an uncompromised letter

Basically, at every backed up change of the stoplight, the wind says a polite hello. A mild breeze, one could call it. One might also call it annoying, which is not untrue, but frankly unnecessary. But I digress. Red, then green, then cars passing by. Their knife-like movements butcher the steady crisp air; waves of air currents are hurled towards the table, ultimately halting the service of the game. How feeble of the little orange ball, hardly playable over some vehicular movement ensuing some 20 yards away.

It’s Wednesday, the 4th. It doesn’t hugely matter that it's the 4th. Or that it's Wednesday for that matter. But I digress! Behold! Besides being Wednesday, October 4th, it is like many days; there is a place, a time, and a gathered community.

Silence fills the arena (the one on the corner of Essex and Canal), while the sounds of downtown and its occupants blend into faint echoes. Patience and anticipation are greeting each other, unspokenly yet undoubtedly felt by all in attendance. Ice cold veins, the sweaty palms of four veterans and stadium lights; all facing the table. For context, when I say stadium lights, I really mean homemade battery powered light bulbs attached to the top of two metal poles, one on each side of the table. For more context, the arena is in fact a circle of cobblestone and trees and otherwise. For for even more context, this context matters not. But again, I must digress! 

SO yeah, a close game, yet it's held in limbo, and for what?? The thing is.. The damned thing about it all is…the inhibition of play is evoked by the living and breathing environment it's all taking place in. What a bizzare irony! Or is it? I'm only slightly concerned with the answer, by the way, yet I am. 

So, yeah. The breeze falls flat. The ball is lifted. The game resumes.

Serve, bounce bounce, bounce bounce, bounce bounce, etc. Point to Ming. Point to Ming!

Laughter erupts and melts into freshly baked chatter, while clouds arise continuously off in the corner, away from the crowd. Smoking in the arena is taking place where it normally does, in shallow light, in the only place where that special gradient of light is allowed to exist. I’m talking about the threshold where the stadium lights reach their capacity, and the darkness of the surrounding space cannot move any closer. The place where a man holding a tall can and wearing 517 Levis used to stand often, yet no longer does. He’s twice my age. He’s been smoking since before I took my first breath, and all the way up until 3 months ago. His humor; beyond polite, offensive yet undeniably innocent. His smile; unapologetic, contagious, slightly disturbing. Yes! There was some faint disturbance! He walks, and stops. And turns to ask for my hand. My hands, my own unpredictable hands! With my right inside his own two, he pauses for a wildly long three-or-five-or-so seconds. My nostrils were cuddled with a familiar aroma; cuddled in the genuine way of a genuine uncle. Yes! Loong is my uncle! Not truly, but his aroma of Coors Light and my palm buried his sandpaper hands tells me this very sentiment with great vehemence. His eyes glistened behind his black square readers. And then...if you can believe it...something happened! He proceeds to tell me if they (my hands) are good or bad, as he usually does upon greeting me.

“Good today”. 

My hands are warm. He reminds me of how sometimes, they are cold and leather-like. What he really means is the following; they are lacking power and decisiveness. He never says it out loud, simply, it became known. On the contrary, warm hands, my hands when they are warm that is, are a symbol of my readiness; my ability to act and react under pressure. My ability to play ping pong. 

Sometimes, life is pale and purple hands sharing plaid pockets with a mixture of lint and loose tobacco, sometimes. I want you to know that yesterday, my hands were cold. The day before that, my hands were cold, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that. Today, my hands are warm. My palms, full of life. My movements, precise and made without hesitation. With these hands, I am building a tower now. The thing is, the thing that is so thrilling about it is…well…I'm not doing it by my own self. You told me we should build it together. It’s so curious that you put it this way, it’s like we’ve already started. 

So, yeah. 

This is awkward. It’s just, you're somewhere else. And I mean, it's nothing but dreadful to say. Whether you're close or far. But you're somewhere else. And basically, I'm right here. I wish I had one wish. I would be somewhere else too, and I know right where. 

Sincerely,

My warm hands

Today, yesterday, the day before that and so on, I walked, I ran, I moved, and yesterday in particular, I felt the heavy rain from the clouds and from the emotional distress of my despairing, unrequited, tangled and beautiful love. Tomorrow, the following day, and the day after that and so on, I plan to walk again, and with great intent, with the intent of doing and being and living and breathing and, without being too critical, dying. And “time”, and only time, (mutually agreed upon), a polarizing dictator of all things real and fake, tangible and invisible, existent or non-existent, will determine if I may or may not do so. And without stating it in any obvious way, that being, that inescapable being whom I am deeply intertwined with; whom it's all given up for, received by and given to, the one who evokes a smile, a frown, the happy feeling, the sad feeling, the pitch of laughter, the wetness of a cry, stood in the rain, right in front of me, uncertain of any exact reasoning for being there, yet undeniably certain she should be there, melting in a misunderstood puddle of her own twisted desire. I myself was nearly confident I shouldn’t move, for such a maneuver could be catastrophic, but to provide clarity and context to this disheveled moment, catastrophe had already struck, and who I am to intercept it any more than its own fate! But I digress. SO, instead of making any undisguised movement, the expected kind, of forwards or backwards walking for that matter, I made my directional play with a different approach, an approach of verticality, and in that moment, that undying moment of greatness and destruction, I sat down, right where I stood. Brilliant! Or was it. It was repose; action without action. I introduced myself to this catastrophe with acceptance, with a handshake, which in itself, was a kind of defeat. But who’s defeat? Was it my own? Or this being’s? This being, the one standing in front of me, looming over me now with a great vehemence, was neither defeated nor victorious. Could it be possible? Possible that this neutralized desire to remain in place was both of ours, shared and held together as a whole? It was soon clear to me the answer was not of any importance, of any further relevance, and this was because defeat had truly already occurred, and my brilliant choice to sit where I stood was no more brilliant than any other decision I’d ever made. Walking home, I understood clearly that this defeat was inevitable, and I must make it my choice to fold over it with ease, or to walk away with struggle, and in these days to come, I shall not allow myself the ease of folding.

This was it; defeat; reveling in my sadness like a child in new rain boots playing outside after a freshly finished storm, and shortly thereafter I remembered that the clouds, the kind I was not only seeing and feeling as water fell from the sky, but also the other kind, the clouds of hopelessness that lingered over my head, the clouds that followed me home into my apartment, into my bed, and into my dreams, would soon melt away, as they often do after a storm.

And they did.

Two never-ending rows of yellowish-green [treetops] sprouting from subtly yet completely unique brown pillars of earth glide past both sides of the car, disappearing beyond the edges of the front windshield. From the inside of a gunmetal gray 2003 Tacoma, the view ahead bears a screen-like quality, as if the car is simply sitting stationary and the world is rotating underneath it. Hasteful winds slip through the cracks of the windows and wander spontaneously, uncontrollably inside the cab. A girl’s fiery red hair dances with the freedom of a midnight bonfire; a parallel I discovered in the flames of a burning pile of sticks on a closed beach under the spotlight of a full moon. Outbursts of laughter blend seamlessly into ambient piano chords, while the circuitous mountain road pushes our bodies back and forth with each jagged turn of the steering wheel. In this moment, in the confines of this black leather interior, and with a perfectly framed scenery, the cacophony of the world dissipates; plagued with peace, calmly dismissed by a synthetic landscape of synesthesia. Akin to musical notes in a composition, the interplay of harmonious and dissonant sensory experiences augment the evolution of self, memory formation and cultural development. As Michel de Certeau aptly puts it, "In ordinary life, language practices are situated in spatial practices," emphasizing that our daily activities, including the way we choose to use language and engage with our surroundings, are intimately connected with the spaces we inhabit. Considering the sensory aspects of these practices creates meaningful memories and contributes to the cultural influence of everyday life.[1] Like all pleasantries, sensory harmony, the joyous emotional response and cognitive process of memory formation, has an opposing counterpart; a counterpart that can be used to define a sensory spectrum, wherein the far right side is occupied by harmony, the middle; neutrality, and on the far left, incongruence. 

Defined as synaptic plasticity by Eric Kandel, a neuroscientist renowned for his groundbreaking research on the physiological basis of memory storage, changes in synaptic strength are critical for understanding signal transmissions between neurons. Actively engaging in experiences that promote sensory harmony involves being consciously aware of one's surroundings, emotions and sensory inputs. This awareness allows for intentional engagement with harmonious stimuli and a focus on positive sensory experiences, and with consistency, the synaptic growth leads to a phenomenon called LTP, or long term potentiation. The repeated positive stimulation of neural receptors results in structural changes of the synapse, making it more efficient in transmitting signals from the presynaptic neuron to the postsynaptic neuron. In contrast, LTD (long-term depression) of the synapse, is the process of consistent decrease in synaptic strength following prolonged low-frequency stimulation. It equally affects the structural integrity of synapse connections, leading to impairments in learning and memory, cognitive function, emotional well being, social interactions, innovation and creativity, and contributions to cultural patterns. Sensory engagement is a collective binding structure pulling together society in every direction with countless invisible strings. It is veins pumping blood to and from the heart of our world, and “without its unifying power, both our conscious and unconscious life would be broken into as many fragments as there are seconds in the day. Our life would be empty and meaningless.”[2]

An untouched violin will make no sound, and no violinist will improve their ability, their adaptability, their intonations, their dynamics or expressions, their individual contributions to their orchestral ensemble, without picking up their instrument and playing it over and over again; without sharpening their bow stroke, their finger placements, their precise timing, their technique and style, their ability to remain calm under pressure. Not until their rhythms and harmonies are synced, until they’ve learned to adjust to any key, any tempo, no matter how unpredictable, will the consistency of their work become truly effective. If the violin is neglected from practice, as in, if the strings of the cerebral cortex are played without focus, without control, rather, with a sadness, with a dissonance, with a lack of awareness, the incongruence of the notes will be enhanced, ultimately composing a disruption of cognitive function and emotional harmony. When the sounds it makes echo the voices of heartache and treason; when anxiety turns from bitter to sour and tensions churn slowly in the deep pit of a hollow stomach; when palms turn from smooth leather to wet paint on a rainy night in an utterly crowded bar, and tears bleed from cold drinks like sweat beads on bodies of karaoke singers, before falling from the pale-red cheeks of someone who matters most, that is the song of sensory dissonance. When discord exists between an occurance and the senses being immersed in that occurrence, it perpetuates a scattered and imbalanced experience. These emotional signals greatly impact the significance and formation of memory; memories to be reminisced upon, memories to be forgotten, memories to be held dearly and tightly or without any fingers at all; memories that stain in full red and dry in dull brown; memories that wash away in the splash of an apology. Whether harmonious or dissonant, sensory engagement is an orchestra of strings, an instrumental function with which one can practice and play and listen and perform; an instrument capable of building worlds of pleasure and pain; a tool that constructs culture itself; a guide for navigating any and all environments. 

Some memories are held firmly and dearly, yet, with a gently closed and rightfully protective fist, as if the gold inside the chest of one’s hand beholds the blueprint of one’s life, as if [my] life would fold in half without it, and the pale warm weather and the soft strokes of the breeze and the sunlight that peeks from behind quilted clouds, enamoring the blacktop with its sweet and nutritious breathe, would all cease to exist if I let go. Twenty meters away, surrounded by a flock of people twice and thrice my age, a ball bounces back and forth atop a deep blue table. The mild shakes of my body, indiscernible from the anxiety of my movement towards the table and the shivers of biting winds that only say hello when the sunlight is buried, embody the fears I carry with me; the fear of exposure; the fear of change; the fear of being happy. Even the contemplation to unveil the difference is a testament to my weakness; a weakness I birthed from repetitive dissonance. I approached.

“Would it be alright if I got in line?”

“Ah yes! You play next!”

The game was brief, dominated by my invasive lack of confidence, milked by my piercing social anxiety, tormented by the fear of the surrounding eyes feasting upon my freshness as a first time player of the table. And yet, underneath this blanket of apprehension and distress, there was a shrivel of comfort, a moment of cricketing feet, for I had abandoned my comfort zone, a place of familiarity, a place controlled by the fear of my past, a home I lived in for years, crafted by the memories of years of insults and bruises and scars.  As the game concluded, I walked towards my opponent, as he did to me, and with a wholesome emphasis, we each raised a closed fist, the same fist that beholds my cherished and beaten memories. His coarse knuckles met mine with the effect of a lost piece to my life’s puzzle. I thanked him kindly and walked away. Within seconds of my departure, a hand knocked on my shoulder, inviting me to turn around. 

“You live close by?”

My opponent stood before me. His slim glasses enlarged his ponderous eyes.

“Yeah just up the street.”

“You come back everyday. You come to play, and I will teach you.”

And I did.