snapshots of a six-month hiatus

NOVEMBER

For weeks I get home from work and immediately head to the library. I sit at one of the computers and do nothing but writing and edits for the book, writing and edits for grad school applications. Come midnight the library closes and I take a bus home, make myself dinner. I fall asleep at two in the morning and do the same thing all over again.

Sonya and I have commandeered all the Thanksgiving dinner energy, leaving Mom to relax. We've just finished our first dish, the easiest of all: cranberry sauce. We take pictures and marvel at the glistening red sheen, the luscious smells. Then Mom asks if we remembered to wash the cranberries before boiling them; we reply, a bit hesitantly, in the negative. What follows is fairly comical, frustrating, and more than a bit sad. The obstinacy both of us have learned gets amplified threefold coming from Mom, as she regales us with tales of an entire town that died because someone forgot to wash some food before preparing it. I gently chide, "You have to learn to start giving up some responsibility." She persists. Sonya and I take another picture: all that delicious cranberry sauce in the compost bin. We make another batch; we wash these cranberries thoroughly.

DECEMBER

I finish grad school applications and get a pint of Bailey's to celebrate. I carry it along to a craft night at Alison's and Kim's place on Saratoga. I learn how to make intricately woven snowflakes and garlands out of floss, popcorn, and cranberries. I feel unburdened.

New Years Eve, black and white everything. I slip into a cocktail dress, high-heel boots, jewelry, determined to look gorgeous. Ben fixes me a White Russian; I exclaim loudly that it doesn't seem to have any effect, until later on when I almost slip and fall on the dance floor. Each of us tangos with an enormous gourd, passing it off from person to person. Someone breaks out Set; upstairs there are movies. I meet someone new and get a nice welcome to 2010.

JANUARY

I send off a text message to friends as I ride the bus home. "I just gave my two weeks' notice..." Everyone is so enthusiastic with their congratulations, for a good two hours I frantically engage in multiple text conversations. I make a mental note that it truly says something when everyone is more excited for you to leave a job than to get one.

Over lunch at Obento-Ya, Rick offers up an avenue to get further plugged into the Asian American arts community and work on my own writing. I am stunned and excited, hiding my delight as best I can behind chopsticks and soup spoons busy at work. I say yes and my heart falls immediately. As the bill comes, I look out the window and contemplate the reality of an opportunity which I can only enjoy for a few months, amidst a surplus of opportunities that have already taken hold. That is, an opportunity arrived too late.

Kevin puts me and Craig on a three-way call as I walk home briskly from the library. The zip file of the manuscript has gone off successfully to the press, he reports. We give out short whoops to celebrate the end of an exhausting and debilitating run. After a moment, I say, "It's kinda anticlimactic, isn't it, to see your most important and exhaustive work you've ever done in your life get boiled down into a zip drive."

FEBRUARY

A few days into the family trip to Augusta and all I can really feel is an undercurrent of terror. As we watch the Saints get the lead on the Colts late in the Super Bowl, sealing an exuberant and long-awaited win, I console myself. At least now I've gotten to meet the Chinese community of my mother's roots I've so long mystified and idealized, I think. And now that I have, I can say without a doubt that I want nothing to do with them.

It's the week before I'm set to go on break in New Orleans and I feel awful. My stomach is bloated to the point of pain; I stop eating, but the situation doesn't alleviate. I nap for long periods throughout the day. My occasional walks outside are unbearable. For the first time in my life, my health is caught in an undertow and I have absolutely no idea how to drag myself out of it. Absolutely helpless. This must be what it's like to know you're dying, I think.

Arrive in New Orleans and Renee picks me up at the airport. We spend a good hour trying to make our way back into town and to one of the few grocery stores in the area. By the time we make it home it's dark. I learn that the house has no heat; I figure this is no big deal. Not much later I find out how wrong I am.

Anne throws me a welcome-back potluck at her apartment in the Marigny. Everyone who I thought had left is still here, and they all arrive. They look amazing, content. I head upstairs for what I think will be a short conference call; two hours later I return to the party, only to find most everyone has left for the night.

MARCH

At the Candlelight Lounge in New Orleans, I have a sudden onslaught of digestive troubles again. The toilet lacks a stall; the bathroom door lacks a lock. "You need to go poop?" grins one of the owners at me. "Don't worry, I'll watch it for ya. Just pay me five dollars and we're good." I have no cash on me, nor the patience for a raw deal tonight. I saunter out for a long and uncomfortable walk back home.

At Mardi Gras Zone I scan the aisles for prune juice, aloe vera juice, laxative tea. Later on in the night I head up to the second floor of Mimi's and down some whiskey. Just what the doctor ordered.

I greet Sarah at Jimmy's Diner in Williamsburg, NYC. At many a recommendation I get a load of fried food. The onion rings are amazing; I can only eat three. Later on we head for the Satellite Lounge. It's St. Pat's Day, but we're the only ones here. It's appreciated.

At Bluestockings Bookstore Kevin and I struggle to bind pamphlets with a shitty stapler. I race to take notes for our presentation before my laptop battery dies. I lean away from the sunlight that glares through the window onto my back.

The UNC faculty and students gather with prospectives in a bar; I get chatty. I learn quickly enough that I've been caught in the day's rumor mill; no one seems to understand why I'm still undecided. I start getting courted in a way that is both flattering and undesirable. On his way out, one professor takes an approach I like better. "Let me give you the hard sell," he says to me, waving his drink dramatically in the air at nothing. He pauses, then shrugs lackadaisically. "You come here, you can't go wrong." I join in the others' laughter.

There is an intricately constructed gazebo at the Seeds Community Garden in Durham, cleverly bound together with scrap construction metal, tree branches, and glass. I sit inside alone for many long minutes, watching, listening, breathing. It's the first peaceful moment I've had in ages.

Excited chatter heard through the kitchen door at Sonya and Matt's apartment. The crowd has grown tenfold for the brunch now that noon has arrived. I crack eggs in a potato-sausage casserole, then shove the cast-iron pan into the stove for a final baking. I'm dismayed to learn that the pan's handle prevents the oven door from closing. We open a window and let the oven bake both casserole and kitchen to a toasty finish.

Sonya grips hard at my hand while Lucky works on her ankle. I keep saying "You're doing good," but she seems to hear "You doing good?" and nods fretfully each time. By the time our matching tattoos are completed, she looks in the mirror and exclaims her approval. Once we get outside, her demeanor changes. "I think I'm having tattoo regret." She wears her regret all the way home from Jamaica Plain.

APRIL

Taxi from the airport to UA campus. The cabbie has all of his windows down; the deafening wind pounds at my face enough to be irritating, but I bite my lip and bear it. I pick my battles. We listen to Spanish radio and watch the desert fly by.

Conor is introducing me to everyone at a post-lecture reception. I struggle to remember names, titles. Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman in a black shawl smiling at me. She is either attracted, or amused at my fish-out-of-water scenario.

Long walk in the dead heat of daytime to an anarchist soccer game. We take our time; by the time we arrive it's pretty much ended. We drink lots of electrolyte water. Back home Conor plays Scottish folk music and I read bolo'bolo. A little later we drive as fast as we can down the roads of Gates Pass, hopping the crests of short hills, brushing by cacti.

Nighttime and I am hunting unsuccessfully for the backyard lights. The hot tub was recently repaired and I want to take advantage. Eventually I find a flashlight and slip off the cover, examining the control pad. Someone says - or I think someone says - 'Hello?' I race back into the house and lock the door. I pick my battles.