what i say when they say what they say

At the bar, they say, “Adam, you look so tired.”

When they say ‘tired’, they are referring to an indescribable depth, a certain youthfulness mixed with an inclination to contemplate the self, the people, and the world; it’s a melancholy that permeates when the writer is in a state of deep thoughts, when his eyelids seem heavy at times, trying to see what cannot be seen, and though the area around his eyes seem weathered and shaded, his vision is uncompromising.

This is what they mean when they say ‘tired.’ People lack vocabulary. It’s even more impossible to string a statement like that with a beer in one hand and loud music all over.

And I am not convinced, really not convinced of this so-called ‘tiredness’, when I walk into the washroom, look into the mirror, and all I see, each time, is a damn good-looking kid looking back at me. I sure wouldn’t mind having dinner with him, only I can’t keep him too long because at some point he would have to write something, produce some works, so to speak. I don’t know why he puts such pressure on himself or why he lives life so heavily, but that’s how he’s chosen to live, and fuck I find that painfully attractive.

earthlings and dumplings

Many books from my spacious home in Canada I didn’t bring with me to Hong Kong. Amongst these are the many short story collections that are just sitting on my bookshelf now, untouched. Tonight, I thought of Sheila Heti’s “The Middle Stories”. I thought of this book because I was thinking about dumplings, and in this book, there is a story about a dumpling… I think the story is called “The Dumpling”. It’s about how a dumpling struggles to climb up to the edge of the pot and skips over and lands (kerplat) on the tiles of the kitchen floor. The night is cold and no one helps him or even notices that he is on the floor. He is away from the pot and away from his family and he starts to think of why he did what he did. As he drowns in his own thoughts and regrets he gets cold and becomes hard and dries up…

I used to read this story to my class because it is short and philosophical in a quirky way. The kids loved how the dumpling dries up and dies a slow death.

tea, voice, invisibility

You spoke very little, drank very little tea, as the tea level remained the same in your cup. You hardly touched anything I ordered, so I ate most of it. But you liked tea. You spoke so little and with such a small voice, I had to lean over to make out what you were saying, so I gave up and started on my rice. Then, little by little, your utterances came to me in short crispy doses, and I realized by not trying so hard to listen, I began to hear what you were trying to say.

lost

Got lost in Misia’s “Everything” as I was passing through the cross-harbour tunnel with my eyes closed, only to discover, upon opening my eyes, my face-first proximity to the misty white lights of Causeway Bay’s billboards and buildings. “Everything” is the song that Misia uses to show the world how good she is, how her voice can dance, lift and land with such control and sincerity in that gentle whirling stream of space-time.

(written on Tuesday Nov 9)

pain means bread in french

I feel a gripping pain in my chest. The pain goes up my head. I lose sense of the logical sequence of my tasks. The images in my head are vivid but my thoughts are blurry.

If the heart inside my body is dripping blood, it must feel like this.

Then I go down to the streets.

I can be lining up at the cashier of the café and still be feeling it.

I can be cutting my French toast and still be feeling it.

I can be photocopying papers and still be feeling it.

I can be having lunch with my colleagues and still be feeling it.

It is when I stand in front of my class -- and I see they are engaged in their learning -- that I forget it a little.

street high car

Of the many things said to me today, I was most concerned about this.

"You have a high-pitched voice."

I think I speak with a higher pitch when I get excited about the topic of discussion. I think I also speak high when I am happy and focused. So it is a good thing. While a deeper voice is supposed to make for easier listening, I'd like to think my voice is nice to listen to.

I sound best when you sit with me in a spacious coffee shop.

Tonight, after dinner, three boys walked together for a distance of more than three subway stops. When they felt the night was too late, they took the tram back to where they started the walk. They occupied the front section of the upper deck of the tram, talking loudly and laughing, wind in their hair. The luckiest one (me) was the first to arrive home, the first to get off. As I crossed the road, passing the front of the tram, I waved to my friends upstairs and they waved back and it felt so cool and light and breezy and nostalgic and full of cheers.

solids and fragments

The night is gentle if gentleness is what I retain inside me after a long day of meeting people, talking to people, presenting myself in front of countless people. It occurred to me tonight that I just may not care what people say about me anymore, even about the parts of me that I least want to have brought up. When they say something, I just think to myself, “I know that’s simply not true.” And even if some devil within me tries to sell me on some perceived truth, I would say, “At least I accept.” And that’s that. I feel not anger. I can’t even remember the last time I felt angry.

My friends say whatever comes into their heads and I love them for who they are. As I walked away from the restaurant, I thought about what I could do for them. I’d like to think my heart is bigger than the city. Yes, that was the phrase. My heart is bigger than the city. The statement came to me effortlessly. It formed itself as I was walking on the narrow pavements of Mongkok.

Thank you for giving me a chance to revisit this existence that is so fragile and fleeting, I said to them, in my heart. My eyes may look tired, but I would never trade myself for people’s praise.

A fall allows me to practice acceptance. This way, I can jump off a building and not die.

I might even run to the top and jump again.

There I am, standing on the edge, looking over the football ground.

last dance for me

I don’t know their names and they don’t know mine but they ask me to take pictures with them and I say sure. A woman gets smashed. A man carries her away. Another man gets drunk, and his friend grabs him and tells him to shut the fuck up. In another corner, a girl takes comfort in the embrace of a married man. “The party won’t be the same without you,” a woman says to me as I motion to leave, and so I reply, “Well, in that case, do think of me in your heart.”

Not sure when I have come to let such a phrase roll off my tongue so seemingly naturally. Since long ago I have learned that nothing feels better than the petty pride I get when I walk, with a briefcase of dignity in one hand, away from a loud pissy drunken party. Yet I was the last one to leave last night.