clarahsu – Page 34

Simple Things

There was a time when I could eat and drink anything: roast duck, steak, salted fish, coffee, mocha, sugar sugar and whipped cream a la carte. Those days are gone when little health issues begin to creep up here and there. Changing the way I eat requires discipline and intention, which I have neither, until disaster strikes.

And then a new world opens up. A world of simple pleasures, like a well toasted piece of whole wheat bread or a colorful salad of arugula and ripe tomatoes. Salt is added just enough to bring out a burst of flavors in food. Farmers market is my best friend. I marvel at the arrays of junk food on the shelves in the super markets, how we have stuffed ourselves, and the stuff that we have become because of them.

The body wants to be listened to. Most of us who did wild and crazy things in our youth have mellowed out. The time for reflection is autumn, before the cold, grey winter.

This Annoying Gadget

It has a name: the alarm clock. It’s the worst way of getting up. A taskmaster with a whip, the alarm clock destroys the natural rhythm of waking and cracks open the world in a most unsavory way. I surrender to its first note and for the rest of the day I’m a slave of time.

Sometimes my rebellious nature makes me turn the damn thing off and goes back to bed. Under the cover I drift back to sleep (at least half consciously). With enough time lapsed I can pretend that I have a will of my own before swinging my feet down onto the floor. Of course then everything is approached with a great rush.

I remember in college the alarm clocks went off at the dorm rooms starting at 5:30 in the morning. The cacophony of wake-me-ups wound up our little robotic brains as we went here and there and worked till we dropped, until the next morning.

O Istanbul

Its name carries a myth and the city never disappoints me. Its melancholy permeates the streets and its people. There is a dark side that wears like an old sweater, and the mood can be further mellowed by the sweetness of baklavas. Attractive men with curly black hair. Beautiful women in oriental dresses. I have friends who call me from time to time. “When will you come back?”

I know the streets. I know the people who run the little gift shops, the hawkers in front of the restaurants and in the parks. But it has been three years since I was there. Will I see the same people doing the same things when I go back? Chances are: I will. I can count on them being there pouring tea or raki into little glass cups and wave a welcome as if I have never left.

A friend writes, “See you in November.”

365 Friends

Today my Facebook page says I have 365 friends. Does this mean if I call on one friend a day I won’t get to the same person until a year later? Do I personally know all these friends?

Who are my friends? I know they don’t all reside on Facebook. Some of them don’t even have computers. If I really do a count, there are probably fewer than ten people who I am in constant communication with. There may be a few more whom I think about from time to time. But that’s it! A face is not a friend and a friend is more than a face.

The only time you’ll know if you have a good lawyer, accountant, doctor, dentist, etc. is when you are in trouble. The same goes with friends. And if I look at my Facebook friends as a community of people who happens to share some connections, I am much less grumpy.

Back to Colors

When you grow up in the tropics you are naturally drawn to bright, lush things. That was me in Hong Kong, when my skin was never a lesser shade than milk chocolate brown. Neutral colors didn’t exist in my closet.

Years in the United States changed that. Somehow strong colors became glaring and an annoyance (to others). I learned black was a sign of sophistication and subdued colors and patterns worked with everything. When I finally rebelled and painted my house in Danville bright yellow with purple trims and a blood red door, it became the talk of the neighborhood. They didn’t appreciate my eccentric house standing apart from their sleepy beige and pale abodes.

I’m definitely reaching back to my roots—the golden sun, the emerald sea, the white sand, the firecracker flowering trees and the morning glories. The patterns on fabrics that reflect the multitudinousness of life, the ease of not being bound by tight jeans, and the feminine self that rejoices in sequins and lace and fringes. Color is celebration.

This Complicated Thing

WelEmotion_Drawings__by_TamokoSanjii — Emotion drawing by Tamoko Sanjii

This complicated thing called emotion comes up in conversation with a friend. Emotion is attached to everything down to the air we breathe. We are affected by the environment and have minimum control over what is continuously channeling into our senses. Some of the time our emotion seems instinctive and in general we accept those feelings as “the truth”. But for me, I find myself constantly making a herculean effort to process how I feel, and even so, emotion does not listen to reason.

Emotionally we are fragile like the most delicate porcelain no matter what kind of hard suit, soft suit or flexible suit we put on. We’re not that smart or wise to segregate feelings from things and situations. Emotion invariably gets tangled up with whatever clarity we think we possess and the end result is always the same: explosive, destructive and regretful.

What is the fulfillment that we continuously crave for? Authority over another? To love and be loved? Or is it the perpetual hunger for gratification and affirmation of the self? From the hikikomori, a Japanese term for shut-in youths, to the dictators who won’t relinquish their power, emotion is a ninja that lurks in the dark, ready to raise havoc when you’re not vigilant.

A Garden Without Birds

We have a small garden in the back of our house with trees and vines. For a long time our friend Jo has been coming over with her dog and planting a variety of flowers around the borders. Since she moved away a year ago we have not been taking care of the garden. It is weedy and overgrown. But our cats love to play hide and seek among the tall grass, and every morning I wake up to vigorous bird chatter.

Our landlord is not so pleased with the state of the backyard and suggests we hire the guy who does yard work for him. The man comes on a soaking rainy day. He rakes and prunes and hauls and leaves the garden with a brutal crew cut. Our cats stay home a lot more since then, but the birds who have given me so much pleasure every morning, have moved away.

Dore is now a born-again gardener. He waters the yard regularly to revive the trees and plants. Perhaps by next spring the birds will find our garden fitting to be their home again.

A Survivor’s Tale

My step-brother Richard Koo was in the North Tower when the first plane hit. He was lucky to be on the ground floor at the time and therefore escaped unharmed.

Numerology played an interesting part in Richard’s escape. The number 47 had significant meaning for him since he was a boy. After he crossed over to New Jersey in a boat, he was able to make contact with his mother. She gave him my cousin Eva’s address in Tenafly. Her house number was 47. Richard had never met my cousin before, but she took care of him until he was able to fly back to Japan.

Years later the authorities contacted Richard. They had found his safe at the Marriott site, which was also destroyed that day. Richard went back to New York to collect his things: passport, camera, money, his Abramson Award certificate honoring his article on Japanese economy. He held on to these mementos with mixed emotions. He was a survivor of 9/11 but whatever he had lost that day had come back to him. Others who were there could only claim tokens of memory of their loved ones.

Photo from CSIS

At the Park

Jerry-Garcia-Amphitheater — Jerry Garcia Amphitheater

The McLaren park is just a minute away from my house and I don’t visit it often enough. Yesterday I took a much needed walk. After staying indoor for almost a week the outside world seemed a little detached from reality. I walked past the newly renovated playground. Our neighborhood volunteers have installed a three-tiered fountain planter, barbecue grills and colorful mosaics decorated several round car blockers at the entrance. My participation have been zero regarding this whole project; and if I had not been sick, and laid up, and trying slowly to work my way out of the hole, I would have missed all this beautiful work.

Walking down the dirt path, crossing a bridge, it brought me to Shelley Drive that looped around the hill. I decided to visit the Jerry Garcia Amphitheater. From 2006-2008 I had organized the Poets With Trees readings there. Sitting on the bench facing the empty stage, memories of those readings came flooding back. Organization, execution, all took so much energy. After three years I had to abandon the project for something less ambitious. Some of the participants like Tony Vaughn and Jehanah Wedgwood have passed on. Life’s challenges dilute the fervor in our hearts. I appreciate anything that has longevity.

The trees rustled around me. I thought I heard a voice. “It’s a beautiful world. I didn’t want to leave.”

Sound of a Poem

“I like the sound of my poems.” Owen Dunkle told me at Sacred Grounds. I think we all like the sound of our poems and the sound of our own voice, otherwise we won’t be signing up for open mikes. Beyond sharing what we have written, it is important to “sound them out”, as HD Moe likes to say. It’s a sure way to find out if a poem has rhythm and flow. Some poets even edit their poems while they are reading on stage.

The ability to read well, I think, is an important tool for a poet. One night at Sacred Grounds, Bill Mercer decided to recite Yeats’ The Song of Wandering Aengus. His recital brought the house down. At the break I saw Fiona, the owner of the cafe. She stopped me and asked what Bill was reading.

“I didn’t understand the words, but I felt his emotion rushed at me. So powerful that I had to listen.” Fiona put her hand over her heart. She is an immigrant from Hong Kong and speaks limited English. But I know she gets the poem.