Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting
Secondhand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same; that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled;
the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little, and listen—
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Galway Kinnell

Distance Morning

Another morning.
The trees always look the same.
I am different. Each day,
I am greedier.
How do trees refuse evening?

That Music

Once, I fell in love
with the music, not the man.
When the music played,
my heart moved like paper boats.
When it stopped, I was eighty.

In a Clearing

My whole life, I thought
to mourn leaves falling. Now I
marvel at all the splitting.

To the Hand

Someone is turning
the earth with wrenches, each turn
a bit closer to the end.
The earth is warmer.
The crickets are still singing,
rehearsing for the last day.

Tool

We make tools to fix
everything-hammers, nails, wires
that we twist to hold
down or bend into beauty.
We make a small tree
into the shape we want,
to be slanted, silent.
The wire on my wrists cut in,
I take the shape of desire.

Victoria Chang

The kids are heading back to school next week. I can’t believe summer is almost over. Then again, summer is no longer my favorite season. I can’t wait for the winter to arrive so I can get back to the terrains. I am looking forward to teaching snowboarding again for the second season.

Applying for the snowboarding instructor position was one of the decisions I was glad I made last year. I took the job to pay for the seasonal passes for me and my family, but I gained more than that at the end of the season. I had a chance to work with the people who are as passionate at skiing and snowboarding as I was. We were there because we loved these winter sports. I had the opportunities to train with some of the awesome skiers and snowboarders. Through teaching, I got a chance to meet new people and improve my communication skills. Furthermore, I was a part of a large network of Epic employees. We looked out for each other. When I needed equipment, even for my family members, the rental folks had my back. The cook behind the grill knew that I was “the instructor who liked bacon with his veggie burger.”

I came into these winter sports way too late, but they changed my life. They gave me something to look forward to each season. When I was on the terrains, I left all my worries behind. Skiing and snowboarding have been great for both my physical and mental health. I had never been gifted at any sports, but I knew I could improve if I worked hard. That has always been my approach to life. I don’t compete or compare with others. I just focus on improving myself. That’s my self-care!

Trong cuộc sống xung quanh ta có những kẻ luôn ganh ghét và luôn đâm thọc sau lưng ta. Ta nên lánh xa họ. Tuy nhiên, có những mối quan hệ không thể tránh né được. Thôi thì hãy vào đọc những cẩm nang “Phải-trái, đúng sai” của Lisa 0. Engelhardt để hướng dẫn ta đối diện với họ. Tốt hơn nữa là hãy chia sẻ trang này đến những kẻ đó để họ tự rèn luyện lại đạo đức của chính mình.

The moral guides in Lisa 0. Engelhardt’s Right and Wrong and Being Strong are applicable not only for kids, but also for adults. I had learned a thing or two from this Elf-help book. Since Minh Hiền has done an exceptional job of translating the original text into Vietnamese, I decided to create a typographic sample page to showcase both languages. For typesetting, I settled on Thow, designed by Dương Trần, a young and rising type designer living in Hà Nội, Việt Nam.

I have been lugging around the 960-page A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker 1925 – 2025, edited by Kevin Young. Even though I am not a poetry reader and I don’t understand most of the poems, I find reading poems relaxing.

Most of the time, I just read words. I even made Xuân and Vương dropped their iPad to read a few poems with me. They didn’t like to read and they didn’t understand what they read either, but their reading had improved. Whenever I came across a poem that I liked, I posted it on my blog so I can reread them later.

In the introduction, Kevin Young reveals that The New Yorker has 13,500 poems in the database. He also points out the lack of diversity, “Imagine my surprise when I pulled down the 1969 edition from my Zoom-ready bookshelf and found that in its 900 poems and 835 pages, no people of color appear.” In this 2025 edition, which has about 1,000 poems, and yet I only came across three poems from three Vietnamese-American poets: Hải-Đang Phan, Paul Trần, and Ocean Vương. I am sure Young could have included more than just 3 out of 13,500 poems.

By chopping the serifs off their slab family, Mortise, Seán Mongey and Max Phillips created Tenon, a sans family that not only complements its slab sibling, but also stands on its own. With open counters, a generous x-height, and wide proportions, Tenon offers versatility in setting type across print and digital environments. Tenon supports many languages, including Vietnamese. With combined diacritics,Tenon’s acute, grave, hook above, and tilde stack consistently on top of its circumflex. For a geometric family, the hook has a subtle but discernible tail. Take a look.

Last night we ended up on the couch
trying to remember
all of the friends who had died so far,

and this morning I wrote them down
in alphabetical order
on the flip side of a shopping list
you had left on the kitchen table.

So many of them had been swept away
as if by a hand from the sky,
it was good to recall them,
I was thinking
under the cold lights of a supermarket
as I guided a cart with a wobbly wheel
up and down the long strident aisles.

I was on the lookout for blueberries,
English muffins, linguini, heavy cream,
light bulbs, apples, Canadian bacon,
and whatever else was on the list,
which I managed to keep grocery side up,

until I had passed through the electric doors,
where I stopped to realize,
as I turned the list over,
that I had forgotten Terry O’Shea
as well as the bananas and the bread.

It was pouring by then,
spilling, as they say in Ireland,
people splashing across the lot to their cars.
And that is when I set out,
walking slowly and precisely,
a soaking-wet man
bearing bags of groceries,
walking as if in a procession honoring the dead.

I felt I owed this to Terry,
who was such a strong painter,
for almost forgetting him
and to all the others who had formed
a circle around him on the screen in my head.

I was walking more slowly now
in the presence of the compassion
the dead were extending to a comrade,

plus I was in no hurry to return
to the kitchen, where I would have to tell you
all about Terry and the bananas and the bread.

Billy Collins

Thinking of how much my father loved flowering plants
And how much my mother still does.

And of how unfathomably hard it must have been
To clothe and feed ten children

With the most meagre of salaries for tending to citrus orchards—
For shovelling and irrigating and shovelling again.

How he groaned when I removed his work boots
At day’s end, an exhaustion deeper than any well.

Mom says his boss was a jerk, nothing ever good enough.
On top of everything, that empathy of her for him

Who’d never listened to her pleas because the priest said
All the children God will allow, the priest

Who never saw her afternoons slumped by the kitchen table,
A blank stare into somewhere

My voice could never reach.
Nothing to do but walk away. I swear

This is not about the unwanted child,
Or what a therapist called embodiment of the violation,

But about the strength and will to cradle the plants
Outside—the pruning, the watering, the sheltering

In found tarps and twine against the coldest nights.
To lean into the day’s hard edge,

And still find that reserve of tenderness
For the bougainvillea, the hibiscus, the blue morning.

José Antonio Rodgríguez

Some useful directives for .htaccess

Turn on Rewrite:
RewriteEngine On

Configure the base path
RewriteBase /

Forces HTTPS and without WWW
RewriteCond %{HTTP_HOST} ^visualgui.com
RewriteRule (.*) https://visualgui.com/$1 [R=301,L]

Redirect everything file in a directory
RewriteRule ^old-dir/(.+)$ /new-dir/$1 [R=301,L]

Redirect old URL to new URL
Redirect /old-file/ /new-file/

Custom 404
ErrorDocument 404 /404.php

Prevent directory listing when index file is not present
Options -Indexes