Trump’s America
Brooklyn, New York
The Trump victory was a violent affirmation of the America that has been here all along. A political party that many, many people feel excited by, a leadership they believe is blessed by God. 70 million people is not nothing, it is more than triple the population of Australia, where I am from (26 million). 70 million people are unhappy with the status quo, and the rest of us—those who voted for Harris/Walz, those who voted third party, those who didn’t, those who couldn’t—are no less satisfied.
Over the last few days I have been thinking about grief, my own and from my wider community. I have seen over and over that people do not recognize this country anymore, or perhaps more accurately can no longer pretend that they do. This grief mirrors the celebration happening at the same time for millions of voters who hoped for this result. I imagine their hope, a promise of returning to an America they believe was taken from them. I think about the immigrant groups that turned out in droves, the people who came from somewhere else, like me, who are voting in self interest.
America is nothing if not a place that rewards and values self interest. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. You manifest your own destiny. You can be anything you want to be in America, except maybe the president if you are not a white man. Self interest has limits, because humanity does not exist in a vacuum. Our greatest achievements, in art, in culture, in science are built off the backs of the people who came before us, they’re built in a complex tapestry of everyone who surrounds us. The project of America is the belief in the promise of a United States of America, a coalition, a unity that is simply impossible against the backdrop of imperialism and self interest that defines this country. Many people have had the privilege of not seeing (or just ignoring) that reality until now. The veil has been lifted for the people who refused to see it otherwise.
I once hit a deer while driving upstate. I was alone, heading to a friend’s house for a birthday. I saw the first deer, stopped to let it bound across the road. I sped up as it disappeared into the thicket as the second jumped right in front of my car. I drove over its body and kept going. I was in shock, and I thought that if I just kept driving for 20 more minutes to my destination, I would be safe, I would be fine. Ghost was in the passenger seat howling. I could see the front bumper crumpled high where I had hit the deer, smoke seeping out the edges of the jagged mess. Every symbol on the dashboard was bright red and blinking. I realized that I could not just pretend it wasn’t happening, I had a terrible image of me and Ghost burning alive. I pulled over and waited for my friends to come and get me.
For a long time, I think liberal America has been existing in that moment of denial, those ten minutes I pretended like I had not just totaled a Mini Cooper. The hope and belief that if you just keep going on the journey you set out on, that maybe you can get to your destination unscathed.
This week I finally came closer to understanding what it must have felt like for the insurrectionists on January 6. What drives you to show up to the doorstep of the most protected and symbolic building of the most powerful country in the world with the desire to destroy. I’m closer to understanding what it must feel like for the rug to be pulled out, suspended between multiple realities—mine, and that of 70 million people who see a different America. A version of America that won by popular vote, won the presidency, won the Senate, and may yet win the House.
I am in no way minimizing the grief I feel about a Trump worldview being so thoroughly endorsed and embraced by the masses. I am an immigrant to this country, born from refugees of the Vietnam War. I am a woman. I am somebody who has descended from the collateral damage of a war waged by the country I now find myself in. I don’t think there’s any time left, let alone another four years, for this country to make the kind of climate inroads it needs to avoid total catastrophe and to mitigate harm.
I feel deep grief when I think about the idea of a Republican supermajority and what that will mean for the millions of people who will be affected: the undocumented, the queer community, trans people, poor black mothers, teachers, disabled people. The real victims of this victory. I woke to text messages that told me what was happening before I had time to look at the news, and I woke my boyfriend up with my sobs. I was not crying for what this means for me, in my liberal bubble as a privileged immigrant in Brooklyn. It was grief for the suffering that will ripple out, tearing through families and communities who’ve long fought the impossible—the illusion of an America we’ve never fully reckoned with.
I feel grief when I see the fingers pointed postmortem, the graphics shared on Instagram of the demographics that did and did not vote for this one or that one. People on both sides of the leftist spectrum saying “I told you so, you deserve what happens now.” This feels only like a perpetuation of the circumstances that brought us here. To blame each other, to continue to be tricked by these systems that are designed to pit people against each other. The person who voted for Jill Stein or for Trump is no less the problem than all of our collective impulses to continue the status quo, to reject the shadow of America as an intrinsic part of its character.
We must be willing to see each other as comrades with common goals rather than moral enemies. I believe in a world where there is a free Palestine, where the women of Iran are not held under the boot of men, where there is socialized healthcare, where systems are designed for care rather than for money. I believe in the enduring struggle that must continue, I believe in face to face conversations with strangers, in libraries, and in fighting the systems that have created a sick and addicted society rather than punishing its victims. I believe this can all still happen, and I am optimistic and hopeful that things can and will change if we rise to meet the moment. I wish that we could achieve this without the suffering that will inevitably come, but they say you need to hit rock bottom to change. I believe that change is not linear and that life is long, and that many of us are young and have time to develop the muscle of struggle and care for others. I refuse to let the pain overwhelm my hope, because there is no other choice, because I cannot imagine what the next four years is going to bring if we all choose to become numb, to continue with the status quo.
This election made it clear that nobody on either side is happy with the way that things are. I hope it is a rebirth. I hope for change, and I hope for that change to happen with minimal suffering. We are all aware that electing Kamala would not have been enough. We can’t expect entrenched systems to act beyond self-interest until we force change with a collective demand too big to ignore, as we saw this week. It’s on us to deeply examine how to expand each of our little bubbles to let in more of the world around us in its naked truth, even if it is painful, even if we are exhausted, even if its hard.
They say it takes 250 years for an empire to fall. In 2024, it has been 248 since the dawn of the project of America, a project built on the backs of slaves that is rapidly reaching the logical end of its violent and inhumane origins. It is time for us to build something new, and I am holding deep grief and a cautious optimism that no one is exempt from seeing America in complete honesty now, and that this can lead to a principled and sustained collective fight that will build something new.
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Summer Anxiety
Sarasota, Florida
In the car after the beach at sunset
I have a recurring dream that I am late to maths class. The bell has rung, and there are swarms of students moving with purpose around me. I don’t know where I am, or where I am supposed to be. As I search for the classroom, a panic builds about homework I didn’t do that I vaguely suspect is due. I stumble around hallways lined with identical grey silver lockers and start to cry. I’m late and painfully underprepared, lagging so far behind that I will never be able to catch up.
The thing about maths is that your ability to understand certain concepts is predicated on understanding the ones that came before it. The complexity increases as you progress, and if you fail to understand one thing, it rolls into the next, becoming a roadblock.
At some point in maths class, I didn’t understand a concept being taught, and the class moved on before I could figure it out. Everything from that moment forwards was incomprehensible. I was held up by this one thing and I was too embarrassed to ask for help. Instead, I played phone games underneath the desk in the back left corner as Mr. Dimopolous filled the chalkboard with numbers and symbols, total gibberish to me. I would avoid his gaze when he handed back the tests that I failed, shoving them in my backpack before anybody could see.
Once I was left behind, there was no way for me to catch up. Being shit at maths led to the belief that I maybe I was just a dummy, something that persisted well into my adulthood until the last couple of years after having freedom to actually wholeheartedly choose what I want to learn. Learning to drive was a similar feeling: here was something that a majority of adults seemed to be able to do, something I couldn’t, and maybe would never be able to.
Adulthood sometimes feels much like learning maths in high school. There is an urgency to keep up. To pause for a moment is to be left behind. Everyone else has already moved forward, is continuing to move forward, their retreating backs only barely visible in the dust that has been kicked up behind them. We are always somehow behind.
Once I was left behind, there was no way for me to catch up. Being shit at maths led to the belief that I maybe I was just a dummy, something that persisted well into my adulthood until the last couple of years after having freedom to actually wholeheartedly choose what I want to learn. Learning to drive was a similar feeling: here was something that a majority of adults seemed to be able to do, something I couldn’t, and maybe would never be able to.
Adulthood sometimes feels much like learning maths in high school. There is an urgency to keep up. To pause for a moment is to be left behind. Everyone else has already moved forward, is continuing to move forward, their retreating backs only barely visible in the dust that has been kicked up behind them. We are always somehow behind.
I, and my many of my friends, are entering our thirties, the hallowed grounds of adulthood. We have less money that we expected, we’re single when we thought we’d have children by now. Our careers are less fulfilling, years of effort fizzling into an itchy feeling, or we’re standing at the precipice of big changes; going back to school, starting new and more senior jobs, starting and finishing large bodies of work. The rents are higher, the government trending the wrong direction, the prospect of home ownership more remote. Often, I lie in bed at night and count the things I did that day as evidence to myself that I am fulfilling my role as a person engaged with life to the highest degree. Nothing is too insignificant for this list of achievements: I watered the plants, I had three calls, I meditated, I read, I wrote, I worked out, I washed my hair, I cooked two meals for myself. I mutter these things under my breath, offering them to some higher being as a bargaining chip for rest that I feel as though I have earned.
My ex of eight years recently got engaged, a piece of news I found out about when I was walking my dog around the same park we’ve walked around thousands of times before. His engagement was just one in a long chorus that seems to be growing in volume the older I get. It is among other accomplishments that you can point to, make Instagram posts about: promotions, new homes, moving countries, reproducing. All Summer, I have been restless, uneasy, unable to identify what exactly is wrong, only that I am not progressing in the way that I feel as though I am supposed to.
My ex of eight years recently got engaged, a piece of news I found out about when I was walking my dog around the same park we’ve walked around thousands of times before. His engagement was just one in a long chorus that seems to be growing in volume the older I get. It is among other accomplishments that you can point to, make Instagram posts about: promotions, new homes, moving countries, reproducing. All Summer, I have been restless, uneasy, unable to identify what exactly is wrong, only that I am not progressing in the way that I feel as though I am supposed to.
I have been somewhat unhappily distracted by any opportunity to indulge: hours in the park in the middle of the day reading on a bench, last-minute glasses of wine that go on for longer than they should. Each night collapsing in bed exhausted, guilty that I didn’t write, didn’t meditate, didn’t read as much as I wanted to. When I am unable to list all these offerings that I use to reassure myself I have done enough, it’s evidence that I am falling behind in all the big ways, and now, all the small ways, too.
I litigated this with my therapist. I worried that I was wasting my potential, that I am too good at having fun. She looked at me and said, “Maybe you’re just enjoying Summer.”
She kind of ate. Now that Summer is officially Over, I feel suddenly fine again. After that therapy session, the one where I paid my therapist $150 to tell me I was simply Enjoying Summer, Cody and I went to Sarasota (Florida) for his birthday.
I worked for an hour or two in the morning and didn’t bother tomeditate, or write, or work that much. I forgot to count my accomplishment offerings at night, I simply just fell asleep. We went to thrift stores, ate simple meals, floated in the warm ocean and watched movies in the air conditioned Airbnb. Life was narrowed to the hot sand burning the soles of my feet, getting comfortable on the squeaky leather couch, trying to agree with Cody on what time we should get to the beach to play frisbee. I finally stopped feeling like there was something I was supposed to be doing, if only I could just figure out what it was.
One of my favorite things when we go to Florida is sieving for shark’s teeth at this prehistoric looking beach called Caspersen’s. It’s fully exposed. The wind and the sun feels especially harsh here. The water is choppy, often cold. This time, it was lukewarm. The road to the parking lot had eroded into pieces of cookie into the sand dunes, and we had to walk through it. It was about a fifteen minute walk in the midday sun, the type of additional walk you need to account for in your mental expectations for the day.
Usually, there are dozens of other people up to their knees in the ocean, carrying shovels of sand and beach debris from the ocean onto the shore, sifting through them to look for the dark, triangular teeth that washes up to this specific beach. The whole thing looks like a mining operation. This time, maybe because of the cookie dust road, there were much fewer people on the beach. We lowered our butts into the warm ocean, lowering and raising our sieves from the bottom of the seabed. I was trying to practice my ability to spot the sharks teeth among the 1000 other colorful and dark little pieces of ocean that I had scooped up. Cody always seems to find them, even the smallest ones, the sliver of a tooth broken off from some probably dead shark.
I could not get my hair to stay in my ponytail. It kept whipping around my face and into my mouth. I was sweaty and dirty, coated in a fine layer of dark sand, vaguely thirsty. I would get into short bouts of intense focus looking for teeth and then lie back on my towel and reading my book. Heavy rain clouds rolled in after a few hours, the sound of thunder in the far off distance. We set off back to the car, not wanting to get caught in the rain. I washed sand off my body underneath the public shower, my foot pressed down on a metal pedal to keep the water on. On our drive back to the Airbnb, we sang along to whatever we could find on the radio, too lazy to connect the bluetooth. I can drive well now, but I’m a passenger princess in Sarasota.
Usually, there are dozens of other people up to their knees in the ocean, carrying shovels of sand and beach debris from the ocean onto the shore, sifting through them to look for the dark, triangular teeth that washes up to this specific beach. The whole thing looks like a mining operation. This time, maybe because of the cookie dust road, there were much fewer people on the beach. We lowered our butts into the warm ocean, lowering and raising our sieves from the bottom of the seabed. I was trying to practice my ability to spot the sharks teeth among the 1000 other colorful and dark little pieces of ocean that I had scooped up. Cody always seems to find them, even the smallest ones, the sliver of a tooth broken off from some probably dead shark.
I could not get my hair to stay in my ponytail. It kept whipping around my face and into my mouth. I was sweaty and dirty, coated in a fine layer of dark sand, vaguely thirsty. I would get into short bouts of intense focus looking for teeth and then lie back on my towel and reading my book. Heavy rain clouds rolled in after a few hours, the sound of thunder in the far off distance. We set off back to the car, not wanting to get caught in the rain. I washed sand off my body underneath the public shower, my foot pressed down on a metal pedal to keep the water on. On our drive back to the Airbnb, we sang along to whatever we could find on the radio, too lazy to connect the bluetooth. I can drive well now, but I’m a passenger princess in Sarasota.
Transcendence via
Onsen and Tamago Sandwiches: A Japan Guide
Osaka, Japan
A self portrait in Osaka
I’ll spare you the gritty details of the emotional rollercoaster that is taking a two week vacation with your entire family who you have not lived in the same country with for a decade. In short: it was strange, joyful, exhausting and I can’t wait to go back. It was partially planned by my younger sister (via an exhaustive spreadsheet with activities scheduled down to the hour and rest time), and partially by me on the fly (and cultivated through the sporadic saving of Japan-related travel videos I came across on TikTok).
I think a great vacation is one that both meets and challenges your expectations of what you expect to be fun. Being on a family vacation is the ultimate way of having both these things magnified at a crazy scale, and in Japan, even more so. My family and I functionally have very little in common: They do not want to go see the weird vending machines in Akhibara (some have pedophilic stories printed on them that I’m hoping are not true), or art museums, or vintage stores. I don’t want to go to TeamLabs, or line up for two hours to eat at Tsujihara, a popular sushi rice restaurant that blew up on TikTok that my sister was intent on making our mid-60s parents line up in the sun for. There is a middle ground, a fine dance between spending enough quality time on things you all find enjoyable, and having enough space to avoid losing your mind. I think my trip managed to hit both, not without a fair amount of tears (mostly just on my birthday when I was triggered HARDDDD and spent most of the night before and morning of crying on the phone to my boyfriend about how nobody loves me -lol) and laughter.
I also want to make a strong argument for going to Japan alone, to be able to navigate and adapt to the environment without the filter of company. My friend Chris, who lives in Tokyo, told me about the idea that Japanese people have three faces: the one you show the world, the one you show your friends and family, and the third, secret one, that only you know (mine is using the new macro probe camera my boyfriend bought me to look inside my ears). If you’ve watched Shogun (and if you haven’t you should), they describe it as the ‘eight-fold fence’. It’s a meticulously maintained face you serve to others, but which is stripped away when traveling alone. I found this concept to be an interesting through line throughout the trip, and without further exposition, here’s a non-linear collection of thoughts on traveling to Japan kind of with your family and kind of alone. Some I wrote while I was there, and some while wishing I was still there while back here, home in Brooklyn.
Firstly, the practical:
- I loved being able to see both dense, hectic cities and the quieter towns that satellite them. I went from Osaka (to Kyoto and Nara as day trips) and took the Shinkansen to Tokyo (and then to Hakone and Kamakura as day trips). It was like Japan for Dummies, the tourist circuit. It seems that almost everyone does this same circuit to begin with, and it just works really well as a basic primer to plan your future trips on. If I were to re-do this trip, I may have shortened my time in Tokyo and added another random satellite city.
- Load up your phone with a Suica pass in your Apple wallet to use on the 3-5 train lines that intersect but owned by different companies (confusing), the vending machines (delicious), or even as payment for stores (convenient).
- Bring at least two portable batteries cause your shit will be kaput so quick walking these streets. Bring only comfortable shoes.
- Having cash on hand is important for all the little snacks you may need throughout your day. Having a coin purse is important. I recommend buying a cute coin purse once you get there.
- Luggage forwarding (takuhaibin) is your best friend if you plan to shop. You can essentially send your luggage ahead of you to meet you wherever you’re going, whether it’s in another hotel, the next city or at the airport. Most hotels will do this for you if you inquire at the front desk.
- Understanding basic customs and etiquette beforehand is key in feeling less like a bumbling white tourist, which I personally have never felt more like in my life. Giving and receiving things with two hands, using any tray provided by cashiers for your card or payment, not eating on the train, or while walking, learning how to say arigato gozaimasu and sumimasen (excuse me).
- I went in June, which was very hot later in the month when I was in Tokyo but tolerable everywhere else. I would return for March/April for cherry blossom season, or for fall for the leaves.
- Bring your passport when you leave the house because it entitles you to a 10% off tax refund discount that they either apply before you pay or refund you at a special counter nearby (which is a delightful experience of being refunded physical cash which according to girl math is just free money)
- The internet’s advice about traveling with a near empty suitcase to Japan is absolutely correct. In the event of buying even more than possible to fit in your empty suitcase, the department store Hands is a great place to find foldable travel 45-150L travel duffels, some with built in locks. I checked one full of clothes on the way home and it was totally fine. Hands also has an entire floor for stationary and a great cosmetics section.
- A way I like to travel to hit hot spots while keeping it flexible to be surprised: pick a neighborhood, zoom in on Google Maps and star random things that look interesting (be liberal!) and just walk around from spot to spot, seeing everything in between. Japan is best explored on foot.
- Some of my most enjoyable meals were from the convenience stores/konbini. You’re not really supposed to eat and walk, so you end up standing on the side of random streets and solely focusing on the act of eating. This was frustrating at first and then turned into one of my favorite things about Japan - the social etiquette that shames you into being more present. What’s the rush? Where am I going anyway that requires me to eat while walking?
- I have always loved crustless white bread sandwiches (my palate is that of a five year olds). The egg tamago sandwiches at the convenience stories is NOT TO BE MISSED. I had one for breakfast every day, accompanied by a randomly chosen refrigerated coffee beverage.
- All the malls seem to have a food court floor that serves hot food, a food court floor with a lot of deli-esque bite sized/lunch things behind glass display cases, and a floor that has packaged food novelties like perfectly wrapped individual pieces of fruit. I had an incredibly satisfying chicken tonkatsu curry and an ice cold Asahi standing up in a mall food court in Osaka. Many of the meals I had were chosen based on proximity to my immediate need to be hungry, its Google reviews and accessibility, and most of the meals I had were incredible. I loved that most places you can eat at are dependably good, many far surpass your expectations. I booked exactly zero restaurants in advance, but I know that’s not everyone’s preference - I don’t care as much about food as I do everything else.
STOP 1: OSAKA
- Osaka is where I encountered my first web of interconnected underground and above ground system of malls that also connect to various train stations, many of which are owned and operated by completely different companies. Do not go into these situations without sustenance because it feels like a panic attack waiting to happen. While I tried to find an antique store on the 12th floor of a department store, I found a 10th anniversary bird crafts market instead. The scale of commerce in these places is absolutely insane. Wandering around these places is a cultural experience in itself. I especially liked HEP FIVE if you’re trying to shop for clothes. The BEAMS store in the HEP FIVE was the best one I came across my entire time in Japan.
- I loved visiting Book of Days, a kind of hard to find photo book store in a quiet neighborhood. This is also where I saw my first smoking box, where they corral smokers into clear glass boxes located in the parks, which I thought was hilarious and would never ever be possible in America.
- I did a LOT of shopping in Osaka. On our first day, we went to Shinsaibashi-Suji shopping street, an indoor street of stores that seemed to stretch into infinity. I loved the 2nd Street locations (I believe there are 2 or 3 on the same street), and there’s a bunch of big brands like Asics, Uniqlo, Gu, etc. on this same street.
- Osaka is also the first place I encountered Kindal, basically an upscale 2nd street. Good for tighter curation, higher prices. I went to the Umeda Chayamachi and the other Umeda location.
- I didn’t get to go, but nearby Umeda, there’s a neighborhood called Nakazakicho that I’ve heard is pretty to walk around and packed with vintage stores. Some shops I would have visited if I had time: AURA, Sorciere, POPEYE.
- Dotonbori is an overwhelming district for dining - filled with huge neon signs and restaurants. I walked around the river and back streets as the sun set and took photos and had a great time. I had some of the best Italian food in my entire fucking life here at Italian Kitchen Legare, a place I looked up on Google Maps because I was tired of eating Japanese food and getting hangrier by the minute. It was a 12 seat counter wrapped around a small kitchen with one man, and a menu entirely in Japanese. From the mouths of two people walked out whose seat I took; “this was the best pasta I’ve ever had. We ordered seconds to take back to our hotel.” I also ordered seconds for my ravenous family waiting back at the AirBnB. Trust me. Go here.
- We were meant to go to this restaurant opened by the first urban winery in Japan (here) but quickly learned that you’re basically shit out of luck trying to book for parties about 5 people. I also would have loved to try Ikareta Noodle Fishtons and Mochisho Shizuku Shinmachi.
- Bouldering gym roca is an incredible tiny bouldering gym that you find at the very top of a narrow staircase. Owned and operated by seriously good climbers, the place is generally run down and with no AC but makes up in charm what it lacks in amenities. E-cigarettes are not sold in Japan, but they allow “heated tobacco products” and this gym is where I first encountered IQOS, this weird device you put what looks like a half cigarette in, and it heats it without combustion, fire, ash or smoke. There was a general confusion with the owner when I asked to bum a cigarette and had to learn how to use this entire system, and he wanted me to try both the flavors he had on hand, which I did out of politeness and which promptly made me feel like I was about to pass out. Cash only.
- I loved seeing Osaka Castle, even if it was insanely touristy. It’s a crazy looking place, and I’d recommend buying tickets to go to the museum inside so you’re not just standing outside looking at your family members in the rain and collectively deciding nobody is willing to try hard enough. We also went to the Osaka Museum of History nearby.
STOP 2: NARA
- I woke up bawling on my 31st birthday. I felt lonely and terrible; the differences between me and my family magnified in the context of the day and all that the expectations that I had built around It. I was 31 going on 13, and it took a serious self-face slap to get myself out of the tragic corner I had backed myself into. We had already planned to go to Nara that day, and it turns out that it’s not possible to be sad while also feeding and bowing to deers in a beautiful Japanese park. Nara is known for their population of sacred semi-wild deer that were protected as the helpers of the gods for hundreds of years, making them unusually docile and unafraid of humans.
They’re also incredibly aggressive, and you have to be careful where you wave a special deer cracker around, because it will attract a hoard of them ready to tear through your bags and your clothes to get to them. The further you walk away from the main train station, the less aggressive they become, and the real magic is walking deep into the park away from the hoards of tourists. Dotted across the landscape are little groups of deers napping together under trees, or roaming across hills.
- There is randomly a Montbell in the middle of the park. They’re a Japanese outdoors brand that makes super high quality clothes and camping/hiking products. My dad got a shirt with a fish on it (he fishes back in Sydney) and I got tiny carabiner keychains and Gore-tex pants as a birthday gift to myself.
- The Nara National Museum seemed like a really interesting spot known for a huge collection of Buddhist art, but you need tickets ahead of time, which we had not done.
- At the center of the park is a huge temple complex called Todai-Ji, which has one of the largest wooden structures in the entire world and one of the largest Buddha statues in Japan. The grounds include multiple koi ponds, smaller temples and gardens, and my family and I stumbled across a Buddhist ceremony that moved me to tears at one of the smaller temples on the periphery.
- After I said bye to my family, I crossed paths with my friends Allie and Erin for the briefest moment at the giant statues of guardian demons that marked the entry point of the Todai-Ji temple complex. Then, I walked 45 minutes south through the park, passing people napping on benches, cautious lines of deer stalking alongside car park fencec, towards the Irie Taikichi Memorial Museum, a small photo museum. I stopped at Tenkuii, a beautiful restaurant on the very outskirts of Nara after being rejected from Uma-no-me without explanation. They were done with lunch, but sat me down in a private upstairs dining room facing a manicured garden. I ordered a carafe of sake, a jar of custard, and got tipsy. This made the walk through the backstreets of the residential Nara area incredibly chaotic and fun. There were barely any people on the streets, and the small details of people’s lives had enough to keep me fully locked in after already having walked 20,000 steps.
The museum was tiny, and perfect. It has an insanely comprehensive photo book library you can just sit and read books in, and I found out that Irie Taikichi is a local photographer known for landscape and nature work. I walked back to the station to take the train back to Osaka, stopping first at 7/11 and getting a Mochi pizza bun, chicken nuggets and sitting on the rim of a water fountain and chowing tf down before getting on the train back.
- My family went to Warner Brothers Movie World or something of that equivalent, which meant I had a free day and decided at 10AM to book an overnight hotel in Kyoto (like 2 hours on the train - everything is insanely close and efficient with their train system), where my family had already visited. In another stroke of serendipity, my friend Teya happened to already be there, and I proceeded to have the most manic 24 hours of travelmaxxing. I booked Agora Kyoto Karasuma, a bare bones but very pleasant hotel near the center, dropped off my bag and then took a bus over to Yasaka-jinja Shrine, hit up a few antique stores, ate a grilled rice ball stick from the street, and ended up at Kiyomizu-dera, which was a tourist shitfight but still an incredibly beautiful quick and easy loop around green temple grounds. I ate lunch just as it started pouring inside a random tiny udon noodle store, got myself tipsy again on a single beer and took a Uber over to Fushimi Inari, where I found a “back” way on AllTrails that thinned out the tourists by 99% almost immediately. It was like slipping into an alternate universe. The hike up was pretty steep, about 2 hours, and the route takes you along tiny shrines dotted on the mountain with overgrown mossy statues. At the top, I paid one of the wooden home/kiosk businesses $3 for a candle to light at the shrine, and started to cry because I am nothing if not a sentimental bitch.
- At this point it was maybe 4pm and Teya was arriving from Tokyo, so I met up with her and we walked along the Kamo river and watched kids skate and people be on dates (I highly recommend doing this). I regretted not bringing my camera on this walk. We went to a vegan ramen restaurant that was surprisingly good (offers very little in ambiance) and reminded me of the chaotic oversharing and purity of Dr. Bronner’s. Then, we met up with our friends Danny and Peyton, internet friends, where they were finishing a dinner at a stand-up bar serving giant bottles of sake.
- The next morning, we took a very long morning bus after pounding 7/11 tamago sandwiches to head to Arashiyama station, where we got off and ordered a 5 minute Uber up the hill to Otagi Nenbutsu-ji Temple, a beautiful 8th century temple featuring 1,200+ mossy stone heads with different personalities and expressions. They represent Buddhist worshippers. We walked down the hill past Adashino Mayumura, an adorable store that sells tiny sculptures made from discarded butterfly cocoons. We passed a few temples, stopping at Gio-ji temple, the one with an insane moss garden that had something like 200+ spices of moss sharing a forest floor. We walked through the famous Arashiyama Bamboo Forest, which was pleasant but absolutely forgettable, and then to the Arashiyama Monkey Park. You have to walk up a 20 minute hill to get to this insane viewpoint over the city, and there are just crazy amounts of monkeys around. You cannot interact with them, but you can feed them exactly one packet of tiny cut up applies from inside a jail that the monkeys crowd around the windows of. They stick their grubby little funny hands through the bars and grab at your slices of apples, or peanuts, and I won’t lie, I loved doing this.
- Afterwards, we walked along the Katsura River (turn left after you exit the monkey park and just keep walking) which was so idyllic. I imagine it’s insane in Autumn.
- That afternoon, I went to a 300 year old restaurant specializing in noodles, where I tried a Kyoto specialty — soba with pickled herring. Kyoto is so landlocked, and back in the day they would ship their fish from the coast and pickle them to make them last longer. It was an incredible solo meal. I walked outside and came across Kyukudo, a stationary store that feels like the Bloomingdales of stationary. I’m obsessed with the way that they sell designed and patterned letter writing sets everywhere. I used to have a pen pal at 14, shoutout to you if you are still out there somewhere, I actually have very little idea how we even found each other, but I was doing some random shit on the internet in the mid 2000’s. I think the idea of writing someone a physical note is incredibly romantic, and I want to bring this energy into my life.
- I caught the tail end of the Nijo Castle, which is the last place there was a shogunate that ruled the country, which was very cool (thank you Simran for the rec), and then packed my shit up and took the 3PM train back to Osaka to return to my family after deciding that yes, I had done enough for 24 hours and was exhausted.
- My friend Teya is vegan, and we had an insane dinner situation unfold where we came across the perfect vegan izakaya tucked away on the fourth floor called KlboKo Organic gallery & wine, which we walked 30 minutes to only to be again, mysteriously rejected despite there being empty seats. We ended up trying to go to a gyoza restaurant that had a Google Maps review referencing the “plentiful vegetarian options”, which resulted in us ordering 6 dishes, 5 of them being inedible because of the surprise meat they’d turn up with. Even the scallion pancake had meat.
- Besides this disastrous dinner experience, we had an incredible day otherwise. We walked our feet off: Firstly from her hostel in Asakusa (which was actually pretty adorable and had an Australian wine bar next door), where I bought matching expensive hand-made Japanese kitchen knives for my boyfriend and I at Musashi (which I am still terrified of using because they’re so sharp), to lunch at a very cute open air vegan cafe that we spent way too long lost in conversation in, before getting ready back at her hostel and then to mine in Akasaka, and onwards on foot to Shinjuku for dinner. That night we went to Golden-Gai, a small area of alleyways crowded with tiny bars - we’re talking 4-10 seats, some of them themed. I saw one that was soup themed, as in you got a free bowl of miso soup. Cash is king here, and most places have a cover charge. We chose a small jazz bar owned by an older woman, who placed down little bowls of snacks in front of us as we ordered sake. We were joined by two Australian recent university tech grads, an Aussie engineer, and a 81 year old Arabic teacher. I found out that the trains stop at 12, which felt impossible in a city that felt much more expansive and futuristic than New York, where the trains take you home around the clock.
- One of the absolute highlights of my trip was standing on the street trying to pump myself up to go into a jazz bar by myself. I think having a drink alone in a public place is straight up aspirational, and I summoned all my courage only to arrive and realize my intended destination was closed. As I patted myself on the back and walked back to the hotel, I passed a sign for another jazz bar called G’s Bar and after staring at the entrance like a weirdo for a while, I walked in and took a seat in a tiny 15 seat jazz bar. The music swelled to fill the entire room. I found myself involuntarily grinning almost immediately. There were three different performers and an incredible live band that included a man on the piano who I watched the entire time. They found out I was from New York and told me some guy that was sitting at the bar once lived in New York, and they all cheered for us.
- I went to Jinbocho, the used book district overstimulated and grumpy and it absolutely cured me. There one used/rare/antique book store after another, and you can burn hours just sitting in one place and attempting to Google Translate the titles and descriptions of books, mostly judging by cover. I loved this store - there is a second floor section dedicated to them, and you get a drink token for the vending machines next to the chairs facing the street upstairs with each purchase. I found some of the coolest and niche photo books that have barely any information available online about them, all very affordable. The only problem is that books are probably some of the heaviest things you can buy to bring home, but most of these stores will offer international shipping for a fee.
One of the best photo books I picked up one was called Yokohama Mary, based on a post-world war II sex worker who roamed the streets of Yokohama for decades. She was known for wearing thick white face makeup, and nobody ever knew her real name. One day in 1995, she just disappeared and they never figured out where she went or what happened to her. The book was full of photographs of her, hunched over from afar, as though being watched from a car. Afterwards, I went to McDonalds and tried all their different sauces.
- They ask you to wear communal Crocs to go to the bathroom at climbing gyms in Japan. Reading that sentence back makes it sound disgusting, yet, I would still trust the Japanese with bacterial risk any day. Most gyms asked me if I smoked, to show me the special smoking area (replete with communal smoking Crocs). At B Pump in Tokyo, a multi-story internationally known chain, I saw so many groups of older people bouldering, something I don’t really see here in the States. I also went to the other one near Shibuya
- The Mori Museum is an excellent small museum with a great gift shop and an expansive view of the city if you want to skip a dedicated observatory visit and roll it into seeing some culture as well.
- Daikanyama T-Site was like book wonderland. It’s a multiple building book store with one of the most extensive art and photo book sections I’ve seen. There are cafes nearby, and plenty of expensive boutique shopping and record bars if that’s what you’re into (I am).
- My friend Chris who lives in Koenji took me to a used book pop-up around the corner to his house that only opens on the weekends. Your bag is checked at the door, and you join a gentle throng of mostly older Japanese men flipping through hundreds of used books—nestled on shelves, spine up in bins on the floor. Everything was extremely well priced - I’m talking things from $1USD upwards. I bought a hard cover Japanese version of 1984 that I liked the cover of, and a photo book for my friend called Night Rainbow. We had very good pizza.
- Around the corner to Bauhaus is a cluster of strange vending machines that I found about on Reddit. They’re filled with strange and varied objects— a can of chips, a toy scorpion in a jar, and rows upon rows of square items wrapped in Japanese newspaper, with individually printed stories taped to each one facing outwards. They ranged from the tender (watching a mother take care of her disabled son in public and marveling at human love) to profane (vaguely pedophilic). It’s pretty fun to Google translate the stories. I bought one for $6 and unwrapped it to find expired Japanese animal crackers.
- I stumbled into Akomeya, a local grocery and home goods store while on a verge of a panic attack the first time I tried to navigate through Shibuya. I ended up coming back to buy a bunch of souvenirs - think high-end grocery staples, sauces and local specialties. They also have beautiful sake cups, and kitchenware.
- I didn’t get a chance to go, but would have wanted to see the ramen museum and the Tobacco & Salt museum, which was heavily recommended. I also would have booked tickets to the Ghibli Museum in advance if I knew a month before.
- My family and I hit up Afuri ramen multiple times - a very no-frills counter seating restaurant specializing in yuzu shio ramen. You order via vending machine, take a seat, and it comes out piping hot very quickly. I loved the spicy version, and always chose the thicker noodles. There’s a very delightful yuzu beer if you want to full send the citrus. Writing this months later, I just found out on a dog walk that Afuri has opened up on N11th(!!!).
- It took me 1.5 hours to go to Oi Racecourse Flea Market, which happens on Sundays, because I took the express instead of the local train all the way to the airport and had to double back. If you actually make it here, half the market is without shade in a car park, so come prepared with water and snacks. There are food trucks nearby, and most vendors take only cash. Most of the clothing stalls seem best first thing in the morning before they’re picked over, and like most of Japanese vintage, there was an over-representation of chintzy Americana vintage - denim and band t-shirts. I still found it interesting and would probably have found more if I had the energy to dig through piles of clothing on the ground in direct sun. I also bought my favorite purchase of the entire trip here - a tiny hand knitted strawberry handbag for $15 from a woman with a single table next to her car.
- I bought my drugstore beauty from Hands, a huge department store, and Don Quixote, this is where I got the Hadalabo and Shiseido things. I got the Canmake stay-on balm, which is the perfect tinted glossy balm, alongside specific eyeshadow palates from Excel recommended by Reddit, and the Naturie skin conditioner which I have to admit I still don’t really know how or where I’m supposed to use it given that it’s the consistency of milk and the only application I’ve figured out is slopping it all over myself haphazardly like I’m baptizing myself.
- We went to The Making of Harry Potter, something I only begrudgingly agreed to do as though I was above it. It made me fucking weep. The exhibition focuses on the craft/production - set design, original costumes, animatronics, music, construction, all of it. I genuinely found seeing Hermione’s pink dress from the ball deeply moving. The cafe food was themed and delicious (albeit expensive) and my parents loved all the photo moments and interactive elements. There’s a gift shop at the end that took me 15 minutes to fully explore and they still were not able to make a single piece of merchandise not too corny for me to buy.
- Today, after a really fitful night’s sleep, I walked to my family’s hotel in Akasaka to say goodbye. I took a photo of them in the alleyway behind the hotel, and when it was time to hug, I burst into tears. It was involuntary, an urgent leaking of the eyes that betrayed what I knew in my body before I knew how to describe it with words! The tragedy that it would be many months before I could hug my mum again, our planes departing in different directions to carry all of us back to our individual lives.
- I bought a full six course convenience store meal for myself for the train car and did some work. What is it about being in motion that makes a bitch feel productive? My convenience store meal was a plastic bento box of rice with some sort of grilled fish, misc vegetables, pickles and little savory tiny accoutrements. This was in my rush to get to the station as I dragged my carry-on through the hot streets of Akasaka, unclear if the time to find the platform for the Romancecar mountain train would exceed the time I actually had. In a rush, I grabbed this funny tiny bottle of mandarin juice—I never drink flavored beverages during the day back home, but there’s something so appealing about half sizes and tiny cute packaging that begs to be tried! I then rushed to the station and got a mochi donut covered in icing sugar, a packet of Mandarin (the most elite citrus flavor) flavored gummies, and a little squeeze pouch of flavored pomegranate jelly. I had enough food for a week’s long journey. I ate all of it on the 1 hour 20 minute train ride to Hakone.
- I checked into my onsen, Hakone Sumeisou, which I have yet to be able to deliver my full opinion on as I’ve only just arrived and settled in for the night, but so far it has been quaint and adorable - many unexplained customs and details I’m left to figure out through abstraction and context clues. I have never felt so much like a lumbering white man. They provided a Kaiseki dinner, which was an elaborate spread of 16 tiny courses in different cups and plates, all of which were heavy in seafood and meat that I’m not normally super into - I’m not going to lie my gag reflex was activated by some of the dishes but I managed to try them all. At one point I stared at the wall in front of me and thought how funny it was that they lock you in a room by yourself for a very long and elaborate meal that you feel the need to pay full attention to, leaving you alone with your thoughts and anxieties. Someone comes into your room while you have dinner to assemble a futon they keep in the closet and bring tea to your room upon request. There’s even a really soft, worn in robe with a waist tie that I danced around in, and the private bath that is bookable for 45 minutes was so hot I could barely stay in it, and was one of the only moments I wished that I had someone else to enjoy it with - it was so romantic.
- The most divine bite of sour plum Ume sorbet that was tart and a taste that just seemed to swirl into all corners of the mouth with its presence immediately. An insanely strong finish to a very strange meal for me. Redeeming.
- I arrived in Hakone today, checked in to my ryokan and walked thirty minutes uphill in the sun to Tenzan, a local hot springs bathhouse. When I walked into the main washing room that precedes the insane outdoor hot springs area, there was a single shaft of light illuminating a Rubenesque Japanese woman sitting on a stool washing herself. I had to tear my eyes away for fear of looking pervy because the light and the image was literally breathtaking and I wish I was in a position to take a photo. It always takes me a moment to re-adjust to nudity as something no big deal, those first few seconds you hesitate before taking your underwear off in a room of strangers. Within moments I was totally accustomed to being around the nude bodies of others, scornful at the Westernized idea of nudity as inherently sexual.
In Japanese bathhouses, you wash yourself down before you enter the bathing area, and the communal experience of washing your body amongst others should be a mandatory human experience. The baths outside are fed directly from natural hot spring sources, and seem as though carved into the side of a mountain.There’s a sign outside of Tenzan that assures people with tattoos they’re welcome as long as they’re alone; they must enter with an intention of using the hot springs to heal, to take it seriously. There’s a hush to the place before the post-work rush that happened right about the time I decided to leave. Most were silent, sitting nude on benches with their eyes closed or cast above at the canopy of trees. There was a mother who brought in two of her young children, and held the baby on her lap in the hot natural pools, while the older kid splashed around next to them.
- One of the main things to do in this area is the Hakone loop, a tourist loop that hits a volcanic vented area, a lake and something else via a cable car. I took the train Gora, the end of the line, got tickets for one cable car and then got off to get secondary tickets to a second cable car, all of which was incredibly confusing and stressful because I was trying to get to a nature walk through Owakudani, the active volcano at a specific time. One of the cable cars actually takes you directly about a bunch of active volcanic vents, and there is an insane view of Mt Fuji. At the top, I sprinted and only just made it through the gate and part of the tour before it closed. I was given a helmet, and they walked us slowly up the barren landscape, pausing at bomb shelters to explain things only in Japanese. These tours only happen a few times a day, and you get to see the actual pools they dip dozens of eggs into. The shells react to whatever volcanic shit is going on and turn black. There are entire restaurants and shops on top of this random volcano where you can buy black eggs (I shared mine with some Spanish tourists). Each egg eaten adds year to your life. I ate two, I’m going to outlive everyone. The walk was unnerving and cool, you can book it here and I believe its 500 yen.
- On the way back, instead of braving the packed trains, I decided to get off at Chokokunamori and do a hike I found that would take me all the way back to my ryokan. I found a quiet Lawson at this regional train station and loaded up on spicy chicken nuggets, soy sauce rice crackers, a pair of soft socks from Muji (they have a pop-up presence within Lawson) and an emergency onigiri to stash in my bag as an insurance policy. I never want to hike without a fanny pack full of konbini snacks ever again. The trail takes you immediately into Chisuji falls (“waterfall of a thousand strands”), which is one of the prettiest places I’ve ever been to. It was like Japanese Fern Gully. There was only one other person present when I went there, and I was literally mouth open speechless at the ambiance - gently bubbling streams and branches bent over, leaves trailing on the surface of the water. The rest of the hike was longer and steeper than I expected, and SOOOOO many root stairs. Big time recommend.
STOP 6: KAMAKURA
- I took two trains from Hakone to Kamakura, a beach-side area with an iconic tram system which was featured in an anime that now attracts hoards of tourists to recreate this photo. I was meeting up with my friends Chris and Nele to explore Enoshima Island for the day. I used the coin lockers at the train station, and had an incredible matcha ice cream sundae at a casual 100 year old cafe I stumbled across on the main strip. It was hot, and the island is completely covered in staircases. You can pay money to use escalators, but I never figured out where they were. The stairs weren’t that bad.
- Enoshima was so beautiful, a tiny island surrounded by rocks and soaring hawks. We meandered from restaurant to restaurant, sampling an elaborate lunch at a place that turned us away until we came back and was let in by other waitress while the guy who rejected us was downstairs, stopping by a cliff-side family-owned cafe where we had shaved ice and stared at the glittering sea outside. There’s a system of caves at the center of Enoshima’s story that is worth walking through (beware of the animatronic dragon that guards the third cave, which growls when you clap). We finished the day with my second incredible Italian meal of the trip at Il Birraio.
- On my one full day in Kamakura, I walked from my hotel, WeBase (I’d recommend - they give you the most elaborate breakfast that I couldn’t even finish) and through the main tourist street. It was both incredibly overwhelming in vibe and underwhelming in vibe at the same time. I’d recommend exploring the streets just off to the side of this one, there are so many adorable specialty boutiques that I found - from a place called Chahat which sold Thai and local handmade accessories, and Pajaro, which was an adorable hat shop owned by a photographer. I spent $100 on a hat here, and it made me feel like a character in a cartoon.
- I grossly underestimated the amount of time I would spend staring at trinkets, and was running out of time to make it to the famous temple with the hydrangea bloom (Meigetsu In), but walked to Jochi-ji, another idyllic temple, and started a hike I found on AllTrails that cut through the center of the city along a peaceful and quiet path at times overrun by bees, all the way to Kotoku-in, which is known for its giant bronze Buddha statue. I watched people here for a while, some who looked like it was a real important moment for them, bowing in reverence and whispering murmured prayers. I had worked up an appetite at this point, and found a tiny confectionary shop run by an elderly man. I spent my last 150 yen scavenged from the bottom of my bag to enjoy a stick of mitarashi dango (rice flour dumplings covered in sweet soy sauce glaze). I walked back to my hotel, along the way stopping at a vintage store called off course, where everything is 2000 yen, and then finally to Matsubara-an, a soba noodle restaurant recommended to me that just happened to be next door to my hotel.
STOP 7: YOKOHAMA
- Quick stop on the way back to the airport, stopped in Yokohama at my connecting station and dropped my suitcases off at a coin locker. I walked to get one last climb in at B Pump, and had a very fruitful 2nd street visit. I found a Stussy t-shirt, some pants, a handbag and left behind a North Face rain jacket and Ralph Lauren handbag. I went to Cosme underneath the station to stock up on beauty products, mainly a Decortes lip plumping serum that I mistakenly bought the wrong color of, and which I’ve also lost twice since I’ve come back. I got back on the train to the airport and an hour later I was elbowing a guy out of the way at the 7/11 in the airport so that I could get all my snack souvenirs. I bought one last egg tamago sandwich for the road.
Dispatch From My Anxiety
Brooklyn, New York
Airbnb Self-Portrait in Osaka
Behind the reluctance to write about random things, about my life, I think, is the feeling that writing about anything other than war or collective liberation feels trivial. Any writing I have to offer has to meet a high bar of “This is Important”, but this self-imposed impossible expectation stifles my ability to see that sometimes, the important things can be hidden in the daily and inconsequential - like the interactions I have with people on the street, the way that things are metabolized in me even if there’s no clear output.
Those things feel especially important now that so much feels too big to fathom, too far gone to fix. I used to date this guy who was 23 and who said to me completely sincerely, “I believe in the people’s revolution”. These days I bounce between his brand of starry eyed hope (this morning I cried at footage of the French Left celebrating their unexpected win against Le Pen and far right fascism), and then days where all I want to do is retreat into a hole in the woods somewhere with two dogs and my boyfriend and put the whole business of hope and investment in the future to bed, to scurry back into a personal bubble of protection and ignorance.
- Paying attention to pop music for the first time in years and finding myself deeply invested; Sabrina Carpenter, Chapell Roan, Charli XCX and the girl, so confusing lorde remix. I was stunned by Lorde’s verse, how intimate and real it felt, how much of a mirror it held up to girlhood and friendship. I love the liberated, queer, openly sexual brand of these pop queens who are expressive and emotive in ways that has felt sanitized into commercial oblivion the las few times I’ve tried to check in with pop music. It feels like a revelation; an indication that maybe culture is evolving in the right direction. But then I’m also like where are all the cool pop girls of color? There’s also a nagging sense that it is a distraction somehow, from seeing things as they really are. Does it really matter that two major female pop stars worked it out on a remix when there’s so much else that is not able to be worked out on a remix? Will I ever be able to take pleasure in basic things like pop culture without having an existential crisis? I push the thoughts down and scroll past another image of a child with their jaw blasted off, or a limb missing, and read another tweet or Instagram story take on pop culture feminism.
- The Presidential debate and how humiliating it is to live in the United States right now. o live in the United States right now.
(source)
- The general feeling that my body is decaying, from the flakes of skin I pick off it constantly, to the blood that spurts forth after I scratch off a scab, and the toe fungus infection I’m currently addressing through a three month course of anti fungal medication. Sometimes I look at other people and wonder how everyone else seems so pristine and full of vitality.
- The sense that I need to start thinking about having a baby, but being unclear as to where I’m supposed to start. Do I want to have a family? When do I want that? Is 40 too old to have a child? Will I suddenly wake up at 34 and demand that I want a kid? Will it be too late? Will I even care? Is it enough to be the fun auntie?
- My ongoing lack of health insurance (now going on more than a year). I climb three times a week, ride my bike in New York City and generally do risky shit. I have had health insurance in the past as a freelancer, but the short of it is that there is no real good options for people who do not have full time jobs if you do not qualify for subsidized state insurance. I can pay $800 for mediocre health insurance, and there’s no real other option that is more cost effective. I could probably afford that cost, but there’s a simmering indignation of having to participate in the system where you must simply pay your way into safety. I read this recent article called Everyone Into the Grinder that essentially says if we don’t force the rich to participate in the same public-owned systems that we are all forced to contend with, they will remain unpleasant because privatization means some of us can just pay our way into comfort and basic human rights, reinforcing the status quo.
“The degree to which we allow the rich to insulate themselves from the unpleasant reality that others are forced to experience is directly related to how long that reality is allowed to stay unpleasant. When they are left with no other option, rich people will force improvement in public systems. Their public spirit will be infinitely less urgent when they are contemplating these things from afar than when they are sitting in a hot ER waiting room for six hours themselves.”
A rainbow I saw at the gym
It’s the same old tired script every time a season arrives: it’s too hot, it’s too cold to do anything. I have felt like a little sewer rat hiding in my cave, banging away at my keyboard to reach the finish line on this manuscript, trying to calm my nervous system to heal my crazy skin. At one point I went too deep on a 15 tweet thread someone posted in response to a headline that said scientists are predicting the first Billion people will die because of climate change, and that those people are going to be you and I: those of us completely divorced from the source of their food, who rely on the convenience of globalization to have things magically appear in front of us with zero effort. It’s the collapse of those systems that will get us, and I found myself at 1AM in the evening staring into a bowl of cereal I didn’t even buy or know where it came from, texting my boyfriend to see if we should start looking into buying land somewhere so I can learn to grow my own vegetables before it is too late. “You subsist entirely on imported sake, Japanese snacks and instant noodles. You’ll be fine,” he said.
This past 4th of July weekend, I had an overwhelming urge to work - to get ahead while everyone else was off and enjoying whatever they were doing. The city was eerily quiet, hot and soupy, oppressive in the direct sun. Thursday rolled into Friday which rolled into the weekend and I barely did any writing or real work, the vague sense that I needed to sitting on my thoughts like the silhouette of an apex predator staring me down. Each day, I would go to bed and remind myself that it was okay I didn’t do any work, there was always tomorrow and I deserve a break. I’m realizing that I feel deep down as though I don’t deserve a break, that I am so far behind (in what? And who decides where I should be but me?) that to pause for a brief moment is to sink into the background until I am no longer visible or important.
What did I do? I went climbing with friends multiple days, hours spent at the gym reaching for plastic holds, I ate five hot dogs and felt sick at my friends Tessa and Marshall’s BBQ, all of us attempting to blow vape bubbles (when you hit a vape and blow out the vapor into a bubble wand, which creates milky bubbles). I hung out with my friend’s baby, I saw my boyfriend and watched TV, I went to Beacon’s Closet and tried ten things on and bought nothing. I walked my dog endlessly and drank sparkling effervescent sake (Dassai 50 Blue) by myself in the cool dark cave of my apartment.
What did I do? I went climbing with friends multiple days, hours spent at the gym reaching for plastic holds, I ate five hot dogs and felt sick at my friends Tessa and Marshall’s BBQ, all of us attempting to blow vape bubbles (when you hit a vape and blow out the vapor into a bubble wand, which creates milky bubbles). I hung out with my friend’s baby, I saw my boyfriend and watched TV, I went to Beacon’s Closet and tried ten things on and bought nothing. I walked my dog endlessly and drank sparkling effervescent sake (Dassai 50 Blue) by myself in the cool dark cave of my apartment.
All these things feel excessive and frivolous; and even now as I write this I write it with guilt, that it betrays how privileged and boring I am. I have effectively employed a cop of my own making in my head who is on duty 24/7 - the cop tells me that I should be thinking about how to make the world better, how my work will impact other people, that if I don’t write and read and shoot every day, if I don’t produce, then I am not worthy of considering myself an artist. I have no answers on how to get rid of this constant nagging guilt, the pervasive sense that it’s never enough, that any moment spent -god forbid- having fun, is a complete waste of time. The moment feels so urgent, and at the same time I can’t tell you or I am meant to do about it except stare at it until our brains hurt.
Still, I go to bed and close my eyes and list three things I’m grateful for, three things that made today a good day, and hear my voice ringing out into the night reassuring myself that it’s okay to relax, that I deserve rest, too.
Me with Ayla and Shannon
Piano, Piano
Lesa, Northern Italy
I’ll take a left at the fork and walk through a few narrow alleyways flanked by homes. On sunny days I will hear the sound of Italian flitting out of windows above. Gates might be open, to reveal two baby scooters parked inside next to each other, or a woman hanging her laundry out to dry, shower cap still on. Laundry will be gently lifted in the breeze off the side of balconies, something I can’t help but take photos of despite the cliche. On rainy days, everything is still, all the doors and windows are shut to the world. I can do this entire walk and see nobody else.
I’ll walk past Jasper and Sarvie’s house, down a cobblestone alleyway with the names of Italian families written on the letterboxes in fancy script. Past the multiple gardens owned by Angelo, who sometimes I see walking with his cane between his tomatoes and flowers, up and down the hill despite his bad knee. At this point, I can see the lake. On clear days I can see the Swiss alps in the distance.
The path ahead becomes narrow and bushy, overgrown and shaded, the buzz of mosquitoes in the air. After particularly heavy rainfall, I caught the frozen eyes of two deers staring at me from some distance as I rounded the corner. We stared at each other for a moment before they leapt out of sight.
It goes for about five minutes more, passing a lone deck chair facing the lake past a single chain that says “private property” (begging for me to trespass, which I did once— it took me about ten minutes before I got too nervous and had to leave).
Finally, it opens up to the view of the mountains, the lake, and a giant magnolia tree in someone’s yard that hangs over the public path. On a sunny Thursday morning in mid-March, she was fully in bloom. The grass is overgrown underneath her, and enclosed by an uneven stone wall that is high in places and low in others. I was told it was built by the Romans. I leave my bag on the wall and load my camera, walking on the stones to take photos of her from every angle.
When I first saw the tree on my first day in Lesa, it was about to burst, its branches covered in tiny green buds. It had rained non-stop for the entire first week I was there, the promise of a month stretching beyond me like an eternity. By the time I saw her bloom, I had shot 10 series of portraits, printed them all in a frenzy in Milan and was about to exhibit them in the town community center, marking the end of my residency.
As I finish this essay now, it’s the end of June and two more trips between Lesa and now have come and gone. To age is to experience time out of order, to jump between then and now and later. Going on a trip that felt like it would last forever and then cutting to months later, writing the summary of it in a few paragraphs at my dining room table.
My twenties felt like a flurry of activity, pointed towards the false idol of security and success, a frantic race to a place I had run for so long to reach, only to bail at the last minute. I was in a very long relationship, one that felt final and forever. Now I couldn’t describe to you what it felt like to kiss him. I was flying at the speed of trauma, all of life an endless race against myself and everyone else. Everything was urgent, everything was important. Maybe that’s just what being alive feels like, or being young.
I’m still adjusting to experiencing time in the marrow of it, the actual fact of it. Not dictated by the artificial rhythm of the churn of capitalism, but by the growing and dying of all things. Sometimes I catch myself mixed up in the stream of two times: capitalism time and real time, confusing one for the other.
When I’m in capitalism time, I feel shame at starting a creative career so late, worry that I am not doing or achieving or being recognized enough. I forget that I chose to be self employed, to follow a path that has no guidelines or markers of advancement other than a ~vibe~. I get caught up in playing the same games I used to play as a full time member of the corporate dream, in the dogged pursuit of a promotion, a fatter pay check, a bigger title. In capitalism time, I forget that I’ve made choices about what I want and how I want to get there, I slip back into the same robotic fear and desire for more. Decolonizing my time may be a life long practice.
Sometimes, fleetingly, I manage to wriggle out of the iron grip of capitalism time, and I experience real time, time time. The time of growing and dying. It’s when I’m with my family and noticing how they’ve shrunk, how they’ve softened with age. It’s sitting in front of a magnolia tree every day in the sun and the rain and crying at the bottomless gratitude I feel at the sight of it. I feel it when my dog jumps into bed at 6am and wakes me by gently licking my toe, when I watch my psoriasis come and go, come and go, healing and appearing like an endless video playing out on my skin. I feel it when I think about the ten long months of genocide that has unfolded on our screens, the months of inaction and death.
There’s an Italian expression: Piano, Piano. It means little by little, or step by step. It’s taking things slowly, letting them unfold in time. A man at my exhibition said that to me in response to me sharing that I was going through at least one block of Gorgonzola cheese every two days. I needed to hear it at 20 years old, about to attempt to shove the rest of my life into the next ten years in a desperate attempt to get ahead, to be safe.
Magnolias only bloom one week of the year. Jasper told me that March in Lesa is the time of change, and I had his words in my head during the last few precious day that the tree was in full bloom. I was in Milan to print photos at a darkroom, staying overnight at a hotel. I was worried I’d miss it, willing the train home to go faster, like I was missing my favorite band headlining at a festival. I had waited all month to see her bloom. The flowers were still there when I got there.
I came home to New York at the beginning of April, having skipped the uncertain time where Spring has not yet broken and all of us are losing our minds. The magnolia trees and cherry trees were just starting to sprout in Brooklyn, the process beginning all over again. It felt like a tape rewind, a gentle reminder that things move at different speeds depending on where you are.
I took long walks around the neighborhood the first few weeks I was back, missing the green hills of Lesa. I worked on these photos in the darkroom, photos that were evidence of the same thing having happened on the other side of the world a month before. The Magnolia tree in Lesa has long shed her flowers, but the ones here in Brooklyn, at home, had just started to show.
One Struggle, Many Fronts
My boyfriend Cody, who is 43, often gripes to me about the resurgence of wide legged pants today. He was in his teens at the time that big pants and JNCOs were popular, and one of his signature gripes to me is his sense that today’s youth act as though they discovered big pants, rather than the reality of these pants circling back through time to re-emerge again in a new context.
Another example: I recently watched Ripley on Netflix, starring Andrew Scott and based on the Patricia Highsmith novels about a New York-based low level grifter called Thomas Ripley who ingratiates himself with a wealthy roaming wannabe painter in Italy under the guise of helping his father convince him to return home. Towards the end of this series (spoiler alert ahead), the show splices footage of an imagined Caravaggio sometime in the 1500s mirroring the exact movements of our modern day Ripley in the exact same surreal tree-lined abandoned boulevard on the outskirts of Rome. Clips of murder weapons are hard cut next to each other: for Caravaggio, it’s a knife; for Ripley, a heavy glass ashtray. History repeats itself in the actions of these two men, unlikely kin across centuries.
What is old always seems to bide its time before returning to take its place in the light again. History marches forward in relentless cycles and patterns, swirling mosaics repeating indefinitely, everything made from the shards of the things that came before.
I read somewhere recently that to be human is to forget, that the forgetting is an important part of being able to move forward. The weight of all that happened before us would be too big to carry, too complex to resolve.
Viet Than Nguyen’s book, Nothing Ever Dies: Vietnam and the War of Memory, begins like this: “This is a book on war, memory, and identity. It proceeds from the idea that all wars are fought twice, the first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory.”
He says that America may have lost the ‘Vietnam War’ (which is called The American War to the Vietnamese), but they have won the memory war, because of the cultural hegemony of Hollywood and the English language, the muscle and heft of it that body checks the voices of anyone else present into obscurity.
My dad was part of the wave of Southern Vietnamese people who fled by boat following the fall of Saigon, and the withdrawal of the American troops. My maternal grandfather was absent from his own home for many years because he was hiding in a temple on the outskirts of Saigon to avoid conscription in the army fighting against communism.
I am a direct descendent of these real lived experiences, and even I didn’t quite understand the nuance of what the war did to South Vietnam vs North Vietnam, of how some South Vietnamese felt angry and resentful that the American withdrew their help, abandoned them to the communists. I didn’t even know that my grandfather was gone for so long because he didn’t want to fight. I had never heard of any of these stories outside of the mainstream cultural war knowledge I absorbed through American movies like Apocalypse Now, or The American by Graham Greene. I knew that there were lots of Vietnamese people slaughtered, there was a girl that ran away from a burning village, her clothes disintegrated, that they dropped chemicals from the air, that there were many American soldiers who died. It’s broad and sweeping strokes of my own legacy that were obscured from my own understanding for a very long time, until I actively started to look for the nuance in what happened.
I’m currently writing a fictional novel loosely based on my family, and I found out that detail about my grandfather’s draft-dodging during an informal interview with my mum, who was barely able to even explain it to me. I wanted to understand it better to potentially write about it, but when I Googled variations of the search: “Southern Vietnamese men who avoided conscription in the Vietnam War”, I only found results focused on the American POV, about anti-conscription protests at universities in the US. I went through dozens of pages of search results and could not find one single result about people like my grandfather. I could barely find anything from the perspective of the Vietnamese when I look for information about the war, only that of America. There are barely any photos taken by Vietnamese war photographers. I read about the protests in the 60s, which were described as especially galvanizing because of the death count of American soldiers, not necessarily always because of the Vietnamese civilians who were being bombed into oblivion.
I think this is what Viet Thanh Nguyen means. There is a soft power in moulding memory, one that the American war machine excels at. It’s the power of being able to dominate a narrative so that you are at its center, to reduce millions of people to a historical detail, even to the kin of those people. It’s the power to control what is said and reported, to re-package information for your advantage, like Columbia and its suppression of anti-war student protests in the 1960s, only to then use it as a lionized example of the university’s commitment to student liberty and dissent.
Today, the war machine walks hand in hand with the attention economy. It rides on the backs of the systems behind our screens that leads our attention beyond our grasp, like a herd of wild horses galloping away from us.
I am a victim to it. My attention is pulled into fifty million places at once everyday. I am chronically online. I read about The Cut’s essay boom, about girl dinners and trad wives, hate reads and performative hydration. I sit in bed and scroll through Twitter trying to learn about Jojo Siwa for no discernible reason other than my curiosity demands it. I follow these crumbs of online discourse as though they will lead me to a better understanding of the contemporary environment that I live, work, and write within, but I am convinced that it is all designed to distract me from really seeing what is happening. I am a participant in the mechanism that keeps the war machine going, one that demands my attention be led elsewhere, that it is used to make money rather than demand peace and a different way of doing things. It demands I forget everything as soon as I see it.
Recently, Instagram announced that it will hide “political” content in people’s feed sunless they pro-actively un-toggle that setting. The word “political” here suggests that the political is ephemeral, of no consequence, something to opt out of. That somehow politics is not woven into the fabric of all our lives, no matter who we are. That it doesn’t impact what we do when we get sick, the way we eat, the things we buy that we have the privilege of accessing—assembled and built off the misfortune of a secret, murky Other. I see this as part of the war machine’s effort at hijacking our attention, of making it effortless to turn the other way.
The space between ourselves and the Other seems to have expanded into an uncrossable horizon, a journey so large that you can hardly be expected to take it on your own accord. After all, there’s so much else to pay attention to—internet essays, cultural fads, entertainment spectacles, our own increasingly expensive and fraught lives in the shadow of problems that feel too big. I understand why so many of us to look away at a time when so much is going on. Our individual power seems so puny that to consider it feels humiliating sometimes. I am speaking as someone who has not been able to vote the entire decade I’ve lived in the US as a non-immigrant visa holder. I have very little rights here, as a non-resident immigrant. I am familiar with how it feels to be helpless.
It has been more than six months of the Palestinian genocide. I waver between paying too much attention, and too little. Lately, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about small details I come across that feel strange, surreal: 15 people drowned trying to reach aid dropped into the ocean in Gaza, there will be a humanitarian pier built there now. Images of more cops I have ever seen using vehicles that look like small boulders to beat and arrest students who have not been able to look away, who refuse to capitulate to the machine that demands that we forget. The strange irony of a paramedic yelling at a police man pointing a gun at Aaron Bushnell engulfed in flames - “we need a fire extinguisher, not a gun.”
I think about Hind’s Hall (f.k.a. Hamilton Hall) at Columbia, which was renamed to honor the six year old Palestinian girl who died the worst way I can imagine a child to die, surrounded by her dead family as strange men move in to murder her, the name pulled down from the hall by armed police just as quickly as it was put up. I missed the original story of Hind during March, a month of fog when I was at an artist residency in Italy, where I paid very little attention, an opposite reaction to the nightmares and sleeplessness from paying too much attention during the first few months of it all. When I read about Hind, I felt ashamed that it was the first time I had heard of her story.
I am grateful that we will remember Hind, that we will remember Aaron Bushnell, Dr. Hammam Alloh at Al-Shifa who refused to evacuate in order to keep attending to his patients. But who else will be remembered in the aftermath of this genocide, when Columbia asks for permission to use the same images of them calling the police on their own students as a point of pride, of their participation in history? Will we remember the faceless babies I scroll past, covered in blood, tenderly held by the arms of bereft parents? The man I saw in a striking photograph, his mouth and eyes wide with anger, screaming against a backdrop of rubble and dust, a lone grey foot poking out a collapsed building next to a floral rug covered in debris. Will we remember the people like my grandfather, and my father, the ones that hid, the ones that stayed, the ones who were related and had to witness their family, their sacred ancestral lands, their culture be dismantled brick by brick in the most violent way possible, sanctioned by the state? Will these stories be lost even to the descendants of these people?
When I first started to travel widely in my early twenties, I was so transfixed by the Vietnamese diaspora I’d find in Paris, in Berlin, in America. It felt incredibly novel to see faces that looked exactly like mine (we call this sprawling diaspora Viet Kieu), but who would open their mouth and out would tumble an entirely different language. It felt as though I was seeing infinite versions of myself fragmented throughout the world. I could have been French, I could have been German, I could have been American. The strangeness of the vibrant Vietnamese community in Houston, or the solitary Vietnamese restaurant in Peru is a product of war, the dispersal of seeds across the entire planet after a place is laid to waste through napalm bombs and violence.
This APAHM, I am going to practice paying attention. I want to pay attention keenly, no matter how painful it is, to what is happening to our Palestinian brothers and sisters, to their stories and their humanity. My generation is one of the last to deal with the generational impact of the Vietnam War, and I feel crazy watching it all happen again in real-time. Indiscriminate bombing, hateful rhetoric and propaganda, violent suppression of anti-war protestors. We are doomed to repeat our mistakes when we fail to fully reckon with our complicity in war, when we paint over the reality in favor of a distorted one, when we look away. When we forget.
Carl Jung said, “If the path before you is clear, you’re probably on someone else’s.” All oppression is connected. The liberties we have, the comfort I have as a second-generation Asian woman living in safety and with what feels like infinite choice for my life, is built on the backs of the work of others who fought for liberation and justice long before I was born. What is any of this worth - the representation, the opportunities, the celebration - if we choose to ignore those who are targets in the merciless crossfire of history repeating itself? Individual people may fade from memory, but collectively, movements and ideas do not. Solidarity to Palestinians and all anti-war protestors throwing their bodies into the machinery of war. Grind it to a fucking halt. Ceasefire now.
Food Poisoning and Whales
Sayulita, Mexico
Food Poisoning Self Potrait at Casa Selva
Earlier that day, I was crying on a speedboat after seeing whales breach and flop their tails in the Bay of Banderas. 500 Humpback Whales pass through from November-April to mate and give birth. It turns out that baby whales don’t have a lot of blubber (although still weight 1,000-1,500 pounds), so the tropical waters of Mexico are ideal. I knew we were going on a whale watching tour, but animal tours are hardly promises, and I kept my expectation low. Nature does not submit to desire.
My therapist asked me to elaborate on feeling lucky, and I told her that I could never have imagined doing something like this as a kid. This seems to come up a lot. Experiences that couldn’t be fantasized about when I was younger because they felt outside the realm of dreaming. To see those whales was to be reminded of all the once-in-a-lifetime experiences I’ve had: seeing Macchu Pichu at sunrise after hiking with food poisoning for 3 days (I guess food poisoning always is a part of a good travel story), sleeping in a hut in the Italian Dolomites, taking a 12 hour chicken bus to see the reflective plains of Salar de Uyuni for a few hours before taking one right back the same day, walking into the valley of Kings in Egypt, aware that I was standing on the same ground that pharaohs had walked centuries before. Weirdly, being able to drive is part of that list.
These acute moments of feeling fade with the last of a holiday tan, but I wish they could be set like precious gemstones in the front of my eyeballs, a reminder of what it feels like to be so alive! I am thinking about this while lying incapacitated by the pool the day after. My stomach is a hollow bowl, loud and impatient. I watch the sun recede across the rim of the pool, putting my pen down every few minutes. I don’t have the energy to think, and it feels good to let myself write like this. Unhurried, lazy, with lots of breaks. Norovirus has stripped my stomach lining and a veil of distraction that accompanies being so physically able, so busy all the time. It feels good to be still. My stomach churns again as I open my camera roll to rewatch videos of Jill and I squealing over the sight of whales throwing their entire bodies above the surface of the ocean.
Going Home
Sydney, Australia
Coming home is looking at a familiar object through a glass prism. It’s knowing what the Eiffel Tower looks like after a lifetime of looking at it through Google Images, the cartoon Madeline and in the background of Emily in Paris, only to get there and realize it’s both kind of the same but also just a mere facsimile to the version that exists in your head. In my childhood home in Sydney, the glass jugs of boiled tap water still sit next to the sink. There’s still a bowl of cut fruit (this time, honeydew) in the fridge nestled in a bowl, a thin layer of plastic cling wrap waiting to be removed. My name is still scrawled in childish handwriting across each of the nine drawers of the in-built closet, labelled to make sure everyone knew they were mine. To return to a place like your childhood home as an adult is to stitch a memory suspended from the most fragile silk with the reality that so much has changed.
What has changed: the fifteen tanks full of fish my dad used to illegally breed and sell in the abandoned granny flat out back has been reduced to just two (overrun by snails?) in the living room. The 4 for $4 champagne flutes my mother purchased from Kmart specifically for Christmas, the first we have ever owned as a family, bragging about how cheap they were the same way other people might brag about having Riedel glasses. What else has changed: the relationship between my parents and I, one whose sharp edges have eroded through years of talk therapy. It’s been softened by the simple effect of what we commonly know cures all but don’t really believe until we ourselves can be old enough to witness it: time passing. A laundry list of complaints and questions from growing up in a low income immigrant household with its requisite physical and emotional abuse has fallen through the filters of being examined a thousand times and coming out frayed and faded, a receipt in the back pocket of a pair of jeans gone through the wash.
Going home this last December was the first time in my life that I returned feeling somewhat normal, the grievances that I checked alongside my bags poofed into thin air, able to see my home and my family clearly for the first time. Instead, I brought a golem that I created here in Brooklyn. It was a fantasy of what family and home was meant to be, moulded in the vacuum of Brooklyn therapy culture and through the anecdotes of my friends and boyfriends’ families, far far away our rented home in Yagoona, Sydney. I wrote and spoke and thought and dissected all of this stuff as a 30 year old woman living in an apartment that costs triple what my entire family pays, until I was blue in the face and convinced I had looked at it at every possible direction. I did the ayahuasca ceremonies, started writing the book about immigrant trauma. I participated in TikTok conversations about what it all meant to be a second-generation child of immigrants, and I brought all of this home eager to bask in fruits of that labor. To simply return home for the holidays without complication or the sticky residue of childhood trauma. I wanted to come home as someone healed.
I had brought so much expectation back about what it meant to return home, of what a clean and tidy version of family and the holidays meant. That idea dissipated almost immediately, replaced instead with surface-level dinner table conversation, the jokes my boyfriend didn’t understand, my mother telling me that she has checked my GPS every single day for the last five years, including when I went to The Dolomites and the month I spent in Mexico City. I imagined her zooming into foreign places at my blue little dot, not understanding any of the context of where I was, just comforted by the simple fact that I was alive. It became my dad forgetting the ingredients for my favorite Vietnamese dish, banh uot, and walking 30 minutes back to the grocery just to get them, even though he hates the dish himself. It was repeating everything I said three times to make sure they understood, slowing my speech down, removing parts of stories that seemed too complicated. None of it was part of the starry-eyed, one-note fantasy I had built, constructed from cliche and self-absorption.
Both of my parents would allude to me moving home one day, and then backtrack by smiling and saying they’re joking, when we both know they’re not. They say they’re happy as long as I am, and they don’t need me to be home. I know that’s a concession that they make for a daughter who decided that she needed to leave, and has built an entire life away from them. I smile and say maybe, knowing I won’t, that the person I have become doesn’t fit into the sunny rocky shores of Sydney anymore, and the cultural, language, and geographical divide between myself and the love that exists in my parent’s shrinking bodies is one created by and perpetuated by me. I’m a visitor now.
On the morning of our flight home, I cast a shadow over our hotel room, irritable and snapping at Cody. I said I was annoyed I didn’t get to go to the beach on my last day, but that gave way to tears by mid-afternoon that I was actually just devastated that I had to leave. My next visit would be after another year or two of changes in myself, in my family, ones that would have to be reconciled over and over again with each return. A sudden grief descended, knowing that it took this long to enjoy my family, to see them clearly. That they are happy for me but barely understand what it is that I do, that they have never seen my life here in New York, that it is so different in so many ways. Grief for the calls I didn’t make, the interest I never took in their inner landscapes, instead writing them off as one dimensional characters in my life. That I can invest so much time in the process of healing but it will not measure up to simply sitting next to my mother to watch TV with her. That I now ache for a place that I couldn’t wait to leave a decade ago. The reality of what it looks like when I return home, and I don’t live there.
The world that I’ve created in my head does not compare to the one that exists within those fading, marked walls with my name written on them in Yagoona, Sydney. This world may not include the animated dinner table conversation on political views or shared memories I get to have with my boyfriend’s family. There is little to no curiosity about my creative practice, or the life I live on the other side of the world. The movie hallmarks of what it is to return home to family are completely absent. Instead, in this world, the wine glasses are cheap, there is always a place to return to, and there are people who check my GPS every single day to make sure that I am safe, even when I do not call. One fantasy has been laid to rest in place of another that I watch recede on the flight map as my plane climbs its way into the sky to take me all the way back to my life in Brooklyn.
On the morning of our flight home, I cast a shadow over our hotel room, irritable and snapping at Cody. I said I was annoyed I didn’t get to go to the beach on my last day, but that gave way to tears by mid-afternoon that I was actually just devastated that I had to leave. My next visit would be after another year or two of changes in myself, in my family, ones that would have to be reconciled over and over again with each return. A sudden grief descended, knowing that it took this long to enjoy my family, to see them clearly. That they are happy for me but barely understand what it is that I do, that they have never seen my life here in New York, that it is so different in so many ways. Grief for the calls I didn’t make, the interest I never took in their inner landscapes, instead writing them off as one dimensional characters in my life. That I can invest so much time in the process of healing but it will not measure up to simply sitting next to my mother to watch TV with her. That I now ache for a place that I couldn’t wait to leave a decade ago. The reality of what it looks like when I return home, and I don’t live there.
The world that I’ve created in my head does not compare to the one that exists within those fading, marked walls with my name written on them in Yagoona, Sydney. This world may not include the animated dinner table conversation on political views or shared memories I get to have with my boyfriend’s family. There is little to no curiosity about my creative practice, or the life I live on the other side of the world. The movie hallmarks of what it is to return home to family are completely absent. Instead, in this world, the wine glasses are cheap, there is always a place to return to, and there are people who check my GPS every single day to make sure that I am safe, even when I do not call. One fantasy has been laid to rest in place of another that I watch recede on the flight map as my plane climbs its way into the sky to take me all the way back to my life in Brooklyn.
Some thoughts at the threshold of the new year
Honolulu, Hawaii
Looking back, I’m glad to leave this year behind. It’s the year I downshifted Scallion Pancake to focus on writing and photography, a leap that has been hiding behind a corner my whole life. It felt a lot like pushing a heavy cart up a hill. I tried really hard this year. I cared a lot this year. I continued grappling with boundary setting and putting myself first, and learning to manage my energy levels. I teetered between running myself into the ground and feeling like I had everything under control. I felt tired a lot, part of it was that the world felt very heavy, part of it was from the exertion of pushing myself as someone chasing a dream at age 30, an age that feels both young and like I’m running out of time. My psoriasis was probably the worst it has ever been. I felt the most proud of myself this year, for sharing my photography and my writing even when it felt really really scary. I started writing a book! I saved a significant amount of money for the first time in my life, and I was very hydrated. It only took about 15 years for me to achieve those resolutions I set for myself decades ago in my bedroom in the dark.
This New Year, I want to Venmo my friends money for coffee when I’m thinking about them. I want to be the type of person who bakes things and bikes them to the people I love just because. I want to use my library card more, I want to read every book in the world. I want to clean my camera roll out every week so the screenshots of things I forgot the significance of don’t rot in my phone. I want to touch grass, I want to climb outside, I want to swim in the ocean, I want to bury my face in the my dog’s fur more. I want to stick my head out the window of a moving car. I want to play frisbee on the beach. I want to rediscover my sense of joy in style, of feeling expressed in what I wear, even when it feels too cold to do so. I want to finally cook recipes from the cookbooks I collect that sit and collect dust. I want to play more records.
I want to go on impromptu walks with my friends more. I want to be free of the prison of expectations. I want blind confidence. Big statements. I want to follow through. I want to believe that I am capable of anything I want. I want to save money. I want to buy myself things when it feels right, without guilt. I want loud house music in a dark club, eyes closed, occasionally bumping limbs with someone I love. I want to submerge myself in an open body of water, surfacing and feeling my feet kick against nothing. I want to say hi to people on the street I know even if it feels uncomfortable. I want to listen to my body. I want to hear people make a lot of noise because they recognize that the wellbeing of others is tied to their own. I want peace for the people who are suffering. I want safety, joy and community. I want everyone else to have that.
Happy new year. <3