showing up late to lunch with my grandparents
I’m sorry I’m so late
it’s good to see you
how are you?
yes I’ve been busy
and yes I look tired
no I haven’t had breakfast yet
thank you for saving me a plate.
I’m late because of my dog—
how do you say “separation anxiety”
and “crate training” in Cantonese?
I’m tired because last night I celebrated
a friend’s birthday and we went dancing until 2
but I don’t mention this or the tequila shots
or how I held my drunk girlfriends as they cried
about moving and about distance and the challenge
of sustaining meaningful adult friendships,
how do you say “slightly hungover”
and how do I explain how my body
can’t handle this the way it did before,
I guess what they say about turning thirty is true.
work is…. busy
and what is it I do again?
(proceed the game of telephone translation,
at least my parents understand what I do)
and I see their faces beam as they say:
ohhh so you’re helping people!
thank you for the roasted quail,
yes it’s very juicy here, and the eel
that grandpa has been eager to try
and the crab and ribs and pea shoots,
I don’t even bother mentioning the vegan
I recently dated, how even if it had turned into anything
there would be very little for him at this table.
thank you for trying to pour me tea
from across the expanse of table and lazy susan
but set it down, thank you, let me.
and do I ask grandma how she’s feeling,
mention her recent health test results,
scan my parents’ faces for some clue
as to how and what we talk about
when I can barely muster
the words in either language.
so we talk about the rainstorms and the traffic
and I listen to their favorite game of name that price:
well the crab is by the pound and so fresh,
it must be at least $40—wow what a great deal!
and I don’t know how to get any closer
or where I would even start but just showing up
is better late than never, for lunch or for life,
and I give them big hugs as we say goodbye:
thank you for everything,
I’m sorry for everything,
thank you and see you soon.
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god i love journaling/keeping a diary. yes, some of it will turn into "real writing" (spoiler alert: it's all real), but i looove writing things that really aren't meant to be published or shared in any capacity. i'm just gossiping about me to myself for moi
chen chen on twitter, 2022
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To Hold
So we're dust. In the meanime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I'm lucky,
she'll remember a recent dream and tell me.
One day, we'll lie down and not wake up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.
Until then, we'll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn't for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I'll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.
- Li-Young Lee, from Behind My Eyes
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we are wired to seek human connection but are always truly alone
o nature what is this hypocrisy of yours?
words are like knives and bullets that keep hurting us more
even the good ones are twisted by the insecurity of own
loved ones hurt more than strangers but we're supposed to love them and forgive them for all
i don't think i can do that anymore is there a option to change them and try once more?
each day this life feels like more of curse than a boon
i don't think hell fire will hurt more than these wounds
i know human life aint' supposed to be completly happy but i don't think i even smile anymore
is this my hell or just the place to prepare us for it for i dont think anything could hurt more
scars for lifetime that the naked eye can't see
i tried to heal them but i am tired now and want to end this once and for all
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Keep writing,
because yet other poets write
Hawker-style
street food stalls,
serving something as
simple and familiar
as soy sauce chicken.
https://medium.com/the-brain-is-a-noodle/to-those-who-think-their-poetry-is-not-good-enough-53660e44fe59 / #quotes
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I am neither
model nor
minority.
/
model
I’m abandoning
the backwards
expectation that
I must be twice as
good to be taken
half as seriously,
reclaiming imperfection,
because I am just as worthy
of love
without having to satisfy
your every criterion.
/
minority
Statistically,
I too am not a minority,
representing a large population
ignored because of how
your social circles are constructed.
Remember that.
#quotes
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