Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Skills and Art

I think I'm a pretty solid writer, be it poetry, prose or simply expressing ideas. I generally know how to find the right words to write.

I keep hearing people say things like, "You should be a writer!" and while I am certainly flattered (oh, who am I kidding? I'm hella flattered), I always take this with a grain of salt. In my overconfidence, I sometimes entertain the idea of actually writing for a living. Then, I wake up from my daydreams, and reality returns.

It's cynical, but what success can really be had from writing? I look at my ability to write with others' ability to draw. It's not a perfect analogy, nor is it the only one, but I think it's the closest one to writing.

I've known many people who are extremely talented artists. Among those, very few of them have pursued a career in art. In fact, I can only name 2 from the top of my head. But, out of the dozens of talented artists I know, very seldom do I hear people tell them, "You should draw for a living!"

It could be that people do say that often to each other and that I'm just not around to hear it, but I think it's because people know that artists have an extremely difficult time making money from their craft.

In fact, I think my friends are just as talented at art as I am at writing, if not more so. Their skills involve perspective, shadowing and a controlling colors to make their compositions exactly how they want. Likewise, I have honed my own skills, like learning syntax and grammar rules and the mechanics of the various parts of speech. I feel smug saying that I'm a good writer, but it's the same thing as people showing off their drawings on their blog (or so I try to justify).

Anyway, that's why I don't think I'd make it as a writer, the same way people who are very good at drawing wouldn't make it, the same way great musicians are discouraged, the same way athletes eventually give up.

I don't have the gumption, and the unknown terrifies me back into reality.

Here's Dudamel conducting Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns's Bacchanale.




Sunday, March 11, 2012

What Is My Voice?

The only difference between how I use this blog and how I used Xanga when I was 14 is the form of my outlet. Instead of simple paragraphs, I write verses. Is that censorship? Only Future Andrew can decide, I suppose. Hey, Future Andrew. Hope things are better on your side, because right now, life's pretty uncertain.

"What Is My Voice?"

DO I HAVE A VOICE?
Well, of course I do,
but I guess the more interesting question is
does my voice matter?
IS MY VOICE WORTH USING?
Probably.
Perhaps not every person in the world
needs to hear what I have to say,
but for one person at least,
it's worth hearing.
No matter how
quietly small
my whisper
may seem,
I still
I still
HAVE A VOICE.

Do you care about another child
born of immigrant parents?
Do you want to hear the bellows
of another American
who grows up learning
that the "American dream"
is so much more than a goal?
Can you stand
the murmurs and
odd complaints of
my loud mouth
while looking at my slanted eyes
as both communicate to you
the fervor of my plight?

Do you think I have a plight?
AM I A VICTIM?
Or am I like you,
my fellow citizens,
just doing my thang
like any other citizen would?

Do I have things about which
to complain
other than people ending their
clauses with prepositions?
I have food in my stomach
and my parents' hard work supports me,
their sweat results in my penchant
to complain
or work harder
to feed my own children
(should I have any).

DO I HAVE A REASON TO COMPLAIN
OR SHOULD I QUIETLY COUNT MY BLESSINGS
AND ACCEPT HOW COMFORTABLE MY LIFE IS
(relative to others')?
Do I have a voice?
Or am I just another privileged
American
surviving from the charity
other Americans endowed upon my parents?

What responsibilities do I have?
To what duties must I adhere
and by what code of ethics
must my decisions be guided?

I am the m-word,
the manifestation of
"East meets West"
-or, to be fair,
"West meets East."

Does that identity engrave upon me
certain expectations?
Well, yeah. Duh.
Of course it does.
But which ones?
By whose expectations must I live?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?
Does it belong in the discourse
of injustice
or am I just
another Vietnamese boy
overwhelmed by how different
life was supposed to be?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?
WHAT IS MY VOICE?
What is my excuse?

March 11, 2012

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Ending the Wrong Way

I'd like to admit to myself
that the only problem with me
is lack of you,
but it's more than that.

It's my tendency to
at
tach so well
and detach so unwell.

So deep is the depth
of my affection
that the thought of you brings both
smiles and sadness.
I have never looked so happy
while feeling so
empty.

Or I could be less direct
and say:
I am in a plastic coffin
looking out to you,
our hands nearly clasped together,
palm-on-palm,
but so much still separates us.

Or I am at the bottom of a well,
fallen for you (did I really?),
and looking up above.
The ground is like heaven,
and you are the angel
who cannot save me.

But it's not as simple as
a goddamn metaphor,
and what I met you for,
no longer is enough.

Prepositions and propositions be damned.
It's always been easier to complain
than act
because action means one step closer
to goodbye.

March 8, 2012


Notes:
The title is a reference to how relationships end as well as ending independent clauses with prepositions. I also dislike cliches, so the parenthetical (did I really?) could be taken as a question of my "true love" for this "angel" or as someone who is reading the poem might react to the overused pun on "falling for" someone. "Did he really just use that?" I also talk about wells and depth both as an emotional measurement as well was a physical measurement. I purposely mix depth and distance to give a warped sense of spatial orientation. I also intentionally ended with "goodbye" to point out its irony with respect to the title.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

I agree.

He took the knife by the handle, thumbing it carefully. He was always wary of knives, fearing his own thoughts and actions, fearing his body would betray his reason.
"It's a beautiful artifact," he told her.
She smiled. She had dug it up herself, and had not been able to part with it since. We place sentimental value on some of the most mundane things.
"I agree," he said, reading my mind. It's weird for a character to read the mind of his creator, right? It should be the other way around. I can definitely read his mind, but he pretends to think he can read mine. I let him get away with sometimes because when a thought goes into his head that is so foreign, he just blames it on his creator thinking it. In a way, it's much easier to deal with.
"What do you agree with?" she asked him.
"'With what do you agree,'" he corrected. He can be such a stickler for grammar. I really hate that about...him. Wow, I totally forgot his name.
"With what do you agree?" she asked, slightly annoyed.
"Nothing."
Fuck you! she screamed within the soundproofed walls of her mind, and really, I don't blame her. How could she know he was responding to a thought that wasn't his? Even if he tried to explain it, which he wouldn't, he would sound crazy and she would reply with the same thing.
"I was thinking something as if someone was talking to me, and I responded to it," he told her. What the hell? Well, it looks like I was wrong. He explained it to her after all. I obviously have no idea what I'm doing.
"What?" she asked him, confused. "You're telling me you said that in response to voices in your head?"
"I...I guess," he said. He put down the knife and looked at her. "Is that so weird?"
"Yeah, John. It is." JOHN! That's his name. John! Wow, such a simple name, really. I can't believe I forgot it.
Fuck you, John, she thought. Told ya. I know her. She's predictable. John's a bit less predictable, though. Weird guy and way too solemn for my taste, but he has a special place in my heart. All my characters do, oddly enough.
We place sentimental value on some of the most mundane things, don't we?