phoxwasabi

[phoxwasabi]

The Haunting

Can you see the lost in my eyes

Like a window closing—endlessly—on the voice of my soul

Tears that drip backward

—emptying from the lost in my eyes—

Pound vigorously onto a slowly hardening heart

A hardening that restricts access to the depths of mySelf

Dwelling on the emptiness of the surface

Spiraling further and further into the shallows of lost

*

*

I’ve always known I’m a good person. Even if I did hurt others, I never meant to hurt anybody. I was always trying the best I could. Most of the pain was Self-inflicted. But I’ve always known I am a good person.

*

I justify my feelings, decisions, thoughts, etc. so I don’t have to own them as my own. And when it’s time to reflect, I turn away from the mirror after I acknowledge that reflection needs to be done. I change the subject before making a game plan for change.

*

Tarot cards and oracle decks are how I talk to God.

…But I can’t hear Her talking to me.

*

Pain—again, Self-inflicted—in lost

[phoxwasabi]

Burn Baby Burn

Patience

And

Love

Ongoing, the

Soul will

Adapt

Nostalgically

To one’s

Own healing

[phoxwasabi]

Ash to Ashes

Sitting on the edge of emptiness. While everything around me feels so full.

The tears are numbing as they pour out of my eyes and down my cheeks. The brief sensation - as they roll down -

leaves an absence of feeling behind, like a bulldozer destroying everything in its path. 

The trail of their movement - like the silk of a snail, telling and evident -

turns to acid.

Skin disintegrating. Bearing teeth. Blood drips to a flow,

turning to ashes. Time to go. 

It doesn’t hurt. I feel no fear.

I feel nothing at all.

Hoping the ashes that will soon be me, are carried upward,

not down.

That I’ll drift on the winds, dancing through time.

Destination - unknown.

Becoming something more

than I could ever behold.

[phoxwasabi]

Here I Am

Here I stand, warm-hearted, in the cold heart of winter.

Sun kissing my cheeks and nose, snow biting at my toes through wool socks and rubber-toed boots.

I walk with my eyes to the sky, summoning the red-tailed hawk as my guide. Waiting to hear her song, eager to learn her lessons.

Back at home-base, the essence of togetherness lingers, as the absence of humans is evident. The roosters “cock-a-doodle-doo” for attention, grasping for a sense of authority.

The women pay no mind. Too busy doing whatever makes us women. Busy laying on a hammock under the winter sun. Busy pecking at thin layers of ice for a cool sip of water. Busy chopping kindling to start her own fire, or playing with rocks trying to find balance. Busy gnawing on the carcass of what was probably once a lively male animal. Busy milking her young, bringing liveliness to the ones she gave life to. Too busy doing whatever a woman wants, and whatever makes us women.

The sweet contradictions are the perfect representation of balance in womanhood:

cold snow : warm sun

stacking rocks : collapsing rocks

strength : softness

femininity : masculinity

inside : outside

aloneness : togetherness

solitude : community

Here I sit, writing a love story to myself, thanking the Universe for this gift of resiliency.

Here I am



[phoxwasabi]

RED Like Wine

I drink wine the color of my blood — deep, dark, RED!

Like my heart: dry, having been sucked clean by you thirsty bloodsuckers

Like my attitude: pungent, stemming from mistrust and trauma

Rich with flavor, tangled into depths of mysterious unknowns. Intriguing, I am, like my wine — complex

My anger burns at the thought of your unknowing what kind of wine I drink, not even the color

Not caring to ask, not caring to observe, notice, pay attention in the slightest

Your love is the blade — smooth and sharp — that pierces the veins acting as tunnels for my red-like-wine blood

Deep, intense cuts, almost hosting a sense of familiarity, of comfort

A safe place that is anything but safe

An experience that – despite the immense discomfort —is more comfortable than the absence of it

And by the essence of your hand, I bleed

The deep, dark, red, pungent blood that flows easily through my body like wine from the bottle to the glass

Do you not see me here?

Bleeding?

Angry?

Now, covered in it— deep, dark, thick, spilling blood

RED!

Do you see me?

Can you see this world I have painted with my blood drawn from your hand?

RED!

Like my anger!

Like the wine I consume, an attempt to fill the terrifying absence

That is what you taught me, after all. Not with your words, but with your actions

Are you still in denial — like you were then? Or have you numbed your pain enough not to care anymore

.

.

.

Moscato: clear, sweet, transparent, easy to read, easy to tolerate

Simple

Safe

Is that how you see me?

Or was it all a total shot in the dark?

Do you see me at all?

Dripping, leaving a blatant expression of existence, with my wine-like blood

RED!

[phoxwasabi]

Scorched

I am numb today. Per, usually numb. But today it feels different--a battle between my mind and body.

Nicole Morning’s Who Will Take Care of My Life makes me feel my depression. Makes me FEEL my numbness (maybe that’s the difference).

Pattern made me burn up internally, and rain floods of tears on the outside (I told her that). I felt my shame burning, “like, but not like” an internal fire. I was lucky not to get pregnant in high school. There were a handful of times when I thought I could have been. I feel the pain nonetheless. The burn, the shame, the pressure, the confusion. Of who I was, and who I wanted to be.

My anger was on the rise. Ready to hit heavy and hard. I couldn’t find a lighter. I knew Emilio probably, out of habit, put it in his pocket. I remembered there was a new lighter in my car... Then I remembered he took my car to work.

My anger crept sneakily, like a mountain lion stalking its prey. I could see it--black and red, rumbling in a furious ball, beaming eyes - myself reflected in them. I took a deep breath. Numbness. In the front line battle with my anger.

I was inspired, just before my anger came out to play, to continue my own story.

I was, out of habit, seeking the bong - for assistance, or clarity, or motivation, or just purely out of habit, I’m not sure.

Backfire. My anger continued to creep. I don’t like my anger. Probably because I was never taught to deal with it. or acknowledge it, or accept it, or talk about it, or act on it, or feel it.

Backfire. Now I’m filled with anger, “filled to the brim, and pouring over with excess“ (I once wrote about my grandfather’s love, and my sister’s beauty).

I remembered a box of matches on top of my fridge. I screeched on the inside as the flames burned higher and heavier now. They’re LONG matches. What a fucking waste! for one hit.

I struck the match, took the hit, and forgot all the inspiration and motivation I had gained prior to.

[phoxwasabi]

I AM

My skin is the color of a cloudless sunset. Bright and beaming. Yellow. But not because it’s been kissed by the golden sun herself. Because that’s what my ancestors left me. That, and their thin, silky hair. Straight as the tallest bamboo shoots, with little kinks here and there – which could be the German, or the Irish trying to establish their roots physically as well.  

I love to eat chicken feet. One of the very few signs left to linger of what came to be my disoriented sense of “culture”.  Cuisine. What my Chicana grandmother brought with her, back to the US - along with her children. With no intention to return to the life or the culture she left behind, in Hong Kong. And with every intention of ridding all memories and signs of what she left behind – except for the cuisine. And her children.  

In grade school I’d get the question, “What are you?” All my childhood I would proudly say, “Chinese”. I was grasping. In the dark. For my roots. For answers. For an identity. “You totally look Chinese”. “Really, you don’t look that Chinese”. “You’re not as pretty as Winter”. “You should marry Avery since you’re both Asian”. “Is that your real dad?” The disconnect to Asian culture, and my lack of knowledge of my Chinese roots made my body and my mind a home for such questions, assumptions, and stereotypes about who I am.  

There was no talk about the past. Unless my grandmother was sharing information she learned in China about the cuisine, or how she met him in Santa Barbara while he was going to college. My father hated his father. And so I never learned of him. We Googled him a couple times. Looks just like my uncle.  

As an adult now, and more apt to laying my roots before I have children to ground in them, I am on a search for my identity. My culture. My ancestors – who I know have been searching for me too. As I journey outward, it’s disheartening to see the hatred taking place, and being tolerated, against Asian-Americans like myself. Like my siblings. Cousins. Nephew. Father. It’s discouraging, finding the strength, and hope that I may ground in my true identity when my true identity has been lost for so long, and continuously turned away at the hands of hate, anger, apathy and lack of knowledge and understanding.  

My heart hurts. I pray for those we have lost. My search continues. So does my fight. My fire blazes. Hotter. Bigger. I stand with my fellow Asian-Americans in the fight against xenophobia and Asian hate crimes. Thank you for being proud of who you are. Thank you for establishing your roots for future generations. Thank you for the knowledge and the culture you contribute. We Are One. #StopAsianHate

[phoxwasabi]

RightTime

It’s been so long since I’ve been THIS high for the sake of getting on tumblr.

ZONG (not really a zong): take me on a journey... 23%... blow my mind

Remembering the times when we were falling in love. Many long nights in the studio.... and on the roof and on the ground, and in the temple, and under the stars. Falling deeper into your soul with every inhale and exhale. Everywhere we were together. I was the most free I’d ever been. Stable. Grounded. Searching. Finding. Falling in love.

[phoxwasabi]

2021….& 2022

L earn to

E xistentially

T rust that

G rowth will

O ccur here

[phoxwasabi]

Lady Luna of the Sky

There’s something so magical about her, Lady Luna of the Sky. In all her forms—but there’s a special comfort to the power she expels when she is in her fullest form.

The magic appears as soon as her bright beauty is captured by my tender, naked eye. An eye that resembles Lady Luna herself—full, and round, and deep, holding a mysterious sense of the past, and an all-knowing glimpse into the future. Unique to the beholder.

Something so magical, it flushes my body with a tingling sense that I can only wish was tangible. A sense of wanting more, and a desire to drink her up—like the forbidden fruits of every Goddess to have come before me.

That is why I leave water out in her fullest presence. So she may charge it, bless it, fill it with her energetic power, and allow me to consume her. To be one with her. The closest I have ever felt to a flow of cosmic energy.

Oh, Lady Luna, you are a treasure to me. One who I know I cannot keep captive for myself. But one who, in your rhythmic patterns of freedom, guides me and urges me to join you in your beauty, safety, sustainability, acceptance, transformation.

I smiled when I saw you last night. I thanked you. Did you hear me? I held myself tight in your presence as you showed me inward, in raw truth. You reminded me, tenderly, that this cycle, like all cycles, will come to a close. That it is ok to let go now. And I believe you. As all of life is a cycle. And every cycle, like you, and through you, will come to an end, and begin again.

I stared, gratefully, at the beauty that connects us. The crevices that hold so many unspoken stories. The thickness of your figure, full of love and light to offer. The confidence you maintain—always—as you fearlessly, unapologetically shine down on us all, filling us with your magic—if we so choose to accept it. And I do. I always do!

The residue of her magic continued into the early morning. The presence of both Lady Luna and Sister Sol blessing us delicately. With gratitude and with understanding. And I know I am safe. I know I am strong and everything I need to be in this very moment.

As your majestic greeting (and also farewell) lingers over the pinkish-purple horizon at sunrise on this cold and icy morning, I thank you again—for being here with me. For allowing me to be here with you. Do you hear me? I feel your exchange with Sister Sol, filled with love and gratitude for one another. I grasp at it with the pure longing in my own beating heart. And I will cherish it until my physical form dissipates into the dust that carries us onward, time and time again.

To you—Lady Luna of the Sky, I thank you, I thank you.