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| creative stuntperhaps i'm too young for any deep inquires. maybe i've lost it. i remember one of my professors used to say that inspiration is in translation, a breath, a breath of fresh air, a wind that is fleeting. but once taken over by it, we are easily swept away by it. i haven't felt that gust in a while.
i've developed this rhythmic pattern. in between these routines, i am unmoved. what i have to say has already been said, what i see, i've already seen before and it's repetition that is killing me. it's eating my insides. hopefully soon i'll find that tangent that will spark, spark and ignite a once fervent heart.
maybe i'm searching too hard. i'll keep waiting, and let it come to me. yeah, let it find me.
dear reader in france,
e-mail me: ohrosa85@gmail.com | | |
| a past, gone passed.
"Love sucks the majority of the time, but it teaches you a shit load about what really matters in this world. And most of the time it is impossible to understand what it is teaching you, but hopefully, one day, we will all have it figured out. I will call you a few days after I send this. Keep writing and keep loving."
- A.L.
the old is the ever new.
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| writing my grandma's birthday card.
it's kind of weird to write someone such a personal message, to someone you adore and have immense respect for, and feel at loss of words because of a language barrier. for me, writing letters (especially birthday cards), is such a delicate and an emotional process. it puts me in such a reflective mode, reeling memories and moments so dear to the relationship i have with the addressee. for my grandma, being her 80th birthday and all, writing her card allowed me to revisit fond fond memories of my childhood. she used to stroll me around in a red shopping cart around Astoria, singing me songs and glories of every sunny morning. there was never a glitch in the sky. i'd sing along to the tune to her melodious heart. i also remembered this one conversation we had at 5AM outside her apartment, waiting for our morning paper to be delivered.
grandma: [staring steadily at my hands] how old are you again?
me: one, two, three, four,.... five? six! six!
grandma: haha, six years, that's it? you're only six years old to this world (in translation, it loses the eloquence of the way my grandma phrased this in korean)
and to think, i was merely 6 to the world, and now she is 80, and almost winding down. she might possibly have only 6 more to give to the world (maybe even less). and yet, i can't fathom what it was like to endure the war, to run away (literally) from one's own country, to drop a child in the heap of the mess, to lose a husband, to immigrate to a new country with nothing to offer, and to lose another child to an unexpected fall.. in the grandeur of this, i've realized how small and minute my worries are.. it's just like that quote from sofran's book "Dad missed the forest for the trees".
"how long do you think these organs will live? only a few more rosa, a few more years." says my grandma as she trails off peacefully to sleep. she said this when i last visited her.
happy 80th halmuni.
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| the cure to your melancholy
it's OKAY to feel sad, everyone feels down time to time, but it's NOT OKAY to dwell and linger in the sadness. the more you linger, the more it perpetuates illness in your heart. so it's good to feel, but not good to live in the feeling. | | |
| i've been feeling stagnant lately. hence the absence of blogs. this creative lull has put me in a miserable dormant. i have shitty dreams about petty things that gnaw at me. you know you're regressing when you only react to the petty things in life.
petty pennies, penny petties.
so i've made a few mistakes at my new job. and i'm unashamed to admit these mistakes. though they're hovering over me at 12AM. they seem to be really minor, but to me, they're major glitches in what i always aspire--perfection and anal retentiveness. i wonder where my head is? i've come to realize this strange dichotomy. actually, scratch that, not realize but reminded of this dichotomy. my brain either shuts off or goes on overdrive, depending how interesting he/she/it is and i think the big struggle here is trying to resume awareness and alertness. and to realize, that--ey! it doesn't take that much to turn on a light bulb.
and with that, i'm going to sleep with what my piano teacher always used to tell me when i'd make mistakes at recitals:
keep playing, even if you are conscious of your mistake. to the audience, it all sounds to same.
so i'd be playing, playing till the finale. | | |
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