youve been around much longer than that. when i was squinting to see the first daylight of my life, you were kicking around, a young man with many thoughts in your head. we were at least 8 time zones across; even now, majority of the year, we are, on average, 5 hours apart.
weve been to many places together and seen many sunsets together. but honestly, much fewer sunrises together, hehe. youve drank many pints while i munch on something beside you. we did laundry together, pulled on new linens on be together. who could possibly make a nice bed all by oneself? well, not i.
you saw me sobbing thinking about my lost brother. we talk about your mum, once in awhile, whenever she floats to top of our minds.
considering the distance, the time, and oh so grand, the universe, we float together, magically.
but is that magic? i dont really think that.
many people fall into synchronicity. and sometimes, like all the phones that are connected to the atomic clock network, they expect to stay parallel. always.
sometime people have an idea of the 'other,' of how they should fill into your life, to that weird game of expectant telepathy, regardless of the definition of the relations they are connected through- family, friends, colleagues, etc.
we certainly arent riding on automatic gear. we fudge the gears sometime. occasionally, we have to make things fit, as if making a jigsaw puzzle from many different materials. and we do. even if we sigh, kick, and give a cut eye. haha.
and you are there, outside of me. whether you are on the other side of these amazing smartphone machines, or in warm bed sheets, or crowded and hot budget airline seats with tempers flairing up, you are there. outside of me. but with me.
we work it out together. sometimes not- sometimes one 'informs' the other, what is to happen. luckily, we havent exchange a physical blow, though a comical image, perhaps, of banging someone with sack of oranges, do come up in conversations. sometimes we throw our hands in exasperation, not so secretly thinking that the 'other' is wrong. and that's also fine.
so with all of that, i baked a cake for your birthday.
if an alien saw a cake, they would go around and gather crumbs to build a cake.
as cake batter has nothing to do with how cake looks like at the end!
i put many different things in the batter. eggs. liquor. butter. flour. chocolate. salt. all things that are not so spectacular on their own. some ingredients are no fun to eat on their own- especially baking powder, so bitter and astringent.
i whip the batter with elbow grease. after all, i only bake once a year or so. an old balloon whip will do just fine. the same whip that makes your birthday cakes for last few years.
this year, with the hectic schedule, i thought may be we should buy a cake.
but there we were, 11pm, on the first day back from another 10 days trip, you licking the whip, and me parked by the oven, as if i can stare at it to order it to rise. thank god it did.
house smelled of chocolate, sugar and butter.
you drank your birthday selection of supermarket beer on small chair in the kitchen, while i wrinkled my brain about jazzing up the frosting.
so there it is. a cake to take to work.
and in that batter, many things went in. the days of our lives together and apart. the thoughts that were expressed and thoughts that were scrapped from the table, to protect the other. small complaints and compliments. the jabs to the ribcage (for fun and not for fun), spilled coffee and hair on the bathroom floor. the small things that makes a 'day.'
and cake rose. as recipe promised. and you were so giddy excited to take it to work. steps with balloons on ankles.
happy birthday dear minnow.
i bake cakes, only for you, pretty much.
and im thankful everytime it turns out okay.
but as i look out of the window and chinley's gently showered with small, little, light raindrops that doesnt make any noise, along with bbc radio 3 chatters, i think about packing for next few days, once again. we will float through london, oxford, bilbao, san sebastian and santander before getting back here, a small dot on a map, even invisible from the google map's street view (you can see the 'entrance' for this short street but not the houses themselves)-
and once we get back, it will be another few short days till heading west, to yyz. and that is home too, back perched on 32nd floor in bustling city, flashing with lights and ringing with sirens all day/night long.
instead of making slow roasts and sewing hop bags for beer brewing, it will be quick 20 min prep dinners and walking back from midnight movies to home.
im the same person in both places. but depending on where i am, my context changes constantly and i keep finding slightly variations of myself. alone, with people, along other people, even belonging to a group- sometimes.
sometimes when i talk of 'home,' people arent sure 'which' home im talking about. and i chuckle and explain. when people were talking about incredibly hot and muggy yyz summer, for instance, i had no idea how it went (as i was roaming probably east of north america); or unexpected snowfall in uk (as i was probably freezing in yyz). and i hop through different backgrounds as necessary.
but the best thing about this is that i still have a definition in my mind, what a home is.
home is where i look in and find the people i listen and crave. home is where i can lay down and fall into a happy sleep, not having to toss around to find the right 'spot.' where i can stumble into the bathroom in pitch dark, half-asleep, and know exactly where everything is. a place where i can pull out last minute 'treat' that i have bought eons ago. a room with a favourite chair, or rather, a chair that pulls me over, like a magnet. i flop down and it's home.
i know my pots and pans. my spoons and chopsticks. where i put down soaps and spare toilet rolls. some obscure adaptors and cables. the old cold medications that i put away while humming through finally clear sinus. the nooks where all the dust bunnies and dinosaurs congregate
where it smells like people i like. people i live with. familiar shoes and jackets in the sight, hastily hung somewhere. hotels and lodgings and other people's houses always have slightly unique smell.
right now, chinley home smells of fermenting young beer- sweet and slightly yeasty. and when i walk over to the shed, there'll be two hop plants, climbing up the lines, slowly and surely.
toronto home may smell like neighbour's fried eggs in the kitchen. that always cracks me up.
bathrooms that i pick up hairs after shower, without being irked. a tub where i can lay self down and hum along with bubbles. places where i hid some fancy soaps for 'later.'
as i slowly make another list of 'packing,' (packing everything into a 28L bag or less, always takes a bit of addition/subtraction in the head) i look out and see the familiar scene of drizzly british summer rain. and wee bird call. rain must be lifting a bit.
if the rain lifts a bit, i will put my shoes on and carefully tread to the shed, trying to avoid slugs as much as possible (dont like them, but like it even less to step on them... making me a killer!), as i do here. back in yyz, i would put on my almost 20 years old blunnies and walk to avoid gums on pavement. different objects to dodge around.
im wistful to leave home. this summer has gone super fast. a month in stans, then guest for 2.5 weeks, then proms, and it's NOW. i havent got into a wide mental space this summer, where i often get into a new projects such as mastering pizza making from scratch, or learning to brew water kefir with silly scobies, as time ran through the calendar.
next morning, we leave home, and then when we come back, it'll be a new month, and it'll also go fast. so i better go make the most out of my home. cuz i love this home very much.
i make some amazing roasts here.
when a friend came to visit me in chinley, he mentioned that my life in the two places are so vastly different, it must be a culture shock, everytime i go back and forth. and i chuckled, because it is true!
the pace of life does change drastically. coming out from the bustle of the end of second semester in the music school calendar, i go into days of unstructured freedom. gone are the days of tight schedule, back to back and running around, sneaking in a quick run to keep myself sane and light on the feet. usually minimal eating, at the end of the day, except for an occasional cold snack or two during the day, lunch happens around 3pm. sleep is also quite skint. but i am happy.
then comes summer. especially this summer, when the stan trips (uzbekistan and tajikisitan) involved hot blazing sun and super slow pace of life, i was stretched out in the old ancient silkroad, like melting piece of gum on the road. that did set the pace for this summer. SLOW.
ive been following a friend's fb post. she's a dear friend and recently she's been writing about her struggle with keeping up with the lifestyle- mainly regarding staying active and healthy. this made me think a bit, each day. then comes floods of people in bikinis in sunshine, beefcakes in glistening sunshine, very carefully sculpted girls smiling with too-many-blinding-white-teeth.
see, in the summer, i always put on a bit of weight. living is good and i have the time to sit and have six meals if i wished. i graze, read slowly, go out on walks-not runs. my runners, which usually covers good 20-30 miles per week, now covers may be an hour of leisurely walk in the rolling hills.
i go to different places, and they all have their delicious food and drinks. yes, even in tajikistan (HAHA; more on that on another posts perhaps...). and like a true enthusiast, i tuck in. did i also mention im looking forward heading to northern spain later in the month, especially san sebastian, where glorious pinxos and beer/wine flow freely? lol.
i look myself on the mirror. and mirror shows how i am. no lies.
some days i wonder whether i should re-reign myself and go back to yyz-self, keeping self busy, running, watching my weight, watching everything, trying to be grounded.
i grab my side and chuckle at my 'handle.' i must be a good five pounds heavier.
then i remember the days of being a child, a teenager, a university student, a young adult. until i reach 'today.'
being a fat kid as a child wasnt easy. i know the world treats you differently, not even knowing so. and with constant bombardment of 'eating healthy and being active,' which, in my ears, is a disguised push to be that 5% on the top, to be thin, which usually means beautiful, to be uncommon (barbie figure is uncommon, however you cut it), to have lots of hair, to have perfect teeth, great skin, etc., even in the quiet small house out in the peak district, i doubt.
should i return to running? should i go on a fast? should i lose these unnecessary weights? does this make me lazy? failure? unsuccessful?
but i like having the time to make food? to take the (one of the greatest) pleasure of making dinner for me and minnow and guest(s)? to relax and let my belly hang a bit out?
i know that i go back to yyz soon enough. so i tell myself it's really okay to have that extra 5 pounds. it's perhaps a fight back to my other self who wishes to be more competitive, 'successful,' to keep up with the rest of the world. and i do, so predictably, have been, and probably will, lose that extra bits within the month. it's a cycle. somehow, the yyz monkey does not tolerate that.
meanwhile, i sip my tea and write this musing down. because i want to be able to read it later. perhaps it's my little shoving-off that messages of fictitious, nameless pictures of the summer, where i should be thin and beautiful, sipping on a drinkie outside somewhere, showing off my ribcage lines.
after all, im in late 30s. it's taken me this long to be able to tolerate such indulgence. it is so easy to say 'enjoy life,' but actually turning blind eye to social pressure isnt too easy. it does help, however, to have good friends who arent fanatics, haha. so here's a cheer, and im going to go make some breakfast.
i am who i am, even with the extra weight.
and i do live in my skin and it's all going to be okay.
and what would england be without a hot cup of tea and a toasty sausage roll?!
cornell was immensely popular singer and one of the biggest entity for the grunge era; my high school days are literally full of his music, along with few others. and so many of them from my teenage years are now dead. scott weiland died of overdose (likely), kurt cobain shot himself, jeff buckley drowned, elliott smith stabbed himself (likely), layne staley overdosed, the list goes on.
of course, there are many who continue to live on, doing things, but this sudden realization that eddy vedder is now the 'betty white of the grunge' does crack me up a bit.
as public frantically re-focuses on tragedy of suicide-ridden pop culture, i cant help but to think about the average people, like me, who might already be dead one day, but continue to 'live on,' as if nothing happened.
this is not to glorify suicide culture. or to reiterate the point that there will be a few people in every population group, who will die soon, but just from watching the homeless problems gaining intensity in my 'hood.
the downtown bay corridor quickly became the new condo belt in last ten years. and now it's yonge street. so many buildings are shut, sold, waiting to get their building permissions to dig and build up. the unexpected side effect of that is the rise of homeless population in the area.
as the first levels of these empty lots have bit of nook that people can 'claim,' many homeless gather in the area during the night through early morning. unlike liberty village or little more swanky southern corridor, or the resident-packed annex, the lack of neighbourhood culture in this area, in conjunction to not-too-much-money (when the area is super wealthy, there are never any homeless; they are either kicked out, or leave voluntarily as there is no 'sharing' in the area), and close distance to former problem areas (moss park, regent park, etc) and many different kind of shelters, along with limited yet real access to public facilities such as toilet (big grocery shops, fast food restos etc), LCBOs and relatively cheap food,
these are my speculation for incresed homeless population in the area.
but once condos are built and that security guards come around, they will leave to somewheres else, in probably 4-5 years, max.
they are usually sleeping/pretending to be asleep during the morning rush. and by midday, they are up and gone to tend the day. the weekday mid mornings, between 10-1130, is when they can be confrontational and violent (i had 3 run-ins in less than 5 minutes in two-blocks distance the other day). and i gather it's because of morning rage.
you woke up, from uncomfortable sleep, if you slept, that is. you may had run-ins during the night- may be someone tried to steal your stuff. or beat you up or physically and/or sexually assault you. it's not terribly cold that you 'had' to stay in crammed shelter. but nevertheless, you are hungry, tired, and you try to shield yourself from all these 'lucky people' who are heading to work, for their fancy jobs.
may be youve saved a few bits from night before for the morning- may be a cig, bit of drugs if you are a user, may be scraps of food.
but generally, not much.
not much, to look forward to, for the whole day, may even endless chains of days.
we worry about 'mental health,' we 'try' to talk about it. though it's a valid effort, i cannot shake that feeling that it is mostly for the middle class and up. what about these people, on the street, who live with mental desert, where not much can grow or to be fostered? are we creating this new sub-class citizens, the homeless-zombies?
with bursting news about connell's death, i cant help but to think about my own street.
what can be done about it?
if suicide is bad, what about structured mass homicide?
may be more 'artists' die because of their sensitivity toward the world.
but what about sufferings of others who are resilient (ex. continue to go on), but without any real hopes? how is that any better than finite death? and why do we feel remorse about someone's suicide but hostility towards others who may be suffering, just as much, if not more? if 'lesser' people suffer, are they suffering actually 'less?' if 'they' have not given 'me' something worthwhile (in case of these singers, they gave 'me' plenty!), then should 'they' be expected to suffer with no help from me?
and i genuinely was curious to put this 'thing' away. the physical act of 'moving on.' i was rather 'sad' ( ? ) to take it out and put it away, as it meant end of this 'project,' which i enjoyed thoroughly.
going back to fav movie of 2016:
i was fascinated with this alien language form. grown up korean, i learned to write/read korean, basic 1000 chinese letters and then had to work my butt off once i was dropped in english as we moved to toronto when i was 13. i took latin in high school to vent my frustration against mandatory french education (because no one was really ahead in latin...). i started to travel and got basic feel of the romance languages, and so far, the strangest language i encountered first hand was icelandic, couldnt even pronounce any.
and all these linguistic experiences (with passing interest in etymology), i am aware of the role of linguistics in a cultural composite.
western classical music has not changed much in notation, i dont think. or perhaps it's my own familiarity with the notation that i encounter, that i dismiss western classical music notation as 'simple.' may be it's that im a typical piano player and therefore my vision remains quite narrow.
so when i saw your mixed-bag of notations, the first question was: when you write down these sound events, what were you hearing? for instance, one of the pieces i adore is jolivet's suite in concert for flute + perc 4tet. i looked over the perc parts many times. but then i never find out: did jolivet knew exactly what he wanted? but doenst it deviate from the performance to performance (human factor, instrument access, etc)? of course it's all approximation (even on a good day), but what are you writing, and how does that translate? isnt this weird, as player would have to form a some sort of super intimate relationship with another conceptor, but largely through a secondary plastic medium...
writing/speech/language do shape and generalise a culture- and if so, where are you coming from- what do you like to do, where do you live, how do you speak and what do you read?
*this comes from my recent reminder from a friend during baroque harpsichord-strings recital, that most italian words has accent/lean on the second syllable (ex. ferrari, spaghetti, etc), so even though the beat falls on strong beats, never to neglect beat 2 and 4, as that's where things actually do happen (supposed to land on 1 and 3). where are your notations coming from? what kind of soundscape are you in, normally? do you separate your aural space from your creative vs. observant-normal-daily space? what kind of person are you to write this way?
oh dear, that sounds like a personal challenge. haha. im sorry. im just curious. everyone who speaks a bit differently, usually have a narrative or two. im just curious about you as a person, as the sounds you prescribed are interesting to me.
*BTW going back to the arrival, here's an article i enjoyed much.
when you write such intricate music- especially for near silence threshold but super dense, some of it reminded me of luigi nono's music, i assume that you rely on the human connect that the player(s) will build with the instruments as well as one another.
in this i had to draw my ears closer to my brain and heart, not only to my 'stuff,' but to perc-piano stuff (as they are intertwined so closely), at some points, players will connect and lean onto one another, to a non-normal level. for example, i didnt 'look' at the perc, but i knew he was 'watching' and so was i.
you, as the composer, have curated this scenario. but once it's in motion, you are actually not part of this 'intimacy,' how do you feel about that? do you ever feel that you are actually in it with the performers? do you ever expect to be part of it? isnt it weird? during the perf, i felt familiar, even though my head was rushing a bit, with hoping to execute, observing failures, etc. everything all at once. even the familiarity of 'going through the course of time' with all the variables.
there are few more thoughts but this is plenty long, so i think i may fold it for now.
thanks for taking the time to read it, if you did- perhaps the best thing i can say is that i actually did miss not 'practicing' or 'carrying' this piece in my backpack today.
driving from west van to your last loadstop, 03 aug 2015
how is it to lose something that was never yours to begin with?
how is it to lose something if that 'thing' is always with you?
seven short and long years ago, in middle of the night, 2-230am, you went off the cliff. into the dark sky where the cliff, in its terrifying height, set you off gravity free. your body rattled against the hard metal frame of the car. your skull broken in places.
they say by the time youve blinked, you were no longer there.
i am glad.
i continue to project how life could have been if you did not die.
perhaps you were to be fine, your bright self, witty humour and slight puppy wag to your steps. or may be, you could be a family man by now, having a child or two. recently, ive ran into your old friend at a supermarket. he was with his wife and two young children. may be you wouldve been bringing the children together for a hangout. or perhaps, this accident couldve left you sparkless, bounded without freedom, or may be with a limp or two.
truth is, i do not know.
only thing that i do know is that i continue to speculate. for no specific reason. you tumble into my mind when i do not suspect. every time i sense a full moon (which is EVERY SINGLE ONE haha) you are in it. i remember looking at the first full moon after youve died. it was rather white, cold, crisp and bright.
i still google your last GPS location. on google map. did i tell you that two years ago, in chilly last day of august 2015, jules and i drove through it, to take a look at it? we started the drive from west van. i drove straight from morning rain, and by the time we got to your deadly corner, sun was bright and okanagan was beautiful. though it rained shortly after we got to kelowna.
we talked of you last night before dad's leaving back to korea tomorrow.
dad said may be it's time to forget.
i dont think i will. nor him. it is just different, i think.
when you were born, we were 2 years, 2 months, 22 days apart.
that's 814 days for us to be apart. i was the closest living marker for you. and you were for me. now, it's been 2557 days since 26 apil 2010. in total, 3371 days without you in my life. i have lived 13842 days. it's almost quarter of my life days that i live without you in it. 24.35%
i was there, 100% in your life.
from your birthday. till the day i went to pick you up, burn you in a pyre, bring you back home and lower you to the ground. lower you to the depth of the heart.
i run these numbers, looking at varying relations between the dates, markers. birthdays. deathdays. my life. yours. my life with yours. my life with you in it. somehow. even now. and probably continue to be so.
you are like a cat, living in my mind. i draw a box and you get in it.
i miss you, i think. but how could i really miss you if you are still in my heart?
The Scream shows Indigenous children being taken away from their families by the Catholic church. (Courtesy of Kent Monkman)
qiksaaktuq (grief) was premiered last night in toronto, as first concert closer of the toronto symphony new music festival. as part of the whole 150 years anniversary of canada, there are some real fun celebrations planned across the country, and i was happy to receive my parks canada pass, and to attend various projects, including this series of new commissions.
and while we cut the cheery white and red coloured cake, and me, who will be travelling with the brand new passport this summer, i am aware of what canada is made out of-
which is more than what we bargain for.
when tagaq won polaris prize in 2014, i did overhear some dudes attributing her heritage for 'making the list' in kensington market hipster bar. i poured my beer on their shoes and left.
i wasnt surprised, as, well, kensington market, as we all love it for what it is, has not been THAT place for class-less, bohemian sanctuary for a long time. it's a theme park for many of us, who wishes to be briefly immersed (perhaps a wet toe in the ocean?), without taking any real risks to explore social marginalia.
does this look like work without merit?
seeing duncan at school is always refreshing to me. classical music world can feel so safe and established at times, especially in school setting. it is nice to see someone being herself, fearless, with true confidence, doing her thing. yep, no more, no less. doing her thing. some people forget that school is also for 'trying it out,' 'growth and exploration' and that bartok and stravinsky is no longer out of the box. i love the old beauties, of course, they are beautiful,
so i went down to the show, excited. almost sold-out hall. how refreshing. then came the last piece for the evening.
jean martin wrote this piece- grief.
the vulnerable,violent, beautiful and emptiness of loss came about. the five stages of greif: denial, anger, baraining, depression and acceptance.
what have we lost? who lost? who is to lose?
i have seen a few people who has lost themselves, especially doing the refugee/immigration translation work. i have seen people who are so broken that they are at the absolute edge of themselves. they got out of oppression, dragged themselves across continents and oceans, and now, at the door to canada (as we try to shut out who does not meet our own rich criteria- yes, we do send back refugees, deny applications and hold them in immigration jail in canada), they no longer have the energy to bargain. they mix that despair with the inevitability, often ready to sign to withdraw their claims and go back to their certain deaths. often, they are living in acceptance of anger and depression, for how long, i do not know.
the recent exhibition at the university arts centre, kent monkman's shame and prejudice,
perhaps wasnt exactly the wall-hanger that we all hoped to see, along with our beautiful park passes and artistic celebration - the losses.
they are still real. as so many of our beautiful canadian residents- yes, all citizens, immigrants and visitors and transients, tends to look at our own beautiful images, it is true that these losses still ring deeply in our community. we are the ones who decided to become deaf.
was qiksaaktuq a beautiful work?
and was it supposed to be beautiful? for whom?
who are we to be so certain that we are no longer continuing our crushing march of colonialism? who are we to be so proud that we are 'open' to others? are we?
tagaq's performance was uncomfortable and therefore super relevant to our current time- the non-G20s are exploited, man-organized famines starve the have-nots, we have alternative facts and mourn for losses in paris while drowned migrants and refugees are well, simply inconvenient.
as tagaq herself was slammed for the sealskin coat photo incident, are we, the average canadians, while we eat and drink the lives of the lesser-world citizens, as seal hunt is absolutely barbaric and therefore, cleansed by the western colonialists?
she totally owned that stage yesterday. it was smart music, sure. it was impacting.
it was real. raw.
and so here we are.
with our indigenous sisters and friends four times more likely to be murdered, with the desperate people knocking on our nation's door being turned way, as five stages of grieving leads to acceptance, which does not equate to recovery, replacement or amnesia.
of ourselves, our comrades- the marginalized people- women, minorities of all kinds, who has been stepped on, robbed and raped, and are forced to live on in shell of themselves, as they grieve as to live.