My life with non-fiction stagehands & it’s reality. A mosaic engram.

It’s known to me that consequence and tragedy is the birth of strategy & comedy, we’re all product of family- through the laugh & sting of your cries, we’ll all eventually see to it to believe, we were all here to reveal and summon dreams into reality; wait until when you learn failure was just unfounded delusions with revelations as metaphysical hermetic rubber bands for your worldly narrative.

We learned Faith is giving it time to breathe.
Hoping That we can make it to the beach.
Believing or not if comfort will still kill you,
Reincarnation told me as a kid you can die too.
Might as well Live to try to see it through.

Born outside of its rule, where China could only will in one daughter its fortunes.

I would be born on the year when the first gay son could accept reconciliation through the means of exile.

the common wealth and ignorant taught It’s Black sheep with it's methodical conflict avoidance, that it’s better to react with presentation than to respond by listening.
Bad Acting is also, a conscious effort.

My grandma xu yang xia, a lamb.
She lived as market mother who rationed against famine and won a family.

Her cooking book brought overseas was made with paper print & tape. Practiced to taste, it was the soul of the dinner table.

My grandpa bai qing wu. A dragon.
His life was as a traveling businessman, whose mint coins would carry on his dreams.

His best toys were bows and arrows made out of our backyard bamboo, passed over and bent blackened over the flame.

There was always treasure and ghosts in the basement. Collections that predate my stay. I played from the high of my balcony training my aim.

Before i was born, It was lonesome for choice looking for diverse friends in China, My Big sister and knows better of the story how my mother, a white winter rabbit met a tiger, my father, in the winters of Harbin, Heilongjiang and their seasonal frozen palace walls of ice. Laughter would be sung for the children when the road would ice over for skates to rink.

sat by the fence, talking with herself as I would come to sympathize with my big sisters years later in my own endeavors, about when was the next time more friends that should say, could. Bright-eyed she reinvented her own character and image here embracing the new hemisphere, they tried dearly to stay sincere appreciating the chance to immigrate free from a hegemonic social regime.

My grandmother from my mothers share of family made slippers we could come to expected every year, so many to sizes to share- in my limited stay visiting their home, I would go feed yogurt and play around her father’s commode and chair in my pass through of their world.

I would see a different story learning of other summers lives and schools fears, how my life could've been here without a sister, as she would've had one without a brother she wouldn't know was as flexible as being queer could care to adhere.

My mother as a girl played with knuckles bones, precious was the sugar held between her sweet tooth. Gravity played where the girls treasured to stay. Followed then ahead of them were the boys with the boots that dreamt of industry and steel, my dad would run after chasing his stick and wheel.

Where in their leap together immigrating to Canada bare, my grandparents landed first- making room for my parents to bore forth a fiery ox in the fall of September, whom in their attic had heirloom curiosities shown to me; The petite prince and their cultured pictures were one of the few that stuck, little did the French read to follow with me. This is where the fox and boy formed idea, to discover play and the nature of adults. I didn’t know how to be, then.
We all didn’t know how to be seen. Let alone how to be a proper boy-
nor plain regular diaspora.

The northern crown of the corona borealis and its story of beasts was ready to be obtained, little did i make constellations up there then. I remember my first book i carried around as a child being "the big book of everything" a beginner's encyclopedia. This brought the world to me that i couldn't seen.

Fresh off the boat with pockets full of change, early in our name our family ate loafs of wonder bread for dinner to satiate the starting months of their stay until a foothold could be properly established, my mothers dry cleaner would be passed onto her here, independently working with a couple part-time friends, i still loved sleeping in those laundry bins.
In my teens i picked up this story, driving me to moonlight as a compassion service worker- attempting to bring in my own share of owning the fiscal year bridging the intergenerational gap of loneliness and it's intelligence's.

We could not have possibly known how strained laboring for a living wage would trade with the enriching perspective qualia allowed to a parent and their kin. Taking up then the intensive care for their own parents in their old adage during their working day. We’re thankful we had friends to support our family here, i would be thankful to experience a full family, to love, learn and lose from.
I would only know of their invested efforts by stealing for candy and lunch money discovering from their repayments, who helped gave resources settling into our immigration.

My mother’s mind then helped with the math in pipelines that built bridges over rivers; my father’s cuneiform calligraphy of the name of the bridge would be written as uniform on its plaque.

Birthed between two cultures to mature into, my parents dream of me they brought overseas would turn out to be more alien in abstractions than they could’ve ever been prepared to investigate to question.
My sister could figure skate beautifully I was told, while I just learnt words to complain no one was using fame besides for their shame. So cold.

I could not waste any of it unfeeling, Since everyone seemed content, I thought everyone’s world was as colorful and plain as mine.

Only in time would my big sister reveal to me not everyone had fully a articulate imaginary stagehand motley of engrams as friends.

The brave bats that stole fire from the natures of the silverwing and its echo chamber of stories were then brought up with me, voices that kept the ages. Where two large giant bats welcomed themselves into my mind- hid and protected me, In my own pockets while keeping my ears up to listen, trying to catch what life I was missing around me, armed now with new stories to believe in of free.

Of all things to be taught in school, the least of all was how to be kind and how to freely see.

They were all mature voices, sharing the faculty of the mind together, as my parents busied themselves and left for early morning, then slept timely after evening, a dry cleaner would find itself sustained modestly through its humility.

I attempted to draw my own pencil case as a trading card monster whom then faced against laughter that day; asking if the other kids could be impressed enough to teach the game with someone who didn’t look the same.

I never wanted my cards stolen so i never brought them to school to be played, thinking everyone grew past it; it would stay like this until i met a friend at the playground who taught me the tamed order of things.

We would only meet for two days. But it would be the first time the boy and fox had gone to share what felt like a normal chance to play.

My grandparents took care of me when my parents car would leave in the morning, I was scared of friends at school then- family was the only friend’s I was allowed as people to pretend with, no one knew what it took to be kind but them.

Little did I know then, how much I would go my way to try and return the care back to them at the end.

A martyr to understanding through the emulated stage ends of compassion.

Allot was taught through me, as my environment could not reflect to resolve me, as it punished being carefree without proper lessons closed out to why physically it had to be me; learning not to cry in the mirror while my mother struck down with discipline passed down to them that you should be free.

Beaten helpless i knew now how loud my silence was.

Growing to forgive them justice was held in place of what friendship could've been.

my father never used force, worried then of my development with games and what Canadian youth should be- he let me watch him play through DVD games when i couldn't sleep and snuck down into his office for recreation to bleed.

The fox didn’t have a name to charm then, but it was there my mother lost the face of her soul. She would hold me in my bed still in apology, after this there would be no one else to impress but me, after this I would go investigate what intimacy should be; stunted from relief. The good fox followed me, today hope was seen as we played with everything the mind could degree to summon.

Curious as it all was different from clearly written out apologies, asking if I was adopted or alien, if sleep over’s were just foreign or was it me that brought ruin.

My dreams then was spent on a raft alone drifting in the doldrums of the blue ocean, its peaking sunrise making the horizons bend.

I would come to find "The peaking sun over the house of clouds" to be my Chinese sentenced name, spoken in English most related to its beauty.

Gentle as I was I could not even risk pranking my grandparents with a pillow, jumping under the door ahead of them apologizing- thinking heart attacks and fake scares were the same thing to fear.

This was the first time I took the blame, told to sleep outside, this was the first time I dreamt of where to run from shame.

I tried to get out of elementary by biting and cutting my hair first day thinking that would set me free.
All before recess and figuring out you cant play tag alone it seems, asthma felt normal then. My inhaler was my weapon against spiders and men, until I found out hairspray was actually fire breathing held within a can.

Put to swim and float then impress with the piano, I flied through failing my lessons unable to hold its value in stories. This was all after school, as I would play moonlight sonata for the house's three aquariums and their goldfish- listening to the melody through the glass, I imagine this must be what the underwater breeze must be like.
It's whistled winds made by timid whales with glass eardrums.

Throughout middle school I operated under the philosophy of showing other kids what they’ve never seen, we were all looking to believe in something away from family, so I ate ice cream off the ground- making sure to walk away happy.
Lunch and Christmas was both spent at the vending machine.

I was given my first instance of magic somewhere here, told to meet in the void of meditation. Primed with astral wonders, they touched the center of my sternum and reached my heart, waiting for my reply on what my experience had seen within its limited microcosm of reliable intuition & mind. This was the first connection that bridged the distance.

Given a taste of agency and serendipity, I would go learn the words for the amicable and the misanthropic both to be articulated very differently.

With my first laptop and convenience to a maturing booming technological age, my best friend and I would create a world that could not be rivalled with living in, relishing something finally of our own substance and simulation that wasn’t R-rated fiction called forth as friction.

There would be no expectations besides creation. Not meant to impress, seduce, or debase; this was the first iterated world that i lived in that differed itself away from a purpose for existing.

Having wished to grown up reading The Giver, where as an executor to memory and history hold the engrams to color unseen by the society; as the only memory of everything colored red was passed down into a baby to keep as they escaped from the community.

This enriched narrative would telecast color into my imagination and conscious systems and is the start to my archetypal stagehand engram’s that enchant my world with perspective.
Through fiction my friend shared the metaphorical color red forever deeply with me, enough to wear as a scarf for personality here there on after this story.

I would go be the first to have traveled my way across the continent; given chance to finally meet my friends with full autonomy, as their first hosted visitor; it defined them my heart and became a standing example to their hospitality, given a chance to see how maybe we weren't just surviving the whole stay.

That connection was possible living this way. We had always dreamt of becoming neighbors someday, asking for sugar this was shared early with me and first time friendship did not seem to be just for transaction or as arbitrary namesake.

It may have been our intentions that initiated us to interface, but it would be our interests in each other and the small things we keep that formulate the bond its needed nutrition to still remain meaningful at the end of its decade.

I spent high school in many ways, including taking First Nations communications, since everyone in Shakespeare left it without anything to say- i thought something definitely went wrong that way.

I had learnt more games and brotherly affection then as well, skipping a few days to live a few different ways.

Here when i couldn't stay, I used my lunch buying a marker everyday, expanding my range as i would go checking the spots people sheltered in.

I had little relations as everyone was finding direction whilst trying to avoid abandonment.

In the midst of having a few meaningful companions an elementary teacher I loved hugging as a kid would become my consular as we reminisced about the last year of high school grades.

She would be the first and only district employee I’d let known that I was furry, explaining the community i had supplemented for society. she gave me a free block that i could isolate myself in at anytime or the day that i needed it.

Its sheltered me more than id expect it to come through- as I found expression through the text messages and in my blushed sentiments i found family here, It’s good for miracles to be given a chance to fail.

Not everyone gets to doubt themselves and gets to be happy being honest about it.

I still have my first free hand poem I would be proud to keep, Being told it was like from dr suess’s doves and above! My imagination flew out of the pages as i told what was dear about my art that was fool's gold and foretold.

We nicknamed each other Ti’s. The origins of this lost to reason but it’s stayed with me, through only text and open pen, we wished each other good morning by the bus stop; promising us into new routines.

I went into my caregiving years the same way I would go to the hospital seeking compromise with my aggregated schizoaffective personality disorder; commiseration by voluntary admission.

With my grandmother and her Alzheimer’s I could sell her the world under any allegory and analogy, giving herself back to her told through as another mother. Her bed sores kept the sky away from her, on my birthday I’d give the stars of my projector to her to keep.
The sublime awe of the sky was brought back.
I remember her weeding the backyard as she was the only one that sunbathed.

During both scopes of their care, We were told as advice against Alzheimer’s to make as many multiple connections to a method of memory as possible. So if one way was lost another could recover its engram and can repair itself.

Through this and the semantic environment local to her psyche I would dance up with her a world; exploring the names of their kin whenever windows of lucidity opened.

Through this method I would return my grandfather parts of his imagination keeping the mind away from just adding the time.

Grandma worried about my lost sock being returned to me, pushing my stroller familiarizing the area when i was a baby. I started staying at home or at school and so did she organizing the peace at home; I wish i was more brave to have brought more friends home with me so she wouldn’t see herself as scary.

My grandfather with his chronicles of strokes it kept his mind stuck in a snow globe.
Gravity kept his dignity grounded to your floor crawling quietly during my beauty sleep, I woke up searching for bodies; hoping nothing was left for me.
Knowing the elderly expired much more quickly if left to be.
I kept bells for this hung on the perimeter and under every chair and corner- if ever my music was too heavy and emotions less than spectacular, the bell towers would cover for me; the neighbors could still hear him, then if I was caught out moonlighting for pocket money- he would never be too far of an accident away from me.
Even with cameras it would prove hard to monitor constantly, it was one of my greatest fears leaving him on the ground disheartened to yell.
There would be many times i felt the hysterical strength mothers feel, just with much more fragility than monsters can deal with assisting the elderly.

The old dragons used to follow me back from school from a distance, to make sure I knew the route back home. I thought of this as incredibly cute and endearing, I would in turn- let him slowly wander out as far as he could, keeping an eye from the end of the street.
A bystanding doting grandson is quite humiliating indeed I agreed.

By the end of few hours or when rain came- I would escort him back so he could know I was always there for him; my mind also on oblivion and burden. Both with him as wish and warden.

His voice I would have forgotten almost entirely through all the stress and strain, though a note of its memory would return itself while fishing one day and i could hear the old cavity of the house again through his personal note of recovered opera.

Gramps made slingshots to fight the squirrels defending his acorns tree. Losing the ability to sing and speak I lost the memory of his voice, and talked with him through numerology and his collected baubles narrated around him for his imagination to see. Holding his hands and flourishing the two of hearts meant that I was there; imagining holding his hands like a bird drawing dreams into his palms to read. He loved calligraphy.

None of them could protect their wisdom to hand down to me or use a phone to call for help during a crisis, this would be one of my more frightful sondering moments, I would be the one to do inventory of the medical first aid kit.

Mitigating the mind of the panic of triage through predictions, mentalizations, and what was pragmatic to practice correctly at the time of need.

At that age going to interpret for the hospital and the elderly meant not all answers and histories are not relevant or meant to be.

I would rarely go to the doctor's myself lest for self-interest than as patient ambassador for my grandparents. It usually takes up a full day's schedule so work was ever rare to sustain past part time as monthly hires.

I would be the only one left to defend his right asking to have his Do Not Resuscitate honored, as if everyone couldn’t help to accept a shell as memory. I saw them both as daily as i could dare.

I wish for my sister, as a brother should to a friend. That I could’ve taught her the language to love them more, so she could’ve help me then and I would be less lonely here.

It was a wealthy time to be then, with more mundane experiences than the market nor the weather could allow.
The Palliative process is knowing how you’ll honor them when they leave.

I spoke at neither funeral but was one of the ones everyone had to be brave not to cry in front of. Since I had prepared for their deaths a long time ago, I was there to be happy.

Passing on every happy memory i could muster up for her to carry on with. I did not even look at the certifying receipt, instead i was thinking of how to decorate their shrine.

They finally get to catch up through the means of my memories. I held their hands under bell and cloth with my own as medium- my parents joined in believing with me, this made me happy.

The last bite of food anyone would feed my grandmother last, would be from me quietly standing by her bed after a tough fight with dinner, hand fed a pinch of fruitcake from my grandfathers birthday to her.

The dinner table was quite bleak waiting for lucidity to find levity with the family. For a moment the bliss of sweetness was returned to her, she savored this bite. She would pass away the next day peacefully under sleep.

It was time for protocol, but i was in no rush to call for the transportation yet.
It would be even more calm the second time calling the paramedics and police again.

How I came out of my grandparents passing helps reveal to my parents what I had been looking from them as mother and father.

My propensity for death kept me from being lonely with apathy as I continue to carry them and their love spent in time with me. My parents reception to their memories felt as juvenile as their response to my demisexuality being non binary, their parents flashed through their eyes as it was a reaction taught down to them predating legacy.
For me it’s in the curious and whimsical that take the longest to kill with comfort.

Paced pedantic ritual protest the easily theatrical as the good can manipulate too. Demons and angels are bridged by context alone; atoned to make you look deeper.
Fear starts playing with puppets when they’re easily auspicious to pick up and pocket into belief.
Heroes only help sleep so we dream of demons daily, hoping to help someone else sleep through the week.

It was two trees that held my rope swing under its leaves.
Piloting through the pine needles kicking at the sun to see.
It would be me that stepped on the bee waiting for someone to pull the stringer out of me.
It was a wasp nest I trained the hose at, it wasn’t known to me what a real snake looked like to be frightened by what I couldn’t believe.

His Grandfathered cigarettes older than I were dropped cold turkey at the time I would be born. After sixty years with it as their only peace, my grandfather thought burning down the house would be too much for me.

So the old man would go to harbor a relationship with our neighbor, wholly communicating with their gardens than with words that couldn't cross cultures.

During elementary school my grandfather would bike up the hill it was on everyday waiting for me to be picked up, I sometimes snuck away to eat ice cream.
Sometimes we fell off the bike with me in the back.
Sometimes… we fed the seagulls by the hospital; this was my favorite, diving through the trash behind the sandwich shop; we threw it all out into the park field.

The seagulls themselves waited, pestered and preyed at each other in a feeding frenzy. Their large white wingspan and routine roosting waiting at the top of the hospital; became metaphorically synonymous with my health as they swept down for snacks.

The crows and lady of the night watched and listened with me sing randomly of whom I missed today. Following the moon home coming home, nothing felt too far away making the sun look lonely.

I’ve asked my dad smoking the rest of my grandfathers cigarettes, wondering if they’d antique. If most of everyone smoked socially back wind to the east, if you were given a pack you were cool enough to speak. He agreed with me an emulsion was needed, similar to why I’ve smoked to my own degrees. We both could be allot worse making do with less.

My parents could not attend to much at school but we all excelled with a form of art that would go to inspire my making and discoveries. My mom had an eye, my dad painted and tinkered, my sister fine art with letters, grandpa calligraphy sealed wonders. I drew my mother’s orchids for the nurses by the bedside of my grandmother. Repairing her fractured hips she hidden, a suggestion looking for cancer was forgiven. There was no good condition in their age so we let rest win, knowing we went and got the hint. Holding her feet at the sole swung instant relief.

Sledding with a trash bag with my sister during the childhood hills of my winter, Art and all its muses would go to accommodate and was the active perspective I loved living through. I remember us making snow igloos for squid ward, sponge bob and our dog tofu; an mini Eskimo who loved the patio view.

industry never let shame merit the wisdom of the indigenous, residential maturity was never educated to grow. we are the custodial wealth of a dynasty taught through restitute humility, finally given permission to dream away to ancestral reticence.

Even though we knew the end, its never like we expected, even when we've exited stage right after right. Its never like we expected. My grandfather left candy in his pockets to remind themselves to try; try to give, fit a sweet into my day. Sometimes, i dont eat the candy right away sometimes i let myself forget; and for just a moment- just a moment, its like he left them for me all over again.

My grandfather did keep every lottery number trying to guess everything once but never twice.

Remember your sorrow can change how a system is kind, so ask for a tomorrow to exist in; the myth holidays don't kill, leaves the elderly at the hospital over the new years thinking its their blessing to blame it away.