tea time and other fun distractions

In a booth by myself. The papaya milk tea is overloaded with ice, diluting what should have been. The booths around me were full when I checked into the teahouse at eleven. Now, the booths adjacent to mine are vacant. With night eyes and dim lights and me not wearing my glasses, all the girls appear stand-out pretty, and yes, a many of them do pass by, and I’m sure at least one of them has thought how attractive this writer is who scribbles in very fine and upright strokes. But from where she walks, she cannot possibly see his writing. It’s only by judging from his pensive expression and the intensity with which he grips his pen that she might assume he is writing in very fine strokes. Or to her, the fines strokes mean nothing when his contemplative presence has already captivated a corner of her mind. Maybe she only passes by and surely that is the case. And many of them put an extra bite to their catwalk, just in case the writer happens to look up. What they don’t see is that the writer is devoted to his craft.

He is thinking about a certain girl he was with twelve years ago this day. The girl had a liking toward turquoise sweaters. In the records he kept from back then, he had described her as fragile and mysterious. That was his sixteenth summer.

While he was driving downtown he revisited a song that the girl used to like. It was playing on his cassette player, but that was also when the traffic jam started on what was supposed to be the highway, and he had to hit stop, and calm, and arrive at a kind of statement that would allow for relief in the reality of heavy trucks, speed limits, and exit ramps. At the same time, he is thankful for this catalogue of feelings and the ease by which he can relive these feelings whenever he wants.

drafted on Thursday night, July 24th, at Destiny Teahouse

a makeover for one of my favourite spaces

And so Chartwell Centre is undergoing renovation! The new floor plan promises wider walkways and more tables at the food court. As I walk in today, the place in the “original” form that I have come to feel so attached to is already changing: All the floor tiles and some dry walls have been removed. The signs that displayed the names of the shops and food court stalls have been replaced by makeshift printed words on stretched canvas pieces. Where the florist used to be is covered by boards with the name of the flower shop and an arrow spray-painted on, pointing toward its temporary location a few units down the walkway. The teashop where I buy my bubble tea stays put for now. I get my tea, settle at a table, and rejoice upon this makeover.

This is so exciting.

Moments later:

An old lady drops her coins on the floor. Coins scatter all over. She steps on one to keep it from rolling. “I dare you to go pick up some coins and run!” is the suggestion that comes to me. A terrible suggestion. Not that I want to steal money from the old lady, but I am curious, just plain curious about what her reaction would be!

With her feet, she pushes all the coins to one spot. An efficient method. This way, she could pick up all the coins by crouching only once. A young person like me would bend over here and there and skip around to pick up the coins one by one by one, cashing in like Super Mario, my back and my legs full of elasticity.

Once the lady has rounded her coins to one spot, she crouches awkwardly. Just then, a young man passes by, turns around and picks up all the coins for her and puts them all back into her purse.

Because I sit and watch, I can record all of it in words.

renewing kelly chen

Was listening to Kelly Chen in my car. This one song… talks about going to concerts. The girl reminisces about a time when she was younger she used to go to concerts with her boyfriend and how people thought the two of them would stay together.

As I’m listening, I’m repegging this song (and a few of my more favourite ones) to my present state of mind. If I continue to listen to these songs so intensely, later on, I’d reflect and would end up saying to myself, this song is a song for the time I was achieving an ability to create my own happiness. And yes, there has never been a time I felt stronger about striving to be happy.

And this process of repegging or renewal seems to replace the emotions I got from when I first encountered these songs. Or have those emotions really been replaced? There is no way they can be replaced if I don’t want them replaced. So yes, it all rests within me. I’m revisiting, renewing, and repegging songs to new meanings all the time. Yet, if it is the first emotion that I want to cherish, I have access to that too.

And this is how I’ve been making meaning. It’s dangerous, assigning meaning to different random things. But here’s where my power lies: Nowadays, not only can I make my own meaning, but I can also make meaning that serves me. This way, nothing can get in my way.

The same with relationships, as I discovered this evening. I don’t move on from one relationship to another. Relationships don’t end. People never leave me, and I don’t need them to be physically here for me to feel they are here. They are all around me and I can access them at anytime.

They don’t know that I’m thinking of them. Or do they?

Last year I was at a friend’s grandpa’s funeral. My friend said to me, “Thanks for being here, even though he [grandpa] doesn’t know.” And I thought, “But he does know.”

kelly chen revisited

Listening to Kelly Chen. She doesn't have to be super pretty to be a star. She doesn't even need to hit all her high notes. A bit of character is all it takes. It also helps if she has a few songs I can relate to.

People ask me what my stories mean. I cannot answer. And it's not that I resist the question, but really, I don't know what my stories mean, and people would question my credibility as a writer. But no, I think I'm a better writer because of it. I trust that when I write about the birdcage and the open window and the stapler sitting on the table that somehow they would come together in their own ways. The point is for me to write about them as real objects, with detail. The point is I write from the centre of my being. As long as I come from the centre, everything, everything connects. I have absolute faith in this.

Someone is winking at me. No, it's me there, winking at myself. Now, what does that mean? Would you stop that please? No, it's not funny. It's not sexy, no. Stop that. Please.

There you go AGAIN!

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