Eyes closed, breathe deep
Ashamed confusion, deflect
Look askance instead.
Self-absolved, no duty to try
Intellectual curiosity is dead.
Autopilot, flapping jaw
Blabbing to a wall
Deaf ears, blind eyes
Why am I here at all?
Disinterest plus passivity
Birth of escape fantasy
Hubby at the wheel
Elope to the absurd
To where words pay for meals.
Mix, flood, wash
Swipe, blot, scratch
Too much water, muddy
Too much color, sloppy
Too much detail, cluttered
Swipe, blot, scratch
Imperfection is expected
Tense aggression in the heat of frustration. What to do? My body can’t take this explosion of anger, I’ve got to have a physical outlet. Stupid Barbie, why don’t you do what I want? I hate you. Bite, clench hard. Quickly take a look. It’s all bent. Why did I do that? Now she’s ruined.
She still lives in a large plastic bin of forgotten toys in a basement, frozen smile, frizzy hair, and deformed hand.
School bus. Meekness puts me on the radar, makes me a target.
Get out of my space, get away from me…
Through my geeky spectacles, I’m seeing red. I wish I wasn’t alone on this bus, I wish I had a forcefield of friends to protect me. Body recoils, hotly tense. I hate you. I want your ugly, mocking smile to go away. My fist jumps out like a snake from the bushes, and connects with a hollow thunk. The bully facade crumbles to give a glimpse of his true face: a confused pre-teen boy who desperately needs to be cool.
I escape from the school bus, and soon after I notice small rocks dancing at my feet. Turn around, and he and his friend are throwing their parents’ decorative landscaping pebbles at me. Very tough indeed. I speed-walk home, tail between my legs.
I’ve learned that “no” is a question of interpretation. “Leave me alone” communicates an invitation for more undesired attention. My pathetic defenses have been exhausted. There’s a key to surviving here that I just don’t have. Why don’t I have it; how do I get out of this?
In class. Day after day, explicit sinister whispers chip away at me. I wish I could take my skin off and disappear. One after another, ugly comments meant to do what? Wear me down, violate my comfort; I’m tired of it. What did I do to deserve it? Tension, heart is boiling again. Stop fucking with me. I didn’t ask for this.
Teacher leaves room, and I can liberate the Me that lives inside, vibrant and angry and electric. The current extends out from my hand, slices around to meet his face. Jaw wobble, sharp intake of air, now I’m tingling. I plaster on a smile, eyes forward, like a good little scholarly robot-mannequin.
A student is going on the offensive; they’ve taken constructive criticism personally, which has led to aggression; at least, that’s what it feels like.
Needles in my skin, chest is hot. Voice and hands want to tremble.
I’ve given my professional opinion, and this poor sap feels the need to retaliate, and turn to the typical cheap ploy of ping-ponging their insecurity back onto me. I’m not having it. This time, I’ve got a full arsenal of words at my disposal. With firm professional efficacy, I defend my position and steer this person out of my space.
Same internal response.
Different course of action.
Every No is a chance to learn something. Every closed door, every rejection, every empty inbox. Every outpouring of effort that fails to make even the tiniest ripple. Every twinge of disappointment, every shameful time you realize that you don’t measure up.
Nos hurt; they make you question what you’re doing and why you do it. But this is exactly why Nos are also a great impetus for growth. Why are you doing that? Is there something to learn here? Is that No a permanent roadblock?
Yes can be too easy. Yes absolves you from the responsibility of reflection. Yes tells you what you’re doing right, not what you need to work on. Yes makes you soft.
I’m on a mission to collect Nos. I have a lot to learn.
Sunday morning. Fall is here, and she’s brought the throat tickle. Time for my standby home remedy:
Equal parts honey and freshly minced ginger root.
Add about 1 tablespoon of the mixture to mug.
Stir in boiling water.
The first sip of my sweet, pleasantly spicy tea soothes my throat and brings me back in time. Saenggangcha, ginger tea in Korean. The winters in Seoul were cold and windy, and it felt so comforting to settle into a warm cafe and order a mug of ginger tea. I’d write or draw, sip, meditate. The earthy, pungent ginger punched into my nose while the honey made the whole go down nice and smoothly… There were little chunks of ginger sitting at the bottom, and I crunched them gladly. Warming, soothing, delicious.
I remember the last time I drew as a child before giving up. My parents had given me a deluxe art set for my birthday: markers, watercolors, pencils… it was a glorious art set that packed up nicely into a wooden briefcase. Perhaps I believed that this art set would instantaneously imbue me with talent. I decided to attempt to draw one of my mom’s retro cooking pots with flowers on the side. It came out lopsided and just all wrong. I was disappointed in myself and disgusted at the hideous blob I had created. I wanted so badly to be good, to have proof of my talent. Instead, I was glaring at empirical proof that I sucked. That was the moment that art didn’t feel free anymore. I didn’t deserve that art set, and I would do well to forget the whole thing. I left the briefcase in the basement to collect dust.
Fast forward to Seoul, circa 2010
I’m walking in Hongdae, the young, hip, artsy neighborhood. Streets are chock-full of funky cafés, cheap restaurants, art galleries, and clothing shops. At this time, I’m feeling deeply lonely and generally lost.
I enjoy the atmosphere of this neighborhood, so I find myself here often. I don’t know what else to do with myself, and so I go walking. I just walk for hours on end. Fall is just thinking about getting started, and the bright warm sun feels nice, while the air has a crisp snap to it.
I notice a small, dusty art supply shop. There are no lights on inside, and the sunlight transmutes through the front window to cast everything in a gray-gold soft focus. They’re going out of business, and there’s not much selection left, but that paper, those pencils, the pastels… they smell wonderful. I end up buying a thin sketch pad and the few pencils remaining: moss green, dusty yellow, and a soft graphite pencil with eraser. A few hundred meters away is the little park where children and parents play in the morning, under the blurred watchful eyes of the occasional homeless person. In the afternoons, students sit in the park to smoke cigarettes and drink beer after class. On weekend evenings, young Western foreigners come along to drink, while wannabe deejays plug in their iPhones and use an app to simulate the art of the turntables. Nobody cares.
On this golden lonely afternoon, there are just a few people in the park. I plonk myself down and start drawing again, for the first time in I don’t know how long. I’m surprised at how good it feels. The lonely melancholy in my stomach is mitigated. I’m scratching an itch that I didn’t realize I had. I’m drawing trees and flowers, and soon I’m approached by a woozy bleary-eyed Korean woman. She asks to see my drawing, and I oblige. She turns to the next page, asks for my pencil, then starts sweeping the page with large haphazard swipes. She sweeps and swipes, then finally adds two details, eyes and a nose, and suddenly the picture is coherent: she’s drawn a woman with long hair and robes. The woman hands me back my drawing pad and shuffles away, wishing me a good afternoon. I’m a bit stunned as I wish her the same.
I realize drawing just feels right.