I should get in the habit of writing when I feel like it, and not worrying about making it comprehensible and whole. It sounds silly, but sometimes I feel so compelled to make some sort of story with some sensible trajectory that it tires me just thinking about it and I don’t write anything. All the while the tug to share all the nothings pulls at me. So anyway, these are just some things, for memory’s sake.
body
My physical body feels everything my mind unconsciously feels, and it annoys the hell out of me. I can’t seem to fully revert to the blissful sleep of past (when that past was is hazy), of long long hours uninterrupted by early morning anxiety. I’m not generally anxious; it’s minor, which is why I worry about it. I really hope that I don’t require complete carefreeness to sleep well, because I had better get used to Growing Up and all that it entails. A few months ago I developed a recurring rash. At first I thought it was allergies but I couldn’t find anything that connected. My brothers told me it was probably stress-induced. I told them I wasn’t stressed, or at least I didn’t feel like it. Often it came out of nowhere, without any external instigators. But it’s true, often it coincided with stress that I didn’t really acknowledge--I got it before my first interview, when things were hectic at work, when things were hard between Andrew and me. And now after a couple nights of restless sleep I have a sore on my lip, which apparently also tends to arise during stress. I hate that my body reacts like this, reminding me that things do affect me and I can’t just think about them in isolation without remembering that this is indeed my life in fact, not my life hypothetically. The thing is, I’m happy with most things, only that things are hard in the way they are for everyone during this time in our lives and it’s not an easy happiness. I both naturally and continually put effort into appreciating and valuing that, and I wish my body would let the rest of me take care of it instead of reacting too.
cooking
I’ve learned that a little flavor goes a long way, that I will probably never be good at presentation, and that bell peppers are the best thing in the world. Bell peppers are such funny, wonderful things. They look and sound spicy but they’re sweet, they smell so nice and are so bright in color. They’re fun to slice and their seeds coat everything. They’re crunchy and oddly shaped. Anyway. I can make: Vietnamese pork chops and chicken drumsticks/breasts/wings (Vietnamese only because that’s the way my mom makes them), Thai curry chicken and California rolls (thanks Erika), fish muniere, rosemary/lemon chicken, chicken parmesan, mushroom and onion hamburgers, various stir fries. My problem with cooking is that I don’t understand the nuances, and I’m also impatient, and it’s hard to buy things for specific recipes when we’re always buying in bulk, and it’s hard to try different things without the necessary culinary accessories and tools. I did get pots and wooden bowls for Christmas. Making do.
brothers
So you know how around adolescence everyone realizes that their parents don’t really know everything after all, and that you actually think quite differently from them? Well, as far as my relation to my older brothers go, this relevation didn’t come to me until this past year and most sharply since I’ve graduated. Despite their having raised me and possessing somewhat parental roles in my life, the very nature of them not in fact being my parents kept me from losing that kind of faith in them at the time when people begin to question their parents. And for the most part that was okay, because I do value their judgment and experience, and the relevance of these to myself. But my goodness, how I’ve changed in college, how I’ve come to see how adamantly I disagree with my brothers about certain important and fundamental things. Not like political issues or moral dilemmas; it’s hard to explain, exactly. Small things that mean a lot, like I'll see value in an image or thought or book, and they don’t (or vice versa). And big things that mean a lot, like how I chose heartbreak and think that’s all right, and they don’t. I know these dissimilarities occur among all people. But with my brothers it's difficult because for so long they've been intertwined with who I am. Not that I haven't been aware of our distinctions before, but the gap in understanding has never been so glaring. I realize these changes in me are of the kind that are most apparent to oneself, and that the core most people see remains the same. But sometimes I can’t stand being around people who have developed an honest, strong portrait of me, so much so that they can’t begin to contemplate the possibility that I’ve changed or perhaps that I have kept and keep things to myself that they never saw. Stephen, with his infuriatingly confident way, evaluates everything I do as either characteristic or uncharacteristic of me, as if he knows how to categorize all that I do correctly. I can’t deny what they do know of me, and I can’t convince them that they don’t know everything. It drives me completely insane, and it makes me long to meet new people who don’t have a baseline conception of me. It also makes me grateful for the few I already know who use acts I make or thoughts I express to explain my character, instead of the other way around.
At the same time, I’m not losing hope that I will remain close to my brothers, that though our changes haven’t occurred in parallel, that I will remember how accepting they’ve always been and that it’s a matter of time, patience, active effort, and willingness. After much frustration with the ways in which the pieces of my family do not fit together…during the lovely Christmas dinner with the seven of us and the ensuing madness of present-opening, I found myself again finding the same essence and more of my dysfunctional family. I know this is how family functions, imperfectly and with rough edges.
San Diego
I had a fun weekend in San Diego. Seeing Erika (my best friend from junior high) was kind of funny, in that way when you see how much and how little things have changed over a long time. I wonder if I’d be different if I’d gone to Irvington instead of Notre Dame. While concrete circumstances may have turned out the same, I think what I think about and the way in which I think about them might be a little different. Then again, Erika reminded me of when I shared with her my fear of never meeting someone who would understand me, this fear arising in full force when I was thirteen. So I guess maybe Steph is right, that even if we were farm girls in Asia dedicating our lives to manual labor and our husbands, we’d still be contemplating the same thoughts. I don’t know. In any case, the flashback to junior high really made me appreciate the liberty I’ve had to be immature (“did I really do that?” “I said WHAT?”) as much as the room for growth (I feel quite distant from all of it). Southern California is warm and very laid-back, but I think I will always belong here. Here in the sense of what I feel here, not necessarily here the geographical area because I don’t feel tied in that way. Where do I see myself in ten years? Anywhere.
James Blunt
Steph compared a concert to a vintage wine or a flower, in its transience and the poignancy that comes from that, and I found the thought to be apt. You can listen to the music before and after, but the moment when you see it flowing from the source, you feel the fleeting quality of it right then and there. James’ voice is special. It amazed me that someone could produce something so perfect. Every lilt that you assume to be a result of polished studio production came instead from a slightly ragged Brit filling every note with something inside him. After a new song, he started the concert with “High,” which gave me something that resembled girlish delight. I’ve always liked how his album starts with this song, with all its images that don’t directly relate to a kind of beginning but somehow make me feel it anyway. I cried a little during “Goodbye My Lover,” partly because A. was there, partly because I am woefully in love with James’ voice, and partly because, even though no one likes crying in public and I hate crying in general, I felt like it. He played it just as you’d imagine, alone on the stage with a piano and a microphone to amplify a sentiment that’s already swollen and raw with hurt. I’ll never forget how that song made me stop. It did that to Steph (“arrested me”) and A. stopped the album after that song too. Somehow that makes it more personal, not less. He played an amazing rendition of “Out of My Mind,” where all the little elements of the song came to the forefront and every second of it was full; every part made me smile or inwardly flutter or bite my lip. I’m so glad to have seen him, and with people who really receive and value all that he gives.
high school friends
Long meals are one of my favorites. Being with A. and sharing our love of diverse tastes and ambience and character in the dining experience heightened my appreciation for comfortable company that lingers and sustains after a delicious meal. Sharing wine with Rea Mae, Tanvi, Kristina and Victoria didn’t make me uncomfortably old; it made me feel fit for this new skin we’ve each developed. I so value how everyone has grown yet radiates the same endearing, admirable qualities they’ve always had. I like how we talk about new things, and re-talk the old things. You girls are so quality: so smart, with real convictions and goals; funny, with unabashed silliness; kind, with such genuine warmth; fun, reminding me of the lovely freedoms of being this young. And Victo, your presence never fails to make me feel less alone, whether we’re driving or buzzed and rigging a game of King’s Cup or wrapped under blankets watching Little Miss Sunshine for the second time or sharing yet another cozy bed or chatting in your room or browsing in H&M or swapping cheek kisses on New Year’s Eve.
upcoming
I can’t wait to see my girls in New York, to venture into Atlantic City, and for our blockmate reunion in the spring. The thought of places makes me happier. I feel so lucky to have lived in Boston for four years and to have seen so much of New England. I love California, and San Francisco looks different every morning, revealing a new shade of beautiful with each glimpse. I can’t imagine not being somewhere urban during this time of life. Going on interviews has proved tiring, but I appreciate the renewed excitement for the future that I get each time. There’s so much left. Being immersed in the stories of older people in my writing class made me feel that in such a uniquely fulfilling way. Getting glimpses into the fullness of their pasts and how alive and eager they were for their presents and futures—it pushed me to concentrate on life as a continuous story and not a series of clearly defining phases. The bookends that we place on the sides of our experiences often make me forget what’s beyond them. There’s the four years of high school, the four years of college, the four years of medical school, making me feel like life comes in blocks and that once one is coming to a close, a lot has gone by when in fact the next block is even longer, only it’s not quite a block.
