2024, july 8

when i was a kid and would stub my toe on a threshold, some grown-up would claim: ‘you’re tired. time for bed.’ to me, that’s the epitome of grown-up terror—being told what i feel. but even if it was true, even if i really was tired, why does it automatically translate to ‘time for bed’?

sometimes, staying awake, especially while being tired, is the most delightful thing ever.

recently, i asked my seventy-year-old korean friend when she felt the greatest freedom in her life. she said, ‘right now.’ ‘why?’ i asked. she responded, ‘because i can stay awake as long as i want, i can go to sleep when i want, and i get up when i want.’

the freedom of becoming a grown-up is all about liberating oneself from grown-up doctrines.

2024, july 5

stepping out of the grindset means spending the whole day polishing something. it’s gently caressing a single monstera leaf with a damp cloth until it gleams. it’s going out to buff a few inches of canal railing, a stranger’s bicycle handle, a found coin, a beer coaster tucked between cobblestones. it’s polishing one’s own fingernail and pressing it against the philtrum to feel its smoothness. by polishing anything that comes your way, you can pause time and stretch out the summer.

2024, july 2

from my series of mini-portraits

when mia feels sorrow, she’s constantly on the lookout for salvation in the most mundane things. she sees it in the dust particles floating around her apartment when the sunlight hits just right. she looks for it in an ikea ad, imagining solace in the sofa on the poster. she finds herself trying to draw comfort from a family of ducklings swimming in the canal, or from a passerby who smiles at them as if she lives a life of steady emotions, unlike mia’s weekly rollercoaster.

today, mia saw a young girl walking along the sidewalk. the girl wore a light pink dress with a leather jacket over it, looking like she had just turned six, having just outgrown her baby chubbiness into a more elongated, school-aged form. her black curls were tied back, and she had this incredibly determined gaze, almost as if she’d been cast for a film poster because of that intense determination in her eyes.

in the girl’s pink dress, mia found a kind of permission to stay soft. the leather jacket and the girl’s resolute expression reminded mia that she can face anything with a determined look. it hit her that she’s allowed to be radically inconsistent—that even if something causes her pain, she doesn’t have to let it go. mia can be inconsistent and still hold her ground with a firm gaze.

2024, june 30

stepping out of the grindset means finding life in the unfinished. it’s settling into an armchair amidst unpacked boxes and overturned furniture. it’s soaking up a sunbeam like a cat sprawled on this island called an armchair. stepping out means declaring “time for ice cream!” with a sense of ending the workday before it even starts. it’s lying down with a capri-sun in the hammock, ringing in the after-work hours, tasks still half-done.

stepping out is trusting that your own drive will carve its path, and all you need to do is follow, like forrest gump. it’s letting your drive take over, allowing productivity to break through when it wants to.

stepping out feels like seizing a weekend in the middle of the week, sneaking into a dark cinema at ten on a sunny tuesday morning to munch on popcorn. it’s taking a vacation in the middle of work and progress. it’s interruptive pleasure instead of well-achieved leisure. it’s the liveliness of the incomplete.

stepping out means letting your shoulders drop, raising a toast to the present, humming pippi longstocking tunes as the unfinished is allowed to bubble within you.

2024, june 25, kreuzberg

a snow-white slipper sits on the gravel path, with light and shadows from the summer trees playing on its soft white surface. a rubber dinghy floats in the middle of the canal, anchored to a buoy, with a couple of girls seated inside. they wear sun hats and their feet dangle lazily over the edge. one of them opens a pale red sunshade, its color so faded it seems bleached by many summers. on the kottbusser brücke, amidst a lot of trash, a white butterfly flits back and forth, treating the trash as a legitimate landscape. water reflections flicker on the dark green body of the van loon boat.

a few juvenile swans, not yet fully white, stand on the dry summer grass, grooming themselves, pecking at their feathers. a gray tracksuit hangs on the canal’s fence, fluttering slightly in the wind, looking as if it’s been laid out to dry.

two women in gray robes and black headscarves are hanging out on a picnic rug in the shade, with them a laptop, chocolate müllermilch, and strawberries. one of them holds a strawberry and gestures animatedly, as if discussing something emotionally charged like love or other disasters, occasionally taking a bite of the strawberry.

someone sits by the canal in a dazzlingly silver coat that glitters intensely under the sunlight. as i walk past, the blazing sunlight strikes different parts of the coat at each step, causing it to sparkle in varying directions.

2024, june 5

in movies and tv shows, we often see this moment when a smart dream girl comes into a guy’s life, and he’s completely baffled by it. usually, he’ll say something like: “this is the first time i’m dating a smart girl, i’m not used to this!”

let me rant about three things here: first, i find the idea of guys having a preference for dumb girls to be ridiculous. second, it’s outrageous to assume you can find stupid girls everywhere, as if they’re readily available. third, it’s offensive to dismiss low intelligence, as if a kind-hearted person with less brains isn’t incredibly valuable. of course, in the movies, stupidity usually implies being mean, too. but it’s absurd to equate stupidity with being mean and, above all, with availability.

2024, may 18

i'm confused. i keep hearing the suggestion to simply let go of shame. to drop the shame when performing, promoting, or sharing emotional turmoil. this advice comes from people who usually advocate for embracing all feelings. so why are they against shame in particular? they probably mean well, suggesting you shouldn't let shame hold you back from showing up where it matters to you. and i agree, it would be nice to simply switch the shame off, but sometimes the shame keeps firing up no matter what. instead of trying to eliminate it, i find it easier to say yes to the bothness of it: i let the shame do its thing while i’m showing myself.

2024, may 2

reading feels like i'm nibbling on a cloud made of macarons, snacking without ever feeling full, without any snack-sickness, just the gentle pastel turquoise in my mind. my kindle background is pastel turquoise, my eyes settle right into the lines and find their rest. words wash through my mind, softening life, making sorrow poetic. sometimes i don’t even listen to what i’m reading; it's as if just letting words flow through my head unfolds my spirit, opens up my forehead, and i'm pleasantly flushed through. sometimes i taste only the sound of the words without grasping their meaning, sometimes i absorb just the vibe of reading, without noticing the content. i truly feel like each line holds me, as if the lines of words are levels and i can rest on each level. and sometimes a phrase just kicks in, thrilling me with inspiration, awakening every cell in my body, making my fingertips tingle with excitement. then i mark that line and share it with my beautiful minds friends, hardly believing how lucky i am to have found this thought here in my book.

2024, april 24

i find the personal growth metaphor a bit outrageous, tbh, especially as a tiny-sized human in a world full of height privilege and an obsession with upscaling in general. we always talk about wanting to grow, which suggests that bigger and more is the desirable thing. it’s about time we celebrate some smallness. who says we shouldn’t want to be smaller? let’s flip the script. instead of saying i want to grow, let’s say i want to shrink, or instead of saying, i’m here for personal growth, say i’m here for personal shrinking. haha maybe that’s why therapists are called shrinks.

ps: my friends and i now find ourselves in the habit of neither saying growing nor shrinking, but densifying. as in, i’ve learned so much from my deep shit point last year. i’ve densified big time. i like densifying because it makes me picture cotton candy and the moment when i take it into my palm to squeeze it into my fist and make it small like a snowball.

2024, april 4

the reality show "love is blind" inadvertently condenses toxic narratives of romantic love that hint at broader societal norms. besides the obvious gender stereotypes, what particularly jumps into my face: how the show glorifies some kind of high dependency on fake predictability. it is bizarre how the show celebrates fast-forwarding the beginning of a romantic connection. thereby the show embodies this kind of life-averse urgency that skips the most magic parts of life in order to jump to some kind of certainty that‘s unattainable after all. why would i choose to skip this electrifying time of a new love?! this time when you‘re bubbling over with happiness and when every day feels as if you had sunbeams for breakfast. this kind of predictability addiction behaves hostile towards experience. it is favouring fake certainty over a cotton candy sky and it makes us miss the moment when it is raining macaron-coloured cupcakes.

2024, february 29

the letter ‘L’ is my favorite, giving me a cozy corner and a solid backing, a sense of being held while also letting me breathe wide and open, like letting go into the world. it’s bright and airy, and pale yellow, like the color of the yellow fruchtzwerg yogurt. i love every word that starts with ‘L’ and enjoy the sound of ‘L’, how the tongue gets to play a good part in it and ‚L‘ is life-affirming.

2024, january 8

inside my novel

mia is sitting in sydney, immersed in the heat of the new year, and her star lights dance on the ceiling, casting water-like reflections, and outside, the jungle garden is thriving with lush greenery, and her cat sprawls in her lap making the keyboard wobble, and through the window, mia sees people braving the morning heat, and the sunlight flashes into her room as cars pass by, reflecting the intense australian sun, and it’s seven in the morning, and she's sipping hot coffee from her tiny mug from saigon, and the freshness of a recent shower lingers on her, and her pajamas are crisp and new, and she’s wearing her black history shirt with the aboriginal flag, and, on her screen, a zoom connection bridges the miles to her friend in berlin, and her friend is enveloped in the winter coziness of her room, and it’s dark and snowy out there, and the berlin winter cold cools her, as if the chill seeps through the screen, offering respite from sydney’s summer. and her thoughts flow rapidly as she types, seeing her reflection in the dark tv screen, noticing how her hands swiftly move across the keyboard, and mia feels remnants of her recent illness lingering in her body, and even through the freshness of the shower, traces of the past days’ lethargy remain, and as she types, she’s sweating out the last of her illness, detoxifying as she writes, and her mind delves into dreamscapes, blending her sydney monday morning with her friend's berlin sunday evening.

2023, december 22, berlin

sparkles and flashes everywhere when the sky is blue, as the water reflects so light so loudly and the brightness of the white swans is dazzling, and the trees’ nakedness feels resolved and radical. there is no hesitation in their bareness.

2023, december 11

inside my novel.

during this time of transition, mia woke up every morning without an alarm and first thing, she would read for either minutes or hours in her ocean-colored bed, sometimes it was five in the morning, sometimes it was twelve noon. then she would get up, and, still in her negligee, she would make her omelette with cottage cheese, onions, and scorchin’ hot chili oil, and she would cut it into little pie slices to eat throughout her working day during breaks from her relentless admin toil, and she would cut avocado into little cubes to go with the omelette, and when her shoulders became sore from all the digital paperwork, mia would do a little workout until her shoulders burned in satisfaction, and in the early evening, when she had toiled all her admin energy out of her and the australian spring sun had lowered, she would head out for a stroll in kirribilli and wendy whiteley's secret garden, and while strolling she'd dictate writing snippets into her phone, and she'd walk the stairs in wendy whiteley's secret garden up and down until she started sweating and panting. and when mia came home after dusk, she’d cook something spicy and collapse on the sofa with a red wine and she’d watch australian shows about slut shaming, and her cat would sprawl on her lap, her purrs vibrating into the night.

2023, december 5, cammeraygal (sydney)

i walk through the morning heat, heading to the doctor‘s. later, I sprawl in my ocean-hued bed, slipping on a sleeping mask, a touch of wellness. in the afternoon, i stroll among towering palms at the petite harbor. among them, there is this short palm, not slim and elegant like the others, but wrapped in a leafy fur, like it’s wearing a winter coat. compact and squat it stands, clumsy but confident. the sun lotions my skin. come evening, i drop into my chair in the coaching atelier, my tunis towel blazing pink beside me. as after-work hour strikes at midnight, i tiptoe to the stairwell, leaving german nikolaus candy at neighbor‘s thresholds. then, i read in the dark, thrillingly spooked, munching on pasta, sipping red wine, the day’s coaching marathon a satisfyingly resonating in my bones.

2023, december 3

inside my novel

after a full day of binge-worrying, mia‘s mind unexpectedly shifted into a state of deep relaxation. it was a paradoxical surrender: the more she worried, the more her mind eventually let go. reminiscent of her experience with her tense shoulder muscle — counterintuitively, not relaxation, but further straining would loosen the muscle. doing a shoulder workout, she would push the muscle to its limits until it had no choice but to relent. further tension led to ultimate relaxation. same with her mind: mia had worried so hard, it was like she had worried the worries out of her system. overthinking burns itself out. she exhausted her anxiety, leaving her mind in a serene repose. 

2023, november 30, cammeraygal (sydney)

a shadow from a coconut tree flickers on the door, surrounded by gentle white-yellow light, then quickly disappears. i wonder why these subtly spectacular light shows are so fleeting. then i realize it’s the cars outside casting these flashingly bright reflections. my place, surrounded by palms, jacarandas, and paperbarks, captures these moments for a micro-second.

the fleetingness reminds me of the little bright red flame angelfish in hawaii. our divemaster mentioned, the moment our eye catches this fish, it will disappear again. he suggested that we simply enjoy the rare sight for a second, rather than pointing it out to our co-divers because we might miss the moment ourselves.

the extreme fleetingness of the flame angelfish and the flickering palm tree shadow force me into soaking in the micro-second instead of trying to capture, share, or prolong it.

2023, november 28

inside my novel.

‘the process of falling asleep is so weird, her friend said. ‘first we pretend to be asleep and that makes us fall asleep eventually.’ 

that’s when mia realized, ah that’s how normal people go to sleep! fake it till you make it. this made her remember that she used the same approach when she was a child and nap time was forced on her in kindergarten. first she would close her eyes, then she would pretend to be sleep-breathing while her mind was wide awake. she hated it. eventually she would fall asleep, yes, but the sleep felt like a light-weighted blanket that was too light to soothe her but instead grazed her skin annoyingly. 

she couldn’t believe people still do the fake-sleeping method even when they are grown-ups! to mia, the core of being grown-up meant that no one could force you to sleep (and that she could pile as many salami slices on her sandwich as she liked). 

her going to sleep was totally different. she would let sleep come to her while she was busy doing other things like reading, watching, scrolling, writing, playing tetris, eating chips. oh, how delicious it felt when the sleep was overwhelming her. when she could feel it kicking in, when she could hear the distant bump of her book crashing to the ground, because the sleep just took over her hands, weakened her muscles, loosened her grip. when she could feel the sleep clouding her mind, while she was trying to hold onto the words she had just read. the sleep would suck all logic out of the words, spit the logic out and leave it to the real world. without the burden of logic, the words would enter her dreams and her jaw loosened and her toe twitched and a shy, rainbow-furred fox was handing her sun ripe avocados.

the other day, mia learned that in korean, instead of saying ‘i’m tired’, you can say ‘sleep is coming’, and that’s exactly how it feels. 잠 와.

2023, november 19, honolulu

hawaiian language sounds so delicious because it tastes like bubbles. as a child, i always dreamt of only eating just the holes in cheese or the bubbles in aerated chocolate. that's how the sound of ōlelo hawaiʻi feels. airy, bubbly, as if i'm finally allowed to eat just the yummy holes.

2023, november 3

inside my novel.

recently, mia realized that she finds people most beautiful when they’re hungover or heartbroken. it’s because they let go of all composure. their faces look like they are slightly melting. not horror movie melting, but firm melting like tealight wax after you’ve blown out the light and after a few minutes, it’s not liquid anymore but not hard yet. that kind of softness the tealight wax has. that’s the softness people have in their face when they’re letting go of all composure because they’re hungover or heartbroken. that’s how mia’s face will look. those tiny muscles by her eyes, they will be completely relaxed. almost like they’ve given up.