Friday, July 13, 2018


I was reading in passing somewhere tonight and the mention of "deleting posts" put a tremor of terror in me.




Destruction, demolition, debris, detritus, deletion...

There was a part of me that was horrified by this. To take it away, delete it? I couldn't imagine. I would never (when I know that like Nin before me there are parts here and there that have been witheld from the public whole).

All of the words that make up the journal, that make up the thing that exists here, the emotions, the moments, the strange, the weird, the sad, the girl, the woman, the thing, the object, all of it in some way encapsulated here and to curate that to an extent that it just...never...existed?

Lately, I've been obsessed with the thought of HARD COPY.

Do I want that. You would think with over 15 years of outpourings here, that when I read through nothing must be a surprise, but I'm always amused about what I was compelled to speak about in any given year. I have to try to find that emotional mindscape again, the who I WAS than vs who I am now, and is the now me really so much different from the then me, and then we start to get off the rails and into the depths of existence itself, tricky.

So very tricky.

No, for better or for worse it's all here, it will be here, and it won't be me that makes the decision on what happens to all the letters in the void that no one actually reads. I might curate it.

But I won't delete it. 

Sunday, July 08, 2018

Past lights

It's one of those blisteringly beautiful Chicago summer mornings. Quite literally my hands sit in sun dappled light, clicking away at keys to bring about letters to create words that illustrate thoughts that communicate thinkings and feelings and it all seems a little mad, and it all seems so very lovely. Today, it makes me think so very clearly about time, life, the life I have lived. My life has change, the beauty that is the light that falls upon my hands from the windows is already eight minutes old. I am illuminated by the recent past as I contemplate my current now and consider my near future. The next eight minutes, the next thirty-six, and then...

What a strange and wonderful thing this life has been. Parts of it now feel like caked over capsules of mirth that are someone else's existence. I can think back so far and deep into the past, a blessing, a curse. I know what memories hide in the dark corners of my mind waiting for even a second of weakness to come chorusing to the surface to sidetrack me from my day, my week, my month. I avoid those old cupboard monsters as best I can, but I know they exist.

And then, of course, all that time when I was not in Chicago. When I was somewhere else. Overseas. An ex-pat. There is something so beautifully haunting about all that time spent in another country. Experiencing different kinds of summers. I cannot imagine sitting on July morning in Korea thinking about how lovely the day might be, when they day might best be described as thick as soup, so hot that you choke on the boiling air, watching the plastics in your unconditioned apartment melt.

There are so many stories.

This thing I have done, this long deep dive into various aspects of me, sometimes more coy than others, sometimes more just a stylist, a journalist living through the moments and trying to record them, this thing I have done captures only minutes or seconds, or sometimes hours of an event, giving me a foothold into some memories, some stories some aspect of who I was then, and who I am now. This thing is both the baseline and the layers on a wall that tell the story and make it easy to see how the narrative has changed.

All things are hear. All of me.

Known of me.

It's just a funny thing, this life. Barely three years ago when I was desperate to try to reintegrate with this country that was not the country I knew I loved, I would go out of my way to avoid telling any stories of Korea, of the other, of the overseas. If I did, I tried to describe them in such a way that it could be almost plausible that it happened just anywhere in the world. Now, now, I tell the stories and I do not mind that these stories put me in strange places, other worlds, make me otherworldly.

This is how I feel sometimes, as I look at everything happening, everything that happened, thinking about everything that will happen. Otherworldly.

This, then is the funny thing. New people, new places, new names, new faces, new experiences, new, new, new.

But the things that always make me interesting are the stories, and the stories are always old, old, old.

And isn't that funny. And shouldn't it be.

This life is a funny thing and I've yet to tire of it. This funny thing keeps going, with highs that are inexplicable and lows that are skimming the depths of our very human souls, we are of this now and that is enough.

Even as we do it in light that is already old, and already has stories to tell.