As a kid, you must have imagined what it was like to be an adult. Now that you’re a grownup (or becoming one), how far off was your idea of adult life?

I wonder now where this stems from, but I remember distinctly that as a 9-year-old in the 4th grade, I never thought about what it would be like to be an adult myself because life seemed so long that I was certain I would die or be killed before I reached high school. Somehow living to an adult age seemed like something only the very blessed got to see. 

the oldest thing I own

The oldest thing I own is a stuffed lion puppet, complete with an opening in his seat for a hand that can animate him (a little bit)

Actually, I was thinking about this prompt for a while and this is probably pretentious, but the oldest thing I own (ok I guess I don’t own it, I am it) are my genes, eh? I’ve always been really fascinated by the fact that I and every single person alive today is a remnant, a reminder, a surviving creature that is evidence of a beginning of human kind and I suppose the world in general. As far as I know, none of us sprouted from the ground fully formed or was beamed down to earth from some other place. Our bodies are just truly of the Earth and will never leave it. I mean aren’t we as old as time itself? 

My dad gave me the lion, but I can’t remember when that actually happened. I just know because that’s what my sister or aunt told me. My dad used to travel a lot when we were kids, for his work, and every time he went somewhere, he’d bring me and my sister back a souvenir each - pink leather purses knit by Native American Indian people (supposedly), t-shirts from seaside places, printed with dolphin and aquatic motifs. On more than one occasion, he brought back Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookies - yes, in the red tins - those defined the chocolate chip cookie of my childhood as I can’t remember my mother ever making them from scratch. It was amazing to me that they seemed to travel across the country and arrived at our home as if they were freshly baked, soft and sweet. 

Anyway, I’ve liked this whole “writing prompt” thing I’ve been doing to keep myself busy. In an effort to reset, I regularly throw away or remove any traces of the past years - threw out those notebooks, journals, notes from friends, magazine clippings I cut out, drawings I made. To the point that I have very little reminders of the past…but putting these things in text that I don’t normally have the pleasure to recall is such a freaking joy. It’s been a little like analyzing a work of art, but the work of art is me. And I’m trying to understand it a little better by scrutinizing the history and the context of the work. 

Ok bye. 

on living alone and cooking for one

I have this problem being on my own and it’s the desire for something nourishing that isn’t food and it’s one of the worst feelings ever. I mean, I’ll just kind of let myself go hungry for half a day because I don’t know what I could possibly eat that would satiate my hunger. And I always felt like it was the desire to be at a table surrounded by people I loved and who loved me back and that’s why finding the motivation to cook for myself is so fucking hard sometimes -_- 

I mean, I really love cooking but cooking for one is a joyless act and provides so little nourishment. 

last week, I ate oatmeal, yogurt, bananas, rice cakes with peanut butter and canned soup and felt great about that. 

favorite smells

Ground coffee beans. There’s not a smell I enjoy more than the smell of ground coffee beans. I walked by a shop called Porto Rico on Bleecker St. today and the smell of coffee beans filled my nostrils. A feeling of bliss also washed over me. I’ve never thought about what it is I like about the scent. It’s a widely popular smell, I’m sure. Maybe that’s the only reason I like it so much. 

I can say that, yes, maybe my love of coffee is because my parents were regular coffee drinkers and I’m merely used to the scent of the stuff and comforted by its familiarity. Or maybe it’s because I’m Vietnamese, and in Vietnam, the coffee culture is strong, with the unique spin they’ve got on it - the darkest stuff I ever had was in a small café in Ho Chi Minh City. Darker than any espresso in NYC, at least in my experience. And I’ve stopped by a fair number of coffee purveyors in my time. So maybe coffee is in my blood or something. 

Anyway, I’m really unhappy with this post, but I’m putting it up anyway

Containers (212 words)

I’ve always had this mini obsession with containers. I used to keep every single container that came my way, the contents of the package used up and emptied out.

I’m not sure why, but the possibility of an empty container was always really intriguing to me. You could repurpose it and fill it up with whatever you wanted. Coins. Pens. Who knows. Anything is possible. I was always really concerned with having things organized. Maybe that’s where my obsession with containers stems from. The need to organize and contain things. Maybe it’s something deeper; maybe my need to have everything “contained” has to do with my obsession with having things figured out and separated and put in the right spot and not all scattered around my brain like a hurricane whipped through the place. That’s a little bit how I feel right now. I wish I could file and organize and separate and contain all the thoughts in my head in the right places. Because right now it feels like I entered the room and dumped the contents of every drawer onto the floor and walked out because I just can’t deal with that shit right now.

Anyway. I’m sure that’s where my obsession with containers comes from. Containers are very handy.

Taking a break from reading ARTnews and these essays by Robert Rosenblum by flipping through Bon Appetit.

I feel a little hedonistic for the fact that my life revolves around art and food.

All day, I’ve been waiting to go home to write a post and now that I’m here, I barely remember what I wanted to say. There’s a prompt in my email inbox that I’m too lazy to look at right now.

Mostly, my mom called me on the phone today and she said “I miss you.” And then I was walking home, well about ten minutes after that really, the whole thing happened on my walk home, and a little boy said to his mom, “How was your day?” And she said

"My day was good, but I missed you."

He said, “I missed you, too!”

And instead of feeling infinitely sad, I felt happy. I smiled a little bit, and then I wondered why I didn’t feel sad when I would have before. 

ANYWAY I AM SUCH A BIG BABY. A big, friggin’, 22 year old baby. Oy…