Pulled apart by my choice
I stood alone
Anything to grasp
To feel unbroken
And there you were, and you said
Open palms for friends
But my heart desired more
More of what I had before
And so I said okay

Letting the mud drip
And dry on my shoulders
Weighing every step
But I never noticed
Because I thought
That’s how to feel normal again

I asked you to help me through
But you said no
And we reversed to the age of four
Crying, going low
Swing fists, hurting hard
Apologies given and forgotten
Stingers unremoved

Then in an email sent
I wrote “Thank you and I am sorry”
And the words stopped
And then the pain stopped

If you stood above the swirling dark waters
And you let the colored rain wash away
All the dirt collected
From the words unleashed
From the dreams trampled
From the hearts pricked
Dripping down to the cliffs below

Would it feel better now?
Would you feel clean?
Would your fingers feel the breeze?
Or insist that the wind does not care?

I’ll hold my palms up
And gather those anxieties
Cupping them here
Bury them into a box
Deep into the unseen cave

Forget those worries
Forget those concerns
Remember this moment

An oxymoron, for sure.

Last night, I dreamed of a digital device. I was responsible for it and needed to use it for something important—a presentation, a demo, or similar. But somehow in the exchange of hands or perhaps a lack of awareness on my part, it fell into the hands of someone that constantly wanted the best for me (in his twisted way), but I distrusted his results.

And so, perhaps moments before the showcase of my device, I discovered that it had been tampered. “I was trying to make it better,” he said in a obnoxious tone.

“You did?” I said and could feel anger flare throughout my body.

I glared at him, and he did notice. “This is better,” he said.

I woke up, finding myself pushed down in the bed, clutching the pillow. To me, it’s somewhat interesting that I have landed in a responsible position, to present and demonstrate to others. I remember this person—someone who I had rebuffed, but insisted that he felt that he connected with me. In those moments, my irritation melted away, and I would agree to catsit while he traveled. But my displeasure would return when I found that he used my accounts with my knowledge or demanded that I change my ways. He called his behavior “brutal honesty.”

There was once when he gave me the sunglasses and scarf his subtenant left behind. “This is a present for you,” he said. “For catsitting.”

“Don’t,” I said and pushed it back into his arms.

One time, because I ran out of cash, I wrote a check to pay him back for a concert ticket. “I don’t take checks,” he said.

He took the check and tore it into little pieces, dropping it like confetti in front of me. I must have laughed then, amused at his ridiculousness. But inside, I was seething. I never paid him back him back.

It has been more than three years since we last spoke. In our initial silence, he unfriended me on Facebook. But several months passed by and he sent a friend request. I did not offer any “accept” in return. And the silence continues to this day.

Back then, he lived less than 100 steps from my building. Occasionally, when I walk down Valencia Street, I glance up to the third story window. Almost by habit, I wonder if the light is still on and whether the cat is cold from the open window. Then I continue walking, happy to jog up my steps back into my apartment.

And one of the few minorities.

Sitting in the orchestra of Herbst theater, I relished in the words of Cheryl Strayed. A few months ago, coming upon a Facebook advertising her visit to San Francisco, I mindlessly (digitally) ran to buy tickets. Thrilled that I was able to score orchestra tickets, I declared that I was attending in the Facebook event. And today, I settled in the lush red velvet seats and watched two women—Caroline the interviewer chatting with Cheryl Strayed.

Her sense of humor was just right. Never too overly inspirational or spiritual. With some good gotchas here and there. It was as if I was there, on the couch, listening to her, like I have with some good friends. Those are the times that I enjoy the most. Leaning forward in fascination of a friend’s self-awareness and provocative nature.

I have to admit that I loved Tiny Beautiful Things—her collection of Dear Sugar columns. So much more than Wild. The heartbreaking tragedies and an intimate attempt to help someone. She and Steve Almond later called it radical empathy (better than that ridiculous philosophy of radical honesty). I loved it and dreamed that I could structure my words that beautifully.

Then the hours concluded and Cheryl Strayed greeted some onstage guests. Chris tried to urge me forward to unleash my fangirlness. But embarrassment always overcomes me here. I know how it goes especially when I appear at authors’ book signings and the only thing that I can utter is “I want to be like you!” What can the author say? I know when someone says to me that I smile and nod and say thank you. But the connection that I desire so much won’t just appear.

As I walked into the lobby, I suddenly was struck by the diversity of the audience. Earlier, we had nearly walked into the neighboring War Memorial Opera House where gray-haired guests decked in formal wear wandered the staircases. We were directed to the appropriate building which was filled with women my age. Young and very urban. Chris was one of the few guys present.

But as were leaving, I looked at everyone. Women, for sure, which made sense. Writing and this kind of self-awareness attracts a certain type. But to my surprise (and maybe increasing awkwardness), I noticed that there wasn’t a single Asian present. Save for 1 or 2 Asian males that accompanied a while female. Everyone was blond, brunette. There was an African American flying near the edges of the lobby. But I was the only one.

Yesterday, a friend was attempting to understand my hesitation of moving to Oakland. Oakland for sure embodies a lot of the writing community. But I lamented that I haven’t been able to make the connections. She mentioned that it was probably because of the people I surround myself with. But I pointed out that it’s not that. I choose the people that I surround myself with. And quite naturally, I found my comfort in tech. And moreover, I found comfort (oddly) with people who happen to be Asian in tech. I love food and so they do too. With ample disposable income. But if I was meant to bond with writers, I just never had. It’s a challenge for me, because I love writing, but the community has been so hard to find. At least the type of writers I seek. If I was meant to befriend them, wouldn’t I have met them already?

And so as I wandered in the lobby, I hoped to see someone I knew. But the faces were all unfamiliar. So then I did what I normally do in an awkward situation when out in the city. I went to find dessert. In moments, I had a toffee milk chocolate chip cookie in my hands.

All the time.

But how often do you do something that you didn’t want to do, but you actually had a choice?

Jack Bauer often says, “You always have a choice.”

In truth, it’s the fact that I made a choice that wasn’t what I wanted to do, but because doing the act would have given me benefit. Yet at what point, is that benefit not worth it?

In college, a friend coerced me to join an environmental lobbying group during the summer. We canvassed the local areas. But there was a problem: I joined, because of the friendship. But I didn’t think about myself. And as the job begun, I wasn’t spending time with her. The perceived benefit was gone. And I wanted to quit.

But as I gave my resignation on the third day, I couldn’t even stand up for myself and lamely said, “My parents want me to quit.”

“Do you?” my manager said. “What do you think?”

“I want to go,” I said.

But the fact is, I didn’t want to do it in the first place, but I followed along, essentially kicking and screaming the entire time. Silently. I didn’t believe in the cause and nor did I have any interest in this kind of lobbying. I went door to door and performed horribly. Interestingly, people took pity on my performance because not only did I read the speech fast and dispassionately, they thought that I was the most awkward person ever.

This is a good resolution: stop doing things that other people expect you to do, if you really truly don’t want to do it.

I hear the words that I don’t want to hear. It’s a mixture of disappointment, rejection, and anger all at once. The voice scratches at my core, and without any warning, I feel my body tense up.

All I see now is the repeated cycle again and again. It’s familiar. This feeling. It’s a curled up thick rope that settles in my stomach and something pulling the end, rubbing its ragged edges along my sensitive stomach insides.

My first instinct is to find what went wrong. Blame is easy. That helps relieve the pain fast. But it leaves a sticky residue of guilt that oozes slime like a snail inching across dry concrete. Every single inch hurts.

Then my second instinct is to blame again. Maybe even repeat the first. In a different way. It’s not the way the email was written. This time it’s the way the subject was written. It’s all the same. I stare at the problem, and the frustration mounts again, twisting now into my ear like a worm drilling a hole into my head.

Then my third instinct now is to hide. I am older now. I know, I hear, I feel, I see how the feelings are going to overwhelm me. I know better than to act out my anger. But I say it aloud, “I am pissed that it didn’t work out. Again.” And just by telling the world that I am angry, I am just a little bit calmer. Then I sit down to write this blog post.

Should a professional profile photo show me looking away from the camera in a thoughtful pose? Or a head-on stare with a real human genuine smile? With teeth or no teeth?

First world problems, right here.

The box was closed. The box of chocolates, that is.

But this morning when we marched up to the kitchen counter, Chris yelped in surprise and pointed in horror. A moving black line stretched from the box down to the hardwood floors, along the baseboards, and moved under the kitchen table…and beyond.

Ants.

“Don’t worry,” I said.

“I was always worried because you were eating chocolate all over the place,” Chris said.

I ignored his exasperation. He was experiencing a panic attack with lack of cleanliness and things not working. I directed him. Discard the box into the building trash. Vacuum the ants. Wipe down the trail. Empty the vacuum contents. (Snapshot the contents, because it will be a mini ant farm!) Done.

And done it was within 30 minutes.

Chris added a bit of insecticide near the opening where the ants entered.

“Wasn’t that easy?” I said.

I believe that if you tell the world that you want something. Like really want something that the world will respond. That if you set a goal for yourself. That if you tell other people about your goal. That if you prepare yourself in preparation. That if you do all of this, the world will respond.

But then I thought, is that a prayer? In a religious sense?

I abhor the idea of religion. Not because of religion itself. But the way that it’s misconstrued. That it’s people blindly following a faith, especially around “appropriate” behavior. Religion at its worse is about making people fear about doing the wrong thing and shaming others who seem to be doing the wrong thing. Why is it about fear and not love?

And so, I thought about my belief.

Because the fact is: a prayer is about sending a message to an entity. At least for the religions with spiritual beings. It’s waiting for that entity to respond through actions and messages. It’s entrusting that some being will grant the wish. Like magic.

That’s not what I believe. I believe that if I prepare myself, if I ask for help, the world opens opportunity. Because somehow the threads that I throw out—the call for action—want to be connected and so they connect. Entities don’t exist like that. The connection is within ourselves.

For the past few years, I wanted to be a writer. So I worked myself up to be one. Doing everything that I could: classes, workshops, writing groups, reading writing books, applying for fellowships, networking with other writers. This year, I wanted to rework my novel. I talked to everyone about my ideas. I wrote a few down. Then a writing coach popped up. And so then I found the pathway.

“…he’s the most interesting man in the world.”

Bragging, if I may, I have always wondered why people suddenly say that I am interesting. What does that word mean? I use that word when I am at a loss to describe something that makes me feel uncomfortable or cause dislike. I hold the negative adjectives back and say “that’s interesting.” People catch on and know what I really am thinking.

But to say someone is interesting. I wonder what it means, because is it that person has chosen to do interesting things? Or that the person has caused envy of things undone?

“If you see something that you want to do, you just go and do it,” a friend said once to me. “Not many people like us do that.”

To me, I question if it’s really that fact that I choose to do things. Rather, it’s the fact that once long ago, I decided to stop saying no. I realized that nobody was paying attention. That the only person to lose was myself.

But maybe that’s other people’s definition of interesting.

The most fascinating people to me are the ones who are self-aware. They question life around them like I do. They are the ones that exude empathy and believe passionately in what they do and why they do it. They are the thinkers of the period—the ones who write with integrity and awareness. Most of all, they say what they mean. I find those people interesting. And do I find people who are charismatic interesting? That’s the problem that I am aware of—in the moment, I am drawn, attracted like a fly, but afterwards, the connection is barely present and I realize that I was lured in like a bug.

Interesting people are those who outlast the burning cool light.