Month: January 2020

i woke up this morning to lovely weeping. what’s wrong? i asked. kobe died, she said. kobe who? i asked. i racked my brain for all the cats, dogs, rabbits, and babies who my friends may have named after the basketball legend. growing up in california, it’s not so uncommon, to name what you love “kobe.” the syllables slide off the tongue like a finger roll. the name is held close like a charm for a patron saint of victory. kobe is a word so ubiquitous that when it is evoked, it could refer to a plethora of other things in the universe before even landing within the arena of sports. which is why it wasn’t until lovely responded, kobe. like, as in kobe, that i began to feel my heart sink.

for the past couple of hours i’ve scrolled feeds on my phone in a quiet daze, as has become my ritual for mourning our icons. i can’t front like i’ve been avid enough a fan to have watched many of his games with intent, don a jersey or pair of his sneakers, or be keen on what he’d been up to since his retirement. when i read testimonials from his true fans, i’m washed over by various waves of fomo for cultural moments that i simply let pass by – including my unfortunate lack of judgement that led me to spend most of the early 00’s rooting for the sacramento kings just because they were in proximity to uc davis, or my post-college years in oakland which i spent being salty about how terrible the warriors were while the lakers kicked ass down south.

but this is why this moment hurts so much – kobe being alive and out there in the world and doing well for himself was a subtle signal that elements of my adolescence could still be in tact without my meticulous maintenance. i didn’t have to keep up with his stats, or the records he broke, or details about his personal life to be a fan of the concept of kobe, and not have anyone question it. in a time when things have just seemed to be spiraling out there in the world, kobe offered a sense of security, a defense.

here in manila, i’ve been researching the manifestations of american culture on filipino life. when people ask me what i mean by that and i don’t want to immediately say “MILITARY AND COLONIZATION!” i instead crack a smile and say, well for starters, there’s all the kobe jerseys. i’m only half joking. upon my first visit here in 2013, there were so many people rocking purple and gold number 24’s i could’ve thought i’d never left the west coast. whether here, or elsewhere in the world, or even throughout my years living in the east coast, just the mention of being from california could at any point inspire someone’s eyes to light up. like kobe!

this week, lovely and i head out of manila and finally become californians again after almost a decade. it’ll be my first time living in los angeles, and i can’t help but feel like LA life will be less complete without a kobe around. it’s an incredibly selfish thought, while his day ones mourn along with a city that has cherished him for two decades, and even more so the unfathomable loss to a family who he and his daughter will not be returning too, and the families of the others who perished in the crash. in these moments, i’m tempted to ask, who am i to feel anything at all? but whenever a legend dies, i’m reminded that what makes them legendary is the shared sense of pride and loss that we all get to feel. it’s a collective experience that we are all entitled to, each in our own distinct way.

sometimes i’m told that i think too much. not sure what that means exactly. who are the people who hold the standard measurements? what is the evidence that they are, in fact, not thinking enough? sometimes, after i do something clumsy, i end up thinking too much about the suspicion that i’m too careless. i think what it comes down to is a sense of imbalance – not that too much or too little thinking is happening, but that it’s not being distributed in the right places. for me, this manifests in feeling drained after completing just a few pressing but ultimately meaningless tasks. not giving myself enough space to do the thinking that i enjoy – writing, daydreaming, wondering, loving. but those kinds of thinking are of a low currency these days. with all the world’s ills, there is a high demand for innovating, problem-solving, criticism, outrage. but i’ve filled my head and my days with so much of that flavor of mental energy that i’m still crawling out of burnout. the problem with overthinking in those kinds of ways is that they deplete me for days or even months from being able to engage in the more regenerative kinds of thinking, the kinds of thinking that i’m actually good at. the ideas economy still runs on a limited resource, even if we haven’t quite sorted out how to measure the energy that goes into ideas, concern. i haven’t done much today but for some reason it has still taken so much for me to even write this blurb today. the weight of the concern that writing here, like this, isn’t actually doing anything for the world, overshadows my writing process on a daily basis, or worse yet, keeps me from writing. i recognize that this is just the soreness that comes from being away from the gym for so long. the painful, embarrassing bullshit that everyone has to write through if they want to come up with a gem. or maybe this is the best that it gets, and it’s more about recognizing the beauty of that.

god bless the taxi drivers of manila. and not only because everyday they usher the good people of the philippines through some of the worst gridlock in the world. yes, even worse than jakarta. definitely worse than la or new york, manila takes the cake for carpeting the most heaps of metal with wheels within any given lane, road, or overpass, hands down. but this blessing isn’t for the traffic the drivers endure daily, or the clouds of exhaust they huff constantly, or the way they can pull those right turns without hitting the scooters and pedestrians that pop up out of nowhere. what makes manila’s taxi drivers the greatest above all else has to be the music selection. step inside a cab or a grab or a jeepney and instantly be transported into a sanctuary for old school. i’ve only taken a handful of trips to manila, but i’ve already lost count of how many times my commute has been soundtracked by whitney houston, phil collins, or journey. it’s like every driver in the city was required to take a mariah carey trivia quiz before getting their license, as if the philippines has recognized these people-moving jukeboxes as a natural resource. that’s why i don’t think self-driving ubers will be making their way to manila anytime soon, because only a human could make me tear up on the way to the mall in 2020. i credit these nostalgia factories for making bearable what would otherwise be harrowing, jarring rides. outside, the soundscape is honking, beeping, gritty madness, but you would never know because “cruising together” was on full blast on your way to robinson’s. but don’t get it twisted. the rock might be soft but the drivers are tough. they are typically dudes who look like they’ve been in their 50’s since the days of cassette tapes. looking at the wrinkles above their brows, hearing the grunts in their voices, and accepting their talent for remaining deadpan in all situations, you would never think that they probably know the lyrics to “eternal flame” by heart. but i guess in this day and age, only a badass manong can bump backstreet boys’ “i want it that way” without irony. its because of these drivers that i moved shazam to my home screen. i thank that one grab driver who drove us from pandacan to makati one midnight and induced my obsession with cinderella in the process. yes, it’s true that not every driver is amazing. sometimes they make me want to strangle bruno mars. i hate how they blast the aircon so frigid that i’ve learned to bring a sweater with me even when it’s sweltering outside. often i get frustrated by whatever blind confidence inspires them to jerry-rig the seatbelts so they won’t click shut, as if potentially flying through the windshield is a reasonable price for not insulting their ability to drive. but it’s because of this fleet of passive dj’s that i actually enjoy rush hour in manila. i just lean back, zip up my hoodie, grab onto something, and take in a love song while the world outside my window goes by in slow-mo.

there’s this story of herman melville. about how moby dick was only one of the many works of his that received terrible reviews, or none at all. about how his aspirations to be a full-time writer dissolved into a life as a customs officer, and that it wasn’t until decades after his death that his writing was finally recognized – and only because a cultural nostalgia for nautical life led people back to him. i’ve recalled this story several times in conversation. i’ve never read moby dick.

why do i gravitate to stories like this these days? is it because somewhere in me there’s a longing to not have gone down the path that i have in life, and instead continue with spoken word? or do i feel like i owe something to the self of my 20’s that obsessed over rap blogs and fantasized about playing madison square garden, despite not really having the discipline to train myself for it – and frankly, not really sure i had the desire for a life of fame? or maybe because it reminds me of how little control i have over how people think of me anyway. and that all the initial measures of greatness that come up in my mind are incredibly vapid. one thing’s for sure, and it’s that i never want to look back and realize that i didn’t create a body of work.

i think about the past decade since ib4the1 dropped, and the music files that are sitting in various hard drives, and how entire music platforms have come and gone since the days when dahlak, nico, and i stayed up through the twilight recording takes. there is a certain point where i can zoom out far enough in time or space to decide that it doesn’t matter anyway. i can list other artists who also seemed to disappear or take on new lives elsewhere, but it’s all to make me feel less alone in my diverted future.

the truth is, as much as i love traveling the world, curating shows at the smithsonian, being in love with lovely, and having the luxury of taking life at the pace i want to, at times i still feel like i failed myself. i know that there is no accuracy to the ways i’m measuring success or failure, because it’s this part of me that would be tempted to trade my community for fame, my financial stability for balling out of control. but the deeper part of this that i do actually want to listen to is the self before dreams of stardom was even a thing. the self who could just grab a pen and feel impressed by whatever came out, who filled up notebooks in no time, and who hungered to share it with the world. i’ve been struggling to stop putting the cart before the horse, to not feel so daunted by the high hopes i have for every piece of work i make to land that i don’t even get started in the first place. when it’s all said and done, who knows whether whatever public profile i have will stand the test of time or mutate beyond what i’ve ever envisioned for better or worse. the regret i must avoid is that of not having cultivated what i know i do well, and what i love doing. it’s a slow and impossible process to get back into writing, with how high my standards for myself and the world have grown. but if this isn’t what i’m here for, then what?

there was a point in time when i used to blog daily. those posts are lost somewhere on the internet now, or perhaps stuffed into a mysql database in one of my many unlabeled hard drives. they were logs of my day and my reflections, much more point-by-point than this era of writing, and they were accompanied by photos taken from the camera that i’d carry in my journeys. this was a time before smart phones, before social media, when carrying a camera and blasting your life story out to the world was still a novel thing. but here is where tech leaves me behind. some things can get too easy. as it became more convenient to take shots, write, and post, the less appealing i found it to be. maybe i also stopped seeing the internet as such a safe place to do this kind of work. it’s why i haven’t really promoted this part of my website. it helps me feel safe, even though at the end of the day it’s all just pixels and urls. i want this place to be where i can let my guard down, don’t feel like i have to impress anyone with flowery sentences or breathtaking insights. all the snark i threw up on twitter that whole decade ended up being cringe-worthy anyway. and maybe those old posts would be too, if i could access them again. but since i can’t right now, they sit in my mind as epics – beautifully scripted, open and honest, a time when my concerns were more artful and less about the grown up shit. that’s the funny thing about writing regularly. writing can really feel like pulling teeth. you second-guess every cliché phrase like “pulling teeth” and then your mind runs through every writer out there who has used it before, and then every writer who is so much more creative than you that they were able to conjure cleverer colloquialisms. like, writing is like hand-feeding a rabid dog or writing is like carrying a porpoise up a narrow flight of stairs. and then you hate yourself for trying too hard. and then you wonder why most people in this world don’t try hard enough. and then you decide that everyone in this really really does, except for you. and then you realize you’re talking about yourself in “you” statements because it’s easier that way. and then i wonder if my blog is getting too depressing.

what really is the difference between tradition and convention? i ask because over the past couple of years i’ve come to recognize the sacredness of tradition – not only in the ceremonious found in special occasions and festivities, not only in the ritual that sets the tone for the day, but the longstanding knowledge and understanding of things. conventional wisdom. old wive’s tales. old school. luddite. dusty, crusty, convention.

i’m surprised that i’ve ended up here, in 2020. i’ve spent my life chasing and representing the new. embracing the notions of thinking outside the box, going against the grain, and all the other mantras conventionally applied to unconventional philosophy. i’ve found success, recognition, and entire careers on my mastery of rejecting mastery, of kicking down the side door and convincing myself and others of my value as a neophyte.

and for good reason, too. i grew up knowing that the rules set in place were never for my benefit. i’ve long detested school schedules set to the industrial era, food pyramids that don’t sit well in my stomach, and generally a game of life that keeps dealing cards i don’t want to play. i attribute my habit of breaking convention to rejecting the misogyny advertised by my peers in high school, the homophobia in my religion, and the forces that appeal to assimilation. i know that conventional wisdom includes slavery. conventional wisdom includes war.

but lately i’ve been feeling like i’m doing flips on a tightrope without having yet learned how to walk a straight line, and i’m just now realizing that i’ve been doing it without a net. maybe i’m looking for balance. maybe i’m recognizing that innovation can only go so far without foundation, imagination still requires a sound mind, that nothing can exist in sustained disruption. i think i’m also tired of fighting. i’m looking for a flow i can go with.

this year, there are many things that situate me in resistance. there are traditions and conventions being peddled right now that i can’t fuck with. there are so many realms where i’ve resolved to color outside the lines, but in order to not spin out of control i’ve also discovered an appreciation for knowledge that has ripened with age. the last couple of years building with people in hawaiʻi, aotearoa, and navajoland have instigated this, and i’ve come to a slow awakening to the value in my own ancestral traditions, some disconnected by a few generations, but mostly things that stopped in my own childhood when i thought that doing things “my way” meant embracing all-american values.

how do rebels grow wise? i’m interested in learning how others are navigating back to old ways while keeping their idiosyncrasies in tact. but for now, i’m craving a deep dive in the spiritual, medicinal, and earth stewardship practices of those who have come before me. my challenge is to refrain from feeling like i keep having to inject myself into the process, to hack or “fix” it. maybe all of this is a no-brainer for those who don’t share my inclination for the unconventional. if so, call me an eager late bloomer.

i don’t have a lot of regrets, but one that i have is that i opted out of taking a chinese philosophy class in college. it was my freshmen year and all of the engineering courses for my (inevitably doomed) computer science major were taken. maybe it says a lot about who i was, but instead i took regular philosophy aka western philosophy. you know, red barn and all that. ultimately i feel that i’ve been approaching wisdom at a reasonable pace in my life, though maybe all of us at times think that we’re slightly ahead or behind where our age group should be in our understanding of the universe. tbh maybe a chinese philosophy class taught at uc davis and probably not taught by a chinese person would’ve been the wrong way to go anyway.

now that i’m in my mid thirties, it seems less ahead of the curve that i’m coming around to learning things such as chinese herbal medicine (by learning, i mean i’ve registered for a mooc i haven’t actually logged into yet). it has been a decade since i’ve been into tai chi, a practice that the elders at hester park told me i’d probably slip away from since i was so young at the time. i never followed up on the martial arts that i began in middle school. i guess there are some things that aren’t meant to be at the times we’d like to romanticize ourselves into appreciating.

this year a few projects are bringing me back around to my cultural roots, in particular research on how chinese and asian cultural practices have persevered in american settings. it makes me think about the early chinese settlers whose lifestyles were considered dirty, ugly, abhorrent in this new country – yet, they shouldered past it because it was their way of life. it’s a much different story for me, an ABC who grimaced whenever my parents insisted on speaking canto at home, and was much more interested in microwaving a hot pocket than learning how to boil herbs. but what non-psycho kid in the 90’s wouldn’t have been the same? at times i reckon that the wisest thing i can do is not beat myself down too much for being immature throughout my youth, and for accepting ignorance as a condition that you never really grow out of.

let it be known
that everything you’ve ever longed for
has always been a part of you
this is not a jingle for the american dream
it is not a super soul sunday message
it doesn’t even care whether you feel motivated by its implications
it simply means that we are all walking halls of mirrors
we have no original desires
most things that could be described as a need was once a want
and that want was once nonexistence
in my life
i’ve seen so many versions
so many upgrades
improvements on features that had never been bridges to my notions of happiness yet now keep me from thinking straight
i suppose it’s what happens when
we are no longer left to our own devices
when our imaginations are under the yoke of another’s innovation outline
when we forget that we can splurge on daydreaming
that we can luxuriate in time
when a moment of stillness amidst the chaos of this world
is all it takes to have enough

i haven’t been feeling the burst of energy that it seems like other people on my ig feed have for the new year. i don’t think it’s an age thing. it feels more like a hangover from the past decade of pumped-up years, of beginning things with a bang, of feeling like i’m going to make this year “my year.” you can have it. instead, i’m at the intersection of burnout and cynicism. don’t get me wrong – i’ve found life so far so rewarding, and i’m forever grateful for the friendships i’ve made through them. but i can no longer play this game where the worth of a year is centered on career goals, internet output, and outward appearance. i feel like i spent all of 2019 just trying to get off a rollercoaster whose tracks were laid by my sky-high aspirations, and now that it’s coming to a slowdown i’m definitely not trying to get back on anytime soon. for 2020 i’m setting the intention of managing my stress, clearing my mind of concerns that need not be mine, and of minimizing vapid informational inputs. i’m getting to a point where all of the things i involve myself improve my health, relationships, and feeling of groundedness. i’m feeling completely allergic to welcoming things into my life meant to stack onto my CV, increase my social media presence, or chase dollars. the other day i watched a few episodes of kevin hart’s don’t f* this up – it’s the kind of show that in my past would have been a source of motivation, of feeding off someone else’s drive and seeing how big their dreams are as a measurement of my own potential. i felt nothing. when it comes down to it, i’m just in need of a recharge. offering 2020 to myself as my year of low power mode means that i only focus on the vital things. nothing extra happening it the background, no extra effort toward what won’t ultimately matter. that’s something i can get excited about.