Orbit
Sometimes, I feel as if I am constantly spinning, as if I can feel the Earth, time and space, rotating, repeating, 重複, again and again. I'm sitting in my living room, which is deliciously cool [the weather has been so nice lately, cloudy and brisk in the morning], as I have done for two decades. I can hear my dad listening to Korean pop music in the next room over, on the desktop that was once upon a time [i.e., high school] mine. For the nth time, I muse the fact that his taste in music is centuries younger than mine, despite I being younger than him. I am on Firefox because Chrome crashed on me, after my computer apparently single-mindedly decided to restart and install Windows updates on its own. Today, when I came home, I played with Tyche for a while; he's so adorable, and his eyes are luminescent brown and inexplicably expressive. There's a nook in his neck that if you scratch at just the right point [not too hard to find, because if you crouch down, he automatically runs at to to flop down, paws up, so you can scratch him, so you have infinite time to play with him], then the corresponding leg on whichever side you're scratching cycles like it's on a bicycle.
When I came in, Mom was just about finishing up cooking liang ban mian ["cool mixed noodles"] for dinner; she had already cooked and cut the egg, shredded the carrot, cut the ham, washed the bean sprouts, and made the sauce [one Chinese soupspoonful each of honey, sesame sauce (pure sesame, straight from Taiwan; sesame sauce is typically adulterated with cheaper nuts, because ), apple vinegar, Kimlan soy sauce paste, and tomato ketchup--it tastes soooo good; in Chinese, this particular sauce is called 和風醬, and can actually go well with a bunch of things], and was just waiting for the noodles to finish cooking. Just as the third bowl was finishing, the gate squeaked--Dad had come home--and I went out to greet him, and saw him playing with Tyche as he came in. The three of us then ate together; my sister ran into the dining room from her computer, yelled at my mom for a bowl of noodles, grabbed condiments, and went back to her computer and homework without a word of gratitude. After dinner, I wash the dishes; quickly, before the sauce cakes onto the bowls. I find that I'm able to scrape away the charred remains of bygone dishes from one of the pans we'd thought unsalvageable; I find that the film that congeals over the water used to boil noodles looks and feels strangely similar to ejaculate. Tyche barks at some passerby who is strolling past our house, and I yell at him not to bark. I observe my sister has not brought her bowl over, forever glued to her computer.
I spoke with Jessica today on the phone. I don't know if I can articulate what a good person she is; to resort to adjective is to end up saying nothing, and I haven't the memory to do her actions complete justice, but I guess I'll try sticking to this instance alone. When I speak with her, I rediscover myself; suddenly, everything becomes possible again, everything is within reach, beckoning, waiting for me simply to reach out and try it. I play devil's advocate whenever I find myself becoming motivated by her words...what is it that I am afraid of? She helps me re-realize the joys of learning and diligence, if only by proxy, and dispels the illusion I let myself retreat into. I tell myself that "I know" of this false illusion, that I won't fall back into it [again], that it is indeed time to change. It is, she says, a choice, this illusion; it is surmountable, it can be cleared. She reminds me of my memory, which I unfortunately seemed to have lost.
I am recording details that seem to me at this moment to be completely trivial, but by which I'm sure I'll be engrossed by whence I have long forgotten them and look back at this entry. I feel like Thought and Memory have always been dual planets in one long circular orbit; sometimes both are valid, sometimes one eclipses the other. But this is a life orbit, a finite, unstable orbit, one that swings wider and wider from the center star of the self with each swirl, Thought and Memory growing dimmer, less bright with each year; not only does the act of a celestial revolution seem so familiar, but the light also dims with each circle, fainter and fainter, until finally, both spin free from the gravity of self into darkness, to become newly named Senility and Death.
When I came in, Mom was just about finishing up cooking liang ban mian ["cool mixed noodles"] for dinner; she had already cooked and cut the egg, shredded the carrot, cut the ham, washed the bean sprouts, and made the sauce [one Chinese soupspoonful each of honey, sesame sauce (pure sesame, straight from Taiwan; sesame sauce is typically adulterated with cheaper nuts, because ), apple vinegar, Kimlan soy sauce paste, and tomato ketchup--it tastes soooo good; in Chinese, this particular sauce is called 和風醬, and can actually go well with a bunch of things], and was just waiting for the noodles to finish cooking. Just as the third bowl was finishing, the gate squeaked--Dad had come home--and I went out to greet him, and saw him playing with Tyche as he came in. The three of us then ate together; my sister ran into the dining room from her computer, yelled at my mom for a bowl of noodles, grabbed condiments, and went back to her computer and homework without a word of gratitude. After dinner, I wash the dishes; quickly, before the sauce cakes onto the bowls. I find that I'm able to scrape away the charred remains of bygone dishes from one of the pans we'd thought unsalvageable; I find that the film that congeals over the water used to boil noodles looks and feels strangely similar to ejaculate. Tyche barks at some passerby who is strolling past our house, and I yell at him not to bark. I observe my sister has not brought her bowl over, forever glued to her computer.
I spoke with Jessica today on the phone. I don't know if I can articulate what a good person she is; to resort to adjective is to end up saying nothing, and I haven't the memory to do her actions complete justice, but I guess I'll try sticking to this instance alone. When I speak with her, I rediscover myself; suddenly, everything becomes possible again, everything is within reach, beckoning, waiting for me simply to reach out and try it. I play devil's advocate whenever I find myself becoming motivated by her words...what is it that I am afraid of? She helps me re-realize the joys of learning and diligence, if only by proxy, and dispels the illusion I let myself retreat into. I tell myself that "I know" of this false illusion, that I won't fall back into it [again], that it is indeed time to change. It is, she says, a choice, this illusion; it is surmountable, it can be cleared. She reminds me of my memory, which I unfortunately seemed to have lost.
I am recording details that seem to me at this moment to be completely trivial, but by which I'm sure I'll be engrossed by whence I have long forgotten them and look back at this entry. I feel like Thought and Memory have always been dual planets in one long circular orbit; sometimes both are valid, sometimes one eclipses the other. But this is a life orbit, a finite, unstable orbit, one that swings wider and wider from the center star of the self with each swirl, Thought and Memory growing dimmer, less bright with each year; not only does the act of a celestial revolution seem so familiar, but the light also dims with each circle, fainter and fainter, until finally, both spin free from the gravity of self into darkness, to become newly named Senility and Death.