Everyone left for spring break, so I’ve been waltzing around the apartment for the past half-hour in my brace and memory foam slippers. I sing to Elvis and use the handle of the broom as a makeshift microphone, spin it around like an enthusiastic dance partner around and around the living room. In this world, there is only me and a broom and the lingering smell of sandalwood.
Funny how I said that I wanted to travel internationally for this break, and yet here I am—in Berkeley. I went to work this morning and clicked in every patron that walked into the museum—an average of 45 people per hour. Jesse brings in Girl Scout Cookies and I eat a handful during my break, flipping through a book that’s entirely in Japanese. It’s about ceramics and sculptures, that’s all I can really say about it. Jesse says that I should take it home, so I do. It’s busy because of the inconsistent downpour, I stare out the window and count how many people forgot to bring umbrellas: 37.
A little girl stops in front of the doors to jump into a puddle, and her mother joins her after a few splashes. I think I should do that too. Life is too short to worry about getting your socks wet. One of my managers walk by and I ask if he jumps in puddles nowadays. He beams at me—I always do! And I think I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time. Maybe life really is a bunch of puddles, waiting to be jumped into.
On my walk home, I refuse to open my umbrella in favor of getting drenched. At one point, there was no such thing as a puddle or a dry spot—I became the puddle instead, the rain running down my face in rivulets, into my smiling mouth.
My father’s surgery went well, he calls me today and he sounds fine. We have the same condition, so he worries that I’ll need it soon. I say that I am okay for now. I end the call early because I am watching A Brighter Summer Day (1991) in an hour and I am determined to get a good seat—it’s sold out and I was lucky to snag a ticket in advance. On my way there, I almost miss the 18 (mistaking it for the 67), and I sprint a few blocks down, waving frantically at the bus driver when he almost drives past. As I speed-walk to BAMPFA, I spot a rainbow and stand still for a few minutes, aware of the time passing but enjoying it nonetheless. I ignore the traffic light twice before making my way inside.
A Brighter Summer Day was good, I hadn’t realized that it was four hours long until this morning, and I wondered if I had the attention span to watch it fully in the theater. There wasn’t an intermission, so by the time it reached the last hour, everyone was shuffling in their seats with discomfort. The girl next to me has a loud stomach and I feel for her. The ending was shocking. I walk home with a brisk pace, listening to Angel Baby by Rosie & The Originals. It’s a lovely song, overflowing with affection, but it makes me sad as I walk into the quietness of Northside, the sidewalks empty of people.
I continue my research on Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, and Jason surprises me by presenting a pile of books on her, including the first print editions of The Dream of the Audience and Apparatus by Tanam Press (the house that released Dictée), which are not printed anymore. The former is breathtakingly beautiful and I think of purchasing a copy, only to find that it’s $1000 on Amazon, $250 on other websites, the cheapest option being $150 on eBay. A book like this feels priceless, I hold it with shaking fingers and gently flip the pages. I don’t really have the funds to purchase the original, so I buy an edition that’s partially in German and wait with bated breath for it to arrive.
There’s something weirdly sensual about a good book. Maybe I sound like a creep for saying this, but it’s true. I hold The Dream of the Audience with the lightest of touches in fear of it falling apart in my hands. It’s like holding someone’s body for the first time in the night, when you have tunnel vision and that’s a good thing for once. It’s been a while since I’ve been so excited, so passionate, so devoted to something. It feels like I was born anew.
The florist in front of my house never seems to have the flowers that I go with the intention of buying, so I settle on a single stalk of hydrangea on a whim. There’s something sweet about buying yourself flowers. I think the only times I have received flowers in the past were in celebration of an achievement or sympathy flowers—it feels weird that there has to be a significant reason as to why one should give / receive a couple of blooms. Hydrangeas take in water from both their stems and petals, so I spray water on the flowers from time to time. Apparently, their color depends on the pH of their soil—if they’re more acidic, they look blue. I bought a vase for them today, a ridiculously small vessel that cradles the hydrangeas perfectly.
The moon is 99% illuminated tonight, it’s predicted to reach a full moon tomorrow. I stand on the ledge with a yuzu beer, the moon casting light on my solitary form. I notice that the car parked on the street below me is in the perfect spot, where the moon is reflected in its window and I stare down at it for a while, until the can is empty and lights of Northside turn off, one by one.
My dear Enjoyer, I ask that you go outside and see it. It is only the moon that reminds me that we are still on this earth together.
Yours, Jinju.
why don't you write a book dear? I will definitely watch the moon tomorrow as it is already midnight and I'm 😴
oh jinju you you you and your words. You inspire me so much. There's magic in the space between your words and all credits to you. You are the reason I found enough light to go ahead and write my first post here