The Young Suspect

As the murder case of Annie unraveled, all seemed to pin down one suspect, the 24-year-old Ray. He had stayed silent - there was not a footage of him speaking, which made everyone guess his nature, character, and temperament. But from the various pictures, he seemed to be just an ordinary young man: tall, rather handsome, perhaps a little introverted at times, but nevertheless outgoing when surrounded by friends and family. His life up to this point was pleasant and stable to the outsiders. With a job that paid, a dog to pet, and a girlfriend whom he was to marry, he was on his way to start a family. Within a week, all that had become merely a vapor. Dreams, ambitions, shattered, gone. At such a young age, he could soon be put behind the bars for a lifetime, and to the worst, even be executed abiding CT's death penalty for murders.

What had he done? What happened that day in the lab? What was his relationship with Annie? How did he just lose his mind and threw his life away? How could he commit to such crime? Was it an accident? Why didn't he come forward and confess?

Before he is put on trial and before he is convicted as a murderer, these unanswered questions merge into a thin, invisible wall, giving him a slight protection from the large community who mourns over the tragic death of Annie. If Ray was to seek sympathy, he would be terribly disappointed. If he did what he is accused of doing, it was him who threw his own life away, unlike Annie whose life was ended unwillingly by another. Unless it wasn't him, then he better prove it.

What has our world become? When did civilized, intelligent human beings decide that it is easy and okay to end another's life? Why has violence magnified and multiplied?

The media was doing what it does best: take any sip of information, exaggerate it and spread. Ray's terrifying halloween picture of him dressed and face painted like a devil was featured frequently. Although some of the testimonies from his friends backed him up with neutral and even positive remarks, the media seemed to focus on the small negative comments from people who didn't know him well such as the neighbors. As a result of such bias, the community was insanely outraged toward Ray. They responded to this cruelty with cruelty. "Kill him like how he killed Annie" said one reader on an online coverage. It was followed by another, yet another, and countless vulgar comments: "Put him on the hot chair", "he deserves to be put on death penalty", etc. These comments disturbingly received popular votes. While you wonder why people lose their moral sense and kill each other, it's clear that anyone who was capable of saying such things are capable of killing under circumstances.

The disease has permeated and it is officially incurable.

Letter to Lisa

Dear Lisa,

I am sorry that I never called. You probably thought that I just disappeared and how unfair of me to leave without a proper goodbye. The thought of picking up the phone and dialing your number crossed my mind so often, but as each day progressed, it seemed more reasonable to write instead. I have searched for your e-mail address, or even looked up Kisha's studio to see whether I could get your mailing address, yet nothing came up. A year has gone by without contacting you, and now even calling becomes unrealistic.

You've taught me so much about happiness that I could not have learned otherwise. Without you, everything is so difficult. I try and keep on trying, but can only find my true self in these worthless sobbing words. Then all start from zero the moment I begin to sympathize my little insignificant soul. I fall, far into the bottomless darkness, and let the timelessness take over my fear. If I were lucky, if God allows, let me remember your voice so that I regain something to hold on to. You see, I couldn't call you, and I couldn't say goodbye. I fear that our goodbye will erase you from my memory, and I need you so to remind me of my worth. So, Lisa, please forgive me for being rude and heartless. I am too selfish to let you go.

yours truly.

Box and Box

Location: Outdoor Tent
Event: Classical Concert
Time: Intermission

"Hey, those box seats are empty. Wanna move up to sit in the box?"

"No. I am not a bento item."

"......"

A Cat's Prayer

Dear God, meo-wo
Would you fill my bowl please?
It is empty
It was full
Only moments ago
Could it be full again? meo-wo-wo
Could it stay full?

I pray that limitless treats
Await me
I will happily accept any
Flavor you grant
Tuna, meow
Chicken, meow
Cheese, meo-wowo

Days go by with too many
Interruptions
Foodless intermissions
Rejections

So
I
Sit

Respectably
In front of my food bowl
Praying, meow-wo
Waiting
For your mercy to pour
Over me

Tell me how I can try harder
Should I purr more?
Meow more? Meow meow
Play cuter?
Let humans to hold me longer?
1 second?
5 to the most
Meow, meow-wo

My Lord, hear my prayer please
I close my eyes
(Concentration it takes)
Would you grant my wish and fill my
Bowl?

Meow-wo-wo

Three Bridesmaid

On Sherly's 23rd birthday, she moped: "What am I gonna do? I'll be 25 and unmarried."

"Oh com'on!" My impatience broke through,"Don't be pathetic - people these days are not getting married until they are in their 30s and 40s! Why would you want to be settled this early?"

"My mom had me when she was 27!"

"SO?! Things are different now! Besides, you are beautiful, talented, and young. I'm sure many people will want to marry you, when the time is ready."

"But why doesn't he want to then?"

Poor Sherly. Pete was just not the one for her. She tried hard to make him commit. Everyone could've told her that Pete got scared, and her church-going didn't earn her enough brownie points.

A month later, she took a bold decision of leaving the country. In the foreign land of the east, she met a man under God's eyes. Things happened so fast. He proposed a few weeks after meeting her. Sherly insisted on getting married before she turned 25. Her wish was answered with a splendid wedding. Right before she walked that aisle, she let out a long sigh of relief.

I made it. I'm safe now.

Goodbye, Nana.

February 12, 2009
"Where have you been? Couldn't get hold of you for days. Nana passed. We just came back from the cremation service. She couldn't breath at the end, and probably died from suffocation. Cancer, you know. It was all over her lungs. Hm..? No. No last words. Yeah... Chu was crying."


January 30, 2009
We were going to visit Nana today. This would be the last time we see her, but everyone kept that to themselves.

Dad was concerned about what to bring. Fruits? She couldn't eat. Health products? There would be no point. Mom was skeptical about flowers, but I thought it would be nice. We stopped by a flower store on the way, and picked out 3 bouquets of tulips. They were bright orange with golden rims.

When we arrived, Chu's wife opened the door. She was about to head out with the daughter to visit some relatives. It was the 5th day into the lunar new year. According to the tradition, each family supposed to pay respects door to door among friends and relatives. Firecrackers were going crazy outside. It was going to be that way for 15 days altogether. I couldn't bare.

The wife said: "Such a torture. Whatever disease there might be, don't anyone get this."

Chu was sitting there, quieter than usual. He greeted us with a faint smile. I believe that was the best he could give that day.

Through the narrow hallway, we walked into a small room where Nana was.

"Nana, we are here to see you!"
"Nana, look at the flowers! Aren't they beautiful? They are for you!"

Lying on the bed, she was not the Nana that I remembered. Her shriveled body was in a rather awkward position, but she was too weak to adjust it.

She couldn't take her eyes off from the tulips. They were exquisitely beautiful for her. There were so many of them that we had to use three vases. Her room suddenly lit up with a little energy, a little liveliness.

"Nana" Dad said, "I'm here to pay you repect - happy new year!"

"Kneel in front of me then." Nana replied. Her voice was weak, yet commending.

thud. Dad kneeled without a second thought.

This was not the Nana I remembered.

Mom broke the uncomfortable silence, "Nana, how are you feeling these days?"

"Not good. None of what a human being does feels right."

"Nana, look what I brought you." I suddenly remember of the CD which I burned for her. "Remember you said that you didn't know what I was writing my paper on? Ravel's La Valse. See, I put it on track 5 for you."

Chu brought over a laptop, and we quickly set up the audio for her. The firecrackers were too loud, so we plugged in a headset. The disc was playing. Nana closed her eyes. Her hands began conducting to the beats. She seemed more relaxed and more at peace.

"Ma loves music." Chu said, then sighed.

When Nana was enjoying the music, dad asked about her condition. Chu thought it was matter of days now. He told dad not to be too somber: "Everyone has this day. It would be a relief too when she goes."

I watched Nana from a short distance. She was still waving her arms to the music. Such energy and conviction were coming through these little movements. I leaned over to see if the music was still playing.

"No." She commended. She didn't want me close. She was self-conscious about her smell.

My heart felt heavy. How could she be so helpless, lying there and waiting to be taken away?

I sat there next to her for a long time, during which she said not a word to me, but was immersed in the music.

Then she felt tired. "We should go and let her rest." Mom suggested. We all shook hands with her, each and every of us. Her hand brushed by. It was the last moment that I'd ever remember of Nana.


December, 2008
"Hello? Nana? It's me! I'm calling from America! How are you..."

"Child! Nana misses you... But don't let this burden you..."

"Nana, I'm coming back for the new year. I'll come to visit you. Hanging on there..."

"I'm going to try my best to wait for you."

Bedtime

What is this restlessness that gnaws my nerve?
I bite my nails
My fingertips bleed

I can feel the blood running through
My each and every vein
I am too tired to scream
My body could burst
I could rest

Could you hum me a tune please?
A nice tune
Soft and swaying
I close my eyes
My feet are dancing

Regrets

"Life is like a dream. Sometimes I think I'm still dreaming."

Nana,

They told me that you fell the other day and broke your leg. You are in a fragile state right now - don't get me wrong, by fragile I meant your health, not your spirit. Should it Never be your spirit... Please listen to the doctors and let them take care of you. Mom said that you were complaining about difficulty in breathing. They couldn't tell you. Don't blame them. Yes it has spread to your lungs... You already knew.

You've always been optimistic and brave. But now at the final hours of life, what are going through your mind? You told me that you had a good life and there was nothing else you would ask for. But Nana, are you sad? Are you scared? I try to empathize (you hate sympathies,) yet could not comprehend what it would be like to face death. Forgive me for not able to ease your pain. And forgive me for failing to understand what you are going through.

Perhaps you had no regrets, but allow me to tell you mine.

I regret that I wasn't around much to get to know you better. You have always been my favorite relative whom I never once dreaded to visit. You are an intelligent woman and a wonderful human being. It always amazes me that you speak such fluent english and have a broad knowledge in art, history, music, or anything else, while ironically, you lived in a sexist country where women had no education or social status. How did you do it?

I regret that I wasn't around to help you to write a memoir. You gave up on the idea because of your eyesight. Nana, I would sit down with you and record everything you have to say. I would. I really wanted to.

I regret that we never finish our conversation about religion. When I saw you this summer, you told me about your relationship with God. Nana, your english was so good and your story intrigued me: you were once a young devoted christian. When science and evolution seemed to contradict with what you faithfully believed, you were hurt. Then the amount of guilt that was piling up on your shoulders became too heavy for you to bear. So one day, you prayed to God: "Father, take my life tonight. Let my death be an evidence of your powerful existence." You left a note under the pillow explaining your death, then prayed, cried, and prayed more. How young and naive you were. He would not take your life because he loved you too much. In the morning, as you woke up finding that you were still living and breathing, you tore up the note and began living your life as an atheist.

Oh Nana, I wish we could talk more that day about this. We haven't even got the chance to talk about the years you lived by yourself after your husband's fatal accident. There are so much more I want to know about you. I regret that I didn't visit you again as I said I would. I regret to overlook the importance of our last meeting. But more so, I will soon regret for not having enough courage to send you this letter.

Nana, please hanging there and be strong. You will truly be missed.

Love always,

M

Flaws

I want to tell you what my flaws are
Except you already knew them so well

But please allow me to reiterate
My imperfection
I will confess them with honesty and sincerity

Would you
Love me for who I am -
That's the idea that people like to impose
Before fleeting away
Hastily

You are still here
I want you to stay

So here we go with the flaws:
Irrational, emotional, temperamental, jealous, insecure
Everything I despise about myself
Nothing that you don't already know

What I hope is to obtain your love
Eternally
Even though my confession might seem to be a strange
Approach
And what I ask for is rather shameless and selfish

Will you
Love me for who I am
For a lifetime and more?

The Falling Psychiatrist

Astrud smelled like heavy alcohol. Even though she balanced herself quite well on her feet, her speech was rambling and her eyes were unfocused.

"I was not a cat person and never wanted a cat. Sheba came to my door one day, so I gave her some food and milk. Then she kept coming back. Day after day. For 17 years."

Sheba was Astrud's black cat. Astrud installed a Cat Flap to give her the freedom of coming in and out of the house whenver she wished to. The cat was quite aloof. She stayed useful in doing her own business - catching moles, birds, or other small kinds, and never cared to purr to win attention.

"When she got old, she became quite affectionate, which was really not her usual self. She stayed indoor most of the times and preferred to sleep on my laps or by my feet. I guess she needed my company. She was a good cat even though I didn't even want to have a cat. But she came and she never left. And we grew old together."

Astrude caught herself repeating the part how Sheba came about. The sun was strong that day, so she went inside to retrieve her straw hat.

The straw hat was the exact same one that she wore 10 years ago when I first met her. Knowing that she was a retired Psychiatrist, I stuffed our conversations with questions about dreams and the unconscious and subconscious worlds, hoping that she would satisfy my appetite with her intellectual freudian analysis. Astrud never said much about those subjects. Even so, I believed in her and never doubt a second of her knowledge.

She had already continued talking when she walked out with her hat. Her voice faded in: "...not eating well and I knew she was sick. The vet couldn't save her. I couldn't save her. I held her on my laps, stroked her until her eyes closed and she stopped breathing. She was a good cat. How strange it is! I never liked cats before. Sheba came to me like a gift from God. I fed her and she stayed..."

"By the way, did you hear that Lou across the street fell and broke his hip last Wednesday? And Jackie Herman had a minor stroke?"

Oh Astrud, poor Astrud, why couldn't you confess what was really killing you? Not Sheba's death, not Lou's accident and not Jackie Herman's stroke, but your lifelong friend Gary's lost battle to cancer. You couldn't deal with the pain and you were too frail to face the truth, so this became the sole subject that you forbad yourself and anyone else to draw near. Perhaps you didn't understand why he was gone and resented the fact that he didn't want you by his side in his last months. It might have even crossed your mind that all these were only one big fat lie. So you talked about Sheba, which hurt you badly; Lou and Jackie, which worried you. But Gary, Gary, Gary - a name that you would from now on speak to no one of, but whisper in the deepest of your mind thousands, millions of times.

Standing alone in her garden with her straw hat and a glass of straight vodka in hand, Astrud seemed to be in deep thoughts. Her lifeless eyes gazed afar:

"Did I tell you about Sheba?"

Moon Fantasy

Fly me to the moon
and let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like
on Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, hold my hand.
In other words, baby kiss me.

Fill my heart with songs
and let me sing forevermore.
You are all I long for,
all I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
In other words, I love you.

- written by Bart Howard

Fear

I study my hands closely:
The lines around each knuckle have grown

Complexity, they scream
Aging, they confess

Like a piece of crumbled-up paper
Destined to be abandoned in the wastebasket
Bearing the unbearable pain in its ugly creases

Since when did wrinkles creep onto my skin?
I fear that one day they would take me by force and conquer me
My hands would become foreign
So would my face my body

Promise me that you would then leave me be
Sulking in the wastebasket like the abandoned page
Any consolation would only cause agony
For the creases can not be smoothened
Even by the finest ironing.

"Oh God, there is no God."

"Are you religious?"

Simple and direct, the question caught me off-guard.

At age 87, Naomi's keen mind and big spirit compensated her ultra-petite body. She spoke four or five languages, although her German heritage often leaked from her accent: "Vat vas that vonderful muzic?" She had lived a long life, or several lives as she claimed and I believed, in which she experienced everything life had to offer, joy or sorrow.

"Are you religious?" She looked straight at me through her over-sized glasses. Those lenses immensely enlarged her eyes, at the same time magnified me in her vision.

I felt naked and transparent. I had to tell the truth.

"Yes." My voice was small and I felt the need to defend myself. "Well, somewhat, I guess." Then I was ashamed.

"Well, you see, I believe in the existence of God. But my ignorance to Christianity... um... There are too many things about this religion that just don't make sense to me. Yet." I went on and on about my experience with the religion, what I liked and disliked, about miracles and lies. I tried hard to make sense of things that came out of my mouth while Naomi just sat there silently, watching and listening.

The truth is, I didn't know where I stood in terms of religious believes, and I wanted to hide the fact that I still could not make up my mind after many years of questioning and searching. A strong force had been resisting me to believe, while the opposite seemed to be omnipresent in my subconscious, surfacing now and then when I thought that I had forgotten.

I fell in silence. It might have been an abrupt stop, but I didn't want to make a bigger fool out of myself by continuing to talk nonsense.

Naomi spoke:

"My father was a very nice man. He was a great father and a great husband. He always gave money to the poor and always went out of his ways to help others. And he believed in God and the goodness in God. He had done a large amount of charity work locally. We all loved him so dearly."

She took a deep breath and went on:

"I never understood how such a wonderful human being, a faithful, loyal child of God, would die in such a cruel way - he was murdered in the concentration camp. He was still quite young. Young and handsome. A loyal husband and a dear father of two. They took him and they murdered him."

Naomi failed to continue, as I found myself in a similar position. We just sat there across from each other. The clock was ticking and the tears were streaming.

"So I say, Oh God, there is no God."

"The Cicadas are Coming!"

7-year-old Kimmy was the one who told me over dinner that the Cicadas were coming. Her cute face lit up: “It has um… orangy eyes and um, you know, clear wings, so it flies around. And it goes ‘chiiiiiiiii-chiiiiiiiiiiii’. Yup! Just like that!”

I had long forgotten about the existence of cicadas. While Kimmy was enthusiastically drawing one with crayon on the paper tablecloth, I searched hard in my memory and finally that “Chiiiiiii-Chiiiiii” sound zoomed-in an old, yellow-stained snapshot of the past:

I was about the same age as Kimmy, young and carefree. Walking in between my parents, each of my hands safely locked in their hands. On my left was my father, tall and handsome. And my mother was walking on my right side. Gently smiled, she could not have been more beautiful. It was an after-dinner walk in a mid-summer night. Neighbors were outside their apartments trying to catch some breeze. Some were playing chess and some were simply just sitting on a chair, cooling themselves with bamboo-made fans. My parents occasionally stopped to chat with friends and I would just hop around them, being happy, being silly, and being a child. While all these were happening, the cicadas were resting on the trees, making their “chiiii-chiiii” sound like a background serenade in a typical summer night.

“Chiiii-Chiiiii…” Kimmy was still making that airy but somewhat annoying sound. Her drawing turned out to be pretty good, although retained little resemblance of an actual cicada. Her mom signaled her to stop so she pouted, soon began to draw a tree for her little orange-eyed friend.

Mean Santa

It wasn't Christmas
Nothing felt like Christmas
Except you were Santa in this heated day of June

The bag in your hands
Full with secrets and surprises
Promised happy smiles and much more

As you handed out little square boxes
To each visible human being
I anxiously awaited my share of awards

Then your eyes met mine
Freeze
Silence
A heavy load of Awkwardness

Two mere seconds were long enough for the truth
I had been a bad girl
Santa was punishing me with crippled fortune

Smiled
I walked away in an injured dignity

Testimonial on Tony's Behalf

Tony,

Please forgive me. I am such a fool. I can't believe myself for dwelling on some insignificant unhappiness so obsessively during your short visit. Time flew by right in front of my eyes, and before I realized that I should be overwhelmed with our good times, you were already gone.

You probably felt hopeless in saving me. Please don't. Your visit meant so much to me that I can't thank you enough. For those few days, I finally escaped from my phobia of being alone. It felt safe and I knew that whatever happened or were about to happen, you would be right there by my side, making sure that I wouldn't fall. You are too kind. Sometimes I question whether I have done enough good to others to deserve this unconditional friendship.

So, thank you for coming, my friend, and thanks for rescuing me. Drinking on the roof while listening to Mahler 9 was the best time I ever had.

Lost

Lisa was right. I have gone completely mental.

During my last Pilates session, she unexpectedly interrupted our usual routine: "Are you okay? You don't look happy." What a strange thing she said! I was in quite a good mood that day and felt particularly light-hearted. Perhaps I was over-concentrating on the work-out. Perhaps I was getting impatient by the seemingly unprogressive pace. Or, maybe, just maybe, Lisa knew me better than I knew myself.

Earlier this morning, after a frantic 30-minute search inside-out of my apartment, the delayed truth dawned on me: the wallet is gone, for the second time in a short time of 3 months! Not stolen, but lost under my own carelessness. I searched in my memory but found no recollection of any last trace. It was just gone, along with my sanity. Dispersed into air. Dissolved into rain. Disintegrated into ashes.

Curiosity Mustn't Die

Several years back in one of my graduate classes, the professor one day asked our opinions on the Terri Schiavo's controversy but found no responses. The shock on his face would never escape my memory. He took off his glasses and looked around the room. When his eyes met mine, I felt a sudden burning on my cheeks, but was quickly convinced that everyone else's face was as blushed as mine - we were ashamed for our ignorance and terrified for the consequences. It seemed to be a long silence before the professor spoke in a trembling voice:

"I know that you are music students, not academic students, but that is no excuse. Do you read about what's happening in the world? Do you think and care about what's happening around you in your own lifetime?"

Of course we mocked the incident as soon as we left the classroom like any other immature students would do, but what the professor said formed into a stone of guilt, sat heavily on my shoulders. I couldn't deny the truth that I was young, ignorant and narcissistic. I glorified classical music as the only form of so-called High Art that glowed at a sacred and purified artistic level, which none other was able to reach, thus cared little of anything else.

Do you read? Do you think? Do you care? These words ring in my conscious and unconscious minds ever since, motivating my curiosity and preventing it from being buried under the sands of laziness.

What are you reading, thinking, and caring?

A Starbucks Incident

"Tall coffee Frappuccino please."

"Did you know that you could get a medium size with Only 50 cents more? Would you like that?"

"Uh. Sure!"

I never ordered anything larger than a Tall, or else I would have trouble finishing the drink. The cashier lured me into getting my first medium-sized Frap. "Oooonly 50 cents" sounded like a deal or a promotion of the day. Only when I quickly glimpsed the price board as I handed her the money did I realize that there was no special deal! 50 cents extra for one size larger is the normal charge for every type of drinks on the menu!

It has nothing to do with money but everything to do with a subtle manipulation! How could she trick me like that? How could I be so naive to fall for it?

She grinned, didn't even try to restrain her satisfaction from this small victory: "Have a nice day!"

You sneaky little nymph. No tip for you!

Ear-Plugs (Retry)

Let me hear nothing but my own breathing.
In the waves of each breath,
I am more at peace than a willow tree.

The randomness of poetry,
Could only be understood by a drunken tree.
As its leaves wave and wave at me,
Weep weep, weep, weep,
Rhythm or not,
I am more content than it can ever be.

No one could pierce through my transparency.
I am immune and I am saved.
The ear-plugs promised to protect me.

Oh the sea is slashing and the tree is crying.
Weep weep, weep weep,
I have truly got nothing but this pair of ear-plugs that keeps me safe.
So I put them inside my ears deeply.

While my mind becomes soothing,
I lower my guards and set myself free.
In the moment of so-called heaveness,
I allow myself to weep happily,
Weep weep weep weep,
Just like the willow tree.