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How to re-upholster Kitchen chairs--Jeng style

Start with chairs--we did these years back with old tent material.

Unscrew seats. notice dirty stains

Scrub frame with soap and water

Hang to dry

Pump a little metal

New fabric--old curtains

Figure out how to work the machinery

Cut pieces, stretch and staple-gun new fabric over

Finished chair number 1. Try it out

More pics


My old camera still does good macro shots, Pretty!

Hm, what to do now? 5 more days to school...
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no subject

sometimes, you really have to do that really "unimportant" thing right now so that you can do the really "important" thing without blowing your brains out. got me??
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Thanksgiving weekend two thousand and 7.

Thanksgiving weekend two thousand and 7.
Have I always known that joy was ephemeral, or did Dad teach that too me? Since a couple years now, I have been home after a ridiculously fun day and felt extremely sad that nothing of it remained still. I’d come home after a day of laughing and joking and yelling, neurons all fired out, and realize that that was the end if it—nothing remained. When I type this out onto my ibook and send it to cyberspace, it may seem to the rest of my westernized world that wth is she whining about? She had s great day and can’t complain more. But maybe that’s because we’re taught never to think about the end of things, the continuation of time as we flounder it away—never to stop in the midst of joymaking and proclaim—“I am not happy.” I can feel happy for this second and these couple of laughs with you my friends but afterwards, I am stuck again with myself, rushing forward and not moving at all with and in time.

We are taught never to think about what it is that is really missing, instead we shop and drink and find comfort in other people. I don’t want to rely on you anymore. When I lay here in bed and feel so loved but so alone all at the same time, I feel like a paradoxical black hole.

So people I know, some people very dear to my heart. I watch them have fun and listen to their stories of joy and contentment in daily life and I feel all at once envious that they can find such peace in such an existence, but I’m also worried that they may not be worried enough.

Because the world as I see it is a perpetual-motion-machine, always moving forward in time. Beings as I see them are gleams of light much like in a photograph of fiery ash blown away in the sky—trailing, always following. Or like streamers, or in my most analytical mind, just plain, graphite pencil lines of start, intertwine, stop. (at least for this life). Its like this—I was born to my mom and dad, lets call them mom and dad. So my mom’s line suddenly becomes intertwined with a suddenly appearing new line, my own, this time very very twined, much like a very very tightly twisted yoyo string before you let it down to loosen. So then I go to school, and I’m interacting and twining with you and her and him and all of a sudden, there is a web, and beings (I say this to include my dog, in some cases birds, and other non-humans) are entering, twining, and exiting. Life goes on in one direction as a braid or a finitely large blanket. And then it ends.

And it won’t have really made a great difference—my husband’s line will be bound a little tighter than most, my children as well. You’ll see my parent’s ceasing to exist around two thirds of my length, but it makes no difference. Those emotions that we felt are reduced to mere recollections, and although we are intertwined, we are ultimately alone, as evidenced by tonight and every night when I lay and you lie in your beds alone, all others only a figment of memory.

So I don’t want to rely on you anymore!!! I used to think that when I cried for fear of someday being alone, I felt a pain that was deeper than others did and more profound. I now understand that it is my own weakness and attachment and ignorance that leads me to become so attached. There is a journey to be undertaken, one so much more important than taking the mcat (which I am for sure taking in apr, unless my mind is changed completely)—and that is, correcting this "cognitive error."--i learned this phrase in intro to buddhism
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(no subject)

strange lucidity-- should i try to remember every phase and change and stage of my surroundings, or do i let them grow and change the way they are doing so now--morphing in and out of evolving stages of life, that are so defined, to me, as a bed here, a shelf here, another one tossed out on the street. i wander between trying to remember it all--documenting every change and every different arrangement this house and home has taken, clutching at the past and the way things were--and letting life explode into color then die into grey. should i have a list, July 7, 2007, we move the futon from the family room to the living room and the bookshelf to the baby room, August 13, 2007 Afoo packs his things, August 24, 2007 the house is empty, alone without the cpop blasting from dirty speakers in every room. Everything is clean now, with just two remaining members of the clan. gone are the noises and messiness with the accompanied sounds and smells. Its not loneliness, its not nostalgia, its a combination of yearning for a home that is still here and understanding that it will not always be. it is grasping for the past, a stab in the heart, it is trying to take a picture of a child who wont stop moving. it is a child who is growing up too fast, one whose parents love dearly but are standing by to let her take rein of her own life.

because what am i but another person?
born of my mother and father, nourished until i was able to nourish myself, i am organic. when i look down i see meat thighs and legs, organic matter. born into a body over which i have only marginal control, i am just like you just like me. if nothing matters, everything matters. when i die the sheet pulled over my body will have a small mound over my nose, but garen’s will be pointy. i realize that people have been dying since they’ve been living, and i guess everyones O.K with it. I guess i’ll be okay too.

today when i was with friends a brief second of optimism hit me. if i could feel this happy more than once in awhile, i guess that’d be OK.
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Por Jinfae Jeng, el 7 de abril

Cuando tenía siete años, mi familia y yo vivíamos en una ciudad que se llama “La Ciudad de Diez Mil Budas.” Era una comunidad, en mi memoria, grandísima y mística (siempre me recuerda en niebla densa circundante los altos pinos de la selva). La ciudad fue completamente amurallada: incluyó entre los limites un comedor largo (me tomaba casi dos minutos y media a atravesar desde los puertas dobles del atrás a la gran pintura del Buda en la delantera con los piernas cortos, aunque eran fuertes) en que todos los miembros de la comunidad comían a la misma vez (y en que las mujeres se turnaban preparando la comida), incluyó una biblioteca grande y llena de bastantes libros religiosos e algunos no religiosos, escribido en china, tibetano, ingles, e otros lenguajes que no reconocía en este edad—era sola una pequeñita geniosa. Incluyó la ciudad también dos escuelas: una para los muchachos, otra para las hembras, porque los dos sexos eran siempre separados—había dos pasos a todos los lugares.

Katina fue mi amiga mejor del mundo. Ella no era China, sino Tai, y a mi este parecía muy curioso. Nosotros dábamos en bicicleta a la Inculcando Bondad y Desarrollando Virtud Escuela Primaria Para las Muchachas todos los días, y compartíamos la misma maestra, Sra. Rebecca Lee, gringa que, cuando se ponía a sentar en el suelo en el estilo indio, siempre nos dejaba ver sus bragas.

Un día, Katina me dio unas noticias espantosas. Me dijo que va a hacerse una monja. Ella va a afeitar el pelo y dejar todo su efectos personales la próxima vez que la ciudad tendría la ceremonia en que los ciudadanos normales “salen de casa” para ser empleados de la religión. Conmocionada, me callaba por algunos días. Vivía en una comunidad budista—no era confundida la definición o los motivos de una monja: era desconcertada porque todos los monjes que conocía era ancianos y algunos eran amable, pero ninguno eran mi amiga mejor. Casi una semana después, anuncié a mi mama que yo también va a volverse en monja. Ella no me tomó en serio, pero hasta hoy en día, imagino que diferente me vida sería, si me había afeitado el pelo, tirado la ropa y si me había librado de los posesiones materiales para simplificar mi vida y limpiar mi mente.
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My Mystical Past (Part I)

When I was a small girl (well, I’m still a small girl), one of the places my family lived was north, north, north of where I am today: a day’s car ride and the most memorable familial experiences lived. Burgundy-colored Volvo filled with the feet, feet, feet, and cheese bread. Hours and hours in the car, grassy rest stops, each of which stood out in one particular way or another: colossal rocks to climb (barefoot of course—the only way too keep from slipping), toilets without stall doors, very shiny vending machines (which we never bought from, always cheese bread, oranges, peanuts). Approximately six hours up my father stopped to visit his aunt, or other relation of some sort. She and he with two daughters offered tea and rest for a night, and one time a polar bear stuffed friend of pure white called Snuffles. We’d leave promptly in the morning, wishing not to overextend the invitation or to overeat toast and powdered milk. She died a couple years later after a battle with cancer, head always high, forever strong, just as I remember her. Half a days more, and we were there. Just outside, a little shop—bread shop where we bought more cheese bread. Once an argument erupted, Dad wanted to buy cheese bread from the bottom shelf, stating that no one else would and there’s nothing in the world worse than wasting. Mom wanted a little fresher, citing stomach aches. Sometimes, we’d stay in a motel, swim and watch the Star Trek movie (scary queen Borg one). In the morning we’d cross into the City.

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side of my house

in my dream there was a tiny girl for whom my love for must only have been that a mother has for her own. To my shock it was not a love so wide that through her clear eyes I saw the world, but a love so colored as for her and only her I would give anything. Now, even in my dream I thought, how is this love so consuming so energy exhausting, so narrow and selfish? To be able to see the world without the fog of private happiness and stringent love..
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Recently, I've:

tutored some, in Chinatown. (This is Gigi)

and this is Deborah and hers


been home, (I explained a little too late that the neighbors DON'T like dandelion seeds on their lawn)

not so cute!

photo shoots

anniversaried with Garen + goatee hehe