Food Writing Elsewhere
Thanks for visiting! My recent writing is more likely to be found at NibbleKibble, a mostly Chicago-based food blog. (I can't believe I've neglected this one for such a long time...)
A source of motivation for an aspiring writer/editor/translater/photographer residing in Chicago. As such, there will be book and movie reviews, comparative cultural criticisms (of some sort), translated Japanese stories, photo essays, and so on.
Thanks for visiting! My recent writing is more likely to be found at NibbleKibble, a mostly Chicago-based food blog. (I can't believe I've neglected this one for such a long time...)
Aside from looking for intern positions in Chicago involving writing, I'm beading.
In this article on CTA Tattler, Kimberli reports a commuter pervert on CTA's Red Line who takes one of the single seats facing each other at the end of the train car and exposes his erect penis to unfortunate female commuters sitting in the opposite seat. This criminal pervert takes advantage of the isolated nature of these specific seats, which prevents other commuters from witnessing his act.
I had a dream. It was a very wrethced dream that kept me tossing and turning in the wee hours of the night, but I only remember one thing: my boyfriend's signature was different from the one I'm familiar with. Patrick's signature consists only of his first name, and is done in one of those unintelligible way with violent lines jerking up and down. In my dream, he signed something with his full name, and his handwriting was round and rather cutzy. Somehow the difference in his signatures bothered me a lot in the dream.
As one of the million amateur photographers in need of occasional pettings on our artsy-fartsy ego, I use Flickr. Last Thursday, I posted a few black and white photographs of my legs and left hand, which I decided to call "self-pornorate."
On my fifth birthday, my mother bought me a garish pink notebook with an illustration of a house with perspective problems, inhabited by a family of grinning purple dogs. She wrote on the back of its front cover in her large, round handwriting: "A gift to Yu for your 5th birthday. Keep a diary every day. Mom." I don't know what she expected a five-year-old to keep diary about. But I was to write something in it, every day. Anything.
It was the slowest CTA train I've ever taken. It took me an hour and a few minutes to get from Jackson to Morse. Even worse, the train stopped a few hundred yards from the Morse station. I don't know why--I could see the track ahead, and there was no "crew working on track ahead" as their daily "we're sorry, we're being delayed" announcements always suggest. I was on the famous "blessed train" (whose conductor has a rather jolly disposition and announces that he's grateful that the customers are on his blessed train, slipping in some varying lectures on the virtues of being grateful and so on), but I wasn't blessed enough to know what was going on. When the train had been stopped for seven minutes, in sight of the station, a woman got up her seat, shaking her head and mumbling something in her mouth. It was clear that she was far more irritated than the rest of us, who were, in our own lights, pretty pissed ourselves. She pried open the heavy door to the next car.
Pure white feathers fell from the sky, one by one, like extra-large snow flakes that covered the ground a few days ago. It oculdn't have been snow, the air was too warm, too spring-like for snow. The feathers landed on the yet leafless bush in someone's front yard, and I noticed many more trapped among the intricacy of the shrubbery. I looked up puzzled. The feathers poured from a point in a tall tree, where two branches grew in their separate ways. Something moved behind one of the branches. I walked a few steps to get a better view. It was a small hawk, white throat and belly with dark brown spots, feeding on a pigeon. As it picked the fluffy mass at its talons, more and more white feathers, no, they were now softer downs, came flowing down to the shrubbery, to the ground. Tiny sparrows chirped in the tree a few feet from the grim feast. The hawk buried its compact head in the invisible flesh of the pigeon, probably still warm and tender. It seemed miraculous that none of the many, many feathers and downs did not bear the bloody mark of the violent death.