///DREAMBOY///

"There are people that make art, and there are people that watch people make art."

There is only myself to blame for letting my art fade from daily existence. The only art I'd experience was the seldom show or museum, or witnessing a friend create theirs. Meanwhile I was rolling around in my own inner turmoil and self-loathing, because all I wanted to do was make art, but I just couldn't muster up the motivation to do so. I let external situations batter me, convincing myself I no longer had it in me, that I was dead inside.

"What else is there to do but make art?"

Entire days and nights used to be spent drawing, painting, writing, making jewelry. I would wake up every morning and just do it - it was constant creation and active meditation. I've so missed being in that mindspace where your passion for the creation at hand renders you free, and you just let go of all inhibitions and overthinking and just create. Everything flows seamlessly from your soul to your mind, through your arms and out your hands, without faltering.

"I would love to see your art." "I want to see more art from you."

My one friend, a brilliant photographer who captures immaculately the scenes which the untrained eye fails to see, encouraged me one very drunken and damn near blind night telling me I have to wake up at 6am and make art till 3am, everyfuckingday. To just do it. And if I'm broke, to steal paintbrushes if I need to. To just fucking make art - all the time, by any means possible. It had been a long, long while since anyone had semi-scolded me in that way about my art, and damn I needed that.

Another friend, an abstract painter whose consistency and use of color I greatly admire, tells me all the time she wants to see more of my work. I keep posting old stuff, but now I've run out and am realizing the old is old - it's about time I make some new. My mind is anew, my life has changed for the better, my heart is healing, and all of my art supplies are waiting to be touched again.

And the dreamboy, the real unreal painter, the one I can listen to talk all day and all night about art, the one whose paintings move me in a way I've not felt before. Each of his brushstrokes is with specific intention, each color mixed evinces a deeper feeling, and each piece as a whole tugs at my heartstrings everyfuckingtime. We speak about various painters and obscure photographers, the meanings behind inanimate objects and the unique portrayal of isolated body parts. We fall in love with books and get excited over musicians. We share poetry and prose, and read it aloud. We balance our health with toxicity and our chronic depressive states with crooked smiles. We're androgynous in our style and appreciate each other's bodies as they are. I could look at him forever.

He asks me what I'm going to do today.

I tell him I want to make art.

He tells me I should.

And so I do.

///RIP///

If birth and death are nonesuch,

if time is merely a manmade concept,

then a birthday can be a deathday,

and a deathday can be a birthday.

///LONE///

When only music or a book or a ray of sun or the gentle sway of a windchime or the emptiness of your room or the drawn out exhale of your inner self are the only things making you feel less alone. No tangible person could ever feel precisely what you are feeling. It saddens me when the company of others actually makes me feel more alone. When I would rather twist and turn amongst the colorful fantasies of my mind. There's more for me there than here.

So why am I here?

///PAIN///

It's as if pain is just another drug

that you try to quit yourself time and time again,

but fail every time.

You can't do it alone.

Pain,

depression,

cycles of anxiety,

suicidal thoughts,

uncontrollable rage,

repetitive insecurities..

You need the support of someone or something else

to help you out of the otherwise endless abyss.

You need that helping hand

to reach down to you in your darkness

and help lift you out of it.

It won't be easy,

but don't give up.

I hate this place of darkness.

The one that envelops my whole being.

That asphyxiates all feelings,

rendering me helpless

and hopeless

and scared.

///MOONBEAM///

Missing my moonbeam.

Living in the now, accepting things as they are, embracing your current situation -- should be so easy. But it's not. We are so accustomed to mulling over the past or wishing on a future, desiring something different, convincing ourselves the grass is greener on the other side. But that's no way to live. That's the way to live if you want to die before you even get the chance to live. Fully, properly, peacefully.

With my very dearest friends so far from near, I am forever guilty of wishing for a different situation -- that all my best friends and I could live in one place; that my family was just a drive away rather than a Facebook message and several thousand miles away. Despite my largely inexplicable attachment to LA, I abhor its desert-like characteristic when it comes to finding gem-like beings -- they are few and far between -- it's a barren city. But it's likely the city's and my fault alike, as I don't extend my efforts too far when it comes to sifting through socialscapes. I am happy with who I have, but the majority of who I have and cherish also happen to be out of physical reach.

When I have tears no one else can understand, silences no one else can translate, a broken being no one else can help put together, a shattered soul no one else can console -- I am left to my own vices. The vices of my mind whose tendency is to make matters worse; to dwell and dwell and dwell. I am not fully myself without my kindred spirits. My laughs aren't as often, my smiles aren't as wide, my heart not as full.

But I am full. I am whole. I am me.

Just not as me as I am with them.

///BROKEN///

I've broken everything.

My phone.

My walls.

My hands.

My body.

My face.

My heart.

My spirit.

My self.

My peace.

Over and over again.
I'm a broken girl,
and a broken record.

What do you do when you continually hit rockbottom?

You take on the arduous task of building yourself up again.

Because there is simply no other choice.

///FADING///

 

Detachment as a sort of refuge. Antisociology -- I always come back to it. It's my natural state: a hermit, a loner, a preference for solitude, comfort with solely my own company. Just as they say only speak if your words are more valuable than silence, only seek the company of others if their presence is more valuable than yours alone.

It's ironic though: I detach from society oftentimes then, conversely, I detach from myself just as wholly. I will give my whole being to give and care for others; putting their needs before mine as if it's beneficial somehow. But I learn time and time again that condemning oneself to a life of pure selflessness is not as wonderful as it seems. Utter selflessness can become dark, twisted; it can become neglect of self, it can become deprivation of your own needs, it can become starvation of your deserving spirit.

Thus, balance. Balance is always key. I am relentlessly reminded through shitty situations of this dire fact of existence. One must balance selflessness with selfishness. Selfish so commonly has a negative connotation -- of greed, of disgusting self interest. But I believe selfishness can also be self care, self love, thoughts and actions with your own best interest at heart (all things I am constantly having to learn and relearn because self-hatred, sadly, is a frequent knocker on my psyche's door).

The strands of my soul are incessantly being torn in polar directions. I can feel the deepest guilt and shame and embarrassment for surrendering to solitude and not speaking to or seeing friends for months on end. And I can feel the most self-deprecating resentment and loss of self when I repeatedly and consciously push my own needs aside to tend to the voids of others. I wonder -- do I hide in the confines of my house, the corners of my mind when I cannot stand society; and burrow myself, lose myself in the company of others when I cannot stand myself?

Solitude and socializing; depression and happiness; work and play, hate and love, complete destruction and utter peace -- it's comes so easily, so logically, so naturally for others to find a calming midpoint with such matters. But, for me, all I've ever known were the binary extremes.

Too much and not enough.

And nothing in between.


fast fading away from myself
just as much
as i am fading away from you


(AKA when you bipolar AF but don't fuck wit labels 😂)

Mental disease is so widely bandaided with pharmaceutical drugs, when really it is just that: a dis-ease.
An uneasiness of character that can be remedied with deep, difficult insight; healing from within rather than from without.

///ESCAPISM///

Ever since I was a child, as young as six, it's been my therapist, my expressive outlet, my home remedy, my confidant in solitude, my most favored healer. When I'd fight with my parents, when I felt lonely, when sadness overcame my spirit, when tears tore me apart. And just as much when I'd fallen madly in love, when psychedelics took me on otherworldly journeys, when verbose verbalizations could never quite grasp overwhelming emotions. It was always there for me, it never left my side, it never abandoned my soul, it never changed. Never. It always waited for me to come back to it, even if I pushed it to my periphery (and sometimes beyond, out of sight and reach), even if I disappeared on it for months, even years, on end. It stayed. True as ever. Ready with open arms and helping hands, with ears to listen to my every thought, and shoulders to lean on when I could barely hold myself up.

Sanrio diaries with the shitty generic locks, infinite daily journals, countless blogs, innumerable poems, umpteen pieces of semi-fictional non-fiction, foreign magazine articles I'd just about forgotten by now; there are leaves upon leaves upon leaves of my life expressed through the written word, helping me get through the ups and downs. My life has been narrated by me upon paper scraps with raw edges, waxy napkins that barely held ink, unfolded airplane vomit bags, empty margins of my favorite novels, filthy bedroom walls, putrid alleyways, cute Japanese stationery with matching envelopes, binder paper notes passed betwixt friends during monotonous lectures. And I cannot even begin to recall the neverending phone memos that have been lost over and over again due to broken phones, as if on purpose so I could start anew.

I always knew I could turn to it, but as I've gotten older I seem to have created a space between us. A distance that often disquiets me, and instead of giving in to what once eased my every slight ailment, internal or external, the past few years I've given myself to destructive paths instead. Fully knowing how much it means to me, how much it helps me to see more clearly, how much it helps me grow in every aspect of my being, yet still blatantly denying its impatient omnipresence in my life -- that not only puzzles me but, in a way, pains me. And not a physical, tangible pain, but a mental one, a spiritual one.

Being the object of crippling social anxiety, I was always subconsciously grateful for the written word. It helped me to communicate with others eloquently, on my own time, without pressure, without stuttering, without the struggle of having to translate the billions of thoughts racing around my head into verbal sentences.

It's bizarre because I do recall at one point coming in second place at my school speech competition. I recall being able to socialize normally with the other kids. I recall a time when I could be around people and not be consumed with anxiety and nerves, with a sick feeling in my stomach, with sweaty palms and a hot face, with slight trembles and shifty eyes, with insecure thoughts telling myself I shouldn't say anything because it's going to come out stupid. I can't help but wonder what the fuck happened. What traumatic event singlehandedly switched my character from normal kid to mute kid? Perhaps it was merely the insecurities everyone experiences as a teenager, but mine tainted me deeper, mine stuck with me. Perhaps it was society as a whole that fed me the narrative that females, namely Asian females, should only speak when spoken to, and should otherwise remain meek and unnoticeable. I really do not know.

What I do know is that whatever happened that caused me this late onset social anxiety, consequently and naturally also got me into recreational use of anti-anxiety medication, namely Diazepam. And, after a whole childhood and teenhood of being anti-drugs, Diazepam crashed into my existence and became the one true destructive love of my life every single day for five years straight. And, like how Picasso had a blue period or how the Beatles had a black album, I had a blackout phase. Five years of my life I only remember through photos and through writing. But the photos do not explain much for me, the writing however speaks volumes more. Crushing to say but, it was probably the best writing I ever did. It was raw, and it was depressing. It still induces tears whenever I revisit it in my present existence. Reading it I can so easily feel those exact feelings again, remember the scents that surrounded that era, remember the songs that were looping on my iPod at the time, remember the outfits I pieced together in a blurred state.

Writing has the ability to stir up not only old emotions, but past sensory experiences: the perfume that rubbed off on my pillow each night, the beer that met my tongue at each outing, the rhythms that entered through my ears and led me astray from reality each day, the feel of those secondhand dresses against my upper thighs when I danced, the look of unfamiliarity when I'd steal a glimpse of myself in the mirror sometimes.

Those glimpses frightened me. There's so much more to the story but, basically, there were the innocent years, the blackout years, the rehab years, the sober years, the semi-sober years, and now there's this year. And this year I haven't had any desire to go out, to party, to indulge in substances. I want to go back to constructive forms of escapism -- writing and reading and cooking and exercise and yoga and creating and art. I can't let myself regress to that blackout phase again. I can't. The thought of it alone has been giving me anxiety the past couple of years, and that anxiety compounded with my social anxiety? That's too much fucking anxiety for a hundred pound girl.

So I guess I'm back to writing.

Sorry for the sabbatical.

Hello again.

///YOU///

You.

I wanna know You.

I wanna know about your childhood, your upbringing, your traumas, your fears, your first happy memory, the first book you read, your nicknames, your first time on a skateboard, the haircuts you had, your favorite park, what you put on your bedroom walls, what the trees sounded like outside your window, what fruits were in your garden, what spot had your favorite view of the city, the restaurants you used to eat at, when you were saddest, what made you cry the most, the things you can't let go of, the theories that intrigue you, the worldly things you disagree with, where you got that scar, why that nail is black, why that finger is crooked, the things you do for your siblings, how much your grandma loves you, the songs that make you smile, the places you used to stay at, the places you want to go.. everything.

I wanna know all the things that got you to where you are today. The wonderful things and the not so wonderful. The things you wish to relive and never let go of. The things you wish never happened and could block from memory. They're all responsible in creating You. Every micromoment, every single millisecond of your life, is unique to Your existence.

I wanna know what makes you You.

Because I'm here for You.

And I love You.

Every part of you. With all my heart.

///WATERME///

Salt water cleanses all.
Tears extract sadness from your heart.
The sweat from your glands clears out inner toxins.
The immense ocean washes your soul and renews your spirit.

The drought in California is now over -- a distant friend's Facebook status informed me with a visual comparison of 2013 and 2016. I managed to wake before noon today, my alarm sounded at 9am to give me time for my morning rituals (ie: silent meditation/focus; apple cider vinegar water + supplements; coffee + Sun Potions; had to postpone exercise till later in the day) before heading out at 10am. After many, many days of rain the other week, we had two days of extreme summer weather, then this morning I hopped in my car and had to utilize the wipers again. It's crazy how water is so abundant, yet so scarce at the same time. One week we're in a drought, the next week we're flooding. One year we're in water debt, the next year we've discovered underground wells full of the stuff. One person takes one-hour baths nightly, another person has to hike an hour back and forth to collect water from a community well or contaminated river. One family filters rain water, another family doesn't have the knowledge about rain water filters. It's all just fucked. And nothing makes sense anymore. It could be so easy if everyone just cared for the wellbeing of others and for the planet. So easy. But greed, money thirst, that's what it's all about now. It's been said infinite times over, but: what the fuck is money going to give back to you in the end once we have exhausted all of our natural resources and are fucking dying because of it? Money isn't going to save you. You will die an excruciating death, but hey, at least your coffin was jampacked with Benjamins right?

I hate watching myself succumb to capitalistic society, and consumerist desires. Creating a business of my own knowing probably more than half of my earnings will go towards exorbitant bills and inexplicable taxes. Yet still constantly looking for things to buy.  Still dreaming of one day owning a souped up 4x4 truck. Always wanting to better my situation through material longings. It's so strange to me though, cos the majority of my being longs for no possessions. The majority of me just wants love and nature and smiles and laughter and to be surrounded by beautiful, compassionate, creative, deep-thinking, thorough-feeling souls. Souls that water each other's minds and find utter joy merely in watching the beings around them grow.

Listening to sad love songs en route to where I was going this rainy morning, I thought of how many times I'd played these same three songs over and over the past few days, and how many times they rendered my cheeks wet and my lips salty. Sometimes I think my own tears do more than just cleanse me, sometimes I feel them sinking back in through my pores and watering all the parts of me that are withered. Crying is not an act of weakness, it is your body giving you back your strength.

///READS HESSE ONCE///

Ready to exercise my brain.

As a child, I spent a lot of time with books. My parents would take turns reading me and Ethan books at bedtime, and I always adored observing, aurally, the disparate ways in which each would recite stories -- varied inflections, different speeds, but both with an inevitable calm. I recall being on my brother's bunkbed one day when I taught myself how to read. It was a rhyming book about pickles, and I was so excited. After that, I would read constantly. My mom would call us for dinner, and my face would be buried deep in a Boxcar Children's book telling her, "Just let me finish this!" She would take me to the library every week to rent new books, new worlds for me to get lost in. Fiction was my favorite, and poetry, I always wanted to be a kid poet. I also enjoyed reading about animals, dinosaurs, and deep sea creatures. In first grade, I stole Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea from our bookcase at home to read during silent time, and any word I didn't know I would write on a sticky note to look up later. Hemingway became a good friend of mine. He taught me that you don't have to write with much complexity to tell a powerful story, he wrote simply yet I could still envision his descriptions so clearly. Many recesses were spent in the library reading Roald Dahl books and, if not the library, outside playing tetherball or monkeybars or conducting singing competitions with my friends where I'd sing Mariah Carey's Hero and fucking kill it. Other games I enjoyed included Mensa brain games and math flashcards, Pictionary and Scrabble. From a young age, I was always naturally drawn to writing, mathematics, and visual arts.

Fast forward to 2017:

Hardly anyone reads an actual book these days. They're either reading succinct articles and posts on the web or listening to audiobooks. I still believe (and perhaps I am a rare case here) that real life books are immensely important. To flip through actual leaves, to scan actual printed letters, all while not being distracted by ad pop-ups or social media slash email notifications, is a miracle and a blessing. Reading actual books allows and promotes focus, something of a rare trait these days what with 10 second videos and things that disappear after 24 hours. You can keep a book forever, put it down to pick up later, go back to it, write in it, and witness it age beautifully in parallel with you.

Admittedly, I haven't successfully finished a real book in a couple of years. Probably the last was a Murakami one I'd borrowed (then consequently stolen) from my brother. It was dark, and the amount it made me think and wonder afterward was almost uncomfortable. Therein lies the beauty of reading a book: whether you like it or not, a book will make you think, imaginatively, critically, and continuously. Those new thought pathways don't go away, your mind remains expanded, and you come at the world with new eyes after every book. Though I haven't read many books as of late, for some reason my shopping for them has never ceased. I think the number of books in my library that I haven't read now surpasses the ones I have read, which is something to look forward to. And my Amazon book wishlist is made up of some 560something books, all of which I eventually plan on owning like, for example, if I win the lottery or some angel of a human being decides to fulfill my biggest material dream.

Last week I read an online article about the importance of morning routines. I jotted some ideas for mine that I want to eventually build up to and make a daily healthy habit of, such as: wake up earlier, 10 minutes of silence and breathing (meditation), smile and give thanks, apple cider vinegar water and supplements, quick workout or yoga, green smoothie or tea + breakfast, read or draw for 20 minutes, daily to-do list, check phone notifications outside in the sun, chores, then on with my day. Ok, so I realize I would need to take baby steps here and just add one per week, but eventually this would be my ideal morning routine to get my days started with a peaceful state of mind, ready to absorb and create all that good shit.

I picked up a book today. Yes, to read (as per one of my morning routine ideas). But 20 minutes turned into a few hours. I only read the preface, but it took so long because I kept stopping to re-read and ponder the concepts presented to me. It'd been a long time since I'd been made to think like that. To think in length about complex ideas, about bigger things than what's going on on Instagram. And it made me feel full, in a good way; mentally satisfied. Like the gears in my brain had finally gotten greased after years of sad atrophy. I felt like myself again.

It's crazy how a preface revised in the eighties about a book written in 1943 so accurately describes what the world has actually become and gives sound advice needed today in 2017:

"... the self-destructive course of modern civilization ..."

(Greed VS human welfare; greed VS nature; us influenced by unreal society standards VS our true selves)

"... Knecht succeeds in analyzing the dangers of an excessive aestheticism and acts to avert the catastrophe of intellectual irresponsibility."

(Use of social media)

"Hesse's novels fictionalize the admonitions of an outsider urging us to question accepted values, to rebel against the system, to challenge conventional "reality" in the light of higher ideals."

(Society, politics, media, the external world in general that's fast becoming one full of clones)

"... critics of the system and prophets of the ideal."

(Trump, Duterte, the unseen powers that be, power to the people)

"I hear music and see men of the past and future. I see wise men and poets and scholars and artists harmoniously building the hundred-gated cathedral of Mind."

(anti-clone society: take back individuality, encourage diversity)

"... he had been living a lie and denying the authentic impulses of his own being."

(Me, in a fucking nutshell, the past three years, getting lost in others and, consequently, losing my Self)

"... men must seek a new morality that, transcending the conventional dichotomy of good and evil, will embrace all extremes of life in one unified vision. ... The child ... is born into a state of unity with all being. It is only when the child is taught about good and evil that he advances to a second level of individuation characterized by despair and alienation ... A few men ... manage to attain a third level of awareness where they are once again capable of accepting all being."

(Things should not be viewed as just bad or good, there are so many grey areas, and what is more important is the idea of balance. Balance means that all contrast is essential, that you do not and cannot receive one part without the other, every single idea, person, place, thing, shape, mood, all of it! has a complementary idea, person, place, thing, shape, mood that balances it. It's not about good and evil, but about equilibrium, harmony.)

"... the futility of any spiritual realm divorced wholly from contemporary social reality ... even the most perfect spiritual institution, in the eyes of history, is a relative organism. In order to survive it must adapt itself to the social exigencies of the times."

(The benefits of yoga and meditation are nullified if one is unaware of what's going on in the world around them and does not apply and share their spiritual learnings with said world. Again, balance is key, diversity is paramount -- get to know both sides of the coin, as well as the edge.)

"... thoughtful commitment over self-indulgent solipsism, responsible action over mindless revolt."

(educational, mind-expanding posts VS serial posting of selfies; peaceful protest VS aggressive rioting)

"revolt need not be irrational and violent ... it is more effective when it is rational and ironic."

(let's define ironic here: happening in the opposite way to what is expected -- perhaps ATTN: Trump protestors?)

"... our computerized society has become so bureaucratically impersonal that it is no longer guided sufficiently by forces that are in the highest sense humane; our research and scholarship have attained dizzying heights of achievement without retaining a compensating sense of ethical responsibility."

(They know everything. Thank God for Edward Snowden and Julian Assange)

Enough for today. But can I just say, goddamn am I grateful to be back. I needed this return.

When you reunite with your old friends.

///DISTRACTION///

What with the recent Trump shit and the increasing shallowness of social media and media in general (leading to the widespread dumbing down and loss of individuality of our people), I must remind you:

It's all a distraction. Don't let the outside world cause you to neglect your inner work. In a time where privacy is illusory, we have become so involved in the stories of others. It is more important now than ever before to keep time for your Self. We need to be stronger, smarter, sharper, to rise up against all the bullshit going on around us. If we merely immerse ourselves in it daily, it will consume our minds, and we will surely drown.

And in your solitude, must I remind you:

Ego death. The most important death of your life. Dissect yourself in the mirror, go beyond the surface, and do not deny any parts of your being. Accept your whole self, the wonderful and the woeful alike. Honesty. Be consistent with your Self. Truth. Allow your mistakes to mould a better you. Learn. Let go of that which no longer serves you. Renew. Renew. Renew.