Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh

Tag: history

  • On A Woman’s Story by Annie Ernaux

    On returning to the quiet joy of reading, one discovers that some stories are not only theirs but yours too. Annie Ernaux’s A Woman’s Story was one of those stories—hers and mine.

    It was one of the days I visited my mom at the convalescent hospital for the elderly when I started reading this story, sitting by her bedside. Call it providence if you are religious or coincidence otherwise, but I wasn’t expecting it to become my story as well about my mom, who had been hospitalized since her stroke in January of this year. It was as though Ernaux was speaking to me as a daughter to daughter about her mom and mine, collapsing time and place and the cultural and social differences between us. No wonder I wanted to finish reading it at one sitting.

    This book is not of a certain literary genre. To call it a biography of her childhood and her mom’s influence on her misses the point of why it took her a year to finish the book. It’s much more than that. The absence of her mom made the author realize her mom’s place in her memory. Her mother was the first witness to Ernaux entering the world naked, and later, to her becoming the woman she is. It’s both a biological and an existential view of the author’s raison d’être. That there is no longer anyone on the other side of the first relationship, which has ended forever. It aches. It lingers. It evanesces. And before all of this will vanish into the ether, Ernaux lives to tell about the presence that was so familiar with her being that not seeing, hearing, and feeling it is painful to bear without letting it take the form of writing because writing is personal yet public, pensive but assertive, and quiet but powerful.

    I can understand the kind of ache the author felt after her mother’s death. Whether you loved her or not, you would never see her in life again. She may live in your vision of the past, but her person as a presence does not exist in this world. And that realization of forever disappearance would throw you into the abyss, stifled, blinded, and muffled—by the ineffable sorrow mixed with mystical longing.

    I think about my mom and me. What if she leaves this world soon—tomorrow, the day after, or anytime soon? Oftentimes, I wake up with indescribable terror at the thought that soon I will lose her to eternity if I breathe, like a panic attack. And it dawns on me that it is this feeling of detachment from the relationship, as the bond between mom and daughter is severed forever.

  • Afterwards

    The haze of the great fires
    lingers beneath the evening sun
    in soft sunshine shadows;
    Every shadow sheds tears
    on the dust of the memories
    Windswept in allwhither.

    P.S.: Today, during the mass, the priest said some parishioners lost their homes due to the Great Fire this week and could not attend the mass. Presumably, they should live in Pasadena, about 15 minutes from where I live in the heart of Los Angeles, CA. It reminded me of the Great Fire of London (09/02/1666 to 09/06/1666), which was said to result from a fire in a bakery in the city. I have never seen anything to that effect in my life. I can still smell the burning, and the ashes from the fires scatter around the city. I hope those affected by the fires will have the care and help they need promptly and effectively. 

  • Prompt 201 on small improvement

    What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?

    all the heartaches give me headaches.

    I try not to overthink about things I can’t change or control. I care too much about people’s reactions and feelings at work and home because, as someone with acute sensory perceptions, all my nerves are tuned to the reception, making them exhausted and pained.

    For example, I get very agitated by the total silence created by the other in a room. I have a co-worker who says nothing all day, as if I were invisible in the same office. It bothers me and makes me uncomfortable. I then try to analyze and reason for such behavior, always finding faults in me for being introverted. It only makes my already complex psyche intricated like Gordion’s Knot that only can be let loose by one fell swoop of Alenxader’s sword.

    Alexander and the Gordion’s Knot

    But I don’t need Alxander’s help to cut the Gordian’s Knot because I have the sword. It is Excaliber in my mind that is waiting for me to wield it. With one fell swoop of the blade, I will be able to cut the intricate knot of wrecked nerves, troubled neurons, and interrupted connections between the sparks of the thoughts that will clear away the impurities on the mind so that I can have a clear mind and lively spirit.

  • Recollection of the Alhambra

    Alhambra (Alhambra de Granada): image credit from viator.com
    He came down from the throne of the crescent moon
    with the key to the paradise his ancestors gardened
    for eight hundred years of harmony in Saracen haven
    to the hands of the pious proud king and queen posing
    to accept it as the Christian champions emboldened
    by the surrender of the ruler of the Iberian paradise; 

    Yesterdays, yesteryears, and to the last of the time
    crept upon the waters of the palatial fountains thence
    and began to fill the heart of the sultan of the palace
    whose eyes billowed streams of nostalgia’s longings
    on his hallow cheeks and to the back of his horse
    together, leaving the fortress of a thousand memories; 

    And Fate, whose wings did he fly? Now, all’s bygone-
    Those melodies of sweet sojourns beneath visting suns
    in the neverending abundance of warmth and mirth-
    when every regret, every sorrow turned back his looks, 
    Every look shed tears in the shadow of the evening sun,
    lingering in the recollection of the Alhambra Palace.

  • On the Nancy’s Steps

    Photo Credit: Londonist
    Source: https://londonist.com/london/history/where-are-nancy-s-steps-and-why-do-they-lie-to-us

    There are stairs called “Nancy’s Steps”
    at the London Bridge on the Thames
    where Nancy used to walk up and down
    from her den to the world, back to the den
    to live a life God cared less with neglect
    with nothing more than her untainted heart
    flowing milk of kindness and compassion
    into the neverending faith of humanity alone
    Even if it betrayed her and bullied her in tatters;
    She pitied an orphaned boy named Oliver
    And protected himself from the world under
    Until the blindfolded Goddess Fortuna span
    The Wheel of Fortune to the fateful turn
    To which all her wishes were forefeited
    As her already wretched body was battered
    With the compass of the wheel bludgeoned
    Her life with the heart cherished with love;
    With the blows upon her still young head
    all her hopes for the beauty of life shattered
    and her tears rolling down her cold cheeks
    turned into liquid drops of pearls and crystals,
    and then, with a cry of the heart, she departed.
    or thought she, for she knew not what happened
    from dusk till dawn, wandering and waiting
    on the fateful steps, asking if you’d seen the boy.

  • Prompt 37

    What technology would you be better off without, why?

    Being a transient generation privileged with the Dolby system on CD and DVD to the digital sound of streaming music and movies, I opine that a fax machine with manual feeders should be enshrined in the Museum of Civilization for Posterity. 🤓