Against Death

Every video I create
every photo I shoot
every poem I write
is a bullet fired
in a war against death
that I will inevitably lose.

But just because you’re on the losing side
doesn’t mean it’s the wrong side.

What is a video
but a fever dream?

What is a camera
if not a time machine?

What is a photo
if not your beloved
frozen in amber?

What is a poem
if not a perpetual motion machine,
a story told and told
and told again?

This is how people defy physics
and transform into pure light.

The Irish say
the final death you die
is the last time someone
speaks your name.

If that’s true, I hope my voice
echoes your syllables
off the azure arched ceiling of sky
for eternity.

This is stupid and it’ll never work.
I can only scream for so long,
and this clock someday winds down
and ends up in the landfill of time.

But the way my wife’s cheek feels
beneath my palm,
I want to believe
that softness
will never vanish from the earth.

I want to believe that “alone”
is just a temporary condition.

I can’t believe in god
so this is where
I pour all my faith.

This is a foolish dream
as all dreams are foolish.

And beautiful.

Kevin Reitz, 1998.

Maybe you only live
as long as your heart
remains a child.

Jung Chin, 2003.

I hope my cynicism
does not kill me
long before it decides
to cease its beating.

Lily Chin-Woo, 2013.

Maybe this
is the only death
I can refuse
and if so, I will find a way
to make it sufficient.

Hung Yoo Chin, 2015.

I don’t want the earth to forget us.

You, someday.

I don’t want the earth to forget us.

Me, someday soon.

So let’s remember together.

Death has made us all
into hand grenades,
and to love anyone
is to pull the pin
and hug your own murder
tight to your chest.

How noble
to fight the war
you know you cannot win
but refuse to ignore.

How noble
to not go gently

to rage
and in doing so,
become the light.

For Those Considering Suicide

For Those Considering Suicide

After “All The Way Through” by Bane

Scientists call the seabed a wasteland
lifeless for a thousand miles,
but there is a miracle in its persistence,
how it endures under all that depth,
how it resists all that pressure.

If you decide to stop your walking,
but the rope snaps like your last nerve
or the belt buckle unpins itself
or your blood clots,
your hemoglobin rebels
against razor blade
like a corporal disobeying
his lieutenant’s order to kill
if your kidneys and liver tear
the poison out of your veins in gross defiance,

if your brain is nothing but a wailing chorus
of broken glass throats
and your only audience is a mute God,
trust in your flesh,
this machine designed so well for survival
that it completely regenerates every seven years.

Trust a heart wise enough to ignore your calls
not to beat, not to break.
Trust muscles that bruise when struck,
trust eyes that thirst for sunlight
and scowl against the wind.
Trust the rhythm of your breath;
it will not betray you.

I won’t lie to you.
The point is not that life is good
the point is that it’s worth
ten thousand kicks in the ribs
to snatch out one motherfucker’s eye
and force him
to remember your name.
This is the only hope I know.

I’m not stupid enough
to tell you to
feel thankful for the ghost
of your breath
in the pitiless moonlight.

But I am desperate enough to tell you that
I am thankful
for the beautiful ghost
still aching inside your frame.

I pray it stays there.

In a world where death always wins,
I’m begging you not to hand it
any more premature victories.

In a world that has committed
so many crimes against you,
commit one against the world
and survive.
Today, two wrongs keep you alive.

I know you can’t wait on a miracle.
But the truth is
miracles are just what happens
when your mind gives meaning
to unfathomable joy.

Joy is not the cessation of pain.
It’s just your breath
finding the blessing of air
as your arms and legs
thrash against a raging ocean.
It’s the laugh you manage
at your mother’s funeral.

Joy is every morning I wake up
with you still in this world.

This world is still for you.

Come unto me,
amidst all this witnessless sacrifice.
If you look up into the night sky
and all you see
is just the moon
and the stars
and all the metaphors are stillborn inside of you,
come unto me,
this motherless firstborn son
made of nothing
but frayed cotton and moth wings,
and throw your weight onto me,
collapse like a monument to
every deaf, dead god;
I will carry you on bent back
without a prayer, without a whisper.
When the banshees of your brain chemistry
refuse to cease their howling
come unto me
and I will show you
how I can scream louder,
how we can scream together
into all this pitiless darkness.

Abide with me.

And we will call this
a miracle.

Advice to late bloomers

Okay, so this is who I am: I didn’t kiss a girl til I was 19, and it was a stage kiss. Didn’t hook up with anyone til I was 21, and didn’t sleep with anyone til I was 22. I felt frustrated, sad, rejected, and often very lonely. I felt ashamed. I felt out of control, and less than. Let me take a moment and say that there is NOTHING wrong with you. At the risk of sounding like your dad, this stuff happens for everyone at different speeds.

Here’s what I didn’t do about it: Blame all women. Feel entitled to anyone’s body. You can’t do this. Seriously, you can’t. While it might sound like a dream come true for a woman to walk up to you and grab your junk or your ass, as someone who’s had this done to me, non-consensually, no, it isn’t fucking cool, and it feels nasty and violating. So you can’t do it to anyone else. I mean, look – why would you WANT to make someone feel shitty? And yes, it DOES make women feel shitty. So if you’re doing this, STOP.

(My dad raised me with a lot of respect for women, and he was a great husband. I remember saying some dumb shit at like 8 like “Dad, you MAKE the money, you should decide what to do with it!” because I wanted him to buy a new computer for me or something. My dad knocked that bullshit down real fast, and made clear to me that money decisions are JOINT decisions between him and my mom. Thanks for being a radical communist, dad!)

And before you think I’m getting up on a high horse, let me say that I was far from perfect. Did I say dumb shit like “Women hate me!”? Maybe it was because I spent too much time feeling sorry for myself and being socially awkward as hell. It wasn’t “all women.” It was just something that was happening in my life. Let me say to y’all late bloomers – it sucks. I feel you. It’s hard feeling like you’re being left behind by your peers. It’s hard feeling like the odd man out. I have sympathy for you, because I still have sympathy for 21 year old me.

Here’s what you do: Keep your chin up. Exercise. Stay in good shape. Don’t give up. Experience and learn from the people around you. Be interested in them as people and they’ll become interested in you. You’ll connect emotionally. Even if doesn’t turn into something romantic, that’s not a bad thing! You have a new friend! That’s a great thing! Your new friend has friends! Meet them too! Think of all the cool stuff you’re going to do together and learn from each other.

Develop hobbies with social groups built into them. The poetry scene was a literal lifesaver for me. I heard people’s hearts, their suffering, their joy, their anger – I learned how to relate to people through their art and my own. Maybe you’re not a poet – that’s cool! Find something that other people are doing that you like, and do it with them. Maybe it’s the Ren Faire. Maybe it’s running track or craft beers or square dancing! Learn to do it well, and meet other people who are passionate about it! A well-rounded person is easier to love.

Late bloomers, let me say: the greatest achievement in life is not becoming an alpha male. That’s nothing but a thin balloon, full of hot air, that reality easily bursts. The greatest achievement in life is making the world a better place, in big and small ways. The greatest achievement is taking care of the people around you. Be there for them. They’ll return the favor. Even if they don’t, you have the satisfaction of knowing you did the right thing.

I’m 31 and happily married. I have a real life partner who’s been with me through my mother’s death, my grandmother’s death, and a major job loss (all in one giant, shitty year). And I’m there for her. That is the greatest feeling in the world, and you’ll have it someday. Don’t worry what other people are doing – just worry about being the best person you can be. Become a person worth loving, and love will eventually find you.

To more jerkass late bloomers: you think you want sex. You don’t want sex. You want to feel less lonely and more empowered. Take a step back, man, and realize that when the dark of night falls over your bed that what you want is not more sex, it’s more love. Love yourself first, and this searing need for validation through traditional channels of masculinity will fade. Your worth is not connected to how many girls you sleep with.

Death Lessons

For my grandmother

 

Death doesn’t move.

Everlasting in its immobility

modern colossus mocking us,

the only inevitable thing

worth believing.

 

We are a blink, a joke without a punchline

shouted into the surf,

a mouthful of salt water

our only reward.

 

The most uncomfortable part

of a hospital bed

is standing next to it.

I want to die at home.

Hot soup after shoveling snow

and dying under a familiar roof

are probably the only comforts

you can really count on.

 

Some batteries aren’t rechargable.

Soap operas go on forever,

with new actors

playing old characters.

I wish life could be like this,

but commercial breaks are murder.

The series gets renewed

but the actors all get fired.

We watch reruns

and wonder what happened

to that guy.

 

Death is a lay off.

It’s the world downsizing,

how it says

like a broken camera,

you need to focus better

on the central subject.

 

Death is a crappy teacher

who hands you a textbook

and a syllabus

and says

you’ll figure it out on your own.

 

Death is the math of relativity

instructing you

on how stark moments become

when they come with time limit,

 

Death is  the fingertip

pinprick at sunset

that makes dusk orange flare vivid.

 

Writing the Grief, Summer.

So it’s been about a month and a half since my mother died. I want to say “it’s been tough” and on some level it has, but it’s also been easier than I imagined it would be. I feel guilty even typing that. But the truth is that because I wasn’t a caretaker for my mother, my life hasn’t drastically changed. I wake up, I get ready for work, I kiss my wife, I go to work, I come home, I take care of one of a dozen projects I’m working on or I see friends, and I go to sleep to do it all over again.

That being said, when I spend time with my family, it’s hard. The things that trigger me are often unpredictable. Last weekend, my aunt threw me a wedding shower in the Boston area. It was my dad’s side of the family, so reminders of my mom were more minimal. My wife, Carolyn, who plays the banjo and sings, was asked to play a few songs. One of them she did was a cover of the Book of Love. And we got to the last verse, which is about marriage and the line came up – “And things we’re all too young to know” – and the tears suddenly came flooding up. I was singing along and I had to fight to finish the song.

I can’t even properly explain why. I just hit 30 this year, and it became very clear to me how far I’ve come and how far I still have to go. The idea that my mother was only about twice my age when she died was hard too. I wonder what she knew that I don’t. What she had learned but wasn’t able to pass on to me. And I’m going to miss her on my wedding day. We didn’t have the best relationship. We barely had much of a relationship at all. But I think the idea that I’m never going to get to fix that, that we’re never going to be close, and that I’m going to get married without her near, really hurts.

During the shower, I suggested to my dad that he and I wear calla lilies in our lapels for the wedding (because my mother’s name was Lily) and he got very quiet and said, “Whatever you want.” And he’s usually a guy who has something to say about everything. Getting quiet isn’t really something my dad does. A few days later, when we were talking about it, Carolyn said she believed that my dad is still really struggling with it. She’s a lot more empathetic than I am, so it worries me. I’m like my dad – we squelch down the pain we’re feeling and we get on with business. We don’t deal well with it. And I want him to be okay, but I have no idea how to help with that process. It probably just comes down to time, which is probably the last thing anyone wants to hear.

I finally was able to cry about it again when I looked at the lilies and carnations from her funeral, pressed in a sketchbook for six weeks. I took the floral arrangements home after the funeral, treated them very delicately, and pressed them in a sketchbook I bought at the local art supply store. It was an attempt to hold onto her, to hold onto that moment of family togetherness, to ease that pain through preservation, through memory.

It utterly failed. The flowers had lost their color entirely, and one lily had even gone moldy. One or two of the flowers were preserved, but as an artistic exercise, it was an abject failure. And that hurt. It felt like she was dead and gone and even the tiniest artifacts lovingly preserved, were going to rot and disintegrate as well. That really hurt, and I just lost it. My wife was there for me, thank god. I don’t know where I’d be without her. She keeps me going, and on the days when I can’t get out of the past, her mere presence reminds me that I have a future, and a beautiful one.

I’m still struggling, even when, on most days, I’m fine. It goes back and forth.

I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

Writing the Grief, “I’m so sorry…”

Okay, so I really hesitated to write this post, because it feels a bit like spitting in the face of everyone who supported me, who went out of their way to express their condolences and care for me. But I want to write it because I think it’s true, and because it’s these kinds of contradictory and difficult feelings that I imagine may be pretty common amongst those dealing with grief. And it’s those kinds of problematic emotions that I want to get out in the open because they’re easier to deal with if you can talk about them.

All right. Here goes.

I’m getting really tired of people telling me how sorry they are.

Okay. Explanation time. During this time of grief, I’ve been vacillating between feeling like there’s nothing wrong and being sneak attacked by immense grief at the worst times. While I realize, intellectually, that the grief is necessary and important, it’s certainly not a pleasant feeling, and it’s something that I instinctually avoid (whether or not that’s healthy is another thing).

When people tell me that they’re so sorry about my mother’s death, it brings me screeching back to feelings of grief. Worse, if I’m not grieving at the time, it often makes me feel if I don’t show proper amounts of sadness, then I’m going to be seen as insensitive, monstrous, a bad son, whatever. (I realize, as I write this, that this is pressure I put on myself – which is something I’m best at, better than blog posting, DJing, or writing poems – and it’s probably some shit I should stop.)

But when someone says they’re sorry, it drags it all up again. It’s been over a week since my mother died. It seems so recent and it also seems a million miles away. Sometimes I need to gather this hurt and hold it close to me, feel it again and survive it. I believe I’ll have to keep doing this for a long time until the pain finally begins to dissipate, when there is so little pain that I can hold it in one hand and quietly remember the good things. But then there are days when goddamn it, I just want to let this shit go and live. I want to eat some nice food, play some video games, and laugh loudly. I like to laugh loudly (and according to my aunts, who knew my mom before she got sick, that is something I got from her).

At the same time, I totally realize and acknowledge that people who are giving me their condolences have the best intentions and want me to know that I’m in their thoughts, and that they’d cook me food, hang out, get coffee, or whatever, just to make me feel better. And in that sense, it makes me feel wonderfully loved and cared about. And that’s fantastic. That tells me that I did all the right things in my life, and managed to surround myself with great people who care about me. And I am incredibly thankful for that.

But you know what? Sometimes, I just want to be Justin, that guy who makes a lot of art, not Justin, that guy who just lost his mother.

At the same time, when people expect me to just be normal, to take the workload a normal person takes, to deal with the things a normal person does, I just want to scream at them “MY MOTHER JUST DIED.” because honestly, I’m not normal yet. I’m not 100% yet. And it’s hard for me to accept that as well. I pride myself in being always ready for action – always ready to get work done, create something, coordinate stuff. And that just isn’t how I am right now. And I want people to recognize that, maybe wordlessly. Maybe that’s why I keep talking about this shit on Facebook – maybe because meatspace communication brings up all this conflicting shit for me.

So here I am, no answers again.

Writing the Grief, social justice.

I think all human suffering is the same; some wounds are broader and deeper, but it’s all the same, in the end. Which is why I’m so concerned with social justice. How much worse would it be if my mother was killed by a drone strike? By a terrorist’s bomb? By a crazy police officer? Human suffering, boiled down, is basically the same. Which is why I care about it all… I wish I could find more actionable solutions, but here we are.

Writing the Grief, buried and unburied

So I’m alternating between trying to give myself the space to grieve, and trying to give myself permission to be human again. It’s a balancing act. A large part of me wants to just get on with my life, get back to my routine, and keep writing. I’d like to stop writing these posts. But I believe that I am too quick to bury and bottle my emotions. It’s too easy for me to just keep going, and hold this as my secret pain, while telling the world that I’m basically okay when I’m really not (which is what I’ve been doing).

At the same time, I want to give myself permission to be human. Permission to laugh and enjoy things. To drink my favorite fancy sodas, play video games, make music, make love to my wife, and hang out with my dog. I don’t want grief to overwhelm that. I don’t want to go back to the cycle of quiet bottled pain, resentment, release, anger, brief periods of emotional openness, then a recollection of pain. There’s nothing good about that.

And to top it off, I’m basically giving myself a hard time because I haven’t found the balance yet. I’m questioning my moods, my every move, whatever I say and do. The only thing that feels right and necessary and correct, actually, is writing these blogs. As much as I’d like to forget the hurt. This is helping me process.

I really feel sorry for anyone who had to go through this when they were any younger than I am now. (And I know a few friends who have, and they’ve been really wonderful to me these last few days) They didn’t have a chance to really know their parents. They were probably ill-equipped to deal with it emotionally as kids (or they grew up really quickly, too quickly). And their parents had to miss a lot. That has got to be really hard. I’m getting formally married in a few months, and it’s really going to hurt to not have my mother there. Carolyn says that my mother now has the best seat in the house. I’d like to believe that; I don’t know if I can, but I’d like to.

Writing the Grief, songs

“We put our glass to the sky and lift up
and live tonight because you can’t take it with ya
so raise a pint for the people that aren’t with us
and live tonight because you can’t take it with ya”
– Irish Celebration by Macklemore

“If you make something specific enough, it becomes universal.”

Way to be, Macklemore. You win again.

Writing the Grief – food, love… foodlove.

Guys, if someone ever loses somebody, and you have no idea what to do but you want to do something? Give them food. The Bolestas and the Eggnors and the Sierzegas, my neighbors for years, gave my family amazing, delicious food in our time of need. We didn’t need to worry about ordering out, about cooking, about anything. And that was beautiful. And wonderful. Delicious chicken piccata, yellow rice, crisp salad, homemade ziti, Italian cookies. My entire extended family was taken care of. And in my family, food equals love. Food is what you give when you don’t know how to say “I love you.” Food is how you say “I cherish you.” Food is how you nourish the soul as well as the body. Food is perfect. Food is always appreciated. Food is love.