I was born in the Hospital Garrahan in Buenos Aires on December 19, 1990. I was a complete breech birth and the woman who delivered me, a Buddhist from South Korea, told my mother that it meant I was a bodhisattva- a wisdom being. My parents chose the Korean word 'rae' as my middle name in her honor (although neither can remember what it means) and from time to time they still call me 'little lotus-eater.'
My parents met near Port San Carlos in the Falkland Islands. My mom was there on U-Chicago's photography foreign study program and my dad was stranded. He'd gone as a Baptist missionary intent on converting indigenous peoples through rudimentary hand gestures and drawings. Upon arrival he was surprised to find that the majority of the population not only spoke English, but also already practiced some form of Christianity. Rather than rebound by converting them all to his kind of Christianity, he promptly converted to Sikhism. Upon learning of his transgression the First United Baptist Church withdrew sponsorship and refused to finance his return to the United States. Recently-graduated English major that he was, he couldn't afford the trip himself and so settled down to studying Punjabi and doing freelance landscaping work.
One morning in mid-March my mom rose early and left her host family's home with the Nikon F4 on loan from her local paper. After a few hours of photographing sheep and Magellanic Penguins she wandered towards the seaside to eat her picnic breakfast. As she neared the coast her surroundings became more distinctly boggy and an eerie chanting floated on the cool-ish autumn air.
"Ik oankar sat nam karta..."
Seated on a protruding rock in the middle of a pool of bog water was my dad, now donning a long beard. My mom wondered at how he'd managed to reach his perch without wetting his clothing and determined to wait for him to finish his recitation in order to introduce herself. A full hour passed before my dad opened his eyes to the blond college student seated on the bank across from him.
Did she ever find out how he made it across without wetting his clothes? Well.. I happened about nine months later.
Friday
The Mailer-Daemon Blitzbomb Lesson
Once upon a Friday, pleasant, I came upon a Blitzmail present,
sent from that familiar presence of the Dartmouth social scene,
While I dawdled, not reviewing for finals as I should be doing,
(which I will be later ruing), came a blitz from Him to me.
'Damned Mailer-Daemon!' I hissed, 'chewing through my time with this,
note I don't wish to receive.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was sunny in December,
And the breeze blew softly, sweetly, flirting through my window screen.
How I yearned to go out with it; - twas vainly, though, that I wished
For I needed to be rid - rid of Finals uncertainty -
Loathed banes of my existence, - hurdles 'tween me and my degree -
Without which I'd be carefree.
And the white tantastic gleaming of the sunlight palely streaming
Struck me - filled me with woe for it was setting just after three;
So that now, to soothe my Dixie-yearning heart, I stood repeating
'Damned Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
The Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
In pursuit of grades that please.'
Presently I waxed curious; I had hope, however spurious,
That it might be something worth my precious time to look and see;
So I opened up the missive, of which I'd been ruthlessly dismissive,
And read it with encroaching glee, read it so ebulliently,
That I loosed a hoop and holler - born of utter mischievy -
Oh! The havoc I could wreak.
'Beloved Mailer-Daemon,' quoth I, 'acquaintance, friend, ally,
With the knowledge you've imparted, now begins a blitzing spree.
Forget studies! Hurrah for war! I'll blitzbomb forevermore!
Let me see then, who I might spam: my friends? The Daemon! Yes, he!'
I saw then who I might spam: the author of this strange decree.
I'd do so with poetry.
'Open New,' I asked the server, then typed away with fervor,
At some, carefully rhymed and metered, lines of reciprocity.
As I typed I grinned and muttered, 'My deluge he'll not foresee.'
I wrote, then followed truly the instructions to BCC -
One hundred? Nay! Two hundred? False! I blitzed out three thirty-three.
To: Mailer-Daemon; Love, Me!.
sent from that familiar presence of the Dartmouth social scene,
While I dawdled, not reviewing for finals as I should be doing,
(which I will be later ruing), came a blitz from Him to me.
'Damned Mailer-Daemon!' I hissed, 'chewing through my time with this,
note I don't wish to receive.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was sunny in December,
And the breeze blew softly, sweetly, flirting through my window screen.
How I yearned to go out with it; - twas vainly, though, that I wished
For I needed to be rid - rid of Finals uncertainty -
Loathed banes of my existence, - hurdles 'tween me and my degree -
Without which I'd be carefree.
And the white tantastic gleaming of the sunlight palely streaming
Struck me - filled me with woe for it was setting just after three;
So that now, to soothe my Dixie-yearning heart, I stood repeating
'Damned Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
The Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
In pursuit of grades that please.'
Presently I waxed curious; I had hope, however spurious,
That it might be something worth my precious time to look and see;
So I opened up the missive, of which I'd been ruthlessly dismissive,
And read it with encroaching glee, read it so ebulliently,
That I loosed a hoop and holler - born of utter mischievy -
Oh! The havoc I could wreak.
'Beloved Mailer-Daemon,' quoth I, 'acquaintance, friend, ally,
With the knowledge you've imparted, now begins a blitzing spree.
Forget studies! Hurrah for war! I'll blitzbomb forevermore!
Let me see then, who I might spam: my friends? The Daemon! Yes, he!'
I saw then who I might spam: the author of this strange decree.
I'd do so with poetry.
'Open New,' I asked the server, then typed away with fervor,
At some, carefully rhymed and metered, lines of reciprocity.
As I typed I grinned and muttered, 'My deluge he'll not foresee.'
I wrote, then followed truly the instructions to BCC -
One hundred? Nay! Two hundred? False! I blitzed out three thirty-three.
To: Mailer-Daemon; Love, Me!.
Tuesday
Epistle to a Night, In the Morning, On It's Migration South
The Night descends upon the world
and perches on my windowsill.
It looks like ink and sounds like spring
but I know it for other things.
The Night has known me all my life,
has stayed around through thin and strife;
Night knows me more intimately
than you, myself, or family.
Like clockwork it comes and goes
carrying my dreams, which grow
upon its back in fertile down
of exotic, wondrous, deep dirt brown.
Tap tap upon my windowpane:
flighty Night has come again.
A dream, a dream, and fluttered eyes
recreates my ceilinged sky.
To love means little 'less one can
know that 'yes' will come again:
The Night has known me all my life,
so you may know me as the wife
as one who's spread one's love around
to every city, shire, and town
without e'er breeding jealousy
in the breasts of them or me.
Although I don't excel at sports
Night's taught me well how to deport
at the most crucial game of all
(in play, in love): I play hardball.
I swing. I miss. I hit and run
and sweet my words, 'Tis all in fun,"
stream down my lips like salty lines
which outline my curves from heels to eyes,
for I know Night won't come again
unless I secure a win
for my team, contrived of one:
The ease of strain, labor for fun.
To dream, to dream, to be held tight
in the vast, unspoken night.
Every eternity or so,
winged dreams may come, the sun may go,
but for now Helios climbs
the stairs to his throned sky.
Alas, but then I knew it, too.
I knew he would, and so did you.
and perches on my windowsill.
It looks like ink and sounds like spring
but I know it for other things.
The Night has known me all my life,
has stayed around through thin and strife;
Night knows me more intimately
than you, myself, or family.
Like clockwork it comes and goes
carrying my dreams, which grow
upon its back in fertile down
of exotic, wondrous, deep dirt brown.
Tap tap upon my windowpane:
flighty Night has come again.
A dream, a dream, and fluttered eyes
recreates my ceilinged sky.
To love means little 'less one can
know that 'yes' will come again:
The Night has known me all my life,
so you may know me as the wife
as one who's spread one's love around
to every city, shire, and town
without e'er breeding jealousy
in the breasts of them or me.
Although I don't excel at sports
Night's taught me well how to deport
at the most crucial game of all
(in play, in love): I play hardball.
I swing. I miss. I hit and run
and sweet my words, 'Tis all in fun,"
stream down my lips like salty lines
which outline my curves from heels to eyes,
for I know Night won't come again
unless I secure a win
for my team, contrived of one:
The ease of strain, labor for fun.
To dream, to dream, to be held tight
in the vast, unspoken night.
Every eternity or so,
winged dreams may come, the sun may go,
but for now Helios climbs
the stairs to his throned sky.
Alas, but then I knew it, too.
I knew he would, and so did you.
p. 12, etc.
I bet the nun in Chaucer's tale wore exciting undergarments.
The gypsy was wrong: I found no divine inspiration in my tea leaves and the caffeine wore off in a matter of minutes. Despite it all, the page before me remains blank.
"Isn't the world a beautiful place?" she said. "I think the world is the most beautiful place I've ever been."
In fact, I've always found math too sour to share with loved ones, so the Alley Cat writes writes writes recipes on post cards and sends them to my apartment in Tulsa. I don't have an apartment in Tulsa, but the feline won't taste a morsel of my cooking anyway.
"You see," I explained, "everything's connected. If I'd ordered sausage instead of mushroom pizza, it wouldn't've rained. Everything's connected."
"I do see," she purred.
"But," (oh how I jumped at this opportunity), "I don't eat meat, so never could we have avoided getting our feet wet."
"Unless we hadn't gone outside," she offered.
"No, if we hadn't gone outside then surely we would have washed them eventually."
A clock with all its numbers on backwards will still tell time perfectly well, but gives the illusion of things going in reverse when read in a mirror.
My mind is like a spoon.
The gypsy was wrong: I found no divine inspiration in my tea leaves and the caffeine wore off in a matter of minutes. Despite it all, the page before me remains blank.
"Isn't the world a beautiful place?" she said. "I think the world is the most beautiful place I've ever been."
In fact, I've always found math too sour to share with loved ones, so the Alley Cat writes writes writes recipes on post cards and sends them to my apartment in Tulsa. I don't have an apartment in Tulsa, but the feline won't taste a morsel of my cooking anyway.
"You see," I explained, "everything's connected. If I'd ordered sausage instead of mushroom pizza, it wouldn't've rained. Everything's connected."
"I do see," she purred.
"But," (oh how I jumped at this opportunity), "I don't eat meat, so never could we have avoided getting our feet wet."
"Unless we hadn't gone outside," she offered.
"No, if we hadn't gone outside then surely we would have washed them eventually."
A clock with all its numbers on backwards will still tell time perfectly well, but gives the illusion of things going in reverse when read in a mirror.
My mind is like a spoon.
Sunday
The View from Room 3324
I sleep in a bed where the infirm have lain.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.
Part Two
Twelve years ago I sowed a seed
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.
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