Summer's here folks! Which means the Bay Area is often cold and foggy and breezy. Lovely. So, since tomorrow is the first day of June, I'm going to start a new blogging project -- to spice up this boring ol' blog. For each day of June, I'm going to post a photo and if you think it's something interesting, come back the next day for more! Tomorrow is the official 1st day, but as a tease... Here's this little fella whose photo I snapped at the De Young. Anybody know who this is, let me know.
May 31, 2007
30 images of June
Summer's here folks! Which means the Bay Area is often cold and foggy and breezy. Lovely. So, since tomorrow is the first day of June, I'm going to start a new blogging project -- to spice up this boring ol' blog. For each day of June, I'm going to post a photo and if you think it's something interesting, come back the next day for more! Tomorrow is the official 1st day, but as a tease... Here's this little fella whose photo I snapped at the De Young. Anybody know who this is, let me know.
Transitioning within God's reach
Every day, I pass by a UCC church on my way to work. For several months now, a sign has been posted outside the wall on LeConte Avenue indicating the "church [is] in transition." I do not know where they have moved to or where the pastor has been transferred, but I've heard that it has been steadily losing membership and has been ailing for several years prior to this change. I can't help but wonder what is happening to the church now. And I wonder what is happening to the Church now. Where are the people going? Where do they go in search of faith formation, community, and spirituality? How do people go to understand God and how God intervenes in their lives? Ever since the beginning of human history, our faith institutions have been in transition. Since our creation, we have been transitioning - but I believe that no matter how much we have changed and will change, we cannot escape from the fact that we are a people claimed by God. No matter where we go, we could never transition out of God's reach.
May 28, 2007
Called by a different name
California Constitution Article XIX (1879):We were sitting in a roundtable formation, in a group of about 15 or so, talking about essays and craft and pedagogy. We were a small class and I wasn't too brave about speaking up. That is, until the professor turned to me and asked me how to pronounce the name of this particular writer we were discussing. I don't remember what the name was but I remember thinking it was something very Swedish looking, which made it quite impossible for me to even guess what the name sounded like (even IF I summoned enough courage to speak). But, what really made me tongue-tied was not the fact it was neither in Vietnamese nor in English, but because I was completely astounded by the professor's request. She thought that since my name is also "foreign" perhaps I might know how to pronounce the name.
SECTION 1. The Legislature shall prescribe all necessary regulations for the protection of the State, and the counties, cities, and towns thereof, from the burdens and evils arising from the presence of aliens who are or may become vagrants, paupers, mendicants, criminals, or invalids [...] and from aliens otherwise dangerous or detrimental to the well-being or peace of the State...
SECTION 2. No corporations now existing or hereafter formed under the laws of this State, shall, after the adoption of this Constitution, employ directly or indirectly, in any capacity, any Chinese or Mongolian.
SECTION 3. No Chinese shall be employed on any State, country, municipal, or other publi work, except in punishment for crime.
SECTION 4. The presence of foreigners ineligible to become citizens of the United States is declared to be dangerous to the well-being of the State, and the Legislature shall discourage their immigration by all the means within its power.
I think that as a word, "foreigners" is so quickly defined, redefined, and applied then re-applied that we too easily become inured to who and how we label "foreign". Within a group of my peers, in a group with which I felt comfortable enough to blend in (already beginning to sound problematic, yes?), I was set apart simply by the use of the term. I don't believe there are any malicious motivations behind much of our common usage of the word, and that is probably where our problem lies.
And when such terminology is used, it becomes too easy to fall prey to certain fears that lead to the exclusion, isolation, and ostracizing of certain groups. Which of course leads to other more dangerous desires?
Today, our church celebrated its 120th anniversary. 120 years in the heart of Oakland Chinatown. 120 years as a major community center. 120 years of faith narratives. 120 years of cultural heritage. An entire community of peoples who began their lives as an immigrants of one sort or another. This is a community built upon historical narratives embedded with cultural, political, social, economic, and religious marginalization. As the church continues to grow, it carries these loaded histories onward for the future generations. I know how difficult it is to live in the past, but it is one of the most fascinating aspects of living in this present church community.
In preparation for the 120th, we did a lot of digging. In our research into the histories of the church, we re-encountered the atrocious Chinese Exclusion Acts. Sadly, the texts of these old pieces of legislation are not that different from what we are hearing and seeing today. What we have now don't necessarily isolate the Chinese, but there are also a lot of other groups being excluded, isolated, marginalized, terrorized. We call them by a different name.
Back in the late 1800s, California "led the way in anti-Chinese nativism." It even became a partisan political issue. In the face of current events and in light of our advancements, I sincerely hope that Californians will continue upholding the title of "first" and "leader" by exemplifying how we should respect and value all human life as well as foster dialogue in global community.
May 27, 2007
Mua he ruc ro!
Trong nhung tuan qua, minh lu bu cong viec lam nen khong co thi gio de vua post blog bang tieng Viet va tieng Anh. Doi khi co nhieu viec phai lo nen minh hoi "tho o" voi nhung HATpost bang tieng Me De. Trong nhung cong tac hang ngay, minh cam thay nhu da quen mat mot cai gi do co net "A Chau." Trong nhung cong tac o trong so lam, minh quen cang nhanh hon cai "ve dep" cua thieu nu Viet Nam. Co chuyen nho, co chuyen lon. Co chuyen vui, va cung co chuyen buon. Luc nao cung co viec de lam minh ban khoan. Noi vay chu, vi lau roi kg gap cac ban, nen long minh cung buon nho... May ngay nay, thoi tiet lanh hon. Gio thoi veo veo, va cay co, hoa la bi gio thoi nghieng ngang... trong nhung giay phut duoc ngoi yen lang suy nghi, minh chot nho den Viet Nam. Nho den nhung ngay mua lanh lanh o Hanoi, nhung luc minh di doc bo Ho Guom, vua ngam canh ho, vua an kem cay. Nho den nhung ngay ngoi o trong quan cafe tai Saigon.
Va minh cung nho den nhung nguoi ban o noi xa xoi... khong biet nhung nguoi do con nho minh hay khong? Cac ai kia co trong nho kg? Cac ban oi, mua he da den roi, va du minh kg con o ke ben nhau, kg con di "dao pho", kg con di uong cafe, minh van nho den cac ban. Chuc cac ban nhung ngay he that tuyet dep! Chuc cac ban mua he ruc ro!
May 26, 2007
I'm not trying to cause a big sensation...
"This is the first time I've done this, by the way."
I realize I may be way, way behind the times since this was posted to YouTube in early April and I'm just now getting around to it... and in case there are folks out there who have not seen it, here it is. It is hilarious. I must confess, also, that I'm not familiar with The Zimmers (but this could change, really).
I identity with them! I mean, I sing off-beat too! Enthusiastically, but off-beat nonetheless. So, we're not that different?! I'd venture to say that these folks are probably hipper than I am, was, or ever will be. I've not done half the things they've done, and that's only from the video, not to mention everything else from their lives. If we had to count, just from the video, I haven't recorded with a band, I haven't played the drums, haven't beat up a guitar, haven't sung in a group this hip... so many things untouched. But I'm getting carried away. What I wanted to say touches something deeper in me -- more than just acknowledging that this video is belly-achingly funny or that these grandmamas and grandpapas are absolutely hip (more so than most of the folks I know!).
This entire enterprise demonstrates how disconnected I am. I've always noted that most of my friends and colleagues -- even from middle school -- were always much, much older than me, and in recognizing that I've (secretly?) relished the fact that they've deigned to allow my presence among them, as their peer. But, this goes beyond having older friends. It's the ability to connect with the older, stranger, more different generation; it's the ability to recognize the similarities and differences between me and my grandparents. Who knew that The Zimmers could pull off this amazing feat? It probably only took them hours, days, I don't know what, to prepare, but it probably began with them actually talking to some of these folks.
As with anything else related to older generations, seeing this video made me think of my grandparents, particularly Ba Ngoai (mom's mom). Ba Ngoai is an exceptionally cultured woman who has led a very difficult life. She has argued with and bribed Communist soldiers during the American/Vietnam War for visitation rights to see her jailed husband and son-in-law; she has searched battle fields for a missing soldier son; she has relocated, nurtured, and protected her immigrant family in an upstanding community; she has given homilies and prayed into health numerous family, friends, and neighbors; she reads the Bible religiously, and prays for each child, grand-child, and great-grandchild by name every morning, noon and night. In her old age, she has time to read prolifically. She gets her hair and nails done weekly and stays on top of Vietnam news -- from across the ocean.
And, ladies and gents, my Ba Ngoai also votes for her favorite idol.
I love this gentle, old woman, and I know so little about her. It's almost as if an entire museum of history is alive, flesh and blood, right here in our midst. A few weeks ago, an elderly gentleman in our church (who is practically 100) celebrated his birthday. We sat in a tight corner of the church in the fellowship hall, on one of those hard wooden benches worn smooth over the years. We talked about little things of no consequence, and I remember noticing his brand new Nike walking shoes. It was in one of those ordinary moments that he said he was not ready to die. His blunt statement caught me off guard. The honesty in what he said was so real, and the anxiety so visceral, I could not find any words to respond to what he said. And in his old, wizened way, he continued talking, saving me from bearing the burden of replying with some silly, trite statement. The experience touched me profoundly.
I wish that I could have done it better these years past. Seeing this video, I feel encouraged and uplifted... I guess this is all I have to say for now. I think I'll give Ba Ngoai a ring, to see how she's faring...
"Talkin' 'bout my generation, baby..."
I realize I may be way, way behind the times since this was posted to YouTube in early April and I'm just now getting around to it... and in case there are folks out there who have not seen it, here it is. It is hilarious. I must confess, also, that I'm not familiar with The Zimmers (but this could change, really).
I identity with them! I mean, I sing off-beat too! Enthusiastically, but off-beat nonetheless. So, we're not that different?! I'd venture to say that these folks are probably hipper than I am, was, or ever will be. I've not done half the things they've done, and that's only from the video, not to mention everything else from their lives. If we had to count, just from the video, I haven't recorded with a band, I haven't played the drums, haven't beat up a guitar, haven't sung in a group this hip... so many things untouched. But I'm getting carried away. What I wanted to say touches something deeper in me -- more than just acknowledging that this video is belly-achingly funny or that these grandmamas and grandpapas are absolutely hip (more so than most of the folks I know!).
This entire enterprise demonstrates how disconnected I am. I've always noted that most of my friends and colleagues -- even from middle school -- were always much, much older than me, and in recognizing that I've (secretly?) relished the fact that they've deigned to allow my presence among them, as their peer. But, this goes beyond having older friends. It's the ability to connect with the older, stranger, more different generation; it's the ability to recognize the similarities and differences between me and my grandparents. Who knew that The Zimmers could pull off this amazing feat? It probably only took them hours, days, I don't know what, to prepare, but it probably began with them actually talking to some of these folks.
As with anything else related to older generations, seeing this video made me think of my grandparents, particularly Ba Ngoai (mom's mom). Ba Ngoai is an exceptionally cultured woman who has led a very difficult life. She has argued with and bribed Communist soldiers during the American/Vietnam War for visitation rights to see her jailed husband and son-in-law; she has searched battle fields for a missing soldier son; she has relocated, nurtured, and protected her immigrant family in an upstanding community; she has given homilies and prayed into health numerous family, friends, and neighbors; she reads the Bible religiously, and prays for each child, grand-child, and great-grandchild by name every morning, noon and night. In her old age, she has time to read prolifically. She gets her hair and nails done weekly and stays on top of Vietnam news -- from across the ocean.
And, ladies and gents, my Ba Ngoai also votes for her favorite idol.
I love this gentle, old woman, and I know so little about her. It's almost as if an entire museum of history is alive, flesh and blood, right here in our midst. A few weeks ago, an elderly gentleman in our church (who is practically 100) celebrated his birthday. We sat in a tight corner of the church in the fellowship hall, on one of those hard wooden benches worn smooth over the years. We talked about little things of no consequence, and I remember noticing his brand new Nike walking shoes. It was in one of those ordinary moments that he said he was not ready to die. His blunt statement caught me off guard. The honesty in what he said was so real, and the anxiety so visceral, I could not find any words to respond to what he said. And in his old, wizened way, he continued talking, saving me from bearing the burden of replying with some silly, trite statement. The experience touched me profoundly.
I wish that I could have done it better these years past. Seeing this video, I feel encouraged and uplifted... I guess this is all I have to say for now. I think I'll give Ba Ngoai a ring, to see how she's faring...
"Talkin' 'bout my generation, baby..."
May 24, 2007
Cho Noi: Floating Market in Long Xuyen
They live among the boats, above the water. They sell fruits and vegetables; they also barter for a living. The little boy smiles and laughs that I am able to photograph him in his space.
May 23, 2007
May 21, 2007
From the beginning, again
In the midst of Commencement services, trustees meetings, and honorary degrees, our Community faced a death and birth -- one of our faculty members lost her mother this weekend, and one of our seminarians gave birth to a son. We say good-bye at the same time that we celebrate the new beginning, and in the midst of such busy-ness, this loss and this addition to our community mirror what our graduates are going through. As our grads depart from this place to enter into new ministries, they bid adieu to the familiar and enter into what is different. Good luck to all our graduates. May your ministries be fruitful.
May 18, 2007
Unstinking durians
Recently, a researcher in Thailand announced that he has successfully produced a less smelly durian. It's almost unthinkable that anyone would want to eat a less smelly durian. I have (enthusiastically) test-tasted the durians many times over, and believe that the more "odorous" durians are more flavorful. Do we ask an orange to have less pulp? Do we ask the dragon fruits to be less than themselves, less than the magenta colored skin, sweet white flesh, and hundreds of black seeds? What happens
The researcher also announced he is working on producing a thornless durian. What happens to the durian if it loses its smell? Without the smell and without the thorns, is the durian still a durian?
What happens when something so characteristic is changed, removed, manipulated in such a way that the thing is no longer recognizable? Can it still remain a durian? What happens to us if that were to happen? What if we were changed in such a way that we are no longer recognizable?
May 16, 2007
picnik-ing
I found a great online photo editing service called picnik, which you must try out. They're beta-testing all the hot features so if you register now, you'll be able to edit your pix to your heart's content. A great feature is called "gooify" (something I'd love to apply to real life). They allow you to upload (very speedily) pix from your computer, from google's picasa web albums, flickr, from yahoo search, from flickr search, and from webcam photos. After the two phases of regular editing and then creative editing, you can choose to save the photo to your computer, to your online web albums, to flickr, to flickr slideshow, or even email or print your photo. The only reason for your photos looking unpretty is our lack of creativity and poor editing skills -- or ugly subjects. Fantastic stuff. Express your creative self!
May 15, 2007
May 13, 2007
A Mothering God
Nhan dip Mother's Day, minh muon make a note ve mot van de rat quan trong doi ve nhung nguoi CDN. Trong Hoi Thanh Viet Nam, o trong hoac ngoai nuoc (va nhat la nhung HT conservative), it khi co dip nhac den nhung language minh su dung de noi ve DCT, e.g. the naming of God. Minh nghi rang day la mot dieu dang noi den, va neu co the nghien cuu them, minh rat muon "nhung tay" vao mot it "theology" - vi Than Hoc rat quan trong cho thuoc linh va tam linh, especially trong thoi dai nay...
Given the socio-historical contexts of the Israelites, given the diverse contexts of the OT writers as they were writing the old testament texts, they could not help but use masculine language to describe and articulate their understanding of God. Naturally so, because back then inclusive language was not a primary concern like it is for us today, because they lived in a patriarchal, if communal, society, because the gendering of Yahweh was within the context of a male-dominant society. For the Israelites as for the early Christians, God was (is) male and God was (is) imaged in male/masculine language.
It is interesting that we so often forget that the Israelites were a community of peoples forged together through adversity, and that they understood and lived the concept of community and family, and thus they understood with deep conviction that God's relationship with them was not just as God the Father but also God the Maternal. The biblical texts (such as in Isaiah, Psalms, Hosea) demonstrate that God was also envisioned in maternal images (e.g. God who is so compassionate and forgiving like the mother who never forgets the children of her womb). They could not ignore their mothering God, a God so loving and caring that they must write about God with feminine descriptors. Theirs was a God who not only protected and punished like a warrior but one who also nurtured and guided them like a mother. Throughout their people's histories, God was understood as having intervened in their lives as a mother who watches over her prodigal children, the ones borne from her own womb whom she could never forget. It was thus recorded in the ancient texts.
And as histories changed and were rewritten, we seemed to have forgotten. We've seen so many narratives of the warrior, of the punisher, that we forget the embodiment of what is so critical to human sustainability -- Grace in all its forms, whether male or female, whether gendered or neutral, but Grace nonetheless. Unphasing, unearned, but unequivocal Grace.
As I think on our mothers and the roles they have played in our lives, I know it isn't wrong to think of God as a mothering God (I should say I stole this descriptor from Dr. KJKuan, Prof. of OT at PSR). As a person of faith, it is often difficult for me to reconcile old church texts (e.g. Book of Common Prayer, Hymnals, Bible, etc) that articulate an understanding of God in certain ways (i.e. male-centric language). Inclusive language plays a large part of whatever liturgy I participate in, and my consciousness of the lack of inclusive language battles each time I sing one of those favorite old time hymns.
This is something I still have to think on. As I begin to articulate more freely about my theology and my Christology, I have to ask how far I am willing to go... I would love to hear more thoughts from folks on this. Email me if you wish to keep it personal -- our articulations don't always have to be verbalized (displayed) in this pseudo-private/public space.
Given the socio-historical contexts of the Israelites, given the diverse contexts of the OT writers as they were writing the old testament texts, they could not help but use masculine language to describe and articulate their understanding of God. Naturally so, because back then inclusive language was not a primary concern like it is for us today, because they lived in a patriarchal, if communal, society, because the gendering of Yahweh was within the context of a male-dominant society. For the Israelites as for the early Christians, God was (is) male and God was (is) imaged in male/masculine language.
It is interesting that we so often forget that the Israelites were a community of peoples forged together through adversity, and that they understood and lived the concept of community and family, and thus they understood with deep conviction that God's relationship with them was not just as God the Father but also God the Maternal. The biblical texts (such as in Isaiah, Psalms, Hosea) demonstrate that God was also envisioned in maternal images (e.g. God who is so compassionate and forgiving like the mother who never forgets the children of her womb). They could not ignore their mothering God, a God so loving and caring that they must write about God with feminine descriptors. Theirs was a God who not only protected and punished like a warrior but one who also nurtured and guided them like a mother. Throughout their people's histories, God was understood as having intervened in their lives as a mother who watches over her prodigal children, the ones borne from her own womb whom she could never forget. It was thus recorded in the ancient texts.
And as histories changed and were rewritten, we seemed to have forgotten. We've seen so many narratives of the warrior, of the punisher, that we forget the embodiment of what is so critical to human sustainability -- Grace in all its forms, whether male or female, whether gendered or neutral, but Grace nonetheless. Unphasing, unearned, but unequivocal Grace.
As I think on our mothers and the roles they have played in our lives, I know it isn't wrong to think of God as a mothering God (I should say I stole this descriptor from Dr. KJKuan, Prof. of OT at PSR). As a person of faith, it is often difficult for me to reconcile old church texts (e.g. Book of Common Prayer, Hymnals, Bible, etc) that articulate an understanding of God in certain ways (i.e. male-centric language). Inclusive language plays a large part of whatever liturgy I participate in, and my consciousness of the lack of inclusive language battles each time I sing one of those favorite old time hymns.
This is something I still have to think on. As I begin to articulate more freely about my theology and my Christology, I have to ask how far I am willing to go... I would love to hear more thoughts from folks on this. Email me if you wish to keep it personal -- our articulations don't always have to be verbalized (displayed) in this pseudo-private/public space.
May 12, 2007
ngay Tri An Tu Mau
Nhan dip ngay Mother's Day, minh muon goi den Me cua minh, va goi den tat ca cac ba Me mot loi cam on va mot loi thuong yeu. Khong phai chi hom nay la biet rieng cho Me, nhung moi giay phut la cua Me, vi khong co Me thi chang cho con. Khong boi Me sinh ra va nuoi duong, thi nhung nguoi con khong khon lon va truong thanh den hom nay. Khong co Me thi nhu "mat troi khong anh sao dem." Tat ca nhung gi con dat duoc la do Me -- do Me nuoi nang, huong dan, bao ve. Me la y nghia cua doi song, la nguon suc song tu Dang Chi Cao.
Cung nhan dip ngay ghi on Me, minh nho den nhung nguoi khong phai la Me trong phan the xac, nhung la nhung nguoi Me Tinh Than -- nhung nguoi foster mothers, stepmothers, aunt, grandmothers, sisters, v.v. Ho la nhung nguoi vi ly do gi do da phai lanh trong trach lam "me", la trach nhiem khong de. Cung cam on nhung nguoi Cha, anh, cau, chu, ong, v.v. Ho cung la nhung nguoi mang trong trach lam "me", la nhung nguoi huong dan, nuoi nan, va bao tro. Minh biet on tat ca nhung nguoi "Me" trong doi. Bai hat sau day noi len niem biet on va tinh yeu danh cho Me. Cam on Me da lam guong sang lang cho cac con. Chuc Me nam moi day hong an.
Bông Hồng Cài Áo
Một bông Hồng cho em
Một bông Hồng cho anh
Và một bông Hồng cho những ai
Cho những ai đang còn Mẹ
Đang còn Mẹ để lòng vui sướng hơn
Rủi mai này Mẹ hiền có mất đi
Như đóa hoa không mặt trời
Như trẻ thơ không nụ cười
ngỡ đời mình không lớn khôn thêm
Như bầu trời thiếu ánh sao đêm
Vào Nhịp Thanh Thoát
Mẹ, Mẹ là giòng suối dịu hiền
Mẹ, Mẹ là bài hát thần tiên
Là bóng mát trên cao
Là mắt sáng trăng sao
Là ánh đuốc trong đêm khi lạc lối
Mẹ, Mẹ là lọn mía ngọt ngào
Mẹ, Mẹ là nải chuối buồng cau
Là tiếng dế đêm thâu
Là nắng ấm nương dâu
Là vốn liếng yêu thương cho cuộc đời
Rồi một chiều nào đó anh về nhìn Mẹ yêu, nhìn thật lâu
Rồi nói, nói với Mẹ rằng "Mẹ ơi, Mẹ ơi, Mẹ có biết hay không ?"
-Biết gì ? "Biết là, biết là con thương Mẹ không ?"
Đóa hoa màu hồng vừa cài lên áo đó anh
Đóa hoa màu hồng vừa cài lên áo đó em
Thì xin anh, thì xin em
Hãy cùng tôi vui sướng đi.
- Nhac Sĩ Phạm Thế Mỹ
Day la bai hat "Bong Hong Cai Ao" cua nhac si Pham The My, hat boi ca si Dan Truong. Available tai NhacSo.net
Versions sung by Le Tuan, Duy Khanh, Khanh Ly and Bang Kieu are also available at Vietnamese Music Database.
Cung nhan dip ngay ghi on Me, minh nho den nhung nguoi khong phai la Me trong phan the xac, nhung la nhung nguoi Me Tinh Than -- nhung nguoi foster mothers, stepmothers, aunt, grandmothers, sisters, v.v. Ho la nhung nguoi vi ly do gi do da phai lanh trong trach lam "me", la trach nhiem khong de. Cung cam on nhung nguoi Cha, anh, cau, chu, ong, v.v. Ho cung la nhung nguoi mang trong trach lam "me", la nhung nguoi huong dan, nuoi nan, va bao tro. Minh biet on tat ca nhung nguoi "Me" trong doi. Bai hat sau day noi len niem biet on va tinh yeu danh cho Me. Cam on Me da lam guong sang lang cho cac con. Chuc Me nam moi day hong an.
Bông Hồng Cài Áo
Một bông Hồng cho em
Một bông Hồng cho anh
Và một bông Hồng cho những ai
Cho những ai đang còn Mẹ
Đang còn Mẹ để lòng vui sướng hơn
Rủi mai này Mẹ hiền có mất đi
Như đóa hoa không mặt trời
Như trẻ thơ không nụ cười
ngỡ đời mình không lớn khôn thêm
Như bầu trời thiếu ánh sao đêm
Vào Nhịp Thanh Thoát
Mẹ, Mẹ là giòng suối dịu hiền
Mẹ, Mẹ là bài hát thần tiên
Là bóng mát trên cao
Là mắt sáng trăng sao
Là ánh đuốc trong đêm khi lạc lối
Mẹ, Mẹ là lọn mía ngọt ngào
Mẹ, Mẹ là nải chuối buồng cau
Là tiếng dế đêm thâu
Là nắng ấm nương dâu
Là vốn liếng yêu thương cho cuộc đời
Rồi một chiều nào đó anh về nhìn Mẹ yêu, nhìn thật lâu
Rồi nói, nói với Mẹ rằng "Mẹ ơi, Mẹ ơi, Mẹ có biết hay không ?"
-Biết gì ? "Biết là, biết là con thương Mẹ không ?"
Đóa hoa màu hồng vừa cài lên áo đó anh
Đóa hoa màu hồng vừa cài lên áo đó em
Thì xin anh, thì xin em
Hãy cùng tôi vui sướng đi.
- Nhac Sĩ Phạm Thế Mỹ
Mot bong Hong cho em
Mot bong Hong cho anh
Va mot bong Hong cho nhung ai
Cho nhung ai dang con Me
Dang con Me de long vui suong hon
Rui mai nay Me hien co mat di
Nhu doa hoa khong mat troi
Nhu tre tho khong nu cuoi
ngo doi minh khong lon khon them
Nhu bau troi thieu anh sao dem
Vao Nhip Thanh Thoat
Me, Me la giong suoi diu hien
Me, Me la bai hat than tien
La bong mat tren cao
La mat sang trang sao
La anh duoc trong dem khi lac loi
Me, Me la lon mia ngot ngao
Me, Me la nai chuoi buong cau
La tieng de dem thau
La nang am nuong dau
La von lieng yeu thuong cho cuoc doi
Roi mot chieu nao do anh ve nhin Me yeu, nhin that lau
Roi noi, noi voi Me rang "Me oi, Me oi, Me co biet hay khong ?"
-Biet gi ? "Biet la, biet la con thuong Me khong ?"
Doa hoa mau hong vua cai len ao do anh
Doa hoa mau hong vua cai len ao do em
Thi xin anh, thi xin em
Hay cung toi vui suong di.
- Pham The My, nhac si
 | Bông Hồng Cài Áo Sáng tác: Phạm Thế Mỹ - Thể hiện: Đan Trường |
Day la bai hat "Bong Hong Cai Ao" cua nhac si Pham The My, hat boi ca si Dan Truong. Available tai NhacSo.net
Versions sung by Le Tuan, Duy Khanh, Khanh Ly and Bang Kieu are also available at Vietnamese Music Database.
Poem in Summer
Always, the summer sun that pours
its chemicals into the trees
and takes a shape in fruit we like;
all produce of the thoughtless bees,
the wind--nature's routine lusts;
are dumped on the indifferent ground.
The celery's green foundation rusts.
Winter, fall, are permanent.
But in the greenhouse of the mind
the world flowers, or burns, by
other seasons: man's laboring ways.
Unlike the bee stuck to its hod
man sees the atom in a cloud,
but still, lives in a ritual daze.
The violent rich who stalk the earth
absorb the sun and auction off
all the summer's golden stream,
leaving us to eat, rebuild and dream.
We dream of feasts, of happy towns,
the green, yet warring earth controlled;
and nothing bought and nothing sold.
The bee that builds, the breathing leaf,
each of nature's subtle robots
must diet, turn its wheels, and die;
but we could choose the way we live:
against all senseless death unite
the single life to common force
and make our days and nights become
great open warehouses of the sun.
- Bert Meyers, 1953, unpublished poems
May 11, 2007
the Blue Door
a play with original songsby tanya barfield
directed by delroy lindo
thrust stage, Berkeley Repertory Theatre
april 6–may 20, 2007
When he refuses to attend the Million Man March, an African-American professor finds his personal and professional lives thrown into turmoil. Unable to sleep in the bed abandoned by his wife, Lewis is visited by his ancestors—men who fought to be free, to vote, to obtain justice. Two exceptional actors embody three generations in this powerful new play from a promising young writer. Blue Door is a searing examination of family and identity that will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to live with—or escape—the past.
A friend of mine invited me to see Blue Door last night. At the end of the evening, we were both fascinated, disappointed, confused, and frustrated. There was something a bit "off" about the play, but even after discussing it in detail, we still couldn't quite name what was wrong. We couldn't identify what it was that made us a bit uncomfortable and disappointed. I'll have to think on this some more and respond later...
Daring to write it out
It is no longer a subject worthy of debate. My writing is terrible. I've often introduced myself to friends and family as a writer of "tho con coc" -- which in Vietnamese doesn't even say much for the quality of the writing. But I'd like to think what is still undecided is the reason why it is truly bad. Some of my dear friends (and mentors for that matter) will gently remind me that my writing suffers from lack of originality, style, skill, oh all those little things that everyone loves so much. My enemies will say it's because of lack of originality, style, skill, and all those other things people love so much. (And they may say so in the context of a workshop critique or a casual conversation -- "Oh yeah, your last poem wasn't so good" -- but it's still the same.) If you've read my blog until now, you may be in agreement.
But, cac ban oi, dau phai nguoi nao cung la mot nha van! Khong phai nguoi nao cung la mot thi si! Dung voi dismiss nha tho "con coc" nay nhe... "Effort" doesn't count so much in the real world as it did in the graduate writing program. No publisher or editor selects a poem or collection because it demonstrates "effort". (Or do they?) I think I've suffered and my polite, kind readers have suffered b/c I do not have the proper writing tools... No, I don't mean the "creative arts" or the "inspiration" or the "muse". Sometimes, it's just as simple as the pen.
So when I read about the Fisher Space Pen, I knew immediately that this was a pen worth investigating. The various space pens (especially the AG-7) writes in 0 gravity, writes underwater, writes at any angle, writes upside down, and writes under extreme temperatures. The FSPs come in different colors and sizes -- there's even one in titanium.
How often have I wished that my writing could be improved simply by changing my writing utensil? In fact, a poem scribbled in graphite feels differently than a poem typed on the computer. Sometimes it is the only difference between smooth and elegant versus staccato and jam-packed. It's the ony difference between writing lineated verse and writing prose poems. With a pen, I'm setting everything in concrete, and that's not b/c the gel inks dry so quickly. Indelible but already history.
You think John Hancock understood the significance of his signature? Yes, but he probably thought very little of the tool he used to sign his name. The "pen" he used may be nothing more than a feather squib, but it allowed him to write in that smooth elegance, a testament created by the flourish of his name on parchment...
You'll have noticed that the pen writes underwater and in 0 gravity. (Alright folks, I know I'll never be in 0 gravity but hey you never know.) What the pen promises -- and oh, what sweet promises they are -- is that should I ever find myself in extreme situations, I will still have the ability to create, which in a small way encourages me to be creative. Be productive. Be daring. Be bold.
Which is why the Fisher advertises that astronauts use these pens. Space travelers, explorers, scientists. All the people I am not, doing the things I am not doing -- but CAN do. Look, American astronauts use them so they must be great, and America loves you. Buy our products.It's slightly terrifying that I'm both disgusted and fascinated by these mind games. Mostly b/c I am so weak-willed that I cannot stop myself.
Believe you me I have never fooled myself into believing that a pen is going to make me into a space-walker or an oceanographer. Not for a second did I think this thing would make my writing better (haha, it will need much more than that!), but it's the game we play with ourselves. We dare to think that there is some thing that will make us better than who we are. We dare to dream of going to the moon, of going to Mars, of discovering supernovas. We dare to love. Even when we only have a scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil, we could even dare to write about loving and how it nearly killed us. Whether with a pen or a feather or on a computer, we dare to write ourselves...
But, cac ban oi, dau phai nguoi nao cung la mot nha van! Khong phai nguoi nao cung la mot thi si! Dung voi dismiss nha tho "con coc" nay nhe... "Effort" doesn't count so much in the real world as it did in the graduate writing program. No publisher or editor selects a poem or collection because it demonstrates "effort". (Or do they?) I think I've suffered and my polite, kind readers have suffered b/c I do not have the proper writing tools... No, I don't mean the "creative arts" or the "inspiration" or the "muse". Sometimes, it's just as simple as the pen.
So when I read about the Fisher Space Pen, I knew immediately that this was a pen worth investigating. The various space pens (especially the AG-7) writes in 0 gravity, writes underwater, writes at any angle, writes upside down, and writes under extreme temperatures. The FSPs come in different colors and sizes -- there's even one in titanium.
How often have I wished that my writing could be improved simply by changing my writing utensil? In fact, a poem scribbled in graphite feels differently than a poem typed on the computer. Sometimes it is the only difference between smooth and elegant versus staccato and jam-packed. It's the ony difference between writing lineated verse and writing prose poems. With a pen, I'm setting everything in concrete, and that's not b/c the gel inks dry so quickly. Indelible but already history.
You think John Hancock understood the significance of his signature? Yes, but he probably thought very little of the tool he used to sign his name. The "pen" he used may be nothing more than a feather squib, but it allowed him to write in that smooth elegance, a testament created by the flourish of his name on parchment...
You'll have noticed that the pen writes underwater and in 0 gravity. (Alright folks, I know I'll never be in 0 gravity but hey you never know.) What the pen promises -- and oh, what sweet promises they are -- is that should I ever find myself in extreme situations, I will still have the ability to create, which in a small way encourages me to be creative. Be productive. Be daring. Be bold.
Which is why the Fisher advertises that astronauts use these pens. Space travelers, explorers, scientists. All the people I am not, doing the things I am not doing -- but CAN do. Look, American astronauts use them so they must be great, and America loves you. Buy our products.It's slightly terrifying that I'm both disgusted and fascinated by these mind games. Mostly b/c I am so weak-willed that I cannot stop myself.
Believe you me I have never fooled myself into believing that a pen is going to make me into a space-walker or an oceanographer. Not for a second did I think this thing would make my writing better (haha, it will need much more than that!), but it's the game we play with ourselves. We dare to think that there is some thing that will make us better than who we are. We dare to dream of going to the moon, of going to Mars, of discovering supernovas. We dare to love. Even when we only have a scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil, we could even dare to write about loving and how it nearly killed us. Whether with a pen or a feather or on a computer, we dare to write ourselves...
May 10, 2007
May 8, 2007
Supernova explosion and mission to Mars
A graduate student from Texas recently discovered that a supernova 44 trillion miles away from Earth might possibly explode within 50,000 years. If we are still alive on planet earth when it does, only folks in the southern hemisphere (the current one) will be able to see the explosion.
Reading this news, and then reading about the ongoing research into the potential 3-year missions to Mars, makes me believe even harder in the human spirit. No matter how skeptical I am about our intelligence, no matter how fearful and wary I feel about our hubris and our fallacies, I am still amazed by the depth of our abilities, our genius -- whatever it is that was instilled within us during our creation.
When JFK talked about landing on the moon, did he imagine that one day we would be planning trips to Mars?
That little spark, that internal motivation that inspired the graduate student to research and explore and eventually discover this supernova -- perhaps I too could discover that little spark.
Reading this news, and then reading about the ongoing research into the potential 3-year missions to Mars, makes me believe even harder in the human spirit. No matter how skeptical I am about our intelligence, no matter how fearful and wary I feel about our hubris and our fallacies, I am still amazed by the depth of our abilities, our genius -- whatever it is that was instilled within us during our creation.
When JFK talked about landing on the moon, did he imagine that one day we would be planning trips to Mars?
That little spark, that internal motivation that inspired the graduate student to research and explore and eventually discover this supernova -- perhaps I too could discover that little spark.
May 7, 2007
Picasso and TAT
I was pleasantly surprised yesterday at the Picasso (and American Artists) exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art when my brother turned to me, while standing in front of a Picasso painting, and said, "I love this painting."
Now, you must understand why I was astonished to hear him say this. He is not a professed art lover. He loves WOW (World of Warcraft, folks, and I'd never have figured it out if he hadn't told me). He follows the avatars and tracks the value of his paladdin on eBay. He works with computers and science and loves to cook. He does not usually go to art exhibits. He prefers reading science fiction and is not an art critic. And after 25 years of being his sister, I would never have pegged him as being an art afficionado.
But, life always brings us surprises. After living years apart from each other, the T. siblings have returned to the Bay Area, and the discoveries never cease. On this warm Sunday afternoon, not only did my little brother explain to me why Picasso's piece was especially significant in the art world, noting the brush strokes and the colors and the texture, he very elegantly used the artist's dismissive wave, saying, "It's just art."
Silly me. What do I know about art or brothers. Apparently, nothing.
Now, you must understand why I was astonished to hear him say this. He is not a professed art lover. He loves WOW (World of Warcraft, folks, and I'd never have figured it out if he hadn't told me). He follows the avatars and tracks the value of his paladdin on eBay. He works with computers and science and loves to cook. He does not usually go to art exhibits. He prefers reading science fiction and is not an art critic. And after 25 years of being his sister, I would never have pegged him as being an art afficionado.
But, life always brings us surprises. After living years apart from each other, the T. siblings have returned to the Bay Area, and the discoveries never cease. On this warm Sunday afternoon, not only did my little brother explain to me why Picasso's piece was especially significant in the art world, noting the brush strokes and the colors and the texture, he very elegantly used the artist's dismissive wave, saying, "It's just art."
Silly me. What do I know about art or brothers. Apparently, nothing.
Ca Dao
Mỗi đêm mỗi thắp đèn trời
cầu cho cha mẹ sống đời với con.
Còn cha còn mẹ thì hơn.
Không cha không mẹ như đờn đứt dây.
Đờn đứt dây còn xoay còn nối.
Cha Mẹ mất rồi con chịu mồ coi.
Mồ coi khổ lắm ai ơi!
Đoí cơm không ai biết,
lỡ lơì không ai phân.
Chiều chiều nhớ Mẹ ta xưa.
Miệng nhai cơm búng lưỡi lừa cá xương.
Mẹ già như chuối ba hương,
Như xôi nếp một như đường mía lau.
Như xôi nếp một như đường mía lau.
- Đặng Quang Vinh
Loi bai hat cua Dang Quang Vinh dua tren cau ca dao "me gia nhu chuoi ba huong, nhu xoi nep mot nhu duong mia lau." Day la mot trong nhung cau ca dao minh thich nhat, va strangely, minh nho tu thuo nho mac du kg biet gai goc cua no tu dau ma ra. Nhan dip Mother's Day, minh load bai nay cho cac ban nghe, de nho den nhung nguoi Me trong doi, nhung nguoi Me ma da tung buoc qua doi song cua cac ban. Co the ho kg phai la Me ruot cua ban, nhung neu lam Me, ho cung dang duoc nho den.
Va bai nay cung de tang cho cac nguoi Con. Khong phai ai cung lam Me, nhung ai cung lam Con. Dieu dang chu y trong loi cua bai hat nay la cai niem "communal responsibility" cua viec lam phu huynh cung nhu cua bon phan lam con cai.
NB: This is a very typical older style of music in VN, almost like how country is particular to American music. It's folksy melody is combined with a very traditional proverb about mothers, celebrating motherhood, and bemoaning the fate of parentless children.
cầu cho cha mẹ sống đời với con.
Còn cha còn mẹ thì hơn.
Không cha không mẹ như đờn đứt dây.
Đờn đứt dây còn xoay còn nối.
Cha Mẹ mất rồi con chịu mồ coi.
Mồ coi khổ lắm ai ơi!
Đoí cơm không ai biết,
lỡ lơì không ai phân.
Chiều chiều nhớ Mẹ ta xưa.
Miệng nhai cơm búng lưỡi lừa cá xương.
Mẹ già như chuối ba hương,
Như xôi nếp một như đường mía lau.
Như xôi nếp một như đường mía lau.
- Đặng Quang Vinh
Moi dem moi thap den troi
cau cho Cha Me song doi voi con.
Con Cha con Me thi hon.
Khong Cha khong Me nhu don dut day
Don dut day con xoay con noi.
Cha Me mat roi con chiu mo coi.
Mo coi kho lam ai oi!
Doi com khong ai biet,
lo loi khong ai phan.
Chieu chieu nho Me ta xua.
Mieng nhai com bung luoi lua ca xuong.
Me gia nhu chuoi ba huong,
Nhu xoi nep mot nhu duong mia lau.
Nhu xoi nep mot nhu duong mia lau.
- Đang Quang Vinh
Loi bai hat cua Dang Quang Vinh dua tren cau ca dao "me gia nhu chuoi ba huong, nhu xoi nep mot nhu duong mia lau." Day la mot trong nhung cau ca dao minh thich nhat, va strangely, minh nho tu thuo nho mac du kg biet gai goc cua no tu dau ma ra. Nhan dip Mother's Day, minh load bai nay cho cac ban nghe, de nho den nhung nguoi Me trong doi, nhung nguoi Me ma da tung buoc qua doi song cua cac ban. Co the ho kg phai la Me ruot cua ban, nhung neu lam Me, ho cung dang duoc nho den.
Va bai nay cung de tang cho cac nguoi Con. Khong phai ai cung lam Me, nhung ai cung lam Con. Dieu dang chu y trong loi cua bai hat nay la cai niem "communal responsibility" cua viec lam phu huynh cung nhu cua bon phan lam con cai.
NB: This is a very typical older style of music in VN, almost like how country is particular to American music. It's folksy melody is combined with a very traditional proverb about mothers, celebrating motherhood, and bemoaning the fate of parentless children.
May 2, 2007
Beautiful day in Berkeley
On Saturday, Cesar Chavez Park was filled with kites. The park grounds were abuzz with energy and excitement. Little children and adults like were running around underneath kites of different colors and designs, some of which included 2 butterflies, 1 red dragon, 1 stingray, 1 Pokemon character, 1 turtle, 1 airplane.
David Sedaris: Eat a Big Sandwich
At his reading in UCB's Zellerbach Hall last Friday, David Sedaris read four major pieces and promoted two books: Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules, which he edited, and The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.
As I am not a zombologist (his term), I couldn't appreciate that he spent almost 20 minutes talking about the survival guide. But, if I were Max Brooks, I would very much appreciate David Sedaris for going on the road to promote the book. I know so very little about the writing world that I don't know what the connection is (if there is one) between Sedaris and Brooks, but perhaps it has something to do with their publisher, or it has something to do with... oh never mind -- I don't know where I'm going with this.
The second book is a collection of short stories which he chose, and though I never bought nor read it, I had to admit the title was quite intriguing.
David Sedaris began with a disclaimer about some of the "untruths" in his essays (actually he said there were only two). He very wittily flirted with the fine line betweent truths and lies, and the disclaimer lengthened into a long essay about how every single word in his essays is true, except for two instances. The first instance was when he misquoted his mother, and thanks to a neighbor of his who happened to be testing out his new tape recorder at that time, the conversation in question was replayed and the accurate wording was noted. Unfortunately, the book had already been published and it was too late to edit each of the books in print.
The second untruth/lie became reality when the cashier he falsely named Brenda in his essay changed her name to Brenda (was it really Brenda? I can't remember clearly... perhaps I should have had a tape recorder with me).
The second essay was "April in Paris", mainly about his obsession with a spider named April, who lived on the tenement-window in his home in Normandy. Sedaris regaled us with the stories of him catching flies to feed his arachnid tenants, and told us how he carried April to Paris and showed her the Eiffel Tower as they drove past.
The third piece for the evening was an essay he had published in the New Yorker, and though I didn't catch the title of the piece, it doesn't really matter b/c he said the New Yorker used a different title anyway when they published the essay. It begins with him waking up in desperate need for coffee but the water has been shut off (w/o prior notice as is the custom in Normandy). It (very swiftly and smoothly) segueways into a contemplation about and a questioning of traditional gender roles, with the typical Sedarian humor slicing into bending gender roles. There is one unforgettalbe image (an imagined one at that) of Hugh washing clothes by the riverbank, beating the clothes on the rock, with a baby hanging onto his breast, by the gums. You'll never guess where he got the water to make the coffee (and no, he did not use green tea like he did previously).
The last piece he read was not a complete essay because he read excerpts of his journal entries from his 3 month stay in Japan. I must admit that while some of his material was funny, I felt that his entries exhibited an un-Sedarian (or perhaps late Sedaris vs. early Sedaris style) kind of humor that bordered on racist and was very clearly Orientalist. It was an uncomfortable feeling for me, especially since the only statement that noted his consciousness of being orientalist was the statement he made almost halfway through the piece. He was in the process of making fun of some of the English that he saw while living in Japan, and before launching into his story, he said in an aside that he understood the irony of his statement given that he did not know Japanese (and, I might add, was a rich, white, gay man living in Japan). Besides that statement, there was nothing else except his very skewed depictions of Japan and the Japanese people -- it was sort of disappointing to hear (and it's not just because he was writing about Asians), and uncomfortable. It was even more uncomfortable that the audience was pealing in laughter. They lapped it up without blinking an eye.
Despite my growing disenchantment with Sedaris, I was still star-struck and managed to be the 5th person in line to get his autograph. Given my objections to his To Do list which he gave me previously, I asked for another list, which he promptly wrote down:
After handing me the book, he asked if I've seen the movie Hanabi -- and I can't remember the director that he mentioned so I don't know which Hanabi he was talking about. I'll just have to watch them all. So, in the end, despite the fact that I found a large part of his reading objectionable (much of it was very crass, for my taste), I was still enamored with him, so much so that I couldn't find anything intelligent to say when he suggested that I eat a big sandwich. I mean, what does it mean to eat a big sandwich? A poet would have been more precise and said what kind of sandwhich instead of something generic like "sandwich." An avocado brussel sprouts on dark rye is very different from a salami on Dutch crunch. A spicy falafel sandwich roll is very different from a tuna salad sandwich on french baquette.
Somehow, I don't think he meant any of this figuratively. David Sedaris really did tell me to eat a big sandwich. Is that what my life is about? I have so little meaningful conversation with good writers that I'm reduced a pittering, puttering mess when I face someone like Sedaris and then I don't even have the guts to take him to task for displaying so proudly his Orientalismm. Not even to ask him to modify his list. Sigh.
That's it folks. The evening was had. The fun is gone. Back to work. Put on your corduroy and denim and get to work...
As I am not a zombologist (his term), I couldn't appreciate that he spent almost 20 minutes talking about the survival guide. But, if I were Max Brooks, I would very much appreciate David Sedaris for going on the road to promote the book. I know so very little about the writing world that I don't know what the connection is (if there is one) between Sedaris and Brooks, but perhaps it has something to do with their publisher, or it has something to do with... oh never mind -- I don't know where I'm going with this.
The second book is a collection of short stories which he chose, and though I never bought nor read it, I had to admit the title was quite intriguing.
David Sedaris began with a disclaimer about some of the "untruths" in his essays (actually he said there were only two). He very wittily flirted with the fine line betweent truths and lies, and the disclaimer lengthened into a long essay about how every single word in his essays is true, except for two instances. The first instance was when he misquoted his mother, and thanks to a neighbor of his who happened to be testing out his new tape recorder at that time, the conversation in question was replayed and the accurate wording was noted. Unfortunately, the book had already been published and it was too late to edit each of the books in print.
The second untruth/lie became reality when the cashier he falsely named Brenda in his essay changed her name to Brenda (was it really Brenda? I can't remember clearly... perhaps I should have had a tape recorder with me).
The second essay was "April in Paris", mainly about his obsession with a spider named April, who lived on the tenement-window in his home in Normandy. Sedaris regaled us with the stories of him catching flies to feed his arachnid tenants, and told us how he carried April to Paris and showed her the Eiffel Tower as they drove past.
The third piece for the evening was an essay he had published in the New Yorker, and though I didn't catch the title of the piece, it doesn't really matter b/c he said the New Yorker used a different title anyway when they published the essay. It begins with him waking up in desperate need for coffee but the water has been shut off (w/o prior notice as is the custom in Normandy). It (very swiftly and smoothly) segueways into a contemplation about and a questioning of traditional gender roles, with the typical Sedarian humor slicing into bending gender roles. There is one unforgettalbe image (an imagined one at that) of Hugh washing clothes by the riverbank, beating the clothes on the rock, with a baby hanging onto his breast, by the gums. You'll never guess where he got the water to make the coffee (and no, he did not use green tea like he did previously).
The last piece he read was not a complete essay because he read excerpts of his journal entries from his 3 month stay in Japan. I must admit that while some of his material was funny, I felt that his entries exhibited an un-Sedarian (or perhaps late Sedaris vs. early Sedaris style) kind of humor that bordered on racist and was very clearly Orientalist. It was an uncomfortable feeling for me, especially since the only statement that noted his consciousness of being orientalist was the statement he made almost halfway through the piece. He was in the process of making fun of some of the English that he saw while living in Japan, and before launching into his story, he said in an aside that he understood the irony of his statement given that he did not know Japanese (and, I might add, was a rich, white, gay man living in Japan). Besides that statement, there was nothing else except his very skewed depictions of Japan and the Japanese people -- it was sort of disappointing to hear (and it's not just because he was writing about Asians), and uncomfortable. It was even more uncomfortable that the audience was pealing in laughter. They lapped it up without blinking an eye.
Despite my growing disenchantment with Sedaris, I was still star-struck and managed to be the 5th person in line to get his autograph. Given my objections to his To Do list which he gave me previously, I asked for another list, which he promptly wrote down:
- 1. Eat a big sandwich
2. Buy sandals
3. Watch a Japanese movie
After handing me the book, he asked if I've seen the movie Hanabi -- and I can't remember the director that he mentioned so I don't know which Hanabi he was talking about. I'll just have to watch them all. So, in the end, despite the fact that I found a large part of his reading objectionable (much of it was very crass, for my taste), I was still enamored with him, so much so that I couldn't find anything intelligent to say when he suggested that I eat a big sandwich. I mean, what does it mean to eat a big sandwich? A poet would have been more precise and said what kind of sandwhich instead of something generic like "sandwich." An avocado brussel sprouts on dark rye is very different from a salami on Dutch crunch. A spicy falafel sandwich roll is very different from a tuna salad sandwich on french baquette.
Somehow, I don't think he meant any of this figuratively. David Sedaris really did tell me to eat a big sandwich. Is that what my life is about? I have so little meaningful conversation with good writers that I'm reduced a pittering, puttering mess when I face someone like Sedaris and then I don't even have the guts to take him to task for displaying so proudly his Orientalismm. Not even to ask him to modify his list. Sigh.
That's it folks. The evening was had. The fun is gone. Back to work. Put on your corduroy and denim and get to work...
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