Procrastination Won't Reach Your Destination

It's weird that when someone says they're following their dreams, the initial response has been "You've taking the plunge."

Making the very thought of pursuing dreams absolutely terrifying.  Plunge into what? Black?  Nothingness? Darkness? A deep hole that you can't hear the bottom even though you tossed a rock?  The Niagara Falls?  However plunging down Niagara Falls in only a barrel is probably pretty terrifying.

Which makes pursuing dreams seem very wrong because everyone is scared for you. You've abandoned the norm of earning stable income that ensures a invisible safety net to something in the future you haven't experienced yet because it is the future. You're an adult now, whatever that means.  Go out in the world, find a job and earn money to support yourself into retirement. Dreams are for children. Unless that dream somehow profits, then it's okay.

And when you've said you are going to be a writer, it seems very, very wrong.  Anyone can write. You can get almost any job by writing. You had a good job that pays enough.  You had a job.  Do you know hard it is to get a job? Do you remember how hard it was to get that job?

So what do you do now?

You could stay in bed all day staring at the cracks in the ceiling. 
You could sleep until your head is groggy from too much sleep; the only cure is more sleep.
You could make a giant breakfast and leave the dishes dirty until dinner.
You could finally play all the video games that you've been meaning to get to.
You could watch all the bad movies on Netflix. All of them.
You could update your Facebook status constantly.
You could stare at Facebook until someone else updates their status.
You could eat all junk food that exists in the apartment (i.e. leftover Halloween candy).
You could take a long bath even though you float, making the point of a bath useless.
You could stay up all night without worrying about work the next day.
You could be a lazy, useless person who has decided to not be part of working society.
You could do absolutely nothing.

But that's not what you set out to do. You've created the opportunity to make your own work, your own schedule, and your own career. 

Which also makes it very surreal, even after a week. Less a bottomless hole more like Alice in the rabbit hole down (or up) to Wonderland - falling deeper and deeper where rules become more like guidelines. 

You can do nothing; you can do everything.

So you make the effort of some structure.  Set your alarm for 7:30AM (8:30AM on the weekends) and allow yourself one ten-minute snooze. Make a simple breakfast, preferably one that requires only one pan. Turn on the radio instead of Netflix to avoid visual distraction. Open OpenOffice and let words come to you.

And you can't leave the chair until you do.

Exception: when you realize you're feet are becoming numb from sitting on them because it gives you the right height to type. At this point you should probably move around.

Tell-Tale Heart

We cry sometimes because the world beats you down with moments of hopelessness.  When you've been rejected your junior year of prom. When you realize you can't get good grades in everything. When you realize your photography skills are not professional enough. When you realize you've abandon your dreams for a "job."

We've forgotten the person we were suppose to be.

Majority of our parents teach us to follow simple formula: get good grades, go to college, find a career or job that will make you money.  The factor of happiness only seems to be a bonus.

And it's unfortunate that only a small percentage achieve a career that makes money and makes you genuinely happy. Not the monetary happiness of purchasing items because you can afford it but the happiness of fulfillment. The happiness of doing something you are proud to have accomplished.

It's also depressing to realize you are one of those that buried your dreams under the floorboards until you forget. However, it won't let you forget - constantly beating like a heart to remind you it's still there.

Until it realizes that studying the pattern of woodgrain is driving it insane. It misses the light.  It misses the feeling of trying. It misses being a part of you. So starts beating at a faster, more fearful pace; eventually driving you insane.

Why can't it to just go wherever dreams go to die?

Instead you can only cry because it seems like the only response.  Leaving you at your most vulnerable and most clairvoyant.

It won't go away until you take action and rip the floorboards apart to find out there's nothing there.

The noise came from your own beating heart; beating frantically at the thought of "what if?"

What if I stay where I am, chugging along like a train on a route remains the same day in, day out? What if I'm not good enough? What if I find something else and I still won't be happy? What if I don't even try? What if I just give up?

Staring at the black nothingness of the floor you confess to yourself:

Only you can make a decision, so what will it be?

The City of Forgotten Dreams

People have come from near and far to make their dreams come true. They've packed up all their belongings and taken a one-way ticket from "Nowhere" to going to NYU for that college experience to following your boyfriend/girlfriend because their dreams of an artist/writer/musician/NYSE floor broker have taken them to this surreal city.

The daylight-strength lights of Times Square, the cacophony of screeching subway tracks, and the neverending crowds of tourists overflowing the sidewalks and onto streets. It's a magical place that feels like no other. You can't begin to describe it to the person on the other end of the phone. All you can tell them is that "I'm here and safe."

You are Icarus who wants to know how far your wings can take you.

Until you are shoved by a person who has only 15 minutes left of lunchtime and still hasn't found the right food to sustain him until 6PM. You've been swept into the sea of people like a strong uncaring current. You develop this need to "go", but unsure as to why. All you know is that you need to follow the direction of the "business casually" dressed crowd.

Years go by and everything becomes mundane and routine. Your tourist ambitions become a New Yorker's happy hour joke. You’ve suddenly forgotten your dreams and why you came to the city in the first place. You've grown accustomed to the gum-stained sidewalks, wear headphones to avoid the screeching of incoming trains, and developed the unimportant frustrations of a New Yorker.

Beating rush hour is now your only ambition.

Until one day you walk out the door without sunglasses and have to look up at the sun to gauge the daylight. You hope you won't ruin your practically blind eyes. Today the clouds are slow like a snail, unlike the other day when they were rolling like an incoming tide.

Which seems curious as you thought they were simply there. Now you can't help but continue to look up. You realize something is missing and it's not your building card.

Blissful emotion that you once had is replaced by claustrophobia. The city suddenly becomes more than just skyscrapers and horizon streets and people needing to "go." But now you're dreams feel so very far. Or just lost. When you looked up you saw how small you were in comparisons to the buildings that are swallowing you up.

Those dreams of yours have drifted away and its too far to swim back.

Daedelus was right.

Hands trying to hold on cover the white ceiling of a subway car. That feeling of longing is gone when the electronic conductor announces your stop. You have push your way out before the doors close and goes on its way. You beat yourself up for leaving the apartment too late.

As you walk out of the station into the light, you look up again at the sky. You notice the clouds moved a centimeter but only because you blinked. You feel sad but unsure why.

Welcome to New York.

Eat the Muffin

There is an art to cooking and cleaning that people don’t realize. Although working full-time doesn’t allow me the hours I could readily devote to improving our apartment as much as I would like, I’ve slowly realized it has become a meditative process. I use to fervently clean the area around me before I could write or leisurely do something personally enjoyable.

Piece-mailing tasks doesn’t work. Knowing that one section is completely spotless still leaves you with a billion other to-does that you’ve been meaning to get around to. And it piles so high you can’t see the end.

It’s also true that cleanliness is close to godliness. In the sense of reaching a stage of life free of any obstacle holding you back from fully concentrating on you. Without distractions. Without the thought of “I will do it later.” You have the option to do whatever you choose because there are no distractions. You’ve eliminated them all. Which is why it’s so hard to attain because there is also something left to do. Always.

Cooking seems to have replaced this innate desire for neatness. Clear, concise, and you could clearly see the ends to the means. A lot like writing when you’ve completed a story or series of thoughts. My own creative writing voice often comes in the form of stream-of-consciousness. No outlines to know where it should go. No formulaic writing prompts to get the ball rolling. Just free writing that rolls with whatever words come out of one’s head until it’s done.

I tend to cook without a recipe. My parents never did and in pure irony I never watched them cooked. It’s better that way, I find, to take ingredients, a bit of salt, a pinch of pepper (always pepper), and hope that it tastes great. What baffles me is that it always does. It amazes me that sprinkle of salt over vegetables can add flavor to a dish. I’m also never sure what I’m making. Only that I “think” it will taste good. However there is always something missing; an ingredient that should’ve made it better. When it comes to writing or editing, I’m never satisfied and everything needs at least a revision--whether I like it or not.

It pains me in a way, knowing this epiphany.

I have watched and sometimes helped my mother bake. Baking is often tricky because one needs to follow a recipe to the T lest you end up with something unappetizing. Last night I baked muffins and made several mistakes. I grated zucchini with the small grater before using the larger one. I mixed sugar with all the dry ingredients when it should’ve been with vanilla, zucchini and eggs. There was more nutmeg than cinnamon due to a miscalculation of stock. At the last minute, I added chocolate chips because there was a bag I had been meaning to use. When the batter looked too thick, I ceremoniously poured milk in splashes.

All the while I never thought about whether it would turn out edible or not. I was simply enjoying the process of baking and adding as needed because it “felt right.”

Although my husband is happy to taste test anything, I still find his opinion was biased and has the obligation to say “it tastes delicious.” Only when I shove the other half my mouth in one go that I see all the mistakes like Auntie Lindo. Too dry. Too cakey. Needed to add more milk. Maybe walnuts for a slight crunch. While I kept denying it, he kept saying not to beat myself up over it. Which is something I still have to learn to accept when it comes to writing.

You are your own harshest critic and will never be satisfied.

Accept it. Move on. Eat the muffin.

It’s going to taste good no matter what you do. Unless you accidentally add baking soda instead of baking powder.

I still feel that if I start a creative piece I’ll just see the endless plotlines that I’m unsure what to choose. There are too many holes and details to figure out. Not enough time to actually figure them out. I won’t learn until I actually commit thought to paper.

Otherwise it’s just vegetables and spices on a countertop with a cutting board and knives. Just rotting until I do.

An Impossible Task

The greatest obstacle for a writer is life. 

This was one of my writing professors told me before I graduated.

What he meant was that life's priorities would get in the way of writing. The solution I discovered was easy enough: finish those priorities to leave a clear head free to writing whatever came to mind.

And in college there wasn't much priorities. Finish homework for every other course that wasn't a writing one. Have a clean bed and side of the dorm. Make sure to find someone to eat with and get to the dining halls before closing. Easy enough.

After five years out of college those priorities have grown to the point where I can't keep track.

Get up early enough to make and have breakfast. Make the bed. Go to work. Try not to spend money other than lunch. Go home with enough time to cook dinner before husband gets home. Watch an hour of Netflix together. Wash dishes to use the next day. Make lunch for work. Go to bed.

And then there are other tasks that should get done at some point. Pay bills and rent. Swiffer the floors. Do laundry. Fold and put away laundry. Clean the bathroom. Vacuum. Take out the garbage.  Declutter the entire apartment.

My solution of finishing everything else before writing is impossible at this point because none of these tasks are completely done. You always have to think about doing them again in a couple of days. By the time I am able to finish cooking dinner, I just want to veg on the couch and sleep.

And if I can never finish what needs to be done in "life" then how can I write.

Instead of creating the goal of completing everything that needs to be done, you have to look at it as juggling.

And I've never been a good juggler. 

However this blog means the ball that says "Write" is at least up in the air. 

An Elusive Declaration of Love

It is odd to say that as a writer, I am a person of few words. Or rather I choose my words in a very Joycean way - thinking much too hard to make sure the message is conveyed exactly the way it is supposed to be. (Note: I actually loathe Joyce with a passion.)

So when it came to our wedding my husband had asked me to say a few words at the reception. I never thought too much of it, waiting for my stream-of-consciousness to come up with something in my stead. Even the day before there was nothing. A good friend told me to just think about the very anatomical structure of our relationship - especially since I cannot be as extensively expressive as him.

Also, I shouldn't "wing it" when it came to an event like this.  Very faux pas. Even for me.
I knew I only had one thought that was short and simple. As well as something I tell him now and again in jest.

Yet in the end I only mouthed an the unaudible "Thank You" because my voice simply could not work when I wanted that day.

Tears are like a yawn - once you do, everyone does and it's simply a wreck of a moment.

So instead I'll tell you two months from then.

As a child I had once told myself I would meet the person I would marry in college. It's strange how that came true. When I met you I saw something in you. Even when you were erasing Gundamnium from a periodic table all those years ago.  

I saw that you would go very far with whatever you did.

And I wanted to be there to see it when you did. 

You have gone incredibly far indeed.

And I'm glad that I will always be there to witness whatever you still have left to do.

Natural Uneasiness

via Our Amazing Planet

Perhaps it's New England nostalgia, but I love summer thunderstorms.  And you can tell when one is coming when the humidity and heat is so unbareable that something has to give. The air feels disturbingly calm like a predictable horror movie moment that should just happen already because  you are expecting it. 

And in New York City it's a rare occassion that thrills me with unusual joy when one is coming.

It's a thrill that leaves you on edge and excited. It's a thrill that leaves you awestruck and fearfully intimidated knowing that something is more powerful than you and in control.

But when they are not the rolling ones like in New England that come and go -- when they have gone on too long -- I can't do anything else but count the long minutes until it's over.  It's true about the feeling of jumping out of your skin.  The humid air is so electrically charged and that when lightening strikes you can swear you feel it in every joint and every vein.

You are afraid to move from your position, in case something bad will happen otherwise

It's a nervousness that can only end when you see that flash of lightening and the relieving sound of thunder. Like clockwork work they tell you the coming to the end of the storm. But when it keeps going it's like the slow drag of a movie that hasn't reached the high point of the plot yet. 

And you really want it to end.

Turning Japanese

My husband has a name that sounds Japanese. In the months preceding our marriage, we often joke that if either one of us was mistaken for Japanese they would be wrong. In fact, he is of mixed European descent, and I am pure Chinese.

Of course I have never felt very Chinese to begin with.

My eyes have folds, an uncommon but lucky trait. I can’t hold a conversation in either Cantonese or Mandarin to save my life. I purposely flunked out of Chinese school to watch Saturday morning cartoons. In high school, I was thankful for the C+ I got in college-prep level Chem. And when it came to a college career, the thought of majoring in business gave me panic attacks.

So I majored in writing

(In a strange twist of irony my Chinese name means something along the lines of “wise poet.”)

Taking on your husband name is often a big debate. There are many reasons for “for” and “against,” but finding the answer is never the right one for you.  Yet there are very few answers regarding taking a husband’s last name when you are of Asian descent, and his name only sounds Asian. 

In fact there are absolutely zero.

Which left me with the dilemma: should I keep the name I was born with or to play a giant practical joke on the world to have an ethnic name to which I have no relation?

As a result I felt a bit confused myself. And then there were times I wondered if I was more Japanese than Chinese.

When I crave food, I crave ramen, real ramen. I have more friends who speak Japanese than Chinese.  I go to more Japanese-related events than Asian-American festivals. Our DVD library is composed of mainly anime we hardly watch anymore. Lolita fashion, a Japanese fashion style has helped me find long-lasting friendships since I first moved to New York City. We have more reasons,  connections, and opportunities for us to travel to Japan than China/Hong Kong.

In the end I chose to hyphenate to differentiate between the two. There are so many experiences that have changed and shaped who I am today that I can’t bear to give up.  There are times I wonder if I should change it completely because that's just the way things should be.

But for now, after one month of being married there's still some time to get used it.

And it does have a nice ring to it.

Breaking Routine

Pigeons are funny city birds. They roost in any awning-like structure they can. When in groups (and not being fed breadcrumbs) they are terrifying just bobbing their heads mind their own business and your unsure of their next motive.  And if you're not careful they will ruin your new glasses that you just bought.

However this is a pigeon that was by my apartment door.  Usually pigeons react skittishly when people approach them. Only when they see you as non-threatening do they return to their business.

This one did neither. I even took a picture with my phone as proof of the oddity. With zoom. No movement. It stayed in the corner.

Back in college I had my own method of writing - as in I would finish everything that could potentially distract me (homework, cleaning room, eating, etc) so I could focus all my concentration on writing.

Unfortunately, while this was unbelievable simple in college it is nearly impossible to do in the adult world.

So like this pigeon, I am breaking routine and try to write when I can.