My passion for design is waning, especially with all the chaos going on right now in America. Design doesn’t seem to matter anymore. These essays, edited by Liz Stinson and Jarrett Fuller, are informative, but I just can’t think about design anymore. Don’t give me wrong. I am not burning out. I can still whip up a website or print material without even thinking. Nevertheless, I enjoyed a few essays from the collection.

I spent 28 days on this novel. It is 448-page long and I have been busy with snowboarding and skiing on the weekends. Nevertheless, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with the characters in this book. Rooney’s books had always been about character driven. Intermezzo is no exception. Peter is 32 and seeing Sylvia (about his age) and Naomi (23) at the same time. His 22-year-old younger brother, Ivan, met and fell in love with Margaret, a 36-year-old divorced woman. Rooney switches back and forth between their stories and I have to say the scenes between Ivan and Margaret hooked me in, particular their first sex scene. Yes, there are lots of sex in this book and her writing is so damn good. This is her fourth novel I read; therefore, I have become a fan of Sally Rooney. I definitely enjoyed this book. It keeps me away from all the horrible news in America.

The first sex scene between Ivan and Margaret was so damn lucious that I had to quote in full. I hope Rooney doesn’t mind. She writes beautifully:

In the bedroom the windowpane is wet with condensation, and Ivan has to kneel up on the mattress to pull down the blind. The ceiling light is off but the light in the hall is still on, the door half-open. Margaret gets onto the bed beside him, they lie down together. The sheets on the bed feel cold, maybe damp, or maybe just very cold. He unbuttons her cardigan, her blouse, and she helps him to unhook the clasp of her bra. He can feel himself sweating: his underarms, his forehead, a hot feeling. With her mouth she finds his mouth and they kiss once more. Her right breast in his left hand, her nipple raised under the tip of his thumb, hard, touching. She lets out a little breath almost into his mouth, a little sigh, as if she likes to be touched that way. Who can explain such a thing, and why even try to explain: an understanding shared between two people. Her breath warm on his lips when she sighs, and when he kisses her again, a muted sound from her throat. He moves his fingers to her zip and she lets him, lifts her hips from the mattress to help him take off her skirt. Lying on her back now she’s wearing only a pair of black briefs. You’re really beautiful, he says. I mean, obviously. I presume people tell you that all the time. She gives a kind of laugh, shrugging her shoulders. Well, no, she says. But then I don’t do things like this a lot. Kneeling upright on the mattress he looks at her. Right, he says. Me neither. With eyes glittering soft in the almost-darkness she looks back at him. You’re not a virgin, are you, Ivan? she says. I hope you don’t mind me asking. Swallowing, he laughs and the laughter catches in his throat. No, he answers. I’m actually not, but it’s okay. I guess I probably seem kind of nervous. Softly she smiles. That’s alright, she says. I’m a little bit nervous myself. A certain feeling rises inside him when she says this: like a pleasurable form of anxiety, a strange anxious anticipation of pleasure. He touches with his fingers the black cotton of her underwear, damp, and she makes another high moaning sound, closing her eyes. What are you nervous about? he asks. Laughing breathlessly she says: Oh God, I don’t know. I don’t know what you must think of me. The same anxious thrill moves through him again, and he finds himself without conscious thought answering her, rapidly and almost unintelligibly: No, don’t worry. I really like you. Don’t worry about that at all. Inside her underwear, his fingers, wet, and her hand is clutching at the pillowcase. At this moment, touching her, watching her eyes flutter closed, he wants her so badly, feels such a wrenching almost painful wave of desire, that even the increasingly likely prospect of having her, of being inside her, within only a few seconds or minutes, feels like it might not be enough to relieve this desire completely. Her mouth, wet, open in that way, he wants, and to make her come, to feel it like that when he’s in her, he wants so much, Jesus Christ. He really is sweating a lot, he has to wipe his forehead with his wrist, and his upper lip is wet, which makes him nervous again, like maybe it’s disgusting to sweat so much, or even at all. She isn’t sweating, although she’s very very wet where he’s touching her with his fingers, wet inside, and moaning from her throat. Do you have a condom? she asks. The idea of her asking, oh God. He goes on touching her still. Yeah, he says. In my suitcase. After a second he adds: I guess it’s been there for a while. Like a year maybe. But that’s okay, is it? She lifts her hand to her head, touching her hair, half-smiling. I’m not an expert, she says. But there should be an expiry date, I think. He takes his hand out from her underwear, wet, and she kind of groans. Ah, he hears himself saying. Sorry. I really love touching you like that. She makes the same noise again and covers half her face with her hand. It’s so good, she says. If she brushed against him even really lightly now, just brushing him there with her hand, he probably would come. Oh no. What if he can’t even do anything to her, imagine, and she would be awkwardly nice about it, probably. He gets off the bed and goes out to the hall, where his suitcase sits on the floor under the coat rack. It’s very bright out here with the light on: quiet also, and cold. He unzips the front pocket of the case and takes out a serrated foil square he got for free in college like two years ago, unbranded. In small black dotted print the expiry date reads: 07/25. He puts it in his pocket and goes back inside, saying: Yeah, I checked, it’s okay. When he gets on the bed she starts to unbutton his shirt, and her breasts are rising and falling with her breath, light, shallow. How much she liked it when he touched her, he thinks: and what if it’s different now, and not as good. Quietly, quickly, he finishes undressing and rolls the condom on. She helps him to take off her briefs. Dark curls, damp, and she rolls her head back on the pillow, saying softly: Oh. To disappoint her like that, he thinks. One of her arms she has laid across her body. He gets on top of her, finding her mouth again, open. Yeah, I really want you to like it, he says. I mean, that’s kind of concerning me a little bit. Just the idea, you know. Looking up at him as if amused she smiles. Mm, she says. But that’s a nice normal thing to be concerned about, isn’t it? He laughs, hears himself laughing. Is it? he says. Okay. But still, I feel that. Like even if it is normal, I would still be concerned. She puts her hand down between their bodies, and with the palm of her hand, warm, she touches him, saying: It’s okay. And it is okay, he thinks. The story of human life. All of their ancestors, his, and hers also. Life itself, the passing mystery. Very easily in the end he moves inside her. She lets out a little gasping sound, her hand grasping his arm, and she whispers something. His name. He hears her. Closing his eyes quickly now not to see. And her hips lift a little off the mattress, wanting what he wants. Jesus Christ, he says. Fuck. So close almost already feeling her so wet and her high breathing. Deeper inside she wants him and when he gives it to her like that she likes it better, he can feel. Try to remember everything, he thinks. Every breath exactly. Her mouth on his neck, mumbling again: Ivan, oh God. Because she likes it so much. He bites on his tongue for a second. Saying his name for instance. And so wet like this and breathing. Because she does. Yeah, he says. I feel like, kind of worried that I might, uh- They look at one another, her face all flushed and hot, like his, and she says: It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s nice. Throbbing inside her and wet she says this. Closing his eyes he can hear himself crying out kind of and feels light-headed, pinpricks behind his eyelids, a fainting sort of feeling, and he says again: Fuck. It’s finished then. How long, like a minute probably. Her arms heavy around his neck he feels. I’m sorry, he says. Just, uh. I guess it felt like, a little bit too good. Not to blame you, obviously. She’s laughing now, sweetly, her face still flushed, looking up at him. You can blame me, she says. I don’t mind. But you don’t have to say sorry, it was perfect. A very strong feeling comes over him then: something inside himself warm and spreading, like dying or being born. He has no idea what the feeling is, whether it’s good or dangerous. It’s related to her, the words she’s saying, his feeling about her words. She said it was perfect. And she meant what he did to her, even though it was over too quickly, she liked it, or more than liking. You’re being nice, he says. She’s smiling, lying in his arms, her eyes closing, sleepy, and the feeling is so strong, powerful, like he could lift an entire building in his hands. No, I mean it, she says. It was beautiful. Thank you. Is this how it feels, he thinks, to get what you want? To desire, and at the same time to have, still desiring, but fulfilled. It was beautiful, thank you. Ah, I feel really happy, he says. Or, I don’t know, that’s not even the right word. Her eyes are closed then. Me too, she murmurs. He’s nodding his head, feeling for no reason a powerful sense of protectiveness over her. Sensing that she wants to sleep, he draws away, and she turns over on her side to face him. He leaves the condom on the carpet beside the bed, he’ll get it in the morning, and pulls the duvet up over them both. Other people might experience these feelings all the time, whatever they are. Strong, powerful feelings of happiness, satisfaction, protectiveness. It could all be very ordinary, in the aftermath of mutually pleasant episodes like just now. Or even if it’s rare, to have a few times in life and no more, still worth living for, he thinks. To have met her like this: beautiful, perfect. A life worth living, yes.

Trong tập thơ mới của anh Cao Nguyên có một bài chỉ trọn vẹn một câu:

vòng tay ôm nặng mảnh đời nhẹ tênh

Đúng với chủ đề Vắn, tuy bài thơ chỉ tám chữ nhưng nói lên được sự nặng nhẹ trong cuộc sống của chúng ta. Có những vần thơ tuy nhẹ nhàng nhưng chất chứa tận đáy lòng:

đêm đêm
đếm lá
trên cây
đếm nhịp
tim gõ
chuỗi lời
vô tâm

Anh Cao Nguyên có vẻ như thích đếm. Hết đếm lá rồi đếm những gì không vui:

chẳng có gì vui
hết rồi vui

tôi quỳ
tôi đếm những không vui

vui đi đâu mất
không về nữa

tôi nhặt lại tôi
lúc chưa vui

Rồi anh lại đếm những hoàng hôn với tâm trạng buồn mang máng

có những
hoàng hôn
có thế thôi

không thương
không nhớ
chẳng bâng khuâng

hững hờ
hờ hững
theo hờ hững

chẳng nhớ
chẳng thương
không bâng khuâng

Dĩ nhiên tập thơ của anh không thể thiếu hình bóng nàng thơ. Tôi còn nhớ đọc tập Thơ mưa lãng mạn của anh. Nhưng giờ đây thơ về nàng sắc bén hơn xưa:

đôi môi nàng
ngọt nụ cười
lưỡi câu bén nhọn
nụ cười con giun

Và đây là một lời nhắc nhở thấm thía:

mai sau
nhỡ có
vô thường
em ơi
nhớ nhé
mình từng
với nhau

Cách anh dùng từ “vô thường” và “từng với nhau” gây sự bất ngờ cho cá nhân tôi.

Đầu năm đón nhận món quà từ anh Cao Nguyên thật đáng quý. Cảm ơn anh và chúc anh luôn khỏe mạnh để tiếp tục sáng tác những bài thơ đẹp cho đời.

I learned about Jelly Roll Morton in a jazz history class that I audited at Vassar College. I knew that he had excellent piano skills, particular his striking rendition off “Maple Leaf Rag.” I didn’t know, however, he was a blues singer with raunchy lyrics. In Jelly Roll Blues, Elijah Wald discovered Morton’s censored songs through recordings of interviews with John A. Lomax. These records are available in the Library of Congress. “The Dirty Dozen” is an example Morton had performed:

Oh, you dirty motherfucker,
You old cocksucker,
You dirty son of a bitch.
You’re a bastard, you’re everything,
And your mammy don’t wear no drawers.…

Said, look out bitch, you make me mad,
I’ll tell you ’bout the puppies that your sister had,
Oh, it was a fad.
She fucked a hog, she fucked a dog,
I know the dirty bitch would fuck a frog,
’Cause your mammy don’t wear no drawers.

Maybe I was not too familiar with the people at that time; therefore, I could not follow everything Wald had written. His writing was a bit hard to comprehend for me. Nevertheless, I learned that Morton was as hard as a gangster rapper almost a century before rap was founded.

I used to read many books on jazz and many of them were about Miles Davis. I picked up James Kaplan’s 3 Shades of Blue just before the winter break and had been savoring it. I read quite a bit about Miles Davis and John Coltrane, but not much about Bill Evans, and Kaplan has done an excellent job of weaving them together. The majority of the book is still about Davis, but Coltrane and Evans added a significant perspective to the book. It takes a skillful writer to piece the history, the music, and the personality together. Kaplan has done his research and his writing is just excellent. He has done all the hard work. I just enjoyed the fruits of his labor. I wonder what is size of audience for this book. Is it still large or just a small number of jazz lovers like myself? If you are into jazz, this is one of the books to read.

I read 62 books this year, which is 30 less than last year.

In 2023, I read mostly poetry books. This year, I went back to fiction, nonfiction, and a few design and technical. I should be reading more web design and development books. I also read Vietnamese fiction. I have over 30 Vietnamese books on my iPhone; therefore, I can alternate between English and Vietnamese.

I read some books on buddhism, which I liked. I want to read more on life, death, compassion, kindness, and all the buddha teachings. I also want to read music books again, especially on jazz and hip-hop. I am in the middle of reading a book on Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Bill Evans.

With the skiing and snowboarding activities, reading has not been my top priority. I definitely pick up reading again after the holidays and ski season.

Check out my reading record.

I have heard of the name Emily Dickinson countless of times, but I have not read any of her work before her letters. Ms. Dickinson sure wrote lots of letters. This collection, edited by Cristanne Miller and Domhnall Mitchell, has 1,304 letters Ms. Dickinson wrote. Many of them she wrote in poems. One of my favorites was the one she wrote to Lucretia Gunn Bullard, about late spring 1864: “The lovely flowers embarrass me, / They make me regret I am not a Bee.”

Another piece that touched my heart was to to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, mid-March 1872:

Dear friend –
I am sorry your Brother is dead –
I fear he was dear to you.
I should be glad to know you were painlessly grieved –

Of Heaven above the firmest proof
We fundamental know –
Except for it’s marauding Hand
It had been Heaven below –

Dickinson

This book is over 900 pages, but it is worth reading Ms. Dickinson’s personal writings.

Quân là một cậu bé mới lớn ở miền quê. Vì nhà nghèo nên cậu bỏ học lên Sài Gòn kiếm sống phụ giúp gia đình. Không may, cậu bị lừa gạt và gài bẫy trở thành một Callboy. Thú thật lúc nhìn bìa sách, tôi không rõ từ Callboy cho đến khi đã đọc mấy chương đầu. Callboy nghĩa là Trai Gọi cho sang còn thấp hèn thì gọi là Đĩ Đực. Quyển tiểu thuyết về đồng giới khá nhạy cảm. Nguyễn Ngọc Thạch không một chút ngại ngùng gì khi mô tả những cảnh làm tình giữa đàn ông với đàn ông. Đời Callboy đầy bi đát và cái kết đầy bi thảm. Dĩ nhiên văn của Nguyễn Ngọc Thạch thì rất là lôi cuốn nhưng đây là một đề tài khá nặng ký. Bạn đã được cảnh báo.

I picked up this book at a public library book sale. I didn’t care about a listicle book, but the author is Pamela Paul. I used to listen to her podcast, read a few of her books, and enjoyed her writing. This book, in particular, didn’t do it for me. I liked some of the things she wrote including “Boredom,” “The Period,” and “Looking Out The Window.” For many, I just needed to read titles such as “The Phone in the Kitchen,” “The Rolodex,” and obviously “Old Tech.” With 100 things, they either hit or miss. I love the typesetting though. Scala, designed by Martin Majoor, is such a readable typeface.

I had to read William Golding’s Lord of the Flies for an English class in eighth grade. I didn’t understand a darn thing.

At the time, I got pulled out of the regular English class to join a diverse group made of a Caucasian boy, a Spanish girl, and me, a Vietnamese kid. Our teacher was from Ireland. We took turns reading the book and I loved our teacher’s accent.

In the past few weeks, Đạo had to read it for his English class and he recommended it to me. I read it again more than 30 years later. This time I understood the book much better. When there were no rules and orders even kids became savages. It is such a dark fiction for young adults.

I enjoyed Golding’s writing. While I was reading it to escape the current events, I couldn’t help wondering about the future of our country. The majority of America had made the decision to take us back. It is just a matter of how far back we will go.