Glorious Sunset: Part 2, to museum

The newly renovated de Young Museum reopened in the Golden Gate Park last October and has been crowded daily with art lovers young and old ever since. Martha, a passionate and astute connisseur of classical and contemporary paintings, would have undoubtedly frequented the smartly designed monument with distictly modern architecture in lush surrounding, especially given we lived a stone's throw away in the perennially fog-covered Sunset district. That the sun actually can never be found in the aptly named struggling Asian community is a stroke of genius by the city planners; the title alone drew boatloads of ignorant and barely literate immigants, including a naive Taiwan-educated engineer arriving in the Golden State with a single plaid necktie and two suitcases full of American dreams. Not that I resent the manipulation, it is here where I met and fell in love with a shy and beautiful seamtress named Martha, married and lived our young lives till she passed away.

On a crisp and fresh Spring Tuesday morning, I stealthly purchase a senior ticket and slip silently inside the museum and merge into the contiguous streams of visitors, hoping that an unnoticed appearance would perhaps hide my shameful ignorance in the greater field of fine arts. Okay, it is true that I had often accompanied Martha to San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and other venues for special exhbitions, but my motivation was clearly not art itself, but the precious opporunities to walk hand-in-hand with Martha, to talk about the prices of vegetables at Huang's Market and the new movies at Ling's Theatre, and most of all, to look at Martha looking at the paintings. In front of a Bonnard or a Matisse, her eyes would fix their attention on the eclectic collection of manicured objects, a moment of tranquility would materialize magically between her and the picture, before a smile of admiration finally broke across her delighted and satisfied face. As a firsthand witness, I can testify that though personally dumbfounded by the seemingly childlike pile of dry paint on canvas, I swear that there must be absolute beauty in this fallen and unfortunate world, if my simple but loving and kindhearted woman can be moved to ecstasy in the presence of a mere painted thing. It is for this reason that I come today: to recapture a trace of ephemeral and undescribable perfection once descended upon us in distant memory -- to find a glimpse of Martha among the speechless rows of drawn figures, fruits and landscapes.

Standing in front of a formidable painting of two opulent peansant women sitting in quiet solemn conversation, I think hard about the true meaning intended by the great artist Rivera. Is it a poignant social commentary on the destituteness of rural Mexican farmers in the economically strapped southern state forgotten by the bourgeoisie, or a caricature on the emptiness and absurd of broader life, a slient echo to Munch's Scream? As I ponder the possibilities, a well groomed, petite Chinese gentle lady in her late fifties approaches me and whispers, "Perhaps Chinese can also find resonance in the hardship of peasant labor portrayed here." Slightly fluttered, I consent in politeness. If Martha were still alive, she would be around the same age. A wave of uneasiness washes over me, and I excuse myself and retreat from the meseum. I would have to find Martha another day.

Glorious Sunset: Part 1, to church

On Sunday morning, I put on the best suit I have and drive to the Asian American evengelical church just 5 minutes from home. The best suit I have turns out to be a double-breasted navy blue suit -- I think I bought that knockout with Martha in San Francisco before her sister Mable's wedding -- was that really 20 years ago already? -- which has since faded unceremoniously on the left shoulder from years of lying dormant in the furthest back of the bedroom closet. No worries; it is yet another brilliant sunny day in the South Bay, and so who can notice color disfiguration in blinding lights? If Martha were alive, she would have crossed her arms, leaned lightly on the white kitchen door densely posted with our son Ben's drawings, and smiled affectionately, astonished to picture me in something other than the grey trousers and white, short-sleeved botton-down that I wore daily to the office for 30 years. When I was devoting myself faithfully to work, I would retell the amusing anecdote of how Einstein had eleven identical dark grey suits in his closet so he could think devoutly only of research problems. Now that I am retired, I suppose I can afford a bit more leisure time pondering more deeply which attire is indeed more appropriate on different occasions, though at age 61, perhaps it does not make much difference aesthetically afterall.

The church is of a comtemporary genre, which is to say the music is progressive and often rowdy enough that it hurts my ears, and the young 2nd generation Korean pastor in his early 30's entertains gregariously with more jokes than Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Nevertheless, I find the atmosphere more pleasing than the Catholic convent alternative still further down the road -- why do old ladies whimper like young pups during every children's choir performance? -- where the light is too dim, the preaching is too unfathomable, and the air is stuffy and smelt of used, damped tissue paper. And so I march boldly into the youthful surrounding and situate myself in the rear with a sample of other elderly gentle Chinese folks, who also sit distant from the thunders of the charismatic praise band. During the sermon, I think of Martha again, of how she used to attend church fervently, sometimes dragging our taciturn son Ben with her, and often displaying intense emotions she would hide away secretly and deftly at home. I know because on special holidays like Christmas and Easter, I would forsake my Sunday morning tai-chi sessions and join the family in the crowded sanctuary, packed with infrequently visiting dads like myself, sitting awkwardly and uncomfortably in unfamiliar turf. Truth be told that I always had trouble staying awake, as I do now, but for some inexplicable reason, I was always able to wake just in time to catch with my handerchief fortuitously the first tear sliding down Martha's cheek, like the morning dew falling from a harvest-ready grapevine branch on a frosty morning. She would smile, and I would smile back, and I would think the world was beautiful and I was awfully glad I came. Of course, the next Sunday I would return to my beloved tai-chi comrades in the park.

The uproar of the praise band again wakes me, signaling the end of yet another stupendous sermon through which I could not stay awake. (If I sleep better at church than on my own bed, does that mean I feel more peace in the prsence of God?) As I exit the aisle, a muscular young man, running towards a converging crowd by the pulpit, bumps me carelessly, and I trip and tumble roughly back on the pew. "Oh, sorry!" He turns without looking and continues his sprint. "Gosh, Dr. Li, are you alright?" Lucy, the paster's newly wedded Caucasian wife from Texas, rushes to help me up as dark clouds start to materialize on her pretty young face, staring ominously at the boisterous group. "No worries! Kids sure are eager to serve the Lord these days," I force a smile despite the sharp pain on my right forearm. It will be two weeks before the sickly purple bruise goes away.

Drowning: Part 4, with deliverance

"Aiyah, Simon. What time do you want to sleep till, huh? Even the laziest rooster has gotten up, crowed and neatly made his bed! How is your novel going anyway? Auntie May's nephew, ah Ping, said he knows a shipmate who likes to read ..." My mother's morning chatter had woken me from my recurring nightmare of the past. I quickly looked at my empty right hand, and realized that the kitchen knife, safely placed in my mother's front apron's large pocket, had been restored to its rightful owner, who was now sitting on the left side of my bed and checking my pulse again. I smirked at my pathetic failed attempt, my drunken wrecklessness, and good fortune.

"How many times I told you no cutting fruits in your bedroom, ah Simon? Bad business, bad business! Anyway... nevermind, I made chicken congee, it will warm your body in this freaking cold weather. You get ready, ah Simon." Instinctively, I hugged my mother gently from behind before she could escape; she sat still for a moment staring aimlessly ahead, an air of bodily warmth permeating from her sturdy back. Her hands smelt of freshly chopped garlic, ginger and parsley. She obviously knew more than what she perpetrated -- sensing without deliberately knowing -- and only Chinese proprietaries prevented her from opening the lid of knowledge. "Ah, congee is overboiling!" She embarrassingly broke free and sprinted to the kitchen.

It was already 11am, and the high noon sun, like a mischievous child, was melting pockets of snow collected on the Maple branches overnight, and dropping them onto unsuspecting passer-by pedestrians. On a rare warm Saturday, a larger than usual crowd had long ago awaken and now walked the streets in gaiety, feeling the embrace from the sun's exuberant rays, like getting reacquainted with a distant relative after many years. Neighboring children, wearing thinner outer garments than their mothers would warrant, were running and laughing innocently in a game of hide-and-seek. Life outside continued without skipping a beat. I nonchalantly switched on the radio and lied back down. To this day, I didn't know if the myterious man who rescured me from the sea was an angel sent from God, or just a fellow war refugee altering my fate despite his own desperation and dearth of karma. I did know that though my spine was irreparably broken, my life was mercifully spared. But to what end? My life was still filled with never ending humdrums and sense of despair compressed into a stuffy apartment, and thoughts of ending it all were still never far away.

The radio was playing The Byrds' hit song. "To everything turn, turn, turn ..." My miserable failure means my life is given another day, and a sunny, warm morning it is. My life continues to float submissively, destined to wherever the water stream flows, though every day I am alive, I know I ought to love dearly the ones that love me passionately and illogically. "... and a time for every purpose under heaven ..." Heaven, at moments like this, seems so inconceivably far away, yet so intimately close at the same time; perhaps a tangible, palpable God is not a God afterall. "... a time of war, a time of peace ..." If one lives long enough, there will surely be fortunes and misfortunes. And who is there to keep count? Past remains the past and never will be again, and the future, unpredictable and always bewildering, is always a day away. I have this very moment to live, and no more. "... a time to kill, a time to heal ..." What can one expect from oneself except to give his all at any given moment? To expect less, it is a sin, and to expect more, divine. "... a time to love, a time to hate ..."

"Simon! Are you waiting for an imperial rickshaw to carry you? The congee is getting cold." I smiled as I leaned and reached for my wheelchair. At that moment, her voice had already warmed my heart.

Drowning: Part 3, with a knife

The grandfather clock striked three, rudely waking me out of my philosophical delirium early in the morning as I clenched hard to a small carving knife I hid under my shirt during dinner. Lying restlessly on my bed I sweated profusely, mentally going over the argument to complete the journey, for love, to relief my mother the life-long burden and set her free. My life, an origami boat that followed a narrow, meandering stream of dirty water from its plundered motherland to an aghast frozen tundra, had long ago lost its sense of direction and meaning. In the dead silence of the night in the fatigue grey apartment block, a stone's throw from the bustling Chinatown, my soul, caged like an animal in an immobile and unfeeling body, had wanted to scream from the indefeasible shackles a thousand times the helplessness that no words can ever express. "I breathe, but live not, for I cannot walk and am forever condemned to the shadow of humanity, dragging my beloved mother along to certain miserable end!!" But such cries were completely futile and meaningless, for what imbecile would bother to pause to hear a migrant invalid's screams and wince? So now my guilt to die raged battle with my guilt to wear my mother daily till she herself collapses from death of a thousand cuts.

Suddenly my bed gave way and I dropped like an unstrung skeleton into the pitch black abyss. I splashed onto a sea of blood-red crimson, turned and witnessed the familiar idyllic Perhentian Island engulfed in consuming, multi-colored flames and towering smoke that stretches to the ends of sky. Parachuted infantries, shouldering automatic rifles topped with samurai blades that flickered like stars in countless floodlights, descended from the black sun and inundated the flaming island howling incomprehensible foreign tongue. Hounds of military planes roared thunderously past overhead, meticulously carpet-bombing the ocean with caskets that exploded the instant they hit water, violently rocking the sea bed and forcing walls of tidal waves after waves. Searching skyward as the apocalypse unfolded -- for Divinity I suppose, I paddled, stroked and wiggled with all my limbs and all my strength to stay afloat to no avail. My fighting will subsided, and I began my slow descend downward: the red sea water successively filled my lungs with every gulp, the deafening mayhem was slowly replaced by the soothing sound of the undercurrent, and my panic-stricken, pulsating muscles in my limbs were involuntarily relaxing in unavoidable surrender. I knew my end was near. I closed my eyes, awaited my inevitable fate -- a whimpering and unnoticeable farewell to the cruel, merciless world.

It was then a thin but powerful arm reached from above into the murky water and grabbed hold of my collar. He lifted my failing body above water with his iron fist that burned vehemently with his touch. While I coughed incessantly to regurgitate the sickly salt water from my system, I stared incredulously at this strange dark man with a stoic expressionless face, clothed in nothing but rags, floating halfway above the water. As I slowly regained my composure, his rugged countenance remained motionless and emotionless, staring straight back at me with piercing eyes in calmness unbefitting to the hellish destructions around us. Then, without a word, he swam away and gradually disintegrated in distance sea, and I slipped back to the sea with renewed strength.

Drowning: Part 2, with mother

"Aiyah! The apartment smells like fermented tofu!" My mother entered the front door carrying bags of fresh groceries, packages of this week's medication, and a large green umbrella dripping with wet snow. I smiled weakly, watching fondly as my sole family survivor returned home. I never ceased wondering how a diminutive middle-aged Chinese woman speaking only broken English and with a bed-ridden son in tow, could physically bear the daily burden of living hand-to-mouth in a viciously cold and apathetic country. Always cleaning, cooking and tidying, the busy body moved continuously from here to there throughout our claustrophobic apartment in tireless fastidiousness. Maybe her secret was indeed to keep one occupied with endless tasks to repel the unavoidable attacks of existentialist thoughts and questions of meaning and eternity. Or maybe she was just a simple creature determined to live a content and simple life, whatever reality revealed otherwise.

"How was your day, mom?" As she entered and immediately started tidying up various items scattered across my room, she habitually talked about her house-cleaning work at the Hu's and her daily adventure to the Chinese market for ultra cheap vegetables and occasional roasted pork cutlets. I never responded much beyond the curt "uh", which seemed to be more than sufficient for her as she smiled and continued her narration. Perhaps in her companionship with her son, she thirsted not so much for lively conversations, but merely the acknowledged presence of one connected by common bloodline, potent enough as an impenetrable shield against loneliness in a foreign land. Or perhaps this was just how older Chinese generations had always talked to the younger ones, who seldom talked back anyway. After twenty two years, mother remained a fascinating and lovable conundrum to me.

"How do you feel today? What would you like for dinner, ah Simon? I've bought fresh bok choy from Uncle Ted this afternoon. Very fresh! Very fresh!" She sat on the side of my bed, held my left hand and began to feel my pulse. I loved her for saying phrases twice for emphasis. I loved her also for always inquiring what I prefered for supper, even though she had long ago decided what was deemed nutritious and subsequently bought the necessary ingredients already. "Very strong pulse! I know you are getting better. On your feet in no time! In no time!" As she asserted her approbation and marched definitively away to commence dinner preparation, I watched her slowly fading silhouette shape-shifting in silence; the setting sun casted her a long shadow in the pastal yellow hallway that lingered and refused to disappear completely until she finally entered the kitchen door. I returned to editing my Chinese romance novel that remained unpublishable after a full year. In Canada they did't let you die, but you had to figure yourself how to live. This was how mother and I lived -- deliberately and painstakingly, one day at a time.