Family and friends.
Flying and failing.
Falling and fire.

The kindle…
I remember that day in front of the fireplace.
The feeling that I felt that day wouldn’t come back again.

What’s falling out there?
What for?
What’s next?

Is there any other spelling that can replace “fire” giving the same feel? The front teeth biting the lower lip? The power, the dance, the glow? The movement that never stops when it’s alive? The enchanting danger calling for intimate proximity but not allowing any touch without severe consequence?

Flame flies up.
So do the dream, the birds, and the fantasy.
My dream has the wings of a phoenix burning up the path that it glides. My eyelids would open up with the ashes when the sun hits the window with a dare of the faint memory of flying… charging the dark night with the glowing power.

Falling and failing are not the same thing as Jack Gilbert insisted.
Falling means that there was once flying. Sometimes, that is enough for one lifetime… just one flight. Flame goes up, fire consumes. When the ashes in the hands, rub on the cheeks drawing the two blocks of straight lines across, glaring the night, remembering the time, the time that I flew close to the moon arching the way back to the earth with the burning feathers.

Fire and falling.
Fire and failing.
Fire and flying… once… in lifetime… my charred face proud in the mirror with the memory of the flame, the memory of the night. The life… flew once.

<October 30th, 2019>


Ordinary and timely… not mine, but I’ve been trying to live for those values. The realization comes late. The change of action comes even a while later than the realization… and I’m here now… breathing quietly.

Everyone is unique in their own way. I know that. But there has been a undeniable difference in me distinguishing from the others beyond individual uniqueness. I recognized early on in my life and it never went away. This follows me wherever I go… right over my shoulder watching me… watching me act upon accordingly. I feel its expectation with a contained excitement trembling behind the closed door,

I’m taking a break now.
I’m sitting. I’m hanging out at this place of my life. Not hastily moving to next… I don’t know what’s next but I know that it will be very different from my past… It will not belong to the realm of the ordinary, or even to normal. One thing for sure is that there will be tremendous beauty that can leap any value or moral that I’ve leaned on.

This town, colored by the diversity but a very monolithic place… I’m staying here for now because it is a good place to ease my breathing for the next round, next journey, next stage of my life with a totally different value that has called on me, waiting for me, looking forward to me acting upon. Soon I’ll be ready for it. Then I’ll miss this town, miss these people, miss all the comfortable things that I have right now.

So this time… the time for me to breathe, sit, watch… hold hands with the people close… this is my nest…. for now.

A Little Flame

Fire… the winter, the early spring… the memories.

Time passes, life changes…. and the person…

There must be an ember in me… that hasn’t died yet. I’m still holding it in me somewhere trying to keep its power to ignite something… something… someday… really… someday.

The shifts and the changes… the newness that surrounds me like new flowers blooming overnight putting their faces close to my eyes… I often don’t know what to feel… I leaped over in the process of the proper aging, the right path to make the time pass by. I jumped from here to there afraid of falling or failing… and I failed in many other ways in life.

This is a comfort. Alone in a room… I cried.
I hated the dried flowers. The tree of life… everywhere in this town… the town smells like the glass of specialty beer on the counter untouched overnight after a few sips.

The good old musicians… all died… those I’m still listening to, those still have the power to make me break into tears like an unknown spasm coming at midnight.
Let me keep my small fire that will flame up someday like a big campfire on the beach on a hot summer day that young people would dance around without shame…the sound of crackling wet firewood by the heat…the sparkles when the fire gazes up to the sky and flies to there… ah, my life… here and now, landing like an angel’s last feather… let me keep them… let me keep it… until the time comes.

There were the rocks… the big rocks… I jumped from one to another, juggling many things in my hands. And I did it well.
Let me drop my arms now. Let me watch the ground, the path, the earth, the people… instead of looking at the things in my hands and continuously moving not to drop any. Let everything fall once and for all. I want to sit now.  I want to sit for a moment. And I want to use my hands to take out the little flame inside my chest and look at it. Look at it for a while… a little dance of this red… the red… like fresh blood oozing out from a cut… let me watch it for a moment… to remember where I left it, to think how I can start… my legs are dangling up high where I’m sitting… on a giant orange rock… the sky is too blue for the landscape. Let it be this way for now.

<October 27th, 2019>

Shedding the Old

I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I haven’t asked for any help.

The sun is bright, the leaves started to fall.
I’m glad. I’m glad watching the shedding, taking off the old, allowing space, the sky, the stars.

I’ve been done well until now. I did an excellent job. It’s me who has carried myself this far. And it will be me who will carry myself from now on… I’ll be just fine. It’s time to lose the one layer that’s old and doesn’t fit me anymore.


“The little fuzzy ends of threads that I feel the warmth from.
Maybe that is a piece of home to me at this moment.
Not a place, not a name, just a bit of solace when my heart shivers.”


Where is the place called ‘home’ to me? Where has it been?
If you say ‘I’m your home’, I’ll fly a thousand miles and land on your shoulder, singing all night, all morning.
The night is dark. No sound. Ghosts are living in this town, but they’ll leave soon. The empty house with the old memories would ring the chime on the door whenever the wind visits. The tongue out long to touch the air, striving the scent of life on the tiny wet buds… only the dust settles on that desperation.

Once the place called home was a hell to me. I took as much time as I could to delay my return to that place every night. I hit the gym with my tired eyes barely opening on the exercise bike.

I’ve been striving to create my home at this moment of my life. There is a thirteen-year-old girl who comes to the martial art class. I often paired up with her for the partner work. She is a bit taller than me and has trained longer than me. I don’t feel much different from her about the stage of life that I’m at. Sometimes, my life seems like a stranger to me knocking on my door without notice. I don’t know what to do at the doorstep, but I know that I’ll be open to all possibilities. That much I know.

Here… upstate New York… a small town. I don’t know why I’m here.
I could be anywhere on earth if I decide. Perhaps I want to hold onto something that drapes over my being. The little fuzzy ends of threads that I feel the warmth from. Maybe that is a piece of home to me at this moment. Not a place, not a name, just a bit of solace that I can get when my heart shivers. Maybe it is a delusion, but that seems the reason that my stubborn will stays here.

Long night. No sound. The moon is about to full.

I wish I could be a  warm thread to someone also. Someone who feels homeless, someone who feels groundless, someone who feels no place to put the head down. The night will be long and the winter is coming. The moon will wane leaving the sole darkness of night. But I know that I’m home to my fuzzy dog wherever I go. I’ve been building a place that can be called a home to my adult children to return to at any time from anywhere. I’ve been trying to return the unrewarded kindness that I’ve received over the course of my life when I felt like a homeless person on the cold street inside.

One day I want to find a place that I can really say as my home without any hesitation, gathering all threads to weave a warm blanket that can cover the whole place. I’ll bring some firewood inside and build a fire in the woodstove. The kettle on the stove will steam the air, making it very huggable. A bird will land on my shoulder and sing the song that I’ve always wanted but never been able to hear. ‘You have finally arrived. Arrived at home, my dear.’

<October 9th, 2019>