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.