Ravages of distance
When I think about all the times in the past when I'd wax philosophic about the effects of time, location, and circumstance as the pivotal dynamic between individuals and groups, the historic trend of my output strikes me as something approaching absurd. And when I say absurd, I say it because I have yet to discover a word that can completely and successfully encapsulate my feelings on the matter. I can only step out of myself and look on in wonderment.
Each time, my vantage point changes. The permutations of time, location, circumstance, and people are never the same, and it's only now that I realize duplicity is virtually impossible. Consequently, anxiety about these differences becomes ridiculous, so I think I'll be easier on myself. All that's left is to consider each situation as a unique, separate entity.
Still, it seems inevitable that I'll repeat this cycle ad infinitum until the day I die. And I don't know if I'll ever reach a suitable conclusion to satisfy my need for rationality. For now, I'm still telling myself that it's all research for potential literary ambitions in the future.
On Christmas Eve, there was a party at one of the neighboring houses. It was the old school Chinese crowd from the past decade. It was an odd experience. I hadn't seen everyone in nearly a year, at least not all gathered into one house like that. All the parents seemed to have shrunk, while all the kids became veritable goliaths. All the parents simpered over me like some communal prodigal son, even though in reality I'm now not any better than the other children. In grade school, they all fawned over me because of my affinity for the piano and my enrollment in magnet programs. Compared to the 9 year olds still learning long division and the socially awkward, pubescent 12 year olds, I'm sure they thought I was the second coming of Asian Jesus. But now? Some of those kids are being courted by Ivy League schools, some are more musically talented than I ever was, and I'm sure they're more driven than I am. But that's how the Chinese mindset works sometimes, I guess. In their minds, I'm still the paragon of filial excellence, regardless of the truth in front of their faces.
Sometimes I think that's why Asian cultures produce such motivated, passionate, and unhappy people. They spend so much time trying to achieve a state of faultlessness and still never seem to satisfy their parents. It creates a quagmire of festering bitterness, directed to all fronts: their parents, their perceived rivals, and themselves.
Walking home from that evening presented myself with even more food for thought. There's nothing more startling than the realization that your grief, no matter how anguished and sincere, is merely a smokescreen for something else that lies beneath. I came upon this epiphany when I passed Seymour's house for the first time since I last blogged about him. I hadn't mustered up enough courage to ask his other students where his grave was, and it seemed reckless to ask his family direction. As I gazed at the quaint house, similar to mine but wearing a different coat of paint, I was inundated with a flood of memories that I wasn't prepared for. I never expected to react that strongly to his memory, and I didn't. What surprised me was everything else that rushed into my consciousness. Middle school anecdotes, feelings of inadequacy, all of the inner turmoil associated with those teenage years. They had snuck out and into the forefront of my mind hiding under the memory of my former history teacher. I still don't understand why all these things correlate in my unconsciousness. And I don't know if I want to know.
Speaking of death, it turns out one of our nicer neighbors is beset with prostate cancer. I never really took the time to get to know him or his family, but as I drove my mom home from work today, she rattled off the entire history of his illness. To be honest, I didn't catch all of it because I had instinctively started to tune her out; she can be really long-winded sometimes. But what I did hear was heartbreaking. He'd be fighting his diagnosis for years, probably ever since he had his house built across the street from us and moved in. I never saw much of his wife, but according to my mom, she was always working as a waitress somewhere to supplement their mounting costs, even though they'd retired long ago. Apparently chemotherapy is really expensive, even more so than I had ever thought.
Anyway, for years my parents swapped produce with Jack and his wife. My parents grew prize greens and various other vegetables in their garden, and Jack had an orange tree and banana tree. Over time, my parents had planted an orange tree of their own, and Jack had started his own modest garden under my mom's supervision. My mom is especially proud of this rapport. Our other neighbors only trade furtive looks with each other, ourselves included. Every chance she gets, she sighs and laments the poor sense of community that surrounds us. But I digress. This past fall, my parents' orange tree yielded no fruit, and they had none to share with Jack. In response, he sent over nearly all of the oranges from his own tree, but he had to ask his daughter to deliver them. When my mom started talking to her, she found out that he had decided to stop his treatment before his illness completely drained the money that he had saved with his wife. He didn't want to leave her destitute and dependent on their daughter, who had flown in from Alaska to spend time with him in his remaining days. He was so weak he couldn't even walk across the street with a bag of oranges. My mom told me that he probably won't survive past this winter.
My mom has already offered to teach Jack's wife how to maintain the bed of leeks, bok choy, and Chinese broccoli that Jack had so lovingly maintained. She declined, and my mom can't figure out why she'd let it go fallow. I have a hunch though, and it has nothing to do with an interest, or lack thereof, in gardening.
I finally got my hair cut on the 28th. I went back to Scissors and, hilariously enough, got attended to by the same nice lady that cut it back in August. She seemed to remember me and we had a nice chat about what we did in fall. She tried to convince me to grow it out again and come back in a year, when I had another ponytail to donate to Locks of Love. She even promised to style my hair for free. She almost had me convinced, but the thought of maintaining a wild mane for another year scared me into demanding that she give me the cut. As I left, she called out after me, "See you again in 4 months!" Who knows? Maybe I will.
To end things on a much lighter note, DEATH TO YOUTUBE AND THE WRITER'S STRIKE. I've lost too many hours of my life in the viewing of reality TV.
Each time, my vantage point changes. The permutations of time, location, circumstance, and people are never the same, and it's only now that I realize duplicity is virtually impossible. Consequently, anxiety about these differences becomes ridiculous, so I think I'll be easier on myself. All that's left is to consider each situation as a unique, separate entity.
Still, it seems inevitable that I'll repeat this cycle ad infinitum until the day I die. And I don't know if I'll ever reach a suitable conclusion to satisfy my need for rationality. For now, I'm still telling myself that it's all research for potential literary ambitions in the future.
On Christmas Eve, there was a party at one of the neighboring houses. It was the old school Chinese crowd from the past decade. It was an odd experience. I hadn't seen everyone in nearly a year, at least not all gathered into one house like that. All the parents seemed to have shrunk, while all the kids became veritable goliaths. All the parents simpered over me like some communal prodigal son, even though in reality I'm now not any better than the other children. In grade school, they all fawned over me because of my affinity for the piano and my enrollment in magnet programs. Compared to the 9 year olds still learning long division and the socially awkward, pubescent 12 year olds, I'm sure they thought I was the second coming of Asian Jesus. But now? Some of those kids are being courted by Ivy League schools, some are more musically talented than I ever was, and I'm sure they're more driven than I am. But that's how the Chinese mindset works sometimes, I guess. In their minds, I'm still the paragon of filial excellence, regardless of the truth in front of their faces.
Sometimes I think that's why Asian cultures produce such motivated, passionate, and unhappy people. They spend so much time trying to achieve a state of faultlessness and still never seem to satisfy their parents. It creates a quagmire of festering bitterness, directed to all fronts: their parents, their perceived rivals, and themselves.
Walking home from that evening presented myself with even more food for thought. There's nothing more startling than the realization that your grief, no matter how anguished and sincere, is merely a smokescreen for something else that lies beneath. I came upon this epiphany when I passed Seymour's house for the first time since I last blogged about him. I hadn't mustered up enough courage to ask his other students where his grave was, and it seemed reckless to ask his family direction. As I gazed at the quaint house, similar to mine but wearing a different coat of paint, I was inundated with a flood of memories that I wasn't prepared for. I never expected to react that strongly to his memory, and I didn't. What surprised me was everything else that rushed into my consciousness. Middle school anecdotes, feelings of inadequacy, all of the inner turmoil associated with those teenage years. They had snuck out and into the forefront of my mind hiding under the memory of my former history teacher. I still don't understand why all these things correlate in my unconsciousness. And I don't know if I want to know.
Speaking of death, it turns out one of our nicer neighbors is beset with prostate cancer. I never really took the time to get to know him or his family, but as I drove my mom home from work today, she rattled off the entire history of his illness. To be honest, I didn't catch all of it because I had instinctively started to tune her out; she can be really long-winded sometimes. But what I did hear was heartbreaking. He'd be fighting his diagnosis for years, probably ever since he had his house built across the street from us and moved in. I never saw much of his wife, but according to my mom, she was always working as a waitress somewhere to supplement their mounting costs, even though they'd retired long ago. Apparently chemotherapy is really expensive, even more so than I had ever thought.
Anyway, for years my parents swapped produce with Jack and his wife. My parents grew prize greens and various other vegetables in their garden, and Jack had an orange tree and banana tree. Over time, my parents had planted an orange tree of their own, and Jack had started his own modest garden under my mom's supervision. My mom is especially proud of this rapport. Our other neighbors only trade furtive looks with each other, ourselves included. Every chance she gets, she sighs and laments the poor sense of community that surrounds us. But I digress. This past fall, my parents' orange tree yielded no fruit, and they had none to share with Jack. In response, he sent over nearly all of the oranges from his own tree, but he had to ask his daughter to deliver them. When my mom started talking to her, she found out that he had decided to stop his treatment before his illness completely drained the money that he had saved with his wife. He didn't want to leave her destitute and dependent on their daughter, who had flown in from Alaska to spend time with him in his remaining days. He was so weak he couldn't even walk across the street with a bag of oranges. My mom told me that he probably won't survive past this winter.
My mom has already offered to teach Jack's wife how to maintain the bed of leeks, bok choy, and Chinese broccoli that Jack had so lovingly maintained. She declined, and my mom can't figure out why she'd let it go fallow. I have a hunch though, and it has nothing to do with an interest, or lack thereof, in gardening.
I finally got my hair cut on the 28th. I went back to Scissors and, hilariously enough, got attended to by the same nice lady that cut it back in August. She seemed to remember me and we had a nice chat about what we did in fall. She tried to convince me to grow it out again and come back in a year, when I had another ponytail to donate to Locks of Love. She even promised to style my hair for free. She almost had me convinced, but the thought of maintaining a wild mane for another year scared me into demanding that she give me the cut. As I left, she called out after me, "See you again in 4 months!" Who knows? Maybe I will.
To end things on a much lighter note, DEATH TO YOUTUBE AND THE WRITER'S STRIKE. I've lost too many hours of my life in the viewing of reality TV.
Labels: existentialism, home, in memoriam, stories
posted by Nate @ 12:38 AM
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