So speaking of farting

I know this is a lame title, and completely irrelevant to anything, but it's what popped in my mind. I'm starting to think that I really like toilet humor.

Right now, I'm listening to a new podcast (new, to me anyway) called Zencast. It's a nice thing to have going in the background as I do my work. It's less distracting than music and somehow completely appropriate to have in my mind as I stay in this job.

Work has been frustrating recently. It's been busy, and my boss, whom I would consider a friend, has been up my a**. I think it's because she's been feeling anxious about not being around for one reason or another (minor injury, regular family stuff, other whatnot), but she's reacting by sending impatient, nitpicky, and critical vibes my way. I'm trying not to snap back at her, because it's not my nature and because who wants to get into that kind of drama, but holding it in has been wearing me down.

I'm also trying this new thing where I'm not beating myself up for not looking harder for a new job, and not being super-ambitious, and not trying to "fulfill my potential". I'm trying to just be in this job and enjoy it for what continues to give me (friends, stability, space in the head). Meanwhile, when I do apply for a job, I'm trying not to get too worked up about it. Just like sending in a fishing line. Toss it in, reel it back, toss it in, reel it back. And all the while thinking, it's not about moving for the sake of moving. It's about finding something that will let me be xyz...creative, analytical, involved, outgoing, whatever. In other words, it'll let me be more of who I am already but can't express in my present position.

Maybe I'm feeling this now because I've been through the gauntlet. I did the family trips where there could have been potential questions. I did the school one-year reunion where there were folks asking me why I'm still in the old job. I did all that. And now I'm tired and just want to be.

The other big thing in my life is this new lifestyle that the royal "WE" (Scott and me) are doing. WE are cutting back on calories. WE are exercising every day. WE are shifting our days to wake up at 5 AM to do the exercising and other hang out stuff. Actually, I'm pretty happy about this shift. It makes me feel a little more calm in my life. Maybe it's the exercise, maybe it's the lack of calories to fuel the brain, maybe it's sleep depravation (oh yes, cause that's what had to give).

No, I didn't fart. That's just the national dish of Korea.

All right. I was going to try to write something clever to accompany this photo of my friend Mary in front of a huge spread of Korean food, but really, I don't think I have anything to say except: isn't food grand? I'm always proud of my national cuisine -- well, except for maybe the fact that the national dish sometimes smells like really bad farts.

Speaking of food. Did you ever get the feeling that you were a piece of some dish cooking badly in a pan? What I mean is this: most days, I don't feel like I'm an entirely fully developed human being. Parts of me are still cooking, so to speak. But then, there are other parts that have been sitting on the hot pan for a bit too long and are threatening to burn any minute now. Burnt on the outside, raw on the inside.

Being 35, I'm already used to the whole droopy-boobie thing. Whatever, sucks but no big, just get better bras. The slowing metabolism thing also sucks. Pimple scars don't heal for months and months, my face now needs expensive maintenance, and I get fat for no reason. But those are nothing compared to the fact that I realize I'm old enough to start worrying about breast cancer. And dried-up ovaries. And dying partners. And retiring in poverty.

So what do I do? What does one do when the outside's burning but the inside's raw. What do you do when you can't turn down the heat and you gotta cook those insides?

More Zombies

Last night, I had another zombie dream. Much less fear and fighting in this one, though I do remember one scene where I was flying a hover craft a bit ackwardly through a semi-open-air zombie market.

In this dream, the humans were way more organized and far less frightened of the situation. In fact, I think everyone had sort of gathered at a bunker to pool their strength. Actually, I remember being annoyed because as a female social scientist (or something like that), I was labeled as rather useless towards the "cause" and written off. In an "I'll show them" move, I ended up inventing some mechanical gizmo that was a weapon or recon tool that impressed everyone.

Somewhere in this dream, a bunch of us had to get ready for an expedition across Manhattan. We were in this penthouse-type apartment (someone in the group's place) going through this guy's wardrobe for appropriate zombie-fighting wear, but most of the stuff was very preppie. On the up side, I think someone in the group was a Daniel Craig (007) dead-ringer, though quite a bit shorter. And I think he was a bit of a sissy. Maybe he was the one with the preppie clothes.

UPDATE: I think I remember more of the dream....

So we're in our borrowed preppie clothes ready to fight zombie, but really, we're trying to find our way out of this big, maze-like death-trap of a building. We're climbing down ledges that used to be floors and circuiting around fallen debris. This building, with all its chaos, is my old art school. I've been here before in my dreams, and always, it's a labyrinthian jumble that I have to find my way out of. So I'm leading the group and we need to go down to the ground floor. We're almost there, i think, except for this high ledge we're on. We might be able to jump down, but I could break my ankles. And let's be real, I'm not very athletic and would probably break my neck in the process.

Someone somewhere shouts, "Hey! I think there's a way around the back way!"

Cool, I think. No injuries today. And I lead the team back into the jumble to look for a safer, albeit longer, way down.

Zombies, zombies, everywhere.

I have this thing with zombies. I dream about them from time to time. The scary ones from 28 Days Later or (don't laugh) Shawn of the Dead. Sometimes, I even daydream about them -- i.e. I put myself, voluntarily, in that frame of mind. It's some kind of sick fascination, like picking at a scab.

The nighttime dreams are usually scattered narratives, and since I never really wrote them down, I can't now remember them. But it was always post-apocolyptic FIGHT-FIGHT-FIGHT. But the daytime dreams have clear scenarios. I'm at home with Scott, barricaded in my bedroom, bed thrown up against the door, searching around for the best weapon. They're in the apartment, arms reaching in the crack of the door. Surprisingly strong for the undead, if you think about it, which I do. Then there comes a point when we have to leave. We can't stay in this 7x9 bedroom any longer. The window's the only way out, the window that looks out into the airshaft shared with the next building. We don't have a fire escape, but we are close enough to the neighboring building that if we JUMP. REAL. HARD.....We may make it. May.

Do I have the courage to jump? Can I keep fighting? Where do we go for help? Should we try the classic bedsheet rope and go by ground, or climb along the rooftops for a while?

*********

This weekend, I've been (singsong this next bit in 80's new wave style) ...living in sub-uuurb-i-aaah. I'm visiting my "baby" cousin, who just had her first baby six weeks ago, helping her set up her new HUGE townhouse in Santa Clara. Or what I would call the upper middle class housing equivalent to Mall Pattern #8. So many young, largely immigrant, tech-industry families with their SUV's and strollers.

Mall after mall after mall after mall.

In fact, proximity to the local mall is what defines this congolmeration of identical (though lovely on the inside, actually) townhouses as a "community" of sorts. The mall is the de facto town square, with your grocery store, police station, park, eatery, and whatever other lifestyle necessities you may have. Next to the mall is a huge manicured lawn for families to play with their children, complete with playground.

It's a kind of paradise. But as a urbanite, I'm both fascinated and repulsed by this lifestyle. Much like my fascination and repulsion of zombies. On the one hand, the comsumer, spend-money-because-it-makes-you-successful mentality completely disturbs me. It's everything that's wrong with America. The fact that this is the "American Dream" and is what every immigrant (like my own parents) wants makes me sad. Life here is so insulated from BAD THINGS. No thought of global warming, homelessness, suffering of fellow mankind in other countries, or any of that. Life is instead filled with stock figures, home decorating, and raising upper middle-class children. And if your priority is raising a families, well, I don't blame them for wanting them to grow up in paradise.

(My cousin, to her credit, is really an academic with no previous thoughts of thing sort of thing. I think she's playing along to all this as a way to fulfill her new role as wife and mother. Right now, her sleep deprived head is filled with baby, baby, feed, sleep, poop, baby, milk, baby, oh, and someday finish PhD dissertation on the historical interdependence of Japanese collaboration on Korean women--or something like that). But I digress.

Anyway, so blah blah, suburb bad. But. On the other hand, there's this little part of me that wonders if this is maybe what I really want. To live in this sunshine haze of luxury, drive everywhere, wrap myself in comfort, forget about the world's problems and just focus on my family. There's something very appealing to this. Raise children, decorate, cook, maybe do some art.

But then, there's something tempting to give in to the zombies. Fall into their grabbing arms and give in. Everything would be easier. I think.

And then the dream bubble pops. I wake up and go back to being me. But always vigilant.

Baby Loot

Six hours feverishly finishing this baby sweater, not one pee break until it was done, but I think it turned out pretty well (though I didn't like it much at the time):










And a little one-sy thrown in for good measure:

God forbit any baby relation of mine goes without a Jina-sweater. How would I ever recognize them later?

Some Older Paintings

Thought I'd post some older paintings of mine. It's interesting to me to see the trends over the years.

2004-5

2002

2001

1999

That's what religion needs -- more KIMCHEE.

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Today, on the sixth anniversary of my mother’s death, I had a dream that my mother and I were sightseeing in Rome. We ducked into an old church to take a look inside and noticed a service was going on. We decided to stay, but sat in the back where we could leave discretely.

It was a funny church. The seats in the back were built for “standing room” -- they were fold-down pews at stool height made out of mother of pearl material.

We slid into a row and used our butts to fold down the seating. It was funny, actually, because we couldn’t quite get the hang of getting on these narrow little white planks with our short legs and all of our handbags in tow. But we eventually managed, with much giggling. The seats were surprisingly comfortable.

Then it was time to sing. We opened the hymnal, and sang along to something that seemed like a children’s song. But it had a line about kimchee! I thought, what a strange church to be singing about kimchee!

Then the jovial priest walked around giving everyone the communion, which was in this big copper urn filled with hosts soaked in milk, like a soup. He was wearing a monk’s outfit, like Friar Tuck of Robin Hood, plus an apron, and had the urn balanced on his hip while ladling out the soupy communion. By this point, we were trying to sneak out, and this jolly man started ho-ho-ho-ing about our attempt to leave without getting communion. And again, I thought, what a strange church. So jolly, so casual. I like it.

After I woke up and got on the subway to go to work, I was remembering this dream. I was trying to remember why we were sitting in back on these uncomfortable-seeming high-seated pews anyway, since they were kind of a pain to get onto. And then I remembered: we wanted the flexibility to leave.

Flexibility. Discomfort. Ahhh. If you want flexibility, you have to be prepared for a certain level of discomfort. But then, it may not be that uncomfortable after all, just awkward to get into. Another life lesson from my wise mother.

The thought came as a relief for some reason. So much so that I struggled to keep from openly crying in the middle of the subway car during morning rush hour. And even more so when I was overcome with a feeling of compassion and love for everyone sitting/standing in that subway with me. I thought, these are my people. How amazing they all are, wrapped in their lives, interacting with each other in casual little moments. Like when this elderly black woman smiled with her crinkly eyes at a little girl standing with her father.


I think of other dreams I’ve had about my mother since her death in 2001. The thing I keep thinking about again and again is the dream (maybe more than one) where my mother was trying to tell me something. Always, I woke up knowing she wanted to tell me something, but not knowing what. My brother once had a dream that my mother was trying to tell me something, too, except I was too preoccupied to listen.

I think my mother was trying to tell me to be happy. To remember to be happy, whatever it takes. And to not be afraid to make the choices necessary to be happy in my life.

My mother once told me this:

“I used to strive so hard to be happy, trying to figure it out, trying to get something or someplace, make things the way I thought they needed to be to be happy, and I was never happy. Nowadays, I just sit in front of the window, drink my tea and fold my laundry just so, and I’m as happy as I have ever been.

Remember that if you don’t want to do something, just don’t do it. If you don’t want to be with someone, leave them. If you don’t want to be somewhere, go somewhere else. Simple. No one’s making you do anything except you.”

When you count your remaining life in terms of days, weeks or months, rather than in years, I think you probably see life differently than everyone else. I used to be so close to death while my mother was sick that I knew all this.

Over these last six years, I think I’ve been wrapped up in redefining myself after my mother’s death. First it was all about getting married and going down that road, than it was all about graduate school, and recently it’s been about my next career move. I realized I’d forgotten about simple happiness, about not needing to quantify my existence through achievement.

And yet, I think it’s important for me to be in a livelihood that gives me room to think and be creative, so I have to put some effort into the endeavor. Discomfort.