yesterday was a beautiful day in the city, and other then some work stuff which we ain’t gon’ talk about because that ain’t the point of this here blog, i spent the sunshine time out at tompkins sq park. i was napping and writing, writing and napping and generally doing my goddamn best to avoid the pressures and deadlines of real life… choosing instead to enjoy sun, wind, laughter and young twenty-something ambience for a little while, imagining that maybe it’d recharge my batteries.

a coupla things came out of it… a bunch of writing, two pieces of which will be shown here as a general bit of sharing and part of the poem-a-day project, as well as some realizations.

first and foremost, toddlers are goddamn cute. there were these two kids at the park with their hipster parents, both of them not more than two and half, maybe three years old, stumbling and tumbling around the park on still-awkward legs. smiling, giggling and just generally enjoying the strange environment, taking it all in and loving every minute of it. and i was just floored for a moment by the carefree laughter coming from me as i watched their antics. this is what innocence is supposed to be and once was, before doubt has really crept in and all the insecurities and neuroses of civilization have had a chance to take route. what wonder they saw the world with… and new yorkers, who tend to be very touchy about their private space allowed these kids in. talked to ‘em, made funny faces at ‘em, giggled at their antics.

it reminds me of the parable of the bandit and the girl-child, which is used to illustrate that all people, both those perceived to be ‘good’ and ‘bad’, all have some element of humanity in them. kids are one of those universals, its deep seated in us to enjoy their innocence, to desire to protect them, to envy their ability to see the world anew. little kids can bring a smile to the most cynical person. having kids have fundamentally changed folks i’ve known. which is why i can’t understand how folks can ever treat kids badly. wtf world?

now, a coupla realizations. dude, you gotta bring a blanket if you gon’ chill on the ground in the park a day after it was raining or you gon’ be trying to get dirt stains offa you for the minute. more over, going to the park by yourself unless it is for the purpose of reading and/or hanging with your dog can be hella awkward, ’specially when you’re surrounded by couples. spring love’s in the air alright.

further, my thesis sequester is going to suck balls.

but then again, like i said to my friend last night, we do what we gotta do. our lives are not our own. and duty weighs on us all heavily, but we continue cuz we gotta.

… which is why i don’t get it when folks describe me as complicated. i feel like i’m a relatively simple to understand kinda dude. i’m just a boy doing the best i can. what’s difficult to understand about that?

faults and foibles, vices and virtues, contradictory or not. and with my demons, which ironically returned to me last night in a big way. after having marveled at innocence and simple pleasure, i got a rude awakening from those parts of myself that are not so happy. it’s fitting considering the weather outside. but then again, we fight our demons ‘cuz we gotta. we keep moving because if we don’t what do we got? how can we look at ourselves after letting others down?

let me just leave you with this piece, On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning by Haruki Murakami, one of my favorite authors and one of the most genius minds in the world. oddly enough, i was introduced to him by two very different people, one, a woman who broke my heart because she didn’t think i loved her enough even though she was like the air i breathed, the second, a man with sharkeyes who taught me that there ain’t no such thing as heart or love when it comes to business.

the reason it’s odd is that murakami is such a romantic, yearning type of writer. there’s a vulnerable loneliness at the core of his work that touches something inside of the human. even if he’s ironic and has one hell of an acerbic wit, there’s an element of the human there that manages to shrug aside defences and reach for that part of ourselves that’s delicate, that’s affected by the subtly poignant (it’s no coincidence that poignant and poignard are such similar words) . the fact that two vastly different people both connected with his work smacks of the universal to me… maybe we all desperate seek something or someone that will soothe the loneliness within us. ’specially in this city.

april 5th

the swagger

he plays the audience
like a maestro, his body
his voice, the bow and the guitar pick
thrumming with life, never so alive
as when the stage lights hit
that first breath, eyes closed
and he embraces the hubris
of momentary divinity

afterwards, spent
he hardly drinks, sometimes
blazes a little, takes the edge off
he says, his voice subdued
as he dons ironically sardonic
pink-framed sunglasses,
jaunty scarf hanging just so, wandering
aimlessly from bed to bed, bar to dive

it’s now that he grows most miserly
when you can tell that every article of clothing
is expertly chosen
for maximum impact, every gesture
weighed against the memorability quotient

it is now that he gives
least of himself, fragile construction
fabricated at the clash between arrogance and insecurity
showing in between cracks in the facade, his structure
hostage to his neuroses

in the wake of the rush, his demons come
as regularly as the moon’s phases
or the shakes before a show, the doubt
that asks if the boy inside
matches the man the world is meant to see

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expository

i have not been completely honest. i’m not very good at that, the whole forthcoming thing doesn’t really work for me.

that’s why they call me emotionally unavailable. whatever that means. i don’t know, always thought it was a bullshit description. i’m an artist for fuck’s sake. and i exude emotion. if my bartender can tell, shouldn’t you be able to as well?

words don’t come easy for me in speech. i don’t mean being witty, or telling my exaggerated stories or spittin’ game (whatever that means). those are part and parcel of the role i’ve taken on for myself. story teller. acerbic wit and gregarious charisma like sunglasses and cigarettes. and even then, text has always come more easily. i can be more clever when i get time to think (maybe thas why i’m on the computer so much).

my attempts at vulnerability (even when i’m at my most vulnerable) and honesty (except the brutal sort) are halting, like the stutter and speech tics i’ve spent my life overcoming. you didn’t know that, did you? no one really does.

so let me tell you how i feel then (as ambiguous and PC as that word is), here, with anonymity as the perfect medium. i don’t like gaming. i reach out to women when i’m at my weakest. hope on some level they’ll be what i need to make it through the storms and the turbulence. i know that’s not fair. i can be selfish, self-absorbed to say the least. get stuck in my head. only good at leaning on one person at a time, and always with hesitancy, even though i have a monumental fear of loneliness, get the shakes at the thought of being surrounded by ocean. fear drowning in isolation.

i think i could fall in love with you. that past infatuation there might be something more, which is more of myself than i’m usually willing to admit to.

i don’t know how to do this. i wish i was better at it (whatever it is).

this is as clear as i can be. not an ultimatum, but an exposition. ‘cuz it’s what i got to give you. i’m broke. i told you that, but still insisted on buying you a drink. money’s everything, but ain’t a thing. i confuse myself. sorry ( i don’t know what i’m apologising for).

ps: i miss reading your writing. it’s what i fell for in the first place.

———————————-

life is sisyphean, in all senses of the allusion.

i’m back in boston for break, and it’s… been an experience. especially as i’m also writing a midterm and my thesis. what fun. thank god for copious amounts of ca phe sua da. goddamn have i missed easily available, high quality vietnamese food. i’m gon’ get hella fat, but that’s what zhoo zhitzu is for. which reminds me, first day i’ve been back playing for months and months. yall should be proud. and i’m even writing again. bounties will never end.

i’m lying of course. they always do.

i’ve already talked about the issues i’ve been having and ain’t gon’ rehash it. so les leave that aside.

the night after i came back, East Meets Words, an asian am open mic series in boston had its fourth anniversary, which was trippy as hell, because i was there for the
first one. way back when, it feels like ages, because at least in my development as a person, it has been.

coming face to face with the changes within myself over the years, because i see it within the space and the people that have defined east meets words for me, was at once one of the most traumatic and one of the most hopeful experiences of my life.

it’s crazy to say but it’s a beautiful thing to see change, to see people growing and developing… especially as i am unfortunately one of those people who is not as good as i should be at the whole keeping up thing. too often, it really is out of sight out of mind for me, so seeing these people that i really do and truly love, with all the depth of emotion that i have, seeing how they’ve grown and how they’ve developed, even as i have, is…

there are no words for it. it’s heartbreaking because i wasn’t here to see the changes, i wasn’t here to see them at their weakest or there for their triumphs, i wasn’t
there to halve the misery or to double the joy. and on some level, it’s trippy seeing everyone developing their own separate lives, pairing off and becoming grown ass folks, while i’m still a kid more often than not.

but at the same time… what a fucking great night. even with my issues, what a goddamn great night. what a huge, happy, appreciative crowd. it’s events like this that made me a poet in the first place, that got me in love with performance, with crowds, with that affair between artist and audience that is at once symbiotic and parasitic… and which is too often likely to break your heart.

the beat collective rocked it. there’s no empty words for me to use to describe how bloody amazing they were, how much they saved me from myself.

now i wish i didn’t stop learning the violin all those years back.
———————————
can i just say… fuck needing a car.

i realize now that part of the reason that i love new york city is because there’s an inherent, unquestioned freedom in a city that never sleeps, where there’s always a bar or a club or adiner or a fucking bodega that is open. there are always people out there. no matter how alone you are, and nyc is the loneliest city in the world, there’s someone out there to drown your misery with or something to do to forget for that little moment. there’s space to run, run so that you know that you’re alive, run so that your demons can’t catch up with you, at least for a little while.

i don’t have a driver’s license, so whenever i come back to boston, i regret it ever the more. it might even make me get a driver’s license. which is probably not going to happen, both because of laziness, but also because i do have my principles.

but sometimes, i just wanta run off and wander, and it’s so difficult in this city. it’s annoying to say the least. i love having trains that allow me to get anywhere in the city whenever i need to get there. it makes life so much easier.

maybe there’s a woman out there, a boston girl with a car, a romantic’s heart and an eye for the beautiful. a girl who likes long drives, late at night, philosophical discussions over whiskey and black humour who can love a poet boy with a paunch from good food, good drink and merry making… who has his demons and his darkness, his bad times and his sardonic jokes and has a propensity for wandering, in all senses of the word.

epic lulz.

btw, can i just say… i miss my mohawk. and i’m not drunk on saint patrick’s day, i’m not sure whether to be proud of or ashamed of myself. but goddamn do i miss my hair. shaved heads are nice and all, but goddamn and i know this i’ve said it twice and i’ll say it again, goddamn i miss my hair. time will heal even that wound, won’t it?

also, i am soliciting descriptions for that banner on the top right of the page. if you want to contribute, ten words, + or – 2. i’m keeping the ones that i find to be clever and just insulting enough to fit my ‘unique’ sense of humour. if you can call it that.

life is one of those jokes you just don’t get until it’s way too late.

when i hit the zone, i’m so calm. i’m so grounded in the placement of my limbs and in how my body moves and how my opponent’s body moves that the world reduces. i need that. my mood is determined by it. jiu jitsu is religion and crack all rolled into one.

———————————————

one of my favorite reasons for living in new york city is actually giving me the fucking scares. everywhere i go, wlaking down the street, the shit i overhear is always hilarious and poignant and somewhat interesting. snatches of conversation are always great places to start poems.

but recently, i hear so many snatches about the shitty economy and about things tanking and about sacrafices needing to be made. it’s horribly depressing. everyone in the city is so worried, rightfully so. a huge chunk of the city’s economy and finances are based on the financial sector, and the financial sector has the largest multiplier effect in the city. with the FIRE industries tanking, the city on some level tanks.

but even as this gives me the willies, i am heartened. because this is new york city, and there’s something amazing about the fact that everyone is so willing and ready to deal. to face reality and to understand that when the fecal matter hits the rotary impeller, things need to be done. if any place in the world is ready, and no place really is, new york is ready for the worst. because new york is the greatest city in the world. its people are well informed, well educated and tuned in. its people love it. i love it.

take that paris. london. tokyo. shanghai. beijing. dubai.