Seed

I was pregnant, but showed no signs of it. My water broke, but nothing happened.

I lightly placed my hand over my lower abdomen and felt a thumping heartbeat. I looked down at my stomach, and saw a small handprint push out against my skin.

A funeral bazaar

That's the most apt description I could come up with. Temple-like buildings arranged side by side, each containing their own flower arrangements, mourners, and of course, deceased; the dead's names are spelled prominently on the top of each building so nobody steps into the wrong funeral. Cars and hearses crowded the parking lot. A sea of black, white and yellow.

I walked into the cremation waiting room. Families followed their respective monks in and out, stopping in front of their loved one's photo to say their prayers and pay their respects. There wasn't much space between the photos on the counters -- maybe a foot or two. Chants overlapped another; bells melded into funeral directors' calls and instructions.

"It's like a market in here," my mom observed. She was sitting in the air conditioned waiting room until our cremation service was scheduled. We munched on tea eggs from the built-in Family Mart.

This goes on every day.

I find that comforting.

The hang up

My father was on the other line. He wanted to talk to me about arranging Lynn's travels to Italy. As with all dreams about him, there is no pretense of reality. I know I'm in a surreal world, and he's not actually there. We talk logistics. Flights, money, accommodations. The conversation was short. I felt a compelling need to tell him I loved him. But before I could say the words, he had hung up.

Rats eating cats.

Big cats in an empty, dusty city apartment. Dim lighting. Dirt and dust.

A baby siberian tiger.

Creaks.

A fully grown lion lying on the living room floor, bathed in muted yellow light. A gaping hole in his right thigh. Rats that look like mice, gorging.

The irony.

Doraemon

The day I found out that Hiroshi Fujimoto died, a chapter of my childhood ended.

People often recollect memories from their childhood back to as early as age 4 or 5. I have no fucking clue how people manage to do this, because I don't have any vivid memories of anything in particular. I remember snapshops, still lifes and vague happenings. I can say with conviction that something took place (like my 10th birthday party), but I most likely couldn't tell you any details or how I felt. Except with Doraemon.

Fujimoto was one of the two-part genius behind Doraemon, or as I, and so many kids in Taiwan, knew him in Chinese -- 小叮噹. Doraemon, a time traveling robot cat from the future, was 大雄's best friend.  He had a pouch on his belly, much like a kangaroo, in which he extracted all sorts of gadgets and tools that helped 大雄 escape bullies, do better in school, and generally live a life that I so badly wished I had -- a life aided by this fantastical, futuristic creature. Some of the most handy tools included a small propellor on which you could plop on your head and fly, and a doorfame with a door which you could open and find yourself anywhere you wanted. If time traveling was required, as if it often was, all they had to do was to open the drawer to 大雄's desk, climb in, and there it was: a fully functional hovercraft that was ready to zip them off through quantum space.


For several years, when I was in elementary school, I traveled frequently to Hong Kong from mainland China. Given that my family was living in mainland during the 90s, when things like medical care was still incredibly behind, my mom would always take me to Hong Kong for orthodontist and doctor visits. These visits usually consisted of some form of oral mutilation, followed by me being dragged around the city while my mom shopped at Nine West or Marks and Spencers or meeting friends I didn't care for. Despite all this torture, visits to Hong Kong were my opportunity to pick up a brand new edition of Doraemon on the street. And once I did, nothing else mattered. I was lost in the anything-is-possible world of my favorite creature.


People can recall how much they loved certain cartoons or comics as a child. But Doraemon wasn't merely entertainment for me. It wasn't Ninja Turtles or Transformers. It wasn't even Sailor Moon (and I was obsessive about collecting Sailor Moon paraphernalia). Not only did I try to obtain every copy of every edition of the comic, I also watched every animated episode I could find. I had a Doraemon-themed science encyclopedia from which I read over and over, and Doraemon narrated casette tapes that I listened to almost daily, during bedtime, gobbling up all the scientific facts and concepts that only he could get me to learn. Doraemon was the inspiration for curiosity and learning for me. He was a constantly present, defining part of my life, shaping my perspectives on the world and how I exercised my imagination. Despite spending 13 years of my life as an only child, I don't ever remember once wishing that I had a sibling. But, shit, I can't even count the times that I so desperately wished Doraemon was real, and my best friend.

I don't remember when or how I found out that Fujimoto died. What I do remember, was a very real sense of loss, inexplicable and unfamiliar at my age. I knew that Doraemon wasn't "real." But the impression of his genius and guidance on me was. The death of Fujimoto meant the death of Doraemon as my companion and my friend through my tender age. There would be no more new adventures, no more build up of excitement in visiting Hong Kong. 

And with that, a subtle sense of innocence was lost. 

Kill your father

That was the goal of the first level. I was in a game with other players, and our first mission was to kill the man that was our father.

We walk through various rooms. We see him. He lunges at us. I run for my life, back to the starting point.

"Where did he go?" I ask. A fellow player points to a pair of feet underneath some curtains. "He's hiding, over there."

In the end, there is a confrontation. A couple of us surround him, but I am the one who charges when he doesn't expect it and trip him. My players cheer. He's on top of me with his hands around my neck, and mine around his. My hands squeeze tight, and I kill him.

I know he is not my father, but my eyes fill with tears.

Youth is not invincible.

Death.

It's the one thing that's indiscriminate. We often lament how unfair it is. How sudden or tormenting. How there was so much potential, so much ahead. Well, if anything, it's the fucking fairest thing in the world. It doesn't care who you are, where you come from, whether you're young or old, whether you're ready to face it or have never given it a thought. When it comes, it comes.

Life.

Goes both ways. Life is short, go out there and live. Death is always imminent, what really is the point? Is it really so ridiculous and irrational that people turn to a greater being to make sense of all this crazy shit? Call it a crutch, but why is logic and reason any less of one? Or even the acceptance of the belief that shit just happens, and there aren't any explanations. We all depend on something to get us to keep moving. Who's to say who's got it right? Who the fuck cares, as long as we're carrying on?

Death is exhausting. I've been trying to look at it in the face to the extent possible. Not in the sense that I'm putting myself in life-compromising positions. I'm trying to understand it. Confront the idea of it. Come to terms with my loss, and the fact that I will die. That everyone around me that I care about will die. And that regardless of who and how, the rest of the world will go on doing what it does, and in the greater scheme of things, none of it will matter. It's so simple sometimes it's almost laughable. But only when it's not terrifying. There is nothing that makes me feel as vain and self-centered as thinking about my own death.

Life is simple, really. The complexities seem like indulgences. Ornamental details that make and keep things interesting. Otherwise, what's the point, right?

I used to find so much solace in spilling my guts.

Now all I want to do is hole up and disappear.

I'm having trouble identifying the cause of my increasing desire to leave. And I'm not even sure what it is I want to leave. Is it my apartment? While not atrocious, our neighbors do bug the shit out of me. Is it my neighborhood? Junkies and drunks. Is it the city of San Francisco? Getting cramped, getting old. Is it California? Been here too long. Is it my life as I know it? Need to molt and refresh.

I know I have a pretty serious case of the travel bug. But what if it's the thing that I've always feared -- that I cannot and will not settle anywhere? That I can be bored of anything -- relationships, lifestyles, environments. That I constantly need a change, and minor ones won't do.

The simple answer, though realistic, sometimes seems too simple. That it's taken a year for all the shit in 2011 to catch up with me. That, despite spending some time last year being utterly heartbroken and torn, right now is when I am starting to feel the intolerance for imperfections, the impatience with sentiments. The bitterness sinking in. The sense of gratitude for what I have slipping away from me more often than I would like. All that, paired with having been in the same place for over two years, is too much to bear. I want to run away from one thing, I want to run away from everything. I don't know how else to deal with this.

I've tried to rationalize things. Tell myself that the things that bother me are just a matter of attitude. That I just need to tweak my mentality. I'm not capable of lying to myself. Once I know I don't really buy it, I don't indulge in self denial. I don't put off the necessary. I care too much about being true. Being happy.

I constantly feel like I'm at a lack of air. Escaping, breaking out is the instinctual reaction. But it doesn't mean it's the solution, does it. But I'm tired of this self-diagnosing. I'm not desolate enough to not see the light at the end of the tunnel. But the light seems way farther than it's ever been. Either it's going to be a longer journey, or I'm going to have to running. Running is probably not even an option. Some things can't be forced to happen. Some things can't be rushed.

For the first time since I've moved to San Francisco, I don't feel like going back. For the first time, I don't really miss anything about it. I actually almost despise it. I know it's not the city's fault, or anyone in it. It's just become associated with all the fucked up shit that I've lived through while being its resident.

So what do we do with this bitterness. This intolerance and impatience.

I really don't have a fucking clue. But something will have to change. Soon.

Remember

The news about my dad's death was delivered to me through the phone, minutes after.

"Chieh, you have to be strong. You have to be strong for your mom and your sister."

That's all she said, and I knew. I cried. I screamed. I cried. I kicked the wall and punched the floor. I sat in silence. I cried. I lay in silence. I cried.

The night I returned to my parents' house, I walked into his closet, smelled and touched his clothes, and sat on the floor and sobbed until nothing was left. I did this after everyone else had gone to bed, and I did this several times during the week I was home for funeral arrangements.

I refused to view his open casket, because I knew that if I did, I would never remember him as he was in living flesh.

Since his passing, I've gone to his grave once. I thought I would speak to him, tell him about all the things that have happened, but nothing came out. I have a feeling it'll always remain this way.

Sometimes I imagine my wedding and walking down the aisle without him on my arm, like I'm supposed to.

It's been eight months, but there are still moments now where I realize that he isn't around anymore. If I glance at the garage door or walk up the stairs at my parents' house, it's almost like I still expect him to walk in, stern-faced and quiet. It's not that I have forgotten, but the fact that he's gone is something I repeatedly realize and digest.

These are things that I haven't told anyone. These aren't things I remember when I think about him -- when I think about him, I conjure up memories of the times we've spent together, his odd sense of humor, and his relentless dedication to making his family happy. Rather, these are things I think of when I think about the loss. Most of the time, the loss is barely palpable. But when it comes into focus, it's a roaring silence. It's like one instrument in your complex world of an orchestra going mute, and you don't realize it until you sit there and listen for its voice. And at that point, it's as if you've lost your ability to hear anything else. You forget all the times that the instrument has played off tune, and you know there is nothing else in the world that can sing the same way.

As much as I can try to relate, or as much as any one of your friends may try to understand and sympathize, your relationship with your father and your mourning is something nobody can touch. There will be parts that you may choose to share, and there will be parts that you won't ever tell. I will tell you that you appear to stand strong through it all, as you have said to me, but you and I both know that when the lights go out and there is nobody around to be strong for, that's when you really have to face your demons, wherever they are, and we often choose to do it alone because so few others can understand.

Coming to terms with this kind of loss is not easy, and I expect it never will be. The music will never be the same, but those who love us will always be around to be our metronome, to add their ooh's and aah's, to be our top-hats or, hey, our cow-bells. And sometimes, silence, a blank page, will be what you need -- your own moment to be. To remember. To be angry, to be hurt, to be pained, to be thankful. To spend a moment with him and to grieve. But just as you should remember that you always have the silence, please remember all those around you who are there and ready to start the beat again and put you back on the score.

董

After several years of sitting on a tattoo idea, I finally did it.

I'm officially inked.

For several years, I played around with the idea of a potential tattoo. I'm not the type to change my body for cheap aesthetics. Fuck plastic surgery and crash diets. Forget piercings anywhere but on my ears (although I can/do appreciate body/facial piercings on others). But tattoos have always been a less absolute concept. I knew I would never be the type to get one just to get one or to get one because it was visually beautiful or gave me a certain vibe or appearance. That shit is for life, and if you know anything about me, I make damn sure that I can suffer the consequences before diving into anything long-term. I don't want to be in my 60's, skin stretched and sagging (worst case scenario, because I do plan on being a milf), wondering why the fuck I ended up tattooing a sparrow on my back or a barcode on my forearm (not to say these designs are always deplete of meaning... but come the fuck on). If I don't want to be wearing the exact same style of shoes (likely the exact same style to be found on hundreds of other people), every single day, for the rest of my life, why would I want the same shit on my body?

I'm not sure when exactly I got the idea, but family was the first theme that came to me. If there was anything that would stay with me for life, if there was anything that I would carry with me forever, physically and visually, it would something to do family.

The ironic thing is, I wouldn't say that I have been super close to any of my family members. I grew up without seeing most of my relatives; my dad traveled a lot when I was young; I was the only child for 13 years; I had very loving parents but a fairly formal relationship with them in the sense that I did not share a lot of my personal life with them -- not until I was well into my 20's. But I think I've always felt a certain distance with my parents, a distance that was sometimes painfully obvious because they were all I had as family in the U.S.

I remember observing the interactions between certain friends and their parents, and wondering why my family dynamic had to be so different. And it wasn't necessarily a self-imposed distance on my or their part. For some reason, we just naturally developed a relationship where we shared very little other than the typical -- academics, friends, and very occasionally, relationships.

I've written often about the relationship I had with my dad. It had been incredibly tense and awkward at times, but when the shit hit the fan, he always came through as the most dependable, positive, caring, generous and grounded person. Whether it was dealing with death in the family or my teenage heartbreak, he was there, and he stood strong, for everyone.

I've always known that I owe so much to my parents. I'm proud of the way they've raised me, and I'm eternally grateful for how they have provided for me, how selfless and responsible they've been and continue to be. I think the concept of having tattoos to do with each of them came to me in my college years as I realized that I always want to remember them. To be grateful for all that I have. To be aware that as much as I choose to depend on myself and my friends, as much as we may not have the idealistic, picturesque familial relationship, they are what brought me here. And I admitted to myself that I often forget -- forget that they're there, forget that they are so incredibly important, forget that I can depend on them. Forgetting is not something I want to do. And at some point, several years ago, the idea came to me to have my dad's family name and my mom's family name, in traditional calligraphic Chinese script, on each of my arms.

The idea remained an idea for a long time. When I went back to Taiwan last year with my dad to see his dying father, I felt similar conflicting sentiments as I did when I was 10, watching my mom's father wither and die from Parkinson's. To this day, I continue to say that the only regret I've ever had was my inability to be more brave, my inability to still love him, speak to him, and treat him like the grandfather that had raised me, taught me Japanese, and took me on moped rides. Instead, I treated him like the disease made him a stranger. I withdrew with fear, and I became silent. Granted, I was 10, but regrets like that hold no place in time or age.

This time, at age 24 and watching my dad's father deteriorate, I was adamant about being "better." Being a supportive granddaughter. Being loving and present and everything I wasn't 15 years ago. But this grandfather was not someone I knew well. He was not someone I really ever had a relationship with. He was not emotionally strong. He would wimper and cry as he reflected on his ailing body, and I would sit there, eventually out of things to say, feeling frustrated at my silence and shameful of my desire to tell him that he simply can't fall apart like this. Because who was I, his granddaughter, to say and do anything but all the "right" things? The bottom line was, apart from the fact that we were related by blood, he was almost a stranger. But the sense of familial duty was so strong that the subsequent guilt was all I felt. But I realize that the most important thing in being there was not so much to see my grandfather, as I originally thought, but to be there for my dad. To be there with my dad.

My dad was graceful with his grief. He would pull me aside, knowing that I would lie awake, hearing my grandfather cry in the middle of the night, and tell me, "Your grandfather lived a long, good life. He's in his 90s, has overcome a lot, and is a lucky man. He has a lot to be grateful for." His voice never wavered when he spoke to his dying father. His gaze never faltered.

During that trip to Taiwan, I decided I would get two wooden chops made in a particular calligraphic script -- 篆書 -- of my mom and dad's family name. I had them made in my mom's hometown while traveling with my dad. He asked me what they were for. I just shrugged and said, "I just want them." Explaining a tattoo (that has to do with him) to him? Pffft.

It took me a while after my dad's death to feel like it was the right time. But as time went by, I saw more and more of how much I loved him. How, despite our frustrating inability to speak openly about most things, regardless of how unrelenting his sternness could be or how strange his temperament was, that I admired him and respected him so, so deeply. And I realized that I had not told him I loved him. Not since I could remember. But I loved him, more than I thought I ever did.

"董" is my family name. It is my dad's family name. It is my grandfather's family name. In Chinese, it looks almost identical and sounds identical to "懂," which means "to understand." Every day, it will sit beautifully on my left arm. Every day, I will be reminded. And every day, I will remember to spend a moment with him.

Catz.

Sometimes I take so many pictures with Benjamin that I feel like I'm turning into a fucking crazy cat lady.

Except I'd probably do the exact same thing if I had a dog. Or a chinchilla. Or whatever. Even a lizard.

What I won't do, though, is to make a fucking Facebook page for my pet.

Yeah. That, I won't do.

Let's do this, again.

Writing, that is.

Lately I've found myself preferring to sit in silence, to watch the thoughts dance around in my head on mute.

I used to find so much comfort in music. All the Lauryn Hill, Sage Francis and Common that boosted me through all the heartbreaks and rough patches. Not to say that music hasn't done anything for me lately, or that I haven't listened to a song and felt something stir.

I just.. want everything to be quiet, more so than ever. And maybe, considering that I've gone through the most tumultuous time of my life to date, that's... normal. Maybe it's my way of slowing time down. Enough of trying to find clarity, closure or comfort from someone else's communications. I need to start rebuilding from the inside. I need to hear myself.

I think I've also become more comfortable and accustomed to being alone. I used to hate being alone -- constantly surrounded myself with friends, talking on the phone, chatting online, seeking people to be with. I couldn't stay single for long, either. I just really fucking loved company. I also did almost everything with an ipod in tow. Now, I crave for lone bike rides, coffee breaks, walks or simply lying in bed by myself, listening to the street noise or staring over the neighboring rooftops from my backdoor. All this, in silence.
I think that alone speaks for how things have really changed in terms of where I am in my life. I feel a lot more grounded. There's not that sense of constant want and seeming insatiability that constantly nipped at me in my early 20's. I've got a fairly good grip on myself. My relationship with my family has gotten substantially stronger. And, well, I kind of love San Francisco and am seeing no reason to flee. The travel bug bites, as it always does, but there is a solid idea of 'home,' and things don't feel so transient anymore.

I guess I haven't written much because I haven't been able to speak much of what's been going on in my head. One, because everything just felt so personal, so private, that it seemed almost violating to write. And two, because there was so much noise in my head that for a really long time, it just felt like a deafening, incoherent roar. Or maybe it was just silence. You know how certain loud, dramatic scenes in movies suddenly transition into silence, especially when some shit hits the fan in its most climatic stage? That's what a lot of shit has felt like in the past few months. And only recently has it all started to die down. I can hear the monotonous humdrum of the city again. I can hear myself again.

And so, now, I'm going to start putting some of this noise into words.

And here goes.

When I was little, my dad was the fun one in the family. He'd always bring me gifts from his business trips abroad -- CD's, hair clips, stuffed animals, whatever I liked or wanted at the time. Mom was the one who disciplined me; dad was the one who comforted me when I cried, the one who told me fart jokes, the one who picked me up, threw me and caught me in mid-air as mom yelled at him to be careful. I fancied myself a daddy's girl.

Because of his work, we moved around a lot. When I was in sixth grade, he said to me, "We're going to move again. To America this time. When would you like to leave?"

"Moving... again? I just started sixth grade. Can I finish middle school? My friends are all here."

"OK," he said.

And true to his word, I finished eighth grade in Shanghai. The following summer, we moved here, to Irvine, and I began high school, living in America for the first time. I still fancied myself a daddy's girl.

High school wasn't easy for me. I was starting over in a foreign country, a vulnerable and insecure thirteen year old. I didn't understand why we had to leave the comfortable, maid- and driver-assisted life we had in Shanghai. Why we had to leave a major metropolitan city for…Irvine. And then, when I was seventeen, I had my first heartbreak. I thought I was so grown-up then, so ready to handle anything. No longer a daddy's girl. It was Dad who found me outside, sobbing, huddled on the driveway, babbling about some stupid boy. Dad hugged me, for a long time. "It's all right, my good daughter. Don't cry."

In college, my Dad picked me and my laundry up from my apartment. He and my mom thought it was better that I learned how to live on my own rather than live with them. One night in my third year, on the way to dropping me off at my apartment, he asked me why I wanted to go to law school.

"Because it's what I'm interested in."

"But there are a lot of interesting things. I don't think law is interesting at all."

"Well, dad, I think it's interesting. And I want to go to law school."

"Ok, good. So long as you find something you're interested in," he said.

"And makes money," I retorted.

"No." He said. "Money is useful, but money is not everything. You find something you love to do, and you do it. If you love doing it, you will be good at it. Naturally, you will be rewarded for it. Money is not everything."

When my grandfather was terminally ill with cancer last year, Dad and I went to see him in Taiwan. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find my dad sitting with my grandfather in the living room as my grandfather sobbed about his passing life. My dad would sit there in the dark and listen. "Grampa may cry," he would later tell me. "But he has been a very lucky man. He has led a very fulfilling, long life, healthy until his 90's. He has accomplished a lot, and he has a lot to be grateful for."

There are things I've taken away from my dad: my flat nose, pale skin and stubbornness.

But so much more.

My dad was a strong individual. He taught and encouraged me to be independent, to be strong for others – less by what you say, more by what your presence stands for. If my mom wasn't such a tough woman, I don't think he would have married her. If the life in Shanghai hadn’t been one of such ease and luxury, I don’t think he would have made such a strong point to move us here.

My dad believed in doing things by the books, sometimes to a fault. He did not believe in short cuts and easy way outs. He taught me to be a person of principle, to stand true to my word and to lead a life of integrity.

He taught me to appreciate and understand what truly matters in life -- family, friends and dreams. I would have liked to ask him what his dream was, as he spent decades of his life working so hard, following his job throughout Asia. I doubt he was very passionate about finance management.

I think it's fair to say that his dream, his passion, was to love and provide for his family so they can pursue their dreams -- my mom, who took her love of the outdoors to Yosemite, Zion, and Everest, and shared this love with so many of you; Lynn, my brilliant little sister who hopes to one day be an astronomer even though she could be an amazing musician. And me -- with dad's endless encouragement and support in all I have done, whether it was studying in Paris or working in London, surviving through teenage heartbreak or helping me file my first tax return.

My dad and I shared a lot of silent moments in the last two years. He wasn't a man of many words, and I often take after him in that respect. We shared a lot of silence in car rides, on long-distance plane rides, or just sitting at home, on the couch. Despite my initial anxiety with the silence, I had grown to be comfortable with it. It was something we shared, and it soon became familiar. We were not the type to say to each other, "I love you," or "I miss you." Our farewells usually ended with a wave, a short hug or with him watching as I backed out the driveway. But it has always been obvious how much he loved and cared for me, as he did my mom and sister. He didn't have to say it; he had already dedicated his whole life to it.

And while he won't be here today to hear it: I love you, dad. Very much. I always have, always will, and will never forget it.

Please don't disappoint me.

Go.

I think when it comes down to it, the thing that gets me most is the lack of motivation. Similar to wasted potential and missed opportunities.

You don't know how to get something done? Think about it.

You don't know how to solve a problem? Communicate it.

Whatever you do, don't run on assumptions and don't treat time as if it were limitless. Time is not limitless. And even if you think yours is, other people's may not be.

It's difficult for a person in my position to sympathize with those who lack initiative. And maybe it all breaks down to the lack of confidence, but it is hard work for someone like me to say, "That's okay, take your time, I know you'll get there eventually." It's difficult for someone like me to say, "It's okay to wait." Because someone like me lacks that virtue that we call patience. I'm fighting fucking hard to learn it, and I'm gaining some ground, but every day is a battle. It's a lifelong resolution that I'm seriously working at.

Maybe I need to stop treating every facet of life as if it were a path to some accomplishment, or at least stop expecting others to do so. But in a sense, isn't that what it is, assuming that life isn't just some long, pointless ride you happen to be on? I don't believe in the idea of waiting for happiness to come around. Happiness isn't a winning lottery number that you hope for, it's something you work for, something you know you deserve and so you lay yourself bare for it. Waiting and sailing along best serves the complacent.

I just don't believe in waiting for things to happen. If you want it, get it. If it's beyond your control, well. That's why I'm learning this thing called patience.

Maybe this all comes down to the fact that I'm not really comfortable with not knowing. I'm not comfortable with the ambiguous. I need a plan, I need backup plans, I need some type of forecasted action. Maybe this all comes down to the fact that I'm a control freak. I need to prepare for success, I need to prepare for the potential of failure. I have an answer for everything, even if that something doesn't have or need answers.

It's funny that people always say to me, "I know you, you can handle anything."

Do you really believe that or is my exterior invulnerability and preparedness that convincing?

I can handle anything until it breaks me down and I have to rebuild. Because you don't wait for a new beginning to come around.

Untitled.

Death is a strange thing.

The doctors say that the tumor removal last year was not completely successful, that his lymphatic system has been damaged and the calcium level in his blood has become too high, making his heart susceptible to irregular beats.

He's too old for chemotherapy. His body can't take it, they say.

He's too weak to walk.

He's 94. He was riding bicycles last year. Now his legs are too weak.

But is there some form of exercise that he can still do?

I don't think you quite understand... his legs are too weak to carry him. He can't walk.

He seems to have come to accept it.

He was depressed at first, Dad said. He was a totally different person. He felt helpless. But I think he's come to terms with it. He... he's at... the stage of life... He's at his final stage of life. He's not suffering.

He has several options, they say.

He can stay at the hospital and stay under supervision. He can stay at home, and we can hire a caretaker. Or, he can be admitted to a hospice.

A hospice? Isn't that just like a nursing home for sick people?

A hospice is where sick people go when they've given up medical treatment. They may find further treatment of no use, or they don't want the pain. They are taken care of at the hospice so that it won't be painful when they leave.

I had less to say than to ask.

I had as much guilt as, if not more than concern.

A phone call a week earlier and I could have spoken to him, instead of finding out that he's been in the hospital.

Grief is a strange thing.

Dad seemed to speak with such exactitude, such factual acknowledgment, though not without feeling. His words were clean, his sentences tightly bound. He spoke, unwavering... accepting.

This is a man my dad has known and loved all his life. This is a man I know through a meager collection of memories and childhood visits.

Yet I felt like I was in pieces. I silently wiped a few tears, choked back a few sniffles. I tried to mirror Dad's solidity.

"I will have Kevin bring some photos when he visits," I say. Then I think, I will write him something. For the first time in my life. I will write him something. This time, it won't be too late.

Please don't let it be too late.

9/25/2010

San Francisco is 27 degrees Celsius. The sun is blaring.

Books and catnaps in my jungle of a backyard.

Sampling and buying music at my desk to the setting of the sun.

Beer and friends, friends and beer.

Mount Kimbie tonight after a still-resonating high from Flying Lotus.

My ears filled with melodic honey until the sun rises.

Today is a good fucking day.

Aesthetics

It's strange how much a change of environment will change your appearance.

My wardrobe took a conservative and feminine turn after 5 months in Paris -- less skin (oh, California), more shape and curvature. London led it down a slightly more edgy and vintage turn -- more colors and patterns. And now, in San Francisco, it's hard to describe it as anything other than urban practicality, at least 99% of the time -- can I ride my bike in this?

Man friendly; not bike friendly.

I've had moments here where I feel like I've somewhat lost my previous sense of femininity. I've also been wearing less and less makeup as the years have passed on, which isn't to say that has any correlation with a lessening sense of femininity. If anything, I see it as shedding the unnecessary, impractical -- something simple and more natural. Although I have to admit -- I fucking love make up. I'm good at the application and the experimentation, but I really can't be bothered to wear all that shit on a daily basis.

So it's been somewhat of a struggle to mix up my closet as of the past year in SF. The weather isn't usually quite warm enough to wear the array of dresses I have, and even when tights and cardigans can make up for it, it's not practical on a bike. Considering I ride almost every single day, the chances that you find me in a dress or skirt is pretty close to null. And that makes me sad, because dresses and skirts are up there as my favorite item of clothing. Not to mention that my previous heel-queen self has relinquished my throne to all things flat and durable. Despite my previous ability to dance for hours on 5-inchers, I now squirm at the thought of wearing heels to anything more than an art gallery. This is where Southern California girls get their advantage -- they don't have to walk anywhere on a daily basis other than that hour in the mall or that 10 feet to their car from the store.

With that said, I've been trying to make compromises. Trying to get a bit more creative, come up with something that's not stylistically dead and still serve the purpose of the SF streets and my daily commutes.

I've been jonsing for a proper parka -- although the style I have in mind is a bit more synthetic/shiny looking and of a deeper green, I settled for the following:

Oversized hooded parka, ASOS

I'm obsessed with hoods.

And because I can't get enough of military green, or coats:

Funnel neck toggle coat, ASOS.

Check out the bee-yoo-tiful pleating in the back.

And to introduce a new member to the never-too-many supply of cardigans, my personal funfetti cake cardigan:

Vero Moda multi-color flecked cardigan

While it ain't easy trying to stay below the budget, it sure helps to have a boyfriend who wants to help you dress the way you do :)

On the subject of dressing, I went frame shopping in the past weekend for a handful of posters that deserve to be dressed. I didn't expect frames to be that f'ing expensive, but I did manage to frame the two of the smaller posters. The other two were a massive 20x26.

You can't really tell from this photo that it's a floating frame, because the margins are so damn small, but the dude I bought this from at an art show really made it difficult to fit this in a preset frame size. I had to trim this shit like 4 times. If you know how shaky my hands are, you'd give me a god damn trophy:

And an appropriately sick present from Jeff of 12FV found its home:

Oh, that's right. These will be hung, for all to see, in my next apartment, officiated as of today. SOMA, HERE I COME. I've beaten the SF housing monster. For this year, at least.

And for now, I'll just heave and sigh over gorgeous leather handbags, forsaken embellished tops and jersey dresses, and forget about delicately adorned flats. I've got some jungle-proof gear to pick up and mud-trudging shoes to try out for Brazil in December.

Criminal negligence

I have forsaken thee, mine blog. So much that it's practically criminal.

I was surprised to find out that people have still been trying to access my older blog (xanga), which I managed to update incredibly consistently through the course of 5 or 6 years. Yet, at the same time, I think my blog now is of a very different nature, consisting less of daily ramblings and focusing more on focused topics that require more than 5 minutes of thought.

Why the extended hiatus, you ask?
L-fucking-SAT. That, combined with trying to work more than 40 hours a week so I can save money, combined with trying to have time for my beloved manfriend 400 miles away (which necessarily involves scheduled video-calls and plane rides), now combined with house-hunting (lease is up in less than a month) is a fucking trip.

This kind of trip, it is not.

There is nothing particularly new to discuss about the LSAT, nor is there anything really worth mentioning regarding work (other than the fact that my team pretty much got wiped out and my favorite people are leaving). Al is always lovely and maintains my sanity (and occasionally tests it, but what else would love be?).

But

Housing. Man, fucking housing. Looking for housing in San Francisco (no, not East Bay, not South Bay, not even fucking West SF because you guys just don't count, with your asses way the hell 5 miles over) is probably one of the most ridiculous ordeals that man man will ever suffer, comparable to surviving the bubonic plague. Trying to find a bedroom in SF was harder than landing my current job. Open houses were always packed and awkward, and interviewing to be a potential roommate turned out more to be like a talent show or popularity contest than a practical decision on who wasn't fucking insane and poor.

"So," this hipster, I-live-on-the-corner-of-Dolores-hipster-fucking-Park-and-act-it girl asked me at her open house, "If you were to make a book into a movie that hasn't already been made, what would it be?"

Within 3 seconds, I replied, "The Dice Man. Heard of it?"

"No."

"It's a 1970's cult classic about abandoning all human inhibition. Sex, drugs, rape, murder. A psychologist begins a religion based on pure chance at the hands of a die."

"Ooh... interesting. ..."

Oh, interesting? That's it? Had no follow up? Pretty sure nobody beat that answer, that effortlessly. Yet I was not chosen. Despite my willingness to pay $1200/month for a damn room and my obviously sound mind, not to mention that she was totally impressed with my knowledge of the Bay music scene for having just moved there. That's why we are not roommates. Beez ass beez. Who asks that kind of shit to fill a room. You're not a coop full of screenwriters and aspiring actors. And if you were, you better damn well know The Dice Man. Because that book needs a damn screenplay, even (or, especially) if it's a shitty, low-budget effort.

And the movie poster will look exactly like this.

And she was no exception. So many people interviewing for roommates seem to have settled themselves on some type of pedestal, obviously feigning interest in the potential tenants they were speaking to, or just lifting their noses to their wine glass, sipping some shit and talking about the gentrification of the neighborhood. That, or it's just one big mess of an open house and everyone is just fighting for a chance to get a word in.

Anyway, that pretty much sums up the experience I have with room-hunting in the heart of San Francisco. I guess you pay for what you get -- namely, location. Thankfully, this time around, I have the roommates, just not the house. Hopefully it'll be less like surviving the plague and more like convincing the Ganja-treat-vendors at Dolores Park that you really don't want their treats.

Even if it's banana bread.

Or blueberry muffins.

Really. I don't want it.

Food and hypocrisy -- am I guilty?

You know me. I love food. Food, fucking food. Yumma yum YUM. The tastes, the colors, the sensory experience.

Most would know that I've started to drop meat from a good 90% of my diet for a while now (seafood is still at work). I get a lot of questions regarding my motivations behind this change, and I haven't really sat down and gathered my thoughts to voice a decently coherent response. So here's a start.

I started abandoning meat from the majority of my diet when I moved to San Francisco. All throughout college, I had pretty much dropped red meat from my personal shopping ventures (but still delighted myself in dining out on yakitori, Korean barbeque, steak frites, etc), basically due to personal preferences and an inclination for very healthy cooking. I preferred baking as the cooking style of choice, EVOO as the oil that trumped all others, and butter was never really an option. In London, I almost abandoned meat completely from grocery shopping list in order to save money (but, alas, still gorged on gyros, tiki masalas and shepherd's pies), and with the transition to working here, where food is free and vegetarian/vegan options are plentiful and delicious, I decided I'd give the pescatarian diet a shot. Why? Just because I could. It hadn't been difficult to subsist mainly off of vegetables before, so I didn't see why not to try to go 90% (giving up seafood seemed a bit too big of a transition). To me, cooking for myself is a therapeutic and creative process. It's a way to spoil myself and to take care of myself at the same time. I don't ever feel the desire to cook meat for myself, and when I do eat meat, it is on the few occasions that I'm dining out with friends at a non-vegetarian friendly restaurant.

Korean BBQ -- Not vegetarian friendly

As I mentioned before, watching Food Inc. wasn't exactly a revelation. I think I was aware of the majority of problems raised in the documentary, but watching the movie kind of provided myself with a pre-packaged punch-in-the-face-style of motivation that I needed to really get my shit straight. And this is what I practice now: On the very rare occasions that I do buy meat (cooking for guests), I will not buy, from any business, meat that is sourced from a factory-style farm or beef that is not grass-fed. I will not buy, from any business, eggs that are not cage free. Given that I'm not going to always know the source from which every restaurant buys their meat, I will do my best to make educated decisions or simply ask the restaurant. Essentially, I will do my best to buy only from a trusted source. And in San Francisco, with the abundance of local co-ops and farmers' markets, it's not a hard thing to do.

Here's a little story.

I dated this guy for about a month (too long) when I was in London. His name was E. E liked to think of himself as the new age hippie. He liked to dis religion, he liked to pick on people who liked animals but ate meat (aka me), and he liked to go on about self cleansing and whatever bullshit else he pulled from his ass. In other words, E was a self righteous bastard.

Yup. Self-righteous. And a bastard.

Upon hearing my conversation with a friend about how we love cats, he responded, "Oh, isn't that kind of hypocritical. You're eating chicken nuggets."

Um. How, the fuck, is that hypocritical? I find one species of animals adorable so I can't eat any species of animals? If I found daises cute, can I not eat elderflower? He then decided to follow up with a PETA article (right, so very objective) citing the atrocities of how animals are treated for consumption, how humans aren't naturally meant to eat meat, the environmental impacts of raising livestock, etc. Out of cordiality and some curiosity, I read it, and conceded that the environmental argument (how much more energy it takes to maintain livestock versus vegetables to feed x number of people) is very well made and thought provoking.
"I think you need to reread the part about the treatment of animals."

No. I don't.

This is where the real hypocrisy lies. E, who loved to talk about how religion is poison and how the religious crazies would talk irrationally and judge you for not following their beliefs, is pretty much a religious crazy on the food level. Incredibly biased in an uneducated way (and if he was educated, shit, I couldn't tell), he would approach me with harshly emotional appeals to change my style of living. And I think this is the worst way one can go about having a conversation about food, just as it is about religion. People will not identify with you, people will not receive you, and people will shut off, regardless of what your message is.

Shut up dog, you're domesticated. Your purpose to human was not for consumption. It is for puppy love and til-death-do-us-part companionship. SIT.

I don't believe that it is wrong to eat animals. I don't necessarily encourage or discourage it. It's a tremendous part of differing cultures, some more than others. The practice of animal sacrifices as paying homage to the gods was a huge part of ancient Greek society, and references to this practice are easily found in Judaism, Christianity, Islam and Hinduism. In certain African tribes, hunters undergo a ceremony to pay respect to the animals they hunt. Native Americans afforded animals (and all things natural) a tremendous amount of respect and spirituality. Accordingly, I do believe is that there is a proper way to go about obtaining meat. I believe in raising animals in the most natural environment to that animal possible -- I prefer to not use the term "ethical," because it necessarily implies a moral obligation with certain emotive attachments. At the same time, however, I do think that there is an "ethical" way to treat animals, but not in the PETA/E "animals are our friends and lets love them and ever eat them or you'll go to hell" way. The "ethical" way is to raise them in a natural environment, where they can graze, move, be outdoors, see the sun, and do what animals do. The "unethical" way is to shut them in an enclosed space where they're buried to their knees in feces all their life, where they're force-fed food that is unnatural to their bodies, where diseases run rampant and they are fed to grow to a mass that their own bodies cannot carry.
While a lot of people like to use emotional appeal by touting these facts, I think the more important and the most unethical part is that these unhealthy, tainted and miserable animals are then churned through a factory to feed the population at large. It's the product to be consumed that is of poor quality (and lethal at its worst), it is the work environments of these factories that are dangerous, and it is the people at the top who benefit at the cost of everyone else, consumers included. So, to me, the ethics here lie in treating life with respect, both to the animals and to the consumer population at large. It means to raise animals in a healthy environment, as well as having food companies providing quality products instead of selling shit while keeping consumers in the dark regarding the processes behind the creation of the product and the very real risks that they pose.

If these all died from disease on the factory farm (from noxious gas from their collective manure), then what might you be eating?

I think it's incredibly important to have a conversation about where your food comes from and what that means to you and your family. It's a matter of healthy living, and it's a matter of personal responsibility. It's equally important to consider how that conversation is delivered, because ultimately, it is a matter of education (and financial means, but that is something that can change with consumer education, and probably should be left for discussion at another time). It is an effort that needs to keep objectivity and constructiveness in mind, because it needs to begin as a local movement to educate consumers. Just as the anti-smoking movement took on, city by city, country by country as a consumer issue, so I think the food movement can as well -- but not by extremist measures, not by bloody animal abuse videos. This is where I pay Jamie Oliver so, so much respect, to start his reforms locally in the UK school systems, addressing their specific problems, then to move on in a similar fashion to a small town in West Virginia that is considered the most unhealthy area in the entire nation. And, on top of all that, the fact that he has a well received show on air regarding these efforts speaks volumes. Even if most people are watching it for the drama, they are still being exposed to the idea. People are starting to listen, people are starting to care, even if just a little.

Not sure if I were ever that excited about veggies at age 10.

My roommate Ham said it well when he suggested that I enter food policy: "You can't go into this caught up in your emotions. You have to approach this objectively." This is not to say that it is an emotionless issue, but that to enact change in the most efficient and appropriate manner, a healthy dose of objectivity is what will enable communication. People are defensive about their lifestyles, people don't like being told that what they do is wrong or unhealthy. But the truth of the matter is that it may be, and they're unlikely to accept that until you can frame the matter in a way that conducive to absorption and action.

So, all in all, I don't think I'm a hypocrite. I'm far from perfect, still deep in the learning process, but I am learning. I am comfortable with my decisions and I can answer for my choices. I don't judge others for how they choose to live, and I don't offer unsolicited advice on food. But know this -- I will always, always, be willing to talk to you about food. Food. Always.