Month: April 2020

it’s always the beginning of writing that is most difficult for me. the decision to post my morning pages is a double-edged knife. the public aspect of it keeps me accountable gives me some sense that the stakes are higher than just a daily ritual that can easily fade off. at the same time, knowing the people are reading is a kind of pressure to say something insightful, profound, and beautiful.

my longer posts usually go on for so long, not because i’ve been struck by the muse and can’t stop writing. it’s usually because my brain is either too distracted to be insightful, too clouded to be profound, or too self-critical to say something beautiful.

it’s times like this when i need to remind myself that writing in the first place is actually the point. not that i know anything about fishing or hunting or harvesting, but if i did, i’d probably talk about how even the days where you don’t catch something at least provide the air, the space, the solitude to make it a day well spent. in the same way, the sessions where i generate what feels like a throwaway offer at least a few dozen words that wouldn’t have otherwise been written, a handful of thoughts that wouldn’t have otherwise been thunk, and if i’m lucky, maybe even a point that wouldn’t have otherwise been made.

there’s a sensation that comes upon me almost everyday by the mid-afternoon, as if by routine. at a certain point in the day, i’ll take a look at the time, and think to myself, i haven’t done ANYTHING.

this, of course, is never true. even on the mornings where i wake up late, skip meditation and go straight to endless scrolling on my phone, i’ve done something. actually, i’ve done a shit ton of things. i’ve probably read several news articles, caught up on a bunch of friends’ updates, caught up on a bunch of strangers’ updates, deleted some junkmail from my inbox, considered updating my linkedin, decided that i shouldn’t waste my time updating my linkedin, and scrolled past a few dozen thoughts, ideas, and happenings that my brain has decided not to register.

but i know that the expression i haven’t done anything is not to be remedied with the silliness of facts or reality. the anything in question isn’t just any anything, it’s actually quite a specific kind of anything – it’s specifically something tethered to whatever it is that i’m feeling at the time is all that matters.

when i’m in the thick of an unhealthy work period, the i haven’t done anything is usually dependent on whatever i may or may not have decided would entail a productive day at my job. during this time, the only way to really avoid feeling like i haven’t done anything at 3pm is to have spent at least 4 hours straight specifically writing and responding to emails, archiving emails, deleting emails, generating memos, being on calls, turning in paperwork, or other bureaucratic gymnastics. such days usually require me to forego meditation, exercise, breakfast, hydrating myself, being creative, talking to loved ones, and sometimes even going to the bathroom. those are the days where i feel completely depleted, back and eyes sore, but where i can easily comfort myself by saying today was so productive.

and so today i’m fighting everything in me that wants to set off the i haven’t done anything today alarm. the fact that this is a struggle for me, on sunday, amidst a lockdown, is a testament to how severely skewed my notion of anything is. in fact, i now have a whole 5-paragraph post to address this very topic – a feat which, by its very existence, already disqualifies me from making today actually a day of not doing anything. but not too long ago, a writing routine like this was so far from my notion of doing anything that it was nothing. so the fact that i showed up here today – that’s truly something.

i wonder if animals get jealous of other animals – like, inter-species-ly. like, do hawks fly over hippos and wish they could take mud baths too, meanwhile those hippos looking up at the hawk and wishing they could also have transparent eyelids? i ask this as beau, my neighbor’s labrador has been strutting around the courtyard like it was just any other friday. any other FRIYAY. grinning from side to side, tail perpetually wagging, like if he could speak he would say “i’m immune, bitches!! wait, why is everyone so bummed?” and i’m jealous, maybe for the first time, that this animal has the ability to not understand what the hell is going on, and is just fine.

okay, it’s not fair or accurate to say that just because other species are unaware of the pandemic that they don’t know what the hell is going on. actually, maybe everything knows exactly what’s going on, except for humans. it seems that, in the evolution of humans becoming the most #intelligent species on the planet – we’ve learned how to create equations to explain the expansion of the universe, build telescopes to see distant stars up close, concoct medicines for some of the mildest and most serious ailments, name a bunch of species around us – yet, in comparison to all of these other species, we don’t really know what the hell is going on, like, ever.

is it at least fair to say that technology is whatever humans make when they don’t know what the hell is going on, and make up something to try to fix it? can we call that the “fuck this” moment? like, when someone was trying to get somewhere on foot and was like “fuck this walking” and invented a wheel? or when someone was trying to crack open a walnut with their knuckles and was like “fuck this pounding” and invented a hammer? i’m asking because sometimes on instagram this ad shows up for an app that will get someone to pick up your laundry from your house, wash and fold it, and deliver it back to you. i didn’t spend much time on the post because i didn’t want the algorithm to know that i noticed, but i imagine the creator of that app has an origin story that amounts to him doing his own laundry one day and saying “fuck this putting my own underwear in a machine and pushing a button.”

okay, i’m feeling a little salty about humans today, and technology too (i’m also downplaying the actual struggle that is walking your dirty clothes to the laundromat in the middle of winter in brooklyn, which i lived through before, and fuck that). i’m trying to conjure the feeling of actual happiness that i have for all the plants and animals and air molecules that are doing so much better these days because of what’s going on. those who are prancing around, thriving at the expense of what’s happening to humans right now. and then i’m recalling how humans have been doing that – are still doing that – at the expense everything else on this planet. all these other beings don’t get to invent their way out of their situations, they just grit through it, and it’s not passiveness, it’s just life.

i guess i do know that animals can get jealous at other animals – like, inter-species-ly – by the way beau stares and groans when i’m eating a sandwich. lately, i just want to say “oh you want this sandwich? i’ll trade your immunity for it.” which i know is a stupid response, and would also be kind of fucked up if i traded anyone a sandwich for their immunity, and that would be me taking advantage of another animal for not understanding the notion of fair trade. i’ve gone way off on a tangent. what i’m saying is that i’ve thought about it and i’m still at peace with being a human, including my very human tendency to look at this dog enjoying his day, and get a little annoyed by his joy.

this is one of those days where i keep writing a line, only to delete it for another. it has been hard writing at all this past week, tbh. i have good, kind friends, so i know that the immediate response to this would be “then don’t write.” on one end, i do want to be gentle with myself, not force something where it doesn’t want to go. on the other end, for moods like this, sometimes writing is the only remedy. i remember when i used to do that – in any moment of deep grief, frustration, sadness, heartbreak – just reach for a pen and pad. i think that all changed when i started getting paid for it. my release became my work.

all my life, i’ve chased the notion of “do what you love.” lucky for me, there are a lot of things i love. i guess the downside is that, then, there is no end to things for me to do. my work is a cocktail of things that i began doing just for fun. writing, design, music, even curating. i love the thrill of picking up a new ability. but i equally don’t love the guilt and grief of letting those abilities go untended to, malnourished, decayed. i’ve accumulated a lot of that. talents turned taxidermy.

i remember when life included daily, one-hour piano practices. weekly lessons. seasonal recitals. it’s not like i was a young yo-yo ma or anything (shut up i know he’s a cellist). among the wide array of chinese middle schoolers who played piano in alameda county, on a bell curve i was probably a C-. still, i could play the fuck out of some bach! i remember when i could just close my eyes and let my fingers fly, entire sonatinas memorized by my fingers. it felt like a joyride. but put me in front of a grand piano today, and watch me roam around as clumsily as my cantonese has become. i remember when i used to draw. i remember when i used to make beats. at some point it felt like it was just enough to say i do it, even if i’m not doing it anymore. is this what it is to be washed up?

i recognize that i’m probably being really hard on myself. i’m proud of the things that i’ve done recently, and i respect the fact that there are just some things that were meant for a certain stage in my life. maybe it’s just how i’m wired, i just can’t let go. even off the heels of curating an exhibition that i’m really proud of, there’s still a voice in my head that’s like yeah but remember when you could draw wolverine hella good?

every time i go long stretches without tending to one of my talents, it feels like trying to propagate a dried up succulent. as i take this neglected, depleted, shriveled up dreg and cover it with dirt, it’s hard to tell if i’m sowing new life or burying the dead. and even days after, when i don’t see a bud poking through, i just have to pour some water, let in some more sun, and keep faith that there’s still life somewhere in there. today feels like one of those days, just watering twigs. i guess this is where someone might say “well, you gotta start somewhere.” and how about when you started long ago, and are just trying to find the groove again? i suppose there’s a somewhere for that too, wherever it may be.

one day i’ll write about how different venice is from all of its stereotypes – but today is not that day, and this is not that post. not after a weekend in which my upstairs neighbors invited a dozen z-list influencers to parade over so that they could all take molly and tequila shooters and blast the most generic placeholder club music until 7am for two straight nights. you know that typical scene in every teenage film where someone throws a house party because their parents are out for the weekend? i feel like the dad who inevitably forgot his fishing rod and decided to come home early. it’s ridiculous how much the hot mess outside my front door reminds me of freddie prinze jr’s IMDB. i feel like i need to wipe down everything.

there’s a line that divides “looking on the bright side” and “grinning through my pain.” whenever i tell someone i live in venice and they immediately begin telling me all their opinions about venice, that’s the line i sit directly on – a buttcheek on each side. while i smile and nod, it’s like as if they think it’s news to me that i live just steps away from a souvenir shop that sells thongs with phrases like “munch time” on them; or that there are yogi couples nearby who respond to social distancing measures by lying on the sidewalk and juggling each other with their feet; or that the streets are teeming with 15-year-old debutantes skootering around in only bikinis and facemasks (both not set up to appropriately cover what they’re supposed to).

i know i sound like a grumpy old asian man right now, but i don’t care – i’ve earned it! i’ve spent the past couple of sleepless nights sternly glaring out between the blinds while furiously chain-eating ginger chews. if only i had pearls, i would clutch them. it’s like zombie spring break in this bitch.

these are the kinds of people who end up in the blind spot of my loving kindness meditations. even the people who have specifically wronged me are easier to emit positive thoughts to. i just “breathe into it” like a tight hamstring stretch. but these other people? you can’t “breathe into” a pain in the ass.

as the outbreak continues, it has more deeply affected me and my loved ones in ways that i never imagined and that i don’t feel like getting into. some days it feels like there is a constant thumping in my head, and it’s not always the shitty music from upstairs. but when it is, i find myself resenting the people who are not taking things as seriously as i am. i resist – often to no avail – wishing that i could transfer some of my anxiety, grief, fear to the people outside who are just skating by (like, literally on roller skates). it’s taken every ounce of my remaining energy to stop myself from hexing the fuck out of them. if i were an actual witch, fools would be turning into toads left and right.

but what this has been teaching me is that empathy goes both directions. that’s what makes it different from sympathy, which entails a power dynamic in which the sympathizer has ample space to put themselves in the shoes of someone less fortunate. when you’re the one going through shit – empathy means not holding it against those who seem to be happily giving no fucks – to even, somehow, embrace them. in those situations, it shouldn’t be so hard to relate – after all, we’ve all given no fucks before. we’re all doing it right now, in one way or another. i imagine all times i’ve loudly, obnoxiously had a wonderful day, and how my joy may have been insult to someone else’s injury.

a few weeks back, the morning after we were terrorized by a whole other wild weekend of adjacent partying, my roommate saw our neighbor and asked him how he was doing. he sighed deeply like he could blow down his hangover. the whole ordeal was breaking him down. the partying has been an ill-guided way for him to not get driven crazy. i know that’s no excuse for his behavior. it still really pisses me off that his way of dealing with the world right now is a direct threat to my own way of dealing with it. venice during the pandemic can sometimes feel like pinocchio’s pleasure island of donkeys. but it has taken me in during dire times, it has been a kind sanctuary, a gentle anchor. it can be a pain in the ass, but it is home.

who was the first person to ever ask why is this happening to me right now? there had to have been a first time, perhaps early in evolution, when the concept of reasoning first appeared in the human brain. because animals don’t ask themselves that question, even under the direst circumstances (i’m assumng). when i watch planet earth and a goat is being chased down by a snow fox, is the goat’s inner monologue screaming “why is this happening to meeeeee????” when a herd of elephants, after weeks of seeking out a water hole, is disturbed from their hydration session by a pride of lions, are the elephants moaning, “why the fuck now?”

i’ve asked why is this happening to me right now many times – in fact it might even be a hobby. most of the time, my situation is less serious than being chased by a snow fox or lion. times i have asked why is this happening to me right now include:

• my computer crashing in the middle of working on something that i didn’t save as
• when i have an important engagement the next morning but am unable to fall asleep
• when i’m about to miss my flight
• when i spill almond butter on my shirt and try to wipe it with my finger only to discover i also have almond butter on my finger
• when i’m really craving a specific kind of noodles and show up at the restaurant that serves those noodles only to find out that they’re closed specifically on thursday for some reason
• when i’m about to miss my train
• whe i’m really craving a specific kind of noodles and show up at the restaurant but when i start ordering, the waiter responds with a wince and says “we’re actually out of that today.”
• when i’m about to miss my bus
• when the key isn’t working for the door to my friend’s apartment in new york where i’m crashing, and it’s the middle of the night, and i’m faded
• when i have the hiccups

there have also been the more serious, grave, tragic moments – the kind that i don’t really want to bring it up right now since i’d rather finish this post instead of lying in a faceplant for the rest of the day. these are the times when it really feels like The Saint of Shittiness decided to shit its grace on thee. it’s those instances when why is this happening to me right now isn’t just an expression of frustration or a rhetorical question – when i am actually in need of an answer. it’s also the times when, even if i got an answer, it certainly wouldn’t suffice to make me feel any better or get through it any more smoothly.

the word “happen” is rooted in hap, an old english term that straddles the thin line between “fortune” and “fate” – two notions that are borne of the inability to otherwise explain why things are the way they are. thus, why is this happening is already a circular statement. why is this happening? literally because.

now why is this happening to me? here is when i put myself not only into an equation, but envision myself as the center of that equation. if i’m stuck in traffic while in a rush to get somewhere (whether it’s for an event i’ll forget about next week, or it’s to the hospital to see a loved one for the last time) i am able to put myself into a headspace in which all the people in all their cars trying to get to wherever they’re going are merely the setting of my stage, the obstruction to my purpose. these are not people who the traffic is happening to, also. these people are the traffic. if only they all knew that the only purpose of their existence was to be in my way! and since everyone is only existing in that situation to be an obstacle, the question of why is this happening to me is also a choice to see everyone else not as in the situation with me, but in situation to me. why isn’t this happening to y’all? even though it is. y’all might think i’m happening to you, but y’all are actually happening to me.

and why right now? the element of right now not only pits me against the world, but also pits the me right now against the me in every other moment. when i ask why is this happening to me right now i’m also asking why isn’t this happening to me at another time? it doesn’t matter when something terrible is happening to me, it’s always definitely not the right time. if it happens when i’m already struggling, it’s kicking me while i’m down. if it happens when i’m just fine, it’s raining on my parade. why is this happening to me right now assumes that if i had a time machine that i could stuff a happening into, i would just send it to any of my past or future selves to deal with – and that includes a past or future self who is already asking themselves why is this happening to me right now, whatever is happening and whenever their now is. as long as it’s not the right now me, the most important me, as far as i’m concerned.

i only ask why is this happening to me right now during the most pronounced moments, the kinds that i can’t ignore. it goes without saying that things are always happening, happening to me, to me right now. for me to hope to stop being in situations where i need to ask that question is to hope that i can go through the rest of my life without incidents, without experiences that stop me in my tracks and force me to demand reason. it’s to ask for a life where i never have to engage with any happening, any moment.

the question is always easier to answer once it has gone past its shelf-life, when it has become why did that happen to me then? when the experience, the self, and the moment all become abstract and can be viewed for all that they are. amidst trying times, i’m sometimes able to momentarily gasp for air and see a glimmer of clarity. everything that has happened to me before has, in essence, made me who i am. so why is this happening to me right now? because, like all the other times, it is making me ready for what will happen next.

imposter syndrome is typically talked about in a professional context. it is what prevents you from sharing a thought, contributing an idea, taking a stand because a voice from within questions or downright denies your qualification in doing so. it presumes that you somehow, through some sort of acrobatic hijinks, ended up on a higher rung of the ladder than you’re supposed to be. it asks “what the hell are you doing here? who are you to think you belong here?”

that kind of imposter syndrome is a different flavor than the kind that i suffer from. it’s not that i actually go through life feeling like i “belong in” or “deserve” the professional access i’ve gotten. i’ve generally accepted the fact that i hacked my way in, jumped through all the loopholes, slithered between all the cracks, pretty much ever inch of the way. i wear the chip on my shoulder like a badge of honor. i credit all the high school rap battles – the training ground for churning arrogance and deflecting insults has given me thick skin and an even thicker head.

the imposter syndrome i’ve come to know goes beyond just the workplace environment, it is about my very existence in society. i don’t mean for this to sound like a kid cudi hook – it’s distinct from loneliness or alienation (not that those are unfamiliar concepts either). it revolves around the totally vague, completely incalculable, entirely subjective question of whether i’m a good person. self-survey says…”we’ll see.”

you know that kind of scene in a movie where a bad guy enters the good guy’s home posing as a friend, and everyone in that home blindly trusts this person except for the dog who won’t stop snarling or the kid who has the most cutting interrogation questions? i feel like that all the time. in a debacle not unlike the end of mrs. doubtfire, someone’s going to expose me and how all my acts of kindness have been a sham. adriel is actually horrible.

i don’t know if this comes from being raised in church and being told that i’m a sinner no matter what i do, or from growing up in the bay where it’s not uncommon for someone you’ve never met to stop you on the street and say, “i can feel your energy.” since then, i haven’t been able to shake off the constant suspicion that i’m walking around with a giant booger sticking out of my nostril, except instead of a booger it’s all of my darkest secrets and flaws, and instead of my nostril it’s my soul.

this imposter syndrome shows itself when someone calls me out for something i’ve done wrong, but it also flares up when the opposite happens, when someone praises me for the good i’ve done. the immediate response in my head is, “how do you know i’m actually a good person for doing that? how do you know i didn’t do that because i just selfishly want everyone to think i’m a good person when in reality i’m the worst?”

imposter syndrome at work can manifest itself by a counteracting feat of boldness that might have otherwise been out of character. i’ve gotten so tangled up in my struggle to be/do/prove goodness that i honestly don’t know if my good deeds are actually “in character.” the best and wisest people i know have looked me in the eye and told me i’m a good person, yet the voice inside still manages to mutter, “you’re right about most things, but…….”

but maybe it’s okay to stop trying to suppress those suspicions, and to befriend them. maybe it’s not about going about the world with confidence that i carry some kind of innate, specially-assigned goodness – that all the adverseness to coming off as anything but a good person has actually injected some goodness where it otherwise may not have been. maybe it’s the constant and untiring tending of this garden that actually cultivates the “good.” and maybe i’m good with that.

the brain is a creature that is both intimately a part of us, and a thing of lore. i grew up fascinated with the brain as something full of “mysteries,” of a trove that could be “unlocked.” when i heard the piece of scientific trivia that the average person only uses 10% of their brain, it landed like an existential tragedy, a forlorn longing for fuller access to what is essentially supposed to be mine.

the other 90% of the brain has been depicted as a holy grail, or of a new frontier full of fertile and untainted openness. tales like flowers for algernon and limitless made access to this realm seem as enviable as fame or wealth. in the other 90%, there are languages to learn, nature to tame, belief to defy. the other 90% makes the difference between a man and a god.

i’ve always felt entitled to this other 90%. after all, it’s mine, isn’t it? i’ve run endless laps on the hamster wheel trying to sharpen my mind, just to see if i could make myself think that i could potentially break into the 11%. which would then mean what? it didn’t matter – i had already set my mind to it.

i valorized my brain over my body and my spirit, and have predictably become a part of the “thought economy.” in this career path, my brain has been my thor’s hammer, my prized horse where all my bets are placed. i have neglected my body, whose spine and shoulders ache from flying on planes and staring at screens to impress my thinking onto them. i have ignored my spirit, which has desperately begged for a slower pace at work and more time in solitude and with loved ones. it’s only in the past few weeks of slower, quieter living that i’m beginning to realize how tired my brain is – not only as a vessel of mental energy, but as a physical organ, as a mirror for my sense of self.

yes, my brain is tiiiiired. between all the thinking, reasoning, wondering, worrying, figuring, assuming, speculating, recalling, regretting, and repeating in my head (mostly of dru hill songs) i don’t actually know how this organ is still functioning. and to think that a sizable amount of that physical brain energy is spent on fantasizing about working it nine times harder? i must be out of my fucking mind.

i could really go forever in these circles of trying to think of how to allow my brain more rest. i’ve already spent the past hour clumsily trying to put this into words, make it seem like it matters, justify my thoughts for being thought in the first place. but i’m probably just going about it all wrong. probably a good first step is to just chill the fuck out. (i’m not really satisfied with the way i’m ending this but whatever)

lately, i’ve been hearing a lot of people saying that this period has them “feeling off.” it describes a misalignment from one’s self, an idealized self. the opposite of this “off” self is usually one who is sharp, energized, on their a-game, and most of all, productive. off-ness is depicted as an ailment, even a sense of being dispossessed. no matter that this off self may be more reflective, sensitive, and gentler than the on self. the circumstance of being off is portrayed as problematic. like a washing machine, we are who we are meant to be only when we’re on.

but if one of my biggest concerns lately has been my fatigue from constantly being on, what’s actually wrong with feeling off for a change? for so long, i’ve only allowed myself to be a very specific, strategic off – as represented by sleep, and the occasional vacation (aka “day off”). these off-times are still in service of coming back on – to work, to performing in social situations, to being my “best self,” which it seems is fundamentally about being my most productive self. rest is justifiable only when it’s framed in productive terms itself. i’m not dormant – i’m recharging, regenerating, restoring. can’t you see, even when i’m off, i’m on!

i’ve been reading andré gorz, who in ecologica breaks down how the introduction of “full-time” as a concept of labor affected our individual senses of self: non-working time was to remain the time of private existence, entertainment, rest, and ‘holidaying’…holidays are, above all else, a programmed interruption of working life, a time of pure consumption that does not form part of everyday life, enhance it with new dimensions, confer increased autonomy on it or give it a content other than the narrowly occupational. we are only on (functional, valuable, actual) when we’re at work. if my full-time is dedicated to work, then i should assume that my time not working is an empty-time, a negative space in which i’m not only taking a break from working, i’m taking a break from being at all. thus, the less i work, the more i feel off. the more i feel off, the more i feel empty.

and since we are defined by what we do, being “on” means being “me.” so the more off i am, the less me i am.

i’ve been trying to get a sense of my innate value – what makes me myself when it’s not based on productivity, service, or contribution. a big part of that has been in becoming familiar, comfortable, and in full embrace of “feeling off” – and accepting it as a sensation that is a necessary, beautiful, and valuable part of being me.

when i began working on the care package, i told myself i would only spend as much time on it per day that would bring me joy and peace. i know what it’s like to experience a project or an event where the organizers were stressed out, and i didn’t want that to emit into a project, especially one that’s about inspiring calm. but as projects go, the last couple of days still ended up being long, and there was no denying the irony in me swearing at my computer for processing meditations too slowly.

the days since tuesday’s launch have brought some very welcome free time, but i’m learning that being busy with work for the past couple of weeks also had its perks. mainly, i was hardly spending any time on social media and i was not following the news at all. now that i have all this time on my hands, those hands are back to typing nytimes.com on the browser bar, reloading ig feeds, and other things that are pressuring me to move from a state of “we are one” to “we are fucked.”

for as long as i can remember, people have known me as someone who is well-informed, or more commonly, “up on shit.” over the years, i’ve participated in what has become a culture that champions being the town crier, the whistle-blower, the tastemaker. but at the same time, we’ve reached an agreement that we’re all on information overload. in this moment, i could open my ig stories and see one set of posts that chastises me for not knowing the latest recommendations by the CDC, followed by another set that tells me i’m acting too privileged if i’m not aware of all the other travesties happening in the world, followed by another post telling me that it’s time to sit and reflect on how i can change the course of my life, followed by another post saying that i shouldn’t feel like i have to do anything right now. every website has a red or yellow banner at the header these days. it feels like everything is in all caps all the time.

lately, the strength i’ve been finding for myself and for others has been through not being up on shit. scrolling through all the headlines again, i can’t fathom how i could’ve found the morale to work on the care package in between exposing myself to all the fear, alarm, outrage, and even aggressive calls to calm down. i reckon that for as many of you who have been reading these posts of mine, there are plenty of others who find it too wordy, incredibly frivolous, so self-absorbed, very ill-timed or some other form of not the right thing. mostly, i’m finding peace in the fact that this is all okay. writing like this each day has shown me that if i don’t take this time for myself, something else will.