HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Tuesday, August 12, 2008 bayard street last week in the city. it's one week shy of 3 months in manhattan. i think i've learnt much, if not about publishing, at least about the city. today i am stressed by work. today was a lot of calls, a lot of press releases. tomorrow is a lot of galleys to be sent out, and i brought work home tonight. sometimes i want to throw my arms about michael. he's one of the assistant publicists, in charge of the poetry and cookbooks and other miscellaneous things, he sits around with plaid shirts, and says pedantic things, and feels sorry for the interns, and is just very nice. someone from a book packaging company called me today, they got my resume ages ago, and asked if i was interested in interning with them. what i like about publishing is that it feels like we're all in a miserable boat. nobody knows how the hell they got there. "you have nice dimples," said the woman in the subway today. "why, thank you," i said. "i get off on the wrong stop constantly," she said. then we talked about how wonderful williamsburg bridge was, the yankees stadium. in the cantonese eatery today, i sat in front of a very old man. i go to the place often, i come alone because it's cheap and reminds me of china. it reminds me of the nights in shandong, when i'd finish teaching the korean kids, and take the bus to the hole-in-the-wall-restaurant where an old man and his wife cooked while holding their dog in their hands. but i am not in shandong, i am in new york now, bayard street, chinatown. this is a small 7-table family restaurant, with everything written in fan ti chinese, and where everyone speaks cantonese. i usually come with a manuscript, and i sit down with a plate of rice, fish and vegtables, a cup of grass jelly. i am the only one who cannot speak cantonese. but the proprietor likes me. in the beginning when i did not know the place, and could not recognise the fan ti words, i'd ask him, what should i eat? he'd mumble something incomprehensible in cantonese, point somewhere in the menu, and i'd say, all right, i'll have that. the first time that happened, he came out with a plate of rice, drowned in runny egg, battered fish, and pearls of corn. i swear i could have wept. so today, i sat in front of a very old man. he ate very slowly, he had pockets full of stuff. he was wearing a hat, and people seemed to know him. he ordered herbal soup, rice, and one chinese sausage. he reminded me of my grandfather. and then he left. i talked to leon today. i told him about my crazy plan to wake up at 5 on saturday, take the first bus in to new jersey, take the car, drive up, move my stuff, get my friend, drive out of the city. help me?, i asked. but it's my fucking birthday, he said, i'd be drinking the night before. leon's birthday is the same as sam's birthday, i remembered, sitting in the deli, waiting for the passing shower to end. it has been a long time since i talked to him. sam is a good kid, we had some fun times, but we wouldn't have worked out. today i read that m ravi was arrested, apparently for disturbing the peace in a mosque. i wonder how the papers responded to it. i wonder what is worse: the flurry of voices in america that fight to be heard, because there are so many voices struggling to be heard, performing to the watchers, they no longer hold any credibility, or value. or is this worse: a pregnant silence? last night i wrote to justin. he sent me the link to a blog "an american in singapore," that florence, his mom, sweet woman, sent him, with me in mind. i told him how much that blog disturbed me. i didn't tell him it offended me. i told him that too much emphasis on understanding cultural differences is to simply reinforce your point of reference, and then you will always be alone, thinking "ah, but in my country..." i told him that the moment one loses a point of reference is the beginning of true empathy. posted by dawn # 6:12 PM Comments: i increasingly feel nowadays that i've lost my point of reference. or i just have too many, and thus might as well have none. anyway, emailllllllllll. :) love lots -chit # posted by tanu : 4:46 AM it's like a permanently cntrl-f5ing situation pak # posted by Anonymous : 6:23 AM i emailed! what is control f5? # posted by dawn : 11:16 AM refreshing. and you need to talk to me! soon! i have much to tell you, and a bit of sadness. pak # posted by Anonymous : 2:16 AM Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . 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HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

bayard street

last week in the city. it's one week shy of 3 months in manhattan. i think i've learnt much, if not about publishing, at least about the city. today i am stressed by work. today was a lot of calls, a lot of press releases. tomorrow is a lot of galleys to be sent out, and i brought work home tonight. sometimes i want to throw my arms about michael. he's one of the assistant publicists, in charge of the poetry and cookbooks and other miscellaneous things, he sits around with plaid shirts, and says pedantic things, and feels sorry for the interns, and is just very nice. someone from a book packaging company called me today, they got my resume ages ago, and asked if i was interested in interning with them. what i like about publishing is that it feels like we're all in a miserable boat. nobody knows how the hell they got there. "you have nice dimples," said the woman in the subway today. "why, thank you," i said. "i get off on the wrong stop constantly," she said. then we talked about how wonderful williamsburg bridge was, the yankees stadium.

in the cantonese eatery today, i sat in front of a very old man. i go to the place often, i come alone because it's cheap and reminds me of china. it reminds me of the nights in shandong, when i'd finish teaching the korean kids, and take the bus to the hole-in-the-wall-restaurant where an old man and his wife cooked while holding their dog in their hands. but i am not in shandong, i am in new york now, bayard street, chinatown. this is a small 7-table family restaurant, with everything written in fan ti chinese, and where everyone speaks cantonese. i usually come with a manuscript, and i sit down with a plate of rice, fish and vegtables, a cup of grass jelly. i am the only one who cannot speak cantonese. but the proprietor likes me. in the beginning when i did not know the place, and could not recognise the fan ti words, i'd ask him, what should i eat? he'd mumble something incomprehensible in cantonese, point somewhere in the menu, and i'd say, all right, i'll have that. the first time that happened, he came out with a plate of rice, drowned in runny egg, battered fish, and pearls of corn. i swear i could have wept. so today, i sat in front of a very old man. he ate very slowly, he had pockets full of stuff. he was wearing a hat, and people seemed to know him. he ordered herbal soup, rice, and one chinese sausage. he reminded me of my grandfather. and then he left.

i talked to leon today. i told him about my crazy plan to wake up at 5 on saturday, take the first bus in to new jersey, take the car, drive up, move my stuff, get my friend, drive out of the city. help me?, i asked. but it's my fucking birthday, he said, i'd be drinking the night before. leon's birthday is the same as sam's birthday, i remembered, sitting in the deli, waiting for the passing shower to end. it has been a long time since i talked to him. sam is a good kid, we had some fun times, but we wouldn't have worked out.

today i read that m ravi was arrested, apparently for disturbing the peace in a mosque. i wonder how the papers responded to it. i wonder what is worse: the flurry of voices in america that fight to be heard, because there are so many voices struggling to be heard, performing to the watchers, they no longer hold any credibility, or value. or is this worse: a pregnant silence? last night i wrote to justin. he sent me the link to a blog "an american in singapore," that florence, his mom, sweet woman, sent him, with me in mind. i told him how much that blog disturbed me. i didn't tell him it offended me. i told him that too much emphasis on understanding cultural differences is to simply reinforce your point of reference, and then you will always be alone, thinking "ah, but in my country..." i told him that the moment one loses a point of reference is the beginning of true empathy.

posted by dawn # 6:12 PM

Comments:

i increasingly feel nowadays that i've lost my point of reference. or i just have too many, and thus might as well have none. anyway, emailllllllllll. :) love lots

-chit

# posted by

tanu : 4:46 AM

it's like a permanently cntrl-f5ing situation

pak

# posted by

Anonymous : 6:23 AM

i emailed!
what is control f5?

# posted by

dawn : 11:16 AM

refreshing.

and you need to talk to me! soon! i have much to tell you, and a bit of sadness.

pak

# posted by

Anonymous : 2:16 AM