Tag: memory

Mitski – My Impression from 2019

RalphLeave a comment

I remember listening to Mitski when I used to work at a hospital call center in 2019. The call center was located in the middle of a suburban New England neighborhood. I remember that next to a newly built flat office building was a forest with a walking path and a river that separated the forest from the vast green front yards of castle-like houses. I used to walk through that forest during my lunch break in fall, winter, and spring. I used to listen to music as I walked alongside the river. I remember listening to Mitski for the first time.

It was 2019. The work was hard, and I was focusing my energy and attention on my studies every day to get into medical school. When too many people call the call center, my ears get tired of listening to a person crying, shouting, and cursing. My mind would slowly get heated with too many details to remember and too many details to forget. Filled with pent-up anger, sadness, and fear, I would pull out my Airpods, step out of the office through a glass door into the crisp, fresh air, and walk into the forest.

Listening to Mitski’s voice, you feel camaraderie. Her voice is passionate, defiant, and unapologetic. She does not depend on others; she searches for meaning within herself, clawing through the chaotic path of soul-searching. It’s not for the glory, not for fame, not for recognition, not for love. But rather a burning desire to understand the origin of her burning desire for life. When you are walking down a dark hallway alone, seeing someone else walking by themselves in a long dark hallway gives you irresistible resilience. That’s what I got from Mitski. We may be insignificantly small, but we have a burning desire for a lived experience. To get there, we will exhaust whatever we can. And when we look back, we will have no regrets.

4.23.2024

Brighter

RalphLeave a comment

without my coffee,
each hour felt like a year.
I let my mind drift.
As my mind slowly crawled,
I noticed crumbs of memories.
Ones I made mistakes,
ones I felt happier,
ones I hope not to remember.
They all shined brightly,
and my heart was warm.
I let them float into sky,
and wished upon them
to let me live to my fullest.
Then I got back to my deadlines.

1.3.2024

Radiant

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all became white;
(even when I blinked)
the whiteness filled the universe.
and then it was dark.
like a smile that flashed
— and then gone —
there was the universe
and then aloneness.
As this ebbed and flowed,
I held on.
I don’t know what it was.
But it’s inscribed in my bones.
touch my calluses
taste my tears
peer into my iris
and you will see —
all of it is there.

11.14.2023

Chicken Feet

RalphLeave a comment

She had bushy permed black hair like an average middle-aged woman. Occasionally she would chew gum as our heads stared at my math textbook where I scribbled solutions to each question. Like her dog, she was observant. She would quietly hug me from behind for a few seconds, release me softly, and mumble, “It is sort of an emotion-deprived syndrome, you know.” Her son would enter her tiny apartment during our session, slip into a bathroom across a thin wall next to where we sat, and take his hot shower. She would spread a large towel arms-wide to cover her son as he slipped out of the steamy bathroom into his room; he was too tall for the apartment. In the kitchen, she pulled out a white cubic styrofoam box. She called my attention, opened it like a Pandora’s box, and stared at my face, challenging me. Black, wrinkled, and bare-bone chicken feet sat in the box hopelessly. She pulled two out, one to me, another to her mouth. She sucked it with her jaw and then spewed out little white pills of bones. I followed, feigning courage, but my stomach was already ready to repel what was to come. Cold, rigid, and salty, I wanted to destroy it as soon as possible. When it dissipated into my stomach, I was grateful. She smiled. I felt the warmth coming back. I had grown up a little then.

11.11.2023