Holy crap... it's a testimony

If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."

I wonder what kind of people Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were like: if they had children; what kind of jokes they shared; what kind of things they did in their free time; did they look like the church members I have grown up with my entire life. The author of this passage seems to emphasize one point. Without going into what kind of people they were—whether they adhered to strict rules and customs or they freely enjoyed their spare time over a beer (and occasionally one too many)—these three men were sent angels from God. I think I need these angels.

But I believe for most of my life, I have sought out the furnaces instead.

When I was younger, I loved the extremes of this story; the three vegetarians bound and tied down by the nation’s strongest soldiers, to be finally thrown into (the best part) an ungodly fire that was seven times hotter than normal fire.

I wanted to do something great. I wanted to be admired by my friends and adored by people I had never met. And I was convinced that the greater, or hotter, or more violent the fire, the greater my life would be and the longer I would be remembered. And as I look back on my life, I find that this obsession for respect has consumed most of my life and has even ruined many relationships.

I believe I still hope to do something great. But I look nothing like these three young men. Because underneath all of my excuses and pretense, I am closest to Nebuchadnezzar; a man with a greedy hunger always pushing towards building higher statues. And at 24 years old, I am not completely sure what I have worked so hard towards.

While walking home from class one night, a man asked me if I was happy. I thought he was a Christian, but friends would later tell me that he belonged to a cult. “You look happy on the outside. But you look lost on the inside.” As we shared a cup of coffee, I thought about myself when I was a freshman in college—perhaps not 100% in the head but seemed sincere of both his convictions and genuine concern for others.

In a year, I will be done with schooling for the rest of my life. This means it will be time for me to face the realities of adulthood. Perhaps I will start a career. Maybe I’ll fall in love. Or I could win the lottery. Hell—I could even have a child out of wedlock or join that dude’s cult. Regardless, I have grown a deep concern over these angels and the need to secure them before taking my next step. I’m not sure what this requires but I think I’m now willing to listen.

Modes of Transportation

I think it was Carlos Diaz in "The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" who said that the best way to get over pain was to transform it into literature. I'm thinking now that the literature has to be good to validate this claim. Anyway, Langston Hughes also said that he only wrote when he was really pissed off or upset and I find that it's difficult to write without these motivations. I mean, who really wrote a good testimony* when they weren't completely anxious or troubled anyway? Whatever. Along with some other emotions that aren't exactly accommodating to a successful blog, I'm both pissed and upset. There. I said it.


remember when
the airplane skirted the coast

to ask me my name?
it asked me my secrets

i answered and it fluttered away
along with my luggage

the next day it swam loops
but only when it slipped on a wave

i reached out my hand
as it flew from my touch

on stolen words to the only place it knew
to put to float in between bedrock of

unanswered phone calls along with
other types of uncertainty

to where roses are only red

and while seeking for sunrises over sunsets on a tilt
behind the footsteps that were never there to lose

the moon spoke to me gentle words

to forsake second chances along with
other types of hallelujahs

for how ugly hell must try
to upset meeting halfway

in a slow dance with the curtains on fire
as we smile the words we mean to say

watching your eyes close before mine
i have already lost you halfway

to where violets are only blue

whispering that this is not our flight
and that its okay to consider

the bus


*Excuse the inside reference. Speaking of which, some Korean dude asked me which church I grew up in and when I answered, he seemed extremely concerned. This, for some reason, makes me laugh.

Straining Oars

Have been having a really hard time trying to write something. Writer's block sucks. And when you're over it, you forget what it's like and think that you've never had it. Anyway, in the mean time, this is something I wrote a while back.

We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.
Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
Rearranging cloud pieces if only for a moment’s worth of attention
And blow profiles in sand to reclaim stares surrendered to disheveled graves.

Listening for resounding chords lost along tracks of windless waves
I’ve seen this somewhere before, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope.
A descending vessel determined within unforgiving storms and rain,
Tearing numb white knuckles straining oars just to hear an unspoken note.

I’ve seen this scene somewhere, replaying tracks of bittersweet hope,
Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation.
Where we were young and drips of coffee in ceramic assured us our beliefs,
And without a moment’s notice watch faith turn fact from this indignant fiction.

Awakened prematurely without anything to show from this equation,
On the edge of our seats waiting to present this public display of perfection.
Waiting for permission to walk or run thinking greatness never questions,
We, a quiet generation, wait for the signs of Father time’s affection.

Only For

a very ambiguous poem

meet me by the water

with feet facing black marble
there is a moonlit path draped for us

remember how we scaled the deep for
treasure etched along an ocean floor

of middle school crush sweet
heart innocence and faith

where dreams once had
no intention to age

but lining every year’s failed love
we learn that these treasures were a myth

so we refuse to near the sea
for the wintered waters

chilled our blood, split
the warmth from our hearts

so that when it rains it pours
and when it stops we burn

yet when she looks at me with her chin on my chest

i am swept with confused alarm
and am crushed by fairytales

of shy toes 20 mph prayers
secret kisses confessions and exhales

we forget our fears tho they
leak through the levies

and step forward

Would You Like to Shake My Hand?!

Just some story about a girl. Kinda...

When I was in New York, I had a conversation with a friend about what was more difficult when writing. To make your reader laugh or To make your reader cry. After a while, I think we agreed that it's difficult to write in general. But I don't know. What do you think?

The other day, I was reading War Dances by Sherman Alexie in a Borders and I really appreciated his style and thought I'd try to mimic the way he vocalizes candid and introspective thoughts. I think he's got a good grasp on how to write about, what my cousin would call, "real shit" without being begrudgingly emo about it. So here goes the fruit of my weekend: a bootleg version of Alexie.

I was glad she stood beside me because I couldn’t get myself to look at her directly.

I liked the way she smiled.

An uncomfortable introduction made me regret adopting this bad habit of seeking out handshakes for every possible occasion. A few of my personal favorites: a teacher and his twelve-year-old son, cute girl waiting for a drink at the bar, barista trying to hand me my coffee—completely inappropriate, awkward, yet strangely hilarious. But this is neither the time nor place. I try my best to be myself, whatever that may be. But my guard has been up for too long to remember what myself is.

Hi, my name is John. Would you like to shake my hand. Real smooth, stupid.

I think about my aunt and wonder if she would have laughed at the situation. Poking my twelve-year-old belly fat that I once acquired from my adolescent Hot-Pocket addiction, I remember her telling me not to worry, you will be also be popular among the girls like your brother.

Yet a decade later, moments like these help me believe that the characteristics of our 12-year-old selves hardly change. The process is much too trying. When we are young, our liberty to dream is blunted by the insecurities of growing up. Where we suddenly become aware of sharp corners. We meet racism. We compare. We learn how Icarus died. And our frightful inhibitions meet their credence.

By the time we grow up, we are free to be whom we’ve always wanted. We read Malcolm X. We learn to love the struggle of our parents. We show off our crooked teeth. We admire our ethnic. We dare to pat down our wax-wings.

And how easily our pillars of confidence fall apart with something so insignificant.

Today it is a smile.

I am distracted by a man of tall stature who recommends a prayer before the meal. I cringe. Old man wants to pray? If you ever catch yourself in a similar situation, make a run to the bathroom if you can. Whenever old Korean men like these want to bless a meal, it can take anywhere between three minutes to thirty. To make it worse, if you are like most Korean Americans, you usually have no idea what they’re saying until the very end, when you are cued to announce Amen in unison with everyone else. But please don’t underestimate the timing. A well-placed Amen, if only for a moment, can make you feel as Korean as the guy with thick black-rimmed glasses and Converse Chucks.

The prayer is as I expected. And by the time it's over, she is gone. She leaves without notice. Maybe for a phone call. Maybe for a cigarette. Maybe she was the only one in her right mind to leave before the icebreakers started.

I didn’t even get to catch her name, but it’s probably better this way.

Those Years

The other day Charles posted a video of a Christian song. It's one of those songs that nicely accompanies a solitary and pensive moment. But if you hear it in public, you're probably in a church surrounded by lots of Korean American and/or white people with a handful speaking in tongues and sporadically clapping. If you're lucky, one guy is laughing uncontrollably. Very disturbing.

Regardless, I've been thinking about times when conviction was so easy to come by and the will to believe in something was easier. I think we're all still looking.

i thought i saw death
on an opposite train

she was the most beautiful
thing i had ever seen

perhaps there is no other way
but to say it was lovely

no flashbacks
no glimpse of light
no tunnel or tears
no farewell no goodnight

only eyelash eclipse
moonlit alchemy
and clean starlight lips

i believed in those years

but now my angels are left undefended
kissing away the ache of absence
to save salvation for another day

i believed in those years

so won’t you stay who you are
please, stay who you are

Fishing Dreams

Every week, my mother e-mails me a well-intended Bible verse that often ends with a tone designed to elicit some sort of post-apocalyptic fear. Away from sexual adultery and orgies.

Sometimes I respond. Thanks mom, love you too. But I usually don’t and sometimes try to clear my mind by sitting with Alexander and his wife. They like to practice English and I like their company. So I usually walk into the apartment, quietly pull up a chair and try to decipher whatever Chinese soap opera they happen to be watching.

But today, I give up earlier than usual and walk into the kitchen to find a massive fish flopping in between the ceramic tiles. I panic. This whole episode hammers me with flashbacks from a traumatic dream I had as a child. But unlike the dream, the fish isn’t screaming and I’m able to pull myself together to put it into a nearby basin. Noticing my fit of hysteria (think manly bellows instead of schoolgirl screaming), Shanshan runs in and laughs at me as if this is funny.

She grabs my hand and leads me to the variety of fishing rods and types of bait and explains in detail her hobby of murdering fishing. I muster up the courage and naively ask her how she is planning on killing these fish. With a disturbing grin, she pulls out a knife and explains that in China, a good wife should know how to kill a lot of things. I politely laugh but wonder if she’s talking about every man’s dreams and goals.

When the commotion is over, I retrace my steps out of the kitchen and sink into my seat back to the Chinese soap opera. Alexander is tapping a paper fan on his lap while providing a streaming commentary for every scene.

I do not know if these two hold hands anymore. Or what kind of display of affection is possible between them at such an old age. But whenever a male and female character share a dialogue, Alexander serenely leans forward, eyes slightly glazed, and listens with his jaw slightly open. When the scene ends, he smiles at his wife and his laughter pushes him into the back of his seat.