© Shen Wei
This morning I ate two persimmons for breakfast, both were not mature enough, a little hard and tasted puckery. I bought them in Chinatown on Sunday. When I was in Lake Como last month, I discovered a huge persimmon tree near my studio. I have never seen so many persimmons on one tree, the fruits were big, each one is twice as large as the ones I got from the Chinatown. Every time I walk by the tree, I would pick one and bring it to my studio, soon I had a bunch of them on my windowsill, they looked beautiful. They were also too raw to eat. Some days, I would lost my patience and cut one of them and lick the juice, some part of it can be already sweet, but mostly was astringent. The smell of the persimmon reminds me of the aftermath of a wild sex.
Lunch in Elmhurst, Queens, sat in one of our favorite Malaysian restaurant with my best friend. She would leave for Beijing in a few hours, for good. Sadness. All dishes on the table tasted same, tart, pungent and a little bit sweet; like the persimmons I had in the morning. I suddenly became too Chinese to express what I would like to say to her. It may embarrass her. We had hugged at the airport, the longest, strongest hug we have ever had, a bit tart. As I left airport, I saw this middle aged man sitting there, starring blankly, skin looked sun burned, like an awaiting orange fruit.