Being frank

We sat down to lunch at a rather posh restaurant. Mum has been insisting that we go out to eat together and savour the many delights Taiwan has to offer. To me, just the fact that we are together is enough. The food and whatever that comes with the food are just extras.

Brother began the conversation, at a time which was poorly chosen and which dampened the whole atmosphere of eating out. But then again, it has to be done sometime, somewhere. It was a bit blunt, but basically came down to asking mum what the exact extent of her illness is. Both brother and I have a slight suspicion that mum is not telling us some things for fear of influencing our lives too much if we worry about her her condition.

Mum was quiet, then said that she really isn't hiding anything. " I sometimes don't even know myself," she said, looking down and averting our eyes. "I am also torn between whether I should do chemo or not. I really am..." And I know it... I can see it in those moments when she is alone, sitting and staring into blank space. I can see it in the way she looks tired and worn, even though she has not been doing much.

A few moments later, mum admitted she didn't want us to know too much, that she can take care of herself and that we should go off and do whatever we have to do. Go build a career, go live our lives, go be successful.

"That's the problem," I said, "Because I know so little I am not at ease. I've been putting a lot of things on hold, been afraid to commit to anything because I don't know how you are. Finishing my thesis, starting a career, applying for Canadian residence... How can I do anything if I don't know what will happen next?"

Perhaps they are harsh words, and I did not want to place blame on mum, but it felt necessary that I tell her how I feel, and what predicament I am in. I really do not want to push her, do not want to give her more pressure than she already must bear, but I feel I am buckling and breaking...

There was no conclusion, no decision made, no new development, and we eventually continued eating as we had planned to down.

But at least things have been said.

Call

I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant or afraid to pick up the phone and just call. I know that this friend of mine is unwell, and she would be very happy to hear from me. But I just don''t know what I could say to make her feel "better"... Again, like with my own mother, what could one possibly say to make someone who is undergoing terrible chemo therapy feel better?

She is a dear person. When I was growing up alone in the Netherlands, she would call or visit me to see how I was doing. Not only that, she has always been ready to lend a hand when my brother needs help, and every time I would go back to Europe, she is one of the few people that I still keep in touch with and visit.

A few months back, brother told me that she discovered she has ovarian cancer, and she has since then undergone surgery and chemo. All her hair is gone, her voice is weak when she speaks... so I have heard from third parties.

I have written to her, cards, emails, sms, to encourage her, to let her know that my thoughts are with her, but I dare not call for some strange reason... Maybe I'm afraid to hear again that yet another person dear to my life has been struck down by cancer... maybe I'm just afraid to face reality and the suffering of someone close, after having just lost a friend recently, and now seeing my mum tormented by her illness...

I know I should call, because I know how much a voice on the phone can mean to someone. But why do I not have the courage to...?

Truth about the Dalai Lama

China's propoganda mouthpiece the People's Daily offers this interesting account of the "truth" about the Dalai Lama.

Actually, the fact is quite simple. The Dalai Lama always pretends to be a religious, learned and merciful Buddhist leader who has experienced a lot of hardships but has strong will.

So the fact the Dalai Lama and millions of Tibetans were forced to flee Tibet after the Chinese invasion is all pretentious play-acting. China claims that it has tried to talk peace and tried to reconciliate with the Dalai Lama and his representatives, but in fact the Tibetans are "double faced":

Our patience and sincerity have become bargaining chips for him to continue his tricks in international communities, and has allowed him to create a false impression: as long as he can maintain contact with the Central Government, he will always be able to possess his "magic ability" for hurting China.

Therefore, the Dalai Lama has become much crazier and more insane. The collusion between the Dalai Lama and the U.S. government during the "Dalai Round" was nothing but another futile effort. For the Dalai Lama, it also exposed once again his plot of splitting the motherland and his true intention of selling the interests of China.

The role the Dalai Lama plays in the international community not only disappoints the Chinese, but also will bore people worldwide. The "political market" gained at the expense of ethnic groups and the nation will become more and more lonely and dangerous. Luckily, the current condition in Tibet gives the lie to the Dalai Lama's lack of imagination, and China and the world will learn the history and future of Tibet in a more realistic and objective way.

China however remains hopeful and conciliatory and offers an olive branch:

[...] we wish the Dalai Lama who is drifting away from his country can find his way back while he is still alive.

And in yet another "childish" bully-tactic, China has removed official accreditation of the University of Calgary after the Canadian university granted the exiled Tibetan leader an honours degree:

The Canada Tibet Committee (CTC) has denounced the delisting, saying the Chinese regime “chooses to bully rather than reason in order to resolve differences.”

“That a foreign power should be so out of touch as to believe that they can intimidate a Canadian university through such tactics would be even more astonishing if it were not the Chinese government doing the intimidating,” said CTC Executive Director Dermod Travis in a statement.

The decision to delist the University of Calgary is only the latest illustration of the authoritarian measures that the Chinese government will attempt to export to Western democracies unless we make it abundantly clear that we will not be bullied by authoritarian regimes in our own countries"

Ridiculous that a dictatorship and self-acclaimed world-power thinks it can behave in such a manner. I wonder why China does not de-recognise Canada or boycott the city of Paris for giving the Dalai Lama honarary citizenship....

Strands

It was so shiny and fine it looked like a thread of the most precious silver. I held nimbly the strand of mum's fallen hair between my finger and thumb and examined it closely. The dim daylight reflected on it and the hair seemed to glow.

On the floor I often see strands of mum's hair. Sometimes, there is but a single strand, at other times, there are a few strands crisscrossing one another in random patterns on the beige tiling. I'd try to quickly kick the hairs aside to a corner, and, whenever mum is not watching, frantically try to pick up as many strands of hair as I can. Even so, there is simply too many to pick up, and the worst region is around her pillow after she wakes up in the morning. It pains me a little every time I try to pick up the strands, and wonder to myself whether hair grows quicker than it falls.

Maybe it's an utterly pathetic and pointless endeavour. But this way, however few hairs I quickly throw away, I can save mum the disappointment and hurt whenever she sees that more of her hair has fallen. She told me that she feels afraid and ashamed of her hair loss, that other people will look at her with strange eyes. Unsure whether it was meaningless words of comfort, I told her that nobody would think less of her. The monk in the mountains has no hair and nobody looks at him in a funny way, I said. On the shelf lies a bandanna that she bought recently, should that day come.

If she eventually sheds all her hair I may well do the same.

New year's visit

The letter singed, curled up like a crumpled leaf, then charcoaled. From the large open fireplace, smoke and soot rose skyward like an aboriginal smoke signal, mixing with the constant fall of rain and the fast-moving blanket of mist that swept down from the mountain top. The normally blue, blue Pacific hid behind the dense, dense cover of the fog.

Next to the letter was a box full of paper money, gold coins and bank notes, as well as a pack of Marlboro's, which at my urging, brother had thrown in to offer to the ancestors and dad. I stood there for a while, listening to the fire crack and pop, sensing the scent of burning paper sticking to my clothes and skin, and feeling warmth of the fierce flame against my cheeks. Dad must be happy to receive word from you, mum had said earlier. "He will feel proud of you, and of the fact that you spent so much time writing to him".

Other people gathered around the burning heap and poured in stacks and stacks of paper money to offer to the deceased. For a moment I thought perhaps I had offered too little compared to what they were giving. But then again, they did not seem to have a letter with heart-felt words of gratitude and expressions of love.

Letter to dad...

Asked why I am spending a few hours handwriting a letter to dad, I said because it is something I　want to do, something that I feel I must do.

Whether dad will ever receive it, will ever read it, or whether dad even exists in the afterlife, does not really matter. In my mind, he is still around, he is still there when I think about him, when I recall his smile, his words, his smell. He is still alive in the way that I write so beautifully (...if I may say so myself...), in the way I am introverted, in the way I care about others but have a hard time sometimes expressing directly. He is me in many ways, and I continue to live and carry on living because of dad.

When the letter incinerates in the fire together, maybe the words, ink and paper will just vanish into ash and dust, and maybe all the time and thought I put into writing will have literally gone up in flames. Maybe dad will "receive" it, and be happy to receive news from me.

But I am glad that I managed to write down my thoughts, my feelings, and my worries.

Beany

On the news was a report about a seven year old with leukemia. His name is Dou-dou (Beany), and has to spend new year's in the hospital for chemo treatment. His hair is shaven, but he is smiling. He says he does not want to cry because he does not want to make his parents sad. Even through the pain of chemo he only sheds a few drops of tears. He is a strong boy, his mum says.

His dad sells candy on the streets, and could not be with him on new year's eve. The dad must work hard to earn money for the expensive treatment. A bone marrow transplant and electro-therapy easily costs over one million Taiwan dollars (EUR 20,000). Every candy he sells, he is closer to achieving his goal of getting the best treatment for his son. In his pocket, he carries an amulet bearing the picture of his son. That shaven head, that beautiful smile and mischievous eyes.

I think I can understand what they must feel...

New Year's Eve

Just had dinner together. It felt warm to be together, to eat together, and to be joking and laughing together. As a family. Mum, brother, and me. There was a spare chair, spare bowl and chopsticks. For a few moments we were silent. Dad's portrait sat on the counter next to the dining table.

New year's eve. The night when family are together.

Even those who are more often than not apart.

Do the best you can

In the face of something you cannot change, you cannot come to grips with, what can you do?

"Do the best you can..." But what if the best is not enough? "Whatever will happen will happen."
Accept. Let go. Do not worry.

It is hard. But it is the best one can do.

Smile

What can you do but smile? So smile is what I did. A weak smile I managed to muster. One that you make when you want to let the other person know that I understood what was being said. A smile that is supposed to say "I'm OK, go on with whatever you have to say". A smile that hides the trauma and hurt that cannot be described, that is hidden and waiting to pour out.

I sat in front of the doctor, mum by my side. He spoke to me, looking at me intensely as he spoke of mum's condition. "You know what your mum's condition is, right?" I said yes, then added quickly at least I knew as much as she would tell me. Everything else is a mystery, and I said perhaps a lot of information has been withheld. For me own sake perhaps.

"There are two worries". I braced for the news, though it was not really new, except what came was worse than I had expected. "The cancer is spreading. To the lungs". I smiled. A weak, frail smile to show I understood, and nodded slightly to confirm that I had heard what was just said. I did not know what to say. What could one say? What could I say? What do I have to say, if anything?

"The more chemo she does, the more it will be a strain on the kidneys. She will have to undergo dialysis soon." I nodded again, afraid to look away. My mind was blank, save for the image of a machine plugged into a patient plugged with all sorts of tubes. Dialysis... isn't that painful? Didn't grandma have to undergo that ordeal? There was a silent shatter in my mind. Hopes, dreams, plans...

"She has a lot of stress, and it is not good for her. You must know she has a lot of weight on her mind." He said that and looked at me as if to tell me, to warn me that I am the one responsible for her stress... I swallowed. What have I done to cause my mum grief? What have I done or said that made her condition worse? What can I do to make things better? It is not me... it cannot be me...

I was silent and said only that I understood, and I thanked the doctor as I left the room. For a few moments I was quiet as we walked away from the clinic. Though we went to a fancy restaurant, my appetite was low, and I ate without even tasting the food. Chewing, swallowing, but my mind wandering away to a distant place of disappoint and fear, of broken memories and tears. My stomach was upset, and the digestion problems I have not had for a long time appears to be returning.

I was exhausted.
I am exhausted.
And this is only the third day back home...

Smile, smile. Because it is the simplest thing to do in the circumstances.

Back home

I looked at mum as she was excitedly talking. She's been smiling and laughing almost continuously since I got back yesterday. Underneath the layer of dyed black hair she was grey and thinning. On her shoulder was a few strands of hair which had fallen. She bemoaned earlier that since she started taking the chemo medication again, her hair has been falling out. So potent and powerful is the drug, and it has only been one session out of a total of seven more to go. Strands, tufts, and fingerfull at a time. She said she did not dare to dry her hair with a cloth after washing it. More might come off.

I have had a few deep moments with brother since I got back. What to do, what to decide in the coming period. Should I stay on, leave all the things in Canada undone, or return as scheduled and return in May again when I am in the region for a conference? I'm not closer to a conclusion as yet. But watching those temporary moments of grief and worry on mum's face between her smiles, I am once more caught and lost in confusion.

Mum's office

I looked around the room, filled with twenty, thirty people all sitting at round tables, eating , laughing, chitchatting and enjoying one another's company. It's only been around ten hours since I arrived home, I could barely keep my lids open, and I kep on rubbing my eyes to stay awake. But it mum decided to throw a 'going away' dinner for her colleagues, and I wanted to be there.

She's not really going away, at least not yet. But since it's the end of the (lunar) year, and she wants to take a break till the summer to continue her treatment, it was a good occasion to get people together and thank them. Later, they would all come to visit mum's new apartment, for a house-warming. As Taiwanese tradition goes, it's auspicious to have lots of people gather around a new house to furnish the place with more "yang" ("good") energy. I don't think I have ever seen so many pairs of shoes huddled together, and it was overwhelming to be in the apartment with be surrounded by the noise of so many people chattering all at once.

They were a simple, and warm bunch of people. Mostly women, married with children, but some men too. I looked at their faces, and silently wanted to get up to thank them all for being so considerate and understanding of mum's situation, and being supportive and being there for her when I am not around. But of course I was too embarassed and shy to do so. I think I'll write a card instead... as it were, writing says more.

Seeing them, watching their laughter, their banter, their gossip, I think I understand now why mum enjoys work so much, and why she gets up every morning in a hurry to get to work. It gives her a sense of belonging, a place where she feels at ease and where she is surrounded by friends and company.

En route to TPE

Approximately an hour to go before landing. I can already see the island on the satellite map, resembling a fish with a gaping, waiting mouth in the ocean. Outside, flashes of lightning betray the presence of a violent storm brewing in the East China Sea. The plane rocks lightly as the wing shudders.

Faint on the horizon, I can just make out the first glimmer of dawn, pale, pale orange on dark, dark purple. The thin, thin sliver of the moon, like a bright, shiny scythe, hangs lonelily in the sky.

Mum must be just stirring from her sleep now. Can I imagine her excitement, the extent and depth of a mother’s longing for the return of a far away son? Our family soon to be reunited, to usher in the new year, and together face and share whatever joys and difficulties it has to offer.

The long, long journey home is almost over.

En route to ANC

I look out the window, and see thousands of bright and dim eyes looking back at me against the dark black canvas of night. A flash of red periodically lights up the bottom portion of the massive GE-90 engine which thrusts the plane forward at close to a thousand kilometres an hour. A smooth, smooth flight so far, almost 5 hours on our way to Alaska over the frozen prairies of Canada.

Occasionally, the pale, orangey glow of a settlement or village appears scattered over the land below like diamonds in the dark. It is hard to tell the sky apart from the land. Where do they meet, where does one end and another begin?

Through my little window I can only see a small part of the great big world out there. A world that is shrinking and passing quickly by as the plane speeds toward its destination.

At EWR

Airports are exciting places. Places where people come and go, where people cry and smile, where people part and reunite.

In the sky, a row of lights lined up along the path of the runway, each bright speck a plane waiting for its clearance to land, each plane filled with hundreds of passengers energized or anxious with the final approach. As the car quietly circled the massive terminal buildings of Newark Liberty International (EWR), I was again filled with that excitement and thrill of being able to board a plane and end up somewhere far, far away a few (…or in this case, almost 20) hours later. It is a great privilege that I enjoy, and that I know many can only dream of.

The EWR has got to be the most hideous and run-down I have ever been to. Strangely so, because numerous four and five star international airlines fly to and from here. The terminal building is poorly lit, the shops and restaurants are few and repetitive, and the security check area—with tired looking staff, simple X-ray machines and metal detectors— resembled something from the pre-911 era. The Underwear Bomber would have had a field day here.

But I am not here to scrutinise the security of one of the US’ important entry points, nor am I here to shop and stuff my bags with even more souvenirs for family, relatives and friends.

I am here to board my plane and begin my long, long journey home. Again.

Snow walk

It has been a pretty uneventful few days staying with my aunt. They are extremely hospitable and kind, but a lot of the time we spent walking around big supermarkets shopping and then eating. Meat. A lot of red meat, which meant out of politeness I had to quit as a part-time vegetarian. Even if the smell of pork and beef boiling in the fondue was at times nauseating.

I wanted to talk, bond and share life as family usually do. Instead, almost constantly my cousin insisted that we play video games, while my aunt and uncle watched crappy soap series and online talk shows. The snow storm and cold over the weekend didn’t really help, and at some point I was actually counting the hours till I leave.

So this afternoon, I strode in the snow and went exploring behind their property, which spans some 2 acres into a wooded area. Seeing the serene nature and beauty made me wonder why they spend most of the time cooped up inside, instead of savouring the gift of fresh, open air and spaces that nature has to offer.

I followed the trail, which became a track that led into the woods. Droppings of deer littered the fresh coat of snow, black pellets against a smooth, fine white. It was cold, but the afternoon sun felt graceful against my cheeks. The wind blew strong at first, and almost as if it was too embarassed to disturb the quietness of nature, stopped breathing altogether. I looked around, at the frozen landscape of barren trees, shrubs, and unspoiled wilderness. A winding brook silently and gently carved its way into the distance.

I could live here, I thought to myself. I could lose myself in this great big world, away from the noises, away from the haunting memories of the past, away from uncertainties of the future, away from the troubles and worries, and surround myself with the humility and preciousness of each and every moment. One day I want to live here, out here, and be with nature.

I stood still, my eyes adjusting to the golden glow of the sun pouring over the soft, white blanket all around. With a stick I started to draw and write. Words, short, sweet sentences, hopes and wishes...

On my way back, the words and messages I had written in the snow had faded. The wind, like a naughty invisible finger, had smudged the writing, and soon all I had written will be lost.

Except, I know what I wrote. And the earth could read what I wrote. If only for a little while.

Oh, David...

... why do you need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders?

At the store

I was awe-struck as soon as I walked in. Aisles, rows and rows of them, stretched into the distance, each filled to the brim with foods and goods. We spent almost an hour browsing through the store, and still that didn’t seem enough. All these brand names, all these choices and alternatives, all the combinations of recipes and meals you could make. All those calories and all that sugar.

Kosher, diet, Thai, low-sodium and low-fat. Ready-made, canned, to be microwaved or served cold. Chops, cookies, crab and cream. Bread, (I-can’t-believe-it’s-not) butter, biscotti and boiled egg in brine. Tylenol, tangerines, tulips and tomatoes— diced, cubed, sliced, whole, soaked or sun dried. For every taste, every need and every preference there seems to be something on offer. And all at almost unbelievable prices and in unmanageable quantities. There is an almost insidious lure to shopping and binge and bulk buying that I cannot understand.

I looked around at the people in the store— in fact I only have to look at my relatives—to see the result of uninhibited consumption under the constant spell of special offers, buy-one-get-one-frees and coupons. How much do you have to eat really to sustain your body? What are we putting into our mouths and bodies? What are all these “colourings” and “flavourings” that are mixed into enticing sweets and snacks? Why do the vegetables look so green, healthy and sparkling in the dense of winter? Do you really need to have six dozen brands and flavours of ice cream in buckets of a gallon each?

Food, glorious, food!

Consume, stupid, consume!

To dad

I am not sure what I should be feeling, if anything at all. I woke up, just like any other normal day. Outside, since the night before, a snowstorm had poured down over 30cm of snow. I thought coming south would be an escape from that winter cold.

I feel such a world away from the events that unfolded two years ago. I had to re-read what I had written to get my mind and heart back to that moment, even though it was a moment that will be defining for the rest of my life. The flight home, the anticipation, anxiety, the gradual realisation and reality of death...

The snow has stopped now, save for the few flakes falling from the heavens. A world of white stillness and serenity.

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts
So Don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different date
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be O.K.
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
I wasn't there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

YUL-EWR

Left home in the dark of 4am. Didn't sleep at all, only laid down an hour, eyes closed, but my mind and thoughts were wide awake. I ended up talking to a friend, which didn't help induce sleep, but at least helped confront my fears and causes of my agitations. Is a life of travelling and living comfortably from day to day without meaning? Is the pursuit of happiness or making someone happy more important? As with all these kind of deep, existentialist conversations, the only reply was an empty echo at night (and the muffled sound of my neighbour snoring next door).

I rode to the airport, and for the first time, checked in at the priority line reserved for "loyal" frequent fliers. I was feeling the effects of the lack of sleep, and it got worse as I queued the US immigration. A model of the Statue of Liberty stood next to tall flags of the Land of the Free, and she seemed to be mocking the hundreds of travellers wondering whether they would be able to catch their flight. I was taken aside for a moment, though I had no idea why. Was it because I couldn't recall the last time I was in the Minor Nation of the US and A? I really couldn't, perhaps I had gone so many times last year. Only after being taken into an empty hall did I remember that I was actually in the US in October to transit. The wonderful experience must have escaped my mind. Bizarre as it may seem.

But it turned out to be a false alarm, despite the fact the US border guard had miraculously managed to fish out my two suitcases from beneath the ground within minutes.

I went towards the boarding gate directly, as I had only ten minutes left. I skipped the lounge completely, in the hope thatw my "first time" would be a memorable experience. Once on board the plane, I closed my eyes and entered the world of sleep until the roar of the engines woke me as we hurtled down the runway and skyward.

The dawning light tore through the cabin of the little Canadair Regional Jet. Even with my eyes closed, the brightness of a whole new day tempted me to look out of the window. The frozen land below slid by as the plane headed towards Newark.

Yoga

I wanted to go in to yoga one last time before my long trip. A friend had suggested that it will do me good, especially having to sit down in a cramped space for over 16hours (even if it is broken up into two sectors...)

So I went in, and was just on time. The place was already quite crowded, surprisingly for a 16.30 class, as I assumed people would still be working (well, I'm not...). I found a place in the back, squeezed between two middle aged ladies, and had a really (really) big man next to me. I looked at the image in the mirror in front of us, and it looked like an extreme version of Laurel (me) and Hardy (him).

The class began, and I slowly got used to the heat. The clock counted down... 90 minutes to go till the end, and the instructor's voice urged us to exert all of our effort and energies. Since I started, I do feel much better about myself every time I finish. Even if not physically, from all the sweating and stretching, then at least mentally I feel I accomplish something significant after every class.

More than half way into the class, with some quarter of an hour left, I started to feel breathless. I never felt that way before, and as hard as I tried to follow the postures and the instructions, I couldn't. I was light headed and felt nauseated. Not like I wanted to throw up, but just like I have just gone for a spin without realising it, and am now reeling under the aftermath of it all....

So I had to stop and just lie down for a moment. Gradually, I felt my hands numb... a creeping sensation of numbness climbed up my arms and into my fingers, slowly and slowly taking control of my hands (right one was the worst)... Soon I last all senses of my hands and fingers. I tried to curl them, to control them, but just felt pain, tingling, bursts of electricity and impulses shooting and running throughout my hands and fingers. I felt overwhelmed, like I had lost control of my hands, like I had lost my hands. All the while, the voice of the instructor droned one, and we were already one posture further and closer toward the end of the class...

Then suddenly, an imaged flashed across my mind (terrible, since in yoga we're supposed to be concentrated fully on the breathing and movements of the body...) The image of my mum's hand, and my fingers reaching out to touch hers. I could see my mum lying there, asleep, after complaining about the numbness and pain she felt in her fingers and hands, because of the sideeffects of the chemo therapy. So is this excruciating sensation what it feels like? This pain, this severe numbness and inability to control the fingers... is this what mum has to go through every time she has poison injected into her body?

I closed my eyes, and tried to surpress the the pain and tingling sensations. Tried to watch those sensations, and thought of mum, and her ordeals...

"Push"

At the bookstore to pick up a gift for my cousin, I picked up something for myself too. Randomly I walked through the shelves, and saw a cover with a big black lady with butterfly wings and the title "Precious". A friend had told me to go watch the movie, which is based on the novel in front of me. But then he described briefly what it was about, and I cringed, and subconsciously have avoided the movie since it came out...

But somehow at the store, I was tempted despite the subject matter. I flipped through the book, glancing at the (purposely) misspelt narration of the "I" character Claireece Precious Jones-- an overweight (legal and politically correct term: "heavy-set"), 12 year old Africa-American girl, growing up in the poor and abusive environment in Harlem, NY.

I was hooked. The simple words, swear words, doodlings, and dialogue captivated me. In the quick metro ride I had already read 20 pages, and cannot seem to put it down, even though the subject matter is very sensitive....

" I'm twelve now, I been knowing that since I was five or six, maybe I have always known about pussy and dick. I can't remember not knowing. No, I can't remember a time I did not know. But thas all I knowed. I didn't know how long it take, what's happening inside, nothing, I didn't know nothing."

When I read passages like that, I have to close my eyes and breath deeply. Something deep inside echoes, and feels her pain, feels her suffering...

"...I just fall back on the couch so full it like I'm dyin' and I go to sleep, like I always do; almost. Almost, go to sleep [...] I just lay still still, keep my eyes close. I can tell Mama's other hand between her legs now 'cause the smell fill room [...] Go sleep, go sleep, go to sleep, I tells myself. Mama's hand creepy spider, up my legs, in my pussy. God please! Thank you god I say as I fall asleep."

That dream-like state... that temporary attempt at escaping from reality, at becoming numb and feelingless as in sleep. Harrowing...

"First he mess up my life fucking me, then he mess up the fucking talki' [...] But I keep my mouf shut so's the fucking don't turn into a beating. I start to feel good; stop being a video dancer and start coming. I try to go back to video but coming now, rocking under [...] now, my twat jumping juicy, it feel good. I feel shamed."

That's what it is. Shame, disgraced, wronged, dirtied... pleasure and pain all mixed into one. Hatred and love indistinguishable. Fear and relaxation dissolving like sugar in water...

Something about this book creeps into my heart, churns my memories, yet beckons me to read on. To read on in the mere hope that despite the suffering, humiliation, untold emotions bottled inside, there can be liberation and delivery from a seemingly repetitive and inescapable hellhole.


(Extracts from the text are not intended to infringe copyrights, but to indicate how powerful and worth reading the book is.)

Night before the night of departure

Somehow it is difficult to pack my suitcase on this night before the night of departure.

It is not so much a problem of wondering what to put into the two suitcases I'm taking with me (there are plenty of souvenirs and gifts to stuff in... too many in fact!) It's more that with every thing I pack into the suitcase, I am one step closer to really going away. And that realisation is somewhat heavy to deal with.

Going away for how long? The ticket is for three weeks, but given my habit, it may be postponed, again and again. Especially now that mum has resumed her chemo treatment...
Not that I would not want to spend more time at home... just that I feel there are some unfinished things here in Canada I should try to wind up. My thesis, my future legal status, deciding on my next career/academic step... With all these things nagging me, I know I will be constantly thinking about them while I am away, and cannot really be or feel "in the here and now".

And every time before I leave Canada, I feel I will come back to a different place. The weather will probably be different, the cat may will become different (fatter and perhaps a little depressed that I was away...), and my mood and emotions will have changed much from being away. The unpredictablness is something I kind of dread, even though on the surface I can easily come and go, come and go.

Leaving is often difficult...
Going is much easier.

Letter to dad

Just spent the last couple of hours glued (almost) constantly to my seat and writing a letter to my dad.

I've been wanting to do this a while, ever since I promised myself two years ago that every year around the time of his anniversary, I would write to him, and 'send' it to him when we hold the ceremony of worshipping foods and burning paper money. Maybe it's more self-therapy than anything... and if he is no longer '(t)here', he may not even be able to read what I have to write and say. But still, I find it's something important to do, and I guess that is enough. Many things in life don't require a real justification or reasoning...

So far, it's over a page long... mostly containing descriptions of how I've been feeling these days. Down and distraught and caught between options, opportunities and the great unknowns. The health and life of my mum figures greatly in the letter, as well as concerns and this wandering heart of mine that seems always longing for sanctuary, care, and human intimacy.

Strangely, compared to last year, I did not feel too emotional, and did not have not stop halfway through to wipe my tears. I just wrote, as if dad would understand if he read it, and as if he could answer some of my hopes and anxieties.

Two more weeks till the anniversary, and the letter looks complete. But I feel maybe there are things I want to add.

Just unsure what.

Bright, sunshinny day

Woke up to the sound of the alarm, and felt my head and world swirling. I don't know why the past few days sleeping in my own bed and in my own bedroom I don't sleep very well. Don't have the same problem, it seems, when I sleep in the spare room.

Called mum, and for a moment I was worried because the phone kept ringing but there was no answer. Then I remembered that she might be at the new house, so I rang her mobile. And she was indeed already at the new place, and actually taking out the garbage (which comes around three times a day for some reason!!)

She sounded joyful, and was delightedly telling me how wonderful the new place is, and how well she slept in her new bed. Like I encouraged her to do, she bought a new and better bed, and she said it really made a difference.

"Are you working already?" I asked, almost afraid that she might say yes, only a few days after the chemo therapy. In fact, she was already at the office, having only rested over a weekend. But she reassured me that there's very little work for her now, and she seems to be just going in to swipe her fingers (to sign in), and sitting around reading, chatting and doing the odd chore. Her colleagues are very understanding, and her direct superior is a guy who used to be her colleague, and who is a close, good friend of hers. They told her that she's worked enough already for the last 20 something years, and it's time to take it easy till retirement. "Just as well," mum said, "As I may need the relaxed working environment as the effects of chemo sessions pile up..." Already, she said, she's been having a few days of diahrea because of the medication...

Overall it was a happyish conversation, and I felt relieved to hear she was doing better. At least from the sounds of her voice. I think the new house has really made an impact on her, just as I had expected. It took a while for her to be able to finally move in, but all the patience and waiting (despite some tensions and intolerable arguments on the way) seem to have paid off.

I pulled open the curtains, and despite shivering from the morning chill, felt the dawn of a new, bright sunshinny day...

... even better that I may have a "date" later! :)

River of ice

The river ran under me, rapidly disappearing under the bridge. I stood, and tried to capture its fast-moving motion, tried to imagine where was the source of all this endless energetic flow, and tried to picture the villages and fields the river will pass as it winds its way to a destination yet unknown.

The sun was setting, and a pale, pale glow of crimson mirrored on the dark flowing surface of the river. Ice, in bulky blocks and thin sheets, drifted along, floating with the motion of the river downstream. I watched the countless islands ice that dotted the river, their speed too fast and dizzying for the human eye. Some were like small hills, and reminded me of icebergs which hid its deadly secretly beneath the water, away from the world. Did the adrift ice know where they were going? Did they have any say as they were separated from the ice sheets further upstream? The icy shores revealed the depth of the river, and the depth of a dark, brooding abyss that lay beneath the river.

I shivered at the thought of falling into rapidly moving river. How cold and unpleasant it must be to be caught in the motion of time flowing by so rapidly, and be unable to control your direction and destination.

Two weeks

It took almost a week for me to watch "Two Weeks". And it's not because of the moderate reviews that the movie received. It's more the subject matter, which strikes close to home. Literally.

Two weeks may not be a long time, but to many it seems an eternity. Especially to those slowly dying, excruciatingly slow, of cancer. The end is near, the pain is unbearable, the hulicinations are starting, morphine is losing its effect, yet the waiting, the waiting is unbearable. Even more so because it is not only you who waits, but also the whole family who has to watch, wait and wait for that final moment when life is no more.

But two weeks is a period that can bring infinite changes, bring together and bring closer a family that has been spread around, with every one living their separate lives. Two weeks can be a time to bond, to share, to cry, to remember those precious moments of times past, and to rediscover and treasure the bonds that shall never be broken-- despite of the quarrels, disagreements, temperments and set ways of an elder brother wanting to control the young sibling.

I watched the movie in installments. Sometimes it got too overwhelming I had to turn it off. The moment when the mum, dying of cancer, threw up, I had to stop watching. Partly because I was eating, but partly because it reminds me of something that is so painful to remember and experinece....

In the beginning the mum looks well, and is still very conscious of her thoughts and surroundings. Yet, with each paling shade of her face, she loses her battle to cancer... she succumbs to the proliferation of cells that are eating her body from the inside out, that have even manifested themselves onto her back in humps as big as fists.... Painful to see, and even more difficult to digest...

Even in installments, I managed to finish the movie. As scrutiating and as slow as something takes, like life all things come to an end. The moments of light comedy and satire are welcome refuges in a dark and brooding setting of death and final goodbyes. Tears flow and eventually cease, but the memories of those who have gone continue on and on.

I am reminded of my mum, and a dreaded fate that I have just seen in the movie. At least in the movie, the mother was not alone when she passed away. Can I say the same for my mum? Is there anything more painful than dying alone? Is there anything more regretful not being at the side of someone you love and care deeply for when that person disappears from this world?

Again I am confronted with a decision.... should I stay, or should I go? Should I pursue my own interests, should I seek and hope to find the happiness I came to Canada to find, or should I be at my mum's side no matter what?

Will you say when I'm gone away
"My lover came to me and we'd lay
In
rooms unfamiliar but until now"
Oh oh oh oh
Until now
Oh oh oh oh
Until now

Will you say to them when I'm gone
"I loved your son
for his sturdy arms
We both learned to cradle then live without"
Oh oh
oh oh
Live without
Oh oh oh oh
Live without

Will you say
when I'm gone away
'Your fathers body was judgment day
We both dove and
rose to the riverside"
Oh oh oh oh
Riverside
Oh oh oh oh
Riverside

Will you say to me when I'm gone
"Your face has faded
but lingers on
Because light strikes a deal with each coming night"
Oh
oh oh oh
Coming night
Oh oh oh oh
Coming night.

Wanderlust

Did good work last night, and before I knew it, it was already 2.30 in the morning. It's been a long while since I felt that my thesis is actually going some, actually has a purpose, and if only I could gather that momentum, I could finish it. Soon.

Since I got back to Montreal early December, I've been telling myself that I have two months to make the most of my time here, and that I really need to settle down and do some work. But, shame, the heart and mind wanders, and I could not be still. Every day there seems to be some kind of distraction... or better termed, some kind of excuse for me to 'postpone' things till tomorrow. And after that there is another tomorrow. I promised myself so many times that I would not procrastinate, would not waste life away, especially in the light of the deaths and illness that I've seen and experienced in people around me. Yet lethargy and laziness come in addictive dosages, and sleep more often than not takes over when my mind is weak or down.

So I am happy for moments such as last night, which give me a boost of confidence, and show me just how much I could achieve if I really sit down and set my heart to it.

A few more days, and I am off again. Must try to get as much work down as possible.

A little disappointment

Can you be disappointed by someone you've never met?
It seems the answer is yes.

Wake up call

I woke up early to call mum. The phone rang a couple of times, but was always engaged. It was almost half an hour before I could get through. She was on the phone with the carpenters about a leakage in the living room. Mum said she was very excited about the new house, and that it is now all coming together, despite the troubles and noise a while back.

Then she told me. She is doing the treatment. Just like that. She did not let me know until today, which is the last day of her first session. She said she feels fine. The doctor changed her drug. She feels no side-effects, and is feeling well. She said she went to eat what she wanted to, which was teppanyaki at Takashimaya. And she could eat everything. No nausea. Maybe it's the new house distracting her and keeping her busy that she does not feel much of the nausea, she said herself.

I said little. I only asked why she decided to suddenly do the treatment whereas before she was telling me she would not. Because other people encouraged her. The doctor, relatives, and even Mr Chen, the mystic and fortune-teller. I said little, and was glad that she did not feel ill. But in the back of my mind, I heard the echo: "Not yet.... not yet....."

She asked me how I was doing. What could I say? I was silent. I said I was just pushing on with my thesis, trying to get work done. Could I tell her that I am down, that I am depressed, and sleeping away the days, lost in a daze of lethargy and depression? Could I tell her that I am lost, that I feel alone, and torn between whether I should give up my life her and go back to be with her, or just bite on and enjoy my life here in Canada?

Be happy she said, and take good care. It is very important to be happy, and to not worry, she said.

We ended the conversation. My cat sat by my legs. I curled up next to her, and watched her, as I slowly fell asleep again... as I slowly drowned myself in a world of no thoughts, of no consciousness, and of dreams.

Even bad dreams seem a refuge from the reality of facing uncertainty and the unknown...