So Long, Fare Well Grandpa

It’s supposed to rain today. It seems appropriate. Today I will see my grandpa for one of the last times before he is laid to rest. and i wanted to say good bye…so long…fare well. typing these words now, i realize the actual meaning in how they were so meticulously designated for these exact situations. its easy to say so long to a friend that you will see in a few days, it really isn’t gonna be SO LONG now is it? But it will be long before i get to give my grandpa a warm hug, to hear him sing, to hear the thunder of his mighty claps. and thats sad. It really will be so long. its appropriate. so where is the phrase that gives good bye’s the sort of sadness they deserve? The my-heart-hurts-when-you’re-gone, or the you’ll -be sorely missed sort of parting words. Perhaps, thats the things with goodbyes, they’re too sad to even merit proper terminology. It’s already hard enough to say goodbye without feeling bad about it. and i do. feel bed, sad, a little empty. I’ll miss this great man. I’ll miss how he perpetually fared well, dressed well, loved well, ate well, believed well and most of all lived well. It may be long before i see you, but not long that we will all miss you, miss you to tears. its supposed to rain today. and really, that seems appropriate.

i heart boyfriend

Today, my boyfriend saved a cat.

Not up a tree or in a uniform. Today, he had to make a split second decision between letting Kimo’s bad genetics determine his fate, or to shell out a small fortune that could easily equate to a fabulously week long exotic vacation for two in or order to reverse Kimo’s ‘bad genes’. See, Kimo had a urinary blockage, a problem common in most male, neutered felines. An issue that can have been aggravated by Kimo’s obesity and an illness that can possibly reoccur.

Nonetheless, in the last deciding minutes, boyfriend made a decision to give life to our happy, fat cat.

The most interesting part about all of this, is the sheer circumstance. (Hence the blog. I’m venting, for the both of us.) Kimo, is one of two cats that I inherited by way of our happy union together as a live/love-together couple. Boyfriend, inherited the two kitties (kimo and pancho) by way of his previous live/love together union with former gf, Scarrie Teriyaki, which we will henceforth refer to as, whatsherface.

It’s the same old story. Boy meets girl. Girl has cats. Boy accepts cats. Boy learns to love cats. Boy leaves girl. Girl refuses the cats. Boy cares for cats like they are his own. Cat gets sick. Boy calls girl. Girl refuses to split hospital bills. Boy absorbs the costs. Boy tells new girl. New girl kicks old girl’s inconsiderate, deadbeat ass. just kidding on the ending….sorta.

Boyfriend has valiantly stepped up and adopted these two hairballs into his life, despite them being the original progeny of whatsherface. He has loved them, fed them, housed them and maintained their litter box. Long trips and overnights are an ordeal when a priority is to make sure Kimo is fed on time. We’ve taken turns, made extra stops to his place to make sure they were well fed and happy. He has taken on a huge role as a pet owner, even though the small and simple fact stands that they are not his pets.

Against the popular vote, Boyfriend decided that he would give kimo a new lease on life today. It was a tough decision to make. He made it. Although, it could be easy to sit on the sidelines and naysay at the decision that was made, there comes a point in life, where in the end, one must decide if they can wake up the next morning and be satisfied with the decision they made. Boyfriend wasn’t ready to call it quits on kimo, despite the whole ownership issue. Whatsherface decided to be a deadbeat pet owner, which was what spawned this new scorn that i have developed…grrr. But at the end of the day, when I got home from a long day with the children, and I snuggled with boyfriend, i realized that he is my hero. He did a courageous thing today. He revealed a compassionate and honorable side. I respect his decision, i am enamored by his integrity, i am moved by his steadfast conviction in the face of opposition. Although I know that our new apartment beckoning lovely new furniture will feel the pinch due to this act of goodwill, it’ll be just as fabulous with the fat cat roaming about as another reason why i heart my boyfriend.

So if you’re reading this darling. merci. j’taime. my hero. <3

praise the lord and good ole patsy

i confess. i have developed a tiny infatuation. a dirty little secret that would make others a bit uncomfortable. i, my friends, have found a love for southern gospel music. in fact, i am finding inspiration in a VERY tardy post, with miss patsy cline serenading me with her rendition of Just a Closer Walk with Thee. there is a certain comfort in the falsetto of the phrase ‘dear lord’ and the divine yodel of the blessed.

we can never escape our pasts and in that same fashion i can’t ignore the truly religious household in which i grew up in. the household that had daily bible study in the dusty dew light of early mornings sitting on the floor in front of the sliding glass door. my parents and grandparents piously kneeling as we recited the lords prayer in unison in Korean, then English. The lullaby of choice was Nearer my God to Thee, you could hum it, sing it, play it on the piano or mumble it, as my grandfather would as he could never remember those darn words. hands would wring in devout prayer, smiles would creep upon the faces of uncles and aunts as the word was read aloud of the salvation and grace found at the feet of our heavenly father. family reunions would commence with a 2 hour sermon by one of my many uncles, mostly pastors. And in the case of my dad’s side of the family, hymns would be sung in complete harmony.

it was, needless to say, somewhat embarrassing.

We would rent palatial cabins and break bread together, play together, share together and inevitably, worship together…in harmony. I’m guilty of the dread felt when i thought of the neighboring cabin, probably playing a riveting game of yahtzee only to perk their ears at our song and look at each other blankly thinking, “who invited the choir?”

see, i never was one of those with the steadfast conviction in christianity that led me to cry in the middle of a hymn or raise my hand and say praise the lord as the good book was read aloud. in fact, i always found it somewhat silly and facetious. I never was ‘filled with this so called spirit’.

however, in the past few days i have downloaded a handful of nostalgic southern hymns. they feel like sunday morning. i miss my family and in some small way i have found solace. i have been crawling into the melodies of old hymns that would fill the rooms of my home every sunday morning. my mother played the piano for the church for over 15 years. piano practice was every hymn of the songbook and i knew all of them. under his wings, amazing grace, closer walk with thee…they are like honey to my ears, a lyrical hug, the remedy to any bout of anger or sadness. because, although it may have not been a particular god that was comforting me, it was my lovely, wonderful, most fabulous family that sang these songs and trusted in the words that kept us all safe and continually blessed.

Songs, hymns, melodies, harmonies that envelope my heart in the warmth of a Christmas fire. and now i listen to them to feel a little closer to my loved ones who are probably humming it to themselves anyhow. i tell little miss about the moon and how all us humans live under the same one. we think about those that are comforted by the same pale glow as we sit looking upon it from the windowsill. i consider my hymns to function in the same way. as far away as i may be, it is the same songs that make us feel the love of the family that the good lord has blessed us with.  so to that i say, praise the lord.

good night my darlings.

Enjoy, the late great Patsy Cline!

desculpeme

The couple shimmied to their seats. decked out in their team gear and they had hot dogs. Big, fat bratwursts in their hands that inevitably would leave trails of yellow mustard and ketchup on their getups. They looked inbred. A constant look of confusion and carelessness reflected in their eyes. I leaned over to the boy who has yet to know he’s gay and said, “that, now thats wisconsin for you.” my mouth felt dirty after saying it, like i had just deemed myself as superior to folks out to enjoy the ballgame. And all the while, I know the truth. the truth about people. the shameless commonalities that we all share. the undying attempt to eek out even a moments worth of joy from a greasy brat to the click of the bat when the ball soars towards centerfield. its all there, like the botox, the shopping sprees, the morning runs on the beach, the garden, the strip club, the airconditioned cinemaplex, the midnight snack. im guilty. i had to redeem myself. this is the only way i knew how. so i say, LET THEM EAT THEIR BRATWURST! i’ll own up to this fallacy of superiority that i somehow convinced myself i possessed and hope in some way i’ll be pardoned. just this once.  

good night wisconsin.

Ticked off

A few months ago i wrote an entry about signs. they are everywhere. they are like fairies, tinkerbells if you will, appearing to announce good news, giving us a little magic to encourage our doubtful hearts and mysteriously aligning the universe to lead us into a direction that we unknowingly have already began to head towards. some call it coincidence, others believe its synchronicity, but whatever it is, they exist in our day to day lives and should never be ignored or brushed aside. now, having said that, i have a story to share. a few days ago, i was speaking with a good friend of mine, cornbread. cornbread captivated me with a grotesque tale of how a tick had yet created a parasitic relationship with the epidermus on his stomach. what he first thought to believe was an itchy scab, manifested into a tiny sac that hung around like an unmotivated college buddy that just needed to crash for ‘a night’. yikes. im from los angeles, either its cleaner here, or im just not outdoorsy enough, but ticks to me are in the same category as other notorious creatures like the boogeyman, the abominable snow man, things that go bump in the night.  Ticks aren’t supposed to happen to me….right?!? well, turns out the universe had a different plan for me and ticks. Last night as i lay awake typing on my keyboard, my new little friend crawled off my hand and onto my laptop. it was in a rather slow-mo kinda way, like when you have to take a double take and convince yourself that, yes, your neighbor is mowing his lawn in a lemon colored speedo…but i digress. i just grabbed a tissue and scooped up that little intruder and flushed it down the toilet. before you could say lime disease, i was on google researching everything anyone would hate to know about this little monsters. paralysis, transferable disease…DEATH. i was in trouble. big trouble. i ran my fingers on every pore of my body waiting to feel a bump, a scab, a new formation on the topography of my surface…until i got to my back. there was only one thing i could do: wake up susan. i knocked on her door incessantly until i heard a groan. i whispered through the crack to let me in as if i had vital information to share, as if only i could utter the words that could save mankind. she finally let me  in, groggy and innocent. i took off my shirt and said, “tick. on my hand. i can die. check back. please. now. NOW.” she inspected me like a admissions prison guard, everything short of squat and cough. nothing. Nothing?! i questioned. she was tired and annoyed and i knew that if it wasn’t a tick, she’d give me something to complain about…so i left. a little shaken, rather doubtful, but somewhat appeased by the due diligence. all there was left to do, was to let the hypochondria subside and hulu. i turned on the latest episode of royal pains and watched intently, all the while lifting up the sheets and checking to make sure there wasn’t a family of ticks moving into my leg or my armpit. the feeling wouldn’t go away, and although i was engrossed in the storyline of a healthy highschool athlete suddenly immobilized by a mysterious condition, the ticks scurried around my brain like ants to a picnic. it was chaos. so here it is, the punchline, the ending to my story. the ending of the episode was sooo horrific, i am surprised im able to type these words at this very moment. the boy, with the mysterious disease was miraculously cured as Dr. Hank Lawson pulled a tiny deer tick out of his ear. A tick. A FUCKING tick. I almost lost it. i couldn’t sleep. ticks were in my thoughts, i felt them on my body. I even woke up to put earplugs in my ear to make sure none would call it there new home. So, in hindsight, i’m thinking to myself that this has to be a sign. but for what?! what do ticks represent? teeth usually symbolize embarrassment, death – joy, etc etc…but ticks? apparently, on dream dictionary ticks in dreams mean: 

  

Ticks

• To dream you see ticks crawling on your flesh, is a sign of impoverished circumstances and ill health. Hasty journeys to sick beds may be made.
• To mash a tick on you, denotes that you will be annoyed by treacherous enemies.
• To see in your dreams large ticks on stock, enemies are endeavoring to get possession of your property by foul means.

This doesn’t make sense, because i didn’t dream about them, and c’mon lets be serious, i don’t want to own this sign. rather, in a pointless and blogworthy way, i’ve decided to consider it a meaningless coincidence. im ticked off. ticks invaded my life yesterday, but to believe that rubbish above would be more parasitic then an arachnoid species that happened to congregate in time and space in my life yesterday. so, the point….well, there isn’t one…but the conclusion…ticks suck and the dream dictionary can be a very dangerous playground if you let it be. so there it is. ticks and me. not the best friends, but can dwell peacefully from here on out. ciao my darlings.

it’s my party and i’ll laugh if i want to

i even laugh at the thought of the sight of me laughing at myself for the past two nights. the house is silent, with only the slightest hint of me cracking myself up on jokes about suicide and vanity, damn vanity. it’s hard to be somber when there is a cagebird outside my window chirping away like the first day of spring. rain, i need rain. somber is what i should be, but in reality im more amused than anything and the whole thing is a bit funny, to say the least. others won;t understand my lighthearted humor engaging in the darkside. it’s unheard of. people start to worry. i don’t like to make people worried. its just funny in the only way funny can be. the strange turn of events that leave even the most heartwrenching circumstances bearable, and not just bearable but laughable…well, thats just too much for people to handle. bad things happen and i guess people just expect people to crumble. tuck ourselves away under a rock or in a cave or on a blog. but it’s not that bad. its logical. it’s not torment, its liberation. its inspiration and encouragement. its you, its me, its the only type of life we know how to lead. it’s not that bad, really. and really is usually a term we use when we try to convince ourselves, rationalize with our emotions, put on the ‘brave’ face. last night i spoke with a dear friend in town for a funeral. a tragic death really, and not in the least expected. we disclosed to one another that despite the chaos, the tragedy of life, there is always a moment when emotions and logic align and…well..its just not too bad. ok, yes, i know what you’re thinking…funeral?! not so bad?! but in the wise words of my near and dear pal, you can’t spell funeral without fun! bad, i know, terrible right?! ugh, why do we do this to ourselves?! why do we expect everyone to drink the koolaid?! what happened to fingerprints and pheremones? the good ole days when cubby’s were yours and not ours?! why do we buy into the notion that unfortunate events in our lives call for self pity and a pint of ben and jerry’s? these things happen and i figure its time to start again. sadness is not a final destination, EVER. its seems to be the general consensus. these horrible things happened to me so its over, im over. but why?!?! sadness is the accumulation, the evidential proof of that much joy in our lives. it’s not something we dwell in, its rather something i wish to appreciate and exploit as yet another mechanism for launching into another road to that same sadness. it’s not about the whole ending bit. its about the opportunity that presents itself so beautifully amidst the ugly face of sad. and i can’t honestly tell you what i write, where it came from, what my point is…my point is…well, being sad sucks. BUT…its not too bad. you can laugh when you’re sad, its allowed. hell, you can make a joke about funerals or speak lightly about tragedy, but only if you wanna, not because you  have to. just like crying, those poor souls that feel guilt because they can’t cry. so you can’t cry! no biggie, who says you have to?! ok, this is never gonna end is it? i gotta get some sleep. i just wanted to feel my fingers on the keyboard. sorry this one was a bit depressing, but im glad about it. i hope you could be too. or cry. if it makes you feel better. 

good night my darlings.

beef spew

its an image that everyone has seen in a glossy movie once in their life. indiana jones, moses perhaps? The moment where the sword wielding villain strikes his sword and shatters the spout of a barrel to reveal an outpour of grain or sand. it just pours out, seemingly unending. thats how i basically poured my outrageous thoughts to mr. salvavidas tonight. chatter about a parallel universe fueled by our connections with others here on this earth, the black, infinite amount of possibility that would swallow us if we were ever to cut ourselves open metaphorically and, of course, my fave, how digging a hole to China isnt the most absurd idea. i couldn’t stop, i was spewing, i was sick off of the notion that every breath of air i inhale doesn’t just fill my lungs and send oxygen to my brain, but also finds its way into a whole new depth of my existence in which moments here in my perishable life drop into a well that sits lonely atop a majestic mountain. the type of magical well in which you can be almost positive that the water is black as oil, where pebbles can never let out a cry or  a well in which your echo can sound like the song that never ends. and my chest, oh my chest feels like its gonna burst and i am trying to recall what it was i ate that makes me feel this way, but maybe its just another self realization anticipating a point of self actualization. i mean, i guess i could ask the question that everyone is afraid to answer, or even when they do, they lie: do you ever wish you were somebody else? but its really the roundabout way to inquire the most important question: do you ever wish you could stop being somebody else and just be yourself? to be somebody else, to be yourself, to know yourself. because that somebody else always ends up really being you, you know, the REAL you. midlife crises, supposed spontaneity, escapes? has humanity created euphemisms for the search of self? a clinical diagnosis of self exploration can now be combatted with a ditzy young waitress and a new porsche. promising? i think not. cold feet. what about cold feet? all these things that we rationalize as ‘phases’ in our own lives…what if they are the subtle cries to ourselves from our own selves hoping to exist in this lifetime. I told Mr. Salvavidas that maybe in life we are all trying to achieve the same thing. everyone, i mean everyone in the human experience. ball players, popstars, sultans, the postman, the stinky girl in the next cubicle that wears too much cheap perfume, our mother. we are all attempting to achieve 4 things: a place of priority in our own hearts, a place in time, a place in a community and a place in the universe of a special someone. we are all trying to resolve our unique existence within ourselves, as well as create a story, a legend in time that can prove our existence, a place in the memory of those we touched, and a place in the heart of someone to share a cosmic journey into another dimension of passion and crossword puzzles and holding hands. and im always, ALWAYS slightly nervous that I can come off sounding like a hippie or a substance abuser or just plain crazy. but i attribute that to my own fear of revealing my most organic self, the part of me in which God exists. so yah, sometimes i wanna spew when i let my mind travel to these untouched regions of the vast universe, the vacuum of infinite possibility, the place that we convince ourselves is not worth the travel time, the weather’s crappy and its dangerous, like india or africa. but sometimes….sometimes i think that maybe i could be creating a distraction from me wanting to enter reality, to grow up, to be a responsible adult. and that…that makes me a little sad. but i shake my head and i convince myself that its not true. god, the universe, the catalyst inside me that makes me want to sing every morning tells me that thats what ‘they’ want you to believe. and i promise, by ‘they’ i don’t mean the ‘people in my head’. hahhahah, or do i?!?! (creepy laughter and nervous ticks fill the air). nonetheless, its back, you can trace my entries to these very moments when absolute clarity and utter confusion rendezvous and i am the love child! they say that richard yates was never recognized as the amazing writer that he so CLEARLY is until after his death (a sad song for many brilliant human beings) but i wonder if he knew. if he knew that it would affect the world. he knew and never cared. because it was just one thing we was able to resolve that he had achieved in his lifetime, aside from the other 3 goals mentioned above. his stories simultaneously converged all 4 goals, to me at least. he was true to himself in his candor of his stories, he owned a place in time as a recorder of his america, he accomplished to touch communities worldwide with his writing, it brought people together it inspired droves of new writers and he found a place in my heart as a special someone. maybe thats it! maybe its not about systematically checking off this so-called laundry list of things to accomplish to be a gracious human being, but rather to infuse the qualities of just accepting who you are and letting the rest take it course. like hitting that sweet spot on a baseball or a tennis ball or a golf ball with minimal effort. so, the importance is really to focus on capturing that sweet spot and to just let the ball fly. yes, i believe it. it must be. this is the lightbulb. and it seems so trivial, i can hear someone in the background saying, duh! but believe me you, it feels like a dog chasing its own tail. i feel better. i always do. soap and bubbles, like a bubblebath for my intense thoughts. its all spew, good ole beef spew. 

good night my darlings.

goodbye north shore

Its the final hour here in the north shore. Its raining, a common ending to most of my trips. In a slightly narcissistic and self absorbed and altogether romantic kind of way I attribute the rain as a teary moment of the magic of wherever my feet land honoring my bittersweet departure. Like a lasting and heavy adieu to time well spent in a place that both welcomed me and hates to see me go. And I feel the same. The sky is gray like cement and the air is as sticky as a kiss from a random rendezvous. But I don’t mind the rain because it causes my heart to long for a capture into the water that never ceases to end beyond the horizon in which I stare melancholy upon. Its the only place I want to be, in the unknowing and frightening silence of the ocean that seems to undulate waves of sincerity into the island’s countryside. I want to strip off my clothes, fold them neatly onto the rocky cliff and have my sandals sit calmly next to them. The kind of scene that tells a story and I want to jump into the ocean and swim to the horizon. I want to fantasize about the completeness that I would achieve if only I could explore what’s on the other side. It was unexpected the stories, the characters, the undeniable fits of laughter that this place inspired. The cozy humidity that made me sweat nostalgia and expectations yet to be realized. It was soothing to be shiny and new and bleed a sort of loneliness that beckoned a new romance, not just with another person but with another way of life. A place that quelled the wants of the world that seemed so petty and fruitless. to sit on the bluff with the chatter of children and the clanking of silverware, I say farewell with a heavy heart the mysteries of the north shore and haliewa and the friends that I momentarily felt at home with in random watering holes. And its always the same story. The one that starts with zero expectations and ends with an undeniable belonging that leaves me plotting a return. I know what I’ll go back to and it leaves my heart conflicted to have je duex amour. My home home and my destiny. But its sounds all so poetic and ridiculous and so facetious. Soph is sleeping in the lobby and I should return but its hard to find the strength to tear my feet away from the warm, damp rocks that beckon roots. The breeze the excitiement from the water that seems to inhale my sadness as it hits the shore. But I know its unrealisitic and as much as I hate to admit it, I know that its time to go. I take one last look at the tide that rises at the break and cuts the surface in the most enormous yet wholesome type of way. I dip my toe into a puddle and let the warmth of my flesh alter the temperature. I leave a little warmth of what this week has blessed me with in this puddle and hope it won’t forget me. And I leave the shore resolved. Maybe I’ll stay for a little while longer…

bon voyage

this morning I wrote down on a little piece of paper the sticky balls that fall from trees in the summer and stick to your socks kinda issues that plagued my free mind. I splatted them down in blue ink like blueberries smeared across a canvas. I wrote and my hand hurt and my brow furrowed and my teeth clenched a little. I escorted them out of the corners of my vacation. I told them that they’d overstayed their welcome and it was time for them to go. The wedding, the tone of her voice, the balcony policy, the, the dissapointment. They were gone and I took that piece of paper and folded it into a little boat and I held it in my hands and slipped on my sandals and walked to the beach where the journey began. I looked at the small boat in my hand and said farewell and good riddance and set it on the water, set it on its sail. And now its gone. And I’m happy.

oreos:guilty

the only question now is, why am i eating oreos in bed. i feel guilty. like someone is gonna charge through my bedroom door, point an accusing finger at me and say, ‘her, thats the girl! thats the girl thats eating oreos in bed, arrest her!’ handcuffed with sweet black crumbs on my lips i’ll cry out, ‘i was just hungry! im not guilty!’ and in a fit of delirious rage or a sugar high i’ll start to say, ‘thats right! it was me! i ate the oreos! and they were delicious….do ya hear me!??! DELICIOUS!!’ aside from the obvious question, how much did you have to drink tonight?! the lingering inquiry is what the hell am i babbling about now? i got off of work at 8pm today and have spent the last 3.5 hours chatting on the phone with random, yet thoroughly interesting acquaintances, writing about my grandfather’s impending death and last but certainly not least, eating oreos all the while in bed. i don;t know whether to feel shame, pity or the jagged sting of self-loathing. i mean, really, what else am i supposed to do in wisconsin?! i heard pieces from david sedaris and sarah vowell today, which i found to be inspiring and wonderful. i thought to myself that i would wanna be a great writer, social observer and humorist just like them one day. but then i realized i lacked a creepy elf voice, like the two of them have. so i started to practice developing one with my apple photo booth. no such luck. i just ended up sounding congested and sickly. so i consider that a total failure, besides being totally pathetic. ive decided i am ready to settle down a bit now. meet a nice boy and do what humans do: be in painful relationships. james said that this is a big step for me and she congratulated me. i feel proud. now, i just need to meet a boy that makes my head spin well enough to cause me to do a crazy thing like commit. who knows if that somebody is out there for me. in my more naive years i used to think that i could find him, but now i’ve grown as haggard as an old baobob tree on the little prince’s planet. if i thumb through the rolodex of past ‘situations’ with men, i’ve found that i was never in a flutter of fantasy or transported to the other side of the rainbow, or turned into a color pencil sketch and danced hand to hand with my romeo against a mirror. but, i have had my share of fun which is good…i think. hmmmm….depressing. i think i need another oreo. needless to say, i haven’t been able to sleep and i can’t decipher whether my past entries have been a result of complete delirium or i’ve just been injected with a wave of restless fingers hungry to type away on my white keyboard. ira glass had a special on current about how to be a good storyteller, it was insightful, only if you had a story. and i think i have plenty, but when i sit to write one, my mind goes blank. stories. thats it. thats life. i don’t care to accumulate anything in life but stories. lots of them. long ones, short ones, strange ones, scary one. love stories, tall tales, bedtime stories. i like that word story. i once heard that a famous actress named her daughter story. which is lame, and not to mention a lot of pressure. i mean, what if story grows up without any stories to tell except for how her parents came up with her ridiculous name and how the pressure led her to a life of drugs and social isolation, which is a story all too common among celebrity children anyway. ok. i should sleep now, maybe watch a movie. and no more oreos…well maybe just ONe more. goodnight my darlings.