New York, NY
Showers and thundershowers likely. Humid. Low 72F. Winds W at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of rain 90%.
Weather for New York, NY
Rain! The sudden downpour was regarded by a bookseller on Driggs Avenue, Williamsburg as an auspicious act to wash the grime from the sidewalks, but most importantly, to cool down the air. Much-needed rain fell on the sidewalks for nearly half an hour with accompanying flashes of light right outside my picture window. I actually hate the physical nature of rain because it gets my expensive, designer clothes wet and my hair greasy. Carrying an umbrella is cumbersome especially when the hands of rain will reach for my shoulders or tickle the sides of my jeans. I dislike the rain mostly because it makes me uncomfortable. Emotionally uncomfortable. It makes me feel sticky, depressed, and ...not sure... Maybe even inadequate because I don't feel like doing anything; I feel like all my plans will have to be shredded because navigating the streets with pouring rain makes me feel heavy. That is why they say "caught in the rain," as the rain being something you undesirable. Hence people brave the rain by taking shelter under a store awning. But rain has always had an emotional aspect that inspires my songwriting and colored my perception of breakups and being stood up in the rain. I remember watching Michelle Branch's music video to her single All You Wanted and she was caught in the rain in the last minute of the video. Tonight was less humid but my family's fans are laboring normally and throughout the night.
As the rain began to fill the cracks of the sidewalk and lonesome cars came down the road creating a rolling hiss, I shared a few songs with my mom and dad in the living room. A picturesque moment almost unbelievable because I seldom spend time with them in the living room. When my parents first purchased a sofa nearly two years ago, they wanted to keep me home and furnish a soft surface for me to lounge on. But of course my fidgety nature and inability to stay still (My parents would call me, "suhn hun" which means body itches) prompts me to ignore the sofa and hit the streets almost every hour of the living day. So to actually sit down with my parents in the living room as a trio, as a family, was startling. I played three songs for my folks and hoped that they would notice how much my singing has improved. My parents have never supported my music career, but my dad gives it more worth than my mom because he acknowledges that I have a good voice. Sometimes I think that I got my voice from my dad. When we lived in Brooklyn my Dad asked me to record a few songs on my MP3 player. It was then I realized that my Dad had an amazing voice when he crooned his favorite Chinese songs like Green Island Serenade and high-pitched Chinese operatic ballads. My earliest memories of my dad singing reaches back to when I was in middle school. He used to sing when he cooked and when we sat down together for television. My Mom does not care so much for my music because she doesn't value much music as much as my Dad does. My Dad owns more than a hundred Chinese opera CDs and DVDs. My Mom always chastised me for wasting my time playing the guitar and wishing on a dream. She says that it is "mo yoong" which means useless and feckless/unproductive. I always retaliated by playing my guitar inside my room and closing the door behind them. I wonder if one day I will garner an award and I will shame my parents by thanking them for having zero faith in their son's musical talent. But this is ridiculous because without my parents I would never have existed. Sometimes my Mom would say that even her colleagues can sing better than me but they simply have no "hew hoi" which means support. When I first told my Mom about my busking adventures (I find it easier to tell my Mom things because if I told my Dad he would regard my interactions as precarious and naive/childish, especially in a dangerous city like New York City) she was passive about it. But after my Dad found out (I don't remember how he found out, but I suspect that my mom told him [DUH!]) both of my parents were up in arms. They wanted me to dismantle my weekend gig and return to my studies. They wanted me to stop losing face especially in the Chinese community and to stop performing at Grand Street where one Chinese person would catch sight of me, and it would mean that bad news travel fast: "Our son is a beggar." But as of last week my mom warned me against staying too long in the subway for fear of heat exhaustion and muscle aches. My Dad understands my need for cash, and on some levels I bet he is selfish not to share with me any of his social security money so he sees my busking as a way of not giving allowance so he can save money for himself. This is actually not true because my Dad constantly asks if I need money and he is more than happy to sacrifice his cash for my luxuries (bags, shirts, etc.). So my parents have become acclimated to my busking. They resign my busking to the back of their minds as a nothingness. They want nothing to do with it, as long as they are not shamed and they do not hear news of me "singing" in the subway. As long as I bring back money they are alright with it.
When I was showering fifteen minutes ago I realized that I haven't written anything in a long time. The last formal piece of writing was for my creative writing class. This was obviously a mandatory assignment so I had to produce it before the end of the semester. The last piece of writing that I read was at a AARI Conference held by Professor Leong who invited a few of his classmates to read their pieces on their neighborhoods. That was my first official reading when I had high hopes of becoming an in-demand author and orator almost as brilliant as my inspiration Simon van Booy who I met at the CUNY Graduate Center almost six months ago. It was interesting how I wanted to become a writer. I had a fever for writing and I honed my writing almost everyday. I attended the Asian American Writers Workshop's Open Mic nights and read my short pieces. I also attended Sin Rostro Open Mic nights where I would rendezvous with Diana and trade pieces. But lately I have not given consideration for Sin Rostro or AAWW. I seem to have forgotten about writing and I don't treat my blog updates as work of creative writing; I treat it as a hobby: when I think of typing a blog entry, I think of work and exhaustion. This is a real shame because my dreams of becoming a writer died as soon as my busking and music career reemerged like a leviathan.
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