Leave Her to Her Lake

She hops onto the next relationship searching for something more real than a conversation with herself. She’s not afraid of being alone. She’s afraid of what the little ponds in her mind whisper, that she’s forgotten. She lets men confuse her when she asks them, “What are we? And why can’t you love me?” Their responses turn into half thoughts like “oh darling. Darling. Look up at me. Come here,” and half kisses that taste like the mall’s orange chicken, deepening as if there’s more depth in a kiss than in words he doesn’t want to say. He knows she’s smart enough to protest or leave if he says any wrong thing, so he tugs her to him by the small of her back as if actions tell all. She allows him to lock her on his lap. At least here, in this swirl of unsatisfying answers where he emphasizes the beauty of “grayness”, she doesn’t feel forgotten, even as she’s slowly forgetting what fullness feels like when entangling with company that convinces her that “grayness” is her place in their life.

She stays here even as she hears echoes of every boy that’s ever given her everything, proving to her “grayness” doesn’t exist. But even then, his half kisses feel rich enough to make her feel wanted. And wanted means she isn’t forgotten.

She has dreams of addressing her own mediocrity, the mediocrity that led her here.

She has dreams of walking to the lake that is somewhere deep in her mind and nurturing it. Maybe nurturing this lake means leaving the lonely lies she’s told herself. Would she really continue to answer to this? Answer: “Is my own company so horrid I can’t entertain it properly? Wouldn’t I rather feel lost alone than to navigate with someone else’s compass?”

She is not Aching

Shadow Poem to “She Leaves Like”

She is not Aching

For home where snow does not fall and wind is not cruel,

Where branches of pink petals rain like jewels

And too many feet busy the stone streets searching

For pretty things, pretty people for whom she is not aching.

 

Here she is, standing still, her boat docking and rocking itself.

That small golden lantern dims like it is lost

As she plants weary feet on sinking black sand.

 

She is not aching for the warmth of seeping guava tea,

A mother that knew her at the first sight of unhappy,

Pink petals that fell on brown roofs, now burnt to black

Like the sand and silhouettes of mountains and temples

That encase her now, edges to the ink she lacks.

 

She may never fear temple-sized serpents

As much as she fears humans

who make shapes where they do not belong.

If they had left her and her people alone,

Then she would not be leaving and aching so alone.

 

It is not her human condition to chase an offender this far from home.

And so I became 11 again

Let's be angry somewhere about a Zed or a Master Yi being fed.

Fuck this. Throw a table. Throw a fit.

You and me, in Chuckett or ballroom-looking Lamont, you name it, stirring up the place with rowdy clicks from us spamming League abilities. Eventually, the whole place is empty and ours.

You and me splurging on open fridges of soymilk. I don't hate myself yet and we're all praying we don't have too much work to catch up for tomorrow.

I'm belting out to Celine Dion again. "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" and I swear I'm only passionate about winning the game. 

I had a thought in my head somewhere about how Taylor Swift ought to have an acoustic version of the Midnights album soon. And yup, lo and behold, she does. 

Definitely not wondering if this is the last game. It'd be a cold walk back. Or in the earlier days of my life, say 2 years ago. When this girl couldn't walk, it'd be too cold to have naked fingers holding crutch sticks against icy pavement. A miracle she made it home. A miracle she had the will to crutch up two flights of stairs like a young, hungry man. 

She once dated a young, hungry man. 

I definitely did once date a young, hungry man. It was lovely. He was the best.

At what though? I remember everything.

-32 degrees can definitely kill this woman. 

I will never shave my head. Ever. I could. And I'd look hot. But I will never shave my head. I'm too vain and in love with these locks of straight-down-aquatic-waterfall hair. Asian mermaid. Unwet.

I'm just sleepy. Sober. Not drunk. I write like cooling pastries about to be put back into the oven because they're not burnt enough.

Pastries are never crispy enough to me. 

I remember Natalie once bought us two boxes of pizza. Guess who finished it? All three of us. Raw. 

Remember it. Remember that it was real and how raw it was. Pizza on our fingers. Pizza scented oil on our keyboards after. I'd have to look for wipeys after.

It's 1:30 AM EST but it's 12:30 CST. There's a 7 page essay awaiting me to sniff, whiff, and piff.

Fiff. Giff. GIF.  It's JIFF not G-if. 

Lucy, I swear I know you're reading this and wondering if I'm having an asthma attack. I will definitely be responding to you in kind on Instagram. I can't believe I just leave messages untouched for weeks. 

I do that. It's so fucking bad that I do but I do that. I have no idea why I fear messaging people back. I'm literally a self-proclaimed poet and writer -- can't even write back. Why am I so silly? So damn silly. I don't get it. 

There's a man out there. One singular man who has bought every ticket to see me. And I thank you. I thank him. I thank you. Curtsy low for this one. Keeper.

I will never fuck up at anything again. I don't want to. I don't.

Don't.

Good night silly people. 

7 or 8 Things I Know About Her

7 or 8 Things I Know About Her

(a poem inspired by Michael Ondaatje's "7 or 8 Things I Know About Her" poem, written for class and myself)

The Dress

She has a sequined mini green dress she wears every other weekend. Sparkling grape juice in hand (or so she promises), she needs to jump to the beat in her boots to keep warm and feel like a mirror ball reflecting only green light. Like she’ll never have enough dance partners and as long as they’re her friends. A cute boy could dance next to her and is only allowed to hold her hands.

Ghost

11:30 PM when she was 13 and watching her favorite American detective show, she and I heard footsteps. We turned around and it was father in white pajamas crossing the shrine and opening the guest room, but not before turning around and telling us: “How many minutes left until you finish your show? It’s very late. Make sure you both sleep soon.” He disappears into the guest room, closes the door, and never leaves it.

We later finished the show. She had the urge to check the main bedroom, but father was in red pajamas next to mother. Fast asleep.

The Buddhist Fortune-Teller

The monk told her she’d get married at 29 or 30. Have one girl and one boy. Without her asking one question, he already knew what she wanted to know. That she needs to forget her ex and focus on being the sexy, juicy, independent woman that she is. She believes in all fortune-tellers who do it for free.

Shooting

Since 14, she’s always accepted the gun when father asked if she wanted to shoot a bullet one step away from their front porch. All the major holidays, it’s her hands that do it. She’d look past father and grin at me, checking if I’d want to hold the gun together. I always said no and covered my ears.

“More for me then,” while she grabs her thickest headphones and gloves, visibly shaking.

Dark

She is deathly afraid of the dark, racing to bed and diving under the thickest blanket, covering all her toes, once she’s turned off the last light. It always takes her longer to sleep if she sleeps alone. That’s why she sleeps with me, and I sleep with her.

Bike

She skinned raw four of her knuckles while biking to pick me up from the bus stop since father couldn’t make it. She blames it on how scary the big Texas trucks were behind her and to get off the road, she climbed a little ledge and toppled on her knuckles. She biked to me bleeding. Grimacing. Maybe with a bit of blame but smiling when she saw no one kidnapped me.

Fantasies

I think she wants a hot prince more than she wants me. Every time she’s infatuated with a new boy, I could only hold a conversation with her if it’s about her new guy or if I’m so sad I’m crying for her attention again. I wonder if I could hold her attention at all when we’re far apart. When our paths don’t meet anymore.

I hope she will always see me as her best friend.

Last Night

Two weeks since we last called so we had to call. College keeps her busy. I’m updating her how our dog and parents are doing. I’m telling her about how college has been for me. How it’s everything like she said it’d be. How right she is about guys talking too much in class, getting a bike for campus, and always keeping an umbrella in case it rained or was too sunny but also, yes, it seems all my best guy friends are gay for some reason.

“But I hope I’m still your best friend,” she says.

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My blog has become more of a poetry portfolio lately?? 

They're easy and beautiful to write. ^-^ But this poem, I wrote from my sister's perspective of me. I've never been the perfect sister but I'm so happy to call her mine. My little sister. <3 and of course, I added a tall tale or two for fun, but you'd never know which. :) 

Let's all make up tales of ourselves shall we? It's more fun that way.

Re-edited 10.20.22. because my professor was right -- I kept changing verb tenses too. :P

She Leaves Like

Below is a poem inspired by one of my favorite digital artists: @guweiz on instagram. According to my professor, very haunting and magical. Enjoy. :)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She Leaves Like

Flurries of snow and fallen white-pink petals aching to rest

on stillness as a lone boat cuts the water.

A soft, cold wind of unknown voices brings all falling things,

blurring the unmade, daunting road before her.

Trees hug the road, the river, hiding beings,

and rooftops of temples darken the distance.

Humans make shapes wherever they go but snakes

disappear their shapes underwater.

Lucky her, this white-inducing night looks familiar.

Like legends of her birth right, her ancestors

Who trekked and fought and saved their world,

One night at a time or who disappeared forever.

 

The river serpent inquires: “dear, why are you alone?”

She is as far from cold as she is far from home.

She does not waver, does not answer.

Her lips pursed, fighting back all want to quiver.

The small golden lantern glows dimly,

“I may be alone, but I am not lonely.”

 

One river serpent slips away.

A Spirit Walk

Below is a sonnet I wrote for class. I'm definitely a noobie at this but it was really fun!

It's not perfect or edited yet haha but I really like it regardless. :)

A sonnet == 14 lines, with 10 syllables per line. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Spirit Walk 

A purple moon climbs the mountain-lined sky

As cold pale feet stalk luminescent blades

Of a path raked through by all souls alike.

Once was bow and arrow aimed at wolf heart,

A quivering breath barked at to steady.

“All lives are yours to take, exert, and look!”

Once were books turned until soft skin met bone

A shadow waiting beyond candlelight.

Fire burns the wanderer from inside

Memories in flames, light alive tonight

What becomes of effort that is not yours?

Fear and freedom dance together in flames.

There, a path unparted, echoing sounds

Of spirits, all unknown, but one is yours. 

Below is an updated version of the poem. It has more clarity too ha. 11.12.22.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Spirit Walk 

A purple moon climbs the mountain-lined sky

As cold pale feet stalk luminescent blades

On a path raked through by all seeing souls.

War is not freedom but it makes him ache

To know when he will be the last soul it takes.

If there were eyes to close, then he would see

His own shaking breath struggling to steady.

Arrows fly and find unseen enemies.

Once were books turned until soft skin met bone

His father’s shadow beyond candlelight.

Fire burns the wanderer from inside.

There is no sleep here; what becomes of dreams

That one made to be loyal, brave, and true?

Do these dreams haunt you like spirits, warrior?

Snapping Turtle

Below is an erasure poem I made in class out of the Natural History of Western MA about Turtles. Super fun:)

-----------------------------------------

Snapping -- 

100 years

                        are vanishing 

                                                    Like snakes.

no teeth

                        home and         protection 

Box                                          leaving 

            no flesh visible.

absorbing 

                ponds or rivers,

the painted 

bodies 

Snap.

When Mom Fell in our Local Walmart

By DieuNgoc Nguyen

(a poem I had written for my intro to creative writing, an assignment due tonight ;))

When she fell, it was because the Walmart floor was too shiny, like concrete oil under sun, no grip for flip-flopped feet.

When she fell, her wrist landed first. The floor met bone with force to frustrate her joints for weeks. Angered her for more. Angered me for more. 

Series of questions fell into place as a resounding yelped-grunt echoed in the bikes section: How is she going to massage customers for the next few weeks? Or paint shellac nails, deftly cut ingrowns? What will be of the nail salon? 

Her hands hold livelihood. Magical and requested. Praised for strength and detail. A family she raised.

When she fell, her ankle caught under the bike that toppled over her, forcing onto her a limp.

No, not the gardening, not the walking too. 

After she fell, my little sister ran to her, pulling the bike off her petite body. 

After she fell, Mom limped slowly out of Walmart, holding onto Yen – not thinking to report. Take this home and not make a big deal of things. 

“A Black male customer saw me limping and guided me to a store manager.” 

Otherwise, she would have left things where they fell.

To recount her fall, the managers requested she write in English the “incident”. 

“We need your recount in writing to file a proper complaint. Walmart’s insurance company will review and call you shortly.” 

I imagine my little sister translating, stressed and praying for quick resolution, taking the crisp white sheet and penning in English what happened: how and when she fell. If only they both knew… they shouldn’t have done that. Every word legally used against you the moment you shared your story. 

If only they both knew the “after” as all parties involved tended, appreciated, apologized, and saw her out.

So if all was well, after she fell, why did she find herself calling me? 

“Ngoc, you’re studying to be a lawyer aren’t you? When I fell in Walmart, who’s fault is this?”

Why did I feel like  —

“Ngoc?”

“Absolutely not your fault. No matter what they’ll tell you or try to get you to say, say nothing until you find a lawyer. Tomorrow, you must see a doctor and get a statement there too. And please don’t doubt yourself.” 

After she fell, she believed Walmart would make well on their promise: the nice Walmart people will call her back.

There was no call to receive.

The only way to receive with the 374.72 billion dollar corporation was at court. 

But when a credible Vietnamese lawyer was found, an MRI sent for, and a positive take on the case almost had, the law firm turned down the case. 

Multiple calls were made, but no firm with Vietnamese-speaking lawyers, with strong backing, would take. 

1. Perhaps her injury wasn’t severe enough to win big bucks.

2. Perhaps Yen’s written statement had too many words that could be used against us. 

With every no, every ounce of fight she had, as she tended to injuries, 

disappeared.

Not one call given. Not one glance, not one dollar

from Walmart

for the weeks she hurt through

for the days she couldn’t make to work

for the emotional duress of handling family, job, health, and injury.

When people act like you’ve disappeared,

You disappear too.

The moment she fell in Walmart, all their lawyers had already won.

Mom had already disappeared. 

Case closed.

Damn Still

My hands feel for the balls of my bare feet. The realness of me slowly being realized again.

There is a chubby big toe connected to it, heels that land flat-footedly. 

Gravity keeps me to the ground, but sticks me to my chair

where I don't move out of anywhere.

My fingers and eyes, the only things to move for hours. There is an electric circuit in my brain commanding my next steps. I am at the whim of my calendar, of invites accepted and hopefully declined, or graciously tentatively accepted.

If there is an hour, it is not to be wasted on feeling real. The realm I work in contains the abstract list of critical issues: human rights, climate change migrants, the Indo-Pacific Strategy, my lunch time. 

A flurry of thoughts push against each other, fighting for first place. Fighting to be the next email, the next note I write to be left somewhere on the internet for people with a proper security clearance to read.

I'm glad I gave up 3 hours.

I'm glad I spent 3 hours.

Hours are spent. Not given up. I teach myself again and again. 

With my father. 

The drive was full of stories. My ancestors. I always want to hear about them, because I need whatever they had to make the big names they did. Agh. My mind off the one thing that could hurt my sleep again tonight, among many things: like a long night conversation with my sister, like game addiction to League with someone equally addicted, like fear forcing me to stay awake and think, like men who want me.

I bleed through the words I write. Each one bringing me closer to the presentation I will make for important faces I don't know. 

There is one half cup of artichoke juice that was once warm that 7 am morning. The one my Dad spent all night boiling. I sip the lukewarm juice. 

Some things don't change. I still procrastinate. I still run away until I can't run anymore from things that I'm scared of most. 

Why am I so so so scared of this important project? 

What will happen to me if I allow myself to get it wrong? I keep doing this and it frustrates me, yet I forgive myself each time. I do it again. Anyways. 

Because I'm always scared. I'm as afraid as I am ambitious. 

That is who I am right now. One of many. 1 of 300 folks vetted for this position. Among the graduate students, the Yales and Harvards, and the ones that have always made it. Here I am at State to do whatever the fuck I want. Make the most of. Yet I sit still scared. 

21, and I know nothing. I'm going to all the places. Every place. Every new face. New conversation topics to spill into any space.

To hide from my own. 

Episode 82: Ngoc's Sounds

My blog has been a mix of both written word and sound.

Let me share you the sound bits then. 

Below is a collection of "sounds", mostly from abroad in Singapore when I had this damn beautiful piano to sing along to and a more recent recording. The trend is clear; your girl's a Swiftie. The list below is out of order because I feel like if you listened to it this order, you'd get a lot of contrasting experiences.

Feel free to listen to it out of order as well. :) 

Appetizer: 

Ed Sheeran ft. Taylor Swift - "The Joker and the Queen" [3/6/2022]

    This song is super sweet, brought me so much joy throughotu my time in Singapore. Whenever I shared it with folks, it makes people want to waltz. Especially, a certain Miss Neha Gupta out on the Sky Garden, waltzing her ghost partner. It's easy on the ears, as is my voice. I remember listening to this song and thinking, "I can totally sing this." And woah did I want this too. To be somebody's queen ;). 

Lighter Appetizer:

Sylvia Plath - "Bath" [4/11/2022]

    Sylvia Plath is a literary god. I loved every word I've ever read. This woman makes me quiver. I feel the urge, the need to read aloud everything she's every written. "Bath" is silly beans and the best of beans, but may there be no bath after it.

Experimental: 

Taylor Swift - "Carolina" [7/2/2022]

    My "gooOOOoooh!" in this one really shines bleb :P. Could not stop replaying this song for weeks -- it's too badass in a sad white cowgirl way. This song is so good with build up. Singing it, you start with whispers and you get louder and louder until the ending when the facts drop. Experimental because it's not quite sad. It's got a sad fighter vibe, which makes it the perfect track for "Where the Crawdads Sing" movie that just came out. Time to sin. 

Main Dish:

Imagine Dragons - "Whatever it Takes" [3/5/22]

    This is my badass bitch song in the club. Whenever I'm in pain, I belt this out. Healed. If there was a character development arc for me, which right now, yes, it's totally happening -- this is it. I truly feel like Lionel Messi, like I'm Messi training for World Cup 2026 in HOUSTON TX HOUSTONNNN. Or all the League games I played to this song on repeat. Carrying everyone so hard. :) 

    Except I'll do whatever it takes to carry HARDER. :D

2nd to last dish: 

Taylor Swift - "All Too Well" [1/30/2022]

    Have always wanted to sing this song when I first heard it in 2012. Took it out on the piano on this one. And damn is it so descriptive. All the attitude changes, key new details. Music can inform movies too because it felt like I was in one, every time I bop to this. My suitemates of Singapore can attest to what happens in our small living room when this song gets on. PfT. Hahahaha. And that's the memory I will always have with this song. Not that I was a little sad singing it. But that's the thing about meeting the people who will become your really good friends -- they force you to make new memories with things that had once made you feel something different.

    Hearing this song makes me feel warm instead now. How could us girls not dance, belt out every word like poetry written for us? 

Dessert: 

Hospital Playlist - "Aloha" [1/30/2022]

    Closest thing to dessert I could give you. This is my walk-down-the-aisle song! I've had this opinion for a year now and though I can't sing it yet, I can play it and play it at my wedding, all short thick legs pressing the foot pedal and serenading someone for the rest of my life. :) Unless there's divorce heh. #normalizedivorcesdespitethefactyouserenadedthefuckoutofhimforyears

    But by then, I'd be singing. I want to sing and play in front of everyone I love. "Aloha" is not just a clear-cut love song [though, yes, technically it IS]. It's a song about the celebration of life and all the people who make you want to sit down, cheer with a glass of wine, and dream about that beautiful future you'll have ahead together. My kids shall play with your kids. heh.

The End: 

Well you've made it to the end of my noises!!! My sounds! 

I hope you enjoyed and might come back for more. :) 

Your girl, 

Ngoc

P.S. I'm in DC. Listening to a younger version of myself sing and god is it nostalgic. I'll be back in Houston soon folks! :) 

Episode 81: Shield

Someone I love answered his own question: “what makes a good leader?” 

I didn’t hesitate. Like usual, I’m too quick. I don’t think. It's an answer I realized from practical experience: "Someone who brings out the best in others and makes everyone feel valued. When people feel that way, they'll be more likely to give their best because someone sees their best."

But he answered: “what if the organization is really really big though? How does anyone get personable with everyone to do that? I think a good leader is a good shield for anything that happens."

I've never heard an answer like that before. 

When I heard his answer, I didn't think I got it at first. Not truly.

He quickly explains that a leader has everyone's backs, even if they don't know everyone personally. They're the defender, the crafter of words and strategies to keep the train from wreck. 

I understood immediately what being a good leader was like after sitting in on some of the most exciting calls at my State Department internship. A good leader, I realized, had the words for any season or change in weather. They're the front lines holding all the responsibility, representing the best efforts of everyone who work for them.

There will be moments of pause, but never show a sign of struggle. 

Though we're only human, a good leader doesn't even show how the weather has weathered them. 

Perhaps it's because I've just begun, so even my descriptions are naive. But the civil servants who work at State truly are defenders. Practiced in the craft. 

I've used my words mainly to tell people how my day honestly went, write descriptive clouds of thoughts, or sell myself in a professional setting. Or it's me trying to convince myself I'm worth a lot today. 

Either way, a good leader is only as good as the knowledge they know. The adaptability that comes from all that weathering and challenge. The edge sharpened by practice, and dulled by lack of use.

I say this all to say that I want many of these qualities for myself, not to be a leader myself. These qualities -- I envy. 

I'm doing my best out here at the State, where it always feels like I have to sprint in order to stay in place.

Fight no one but my own sense of hunger. Am I hungry enough? To trek beyond anything I've ever set foot on? 

I'm in a land I don't know. A land I'm not familiar with, or comfortable with, or particularly happy in. 

Yet why does it slowly feel like... like I'll be absolutely okay? Because things are damn hard right now in alllll the professional development ways. 

What I haven't shared is just how intimidating it can be to sit across folks who are absolutely hungry about their dreams. It's inspiring and moving. I want my own train to dash toward some tunnel only I know about. I want that surety they have. 

But here I am -- more and more unsure. At first tipping the precipice from international into domestic policy. Now tipping back into foreign relations as I realize the direct impact I can have as an intern at the State. It's... thrilling. 

I get it now. 

I didn't get it last week, which was my half-way point in my internship. 

But I get it now. And though it's not too late -- time is limited now to realize the impact I'll have. 

I have a better idea of the kind of person I want to become. 

A shield. A really goOD meat shield for missions that I'm proud to protect.

A defender. Welp. 

That sounds so so far from who I actually am right now. I feel like a wreck with acting words and parts. Given a readout of what to say and do in most situations but bubbling in the still water as I struggle for the last bout of confidence to function in the turbulence of my own mind. Pushing to swim up and up, legs as strong as they can be, but still in plae. 

I have Buddha by my side. The blood of my ancestors in me. And a new friend I made at work today, eating ramen and finishing with boba. It's really the people I know that make this place a lot more cooler.

I know who I am. And I play this my way. I don't have to fight as hard as others. I navigate this with the unique knowledge I know and the skills I do have. 

I'm a good writer. :) 

And woah, does that count for something.

I JUST WANT TO BE BETTER AT THINKING AGHGHGHGHGH

You probably don't get what that means --- but have you gone on hours and hours and realized, what was the last original thought I had in my head? 

:( That's me. In a nutshell right now. How am I going to defend anything with ANY knowledge if my mind is a white board much of the day? When I let work, lack of sleep, possibly lack of nutrients, deprive me of real ass creativity? 

FUCK THIS NOOOOO :( 

I got. tihs. heah

P.S. thank you man i love. You’re not a liar after all :) 

Episode 80: I Fell in Love on a Subway

I did. 

Haha, I never thought I was capable of something like this. 

Perhaps it's not a word as strong as love. It's just that my heart felt like it was going to burst, looking at him, knowing what he did. 

His small action told me every important thing I needed to know. 

I will never meet him again. But if I ever did, it is wishful but perhaps, I might recognize him. That's too darn romantic. A set up set to fail.

I was on the subway to see my friend. I had earlier doubled back home in the middle of my 1.25 hour journey to my friend's place for a sleepover. A trip back for my forgotten laptop charger. 

I was a little and a lot frustrated but I knew that I'd need it. 

When I was finally back on track, I boarded the subway that would be a straight shot to her place. Sitting there, I pondered how life has been. 2 weeks into my lonesome stay in DC, I've been anything but lonesome. 

My host is one of the most companionable of people. I never feel alone when I'm with her, even though I do spend more than a few days at a time holed in my homestay, locked to my laptop. She's lived through so much -- her wisdom and self-assuredness push through to me. Her spirit living outside her body at times. Every idea I thought I had, she entertains. She whips in many great stories that ask for more from me. "What do you have to give and share once my story is done?" her eyes seem to ask. Keeping me rooted to the wooden floor with her words. With what's happened and what will happen, even after I leave, she haunts me. 

Her presence, even when she's absent, is everywhere in this house. There is too much personality here to feel left alone. 

I want a home like that. I want a space that blurs the line between when I was there and when I've left.

I've been alone, but have not yet felt lonely. Or as lonely as I thought I'd feel. 

My host, along with some of the friends I have here in DC and friends planning to come visit me in DC -- I've been kept. And that's a damn good thing.

I've realized that I'd only feel loneliness if my friendships weren't already strong. Distance can do little damage if substance is truly there. The heart is there. Perhaps this is a small segway but that means long distance relationships can work if my long distance friendships have. 

I've always known this. Even in Singapore, despite the distance and time, I was always excited to hear back from friends across the world. My heart would wander back to folks home and the mere urge to see them all again with more and more stories to tell would just be. 

Freedom is scary if you don't have security. And I had a lot of security to keep me company and rooted and un-lonely thus far. 

It's been a month of summer. 

A month alone, but not lonely. On my own, but warm. 

Sometimes too damn tired to feel lonely at all. 

I find myself busy cooking, too tired to cook but cooking anyways or I won't have dinner, legs all sore as I stand there cleaning all the dishes I've made. Taylor Swift's "Carolina" would play. I'd want to watch "Where the Crawdads Sing" again and I'd sing again, "it's between me, the sand and the sea; Carolina knows."

I sing a lot now. 

I sing plenty to myself. I sing plenty as I make or think of anything and I sound good. I sound like I know what I'm doing. Like I wrote the words myself.

At night as I lay in bed, some brief thoughts that would cross my mind are, what I have to do tomorrow. What meals am I having? Who do I have to call to remind them I love them? Or like them? 

I'd be on my back at the end of a long day and feel SO good. All clean, smelling like coconut soap across my arms and elbows, while making my pillows smell like vanilla from my shampoo. A long breath would escape and everything held in is freed. 

I am a bird on its back. Wings spread wide. Tired. Of finding food.

Of making food.

Designing whole days and many weeks around when I'm getting groceries and how many 2 hour slots I might have to cook. 

I'm a slow cook. And my food is too mediocre to enjoy, but I push it down. Sauce it up with newfound sauces like Thai peanut sauce and what Manal introduced to me herself, Peri-Peri sauce.

I'm an unpaid intern making every dollar count, yet I burn through too many dollars on ingredients for Smoothies, and too much money on meat. 

My proteins are expensive.

I'm rambling right now, I know. I'm supposed to tell you how I fell in love on a subway.

And if it makes any sense to still be in love with a stranger I'll never meet again.

Well, love isn't infinite. 

So I don't still love that young man on the subway. 

But my heart loved him a bit. For a day. I loved him for a day.

And I was all too happy to share with my friends about it. "I did that crazy thing that people feel in movies. Why, yes. I fell in love in a hopeless place." 

Perhaps it's how my days have been feeling like melting soaps or coconut white chocolates where the white coconut parts are unfoundable among the white chocolate parts. Little is distinguishable, yet it tastes darn good. 

My days have been good.

I'm not sleeping enough. Staying up late talking or playing or being afraid. 

Being afraid in general.

But not afraid to fall in love.

That's silly isn't it? I've been hurt by love, a lot. I've been disappointed, yet I've wanted it all over again. 

But it was never love I really wanted.

It was always to be wanted.

Simply it. 

To be someone's gem and then have the chance to decide if being their gem meant anything to me. If I like being their shiny thing and if I'm no longer their shiny thing or I no longer feel shiny to them -- I leave the love I had. I've left the "loves" I had. 

I'm cruel that way. I'm as sharp as I am shiny. And I'm mean when I want to be. And when I have your attention, I know how to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. But I know how... and, sometimes, I let it burn. And I let it go. 

So perhaps, for people like me, people who are more dangerous in love than out of love, to fall in love with strangers.

Where I can't harm a soul.

Perhaps this stage of my life, I'm not meant for anyone. 

I'm just meant for me. I'm just meant to be alone and not feel alone, be alone but still warm and happy, be alone and know that I hurt more than I heal -- to be as I am.

And it'd be a lie if I said I wasn't doing well. 

He's probably doing well too. The young man I fell in love with.

I had my green Hawaii-like halter top on and my cute jean shorts. Hair tied up in my fattest of ponytails. A big bag of sleepover necessities -- my flip flops sitting on the top. 

I didn't notice him at first. Just a smaller, lanky frame entering with an electric scooter, helmet still on. Sitting where no one could really see him. I found myself noticing him. Perhaps because his hair was black and his skin was olive and perhaps I thought I found a bit of myself in him across a subway full of people who didn't look like me.

I was listening to the same Vietnamese love ballad on repeat, trying my best to romanticize my own life and how the journey ahead was going to be awesome. 

Later, a woman dressed in grays and browns that had browned from time and wear walked from behind him with a sign. Up to his seat, she held the sign in her hands to him, her head bent over and clumps of hair falling forward over her face. He read the sign quickly. I could tell. His eyes moved faster than any eyes I've seen before. After finishing, he looked up to her just as quickly, and respectfully replied in soft, "Of course, of course. Yes. Um... here." 

Everything this man does is quick. Quick reading. Quick response. Quick hands into his pockets. And he struggles a bit with his wallet but he pulls out a 20 and respectfully hands places it into her hands. 

She thanks him happily and leaves the subway at the next stop, and I found myself, being a creep. Looking up at him several times. Sizing him up. Wondering more about him. 

And my heart simply knew. That if I were to want any quality from someone in the future it is this; kindness when no one else is looking. 

It's all I'll ever need to know. 

Among other things haha. 

But it's the biggest part of the pie. He simply caught my eye. 

He was so speedy and ready, and perhaps, yes... perhaps privileged enough to be in a position to give someone else a 20 dollar bill -- needless to say; my heart pounded.

And I didn't know how capable I'd ever be at love again after forever -- but this one random ass guy reminded me what it felt like again. 

Subway is not the place for the best loves.

It's not longlasting love.

It's a simple reaffirmation that good men exist, haha. 

I mean, Singapore did that already. But let's do it again. 

I'm doing great by the way. :) JUST TIRED IM TIRED OF COOKING AND WASHING DISHES AT THE SAME TIME OR IM RUNNING OUT OF DISHES AGHGGGGGGG ;((

Episode 79: Swings and Things

4.18.22.

The best things happen on a swing. Everything is better on a swing. Eating. Talking. Dancing. Fighting. 

It was Good Friday this past weekend and a week earlier, Nicholas had invited my entire suite and Ian to his perhaps, favorite place in the world: church. 

"Why?" I asked.

"I come for the people, for the community. I really like it there," he said. Something is probably between his hands, to be fiddled with, when he speaks deeply about anything. His eyes turn far off, as if he's at church at the thought of church... while talking to me. A modest Buddhist who keeps saying "Hallelujah" when the assignment is turned in, and relief is had. 

Oh, Nicholas. 

For now, I gotta take you to church. 

We left on time and got there at the knick of time. Thank god Nicholas made us leave earlier by 15 minutes. Our suite...well, the girls and I, have a habit of being just an eeensy late to lots of plans. It's people like Ian and Nicholas that remind us how important being punctual really is. And possible punctuality is. 

Nicholas led us there the whole way, his feet bouncing. Reminding me a bit of Allison in his walk. If reincarnation is real, Allison's feet have reincarnated as Nicholas' for brief moments. Because no one could walk as happy and bouncy as Allison can. That's my hot take but that similar "up", "up" is there. I'm not obsessed with feet, I swear. I'm obsessed with walking. :P

Naina, Garima, and I would walk at our own paces. Nicholas and Ian in the front. Me in the middle. Naina and Garima in the back. 

The whole trip was a blur to me. Ian was memorizing the train lines again, the East to West line. Nicholas kept making faces at Naina and she'd return with eye raises and pouts of her own haha. Faces were made at just about anyone that would look our ways. No one really did it at Ian though oop. Perhaps, we all respect Ian too much to show him even a silly face. Though, Ian himself can definitely make silly faces. "Elementary school theatre," he attributed it to. Garima who shares a brain with Ian and was also memorizing the train lines, her eyes focused and looking away as she recounted on her fingers the train stop names. Naina expressing how grateful she was that Garima is there again, "if you weren't here Garima, I wouldn't know what to do," after I said something silly or perhaps, agreed with Nicholas on something controversial again. So it goes. :P

Metal. I gripped a lot of metal on the train. How could I forget that? Sometimes, the train would stop just an eensy too hard and I would be grateful for the wall behind me or the grip above my head. Scenes flashed through the windows. 30 seconds of darkness. 30 seconds of light and city and green and prosperity. 30 seconds of darkness. Eventually our stop at City Hall came. We had stood the whole time on the train.

Nicholas led us through a futuristic mall. Neon lights. An underground tunnel with media and art and pink and blue lights everywhere. All of this was... a mall. I knew that Singapore is shopping central but I didn't know to this extent. At least 6 or 8 floors of shopping. Escalators everywhere up and everywhere down. I had a gut feeling that his church was fancy as fuck, from that luxurious walk. 

I was right. The elevator up was rich in space. We had so much space ahhh and so much space up. Spacious elevators mean one thing and one thing only: they're leading me up to some seriously nice places. A really kind couple that Nicholas was familiar with greeted us on the way up. The sweet lady helped pass the church pamphlets to us. We made a stop at the restrooms and my god, even that was fancy. Our group had talked about this once but, women's bathrooms really are too damn small. If I were to enter one, the back of my legs would barely brush the toilet seat JUST to close the door. It's... absolutely disgusting how small and cramped bathrooms are.

But this was not. I had sooo much space to close the door. And so relieved, I relieved.

On the way out of the restroom, with Garima happily holding the door and Naina bouncing or bobbing her head on her way out -- all of us more than curious about what would happen in church on Easter Friday. What happens in churches? I knew little. I knew Jesus had died for something, but what? And did Nicholas invite me to come along too because I always ask questions about his religion, like: "What would Christianity have to say about the death penalty?" 

He had answered: "Only God can take away your life." 

"But what if, someone believes that they're God? That they're the next one?" I had asked.

He paused, intent, "Good point," he said. The question went unanswered. 

I wonder though, if that was why I found myself then in a church, curious to see if a few could be had. Answers about how services ran, since I've never observed before. 

On the way out of the restroom and noticing m that hair didn't look too good in the mirror. 

"Disgusting," I said to myself, as I tucked away the strands.

Naina heard me and quickly and loudly said, "nAsTy GIRL!" Garima and I burst out laughing. Naina has a knack for identifying the nasty wherever nasty exists, and if nasty is what I am. So be it. 

However, I'm a lady. And I refuse to be ~ a nasty girl ~ on my first ever church experience. XD I am a child of my parents after all. Religiously, we hold onto abstinence and cleaning the whole damn house every Sunday. Not that abstinence de-nastifies me. :P

Here we are. The last ones to sit ourselves down at the beginning of service. The whole space of this church felt like a white low-ceilinged wedding hall. There weren't any windows except for one, on the edge of the stage. Low-backed, hard-cushioned chairs in neat rows. At any moment, I felt like someone was going to get married. But no one got married. No, because, we were here with Nicholas and Ian to learn about why Jesus died for all of us. Why his death was an act of love. Why more people needed to be liberated by Jesus' love. 

Religiously, the folks here follow the pamphlet. The quotes. The songs. The songs are gorgeous oh my gosh. Guitar-game was strong. The sermon was extensive and I could understand the pull of Christianity. It identifies the pain in those going through difficult times and guides people to feelings of liberation if they let go of their worries and choice, and choose only one thing: choose God. 

People were clasping their hands. Nicholas clasped his hands. Ian looked on deeply, fitting into the place like this is home, and as we'll later learn: "It's very similar to my church back home." 

There was a lot of sitting down and then standing up for the songs. There were at least 5 songs. Maybe I'm exaggerating. Maybe I should have kept the pamphlet instead of recycling it with Naina's and Garima's, so I can remember how many songs we stood up for. I do remember noticing in my periphery, how Naina swayed lightly to the music, her head nodding a little ways there and that. Garima held the pamphlet, reading every word, as if she couldn't follow closely enough. I felt that too. Every second of song or sermon, I was analyzing and relating back to my experiences in Buddhist temples and teachings. One last time, the songs were pretty fire. I know I keep talking about them but I can see how healing it was to lead with music. The words themselves weren't something I believed in religiously, but the melody. 

It reminded me of the song Ian had played for us on the piano one time. The song he played twice. Hopeful and loved. I felt that. :) 

"We have hot cross buns outside. We have enough for everyone so please help yourselves."

Even the hot cross buns were fancy. Oh my gosh. They were perfect buns. I had raisins in my bun and though it's my least favorite flavor: raisins. But they made it amazingly, blending it with apple cubes and a cinamonny taste. Still warm, and the bun skin was glowing under the white lights of the church. The raisins reminded me of the raisins I've grown to love in my breakfasts. A crucial detail of my everyday here in Singapore is convincing myself that breakfast is GOOD enough to get out of bed for. 

And breakfast usually is incredible. Their warm, plain oatmeal with raisin toppings. Goddamn that stuff gets me racing to the dining halls in no time and wakes me up so warmly inside. I feel so mothered by oatmeal and raisins, and lately, they've stopped serving oatmeal and that actually... saddens me SO much. I've eaten amazing things in my life. Richly flavored meal items. Custard breads. Vietnamese Pho. But the plainness of oatmeal. It strikes me so deeply how plain it is, yet when you add in the incredibly sweet raisins into it -- it's so... simple. It's in your face how perfectly simple it is. Simple mornings. With just oatmeal and raisins. I rise.

My friends laugh at how silly and easy I am to please. Naina would do this thing where she enters the dining hall. I'm already set up. I'm more than a handful bites into my meal. She doesn't need my opinion but asks anyway, and that is, "How's that meal set?" She asks so she can make an educated guess about which ones are good and which ones aren't. 

I always say that my meal is good. Because it usually is. I love so many of my meals here in the dining hall. Or maybe I've managed to choose well each time. Or maybe I'm way too easy to please. For all these reasons, my opinion on which meals are good are overlooked. In silly ways, but Naina asks anyways. 

Though if we're being honest, I'm a selective person haha  BUT... I do easily enjoy the simple things, where mornings are made by warm oatmeal. And a "good morning" greeting on the way out. Let it be known.

The five of us walked through the hallway towards the floor-to-ceiling windows leading to the rooftop gardens. A door was propped open and we stepped through onto a patch of grass. We had a wondrous view of the city before us. So many little kids running around the green garden paths that existed. It had rained a bit earlier so the grass sunk deep into mud. Hence, me in my sandals was not ideal. Whatever the case, we made it to the swings. Each one could squeeze 3 people. Garima, Naina, and I squeezed into one. I rocked into it with hips and all, folding forward and leaning far back to swing us higher. Ian took videos and pictures of us, trying to get as many candids as possible. He's already trying to get our candids, an eye out for us and that's how he shows us he cares. He wants to know us for who we really are and capture us in our shenanigans. In ways we can't capture ourselves already. Naina and Ian are very similar in that regard. Naina would pull me to the side, knowing I'm a bit of a flirt under the spotlight -- she captures me at my best. Of anyone I know, the most persistent and patient of people would be Naina. A knee pressed into the ground, even in heels, she's going to make sure she got angles of you. Motivating you to try new poses. Flurries of affirmation and confidence-building. Naina becomes a sort of healer through photo taking? I wonder if that's a real power haha? If so, she's unreal with it.

Nicholas shows us he cares with acts of service. He's not the type to overstay or ever will be. If he's there and he's uncomfortable, he just would not, but he's willing to wait for however long it is if it matters. Which is a very general description of any person haha. But then, perhaps I only know Nicholas generally. And Nicholas is generally and genuinely a good Christian boy.

The trip had been fancy as fuck. Church was one of the fanciest events to happen to me in Singapore -- haha, god I make this sound like a joke but it is NOT. 

Later, our group of 5 headed outside to the roof area. We had a beautiful view of the city, even to see the edge of the water. We explored the edges of the scenic roof. Little kids ran past us aplenty. I was eager to stay and look over the edge. We were all eager to explore an aspect of the place. There was even a soccer field that had a net covering for the length of it. Importantly, there were wooden swings left and right.

The kind of swing that I had been ungrateful about when I was younger. 

I remember asking for a kid's play swing when I was younger. Yellow seat. Fancy wooden playground and all. However, the swing that my Dad had assembled on the side of the house looked nothing like the one from the park. It was an "adult" swing. The kind that two people sat on and talked about the meanings of things, didn't swing very high, and wasn't very fast. 

I was 7. And disappointed.

This time, I saw it in Singapore only to be delighted. Something to sit, swing high ~enough~, and feel small again. Garima, Naina, and I fit ourselves into one seat. Nicholas and Ian stood by watching us laugh and discuss whether or not my hip movements really did make the swing swing any higher. I'm sure it did -- they didn't believe me. "It's your knees," they said. 

Well they were gonna have to stand up to my Dad's swinging advice when he first taught me on the swing that disappointed me. "It's your hips," he said.

Ian filmed us without us knowing at first. Because of him, we have some candid videos of ourselves laughing and being on that swing. Nicholas would film us too with my camera, as I pushed Ian, Naina, and Garima on it. I might have pushed them too hard and too high. Ian's knees were up to his chest, his tall, lanky frame small and scared as I realized what I'd done. 

"He's been scared for some time haha omg," Naina observed.

I know I describe this all in simple ways. But this was really it. It was simple. Being together.

There was more laughter here. Created. And desired than I ever knew to do with. 

Ian would later or was it before? he would stand on top of the swing and swing. 

None of us saw it coming, but he was smiling under his mask for sure. His arms long enough to reach either side and make it move. The existence of a swing brought out the youth in all of us. Making us want to be silly. Feel the speed. Have someone strong enough to take care of us and push us off the ground. 

It feels free. 

To be. And breathe out a scoff. A laugh. A thing we thought.

Where the worries lie is where our feet push off.

Episode 78: Invisible Hand

5.2.22.

Kids are disgusting. Where they don't even realize they're disgusting. When you're a kid, you don't understand how soap works, until you realize there's a difference before and after. Before, your hands slightly oily from everything you've touched before. And after, a new dryness to those little hands.

Teachers constantly squeezed hand-sanitizer onto themselves, onto desk surfaces. You keep going to class sick, and sit there, all dazed, waiting for the pointer to strike the 3rd line on that clock soon. Every day was the same. Recess when. Eating when. Your friends.

I remember, whenever I was so sick I couldn't think anymore, I would tell the teacher. But I'd have to really think first, because that would mean ruining my perfect attendance. Perfect attendance fucking sucks, because you'd have to be healthy for that shit. Kids get sick though. Our immune systems newly developing as we sneeze improperly into our hands, and play "Mama Mama can't you see?" like we don't require another pump of hand-sanitizer. And come home, spreading classroom diseases to the baby sister sleeping next to you.

Even if I told the teacher, they wouldn't believe me. What if I'm lying so I can go home? But who wouldn't? Want to go home? Every day is the same. And lessons are hardly interesting, save for my friends.

On days that I'm sick, my dad would drive from whatever construction job he was at and come into the nurse's office to pick me up. The school nurse was always the same and he would come to recognize her by her voice whenever she made the call to him. Eventually, she might not be able to understand what he's saying, and pass the phone to me. Or maybe my Dad requested to speak with me. My 7 year old self would get all excited to speak with my Dad over the phone. It hits different when after hours and hours of hearing your teacher talk and talk and talk. To hear your Dad ask you softly how you're doing, "If you want me to come get you, I will," he'd say. Everything would be okay. He's on his way. 

I count on him. I can always count on him. I count on him in my heart today as much as I counted on him then. With my Dad, I hear his footsteps and I know it's him. He walks so heavily and uncomfortably. Like every step is an exclamation point with a greater emphasis on the long line in the exclamation point. I would hear him ask them where I am. There he is, the man I love first and most.

14 years later. I'm studying abroad. I find myself sick and isolating somewhere on the 15th floor, asking my friends to get food for me. Every meal feels like a treat. Every friend has a different food grabbing style. All of them make sure I have my fruits haha. All of them make sure I have my jellies haha. Some of them grab extra packets of Milo. Some of them grab extra packets of coffee. One person would grab me food and not tell me that it was the last time I would see them, until after I had gobbled up the meal, happily updating them how well the meal went and how I can't wait to see them after quarantine. "I'm actually flying to Vietnam in two hours but should we meet again, we must." Some of them, a yogurt, and gosh, one went out of her way to get me boba. The same girl would later give me a planner I badly needed, a planner perfect for everything important I would do for that year as a parting gift. I miss her. I miss them.  Yet, one person reminded me of my Dad. LMAO. 

What struck me is one certain person: My econ problem set partner. He brought me everything. He brought me every salad dressing option available and the salad. He brought me all the drinking options in case there was one I didn't like. He brought me ketchup and chili sauce. And it made me think of my Dad. 

My Dad did the same. He would always do that thing where he would go to the store to get me treats when I was sick. I would ask for one type of ice cream to soothe my sore throat, but he'd bring home 3 different options, in case it wasn't what I wanted. "If anything, you get to try different things too haha." Looking back, ice cream on a sore throat is a terrible idea. 

"As long as your mother thinks it's for when you're done being sick. ;)" 

And so it goes. I miss my family. I get to see them within a week and I'm incredibly excited. But now, I just feel that even when I'm far from family and the love that I thought could only exist with them, I see a thousand versions of that "care" in the people here. In the way they leave me food after I've been locked up all day. Doing nothing in particular. Feeling nothing in particular, until I open the door, and food is left for me. Naina and Garima dropping off coffee packets hehe and that water kettle to help my sore throat. Naina and Nicholas putting together a heart for me to have, meters away. My forehead pressed against the edge of the door entrance, wishing to be closer to them physically and squeeze. Linh leaving me texts full of happiness and bubbles after buying me boba that I never knew I needed. And Linh that left me my first apple, it was a darn good apple that I knew I badly needed but forgot to ask for. Louis left me so much food and options. These folks. These folks are great. And I am cared for. I am fine. 

Back then, my mother would overly dote on me. I'd lie in bed, dropped out for the whole day, waking up past dinner. My little self would tuck myself into bed and everything, feeling the fever like a drum. Hoping that sleep helps, and waking up worse. But there was always an invisible hand pressed against my forehead, wondering if I'm getting better at all. 

In Singapore. Days before I disappear back home. Yet I'm here all alone feeling all these feelings over meals left outside my door.

Singapore, all its entrances, and ways of wrapping itself around my heart. 

Best,

Ngoc

P.S. This is definitely a... family X friends episode. ;)

I'm going through my old episodes and publishing themmmm. Because I have so many half written Singapore ones. It's going to be published out of order but I'm doing my best haha. 

I'm a half-ass, but when you meet me, I prove you wrong. ;) 

I GIVE 100% ALWAYS. 

^-^ 

just wow, in less than 36 hours, ill be in DC all alone. AGAIN. omg ;(( MORE ON THAT TOO SHOOT

Spring in Singapore with people who made all its storms feel sunny :)

In alphabetical order are poems I had written about those that had left a beautiful memory of what my time in Singapore was.

I know that I had not written as much about Singapore as I would like, but I assure you those posts are coming. :) 

For now, what I hope suffices will be glimpses into those I shared my spring with. 

They stole the show. 

And I adore them all for it. 

Garima

There’s not a laugh I yearn 

to earn more

Than yours

Naina says, Neha says, I say.

Who was I to say 

That running into you in the hallway that day

Was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Would undo me.

I never knew a first conversation could feel so much like breathing

Like seeing, and reflected back,

Were mirrors running to our future.

That future saw right.

That future saw us 

Full of laughter. Riding color. All the giggles, secrets, and joys your eyes cannot hide. 

All the kindness you share, boundless and rich.

And I had thought that I had been given all the love in the world

Until I had yours too.  

You give and you give and you give

And people taketh again and again. 

This shall not. Happen. Again. 

Because just as you have helped others grow with your love,

I know the love of our suite has reminded you, even a semblance of

your power. Of that fearless humor. Of that beautiful desire within you

To ask of life all that it has to offer,

And find it in the people you have chosen, people privileged enough, 

To earn your love. 

Your honesty and “disgustings” now color conversation as much as the fervor

Of what you desire from this, from your exquisite and beautiful life.

Who would not consider drowning

In how deeply you reach

Into us each?

For you are quicker than the devil. Innocently and dangerously charming

Out every truth hidden within a person. Within me.

The world awaits your power. Your charm. Your self-assuredness.

You are joy. You are golden. You are daylight. 

(Gladly be the butt of the joke, if your laugh is the end of it.)

Ian

If I thought I had a thought,

Then I should think again, 

Because you’ve already thought that thought.

Perhaps more deeply,

And I’m just thinking on a whim.

And if you disagree, you never show it.

You’d rather keep your friends than be right.

But beyond the endless ruminating 

you seem to have in constant with,

There is something more obvious,

As beautiful and satisfying as a fast ball catch: your inner glow.

Oh, how it shows. How fast and easy it is to catch on.

“I never knew someone like Ian existed.”

You’ve heard these words more than you can count.

We see it as bright as daylight.

Your kindness. Your truest goodness.

It is as vast, as obvious, and as forever as the ocean we all looked at

Together at Labrador Park, again at Sentosa.

Your knees up to your chest, smile up and out with the people lucky enough to call you their friend. 

Fill up this universe’s oceans

With all the love, the respect, you share for the humanity in us each. 

The humanity you strive to see, no matter the stranger. 

For we have seen it, your absolute goodness,  and it is hard to live on with anything second 

to what you have given us.

If there is a dream, may it fall where you wish. 

If there is a hope, may it rest and stand protected. (Or we shall protect it for you.)

Thank you for teaching us

What it means to wait for everyone else

No matter how fast or slow the walk is

The person is the same, the destination constant.

There is no whim to reach. No urge to follow home. No time to make. 

Just the deep ruminating

Of good thoughts with good friends

On good evenings, at no particular place as long as there is space,

With the magical, kind, GOOD, creative, invincible, and unforgivingly incredible,

Ian Choi.

Naina

No one else exists who loves and wants and wishes love

For those you love 

As you do.

When the waves are harsh to us first, 

You catch us among them.

The observant bean, all seeing. Your eyes do not miss a single thing.

For where a smile is a bit lost,

There is your hug to be had.

Your arms anchoring

Against all the turning–

For if we are in water 

in need of clarity,

There you are with a hug or another story.

No meal, no table, could run dry with your stories.

They are quick to fill any sweet silence, any part and moment,

But make our meals feel more real, more together,

You are a weaver of stories

Just as you are a knitter of people,

Putting us together. Collecting us for a birthday and bringing us together all the same.

Who could resist your dreamy smile? 

Who could resist your want to hug, your warmest of hugs?

But give in

And squeeze you back, hard.

I don’t have to teach you how a great hug is given,

When you’ve giving them to me, to us,

So freely, so fiercely.

Because there’s a heart etched in your hands,

Hands that easily remember to pull out a little love,

A snack from Daiso, a Polaroid of us, a letter saying nothing short of “I love you,”,

Your hands give as much as they easily capture what became of a family that felt complete

With you at its center.

And so like freedom and fierceness,

I know you shall channel into the next and the next,

do more than merely survive.

Writing and rewriting,

With nothing but love for us all in your life.

Neha

I can see it all in my mind; your back against the golden ocean,

Lean forward, Neha. You are catching yourself off guard 

With how easy, how close all you want is near – is here. 

No, you are reached out to. No, you are falling towards;

The world is calling towards – you –

And you are not afraid.

The bravest of this bunch. There is no little box near enough

For you to make opportunity of, burn those ceaselessly buggy fears, and catch them all.

There is no torch as bright, no hope as brave, as yours – as the brightest blue star.

At times, you may want to be well enough alone

But you have more love in your little body,

Love that sees the most of any body to share. A love that is as warm as it is rare.

On our worst days, you see our best. Every detail of us etched in your mind. 

Every strength in us, you see so quickly. So accurately.

Sometimes I wonder if you’ve read my mind.

Show the world what you know. 

Step into any room like it’s your ballroom

Like there’s an audience. Your confidence 

is yours. Your movements. Make. Create. It is lovely. 

Thank you for smiling at all the little things as if it’s your first time

As if it’s your first life. 

The awe you hold for the world around you, for the uncertainty that lies on,

You are steadfast and unrelenting yet forgiving as you forge ahead.

May your beautiful eyes hold this awe forever and ever.

With every instinct, every piece of love, coalescing in your heart, in your head.

Thank you for noticing, seeing, and gleaning our truths out. 

Just as the ocean catches you off guard,

You disarmor me. Pull out all our secrets, I want to share them. And it must be you.

Likewise, share with us how you feel lying on the soft sand, looking up at a starless sky. 

Is it the potential you see? The great distance between yourself and beyond? Is it the long road ahead? The potential you see in yourself, you see in others. You see so easily in others.

Your eyes are crafted with the gaze of love and we have fallen for our dancing queen.

Because no, you are not falling towards any golden ocean,

You are jumping in among the greatness. So it shall be. The star danced and lit up the sea.

Nicholas 

You know you’re making a bad joke before you make it.

At ease, even when everyone’s eyes eye you keenly,

Or eyes rolled,

There is no need,

no explanation, 

Other than how you easily bring joy into any space–

being truly, unapologetically, and irrevocably yourself.

You grin into your seat from wherever you are, presence made.

Fin. 

Before another joke comes in. 

What does reliability look like? 

It looks like one Nicholas 

Reliably reading the Bible, the Economist, reading something

Fiddling with something, thinking of something. 

It looks like one Nicholas doing what he can

For those who are lucky enough to request of him. 

It looks like one Nicholas ready to give

To share his greatness, his knowledge humbly, talk badly of nobody. 

It is one Nicholas saying, “No worries. No worries at all.”

An hour later, a bag of adapters on the door. A knock on the door. A reliable grin at the door.

Grace us with your presence. Whether it be a silly joke, an observation of this silly world, 

You show us you care. If love is too strong a word, your word is “there.”

I will be “there”. I will be “there, soon.” I am “there.” 

You are the definition of an act. For your world is rich in words, the words you read and collect and say,

But you will never only be a man of your word.

You are the act of the world.

You are brave. You reach out. 

You are unafraid to ask for what you need.

Thank you then, for knocking on our door first, for asking of us, asking for us. 

We have the privilege of having had you because you gave us

Your time first. See you “there.” On our chair. 

Thank you, good neighbor, maybe “friend?”.

May any day that feels slightly less than it should be,

May you know just how wonderful, how truly good, and wanted you are in every space.

Shikhar

You are the “blur.” 

You are a movement, a “to” and to the “next”

There is no unfinished thought you wouldn’t finish

No “yes” you wouldn’t even attempt to entertain,

Fast, shikhar, you are fast. A walking spark of yellow joy,

Of Blue Dutch Ladies, of white anonymous cows’ melks,

of grey Singaporean stormy skies made yellow again

Spending it with you and your “blur,”

Yet you are

a calm, yet an eye of a storm, yet a quiet.

If a person can be both,

It’s our Shikhar.

Your presence feels so rich, so comforting. 

There is a promised good time

There is a promise of a laugh

A room echoing what you had started

With you at its center,

Quick smiles, quicker remarks– 

Shikhar the Sacrificial: quick to catch all the awkwardness in a room

Even if it’s not yours to catch.

And don’t we enjoy the sight of a once-for-all stuttering, loss-for-words Shikhar?

You were a later addition to our family

And you fit so perfectly.

You fit in as much as you feed us

Feed our energy,

A live human battery pack.

But you’re toxic as fuck.

You say yes to everything, to everyone, if there’s time for it

Every idea is given thought to

If not for some down-to-earth folks to bring you and your thoughts back

But that’s exactly what makes you lovely– 

You don’t mind being the butt of the joke.

You don’t mind exhausting all resources to continue on.

You are brave, imaginative, and absolutely golden. 

There’s no stopping you,

For you are our “blur,” Shikhar.