- 2:32:00 PM
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Today, or I guess...yesterday was one of the hardest days in a while. I opened my eyes in the morning with that same dark thing in my chest that I used to feel. And that was weird. After all, I'm a new person now, or so I thought. I was determined to make it a good day. I got up, early. Did what I needed to get done, took my time getting ready, went to class. I did everything right. But when I got there, for some reason, it all started to crumble. I couldn't hold onto my silver linings, they just kept fading away from me. I couldn't grasp them long enough to understand them.
This whole time I'm just wondering what the hell is wrong with me? Is it the meds? Everything was going so well. So why is it that my heart and mind are saying there's something wrong? It's the feeling of sadness and anger and fear all at the same time. Fear, more fear. A hard anxiety that makes me feel like I need to whimper and groan to release some of the tension in my chest. The day was too bright today, the light too harsh. Everything was sharp steel grey.
I smiled, I laughed. I did everything that I usually do to try to trick myself into having a good day. I went to coffee club. I love coffee club, it's an awkward setting but the people are great. They were so nice, I stayed involved. It should have made me happy. But I walked home with the pit still in my chest, I knew I couldn't stay alone tonight so I did what I always used to, and went to the safehouse downstairs. We talk light, we play games.
Safehouse is the right word for it. I can't think of a safer place, safe from the world; safe from me.
Safe even though every sentence drops off a precipice. Safe even though the dark thing is still inside. I'm safe. I'm so lucky. It helps me remember.
Tonight I'll go to sleep unafraid of waking up. We fight through.
- 3:16:00 AM
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Part of the Story
There are actually a lot of personal meanings to this piece but one of the stranger ideas that I had was that this was a tangible expression of the Heart of Eve. Not necessarily a biblical Eve, but one whom I relate to. One who feels such great despair in her Sin. One whom is so afraid that it was all her fault. One whom desperately tries to make it right. One whom feels both guilt and betrayal. One whom tends to the weed of despair in her mind and hopelessly watches it destroy the things she tried so hard to protect.
I think in my mind, the text that was written in relation to the piece is a letter from Eve to Adam as the man who was supposed to love her, who fell with her in Sin, and who blamed her when the time of judgement came.To whom she feels constantly inferior to, to whom she feels both guilt, love, and betrayal.
The hands could be the hands of Adam, they could be her own, they could be those of some other deceitful and destructive thing.
I don't really feel compelled to share this with all who see the piece, as I hope they relate to it in their own conglomeration of ways. But this is just one of the stories I have for those who might be interested.
Process
In truth, I didn't know exactly how this piece was going to turn out. I just knew there was a feeling I was trying to get out, to express, but I didn't understand exactly what it was yet.
I had this idea of Apple Hearts in my head, for some reason I was enamored with the idea. Hands and food have been a common thread in my work, for a lot of reasons. And I knew they went together in this piece, I kept whizzing through different permutations of what the combination might be, and none of them were what actually came out.
I knew the apple was broken, and that I wanted to do stitches, but not in the ways I did stitches before (red thread). I loved the look of the clear hot glue, almost like tears. My original cast was actually a pretty perfect apple with a crack in it, but my plaster started to deteriorate, and so my future casts did as well. And I thought, how apt, that mimesis after mimesis is inferior to the original just as in the creation stories, we humans inferior are inferior to the creator whom we were created to be like.
The hands are made out of soap, and are small and incredibly detailed thanks to a well created original piece I found at a trinket shop. I had the idea of soap hands a loong time ago. But the idea didn't work out the first time. It was one of those lines that was just stuck in my head
"Do hands made of soap stay clean?"
To me it refers to hypocrisy or a false sense of self-righteousness and I knew that the hands couldn't stay clean.
I actually presented my piece with the title "Tiny hands touch Big apples" because I felt like it left a lot more room for people to grow their own ideas. There's a playful, childlike quality to the sound of the title, like the title of a children's book but there's also a strange sort of perverseness to it, that taints the impression and lingers uneasily in the mind.
- 1:20:00 AM
- 1 Comments
Click HERE for an explanation and behind the scenes look at this piece.
In a moment, I lost my heart. When you held me, before you killed me. In a moment, the apple fell from the tree.
I'm a fool, for indulging in you. For hoping you would make, something of me. You asked for the apple, but your hand pointed back at me.
Am I missed? Sometimes I think you might. I feel a surge of triumph.To be missed.And then I am angry. Because I am longing.
Do hands of soap stay clean? Am I the only one to blame. As I tend to the decaying fruit, of the garden we fell from. I mend their skins. I stitch their empty shells.
- 1:20:00 AM
- 2 Comments
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| Pho and Viet Coffee, Somewhere in between lunch and dinner. |
It's Saturday afternoon. I wouldn't have gotten out of bed if I hadn't made plans earlier in the morning. But plans finished quickly and I found myself determined to make this a day better than all the shitty, shitty days of this past week.
Some people call it courageous...
To be able to walk into a restaurant, smile warmly at the maitre d' when he looks at you questioningly and say "Just one, thanks. Can I take the seat by the window?"
I remember looking at the people sitting alone in the middle of the restaurant calmly eating their food and staring at their phones.
I remember wondering whether I should pity them or admire them.
Now I wonder how they are looking at me.
This isn't really the type of place people come to laptop camp. It's the only pho joint in this little college town and people usually come here for dates and/or hangovers. But I've been craving pho for a while and I needed to get some work done. It's strange, but being here alone... it's the most peace I've felt all week.
I've been meaning to write about this for a while, eating alone, that is. I only just realized I never wrote about my third day in New York, which was probably the most uneventful day as well as the most important day. It was the day I spent entirely alone. (It's all related I promise)
What do you do when you're alone in New York? There are probably lots of things. But all I wanted to do was just walk around. I went into every single store that looked interesting, ate every bit of food I wanted and could feasibly fit into my stomach at the time. But there was one thing I knew I especially wanted to do: have dinner at a nice restaurant that I would never even have thought about going into if I was with someone else.
"Just one, thanks. Chef's bar? Yes, that's perfect."
I don't think I could have even gotten into this place if I wasn't by myself, it seemed like all their tables were booked out. There's a poem by Stanley Elkin, The Peculiar Dignity of Men Seen Eating Alone at Restaurants... could use a better title, maybe. But he captures the strange aura of these moments.
Some say eating alone is depressing,
but nonsense, it's the way to go
to prove to yourself that loneliness will not
be the death of you. It's got it's good points
nobody else to eat the good bread from the
basket
no judgment that you shouldn't have another
drink
perhaps that isn't enough
but even at the worst points, you can look up
and the waitress will smile
and you'll tell her how wonderful the soup is
and in that moment, things will seem quiet.
I remember first learning the word "melancholy" in third grade from the book "Because of Winn Dixie." God, what genius in literature. In the story, the main character is given a piece of candy, a Littmus Lozenge, made by a candy maker who lived a tragic life. And when she tastes it, it's bittersweet and she is reminded of the memories of her mother who left her when she was three. Her father calls the taste melancholy.
There are those who taste the sadness and spit it out, and there are those who taste the sadness and keep it, turning it around and around their mouth until it fades away.
I always worry about running away from bitterness. I also worry about drowning in it. But there are moments like these that are like Littmus Lozenges. Bittersweet moments where, for an hour or two, it all hangs in a delicate balance.
I sit, I write.
The people are kind, and I smile easily,
I eat well and wrap my hands around my cup of coffee.
I recall sweet memories and taste the bitterness of their passing.
I'm alone. I'm also lucky.
I tip well. The maitre d' smiles as I pass.
"The flavor of the Littmus Lozenge opened in my mouth, like a flower blooming, all sweet and sad."
-Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo
- 4:48:00 PM
- 1 Comments
I dreamed about a woman who had a set of priceless figurines that contained a secret. I followed their journey as they were stolen and smuggled throughout history and met the people who were trying to protect them. Turns out the figurines are linked to people, each a protector of Earth, or something, they're immortal unless their figurines are somehow destroyed. I'm scouted by the government... but I'm pretty sure all the members of "the government" are SHIELD agents.... which I'm not complaining about. I have a partner, who is male but I can't remember if I know who he is in real life... it might have been Jeremy Renner? aka Hawkeye... again, not complaining.
Follow some ancient train track in China to a cave.
... I think I actually end up fighting a dragon at some point??? Nvm.
We escape the cave and block it up behind us. My perceptions of scale are wildly distorted, or the world is distorted as we come out of the cave. Bottom Line mission accomplished.
I wake up and go back to sleep. Life continues as normal, but "normal life" is considerably more stereotypically Asian that it ever has been or will be. Something important happens like some sort of magic ritual or something... i'm pretty sure we're a witch family. We're at some family friend's Asian Tea House/Apothecary (witch homebase) when I get the call again. Only I'm supposed to recruit one other person and I'm just supposed to know who it is. And I do, because I'm awesome. It's my friend. (lel Bola...)
We're in the Gov car trying to figure out what to bring and what to leave behind before we get flown to some obscure part of Canada... Even though it's warm and sunny outside of the car, my mind remembers its snowing in real life and I think about how cold its going to be in Canada and I'm super excited by the awesome gear I'm sure we're going to get.
I'm embarrassed at the copious amount of receipts I pull out in front of Phil aka Agent Coulson... i just look at him and shrug "finances". We're just about done when I wake up.
**There was a lot more to the dream but those are pretty personal and pretty unrelated to the story line so...**
I wake up distinctly disappointed that I won't be able to carry out my bad ass mission, whatever it's going to be. And strangely enough, disappointed that my chances of dying doing some awesome thing has been greatly decreased.
As usual.... I've slept past most of my alarms. And I won't be sleeping tonight.
- 7:43:00 PM
- 1 Comments
Everyone has their safe place. I had mine.
- 3:03:00 AM
- 0 Comments
Proposal for my ART 497 Breakaway Class.
Their story will be told in a series of photographs.
Lily is childlike. She lives off of the thoughts and opinions of others. She cries for those in pain. Her happiness is tied to the happiness of the people she loves. She must keep them happy. It is her purpose and she serves it well.
Her mother told her stories and she became afraid of the world. Love or hide?
Inara is a warrior. She is strong for those who are afraid. But she's no saint.
In the beginning, a lot of me wanted to demonize her for her lack of innocence. But then I realized that Inara isn't evil. She's just responding to the horrors of the world in a different way. Rather than hiding away and being afraid, Inara embraces the horrors as worthy opponents, She respects them only insofar as to get what she needs from them, and then tears them down. Inara's name mean's "light of heaven" she was named after a Hittite Goddess equal to Artemis.
Neither one of them speaks.
*Yeah. idk if this is going to stay.... too cheesy? Maybe it'll be scarred rather than sewn shut.
** Already bought liquid latex and rigid collodium.
***... should they speak?
I was inspired by Renee Stout's "Conjure Woman" and the events of my own personal life to create two characters: Lily and Inara.
As a younger girl, I always had trouble talking and making friends. My solution was to come up with different versions of myself, different, more confident versions who had many friends and no inhibitions. I never gave them names, nor really distinguished between them. Eventually I think they all became a part of me, but to this day, I still don't really know what's real and what I invented for my imagined survival.
As a younger girl, I always had trouble talking and making friends. My solution was to come up with different versions of myself, different, more confident versions who had many friends and no inhibitions. I never gave them names, nor really distinguished between them. Eventually I think they all became a part of me, but to this day, I still don't really know what's real and what I invented for my imagined survival.
These two characters are created to express the power and weakness I feel as a woman and as a woman of Asian heritage. I'm taking inspiration from Hannah Wilke as well as Jerome and Joel-Peter Witkin.
*Adrian Piper- Catalysis
*Adrian Piper- Catalysis
Their story will be told in a series of photographs.
Lily is childlike. She lives off of the thoughts and opinions of others. She cries for those in pain. Her happiness is tied to the happiness of the people she loves. She must keep them happy. It is her purpose and she serves it well.
Her mother told her stories and she became afraid of the world. Love or hide?
"It is a privilege to paint such difficult things" - Jerome Witkin
Inara is a warrior. She is strong for those who are afraid. But she's no saint.
In the beginning, a lot of me wanted to demonize her for her lack of innocence. But then I realized that Inara isn't evil. She's just responding to the horrors of the world in a different way. Rather than hiding away and being afraid, Inara embraces the horrors as worthy opponents, She respects them only insofar as to get what she needs from them, and then tears them down. Inara's name mean's "light of heaven" she was named after a Hittite Goddess equal to Artemis.
Neither one of them speaks.
*Yeah. idk if this is going to stay.... too cheesy? Maybe it'll be scarred rather than sewn shut.
** Already bought liquid latex and rigid collodium.
***... should they speak?
- 2:27:00 PM
- 2 Comments
I never called them nightmares. Not even when I was little. I always called them bad dreams.
I was sitting by myself in a cafe, next to the floor length window that faced the streets. And then I hear screaming, and glass shatters. I fall down right under the window ledge which is about a foot high, just covering my body. A man walks up, white, bearded, with an AK gun. For a second there's the silence where he stares coldly through the window, and then he starts spraying. I'm on my back propped up the slightest bit on some broken piece of furniture. He hasn't seen me yet. There is no where to move, the spray is right above me. More glass shatters on top of me as he shoots through more of the window. I don't know how realistic this is but I feel the force of bullets flying past me. I feel bodies hitting the floor and unintelligible sounds as they call out. I'm afraid to look. I try to look dead, I want to close my eyes but I can still see him just standing there; once a step forward and once to the left. I keep waiting for the terrible pain of bullets ripping through some part of me. I want to cover myself, I want to run or scream at him.
So often I think about these things happening. I think before I leave for events. I think when I'm sitting in class, or in a church service, or a movie. I map out my exits, gauge their entrance points. I try to imagine situations where we're all heroins, a few of us die to make sure the rest can have a fighting chance to live. I imagined rushing through whatever bullets to try to slow down the attacker, to make him drop his gun. But lying on the floor, with the spray of bullets coming inches above you. You know the second you sit up that you're dead. Not a martyr's death, just someone who ran into the line of fire. It would do no good, and no help. I woke up before the end.
I don't know which would have been worse for me. To sit up, into the line of fire, or to sit up in the silence and turn around to see the people I had just been having coffee with, all dead, and yet I survived.
I wake up in a world where people are dying. I'm late for work, they are dead, and I survive.
And I have to make coffee for 200 people in the next 4 hours.
I wake up in a world where people are dying. I'm late for work, they are dead, and I survive.
And I have to make coffee for 200 people in the next 4 hours.
- 9:12:00 PM
- 1 Comments
We all lived in the Garden of Eden.
Our hearts lived on trees.
We chose to leave
and they died in our hands.
You knew it was wrong.
I was three
I wonder if it eats you
like it eats me.
We have apple hearts, sickly sweet and afraid of rotting away.
We were selling them on the streets.
You picked them from the stands
like you grew them yourself.
Is it strange that you're still everywhere in my life?
in the sweater you gave me, the blankets that keep me warm.
the people I talk to, the books I read
Your hands were the most beautiful I've seen.
You were supposed to love me
I suppose you do
sometimes I feel it
but it leaves so easily.
We all lived in the Garden of Eden.
Our hearts lived on trees.
We chose to leave
and they died in our hands.
- 1:29:00 AM
- 1 Comments
So, you might have noticed a change in the blog... this may or may not come out coherently...
I went through a strange thought process of learning to try and express my thoughts and the most recent events and confusions in my life. I've been struggling with my identity for a while, always defining myself in relation to others. But over a short span of 2 weeks my life changed astronomically... or at least it did in my head.
I learned that I can love unconditionally, I also learned that I often love very conditionally.
I learned that the scars in my mind are only there because I keep them there.
I learned that God will answer prayers, you just have to know what to ask Him for.
I said goodbye to a relationship of 3 years, the only romantic relationship I've ever been in, as well as the future I thought it would lead to.
I am learning to be myself, alone, just me. Whoever I may be. Unaffected by anyone or anything else.
I'm learning to accept the right that God gave me to create, and call myself a creator.
I'm learning to not be afraid of expressing myself and the things that I truly enjoy.
And so... this blog is something that I'm truly passionate about. I know this because I usually can't ever keep up with anything for this long of a time period. And the fact that I keep coming back and posting on this blog really means A LOT.
But I realized that it wasn't really true to my expression and who I am right now as... ME
A SICKLY EATER is sort of how I see myself... both literally and metaphorically. It's my crime and my conviction. I went through a period of time where I was so lost and so afraid of everything. And for some reason, food was how I would deal with it. I would always be eating, always feeding myself, always feeling sick but never stopping. I was trying to fill myself up, but it was like stuffing a scarecrow full of straw.
I feel like we often do things like that, not just with food, but with anything. We fill voids with useless things without substance, like strange creatures always consuming but never feeling full.
But there's a sort of humor in it, being a sickly eater, like No Face in Spirited Away? Because, I think, in reality we're all sickly eaters. And we're all trying to find the things that fill us up.
For me, it's the empathy and sharing of perspectives that comes with the creation of art. It makes me full. This blog is as much my creation and my art piece as any of my paintings or sculptures, it's the documentation of my life and my own search for what makes me, me.
It's my homing beacon, from one SICKLY EATER to all others. Hi, we're not alone.
- 8:48:00 PM
- 0 Comments
I cheated a little bit... I had some people come to see me. I do have
I woke up in the morning, in a word, hopeful. Motivation in the form of joyful anticipation of good company. Everyday, waking up in NY is a bit surreal, but walking out of the hostel doors and into the city streets is even more surreal The strange realization of my freedom and isolation is frighteningly exhilarating. But I can never shake the feeling of needing to depict a certain image here on the streets of New York. Later in the night, we were talking about the "New York Edge" how it seems like all NYers have an aura about them, an edge, that you don't find anywhere else. A sureness and nonchalance that is completely out of my means of expression. It's actually quite a tiring act to keep up.
Just making my way over to my chosen cafe meeting place that morning was a bit of an internal panic. Perhaps one of my worst nightmares is finally deciding on a place to be and going there and finding out that there's no room to sit. Well, La Colombe Coffee is a tiny little place with maybe 10 seats off to the side of the restaurant and that's assuming that perfect strangers are comfortable with sitting across from each other at a square-foot, triangular table. In my absolute terror I just putter around their selection of coffee and teas and end up buying two sets of teas intended as gifts for people. The place is so busy that the barista actually started just taking people's orders before they got to the counter and I, being caught off guard, said no when she asked if I was ordering a drink. Thank God my drink selection was easy and seating somehow cleared up just as I finished at the counter.
I quickly sat and then was faced with the next conundrum as to what I was supposed to do while waiting for my friend and coffee. Regardless of what people might say to the contrary, I don't think it's completely socially acceptable to sit and stare off into space for more than 3 minutes. So I took out my journal and began to do what apparently everyone does according to Instagram. Sketch and write. Well... those who know me know I have terrible penmanship, so I was sure the illusion of being a traveling artist would be shattered as soon as anyone took a closer look at my pages. But in a way I was happy, I'm always surprised at how happy I am when I'm drawing or writing, because I never see myself as an artist or a writer.
A cozy sunlit corner of the hostel common area
Just making my way over to my chosen cafe meeting place that morning was a bit of an internal panic. Perhaps one of my worst nightmares is finally deciding on a place to be and going there and finding out that there's no room to sit. Well, La Colombe Coffee is a tiny little place with maybe 10 seats off to the side of the restaurant and that's assuming that perfect strangers are comfortable with sitting across from each other at a square-foot, triangular table. In my absolute terror I just putter around their selection of coffee and teas and end up buying two sets of teas intended as gifts for people. The place is so busy that the barista actually started just taking people's orders before they got to the counter and I, being caught off guard, said no when she asked if I was ordering a drink. Thank God my drink selection was easy and seating somehow cleared up just as I finished at the counter.
Down Lafayette
I quickly sat and then was faced with the next conundrum as to what I was supposed to do while waiting for my friend and coffee. Regardless of what people might say to the contrary, I don't think it's completely socially acceptable to sit and stare off into space for more than 3 minutes. So I took out my journal and began to do what apparently everyone does according to Instagram. Sketch and write. Well... those who know me know I have terrible penmanship, so I was sure the illusion of being a traveling artist would be shattered as soon as anyone took a closer look at my pages. But in a way I was happy, I'm always surprised at how happy I am when I'm drawing or writing, because I never see myself as an artist or a writer.
Maybe the best croissant I've ever had and it wasn't even warmed up. Crispy but soft on the inside, on a new level
He doesn't think he's photogenic
My backpack is breaking. I buy a new one. It's a bag from STATEbags, they donate a fully stocked backpack to an American child in need for each bag purchased. It's more expensive than I'd have ever imagined paying before; but after living out of a suitcase for a month, I walked into my room and felt an immense amount of pressure from all the CRAP I had. And everything had so little value to me because it was just cheap stuff and there was so much of it. I couldn't keep track of anything, and I didn't want to. So I decided to throw everything out and only keep things that were special and useful.
The untouched area of an Interior Collector's gallery, it had the craziest stuff.
We met up with another friend for lunch, and as we were talking,walking. and shopping it started snowing pretty heavily and the wind picked up. But I remember walking between them at one point in the horrible weather and feeling so warm inside. What a wonderful privilege to walk in between people you love, and who love you enough to spend a day in a snowstorm with you.
Chalk Point Kitchen. Wanted the smoked salmon but they ran out so they recommended the Avo Toast... shrug. I think avocado's too rich for me...
Market Carrots with truffles... I've discovered that truffles aren't awesome. With Sheep's milk feta... which I think I'm still allergic to. A little hole in the wall called the Breakzone, which was the name of our university gameroom, the nostalgia made us walk in. And the food was actually great
Warm feelings.
We decide to go for drinks later, because my newly 21 year old self is still pretty engrossed in the idea of storytelling over beer. After all, that's what they did in the old days, right? Kelly was so intent on buying me my first pickleback shot at her favorite bar, but it was so crowded because of the game that we couldn't even really get seats let alone talk or hear each other. At a slightly less crowded bar, we meet up with a videographer who's work I've been loosely following for a while. And I was struck by the peculiar sort of chemistry that happens when humans come together. There were so many amiable interactions that night but I remember sitting in my chair watching my friends, old and new, exchanging perspectives and learning from each other. And I knew that this is what I had come here to do, to witness and be part of these sorts of interactions.
The music in the bar got louder as the night went on, and it made all of us lean in closer and closer to hear one another.
The Daily
Lawrence
To be honest I don't even know what this bar was called. We walked for so long we just ducked into the next one we saw.
Of course it wasn't all sunshine and daisies all the time. There were small moments that would mar the general feeling of elation in the day, but even with these small moments I found that small victories could be made. A "thank you" for taking a flyer at a fairly aggressive protest. The distance kept when solicitation is firmly ignored. The respect that comes with the expression of complete honesty.
Shock Tops are passable for the end of the night
It's enough to make me feel hopeful. That my life and how I live it will make a difference, regardless of how small or weak it might be. But I am part of a generation of people who try (imperfectly) to love and respect and create good. I'll gladly do all I can to be part of that.
- 11:40:00 PM
- 3 Comments
Two days ago my strange and muddled mind thought it would be a great idea to travel, on my own, to the one place I know terrifies me.
New York City.
Why?
There were plenty of reasons but they're a bit hard to remember right now amidst my mounting anxieties (over nothing). As a country girl, the sounds of the city batter against my brain like unwanted neighbors trying to force their way in, but I will try and recall those reasons as an exercise to try and keep myself sane.
I came here to be alone. To be in a place by myself, where I never believed I could survive, Where social encounters with my peers are not guaranteed, where I will have to make a real effort to connect with and get to know people.
I came here to listen. I realized that despite not knowing what exactly it is that I want to do with my life, I'm happiest when I am around people and creators who share stories and allow me to be in awe of and inspired by them.
I came here to see. To see with my own eyes the works of art that I've only ever admired on computer screens and book pages. To see sights that are foreign and frightening to me. To see the life that I thought I would hate. To see the parts of me that I am truly ashamed of. To see the parts of me that are better than I thought.
I came here to change. I've lived most of my life locked inside the four walls of my bedroom. Because I was taught to be afraid of the things that might be outside: conflict and pain and humiliation. I was too afraid to pursue the life that I wanted because of all of the warnings of how horrifying life could be. But at this point in my life, I've realised that hiding and living in ignorance is so useless. Pain still finds me, and I'm trapped in this greyscale life where I'm limited by my own fear and mediocrity.
That being said, this is sort of my own personal social experiment on myself so I'll be documenting my thoughts. The words that follow are going to be completely honest and completely asinine and whiny. Please enjoy.
10:05pm
I'm finally in my cabin at the hostel. I actually kind of love it. The whole place has a very 1950s vibe. But my mind is being the pessimist as always.
"YOU REALIZE NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOU. Out of all the people you notified about this trip not one of them texted to make sure you were okay except for the one guy you don't even know. Youdon'thavefriendsnoonelovesyou. Ifyoudiednoonewouldnotice."
...We're ignoring that as best we can.
After the terror of navigating the city streets and subway lines by myself, my faint heart is struggling a bit. I'd originally planned to go out for a drink, but my backside seems to have somehow developed roots and planted itself into the bed. My pride won't let me be needy. I chose to be alone, I can no longer rely on others to make myself feel strong. I AM STRONG.
...But I'm too much of a coward to even take my laptop and food out to the common areas to eat and edit the images of the day... I promise I will do that as soon as I post this.
** Update: I never went to the common area, I took a shower instead. Which I've now decided was actually the harder option...**
I am relatively proud of surviving to this point. I packed lighter than I ever have in my life. I managed to navigate my way here without carrying my tablet around with google maps open (although I did end up walking past a few of the subway entrances I was supposed to take). I stared down any persons who seemed suspicious (the poor people were probably innocent) and I managed to cross all streets without running or jumping too conspicuously at the car horns. I made it to the safe house.
62 hours to go. Tomorrow is another day.
- 11:02:00 PM
- 5 Comments
