Friday, February 21, 2014

anatomy of a break

To commemorate the past few days of blissful breakage (of attendance, bread, and red-envelope bills, that is). 


Friday 
They see the sea. At the aquarium, she finds him seated, watching the otters blow silver bubbles. A ceiling of mackerel, a wall of water: the bounds of the monstrous mobster-tuna's patrol. Schools of children, likely on field trips, clot the exhibits. They flee the flood for fried shrimps and frizzled mushrooms, among other stolen frissons. Eighteen and eager, they sign their own waivers, and bike away the blue day. They find a shelf in the rocky shore and read, legs dangling into tide pools. Adhesive Dippin' Dots (banana was best) tide them through the evening's engagement. Festivities carry over from school stage to kitchen, as they bop to Crazy Indian Video, with zip-up sweaters for saris. Discovery: he can still fit into pink laundry basket. He gives her roses and salted chocolate squares, which her brother eats for breakfast.

Saturday
She sketches to the grating Song of Auntie S, which blasts up the stairwell: 

Verse 1: This house must sell! 
Chorus: 小咪, you are in deep [poo-poo]!
Verse 2: Escrow1031Exchange!
Chorus x10.

She gets a great deal of drawing done, though. Several hours later: she is startled from sweet slumber by a pair of fragrant arms, belonging to none other than Cat. An inebriated Cat, in fact. In a small, decorative hat (almost). And that was that.  

Sunday
The Cat feels better in the morning. After church, they take The Cat for a walk at the duck-pond park, which is drained due to drought. The Cat hops into the cement mire, flaps her elbows, and transforms into a duck. Her brother savors the scene with a Snapchat.      

Monday
Three women on a squashy yellow couch watch Joaquin Phoenix pseudo-snuggle with Scarlett Johansson. She is sandwiched by Auntie S and the Cat. She wonders if men of the slight future will wear high-waisted pants, and if Los Angeles shall take on shades of peach and bisque. 

Tuesday
A blissful morning passes at the piano bench. What begins as an innocent lunch-date morphs into an escape to the City with the Big Red Bridge. They face each other on the train, pocketing stares; they walk in circles, not minding. With the swiftness of a coursing river, [Shang and Mulan] sneak into a glossy office building and ride the elevator to the top floor, where they encounter a ping-pong table and a conference. A trip to Ghirardelli yields salted-chocolate samples (Valentine's Day loss regained!). On the train home, they face backwards.            

Wednesday
She cinches the working-morning with a dumpling lunch, then bounces out the door / up a mountain with ☃ and a young padawan. The hills, normally clothed in flaxen fields, wear shawls of scraggly gray grain. Cheery chatter distracts from distance. He is propelled by Hi-Chews; she, by he; and the padawan by that springiness eternal. Animal behavior studies: a boy gleefully spanks his brother. A quick visit to Oceania: the bunny is not in, though winter's chill is gone. Summer is coming (hai-yah, House Stark!). 
That night, she dines with Jubbly: a pot of melted cheese (not fondue, but fundidos) and banana pancakes. They sneak off to Target, sigh over Lindt truffles of every cocoa percentage, deliberate between Cadbury Creme Eggs or nail polish, and rush home to process purchases by way of pie-hole.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

poems into pixels

Poems like these make standardized tests enjoyable. Had to share.
The world is a white bowl, the continents are carnations.
Finger-painted on iPad because stylus went into hiding :(. 

The Poems of Our Climate (1977)
by Wallace Stevens

I
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations – one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.

II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one’s torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.

III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

muah (ha ha)!

Yet another collaboration with my dear Julianne (woolianne) in Lit class! Today's exercise required us to churn out two sonnets in a half-hour. Sadly, we had barely finished the first quatrain of each before Madame Teacher collected them. In need of closure, I rushed home to complete the Shakespearean sonnet here (never mind Petrarch). Thus, I present to you Sonnet I, inspired by numerous after-school adventures at CVS Pharmacy, sub-titled "MAC Viva Glam IV" or "The Case for Lip Lacquer":

Within the garden of your pink visage,
The two-lipped tulip breaketh barren soil;
Though some would say it bare makes best corsage,
Gild them instead with hydrolyzèd oil.
Make no mistake, do not equate her to
Those ball-point instruments incarnadine --
The errant marks and quarks she does not woo,
Rather enhances character with shine. 
As pilgrims' palms and flushèd cheeks do meet,
A crimson cape seeks contours to caress;
Hark, hear her from cylindric bed entreat, 
Dost thou intend to waste her coy largesse?
When winter maketh lips Grand Canyon-shaped,
Ensure they be in blushing curtain draped.

... Our early Valentine's Day salute to you. XO