a 34-year-old guy from Richmond, BC, Canada

Send to a fan or friend

"...avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do."

My conception was a miracle in itself. It didn't have a dramatic flair like those born in the back of a cab, or amidst a crisis at the bank. What happened to me is somewhat common, yet it almost cost me the 30 years I've lived so far. On July 8th, 1982, in a general hospital located outside the slums of Hong Kong, an umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck as I prepared for my admission into the world. 30 hours (apparently) of labour, and a C-Section later, I was out of that larynx straightjacket and in an oxygen chambre with the sole task of restoring my colors from black/blue to an Asian yellow.

I migrated to New York city a few years later. At an elementary school with the penitentiary name P.S. 124, I met the act of writing. Writing had a strict father with an abundance of rules that followed little rhyme or reason. The man was a hypocrite with what to conjugate and how to pluralize. Naturally, his very presence deterred me from being near her. 

Many suns and moons later, Writing surfaced again in my life. By this time, I had begun to understand her father. More importantly, I treated his aphorisms with the same respect I gave the multiplication table (Math was another father that made me skittish). I memorized what was required, enough to get by, just so I was permitted to sit with his daughter on a patio while the sun sets. When I saw Writing this time, I was in grade 4. The teacher gave us an assignment to write a short story. 10 pages with at least 2 lines per page. Below each page, we needed to include an illustration. She would then bind the book for us to hang up on the wall. A week after the assignment was issued, I had written 6 "book", 15 pages each, all without any signs of a pencil crayon approaching the paper. Every page was filled with ink, courtesy of my uncle's "state of the art" Canon Typestar 110. 

In college, Writing and I reunited. The best thing to happen to me during my teen years was not knowing what I wanted to do. Though I had been accepted to a local university, I followed the yellow brick road to Douglas College where I enrolled in their Creative Writing program. It turned out that Writing was not my love alone. She was in fact a harlot amongst many prolific minds. Though I enjoyed spending time with Writing, I saw that my trivial talents with her meant destitue, perhaps even exiguous means. Two years after rekindling our affairs, we parted ways. 

I was sure that one day, we will meet again...

0 comments about this author Feed