I've been away from home since June 3. Five days in Amsterdam. Now in Brussels. Off to Paris on Monday. Holiday is a strange thing and I can't tell you what I mean by that. Branches of happiness, stress, sorrows sprawling across my lungs as I breathe, write underneath a yellow light bulb, listen to 1.30am traffic and footsteps against reflections on the windows. The night sliding by.
I have breathing difficulty at times. Irregular and (alarmingly) fast heartbeat on a daily basis. Whenever I visit the doctor - which is about once in every two or three months - she checks my pulse and asks if I've been running. It must be the right question to ask.
***
It's been a while since I wrote anything I was truly happy with, though I'd been writing whenever I could before I left. I wasn't worn out - my mind was just sort of dried up. Since I've been away, my mind has been a sticky web of blanks. It flutters, melts, then freezes before it's stretched like transparent staves. A song of many colors, plunging into darkness, rising to water and orangey in a splendid void.
It must be the right vacancy to pry into. Hope is easy - the past few years I've lived through a good many hollows and always believed that better things would come. They do. It's the halts, the violent clashes with reality - is there ever another word for this? - that make me want to sit down and cry until I'm air. Yes, I'll tell you this much - I fall easily into despair, just as I light up over plans for glorious times.
My bad habits are as good as any other's: sleeping late whatever time zone I'm in, rehearsing real and imaginary disappointments, breaking apart over the fact - or is it just an idea? - that I can't anchor my life the way I want it to go. Last weekend I was telling my friend in Brussels that I make do with what limited happiness I have in my life in Hong Kong - making ends meet, tango, seeing the few friends I actually like now and then. And that I can't complain - even such stagnant, limited happiness doesn't come easy, I work pretty damn hard on it.
***
In other news, A-Minor Magazine's Third Anniversary Issue is live and it's an issue to be proud of. A-Minor Press has selected three titles for 2013/2014 and we'll reopen for fiction submissions from July 15.
My fellow editors and I rarely talk about ourselves in relation to the A-Minor gig. I suppose they feel the same as I do - we, the people behind it, are separated from the work in a way. When the product turns out wonderful and it's liked by people, it's what it is. Let's say I'm pleased and surprised by how the gig has developed. I'm happy to think that some people - especially the authors - are happy with what we give.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
The Theatre of the Dead (III)
My grandfather (left) spent over two and a half decades in the merchant marine.
My grandfather passed away two weeks ago. This is the third death of someone I've loved most in this life that I've had to deal with in the past 14 months. This time I'd rehearsed it since my grandfather fell ill last autumn. He was 87, so death was no surprise. Still, people have been reaching out to me -- they say nothing could prepare you for the loss brought on by such absence.
Is that true? I know for sure that the certainty of death doesn't take away its terror. During his first hospital stay last October, I visited my grandfather a few times a week. The doctor had explained to us his condition -- all his organs were failing -- and I secretly wept on most nights in this bizarre early mourning. He might die this week, or next. He's on his way... as if crying would save me from what was to come soon and my tears, together with everyone else's, had formed this beautiful wreath-like ring above the old man. It was a requiem we heard in our hearts though nobody spoke of it.
Womanizing & having fun around the world.
He spoke to me while I stood by his bedside. "Where do you live now? How much rent do you pay?" I answered, then put my hand on his forehead. My grandfather had lost weight through his 80s since he couldn't eat well with his false teeth. His wrinkled skin was warm and wet; his cheeks were half sunken. His eyes -- which were somewhat like mine -- were still bright. "Don't you feel hot in here?" I combed his white hair with my fingers for a second, the picked up a pamphlet ("Wong Tai Sin Hospice for Terminally Ill Patients" or "Prevention of Influenza") on the table. "Here," I started fanning him.
"That's enough," he moved his shoulders. "You should save up for if you ever get into trouble. There might be no one who'd help you...You must waste a lot of money because you don't cook." I nodded yes. "Here," I wiped his neck and face with a wet towel. My grandfather was recalling the time when I had no money for university tuition. Funny how he imagined me in my own home -- walking past the kitchen, not cooking, wasting money. How did he find this opening to convey his understanding of me?
***
I spent two nights writing about our times together -- and I deleted those passages because I dislike that kind of self-exposure. My grandfather took care of me for some years and was one of my parents, that's all the background you need to know.
In China. He always liked to travel.
What I want to say is this -- those of you who say I couldn't have rehearsed for this loss, you are right. When my grandfather died, I was fighting a bad flu and swarmed with work, and I focused on getting on with life. The past few days I've finally had a moment to myself -- it astounds me how deep this grief is, how much I cry in mourning, at the end of the day. I never crack in front of others because that shared space with people -- existing outside of oneself -- is something else. Who understands, or has any consolation to offer? One step closer to the final abyss of life...
He'd be in his 40s in this picture.
The other day I dreamt of my favorite uncle who passed away last year. In reality, he lived till 90 - my aunt was his second wife and they had a 26-year age gap - and he was in relatively good health and spirit until the end. In my dream he was wearing a woolen hat and some kind of sportswear -- still tall and robust, sparkly with his silver hair. He was walking down the alley of the old folks home he had stayed at during his final years. "Hey," he waved at me, "let's get me out of here."
We walked past many windows and it felt like sneaking out of school. I held his arm and he started to lean against me, like a child, like a long-lost family member who had come back after many years at sea. My mission was to take him home safely -- to take him back to his former life where he was a handsome man who smoked a pipe, built model ships and hanged out with his younger friends. He grew younger by the moment while we walked down the stairs, or he grew smaller...
There was too much sun in my eyes and when I turned to the man beside me, it was my grandfather. He had white hair and red skin but he was small, like a child, clinging onto my arm. He spoke to me -- I heard his voice. I was supposed to take him home.
In China. He always liked to travel.
What I want to say is this -- those of you who say I couldn't have rehearsed for this loss, you are right. When my grandfather died, I was fighting a bad flu and swarmed with work, and I focused on getting on with life. The past few days I've finally had a moment to myself -- it astounds me how deep this grief is, how much I cry in mourning, at the end of the day. I never crack in front of others because that shared space with people -- existing outside of oneself -- is something else. Who understands, or has any consolation to offer? One step closer to the final abyss of life...
He'd be in his 40s in this picture.
The other day I dreamt of my favorite uncle who passed away last year. In reality, he lived till 90 - my aunt was his second wife and they had a 26-year age gap - and he was in relatively good health and spirit until the end. In my dream he was wearing a woolen hat and some kind of sportswear -- still tall and robust, sparkly with his silver hair. He was walking down the alley of the old folks home he had stayed at during his final years. "Hey," he waved at me, "let's get me out of here."
We walked past many windows and it felt like sneaking out of school. I held his arm and he started to lean against me, like a child, like a long-lost family member who had come back after many years at sea. My mission was to take him home safely -- to take him back to his former life where he was a handsome man who smoked a pipe, built model ships and hanged out with his younger friends. He grew younger by the moment while we walked down the stairs, or he grew smaller...
There was too much sun in my eyes and when I turned to the man beside me, it was my grandfather. He had white hair and red skin but he was small, like a child, clinging onto my arm. He spoke to me -- I heard his voice. I was supposed to take him home.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Where is My Mind?
It's Sunday 3am in Hong Kong and I have nothing new to tell you.
Just now I was looking at these fiction books on my bookshelf - from Nabokov to Alice Munro to Matt Haig, and some eccentric titles like Robert Walser's Jakob Von Gunten. I was a huge fiction reader up until about 3 years ago. I was always reading a novel or short story collection, or new fiction in a lit zine, looking for new voices, forms and possibilities...and I'd feel envious, frustrated, depressed over my failure to write fiction despite my education (2 degrees in fiction in 6 years, it all went down the drain). Still, fiction was, is, fun. Nothing beats reading a well-crafted, emotionally engaging story or novel. Some of those monstrous 1000-page novels are the best!
I don't have that kind of drive for reading fiction anymore. I can still read a good fiction book and admire it, but very few novels and short story collections hold my interest. A sloppy sentence, a less than convincing twist...I blink. I miss the desire, the sense of fun, the patience I used to have/feel. Will I ever get it back?
Last year I wrote mostly prose poetry. In December I started writing these poems in verse - I never used to write verse. Sure, I've been a poetry readers for years, but I'd studied very little poetry at school. I'm not educated the way many poets are, and I'm much more interested in European and Japanese poetry than anything else. One thing I'll be very honest about: when I pick up a popular poetry zine...I could admire the writing and then feel, "That's not me." Well-crafted as they are...a lot of these poems seem pretty "safe" to me.
Just now I was looking at these fiction books on my bookshelf - from Nabokov to Alice Munro to Matt Haig, and some eccentric titles like Robert Walser's Jakob Von Gunten. I was a huge fiction reader up until about 3 years ago. I was always reading a novel or short story collection, or new fiction in a lit zine, looking for new voices, forms and possibilities...and I'd feel envious, frustrated, depressed over my failure to write fiction despite my education (2 degrees in fiction in 6 years, it all went down the drain). Still, fiction was, is, fun. Nothing beats reading a well-crafted, emotionally engaging story or novel. Some of those monstrous 1000-page novels are the best!
I don't have that kind of drive for reading fiction anymore. I can still read a good fiction book and admire it, but very few novels and short story collections hold my interest. A sloppy sentence, a less than convincing twist...I blink. I miss the desire, the sense of fun, the patience I used to have/feel. Will I ever get it back?
Last year I wrote mostly prose poetry. In December I started writing these poems in verse - I never used to write verse. Sure, I've been a poetry readers for years, but I'd studied very little poetry at school. I'm not educated the way many poets are, and I'm much more interested in European and Japanese poetry than anything else. One thing I'll be very honest about: when I pick up a popular poetry zine...I could admire the writing and then feel, "That's not me." Well-crafted as they are...a lot of these poems seem pretty "safe" to me.
Which isn't to say I write better stuff than anyone else. I can't do what other people do. Period. In fact, I feel like a fake. When I write poetry, I probably know why I'm doing what I'm doing, then I'm clueless because I don't have any formula or rules or any kind of suggestions to go by at all. Some days, it makes me feel like I've lost my mind.
Friday, January 4, 2013
The Next Big Thing
I was asked to participate in this chain blog self-interview series by my fellow editor at A-Minor Magazine and Press, Kenny Mooney. Here we go:
***
What is your working title of your book?
The Death Circus.
Where did the idea for the book come from?
I've been going to the theatre of the dead - which, of course, is a circus - and I find myself on stage, watching the spectators...their faces are light masks across the seats. I am among them.
What happens after these visits? All sorts of terrors and fears, but also celebration of some beautiful things.
What genre does your book fall under?
Experimental poetry.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
It'd be an animated film.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Synopsis is redundant.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I plan to give these poems away as broadsides. Who wants to contribute some artwork?
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It's a work-in-progress. I'd say up to four months.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
There's any number of them... I often have Paul Celan's poetry on my mind when I write.
Who and what inspired you to write this book?
Apart from the obvious...the music of J A Ceaser (Japanese avant-garde musician). Check out the other tunes (and album covers) on the page.
What else about your book might pique the readers' interest?
Its music hits at unexpected angles, which I think some people will like.
***
What is your working title of your book?
The Death Circus.
Where did the idea for the book come from?
I've been going to the theatre of the dead - which, of course, is a circus - and I find myself on stage, watching the spectators...their faces are light masks across the seats. I am among them.
What happens after these visits? All sorts of terrors and fears, but also celebration of some beautiful things.
What genre does your book fall under?
Experimental poetry.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
It'd be an animated film.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Synopsis is redundant.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I plan to give these poems away as broadsides. Who wants to contribute some artwork?
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It's a work-in-progress. I'd say up to four months.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
There's any number of them... I often have Paul Celan's poetry on my mind when I write.
Who and what inspired you to write this book?
Apart from the obvious...the music of J A Ceaser (Japanese avant-garde musician). Check out the other tunes (and album covers) on the page.
What else about your book might pique the readers' interest?
Its music hits at unexpected angles, which I think some people will like.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
On Writing & Press
The past months I've been occupied with work and this project for which I got a grant from the HK Arts Development Council. It's a memoir of a well known politician and labour rights activist in my town. The manuscript is part translation and part writing, and it's taken a fair bit of research and thought...it's sucked up a lot of my time. I'm co-author of the English version. Whether this book will go to print is the last thing on my mind right now. I just want to get it done and go back to my own writing.
Having to put my writing on hold for months has made me feel pretty grumpy...Now the year's end is approaching and I have to wrap up this project and a couple other things, I feel as if I was having a minor asthma attack by the traffic lights, unsure if I could run and make it to safety on the other side of the road...Or that's how I feel not having written anything for myself for months. That I'm only half breathing and I don't feel like myself.
Talking about writing - earlier this year I had some prose poems published in places I like. Here're some links: a poem inspired by Shuji Terayama, my favourite director; four poems in Escape Into Life, two written for Chris, who died young; and one in Thrush Poetry Journal. There're other pieces here and there, but I'm bad at keeping track of things. I'm just not very good at promoting myself. In the past I made more efforts posting my stuff here or elsewhere...Then, a lot of the time, you just run out of steam. Like, "What for?"
I feel weary a lot. I get bored. If something new isn't happening/if I'm not doing something that's better than the last thing I'm doing - whether it materializes or not - I want to tear it apart and throw it into the bin. One of the things that I do to combat this fatigue is to keep working at the A-Minor gig. This year I've put some serious effort into upgrading the magazine with a couple of special issues and publicity...and I'm lucky to have got two talented editors to come on board.
We've just announced the launch of A-Minor Press, too, with Walter Bjorkman joining us as Managing Editor. Don't ask me how it started. It was an idea, my fellow editors were happy to contribute their time and talent, I could wear second hand clothes or do whatever to come up with the cash...(Note: I'm not that poor at this moment of my life, so no you don't need to be sympathetic). I've already got questions from a number of writers who're interested in sending work, and I'm confident of receiving quality submissions.
Doing things for others distracts me from my own fatigue. I'm also hugely idealistic, esp. for someone who became independent at a very young age and has stressed over the practicalities of life so much over the years. I have little ambition or desire to make money. When I have enough to live on, I don't complain. If I manage to take a holiday, I'm happy. I have maybe 6 pairs of shoes, 4 pairs of jeans... None of this matters. Just saying I don't want a lot of stuff.
Last night I sent some money to a writer who I know is poor. I didn't say why and she didn't ask. I asked her if she's keeping well and she told me what's happening. I think about her a lot though we don't usually talk. Despite always living in some difficult situation, she's totally dedicated to her writing - her best writing is incredible and she has such passion and talent that put many of us to shame. There've been times when I felt sick at heart and worried about the future...and I'd think of her and go, "Look at what _____ is doing!" I need more strength.
Having to put my writing on hold for months has made me feel pretty grumpy...Now the year's end is approaching and I have to wrap up this project and a couple other things, I feel as if I was having a minor asthma attack by the traffic lights, unsure if I could run and make it to safety on the other side of the road...Or that's how I feel not having written anything for myself for months. That I'm only half breathing and I don't feel like myself.
Talking about writing - earlier this year I had some prose poems published in places I like. Here're some links: a poem inspired by Shuji Terayama, my favourite director; four poems in Escape Into Life, two written for Chris, who died young; and one in Thrush Poetry Journal. There're other pieces here and there, but I'm bad at keeping track of things. I'm just not very good at promoting myself. In the past I made more efforts posting my stuff here or elsewhere...Then, a lot of the time, you just run out of steam. Like, "What for?"
I feel weary a lot. I get bored. If something new isn't happening/if I'm not doing something that's better than the last thing I'm doing - whether it materializes or not - I want to tear it apart and throw it into the bin. One of the things that I do to combat this fatigue is to keep working at the A-Minor gig. This year I've put some serious effort into upgrading the magazine with a couple of special issues and publicity...and I'm lucky to have got two talented editors to come on board.
We've just announced the launch of A-Minor Press, too, with Walter Bjorkman joining us as Managing Editor. Don't ask me how it started. It was an idea, my fellow editors were happy to contribute their time and talent, I could wear second hand clothes or do whatever to come up with the cash...(Note: I'm not that poor at this moment of my life, so no you don't need to be sympathetic). I've already got questions from a number of writers who're interested in sending work, and I'm confident of receiving quality submissions.
Doing things for others distracts me from my own fatigue. I'm also hugely idealistic, esp. for someone who became independent at a very young age and has stressed over the practicalities of life so much over the years. I have little ambition or desire to make money. When I have enough to live on, I don't complain. If I manage to take a holiday, I'm happy. I have maybe 6 pairs of shoes, 4 pairs of jeans... None of this matters. Just saying I don't want a lot of stuff.
Last night I sent some money to a writer who I know is poor. I didn't say why and she didn't ask. I asked her if she's keeping well and she told me what's happening. I think about her a lot though we don't usually talk. Despite always living in some difficult situation, she's totally dedicated to her writing - her best writing is incredible and she has such passion and talent that put many of us to shame. There've been times when I felt sick at heart and worried about the future...and I'd think of her and go, "Look at what _____ is doing!" I need more strength.
Friday, November 9, 2012
On Failure
Don't you feel like your whole life has been a failure? That you have done nothing of note and you never will? In my last post I mentioned my racing against death in my mind--every fucking moment is one to hold onto because I haven't done a fucking thing and time is running out.
Sometimes--quite often--I feel I'm done, or this life is done, it's the same struggle over and over and it gets worse. There's no hope for anything to turn around for real. If you happen to be one of the more optimistic folks, I'm glad for you, genuinely. As for me, I work fairly hard living this life, but I don't see the light. It's the only honest answer I can give. The only one I've always given and probably always will.
Sometimes--quite often--I feel I'm done, or this life is done, it's the same struggle over and over and it gets worse. There's no hope for anything to turn around for real. If you happen to be one of the more optimistic folks, I'm glad for you, genuinely. As for me, I work fairly hard living this life, but I don't see the light. It's the only honest answer I can give. The only one I've always given and probably always will.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Book. Upside Down
Glow sliced around the edge
of her photo--I don't recognize
her cheeks, her eyes, her hair
defiant above such words
I would not spill.
For Mindful Writing Day - 1 Nov 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
