Angela E J Koh » Modern Day Flagellation

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.

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

Whether it be better in sorrow than comfort

angelaejkoh — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 08:02:00 +0000

I’m afraid to admit that I’m settling into a kind of uninterrupted contentment. It might affect my creative craft. It’s too difficult to sit down and write when everything smells and tastes so good. But that’s how it is right now. I wake and stare into the bent panels of my window, the morning shine seeping into the room. My nose rubs against the cool linen and my hands stay still at my sides, admiring. The air looks so alive.

But it’s dissatisfying. I find myself looking for some modern day flagellation. Maybe calling my mother to make her cry. Or memorizing my 23 e-mails of rejection. Because with every arriving good will and fortune, I wince a bit inside. Almost like I’m waiting to be hit with a bamboo spine or the window shutter stick. Since nothing’s free. Even now, I flip through my life and see all that I owe, grief I must look forward to. If this is the outcome of my time line, at least it proves life is just. At least it puts a judicious soul at ease. Though I frequently count my blessings in front of the microwave, I want them to stop. I’d rather pay my impending distress now when I feel stronger than I’m used to. I don’t know if I could handle it with grace should it come any later.

I picked up sketching last week, seems like I enjoy cathedrals and ships