updates
Things that recently happened in my life
Mar 25th, 2024: Top right corner
Feb 24th’ 2024: ” … rain, window, leaf, mirror, wink, paper, scissors, mouse, water, dream, Harrison Ford, medicine, babies, keys, snow, beach, picnic, robe.”
I won ihihihi.
Oct 8th, 2023: “Dad, is uncle Le coming home with us?”
“No, but he is walking us to our car”
“Dad, is uncle Le coming home with us?”
“Not tonight, honey… Le, don’t say you are because she will get upset if you don’t get in the car with her”
“We can play Sneaky Snacky Squirrel later… Uncle Le, are you coming home with us?”
Aug 28th, 2023: “Admin efficiency is truly sexy!”
Oct 13th, 2022: “…Anyway I am fine now”
“It’s okay if you’re not fine too you know”
“I know. But I wanted to be.”
Sep 22nd, 2022: “I’m trying to call D. We’re supposed to get dinner after work today in Milford but now she’s not picking up the phone. She’s such a bad communicator. But she gets a pass because she’s one of my best friends.
“D’ you know she lost her kid a few years ago? Fibromatosis. They found tumors in K’s brain when she was 5 years old. She had 3 surgeries. They thought she was going to make it too. The tumors were benign but they wouldn’t stop growing… For 15 years, that was D’s purpose: taking care of K. She lost that purpose when K died. D can’t get over it and she never will. That broke her marriage, too… She would have killed herself by now if it weren’t for the other two kids she has.
“Here’s a picture of K on her 15th birthday, blowing out candles on her cake. Look how beautiful she is. I’d take her to the movies every week. She was such a good kid. She spent her last 3 months in the hospital. We would come and see her every day so we didn’t see how she changed. But the people who checked on her every few weeks or so didn’t even recognize her… I’m sorry I’m going to start crying now thinking about K.
“Here’s another picture of her and my son. That’s K on the left. They were born the same year. She said she’d grow up and marry him.
“Her birthday is in February. We all get together on her birthday. We look at the pictures and talk about her… But memories are just not enough.”
July 8th, 2022: The orphan plant i took home May last year recently died, sadly. It’d been doing so well, sprouting a bunch a new leaves. But then i started to water it every 3rd day or so, which was probably excessive for a succulent. Its lower leaves started to go first. By the time i noticed, its roots were already beyond saving. What happened next was lingering hope on my part and a slow death on its…
The big pine was heading that direction as well though i stopped giving it too much water (hopefully) in time. A few other plants were also attacked by some kind of pest. Plant ownership can be so stressful sometimes.
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Currently out to lunch…
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April 11th, 2022: Wow, this section really feels like crickets and tumbleweeds lately. If you miss me (and why wouldn’t you?), send me a postcard.
Feb 15th, 2022: Today’s entry is dedicated to my favorite band of all time, Godspeed You! Black Emperor. GYBE (and the person who introduced the band to me back in 2010) forever changed the way i approached music. i remember one night listening to the last two tracks/movements of Yanqui U.X.O. With GYBE, sometimes i have to turn off the lights and close my eyes. The music demands so much from you, and listening is such an intense experience that any other sensory inputs could easily be unwelcome.
That’s what i did that night. Track 4 was a slow buildup from sparse digital noise to a wall of sounds, layers upon layers of guitars, violins, brass, and drums. Once the crescendo was reached, the snare drum began and the next 40 seconds was an utterly tragic march. Track 5 opened with over a minute of drone. Then a solitary violin came in. It sounded beautiful and at once heartbreakingly lonely. But soon, the bass and then the drums emerged. Their urgency carried the violin and the song forward. So while the atmosphere was bleak and pervasive, we didn’t wallow in despair. It was a fitting end.
Last night, i listened to Yanqui U.X.O. again. When the movement started, the memory came flooding back. Then i reached for the lights.
Jan 23rd, 2022: A friend of mine and i visited a couple of Goodwills today (Cheshire and Torrington). First time for both of us at a Goodwill store. My friend found a boxset of Game Of Thrones books which appeared to be brand new. She went to the cashier and said completely unironically, “Could you please confirm this is unopened? I do not like secondhand stuff.”
Jan 16th, 2022: i found out this afternoon that Mary Schmich, the columnist at the Chicago Tribune, wrote her last column for the paper about 6 months ago, after 41 years in the newspaper business. Of course, Ms. Schmich was responsible for this piece, Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young. Here, she imagines herself a graduation speaker, giving a speech to the class of ’97. i probably read the column for the first time while still living in Australia. A lot of it stuck with me and i found myself using it like a secret guide during my own college years. Bits and pieces of it still resonate with me today. So in a way, unquantifiable as it may be, it has left a mark on me. Even though i have not read much else by Ms. Schmich, i felt sad that she has called time on her journalism. i’m going to leave a couple of lines from the column here:
“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.“
Hunter Thompson also once said, “A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance”.
Nov 9th, 2021: i finished reading Lem’s Solaris a couple of days ago (thank you, Yale stranger, who recommended this book to me). I had not expected to be as profoundly affected as I am.
Oct 29th, 2021: On my way home from work last night, i noticed a homeless person on College street. He was asking for change from the busy crowd coming to and from the restaurants on this street. He didn’t ask me but he did the man coming the other way. Upon being ignored, the homeless man yelled after him with such anger and bitterness, “I had change just like you. I had a house. I had a BMW.”
Sep 30th, 2021: i received a postcard from a friend today. It says:
“I am simultaneously sad about the plants going into hibernation and eager for the fall. I think fall might be my favorite season. But perhaps I just think whichever season we are in is my favorite – and wouldn’t it be lovely, to be so easily pleased?”
Aug 31st, 2021: i went to a retirement luncheon today at work for someone who i barely knew and whose masked face i’m not sure i have actually seen due to Covid mask policy. i grabbed some pizza and asked her whether she was from CT originally. She said “Yes” and i said “Really”. Riveting stuff.
July 20th, 2021: i realized today that my trash can has been empty for the last 2 weeks, which means i haven’t been producing any non-organic trash at all*. Just need to stop eating meat again so i can stop feeling so guilty about ruining this planet.
On a slightly less uplifting note, Jeff Bezos went to space but decided to come back.
*This unfortunately does not include the current state of my Robinhood portfolio.
July 17th, 2021: went on a short hike in Farmington with my friend Pete. At the beginning of the trail, we found a large patch of bright yellow baby mushrooms. Pete said they were likely chanterelles and therefore probably delicious. i thought about picking a few but Pete couldn’t positively identify them for they were so small. Later i went home, took a long look in the fridge, briefly fantasized about butter and cheese, then went for a nap.
July 10th, 2021: i have been making dosas from store-bought batter. First attempt was, well, calamitous. i didn’t use a non-stick pan so the batter clung to the pan surface. Second attempt, there was too much batter so it ended up being a version of paratha instead. Third attempt, very similar to the previous time, with the exception that I had stop expecting to eat my own dosas anytime soon.
Back in grad school, i would visit House of Dosas in Hicksville and Tiffin Wallah in “Curry Hill”. Life was simple back then. If you wanted Indian food, you’d just order off a menu then eat without wondering which wrong turn you have taken this time.
June 18th, 2021: i watched the Polish film Ida again last night. i hadn’t noticed the first time that all the shots were static. The camera never moves. And yet, most of the angles are framed so tightly. Rarely do you get a wide shot. And the shots don’t linger either. It feels restrained but not suffocating. Still but not unmoving. Such beautiful work.
June 8th, 2021: i have to admit i am a bit smitten with Susanne Sundfør right now.
May 18th, 2021: On my way back from work today, i spotted a few things someone had left on this bench in the Green. Next to a carton of eggs, a bag of granola, crackers, and a tiny succulent plant, a handwritten note: “I’m moving (to another country) and I can’t bring them, take it [sic] please”.
So i adopted the plant which turns out to be an echeveria. Now, in stead of sitting on a bench in the park, it lives in the shadows and lights by my window.
April 12th, 2021: i spent 20 mins flirting outrageously with this old clerk at the post office and yet she still charged me the full price of forever stamps. Tragic!
March 29th, 2021: The smallness and insignificance, seemingly:
...Pa watched him, mumbling his lip. “So you bought a horse”, he said. “You went behind my back and bought a horse. You never consulted me, you know how tight it is for us to make by, yet you bought a horse for me to feed. Taken the work from your flesh and blood and bought a horse with it.”
Jewel looked at pa, his eyes paler than ever. “He won’t never eat a mouthful of yours,” he said. “Not a mouthful. I’ll kill him first. Dont you never think it. Dont you never”.
“Let me ride, Jewel,” Vardaman said. “Let me ride, Jewel.” He sounded like a cricket in the grass, a little one. “Let me ride, Jewel”.
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner.
…At five past one, the stationmaster gave the last call for passenger traveling to Paris. The train had already started to slide along the platform when Julián turned around to say good-bye to his friend. Miquel Moliner stood there watching, his hands sunk in his pocket.
“Write,” he said.
“I’ll write to you as soon as I get there,” answered Julián.
“No, not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penélope.”
Julián nodded, realizing how much he was going to miss his friend.
“And keep your dreams,” said Miquel. “You never know when you might need them.”
“Always,” murmured Julián, but the roar of the train had already stolen his words.
The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafón.
…”Have you arrived?” Mammachi asked, turning her slanty dark glasses towards the new sounds: car doors slamming, getting-outedness. She lowered her violin.
“Mammachi!” Rahel said to her beautiful blind grandmother. “Estha vomited! In the middle of The Sound of Music! And…”
Ammu touched her daughter gently. On her shoulder. And her touch meant Shhhh… Rahel looked around and saw that she was in a Play. But she had only a small part.
She was just the landscape. A flower perhaps. Or a tree.
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.
…Now he keeps big glass tumblers in the bathroom and when he turns on the light and sees a roach he puts a glass down over it, trapping it. After a couple of days the glass is all steamed up and the roach has asphyxiated messlessly and Orin discards both the roach and the tumbler in separate sealed Ziplocs in the dumpster complex by the golf course up the street.
The yellow tile floor of the bathroom is sometimes a little obstacle course of glasses with huge roaches dying inside, stoically, just sitting there, the glasses gradually steaming up with roach-dioxide.
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.
March 17th, 2021: i said goodbye to a pair of old socks today. They were bought with a few others in January 2016 (so 5 years and 2 months – i don’t know how this measures up in sock life expectancy). From this batch, these were my favorite, something about the color combination that i really liked. When they were just over a year old, i took them down to DC for the Science March. That was a memorable trip. My friend R. and i had registered for a couple of seats on the bus organized by Stony Brook grad students. The night before, we hung out late at my place. R. left and was going to come back a few hours later to get breakfast then catch the bus with me. She never showed up. After unsuccessfully trying to reach her on the phone, i left without breakfast and took an empty seat by the window.
As the we reached Queens, R. called. She had somehow slept through her alarm and my calls. Not wanting to miss the march, she got in her car and went after the bus. Somewhere on the NJ turnpike, the bus made a quick pit stop but i didn’t get back on. i waited for R., who turned up half an hour later in her blue Mazda. She gave me a tight hug before running to the restroom.
Later that day, we marched among 40,000 other people. We went down the National Mall, we walked through green gardens and old museums, we wandered on the busy Metro platform where someone asked me whether my pants were formal or pajama because they looked like they could be either. R. brought a big sign with her and she held it up in the cool April rain. My shoes were soaked. And by the end of the trip, some of the red dye from the shoes was now also on my socks.
The dye stayed on the fabric for months before eventually fading off and giving the socks back their colors.
i think that says something about R., too.
Feb 28th, 2021: Earlier this evening, craving a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, i decided to make one. There was only a slice of bread left, the end of the loaf (apparently called the “heel“) and it was frozen. So i heated the poor thing in one of my sauce pans (i don’t have a toaster and nor do i want one). As i was turning it over, there was this lovely, brief, and completely unexpected aroma of freshly baked bread rising up from the pan. It was unexpected because the bread was store-bought, pre-sliced, and a faithful resident of my freezer for the last 3 weeks. And yet, for a moment, the bread smelled like it had just come out of the oven, all golden and soft. i don’t know of anyone who doesn’t like the smell of freshly baked bread. And not being a baker myself, there is also a mystery to it, the mystery to how it comes to be so magical. This was when it occurred to me that even the most mundane things, like a forgotten month-old piece of bread, can aspire to be so perfect. And sometimes they succeed, even if only for a short while.
Dec 26th, 2020: le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy – An ode to loneliness [spoilers].
It is a pity how often this novel is placed in the spy fiction category. Fiction, it indeed is. But Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is really a novel of tender love and loneliness. One that disguises itself (ha!) as a spy story. Every major character is a solitary figure. Throughout the book, each confronts the loneliness in their world but none finds a solution or an answer. The only thing that varies between characters is the emotion this exercise of futility produces. For Jim Prideaux, it is anger and bitterness. For Bill Haydon, it’s surrender. For Connie Sachs, it’s nostalgia. For Peter Guillam, it’s bewilderment. For Ricki Tarr, it’s the oscillation between desperation and hope. And in our spy master, George Smiley, we find the quiet protest of someone who isn’t quite ready to give up. Readers never meet Ann, Smiley’s estranged wife, till the very end. Yet, her presence is keenly felt at every turn. As Smiley attempts to decipher every player’s motive in this spy game, he is constantly reminded that he will never be able to decipher that of Ann, the person closest to him: her needs, her infidelity, her confusion, and her loss. This failure, along with the betrayal of Jim, is responsible for the crushing sense of emptiness in the book. It is alone responsible for Smiley’s lonesome journey. And what does Smiley find at the end of it? Here is one of the most poignant scenes in the book: As he waits for Ann on the train platform, uncertain whether she will come at all, it finally occurs to him that what he’s been after may not even be real after all (Illusions? Was that really [the] name for love?).
But then the beautiful Ann arrives at last.
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy reminds me of Ghosts in Auster’s New York Trilogy. Like le Carré, Auster has mastered the art of using a cover, in this case a detective story, to tell tales of human loneliness. In Ghosts, the protagonist Blue, the unmarried, unpartnered Blue, in a quiet moment during the surveillance of his target, realizes that among all the pictures depicting his life, hung on the walls of his room, “there is no picture of the ex-future Mrs. Blue. But each time Blue makes a tour of his little gallery, he pauses in front of a certain blank spot on the wall and pretends that she, too, is there“.
Oct 15th, 2020: First hike this year (this was earlier this week). 2 days on parts of the Pemi loop (4 miles short of the 32 mile loop) in NH. This is the view on the second day, looking from Mt. Bond over at Bondcliff. You can actually see the thin trail on the ridge which my friend Pete and i would be on shortly. All in all, we climbed 4 of the 4,000 footers. The seemingly never-ending rocky climb up the South Twin was the toughest.
Oct 9th, 2020 (part 1): J. D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy – a missed opportunity.
A couple of months ago, during a conversation about the rise of the American right, a friend recommended this book to me. He expressed skepticism of any “academic accounts… by someone who disagrees with [the conservative right’s] values” and that “there are plenty of people in that faction who can speak for themselves”. Apparently, Mr. Vance is one of them. Having recently wanted to better understand that side of the political spectrum, i was very excited.
It turned out to be one of the more frustrating experiences i’ve had in reading. The memoir, a genre to which i am quite partial, is unfortunately thin on substance throughout. There are numerous stories which chronicle Mr. Vance’s childhood and early adulthood in the Kentucky and Ohio. However, they come and go fast, without much reflection or analysis. Significant events (e.g., his escape from his mom’s car, his grandfather’s passing, his military service etc.) all of which, the author professes to have changed/shaped him in important ways, are almost entirely without any memorable details. Consequently, readers are forced into the position of a very passive observer, denied of the opportunity to relate or sympathize. How tragic is it when you’re reading about the someone’s struggle with addiction and yet feel like you’re not given much of a reason to actually care? And when you gather enough to ask why things were the way they were, you receive no answer. Yes, there’s enough for you to picture a scene of economic calamities, of cultural decline, and of personal disappointments but almost no light is shed on what brought these folks here (unless you count a short paragraph on Armco and the disappearance of manufacturing) and where they may yet go. i constantly imagine standing in line waiting to board a flight and somehow striking up a conversation with Mr. Vance, who just happens to be next to me. The book has that quality of a chat one half-heartedly engages in to pass the time: quick, flat, one-way, and rather substance-less.
There is little evidence of a structure, either. Chapters appear to be assigned randomly. For instance, readers will find his time during boot camp, life back in Ohio, and college all crammed into one chapter. No obvious attempt to give each chapter a theme or underlying message. The prose is also relatively sophomore, which is ironic as Mr. Vance, as stated in the book, thinks he is a good writer, something apparently one of his law professors confirmed.
To say that i came away with nothing would be untrue. i learned about life in the Rust Belt, i learned about his gun-toting, foul-mouthed, and loving grandmother, and i learned about the sense of self-reliance. The last stands out, partly because Mr. Vance spends the final bit of the book stating it in no uncertain terms. He, probably like many with a similar background, does not blame the government for what he perceives to be a culture in crisis, but he doesn’t want its meddling either. To me, this was the most insightful part of the book. Perhaps, this explains the lack of details – Mr. Vance doesn’t want to talk much about himself, he came from a place where people keep to themselves and figure problems out on their own after all. But then writing a memoir at the ripe age of 31 and offering it to the world is an awfully odd way to express it.
Oct 8th, 2020: For the first time since the pandemic (and only the second time ever) i broke the 8-minute mile barrier: 8.68-mile run in just over 69 minutes. And this time included a couple of stops to clear debris out of my path. The cool and dry weather (temp/humidity = 60/65) made it possible. Just a couple of months ago, it was tough slogging 5 miles in the summer heat without looking like an extra from one of Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead movies. Today, i was Ash, baby!
Sep 23rd, 2020: Work on my K99/R00 application has begun! T minus 4.5 months.
Sep 6th, 2020: Second hug in 6 months!!!!
Aug 31st, 2020: A card from Danny appeared in my mailbox today. On one side, there’s a Grant Wood’s printing of the rural Midwest. On the other, somewhere in the middle of the card, he says, “I could see you returning to the Midwest, perhaps when you’re older, and focusing your writings on the character of the Midwest and its people…“
Aug 21st, 2020: A short critique of Anand Giridharadas’ Winners Take All – The Elite Charade of Changing the World.
In WTA, Mr. Giridharadas challenges the idea that social change, particularly that of economic nature, is best left in the hands of the private/business sector. Since the time of Carnegie’s The Gospel of Wealth, the wealthy and elite class has employed various forms of philanthropy to address matters like poverty, health care, and education. However, while doing so, it also actively works to reduce the central role of the government in regulating and providing public goods. The danger of this method, Mr. Giridharadas argues, lies first in the observation that the elites (e.g., billionaires, thought leaders, do-well-by-doing-gooders etc.) are committed strictly to superficial change as they in fact seek to preserve the underlying system that produces inequality in the first place. The effect of this is not unlike, as Glenn Cullen (somewhat crudely) puts it, placing the rapist in charge of the therapy session. The second danger is the removal from the public sphere the discussion and decisions as to how to improve the community. When policy making is controlled by, and accessible to, only a handful of individuals, people become disenfranchised: their voices are no longer heard and their participation in the very matters that affect them is no longer guaranteed. Thus, Mr. Giridharadas argues for a stronger role of the government, the only political institution strong enough to protect our rights against the manipulation, interests, and sometimes outright assaults by those with concentrated wealth.
While agreeing with both of Mr. Giridharadas’ analyses, i cannot help but notice the irony in how he builds his arguments. From the beginning to almost very end of the book, he unabashedly offers his platform to those he laments so they can explain themselves. We start with Hilary Cohen, who worked for McKinsey & Co, then move onto Jane Leibrock formerly of Facebook, to Shervin Pishevar, a millionaire Airbnb and Uber investor, to Darren Walker, the President of Ford Foundation… the list goes on. Not until the last 20 pages, do we hear from someone outside of that circle (Chiara Cordelli, an academic). And that is only after you’ve waded through pages of Bill Clinton’s own words on his global vision and why we’re too thick to understand it’s for our own good. Out of all these people, not one comes from the public sector that the author claims, not only in this book but also in various interviews and speeches, to support and value. In the Acknowledgement section, Mr. Giridharadas admits “this [book] is a critique of a system which [he is] absolutely, undeniably a part”. The admission only heightens our suspicion that the book partly serves as an invitation to his friends, the MarketWorlders, to brag on their good deeds.
The book is short on specific solutions to the elites’ increasingly firm hold on the fate of the public life and democracy. That is because we don’t get to hear from a single community organizer, a public servant, a teacher, a single mom, or a minimum wage earner on what their version of change should look like. They don’t get to speak for themselves. Mr. Giridharadas muses “what change actually is” but he then listens to the wrong people for answers.
Aug 16th, 2020: . .. … …. Mr. Slowly
July 24th, 2020: i finished reading J. K. Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces some time last week. i’ll start with the ending [spoiler]:
“He stared gratefully at the back of Myrna’s head, at the pigtail that swung innocently at his knee. Gratefully. How ironic, Ignatius thought. Taking the pigtail in one of his paws, he pressed it warmly to wet his moustache”.
Reading only this, you’d be forgiven to think whatever has happened to our protagonist before this point, whatever betrayals, violence, broken dreams, etc., all turns out well in the end. And that is the greatest injustice Mr. Toole commits in this book. Ignatius doesn’t deserve this. And in fact, no one deserves the tidy conclusion Mr. Toole offers after almost 400 pages of constant sneers and ridicule. Myrna will finally have her man back in NYC, Mrs. Reilly has finally got rid of her insufferable son so she can be with Mr. Claude, Mr. Levy escapes the lawsuit that looked set to vaporize his wealth, Ms. Trixie gets to retire in peace, Jones will be safe from the law, patrolman Mancuso gets the promotion and respect he desperately craves, even Mr. Clyde, the owner of Paradise hotdog (i.e., the most minor of characters) will get his uniform back. Everything is right as rain.
And that is a problem. Throughout the book, Mr. Toole painstakingly exposes the flaws and ignorance in every one of his characters. There is not a single redeeming quality in anyone. You laugh at them but you’re always conscious of the fact that the author is laughing even louder and harder than you are, his vicious and malignant laugh. It is always difficult to read a book like this when you cannot sympathize, when you find everyone so loathsome and so devoid of goodness. And once the laughing is finally over, Mr. Toole simply throws in the towel, as if to say, “F*ck this, they can carry on like this forever for all I care”. So the characters get out unscathed, oblivious to our judgement. Our, the reader’s, judgment, not Mr. Toole’s. Because in the end, Mr. Toole cannot bring himself to judging these people. He ridicules them (even in the final paragraph, he has to remind us one last time how obnoxious Ignatius is by sticking with the term “paws” when referring his hands). But ridicule isn’t the same as judgment. Anyone can laugh. Any person with their eyes open can point out what’s wrong with the world – there’s no courage in this. Here, it feels like Mr. Toole has long given up, he doesn’t see the point of asking for change from these people, he doesn’t have an answer, and he is resigned to them being their grotesque selves, both on the surface and underneath.
i suppose this isn’t entirely surprising given the author’s life (and death). And as frustrating as it is, i did really enjoy the book. And i did laugh. But without humanity, comedy is hollow and without hope.
July 2nd, 2020: Belinda works her second job at the laundromat on Howe street. We bond over the talks of soul food. If i catch her during her shift, we’ll inevitably spend some time out front where she smokes her cigarettes and keeps me abreast of what’s going on in her life. This is how i know she has this dream of running her own catering service, that her boyfriend passed away some weeks back, and that she has a grandson who she hasn’t seen in over a year even though the kid and his mother live right here in town.
When i came through the door with my laundry bags, Miss B, as i call her, promptly told me from behind the counter how excited she was. Her daughter was dropping off her grandson with her in a few minutes. And sure enough, later during my wash, i heard this shriek, “Oh my god, oh my god…” i looked up and here was Miss B practically running through rows of washing machines toward this small boy. The boy, about 3 years old, was happy to see his grandma but slightly overwhelmed. Miss B touched him all over, all the while crying. After a minute, she sat down and started to hug him tightly as if afraid he might not be real. The boy tried to hug her back. Though his arms were short and they barely reached past her ribs. But he did not want to let go so his tiny fingers simply clung onto bits of her shirt, eyes lost among the grey hair.
June 14th, 2020: Things i’ve recently learned about my neighborhood on my afternoon runs:
- On a small cross street, there appears to be either a dog training or a rescue center. Either way, the dogs seem excited to see me, if not slightly peeved that they don’t get to chase me down for a bit.
- There is a strong melon smell every time i approach the southeast corner of this very run-down industrial block. It’s the kind of cold artificial scent you’d get rising up from the back of your nose when eating melon-flavored candies.
- Almost immediately before the corner, i can vaguely smell some small animal which must have recently chosen this patch of tall wild grass for its final resting place.
- Hidden in one corner is a gentlemen’s club which, possibly conscious of its discreet location, makes up for it by a rather large painted sign. The front is covered in fresh graffiti and grass has started to claim the sidewalk leading to it.
- Late last week, several balloons and flowers appeared at the corner of Grand ave and East st. Today, someone has put up a cross next to them. Attached to the cross is a picture of a young man and the words, “Kenny V. Rest in paradise”.
- For about a week late May, i thought i was smelling the distinct fragrance of jasmine in the air when running past this small fenced-in playground. Inside, there were a lone tricycle, a faded plastic slide, a couple of swings, and an empty sandbox. i could never spot the jasmine though.
June 5th, 2020: “For a long time, America prospered. This prosperity cost millions of people their lives. Now, not even the people who are the most spectacular recipients of the benefits of this prosperity are able to endure these benefits: They can neither understand nor do without them. Above all, they cannot, or dare not, imagine the price paid by their victims, or subjects, for this way of life, and so they cannot afford to know why the victims are revolting.” James Baldwin.
May 24th, 2020: A haiku:
Jeff came by, dropping off
Books and pastry in my mailbox, then went back out, waiting
i opened the door and stood, smiling.
May 21st, 2020: i finally decided to read McCarthy’s The Road. Watched the movie years ago and i don’t think i can watch it again. i remember the opening scene accompanied by a lonely violin… Anyway, now is probably not the right time for The Road. But then, when would it be?
“Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before… His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath… The boy turned in the blankets. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Papa, he said.
I’m right here.
I know.”
May 17th, 2020: Against my better judgment (or any kind of judgment at all), i asked Isha for her opinions on cooking. You could say my day took a bit of a wrong turn somewhere.
May 15th, 2020: Day 60 of lockdown.