"society" "revealing" "studio"

Jackson was sitting by the desk of his studio when the church bell tolled for sixteen times. It was a gloomy Tuesday afternoon, the rain was pouring outside, the raindrops dancing upon the windowsill, much resembling the spinning, frantic ballerinas, jumping, landing, only in preparation for another leap. The TV was on, yet the volume was set very low. After all, Jackson was not at all that interested in the revealing of celebrity lives, he just could not tolerate the dead silence of the room.

Yet vulgarity of modern society seemed to crawl its way to his life anyhow; he took another spoonful from his cereal and almost choked as he heard the low purring of honey boo boo. “I think I am a fish.” He looked up, appalled to see the toddler and her heavily painted face, fake eyelashes and her double chins, which vibrated with every word she uttered. He frowned, reached for the remote control, deciding to switch channel. Yet it was too late, in the split second after, the obese, trashy mother of the toddler started rambling on the TV screen.

That was the final straw. Feeling nauseous, Jackson did not even bother to turn off the TV, rather stormed out into the pouring rain. As he shivered he remembered that it was already November, and that he did not even think of grabbing a jacket. But he did not even mind anymore. He just needed to go to somewhere, anywhere, anywhere out of his crappy studio, out of reach of trashy TV shows, anywhere out of this vulgar society, anywhere out of the world.

“Well, fuck you too!” He shouted to the sky, oblivious to the rain. The passersby, in their raincoats or holding umbrellas, just hastened up and rushed by, thinking that he might have been out of his mind. “Arghhhhhhhhhhhh!” Jackson kept on screaming, until his cry was drowned in the relentless rain.

That was actually the happiest day of his life.

joining hands in the danse macabre

in the end they will all join hands in the danse macabre.

It has not been a summer of good news. A friend wrote me yesterday, saying that she needed to look for a flight back immediately: "my sister passed away, all of a sudden."

My friend just turned an aunt the day before. How did this happen? "She was just talking to my parents and suddenly couldn't catch her breath. And then..."

"I really don't know what to say. I'm very, very sorry for your loss."

"She only saw her new born baby for a split second. Didn't even get a chance to hold it."

The conversation was cut short. I did not know what to say or do to make her feel better; she said she felt alright, just very, very surreal.

Surreal? Must be, but it could have happened to anyone. It could have been my sister, who also just gave birth to a baby girl. We are also family of two daughters, which, according to the discourse, is "a family without descendants. A family doomed to lose its family name."

One daughter stayed in the hometown, got married there, stayed close to the parents as discourse dictates; the other, the wandering one, indefinitely relocated to Europe.

Her sister was my sister's age. I've always been seized by the fear of losing an aging family member when I am abroad, but who would have imagined that it could be the younger one. Two generations younger. Our generation. Our sibling.

What will become of her? them? the baby? Will they subconsciously put the blame on the baby? The baby will never get to know her mother. Will she grow up with the sense of guilt that her mother died because of her? How does it feel like to suddenly lose a sibling, no matter close or distant? Losing my quasi genetic copy, with almost the same flesh and blood. It would be as if a part of me is eternally lost. Life would never be complete. It wouldn't be.

"Farewell, Europe," said my friend. She does not know if she is ever coming back. She has to mend the missing part; her family needs her, the discourse instructs a homecoming-- no longer in the form of yearning, but obligation.

It has not been a summer of good news. My grandfather passed away early last month. In the meantime, a close friend's grandfather was terminally ill and eventually left her last week. Her roommate, also a common friend, lost her aunt around the same time. And finally, this friend's loss of her sister that rendered me sleepless last night, restlessly imagining all the possibilities.

I tried to distract myself by reading commentaries on Loïe Fuller's dance and came across the term danse macabre.

The idea was not macabre, I found it soothing.

In the end, they will all join hands in the danse macabre.

The yearnings were almost painful in Barcelona

The Mediterranean sea was actually rather greenish, not the azure blue I had always imagined. The sky, despite the mellow weather, was not as blue either. How was it possible that this almost falsified representation of home only triggered more homesickness? Diaspora and wanderlust. Heimweh and Fernweh. The yearnings were almost painful, and when they mingled, the prodigal daughter ended up in Barcelona. By the seashore of Barceloneta.

"The sky almost looks like it's veiled." I was talking to Cat, a girl from London. Almost random, but once you traveled alone for a while, even complete strangers looked like worth a conversation.

I ran into the sea with Cat and Roxy, only meant to paddle. I was actually in my knickers, not seeing myself ending up on the seashore when I headed out for a gaudi pilgrimage that morning. But the waves were giant, almost formidable. A huge wave came and I was already soaking wet.

Salt. Salt. I could taste the salt as I opened up my mouth attempting to speak, but only silenced by an unexpected choke of salty water. I did not know how much I missed the sea until I finally had the luxury to be on a proper seashore. I forgot the smell of mussels, the balmy wind, and the forcefulness of a wave. I forgot how it felt to be wet from top to toe, hair dripping, completely knocked down by waves with the futile attempt to hold on to my underwear. I forgot how I could be all screaming and laughing, holding hands to other girls to stabilize ourselves awaiting another wave.

The last real "seashore" I went to was the Rose Sea in wales, whose serenity had a certain beauty in itself, but the grayish color almost translated as insipid. It  was a windy afternoon in June, which in northern UK equaled to never ending drizzles, scarfs and jacket. It was nothing like this, being able to sunbathe till seven o'clock at night, soaked and dried myself with the help of the gentle afternoon sun; it was nothing like just lying on the seashore, completely rid of all anxieties and existential crisis that plagued only too often. It was at least remarkable for someone whose anxieties even have anxieties.

I was on the flight back to Berlin, as the aircraft took off I looked down at the green green Mediterranean sea.

Its beauty was almost hurting. Like Heimweh. Like Fernweh.

Berlin, hipster, weather and co.

An afternoon in Salon Schmück. I ordered, and, out of reflex, asked for the password for wifi, even though I knew in this cafe, the wifi was not locked.

"Unfortunately the wifi is not working," answered the waitress apologetically; "do you still want to order?"

"Sure."

Hipster cafe at Kreuzberg, so used to the customers molesting wifi that the waitress would immediately assume that when there's no wifi, no customers would like to stay. And maybe the assumption is valid after all, as I walked in, I was wondering why it was so empty inside-- Salon Schmück has or used to have a reputation of high MacBook density, perhaps only second to the notorious Oberholz.

Here I was, sitting in the empty Salon Schmück, trying to decipher modernist poetry. The metro passed by once a little while, each time I would almost think it was thundering, and that it was going to rain-- pouring rain, gorgeous sun, drizzles, and another five minutes of pouring rain, the weather of Berlin has been rather schizophrenic lately, though I prefer the term capricious.

"Like women during menopause." I described to Mida, my couch surfer from Montreal, as we were stuck in S Bahn Oranienburgerstr, threatened by the sudden pouring rain. (Mida: When did this happen?)

"Or like women during period." added Mida. We were sitting by the Spree near the East Side Gallery. The sky looked almost as if it had two faces. Azure blue on the one side, whereas on the other, thick scary clouds ominously pressing over the tourists walking by the wall.

"Or like women in general," we laughed.

On our way to the metro station, we were again caught up by the tempestuous wind and pouring rain, during which umbrellas almost seemed like useless accessories.

Passersby braved the wind and the rain with the typical Berlin poker face (perhaps looking even scarier with the crankiness enhanced by the weather).

Today is actually a warm afternoon with decent amount of sunshine. The waitress even smiled at me when I walked into the cafe. I hope it's not going to rain.

Obituary: an age is a reversal of an age

My grandfather was a charming man-- an incredible dancer, talented in languages, and on top of that, a very handsome man.

An age is a reversal of an age.

The Macrocosm and the microcosm. The rain was also pouring last week this time, during which I was thrilled  with a childish joy-- looking outside the window, I had a longing for running out of the classroom, I wanted to sing and dance in the rain, I wanted to spin until my dress fly, I wanted my hair to be soaking wet.

This week this time, the pouring rain. I found it especially difficult to concentrate in class. Opening up the poetry book, we started the discussion with Parnell's funeral. How fitting.

Looking outside the window,  the tree was swinging, bending, raindrops dripping from the end of the branches-- was it mourning my grandfather? Was it the cry of the paternal lament?

On Sunday the 24th, nine o'clock at GMT+8 time, my grandfather passed away in sleep. The same time, across the Eurasia continent, three o'clock in the afternoon, I was plucking cherries in Potsdam. I did not bring water to rinse the new plucked cherries before eating them, and I joked about death. "I hope i won't die from this." I joked about death.

An unexpected shower. I was sitting on the ground of the cherry orchard, having lunch, oblivious to the rain. It was a rather unusual day. I was surrounded by Taiwanese people, for the very first time in three years, I didn't have to put any effort into deciphering the floating semantic lingos. At the same time across the Eurasia continent, the family was surrounding the death bed. It was a serene death, according to my mother in her very brief text messages.

It's almost miserable that I was notified of my grandfather's death through text messages. Yet how else could I have been notified?

I woke up at eight o'clock from uneasy dreams this morning, as usual the first thing I did was checking the messages. Flashing green push messages from an apple gadget. The hanging fear was confirmed. After all, my family did not keep me in the dark. I was hereby released from the emotional limbo, but should I feel relieved?

Closure. An Eurasia continent away the family must be busy with the closure. Will they host a Buddhist funeral? Will they keep the coffin at hall for three days, with the black and white picture of my handsome grandfather, burning incense accompanied by paper lotus, each folded by members of the family?

Will my sister be able to be there? I know far too little about my culture. Will a pregnant woman be allowed to participate in a wake?

Death and new birth. My sister is carrying a baby girl. The baby girl will be born in July. First child of the new generation. Soon the whole family will be over the death, soon rituals of welcoming the new birth will take over. Life completes death, death completes life.

An age is the reversal of an age.

25.06.2012

ghost letter: herstories

Did you shed tears of anger, when you married into this "prestigious" family, only to find out that your husband had already kept a mistress in the mansion, even before the wedding? A dumb  opera actress she was-- did you also find it absurd, like I do now, decades and decades after, even after the death of your husband, that a dumb woman could actually become an opera actress, that a husband could have a mistress even before getting married?

Oh Grandmother, do not be surprised. I know the histories-- or more precisely, the "herstories". You told Mother, and Mother told me. Such absurdities of the era should not pass on unnoticed. You were not fortunate enough to receive proper education. Oh Grandmother. Do not worry, I will write your stories.

Was it love at first sight when you encountered that gentleman from Shanghai? Did you feel the warm and fuzzy feeling taking over your body, as you finally fell in love for the first time of your life, after five years of a loveless marriage? Did you know that was love? Did you develop the yearning for the continental China, which you are presumably related to yet sounded absolutely foreign? Did you envision starting a new life there with him, in that vast continent, when he asked you to come with him?

Oh Grandmother, I believe you hesitated, you did. Was it the fear of the uncertainty, or was it the sense of familial responsibility that kept you home that very afternoon? Did you feel your heart wrenching when you were home, keeping yourself busy in the kitchen, knowing that he was waiting for you by the river-- where you met for the first time-- waiting for you to start a new life in China? Did you imagine the disappointed look on his face when the sun set, and he finally realized that you were not coming?

Did you shed tears of regret, when you saw your husband coming home that day with the same rough demeanor, asking what was for dinner, and then you knew what you had given up for?

Oh Grandmother, how history has cunning passages! Should you have gone that day, I would have never been born. Yet here I am, in an even more foreign continent, retelling your stories in a foreign language.

Oh Grandmother, here I am, telling your herstories.

word recycling project ii

(using words from the right page)

"No one is to blame. Sometimes it's just impossible to goal." I said to Jeoffery, as he was lying on the sofa dejected, his body bruised all over after an intense football match.

"But our win is predicted by the myths." refuted Jeoffery, grasping this old shabby black book supposedly passed over by his "ancestors". "The victory should've been mine!"

"Yes you can choose to believe in myths. Or you can get up and move on with this defeat. Who knows? Maybe people read the prophecy wrong." I was trying very hard to stay patient. I decipse crazy superstitions. In the past, I would have just walked on him. But Jeoffery is still recovering from a severe brain damage, it is not sensible to argue with him while he is still reconstructing his memories and identity, however insane the stories might sound to me.

"Are you tired of me, Leslie?" Jeoffery seems to have sensed my frustration and asked somewhat timidly. 

"It should not be you. It's 'us'. You and me, getting over this together. The dark days will pass, and things must be OK again. I know the pain seems infinite, but each one of us gets through that. The night will pass. Glory will be attained. We shall create our own future."

"Like the prophecy said?" asked Jeoffery hopefully.

"Yes, like the prophecy said." I smiled.

I will never give up on Jeoffery, my dear dear brother. You are all I have now.

word recycling project i

(using the scattered words from the left page, left to right, up to down, fill in the blanks)


To San Franciso I shall go, 
the long distance will not intimidate me
From Manhattan I will start--
the heartless metropolis of vacuity.
Will you, oh, will you come with me?


The smell of her hair opens the gateway to memories.
Painful yet sweet memories.
In front of such absolute beauty people suffer,
as Troy did not withstand Helen's beauty.


We've taken over Manhattan,
to San Francisco I shall go;
Will you, oh, will you join me?


We are the only ones left;
will you come join me?

zoom in/zoom out project

The cat is staring at you with its emerald eyes, almost judgmentally. It frowns, ears sticking up. Its furs glow from the sunlight, warm afternoon sunlight dancing on the windowpanes, which bounces and softly envelopes the feline body.

Under the window the kids are playing at the yard. Birds chirping, laughter heard, happiness represented. Should be contagious, the chuckling of five year olds. Should bring a smile on your face. Should remind you of all the warm and fuzzy dandelion blowing memories. Should trigger a longing for a peanut butter jelly sandwich. Should be reminiscent of a sudden "the floor is the lava!" frenzy.

Yet you remain seated, turning your back to the window, ignoring the jovial afternoon symphony of an insolent Berliner Saturday.

Yet you are looking down on the table, trying to sort out all the official documents you need for prolonging another year of your stay, for the possibility of many other insolent sunny afternoons like this-- alone at the balcony, just you and your cat. Staring at each other motionlessly.

The cat is staring at you with its emerald eyes.

reflection. thoughts on a s bahn ride

a german guy, an asian woman, and who appeared to be their daughter got on the hamburg s bahn. the parents seated themselves next to a black woman, leaving one extra seat free. the daughter, however, kept on walking, seemingly reluctant to sit with them.

"come sit here with us," said the asian mother.

the girl cast a hesitant look at the black woman and then shook her head.

the asian mother noticed that i was gazing at them (i did not plan to be discreet either), and maybe hence became a bit self conscious. She urged her daughter to sit down with them even more pressingly.

i looked at the girl's brunette hair and round brown eyes, and then at the mother's slightly slanted eyes, and finally at the black woman, who remained silent the whole time. blocked by the profile of the father, i could not decipher the look on her face.

i also caught a glimpse of my reflection on the windows, black long straight hair, tanned skin, dark brown eyes.

i wonder what that girl was thinking when she saw me, or her very own reflection.

i think i will never find out.

Das Unumgängliche

Anne Carson has the exact term for this, das unumgängliche, that cannot be tackled, that cannot be got round.

I have been haunted by the idea that maybe my grandfather has already passed away, and my family is just keeping me in the dark.

I wrote my mother about a week ago, asking how things are back at home-- are her nerves still bad, is father waiting for the release of diablo iii, when will my future niece be born, does grandmother miss me and finally, how's grandfather doing.

She answered everything in detail, even mentioned our poodle, who is getting chubbier and chubbier day by day. But nothing about my grandfather. The absence is so conspicuous that makes him more present than ever. Insufferably present.

If, god forbids?

I do see this coming, my grandfather has been diagnosed with cancer for more than a year now, and before the chemotherapy, the doctor was saying he has only three months.

I have been back at home twice after the bad news. Every time I saw him, with his haunch back and hollow cheeks, struggling to walk or fumble through things (Yeats has a befitting imagery: a tattered coat upon a stick) I shudder at the thought that it might be the very last time I see him while he's still alive. (and he is/was merely.) I still don't know how to tackle death: my other grandfather died more than three years ago, I do not believe that I have fully recovered from the grief. I moved to Europe soon afterwards and have been overwhelmed by cultural shocks and the need to figure out my life. Everything and everyone back home feels distant and foreign, as if from another life. Change of time and space, hence the quasi change of the universe, I somehow managed to avoid tackling one of the biggest issues in life-- death of a close family member.

And the issue creeps back to life as the bad news traveled across the Eurasia continent, followed by the sleepless nights, the engulfing silence of darkness, and the sudden inexpressible fear.

But Berlin has been a good distraction, so are friends and the Internet. Sometimes I do not even think about my grandfather, until his absence was made conspicuous in my mother's email.

I started checking the Facebook pages of my family (fortunate or not, the whole family is on Facebook), looking for clues. And then I finally saw my dad's status update in early April, mentioning that he was in the hospital to bring grandfather home.

Leaving the hospital is not necessarily a good thing, especially when the patient is terminally ill. In where I come from, a person only has a ”proper” death when he lies on his bed at home, surrounded by family. Anything else is considered miserable. And the most miserable death of all, dying in a foreign country where neither family nor long time friends are around.

If death is imminent, rituals take over.The honoring is, however, more for those who survived than the deceased. We need closure. We need to say goodbye. We cannot keep on hanging there in the emotional limbo.

One of my greatest fears, I always say to my friends, is that if anything shall happen to my family, I will need more than thirty hours to travel home only to be present. Thirty hours might not sound like a long travail, but the emotional agony, the anticipation of being too late for a proper closure-- such turmoil can only be understood by the prodigal sons and daughters, the lonesome fellow members of the diaspora.

So here I am, sitting on a ride to Hamburg, the travel grants too much time for the mind to wander. And I am now haunted by the fear that I might have already missed out the closure. It cannot be got round.

aurora revelation

(this is not an exercise written with the writing group. the writing workshop always seems to hit a hiatus in semester break, during which members either visit home or go traveling. but then, what better way to keep writing than doing it also outside a workshop?)

Time does not necessarily heal. What heals is the reckoning that that person is no longer there to witness the important moments of your life. The aurora pilgrimage surely entitles to one of those moments. It was such a moment of the sublime, but he was absent. And the thing is, while you were there, overwhelmed, completely rendered speechless by the celestial wonder of nature, it did not even cross your mind that you might have wanted him to share this moment with you.

It is until you can write about something without any significant emotional turbulence that you realize, you have finally lived though it. Lived through this seemingly unending darkness.

So this is goodbye, eternal night.

oranges

you and i agreed to meet
at orangerie
i will be wearing
my flowery summer dress
and you with your little
reclam of ludwig tiek


when we get tired of walking
we'll find a place to sit
upon the grass maybe
open our picnic basket


macarons, madeleine, black tea
le recherche du les temps perdu
regarding the sweet competition of memory
i suggest we make it mandarin


sweet delicate oranges
i eat as i speak
i am what i eat
i am what i speak


you want to compare me
with a summer's day
methinks it's tacky
should be a jardin d'hiver


a petite girl in her petite dress
waiting in a jardin d'hiver
will be waiting, keep on waiting,
in her flowery summer dress


we hear salvador singing
you wipe the tears from my face
have another mandarin you say
you cry like a madeleine

Lakeside

I was sitting on the lakeside, looking afar. The wind was blowing. I could hear the rotation of the windmill.

Why am I sitting here alone again?

Tommy promised he would join me in a second. “I will catch ya later mate,” said he. Maybe "later" is not just a matter of seconds, rather minutes, or quarters, hours…

Tommy was my first friend. A dear one I would even say. He was the first guy that would speak to me without uttering something like “Get lost!” or “Shhhhhhh!”

I could always feel our connection. Our eyes always met every time I looked up and he would smile at me encouragingly. Accident? I don’t think so.

Tommy has a thing for Sandra. Sandra, that girl with baby blue eyes and flaxen hair. Always wearing polka dot. If she were to be a flavor of ice cream she would be strawberry. Did I mention that Tommy has an impeccable taste? And as I said, I could always feel my connection with Tommy. Tommy likes Sandra. Ergo, I like Sandra too.

“What are you doing here? It’s getting cold.”

It’s Sandra. Speaking of the devil.

I meant to say I was waiting for Tommy, but she cut me short.

“Let’s go home, Mom will get worried.”

“Go go go!” Sandra had rather long legs. I needed to run to be able to catch up with her.

“Home” smelled of baked potato and beans. “Mom” was a middle-aged lady of a rather slight build. She seemed to be happy to see us, but there was something about her that was not quite right. She formed a poignant smile with her melancholy blue eyes.

“Oh you found it, Sandra,” said she. “Poor thing, still waiting for Tommy on the lakeside?” she petted my head and scratched my ears.

“Mom! We promised not to speak of Tommy anymore! If you talk about him in front of Spot all the time, how is it ever able to get over it?”

“Oh Spot, you poor old faithful thing. Stop waiting for Tommy. Don’t you see? He’s not coming back. Never.” Mom spoke softly with a trembling voice.

Even Sandra looked sad now. She held me up, putting me upon her laps. “Spot, we need to move on, you get it?”

Sandra’s laps were all warm and cozy. I felt pretty snuggled up and almost fell asleep.

“Good dog.”

Where’s Tommy? It’s late now. Maybe I would see him on the lakeside tomorrow. He promised. And I will keep on waiting. 

Zeitgeist

Zeitgeist. The spirit of the time. The ghost of the time. The passed away. And I began to think about history.

A history of ontology. Of hauntology.

I don’t know much about philosophy, nor do I care for theories. I always get lost in the continuous name dropping and term coining. I recognize every word but fail to decipher the meaning. Those terms are spinning, always spinning. I feel dizzy.

They are floating, are haunting. I jump to catch them, but clasp only wind. 

Something celestial, something aerial.

Zeitgeist, the first German word I can recall. I found it somewhere in the introduction of a certain era in Norton Anthology. I was compelled to pronounce it, looked up the phonetic symbols, but stumbled over the combination of sibilants and fricatives. 

German sounds a harsh language. I used to practice German, reading all to myself, and Mother would think I was swearing.

"Is every thing alright dear? You sound furious."

The hauntology of the maternal lament. I was sick and stupid enough to have shown it. At the end of the day she was crying.

"I started to think if I made the wrong decision. You are there, all alone, having a fever, and I can't even take care of you."  

I am not the prodigal daughter. I am still on escape. I tried to justify myself but the words would not come my way. 

On escape for the pursuit of ontological value.

"Why are you even there? Come back, come back to us."

"I need to figure things out, Mother"

"Why do you need to figure things out?"

The pursuit of ontological value in a lost generation. Modernity came and was overthrown. Post-modernity, what now?

"I just need to figure things out, Mother."

I need to look for the spirit of the time. An apparition that would lead my way.

It does not have to be holy.

It just needs to appear.

Zeitgeist. I met the word roughly six years ago. 

I believed in something, so I never stopped looking.

I was performing a one man show on an estranged stage, waiting for its entrance.

It just needs to make its entrance.

Something celestial, something aerial. Something existential.

It just needs to make its entrance.

New

"So, what's new?"

I ran into Jack in this artsy cafe in the hip area of the city. We were college friends. He was the jock and I was the weird gothic guy taking Latin and philosophy. As different as we were we somehow got along quite well. He dropped out of college and started modeling, whereas I went all the way to PhD.

"Well, nothing much. I am now dating Kate. You know, that ballerina."

I was hardly surprised. Every time a new girlfriend.

"What about Jasmine? I thought she was your meant to be."

"Well, new is always better, right?" said Jack, I could hear the fake positive tone he was making out to clear his conscience.

Oh Jack Jack Jack, the irresistible Jack. The reluctant womanizer. Back in college I always saw him taking a liking in a girl, sleep with her, and break her heart by sleeping with someone else. He always claimed that all he had done was just listen to what his heart said to him.

Jack knows he's a good looking guy. Blue eyes, brunette hair, slightly curly, and a prominent Greek nose. Six feet tall, like a life size statue of David. Jack knows he's good looking and he makes the best of it. Every party a different girl and unconvincing as it sounds, he always claims he has genuine feelings for them.

"Girls are like, so pretty. Each one of them is like so charming in their own ways. How could you actually turn them down when they are like looking at you with their sparkling eyes?" said Jack romantically, though the melancholia he was trying to come across did not really go with his valley girl English.

I guess that's the major element of a Don Juan. He genuinely does not believe he is a womanizer because he really seems to like every one of them.

"Just coffee? Nothing more?" The waitress came to take his order. Her unusual high pitched voice and flirty smile caught my attention.

"Nope. I am happy here." Jack returned her a dazzling smile.

I swear that waitress almost blushed.

"And what's new with you?" asked Jack, he did not seem to notice the waitress' unusual behavior.

"Well, I am thinking about changing the topic of my dissertation again. And yeah, I guess, new is always better."

I am pretty sure Jack did not get my sarcasm. He merely smiled, and gave me a thumbs up.