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.