Dear 2010

I just wanted to let you know that you have a lot to live up to.

2009 was the year I fell in love with life. It was the year I grew into myself. I learned to take risks and face danger with a grin. I learned my limits and how far I could push them. I learned what I needed to make me happy. I learned what I couldn't live without and what I was unwilling to live without. I learned the value of a true friend. And I learned the value of a good try.

In 2009, I loved. I grew. I learned. I wondered. I explored. I felt. I raged. I bled. I cried. I lived. I survived. And I did it without a shred of regret. I did it honestly and from the pit of soul. I stripped off my mask and showed my world my true face.

This is me. And I'm stronger and I'm refuse to break.

So 2010, you better be ready. The sky's not my limit. I'll shatter it like glass. There's no road I want to follow. I make my own paths.

See you soon,

Yan

The Way I'm Supposed to Love You Back

I hate the pre-packaged North American notion of "love" that's spewed through the media and perpetuated in conversations I have with my female friends.

I think the Silverchair lyrics describe my thoughts on this perfectly:

"I love the way you love

But I hate the way I'm supposed to love you back"

Whether we like to think about it or not, there is a set route that we are expected to run. We're supposed to meet, like, date, love. What you do after this point is your own business. My issue is at the dating stage.

As a person from a non-North American culture, I find the tactics surrounding this emotional courtship dance entirely puzzling. Dating, in my view, is this vague stage of "getting to know". I think of it as a test drive that can go on for an awkward amount of time. What's more, it's more like a test drive where both parties are salespeople. Each is selling a vehicle but spending so much time trying to figure out whether to make a payment on the other person's vehicle that the process drags on and on until eventually somebody broaches the awkward question: "So... where are we going from here?"

And that's if things go well. If things go badly, one might walk by the lot, jump behind the wheel of some shiny car, drive it off the lot and completely total it. Other times what we have is one person walking unto a lot, meandering around and scrutinizing one vehicle in particular then for incomprehensible and completely unarticulated reasons, opening a door, slamming it shut then walking away.

To bring it back to the lyrics I quoted, I hate this test driving stage. I hate the uncertainty it inevitably clouds everything in. Even before you start dating, your entire interaction with that person of interest is tainted by the possibility. And I can feel it. I feel the scrutiny, the trying to decide "if", the playful tugging of the maybe in the back of his mind. And it colors everything. And it's not so much that I hate the scrutiny, although I do. It's more so that I hate the way I'm expected to engage in this force ripening process. I should be scrutinizing right back. I should be entertaining that maybe. But I do not want to.

I want a clean interaction. I want to interact free of the burdens of "maybe". I want to think of exploring a relationship as an open landscape rather than a tunnel that branches into two routes: stay friends or become more than friends temporarily and less than strangers afterwards. I don't want this mutual simultaneous test driving. I'd much prefer to have my car gifted to me. Hitchhiking is even better.

I want my relationships, all my relationships, not just romantic ones, to be beautifully co-authored works. I'm not a fan of ridiculous mad lib-esque premade scripts where I simply plug in a value and watch it weave my tale. I crave authenticity more than simplicity. Of course the script can be fun and entertaining but the story you pour your self into, no matter how silly the plot will stay with you for ever. And your co-author will always seem to strike some secret chord in you.

I want to unlock all my secret chords so I can compose a sublime collage of song from all my loves.

The Silver Lining

I can't believe this is turning into a poetry blog. I guess it's just the easiest way for me to exercise my craft without getting so sucked in that I neglect school. But after Wednesday, less poetry, more meat!

Here you have my first ever attempt at spoken word-esque poetry. I have no idea what struck me today. Generally, I'm not the biggest fan of spoken word.

Spoken word, spoken absurd

Absurdity rains from your brain like hail

From the skies

And lies fester amd drip

Through the rift of time

Down with the flow of rhyme

Up through the dark

And shine

Bright lights into these eyes of mine

And give fake sight to the blind

That lead us from grenades to land mines

From a babe I'm been trying

But my senses were dull

I keep on lying

So I won't have to accept the null

I keep crying

But I still try to resist the pull

Shut off the bright lights

Roll back the dark curtains

Let's look up to the skies,

See the truth and be certain.

Let's not binge and purge society's preconceptions.

Let's not follow the path that's been cut by convention.

Let's not play the game without learning the lessons.

Let's not live through the war by avoiding the missions.

Let's not search for some ready-made heaven.

Let's not treat our chances like a lottery ticket.

The silver lining's not a given,

We're the ones that have to make it.

Germaine

This is one of the six pieces I produced this semester in my Writing about Community course. This is my third and final revised version.

My brother Eden and I walk along the marl[1] road to Jenita’s shop by the gas station. Mama, our grandmother, charged us with a twenty EC dollar bill and a short list of things to not come back without. Two pounds of flour, baking powder, ling fish and accent seasoning.

I go because I’m a young woman “and need to know how to shop for things”. Eden goes because he “needs to learn how to carry a message”. We both go because chocolate bars are usually involved.

We pass Doris’ mother’s house. “Good afternoon,” we chime in unison.

The skinny dark skinned woman with barely a handful of hair on her head nods in response. Eden and I walk on, in and out of shade and sun under the evenly spaces neem trees.

“What happened to Doris?” I ask Eden.

“She live with she Daddy now or something so,” he says.

“Oh,” I say and chew my lip.

A loud bark from the across the street makes me pause. It’s Ms. Genie’s dog: a tall black-backed German shepherd with brown legs and belly. We don’t know his name so we call him Germaine.

Germaine stares at us from behind Ms. Genie’s tall wire mesh fence. He stalks us like a caged tiger from behind the fence.

A Midnight Encounter

Be on the lookout for this piece in the first Winter edition of the Medium. It's been submitted and confirmed for printing already but I'm too hyped up about it to wait three weeks to post it on my blog.

At 1:00AM I sat in the basement of 3565 Wideridge Road. The two storey duplex house belonged to the woman I called Aunt Angie and her husband George. I used their house as a weekend escape from campus life. The basement living room was my main station. The muted TV threw patterns of colored light across the room that reflected off the smooth white surface of the humming refrigerator and the quietly bubbling aquarium that housed a single yellow fish. I sat in the folded out futon bed with my laptop on my folded legs. I pecked and tapped at my touch pad, Photoshopping a perfect white lotus into my brother Eden’s super short black hair. His attempt at a sexy smoldering expression coupled with the flower tucked behind his ear drew a chuckle from my lips.

I thought of emailing the picture to Eden. I chuckled again, started to close my computer then stopped. Footsteps creaked on the wooden floor above my head. I suspected it was Nathan, my aunt’s eldest son, looking for midnight snacks. The creaks became dull thuds as he entered the tiled kitchen. There was no creak of the fridge door, no slamming of cupboard doors. The thuds continued then died suddenly. He had reached the carpeted stairs that lead down to the basement where I sat.

I looked up, a snarky remark at the tip of my tongue. A bulky figure emerged from the shadow of the stairwell. It wasn’t Nathan. It was George, my aunt’s husband, in pajama bottoms. And shirtless. A fine line of graying hairs ran up his bulbous belly and spread out across his flabby chest like the mouth of a river feeding into a lake. His slippers shuffled against the carpet as he dragged himself across the room. I tried not to take too much notice. A prickle of discomfort played at my spine.

Blank

I’m as blank of the sheet before me.

A world of words and feelings shout

To be poured out

But I

Cannot.

I will not.

Copyright Yan-sama yo. I wrote this about two years ago. It's up now because this is how I feel right now.