☼

every year at the end of rainy season, i'll hunker down and churn out at least one poem just for me; they're all over the place, and now i've decided they live here! 1

from the clouds burst forth
sweet rice flour and rain

or warm sun, or still light, or faint wind.
shall we press down on the old tiles
trek up the mountain, or grin with our cheeks?
should we take the bridge down
the river a little ways south of the road home
sit by the water, or sing with our teeth?
from the early morning burst forth
another whiff of pork bun, one more
serving of hot jasmine tea
we’ve got time for one more detour,
space for one more bite to eat!

good night, tiny god

tell me a bedtime story.
tell me how you came back from the dead
how you spun your body back together—
quiet as a mouse, lithe as a marten
whole once more. what was it like;
when you reached into the cleaved-open shell of your left atrium and
prayed to touch again, who did you bargain with first?
sing me a song about what you left buried in the earth.
turn it into music proper for a party
so we can dance— to the next year!
and the next year! and the year after that!

good night, tiny god
in the morning there will be fruit
just for tonight, tiny god
we’ll celebrate you

epoxy on the dancefloor
(or, how to tell a story as old as the nineteen hundred thousand something or other footprints in the boxing room.)

one.
we’re at a party at the tail end of another party. we’re crammed into a corner booth. in somebody else’s photograph, our shoulders brush at the blurred edges of a bar.

two.
i throw a long-dead version of myself onto the altar of back-alley haunts and offer her ankles up to the god of seafood paella. i pick another thread loose from vesper-kissed carpeting. in exchange, i get to be an island under your shoe. one touch and go. we’re in a ballroom this time, running instead of gliding. a worthy distraction. i hate to stand next to you.

three.
i take you for a pacifist at heart; what business do you have ringside? i know you live between venus (for you are love and beauty embodied) and the moon (for i see myself most clearly in your shadow). when i find out you can be vicious light spills over your shoulder like a flurry of shaved stardust. white, hot, blue. this is the first time i’m looking at you, i’m sure of it.

four.
and now, a brief scene from the moon landing:

sand. dust. dead rocks. craters. deep, unforgiving craters. salt in the wound. maria by the faultlines. basalt as far as the eye can see. two ferrymen for the bodies stumbling into the bathroom sick with both palms on their knees. here i am again, thinking i must be holding lady luck up by the shoulders, her ankle-straps cut between my teeth.

five.
i could set the entire room on fire to get home early. feign illness, start a fight, or admit dizzy. alternatively: i could ask you to dance with me.

six.
funny, how one small step is all it takes to lead.

seven.
for all my faults, i do the math quickly. another one bites the dust, and– yours, i think. right. this one’s all yours. what a relief.

to glide across the open water

i wish for gentleness, awash in orange light. letters of love for seasons of sickness. for burns to heal and ribbons tied like birds in flight. i wish for red shoes and buck-toothed smiles. for time immemorial, and nothing forgotten. not your words nor the kindness with which you speak them. for simple dreams fulfilled; no partings be final. for tiny, invisible wings bestowed by autumn’s wind. feathers soft as the pads of your fingers, a song for every leap of faith. for hands to find each other in the cold, and laughter caught in verdant abundance. for our stories kept sacred, and our adoration held firm.

to glide across the open water— i wish for ever-bright passage, and many safe spirited returns.

you can do it

tie your shoelaces, both ways. / ask questions. even the ones that scare you. / stay friends. / ignore the screaming. / be stubborn. / say yes. / visit the beach. / lift ten pounds, then twenty. / dream small. / get hurt. / fail. / pass. / flunk class. / jump a hurdle. / break a leg. / light a fire, put it out. / stand your ground. / lose, badly. / shake hands. / smile for the cameras. / worry mom. / say no. / bleed. / go further. / make the time. / mourn for all you’ve given up on. / live a long life. / fly free. / start a karaoke party. / fell giants. / dance in hell. / fall in love. / become whole. / butt heads. / stumble in the rain. / crack a grin. / land a joke. / share a meal. / say thank you, i’m sorry. / show some respect. / take one extra step. / win, with help. / forgo forgiveness. / desire destruction. / come home. / lend a hand, or a shoulder. / nurse a scar. / stoke the embers. / let them go. / pay it forward. / grasp tighter. / run faster. / change, dammit. / keep going. / keep going.

where memory goes, / our footsteps follow. / simpler paths might be carved / but i like this one / where a name is all it takes / to summon great loves / through darkness, / chasms of time, / and sundry, / unfaded hurts. / stumbling in the night / is only scary / when we aren’t laughing— / our voices like lanterns afloat / on rippling water. / so, / where to next? / if i could / i’d take us to live / in summer forever / was it happy? / i didn’t go to ballet / or taekwondo / but learnt to walk / barefoot / and leap in one / two / three breaths / like everybody else. / was it good? / the trees were sparse, / the air dry, / and i wept like a newborn / reaching for a height i didn’t have / but got on a bike / before i knew better: / spun the pedals / like someone could run / fast enough to keep hold. / was it fun? / i scraped my knees on gravel, / i cut open my thumb. / i came home / and you weren’t there. / i built / a time machine— / but never thought to use it. / i thought about running / but could never leave you behind. / so let go. / let’s go.

028: happy world poetry day!

1. i've finally come to terms with the full version of epoxy on the dancefloor — it is suuuper embarrassing, and to this day why i call myself ever the anti-romancer.↩

(spoilers for the novel ahead!)

last year, my friends and i decided we'd run a book club with a theme for every month. i managed to be diligent about this until july when my job started picking up; but in the end, it was ursula k. le guin's a wizard of earthsea that bested me.

much like ged, my stay on the island of roke was prolonged: it lasted nearly seven months. i suspect that the reason for this is that the fantasy cut a little too deep into my reality. to be honest, it sort of hurts to look at even now that i've read it end to end.

a smart kid with somewhat of a temper gets knocked on their ass in the act of succumbing to their own hubris. this happens many times over, but never more horribly and irrevocably than during the period in which they attend school. where have i heard this story before? (ha-ha!) still. a reminder of my bruised ego usually doesn't stop me from consuming a piece of media. in fact, by-and-large this is all but a guarantee i get invested hard and fast. 1

in other words: it wasn't the highly-relatable main character that cowed me, but the sharpness of his circumstance. le guin paints such a vivid picture of horror and the many ways it might find us: unguarded, at our most prideful, seeking to call it by name— all the while keeping it brief. which is to say: the pacing is achingly true to life. we slay one dragon and then it’s onto the next adventure. we take breaths but not so many before the next loss, or the next tragedy.

every encounter is momentous, significant, and arresting; yet each happens in the blink of an eye. naturally, we feel tired. we grow weary. likewise, ged recovers, but never fully. the arrogance and wonder so characteristic of the boy who set out past gont's borders at the beginning of the book are shed within a few short paragraphs, then sanded down repeatedly.

“He was so beaten and broken and cold that this crawling through the wet sand in the whistling, sea-thundering dark was the hardest thing he had ever had to do.”

(Le Guin, 1968, p. 215)

now look: i’ve never been shipwrecked on a deserted island before, but i have passed through the place where everything is dark and scary and the body is a vessel that suddenly loses its inherent buoyancy. crawling out of that long and endless night towards uncertainty was hell. (adulthood is, i assume, the worst thing to happen to anybody.) considering i usually jump into a world to escape this one, it makes sense why i wasn’t keen on reliving such bad memories.

i’ll be honest. i only finished this book in early january because things got easier for both me and the titular sparrowhawk. time and wind took and gave in turns. showing up to work is as hard as it’s ever been, but waking up early feels good now. walking to buy breakfast lifts my spirits. the cats around my office are usually up for pets, the sweetest. i still cry when i dream of mâ and 'kong, but i’m always relieved to see their faces. i’ve begun to say yes every time i’m asked to hang out, even when i’m afraid i’ll have to disappoint someone eventually.

after all, it is only in company of friends, mentors, and in the act of healing, teaching, and weaving spellwork for others’ benefit that the gebbeth is staved off into the margins for both us and the wizard. it is only in chasing, asking, and running towards instead of away that living becomes an act of banishing shadow.

for my money, the beauty and charm of all writing is that so much can be picked up between the lines; but this, le guin bestows to us in plain language. and for good reason— in her world, words have power, so the old and wise man tells us: “…if you keep running, wherever you run you will meet danger and evil, for it drives you, it chooses the way you go. You must choose. You must seek what seeks you.”

i’m having a tough go at seeking the big stuff, but i’ve started setting myself little quests every week so nothing feels pointless. tonight it’s putting on the face mask i made myself pick out during lunch break. on monday i’ll plant myself next to the market and wait for the red shuttle bus to drive me around the district in a loop. at the start of the year it was to traverse five pages a month, even if that was all i could manage. one of these days, without even realizing, i’ll swallow a shade.

027: this year we will tackle the tombs of atuan

1. looking at you zanka nijiku↩

dreamt of you. lied down next to you on the bed you shared with mâ. leaned on your shoulder. cried when i woke. think you asked for some hearty soup with tender ribs but can’t remember for sure. told mom we should offer some up with incense. think you wanted to be with us for your sister's birthday. know i wanted to be with you for it. got up for a short walk. felt the wind blowing on my face, coolly, coolly, coolly. hearing you speak felt just like that. hope it's taking you wherever you want to go. don't know if you can hear me. want to believe you're listening. love you. talk to you later.

i.
recently, i’ve started sleeping with the lights off again. life has been so hectic, and reporting to the office everyday has been exhausting; i keep passing out in bed reading something or other, and they end up staying on. (i try not to read in the dark — i feel much more mortal than i did as a teen, and i’m constantly reminded that my eyes are essential to my profession.) but i noticed i wasn’t feeling as restful lately, so i’ve been reading downstairs instead. now, i don’t even turn the lights on when i grab my pjs to wash up. i stumble into my bed frame by feeling around blindly. this has worked out pretty well, so i’ve been sleeping a lot more soundly this week.

ii.
i’m flying out to tokyo tomorrow! to be very honest, it’s been causing me a lot of stress. family trips are, well, everyone knows what they can be like. i wouldn’t say i’m afraid of flying necessarily— but that it does feel like taking a risk. i am generally fine with those if i think the results could be worthwhile, but i’ve never liked the cold, and we haven’t got much planned. dad always throws a tantrum if i’m not a perfect navigator-slash-chaperone; my way of dealing with him lately has boiled down to avoidance. it sucks not to feel eager, though, so i’ve been thinking about what i do want to do when we get there. hopefully packing won’t be as big an ordeal as i’m anticipating.

iii.
packing was harder than i thought. i would say i finished on our way to the airport. midway through the flight, our attendants hosted a little trivia game for free pouches with their company logo tacked on them. we’re not the type to participate in that sort of stuff, but i find it nice how everyone murmured the answers whether they raised their hands or not. a little reminder that when questions are asked, people are compelled to answer. also, i realized i might really like kids. getting older has made their loudness cute again. i’m delighted for the ones that laugh and squeal, because they’re clearly having fun; i’m sympathetic towards the ones that cry, knowing how much i hated having my ears pop when i was younger.

iv.
had lunch at a really cozy ramen place in ginza today. we saw it in passing and decided why not? the inside looked like a painting out of my dreams. dimly-lit with a bar and two wooden tables and regulars bumping shoulders with the older staff. i ordered shio ramen and they sent out a monster of a bowl (as delicious as it was sizeable) for 900 yen. when we stepped out into the cold, a line had formed halfway around the block. small miracles. we headed out for odaiba with full bellies where, for the first time in my life, i lost my IC card. (almost definitely while i was taking photos of the gigantic gundam jetting steam outside of diver city LOL) i won’t lie, i was catastrophizing until it was time to watch the fireworks over tokyo’s rainbow bridge. on the way back to our hotel, my mom told me to quit brooding over it — her grandma used to tell her: lost money is gained luck.

v.
today some of my favorite passengers on the metro included: a baby poking at their dad’s face while he made silly faces, a couple who couldn’t stop making each other laugh, and an older lady in a yellow coat who looked like one of my gradeschool teachers. i never get tired of shibuya, despite having been more than a handful of times. i managed to go to a pop-up shop i found out was happening only by chance on its last day open. as foretold, i felt ultra lucky. while we were in the area, i insisted we go to pray at the meiji shrine proper. the grounds are unbelievably well-kept, the air is violently fresh, and nothing will ever beat the sight of a torii gate when you want to feel small and need to be humbled. every time i see one, even in a picture, i think about how you’re supposed to walk along the sides— god takes the middle.

vi.
today is souvenir day! we are spending the afternoon at tokyo skytree, which means getting to go to the pokémon center. i will, in all honesty, never tire of visiting. nothing makes me happier than seeing proof that every pokémon is somebody’s favorite. (while i was there i confirmed that i’m partial to eevee and greninja. i also maintain that if any fictional world could subsume our own, i would choose pokémon everytime.) once we were done i got dad to agree to eat at a small local restaurant next to our hotel for dinner and their ramen was, unsurprisingly, delicious. how could it not be? it was the type of place where the boilers are always running, and everything is run by a single guy behind the counter wearing a towel for a headband looking like he’s set out to challenge the god of pork bone broth themself.

vii.
am flying back to manila today. for all i didn’t want to go on this trip, the thought of returning to work at my desk tomorrow instead of getting another twenty thousand steps in hurts. i am, however, very grateful for the fact that 1) i will have my ritual serving of takoyaki before leaving narita 2) our local airport now has e-gates for immigration, as i would like to collapse into my bed as soon as humanly possible and 3) life permit, i will see friends this weekend!

for kong, whom i cherish more than words can express:

mabalacat, the summer of 2018 — i'd decided during the school year where and what i was doing for college, but i hadn't quite told you. i probably should have. the first time i'd ever learned how to work with shapes on a program was in your living room.

i don't remember what we were talking about. i think i hinted at it. not unkindly, you said something to me about how if i did something else, i could earn more money. still, i cracked at the jab. for months, i'd held my heart so quiet and so close. steadfast, knowing it would be lonely; that at first, nobody would be behind me. i was ready. i could have heard worse from anyone in the world, so long as it wasn’t you.

and why not you? my old king carpenter, my plywood priest. lover of check-ins and dear friend to geese. last of the nightwatchers, vigilant in the search for any stragglers yet to tuck themselves into a proper sleep.

how could i not believe in something, if it came from you?

(“lolo’s sorry. now look at me. lolo’s sorry. don’t cry. of course i didn’t mean it. look at me, now. of course you can be whatever you want to be.”)

all you wanted was for us to be better off, if we could manage it. not for yourself, no, never for yourself. you could be hooked up to five different IVs and i'd still know what your first request would be: though you could no longer eat, food to hand your nurses — nothing too cheap, please. like you were afraid a drought would make us waver, that if you were hurting we would forget joy was made to offer.

don’t be mistaken: we learned to be generous, even when things are hard (especially when they're hard!), because you only ever lived like a king in the act of giving.

it’s funny, now that i think about it, how everyone in our family is so awkward about our manner of caring considering we’ve all shared a home with you. it’s a typical chinese stereotype we happen to fall into: we work to make each other’s lives easier in secret because duty is duty — isn’t something to flaunt, or expect praise for. see: how you carried cement on your back and climbed up rickety ladders for much longer than anyone ever expected you to; and not once did you ask for a single word of gratitude.

still, you never shied away from telling me you loved me. we’d hug every time we crossed paths, touching just to touch, even if it was just the hallway from kitchen to bathroom. temple to shoulder, palm to waist — a whole language of affection, i learned this way.

if mâ taught me how to be tough, then you were my touchstone for tenderness. growing up, i never lacked for a hand to hold because you so readily held yours out. the way you are, because you still are, i knew you must have missed her the most out of any of us. you've always been such a sap. you rushed back to her side so quickly, i can only hope you weren't too lonely.

sudden departures are scary. where we live, even more so. i'll be honest. i'm trying very hard not to let fear grip me. but you know want to know something? when i put my ear against your heart for the last time, it was quiet; and you were still warm. only dreaming.

not a thing could have scared me in that moment, when for the first time in a long time — you looked like you were finally sleeping.1

i'll think i'll be here for a bit longer, come back into the room where you're lying, though i know this isn't goodbye. you haven't left me, or anyone else behind. it's only good night, so let me say it to you for once: good night.

1. one of your nurses coo'd at you when the lot of them came to help lift you out. she'd said it looked like you were smiling. i thought so too.↩

do you know what the worst thing about getting older is? i'll tell you: you start believing that happiness comes at a cost. you lose people and places and things and you keep losing; because time is a foe that is only as generous as she is cruel.

now i've been gone for a couple of super crazy extra eventful months i probably should've documented but simply could not bring myself to as i was Living And Not Looking Back For Anything, so here’s the rub: we are more than halfway through this incredibly harrowing year, and i haven't stopped asking myself if i've done everything i can to be good about it.

i've got multiple conditions affecting the quality of my life at the moment. i’m trying to be positive about this. circumstance affects everyone — life is a lottery but you can carve at it, cut your hair in the way you like, build community — keep going, keep going. you know the drill. i'm fairly good at the drill.

this doesn't mean i don't feel defeated. i do. i’m just… i try not to let that feeling linger. in fact, i am kickboxing every instinct ingrained since birth letting this sit rather than jumping ship and racing off to vanquish the next, more manageable beast. sitting with discomfort isn't my strong suit.

but lately i’ve been holding my breath again. like i’m trying to be quiet for long enough that maybe i can slip under the radar of whatever force decides life's been too easy. logically, i know it doesn't work this way. reality doesn't care how quiet you're being. emotionally? i'm still getting there.

see: i went on a short trip with some dear friends recently. am i happy? of course i am. i am also: trying not to act like i'm facing down god in a trial where it's determined whether or not i've done enough to be allowed this, or if there is a toll i must pay for it.

(gramps is in the hospital again for an issue with his kidney. it sucks knowing he's going through such a hard time while i just get to live my life. i wish i could do something, like take some of the burden off his shoulders; but i can't. the need to show him i'm alright and that he doesn't have to worry about me has been the bulwark keeping most of my fears at bay.)

so let's talk about what i'm afraid of, exactly. dying? being injured? getting sick? yes on all three counts insofar as making everyone who i care about distraught and upset. the idea of inconveniencing friends and family genuinely gives me hives. i haven't done nearly enough to repay them for the kindness they've served me freely for all my years. it keeps me up at night how i might never get to.

if i could go back in time and slap myself for not being more diligent, i would. it seems obvious that there are only so many things you can do for others if you don't cherish yourself. but this is a lesson i only learned in my twenties. (talk about oblivious!!!)

the one thing that's really helped is thinking of my grandma. mâ passed just last year, but she hasn’t stopped giving. like a little foothold of love and hope to pull from when i'm left grasping at straws. a reminder that it's not impossible to defy the rules of equivalent exchange. or stand by them, depending on how you crunch the numbers.

i can’t pay her back for any of it. not the time or effort she put into raising me, or the many incalculable ways she’s made me stronger. my parents have always worked long hours — mâ was the person who taught me how to cook, sew, and do math in my head instead of on paper. i'm still not very good at it, but everything i learned about taking care of myself i learned from her.

a year has gone by where i haven’t fluffed up her pillows or massaged her feet, but she’s still with me. still finding ways to push me forward. did you know? when you spend enough time caring for someone you don’t have to say it for them to know: you hope they climb every mountain. find the all blue sea. stay in the game, even if it means losing. take back as much as they can take back from chance.

it's a bit embarrassing how every one of these entries seems to end the same way; but every year october third rolls around and i find i still need the reminder: that the past longed for may never return, and why should it? we've given up so much to be here.

you're an eternal optimist, so you get your heart broken easily. something's always hurting. it's been hard to speak lately. we haven't been here in a long time. you're fine — this is what you tell yourself, because you want it so badly to be true.

something true: you don't act like it, because you're obsessed with being good and strong, but everything stays with you. the day you held both of grandma's hands and didn't know it would be the last time you could. the night grandpa cut his scalp open and you stayed up making rice while they stitched him up in the emergency room. mom's face when she saw you hooked up to all the IVs in december, when you were the lucky sucker confined for an ulcer.

("take care of yourself, 'chi. you know i don't take care of you.")

every word of defeat tastes like metal on your tongue because you've sworn not to take anything for granted, and all things considered you're fine, you are, but you think, maybe, life has been really—

you're sick, again, and you still can't bring yourself to say it. always trying to drown your sorrows in silver linings. who would you be if you didn't wage war against melancholy? you've got new aches that weren't there before, a belly made of fire, and a heartbeat that treks across the single-plank bridge all night, leaves your breath for dead in the morning; some days you forget how much you like running.

you're digressing. you don't like writing in a way that's not driven by the sole purpose of releasing yourself from the confines of your own body. you're not good at it, either. let's stop talking about what hurts for a while. because all things return to brown-haired anime boys you stand beside and puff your chest out with— let's talk about oikawa tooru and his pseudo-fucked up knee. let's talk about haiji kiyose and his his actual fucked up knee.

imagine being seventeen and staring down a giant in the sendai city gymnasium because he doesn't believe you've sown roots deep enough to chase a ball halfway across the world without faltering. imagine being twenty-two and sitting in your doctor's office, picking lint off your first year joggers while he tells you the yomiuri shimbun building isn't your finish line. imagine being twenty-four and having nothing to show for it but your own blood on your hands. is this the worst time of your life? you don't know. who knows what happens once we round the corner?

you line yourself up next to these monsters not because you have any of their ambition or tenacity but because you fight tooth and nail to act like you do. how many of us actually get to do the things we say we will? historically speaking, desire is not a limited resource. but when you face yuki hayashi in the concert of life and he says 'we must go' you can only bend your knees and pray you've set aside enough to follow his lead.

pretend, for a moment, that july is not an incredibly dreary month during which we in the tropics pay heavily for the white man’s obsession with killing the planet. pretend you have not bled internally and that the world is not in fact collapsing into a black hole at the end of your esophagus. pretend you could go anywhere. be someone else. that none of your dreams go unconquered.

are you hearing it yet? your firecracker heart and your jackrabbit pulse taking off without you, singing: sorry it doesn't get easier. sorry, i can’t stay.

point being: we're going. everyone is in one way or another. do you remember? in third grade you saw meet the robinsons for the first time and decided you weren't going to skip the sad parts. if you were going to become anything you were going to become a robot with pennants and fortune slips that spelled out the words: keep. moving. forward. so pick yourself up. dust yourself off.

keep going, keep going.

long time no see! or write? or something.

i've been well! a little lost for sure, but largely coping better with the uncertainty of being a living, breathing person in the world.

grandpa is two months out from his fracture and on the mend doing physical therapy every couple of days. i admit i haven't been to see him lately; he always looks so sad when i say i've got to leave. i'm working on it. thankfully one of my uncles has come down from the province to help care for him, which is sweet.

taking time to regroup offline has been good. not that blogging takes that much of a toll on my mental faculties, but keeping up a presence anywhere on the web can sometimes feel like having another mask to maintain. personally i find it very quickly devolves into me fistfighting with phantom expectations, and this does nothing to forward my ultimate goal of becoming the coolest person ever.

right, so— i took august off and started up my creative burnout recovery thread in early september instead. it's been surprisingly fun! i'm lagging behind my goals by a week or so, but i've picked up drawing practice again and it's not like, agonizing. i suspect this is because i mainly deal in graphic design and not illustration, but a win is a win.

the best thing about learning any craft is rediscovering how much intentionality there's got to be behind every move you make. even if a sketch doesn't turn out very well, the voice in my head that insists everything i do is a waste of time remains quiet for all of it. i struggle a lot with feeling present, but art has always been grounding in a way i can't really put into words.

a little practice sketch of aspen, my shifter artificer oc from the dnd campaign moi runs for us. the antithesis of cool, suave, and aloof— an anxious nerd who cares deeply about everybody. (perhaps too much.)

i get teary-eyed thinking about the brimsverse kids all the time. sorting yourself out, especially while you're in school, is such an ordeal. i'm due to write a more in-depth entry about ocs, ttrpgs, and identity at a later date; but one of the most enduring joys of playing so far has been this: i may very well be the same timid, careless, superficial coward i was as a teenager. but aspen? i know he's getting stronger every day.

this seems like a good place to end the entry. i'll definitely try to write again soon! while retreating has done a lot to calm my nerves, i won't lie: it's been lonely.

p.s. for anybody reading who commemorates fma day yearly like i do— i hope your october 3rd was momentous. no going back now, right?

got two of my wisdom teeth out today! i imagine i will be in pain very soon but for now that sweet, sweet anaesthesia is coasting me through the ache and i feel, as any intoxicated individual might— like talking about everything and nothing:

for two-ish years now i've shaved my caffeine consumption down so far it's begun to resemble my second molar to the left (which is to say virtually negligible, not a metaphor, ground to dust in my sleep. whoopsie!) it was probably, definitely the anxiety that came with a constantly elevated heartbeat. who can say. one day i woke up with tapazole in my bloodstream and no lead in my feet and the earth had fucking shifted. i don't miss being out of breath one bit.

i've begun to ramble and stray from topic and will no doubt continue to do so but stay with me. the last time i went in for cleaning my dentist requested an x-ray1 and asked whether or not i still drank coffee to which i said not much, or really anymore. that's a no-no while you're trying to see if the drugs you're taking are doing a good enough job lowering the need to crawl out of your own skin, so. no. to be clear, because i love being clear, we're talking every quarter — a medium decaf spread across a week or so amount of coffee.

what i am trying to say is this. i have a confession to make. nothing gets you to want something more than being told you can't have it and so no, i didn't drink coffee! i did, however, order a hefty serving of tteok-beokki and kimchi bokkeumbap instead of having home cooking this past week. why? because apparently your jaw becomes an immovable object after mouth surgery. also, and more to the point, (debatable if there is one) last night i had a single dark chocolate truffle. the kind that's dusted in cocoa and melts like a lover caught in a serenade. slowly, then all at once.

was this a smart move? no. one might even call it unwise. half an hour later i brushed extra diligently because according to google this would destroy all evidence of the fact. but the point is this: it was delicious, and i was happy to be a fool.

1. every member of my evolutionary unnecessary barbershop quartet erupted! i have gone through all stages of grief and accepted that god made me too beautiful to give me a perfect set of unimpacted pearly whites.↩

to come back to myself, i skip around our roof in angeles, head spinning ‘round the numbers on the tarps we hung up for a free pizza every month. close my eyes and imagine you weaving dishcloths first thing in the morning, fiddling with the gas stove in the back room; the tip of a pen on your lip as you look over my attempt at beginner sudoku.

did you know i lost the sock bunny you helped me sew in eighth grade? either ms. custodio from home economics kept it to exhibit (who could best your magic with a needle and thread?), or you pried it out of my then careless grip to mend, or— well. i’ve always forgone digging crescents into skin in favor of telling myself stories. you know the kind.

the young stalks of san simon bend and snap beneath powerful wooly legs. at night, the moon projects a luminescent bridge out into eternity as the hare retreats skyward, sure-footed. i see it best alone, in the pin-drop silence. light breaks through the clouds and foliage as it runs figure-eights past my ankles and leaves only cotton ball stardust behind, fractal blue and warm to the touch. like a shadow, it dashes in and out of reach faster than i can call out a name.

i can’t chart a course for wild animals, but i can trace patterns on a white converse canvas. i can cut against the grain. the bump of a stitch is a footprint in the sand. a garden is a love letter. a recipe can be forgotten, but not so the taste of a little sugar sprinkled in. i can only hope to discern all the burrows dug open for me to unearth. a hop, a skip, a single word a time: i find i’m never close enough but never far behind.

(so, why chase a rabbit knowing you’ll never catch up to it? —to remind yourself it’s there. not an illusion. real as the old potholders, the scorch marks on the frying pan, the puzzle books with notes in the margins. to come back to yourself, as you are because you have been.)

019: for grandma again — anything i wanted to be given you taught me i could make instead.