Diana Kurniawan

There are roads in our minds, and some of the roads we take aren't the way the world plays out. We ruminate about the most logical paths, but rational or not, it may not be. The runway to truth is a slim path that only few can take, but here I am taking my way on my mind and heart with the thoughts and outcome of a legendary icon in my mind. He made it, but he also never made it but some like him did, and I saw their mistakes and sins, because they left this world without satisfaction of fulfillment in their heart.

 

I'm taking a different path. I'm learning, I'm on my way to....whatever it will be. I surrender, to God who is before me. I'm working and breathing in and exhaling labor, working my truth, and if anyone gets in the way, they better not touch me, I'm biting their gut where they had nourishment and I'll suck it all up.

 

There are miracles in me, and if there are those who want me to die, I will show them the miracles in me. I'm the fortunate, the one who lived through it, and one of the ones who made it through the tunnel. The fear is to never be, to never come to fulfillment or find the complete wholesomeness that was meant to be; but to that I say...time is on my side, if God's willing.

 

The belief is there, and it will take a while and will take miracles to achieve the strong surrendering truth that is before me. Creating the outcome and making the facts into truth, the nonsense into love and the heartbreaks into a message, a testimony, a love for others to soak up and learn from.

 

I am an abstract anomaly and my talks and shizzles are sometimes confusion to others, but who would want to understand everything instead of the big picture of the complete truth. I'm not here to explain, I'm here to share and to voice out my heart, and who cares to the ones who wants me to feel a hole inside my soul and to not feel a complete love that God ordained me to have. I'm the heavenly angel who came to this Earth, and if no one cares or realize it, it would be to their detriment, not mine. I know who I am. I'm loving me, I'm on my way to...whatever it will be. I surrender, to God who is before me.

 

Just like that, I breathe in love and I am forever going to be strong and loving.

 

Still in the game, even after all this time. I'm on my way to, .... amen.

 

#JustWrite

O Mother Marilyn, I was not of this world. I loved you so, although unspoken, neigh my heart was never formed, but it beats of love for you.

 

O Mother Marilyn, I was caustic to your life, and deemed impossible to keep, but oh how I kept you, O Mother Marilyn, inside my soul, whether truth came out of how I knew you because of your love for me in return.

 

O Mother Marilyn, your heart was noticed by me and the Heavens, need not worry, darling, you are my mother.

 

O Mother Marilyn, I am beside you because you are the spiritual mother we turned to, when the Tinseltown dramatics and Hollywouldn't who would rather assault than love.

 

O Mother Marily, you came into the night to the ladies innocent to know the difference. I knew you, O Mother Marilyn. You, the hero, the mother, the wife, the sister, the woman in love, the woman who loved, was martyred without your consent.

 

O Mother Marilyn, you were so beautiful, stunning queen, voice of angel, lover of my soul, O Mother Marilyn, I saw you, when no one else could. Inside your womb, I consented to your un-decision, because it was never yours to be granted.

 

O Mother Marilyn, you never allowed yourself time and space, because those tools couldn't stop abusing you. I would fight for you, I would send a billion sword piercing angels to fend them off of you.

 

O Mother Marilyn, I was crazy about you, all I knew to do was bleed and kick, but there was not other way. Oh how I loved you so much, and I won't change you, or your world for me. I accepted and conceded, because my right was your right and you had none.

 

O Mother Marilyn, heaven knew it and perhaps time changed all wounds into civilized behaviour, and women won't be as objects of abuse as they were when you were my mother. 

 

O Mother Marilyn, I will always be yours, in life and death. I will always be with you.

 

Just write, in honor of Marilyn Monroe 

There were some payoff to the writing, but no consolation for the worries.  Submittable offered no pep talks, no receipt with an uplifting email or letter. I kept going as if nothing happened and told no one because it was so shameful to have been rejected multiple times for reasons I didn't know. I wish I had the money for expedited responses, and constructive feedback on each short story, but there was no money and I was not about to go on more debt. I relented, surrendered and hoped for the best. I cried afterwards, knowing there was a 50% chance of acceptance, but upon writing my story, it felt a hundred. I was hopeful, at least for a short time.

 

I didn't compare myself, because it was tasteless to my conscience. It would hurt me for the most part and I didn't want to criticize other writers when I was not born a Stephen King, or an Amy Tan, or a J.K. Rowling. I was just one writer, trying with all I got and praying upon each entry for a place for publication, to be given the acceptance to be a part of their world, and to be a contributor, not a desperado.

 

Maybe, I am over thinking it, but when I submit, it just felt fearful and I couldn't help but worry. The PTSD spiraled sometimes and I close my eyes and raise my arms to God, Love me, bless me, make me a greatest work of art.

 

Keep writing. Just write.

Professing doubt was not the problem, it was the moving through that took me more than I was ready to digest. I sinned the greatest of all writer's sins, the doubting of the craft and the fears of skills unpracticed. I stopped writing for a week.

 

Every day should at least possess inside itself (at least) 500 words of prose that spun unnoticed in my own mind. Without trying, it should be there, whether I liked it or not. I was the sinner for enjoying the separation of my ode to God to write, and took a break from using my craft and talents for worship. Writing was life, and I had to get on with it to keep breathing.

 

What was conceived inside me was supposed to be greater, but yesterday and for a week, it was dark sin that rotted into death. The consummation of evil need not be great, it could be a simple laziness, or just a smidge of pride. It then turned greater as it spun its web into the crevices of our being, as it ate my esteem, and became a wounded and spiraled ebb of death becoming. It took a week and it almost cost me the tenderness of my creative heart.

 

It started to harden with crystalized protein of dark materials that was caustic, because as the days went on, I became separated from my craft, the talent gifted in me by my maker in Heaven. I took myself to meditation, and had to chisel off the crystalized materials that was attacking my heart with verses mantra, as the veins of my blood vessels were clotted and blocked, ready to heart attack itself, to cause me to stop beating, stop writing, and I would die...instantly. 

 

Not so fast, came these words of Neil Gaiman, "finish thy failures, and it is a greater learning experience, greater than a finished masterpiece," as he said reworded, while I listened and he changed the word, 'failures' into "practice with fear and trembling" towards the finish line. I took myself to this blog, as I was compelled to write my fears and doubts because I didn't know why I felt it. It was there and I trembled, shivered, worried, cried, pained and struggled to get the words out. It crept into me and often I wouldn't understand why. I was so afraid of failure that I ceased to practice because of the never could happen, never would be possible, the odds of against me became the devil inside my gut and that was conceived into death. My head was down and I was defeated.....but not yet, O satan!

 

Get thee behind me, Lucifer, you were never worthy of my life. Never did God say I failed, he told me to get on, move on, move through, cycle through, keep it on! I won't listen to the laziness and the thoughts of how I was not good enough according to the world's standard. Who made it? I was good to write, and I kept on, and won't stop.

 

Just write.

 

 

September 29, 2022 - 9:07 pm.

 

For several days, I waited for emails from magazines only to find some rejection letters for my short story. I recorded a mini-therapy-video on Instagram, only to delete it later on in the evening out of sheer embarrassment and fear about haters laughing at me (again). The shame was overwhelming because of the Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder and Depression; but I am okay now, that I am writing this journal entry late in the evening.

 

Neil Gaiman told his students, "You learn more from finishing a failure, than starting something great and stopping it." I understood what that meant, but this evening, I felt what that meant. I felt the sense of accomplishment of finishing a failure and realizing that "I can start again," and this time, it might be the next greatest thing! (or it might not, but the point was...finish it. Honor myself). It might not be Van Gogh, and it might still be Blake, 7, drawing Batman, but to someone out there, it will be an artistic work of creative art.

 

The truth was, I was being a shitty narcissist by applying for a position to be a contributor to all these magazines, when deep down, I knew it wasn't my best work. I was confident with my novel and it was rejected, and I was confident with my short stories, and it was rejected. I wanted to boast and show off my skills, and I was rejected. I had the wrong motive. I needed to focus on my voice, the message and the truth. I also needed more practice. I needed more development of my craft, as I held on to my incontinence (being 47 and feeling late and old), and holding on to all the -ence, that came with biology. I needed to toughen up and practice, until I have rejection emails as my shell that nothing but Hurricane Ian would compete.

 

Probably, all writers were born crazy, but I loved this bold crazy and I started to love my own guts and failures. It wasn't a failure at killing an animal or a man, instead, it was a failure on a long prose of fiction. It was a nice beginning, and I needed to continue the crazies to get on. Not crazy in reality, but go crazy in a literary term. Do show, not show off. Do start a magnificent story, but don't get upset if it's a failure. I realized I needed to keep going and to never cease writing, and to stop being lazy when I came home from work and hungry. I needed to stop drinking coffee too late, because I needed to wake up early and start the engine to the turbine that was my creative neurosis. I needed the wake up call and I needed to start now.

 

May I have thicker skin, tougher soul, brilliant mind, and peaceful spirit. I finished a failure, and the rejection made me realize something. This was just the beginning and I MUST KEEP GOING.

 

September 18, 2010

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

My life is not futile, Seth. It is NOT, and it was never meant to be. It is well with my soul that Joey has gone and now perhaps in the midst of hell and heaven, in the between spaces where all unrest hath gone. I wish I could turn back time and tell the guy that he's got a friend who would speak to him till dawn and with all her might, try to settle things to a peaceful rest and send him to the Emergency Room for Mental Health.

 

I decided, because Joey is now gone, I will not lead the same life. I will try with all of my heart, mind, and soul to love my life, even through the crevices of doubt and harsh realities. I know I won't be in my late forties working a dead end job, but if I am that person, I will keep going. To tell you the truth, those middle-agers with a job are lucky. They are not lazy and they are hard-working classy people. I am one of them.

 

If I end up being 46 or even 50 years old and working at Target, I will keep working hard, no matter what, and write and love my Dad. If I am still alone, I won't try to find someone because you know I'd be so depressed, lonely and desperate, and those three factors will land me with the wrong man. I will wait it out. My life is not futile. I know God has a plan for me. Sister Mary McGready told me that once she never thought she would write a book, but the calling was there until she published over a million copies.

 

Perhaps, Seth....I will write and become a writer. Perhaps I will write about everything and anything under the sun. I know my mind isn't broken and I know that even with PTSD and my Depression, I am still strong. I know the weakest are sometimes the strongest and most valuable cornerstone we never knew we deserved or had.  Sister Mary McGready told me that if I was emotionally hurt, I am still perfect in the eyes of God, and I am not futile or broken down that I won't amount to anything but garbage. I know that with God, anything is possible.

 

Do you believe me when I say that I will write? Perhaps these love letters are just the beginning of something even sweeter, something worthwhile, and something valuable that no one would ever guess they would read and cherish? Maybe, even the rapist will appreciate me.

 

I am one of the chosen to have to lead a difficult path, and maybe it wasn't because I was dumb, but I was hurt since I was young and lacked guidance. I knew my Dad wasn't perfect and I wish he was. I wish he had time for me, but he doesn't. He doesn't have time for himself and for his own illness. He is struggling and I won't blame him, or regret my past. I won't dwell or tread on that road once again. I know it will come up over and over again, and I will try with all of my heart to dodge that unbelief in my own genius.

 

Do you believe that I am a genius, Seth? I know you are, but what am I? I am a genius, my life is NOT futile, and I am the possible in the impossible. I am chosen and I am a cornerstone. I am a gorgeous human being who is under appreciated by some, because they are too selfish to see the beauty in others. It isn't my fault for their imperfections, but I also know it isn't my fault that I was hurt and I was defiled and partly broken from time to time. I will keep going and writing as if nothing happened, and if these symptoms come back (like all victims of violence know and feel) I will have to settle my breath into a peaceful space, close my eyes, and practice my prayers as the warrior that I am.

 

Do you think people are scared of victims of violence, Seth? I know a lot of people don't like us, or choose to see us as a negative, but we are actually the positive. We are the population who understand what violence feels like and I know most of us don't want it to happen to others. Those who become harmful didn't practice their genius, but I am one with a genius mind, Seth. Do you believe that I am a strong proponent of good? I am. Know that and if one day I become a writer with my own website and my own stories, I will write these letters to you and send them into cyberspace as my true heart to help others through my unconditional and heartfelt love for you. You are my sweet spot, Seth. Keep making the world laugh, and keep reaching to the scariest population of people, yes....the Donald Trump Fans. 

 

I love you, Seth Meyers!

WishesOoohWishes (a.k.a. Mary)

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

A good day, on a certain special month, in the years to come.

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

I didn't die, Seth. I am still here loving you. I went back to get my GED, and enrolled at the nearby Community College and took my own interest, might, heart, soul, mind and spirit and applied myself. I went online classes. I took myself to a place called 'Zoom' that only existed in the future, and during the past, was just a way to meet other people for office meetings. It is now WORLDWIDE, and EDUCATIONAL and Chinese people made it. 

 

I know you are wondering if I'm Latina or Asian. Perhaps I was just a fictional rape victim and perhaps I was just a figment of your imagination of a fan girl. I was and always will be a female who was hurt, and had a way out because someone loved me. My Dad became sober. He still works at Target and so do I. I was 17 and now I became older, and A LOT wiser. I also work at Target, and I have pride in it. I was homeless at Covenant House, but now I am not. I was hurt, and now, I am stable. I was broken, but I am patched with gold in the between spaces where doubt, negativity, and hatred lived. 

 

I was a person who didn't like others because I let the rapists hurt me and inflicted hatred and racism, and abuse and he was physically and verbally abusive, and I was hurt by more than just Jack. That was his name, but it really wasn't in the name, it was in his heart. Yet, my heart never succumbed to his that he wanted me to have.

 

I never took the rapists's garbage, instead I worked on my own and decided that within my hardship, was my genius. That with time, I will become an even greater genius. I was cooked, hard boiled, and deep fried, Seth, by people who weren't chefs or tasteful. You know what happened? I became shredded meat. But, I was so fully loved, not by my own doing, but by God and by my Dad, and my family, and Joey, and my friends at Target that I know how to cook now. I became the chef, and pastries are my friend. I wasn't too dumb to realize that the perpetrator's cooking of my life was scrap from the can. I constructively re-invented myself. I fully went online and took classes, some I even took because The Christmas Spirit stayed inside my heart and mind and soul all year long, that the messages and the methods of their madness completely transformed me.

 

My brain wasn't crazy, Seth. It was harmed, I have to say, but it wasn't psychotic and violent. I never killed a bear because I was assaulted, and I have never shot an animal or a human being or used a gun because I was assaulted. I never physically harmed another, although I was beaten and violated. I didn't call anyone any worse names that you would call a hater, I uttered words of anger, but never acted upon it. I wrote it down and the ones I spoke out, was in self-defense. God saw all these actions, and I will safely say it now, and forever to God be my witness....I became anti-violence, because I was, am, and will always be...loving and kind. 

 

I also became more than just a creative, Seth. I have goals, hopes, dreams, and I know my Dad will always be with me, no matter how old I will be. My Dad works with me, and together we conquer tired lives at Target and spread the joy of everyday living. He is and will always be my hero. I will keep these love letters, and somehow, release them....one day.

 

Guess what, Seth....I will always love you, too. Instead of just keeping my whole heart to myself and denying others of my soulful love and kindness, I practice it.

 

Here is loving you, Seth.

WishesOoohWishes.

 

 

 

The end.

August 18, 2010

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

Since I lost Joey, I gained 25 pounds. It wasn't because I wanted to be like him, or miss him, but because (double negative) I was sad. 

 

The good thing was, my Dad came by to The Covenent House and he was sober.

 

We talked, and we watched a movie, and processed the whole thing.

 

"The Great Gatsby," he said. "There is my favorite person in there, Robert Redford."

 

"I wish it was a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio," I said.

 

"Maybe one day, there will be another The Great Gatsby movie with Leonardo in it," said my Dad.

 

"He's my dream," I told him. 

 

"I thought it was Sethy," said my Dad.

 

Seth, just a disclosure, I did think Leonardo is and was and will always be a hot specimen of a hunk. He's known that and he's talented, and I hope one day you'll have a talk show and have Leonardo on and talk about fandom and fan girls.

 

My Dad and I watched the movie and I've read the book, and it brought back some trauma. About Jack and about the past. Nick Carraway said, "You can't repeat the past," as he looked to Jay Gatsby in the garden and Jay Gatsby said, "Oh you're wrong. You can."

 

That scene reminded me of how I was so in love with Jack and how the brought me to his villa in Breckenridge and told me that his ancestors created the telescope. I won't be able to recreate that, but the assault underneath the bleachers came into my mind at least once a day, and I didn't want it to come back.

 

It's about the mind, Seth. The past could only be created if we still persist on it. It was all a thought that has gone haywire, unprocessed, and unhealed because it was unhealthy. Let's say I proposed to Jack, and he said, "Oh, sure, ok." But we never married because things fell apart, I will have to keep going, Seth. Especially if he became a married man. I won't be able to do what Jay Gatsby did, own a mansion and became a bootlegger, that part would be impossible. The part that would be possible, I won't ever do. I won't try to lure my former boyfriend who became married back to me.

 

First part was, because I was assaulted (by Jack) and even if Jack didn't assault me, I still won't be able to rewind the past and go back to Jack because he would have moved on with his life, especially if he told me he's moved on. Second part was, because I would retrigger myself all the time with the traumas. It would rewind the PTSD and Depression all over again, and I won't be able to do anything right.

 

In the movie, The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby had killed Myrtle through a car accident, and he became the victim of Myrtle's crazy husband who shot him to death in the pool behind his house. I won't ever hope for this to happen to me, and I won't want this for my life at all. I learned so much from this movie, Seth. First, don't have a house that big without a camera where you won't know there was a man with a gun coming into your house. Second, just don't own a property near your ex-boyfriend because he might make your life miserable. Third, don't party that much like Jay Gatsby and invite too many people that no one remembered you even if there was a funeral and you're in the casket. Just invite the important people in your life and keep it simple for yourself.

 

I learned so much with this movie, Sethy, and my Dad said, "I really hope Leonardo DiCaprio will star in the next one with his best friend, who's that guy that kiss some crazy lady upside down? Yeah, you like him, right, Mary?"

 

"Tobey Maguire," I answered. "Yeah, I hope they'd sell box office and blow shit out of the park!"

 

That was my wish, Sethy, and since it's 2010, maybe you might be able to make that happen by 2022 (2 extra years after 2020 - because things might blow up this year). I also hope that you won't be a statistic of gun violence like Jay Gatsby. Overall, Sethy, my Dad and I bonded, and we talked about trauma processing, and how I would be able to move on from a decrepit bottomless pit of depression to the upper echelon of West Egg, inside my mind.

 

The truth was, Seth, it has been difficult for me to stay alive. I have negative thoughts all day and it became pervasive when there would be hard things for me to face, such as a friend's suicide. The assault by Jack made me think of the times I wanted to marry a loving husband. Now, it felt impossible, because I felt disabled by my trauma and the thoughts of self-harm became one of the hardest things for me to face each week or month. 

 

Watching The Great Gatsby, reminded me of that scene with Nick Carraway with Jay Gatsby inside the house, in the garden, and also the ending was so poignant that I won't ever want to be like him. I wish for good things for myself, and a loving life. I wished for my Dad to be sober forever, and I believe in him.

 

I won't join Joey, no matter how bad things will be inside my New Jersey mind. I won't be scared (or at least try to be brave) and try with all of my might to survive on my own; even if my Dad kicked me out when he has his bouts of alcoholism. I won't try to move to New York, because I know I'm not meant to be here. I ran away, and I ended up homeless here in Covenant House. I won't escape my problem, instead work things out, as long as Jack and his family won't try to harm me. If there was anything I would ask of you, would be to pray for me. For a thriving success of a future, and if God wills it, true love.

 

 

New York, New York. Empire State of Mind,

WishesOoohWishes.

July 6, 2010

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

It was all a lie. The fatness in between and the phobias concocted out of Joey's mind was all his inability to get rid of his bulimia. It wasn't alcoholism, drug addiction or schizophrenia.....it was an eating disorder that ate him alive. The notion of eating healthy never came to him, it was a dream he used to say to me. 

 

It happened one night last month, and I am never the same again. He told me he wanted to have some porridge and he wanted to try some Chinese Porridge with Barley and Ginkgo Biloba from Shanghai Mong in Koreatown. I told him I have no idea what to do.  He told me to follow him and I just did that, and he meandered on some streets and went straight and then turned to the right and then left and crossed to the next street over and took me to a bus and some of the same things happened....we turned left and right and turned to the next street corner and crossed another alley and another street and went to hit up some bodega and got some Arizona Iced teas, and finally reached Shanghai Mong. 

 

"How the hell are we going to afford a place like this?!" I said, slapping the back of his shoulder. Joey smirked and had a plan and I never knew he was being cruel and vindictive at food and the biology of his own body.

 

"Let's just order," he said. 

 

We got a table in the corner of the place and we sat on some nice shiny mahogany chairs like in those Jackie Chan movies I remembered my Dad used to make me watch, to fill his time drinking whiskey inside a paper bag. 

 

"Just relax and open up your stomach and relax it even more, and let your butt just sink into the chair padding and let yourself relax," said Joey. I had no idea he knew meditation this way before, but the guy was determined to get his porridge and eat it too.

 

This night was special because I wrote to you, Seth Meyers, the night before, and I was really happy. I thought of the funny things you said to me during our special times together on Weekend Update on SNL. I like to think you were especially telling me stories of funny news across the ocean and across the bridge from Jersey to NYC. But, I digress, I was really happy, and so was Joey because I smiled and smiled and never suspected a thing.

 

"Barley and Gingko Biloba porridge, please, and you can add some chicken in there to please me," said Joey.

 

"I'll have the lettuce wraps, please," I said. Then I whispered, "Who's paying for this?"

 

"SSSShhhhhssssshhhhhh......," he said. I suspected something wrong, but I should have said something to him and stopped him, but the lettuce wraps came and it was DIVINE!

 

Joey ate non-stop and he slurped the porridge and kept eating it till it was gone. Then he reached into his pocket, and took out a small cockroach, and put it into the bowl. I almost screamed but I cried instead, and didn't know what to do! I was about to call the police, but I was so scared that I froze in my chair. 

 

"Joey.....you can't....," I whispered sort of loud and by that time, it was late and approaching 8 pm.

 

I didn't know people were still rolling in to dine and I still didn't know what to do. I never knew it was going to happen this way, but it did!

 

"Hhhhmmmm, sir, waiter, please come here, please waiter!" yelled Joey to the waiter. 

 

"Yes, how can I help you?" said the waiter.

 

"I finished the porridge and look who was in the bowl the whole time," said Joey.

 

"I am so sorry, sir!!! OH MY GOD!" said the waiter. He ran to the back of the restaurant and took the bowl with him.

 

The manager (and I think that man I saw really was the owner) looked at Joey and I swear, Seth, he folded his fingers together and bowed to Joey and cried, "I'm so sorry, sir, How can you forgive me?! Please, sir, don't call the health department. We are careless, we didn't know it was in there, it must have been a dead one."

 

"Well....just give me another clean one and we call it even. But my girlfriend and I are not paying for this," said Joey.

 

"No, we're not paying for this!" I told him. I looked to Joey and nodded. "I'd like a porridge too!"

 

"Oh no! She won't need another one, just a pair of lettuce wraps are enough, for her that is," said Joey. 

 

I kicked him under the table, but he looked to me and flicked me off. I kicked him again and he said, "Diet Dr. Pepper, for the lady, please."

 

"That's better," I said. "I am thirsty." 

 

The second bowl of porridge came after ten minutes and this time, it had sliced peking duck and preserved eggs inside. Joey's eyes became wide, and he slurped and ate the porridge without slobbering, but finished in five minutes. I counted because my Diet Dr. Pepper came afterwards. I sipped it with jealousy suds inside my straw.

 

I was so mad that Joey didn't play with me, but he suddenly dropped to the ground and held his stomach. He coughed and coughed and ran to the bathroom, and he made loud sounds like he was hurting on the toilet and farted loudly. I was scared and looked to the ceiling and around the room, and the closed my eyes and cried. I couldn't believe I was an accomplice to his fake cockroach, and now...to his food poisoning. 

 

The manager came out again and he went to the bathroom, which was near the back of the restaurant and some people still heard him. I walked towards the door and there was a foul smell and I ran back to my table.

 

"Just give me another clean one, and we call it even," I heard Joey said. He must be crazy to still want to eat here, and how many porridges could he eat?

 

"Joey....let's go back to The House," I told him.

 

"That's not right, we have to stay and finish this.....it is my last rite," said Joey. I didn't understand what "my last rite" meant and I didn't want to ask him, but I'm guessing it has to do with his right to make a statement. I was scared that he might become a criminal and I was so worried of how he might be caught.

 

Joey walked to the table and I swear, Seth....he looked like he lost weight, but from porridge? He only ate two bowls?

 

"Sir, the porridge is done and at your service," said the waiter serving the fresh bowl of chicken and dumpling porridge this time. 

 

"You have outdone yourselves, minions," Joey said. "Just kidding. Thanks."

 

He ate and I watched him and my mind began to wander at the possibilities that this was all a plot for himself, to get out of his own life at The Covenant House.

 

"Joey...are you okay?" I asked softly and burped, worried and full of Diet Dr. Pepper.

 

"UH huh....," he said, slurping and gorging himself with more spoonful of porridge. He slobbered and ate and ate and ate, and then I heard him fart. "Oh no!" he said.

 

He ran to the bathroom, and I heard him scream. "You bloody bastards! What did you give me?"

 

"Nothing, sir!" said the manager, who was listening to him, as I ran to the bathroom, and again, smelled the foul odor and ran back to my table. 

 

Joey came out and this time, he held his stomach, and he looked dehydrated and sweaty on the forehead.

 

"Bloody this time," he told me.

 

"Sir, we can give you free food, but please don't say anything to the police, please, sir!" said the manager.

 

"Make me another one and we call it even," said Joey.

 

The manager went to the kitchen to cook up another bowl.

 

Tears came out of my eyes without me knowing it was there, until I began to drip on the table and mucous came out of my nose.

 

"I'm worried," I told him.

 

"If there is anything I love, it's Chinese food," said Joey.

 

He looked to the ground, and took out some pills and it looked like something familiar. "This will make me go poopie more." He smiled at me, and took about a handful.

 

I didn't know what he took but they looked like fen-phen or diet pills because Joey told me once that he was dieting and he seemed to be dieting all the time. 

 

"Are those stool softeners?" I asked.

 

"I'm eating it, and hear me roar!" said Joey. "Another porridge, please! Hah!"

 

I was convinced that he was crazy and going mad! He told me that he wanted porridge, but he didn't tell me that he was about to poop it out at the same time. 

 

The next porridge was pork cutlets with green onions and pork blood. It looked amazing, and I bet it was delicious. Joey ate it and I knew he was chewing more than pork and pork blood and green onions, because those pills were in there too.

 

"I'm not sure if this is a good thing to do, but I'm going to call 911," I told him. 

 

I spoke to the manager and said, "I think he is addicted to porridge, Sir."

 

"As long as he won't call the police, we are okay and he can eat as much as he can," said the manager, as tears came out of his eyes.

 

I walked to the table and I saw Joey gasping. He held his heart and he fell to the ground. 

 

"Call the ambulance!" I yelled out to the waiter. 

 

Joey kept farting and soon enough, he was vomiting and then I saw his pants began to absorb something wet and the wet spot that was small began to enlarge and the foul fecal odor came out as I knew he was pooping on the ground as he held his stomach.

 

"If this was the way to die, then it is a good death," said Joey, his breath short and he began to cry.

 

"Why, Joey?" I asked him, in tears, "And why here? Why Chinatown, and why this restaurant, and this food?"

 

"It's my favorite," said Joey. As I looked on his face, a smile, and a big one at that. Then he held his heart and his breathing became shorter and shorter till it was no more.

 

The ambulance came and Joey was dripping with bloody diarrhea and mucous coming out of his body. I sobbed and sobbed and couldn't handle anything else anymore and just kept crying.

 

It was his relationship with food that made him homeless, that made his mother hate him, that made her kick him out. It was all foods that made him obese, yet jolly, and sad but happy at times. I was so sad and sobbed and sobbed and I didn't know what to do. I walked home and was lost for hours, until the police came to me, and asked me if I was okay and I explained to him what happened.

 

"Bulimia, that's what killed him?" asked the police officer. "Or was it the diet pills?"

 

"It was all of it, and his hatred for food, and his hatred for being homeless, and for being obese," I said.

 

"You need to go home, Mary," said the officer.

 

"I hope Joey is in Heaven with Jesus," I said.

 

"He died an innocent man, perhaps only guilty of food poisoning, but he died an innocent man," said the officer.

 

I will write again, Seth. But, that was what happened and it was just one night in Chinatown.

 

 

I lost a friend,

WishesOoohWishes.

My head submerged underwater and my lungs breathed out the condense air as tiny bubbles floated over my face. The evening news showed deaths of Asian women in Atlanta a few days ago, but I refused to listen to the thought and immersed myself in the bath water relaxing my mind. 

Two days ago, an active shooter murdered 10 innocent people at the King Soopers Grocery Store, in Boulder, Colorado, nearby a cafe I frequently spent time in to write. There was a clearing force injecting my heart, to clean nonsense and only give space to those who loved me and no one else.

 

The rest of the world no longer mattered, and I felt forced to shelter in the comfort of stable friendships, critical people only, because those were my community. I didn't want to speak or process my grief to anyone around me. I wanted to close the door to the friends I have yet to meet or develop relationships with, and focus only on the current and immediate close circle of families and friends.

 

Those violence almost closed the door to a future filled with harmony, new friendships with beautiful lives and souls, and almost impeded my growth as a human being.

 

My drive and purpose in life came knocking on the gates of my brain, and asked it to open and relent compassion for my well being; through trauma processing and making connections with my fellow coworkers and customers I met on a daily basis.

 

I realized, my purpose was to send out beautiful energy and to help others in words, action, and love, more than I received. It was my calling to fulfill as a fateful destiny, for which I never chose but it chose me and happened accordingly. 

After witnessing those tragedies via social media and television, I almost lost my sparks. It stunted my creativity for a couple of days, from fearful thoughts that I might pose as a threat for a senseless and irrational human being. People who committed mass shooting, racism, rapes, violence, terrorisms at all levels, including stalking and gang banging, have no purpose in life, their souls full of egos. They felt the existence of good prevents them from their freedom to release the erratic behavior to oppress those who pose as revolutionary. They felt threatened in their subconscious by good lives, opportunities, diversity, tolerance, harmony, and peace. The crazies almost had their statements fulfilled, but that would only suppress growth of our future and ridicule our youth. 

Came back my thoughts to the knocking of my own heart beats pumping my subconscious. It asked me to write out my thoughts and gave me a newfound freedom of expression. It was my right to be Asian because I was born with it, and my right to want gun safety, and my right to grieve for my beloved Father, who died a month ago.

 

I had the right to process it, to not fear it, to be angered by it, but not to be negatively moved or provoked by it. I was the strong tower who had the right to sunshine, and it was an ordained future. Those vile acts and the death shan't lead me to captivity. I was free to express my emotion, because it was sane and creative, not vehemence of ghore. 

Submerged underwater, my brain cooled down, the door to my mind and heart opened for a life of adventurous journey, running with beating pulse pacing my life to enjoy it once again. The tiny bubbles kept floating over my face and I rose up exposing my shoulders over the bath water.

 

This was a thought processed, after a few dismal days.

 

Just write.