adrienne

Adrienne has occupied my mind for the last month. To meet somebody like her in real life is something I never expected. I suppose this is part of the curious experience of writing fiction. The character you create dwells in your mind, then you come across a person who resembles her totally, and you ask yourself, can it be so coincidental that I meet Adrienne just as I'm writing about her? Or have I unfairly pressed the image of Adrienne onto this real-life person?

For the last three nights I'd slept with the lights on as a result of my inability to make up my mind between work and sleep. I woke up from a very strange dream this morning. The dream measured to more than 3 hours of dream-time but in real-time, the dream happened during my 90-minute snooze. It was the same theme. I was trying to get somewhere, in a hurry, not wanting to be late.

torn by a paradox and me looking up and down

What am I to do about these days in which I have no money but still manage to buy a box of cookies for the good people in my school tomorrow? What am I to do about the people who say I write like a woman? What about the qualities in us that make us attractive? Are these two animals not the boringest on earth: the manly man and the girly girl?

what am I to do

What am I to do about this evening, another rainy evening, little head not tilting, at all.

The teacher says to the young students, "Don't run! Otherwise I have to put a baby stamp on you..."

Something like that. I thought it kind of funny. At the other end of the building a hair salon is in business but the chairs are vacant, the mirrors unobstructed. I saw myself reflected.

we put our arms up in the air

What are we to do about these days of mid-September when the weather is sometimes hot and sometimes cold? What are we to do when we see a black garbage bag travel along the length of the green soccer pitch, its body completely submitted to the force of the wind? The bag limps from one end of the pitch to the other, arriving at the touchline in less than two minutes.

two worlds

Was at wikipedia today. I wanted to look up Helen Keller but then the news of the Montreal shooting rampage caught my attention. I read through that article about the goth gunman. I even went to vampirefreak.com. I felt a bad taste. I deleted it off my history list. Then I went back to reading about Helen Keller. I learned about the Tadoma method by which a deaf and mute person can communicate by placing fingers on the lips and throat of the speaker.

that feeling of having to retrieve yourself in the middle of a conversation

Dear me.

I caught myself walking under the orange sunset, again. Humming the same song, "koi no yokan", again.

Then I went to a birthday dinner.

I thought about rubber bands. I thought about how I need to be stretched, and when I'm stretched enough, things pass through me more easily.

Or I can let things pass through me more easily.

There were friends, friends I grew up with. We talked. We took pictures. We talked about cake baking.

I thought about my cousins in California. I thought about Jenny and Jean and Bill and Sharon. I thought about the times before I came to Canada, the many afternoons I went out to dimsum with my cousins.

I thought of my aunts and uncles. Real aunts and uncles. Not the aunties and uncles you call 'auntie' or 'uncle' because they are friends of your parents. I mean real aunts and uncles. And I have lots of them. Though this point has often been forgotten.

Because when I came here (Canada), they (my cousins) were still there (Hongkong).

I thought about Jean. I thought about the time she came to visit me in the summer of '97 when she was eight years old. We sat at the kitchen table, chatting about stuff. I showed her a box of old photographs and letters she wrote to me in her kiddy writing.

"Let's walk down memory lane," she said.

Back to this dinner tonight. Yes, I was at a dinner. Or part of me was there. Or part of the time I caught all of me there. Part of the time, only some of me.

I had wanted all of me to be there but it's difficult. Part of me always ends up elsewhere. Then in the midst of a conversation, I catch this part of me gone, and I go chasing after it. Then I look as though I'm not listening. Disengaged. But even that is only what I think others think of me.

The intense self-consciousness. Overwhelming. Heavy.

"You expect too much of yourself," a voice said to me, "You expect too much of others."

But it would be wrong to say I didn't enjoy myself when in fact I felt this out-of-this-world kind of happiness that has brought here tonight, typing here.

Have I ever been this honest in this blog? Who's reading? Yes, it's all about me. At least tonight, it's all about me. It's me here with myself trying to figure out how I can spilt myself up, served up on a plate in tiny pieces so each can taste a little bit. I am a mango cake.

Now the thoughts have... settled. The waves settle. I am okay now. Breathe easy. Again.

But dear God I am so incredibly happy I cannot control myself.

Now I think about rubber band. Pyon--

Then I think about Vancouver. I think about moving to Vancouver, finding a job there, teaching high school English, finding an apartment with a view.

I think about my book-signing event.

"I notice that all of your stories have this sad undertone."

Don't say that. Please please don't say that.

Before I went to dinner tonight, I sat in the coffee shop trying to polish up a poem. Two men behind me talked in Cantonese. They talked about the people they knew when they were in school. They mentioned names of people they went to school with. Both of these men look to be in their thirties.

It's almost midnight. I have work tomorrow morning.

Sometimes I wonder just what am I going to do with all these pebbles that whirl inside of me.

Last night on the GO bus ride home I thought about Yukie. I thought about the times we used to be so tired after a day of exploring the city. We rode the express train from Fukuoka back to Kurume. Her head on my shoulder. My head on her head.

We were on top of the world.

So there I was, last night, in the bus, alone, I closed my eyes and thought deeply of Yukie. I said to myself, "I know that by the way I'm thinking about her deeply that there must be a reaction or response of some sort that is transmitted to her so that at this very moment she might have her eyes closed and feels something tapping gently inside her chest."

Then I thought about volleyball. Then I thought about Yukie some more.

Then I can't help but to think that all my problems will be solved if only...

Well. Tomorrow I'm going for a haircut. On Tuesday classes begin. I will buy me a new jacket.

Now I'm standing very far from where I started.

I click "Publish Post". Then I shall see this mess I've made.

What's with this voice, you... this voice, sounds so sad, so sad.

But I'm learning. One of these days my arms and legs will move freely.

At that time, wherever I am, I will be there. All of me.

supercalifragilistic

Thoughts come and thoughts go... Many a times I arrive at a nice thought and I say to myself, "I shall write about this tonight," but then the thought disappears, thins out as the day passes, sliding down the drain along with the bubbly water I used to wash dishes...

The quote goes something like this: "Having nothing to do is boring. The fun is in having lots to do and not doing any of it!"

I wish I could credit the person who said that but I can't remember at this moment. Isn't it a great quote? I will share it with my class. Corrupt little minds. How can you say this to us? You are a teacher!

In class today, Priscilla said, "My mom named me Priscilla because she likes Priscilla Chan. She named my brother Bryan because she likes Bryan Adams."

Then I asked them to think of monosyllabic adjectives.

In the process I taught them the meaning of "monosyllabic" and they also learned words like "monopoly" and "monotonous" and "monochrome" and I thought about adding the word "monogamy" but I didn't include it because I didn't know how to present it and under what context. Then I asked them to think of adjectives with three syllables. They kept saying words that end with "-ful" like "wonderful" and "beautiful" and "powerful" and then I asked for adjectives with four syllables, then five syllables, then ten syllables... and by this time they were in another world. I told them I thought of a 14-syllable adjective.

supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

It's nothing new. They know the word. All kids know this. They just find it funny how I can say it like a regular world and how I'm able to use it in sentences.

ananas

A: If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be?

B: Pineapple!

A: Why?

B: Because pineapple is big and it tastes good with sausage.

(laugh)

A: It also goes well with pizza and on the tops of cocktails. Pineapple is an exotic fruit.

B: What is 'exotic'?

A: When you think of pineapple, what place do you think of? I think of Hawaii. Or it's like when you see a person wearing a shirt with bright colours and sailboats and sunshine on the design, you can say he looks very 'exotic'.

B: I see.

A: But are you okay with the pineapple kind of pointy skin?

B: Sure. Then no one can touch me.

A: As long as when they cut you open and it's bright and sweet inside, right?

B: Exactly. Pineapples have nice hair too.

catch

I thought for a long time about this poem I would write to begin my poetry collection. Then I also thought about what this poetry collection would be about. Then I realize I need not really think about what it is to be about, for I know, I know what it is that I want to write about. I just have to catch the kind of colourful air. With an empty bottle.

beautiful scene

"What advice do you have for someone who wants to be a writer?"

"Write everyday."

I can't deny how much I enjoy teaching. Maybe it's because of this that I'll never get old. It also helps that I decided not to grow up. Can I say that?

I'm so tired now.

I rode the bus yesterday in the late afternoon. I saw a boy got on the bus. A girl waved goodbye to him from the station. He waved back. The sunlight filtered through the leaves. It was a beautiful scene. I had a similar scene happen to me ten years ago. I was the boy who got on the bus. Betty waved to me goodbye. She felt sad all the time but she smiled beautifully.