In e.e. cummings no capitalized letters style
A brief Truffles update: she is no longer all that small, but she forgets how long she's grown. She still tries to fit into pots meant for sproutlings and baby bunnies. I have no idea whether this hurts her feet, but she's a trooper.
A brief update on my life: I've got a month and a half before turning it in for the summer! Here's to one last sprint to reach this year's finish line. Send prayers my way because I'd really like to be promoted to third year medicine.
Anywho: onto the poem!
we are a pair of thieves, merciless
-ly taking—her from the leaves plants air out to
dry, and me from the female counterpart of father
time. she never seems to side-eye judge my
greed—and I twisting tongue justify hers.
there is serenity in communication
barriers: no words just the pounding of paws and
feet, no fear just exhale
confessions into pointed
me more than my
race understand how to be
human. it is an odd species i family-belong to, and
black-sheep wish i could understand you instead of ghosts of
men drowning insults in sweet nectar kisses—i can hear the innuendos in their
snake-smiles, can taste desire in their gaze, can feel heart pounding punchlines miles
primal. politics is
civil, so, we go on, one-night-stand
pretend it's no big deal and virgin shame
conservatives, and tiptoe around
feelings, utter cover up
confessions meant to feign
embarrassment while shutterbug taking
memories of what we really keep
my truth is not silent, and, therefore
i am primal—hair tossed in the
wind, right side shaved
short for the brevity of our time
together, for the
sweltering summer months i spent
out in the open road to
if i could steal the hands of
time, wind it back to twenty
fourteen, i’d steal leaves aired out to
dry instead of glances in your direction.
i’d steal star-crossed
dreams and words from
civilization, shake out excess
instinct and keep going.
i’d find her earlier, and
learn how to use paws instead of
hands. it is our handshake language:
i call her name, assume she listens, and she
puts her head in my palm, assumes my constant presence.
A few weeks ago, just before another grueling round of exams, I met Truffles––the adorable, the curious, the furry.
At two and a half months, she's (quite literally) a handful. She's been sampling our garden plants like an epicurean, and she's mad for my mum's ferns. I'd say she's settling in quite well, apart from her spoilt rejection of her dried hay in favour of fresh garden grass. After a few days of opposition, Mum's accepted our new member of the family.
As for myself? I'm completely attached.
Truffles the Smol is here to stay for (hopefully) a very long time.
Last year, I wrote this poem for my cousin.
We both have the tendency to trade God for golden idols we really have no use for, but fortunately, we've found our way home... After a bit of a stumble and a rumble and a tumble.
She just turned twenty-two on this lunar year March 6th
Just about to throw away her textbook and see the world
But, she realized there’s much trouble she needs to face
Sometimes she wishes she could return to when she was twelve
When her only responsibilities were going to school, simple, without worries
She’s like a flower bud full of hope
The days between January 29 seem to draw closer together, and filling them in with a series of nothings seems easier—these blue skies meld in and out of each other too fast for me to follow. This is what writers mean when they say life is short: life in itself is a series of long drawn out days that converge into a single moment, gone before anyone ever acknowledged its existence.
I’ve been thinking of Paul Kalanithi’s words: A sigh, and the earth continued to rotate back toward the sun. In some ways, the fact of my own mortality hangs above my head. I am reminded of it daily—my medical books are elaborate descriptions of ways to delay death, my patients are flesh and blood reminders of how debilitating disease can be, my classmate(who was faithful, kind, and God-fearing)’s very recent passing is a painful reminder of the unpredictability and brevity of life.
Am I more like Grindelwald? Shall I die just a little as the days crawl past? Shall I feel my youth wane and my joints grow heavy? Shall I feel my skin sag and smile helpless as my (eventual) grandchildren toy with my chicken wing arms? Perhaps I shall. Even this slow wasting seems like a brief moment in the greater scheme of things.
We know this: humanity has lived long enough to become aware of our ephemeral existence. Still, we press on and attempt to carve out something substantial out from our numbered days. Still, we get up. We get dressed. We eat. We live. We read. We write.
I am not anxious about dying, or dying in pain. These may well be my end. I fear wasting the days before my demise. I fear blinking, and opening my eyes to another year gone without having improved myself, my relations, the world in the time span. And though I’ve been told (indirectly) that faith is not something desirable to have, I fear losing my faith. I fear watching it wane until it becomes ghostly and irrelevant to me. I fear my God turning away from me. I fear myself aiming for the earth again, and losing heaven in the process.
So, may this be the year I get up. Get dressed. Read. Write. Live. Act. Do. Resolve. Believe.
Perhaps, then I shall come into the next year satisfied with all my hands have done, and all my eyes have seen.
Send me skyward, to parts unknown, to paths feet have yet wandered, to prayers I have muttered. Send me onward. Though my shoes long to stay cement glued to the ground, send me forward. Away, to countrysides and skylines, to parched lands and endless seas, to scorching heat and biting cold.
I will follow: open armed, eagle spread willing. I will go: backpack ready, shoes on when I sleep. I’ve learned what it looks like to stay static, always fighting time and space and God. I’ve learned what it looks like to play with fire, taunting flames until one of us gets burned. Most often, the victim is me. I’ve learned what stars look like from the wrong side of the earth. I’ve learned reckless hymns, sung to justify my wrongs. I’ve learned the path of least resistance. I’ve learned contempt.
Send me forward, and I’ll learn to want better things: the steady turning of gears, a well oiled machine. Send me onward, and I’ll learn how to steer past pirate ships. I’ll learn how to keep dreams in my pocket, tend them quietly until they grow into realities. Send me patients, and I’ll learn how to love them. Send me typewriters, and I’ll learn to write again. Send me more, God, and teach me to have more faith again.
Send me skyward, and I’ll grow wings again. I’ll learn all the flying I’ve forgotten.
There were sea lions and whales here last summer... I taught my younger cousins to call them blubber nuggets.
One : Honey drenched lips, speak
my name in morse code
memories I can’t remember
Two : Rough hands scrape
shoulders, and I doe
flinch—even stags run from
Three : Echo familiar names, syllables
I once ballerina turned to. Now, I am
roundhouse kick solid
stance ready for a fight.
Three : Fairy dust fiction, and I still
Peter Pan believe
Four : Character arc un-
predictable: weather forecasts
sun, but it storms
beneath pale arched
eyebrows and long pitch black lashes.
Five : Make sense of these
lines I bridal veil hide
behind, pull me apart. God
knows you want to.
Excerpt from letters I've been writing to strangers about friends I once knew, and the people they could have been.
Five thousand steps from where I lay, there’s a boy with blistered feet. His shoes two sizes too big, passed down one year too soon. On Mondays, he walks east, and we meet—peripherally. Incidentally. The way seagulls note the presence of fishermen as both parties attempt to catch fish.
On Mondays, his feet blister from shoes he tries too hard to fill in an attempt to pacify beasts in his chest fed by the cloud heavy lie of his head: “Never enough, Never enough,”
Soundless noise whispers in his ears. It is so loud he misses my greeting, so distracting he misses me entirely.
Two thousand steps from where I lay, he steps on beds of sands in shoes that fit. Size ten.
On Tuesdays, he shakes of his beast, and he is himself again—feet nimble and quick, Meleager besting Atalanta. Without the tricks.
On Wednesdays, his burden presses against his breast, and his shoulders sag beneath the weight again. He feeds the beast lies, believes them to be true in the process, and when made aware of their falsehood, continues to believe them anyway.
From where I lay, I pray to God for telescope vision, or needlepoint fingers to pry the monster from his frame. From where I lay, he is no longer visible: feet too weary to prop legs up, legs too heavy to stand.
He does not hear me when I ask him: whisper your secrets so I may Atlas-carry your burden. My shoulders tuck neatly beneath your arm for you to crutch-lean upon me for support, but still he pushes up at burdens. Pushes me away. Like I said, we meet peripherally—Winter and Spring, our feet never bringing us close enough.
Below is what a hippocampus ought not look like. You have been warned.
My hippocampus has classified you between
remember and forget,
has synapsed intermittently
You had spiked up hair then,
now, it lays flat under pressure:
stuffed information we try to trap in
to porous jars flowing outward.
You plan a couple of years down the line, indirectly
ask me if we can walk this road together—still,
I classify you as intermittent,
between transient and permanent—still
daring you to say it, to
spell out the letters I read
in between the lines
me to find.
I’m working on a hypothesis:
eternity never ends, keeps
going within bounded
time you give me.
I think I’ve found it:
cosmic burst happiness
you break me.
I think I believe in
I've been on hiatus–nothing you couldn't have deduce from my archive history–for a couple of months in pursuit of my education. The short of it: I am learning to suffer. The long of it I shall attempt to type out soon.
On another completely unrelated note: hence forth, consider my title capitalisation literary blasphemy or a reference to E. E. Cummings decapitalisation of i's. Truth be told, the sharp edges of title capitalisation bothers me. I have no idea why. Perhaps I am compensating for... something... Clinical psychiatry may answer that question... Or I'm simply rambling and all this is a distraction.
Well, go on, poem down below.
The clicking of typewriter keys
have faded, and the ledger scribbling
ceased, and the sound of laughter
muted by heavy textbooks and headphones
tuning the rest of the world out lest I
decide this isn’t worth pursuing anymore.
This is my life now: stethoscope
amplifying your heartbeat while
tuning out what makes your heart beat
I am trying,
convincing myself, spitting
theories of delayed gratification, consoling
my weary heart
wants out, wants
anything but this, but
the heart is treacherous if it is consulted
for anything but its beating.
This is my life now: white coat wrap
dreams from reality’s biting cold, orphan
leave them on empty doorsteps, and ring the bell.
Someday, I will be back for you
when you have grown
aware of your worth, reject the birthright of my
arms when I finally have enough strength to hold you.
You have the right to.
I haven't been around lately, but there's a good reason for that! I'm nearly through with my first year of medical education. *Cheers!*
It’s been a surreal year. Medical school has always been one of my castles in the clouds, so to say I’m on the last leg of my first year after countless years of pre-empting excited relatives by saying “I might not even go to medical school” is amazing. It does feel a bit like an out of body experience. I’m still trying to comprehend what I’ve gotten myself into.
To be honest, I felt like throwing in the towel about two months into it. (My uncle talked me out of it after a phone call, fortunately, so I'm still in the rat race!) I have never studied this much in my entire life—and I wasn’t even studying as much as my classmates. I wasn’t used to putting so much effort into something and simultaneously failing to get the results I so wanted. I’m not being modest. My grades are quite unspectacular, and no matter what anyone says to cheer me up I can’t bring myself to believe them otherwise.
But somehow, I’ve gotten through to the last two sets of exams relatively unscathed. In fact, if we don’t count the damage medical school has done to my intellectual pride, I’d say I’m in a pretty good place.
I can already feel the lure of the summer—the guilt-free pleasure of sleeping eight hours a night, the liberty to wear anything but that restricting white blouse and pencil skirt, the privilege of reading at my own leisure. It’s very tempting to watch movies and read novels instead of putting in the effort for the last leg of the school year.
But as a future physician, that’s just not the way to do it. To become the woman I’ve been reading about and praying about, I know I have to do two things: press on & finish strong.
Recently, I’ve been actively following Megan Rapinoe, and devouring her presence on social media. For those who are unaware, she’s a professional football player—the soccer kind. She plays as midfielder of the US Women’s National Team, and she’s a bit of a maverick in the best way. She’s amazing on the field. Her cleverness manifests itself in the way she plays. She plays her opponents, and I think she’s wonderful if you haven’t already guessed from me writing this mini-fanatic paragraph.
She’s had two separate ACL injuries that have caused her to miss the 2007 Women’s World Cup as well as the 2008 Beijing Olympics—both extremely important football tournaments. I imagine it’s a difficult thing to work so hard for the great big fight only to find yourself incapable of participating. You’ve worked so hard for it!
It’s odd that she motivates me so much at the moment, but she does. So much. It takes discipline to get back up your feet. It takes discipline to approach an injury without whining and to say from the start “what do I need to do to get to where I want to be?” Here I am feeling incapacitated, and there she was recovering from her ACL injury to go on to play in the 2011 World Cup and the 2012 Olympics. It’s a mindset, and you have to want to get to where you want to be.
To me, she’s the perfect example of pressing on. She’s the example of Philippians 3:14 that I’ve been striving to embody—you fix your eyes on the prize, and you fix your eyes on what you were called to do. In my case, it’s becoming an A plus physician. That’s the goal. I’ve prayed about this. I’ve journeyed through so many road blocks to get here, and now that I’m here, am I still pressing on? Am I still putting in the effort? I should be. I want to be.
I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.
At the same time, I realise more and more the reason to be resilience—to never waving the white flag—to finishing strong. In my case, I want to do my best out of love for my God, and love for the kind of being He is. He values my hard work, and If I really valued Him and His opinion, would I be putting in any less than all my effort? If I love this profession, would I really be looking for ways to simply get by instead of persevering until the very end?
This is what it means to run the race—it means you’ve found something worth enduring for. It means you ought to endure. It means it’s going to be a long five years. It means there will be struggle. It means you will falter. It means you will fall sometimes, but you can choose to get back up. It means there’s light at the end of the tunnel. It means lean on Christ, and lean on your friends. It means through hard work, prayer, and nothing short of a miracle, you’ll get there someday—just as others have done before you.
It means press on. Finish what you started. Finish strong.
It is, once again, exam week. How I've been surviving medical school with my dismal study habits is beyond me, but here I somehow am!
I'm thoroughly excited for exams to end, of course, primarily because I'm a terrible test taker and secondarily because The Icarus Connection is launching on March 23rd!
This is my brain child.
If you've never heard of Icarus, he's the son of the great craftsman Daedalus. The father son duo were stuck on an island called Crete, and in an attempt to escape Daedalus fashioned wings for Icarus... Made of wax. When he got too close to the sun, the wings melted and Icarus was no more.
Most people find this a sort of tragic warning story against ambition. I find it the opposite. Some passions are meant to consume us. Some passions are worth burning for. Granted, it isn't very pleasant but somehow the greatest people of history have been refined by iron and fire.
This is what me and my friends at The Icarus Connection stands for––the value of pursuing passions worth burning for, particularly through expression in the performing arts of poetry and music.
We're holding our launch event March 23rd, in Blue Rocket Cafe + Kitchen. Our website is over at icarusconnect.tumblr.com, and we have a Facebook page if you find the need to visit it. It doesn’t look like much at the moment, but we’ll be updating it as we go along.
So there you have it. Hopefully, things go smoothly for me––both in my exams and in our launch event.
Maybe I'll see you there, yes?
I've been performing this piece a lot lately. (To be exact: twice) Or at least, as much as my medical school schedule will allow.
Today, I had the most wonderful opportunity to perform this poem in the opening of Pinto Art Gallery's new wing for the Academy of Arts and Sciences. (I hope I got that right, I'm a bit dazed at the moment but I do believe I got that right.)
This poem is about growing with people and out of people.
Video shall follow soon, so do stay in tune for that.
Much love, etc.
Matter cannot be created nor destroyed, so
we deconstruct to reconstruct,
abide by the laws of conservation.
anatomy ones in my case—try
to piece together the parts
that make us human.
haven’t quite figured it out yet, but
we are all too willing to try
with every person who comes our way.
See, I did the math—or
I let Google do the math.
We have a candlestick life expectancy
of about 78 years.
With each sun’s cycle, we
are likely to interact with 3
new people in our sky rise cities.
80,000 in each lifetime—80,000 potential subjects
in our effort to decipher ourselves. They arrive
with hedge clippers to trim us down to size, or sometimes
we trim them.
There are people
who aim to leave black hole traces—tattoos
that serve as living proof of their existence.
trace the laughter lines around your eyes, translate
your wrinkles into poetry.
If you’re lucky, you’ll meet people like him.
If you’re lucky, he
will leave his fingerprints on your skin without
will fill your life with
until he is everywhere your wandering gaze leads back to.
will make you feel ten feet taller, like the
world is too small for your hobbit feet—and if you are lucky, he
will give you the world—no, better—he
will cheer you on as you take it
by storm, be your shield when you
are wielding your sword.
He will deconstruct himself
before you, reconstruct himself
until you forget the days without him
and you’ll love it.
are treading on lego pieces, positioned to hurt yourself
when your path diverges and he
are constantly reinventing ourselves, we
were never meant to stay static.
We were made
with feet, meant to move with.
We were made
with dreams meant to grow
wings with, meant to fly with.
We have grown together, we have grown
out of each other,
See, you are my infinity—constructed to resurrect
from the ashes of memories I’d burned, programmed
as a constant form of energy, shapeshifting…
Brighter stars are said to eclipse their brothers—some suns
are never discovered because they’re not bright
enough to see, and I’m giving up believing
that people like you are still looking for people like me.
And I’ve given up
parts of myself to fit into your galaxy.
You have the tendency
to deconstruct parts of history, stitch together
the patches you like. Conserve
photoshopped perfection but sweep
the process of progression under the rug.
As for me,
I’ve been trying to conserve
photograph memories—these moments
in time—the fabric
of your red shirt as you clung to me
for positive energy, the sound
of your voice when you wouldn’t talk
to anyone but me--
I write them down in ink
on raw skin before I forget—before I reconstruct
images in marble, lose
the frailty of flesh in translation,
before my candlewick life blows over too.
Mine is a finite set from point A to B, and
it won’t matter if it contained
an impossible amount of little infinities—my set
is bounded, and one day, the curtains
will close, my cup run dry,
will be lost in translation:
Everyone’s memory of me
will be a scratchy darkroom photo, plucked out
seconds too soon, fading white
from the bright light drawn back windows let in.
Even then, I will be deconstructed—reconstructed to fit
into someone’s perception of the dead.
And even then, out of my 80,000 encounters,
It will be my greatest pleasure
to be inaccurately conserved by you.
Every year on the date mother went into labor to bring me into this world, I pretend to be wiser than I am and write myself a letter for the year to come.
If that seems weird, you should meet me in person. I'm just peachy. =]
As much as I'd love to gift myself this, it's a transatlantic plane ride away. Oh well, this letter will suffice...
Note: Satirical. While spacing out in class sometime this week, I wondered what my thought process would look like when coming up with a differential diagnosis. Did my neuronal personas have whiteboards? Names? Completely unproductive side conversations? Probably.
“Our patient,” a greying Dr H said, doning his century old white coat as the clerk whispered didn’t they phase out those old things? as softly as she could muster. “Has hypertension, excessive acne, and asthma. What is wrong with him?”
Bespectacled Jace raised his sorry excuse of a hand even if he didn’t need to. “He’s lonely and can’t get a date. Probably depressed.”
“… Wrong… On all accounts. His wife has been here since dawn. You, Anson,” Dr H nodded at his most promising clerk yet.
“Autoimmune? Lupus?” if he means it as a joke, Dr H wasn't buying it. He wrinkled his brow and sighed.
Dr H’s wrinkles pressed further into his skin. How disappointing. “Anyone else?”
Jawn again—“Thyroid problem? Increased T3 and T4 could cause hypertension and cystic acne.”
“Thyroid hormone levels are normal,” Dr H nodded. “But good try. You deserve a pat on the back from yourself.”
Anson shoved his glasses up his nose bridge. “How old is he? Could be environmental. Toxic air, toxic food, toxic twenty-first century lifestyle.”
“This isn’t helping your lupus case, you idiot. It’s never lupus.”
“Corticosteroids,” Kale said. Dr H never took her name seriously, and usually took her answers less seriously than her name.
Today, however, Kale’s answer was “acceptable.” He asks her to go on.
“Primary asthma,” Kale began, staring down at her smart phone, “leading to chronic intake of corticosteroids. Hypertension could be drug-induced due to sodium and fluid retention. Increased sebum production from overactive glands (also induced by steroids) can cause the acne.”
“You googled that!” Anson complained.
Kale shrugged. “You didn’t.”
The gist of it: I've been trying to keep focused on the work at hand, but since I am here blogging versus actually popping open my textbooks, I am failing miserably at being a medical student.
So, without further pitiful ado, here's a short poem that reflects my perpetually distracted state.
I need to stop
I sincerely hope wherever you wander, you are doing a much better job at living than I am.