rachel in a nutshell

People are funny in their ways, how they bend and break. How they find passion in the smallest of things. How they strive for the best of all things. How they are tender and fleshy and vulnerable. How they are vicious and cruel and mean. How they play at a game that is striving to be and fearing to be and hoping to be, but never quite being for the fear of failing. Never quite being for the doubt that it’s real, for the doubt that it means anything or was worth anything at all. But what could be more real than the tears in your eyes, or the smile on your mother’s face, or the world spinning a million miles a minute, or the sound of a gunshot, or the silence of falling, or the pain of breaking, or the sun on a summer day? What could feel more real, and yet be so constructed? How the reflection through each window shows the light of a different soul. How these little pieces that came together in a rush of excitement, a compactness, a unity, a big bang created the beauty of such chaos. How the largest of ripples came about in the dirtiest and simplest of ways by the most insignificant of beings on a miniscule planet in the vast universe. And how upon meditation such beings replicate the very nature of the outer blackness, expanding their bodies to the outer reaches. Expanding and becoming everything and becoming nothing. And letting themselves go. Pieces of themselves left in the fabric of time and in the river of Lethe, to shine like stars in what was once emptiness. Lights whose bodies have long since been gone, but whose rays shine past the darkness. How they expand and let their beings fall off until they are a wisp of what once was and are a combination of falseness and trueness as they have been remembered and forgotten. And oh how funny people are, with their anxieties and their fear and their shame. How easily they forget their strengths and their gifts and their hope. How they forget that compassion is neither complacent, nor does it attack. How funny we humans are. How we tried to run away and strive to relive the things that make us struggle, so that in our solitary stupor we might teach ourselves again to suffer, to live without. That we might punish ourselves over and over from the scars we’ve picked up from the floor. That we might wish for them; memories of the moments we couldn’t have. The desperation for the misery, the desperation for the pain. That little pinch in the midst of a dream to ensure that it was all real. Only pain is real. Only touch is real. Never flying. Never falling. Never knowing. How funny I have found, amongst all my musings, the wonder, the conniving, the endeavors of man. 

But oh how she preached with ignorant bliss. How little she knew and how defensive she’d get. How she’d pretend to know something so as not to be nothing. Soon becoming her biggest fear. That her entirety was meaningless, but for for a few “meaning-wells” and empty words, which she had found scrawled on the inside of a bathroom stall. And memories outlined on the back of a cereal box. How she was nothing if not made by nights and mornings when some electricity would enliven her form and teach her wordless somethings about everythings that translated into nothings. Memories that made her all the more lost, with all the more to find. 

-May 5

but even for all the greatness of her life.

the excitement, the festivity.

i still know that whatever little i had-

from her, from them, from him.

whatever little light there was,

was so entirely worth it. 

for all the scars, i wouldn’t trade it for anything.

you played me like that old record

we had in that dusty old garage.

the marvin gaye one

that we would sing along to

and fall asleep to 

in the crisp days of autumn,

into the chilling days of winter.

but you awoke one morning,

with a sleepyhead,

to find that you were freezing.

until you wandered and found spring and summer.

but again the autumn beckoned

like the rosy fingers of the dawn

with her coat of clouded nostalgia.

and she would visit you in evenings

and upon you bestow a haze

you did not care to shake loose,

as slowly simmered down the wary warmth of summer.

perhaps you had been fooled by the silky 

sheets of memory

and the faint residual breaths

that fell on your naked skin

and the whispers that fell on ringing ears.

you were born for the winter with 

your claws sunk into the burdens

you require yourself to suffer

and the plushness of your mane, 

so combed with strength and courage.

you lie in the shade and beckon the dawn

and the haze of revolutions

to which you feel you don’t deserve.

and a thousand violins play in anticipation

grounded by the bass

and the impending sound of drums

and the fierceness of the sax.

yes we’ve played this game before

to only a slightly different song

less mangled by the scratches we call forgetfulness

and carelessness

and hardship.

an album tortured by the endless call of repeat.

flip, flip, flip.

how we tried to dance to the A side

and slipped a little during B.

and now the record comes again to a close,

as we fall asleep in our distant beds

and no one bothers to flip the disc

or get up to stop the scratching,

hoping the memories might carry on in our dreams.

Life is a treadmill. It’s an exercise in continuity, in perseverance. People and places pass and we do everything in our power to keep them going on with us. But the eventuality of the end of this exercise is near. And so we succumb to a few persistent sirens, who cackle above us with such wicked joy. They offer such innocence, such youth to the persistence of our step. So that we might misstep and look behind us as we walk. Or the mermaids in the vaporous clouds. Fragile like embryos curled up and ready to see the world with new eyes. Unknowing are they of the violence of man below, of their jeering. Unaware of how excruciating it is to forget, how full of indifference becomes every breath. So that men become suspended in a viscous liquid that is everything meaning nothing. So this is what it’s like to be free of the puppet strings. Apaethia. The relief of passionlessness. Where you are left to madness in a basement alone. The remnants of a party that died. And a girl alone in escapist paradise. Transcending even this isolation room in the deeper reaches of mind. 

Hope(less)

Let it go.

Give it up.

This small infant.

Feed him to the wolves. 

Kill your children,

Advice straight from the writer’s throat.

Edit. Cut. Rewrite. Tighten.

Grope for some new meaning.

Let it go.

Begin again.

Find something great. Give it a go. 

Love it. Feed it. Swaddle it.

Kill it. 

Let it go.

What is hope but the final plague?

The last evil thing out of the box.

Hope, my son,

How I must kill thee before ye grow.

music. the language of us. all the words we couldn’t say. all the words so forsaken by the screaming eyes and lies of circumstance. the subtext to every scene, to every miniature drama underlying the well-crafted perfection that we air in the sunlight. but in our separate beds in the dark of every night, the music graces our skin and leaves goosebumps. artists who take the words right out of my mouth but then can’t. because there are no songs to really capture how we feel. how i feel. and so is the quest of every writer. how to capture what is so easy to feel and so hard to explain. where the sentiments, and the memories, and the slightly maimed hope collide. the big bang of a microcosm of self-replicating, ever-changing thoughts and feelings. the necessity of a freak accident, some random act of chance, that set the world on fire. that perpetuates it’s existence from the dawn of the bang to the end of time. till the sun tires out. till the moon fades away. till the will is shot and the brain whittled away. i pray that this song will kiss every lonely inch of your skin. the places my lips long to comfort, but for the timing cannot, but for the distance cannot. bring back the ropes and we dance like puppets to the flowing tide of the music’s sway. and certainly it hurts, but we live for the dance and for the guidance of it’s choreography. still no words. just music and a symphony of rogue heartbeats in a seemingly mapped out world. and there is still discovery in this world of sharps and flats and halfs and quarters.  but it is a life we are tied to with an out-spanding history and an underlaying beat to the whisper of the future. 

is it the feelings that are complicated or the situation?

because i want to say that sometimes the simplest feelings cause the most complicated situations

when you have certainty in uncertain waters, what are you to do?

but as always, we must yield to the universe, to the unbending pull of time, to the miles, to the practicality of it all. let it go, as much as my shaking fists won’t let me, as much as the aches in my body won’t stop. we must let us go. reason will not let the heart have what it desires. 

He giveth and taketh away.

Second chances like mirages

Snatched in the middle of the night.

How the universe laughs at his foolish daughter,

He giveth and taketh away.

I believe in silly things,

Too much faith, 

I give little else.

Too much love.

I own little else.

When the rich rain down bread crumbs,

I lick them from their shoes,

Before they reprimand my action.

They purge me and

Leave me still wanting more.

- written at least a few months ago…

I know you must go. I know that responsibility calls you. I know it beckons and you must go. But how I will miss thy raven black hair, and the strands between my fingers. And how I will miss those perfectly set teeth in your red velvet mouth. And the snowy white flesh that houses plots of little cemeteries and caged dreams. And the little houses and the vision of red bridges and strength. All that strength in that steadily beating heart. In the muscles of your arms. And slyness in your smile and the twinkling in your eyes. And oh god that laughter. And that embrace. And the fingers, searching, finding. And you. Just you. Find someone better you say. And I scoff. Find someone different? Is that what you mean? There is no one better.

-a few weeks ago

Dear You,

i miss you. i miss studying and late night watching tv. and i miss not saying anything and running my fingers through your hair. and i miss the way you smell and the way you laugh and the way you smile. and i miss you. and i don’t know if i should insist that you shouldn’t be afraid. that i am here to share your burdens and share your victories. i am here always. or shall i wait? shall i do as you please? i can show you that i’ll be here. i can. tell me if you want me or not. please. no more shoulds. because there are so many things that we should do. let this be the time that you do what you want and not what you should. they say the devil is in desire. but the devil is in knowing that you want something and thinking that you don’t deserve it. because by god, you deserve to be happy, to have what you want. and i know i am being selfish because my saying that i am here is no replacement for who you decide you want to tell things to. i should be strong for you and give you the space that you want, but i want to tell you that i would wait. because i told you i would wait before i even really knew you and now if anything, i wish to wait even more. and yes, i too am afraid. but if you will hold my hand, i will take the plunge. but i dare not pull you into the sea. though i wish i had the guts to do it.

Sincerely,

Me

-march 2011

what fb chats yield

we are so young and so afraid of loss
we are a generation too afraid to take risks
we hide behind our technology
we are afraid of losing the one’s we really care about because we feel that our generation knows better
that somehow we’ve learned that love doesn’t last. we are a generation plagued by single parents and broken fantasies
our parents’ parents stuck through everything together, and while yours did, many of ours didn’t
i think that a lot of us are just afraid that in the end we won’t be happy or that if we start now then it won’t last till later
we don’t believe in high school sweethearts and happy endings because we’ve been taught that there is merit in scrutiny and doubt. in caution. perhaps in despair.

58 drafts. and the words lay heavy. thick with scum. slimy, grimy, undeserving of the light. 58 drafts. and 2 word documents of several pages. so many words. so many feelings. so little humanity. so little existence. and so little time to find any beauty in them. 58 little promises. 58 pieces of potential. 58 children waiting to be tended to. 58 drafts. if only the world lay silent. but it calls. sleep, children, for once again i cannot feed you, cannot indulge in you. in your needy, cold fingers. in your empty eyes. for now, you shall remain. 58 drafts.

dear self,

you should be writing your paper right now. much of your problem probably resides in your procrastination all the time. but aside from that, stop being such an exhibitionist. not that this letter is doing anything to combat this. i used to think that i didn’t need all that attention. ha. lies. well, i mean my childhood will tell you just as much. all those temper tantrums, broken toys, lack or friends, thrown yogurt cups. just pay attention to me. just once, be proud of me. as a friend so wanted to diagnose me, maybe it was being followed by a beauty of a sister, a real gem. one of those multi-talented, take the world by storm women of whom you know you could be justly jealous, but of whom you could not be because you just wanted to be close to her. maybe. but no, that’s not the whole of it. i’m in my own realm now. i feel good about what i have to offer, at least to some extent. i have something. i know i do. so maybe it’s from trying to impress my parents. i want to say that i don’t need to impress my stern asian father, but i’m realizing more and more that that that too was a lie. look at me dad. look. i’m trying so incredibly hard to just make you want to have a conversation with me. any conversation with me. let it go. let it go. you are an adult now. be who you are. impress yourself. be more than even you thought you could be. and in the process, stop vomiting all over people. stop show-stopping. it’s like every time you open your mouth this mountain of unnecessary things comes streaming out. as though to say, here are my blunders, forgive me before i perform another. here are my blunders, so help me make up for them. here are my blunders. stop. seize your present. let it go. let it be. trust who you are. follow your own advice. vent/share what you need to. deal with it. learn from it. remember it, but let it go. and stop being so selfish. stop expecting the world from people. aren’t you always the one who says that you should do things without the expectation that the deed should be returned. do things because you want to, not because you expect something out of your actions. why are you such a hypocrite? you can’t expect everyone to care about you like you care about them. so that’s their way of showing that they care. be grateful for the tough love. you know she just wants you to see something about yourself that she thinks you haven’t seen before. she doesn’t know what you are going through on the inside. and mostly because you’ve kept her so out of it lately. she’s never seen the broken you that you know so well. she doesn’t know. let her in and let it go. if she still doesn’t understand, then she doesn’t. let it go. do you expect others to suffer the way you do? to feel the way you do? because you can’t do that. isn’t what makes people so great that they are different than you? you can’t make people want what you want. and they are just in what they want. isn’t that what you’ve always believed? so start acting like it. and don’t forget to be grateful. you live in a bubble of privilege. you have much to learn. be grateful that you are learning. you must struggle to learn. you must experience to learn. you must fail to learn, you must hurt to learn. you may be lost now. but think of all you stand to gain. you may feel alone. but think about all those people who would try to be there for you. you may not want to talk to them now, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. they may not understand you right now, but that doesn’t mean they’re not trying. when are you going to thank them? and when are you going to start being kind to me? start being kind to yourself? and not in the way that you think that you have been. i don’t mean let yourself wallow. you may for a little. i understand that you are lost. it’s okay. it’s okay. take a deep breath. let it go. be all that you can. be who you want to be. don’t be afraid to admit what you have. you can. you can be proud without being vain (though hearing it from yourself makes it seem creepy and weird, it’s true). don’t be your own enemy. certainly, you can admit your wrongdoings and challenge yourself to be better, but listen to what you tell others too. you are beautiful too. you are strong too. you are intelligent. you are determined. you are talented. it’s okay to be afraid, to be lonely, to be angry, to be broken, to be embarrassed, to be wrong, to be stubborn, to be lost. it’s okay to make mistakes, so long as you right them. but don’t be consumed. let it go.