The Loneliness Eatery

What you’re offering to your “clients” are, the imaginations, the making of their dreams come true, a place to test out the, waters a bit…translated…

A year ago, at a common usage space, I’d used the nighttime, opened up an experimental restaurant, called the place, “The Loneliness Eatery”, because I’d felt, that everything starts with, lonely; at the time, due to the differences of how to operate, I’d, withdrawn from a family-style diner that my friend and I started up, I guess, I was, lonely then.

The eatery was designed to have only, one server.  I’m not a good cook, but, I’d, demonstrated, which showed, that “it’s okay too”, that “I don’t need to work too hard for this dream”.

My means of operation is $100 entrance, my guests will eat whatever I prepared for them, and, in the means of having the enough items being provided, all-you-can-eat.  During this trial period, most of whom who’d come to eat, are my friends, or friends of friends, as for the strangers, there were, some too, those who got curious, passing by, who’d, entered, the neighbors, the passersby, and those foreigners, who’d stayed, in Taiwan.  Some of whom know me, some of whom, don’t, but everybody sat together, chatting away, eating the meals, and, from time to time, there would be the desserts, or fruits that the guests had, brought over, if not, I’d, steeped up a pot of tea, that we can, eat the watermelon seeds, if they were, available at the time.

the “shopfront” that the writer opened in a distant location, photo from online

Sometimes, friends would bring by their own dishes, primarily, to, share, another, they felt that me charging only $100 is way too cheap, worried that I may be, losing money, wanted to add more food to what I have, and, there would be someone who’d shouted at me, “I’m cleaning up my fridge today”, then, brought over massive amounts of foods from her/his fridge that’s, about overdue (there were the surprising items, like the wild mullets’ eggs).  I’d treated this as “winning the lotto”, this don’t normally happen though, but when it had, I’d be, super, excited.  What’s surprising about this shop, was not necessarily the foods all the time, but how there would be those lonely who’d shown up, playing the guitars, to share what they’d seen, to recite a poem that meant something to them to the rest.

I’d called my eatery as an experiment, because the modes of operation, and how this place is run, it’s, an invitation: if you want to start a diner, a restaurant, wanted to practice before you actually go for it, get into the markets first, test the waters, a bit, before you poured large amounts of cash down onto remodeling, onto making your dreams of owning and operating a restaurant happen, then, you can, file for an application with me, one, two days, five to ten, fine for me, and, if your “shop” worked out well, you can, come back and host the meal experiences at any time, and dream away.

But, how about the rent?  Seeing how this is, a sort of a “halfway house” to help people go towards their dreams, there’s no charge for the rents, I only request, that people pay me fifteen-percent of their days’ earnings, and, it’s up to them that they actually, paid me.  Of course, I also provided the equipment, the gas stoves, the rice cooker, the oven, the pots, the pans, everything, then, if what I provide is a bit lacking, then, my clients can bring their own in.  In continuing this, there were couples who’d come to open a “trial-run” patisserie, the siblings who’d opened a “hidden eatery” with the small bookshop, and there were those who’d come, solely, for the need to empty their, fridge, to get rid of the items in their fridge that’s, about to, be overdue, the one-day-running “Temporary Lonely Eatery”, and, during that period, we’d started playing the game of relay, and, attracted those who are, lonely like us.

Then, the pandemic came, and my life started, changing.  As the pandemic slowed, the landlord wanted the space back to remodel, and, this “common space” ended.  Awhile ago, I’d heard from the landlord, that he’d wanted to sell the space, and listed it at a very high price.  Some time ago, I’d learned, that the landlord adjusted the rent by two thousand dollars N.T. cheaper than what he’d rented to me with, and rented the space out to his friend, such a, lonely, space.

And so, this space is, just vacant, waiting for someone to come, to occupy it for a while, it served as a transition place, because, nobody ever stays, and that’s just, sad, I mean, think on it, if you were this sort of a space, wouldn’t you want someone, to set up shop inside, and just, stay???

But, this is an experimental space, and, everybody knew, that it’s not, permanent, and until someone decided WHAT this space should be used for, this location will keep on “living” in transition, kinda like how before we settle down to doing what we’re meant to do with our lives, we’re still also, in transition too…

The Construction Workers Tearing Down the Scaffolds

These are the, blue collar workers, who are, working, EVEN harder, than the rest of us, in our, comfy cubicles, inside the air-conditioned, office buildings here…salute to them all!  Translated…

photo taken by the writer…courtesy of UDN.com

As the weather became more and more, extreme, the heat that gets hotter in the summertime had now become, the, norm, we started sweating like crazy, just, working around the house, let alone, mentioning those, who are, working out in the heated weather, under, the hot and, scorching, sun, and my heart goes out to every one of these, blue collar workers every time I see them.  There was a construction site opposite my home that’s more than twenty-stories tall, that day came, the noises of the people, living on the higher floors, I got to see what was going on, turned out, that the construction workers were, taking down those, scaffolds.  They were, sweeping up the trash, cleaning up their, work areas, walking freely, and agilely too, I was, truly in awe, of how they’d labored, so hard under the scorching sun, and their, guts of, not fearing, the heights too.

So, these are, the hardworking means of, the blue-collar workers, while the rest of us, are comfy, in our air-conditioned office cubicles, these are the true hardworking people, who are, using their abilities, agilities, their skills, to make their own, living, and they should be, commended for their, hard work.

We Don’t Have Your Size, on Surviving the Job

How the woman was only needing someone to, listen to her pour her heart out, and this clerk had, offered her, just that, and, made the sales, because he’d treated his client, with the respect, instead of, just, that, dollar sign, and that, is the RIGHT way of, doing, business…translated…

The Store Clerk Carefully, Skipped the Sensitive Words, Didn’t DARE Tell the Female Customer that Her Feet were Too Big, to Not Hurt Her, But, without Any Verbal Explanation, That’d Only Made the Female Customer Start Agitating………..

Back in my thirties, I’d once worked as a part-time employee at a shoe store.

At the time, I couldn’t find a job, and saw the “For Hire” sign posted on the windows of the shoe store close to home, and even though, this work, for someone who’s in her thirties, is ill-fitted, but for the sake of the pay, I’d still, gone into the store, and asked for a, job.

The younger sales clerk, was a bit thrilled, as she’d, handed me the application, and I’d, started, thinking of how I was, going to put in all those, odds-and-ends job I’d done before, nothing glorious, each transfer into a brand new unit, meant how unstable I was, how I was, too stubborn, resistant, how I was, too careless, in choosing to, quit.  After I was done, a man who seemed a bit older than I came to apply too, during those years, the enterprises here in Taiwan were, moving to China, the companies had more choices of who they wanted to hire, and they’d, mostly preferred those who are, fresh off the markets, the newly graduates, in the thirties, working at the places, even if it was for full-time positions, that’s, a bit, old.

illustration from UDN.com

A ton of people are forced to find work in China, those who refused to leave, doesn’t mean they’re abandoned, and can only get left behind by the, times, and this male manager of the shop is one of them, thankfully, he was successful in changing tracks, and so, he’d felt empathy toward me, who’s still, sorting through the want-ads on the papers.  He’d told me, “although you’re, older than all of our, full-time employees, but that’s okay, if you’re willing to do it, willing to work hard, learning the skills in this field, that’ll do.”  Perhaps, it’s how many times I’d, hit the walls in my finding a job, when I was, “picked” for this field of work I’d never been in, it’d felt like I’d, won the, lotto, and I didn’t care, that the payrate was only $80N.T.s an hour.

The contents of my work is getting the shoes that the customers needed from other stores that have their sizes, if we didn’t have the sizes, then the clerks would use the computer to search for all the chains to see which one had the sizes, then I’d, straddled on my scooter, gone to, pick the shoes, up.  When there’s no customers, I’d, swept up the floors, and when the customers came in, I’d gone in to the warehouse, to search for what they asked for.  There are usually, thousands of pairs in stock, other than the differences of men’s, women’s, and a few others styles that I could tell by the outside of the shoeboxes, the rest, I’d, had to, differentiate using the barcode numbers.

At the start, because I hadn’t gotten acquainted with what each barcode stood for, I’d often, gotten lost, in the labyrinth of the shoeboxes, and had to wait for the formal employee to come and rescue me.  Those numbers, randomly connected into a long line was actually the style, the sizes, the years they were out, the manufacturing countries…………that’s, the mores code that only those in the sales department can decode and, decipher.

Back then, there’s no online access yet, let alone, google map, it took me many months, to finally get acquainted with the dozens of chain stores, along with deciphering the codes on those, shoeboxes.  Later, as the customers are lined up in the shop, I’d entered, the sales agents line too, having worked in the karaoke, five-star hotel for years on end, I don’t get, shy, the manager also, gave me all the tricks he’d, picked up on how to make the sales, without holding a thing back too, and, after a few turns, I could, actually, do it on my own, and I’d, made a lot of, sales.

Guessing the reason, I’m thinking, that it was because I could, take every client’s feet into my hand, like they’re cherished, treated their feet with, the highest esteem, and, work hard, to find that pair of, fitting shoes for them individually.  That was, the skills that came from, the accumulations of, the years, the older part-time employees, so long as someone is, willing to train us, as long as we’re willing to learn, we are still, full of, advantage for work.

But, no matter how hard I’d sold the shoes, I still only made, $80N.T.s by the hour, and had to, pay for my own gas, and all my sales are, given to the full-time employees when I’d, worked.  But I really didn’t, CARE!  So long as I can make enough to keep myself alive, besides, those who are senior in work, all showed me, the respects, and, as I had to take days off without prior notices, the manager was, more than, understanding of me, getting along with others at work, was WAY more important than how much I was, earning.

Sold the shoes for three whole years, I’d, come across countless, customers, and there was a woman that I remembered the most.

The shop just opened up, and a woman passed through the display window, and pushed the door in, had her eyes on a pair, and asked the clerk to bring the size she was for her to try on.  The clerk took out the measuring tool, placed it onto the floors, asked her to take her shoes off, she’d put her feet on, moved her body forward, to get the length of her feet, measured.  As the clerk saw that her feet were twenty-five centimeters long, immediately told her, “We don’t have anything that will fit you.”

Mostly, after the measurements, we’d added one, to two inches to the shoe size, and that woman’s measurement was twenty-five inches, at least, she’d had to be fitted with twenty-five-and-a-half or twenty-six, problem being, the shoes for female that we carry only got up to twenty-five.  Or, maybe, there are the female customers who are, willing to, squeeze their feet into shoes that were, a bit, smaller, but, we are, the, number one chain shoe store, and, nobody working here would, risk that, and sold the unfitting shoes to our, clients.

measuring for her shoe size…photo from online

The clerk carefully, selected the words, didn’t dare tell the woman that her feet were, too, huge, to keep her from getting hurt, but, the clerk’s lack of explanation caused upset in the female client, “I didn’t even try the shoes yet, how do you know they won’t, fit?” and the air, froze up, waiting by the side, I’d, gone up to her immediately to ask her, which pair she wanted to try on?  And gone to retrieve a pair immediately for her.

The woman covered her face, pointed to a pair, I’d, used my quickest speed, gone into storage, found the pair.  And, as she’d, put her feet into the shoes, there was, still, an index finger’s space, and, all the signs showed, that the shoes, fitted.  But, how come, something this, illogical had, happened in this chain shoe store where I worked?  Reason is, that our shoes are from, three different countries, and they all had a different way of measuring the sizes, some areas, the shoe last are wider, the pair she’d selected, was one of those, which caused the clerk to, misjudge.  There are a ton of exceptions to the rules, and, don’t get to set up in your minds about it, don’t become overly confident of your experiences, that way, you won’t have that many, issues.

It’s just, that what made me mind was how overreactive the female client was, it’d felt, that there was, something else going on with her, so I’d, tried getting her to tell me what it was, “are you, okay?”

selecting a pair, she wanted…photo from online

She’d wiped her tears away, settled her self back down, told, that she was a daughter who’s already, married, that her father fell ill of late, her  older brother didn’t do a thing to help, it was only her, she’d had to sort through the matters in her husband’s family, her own children, she’d burnt on, multiple ends, that’s why she’d, lost it.  So, she’d been, carrying too much, and wanted to buy a pair of shoes, to reward herself for all the hard work she’d been, doing, and, the clerk rained on her, parade.

As she’d, let go of her heavy moods, she stepped out, walking around the new shoes for that “test drive”, like a child, she’d proven, that her feet weren’t, too, oversized.  “look, I can, fit into them, they’re, just, right!”, I’d felt, that what she was saying was, “I had it hard, caring for my father all alone on my own, but I want to, keep going”, I’d smiled at her, and, thought of the elders I have at home, needing the care too, that road of, long-term care, it’s, easy for the caretaker and the cared for to easily, get trapped, and lost inside, that desert.

“You’d had it hard!”, I’d told her.

On selling the shoes, I’m no, expert, really, it’s just, that I’m, really good at, listening and am very, observant to my clients’ needs.  And in the end, she’d bought two pairs of shoes from me, spent close to $6,000N.T..s, I hope, those two pairs of shoes, can help her, swiftly, get through, the quicksand of her, life.

And so, this just showed, how easily we overlooked the needs of others, this client, she may be looking for shoes, but actually she wanted to pour her heart out, and this clerk had, become, the one whom she’d, poured her heart out to, this showed about the importance of listening, but, we often, get sidetracked by everything else that’s, going on, we’d, forgotten what’s most basic in relating to each other, to connect with them, to listen to their, needs, instead of zooming in on the sales quota, and how to make the dollar, because people are, always, MORE important!

Graced by that Dish of Field Asters

Someone long ago, who’d, shown you the ropes at the job you were transferred to work in, in a, foreign land, that you’d, remembered his, kindness, and carried that feel of gratitude inside of your heart, for all this, time…translated…

That winter, I was transferred to the field office in Shanghai, and, as I’d, agreed to my manager, J’s asking, I’d not thought things through thoroughly, I’d, just, broken off an engagement, going abroad to work, that’s, an, opportunity.

For my transfer, J had gone all out, in fighting for my rights, including the wages, the days off, the roundtrip airfare to and from Taiwan and China, the hotel charges, my apartment while working in China, even the moving fees, J worked really hard, to get these for me from the company; and privately, as big as opening up my account locally, setting up my travels, to getting me a good discounted phone cards, giving me the reminders of the weather changes, and the transportation means, J had told the coworkers, to watch my back.  And so, before I flew out, there was, basically, nothing that I needed to, completely, it was like, getting a brand new workstation at work.

The weekend I’d arrived, J took me to a restaurant in Shanghai, it wasn’t too spacious, but the place was cleanly, delicate, with that feel of homeness.  I’m not familiar with the styles of food, and, even if I’m usually a glutton, but back then, I’d, lacked the settledness to enjoy the dining experiences, getting stuck in the chaotic relationship then, it’d felt like I was a refugee, no matter where I’d, gone, and naturally, food didn’t, matter to me.  I remembered that he’d ordered four entrees with a soup, and, I can’t tell you what the dishes tasted like, until many a year ago, I’d, read up on the field asters, in the cooking, then, the day I went to eat with J surfaced, back up again.

illustration from UDN.com

That was the very first time I’d had the vegetable, and before that, I’d never even, heard of it, J ordered the stir-fry of the vegetable, and, I’d recalled, having thee vegetable cooked with the bean curds, or other items.  The bright and oily leaves of this vegetable was soft to the chew, and sweetened to the taste, and as I’d eaten it for that very first time, I’d, left that anchor of it being a good food, it was variety that’s found in the wilderness, but, the scent was warming, and not too sharpened, although it was a taste of the foreign lands, it’d tasted fresh, and familiar to me.  Don’t know why, on that day, and many days that followed, J started sharing his own experiences, of living and moving to Shanghai with me, to encourage me on my, new start of life, and, it’d always, corresponded to the memories of the taste of the vegetable he’d treated me with that day at that diner.

And yet, no matter how good a work partner I had, it still wasn’t enough, to lift me up from my broken up love, and even if I’d, managed to work really well, when I was left alone, I’d, fallen back, into, the lows again, and, before long, it’d, affected my sleep patterns, to the point, of it affecting me at work, and after a few short months’ stay in Shanghai, I’d, quit my job, and came back to Taiwan.

As I’d decided to go, J was, shocked, disappointed, but he had to, accept it, on the one hand, he was too kind, continually staying in touch with me, asking me regularly how I was, on the other, I knew, that as I’d quit, he will be thrown under the bus, and get questioned by his own superiors of his, leadership skills—after all, just a few months ago, he’d, worked really hard, setting everything up for me, set up my transfer, and a few short months, like child’s play, I’d, ended it, and he was, in search of, another individual to take my place in the office, this would be, really trying for him, I’m sure.

And, it was, regrettable, I’d not, gotten to work longer with J, and now, we’re, blessed, to become, coworkers, once more, and even if our lives had changed since, that sense of gratitude I’d felt toward him did NOT get reduced with the time.

the dish made at home of this vegetable, photo found online

I’d recalled this last week, and I’d searched all around, for the field asters, and I’d, switched to the garland chrysanthemums, chopping it up, added in some salt, a bit of, sugar, sesame oils, and, mixed it all in, with my kids’ favorites, bean curds, it was, my altered version of the dish from before.  Although, the dish wasn’t, “approved” by the chefs, but, it’d, fitted to what I needed right at this, very, moment.

And so what impressed you, wasn’t really the food, but the emotions that were, associated with the food item that your manager took you to the restaurant and ordered, and this showed, how this man had, done all he could, to help someone who was a partner in business with him, and, despite how the work didn’t fall through, the individual carried that sense of gratitude toward the manager who’d hired her at the office, who’d, taken her out when she’d had some troubles, adapting to her brand new work.

The Rituals of Love

Written by the professor of the pediatric department, on the experience of his own, hospitalization for a major surgery, off of the Newspapers, translated…

When I was thirty-three, I had a major operation. The sound of the ventilators buzzing rhythmically was the sound I’d awaken to out of my comatose, that was, the most, beautiful sound I’d, ever, heard.

I sensed that someone was moving around me, someone coughing in the distance.  Also, I’d heard the pop of a bottle cap, felt thirsty.  I’d, fallen asleep, waken up, the process of becoming completely alert out of the comatose, was, by stages.  A lot of “voices” had, helped me “settle down”, gave me that sense of, comfort.

I seemed to have caught a man in a white coat standing by my bed, focused on reading my records.  I’d tried to speak but no sound came.  The doctor saw my lips moving, tried soothing me, “you are still intubated.  Slowly now, don’t hurry yourself, I will be with you, every step of the way!”

I was still in a daze, a lot of people looked like, shadows, surrounding my ventilator.  Sometimes, they’d, taken me off of the ventilator, placed the oxygen mask on my face, but my lungs were functional, no air was, getting, in.

They’d rhythmically pumped a ball-shaped thing, forced oxygen into the mask on my face, then, placed the tube into my throat……….then, I’d heard the buzzing sound from the ventilators shortly afterwards.

I’d slowly come to, but I couldn’t speak with the tube in my throat.  As the nurse came towards me with another tube, I knew, it was time, to get the phlegm out of my lungs, I’d hurried to write, “do go easy” she’d smiled and lightly, nodded at my, requests.

how he was visited by his, surgeon after he had his surgery, like this…

photo from online

As things started to look better, I was successfully, off my breathing tune.  The doctor told me, “You can now, finally, speak.”, I got transferred out of the I.C.U., but as soon as the anesthesia wore off, my wound started hurting like crazy.  “Do you need more pain killers?”, the nurse asked, “if the meds aren’t strong enough, I can put a little more in”.  her angelic voice settled me a whole lot.

I will forever remember, when I got the feeding tubes in, the hand of the intern that was gentle, as he took my hand in his, how I’d, hurried to grab his hand with my other hand, like how I was, holding on to, dear, life.

One night, I was trapped in the nightmares, started sweating cold sweats, became completely, drenched, I’d not rung the bell, but as the nurse passed by my room she saw me, and came right in, wiped my body off, and changed my sheets, and changed me into a clean gown, this wasn’t her responsibilities.  That was the best night of my, stay.

And, this is the encounters of a physician who himself, was under treatment by surgeons, nurses, and the kindness shown to him was, memorable, and he will, take that to heart, and use the same gentle kindness to treat all of his own, patients that came to see him for treatment too.

The Speechlessness of an Editor-in-Chief

A bunch of babies, expecting their editors to, cuddle them, to give them words of praises, and these immature writers are expecting their editors to, MOMMY them, and that’s NOT what the editors are there, to do, they’re there, to make sure that the work you crank out is up to standards, not to, offer you, that soft place to, L-A-N-D, so grow UP already, huh???  Translated…

I don’t know about others who work in my industry, but I’d tried not, to let any authors know of this sort of a, feeling (ahhhhhhhh, wouldn’t they know it, after this gets, published).

Some writers, “if I could”, I’d rather never work with them.  Of course, this was due to the “last time” we’d worked, together, mostly, we’d met for the, very first time, with that expectation, that sort of, looking up to, respectful feel for them, but, in our working together, some of the things, started, not going, so well, tried communicating (but, maybe, I was, not blunt enough), that led to, the need for more, communications, I’d tried to adjust to this feeling, this need, and that sense of helplessness had, no end to it.  Then, I can only wish, that we never, work with each other, again, I wish “you” the, best, that you will find another editor, who will, expect the same boundaryless support to you.

Hmmmm, or maybe, you are, thinking about this too?

True, it isn’t because of you, being awful as a writer, it’s just, that we’re, ill-fitted.  My reminder, you do not need to mind; your reminder (which often is, unrelated to the work), I’d not need to, take all of them, in and, respond back.  I hope you (if there’s a next time), “clean up the work you hand in to me the “next time), organize everything better, then, hand it to me, you can do them by sections if needed, let’s discuss this?

Some things, the editors wouldn’t want to hear, you’d blurted out, it’s okay, but if you, keep on, ranting incessantly, or use the pressures of needing to turn in your drafts to us as an excuse, then, it would be, NOT, O-K-A-

Y!

“I’d already, written a whole, lot, isn’t it clear?” (nope, where’s the concrete examples?  How about the field research?  You’d written so many words, but, there are, too much, repeated……” or “the avid reader can tell.”  (then, what about, your, other, audiences?)

“I will get yelled at if I write this out”, (that’s why we’re, discussing this, how to, use, a round-and-about-way, to convey what you want to, say, to get to what the readers wouldn’t know, what they have the rights to, know, right?)

is this work, good enough already??? Photo from online

“I’m not a good writer (or: you’d not written that well this time), what’s that mean?  I’d written everything like you’d, told me to!”, and that is still, not what made us feel, so, powerless, “I rely on your, editing, skills”, when you’d typed this in the private messages of FB or LINE, you can’t see my difficult face.

And, there’s, this and, that too.  Not told in, a few, words.  These years, as I was working with varied writers, they’d sometimes, become this, schemata that’s, run on in my head, a form of a, soliloquy.  It’s just, that I can’t allow for any audience to this.  Because of all the concerns, I couldn’t tell it straight to, you.  Nor can I, tell it to those who are in the, same, industries.

I’d never told you: sometimes, I’d had to use “from the angles of the reader”, or “the editor-in-chief’s opinions on your work is………”, to add to what I need to state, what I want to say, I’d expected, that you would be more than, able to, come out of the end you’d, drilled too deep into your own, stubborn, persistence, hearing (playing that role of nonexistent voice from the other end of the line) me, and would be more willing to, understand me (or us), who are, actually, trying to, work together with you, to better your, work before it publishes.

Actually, I know it all.  What you wanted to hear more of, or, those words you’d, spoken with a little less, intended, they’re all, showing your, unsettlement, your lack of, self-confidence, but that’s not, within the job description of us, editors-in-chief.  Working together, facing things, that are, only, related to the, work getting, published, that, is what would be, within our, job, description, right?

And every time, I’d, fallen in (again)—or, maybe, it was, due to chance that we’d, met up, all we have is, one, another—and, because of this sense of, awareness, along with the expectations.  We’d forgotten:  some of the times, the work is, like that, silent, mama’s boy, their parents are more eager, to see them, gaining the world’s, attention, but not yet readied themselves, can’t be honest enough towards ones own work, or oneself, with the contortions, distortions, that persistence of, perfectionism without a doubt, and, we editors, can’t, help you.  And if this is your state of mind, pray tell, how do I, expect, to “work well” with you?

So, this is the role of the editor-in-chief, the writers, based off of this, wanted the pats on the backs by their editors, but, that’s not the editors’ job, editors are here, to make sure, that the work you printed out is high enough in quality, and yet, these babies, they all want to have their mommies, to give them thumbs up, well, guess what, CHILDREN, that’s not what the editors in chief do, they’re there, to MAKE sure that your work in high enough (not asking for that excellence yet!) quality, that people would, want to, read them, so, give them a break already, huh???

Lessons I Picked Up in My Grandfather’s Tailor Store

What you’d learned about work ethics in your childhood days, going to play at your grandfather’s, tailor shop, that stayed with you, for, life, translated…

While you were commuting via the MRT through the city, suddenly, you were reminded of your, grandfather’s shop at Fengyuan, it was when the seams were beautiful, the cutting, measuring were, perfect, a slivery large scissor, aglow, as the sunlight came in, the light landed on the rims of your grandfather’s glasses, and it’d, made his appeared, even more, concentrated and, focused.

At the time, you and him lived, together, you were about five, or six.  Most of the times, you were, rubbing your, sleepy, eyes, slowly, walked down the stairs, and saw that your grandfather at the first-floor shopfront, rolling open the steel doors, with the light, coming in, from the, outside, with his glasses on, sat before the sewing machine, and the machine clicked-clicked-clacked-clicked, away, sounded even like your, slow steps, climbing, down those, stairs, and that was the beginning of the days, that you and your grandfather, cut open, together.

illustration from UDN.com

Cutting it open, stepping it, open.  As your grandfather heard your footsteps, he’d stopped his hands, moved his glasses straight onto his nose ridge, asked, “woke so early?”, seeing how he’d cut opened the clothes, and every now and then, the customers came, left the orders, you had the candies in your mouth, climbed onto the chair next to him, through your teary eyes, you’d watched the scraps of clothes your grandfather just cut off, ironing them, seeing how he’d, measured the pieces, cutting them up, ironing them, sewing them together, step, by step, stitching the sides onto, the days, like the fishes that swam close to the reefs in the oceans, without any, dents or damages.

Later, as grandfather aged, the cost of making the suits by hand got too high, too many steps to making them, and people want everything new and fast, the manually stitched could not catch up to the machines of mass production, and as you’d, left for Taipei to work, leaving your hometown, the Fengyuan suit shop that your grandfather owned and operated, closed down.  Recalled the last night, as your grandfather turned the lights of the signs off, pulling down the doors, he’d first, wiped the clothes he still had down with a smaller rag, then, placed them one by one into the plastic bags.  He’d taken off the suit that was on the mannequins on display, like, disarming of an old, general, slow, and aging away, you’d helped him with the clothes one by one, but he’d, waved for you to go, and never said, a word.

measuring the suit for its, final, touches…photo from online

That evening, the two of you, cleared the shop, without any words of, exchange.

And now, the door of the MRT trains opened, the alarms sounded off a few times, pulling you back from your, memories, and now, you are in a suit, and the words of your grandfather, “after we ironed the suits, they wouldn’t wrinkle, the shirts are set up straight, and, it would look fitted on people, it would be, straightened up.”  Those days of old which weren’t easy, needed to get, ironed, flat, ironing down the wrinkly, old days, putting on the, suits that were, straightened up, you can walk, with your backs, straight.  So, the days needed to get, patted down, made to fit, life had, cut the lines, with the stitches on time on, with the rulers that bent, not an inch off, then finally, set, shape.  Still remembered, how you’d, helped cut the pieces by the measurements, every suit, as it was, getting the, final bow tied on, you’d always, made your, secret, wish, told them, this time, please, don’t, fall, apart.

And, this is, what your grandfather taught you, with his, work ethics, his means of measuring everything, carefully, and, you’d learned, that you needed to, be a man, who’s, straight like the suits he used to make, follow the right morale.

Waiting

“The Skills we’re looking for is: WAITING”, do you have it???  What the “job description” of an editor, entailed…translated…

We’d talked of how to show off the skills of an editor, it’s not in the creativity, nor the experience, or even, how we’d, handled what came to us, the delicateness of the materials, our abilities for communication, our visions, how much we know, or even, how we can read massive amounts of materials in one setting, the passions for our work………… (of course, all of these are, fundamentals, and necessary),  but, waiting.

Waiting.  It means doing NOTHING, witnessing TIME, flowing right by, like someone paused the buttons of our, lives, and we were, abandoned by time, and can only, stand still, and watch the world around us.  In actuality, that waiting, is NOT a, stand-off, demanding, for instance, zooming in on the writers, when they’d not submitted the articles in yet, to create more pressures for the person, even though, we have our reasons, but it’s, a bad sort of a quality of, waiting.  On the editor side, waiting, is settling ourselves down to the passive (it’s just, that……there’s not, the extra money that came with it), to help the one you’re waiting on feel, that the promises the two of you had shared, is still, valid, that the person will, keep on, receiving the supports, the trusts, the companionship, and, with that settled mind they will be able to, deliver the work as we’d, expected them to.

And, if the days of the editors are, strung together, into a line of, waiting, than, that would be, a precise, description.

The waiting for the editors, aren’t for themselves.  Because, some things, they can’t decide on their own, the contents needed the time to form, and it’s not based off of money, nor energy put into the projects.  And all we can do is, wait.  Waiting for the drafts, waiting for the, copyright signed off to us, waiting for the proposals of the projects, waiting, to revise.  Waiting for our managers to sign off, or the feedbacks from those whom gave their works to us, waiting for the writers, to allow us to print their work.  Waiting for that, deadline (note on my calendar: someone is turning in a draft on some, day), and, what we wanted to have, but not yet received, we’d, waited, some, more, and, send a letter, “when is it most convenient, for you?” note.

Sometimes, it’s not even about the work; waiting on that bad mood, to pass (our own, or someone, else’s).  This is, I suppose, similar to all lines of, work.

We needed to practice to wait.  Toward those, habitual, procrastinators (me), I’d had to, try and adapt to the “not again”, state of mind, to get my temper down; the person I’d asked to send in a draft didn’t respond, I had to find other means of contact, and coming up with a backup plan; to let the person I was waiting on know, that I’m still here, waiting, that I’d not, hung her/him, out to, dry. And I’d had to know, that someone else, is, waiting too—before the work actually got into the hands of the readers, it’s, a biosphere of upstream, downstream, it won’t be just one person who waited.  If there’s something that’s stuck somewhere, then, the whole process would be, delayed.

But, all of these, I must wait, became, a state of mind, because it’s too nitty-gritty, or that, it’s too, hidden, it is, hard to, describe to others———including the editors who’d, gotten, stuck, because this has to do with profits, printing, and how much influence a work has, how the publishing industry had, turned towards—it’d made us, anxious, in the time we were, waiting, the editors’ professionalism, efficiency, along with the ability to improve ourselves, can we, balance it all out, to gain the understandings, to even, becoming, more, mature?

sitting in his office and, waiting…photo from online

Waiting gives off that illusion, that something relating to you, is, no longer, related, to you, anymore temporarily; you now have the extra time, that you can, take a break, or go to, something, else.  In actuality, you can fully rest (because you’re still, worried over what you’re, waiting on, something, or, someone, your minds are still, running), or you feel, that it wouldn’t be proper that you take that, rest now; something else, is usually, waiting, in alternative, forms, on the way, looking back.  You may not be clear, that is the work asking you to, wait, or, is it you, who is, waiting, that you can’t just, do nothing, you need to, do something, to prove, that your waiting is, worthy.

Mostly in the workforces, “wait” is listed in the progress of work, given a reasonable state of existence or time, waiting for one party, it’s to allow the other party to have the time, to move forward or, back.  Everybody meeting up at the next stop, that opened another stage of waiting.  But, sometimes, things come, unexpectedly—no matter how you’d waited, it’d not, arrived, or, when it’d come, it’s not, up to your, expectations……….this made the wait, not quite, worth the, time.

Then, do we wait, or don’t we?  Sure we, do.  As I’d edited the magazines, having the drafts saved on backup that’s, a lifesaver; sometimes, changing the title, or a different way of expression, the drafts that were written slanted, can be, a life, saver.  In waiting for the results, I’d, prepared for three versions of settings of the prints, to try to let that final piece that comes to me, to have its, rightful, place.  But, editing a book, I can’t be, as flexible, the extra wait, meant, the spending up of patience for the writers, and the, editors.

I know well, that some of whom I’d, waited on, I’d, wanted to call out, “I won’t wait for you anymore!”…and it would be wait better, if I could, start all over, from, scratch.  Or maybe, we’re all, waiting, to see, who blurt that out, first???

This is the work of the editor, always waiting, waiting for the submissions of work, waiting, to revise the work turned in, and, unless you have, a ton of patience, this, is not a line of work, for you, or maybe, this, is a good practice of life, because, we’re always, in TRANSIT, in our, lives, constantly, going somewhere, heading somewhere, never at a, stand, still!

A Backstabber

Know thyself, and know thy, ENEMY, how you’d, finally realized, that it was you, that your superior was, feeding off of, and only, reacting to, how she’d, treated you…translated…

As I’d heard that the C.E.O. wanted to see me in her, office alone, I was, a bit, uneasy, wondered, what I’d done, did I not, perform up to, standards at work of late, then, she’d, handed me that wage slip told me, “this is the bonus for your special contribution to the office.  Claire also stated, that she was onboard your, taking the team to working very, hard, thank you for your, contribution to our, company!”  at this moment of, surprise, I’d started, seeing these past few years of work, flash before, my mind.

To learn more about a field I wasn’t, familiar enough with, many years back, I’d, asked to get, transferred to another unit, and, Claire was, my manager from the department after the transfer.  Although, as I’d gotten ready to switch, my coworkers mentioned, that it wasn’t easy, working with, her, but, having a smooth ride at work, I’d actually naively believed: so long as I keep on working hard, continue to be courteous, I can, put my skills to, good use, not knowing, that the challenges had, just, begun.

After the honeymoon of keeping the harmony on the surfaces, the knives, arrows, of the authorities of management started, coming AT, me.  And, under this sort of an atmosphere, I couldn’t, put my skills to, good, use, and, naturally, I’d not performed, up to, standards.  And although, I’d not earned, ANY bonuses for two whole years on end, until last year, my evaluation came, and I got, demoted, that was, when I’d, finally, awakened.

I’d finally realized: that we are like, Siamese twins, she and I, sharing all the glory, and all the, bad too, I can, no longer, turn the other way to how she does things, that it won’t, benefit myself, only, reflecting myself, adjusting my mindset, that, is the only way, to change how we worked, together.  And so, I’d, snapped out of the “I’m the victim” mindset, started adjusting my own attitude to work with he; from the tossed back proposals, I’d, tried seeing things on her perspective, from the memos she’d sent to us, to understand her, logic, to know the language that, she uses, and, see her everchanging means as, how I’d needed to, remain, flexible, and I’d, emailed my progress every single day, so she can, have control of whatever it is that I’m, doing.

difficult bosses, photo from online

And slowly, everything falls, into, place, although, Clare still, NEVER showed me an inkling of affirmation, privately or publicly, but, we’d evolved from hating each other, going at one another with the knives and guns, to, becoming, courteous toward, one, another, and, that was how this, bonus, came, about.

Recalling those days when I got, “fixed up”, I’d attempted to, amend our interactions, hoping that it can, turn us into, something other than, competitors, adversaries.  And yet, with what’s happened between me and her, I’d kept, interacting with her, using, my distant attitude, and, ignored how my facial expressions are, the best way, to get my attitude, across; and, as I’d, worn the pinky rings, putting that cactus on my desk at work, none of this, worked, I’d  suddenly, treating my superior as someone who stabs me in the back, was the real cause of, this trouble.

Finally, I’d come to understand, that the REAL backstabber, it was the me, who couldn’t, take anybody else’s, advice.

And so, this is, how, you’d, learned from, coping with, that difficult boss of yours, and, you’d realized, that how she’d, related to you, was what she’d, fed off of, from your attitude toward her, and once you’d realized that, and started, changing your behaviors toward her, everything started, flowing, more, smoothly.  Because you’d, come to, know your, self, that’s how you can, know your, “enemies” too!

Sunshine, Beaches, Waves, and a, Lifeguard Post

The group of men and women, who’d, dedicated their life to, saving the lives of others, watching over, the most popular beaches in the summertime, translated…

In the summertime weekends in Wanli, the tourist, cramped up the beach.

There were the hotties who were, sunbathing on the sand, children who were, digging up the sand to build those, castles; adolescent girls who were, chasing the waves, the teenage boys, who were, chased by, those, waves.  Close by, the parents, telling their young children in the floaters, to not be afraid of the water, those young lovers who’d, stared, lovingly into, one another’s, eyes, some stood on the canoes, trying to, pedal, some working really hard, not to, fall off that, surf, board, some were, enjoying, just, floating on the oceans, away, from the, huge, crowd.

lifeguard, hard at work, in the summertimes…photo from online

Everybody was having a blast, with ease, immersed in this, weekend frenzy, because, other than the sun, the sand, the waves, there’s that, lifeguard, stations.  For twenty years, the volunteers of the “Taipei Eastern Water Safety Commissions” had never been, absent for one day.  From June to September of every year, in the crowded weekends on these beaches, the skilled, experienced volunteers, with that freshness of spirit of being trained as lifeguards, passing the torch, setting up that first line of, defense, in the summertime, beaches.

By the watchtower, there were the stretchers, with the floating boats that is ready for action at any time.  The volunteers who’d watched over the area close to the oceans, the people who were, swimming there, on the higher up of the watchtower, there was a member who’d, used the binoculars to keep an eye on the situations, and the two-man team with the buoys, skimming the coasts.

the rescues…photo from online

The day of keeping watch over the beaches at Wanli had arrived again, the towers got, set up again, the equipment, set up.  The volunteer lifeguards, all ready for actions, the three-month long term, began, with the tourists who’d, loved the oceans, want to enjoy the sun fully, the beaches, the waves too, and, we keep them, safe.

So, these are the men and women, who are, hard at work, watching over the frontlines for the people who go to the beaches in the summertime, and, because the weather it getting hotter, the beaches will become more and more, crowded, and, these men and women’s work are, sacred, because, without them, watching over the beaches, we can’t feel, safe at all.