Sleep will be worth more than gold.
More classes with new people.
Little to none with the old.
90% satisfied.
8.25.2010
8.19.2010
16 Voices
I was in the Art Gallery of Ontario here in Toronto and I saw the most incredible exhibit. It was this open room with sixteen speakers all facing different directions, each with a looped track of a woman's voice playing. As I first stepped in, I could only hear a mess of voices, like stepping into a busy train station or something.
But as I stepped closer to one speaker, I could listen to the singular track, with the other fifteen as ambiance. Each speaker played a loop of a small, beautiful vignette about a simple happening, such as spilling coffee or going into a river to retrieve an object--all of it narrated by the same woman with a beautiful simple voice.
As I moved from speaker to speaker listening to each snippet, each lasting from 30 seconds to a couple minutes, I realized that there were really only three or four stories being told. But in each clump of speakers held the same story, each speaker holding a different perspective of the event. My favorite was two speakers facing each other, and when I stood between the two, I was eavesdropping between a conversation about spilled coffee.
I'm still not sure why I loved it so much. Maybe it was the dreamlike quality of the room, the intense amount of creative mindpower, or that little bit of schizophrenic hysteria.
But as I stepped closer to one speaker, I could listen to the singular track, with the other fifteen as ambiance. Each speaker played a loop of a small, beautiful vignette about a simple happening, such as spilling coffee or going into a river to retrieve an object--all of it narrated by the same woman with a beautiful simple voice.
As I moved from speaker to speaker listening to each snippet, each lasting from 30 seconds to a couple minutes, I realized that there were really only three or four stories being told. But in each clump of speakers held the same story, each speaker holding a different perspective of the event. My favorite was two speakers facing each other, and when I stood between the two, I was eavesdropping between a conversation about spilled coffee.
I'm still not sure why I loved it so much. Maybe it was the dreamlike quality of the room, the intense amount of creative mindpower, or that little bit of schizophrenic hysteria.
8.16.2010
Dumpling House
dusty streets
industrial, sharp
metal on metal clanking
of streetcars flying along their rails
jagged
and singsong Chinese bickering
weaving its way through
strangers, each with their own
hidden agendas
and tired set of eyes
a small open white door
modestly sitting on three, no two,
steps, from a bustling sidewalk
there's a window beside the door
greasy from the kitchen on the other side
with ads about
busker festivals
and
exhibition football games
framing a view
of a light-skinned Chinese
woman, flattening spots of dough
with a long, time-weathered rolling pin
on a flour dusted block
surrounded by a dozen
dumpling fillings, like an
artist, a beautiful palette
sitting before them
simple
off-white tiled floors
surrounded by austere tiled walls
rarely adorned with
a torn paper menu
or a photo
of the owner with Lang Lang
and his wild
jetblack hair
stained plastic
tables and chairs
with ripped,
faded green
cushions
arranged cafeteria-style
huddled close, for more
people than such small spaces
should hold
flickers of
fluorescent light
as a ceiling fan
whips the air
and it's home.
About a dumpling house in Toronto's Chinatown. The most disgusting looking Chinese restaurants always have the best food.
industrial, sharp
metal on metal clanking
of streetcars flying along their rails
jagged
and singsong Chinese bickering
weaving its way through
strangers, each with their own
hidden agendas
and tired set of eyes
a small open white door
modestly sitting on three, no two,
steps, from a bustling sidewalk
there's a window beside the door
greasy from the kitchen on the other side
with ads about
busker festivals
and
exhibition football games
framing a view
of a light-skinned Chinese
woman, flattening spots of dough
with a long, time-weathered rolling pin
on a flour dusted block
surrounded by a dozen
dumpling fillings, like an
artist, a beautiful palette
sitting before them
simple
off-white tiled floors
surrounded by austere tiled walls
rarely adorned with
a torn paper menu
or a photo
of the owner with Lang Lang
and his wild
jetblack hair
stained plastic
tables and chairs
with ripped,
faded green
cushions
arranged cafeteria-style
huddled close, for more
people than such small spaces
should hold
flickers of
fluorescent light
as a ceiling fan
whips the air
and it's home.
About a dumpling house in Toronto's Chinatown. The most disgusting looking Chinese restaurants always have the best food.
8.10.2010
Phone Calls
Let's face it.
With how much we rely on texting now, teenagers, even adults are starting to feel that phone calls are awkward--awkward enough that texting is the only way to go in most petty situations. Sure there's all of the telemarketers and automated calls from the dentist saying "You've got an appointment at UCLA Medical Center, 100 Building at 1 PM tomorr-", (and well, that's when I hang up) but sometimes there's the meaningful ones.
Not life changing ones--those are for another day--but the ones that turn an hour, a day, a week around. And they always seem to come at the perfect times. The times where I'm scraping life's lows and skinning my knees on the rough asphalt, or the times where I'm flying high on cloud nine and enjoying the breeze a little too much. The calls that melt my heart into a puddle of gold and the calls that resuscitate gravity and bodyslams me back to the muddy Earth. Of course, the latter is much better in the long run, but hey--the former sure feels good.
You turned my birthday around with that call. I didn't get to thank you over the phone, but I will, somehow, in more than just words. More than just this little blog post.
8.07.2010
8.04.2010
Visions
(written March '10)
visions of gliding across a football field
under dark November skies
and bright stadium lights
replacing the air with a suckling-sweet melody
harmoniously flitting through the audience
from
ear
to
ear
visions of soaring over the hardwood
dodging throngs of jersey-ed men
and feeling the rumble
of the jet engine crowd
roaring
cheering
bellowing out
their passions and sorrows
visions of holding you
your hair brushing against my chest
and a smile worth
so much more than a thousand words
and maybe we would lie on
soft prickly grass
and watch the universe wake up
as it stretches its scintillating limbs
across the night sky
visions of gliding across a football field
under dark November skies
and bright stadium lights
replacing the air with a suckling-sweet melody
harmoniously flitting through the audience
from
ear
to
ear
visions of soaring over the hardwood
dodging throngs of jersey-ed men
and feeling the rumble
of the jet engine crowd
roaring
cheering
bellowing out
their passions and sorrows
visions of holding you
your hair brushing against my chest
and a smile worth
so much more than a thousand words
and maybe we would lie on
soft prickly grass
and watch the universe wake up
as it stretches its scintillating limbs
across the night sky
8.01.2010
Painting!
Finally finished this painting! It's an oil paints version of the original photo I took (bottom, obviously), in the Butchart Gardens. Probably my favorite painting ever. Doesn't look too great in a photograph in comparison to seeing it in person, but oh well.
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