Sun | November 13, 2005
Eulogy, 11-12-05, Oms Cafe, snug, wrapped in seaweed
What can I say about my father, Anakin Skywalker. He was an inspiration to me in the last days of his life. The Force was strong in him despite the Emperor's evil, dark, seductive side. True, he tried to destroy me several times in his day. Well, I though his stormtrooper minions were too aggressive. Like the time Father ordered the execution of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on Tatooine, destroyed my sister's planet of Alderaan and systematically executed my brethren Jedi. All this I forgive because, in truth, he was kind-hearted underneath all that armor.
Yet, my father had a wonderful sense of wonder and curiosity as a boy. As a child slave to Watto, a junk trader, his ability to fix and engineer droids became impeccable. So much so that to this day, C3PO is one of my loyal protocol servants. Another trait he developed was becoming a skilled pilot and pod driver. I never encountered such stories of winning races Father ran through Beggar's Canyon in and around Mos Eisley.
Talent aside, he was very close to his mother, Shmi, who later lost her life as a prisoner to the Sand People. His discovery by Jedi Master, Qui-Gon Jinn as a padawan Jedi enveloped his young being. The council did not see then any potential in him, especially, Jedi Master Yoda. Never the less, Qui-Gon Jinn endeavored to proceed with Anakin's training. As you all well know, my friends, he wasn't a great learner, always impetuous and a bit reckless. Just like myself. However, his anger slowly turn into rage which became self-evident by the slaughter of the Tusken Raiders - the Sand People. It was later found in time that Anakin provided for the orphans left behind at the village well into adulthood. These contradictions always accompanied him.
As I stand by the funeral pyre, we witness a man conflicted by what he stood for and his prodigy meant to withhold. In the moment in which I lost my hand during the struggle at Bespin, he confessed to me that, he, was my father. "Search your feelings," he said. I couldn't barely feel my right hand, yet, at that moment, I knew he lost the same limb. Jedi masters Obi-wan Kenobi and Yoda were right. The Force surrounds and penetrates us yet never confirms suspicions or whims. It is ashame that I've spent nearly half my life battling the Empire, to see several worlds destroyed, epic destruction of naval vessels on numerous star systems, only to shed a single tear for a father I hardly knew, yet love. I can stand to you all that I forgive this man.
Posted by Heru at 01:22 PM | Comments (0)
Sat | November 12, 2005
Gift of the Dragon
On her mother's thirty-ninth birthday Ellen bought two cupcakes. One was chocolate with a cloud of white icing, garnished with fudge pieces and a maraschino cherry. The other was vanilla with pink icing and a layer of coconut flakes.
The cupcakes were put in a tidy white box and then in a plastic bag. Ellen carried the bag by the handles for two blocks, but she worried about the cakes becoming damaged. She took the box in her hands and wrapped the bag around it.
As she arrived at their apartment she did not know whether she could go through with it. Her mother might not receive the gift well. She criticized any unnecessary expenditures. They had always lived with the feeling that there was not enough money.
“We have enough,” Ellen had said one day.
“You never know what can happen,” said her mother. “One of us could get in an accident and we would have to pay the medical bill.”
And yet Ellen knew her mother wanted the cupcake, and that she wanted it from Dragon’s Tea Bakery. She would not have been able to explain how she knew, but she felt that her mother desired nothing more.
Ellen had discovered Dragon's Tea Bakery on one of her meanders to Captain Fresh, the local grocery store. The bakery's glass façade, with segments of frosted glass on the top and the bottom, made it look as if it were partially obscured by a fog. If someone happened to open the door, the smell of cookies wafted onto the street.
She kept it to herself for awhile, but one Sunday when she and her mother were walking to the grocery store and they had been getting along well for some time, Ellen had said, "let’s go this way."
Her mother fretted the whole three blocks. "Where are we going?" she asked again and again. "We’re going to get lost." Ellen did not reply. They arrived at the bakery window.
"Look at these, Mom," she said.
They looked at the cakes. A chocolate coated square cake with ribbons of white icing and a cluster of glazed kiwi and strawberry. A cheesecake topped with raspberries and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. A white layer cake with marzipan irises. The periwinkle and goldenrod colors faded gracefully across the petals even more beautifully than real flowers. Finally, the cupcakes, with creamy heaps of icing and every variation of topping.
"They are a waste of money," her mother said.
"Looking is free," murmured Ellen, as they walked away.
In future weeks they changed their route to pass Dragon’s Tea. "This street is nicer-- safer," said her mother. Ellen stared at the sidewalk, mostly, as they walked. They slowed down as they passed the bakery. Sometimes they stopped. In those moments looking at the cakes, Ellen felt that she took in a breath of life, happiness, and freedom.
Remembering this feeling Ellen walked through the teal door to their apartment. She smiled as she saw her mother. "Hi Mom," she said.
"Hello," said her mother. "What is that?"
"Happy Birthday," she said, handing her the package.
Her mother unwrapped the bag, and paused to take in the Dragon's Tea Bakery logo. She took out the box. It was sealed with a gold sticker. "Oh," said Ellen reflexively, who had not seen the shopkeeper seal the box.
Her mother picked at the sticker with her nail and carefully peeled it back. She opened the box and looked inside. Her lips parted and she nearly smiled. "Hmm," she said. She reached in and took out one cupcake, and then the other.
"I don’t like coconut," she said.
"Oh," said Ellen with embarrassment, "I got one for myself, and one for you."
"Oh. Okay." She put the cakes back in the box. "Thank you," she said, without looking up.
For dinner they had white rice mixed with chopped chicken and green peppers. Immediately afterwards, Ellen hopped over to the box, saying, "let’s eat the cupcakes!"
"Wash the dishes first," her mother said. Ellen washed the dishes. She knew then that she had relaxed too soon, and started to rebuild the wall around herself.
"I don’t want to eat them right away," her mother said. There was no use protesting.
The next day passed at its usual crawling pace, typing numbers into the books at the accountant’s office. An hour after dinner that night, their eyes met. "What?" her mother asked.
"Do you want to eat the cupcakes?" she asked.
"No," her mother said. "Have a little patience."
Ellen went to the refrigerator and took out the box. She opened the box and looked inside.
"You can eat yours if you want," said her mother. Ellen closed the box and put it back.
Another day passed and then another. In their living room her mother sat on the green plaid couch. Ellen thought she could see her mother aging. Her eyes were black and her skin was smooth, but her hair was dull and streaked with white.
On the fourth night Ellen took the box out again. She took out the coconut cupcake. "They’ll get stale," Ellen said.
She picked the cupcake up and bit into it. Her mother watched. They did not look at each other as Ellen ate the cake. Finally she asked, "is it good?"
"Yes," said Ellen.
"Is it stale?"
"A little."
A week after her birthday Ellen’s mother had still not eaten the cake. Ellen resolved that she would say something if she did not eat the cake that night. That night she stared at the lamp next to the green plaid couch. She counted the roses on the linen lampshade. Her mother did not eat the cake. Ellen did not say anything.
The next night Ellen’s mother ate the chocolate cupcake. The maraschino cherry had bled into and stained the white icing. It was stale.
"Is it stale?" Ellen asked.
"No," said her mother. "Too much sugar," she added.
The days grew cold and the evenings darkened early. As Ellen walked home from the subway stop sometimes she went out of her way to see Dragon’s Tea in the twilight. Inside there were beaded square placemats like a golden diamond on every table.
One day she went in. The door chimed as she entered. The light had gone out in the glass case and there was a mist on the edge.
Ellen gave the woman three dollars and sixty five cents. She held the beautiful fistful of sugar in her hand. Stretching her jaws she took in as much as she could. She swallowed and took another bite in the same motion. She gulped at the cake like a drowning person at air.
It grazed her throat as it went down. She could not get the forbidden sweetness down fast enough. Then she felt as if she had swallowed it whole and it sat, whole, in her stomach.
She returned home, carrying this secret. She said nothing.
Posted by Lily at 06:42 PM | Comments (3)
Thu | November 10, 2005
Wong Kar-Wei: In Mood for Love, An accidental discovery
The Asian Writing Club has a prompt for review for Wong Kar-Wei's 2046 but Netflix has not released that movie yet. However, on the Netflix and Amazon sites, two phrases for one of the Wong Kar-Wei's another movie, In Mood for Love piques my attention - "Love in the absence of fate" and "It is about a love affair that should happen, but didn't." I check the movie for rental thinking that I am going to watch an elegant Hong Kong/ Chinese version of "Casablanca" or "Lost in Translation". In Mood for Love is also part of an informal trilogy that includes 2046, so I am OK in picking this movie for the writing exercise. In Mood for Love is much more than I thought it would be. It is about love that is ethereal but nevertheless very real and with a deeper understanding between two souls. It is also about decency, and also about lack of courage to rebel against the rules of society. The opening line in the movie says it so aptly:
"It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns and walks away."
Winner of many awards that includes 2000 Cannes Film Festival, In the Mood for Love is a tour de force by Wong Kar-Wei. Juxtaposed by the repetitive nature of the movie scenes like a very delicate poem with high-low pitch multi-lingual music, striking cinematographic light play and beautiful cheongsam dresses, it is a story of two neighboring apartment dwellers, Mr. Chow (Tony Leung) and Mrs. Chan (Maggie Cheung) who discover that their ever-absent spouses are having an affair. These lonely souls become friends and then fall in love - but they keep it platonic, undefined, and never attempt to cement it. The strength of their love is undeniable in one of the scene where Mrs. Chan breaks down sobbing in one of their mock breakup but then their restrain is often repeated in the movie by a self-imposed rule:
"We will never be like them!"
But why, they deserved better. I disagree with "It is about a love affair that should happen, but didn't" and agree with "It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns and walks away." Maybe, Wong Kar-Wei is more complex and cryptic. Experience the movie yourself - I have not spoiled the story for you by the review.
Cross plotted at my blog.
Posted by Kush at 02:22 AM | Comments (0)
Sat | October 29, 2005
Juxtaposition, 10-29-05, Cupcake Cafe, warm, cozy, tad kitsch
He meant to be diligent about choosing his running mate by today's date, yet his uncharacteristic hesitation kept the opposition and his constituents guessing. Neither he nor Martha were aware that the potential of having an Asian-American women on the ticket can possibly be such a firestorm. Even as the aftermath of China's landing a man on the moon last February and the virulant effects of the bird flu pandemic which killed nearly ten million could assuage the electorate. Could anyone ever wonder will there be a "yellow peril" in the White House? George knew that his honed instincts as a Brooklyn councilman, NYC mayor then US senator of the great Empire State thought otherwise from asking Martha in becoming a powerful ticket this November.
As a decorated hero in the secound Gulf war, he led his troops to victory in gaining control of Baquba, Iraq; yet he couldn't conquer the fears of the Democratic Party leader for an endorsement. Even more surprising, he just won the Pennsylvania primary that pushed him over the 271 electoral votes needed. Chuck, his personal advisor, akin to JFK's Bobby, told his chances would come off better if they would come to a resolution on stem-cell research and the topic of intelligent design taught in primary school. George's war wound left his arm feeble. Telegenic and charismatic, personable and candid - he became what the press called. "Dole with light syrup." On the former, He can benefit from additional research and funding but he deemed be self-serving; on the latter issue, he'd weighed all issues of fact vs. faith taught in public schools. None by far, is the most contentious issue of the campaign.
Martha on the other side of the coin would garner brownie points as past secretary of state with her deep expertise of nuclear proliferation. There's a cloud of suspicion though whether her husband's role in her campaign contributions muddle George's decision, however, Chuck shrewd observations saw the synergistic purality of it all. The bigger worry after all is the reaction of Gov. Rivera, his other, more acclaimed, choice. All the pundits were in awe on how he solved the immigration problem and made Mexico and the rest of Central America more of an economic powerhouse by furthering lenient entry/exit visas at the border via N/CAFTA. It was he who's persuasion to Commerce secretary Jones to give waivers on goods and services via a graduated tiered-tariff system. Thus allowing larger percentages of revenues to remain south of the border and allow greater prosperity to thrive. George recognized the Governor's leadership wasn't going unnoticed however, the greater uncertainty was whether having Martha on his team to countervale against the growing power burgeoning in the east or abandoning the promise of continuing growth in the south. He had only one hour left before his final meeting of the Democratic chairman before his announcement to the world.
Posted by Heru at 09:04 PM | Comments (0)
Sun | October 16, 2005
Relationship, 10-15-05, WWP, mild, 71 degees
I wasn't surprised when I opened the door to see my best friend, Darin from Atlanta, come in to visit. He called an hour ago to say he was in town to meet a girl he just met online to which he felt suitable as a propective spouse. His long drawn look of despair, furrowed brow covered by his beach-blond hair bolted in and shook, no, gripped my hand.
"Thanks for taking me in, pardner!"
As if his trip wasn't in vain, he brought me back the suitcase he borrowed from the last visit. Thankfully, it was filled with my favorite southern concoction, banana-flavored moonpies. No one could dispute his wily charm and mellifluous voice ever garner any young lass. Yet his style of dating was like his bass fishing - catch and release.
"Listen, I'm not certain how long I'm staying but if you do me a huge favor...I can stay at most a week. I'll pay for any expenses while I'm here..."
He reach over to his back pocket and instantly I held up my hand, "No need now. Tell me what happened."
"Well, I met this girl, Krista, or should I say, IM'd her on one of those chat rooms for about a month now and we sorta hit it off. She's into bird-watching in central park, rollerblading and yoga. I'm into hunting birds, riding ATV's and body-building. You'd think we had nothing in common."
"Ok," I shrugged, "and?"
"And, so she says the same thing, but we both had a sense of humor about it. She'd sent me a pix of her." He pulls out his smartphone, tapping furtively. He tended to keep his past conquest photos, usually, headshots associated with their phone numbers. Darin scrolls down a bevy of past beauties on the tiny screen - Raquel...Tricia... Nadia...Yvonne and lastly a face I did't recognize. "There's Krista! What d'ya think?"
Pursing my lips, I nodded. "But, I notice she had no phone listed here. How come?"
"Dunno, guess she's playing hard to get. But get this, for a week she didn't contact me, email me, nothing. All of a sudden, I got this last message that she wanting to meet me here in the city. Out of the blue! Ya could've strike me with lightning! Why she only told me she just broke up with her husband and going through a trial separation."
"Geez, didn't you have a clue?" "Nah, not a lick." Darin continued. "She's been married for six years, no kids, and lives in a nice coop in tribeca. Her husband is a captain for a major airline so she's got some free time this week. I got time off work and hopped on a Delta flight straight over here."
"Look, my advise is to stay away from her. She's definitely on the rebound and surely makes it not only worse for her but yourself."
"I don't give a damn! She's the one! I know it when it sounds and feels right." He looked serious. Even his ears turn beet red.
"Ok, settle down, Rhett. You know your talking to the wrong person, remember - I've been down the aisle and through divorce court three times. I don't have a hot batting average."
Posted by Heru at 10:57 PM | Comments (1)
Tue | September 20, 2005
Eyes Wide Shut
On a starry-night in 1997, I was walking with two female friends (Martine and Pam) down the French Quarter in New Orleans, a young smiling African-American came to me and said, “If you go 20 steps in this direction, there is House of Blues, and if you go in this direction…………” Rightfully so, he expected a tip, but I was a poor graduate student then, and I had no money in my pocket. He got flustered that I did not even tip him a dollar. A few minutes later, he saw me and the friends I was with, and he shouted in jest, “Ladies, dump this Chinese guy, he is no good.” I am not Chinese but Indian in ethnicity. We all laughed.
I do not know whether he survived the grinding poverty of New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina. We may remember him fondly even today and my friend Martine reminds me of the incident quite often but was he just a comic or a real human being to us?
Another starry-night in 1993, I sat on the floor next to the feet of some of the greatest Jazz musicians at the Preservation Hall in French Quarter. Between playing jazz, they would talk to all of us in thick N'Awlins accent seasoned with age that I barely understood. Sitting next to somebody’s feet in Asian culture is a mark of respect.
However, no matter the respect I showed or laughed with the African-Americans, I met in New Orleans for a brief moment – I failed, I failed miserably. When I walked past a project in New Orleans countless times, I never stopped and thought – how they were dancing with death, mired in poverty, violence, and dreams laid waste. Amongst all this, there is also a little, happy kid running with his pet dog who wants to be an astronaut.
After Hurricane Katrina, I better learn to keep my eyes and heart open. This time, I have seen their pain.
Note: Also, cross-posted at http://kushtandon.squarespace.com/journal/2005/9/20/eyes-wide-shut.html
Posted by Kush at 05:59 AM | Comments (0)
Fri | September 16, 2005
Saving Paper
A respect for paper plays a role in Asian culture I am not sure I entirely understand. It has some historical basis, I am sure, and an anthropologist of Asian culture might know. It plays a role in some Asian cultures and not others, and in some Asians and not others. Some Asians have told me they have no concern with saving or wasting paper. My Japanese friend says saving things is not a Japanese thing. But what of all the Japanese stationery products? Surely it shows a reverence for paper.
I will speak from my experience and judge later whether it's Taiwanese or Chinese or how far it goes around Asia (or if it's just me). Speaking for myself: I have a respect for paper, for saving paper, and for saving things in general. I am a little bit over it now which is why I can write about it. For a long time I hesitated to write because I did not want to deface the paper with my imperfect words. And then in writing class not only do you deface the paper with words, you make ten copies of it and distribute it to your peers.
But I am over it now and I print ruinous things all the time. I wasn't always this way. Growing up I revered books, and it took me awhile to shed this and take books with skepticism. Now unfortunately I am disinclined to believe that anything written will be good simply because it's been published. Even things that get good reviews turn out to be bad.
It's a bit of a disillusionment and those were definitely happier times when I believed every book, everything written on paper, was a piece of magic. That belief in the sacredness of print came from my mother and father who continue to this day to have a reverence for things written on paper. My mother once read aloud to me what was written on the shoebox of some moderately priced winter boots she had bought for my brother: "'The best, softest leather.' See? The best." "Mom, it's not the best just because it says so," I said. I've more or less gotten over the phase of snapping testily at my parents for exhibiting the same flaws that I have suffered from and with much effort excised from myself. No one likes to see someone mirroring the things we're trying so hard to repress or rid ourselves of.
I still save jars and make them into pencil and pen holders or containers for hair ties. And feel remorse when I throw things away. You take what you like from your culture and do your best to shed what isn't useful. In the case of paper, you don't worry about wasting it. But at least you recycle it.
Posted by Lily at 01:39 PM | Comments (0)
