What is your name, occupation? Where can we find more info about you (linkage)?
My name is Long Lim and I have no job. You can find more about this kind of lifestyle at flickr.com/wakingphotolife, longll.wordpress.com. I guess that’s enough linkage. In the meantime, I take pictures and write about things.
tell me a story how you got into your line of work and your A-ha/life changing moment?
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a paleontologist and spend my life digging up dinosaurs carcasses in Utah and Toronto (raptors primarily). A decade and a half later, I ended up working as a school teacher. I realized that my patience for wanting to spend weeks in the desert didn’t translate well into the classroom. In the last week of school, I handed out four suspensions in one class period. A few weeks later, I handed in my resignation.
I don’t think I’ve had an a-ha life changing moment yet; maybe the realization that it’s not okay to be a live at home 26, playing video games and drinking beer at your best friend’s house on a Friday night. I’m sure a lot of people don’t see an issue with this though.
Where do you see yourself in 8 years?
Struggling on that second novel, after a well-received first, hopefully (neither which I’ve written yet). I wouldn’t mind being featured in Giant Robot.
Out of this country. There’s too much to see and do. The idea of feeling that I’m past my expiration date in one place is terrifying.
8 months?
Grinding away in front of my desk.
8 days?
Also out of this country working on my best impersonation of Anthony Bourdain. Paris episode.
8 minutes?
Filling out this interview.
8 seconds?
Still thinking about the implications of the barista blurting out, “See, I want to keep working out until my arms are bigger than my ego.”
tell me a story of your oddest dream or even recurring dream
I have a lot of odd dreams. Once I dreamed that I was on a steamboat in the middle of a storming ocean. It was raining. Thinking about it now, it could have been a warehouse or a boat dock. Lots of steel and concrete. I was hiding underneath a wooden crate that had an opening underneath it. Essentially, I was wearing it over my head. Indiana Jones/Harrison Ford was there too. He was also hiding underneath a wooden crate next to me.There were men in trench coats and fedoras walking around with machine guns. I had never felt more panicked and in danger in. Eventually, the boat capsized and everyone was floating in the ocean. I tipped my crate over and climbed inside, and stayed in there until the morning came. Everyone had disappeared there by then and it was just me and Indie.
The second dream that stands out was when the entire city of Sacramento rusted away in a cloud of orange. Everything – cars, buildings, keys, even the hinges on my glasses just disintegrated into flaky chunks of rust. I remember trying to open my car door to get out of the city and watching the handle crumble in my hands along the with the rest of the door. Everyone was freaking out and we made my way on foot towards the Sacramento River. It was a pool of orange because a bridge had collapsed into it. We stood and watched. I wasn’t afraid though. In fact, I think had a smirk on my face and felt rather at peace with the world ending in this way. It was a spectacular scene. The entire sky was red like the end of a day on an annual Southern California wild fire. I’ve replayed this dream many times.
what do you personally think is the meaning of life?
Getting to that point where I can sit down and actually feel content without feeling guilty about it. I feel guilty when I’m not doing something. Anything. It’s stressful.
tell me a story about the last story you heard/read/saw that made you cry?
The last thing I read that actually made me shed tears was “The City In Which I Loved You” by the poet, Li-young Lee. I’m not sure why I did. I rarely cry when watching or reading things. But this one happened to hit close to him.
tell me a story of the most amazing thing you ever seen w/ your own eyes.
Hmm…I can’t say I’ve seen anything truly amazing. I’ve had amazing occurrences though.
I was writing a short story which was about a person who was attending in a Chinese wedding banquet. He detached from the celebration going on around him, in fact he didn’t know why he was there since he had no feelings towards the couple. I didn’t show anyone or talked to anyone about the story. A few days later, my girlfriend was telling me about a dream she had that night where I was wearing a tuxedo at a Chinese wedding banquet. In the dream, I seemed really detached from everyone and wasn’t too happy. The details she gave me were spot on with what I had written, down to the red walls, the tuxedo, the carpet, people banging their chopsticks on their plates as the bride and groom were going from table to table, where everyone was sitting. It freaked me out.
It’s a strange feeling to write someone’s dream. I felt like the narrator in Stranger Than Fiction.
Do I believe in serendipity? Yes I do.
tell me a story of the best vacation spot nobody knows about or that you stumbled upon randomly and how you found it
There’s a small hostel in Taiwan called “Less Is More”. It’s a simple place with a library, long tables, bicycles outside, clean air. It has a calm and serene atmosphere no matter what the weather, season or state that the world is in. We came upon it by blind luck while traveling the coastline of Taiwan.
When we first got there, we were in a bad mood because we thought we had been ripped off the cab driver who took us from the train station to the city center of Tai Tung. No plans. No phone. Not much money either. We found the place online while browsing inside a noisy internet cafe that smelled like the men’s locker room at 24 Hour fitness. There were no pictures on the website, but we booked it anyway. It was either this or a neon lit love hotel.
We didn’t get there until around 10pm. Before that was a 5 hour train ride, hauling luggage the entire way, and being mugged by insane humidity. Later we’d find out that we were lucky to even have a room; the owner told us the place is usually booked out three months in advance.
The inn keeper led us into the library where we were served cups of hot chocolate. It was the best cup I’ve ever had. There are only four rooms there, very sparse, no garish decorations or colors. The second floor had a Wii that everyone was free to use. To this day, it’s without a doubt, the most peaceful place I’ve ever been to. It’s hard to describe. Think about the most relaxed state you’ve ever been in. Then imagine spreading that feeling over an entire place, down the floorboards. That’s what it felt like to me. There’s a certain smell, a certain atmosphere and tone. The owner teaches Chinese calligraphy which fits the tone of the hostel and makes perfect sense.
In the morning, we treated to the best breakfast I’ve ever had give improptu calligraphy lessons. Though I had travelled halfway across the world, I had no desire to leave the place and would have been perfectly fine going through the bookshelves all day.
What is your ethnic background?
I’m Chinese-American, though I speak an obscure (use this word a lot) dialect of Chinese. So most people don’t even consider me as Chinese. For those in the know, GA GI NANG!
tell me a story of how your parents/grandparents came to america
My grandparents left China for Cambodia during the Cultural Revolution. Before this, my grandfather’s family owned a small tofu shop in Southern China. I don’t know much about him. I went to their home in 2007. The furniture, chairs, bedrooms have been untouched since I think 1960 or 1970. For the most part though it was a tomb of sawdust, rotting wood and bricks. It was surreal thinking my life essentially originated here.
My parents were born in Cambodia and lived through the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot. Everyone grabbed whatever they could and just ran. My dad made it on foot through the jungle and across the border into Thailand where he was taken in at a refugee camp. He was just 16 or 17. A few months later, he found a sponsor to bring him into the states. My mom went through the same. I was 12 and watching “The Killing Fields” when she walked in and said, “Oh, it was much worse than that.” They always tend towards understatement. Besides a few moments here and there, they don’t tell me the details.
tell me a story about how it was like growing up w/ them. what were their jobs? what was it like in your home?
My dad works as a Computer Technician. He used to be a Silicon Valley guy until we moved to Sacramento. My mom works retail at a thrift store. In a lot of ways, their jobs reflect who they are and how I grew up. Home was relatively normal, though rowdy at times with three other siblings of which I’m the oldest. I grew up in East San Jose, a place Geraldo Rivera called “the ghetto side of town”. I think this says a lot considering it’s San Jose (no disrespect to the 408).
At times, I thought about calling child protective services for the lashings I’d take for getting math problems wrong. I also got in trouble for saying things like “man”, as in “come on man,” and “dude” in front of my dad. With my dad, we never had to starve for technology. There were oscilloscopes, computers and cables everywhere all the time. In a lot of ways, he was as rigid and inflexible as the beige boxes he worked on.
My mom on the other hand was much more laid-back. We’d take the bus around town, to McDonalds, K-Mart, and the flea market on Berryessa. She watched NFL and NBA games as if it was her religion and to this day, knows more about what goes in those leagues than I do. It’s amazing considering she doesn’t know much English. I never underestimate her though. The first time I played N.W.A “Straight Outta Compton” she tore the cassette out of the tape player and yanked the ribbon out. But, “Pscyho killer” from the Talking Heads was perfectly okay. She loved it. Played it all the time from her Pocky brown 80s era Honda Civic she got later.
tell me a story about the strictest thing your parents made you do or didn’t let you do
My parents have been fairly open minded. During my formative years though, I couldn’t stay outside past 5pm and I couldn’t walk home. In hindsight, it was somewhat understandable, we lived in the “ghetto side of town” and they lived in constant fear that we’d latch ourselves onto the shadier characters in the neighborhood. Guys with nicknames like “Fish” and “Kombo”.
I couldn’t wear wide-leg jeans either. In the mid 90s, this killed me, socially. Most of my friends were Mexican – Nike Cortez’es, 20 inch bottom Interstate jeans (or Jincos), big flannels and Ben Davis shirts. Not for me though. My parents would’ve killed me.
When we moved to Sacramento, I wanted AZN bangs, but that never happened either. They would’ve been snipped in my sleep.
tell me a story of of what was it like growing up in your hometown. what did you do on weekends?
I guess the previous question covered the early years. I moved to Elk Grove when I was around 13. You can say that this is my “other” hometown. It was a wasteland at the time – the most suburban of suburbs. There were actual tumbleweeds around the block from my house. I guess it’s because of this that I always say “I’m from Sacramento” instead of saying “I’m from Elk Grove”. There use to be some shame involved. Besides school, there wasn’t much else. When they finally built the Target and Borders across the street, it was heaven on earth. Now I love the EG.
Growing up in the suburbs during these lean years inspires a certain kind of a person (or builds a certain kind of character) I believe. I spent my weekends watching Sacramento Kings games on TV or playing Final Fantasy and Street Fighter in the garage.
if you went back to your ancestors homeland, tell me a story of what that was like?
I went to Chaozhou, China in 2007. By then, I thought I had a firm grasp of my roots. Turns out I didn’t and nothing my parents ever told me could prepare me for the experience. I stayed with my grandfather’s brother. His family had become quite successful by the standards over there. Of course, by the time I visited, the city was nothing like what it had been. I went with my aunt. She had gone ten years ago and there was scant electricity, dirt roads, and the bus ride from Hong Kong took a day and a half. They were living of a small rice farm that wasn’t doing well. Ten years later, KFC is a comfortable mile down from my grandfather’s home, along with a hotel, and a basketball court in front of the old temple.
The homes and villages are still how they have always been. Traditional Chinese homes with shingles, bricks, sectioned into fours, with one main entrance and extended families living together. This was just barely on the outskirts of all the development – McDonalds, appliance stores, cell phone carriers, etc. You cross a bridge that’s a few yards across, few yards long, and you can feel the times changing with each step.
What I remembered the most was the look of awe that all my older relatives gave me. I felt like some prodigal son that had returned from the promised land. The younger cousins and uncles though looked at me with quiet resignation.
I imagine that if it was my grandfather who had stayed in China instead and it was his brother who left to Cambodia, what my life would be like today. I have second cousins there (I assume they’re second cousins) and they’re my age. Being from two different worlds, the memory of sitting on the back of an old sputtering Kawasaki, clutching a basketball under my arm with a 6 pack of TsingTaos and some Yakult a compartment underneath the seat was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling “roots”.
What did you think of Durian and it’s smell while growing up?
I loved Durian while growing up. I never even thought about the smell. There was Durian sweet porridge. Durian ice cream. Durian chips. I loved pretending to throw the entire thing at my brothers who would run in fear as I charged at them, spikes digging into my own forearms and all. It was just delicious for all I cared. I wondered what the hell people were talking about, when they talked about the “Durian smell”.
It wasn’t until I read an article where the writer said, paraphrasing, “a man who ravages his Durian is a man worth keeping”, you can interpret that however you want, but that was when durian began to have other connotations.
The smell, I’d still like to think I don’t mind it too much. Having sat in a Hong Kong mini-bus during the height of August with a lady who was just openly attacking her Durian fruit makes me more inclined to change my mind.
What was your parents weapon of choice: fly swatter or chopsticks?
Fly swatter. It wasn’t the fly swatting end (that’s just disgusting) that hurt. It’s the thin metal frame. I know all about the kind of pain it inflicts.
One weapon that’s not on here, is being forced stand in a corner for an hour or more while pulling on your own earlobes.
Lastly:
How would you like to be remembered?
As a person who was born tired, cynical and with a cocked eyebrow. I don’t know. Memories are funny things.
Thank you.
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