Write Place, Write Time

If you look at anything long enough, say just that wall in front of you -- it will come out of that wall.
- Anton Chekhov

Eugenia Kim

       

In a room the width of two doorways, above my iMac. Bottom right In the silver picture frame is a photo of my dad as a houseboy in the 1930s. 

       

To my right, a respite. Mini callas from our garden, a blackbird tea-light holder that Mr. Eugenia has banned to my office.

       

Behind me, the clutter reality. Note the red circles: bottom left are bejeweled Chanel sandals I cut out because I can never afford them; middle top, my feet when I was three, and my siblings’ feet. 

                      

I couldn’t resist sharing that feet photo, which I recolorized. We are singing Korean songs at one of many meetings my parents held to raise money and clothing donations to send to war-torn South Korea. 

Eugenia Kim is the author of The Calligrapher’s Daughter. She lives in Washington DC and therefore, like 600,000 other U.S. citizens, has no vote in congress.

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