When I have to wake up to do anything that does not please me, I find getting up a challenge. I am mentally spoilt. It has always been like this with me. I have little ability to do anything that I do not care for. It is why I really admire people who somehow find the drive to stick to situations they detest. I know people who have a strong dislike for Mondays, and they look at me as if I have two heads when I tell them that I, in fact, love Mondays. But based on what they say when they explain their dislike for the first day of the work week, it often comes across that these people have nothing against Monday or any of the weekdays. It is what they have to do on Mondays that they dislike. My friends often say I am self-dependent. In many ways it is true. I owe it to an imagination that likes to find beauty in everything. And I always often find beauty in everything. Sometimes it takes a little time, sometimes a lot of time.
If you are someone who does not care for Mondays because o…
An old friend shared with me the awful news of his favorite cafe's closing and I thought about it and wondered about his memories of that place. Perhaps he was friends with everyone who worked there; I can imagine him going in to celebrate an inspiration——he is an artist——Or just to to hang out in a home away from home. I wrote back to try to cheer him up and express my understanding for his situation, and told him about my attachment to my clothes and how difficult it is for me to part with them. This experience inspired me to share here some of the stories of the pieces I have on in this outfit.
This is one of my favorite hats partly because it is a gift from India, my best friend. In a conversation once, I told her how badly I wanted one of these hats and although she told me where to find them, I never went to get one. On my birthday, she gave me this gold one. It therefore marks a precious time in my life when someone went out of their way for me. It brings to mind that theo…
Warning: I am in a very very good mood as I write this. Which means that the tone of this "review" is affected by the very very good mood of mine. There must be a ton of reviews on this book, so if you are reading solely for academic reasons, I will look elsewhere. Let us get to it then!
Maybe it is a metaphor, I do find it satirical. And I am confused. Not because One Hundred Years of Solitude is complex, but because I feel it is the representation of something else, my guess is humanity and civilization. But I am not sure as to what aspect of our evolution I ought to compare it with. It feels like reading a pop culture novel: you can only really appreciate it if you are well versed in the culture of the time it references. All the same I am enjoying my first reading of Gabriel García Márquez. Right now, my favorite character is Aureliano (who is at present channeling Nabokov's Humbert Humbert (don't you just love that name, Hum-Hum)). But young Arcadio holds promi…
I went to La Maison d'Art in Harlem for the Sugar Hill Market. I was
early and spent some time outside, just looking about.
Then I thought I would capture what I noticed.
Few people walked by and they all made eye contact and
smiled. They said things like "How are you?" and "Have a beautiful Sunday!"
Pleasantly surprised but happily responded in the same manner of friendliness.
I did not use to visit Harlem much.
I did not know they were so nice up there.
The above pictures were taken at the lower entry of the brownstone.
They are tinted in how I felt
as I waited.
Don't you think it a little odd that for a people who often advocate for freedom and free will, we can be very narrow-minded about who and what should be free. Some people would rather that others are not free, and often, it seems we do not care for nature's will. We wish we can make her do what we want when we want it. It is amusing then that our complaints went viral on that dubious first day of spring. A rainy spring day is beautiful and expected, a snowy spring day pulls at the heartstrings—it is magical.
I belong with a sort: the goodbye sayers. No matter how heartbreaking, no matter how upsetting, I cherish any opportunity to say goodbye to someone I loved or liked or just had good memories of or with. It is a way of diving back into what had been, a moment of slow reminiscence; the semicolon to a verse of memory. In that we remember the past and its life, and we feel the present as a moment of ending from the before into an after that will no longer hold that which …
My bookshelves carry more yarn than books. But I do have quite a number of books bought for classes which I have kept. Someday, I want my bookcase to be full of beautiful books that I love. Right before the weekend, I came to the end of To the Lighthouse. I really appreciated how Woolf killed Mrs. Ramsey and was fascinated by the character of Lily Briscoe. I am now reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. Will write on it soon.
Some of the documents that came today
Were fastened with beautiful staples
The color of dayflowers
For me who had known nothing but gray staples
Their color was fresh and new
Their elegant color made my heart
As heavy as an overcast sky
Just a little lighter
Up is blue
clouds are waves
birds swim under
Up and it is blue
Rising into sea
down down below
it is only i
a little dot bopping
a world in brown eyes
The other day I run into a friend of Mother's, our eyes met briefly, about three yards from one another. She looked away in that way people act sometimes, signaling a pretense of lack of recognition. We were walking towards each other. When we got closer I said hello, and wondered about her attitude. I had run into her a few days prior, and she had acted the same way. But there had been a greater distance between us and I thought she had not seen me. Now I realize I could have been wrong. This older woman's reaction brought to mind my first years in NYC. I remember how I would run into my classmates in town and start waving, only to see them look away as if they did not know me.
Over the years, I have become better at seeing people I know and playing that game of lack of recognition; unless I am surprised by the encounter then I betray myself and do a double take. They say when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But as I walked away from Mother's old friend, I wondered if I ou…
I was glad to come across "Gray," a YouTube series (through Afropunk). In this video, the question is "why do you think it is so hard to talk about race?" I find it interesting how the answers quickly escalate to discuss racism. Mostly because I live in my own bubble, I did not know much about racism for a long time. Then I started to read about it and then I notice it and I was really surprised by it. Yes, I think it is difficult to talk about race. There are so many stereotypes and there is so much we do not know about other races, so I never know what the right thing to say is. Even amongst the same race it is hard to talk about it. Recently a friend who is Madagascan, wrote to me and said she did not know what it all means; the many identities amongst people of African descent. Why is it that some of us only want to be identified as Brown, others as Black, others as Afropolitan, or as African, or as African American, or as American, or as French, or as Briti…
One thing February taught me is that I am not suffering from FoMO: Fear of Missing Out. I think it is because my focus is happiness in the present and I am learning ways to remain present and enjoy it. I have nothing against melancholy and I do not believe that we are always happy. Which is fine. Melancholy in its own way can be sweet, and sometimes it is what the soul needs. Since I spend more time home and very little time out, and by out I mean a trip to the grocery store, I planned adventures for February. I thought that a dead me would be upset about my spending too much time home. Well, all my plans failed. I was reminded also that a good part of the reason why I stayed home frequently is not only because I enjoy it, but because metro cards are not free.
I tried going to the Brooklyn Museum for their first Saturdays and failed (I failed in January too, and as I write this, it is the first Saturday in March and I have failed, again. I am amused). There were issues with the trai…