April 24th 2020 at 6:19 AM

An unprecedented gift of time has allowed my stream of consciousness to slow from its rush. Memories forgotten and dissociated float up to the surface, careful enough to pick up and reflect. I’m realizing just how slowly I process, how distance allows me to see the whole picture.

I attempted world travel for the first time at 19, maybe four April’s ago. I moved to Paris in one surreal swoop. I landed, plopped down jet lagged and thought, “What the fuck did I just do?” But it worked.

That move solidified the independence I yearned for since second grade daydreams. My greatest lesson was that I could do anything, anywhere. This life is mine, and I would be the one to take myself where I needed to be.

Though it is not easy. I was such a lonely person, I didn’t know how to express myself or how to let other people in. But I always had myself, this mobility and freedom.

Now in Vietnam, after the marvelous experience of living in the truly international

city of New York, my heart swells and aches for the strain it goes through. Though I won’t return for a long time, my heart is there in the home I built.

Fear and freedom are my greatest motivators; pushing me to these far corners of the earth. I don’t want to die with regret, with wonder of what I might have done, what I might have seen or learnt. Though I was once so awkward and unsure, I knew that in my young bones.

My time abroad was never luxurious, but something I had to do to satiate this need for freedom. I am nostalgic, I miss going outside to marvel, to breathe in everything around me. I find myself writing each day these things I miss and long for.

I can’t live in fear of this life and what it has t offer. It amazes me now the world at a standstill, yet it turns without us. The colosseum will remain, vines grown over. The planet doesn’t need us to explore it, as important as we find our lives to be. We have such little time allotted, all of it unpredictable and all of it unpromised.

Appreciate your time by using it. Your love, your voice, your life. This is the only chance we know of.

This photo was taken by Maddy Sun, under the Eiffel Tower in 2016

February 16th 2020 at 3:09 AM

I miss Denise

I don’t know where to start, my mind can’t hold one point to focus on. I’m generally non-confrontational, frequently walking away from unfavorable situations. Advances and arguments, seen a mile away. I don’t speak before I’ve uncovered every crevice of the feeling. Properly probed and examined to be explained clearly, not spat out in incomprehensible verses and half-thoughts. Being understood is…what I’ve always wanted. In some ways, points go across naturally, eloquently, tactfully…when it comes to my head, and the shit-storm raging between my ears; it takes development.

Last night on the back of a grab, my chest rose with tension, clenching with tears. I’m not happy. The people ask so eagerly; Are you happy? Are you blissful? Are you in heaven? I nod, my voice raising, I’m over the moon, I don’t have words. Simply, this is a facade. This is social nicety. This tactful part of me won’t let me disappoint their bright faces, eyes sparkling at the prospect of success in the form of my happiness. So publicly, everything is swell. There is hope for us all.

I haven’t had time to myself. The most I get recently is a sneaky lone shower. Wash away work chat, existential worry, and the free radicals of pollution. Emerge with a soft reset—yet to be fully present.

I don’t feel close to myself. Or connected to my life here. Sparks of regret ignite at the flash of New York, where I experienced almost whole independence (merely bound to capitalism; a job, a roof, you get it). I just turned down another artistic opportunity centered in the city. A curator offered an interview and photoshoot in my studio for their publication, to submit profiles to the Armory Art show next month. All my pieces are gone, I’m painting in an 11 by 14 fucking sketchbook and I’ve stopped introducing myself as an artist. My purpose has become a roadside puddle, reflecting light clearly in a moment before being run over, splashing with the frequent murkiness of traffic and others’ tracks going through it.

Fulfillment; deep, artistic, soulful fulfillment disappears from sight. There is no horizon to speak on. Reading has been my solace these days, comfortingly productive escapes.

Am I living the life I want to live? Is this the right move? What do I want next, for myself? What is the best circumstance for me, my finances, my well-being, my art?

I really am not sure. This plan is always failing me, never really prepared for one change to the next.

Bronze’s arrival had a jarring effect. At times, when certain shit happens, I get the reverse feeling. Apprehension instead of excitement. Guilt instead of pleasure. Depression instead of happiness. I had no part in my initial wiring. I don’t want to admit to anyone I’m struggling. Not him, not myself. Adjustment has never been something I’ve handled with ease. My mind body and soul are disrupted by change, welcome and needed and positive as it may be, they all fight to catch up one by one. I’ve been having flashbacks again, intrusive thoughts and dreams. It appears something familiar is pulling at the same loose threads of my psyche. Currently I don’t feel like I’m living inside my body. This period was marked by intense presence; for once, I was clear and here. That period is over and I’m off in flight over unchartered waters.

I wish Denise was here. I wanna tell her all that’s happened and changed. My decision to leave, one she may have saw coming. I want to talk to her about my intentions, mediations, struggle with my purpose, breakthroughs and pitfalls of all my surprising triggers. I want her to tell me what to do.

Last night we fought in and outside the bar. Fucking embarrassing. He was explaining to Sara that most men will get over most distastes in order to have sex—using our meeting as an example. He had texted another woman first, but I was the one available that day. My head jumped back in the shock of the statement. Why, ever, say something like that? Instinctually my interrogation began before I remembered where I was. Out in public, chatting with my boss. So I walked away. It carried on, across the street, in and out of Circle K, around the corner and died inside the car ride home. What about his honesty through our relationship? Who is the one who lied to who? We played this game, shifting blame and perspective. Every relationship has its hole-it’s moment where things get fucked up and change. This hole will reemerge, covered by dust, tripping us into it. He was honest, proving no fault. I was deceitful. We’ve done this before. I’ve done this before. I sat on the corner and held my face in my hands, running my mind over the hurt times, seemingly forgotten at no full understanding and the discomfort of the very day, leading us here. Why is this shit so hard? Why am I irritated and depressive more often than blissful and present at this moment in our relationship? I thought this was going to be heaven, yet I hold my breath through everyday.

Part of our togetherness pushes me to fend for myself; give myself what he can’t or won’t. He is not the source of my comfort and the brand of love I crave. He is not plush, he will not always hold me when I cry. And I get it, he’s who he is. I have to give myself those things, that comfort, that time, that specific self love only I know I want. If I want something from him, I have to fucking grow up and ask.

I don’t know how to be around him all the time yet. I am so used to being alone. I think back to being home alone so often as a kid, the entire house mine to explore, it felt like it belonged to me. The weird shit I did on my own, the concerning coping. Today I remembered how I would scream as loud as I could until my throat burned, knowing no one would hear…I feel my presence become the dark cloud in the room, grim and rainy in my corner. I see myself becoming a hate-able essence.

Today I crawled into bed fully clothed from work, headphones blaring and the dart of eyes over the blankets killed me with vulnerability. The climb upstairs was face down, eyes shifting up the railing, dragging myself to what was meant to be a haven but feels at times like a prison. This is not a new feeling for me and this is not all his fault. Denise told me, summers ago, when my space was being encroached with toxicity and moochery, that trauma effects our sense of space. We’re possessive, we need stability, change and added presence feels like a repeated violation of our bodies. Just as something enclosed will make us feel trapped, making us go fight or flight haywire.

I’m still working this shit out.

There are layers to this dissatisfaction. It’s not simply something that should not be said, a voice that should not raise, a lingering feeling. It’s a life of its own and it’s my fucking problems, animated each day. Its not always easy to bare. To open myself up for probing as I wrap my head around my own shit without professional help. I don’t expect to be understood, all I can do is try to explain.

This photo was taken in the independent city of Hong Kong

December 23rd 2019 at 1:15 PM

No part of me wants to go back to Saigon.

I sat up in my rented bed this morning, staring out at Taipei. My hands limp in my lap, the same thought crossing my mind; what if I stayed?

I don’t expect others to understand my decisions.

I’ve built systems to stop myself; signing a lease. Tying myself down to something so I don’t float out in orbit. I think of my apartment and the insidious anxiety I feel within it. How I happy cried after I signed, a root to plant. Now it sits atop me as a burden; something to pay for each month, with more than a check. Smothering mattress, blinding lights, ants claiming the remaining square inches for their own. Encroachment, disappearing acts, heavy headed stares at the ceiling lamp. I don’t care about my crap, my art, all I packed to start this life.

A life that floats up in thin air, hollow and fragile like a balloon. Ready to pop the higher it gets. Nothing holds me down.

It could be so freeing, if it weren’t so at once, all together terrifying.

I told Bronze while I have these people I love, no one understands this. This being the grand decision to pick my life up from one country to another; and what that entails. Explanations exhaust. And, he’s all I have. So fighting, and feeling misheard, misunderstood and mistreated sends me to this sunken place.

He said he wants to make me as comfortable as possible, he doesn’t want me to feel this way. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything that happens cuts me down. This shit with Apax is not okay. I don’t want to be a drone for this company I don’t trust. I want to maintain the integrity I always have; not to align with anything I don’t believe in. Say no to the Kool-aid, and the superficial, self-prioritizing, dismissive bunch swimming in it. It’s only after they screw you that they can be honest. “Oh yeah, that’s Apax. That’s the way it is. I don’t know why anyone sticks it out more than a year. Once my year is up, I’m out!”

Who the fuck

Chooses this?

Who gives up a year of their life, succumbing to a corporation they loathe? Ties themselves to a system they can’t stand? That doesn’t work? That can and will hurt them?

I don’t understand this shit. Lindsay said, “Maybe I’m a plebeian sheep, or maybe it gets easier.” But I don’t want to wake up with dread. I didn’t move these thousand miles to awake with dread, or dismiss mistreatment. I didn’t leave my life to settle for something else…So much of what I choose is principle. At times I think this may be sincere idealism or romanticism—or idealized nobelium, whatever the fuck. Michael always said I want things to be honorable, I want to be honorable. We have a code of honor.

But this is business. “Business,” meaning somehow I can’t take it personally. I can’t take it personally this institution got their hooks in me with a sold lie and scammed me out of hours of work and hundreds of dollars. An institution built on false promises, growing without ground to stand on. Without a pot to piss in. If Apax was a man, he’d be exposed by now. He’d come with a warning sign, do not trust me. Running bullshit game on anyone willing.

I’m not the type to accept mistreatment. I wouldn’t let a man lie to my face, steal my money, and feed me empty excuses.

In return, I don’t want to be made of talk. Saying I hate this shit to rollover and take it. There’s more out there for me.

A decision is made. As scared as I am of the uncertainty attached. Another company could just as easily do the same; hook me in with promises of quality. Low hours, high pay, flexibility, honesty, support. Sure, it sounds good…all my worries and journalistic energy triggered. There’s only so much research I can do before I see for myself. Maybe Bronze is right, we’re so close to the finish line. This marathon started in March; and now they’ve introduced the obstacle course. So this moment is defined by lacing up, and getting ready to jump. Quit, race to the next position, run, doesn’t work? Jump, quit, onto to the next one.

I don’t know anyone who’s been comfortable in the middle of a race.

We’re going to keep interviewing, I imagine it becoming a game. Looking into positions, dreaming up a life path, what if we lived in Shanghai? Taichung? Guangzhou? Seoul? What could it cost, what would the studio be like, what would we eat, what could we earn, save, create together? Let’s chart our options, plan A-Z.

It looks like I’ve got to keep my roots to myself before I can plant. Carlos says to be like a lotus; it grows in the murkiest, shittiest conditions. But it blossoms into this rare, beautiful thing. He also says growth doesn’t happen in our comfort zones. We have to remember our motive, what the fuck is this all for anyway? Put your energy there.

This photo was taken in Taipei, Taiwan