grace's epiphanies

(Photo: Amy Jia) There is a child and an older figure, whom I cannot touch. I want to extend my arm towards them, gently, softly, land my fingers on their shoulders—turn around, and look at me; do not turn your backs on me. The water is like a thin veil with two ripple-like, soft green and faded streaks. The two figures, their back-turned walk, is suspended in time. I want to rip open the veil, come face to face with them, at steady, steadfast eye level, then proceed to have

I. The wave is forceful, it is directional. The wave curves up and jumps in a sometimes perfectly rounded, sometimes chaotic ‘U’. It ever stretches its arms toward the pull-aim-strike of the shore. II. The dam was built, and it barricades and it narrows and it towers over. The waves rose more wild, more torrenteous, determined to squeeze into the cracks of the dam and explode it to its fall. Each stream of the edge of the wave was like a long screaming tear with the smell of

I. After Everywhere I am Nothing. Here is a house. Sand walls—skin flows horizontally through the cracked veins of a grainy surface, if I took these walls in between my thumb and forefinger and middle finger and pressed hard, it would crumble like dried, coarse flour. Countless waves washed up against it, the wind made a paper cut with a piece of seaweed. There's nothing to go back to. It's not a house and not sand, it's nothing now. II. I Want a Total and Violent Clearing. T

1. There, under the muffy yellow light and the freckles of toothpaste on the mirror, are a string of floss and a bobby pin, cast into the trashcan or unevenly on the side. It is not entertaining, it is not engaging; not motivating, adventurous, a dream or a granted hope. I look far away over the muffy room, beyond the hum-drum of the electric toothbrush. There, on the sunny, crowd-centered bench, are friends, eyes creased, of humor, shoulders arched back, enjoyed. And for a s

What I have in me surfaces in a sudden splash of ink, plopped onto the canvas, making the observer jump. I sit very still, in my warm-toned, buttoned cardigan—upright, slender, my expression stilled. I am aware, and stiff, and constrained. Thus when red gushes onto the canvas, the observer blinks, is startled. Red splashes clumsily, in a burst of intense motion. When I laugh and when I exclaim, I rush forward. And I roll my eyes, and twist my mouth in humorous sarcasm, a wry

You seem, in your great calmness and quietness of heart, numb to my kind of mental turbulence, great exuberance and unbearable heart pang. I envy your peace, but dislike your detachment, too cold for my heart overcome by feeling, by soaring and by the mire. Yours is the type of personality I have yet to understand, who remain an enigma and forever at a distance from me. Others do share your vulnerabilities and joy, and I was bitter, but I have understood that the contrast is

I say that I want to leave here for California, but a fortune-teller whisper suggests that I never will. Not because I'm trapped, but out of my own free will. How ironic, because New York City is this place that made me say "I feel trapped" and "I'm so stuck." This place makes me feel like I have no place. Whichever room I enter, I feel like either an outsider or an imposter. I'm not high enough yet not low enough; not cool enough and not uncool enough; not fancy enough and n

It's perception, Association, Reinforcement. There was a certain innocence between You and I. Yes, I can still trust. But there's always the battle of reservation, A certain heaviness, Confrontation of the heart. How do I trust You like a child again? I read of Your power with gravity, but not awe. When You exchange Egypt for me, I bring to You an objection, Instead of feel Your love, Though I believe it. Who is the clay to question the potter— I understand, but I blink back

I will let the fear pass over me. The fear must pass over me. Let it go through me. Let it go through face to face. Let it be like a rolling wave I walk into. I am not sucked into it. I am not swept away. I walk into it, letting it hit and roll over me. Spirit, Person, this is my moment of attention. If I let this pass by, I will never take each little piece apart concisely, exactly, with vivid clarity. Confusion follows a moment lost. The moment must be seized. We must conve

I take sure, gliding steps; emphatic, stamping ones. The desk is my back rest, the tables my foot relief. No I'm not a king, but this is my world. I'm not the protagonist, but this is my stage. Back straight, then waist released. Legs crossed, back leaned. Gaze is firm—I'm here to give, not to fill an empty cup. I'm pushed, but I do not tilt backwards. A full cup does not need more water. It's my stage to pour. My eyes reflect love, a stalwart choice to do you good. You push

The Waves by Virginia Woolf p. 7: "... and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually." p. 94: "... I, who desire above all things to be taken to the arms with love, an alien, external. I, who would wish to feel close over me the protective waves of..." ---------------- You say that Your waves are perpetual, the strokes everlasting. Yet I feel if I left today my heart a

inspired by Genesis 41:51, 52 “Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, ‘God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.’” “Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, ‘God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.’” and The Brothers Karamazov The coffee does not flow. 15 grams output in 51 seconds so bitterly sour, spit out with vehemence. Dial back to zero the opposite direction, obstinately. Back to zero the opposite dir

There's beauty in the symmetry— Branch stacked on branch. Upon closer glimpse: The right side, for its intrusion into home windows, amputated. As long as it shall live, it lives with an amputated right. It will never see a day of granting, A day of missing realized. This forever amputated tree, Stopped me in its beauty, the beauty of its parallel left side. When will a life like Leah's strike me as a possible beauty? When can a lifetime of missing, be to me a possible well-