That was the tiger year

The remnants of 2022 were empty journal pages, notes on the long list of international shipping company and stack of legal document dented with frustration. It was the tiger year, the year when I supposed to be the bravest. But bravery comes in many forms, and the horoscope writer left that in a vague end. Vague AF.

I guess I was brave enough to move my self, my partner and our kitty to a new city. A new country. A new continent. Across the ocean! I’ve done that several times, as one person with two suitcases and a cast of evergreen support system. So, it was more of me replicating the routine, embracing the newness. But this time around, I’ve dragged these two that I can’t live without and I must say it was complicated. There were two months prep with my anxiety all time high and countless research/discussion/arguments/compromise/enlightened moments/and what not. There were tears and countless small wins celebration.

And once we arrived, the adjustment phase was another story. I lived in this country before, so it was kinda homecoming queen vibes. But taking care of the family was the complication that I didn’t put into the equation. And many times I couldn’t offer comforting space and snapped easily. Mainly because I was exhausted. Physically exhausted from full-time working, social time and using my self to the max. Not the 2018-exhausted, but still I need more time napping and filling my cup again. You’re in a new country, and all you want to do is napping? Doesn’t seem right.

I haven’t done something this big in the recent five years. Moving to Portland might be something close to it, but it was also a part of this moving scheme. I have already forgotten how a big milestone impacted my life and I didn’t process it at all until now. A dear friend asked me, how do you feel? Are you adjusting well? I couldn’t answer. I blurted, it was ok, moving as usual. But reflecting on 2022, moving was the big word that shadows everything else.

And honestly, that is not how I would like to remember about 2022. I kept a daily illustrated gratitude journal and amidst of the blank columns, life indeed is full of little cute things. I have trained myself to strive for those moments. Reading on the park by the canal. Rosé, lots of rosé. Great shows at Paradiso. Any shows at Paradiso. Creating mini posters for J’s shows. Bunch weeknight dinner. Movies at Trianon. Making friends with the bartender downstairs. Train ride with view of farmland and practicing “Koeien!” “Paarden!” “Schap!” Listening to new Soccer Mommy album back to back. Xian comforting noodles. Any noodles!

And I keep forgetting that I did travel to London and had my underground moment. That day drinking wine spritzer on the park in front of Tate Modern before Pete Doherty’s show at Kokos was one of the best days. I also had some elation post Geneva super-recharging trip. And visiting my best friends in Trieste after 10 years of separation! Ugh, how can I forget all these people walked into my life? Reunions and new friends that willingly offered: we are your support system now. How did I manage to say 2022 was blah when on the flip side I met and befriends with awesome people? This does not add up ;)

But that was the 2022 and it was a tiger year. The year when I was broke but regaining too many new experiences for growing. If I look back at the year, would I do things differently? Definitely. But would skip the moving part? I have no other choices and no regrets. Was it worth it? Hell yeah.

Am I hopeful for 2023? Ugh, after a harsh note on 2022? I will try my best. Because the only way is up now. And I will come back to my ordinary little moments and my people often. Because they keep me grounded and makes this life worth living.  

Find Me Here

I rarely talked about this, but I am so freakin’ obssesed with Call Me By Your Name. This one movie made me went down the rabbit hole of many things, and Timothy Chalamet was only the top of the iceberg. I think the whole package of CMBYN was masterpiece in many levels. Yes the outstanding performance of my dear Timothy, the whole mood of summer in Italian sleepy town and fantastic screenplay adapted from a great book. Thanks for Luca Guadiamo for that.

And the soundtrack that up to these days, are still frequently played whenever I need to focus.

And the book, I’m surprised that the book was not trending on booktok, because in the book we can be intimate with Elio. His fear and doubt, his excitement! It was all the feelings! It was almost the perfect queer lit and even has more stories of Elio Elio. Although, after reading Giovanni’s Room I can’t help to notice the similarity.

Few months before pandemic, I was lucky enough to attend the book sequel launch with a book talk by no less than Andre Aciman himself. Yes I gotta talk to him and of course I asked a silly questions, “What’s the name of the dog in the train scene?” And he answered, rather annoyed, of that was not the thing he focused on.

Because of course in the talk, one take away that I learn from this whole obsession and how great Andre Aciman is, he really likes to explore feelings or situation or circumstances that can not be precisely defined. And that idea has been lingering in my head so long that I feel the urge to write down in this blog again. It is so very relatable with me and the way I’ve been approaching writing in this blog. Not that I’m self-proclaiming my self as a great writer as Aciman, but let me say, it is an aspiration. This place is never been about my self, my activities and will never be about travel itineraries or skin care products. My favorite thing about writing here is when I can ramble for a while, sometimes down to the very details. In the end I feel very satisfied when I can explore a place, or a person (mostly is about this! Ha!) or a situation where or when the nuances are carefully laid out. It is really about the feelings.

I’ve been tinkering for a while whether or not I would like to invest my time again in this space. My other place is great, by being direct and open, it has led me to beautiful friendship and opportunities that I have never thought before. But I guess there is a novelty of being a bit indirect and limitation often sparks creativity. And I kinda enjoy Sunday early night with my words. I’m still scared of commiting to anything, but for the time being, I think you can find me here.

Of course, I am no Andre Aciman and I will focus of the dogs’ names.

Park (of Eleanor and Park)

I was not feeling very well couple months back and decided to read some comfort books. I scrolled through my kindle library, and decided to reread Eleanor and Park, my all time favorite young-adult romance.

I finished it in couple of days, I re-savored all the feelings, oh first love, first kiss and first everything… Sometimes I wish those feelings are not exclusively reserved for the young and reckless kind. This time around, I also understand more and more the social injustice issues in this book: poverty, domestic abuse, peer pressure, racial issues, and so on. And in the end, the second re-reading validated me that Eleanor and Park still deserves the five stars in my heart.

Additionally, what stroke me the most was how I understand my self more by meeting Park in this book. Of course I fell in love with this boy who always wore band t-shirt and created mix-tape (!!) with all his heart. Because in my teenage year, that was me! Not that I think Eleanor didn’t deserve Park - they were teenagers in love, so let them live that world.

But this is about me, and I feel seen with Park character.

It started when I was thirteen, I guess. I was an adolescent girl with limited social activities and all the time at my hands. Fashion, make-up, and most of features in Seventeen or Young & Modern were not interesting to me. I mostly spent all my time in the world with listening solely to Oz Radio, devouring all pages of Hai magazine and watching too much MTV (also [V] channel). I had a thud in my heart when I discovered Oasis. Jon Bon Jovi was my biggest crush, and not so long after that, Eddie Vedder took the place. I spent my after school hours imagining band life, musicians daily pursuits and other rock n roll scenes. Would it be nice to be in a room with Damon Albarn and listen to his thoughts? LA must be awesome, I would be frequenting all Guns n Roses gigs.

All this time, I had no one to converse with about all these stars. My closest circle consisted of girls, and despite that I really enjoyed spending time with them, sharing secrets about our crushes during sleepover and whatnot, no one seems to understand my obsession with music and musicians down to the finest details. No one seems to get that discovering Crush with Eyeliner video was a brain-f*cked.

No wonder, when I finally met a classmate who recited Yellowledbetter and can talked forever about what a brilliant song Married with Children was, I had this strange feeling in my heart. Unlike Park, he was a popular boy in school and had exes in tow! Argh, I was secretly in love an in denial, but would spend hours conversing about what we have seen on MTV last night. He was the one who gets it when I discreetly showed him my brand new Hard Rock Cafe Michael Stipe edition when I was passing by. We both, of course, had a long argument about who loves Michael Stipe more.

Now readers, this is a story about Park and me, not about how I had my heart badly broken. I moved school - not because I was broken hearted, mind you, it was just about time to choose a new high school - it took another lonely two years until I found someone who speaks about Ten album with sparkling eyes. This time it was an awesome girl, and we’ve been best friends ever since. We had falling out and making up, but safely to say, no hearts were destroyed, and our relationship has grown so much beyond punk and hardcore scenes.

And still after all those years, meeting Park in Eleanor and Park, was a revelation of what it feels like to meet someone who speaks your language. And for that, I will always hug this book whenever I see it in a book store.

And readers, I wish you meet that kind or person, many many times in your life, and never stay out of touch.

The devastating feeling of accidentally shrunk sweater

I just got home from a short day trip form Amsterdam and casually sorting my laundry out of the washer. I have one hour till the clock hit midnight and might as well finish this core, I thought. Then there, in the middle of jumbled damp clothes, I saw it: my favorite rainbow sweater is now 5 size smaller. And my heart was in million pieces.

I know this is a laughable first-world country problem. Jesse keeps on repeating “It’s just a sweater!” And I couldn’t manage to feel other than sad. Sad is underrated. It is devastating to be exact. I can’t shake it off and decided to wallow for a while.

Back in the beginning of winter, I decided to pamper myself with something nice and cozy that would get me a tad excited about cold weather. I’ve always wanted a stripes sweater in rainbow color and the stars aligned, my favorite clothing brand sold that online. It was a little more than my budget and I took few days of contemplation. But one morning I got up, sleepily checked e-mail and I bought that in a wimp. I cursed myself for couple of days, why did I splurged when I supposed to be saving. But when the sweater arrived, I couldn’t be happier.

In the spirit of spark joy from our beloved Marie Kondo, I realized that was the feeling when you own a piece that you really love and proud of. A piece that was well-designed and in high-quality (albeit the mass production from China) that embodied your value and vibes. It’s just your forever thing. And mine was this bright colorful sweater that I got compliments for every so often. With this, I can conquer the world. At that time, I swear I don’t need to buy another sweater. (Fast forward: I was wrong. Two months later I bought a classic black sweater).

And last night, I couldn’t fit into this sweater anymore, the fabric felt heavy and fuzzy and I sat there with a lot of question in my head. Of course, I turned into youtube to the rescue, did my best soaking it in conditioner, and so on.. Although I managed to pull the wool and it is now in a bigger size than when it just come off the washer, I realized that it will never be the same sweater again. I went to bed with frown and overthinking of what could have been and what I should have not done. A good portion of that involved myself questioning my the spark-joy theory versus attachment. I felt betrayed with my faith in the sweater. It supposed to bring me confidence that I sort things out in my life. But seeing it in tiny form, I’m wondering if I should have bought a cheaper version advertised by targeted ad. I maybe can shrugged it off easily.

It’s just a sweater. But this feeling is devastating, I can’t deny.

    

Sheer simplicity

Illustration by Design Love Fest

The truth is, I’m a little bit sad today with the demand of this fast world. It’s not enough that you are something, you gotta do what it takes to keep you in the market. It’s not enough that you produce good stuffs, you gotta keep up with the marketing to keep rolling. When you are beautiful, brilliant and radiant, everybody would want something of you. And sometimes it takes a lot to keep on giving.

I’m not naive, I know there’s business models, balancing where ends meet and other logistics. There are middleman and messengers in between. It is never as simple as farm to kitchen to table. It’s not enough that we survive with hunting and cooking skills. The world is so much more complicated now, that we have to understand spreadsheets. With the advancement of technology, shouldn’t life be simpler?

And often I wonder, is this the picture of success would be? When I was a kid, I always wanted to be an architect, innocently thought that I would be drawing, drawing and drawing. Never crossed my mind that it includes dealing with clients, building the company and making sure there’s enough coffee beans in the pantry. And that kid with assortment of pencil color, did she wonder about her salary digits? Or the type of couch she could afford?

Life is simple, or not?

Barista

A long time a go, I had a crush on this barista in a small coffee shop nearby my office in midtown. He is not too tall, pretty lean with just the right amount of muscles. And oh so handsome and he starred with a deep cut to your soul. I think he used to wear a black-rimmed glasses, the kind of look that I imagine was stolen from from Raphael Saadiq Vintage Ray era. I didn’t really pay attention until one day he told me my cortado has 4 shots of espresso and he hoped it does the work for my Monday morning.

Almost every morning (because sometimes went straight for a morning meeting), I passed by the coffee shop window and smiled or waved at him. Heart skipped a beat. By the time I got to the order counter, my coffee is ready. He handed me the cup and I sheepishly received it. His left arm was tattoed with a Keisya written in big cursive letters. Almost covered the whole lower arm.

For once I would like to believe that Keisya is a name of a country.
But I am a geographer, and this lie can only stays a second in my head.

That Rockaway feeling

I can feel it’s ending. That Sundays, when everyone rushed to the beach just because we had unseasonably warm weather in late September, there was a pang in my heart knowing we tried our best to grab the remains. Just like when we polish our past bowl with a piece of bread to soak the scrumptious sauce.
The beach was the same, gorgeously lit and warmed by overloaded summer sun, and cooled down by the water nature and breezy wind. The beige sand felt a little rough on my feet, but maybe I was a little too sensitive.
But the food bazaar has closed down, leaving snaky lines in front of the remaining vendors. I didn’t manage to get my last dose of stroberita, the bar closed its curtain before four and I opted for Naraganset from the other seller instead. And at the end of the day, everything felt a bit off. There was something really sad about the fold down the umbrella on top of all the picnic table.
The day was shorter, we talked about this as we were walking down to the van line. It was before 7pm, and the sky already had a dash of pink. We joked around on how winter sucks, but deep inside my heart I know it is never a joke. Oh summer, I know I could never detach my self from you. I tried to smile it off, but it came out bitter. I guess I still couldn’t resist the temptation to hold on to you. I want you to stay, I don’t feel like making space for a new beginning. I want my life to be a forever summer.
But life happens, and northern hemisphere has it’s own thing. This is my test, I guess. I can’t fight something that is not there anymore. That summer feeling, that Rockaway vibes, they don’t come out in pills.
Good times come to an end, they say. I believe they’re making a way for a new beginning. In which at this point I know that it is not always for the worse, it is often for the better. I am hopeful as usual, and believe that time heals. There will be pumpkin season, Halloween party and second season of Stranger Things. I will have more time with my pile of books-to-read and illustrations projects. But as I was sitting in the back seat of the van crossing the bridge going to Flatbush, I wanted to be alone with my whim.
I’m gonna miss you, and I convinced my self that it is okay to feel this way.