Garbage Party
Dear Eugene,
Do you like writing? You must, I am sure. But it's the kind of thing that you truly like that makes you truly suffer, isn't it?
Well, I love writing, but hate the things I need to do to get myself to write. I don't hate them for what they are, but for being the price I must pay to enjoy a luxury I can't afford but now that I can't find a way to disafford the luxury I must pay the price.
This morning I almost forgot to kick my son out of bed and I was 5 minutes late and that makes a difference cos he is taking the bus to volunteer. Guess who's to blame if he misses his bus?
I opened the blinds of his bedroom window and said, Get up now and I am late waking you. He looked at the clock and proclaimed, Wow, 5 minutes, what luxury! And that word, luxury, brought out a deep resentment in me, like magma waiting all its life to burst out to give the world a hell of an apocalyptic party.
The word might be his feeble attempt at early-morning-half-awake humor, but to me it was jeering and mocking, because, Yes, I was in a hurry to come here and write and spend time and space that I can't afford if only I can live like everyone else, like a normal middle-age man, just move on and move right on to the next thing and let it be and forget about the writing, writing about stuffs millions of years old, ideas who cares who knows and who wonders about anyway. But that stupid 5 minutes, you know, the boy's gonna miss his bus and that'll discredit whatever I am writing this morning, and he will make sure I get the credit for being discredited. Forget about everything I've done this morning since 5:30, number of stuffs I've lost count to give everybody a good sensible livable life including my dog's cos that's called duty, stuffs ascribed to a role that I am taken for granted for and if I use another for this is going to be a very bad sentence and I know that too.
Yeah, and there were a few things I wanna write about, like, this morning. Philip Roth is known for giving good opening sentence to his novel. Well, I have 20 just this morning how about that? I have 20 opening sentences in my head given to me by the time I came down the hill and I can choose any or more and the rest will come out in different shapes and sizes and Roth will need to jump off the track cos a high speed train is happening here.
It's stupid to write when you are angry especially when you are so angry like I am now. You are bound to regret what comes out of you and the Pandora's Box of filth can't be contained & everybody knows the taste of his own garbage.
That's all I can afford this morning. I will try to do better, soon enough. I need to go upstairs now and see if my son is still playing with his phone in bed and pretend it's a topic we've not gone over a trillion times before and speak to him like how Adam uttered his first word tentative and tender, loving kindness pristine and still natural. This might sound cynical to you but trust me it's not. It's pretty pathetic to not get over stuffs after 8 paragraphs.
Yours, Alex
Dear Eugene,
ReplyDelete“… if only I can live like everyone else… move right onto the next thing and let it be and forget about the writing, writing about stuffs millions of years old, ideas who cares who knows and who wonders about anyway.”
In my mid-20s, I lived in LA & met Sandy. She was the kind of girl whom I truly liked that made me truly suffer. Sandy & I went to the same graduate school not too far from Disneyland, & with her next to me, I felt I must have been in the happiest place on earth. We talked & saw each other virtually everyday. She quizzed me before tests. I ate her home-cooked lunch. On one occasion, she even came with me to my church. She helped me see & feel things in ways I had not imagined. She was excited about the things which excited me. We laughed & wept together. I was truly in love with her.
If I could recall in detail one special experience with Sandy, it would be the Saturday when I came over to her house. From my rental apartment, I drove over an hour in LA traffic gridlock to get there in the evening for a home-cooked meal with her family & her boyfriend. After dinner, I offered to prepare mangoes for everyone but struggled with peeling off the skin. Sandy chuckled, came over to rescue me as usual & showed me how to peel the skin off the mango without removing too much of the edible flesh itself. This is how you cut a mango, gently & slowly, she taught me. She spent the next 10 min coaching me to the point where I found myself deeper in love with both mangoes & her.
The night was swift & sweet - so much so that our conversations coasted towards midnight. Her parents reiterated they would like to see me visit more often. In secrecy, I fantasized about having a family like hers. I need to drive back to my apartment, I told Sandy, but she insisted otherwise. No, it’s not safe for you now, she cautioned me. Come, sleep with me on my bed, she invited. This is crazy, I said. I had never once as a college student slept with anyone on the same bed. She convinced me for my safety & pulled me to her room. We managed to find space on her small bed & even treasured our time together past midnight, speaking in passion about our dreams of a happy life, a life with each other always.
Yet to love is to suffer. One day, in one of our classes together, she tapped on my shoulder from her desk behind mine to chat as usual. I turned to respond & noticed her scribbles on a scrap notepad. She was writing something cruel & judgmental about me. The comment was likely meant for her boyfriend next to her. For a moment, her eyes flashed anxiously as she covered the note. This series of imperceptible movements, like a high speed train, charged into my mind within the luxury of 5 min. My heart erupted in raging sorrow.
The 5-min discovery of what I really meant to her "brought out a deep resentment in me, like magma waiting all its life to burst out to give the world a hell of an apocalyptic party”. We ate, worked & played & on one remarkable night, we even slept together as friends in love. I had entrusted her with my life.
How could this be? If she had disclosed my personal stories to him, the one she loved most, I would not have cared. But I could not move on or move past beyond the content of the scrap note penned in the glee of gossip at the cost of my personal narrative.
Sometimes, I still feel this way about loving Jesus. He is my Greatest Friend but I wonder if He cares, knows or wonders about my ideas in any way. Why are the things in my life failing to aim towards the trajectory of the story I thought would be best crafted for me with the frailest thread of grace? How can this be?
Then I begin learning to speak "like how Adam uttered his fist word tentative and tender, loving kindness pristine & still natural” though I still have not gotten over stuffs after 8 paragraphs.
Yours, Kate