Cutouts / Recollections

words by Anh Tim Phan and Hannah Shen

Cutouts From Pictures of My Childhood

Anh Tim Phan

1.

Driving a bulldozer through my apartment door so I can finally have a south facing window.  This way you can see both the sunrise and the sunset.  Cutting french toast in two to share with someone else, and doing this infinitely because I always want you to have the last piece.  In my dream where I attend your candle lit vigil, everything feels real including the hand gripping and clawing at my arm reminding me that it's okay to cry over someone I barely know.  I make a promise to myself not to forget all of this after I wake up, and opening my eyes in a cold sweat I understand what it means to say that I am alone but not always.

2.

I am visiting your childhood home, and your little sister runs up so I lift her and throw her into the air and she is not scared I will not catch her.  Your grandma is there to offer coconuts cut with machete to drink water and eat flesh, and I take these gifts with me into the dark.  I understood the vines hanging on your windowsill to be real moss.  And, in the dampness of our going away from each other the fog separating us is still able to breathe life into everything I forgot about.  Reading the letter you sent me from the farmer’s market, my desire to run away from everything is reignited and all the memories come flying in.  They clutter as kindling, embers spontaneously sparking, ashes and smoke making their way into my eyes, turning them bloodshot and red with the good sting of a numbing pain.  

3.

Today I decide to run away from home and start the next chapter of my life.  This one I will title recycling, because I am finally turning my old childhood into the new one I have always wanted, finding an escape from silence into silence.  Removing the seams from my old taekwondo uniform, a power rangers costume from my first halloween, and a boy scout handkerchief, I stitch together a jacket to keep me from getting cold now that I know to bundle up before playing in the snow.  On the sides are pockets for hand warmers and green oil, and embroidered on as a tag I write your birthday so there’s always some part of you cheering me on from back home.  Instead of zippers I attach buttons with a pattern of cymbals clashing with piano keys, and for the hood I decide on the color of a deep red maroony fish sauce slurry, coating my face the way you would pull on my eyelashes when I was younger and stare into whatever it was in yourself that you saw in me.  

4.

In Vietnamese, Anh is what you call your older brother.  To my younger sibling, who is always escaping and outrunning me.  Sometimes when I sleep I like to think that you are doing the same too, and that in this synchronized drifting we meet each other as falling leaves in an autumn wind, and until the wind starts blowing again I let pinecones tell me of shelter.  I come to in the middle of a summer spent in hotel rooms too spacious for just three people, and the truth is.  I never stopped looking for you, ever since it stormed hard on my body, and I wished that my purpose for facing everything head on was so that you wouldn’t have to. 

5.

Staring nose to nose with cats and dogs, and thinking about the possibility of being licked.  Forcing myself to ignore an innate fear of germs and stickiness in exchange for this act of affection , where I offer up a part of myself to be understood tactilely, the only way we both know how to. Because we are always leaving without a good reason to, and too  scared to ask each other why, until all we have left is the impression of my eyes on yours, an understanding that I am only able to fall asleep on your bedroom floor, and photos from what must be another country.

recollections of a wandering mind

Hannah Shen

I. slumbering

once upon a time

is how I remember many childhood fairytales start: to contextualize, to orient oneself in a setting that is Other; one recognizes the scene as make-believe—flights of fancy, gliding on the unfathomable heights of imagination; but I do not know how I ended up here, or how long I have been standing, cool water lapping at my ankles in perpetual silence; perhaps a few minutes, or an eternity has already passed, I do not know, but; I look behind me, and she smiles back, a tentative smile radiating innocence, so I show her my crude drawing, a pencil sketch from years ago of an imaginary cityscape, and she whispers to me, I recognize this place, let me bring you there, and she takes my hand and we soar, light as swallow-song drifting through the crisp morning air; a peaceful quiet looms over us as she gently leads me through the doorway, our shadows intertwining in the soft light; a white rabbit hops across our path, albino red eyes boring into mine, and I fall into the depths of its swirling pupils; and I see a headless cornsnake on my pillowcase and I scream, and I scream, and; no one hears as I watch the avalanche silently roar down the cliffside, approaching faster and faster, burying all in its gravity-destined path, yet never arriving—I, the silent spectator, bearing witness to the destruction being wrought on the world in front of me; I run away and I stumble upon a group of girls in the rosebushes, whispering to each other, hands cupped to ears and moving lips hidden, so I turn to her instead, and; she smiles, starts walking up to them, so I hold her back—and she flickers for a moment before tugging on my hand insistently, but I scorn her, her naivety disgusting me, and all else fades into inkiness; and as I caress with my fingertips the smooth silk of the surface of the lake, diaphanous, like gossamer—as the crescent sliver of silver moon floats above in the sky, nearly within reach—she falls away from me and

II. awakening

I open my eyes, lukewarm tears on my lashes; I extend my hand, try to grasp the dreams slipping from me, and—

is how I remember many childhood fairytales start: to contextualize, to orient oneself in a setting that is Other; one recognizes the scene a s make-be lie ve—flights of fancy, gliding on the unfathomable heights of imagination; but I do not know how I ended up here, or how long I have been standing , cool water lapping at my ankles in perpetual silence ; perhaps a few minutes, or an eternity has already passed, I do not know , but ; I look behind me, an d she smiles back, a tentative smile radiating innocence , so I show her my crude drawing, a pencil sketch from years ago of an imaginary cityscape, and she whispers to me , I recognize this place, let me bring you there, and she takes my hand and we soar , light as swallow-song drifting through the crisp morning air; a peaceful quiet looms over us as she gently leads me through the doorway , our shadows intertwining in the soft light; a white rabbit hops across our path, albino red eyes boring into mine, and I fall into the depths of its swirl ing pupils ; and I see a headless cornsnake on my pillowcase and I scream , and I scream, and; no one hears as I watch the avalanche silently roar down the cliffside, approaching faster and faster, burying all in its gravity-destined path, yet never arriving—I, the silent spectator, bear ing witness to the destruction being wrought on the world in front of me; I run away and I stumble upon a group of girls in the rosebushes, whispering to each other, hands cupped to ears and moving lips hidden, so I turn to her instead, and; she smiles, starts walking up to them, so I hold her back— and she flickers for a moment before tugging on my hand insistently, but I scorn her, her naivety disgusting me, and all else fades into inkiness; and as I caress with my fingertips the smooth silk of the surface of the lake, diaphanous, like gossamer— as the crescent sliver of silver moon floats above in the sky, nearly w it hin reach—she falls away from me and