Portrait of a Family

Sonata from the living room. Notes precise. Mechanical. Labored. A rhythmic heartbeat: Da-da-DA-da. Da-da-DA-da. Barely-counts-as-piano crescendos into annoyed forte. Perfect ribbons of descending chords punctuated by frustrated sighs. She’d much rather be drawing chemical diagrams.

Arms crossed, asleep, collapsed on the sofa. Pained face jammed into the crook of an elbow. Grey blanket loosely draped over her lower body. Half finished cup of coffee on the side table. Slippers, facing opposite directions, sprawled below.

Lump of fur, hitherto having slept through a half hour of Sonata, pokes her head in the air, uncoils, gets up, stretches with immaculate yoga form, ambles six-and-a-half-feet northeast, drops down, mashes her side against the heater vent, falls back asleep.

In the other room, scrolling Facebook absentmindedly. A well-put-together-facade, save for one corner where the scotch tape peels off. I think I hear him switch tabs when I approach. The walls crumble behind the smiles.

Recent temporary addition to living room sandwiches head between palms, elbows on table, avoiding linear algebra practice by writing.

  

brief records

ninth floor. she looks at you concerningly as you tiptoe an espresso mocha to the table. filled to the brim, the foam holds on from pure spite and surface tension. you’re not addicted to caffeine, you swear. she doesn’t look convinced.

hayden. light shimmers sleepily through the windows. she leans her head against yours. brief, but comforting. she researches mcdonalds meat production in china. you take a bite of a banana. mildly bruised. potassium-rich.

concrete walls, scribbled over with chalk. strands all over the desk, from habitually running your fingers through your hair while bashing a probability problem. a faint ping―i heard this and thought of you. you can almost imagine her typing across the field. is this love, you think? maybe. maybe it’s not so bad.

  

pretty

you’re not pretty
you’re raw, rough, bruised,
scarred, callused with the
pains you keep holding
back behind the smiles
and the i’m fines

you’re not pretty
like a delicate daffodil waving
in the summer breeze
you’re a sprawling bramble
sunk deep into acidic earth
and yet
still flowering

  

search history

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dramatic death scenes

  

brink

on the granite Killian sculpture
i’m standing on the brink
of tears

you hold my hand against
the stone as if to keep me
from falling

into spirals of missed deadlines and
failed exams and broken code
and unraveling friendships

because i can feel them drifting
away like dying leaves
in autumn, cold as the winter
wind on the terrace

where i sit down wishing
that life were solid
like the concrete beneath
and not inching ever-closer
to the brink

  

letter i'll never send

the last night with my two suitcases
sprawled across the living room floor
their intestines spilling out in
the darkness i looked down the
hall one more time
to see your Picasso-
angled limbs, your head
faceplanted in a pillow with the
room lights still on and

when i see the last photo
of you on my camera roll
you’re standing pretending
to take a business call
with your hair looking like
it’s been through both a
Van de Graaf and a washing
machine and

i know i was never the
best at showing you
how to program or how
to write or how to love
a sister but i’d like
to think that i showed you
a little about how to find
joy in stupid things and

i know you’ll change
and grow and blossom but i
hope through it all you
never forget to take
your daily ration
of absurdity

  

eight forty seven

at eight forty seven
my phone pings with a
picture of a stuffed dinosaur,
the wordless acknowledgement
of my presence in your heart
and your presence in mine

more… (1 min)
  

sonnet of autumn

as afternoon sunlight begins to fade,
dark jade is turned to golden shining hue
a trumpet-horn of life, a last display
till nature’s cycle comes again anew

now final birds take flight at dusk's embrace,
and flutter softly, graceful wings sweep back,
to nests of comfort, in another placeeeeAAAAaaaAAAAAaaAAAA

        piercing screams
        right next to my ear
        as frantically a squashed
        ant carcass is wiped
        from a screen.

  

Platform Two to Tamsui

The train out of Xiangshan is a mosh pit at a rock concert. Except there is no concert, there are no rocks, and everyone’s hands are clutching their phones instead of waving around in the air. That includes my hands, by the way, my fingers absentmindedly scrolling through Instagram as I lie ungracefully flattened against the door like an insect splattered across a windshield.

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A Couple Brief Reminders

A script for a high school graduation reflection video

Remember to drink 3.7 liters of water per day to maintain adequate hydration.

Remember to brush your teeth twice a day. Your dentist says to do it three times, but we both know that’s not going to happen.

Remember to raise your hand. Ask stupid questions. Give stupid answers. Then, learn from them. Do things that you aren’t good at, so that you can improve. It’s better to look like an idiot than to actually be one.

more… (3 min)
  

Late-night Flight to Milan

i am: in metal box
hurtling four hundred miles
per hour over atlantic ocean

i am: fruitlessly plunging
head into pillow
attempting sleep failing

letting sea of white
jet engine rumble noise
wash envelope senses —

outside in soft monochrome
the full moon burns
high in the night sky

hazy light casting
shadow on serene
forests of clouds below

  

Craning Towards the Sky

Take a square piece of paper. Fold it diagonally, creasing with your fingers. Now unfold it… now the same thing on the other side… now collapse it inwards like an accordion…

Kayoko’s paper cranes were always better than mine: graceful edges that were rigid and soft at the same time; wings in perfect definition, fluttering like part of the wind itself. Mine could not get off the ground. In vain their stubby little arms flapped like those of an overcaffeinated hummingbird; pitifully they backflipped across the floor as if they were one of those cheap remote-controlled toys that were sold at the store for ten dollars each, the ones that came out of the box with half a rotor broken.

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Philosophical Rambling on Googly Eyes

They say that eyes are windows into the soul. Yes, I know it is cliche to start off with a metaphor so old that it dates back to Shakespeare. Yes, I know full well that I am using a cliche metaphor to give an arrogant air of authority and make this essay seem more interesting and philosophical than it actually is. But like many cliche metaphors, it does indeed reveal a deep truth about human nature.

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The Earthquake of April 5th

Fellow citizens!

The earthquake of April 5th, 2024 was the greatest to hit New Jersey in two hundred fifty years. Early in the morning (for me), and without warning, it struck. The Earth’s crust gave way and rattled us. Briefly, for about thirty seconds.

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The Monster of Lake Tahoe

Written while procrastinating on linear algebra homework

Fish. Brine. The sound of waves rippling across midnight air.

They were rippling quite hard, in fact―the boat felt like it was about to capsize. But not too far away were the lights of the ports. Not too far away was home. Not too far away was my boy, who still thought his dad wrangled sea monsters for a living. I mean, he technically wasn’t wrong―the bluefin tuna I caught last week was quite a struggle. But it was nothing compared to the legendary Monster of Lake Tahoe, supposedly a hundred-ton tentacled beast that lurks beneath the waves. (Or something like that. The tale grows grander every time I hear it.)

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Bryant Park

In Bryant Park
there is a man
with a chessboard.
Game? he asks,
gesturing to the empty
seat across him.

I feel another hand
pulling against my own:
Come on. We’ll be late.

My eyes linger
for a moment
before glancing away.

  

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/12_(number)

the number of years
in an orbital period of Jupiter

three times four:
the sixth composite
the second semiperfect
the largest number with a single-syllable name when written in the English Language

a lunar year’s cycle
a rhythm of stars
tracing pictures in the night sky
a procession of animals across the heavens ―
fire, anew,
burning white-hot
like sparks of magnesium aflame

the number of books in the Aeneid
the number of pitches in a chromatic
the number of years
we’ve been
together

  

A Multiverse of Narratives

Written for the PHS Student Newspaper (again)

I’ll be honest: I’m not much of a superhero fan. The recipes for most superhero movies today all seem pretty similar: take some guy with magical powers (and the ego to boot), throw him into some conundrum with the Villain of the Day, and have him fight his way through. Mix in some witty jokes, manufacture some sort of emotional moment to give an impression of sophistication, and wrap the whole thing with a special-effects budget that could rival the GDP of a small nation. And then, apparently, watch the box-office money rain down from the sky.

more… (4 min)
  

Pillars of Salt and Pillars of Sand

Based on "A Little Cloud" by James Joyce; written with Aman Kapur

Andrew couldn’t sleep. He glanced wearily at the bluish light emanating from his roommate’s desk ― in the glow, he could just about make out the hands of his watch, its hands forming a despairingly early hour. Outside the window lay darkness and silence; within, the rhythmic machine-gun fire of a mechanical keyboard, rattling the cramped tenth-floor dormitory room, scaring the sheep from Andrew’s mind as he tried in vain to count them. Sam was up to something again.

more… (7 min)
  

May the Best Duelist Win

Highlands. Dreary, windswept, moody. Yellowing grass smeared into cliff faces of imposing rock; petrichor mixing with fumes of moss diffusing across the earth (Scotland, probably, by the looks of it). A figure emerges through the fog―pensive, contemplative, a hood of cashmere effortlessly concealing a dark gash down the side of his temple.

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Happily ever after...?

Written for The Princeton High School Tower Newspaper

“Why the hell should I care about fairy tales?”

Well, my dear hypothetical friend, you should care because they’re fun. When was the last time you fought a dragon while riding a flying carpet? The last time you were a mermaid seeking to find a world above the waves? The last time you crawled through a wardrobe door and talked to a goat? But they're also a reflection of our social values — what morals does a society think are so important that they’re woven into some of the very first stories we tell our children?

more… (3 min)
  

poem written in ten minutes

“write a poem,”
comes the directive
from the voice up

high, amidst particleboard
desks and two
dimensional sunlight

hands flail unthinking
across cheap plastic keys
in rhythmic click-clacking
of nothingness I write
rivers of phonemes

trailing into literary sunsets,
stanzaic freeform ―

liberated from
rhyme or reason

a pasquinade,

a metaphorical
colorburst of absurdity

among the greats
an imposter

pretending

  

Diving Into Myth

Adapted from an article I wrote for The Tower, the PHS student newspaper.

The ocean is quite a poetic oxymoron. For hundreds of thousands of years, it has separated cultures with vast seas and treacherous storms, and yet it has also unified them in contemplating the same majestic waters. As they gazed, they thought of stories. What does the ocean hold, hidden beneath its seemingly endless waves?

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Taiwan, I hear you singing

Taiwan, I hear you singing —
your wind from mountain
to sea, your skyscrapers
and rolling fields of rice, your air
of incense and motorcycle fumes,
your 7-Elevens and blistering sun

Taiwan, I hear you singing —
there’ve been too many
summers we’ve spent apart
but though we’ve changed
so much since we last met
still
you feel
like home

  

Floating Point Errors

Written after a very frustrating debugging session

Absolutely screwed.

After analysing my situation in great detail and considering all possible courses of action, that is my informed conclusion. Utterly completely positively screwed.

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Isolation

I see a mote of dust
whirling
. . on
. . . . im
per . .
. . cep
. . . . ti
. . . . . . . ble
. . . . currents
of air

| dangling
| on
| a
| thin
| stream
| of
| light

feeling nothing
but the way the
wind blows past
its small cubic
volume of space

drifting


(alone)


through emptiness

  

High School Survival Tips

On the first day of school, bring a three-ring binder, a notebook with a marbled front cover, and exactly two-point-four ounces of snacks.

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expectation and reprieve

hailing winds of words reverberate through
the house, condemning every move, every
breath ― storms of expectation relentlessly
screaming, trembling walls with tempest each hour ―

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Errand

Death is awoken by a phone call.

“Fine,” he says. Glancing wearily at the time marked on the hands of his pocketwatch, he tumbles gracelessly out of his cramped apartment bed. The work doesn’t pay well.

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Marshland

The reeds grow
so thick and tall
as they stand stiff

in the oppressive breeze
that you can’t see
which way is left and

which way is right
as the muck slushes
sickeningly below

you feel it seeping
into your boots
as it laps at your feet

a cloud of mosquitoes drone about
the sun beats down from above
and yet

You press on.

  

A Tiramisu from Paris Baguette

one spoonful:
a dusting of sugar;
a powder of chocolate ―
a creamy mascarpone,
a spongy layer of sweet biscuits,
and a foundation of bitter coffee

one spoonful:
sweet and bitter,
delight and pain ―
hope that inspires
desolation that strengthens:
a blend of love, of hate,
of chocolate harmony.

  

Through Hardships to the Stars

Adapted from an article I wrote for The Tower, the PHS student newspaper.

Pale Blue Dot is a photograph of Earth, taken from a distance of six billion kilometers by the Voyager spacecraft. Described by Carl Sagan as “a mote of dust in a sunbeam,” our home planet barely takes up a pixel of the vast inky seas beyond. We think we have conquered Nature herself as we bend ecosystems to our will; we think we are masters of the laws of physics as we build spires that graze the sky. We have sailed the seven seas, we have summited the highest peaks, and we have mapped the farthest islands. But as that photograph shows, there is so much of the heavens we have yet to explore.

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Very Number, Such Wow

We are terrible at understanding large numbers. It’s a cognitive limit, a remnant of the good old days when humans spent their lives foraging for berries and lived in small nomadic bands of at most a hundred people Hunter-gatherers never needed to comprehend the phrases “I found 2,140,201 pounds of blackberries this year” or “the tribe population increased to 1,200,305 inhabitants in the spring season.”

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Combinatorial Arguments: The Problem is the Proof

The following is adapted from a lecture I gave to the PHS Math Team in February 2023

A combinatorial proof shows that $A$ and $B$ are the same thing by showing that they are solutions to the same counting problem. Usually induction or algebraic proofs can also be used to solve these problems, but combinatorial proofs are usually more insightful and elegant.

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The Meaning of Life and the Heat Death of the Universe

The heat death of the universe is inevitable.

The stars will blink out of existence in spectacular fashion, each putting on a final fireworks show for an indifferent universe, and the heavens will settle into a self-satisfied soup of thermodynamic equilibrium: a perfect entropy, a uniform chaos.

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the songbirds are singing

the songbirds are singing ―
piercing staccatos,
irritably cheerful tunes

it’s light outside ―
sunshine pours into my eyes
through the window blinds

i pull the covers over my head ―
the comfortable weight:
im fine im fine im fine

in the sweet pearl-white
buttermilk of sleep,
i drown my sorrows.