- Netflix series Jessica Jones is amazing. Highly recommended.
- Writing has been excruciatingly slow. Not sure how much time I'll have over the holidays, given the guests that will be at home, but the sense of urgency and need to finish up this cursed first draft has only gotten stronger as the year draws to a close. It's literally driving me bonkers.
- Neko Atsume. Download this game if you like low-maintenance cute kitties. It is a joy.
- I hate reading the news these days. A lot of the rhetoric that's being batted around now makes me disillusioned and quite sad about the lack of compassion in people out there.
- I need to get back to work now. Toodles.
December 16, 2015
Still Alive
I know, I haven't blogged in a while. School has been intense, and things will be gearing up towards my board exam in mid-April. Random thoughts I've been meaning to parse out in blog entries, but bullet points will have to do:
October 24, 2015
Musings on Crimson Peak
SPOILERS AHEAD, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
First off, I hate horror movies. The creepy trailer ads for Crimson Peak that have been playing on Spotify and YouTube for the past few weeks had been scaring the crap out of me. But when I heard that this was a gothic romance and "a story with ghosts", I ended up at war with myself about whether or not I wanted to subject myself to the possibility of shitting in my pants in a movie theater in order to see all of my favorite Gothic romance tropes.
In the end, the significant other convinced me to go--though I suspect his motives may have partly been influenced by the prospect of his PDA-adverse girlfriend clinging onto his arm in fright.
My initial reaction after the credits ended was a bit lukewarm, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about it--and my impression of the film has changed as I let the story stew in my brain.
The short of it: I liked Crimson Peak. It was not as scary as I feared, save Edith's mother at the beginning. (Was that really necessary, Mrs. Cushing? Do you really have to scare the crap out of your daughter in order to warn her about Crimson Peak?) Visually, the movie was a feast---the costumes were gorgeous, the house was breathtaking. I loved the casting and can't even imagine how different the movie would have been if Benedict Cumberbatch and Emma Stone had actually stayed on the project to be Thomas Sharpe and Edith. I never understood the Hiddleston craze before, but in this movie DAYUMM he did a great job. Mia Wasikowska didn't leave a strong impression on me, but she definitely fit the role of Edith better than I can imagine Emma Stone in it. And Jessica Chastain as Lucille Sharpe was BATSHIT INSANE AND I LOVED IT.
The reason why my initial reaction to this movie was tepid, however, may have to do with the fact that I was somewhat underwhelmed by the story. I'm not sure if my experience would be different from someone not so familiar with the conventions of dark fairy tales and Gothic romance, but the plot felt predictable. Even before I watched the film, when I knew that Tom Hiddleston and Jessica Chastain were playing a creepy pair of brother/sister, I was like "Oh, maybe they're incestuous siblings... nah, that's too easy." And when that turned out to be the big reveal, I felt almost deflated. The dead wives aspect was also an idea I dismissed, thinking: "No, that's too obvious. That's straight out of the fairytale Bluebeard." But in a way, I guess the film is also paying homage to its roots. Kind of like how you go into a Cinderella retelling expecting it to hit certain beats, if I'd gone in expecting Crimson Peak to hit the beats of Bluebeard, I wouldn't be bothered that the storyline followed standard fare.
Still, this film basically contains all the ingredients that my sixteen-year-old self would have devoured. The twisted love triangle, the ghosts, the creepy imagery, the sad ending. (Also, some people might have thought it was sappy/tacky but I LOVED the last scene with Edith saying goodbye to Thomas's ghost. I'm such a sucker for bittersweet fare.) I really can't recommend it everyone, but for certain people with a particular taste for the beautiful and creepy, Crimson Peak will hit the right notes.
October 3, 2015
AM 4:44
I haven't been keeping up much with my beloved K-pop rappers recently. By chance, I revisited BYG's Twitter account and found this video. I would have loved the melancholic song even without understanding the lyrics, but the captions to this video really did me in--especially in context of everything that happened to his group in the past year.
September 29, 2015
Magnets
"Pretty girls don't know the things that I know
Walk my way, I'll share the things that she won't
Uh-oh, dancing past the point of no return
Let go, we can free ourselves of all we've learned
I love this secret language that we're speaking
Say it to me, let's embrace the point of no return
Let's embrace the point of no return
Let's embrace the point of no return"
"Magnets" by Disclosure ft. Lorde
----------------
I've been exceptionally restless in recent days, and it's driving me insane. I feel as if I'm riding on a bullet train that doesn't stop, and I'm just watching my days blitz past in a monotonous blur out my control.
September 12, 2015
A Short Rant
I'm in the throes of Heme-Onc block, with my next exam fast-approaching on Tuesday. But I couldn't help but read some articles posted on some of my favorite blogs--most notably, the controversy over the white male poet who'd been using a Chinese pen name. Or rather, a name that belonged to a female Taiwanese-American high school classmate of his.
This morning, I came across a very well-written essay by Jenny Zhang, an Asian-American poet, published on Buzzfeed. She detailed exactly why the controversy rankled her so much, including a lot of background about her own experiences as an Asian-American writer. I can't say I've experienced what she went through in those writer's workshops where her peers--mostly privileged and white--would repeatedly lament that they wish they had a more "diverse" or "exotic" background, or comment that Jenny's works would be more likely to be accepted/published because of her race. (It reminds me a lot of a girl whose college essays I edited, who bristled at how people readily downplay her achievements and her Yale acceptance because of her Latina surname, nevermind the fact that she worked her butt off to get where she is now.)
But as Jenny Zhang points out, these people just want the "exotic" name, and not the baggage of being a minority in a country where presidential candidates openly talk about mass deportation of immigrants and derisively talk about "anchor babies." (My parents were in the US with graduate student visas when I was born. Am I an anchor baby? Am I any less "American" than somebody whose parents were born here? If you think you can decide that for me, fuck off.)
Well, when I got to the comments at the bottom of the article, that's when my anger REALLY took off. These were comments I'm now used to at this point, and I see it anytime I read an essay about race and privilege. Basically, they called Jenny Zhang a whiner and why is she complaining, people use pen names all the time, this is bullshit, blah blah blah.
No. NO. You really don't get it, do you?
Which is fine! I don't expect you to fully understand the experience of being Asian-American. What I DON'T understand is why you insist on dismissing someone else's point of view. How hard is it to simply say, "I don't think I can fully understand what it's like to be in your shoes, but I respect and acknowledge that you feel this way." Really, is that too much to ask??
//end rant
This morning, I came across a very well-written essay by Jenny Zhang, an Asian-American poet, published on Buzzfeed. She detailed exactly why the controversy rankled her so much, including a lot of background about her own experiences as an Asian-American writer. I can't say I've experienced what she went through in those writer's workshops where her peers--mostly privileged and white--would repeatedly lament that they wish they had a more "diverse" or "exotic" background, or comment that Jenny's works would be more likely to be accepted/published because of her race. (It reminds me a lot of a girl whose college essays I edited, who bristled at how people readily downplay her achievements and her Yale acceptance because of her Latina surname, nevermind the fact that she worked her butt off to get where she is now.)
But as Jenny Zhang points out, these people just want the "exotic" name, and not the baggage of being a minority in a country where presidential candidates openly talk about mass deportation of immigrants and derisively talk about "anchor babies." (My parents were in the US with graduate student visas when I was born. Am I an anchor baby? Am I any less "American" than somebody whose parents were born here? If you think you can decide that for me, fuck off.)
Well, when I got to the comments at the bottom of the article, that's when my anger REALLY took off. These were comments I'm now used to at this point, and I see it anytime I read an essay about race and privilege. Basically, they called Jenny Zhang a whiner and why is she complaining, people use pen names all the time, this is bullshit, blah blah blah.
No. NO. You really don't get it, do you?
Which is fine! I don't expect you to fully understand the experience of being Asian-American. What I DON'T understand is why you insist on dismissing someone else's point of view. How hard is it to simply say, "I don't think I can fully understand what it's like to be in your shoes, but I respect and acknowledge that you feel this way." Really, is that too much to ask??
//end rant
August 23, 2015
Progress Report No. 12
Blogging's been sparse, as you may have noticed. Classes started back up the first week of August, and it's been a whirlwind of infectious diseases ever since.
More than ever, I've become acutely aware of how limited my free time is. To be honest, it's made me rather antisocial these days. We had our first exam since coming back from summer on Friday, and there have been quite a few social events I'd felt obligated to attend until I thought to myself, "Are there other things I'd rather be doing during that time?" The answer would always be "yes." And so I'd stay home, go to bed early, and get up early to write.
Well, at least I have something to show for it. Chapter 25 is DONE. Five more to go.
Our next block starts back up on Monday, so it'll likely take more than a month for me to churn out Chapter 26. Hopefully I get as much done in these spare moments as possible, because once January rolls around, I will be studying non-stop until I take my board exam, presumably in mid-March.
Sigh.
More than ever, I've become acutely aware of how limited my free time is. To be honest, it's made me rather antisocial these days. We had our first exam since coming back from summer on Friday, and there have been quite a few social events I'd felt obligated to attend until I thought to myself, "Are there other things I'd rather be doing during that time?" The answer would always be "yes." And so I'd stay home, go to bed early, and get up early to write.
Well, at least I have something to show for it. Chapter 25 is DONE. Five more to go.
Our next block starts back up on Monday, so it'll likely take more than a month for me to churn out Chapter 26. Hopefully I get as much done in these spare moments as possible, because once January rolls around, I will be studying non-stop until I take my board exam, presumably in mid-March.
Sigh.
July 13, 2015
Progress Report No.11
Finally, a breakthrough.
I was stuck on Chapter 24 for a month. Partly because I haven't been able to buckle down and write as much as I'd hoped (more on that later), but mainly because I was having immense trouble writing a specific scene with Rory and Rhys.
Dialogue has never been my strong suit. If anything, it's my weakest attribute. Compound this with the fact that I needed to write a very emotionally charged confrontation that essentially functions as a break-up scene... I was very afraid of verging into melodramatic, soap opera territory. Anyways, I finished that scene up this morning. So far, I'm pleased with the results--thought that may change when I read it again in a few months T______T And there was supposed to be a following scene in that chapter that depicts exactly how Rory ends up being expelled from Rosecrans... but I decided that the Rory+Rhys scene needed more room to breathe, or the pacing would be off. So all in all, Chapter 24 is done.... and at some point I need to figure out how to rearrange the chapters to fit in the missing scene. But all in all, roughly five chapters left to write for this first draft.
I was pretty optimistic about getting through it all by the end of summer, but with only two weeks left, I'm not so sure anymore. Part of the problem, unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess), is because I have discovered that being in a new relationship takes up a lot of time. Obviously, it's time that I enjoy spending--but that also means that many of my evenings that I would have spent solo typing away in a coffee shop are now spent cooking dinner together or watching a movie. Too bad writing is such a solitary event.
Oh well, no regrets. Next up is Charlotte's chapter, and plot-wise, things are starting to wind down a la "calm-before-the-storm" until the dramatic conclusion where all the shocking secrets are revealed wooooo. Down to the final stretch!!
I was stuck on Chapter 24 for a month. Partly because I haven't been able to buckle down and write as much as I'd hoped (more on that later), but mainly because I was having immense trouble writing a specific scene with Rory and Rhys.
Dialogue has never been my strong suit. If anything, it's my weakest attribute. Compound this with the fact that I needed to write a very emotionally charged confrontation that essentially functions as a break-up scene... I was very afraid of verging into melodramatic, soap opera territory. Anyways, I finished that scene up this morning. So far, I'm pleased with the results--thought that may change when I read it again in a few months T______T And there was supposed to be a following scene in that chapter that depicts exactly how Rory ends up being expelled from Rosecrans... but I decided that the Rory+Rhys scene needed more room to breathe, or the pacing would be off. So all in all, Chapter 24 is done.... and at some point I need to figure out how to rearrange the chapters to fit in the missing scene. But all in all, roughly five chapters left to write for this first draft.
I was pretty optimistic about getting through it all by the end of summer, but with only two weeks left, I'm not so sure anymore. Part of the problem, unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess), is because I have discovered that being in a new relationship takes up a lot of time. Obviously, it's time that I enjoy spending--but that also means that many of my evenings that I would have spent solo typing away in a coffee shop are now spent cooking dinner together or watching a movie. Too bad writing is such a solitary event.
Oh well, no regrets. Next up is Charlotte's chapter, and plot-wise, things are starting to wind down a la "calm-before-the-storm" until the dramatic conclusion where all the shocking secrets are revealed wooooo. Down to the final stretch!!
June 29, 2015
Materialize
These days, sometimes it feels like my life has collided with a script of fiction. I've lived inside my head for the majority of my life, envisioning entire dialogues and acts that I never expected to materialize from these fermented daydreams into some iteration of reality.
We sit across the table from each other in the living room. He never cooks unless I'm visiting. This time, there is a dish of baked panko-breaded chicken and a bowl of quinoa and kale. We drink red wine from Starbucks mugs because we're too lazy to look for the glasses. The conversation jumps from topic to topic without feeling forced, and somehow we end up talking about our classmates. He tells me that it's funny to reflect on how much he misjudged certain people, and I ask him if he misjudged me. He says yes at first, and then pauses. He covers his eyes and lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh, until I suddenly realize that he's trying not to cry.
I walk to his side as he covers his face in embarrassment. He is still seated as I stand beside him and gently pull him towards me. When he finally manages to speak, he says he feels like I deserve someone better. That he can't believe his luck in how he managed to end up with someone like me. I stroke his back, his shoulders, and I tell him that I find myself thinking the same thing from time to time. That I've been waiting all my life for someone like him. You deserve this. You deserve all of this. My voice comes out in a low murmur, but the words aren't just for him. The words are just as much for me.
We sit across the table from each other in the living room. He never cooks unless I'm visiting. This time, there is a dish of baked panko-breaded chicken and a bowl of quinoa and kale. We drink red wine from Starbucks mugs because we're too lazy to look for the glasses. The conversation jumps from topic to topic without feeling forced, and somehow we end up talking about our classmates. He tells me that it's funny to reflect on how much he misjudged certain people, and I ask him if he misjudged me. He says yes at first, and then pauses. He covers his eyes and lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh, until I suddenly realize that he's trying not to cry.
I walk to his side as he covers his face in embarrassment. He is still seated as I stand beside him and gently pull him towards me. When he finally manages to speak, he says he feels like I deserve someone better. That he can't believe his luck in how he managed to end up with someone like me. I stroke his back, his shoulders, and I tell him that I find myself thinking the same thing from time to time. That I've been waiting all my life for someone like him. You deserve this. You deserve all of this. My voice comes out in a low murmur, but the words aren't just for him. The words are just as much for me.
June 18, 2015
ugh
Currently working on Chapter 24, which is already proving to be draining to write.
To build a realistic barrage of cyberbullying that Her Highness receives, I've spent the past hour intentionally looking at articles about Internet flaming. I reread the article I wrote about last year on Emily Gould and Keith Gessen, this post I archived from Curt Schilling's blog about the obscene tweets he got after congratulating his daughter on Twitter, dozens of articles about people like Anita Sarkeesian and prominent female writers receiving hate mail and crap. You can't even make this shit up. I literally feel nauseous from having read this stuff for an hour.
Last year, I briefly touched on the UCSB shooting. This incident hit closer to home for me--one of the victims was my brother's high school classmate. What I didn't write about then was the misogynistic motives behind that shooting. This article gives an inside look at the online community the shooter used to hang around. It is fucking appalling. I want to say that I don't know anyone who spews out the same vitriol about girls being sluts, bemoaning their lack of getting laid because of "shallow" girls, but how do I know if these people I interact with put on a face in public and then unleash all this venom on the Internet? One comment on that article gave me pause:
Since coming to med school, I've had more close guy friends than I've ever had in my life. And I've definitely heard iterations of this from them. I would like to think my friends are good people who wouldn't flame others online, who may complain about dating culture but not because they think women are hos for not sleeping with them. It takes a disturbed person to resort to mass murder in order to validate some "manifesto." But the lines of reasoning behind it are not unique to the murderous. More than likely, there are people around you who have ugly thoughts--perhaps less hateful, more diluted version--and hopefully, they are not the type of people who will choose to manifest this hatred beyond the confines of their brains.
Edit//
I've been reading articles about the church shooting, Charleston, SC. It's all relevant to this. The news stations are already tossing out "mental condition" and "mental illness" in regards to the shooter, but there are others without murderous intent who harbor the same vein of thoughts as the shooter. In light of the Black Lives Matter movement from this past year, you can't deny that there is an insidious bigotry that is pervasive throughout the country.
I don't know if this is the most appropriate way to reflect on this, but I've thought about what if I were in a similar situation. What if America's fear of China as a superpower suddenly climaxes into a massive sweep of xenophobia, and I start seeing stories in the news about attacks against Asians again and again? Would I feel safe in this country? The plight of blacks and Asians in America are not analogous in historical and socioeconomic context, but it's a starting point for me to understand what the current climate is right now. And really, it's quite disheartening.
To build a realistic barrage of cyberbullying that Her Highness receives, I've spent the past hour intentionally looking at articles about Internet flaming. I reread the article I wrote about last year on Emily Gould and Keith Gessen, this post I archived from Curt Schilling's blog about the obscene tweets he got after congratulating his daughter on Twitter, dozens of articles about people like Anita Sarkeesian and prominent female writers receiving hate mail and crap. You can't even make this shit up. I literally feel nauseous from having read this stuff for an hour.
Last year, I briefly touched on the UCSB shooting. This incident hit closer to home for me--one of the victims was my brother's high school classmate. What I didn't write about then was the misogynistic motives behind that shooting. This article gives an inside look at the online community the shooter used to hang around. It is fucking appalling. I want to say that I don't know anyone who spews out the same vitriol about girls being sluts, bemoaning their lack of getting laid because of "shallow" girls, but how do I know if these people I interact with put on a face in public and then unleash all this venom on the Internet? One comment on that article gave me pause:
"these people are sick. on the other hand i'm a straight guy and i can't say i've never felt some of those emotions before. feeling like no one attracted to you and people think you're a creep sucks. and asking someone out sucks too because then they have the power because you're the one who likes them."
Since coming to med school, I've had more close guy friends than I've ever had in my life. And I've definitely heard iterations of this from them. I would like to think my friends are good people who wouldn't flame others online, who may complain about dating culture but not because they think women are hos for not sleeping with them. It takes a disturbed person to resort to mass murder in order to validate some "manifesto." But the lines of reasoning behind it are not unique to the murderous. More than likely, there are people around you who have ugly thoughts--perhaps less hateful, more diluted version--and hopefully, they are not the type of people who will choose to manifest this hatred beyond the confines of their brains.
Edit//
I've been reading articles about the church shooting, Charleston, SC. It's all relevant to this. The news stations are already tossing out "mental condition" and "mental illness" in regards to the shooter, but there are others without murderous intent who harbor the same vein of thoughts as the shooter. In light of the Black Lives Matter movement from this past year, you can't deny that there is an insidious bigotry that is pervasive throughout the country.
I don't know if this is the most appropriate way to reflect on this, but I've thought about what if I were in a similar situation. What if America's fear of China as a superpower suddenly climaxes into a massive sweep of xenophobia, and I start seeing stories in the news about attacks against Asians again and again? Would I feel safe in this country? The plight of blacks and Asians in America are not analogous in historical and socioeconomic context, but it's a starting point for me to understand what the current climate is right now. And really, it's quite disheartening.
June 15, 2015
Summer Gold
The sun was setting as we sat here, on a boulder underneath the canopy of trees. The first time I'd been here, there were a lot of people, taking pictures of the view on their phones. Children took turns riding the tire swing attached to the giant tree at the top. This time, the swing was gone, and Matisse and I were alone.
Since I left for college, for the most part I've only been in California twice a year. Sometimes, I feel like a visitor to a foreign city, despite the fact that I've spent three-quarters of my life here.
I've also been babysitting my friend's kitten. She's a curious one--strangely affectionate and rather chatty with her squeaky meows. She enjoys chewing on my hair. It's still surprising (and kind of terrifying) how strongly my attachments form. And this refers to not just kitty, but boyfriend as well.
While I babysit her at my friend's condo, in addition to writing, I've also taken advantage of my friend's TV and started watching the show Empire. If you like hip hop music, family drama, a hilarious matriarch with epic one-liners, get on this ish. Cookie is my spirit animal.
June 11, 2015
freefall
i was sitting on the couch the other night
scrolling through some old pictures on my phone
when it suddenly dawned on me
there is a human being in this world who likes me.
What the hell?
Do I have a self-esteem problem? I don't think so. Maybe I did, when I was that quiet kid whose aspirations to be one of the "cool" emo kids were botched by a mother that refused to pay for clothes from Hot Topic and a daily tennis routine that annihilated any hope of pale ghostly skin. But you learn things when you strike out on your own for a while. You learn how to admire without coveting, to scoop yourself out of the fatalistic, pessimistic "why was i born this way" hole and tell yourself in a mantra, "i may have been this way, but who says i have to stay this way?" You grow into your own skin and soon enough, you learn to love the most important person: yourself.
And yet, the idea that someone else might feel the same way is fucking unbelievable.
WHY? ARE YOU INSANE? I want to shake this human by the collar, but I'm too proud to appear as if I am fishing for compliments. Since when did I possess the ability to inspire such grand chivalrous gestures? Since when did anyone ever feel compelled to prepare their heart as an offering to this false idol? The only explanation must be extreme desperation or absolute madness.
I'm not trying to be self-deprecating---"Aw shucks, who would ever feel a thing for sad ole me?" It's just that when you spend your whole life watching the ladies around you pair off with the gentlemen to dance, you start to believe that you're just simply not attractive (to the right people)... and that's okay. Just as you learn to accept that you're never going to be the cool emo kid, you accept your dealt cards and move on with your life.
Until you don't.
scrolling through some old pictures on my phone
when it suddenly dawned on me
there is a human being in this world who likes me.
What the hell?
Do I have a self-esteem problem? I don't think so. Maybe I did, when I was that quiet kid whose aspirations to be one of the "cool" emo kids were botched by a mother that refused to pay for clothes from Hot Topic and a daily tennis routine that annihilated any hope of pale ghostly skin. But you learn things when you strike out on your own for a while. You learn how to admire without coveting, to scoop yourself out of the fatalistic, pessimistic "why was i born this way" hole and tell yourself in a mantra, "i may have been this way, but who says i have to stay this way?" You grow into your own skin and soon enough, you learn to love the most important person: yourself.
And yet, the idea that someone else might feel the same way is fucking unbelievable.
WHY? ARE YOU INSANE? I want to shake this human by the collar, but I'm too proud to appear as if I am fishing for compliments. Since when did I possess the ability to inspire such grand chivalrous gestures? Since when did anyone ever feel compelled to prepare their heart as an offering to this false idol? The only explanation must be extreme desperation or absolute madness.
I'm not trying to be self-deprecating---"Aw shucks, who would ever feel a thing for sad ole me?" It's just that when you spend your whole life watching the ladies around you pair off with the gentlemen to dance, you start to believe that you're just simply not attractive (to the right people)... and that's okay. Just as you learn to accept that you're never going to be the cool emo kid, you accept your dealt cards and move on with your life.
Until you don't.
June 7, 2015
The Cynic
It's a cloudless Saturday afternoon, perfect for sitting under a red patio umbrella and sipping our milk teas. We talk of quarter-life crises and engagement frenzy, and she asks me if I've read Sheryl Sandberg's post from earlier in the week.
I did. I never read Lean In, but something about that post struck a tender part of me, like a muscle you never knew you had until it makes its soreness known. When I saw the photograph of Sheryl Sandberg and David Goldberg at the end of that aching post, that's when I realized what has changed. That when I let someone into my fortress of knives and ice that night in May, I willingly invited the possibility of being gutted from the inside out.
I tell my mother later in the car about how S and I discussed Sheryl Sandberg. It's been six years since S and I first met, and the conversation today was more solemn than it has ever been. We'd spoken of life and death, of how much we've changed in the past six years, and how much more things will change from here. I tell my mother about S's remark, that she could barely imagine the devastation if her boyfriend of almost three years passed away just as suddenly.
My mother replies mildly, "Oh yes, she's really dependent on him."
Her words startle me. "No," I say slowly. "I don't think that's what she meant."
"But she relies on him a lot," my mother says, her eyes on the road. "She lives at his place. He's the breadwinner between the two of them."
Something finally snaps in me. "Jesus, Mom. Why are you so cynical? Maybe she just loves him!"
There's a pause, as if my outburst has surprised her, before she responds with a short dry laugh. "Love? You guys are still young."
The car pulls up into the driveway, and we don't speak of this again.
Perhaps it is just my imagination, but for the rest of that day, my mother is quieter than usual. We hike through the trails in the old mercury mines in the hills behind our house. We stay near each other as the sunset turns the sky from blue to gold to pink, but neither of us speak a word.
I did. I never read Lean In, but something about that post struck a tender part of me, like a muscle you never knew you had until it makes its soreness known. When I saw the photograph of Sheryl Sandberg and David Goldberg at the end of that aching post, that's when I realized what has changed. That when I let someone into my fortress of knives and ice that night in May, I willingly invited the possibility of being gutted from the inside out.
I tell my mother later in the car about how S and I discussed Sheryl Sandberg. It's been six years since S and I first met, and the conversation today was more solemn than it has ever been. We'd spoken of life and death, of how much we've changed in the past six years, and how much more things will change from here. I tell my mother about S's remark, that she could barely imagine the devastation if her boyfriend of almost three years passed away just as suddenly.
My mother replies mildly, "Oh yes, she's really dependent on him."
Her words startle me. "No," I say slowly. "I don't think that's what she meant."
"But she relies on him a lot," my mother says, her eyes on the road. "She lives at his place. He's the breadwinner between the two of them."
Something finally snaps in me. "Jesus, Mom. Why are you so cynical? Maybe she just loves him!"
There's a pause, as if my outburst has surprised her, before she responds with a short dry laugh. "Love? You guys are still young."
The car pulls up into the driveway, and we don't speak of this again.
Perhaps it is just my imagination, but for the rest of that day, my mother is quieter than usual. We hike through the trails in the old mercury mines in the hills behind our house. We stay near each other as the sunset turns the sky from blue to gold to pink, but neither of us speak a word.
May 16, 2015
stethoscope
A classmate of mine writes a blog about her medical school experiences. I don't know if her blog receives heavy traffic. I don't feel inclined to link it here, because I would rather not connect myself in any matter that my classmates in real life may discover me here. But J sent me a text about this girl's newest blog post, and I felt inclined to take a look.
In short--it was a bit surprising for me to read. As a bit of context (from my point of view), this girl, whom I shall refer to as Emeraude, is one of those girls that everyone knew almost immediately. Truth be told, I was almost scared of her at first because of how much power she seemingly wielded. In the beginning of the year, when everyone still went to class for anatomy lab and the class dynamics were still a novelty, gossip and secrets were abound. Allegedly, Emeraude knew them all. She was hardly a Regina George in terms of deviousness (in fact, she was generally nice in person, to me at least), but she imposed an intimidating figure precisely because you didn't know what she thought of you, and how she chose to deploy such info could easily influence how the rest of the class thought about you as well.
That, in part, was a big reason behind why my goal in the beginning of med school was to stay under the radar as much as possible. Regarding Emeraude, I tried to be cordial to her whenever we crossed paths. But she and I didn't make much of an effort to become more than friendly acquaintances, and I was at peace with this. On a surface level, she struck me as my complete opposite--extroverted, in the spotlight, etc. And I did not exactly see eye-to-eye regarding her enthusiasm for keeping up with the gossip on others.
Back to the topic at hand. The bulk of her blog post was about loneliness. Specifically, that she felt lonely in medical school, and that she felt as if it were incredibly easy to amass social friends but that she was amiss to name even five people whom she felt would be there for her if she needed someone. She speculated if we professional students were too selfish to invest in more legitimate relationships, as opposed to her close friendships during her undergraduate years.
I was a bit startled by her admission of loneliness--after all, she is someone who takes immense pride in having gone out of her way to meet every single person in our class. But I have to admit that I found myself disagreeing with a lot of the conjectures she was making, which is why I felt compelled to write my own post.
Sure, I've been lonely here too. I've written about it before on this blog as well. But her experiences of loneliness do not strike me as something unique to our medical school--or any medical school in general. It'll happen anytime you move to a new place and have to rebuild your social niche brick by brick. Friends of mine who found jobs in new locations post-graduation had to deal with the same loneliness as well. To me, it's part of the greater scheme of transitioning into full-fledged adulthood. You quickly learn that if you're feeling lonely, the simplest thing to do is simply reach out to others first. Because more often than not, someone out there is also lonely, but they're just sitting on their haunches waiting for someone to find them first, either out of fear or out of pride.
There's no shame in texting a friend, "I miss you. Can we hang out soon?"
On my end, I would have to admit that I may not have amassed a huge cohort of social friends here. But I can definitely think of five friends I would immediately call if I had an emergency. Granted, this has always been my nature--to have a few really close friends as opposed to a large social circle. But it's not impossible to do this here, and I don't think it's as difficult as my classmate makes it out to be. I didn't build these friendships by going out to all our class block parties and class social events. These were cultivated from all the little, quiet moments--studying together at a coffee shop, sitting on the pier and relaxing after an exam, inviting someone over for dinner while we study biochem, making a quick Costco trip together.
It's true -- friendships take work to cultivate, and it can be especially challenging when we feel compelled to study during all of our waking hours. But if there's anything I learned at Duke that has stuck with me even now, it's this: You don't have time to do things. You make time for them.
In short--it was a bit surprising for me to read. As a bit of context (from my point of view), this girl, whom I shall refer to as Emeraude, is one of those girls that everyone knew almost immediately. Truth be told, I was almost scared of her at first because of how much power she seemingly wielded. In the beginning of the year, when everyone still went to class for anatomy lab and the class dynamics were still a novelty, gossip and secrets were abound. Allegedly, Emeraude knew them all. She was hardly a Regina George in terms of deviousness (in fact, she was generally nice in person, to me at least), but she imposed an intimidating figure precisely because you didn't know what she thought of you, and how she chose to deploy such info could easily influence how the rest of the class thought about you as well.
That, in part, was a big reason behind why my goal in the beginning of med school was to stay under the radar as much as possible. Regarding Emeraude, I tried to be cordial to her whenever we crossed paths. But she and I didn't make much of an effort to become more than friendly acquaintances, and I was at peace with this. On a surface level, she struck me as my complete opposite--extroverted, in the spotlight, etc. And I did not exactly see eye-to-eye regarding her enthusiasm for keeping up with the gossip on others.
Back to the topic at hand. The bulk of her blog post was about loneliness. Specifically, that she felt lonely in medical school, and that she felt as if it were incredibly easy to amass social friends but that she was amiss to name even five people whom she felt would be there for her if she needed someone. She speculated if we professional students were too selfish to invest in more legitimate relationships, as opposed to her close friendships during her undergraduate years.
I was a bit startled by her admission of loneliness--after all, she is someone who takes immense pride in having gone out of her way to meet every single person in our class. But I have to admit that I found myself disagreeing with a lot of the conjectures she was making, which is why I felt compelled to write my own post.
Sure, I've been lonely here too. I've written about it before on this blog as well. But her experiences of loneliness do not strike me as something unique to our medical school--or any medical school in general. It'll happen anytime you move to a new place and have to rebuild your social niche brick by brick. Friends of mine who found jobs in new locations post-graduation had to deal with the same loneliness as well. To me, it's part of the greater scheme of transitioning into full-fledged adulthood. You quickly learn that if you're feeling lonely, the simplest thing to do is simply reach out to others first. Because more often than not, someone out there is also lonely, but they're just sitting on their haunches waiting for someone to find them first, either out of fear or out of pride.
There's no shame in texting a friend, "I miss you. Can we hang out soon?"
On my end, I would have to admit that I may not have amassed a huge cohort of social friends here. But I can definitely think of five friends I would immediately call if I had an emergency. Granted, this has always been my nature--to have a few really close friends as opposed to a large social circle. But it's not impossible to do this here, and I don't think it's as difficult as my classmate makes it out to be. I didn't build these friendships by going out to all our class block parties and class social events. These were cultivated from all the little, quiet moments--studying together at a coffee shop, sitting on the pier and relaxing after an exam, inviting someone over for dinner while we study biochem, making a quick Costco trip together.
It's true -- friendships take work to cultivate, and it can be especially challenging when we feel compelled to study during all of our waking hours. But if there's anything I learned at Duke that has stuck with me even now, it's this: You don't have time to do things. You make time for them.
May 10, 2015
Before I Die
On the side of the Ogden Museum of Southern Art in downtown New Orleans, there is a long black wall with orderly repetitive lines in white print:
Fragments of colored chalk are scattered all around the concrete. People pass by, perusing through the completed sentences on the board. Some bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and contribute their own entries.
He and I sit on the parking lot curb by the Before I Die wall. The mid-afternoon May sun is warm on our backs. A trio of guys nearby laugh at the entry about wanting to "swim in a pool of beer." We can't leave this place without writing something, I say exasperatedly. Then what are you going to write? he asks.
It's not a matter of having nothing to write, but of having too many. They all sound so cliched in my head. Before I die I want to publish a novel. Before I die want to graduate from medical school. Before I die I want to become a mother. And then, there are other things that come to mind, that I don't to share with him because I am still too self-conscious.
But it occurs to me as we sit before that expansive board of scrawled hopes and dreams, just how much things have changed since our orbits collided. The paralyzing anxiety has been melting over time, and I come to the realization that the thought of checking off the "Before I Die's" with this person beside me isn't such a terrifying idea anymore.
Less than a week later, I sit in my car with my finger on the ignition button of my Prius. He has already gone back into his apartment complex, and I can feel sleepiness already ensnaring my brain. But in that moment, I pause. For months I'd been waiting, listening for that intuition and gut instinct to speak to me, and suddenly, it's there. Clear and crystal as a bell.
Oh fuck it.
I ask him to come back outside. And I take the plunge.
Before I die I want to _______________________________.
Fragments of colored chalk are scattered all around the concrete. People pass by, perusing through the completed sentences on the board. Some bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and contribute their own entries.
He and I sit on the parking lot curb by the Before I Die wall. The mid-afternoon May sun is warm on our backs. A trio of guys nearby laugh at the entry about wanting to "swim in a pool of beer." We can't leave this place without writing something, I say exasperatedly. Then what are you going to write? he asks.
It's not a matter of having nothing to write, but of having too many. They all sound so cliched in my head. Before I die I want to publish a novel. Before I die want to graduate from medical school. Before I die I want to become a mother. And then, there are other things that come to mind, that I don't to share with him because I am still too self-conscious.
But it occurs to me as we sit before that expansive board of scrawled hopes and dreams, just how much things have changed since our orbits collided. The paralyzing anxiety has been melting over time, and I come to the realization that the thought of checking off the "Before I Die's" with this person beside me isn't such a terrifying idea anymore.
Less than a week later, I sit in my car with my finger on the ignition button of my Prius. He has already gone back into his apartment complex, and I can feel sleepiness already ensnaring my brain. But in that moment, I pause. For months I'd been waiting, listening for that intuition and gut instinct to speak to me, and suddenly, it's there. Clear and crystal as a bell.
Oh fuck it.
I ask him to come back outside. And I take the plunge.
May 1, 2015
Postscript
Every once in a while, I go through my old documents and read my old work. I only really started to take creative writing classes in my senior year at Duke, so for the most part, my college portfolio of writing consists of essays.
In particular, the one that I read today was written in my last semester. Titled "Tiger Cub Plays the Piano," this essay stands out in my memory today because I wrote it for my class with Professor Oscar Hijuelos.
English professors tend to be eccentric types, and Professor Hijuelos was no exception. I signed up for his class, partly because I knew he was a Pulitzer winning writer and I was curious about what I could learn about writing from him.
A friend of mine took a class of his that same semester about the art of fiction. She told me that when her class became squeamish about critiquing a classmate's piece which involved a sex scene, Professor Hijuelos became fed up and ordered everyone in the class to go home and write a sex scene to be critiqued next week. They returned the following week with everything ranging from metaphorical deflowerings to explicit anatomical descriptions.
Writers often debate whether or not it's necessary to take writing classes. I tend to be in the camp that writing classes may be helpful but not entirely necessary. There were two key things, however, that I got out of taking a class with Professor Hijuelos.
The first was his surgical precision with words. I had never come across anyone before who was so exacting about word choice. I'd always heard the adage along the lines of, "Every word is deliberate," but I'd never seen it executed so unrelentingly. When I talked to him for a final conference that semester, I mentioned how I really admired watching him critique in that manner during class, and he used a tennis analogy to explain it to me: "The difference between good players and great players are that the great players can hit winners on a regular basis. A great writer knows how to hit the winners regularly, instead of just once in a while."
The second was less about what wisdom he imparted on me, and more of a confidence issue. My writing ego is a pathetic, fragile thing that puffs up whenever it receives compliments. Writing is by nature fraught with self-doubt, and it is even more so for someone like me who has always felt as if she were putting it off on the backburner. I was not one of those classmates who took solely English classes and lived and breathed on writing. I was always worried that my skills were rusty or that my gifts were going to waste. And so, for a writer whom I admired to compliment my final essay, I was elated. I even saved the last e-mail he ever sent me:
Oscar Hijuelos passed away later that year, about five months after he sent me that e-mail. He'd been playing tennis when he suffered a heart attack.
I still haven't read his novels. It's been on my ever-growing TBR List for a year now. I found a signed copy of "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" at the William Faulkner bookstore in the French Quarter but couldn't bring myself to shell out 50 dollars for it. A part of me wishes I'd had the foresight to buy a copy for him to sign that spring. But I should be grateful for all of the other mementos I have from that semester in his class.
In particular, the one that I read today was written in my last semester. Titled "Tiger Cub Plays the Piano," this essay stands out in my memory today because I wrote it for my class with Professor Oscar Hijuelos.
English professors tend to be eccentric types, and Professor Hijuelos was no exception. I signed up for his class, partly because I knew he was a Pulitzer winning writer and I was curious about what I could learn about writing from him.
A friend of mine took a class of his that same semester about the art of fiction. She told me that when her class became squeamish about critiquing a classmate's piece which involved a sex scene, Professor Hijuelos became fed up and ordered everyone in the class to go home and write a sex scene to be critiqued next week. They returned the following week with everything ranging from metaphorical deflowerings to explicit anatomical descriptions.
Writers often debate whether or not it's necessary to take writing classes. I tend to be in the camp that writing classes may be helpful but not entirely necessary. There were two key things, however, that I got out of taking a class with Professor Hijuelos.
The first was his surgical precision with words. I had never come across anyone before who was so exacting about word choice. I'd always heard the adage along the lines of, "Every word is deliberate," but I'd never seen it executed so unrelentingly. When I talked to him for a final conference that semester, I mentioned how I really admired watching him critique in that manner during class, and he used a tennis analogy to explain it to me: "The difference between good players and great players are that the great players can hit winners on a regular basis. A great writer knows how to hit the winners regularly, instead of just once in a while."
The second was less about what wisdom he imparted on me, and more of a confidence issue. My writing ego is a pathetic, fragile thing that puffs up whenever it receives compliments. Writing is by nature fraught with self-doubt, and it is even more so for someone like me who has always felt as if she were putting it off on the backburner. I was not one of those classmates who took solely English classes and lived and breathed on writing. I was always worried that my skills were rusty or that my gifts were going to waste. And so, for a writer whom I admired to compliment my final essay, I was elated. I even saved the last e-mail he ever sent me:
"[Sophelia], I just wanted you to know that I really loved your final paper: I found it wonderfully written-- you have a real gift for words, and I was happy to see just how much you've honed your skills.
Or to put it differently, it was a pleasure to read. Ad did me proud.
Well, that's about it.
Hope you have a wonderful summer.
Oscar H"
Oscar Hijuelos passed away later that year, about five months after he sent me that e-mail. He'd been playing tennis when he suffered a heart attack.
I still haven't read his novels. It's been on my ever-growing TBR List for a year now. I found a signed copy of "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" at the William Faulkner bookstore in the French Quarter but couldn't bring myself to shell out 50 dollars for it. A part of me wishes I'd had the foresight to buy a copy for him to sign that spring. But I should be grateful for all of the other mementos I have from that semester in his class.
April 21, 2015
420
My two halves are at war. I am a scientist and dramatist. My nature is to document every little moment, to sculpt a narrative from chaos, to distill logic from the noise of the world, to commit those moments into words before my memories turn gray. And yet since February, the recluse in me has hoarded it all inside, as if these treasures that stay in my brain will forever remain mine and mine alone.
He and I sit at the Carousel Bar in the French Quarter. The carousel spins round, one revolution every fifteen minutes, as the bartender serves two sazeracs on the counter. The canopy above is dotted with fairy lights, and I watch my reflection in the mirrored panels floating overhead, twisting like a kaleidoscope. I can't recall any of the conversation with clarity, but I remember the overwhelming hyperawareness of one's proximity--a hand on the back of my chair, a brush against my shoulder.
When we make it to the House of Blues, the smell of pot pervades in a haze. The stage is larger than I imagined, glowing blue in the darkness. Fifteen minutes until show starts, but the bouncer shrugs."It's 4/20 -- might take another 50 minutes before anything happens." I'd expected to see more gutter punks, with their grunge-punk tattered chic, like at the FKA Twigs show, but it's easy to forget that the tickets for this show were fifty bucks--especially when I won the pair of tickets for free.
I don't know any of Tyler the Creator's tracks, other than "Yonkers" and "She" from a cursory search on Youtube, but my bones move to the beat as the bodies bounce in sync all around me. I don't know the words coming out of the rapper's mouth, save the f-bombs littered indiscriminately here and there. I become one of a myriad, a myriad becoming one dark entity of limbs slinking entranced like a cobra before a spitting snake-charmer.
We talk in the car as he drives me home. I have sat here many times since that first time in February, but I feel on edge--more so than usual. Days away from the eve of my twenty-fourth year, and I remain a thirteen-year-old, watching the string of firsts play out half in terror and half in thrill. After that evening at Bacchanal when the revelations spilled out one by one, he has dealt with me as if I am a deer--slowly and patiently, no sudden movements. I have grown less anxious in his presence in the past two months, but there is something different this evening. Subtle gestures, ghost touches here and there, and I can feel it in the stilted air as we stand on the porch an hour before midnight. When I pull away from an embrace, I feel it, hear it, before I register that flutter of movement against my cheek and realize what he's done. Eighteen hours later, and I am still frozen in that moment on the porch--dazed, feverish, restless, and terrified of the uncharted territory before me.
He and I sit at the Carousel Bar in the French Quarter. The carousel spins round, one revolution every fifteen minutes, as the bartender serves two sazeracs on the counter. The canopy above is dotted with fairy lights, and I watch my reflection in the mirrored panels floating overhead, twisting like a kaleidoscope. I can't recall any of the conversation with clarity, but I remember the overwhelming hyperawareness of one's proximity--a hand on the back of my chair, a brush against my shoulder.
When we make it to the House of Blues, the smell of pot pervades in a haze. The stage is larger than I imagined, glowing blue in the darkness. Fifteen minutes until show starts, but the bouncer shrugs."It's 4/20 -- might take another 50 minutes before anything happens." I'd expected to see more gutter punks, with their grunge-punk tattered chic, like at the FKA Twigs show, but it's easy to forget that the tickets for this show were fifty bucks--especially when I won the pair of tickets for free.
I don't know any of Tyler the Creator's tracks, other than "Yonkers" and "She" from a cursory search on Youtube, but my bones move to the beat as the bodies bounce in sync all around me. I don't know the words coming out of the rapper's mouth, save the f-bombs littered indiscriminately here and there. I become one of a myriad, a myriad becoming one dark entity of limbs slinking entranced like a cobra before a spitting snake-charmer.
We talk in the car as he drives me home. I have sat here many times since that first time in February, but I feel on edge--more so than usual. Days away from the eve of my twenty-fourth year, and I remain a thirteen-year-old, watching the string of firsts play out half in terror and half in thrill. After that evening at Bacchanal when the revelations spilled out one by one, he has dealt with me as if I am a deer--slowly and patiently, no sudden movements. I have grown less anxious in his presence in the past two months, but there is something different this evening. Subtle gestures, ghost touches here and there, and I can feel it in the stilted air as we stand on the porch an hour before midnight. When I pull away from an embrace, I feel it, hear it, before I register that flutter of movement against my cheek and realize what he's done. Eighteen hours later, and I am still frozen in that moment on the porch--dazed, feverish, restless, and terrified of the uncharted territory before me.
April 15, 2015
Sort Of
Does it make you nervous
When you hear my bones
Animate my body
Without my soul?
When you hear my bones
Animate my body
Without my soul?
-- "Sort Of" by Silversun Pickups
I love the guitar section in this song. These days I guess I've been listening to more alternative R&B, Trip-Hop, dream pop (? I suck at musical genres ?) but rock will always be my bread and butter.
I've been thinking about it again recently, since there's been rumors that Ai Yazawa is drawing again. It's been almost seven years since Nana went on hiatus; it would be a fitting time for her to return. I wonder if other people are like me, in that at some point in their lives, they encounter a piece of art--be it a book, a song, an album, a painting, a film--that becomes so monumental, so influential to who they are.
There are two works that have held that power over me. One was Wasteland by Francesca Lia Block. Wasteland set my words free and is solely responsible for my love of vignettes. The other was the entire series of Nana. I've written about Nana Osaki and her influence on me before on this blog. But it's funny. When I reread some chapters of Nana a few months ago, I discovered that I related to the story even more than before. I was 15 years old when I fell in love with the story about the two 20-year-old heroines in Tokyo. I'm 23, almost 24 now. As a teenager, I didn't fully grasp the decision Nana O made when she chose not to follow Ren to Tokyo. Now, I can understand the implications of choosing pride and personal career ambition over romantic love.
April 7, 2015
De5tiny
Six years ago, around this time of year, came the period of Judgement. Everything I'd worked for and accomplished in my 18 years of life, now weighed and judged by college admissions, would return to me in the form of acceptance and rejection letters.
I found out that I'd been accepted to UC Berkeley and Duke University in the same afternoon. My friends in journalism were ecstatic. My brother wrote on Facebook: "HOLY FUCK YEAH! dude we're gonna video tape dad's reaction. first, you gotta fake cry, then suddenly scream in joy. i can't wait!"
As it turned out, my parents hardly reacted. They were waiting for the big enchiladas -- Harvard, Princeton, Yale. A few days later, I was rejected from all three.
It was subtle--but I knew and felt it. Their disappointment seeped through the seams, in offhand comments that they made. Even my mother, who eventually helped convince my father to let me go to Duke over Berkeley, said something about "expecting better results." Why didn't I study harder for the SATs? Why didn't I have better scores? She said I should have taken more practice tests, and soon funneled all her energy towards my brother. And I've written here before about my struggle with convincing my father to let me attend Duke, and the ensuing stress that debilitated my freshman year.
For other people, getting into Duke might have been a victory. But it didn't feel like one to me.
Fast-foward to last night. I'm at an Irish pub in New Orleans, sitting at a table packed with Duke fans and graduates. Our contingent of Duke Blue is outnumbered by the swarm of Wisconsin red, but it doesn't matter. When Grayson Allen turns on the heat and almost single-handedly cuts down Wisconsin's lead in the second half, we roar. When the buzzer goes to zero at 68-63, we jump to our feet screaming. My Facebook feed goes nuts, my phone shakes with messages from friends and old classmates.
I think of the last time I experienced something like this, five years ago at the end of the worst academic year of my life. I'd asked myself so many times then if I'd made the wrong choice, if I should have gone to a UC instead. When we won the NCAA national championship that spring of my freshman year, the doubts didn't evaporate overnight. But something changed. I found myself standing in the middle of Cameron Indoor Stadium the night we defeated Butler, with people laughing and crying in triumph all around me, and realized just how damn lucky I was to be here.
If I could tell my 17-year-old self one thing, it would be this: Call it fate or destiny; everything works itself out in the end. And someday, it will be impossible for you to imagine being anything other than a Blue Devil.
March 30, 2015
termina
Last Thursday, I'd gone to bed a little early to prepare for my exam in the afternoon the next day. When I checked my phone, I saw that I'd received a message from one of my sorority little sisters.
I'd decided to gtfo of New Orleans after my hell week of exams and booked an airplane ticket to North Carolina. She was supposed to pick me up from the airport on Friday night. Her message was succinct. My sister just passed away. I have to fly out tomorrow morning. Sorry, I can't pick you up from the airport.
I'd never met her blood sister before. The girl was only a year or two older than me. I heard later that she'd died in her sleep.
I talked about it with one of my friends, who's doing clinical rotations at Duke Med. How does someone in their twenties die in their sleep? Without any previously diagnosed defects?
Earlier that same night, I'd been reading articles about the German plane crash, where the co-pilot locked the pilot out of the cockpit and proceeded to crash the airplane into the mountains, killing everyone on board. No bodies were found intact, only parts and pieces scattered across the mountain. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if I knew that my brother or parents had died in that way. I could already feel the rage coiling up inside of me.
My little had received a phone call from her mother while going back home from chapter, without suspecting a thing. Her line sisters told me that all of a sudden, she'd begun to scream. They'd seen her cry before, but nothing like this. It was like a part of her was dying.
Life is too short. Whatever is plaguing you and giving you doubts right now......
Don't hold back.
Go for it.
I'd decided to gtfo of New Orleans after my hell week of exams and booked an airplane ticket to North Carolina. She was supposed to pick me up from the airport on Friday night. Her message was succinct. My sister just passed away. I have to fly out tomorrow morning. Sorry, I can't pick you up from the airport.
I'd never met her blood sister before. The girl was only a year or two older than me. I heard later that she'd died in her sleep.
I talked about it with one of my friends, who's doing clinical rotations at Duke Med. How does someone in their twenties die in their sleep? Without any previously diagnosed defects?
Earlier that same night, I'd been reading articles about the German plane crash, where the co-pilot locked the pilot out of the cockpit and proceeded to crash the airplane into the mountains, killing everyone on board. No bodies were found intact, only parts and pieces scattered across the mountain. I tried to imagine how I'd feel if I knew that my brother or parents had died in that way. I could already feel the rage coiling up inside of me.
My little had received a phone call from her mother while going back home from chapter, without suspecting a thing. Her line sisters told me that all of a sudden, she'd begun to scream. They'd seen her cry before, but nothing like this. It was like a part of her was dying.
Life is too short. Whatever is plaguing you and giving you doubts right now......
Don't hold back.
Go for it.
March 9, 2015
Obedear
Obedear, the sky is low
Gather up its harm and gods
With grateful arms
Obedear, the sky is low
Gather up its harm and gods
With grateful arms
--"Obedear" by Purity Ring
O but dear
it's been creeping up on me
not the fire that blazes through
like the oblivious frog yet to notice
the temperature has begun to rise
O but dear
my limbs ache in suspension
marionette strings pulled taut
as self control dons its war bonnet
in tribute to delayed gratification
O but dear
two honeybees in a dance
show where the sweetest nectar lies
winter abdicates to springas i wring these restless hands
March 1, 2015
Flurries
1. It seems to be a common occurrence in my life that I will find some fandom-related item on the Internet that cracks me up, but I have no one to share it with because none of my friends are part of the fandom. Previous instances have included articles on The Toast about Legend of Zelda and memes related to Avatar the Last Airbender (and the only person who shares my interest in both is, sadly, my brother). Most recently, this morning I stumbled upon this post on Maggie Stiefvater's blog that literally had me laughing out loud, but none of my friends have read The Raven Boys, and so I had to laugh alone.
2. Update on writing progress: I finished Chapter 22 over the Mardi Gras break, clocking in at an overall total of around 76,000 words in this first draft so far. Current estimate for total length is thirty chapters, so I guess we're about 70 percent through with the first draft? I already foresee a lot of major edits needed for Chapter 19 and 21--as always, Rory's narrative is always giving me the most trouble--but per my rule, I will NOT go back and make these changes until after I finish the entire first draft.
3. In related news, after some mild stress about trying to figure out summer plans, I was rejected from this summer program to volunteer with a health clinic in Nepal, which I think is the first rejection in awhile that I've been taking remarkably well. I was literally over it as soon as I finished reading the e-mail. Currently I'm planning to stay in NOLA for the summer to do research, which I am really excited about--not really because of the research, but because if it's anything like my gap year, I will have plenty of free time in the evenings and weekends when I'm not working. Plus, April should be a relatively light month in terms of schoolwork, which will give me a good opportunity to write. Which means--I'm being very realistic here--there is a VERY GOOD CHANCE that the first draft of EP will be complete by the end of July.
Guys, you don't understand how much the prospect of this excites me. I published the first chapter of EP on Fictionpress when I was 15, and I was daydreaming about the characters even before then. I've been dreaming of this completed draft for over eight freaking years, and anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a realist. The fact that I can now realistically give a timeline for a finished first draft is HUGE FOR ME. Yeah, I'm kind of jumping the gun a bit, but it doesn't hurt to feel pumped up about this, right?
Okay, it's not really helping me focus on endocrine physiology right now, but bahhhhhhh.
4. For the past week, I've been thinking about writing a detailed post about my current situation with the, um, Romantic Quandary. There's actually a very good story that came out of what happened--and when I say a very good story, you know that I mean I have a good story to tell. I might save it for later, or maybe I'll choose to keep this story to myself. But in any case, I am feeling much more relaxed and calmer about the Quandary than I did during that entire Mardi Gras break. And as long as it stays this way, who knows what the future has in store for the two of us.
2. Update on writing progress: I finished Chapter 22 over the Mardi Gras break, clocking in at an overall total of around 76,000 words in this first draft so far. Current estimate for total length is thirty chapters, so I guess we're about 70 percent through with the first draft? I already foresee a lot of major edits needed for Chapter 19 and 21--as always, Rory's narrative is always giving me the most trouble--but per my rule, I will NOT go back and make these changes until after I finish the entire first draft.
3. In related news, after some mild stress about trying to figure out summer plans, I was rejected from this summer program to volunteer with a health clinic in Nepal, which I think is the first rejection in awhile that I've been taking remarkably well. I was literally over it as soon as I finished reading the e-mail. Currently I'm planning to stay in NOLA for the summer to do research, which I am really excited about--not really because of the research, but because if it's anything like my gap year, I will have plenty of free time in the evenings and weekends when I'm not working. Plus, April should be a relatively light month in terms of schoolwork, which will give me a good opportunity to write. Which means--I'm being very realistic here--there is a VERY GOOD CHANCE that the first draft of EP will be complete by the end of July.
Guys, you don't understand how much the prospect of this excites me. I published the first chapter of EP on Fictionpress when I was 15, and I was daydreaming about the characters even before then. I've been dreaming of this completed draft for over eight freaking years, and anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a realist. The fact that I can now realistically give a timeline for a finished first draft is HUGE FOR ME. Yeah, I'm kind of jumping the gun a bit, but it doesn't hurt to feel pumped up about this, right?
Okay, it's not really helping me focus on endocrine physiology right now, but bahhhhhhh.
4. For the past week, I've been thinking about writing a detailed post about my current situation with the, um, Romantic Quandary. There's actually a very good story that came out of what happened--and when I say a very good story, you know that I mean I have a good story to tell. I might save it for later, or maybe I'll choose to keep this story to myself. But in any case, I am feeling much more relaxed and calmer about the Quandary than I did during that entire Mardi Gras break. And as long as it stays this way, who knows what the future has in store for the two of us.
February 19, 2015
Sunrise
I wrote about Daisy before. At the time, I'd remarked on how calmly she told me that she'd broken up with her boyfriend. The thing though, is that a few months later, I soon realized that she was clearly far more affected the break-up than she let on.
Post-graduation, Daisy and I have maintained our friendship through music. She recommends a song to me, I recommend a song to her, and our shared playlist is now at 40 songs. Usually, each music rec is accompanied by an exchange updating our daily lives. But more often, Daisy will call me without warning to talk. And for the most part, I will set down whatever I'm doing and oblige.
On Friday, half an hour before my date, Daisy called to confide in me. She revealed that she'd been seeing a therapist. Through the help of therapy, she'd come to the realization that she was over him but not over the breakup itself. Seeking closure, she contacted her ex-boyfriend, whom she hadn't spoken to in six months, and asked to meet. He agreed to meet. I told her to keep me updated.
As it turned out, instead of the closure she'd been hoping for, she left feeling even more confused than ever. Her ex-boyfriend admitted that he'd been insecure about her feelings for him, and how he'd hoped that she would fight for him when he suggested a break. But he didn't know Daisy as well as he should have--that she would guard her emotions and put up a strong face. In the end, she'd appeared unaffected by the break-up, and he parted ways thinking that he had done the right thing.
And while she'd convinced herself that he had moved on with his life, her ex-boyfriend admitted that he was still physically and emotionally attracted to her, and that he had missed her for the past six months. However, he came short of saying that he wanted to be in a relationship with her again. He also told her that when he watched the film Friends with Benefits recently, it reminded him of her.
Instead of joining in her rage at that last part, I saw things differently. I watched Friends with Benefits three years ago and can barely recall the plot, but I harbor a vague recollection of Mila Kunis being the one hesitant to get more serious and emotionally invested in Justin Timberlake. But even if my memory serves me wrong, I know one thing. The man I met last spring did not strike as the type who would so callously suggest being fuck buddies to his ex-girlfriend whom he hasn't spoken to in six months, especially after admitting that he is still emotionally attracted to her. When I told Daisy so, it sent her into a tailspin. Because everyone else she'd talked to had immediately written him off as an insensitive douchebag, making it that much easier for her to convince herself that she was done with him.
Why didn't he say straightforwardly that he wanted to get back together? she asked. Because you didn't give him an opening, I said. Because it's that much harder to open yourself up to rejection when you don't think you have a chance. Why didn't he say anything for six months, if he still cared? Why did I have to be the one to initiate this conversation? Because I know that as much as I might want closure, I am too scared and passive to ever act on that impulse. Because he might be the same as me.
Let me ask you this, I said to her. If there had been no confusion, if he'd made it clear that he wants to get back together with you.... would you be receptive to it? If yes, then I don't think you were right about being over him but not the break-up. I think deep down, you still have feelings for him, which is why you haven't been able to let go and have been so desperate to find closure.
I warned Daisy with the caveat that I didn't know him and could be reading him completely wrong, suggesting that she talk to her therapist before taking what I said too seriously. As it turned out, her therapist read the situation exactly the same as I did. None of Daisy's other friends had seen it the same way. I joked with Daisy that the next time she needed a therapy session, I could just chat for free. But the whole experience made me reflect for some time. Because while I am apparently becoming very good at dispensing advice about interpersonal relationships, there are some things I can't bring myself to do. Daisy was able to initiate the first step by summoning up the courage to e-mail her ex, when she could have easily just let sleeping dogs lie and wonder for the rest of her life how things had gone south. I talked to Y just on Friday about how life isn't a nice and neat narrative, how there are just things in life that we can never expect to get closure for. But now I wonder, if I weren't so proud and so afraid of making myself vulnerable to hurt, is the idea of closure actually as elusive as I've convinced myself to believe?
Post-graduation, Daisy and I have maintained our friendship through music. She recommends a song to me, I recommend a song to her, and our shared playlist is now at 40 songs. Usually, each music rec is accompanied by an exchange updating our daily lives. But more often, Daisy will call me without warning to talk. And for the most part, I will set down whatever I'm doing and oblige.
On Friday, half an hour before my date, Daisy called to confide in me. She revealed that she'd been seeing a therapist. Through the help of therapy, she'd come to the realization that she was over him but not over the breakup itself. Seeking closure, she contacted her ex-boyfriend, whom she hadn't spoken to in six months, and asked to meet. He agreed to meet. I told her to keep me updated.
As it turned out, instead of the closure she'd been hoping for, she left feeling even more confused than ever. Her ex-boyfriend admitted that he'd been insecure about her feelings for him, and how he'd hoped that she would fight for him when he suggested a break. But he didn't know Daisy as well as he should have--that she would guard her emotions and put up a strong face. In the end, she'd appeared unaffected by the break-up, and he parted ways thinking that he had done the right thing.
And while she'd convinced herself that he had moved on with his life, her ex-boyfriend admitted that he was still physically and emotionally attracted to her, and that he had missed her for the past six months. However, he came short of saying that he wanted to be in a relationship with her again. He also told her that when he watched the film Friends with Benefits recently, it reminded him of her.
Instead of joining in her rage at that last part, I saw things differently. I watched Friends with Benefits three years ago and can barely recall the plot, but I harbor a vague recollection of Mila Kunis being the one hesitant to get more serious and emotionally invested in Justin Timberlake. But even if my memory serves me wrong, I know one thing. The man I met last spring did not strike as the type who would so callously suggest being fuck buddies to his ex-girlfriend whom he hasn't spoken to in six months, especially after admitting that he is still emotionally attracted to her. When I told Daisy so, it sent her into a tailspin. Because everyone else she'd talked to had immediately written him off as an insensitive douchebag, making it that much easier for her to convince herself that she was done with him.
Why didn't he say straightforwardly that he wanted to get back together? she asked. Because you didn't give him an opening, I said. Because it's that much harder to open yourself up to rejection when you don't think you have a chance. Why didn't he say anything for six months, if he still cared? Why did I have to be the one to initiate this conversation? Because I know that as much as I might want closure, I am too scared and passive to ever act on that impulse. Because he might be the same as me.
Let me ask you this, I said to her. If there had been no confusion, if he'd made it clear that he wants to get back together with you.... would you be receptive to it? If yes, then I don't think you were right about being over him but not the break-up. I think deep down, you still have feelings for him, which is why you haven't been able to let go and have been so desperate to find closure.
I warned Daisy with the caveat that I didn't know him and could be reading him completely wrong, suggesting that she talk to her therapist before taking what I said too seriously. As it turned out, her therapist read the situation exactly the same as I did. None of Daisy's other friends had seen it the same way. I joked with Daisy that the next time she needed a therapy session, I could just chat for free. But the whole experience made me reflect for some time. Because while I am apparently becoming very good at dispensing advice about interpersonal relationships, there are some things I can't bring myself to do. Daisy was able to initiate the first step by summoning up the courage to e-mail her ex, when she could have easily just let sleeping dogs lie and wonder for the rest of her life how things had gone south. I talked to Y just on Friday about how life isn't a nice and neat narrative, how there are just things in life that we can never expect to get closure for. But now I wonder, if I weren't so proud and so afraid of making myself vulnerable to hurt, is the idea of closure actually as elusive as I've convinced myself to believe?
February 16, 2015
Five of Cups
Three years ago, on the night of the harvest moon, I pulled the Five of Cups from the witch's deck of tarot cards. She told me what I already knew.
G and I were in the French Quarter on Valentine's Day to see the parades. She wanted to see the fortune tellers with their crystals and cards, lined up at folding tables in front of the cathedral. I was blonde again that day, loose Goldilocks curls tucked under a snapback. G had her palm read by one of the ladies dressed in floral print garb. At first, I didn't want to partake in the fortunes, but in the end some feeling I can't quite describe made me sit down at her table.
Perhaps due to my external appearance, her palm reading was laughable. She told me I had a flair for drama, that I would likely have twins, that I had a tendency to go after the bad boys because I wanted to fix them, and that when I had enough of being a girl and was ready to be a woman, I should stop looking for a bad boy and find a good man. There were a few things she said that gave me pause, but considering the statistical odds of saying something remotely accurate, I was mostly unimpressed. But my interest wasn't in palm-readings. My fascination has always been with the cards.
The first card I drew was Death. Most people would shudder at the Death card, but I already knew what it signified. That rebirth and great change were on the horizon.
I was asked to draw ten cards, but an eleventh slipped out of the deck. The Four of Cups, the Five of Pentacles, the Six of Pentacles, the High Priestess, the Eight of Rods, the Seven of Rods, the Fool, and the Devil. But there were two more that gave me pause.
I'd kept a poker face through the entire reading, but when I drew the sixth card, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. There was the Lovers card, as if I needed a reminder of the thoughts that had been running through my head all day.
Then, there was the Five of Cups. My old friend.
#
When I saw my third-year roommate at the parade yesterday, he asked me how the date on Friday had gone. Normally, I consider myself a fairly articulate person, but every time someone has asked me about how Friday night went, I find myself eliciting a series of "I don't knows" and embarrassed silence. That was when he said to me, "You know, you're the chillest person I have ever met.... Correction, the chillest person I have ever met who isn't stoned. But I have never seen you stress out over anything except for this."
This, in fact, refers to the person who has knocked me into a cesspool of uncertainty. After two months of circling like two panthers, we finally went out for dinner on Friday night. When someone asks you how a date went, what criteria do you judge it by? Awkward silences, stilted conversations, bad food? There was none of the above, but when I went home, there was a strange feeling sunken in my chest.
My friends tell me I overthink things, that I take this too seriously, but the reality is that while I am generally relaxed about most things in my life, I cannot help but react this way to anything that could potentially upend my entire sense of being. And our interactions have all been completely foreign to me, and the unfamiliarity scares me. I have never had anyone pursue me like this--initiate all these text messages, pay for my dinner, walk me to my car almost twenty minutes away, give me a teddy bear he caught from a parade float. The attention is both baffling and flattering, and I have never been so uncertain of how to behave in my life.
Someone once said to me that it was better to be with someone more in love with you than the other way around, but I can't help but think about how off-balance I have felt in this situation. He has made his interest in me abundantly clear, yet I can barely eke out a series of "I-don't-knows" when others ask how I feel in return. I have studied him for two months and can delineate all the ways that our personalities are compatible and analyze all the ways he has treated me exceptionally well, but the part I cannot rationalize my way out of are the spilled cups splayed out before me. The all-consuming intensity I once lived and breathed on is a ghost that still haunts my memories, and the fact that I don't feel the same way now makes me wonder if my brain has overrun my heart.
February 11, 2015
Candlxs
It's human nature
We all are dying
But I'm still burning bright and blue
If we're in danger
If time is flying
If we'll both be lifeless soon
....
You told me you ain't wanna do it
Said love was for stupid people and cupid
I swore to you that I could make you lose it
And now I got you dancing to my music
-- "Candlxs" by Angel Haze
February 2, 2015
Gloomy Sunday
I think I've written about this before on here, but honestly, it's hard to remember when you've written over 700 blog posts in the span of over 8 years.
I'm talking about feeling depressed.
Not clinical depression, which I doubt I have. But those random days when you are just simply not happy. Sometimes, you can't even pinpoint why exactly you feel this way. It could be a culmination of everything. Or nothing in particular.
I was depressed on Sunday. I was six lectures behind on schoolwork, but that wasn't what was sucking the life out of me. I was unhappy and felt inexplicably lonely, despite the fact that both my roommates were at home, and I'd just hung out with some friends at the Krewe du Vieux parade all of Saturday night.
In the midst of all this wallowing misery, the rational core of my brain was furiously analyzing why on earth I was feeling lonely. I am often alone by choice, but typically I revel in the solitude. I was also acutely aware of the fact that I wasn't truly alone. My friends and family were literally only a text message or call away.
I started analyzing all of my faults. I am too proud and too stubborn. I hate taking risks. I have a tendency to be too distant. I run away from affection. I am indecisive. I never initiate anything. I overthink when I should just act. Dwelling on all this was probably not a good idea.
I thought of my two closest friends here, and how I'd seen photos of them on Facebook having fun at a party that I didn't go to because I was at community service all afternoon. The pathetic shriveled nasty thing inside of me wondered if they'd even missed me, and yet, I was too proud to text to say I missed them.
I thought of that time my mom and I were watching Pride and Prejudice on TV, and when we got to the part where Mr. Darcy tells Lizzy he thought Jane had no interest in Mr. Bingley, she turned to me and said, "Don't be like Jane Bennett," and when I asked why she was telling me this, she said, "Your personality is just like hers."
But the truth of the matter is, I'm not like Jane Bennett at all, because I don't even know what I want. My emotions wax and wane between wanting something more and wanting to whisk it all away. And I've been unwilling to admit this to myself aloud, but amidst the miserable gloom I became afflicted with yesterday, I forced myself to confront the ugly and embarrassing truth. That despite being comfortably nestled within my solitude for 23 years, buried under all those layers of rationale and cynicism was the infantile core that still believed that one day I would meet someone whose soul resonated with mine, and that I would feel their presence in my life like a punch in the gut. That I am essentially the ostrich whose head has been stuck in sand because I am afraid. Afraid that taking any step closer means swallowing my pride, shattering whatever fantasy has been preserved in my mental formaldehyde, admitting that I am "lonely" or "settling" or whatever words I've railed against for so long, because even as my head rationalizes everything to pieces, my gut has been silent all this time.
Even though I had a lot of schoolwork to do, I needed to do something. And so, I wrote EP. It wasn't much, a little over 500 words. But it was enough.
I'm talking about feeling depressed.
Not clinical depression, which I doubt I have. But those random days when you are just simply not happy. Sometimes, you can't even pinpoint why exactly you feel this way. It could be a culmination of everything. Or nothing in particular.
I was depressed on Sunday. I was six lectures behind on schoolwork, but that wasn't what was sucking the life out of me. I was unhappy and felt inexplicably lonely, despite the fact that both my roommates were at home, and I'd just hung out with some friends at the Krewe du Vieux parade all of Saturday night.
In the midst of all this wallowing misery, the rational core of my brain was furiously analyzing why on earth I was feeling lonely. I am often alone by choice, but typically I revel in the solitude. I was also acutely aware of the fact that I wasn't truly alone. My friends and family were literally only a text message or call away.
I started analyzing all of my faults. I am too proud and too stubborn. I hate taking risks. I have a tendency to be too distant. I run away from affection. I am indecisive. I never initiate anything. I overthink when I should just act. Dwelling on all this was probably not a good idea.
I thought of my two closest friends here, and how I'd seen photos of them on Facebook having fun at a party that I didn't go to because I was at community service all afternoon. The pathetic shriveled nasty thing inside of me wondered if they'd even missed me, and yet, I was too proud to text to say I missed them.
I thought of that time my mom and I were watching Pride and Prejudice on TV, and when we got to the part where Mr. Darcy tells Lizzy he thought Jane had no interest in Mr. Bingley, she turned to me and said, "Don't be like Jane Bennett," and when I asked why she was telling me this, she said, "Your personality is just like hers."
But the truth of the matter is, I'm not like Jane Bennett at all, because I don't even know what I want. My emotions wax and wane between wanting something more and wanting to whisk it all away. And I've been unwilling to admit this to myself aloud, but amidst the miserable gloom I became afflicted with yesterday, I forced myself to confront the ugly and embarrassing truth. That despite being comfortably nestled within my solitude for 23 years, buried under all those layers of rationale and cynicism was the infantile core that still believed that one day I would meet someone whose soul resonated with mine, and that I would feel their presence in my life like a punch in the gut. That I am essentially the ostrich whose head has been stuck in sand because I am afraid. Afraid that taking any step closer means swallowing my pride, shattering whatever fantasy has been preserved in my mental formaldehyde, admitting that I am "lonely" or "settling" or whatever words I've railed against for so long, because even as my head rationalizes everything to pieces, my gut has been silent all this time.
Even though I had a lot of schoolwork to do, I needed to do something. And so, I wrote EP. It wasn't much, a little over 500 words. But it was enough.
Stop running from your problems.
Stop lying to yourself.
Stop trying to hold onto the past.
Stop being scared to make a mistake.
Stop thinking you're not ready.
Stop complaining and feeling sorry for yourself.
Stop trying to make things perfect.
Stop following the path of least resistance.
Today is going to be a great day. I can and I will.
January 31, 2015
Spotless Mind
"Falling in love with yourself first doesn’t make you vain or selfish. It makes you indestructible."
January 25, 2015
Vulnicura
I am a glowing shiny rocket
Returning home
As I enter the atmosphere
I burn off layer by layer
Jettison
-- "Black Lake" by Bjork
i find myself reading as many interviews with Bjork on her latest album Vulnicura as i can get my hands on.
i discovered Bjork in high school, after learning that OLIVIA was a huge fan of hers. this was back in the day when it wasn't as easy to stream free music online. i borrowed Medulla, Vespertine, and Volta from the library. i bought Debut for two dollars from a library sale. some of her songs didn't jive with me, but the ones i loved became regular fixtures in my playlist--Pagan Poetry, Unison, All is Full of Love, and my favorite--Unravel.
in these interviews, Bjork breaks down in tears whenever they probe her about the emotional process of writing this break-up album, following her split with Matthew Barney, the father of her 12 yo daughter and her romantic partner for over a decade.
when your life has been so intricately intertwined with someone else's for that long, what happens when the cords are cut?
some days, i like to imagine that the little ironies in the world are some divine creator's way of sculpting harmony from an oftentimes nonsensical narrative. as i pore over the lyrics of Vulnicura, i hear my old voice rising, conjured from the melodic words like a ghost: on the brink of rupture from burning in degrees Kelvin
"Hey you. Tell me, what happens to a star when it dies? Will it incinerate everything around in a colossal explosion?
Or will it silently collapse in on itself, a victim of its own flame -- burning and burning until it has burned itself out?"
and stranded in space, three years in the aftermath
"Maybe I wasn't the star. I was the rocket ship, and your heart was the moon. My aim never wavered all those years, but it didn't matter. Once the flame sputtered out, I was trapped in the coldness of space. Somewhere between you and the person I had once been."
and now, here we are--incinerating in a descent back down to the earth, unfurling layer by layer to reveal what's left underneath after all this time. to be born anew.
January 18, 2015
y u mad bro
I had this dream last night that Graydyl and S were over at my house, catching up like we usually do every winter. I was telling them about how a classmate asked me out, and how nothing has happened since then because neither of us have brought it up despite seeing each other quite a few times in the last two weeks, and how I'm not even sure about what I want in the first place.
Instead of being sympathetic or understanding like I was expecting, Graydyl became FURIOUS while S suddenly burst into tears. Completely flummoxed by their reactions, I asked Graydyl something along the lines of "y u mad bro" to which S responded, wailing through blubbering tears, "But Sophelia.... do you really want to die alone??"
Well, that little comment rankled my fury, and as I turned to snap a retort, Graydyl stood up and stormed out the door. I followed, trying to ask her to stop and talk to me, but she refused to even look in my direction and sped off in her car without another word.
I have no idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me, but holy kleenex batman that was a terrifying dream.
Instead of being sympathetic or understanding like I was expecting, Graydyl became FURIOUS while S suddenly burst into tears. Completely flummoxed by their reactions, I asked Graydyl something along the lines of "y u mad bro" to which S responded, wailing through blubbering tears, "But Sophelia.... do you really want to die alone??"
Well, that little comment rankled my fury, and as I turned to snap a retort, Graydyl stood up and stormed out the door. I followed, trying to ask her to stop and talk to me, but she refused to even look in my direction and sped off in her car without another word.
I have no idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me, but holy kleenex batman that was a terrifying dream.
January 15, 2015
Duke and Spirituality
ETA: I just found out that Duke has reversed its decision and decided to hold the call to prayer in the quad instead. I can't say I was particularly pleased with this backtracking, but I have to acknowledge that Christians might not be comfortable with the chapel being used for the Muslim call to prayer. (Though I have to say... the chapel holds a lot of non-Christian events at school, and I have yet to hear any major complaints against those.)
HOWEVER.... what pissed me off more than anything were the comments people left on Duke's Facebook page. Calling Duke a "traitor Muslim school' and all sorts of garbage. I suspect NONE of those people ever studied at Duke in the first place and have NO IDEA what it's like on campus. Those people threatening to never send their kids there -- if your kids are just as close-minded and poisonous with hateful words, then they probably don't belong at Duke either.
---------------
Original Post
I generally don't blog about current events, but there are times when the events intersect strangely with the ongoings in my own life, and I feel compelled to write in order to process my thoughts.
My alma mater, Duke University, recently announced that every Friday, the Muslim call to prayer will ring from the chapel bell tower. This has been gaining particular attention the news, especially in light of the recent events in France with the terrorist act committed at Charlie Hebdo. Some boneheads have been calling upon donors and alum to stop donating to Duke until the policy is reversed, claiming that this encouragement of Islam is a threat to Christianity.
I won't even go into the fact that the influence of Christianity is everywhere at Duke (the insignia, the chapel, the Bibles we all receive upon graduation), and that the idea of Christianity being wiped out from Duke is laughable. But I will talk about how I am indebted to Duke for opening my eyes to religious acceptance and spirituality.
When I entered the school in August 2009, I had no concept of either. I was vaguely aware of the Buddhist influence on my extended family an ocean away, but growing up I had no religious rituals and hardly ever thought about higher powers and whatnot. That changed almost as soon as I started my freshman year, when a high school alum at Duke invited me to join a Christian fellowship's welcome event.
That freshman year was a terrible year, but it made me who I am today. Two things happened coincidentally during that period. My disastrous academic experience hurtled me into a personal crisis of intense self-doubt and loathing. At the same time, I began exploring Christianity -- initially, as a way to make friends who also felt fatigued by the prevalent hook-up culture, but little by little I began attending small groups and large groups, intrigued by the conversations on what it meant to live a good life and be a good person. These were conversations I'd never had growing up, and I read Bible verses and listened to the pastors in curiosity.
At a certain point, however, I reached a dead-end. There were things I liked about Christianity, but there were also things I didn't like, couldn't accept, or just couldn't believe. As I asked more and more questions to my mentors, the answers started to meld into one: "It will make sense if you believe." But I can't believe, I wanted to say, because it doesn't make sense! Gradually, I stopped attending the group events, but the friends that I made remained through the rest of my undergraduate career and beyond. My best friend from Duke is a devout Christian, and if anything, my experience with that Christian fellowship taught me how to be religiously sensitive.
The other major spiritual epiphany happened in my junior year. To get some English major requirements out of the way, I enrolled in a class called "Spiritual Autobiographies." Our first essay assignment was to observe a spiritual or religious event that is not part of our own beliefs and write about the experience. Some classmates went to a mosque, while others went to a Buddhist temple. I went to visit a pagan witch on the night of the full moon.
That night will always be one of my favorite memories, because in many ways it changed me. Not because I started believing in pagan rituals or spirits, but because of certain things the witch said to me that night. One was what she told me when she read my Tarot card. The second was when she said that it's okay to take bits and pieces of what you like in other religions and custom-build your own spirituality, without having to accept all the other baggage that comes with each organized religion.
The light came on. And that's where I am now--spiritual, but not religious.
In medical school, religion becomes especially important when we talk about end of life care and death. During my end-of-life elective class yesterday, we had to act in scenarios with actors in which we were supposed to break the bad news that his/her mother had terminal cancer. We were split into small groups that rotated through four stations, each with a different actor. As soon as my actor asked me, with tears streaming down his face, if I believed in Jesus our Lord and Savior, bells went off in my head.
My friend had to do the same scenario in a different group, and she said her first reaction was panic. I understood -- religion is something we almost never discuss publicly and can become a scary topic to broach. But as I held the actor's arm, I quietly told him that I believed in a higher power, but that my role in his mother's care was not in religion but in medicine. When he suddenly closed his eyes to pray aloud, I let him. I kept my eyes down in respect, just like I'd done all those times I'd had dinner with my Christian friends who said Grace before every meal.
Duke University not only helped me understand my own spiritual beliefs, but also helped me understand how to interact with people of other beliefs, and to respect the positive things that religion can bring--compassion, comfort, and solace. I am proud of my school for leading the way in religious acceptance and grateful for what it has taught me in turn.
January 10, 2015
Lights On
Break or seize me
If the flame gets blown out in the shine
I will know that you can not be mine
Live or leave me
Let me tell you all my secrets in a whisper till the day is done.
I sit on the carpeted floor with a half-drunken bottle of Abita Purple Haze as they talk. She's opening a second bottle of champagne and asking S about his plans to propose to his girlfriend. I watch as the liquid lurches as she fumbles in refilling her glass--a telltale sign of her inebriated state. E is playing with the French bulldog, while C helps himself to another slice of king cake (in celebration of the beginning of Mardi Gras festivities in the city). S talks of diamonds and engagements, and I ask how he and his girlfriend met.
Later, I wonder if she would have told us everything if she had been sober. Maybe she wouldn't have told us that she thinks her boyfriend in California is about to dump her. Maybe she wouldn't have said all those other things about her past. Or maybe she would have anyways.
We are a strange group of six. Four boys, two girls. Under any other circumstances, we would have never all become friends. We are essentially your standard dysfunctional yet loveable sitcom cast. But here we are on a Friday night, with a neglected game of Cards Against Humanity splayed out on the coffee table amongst drained glasses of Bellini. They flip their secrets face-up one by one, but I have yet to play my hand.
I can tell you a little something scandalous about each of them, but they have nothing on me. Not because I don't trust them. But because my lack of secrets is the greatest secret of all.
I still remember what she said to me just last Monday, about a girl she knows from back home who is 24, engaged, and still a virgin--exclaiming this to me as if it were the most absurd thing she'd ever heard in her life. Then, there's the last time we played Never Have I Ever at the sushi happy hour at Vitascope, and I sat out because I knew that even more than any of the dirty secrets they each aired that night, the biggest shocker to them would be mine.
I hide this from them, not because I am ashamed, but because I don't want a reaction. I don't need your pity or your incredulity or heaven forbid your approval (and I have dealt with all these before). If they ask me directly one day, I will tell them. But for now, let them speculate of unspeakable sorrows, dark and tragic pasts, or raw heartbreak if they deign to notice that I do not speak--when in fact, the sheep in wolf's clothing is as pure as the driven snow.
Break or seize me
Let the things that I tell you survive
In the way that you handle your size
Live or leave me
--"Lights On" by FKA Twigs
January 6, 2015
Willow
The conscious says what it will in daylight, until the subconscious rears its head in the night.
There was a book. The cover was white with the word "Willow" stretched across in crisply elegant black font. I was shocked to see the familiar name across the bottom. I rifled through the pages and it suddenly dawned on me that you'd written enough words to fit in a book. Those words told me about everything that had happened since--poems and vignettes about the people you'd met, and the places you'd been, and the things that had happened to you. I saw one about me. It was short and sparse, infused with nostalgia and a sprinkling of barely discernible regret. The pebble to the meteor.
What I felt was envy. That you'd accomplished something I'd dreamed of doing for as long as I can remember. But then I realized something else in that liminal space of lucid dreaming. It doesn't exist in a physical bound shape, but mine exists. It's here.
There was a book. The cover was white with the word "Willow" stretched across in crisply elegant black font. I was shocked to see the familiar name across the bottom. I rifled through the pages and it suddenly dawned on me that you'd written enough words to fit in a book. Those words told me about everything that had happened since--poems and vignettes about the people you'd met, and the places you'd been, and the things that had happened to you. I saw one about me. It was short and sparse, infused with nostalgia and a sprinkling of barely discernible regret. The pebble to the meteor.
What I felt was envy. That you'd accomplished something I'd dreamed of doing for as long as I can remember. But then I realized something else in that liminal space of lucid dreaming. It doesn't exist in a physical bound shape, but mine exists. It's here.
January 5, 2015
Hero's Journey
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| Piazza d'Italia in downtown New Orleans |
When I was younger, I had this (somewhat irrational) fear that someone would see the story premise I'd set up on Fictionpress and decide to take it for themselves. Eight years later, this fear seems rather foolish to me because: (1) no one is bored enough to steal a half-written modestly-reviewed Fictionpress story; but mainly (2) over the years, I've developed this stubborn belief that it is impossible for anyone else to write EP because it is made up of so many parts of myself.
The first step of the Hero's Journey is generally referred to as Incomplete/Ordinary World. Done correctly, it sets up the hero's Want and Flaw at the beginning of the story, before the inciting event sets the plot in motion. So, I started thinking about what Charlotte's Want and Flaw are, which made me think about what I was like at age sixteen.
When I was a teenager, I had very low self-confidence. It affected all areas of my life. With tennis, I had a tendency to choke -- that is, you're leading your opponent and just at the cusp of closing of a win, only to get nervous and end up losing the match all together. I didn't play piano competitively, but it was the same at recitals--I would play far worse when it truly mattered.
Socially, I was shy around strangers and uncomfortable with public speaking. I remember thinking at the time that being an introvert was a curse in an extroverted world. I wanted to be an extrovert. I wanted to make friends easily, to comfortably crack the same jokes I made around my friends with people I didn't really know.
Reflecting now, I wasn't so much surprised that I used to think this way. I was more surprised by the fact that I hadn't even noticed when I stopped thinking like this.
At some point between sixteen and twenty-three, I stopped treating my introversion as something to be ashamed of. I embraced it. I learned how to flip the ON switch for extroversion when I need to, but my base level remained. I don't know if I still have the tendency to choke, but I don't think I lack in self-confidence anymore. I am stubbornly comfortable with who I am.
Charlotte's Want is courage -- to be able to stand up for herself socially, and to be able to overcome her stage fright in order to reveal to the world the full extent of her musical talent. Her Flaw isn't merely just a lack of self-confidence. At this point, I was reminded of something the Pagan witch I observed in Durham had told me when she read my cards. "You tend not to speak for yourself, because you don't think you deserve it."
I think I don't deserve it? I had been bewildered by that statement. But it makes sense when I think about it now, and it applies to Charlotte as well. Charlotte doesn't believe she deserves happiness, and consequently, this subconscious pessimism becomes self-sabotaging. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
This revelation hit me in an epiphany. Because now, I finally saw with clarity how the different threads of Charlotte's storyline all feed into the same Want and Flaw, and now I saw what the story's ending must achieve in order to reconcile the two.
Unfortunately, school starts this Monday. Which means back on the grind, which means holding off on EP until after the next exam in about three weeks. Adios.
January 1, 2015
2014
I sort of feel obligated to write something, as a final hurrah post of 2014. I wrote a Top Fives recap last year for 2013, but I'm honestly too lazy to sit down and do one of those.
I will say.... looking back, this year felt ridiculously long.
More than once, I've caught myself about to say that I worked or went to Europe last year, when it really all happened less than 12 months ago. During my gap year of work (June 2013 - July 2014), time really sped by; but ever since I started med school, it feels like my life has slowed to a crawl. I've only been in school for five months, when it feels like at least a year.
When I really think about it, a lot has happened this year.
In January, I watched the musical Once for the first time.
In February, E, CC, and I played the Flowers in the Attic movie drinking game via the FYA rules. "NO, CHRISTOPHER. STOP IT, CHRISTOPHER. STEP AWAY FROM YOUR SISTER, CHRISTOPHER."
In March, at my mother's behest, I dreadingly wrote a really long Facebook post analyzing the Sunflower Movement in Taiwan, which ironically became something a lot of my new classmates commented to me about after we'd become Facebook friends.
In April, I had my golden birthday at the age of 23. I also watched BAP perform live, devoured Dreams of Gods and Monsters, and finished comment-watching that Korean Alien drama with Y (that is a noteworthy achievement, btw).
In May, I finally visited France--as well as Amsterdam, Brussels, and Monaco--and it was glorious.
In June, I roadtripped with my mother from North Carolina to New Orleans with all my belongings.
In July, S and I went beach-hopping down the northern California coast along Highway 1.
In August, I started medical school.
In September, my grandmother passed away.
In October, I experienced Halloween on Frenchman, disguised in my blonde wig.
In November, I went to my first small-venue concert ever and saw FKA Twigs perform live.
In December, I came to a decision that I will not publicly verbalize, and it probably isn't what you're thinking of, but I will say that it was something very monumental to me, and I imagine it will be something that will define 2014 for me down the line.
And somewhere scattered along those twelve months... I wrote all of Act II of EP. A shitty first draft, but nevertheless around 35,000 words. Guys, I am 2/3 of the way done with this shitty first draft. I am very aware of how much work is left ahead of me, even after I finish this draft. But considering how I first dreamed up EP eight years ago, when I was a sophomore in high school on the brink of turning 16, and how my resolution every new year since was to finally finish it.... I've never come this close before.
All in all, 2014 treated me well. 2015 will be my zodiac year, which according to Chinese tradition will not be a lucky year for me, but who knows what will happen? Come at me, 2015.
I will say.... looking back, this year felt ridiculously long.
More than once, I've caught myself about to say that I worked or went to Europe last year, when it really all happened less than 12 months ago. During my gap year of work (June 2013 - July 2014), time really sped by; but ever since I started med school, it feels like my life has slowed to a crawl. I've only been in school for five months, when it feels like at least a year.
When I really think about it, a lot has happened this year.
In January, I watched the musical Once for the first time.
In February, E, CC, and I played the Flowers in the Attic movie drinking game via the FYA rules. "NO, CHRISTOPHER. STOP IT, CHRISTOPHER. STEP AWAY FROM YOUR SISTER, CHRISTOPHER."
In March, at my mother's behest, I dreadingly wrote a really long Facebook post analyzing the Sunflower Movement in Taiwan, which ironically became something a lot of my new classmates commented to me about after we'd become Facebook friends.
In April, I had my golden birthday at the age of 23. I also watched BAP perform live, devoured Dreams of Gods and Monsters, and finished comment-watching that Korean Alien drama with Y (that is a noteworthy achievement, btw).
In May, I finally visited France--as well as Amsterdam, Brussels, and Monaco--and it was glorious.
In June, I roadtripped with my mother from North Carolina to New Orleans with all my belongings.
In July, S and I went beach-hopping down the northern California coast along Highway 1.
In August, I started medical school.
In September, my grandmother passed away.
In October, I experienced Halloween on Frenchman, disguised in my blonde wig.
In November, I went to my first small-venue concert ever and saw FKA Twigs perform live.
In December, I came to a decision that I will not publicly verbalize, and it probably isn't what you're thinking of, but I will say that it was something very monumental to me, and I imagine it will be something that will define 2014 for me down the line.
And somewhere scattered along those twelve months... I wrote all of Act II of EP. A shitty first draft, but nevertheless around 35,000 words. Guys, I am 2/3 of the way done with this shitty first draft. I am very aware of how much work is left ahead of me, even after I finish this draft. But considering how I first dreamed up EP eight years ago, when I was a sophomore in high school on the brink of turning 16, and how my resolution every new year since was to finally finish it.... I've never come this close before.
All in all, 2014 treated me well. 2015 will be my zodiac year, which according to Chinese tradition will not be a lucky year for me, but who knows what will happen? Come at me, 2015.
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