February 12, 2012
Pins, Needles, Valley, and Fog.We looked across the valley to where the other hotel was. It was shaped like a castle with pointy gables and rooftops. The building likely hid spiral staircases leading up to the rooms while the windows overlooked the valley, which was being shrouded by the arrival of the early evening fog. 
I looked at our own hotel on this side of the mountain. It had seemed luxurious on the night we came here but in the light of the diffused sunset, it was rather humble and austere.
We were exhausted that night. It was dark and raining. Before we got here, we had spent the day traveling up the western coast. I realized it now, towards the last few days, that we had spent as much time on buses and in the back of taxi cabs as we had spent doing normal things. Since time was already limited, it felt hollow spending it this way. I pushed it out of mind. "It’s kind of shabby isn’t it?" I said to Jenny. She was just getting out of the Nissan that Chen, the innkeeper, used to ferry hotel guests to and from town. "I know. I regret," she said. She frowned and whimpered. "Look at the castle!"On second thoughts, the pointy gables and roofs seemed tacky and out of place. None of it belonged here. This was no place for castles. I was too old (not old enough yet) for that shit and to be fair, I was satisfied with our room. I found no problems. True that it was very cold on the first night and it lacked heating. There was also a startling lack of anything within the immediate surrounding area—we asked Chen if there was anything close that we could walk to for a late dinner; he smiled and said he would drive us later—but it was nothing that we couldn’t adjust to. We huddled the blankets closer and closed the gaps. Chen took us to the 7-Eleven in the valley below and we stocked up on Calbee chips, instant noodle bowls, a bottle of Shiraz, and a six pack of Heineken’s. We would only be here for a two nights and it was all that we needed. "I like our place. It’s completely fine. We don’t need any kind of castle," I said while thinking about last night, preparing a mental map that connected the dots from place to place. The route looked something like a "Q". By the time I could respond to Jenny, we were already walking up the stairs back to our room. It was a tiring day. I wished we had a sewing needle and some threat so that I could patch the pair of jeans I tore while trying to climb a fence. I tore it right at the thigh. For the entire day, I had kept the torn fabric in place by pinning a button, that we got at a gift shop, to them.  Before breakfast this morning, we had washed some of our clothes and hung them out to dry on the balcony. We thought they would be finished by the time we got back to the room but it was too late, the fog had rolled back in and swept past the second story of the building. Though the shirts and shorts were still moist and cold we brought them back in anyway. She finished the wine while I eased her against me on the edge of the bed. Draping my coat around her like you would for a stray cat. There are two days left. Tomorrow we will go back to city, the real city. I wondered when we would be able to travel like this again. If ever. And I wondered when we would ever be the same. I knew this was not likely but braced myself for it anyway. This was a fantasy trip. We knew nothing about each other before this.  If we came to our senses, I wondered what we would think about all of this. None of this was very objective of course. Objectivity would shatter all the castles.

Pins, Needles, Valley, and Fog.

We looked across the valley to where the other hotel was. It was shaped like a castle with pointy gables and rooftops. The building likely hid spiral staircases leading up to the rooms while the windows overlooked the valley, which was being shrouded by the arrival of the early evening fog. 

I looked at our own hotel on this side of the mountain. It had seemed luxurious on the night we came here but in the light of the diffused sunset, it was rather humble and austere.


We were exhausted that night. It was dark and raining. Before we got here, we had spent the day traveling up the western coast. I realized it now, towards the last few days, that we had spent as much time on buses and in the back of taxi cabs as we had spent doing normal things. Since time was already limited, it felt hollow spending it this way. I pushed it out of mind.

"It’s kind of shabby isn’t it?" I said to Jenny.
She was just getting out of the Nissan that Chen, the innkeeper, used to ferry hotel guests to and from town.
"I know. I regret," she said. She frowned and whimpered. "Look at the castle!"

On second thoughts, the pointy gables and roofs seemed tacky and out of place. None of it belonged here. This was no place for castles.

I was too old (not old enough yet) for that shit and to be fair, I was satisfied with our room. I found no problems. True that it was very cold on the first night and it lacked heating. There was also a startling lack of anything within the immediate surrounding area—we asked Chen if there was anything close that we could walk to for a late dinner; he smiled and said he would drive us later—but it was nothing that we couldn’t adjust to. We huddled the blankets closer and closed the gaps. Chen took us to the 7-Eleven in the valley below and we stocked up on Calbee chips, instant noodle bowls, a bottle of Shiraz, and a six pack of Heineken’s. We would only be here for a two nights and it was all that we needed.

"I like our place. It’s completely fine. We don’t need any kind of castle," I said while thinking about last night, preparing a mental map that connected the dots from place to place. The route looked something like a "Q".

By the time I could respond to Jenny, we were already walking up the stairs back to our room. It was a tiring day. I wished we had a sewing needle and some threat so that I could patch the pair of jeans I tore while trying to climb a fence. I tore it right at the thigh. For the entire day, I had kept the torn fabric in place by pinning a button, that we got at a gift shop, to them.
 
Before breakfast this morning, we had washed some of our clothes and hung them out to dry on the balcony. We thought they would be finished by the time we got back to the room but it was too late, the fog had rolled back in and swept past the second story of the building. Though the shirts and shorts were still moist and cold we brought them back in anyway. She finished the wine while I eased her against me on the edge of the bed. Draping my coat around her like you would for a stray cat.

There are two days left. Tomorrow we will go back to city, the real city. I wondered when we would be able to travel like this again. If ever. And I wondered when we would ever be the same. I knew this was not likely but braced myself for it anyway. This was a fantasy trip. We knew nothing about each other before this.  If we came to our senses, I wondered what we would think about all of this. None of this was very objective of course. Objectivity would shatter all the castles.

January 11, 2012
A cold wind blows through this town. My town. At night we sleep with the windows open because the air is dry. She is not use to this stillness. We wake up in the middle of the night and look for the water bottle I keep by the bed. It’s fallen off the window sill to somewhere within the valleys of our bed. 
Winters are like this. This is our first winter. In the autumn, I told her about the piles of deep orange, yellow, and red leaves perched along the sidewalks on 40th Street like softer sand dunes from farther places. In front of my car headlights, they now only tan and brown. Thinner—their sumptuousness long gone.
We drive around the neighborhood and observe the Christmas lights on the fancy homes with their long walk ways and soothing lawns. She says it makes her feel warm, makes her think of lives beyond our transitory existence. It makes her think of Northern Europe, a life that I was never apart of. Copenhagen maybe or Germany. 
In our town, my town, the wind blows cold in the winter. I roll the car windows down so she can breath in the dry air and take pictures without the window glare. I want to keep them all down. Keep the wheels churning over the pavement cracks and dirt paths. Keep the wind rushing in.
When I sleep, I think of odd things. Perhaps I shouldn’t. I put my hand on her waist and move it down. She sets hers over mine and settles it against her chest. My chin is on her shoulder. I can feel the ends of my stubble pierce the cotton t-shirt she is wearing and wonder if it annoys her. Together we sleep like this until morning. Without moving and without err. 
Though she and I will not see it, I want to show her the morning fog. When the sun rises out over the southern edge of the town, where the highway stretches through empty fields and back country, everything is orange washed. I watch her walk into the swirls and disappear. But we can never get up early enough for that. We stay in this room with the blue blue walls late into the morning. It’s always a struggle to come out of it. So we stay in blue moods. The sunlight is on the other side of the room by then, aching its way up the closet walls. 
I turn over and see on the clock that it’s noon. The house is empty. The roads and streets are empty. So are the fields and highways. Emptiness is where I want to take her. We can walk among elm trees, under Tim Burton willows, and through muddy banks along the river. The sunsets at 5:30. I hate it. Everyday feels so short. Our time together is a casualty of the season. 
She remembers my pillows and blankets. She likes the pea green microfiber plush. It is the only thing that she does not defy or betray. She is more honest to it than she is to me. This is why we stay in bed. This is why I keep the window as wide open as I do. 
We need to air out the room. It smells metallic in the way that airport departure gates do. It smells earthy like the mix and match of Sephora things on my desk—soy, soil, cream, other extracts. We need to air out the room, let out the smell on these dusty coats and sweaters. I promise her I would take her to a laundry mat after brunch. A real one with quarter machines and soap box dispensers and push carts, cracked checkered tile floors and pale fluorescent lights. We go after dinner. The washers rumble. I tell her to put her hand against the dryer windows because they are warm. 
Winters are like this. She is not use to the stillness. We continually find ourselves in the ridges and waypoints. She and I are casualties of the season. Sunlight aching up the closet walls. This is why I keep the window as wide open as I do. A cold wind blows through this town. My town. 

A cold wind blows through this town. My town. At night we sleep with the windows open because the air is dry. She is not use to this stillness. We wake up in the middle of the night and look for the water bottle I keep by the bed. It’s fallen off the window sill to somewhere within the valleys of our bed. 

Winters are like this. This is our first winter. In the autumn, I told her about the piles of deep orange, yellow, and red leaves perched along the sidewalks on 40th Street like softer sand dunes from farther places. In front of my car headlights, they now only tan and brown. Thinner—their sumptuousness long gone.

We drive around the neighborhood and observe the Christmas lights on the fancy homes with their long walk ways and soothing lawns. She says it makes her feel warm, makes her think of lives beyond our transitory existence. It makes her think of Northern Europe, a life that I was never apart of. Copenhagen maybe or Germany. 

In our town, my town, the wind blows cold in the winter. I roll the car windows down so she can breath in the dry air and take pictures without the window glare. I want to keep them all down. Keep the wheels churning over the pavement cracks and dirt paths. Keep the wind rushing in.

When I sleep, I think of odd things. Perhaps I shouldn’t. I put my hand on her waist and move it down. She sets hers over mine and settles it against her chest. My chin is on her shoulder. I can feel the ends of my stubble pierce the cotton t-shirt she is wearing and wonder if it annoys her. Together we sleep like this until morning. Without moving and without err. 

Though she and I will not see it, I want to show her the morning fog. When the sun rises out over the southern edge of the town, where the highway stretches through empty fields and back country, everything is orange washed. I watch her walk into the swirls and disappear. But we can never get up early enough for that. We stay in this room with the blue blue walls late into the morning. It’s always a struggle to come out of it. So we stay in blue moods. The sunlight is on the other side of the room by then, aching its way up the closet walls. 

I turn over and see on the clock that it’s noon. The house is empty. The roads and streets are empty. So are the fields and highways. Emptiness is where I want to take her. We can walk among elm trees, under Tim Burton willows, and through muddy banks along the river. The sunsets at 5:30. I hate it. Everyday feels so short. Our time together is a casualty of the season. 

She remembers my pillows and blankets. She likes the pea green microfiber plush. It is the only thing that she does not defy or betray. She is more honest to it than she is to me. This is why we stay in bed. This is why I keep the window as wide open as I do. 

We need to air out the room. It smells metallic in the way that airport departure gates do. It smells earthy like the mix and match of Sephora things on my desk—soy, soil, cream, other extracts. We need to air out the room, let out the smell on these dusty coats and sweaters. I promise her I would take her to a laundry mat after brunch. A real one with quarter machines and soap box dispensers and push carts, cracked checkered tile floors and pale fluorescent lights. We go after dinner. The washers rumble. I tell her to put her hand against the dryer windows because they are warm. 

Winters are like this. She is not use to the stillness. We continually find ourselves in the ridges and waypoints. She and I are casualties of the season. Sunlight aching up the closet walls. This is why I keep the window as wide open as I do. A cold wind blows through this town. My town. 

January 7, 2012
It’s a peculiar sensation for me to look through my photostream—the ebbs and flows, the changing seasons and moods. The people that come in and out of it. When I’m unable to think, when I’m feeling blank, it is the best narrative of that I could ever write. While scanning film negatives tonight, I realized that there are exactly 1,808 photos here. By the numbers, it’s not a lot. By the numbers, it’s not a little either. There are 102 pages worth of photos. How many years does it take to accumulate? Unlike writing, I can answer this with scientific certainty. Seven years. November 28th, 2005 is the date of the first photo I posted on this Flickr. Out of all the photos, the ones I come back to the most are the ones I’ve deleted. She said my photos are simple. I think that’s that point. I like it simple here. So I tend to delete the ones that complicate this method. It’s not you in particular that I keep coming back to. Like the photos, the feelings have come and gone. We are well past our prime. No one likes to post the same photos twice. What I come back to is my own sense of innocence. It’s a terrible thing to live in constant self-reflection? But that’s what we do. That sense of youth and purity before we ruined it, you told me in plain words once, “This is once in a lifetime.” And I only believed you halfheartedly. And then you only believed me halfheartedly. My fault. I’ve got a freak memory. A photographic memory. On this day, we invited Sam over. You know Sam, the kid from next door, the son of the married school teachers. I don’t know if he’s still living there or not. He came over to play with the poodle from your uncle. Sam kept saying “我不怕…I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid” as that dog nipped at his heels. Don’t you know? When you run, it only encourages a dog to chase you more. Sam didn’t know that. He ran through the living room. Jumped up on your sofa. Put his hand on his knees and laughed in the way that only kids could do. In that way that is only afforded to kids; that we in this world are now incapable of doing.Can I say this now? I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I don’t care what it is but I’m not.Nostalgia is one of the tags I use in almost all my photos. Also memories. I then tag the cameras, lens, and film I’ve used because they serve as bookmarks in case my memory fails. What I come back to is nostalgia. It’s simple as that. We all want that sweet sweet feeling. That sweet sweet kind of memory. At the airport, you said, “I hope I’ve left you with some good memories.”Everyone does. What I come to realize, that’s kind of funny now, is just that: everyone does.For this photo, I use a Minolta Hi-Matic G. Not an uncommon camera, but my camera. We came back from lunch in Prince Edward. Some place like that. In that area. It was raining but sunny (I remember this part). Or was it after we came back from Lantau. Something like that. My memory fails me. Sorry.Say “Hi” to Sam for me when you get the chance. How old is he now? Nine, ten, eleven? Something like that.I had a funny thought last night. She and I are meandering along a lake in the middle of nowhere. It is a large lake. A ferry comes by and  empties the pier. One by one, they get on and I watch them go. I’ve watched you go. I’ve watched them all go. But me, I’m standing here. I’m not going anywhere. Let me be and I will still be here. Let me be and I will hold her. I will hold her even though I know it’s not enough. Let me stay here and I will keep collecting all the things we’ve forgotten. 

It’s a peculiar sensation for me to look through my photostream—the ebbs and flows, the changing seasons and moods. The people that come in and out of it. When I’m unable to think, when I’m feeling blank, it is the best narrative of that I could ever write.

While scanning film negatives tonight, I realized that there are exactly 1,808 photos here. By the numbers, it’s not a lot. By the numbers, it’s not a little either. There are 102 pages worth of photos. How many years does it take to accumulate? Unlike writing, I can answer this with scientific certainty. Seven years.

November 28th, 2005 is the date of the first photo I posted on this Flickr. Out of all the photos, the ones I come back to the most are the ones I’ve deleted. She said my photos are simple. I think that’s that point. I like it simple here. So I tend to delete the ones that complicate this method.

It’s not you in particular that I keep coming back to. Like the photos, the feelings have come and gone. We are well past our prime. No one likes to post the same photos twice. What I come back to is my own sense of innocence. It’s a terrible thing to live in constant self-reflection? But that’s what we do. That sense of youth and purity before we ruined it, you told me in plain words once, “This is once in a lifetime.” And I only believed you halfheartedly. And then you only believed me halfheartedly. My fault.

I’ve got a freak memory. A photographic memory. On this day, we invited Sam over. You know Sam, the kid from next door, the son of the married school teachers. I don’t know if he’s still living there or not. He came over to play with the poodle from your uncle. Sam kept saying “我不怕…I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid” as that dog nipped at his heels. Don’t you know? When you run, it only encourages a dog to chase you more. Sam didn’t know that. He ran through the living room. Jumped up on your sofa. Put his hand on his knees and laughed in the way that only kids could do. In that way that is only afforded to kids; that we in this world are now incapable of doing.

Can I say this now? I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I don’t care what it is but I’m not.

Nostalgia is one of the tags I use in almost all my photos. Also memories. I then tag the cameras, lens, and film I’ve used because they serve as bookmarks in case my memory fails.

What I come back to is nostalgia. It’s simple as that. We all want that sweet sweet feeling. That sweet sweet kind of memory. At the airport, you said, “I hope I’ve left you with some good memories.”

Everyone does. What I come to realize, that’s kind of funny now, is just that: everyone does.

For this photo, I use a Minolta Hi-Matic G. Not an uncommon camera, but my camera. We came back from lunch in Prince Edward. Some place like that. In that area. It was raining but sunny (I remember this part). Or was it after we came back from Lantau. Something like that. My memory fails me. Sorry.

Say “Hi” to Sam for me when you get the chance. How old is he now? Nine, ten, eleven? Something like that.

I had a funny thought last night. She and I are meandering along a lake in the middle of nowhere. It is a large lake. A ferry comes by and  empties the pier. One by one, they get on and I watch them go. I’ve watched you go. I’ve watched them all go. But me, I’m standing here. I’m not going anywhere. Let me be and I will still be here. Let me be and I will hold her. I will hold her even though I know it’s not enough. Let me stay here and I will keep collecting all the things we’ve forgotten. 

December 22, 2011
Memorials.

For the son of a life long mortician, a funeral without a body was rare but not uncommon. Richard was in the kitchen with his mother and going through the police reports for the second time. They had found the car on a bank along the Sacramento River delta. A small fishing boat spotted the Buick early in the morning. The car was upside down, pinned against a tree trunk that had extended over the water. Richard’s father’s body was elsewhere. Perhaps it had gone down river and out to the Pacific.

The kitchen was filled with the smell of fried eggs, sausages, pancakes. Richard’s mom was standing in front of the stove. Business as usual.

The funeral home had closed half a decade ago, bought out by a land developer who planned to turn the area into a shopping plaza. Richard’s father sold the location and a month later it was bulldozed. With the money, he paid off the mortgage on their home and used what was left on Richard’s college loans. Now, the settlement on his life insurance was pending. They were going to be in for a windfall.

Richard felt guilty thinking about the how this. After all, his father had just died. Apparently a suicide. From his father’s business, he learned to navigate between issues of money and emotional sensitivity. Now that the roles were turned. He felt awkward. Sorting through the papers and statements , he felt disrespectful somehow. What did it matter, Richard thought, he had been away when it happened and ever since he left Sacramento and California, he had always been away.

Richard was in Seattle when heard the news. He was in the middle of furnishing the new apartment he leased. It was his mother who called. He was neither surprised or upset. He thought about it rationally, his father was getting old. Death was nothing new. He had seen it countless times—the faces of the newly widowed, the sons and daughters, the ceremony and celebrations. He got on a flight the next morning.

The home was as Richard left it. The cream colored sofa was in its position in front of the television, the sandalwood coffee table with its coffee stains and discolorations had not shifted. From the sofa to the walls, everything in the home was cream colored or pale. Slightly off-white as if to compensate for the somberness of the funeral home interior. The only difference was that the grandfather clock, in the corner of the room, had stopped. Richard only noticed it when the house was silent as the hour hand switched over on his watch. Things age, things fall apart. Richard stood in front of it imagining the movements of its minute hands.

Richard’s father did not leave any kind of note. His mother had told the police that he had said he was going out for a drive. “I’ll be back before ten dear,” he said. She had gone to bed expecting that he would be home. In the life time that they had been together, he had never missed the times he sat. He always came and left at exactly the time he said he would.

It was his basic nature; he was a serious and meticulous man who lived in constant observance of details. Besides a mortician and funeral home director, Richard could not imagine his father in any other kind of profession. He approached his life in the same manner that he had embalmed and restored the bodies under his care with. For him to kill himself in such arbitrary way confused Richard. He looked at the diagram indicating the trajectory of the car and the site of the accident. The skid marks were found a mile upstream from where the Buick had went over the levee, through the mud, and into the water. It must struck a tree on the way down; the front of the car and the windshield were smashed. Richard wondered if his father had been thrown out of the car but the image didn’t fit Richard’s memories. He always had his seat belt on. In the Hearst, which Richard had learned to drive with, everything was fastened down. He was a man of details.

Richard’s mother turned off the stove and kitchen fan. She came to the table and placed a plate next to the stack of manila folders and underneath the report in front of Richard’s face.

“Sorry,” he said. He put the stapled copies back into the top folder and took everything into the living room.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?”

His mom shook his head.

Richard took a cup from the cupboard and poured himself a coffee. It had been a week already. The search was called off two days ago. Thursday. They had nothing from the police since then.

“Do you know how dad would have liked to have things arranged?” Richard said.

“Your father had friends in the business, they’ll take care of it,” his mother said.

It was true. Richard’s father was a loyal man. He had taken care of many people in his lifetime.

This morning his mother had woken up early. Awake in his bedroom, he had heard her shuffle down the wall. The house was old and the walls were thin. Richard remembered this well. Back then, he could hear the chime from the clock, like a bell toll, at every hour through the night. A few minutes later, he heard tinking of kitchen pans being set out. Richard checked the time on his phone, it was eight, and got out of bed. Underneath her beige kitchen apron, his mother was in her mourning dress. Black dresses and trouser suits were the only color that Richard could remember his mother in.

“You’re up early today,” he said.

His mother did not respond. She was humming a song to herself.

Ever since he had come home, she had an air of composed nonchalance. She had always been a quiet woman, unaffected by the tides that time brought in but this morning was different. The air of respectful attentiveness he always remembered her with had become untethered. It made her seem ethereal like looking into the center of a black agate stone. Maybe there was something she knew about her father or had come to realize. A shared silent answer. Whatever it was, it was beyond Richard’s understanding. He turned on the counter top lamp when he entered the kitchen.

“Why don’t you sit down with me Junior,” his mother said.

“Sure. I’m going shave first,” Richard said.

Richard brought the paperwork in with him. There was a lot to do. As the only son, he felt it was his duty to see things through. Now, he was setting them down on the living room table. Maybe this afternoon, he thought.

He looked at the grandfather clock again. It was a shade of antique cherry and in good condition as expected of things that belonged to his father. Richard tried to remember the tone of its chimes as they rang out at the beginning of ever hour but couldn’t. He looked at the weights that held the open pendulum in place; a layer of dust was visible along its brass. Richard went back into the kitchen.

“When was the last time dad wound the clock in the living room?” Richard said.

“I don’t quite remember. It stopped a long time ago,” she said.

Richard sipped his coffee and watched his mother’s face. In the ambient light from the lamp and window, it glowed.