I really like the word affinity. It’s a word that implies each person has an inherent programming towards something. It’s a word that speaks to the uniqueness in every one. It’s a word that evokes a journey of self-realization.

Life is good. A cup of coffee in the sunlight. A few hours of writing and reflecting. I like talking to old people and listening to their stories.

I’m a fucking writer

Self-loathing should come naturally to any writer. It is simple –if you peer deeply enough into yourself, you should recoil; there has to be something that makes you go, “oh god that’s a part of me?” And that’s introspectively speaking. In terms of bringing forth that ugliness, well, I think Anthony Bourdain said it best: “Let’s face it. Anyone who writes a book with the notion that they have a story worth telling, that people want to listen, you’re already, by definition now, an abhorrent personality of self-regard. That’s not normal. That’s often at odds with being a functioning, well rounded, good person.”

So what is a writer but an oscillation between two polarities? One: a fink who ritualistically goes to coffee shops, mooches off Wi-Fi for hours, occupying that very outlet you need, who at the end of a torturous dredge, seems no happier –an eternally gloomy funk. Two: the unholy combination of narcissism, vanity –I mean the medium of a blog is vanity itself, and this ungodly inflated ego. This explains why I tend to like very few writers in person.

This all sounds rather scathing. Of course there has to be some sort of reconciliation. I mean I fucking write. Anthony Bourdain wrote. And reading others’ works can elicit many emotions and beauty. So what is it about writers that makes them write…? I mean why subject ourselves to this constant self-examination and this self-absorbed practice? I think! I think… somehow this oscillation between vanity and self-hatred is magnified in writers. Perhaps this constant sliding is just what it means to be human?

I mean how many people consider themselves excellent drivers? Hur dur I considered myself a good driver. Who hasn’t sat in traffic in a fit of rage, thinking if only that one person didn’t suck at driving, then this whole lane would be moving more efficiently? No one else? Fine. Well after a second of rage, I reflected. There were probably, most likely, many times people went, “this guy, this fucking guy,” because of how I was driving.

A study conducted by Allstate shows that 2/3 of Americans consider themselves excellent drivers. Anyone who has been gridlocked in LA traffic can attest to the delusion of this statistic. Anyone who has sat in their friend’s car can attest to this…What I’m trying to say from this horribly drawn out example is that people probably have a hard time stepping outside of themselves. And writing is perhaps an attempt to step outside of oneself. And maybe, it’s not so much an oscillation, rather a cycle of god mentality (vanity), the fall  (self-hatred), and then the slaving away (reconciliation), and that this cycle is an inherent human cycle. Writers probably go through this cycle a lot of fucking times because their subject is often the human condition.

Jung talks about this! This is the hero’s journey, the process of individuation, as he states, “the attempt to free ego-consciousness from the deadly grip of the unconscious”. The unconscious is the god mentality, the fall is the realization you’re full of shit, and the slaving away, the climb up to become different, better is the freeing of the ego-consciousness! This is the story of the fall of man in the bible. Perhaps, life composes of these micro-cycles, and that writers write stories because their stories somehow reflect this micro-cycle in themselves.

Thoughts on Love, Emotions, and Fate

I don’t think I believe in one, true love. I think if time goes on, I might likely find another person. As you might too. But I do believe there are forces greater than myself pointing me to you. This all sounds like mysticism bologna. It really is a strange feeling; when I really meditate on us, when I concentrate on our story together, the best way I can articulate it is that we’ve lived many lives together, and that I’m meant to love you right this life. When I read Jung’s idea about synchronicity (a similar Chinese idea is yuanfen), it immediately clicked with me. It’s this idea that there are sometimes coincidences in life that can be interpreted as having meaning. Of course, he argues that this could just be the brain trying to make sense of things, an attempt to create a narrative to what can be utter chaos. But in a mental exercise, why not try to make sense of the chaos? It is there. Why not find meaning in the strangeness of you and me?

It’s the same as how I see nihilism. If nothing matters, then why exist? Why do anything? Why not just kill oneself? To me, it’s too easy and convenient. Nihilism is the acceptance of chaos and impotence. I found that on the opposite spectrum of nihilism, where everything matters, where every second counts, where there is this immense responsibility and ownership, I can almost justify the meaning of my existence. A profound happiness swept over me; everything I did and everything that happened to me led me here. It’s not always clear, and the best it amounts to is a feeling. A feeling. All my life, people have told me that feelings and emotions play secondary to logic, math, and akasdlkfa science! But as I got older, I realized that people are governed by emotions and feelings. Choices with money, buying a house, moving to another place, and  investment, things that require objectivity and rationality –emotions, feelings, and intuition are at the heart of these choices…

Sure, people may not outwardly express it. They may be a staunch believer of logic and smartness, but in my time paying attention to them, listening to them, weighing their actions and how they justify them, I found they leak of emotions and feelings –that at the base of all their rationality is emotion they have yet to recognize, acknowledge, or they may even be blinded by emotion! I interpret a lot of Jung’s writing as an exploration of our inescapable unconsciousness. Feelings and emotions are the first layer of our unconsciousness. A lot times, people use rationality and logic to merely justify emotions and feelings, and that often leads to neurosis.

But back to you and me. It’s a feeling, a powerful feeling.  I know I have a tendency to see things with rosy tints, but not about you and me anymore. The greatest catalyst of my growth these last few months is my confrontation of how ugly our relationship was. Thank you for making me take that journey. The truth is we were not good for one another. I’ve done terrible things to you. You couldn’t take me off the pedestal. Yet, despite that, we truly loved each other. We always wanted to protect one another. We always wanted the best for one another. We gave each other everything about ourselves. Our unconsciousness was blended together from our acid trip; I know you… you know me. I’m not smart enough to completely articulate it, but it’s this feeling. I can’t justify it more than that.

The sum of my growth is this acceptance that my perspective is important. If I’ve learned anything these past few months, it’s to love myself, to have more self-esteem, and to value my perspective. This isn’t to justify my rationality. It’s just being aware of this great emotion and feeling in me. And perhaps it means nothing, but I’m deciding to follow it. I’m deciding to take the risk and to pursue it, despite how unreasonable it is, despite how much it hurts me, despite the many times people have advised against it. The strangest part is that I’ve managed to convince everyone I’ve talked to. This goes beyond rationality. It has become a matter of my unconsciousness telling me something and what I can only surmise as fate… I will face the consequences of my choices and whatever happens as a man of character…


I am a man of fire
birthed of rage and anger
Self-immolation, I had died
rebirth –I am change
a journey of self,
the sum of things learned
I bring forth my soulfire
Transmuted, I am energy:
a strong will
warmth radiated
and controlled,
shed the lesser bark–
becoming, becoming.


The cebollas make me cry
through the small window
I smiled at the customers
The tink and tank of clean kitchenware
Broken Spanish and love
Mijo she said la sopa
Donde puedo poner esto
I said clutching a tub of miso soup.

I know our past has been ugly; I made you feel so low about yourself. To say it was what I learned would completely discount the pain I put you through. I really did want to push you to be better. But I did so many things wrong.

There’s nothing I want more than to give myself to you as a changed person. Patient and understanding, guiding but not controlling, exciting and loving, I want to give you myself as my own man. Give you your space and time, be by your side through everything, to take you to all the restaurants, to take photos of you because I want to show you I think you’re beautiful. There’s a disconnect with how I saw things and how you saw things. I want to listen to you fully to weigh your words and thoughts. I’ve been humbled. This isn’t to say you weren’t at fault too, but you have nothing to apologize for. You needed to become your own person because I couldn’t set your boundaries. Respect yourself and your needs, and I will respect you. That’s what I meant when I said other people would treat you the same. It wasn’t to curse you or spite you. I wanted to say I think people have to change themselves if they want people to treat them differently. I was scared for you too… The strangest part is we both didn’t treat ourselves right, so we ended up treating each other wrong. But I’m done being penitent. I am happy. I am practicing every day. The days are so much prettier. The laughs are so much more sincere. I love you I say to my parents. I love you I say to my sister. I love you I say to Spencer. I’m happy to be useful I say to my boss as I bring in the donations. I’m happy you’re in my life I say to Khari. Buddha, God, something greater than I, I am blessed I made it through. But I want to say I love you to you the most.


I step.
You step.
Two steps. I can’t dance.
Let’s dance.
I shake –you laugh
I sway. I lead. I’m shy, so shy
But if I dance
my two steps
Maybe you’ll dance too,
I hope. I’m flappy
cardboard. You’re a ballerina;
You move so well
We spin. I’m red
I love you
I show you.
Move my hands
said youtube
Wish I can show you
what’s in my head
It’s prettier
but I try
for you.
I’ll be new
for you.

Chapter 2 Part 2 The Morose Family


When the stars were at their brightest, Mei rolled out of her bed, which she admitted was exceptionally soft compared to the lump of a mattress she slept on at home. She contemplated stealing the goose-feathered pillow… The night before, she packed a small bag of clothes, a few snacks she stole from the pantry. Farmer Tsu would always wake up before dawn to work the fields, so Mei decided to not sleep. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before. She used to stay up all night playing games, whispering with her sisters and brothers. Night was the only time they could spend time together.

She tip-toed across the creaky floorboards. A breeze swept in from the window, animating the curtains. She froze. There were whispers… They didn’t sound like Farmer Tsu’s or Tanya’s. For some reason, she could almost extrapolate meaning from them. A troubled feeling stirred in her as if she foresaw a premonition of pain, a troubled and difficult life.

The heavy scent of incense lingered in the air; the scent of the house was unlike her home’s. It was a mild irritant, but it was something so alien and unacceptable to her. Mei reflected. She and Tanya got along well. Farmer Tsu was even kind to her. He had a vastly bigger house. He gave her her own room with a soft, comfortable bed. She had food to eat every night. Despite all this, there was an insurgence in her; her family’s blood insisted she return.

At the screen door, she watched the stalks of corn sway. If she left, how would Farmer Tsu and Tanya react? She didn’t want to appear thankless. Again, the wind came.

The cool, nighttime air seeped into her lungs, and she breathed in her renewal. Her parents would be convinced by her conviction, by her love for the family. They would welcome her back. Down the endless stretch of country road, Mei ran fast. The world around her zipped by in an elongated blur. It seemed like a dream back then, the stars blinking at her; they would witness her safe return by some sort of providence.

Whenever her feet ached and blistered, she told herself that if she could push on just a little more her parents would receive her with warmth. They’d realize they made a terrible mistake, and they’d all be happier with her in the picture. She was excited to see her brothers and sisters again. It had been a long month with each day feeling like a year. She ran on. Her socks wetted with plasma and blood. Compared to her brother, Don Bei, she knew she was a strong child. He was always sickly. If he worked the farm, he’d collapse in an hour. Mei knew he was meant for education. Her work on the farm allowed him to enter preliminary school. With any luck, he could become the family’s saving grace. Mei believed in him.

A bluing sky greeted her as she eventually rested by a brook. It did not make an impressive sound. But Mei listened to the babble, and imagined that she sat with the familiar frogs, listening to their frog conversations. She didn’t know why she bothered, but she peeled off her socks: purple flesh and tattered skin. She smiled. It was worth the price of family and home.

Her memories flashed like film. She and her mom never seemed to get along. But Mei never questioned their relationship. In the country, family was family. They were the people you stuck with. Each step sent a pang up her legs to her lower back. She began to limp. She saw her mom’s weathered face, her ineffable features of a grump. Had she been a bad daughter? Didn’t she do her best every day to help the farm? These questions slowed her down, so she repressed them deeper into her conscience. What did it matter if they would welcome her back?

The morning dew lifted, and the country road produced a calm in her. She slowed her pace down to savor the tall reeds that billowed in the wind. A rattling of the world around her. She looked to the sky when she thought she heard laughter. No one was around her. But she recognized the two voices of the children, somehow. Their words were incoherent, but a sentiment of relief and happiness burgeoned from her chest. It was the answer to the premonition; somehow it was an assurance that everything would make sense –one day. She began to cry inexplicably. Mei smiled, confident of her choice to return.

Her body ached, her stomach growled, and her vision wavered. “Mei!” She heard her name. She turned and turned when she saw it was Aunt Lu.

Mei ran over. “Hi Aunt Lu!”

“What are you doing back here?” A look of concern hid behind her smile, but Mei didn’t notice.

“I ran back. I want to be with my family.”

“You must be so tired and hungry. Would you like to eat some breakfast?”

“That sounds really good, but I want to see them. I miss my brothers and sisters.”

“Mei…” Aunt Lu reached for Mei’s hand. “Just a quick bite. I know my husband would be happy to see you. The whole village misses you.”

They sat outside at a make-shift table with tattered wood. This made sense to Mei. Everyone had a table like this outside, where families often ate in the summer dusk. The Lu’s peach trees sheltered them. Aunt Lu laid down a complete breakfast: a savory egg pancake with slivered green onions, a savory porridge with mushrooms and leftover pork pieces, and two bisected pastries stuffed with stewed beef. Mei ate the meal quickly, too quickly to savor. She sat back, her stomach stuffed and hurting. Aunt Lu and Farmer Lu looked to one another.

“Mei,” Farmer Lu began, “If you need me to, I can drive you back later. I don’t mind taking a trip. We could all go.”

“Why would I want to go back? I want to be with my family. That’s why I ran down here.”

Aunt Lu then offered, “What if we all go with you to your home?”

Mei didn’t understand why but she agreed.

She sat on her parent’s porch since the door had been locked. She glanced to Aunt Lu and her husband, who stood afar and waved. She tried again, this time more forcibly. Mei’s mom came to the door, squinting. “Mom, I don’t want to live with them. I want to be home.” She looked to her mom through the screen. The door remained locked, and it seemed she wouldn’t open the door anytime soon. Mei tried again. “Can I come in? Please?” But she already knew the answer from her mom’s violent shift in expression. There was no love in those eyes. There wasn’t even pity. There was only a cruel selfishness, a mind for business that superseded any kindness or any warmth.

“What are you doing back here?! You belong to them now. If you do this again, they’ll want their money back.” Her mom opened the door with such force the door slammed against the wall. She grabbed Mei by her wrist and pulled her down the porch. “Your father will be furious to know you escaped. How can you be so selfish? You never think of the family.”

“Hello!” Aunt Lu called. “How are you doing?” Mei turned back, confused. She saw a woman who wished to help her. That much she understood. When she turned to her mom, she didn’t understand anymore –how could her own mom be so cruel? A complete stranger treated her better. Aunt Lu’s husband then interjected, “You don’t have to worry. We’ll help Mei get back to Farmer Tsu. He’ll understand. These things happen. We were all young once!”

“I want to see my brothers and sisters.” Mei said, trying to gather her character.

“I forbid it.” Her mom said, a wall.

“How can you be like this?”

“Get out! Get out of my sight!”

“Come along, Mei.” Aunt Lu guided her away. Mei refused. She turned back.

“Why do you hate me? I always thought about our family.”

“Don’t give me that look!” Her mom brandished her hand. “Don’t you dare!” She raised her hand and struck Mei across the face.

Her flesh burned. It was not the pain, but the betrayal, the hypocrisy, that sent tears down her cheeks. She did not look away; Mei wanted her mom to see her anger. She wanted her to know she would never let go of the hatred that took seed. Her mom stood across her, a monster seething with rage.

The wagon creaked along the country road. Aunt Lu and her husband had told her to rest. But Mei simply couldn’t. She couldn’t accept the terrible reality of her mom’s cruelty. The hours melded together until she arrived back at Farmer Tsu’s. Her heart had been fractured, and from the irreparable pieces, a spell of Madness awakened in her.