AFTER ALL

woke up this morning in a funk, half drunk. took a shower and made a pot of coffee. smoked a jazz cigarette, and a cigarette. listened to moscow: i know it's strange to think of you when reading about someone so confused, but i can barely keep my phone away. woke with much worry about dates and trips, bills and my will to do what i must do. walked out into a unexpectedly warm sunny day, a strong pleasing breeze blowing my hair and scarf playfully. then, suddenly, instantaneously, realize the truth: no need to worry. no need when i write. no need when i play music with ancient friends. no need when blown away by peers. no need when prospects, simple ones, the prophesy of hands to be held, cheeks to be kissed, parents to meet, quiet nights under dim lights speaking the same language to be shared, are thought of at work in a dim corner of the office with headphones in listening to jdutt, again, thinking of all this stuff, these things: just like with them we've parted ways, we've set those bridges all ablaze, but i still think we're the only sane ones left.

REPETITION IS AN EASY WAY OUT

so much holding of hands, even in the cold. and fall leaves fading slowly as winter creeps in and people pass by them briskly. so much anticipation for lists and checklists of gifts and resolutions. and much laughter. that is for sure. much warmth and cozy blanket mornings and late night listens to favorite songs remembering the wishes for snow days. so much love, and hating of loving. hating that loved ones are no longer here, cannot share in the joy of holding someone who has a part of you in them, in their dna, in their genes. but loving nontheless. and so much thought; thinking and hoping and worrying and exploring, traveling and conducting, playing and fighting, sexing and working, partying and finalizing, trivializing and flying, scrabbling and gwaving, listening, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling.

IN A HOUSEBOAT I'LL BE WAITING

she will probably be late; will arrive 23 minutes after schedule, in a haste, hair shuffled and shoulder in slight pain from the weight of cigarettes and poetry in her purse. i will have checked my watch 32 times, re-read the text which stated i will be there, babe, 18 times. skipped 29 rocks into the lake.

she will be wearing black tights and boots. will have cute, black overalls. a scarf and a white blouse. a creme colored crocheted cap; gloves, large sunglasses, a coffee, a half-smoked cig ashed violently by a howling wind. she will be wearing dark red lipstick, will have a smile on her face.

she will say sorry for being late, for making me wait so long. will give me a hug - deep surprising hug. will smell of two bodies in bed on an autumn evening while the rhythm of pitter pattering rain explains the word love. she will want to talk to me for hours, even will, much later, hide the fact that she cannot keep her eyes open, hide the fact that she would only sleep if she could be with me.

she will touch my arm. she will laugh too loud at something dumb i said. she will stare without blinking deep in my eye when i am looking at a bird up high perched in a tree. she will lay her head on my chest as we lay back and guess what the animals in the clouds are thinking. she will ask how are you? are you happy? she will make me feel as if i am half asleep.

she will make of this moment what she wants: to be, fully and completely, loved.

and i can do that for her. i want to do that for her. i am waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting; for her.

THIS WORD WAS A 70+ PT SCRABBLE WORD IN A GAME THAT HAPPENED SOMETIME AND SOMEPLACE: INFINITE

when i approach this man who is very much like myself i may greet him with a 'hello.' i may say, 'how are you.' perhaps, "how's your day" is the best. maybe i offer him a glass of water. i may give him a hug, and i might cry a little bit after. i might ask how she is, if her hair has turned silver metallic. i might simply laugh at the sight of him but not in a degrading way, a laugh of pure joy. i don't know - i could, maybe even for some reason, perhaps if the season is winter and we are stranded on the side of the road in the midst of a blizzard on the outskirts of cold boulder, having to change a flat tire, be upset.

maybe i'd say nothing. just stare. crazy twilight stare.

maybe, just maybe, i'd ask him a random ass question: how many times have you shit today? do you piss in swimming pools? showers? what did you REALLY think of twilight? what do you do when you are alone at home? how many people have you seen die, right in front of your eyes? when you were 24, what did you think was in store for you? has it come true? should i abandon all hope?

one could also easily imagine that i'd immediately suggest, off the bat, minute i see his face, that we play a game of scrabble.

maybe i tell him a story about a memory that he was apart of, but isn't really his; i mean, i was the one who lived it, so it's mine, right? it'd be about a day in september when we were at my sister's home with daly. i'd say dad, remember when we were at sis's (my sister won't let me call her patty) for my birthday awhile back. we ate sushi and talked about tiger woods and golf and graduate school (the only things we ever talk about)? you fell asleep on the couch. i was hanging with daly and she was walking around and then she walked up to you and kind of played with your socks and kept trying to pull them off. classic dad socks, smooth, velvety black socks (i did read/play pat the bunny with daly when i babysat her so she has an affinity for touching). anyway, it made me want to cry. i don't know why but we were all there, three generations of kims." then i'd probably pause because he doesn't really understand english all too well. let him digest the information. "yeah, so, anyway. i just want to tell you that you must want to know what it's like to be a korean in america who got to grow up here. and i want to tell you. but there's too much, just like you probably can't tell me everything about your life. and i imagine that's why we have an unwritten understanding that there is not much to be said. we know what's up, and it's all good, and we appreciate, and know without having to hear any words. all i want to say is you are the patriarch now dad. when grandma and grandpa died, you became the head of the household. and then i look around at everything sis and i have, and now daly, and i have to say, good job old man. and you know, i'm pretty scared to become the head of the household someday; i'm scared of losing you."

i may make him come with me to the corn field back home where my friends and i used to smoke copious amounts of drugs, drink and play guitar under crystalline icy skies in the fall; where i lost my virginity, where i had my first break up, my first kiss. i would make him lay down on a blanket and tilt his head backward to look at the world upside down, to see the sands of stars. i would make him promise to listen to pavement and read william faulkner and my own writing. i would make him talk about sex and drugs and love and heartbreak and holding hands and the most arrogant thoughts and the most debased thoughts he'd ever thought of. i would make him tell me all the thoughts hidden deep down, never even attempted to be put into words, he'd ever had ever in his entire life. i would make him expose himself, answer my questions, my demands to know the truths - to know the truths about me, myself, and who i am.

i would make him, i would make him; i would make him.

SNAPSHOTS

FEBRUARY 20 2005

I wake up blue after a late night-early morning nap at 5:45 AM when everything is a shadow and electric light from the television screen flickers throughout the room. I sit up in bed and put on a shirt and some shorts and wrap a blanket around me like toga. Then I rub the goop from out of my eyes and put on my glasses to read some text scrolling across the bottom of the screen: CNN BREAKING NEWS - HUNTER S. THOMPSON SUICIDE CONFIRMED.

Before I took my nap vague details began to appear but nothing was final. Now that it has become fact, etched into the history books, validated by reluctant voices of family members at numerous press conferences, I cannot help but contemplate the self-determined act, wonder what he felt at the precise moment of exodus. What did you hear then, Hunter? What did you see, or taste, or smell?

What happens when the spirit is ripped from its shell?

I think that death would be much like an adventure to a carnival where the normal and bizarre converge into one; images cease to make sense, pleasure and disgust blend together, what is human and what is Nature completely indistinguishable from each other.

Hunchback and twisting my body to avoid intermittent breezes, I walk out into the dawn and attempt to light a cigarette. Since it is extremely cold I try to remember Henry David Thoreau and his winter walk, how he would hike in the bitter chill past a frozen Walden Pond, how he could imagine a fire rage within his body, deep in his spirit, enabling him to feel warm, as if he were at home in front of the fireplace. For me, at this moment, it is nearly impossible to warm myself through such deliberate thought, especially as a negative fifteen degree wind collides with my face.

Shy clouds sift soft snowflakes all around me which melt and pass away upon contact with my skin; the construction hums and early-bird bums mine dumpsters for scraps and I do not feel, to be honest, normal at all. The moon hangs around for a bit and it is gorgeous and I think to myself i would like to be up more often at dawn when the moon is up and the sun is up and it is in between night and day and it is night and day at the same time. But soon the moon which was once there is now absent and I think of Hunter, and myself, and look out into the desolate empty streets filled with the orange haze of streetlamps and look across to other apartments and homes where all the lonely folk, disparate and cold, sleep in their comfort, utterly deprived.

NOVEMBER 23 2004

WHAT I WILL MISS MOST ABOUT LIFE:

Definitely Thanksgiving, the smell of it all, the smell of grandma's cooking, scent of her perfume and her white crispy hair; the same tattered checkered tablecloth, the special forks and spoons, the beautiful wine glasses which twinkle under the expensive chandelier; the crème colored apron my mother dirties every year, and the jade and gold rings on her torn and battered fingers; and especially, her hearty laugh; the sound of the doorbell and the beeps of mini-vans as they lock; other familiar doors that open and close with a creak; the piano and banjo and the sound of clothes crinkling upon clothes between close and extended hugs; the sighs, the smiles, the cries; the unheard tune sung by someone at a red-light which is viewed through the rear-view mirror; pop rocks and Rubiks cubes and wrist clocks and roller coasters and hot apple cider on a snow day, funnel cakes and bicycle rides with no hands; watching marshmallows melt into hot chocolate; swimming out to the breakers on the lake; the way a tack moves into drywall as it is pushed in; acting pretentious at a coffee-shop porch melting in an afternoon summer sun, a novel with a broken spine next to a lit cigarette burning in the ashtray by the side; fingers which shake uncontrollably between pauses when writing; but most of all the writing: to write and write kept going by the chirps of birds and the reassuring knowledge that there will be early morning dew on the grass; and then the reading of what was written and not even knowing of what it meant or how it was even written at all.

FEBRUARY 20 2006

On the anniversary of Hunter’s death I have no woman, no real job; I live with my brother and his second wife. My infant niece cries in the room next door and wakes me up every night. But I still enjoy writing.

No; I depend on the writing to exist. But I’m not making any money from it; and I’m depressed, almost never sober, cold and hardened and I think often on it – how he closed his eyes, placed the chill metal nozzle, fit it in the soft area under his chin, locked it in place with the pressure of the shotgun pushing against the lower jaw, took in a long, extended breath of dank cabin air, pulled the trigger and then, the white.

CHECK LIST:
1 – Ask a woman if I can get into her pants so as to receive a painful slap across the face. And, hopefully it leaves a mark.
2 – Brand myself with dots through the putting-out of cigarettes on my arm.
3 – Write a poem on a piece of sharp paper and cut the inside webby parts of my fingers and toes.

The checklist will be here to remind of what transpired on that wintery night, that heroic deed; of the snow which fell light like confetti, and the lone sounds of pine tree boughs bending and creaking under the burden of the snow, and of owl’s hoots, and shrieks of mice as talons punctured soft, furry skin; and the sound of the shot rippling through nerves; the tear of flesh and crack of bone—the penetration and blood which birthed a new life.

SLOW EDUCATION

A loud clank sounded off Margeurite’s marquis-cut diamond as her hand slapped the glass which covered our black wicker table at dinner; a small bit of mashed-up blueberries and soft, brown crust squished out her mouth. She made a shield with both her hands in front of her face – mush spewing out – her cheeks bright vermillion; she could not stop laughing. I chuckled, took my eyes off of her for a moment, and watched a frumpy woman with subtle facial hair walking her miniature poodle down the road.

The day started off unusually considering that Margeurite, who typically sleeps far longer than I do, was already up and about early. A hazy light came in through the cracks of our lace curtains; she slid about on the hardwood floors in knee-high socks singing Hey when she sings, when she sings when she sings like she runs moves like she runs with her wet hair wrapped in a blue towel turban-style, cuddled in her Princeton literary society sweat-shirt, sleeves rolled up, taking whispering sips of a cup of fresh decaf Sumatra while I migrated and awoke, abruptly and literally, on her side – the wrong side of the bed.

We spent that evening at a cozy restaurant under a wide red and white umbrella when the sun slathered the sky with a Clementine coat; fat, pregnant pigeons parachuted from the flat tops of tall plane trees which lined the sidewalks every fifteen feet or so, swooping down, causing a loud commotion, eager for a free meal.

While I watched Margeurite eat the remainder of her croustade aux bleu, pausing every few seconds to pat her belly with a satisfied look, I felt that I could picture in my mind with clarity the revolution that took place here hundreds of years ago; the women in Parisian markets demanding that they have their bread; men with garden tools, makeshift weapons and pots for helmets marching through these very streets on the way to Versailles; the birth of a new modern age conceived by the purging of God’s sons and daughters.

Well, that pleasant Bastille Day evening the air was warm and wrapped around my body like a flannel blanket on a cold winter’s day. While we waited to pay for our dinner Margeurite, whose eyes were large and wide, put her hand on top of mine lovingly as we watched two pigeons peck at a piece of old crust, politely, together. Her hair, a mix of burnt rust and sunny blonde, flowed gently like a thick liquid, levitating on the currents of a light summer breeze. She wrote “I love you” in the condensation of her glass and took a sip of her water.

“Going to have a cigarette?” she asked, scooting her chair back so as to recline, “I can wait here for the check. Besides, I don’t think I can get up and walk at this point.”

I said yes and offered her the rest of my crème Brule. She gladly accepted. Taking the last gulp of my glass of Chianti I stepped away from the table and walked towards the front doors, away from the patrons, to smoke a cigarette.

I happened upon an elderly Asian man sitting on the street on top of a bamboo mat with sunglasses on, humming what sounded like the Time’s Are-a-Changin’, shaking the loose change in his cup as if it were a tambourine. When he saw me he stopped altogether and stared up.

“THIS IS WATER!” he exclaimed, in a amalgamation of accents, French, Chinese(?), English.

“Excuse me?”

The man began to rock back and forth violently, pointing at random objects around us (a fire hydrant, a piece of old gum on the sidewalk).

“THIS IS WATER! THIS IS WATER! THIS IS WATER!”

At first, I thought what most people in this situation would think to themselves, This guy is absolutely bat-shit crazy. I remembered, right then, my graduation ceremony at Kenyon in 05’. David Foster Wallace spoke and I remembered vividly his opening remarks, a story. It goes: “There are two young fish swimming, and they meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, ‘Morning, boys, how's the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, ‘What the hell is water?’”

Everything is water; this is water, all of this – it’s water.

I highly doubted that this French-Asian man had heard of David Foster Wallace, let alone a commencement speech he gave at a tiny liberal arts college in Ohio, and assumed that Foster Wallace had stolen the idea from this mystical Eastern French Asian man.

Leaning against the brick of the building I made a wreck of my cigarette and pondered the morning, the uneasy and unfamiliar feeling which crept into my spirit from deep within my depths, the sudden transformation that occurred to me as I confronted a history not my own, but still partly my own. Taking time to be mindful, I began to imagine all the wide-eyed precocious young American students filing into the Louvre with backpacks and marble black notebooks and red pens behind their ears; tasted the beef and potato stew that was being boiled in a tiny tenement home while young black children wrestled one another; felt the reverberations of waves crashing against the bank of the Seine; and, could even hear the whipping cast of a fisherman’s line as it flung out towards some innocent fish.

I sat cross-legged in a lotus position and chanted with him in a perfect language: “THIS IS WATER THIS IS WATER THIS IS WATER, THIS IS WATER …”