I was Eve,
Of the first rib and with the first man,
Of the first breath God blew upon a woman,
I was Eve,
Of Eden, where the jasmines were,
And we would stand amongst the trees, the sweet, not-to-cloying scent of flowers hanging.
I was Eve,
With Adam, as he built for me that First boat, made of the palm trees,
And we slipped out onto the lake and were glad.
I was Eve,
Took the Serpent's Lies, of "life beyond life", 'and might beyond might',
All folly, all folly, all for the Fruit that Looked Good.
I was Eve,
When Jehovah came to me, and I met not His gaze and was ashamed for the Sin.
Amidst the falling Jasmines,
I was Eve,
Banished, from the Tree and the Serpent and the Boat on the Lake
I was Eve,
Bearing Cain,
And Abel, who was slain,
And Seth,
I was Eve,
Nursing Adam in my arms as the pink warmth of life left him,
And the black cold of death was left behind.
I was Eve,
And I shall die soon,
But where are my Children? Where is the Boat on the Lake by the Palm Trees? Where are the Jasmines?
I am Eve,
They are away, and I know not where.
But I will die soon, Elohim,
I am Eve,
My breath is fading under the wind,
And I am sorry.
I was Eve,
Take me, for I am repentant,
Take me to the lake with the boat and the jasmines,
I am sad, but hopeful.
May I be.
Amen, Elohim
Roast-pork and rice, takeway
I walk inside, with my phone tickling the edge of my pocket,
I rehearse my words again, my tongue silently rolling
Out my half-learned Cantonese,
The mono-syllable-d words I heard so often yet spoke
So little of, ringing in my ears.
My aunt’s voice reminds me painfully (and rightly) I need to
Start speaking my mother tongue,
Bananas, they said I was, a yellowed, black-eyed Asian without, white and empty within.
And I feel the tinge of shame of me never daring to speak Chinese even though
I am
One.
The coffee shop is small, the little corner-block Greasy
Spoon, its occupants sweltering under the heat, vainly trying to
Battle off the heat with ice cold cups of water from the
Tap, as the old men chatter in old Hokkien and Cantonese (both of which are common dialects for the Chinese around here). And then see a kid in school-uniform,
Bending over calligraphy homework, and I quickly glance
The other direction.
The hawkers from their little side booths entice me to buy some snack
Or dish. Mixed vegetables with rice...Malaysian-style noodles…a stuffed
Roll with all the crispy bits of fried egg and sliced gourd?? in-
Side.
I come up to the booth I want, tentatively waiting for his glance to
Meet my eye, (I am still unsure how to intonate ‘three’ in Cantonese right).
He sees me, and asks what I’d like to order.
Take-away or eat here? He fires at
Me in Cantonese.
I manage stammer out “take-away”.
With Pork or Chicken?
Pork.
Roasted or sweet-sauce barbeque?
Roasted please, (I say please, not sure if I said ‘please’ all right, and then glanced at his face to
See that twitch or raised brow that means I said something wrong)
And how many?
Three packs, please (I said it again, no twitch or raised brow yet).
He starts, pulling the slabs of roast meat from the hooks and throwing it brusquely onto the round chipped chopping board it up.
He calls the boy next to him to pack on the rice,
And starts to
Chop it, one slice after another, knife flying like an axe,
Soaring through midair,
Again and
Again.
He look up, his balding head
Gleaming a little, as he scoops up the meat into the
Styrofoam boxes, steaming rice waiting for the slices to just
Fall…in
He makes a quick mental
Count.
Fourteen forty, he tells me in Cantonese.
Nuts, I say, I don’t have time to translate, but I hand a ten-Ringgit bill with a five-Ringgit
Bill, and I’m halfway through translating before
He slaps the change into my hand with the plastic bag with the packs
Of roast-pork and rice.
I’ve translated it by
Now, and I bite my lip tentatively, and thanks him.
“Um koi,” I say, a little stilted, worrying again if my intonation is all right. He presses his lips tight a little, as if to
Say thank you and welcome, then calls out
NEXT!
And I walk off; content to leave the shop and get back to the car (Mom and my brother are waiting).
It was not so bad. I may end up a little less a banana, after all.
I rehearse my words again, my tongue silently rolling
Out my half-learned Cantonese,
The mono-syllable-d words I heard so often yet spoke
So little of, ringing in my ears.
My aunt’s voice reminds me painfully (and rightly) I need to
Start speaking my mother tongue,
Bananas, they said I was, a yellowed, black-eyed Asian without, white and empty within.
And I feel the tinge of shame of me never daring to speak Chinese even though
I am
One.
The coffee shop is small, the little corner-block Greasy
Spoon, its occupants sweltering under the heat, vainly trying to
Battle off the heat with ice cold cups of water from the
Tap, as the old men chatter in old Hokkien and Cantonese (both of which are common dialects for the Chinese around here). And then see a kid in school-uniform,
Bending over calligraphy homework, and I quickly glance
The other direction.
The hawkers from their little side booths entice me to buy some snack
Or dish. Mixed vegetables with rice...Malaysian-style noodles…a stuffed
Roll with all the crispy bits of fried egg and sliced gourd?? in-
Side.
I come up to the booth I want, tentatively waiting for his glance to
Meet my eye, (I am still unsure how to intonate ‘three’ in Cantonese right).
He sees me, and asks what I’d like to order.
Take-away or eat here? He fires at
Me in Cantonese.
I manage stammer out “take-away”.
With Pork or Chicken?
Pork.
Roasted or sweet-sauce barbeque?
Roasted please, (I say please, not sure if I said ‘please’ all right, and then glanced at his face to
See that twitch or raised brow that means I said something wrong)
And how many?
Three packs, please (I said it again, no twitch or raised brow yet).
He starts, pulling the slabs of roast meat from the hooks and throwing it brusquely onto the round chipped chopping board it up.
He calls the boy next to him to pack on the rice,
And starts to
Chop it, one slice after another, knife flying like an axe,
Soaring through midair,
Again and
Again.
He look up, his balding head
Gleaming a little, as he scoops up the meat into the
Styrofoam boxes, steaming rice waiting for the slices to just
Fall…in
He makes a quick mental
Count.
Fourteen forty, he tells me in Cantonese.
Nuts, I say, I don’t have time to translate, but I hand a ten-Ringgit bill with a five-Ringgit
Bill, and I’m halfway through translating before
He slaps the change into my hand with the plastic bag with the packs
Of roast-pork and rice.
I’ve translated it by
Now, and I bite my lip tentatively, and thanks him.
“Um koi,” I say, a little stilted, worrying again if my intonation is all right. He presses his lips tight a little, as if to
Say thank you and welcome, then calls out
NEXT!
And I walk off; content to leave the shop and get back to the car (Mom and my brother are waiting).
It was not so bad. I may end up a little less a banana, after all.
Oh dear...
Friday, January 8, 2010
Oh my. Someone told me about the bombings. Thank God at least one of the bombs didn't go off. It's sad indeed.
I have yet to wrap my mind around it. Why so much violence? I suppose the bombers felt strongly about it. Fanatically, perhaps.
But still, is it reasonable to repay an insult against one's God with violence? Is this not, if to a smaller scale, a little similar to the crusades a handful of hot-blooded kings and their pope waged against what they felt was so similar an assualt on God?
Will not God Himself be the Judge of the argument? If either side of the matter false, then surely the True God will reveal His hand and His might. He is above the King, the Court, or Christianity, or Islam. As I mentioned on Facebook, He is God, and nothing we could name Him could make Him mroe or less who He IS.
I have yet to wrap my mind around it. Why so much violence? I suppose the bombers felt strongly about it. Fanatically, perhaps.
But still, is it reasonable to repay an insult against one's God with violence? Is this not, if to a smaller scale, a little similar to the crusades a handful of hot-blooded kings and their pope waged against what they felt was so similar an assualt on God?
Will not God Himself be the Judge of the argument? If either side of the matter false, then surely the True God will reveal His hand and His might. He is above the King, the Court, or Christianity, or Islam. As I mentioned on Facebook, He is God, and nothing we could name Him could make Him mroe or less who He IS.
Where
I know this is an incoherent one...just thoguhts nad rhymes that piled into my head all at once...
Where does the wind go?
Where does the sea flow?
Where ends the blue sky?
Where does the bird fly?
From where will the stars fall?
And where is the King hall?
From where will the moon shine?
And where will the knights dine?
Where does the sword strike?
Where does the flow'r bloom?
Where was made so fine a pike?
Where did angels fall upon a tomb?
Where does the sea break?
Where lies the dead drake?
Where have the slain gone?
Where is the hidden Song?
Where does the wind go?
Where does the sea flow?
Where ends the blue sky?
Where does the bird fly?
From where will the stars fall?
And where is the King hall?
From where will the moon shine?
And where will the knights dine?
Where does the sword strike?
Where does the flow'r bloom?
Where was made so fine a pike?
Where did angels fall upon a tomb?
Where does the sea break?
Where lies the dead drake?
Where have the slain gone?
Where is the hidden Song?
2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
2009 has ended.
This was a short year, at least, in how it felt. The months and days and worries and joys slipped by like dreams, and flew out the window in the fleeting instant. 2008 was long, but not as long-feeling as 2005 or 2006. Perhaps years begin to feel shorter as you have had more of them.
But 2009 was a good year for me. No new enemies or bitter rivalries to plague my year...compared to 2008. Made new friends, learned tonnes more in poetry and writing, entered Facebook (which is, I suppose more detrimental than beneficial).
2008 was a crazy, hectic year of discovery. Rushing about, new people, new classes, new places, everything felt so new. Tyatora had been young then.
But she has matured with time, as the stars grow a little fainter and the grass a little browner, and the night a little longer, but the years remain good yet.
So has my last year, upon which I turned 13, turned. Hmm...and had Amentoris Baleyn given me a choice, I do not think I would have had my year any other way I can yet perceive.
This was a short year, at least, in how it felt. The months and days and worries and joys slipped by like dreams, and flew out the window in the fleeting instant. 2008 was long, but not as long-feeling as 2005 or 2006. Perhaps years begin to feel shorter as you have had more of them.
But 2009 was a good year for me. No new enemies or bitter rivalries to plague my year...compared to 2008. Made new friends, learned tonnes more in poetry and writing, entered Facebook (which is, I suppose more detrimental than beneficial).
2008 was a crazy, hectic year of discovery. Rushing about, new people, new classes, new places, everything felt so new. Tyatora had been young then.
But she has matured with time, as the stars grow a little fainter and the grass a little browner, and the night a little longer, but the years remain good yet.
So has my last year, upon which I turned 13, turned. Hmm...and had Amentoris Baleyn given me a choice, I do not think I would have had my year any other way I can yet perceive.
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