I don't have the right to feel this way.
Semantics matter.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
such is this beautiful life
I am sincerely and genuinely happy for L, because I love her a lot and she deserves this. I'm not the least bit envious, or bitter, and to be able to say that makes me happy. I just hope nothing spoils this for her, because she shouldn't deserve to feel bad for doing well, and for getting this.
Despite not having been selected for the Africa program, I don't feel as stressed out as I could be. I honestly believe everything will work out. Things will be okay. I'm doing the best I can, and I am willing to believe that it will be enough.
Life has its ups and downs, but such is life. I take it as it comes and I have to learn to like it, to love it, because I do, I love my life and its joys and sorrows and struggles and disappointments. This is what life is about.
I'm an introvert and I need time on my own to recharge, but too much time on my own is not a good idea either. I love people. I truly care about other people. Spending time with them makes me happy and reminds me that I have a lot (so much) to be grateful for. Positive energy is contagious and uplifting, and it's a good feeling.
I sincerely and genuinely believe things will be okay. For me. For us. For this thing we call life.
(I will miss you. I really, really will, and sometimes that makes me sad. I know I made the right decision in the end, though. So believe in me, and in this. It will be okay.)
It's not selfish to live a life that will make you happy. What makes me happy is what makes you (my family), and you (my friends), and you (myself) happy.
Be happy. Live your life so that you can be.
Everything will be all right.
Friday, January 30, 2009
[x] 昨日像那东流水
The saddest things are always the most beautiful. Han Ming hums the song her mother used to sing about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. She thinks it’s a tragic story, a beautiful one.
***
“No,” she says. “We can’t. I can’t.”
There are a thousand unspoken words behind her eyes, dark and desperate, like lines of poetry Jinho never learned, incomprehensible and so very Chinese. Jinho doesn’t understand.
“Don’t you want to be with me?”
Han Ming tears her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. “I can’t abandon my family like that, Jinho,” she says, and the words are choked, underlined with unhappiness. “I have responsibilities. You can’t ask that of me.”
What she means is that Jinho is not as important. What she means is that here, even in war-torn China, Ming will not leave with Jinho for safer, peaceful Korea. She doesn’t love Jinho more than her haggard, starving family, or her ravaged country. She will not trade the dusty and blood-stained roads or the gray-brown forests or the muddy rivers of China for greener, fresher hopes.
Jinho doesn’t understand and Ming knows it.
“But don’t you love me?” he asks, and that’s when Ming walks away, eyes stinging.
That is not the question to ask – that is not a question at all. But there are duties that must come before selfish desires.
***
They met on the day Han Ming watched the neighboring village disappear in flames, dirty black smoke curling into the gray sky like a cruel smear of charcoal. She was on the road halfway between home and a village that no longer existed except in charred timber and hastily-buried dead. There was no time for proper funerals when the army was so close, heralded by the terrifying fires that burned as warning.
A river of people carrying everything they could on their backs stumbled down this road, seeking safety, shelter. Ming watched them, anger and grief high in her throat, choking her and leaving her feeling restless, helpless.
Someone stumbled into her, clawed at her arm, fell to the ground—
He was hoarse with thirst, and his words were accented.
My name is Jing He, he said, because the army hunted down foreigners and murdered them in cold blood.
***
“Don’t leave,” Jinho says desperately, grabbing at Han Ming’s hand, when he really means Leave. Leave with me.
Ming stills but she doesn’t turn around. Her fingers curl around Jinho’s briefly, perhaps for the last time. “It’s not a choice,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady, so carefully steady. She’s not to be shaken. She simply cannot leave. It’s not a choice.
***
The army didn’t attack Han Ming’s village as expected. She nursed a slightly wounded Jinho in her house for a week, between attending to her ailing father and attempting tired smiles for her younger sister. (Li Yin should’ve grown up in a different era, Ming thinks. She should’ve known only luxury and happiness, not the fear that leaves circles around her eyes, or the backbreaking toil that leaves her exhausted, too thin.)
“Why haven’t they attacked?” Jinho wondered, sipping at the broth Li Yin had made.
“No matter,” Ming replied, spooning her own dinner. “We should be grateful.” It had been a week since the neighboring village had been torched – everyone expected their village to be next. Dozens of families had abandoned their homes already, hoping to flee before they lost everything.
Ming didn’t have a choice in leaving. Her father would not survive a long trek on the road. There was no place to go. It was better here, where at least they still had a bed and nearby medicinal herbs and two fiercely guarded chickens. They stood a poor chance against a rampaging army, but at least here they stood the best they could.
“I don’t understand,” Jinho said, but he let the subject pass. He talked instead of his travels around China – how he had come to the country to visit a year ago, before the emperor had been killed, before the political battle Ming didn’t understand, and the war.
“It was a beautiful country.” Jinho smiled, his eyes bright. He touched Ming’s hand lightly. “I truly had a great experience.”
Ming couldn’t help smiling in return.
China was still a beautiful country, somewhere under the ashes and the blood and the haunting cries of mourners.
***
Han Ming doesn’t see Jinho for three days and she surmises that the foreigner has left at last, making his way back to Korea hidden on the boat he told Ming about. Ming’s heart hurts, but she tells herself there was no other way. Of course Jinho would choose safety and home over China (over Han Ming), just like Ming had to choose war and home over safety.
“Jie jie,” Li Yin says hesitantly, fingers twining through her hair. “You seem so sad.”
“I’m just tired,” she says, and smiles. She won’t let Li Yin worry, if she can help it. “Working the land is tiring.”
“Do you miss Jing He?” Li Yin asks, tying off her plait.
The pain starts in her chest and spreads until it’s almost too difficult to breathe. Does she miss Jing He? Does she miss the brief happiness of Jinho’s dimples and kisses, of Jinho’s strong hands holding her steady, of the quiet truths they’d exchanged in the dark? There will never be words, in Chinese or in any language of the world, Han Ming is positive, that can fully express how much she misses Jinho.
“Yes,” she says, because she’s made it a habit to never lie to Li Yin. “Yes, but I had to stay.”
“For us.”
Li Yin’s voice is sad and she sighs softly as she scoots along the front step of their house to press her side against Ming’s. She leans into her and Ming closes her eyes. They are silent for a long time.
“It’s hard living like this,” Li Yin says at last, softly. “Never knowing when they might attack. Never knowing when we might die.”
Ming reaches out and squeezes her hand in lieu of a reply. They watch the wind stir the dust in the street, blowing dead leaves across empty thresholds.
***
Jinho had kissed her first, because Han Ming had never learned to take what she wanted. She only ever took out of necessity, only ever acted as dutifully and as responsibly as she could. The weight of her decisions often weighed down her shoulders, now cupped by Jinho’s hands, his fingers stroking, as Ming found herself pressed up against the wall of the kitchen. Jinho’s mouth moved gently, tentatively, over hers.
“Is – is this okay?” he asked, words stumbling over his lips as he pulled back to stare into Ming’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” Ming said truthfully, because her heart was flying and her father was sleeping in the next room. She couldn’t look away from Jinho, and she swallowed hard, because she had never wanted something so desperately before. Wanted to be held and touched and loved, and maybe it was all possible despite the world falling to pieces around them.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, and moved until her lips brushed Jinho’s again, “but I want it.”
***
Li Yin has taken to singing the same sad, sweet song their mother used to sing about the two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. Han Ming still thinks it’s a tragic story, but she no longer finds it as beautiful.
She gazes out at the horizon often, eyes faraway. She’s not sure what she’s looking for – signs of an approaching army, or an omen to signal the end of the war, or a maybe the figure she sees endlessly in her dreams.
***
“There’s a boat,” Jinho said excitedly, grabbing Han Ming’s hand and pulling her around to the back of the house. He was flushed, eyes bright, and he looked so alive that Ming couldn’t help smiling, laughing too. “There’s a boat, Ming,” Jinho repeated, pulling Ming into a hug.
Ming didn’t understand, but Jinho was so happy that she could only be swept along in it.
“Wait, wait, what are you talking about?” she asked with a chuckle on her lips when Jinho finally let her go. “What about a boat?”
Jinho kissed her instead, swift, joyous. “A boat,” he repeated against Ming’s mouth. “Zai Zhong told me about it. It’s a secret, but it’s leaving in two nights. It can take us to Korea!”
For a moment, the world shifted on its axis, blurring out of focus, then rushing together to come sharply, painfully, into reality. Ming’s smile disappeared. She stepped out of Jinho’s arms but kept a hand linked to his, ever hopeful. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she looked up into Jinho’s smiling face, hesitant.
“What do you mean?”
“We can leave China,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “We can go back to Korea, where it’s safe.”
“Jinho—”
Perhaps he saw the stricken expression on her face. He tugged her closer, pulled her back into his arms. “Ming,” he said tenderly, “this is great! Don’t you understand? We can finally be together, in peace. Safe!”
“Jinho,” Ming tried to say, but her voice caught again; she was terrified by the possibilities Jinho was offering.
“Of course we can bring Li Yin and your father too.” Jinho smoothed a hand over Ming’s back, comforting. “You know I’d never ask you to leave them.”
The world seemed cold for a moment, bone-chilling despite the stillness of the air. It was only early fall, not yet winter; there was no wind, no reason for the shudder that shook Han Ming. She held tightly to Jinho, not sure what to say or how to say it. Jinho was like comfort, earthy smells and protection from the world, Ming’s crutch and one of her few weaknesses. He made her laugh when the army could attack any day; he made her hope despite the hopelessness of their situation; he made her feel and want like she was a different person in a different time, like she could have this without regrets.
Jinho understood her so well, but—
“He’ll die.”
Ming’s words fell like bricks between them, heavy and unforgiving. She wrenched herself away from Jinho. “He’ll die if we try to make it to the boat, Jinho. He won’t make it. Not to Korea.”
Jinho’s expression was startled, unbelieving. He blinked, reached out for her again, and his words were earnest and well-meaning. “Ming, we have to try. I know it’s far but—but we have to try. Your father, I know he’s ill, but we can take care of him. We can do it. Start over in Korea, where he’ll have a real chance, without the war—”
Ming said sharply, “No, Jinho, he’ll die.” She knew it with full certainty. Her father’s health was past weak; he was barely alive as it was.
“Ming, Ming.” Jinho looked desolate and Ming could feel her resolve waver. But her filial duty was in her bones, more innate in the person she was than any selfish desire she might harbor. She choked down a dry sob as Jinho pleaded, “Ming, come with me. Leave with me.”
“No,” she said. “We can’t. I can’t.”
***
It rains the day the army enters the village. They don’t burn the houses. They don’t even bother to terrorize the scattered, remaining villagers. Instead, they unroll a long length of paper and nail it the faded red doors of the house where the village head used to live. The scroll is damp from rain, the ink slightly smudged, but it is readable under the awning that protects it from the worst of the downpour. Han Ming stands under her umbrella and feels sick, dizzy.
The war is over.
It’s been five weeks since Jinho left, and the war is over. Something happened at the capital and there is a new emperor now, with armies under his rule that do not attack the countryside.
Somehow, Ming’s village has survived these past months of terror and death.
She returns home bearing the good news, too numb to be elated or relieved. Li Yin breaks into tears at the news, overcome. From the other room, their father’s voice rasps, weakly, asking after the cause of Li Yin’s tears.
“The war’s over, Father,” Ming says. She shakes the water from her umbrella and leaves it in the corner by the door. She goes to her father’s bedside, takes his hand, and looks at his face, yellowed with sickness and lined with age. Her heart beats heavily in her chest, uncertain.
Han Ming’s father closes his eyes and, with much effort, the corners of his lips ease up in a smile.
“Good,” he says.
A minute later, he opens his eyes. Ming has been standing there, unmoving, waiting. “You should’ve gone,” his father whispers.
Ming opens her mouth to protest. “Father—”
“I’m going to die anyway. I just want you and Li Yin to be happy.” Her father’s hands feel papery and frail, but his fingers twitch over Ming’s palm. “I just want you to live a happy life, Ming. That will give me comfort.”
Ming’s throat is tight. “It doesn’t matter,” she says at last. “I want to take care of you. I want to be here for you and Li Yin. I must.”
Her father’s hand falls from hers, back onto the bed by his side. He closes his eyes again and sighs, catching in a hollow cough that makes Ming lean forward, worried. Her father waves her away and leans back into his flat, rough pillow. He’s tired. “You’re a good daughter, Ming.”
From behind, Li Yin slips her arms around Ming’s waist and rests her head against her back. “Jie jie,” she says softly, and Ming hears remorse in her voice. She’s sorry. For their world, for their lives, for the way things had to be, Han Ming here and Jinho not.
Ming thinks of Jinho, remembers him. Remembers his golden laughter and his bright eyes, remembers the heat of his body and the sweetness of his voice, low in Ming’s ear, earnest, honest. She remembers feeling like she’s finally found someone who understands her, who will support her and hold her when she should need it.
The rain patters down, washing away dirt and mud, clearing the dusty marks of hopelessness. The leaves have turned color now, flaming gold and red and orange, shivering under the force of the rain, dancing on the trees outside the house.
Han Ming stares at them through the window, and thinks about her family and about China, her home – free at last from the war.
The most beautiful things are always the saddest.
***
In another country, barren and gray and cold with pending winter, Jinho sits by the fire, warm in heavy layers and a cup of hot tea. Here, he is home, he is safe – he lives in peace. Here, he only remembers the days and nights with Han Ming, every smile and every touch. He dreams endlessly about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. He reads poems and memorizes their lines, learns the words he didn’t know how to say before. I’m only now realizing how much I love you. He finally understands what he didn’t then, about choices and lack of choices. He regrets leaving.
One day, he will go back.
[2008.12.29]
Those of you who have seen this before, you know why I changed what I did. How does it work?
***
“No,” she says. “We can’t. I can’t.”
There are a thousand unspoken words behind her eyes, dark and desperate, like lines of poetry Jinho never learned, incomprehensible and so very Chinese. Jinho doesn’t understand.
“Don’t you want to be with me?”
Han Ming tears her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. “I can’t abandon my family like that, Jinho,” she says, and the words are choked, underlined with unhappiness. “I have responsibilities. You can’t ask that of me.”
What she means is that Jinho is not as important. What she means is that here, even in war-torn China, Ming will not leave with Jinho for safer, peaceful Korea. She doesn’t love Jinho more than her haggard, starving family, or her ravaged country. She will not trade the dusty and blood-stained roads or the gray-brown forests or the muddy rivers of China for greener, fresher hopes.
Jinho doesn’t understand and Ming knows it.
“But don’t you love me?” he asks, and that’s when Ming walks away, eyes stinging.
That is not the question to ask – that is not a question at all. But there are duties that must come before selfish desires.
***
They met on the day Han Ming watched the neighboring village disappear in flames, dirty black smoke curling into the gray sky like a cruel smear of charcoal. She was on the road halfway between home and a village that no longer existed except in charred timber and hastily-buried dead. There was no time for proper funerals when the army was so close, heralded by the terrifying fires that burned as warning.
A river of people carrying everything they could on their backs stumbled down this road, seeking safety, shelter. Ming watched them, anger and grief high in her throat, choking her and leaving her feeling restless, helpless.
Someone stumbled into her, clawed at her arm, fell to the ground—
He was hoarse with thirst, and his words were accented.
My name is Jing He, he said, because the army hunted down foreigners and murdered them in cold blood.
***
“Don’t leave,” Jinho says desperately, grabbing at Han Ming’s hand, when he really means Leave. Leave with me.
Ming stills but she doesn’t turn around. Her fingers curl around Jinho’s briefly, perhaps for the last time. “It’s not a choice,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady, so carefully steady. She’s not to be shaken. She simply cannot leave. It’s not a choice.
***
The army didn’t attack Han Ming’s village as expected. She nursed a slightly wounded Jinho in her house for a week, between attending to her ailing father and attempting tired smiles for her younger sister. (Li Yin should’ve grown up in a different era, Ming thinks. She should’ve known only luxury and happiness, not the fear that leaves circles around her eyes, or the backbreaking toil that leaves her exhausted, too thin.)
“Why haven’t they attacked?” Jinho wondered, sipping at the broth Li Yin had made.
“No matter,” Ming replied, spooning her own dinner. “We should be grateful.” It had been a week since the neighboring village had been torched – everyone expected their village to be next. Dozens of families had abandoned their homes already, hoping to flee before they lost everything.
Ming didn’t have a choice in leaving. Her father would not survive a long trek on the road. There was no place to go. It was better here, where at least they still had a bed and nearby medicinal herbs and two fiercely guarded chickens. They stood a poor chance against a rampaging army, but at least here they stood the best they could.
“I don’t understand,” Jinho said, but he let the subject pass. He talked instead of his travels around China – how he had come to the country to visit a year ago, before the emperor had been killed, before the political battle Ming didn’t understand, and the war.
“It was a beautiful country.” Jinho smiled, his eyes bright. He touched Ming’s hand lightly. “I truly had a great experience.”
Ming couldn’t help smiling in return.
China was still a beautiful country, somewhere under the ashes and the blood and the haunting cries of mourners.
***
Han Ming doesn’t see Jinho for three days and she surmises that the foreigner has left at last, making his way back to Korea hidden on the boat he told Ming about. Ming’s heart hurts, but she tells herself there was no other way. Of course Jinho would choose safety and home over China (over Han Ming), just like Ming had to choose war and home over safety.
“Jie jie,” Li Yin says hesitantly, fingers twining through her hair. “You seem so sad.”
“I’m just tired,” she says, and smiles. She won’t let Li Yin worry, if she can help it. “Working the land is tiring.”
“Do you miss Jing He?” Li Yin asks, tying off her plait.
The pain starts in her chest and spreads until it’s almost too difficult to breathe. Does she miss Jing He? Does she miss the brief happiness of Jinho’s dimples and kisses, of Jinho’s strong hands holding her steady, of the quiet truths they’d exchanged in the dark? There will never be words, in Chinese or in any language of the world, Han Ming is positive, that can fully express how much she misses Jinho.
“Yes,” she says, because she’s made it a habit to never lie to Li Yin. “Yes, but I had to stay.”
“For us.”
Li Yin’s voice is sad and she sighs softly as she scoots along the front step of their house to press her side against Ming’s. She leans into her and Ming closes her eyes. They are silent for a long time.
“It’s hard living like this,” Li Yin says at last, softly. “Never knowing when they might attack. Never knowing when we might die.”
Ming reaches out and squeezes her hand in lieu of a reply. They watch the wind stir the dust in the street, blowing dead leaves across empty thresholds.
***
Jinho had kissed her first, because Han Ming had never learned to take what she wanted. She only ever took out of necessity, only ever acted as dutifully and as responsibly as she could. The weight of her decisions often weighed down her shoulders, now cupped by Jinho’s hands, his fingers stroking, as Ming found herself pressed up against the wall of the kitchen. Jinho’s mouth moved gently, tentatively, over hers.
“Is – is this okay?” he asked, words stumbling over his lips as he pulled back to stare into Ming’s eyes.
“I don’t know,” Ming said truthfully, because her heart was flying and her father was sleeping in the next room. She couldn’t look away from Jinho, and she swallowed hard, because she had never wanted something so desperately before. Wanted to be held and touched and loved, and maybe it was all possible despite the world falling to pieces around them.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, and moved until her lips brushed Jinho’s again, “but I want it.”
***
Li Yin has taken to singing the same sad, sweet song their mother used to sing about the two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. Han Ming still thinks it’s a tragic story, but she no longer finds it as beautiful.
She gazes out at the horizon often, eyes faraway. She’s not sure what she’s looking for – signs of an approaching army, or an omen to signal the end of the war, or a maybe the figure she sees endlessly in her dreams.
***
“There’s a boat,” Jinho said excitedly, grabbing Han Ming’s hand and pulling her around to the back of the house. He was flushed, eyes bright, and he looked so alive that Ming couldn’t help smiling, laughing too. “There’s a boat, Ming,” Jinho repeated, pulling Ming into a hug.
Ming didn’t understand, but Jinho was so happy that she could only be swept along in it.
“Wait, wait, what are you talking about?” she asked with a chuckle on her lips when Jinho finally let her go. “What about a boat?”
Jinho kissed her instead, swift, joyous. “A boat,” he repeated against Ming’s mouth. “Zai Zhong told me about it. It’s a secret, but it’s leaving in two nights. It can take us to Korea!”
For a moment, the world shifted on its axis, blurring out of focus, then rushing together to come sharply, painfully, into reality. Ming’s smile disappeared. She stepped out of Jinho’s arms but kept a hand linked to his, ever hopeful. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she looked up into Jinho’s smiling face, hesitant.
“What do you mean?”
“We can leave China,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “We can go back to Korea, where it’s safe.”
“Jinho—”
Perhaps he saw the stricken expression on her face. He tugged her closer, pulled her back into his arms. “Ming,” he said tenderly, “this is great! Don’t you understand? We can finally be together, in peace. Safe!”
“Jinho,” Ming tried to say, but her voice caught again; she was terrified by the possibilities Jinho was offering.
“Of course we can bring Li Yin and your father too.” Jinho smoothed a hand over Ming’s back, comforting. “You know I’d never ask you to leave them.”
The world seemed cold for a moment, bone-chilling despite the stillness of the air. It was only early fall, not yet winter; there was no wind, no reason for the shudder that shook Han Ming. She held tightly to Jinho, not sure what to say or how to say it. Jinho was like comfort, earthy smells and protection from the world, Ming’s crutch and one of her few weaknesses. He made her laugh when the army could attack any day; he made her hope despite the hopelessness of their situation; he made her feel and want like she was a different person in a different time, like she could have this without regrets.
Jinho understood her so well, but—
“He’ll die.”
Ming’s words fell like bricks between them, heavy and unforgiving. She wrenched herself away from Jinho. “He’ll die if we try to make it to the boat, Jinho. He won’t make it. Not to Korea.”
Jinho’s expression was startled, unbelieving. He blinked, reached out for her again, and his words were earnest and well-meaning. “Ming, we have to try. I know it’s far but—but we have to try. Your father, I know he’s ill, but we can take care of him. We can do it. Start over in Korea, where he’ll have a real chance, without the war—”
Ming said sharply, “No, Jinho, he’ll die.” She knew it with full certainty. Her father’s health was past weak; he was barely alive as it was.
“Ming, Ming.” Jinho looked desolate and Ming could feel her resolve waver. But her filial duty was in her bones, more innate in the person she was than any selfish desire she might harbor. She choked down a dry sob as Jinho pleaded, “Ming, come with me. Leave with me.”
“No,” she said. “We can’t. I can’t.”
***
It rains the day the army enters the village. They don’t burn the houses. They don’t even bother to terrorize the scattered, remaining villagers. Instead, they unroll a long length of paper and nail it the faded red doors of the house where the village head used to live. The scroll is damp from rain, the ink slightly smudged, but it is readable under the awning that protects it from the worst of the downpour. Han Ming stands under her umbrella and feels sick, dizzy.
The war is over.
It’s been five weeks since Jinho left, and the war is over. Something happened at the capital and there is a new emperor now, with armies under his rule that do not attack the countryside.
Somehow, Ming’s village has survived these past months of terror and death.
She returns home bearing the good news, too numb to be elated or relieved. Li Yin breaks into tears at the news, overcome. From the other room, their father’s voice rasps, weakly, asking after the cause of Li Yin’s tears.
“The war’s over, Father,” Ming says. She shakes the water from her umbrella and leaves it in the corner by the door. She goes to her father’s bedside, takes his hand, and looks at his face, yellowed with sickness and lined with age. Her heart beats heavily in her chest, uncertain.
Han Ming’s father closes his eyes and, with much effort, the corners of his lips ease up in a smile.
“Good,” he says.
A minute later, he opens his eyes. Ming has been standing there, unmoving, waiting. “You should’ve gone,” his father whispers.
Ming opens her mouth to protest. “Father—”
“I’m going to die anyway. I just want you and Li Yin to be happy.” Her father’s hands feel papery and frail, but his fingers twitch over Ming’s palm. “I just want you to live a happy life, Ming. That will give me comfort.”
Ming’s throat is tight. “It doesn’t matter,” she says at last. “I want to take care of you. I want to be here for you and Li Yin. I must.”
Her father’s hand falls from hers, back onto the bed by his side. He closes his eyes again and sighs, catching in a hollow cough that makes Ming lean forward, worried. Her father waves her away and leans back into his flat, rough pillow. He’s tired. “You’re a good daughter, Ming.”
From behind, Li Yin slips her arms around Ming’s waist and rests her head against her back. “Jie jie,” she says softly, and Ming hears remorse in her voice. She’s sorry. For their world, for their lives, for the way things had to be, Han Ming here and Jinho not.
Ming thinks of Jinho, remembers him. Remembers his golden laughter and his bright eyes, remembers the heat of his body and the sweetness of his voice, low in Ming’s ear, earnest, honest. She remembers feeling like she’s finally found someone who understands her, who will support her and hold her when she should need it.
The rain patters down, washing away dirt and mud, clearing the dusty marks of hopelessness. The leaves have turned color now, flaming gold and red and orange, shivering under the force of the rain, dancing on the trees outside the house.
Han Ming stares at them through the window, and thinks about her family and about China, her home – free at last from the war.
The most beautiful things are always the saddest.
***
In another country, barren and gray and cold with pending winter, Jinho sits by the fire, warm in heavy layers and a cup of hot tea. Here, he is home, he is safe – he lives in peace. Here, he only remembers the days and nights with Han Ming, every smile and every touch. He dreams endlessly about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. He reads poems and memorizes their lines, learns the words he didn’t know how to say before. I’m only now realizing how much I love you. He finally understands what he didn’t then, about choices and lack of choices. He regrets leaving.
One day, he will go back.
[2008.12.29]
Those of you who have seen this before, you know why I changed what I did. How does it work?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
新年快乐
春节到了,我心痛,心情不好. 这样面对未来行不行?
你们都不认识我,不熟悉我,根本不知道我是谁. 我这个人自己也不了解,不知道有什么愿望,希望...
生命回一辈子怎么难吗? 不能放弃一切,只能这样一步一步迷着路走.
对不起.
你们都不认识我,不熟悉我,根本不知道我是谁. 我这个人自己也不了解,不知道有什么愿望,希望...
生命回一辈子怎么难吗? 不能放弃一切,只能这样一步一步迷着路走.
对不起.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
i'll be everything you need
S is getting married. It seems like so long ago that I've seen him, that he's been an active, integral part of my life. I'm so happy for him. I'm fond, too, and nostalgic. I remember the way he used to be, and the way I used to be. It seems like so much has changed.
Sometimes it feels like the world is moving on and leaving me behind. Or sometimes it feels like the world is changing constantly and I'm swept up in it, breathless, not quite sure where I am (who I am) or what to do.
There are times I really wish I were older - not in terms of calendar years, necessarily, just wiser and more mature. I wish I knew better what I wanted and how to go after it. I wish confidence, assurance, certainty, responsibility, capability for myself. It's hard to be satisfied with who I am, because there is always room for improvement and for growth.
I feel painfully young sometimes. L is right: I still have a lot to experience, a lot to learn, a lot to discover out of life.
On a different note, I went shopping and found good deals on cute clothes. And this may make me a girl, but it makes me happy.
Sometimes it feels like the world is moving on and leaving me behind. Or sometimes it feels like the world is changing constantly and I'm swept up in it, breathless, not quite sure where I am (who I am) or what to do.
There are times I really wish I were older - not in terms of calendar years, necessarily, just wiser and more mature. I wish I knew better what I wanted and how to go after it. I wish confidence, assurance, certainty, responsibility, capability for myself. It's hard to be satisfied with who I am, because there is always room for improvement and for growth.
I feel painfully young sometimes. L is right: I still have a lot to experience, a lot to learn, a lot to discover out of life.
On a different note, I went shopping and found good deals on cute clothes. And this may make me a girl, but it makes me happy.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
once in awhile, i'm allowed this
So I just want to cry - because I'm a girl, maybe. Because I'm unhappy.
It's nothing specific as it is a little bit of everything, and I forgot the semester was like this: tiring. That's only making it worse, but it's not really the root of why I'm just...nebulously unhappy. Indistinctly dissatisfied.
Then I feel ungrateful. I know I'm lucky. I know I have a lot to be thankful for.
But right now I just want to be a little miserable and cry until my chest hurts.
And I'll be okay. And it's not your duty to fix me. It's just...
Life, sometimes.
Life, sometimes, just makes me unhappy.
It's nothing specific as it is a little bit of everything, and I forgot the semester was like this: tiring. That's only making it worse, but it's not really the root of why I'm just...nebulously unhappy. Indistinctly dissatisfied.
Then I feel ungrateful. I know I'm lucky. I know I have a lot to be thankful for.
But right now I just want to be a little miserable and cry until my chest hurts.
And I'll be okay. And it's not your duty to fix me. It's just...
Life, sometimes.
Life, sometimes, just makes me unhappy.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
the weight of the pencil sharpener (연필깎이)
Today, we began a new America with the inauguration of our 44th president:
I felt like this day in history deserves a nod here at least, though I've made known my happiness and pride all over other forums.
Tonight, I went to watch the WashU Orchestra perform with a number of classmates tonight; specifically, we went to watch T's solo (well, duet). He played well, and the experience reminded me how much I do love classical music. (I love piano and the string quartet best, oh it's gorgeous.) But the night also was a stark reminder that I am not a music person.
Maybe it's because there's just too much math and left-brain involved in it, but I was never that good. I was never that committed. I love listening to it, but I am terrible with music. I don't have an ear for it; I guess I didn't inherit that gene from my mom. I can't sight read, I can't recognize notes by ear, or tell when something is flat or sharp or off-beat. I don't understand the technicalities of performance, and sometimes that just makes me incredibly sad, because listening to it is just - it engages so much emotion. And I'm, if nothing else, pretty emotional. Listening to classical music is an emotional experience that leaves me regretting my inability to pursue it (to truly understand it).
I'm a word person. I know this. I'm not a master of words, but they are my song, my poetry, my music. A well-turned phrase makes me incredibly happy; diction and syntax all matter to me. They're interesting to me. I like the cadence, the rhythm, of certain sentences. I like the way certain words look (heechul), or feel, or sound. Words are a craft in themselves, not merely a tool to create stories or to facilitate communication. Words can evoke things for me that music does for people like T and my mom. Words don't have the same impact that images can leave - soundless, wordless - but they leave a different impact: they can be just as powerful in a different way.
Sometimes I think about these things and I wonder why I'm here, doing what I am. This is not what I love.
(What do I love? This. Sometimes Tablo can be overrated, given too much credit for being Creative and Unique and Deep, which he may be in relative context of the bubblegum-manufactured kpop scene - but this song speaks, I think, to a lot of people. To me.)
This is not my dream.
(But there are bigger things than my dreams.)
I felt like this day in history deserves a nod here at least, though I've made known my happiness and pride all over other forums.
Tonight, I went to watch the WashU Orchestra perform with a number of classmates tonight; specifically, we went to watch T's solo (well, duet). He played well, and the experience reminded me how much I do love classical music. (I love piano and the string quartet best, oh it's gorgeous.) But the night also was a stark reminder that I am not a music person.
Maybe it's because there's just too much math and left-brain involved in it, but I was never that good. I was never that committed. I love listening to it, but I am terrible with music. I don't have an ear for it; I guess I didn't inherit that gene from my mom. I can't sight read, I can't recognize notes by ear, or tell when something is flat or sharp or off-beat. I don't understand the technicalities of performance, and sometimes that just makes me incredibly sad, because listening to it is just - it engages so much emotion. And I'm, if nothing else, pretty emotional. Listening to classical music is an emotional experience that leaves me regretting my inability to pursue it (to truly understand it).
I'm a word person. I know this. I'm not a master of words, but they are my song, my poetry, my music. A well-turned phrase makes me incredibly happy; diction and syntax all matter to me. They're interesting to me. I like the cadence, the rhythm, of certain sentences. I like the way certain words look (heechul), or feel, or sound. Words are a craft in themselves, not merely a tool to create stories or to facilitate communication. Words can evoke things for me that music does for people like T and my mom. Words don't have the same impact that images can leave - soundless, wordless - but they leave a different impact: they can be just as powerful in a different way.
Sometimes I think about these things and I wonder why I'm here, doing what I am. This is not what I love.
(What do I love? This. Sometimes Tablo can be overrated, given too much credit for being Creative and Unique and Deep, which he may be in relative context of the bubblegum-manufactured kpop scene - but this song speaks, I think, to a lot of people. To me.)
This is not my dream.
(But there are bigger things than my dreams.)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
when i was a child, i wanted to grow up...
So J is somewhat of a legend in our class at law school. Everyone knows who he is. Everyone laughs and says, "Oh J," whenever anyone brings him up - some are impressed, most are just bemused. They all know about his trips to Detroit and San Francisco during key periods of the semester for Yu-gi-oh tournaments. They all know that he skips class to go, that he's excellent and internet famous, that he's so good he gets paid, gets asked for his autograph, gets talked about in reverent tones - but it's all a kids' game, so it doesn't matter.
I don't understand why people laugh at J, honestly. I can see why they might not take him (or at least the game he plays) seriously, but I sincerely admire him for doing what he likes and being good at it. Truth be told, I probably envy him a little for that ability, to be brazen and carefree in the face of society's convention and the majority's judgment. (What is it? A card game or something? A kids' game, right? With pictures on the cards and magic powers and all that, they say dismissively, derisively, as if they understand, as if they don't need to.) People think they've outgrown such frivolities, such childish games.
But is it so childish to do something you like and are good at? Fine, practically speaking, it may not serve you or your future's best interests. But it's not as if there's no remuneration involved in his national tournaments - this is not some low-scale hobby that just keeps him occupied and distracted from school. And even if it were - would it be so bad to enjoy it? Would it be so wrong to not hide it away as if you were ashamed of it?
I admire J for doing what he likes, Yu-gi-oh or whatever it may be, and still being brilliant. He doesn't need to put in the same amount of work as we do for law school; he's not like us (broadly, generally us). I do think he should commit more if this is what he's going to do as a career, but whether he pursues law as a career is not a choice anyone else, much less I, can force on him. He does as he will. I admire his attitude towards life and as a person.
I don't think I could do it, for better or for worse, (sometimes to my regret), but it works well for him. I'm tired of hearing people talk about him lightly, because I like him as he is.
I like him the way he is, maybe because I feel a need to live vicariously through someone braver than me. Someone who didn't put away childish things - or maybe someone who redefined the meaning of childish things, so that not everything we enjoyed when we were younger, not everything we enjoy now that society looks upon as immature or more suitable for a different age group, is actually "childish".
And, also, I'm generally not really into people talking badly of my friends, even if they're good-natured and don't mean to insult.
I don't understand why people laugh at J, honestly. I can see why they might not take him (or at least the game he plays) seriously, but I sincerely admire him for doing what he likes and being good at it. Truth be told, I probably envy him a little for that ability, to be brazen and carefree in the face of society's convention and the majority's judgment. (What is it? A card game or something? A kids' game, right? With pictures on the cards and magic powers and all that, they say dismissively, derisively, as if they understand, as if they don't need to.) People think they've outgrown such frivolities, such childish games.
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (I Cor. 13:11)
But is it so childish to do something you like and are good at? Fine, practically speaking, it may not serve you or your future's best interests. But it's not as if there's no remuneration involved in his national tournaments - this is not some low-scale hobby that just keeps him occupied and distracted from school. And even if it were - would it be so bad to enjoy it? Would it be so wrong to not hide it away as if you were ashamed of it?
I admire J for doing what he likes, Yu-gi-oh or whatever it may be, and still being brilliant. He doesn't need to put in the same amount of work as we do for law school; he's not like us (broadly, generally us). I do think he should commit more if this is what he's going to do as a career, but whether he pursues law as a career is not a choice anyone else, much less I, can force on him. He does as he will. I admire his attitude towards life and as a person.
I don't think I could do it, for better or for worse, (sometimes to my regret), but it works well for him. I'm tired of hearing people talk about him lightly, because I like him as he is.
I like him the way he is, maybe because I feel a need to live vicariously through someone braver than me. Someone who didn't put away childish things - or maybe someone who redefined the meaning of childish things, so that not everything we enjoyed when we were younger, not everything we enjoy now that society looks upon as immature or more suitable for a different age group, is actually "childish".
And, also, I'm generally not really into people talking badly of my friends, even if they're good-natured and don't mean to insult.
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