art party

 ⁃ male, 30ish, slicked back curly hair. black long sleeve button up and a bleached denim midi skirt with a raw hem

 ⁃ slicked wet hair in a bun. oversized sports jersey emblazoned with flames and the number “32” across the front. heeled hiking boots, a thin gold chain.

 ⁃ nickel-sized sequined flowers on shawl, pale teal knee-high, creepers, pale yellow wavy hair, ombre eyebrows: thick black fading outwards to white, paisley print sequined dress. red leather mini backpack

 ⁃ off-white kimono and a french braid; pink eyeliner, white calf sicks, and round-toed black block heels

 ⁃ white leather penny loafers, baggy denim harem pants and a black baggy crop top

 ⁃ curly middle parted waves straight out of the eighties, morphed gisele-like facial structure. navy blue calf socks, navy blue loose minidress

 ⁃ crew cut, mal. flared jeans with a raw hem and a denim work shirt. indoor sunglasses.

 ⁃ close buzz cut, wide mustache. maroon t-shirt and wide-leg highwater pants. white socks.

 ⁃ green ambiguously printed pencil skirt, pleated blouse, multicolored large-jeweled block sandals, and a bike helmet

 ⁃ green christmas sweatshirt, blue faded jeans, ratty flip flops

snapshot

Liability. Late night walks in the city lights. Late night cruising in humid air. Catcalls and cross arms and closed faces. Tortillas with peas and eggs and cheddar, stacks and stacks of Ritz. Banana pancake things in soft grey mornings. Jiggling jammed bike locks. Perfect, glowy skin save for a large and gently swelling pimple under the left nostril. Two hour conversations with HJ on a thin blanket, looking at the sky: “I like when you describe to me your people watching.” Slightly sore thighs. Daily morning crochet patterns pressed into the skin. Books in the grass and a breeze. “BUY ZHONGZI,” in a monotone whine on the corner of Christie and Hester. Soft wet hair and white eyes in a steamy mirror at 1am.

05/30/17, 10:37am, sitting on my bed in Beijing, in the middle of reading Calvino’s Invisible Cities

It has come to my attention that I have in the past devoted significant amounts of time towards gaining a single adjective attached to my being, like being well-read, or being carefree, or being obliviously attractive. I’m not proud of it, but I’m also not yet sure whether I should be ashamed of it.

05/29/17 at 3:44am

I need to remember who I am without my grandma, my mother, in order to progress and not regress when I return home. I need to be conscious of the ways in which I’ve improved, and in that security of who I am and who I want to be, keep a strong eye on what it is in my grandma and my mother that I do not wish to take, and prevent these things from seeping into my still impressionable mind.

Some things:

  • I should not push onto others what I think is good. I should not push onto others anything. I will keep myself to myself unless asked.
  • I should not comment whatsoever on anything about others. Compliments should be reserved for that which they deliberately chose, which means I can compliment an outfit, but not a character trait, and not one’s bodily appearance. I especially should not comment on anyone’s eating habits. Because any sort of influence on a person is negative: I don’t want to push anyone in any direction; a person should float free and choose in which direction they should go.

05/29/17 3:32pm, sitting at the supper table with LaoLao reading Einstein’s Dreams

Reading novels like Einstein’s Dreams, texts that survey human life and distill it to simple actions of arbitrary and interchangable men and women — always put me in an odd state of mind. The Bible. One Hundred Years of Solitude. I can’t quite describe it. It takes me out of the present, takes me out of engaging truly in interactions: persons are people, and everything is somehow mechanical, a board game.