It’s not seeing the light that’s hard, it’s following it.

Do you ever have these glimmering moments where you understand what freedom is? What it feels like? As if the meaning of life and your being alive shifts into perfect clarity. And then it fades so quickly. You’re left grasping a departing memory. And you have a choice to chase it or to forget it.

We have so much possibility. So much potential. And everyday we ignore it. We evade it. We refuse it. Why?


I think I believe in fate, a pre-determined destiny. With so many paths to take, it makes sense that they would already be chosen. Too often I’ve met people and it’s so obvious, inevitable that their threads and mine were going to wrap around each other at some point. But I’m an equal believer in free will. How can you have both? You may be ‘forced’ to walk a certain road, but it is your choice to walk it alone, to walk it begrudgingly or to walk it with your head held high.


Daily Delight #61

Watching the State of the Union Address. Inspiring. I’m not naive enough to think things will be different tomorrow, but… you know it will be different tomorrow, because tomorrow is a new day, it has never happened before, and anything will be possible. I am naive, fuck it.

I thoroughly believe in a person’s ability to reinvent themselves. A country can do the same.

Watching the address makes me feel like a good citizen. A measly hour and a half on the future of our country and so many don’t bother to tune in. No wonder things are going downhill here. Being informed should outweigh being entertained.

Daily Delight #61

Writing Piece, Brooklyn

Two men are on a rooftop, Manhattan’s skyline as their backdrop. One man stands, while the other straddles the building’s ledge. His legs rest on cement fragments that push against his pants, leaving fleeing impressions in the hairy flesh of his thighs. He smothers his cigarette on the building’s side. The building groans.

I’ve written all I can. His voice jumps from rooftop to rooftop and cradles in the gray, half-moons of satellite dishes. They transmit his drama down into television sets for home viewership and up to the blackest space, secretly passing through the paths of jumbo jets, choreographed miracles racing in the sky.

The other man stands in silence. Wonders in silence. He thinks, I don’t need this, and regrets it so quickly, it’s as though the thought never happened. But it did. He crosses the roof, trudging along as if his legs were made of molasses, as if he were a witch melting, as if he had never accomplished walking. He’s caught in a bad dream. The message leaves his brain and in the time it takes to reach his legs, his heart has sent another message that means to turn his feet around, but his brain insists. Plow ahead, it screams. Go. Leave. The heavy door swings shut behind him.

Our man, the man on the ledge, watches the cars below him make perfect, left turns on green-light command. People walk on sidewalks, all wondering why the writer cannot write. Every so often, a curious man would pause to turn toward the sky and steal a glance of the writer who cannot write. Women with children run into old neighbors and exchange pleasantries, How are you? Oh fine, and you? Oh good good, much better than the writer, you see. No no, don’t look. How miserable, oh that poor man. Yes, yes, indeed, miserable. Woman repeat things for emphasis.

There’s a hole in the building’s mortar, about the size of a fist, but clearly, not made from a fist, the mortar’s too hard for that. The non-writing writer leans in, it’s several inches deep. It’s filled with dried leaves that weren’t good enough for the wind, discarded cigarette butts and match stems, and dirt. Of course dirt, dirt because the city’s filth grows like ivy, climbing every building. It’s reached the top of this one.

He pulls out a notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket. Because that is his only reflexive motion. He quickly writes a message (aha!), tracing the letters repeatedly. He tears it from the page and folds it four times to help protect it from the rain. Surely, the rain will come. He drops it into the fist-sized hole, but it doesn’t fall to the bottom with the rest of the discarded debris. It lays suspended in the fist-sized hole, half-way from the bottom. The fragile lines of a spider web bear the weight of the paper. It will surely cause the spider to starve. The spider cannot spin another web.

What would you wish for?

Writing Piece, Brooklyn

The Year of Skirts

Today is day two of 365 days of skirts. I’ve been thinking about doing some sort of fashion challenge for a while now, and as everyone knows break-ups usually provoke a wardrobe upgrade, so I figure now is as good a time as any.

I did a food challenge back in 2007 — to be a vegetarian for one year —  and it resulted in a new outlook on life, and three years later, I’m still a vegetarian. And I had been thinking about doing something about my clothes, but I wasn’t sure what. And yes, I am aware that this isn’t an original idea, Sheena Matheiken wore the same dress for one-year straight. It was both a statement on anti-consumerism as well as an opportunity to raise some money for children’s schools in India. While, going vegetarian was my own personal statement about the privilege of eating meat, the year of skirts is basically just for fun.

I thought about wearing the exact same thing year-round, but that was way too rigid. And then I thought about only wearing black for a year, and again that seemed too limiting because I do love things in yellow and red. So then I realize what I hated about my current wardrobe is how unflattering it is: jeans, t-shirt, sneakers. I mean what am I, a 12 year old boy? Basically I started dressing this way, because I was slowly adopting A’s sense of style (which is the same to say as I was losing all sense of style.) I remember once literally thinking, Well, if he’s not going to try to look good for me, I’m not going to bother trying to look good for him. And thus my wardrobe became a collection of free, ill-fitting t-shirts. Luckily, these are all gone now.

The other part that really prompted me to do this was that the NYTimes had an article about how French women age so gracefully. And I remember my Professor tell us, before our trip to Rome, to always look put together. That women in Italy didn’t take out the trash without putting on their mascara first. And while I think that’s a bit extreme, I understand it. They didn’t get done up just for themselves, or for their husbands, they got done up for the whole world.

I’m not necessarily trying to start fitting into that traditional, small box of what a “woman” looks like according to the US media and cultural stereotypes. I’m not looking to buy 40 beauty product that guarantee to transform me into some photoshopped actress. But I think I could wear skirts and dresses in my own way without succumbing to that mentality. And as a designer, as a person with a visual eye for things, I feel like the image of myself that I project onto the world should be more carefully crafted and considered. I guess the year of skirts is meant to make me more conscious about my own image and what I’m projecting. Because while I like having the fun-going, adventurous attitude of a 12 year old boy, I don’t like looking like one.

I think getting dressed up – even casual skirts and shirts – will help balance how not-quintessentially feminine I am. I also think it’ll help the self-esteem because for a while now I’ve just been treated like a best bud, instead of a lovely woman. So, while I may have a foul mouth, and I think scars are badass, and I know how to change a flat tire, from now on, I’ll look cute while doing it. I guess you all can expect more pics of me twirling in the future.

Photos courtesy of and (c) A. Izadi. 2010.

The Year of Skirts