Kim. 20, Cis Female, Canadian-born, Multi-racial (Malaysian Chinese, English and Scottish), Queer, Student.

Cooking, reading, tea and music > everything.

I'm also into politics and feminism. I'm currently trying to find out more about East and Southeast Asian history in a futile attempt to both recover from 12 ish years of Eurocentric schooling and learn more about my ~culture's~ history.

Well that's me in a nutshell, hope you enjoy your stay :)
Oct 2013

alternative kinship, queer, and other lyrics i cannot translate to my grandmother

returnthegayze:

my grandmother speaks of death candidly:

how jealous she is of those of us fortunate
to wilt across the ocean, so close to the 
ganges, so familiar with the ritual of it all —
the body in decay, unfurling like a prayer
in a language we have forgotten but still
somehow grasp in our bones

my grandmother’s honesty is unparalleled:
lost the inertia, the second guess
with the hair, the posture
so when she tells me that we should
wear the genders
our parents dressed us at birth
so when she tells me that
we choose to be queer because we
are selfish because we
love ourselves so much that we
hate our mothers

i believe her the way
i believe in those prayers:
a truth i have forgotten the language
to feel

you see
lately i have been thinking about dying
thinking about a body with less hair,
less posture, less pretense
who i would call first? will i be reading
queer theory? 

my grandmother tells me that she
has never wanted friends
because she always had us

when she got too old to walk she
moved in with my mother in this house
this place where i grew up with parati

and a love less ostentatious
less vocal, more
“how is your digestion” more “what can i make you?”

but i want to tell my grandmother that
she is wrong. tell the woman who lived partition that she has been colonized. want to recycle words like patriarchy and system and revolution convince her that we used to have no language for our genders and our bodies just like our love want to tell her that
the prayers she recites in her bones
were scripted, like her death, like this
family

but sometimes i remember what it felt like:
before foucault, before spivak
before coming out, before selfish
before grownup, before activism

growing up with my grandparents
in our house and learning all those stories
about gods, and boons, and an era long ago
and maybe they weren’t true
but we hummed along anyway
a quiet faith that
felt bigger than the ocean that swallowed us and spit us out in this land
with its pornographic love and
stale conclusions

so maybe
this love ain’t true, so maybe this family ain’t true, so maybe
i am not proud of being queer
because i am afraid of dying
surrounded by comrades and maybe lovers
so unfamiliar with the ritual of it all
so maybe i am not proud of being queer
because i want to be her grandson
so maybe i am not proud of being queer
because i miss that warmth, that hum, 
that prayer 

so maybe i will deepen my voice at home
so maybe i will not speak about the lovers and demonstrations
so maybe i will leave you if you do not allow my mother to move in with us
so maybe i will not be your queer
because that means i cannot be her son

my grandmother gets tired when
we speak too long.
(i do not blame her)

Oct 2013

We used to be rich

blacksesamehair:

My mother tells me that
she used to be rich
when she lived in Vietnam.

One day my sisters and I were playing with a set of jacks when
she saunters over,
lightly tosses the rubber ball and sweeps up the metal jacks.
We ask her where she learned to play
She tells us that she used to play the same game back home, with rocks.

When my sister cracks a rotten egg in the pan
her nose scrunches up at the odor,
but my mother stops her from tossing it out.
Back in Vietnam, she could only afford old eggs, so she wrapped them in foil and cooked them.
She tells me it smelled bad, but tasted delicious

My mother watches us as we eat chicken wings.
Before we can toss aside the skinny tips, she rescues them from our plates.
She bought them for a dollar a pound when she was in the refugee camp in Hong Kong.
It was the only meat she ate. 

My mother didn’t have very much in Vietnam, but she was rich.
But don’t get it twisted, this isn’t some romanticized story of how lovely it is to live in poverty
or how liberating it is to be free of material possessions
or how pitiful the third world is.

My mother has lived in the U.S. for 35 years.
She comes home from work after a long day,
cooks dinner in her sleek kitchen,
watches TV on her leather couch,
lays in her queen size bed at night,
her daughters are away at college,
but all she can think of is how
back in Vietnam
she lived in a village
overlooking a cliff
surrounded by the soft waves of the ocean.
Even Bill Gates can’t pay for a view like that.

Whenever I am home, she shows me her hands, dry and calloused 
hunched over with the weight of this country on her back.
She’s been broken down by this country
over
and
over.

Whenever I am home, she reminds me to study hard in school so I can have a good life
and I wonder
what it would be like
if we could go back home.

3 via src
Mar 2012

To a Friend Lost in the Tibetan War by Zhang Ji (768-830?)

welovechina:

Last year you were sent to garrison Yuezhi,
Soon the whole army was destroyed below the walls.
Since then, Tibet and China have been cut off, no news;
Are you dead, or alive, wandering some distant land forever?
No one went to bring back the abandoned tents;
A few horses returned with torn flags we couldn’t make out.
I would have a ceremony for you, but what if you are alive?
So, all I can do is shed a few tears for you, lost at the end of the sky.

Mar 2012

book-aesthete:

John Dryden: The Works
Jacob Tonson, 1701.

Vol. III only, title in red and black, some small worming in lower margins, a few tears, browned, bookplate of Augustine Fitzgerald on front pastedown, bound in a contemporary panelled Irsh binding, gilt stamp: “Col. Augustine Fitzgerald 1769” on upper cover. (Fitzgerald family of Carton House, near Dublin.)

__________________________
SONG FROM AMPHITRYON
John Dryden

FAIR Iris I love, and hourly I die,
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye:
She’s fickle and false, and there we agree,
For I am as false and as fickle as she.
We neither believe what either can say;
And, neither believing, we neither betray.
‘Tis civil to swear, and say things of course;
We mean not the taking for better or worse.
When present, we love; when absent, agree:
I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me.
The legend of love no couple can find,
So easy to part, or so equally join’d.

Mar 2012

book-aesthete:

The Works Of That Famous English Poet, Mr. Edmond Spenser
Edmond Spenser. Jonathan Edwin, 1679.

Bound in two-tone leather with raised spine bands and gilt embossing, this antique volume is a compilation of work from poet Edmond Spenser, including The Faery Queen, The Shepherds Calendar, and The History of Ireland, as well as a biography of the poet. The title page is printed in black and red text. The work is illustrated with an engraved frontispiece.

6
Feb 2012

I’m not going to waste any more time playing judge and jury over everybody else when I’ve never found myself completely not guilty.
In fact, compared to many? My hands are probably filthy.

So we can make devils of each other.
Or we can take that energy and make gods of ourselves.

And I’d rather live my life on a mission of building a heaven,
Than working demolition in hell.

Build big the beauty, build big the love
And I swear the hate, the fear will one day disappear
And it all starts right here.

-Andrea Gibson, “Evolution”

18
Feb 2012

She’s eating her fifty square feet of death.
I’m eating my organic vegan local salad (no meat no cheese and please hold the dressing cause I don’t want to exploit the labour of the little honeybees).

But when we meet you, she will be a thousand times more likely to greet you with open arms than me.

…I’ve got a closet full of protest signs buried by all the times I wish I’d been kinder to a friend.

-Andrea Gibson, “Name That Meat”

Feb 2012

“The power of love came and I became everlasting power” 

— Rumi

3
Feb 2012

Then there are those who are still not sure, but are quite capable of asking “Are you mixed?” You know, I hate to be the one to school you, but nobody ever said that shit was foolproof, so yeah. I’m mixed. Mixed and confused as to why you would ask me such a stupid ass question. And don’t tell me not to be pissed. Spend a day in my shoes being accosted with “Are you that? Are you this?” until you’re ready to say with me ‘Yeah. I’m mixed.

Half woman, half BITCH.’

95% of the time I find the guesses kinda funny and  harmless. Well, maybe 70% of the time. But there are definitely days when I feel like this. :’)

In love with Yellow Rage forever.

Jan 2012

middleeasternpoetry:

Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it. It will turn to gold. Resurrection will be now. Every moment, a new beauty. - Rumi

2
Aug 2011

Evolution - Andrea Gibson

"The world is hurting.

The world is hurting more than it ever has before and you wanna know why?

Because of the guy in a corner with the sign that says “GOD HATES FAGS”

Because of the soccer mom waving her American flag

Because of the frat boy driving his SUV

Because of the brainwashed millions watching TV

Because of the-

Wait.

What if the world is hurting because of me?

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©ID