Annoyed

Very small things
like people telling you you won't be able to leave on time because half the city is flooded, but then they tell you to take the chance to explore the city, because they did not show you anything from that city...
like you only have good accommodation and food if someone sponsors , even though you overpaid the whole trip
like obligatory charity
like like like

annoyed, disappointed, tired
I don't believe I belong here

Random

It's been a blur. 16 hours over the Atlantic Ocean, 4 days at home, another 17 hours over the old continent and I found myself laughing, eating, hugging, talking and admiring the rain showers that come and go and which i have missed for so long. The same intense embrace of heat and moisture leaves me drenched in sweat everyday, all the while wondering how my cousins can parade in jeans and 2 layers of blouse, plus gloves to protect the arms and mask to hide their face from the sun that seems to burn me darker and darker everyday in my shorts and tank tops. When my younger cousin swung open her hair that reaches her knees I knew I have no rights to complain.






My grandma seems to have become even smaller. Her back a constant question mark about where we have been, when we are leaving and when we are coming back. She seems to draw all her strength from the few days when the family that is away comes back to see her and spends the rest of the time waiting and waiting for us to return again. Her hearing is long gone, so that her world has been trapped in a time and space almost imaginary, which is permanently plagued by the noise of a hammer hitting a piece of metal, day after day.

I breathed in the smell of ripe jack fruits, guavas, longan and so many more fruits and plants and flowers which I sometimes remember and sometimes don't. I relearn the respect for proud cats guarding the kitchen from horrible animals who we must not name, jumping at fish freshly caught and boiled with onion which I have to pull from the garden. Life seems so quiet. Everyday I open my eyes at 4.30 am and walked out on the balcony of a house built in 1991, but which the moisture already colored green at the bottom with moss. Swinging on the old hammock, I watch the silver moon fade away, the stars become less and less bright in the birth of sunlight...

Almost leaving (in pictures)

the last thing standing between me and the plane are 2 bottles of rice seasoning and the thousands of people who have come (and are coming) to Staples center to say good bye to MJ. the way to koreatown is so long...

vu vơ

mười chín tuổi tôi đi chưa đủ lớn để hiểu nỗi chia ly không còn nhỏ để mong về với mẹ tháng ngày trôi qua nhẹ như hơi thở tôi quên tháng quên ngày tung phút giây cho bay đi cùng gió cuộc đời nghe dài quá khi ta chưa hai mươi
Ngưòi đàn bà trong tôi bước tới tuổi ba mươi run rẩy nhận ra hình như ngày rất ngắn ngậm nắng trên môi để giữ những gì đang dần trôi qua
thật chặt
những nếp nhăn đầu tiên rọi bóng cuối chiều không còn chờ đợi một tình yêu tôi mơ về những điều bình thường hơn vài nụ hôn vụng dại một mái nhà chiếc xe và tiếng trẻ thơ mong mẹ người đàn ông như bức tranh quý treo tường
Tôi chợt hiểu chia ly và mong về với mẹ người đàn bà mãi đong đưa trong một phút ngây thơ ta chợt hiểu cuộc đời

more on books...

4. what i would call English classics, which also contributed to my fluency in Vietnamese. The first time we returned to Vietnam, my mom took one empty piece of luggage, which, by the time we left again, she filled with lime, chillies, dried young bamboo, lotus seeds, dried longan and many other treasures that we would end up eating for the next few months. Amongst the endless food were her old books. My mom, a literature teacher had her share on the book shelf, and she made sure that they don't go to waste by bribing the people at the airport so they let her take the luggage, which I think was almost double of the allowed weigh. And that's how I got to know Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. I fell in love. I could not get over the darkness of the books for days. But there is something else that these books fueled - curiosity about the original work. You see, the Chinese books are so embedded within Vietnamese culture they never felt like a translation, but the Bronte's works, with their strange names that remain strange after being phonetically translated made me feel like I am missing something, reading them in Vietnamese. And hence, a new obsession - English, for the sake of reading books in their original language (well and to listen to MTV songs). As soon as i was able to read two sentences consecutively without consulting the dictionary I reread the Brontes again, and naturally had to read them over and over again, because seriously, having to stop every other sentence is very annoying. Then, I moved on to Jane Austen, Daniel Defoe, Bleak House (which I first read in the compressed version). To this list I will also count books that I enjoyed during English class in high school: Portrait of Dorian Gray and Catcher in the Rye. My secret ambition, which is part of the obsession, is to learn enough French so I could read The Count of Monte Cristo in its original.

5. Tottochan: The Little Girl at The Window. This book is the Harry Potter in my childhood. In fact, I read it so much the book fell apart and my mom had to get a me a new one. I read this book in Vietnamese only, being realistic enough that i will never have the chance to learn enough Japanese to read it in its original, but the joy it brings transcends the language barrier. It is a book that speaks to my dream of a school; it taught me the first lesson about understanding people who are different from yourself, about generosity, the difference between war and peace, and nutrition. I still remember today, the song that the children sang at lunchtime (the lyrics only, because the book did not give the melody): Ăn phải nhai, nhai cho kỹ, nhai cho kỹ hãy nhai cho kỹ những gì bạn ăn, hãy nhai cho kỹ, nhai cho kỹ, Cơm rau cá thịt chúng ta ăn.

6. Childhood infatuation: The Secret Garden, Little Women, Ania z Zielonego Wzgorza (a.k.a Ann of Green Gable) - most of the series. Except for Little women, I read these books in Polish (and in the case of The Secret Garden reread in English a bit later). I called them infatuation because, unlike the others that I have mentioned so far, I fell in and out of them and no longer feel the need to read them again once in a while (and considering my reading habit, the fact that I know many of them almost by heart should not be a reason). And yet, they still occupy a special place in my heart, nonetheless because I have spent many afternoons with them, afternoons when my friends are running outside playing volleyball and having first crushes on real people. I was too busy dreaming up my own garden and making up "novels" like Jo. My first introduction to Little Women was actually a cartoon, which I watched in German under the title Eine fröhliche Familie (A happy family), so in a weird way Jo in my mind always speaks German, in a strong boyish voice. The attachment to this image of Jo, running around young and free of girly worries is so strong that I refused to read the sequels to the book as sequels, so Good Wives and whatever else the author dreamed up never entered my list of favorite books. I read them and put them aside - this is not the future I have envisioned for one of my favorite characters in literature.
The other two simply form a piece of childhood memory, and I don't believe I am the only one amongst my friends to have read these books religiously. Whenever I think about Ania z Zielonego Wzgorza I also think about my sister, the anti-book-buying person who upon seeing the speed with which I devoured the first book took me to the public library next to the house to sign me up. Until today she believes it was a wise decision, and I have learned from that the habit of going to the library.

15 books or more (double post with facebook note)

I am going to cheat, because I don't think I will be able to choose exactly 15 books, so I will have a note in which I will explain what I like to read, and why... Is this fair?

1. Harry Potter - all 7 books. I started out with the first 3 movies, much later than the rest of the world, because I remember watching it on DVD that my sister had at home. I started my reading adventure with book 4, devoured book 5 and then went back to read book 1, 2, 3. By then I finally caught up with the rest of the world and awaited eagerly for book 6 and 7. I have read all the book countless times, my favorite ones from the series being book 1 and 7. I have also watched the movies multiple times and now have started listening to the audiobooks, which I will surely repeat multiple times in the years to come. By now you should know my reading pattern. Being impatient as I am, I can rarely wait until the end of a book, so except for when I read Agatha Christie, would read one third of the beginning of the book, then move on to the last 2 chapters to destroy all the suspension and then go back to the rest of the book. So I have no problem reading the same books over and over again, providing I enjoy it. And there is something about fantasy, and building a new world parallel to ours that makes me happy, very very happy when I read, and watch and listen again and again about my friend Harry

2. Agatha Christie - my traveling companion. I blame this obsession on my brother in law who gave me the first Agatha Christie book as a gift. Murder on the Orient Express. With Ms Christie, I bite my teeth and remain patient, and read and guess only to find myself wrong time after time. It has become a ritual. Every time I leave Poland to go to wherever i go my brother in law would give me one or two for my journey. And every time I come back I would take those book and bring them back to him. In the meantime, despite my sister's protest he would have bought some more, so I would spend my first few days reading her at night in the living room, unable to sleep. I have created for myself an image of Mr. Poirot, an egg with a big mustache, whose appearance is as peculiar as his sense of justice. And on all those flights, and train rides and during my sleepless nights I learn to understand that truth has many faces and that knowing does not bring peace of mind.

3. The four great classics of Chinese literature: Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Water Margin (or Outlaw of the marsh), Journey to the West and Dream of the Red Chamber. I think it is ironic that the four classics of Chinese literature is what helped me stay fluent in Vietnamese. Whenever I think back of my time in Vietnam, I always remember our book case on which Journey to the West and Water Margin occupy a whole shelf. I started with the first one, many books on really yellow paper in big print. I have read them multiple times before the show came on TV and drove everybody nuts, including me. I really don't mind cinematic interpretations of books that I like. Of course some turn out wrong because they are simply bad movies or shows, but with a show where the actors remain haunted by the roles for years and in certain cases until they die, the only emotion you can have is love and the only desire that comes out is the desire to read the books again.
Then came Water Margin, which I think I only read 2 times. Again, many books on very yellow paper in big print. I was in awe for a very long time after I read it for the first time and needed a break before going back again. I remember, for a while after I have left Vietnam, I would lay at night dreaming up worlds on my own, which somehow always involved a marshland and little boats disappearing. I no longer remember the names of all the 108 heroes, and I no longer remember the specific stories about why they joined the side of rebels, but when I think of the book, I think about how heroism should feel like. To lift your head high and do what you feel is right. I have always found the ending disappointing. I wish the small boats would always be able to outrun the big dragon ships, and the heroes would remain forever in the marshland, always outlawed, always on the run, yet always free.
The Romance of the Three Kindoms I have read only once, which in this case, I think, is not much different from not having read it at all. But then, being Vietnamese I know all about the stories and the main characters already. After all, Vietnam has been colonized by China for so long it's culture is much influenced by the culture of its bigger neighbor. So when I embarked on this journey during my second visit to Vietnam (three big books this time, on not too yellow paper and in very fine print), I finally understand some of the sayings that I use on daily basis and did not really understand why. I plan to go back to it sometimes in the future. Note to self: get own copy when going back to Vietnam this summer!
The last one of the four, Dream of the Red Chamber I only read recently. One big book on very white paper in normal print. I was confused after reading the book. So all of these emotions to understand the fleetingness of life? Too much pain, to many tears to much of everything. The book is so packed with emotions I could not get through it too fast. I needed to rest. And reading the ending did not help this time. What remains is the lonely death of a girl and the lack of happiness of the one who indirectly caused the death. The stone will go back to being a stone. What about the mess he leaves behind? And then you go back to the girl who died again and shed some more tears. When the heart abandons its guard, there is nothing we can do to prevent it from being stabbed. Except to pray.

To be continued...

Facebook and Michael Jackson

4.15 pm yesterday, Thursday, June 25th, 2009 I got the news. Nearly 2 hours too late, facebook was already filled with people in shock, saddened and yet happy that he finally has found his peace after a life so full of success and failure it became a kind of myth, the legend of a genius of our time. In his last moment people forget about the tragedy named Micheal Jackson, the blows that fame, money, media and human weakness have sent him so they can remember a sweet child, and a gentle adult who sang for the poor, the weak, the earth, who called for a little bit of peace and hope and love in the turmoil of war and violence. His music have inpired generations, his fame went beyond boundaries. Whether you have listened to his music or not, you know his name. Every genius seems to have some kind of eccentricity and Michael Jackson has taken maybe more than his share of otherness. Yet, on this one afternoon, amongst the many statuses that contain his name on facebbok, I see less curiosity about his latest scandal, less sneer about his skin and nose, and more, so much more personal memories. Off the frontpage of magazines and newspapers, what people remember are moments in life when his music helped connect them to other people.
Long long time ago, 5 young girls sang Heal The World, their English sounding like Vietnamese, and we did not even know, then, that it was his song...