carmen and meredith

Was thinking about how Carmen and the narrator would come together. Have been thinking about it for awhile. Today I sat at the food court at First Markham Place, yes, thinking exactly that. Just how Carmen and the narrator would come together and how Meredith fits into it all. Poor soul cut her hand while fixing his printer!

A few tables down, a man left his meal on the table: a bowl of noodles and a can of ginger ale on a tray. A woman wanted to make more space for her table, so she pushed the tray away a little bit but spilt the ginger ale by accident. The man came back and saw his tray drenched with soda. The paper he was reading was now soaked. He looked around. Then he sat down and continued to eat. The woman hesitated for a bit. I hated her for a moment. Then she turned to the man and said, “I’m so sorry I spilt your drink. May I buy you another one?” The man told her not to worry about it. He was a worker at one of the food stalls. It’s ok, he said. It’s ok.

Further down at the round table next to the pole, a girl put her head down on the table to rest. She had a bubble tea on her table. She had slept for half an hour. Directly in front of me, a young couple was eating. The girl had her back toward me but the hem of her gray sweater did not tuck into her pants. With her lower back exposed like that, wouldn’t she catch a cold? To my left, another young couple was eating. The girl had sat down first with her drink and a plate of chunky toast. Then her boyfriend joined her and there was a roast chicken on her tray all of a sudden. They spoke a mixture of Cantonese and English.

All the while I kept thinking about how Carmen would possibly confront her own sense of shame. I mean, she gave in, completely, to this ideal, this meticulous plan she designed about how she and the narrator would live together after her parents move to Toronto. On the bus ride home, he brought her back to earth, made her realize what a foolish thing she had been doing, carrying that big bag around with her all day.

Then I bought a Liverpool t-shirt for $25. Yes, a LIVERPOOL tee!!!

I have a 1994 Liverpool jersey folded away in a plastic box in my basement. I had worn it on three special occasions: that July afternoon I had lunch with Betty at Pizza Hut at Don Mills and Finch in our second last day of summer school; that September evening I had dinner with Maya at Duo Pietro at the upper levels of IMS before we sat in Kego Park and I told her I told her I told her ‘I like you’ and I saw her eyes teary; that V-Day evening I had dinner with Yukie at the Chinese restaurant at the 35th floor of the Sea Hawk Hotel overlooking Momochi and the rest of Fukuoka. Earlier that evening we had rolled around on the front lawn of the Historical Museum. My long gray coat was our blanket.

And tonight I have a new Liverpool shirt!!

In class this afternoon, Emily told me Ronnie said hi. Emily is my current student. Ronnie was a student I had last year. ‘Ronnie is her boyfriend. They’re going out!” Maria said out loud. She kept talking and Emily kept blushing.

Ten summers ago I sat in that summer Physics class with Betty. One day we ditched school and went to the mall. At the pet shop, the puppies bit her long white sleeves and wouldn’t let go. Her hand was bandaged that day because of something to do with the broken VCR. When we got back to the school, the principal summoned us to the office. Betty was scared. Her parents were strict. Her mom listened to our phone conversations. Her dad yelled at me. We should have packed and taken the last bus for Florida.

I had a very good dinner with mom tonight at a Shanghai restaurant.

I found my first ever diary book tonight. I was actually looking for my Pocket PC. But during my search, I found my first diary book! The cover says ‘mon cheri’. It was a gift from my English teacher in Grade Three. “I was very happy” and “I had gifts” and “Me and my friends went picnic” were phrases that came up throughout the few entries that were in this book.

I also found a Form Four class seating plan I stole from my old school on my 1995 trip back to Hong Kong when I snuck into the old school one evening and snatched the seating plan right off the teacher’s desk.

This morning I lent sekai no chuushin to Yuki and Ying Ying. As part of their homework I asked them to write a one-paragraph response to the movie. It was a wonderful movie. The piano scene almost made me cry. And the way Aki went up the stairs, and as Saku was walking away, she ran back down and collapsed in front of Saku. He died, she said, he had died.

All the while I was thinking about Meredith and how she would fit into the story between Carmen and the narrator. She didn’t want to go home because her mother had started living with a new boyfriend and she felt it was foul to be home while her mother and this man were in bed.

Then I turn on the computer. I type a piece in an effort to capture all the interesting things I saw today, including thoughts and ideas that crossed my mind, things I saw with my mind’s eye. I learned long ago that I cannot record everything. Some nights I get too tired and I’d say it’s okay to just enjoy the moment and let it pass. There was a time long ago when I would record everything. Every single thing. But then I started keeping a diary when I was Grade Three, didn’t I?

While I was waiting for this to boot, I put on my Speed CD. ‘My Graduation’. anata to deaete yokatta… ima hitori… hitomi wo tojiru… kokoro no album megureba…

(written last month)

noise

It becomes awfully weird in here when people behind me start talking loud and making pig noises. I’m only here because I have to finish some school assignments. More weird is when they talk really loud, out of control, about pranks they’ve played on people, about ideas they’ve gotten from trash movies, and I wonder what it would make of me if I were to call these people trash. What would it make of me? I am but sitting here typing up my assignment. I choose to do my work here because I fear I cannot work at home. Home is too comfortable. I would have slept if I were home.

(written ages ago)

ink sky blue night

He writes to know he exists. This shows that his existence is flickering. But it doesn't matter. The desklamp is bright and the outside is dark. It isn't so dark if you look more closely; you are still able to distinguish the different shades of blue in the sky. His window is open. Across the street a person might look into his desklamp and its core of light and consider its place in the midst of this quiet neighbourhood that is now coming to rest. Hear the train pass by in the distance? Toddlers on their wagons nearing the tail-end of their after-dinner stroll. He dips his pen in ink; there's so much good and delicate in this place. And begins the next chapter.

thoughts then book now

This is my first entry in centuries! But there is a reason why I'm here this time. I have finally installed my Pocket PC. Yes, this thing that has been such an intricate of my life since... When did I first buy this Pocket PC? I bought this in March of 2003. I can't even imagine the time way back in the days when I was living in that tiny windowless cubicle (though a warm and cozy place it was) when I typed on this Pocket PC day after day after day and never even giving a thought of buying a laptop. But now I have a laptop. Now I write on a bigger screen. Now I edit my work. I write less in my diary. I write more in my fiction. I show my work to people. I’m writing a book.