Moody nights.

To my macdaddy16-

I heart you.

*Yawn.

I’m in a somewhat restless place in my life right now. Not quite a student, but unemployed.  Not directionless, but unanchored.  I kind of wish the next 8 months will whisk on by, straight to the part I receive [hopefully] acceptance letters from pharmacy schools. And I will finally feel settled, situated, hitched!

In some ways, that’s exactly where I am in other areas of my life.  I’ve always concealed a glint of envy for those who seem so focused, so purposed in their pursuits, like they are following a clear and decisive trajectory to their intentional destination, wherever it may be.  To have a destination, a purpose and conviction is a blessing.  It’s like having a roadmap- it may not tell you exactly how to get there, but at least you know where you’re going.

I’m a day to day kind of gal, me thinks.  I’m not fond of thinking too far ahead, schedules aren’t truly my thing, and I hate packing clothes for a trip because I just can never tell what mood I’ll be in to wear what on what day.  I like to think I’m open-minded and adventurous, unbound, maybe even spontaneous. But then on many occasions I realize that really, I’m a bit shy of any of those.  Another side of me likes to play safe, follow the well-travelled path, afraid to let go of securities.  And when those securities build on you like layers of dust, doesn’t life get a bit bland?  Maybe what’s making me so restless right now is not necessarily the guesswork of my future, but the predictability of my present.

When have I become so boring?

I am in love. hopelessly.

…with this album.

J.R. Richard’s debut solo album: A Beautiful End (05/29/09)

Finally purchased the full album and I am completely, helplessly taken.  Former lead singer/songwriter of Dishwalla (the most underrated rock band of all time),  J.R. has a voice that reminds me of sophisticated, warm, dark velvet chocolate.  MMMmmm.
After Dishwalla went on hiatus for much too long, he’s finally come out with his solo album, and not only has it matched my formidable expectations, it’s gone up and beyond. There’s not a single track that I would not put on repeat all day. It boggles my brain that a talent like him is still doing gigs at local lounges, while ordinary cookie-cutter wannabees are soaring the charts with soul-less singles written for them by other people.

Premier Video- “A Beautiful End”

Buy the album. You will not regret. Or I owe you lunch.

www.jrrichardsmusic.com

I like…

Today is a public blogging kind of day.
Unfortunately, I’ve got me a jolly-o exam tomorrow but please, when did that ever stop me from procrastinating?

Today is a quiet, sunny day.  Today, my hair fell just right, I liked my subtle but cheerful outfit, and for a moment, the heaviness was lifted and my mind feels well rested.  Usually, Sundays are a blur. Starting from the 8 o’clock whine of the alarm clock, to the 5 year old energizer bunnies at Sunday school, the  11 o’clock drone of service, to the half hour drive to choir practice, to another 1:30 service I can barely understand in korean, and then the final hum of another choir practice.  Yesl’s energy bar deplete. KO. The end. Goodnight.

Actually, Sunday has come to be the most challenging day of the week for me.  Not because of the busyness or the obligations, but because Sunday’s are filled with mental confrontations that test my spirit and intellect (ok and sometimes physical body…. those pre-schoolers… -___- too old for this).  Sometimes I dread going into service, because it’s become a rare occasion for me to leave feeling personally fulfilled, without questions and doubts and disagreements spilling from my brain and pores. Sometimes facing your own disbelief and discord inside is an ugly thing.  But I still go, week after week, because I believe that one day there won’t be anymore discord in me, and because simply keeping away from what is uncomfortable is a form of quitting. And I, Yesl Cho, am not a quitter!

Today, I also discovered something I’ve come to love.  Church choir.  There are some truly radiant and beautiful voices in my small choir, mine not included fo SHO… but for about 10 minutes, every Sunday, at approximately 1:50PM, I’ve had the privilege of being part of something that really is bigger than myself or the people around me.  It’s like God took the simple song of a bird and created a masterpiece through 10 normal people, 10 very flawed people. Sometimes it’s very hard and disheartening. But sometimes it melts my heart and it becomes the most genuine praise that I could have mustered all week.

This was very refreshing for me today, because lately I’ve been feeling like I’m losing my grasp on the things I love about life.  I can’t really remember, anymore, what makes me feel happy, and free, and passionate.  Ever feel like sometimes you’re just breathing and each day only leads to the next, and the next… and should you miss one day, it actually wouldn’t be missed at all?  It’s like my life has been given a shot or couple shots of lidocaine- keeps you from pain,  but also keeps you from those sensations you would prefer to keep.

Therefore, in a feeble attempt to inject some nerve endings back into my so called life, I’ve decided to make a short list of what I remember about the things I like and love, big and small. Here we go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Great Outdoors.
So I hear this is a great appeal to guys. sure. The fit, active, sporty girl who can beat her boyfriend to the end of the 2 mile hiking mark in a stride and still look great in a sweat-free stretch tank. BLAH. I am not that girl. And that’s not what I mean by the great oudoors.
This past weekend I was dragged to a church camping trip out of pastor-daughterly obligation.  Some place in WVA called the Lost City. Despite my disappointment that I wasn’t going to be lounging under the soleil next to the crystal gates of Atlantis, I trucked my lazy ass through the endless cornfields and rocky dirt roads, all the way to………heaven. Well I didn’t see Jesus, or cupids or mounds of ice cream, but it was surprisingly serene and charming.  Guess WVA’s not just all about redneck’s and hillbillies (although I saw a  human skull resting on top of this one house’s mailbox out in the middle of nowhere…. O_O wins the award for most effective ‘keep away’ sign) It was the most relaxed and happy I’ve felt in a long time.  There was even a huge field of wild daisies!! The hills were definitely alive with the sound of music Next time, I must bring me along a namja to make me a daisy ring and frollick in the fields with. Jesus? You there? When?

Some pic-tours.

The gang.

With the parents.

Music.
It’s like a God-given remedy to…..anything.  Not fool-proof, but almost.
One thing I love is that you can be so damn real with music. You can curse the world and call your mother a whore and get away with it. In fact, people will either consider it as “artsy” and applaud you, or think you’re rebellious and funny and applaud you. Now I don’t condone calling your mother a whore, but you get the concept?  You can expose your soul, yet not be vulnerable.  Or it can mean absolutely nothing. I once wrote a song about twizzlers pull n’ peels,  and it somehow became personally enriching.  I think church hymns are great, I love musicals, and female singer-songwriters, and J.R. Richards. I’m starting to appreciate jazzier, more soulful tunes. It leaves you with a smile.
On a side, I went to a Jason Mraz concert recently and was blown away by the sheer talent.  I’ve always heard he was a bit of an arrogant prick, but now that is dismissable. You can’t be that endowed as a human being and NOT be an arrogant prick. It’s against the nature of human-ness.  God mraz, I wish you were less famous. I would love you so much more.

More pic-tours.

Before you go on judging us for our neon-colored Jason Mraz fan tshirts… it was POURING that day. We had no choice…

Tom cut off my J and Chiu’s M. I am not randomly pointing at the sky and Chiu is not trying to look cute.  Well, maybe he is.

Mr.A-Z, when he came out to the lawn Wish I got a better shot.

The Beach.
Maybe this falls into “The Great Outdoors” category, but I feel it deserves it’s own.
But, I’m gonna be honest with you.  I only love the beach when I am skinny and in shape.  When I am flabby and my thighs are shining half the sun in your face, I don’t care how blue the waters are or how soft the sand is.  I hate the beach.   Along those lines… I may  just hate my beach trip coming up this weekend…

Commas.
I, love commas.  I think they’re wonderful.  Whoever invented commas (no really though, who invented commas? I just googled it and got nuthin’) deserves a free ham n’ turkey sandwich.  You will notice, my extensive use, of commas. That’s because, I love them. Don’t ask me why. I just do.

All-Nighters.
This can be misleading.  I do not mean all-nighters in the study context.  I mean, chatting so late with a friend that you watch the sunrise together kind of all-nighters.  Sprawled on a couch somewhere, semi-conscious, drunk on the lazy drone of sleepiness but feelings of peaceful contentment as you linger on the most satisfying 6 hour conversation you’ve ever had with someone on absolutely nothing.  And then, suffering the whole next day together.
I miss it.

Um…………….

I like my pink teddy bear from my 24th birthday.
I like juicy pear and top banana jelly bellys.

I like this tiny bunny I found in my backyard. More than Hazel because it’s cuter than her. SIKE.

I LOVVVVVVVVVVVVVE my nephewwwwwww SOOOOOOOOOOoo CUTTTTTTTTTTTTE

I like this.
And this.

Oh god. And this.

And this.

Just kidding. Now I’m just picking random pictures on my computer. I don’t know why I have a picture of depends adult diapers on my computer.

I think I’m done. Maybe I’ll add more as I think of them.

Time to crush, or get crushed.

Ah, defeat.

I lose. You win, life.

I can’t think of anything else to write. I suck.

Why?

Can anyone please explain this to me? I am clearly not understanding this dress. Apparently some psycho designer thought it was a bright idea to undo the whole purpose of wearing clothing. I’ve gotta hand it to the guy though, whoever he is, for making quite possibly the world’s most hideous and foolish dress known to mankind.  Yes, hide your face- I would too.
I have no words for this:

Or this:

Along the same note… why someone would want to replace their arse with these saggy ones, really beats me, but I do [reluctantly] give it some credit for realistic-ness.

This world is a curious place.

20 hour bliss.

I’ve finally done it. The unthinkable. The incredible…

You know how sometimes, after weeks, months, or maybe years, of being cursed into a perpetual cycle of late night sleepings and late morning, or mid-afternoon, wakings- or if you work or attend early classes such as I, miserable and mal-functioning mornings… you tell yourself, after repeated failed attempts to sleep earlier, that you will just sleep SO late that you will break the cycle and cheat the system altogether! Like you will skip a whole night of sleep and sleep super early the next night.

Well, my avid blog readers (I know you’re out there… somewhere… over the rainbow… in my mind… -___- ) I have just woken up from a 20 hour sleep! Yes, TWENTY hours. Of unconsciousness. Of hibernation. Of pure ATP-generating, REM-ridden, drool-leaking sleep. It is currently 7:40 AM on this blissful Saturday morning, and I woke up feeling like I had just woken from general anesthesia, or like I had been frozen for 300 years and someone just melted me back to life. I vaguely remembered the dream that had been on-going for what felt like the past 10 years, and this surprising sensation of being lulled back into this other world that required actual muscular activation, after having been just semi-existent for the past day… it is awesome. I have cheated the cycle!!

And now, energy rejuvenated, mind re-stimulated, factory-a-functionin’……this is the first song I am prancing to: “Myspace Girl” -The Afters.  The music vid is entertaining.

And I’m digging this song lately: “Lay Back” -Rick Ross ft. Robin Thicke.

Pursuit of life by death.

We are too comfortable.
You, me, our next door neighbor living in the house with the primly trimmed lawn.

Because my previous entry (mini-novel) was so heavy, I was going to make this next post light-hearted, but in light of recent events, I’m compelled to speak my mind on matters that I feel are worthy of mention.

I first found out about Roh Moo Hyun’s death while I was vacationing at Obx this past memorial weekend from someone who had received a quick text from a friend. “Who’s Roh Moo Hyun?” she had asked, “cause he just committed suicide.” This bit of news induced about 4 seconds of reaction from me, and that only because my dad had been a huge fan of this former-South Korean President, before I resumed my game of pool or whatever else it was that I was doing. When I returned home, I did a quick look-up of the details of his death on news sites such as news.yahoo.com and cnn.com. Bribery scandal, they said. He killed himself from the grief caused by corruption probes led by the opposing Lee Myung Bak administration. ‘Ahh, typical’ I thought to myself. ‘Just another case of the good president gone bad, feeling remorse for his misactions’. And then I went on with my life.

I was ready to never think about this particular news ever again, when my father brought it up during dinner. Unbeknownst to me, my dad was scheduled to prayed over a funeral-service-type-rally being held for ex-President Roh in Annandale in just half an hour from dinner. He proceeded to explain the circumstances and events of this tragedy and all the political strife and unrest brewing in Korea at this very moment.

It’s really astounding, how easy it is to live in ignornance, especially when all is peaches n’ cream in your own tunnel vision world. All the while there is a storm raging right outside that tunnel, and you have NO idea (This is a side, but this is the very reason why I am skeptical when it comes to church missions. Self-fulfillment is really what it becomes, if you’re not truly going with the vision of battling the storm, which, we can’t really know of too well in the first place because we are just so shielded and unexposed. But, this is another entry post all together).  I’m sure we’ve all heard about the nuke tests going on in North Korea right now. At least for me, I read about it, sighed and shook my head at the mass stupidity of everyone, then went on to the next article. Quite honestly, judging by the current cirumstances and tensions between forces, and knowing the insanity that is Kim Jung Il, we are at the brink of war. This means, we are at the brink of obliteration, annihilation. Probably not of America, but of South Korea. And my reaction: sigh and shake of head! In part, you can blame this numbing of heart on learned helplessness. What can I do, what can I in all my mere civilian power change by caring about this right? So let’s just hope for the best and go on with my own lives.

I wonder if we’ll be feeling the same once we lose all our family and friends living in Korea right now, our own flesh and blood.

Here’s another issue I want to address. What the hell is wrong with Korean Christians these days? It’s one thing not to be supporting the forgiveness and reunification of North and South Korea. It’s quite another to actually be supporting the OPPOSITE. It is the church that is instigating, brewing resentment, bitterness, hatred for our fellow brothers. They are the ones who are actually applauding the death of President Roh as necessary, labelling him as a communist and quitter, fueling this war, this divide! “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God” -Matthew 5:9. Since when did the church forget the very core of the faith- GRACE?

It is very disturbing to know that my father was the only Korean pastor in all of the DC area that they could find to pray over the Roh funeral service. What comes to me as so natural in my beliefs as a Christian, is what causes others to call my father a bbal geng ee (red communist). But maybe that is what made President Roh so great. In the face of insurpassable opposition, he stood up for what he believed in. He didn’t operate with a political machine to back him up, he was fueled purely by his passion to work for the people, those with no voice or power, to destroy sects, and to reunify our country. It’s easy to say that you want to live your life abandoning comfort and wealth, and instead throw yourself into the fire of injustice with your bare hands, but it’s another thing to actually do. In my opinion, he didn’t die as a quitter.  According to an interview held “off the record” some years back, President Roh said that the reason why he loved President Lincoln so much was because his death led to the reunification of the North and the South.  Even up to his very death, he worked for a better cause; he was a peacemaker.  Maybe that was President Roh’s intent as well.  I don’t believe he feared death.  I think he wanted, in his death, to revive all that he had worked for in his life, all that he had believed in.

We need more fearless people like him in this world.

My respects to President Roh.

Remember my name, grandpa. Teach me to love, grandma.

I have distinctly two solid memories of my grandfather.

The first one came from the year of 1997, when I was 12 years old and visited Korea for the first time in 8 years. I had known his face only through wrinkly pictures before then, because of my early departure from the motherland at the age of three.  I remember he had a meek and quiet demeanor, a man of few words, mostly likely from having lived in another case of the strong, alpha woman-dominated, emasculating household for one too many strenuous years of his life.  I followed my mother’s steps into the overcrowded, over-burdened house at the top of the hill and saw him hunched in the far end of the living area. I bowed instinctually, the first in my life, to him.  He smiled. 

I guess that’s an anticlimactic memory, but to me, it takes a lot to score a memory with just a smile. His was simple. While it left me a stranger yet to who he was, what he has gone through in his days, it was one of those kinds that made you feel loved in a curiously deep way. Like he could see right through me, and he knew what I was about, knew that I didn’t really want to be there in that dingy house that smelled of spicy wood and a mixture of unfamiliar body odors of one too many occupants that it housed. He knew I really wanted one of those melon ice cream bars at the small shop down the street that only cost 900 won (~$.90), but 900 won too many for my parents to give me.  And so he would frequently put some coins in my hand- a humble amount that could probably only get me one or two bars- discreetly, when my parents weren’t around. And then, without saying a word, he’d smile.

My second memory is from two years ago, when I made a second trip to Korea after another 10 years had gone by. I had just turned 21 then, and my grandfather was now….oh I don’t know. Old. He had been placed in a nursing home because he had developed Alzheimer’s and was not in hot shape. We spent just one afternoon with him. It was a very pretty day that day, fitting with the small but peaceful and endearing little nursing home he was staying at. He had shriveled and withered considerably. Brown age spots attacked his droopy skin entirely throughout his brittle body and his steps were labored and heavy. He even smelled of old age. The machine had run its course.

I enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that day, that he, in fact, recognized me. Me! When he didn’t even recognize my uncle, his own son whom he had lived with for the past 20+ years of his life. He even knew my name, and oh… that telling smile.  I walked out of that nursing home, knowing that it would most likely be the last time I would see him.  

Last night, my grandfather passed away.  The sorrow I feel from his passing is in that I didn’t ever really know him well enough to be able to feel … well, sorrow from his death.  I wish there were more memories than just two, I wish I had known who he really was, why his smiles were always so warm and inviting, even though he was a stranger to me since childhood. But I know he was a good man, because he was a part of molding who my mother became. So he had to have been a good man.

It’s funny, because even though today is my grandfather’s day, a day to remember him and mourn for him, and I have gone on about my memories with him, actually another person has mostly been on my mind today- my grandmother (from my father’s side). I never really liked talking about her to anyone, even after her passing last winter, and I think I’ve come to bottle up and stash away any sort of memories or emotions tagged in her name. But today, news of my grandfather is, for some reason, bombarding me with memories of this other deceased grandparent of mine.  So maybe I should spend some time thinking, maybe the first time ever, about what my grandmother’s been in my life. Why even after 7 years of having lived with her, I still wouldn’t hesitate to say that I loved my grandfather, who I’ve met only briefly twice in my life, more than I can say I ever loved her. 

My grandmother first lived with my family when I was around 11 or 12, after we moved to Virginia. We lived in a tiny 2-bedroom condo back then in Alexandria, so fitting one insecure 11-year old girl, one pubescent 13-year old boy, and their strong-willed grandmother into one small bedroom took quite the patience maneuvering.  I didn’t care too much for her back then, mostly cause she didn’t care too much for us, and well, more than anything I had other things to worry about, like being jealous of the new girl’s new platform sneakers or debating on whether or not to start shaving my legs. I believe she stayed with us for about four years, before complications with her visa and other issues forced her to return to motherland. Thinking back, I don’t have a single memory of her smiling sincerely at me during those four years. I can’t remember ever receiving a birthday gift, a word of affirmation, a grandmotherly embrace. What I do remember is her barking at my brother and I to be quiet whenever we would chit chat and giggle with each other in our beds at night. I remember yelling, fighting, anger between my father and my grandmother and frustration between my mother and father. Ah, she did have a voice that could break down the walls of Jericho, that lady. I remember it was around this time I developed a sort of distaste for older folks- their oldness turned me off and I dreaded the day I would be/look like one of them.

On one particular day, I found it odd that my dad had stepped into our room and decided to lay down in my bed. He ushered both me and my brother to come and lay next to him. Awkward, but ok. As we’re laying there, wondering what the heck is going on and waiting for something to transpire, my dad begins to sob- a deep sob that comes from the insides of your chest and stomach and one you can’t control because it overtakes every fiber in your body.  I remember his heaving was too much for me that day. The overflow of sorrow seeped into me and before I knew it, I was sobbing alongside my dad, not really knowing why and overwhelmed by my own submission to emotion. I looked over at my brother and he had a quizzical, almost mocking expression on his face, as though to say, “you sissy”. My sobbing stopped. Then my dad, in almost a whisper, broken by his quieter, now more controlled sobs, said, “You’ve had such a hard, hard life. I’ve done my best. I love you.”  It wasn’t too long from then that we found out my grandmother was going back to Korea.

I was so young and dumb back then to really understand what was going through my father’s broken heart at the time. Honestly, I can’t say I really understand now. I do know that my grandmother, one of the most strong-headed, proud persons I ever knew, lived with a husband who drank carbon monoxide in his sleep one night and became paralyzed neck down for 18 years before he passed away- nursing him, feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, cleaning his daily excrements, in a marriage since then devoid of intimacy, rest, and peace….for eighteen….years…. all the while caring for and financing 6 children. I can’t even begin to fathom her misery.

My dad is the youngest of four sons. There is a customary Korean tradition where the eldest son is obliged to house the parents. If he is somehow unable to, or has passed away, the next son is in charge of living with them, then the next son, and so on and so forth (there was no such thing as a retirement plan for seniors in Korea back then, adding to the reasons why sons were grossly preferred over daughters.  I suspect things might have changed by now, but it’s still definitely not as good as retirement plans here in America). Back when my grandmother lived with us the first time, she had gone down the line of her four sons. None of them wanted her. She was left with my dad, the youngest, but always the most mature and leaderly of the Cho clan. Four years was the longest she had gone at any place, but because of immigrant status reasons she was forced to once again circulate throughout the homes of her sons (and eventually, daughters) in Korea, until she somehow ended up at our place again, in 2006.

Here, she resided with us until the day of her passing. Three years. Three long…brutal years. I know that up until now I’ve sounded callous and unloving. Maybe at the core, I am. But I believe that I am sincere when I say that in the beginning, I was optimistic. At that point I was old enough to care about other people other than myself, and because I had never truly had a grandparent figure in my life and yearned for one, I heartily welcomed her stay with us. I always wanted to play the sweet granddaughter role… bake her cinnamon raisin muffins and sing her my songs. She’d recount to me nostalgically her days of old as I play with the fleshy wrinkles on her hands and laugh occasionally at her stories. I might delight her with my charm some days, I may take her for granted on other days; she won’t be perfect, I definitely won’t, but she’ll be my grandmother and I’d be her granddaughter. I would love her. Hell, I’d even break her hardened heart with my love.

I am still so naïve. 

I remember in those days, there was a certain invisible cloud that loomed and darkened every niche in our house. I stayed out for most of the days because I hated coming home to joylessness, hated seeing a big shadow that followed both my parents around everywhere they went. My mother oftentimes did not sleep with my father anymore. Like I said, it wasn’t like this at first. When she first came, the air was one of duty with a sprinkle of pity (no one wanted the poor woman, for Christ sake), and a whole lot of determination to treat her right. I learned a lot from my mother’s show of selflessness and hospitality during that first half year or so.  And for some time, it wasn’t too bad. 

This quickly changed when my grandmother’s health began deteriorating slightly. Little by little, one by one, the list of demands began growing. As we strived to meet them, she created another list- the list of complaints. Nothing was ever good enough, and when changes were made to suit her fancy, she found unending ways to find new reasons to dislike it. I remember one time my mother stayed up till 3 AM making a big pot of shikae (korean rice drink) because it was one of my grandmother’s favorite drinks and her weak stomach couldn’t tolerate harsher solids. If you’ve ever tried to make this stuff, you know it’s hard.  It requires a lot of dedicated time and attention. Finally, it was done. The next day my mother proudly presented her sweaty efforts to her, instructing my grandmother not to drink the canned shikae she obsessively kept by her bedside, the kind that was too sugary for her own good. What happened next still amazes and angers me to this day. My grandmother took one sip of the drink. Then she slammed down the cup back onto the tray with such force that it spilled all over the bedside table. “Do you think I’m too stupid to know that you’re feeding me all of your leftovers? I don’t expect you to treat me the best, but this is just too much!”, were her piercing words to my mom. I remember the look on my mom’s face. I remember her not being able to say a single thing as she picked up the empty cup and tray and exited the room. I remember seeing her back towards me, standing shoulders drooped in the kitchen as she just stood there for some painstakingly long minutes. I knew she was crying, from fatigue not just of the body, but of her soul.

I always find it funny that korean dramas are not always entirely fictional. I realized this fact from my experience with my grandmother, I kid you not. One time, I overheard some ladies in my church exchanging comments about my mother, about how my grandmother had told them that she was mistreating her. “Poor halmuhnee (grandmother)”, they said. “All the way here from Korea, with no one to take care of her and treat her well.” I never told my mom, for obvious reasons. But I later found out that she had known all along. 

The condition of my grandmother’s health fluctuated, but overall, it worsened over time. At some point mobility was lost to the point that she couldn’t make it to the bathroom on her own. Therefore, we began carrying her to the bathroom when she needed to go. This wasn’t a problem. However, it became one when she insisted on going every half an hour or so, throughout the day….and also, throughout the night. We had given her a doorbell button that she did not hesitate to use at 4,5,6 AM in the morning, when she would have ‘emergencies’. She loved to sit on that toilet, usually for about 30 minutes at a time, never flushing on her way out. Rarely was there anything in the toilet. But sometimes, she rang the bell for no reason at all. She would be sitting there at the edge of her bed with the glow of the nightlamp creating a silhouette of an emaciated, lifeless form projected onto the wall. There was a blank expression on her face, as though she were surprised I had come, as though I had interrupted some kind of exchange she was having with spirits in that dark, uninviting room. And she would simply wave her hand, motioning for me to leave. During one of these nights, I reached my breaking point. I roared at her, surprising myself with my own unleashed hostility, about the evilness of waking tired people up at 5 in the morning for no reason. I swear I could have hit her at that moment. I didn’t. My parents came running in to see what had happened, anyway. From then on, I would frequently steal the doorbell during the nights and place it underneath my double layered pillow, so that it wouldn’t wake my sleep-deprived, coldsore-ridden parents, and I could choose to go, or not go when I was feeling extra evil, as I pleased. 

Then, there was the diaper era. Oh, the diaper era. I sincerely hope diapering a newborn baby is slightly more pleasant than diapering a 92 year old female. There’s not much that I’d like to say about this. Just that it was gross. Very gross. 

There are endless stories of incidents that occurred during the next and last two years of my grandmother’s life that led to my gradual hatred towards her and all that reminded me of her. But there is one particular story that I still find hard to describe, the one event I will never forget no matter how hard I try.

I was out of the house, as usual, taking care of my own business, when I received an urgent call from my dad. His voice was out of breath and panicked, and he needed me home right away. My father is always calm, no matter what, so this caused me some apparent concern on my drive home. When I got home, I learned that my grandmother had wielded a knife and slashed her left wrist. I found this out because I accidentally stepped into a large pool of her blood on the hardwood floor of her room as I rushed in. I remember the blood. It was everywhere, like I had walked into a crime scene. And my grandmother, laying like a pile of bones on her bed. But she was gazing at me, breathing slowly, laborously. There was emptiness in her eyes. 

What’s weird is that to me, what was more unnerving than any of this was the memory of my father. I wish I could erase the image of my father during that surreal experience. I had never seen him in such weakness, such heartbroken desperation and helplessness than in that moment. He was breathing hard, making almost a wheezing noise, as he rushed around the room, half sobbing, half praying out loud as he repeated over and over the question, “Why? Why would you do this?” while he tried desperately to clean up the mess and cover up the damage. I was later told that that is a typical panicked person’s response- in a moment of panic and helplessness, you don’t know what to do and so you tend to matters that are trivial. 

From there, everything was a blur. The ambulence, the questions from the paramedics that needed answering, trying to contact my brother, my mother’s ashen face as she nearly fainted in the hospital room, my dad trying to talk to my incoherent grandmother, the waiting and more waiting in the hospital… I almost feel like I’m recounting scenes from a movie. It was all so surreal and surprisingly emotionless for me. I came home the next morning, fell on my bed, and my brain shut down. 

I know I should be asking myself what could have driven my grandmother to the point of suicide. How miserable must she have been, how desperate? But to be honest, I found it hard to even want to understand my grandmother. Because I’m afraid that when I do, it won’t be good enough. When our other family members were informed of this event, there was an outpour of sympathy for my grandmother. She must have suffered so much… she’s a victim of depression and loneliness… she just wanted to be relieved of her misery… Maybe I am heartless, maybe I lack compassion. But I felt nothing but anger. 

How could a woman of such holy background (her husband was a pastor, all four of her sons went to seminary school to become spiritual leaders in some form) disobey the sanctity of life by attempting suicide, one of the most serious of sins? Had she that little hope in God, in the eternal life she would reap in not-too-long from now? Was her soul that deplete of any source of joy or faith or love, that ungrateful, that dark, that she would resort to this? How could she bring upon such pain to her loved ones, those who were  living in sweat and tears trying to keep her happy, comfortable, peaceful? What honor would this bring to anyone? To God? 

I remember the next few weeks I couldn’t even look at her. She carried on as though nothing had happened, almost as though she were enjoying herself as she was being shown extra pity-love and pity-care by relatives. There was so much quality porridge, hanyak (chinese medicine), herbal pills, royal jelly, ginger tea, every conceivable healthy goodies you could think of overflowing from our kitchen cabinets and refrigerator. And of course, my mother was repeatedly urged to take better care of my grandmother, by the very same people who had more of an obligation to take care of her themselves, but had given up and relinquished those duties. It was during this time that I think I completely shut my heart to my grandmother. Somewhere in my subconscience, I decided I would never try to love her again. She was just another person living in this house. That’s all she would ever mean to me. 

Funny thing is, my mother began doing the same. I saw her grow colder and colder with each passing day, and each task became simply a task, robotic and unfeeling. She would no longer budge to those cursed doorbell rings. She no longer smiled or spoke to my grandmother besides the bare minimum. She was taping her wounded heart. But I could see that she was merely damaging herself… because deep down inside, I know my mother longed to love my grandmother. I know she died a little more each day from the guilt of being cruelly apathetic to my grandmother’s pain, of having quit, like everyone else, when she had been so adament about being different. And the ultimate guilt of leaving my dad to fend for himself. My dad took the nursing role during that long period of time, about one year, till my grandmother’s death. He did everything. Fed her, bathed her, changed her diapers. We were all so, so tired. 

It’s a hard thing to see. The collapse of a parent’s spirit and resolve. There are a million things they could have done differently; there is never an end to love. But at the end of the day, all you can say is that you tried your best. And I believe both my parents did the very best they could possibly do. And for that, they are my heroes. 

As for me, there is a place in me where my grandmother lives that I haven’t dared to venture yet. I’d like to forgive her one day for all the ways she hurt us, but mostly, I’d like to one day heal myself of the pride I have in not being able to forgive her. When all is said and done, she was the ultimate victim, a bitter, jaded woman who endured more suffering than anyone should in their lifetime. God has mercy on his fallen children, and I believe he will have mercy on her. How different are her sins versus mine? Is she not, after all, my own blood, in which no amount of wrongs can undo? 

I trust that she is in heaven now, and she is no longer fallen. She is pure, no longer suffering from her demons, and she loves us. When I think like that, it makes it a little easier to love her again.

 Rest in peace, grandpa. Rest in peace….grandma.

RIP, brain.

Exams aren’t over, I lied.
But I just finished a close to impossible one today and feel I rightly deserve some blogging down time. 

So I decided today, after a week of being cooped up in my room with my textbooks, notes, pens, whiteout (yes I use whiteout while taking notes) and facebook being my only company, and having a host of other obligatory activities and duties eating up my life… that I am just one of those people who cannot, and should not, ever, be busy. I honestly think I possess the lazy gene (that gene exists, I’m sure of it).  I love things like sleep, escalators, 30 minute wake up-to -get out of bed allowances, MAKING myself real breakfasts, etc.  I even moved downstairs because my room upstairs was too large. It should not take you more than five steps to get from your bed to your closet! I suppose I just function most optimally at a slower tempo. 5 minute showers, leaping to my car as I’m still putting on shoes, small talking with 10 different people in 15 minutes, schedules and schedules!
To me, that’s not really living life.  

Here’s what I call truly LIVING: College, first year. Roommate and I are loafing and sprawled out together on her bed, unwashed hair, sweats, our unrestricted bellies rising and falling as we laugh lazily at each other’s corny jokes, or recounting other people’s corny jokes and laughing at them because we secretly, but not so secretly, think it’s very funny. The only light source is coming from the glow of my computer from across the room.  We are munching on a pile of delicious clementines one of our mothers probably packed for us. All of a sudden, my screen saver starts up, the one where bubble letters bounce around slowly in a pitch black background.  Well, there goes our light source.  There we were faced with two stumping options: walk over to the computer and disturb the mouse to re-instate the original brightly-lit desktop, or walk over to the other side of the room, where the light switch is. Ah, but why not create a third option? Jane proceeds to grab a pile of clementine peels scattered randomly on her bed and propels them at my idle computer. After a couple attempts, we manage to hit the right spot and turn my computer back on. Mission accomplished! Why walk, when you can chuck clementine skins?
Jane Yang… my kinda girl <3 

 

Moving on- so here we have my not-so-beloved corner of my room in which I spent the majority of my past week. I’m not sure why I’m posting up this picture. Or any of these.

My diet during this time. Chocolate fudge pop tarts, girl scout thin mints and samoas, swedish fish gummies, cappocino wafer sticks, hot chocolate, and wasabi chips. Notice I was “Eating Right”. With the wasabi chips, anyway.

My anal schedule, posted around a day and a half before my test, as well as some good ol’ verses from the bible to inspire, reassure, and pretty much prevent me from ripping out my roots. 

And finally… an unexpected slurpee delivery. This was by far the best cup of pina colada slurpee I’ve ever had =)

Ok, that was sorta fun, and pointless.

Apologies. My brain is horribly dead and depleted today. Empty. Vacuous… Emtpy. Common post-exam symptom, what with all the information jam sessions and sleep deprivation… no surprise. It’s almost like feeling a bit tipsy, a numbing of the mind that puts up a palm to your super-ego and says, “nah uh, not this time. it’s Mr.ID’s turn”. I like it. It’s a peaceful feeling sometimes, not thinking or feeling, just being, and resting in existence.

I feel like a tree. I’ve always wanted to be a tree. A willow tree, or a chestnut tree! Anything but the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. That wouldn’t be peaceful at all. 

Goodnight.