I'm at pg 50 now. Starting chapter 16. Very short chapters I'll have to say, but hey, shut up and keep going, you.
A Friday off
I've forgotten how nice it is to have a day off on a weekday. It was so lovely today, feels like a summer day even though we're supposed to be in the middle of winter. Had planned to take the L train to the zoo, but Lee got so sore that I wanted to go on my own without him, so I ended by just walking at the beach.
The sand was all glittery and a strange dark grey. Quite magical. I later realized with all the charred remains of trunks of pine that that dark grey sand is the remain of ashes from burnt Christmas trees. Wondered if those sparkling things come from resin from the trees. Lee would know, but he's at work. Then there were these strange birds-like miniature seagulls pecking at the receding surf, for microbes maybe? Because when I took a peek to see what they were feasting on, all I saw were sea foam and bubbles.
Found paper thin shells of crabs, dead days maybe weeks. They were blown about by the sea wind. Found a wounded bee struggling on the wet sand. Didn't help it, because I had made up my mind that I was not to take anything from the shore today, and was to only be a spectator.
Then walked home along the perimeter of the zoo and around the lake. It was only 2pm but the shadows were already slanted like it was four, they were purplish and blue too. Saw and smelt the Eucalyptus trees that are Lee's favorite. In the afternoon light all the leaves were glowing translucent, except for the Eucalyptus leaves that were silver blades. Got sentimental and wanted to write a poem for/about Lee, but then the feeling passed and has evaporated since. Thought of Jamba juice instead.
Found pussywillow, wild ones along the lake. Thought of the ones we used to buy in Singapore for Chinese New Year and the reddish brown husks that duck would peel impatient for them to bloom their fuzzy blossoms.
Got so tired by the walking that I had to sit. Watched two blue birds flirt. Got home after 3 hours of walking, am contemplating the bed. Outside, someone is washing dishes in one of the houses, I can hear the sound of plates stacking, glass clinking to the disappearing daylight. A perfect way to end this lovely day.
Strolling along Lake Merced, Boxing Day
Winter must be a great time for bird watching. With the branches so bare, the birds are so exposed.
Reversing our Roles
Went to send my parents off at the airport yesterday. They are going down to L.A for a cousin's wedding. And there I was standing at the departure gate watching them leave for a short 1hr plus domestic flight watching them as they make their way through the long lines at custom and then the security check, suddenly feeling emotional, watching the two of them, each a luggage in hand. Suddenly feeling protective of them, like they are the children, and I the parent. Suddenly realizing that they have grown older, or perhaps, it is I who have grown older, and now they are the ones who need to be taken care of.
Suddenly understanding that filial piety is not a responsibility that is based on obligation, it is a responsibility that springs from tenderness. It is something that I didn't understand when I was younger, but it is something that I do now. It comes with seeing your parents' vulnerability. It comes with standing at the departure gate of the airport, feeling a worry eat at you as your parents struggle with their carry-ons, negotiate with the custom officer, realizing that this scene is a familiar one, time and time again, years ago, it is just that now, the roles are reversed.
November darkness
It gets dark very early now. By five pm, the sky already looks like an eight o'clock sky. When I got off work today, my co-workers and I had to stumble around to get to the door. We were musing that the TransAmerica pyramid looked so pretty all lit up. I like it when it gets dark like this when I get off work, because I know, Christmas is around the corner. It is lovely, this cold darkness, it is what I've always associated with excitement. It is always around this time of the year when I feel that fluttering in my chest like something is about to happen, the air smells different, the nights always feel more quiet, and expectant. In contrast the short days with the glaring white light of the sun now angled so close to the northern hemisphere feels uneasy, and in my mum's words "is like a searchlight." There is something strange about this light that burns the eyes, but not the skin.
But the nights, they are spectacular. I feel lucky just to sit in the light of my room, knowing that this darkness is so still outside. Even the reflection on the glass seems especially black and glossy, like warm dark water I could dive into. Coming home, I saw my neighbor, a little boy (of six perhaps?), peeking out the window, at nothing, just looking at the darkness. I couldn't see his backlit face, but I guessed that his expression was one of astonishment. Because, this November darkness is quite lovely.
And now, to listen to These days by Nico with a cup of hot tea..Ah...
I just finished reading Five Skies
by Ron Carlson, and thought of something that Graham Greene said in the introduction of his short story collection. I have a lousy memory and am too lazy to dig up the actual quote, so if you will have to do with a poor summary of what he said. What he said, or at least, what I remember him saying was that there are short story writers and novelist. He happens to be latter, and just because a novelist occasional writes him short stories it does not make him a short story writer and vice versa.
Five Skies was a long short story. At least, that is the impression I had. I can't tell you how I bored I was reading the book. About one third into the book, I knew how the story would end, and indeed, it ended predictably. The clear trajectory, the structure of the book as a series of scenes/snippets felt like a short story that was dragged out. It didn't feel like a novel.
I always have this argument with Lee. He would literally tell me that the definition of novels, novellas and short stories are based on their number of pages. I think it stupid, and still do.
I felt as if I had read a very long and very unsatisfying story in Five Skies. The structure of the climax being very close to the end that works quite well in short stories didn't really work for me. Of course the fact that I've been bored for a long time didn't help. This made me wonder about what makes a novel satisfying for me, and how that is different when I'm reading a short story.
For me, I feel part of the joy of reading a novel, is getting lost in it. Not really knowing where one is being led, and then after all that getting lost, arriving at an ending that is unexpected (It has to be unexpected) but yet feels so right (that is the mystery of it that I can't quite explain), the ending needs to be like a kind of recognition. It is really a bit like getting lost and then being found again. Or like meeting someone, forgetting someone and then finding that same person again--recognizable yet changed. Does it all sound strange enough yet?
Because I can't decided which is worse. An odd disappointing ending that is unexpected (in the wrong kind of way) that really juts out and cheapens the entire thing, or an expected ending that fits so well with the entire set up that it just confirms the long drawn out boredom, that afterall, there is nothing more to discover. It is all there along, everything planted, neat and controlled, and utimately very fake.