20041029
everybody was kung fu fighting
ahahaha... i really like this song. a faith-based young adults organization i used to hang out with composed a dance to it. everyone was filipino, but they wore chinese and japanese suits, coz filipiniana stuff ain't available, accessible and affordable around here. it makes me laugh. HUUUUUUWAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!
(tangent: yes. it was a song on kung fu, after all. ahahaha.)
there's a book titled after it: Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting by vijay prashad.
i first saw the book at the asian american writer's workshop web site. last september i had a chance to visit AAWW's offices and nearly cleaned the place of books i'd been looking for. i also stumbled upon some real treasures, like luis francia's poetry collection "the arctic archipelago" and "the ravens 2" anthology.
(HOLLA AT THE MAMA!!!! while she still has cash to splurge. coz she'll be shoved in the dark when when she becomes destitute again. mwahahaha. i just wish i can keep on saving money so i can keep on collecting books!!!)
AAWW's offices are on the second floor of a building downtown, 16 west 32nd street, suite 10-a, new york, ny. i stepped in to a dark open space, lights to my right shined on a low, wooden stage. the white back wall serves as the backdrop, paper cranes taped all over it. the stage lights cast yellow, the only light in the room. two four feet tall bookcases greeted me, but i wanted to start from the very beginning - two more bookcases half-full set against a far wall. a couple people were talking the reason for the workshop. others hunkered over desks, working. i've never been there before, but everything seemed familiar, welcome, unthreatening.
you can imagine rough poems declared from that small stage. you can hear them rent comfortable cocoons clear across the room. you can feel the edges of blunt knives clip excess ego, imagined fears. you can imagine daylight expose newborns. there isn't blood. but the souls who've passed this way have polished the room into a home. peace has passed this way.
i settled in front of the books. there were four people working in the office area, one of them reached for a string dangling in the middle of the room to switch on a light. i noticed a sala set to one side of the room. against the back wall, more shelves, from floor to ceiling, but empty. more shelves to my host's left, but half-full. "here's a stool if you need one," my host, a girl who worked there, said, smiling. i took it. she pointed to free books waiting in a box on the coffeetable. all these stories in pages, and yet there remains a thousand more to tell. ¶ 10/29/2004 04:45:00 PM
(tangent: yes. it was a song on kung fu, after all. ahahaha.)
there's a book titled after it: Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting by vijay prashad.
i first saw the book at the asian american writer's workshop web site. last september i had a chance to visit AAWW's offices and nearly cleaned the place of books i'd been looking for. i also stumbled upon some real treasures, like luis francia's poetry collection "the arctic archipelago" and "the ravens 2" anthology.
(HOLLA AT THE MAMA!!!! while she still has cash to splurge. coz she'll be shoved in the dark when when she becomes destitute again. mwahahaha. i just wish i can keep on saving money so i can keep on collecting books!!!)
AAWW's offices are on the second floor of a building downtown, 16 west 32nd street, suite 10-a, new york, ny. i stepped in to a dark open space, lights to my right shined on a low, wooden stage. the white back wall serves as the backdrop, paper cranes taped all over it. the stage lights cast yellow, the only light in the room. two four feet tall bookcases greeted me, but i wanted to start from the very beginning - two more bookcases half-full set against a far wall. a couple people were talking the reason for the workshop. others hunkered over desks, working. i've never been there before, but everything seemed familiar, welcome, unthreatening.
you can imagine rough poems declared from that small stage. you can hear them rent comfortable cocoons clear across the room. you can feel the edges of blunt knives clip excess ego, imagined fears. you can imagine daylight expose newborns. there isn't blood. but the souls who've passed this way have polished the room into a home. peace has passed this way.
i settled in front of the books. there were four people working in the office area, one of them reached for a string dangling in the middle of the room to switch on a light. i noticed a sala set to one side of the room. against the back wall, more shelves, from floor to ceiling, but empty. more shelves to my host's left, but half-full. "here's a stool if you need one," my host, a girl who worked there, said, smiling. i took it. she pointed to free books waiting in a box on the coffeetable. all these stories in pages, and yet there remains a thousand more to tell. ¶ 10/29/2004 04:45:00 PM
