Scattered Thoughts | Journal

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My heart is swelling and I feel so warm–

But maybe it’s the noodle soup I just made. I added some canton noodles in boiling water, added leftover beef, hastily washed some bok choy and threw it all in. I had a small packet of seasoning and added that, then fried an egg to top it off. It all sounds complicated but it really wasn’t, it was slipshod and angry, delicious and warm. Yum.

Last night I was up blogging and WordPress wiped it all clean. Thanks, WordPress. The tiredness coupled with irritation led me to bed. What had been on my mind?…

Ah. I’d written about our celebration at the tower revolving restaurant, where the sun set beside our waygu beef and wine. God, that was a good night. The weather warmed graciously and I wore my dark blue off the shoulder dress, huggy, but not too much so, and nude flats. Le beau wore a blazer and button down and jeans and brown shoes and a man behind us wore the exact same thing. We settled into our table. Our waiter had flair.

We ordered expensive food that came out in painfully small portions. The flavor exploded constantly, evolved, weirdly tantalizing. And we chatted, which I filmed on time lapse, and I peered at his hair and his eyes.

After two hours he ushered us outside for a show–a football game on TV, I assumed. Then he whipped out tickets to the orchestra, which I’d always wanted to go to, but never had. It was a little yelly, because the comedy troupe just yelled, but the entire experience was wonderful. And everyone around us wore suits and dresses, so it all felt very fancy and upscale.

I’ve now returned to life as it is, with homemade noodle soup and sleepy texts on the couch. Journal entries are all I can seem to muster up nowadays, but it’s alright, I s’pose. I am happy is all.

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A Letter “On Kindness”

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Do you remember the time you were at Chipotle and you saw the lady with four children in tow and after ordering the food, four bowls total, she realized she didn’t have any money? And so you paid it for her?

And that was your kindness.

Obviously kindness, clearly kindness, without-a-doubt-kindness. As I read the poem by Aracelis Girmay titled “On Kindness”, I wondered about subtle forms of it, like when it isn’t just a hug or a peck or buying someone’s burrito bowls, but is, instead, your telling a wailing women you love her because she is yelling I want to kill myself I want to kill myself.

That love—that’s kindness too.

There are other forms of it that Aracelis Girmay writes about in her poem. The mail lady who says “hi baby” to you, and to the girl beside you, and to her cousin, and to her cousin’s best friend. The window that filters in light on a heady Sunday morning, reminding you have made it another day you’re alive you’re alive. The dog that comes panting up to you, looking overjoyed to see you, you, you—and that is kindness, too.

2018

Yesterday I sat quietly, contemplating the year, hard, when boyfriend asked what was wrong. Oh, nothing, just thinking of what I’d done in 2018…

The whole thing flew by, a quick blur of monthly chunks. Early winter was a time of its own; I remember posts I’d written then, sleepovers I’d had and conversations I’d written. The wildly crowded club, the quiet best friend’s home, the football win and celebratory wings. I took lots of pictures and drew a lot for the newspaper, holed up in my warm room.

And then I graduated from my dream school! I’d dreamt of going there since I was 14, this summery bright Ivy League, though I’d visited on a rare bright spring day when everyone had their couches out. Turns out it was much colder there. Despite the weather, graduating in the cold and rain was still a bit of a dreamless dream.

Spring brings summer brings warmth brings life. Fiddling flowers on the walk to starbucks. Switching into pink tank tops and white flip flops. In lecture I felt my heart swell. I had an life epiphany of what I’d like to do for the rest of it–my life, I mean. And the whole turning around to face my deepest passion, psychology, that whole spiel. And now it’s a small engine propelling me forwards.

In 2018 spent a good amount of time with people I love–friends and family. We stayed up talking, on the verge of tears, hearts bursting. Back home, welcome home, like things had never changed. Shared meals, watched shows, skipped through the rain. Roadtrips, Netflix cuddles, six flags rides, sing song bonding. I look back, and am grateful for these relationships.

Blazing mid summer, spinning fall. I taught, which I’ve always loved to do, and watched some students wildly succeed. It makes me happy to be around good people, and to help people do well, and to have all-around healthy relationships. I also did a bit of relationship pruning here and there, but nothing dramatic. I remember learning in psychology that older people are often happier, particularly within their social circles. With age, they learn to simply avoid people who cause them grief.

Weirdly warm winter. Despite my aversion to traveling, I skipped to six cities. California was the most recent, but alas, I am still too lazy to write about it. And today is the New Year, but the day itself was special to me. Last night I partook in their steak dinner tradition and clinked cups at midnight, eyes weary. Today, we went to see beautiful lights and decor and a freezing ice sculpture show. At home, we wrapped dumplings to r&b and sicko mode, my very-abc way of welcoming 2019.

So 2018 was a year of academic finishes, life epiphanies, moments spent with people I love. It was a year I began pursue my deepest passion, a year to do things I’ve always enjoyed (teach!). I look forward to 2019, and hope it has good things in store.

right now | journal

  • Feeling peaceful in life, feeling mellow.
  • In the midst of the holidays, I melt in lights and tear-strewn repeats.
  • Spent a bit of time in California, basked in the wildly good weather. Looming palm trees and winding roads. Garlic butter pasta by Santa Monica pier.
  • A Christmas Eve decked with hot pot and sweet sauce and elaborate light decor.
  • There was heavy traffic today by the mall, impossibly heavy, but a light shone on a (godly) empty spot. Frigid outsides warm insides.
  • I drew at the Apple store, drew and chatted with strangers, drew and added the Apple tech.
  • (Phone promptly died afterwards. The irony)
  • Boyfriend and I watched Mean Girls tonight after grabbing thai for dinner.
  • Earlier today, I went ice skating at another mall, and taught her how to push-glide. Push glide, push glide. We looked for checkered skirts.
  • This morning I made creamy hot Thai tea, which I’d been craving. The bags I got were relatively weak, so I just brew them two at a time.
  • Tomorrow I’ll make Vietnamese iced coffee.
  • Right now, at midnight, I sip marshmallow root tea and nibble on Japanese green tea mochi.

B&W Film

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Film is so beautiful and nostalgic.

I picked up a small love for film about four year ago. I’d been sitting in Econ lecture, scrolling through artists and photographers when I stumbled upon a photographer.

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A year after gathering a small appreciation (obsession) for film, I took a black and white film class.We took pictures in black and white and processed them in the darkroom, shot with borrowed Canon cameras.

I photographed strangers, artwork, puppies, toys, store fronts….so on and so forth. It was then that I realized: there is so much whimsicalness in the world. So much strangeness and beauty! The panda head human: a stranger. The toy train: more strangers. I began to shift my perception, seeing my surroundings in blacks and whites, hues and gradients, shadows and bright spots.

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In the dark room, we removed the film from the tube in a room devoid of light. With washes and chemicals and timers, we processed the small rolls of copper-colored film until they were ready to hang and dry.

Then we brought the dried film into the darkroom, where we each had our own space to magnify the film images, invert them, and light-print onto a piece of light-sensitive paper. Afterwards, we doused the paper film in another long process of chemicals and washes before the sheet was finally ready to dry.

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Processing film by hand was tedious, but fun.

I found an old film camera (a Canon snappy LX) about a year ago while cleaning out the house, and ordered some Superia film in. I’ve been slowly, slowly photographing with it. I have….six rolls of film to shoot.

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When I look at other’s images taken on Canon Snappy’s online, they look like the photographs my parents used to take decades ago, when film was all they had.

You’re Where You’re Supposed To Be

I stumbled upon my old high school achievement records while cleaning the house–it felt odd, strange, holding dusty certificates and letters. So I did get a 34 on the ACT; I thought I’d remembered wrong. And then the 2350 on the SAT–huh, at some point, I’d scored higher on Math than on Reading! Then the AP Scholar with Distinction–which one was that again? Then my essay to my dream school, which I attended, then my first college acceptance to business school, with a full ride I’d turned down. And then my Valedictorian speech, which I’d written the night before, after mustering up all the non-hatred in my body I could to write some relevant stand-up.

Blog, just for context, and to be as blunt as possible, I hated high school. So much. That much stress and resentment is not healthy. For any individual. Had high school been a work place, I’d have quit. Early. But, as a wee minor with few choices, I didn’t. And so I endured that place instead, harboring years and years and years of hatred. It stayed. It lingered. I feel less angry now. In its place is a mellowed realization that hatred must be acknowledged, that it has its place, and like a familiar blemish in a thin history book, should be written about. I neither forgive nor forget.

Nobody ever quite understood it. My resentment was shat on, diminished, looked down upon. How could you hate a place so rosy filled with the best human beings abound? See, that was where our opinions diverged. Despite my having a far opposite opinion, it was never…allowed. Or understood. Get over it. Move on. It wasn’t that bad. It isn’t that bad. How could you say that about a good place? And, if you could possibly believe it, it only exacerbated the hatred. To feel anger is one thing; to face other’s anger because of your own anger is yet another.

At the time, one of my greatest stressors were the relationships in my life. As a girl, well, you know the type: they’d sit in their criss-cross applesauce circles, talk relentless shit, bask in passive aggression and snark. These were my so-called best friends. It was then that I concluded it was better to be alone in life than surrounded by snark. I stopped talking. I kept to myself. I harbored this brewing hatred, letting it expand day by day, each sediment of resentment hardening into stone. It’d occasionally spill out, molten hot lava, fury and resentment. Then the confused looks, always, and maybe mirrored anger, because I should not have felt what I felt.

It wasn’t until my last year of college that I mentioned this fully to my best friend. The best friend who’d always been there for me, held me when I was sad, lifted with me when I was joyous, was there through it all, who was always supportive and understanding and compassionate. Not once had she pissed me off to the high heavens, and not once had she made me cry. Not once had she ever made me feel less than or misunderstood or wrong in how I felt. And–get this–she understood. In all those years, she was the only person who immediately understood. She didn’t diminish my feelings, or try to find some phony bright side. She understood. She mentioned uncannily similar catty high school stories. And it has been experiences like those, fleeting but still moving, that have…well, what have they done? So inexplicably much. Kept me sane.

I can imagine the Valedictorian speech I never wrote and all the things I’d meant to say. Honestly, it’d probably just be filled with a lot of expletives. Even now, really. But honesty is not always valued. And I suppose that is the part of me that is high on social monitoring, that will put on a face based on the crowd. That day of graduation, I stood on stage, I smiled, I cracked jokes. I buried my resentment just one foot deeper, because to experience anything but love for the institution was blasphemy.

Well, I didn’t love it, at least not the last few years, and I should have left while I could. I should have gone to the competitive public school several streets away, the one with high-achievers funneling into the same university. I should have expanded during those years, made better friends, worked just as hard, and felt less anger. I know that everything happens for a reason, that, perhaps, this stony fury made me a better person (somehow?). I have no idea. But I do, as they say, trust the universe.

In the end, it worked out. Academically, I wrung every possible mark I could. I loved my teachers, always did, and I’d learned a great deal from them. I reached all my goals. I ultimately attended my dream school, where I met the best friend I never thought existed. I came to terms with my initial, constant life passion–Psychology–which my best friend first texted me about today, asking for run-downs on theories.

And every post like this, however unsavory or un-poetic or un-artistic, chips away the resentment, bit by bit. Then I remind myself of the here and now. As my best friend so briefly quipped–

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