Angela E J Koh » Ego

The Genius Factor

angelaejkoh — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 11:09:26 +0000

(selections from James Fenton and Richard Locke)

Though it may seem more prevalent in East Asian cultures, there are sure signs of it in every community. It is no longer admirable to be an intelligent or talented individual. Instead, there is a mass interest in the one-in-a-million prodigy. Here, I’ll call it the “genius factor.” This began as a kind of intrigue (on TV or online videos) and turned into a demand. An exceedingly skilled pianist doesn’t have the allure of an equally masterful twelve-year-old. It’s made me think of my age more often than I’d like to admit.

I am, in a sense, conditioned to be impatient. Instead of wanting to take time to learn, I am fastened on being good now. Every year, it compounds. How we never forget the desperation that carries us. Without knowing it, I wanted to not just be a champion writer; I wanted the genius factor that comes with being young at the same time. Looking outside of myself, at the viral speed of Internet interests, I thought that that was the only way someone else could care. And I wouldn’t blame them for it.

~~~

Even I was convinced—what do I have to say ten years later that I could not somehow torture out of myself now, to reach a more vast audience in a receptive culture. After all, what is the writer without her hard-won readers? Still, every year passes so easily and without incident. I am no one-in-a-million nor can I glean the genius factor from my very ordinary soul. I suppose, coming to such an understanding is in itself admirable, if not to anyone else but me.

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

Hunchback in Hollywood

angelaejkoh — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 04:57:00 +0000

photos by Shakeisamu

I’m the hunchback lady you saw fingering the pages of the US Weekly tabloids in a Safeway. Just another woman trying to busy herself, you thought, maybe with ads and dresses. I’d been looking but kept my mind from going off too far. Instead, I was reading the italicized quotes in pink lettering about celebrities that hate the paparazzi, scrutiny, fame. Speaking as someone without a footprint (effect), I couldn’t be more galled. The paparazzi and all of media society are reasonable pressures in exchange for fame. After all, what nurtures more influence and faster results than a globally estimable actress?

I’d sell-out; I’d give up my privacy if that meant creating a meaningful (and noticeable) shift. If it meant keeping crises from rapidly escalating— poverty, economic deficits, environmental destruction, education, trafficking. The only difference between me and Angelina Jolie that’s worth thinking about: what would take my lifetime to change takes The Tourist actress just a brief interview or speech. I imagine that if my writing goes well and some take an interest in what I say, in the three-inch space I’d have on the 2nd page of a magazine with a circulation of 2 million, I wouldn’t talk about hating the paparazzi. Had you come to hunchback-me by the newsstand in Hollywood, I would’ve turned and told you that such valuable space should be reserved for the mention of everyone else that deserves and needs it.

Maybe You’re Working Too Hard

angelaejkoh — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 08:43:21 +0000

It’s August. I’m listening to Christmas songs again. Something about bells and piano bring me back to myself. As in, back to a person without any thoughts and feelings except for those of my own. When I get here, it makes it easier to be sincere. I do this because I want to discover more about my world before I jump back into the pits of work and pressure. Before I look for a reason to be proud of myself, I want to know why I need to be.

It’s not despair that brings much revelation or thought. Rather it’s in the quiet moments that follow. Today, I tried to notice things that I usually don’t. I found that I’m not much of a thankful person. Despite any handicaps I may adopt or boast of, there is a fact that levels them all. I have my health, and I have time. Everyday there are a few hours I’m free in which I could dedicate myself to good food, friends, and writing. Well, I live like a free man–that’s what I’m trying to say–that I am a free being in that I speak and act on my own behalf. With all the choices I get to make in this life, I’m always invited to make more each day I wake. Better ones.

Knowing all that I’ve been given, I can’t help but feel the weight of authority and expectation, of God (that Guy). How dare You make it so easy for me? What do You expect me to become, to accomplish? Behind these questions, I know my appreciation is lost and it returns to something bitter. What if I am not what You created me to be and this life You put so much magic into was just a waste of time? It’s not enough that You believe in me until I do.

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.

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

Superhuman

angelaejkoh — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 03:53:00 +0000

It’s an eight hour drive to Mokpo, the southern coast of Korea. The forest starts right at the yellow line at the edge of the paved road. The canopies make mountains that slope up and down–like giant, mossed elephants lying next to the freeway. It feels like I can run down their green trunks, jumping atop one head to the next. The crisp air pierced my pores and I could breathe again. But I didn’t know that I’d been suffocating. And these psycho-social images: money, career, family, time, an inability to provide. Unnatural fear and concern left me, carving off the inhibiting excess that held me back from being human. Not human to err, but to be surpassing with inexhaustible room for growth. And human capacity–innate consciousness over rocks, body over plants, mind and reason over animals.

I wanted the lush sight to sink into my bones, the feeling that I could bound over the mountain edge into the black space. I must have been in a snow globe when the top cracked open, a whole set of capabilities and vigor widening my mind. Like I hit “empty bin” to the trash I didn’t know that held me back physically, mentally, psychologically, socially from fitting dreams/goals into a worth life. Sometimes, there are grave mounds on the mountainside, the old generations that sleep with one eye open. I smiled out of ego. The past and their spirits, the precursor staring wearily at the future generation that drives by on bald tires. The feared world they must have left. I wanted to make them proud.