Posts tagged with "memories"

Guilt-Free Selfishness

I’ve been brave enough to lis­ten to The Postal Service late­ly, although my enjoy­ment is restrict­ed to head­phones on the bus. It’s still some­thing that’s a lit­tle too per­son­al to be lis­ten­ing through speak­ers, and for some rea­son, I’m not com­fort­able with oth­ers hear­ing the same songs that I do. It’s as if being able to hear the same trip­py beats and soft voic­es gives oth­er peo­ple the abil­i­ty to expe­ri­ence the mem­o­ries that the music brings to my mind; curves in a gen­tle face, car rides through the thick sum­mer air, ner­vous fum­blings on the couch, the scent of unfa­mil­iar sheets.

They’re all good mem­o­ries, noth­ing painful any­more, but it’s all some­thing I’d like to keep to myself for just a lit­tle longer.

Music like Braces and Bruises

Whenever Trolley and I hang out togeth­er, whether it’s a car ride or a ses­sion of tow­er defense, we queue up albums that we both enjoy. Billy Talent, The Artist in the Ambulance, Sing the Sorrow, Give Up. However, there’s one song that he nev­er queues up, that he always skips with­out any­one else know­ing.

He knows that I can’t lis­ten to that one song off guard. As much as I want that song for myself, to mean noth­ing more than a frail voice and bounc­ing beats, I can’t give up the mem­o­ries that I asso­ciate with it, I can’t let go of what the song has come to mean.

And it’s only now that I real­ize that it’s bet­ter this way.

In The Moment

One of the most embar­rass­ing things to ever hap­pen to me was when I was get­ting inti­mate with a per­son I just start­ed dat­ing. She sud­den­ly said, “I don’t think we should be doing this…”, in a sort of whiny, oper­at­ic tone.

First thought: “Uh oh”

Second thought: “Oh wait, I get it. Quick, say some­thing sexy”

First words out of mouth: “Don’t you want to?”

Third thought: “Oh god I’m an idiot”

Her response: “Just got­ta play along…”

We had­n’t known each oth­er for very long, so it’s not like the whole con­cept of role-play­ing had been pre­vi­ous­ly dis­cussed. It would­n’t have mat­tered any­way, because I’m the worst actor in the world if I’m unpre­pared. If I have a sto­ry or mind­set planned out before­hand I can act per­fect­ly, but if I have to think on the spot my mind just freezes. The hard­est part of a sit­u­a­tion like this is that I’d feel like I was tak­ing advan­tage of a girl (albeit false­ly), which is some­thing I don’t think I could even pre­tend to do.

The Revered Elderly

Thumbnail: Grandparents with their kids

A few days ago, an elder­ly woman well past the age of retire­ment served me in a pop­u­lar, mod­ern tea shop, enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly telling me to take my time in look­ing over the menu and decid­ing what I want­ed to order. She would con­stant­ly thank me for the patron­age, even before I ordered any­thing, and was prob­a­bly more than twice the age of any­one else work­ing there.

The cul­ture here is very accept­ing of senior cit­i­zens. They have active jobs, and often walk around with their chil­dren and grand­chil­dren instead of hid­ing in rest homes. This is part­ly due to the fact that liv­ing space is extreme­ly expen­sive, so fam­i­lies end up liv­ing togeth­er for their entire lives. My eldest pater­nal uncle, his wife and daugh­ter all cur­rent­ly live with my grand­moth­er (in a rough­ly 1000 square foot apart­ment), and have been doing so for almost their entire lives. Generally it’s the par­ents that work, while the retired grand­par­ents become the babysit­ters, the gro­cery shop­pers, etc. Everyone is will­ing to be patient when wait­ing for a slow old lady to cross the street at an excru­ci­at­ing pace, or help any elder­ly with canes get on and off the bus­es. I caught some grand­par­ents tak­ing their grand­chil­dren to school, and it remind­ed me of my mater­nal grand­par­ents fly­ing to Canada to take care of me when my par­ents were work­ing on their careers and I had no school in the sum­mer.

All the beg­gars here are elder­ly, unlike the younger ones back home. They can’t afford oper­a­tions for their cataracts and have already lost their minds. These are peo­ple with bare­ly enough strength to stay awake or shake their bowls, peo­ple who don’t ask for mon­ey to buy cig­a­rettes or booze. It’s hard to look at because they remind me too much of my grand­par­ents. I start to imag­ine them aban­doned on the street, and won­der who could do such a thing.


When I was young, my mater­nal grand­par­ents came to Canada from Hong Kong to look after me. It was sum­mer and my par­ents were work­ing while I was left at home. I had no friends, so much of my time was spent being enter­tained by my grand­fa­ther.

He was born and raised in China, and stud­ied at one of the uni­ver­si­ties there after high school. Being able to attend uni­ver­si­ty was quite an accom­plish­ment back then, and he had only one year left before civ­il war broke out. He joined the ill-fat­ed Nationalist side, where he would have had a chance to be a comis­sioned offi­cer had there not been a need for English speak­ing Chinese peo­ple. He spoke English flu­ent­ly, so he was used as a trans­la­tor for the British troops. He recov­ered from a shot to the arm, and fled to Hong Kong to avoid pros­e­cu­tion when the war was over. There he met my grand­moth­er, and assumed a career as a mete­o­rol­o­gist.

I knew him as a large, but del­i­cate man, who always took the time to explain things to me (some­thing quite rare for a kid who’s only six or sev­en). I spent the warm sum­mer days fol­low­ing him around, play­ing with him, learn­ing from him. Eventually, he became my favourite per­son in the world, the first per­son I’ve ever looked up to.

On the day that my grand­fa­ther passed away, I was crushed. It was my first fam­i­ly death ever, and when my moth­er gave me the news, all I could think about was how I would nev­er have him as my teacher again.

Eventually, I went to Hong Kong to take some time off from the North American world, and learn more about my fam­i­ly his­to­ry. I stayed at my uncle’s house, the same house that my grand­fa­ther bought over 40 years ago. It was December, and Hong Kong win­ters are pleas­ant­ly brisk, so I stepped out­side onto the bal­cony after wak­ing up and get­ting dressed. There was an elder­ly man in white socks and black shoes hold­ing a lit­tle girl wear­ing Mary Janes’ just below. The man, who bore a strik­ing resem­blance to my grand­fa­ther, was keep­ing his grand­daugh­ter com­pa­ny while she wait­ed for the school bus to come. I liked how frail, yet tena­cious, they looked, as if this weak old man would pro­tect this lit­tle girl to the death. Seeing them sit­ting there, a patient man with a doll of a girl in his arms, remind­ed me of my grand­fa­ther, a strong and gen­tle man all at once.

And it made me hap­py to know that he was not the only one.

One Man's Sip

Glasses on the windowsill

I final­ly print­ed off my pic­ture of the glass­es on the sill and framed it, which is quite some­thing con­sid­er­ing the fact that I have bare­ly any dec­o­ra­tions in my room. I was lucky enough to have been giv­en a nice met­al frame as a Christmas gift a few years ago, but have not had a decent pic­ture to put in it. Since I don’t have a career going yet, I try to keep a min­i­mal­is­tic amount of fur­ni­ture until I can afford to invest in long term sets, and for now the pic­ture rests on my cof­fee table. I want­ed a phys­i­cal man­i­fes­ta­tion of the image because of the poignan­cy it evokes in me.

Every time I look at it I can’t help but think of the morn­ing sun seep­ing through the cracks of blue venet­ian blinds, of the flour­ish of green leaves out­side the win­dow. I think of lying on a swollen bed with my back to the wall, notic­ing the bright­ness of the sun fill the room, talk­ing well past the break of day. I think of sleep­ing next to some­one, hold­ing her head, draw­ing on her face, see­ing the ear­ly light bring out the sun­flow­ers in her eyes. I remem­ber how we’d go to sleep, plac­ing our frames on the win­dowsill before suc­cumb­ing to exhaus­tion.

Perhaps I’m so affect­ed by this image, this bit­ter­sweet mem­o­ry, because of how much I rel­ish the act of sleep­ing next to some­one. One of my favourite parts of a rela­tion­ship is being able to hold some­one before los­ing con­scious­ness. I sup­pose it betrays a vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, a cer­tain unpar­al­leled inti­ma­cy, and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty is some­thing that I’ve always been attract­ed to.

But how odd it is that this may mean so much to me, yet mean so lit­tle to anoth­er. That even some­one shar­ing this expe­ri­ence with me may think of it in pass­ing, as some ephemer­al expe­ri­ence, not worth remem­ber­ing.

What do we take with our­selves when we fall apart? Do we keep the mem­o­ries or the emo­tions? Do we only take the good and leave the bad?

With this pic­ture I try to take every­thing. I don’t want to hide from hurt, I don’t want to neglect any feel­ings. I choose to see the image as a beau­ti­ful thing, a frame in time when I felt some­thing greater than most things I’ve felt in my life. I try to turn the pain into pro­duc­tiv­i­ty and gain from my expe­ri­ence. I look at this pic­ture and become affect­ed by every­thing it means to me.

Even if it means noth­ing to any­one else.