How are you, last night

With a "Ding---" magnified through the computer speakers, "How are you?" Your greeting popped up on the little window of my yahoo messenger, now rarely used given the countless other ways of online communications (such as google chat, MSN/window's live, Facebook, and the newly heard "Twitter"?). You and I both like old things, I know, as if clinging to the past will save us from all the trouble future will inevitably bring. Quite silly, aren't we?

"fine. thank you." Whatelse can I say. Diss. is going slowly, as always; plus it was the time of the day when Eugene started to feel so sleepy that he would make every effort to STOP us from taking him to bed. The whole apartment echoed with reluctance, resistance, and tiredness.

"how are you?? sorry i can't talk now-- will be back in about an hour?" As usual, it was probably two hours later when i got back to the desk. and of course
you were gone.

I'm thinking of writing a long, long, very long email to you. Believe me, I'm thinking of it every day. But again, what shall I say except
the diss. about Asian American poetry, which has been going on forever, the beloved baby, who is by now no longer a little baby, and his impatient teacher at the super-expensive daycare, the weird water coming from underneath the carpet in our apartment--how magic-realistic it sounds!-- the rain here, the problematic(?) tax return, and all the other details of my life that constantly threaten to drown my old dreams?

oh, but, we both love life, don't we, or we must say so no matter what?

Eugene的pretend游戏玩得出神入化, 任何动画故事或生活场景都可以用玩具家具各种道具模拟表演, 自己在想象世界里回味无穷, 还要求我们一同进入角色, 念念有词加上身体语言, 忙得不亦乐乎, 热衷程度几乎到了令人担忧的程度. 我只有去google -- 是这样一种search 和research的强迫症吧 -- 试图寻求有关幼儿游戏的研究, 并没有什么特别发现.
好在天气渐渐好起来, 应该能多带他出去玩了.

每天都不愿去上学, 爱哭的Eugene, 一定觉得学校很没意思吧.
不到三岁的小人, 每天提的问题多到我们应接不暇, 在学校里大概没人问, 不好玩.

--开车时候轮子为什么会动?
--停车时候怎么不动?
--飞机为什么会飞?
--bus, fire-truck为什么不会飞?
--今天为什么下雨?
--天上云多为什么就会下雨?
--怎么不下雪?
--树为什么到springtime就会长小叶子?
--Soap[洗手]怎么会有bubble?
--用water怎么没有bubble?
--[耳朵贴在桌面上听瓶子倒在桌上的声音] 哈哈, 为什么好响?
--怎么躺在沙发上听[东西掉在沙发上], 没有好响?
--为什么小baby会哭?
--为什么小baby不会走路?
--为什么宝宝小baby时候不会讲话?
--为什么宝宝还不长大?
--我们为什么要吃好多东西?
... ...

The Trip back Home

Sunday, 4/26

Yet another delay message is being given—I’m sitting here in the Honolulu airport, after a night at the lousy airport hotel because of the canceled flight, hoping this rebooked flight could take me home by tonight.

"The writing… it’s so bad, bad not even in an interesting way!" said the prof about a writer I’ve been reading. I feel I’m becoming less and less confident about my ability of judging or the accuracy of my critical sense. Is this writer really that bad? At least his first novel is ok…? And… there is this other poet that I really hate is said to have really ‘precise’ language, to which I have nothing to say. Is it my problem?

Or, perhaps the real problem is I always think everything I feel confused or frustrated about is because of my problem—the really really deep sense of diffidence. Somehow I feel even the repeatedly delayed flights are my fault too—I should have done the reservation earlier so that I could get one of those direct flights with perfect time and price. In the morning sunshine of Honolulu, I feel dizzy and tired and terribly guilty. Eugene must be wondering why Mommy doesn’t come back on Sunday morning as she promised.

手里拿着这本多年以前就读过,　复印过,　论文里引用过的书的新版,
我忽然发现自己不忍再看,　有种不堪回首的难过.　
怎么过去的论文,　总好象伤痛,　让我不愿回忆.　写作的过程总是
挣扎的过程,　要奋斗而抑制的坏心情,　
仿佛曾经的疾病,　偶尔要填在病历表上,　对自己都触目惊心,　几乎一种耻辱.

宝宝的歌, II

我想不再寻找了,
就等待吧. 华丽的诗句都是他们的,
我就等你说的妙语, 如珠,

--"打喷嚏"英文是什么?
--sneeze.
--no, 不是sneeze,
--啊? 那是什么?
--是 "bless you!"

从SD回来, 小小Eugene晒黑了一层, 好象补了一个冬天欠缺的阳光. 没想到他最爱海边, 只要海浪和沙滩, 可以永远在水里和沙里玩, 对我们为之惊叹的会跳舞的大鲸鱼有种不过如此的随便.

匆匆就是四月, 艾略特荒芜的春天.
早上和water在电话里聊诗歌的形式怎么分析, 真好, 有做同样事情的好朋友.

很多很多东西要收拾, 我在沙发上边吃午饭边看New Yorker,
总是这样沮丧的故事, 没看完, 我就把杂志丢开,
真的, 怎么快乐的故事快乐的诗那么那么少,
痛苦痛苦痛苦的文学啊, 我们怎么在这样的篇章里快乐地工作?

"随笔", 日式的随笔, 你说什么就是什么了,
我给她去信, 告诉她我找到的历史渊源,
她们自信地写诗, 出书, 我查书, 写论文, 用这样的字眼:
seems, probably, it is uncertain that, can be seen as
一定是我的问题,
越研究, 越没有信心.