August 1968
Dear Walter Chronkite:
You must be very tired, now that the Democratic National Convention is finally over. I could tell while watching you that you were getting tired. I hope you can find time to rest now that you are back home. I'll bet you have lots of stories to tell after Chicago, and I hope your family wants to hear them.
My parents have been watching the CBS News since we got a TV. Through this summer I've been watching with my godfather, who is visiting and says to tell you hello. My parents will only watch you, and I guess we have all come to trust things you tell us about. We trust you, Walter Chronkite.
Things seem pretty complicated right now. I know I am only 12, but other people seem to think it is a complicated time, too. I wanted to write to thank you for being someone that brings comfort each night, and a little courage, too.
Paula Chu, New London, Connecticut
Dear Paula,
Mr. Chronkite has asked me to write to thank you very much for the kind letter you sent him. He is grateful for your message of support, and hopes you and your grandfather [sic] are both well.
Sincerely,
Mrs. R. Mankiewicz, Assistant to Walter Chronkite
September 1980
Dear Walter Chronkite:
I wrote to you when I was, I think, maybe thirteen. It was a typical precocious fan letter, as I recall. You were in Chicago for the '68 convention, and your secretary wrote a brief and friendly reply for you.
That was the extent of our contact -- until the other night, when I had the following GREAT dream:
It's hard to begin where I should probably begin, but I need to get a running start for the sake of continuity and memory. The dream began with me counseling a friend (I am, by profession, a counselor). I had a superb session -- a "cure" as we half-jokingly call it. I note the ego strength of the dream so far (and throughout, I suppose) with some embarrassment.
Just then the phone rings. I answer it, and you say, "paula, hi! How're you doing? It's been a long time since we've been in touch."
I say, "Walter Chronkite, well goddamn, how ARE you?"
We begin to talk about the pressures of your job, as do two old friends.
I hear you say, "I don't know. The pressure is kind of getting to me. All this election stuff is too much. And it made me uncomfortable when they came up with that idea about me running for president. Sheesh!"
I empathize and say, "Well, Walter, you know they really mean well. I know you don't want the job, but what they're saying is that you have a real lot of influence in this country. Next to the president, you have perhaps the greatest influence on the people, in terms of getting information to them, explaining things to them, and all that. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess," you say, kind of humbly.
We talk on and on like this for quite awhile, and I am walking down the street with the phone, now and then noticing with delight how far my phone cord stretches, and being really pleased that I ordered one so long. Suddenly my arm jerks back, and I realize that the cord has come to its end.
"Walter, the cord won't reach any further. I've got to turn back."
"Okay, sure" you say.
Then, who should come on the line but (get this) ELDRIDGE CLEAVER. Eldridge says, "How're you folks doin'?" and chats a bit in his friendly way.
We talk only a minute, and then I notice that you've been quiet. I say, "Walter? Did you hear all that?"
"No, who was it?"
"Eldridge Cleaver!"
"Wow. Eldridge. I haven't talked with him in a long time," you say with warmth and some nostalgia in your voice.
I finally reach the source of the cord, and we close the conversation.
"Well, paula," you say, "I'm glad we had this contact. You be in touch."
"You bet, Walter. I promise I'll write to you. It's so nice of you to call. You take care of yourself. Bye, Walter."
"Bye, paula."
I am someone who keeps agreements. I said I would write and, by gum, I am mailing this letter to you.
I hope you are well, and that you are dealing well with the pressures of your job. From what you said in the dream, "retirement" in November will be both a relief and a difficult transition for you. At least that part sounds plausible and likely accurate. May the relief carry you smoothly through the challenges. Thanks for everything, truly.
paula chu, Harwinton CT
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Boroleum
Dear Makers of Boroleum:
My parents first introduced me to your great product over 30 years ago. The tube said it was manufactured on Fisher's Island, a short ferry ride from their home in New London. I figured they were buying their nasal comfort products locally, and I was happy to support what I thought might be a cottage industry over there on your very small island. I envisioned a family cooking up Boroleum in a little factory in their backyard, perhaps, creating this fabulous product that only a few know about. By now I understand that you are a bigger operation, but I retain the feeling of familiarity with Boroleum and with you, its manufacturers, whenever I buy a new tube for my family's lips and noses.
It was always a bonus to read the part of the instructions on the tube that encouraged us to "put product well up into the nose." I thought that directive was so bracing, so no-nonsense -- so understanding of what needs to be done when one's nose is too dry. I felt like you were with me and my nose on this adventure called winter -- like we were all in this together.
When I bought a new tube last week, I looked for the familiar print that would encourage me to do what needed to be done. Alas, it's gone. Instead, the new tube says: "place product at the base of each nostril."*
What happened? Why suddenly squeamish? I feel like a kid whose parents used to say, "Go out and play -- and have fun!" but now send me out with an anxious warning about cars and strangers and my untied shoe laces.
If these new instructions are marking a trial period for Boroleum users, please register my vote to change back to the bolder instructions. My family and I will not trip over our laces or push the tube itself well up into the nose. And if we were to, it would be our responsibility. We will not hold you accountable for any over-zealous application of Boroleum.
Thank you for your kind attention.
paula chu
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you so much for your letter about Boroleum. We love getting mail letting us know our product is valued and has been enjoyed by you and your family for so long.
We were sorry to learn that you are disappointed with our new packaging and slightly modified instructions. Sinclair Pharmacal was advised recently to update the usage instructions for Boroleum to make them clearer to product users and to eliminate any confusion about how Boroleum is meant to be applied. Please rest assured that we will continue to offer you and your family many winters to come of Boroleum's soothing comfort!
Thank you for your loyalty, and thank you for writing with your feedback.
Sincerely,
L.S.
Dear L:
Thank you, thank you for your letter. It saddens me that Sinclair has been advised that the risk is too great to instruct Boroleum users as if we were sensible owners of noses. But I do understand.
I very much appreciated your handwritten note as well. I am glad to have your family in the closet with mine.
Yours in subversion,
paula chu
*I wrote this letter several years and many tubes ago. The directions now say merely: "Apply to affected area not more than 3 to 4 times daily."
My parents first introduced me to your great product over 30 years ago. The tube said it was manufactured on Fisher's Island, a short ferry ride from their home in New London. I figured they were buying their nasal comfort products locally, and I was happy to support what I thought might be a cottage industry over there on your very small island. I envisioned a family cooking up Boroleum in a little factory in their backyard, perhaps, creating this fabulous product that only a few know about. By now I understand that you are a bigger operation, but I retain the feeling of familiarity with Boroleum and with you, its manufacturers, whenever I buy a new tube for my family's lips and noses.
It was always a bonus to read the part of the instructions on the tube that encouraged us to "put product well up into the nose." I thought that directive was so bracing, so no-nonsense -- so understanding of what needs to be done when one's nose is too dry. I felt like you were with me and my nose on this adventure called winter -- like we were all in this together.
When I bought a new tube last week, I looked for the familiar print that would encourage me to do what needed to be done. Alas, it's gone. Instead, the new tube says: "place product at the base of each nostril."*
What happened? Why suddenly squeamish? I feel like a kid whose parents used to say, "Go out and play -- and have fun!" but now send me out with an anxious warning about cars and strangers and my untied shoe laces.
If these new instructions are marking a trial period for Boroleum users, please register my vote to change back to the bolder instructions. My family and I will not trip over our laces or push the tube itself well up into the nose. And if we were to, it would be our responsibility. We will not hold you accountable for any over-zealous application of Boroleum.
Thank you for your kind attention.
paula chu
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you so much for your letter about Boroleum. We love getting mail letting us know our product is valued and has been enjoyed by you and your family for so long.
We were sorry to learn that you are disappointed with our new packaging and slightly modified instructions. Sinclair Pharmacal was advised recently to update the usage instructions for Boroleum to make them clearer to product users and to eliminate any confusion about how Boroleum is meant to be applied. Please rest assured that we will continue to offer you and your family many winters to come of Boroleum's soothing comfort!
Thank you for your loyalty, and thank you for writing with your feedback.
Sincerely,
L.S.
P.S. [this is written in her own hand in the corner of the page] My family and I continue to place Boroleum well up into our noses :-)
Dear L:
Thank you, thank you for your letter. It saddens me that Sinclair has been advised that the risk is too great to instruct Boroleum users as if we were sensible owners of noses. But I do understand.
I very much appreciated your handwritten note as well. I am glad to have your family in the closet with mine.
Yours in subversion,
paula chu
*I wrote this letter several years and many tubes ago. The directions now say merely: "Apply to affected area not more than 3 to 4 times daily."
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Dear People at Tropicana
Dear People at Tropicana:
Could you please let me know how I can contact the very person who designed the new caps that are shaped like tiny oranges? Thank you in advance.
paula chu, Farmington CT
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for contacting Tropicana. Please let me know the nature of your concern regarding the new caps on some of our products.
Dear Jill:
Thank you for getting back to me. You're worried that I swallowed a cap? It's nothing like that. I simply want to tell the person who designed the clever new cap that I so appreciate that extra bit of creativity. Someone thought of it, and I would love to write a brief note of positive feedback to that individual. Is there any way I could have the contact information for that person? Thanks so much!
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you again for your inquiry. Such decisions are made by teams of product design personnel at Tropicana, and as such there is not an individual responsible for the new caps. We are pleased that you like them, and I will be sure to send along your feedback to the design team. Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products.
Dear Jill:
I am so grateful for your patience with me. But I find it hard to believe that a team of people came up with the idea of an orange-shaped cap for your orange juice containers. I see instead some man or woman who thought of it, perhaps while pouring his or her morning juice, holding the ordinary cap in hand and having a little vitamin C-induced brainstorm. I would like to thank that individual. Could you ask the "team" to please direct my feedback to the individual whose idea it was originally?
Here is what I would like to say to that person: Thank you for the cute little new orange-shaped caps on the half gallon orange juice containers. It's brilliant! I love that there is no "need" for this clever idea; it is just a wink to the world. I get it. Thank you. Here is a wink in return.
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your most recent email. Tropicana is pleased that you have been enjoying the new caps. I do apologize if my initial response seemed unduly cautious. We often receive feedback from customers that have a concern underneath, and my intent is to direct feedback along the proper channels. We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.
Dear Jill:
I would not expect you to remember me, but I wrote to Tropicana several months ago to throw happy confetti in the general direction of the person who designed the dimpled, orange-shaped cap on the orange juice containers. I was forlorn to see while shopping this week that Tropicana has gone back to the regular caps! What happened? I thought it was such a great idea.
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products. The rounded caps were discontinued as a result of safety concerns. While no injuries occurred, there was a concern that the caps might appeal to small children, posing a potential hazard.
We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.
Dear Jill:
I realize that mine may be a voice in the consumer wilderness, but please convey to the individual that designed the short-lived, dimpled, orange-shaped cap, that I'm sorry that we seem unable to cope with bright, rounded caps on our orange juice containers. It was a very creative idea, and made my o.j. pouring ritual a bit more delightful. I hope the designer is not discouraged and continues to think outside the box, as it were. Thank you, Jill, for your efficiency and patience as go-between in my little conversation with Tropicana. We will try to continue to enjoy Tropicana products, though I confess already I'm enjoying them -- I'm sorry, Jill -- just a little bit less.
Could you please let me know how I can contact the very person who designed the new caps that are shaped like tiny oranges? Thank you in advance.
paula chu, Farmington CT
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for contacting Tropicana. Please let me know the nature of your concern regarding the new caps on some of our products.
Dear Jill:
Thank you for getting back to me. You're worried that I swallowed a cap? It's nothing like that. I simply want to tell the person who designed the clever new cap that I so appreciate that extra bit of creativity. Someone thought of it, and I would love to write a brief note of positive feedback to that individual. Is there any way I could have the contact information for that person? Thanks so much!
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you again for your inquiry. Such decisions are made by teams of product design personnel at Tropicana, and as such there is not an individual responsible for the new caps. We are pleased that you like them, and I will be sure to send along your feedback to the design team. Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products.
Dear Jill:
I am so grateful for your patience with me. But I find it hard to believe that a team of people came up with the idea of an orange-shaped cap for your orange juice containers. I see instead some man or woman who thought of it, perhaps while pouring his or her morning juice, holding the ordinary cap in hand and having a little vitamin C-induced brainstorm. I would like to thank that individual. Could you ask the "team" to please direct my feedback to the individual whose idea it was originally?
Here is what I would like to say to that person: Thank you for the cute little new orange-shaped caps on the half gallon orange juice containers. It's brilliant! I love that there is no "need" for this clever idea; it is just a wink to the world. I get it. Thank you. Here is a wink in return.
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your most recent email. Tropicana is pleased that you have been enjoying the new caps. I do apologize if my initial response seemed unduly cautious. We often receive feedback from customers that have a concern underneath, and my intent is to direct feedback along the proper channels. We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.
Dear Jill:
I would not expect you to remember me, but I wrote to Tropicana several months ago to throw happy confetti in the general direction of the person who designed the dimpled, orange-shaped cap on the orange juice containers. I was forlorn to see while shopping this week that Tropicana has gone back to the regular caps! What happened? I thought it was such a great idea.
Dear Ms. Chu:
Thank you for your interest in Tropicana and its products. The rounded caps were discontinued as a result of safety concerns. While no injuries occurred, there was a concern that the caps might appeal to small children, posing a potential hazard.
We hope you and your family continue to enjoy Tropicana products.
Dear Jill:
I realize that mine may be a voice in the consumer wilderness, but please convey to the individual that designed the short-lived, dimpled, orange-shaped cap, that I'm sorry that we seem unable to cope with bright, rounded caps on our orange juice containers. It was a very creative idea, and made my o.j. pouring ritual a bit more delightful. I hope the designer is not discouraged and continues to think outside the box, as it were. Thank you, Jill, for your efficiency and patience as go-between in my little conversation with Tropicana. We will try to continue to enjoy Tropicana products, though I confess already I'm enjoying them -- I'm sorry, Jill -- just a little bit less.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
letter composer
Some of you know that a few weeks ago I launched a lead balloon called The Letter Composer. Go ahead; check it out. Because it features some of my dad's painting, it's a pretty site. And it's so quiet, too, because you're the only one there.
Eh, that's not quite true. A number of "unique visitors" have gone onto the site, I am told by Google Analytics. I like that: unique visitors. Everyone is special. They spend a bit of time at thelettercomposer.com, looking around, going through the drawers, taking a couple of mints from the coffee table. Then they wander back to eBay, or Facebook, or Amazon.
I've helped lots of people write this and that over the years, and letters are my favorite assignment. When I'm in session with a client who needs to write a letter, I have to bite my knuckle so I don't volunteer to write it for them. I put on my compassionate face and leave it there nodding encouragingly, but in truth my mind has wandered away and is scribbling the perfect letter.
So I wanted to see if I could actually do it and get paid. It appears not. Oh! Sure. I could charge a lot less. Sure. But my time is worth a lot to me, and so is a good letter. I want to have a conversation with the person about the letter they need, and I want the process itself to be useful, meaningful. I don't want to write thank you letters for ten bucks a pop.
One person hired me early on. The assignment was too tragic, too personal to tell here. The situation was so sad that I felt rotten charging for my time. She liked the letter, but what could save that impossible situation?
Yesterday, after my little advertisement appeared on "The Stranger's Slog" site (slog.thestranger.com/blogs/slog, where it will have an expensive five-day heyday), I got a second inquiry.
Google analytics tells me this one came from someone in Egypt. His (this I know by the name) letter request was simple: "my aim is to thankfull my teachers and my class mattes my you know teach is like a second father when look the respect because every time or every day he teaches as what we don,t know he told as whats good and whats bad and Iwanna thankfull the lady that is prepared to correct our writting and our mistakess and Iam saying to thank you madam."
The form asks for more information about the requested letter, and his response was: "madam if I ask you some question do you know how to curre some diseas"
The form asks: "How long would you like this letter to be?" The answer: "one days or two days."
I wrote back a kind letter welcoming his inquiry, asking for clarification on his letter needs, and explaining how payment works. I haven't heard from him again, and didn't expect to. But now I am left feeling worried about this guy in Egypt who is suffering some kind of disease. He wants to thank his teacher, someone who has been like a second father. I got attached just reading his trampled little inquiry.
Anyway, I'm not sure what's going to happen with thelettercomposer.com. I've got that egg of a project (with no one to fertilize it) and this dead phoenix of a blog. That's two dead birds more than I want. They start to smell.
And then I found myself wondering if they are supposed to join together somehow -- the egg and the bird. Maybe they just smell dead.
So tonight I am wondering, dear followers, if you would be interested in occasionally reading the letters that I write for myself. The ones I would share are not so much the personal letters I send. They'd be the ones I send to the World-At-Large -- hoping to make it a bit more of a World-at-Small, I suppose.
I am thinking of a letter I once wrote to the Boroleum factory on Fisher's Island. Boroleum is a fabulous product for "nasal soreness," made more fabulous by the instructions on the tube which used to say, "place product well up into the nose." I just loved that. Don't hold back! Get it well up into the nose. A few years ago, the tubes stopped giving those bracing instructions, advising instead to place the product at the outer edge of the nostrils. I wrote to the factory to object to their succumbing to pressure from their party-pooper legal advisors -- all of whom (I would bet you anything) place Boroleum well up into their noses in the privacy of their own homes.
It had to be said. I got a nice letter back, too, explaining the company's fears about Boroleum users misinterpreting the instructions and disaster ensuing if, say, someone tried to cram the tube itself well up into the nose. There was a nice postscript, though, from the woman who wrote to me. In the corner of the page, outside the typed official response, she confessed in pencil: "P.S. My family and I continue to put Boroleum well up into our noses." It was so good of her to come clean like that, even in pencil.
I invite you to comment (or send me an email: paula@paulachu.com) about this idea of posting my strange letters now and then. If you don't think that would make for a good blog-rebirth, say so. Don't hold back. Place your feedback well up into my nose.
Eh, that's not quite true. A number of "unique visitors" have gone onto the site, I am told by Google Analytics. I like that: unique visitors. Everyone is special. They spend a bit of time at thelettercomposer.com, looking around, going through the drawers, taking a couple of mints from the coffee table. Then they wander back to eBay, or Facebook, or Amazon.
I've helped lots of people write this and that over the years, and letters are my favorite assignment. When I'm in session with a client who needs to write a letter, I have to bite my knuckle so I don't volunteer to write it for them. I put on my compassionate face and leave it there nodding encouragingly, but in truth my mind has wandered away and is scribbling the perfect letter.
So I wanted to see if I could actually do it and get paid. It appears not. Oh! Sure. I could charge a lot less. Sure. But my time is worth a lot to me, and so is a good letter. I want to have a conversation with the person about the letter they need, and I want the process itself to be useful, meaningful. I don't want to write thank you letters for ten bucks a pop.
One person hired me early on. The assignment was too tragic, too personal to tell here. The situation was so sad that I felt rotten charging for my time. She liked the letter, but what could save that impossible situation?
Yesterday, after my little advertisement appeared on "The Stranger's Slog" site (slog.thestranger.com/blogs/slog, where it will have an expensive five-day heyday), I got a second inquiry.
Google analytics tells me this one came from someone in Egypt. His (this I know by the name) letter request was simple: "my aim is to thankfull my teachers and my class mattes my you know teach is like a second father when look the respect because every time or every day he teaches as what we don,t know he told as whats good and whats bad and Iwanna thankfull the lady that is prepared to correct our writting and our mistakess and Iam saying to thank you madam."
The form asks for more information about the requested letter, and his response was: "madam if I ask you some question do you know how to curre some diseas"
The form asks: "How long would you like this letter to be?" The answer: "one days or two days."
I wrote back a kind letter welcoming his inquiry, asking for clarification on his letter needs, and explaining how payment works. I haven't heard from him again, and didn't expect to. But now I am left feeling worried about this guy in Egypt who is suffering some kind of disease. He wants to thank his teacher, someone who has been like a second father. I got attached just reading his trampled little inquiry.
Anyway, I'm not sure what's going to happen with thelettercomposer.com. I've got that egg of a project (with no one to fertilize it) and this dead phoenix of a blog. That's two dead birds more than I want. They start to smell.
And then I found myself wondering if they are supposed to join together somehow -- the egg and the bird. Maybe they just smell dead.
So tonight I am wondering, dear followers, if you would be interested in occasionally reading the letters that I write for myself. The ones I would share are not so much the personal letters I send. They'd be the ones I send to the World-At-Large -- hoping to make it a bit more of a World-at-Small, I suppose.
I am thinking of a letter I once wrote to the Boroleum factory on Fisher's Island. Boroleum is a fabulous product for "nasal soreness," made more fabulous by the instructions on the tube which used to say, "place product well up into the nose." I just loved that. Don't hold back! Get it well up into the nose. A few years ago, the tubes stopped giving those bracing instructions, advising instead to place the product at the outer edge of the nostrils. I wrote to the factory to object to their succumbing to pressure from their party-pooper legal advisors -- all of whom (I would bet you anything) place Boroleum well up into their noses in the privacy of their own homes.
It had to be said. I got a nice letter back, too, explaining the company's fears about Boroleum users misinterpreting the instructions and disaster ensuing if, say, someone tried to cram the tube itself well up into the nose. There was a nice postscript, though, from the woman who wrote to me. In the corner of the page, outside the typed official response, she confessed in pencil: "P.S. My family and I continue to put Boroleum well up into our noses." It was so good of her to come clean like that, even in pencil.
I invite you to comment (or send me an email: paula@paulachu.com) about this idea of posting my strange letters now and then. If you don't think that would make for a good blog-rebirth, say so. Don't hold back. Place your feedback well up into my nose.
Friday, April 15, 2011
By the time I get to Phoenix, I'll be a booby
Tao Te Chu shouldn't be a breast cancer blog anymore. Sure, all the descriptors still hold: I'm still introverted, still concave-chested, still got my little shadow of breast cancer following me around. But I don't want the shadow to define me; it comes and goes, like any shadow, depending on where I stand in relation to the light. Sometimes I can't even find it for long moments at a time.
And I don't think readers need to keep hearing about it. It's me again: Still in remission! Still think about it! Still run into people who give me grisly accounts of their sister's death by breast cancer! Kvetch, kvetch.
I need to let the phoenix die so it can come back anew. Right now, I know, I know. The blog looks pretty dead, a pile of ashes in a raggedy birdy mess of a nest. But if I'm very still and very quiet, I sometimes see a twig move here, a feather appear there. I am getting the sense that my blog's rebirth won't be the glorious Feng Wen phoenix of Chinese lore -- wings spread in an iridescent spectacle of power and renewal. I see it as maybe more like a blue-footed booby.
And I don't think readers need to keep hearing about it. It's me again: Still in remission! Still think about it! Still run into people who give me grisly accounts of their sister's death by breast cancer! Kvetch, kvetch.
I need to let the phoenix die so it can come back anew. Right now, I know, I know. The blog looks pretty dead, a pile of ashes in a raggedy birdy mess of a nest. But if I'm very still and very quiet, I sometimes see a twig move here, a feather appear there. I am getting the sense that my blog's rebirth won't be the glorious Feng Wen phoenix of Chinese lore -- wings spread in an iridescent spectacle of power and renewal. I see it as maybe more like a blue-footed booby.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
lost donkey, not coming back
Tonight I feel like I have lost my donkey for good.
Not long ago, Skinner's auction house had their semi-annual Asian Art sale. It's a very big deal, with bidders calling in from all over the world. My siblings and I sold off a good portion of my father's stunning, irreplaceable collection of Chinese art. Deciding to sell the art he had collected over the years was a tough call; agonizing, actually. None of us wanted to take care of the collection in the way it merited, but then again, we knew that my dad would have wanted us to keep it for posterity. This piece sell for million someday! Keep for grandchildren.
We did not keep for grandchildren. Or more accurately, we sold so we could send grandchildren to college. Above is a large, beautiful painting of donkeys by Huang Zhou. This was one of my mom's favorite paintings; donkeys were her spirit animal. Mom always thought that her body was a donkey in its willfullness and laziness. She'd often dream about trying to get donkeys to cross a bridge, to leave a fenced area, to climb over a hill.
We have a video of Skinner's auctioning off these donkeys in rapid-fire bidding. Let's start the bidding at 8,000. Do I hear 8,000? 8,000. 10,000? We have 10,000. Do I hear 15,000? The gentleman in the back; thank you. 15,000. And on up to $23,000. The donkeys are gone in under a minute, and I will never see them again, except for here, this crummy shot of them hanging in my parents' hallway.
Here is a box of some of my dad's chops, signature seals with bright vermillion ink pressed into the carved end.
I know I am very, very lucky to have a significant collection of my dad's paintings on the walls of my home. I know my beloved siblings feel the same way. But as his treasures scatter, and I send a packet of paintbrushes to one student of my dad's, an ink grinding stone to another, I feel only grief.
I feel like my dad is disappearing from the world. I feel like he should be famous, that his art should hang everywhere, that everyone should recognize his work at a glance, like I do. I feel like everyone should walk around missing him, missing him, missing him.Thursday, March 3, 2011
still with the weak chi
I went to a new acupuncturist this afternoon: Dr. Gao, the Real McCoy. That's what his sign should say.
I've been bothered by chemo-exacerbated arthritis in my hands, and I don't want to get steroid shots or have surgery unless I really have to. Dr. Gao did the usual Chinese medicine things: he spent a long time listening to my pulses, checking out my tongue, then rechecking it awhile later. He seemed kind of fascinated by my dry lips, and mentioned them a few times in our two hours together. Your lip dry, he says. Most people don't point out anything about my lips, ever.
He says my system is depleted. All of this he tells me in very broken English, which makes my heart pump with warmth. I just love a good Pekingese-filtered English, and I begin to fall into a mirroring cadence, too.
He goes to move my boots under the table. "I get, I get," I say as he says, "I get, I get." He gets.
He looks at my intake form. "You have the cancer."
"Yes. Bress. Lass year. I lose both bress. I had the chemo, too," I say.
"Aiya, the chemo is bad-very-bad," he says. "Bad for body."
I can't give one of my standard responses, like "True, but it sure as heck beats the alternative," because I know he wouldn't follow me through that sentence. I say, "The chemo was bad for my body."
He puts a bunch of needles in my hands, plus several on my face and scalp. He connects some of the needles to a machine that sends electrical pulses my way, and my hands twitch while I rest. Dr. Gao's hands are warm and dry, and are shaped like my dad's. I resist the impulse to ask him if I could just hold his hand for a minute, or maybe just look at it closely, smell it. I'll bet there's some garlic within it, just under the skin.
He tells me I should not do detox. Too deplete. Detox only have excess chi. You have deficient. Need protein. Need get a stronger.
I just want to hear him talk. I want to hear the broken sentences. They are like protein to my heart.
Your mama American? Waah! You look Chinese! I think you not 55. I think you young. You just deficient in body. Chi stagnant. I think maybe body missing part cut off. Herb maybe help.
I am taking all this in. He is hurting my hand, actually, pushing my tender joints with his strong, brown, dry thumbs. He presses hard where my joint is swollen, and I try to be stoic. I call on the Lamaze breathing techniques. He is both brutal and tender with my hand. He wants me rest hand, get a strong, too. Then he asks with concern, "You do hand job?"
No, I tell him. I don't really use my hands very much in my work. But somehow the question? Little bit break spell.
I've been bothered by chemo-exacerbated arthritis in my hands, and I don't want to get steroid shots or have surgery unless I really have to. Dr. Gao did the usual Chinese medicine things: he spent a long time listening to my pulses, checking out my tongue, then rechecking it awhile later. He seemed kind of fascinated by my dry lips, and mentioned them a few times in our two hours together. Your lip dry, he says. Most people don't point out anything about my lips, ever.
He says my system is depleted. All of this he tells me in very broken English, which makes my heart pump with warmth. I just love a good Pekingese-filtered English, and I begin to fall into a mirroring cadence, too.
He goes to move my boots under the table. "I get, I get," I say as he says, "I get, I get." He gets.
He looks at my intake form. "You have the cancer."
"Yes. Bress. Lass year. I lose both bress. I had the chemo, too," I say.
"Aiya, the chemo is bad-very-bad," he says. "Bad for body."
I can't give one of my standard responses, like "True, but it sure as heck beats the alternative," because I know he wouldn't follow me through that sentence. I say, "The chemo was bad for my body."
He puts a bunch of needles in my hands, plus several on my face and scalp. He connects some of the needles to a machine that sends electrical pulses my way, and my hands twitch while I rest. Dr. Gao's hands are warm and dry, and are shaped like my dad's. I resist the impulse to ask him if I could just hold his hand for a minute, or maybe just look at it closely, smell it. I'll bet there's some garlic within it, just under the skin.
He tells me I should not do detox. Too deplete. Detox only have excess chi. You have deficient. Need protein. Need get a stronger.
I just want to hear him talk. I want to hear the broken sentences. They are like protein to my heart.
Your mama American? Waah! You look Chinese! I think you not 55. I think you young. You just deficient in body. Chi stagnant. I think maybe body missing part cut off. Herb maybe help.
I am taking all this in. He is hurting my hand, actually, pushing my tender joints with his strong, brown, dry thumbs. He presses hard where my joint is swollen, and I try to be stoic. I call on the Lamaze breathing techniques. He is both brutal and tender with my hand. He wants me rest hand, get a strong, too. Then he asks with concern, "You do hand job?"
No, I tell him. I don't really use my hands very much in my work. But somehow the question? Little bit break spell.
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