(no subject)

I don't know why I started a "blog". Merely as another creative outlet I suppose. Sometimes phrases and thoughts get so jumbled up and intertwined that I feel almost a necessary urge to expunge them from my mind, like throwing up after a long night of binge drinking.  It always feels better afterwards, no matter how vile or sordid the contents may have been. It's only with this need for this release for which I write and share my thoughts. 

I recently received an email from a friend whom I haven't talked to in quite some time. Being in an unusually optimistic mood, I opened the email with relish, hoping to find a bit of good news or at least a generic "how to do" from someone who I hadn't been in contact with for quite some time, since the subject line had been aptly titled (no subject). It came to quite a shock when I began reading the email and found that this was not to be the case, but more of a reprisal upon one of my postings. At first I was taken aback, somewhat stunned by the candid and temerarious nature of the letter.

"I know that we don't talk much anymore and I have no idea how you're going to take this but I decided that however you take it, I'd rather know I said something to you about it and have you never talk to me again than to never mention it at all."

To be quite frank, my initial reaction was that this would be an unrequited love letter, her exposing her deepest feelings to me, but that was merely the egomaniac in me. As I read further, the tone changed. From friendly banter to one of distinct loathing and criticism. She was pissed off that I had driven drunk and then wrote about it in my first post on new year's day.

"Now I know you're a young guy, and you're still in that I'm young and invincible stage. However... it's about time you knocked that shit off."

"I can't think of a single thing that is more unattractive than someone who so blatantly gambles with another person's life."

"You are not cool. You are not a badass." (My favorite line of the entire email. I could not really have said it any better myself.)

"You're an artist/deep thinker right? (Hardly) do me a favor and think deeply about whose life you are going to fuck up because you are too cheap or lazy to get a cab or call a friend."

"Grow the fuck up [...] I'm embarassed for you. I'm ashamed for you. I am shocked at your blatant disregard for the seriousness of what you did, and no doubt have done in the past."

Now, I suppose that it might appear that I am poking fun or being sarcastically whimsical about the whole ordeal, but this email did bother me for quite some time and point out some very valid things. My intention for writing has never been to glamorize any of my actions although I'm sure there is a proliferation of arrogance and self-doubt.  I merely write to write. It brings me peace. 

I take nothing back, I've done things in the past and probably will in the future that I abhor. I believe everyone has, but I simply choose to share them. To expose them really. I do stupid things, I hurt people, I have alienated and sabotaged almost every relationship I've had in the past four years. I don't really know what is wrong with me, so I write about it.  Every beautiful and dirty thing that comes along the way, because I really don't know any better.

There was once a point where I felt constricted and contained by rules and criticism and public perception. But fuck all that, it's not like I'll really be running for public office any time soon. I want to push past fear, to get rid of every shred of insecurity. To be completely comfortable in any situation, with anyone, in any part of the world.

I feel somewhat flattered that someone would actually email about a post, even if it was negative. I write for writings sake and if it at least strikes a chord somewhere, I suppose I have done my job. 

studio life

I used to watch my grandfather paint in his attic for hours. Traditional chinese calligraphy and water colors.  The rich, deep aroma from his pipe filling the room.  He was my first art instructor. How many lessons I gained watching him work, subconsciously learning the trades of the craft, hand control, muscle memory, the subtleties of the strokes.  

In some sense, I've always wanted to be a painter.  It's something that I've always loved and was proficient at. It was only fear that held me back. It is such an untraditional occupation. I was always ingrained with the belief that I would become a lawyer or a doctor, neither title which I had much of an affinity for. I see the world through paint. Lines, forms, and color, variations of blues, greens, and yellow. When I look at someone's face while I'm talking to them, I start to break down their structural features and think about how it would appear on canvas. 

For most of the work week, I am in my studio.  Sometimes, I won't speak to a single person for the entire time. Just me, the dog, and music.  I might say hello to the barista or the cashier at the market. And really I don't mind so much, it bodes well with my usual antisocial habits.  Like many other kids, I started out trying to replicate comics. Particularly Wolverine of the X-Men because he was badass. You don't see people trying to make a film about sissyboy Cyclops. 

I consider myself tremendously lucky to be chasing this dream. I'm still extremely flattered when people like my stuff. I have to give a shout out to all the friends who have been there from day one, supporting my shit. And the only real thing left to do is to keep painting and upping the skills and the paper stack. To paraphrase Krink owner Craig "KR" Costello "Getting props is a young man's game, I'm about making making money and supporting a family." And I couldn't really say it any better than that. 

I've always done art of some sort throughout my life. I used to paint dog portraits back in college. I had a few pet stores that had me on commission for my pieces, but it was still a side thing just as a hobby. I love being in the studio. The toxic mix of spray paint and oils, a cup of coffee and my pack of cigarettes. My mom bought me a box of gas masks and I think it is a good idea to use them in the long run. Losing track of the hours and forgetting about the world, the hunger in my stomach because there is another hunger that has taken its place.  It drives deeper and yearns harder to be heard and satiated. 

I'm new to the game, but the goal is to keep pushing forward. To go past the pain and the doubt and the insecurity because there really are no other options. 

death

I've been preoccupied with death lately.  He lingers on my mind and won't let me alone. He comes back once every few years, mostly in dreams. Before I left Taiwan, my paternal grandma fell ill and had to be rushed to the hospital. I've never been fond of hospitals, even though for the most part, it's a place where people are nursed back to health. The doctors said she somehow broke her leg.  She's been paralyzed on the entire left side of her body for twenty odd years due to a stroke.  The whole business gives me trepidation.

My family visit the hospital at all hours, everyday, just so that my grandma is never alone and for the few hours she is awake, she'll have someone to talk to.  When she is awake, she'll at least maybe recognize a smiling face.  For the most part, the only sound in the room is the soft buzz of the television and my grandma's breath, raspy in sleep. I wonder what she dreams about, if her dreams are still lucid. Both my grandparent's have alzheimer.  They recognize me maybe 5% of the time.  

My earliest memory is being fed by my mother by one of those rubber tipped spoons. I'm not sure if it was an actual memory or just part of a dream, but I had to have only been two years old.  How completely helpless are children. They completely at the peril and care of caretakers, not only for physical needs, but subsequent upbringing.  Sometimes people fail miserably to say the least.  I guess that's the state in which my grandparents have reverted back to, but no longer learning, rather expunging a lifetime of experiences. Needing someone to hold them while they walk, telling people when they need to use the restroom. My grandpa still asks for my grandma daily, even though his mental capabilities are spotty at best and I figure that is what love is.

My father has driven out to the hospital at least twice a day on top of his job and other obligations just to see my grandma who sometimes doesn't even remember who he is anymore. He rushes back and forth from home so that neither my grandpa or grandma is never alone for more than a few hours.  I can tell that the stress is wearing him out, but I figure that is what love is.

My mother lost her own father seven years ago. My own art mentor and the person who inspired me to chase my own crazy dreams. My mother will still tell me stories about him and how he escaped communist Chinese capture in his teens to the island of Taiwan.  How he met my grandmother and their life story. She still visits his grave out in the countryside when she can, and I figure that is what love is.

I've always imagined myself dying young. Always in some hapless and haphazard accident because that's just the way I've lived my life. I'm still learning I suppose and trying to figure things out. Learning about life and all the beauty and tragedy that comes with it.  And I suppose that I'm wrong about a lot of things. That I still have a lot to learn and all the things I've not yet seen and still have to experience, because I'm not ready to expunge.  So for now, I figure death can suck on my balls.

we're driving out of the city.  my uncle is taking us out into the country to do some fishing at his friend's pond.  it's good to get out of the bustle and craziness of the city.  maybe one day when i'm ready to settle down and ready to take things a little steadier i'll move out into the country. but i couldn't imagine it now.

we drive an hour north of kaohshiaong.  no buildings in this town are taller than four stories, it's a change from the skyscrapers and slick public transit systems.  there aren't many people on the streets, we run red lights because there are hardly any other cars.  not everything is rural though, we stop by a 7 11 to pick up some provisions, beers and snacks.

we spend the entire afternoon fishing for tilapia,  we are using whole wheat kernels as bait.  i don't catch any for the first two hours, but the beer is cold so i can't really complain.  it's still been drizzling intermittently the last few days, but the weather is good and there is no breeze.  

whenever i come back, one of the first things people ask me is whether i've got a girlfriend back in states.  i've always answered no and when they ask why, i just say that i've no need for one.  that i just don't want one.  it seems to be a bewildering circumstance to most people.  people place such importance on relationships here, as if a girlfriend will make me happier.  i just haven't hit the stage where i want to settle, to be safe, and responsible and all that. i'm just still too much of a man child. 

my dad's been wondering when i'll be getting into another relationship, he asks me if i want to meet his friend's daughters or if i want to get introduced to any girls. as if a forced awkward social situation would really make things better. he thinks my life is too crazy, i tell him maybe it's because his life is too dull.  i've just always figured that a concept as ethereal as love would just happen.  maybe not to everyone, but at least to the lucky few.  i've never believed that it is something you have to work at.  but maybe my ideals of love are a little quixotic. and maybe i'll just end up dying a bitter, lonely, old man.

after the first hour i start getting bites like nobody's business.  i would drop the line and hook a fish, drop the line and hook a fish.  it was starting to get so easy it felt a little bit like cheating.  i could've stayed out there for days. we fished until early dusk and packed up our things.  i started to clean some of the fish, but my uncle said that we could just save all that for tomorrow. we head out to a local restaurant which served japanese/taiwanese fusion food.  the restaurant cooked up some of the tilapia along with their own dishes. the weirdest dish had to be the deep fried pig intestine. my uncle brought a bottle of 18 year old glenfiddich, single malt. i can't really imagine how life could be any better. 

i met a girl out here in taiwan last week and we went out to dinner a few times. she was really into astronomy.  she asked me my sign and started telling me about the personality traits.  i've never really believed that sort of thing.  she said libras have fleeting hearts. i had only known her for less than two days and she was trying to tell me who i was as a person.  she said that libras are flip-floppers who have striking dualities.  i told her that astronomy was for bored housewives and hippies.  she said that libras hate criticism, probably due to low self-esteem and insecurity. i don't say anything because i don't know really why i decided to take this date in the first place.  

after all this time and all this running around, i think i'm just still trying to find a deeper purpose.  to make something of all this mess. and maybe i'll find it and maybe i won't.  all i know is that sometimes life is beautiful.  and if one day all things go to hell, i know that i'll sill be able to find myself a nice body of water and fish all day.