On Bawling

2 [ intrans. ] weep or cry noisily : she began to bawl like a child | [as adj. ] ( bawling) bawling babies. While most of the time I kept it to tears rolling behind sunglasses, I'd like to say that the tears started before the vows, before any stories of how they met. The tears started the moment she walked in, toes into sand and white wedding dress in the sun.

Once you start crying you can't really stop. You cry about everything from the first time you met to the last time you had dinner to last night, when you all jumped into the sea. Weddings, apparently, are a moment to watch your youth drain. You give her away. You wish all the happiness for her. You know it will never be the same, and that's okay. You wish her unconditional happiness.

Diehard Honeys

When I was a kid, I had this habit of sprinting everywhere. This meant running short distances from point A to point B for errands. I figured why walk when you can run? I don't sprint my 5'9 frame around anymore, but to this day, it's hard for me to stand still on escalators. Sometimes it feels like I've got a teenage boy kicking and screaming inside my body, like I'm always clawing to go faster and harder. Sure, there was an attempt to be more lady-like last year when I set out on to buy long cotton skirts. Sure, workaholism was probably a psychological side effect of this. These days, I combine the psychological with the physical.

Pushing 120KM this Saturday on a bike ride. I'm ridin' with boys with speakers attached to their bikes, Los Angelinos and marathon placers. When baby boy asked "do you frequently find yourself in these situations? Being the only girl in a pack of boys?" I laughed and said, "I guess so. Dudes are chill. I tried to be more womanly once." "And how did that work out?" he teased.

My new bike gang is also my new film crew. I drift from friends to friends but these kids are dope. All I want to do is ride bikes and go on long trips and run marathons and talk about movies that I haven't seen. Goddamn film nerds and their obscure references. It's leaving me, on top work for work, work for bike, a lot of movies and books to make up. But everything is a joy when you've got a crew and a partner in crime.

My secret agent lover man is back in New York. He's going to eat tacos steeped in hot sauce and bagels from Zuckers. I get a pain of something deeper than just missing him when he goes back to New York, like some type of weird yearning for my mystic city, my jilted lover that I left behind for an idiosyncratic dream. I don't even know what I'm looking for here anymore other than a vague feeling of needing to push myself, and having the only engine therein being from within. That's why I told him, no I don't need to go back other than for some extravagant event or maybe you being off work for 12 hours. Because New York will always live in my head, and the more I miss it, the greater it will be.

I miss you though. I miss you.

Diehard Honeys. Remember that 6KM up hill bike ride at the end of the 50KM and the next time you have any obstacles, think about it.

Scabs

"People aren't governed by their profession, emotionally. Like, you might be an architect and I might be a manager, but we're artists at heart." As a self-professed artist who doesn't actually make great art, I only subscribe to the tenets of fragility, where every gaze lands on me like lead, and I'll over-think it, and dwell on it. The only thing different about me is, I have a very short term memory. Like awful memory, like a fishing net that doesn't hold facts, maybe only tenors of emotions, a vague impression. Then I just totally forget. I'll forget my heart, completely absorbed in a new thing, like a total bimbo.

Maybe this is a form of self-protection.

"If you're over thirty and you haven't got scabs on your heart, you're blessed."

The only scabs I have are the scrapes all over my legs. So I'm bracing for the hurt someday, maybe it'll come in like a two ton truck in the tunnel. Maybe it's better to accumulate some scabs on the way so one doesn't get blindsided, or maybe, maybe I'm either blessed or a total, total, sincere, heartfelt, deeply sensitive BIMBO.

Right.

Day One, Empires

You go from exploring a few too many App options in the attempt to streamline your digital life (Mac, iPhone, iPad sync option a must), determined to shut down this journal, to determined to keep it, determined to write a little bit everyday because writing is a muscle that you have to stretch. It's been good for you since the beginning, since you can remember. R may not have a heroic story as to how he became a designer. There was no moment at age six when he realized that boom, one day he was going to spend days creating images paired with typography that convey tones like "youth," "vibrance," and "strength." Mine isn't heroic either, but I did have a moment at age seven while writing my first "作文" for class that boom, this is what I want to be doing always for the rest of this life, even if it's word vomit, even if these muscles are lax, even if the heart is reengineered to diagrams, timelines, and budgets. So, that is why, I'm not yet going to fully invest in one of these fancy Apps (until they sync directly to Wordpress). I'll keep going.

Maybe the key to any successful App is just that: to create a complete experience. Writer didn't work out because it was only a simple, clean word pad. After you write in it it lays dead in your hands, stuck, unless you copy and paste it to another App. As a minimalist who relish in throwing things away, constantly, I need Apps that offer a holistic experience that takes me on a complete and conclusive journey. Do not give me part of an experience, give me the entire experience. Even if there are weaknesses, there's always time to itinerate on better design, better fluidity, better interaction, but the complete story, the bones and muscles, you must have in the beginning.

A relationship works a bit differently. Fitting two stories, two habits, two intentions into one will never be easy and conclusive. Part of the joy (and the pain), is the process of intertwining the narratives. You will learn to lose a bit of yourself, and there is a part of you -- the giver -- that enjoys the selflessness. Because what is living if not a process of giving and taking, and the 恩怨 that results from that tension. China is an entire culture built on those acts of exchange. The other part of you, the lioness, the obstinate, increasing alpha and confident one, learns to seek control and a balance. The trick is to give enough -- to love enough, without losing oneself.

The discovery of narrative keeps it going. To learn about a person, layer by layer, through actions, interactions, the way they look at you, the way they don't look at you, through stories, and the gaps in the stories, you learn to fill in the blanks, and the gaps keeps it interesting. The greater gap is the present, the days that you weave with that person, and the future, whatever it might be. Make sure it mobilizes you in some way. Make sure it makes you a better person. Make sure that after all the insecurities, a stronger, tougher, kinder you will emerge. But know that too, you should not burden another person with making you into a better person. Hold on to those principles and passions that matter to you, and as a young casanova once told me, "it's not about what you’re doing for him, or what he’s doing for you. It’s about what you do together."

Facts of the Day

Facts of the day, today only. - You drank black coffee. From now on, when people ask how you want your coffee, it's gonna be "black." No point in making coffee milk smoothies, plus it tastes stronger and makes you feel older. You are either really older, or feigning older.

- You switched your perfume from the usual blend of citrus and floral scents to something that has the word "noir" in the title.

- You had your first conversation about life with kids yesterday. I mean, serious, as in, your friend has a four-year-old and three-year-old, and you've got nothing that qualifies you to have any insight on anything that has to do with the following word: kids.

- When he asked if you wanted one, you replied yes in defeat. You'd be good with them. You know you will. Even if you flinch at the idea of the following words, "marriage," "husband," like actually flinch like a five-year-old --- you know you'll be an awesome mom. Fuck. Flinch.

- You make a note of the fact that's he's going to be in four cities in four days. "Who are you?" You ask again. You miss him with your bones. It aches when you sleep.

- You got told off by your boss again to stop interrupting him and listen. That's fine. That's just fine.

- You sleep!

Automatic Lights

Suddenly you live in a world of automatic lights and Margiela shoes. It took a month for you to figure out where the full length mirror was at his place (when you asked if there was one last time, he said there wasn't). Turns out it was tucked in the corner of the living room, tinted and sunk in the facade of the space. As he'd described it, his place is so "next level." All he really needs is a retina scanner on top of the finger print/code lock. Eddie would probably describe it as "brutalist," which is better than your first reaction to the behemoth. "What is this fascist building?" you'd remarked, maybe less about the architectural style than its formidable authoritarian posture. "This is my apartment." He replied, and you swallowed your words like you'd just accidently bashed about Shanghai to a Shanghaiese AGAIN.

It's not a gated palace or anything, but the saluting at the gate is enough to make you feel colonialist. In the beginning you smile and say your thanks, this includes major eye contact, an acknowledgement of mutual existence and respect, the general availability of the pursuit of happiness for all. Then one day you drop all pretenses and step into the New Yorker inside you after all. In your Damir Doma 100% ash viscose top, Nicholas K cargos, and white Margiela shoes, you try to fade into the background behind your Banana Republic sunglasses and purse your Dior #203 gypsy red adorned lips as if you belonged here, you really belonged.

You do. Maybe. Whatever that means. Even if the motion of flagging down yellow taxis in New York didn't really make sense to you, or that you came out of sample sales like you worked for Lane Crawford, the point is you're almost two years older and like he said, "it's a matter of mileage."

You're not sure what the mileage is about. You're absolute happiest you biked together from Chinatown up to Harlem and back, completely missing the Cinco de Mayo parade and the bike brigade, but it's okay because Central Park blew your mind when everyone came out to salute the warm weather. There were babies and dogs and lovers and families and hipster kids and babies playing with dogs and hipster kids playing with real kids. It's everything you'd imagined in dusty Beijing of what New York is like. The only difference is the stolen moment pierced with him, and you cradle this memory like a fading impression of a shadow, you try to hold onto the warmth as long as you can. You lay on the grass on top of his chest and watch the streaming silver from a kite against the blue and you want to stuff the moment into a bottle and turn it into a fucking music box.

Because at any moment you're probably willing to trade your Margiela shoes and Damir Doma top to spend 13 hours on the plane to watch him sleep.

Giant Wave

I dreamed a giant wall of water came to swallow us. It was obscenely green, crystalline, but somehow gentle. We were far away, Europe maybe, the rooftop of some obscenely gorgeous house (of course), filled with vines and flowers and beauty. We watched the wave of water come, calmly, as if facing certain finality, and yet undaunted. You and I will always be undaunted. Together, alone, together, or alone. When it came, it came gently, sweeping water to our toes, receding only to a foot of water. You held my hand. You held my hand at the pretend of the end of world. Here we are. Here we are. So we are. As long as you hold my hand, I'll be ok.

Daft Punk Man

You give away things. Empty the cabinets. Layer by layer. Consolidate. Toss it out. Like tossing out things from your life. Minimize. Centralize. It looks good on his kitchen. All these... things. You think you don't need things again because life is forcing you to be restless again. All you want, all you need, are few niceties, solid pieces for all weather. A friend asked, when's the last time you cried? You pause and think hard, and realize, for as emotional a person you think are, the last time you cried was over a year and three months. There was a guy and a song involved. You can't even think of a movie where you cried, and you always, always cry in movies. Clearly, you haven't watched enough movies, and had your heart shaken from the core.

In a year, you've gone from a size 6 to 0. You have no idea how it happened. Your heart is bleeding, seriously, bleeding all the time, but people think you've got these great walls, chiseled. You're poised and pretty to make up for the softer linings. Over the years, these walls multiply and weigh down your heart. Well, I'm too tired of this feedback. I'm going to knock down this wall before I lose myself.

So Hungry

So hungry, so hungry. It must be the jetlag, because I didn't eat dinner yesterday. I was hungry for an hour, then I went home and drank a glass of milk and proceeded on throwing away everything I own. To be fair, it's mostly Rong Rong, my dearest pack rat friend's shoes and bags that I'm collectively tossing away, but gone too are old heavy sweaters. The challenge: consolidate your life to four suitcases and a few IKEA bags for your next move. Donate your books and give away your plates, live a little without burden. I'm sorry but why do you own two framed poster? My attempt at adulthood = fail. No I'm not moving back to New York after a brief visit. If anything, my New York trip have convinced me of three things.

1) New York will always be there. 2) New York does not need you. 3) I do not need New York.

It used to be my dream to go back and forth between Beijing and New York, but within two weeks I'd missed Chinese food like cray, like more than I'd ever missed tacos and bagels. This girl at heart is a second-tier city Chinese girl. So boom.

Home

Hey baby we're in a different place again. These disheveled beds and unleveled grounds, the light that break through the window and marble floor unfamiliar to the toes. Hey baby tomorrow we'll be under a different ceiling again. "Who are you really?" "Are you ok with it?" As long as we do some Shaman rain dance to break the grounds, and keep Kendrick Lamar on repeat, and you never cut your hair, and we keep it real, and keep it weird. I can see New York in my eyes already. I'm in the office but my heart is in flight, and I remember every time descending in, the concrete grid city that glisten like broken glass and metal. "Do you think you'd want to go to Mars on a one way ticket?" "Don't you think we moved to Beijing for the same reasons? To be the first?" "No, I'm not going to Mars, I just wanna eat good food. I still have to go to Japan and try oxy-cotin." "Do you think I missed the train on that one?" "No, you're perfect." "It must be cool to see the rings of Saturn from the surface." I love the images that unfold when we talk. Like the storms of Saturn consorting with baby strollers in Solana. Half of the time I think I've entered a set. These spaces that shift and change, the only constant is your face in the dark, and I'll hold on to it just in case, Mars, Saturn, Kepler 22b and beyond.

NYC 2013. Where it's at.

Why I am enjoying misanthropy

1) Because I can go to bed by 10PM and wake up by 5AM.2) To go on a run. 3) And cook in the morning. 4) And ultimately go to work early. 5) And work on Rong's entire movie collection that she's passed onto me. 6) I don't like drinking anyway. 7) Square. I'm square. I'm like a grandma who only needs good music, books, and movies right now. 8) And work, I really need work or I'll go crazy.

I just want to work hard, and read hard, and watch hard, and listen hard, and love hard. Whatever it is that we do, let's just make it hard, on the rocks, ice cold, and suck it up.

Don't let the sunlight fool you

Just don't. In fact, wear UGGs in April if you must, because this 3 degree celsius night temperature is a killer, and even if you've got sunlight in your eyes, it's gonna hurt. Right, I'm sorry, but it's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt with every "fuck, fuck this fucking beijing fuck weather." You've finally got all this blue, but all you can do is huddle under two blankets with the air conditioner on heat. Your co-worker tells you to eat goji berries. Says it'll help with the cold. Says you're crazy to think it's cold.

Hey son, it's April 10 and cold, ok?

Thank God for Shanghai tomorrow. When I come back, please manage a hint of fucking spring ok Beijing? I love you baby but don't overdo it ok? You're like, gorgy in the sun, but that ain't nothing if the cement is cool and my bones are shivering.

Peace for spring. Peace for flowers. Peace for caterpillar leaves. Peace for fluffy cotton balls that'll soon attack our eyes and shit.

Call It Fate Call It Karma

The first sign of old age — your body is dead tired but your mind wakes up at 5AM anyway to a passive list of to dos — passive, because you're technically finally on a break for three days after a monster project. You're living in the age of stress, or you've chosen a lifestyle of "constant excitement" that everyone around you, from your co-worker, your friend, your lover, to your buddy on gchat seems like they've got tasks up their ass. Such is mid to late-twenties and the fear of missing out. I knew the moment I sat down at the Japanese restaurant and Camilla said, "wow, you look awful, have you been sleeping?" that I needed to sleep. Or rewind that, I knew the moment that I tripped on an escalator resulting in bruises up my ankles and knees that I needed sleep, like, get it together woman.

Everything on my list of to-dos for the next three days excites me.

1) Learn about Nike and everything there is to know about Nike for a client meeting. Fun, big fan of their branding/marketing/experience.

2) Finish reading this Ryan McGinley zine.

3) Finish reading Just Kids.

4) Internal management project at work, including, that damned wiki.

5) Zine project

6) Listen to the entire new Strokes album in order.

#1 and #4 are really giant work projects that if I don't bite on holiday I will choke by Monday. #2 & #3 I really should defer for subway rides. I just started storyboarding #5 and the whole process made me realize how much it is I really love publications. #6 is actually hard to do given I also have the new Bowie, Ólafur Arnalds, and Timberlake album, and my playlist is always random, and who listens to entire albums anymore, and to be honest, it's just not that good is it, o dear New York band? JULIAN CASABLANCAS SINGS HIGH PITCH. HAHHAHAHAHA.

Damn, I be such a square hipster if it weren't for China.

How to be Kind

This project has re-wired me in some way, ways that both celebrate and hurt my heart. One moment I want to shout in euphoria, the next I want to shoot myself in the eye. My body no longer knows how to sleep, and I wake up staring into darkness contemplating who it is I am anymore, the girl who that was, and the girl who will be.

Cruelty

"The author in you must remember that there are real emotions involved at all times, and you are not necessarily the master puppeteer." There it is, like a bullet to my heart, the truth. The truth of the cruelty you are capable of, and the vanity that blinds you from it. All this talk of authorship, of finding stories, in the end, you forget that in your curiosity, these plot lines you finagle with come with people and real emotions. It takes discipline, real discipline to practice kindness and sincerity. It is important to realize that in your attempt for life and experience, your actions as the principle protagonist in your own narrative will affect others. For all your talks of sensitivity, in the end, are you just a careless little fool treating others' as passive beings, existing for your grandeur?

Well, don't. No more.

Before I start writing apology letters in my head, all I can think of is, grateful. I'm grateful for you. For your sake, I will try to become a better person.

It's Like We

To be honest, they were the greatest romance of the summer. No, my own romances, however dramatic and incomprehensible, however poetic even, cannot compare to a drop of what they had, what we had. So, it is with the greatest, greatest relief that I'll crawl to bed tonight knowing that important people, important people are still here. Of course, after 14 hours of work, I'm not sure I can think through this fog of fatigue. I keep on pushing... keep on pushing for some outstretched boundary. Sometimes I feel like I'm on speed, a drug that pushes me to get more pain, get more pain, like my mind is programmed to only get off when there's pain, for gain, and nothing else matters. It's the only way I can get off anymore. Mentally. Physically. It's the only way I can feel alive, like I matter, like I exist.

A flywheel that can't be stopped, but, at least, with you, in that world we constructed, the ground feels a little more solid.

You&You

We marvel at each other so much that it's like Narcissus reached into the lake and grabbed a female version of himself. Imagine the ensuing fervor from two awkward, artistic, ambitious people, add the violatile mix of music, nerd, workaholism, mix it with geographic poles of New York, Beijing, Tianjin, that's us, Narcissus on a love drug--cocky, crazy, and magic. "I think we should savor this because it won't last."

By the time you're 27, it's not so much as "been there, done that" as, "been there, love there, but my god, more excited about the galatic beyond." Magnificent possibilities color our world like the way Shuya and his girl emerged from the end of Battle Royale. When you've died, or when you finally meet that someone, the world is just a beginning. "Had I known two people could be such a powerful source for solace and might, I might have searched harder."

He's so good at future-speak that I almost want to take notes. It's always been "we" since I've know him. "We have to go there." "We will get there." "We will be great." A strange sort of hypnotic power comes with two people. He speaks about it so effortlessly that you can only think of heartbreaks.

Don't get me wrong. I know this won't last. Don't get me wrong. I think we're cocky little shits. Don't get me wrong. Flaws will emerge and skies might fall. Don't get me wrong. We'll still be great, in our own little strange ways, two conspirators in a world untying at the seams.

Unravel

so when you come backwe’ll have to make new love

Textures. You feel the texture of table tops, carpets, lamps, windows, the way the soap rubs against your hand like silk kisses. You love exactly where you are but your heart is at another mind space. You don't trust it. You invade. You share every detail. You are delighted. You live the moments for some greater value than just yourself. You would do a lot for this one person. You barely know the facts but you know you would do a lot.

"You _know_ me."

"I don't even want to know that much about you."

Because moments past and moments beyond cannot stand against the moment now. We listen to Prufrock in the dark, T.S. Eliot's voice falling against the precipice, just like us, falling off the world of unreality. Some time ago he said, "I don't want to lose you." Some time later I echo in the dark, "I don't want to lose you." If I knew all this was about the fear curling at your toes as much as about the joy that seizes you at the fingertips, I would study more. I would study more about love instead of running aimlessly in the dark, trying to make sense of minds so far away.

The past is a thousands paths, and the future is a thousand more, but all we are now is a love letter frozen in time. So I won't be afraid of all things ephemeral. I won't be rushed to fit the puzzle pieces. I won't fear. I won't care. I will unravel.

Loss

He says, "You're in the nether. Let us be your tether." Only I interpret nether as "ether" somehow, and deluded myself into thinking that this detachment is more about going upwards than down under. Work grounds me to such piercing reality that it's good to be detached once in a while. Although my other reality may be as much about happiness as it will become a prolonged sadness. The worst part is the lack of self-awareness, that the very world view you have might be wrong, and that you are in fact reckless, lacking basic aptitude.

"You're better than this."

Am I? Are we? In the end, is my sincerity only grounded in words, feelings, and my actions run away like a headless monster governed by caprice? I don't even know. All I know is, it's devastating. Even if I deserve it. It's devastating to have lost you.

Rong says. "Do not lose yourself."

Should I have chosen to lose myself (be braver, better, smarter), than to lose you? Either way, the game is lost. I can't even get a song out of it.

Meaning

Brainstorming presentation strategies is actually EXACTLY how I want to spend my Sunday night. Fuck drama. Make your difference. Keep your head on your shoulders. Roll with it. Love hard. Fight even harder.