sirens

Under moonlight, I close my eyes and I just dive in
Do what I like, my paradise, don't know what time is
I make my way to shore
Like I've been here before
Fade and I fall, under it all, under the covers
Echoing walls, I hear your call, come to the surface
I make my way to shore
Like I've been here before

 There's an ocean in between us
So light a candle in the darkness
I keep trying to swim towards you
But I'm only treading water

 

"Treading Water" by Hayla

 

 

 

His fingers encircled her wrist, and slowly he pulled her hand towards him.  A curl of brown hair fell over his eyes as his lips grazed her knuckles, watching her reaction without breaking contact. 

 

Elise stilled, forgetting how to breathe as his fingers lingered on her wrist. She kept her gaze locked on his neck, going delirious with the self-induced torture of imagining and restraining herself from pressing her lips there, to feel the rumble of satisfaction in his throat. His Adam’s apple bounded as he swallowed. Jesus. If she looked up, it would be game over.  

“Elise,” he said. 

She knew what would happen if she met his eyes. She didn’t move. His fingers alighted from her wrist and gently tilted her chin up. 

His dark eyes bore into her soul. Rigo leaned forward, and she knew what was about to happen, and time slowed to a viscous, languorous crawl.

He kissed her, and time became infinite. 

Stasis

 

I felt you at my fingertips
But you've gone cold
There's no one that I would see
But I can't feel you anymore

 

--"Perfect World" by Lastlings

 

I went on vacation for the first half of October. 

I needed the break. My work-life had been barreling at a break-neck speed, revolving around checklists and incessant calendar alerts. I was working on new research projects nearly every other week and spending near the double amount of my usual time in clinic. Amidst all of that, I was applying for jobs.

The first weekend, I went to SF for two weddings. The first was my dear friend Astrid, whom I hadn't seen in five years. I was seated at a table with three other acquaintances from high school whom I hadn't seen since graduation. Our class never had any organized reunions, so the great majority of my high school classmates I have not seen in 14 years. It's funny, when you meet people with whom you've had a distant history, but they've become so much more than that wisp of a ghost from your memories. I wasn't close to any of these three people when we were in high school, but there was a sense of kinship during that dinner. Like, we've seen each other at our worst, our feeble embryonic selves --- that's a vulnerability there to be respected. 

The second wedding was for my college friend and sorority sister. I had not seen several of my line sisters in years. In some ways, nothing had changed. The same mannerisms, same personalities. And in some ways, we've all grown in the past 10 years since we crossed as line sisters. We met Y's fiance for the first time, a consummate gentleman who couldn't have been a better match. We watched S and her wife take their vows in a little rose garden a mere block away from the winding Lombard Street.

I returned to Los Angeles on Tuesday evening, took care of some business and a job interview, then on Friday evening, we went to watch Lastlings perform at the Fonda Theatre. It's been a long time since I found a musical artist for whom I could literally recognize their entire catalog. Granted, they are a young duo with only three full albums. But there's something about their sonic aesthetic that is in close simpatico with how my creative gears move.

Then, I was in South Korea for a week, splitting time between Seoul and Jeju Island. My work e-mail stopped functioning in Korea, so I had no choice but to ignore all work e-mails while I was out of the country. The week ended with a third wedding, the Korean ceremony for the Person's brother and sister-in-law.

And now, here I am. Back to work. Back to home. 

I sit here, writing this at 7:30 in the morning. "Perfect World" is playing from the laptop speakers. The second cup of tea has gone cold. The cat is curled up sleeping on top of her favorite air fryer box next to my chair. In a moment, I will have to get up to leave for the hospital and prepare for rounds. If only this moment could stretch out longer. 

An Orchid Story

 

 

I received my first orchid in the spring of 2020. In the early stages of the pandemic, one of the consolation prizes of being an essential healthcare worker trudging through the uncharted territories of COVID was the deluge of freebies from local businesses. Free lunches and dinners delivered to the hospital wards. Discounts on various clothing and shoe brands. McDonald's offered free meals if you showed your first-responder or healthcare worker badge, and for several months, the Person insisted we go there for breakfast sandwiches nearly every weekend. 

I was rotating at the cancer center in April 2020, attempting to angle for a recommendation letter for fellowship applications. An orchid company, now with an excess supply and decreased demand in the wake of the pandemic, had donated boxes upon boxes of orchids for the healthcare workers at the hospital. I went downstairs to the conference room with my co-resident, and we were greeted with tables full of blooms in purple, pink, and white hues. Clueless and frozen by indecision, I stood there dumbly until a nurse nearby said, "Pick one that still has some buds, so it'll last longer."

"How do I take care of this?"

"Just put a couple ice cubes in once a week."

I picked a Phalaenoposis with two spikes of purple blooms. At home, I placed it by the sole window in our apartment that receives any direct sunlight. Dutifully, I followed the nurse's instructions and fed it 3 ice cubes each Saturday morning. Eventually, the flowers crinkled and shed, and the spikes turned brown. I left the dead spikes tied to the wooden stakes and continued to feed ice cubes each week. I had no idea what I was doing, but the leaves still looked green, so I kept up with the routine.

To my great shock and delight, the orchid produced another spike and rebloomed in January 2021. Oh shit, now I really have to learn how to take care of this. 

I started doing research by watching Youtube videos and reading articles online. I quickly learned that ice cubes were NOT the way to go, and that I had likely bumbled my way into keeping the orchid alive by not overwatering with the ice cube method. I bought a new pot with slits to allow for aeration and orchid mix and eventually repotted the orchid after its blooms had fallen. My gateway orchid has now consistently begun to spike every winter, leading to a spray of purple flowers that last for several months throughout each spring. 

Since then, I've discovered that my local Trader Joe's stocks an impressive collection of orchids and have acquired a pink mini-Phal and an Oncidium with dark-red flowers. I went to the orchid show at our local botanical garden and purchased a cattleya hybrid that is supposed to produce beautiful pink blooms (though I have yet to get it to bloom). The cattleya has been a lesson in fuck-ups -- I should have repotted it as soon as I got home, but instead kept watering once a week without realizing the roots were drowning. After I finally repotted it, most of the roots died, and it took weeks before I started seeing new roots. Even now, I'm not sure if the new growth I'm seeing will pull through.

Someone asked me why I deal with orchids, given their reputation for being difficult to care for. To me, it's actually the opposite. Orchids do not demand constant attention; mine only require watering roughly once per week. It's a slow process, but there are little joys to be derived from checking on the plants each weekend and observing new roots or leaves making their debuts. Most of all, there is something immensely satisfying about the patience and payoff of getting an orchid to rebloom. In some ways, it reminds me of the delayed gratification we suffer through in medicine.

shibazakura

Skyline changing
I can feel you there
On my shoulder
Breathing different air
Don't let me go now
We've got time
And all these walls I built up
Won't ease my mind

--"Noise" by Lastlings

 

I've been working on my resolution for 11 weeks. As a refresher, my goal was to wake up an hour earlier to write each day.  I was doing pretty well until Daylight Savings happened mid-March and knocked my inner clock and momentum off kilter. But for the most part, I still have been able to carve out a little time each day to stew in Scrivener, even if it's not an entire hour as I'd originally planned.

This pattern of "trickle" writing a little each day is an interesting departure from what I used to, which I guess we could call "bolus" writing --- where I would sink in hours on a weekend submerged in a creative "zone" and then not write anything for weeks on end. There's a momentum with "trickle" writing that carries through each day that I haven't experienced before, even though I don't get the satisfaction of when you barf out a couple thousand words in a trance.

I can't remember if I've talked about this on here, but for the last couple years, I felt stuck in a rut. I was approaching 30 years old and acutely felt that the limitless possibilities of my early twenties had started shutting doors all around me. On one hand, where I am today --- a Hematology/Oncology fellow training in Los Angeles -- was one dream I wasn't certain would be possible achieve. On the other hand, I had other visions for myself that never came to fruition. 

I gave up on EP for a while. The faults seemed insurmountable. I started working on Med Rom-Com. During the early days of this year, by forcing myself to sit with Rigo and Elise a little each day, writing as a means of discovery, I realized I'd forgotten about the freedom of this part of the process. My spark of inspiration is closely associated with music --- I had an entire playlist for EP cultivated over the years -- so when I developed a playlist for Med Rom-Com, it was a good sign. 

Then, at some point in March, something called me back to EP. It was the first time I'd looked at the project in over six months. And this time around, I saw something I hadn't consciously noticed before. I saw that at its core, EP was a preserved amber of who I was as a teenager. The cripplingly low self-confidence. The wish for someone to "see you" when you are introverted or haven't revealed your full potential. That was the thread that brought me back to Charlotte. 

I've gone back to EP with a conscious attempt to filter out the bad thoughts that were plaguing me. I consciously remind myself that I'm going back to this project for myself---period, the end.  Quite frankly, no one would give a shit and the world would continue turning if I never looked at EP again. This is for me--to be able to finally attain a level of satisfaction for something that is a distilled essence of who I used to be.

limerence

I just wanna get high with my lover
Veo una muñeca cuando miro en el espejo
Kiss, kiss
Looking dolly, I think I may go out tonight
I just wanna ride, get high in the moonlight

-"Moonlight" by Kali Uchis

They drove up into the hills to the spot where they'd once watched the Fourth of July fireworks on a sweltering summer night nearly a decade ago. The valley below their feet was a carnival of dotted lights. Grey wisps of cirrus clouds glinted from the light of the three-quarter moon. 

She sat perched on the hood of the car. He leaned forward, fishing his vape out from his jacket. She'd always hated his habit, the perpetual carton of cigarettes tucked in his pockets. She thought about making a comment about how at least he no longer coated his lungs with tar, but swallowed the words. She had forfeit the right to make those comments years ago.

In an alternate life, maybe she would have stayed. But they'd each chosen paths that shut the doors on others, until the crisscross of alternative timelines withered off the vine. 

He exhaled beside her. A sweet scent rose into the air. 

He caught her staring in his periphery and turned. His eyes met hers, placid and impossible to read. Minutes passed before he moved. Maintaining his gaze, as if daring her to stop him, he settled his left hand over her right hand, palm down on the hood of the car. The calluses on his palm brushed against the back of her fingers, enveloping her in warmth. 

An errant cloud floated across the moon, casting shadows across their faces, granting a moment of privacy. His thumb stroked the back of her hand in a lazy rhythm as he watched her, like a panther with a tail swishing in anticipation. 

 In an alternate life, maybe she would have looked away.

She shifted her hand under his palm until their fingers were interlaced together. Without breaking eye contact, she raised their interlocked hands to her mouth. Her breath exhaled as she brushed his skin against her lips in a ghost kiss.

All at once, they were sixteen and seventeen again, intoxicated on the fumes of first love.

Astral

i feel the beat of your heart in 3/4 time, waltzing down my spine.

night descends upon us in a minor key. the darkness is a cocoon, a cradle for new things birthed in the night.

i unlatch, and my soul stretches to you like the fingers of a nebula.

--- 

It's been a little over a month since I started my New Year's Resolution of waking up early to write 1 hour per day. In some ways, it's been like picking up running again, waking up muscles you haven't used in a while. In terms of my daily word count output, it's not great by any means... but it's still better than what I was doing before, which was months-long stretches of zeros punctuated by random word-vomits over a rare weekend. Since I started this, I've churned out roughly 5000 words for Med Rom Com.

I'm still out of practice, and I can tell. Some of this might be due to how absolute shite my attention span has gotten. During the first draft of EP, I would get into these writing spells that I could only describe as submergence. On a free weekend, I could sit at my table writing for hours, then emerge with a full chapter that sang and vibrated. These days, one hour without looking at my phone or browsing the Internet is a win. The current process feels like writing with a pen that is on its last dredges of ink, with a bunch of sudden spurts and stops, retracing over what was already written.

We'll see if I can maintain this routine into a long-term habit. I'm hoping the writing gets more instinctive and natural, and my word count picks up as a result. 

I've been working primarily on the first draft of Med Rom Com instead of doing EP revisions. With Med Rom Com, I'm not only trying to cultivate a habit of writing daily, but also I've missed the fun of discovering the characters and chipping away at a new story when you write a first draft for the first time. I'm trying not to put too much pressure on myself -- because at the end of the day, no one cares if I write. I'm doing this for me, and damnit I'm not going to let it become a chore.

This month (February), I kind of picked up a second resolution -- this one I'm less confident I'll be able to maintain. But I'm going to aim to do a 30 minute treadmill run every day. I'm in my early thirties, and I've read Reddit threads about advice that people would give people in their 20s or 30s. Examples include using sunscreen daily (Check - been doing this for years) and seeing a dentist regularly (Check). One of the biggest ones is keeping up with physical activity/exercise. I work in the medical field -- how many times have I told patients they need to exercise more? Time to put my money where my mouth is. Considering that Alzheimer's runs in my family, it'll be good for my brain as well as my heart. 

New Year Stew

 Hello, I am back again. 

I was thinking about New Year Resolutions the other day. I don't typically make resolutions, or at least not concrete ones. The only one I can truly point to as a NY resolution and say it stuck is back around 2015 when I said I was going to start flossing my teeth every day. Still going strong. 

 I'd have to scour through my old entries and journals, but I suspect I've made other resolutions in prior years. Probably related to writing. The Person doesn't particularly "believe" in NY resolutions. His thinking is, "Why does it have to be on January 1? You could do it anytime." 

True. Now that I think about it, 2022 was the year I started forcing myself to run on the treadmill for 30 min in the morning on the weekends. So far, that one has been sticking fairly well, since I won't let myself shower or eat until after I get my butt in the gym. But I feel like there's something psychological about January 1 being a reset button that feels momentous and worthy of the occasion. 

Which leads me to my current state of mind: stewing. 

My schedule has been a bit lighter this year, which means more time to get lost in my head. Less weekend calls, less sleepless nights dealing with acute leukemias. I came to the conclusion:

I am extremely adept at using work to procrastinate writing. 

I do it all the fucking time, because the work never ends! There's always clinic panels to be pre-charting, research papers to be reading, Qbank questions to be studying. In fact, I've gotten better and better at it over time because there's more work to do. So clearly, the issue here is that I need to carve out time. 

The urgency of this matter is partially driven by the fact that my peers were popping out babies left and right in 2022. There were at least seven co-residents who are either expecting or had babies last year. I saw Graydyl and her partner recently, and they were also talking about babies and how S froze here eggs. I recently had a Facetime video chat with my close friend E from Duke who just her baby about 3 months ago, and while the baby is extremely cute, he would also cry every 10-15 minutes and E was constantly patting him and feeding him throughout. 

I do eventually want children, but the thought of losing my current luxury of freedom and time, waking up every 3 hours to handle a crying baby that I can't ignore the way I occasionally ignore the cat... It's a life-changing thing that I'm not sure I am mentally ready to accept right now.

(Also side note, E was telling me things like how when she started looking for daycare when she was 18 weeks along, it was ALREADY TOO LATE because apparently the top daycares are booked up 1.5 years in advance, which means PEOPLE ARE RESERVING DAYCARES WHEN THEY'RE NOT EVEN PREGNANT YET, WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE. We're already joking about how we gotta get Baby Boy of Destiny into the illustrious TJ so she doesn't have to pay high school tuition.)

Anyways, back to the issue -- I've been trying to brainstorm what is the best method to get a habit of writing to stick. I need something concrete that is a very clear Yes/No, in terms of whether it was accomplished, or else I'm never going to do it.

• Word counts don't work for me.
• Time-based goal would probably work better. Maybe 1 hour per day.
• But when would be the ideal time? I normally wake up around 6:30am in order to leave work by around 7:15. Maybe if I try waking up at 5 or 5:30am. I have a hard time focusing at night after work. Blergh. 
• I can probably use the Forest app to track, especially because I need something to force me to get off my phone. 
   

The further I get into my medical career, the more writing has faded from the foreground. I used to be thinking about writing constantly. I built my ego around it. Over time, I've lost faith in my skill. I've had to do a lot of soul-searching about why I torture myself with this when nobody is forcing me to do it. 

Alrighty, gotta bounce. Time to go do my morning run.