J.A. Pak's Blog, page 8

Kittens and the Hands of God

“What’s her name?” Penny asked him. She was mesmerized by the cat, unable to take her eyes away.

“I don’t think she has one,” Peter said, trying to be kind. “Why don’t you give her a name?”

“Kitty,” she said, laughing.

“Let’s name her Spook,” Megan said. She picked up the cat and pointed her finger at its face. “Spook! You’re called Spook!”

Eye to eye they stared at each other. The cat seemed to know who she was. Megan couldn’t believe it. “That’s the most extraordinary—”

The cat jumped straight into Penny’s lap. Thrilled, Penny captured the warm kitten in her hands. The kitten had such a tender face. Her paws were so delicate. Penny wanted to lick her up. She seemed to understand every word Penny said, her knowing eyes pulling Penny’s words deep into her.

At bedtime, Penny wanted to sleep with the cat but Helen wouldn’t allow it. Spook was to stay in the kitchen. Lying in bed, Penny thought of Kitty, alone in a new house, sad, lonely, puzzled at the future of things. She only had the box Peter had provided and some newspaper. Penny got out of bed and slipped downstairs. She opened the kitchen door; Kitty was looking up at her.

“Hello. Were you waiting for me? I had to wait first. To make sure everyone was asleep.” Penny scooped the kitten up, the furry warmth so wonderful in her hands. She smuggled the cat into her room.

From the top of her toy shelf Penny took down a doll’s cradle. She removed the doll, a porcelain baby whose eerie life-like features had always frightened her, and put Kitty inside the cradle instead. There was a pillow and a blanket, all in eyelet cotton, so Kitty would be very comfortable. Gently, Penny tapped the pear wood cradle and let it rock, quietly humming until the kitten seemed fast asleep. Penny couldn’t take her eyes away. She fell asleep on the floor, curled next to Kitty.

Penny was a light sleeper and often woke up several times a night, but that night she slept soundly, the most wonderful serenity hugging her throughout the night. She only remembered one dream, of a gentle, powerful breeze lifting her high into the night sky. As the breeze slowly died, another breeze brought her back up, one breeze after another like the hands of God carrying her through the sky. It was the most exhilarating feeling, being lifted up, floating down, lifted up again, her self circling the globe over and over.

An excerpt from Anchored Leaves, available as both a paperback and ebook.

Why I Too Hate Skyler White

There’s so much to say about Breaking Bad which has some of the best writing I’ve ever seen on TV (Friday Night Lights comes close). But I’m really here to talk about Skyler. Skyler White. Walt’s wife. The very troubling wife of Walt. I guess I’m not the only viewer upset by Skyler. Recently, Anna Gunn wrote a NYT op-ed piece about the shocking amount of hostility she faces playing the long-suffering Skyler. For her, it’s an issue of sex. People want wives on TV to be weak, kind, understanding. Skyler isn’t weak, kind, understanding. This provokes violent responses. Not just at Skyler but at Anna herself: “I was also astonished: how had disliking a character spiraled into homicidal rage at the actress playing her?” (I guess Anna’s never been an evil character in a soap opera.)

I’m sure she’s right. Women with balls seem to automatically trigger male homicidal tendencies. Or at least terrific fright. I was watching a report on dating and a guy says with terror and bewilderment, “I don’t like self-confident women!” Poor, poor sap. But the thing is, I’m a woman and I don’t like Skyler. It has nothing to do with my idea of what a wife should be and everything to do with Skyler being a holier-than-thou Lady Macbeth. Actually, that’s not fair to Lady Macbeth as Lady Macbeth didn’t tart herself up and practically skip to work so she can see the man she really has the hots for while keeping up the charade of perfectly martyred wife.

That’s the thing about Skyler. She’s worse than Walt. Well, maybe as bad since Walt has a lot of self-denial stuff going on too. Personally, I think her real problem with Walt has been that he’s stolen the alpha position away from her. Before the cancer and the drugs, Skyler was the one in full control of the marriage and family. Walter hardly existed. His life was pathetic and he meekly submitted to all its banal horrors (wonder if Walter is an homage to James Thurber’s Walter Mitty). It was the money crisis that reawakened and reinvented Walter. Sure, now he’s a monster, but he’s alive, he’s thinking. Lo and behold, he’s making decisions on his own and Skyler begins to unravel because she’s not in control. And really, control is the true monster being dissected by the writers. Hank and Marie, in and out of control, Jesse, Jesse’s parents, Gus. Control is fleeting and addictive and illusory.

The one time I had any feelings of sympathy for Skyler was that moment when Walt says, “Which phone?” as he’s waiting for surgery, the drugs relaxing his mind. Anna Gunn is a fantastic actor. The look on her face, the slight tremble as if she’s going to fall apart. Her life as she knew it is finally over. She tries to regain control by demanding a divorce, sleeping with her boss and throwing it in Walt’s face. She doesn’t start feeling in control again until that triumphant moment when she tells Marie that Walt’s a gambler. Walt sits back, amazed at how Skyler takes over, controls and owns his story. Why couldn’t she have been there for him all along?

But, of course, this is the moment that Skyler’s lost control. The money is now in control (the money [drug] is always in control). And it’s been coming, the way her toes scrunched the luxury bath mat at her boss’s house, the way she gawked at Walt’s new luxury condo. But like Walt, she needs the “good cause” to fully embrace that money. It’s to help pay for Hank’s recovery. And she underscores the “good cause” with cause and guilt by viciously reminding Walt that Hank would never have been injured if it hadn’t been for Walt’s involvement with drugs.

Now flashback to the moment that Skyler realizes Marie shoplifted the baby’s gift. The lies Marie told. How unforgiving Skyler is. The ramifications of Skyler’s lies are far more serious. The writing flows back and forth like this in the most beatific way, with each and every character from Badger to Hank so brilliantly and fully realized. Which is why I hate Skyler. She’s so real. She’s so us.

Cats, Windows & Dream Houses

Anchored Leaves

 

Desperate for your house of dreams? Here’s an excerpt from my novel Anchored Leaves.

 

“Look, Megan, look,” Penny said, tugging at Megan’s sleeve. Megan was creaming butter and didn’t want to be disturbed, but Penny insisted. Megan put the bowl down and followed Penny into the front hallway. Kitty was immersed in bejeweled sunshine, the hallway glowing with the afternoon sun filtering through stained glass windows.

“See,” Penny said. “Kitty’s found our spot.”

“So she has.”

Kitty’s silky body was limp, outrageously contented. It was a luxury that couldn’t be resisted. Megan put the bowl of butter in the refrigerator. She brought pillows and blankets. With Kitty, they spent the rest of the afternoon napping under the changing arc of sunlight.

For a long time Megan did not dream. She was enjoying too much the sunlight tingling her skin, a wisp of hair falling slowly across her right cheek. The weight of the blanket and the cushion of air nestling between her skin and blanket were delicious. In her mind these were not separate things, but one sensation, unmingled and pure. She could hear the cat purring, the grandfather clock ticking, a comforting voice stored a week ago, herself laughing as a child, all things one and unresolved.

The cat wound itself around Megan’s neck, its purring curling through Megan’s consciousness. She was the cat and then herself, both things at once. Penny was calling to her, her voice near. She followed it, down the hallway, into the kitchen and then into another, unfamiliar room. Funny, she thought, I’ve never been in this part of the house before. The cat had been following her all along and now jumped up on top of a shelf. Penny was pointing. High up, resting on the shelf, was a magnificent miniature house, opened with all its rooms displayed. The rooms were meticulously decorated, so lifelike with their miniature curtains, silk wallpaper, tiny wood furniture. Megan reached up to it, urged on by Penny.

“Isn’t it a wonderful house? It’s yours if you want it.”

Megan looked at the real estate agent, nodding, agreeing it was a hidden treasure and that Megan was amazingly lucky to get this chance.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” she said. She reached for the house, but it was high, just out of Megan’s reach.

“Go inside,” the agent urged her.

“But I—” She was so confused. She should go inside, but how could she? There was something wrong, but no one seemed to understand. She herself didn’t understand why she couldn’t reach the house, why she couldn’t go inside.

“Don’t you want to take a look?” the agent persisted. She was impatient, angry.

Megan reached up again, strained to reach the shelf. There—she was hanging from the shelf, shrunken to fit the house. Now she understood. Only she didn’t have the strength—she was dangling. She continued to struggle, afraid to fall, struggling to pull herself up, out of danger—

She woke up fretting, inconsolable. Her muscles ached. It was dark in the hallway. She felt very alone. These things with the haunting ability to disturb did not leave Megan easily. She couldn’t put aside the dream.

 

 

Manifesto

It seems as if the world only notices you if you write about anger, abuse, sexual deviance, violence. I don’t want to be known for trespasses; I want to be known for beauty, the little moments of soon-to-be-forgotten beauty.

True-Life Microaggressions or How I Learned To Live In America

Where are you from? No, I mean where are you really from? (tone: angry)

I told her American guys just don’t find you Asian gals attractive until they get much older. (tone: sympathetic)

You speak English so well. (tone: condescending)

You look just like one of those tiny dolls they give away at carnivals! (tone: enthusiastic)

That’s not how you pronounce your name. (tone: angry)

Guys don’t find Asian girls attractive until after they’ve been overseas in the military. (tone: knowing)

I was with my Asian/Jewish/Black friend… (tone: clueless)

I suppose we shouldn’t tweet that we play the piano because now we sound stereotypically Asian. (tone: ?)

Why is your writing so minimal? I suppose it’s because you’re Asian and Asian writing is like that. (tone: “I’m the queen bitch here and don’t you forget it.”)

You look just like those girls I saw in Malaysia! (tone: batty)

I don’t like Asian girls with curly hair. Asians should have straight hair. (tone: “I don’t like my worldview messed with.”)

Does your name mean anything? (tone: curious)

You’re the first Asian I’ve liked since Chiang Kai-shek and he was a bastard. (tone: drunk)

You got any Asian stories? (tone: “I’m only interested in making money off you.”)

You don’t look Korean/Japanese/Chinese… (tone: baffled)

No, you’re wrong. Korean is just like Chinese. They both use pictograms. (tone: annoying)

What are you? (tone: various)

I’m sure no malice was intended. (tone: denial)

A Little Ditty

Helen of Troy remembers Paris:

The last time I saw, Paris his shield was bright & gay,

No matter how they maim him, I’ll remember him that way

(sung to Gershwin’s “Last Time I Saw Paris”)

Houses That You & I Can Build

I’ve always loved the idea of building my own house. The problem is that I have absolutely no skill in construction and absolutely no desire to end up in the hospital with some giant nail drilled into my foot. But today, I found out about Wikihouse, an open source construction set. At the Wikihouse website, you can “design” your house, print CNC-milled components and build away. The best part of the system is that two people can build the basic frame in one day with little skill. You don’t even need nails.

Here’s the Ted talk about the project. The speaker is the project’s head Alastair Parvin; he gives a wonderful talk about the role of architecture in the modern world. And it’s only about 15 minutes.

Buy Her A Diamond. Not?

Getting engaged? Wondering about how big the diamond should be? Pear-shaped or emerald-cut? Gold setting or platinum? Stop. And ask why you’re thinking about diamonds at all.

It’s so automatic now. Even in eastern countries. Who doesn’t know that “diamonds are forever”? But why? Why is it romantic? Why is it a symbol of ultimate love? I first began to wonder about diamonds when I was living in New York and, while walking in the Diamond district, a strange and wondrous man holding a handwritten “Buy Her A Diamond” sign stopped my boyfriend and said ominously, “Buy her a diamond before it’s too late.”

Years later, his words became the title of my chicklit novel. And researching the novel I found out that people used to exchange all sorts of things as engagement gifts, including thimbles. It was the wealthy who began exchanging gemstones, usually birthstones. And then Emperor Maximilian I gave his fiancée Mary of Burgundy a diamond engagement ring and that was that. Mary’s family controlled the big diamond-cutting centers in Europe, so even then, diamonds were nothing more than a massive commercial push. This was way back in the 15th century.

Now skip to around 1945. It was the diamond syndicate De Beers who now controlled diamonds. And they wanted to create a massive demand for diamonds. So they began to advertise. And advertise. They still advertise.

So who came up with the slogan “diamonds are forever”? A woman copywriter named Frances Gerety. According to a NYT article, she asked God to send her a line…and he did. She, by the way, never married.

Of course no one thinks they’re wasting money buying a diamond because diamonds are a great investment. Or so we are all led to believe. Apparently, they stink as an investment. According to Ira Weissman, you’re lucky to get even half your money back if you wanted to resell your diamond ring. Ira has a lot of interesting things to say in his article for Huffington Post. Read it before buying her a diamond before it’s too late.

Anchoring Anchored Leaves

Anchored Leaves

It is with a sense of relief that I announce the release of my book Anchored Leaves. It’s the one book I really wanted to finish before I died. Not that I’m dying anytime soon. But I always had that nagging worry: “What if I get run over by a bus before that book is finished…”

Funnily enough, now that the book is out, I sort of feel like I have died. Or that a life has died. I started the book over twenty years ago. It was my first novel and like a first love, was crucial in what came after. Now that it’s finished, launched, I realize all my writing focal points no longer have much relevance, which brings me full circle. Because when I started writing, I was more interested in phenomena than story. In learning how to write, I was forced into story and now I’m back in phenomena.

I call Anchored Leaves my opus because it’s my great thesis on memory and love, how the idea of love is transmitted/transmuted from one generation to another. It opens with a bang and then quietly hums along, love and memory circling around and around.

Anchored Leaves is available as both a paperback and ebook at Amazon. Hopefully it’ll be available at the iBook store and B&N soon. I go through Smashwords to distribute to those stores and there’s been a lot of tiny issues that bog things down.

If you’d like to read the opening pages, here’s a sample over at Fictionaut.

A Little Spring Poetry

Buds on a branch

  Spears of color

        Just unfurling

A mood of spring