I was definitely a kid playing some kind of Hero’s Quest fantasy board game when I learned the term doppelgänger. The concept that there might be someone out there that looked exactly like me was kinda neat but also scary. Neat because in my youth, rarely ever meeting anyone who even looked like me in my varying (we moved around a lot) white small town existence, it became an intriguing thought that maybe my twin was on the other side of the world. As I got older and traveled to Southern California and elsewhere, then it became odd because when I met other people who looked a little like me, I rarely felt any connection to them. I never even met another person sharing my namesake until I was in my late twenties. I decided it was cool to be so unique. It seemed silly, almost boring, that there were so many Jennifers, Amys, Michaels & Jims in the universe (no offense). A guy in college alleged that his ex-girlfriend in high school was named Chantal but that was weird in of itself since he seemed to be attracted to me as if he was destined to only fall for my namesake.
“There is another.” – Yoda tells Obi-wan and confounds a franchise till this day.
And of course, playing the ever popular celebrity look-alike game was just a total let down. I’d met a girl who was the near spitting image of a young Sandra Bullock and a guy that could totally double for Jet Li. But when people would venture to tell me who I looked like, they would say Lucy Liu or whoever the most famous Asian actress was of the era. Later in life, at my local pool hall, that at the time I had been visiting regularly for almost ten years, multiple guys would call me by the name of the only other Asian woman regular patron. This would occur on a random yet disturbingly recurring basis. Once again, we look nothing alike. She was tall, fashionable, wore glasses and was way less socially awkward than I am. Truly there is no mistaking us. And regardless of the inherent flattery from being compared to an attractive celebrity or acquaintance, one cannot help but feel like a blank clonal android entity that others customize based on their experience versus my own being.
Scene from Westworld, HBO
But people don’t truly see other people until they have a conversation or share a meal together or some kind of other neuron fusing experience. We need visceral connections to solidify the details of another human. To level up out of a sea of faces and become the person whose name finally sticks, something deeper has to click. Alas, people tend to see me as generic Asian girl or woman until they learn something else that unlocks the door. It’s disheartening but totally true. It makes one feel invisible but only for one’s particular racial profiling which is a very bizarre yet American experience.
“The truth is, she’s a weirdo. Just like you were. Are. A glorious, perfectly weird weirdo. Like all kids before they forget how to be exactly how weird they really are. Into whatever they’re into, pure. Before knowing. Before they learn from others how to act. Before they learn they are Asian, or Black, or Brown, or White. Before they learn that all the things they are and about all the things they will never be.” ― Charles Yu, Interior Chinatown
Doppelganger Green Beast: 1 oz. Green Chartreuse, 1 oz. fresh lime juice, 1 oz. cucumber simple syrup, 2 oz. chilled water shaken over ice. Baby Yoda is Grogu, an entirely different force sensitive future Jedi than Master Yoda. Just sayin’. Obviously, they are pretty much doppelgangers. But then it seems Star Wars in general creates entire species of doppelgangers. Incidentally, the original Green Beast cocktail is made with Absinthe.
Green tea brewed with fresh mint and sage with a dash of lemon and an ounce of Green Chartreuse for good measure.
How to expand a life Re-steep one’s tea An extension with a second saturation Adding half lives for future brews Pulling, stretching Sneak in a few more leaves When no one is watching
How to shorten a life Wring twice for extra water Add hours in the sun Plowing, reaping, kneeling, digging Weathering a body for labor Subtracting health for wealth Kneading, grinding, squeezing
Giant Pacific Octopus channelling Kraken energy
How to keep a memory alive A nose captures a scent An ear retains a vibration A shiver reaches within Strangles a cell or two Then paint a picture Capture a small lie Embed them into an entity Retell the story
How to forget an inkling Depending how far it wriggled Cold shower, insane sensation Wrap around a new pain Salt a wound, add lemon Tentacles flail in harsh environments
Mandrake art from resplendentchaos.com
How to erase a trauma Plant it like a seedling Cry for it like water Feed it like a midnight snack buddy Watch it grow and transform A new life broken from earth Pull it from the roots Let it wail Dry it in the sun Paint it silver and gold Give it away
How to find courage Imagine your beating heart on a shelf Separated from you by dunes of sand And people and expectations It withers slowly Pulsating only for so long Go to it
Print by Society 6
How to say no Look them in the eye Adjust speaking speed for desired intensity Do not smile
Mutate an idea for freedom Create, Imagine, Tweak Savor a thought and mold it Tweak, Experiment, Let go Extract what you can Brew without torment Add a little spice Drink up
To not know grief or mourning in at least one of its myriad protrusions in the timeline is to live as an alien god, above all and connected intimately to none. That might be a bit aggrandizing. Wait. Let me try again. To not know grief is to not give a bead of sweat about other people.
I just finished reading “How Much of These Hills is Gold” in which the entire first section of the story revolves around death and a very long drawn out funeral rite of burying the dead with silver coins lest you incur terrible luck and haunting. You might say Zhang really belabors the theme.
“And silver dollars to lay over two white-swimming eyes, close them the proper way, sending the soul to its final good sleep.” ― C Pam Zhang, How Much of These Hills Is Gold
Coincidences can be creepy. I also just learned that my Uncle Bill passed away. He was almost 77. He died alone from a heart attack. His body was not found until almost a month had passed and his rent came due.
All my memories of Uncle Bill really just boil down to a repetitive iteration of his seemingly grandiose act in giving us (my siblings) silver dollars when we were little kids. Naturally, he became our favorite uncle with this annual generosity. The vision of my old cheap reddish pink plastic piggy full of his silver coins is almost a relic of imagination.
I knew very little else about him. I think he wore glasses. But yes, he bought our youthful esteem with one silver dollar at a time because that is a sound tactic to use on impressionable young children when you’re a distant relation such as an uncle across the border. Mostly, I just know that he is one of my mom’s brothers.
In Zhang’s debut novel, the main character struggles with her broken relationship with her newly deceased father as well as with her surviving younger sibling. She is stuck in a situation where not only is the entire known world biased against her, (read mid-nineteenth century American Born Chinese / ABC orphaned girl in the dregs of the Gold Rush wild west) but also where her immediate kin feels similarly distant and adversarial. Pure wretchedness.
At the core of the story are two very young ABC siblings that seem to both love and hate each other, and who shift as polar oppositely as one can. Each gravitate towards the personalities of their conflicting now gone parents who represent wild adventure and constant motion versus stability and practical sense. Both charge into their binary world which pits immigrants as lesser savages alongside privileged white families as well as females as singularly objects of desire for men. When they reunite, we get a depressing glimpse of how neither of them were ever equipped to find happiness. While I appreciated much about the novel and the interwoven mythologies, I had a pretty tough time with it.
Did I mention the foundation of the novel is built on death, bias and alienation? It’s a good thing I read more than one book at a time as I’ve also re-read “The ABC Murders” by Agatha Christie for a 5th or 6th time. Not a necessarily creepy version of coincidence, but certainly an inspiration, is the well named title and the plot’s not so subtle portrayal of a serial killer using the alphabet and the railway guide as a motif as well as having a disdain for foreigners. But I digress.
At some point, we all eventually experience the super emotionally charged state, that is never really only one thing, called grief. Not singular because grief is a portal. It pulls you across time and mind-space triggering all kinds of thoughts and feelings in multiple forms. Often, multi-faceted grief assembles into a blanket. Whether spacy-erratically woven or vaguely linear in stitches, this blanket can take away minor inclinations to leave one’s couch or domicile.
You know those scenes in films, where the protagonist is depressed or going through a break-up or something and a friend or family member has to basically call them constantly and eventually show up at their door to help them re-establish contact with the outside world? Like in Wedding Crashers, when Owen Wilson is a shut-in miserably pining for Rachel McAdams who is engaged to evil cheating Bradley Cooper. (I’m sorry, it’s the only example that readily springs to mind, please don’t judge me.) This past year+ of mostly self quarantine for the good of humanity kind of leads me to think that maybe there are many people out there who might not be found dead for weeks or months. Folks who perhaps live alone in their apartment or house who never developed the type of relationship with people where they check in daily or weekly. Folks who just sorta get used to their own walls, lose inclinations, mutate ideas of interacting with others into sort of nostalgic still life portraits and then fast forward into some kind of non-existence.
I crave blueberries which are at the shop next to my building. It’s been like five days. I get thirsty and hungry because taking the even shorter 20 foot walk to the kitchen seems far. I keep screens on constantly airing tennis, baseball, movies or shows I’ve already seen, sometimes multiple times, mostly just on mute but sometimes with the volume real low. The days get longer and the sun reigns with more and more length but I crave the dark because then I can feel less guilty about just zoning out into a book or on a screen. I just started watching the end of the latest Smurf movie mostly because I knew I would cry at the end even if I hadn’t seen the beginning or the middle. In fact, I think I only just watched the last 10 minutes...
…Finally, I will myself up and drink several glasses of water and get motivated to read a promising lighthearted mystery before attempting true sleep.
*SIGH* And lo and behold, a mere 6 pages in and yet another creepy coincidence.
“He reminds her of her Uncle Bill: younger than her parents, older than her sister or Theodore. He is wearing a tuxedo with a sort of wide belt the color of Smurfs.” ― Kate Racculia, Bellweather Rhapsody
It then occurred to me that maybe the universe is trying to tell me to talk to my mom again. You may wonder how I got there. It might be the Smurf thing. Best not to read into it. Maybe the overwhelming sadness I’m swimming around isn’t about me but about someone I care about? I may not have known Uncle Bill very well but she grew up with him regardless of how distant they eventually became.
This poem is for my mom:
Canadian train in Ontario
Writing to reach out You are very far away Decades build deep valleys Barren from the rails Inverting cast shadows at every hour Except at night Where the bleak is not so obscured It’s just the same color. I let the bulbs go out My world aglow in screens Wavering, shifting, dim setting
Death is not the flick of a switch Nor is one’s heavy life so easily brightened
Marconi Wireless Memories: 1 oz. Laird’s Apple Brandy, 1 oz. Crown Royal Canadian Whisky, 1 oz. Cinzano Sweet Vermouth, 2 dashes of Orange Bitters, Garnish with a long orange twist
Perhaps a message from space A vintage radio station crackles And tells an old story Nine cats with a mere nine lives A pair of hands and the will to work An older brother gazes outside A younger brother still wets the bed An older sister takes the reigns A younger sister closes her eyes Another brother counts the days Another brother holds the door Another sister sneaks out the back Another brother finally cleans his room.
At long last, my vaccine envy has been sated as of last Thursday. And now I await my two week period culminating in full efficacy with all the hopes of a new chapter unfolding in this very odd world. Oh to travel, play pool, socialize without the super high possibility of accidentally killing people or myself. Leading up to the shot, I have to say, I was pretty nervy having heard so much about fevers, chills, bad spells, albeit all temporary and worth it. I must have queried dozens of friends on their exact experience, my ears erect like a cat’s taking in all the information. I fully expected to go down but still had hopes that my long inert super powers would suddenly kick in, as if they only needed the right vaccine trigger to waken and make me immune to unsavory side effects. No go, alas. Nine hours in, I started to get a mild headache. I made sure to drink plenty of water and coconut water at regular intervals. At one point, I was still in denial that it would get worse because my hydration game was just so very strong. SUCH HUBRIS. Coming out of the night’s sleep, I found my mind dancing a bit everywhere. I was pretty out of it. It seemed like a good idea to write. So I did, until I couldn’t.
Echoes, reverberations A mind spinning hears distantly Outside grasping for within As bright lights pock-mark one’s journey On this, the quest for breakfast.
“…it looked so quiet and peaceful around. But the stillness was the sleep of swords.” (P.77) – “Their Eyes Were Watching God” Fino Sherry, Rinquinquin, Mezcal, orange bitters
Mild throbbing tiny drummer Recruiting band-mates Re-evaluating pressure points Dismissing stressful points A repetitive inclination Assumes steer of the great ship For we are great AND heavy, sluggish, unsure The comfort of constancy a beacon Bleary weary malaise Amidst the dreaded turmoil Slow motion maelstrom Like a vessel, we immerse ourselves For water is life and beyond
“The sea was walking the earth with a heavy heel.” (P.153)
Proper assessment of limbs One of two blurry furries Sneezes across the boundless ocean My heart is sad, for I have no legs Sea legs Swaying Faux focus Struggling to create time One step, two step, three The passage of one is all we can be
Old Yeller, 1957
When I stand I am livid with ache Supine I am vivid in imagery My eyes shut I am in an arena, empty, vast A tingling wave rises with no audio If I were a dog, I’d be Old Yeller So many echos In one howl
I wash ashore reading Time travelling in associative memory Zero control of the reigns Dropped them after the first bit Clinging to this and that Slipping from college to childhood to last week Can we ever know the future When we visit as such I think yes Chaos will send us If we let go And breathe And listen And sense And write to remember In between the motions
Airplane! 1980 film poster
Robert Hays with the sweats in Airplane! 1980 film
The bottle cap is off A weightless sensation of fairy dust floats Aeroplane mode A sense of lift, a miracle of air Perpendicular hope With parallel drag A cabin pressurized, packed, fuzzy Breathing in the lullaby Jet lagged into oblivion
Sounding points, lacking schemes A trip so frenetic After the crash I am fine With exceptions Because sleep brings obliteration
“Since when can weathermen predict the weather, let alone the future?” ― Marty McFly, Back to the Future
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my future past, or rather, the ideas I had for my future in my recent past. It seems apt.
Emerging from this pandemic is surreal à la Luis Buñuel teaming up with Salvador Dalí for an epic film festival. The end is not as comforting an idea as I suppose one would have assumed or fantasized about. Change begets change begets confusion and uncertainty. Ever wonder if you’re having a recurring dream or if when you dream you dream you are having recurring dreams? This might only occur on the cusp of waking. I am considering writing a collection of poems under the gravely titular absurdity of “I Might be Crazy” to stave off the not-so-subtle inclination. Over the past year I’ve managed to remember (and forget) so many more dreams than in past intervals. I’m no psychoanalyst, but there is certainly a direct correlation of real life stress to real disturbing dreams. Disturbing has its levels. Despite the leanings of my header, most of my dreams aren’t quite of the nightmarish sort. They are mostly just odd mish-mashes. A treasure hunt of packed away visions and memories set upon by a stealthy tornado. How can a tornado be stealthy you ask? EXACTLY.
Burn thy sage Release your demons But not to ears, eyes or familiars For we are only dreaming.
Not lacking in meandering As joy is one’s pillow and freshly cleaned sheets Is oddness and uncertainty to the sand Dusting from our eyelids Sleeping cat shifting by your head A night’s offbeat travels Wandering, slipping away So certain will this stick But long ago we shaped our brains With words on a page And not in storms that pose as a night’s passage So much for posterity in memory.
“The Persistence of Memory” – Salvador Dalí, 1931
A patchwork quilt Fused together by one’s chaos Such are the curious pairings in the REM Memory snippets and delusions Past relationships Failure and regret Tomorrow’s stressors Comparing tasting notes with yesteryear’s heartache The imps are out this eve Conjuring recipes designed to stimulate Ingredients gathered from an arid scene Knick knacks drooping Rhymes without sequence SO much water damage A parallel universe miming a life Seeking sense from a place without form My wits are mangled, voiceless A full moon requires a howl When dreams become our burden Our cells are murdered in their sleep.
Words on the page Shed not the same blood As words mumbling yet tearing apart the throat Write your pain in eloquence Speak not in drivel Is there a path to reconcile Tragic patterns given air Erratic ideas with messy urgency Pride and shame Flip of a coin All good ideas are bad ones When delivery is a codfish Here we are stuck Like the fly in honey Tied to a tree Weighed down by an anvil Silenced by insecurity But there aren’t enough words to express What only one’s livid soul can possess Thus only here are my mere Words on a page.
