We call it by different names.
Boredom. Depression. Loneliness. Insanity. Fatigue. Not to make any of these clinically inferior or equal to the others, but colloquially, this is what we call it.
It's not that I miss home - I do, but only as much as the average person. I miss real Chinese food, having a room and bed to myself, conservative-Asian heating, sleeping and waking without dramatic changes in my body temperature.
It's not that college sucks. Despite Cornell's atrocious administration and pricing, there's an unlimited supply of eggs and vegetables and the best ice cream in America. I can greet the badminton graduate students outside of the club. Grades aren't perfect, but at least above average. The plantations spread beneath us at sunset; the gym is a 3 minute walk away. Onion petals, Tumblr, Youtube, Food Network, laundry, apples, comics, supplies - I have all of it..
It's not that I lack deep and real love from friends and family. It's not that I don't have a soulmate, or a mom and dad who care with everything they have plus their salaries. It's not that I can't pull up Messenger and immediately get a dinner with someone on campus or catch up with someone back home.
It's not that I'm unemployed. I tutor for a higher pay than you'd think parents would give in pursuit of the perfect SAT. I draw 12 to 15 hours per week... as a job. I write dumb shit once in a while and use that money to get anything and everything I want and need at Target.
It's not that my roommate is intolerable. In fact, she lets me eat anything she buys, sometimes with great amusement of the passion with which I do so...
I'm not sure what it is, but it makes me seize up and panic and cry. It makes me become intensely bored with nearly everyone I meet. It makes me neglect conversations, eat alone, and walk to class only to fall dead asleep in ten minutes. It makes me hate the signs that say "Caution: No Winter Maintenance" and stop assuming the best in anyone. Everything seems a little bit stupid, a little bit shallow, overhyped. As if I'm not, or something.
How can I express this without sounding/being arrogant? Sometimes I think that the most self-aware and "intelligent" people are the saddest. This is obviously not an original thought, but it occurs to me often. I don't really want to call myself one of these people, but for the sake of expressing what I want to say, let's assume I'm "in touch," okay? I like to think that Satan sees what kind of powerhouses we would be if we weren't so incapacitated by the world.
Maybe.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Hallucinations
One always finds one's burdens again - that's funny, right, because everyone here is completely caught up in school, in housing, in a web of semantics, and I'm sitting here, high on the communal Halloween candy, half asleep, half delirious.
In small group, their thorns are prelims and roses are prelims; every bud is about going to sleep. They ask questions to which they already know the answer - they talk to hear their own voice. But its not annoying. All I hear is the rhapsody outside the Donlon lounge and try desperately not to burst into uncontrollable, maniacal laughter.
Because its unimaginable, the pain and utter hopelessness that I feel for a couple hours every day. Because these fruit snacks and kimchi and carton of eggs can do nothing but send me on a quest for muffins and pineapple-topped bread cakes, and all I have left is another 60 to 90 minutes in the gym, fighting utter exhaustion. And yet nothing can touch me. I feel like Hyperbole and a Half, completely unfeeling, stuck in the world, but also the opposite of her, like the Oatmeal on magical grapey beverages - transcendent.
It's wild, because just as the shooting stars and precipitation patterns and freshman wriitng seminar books validate us (or is it the other way around for the books...), so there are the limitations that stop me dead. When I'm not supposed to be outside, I hallucinate. When I walk to class, I can hear bells playing I Lift My Hands. One moment I'm on the men's level of playing badminton, the next, I lose all mobility in my wrist.
But it all feels normal - all of it; every facet of this spiritual debacle. Everything is meant to be, the dropped jean sizes but the very same panic, the abundance of freedom and the resulting excess tortillas and bo burgers; the utter fatigue, the impossible discussions. Everything, everything, is in place. Its a war but one with a victor already decided.
They can tell. They can all tell. From all the small group leaders, the rest of the small group, the friends, the roommates, the acquaintences, the families... the friends, from Berkeley to UCSD to Harvard to UTA. Its insane, and more real than anything can ever be.
In small group, their thorns are prelims and roses are prelims; every bud is about going to sleep. They ask questions to which they already know the answer - they talk to hear their own voice. But its not annoying. All I hear is the rhapsody outside the Donlon lounge and try desperately not to burst into uncontrollable, maniacal laughter.
Because its unimaginable, the pain and utter hopelessness that I feel for a couple hours every day. Because these fruit snacks and kimchi and carton of eggs can do nothing but send me on a quest for muffins and pineapple-topped bread cakes, and all I have left is another 60 to 90 minutes in the gym, fighting utter exhaustion. And yet nothing can touch me. I feel like Hyperbole and a Half, completely unfeeling, stuck in the world, but also the opposite of her, like the Oatmeal on magical grapey beverages - transcendent.
It's wild, because just as the shooting stars and precipitation patterns and freshman wriitng seminar books validate us (or is it the other way around for the books...), so there are the limitations that stop me dead. When I'm not supposed to be outside, I hallucinate. When I walk to class, I can hear bells playing I Lift My Hands. One moment I'm on the men's level of playing badminton, the next, I lose all mobility in my wrist.
But it all feels normal - all of it; every facet of this spiritual debacle. Everything is meant to be, the dropped jean sizes but the very same panic, the abundance of freedom and the resulting excess tortillas and bo burgers; the utter fatigue, the impossible discussions. Everything, everything, is in place. Its a war but one with a victor already decided.
They can tell. They can all tell. From all the small group leaders, the rest of the small group, the friends, the roommates, the acquaintences, the families... the friends, from Berkeley to UCSD to Harvard to UTA. Its insane, and more real than anything can ever be.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Perfct
I haven't written in two weeks because every day feels like a week, completely jammed with emotion and doing. Even vegetation is meaningful, when it turns into a night of whispers. And how sobering, that as we speak our deepest convictions, the raging validation that God pours onto us, a roommate staggers in, collapses in bed, and cries.
Its been a month; technically, everyone is just getting to know each other. For us, though, it doesn't feel like there's been a passage of time at all. Because there wasn't. Every minute and hour of the day has been sucked dry. Every night is another year previously lost. Nothing is romantic - nothing. People look at us and ask if we're siblings. Back in Austin, they think they've found a missing triplet. Everyone is skeptical, and I can assure you that there is no one more skeptical than us. This is objectively crazy.
But if you ever see us interact, the way we talk to people in complete synchronization, and the baffled looks on the small group leader's face... When people ask, "Did you know each other before?" and we think back to...
...sitting in Shanghai's hotel with a prostitute next door, looking at that chat bubble...
...drawing comics, then seeing a potentially irking message notification...
...sharing artwork...
...talking, but most importantly, responding...
...and never playing games, just talking, talking about ideas, and God...
...and walking alone for two days in the 100 degrees of Austin, Texas...
...and sitting alone with a computer, at retreat, brimming with questions...
...and reading Blankets, and feeling, consequently completely connected...
...and seeing sunrise in Naperville for the first time...
...and we say no. Of course we didn't know.
And being, is so easy, because all we have to do is live. Impressing people comes from just being real, not chasing anything. And the love, from AAIV - the food, the one on ones, the intense Bible studies - how welcome it is after 18 years. I've missed the body of Christ.
How interesting it is that now I can sit in Trillium, skipping 2210 for the third time, feeling the same pain rip through my guts but not through my heart.
Its been a month; technically, everyone is just getting to know each other. For us, though, it doesn't feel like there's been a passage of time at all. Because there wasn't. Every minute and hour of the day has been sucked dry. Every night is another year previously lost. Nothing is romantic - nothing. People look at us and ask if we're siblings. Back in Austin, they think they've found a missing triplet. Everyone is skeptical, and I can assure you that there is no one more skeptical than us. This is objectively crazy.
But if you ever see us interact, the way we talk to people in complete synchronization, and the baffled looks on the small group leader's face... When people ask, "Did you know each other before?" and we think back to...
...sitting in Shanghai's hotel with a prostitute next door, looking at that chat bubble...
...drawing comics, then seeing a potentially irking message notification...
...sharing artwork...
...talking, but most importantly, responding...
...and never playing games, just talking, talking about ideas, and God...
...and walking alone for two days in the 100 degrees of Austin, Texas...
...and sitting alone with a computer, at retreat, brimming with questions...
...and reading Blankets, and feeling, consequently completely connected...
...and seeing sunrise in Naperville for the first time...
...and we say no. Of course we didn't know.
And being, is so easy, because all we have to do is live. Impressing people comes from just being real, not chasing anything. And the love, from AAIV - the food, the one on ones, the intense Bible studies - how welcome it is after 18 years. I've missed the body of Christ.
How interesting it is that now I can sit in Trillium, skipping 2210 for the third time, feeling the same pain rip through my guts but not through my heart.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Milky Way
It is impossible to ignore the weight of purpose here.
There are the expected staggerers limping from college town and the once in a while RA in drag. There are mosquitos, outright nerds, lost romantics, and bathroom stall hiders. The best badminton players - actually, the only badminton players - are men. Those people without real photos of themselves on Facebook turn out to be some of the most well-read scholars. The workout-holics stand chest out and only raise their arms a certain height. The workaholics are buried in Uris, completely in flow. That guy plays piano at RPCC every single night. That one gets high on biking, that one on proofs, that one on pussy. We all interact ceaselessly, under the quilt of Cornell.
I would be a fool to dismiss the inevitability of every occurence, so fresh and raw and meaningful. We run into that one Cru leader, but also that one, but also that one. The people who stay in conversation with us, who sit with us in silence for no spoken reason, seek a greater perhaps, a peace buried among us. The first time I ventured to have a spontaneous conversation, was with a classmate so forgettable that it might not have happened, except that by the next time we had lunch, we were talking about suicide, and purpose, and God. There aren't that many of us - I know because we've walked the entire plantations, Triphammer, college town, Commons, the main portion of Cayuga. Every one walks forward, granted, often with passion, but nevertheless with some motivation to progress. But no one looks upwards. No one watches God tear away the clouds and reveal his baffling universe.
The Milky Way is beautiful, of course. Shooting stars never lose their magic; sunsets maintain awesomeness. But that is not the point. The point is that the stars are full of conviction. They burn and blink and spiral as close and as far away as the soul next to me. They are flawless, unscathed by distraction, completely and utterly whole. And that is how they make us feel - full, and wildly in love.
I don't need anybody. No one needs any one. There isn't a single person in this world who can take away the poison in my meals, the fatigue in my legs and mind and heart. No one can tell me to leave my dorm and surround myself with better people than myself. The dorm room is claustrophobic. It makes monsters inside men, for everyone. Even the townhouses can induce unfathomable loneliness. Anything, even a walk into a suspicous smelling 7-11 is better than being so restricted. So I'm trying, really, awfully hard, to move, so I can read and write and draw and love. I fall short more often than I would like, but less than I anticipated. Every cafe, every work space, every library, brims with the buzz of life. I'm here now, at the Libe Cafe, 80% confronting the day.
I'm in a better state, but it all feels very beautiful. Suffering has meaning, even encouragement. Friends are real, accepting, unprecedently passionate. Every walk matters, but every outfit doesn't. This institution is so rich, in every way. God was merciful enough to let me in. How dare I let it go to waste.
There are the expected staggerers limping from college town and the once in a while RA in drag. There are mosquitos, outright nerds, lost romantics, and bathroom stall hiders. The best badminton players - actually, the only badminton players - are men. Those people without real photos of themselves on Facebook turn out to be some of the most well-read scholars. The workout-holics stand chest out and only raise their arms a certain height. The workaholics are buried in Uris, completely in flow. That guy plays piano at RPCC every single night. That one gets high on biking, that one on proofs, that one on pussy. We all interact ceaselessly, under the quilt of Cornell.
I would be a fool to dismiss the inevitability of every occurence, so fresh and raw and meaningful. We run into that one Cru leader, but also that one, but also that one. The people who stay in conversation with us, who sit with us in silence for no spoken reason, seek a greater perhaps, a peace buried among us. The first time I ventured to have a spontaneous conversation, was with a classmate so forgettable that it might not have happened, except that by the next time we had lunch, we were talking about suicide, and purpose, and God. There aren't that many of us - I know because we've walked the entire plantations, Triphammer, college town, Commons, the main portion of Cayuga. Every one walks forward, granted, often with passion, but nevertheless with some motivation to progress. But no one looks upwards. No one watches God tear away the clouds and reveal his baffling universe.
The Milky Way is beautiful, of course. Shooting stars never lose their magic; sunsets maintain awesomeness. But that is not the point. The point is that the stars are full of conviction. They burn and blink and spiral as close and as far away as the soul next to me. They are flawless, unscathed by distraction, completely and utterly whole. And that is how they make us feel - full, and wildly in love.
I don't need anybody. No one needs any one. There isn't a single person in this world who can take away the poison in my meals, the fatigue in my legs and mind and heart. No one can tell me to leave my dorm and surround myself with better people than myself. The dorm room is claustrophobic. It makes monsters inside men, for everyone. Even the townhouses can induce unfathomable loneliness. Anything, even a walk into a suspicous smelling 7-11 is better than being so restricted. So I'm trying, really, awfully hard, to move, so I can read and write and draw and love. I fall short more often than I would like, but less than I anticipated. Every cafe, every work space, every library, brims with the buzz of life. I'm here now, at the Libe Cafe, 80% confronting the day.
I'm in a better state, but it all feels very beautiful. Suffering has meaning, even encouragement. Friends are real, accepting, unprecedently passionate. Every walk matters, but every outfit doesn't. This institution is so rich, in every way. God was merciful enough to let me in. How dare I let it go to waste.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
On Monsters and Men
If retreat is like the previous two, I won't have many coherent thoughts on it for several months. But it's tomorrow, so I better write now, before the overwhelming holy presence of everything immoblizes my spew of irrationality.
In my parents' perspective, this summer has probably gone completely to waste. Chinese, SQL, Java, Javascript, linear algebra books lay untouched. My Internet history is an endless scroll of philosophy lectures and Just Kidding News (and even more guilty pleasures). I won't deny the complete pointlessness of some of these days, but I also won't dismiss the validity of the rest.
There were afternoons of staring at the ceiling with the cat, awash in self pity and hopelessness. There were nights destroying the stiff feathered shuttlecocks with a demographic of people I thought I would never, ever befriend. There were days that even the light of day couldn't permeate, and instead, the glow of Photoshop burned into my eyes. Those days were the full days, when peace and meaning seemed tangible, when I felt like a self, a piece of creation rather than a byproduct of it. And when I think, it is true, that the only thing that has been consistent throughout the past 18 years is drawing, even comics. From Pokemon battles to Goofy's squad to the death of ISATS to the death of PI+ to the atom's evolution to psychedelic giraffe sightings. All of it has stayed with me, longer than any single friend, any personality, sickness, mathematical inclination. How dare I ever consider giving it up.
There were early, early mornings of wild and engaging discourse - the exchange of vulnerability but also intense, thoughtful passion. And its not being original, but real (look, the quote). And that is so exciting, more than 7000 views, more than 17000 views. And, and, and this is not even the beginning.
Socially, we are pushed towards being perfect. Physically, beautiful to conform to standards that are cruel and uncommon, to demonstrate to the world that we are happy and healthy and all full of sunshine. However, I feel that the most achievable goal in most of our lives is to have the freedom that our imperfection gives us. And there is no better patron saint of imperfection than the monster. We will try really hard to be angels, but I think what a balanced life is to accept the monstrosity in ourselves and others, as part of what being human is. Imperfection, the acceptance of imperfection, leads to tolerance and liberates us from social models that I find horrible and oppressive.
Guillermo Del Toro
"Basically, we're all shitheads at the end."
In my parents' perspective, this summer has probably gone completely to waste. Chinese, SQL, Java, Javascript, linear algebra books lay untouched. My Internet history is an endless scroll of philosophy lectures and Just Kidding News (and even more guilty pleasures). I won't deny the complete pointlessness of some of these days, but I also won't dismiss the validity of the rest.
There were afternoons of staring at the ceiling with the cat, awash in self pity and hopelessness. There were nights destroying the stiff feathered shuttlecocks with a demographic of people I thought I would never, ever befriend. There were days that even the light of day couldn't permeate, and instead, the glow of Photoshop burned into my eyes. Those days were the full days, when peace and meaning seemed tangible, when I felt like a self, a piece of creation rather than a byproduct of it. And when I think, it is true, that the only thing that has been consistent throughout the past 18 years is drawing, even comics. From Pokemon battles to Goofy's squad to the death of ISATS to the death of PI+ to the atom's evolution to psychedelic giraffe sightings. All of it has stayed with me, longer than any single friend, any personality, sickness, mathematical inclination. How dare I ever consider giving it up.
There were early, early mornings of wild and engaging discourse - the exchange of vulnerability but also intense, thoughtful passion. And its not being original, but real (look, the quote). And that is so exciting, more than 7000 views, more than 17000 views. And, and, and this is not even the beginning.
Socially, we are pushed towards being perfect. Physically, beautiful to conform to standards that are cruel and uncommon, to demonstrate to the world that we are happy and healthy and all full of sunshine. However, I feel that the most achievable goal in most of our lives is to have the freedom that our imperfection gives us. And there is no better patron saint of imperfection than the monster. We will try really hard to be angels, but I think what a balanced life is to accept the monstrosity in ourselves and others, as part of what being human is. Imperfection, the acceptance of imperfection, leads to tolerance and liberates us from social models that I find horrible and oppressive.
Guillermo Del Toro
"Basically, we're all shitheads at the end."
Friday, August 1, 2014
Circles
Before I see everyone, most for the first time this summer, let us have a moment of silence for dead friendship. Even though I haven't a single excuse for not even attempting to reach out, and even though I feel a prick of resentment between snaps. This summer didn't change the validity and depth of the relationships of so, SO many years of friendship, but isn't it funny that its so much easier to connect to people a thousand miles away than it is with the thirty people I invited to my graduation party.
For people that I used to see every day, not a single sentence was exchanged in the past two months, yet here I am, drowning in the warm satisfaction getting someone 800 views on a comic at 4:35 am. And for all 60 some missed lunches and every gathering I would decline, I really would rather sit with a cat and a boy I haven't talked to in four years. Because the exchange of our lives in the present is nothing like sharing a dark cynicism. Because every time I want to participate in Naperville, in church, in school, among friends, I also understand that we weren't made for each other, and because every time I think about walking from Helen Newman to North Campus, nothing in this befouled place matters.
Because. When I was on the carpet staring at the ceiling with 400 mg of caffeine coursing through my slightly abused veins, the people who brought me back weren't... you. When I was shaking and drowning in some stupid bout of fright, we didn't go out for Chipotle. Instead, I bought a giant squid and introduced a girlfriend to my roommate's pet rock Frederick. Maybe its as weird as it sounds. Maybe these boys are still the scum of the earth. But they are most certainly a different type of scum. Like, interesting types.
Because. I sent more bunny butts over WeChat than chat lines over Google+ (not that Google+ was ever a thing). And maybe everyone in this city just had their shit together two years ago, and I'm still trying to figure out what that is. I like to think that its in something like The Red Hankie, and Guillermo Del Toro, and C Major. It might not be. But it's certainly not here.
For people that I used to see every day, not a single sentence was exchanged in the past two months, yet here I am, drowning in the warm satisfaction getting someone 800 views on a comic at 4:35 am. And for all 60 some missed lunches and every gathering I would decline, I really would rather sit with a cat and a boy I haven't talked to in four years. Because the exchange of our lives in the present is nothing like sharing a dark cynicism. Because every time I want to participate in Naperville, in church, in school, among friends, I also understand that we weren't made for each other, and because every time I think about walking from Helen Newman to North Campus, nothing in this befouled place matters.
Because. When I was on the carpet staring at the ceiling with 400 mg of caffeine coursing through my slightly abused veins, the people who brought me back weren't... you. When I was shaking and drowning in some stupid bout of fright, we didn't go out for Chipotle. Instead, I bought a giant squid and introduced a girlfriend to my roommate's pet rock Frederick. Maybe its as weird as it sounds. Maybe these boys are still the scum of the earth. But they are most certainly a different type of scum. Like, interesting types.
Because. I sent more bunny butts over WeChat than chat lines over Google+ (not that Google+ was ever a thing). And maybe everyone in this city just had their shit together two years ago, and I'm still trying to figure out what that is. I like to think that its in something like The Red Hankie, and Guillermo Del Toro, and C Major. It might not be. But it's certainly not here.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Alive
Its very easy to be productive with limited Internet access. The lack of air conditioning also restricted me and my sister to two rooms in the apartment, so we read up on some literature. If you're interested, this is what I read in those two weeks. I would recommend everything, but asterisks denote favorites.
Boo, Katherine. Behind the Beautiful Forevers.*
Brown, Dan. The Da Vinci Code.*
Green, John. Paper Towns.
Huang, Eddie. Fresh Off the Boat.*
King, A.S. Everybody Sees the Ants.
Lakhouse, Amara. Clash of Civilizations over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio.*
Lockhart, E. The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks.
Morrison, Toni. Sula.
Rowell, Rainbow. Fangirl.
Rowling, JK. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
Strobel, Lee. The Case for Christ.
Various authors. The Art of Plants vs. Zombies.*
I overestimated myself when I thought that I would take full advantage of the massive amounts of leisure I have. It seems that 2:40 AM has become a common sight on my clock. Honestly, I feel more at peace with life right now than I do during any other given time during the day. The air is "mad" cool and smells like poetry wafting through my windows. No one's awake. No food is around for temptation. Everything is quiet, and sometimes, a good conversation might even happen across borders.
I don't know what to do with myself. Should I take full advantage of my alertness during this time, or do I need to change my living habits? I love this quietness, but its an obligation to be conscious for the daytime. I don't know how college life messes up this pattern, how studying fits in with being constantly surrounded by new and amazing people. But right now, I love this night. I actually, right now, love being alive. This feeling is so rare...
Maybe that's why I'm still awake.
Boo, Katherine. Behind the Beautiful Forevers.*
Brown, Dan. The Da Vinci Code.*
Green, John. Paper Towns.
Huang, Eddie. Fresh Off the Boat.*
King, A.S. Everybody Sees the Ants.
Lakhouse, Amara. Clash of Civilizations over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio.*
Lockhart, E. The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks.
Morrison, Toni. Sula.
Rowell, Rainbow. Fangirl.
Rowling, JK. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
Strobel, Lee. The Case for Christ.
Various authors. The Art of Plants vs. Zombies.*
I overestimated myself when I thought that I would take full advantage of the massive amounts of leisure I have. It seems that 2:40 AM has become a common sight on my clock. Honestly, I feel more at peace with life right now than I do during any other given time during the day. The air is "mad" cool and smells like poetry wafting through my windows. No one's awake. No food is around for temptation. Everything is quiet, and sometimes, a good conversation might even happen across borders.
I don't know what to do with myself. Should I take full advantage of my alertness during this time, or do I need to change my living habits? I love this quietness, but its an obligation to be conscious for the daytime. I don't know how college life messes up this pattern, how studying fits in with being constantly surrounded by new and amazing people. But right now, I love this night. I actually, right now, love being alive. This feeling is so rare...
Maybe that's why I'm still awake.
Adulthood
If you're reading this and you're thinking about that 7th grade mix-up with "adultery", let me just remind you that that's actually a really bitter memory for me, and every time you guys laugh about it, it actually kind of hurts, just like it did when y'all didn't let it go back then. JSYK. hahaha.
I know my role as a maturing person is to step it up and accept my parents for who they are instead of crying about it. On the other hand, I don't want to be too accepting, and just allow what they dictate to be true.
I know that even science says that my mom is out of her mind about Six Flags, but at the same time, I don't want to go behind her back anymore. It might be the cool thing to do, maybe even the strong thing to do, but given morals and whatever, its not the right thing. And that's another crazy idea, that moral decisions have to compromise experiences and friendship.
I used to completely reject my parents for the way they restricted my social life. Today, even, I envy the year above me, which has a huge friend group at church and is close cross-genders. They can talk and party like any other functioning member of society, while we're all stuck in our own parent traps. If my parents didn't make socializing such a shameful process, I might be less awkward, more outgoing, and a happier person. I personally still believe that having so many more deep connections would have saved me from moping, a lot of depression, hate, and non-living thoughts.
At the same time, I've finally realized that at least my parents really care a lot. At least they maintained a family that now has an identity and unique dynamic. There was no divorce that broke us in half, no cheating that made us feel like scum. Even if they were messed up standards for what we want to be, at least my sister and I have some knowledge of father and mother figures. While we don't have any real life examples of affection, we're still by-products of responsibility, discipline, and even love (lol). That's respectable.
These Chinese ideals for living have spread throughout my entire life, especially for food. Most people believe that three meals per day is healthy. This is true, but my family told my 5 year old self to never waste food. Then, by the time I began to feel guilty about eating way past my limit, my mom told me to never force myself to eat. This kind of commentary persisted throughout this past year, and my dad was consistently obtuse about it. Again, it was this persistence that put me through incredible shame.
Still, again, there's another side. Without this public, embarrassing rebuke, I might not have realized how messed up my habits are. These insecurities led my mom to reveal some of the darkest parts of her life. That kind of knowledge of someone I've only known for 18 out of her 50 years of living is not only intense, but it also rips up my assumptions of her circumstances. So many of these defining conversations wouldn't have happened if my mom hadn't directly addressed my problems.
Another part of life, athletics. My parents and I screamed at each other about the value of badminton, running, and health versus SATs and academics. They have never valued athletic progress, but instead, tolerated physical maintenance. Once, my dad straight up told me that I would never be an athlete. This crushed my motivation and my dreams, because financially, they controlled every aspect of my competitive athletics. It made me direct my hatred towards studying and settling down, and I would literally shake with the itch to be aggressively active.
Here, I started to truly gauge my mental intelligence. My parents believed in time investment and repetition, which is partly true, but they didn't have a grasp of the high school system. I faked at least 20 SAT practice tests, and still received the score I wanted. I understood the amount of work I needed to put into pulling my grades, even if I do complain about it in school. At the same time, I began to cherish the outdoors with every fiber of my body. The meaning of freedom became infinitely more vast and important. Its hard for me to linguistically describe the exhilaration I feel in fresh air as the sun is going down or the breaths I can barely take when I see bodies of water. When I think about Cornell and how I can take a twenty minute walk to my 7:30 PM discussion, I want to dance with literal giddiness, because it seems so fresh. I mean, maybe I would love the feeling of flying on the courts even if there wasn't "oppression" in my life. But I don't think it would be the same.
One more. My parents never saw art as anything more than a trivial hobby, even though for most of my life, I've wanted to integrate it with my career and lifestyle. When the going got tough, I always had to quit drawing lessons, even though my teacher there was the most encouraging and valuable instructor in the world. Art was the only place where positive and negative reinforcement were always in balance. I don't want to come off as arrogant, but I have very few doubts that if I consistently trained for the past 7 years, I would be as sophisticated as Eliza. Not in creativity, but in technique. I truly believe that given my intuition of aesthetics and perfect homework completion, I could be able to study at a high level in a Chinese art academy under some masters.
But I didn't receive consistent training. Instead, I watched a lot of YouTube, read a lot of comics, a made a lot of dopey cartoons. Even when I was drawing stupid stuff like the Elite Team tshirt design, my parents got mad because I wasn't studying for AP tests that were two months away. During the latter half of senior year, I still had to hide my sketches because I was afraid that they would tell me study for my ELA final or something. That sucked. Having to hide so many things from my parents diminished my already wavering passion to, sometimes, almost nothing.
Still, there's a positive side. Since I wasn't able to do any large scale projects, despite having so many in mind, I ended up making art that was "relevant". For instance, I picked up a little digital work and made quite a few designs. And yeah, they're shit compared my traditional work, which is already falling subpar, but its another kind of life, an entirely different community. In these past two years, I've played so much more with concept and audience than I ever wanted to, and the results are positive. I posted this one on Facebook, and it went 150 likes. It took a long time to build up confidence to publish crust like that, but in the end, the feedback emphasizes to me, once more, the vitality of concept and audience. "Its the heart that counts" is real.
Anyway, tl;dr, this was just a rant that I had to figure out on paper. Bart and Geo are so articulate when they talk things out, and I'm kind of down for the whole avoiding mind games thing. SO, the writing today - low level. The thoughts - still pretty basic. The necessity - 100%. -_- Call me crazy but at least in this way, with respect to my parents, I think I want to be an adult about it.
I know my role as a maturing person is to step it up and accept my parents for who they are instead of crying about it. On the other hand, I don't want to be too accepting, and just allow what they dictate to be true.
I know that even science says that my mom is out of her mind about Six Flags, but at the same time, I don't want to go behind her back anymore. It might be the cool thing to do, maybe even the strong thing to do, but given morals and whatever, its not the right thing. And that's another crazy idea, that moral decisions have to compromise experiences and friendship.
I used to completely reject my parents for the way they restricted my social life. Today, even, I envy the year above me, which has a huge friend group at church and is close cross-genders. They can talk and party like any other functioning member of society, while we're all stuck in our own parent traps. If my parents didn't make socializing such a shameful process, I might be less awkward, more outgoing, and a happier person. I personally still believe that having so many more deep connections would have saved me from moping, a lot of depression, hate, and non-living thoughts.
At the same time, I've finally realized that at least my parents really care a lot. At least they maintained a family that now has an identity and unique dynamic. There was no divorce that broke us in half, no cheating that made us feel like scum. Even if they were messed up standards for what we want to be, at least my sister and I have some knowledge of father and mother figures. While we don't have any real life examples of affection, we're still by-products of responsibility, discipline, and even love (lol). That's respectable.
These Chinese ideals for living have spread throughout my entire life, especially for food. Most people believe that three meals per day is healthy. This is true, but my family told my 5 year old self to never waste food. Then, by the time I began to feel guilty about eating way past my limit, my mom told me to never force myself to eat. This kind of commentary persisted throughout this past year, and my dad was consistently obtuse about it. Again, it was this persistence that put me through incredible shame.
Still, again, there's another side. Without this public, embarrassing rebuke, I might not have realized how messed up my habits are. These insecurities led my mom to reveal some of the darkest parts of her life. That kind of knowledge of someone I've only known for 18 out of her 50 years of living is not only intense, but it also rips up my assumptions of her circumstances. So many of these defining conversations wouldn't have happened if my mom hadn't directly addressed my problems.
Another part of life, athletics. My parents and I screamed at each other about the value of badminton, running, and health versus SATs and academics. They have never valued athletic progress, but instead, tolerated physical maintenance. Once, my dad straight up told me that I would never be an athlete. This crushed my motivation and my dreams, because financially, they controlled every aspect of my competitive athletics. It made me direct my hatred towards studying and settling down, and I would literally shake with the itch to be aggressively active.
Here, I started to truly gauge my mental intelligence. My parents believed in time investment and repetition, which is partly true, but they didn't have a grasp of the high school system. I faked at least 20 SAT practice tests, and still received the score I wanted. I understood the amount of work I needed to put into pulling my grades, even if I do complain about it in school. At the same time, I began to cherish the outdoors with every fiber of my body. The meaning of freedom became infinitely more vast and important. Its hard for me to linguistically describe the exhilaration I feel in fresh air as the sun is going down or the breaths I can barely take when I see bodies of water. When I think about Cornell and how I can take a twenty minute walk to my 7:30 PM discussion, I want to dance with literal giddiness, because it seems so fresh. I mean, maybe I would love the feeling of flying on the courts even if there wasn't "oppression" in my life. But I don't think it would be the same.
One more. My parents never saw art as anything more than a trivial hobby, even though for most of my life, I've wanted to integrate it with my career and lifestyle. When the going got tough, I always had to quit drawing lessons, even though my teacher there was the most encouraging and valuable instructor in the world. Art was the only place where positive and negative reinforcement were always in balance. I don't want to come off as arrogant, but I have very few doubts that if I consistently trained for the past 7 years, I would be as sophisticated as Eliza. Not in creativity, but in technique. I truly believe that given my intuition of aesthetics and perfect homework completion, I could be able to study at a high level in a Chinese art academy under some masters.
But I didn't receive consistent training. Instead, I watched a lot of YouTube, read a lot of comics, a made a lot of dopey cartoons. Even when I was drawing stupid stuff like the Elite Team tshirt design, my parents got mad because I wasn't studying for AP tests that were two months away. During the latter half of senior year, I still had to hide my sketches because I was afraid that they would tell me study for my ELA final or something. That sucked. Having to hide so many things from my parents diminished my already wavering passion to, sometimes, almost nothing.
Still, there's a positive side. Since I wasn't able to do any large scale projects, despite having so many in mind, I ended up making art that was "relevant". For instance, I picked up a little digital work and made quite a few designs. And yeah, they're shit compared my traditional work, which is already falling subpar, but its another kind of life, an entirely different community. In these past two years, I've played so much more with concept and audience than I ever wanted to, and the results are positive. I posted this one on Facebook, and it went 150 likes. It took a long time to build up confidence to publish crust like that, but in the end, the feedback emphasizes to me, once more, the vitality of concept and audience. "Its the heart that counts" is real.
Anyway, tl;dr, this was just a rant that I had to figure out on paper. Bart and Geo are so articulate when they talk things out, and I'm kind of down for the whole avoiding mind games thing. SO, the writing today - low level. The thoughts - still pretty basic. The necessity - 100%. -_- Call me crazy but at least in this way, with respect to my parents, I think I want to be an adult about it.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
China: The Track
When my aunt offered to show me the school track, I was skeptical. The last time I had tried to run in a neighborhood, even a well maintained one with proper occupants, it had felt awkward and restricting. People stared at the American, moving too quickly to blend in, but too slowly to be an athelete.
She reminded me that Nanning's heat had a dangerous power. The heat radiates from the ground, she said, even at night. Your uncle died three years after moving here, because the air turned his body into cancer. This was on her part, a scare tactic, but it was also in part true. The ground was glass, and the world was its greenhouse. Nanning swelters in a wave of fieriness that only grows bigger.
In the dark, the track was lit by only by the city stars, lights from apartment buildings towering above. I could barely see the lanes, but could feel the bodies around me. About 50 people - mostly students, some parents - were walking, jump roping, or beating their shoulders. My legs itched (from mosquito bites, but also...) to join them. I dove into the circling crowd.
My aunt was right. The track was a searing pan, and it was hungry for braised humans. I ran very fast - as fast as I have ever run, and passed every single person at least twice. I ran to feel the heat seep into my body, toe to head, and then ran faster to create a wind to cool off. On my 12th lap, I heard the smack sole to rubber - two boys, around my age - catching up. I sped forward, and they followed suit. So we raced.
Twice, my pursuers communicated to each other, "hao kuai!", the second time with emphasis, in some sort of delight surprise. I didn't respond, because I felt the anaerobic effort seizing my stomach, emptying my lungs of oxygen. I was, for the first in a long time, sprinting. In the last hundred meters ("zhui hou yi bai mi!") we ran for our lives. We tied. Or maybe I won. Or maybe I lost. I didn't know and couldn't bring myself to care. The boys slowed to a reasonable pace and I settled for a leisurely, knee buckling walk. My first race, perhaps my only taste of what it would be like to join track. One minute, two connections, on Nanning University's campus.
The next night, another runner and I kept pace with each other. In another couple days, my cousin brought me to Guangxi University's badminton gym. There, I was able to play with two graduate students. They weren't particularly skillful, but they were fast and strong. Communication was hard; I'd often begin shouting something out of enthusiasm and stop mid-sentence when I realized that I didn't know the vocabulary. Regardless, we played for two hours in near silence. Our soaked shirts clung to our skin, butt there was little room for judgment. We led vastly different lives, but for two hours, we were synced to flying birds and blind ambition.
This is what sports are about. Not diplomacy, not victory. Sports are about that moment of connection. A single moment for a single goal; to find people like myself in a country across the world.
She reminded me that Nanning's heat had a dangerous power. The heat radiates from the ground, she said, even at night. Your uncle died three years after moving here, because the air turned his body into cancer. This was on her part, a scare tactic, but it was also in part true. The ground was glass, and the world was its greenhouse. Nanning swelters in a wave of fieriness that only grows bigger.
In the dark, the track was lit by only by the city stars, lights from apartment buildings towering above. I could barely see the lanes, but could feel the bodies around me. About 50 people - mostly students, some parents - were walking, jump roping, or beating their shoulders. My legs itched (from mosquito bites, but also...) to join them. I dove into the circling crowd.
My aunt was right. The track was a searing pan, and it was hungry for braised humans. I ran very fast - as fast as I have ever run, and passed every single person at least twice. I ran to feel the heat seep into my body, toe to head, and then ran faster to create a wind to cool off. On my 12th lap, I heard the smack sole to rubber - two boys, around my age - catching up. I sped forward, and they followed suit. So we raced.
Twice, my pursuers communicated to each other, "hao kuai!", the second time with emphasis, in some sort of delight surprise. I didn't respond, because I felt the anaerobic effort seizing my stomach, emptying my lungs of oxygen. I was, for the first in a long time, sprinting. In the last hundred meters ("zhui hou yi bai mi!") we ran for our lives. We tied. Or maybe I won. Or maybe I lost. I didn't know and couldn't bring myself to care. The boys slowed to a reasonable pace and I settled for a leisurely, knee buckling walk. My first race, perhaps my only taste of what it would be like to join track. One minute, two connections, on Nanning University's campus.
The next night, another runner and I kept pace with each other. In another couple days, my cousin brought me to Guangxi University's badminton gym. There, I was able to play with two graduate students. They weren't particularly skillful, but they were fast and strong. Communication was hard; I'd often begin shouting something out of enthusiasm and stop mid-sentence when I realized that I didn't know the vocabulary. Regardless, we played for two hours in near silence. Our soaked shirts clung to our skin, butt there was little room for judgment. We led vastly different lives, but for two hours, we were synced to flying birds and blind ambition.
This is what sports are about. Not diplomacy, not victory. Sports are about that moment of connection. A single moment for a single goal; to find people like myself in a country across the world.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
The Holiday
Among shopping, coffee shops, book stores, Everything and More, 1Q84, tutoring, teaching, and coaching, I find that there is very little time to be sad. Instead of burying myself in other people's content (mainly YouTube - there's no way of avoiding this guilty pleasure), I get to create my own. Even if its just in my head. Even if my mouth dries itself out from constantly making conversation. Even if I'm missing out on time to learn computer programming and SQL, whatever that is. Something feels very right about being legitimately busy in such a casual way.
My first week back from China was considerably unproductive, with the exception of Lauren, maybe twice. It was, to be honest, rather wasteful, in a way that fills you with regret when you see quotes like "lost time is never found" or "you have just as many hours in a day as beyonce does." This was my choice, and I hope to avoid making it too often. This week doesn't leave much room for that, especially with Ribfest. For this and possibly free ribs and a temporary job, I am grateful.
So this is a note, a not insignificant mark of a time (1:23 AM), that serves as a reminder. Its a reminder that staying at home with a bowl of watermelon is easy, but constricting. Its a reminder that I use way to many parallel sentences, and a reminder that I need to leave the house. Because its a choice. And there are too many good books to count and too many latte and froyo flavors to taste. And, also, that I'm a little bit in love with life, somewhat overexcited/overwhelmed for college, and desperately happy to know that people are real.
My first week back from China was considerably unproductive, with the exception of Lauren, maybe twice. It was, to be honest, rather wasteful, in a way that fills you with regret when you see quotes like "lost time is never found" or "you have just as many hours in a day as beyonce does." This was my choice, and I hope to avoid making it too often. This week doesn't leave much room for that, especially with Ribfest. For this and possibly free ribs and a temporary job, I am grateful.
So this is a note, a not insignificant mark of a time (1:23 AM), that serves as a reminder. Its a reminder that staying at home with a bowl of watermelon is easy, but constricting. Its a reminder that I use way to many parallel sentences, and a reminder that I need to leave the house. Because its a choice. And there are too many good books to count and too many latte and froyo flavors to taste. And, also, that I'm a little bit in love with life, somewhat overexcited/overwhelmed for college, and desperately happy to know that people are real.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
China: The Dust
If you put a sepia filter on the identical apartment towers of Chongqing, it looks like the apocalyptic opening of Wall-E. With the exception of improved vegetation, the scene is dangerously similar. The walls are stained with mold and stretch 30 stories high. Its not just the buildings either. The cranes are like monsters, straight out of slum mashing movies. They look like beasts of destruction, but they're actually the most physically powerful tools of construction. Put ten of them in about an acre's proximity, and it looks like Team Rocket is taking over. Literally, to unite all people within the nation, to extend its reach to the stars above. Dust settles on waste, and this filthy mixture buries itself into the cracks on the streets. When it rains, the mud rises and sticks to the soles of 28 million pairs of feet.
We lived in one of the oldest cultural districts, Shapingba. Its infamous prestitigious education is undeniable, but the place is exhausted. Groups of soot-covered men squat in their 45 square foot garages to sort through electrical wiring and metal trash. Yoke carriers slink around street corners, waiting for someone with too much baggage to collapse. Sweepers quietly scrape cigarette buts and seed shells into their dustbins. If any of these people are lucky, they'll make one RMB that day. 16 cents, enough for a bowl of suan la fen, sour, spicy noodles.
Here, there isn't time to care about other people. Survival isn't accepted; its seized. Every pork bun stand has its own specialties. Every farmer has a different bargain for dragon fruit, yangmei (yamamomo), litchi, persimmon. And that was my excuse to list delicious exotic fruits. Anyway, you can't wait in line to pick up your breakfast soymilk - you have to push your way to the front. Sales people step on your heels the second you enter their portion of the department store, and the only way to get them off is to be rude. Ignore their mega horn voices and the way they address you as "Mei nv," beautiful girl. Beggars are ignored and taken for fools. Many of them kneel, in the traditional position of humility, and simply wait. I have seen only one beggar who received consistent attention. He sat unclothed on stone steps, emaciated, so that his bones poked through his skin. Residents weave in between the cars and buses, knowing that if they wait, the traffic will never stop for them.
The stereotype for "Asians" is that they're bad drivers. On the contrary, they are the best drivers I've ever seen. Three cars squeeze into single, one-way lanes. Left signals are often U-turns. Five lanes can merge into one. There's no mercy or courtesy. For 14 RMB, or 2.30 USD, a taxi took us across the Yangtze River to Chiqikou, going 60 on a 40 k/h rode, slowing on the bend only because it has a history of throwing cars into the water. To park, the driver sped into incoming traffic to swerve around slow cars and switched back two lanes for a right turn. If it was legal, I would've tipped him double for the ride.
What gets me every time I come back to China is the immensity of its population, and the monstrosity of the city's growth. In every single one of those towers, there's life in every single one of those windows. There's an emotion behind every honk that blares through the night and a story behind each wailing siren. I lived by a school, and heard hundreds of voices. Every student in that morning crowd had a family - a mother, a father, or both. Every parent had testimonies of the Maoist regime, poverty, growth, and death. Similar complexity is true for every country, but when you're crushed between strangers and see life in the darkest, dirtiest places, the reminder rings ever so loud.
We lived in one of the oldest cultural districts, Shapingba. Its infamous prestitigious education is undeniable, but the place is exhausted. Groups of soot-covered men squat in their 45 square foot garages to sort through electrical wiring and metal trash. Yoke carriers slink around street corners, waiting for someone with too much baggage to collapse. Sweepers quietly scrape cigarette buts and seed shells into their dustbins. If any of these people are lucky, they'll make one RMB that day. 16 cents, enough for a bowl of suan la fen, sour, spicy noodles.
Here, there isn't time to care about other people. Survival isn't accepted; its seized. Every pork bun stand has its own specialties. Every farmer has a different bargain for dragon fruit, yangmei (yamamomo), litchi, persimmon. And that was my excuse to list delicious exotic fruits. Anyway, you can't wait in line to pick up your breakfast soymilk - you have to push your way to the front. Sales people step on your heels the second you enter their portion of the department store, and the only way to get them off is to be rude. Ignore their mega horn voices and the way they address you as "Mei nv," beautiful girl. Beggars are ignored and taken for fools. Many of them kneel, in the traditional position of humility, and simply wait. I have seen only one beggar who received consistent attention. He sat unclothed on stone steps, emaciated, so that his bones poked through his skin. Residents weave in between the cars and buses, knowing that if they wait, the traffic will never stop for them.
The stereotype for "Asians" is that they're bad drivers. On the contrary, they are the best drivers I've ever seen. Three cars squeeze into single, one-way lanes. Left signals are often U-turns. Five lanes can merge into one. There's no mercy or courtesy. For 14 RMB, or 2.30 USD, a taxi took us across the Yangtze River to Chiqikou, going 60 on a 40 k/h rode, slowing on the bend only because it has a history of throwing cars into the water. To park, the driver sped into incoming traffic to swerve around slow cars and switched back two lanes for a right turn. If it was legal, I would've tipped him double for the ride.
What gets me every time I come back to China is the immensity of its population, and the monstrosity of the city's growth. In every single one of those towers, there's life in every single one of those windows. There's an emotion behind every honk that blares through the night and a story behind each wailing siren. I lived by a school, and heard hundreds of voices. Every student in that morning crowd had a family - a mother, a father, or both. Every parent had testimonies of the Maoist regime, poverty, growth, and death. Similar complexity is true for every country, but when you're crushed between strangers and see life in the darkest, dirtiest places, the reminder rings ever so loud.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
China: Panopticon
What's up my people! My two people...
Jokes. This isn't even an unnatural hiatus. Anyway, I'm back from China, and I've written up some 15 pages of notes and read some good books. This and being verbally suppressed and mocked by cultural ignorance and straight up insensitivity, with cup of unsanitary and extreme weather conditions, and a pinch of negative progress, has given my mind so many recipes of words.
So I will be posting day by day, photos on Tumblr, journals and disorganized essays here. Links between the two. I'll try not to dry it up with details and keep it about ideas. This is just a commitment to write, because its summer, and I need practice. Hence and whatever, the first day:
E. Lockhart explains the panopticon: mass behavior and order based on paranoia. The panopticon is the feeling that your mother knows you've been rolling in grass with a boy. It’s the sense that someone saw you swipe your neighbor’s pansies. It’s the reason I never snuck off campus for lunch or called myself out of school. The panopticon is fear, fear that you are always being watched, so that very little actual watching has to be done at all.
On the plane, the panopticon is not the government or the security cameras. The panopticon is the two hundred Chinese people who cannot help but feel you up, head to toe, with their eyes. The privilege of international travel seems to instill a haughtiness found nowhere else. There must not be someone as well-versed in English and Chinese, French and Chinese, or English, French, and Chinese as well as you. And this is a relatively logical thought. Sometimes, affording the round trip just means that you’re better. At least, good enough to dine in the airport and chuck the leftovers.
Aside from the Asians, the plane exerts its own power. Besides controlling your life at inexplicable altitudes and speeds, it forces proximity. You breathe the same air as vomiting children and screaming infants. You deal with the seat in front of you that shakes as the passenger collapses, clearly exhausted from sitting down. You tolerate the drool and knee-touching from your family members. Because the plane is getting you somewhere.
The stewardesses try to give you options – pork with rice or chicken with pasta – mystery meat with white gel material for carbohydrates, or mystery meat with white gel material for carbohydrates? Halfway through the flight, they turn off the lights, and mass hypnosis occurs. Two hundred Chinese people promptly fall asleep and wake only when the smell of ramen – this time, only chicken flavored – awakens their native noses.
There were two saving graces on the 28 hour transit from Chicago to Chongqing.
The first was the beverage cart, compliments of each airline that looks forward to working with you and your wallet again. This cart is diversity in cans. We choose what we want, when we want. They have it all, and no one could be denied a fresh cup of anything – Diet Coke, hot tea, or beer.
The second grace was Eddie Huang. Planes have a nasty smell, even though I’m sure even strawberry pine-nuts would reek after 13 hours of heavy exposure, mixed with human sweat and unabashed burps. Eddie wrote Fresh Off the Boat to talk about race, but he started, kindly, with sweet descriptions of water dumplings and McRibs. Nothing stopped the squirming in my stomach than imagining the smell of braised pork on long grained rice.
Notice that neither of these involved watery rice gook, half-assed lettuce leafs, or omelettes that literally squish under your complimentary plastic utensils. I think they've started leaving out toothpicks now, too.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Dichotomy
Since I shared about my deepest insecurities in front of half of my church, two people have asked for my Tumblr, zero have actually followed me, and no one has provided me any affirmation for my deeply moving vulnerability. I am half convinced that I reek evil and repel all but friends who've gotten used to the pungent smell.
I'm kidding, but speaking during Senior Banquet really didn't change anything. More than anything, I was unjustifiably disappointed that my words were lost in a sea of apple carvings and Christmas lights. Unbaptised and self-destructive, I am a stranger to Living Water, even more so when I actively enstrange it.
But sharing has much less to do with its audience than it has to do with the speaker. Those words, the ones I managed to choke out, were not for the juniors or the parents, but for myself. I would like to live with every necessary word said aloud, every necessary letter written. It wasn't my idea, but my heart goes out to those who've inspired me to spend my energy in service instead of in indulgence.
I was becoming accustomed to being sociable and to wearing acceptable attire in public. Church wasn't so depressing. People who didn't understand the feeling of wanting to be unalive still understood the college struggle. Songs like I Lift My Hands reminded me that LWEC has once again become a refuge, even under the boring eyes of tiger and pseudo tiger parents.
Any other time in my life, I would have thought that Will's grad party was going to be my other half-life. Stories of IMSA's escapades flew like rapid fire. The rest of us listened with sickening awe. My favorite moments from North are seconds long - Mr. Ferrell meowing with his cat skin, Mr. Baird squealing with sarcasm, Mrs. Moore's parallel pipe head, the shame basket, conversations, sass, running, pretending to fly. The people from IMSA spoke about nights like they were days. They were funny, but they were also dark, in more than one way.
I've only heard about this kind of fangled insanity from television - Manhattan's elite from Gossip Girl, the Wolf of Wall Street - oh, and the macho trolls on college Facebook pages. Substance experimentation is constantly glorified. Even we giggled about the outrageous, psychotic incidents that happened in our friends' dorms. Students were never expelled because they left. No one has died from jumping on cars or puking in beds. The craving for highs and ecstasy are casual, not threatening. I would have wanted to try.
But strangely, I don't. Its not an uptight, moral feeling, and its also not a desperate, rebellious hunger. Its just acceptance, and a little gratitude, for a gathering of wildly different and open people, who maybe, just maybe, aren't so different after all.
I'm kidding, but speaking during Senior Banquet really didn't change anything. More than anything, I was unjustifiably disappointed that my words were lost in a sea of apple carvings and Christmas lights. Unbaptised and self-destructive, I am a stranger to Living Water, even more so when I actively enstrange it.
But sharing has much less to do with its audience than it has to do with the speaker. Those words, the ones I managed to choke out, were not for the juniors or the parents, but for myself. I would like to live with every necessary word said aloud, every necessary letter written. It wasn't my idea, but my heart goes out to those who've inspired me to spend my energy in service instead of in indulgence.
I was becoming accustomed to being sociable and to wearing acceptable attire in public. Church wasn't so depressing. People who didn't understand the feeling of wanting to be unalive still understood the college struggle. Songs like I Lift My Hands reminded me that LWEC has once again become a refuge, even under the boring eyes of tiger and pseudo tiger parents.
Any other time in my life, I would have thought that Will's grad party was going to be my other half-life. Stories of IMSA's escapades flew like rapid fire. The rest of us listened with sickening awe. My favorite moments from North are seconds long - Mr. Ferrell meowing with his cat skin, Mr. Baird squealing with sarcasm, Mrs. Moore's parallel pipe head, the shame basket, conversations, sass, running, pretending to fly. The people from IMSA spoke about nights like they were days. They were funny, but they were also dark, in more than one way.
I've only heard about this kind of fangled insanity from television - Manhattan's elite from Gossip Girl, the Wolf of Wall Street - oh, and the macho trolls on college Facebook pages. Substance experimentation is constantly glorified. Even we giggled about the outrageous, psychotic incidents that happened in our friends' dorms. Students were never expelled because they left. No one has died from jumping on cars or puking in beds. The craving for highs and ecstasy are casual, not threatening. I would have wanted to try.
But strangely, I don't. Its not an uptight, moral feeling, and its also not a desperate, rebellious hunger. Its just acceptance, and a little gratitude, for a gathering of wildly different and open people, who maybe, just maybe, aren't so different after all.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Graduation
When our first graduation was rained out on Tuesday, I felt the excitement drain. Graduation was supposed to be a singlular, continuous adredaline rush of freedom and responsibility. A wave of sorrow and celebratory joy should have roared behind the procession. As we heard our names shouted across the stadium, the wave should have crashed on our skulls, crushing our emotional and expressive capacities. We should have sniffed at the commencement speeches, screamed for the valecdictorian, and bawled as the floodlights and fireworks burst forth.
But this did not happen, except for the screaming for our valecdictorian.
Instead, the clouds broke open at 6:50 pm, and the rain poured. Our cardboard caps sagged into our mop-like heads. We galoshed through turf and rocks. We desperately tried to protect the essentials - our phones and underwear. Then we took some selfies, and my math teachers made fun of me.
On Wednesday night, I constantly readjusted my dress and smiled as brightly as I could to everyone that mattered. When I was too shy to do more than fumble with my tassle, my teachers waved and smiled anyway. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. Graduation was not a big deal. 787 people from Naperville North were walking in identical formations, shaking the same three hands. The ceremony occured annually, nationally. There are few American 18 year olds who do not experience the gowns' breeze. But this existential crisis did not matter when we exchanged knowing looks and wholehearted hugs.
A lot of things don't matter when a body of 1600 plus people send students off to the military. Knowing exactly what kind of cliche content that the commencement speakers would present did not make their speeches any less relevant or well-written. Losing all the feeling in my extremeties did nothing to stop my face from stretching between laughter and shouts.
High school is over. The times 6:50, 7:39, 8:35, until 3:10 no longer mean anything. Every structure that math team and senior parking rush hour created is gone. Nothing obligates me to run before or after classes; nothing puts intellectual progress on my desk. When we threw our caps, we threw 18 years of other adults trying very, very hard to mold us into sustainable people. Maybe that's why our teachers smiled - not just because they felt happy for us, like they do for all of their previous students, but because they see the crease they left in our broken clay jars of bodies. And maybe, just maybe, we smiled because as much as they have mattered to us, we also have each left one of thousands of scratches in their hardened vessels.
At my worst, classes had always been a little, annoying saving grace. They kept me awake and open, and often, they spoon fed me knowledge until I swallowed it whole and spit up B- results. We had to constantly interact with people that would have been uncomplicated shadows otherwise. Math team gave me no choice but to get back up again the next morning.
But this is not available to me anymore. The temptation to give up is greatest before you are about to succeed, and now, there isn't a net to catch me when I give up. The next time I visit North, I'll be recognized as a guest. I'll be a graduate, someone who has experienced it all. Call me prideful but I would rather present myself as someone who has chosen a non-destructive path. So I need to stop giving up, because I do have a choice. I can choose between destroying and building myself. It is high fucking time to start doing the latter.
But this did not happen, except for the screaming for our valecdictorian.
Instead, the clouds broke open at 6:50 pm, and the rain poured. Our cardboard caps sagged into our mop-like heads. We galoshed through turf and rocks. We desperately tried to protect the essentials - our phones and underwear. Then we took some selfies, and my math teachers made fun of me.
On Wednesday night, I constantly readjusted my dress and smiled as brightly as I could to everyone that mattered. When I was too shy to do more than fumble with my tassle, my teachers waved and smiled anyway. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. Graduation was not a big deal. 787 people from Naperville North were walking in identical formations, shaking the same three hands. The ceremony occured annually, nationally. There are few American 18 year olds who do not experience the gowns' breeze. But this existential crisis did not matter when we exchanged knowing looks and wholehearted hugs.
A lot of things don't matter when a body of 1600 plus people send students off to the military. Knowing exactly what kind of cliche content that the commencement speakers would present did not make their speeches any less relevant or well-written. Losing all the feeling in my extremeties did nothing to stop my face from stretching between laughter and shouts.
High school is over. The times 6:50, 7:39, 8:35, until 3:10 no longer mean anything. Every structure that math team and senior parking rush hour created is gone. Nothing obligates me to run before or after classes; nothing puts intellectual progress on my desk. When we threw our caps, we threw 18 years of other adults trying very, very hard to mold us into sustainable people. Maybe that's why our teachers smiled - not just because they felt happy for us, like they do for all of their previous students, but because they see the crease they left in our broken clay jars of bodies. And maybe, just maybe, we smiled because as much as they have mattered to us, we also have each left one of thousands of scratches in their hardened vessels.
At my worst, classes had always been a little, annoying saving grace. They kept me awake and open, and often, they spoon fed me knowledge until I swallowed it whole and spit up B- results. We had to constantly interact with people that would have been uncomplicated shadows otherwise. Math team gave me no choice but to get back up again the next morning.
But this is not available to me anymore. The temptation to give up is greatest before you are about to succeed, and now, there isn't a net to catch me when I give up. The next time I visit North, I'll be recognized as a guest. I'll be a graduate, someone who has experienced it all. Call me prideful but I would rather present myself as someone who has chosen a non-destructive path. So I need to stop giving up, because I do have a choice. I can choose between destroying and building myself. It is high fucking time to start doing the latter.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
The Modern Great Wall
At awards night, I received recognition as the Most Outstanding Math Student of the Year. My calculus teacher said a lot of nice things, mentionned Cornell, and got me a membership to the Johnson Museum of Art. For the past couple months, the idea of learning and doing math has settled as a safe option - one that will hurt a little bit, sometimes out of boredom, sometimes out of inadequacy. But its safe. Its rising. My parents, my teachers, my friends - they would all see that it as fitting, and all of them, all of them, will know what its like to have a STEM job.
This is not a rebuke. To everyone who finds purpose and passion in engineering, law, biology, chemistry, to everyone who has been lucky enough to conduct meaningful research, to everyone who has struggled courageously against the current of affirmative action, go. We need you - I'm going to need you, to write me computer programs, to protect my freedoms, to save my dying body. I won't ask you to question your choices because I'm almost entirely sure that you have already asked yourself everything that I still ask myself. Is this what you want to do with 40 productive years of your life? Is this what you want to master and evangelize?
Because none of my parents' dreams, my teachers' and friends' expectations, every stereotype for my profile, are mine. My idol figures aren't successful architects, software developers, raging pop stars, or philanthropic doctors. The content that I consume has nothing to do with AoPS Alcumus geometry, Frontline, or Yale lectures. These are interesting, but not lively.
Because every time someone asked me to write down my dreams, I write about doing something creative. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote about being a famous author. In statistics, I talked about graphic design. Mrs. Moore mentionned math tutoring and I panicked just thinking about it. Grace rhetorically posed the idea of being an art teacher, and now I daydream about a basement studio. I'm no better at any of these things than I am qualified to do the sciences or maths, but they are what I want to do.
I'm slowly learning to accept my financial situation. I'm not poor; I'm barely cultured. I am not the wild spirit who can survive without my parent's aid. One day, they'll withdraw their support, and I won't know what to do. But I can't continue to feel guilty for allegedly "wasting" what they promised to give me. Its not that I'm entitled to the lessons and the thousands of dollars that they pour into making me child hidden by the Modern Great Wall. But I'm entitled to my own life, and if Baatarjiguur the camel herder was right, the wasted money and time won't matter so much. The core of life is the same everywhere.
The content I consume is created by artists and entrepeneurs and artists. John Green, Hank Green, Grace Helbig, Hannah Hart, Tyler Oakley, Lily Singh, Josh Sundquist, Bart Kwan, Geo Antoinette, Eddie Huang are some of the best that I've come across so far. The Just Kidding Films crew is predominantly Asian and each member has hurt his family to become himself. They're part of the Asian American movement to balance the massive disproportions, and I have every intention of jumping on that boat.
I'm so scared. But I believe in the power of art, even more in the power of poetry. I'm not talking about rhyming syllables and free verse though; I'm talking about rhythm of life. People read my tumblr quote reblogs and wonder why I label label them with a technically incorrect term, "poetry." Its not because of the literary beats or the sentence fluency. Its for the heartbeats and gushing blood of emotion that they contain. That's poetry.
Conversation and a couple blogs - that's all I have to create this kind of poetry. I don't know if I can do it, but I'm going to give it everything I've got.
This is not a rebuke. To everyone who finds purpose and passion in engineering, law, biology, chemistry, to everyone who has been lucky enough to conduct meaningful research, to everyone who has struggled courageously against the current of affirmative action, go. We need you - I'm going to need you, to write me computer programs, to protect my freedoms, to save my dying body. I won't ask you to question your choices because I'm almost entirely sure that you have already asked yourself everything that I still ask myself. Is this what you want to do with 40 productive years of your life? Is this what you want to master and evangelize?
Because none of my parents' dreams, my teachers' and friends' expectations, every stereotype for my profile, are mine. My idol figures aren't successful architects, software developers, raging pop stars, or philanthropic doctors. The content that I consume has nothing to do with AoPS Alcumus geometry, Frontline, or Yale lectures. These are interesting, but not lively.
Because every time someone asked me to write down my dreams, I write about doing something creative. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote about being a famous author. In statistics, I talked about graphic design. Mrs. Moore mentionned math tutoring and I panicked just thinking about it. Grace rhetorically posed the idea of being an art teacher, and now I daydream about a basement studio. I'm no better at any of these things than I am qualified to do the sciences or maths, but they are what I want to do.
I'm slowly learning to accept my financial situation. I'm not poor; I'm barely cultured. I am not the wild spirit who can survive without my parent's aid. One day, they'll withdraw their support, and I won't know what to do. But I can't continue to feel guilty for allegedly "wasting" what they promised to give me. Its not that I'm entitled to the lessons and the thousands of dollars that they pour into making me child hidden by the Modern Great Wall. But I'm entitled to my own life, and if Baatarjiguur the camel herder was right, the wasted money and time won't matter so much. The core of life is the same everywhere.
The content I consume is created by artists and entrepeneurs and artists. John Green, Hank Green, Grace Helbig, Hannah Hart, Tyler Oakley, Lily Singh, Josh Sundquist, Bart Kwan, Geo Antoinette, Eddie Huang are some of the best that I've come across so far. The Just Kidding Films crew is predominantly Asian and each member has hurt his family to become himself. They're part of the Asian American movement to balance the massive disproportions, and I have every intention of jumping on that boat.
I'm so scared. But I believe in the power of art, even more in the power of poetry. I'm not talking about rhyming syllables and free verse though; I'm talking about rhythm of life. People read my tumblr quote reblogs and wonder why I label label them with a technically incorrect term, "poetry." Its not because of the literary beats or the sentence fluency. Its for the heartbeats and gushing blood of emotion that they contain. That's poetry.
Conversation and a couple blogs - that's all I have to create this kind of poetry. I don't know if I can do it, but I'm going to give it everything I've got.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Storybook.
I went to the library today and checked out some novels. Authors include John Green, Maureen Johnson, Lauren Myracle, and David Levithan. Their subtle darkness and infinite depth never fails to put me at ease.
I find that without the constant writhing of not wanting be alive, the literary world has opened itself up to me. Poetry has become the most prominent life force in conversation. Thoughtfulness has become the primary objective in exchanges. A strand of guilt lingers on the chats seen and unanswered, but there's a sort of toxicity that's also started to leave my consciousness. Its like a comb is running itself through the knots of my life, and maybe, on a luxury splurge, I'll get a dose of body wash.
What a gratifying feeling it is to talk about the world at level of complexity just enough to penetrate a person's pathos. How exhilarating it is to exchange the pleasurable surprise of a sudden deepened comprehension, a brief point of connection. It is such a joy to hear a poetry that resonates with your own, one that matches peak for peak, trough for trough. Even after such a long wait, I could not imagine a blessing like this.
Here's a Tumblr post by d.a.s. It's called "God's Gift." Its one of the poems that breaks my heart in two, four, eight pieces, a snap with every line.
A man once told me that God fed us poetry through our prayers,
but this one got stuck on the way down.
I’m used to the beat of words against my spine,
the slash and sting of it.
I know I’m meant to be stained with ink,
but this poem made me think about
the way words become knife wounds
more and more these days.
I am meant to be healing.
I am meant to be better.
But I’m still up until three,
relearning the phrases for ‘dying’ like this isn’t lies pulled from the nearest dictionary,
a salt pillar stranded in the soft Sodom desert.
Was this what you wanted, God?
Did you want the poems to burn me from the inside-out,
because, I swear if it was,
that’s what you’ve got:my fingers all twitchy and ink-smeared,
writing haikus in the margins of your Holy Book –a poet before a person.
No wonder your name becomes choked in my throat:
with all these commas you shoved down my trachea,
it’s a miracle I don’t suffocate on the things unsaid.
I know you gave me words to help write the end of the world,
but this poem is not a gift.
This poem is rotten, apocalyptic dirty.
This poem is sin.
I find that without the constant writhing of not wanting be alive, the literary world has opened itself up to me. Poetry has become the most prominent life force in conversation. Thoughtfulness has become the primary objective in exchanges. A strand of guilt lingers on the chats seen and unanswered, but there's a sort of toxicity that's also started to leave my consciousness. Its like a comb is running itself through the knots of my life, and maybe, on a luxury splurge, I'll get a dose of body wash.
What a gratifying feeling it is to talk about the world at level of complexity just enough to penetrate a person's pathos. How exhilarating it is to exchange the pleasurable surprise of a sudden deepened comprehension, a brief point of connection. It is such a joy to hear a poetry that resonates with your own, one that matches peak for peak, trough for trough. Even after such a long wait, I could not imagine a blessing like this.
Here's a Tumblr post by d.a.s. It's called "God's Gift." Its one of the poems that breaks my heart in two, four, eight pieces, a snap with every line.
A man once told me that God fed us poetry through our prayers,
but this one got stuck on the way down.
I’m used to the beat of words against my spine,
the slash and sting of it.
I know I’m meant to be stained with ink,
but this poem made me think about
the way words become knife wounds
more and more these days.
I am meant to be healing.
I am meant to be better.
But I’m still up until three,
relearning the phrases for ‘dying’ like this isn’t lies pulled from the nearest dictionary,
a salt pillar stranded in the soft Sodom desert.
Was this what you wanted, God?
Did you want the poems to burn me from the inside-out,
because, I swear if it was,
that’s what you’ve got:my fingers all twitchy and ink-smeared,
writing haikus in the margins of your Holy Book –a poet before a person.
No wonder your name becomes choked in my throat:
with all these commas you shoved down my trachea,
it’s a miracle I don’t suffocate on the things unsaid.
I know you gave me words to help write the end of the world,
but this poem is not a gift.
This poem is rotten, apocalyptic dirty.
This poem is sin.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Just A Dream
I have two rules:
1. Do not believe in love.
2. Or boys.
Both concepts are condusive to disillusionment, false empowerment, and gross giddiness. They are unprofessional. They wreak havoc. Their only benefit is that in their wake, we can understand more about how humans are endlessly stupid, and that heartbreak has a strong, positive, linear correlation with multivariable test scores.
But this isn't about smiling from ear to ear. This isn't about staying up until 2 am discussing the elephant in the room instead of making small talk. There is no tangible incentive. This is partly the result of approximately 570 miles, although in any other context after these years, it would've been a great fulfillment of Art Assignment #1. A trade of the ice-creams-named-frappacinos and a Tim Horton tea cup would've been cute.
And so but. I would like to avoid talking about rules 1 and 2.
People say that there is meaningless suffering, pain that does nothing but tear through the white sheets that are stretched taut, bearing the will to live. If you search "pain" on Tumblr, they give you a suicide hotline before you can see the search results. Then, you see the blades open veins and a completely colorless world. You see the faces of people who have lost everything, the blood of those who gave it all. You see the dried skin that flakes with the merciless wind, indifferent with a wholehearted conviction that this is the way that it will always be.
That was what I believed. That was what I felt. Every single day began and ended with conflict. The splices of joy were cut short with fatigue and doubt. Sometimes, I didn't want to be alive. Anything was better than the cold, spiraling descent. I did ask God - why? What amount of strength will compensate for so much hatred, ignorance, indulgence? When I wanted to tear myself apart, all of those deep conversations seemed so little, because like I have said again and again... for all the love and empathy in the world, no one has ever understood.
I wondered for six years. I prayed in those years. I wrote and read and talked, and now, God presents this before me, and now I understand. The pain does not diminish. The regret is not subdued. But God... God, I understand. And for all of the care and responsibility that comes with such an unexpected joy, I know that every, single day was worth it.
People say that there is meaningless suffering, pain that does nothing but tear through the white sheets that are stretched taut, bearing the will to live. If you search "pain" on Tumblr, they give you a suicide hotline before you can see the search results. Then, you see the blades open veins and a completely colorless world. You see the faces of people who have lost everything, the blood of those who gave it all. You see the dried skin that flakes with the merciless wind, indifferent with a wholehearted conviction that this is the way that it will always be.
That was what I believed. That was what I felt. Every single day began and ended with conflict. The splices of joy were cut short with fatigue and doubt. Sometimes, I didn't want to be alive. Anything was better than the cold, spiraling descent. I did ask God - why? What amount of strength will compensate for so much hatred, ignorance, indulgence? When I wanted to tear myself apart, all of those deep conversations seemed so little, because like I have said again and again... for all the love and empathy in the world, no one has ever understood.
I wondered for six years. I prayed in those years. I wrote and read and talked, and now, God presents this before me, and now I understand. The pain does not diminish. The regret is not subdued. But God... God, I understand. And for all of the care and responsibility that comes with such an unexpected joy, I know that every, single day was worth it.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Little Infinities.
I know I told my story before, but not like this.
I've spent the past 6 years being open to different people and asking for help and asking for prayer, and people prayed and talked and listened, but never, never, ever did anyone ever understand. I've walked myself up the altar in a sea of tongues. Incredible, admirable leaders have brought my issues to God, for me. Do you know how it feels when your mom tells you about her own disappointments? Do you know how it feels when she cries in front of you, wanting something so desperately better for your future? And still, still, she didn't understand.
Even though our condition is common, I never met anyone with the same wild instability, the same exaggerated loathing and compensation. I had no expectations from any reasonable boy or girl to have ever ruined their place in our privileged position. We all drink the blood of the 99%, but some of us are vampires, so willing to suck more than our share and leave a maggot-filled carcass just to leave our mark. We are the dogs who pee on the fire hydrants, desperate to leave our marks.
But someone knows. Someone knew it then and knows it now, and I cannot thank God enough for this instance of infinty.
I've spent the past 6 years being open to different people and asking for help and asking for prayer, and people prayed and talked and listened, but never, never, ever did anyone ever understand. I've walked myself up the altar in a sea of tongues. Incredible, admirable leaders have brought my issues to God, for me. Do you know how it feels when your mom tells you about her own disappointments? Do you know how it feels when she cries in front of you, wanting something so desperately better for your future? And still, still, she didn't understand.
Even though our condition is common, I never met anyone with the same wild instability, the same exaggerated loathing and compensation. I had no expectations from any reasonable boy or girl to have ever ruined their place in our privileged position. We all drink the blood of the 99%, but some of us are vampires, so willing to suck more than our share and leave a maggot-filled carcass just to leave our mark. We are the dogs who pee on the fire hydrants, desperate to leave our marks.
But someone knows. Someone knew it then and knows it now, and I cannot thank God enough for this instance of infinty.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
C Major
I was almost going to get emotional about my last visit to UIUC, but I realized that we still have Math Team State. How uplifting.
As we drove onto campus in unusually fair morning weather, I noticed, for the very first time, how undepressing the university could actually be. The college town is wide enough to necessitate long, digestive walks, and I imagined my old friends walking around the campus, actually feeling content about their geographical location. Then I remembered how we weren't really friends anymore, so we're going to move on.
There are a few things that even physical discomfort can't ruin. One of those things is watching a freshman down four Taco Bell burritos and a bowl of nachos. Another is discovering a magic called coffee and milk.
And you.
I'm not going to lie, I still feel haunted by my own hopelessness, my every day sickness, my constant self-hatred. But now, for the first time since Sam Tsui released his album and so many months of disgust before that, Start Again makes me smile. So many lines splatter like perfectly synchronized rain drops, and with one massive splat, they dive together, so ungracefully, and land painfully on the belly. The open door slammed shut on my pinky toes, and I so happily welcome these bruises. They remind of what it means to feel and care and open up again.
This is not to make any rash judgments or ruin the best dialogues since I wrote application essays, but to not to subtly hint that for precious, short clips of time, I can see a hair of the truly happy version of me. I see something I've dreamt to meet and to be. I see, finally, finally, an equal, so fearlessly and unashamedly wheeling in the cake.
Lift ye like men, be swoll, let all your squats be done in good form.
C Major
As we drove onto campus in unusually fair morning weather, I noticed, for the very first time, how undepressing the university could actually be. The college town is wide enough to necessitate long, digestive walks, and I imagined my old friends walking around the campus, actually feeling content about their geographical location. Then I remembered how we weren't really friends anymore, so we're going to move on.
There are a few things that even physical discomfort can't ruin. One of those things is watching a freshman down four Taco Bell burritos and a bowl of nachos. Another is discovering a magic called coffee and milk.
And you.
I'm not going to lie, I still feel haunted by my own hopelessness, my every day sickness, my constant self-hatred. But now, for the first time since Sam Tsui released his album and so many months of disgust before that, Start Again makes me smile. So many lines splatter like perfectly synchronized rain drops, and with one massive splat, they dive together, so ungracefully, and land painfully on the belly. The open door slammed shut on my pinky toes, and I so happily welcome these bruises. They remind of what it means to feel and care and open up again.
This is not to make any rash judgments or ruin the best dialogues since I wrote application essays, but to not to subtly hint that for precious, short clips of time, I can see a hair of the truly happy version of me. I see something I've dreamt to meet and to be. I see, finally, finally, an equal, so fearlessly and unashamedly wheeling in the cake.
Lift ye like men, be swoll, let all your squats be done in good form.
C Major
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Comeback.
You know that moment when you're on your knees praying and this time its not because you know forgiveness is going to be painful, but because this time...
This time, you understand how ugly you truly are to God. You feel God's iron grip on your cold heart, and you lean into the guy next to you, thinking no one on earth can provide comfort except him when in fact... even he can't.
Because no one can forgive you except God. And this time, instead of knowing the pain, you're feeling it rip through your heart and you just can't because you refuse to open up your heart.
Yet in the endless selfishness of the hearts that surround you, your dumb old romanticized angel shows you a glimpse of pure and unassuming love, and it takes all of the life out of you... for a moment, every ugly bit is sucked out, and you feel so empty because not a single bit left inside is beautiful at all.
And afterwards, for an entire year, you let yourself vacuum the world's sickness inside of you. You felt hurt and sad and angry and confused, but worst of all, you let all of the evil cling tightly to your unforgiving heart.
Because, in truth, you never learned forgiveness.
And now, you laugh and wince at your embarrassing moments, but mostly, you feel like vomitting, because you treated yourself and your friends like trash. You thought you were ugly before, and now you could hardly be uglier.
So, you, take some courage. Go back to church. Confront your parents. You know where you belong, and you've been gone far, far too long.
This time, you understand how ugly you truly are to God. You feel God's iron grip on your cold heart, and you lean into the guy next to you, thinking no one on earth can provide comfort except him when in fact... even he can't.
Because no one can forgive you except God. And this time, instead of knowing the pain, you're feeling it rip through your heart and you just can't because you refuse to open up your heart.
Yet in the endless selfishness of the hearts that surround you, your dumb old romanticized angel shows you a glimpse of pure and unassuming love, and it takes all of the life out of you... for a moment, every ugly bit is sucked out, and you feel so empty because not a single bit left inside is beautiful at all.
And afterwards, for an entire year, you let yourself vacuum the world's sickness inside of you. You felt hurt and sad and angry and confused, but worst of all, you let all of the evil cling tightly to your unforgiving heart.
Because, in truth, you never learned forgiveness.
And now, you laugh and wince at your embarrassing moments, but mostly, you feel like vomitting, because you treated yourself and your friends like trash. You thought you were ugly before, and now you could hardly be uglier.
So, you, take some courage. Go back to church. Confront your parents. You know where you belong, and you've been gone far, far too long.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Memories
18 years is too much for me, so I'm going for the past 4 for now.
And still, still, so much of it is shrouded in literal clouds of obscure and forgotten embarrassment. Classes are like ghosts, seasons like wisps of ghosts.
Here's what I remember.
I remember when Mrs. Mularski hugged me when I brought her a goodbye present.
I remember Mr. Stanicek telling other people about that swan I drew for who knows what book.
I remember Funston showing Gonzo the portrait I drew five times because I was afraid that it didn't look enough like him.
I remember crying after my first killer set of footwork with Coach Ilian.
I remember that dad who asked Thomas why the girls had quadriceps like men.
I remember watching Manny's wicked backhand blast the bird across the net... and his kindness.
I remember training at Schaumburg with Helen, where she gave me a pair of socks because she was concerned about my ankle blisters.
I remember crying the shower after getting a D on an AP World test, and telling myself that my chances with Stanford were shot.
I remember being so in awe of Mr. Pearson's wisdom and personhood.
I remember when I saw a videotape of my knobbly, nervous knees during Speech.
I remember feeling hot and stuffed and tired, staring dully at the MVC board, still strangely at peace after being heartbroken.
I remember singing with Stephanie during practice because we were numb with fatigue, and more than in one way.
I remember fighting with Lauren.
I remember the total aloofness and wildly inappropriate relaxing that took place in Physics C.
I remember Sunny, the Riverwalk, McDowell, but after that...
I remember hearing the song Forgiveness on the radio and crying on my knees, dripping cold blood from my nose and hot tears from my eyes.
I remember retreat. The good one.
I remember sitting down for 6 hours straight to paint those Canadian flowers. Its one of the only paintings I felt proud of for more than a couple hours.
I remember Shi Lao Shi telling me that I was made for fine arts.
I remember her telling every visitor, every mom, every friend, that I was made for art.
I remember never, ever even thinking about becoming an engineer.
I remember the first long conversation I had with Chelsea.
I remember the first long conversation I had Mr. Kim.
I remember pacing around a smoky 1 star hotel with Christine, shivering, apologizing, just talking.
I remember seeing Eliza's broad, confident brushstrokes.
I remember shopping with Ailynna and Christine, completely dried out, yet so fortunate.
I remember running outside every single day before practice with Christine, more often than not, feeling lighter than air.
I remember feeling like a pig, bloated, broken, hateful, inflating in front of the mirror.
I remember feeling my hip bones and watching my abs look so momentarily satisfactory.
I remember Vivian's grapes and almonds.
I remember winning the Huskie contest - another couple pieces of art that I'm actually unashamed to have displayed.
I remember watching Grace play piano.
I remember listening to Sebastian speak French, then Spanish, then "Wang Xiaoqi". (;))
I remember praying with Swo before games.
I remember seeing numbers on the scale that still, still terrify me.
I remember being so determinedly moved by Eden, Glee, Sam Tsui, Friends with Benefits (lol), Wolf of Wall Street, the Piano Guys, John Green, Hank Green, Ellen, Tyler Oakley...
...and How I Met Your Mother, ANTM, Masterchef finales...
...and those chats. Not just the ones that would overflow into my swollen eyes the next morning, but ones where I saw the reality of personhood.
You know, those moments of personhood? When you're overcome with your love for the people that cared about you before you cared about them? When people go out of their way to teach you League or to play Tetris with you? The people who chat you because they're worried about you, even if you're just going to ignore them?
I've forgotten so many of my mom's lectures, but I remember when we talked about marriage and boys and when she didn't rip me apart and instead told me that she regretted the example that my sister and I would have to live with.
Because high school wasn't about the numbers, as high as they were and as even higher they could have been. I like my SAT score, but I liked lunch with Eungee and David and Jessie so much more. I liked my 94 in AP World, but I like my 89.6 in ELA, falling gracefully with the people that have risen with me.
High school, and the rest of everything, is about finding the human in us. It was about smacking the racist prick inside of me upside the head. It was about finding that I'm afraid of demons, but not if I don't know they're there. It was about watching people feel love and feeling it myself, and not just for other people. It was about seeing passion flow and talent bleed from those performances. It was about feeling dead doing science, awake doing math, and alive doing art. It was about finally breathing wind instead of air and thinking, "This is what I was born to do." It was about getting angry and then thanking God because man man man man man man I am so overcome.
And still, still, so much of it is shrouded in literal clouds of obscure and forgotten embarrassment. Classes are like ghosts, seasons like wisps of ghosts.
Here's what I remember.
I remember when Mrs. Mularski hugged me when I brought her a goodbye present.
I remember Mr. Stanicek telling other people about that swan I drew for who knows what book.
I remember Funston showing Gonzo the portrait I drew five times because I was afraid that it didn't look enough like him.
I remember crying after my first killer set of footwork with Coach Ilian.
I remember that dad who asked Thomas why the girls had quadriceps like men.
I remember watching Manny's wicked backhand blast the bird across the net... and his kindness.
I remember training at Schaumburg with Helen, where she gave me a pair of socks because she was concerned about my ankle blisters.
I remember crying the shower after getting a D on an AP World test, and telling myself that my chances with Stanford were shot.
I remember being so in awe of Mr. Pearson's wisdom and personhood.
I remember when I saw a videotape of my knobbly, nervous knees during Speech.
I remember feeling hot and stuffed and tired, staring dully at the MVC board, still strangely at peace after being heartbroken.
I remember singing with Stephanie during practice because we were numb with fatigue, and more than in one way.
I remember fighting with Lauren.
I remember the total aloofness and wildly inappropriate relaxing that took place in Physics C.
I remember Sunny, the Riverwalk, McDowell, but after that...
I remember hearing the song Forgiveness on the radio and crying on my knees, dripping cold blood from my nose and hot tears from my eyes.
I remember retreat. The good one.
I remember sitting down for 6 hours straight to paint those Canadian flowers. Its one of the only paintings I felt proud of for more than a couple hours.
I remember Shi Lao Shi telling me that I was made for fine arts.
I remember her telling every visitor, every mom, every friend, that I was made for art.
I remember never, ever even thinking about becoming an engineer.
I remember the first long conversation I had with Chelsea.
I remember the first long conversation I had Mr. Kim.
I remember pacing around a smoky 1 star hotel with Christine, shivering, apologizing, just talking.
I remember seeing Eliza's broad, confident brushstrokes.
I remember shopping with Ailynna and Christine, completely dried out, yet so fortunate.
I remember running outside every single day before practice with Christine, more often than not, feeling lighter than air.
I remember feeling like a pig, bloated, broken, hateful, inflating in front of the mirror.
I remember feeling my hip bones and watching my abs look so momentarily satisfactory.
I remember Vivian's grapes and almonds.
I remember winning the Huskie contest - another couple pieces of art that I'm actually unashamed to have displayed.
I remember watching Grace play piano.
I remember listening to Sebastian speak French, then Spanish, then "Wang Xiaoqi". (;))
I remember praying with Swo before games.
I remember seeing numbers on the scale that still, still terrify me.
I remember being so determinedly moved by Eden, Glee, Sam Tsui, Friends with Benefits (lol), Wolf of Wall Street, the Piano Guys, John Green, Hank Green, Ellen, Tyler Oakley...
...and How I Met Your Mother, ANTM, Masterchef finales...
...and those chats. Not just the ones that would overflow into my swollen eyes the next morning, but ones where I saw the reality of personhood.
You know, those moments of personhood? When you're overcome with your love for the people that cared about you before you cared about them? When people go out of their way to teach you League or to play Tetris with you? The people who chat you because they're worried about you, even if you're just going to ignore them?
I've forgotten so many of my mom's lectures, but I remember when we talked about marriage and boys and when she didn't rip me apart and instead told me that she regretted the example that my sister and I would have to live with.
Because high school wasn't about the numbers, as high as they were and as even higher they could have been. I like my SAT score, but I liked lunch with Eungee and David and Jessie so much more. I liked my 94 in AP World, but I like my 89.6 in ELA, falling gracefully with the people that have risen with me.
High school, and the rest of everything, is about finding the human in us. It was about smacking the racist prick inside of me upside the head. It was about finding that I'm afraid of demons, but not if I don't know they're there. It was about watching people feel love and feeling it myself, and not just for other people. It was about seeing passion flow and talent bleed from those performances. It was about feeling dead doing science, awake doing math, and alive doing art. It was about finally breathing wind instead of air and thinking, "This is what I was born to do." It was about getting angry and then thanking God because man man man man man man I am so overcome.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
The Storm.
You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave? There was nothing philosphical about that moment - just the physical, white hot searing in my gut that taunted with uncertainty. That uncertainty was what killed.
Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.
And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.
What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?
When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.
And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.
Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.
And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.
What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?
When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.
And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Sunrise
I've been spending too many hours of my life watching Grace Helbig and resenting my own circumstances.
A handsome testament to why I wish I could run and swim and fly (also, inspiration): Connor Franta.
A quote from Chelsea:
A handsome testament to why I wish I could run and swim and fly (also, inspiration): Connor Franta.
A quote from Chelsea:
"My life is a comedy of errors."
This past week, I have stayed up every single night to work on a mediocre project. The literal grappling between dreams and nightmares is fought in my starving closet. It is but a scuffle in hectic glow, where blows make but a scratch in the predestined Cadillac. In fact, when I wake the next morning, taking up too much space, the weight of the bigger dents presses against me. I did get that string of B's and C's and D's. I was so vexed and begrudging and angry.
But there was not more than a moment when I regretted it. I have promised you and myself and the learing expectations of my parents - I will create and create and create and be part of a system that doesn't have OS as part of its label. When I was gone, I wasn't studying or TAing or delivering. I was making.
Have you ever fallen in love before? Have you ever held a person's hand, knowing that when you let go, it will be the last time you can acknowledge your crazy, irrational love for them? Have you ever seen the sparkling sunset, even right through your windows, and smiled at a completely new day, new life? Have you ever watched How I Met Your Mother Season 9 Episode 17?
Have you felt a love that extends far beyond those of romantic relationships? Have you felt an infinitely grateful affection for the people from who you can sit an inch away and feel no spark but that of friendship? Have you ever come out of a string of intense competition and felt the grip of community and union in our years together?
There were several reasons I decided to say the three hardest, most out-of-context sentences I've said in my life. All of them can be paraphrased from quotations that other people have already made... on Tumblr:
1. I cannot stand small talk. Don't you ever sense the elephant in the room, shitting all over everything? Aren't you ever just dying to say, "Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?" or "Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?" I thought he understood, but we were just playing at cocktail parties.
2. Why do you hate silence? It is so hard to find, but its power is so great. In its presence, we find something that's beyond the moment, a place that restores and satiates our hunger for acceptance. Silence is not unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. It never had to be broken.
3. Screw our collection of dismantled almosts. What almost? What was not cowardice and bashfulness, reservedness and caution? What was not every single day, when I retreat to myself, shaking my head to the dissonance of my thoughts and my actions? To the rest of my relationships to the rest of my people, we will be far more than almost.
4. I thought about the people that I love. I thought about the people that I want to love. They are their words and thoughts and hearts. I'm not going to lie - after spending so much time immersed in Chelsea's blog, I have developed a low tolerance for falling in love with fictional characters. I mean, they're on YouTube - but even the real people... it is their exposed soul that I've learned to appreciate.
5. And one last thing, also stolen from the other side of reason. I do not need someone to complete me. I offered for us to walk, if you would like, side by side, to whatever is coming next. In a couple little ways, we did, but this was no infinity. There are things that I remember now, like the day I read your poetry and our first League matches, but I'm absolutely certain that I will forget everything about you. First it will be those math problems, then our tests, then our classes. After that, it will be your stubble, your hands, your hair, your face. And because we didn't share that primal, honest, true touch that extends far past the reaches of science, I will eventually forget your name.
I think, for now, my time entangling with romance is over. For so much afflicted and inflicted pain, for such perpetual disgust, for the remnants of bitterness and anger that ring in my head day after day, I don't really mind. I know that when I ask you about your life again, when I ask about your girls or your marathon training or your games or your gym routine, not even a part of your responses will matter. We will be strangers, again. I'm never going to stay and wait for my heart to be ripped out, even if its the courageous thing to do. I'm going to turn around, walk away, and start anew.
Have you ever fallen in love before? Have you ever held a person's hand, knowing that when you let go, it will be the last time you can acknowledge your crazy, irrational love for them? Have you ever seen the sparkling sunset, even right through your windows, and smiled at a completely new day, new life? Have you ever watched How I Met Your Mother Season 9 Episode 17?
Have you felt a love that extends far beyond those of romantic relationships? Have you felt an infinitely grateful affection for the people from who you can sit an inch away and feel no spark but that of friendship? Have you ever come out of a string of intense competition and felt the grip of community and union in our years together?
There were several reasons I decided to say the three hardest, most out-of-context sentences I've said in my life. All of them can be paraphrased from quotations that other people have already made... on Tumblr:
1. I cannot stand small talk. Don't you ever sense the elephant in the room, shitting all over everything? Aren't you ever just dying to say, "Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?" or "Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?" I thought he understood, but we were just playing at cocktail parties.
2. Why do you hate silence? It is so hard to find, but its power is so great. In its presence, we find something that's beyond the moment, a place that restores and satiates our hunger for acceptance. Silence is not unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. It never had to be broken.
3. Screw our collection of dismantled almosts. What almost? What was not cowardice and bashfulness, reservedness and caution? What was not every single day, when I retreat to myself, shaking my head to the dissonance of my thoughts and my actions? To the rest of my relationships to the rest of my people, we will be far more than almost.
4. I thought about the people that I love. I thought about the people that I want to love. They are their words and thoughts and hearts. I'm not going to lie - after spending so much time immersed in Chelsea's blog, I have developed a low tolerance for falling in love with fictional characters. I mean, they're on YouTube - but even the real people... it is their exposed soul that I've learned to appreciate.
5. And one last thing, also stolen from the other side of reason. I do not need someone to complete me. I offered for us to walk, if you would like, side by side, to whatever is coming next. In a couple little ways, we did, but this was no infinity. There are things that I remember now, like the day I read your poetry and our first League matches, but I'm absolutely certain that I will forget everything about you. First it will be those math problems, then our tests, then our classes. After that, it will be your stubble, your hands, your hair, your face. And because we didn't share that primal, honest, true touch that extends far past the reaches of science, I will eventually forget your name.
I think, for now, my time entangling with romance is over. For so much afflicted and inflicted pain, for such perpetual disgust, for the remnants of bitterness and anger that ring in my head day after day, I don't really mind. I know that when I ask you about your life again, when I ask about your girls or your marathon training or your games or your gym routine, not even a part of your responses will matter. We will be strangers, again. I'm never going to stay and wait for my heart to be ripped out, even if its the courageous thing to do. I'm going to turn around, walk away, and start anew.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Unmade.
And I was so sure before.
I think my intentions have been fulfilled. I've dealt enough emotional pain. The resentment and anger and refusal still churns, but in truth, I'm so exhausted from trying. Out of twelve school days, I've eaten twelve meals. On the first week, I plateaued. On the second, I gained. I hated myself. I hated everything that was happening. This third week has been a cycle of rebelling my body, dehydrating myself to fatigue...to the point where the quantitative measurement of my appearance improved.
On those bad nights, I sat in my typical maniacal wakefulness, squirming, kneeling on my chair, face pressed to Youtube. I envy those bloggers so much. Everyone shares the values of family, success, comfort, and luxury, but my family seems to recognize these as the only values that exist. VidCon and P4A and vlogbrothers and Tyler Oakley expand the meaningfulness of their lives, our lives, by building incredibly vast relationships. They busy themselves into a social network of real people, real projects. When I watch Grace Helbig and Ryan Higa and even their "lesser counterparts"... Hannah Hart, Sean Fujiyoshi, David So, Troye Sivan... even the little people are invited to the massive celebrations of community.
Of the many things I dislike about high school, I most regret not learning how to be truly social. I wish I took Honors Print instead of Honors Written. I wish I had the guts to take media classes and that second year of AP Studio. I wish I understood the value of connections and friendship. I wish I didn't push people away. This sounds like those deathbed cries, when the disease-ridden patients groan that they regret not spending enough time with their loved ones and worrying too much about technicalities of life. Many people like being alone, but not feeling alone. I shouldn't have rejected so many people just because they don't share the same merits.
At the same time, it consoles me that for many people, the better part of their lives don't start until their adult years. Shane was that guy who puked during gym class and ate the asphalt. John Green was a hopeless romantic and a terrible student. And I, I hate the drone of physics lectures and the buzz of art history PowerPoints. I bask in knowledge, but I hate tests. I do well.. sometimes, but my favorite moments are always when I'm drawing out a sketchbook assignment and or planning posters or writing essays. I truly do not reject the idea of exams because of my performance, but because I would rather create.
I finally feel like my own person. Establishing a presence online has helped, but more than anything, the understanding of independence is striking. I think I'm almost ready to create and earn for myself. I think I can do it. I'm going to try. Failure is palpable, but a future of filling out someone else's project is so much worse. My mom wants so desperately for me to have a conventional, peaceful life. I'm so scared that my future is already twisted in this direction. I'm so scared that I passed up my only opportunity to be an architect at Cornell. I'm so scared that I'll regret this.
There isn't part of my life that I can sacrifice for true affection. I'm not ready to be sweet or cute. The games are better than the real thing. Our dry-mouthed obligations are unnecessary. None of the admiration, awkwardness, or bafflement is reciprocated. Be my partner, my friend, my noodle. Just don't romanticize it. I want to meet this Brown guy of Chelsea's.
I think my intentions have been fulfilled. I've dealt enough emotional pain. The resentment and anger and refusal still churns, but in truth, I'm so exhausted from trying. Out of twelve school days, I've eaten twelve meals. On the first week, I plateaued. On the second, I gained. I hated myself. I hated everything that was happening. This third week has been a cycle of rebelling my body, dehydrating myself to fatigue...to the point where the quantitative measurement of my appearance improved.
On those bad nights, I sat in my typical maniacal wakefulness, squirming, kneeling on my chair, face pressed to Youtube. I envy those bloggers so much. Everyone shares the values of family, success, comfort, and luxury, but my family seems to recognize these as the only values that exist. VidCon and P4A and vlogbrothers and Tyler Oakley expand the meaningfulness of their lives, our lives, by building incredibly vast relationships. They busy themselves into a social network of real people, real projects. When I watch Grace Helbig and Ryan Higa and even their "lesser counterparts"... Hannah Hart, Sean Fujiyoshi, David So, Troye Sivan... even the little people are invited to the massive celebrations of community.
Of the many things I dislike about high school, I most regret not learning how to be truly social. I wish I took Honors Print instead of Honors Written. I wish I had the guts to take media classes and that second year of AP Studio. I wish I understood the value of connections and friendship. I wish I didn't push people away. This sounds like those deathbed cries, when the disease-ridden patients groan that they regret not spending enough time with their loved ones and worrying too much about technicalities of life. Many people like being alone, but not feeling alone. I shouldn't have rejected so many people just because they don't share the same merits.
At the same time, it consoles me that for many people, the better part of their lives don't start until their adult years. Shane was that guy who puked during gym class and ate the asphalt. John Green was a hopeless romantic and a terrible student. And I, I hate the drone of physics lectures and the buzz of art history PowerPoints. I bask in knowledge, but I hate tests. I do well.. sometimes, but my favorite moments are always when I'm drawing out a sketchbook assignment and or planning posters or writing essays. I truly do not reject the idea of exams because of my performance, but because I would rather create.
I finally feel like my own person. Establishing a presence online has helped, but more than anything, the understanding of independence is striking. I think I'm almost ready to create and earn for myself. I think I can do it. I'm going to try. Failure is palpable, but a future of filling out someone else's project is so much worse. My mom wants so desperately for me to have a conventional, peaceful life. I'm so scared that my future is already twisted in this direction. I'm so scared that I passed up my only opportunity to be an architect at Cornell. I'm so scared that I'll regret this.
There isn't part of my life that I can sacrifice for true affection. I'm not ready to be sweet or cute. The games are better than the real thing. Our dry-mouthed obligations are unnecessary. None of the admiration, awkwardness, or bafflement is reciprocated. Be my partner, my friend, my noodle. Just don't romanticize it. I want to meet this Brown guy of Chelsea's.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Oh.
Now I know why.
These echos that still haunt me, the screams that constantly sing my insufficiency. I can't think of a time I wanted to hurt myself more. Maybe its just characteristic of pain, of heart ache, of sickness.
I almost told someone today. I was tearing away the last trinkets, the final gifts, practically shouting the futility of romantic relationships. Sebastian was staring. He expressed that he thought I was improvising a soap. I would have corrected him, but the bell rang.
The thing with telling people is that they always understand in their own contexts. They say "Oh great noodle flakes, its so true" but because of their own relationships. The only person who shares this kind of hurt... is you. And you, you can't matter.
I don't want my circumstances right now. Math team, stats, ELA, humanities... I can deal with them, but I hate waking up every morning in complete opposition to the idea of making progress. I want to give up. I tried so hard, but the little advancement I make in cold, miserable perseverance is always erased in a single night's indulgences. Like, that condom was hilarious. So many parts of my days are funny and enjoyable, but it all falls barely short of meaningless. I don't want to participate. I'm so tired.
On good days, I do.
But only because I'm not done dealing my share of heartbreak.
These echos that still haunt me, the screams that constantly sing my insufficiency. I can't think of a time I wanted to hurt myself more. Maybe its just characteristic of pain, of heart ache, of sickness.
I almost told someone today. I was tearing away the last trinkets, the final gifts, practically shouting the futility of romantic relationships. Sebastian was staring. He expressed that he thought I was improvising a soap. I would have corrected him, but the bell rang.
The thing with telling people is that they always understand in their own contexts. They say "Oh great noodle flakes, its so true" but because of their own relationships. The only person who shares this kind of hurt... is you. And you, you can't matter.
I don't want my circumstances right now. Math team, stats, ELA, humanities... I can deal with them, but I hate waking up every morning in complete opposition to the idea of making progress. I want to give up. I tried so hard, but the little advancement I make in cold, miserable perseverance is always erased in a single night's indulgences. Like, that condom was hilarious. So many parts of my days are funny and enjoyable, but it all falls barely short of meaningless. I don't want to participate. I'm so tired.
On good days, I do.
But only because I'm not done dealing my share of heartbreak.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Holes.
I have one more story that I think needs dredging up now.
Retreat was held at Carthage College. I rave about running through Pioneer Park, but Carthage is where I fell head over heels in love with God's inexplicably beautiful creation. This is where I felt the purest compassion and remorse, the shaking grip of my soul being violently cleansed by what I know to be the Holy Spirit. This is where I was okay. This is where the rising sun ceaselessly floods the lake. This is where I sat on the rocks, utterly alone, singing I Will Rise to the crashing waves.
This is where I stood, one year later, behind the doors of the sanctified praise and prayer night room. I was trying to forgive someone; I was confessing; I was crying; I was giving up the iron fist of my sins. But none of these thoughts were heard. He wasn't listening. After so long, he still didn't understand. One of my best friends turned down my offer to pray for her. And it went on. People did not want me to pray for them. I was terrified because something was wrong. Something fundamentally wrong with me made itself so obvious. Our pastor warned us about people of other belief systems. Their prayers brought demons. These people... like me.
But I want to say this. Regardless of my questionable, endless corruption, there was one moment during last year's retreat that shook me. It happened outside those doors. Another friend asked to pray for me. He was a character intertwined complexly in the realm of relationships, especially this one. It was not to his fault; my affections for his friendship are completely assured and without a single thread of anger. He prayed not in tongues but in truth and ingenuity and absolute friendship. We sat apart, hand in hand, and the tide of unprecedented, unstained understanding and gratefulness washed through. And then we stood not even an inch apart, and everything I thought I believed about my circumstances was broken.
Although hindsight bias can make moments a lot more dramatic than they are, I spent the rest of the night shivering uncontrollably and in mass confusion. And this is where I could no longer tell anyone the truth, and so then, two holes were shot through my life. One is bitterly crumbled in stitches, closed. One is vacant, and I expect it to never be fully occupied again.
We can bump heads. We can have the hardest conversations about love and hurt and pick up emergency Skype calls immediately. We can build memory palaces together. We can run and sweat and you can surprise me from behind and tell me your deepest faults. You can tell the most wonderful, stupid jokes in the world. You can teach me everything about those forbidden topics. We can be blatantly honest and wholeheartedly loving, but that little hole is reserved. Reserved for no one left.
Its best this way.
Retreat was held at Carthage College. I rave about running through Pioneer Park, but Carthage is where I fell head over heels in love with God's inexplicably beautiful creation. This is where I felt the purest compassion and remorse, the shaking grip of my soul being violently cleansed by what I know to be the Holy Spirit. This is where I was okay. This is where the rising sun ceaselessly floods the lake. This is where I sat on the rocks, utterly alone, singing I Will Rise to the crashing waves.
This is where I stood, one year later, behind the doors of the sanctified praise and prayer night room. I was trying to forgive someone; I was confessing; I was crying; I was giving up the iron fist of my sins. But none of these thoughts were heard. He wasn't listening. After so long, he still didn't understand. One of my best friends turned down my offer to pray for her. And it went on. People did not want me to pray for them. I was terrified because something was wrong. Something fundamentally wrong with me made itself so obvious. Our pastor warned us about people of other belief systems. Their prayers brought demons. These people... like me.
But I want to say this. Regardless of my questionable, endless corruption, there was one moment during last year's retreat that shook me. It happened outside those doors. Another friend asked to pray for me. He was a character intertwined complexly in the realm of relationships, especially this one. It was not to his fault; my affections for his friendship are completely assured and without a single thread of anger. He prayed not in tongues but in truth and ingenuity and absolute friendship. We sat apart, hand in hand, and the tide of unprecedented, unstained understanding and gratefulness washed through. And then we stood not even an inch apart, and everything I thought I believed about my circumstances was broken.
Although hindsight bias can make moments a lot more dramatic than they are, I spent the rest of the night shivering uncontrollably and in mass confusion. And this is where I could no longer tell anyone the truth, and so then, two holes were shot through my life. One is bitterly crumbled in stitches, closed. One is vacant, and I expect it to never be fully occupied again.
We can bump heads. We can have the hardest conversations about love and hurt and pick up emergency Skype calls immediately. We can build memory palaces together. We can run and sweat and you can surprise me from behind and tell me your deepest faults. You can tell the most wonderful, stupid jokes in the world. You can teach me everything about those forbidden topics. We can be blatantly honest and wholeheartedly loving, but that little hole is reserved. Reserved for no one left.
Its best this way.
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