Lost

I'd applied for a job and had gotten an interview, which happened earlier today. It went fine, I suppose, although I was told not to expect to hear back for a little while. Which was also fine.

What I feel now is not nervousness or anticipation, but aimlessness. My life progresses in fits and starts. Sometimes I feel like I live in a cocoon, and reality touches me only briefly. And each time it does, it hurts. I took a seminar in college - some psychology or communications thing - in which I learned that the twenties are the era in a person's life when his or her identity is being shaped. Thus, it is a turbulent time for most people. I think about this a lot, and about the professor who taught it to me. She had written me a recommendation for my law school applications. I wonder if she anticipated the turbulence that fills my life now.

I am back in my home, surrounded by my things and my documents and my photographs - all the records of my life. Today they look so unfamiliar. Digging through one of the folders in my files, I came across memos I had written, and a piece of a story. And I thought, This isn't bad. In fact, maybe it's even pretty good. But, who am I, writing this? Who was I? Sometimes the writing works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the tormented artist in me escapes to the surface: the fragile, vulnerable, fundamentally weak and fearful person in me of whom I am deeply ashamed. I spend a lot of time and energy keeping her down. I only want to be the calm, rational, strong and aggressive me. I know which me is more valued, at least in worldly terms. But who would I be without the other me? The me that I can't help feeling is the truest me?

Simple

Had lunch with a friend today, someone I haven't seen in awhile. Back when we saw each other all the time, I never thought we were particularly good friends, and we aren't, not in the sense of people who care deeply about each other. But he makes me laugh and we have a lot in common. We joke around, and hanging out with him is never boring. He restores my faith in the belief that men and women can, after all, be friends.

History

Those long days of nothing to do, got in the car and just kept driving not knowing where we were going till we ended up in San Francisco, right at Fisherman’s Wharf. Walking amongst the crowds and crowds, separating us, buffeting us, you reached out to take my hand.

You forgot. We’re not supposed to touch. We’re not supposed to feel too many things we’re not supposed to feel because our roads are going separate ways and I can’t afford to remember guitar strings on cloudy November nights, your face bent over mine. Holding me like you were afraid to hold me I was afraid to let you hold me, knowing that it couldn’t have been any other way.

I think about you a lot, all the time. You cooking in my kitchen at three o’clock in the morning as I slept upstairs; coming in to wake me, you told me I smelled of sleep and babies, but mostly good things.

You on the other end of a phone line as night ebbed on, because we had so much too much to say and so much left unsaid.

You knew me. I trusted you so much with so much almost with all of me, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t, you know you knew I couldn’t. We’re too different, our lives are too different you are going somewhere different from me.

We would have killed each other. Do you really think so? Yes yes I know so please don’t make me go there please don’t touch me no no there are no NO!

Your face over the guitar strings, when you’d look up at me just so and I could feel the world zoom in on us on my heart caving collapsing beating too strong.

Your face over the guitar strings, when your voice would blend somehow with mine and you reached out gently so gently too much too gently to brush the hair back from my face.

I thought you knew. And maybe you did. That there were too many reasons why not and the only reason why was the feeling of your hand over mine as you taught me to strum.

It’s gathering dust, under my bed, the guitar you bought me taught me to play. I don’t write any more don’t write music anymore because there is no one left to see to hear to care to understand.

My best friend, I have to let you go I have to let you go and I can’t can’t can’t can’t.

Do you remember countless hours dragging you around I have to find the perfect dress I’m so fat don’t be stupid you’ve got great legs you’re such an idiot you’re really pretty. Your foot is the same size as my hand my gosh you’ve got small feet let’s go jogging you’re kidding right I don’t jog c’mon! I’m going to get fat if you won’t run with me okay we’re going to run let’s at least run somewhere and get something to eat can I come over I really need to talk please don’t leave me alone I’m so scared let’s study chemistry I think you’re beautiful you’re such a beautiful person and you have a great heart YOUDON’TKNOWME! WE’RE TOO DIFFERENT, WE’RE DIFFERENT PEOPLE, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME, DON’T LEAVE ME I’M SO SCARED I’M SO ALONE, what am I supposed to do without you? Raining, it’s raining the smell of sidewalks after the rain, that’s what I love really I just love the rain and feeling it soft on my face raining in Baltimore you know it is could you stand to be three thousand miles away I can’t believe you flew to New York to see her I can’t believe you’re going out with him YOU’RE SUCH A JERK! You know you love me for it and maybe I do, but NO!

Sushi as in you want me to eat raw fish? It’s good trust me when have I ever lied to you? Not a good question to ask me if you’re trying to get me to do something don’t hit me don’t touch me keep your hands to yourself buddy friendly teasing your face as you drive and the way you palm the wheel do you know how much how very very much I want to say, and how very little it really is that I want to say?

Eulogy

My grandfather's hands were steady enough to pop a cyst on an infant's eyelid with a needle. With those hands, he built a surgical practice from scratch through will power, hard work, and brilliance, the brilliance that let him be first in his class in medical school. He was a kendo master and a clever linguist with a dry wit. He made people laugh, and he made them afraid. He had a deep voice and a fierce temper: his children did not sit down at the table until he had first been seated and served.

His philosophy on children and child-rearing was that children benefited from doing without. Then they could withstand whatever deprivations life threw at them later on. Or, if they were fortunate and life gave instead of withholding, they would appreciate all the more what they were given. As a child, my father rarely had a new pair of shoes. When the old ones wore out, he would patch the soles with whatever he could.

My grandfather's philosophy on grandchildren was similar. For the most part, he took no notice of them. Except for me. One of my earliest memories is of being carried on his shoulder. I would sit perched on one shoulder and he would march around town with my legs dangling on his chest. At home, he would carry me this way over to the big freezer that sat outside. In this freezer he kept Andes mints. To this day, Andes mints are still my favorites. Even after his stroke, when he sometimes didn't remember people's names, he never forgot mine.

The force of his personality was such that other people paled in comparison. He was always the most substantial presence in a room. He made a heavy imprint on people's lives. On his first wife, who died young. On his second wife, my grandmother, who suffered in silence for long years. On his life-long mistress, who bore him ten children. And on his children, whose lives continue to be shaped by his actions.

I loved him, but I didn't know him. The only real memory I have of him involves those chocolates, and the heavy watch he always wore, and the cane he carried until his stroke made him unable to walk. I wish I had known him better. I mourn for the stories I will never hear. I mourn.

The Drill

The most important tool for a new home owner is a power drill. With a full set of drill bits, which can be purchased at Home Depot for about $15.00. We bought the bits after we received the drill for Christmas. As with the grill, it was a gift that I only belatedly came to appreciate, but the drill has already proven its worth. It enabled us to put in shelves, an additional lock on the front door, assemble furniture quickly....

It is, however, important to note a caveat: learn how to use the drill before you actually attempt to put holes in the walls of your new house. It will save you some grief. Tired of waiting for my husband to get home, I decided to use the drill myself to do some minor household project. How hard could it possibly be? Insert bit, press button. Easy-peasy in theory, but in the practice of it, I put some dents in the wood of our front door, scratched up the paint a bit. :( I also broke one of the drill bits (but don't tell my husband).

At least I escaped physically unscathed, which is more than I can say for some of the other projects I've undertaken.

Signs

Yesterday, while standing in the backyard of our new house, we saw a hummingbird alight on a branch of a small tree. It came to rest on the tree, and then sat completely still. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it. The hummingbird stayed for maybe five minutes, and then it flew to a nearby tree, where it started dipping its head down to this tiny, cup-shaped thing. We didn't realize what it was at first. I thought maybe it was some odd sort of flower. And then the tiniest little bird's head popped up! Two little baby hummingbirds, in a hummingbird nest. In our backyard!

Where Are You?

Today I realized that I don't laugh much. I smile a lot, (which has its own problems), but I don't laugh much. I seem to remember that there was a time in my life when I used to laugh a lot, but I can't remember when or why or who it was that used to amuse me so much. I wish I could find them again, though.

A Hardening

I learned that my grandfather had died while standing at a sticky yellow pay phone in Monterosso al Mare, looking out over the Italian Mediterranean. Sunbathers filled the beach, lay out on rocks poking out of the ocean, strolled by with gelato in cups and cones. No one spared me a glance, despite the tears rolling down my face. I was just one more American tourist, and the Europeans looked over and through me by habit. Just one more American tourist in a place only recently popular to Americans.

When his funeral took place, I was in Santorini. It was the end of the season in Greece, and the streets of Oia and Fira were empty. The sun, though, was as strong as ever, and the ocean, the caldera, as beautiful. Between those things, a grief-filled event taking place on the other side of the world had no hold on my imagination. My grandfather's dying, even death itself, seemed impossible.

My favorite uncle was the one who had a kind word for everyone, who thought that his nieces and nephews were the smartest, handsomest people anywhere. The summer that he died was the summer that I got married. That summer, I was working hard to get in shape before the wedding. I swam three or four times a week with my future sister-in-law, an ex-water polo player. One night, I was returning from the pool, and had just pulled my car up into the driveway, when my parents burst through the front door and came running over to me. My mom was in front, and her face was contorted. I didn't have to ask what had happened; as soon as I had opened the car door, she said, "Your uncle is dead. Drowned!" He had drowned in his backyard pool. My parents, worriers by nature, had been waiting for me to get home, their grief compounded by their anxiety for me, this nasty coincidence of our contemporaneous swimming. For years after, when I swam I was afraid, not that I would also drown, but that I would see my uncle somewhere there in the water with me. I could not get near a pool without seeing him floating facedown in it.

When he was buried, I was in Kauai. No one had wanted the wedding to be put off; too many people were coming from too far away. No one had wanted us to miss our honeymoon, either, and so we went, and I cried every night. It's a testament to the island that, despite my grief, I still loved it there. Of all the many places I've been, Kauai is still the most beautiful. And yet, death was believable there.

Why am I sitting here remembering these things? What do I want? I don't know, myself. Sometimes I turn over old hurts like sharp stones, almost savoring the feel of the edge in my hands and the tickle of the blood starting to run. Forgiveness, maybe.

Sticks and Stones and Self-Deceptions

Hyper-sensitive. High-strung. Artistic temperament. Emotional. Thin-skinned. Dreamy. Naive. Overly idealistic. Loner. Misanthropic. Lonely. Temperamental. Crazy. Anxiety-ridden.

Apple Pie

In the '80s, we were an Asian family living in the Midwest. Specifically, in Michigan, in a small town about forty-five minutes from Detroit, during the period when that city was incredulously suffering from international competition in automobile manufacturing. This was not always a good place to be if you're Asian.

Once, my fourth-grade teacher assigned us to write a self-description. She then collected them and read them aloud, asking the class to guess who had written each description. It didn't take them long to link me with mine: I was the only one in the class with black hair. I had also described myself as having a "big nose;" not understanding, at that age, that my nose was not big, only shaped the way Asian noses are shaped, unlike the high-bridged Caucasian noses of my classmates. I think that my teacher, who was black, understood what was going on, saw the buds of racial self-hatred starting to grow: she stopped reading my description at that point, looked right at me, and said, "Your nose is not big." At the time, I didn't know why she said that, but her look, her tone of voice, have stayed with me long after most of my other memories, both good and bad, have faded.

I have one other clear memory from that time period. I was the new kid, again; we had left one small town in Michigan for another small town, a better one, where the kids no longer tormented me at recess. (At my previous school, I had used to feign headaches so that the nurse would send me home, enabling me to escape my tormentors.) During my first gym period at the new school, we were going to play kickball. Captains were chosen. I steeled myself to once again be chosen last. But it was different this time. One of the captains was a boy named Andy, with a buzz cut and wire-rimmed glasses. He said to the boy he had just chosen for his team, "Let's take the new girl. We don't know how she plays yet. Maybe she's really good." It was pragmatic on his part rather than kind, but to me it was as though he had smiled at me in friendship: it was the first time I could remember that someone had given me a chance, instead of pre-judging me based on what I looked like.

Mirror Mirror

From Wikipedia:

General anxiety disorder or generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) is an anxiety disorder that is characterized by excessive and uncontrollable worry about everyday things. The frequency, intensity, and duration of the worry are disproportionate to the actual source of worry, and such worry often interferes with daily functioning.

...

GAD sufferers often worry excessively over things such as their job, their finances, and the health of themselves and their family. However, GAD sufferers can also worry over more minor matters such as deadlines for appointments, keeping the house clean, and whether or not their workspace is properly organized.

Only about 30% of the causes of GAD are inherited, yet certain traits cause people to become more prone to obtaining it. People with general nervousness, depression, inability to tolerate frustration, and feelings of being inhibited are more likely to be shown in GAD patients. People with GAD tend to have more conflicts with others and are very hard on themselves, they also tend to avoid common situations for fear of worry and anxiety...

Sun and Storm

A gloomy day follows a gloriously sunny weekend. After a fantastic weekend, I'm having trouble settling back down into a workday routine.

It's a waiting period, and I'm not good at that. I feel like I am chronically tired, but friends and family accuse me of frenetic energy, constant movement, and maybe that's true. It's easier for me to be in motion, getting stuff done, crossing things off checklists, than for me to sit still and wait. And maybe that's been part of the reason for the last few months: God slowing me down, and teaching me to wait on Him.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Mourning

My paternal grandfather died yesterday. My maternal grandfather died a few months ago, in September, while I was in Italy, hours from any airport. I'm having a hard time processing my emotions. I can see how hard it is for my parents, and so what I'm feeling right now is mostly a vicarious sort of grief. I suppose my own grief will hit later on.

It was very, very hard to be away from home when my maternal grandfather died. But this feels harder, because it brings back memories from six and a half years ago, when my father's older brother died under strange and unresolved circumstances. I don't know that I've ever gotten over that. He was my favorite uncle. I still don't believe that he's gone. Everyone is flying back for the funeral, and I've caught myself a couple of times about to ask whether he was going to come too. It feels like going through his death all over again.

Field of Blue Children

It's the title of a short story by Tennessee Williams.

God has blessed me with a great life: the best husband, the best family, the best friends. Je ne regrette rien...except for the apologies I've failed to make. In many ways, I have not lived the life I should have, and when I think about it, I feel so much shame and regret and sorrow, probably much more, in fact, than the people I hurt. It's harder, I think, to be the person who hurts someone than to be the person who is hurt.

I've been thinking about this a lot since talking to my friend over the weekend. There are so many of these unmade apologies. The boy to whom I wrote a letter explaining why I would never like him. Who, years later, seeing me shivering at a party, gave me his jacket. A really sweet boy who did not deserve the shit I dealt out. The man who, while performing in front of a large crowd, still managed to pick me out, even though I was sitting near the back. Who gave me a stuffed animal I promptly named Roadkill. Whose calls I didn't return and whose emails I ignored. The man who told me he had loved me for a long time, who said he didn't know what he would do without me. To him, I probably owe the biggest apology.

But he's not the one I think of most often, and not the one I'm thinking of now. Right now I'm thinking of the man who I had thought of as a great friend, one of my closest. Who, on Valentine's Day one year, described a situation with a girl he was in love with, and asked what I thought. And I, who was only half listening, did not realize he was talking about us, and blew him off, saying something flippant and harsh. But we stayed friends. The period during which our friendship took place was one of the hardest in my life (for reasons completely unrelated to him). I cried. A lot. He was there to hold me, rub my back, bring me Kleenex, flowers. When we went to the gym, even when he was out of sight he would somehow materialize if some other guy was bugging me. When I was being stalked, he used to sleep on my floor. We spent all of our free time together. His parents loved me. Everyone we knew thought we were a couple. And I still didn't understand. I thought he was one of my best friends.

Then we started fighting all the time. And I still didn't understand. Finally, we stopped being friends. And, when I finally understood, it was too late. I suppose in reality it had been too late from the beginning. There was never any room for him in my life except as a friend. But if I hadn't been so stupid, maybe I could have spared him. And for that, I am still so, so sorry.

Burgers and Bad Memories

Hung out with some friends at Burgermeister, up in the city, last night. The burgers were spectacular, as were the malts. Highly recommend the place. It's been nice to see so many friends lately, too. Sometimes I get so into hermit mode that I forget that I actually like my friends.

It was a good evening, except for a phone call that I'd had earlier, with a different friend. She just happened to mention a name that I haven't heard in years. Hearing it again brought back unpleasant memories.

There are friends I used to have that I have no longer: I've learned, sadly, that boys and girls can never really be friends. It gets too complicated. I think I've been unfair to certain people in the past because I didn't really understand this. And it still hurts to think about. I'd rather not be reminded.

I was in a club with some friends some nights ago. My husband wasn't there (probably working). One of my friends put his hand on my back and kept it there for awhile; it felt like a possessive gesture. Later, he put his arm around me. And without thinking about it, I leaned back into him. It was the awkward culmination to months of awkwardness. I no longer see that friend.

Hello Arnold!

Greetings from the capitol city of the fairest state in the nation, the most beautiful place in the world. Clarification: California is the most beautiful place in the world; Sacramento is not. In fact, much as I hate to say it, Sacramento is...well, not much. The downtown area is itsy-bitsy. I drove and walked around for about an hour yesterday and saw pretty much all there is to see. Many of the buildings are being torn down; a lot of construction is going on. It's clearly a city that intends to go somewhere, but right now, it's nowhere.

My husband had to come here for work, and I tagged along. I've been here before, but didn't remember it, so didn't realize how little there is to do here. I've been spending a lot of time in the hotel room as a result. I don't do well in hotel rooms. I'm a jumpy person, and I hate being interrupted when I'm deep in thought. Hotels are full of interruptions. The room phone rang this morning. I was puzzled as to who could be calling me here; anyone I know would call my cell phone. Turns out it was room service, wanting to know if my breakfast was okay and if they could pick up the tray. Housekeeping keeps knocking, wanting last night to turn down my sheets (why is this necessary?), wanting to clean my room today even though I haven't checked out yet. I hate stuff like this. Maybe this makes me sound like a brat. I suppose I am a brat. In mitigation, though, I offer the fact that unexpected interruptions cause my heart to pound and my pulse to race. I'm the kind of person who needs to have my back to a wall in restaurants. If there's a window or a door, I need to face it. Who knows where I picked up this idiosyncratic trait, but it's there.

I thought having new stimuli would be good for me, in terms of shaking me out of the writer's block and overall slump into which I've entered, but my plan seems to have failed. I sit in my hotel room hunched over my laptop like Barton Fink, and all I do is surf the Internet. I've acquired vast amounts of trivia knowledge, but have done nothing productive. It's hard not to feel pretty down on myself right now.

Fear and Trembling

One of the hardest things for me about surfing is my shark phobia. (As one of my East Coast, non-surfing friends once said, is it really such a good idea to dress up like a seal and paddle out to the sharks?) It's such a strong phobia that I used to sometimes get panic attacks in the water. This was not only embarrassing, it was dangerous. I am normally a fairly strong swimmer, but in the throes of a panic attack, I can barely remember how to paddle. I would thrash my way toward shore, crying and struggling to breathe.

One day while I was surfing, I saw two fins swimming close together. For I don't know how long, I was frozen, watching them. And then they leaped into the air, both of them. Dolphins. Drops of water sprang from their bodies, sparkling.

I thought of that today. I feel like I'm so afraid of so many things. I used to surf even when I was afraid, and surfing is one of the best things I do. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as rewarding. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as harmless as those dolphins I mistook for sharks. Although the cynic in me focuses on the insubstantiality of dreams, I should remember that nightmares are insubstantial, too.

"[F]or he who always hopes for the best becomes old, and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old early, but he who believes preserves an eternal youth." Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling.

Blessed

It was a pretty good weekend. Dinner with friends on Friday and Saturday, Super Bowl parties on Sunday. Surfed too. The waves were not bad, and the weather was beautiful. There's something very calming about being out there, sitting on your board with the sun glinting off the water all around you. Sometimes I just like to be still, even if it means letting waves go by. I don't know about other people, but for me, there's nothing like surfing to keep the rest of my life in perspective.

Solid Ground

Sick with longing for something I can't see, don't know what it is; panting after a chimera whose shape changes constantly. My heart beating so fast, it burns through my chest and my breath catches. I am running out of air, running scared. The object of desire is out there and it waits for me with claws and fangs, it waits for me while I chase after it in a maze of unknowing. In this place I can only be alone and alone is where I do not want to be. I think I want certainty, but do I, when certainty can only mean the end?