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August 6th 2014

An 8th Grade Poem: The Monk, The Monkeys, and The Moo-moo Tree

Illustration by Yoko Sakao Ohama

Illustration by Yoko Sakao Ohama

My late grandfather wrote poems throughout his life. I remember my mother showing me dozens of these sheets of paper filled with his handwriting that mom had kept safe and started to transcribe, even translate. She has often said, “The arts run in your blood” (while my father would say, “You get that stuff from your mom’s side.”) 

The following is a poem I wrote in the 8th grade in its original form. For the sake of artistic integrity, I’ve resisted the urge to change a few puzzling word choices and correct the grammar. I’m proud to present to you the poetic stylings of my middle school self.

 


The Monk, the Monkeys, and the Moo-moo Tree
By Kevin Huynh, February 2002

Good day today my merry friends
It seems that I am mandate to tell you a story from beginning to end
So please mellow out and minder around as I tell you for free
The story of The Monk, The Monkeys, and the Moo-moo Tree

It was a murky Monday in the month of May
A muster of monks were to migrate to their dismay
The magnate of the monks was a wise old man
Who made many decisions for his loyal old clan

The journey was to take many days
Through the merciless jungles of the Mildimay
Little did they know of the many dangers that they would meet
Including the merciless band of monkeys which was a meticulous feat

So the magnate and his monks made their way
Beginning there methodical migration as some would say
At midday they would eat their meager meals
In a mere attempt to grease their wheels

The magnate had warned the monks of a mysterious Moo-moo Tree
That held much maliciousness in its treachery
The methodical magnate told of the monkeys of the Moo-moo Tree
Whose whereabouts were shrouded in mystery

The Moo-moo Tree was a mark of evil
With mouth watering fruit that seemed almost medieval
The fruit resembled a mango, a most enticing greet
But actually possessed a mephitic meat

The mephitic and poisonous Moo-moo Tree
That makes these animals monstrous murderous monkeys
That murder the men and eat their meat
Eventually burying them below their feet

After many days of arduous moving the monks came to a mangrove where they could see
And there in the middle, lying in the center was a mysterious looking mango tree
Surrounding it were many monstrous monkeys staring at the men
The monks counted, one, two, three, four…maybe up to one hundred and ten

The magnate meticulously moved near the tree and asked him self, could this really be?
Could this really be a magnificent mango tree to mitigate their hunger along with their worries?
Or could it be the Moo-moo Tree
Whose mephitic meat could kill both you and me

After a moment of mediation the magnate said,
“This is the Moo-moo Tree, if eaten you shall be dead”
The monks soon minded their magnate’s words
Is he speaking the truth? Or is he miserly stealing hors d’oeuvres?

But in a moment the monks came to
They followed their magnate’s words as they should do
For they have much manner towards their monk
And manly trust him, as a tree trusts his trunk

At about midday, a miniscule monkey made his way
To the feet of the magnate in a morose yet mundane way
He asked “What is the matter you moronic monk?
Why didn’t you eat those mesmerizing mango chunks?”

The magnate answered, “Me would think that with such a merry mango chunk
Someone would munch on the mango growing off that tree trunk
Especially with such a massive menagerie of monkeys among the mango tree
Without even a marked bite taken from this luscious mango tree

One simply must muster to one self, Could this be, Could this be the Moo-moo Tree?
The Moo-moo Tree that menacingly murdered so many for none to see?
So you see my mini, morose yet mundane monkey
There must be some kind of mischief in the milieu of this unmarred mango tree”

The mind boggled monkey was so very impressed
By the mental capacity of this monk which exceeded the rest
So the miscreant monkey confessed it was a trap
And with a respectful bow he marched off, as if it was a mishap

The magnate and his monks continued on their merry way
Completing their mission across the Mildimay
But they shall never forget what they learned for it is impossible you see,
To forget their magnate, the monkeys and the Moo-moo tree.

My best friend, Sean, and me around the time I wrote this poem.

My best friend, Sean, and me around the time I wrote this poem.



 
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August 1st 2014

I dedicate this one to Jonathan Harris

In life, you will become known for doing what you do. That sounds obvious, but it’s profound. If you want to be known as someone who does a particular thing, then you must start doing that thing immediately. Don’t wait. There is no other way. It probably won’t make you money at first, but do it anyway. Work nights. Work weekends. Sleep less. Whatever you have to do. If you’re lucky enough to know what brings you bliss, then do that thing at once. If you do it well, and for long enough, the world will find ways to repay you.

– Jonathan Harris
Transom.org Manifesto

 

Jonathan Harris is one of those people who sticks with me as a source of inspiration. He’s just always there, Mr. 27, helping me think differently. Let’s take this Friday afternoon to memorialize a few favorite Harris-isms that I mull over from time to time.

 

Trends of the web & communication

In his PSFK talk from 2012, Jonathan mentions four trends he’s not a fan of.

 

“Modern Medicine”

In an article on Farmer & Farmer, Jonathan draws parallels between software and medicine. More and more, information technology affects how we think, feel, act and live our lives.

What is the ethical responsibility of designers that shape how millions of people behave each day?

In designing interventions to address particular problems, you should understand that you can never simply “fix” a problem. By adding a new element into a system, you increase the complexity of that system, which may have the effect of fixing the problem you saw, but which will also inevitably introduce new and different problems. This is how interventions work. They address one issue, and in doing so, they create new issues, and the world becomes more complex. So if you intervene, do it with humility, knowing that your well-intentioned actions will create unforeseen problems of their own.

So then why act? Why add complexity? If any intervention will create both good and bad, then why intervene at all? Why not simply sit and watch?

We should act because the world is getting crazy, and beautiful interventions are needed.

 

On quality

From Debbie Millman’s Design Matters interview:

Whatever you’re doing, do it as well as you can. And if you start with very small things like brushing your teeth well and making dinner well then that starts to move out in concentric circles and to bigger things in your life. Once you say, “Well I brush my teeth really well, and I make my really dinner well, but I notice that my job, I don’t like it all,” suddenly you say, “Okay, that’s the next thing that has to change.” …Very quickly it takes over your life until you’ve examined all the things in your life with this lens of quality.

This one goes out to you, JH. Keep doing what you do. I look forward to following your journey.



 
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May 19th 2014

The cab driver that could have been a millionaire

My girlfriend taught me to talk to my cab drivers. She would tell me stories about her taxi chats, always asking the same questions, “where did you grow up?” and “what are your favorite places eat?”

This morning, I returned to the city after celebrating my (future) sister in law’s med school graduation in Dallas and hopped a cab back to Sunset Park. There were delays on the BQE so my driver and I had plenty of time to get into it.

Meet my new friend.

We’ve known eachother for 39 minutes. He’s an Indian ex-investment banker currently residing in Forest Hills, Queens. He’s lived in New York for over twenty years, and recently ate at my new favorite Dim Sum restaurant, East Harbor Seafood Palace, with his Chinese girlfriend who was actually the old roommate of his ex-girlfriend (drama.)

As traffic eased up, we whizzed by the newly finished Brooklyn Bridge Park and chatted about how quickly BK neighborhoods were changing. In 1995 he had the opportunity to buy a Williamsburg Warehouse on Bedford Ave. and North 5th for $60,000. The owner was itching the get rid of the property, only interested in cutting his responsibilities and moving back to Puerto Rico. He was so bent on getting out of New York, that the offer was $60k “or whatever you have and you can pay me back monthly.”

But despite having all the money needed, my new friend just couldn’t pull the trigger on the dilapidated warehouse (with its numerous rat tenants.) It just didn’t compute. Instead, he would save up until 2007 and go in on a $800,000 Forest Hills home. The housing market would crash the next year and fast forward to today: the warehouse, now in the heart of hippest of the hip, has since been leveled and replaced with a shiny building listed at $10.6 Million.

With a heavy sigh he said, “That day, I think God tried to send me an angel.”



 
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March 15th 2014

The Poetic Wax of Weightlifting

As far as I can remember, my first “gym” experience was early high school when P.E. class featured a weight training unit. Hence, one fateful day my 130lb sophomore frame reluctantly strolled into the school’s weight room for the first time.

Gym anxiety was at an all time high, as I think is for anyone (especially a hormonal teenage boy) making a maiden voyage into the weight room. There was just that pressure–mostly self inflicted–to know what you’re doing, understand standard workout etiquette, and lift a respectable amount (whatever that means).

I plopped down on a flat bench, preparing to put up the first bench press reps of my life. Nervous, I tried to copy my classmates while around me football players racked monstrous weights like pros, further fueling my nerves. Somehow, 45 minutes passed and my scrawny gym partner Allen and I had successfully executed our first lifts. We didn’t pound protein shakes at the time because we didn’t know that’s what we were supposed to do. Yet, our body building days had begun.

Not really. Today, about a decade later, I do possess a gym membership. It costs $69 a month and affords me access to a wonderful Brooklyn neighborhood fitness establishment, which I stop into 2-3 times a week. It’s no Equinox or 24 Hour Fitness Derek Jeter. There isn’t a fancy sauna, and the clientele is a huge range of…normal people. On top of that, my gym is housed in a converted, old bank building. Think Average Joes not Globo-gym.

Sure, my gym has its quirks. There’s the 1991 NYC Marathon posters that adorn most walls and the massive heater that points directly at the incline bench which makes for an uncomfortably warm pectoral workout. I also can’t forget to mention the rock band that rehearses in the bank’s basement vault on Wednesday nights (just before closing). All that said, I genuinely like my gym. It’s no frills and the people are kind. The big guys give you fist bumps, there’s a full spectrum of fitness levels, and anyone will agree (with a smile) to help you out with a spot on your last set.

Two events last weekend capped off a great gym day. 1) a personal record with 5 reps at 165lb on the incline bench (commence judging) and 2) a pleasant conversation about squats with new gym friend, Aton.

To me, lifting weights represents simplicity. It doesn’t get much less complicated than setting your mind to pick up a heavy object and then put it down. And some would say the squat is where it starts. You put a heavily weighted bar across your back, drop down and explode back up. It’s a full body, foundational, compound exercise.

Aton and I bantered about how squatting your “max” weight depends so much on where your head is at. It’s a mental game. Doubt yourself, and you’ll get stuck at the bottom of your lift with a hunk of steel on top of you. You’ll either have to dive forward face to the floor or crawl out from underneath. That’s failing in it’s simplest form and it messes with your head. It makes you shy away from the lift. Excuses creep in and like any other failure, you’re tempted to give up. Fear wins and you stop trying altogether.

Aton, in his ultimate gym wisdom, tightened his weight belt and lamented, “You need to fail though. It’s good for you. You have to know what it feels like.”

That original gym anxiety from over a decade ago has faded and my evenings at the gym are filled with much more calm and routine, with a healthy dose of challenge. There’s something poetic about knowing the hardest task I’ll attempt to perform–amidst work, meetings, calls, the relative weight of a day’s decision making–still the hardest thing I’ll do during a day in the life is attempt to put 200lb on my back and try to stand up straight. Simple.