Scribblings of a Small Town Big City Poet

Better

2010-07-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

by Aileen Ma

When you open up my bag
You will find a worn-bound book
Inkstained pages and the sweetest scent
of mango leaves will flow

There is no lock on it no key
because I write in mirror-ese

So you thumb through all my doodles
wondering.

At least that's how it seems.

But how would I know
when your words are so
cold. Not to

say that you hurt me or anything.

Or anything.

Cuz really it's all
spelled out
you treat me like you'd treat yourself

I'm like
your unrelated twin
like your second skin
and you're such a narcissist

you are oh so descructive

but mostly
you're sweet.

Just not always
to me.

When you open up my bag
you will find a worn-bound book
Inkstained pages and the sweetest scent
of mango leaves will flow

There is no lock or key
because I write in mirror-ese

So you thumb through all
my doodles wondering.

Will I read you
just
a page?

Maybe, I say.

You flip to a random page
and I can feel my insides ache

You may say you're logical
and that I'm emotional
but really I'm more
like you than you'd think.

Because in this worn-bound book of
mine that I refuse to call a diary

I keep a diary.

But
I always distract myself

cuz that's what mirrors are
for.

So everything is
hidden in
the swivel of the script
and not the page.

So all the little things on
the page you picked will
seem to spell

that I've never really known you

that I never really will.

but the truth. Is.

I never let down my guard
not even in my
worn bound book
because
I know you way too well.

But how would you know

When my words were better
than I could ever be

Not that I would
ever hurt you

or anything.

Not to say that you hurt me or anything.

Or anything at all.

Machine

2010-04-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

by Aileen Ma

Machine:
wash
warm gentle

Please:
handle
with care

Faded shirt
well worn chambray
rests on hanger
then line
just a heart
hung out to dry

silent no tears
drip dry without
cry

You would smile
if I did

I'd be human
my chest cavity would
loosen

Tension braided sideways
forward motion fray

I would leave me
for far away

and you would pry open
uninvited

hands greedy with
dripping
a scarlet faraway scent
scoop up
a crimson shaded

lipstick smudge
faded
staining

remains
sheddings

sinew entangled strings
piled loosely
shed onto

threshing of
heart floor

I never had to worry
about
these things before

Palm Reading for Small Hands

2010-04-10T15:14:00.000-07:00

by Aileen Ma

I gently
trace sinew and fiber
prodding lines
probing answers

Everything is a
question, a wonder

Every crease that starts
beneath the heart line
to the middle finger

Nothing really seems
to know
to uncover

Maybe I should make
the study of palms for
those with small hands
my career

I would
sketch diagrams
of palm against wall against
twin hand

but first we
would start with
an analysis of a faraway
view of
your nail chipped fingers
and those
tense hands
folded
grasping

forever at something
familiarly unknown
a sweet
not to be had

I read my palm
to discover
that
I have
no fate line

no trace of a balance
between heart
and head
and life path

only a few broken traces
of an attempt
to etch
something out of nothing

Pink nails
curl inwards
and sigh
pointing out
the alignment
of borrowed pen
to life line

Rehab

2010-03-07T14:51:00.000-08:00

Dear whomever may be reading this,

Writing this somehow feels monumental, because in the time that I've had this blog I've strayed away from being personal except indirectly through my writing. Yet this moment calls for a personal address of sorts.

So many things have happened to me and my writing lately yet I've been so terribly neglecting of this site and my writing in general.

Last summer I spent the a whole month in Valencia, CA at the State Summer School of the Arts. It was life changing, it made me write more than I ever had before, it taught me things about writing I'd never considered, and it made me friends I will treasure for a lifetime. But like most summers, it was fleeting, and when I came back I went back to my old ways of not writing nearly as much as I should.

It probably didn't help that I'm taking 5 AP classes this year. This February I was estatic to be honored by the CA Writing Awards with a Silver Key for my Senior Portfolio, and there was a whole lovely event in LA which my Drama Teacher--himself a playwright--so graciously took me and my grandmother to. The result of it? I felt like a big hypocrite for not having any creative output this far since last summer, and have resolved to start writing...anything at all really.

Last summer at CSSSA many guest speakers came and talked about writing, about getting published, about MFAs... But what stuck with me the most was how one speaker said that everyone has 10,000 pages of crap inside of them that has to come out before one can truly begin writing one's best.

So now I guess I'm going into rehab of some sorts. I'm realizing that in order for me to function as a person instead of a zombie, I need to plunge further into my faith and I need to get my pen moving. It might take a while for my body and soul to mesh once more, but I'm realizing once again that my faith and writing are integral parts of my being.

In essence, this is a statement saying that I'm going to start moving my pen again=) No matter how busy I am with an upcoming school play or a statewide Env-Sci competition coming up, I cannot let any circumstance in life make me deviate from who I am and what I love. I hope this inspires you to make a change in your life too.

p.s: my plans for this site are thus far this:

1) to gradually edit the "Boston Vignettes" and reorganize pieces individually
2) to post a few scenes I wrote over the summer
3) to start some new projects while freewriting everyday, though what about I'm delighted to say I have no idea thus far

with love,

Aileen

New Vignette Collection Unveiled!

2009-06-02T20:00:00.000-07:00

Unveiled this day of June, 2009 is a new Vignette Collection!

Titled "Boston" after the fabulous city, this collection of fifteen vignettes invites you to venture into the heart of the city by stepping into a moment in another person's life. Here, a toddler tries on new roles; a young woman has doubts about her boyfriend; a suicidal man goes for a walk; a boy and a girl fall in love on the T; a young woman lives in uneasy disguise...

Read and discover the traces of familiarity present in all of our separate lives. Turn the pages and feel for someone else. Turn the pages and fall in love. Fall in love with relentless hope and vulnerability. Fall in love with the search for identity and the quest for happiness. Fall in love with Boston.

Start reading by clicking on the titles below to skip to specific vignettes.

See the table of contents as follows:

Sun-catchers [Brookline]*

Incognito [Allston]*

Mayo [Amherst]

Real Real Rose [Dorchester]*

Mondays [North End]

Wei Wei Who I See Some Days [Chinatown]*

The Wave [Jamaica Plain]

I think you’ll understand [Boston Commons]

Infidelity [South End]

On the T [on the T]

Two Rooms [East Boston]

Faneuil Hall [Faneuil Hall]

Isabella [Fenway]

Washer-women [Fenway]*

Grolier’s [Cambridge]

* Asterisk indicates the vignettes have previously been posted on this blog.

Each bracket denotes the location at which a vignette's scene is set. And yes, not all of the locations are technically in Boston. Just a side note :)

Grolier's [Cambridge]

2009-06-02T19:44:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Grolier’s are the magic words she whispers when life runs out of poetry. And when she steps into the store. Wavy auburn hair and calm green eyes betraying the relaxation and peace its aura brings to her.

Today, Grolier’s was desperately needed. She heaves a sigh of relief as she steps inside. Rush to the bookshelves. Runs her fingers like across a piano of rain drops as she looks through the new and old selections, resting her fingers more than once on a few favorites. Dotes upon the chapbooks of soul mates. Revisits the works of strictly rhyming poetry just for the kick of it. Attempts to find found poetry in Dr. Seuss.

But nothing really seems to help. No rituals, no favorite poems, not even Langston Hughes has been of help at all.

No, because no one could capture the feeling of meeting someone special and longing to be with them but yet chickening out because of a few knicks and scars that had once settled on your heart. No, no one could capture that feeling except herself, but she didn’t want to open that cut again.

It was funny how dangerous everyday living could be.

And yes alright, maybe she just wasn’t looking in all the right places. Maybe the shopkeeper would know.
***

He didn’t even know what drew him to Grolier’s that day, but now he knew. The shop was far too small for him to hide. And it would hurt him too much to snub her.

But maybe he could just stay in the corner a while longer.

Maybe he could find the right words to say from something by Byron, or better yet, the Beatles. Maybe the right words would give him the courage.

He looks down from the book and puts it back on the shelf. Feels like pulling his golden-brown hair out from the roots.

Then remembers something important.

Walks, slowly but resolutely, to the corner of the shop where she stands. Taps her on the shoulder, and smiles. More of a question than an expression.

She answers, gushing a smile and flushes a rosy pink. Takes his hand in hers and leads him out onto the street. Fall into a pattern of smiles and walking, saving the talking for later.

Washer-women [Fenway]

2009-06-02T19:42:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

inspired by

Jean Francois Millet, “The Washerwomen”, c. 1848

In this village where we have lived for years thus far, our lives revolve around the water, and it takes us in, even as we are part of it. We have lived here all our lives, and learnt the lesson handed down to us, that one day, we will hand down as well. Washing our clothes, backs hunched over the side of the lake, we are part of the cold cold water as we move our hands up and down, up and down, like the hands of our husbands also. We have not seen them, our husbands, for it has been many seasons since they went away—only, we remember. Like pictures in our head, we remember the days when they came to take our husbands away, by force that we tried to, but could not fight. Even so, we all feel it, and we see it in our minds, so we know that this is true. We sometimes hear strains of the songs they sing to make the heavy loads easier to bear. They are melancholy like heaving, for they are too weary to shout. Usually it is the wind, and we know this. But still, we sing our replies to them, weaving the same melody back, mixing the sadness with hope, telling ourselves that this is to bring them hope, when we really all know that we need the hope too.

Where we live, there is wild beauty of the forest and water. The lake and the sea are almost one, and the saltiness is divided by a strip of land. We want both to be one, but know we could not live, if so, and so we cry to make up for the lack of salt. Our husbands, rowing the boat of a prince they do not know, but are taught to fear, are going through the same motions as us, only back and forth, their arms move forward and then backwards. Sometimes there is the pulling with their bodies, making music that jangle like keys, maybe, chains, of a dark melody. We know this by the way that our people, our women, have known these things. The bustling of village life, tamed life is still here. Here too, with us, are the voices of children, our children, laughing aloud for secret reasons, sometimes crying for the same. But beside the sheep, the foals, the chickens—our animals and our young, the hearty chuckles of our husbands are scarcely heard anymore, except in our minds. Soon, our sons will grow up to replace the hearty laughs with their own, but it will not be the same. They will grow up to work the fields like men—but still, it will not be the same. The textured, muscular, and hairy arms and chest that once held so tight they were a part of us, are so far away now that they have left hollowness where we wish for, maybe, scars, or anything, if only a mark to remember the having once had.

But though our husbands are gone, we still have laundry to do. We cannot drop everything and sit, waiting, though we want to. And so we are clutching our washing stones and laundry, holding on and throwing down by the lake which is so much like the sea. We are holding onto the stones like they are so much more. The water is eating away at our hands, weathering us away to the bone, chilling and calming us in a strange way all the same. We do not know much, but to carry through each day and to hope—for something.

I know that I shall remain, changed, but unchanged.

(previously appearing in the January archives)

Isabella [Fenway]

2009-06-02T19:40:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

If walking into the dark and chilly entrance had made Isabella indifferent in expectations, walking into the first floor exhibits and seeing the courtyard completely floored her. It left her speechless, yet overflowing with words to describe the utter beauty that lie before her. The perfectly situated square shaped courtyard of raspberry colored flowers and mint green leaves and bushes, along with the gargoyle and saint-like statues within completely transformed her expectations of the four floored museum.

It felt like coming alive for the first time. Like finally knowing that the reason she had been named Isabella was because there was the Isabella Gardener Museum, a place of indescribable beauty and hidden nooks and crannies. Even if that wasn’t why she was named Isabella, it did feel good to know her name granted her free admission to such a wondrous place. She was definitely going to college here just for the museum, if she could help it.

The rest of her time at the museum was dream-like. Like the best of all dreams, the never-ending kind that most definitely were not nightmares.

She by passed the cassette tape commentaries and lost herself in the exhibits. Attempted to decipher medieval handwriting, stand up to catholic statues that had once freaked her out as an even younger girl, and read the facial expressions of men and women in paintings.

She sat in the second floor music room, currently unoccupied but majestic in itself. She sat in one of the seats in the last row and strained to listen to the room as it sang in otherworldly tones. Tried to imagine what the missing paintings would have looked like. Hypothesized that a Rembrandt was really a self portrait. Lost herself in the gaze of a kind face upon a china plate. Took visual pictures, with the aid of her two hands when she walked about the Japanese art room.

And then, she walked up to a painting and almost heard it clear its voice as soon as she locked eyes on it. She shrugged it off, and turned around to see if anyone else had heard it as well, but found no one else in the room, with the exception of the napping museum volunteer in the corner chair. So she shook her head, then smiled a secret smile, and turned to the painting once more…

Faneuil Hall [Faneuil Hall]

2009-06-02T19:36:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Today me and the guys are just going to do another set. Well, it’s different every day, so if you call that the usual, then fine. But don’t you love people watching? Look over there. That guy. With salt and pepper hair messy in an unintentional way, his beard is stubbly, and his eyes wear worry with a hint of martyrdom. His stance is determined, and somewhat hurried, but he isn’t holding a briefcase or wearing backpacking gear, so the security guards are somewhat frazzled. Not. They have bigger things to worry about. Like getting the kosher hot dogs deli guy to deliver on time.

His worries…seem different. You can tell just by looking. Amidst the flurry of action at Faneuil hall, and the ever so moving tide of tourists and vendors, he stands out, mainly for a… nondescript quality about him. You can really make up a life story about strangers just by staring. Staring into their eyes. To me, he looks like a) someone who might have been canonized as a saint in another life, or b) a man who has been stood up by a date who might be abusive, or maybe c) both of the above.
***
The man in black and grey moves in an absent way that belies the determination in his eyes. There is a loss of humanity that lies within those eyes and seems to cry out for attention. But nobody seems to notice. That’s right, nobody cares, thinks the man. He stoops down on a park bench for a moment, so he can get lost in his thoughts for a while. Retrace the plan, retrace the plan. Go buy the gun. A pigeon flies by and his eyes follow it mechanically. Go buy the bullets. But there are no traces of life within those dark brown orbs. Use the same one your old man used to kill himself. He gets up, briefly, oddly entertained by something so commonplace, and goes over to the pigeon. Whispers something to it. One shot, and then boom. I’ll be gone.

The pigeon flies away. Doesn’t even bother to say goodbye.

That’s right, nothing matters. It’s probably good that I didn’t get to know you. He backs away from the scene of the would have been meeting of friends. Gets pushed in the elbow by a harried passerby. Is turned the opposite direction. Goes with the flow, and faces that way anyways. Chooses to not decide his fate for himself. But wait, I have had this all planned out since last week. I have to take my chances. No more dillydallying.
He begins to turn around, but…then he sees it.

He sees the most beautiful thing in the whole world, right before his eyes.

Right there in front of the entrance to the old Quincy market, a girl is twirling, turning, reaching up, forward, and outward. It is as if she is dancing and calling out to the crowd, without seeming to notice that anyone except herself is there at all. A young girl, clad in tank top and flowing peasant skirt, dancing in flip flops to the beat of water bucket drums as two men are making sweet music right behind her. Twirling about and swaying around as carefree as can be, as if she is in another world. A cute little Chihuahua dog joins in, and soon the girl and the dog are both caught up in the music, both dancers part of something bigger. The girl is blond, but that is not what makes her pretty. Her smile, and the way she is dancing with unabandoned joy, that is what matters. That is what she is a part of.

Suddenly the beating of the drums penetrate somewhere deep. The man catches himself watching, with his chin hanging down. Eyes wide open. As if there is life in them. Suddenly, a grin, nothing like a grimace spreads out across his face. Unnatural but getting there, as he looks up to the sky.

Two Rooms [East Boston]

2009-06-02T19:34:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

There are only two rooms in her flat, and her best friend Emily has been denied access to both the bathroom and bedroom/living/kitchen for the past week, two days, and counting. It is only a matter of four days until all of her days off for this year and the next will be exhausted, but she could care less.

She was fine earlier this morning too, having just decided that yes, from what sunlight had crept through the curtains it did seem like a beautiful day, and that yes, it would only be right to go out and buy some eggs to make a splendid eggs benedict. Maybe some cream cheese bagels too.

But somewhere in between getting on her coat and running to the bathroom it came back. It came back and pinned her to the cold linoleum ground of her tiny bathroom, left her shriveled up with pain that bled through her eyes, and scars that burned on her body, paralyzed with fear.

It’s been so long, this shouldn’t be happening, run the thoughts in her mind. The feeling of choking, and then realizing that maybe that is the easy way out returns, and there is no good way to put it. There will never be a good way to put it.

She tries to reach for the handle to the bathroom door, cross back over to the other side. Her main room. But she cannot reach.

Resolves to only think about the eggs benedict she wanted, and the cream cheese bagels too. But a second later it all comes rushing back, in gashes and torrents that make her sob dry tears.

Why, why God. If I broke up with him 2 years ago, why does this still happen to me.

On the floor, her body, still limp, thrashes in a sudden motion.

If I left a gash in his arm and a line down his face, why wouldn’t he stop.

Her eyes shudder, cold sweat forms at her temples.

Why did he act so gently. Caress the my bangs that had fallen in front of my face and whisper in warm tones, “Sweetheart, you will love this. You know you will.”

She screams inside. Tries to contain the frantic waves of kicking and screaming and clawing that her body will take on.

And why didn’t I love it then. If I was the one who had let him order the house special for me at the steakhouse. The one who had given him the goodnight kiss first, let his hand rest around my neck, and work its way through my hair.

Her hands go to her throat. Leave sweat marks like blood. Make the screams within die down, bottle up, not surface. Wishes for a fainting spell, perhaps one that lasts forever, yes, that would be good.

Why.

On the T [On the T]

2009-06-02T19:32:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

I have tons of friends who probably treat staring at beautiful strangers on the T as a regular sport, but I am not one of them. I am more of a stare-outside-the-window-at-the-passing-midtown-scenery-and-spout-random-thoughts-type of guy, so really, I don’t know why I even started staring, or why I’m still staring. But I am.

Maybe my friends wouldn’t even call her beautiful, but who cares about that anyways, and isn’t it enough that I think she is. That I think the way her eyes take in the streets passing by exudes something sweet like honey and that even the sadness she lets escape only make her green eyes shine more deep. Auburn hair frames her pale yet artistically freckled face, and I don’t even care to check what she’s wearing ‘cause I’m so busy reading what her eyes, and lips, and ears and nose have to say. I’m too caught up in unearthing her story. Finding out her reason for the question why.

I just can’t shake this feeling. Like how you feel like you’ve known someone once before, like you’ve already fallen in love with everything about them the very second you laid eyes on them.

Ok, so maybe I’m crazy. With my face tilted to one side, arm raised high clutching the railing, I just can’t stop reading her face like a favorite book of mine. Darn it, just get a hold on yourself, ok? Close your eyes, count to five, shake it off, then get off at the next stop.

I open my eyes and find her staring at me, eyes kind and smile wavering shyly.
***

Nobody ever really looks at anyone in a city. And when I say look, I mean really, really look. But there he is, and I don’t even know his name, but we are both staring at each other, like we’re in a conversation. Like we’re old friends, maybe more, who have waited so long to have each other back in our lives.

Oh I wish I had a pen to write this down right now. I don’t think I’ll ever believe this later when I get back unless I have some written proof of it.

Because really, how can you stare at someone and feel like you just know them, just like that. Like you’ve known the way their golden brown tufts of hair have settled and gotten in the way of their eyes since a long time ago, when really you didn’t.

But maybe some things just are. I’m really smiling now, and I don’t even know why, but I know am doing it because I can see him smiling too. I want to tuck a strand of my red hair behind my ear so badly now, but I’m so afraid to do it. I don’t want to look away, not even for a second.

Because what if it all could change, in just a moment. After all, when really all you knew about someone was that their eyes spoke stories, the kind that most people gathered about their elbows and wrench out in tears and laughter only when it is too late, that had to say something. It definitely said that they could tell the sort that could make you smile, without knowing why. But could their stories make you cry? Would you eventually find reason to cry over those beautiful brown eyes that told stories?

I’ve already cried too many tears inside, over a boy with warm chocolate eyes who never turned back. Who’s to say that this won’t be the same way?

I feel scared to death now and my shoes seem especially stuck to the grimy floor. Should I go over there and tell him? Or would he already know?

Shoot I almost forget we’re on the T right now. If he left, that would totally suck.

Because the crazy thing about looking at him was that it felt like coming home.

***

I feel like if I take a few steps I could just walk over there and maybe utter an actual human word, but maybe I overestimate myself. The last time I ever did that, look where it landed me. Into a long and tangled maze of a road that ended in heartache and hating all girls named Julia. Of course, the last time … some things were different. But who’s to say that they’re really just the same?

And what if her name was Julia?

That’s it. I’m walking over there.
***

Suddenly the train comes to a stop, and the rush hour crowd flows in through the sliding doors. Wedging themselves in between the boy’s determined footsteps, and blocking the girl’s view to the other end of the train section, the after work crowd settles into their usual cloister of mess, sweat and loudness. Heartbreak, would’ve-beens, and all.

Oh well, that’s too bad, they would say if they knew. And then what about avoiding that law-suit.

Infidelity [South End]

2009-06-02T19:31:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

I can smell it on his clothes when I lean in to say goodbye. His movements are the same, as if to hide the changes from me. Either that or my love for all things green has finally consumed me. Who else would read so much into the way a hoodie smells anyways?

I pace the hall outside my apartment. Let the thoughts run compulsively up and down the stairs, maybe even following after his footsteps and trailing him down the streets. My hands catch up with my thoughts and cradle my head. Jealously makes love a scary thing. I tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear and think of the word “infidelity.” Whether or not it means what this means to me right now.

Right now, I long for a can of coke, not diet, and this will probably be my downfall. It’ll probably force me back into the confines of my apartment. In which case my thoughts will either a) spare me and stay outside, where they are now. or b) follow me inside. b) is more likely. But I will risk it, if it means being able to wash away that unholy taste. The taste his lips in mine left me. Inexplicable. Bitter. Disgusting. The feeling of wanting to draw back with hurt right away, but then wanting to kiss back and jolt into him whatever sense he had left. “I know about you,” my kiss would say. I know about you.

***
He knows I would never voluntarily step foot into McD’s, so he’ll probably be here. I feel like so many things I never thought I’d ever feel like. I feel like a vulture in the wait. A lion before the pounce. A possibly psycho girl who’s had vodka on the rocks. Ok, I blame the weird taste of diet coke for that. Another thing about this corporate machination of cruelty that makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust.

But wait. I follow the direction of the red bendy straw’s neck as it suddenly jerks away from me. Then, all noise seems to cease, and there comes the slow-mo view.

His back as he turns away from the counter. Him holding a red tray in both hands. Two burgers and a huge thing of fries. Unassuming steps as he walks right past me to a table off the center of the room and sits down.

Suddenly everything starts again and I know what this moment means. Before I know it, before he’s even taken a bite of his big fat juicy burger, I’m there. Carried by my legs and some unknown power, I feel like I’m towering over him as he stares back at me. A look of love and fear. Tears are beginning to come to me now, and it’s useless to say anything, because he knows me too well. He knows the weight of broken promises. He knows.

He knows that the first bite he took so innocently meant that we could never be. He knows he never should have gone back to eating meat.

I Think You'll Understand [Boston Commons]

2009-06-02T19:28:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Nobody could ever love the park more than Susy and Benji. Not even the Swans that called the Commons their home. Every afternoon after being released from Ms. Davey’s first grade class they made their way here.

Her vividly auburn and erratically tousled head of hair and his unruly black hair dancing along with their tiny frames. His good natured smile and her silly foot stomping. Their races against each other, against the lake, against the swans. Their impeccable taste in acorns. And the classification of friendly versus mean-spirited squirrels.

Collapsing in exhaustion on their favorite bench overlooking the main path. People watching. Tiny fingers tired from Ms. Davey’s alphabet games and so much more. Mud-streaked Short pants and knee highs to account for later.

An old couple, a stout old white-haired woman and a taller old man with sunglasses and a newsboy cap on walk by, on their daily walk. The old woman, back slightly hunched, walks in front, leading the old man through the loop of a handbag she carries and he clutches even as he holds a red and white walking cane.

For many days now, Susy and Benji have wanted to say hi. For now, they gaze with large, questioning eyes full of wonder. The same wonder that sparkles in their eyes as they examine grooves on tree trunks and greet little chicks and ducks that waddle about.

The old woman continues, almost ambling into a streetlamp, but stopping just in time. She pauses and stops her old walking partner, and clasps his hand ever so gently. Whispers something in a loud voice.

Sunlight glistens. The old couple smiles. Bump noses with affection, never mind the old sunglasses that hang over the bridge of his nose.

There. The Old woman has readjusted them. They pause once more, and now they’re holding hands.

Susy and Benji watch as they walk away. Then, after a while, break out in smiles. Reach out to each other pudgy hands to hold.

Jump off the bench, and return to their grand adventure.

The Wave [Jamaica Plain]

2009-06-02T19:26:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Pink polo t-shirt and navy blue skort, she walks into the gym, every movement another word for the feelings worn around her wrist. A freshman, no doubt, says someone who always says things about other people as she crosses the court. Maybe it’s the way her face seems to be in between expressions, hoping no one will notice she’s trying not to smile. And yet that someone will. Maybe it’s how unaware she is of how adorable yet awkward she looks as she moves. Makes her way to the front row of the bleachers, where her friends already are. Lets a bashful look of suppressed excitement settle on her face. Toys with the clear yet shimmery strand of pink crystal beads around her wrist.

A friend nudges her, and she looks up straight ahead. There he is. Spiked dark hair, sun-kissed tan and #14 jersey, poised to free-throw. He has been sending mixed signals since last week, but the verdict as of now points him in favor of being adored. She whispers some new discovery to her friends, and a wave of giggles follow. Her face flushes a rosy pink, and imaginary subtitles run alongside to declare what everyone already knows.

She tries to ignore the ever fluctuating thoughts inside her head, and possibly the cavity of her chest. So charming, funny, and cute. So extremely like someone she’d known for years. Though of course not, they’d only met this school year, in debate class. And he’d had her confused ever since.

He must know, someone in the stands is telling the person right beside them as they stand up and are part of the wave. Doesn’t she know he’s leading her on? an ex-girlfriend thinks silently as the girl’s high ponytail gets in the way of her watching the game.

Of course he knew. But maybe she would never know. Or find out. Maybe she could be the exception, and go through life never finding out about any of it. About the wearing of masks and how lipstick made you say something other than what you really meant. Maybe her heart could be spared the loss of its virginity. Maybe…

He aims for the basket, going in for the kill. She is at her feet, hands clenched together and pink beaded bracelet glistening. A graceful arc extends beyond his fingertips. The ball ricochets off the board, and fate takes place. With full force speaking of intentions, it changes direction…

All anyone can see now is a completely littered front row. With pink crystal beads scattered everywhere. Her bracelet has been shattered.

Her wrist, bruised with an imprint less obvious than her changed facial expression, is examined by all. He comes over and stammers apologies, sweaty but chivalrous. He does not know that her heart has been strewn about the dirty gym floor. Or that his politeness crushes the tattered pieces even more.

He insists on bending down the pick up the beads, pink as always but no longer opaque as they once were.

Wei Wei Who I See Some Days [Chinatown]

2009-06-02T19:24:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

I’ve seen her. I’ve talked to her. I’ve heard her cry out at night. She’s young. And too good for her husband. But she’s got no other way. Or at least, so she says. And there’s one smart lady. She could have been a teacher, or a doctor, or…anything but his wife.

Sometimes I meet her in the elevator and walk with her in the mornings. She always holds a pale blue plastic basket in hand to go to the market, and I always with my backpack full of books to go to school. We’re an unlikely pair, if ever. But people sometimes think we are sisters. Sometimes. And in a way, I wish we were. If we were, maybe she wouldn’t always look so sad. Under and around and inside her beautiful dark brown eyes, the sadness is everywhere. You can’t escape from it.

From the day she moved in I knew she was pretty, but now, it’s a different kind of beauty. Her eyes scream the story that she is forced to keep silent every day. Her light purple brocade sweater, far too old-looking for her age lays heavy on her shoulders, concealing her thin pale arms, bruised and torn and scarred from all that she’s been through. Her black hair frames her tragic and poignant face in waves.

I ask her how things are going. She says that she is happy because her husband says he will buy her flowers and take her out to dinner, again. I nod and say that I am happy for her. She holds her head up high on her shoulders stares straight ahead and walks with me confidently, like a soldier. She doesn’t tell me about the pain. Not today. She squeezes my hand tightly. I understand. But I want...to become like her someday. I want to be beautiful like her someday. But I don’t tell her this. It will break her heart. Her beautiful beautiful heart.

Sometimes when I hear her in the night, I wonder why. Why is it her Lord? I know you love her. And I know too, that she loves you above all else. She is the embodiment of grace. But I—I just can’t comprehend why she insists on staying with her husband—I know you love him too, but…it would be really hard to touch the heart of a brute like that. It’s not that I don’t believe in miracles, it’s just that…

I wonder if anyone hears her. And I wonder why no one does anything. And I wonder if I did anything, would it make it better, would it be worse. Would he kill her? I feel worthless. Like a coward. I wonder. I wonder why. Maybe someday we could all run away. To somewhere safe. We could run away from everything. Until then I’ll pray. Wei Wei. It means…the slightness of pale blue. It means… strength. From the most breathtaking love ever.

(previously posted in the January archives)

Mondays [North End]

2009-06-02T19:14:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Today is his sixtieth birthday, but otherwise, it is very much a usual Monday. No miracles have happened, or anything supremely misfortunate. He not lost nor gained 40 pounds, but has retained his beer belly. The economic situation is almost as bad as it was when he went to sleep, and yes he still likes to have his salami no matter how much the people at his job hate it. He crawls out of bed at ten in the morning, having returned from his three day long distance job in New Jersey at three in the morning, and enjoys leftover spaghetti from the fridge that Marie left for him the night before. He washes the dish and fork, then changes out of his striped cotton PJs into his casual clothes, and puts his swimming trunks into a plastic bag. Heads out the door and remembers to lock it.

Gets off the T at the YMCA. Says hi to Benny the guy in charge as he heads inside. Slaps old man Jerry on the back in the locker room. Pulls those swimming trunks over his gut and lets the string inside run a little loose. Stands under a cold shower and stretches his arms and legs a bit.

And then, Monday truly begins.

He stands at the side of the pool, the edge on the deep end, and makes a dive for it. Goes for a freestyle lap and then a breast stroke lap. Rests on the shallow end to catch his breath a bit. The old machine still has it, after all.

He talks a bit with some of the old boys there, the ones who have already retired, already made peace in their minds with the way their lives are. He remembers that today he practically turns into one of them, but doesn’t let on, and instead decides to nod and nod and nod, then wring some of the water out of his ears.

He goes back to the edge of the pool to dive in once again. This time, he starts out with hail marys. Not because he’s extremely devout, like his daughter Stefania, but more because he doesn’t want to let his thoughts catch up to him.

He doesn’t want to think his usual thoughts about his future plans, the big ones, about how he’d change things. Get a job he really liked. Move into a bigger house, but of course, close enough to stay near little Italy. Get enough money get Andrea’s little daughter, Issie, the one she’s had to raise all by herself, the special education she needed.

There were so many more dreams. But now, in between swimming on his back and switching to free-styling, he was thinking of it. Thinking of the little he had accomplished. A good community college education, an even night school to finish all four years, and what do you do? cannot even hold down a regular nine to five job. But the economy is bad, Marie would argue. But still…

Maybe, he had done enough. As he sits on the side of the pool, dangling his feet over the edge so that they splash just enough water to keep his feet wet, he contemplates the possibility. His thoughts followed his eyes, which followed his thoughts, and soon, he realizes something. Something the old boys of the YMCA pool had realized too. From beneath the plastic umbrella across the way, they raise their bottles of ale, tonic and gin in unison, as if reading his thoughts.

Real Real Rose [Dorchestor]

2009-06-02T19:06:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

She takes the delicate and thistly red flower from his extended hand and smiles absently as she wrinkles up her nose to find its fragrance. In vain. Unwrinkles her nose as her searching eyes grow big, fixing themselves upon him.

“It’s a fake rose.”

“Only because they last forever. And because that’s what I want us to be like.”

She contemplates this. His hands find their way out of his dug-in pockets, and reach upward and forward on both sides of her, pressing against the stained brick walls. If he allows his arm to reach a bit lower, he will probably lose his balance because of the missing brick in the wall. But that doesn’t happen.

Instead they both stand still.

The wind isn’t blowing, and the roads are quiet. The Moon hangs somewhere out of sight. Her Mom is falling asleep waiting for her. His is somewhere.

Neither of them knows what the other is thinking.

The flower, fallen onto the grimy, rain-wet street knows. And absorbs it all like rainwater. Like a real flower would.

Up against the cold hard wall, all she knows is that she has to be the one to say it. To say it before he will stop his philosophical, or maybe only just stoned staring into her eyes or perhaps her pores and just take her by the lips and breathe to her between kisses and liquid.

If she stands still, after tasting his lies and lunch (beer) and her salty tears, she’d have to put up again. Put up with being his when he wanted her and him never there when she wanted him, and loving every single thing he did while hating every little thing about him.

She’d be stuck in a love that lasted forever but almost never really was love, at least, never was almost real love. And she’d be stuck, staring at the fake flower that had fallen because he’d pick it up and say it’s just as good as and it’d get stuck in a glass milk bottle for years to come.

No. She doesn’t want that. She isn’t really sure what she wants, honest, but she sure doesn’t want this.

She wants a real flower, even if it means it won’t last forever.
She wants a real real rose.

She wants a love so right it’d be wrong, and so automatic it’d combust, a touch like a whisper and whispering that’d keep. And if she’d ever find a love like that, she wouldn’t take away the rose flower and coat it tight seal it shut. She’d kiss it, taste it, and catch it. Love that love even if it turned to dust.

(revised from the previously posted version in the January archives)

Mayo [Amherst]

2009-06-02T19:04:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

An oddly nostalgic feeling washes over her as she closes her eyes, leans back against the sofa and just breathes in. Sweet relaxation. And strawberry scented shampoo. This has been the most hectic four weeks of her life, hectic in a fast paced overload of creative passion sort of hectic. Hectic as in so very completely worth sending in that scholarship application. Hectic as in why must all good things end.

Her eyes open, as if on cue, and gaze at the suite’s common area clock, conveniently straight ahead. Check-out time is 2 hours away, and already the emotions feel as if they are beginning to mix, ready to settle in.

She goes back to her own room to commence frantic last minute packing. Stuffs most of her clothes into the bright red borrowed suitcase by sheer force. Handles the various handouts, free-write notebooks and signed books carefully, resisting the temptation to open covers and begin reading. Then cracks. Cracks open the pages of Farewell Navigator and flips to her favorite story. Caught between the flurry of the pages, a slip of paper falls to the floor. She bends down to fish it up. Scrunches up her face in shades of confusion.

The innocent looking white paper betrays no signs of a struggle, nothing out of the ordinary. It only reads, Mayo.

Mayo. As soon as she whispers the word she remembers. Remembers the only negative things she’ll ever remember about the whole month in dreamy Amherst. How a week in, her face began to look strange in the mirror. Something an extra swab of toner couldn’t alter. Without any apparent reason. Until she realized, gazing around her mixed-genre classroom one day, that she was practically the only Asian American in the whole program. That Amherst was completely and diversely white, with a token Chinese Restaurant in the center of town to supply chop suey year round.

Reverse racism? her inner critic speaks. No, just hypersensitivity, that’s all. She replies. And some. What about the day of the fiction work shop she realized, that Derek, the imposing jock-type from New Jersey actually had the last name Loy, and spiky black hair to match it. How at that very same moment, it seemed, the class’s discussion went the route of racial stereotypes, and he supplied an example of his own. We white people sure love to have mayo on everything! He had exclaimed, with deafening laughter that the class soon joined in on. She closes her eyes and zeroes in on the memory. Catches a glimpse of something she had only sensed before. Somewhere between his laughter and words, a pause, and a look towards her. An apology? A statement?

She opens her eyes and tries to shake off the thoughts. She has always lived through inward memories it seems, and now she wishes that her way of living was less vivid. Less overpowering. Because all of these feelings had come from one single word. And every single syllable hurt.

Mayo. Mayo. Mayo. It sounded exactly like that word Auntee Lin used to say. The word for no, the expression for without.

Mei You.

Incognito [Allston]

2009-06-02T18:56:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

A musky smell follows them into the car. She feels like her cheeks are going to fall off her face, she's been smiling so hard around him. He looks at her face in a profound way as they stop at the stoplight, eyes full, focused, yet…a bit spaced out. She draws back in her flimsy excuse for a jacket. Did he see? This was too close for a mere mortal to be next to a god. He drives safely, keeping his eyes off her and on the road flanked on both sides with whispering lights. Silence, maybe the beginning, maybe the ending hangs over drifts around the two of them. Her hands mentally weave through his tousled hair, every warm chocolate strand yielding sheer magnetism over her. She hesitates, then tucks a wisp of her wavy blond hair behind her ear, and closes her eyes, shrinking back at the thought of possibilities. She runs her fingers over the grooves of her elbow. Cradles her arms and appraises her legs through the eyes of a god.
***
At the sink, icy water stabs at her face. She throws away stacks of tissue as layer after layer of makeup comes off. The fake lashes come off, gently. Blue contact lenses ease out. Freckles like scatters of cinnamon yawn. Her curly hair breaks free. A light breeze sneaks in through the bathroom window. She reaches over to slam it shut. Lowers herself inch by inch into bathwater. Skin breathes, glows tiredly. Her cheeks sting. Submerged, her dark brown eyes, the color of a tall, dark, mocha on Tuesdays stare at the linoleum tiles on the wall. One off-white tile for each layer of pigment that stifles her tall, dark, mocha beauty. Her eyes shut with relief. The window helps itself as the cool breeze streams in, whispering in her ear.

(a revised version of a vignette formerly posted
in the Febuary 2009 archives)

Sun-Catchers [Brookline]

2009-06-02T17:52:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Her name is Butter this week. Mostly because she has just discovered the name of the smooth, sweet cream that dabs on toast in splotches like kisses and mixes well with her strawberry jelly, and mostly because her brother has just retired the name. Orbit no longer answers to Butter. A letter away from the heartfelt tear-strewn pages of the local paper, his actions become him. The perpetually cozy and messily organized house is their haven, a coloring book page with walls shaded in outside of the lines. A list of names like jackets hang upon the door of the coat closet by the entrance. Butter’s pudgy hands clasp onto her pink plush bunny Skye’s floppy left ear, as her feet carry her to the foot of the stairs, where she puffs out her chest a little and stands face to face before this magnificent sight. It is hard to miss the giant poster with a list of names and dates on it—there is something about it, probably the purple lining of glitter pen marks all around the paper and the effort that the wobbly big print handwriting displays. “Skittles, Jelly, Parrot, Twist, Honey…” The list flutters in the air for a moment as Orbit zooms past. Butter’s eyes grow big and her pigtails sway as she jerks her head, looking in his direction. Another moment and she too has gone running after him as well, trailing slippers and dragging her beloved pink bunny, Skye along.

Their mother, who has been Gwen for a very long time, looks at them tenderly. Her eyes are somewhere further than the living room and the vortex of spinning toys revolving on the carpet. The faraway look speaks volumes as she blinks. She was once Butter. But before that, Puff, and before that… She looks down at her hands, in yellow gloves covered in soap suds and spaghetti sauce. She remembers what it was like, moving from role to dream to another role, until all the possibilities and all the identities wove seamlessly into a self of one’s own. She marvels at the time to come. When Butter and Orbit would emerge, with new names to keep through all seasons, and boundless energy converted into the power of refutation. She looks up from her dishes to find the kitchen counter now crowded. Her warm honey blond brown hair glistens under the shine of the room’s “stars and sparks”, as Butter squeals and Orbit chants. The gleaming stars and sparks dance in Butter’s soft, tiny hands and Orbit’s slightly bigger paws. Soap suds travel into their mousy brown tufts of hair, adorning them with sparkly bubbles. Never to burst, smiles spread out, and Gwen nuzzles noses with the two squirming critters. Someday, their names would change, and stay forever the same, traveling away to far-off places.

But before then…there shall be tickling. The sun-catchers will catch it all, their mirrored edges defining and illuminating everything in the room. Sprinkling glitter powder in air the taste of sweet cinnamon toast and butter that lingers upon the name list without knowing.

(a revised version of the original, previously seen here:
http://smalltownbigcitypoet.blogspot.com/2009/03/sun-catchers.html)

Visual Poetry, in one form or another...

2009-04-14T19:04:00.000-07:00
I recenty stumbled across a great website, www.wordle.net, that creates visualizations of words--provided you paste in the words. I heart visual poetry myself, and while this is really more of a random process (which makes me almost reluctant to call it visual poetry) it is so much fun to play around with. I'm considering pasting in links as well--perhaps to NY-times articles, and maybe even the text of the latest post-it I write myself and attach to my forehead. I just love new ways of looking at words.

So, ta-daa--the following is my poem "Mine" (which you can locate in the "February" archive on the right sidebar) tweaked by Wordle.net. I manipulated it a bit, the font, word directions and colors...but that was about it. And what a new way to look at a poem!!

title="Wordle: Mine"> src="http://www.wordle.net/thumb/wrdl/750391/Mine"
alt="Wordle: Mine"
style="padding:4px;border:1px solid #ddd">

Happy "Worlde"-ing :)

And as a side-note, I've recently added "mood-music" to my blog, which you can only hear if you drop by the physical web-page-->

http://smalltownbigcitypoet.blogspot.com

So drop by if you're curious!

~~Aileen

Announcement: Script Frenzy!

2009-04-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

Every year in the month of April, an online community of crazy writers take the challenge to write 100 pages of script from April 1st to April 30th, (can be more than one script, as long as the total page # is at least 100 pages long)--and this year, the event is in full swing, without exceptions.

Being extremely interested in the national novel writing month, I had signed up for the www.scriptfrenzy.org newsletter before realizing the quagmire my May AP tests might land me in, I am now facing the temptation of, gasp* actually participating in this event.

So, just for fun, I've decided to do it. I will most likely just be jotting down 3 pages of my story each day, and then leave the formatting for months to come in the future. The good thing is that I won't be beating myself over the head if somehow, this doesn't work out, and that I've already got an idea for a screenplay that I've been planning on paper since last winter!

And, sticking to the title--this month, I'm anticipating a moderate amount of scriptwriting, which I probably will not post online just yet.

So, in case you haven't yet, check out www.scriptfrenzy.org and find out what all the hoopla is about!

<3s,

Aileen

Sun-Catchers

2009-03-27T23:47:00.000-07:00
by Aileen Ma

Her name is Butter this week. Mostly because she has just discovered the name of the smooth, sweet cream that dabs on toast in splotches like kisses and mixes well with her strawberry jelly, and mostly because her brother has just retired the name. Orbit no longer answers to Butter. A letter away from the heartfelt tear-strewn pages of the local paper, his actions become him. The perpetually cozy and messily organized house is their haven, a coloring book page with walls shaded in outside of the lines. A list of names like jackets hang upon the door of the coat closet by the entrance. Butter’s pudgy hands clasp onto her pink plush bunny Skye’s floppy left ear, as her feet carry her to the foot of the stairs, where she puffs out her chest a little and stands face to face before this magnificent sight. It is hard to miss the giant poster with a list of names and dates on it—there is something about it, probably the purple lining of glitter pen marks all around the paper and the effort that the wobbly big print handwriting displays. “Skittles, Jelly, Parrot, Twist, Honey…” The list flutters in the air for a moment as Orbit zooms past. Butter’s eyes grow big and her pigtails sway as she jerks her head, looking in his direction. Another moment and she too has gone running after him as well, trailing slippers and dragging her beloved pink bunny, Skye along.

Their mother, who has been Gwen for a very long time, looks at them tenderly. Her eyes are somewhere further than the living room and the vortex of spinning toys revolving on the carpet. The faraway look speaks volumes as she blinks. She was once Butter. But before that, Puff, and before that… She looks down at her hands, in yellow gloves covered in soap suds and spaghetti sauce. She remembers what it was like, moving from role to dream to another role, until all the possibilities and all the identities wove seamlessly into a self of one’s own. She marvels at the time to come. When Butter and Orbit would emerge, with new names to keep through all seasons, and boundless energy converted into the power of refutation. She looks up from her dishes to find the kitchen counter now crowded. Her warm honey blond brown hair glistens under the shine of the room’s “stars and sparks”, as Butter squeals and Orbit chants. The gleaming stars and sparks dance in Butter’s soft, tiny hands and Orbit’s slightly bigger paws. Soap suds travel into their mousy brown tufts of hair, adorning them with sparkly bubbles. Never to burst, smiles spread out, and Gwen nuzzles noses with the two squirming critters. Someday, their names would change, and stay forever the same, traveling away to far-off places—yet she knows that the power of all these previous names will stay with them forever, tucked into syllables and inklings lasting even beyond memory.

But before then…there shall be tickling. The sun-catchers will catch it all, their mirrored edges defining and illuminating everything in the room. Sprinkling glitter powder in air the taste of sweet cinnamon toast and butter that lingers upon the name list without knowing.

Incognito

2009-02-26T00:32:00.001-08:00
by Aileen Ma

A musky smell follows them into the car. She feels like her cheeks are going to fall off her face, she's been smiling so hard around him. He looks at her face in a profound way as they stop at the stoplight, eyes full, focused, yet…a bit spaced out. She draws back in her flimsy excuse for a jacket. Did he see? This was too close for a mere mortal to be next to a god. He drives safely, keeping his eyes off her and on the road flanked on both sides with whispering lights. Silence, maybe the beginning, maybe the ending hangs over drifts around the two of them. Her hands mentally weave through his tousled hair, every warm chocolate strand yielding sheer magnetism over her. She hesitates, then tucks a wisp of her wavy brown hair behind her ear, and closes her eyes, shrinking back at the thought of possibilities. She runs her fingers over the grooves of her elbow. Cradles her arms and appraises her legs through the eyes of a god.

*************************************************

At the sink, icy water stabs at her face. She throws away stacks of paper as layer after layer of makeup comes off. The fake lashes come off, gently. Blue contact lenses ease out. Freckles like scatters of cinnamon yawn. Her curly hair breaks free. A light breeze sneaks in through the bathroom window. She reaches over to slam it shut. Lowers herself inch by inch into bathwater. Skin breathes, glows tiredly. Her cheeks sting. Submerged, her dark brown eyes, the color of a tall, dark, mocha on Tuesdays stare at the linoleum tiles on the wall. One off-white tile for each layer of pigment that stifles her tall, dark, mocha beauty. Her eyes shut with relief. The window helps itself as the cool breeze streams in, whispering in her ear.

Mine

2009-02-24T23:30:00.000-08:00

by Aileen Ma
winding through alleyway
past gathered grannies wearing
laughter, waving fans
and butterfly brand fragrance
I follow
wander in from the

walks alone I
relish, down streets which
are my own

Shanghai is mine, and I am
hers. The pace of life and traffic
intertwined, slow down, just for
me and my slow motion

Her noise is my playlist, deafeningly calming

I people watch, take memory pictures, breathe
street food/ eavesdrop the beating
pulse of the city and its memories.

I dread
not knowing it anymore
the feeling of
walking up the dark stairwell
steep, with long corridors and
neighbors like family

coming back one day
and hearing our
tongue as others do
angry maybe, too loud perhaps

and
finding that our names
we carved
on that stone brick
in the wall that claimed us

were no longer there.

For your Oscar Season enjoyment: a movie review of Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

2009-02-21T14:56:00.000-08:00

Movie Review
by Aileen Ma
starring that dahling, dahling Audrey Hepburn
Adapted from the novella by Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s is a delightful romantic comedy starring Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard that combines marvelous casting (and from that spot-on acting) with a fabulous screenplay, and envelops it all with a perfect Oscar-winning original score that brings out all the nuances of emotions present in the film’s themes—the most central of which is that people should not be afraid of being in love.

The story follows the character of Paul “Fred” Varjak, a published writer and kept man suffering from writer’s block that moves into an apartment in Manhattan and becomes friends with his neighbor, a vivacious New York socialite and the true center of the film’s attention. Appropriately named Holly Golightly for her free-spirited nature that seems to keep her on an endless search for a place that makes her feel like home (a place like Tiffany’s which drives away her “mean reds”, but one that she truly belongs to her, yet doesn’t “cage” her in, as she is a “wild thing”), Holly works as a call-girl, and hatches plans to marry a rich man so that she can support her soon to be deployed brother Fred, the dearest person to her in the world. Paul and Holly become good friends initially because they can identify with each other’s way of making a living; also, Paul reminds Holly of Fred, and Paul feels good about himself as he helps her, as opposed to his treatment from 2E (Mrs. Failenson) as her kept man. As Paul is pulled into Holly’s world and even meets a man who claims to be her husband, he learns of her troubled past as “Lula Mae Barnes”, and understands her seemingly irrational fear of being caged up, and her drive to find a place like Tiffany’s. After sharing a day in celebration together for to celebrate Paul’s publication of a short story they share some tender moments, so tender that Paul has made up his mind to quit “working” for 2E—yet Holly has already made up her mind to marry Jose-the-future-president of Brazil, and when they go home that night Holly is arrested by the police because she had unwittingly been carrying messages for drug ring leader Sally Tomato. The next morning, Paul (with the help of Holly’s agent) escorts Holly out of jail and plans to send her to a hotel. When she learns that Jose has withdrawn his offer of marriage she decides to go to Brazil herself, because she “had never been to Brazil before.” After she throws her cat out of the taxi cab, Paul makes an impassioned speech and then leaves her in the taxi alone. When Holly realizes that Paul is her Tiffany’s place, she runs after him and finds Cat, and they make up, sharing a kiss in the rain.

The major characters in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” are Holly Golightly and Paul Varjak, portrayed respectively by Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard. Even though George Peppard’s performance as Paul Varjak is well executed and meshes well with that of Audrey Hepburn’s, her character is undoubtedly my favorite in the film. Her performance exudes the wild and outgoing nature of Holly Golightly, yet also captures the shades of fragility and brokenness in her personality—the true Holly whose spirit continually battles with the mean reds, and is far more than a pretty face. While Hepburn in her little black dress effortlessly conveys the chic elegance that goes along with her character, it is interesting to note Truman Capote, the author of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” had considered only Marilyn Monroe for the film. Watching the film, I cannot imagine anyone else for the role of Holly Golightly, especially not a “sexpot” like Marilyn Monroe who would most likely have glossed over the fragile parts of Holly’s personality.

While the dialogue and music of the movie are exceptional, the direction and cinematography are weak in comparison, and to a large extent it has been the strength of the screenplay as well as sheer cosmopolitan beauty of New York city that saved the film from the quality of its direction and cinematography. The dialogue of the movie was effective, thriving in part from its lack of reality in the form of Holly’s speech. Holly’s character itself is one that has seen incomparable hardship, yet remains innocent, in a way—her agent O.J. calls her a “phoney, but a real phoney,”—because though some of the things she says are nonsensical, she actually believes what she says, and to this extent she is never untrue to herself (notwithstanding the fact that she doesn’t really know who she is).

The music of the movie is breathtaking, and sets the perfect tone—the song “Moon River” composed by Henry Mancini with lyrics by Johnny Mercer took home both the Oscar for the Best Original Score (well its theme did) and the Oscar for the Best Song. Poignant, calming, yearning, yet subdued all at the same time, the music shades in the more nuanced layers of the film and enhances the stellar actors’ performances, and in my opinion definitely deserved the two Oscar awards it brought to the film. The direction of the movie and its resulting cinematography was nothing extraordinary—Blake Edwards was still rather new to filmmaking at the time he made this film, and to large extent his cinematography adds nothing unexpected or uncontrived to the already brilliant screenplay written by George Axelrod—in fact, sometimes it even runs a bit too slow, especially during the scene where Paul follows Doc Barnes, Holly’s ex-husband to the park. However regardless, Edward’s directing did take advantage of New York City’s timeless elegance (well at least the old NYC’s), and aesthetically speaking it wasn’t a cinema-graphical flop. Because of this, Axelrod’s screenplay deserves more than a few props—his adaptation of Capote’s novella from the 1940s to the then-contemporary-1960s added a timeless yet modern dimension to the film, and his alteration of the love story’s ending felt more than right. Of course, one could say that he took many liberties in changing the film, especially in adding an actual love story with a happy ending between Holly and Paul—who doesn’t even have a name but is instead the narrator of Capote’s story—but I believe that this was a necessary change, and that it was in keeping with the book’s themes.

Which brings us to the themes of the movie—that we should not be afraid to commit ourselves to love, because love means neither imprisonment nor complete freedom, rather, a constant influx between both of these states of being. In the movie, Holly is a free spirit who is always on the search for her Tiffany’s place, yet is afraid of becoming too attached in the mean time. She doesn’t furnish her house much, she doesn’t name her cat (except for well, “Cat”), and she keeps wanting to do things simply because she “had never done them before.” Paul is almost the exact opposite, as he enjoys some sort of stability and ardently believes that “people do love each other and belong to each other.” By the very end of the movie, when the kissing-in-the-rain scene draws near, you begin to feel that they have finally learned what they needed to learn from each other—Paul has learned to be daring and take risks (he has quit 2E, traveled the world, and told Holly how much he loves her), and Holly has learned how to not fear commitment (when she realizes that she loves Paul and that he is her Tiffany’s place, she answers his affections with a kiss; she also goes after to find “Cat”, that “no name slob who is just like [her]” because she isn’t afraid of committing to herself, that is, truly doing what is best for herself now).

Incidentally, Holly and Paul’s scene as they kiss in the rain happens to be one of my favorite scenes in the entire movie, and I’ve always wondered why exactly it affected me so. Was it the hopelessly romantic idea of kissing the person you loved in the pouring rain, squishing an orange tabby cat between the both of you? Or was it the way that Paul’s impassioned speech to Holly just before he left the taxi seemed to be so entirely true, and beyond that just seemed to jolt her into her reality—the reality that she loved Paul? Was the way the filmmakers managed to lace in a final rendition of the poignant song “Moon River”? Was it the chemistry between the actors’ of elegant yet blatantly and heartbreakingly human Holly and the ever so hunky yet understanding and earnest Paul? Was it seeing how much both Holly and Paul’s characters had grown since they’d first met on the silver screen? Perhaps it was all of the above.

Yet even as a somewhat cynical yet nevertheless hopeless romantic, I know that the film was marvelous not just because of the perfection of the final kissing scene. The film’s combination of marvelous casting, spot-on acting, fabulous screenwriting, and an Oscar-winning original score brings out all the nuances of emotions present in the film and lead viewers to cherish “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” as a timeless classic.

Art Lover's Haven in Shanghai: Tian Zi Fang on Tai Kang Road

2009-01-27T14:39:00.000-08:00

picture & article by Aileen Ma

In a dynamic, modern yet timeless and classic city like Shanghai, there is much to praise. For lovers of art culture and admirers of the city itself--in all its internationally influenced yet homegrown glory, perhaps no place is more worth praise than the “Art Park” called Tian Zi Fang, located on Tai Kang Road.

Just imagine this: It’s Saturday afternoon, and you’re sitting in an alleyway café sipping macadamia coffee. A brownie awaits you on the round table in front of you, and the strain of Lisa Ono’s relaxing swing jazz music drifts by you. The table next to you is occupied by French speaking foreigners who look like artist-types. Two tables across, there is a Japanese couple enjoying their coffee. The boutique across the street is filled with lampshades and statues, one of which is a golden Buddha that seems to be smiling straight at you.

Is it Paris, is it London? On the contrary, it is none of these. The location is downtown Shanghai, the address is #248 Art Street, at its intersection with Tai Kang Road. Hidden amidst the ancient ghettos and buildings that some natives have called home for decades and generations, the area is literally the equivalent of a bohemian haven. Filled with boutiques carrying eclectic arrays of artists’ handicraft, art galleries, cafés and teahouses that entice you with the smell of their delectable refreshments and chic clothing stores run by tailors, hoards of art-culture-lovers and tourists flock here all the time.

Though its architecture qualifies as classically Shi Ku Men Shanghainese, it’s not the polished gem of Xin Tian Di, but the gritty eclectic feeling of the bohemian haven of artists and fusion of local residence coexisting together in the “Art Park” on Tai Kang Road. It’s the kind of place where you can see vegetables being sold in one corner and art works being sold in small shop nearby, yet not feel that any of them are out of place.

Making your way through the small alleyways, you’ll find it’s as if they’ve gone out of their way to keep the rustic feel of the houses there. The stairs are steep, and very narrow like old style houses. You feel as if after the next bend you’ll walk into someone’s room, perhaps the artists’ garret, but what you find is instead a charming tea shop.

As for the area’s closing hours, the place closes at about 8 o’clock at night, probably because it’s still a residential area. But that does nothing to inhibit the flow of visitors to this cradle of local artistic renaissance during the rest of the day.

It’s a refreshing breath of fresh air to travel here and mingle with the shopkeepers and visitors, all the while looking at their interesting ware and listening to their even more fascinating stories. On my trip there, I met people from Japan, Europe and of course, Shanghai just to name a few. Their life experiences and the culture that they support are truly inspiring, especially because the local art scene is scant and still in its formative years. The hustle and bustle of city life embodied by the tall buildings that form “concrete jungles” too forms a stark contrast to the hope and inspiration that the “Art Park” and its inhabitants have to offer. For most of the repeat visitors to the area, the relaxing and soothing aura matched by the rich bohemian taste and culture present in the “Art Park” keeps drawing them back in their spare time.

For me, being in the area was like taking a trip overseas, and for the time being, all my worries had been forgotten amidst the results of higher artistic pursuits of others and the tranquil atmosphere that permeates through the area. The area and its inhabitants—the artists, the local residents and the place itself, all make Tian Zi Fang, the Tai Kang Road “Art Park” what it is—a refreshing and inspiring place to visit without their part in it—because they live there.

How to get to Tian Zi Fang:

*By Taxi: go to Tai Kang Rd/Si Nan Rd.

*By Metro: take the metro to line 4 and get off at Lu Ban Rd.
then make your way to Tai Kang Rd/Si Nan Rd.

The location is a ways off so it might be good to take a taxi after getting off the metro;

Also, Tian Zi Fang really is buried deep in the surrounding residential area--you may have to ask around, or follow the route of nearby galleries on the outside streets to find its location.

Stuck in Shanghai: Fun Things to do in Shanghai during the Winter

2009-01-27T13:53:00.000-08:00

by Aileen Ma

Now that it's Chinese New Year and the dead of winter, those of us who are lucky enough to be heading somewhere to ride out the Chinese New Year holiday in warmer climates have ample reason to rejoice. Those of us destined to spend our winters in Shanghai, however, may feel slightly frustrated. To alleviate your “Winter-Holiday-wish-I-were-somewhere-else-blues”, here are a few suggestions of cool and unordinary places to go and fun things to do that you can accomplish all within the confines of Shanghai.

1. Want to take a day trip to Europe…or something like it? Go to Tian Zi Fang, the Tai Kang Lu “Art Park”. Hidden amidst the ancient ghettos and buildings that some natives have called home for generations, the area is the equivalent of a bohemian haven. Filled with boutiques carrying eclectic arrays of artists’ handicrafts, art galleries, cafés and teahouses that entice you with the smell of their delectable refreshments, hoards of art-culture-lovers, tourists and young people flock here all the time. It’s not the polished gem of Xin-tian-di, but instead the kind of place where you can see vegetables being sold in one corner and art works being sold in a small shop nearby, yet not feel anything is out of place. A highlight of the place is a teddy-bear workshop, where you can purchase materials and make your own teddy-bear. Even if you come for nothing but the atmosphere and Maui Café’s macadamia coffee and brownies, it’s definitely worth a trip to Puxi. To get there, take the metro to line 4 and get off at Lu Ban Road, then take a taxi to Tai Kang Road/Si Nan Road.

2. Go to IKEA. While some think that it’s just a furniture store, in reality, it’s a place where you can have fun for hours at a time—and stay relatively warm. Besides browsing and enjoying the decorated model-rooms and cute accoutrements the place is covered in, there are a multitude of other things to do. For example, their cafeteria serves affordable and tasty western food such as spaghetti, and their best, Swedish meatballs. Their desserts and refillable coffee (you can keep the mug) are also quite delicious, and if you’re looking for imported foods they have a special area designated for that. In case you need to drag a little sibling along, or just want to have some fun yourself, they have a children’s playroom, and a toy/furniture section that is full of amusing toys, drawing easels, and yes—even slides. There is currently one IKEA in Shanghai, located near the Shanghai Stadium at No.126 Cao Xi Road.

3. If you like visiting historical houses with mysterious stories behind them, then a trip to the fairy-tale-castle like Moller Mansion is just right for you. It is originally the house of an ambitious Swede, Eric Moller who came to Shanghai in poverty in 1919, and struck it rich by gambling on a horse. The mansion is eccentric and magnificent at the same time, having a total of 108 windows and embodying a unique architectural mix between Norwegian and other European styles. Folklore goes that the house was built upon sketches that Moller’s beloved daughter Dierdre drew based on a dream she had featuring a fairy-tale like castle. Other stories told attempt to explain why Moller had never completed furnishing the entire house’s interior, citing reasons such as a warning from a fortune teller. Today, having switched hands quite a few times from Japanese possession to being used as a Communist Youth Leader’s headquarters it is a hotel and resort area. Located within its grounds are a café and a Japanese restaurant, as well as several replica buildings. The historical houses’ address is Yanan Zhong Road/Shaan Xi Nan Road, and a word of advice is to check and see if they are open to public on the day you want to visit.

4. If you can’t go to an exotic “hot spot”, why not embrace the cold and renounce your life of being a couch potato by going ice-skating? The Shanghai Stadium Ice-skating Rink is a good location to hit the ice—whether you can skate circles or have yet to try before (their rental skates are better than those found elsewhere in Shanghai!) A good idea would be to go in the afternoon after the zamboni has shaved the ice or in the morning when there are hopefully less people. 2 hours of skating costs 40 kuai, rental skates are 15 and gloves are arbitrary so bring your own or pay 5 kuai for a new pair. To get there take the metro to the Shanghai Stadium stop. Similarly good skating rinks can be found at Zheng Da Shopping Mall in Pu Dong (Lu Jia Zui), and also at New World Dept. on Nan Jing Road in Pu Xi.

Not Me

2009-01-13T23:16:00.000-08:00
a monologue from the perspective of the opposite sex
by Aileen Ma

You know what the whole problem with you is, Mallie? You’ve never been able to see me for who I am. I’ve never tried to hide who I am from you, but you just don’t get it. I mean, I thought you knew all this. I thought you knew my philosophy. I am embracing my imperfection so I can move on with life. I haven’t become a jerk just because others are. No, no don’t even say it. I know you don’t believe me. But hey, you know what, I actually think that there might be something to this theory. I like not caring when others are screwed over, ‘cuz I’ve been there, and no one else out there does. Why should I give a crap about anything that doesn’t have to do with me? Why do you have to come and shove your big words about me “losing my humanity” in my face? Has it ever occurred to you, that maybe I don’t have that kind of humanity? Huh? You think you know me, but you don’t. Seriously Mal, we’re tight, and you should know better than to come talking about “deep” emotions and the “problems of life”, and all that touchy-feely stuff—‘cuz that isn’t me. Not now. I mean, being with you is therapy for me and all that, ‘cuz when we talk up a storm and have good times, I know I’m not alone. But it’s not that easy. You know before, I thought, well, maybe I’ll move away and I’ll change my name and start over, you know, go away clean. But talking to you, listening to you laugh, and looking at your eyes when you’re looking straight back—I feel like I just can’t. I can’t walk out on you Mal, ‘cuz you’ve always been…Mal. But I know that I can’t be there for you, because I’m not the one you want. You think I am, but I’m not. You need someone who doesn’t need you like I do. Someone who can make your life better than fine. You need someone stronger than me to help you. But I can’t. Not at all.

Real Real Rose

2009-01-06T17:46:00.000-08:00
by Aileen Ma

She took the delicate and red thistly flower from his extended hand and her smile grew smaller and smaller till her wrinkled up nose had given up looking for a fragrance and her searching eyes now grew big, fixing themselves upon him.

“It’s a fake rose.”

“Only because they last forever. And because that’s what I want us to be like.”

His hands had found their way out of his dug-in pockets, and reached upward and forward, so that his arms were on both sides of her, leaning towards pressing against the stained brick walls. If he had allowed his arm to reach a bit lower, he would have fallen onto her because the missing brick in the wall would have made him lose his balance. But that didn’t happen.

Instead they both stood still.

The wind wasn’t blowing, and the roads were quiet. The Moon hung somewhere out of sight. Her Momma was fallen asleep waiting for her. His somewhere.

None of them knew what the other was thinking.

But the flower, fallen onto the grimy, rain-wet street knew. And absorbed it all like rainwater. Like a real flower would.

Up against the cold hard wall, all she knew was that she had to be the one to say it. To say it before he would stop his philosophical, or maybe only just stoned staring into her eyes or perhaps her pores and just take her by the lips and breathe to her between kisses and liquid.

If she stood still, after tasting his lies and lunch (beer) and her salty tears, she’d have to put up again. Put up with being his when he wanted her and him never there when she wanted him, and loving every single thing he did while hating every little thing about him.

And she’d be stuck in a love that lasted forever but almost never really was love, at least, never was almost real love. And she’d be stuck, staring at the fake flower that had fallen because he’d pick it up and say it’s just as good as and it’d get stuck in a glass milk bottle for years to come.

No. She didn’t want any of that. She wasn’t really sure what she wanted, honest, but she sure didn’t want this.

She wanted a real flower, even if it meant it would not last forever.
She wanted a real real rose.
She wanted a love so right it’d be wrong, and so automatic it’d combust, a touch like a whisper and whispering that’d keep. And if she’d ever find a love like that, she wouldn’t take away the rose flower and coat it tight seal it shut. She’d kiss it, taste it, and catch it. Love that love even if it turned to dust.

Driven

2009-01-06T17:45:00.002-08:00
by Aileen Ma

Dedicated
to the courageous and beautiful
Women petitioning for the right to drive
in Saudi Arabia as read in the NY Times, Sept 3rd, 2007

Perfect love drives out
all fear

and if this
were perfect
it would drive
you out

because
you don’t trust me
and deep down
below beneath
though you’d never
ever admit
you’re scared of

what I would do
if you set me free

Mathematics—X & Y

2009-01-06T17:45:00.001-08:00
by Aileen Ma

Math
constantly inspiring
poetry
‘cause it’s so much easier
to think and write
and laugh and cry
and contemplate if

X or Y
may have some deeper
Meaning as to how
The universe and the heavens are so very misty today and,
maybe, (you never know) how X & Y also decide that
of the two types of fragrances bottled up in my cluttered dainty drawers that
are one purple and the other tropical orange—one jasmine and the other an
unknown fruity sensation of some kind that
I don’t know where I got it or why I even have it in
my drawer, but may and must have had some reason to belie and survive and
possibly someday rescue me from an unfortunate tragic demise that
surfaces while my vision is blocked and clouded by those foggy mists that
they fancy and call mathematics,
but I don’t really get this because, to me you see, Cindy J.B,
who was kind enough to participate in writing my geometry textbook, smiling almost too nicely & somewhat apologetically at me from the front flap;
I really like to think of X & Y not as
measurements of some sort of dimension or what you would call it,
but as two types of fragrances.

One jasmine tinted mysterious demure purple bottled fragrance violeta Y,
and the other a fruity exotic sensational welcoming citrus fragrance
la naranja X, for
those days when I need to scream just so
the clouds about me will hear & disappear
so I can make sense of this
mysterious
unfathomable
logical thing some call
math

Two Months and Twelve Days

2009-01-06T17:31:00.000-08:00
an excerpt

by Aileen Fei Ma

10/26/2208

So I’m getting around to getting out of bed this particular morning, and right as I’m about to toss aside my amino-polyester bed sheets, my father comes stomping into my bedroom. I open my heavy eyelids just enough, and from what I can see of the look on his face, I know he’s here to say “Good morning.” Only, since it’s him, it’ll be minus the “good” part.

“Get up right now Luke!” That’s him alright. I know exactly what’s coming next, so I just lie on my back as straight as a piece of frozen plasma, fighting the urge to bury my head further into the folds of my sheets. “I swear, my kid would never have been as lazy as you are. You’re a complete disgrace to the entire Zeppelin Order!” Whoa, easy there Mr. Woods. How I wish his parental training had conditioned him to make impromptu speeches. By Zep does he bore me. And anger me. All at the same time.

“Luke, I don’t want to see your lazy behind in this house a moment longer than I have to put up with you. In case you’ve forgotten, you turn 15 in exactly 2 months…” And 12 days. Yes! And all of a sudden I’m sitting up. Now this was something Mr. Woods and I could see eye to eye on. Aside from his L.P, Mrs. Lane’s amazing steak dinner that could make my mouth water all day, and probably most of the night from just thinking about it, there is nothing holding me back from leaving this place behind. Not that I actually have a choice.

Here in the back row of the shuttle now. We’ve hit that perfect speed of gliding where everything outside the window—the tall buildings that stretch a-thousand-stories up and down, the transparent portals, and the overhead array of today’s shade of overly pastel clouds—looks so insanely in order that it’s breathtaking, and I mean literally squeezing the breath out of you, which really makes me think. Honestly, if people knew all the thoughts that went through my head, I’d probably have to go through 14 years of class again for thinking too much.

At school, they tell us that thinking less, and being more is healthier for us, but somehow I can’t stop thinking. There are times when I look in the mirror and disregard my standard issue poly-tunic and just look at my face, and I wonder—who do I look like, anyway? Which one of my parents? I touch my copper toned face and look at my unruly dark brown hair and light blue eyes that stare back at me until I almost forget that I’m looking—and I think to myself—who are my parents anyway? And I mean my real ones—the ones who had me, not the assigned ones who raised me. And I wonder why the Zep did the great Zeppelin ever deem 20-25 year olds fit only for childbirth, and not child-rearing, and 40-55 year olds fit for childrearing only. And I wonder why on earth my whole life ahead has been planned out for me, and for all the rest of the people I know and don’t know on the planet, in 5 and 10 year segments—and I just go off in tangents.

Anyways, today the teachers have decided to take us to the Museum—you know, the place where they have tons and tons of different rooms where they keep all those frozen old dudes from way back who did crazy bad things and ended up getting frozen.

“Planet to Luke!” a voice calls out. I get off the shuttle, and see that my pals are already here. The short-shaven medium height dark kid with the green eyes and blond hair is Pablo, Pablo Feldman, and the pale, tall kid with red hair and tiny brown eyes is Ian-my-man—Ian Velasquez. I’m mid-slap with Pablo now, just about to crack his back too, when all of a sudden I feel some sort of magnetism pulling my eyes towards something behind Pab—make that someone. A truly amazing, I could gawk-at-her-all-day-someone. Which I do not. I mean, gawk at her all day. But seriously, I’m just surprised I’m the only one who thinks Anne Uchida’s carbon black hair, olive green eyes and electric smile is worth noticing. Which I suppose is due to the fact that everyone already knows that their L.P. (a.k.a. Life Partner) is chosen by a lottery system.

But I digress.

The next thing I know, we’re still standing in the same spot before these huge microfiberil cases, and the teacher has been droning on for almost an hour now, about some frozen-and-definitely-dead-guy, Something-Walk-A-Bush who destroyed the previous world order by bombing someone named Barbara Anne.

Which is when Pablo has the brilliant idea for us to sneak into one of the rooms in the museum and have some fun checking some frozen-semi-dead-guy out.

Getting away from Mrs. Kaplanski’s group is easier than imagined, so we actually end up sneaking off to a pretty far away corridor. The second to last door we see says “Trump”, which we think sounds funny. And so naturally, Pab and Ian choose me, the one with the sweaty hands to twist the knob on the ancient looking half-rotten wooden door.

My hands are kind of trembling, but mostly sweating now. I feel like if I look back Mrs. Kaplanski might actually be standing behind me, ready to tell me I’ve been demoted to the first-learning-level for my misdemeanor. But no. Pab and Ian insist that even if we get caught prints and all, we’d still be in it together.

Which, despite the sheer coolness of maybe meeting an actually-still-alive-frozen-man-gone-crazy, somehow doesn’t really help.

Washer-women

2009-01-06T17:21:00.001-08:00
by Aileen Fei Ma

inspired by

Jean Francois Millet, “The Washerwomen”, c. 1848

In this village where we have lived for years thus far, our lives revolve around the water, and it takes us in, even as we are part of it. We have lived here all our lives, and learnt the lesson handed down to us, that one day, we will hand down as well. Washing our clothes, backs hunched over the side of the lake, we are part of the cold cold water as we move our hands up and down, up and down, like the hands of our husbands also. We have not seen them, our husbands, for it has been many seasons since they went away—only, we remember. Like pictures in our head, we remember the days when they came to take our husbands away, by force that we tried to, but could not fight. Even so, we all feel it, and we see it in our minds, so we know that this is true. We sometimes hear strains of the songs they sing to make the heavy loads easier to bear. They are melancholy like heaving, for they are too weary to shout. Usually it is the wind, and we know this. But still, we sing our replies to them, weaving the same melody back, mixing the sadness with hope, telling ourselves that this is to bring them hope, when we really all know that we need the hope too.

Where we live, there is wild beauty of the forest and water. The lake and the sea are almost one, and the saltiness is divided by a strip of land. We want both to be one, but know we could not live, if so, and so we cry to make up for the lack of salt. Our husbands, rowing the boat of a prince they do not know, but are taught to fear, are going through the same motions as us, only back and forth, their arms move forward and then backwards. Sometimes there is the pulling with their bodies, making music that jangle like keys, maybe, chains, of a dark melody. We know this by the way that our people, our women, have known these things. The bustling of village life, tamed life is still here. Here too, with us, are the voices of children, our children, laughing aloud for secret reasons, sometimes crying for the same. But beside the sheep, the foals, the chickens—our animals and our young, the hearty chuckles of our husbands are scarcely heard anymore, except in our minds. Soon, our sons will grow up to replace the hearty laughs with their own, but it will not be the same. They will grow up to work the fields like men—but still, it will not be the same. The textured, muscular, and hairy arms and chest that once held so tight they were a part of us, are so far away now that they have left hollowness where we wish for, maybe, scars, or anything, if only a mark to remember the having once had.

But though our husbands are gone, we still have laundry to do. We cannot drop everything and sit, waiting, though we want to. And so we are clutching our washing stones and laundry, holding on and throwing down by the lake which is so much like the sea. We are holding onto the stones like they are so much more. The water is eating away at our hands, weathering us away to the bone, chilling and calming us in a strange way all the same. We do not know much, but to carry through each day and to hope—for something.

I know that I shall remain, changed, but unchanged.

Kaleidoscope

2009-01-06T17:17:00.000-08:00
by Aileen Fei Ma

a pure found poem (rearrangements & reuses only)
from the Oct. 8th, 2008
NY-Times article, “Three Chemists Win Noble Prize”

Under ultraviolet light
cells shined green,
revealing their location.

transparent as a
roundworm,
the ability of some
to glow
serves as a
lantern

transforming
the dance of living cells

into a kaleidoscope of tagging
color, caught unaware.

victoria set out to
have entered the world of art

to be an artist

but now
to pursue the idea
would routinely serve as
a marker for
the growth and fate of
biological chemistry

even as corals glow.

Without Thinking

2009-01-03T11:22:00.000-08:00

by Aileen Fei Ma

Without thinking. That means, without breathing. Yet knowing. Knowing that every word sentence or thought I write leads me back to remembering that I am trying to not remember who you once were. And thinking to myself how cute cuteness really can be. So unassuming. So charming. But it’s not you. And I won’t even say this time. What can I say, my subconscious is romantic, she says, looking down at her stubby fingers with the peeling nail polish, the fingers clutching onto the scratchy yet smooth like sandal wood/ peanut butter/ light brown paper bag. Mmhmm. How I wish you knew. You’re still part of me. Only I’ve changed, and am changing. I still remember you. Remember how I’ve never once had the chance to remember what it is like to remember holding you. But the untouched is memory-lust. You were my better poem. I am now a genre-bender. The condensation of language has stopped raining down, out of within me. I look upon pages and see those words of his, and the guy has magical words full of more. Much much more. In words less than I’ve spent. And that was when I stopped rhyming without rhymes. Started drinking coffee. Coffee like tears, dark brown from pollution that some say does not exist, but I taste daily. Like sorrow they’d like to ignore. Pour out from heart into trash without bag, leaking onto smooth maple, absence of floor-filler, spill through cracks, structure of floor, covering house dirt, then underneath… You see, all sorrow grows underground. Taking root without nourishment. Only existence. I see you all round now. You are an idea. A strain of a melody. My lyrics sing I got over you. But I know a lie, even when I tell it. My lips spit it out like a prepared phrase. Just like how they say, we say, now I say it was mutual. Like funds that go nowhere. No. it was not. Was. But was not. And you never showed up. The last time I saw you I told myself that it was the last time I’d think of you in a long time. But even then I knew thinking of not thinking of you was thinking of you. And so in my heart I set you apart from logic. Something words never fail to not illuminate.

Bipolarity

2009-01-03T11:20:00.000-08:00
by Aileen Fei Ma

Hold still, being quiet can be hard.
if you knew, what would change.
the loud seem quiet to themselves.
I hang over dangling all day.
know that, I am here.
Weird logic creeping up slowly, quiet
If I knew I would tell you
You see how it all is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let loose, seeming loud can be soft.
you never know, so nothing will change
the quiet are loud to others.
You perch under there suspended all night
do not know this: You are there
common sense pounces down quickly, loud
You don’t know so you won’t tell me
I don’t see how any of it is.

Wei Wei Who I See Some Days

2009-01-02T12:55:00.000-08:00
by Aileen Fei Ma

I’ve seen her. I’ve talked to her. I’ve heard her cry out at night. She’s young. And too good for her husband. But she’s got no other way. Or at least, so she says. And there’s one smart lady. She could have been a teacher, or a doctor, or…anything but his wife.

Sometimes I meet her in the elevator and walk with her in the mornings. She always holds a pale blue plastic basket in hand to go to the market, and I always with my backpack full of books to go to school. We’re an unlikely pair, if ever. But people sometimes think we are sisters. Sometimes. And in a way, I wish we were. If we were, maybe she wouldn’t always look so sad. Under and around and inside her beautiful dark brown eyes, the sadness is everywhere. You can’t escape from it.

From the day she moved in I knew she was pretty, but now, it’s a different kind of beauty. Her eyes scream the story that she is forced to keep silent everyday. Her light purple brocade sweater, far too old-looking for her age lays heavy on her shoulders, concealing her thin pale arms, bruised and torn and scarred from all that she’s been through. Her black hair frames her tragic and poignant face in waves.

I ask her how things are going. She says that she is happy because her husband says he will buy her flowers and take her out to dinner, again. I nod and say that I am happy for her. She holds her head up high on her shoulders stares straight ahead and walks with me confidently, like a soldier. She doesn’t tell me about the pain. Not today. She squeezes my hand tightly. I understand. But I want...to become like her someday. I want to be beautiful like her someday. But I don’t tell her this. It will break her heart. Her beautiful beautiful heart.

Sometimes when I hear her in the night, I wonder why. Why is it her Lord? I know you love her. And I know too, that she loves you above all else. She is the embodiment of grace. But I—I just can’t comprehend why she insists on staying with her husband—I know you love him too, but…it would be really hard to touch the heart of a brute like that. It’s not that I don’t believe in miracles, it’s just that…

I wonder if anyone hears her. And I wonder why no one does anything. And I wonder if I did anything, would it make it better, would it be worse. Would he kill her? I feel worthless. Like a coward. I wonder. I wonder why. Maybe someday we could all run away. To somewhere safe. We could run away from everything. Until then I’ll pray. Wei Wei. It means…the slightness of pale blue. It means… strength. From the most breathtaking love ever.

Intro

2009-01-02T11:42:00.000-08:00
This blog
is the result of a case of semi-severe writer's block

and the urge to abolish such a state of being

think of what you read

as heart-pourings, maybe

perhaps something else.

But whatever you think of it as

just remember:

these are only

the scribblings of a Small Town Big City Poet

who admits that she is better at writing

fiction than poetry