Angela E J Koh » Clockwork

No Child in New York

angelaejkoh — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 07:17:17 +0000

When I get to my transfer at Union Square, I have to remind myself that I have aspirations. I didn’t know I did this. It’s like I have to summon up desire day-to-day. Even more strange–that my lifestyle convinces me otherwise.

After my hour commute from the literary agency, I waved ‘hello’ to the halal cart man who had become an unexpected friend. He gave me some free snack fries. He treated me like a kid. Then I jotted something down that I stared at all night:

I want to always be known as a child. My faults expected. Free to change my mind and make myself the fool.

I looked back at my past posts, terrible. I read the word, “woman,” more often than I was comfortable with. The times I argued I was an adult, I was a child. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the fervor nor the interest to make my point. God, I’m losing my interest.

ph. by me

I’m not saying that New York has wrestled it from me. That the city’s trains hold the mourning and unfamiliarity has changed to dislike. But I have lost something. To make up for it, I throw post-its up on my ceiling, fridge, drawers. I remind myself, you’re still a person and even if you have nothing, you have your goals. The shocks of bright paper tell me I know who I am. Yet, on special days when I come up empty and my desires turn to smoke, the bit of child that does remain wonders what she’ll get for giving up– as if all must be fair.

If Dreams Were Contagious

angelaejkoh — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 02:41:40 +0000

…

And the dream has a pain in its heart

the wonders of which are manifold,

or so the story is told.

-James Tate/ 1943/ “Dream On”

ph. by Shakeisamu

After one discussion, an editor approached me and called me, “medieval.” He asked why I still believe in broad terms: fate, sacrifice, human power. “That’s superhero stuff,” he said. It made me think. I don’t have anything, if not the belief in my own significance—in carrying a role that no other persons could fill. The editor must have called to me not for an explanation of terms, but because he was surprised that my adulthood had been survived by such child-like hopes, dreams.

I feel my medieval understanding is often viewed as cynicism. I’m already dubbed “crazy” for not absorbing products and Internet memes. There’s a real danger in prolonging laughs from such elusive distractions: the satisfaction of one’s day, which in actuality ended without note or change. Then, I am this crazy for knowing the people around me have a far greater capacity than they allow themselves to see. Mostly dubbed so, for my look of disappointment when these individuals forgo such responsibility.

The Extent To Which One May Reap

angelaejkoh — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 07:35:30 +0000

New York City

“It’s not enough,” was the first thing that came to mind. Half-year into 2011 and by luck, I’ve had the opportunity to work with: The Orange County Register, WongFu/afterschoolspecial, Gulf Stream/Entasis/TriQuarterly publications, over 10k twitter followers, first tattoo piece, Columbia MFA acceptance, Steppie/MaryLenore with Sylvia G Photography, comics site Critiques4Geeks, trek in Guatemala, and see the polished 7th chapter of my novel draft. I owed it to the goodness of my colleagues – for allowing me to dip into their projects, for assisting me with mine. Despite my gratitude (and to that of my body, harboring unknown energy for pursuit), I sat cross-legged on a patio chair in the garage and thought, all the things combined was not enough.

Guatemala (that’s me!)

The works didn’t satisfy my conception of accomplishment. I understood that I had yet to cement my existence. In other words, in my absence, there would be no greater or lesser number of people affected by my acts or my person. I wasn’t a part of a fundamental ideal – simply, I wasn’t doing enough. I had certainly enjoyed my last half-year, but I needed to yield more somehow. Hearing the humdrum of the garage-dryer and the last of my pillow cases tossing in the tin bin, I thought I sounded impatient. Impatient to be where I couldn’t be certain that I’ll go. Impatient to know the extent to which one can reap from this life. The last thought I had, peering into my brimming laundry basket, was that I could double, triple my output – and that I would have to.

South Korea

If You Ask Questions Like These

angelaejkoh — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 19:49:54 +0000

I let one foot hover 300 ft above water. The other balanced on the ledge of a steel bridge, my hand gripped the cable behind me. The ones that look down don’t seem to jump. It’s the ones that look up that do. They look for answers first. My question was, what am I really living for. The question became important when I caught people avoiding it. In fact they go on to work, lunch, gym without thinking about it once. If I asked them, they were offended as if I said you have nothing to really live for. Even when I asked myself, my ego hurt.

I felt an extreme circumstance involving death might procure an intention in life—a mind frame that certain people have (opposed to the blank, empty faces at the office). The bridge was about putting one’s body in an environment where his priorities cannot matter, where a singular design becomes clear. Wealthy and praised almost made the cut for goals, but even these cannot reflect the value of one’s existence.

I wasn’t on a bridge (the bridges here are above traffic, not water). I imagined it, as psychologically straining as it sounds. But I had found the beginning of an answer. Behind the education and career I work for, there is a responsibility as a human being. With both arms and legs intact, strong back, and a brain that has immeasurable potential, for now I owe my life to use the materials given to me to their fullest extent. And though I don’t have any answers yet, I feel I am going towards its direction. If I had been walking in the dark, I’d found a flicker of a streetlamp in the distance.

Avoiding the Machine

angelaejkoh — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 01:05:00 +0000

If I had to be honest, I have frequent dreams of dying. Beyond the humorous morning angst-face while brushing my teeth, these curses have contributed to the work ethic I’ve gained over the year. The most vivid deaths have been in cars, others in not so conventional ways. I have to grow from such events. I’m convinced that I’ve been given more time to digest this (as an act of mercy). Maybe it’s enough to refine a sensitive soul into tranquility–to bring the mind the closest it can to nature (or the end).

But it hurts my time. I’m 2 minutes late or 30 minutes slow. My cell phone dies from checking the digital clock, not from calls. Last night I thought if I’d started 1 year ago, I might have a successful platform today. I almost lose the bigger dream. Though setting short term goals like walking the dog is more simple, it’s been difficult to want to do what I need the most. When dying seems so close I work harder, harder. And what forces my mind into wisdom, makes it slow. I made myself a commodity somewhere between submission and publication (death). Even I believe my only value comes from what I can produce quickly. Meanwhile, the hope to maintain quality has consumed me with burden. I’ve thrown my person into a one-man assembly line. My worth contained in the next completed piece, I wonder if it will float. If I’ll find my value is 0.

Throwing Hobbies Away

angelaejkoh — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 00:50:00 +0000

I’ve been isolated for a few weeks now, apart from social distraction (lucky to do it for writing as I don’t have a job). Only briefly, I get to explain my absence to passing acquaintances. There seems to be little credit for my craft as requiring much effort. So I shorten my explanations accordingly. Because in social conversation driven by complaint, I have no right to offer anything. Still, my rank pride wonders if my writing is regarded as “playing,” that my days pass without adversity.

But I remember when I used to jot down poems in private. Embarrassment kept them hidden behind folders in desks. It was agonizing that I found a hobby I enjoyed

at the price of sparse talent. Since then, I’ve tried to make up for it through absolute labor. Yet I could show someone and it’d still be the most uninteresting thing–because it’s still a creative job. I can’t decide whether it’s my selfish need for encouragement or a lack of support from my peers, but sometimes it’s enough to trash my work altogether (as I’ve seen it happen for those who pick up designing, sketching, composing). They can’t see their growth since no one else tries to. They throw their hobbies away–what could’ve been an occupation, even small moments of sanctuary and peace.

Didn’t have time to try flower-arranging until my roses died. It actually added some callous color and shape.

It Must Have Felt Heroic

angelaejkoh — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 04:25:00 +0000

Sounds like stretched cables, a ringing tucked in my ear flap.

I’m moved by need, it takes me from this day to the next. Like money, I think, how much I’d like to shower my parents with it and say, I’ll take over from here. Hearing them leave that for this, their wet cheeks pressed to my face. I carry them on my back and sometimes it gets so heavy, my ears start ringing. This amour of affliction and pressure made me feel strong. It must have felt heroic to sacrifice my time, my slow and easy.

But I was nervous. My peers might see how blood-lust sacrifice, an absolute neglect of their person could manifest real potential. Into individual passion and ability they’ll use to pass me up, wasting no time for safety nets or maybe’s. That they’ll find I’m not a smart girl (brother got those genes), but a poor competitor. That I got as far as I did because I lost a sense of self. That no burden outweighs that on my back.

Now, I was thrown a keyboard like a lotto ticket. It seems the world of lotto tickets makes passion and ability fruitless. I could only let my knees buckle and hold. Waiting for something

If You’re On The Same Page

angelaejkoh — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 09:09:00 +0000

Something very common I assume. My expectations were simply not met. Growing up, and seeing what the big world could be for me (and the other way around) is not much. I think, I thought I was special, and maybe I would have a unique ability to save the world and die for love and leave great children behind. That there was always a ‘good guy’ or a ‘direct and pure, shining goal’ to work towards. And in this, I am very helpless. I console myself by going back to when I simply didn’t know what I wanted to do. When I was ‘kind of good’ at everything. Before I felt life was an RPG game, and the winner just needed to spike their abilities to the extremes (like Vegeta). Use the set institutions and resources around me as tools to further myself. But now I stare into the screen with such a resolute and predictable future and income, I’ve become a small screw in the clockwork (take it as you will). Had I not been in control this whole time.

How unnatural of this world to take the human expectation (to evolve in love in mind through faith, hope, and charity, instilled into the soul before even birth), and have this expectation driven into the deep recesses, to be cast off like child’s play, calling it immaturity, and reificating the experience into “growing up.”

I look at my life lines and think, is it okay to be such a jealous, overzealous, analytical, critical person. And how long does one live, thinking this way (too long)? But I won’t stop, see I can’t because I still am helplessly that child looking for a goal but. There is no stop or rest or breathe or sleep or walk or lean. Because there are promises I made to the people I love, and at least to them, I could be a woman of my word, if not much else.