storiesfromthegutter
among other things
chameleon girl / no true name,
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MAKING OF THE MODERN WONDER
Fondly *cue sarcasm* known as MMW, Making of the Modern World is a general education history class only Eleanor Roosevelt College students have the pleasure of experiencing. Spanning five quarters, this course covers the conception of ancient civilizations to the mayhem of modern-day madness. Though an enrollment nightmare, I actually look back at my MMW voyage with grudging admiration. While there are pros (a broader understanding of how the world has evolved) and cons (GPA killers to students whose first language is not English) of this series, I would say this history course has been influential in my transformation as an individual. As the first day of my last quarter of MMW looms closer, I would like to share the knowledge I have gained from this class:
1) Continents aren’t isolated as we make them to be. Indeed, the 1200s can be considered a time of great innovation. Places such as Kilwa in East Africa were thriving places of commerce. They traded and sailed to what is now present-day India and China. Salt and other precious commodities made their way across the sand dunes of the Sahara and into the Far East. Explorers such as Zheng He facilitated the flow of ideas and inter-connectivity. The success of past civilizations can be attributed to their surroundings. Prosperity doesn’t just happen spontaneously: it’s cultivated through connection.
2) Western “exceptionalism” is a myth. This idea is very much a reflection of my first point. The proposed “rise” of the West would not have been possible without their exploitation of other lands that had not yet been exposed to the violent and individualistic economic systems that ruled Europe. As the world shifted into the Age of Imperialism and British expansion, the penetration of Africa, otherwise known as the “Dark Continent,” exemplified merciless Western colonialism. With the pillage of commodities such as ivory and rubber, countries such as Belgium were able to gorge on profits without any real repercussions (namely due to racial divides and the idea of what it meant to be “human”). The dominance of the West today can be credited to the rich, existing cultures that had been established. But it is important to note that no one nation is impervious to the test of time: we will probably see Eastern countries gain a foothold in the coming world. Civilizations will rise and fall.
3) You are a product of history and right now, you are adding to its legacy. One of the greatest things I hated (and loved) the most about MMW was its essay. Okay, I admit. I actually loved doing the research and the writing and the editing. It was such a joy to discover all the details of the topics I had dug into: the environmental impact of colonialism in the Americas, Haussmann and his transformation of Paris (which was later then changed to the study of unionism and socialism in Britain during the Industrial Revolution), and currently, my split decision between representation of Asian Americans in Hollywood and the one child policy in China. It was the TA’s that were a pain. They were negligent and, if I’m being honest, useless in my development as researcher at a research university. Before I get carried away, I would say the research paper (at least for me) made me question my place in the world. Am I enabling the injustices of the system? Am I complacent? Or am I trying to do my best to ease the suffering so many members of our society face? The essay helps you focus your interest, helps you explore your passions, helps you decide what kind of mark you want to leave on the world.
Conclusion: History is an enormous, often incomplete, field of study. Nevertheless, it is a personal undertaking that uncannily predicts the course of the future. It is important to learn all the beauties and the depravities that this Earth has witnessed so that we be better well-informed and kinder citizens of the world.
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THE NAME OF LOVE
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JUST THE NIGHT
the words play. the voice runs smooth like a cherished track: one that is ardently listened to from start to finish; no pauses, no criticisms. It’s a song that has long been overlooked but one sung by thousands.
And in that moment, slowly,
Bit by bit,
the heart opens, the body weeps,
Startled to find that it never wants this track to finish but to go on in timeless oblivion. For it quite likes this safe feeling. One where it will not be stopped. One where will it be
understood,
heard.
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DIMENSIONS
Only a few weeks ago, I watched Hotel Rwanda for the first time. To say the least, it made me ashamed.
After learning about the culture of capitalism, the interconnectedness of the globe, and countless stories that go unnoticed by “mainstream” news, I finally understood how genocides can happen without anyone batting an eye.
Take the Rohingyan massacre happening right now in Myanmar. Articles, videos, and testimonies of the horror, the defilement committed against people like you and me are broadcasted to social media—in between fun articles, cooking recipes, the latest fashion trends for this fall. People move on and forget, but this nonchalance doesn’t come with the advent of technology. Sad fact is that we’ve seen this before. In Hotel Rwanda, Don Cheadle, who portrays Paul Rusesabagina, asks an American journalist if people will intervene now that they’ll be able to see the atrocities being carried out in the name of ethnic cleansing. The journalist, looking somewhat weary, replies, “I think if people see this footage they'll say, ‘Oh my God, that's horrible,’ and then go on eating their dinners.”
In fact, this movie was reminded me of Blood Diamond. Jennifer Connelly, who plays an avid photojournalist, passionately decries the ignorance and “not my problem” attitudes that fueled the Sierra Leone Civil Wars: “See, here I've got dead mothers, I've got severed limbs, but it's nothing new. Sure, it might make some people cry if they read it, maybe even write a check. But it's not going to be enough to make it stop.” The recurring theme of all these issues is that if people really want to help, they have to know the source of these agonies, they have to see the faces that purport genocide, exploit war-torn countries, and that don’t give a damn unless their pockets are being filled.
Even then it’s not enough. It never is.
I feel like I fit the stereotype of the type of person who wants what they can’t have. My passion is to help people, to lift them up and defend their rights. For goodness’ sake, I’m even thinking about pursuing a minor in Human Rights. But do I really want to do this because it’s something I know will never happen? Violence makes peace and in this world, nothing really lasts and not everybody is going to be happy. There’s too much bad blood, too many tensions, too much sorrow. But that’s not an excuse to give up and turn our backs on what is worth fighting for.
God, this sounds so cheesy, but this is me. This is what I wanna do. Some photojournalist, a human rights lawyer, a UN Urban Developer. The thought of this just fills me up. We’re only here for a short amount of time, and even though the deeds of our life aren’t measured, I feel that this is my calling. Even if I could pollute this earth like crazy for the sake of profit, why would I want to? Wouldn’t you want to do things that made you feel like you were morally right? Do things that don’t prick your conscience?
I don’t know what’s going to happen to me in the next 2 years, 5, 10, even 20. But I do know this. After seeing the relationships I’ve established with people, after seeing the things I’ve created last and flourish, I know I want to do something good. Something worthwhile that can benefit everyone. I’ve come a long way and probably have more ways to go. But if I’m going to become the person I see emerging, well, I better do some damn good for this world.
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I’d take care of you if you’d ask me to
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CARLA AND ANDREY
“She must do this. How can she stop now?“
“One dissenter promises this, one revolutionary pledges that, but one thing is always certain—the poor suffer under any rule.”
If I were to describe the characters in this short, I would say that realistically, I am Andrey. Idealistically, I am Carla. In fact, I would say that most people would feel the same way.
Carla is a noble, but one who stands as a champion for the common people. Empathetic, brave, kind, Carla is willing to use her privileged standing to aid the commons, and if need be, overthrow the monarchical system that oppresses those with no gold or titles to their names. At a first glance, she seems to be spoiled girl playing at a chance to be some hero. But as the story progresses, it becomes clear that Carla has good reasons for her headstrong attitude. Though Carla’s spirit is commendable, she is only human. Her desire to set the people free has blinded her so much so that she does not realize that the side she backs is actually more terrible and more stifling than the current establishment she years to destroy. However, readers see the moment of doubt that torments Carla. She hesitates but resolves to push forward. What I wanted to do here was to demonstrate a very human thought process—”we’ve come so far. How can we stop now?”
Andrey is the epitome of a capitalist. As the grandson of a self-made gunsmith, Andrey strives to maintain his wealth while maintaining the family’s legacy. He is most of us: a hard-worker, humble but not submissive, practical yet hopeful. He understands that life is not without cost. Indeed, he points this out to Carla and readers as well—the “extravagant wastefulness” of her ball, the cruel life his relatives suffered, the way he eagerly joins the White Army. For his whole life, Andrey has had it grounded in him that the only way to succeed is the pursuit of self-interest. How can he possibly care for the milling commons when his family has made it? If he can do it, so can they. He understands that what the tsarist government does to its people is wrong, yet he looks away. He has never had power or influence. He has come from nothing. He’ll never know what it’s like to be high and mighty, to have the world at his fingers. How can he watch out for other people when it is already hard to look out for oneself?
This short serves to demonstrate the circumstances of our lives make us who we are, affecting the choices we make. What we believe is right isn’t necessarily wrong. It simply reveals the humanity within—our foolishness, impulsiveness, a universal desire to do what feels right.
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TIRES AND “THUNKS”
Probably the earliest memory I have is of a tire swing.
I lived at my aunt’s house with my family when I was younger. Because it was just me and my sister, two little rascals with a penchant for mischief, my aunt was wise enough to wrap that old car tire around that thick bough of olive tree, a stalwart guardian that stood watch in the front garden. To this day, that tree still sits in my mind as the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, perhaps even the most comforting.
It was wrapped up with a yellow chain and hung eastward of the property. The garden was enshrined in a sort of oblong lasso. Groundcover that blossomed into tiny purple flowers hugged the edge of the lawn, bordering the circular roots of the olive. Mostly, I treasured the moments I sat on that swing alone. Sometimes I was barefoot, my feet tickled by the cool mud that guttered beneath the tire.
And I would just sit there—dusk, nighttime, mornings.
But my favorite time would be the afternoon, the 4:30 sun just where I wanted it to be. Everything in that garden would light up—the golden glimmer of the rays bathing all the roses and the tangerine trees in such a warm glow that I wanted to bask in that sunshine and never wake from its living dream. I closed my eyes as I swung back and forth on that swing and tilted my face towards the sun. It was and is still the most delicious, most wonderfully satisfying experience I’ve ever had.
Sitting on that tire swing under the crowning leaves of the olive tree let me be in my own sanctuary. I was at home but at the same time, on the cusp of the main road that paved up my street. I watched people walk by while hidden in the grandeur of my tiny paradise. I was on the edge of the world.
There was a gate in front of the house, one with a metal rod that extended across the width of the road. And I would just rest at the base of that tree, under my swing, on my swing, or beside it. I’d wait to hear that thunk thunk, meaning that someone had just driven over the tracks. It could have been a visiting friend, an aunt, mostly my dad coming home from work. I don’t know why, but the anticipation of hearing those metal rails clunk under the weight of wheels has always stuck with me.
My happy place, my mental sanctuary will always be that circular garden, blessed by the berth of that olive and its crown jewel—the tire swing. I’m always there, waiting everyday to hear that thunk thunk. And I guess this is what life is?
The rush of excitement to know that something new happened, someone came home, or something different is about to happen. Waiting in your happy place, you just want whatever it is to drive over the rails. We are safe here and this glorious novelty will be beautiful. We’re not afraid of what will come. There, in the secluded clusters of hidden glades, we sit there and hear it.
thunk thunk
We know something will change. We’re just not sure what it will be.
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Do you ever realize how badly you’re going to miss a moment while you’re living it? Like wow, these are the good days. I am here and I am happy and I feel alive.
Unknown (via libertius)
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upon a star
“Make a wish.“
“I can’t.“
”Why not?”
“Because wishes mean you aren’t content with your life; it isn’t where you want it to be, and right now I am. Perfectly content that is; untroubled and undeniably happy that I’m here. With you.”
“Fair enough.“
“Do you have a wish?”
“Just one. I wish that you always feel like this—content and carefree—wherever you may be.“
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LIFE’S STORY
tell me your Life’s Story, tell it well & tell it true.
What are you in this brave new world? Who will you be in the times to come?
i tell them what I am & where I need to be; in a book, overcoming fears I slew, a fighting rook, breathing in every possible hue.
Should I stop now? Why tarry so slow—there is a world to win, didn’t you know? To be champion when it’s all said and done,
do tell, do sing! It would be a dream to see it through.
Tomorrow and the tomorrows after, holding on to hope, grappling for some semblance of light
& all the while, it lurks in minds: the crippling dread of discovering that everything you have worked for can’t be made true.
In you heart, in your soul, whatever may be, you will always fight.
the shadows fall, dusk in full bloom
Years swing like a pendulum, the tick-tock of time passing, the inevitable sunset like a golden diamond of a honeycomb;
to be where you want to be at last, a sign above beckoning above a spacious room:
“Welcome home.”
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THE BOTANIST (p.5)
“Well… you really surprised me with this one.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t put it down ‘til I finished.”
“Ah.”
“It was different this time.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not your usual, dreary ending. It was… happy. Hopeful. It suited your style much better.”
“I see.”
“We’ll take it on. Don’t forget to make an appointment on your way out. We’ll discuss more details later this week.”
“Thank you.” The Writer stands, the belated feeling of accomplishment finally washing over him.
He’s halfway out the door when his editor asks, “So, who was she?”
Images of the woman’s almost smile, her left dimple, and her clever, searching eyes flash through the Writer’s memories. He didn’t stand next to her that night, didn’t speak, couldn’t move—only admired her from afar. Before he could think to pluck up the courage to approach her, she left and disappeared into the roaring rush of the night.
He’ll never know who she was.
She could have been an artist, an intellect, a botanist even. She was a glimpse of the sun, a brief spark that unfurled into a novel of a journey. The Writer wants to believe that he will see her again and, perhaps, the next time, he will talk to her and see her smile.
Whoever she is, he hopes they meet in a world not of his making.
The Writer turns. His editor has returned the bound pages of “The Botanist” back into its wrinkled envelope. A sad smile darts across the Writer’s face as he says, “Just a woman I saw.”
Somewhere, a siren blares loudly. Couples rush past him in breathless anticipation of the evening to come. Musicians strum in the streets, wooing tourists to their ensnaring symphonies. Life reverberates up and down the cobblestones of this towering metropolis. Inspiration flits where it pleases, in and out of the bursting minds of reaching artists. Things don’t just exist here, they bloom.
As he weaves his way through the throngs of people, the Writer feels regret ooze from his heart. But he does not let himself linger in the past.
For today is a new day for new stories.
#the botanist#writing#inner thoughts#she's inspiration#we are all of us the writer#storiesfromthegutter#p 5
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THE BOTANIST (p. 4)
Even paradise loses its sweetness.
Plant samples scatter the expanse of the Writer’s studio. Spilled dirt cascades from overturned pots like bleeding wounds; books lay strewn, fallen leaves after a particularly violent storm.
The Writer wakes.
Pages and pages of printed paper coat the wooden floors like strange silver dragon-scales. He stumbles out of his bed, his ink stained fingers leaving grey smudges across the valleys and mountains of his face. Sun splits the window—the room is the heart of the sun; his eyes strain against the brightness.
He’s finished it, his novel.
Weeks, months, a better part of a year he has devoted to exploring, researching, editing, deleting, and creating a universe. He has slaved away to perfect it. Now, neatly typed and orderly stacked, the pages sit in an immaculate pile on his desk.
The Writer should feel accomplished. Proud. Instead, he feels empty.
He can’t remember her face.
A sudden desperation fills him, the sensation of drowning and longing deepens the chasm of his heart. He upends the room all over again, the pile dispersing into a flurry of sheaves.
Sparkles catch his eye:
A double-banded ring entwined in overlapping branches; tiny seed pearls encrusted in platinum leaves; the pièce de résistance, the diamond, is a white star fashioned into the shape of a rose. All he sees is the Botanist.
It hits him hard now—what he should have done, what he could have said.
He seizes a fresh sheet of paper and begins to write, feverishly.
The Writer is tired of the same sadness, the same absence.
He wants to change himself, change the ending. Change everything. Starting now.
The Botanist deserves better.
He will find her, and he will go on one knee.
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THE BOTANIST (p.3)
She chases his writer’s block away, and in its barren wake, sows tiny seeds of light.
Every time they meet, she takes him some place he would have never thought existed: botanical aquariums, an abandoned theater of a library, a museum devoted to “E” objects. She brings him out from under his shell, and allows him to have a glimpse of the world through her rose-colored glasses. But as much as she talks about the beauty of the world, she reminds him of the thorns of reality—the price we must pay to truly appreciate all that is fleeting on this earth.
The Writer doesn’t want this dream to end.
“Why did you become a writer?”
“I-I… Well, I suppose it was just easier to be around words. It’s—it’s easier for me to say what I want to say through pen and paper. When I’m at my desk, everything I’ve ever wanted to say comes easier. Books are more forgiving than people.”
This time the Botanist smiles a true smile, a violet in full bloom. “I think you speak as beautifully as you write. I’m glad you became a writer.”
The Writer is taken aback. She thinks he writes beautifully? “Really?”
The Botanist nods emphatically, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
This time, the Writer laughs. “Sometimes words aren’t enough though. I struggle to capture the full essence of the human experience in my stories. It’s frustrating at times because—”
He breaks off, suddenly embarrassed.
“Why? What?” the Botanist’s delight at the Writer’s unguarded confessions brings out her joy like an overflowing well.
“Sometimes I throw my head on the paper and hope the ideas bleed from my brain and onto the paper.”
Her laugh is the sun, and he wants to harness it, to bottle it up, and to never let go.
He wants to tell her all that he feels right now—the unsteady beat of his heart, the feeling of rightness and home he feels with her, the contentedness that lingers on the horizon of his soul. The Writer enters a moment where touch translates into a thousand firing neural impulses; where art crumbles under the weight of pure, ephemeral beauty; where words fade against the passing of time, and the knowledge that all we ever has is now and nothing more.
But like the wind the Botanist is, the chance slips through his fingers and the Writer is left to the mercy of the currents, a dandelion puff drifting in the breeze.
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THE BOTANIST (p. 2)
They talk for an hour. Two. Three. Until the gallery closes and they are ushered out gently. The day they meet again, it rains.
“I never feel lonely,” the Botanist says, an almost-smile crossing her lovely face, “The plants speak to me.”
He stirs milk into his scalding tea and takes a sip, “Tell me more.”
The two sit in the corner of the Rind, a prominent café for all manner of budding artists and bohemians. Tiny potted geraniums adorn the antique lamps that hang precariously over the vivacious guests—a lovesick guitarist, a celebrated poet.
The Writer finds the Botanist’s choice for a rendezvous intriguing, but as he listens to her talk, he finds that she is very much the artist he marked her to be.
He had found her perspective refreshing. Inspiring.
Today is no different.
“All plants tell stories,” the Botanist explains. “Builds, roots, lichens or trees, they thrive in their own ways. Take flowering plants; they need the sun to grow. No matter how odd the angle of light, the seedling grows towards that beam.”
“And what does that reveal about them?”
“Flowers tend to have all-or-nothing resolves. They look for light, they grow towards it, they demand its presence else they shall protest and hide their faces until the sun shines again. They’re highly underrated.”
The Writer laughs. “What about cactus-es?”
A half-smile again, “Cacti are quieter. Patient. Loyal secret-keepers.”
The Botanist goes on—oaks are guardians, olives are pacifists, snow-peas are gossipers. To her, everything, no matter how small or unassuming has a story that must be listened to. “We’re not so different from plants—you just have to look closely.”
But the Writer already knows this.
He watches the people in the café: young and old, they come to taste the stars. In droves, in waves, on single paved roads, people grow towards warmth—a bloom of cream gardenias sprouting towards the promise of unattainable beauty. They reach in frenzied enthusiasm to embolden, to witness the river of life before the light fades and the stalks themselves crumble under the weight of mortality.
All they wish is to touch the sun.
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THE BOTANIST (p. 1)
He meets her in an art gallery, by chance, out of the blue.
Her hair hangs in a loose, flyway braid, a small swath of dirt gracing the hills of her knees. She is noticeably out of place in this pristine world of a museum, a wildflower among thickets of well-bred English roses.
As if willed by fate, he is intentionally pulled to her like a puppet on string.
She barely glances his way when he stands by her side. She tilts her head slightly, appraising the photo reminiscent of Edward Ruscha’s “OOF.”
���What do you see in this photo?” the man asks her.
The woman turns to face him, her eyebrows going up in a regal arch, “I see life. What do you see?”
His response is automatic: “I see a story.”
She eyes him curiously. “And what is this story about?”
The man hesitates. He is less of an artist with conversation than he is with writing. He could tell her of a faerie that ventured too far from home, that settled in this cold dreg of a city, the greying soot of the world dampening its livelihood. He could tell her how that faerie burst into this black and white world, waving its clever fingers and weaving a bloom of color in a place that had dwelled too long in the shadow of monochrome.
Instead, the man says, “A writer who meets a modern artist who will undoubtedly change his outlook on life and force him to veer from his dreams.”
A small quirk pulls at the woman’s mouth. “I would quite like to read that story, although I am sure it would be better suited if the artist were a botanist.”
#the botanist#writing#random#mini series#inner thoughts#writing reflects the longings the regrets of the heart#i have always been hopeless
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WHAT IF
When it’s all said and done, sometimes it hurts more than before.
What if the hero can’t win?
What if the strong one fails?
It feels empty to be walking on this road alone; no reprieve, the truth all along.
What if the darkness never ends?
What if the lights go out?
Laid bare before a looking glass, a shattered reflection made whole. A figure on the horizon, beaten and defeated. The feeling of stuckness persists. This is really what the rest is like, this is what it will always be.
What if I’m not really me?
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STORIES FROM THE GUTTER
The crinkled leaf, yellow but mostly brown, swirls across the roof’s storm-drain. It plummets beneath the rushing water, buffeted by the current’s onslaught and the jostling of twigs and other garden debris. The leaf breaks through, dips, then bobs to the surface as a dolphin might when it peeks its curious head from out of the waves.
Its journey is nearly over.
As it circles above the drain, the leaf spins in a rapid, dizzying carousel. It is a golden sunburst, a dandelion pinwheel. Then—as quickly as it came into the line of vision—it disappears down the chute, a lightning of a memory, a glimpse, an echo swept away by the spring rain.
The mind is a gutter.
Just as gutters are designed to catch and wash away the rain without eroding its surroundings, the mind receives information and either stores or lets go of memories that will fortify us or destroy us.
Our minds allow to us to recapture a scene from the past—we let go of the mundane, or we perfect the good. That is how we survive. We trick ourselves into believing what we want to believe is good, the routines that dictate our schedules and what keeps our life in order.
We look past the little things that are important:
How we perceive people. What we think is “right” and “wrong.” Who we believe is more worthy of saving. When the right time is to do something or be someone.
Often, we are too wrapped up in the cocoon of our lifestyles that we become blind to the signs of our errors.
But if we are lucky enough, we will have that opportune moment—we wake to see that yellow star of a leaf fluttering down the stream of the gutter. It may be the realization of the smallness of our world, the awakening of the wrongness of our actions, or the rekindled passion of an unpursued dream.
Some of us are not as fortunate. We never do see the falling leaf, or if we do, we look away. And down the drain goes our light bulb moment; we are swept away by our insistence to hold on to what has faithfully guided us all these years, these decades. Why snatch at the moment when you believe you have thrived all this while?
Yet all the same, the journey down the gutter sets us free and the adventure still manages to find us. We may not realize it, not know how to articulate the experience, but the feeling endures.
The mind is a drain.
We forget trivial remnants then move on as if we have just taken out the recycling.
This collection is to remind us of stories we have forgotten. The little stones that collide to make mountains. The sigh of the wind that pushes the boat out to sea. The faded love of a time long past that still moves the heart.
Stories from the Gutter is here to remind us that we will always learn. We will always change. From the smallest interaction to the furthest catastrophe, all life is connected and somehow, someway, we will undoubtedly be touched in the end.
Source: storiesfromthegutter.tumblr.com
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