10/26/17, 3:09pm

At a presentation for Taiwan-Chinese relations, and I can’t help but feel conflicted.

It is naive. It portrays the entire conflict as a facade as a problem of ‘lack of understanding’ and ‘differences of human needs’, fixable with ‘human connection’. They likened the problem to an ‘onion’, in which economic power, independence, and national identity was the superficial facade and ‘self expression’ was the core.

I was angry at their naiveté, but I was also angry at my cynicism. I have no solutions — how can I fault them for trying? What ideology am I trapped in?

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07/07/17, 8:28am

I believe this was jotted thoughts for a poem idea

snow taking up ad space

or is it just blowing back (futilely), wind on the front of a bird’s wings

snow falling

ice statues

there is a special kind of cautious shame in those who bike upwards on a one way street

and some lack even this: they pedal lazily, bike turning side to side

it is a new york sort of reckless meandering

04/27/17, 4:53pm

IT IS A SPECIAL KIND OF PRIVILEGE TO BELIEVE IN YOURSELF.

“You’re going to be a dentist, just like your mom.”

It was so innocent; such a normal thing: like father, like son. Like mother, like daughter.

I can’t say the exact moment it happened, but one day I realized that all the old tired aphorisms in the world held such insurmountable truth in them that I couldn’t believe I’d heard them all before. They were like air, like the sky: always there, so much so that they ceased to exist in my head. So given that I had never once stopped and considered them.

I grew up in a white beach town, and for the entire time I lived there, I thought that was the only way to grow up. This was the norm. This was the self. It was the default. It’s not a conscious thought, or a phrased ever uttered. It just…was. And it was only after I left that I realized it had existed at all.

When I came here, I became cognizant of the other. I became cognizant that I *was* the other. I became cognizant that we were all the other.

I guess that’s what I mean. My mom was a dentist, and my dad was an engineer. To be an artist — to be creative — that was the other.

I remember when I came to college and saw everyone doing all these amazing things: making movies, music, writing policy, publishing articles and emailing Janet Yellen.  It was all so foreign, this stuff that I’d heard about growing up. This world in which important people were two points of connection away, not a million. This world in which so many options were open, and kids — my peers — had the freedom to be *what they wanted* and have their passions be heard; their causes they championed with far-reaching consequences across the *world*.

For the first time, I was interacting with the world.

I remember feeling alone.

I remember feeling out of place. I remember conversations with the kids of CEOs and Ivy League academia, their words twisting around my small town head, their casual indifference far, far more painful than any outright insult.

WRITE THE THINGS YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT THE THINGS YOU KNOW.

08/09/17, 6:05pm, sitting at the steps of the 54rd st library reading terrance hayes, gentle measures

— and though this profoundly disappoints me, I now realize that I have spent my life not leaving traces because I do not want to see them later, or I do not know, simply, where to put them when I leave, change; and though I know rationally that it's not too late, I can't help but feel that I am too far behins, that anything I do now will be endlessly embarassing, and yet I know that it is this constant feeling of being behind that has partly gotten me to this situation in the first place, and so I know I need to just get the fuck started with what I'm not yet sure —

07/21/17, 11:24pm

You’re over JKm. Really. And so you’re not sure why this memory popped up, in the suicidal freefall of the downhill bike ride —

Was it the night you broke up? No — it was before that, you’re sure. You don’t remember what came before, but he looked at you and said,

I’m a complicated person.

Eyes narrowed poetically. His had was in your lap; he was looking up at you. He reminded you of that scene in Kung Fu Panda where Laoshi doesn’t die.

Aren’t we all complicated? You responded. What do you mean?

I’m complicated, he forged on. Less so than you.

Was that when I decided to break up with him?

But was it even fair? Who do I show my complicatedness to? Not him. Not anyone, really.

Maybe biking Manhattan bridge 5 times in a night is melodramatic. Maybe it’s not. Maybe you’re just scared of people thinking that.

Who in your life has biked Manhattan bridge over and over and not told the tale, never will tell the tale? Who has it in store?

07/07/17, 8:27am

snow taking up ad space

or is it just blowing back (futilely), wind on the front of a bird’s wings

snow falling

ice statues

there is a special kind of cautious shame in those who bike upwards on a one way street

and some lack even this: they pedal lazily, bike turning side to side

it is a new york sort of reckless meandering