Colorblindness

Did that woman really get up to move next to your husband because you sniffled for not wearing a scarf that day or just wanted the corner seat on the subway? Is that person really stopping dead in their tracks because they saw you walk in? Did that guy really yell “Yeah you walk away I don't want to get no Corona” was that directed at you or someone else? Are you just seeing things? Is your mind just being paranoid after reading all the news?

It's been a month since the world was declared pandemic and like most people you want this foreboding sense of fear to be over. Except you want it over so you can prepare for a different battle. The aftermath fallout than virus itself.

In some respects you wish your parents taught you about racism. You didn't have to learn it for myself by simple trying to live a good life and be treated with confusion and . But maybe its for the better since they either don't see it or their experiences involves wading grey area the size of an ocean. You've been blessed to never been called a slur but you've have plenty of times asked if you're one ethnicity or the next more than you can count. You have been greeted with “Ni Hao” and folded hands as you walk to the subway station blocks from your apartment. Your answers have been automatic because you thought people were interested where you came from. The more it keeps happening you realize it's not. It turns into a pet peeve.

You wanted to come to NYC to feel more at home. It's strange that the vacations to Hong Kong and Malaysia was so comforting as a child. There's so much importance and depth to be around people who look like you that extends beyond your own family. It's such a weird feeling: you're not alone. The difference is NYC is not like other. Not everyone looks like you so they have less to judge. At least in NYC there is a camaraderie of we are all here trying to do our own thing. We have more important things to care about than first impressions. There should be more important things to care about.

At least tell your parents told you people were “dumb” for thinking like that and they give you the slow eyes of confusion when judgement on physical appearance. And while they made you be aware you wish they gave you strength to face it rather than ignore. You wish you didn't ignore because now you yourself can't seem to differentiate it. You cannot have blinders and also be alert of everything around you at the same time.

But words are just words after all.

The problem is words still hurt. Subtle body movements still hurt. Getting asked in the grocery store on how to cook bok choy by a stranger is just weird an awkward. Why did they choose you and not a store staff? Why does the way you look mean you are an expert, an ambassador, to educate on something on your culture that you may or may not know? The weight of automatic expertise is extremely heavy.

But then what would they have prepared you to do? To ignore what's going on around you and focus on good grades and getting a good job? Or to fight for a cause they don't believe exists or ignores it exists? It hurts less if you choose not to see it.

As first generation born there is exists a weird balance to have American values of you should be able to do anything, that was why you were born here, only to find it's more trouble than it's worth to stand out. But what if you already stand out just for looking different. It was very clear very early on the lines between you and everyone else. You had parents who both worked but at odd hours. You were the only child in your town that you knew of that went to additional school. You were a latch key kid for a short time. You were happy to be all these things. And you were okay being the only Chinese person in your grade. Until one day you weren't. Or you told your parents were made fun off for whatever petty reason and you're mother told you to ignore it. You're father said just do your homework.

Which words hurt more? The answer is they both do.

In college, you bought Yellow by Frank H. Wu and was told not to believe it, that it was too political. What is too political? Being Asian American? Having a sense of pride of having such a unique quality? You're forever searching how society should treat you and how you should act because no one taught you. It was expected that it would be automatic. You realize now they were only able to take you so far but wish there was a part of your memory that they taught you how to take yourself further without them. You've always felt that something was wrong because you looked different. You don't feel ashamed but also that you feel proud either. Pride is not part of the program. If there is no pride then you only have the opposite: to find a place to fit in.

The more you try to fit in the more you find the flaws, the negatives, the weight of what makes you different sets you apart. You are left with that hovering omniscient fact that you can't belong no matter how hard you try. So you've just accepted it. But this acceptance comes the weight depression and futility. Taking Intro Asian American Studies didn't help but it made you aware there are stories there aren't told. Those stories could help you how to relate where your parents cannot. It didn't but it feels like a direction you could follow with security.

Your parent's beginning and middle are different, which is fine but they should at least attempt to see where you're coming from instead of staying on the path. You should understand where their coming from but asking directly seems too impolite and rely on trickle down memories. Your mother was in London having her “lunchbox” moment while your father was in California during the riots where one friend's father knew better to stay away from either side even if they believed their cause was right.

Should you be mad? Should you scream? Should you be sad? Most of all you just feel lost, confused, depressed at staring at double-sided mirrored glass thats on all sides not just a ceiling. It's not a regular mirror. At certain angles you can see yourself but you can also see the faint shades of other people but because you are boxed in you can't completely connect with others. Because you are completely aware that you are in a box and can't get out. You accept it but everything is partial disconnected.

You hope that someone will find comfort in your words. That someone can maybe relate to you so you feel less lonely.

Shopping in the Time of Coronavirus

You don't normally have a list and used to browse like you are window shopping a clothing store. “I'll go in to see what's new.” It was your relaxation technique. You enjoyed looking through the sale paper on your laptop and mentally check the sale items. Now sometimes you're not even sure the item you want is there.

You'd never though you'd have to mark on a calendar when you last shopped but here we are. And today is the day you have to go outside.

Now you must get in, get out. Which you're fine with but the fine precision needed is what's causing you more awake at night than usual.

Empty shelves of staples you'd never considered buying you are not left with no choice but just to get what you're left with. What do you make with a head of cauliflower when you hate cauliflower? It's no longer a matter of brand loyalty but just the item. Not Tropicana just OJ. No Bounty or Charmin', just paper towels and toilet paper. You're suddenly thankful that you live in a vegetarian household as you over hear the butcher checking inventory, “All we have is turkey burgers.”

What's worst is people will ignore the 6ft distance rule for someone who is as small as you. It's annoying, frustrating, sending your social and general anxiety on high alert. But the simple sight of empty shelves you'd never see empty as you enter? It's a weird feeling to have your mind and body suddenly hit the brakes. It's not just a brain freeze but slo-mo effect before your eyes.  Everything is grinding to a slow turtle pace as your mind is now just riding on the car crash momentum. 

Worse is when the item you need on is on the high shelf and you're even more afraid to ask someone to get it for you. You contemplate standing on the shelf for support but your brain says contamination. 

You try to support your local Asian markets but when you walk 30 minutes to be greeted with gates and a handwritten sign apologizing for this “chaotic time” -- what then? You're happy but also sad. We are people too with families and elderly to care for so it's for the best. However there's a gaping hole where your go-to comfort foods of Milo, frozen mushroom and pork dumplings and yu choy use to be.

Coming home you still have make sure you have taking off your shoes, coat with precision to that touch your hands before washing. It's worse when you'r husband wants news of the outside world as you step back inside. You can't miss a step in the process; otherwise you will have to repeat the process. You'd think your hands would get dry and cracked at the palms but instead it's at your fingertips, under the nail where you can't reach or moisturize.

At least once it's all done you can finally breath again.

Dear Past Self: Sorry But I Have to Change

My college self would be horrified at the goal I have decided to set for myself: to write about an Asian American experience through fiction. She would call her future self a failure instead of looking past it that it shouldn't matter she had a name that was constantly spelled wrong. She would be disgusted -- like the time she relented to write a Chinese retelling of the New Year's monster that her professor ate up because it was new, original, and practically “foreign” to them. You are destroying thousand year old stories just for an A. 

At the same time she'd also be horrified that her future self would wear less black and more pink lacy dresses.

I'm older now, which is terrifying.  The desire to connect to an Asian identity has been repressed so long and tearing, clawing itself to be let out. It's guilt. Guilt from choosing Saturday Morning cartoons than learning Cantonese.  Guilt from being afraid to go to the non-English parts of Chinatown. Guilt that I may be losing what little Asian identity I have. More American than Asian.

Ultimately I'm like everyone else - I want to relate to another's experiences.  I want to know there is someone else in the world feels and experiences what I do. Fresh off the Boat premieres tonight. And the anticipation I felt for this was similar to that elementary school girl who clung to a neighbor's VHS of Flower Drum Song – only relenting to let it go the very day they were moving. Or the 6th grader who found a crumbling copy of Jade Snow Wong's Fifth Chinese Daughter and found the character's experience similar to her own. That she was not alone. Someone else felt the same back-breaking familial pressure to succeed and was one of the failures who could not live up to expectations.

I read the book. I even read the New York Magazine. Even if this is a flop it is the something that Asian Americans want to others to know: that I'm not exaggerating the harsh discipline, the odd cultural nuances, and the deep desire to simply belong ingrained into every man, woman, and child. This is where I come from.

Witching Hour

    It's 2:46AM according to your cellphone, and you wake up from a short fevered dream again. It's been a third night in a row.  This room has always been so well-insulated that it was the warmest in the house. Perhaps that's why you unconsciously picked it as your room when you first moved in.  And yet things feel different.  The clean, contemporary floral wallpaper banner is still on the walls.  Even the Japanese Bridge print you scoured the Met gift shop just to find it because it epitomized your love of Monet. The American Girl doll still in its box just as you left it.
    And yet here you are wide awake, watching an episode of the other Ghostbusters because it''s the only other thing airing other than infomercials -- which even at this hour does not make any sense.
    You had naively hoped that things would be preserved, just as they were. Perhaps a tad more dusty and in desperate need of a vaccuum.  You knew this was coming, you've just been in denial.  In this wee hours of twilight, it finally hits you. You thought when you hurriedly packed for New York City they would be retrieved later in time.  The things you didn't would be thrown out would simply just go away.  Instead time passed until someone thought you weren't coming back for them.
    Things have been moved and slightly replaced with something different, but you are unsure as the furniture is still just as white as before. There are books in the bookshelf in the corner but a lot of them are missing; ironically you found them in a box in the living room the other day. You pray that  collection of stuffed animals have traveled to the Land of Misfit Toys beause at least they would have a home.  Strangely all your ugly socks are still matched and in the drawer.
    You are more awake now and not going back to sleep anytime soon.  You need to rid the echoes of the perpetual nightmare you are having but its hard when you are thinking where things were ten years ago.
     This no longer your home. Your home is in New York City where you can go where you want, when you want. Where things are familiar and you know exactly where there are and supposedly should be.
    Here you feel trapped and bored and scared to leave the room. Or rather it's so warm than everywhere else feels so cold. At some point your insomnia has spurred an epiphany: perhaps this was a metaphor for the real world. That you had a choice: you have to outside in order to eat or do nothing and be warm and happy in your makeshift womb. The revelation causes some part to die inside.
    However there are remnants of a person living here that you've become incredibly bored to the point of napping away your trip.  You are a ghost haunting your own room.  You were in such a rush to leave that without realizing the consequences of being left behind. And here you are finding childhood things rearranged or simply gone; it might be too late for you to settle things before heading towards the light.
    Yet as you search for a stuffed goat that your husband gave you in college, you realize not everything was rescued. And as strange as it may seem, you kind of still want that ratty old bear you used to sleep with.
    Staying here for the week after a long hiatus still proves fruitless. Before you left you were determined to find the things that were still of importance. However you been away too long and the house has become too foreign and you've forgotten even where the spoons are. The basement, though, is still dark, damp and terrifying. Which means it is probably down there.
    Here you are frantically rescuing everything bit by bit like that dream everyone has once in awhile.  Like that dream, the building is burning and you are still packing but there is always one last thing.
    Then one more last thing.
    And then another.
    And another.
    Until you realized it should have gone down with you inside it a long time ago.
    Is this what growing up feels like?
   

Pop Quiz

It was at dinner with friends. Or was it Christmas at the in-laws when your husband introduced you to the neighbors?  You just remember that you were literally against a wall, trying to avoid that conversation starter until you were ready. But then a flurry of people came in and you just had to be introduced; it would be bad etiquette if you didn't. Which is probably why it happened. Your fight or flight reaction kicked in, and you always fly. Your mind sprinted to the nearest door that had the answer. You're breathing normally, so at least you are not having a panic attack just yet. However you feel your eyes widen as you see the oncoming question.

"What do you do?"
I'm a writer.
"What do you write?
Oh short stories for now.  A novel eventually.

It was the Freudian slip you weren't ready to tell people just yet.  You had hoped by the time people would inquiry about your new position there would be something to show for it.  However those were people who knew that you took the leap.  Or the fall as you often refer to it because it's only a matter of time before you hit the bottom. Right now you are just floating. These are people you've never met. Before it was simple you could have an answer that people had a vague idea what you did. But you don't do that now.  Now your hole is dug, so prepare to get comfortable. 

People always seem to catch you at the one moment when you were doing nothing.  Perhaps that why you work so hard at everything you do. Then again you had to say something.  You are too old to be the shy person hiding behind the tallest person next to you.  Besides, it never worked when you were young anyways because your mother would never let you.

And if you keep telling enough people perhaps it will eventually come true, right? 

Now it just sounds too much like a white lie.

Empty. Hollow. Just a bit fake.  A word with no substance that was simply left hanging in mid-sentence.  You don't like that feeling.  It's as simple as that.  You are not one of those people who say something and not mean it.  It's a flaw that you have.  After years and years you've finally accepted it.  Just like how you cannot feign niceties no matter how hard you try.  So it's hard enough to tell people you are a writer who has only just begun to write.

What do you have to show for it?  Nothing.  Just notes here and there. To show them a notebook of potential ideas would be like handing in a thesis with at least ten possible conclusions.  Nothing you can hypothetically present to them and say "This is what I've written."

You never would but at least you have evidence. 

Which means you must write something. A phrase. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. This is the unexpected push you need to write.  If you keep up this life that you must keep writing until it is true. You must take those whimisical, witty thoughts that come to you throughout the hours of the days and string them together into something singular and coherent.  In other words you need to give yourself purpose.  Suddenly it occurs to you that you really have been caught doing nothing.

You've been biding your time until a vision comes to you and hands you your book without any effort.  Waiting until you tire of the freedom of being able to do whatever is your whim, and say to yourself "this is enough, I'm ready to go back." But you don't want to go back to that rigid schedule of mundane tasks.  This is the first time in a long while where you have to make yourself productive.  Up until this point you've been doing nothing but busy work.  Isn't it about time that you create something that you can show and tell?

With each person you tell you must prove them them and yourself that you do what you say you are. And you can't do that without writing.  Not just writing, but organizing those creative thoughts into directional roads that you can finally walk on.  It's a reason they call it the road less traveled. You can't sneak by that inevitable question because it will always come up. 

Always.

And you will always have to give the same answer, unless want to give up this dream.  Since you don't, you should probably practice at least saying it. Eventually your voice will strengthen each time someone inquires about your occupation. Your throat will not stutter nor will your voice have that meek and mousy tone. No more awkward pauses hoping they will forget what they just asked.

It will be assertive and confident. One day you will even mean it.

Now say it with me (it really is on the tip of your tongue): 

You are a writer.

This is Not the Life You are Looking For

It's strange when you've realized you've grown up a bit. That the current path you're taking is not one you would encourage on anyone. Despite people asking you how they can do it too. Instead you discourage them as much as possible because it's hard and lonely. Your discouragement slowly resembles the same negative passion your husband exudes when discussing the best method to vegetarianism.

To others a path of a writer is fantastical and free. You are breaking away from being just a cog in a wheel that turns from 9 to 5. You are living the dream. You are taking the leap. But this is not a life for others no matter how bad they want it. Unless you are able to support yourself to live, whether by means through a significant other or family, by all means follow those dreams. If you are able to support yourself and not worry earning the next paycheck, by all means follow them. But it is your own opinion that you feel that unless all other life priorities are taking care of, does one finally have the permission of persuing dreams.

But who's dream is it? Don't those other people realize how hard it is to occupy yourself when it was formally replaced with daily tasks that would eventually improve said company and profit. Now you have to decide yourself how to be productive. But this does not mean you should sleep late and do nothing.

Right now it is definitely not a dream to you. Yes, you don't have to worry about paying rent or food. However you've sat at the computer with a blank page for days. Writing is an old friend you haven't caught up with in years, and meeting up again is awkward. You have no words, and what words you have to say to do not carry beyond a page. What happened to the days when you use to write for hours and days?

You are the bird with the broken wing. And relearning how to fly is hard. But you do it because you have to and its been in a sling for too long. You've forgotten what it was like to experience life for the sake of the experience; to say you've done this or that. In college you promised to live your life this way because that was how you got a good story.

“Write what you know.” Isn't that what they said?

But you've graduated and you've forgotten that promise, so it was only natural to help someone else's path than your own. You wanted to reconnect but the sight of paycheck was just as pleasing. You could afford Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson now. Having someone else give you a to-do list is so much easier. The only real task was to figure out the most efficient method to accomplish them. Then on a Tuesday while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum waiting to go to the Alexander McQueen exhibit, a thought stuck out in your mind.

Wouldn't it be nice to write about this?

You wondered why you never just sat down and enjoyed the air, observed the people walking to their mysterious destinations. You always had to be on the move -- even when you ate by yourself. You could never relax or sit down for a breath. You weren't a tourist. Tourists enjoyed the city without the concern of being somewhere more important. That's why they stand in the middle of the street to photography their family. They do not know better.

New Yorkers take it for granted. Perhaps that's why they live here; to being around the myriad of metropolitan opportunities without taking advantage of them. They exist within walking distance and available to them at anytime; they just choose not to. Ironically you are also a New Yorker, but now you have to time to experience it. And while you've forgotten how to write, you miss it. You are unsure of what the end of the means of writing is quite yet. All you know is to keep writing and hope something comes out of it. This takes time.

Time which you need to reconnect with the world on a different level. You need to remember what it meant to be the observer and watcher. Before you were too concerned about the next workday when the previous has yet to end. You realize you must aimlessly take a walk. You need to go outside because you know you are unproductive when your only company are the refridgerator hums and a blank white page.

Right now you can't write because you feel you have nothing to write about.

Without writing you must experience something everyday in hopes that you will write about it later. Without experiencing life you cannot write about it later.

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.