No Child in New York
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.
Angela’s Mailbox: Stay tough, Champ
Last week, I got a direct reply to my latest post in the mail. A reader, comic artist, and friend from Southern California sent me this animated reminder with a mini-Angela, “books weighing as babies,” and the rain. +2 points for mailing, +2 points for re-interpretation/better interpretation, +2 for literary device label, +2 for stick figure (with great eyebrows), and +10 for profanity.
Stay tough, Champ!
Angela: FUCK YOU, PATHETIC FALLACY! I’M ANGELA-MOTHERFUCKIN’-KOH! I’M A WRITER! I’M THE CATALYST THAT TURNS MISERY INTO ART! YOU’RE MAKING ME STRONGER!
I’d like to be that Angela. She seems a lot cooler than me. Thanks, man.
It started out as a good day, New York
Sick with unknown dizziness, I waited after my night lecture for the city shuttle. I let the rain wash over me since an umbrella storefront was quite far. I held my books weighing as much as babies. One hour passed. Two hours. Then, I didn’t know. My phone had died in my hand.
So I ran a mile back. My door-face gave no greeting or welcome. I sloshed in and threw the books on the floor—they had torn my arms. I threw my shoes outside—their bottoms couldn’t grip wet cement and had sent me flying. In this manner, I blamed and hated everything. Even my new family and the few friends I had left behind. How could they let me leave—how could they believe my city conquests hadn’t stopped at Seoul, Tokyo, San Francisco.
Stealing Grandma
My grandma was born in Korea, raised in Japan so her name: Kumiko. Though, only I knew that. I gave her English lessons, and she made me paper fans or microwaved eel over rice. I slept over her house all the way to the 11th grade. She was my only family in the states, or so worth calling.
Something that stayed with me, unfortunately, was an incident at her funeral. One “family” member, with the backing of many others, accused me of not mourning enough for Grandma. It was a public accusation. I was nineteen. And from it, utter humiliation and ridicule haunted me for years, though the guiltless accuser likely forgot the incident in a minute’s time.
Yesterday, I visited my grandma’s gravesite at Gate of Heaven in Los Gatos. I kneeled in the grass and thought she had the nicest picture on the block. I now have an answer to that accuser (and fellows). I mourned in private because I was afraid. If anyone—even those who knew Grandma—got a glimpse of my pain, they would see into my relationship with Kimiko. They would see our jargon, our stories, and the way we were. I wasn’t ready to share that. At nineteen, bereft and in pieces, I wanted to keep her mine and only mine for a little longer. Even then, you took from me whatever composure I could barely muster.
If Dreams Were Contagious
…
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. Read more…
Guest Blogger: Cheryl Chen on the Writer’s Stereotype
Cheryl Chen: BA English/Creative Writing, University of California, Irvine. Mentored by Ron Carlson, Honors. JAR prose/poetry Editor. Published in CHP’s NAR magazine and won “Best Fiction Piece” in 2009. Children’s Literature Enthusiast. Speaks and leads Extension 777. Currently works in Newport Beach and loves spending time with her family and fiancé. Blog http://writercherylchen.blogspot.com/ Twitter http://twitter.com/Cheryl__Chen Contact chen.cheryl.d@gmail.com
Ron Carlson told his students a piece of advice that I will never forget. When his library building would clear out for summer, he’d sneak inside to use the typewriters. He wrote so many stories on those machines in the dawn of his summer vacation. He told us that you need to set yourself a precedent for your days off. You have time off to write, not time off to play.
Whatever party or gathering that you are tempted to go to, write off your friends because you have an obligation to write.
The impact of his words frightened me. To me, hanging out isn’t a waste; it’s a valuable investment of time spent with loved ones. Carlson’s “idea” of a writer is rampant. We’re told to aim for this stereotype, to neglect the demands of society and our lives. Having completed my first novel draft in a year (while planning a wedding), I still resist such conformity. What will I write about if I don’t experience life and cultivate relationships? Read more…
An Interview with Hai M. Truong by Angela Koh
Hai M. Truong: BA English Literature, Minor in Education Studies, University of California Irvine. SAGE Scholars. UCLA Law Fellow. UC Berkeley Summer Fellow. Worked under Congresswoman Loretta Sanchez. Research on Education, Healthcare, Environmental legislation. Taught seminars in Anaheim, Santa Ana, Orange County. Enjoys public speaking and singing Sinatra. Contact HaiMTruong@gmail.com
[Angela Koh]: Something interesting that people don’t know is that you were offered tentative placement in the Peace Corps, but turned it down. After the long application and screening process, how did you come to this decision? What advice would you give to future Peace Corps applicants?
[Hai Truong]: At first, I wanted to experience my mother’s life before fleeing Vietnam – being worlds away from comfort and what I knew. I imagined myself attaining that abstract sense of becoming a better man. But, I realized I’m a close-quarters-contact-kind-of-guy. There are people whom I’d rather learn from and serve right here. The process took since last July up until last Read more…
Mailbox: New Poems & Sketch
Re: Ghosts/ 656 Sunnyhills
I read your published works on Entasis. They are so wonderful. It has been quite a while since I’ve read a poem and felt touched. Usually I feel removed, somehow.
Write on. No pun intended.
Warmest,
Jenny/ San Francisco
Thanks, Jenny! Recently, while editing pages stacked up to my chin, something came to me. That is, as a poet, I’m a product of the poets that came before me and a factor to those that will follow. It seemed burdensome at first, to see one’s accountability in literary history. Yet it was invigorating to know that my works do not represent myself, but the work of (this is corny, and there is no other word) mankind. So, I hope you feel that it’s not my poems Ghosts and 656 Sunnyhills in particular that have touched you. You’ve simply found your way back into poetry. These poems are not mine to credit – the way one’s body is only a vessel for the soul.
Re: Sketches?
Are you still drawing stuff up? You should post more of your sketches!
Keith/ Ontario
This week I just finished adding color to a family sketch. I’ve been looking to fit it in a frame and give it to my dad for a Father’s Day gift. My pockets have been losing weight these days so this will have to do. I’m kind of the five-year-old that brings a classroom finger-paint sheet home so it could be up on the refrigerator.
Here’s the original photo. This is actually the only copy of a family photo I have. I’d carried it for years around Southern California. I’ll do more to improve on my sketches and share them!
Letters are the highlight of my week. About two and a half weeks ago, I even got my first hate mail which was very exciting. It began with “Dearest Cunt.” E-mail me at angelaejkoh@gmail.com
More Sketches:
From My Sketchbook/ If Not a Poet/ From My Sketchbook II/ Whether it be better in Sorrow than Comfort
The Extent To Which One May Reap
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, Read more…
Sharif Shakhshir: AA Language Arts, Mount San Antonio. BA English/Creative Writing, University of California Irvine. Poetry Instructor at El Sol Academy in Santa Ana. Jar Prose/Poetry Editor. Graphic Novel Enthusiast. Contact sshakhsh@uci.edu
Ron Carlson is intense. My workshop with the man was the most hilarious and fucking frightening class I’ve ever taken. The biggest thing that I got from Carlson is a philosophy of looking at a story as characters interacting within an interactive physical environment. An example: every room has a temperature, which may or may not impose itself upon the characters and their fighting/loving/tire-changing. Most beginning writers fail to keep these environments alive. If a room is unbearably hot on page 1, then the writer needs to keep reminding his reader that it’s hot through page 10. Using story memory to bring back these conditions and repeated objects (in screen writing these things are called “complications”) makes one’s imagery dynamic. From Carlson, I understood that story memory gives one’s characters agency or antagonism, and most importantly it gives the writer agency.
I think the biggest mistake that I’ve seen from conversations with web cartoonists as well as my experience with fiction is that people do not see imagery as being a part of the writing. It’s a chore for the sake of decoration or believability, rather than a device for storytelling. However, the writer’s imagery creates subtext (talking about it without talking about it). Imagery makes commentary on your characters or situational changes over time. For example, if a man goes to his elementary school he went to as a child, he will have a different experience as an adult. The difference matters. You know the whole “Songs of Innocence and Experience” deal.
ph. by Erin Rose
The writer who sees imagery as something he must do to ground his work rather than as an opportunity, lacks proper perspective. Possessions define characters (Is he a Mac or a PC?). Possessions also become a part of us–gaining sentimental value so much so that we feel very personal pain if we lose it. I mean, I baby my car. It’s a gold 1993 Saturn SW2. My parents were the first owners. We went on our trips to the beach back when my family was happy to see each other for reasons other than a needed favor. There’s some illogical belief in me that when this car is gone, that the last bit of this old family will be gone as well. Then, what slowly tears at me with every rattle and every worn belt is that GM stopped making parts for my car. This dent-resistant little trooper that I used to race against my friends with old Honda Civics on Pomona streets is slowly falling apart. And at that point I will feel like I’m throwing away my youth, or what my family used to be. That’s what this item, this scene, this piece of inventory can be if a writer knows an opportunity when he sees it.
Hunchback in Hollywood
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. Read more…
In An Iron Mask
Résumé by Dorothy Parker
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp,
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
ph. by me
In bed with three awfully hard cushions propped behind me, I read this poem out loud (from Pinsky and Dietz’ Poems to Read). “Might as well” fit like a backscratcher between “You” and “live” and it got me laughing until I toppled from my spot. I had gone through 193 pages before finding this Dorothy Parker gem. Salty. Sharp. A kind of piece I’d never taken to before.
It reminded me of 2009 when my losing streak was at its prime. I was entrenched in fears. How to learn without talent? How to listen without anger? Living seemed only an option since there was no immediate nuisance (that death would bring). So I lived, or more accurately, just sat and watched things move around me for a little bit. It wasn’t exciting.
I think I’m trying to say that I’ve been lost and breathless, a ghost in clothes. And I will probably go through that again, but I feel now, that I can survive it. It wasn’t so bad. If I’m living, I might as well write, and if I’m writing I might as well grow and be changed to what I can’t imagine. After all, I don’t want to die in an iron mask. The only poetry I leave, being the thoughts I never got to say.
An Interview with Colette LaBouff Atkinson by Angela Koh
Colette LaBouff Atkinson is th
e author of Mean (University of Chicago Press). Los Angeles Times reviewer David Ulin described her collection of prose poems as “a heady mix of ideas and influences that reverberates like memory in the mind.” Her poems have appeared in Santa Monica Review, Seneca Review, Exquisite Corpse, Orange Coast Magazine, Babble and elsewhere. She is the Founding Committee Member of the Casa Romantica Reading Series, the Poetry Editor for Zócalo Public Square, and the Acting Director for the International Center for Writing and Translation at the University of California, Irvine.
Bits of popular culture are mixed into the book such as The Amityville Horror or Sega’s Ghost Squad. I even recognized lines from The Cure’s “Just like Heaven.” These details resonate with the everyday American life. I’m curious about these instances of contemporary culture particularly because they are blended with classics such as Herodotus’s Histories or Augustine’s Confessions. Can you talk about these different bits of culture and how you find them working throughout the book?
I like to think that the instances you mention find a place in each piece on their own, and I didn’t set down to write them with the intention of needing to include them. I hope that they give, however, a sense of either the speaker’s personal history, her place in time, and also a sense of how what she has read plays into her understanding of whatever she is talking about. Many of these examples that you give were – for years – important references in my life. Read more…
