Monday, December 24, 2018

Resolutions



It’s not quite the New Year but the idea of resolutions is already on my mind. The last few weeks feels like a time for reflection, change and a reassessment of the year gone by. 2018 was a mess of a year and I can’t wait to be able to start again. It’s a funny thing this marking of cycles. We do it because we need it. Below are some resolutions for myself and perhaps the world at large.

Save Money – Feels like money has been made of water lately, just draining out of my hands and debit card like it is feeding the flowers. I’m not sure how I have become such an extravagant with the actually unglamorous life I live but this will be the number one change on my mind because golly, it just can’t keep going on this way.

Exercise – Hahaha. Yes, this old one again. But really as we all age it is reality. We lead such sedentary lives, well most of us, and sadly we have to re-enact mobility and motion so that our brains and bodies don’t become as puddled as our society wishes them to be.

Less Obligation – A hard one to achieve but this coming year I will feel less obligated towards everything and hopefully it will all work out. I’m not sure if my guilt complex will adjust at the same rate but heck, being less obligated towards even that feeling could be a good place to start.

See More Art – I’ve been a dull dull and lazy girl when it comes to seeing art and that just has to change. So much out there to see, so little time it feels. But it’s truly amazing all that we have just a few subway stops away.

Start a New Project – Not sure what it will be but starting something new and being excited about how to figure out how to do it is really one of the most generative things one can do.

Care About Looks – So easy to do, so silly not to.

Drink Less – The party has to stop sometime and to be honest, it’s so much more fun when you can remember it the next day.

Treat People Less – Sort of related to the money thing. I can’t seem to help treating people to things. Drinks, food, presents. I enjoy it obviously but it’s not necessary, at least not to the scale I find myself doing it. It’s also a good deed to not make people feel indebted to you somehow.

Watching TV – Brain drain. Books come back to me!

More Vegetables and Fruits – Will try to pretend I live in LA.

Make New Friends – I do this every year but the new friends I have made in the last, or the friendships that have become stronger, have been probably the most rewarding thing about this past year.

Forgiveness – Of myself and others.

Go Away – Some how I find I’m always desperate to go on a trip, even something short or near, and I find myself still stuck in the city. Next year I want to travel more. The bug has hit and I will follow it.

Be More Sincere – Those who know me know that I am honest (sometimes to a fault) but bring sincere is another thing. It’s softer and more generous. I think I will take a stab at it and hopefully don’t rupture anything in the process.

Trusting Others – Walls down, defenses released. The act of trusting others is difficult for fortressed hearts but through letting other in and trusting that they mean no harm I think we will all be better for it. The receivers and the givers.

Friday, December 21, 2018

Checked Out





Aiyiyi, so yes, it’s Friday and I am posting this now because the last few days, weeks, probably months have been a perfect storm of busy and ennui. How are these two things spinning on the same coin? I’m not sure, but I guess it’s my way of saying that it has been this duality of social frenzy meeting with recoveries involving the necessity to do nothing at all.

This ceaseless pace and flip-flopping has made me crave being checked out. Checked out from work, life, family, friends, responsibilities, stimulation, obligation, the whole damn gamut.

And the funny thing is, is that I want to embrace this desire to be checked out. It’s like as if I feel I deserve to be able to make that choice. Do you know what I mean? This sense that you are always having to do one thing or another for something (or person) or another and you are this elastic and capable person who feels mostly happy to do it all but then you just snap or are all tangled up and all you want to do is bow out, hit pause, step out of the vortex that is your life and just watch it a bit from the outside.

Checking out is perhaps a cowardly act but also it can be seen as self-care. It’s something you can choose to do wherein it’s not about figuring it out, anything out at all, or even naming the issues or the causes. It’s merely just making it so that it doesn’t matter. It can all just wait. It all can go on without your participation.

In our society we are made to believe that volition is granted to those that are invested, are involved, are committed. But is that really what the point of this whole living is about? And I think that this impulse/this training is actually very scripted. We are not the authors of the lives we are living but performing characters that we have been allotted.

Checking out seems selfish. I have to say I feel guilt about it sometimes (a lot of the time). Somehow I have constructed such a complete and thorough version of myself in the pre-deemed obligations and personality of myself that it seems like the only thing that makes me well, valid at all. But I have reached my ‘fuck it’ point. The point where I want to just light a match to all the agendas (self created as well) and hit pause.

This checking out is also for social media. I’m dying to just turn my phone off for a week and just see what happens. What would the texture of life and oneself feel like without all this constant management and affirmation that we have selected the right path or are correctly presenting ourselves in the world?

But as you can see, even with all these grandiose persuasions, I can’t seem to completely check out, because here I am again, blah blah blahing to the void to who knows if anyone.

Well, forgive me. I am weak but I think I am speaking a version of truth for myself and maybe this resonates with some of you. I don’t want to drop out or disappear. I just want to re-center the core of my gravity and to be outside the tornado of my self-constructions. If only for a little while.

How can one do this is this day and age? I’m not sure. We are all in this gilded cage together and it seems pointless to pretend otherwise. But that’s the thing. I’m not trying to pretend. I’m not trying to take a vacation or have a rest. I just need a break, a form of stopping, pausing, a sense of choice in the lack of control over anything.

If this sounds appealing, I encourage you to try to do the same. Even if for a day, a week, or whatever you can spare. We who are fortunate enough to be able to check out once in a while should. Nothing will be gained really, but also what is there to lose?

Monday, December 10, 2018

Random Questions on Random Things





These last few weeks have been a bit cray-cray but the end of 2018 is within sight and I don’t know about all of you but thank gawd that it is. Below is just a bunch of things that are ponging around in my brain because heck, sometimes our brains need a winter purge as well.


Is Being Quiet More Powerful?

So, I am loud. Like sometimes really loud. Like so loud that I have been asked to leave places and things like that. I think that’s unjust at times but I also think that it is totally valid other times because I have this Napoleon complex where I overcompensate for being you know, short, non-white, woman etc. etc. And sometimes I think I lash out with my verbosity because of these expectations/societal conditions. But the other day I was really thinking about how culture really values people who are quite. The idea that it is a form of power in some ways. You see this in art all the time. I call artists who don’t speak cyphers. You know them so clearly, they are super visible but you can’t imagine their voice/opinion. Someone like Cindy Sherman for example. And this happens in politics too. People like Jared Kushner, the pitch of his voice is startling once heard. Or like Robert Mueller III whose stoic silence in the Russia probe is both enthralling and making the Trump administration squirm. Also, in another vain, the idea of ghosting. That weird power of detachment and creation of befuddled obsession for response makes the person who does this act very potent even in their invisibility. Anyways. Just a thought. Maybe I should try this tactic. I’ll probably fail at it but meh, might be fun to scare people with my silence once in a while.


Is Trend Forecasting Dead?

Does trend forecasting even matter anymore? My thoughts are NO. I mean what’s the point? The cycles are no longer even cycles. Time is irrelevant, fast fashion has made the cannibalization of clothes not even worth mentioning. There are too many people doing every form of everything (art included) that it all just churns in churns out. The only trend I’d be down to forecast is the end of trend forecasting. Glib. Whatever. Glib is in.


When Will China Take Over the USA as #1?

Economically I think maybe 50 years (for the total steady trend of their dominance). Culturally maybe 100 years (capitalism will have to evolve and nostalgia will still be ripe). These are all obvious total guesses in the wind but it will happen. And I’m not sure if I’ll be here to witness it but things change, I hope they do and I hope that they are different and have more room for everything and everyone.


Will Rich People Ever Stop Running the Art World?

No.


Is Over-Information Making Us All Detached?

The other day there was an image of a Yemeni girl who was starving (then starved to death, age 7) in the New York Times. This picture spurned an uptick on coverage on the war in Yemen that Saudi Arabia is leading and which the USA has been allowing. It was a hard image to see but then it was like most of these types of images, it blips off the radar. It’s like the image of the migrant refugee child dead on the shore. Or the little boy in a shock, covered in dust in Syria. So many images of so many children in war-torn areas and other areas that are unseen, forgotten or being brutalized to its core. We stop collectively to see these images. We impart them into our brains and it tugs at our humanity but then we turn away because there in our hands 24-7 is a buzzing, blinking, notification streaming of our lives, other’s lives, everything else that we may or may not care about. Now more than ever we have all this information, all these images right there, literally finger tips away but just as easily we swipe, refresh, reload, move on to something else. This inertia of constant over simulation makes it all flatten out. All blips. And we can forgive ourselves about our passivity because even the second or half-second that we give our attention to such sad things in the world makes us feel informed, somehow doing our duty as a fellow human being. Somehow, just awareness is enough. But it isn’t. Like all things acts and deeds are the measure of intention. I’m not judging or blaming or anything of the sort. I too just stared at the image of the Yemeni girl and thought what an impossibility it all felt. But something has to change right? How, I am not sure but if it keeps going then all we are left with is thoughts and prayers and nothing but screens and keys to touch.

Monday, December 3, 2018

The Policing State



Whoa, whoa, whoa… Is it just me or are things way out of control with all the policing people are doing to each other lately? By policing I mean, being called out for literally any perceived offense/slight/misstep in regards to politics, race, gender, etcetera, etcetera… I mean yes! Times are a changing and things need to be talked about and many, many things need to be overhauled, revamped and thrown out the window but WOW, the sheer level of bitterness and total lack of true empathy and kindness is not only upsetting but frankly offensive.

What am I talking about? Well, I guess I can relay a few incidents that just happened in the last week to me personally. (Last week was a doozy of WTF in incidents).

Example 1 – Working on a project and I accidentally spelled someone’s name wrong because I was literally in the throws of a viral infection but still had to go into work because of the timeliness of the project. Sent email so participants could check that their names and info were correct since I knew I was a bit out of my gourd from illness. Person with misspelled name is furious and says I’m basically a racist, xenophobe etc etc. on and on. I apologize and correct. Person continues to imply I was intentional in misspelling and asks if spelled anyone else’s name wrong. Turns out I did, a seemingly easy to spell white male’s name… Was confronted about incident in person. Apologized again but made point to say their reaction was unjust. It was just a human error… Issue resolved.

Example 2 – Same project and was still loopy from illness so forgot to include someone’s name in email, noticed mistake, emailed person, remedied and apologized. Person working on project with me emails demanding that I need to call missing person and apologize. Insane. There was a form of some white-guilt on their part I thought the demand of accountability and power play seemed totally inappropriate. Said nothing of the sort but resolved anyways. Person that was left out of email was totally cool with oversight and said that I was “the best.”

Example 3 – Person was rejected from a program I oversee. They email saying that they don’t understand our review process and that it is essentially rigged and that other’s who got it in the past don’t deserve it. Was incredibly out of line and totally baseless. Program has a blind jury of three panelists that don’t even know who each other are until end of voting. Usually email like this would not upset me but was feeling shot to pieces by the bitterness of it and the total lack of understanding. Didn’t reply back because really what is the point?

Example 4 – Post something on social media using the word ‘derpy.’ Derpy is an actual word meaning silly/foolish. Like it is in the Oxford English Dictionary. Someone DM’d saying that I probably didn’t know I what I was doing but using that word was offensive against mentally disabled people. I’m in shock. Have never seen it used that way and start to google what the heck they are saying. Vague vague references to this equalization. Feel pissed that a COMPLETE stranger has audacity to message this to me. But also feel guilty because I don’t want to offend anyone regarding mental disabilities. Like I literally tell people off for saying the word “retarded” in any manner whatsoever. I remove ‘derpy’ from post. Feel defeated. Trolls win.


So these are just a few snippets of my disaster of a week dealing with call out culture. These events and the general tenor of late has made me feel like a total bag of crap and in addition it has made me furious! Most people assume a lot about everyone. We all do, but I have the added layer of confusion because my name reads as one thing (possibly male and white) when my actuality is not (Asian women). People assume a lot just because of this and it’s totally mind boggling to have to position myself as an ‘ally’ all the time when hello, look at me! And not only look at me (because actions are the most vital part of positioning) look at my life! What I do! Who I support!

But, I guess these are the times we are living in. Everyone is feeling both desperate and empowered to make changes, to fight the fight, to stand up, stick out and change what they see as injustices. The way of going about it through anger and judgment is relevant and at times necessary but there also needs to be a moment of reflection. Self-reflection, and some compassion and openness and respect above all. So if people want to throw eggs at my head for literally, I’m not sure what – being a human that makes mistakes or is being perceived as a power hungry gatekeeper – then go ahead. But it makes me not want to stand with you, it makes me pity you and wish that some of that anger would lessen so that there is more peace, understanding and love for oneself and others. 

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Waugh by Bryan Washington




I am so sick today, yesterday as well, hence this today. Body of mine, please heal thy self.

Below is a great short story from The New Yorker a few issues back. Enjoy. Prey for me!


Waugh
by Bryan Washington

Poke lived in a one-bedroom with five boys and a window. The complex sat on Montrose, just across from St. Thomas. They rented it from a woman who couldn’t be bothered with a lease, or regular maintenance, or even a deposit; Rod had talked her down so that she wouldn’t raise the charges on them. Rod was the one who spent the least time fucking around. He was always out tricking. Most of them were. But, on the rare mornings Poke awoke on the fading carpet of the room, he could watch crowds from the chapel drifting up the block. The apartment was next to the Chevron on Richmond and the pharmacy on Yoakum, with the diner in between, and Poke would hover by the window, humming at the sink, willing the tap into something a little nicer.

Usually he was cleaning up from last night’s john. Poke tried to keep things local. It made life easier. Most guys were fine getting jerked off in their cars, or driving Poke and the other boys a block from the bars on Fairview—but others insisted that they had to be comfortable, and these were the ones who took Poke home with them.

Although, once, Poke ended up at Memorial Hermann. He’d been sucking off some doctor and the doctor was on call. The doc’s pager went off, and he wouldn’t leave Poke at his place, so he drove him to the hospital and stuck him in the waiting room. Poke sat beside a pair of bleached blondes waiting for painkillers, three bespectacled Mexican women, and some whiteboy with his head in a bandage. The whiteboy looked broken, and he slumped beside his girlfriend, but even through the gauze he was the only one who stared.

When Poke finally asked what’d happened to his face, the whiteboy’s girl grabbed her guy by the shoulders.

The whiteboy said he’d been cooking and he poked himself.

Poke smiled, but he didn’t laugh.

The other boys Poke lived with were fine: Scratch and Google and Knock and Nacho. They worked the same bars, the same apps, hustled the same set of clubs. They looked out for one another well enough—like when Google’d told Poke about dragging his heels, so he wouldn’t track shit from the street into a john’s house; or when Nacho’d advised, after staring for months, that Poke find himself a shirt that didn’t scream pato.

But it was Rod who’d given Poke his crew’s rules of engagement: don’t do anything you wouldn’t do twice; never, ever, ever double-wrap your rubbers; never give your government name, find some shit that’s cool on the ears, and when Poke told Rod that he didn’t really get that since his name was his name and it’s what he was called, Rod christened Poke as Poke.

That’s what got you a regular, Rod said. You established patterns. Patterns became routines. Routines meant a sure buck most days of the month, and that’s what kept the lights on.

When Poke asked Rod about his new name, he never got a straight answer. The dude always dodged him. But one day Google told him: it was because Poke was thicker than the rest of them. All of the other boys wore one another’s clothes, all Supreme and Adidas and Urban Outfitters and Gap, except for Poke, who Rod made solo purchases for.

Rod wasn’t their pimp, but you’d be a fool to tell him that. He took rent from the boys. He bought food from H-E-B. He kept the carpet decent. He scrapped with the whiteboys on Yoakum. He made the rounds at all the shelters for handouts, kept roaches from colonizing the kitchen, and, once, after Nacho’d asked who the fuck made him king, Rod broke his thumbs launching him into the wall.

Poke called a cab to drop them at the Urgent Care on Westheimer. Rod’s thumbs swelled like a pair of pale cucumbers. Nacho had a sprained ankle and three bruised ribs, and he wouldn’t step straight for the rest of the year. But Rod iced Nacho’s ribs. He brought pho from the noodle bar and menudo from the taqueria. And although Nacho still called him el pinche pendejo blanco, there was warmth in those words from there on out. Not respect or gratitude. Nothing akin to praise. Just acknowledgment. An acceptance of the way things were.

It took months for Poke to ask Rod why he’d done that. When Rod answered, it was like he’d been waiting for the question.

Because one day someone’s gonna kick the shit out of me. They’re gonna beat my fucking ass, he said, and then we’ll see what you do.

Rod kept tabs on all his boys, but he kept Poke a little closer. He’d have denied it if you’d asked him, but he felt for the kid—there was something in the way of kinship.

Poke had no history. He’d hit the streets straight out of the shelter. Rod hadn’t seen him swapping needles on Almeda, or huffing paint in Hyde Park. This made Poke, Rod figured, a true victim of circumstance. So Rod kept Poke in clean socks. And Rod told Poke which cabbies to dodge. And Rod snuck Poke into Minute Maid Park on an off night during the playoffs, a favor from an ex, and they walked from aisle to aisle palming the backs of every seat, mouthing the names of Astros who’d walked the field before them—Biggio, Oswalt, Peña, and Altuve—muttered like saints under their breath.

One night they sat in Katz’s huddled over a Reuben and a milkshake that Rod had insisted on despite the extra dollar. Most Thursdays found the boys on Fairview, waiting for the bars to leak their patrons into the morning. But Rod said he had news. Big news. And Poke’d learned not to sleep on an empty stomach.

They rarely ate out, and Poke thought maybe Rod had come into some money. It was about fucking time. Maybe he’d found them a bigger spot. Poke envisioned wood floors, painted walls, no rodents, but Rod only sighed, and shut his eyes, and told Poke that he was sick; he’d finally caught the bug.

The two boys eyed each other across the table. Rod with the lighter skin. Poke’s a little darker. Rod with the tapered fade, shaved to the neck, and Poke’s close-cropped, curly at the top. One a little older, the other a little shorter. Both of them brown in the eyes.

Poke took a long bite from his half of the sandwich. He asked if Rod was sure.
Sure enough, Rod said. The rapid looked sure. Nurse sounded fucking sure.

O.K., Poke said. So take another rapid.

That was the third.

They glanced at the diner door as it yawned open and a gaggle of drunks stumbled in from the cold. Poke blinked through the men, glancing at their ring fingers, wondering how much he could pull. Then he pinched himself.

Rod sipped their shake. He didn’t use the straw.

So find a fourth, Poke said, but his voice was cracking.

They didn’t know much, but they knew about H.I.V. They knew the way it hung over Montrose. They took their precautions. And then there was the rule, Rod’s rule—you got sick, you were gone. No questions. No exceptions. Your ass was on the street.

And yet, Poke thought.

There was froth all over Rod’s lips, strewn with half-chewed pastrami. Poke flicked the end of the straw against his nose.

Fuck, Rod said. What’s fucked is I don’t even know who it was. I can’t even tell you who threw that shit to me.

Poke wanted to say that he’d thrown it to himself—and that’s what didn’t compute. Not with all Rod’s yelling about safety. All the precautions he ran them through. All the grief he gave them. But those words dissolved on Poke’s tongue, and he shook his head instead, and he rubbed the nape of his neck with his palms.

Monday, November 19, 2018

Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus





I just had a birthday and with another acknowledgement around the globe issues of being a woman, of the body, of the existence that is pressed against our flesh, minds and feelings seem to compress even more.

 Like most girls, when I found out about Sylvia Plath at a pre-teen age, I was smitten and found her to be intoxicating in her tragedy. There is a recent release of her letters in book form and the re-investigations of her death, her legacy and the guardians and gatekeepers to truths we will never know.

Reflecting back today, post birthday whirlwind, I find myself thinking of her. Her young life, her acknowledgement and confinement within her times and body…As well as her use of language as a tool to manifest her conditional and potential selves.

I will make it short today as this body of mine is reckoning with me today and just include her poem, Lady Lazarus. Read it slowly and more then once and then look in the mirror and think about the skin you that you are in and the multiplicity we all carry.



Lady Lazarus

Sylvia Plath

23-26 October 1962


I have done it again.   
One year in every ten   
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine   
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   
O my enemy.   
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be   
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.   
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   
The peanut-crunching crowd   
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.   
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   
The first time it happened I was ten.   
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.   
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.   
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute   
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.   
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   
For a word or a touch   
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   
So, so, Herr Doktor.   
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,   
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   
A wedding ring,   
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair   
And I eat men like air.

Monday, November 12, 2018

My Boring/Busy/Beautiful Life This Past Week, Part VI




Doesn’t it feel like November is already over?! Anyways, what a week. Going to do one of these things cause it’s been a while and yup, can’t think deep thoughts today. Scorpio season is in full effect. I hope we all make it out alive.


Monday 5

I was soooooo depressed (read last post) but I knew I had to just trudge along and trudge along I did. Went to work and was barely cogent but got through it. Afterwards, went to gallery for a meeting to talk about a food project. It was a nice meeting. Went to drinks afterwards and felt a bit better from the buzziness of alcohol and nice conversation. Went to sleep.

Tuesday 6

Voting day! Another day where the whole ‘the universe hates me’ was still in full effect. Went to voting location and waited on a long line even though it was the short line. Sigh. They don’t have my name on record, which is insane since I just voted there for the primaries. Sigh. Fill out an affidavit ballot and walk in rain to subway. Go see therapist. Go to work. Supposed to podcast later that eve but feel like a pile of crap and it’s raining and I just can’t bare to hear the sound of my own voice so I cancel. Go home early and take a bubble bath. Feel a it better. Make hot chocolate and get a hot water bottle. Feel a bit better. Probably watch something, (don’t remember) and fall asleep.

Wednesday 7

Wake up from a crazy dream/nightmare but feel refreshed from all the sleep. Feel like today is the turning point of the depression spell; finally feel like I’m coming up for air. Feels good but also precarious. Go to work. Drop off a piece of work in Dumbo. Go back to Manhattan to kill time before meeting. Walk around Chinatown. Buy some cool, cheap clothes at a martial arts shop. Get to meeting early. Drink wine at the bar. Person comes. Eat mozzarella sticks and drink more drinks. Feel buzzy and relaxed. Person meeting seems young... Another person I know passes by, they come in and we chat. I leave the meeting but have time to kill before friends DJ set. Call friend and we agree to hang out before her set. I get those lycee like fruits that are round brown balls, clementines and soju. We make muddled fruit soju drinks and chat in her room. We get ready to go out. Go to bar for dancing. Dance. Guy comes by and we dance more. Very drunk at this point. Drink more and dance more. Someone picks me up in the air. I think it is fun. Go back in a cab and fall asleep. Can’t remember how I got home…

Thursday 8

Feel like a garbage truck ran over me. Call out of work. Make omelets then immediately need to take a nap. The drinking and depression overlap is not a good idea... Sleep most of the day. Drink seltzer, tea, more seltzer, water. Try to feel better. Go out to eat with friends in Chinatown. Feel like a slug. Eat and chat while eyes half open and wearing sweatpants. Go home and pass out.

Friday 9

Go to work. Go to specialist in Mid-town. Have to check out wtf is up with this lump in my boob. Wait for over an hour. They forgot about me. Sigh. Get mammogram. Have to do 3 times! Freaking out. Get ultra-sound. Wait in a robe with other women waiting in robes. Finally they say it’s all okay. Feel relieved! Feel elated! Feel like my body is my friend again. Supposed to do a studio visit but cancelled it. Go home and make myself a nice meal. Friend texts, she is outside. I share my dinner with her and then she leaves. I watch a baking show and then try to sleep. Insomnia, but it’s okay.

Saturday 10

Go to gallery to meet photographer. Artists come. Photographer comes. Hang out there for more then I expected waiting for photos. Go home and make a grilled cheese. Feel sleepy after eating so take a long nap. Meet up with guy and play pool. Learned how to play 9 ball. It’s fun. Go to a diner for Dominican food. Go to his apartment and chill and watch Planet Earth. Sleep.

Sunday 11

Go back to my apartment and have an urge to clean like a crazy person. Laundry, reorganizing, throwing things away, clean out drawers. Feels productive. Want to go to friends open studio but something last min comes up. Later on go to a sample sale on Canal street. Buy too much but I think that’s okay! Go to a birthday dinner. Eat a lot a drink a little. Go to arcade. Win a stuffed animal. Go home and guy comes over and we watch Planet Earth and fall asleep.

Monday, November 5, 2018

Well, I Guess I am Depressed



Okay, I surrender. I give up! Society, you win! Stick a fork in me I’m done! UGGGGGggggggggggggg is the only word/sound that I think can describe the last few weeks. I think the insanity of insignificant busy-ness, the turning of the season, the sun just ticking away and the barometric pressure karate chopping my body in two has left me in the current state of puddle-blob-weepy-dark-cloud.

I get this way sometimes. I think we all do. And most of the time I know I have to just trundle along and deal, cope, get through it and then voila (or more like, okay...) it gets less and the existential weight, doom, malaise starts to drip off you by Spring time. But let’s get serious for a second. Depression is so real. I think most people have a form of it and for those that are a bit wired differently or are missing a few cognitive plugs and well grooved behavioral pathways, depression can be more then just a momentary blip.

Depression is physical. It’s in you, on you, pushing you down and draining your brain and emotions and all the good juicy stuff that makes you someone people want to be around and someone you yourself want to be around.

Depression is patient. It will wait for you to be exhausted or exasperated or incapable of holding it at bay and then it gets you. Sometimes fast and hard, something slow and creeping but it always gets you.

Depression is embarrassing. I know nowadays people talk about it more then before but it’s still a private island most often through self-expulsion.  No one wants to be a drag. No one wants to make it heavy. No one wants to be needy in a way that is not logical in that it isn’t something that can be nursed and cured through attention and affection. It makes you feel exposed and that can lead to anger to any viewer witnessing it. It’s a double edge of self-loathing and disgusted abandonment and NO, we don't want to talk about it with you!

Depression is common. It surprises me how little we as a society cope and handle depression because it is so common. I feel (maybe wrongly) that it’s sort of crazy more people aren’t more depressed or have episodes more often. I mean look at this world we live in. This society we all cog and cling along too. How can anyone endure it, grin wittingly and not crack?

Sadness, anxiety, they are different things. They are pointed or poking out from something. An event, a tick, an idea that won’t stop churning. I’m not diminishing these types of feelings. I think they have a debilitation in their own way that scars just as deep but yeah, depression is like some smoke monster that fills your lung from out of nowhere.

So, will it get better. Yes. I’m a long sufferer of these spouts with the black blanket and while I have no idea when it will end or how to make it will end or what to do about it, I know that it will pass eventually.

I don’t really have advice to fellow sufferers. Its one of those things that is so specific and internal that to give advice seems arrogant and unnecessary.

All I can say is good luck and when we get to the other side lets remember to give a fuck about things including ourselves. 

(P.S. This isn't a cry for help! I'm fine. Don't ask me how I am. It'll just make me more depressed.)

Monday, October 29, 2018

Poe Poems




Did everyone go out this weekend and celebrate Halloween in some way or another? I actually did this year, which is rare. The last time I dressed up was I think eight years ago. This year I did the utter least in way of costume which was to dress as a cat with just my actual wardrobe, a scarf for ears and a yoga mat string thing for a tail. Needless to say it was very basic but who cares! I was moved by the H-ween spirit this year and going to a fete and walking around the city seeing people in lame to amazingly impressive costumes and general mischievous joviality warmed even the most cynical of hearts.

I know that Halloween is technically a few days away but heck, I don't have kids so it’s already over for me but to keep with the spirit of the season I thought it would be nice to share some poems by American Goth #1, Edgar Allen Poe.

I love Poe’s writing. I always say that Poe has a terrible PR manager because he has this silly perception of being a twee-goth in a whoa-is-me sort of way but he is actually quite a literary technician and he is a sort of American writer that is of the place and time in which he lived and imagined.

Enjoy the turning of seasons and may you find tricks and treats to sustain you for the coming long winter days.


Edgar Allen Poe (1809–1849)

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been 
As others were—I have not seen 
As others saw—I could not bring 
My passions from a common spring— 
From the same source I have not taken 
My sorrow—I could not awaken 
My heart to joy at the same tone— 
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— 
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn 
Of a most stormy life—was drawn 
From ev’ry depth of good and ill 
The mystery which binds me still— 
From the torrent, or the fountain— 
From the red cliff of the mountain— 
From the sun that ’round me roll’d 
In its autumn tint of gold— 
From the lightning in the sky 
As it pass’d me flying by— 
From the thunder, and the storm— 
And the cloud that took the form 
(When the rest of Heaven was blue) 
Of a demon in my view—


A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp 
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?


The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys 
By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace— 
Radiant palace—reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought’s dominion, 
It stood there! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
On its roof did float and flow 
(This—all this—was in the olden 
Time long ago) 
And every gentle air that dallied, 
In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
A wingèd odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 
Through two luminous windows, saw 
Spirits moving musically 
To a lute’s well-tunèd law, 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 
Porphyrogene! 
In state his glory well befitting, 
The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 
And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 
The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
Assailed the monarch’s high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
And round about his home the glory 
That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 
Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever, 
And laugh—but smile no more. 


Fairy-Land

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— 
And cloudy-looking woods, 
Whose forms we can’t discover 
For the tears that drip all over: 
Huge moons there wax and wane— 
Again—again—again— 
Every moment of the night— 
Forever changing places— 
And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial, 
One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial, 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down—still down—and down 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain’s eminence, 
While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, over halls, 
Wherever they may be— 
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— 
Over spirits on the wing— 
Over every drowsy thing— 
And buries them up quite 
In a labyrinth of light— 
And then, how, deep! —O, deep, 
Is the passion of their sleep. 
In the morning they arise, 
And their moony covering 
Is soaring in the skies, 
With the tempests as they toss, 
Like—almost any thing— 
Or a yellow Albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before, 
Videlicet, a tent— 
Which I think extravagant: 
Its atomies, however, 
Into a shower dissever, 
Of which those butterflies 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again 
(Never-contented things!) 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings.