Goldfish Psychology

Holy crap... it's a testimony

2010-10-24T04:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-11-28T01:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

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?!

2009-10-18T15:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-13T02:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-01T01:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Remember Me To Georgia

2009-09-22T05:21:00.000-07:00

By Tuesday morning

Warm blankets are gone

Along with the visitors list

And its names

On a hospital floor

Only the clouds

Seek me out

With tin cans and string

Waiting to loosen their stars

As I fall asleep

Prove curbside prophets wrong

Only demons come when you call

White Ninja

2009-09-12T02:34:00.000-07:00

I’m in Hawaii. I’ve learned how to surf. I also scuba dive and eat freshly picked pineapples for breakfast. Currently, I am sitting in a café sipping margaritas with a shy girl underneath my arm who dresses her arms with tattoos. No one is wearing shoes.

Right about now, I’m thinking that this is what this post should sound like.

Instead, I remember when my plane arrived, my taxi driver told me to relax, you're in paradise. Now it’s been about a month and life is not so much like the impressions I get from Lilo and Stitch or even 50 First Dates.

Yet although being hit on by more gay men than women, there’s certainly a charm attached to this place and its people. Most of the locals I meet are eager to get off the island, as if decades of claustrophobic isolation have given life to their dreams.

The other night a friend takes me to a local BBoy competition. We rush into the third floor of a shoddy warehouse and suddenly find ourselves in a scene of Step Up 2. No…Not Step Up 1. Step Up 2: The Streets.

But I was impressed. I was shocked by the dancers who manipulated the crowds with huge flips and strange alien moves. I was having fun until I realized that these kids were hardly in high school, whereas I subsequently had one of those terrible what the hell am I doing with my life moments.

You know those moments. You felt it when Lebron James entered the NBA and when you hang out with an Ivy League kid. You’ll also probably feel it at your high school reunion.

And when the winner of the competition (who hardly came up to my neck) walked by me, I started to wonder if I was getting too old to still have aspirations to one day be a great person.

I attempted to alleviate this sickening moment with bumper sticker mottos. And it started to work until the talentless group of guys, well over 30, started battling. One of their names was White Ninja.

On Missing

2009-09-02T17:59:00.000-07:00

We decide to finish up our night at the beach with a drink and find ourselves in one of Hawaii’s shadiest spots. I swear to God, I didn’t know.

When I realize that I am ordering rounds at a “hostess” “lounge” (I’m compelled to use quotations because I have no idea what the hell to call this place) I am brought back to my last night in Jersey.

Unwilling to call it a night, we sought excuses to extend it with cigarettes on the hood of our cars, only to realize that we were parked besides one of Jersey’s Korean brothels. I have heard rumors that a significant amount of these women are manipulated with dreams of America or plain kidnapped and left missing to a future of prostitution.

Our conversations were interrupted by young men entering and exiting as we felt our tempers momentarily wake up. Some of us imagined Double Dragon-ing their way in to save make-believe princesses while others admitted how they were terrified to end up here on a lonely night.

In Hawaii, young businessmen are singing slow love songs with hostesses under their arms. And I wonder if the men sing like this when they are alone.

I order a round of tequila to remember conversations in Jersey. How it has mediated moments of anxiety, celebration and unrequited love. How we would inappropriately express the feelings we have towards each other’s sisters. How we would so often seamlessly talk about how the right woman could be the ail to all of our problems as well as the antichrist. How we would release our thoughts on God. I remember how, unlike most friendships, how these thrived because of difference, and not in spite of it.

As I’m leaving an old Korean lady rubs my face then slaps my ass.

Brown Dusty

2009-08-28T03:17:00.000-07:00

This is a poem about the grandfather I've never met. I once heard he served as a medical officer in the Korean War, was captured as a POW in North Korea, and assumed dead. Two years later, he dramatically reappears back to his wife who somehow knew to wait for him. Decades later, my grandmother passes away and now I hear that he lives alone doing God-knows-what in the suburbs of L.A.

One reason why I decided to come to Hawaii was so that I could hear his version of this story. But for now, this is how I imagine it.

he sits
in the room

where brown arrests
the rising dust

and sunlight breaches
the curtain's pores

behind horn-rimmed glasses
his eyes trickle

the resin of memories
in unison with

the beats
of faucets

Haraboji sits alone
with the single photograph

he owned
of her

he smiles
remembers her charm

her voice
how she flirted, poked,

groaned
to take more pictures

Now he tries
to reclaim years

of lifted hands
and tones

which once
demanded silence,

singing penitence
in his fingertips

on the glossy lamination.

despite death certificates, chanting
gowns of white,

medical diagnosis,
and the goodbyes,

he wonders if this is why
she hasn’t returned

the photograph quivers in osteoporosis
hands and wilting skin

recounting folktales of a soldier
suited in uniform for his country

and love for his wife
memories waving out the side

of a departing train
that coughed like a smoker naïve

to the dangers of cancer and widows
to the fields outlining the curves

of disease
where war is no medal or glory

but a scorched
tongue

screaming bloody gunshots
and shrapnel

lapping the life
of newly born fathers and husbands

Minutes earlier, he applied words to patch
her leaking fears and hurts

"One year from this day,
I'll come back for you."

but it had already been two
and she held

wet bandages
waiting in dusty brown rooms

despite death certificates, chanting
gowns of white,

grainy powder,
and the goodbyes,

she waited for him to return

Chick Magnet

2009-08-26T01:37:00.000-07:00

It’s called a SYM. Apparently it’s one of the best mopeds out there in the market that can deal with the salty Hawaiian air.

And got one I did.

I even have a ritual. I put on my sunglasses and emerge from my garage like Batman. It’s all really dramatic and God… I’m so cool. And that was what I thought until today.

It’s a painful realization but mopeds are really lame. Even when you sit on the back seat so your arms can fully extend. Even when you smoke a cigarette at red lights. EVEN if you wear aviators and never smile.

$700 later, the realization hits me when I’m going uphill and notice an acquaintance walking to class. I don't know what to say about these 50cc engines (if you need a reference think of Mario Kart-Mushroom Level). I notice her from a distance, give her a nod, and try to zoom passed her so her skirt flies up. Instead I notice my moped giving me everything it has at 15mph. She hesitates and politely responds with a smile as I continue at 15mph. I wonder if she thinks I’m slowing down to say hello because there must be no way that this machine would be designed to be so pathetic.

Little does she know that I had that accelerator twisted all the way, desperate for my bike to reach for some i-think-can motivation. I'm there long enough to see the smile leave her face as I finally pass her at 15mph.

It also doesn’t help that the engines sound like a kazoo.

Pink Carpets

2009-08-25T02:06:00.000-07:00

Everyday, my morning starts something like this:

• 7:15 Wake up
• 7:15-7:30 Pack a PopTart for lunch, eat one for breakfast, all while staring at my bed.
• 7:30-7:40 Take a shower
• 7:40-7:41- Deliberate what I will say to Alexander
• 7:41-8:00- Listen to one of Alexander’s stories
• 8:00 Rush to class

Alexander is a Chinese man over 80 years old. After I was technically homeless in Hawaii for about 7 hours, he offered me a room in his home while yelling in his broken English, “I love Korean people!” I reciprocated by telling him how much I love Chinese people too but really meant to say penthouse suites for a ridiculously cheap rent.

Every morning, when I am about to leave for class, Alexander intercepts me with shouts in Mandarin. Today, he led me to the kitchen pointing at the xiang jiao that has become too ripe and gone bad.

This usually lasts for about ten minutes and ends when he realizes that I am not Chinese. Like every morning so far, he laughs at himself exactly the same way and explains how he forgot how I was Korean. With Alexander, I don’t feel the need to explain how I am actually Korean American. So then he repeats everything that he had just said, but this time, in his rehearsed English. Yesterday, he walked me over to the dining room table where he has been working on his Chinese-English dictionary for the past ten years. He told me that he would like it if I could one day translate it to Korean and I laugh agreeably as a way to keep my horrible Korean a secret. I catch myself wondering why I try so hard to protect myself from the opinions of strangers, but carry on.

This morning he tells me that I should try not to get home so late. And that is when I realize that the carpet throughout the whole penthouse is pink.