits and pieces I left in you, that you left in me, I was withering and wilting and wasting away. The hole I was thrown into was too big, and I couldn’t fill the void.

But now I sit beside Janss steps, my bare feet against moist earth. An hour ago I lay down and saw stars; I bet those are the stars we once gazed at together. Graduating seniors ice block beside me, losing control and tumbling, rolling, somersaulting down their way. The sky is so wide. It is as if I could breathe in the whole world, as if the air could slowly trickle in and fill up all the tiny gaps you left.

And it suddenly occurs to me that I envy my ECE3 car. It can veer off course, crashing into walls screaming and wailing and complaining, and a sad engineer would dive after it and stop it from hurting itself. If I repeatedly throw myself against the wall when my car doesn’t work ,I’d probably get thrown out of the lab. And thus I told Emily that Friday I was having my first sad engineer moment. She glanced at me, incredulous. First? This is your first sad engineer moment? What about Mario? CS33? And I suppose what I had meant was I was having my first sad group engineer moment. In the dimly lit corridor of Engineering 4, crouching over a dirty track, writing code, cursing arduino with a bunch of other (I assume) sad engineers, I could feel new roots growing, holding onto new soil, a new life.

And I finally got to return to the ocean. The water was so cold, but I would’ve let the water take me for all I cared. Volleyball, wrestling, Chinese rolling off my tongue for hours and hours. The faces were different, but they made it feel like home again. I went to the beach again a couple weeks later, exactly a year after I left Pearson. They started a fire with lighter fluid, and I guess some things do change, but the s’mores tasted just as good. When we left we saw fireworks.

And of course, other things. Studio ghibli, zip cars, people who stop and wait to make sure you don’t wander off lost. Free pizza, column cookies, frisbee and the beach with giants. Grabbing food, ramen and donuts, you should be honored because you’re the only one I roast here. Mirror selfies, future roommates, I’ll see you back in Taiwan?

It’s 3:25 am and I’m in Powell, pulling an all-nighter not for finals but for the aesthetics. A couple of hours ago I was lying on the damp grass by Janss steps; through my drooping eyelids I could almost see the buzzing around Engineering 4. The moon was hidden behind clouds when I went out at 10 pm to meet Jenny; I’d like to think it didn’t want to watch people leave, or what people left behind. But the sky has now cleared up, and the dark spots of the moon saw everything.

It’s crazy that I’m leaving, when everything had just started to make sense. In six hours, in two hours, and then the sun blossomed from the tip of the tree outside of Rende. I packed up and left, leaving everything exactly how I found them nine months ago, except for the desk I had pulled out with Athena and couldn’t push back by myself.

Physically I’m leaving UCLA, but mentally it feels like I’m leaving Pearson again. There’s this tattered bag I have tied around my waist that I drag as I trudge forward. With every step something important is left behind on the dusty road, but with every step I bend and pick up a pretty-looking rock, or maybe a funny-looking flower, that reminds me of the old one I lost, and place it into my bag. And I guess this is how you get used to everything. How I will have to get used to everything.

Carson, What's Wrong with You?

Thu, 02 Jun 2022 23:46:37 GMT

Carson, what’s wrong with you? I brought you to life, I soldered wires to your motors, but then you snapped your copper pieces. Your wires now hang, a noose around your broken neck, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?

Carson, what’s wrong with you? I brought you to the Olympic makerspace, I tried to fix you by shoving molten lead into your wounds, I wanted to patch you up but why wouldn’t you let me? Your wires dangle, dancing like the feet of a hanged man. I breathed in lead, I burned my fingers, it hurts but I’m trying to better understand your pain.

Carson, what’s wrong with you? I got you new motors from the lab, a fresh new heart. Now let us start over, a fresh new start. I know I forgot my adaptor, and that’s completely on me, I was just so overwhelmed by other things that I forgot about you. Are you mad at me? Because now you wouldn’t let me upload code, throwing some stupid “programmer not responding” shit. It’s all written in red like the wires you snapped, the dull pounding in my head.

Carson, what’s wrong with you? I woke up at 4:30 for you, head throbbing and ears ringing. I wanted to fix you, I know you need me to tell you what to do, you know I’m doing everything for you, right? But you just stare at me, all innocent, as you ruin my day. Red bleeds out of the screen now; it’s all I can see, hear, and speak.

Carson, what’s wrong with you? I went out of my comfort zone and asked people how I could fix you. I went out of my way to grab a new nano for you, maybe if I swap out your brain you will listen to me, right?

Carson, oh Carson. I swapped out your brain and you worked so beautifully. You followed my hand, racing to find me whenever I’m gone, exactly as you were born to do. You’re obviously not perfect yet, there are values in your head that still need to be tweaked, small bugs that need to be fixed, but you’re so close to perfection. I’m glad you finally understand I’m doing everything for you.

Carson, what’s wrong with you? Why do you refuse to listen to me now, pretending that you can’t find my usb port? I know you can hear me, your wheels still spin. Carson, why won’t you let me fix you? What’s wrong with you, Carson?

Carson, did you snap your wires again? Now one of your wheels doesn’t turn, I hope that makes you happy. Why would you ever do that to yourself?

I can’t fix you, Carson. It’s like you don’t want to know what to do, like you just want to sit there, half of you paralyzed, the other half flawed and worthless. Why don’t you see how much everyone is trying to help you?

I’m done with you, Carson. I hope you’re happy sitting there in a plastic bag strewn carelessly on my carpet, falling apart, fraying, a failure.

Carson, what’s wrong with you?

Covid Mints

Mon, 30 May 2022 22:40:32 GMT

The covid self-test kit got stuck in the Haines vending machine. I crouched down, the hems of my blue skirt brushing against autumn leaves on the ground, as if making eye contact with a plastic bag could somehow coax it out of its home.

Two pieces of mint stared back, their gaze steady, silently curious. They were about one centimeter in radius, with red and white stripes on their rims, like the pair of old-fashioned glasses my middle school English teacher used to wear. Out of place, out of space.

I’ve heard all sorts of theories about why the mints are there. The theory that seems to make the most sense is that the mints help you salivate before taking the covid test. “Except,” I remember countering, “no college student would sit down and eat candy before taking the test.” Someone else said the mints are there to hold the packet down. LA does occasionally get windy, but even so, why mints of all things?

I always throw the mints away. Maybe that’s why the packet refused to come to me, sensing the disdain in my eyes. Food coloring, excess sugar, and god forbid, peppermint.

It was the slightly curved stripes on the mints, though, that reminded me of that phrase, uttered in the underbelly of Haines, that will be part of me for the rest of my life. The red on the rim bled into the white inner circle; if you squint you could see a whirlpool.

She said, “I’m stuck in a circle of radius zero.”

When the machines in my head race to a screeching halt, when all that remains are the groans of unoiled cogs and rusted hinges, when I’m seen lying in the cracks of the deserted streets of my favorite town, too small, too weak, too tired, to do anything.

When every bit inside is set to zero. Invalid, invalid, invalid destinations; there’s no place to go. Invalid, invalid, invalid information, kicked out of everyone’s memory; there’s no place to stay. A circle of radius zero, a dot on the number line, a speck of ink that shouldn’t exist.

The two pieces of mints continued to stare back. With their big, round Doctor-Suess-style eyes, they seemed so innocent, as if I were the crazy one to have gone on a trip down memory lane nine months later, to that specific September afternoon, and relate them to exhausting episodes of spiraling. They’re just candies, after all, right?

I jammed my front arm into the vending machine, bones pushing painfully against metal, as my fingers hunted for the plastic bag. Nothing. Leaning even closer in, my ribs scraping against the lower row of the machine’s teeth, I tried again. Nothing.

I tore my arm free. The flap bounced back before swinging forward and slamming shut. The packet fell, gingerly, quietly, almost gracefully, to the bottom of the machine. It must have done a one-eighty on its final descent, for I could no longer see the mints, only a sheet of paper with test instructions printed out in a boring font. I lifted the kit out.

The mints ended up in the trash. Peppermint, old glasses, whirlpools, and all that.

LA 2022 2

Sat, 21 May 2022 00:00:00 GMT

LA 2022

Sat, 23 Apr 2022 00:00:00 GMT

Cats and Bacon

Tue, 15 Mar 2022 23:46:37 GMT

Keywords: unlawful, foundtain, bloodshed, extract, swallow, criticism, outlook, bacon, ministry, horoscope

It was raining pieces of bacon.

And cats, of course, but raining bacon was new.

Pieces of bacon sizzled in the water fountain, now gushing vegetable oil.

The fountain tossed them all into my window,

And my house overflowed.

I rode the wave out

And was arrested for “obstructing traffic with comestibles”

They brought me to

The ministry of unlawful conduct

Your honor,

These aren’t my bacon

And I did not intend to flood the city

Hmm, the judge,

A shriveled pale man

Lounged in his throne

Officer, check myhorocope.com

Sir, it says virgos should be kind today

Fine, I guess you can go

Next!

So I left the court

And waded back home

The cat that fell into my house last week

had eaten up all the bacon

Leaving nothing for me.

Track and Field

Tue, 01 Mar 2022 22:12:03 GMT

Twenty-eight degrees
Celsius, not Fahrenheit, mind you
February
whispers: but it felt like june

Doing track and field
On the track
Track my best record
The sun was in my eyes, and I lost
Track

There was this dude on the skateboard
blond, skating
Down the hill
One of his legs trailing
I could hear the soul of his sneakers
Hissing against the sidewalk
It must hurt so much
Bearing pain for something bigger
And more powerful
And having no one
Ache for you

We college students
Jaywalk
Why is it called jaywalking
My dear bluejay
Press the button

I did

that lazy white pixel guy must be slacking off again

Somewhere
In the back of my head
Someone
Planted a camera
And they’re keeping track

Track and field
Have you lost track yet

Speedwalking now
To Powell
Moment of inertia, rota
Tions

The earth is rotating
At the speed of light
Given the earth’s radius
Calculate its angular velocity

but professor, professor, wouldn’t we all be dead
If earth was rotating at the speed of light

dear child, look around you and tell me
Are things any different
with earth rotating at the speed of
Roughly 2pi / 86400 rad/s

Now shoo, shoo
Have fun in the meadows with your peers
Enjoy the sun
And be glad humans haven’t harnessed the power of
Nuclear fusion

I went out
And planted trees
On the blackboard,
On my ipad
And later I will plant another on leetcode

It was still twenty-eight when I walked back
Track and field
, Tennis court
What’s the score now?
I didn’t keep track
That’s ok,
Tis a beautiful day after all

Track my footprints
My carbon footprint
It’s so bright and peaceful
On a grove of dead trees

There are no cracks on the pavement outside Rieber

and so many cracks elsewhere

I lied, love, just squint a little harder

It’s a peaceful age
Only for the lucky people

Track and field
Keeping track of
How lucky I’ve been
I’ve scraped my knee
And broken my teeth
Somewhere,
Someone
Is keeping track
I hope that’s all I’ll ever break.

幻想的奧斯陸

Mon, 20 Dec 2021 22:40:32 GMT

她一個人飛到了挪威。走出奧斯陸機場的時候，更新了一張白雪的照片。也不等相片上傳完畢，便隨手將手機向後拋。螢幕沒碎，一半的機身仍然裸露在外，但她不在乎。

她在機場買了雙雪靴。靴子大了半號，讓她的步伐稍微踉蹌，留下深淺不一的凌亂足跡。

她走了很久很久。零下二十度的風逼出了生理淚水，但她還是沒能成功地哭出來。淚水湧出的那刻便結凍了，雪在身邊飛舞。

她迷路了。逆風而行的她早已睜不開雙眼，在森林裡四處打轉。腳下稍一不穩，便撲倒在雪地裡。

暴雪拍擊著她的背，從家鄉帶的外套根本不夠保暖。她奮力掙扎，十指嵌進壓得密實的雪，將背弓起。

並不是為了重新站起來，只是為了見證自己在雪中的死。那大概是一場她幻想已久的藝術。

雪花漫過雙眼的那刻，她的腦中浮現了三個念頭
好美
如果我在更前面的樹旁倒下的話，我是不是能找到另一個人，牽著死人的冰冷的手看著世界結束
幾千幾萬年之後，研究原始人類的科學家會不會把我挖出來做研究？被剖開的話，就不美了

欸、上次我們去市區的時候，有件衣服，我挺想要的。

你看很久的那件羊毛衫嗎？粉色那件。

你明明知道我討厭粉色。

恩、然後呢？

你要買給我嗎？跟你暗示得這麼明顯了。

大概不會吧？

我大學室友有天提了一個大袋子回來，裡面裝了一件毛絨絨的棕色外套。他跟男朋友逛街的時候看到路人穿著相似的款式，男朋友花了好大一番功夫才找來給他。

像我們這樣不挺好嗎，不管社會禮俗那套，只遵從本能也過得很快樂。這才是人類應有的樣子吧？他的指尖擦過我的臉。

我倒覺得生物的本能很噁心。

你室友喜歡那件衣服嗎？

不、他後來又買了一件藍色的，棕色那件被放在衣櫃底積灰塵。

那，妳真的希望我對妳做出那種男朋友做的舉動嗎？

大概不是吧，我們也不是那種關係。

我看著她在積雪的樹林裡蹣跚而行。她身上穿著那件白色羊毛衫，是她最後自己去買的。我知道，因為早上我發現那件衣服從衣櫃裡消失了。一點都不美，我看著她在厚厚的積雪重重地跌了一跤，膝蓋應該瘀青了吧。她打著哆嗦，或許眼角泛著寒冷逼出來的生理淚水，至少我好像在哭。

她再次重重地倒下，雙手緩慢的在空中揮舞，像是在無底沼澤裡掙扎的貓。她的睫毛應該結了一片霜，很快地她就會閉上眼睛，明明就那麼怕冷。我沒跟她說過，但她的睫毛很美。

我猜我知道她在想什麼。「如果我在更前面的樹旁倒下的話，我是不是能找到另一個人，牽著他冰冷的手死掉。」畢竟她說過相似的話。

她漸漸不動了，於是我從樹後走出來，走到她身邊。我側過身，不看她的臉。瀕死之人的臉沒什麼好看的。

我脫下手套，握住她的手。她貪婪地搶奪我的溫度，卻無力守護，一切被環繞我們的雪再次奪走。也罷、這樣就算是照著她的劇本結束了吧，我的手跟她的一樣冰冷了。

妳明明就很想活下去

The Girl Who Cried Wolf

Tue, 02 Nov 2021 22:12:03 GMT

It’s a secret that only belonged to us, the observatory on top of the hill, but now I’m sharing it with you. If you leave the Maxbell through the half-cracked window behind where Ricky always sits and tread carefully through a trail of broken branches and fallen pine cones, climb up the creaking wooden stairs and then tiptoe past the abandoned picnic table, you will see the observatory.

The observatory is a plain old building fraying at its edges. Cracked walls, a tattered iron door, and a lock so rusted that the only option to enter is through a window someone forgot to close years and years ago. The most memorable part about the building is its smell, a moldy tang that disgusts at first but gradually makes itself familiar, just like how it first made itself at home in all the grayness and decrepitude the observatory had to offer.

Anyway, my story starts with a bucket of paint, a bucket of pale blue paint Ha got at the Canadian Super Store a thirty-minute walk plus thirty-minute bus ride away. I guess it really started the day stars showered from the sky. The tip of our boots damp from the moist earth humming under us, we trekked up the secret path towards the observatory for a picnic. We lay down there on muddy blankets at the abandoned table, drinking October’s rustles as pepsi and eating starlight as freshly-baked cookies. Cupping her hands together to catch some of the wind dripping down my chin, Rothanak toasted the observatory. To our secret.

We became discontent with our little secret, you see, with that little thing, falling apart in all seventeen corners we dared to look.

We decided to paint our secret, to wrap it in pretty ribbons so that next year someone else would love it enough to adopt it as their little secret. So there would be someone else to toast it the next time the stars fall, and the next, and the next.

I dipped my paintbrush into the paint and started working, brushing over the dent from the wild frisbee incident and the angry scratches from the false bear alarm accident. Our marks became hidden under a smooth layer of pale blue, a blue as smooth as the surface of Pedder Bay when the new people come next August, a blue as pale as the November sky that watched as I erased us from our old, moldy secret.

Everything was too still, too quiet; there wasn’t a single day I was there that the forest didn’t welcome me with some sort of chirp or whoosh. I looked up and saw birds circling. I looked back and saw a wolf.

It cocked its head, and I could almost hear it thinking food? Saliva glistened at the corner of its mouth. I was alone, Ha and Rothanak had decided to go back early, and I knew I wouldn’t make it into the observatory before I got ripped into shreds.

I mustered all my courage and stomped to the rhythm of my racing heart. The wind screamed from behind me. My paint bucket rattled.

The wolf pawed at the earth. I stomped even harder. It faltered. The forest howled. Slowly but surely, it took a step back, and another step back, and fled into the woods.

I stumbled back after I was sure the wolf was gone, crumpling to the ground when I hit the freshly painted wall. Dang it, now my hoodie is dirty. There was now a smudge the shape of my back on the observatory wall. Staring at the paint, no longer glossy like the bay or clear like the sky on a sunny August day, I burst into laughter until the chilly air burned my lungs. And even then, I kept laughing.

I took the paint and brushes with me, leaving the smudge as it was.

The next day, we hiked up the secret path together, crushing leaves and branches as we munched on the cookies Ha had baked. Their jaws dropped when they saw the new human-sized smudge on the wall of the observatory.

What were you thinking? I thought we agreed to fix this place, not ruin it again?

Well, you see, I never told you, but I ran into a wolf the other day…

Keep an Outsider's Diary

Tue, 12 Oct 2021 22:12:03 GMT

8/20/2021 Fri.

Sometimes it feels like I never got off the plane, where space is blurry and time is faulty and I’m in between but never there.

A bare wall greeted me today as I exited the elevator at the mall. “We’re on the seventh floor!” a text from my friend, acquaintance, cram school classmate, whatever, read. I stood, unsure of whether I should turn left or right.

There was only one building when I left for Canada, but now they’ve built a new one I can’t navigate. There was a glass wall between me and the roller-skating rink they were in. Two of my friends were leaning against the wall, looking at me but not at me. I waved, but they didn’t notice. They glided away, laughing.

As you know, I don’t have a working phone number, so I’ve been relying on public wifi ever since I got back. The new part of the mall didn’t have wifi, so I trudged back to the part I did know. There was a glass bridge between the two buildings, like the glass bridges at airports between the airplane and everything you leave behind. I crossed, only to discover on my way to Starbucks that my favorite pastry shop was gone.

“Where are you guys?” One eternity later… “We’re on the seventh floor! Come, we’ll wait for you!” Two eternities later… I took a right after getting off the elevator. The same two girls were leaning, once again, against the wall, and I realized they were complete strangers (oh… is that why they skated away laughing?). I kept going, hoping there’d be something more than a skating rink.

They were sitting around two tables, chatting. I stood behind Regina, unsure of what to do or say. I mean, we hadn’t talked in a year. heyyyy… No one looked up, so I poked her.

Omgwehaventseenyouinsolooooonghowareyouwhendidyoucomebackwhenareyouleavingandforwhereahhhhhhhandomgdidyoupierceyourears?

OmgitssonicetoseeyouguysimdoinggreatcamebacklatejuneleavinginseptemberforLAandoogderekdidyougrowtaller?

Then the guys went to challenge the basketball machines, and the girls returned to whatever they were talking about before I arrived. I sat and traced parabolas for each ball that was tossed, but not the ones that bounced off the hoop. note to self: look up how to model basketball trajectories

If I add all the basketball shots the guys did, it’d be roughly 450, which I’ll round to 470, one for each day I was away from home. I don’t think I could’ve gotten any through the hoop.

We left the mall and went to an ancient-Egypt-themed escape room. On the way there, we passed a deserted movie theater. I used to live on top of that thing, you know, but now I can hardly remember where the front door is. We kept walking under the scorching sun, across continents and backward in history.

One of my friends had her driver pick her up when everything ended. I went with her. “I heard you’ve been out of the country since grade 7! How was America?” “I stayed until grade 10 haha. And it was Canada.” “Oh, but we had a thing that summer and you didn’t come…” I’m still there, in the corner of that photo Enoch posted on Instagram, waiting for you to see me.

Sometimes I want to stay on a plane forever, which is bizarre since I get airsick, but it’d just be this tiny tiny metal bird and me, no Taiwan, no Canada, no LA; no time, no space, just clouds underneath and ice crystals outside and constant dizziness in my mind.

I’ll be on another plane soon. Sometimes it feels like I never got off the plane, where space is blurry and time is faulty and I’m in between and still not there.

Why Are You Here?

Tue, 21 Sep 2021 22:12:03 GMT

Thirty seconds in the squeaky elevator of Young library, the jolt in my stomach as the elevator comes to a panting, wheezing stop. Fifty steps past the Arabic section, thirty steps past unoccupied cubicles. A piece of yellow gum that’s older than me stuck on the age-torn notice on my desk, graffiti praising the Romans and denouncing the Greeks, and roofs of UCLA halls outside of fifth floor musty windows.

why am i here? that’s an easy one. i needed a quiet place to study and write.

Two anxious lines of cars on Sunset Boulevard, a cacophony of voices in the belly of Parking Lot 7. Steps of stairs towards the sun, an infinity of hills towards Rieber. Ants on the pavement following a trail of spilt coke, ants on the hill waiting for their bruin cards, and ants in the city working, drinking, partying, sleeping.

why am i here? that’s a little harder. education, the city, the people, the opportunities, pick any of those and there will be truth.

But why am I here? That’s the hardest question.

My mom told me I caught pneumonia just a few weeks after I was born. In the quarantine center with five other babies, coughing, crying, and struggling to breathe (I assume), I probably would have pondered, “Why am I here?” if I had been capable of conscious thought. And as a baby who had never gotten a kite tangled in someone else’s backyard, or devoured a pint of vanilla ice cream in 34 degrees Celsius weather (93 in Fahrenheit), or stayed up late to finish a Harry Potter marathon with family, I would have come to the conclusion that we’re all here to suffer.

If you believe in Buddhism (or at least the Taiwanese version of it), you’d say I’m here because I was not good enough in my previous life to go to heaven but also not bad enough to end up an animal, or in hell. Maybe I was a con artist who scammed millionaires to donate to charity, maybe I was a butcher who took care of orphans in my town, but either way, I’m supposedly here to pay for my past sins and be repaid for my acts of kindness.

If you like conspiracy theories, you might say we live in a computer simulation, so are any of us actually here? You might also say, “Because I’m not there,” or even pretend not to speak English to avoid answering the question altogether. Or, you might write twenty-seven lines that answer the question as much as evade it, choosing not to indent so you can even get away with leaving a couple of lines blank.

In all fairness, I don’t know. Why am I here, lagging fifteen hours behind my family on the other side of the blue monstrosity they call the Pacific, speaking English when it feels like having my right airpod in my left ear? Why am I here when there are earthquakes and tsunamis and forest fires and a billion other scary things? I don’t know.

So for now, I will stick to something I know how to answer. Why am I here by this sketchy roundabout when I should have arrived at the Bruin bear already? Because google maps and my phone’s location accuracy failed me once again.

NY 2021 1

Sun, 20 Jun 2021 00:00:00 GMT

NY 2021 1

Sun, 20 Jun 2021 00:00:00 GMT

NY 2021 3

Sun, 20 Jun 2021 00:00:00 GMT

Happily Ever After

Sat, 20 Feb 2021 22:12:03 GMT

i.
It was dark. She couldn’t tell how much time it had been since she first ended up locked inside. She’d counted a thousand heartbeats, just as Grandma told her to do, and now someone had come.

ii.
Once upon a time, there was a sweet little girl. She always kept a red-hooded cloak Grandma made fastened around her neck. She was known as Little Red Riding Hood.

iii.
Red’s dad died soon after she was born. She grew up with Mother and Grandma.

iv.
Red was a clumsy girl, often tripping over chairs or spilling hot soup over herself. Grandma moved out of the house when Red turned six; her clumsiness got even worse after.

v.
Red loved Grandma very much. After she started school, she made sure to visit her on weekends and every day after classes. Red often stayed until the sun started to set and Grandma shooed her out.

vi.
“Your mother will get worried. You know what she’s like when she’s worried mad.”

vii.
When Red was twelve, Grandma fell ill. She was old, after all. Red tried to visit every day, but Mother kept her home. “Grandma needs some rest,” she said. “Let her be.” Red was a sweet little girl, so she stayed, but she worried about Grandma very much.

viii.
Red fell down the stairs and broke her leg. She hadn’t been so clumsy in a while. Her mother got her new baking supplies.

ix.
Red’s leg got better, and she decided to visit Grandma. She made two batches of cookies: one for Mother and one for Grandma. Mother loved the cookies and let her visit Grandma. She felt bad since Red had to stay home for a long time to recover. “Be back before dark. The woods are dangerous.”

x.
Red fastened her red-hooded cloak. She packed pieces of writing she had planned to show Grandma, writing supplies, and some clean clothes. Just in case she couldn’t return before dark.

xi.
To get to Grandma’s, Red needed to pass through a deep, dangerous forest. She limped and limped and limped. And bumped into the Big Bad Wolf.

xii.
“Hello there, my dear. I must say, those cookies look delicious. Where are you limping to?”
The wolf grabbed Red by the arm, and she winced.
“I’m going to Grandma’s. She’s sick, and I wanted to bring her some freshly-baked cookies.”
“How nice of you! Grandma is so fortunate to have you. Some kids these days…”
“Anyway, Mr. Wolf, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, but I should get going. I wouldn’t want to be around here after dark!”
“No, of course not. Go now, my dear.” The Big Bad Wolf licked his lips.

xiii.
The Big Bad Wolf was starving. He followed Red back to Grandma’s.

xiv.
Red stopped at the edge of the forest. She could see Grandma’s house. The sun was setting. There was no way she could get home before dark. She stared into the woods for a long, long time. “Mother would be furious,” she thought. “But she won’t come all the way here to look for me. At least not tonight.”

xv.
There were daisies at the edge of the forest. Red used to weave daisies into flower crowns for Mother. She stopped to pick some daisies. She missed Mother.

xvi.
On second thought, Red hoped Mother would come through the forest tonight. But what if she got hurt?

xvii.
The Big Bad Wolf slipped inside Grandma’s house while Red was staring into the woods and picking daisies. He swallowed Grandma in one bite - no screams.

xviii.
Grandma was dead.

xix.
Wolf put on Grandma’s spare pajamas and lay on her bed. Her pajamas were awfully tight.

xx.
Red knocked on the door. “Come in, my dear,” squeaked Wolf in his best falsetto. The air was stale and dusty. Red tiptoed closer to the bed.

xxi.
“Grandma, what a deep voice you have! I’m sorry I haven’t dropped by to take care of you.”
“Well, the better to greet you with. I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“Grandma, what big eyes you have! Has your illness gotten worse?
“Why, my dear, the better to see you with. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Sorry, Grandma. Mother hasn’t let me out of the house because I fell and broke my legs. You know what she’s like.”
“Indeed.” The wolf was getting impatient.

xxii.
“Grandma, what a big mouth you have! I’m sure it’s my imagination, but…” “Why my dear, the better to eat you with!”

xxiii.
The wolf gobbled Red down in one gulp. He fell asleep.

xxiv.
Red was alive.

xxv.
She opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the darkness. If she was alive, surely Grandma would be too, right?

xxvi.
Grandma lay dead beside her. She was not bleeding.

xxvii.
Grandma’s body was cold. Dead before the wolf ate her. Red cried. One by one, she pulled out her pieces of writing and read to Grandma. She was going to publish them after seeking Grandma’s opinions. Grandma did not respond.

xxviii.
Red rocked herself to sleep. She was sorry she did not come earlier.

xxix.
Red woke up, but Grandma did not. She showed Grandma her wounds this time, new wounds and old wounds. She was a sweet little girl, but she was also a clumsy child. She fell down the stairs quite a lot.

xxx.
Red tried to feed grandma the batch of cookies. They were no longer fresh. Grandma would not open her mouth. “After I fell, Mom gave me new baking supplies. I don’t even like to bake much, but I know you both love cookies. Eat?” Red hoped Mother would come.

xxxi.
The wolf stirred. Someone had come. Mother.

xxxii.
Mother swayed in front of the wolf. “Where is Red?” she slurred. “Where did you hide her this time, you miserable wretch?”

xxxiii.
The wolf pounced. Mother shrieked. The wolf tried to swallow Mother, but Red tugged, hard, on his stomach lining. The wolf bit down in surprise. Chomp.

xxxiv.
Red’s red hood was stained red.

xxxv.
Mother’s body was warm. Alive before Wolf ate her. Red cried. One by one, she pulled out her pieces of writing and read to her mother. “You hurt me. When I was six and crying, you locked me in my room and starved me for days. Grandma left.”
She showed Mother her scars. “See? You slapped me right here when I was eight, and your rings scraped my cheeks.” She read and read and read. “Grandma fled when I was six, but I couldn’t. I stayed, and I was a sweet little girl. See, Mother, I even baked cookies.” Mother did not respond.
Mother’s eyes were open, frozen in a scream. “‘You see? You see, mother? Your favorite cookies.”
Red rocked herself to sleep. She was sorry she did not come earlier.

xxxvi.
Red was a sweet little child. She sat there without making a sound. Mother was around.

xxxvii.
It was dark. She couldn’t tell how much time it had been since she ended up locked inside. She’d counted a thousand heartbeats, just as what Grandma told her to do, and someone came.
Mother, who now lay beside her.

xxxviii.
Red wove three crowns from wilted daisies. One for Grandma, one for Mother, one for herself.
Red lay down between Mother and Grandma.
Red was happy. She smiled.

xxxix.
The end.

xxxx.
And they lived happily ever after.

Porcupines on a Rack

Fri, 19 Feb 2021 22:12:03 GMT

A plastic rack stood lonely between the magazine stands and notebook stacks. My footsteps echoed, disturbing sleeping layers of dust.

A dozen porcupines hung from the rack’s wrinkly, gnarled arms. Squiggling to free themselves from the cage of ink and washi, they punctured the stale air inside the corner store with their squeals.

They were intelligent, devious beings. Whining, whimpering, wheedling, they lured me in with innocent smiles until the tips of my finger grazed the rough fibers of washi. A chill crept up my arm. My joints creaked. I hefted my fingers to eye level.

A drop of blood trickled down my palm. A porcupine had pricked me. He was the tiniest porcupine trapped on the piece of washi, naked except for the splash of red on his neck. A bowtie fastened itself on the porcupine’s neck.

His name tag read Walter.

Walter’s bowtie loosened, dissolving and diffusing until he was completely red. Life bled into his eyes. I stood, rooted to the ground as Walter swelled into three-dimensional space. The top of his swelling body teetered out of balance, the bottom part still glued to paper. The piece of washi stretched to accommodate Walter’s growth, flattening, churning, disfiguring the other porcupines.

Walter was now the size of a basketball, his washi skin so thin that he was almost transparent. Tiny tears crisscrossed under its quills, forming bleeding constellations under the twisted bodies of other porcupines.

Walter stood, baring his teeth and flashing its needles. Blood blossomed from his opened mouth and stained the floor. A small part of me wondered if I was responsible for mopping it up. Walter pounced.

Quills dug into my leg, and I swayed from shock and pain. Walter pulled away, preparing himself for another pounce. My sweaty palms stuck to the dust-covered floor. My nerves jumped as Walter neared. My eyelids trembled to the rhythm of my racing heart. I shut my eyes.

The attack never came. Instead, Walter leapt at the paper cup I had dropped at his first attack. and lapped frantically at the liquid pooling out.

COFFEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Walter closed his eyes, preparing to relish the surge of caffeine tumbling among the fibers of his skin. Instead, a haze of chamomile tea soaked him. Walter stared into me, his eyes tinted with betrayal. Droplets of pale yellow condensed and coalesced into Walter. Streams of chamomile wrapped around Walter’s throat, choking him until he finally lay, silent and deflated, in a pool of herbal tea.

coffeeeee…

I picked Walter and the porcupines up and hung them back onto the racks.

My footsteps echoed, soothing the chattering layer of dust covering the unswept floor. A plastic rack stood lonely between the magazine stands and notebook stacks.

Next time, Walter, you might be more fortunate.

Jmmed

Wed, 17 Feb 2021 23:46:37 GMT

Iodine
nd
cetone c
n c
use skin and eye irrit
tion (Sigm

ldrich, 2019), while HCl could c
use skin corrosion and eye d
m
ge (Sigm

ldrich, 2019). L
b co
ts, gloves,
nd goggles were worn
ll the time.

aaaaaaaAaaaaaAaaaa

Sweet Snow

Fri, 12 Feb 2021 22:12:03 GMT

Snowflakes. Spinning and twirling and pirouetting.
Like the sheep that appear on the edge of my dreams.

“I’m a sheep,” I declared. “Baa.”
“That’s pathetic, child,” she scoffed.

She taught me how to speak sheep.

That night, flocks of white grazed on grass sprouting from
the overlap of wake and dream.

“Baa baaaaah baaaa ba.”
“Baaahh baa bahhaa baaa.”

What are you doing?
We’re eating up the anxiety haunting your sleep.

The year of the ox started with sweet snow.

Objects, Objectivity, and Order

Wed, 30 Sep 2020 22:12:03 GMT

a
ceramic tub
closes its curtains
beige, all the way
up

plastic curls in the corners

silver bent seven table knives
wool washed white towels

objects, all the way
from under the drain,
flooding over closed
lids, all the way
into the vent,
swirl up
in

water sloshes
blue tinged with
green

tints the body
arms slosh, legs kick
floating
away
right down the drain
all the way

what if you open the curtains
and taste
bitterness in the way
plastic
brushes against
fingertips,
ensnares the
cheap chemicals in
rose-flavored
shampoo

gently gently
close the curtains
beige and plastic,
all the way

there is only a body floating away
bloated

in the colors of all
objects, objectivity, and order

Pearson 2

Sun, 06 Oct 2019 00:00:00 GMT

Pearson 1 2

Mon, 02 Sep 2019 00:00:00 GMT