on memories

I have something called a memory box, which is basically a tin that I fill with little souvenirs from notable events throughout the year. For example, if I go to the movies with friends on a fun night out, I might save the ticket stub in that box. And so on.

I guess this is a little tradition that started for me on my own since I was young. It wasn't a deliberate, planned act, but just a matter of convenience. I had photos and souvenirs, I had a shoebox, voila. A memory box.

The shoe box has since gotten upgrade to a Little Women-esque chest, donated by my aunt. And now, it holds fragments of things, from stubs to polaroids to letters and handwritten short stories I've never really typed up.


It's strange how we feel each moment of our lives so keenly, so much so that in that single moment, we don't feel like we'd ever forget it. Because just think about it. What do you feel now?

Right now, I feel the smoothness of a keyboard, the lateness of the hour, the quiet hum of my refrigerator. I feel an ache in my shoulder from sitting in the same position too long, and the words that are spilling across this page. I feel and sense so many things. Truly, the body is just a bundle of nerves, because all it can do is just feel.

I don't feel like I'll forget this moment, even though my brain knows plainly that I will, or at least most of it. This is just one small moment among many similar moments of tired nights writing at my computer.

It's curious to me that this is the way it is. Because a person, at the end of the day, is just a long string of memories. Their entire being is composed of this idea, since everything that shapes them to who they are is the collection of memories that holds the entirety of their lives. And yet, we're not capable of remembering everything. We just remember in fragments, of certain days that we bother to write down and take note.

The importance of remembering isn't just recorded in textbooks or memorials. It's present in our present (sorry), and it's one that's keenly felt by anyone who has the idea to really examine themselves as a being. What do you see when you look inwards?

For me, I see snow. I see my grandmother standing, holding my hands clad in red mittens.

I see my father's back, always turned away as he drives me to my destination.

I see words swimming in front of my eyes as I struggle to stay awake in another desperate night of studying.

I see the string of lights at the local mall as I come out of the movie theater with a group of good friends, laughing and feeling content.

 I taste cold yogurt and hot rice, I hear my mother's music and the latest hit on the radio.

Within the box, I see birthday letters, strangely taken photographs, and subway cards that are gathering dust under the neglect of the LA public transportation system. The box allows me to remember some things that are really not worth remembering, like the specific dates for my antibiotics prescription, but they also show me hidden evidence of a life that has actually been lived.

I spend so much of my time doubting that my life has been significant that I'm surprised I have a boxful of scraps that assure me that I have, at least, lived for some of these seventeen year.

There are memories that you can't place in a box. But it is important to remember them, and hopefully the box becomes an aid in that.

on failure

Here's the deal about screwing up: it's the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that something has happened, something bad, and it's your fault, and there's nothing you can do about it.

I am a perfectionist, of a most frustrating variety. I'm the kind of person who is not able to begin a task if I believe that it cannot be carried out perfectly. In some ways, this is good - what I do matters, and therefore, whatever I accomplish is actually quite good.

But I'm still prevented from actually doing more. I have not yet learned the lesson of youth; that it is only through mistakes that I can truly live and learn and do. I am so young that it hardly matters at this point. It's better to stumble now than later.

Yet the gut-wrenching fear of failure is still there. It is always there, like a phantom that haunts me as I think of new projects to complete. It is one of the reasons why I haven't been writing more often lately, why I haven't been able to get back into piano, and why I want to learn how to cook more Korean food but am deathly afraid of what's going to happen when I get near the kitchen.

When I really get down to thinking about my own process of thinking, I am the kind of person who continuously mulls over an issue. I look at it from all kinds of angles, trying to see if there's any flaw to the execution of my plans, and I reach in with a mental wand and attempt to fix it. Some would say this is a good thing, a signifier of my perfectionist nature making things perfect.

But then there are people like my dad, who just do. My dad is the spontaneous type, who rushes into projects with the kind of passion that I admire. He is determined to see it through, whereas I often get discouraged when things start going haywire. However, while my dad is spontaneous, he is also adaptable - and there, we see balance. Through flexibility, he approaches head-on as they come; there is not mulling or predicting the future to make sure the road is perfect.

This is one of the things I have to learn. Luckily, I have learned it more in the recent years, as I stepped further out of my comfort zone into activities where perfection was not ensured. I am a member of my Mock Trial team, where I debate and fight against another team based on a fake trial given to us. We have to formulate strategies, theories, and arguments while also dealing with the issue of objections and times. There is no predictability here - if the team we face catches sight of our flaws, we lose. If they don't, we win.

I love my team, but I can't say we're winners. More often than not, we end up dropping out of rounds because we face teams who are simply more prepared than we are. Most recently, we ended up becoming one of ten schools to remain in the competition - out of ninety total schools. I was ecstatic and determined to reach at least the semi-finals.

But then the other team had memorized the entirety of their script. We weren't yet off book. We lost.

Here's the curious deal about Mock Trial: I have probably lost most often through that activity, but I have also lost with a sense of enlightened joy. Winning, losing, failure, perfection - it didn't matter. I had simple just done.

That is the kind of joy I'd like to carry on through the rest of this year, the next, and into college. To do more, to see more, without the fear of falling of flat on my face. Because even if I do, then I'm sure there will be someone who will help me up. A possible stranger. And that could be the start of a beautiful friendship, wouldn't you agree?

reading list #1

I've been reading almost nonstop lately, and it felt a little wasteful not to keep track of my reading list. So, without further ado, here's what I've been reading.

>>>>Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson

Summary: 'As I sleep, my mind will erase everything I did today. I will wake up tomorrow as I did this morning. Thinking I'm still a child. Thinking I have a whole lifetime of choice ahead of me...' 

Memories define us. So what if you lost yours every time you went to sleep? Your name, your identity, your past, even the people you love — all forgotten overnight. And the one person you trust may only be telling you half the story. Welcome to Christine's life.

My thoughts: This book is highly conceptual, and its premise is fascinating. I was more interested with the psychology, and although the "thriller" part of the book was what made it a huge hit, it would have been more appealing to me if it had dealt more with the effects of Christine's memory on her family.  

Rating: 3.5/5

>>>>The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck

Summary: The poignant tale of a Chinese farmer and his family in old agrarian China. The humble Wang Lung glories in the soil he works, nurturing the land as it nurtures him and his family. Nearby, the nobles of the House of Hwang consider themselves above the land and its workers; but they will soon meet their own downfall.

My thoughts: I was completely engrossed in the life of this farmer who starts to rise in status as China itself begins the change with the coming of the industrial age.  What I loved the most was that as the book deals with the idea of tradition, of love and loss, and the ever present sense of change, it also tells the story of a family that is not perfect or even perfectly good, but as dysfunctional as any family that has ever existed.

Rating: 4/5

>>>>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

Summary: Randle McMurphy, a boisterous rebel, swaggers into the world of a mental hospital and takes over. A lusty, life-affirming fighter, McMurphy rallies the other patients around him by challenging the dictatorship of Nurse Ratched. But this defiance, which starts as a sport, develops into a grim struggle between two relentless opponents: Nurse Ratched, back by the full power of authority, and McMurphy, who has only his own indomitable will. 

My thoughts: This was a book assigned in my English class, so I've been reading this with a fully analytical mindset. This usually detracts from my enjoyment of a book, but Cuckoo had me fascinated from the start. The characters and their struggles speak to the reader, and it broke my heart to read the end.

Rating: 5/5

>>>>The Fire and Thorns Trilogy by Rae Carson

Summary: An insecure princess with an unclear destiny becomes a secret bride, a revolutionary, a queen, and—finally—the champion her world so desperately needs.

My thoughts: I'm a sucker for fantasy worlds that have a historic root and strong heroines - and this series has both. With a world that seems to have its foundation on Spanish history, Fire and Thorns weaves fantasy and religion together around an incredibly well-written cast of characters. I read all three of the books in this trilogy in one weekend, despite my initial reluctance to start "another YA fantasy series." Reminiscent of my favorite book series, The Queen's Thief, Fire and Thorns is entertaining and captivating. 

Rating: 4/5 

>>>>Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

Summary: Persepolis is a graphic novel of Satrapi's unforgettable childhood and coming of age within a large and loving family in Tehran during the Islamic Revolution; of the contradictions between private life and public life in a country plagued by political upheaval; of her high school years in Vienna facing the trials of adolescence far from her family; of her homecoming--both sweet and terrible; and, finally, of her self-imposed exile from her beloved homeland

My thoughts: The art for Persepolis is fantastic, but it's the story that gets me in the end. The tumultuous period of the 1980s and 90s in Iran are rarely discussed in my history classes, but this novel not only helps to shed light on the events, but also on the emotional backdrop they place. I related to the main character on a personal level, making her story unforgettably searing.

Rating: 5/5



Disclaimer: All summaries have been copied or revised from official summaries listed at Goodreads.

when i reached neverland

Lately, I've been contemplating the idea of never.

Wendy once said to Peter Pan, "Never is an awfully long time," which is quite possibly the greatest romanticized understatement of all time. I, of course, understand the idea of "never" intellectually, but I don't think I've ever really had to confront it emotionally (In terms of other people. We'll get to myself and the afterlife later).

While writing my college essays, I (and most likely many other seniors) realized how tremendously privileged my entire life has been. Scratch that; it's not a realization, because I've been uncomfortably aware of this fact in the back of my brain ever since I learned the concept of "poor." But I did have to actually deal with the fact that I am quite spoiled.

Because really, what have I ever wanted for? When have I ever been challenged or denied opportunities? The very fact that my parents immigrated to America, the land of opportunity, means that I was part of the limited number of children born to parents who were brave enough to come to a foreign country because life could be better here.

I'm really freaking lucky.

I've never really dealt with any significantly traumatic loss, my family members are all healthy, and I grew up under the influence of the best parents in the world. Sure, I've dealt with my own turmoil and depression and anxiety, but I've always had help and support throughout it all.

So I am privileged, and I have never been forced to deal with the idea of eternity and the word "never" until I started to contemplate that I really am going to college in a year's time.

Besides burying my head under a pillow and rocking back and forth for hours with the aftereffects of an existential crisis,  I've been giving the idea of eternity a lot of thought. Because technically speaking, eternity for me means the 60+ years that I will (potentially) live after graduation.

What am I going to do? And also, what will I never do?

I read somewhere (Paper Towns by John Green) that the likelihood of a completely unlikely event happening to me is possible at least once in my life. For example, meeting the Queen of England. Getting struck by lightning. Getting into college. But among all of those things, the possibility is that there will be only one thing that actually happens.

What is that thing? And what things will I miss out on?

When I think of everything I would like to do, I know it's not humanly feasible for me to accomplish everything. I can never win a gold medal at the Olympics, I will never be rich, I will never own more than one pet.

I guess the good thing about being a child and still coddled and protected from the realities of NEVER was that eternity felt so...open. As we grow up, there will be more responsibilities and realities of life that place limits on our so-called eternity. The space of that eternity just grows smaller and smaller until there's barely any room for what we'd like to fit in there.

Too little room. The beginning of Never.

Sylvia Plath once wrote about a fig tree. She wrote about her desperation, because the fig tree and its branches represented all of the goals and pathways that she wanted to pursue, whether it was as a high fashion magazine editor or a painter or a writer. Even if she wanted everything, even if she wanted to chop down the entire fig tree and eat every single fig on its branches, she could never do it because it was not possible.

So she couldn't choose. The poem ends with Plath sitting at the base of the metaphorical fig tree, unable to choose which fig she wanted to eat, and then having those figs dry up one by one, until they all fall dead to the ground.

I could very well get stuck with this idea of never. I could start despairing that my potential and my dreams might be limitless, but reality is not.

But at the end of the day, I think I refuse to be like the girl at the base of the tree. I refuse to be stuck there, so that I can't even eat one fig. I'll have my one fig, if that's all the world will give me, and dammit, I'll work like there's no tomorrow, so that I can have another fig. And then another. And then another.

Maybe some will fall to the ground, dried and withered. But I'll still have had my share of figs.

september snapshots

I do have to remember that the purpose of this blog is not simply for my (procrastinating) pleasure, but also for the sake of my memories. It is, after all, recording my senior year.

To be fair, I didn't do much in September other than study and freak the hell out about everything. But there were always those little spaces of time when I managed to eat some food and talk to a few friends, and those moments made the crazy month worth it.

Be warned; there are many food pictures.

1.) Midnight fries are the best fries. Taken on the night after submitting my Questbridge application, hooray.

2.) Cheap Thrifty ice cream from Rite-Aid. Mine was one of the chocolate chips, although I regret not getting mint chocolate chip instead. Would have been aesthetically prettier too.

3.) I watched one movie in theaters in September, and it was the blockbuster (Korean) hit Myeong Nyang (Or The Admiral: Roaring Currents) in LA's CGV theater, which uniquely shows Korean films. The title refers to a historic battle by one of the most celebrated Korean military officers, Admiral Lee Soon-Shin. He defeated 300 Japanese ships with a meager fleet of 12, making his victory almost impossible, yet completely legendary.

4.) Our local mall has a Shave-It, which is basically just flavored shaved ice topped with ice cream. It's a strange combination, but apparently delicious, and I tried it for the first time. Mine is the orange one - I was chicken and I forgoed the ice cream. But my friends' were delicious.

5.) I went to a place called The Tea Gardens, where the tea was good and the prices astronomical. I did love the pastries that lined the windows oh-so-prettily.

6.) We ordered a tropical, fruity tea that had a ridiculously long name that I immediately forgot. I prefer black teas, but the citrus flavor was pleasantly unexpected.

7.) We were technically there for lunch but I got the breakfast menu anyways. Eggs Benedict on toasted English muffins hollandaise sauce and a basil flavored hash brown. Yum.

8.) And the pastries! Oh the pastries! Strawberry shortcake, glazed almond cheesecake, and a butterscotch cake that were adorably miniature sized. If only the prices weren't so high (for a poor student), I'd go back just for the pastries. 

Sing, September! from indecisiveplanning on 8tracks Radio.

And finally, a playlist! Here are all the songs I've been enjoying since September. It's a mix of both Korean and English songs, but I hope you enjoy it regardless of what language you speak.

at the end of the day

Hey all, or at least to whoever is actually reading this.

This is my first post in more than a month, which is a pretty good indication of how hectic my life has been and how low this blog is on my priority list. I would apologize, but I don't think I have enough readers to apologize to, so ha. I can do whatever I want, yo.

(I was also planning on a September Favorites, but it's like halfway through October, so I'll just lump everything together and make a huge favorites post in November.)

Anyways, yeah. With September came the realization that my life is slowly ending. And by life, I mean that sweet blissful period of time called childhood, when you really do have nothing more to worry about except school and homework and activities and trying to let puberty do its job.

That life is now officially over. I will, of course, be announcing its official end multiple times in the course of the next year, what with all of the "landmarks" coming up (end of college apps season, college decisions, graduation, eighteenth birthday, actual entrance of college, 1 month anniversary of living by myself and not dying), but it feels weird doing it for the first time.

Why was September more eventful than any other month? For one thing, my college apps began and my ACT was this month. School also started to hit the ground running, as well as my extracurriculars, and I gotta tell you, balancing all of that and sleep has been really exhausting.

I ended up doing really well on my ACT, so woohoo! I've been maintaining my grades at school (except for AP Economics lol), I think I'm pretty up to par with my extracurriculars (although I am super behind on one deadline), and I just finished my SAT II Subject Tests today (Literature, which I'm sure I rocked).

So all in all, not that bad, I guess. I mean, I do feel like I shaved off five years of my life with all of the sleep deprivation, but the results were worth it, so there's that.

I don't know if you can tell from this post, but my social life has been pretty much dead for this entire month. I barely see my friends who don't have similar schedules to me, which is really upsetting because I value some of these friends the most. It also sucks because this is our last year. I won't be seeing these guys again collectively for a long time, if ever.

That being said, I have been able to occasionally sneak off campus (or even go to a friend's house! Gasp!) because some of my friends have started driving. The little pick me ups that I could find in between those feverish hours of studying reminded me of why I was actually studying.

I plan on being an English major, which, I know, is not the most practical major to choose from. And who knows where I'll go after graduating. Maybe law school, which would be the most practical thing to do. Maybe I'll write a book, and it'll be a best-selling hit and I won't have to work a day in my life. Who even knows?

I guess the best part of my personality is that I'm adaptable and my interests are broad. There are many, many options for me that I'll be happy with. In the past, I had this particular ambition of wanting to change the world and getting recorded in history books...but that doesn't feel as important anymore. I do want to change the world, but not because of my own big-headed ideas of my own importance, but because the world needs change, just as it's always had.

But I guess in order to do that, I need to learn some things first.

I do have an ultimate goal, and it's not a degree or a book or a career.

At the end of the day, it's simply...experience.

Experience of working on projects that make me feel good because I'm doing something productive and using my skills and finishing a final product. Experience of seeing new things and eating new things and listening about new things. Experience of learning about subjects that I could never have been interested in, and then feeling academically stimulated. Experience about learning emotions and relationships and how it feels to have all of these FIRSTS (first relationship, first kiss, first epic fight, first calling-someone-out-on-their-bullshit-and-not-being-a-coward).

My goal requires hard work and dedication. It's hard to remember that when I'm sitting miserably at 3 AM stuffing my brain with facts and trying not to break down from the exhaustion and the pressure.

But it'll sure be worth it.

august favorites

Well hello, it's that time of the year again.

Month. That time of the month.

NO, not like that time of the month. You know...yeah, let's forget it. I'm never going to be funny.

Anyways, I don't have as many products to share with you today as I did last month, but there are still some pretty great ones. Click to see more!

college is not the last stop

Hey guys, it's September. Woo hoo.

Forgive me if I'm a bit unenthusiastic about this glorious month. Technically, I should have been dreading August, since that's when school started for me. But strangely, August was okay. It's September that gets on my nerves.

It's particularly bad this year, because on top of my senior class schedule (which, unlike popular belief, is still extremely hefty), I have to take the ACT, finish a college application, and start studying for the SAT II subject tests in October. Oh, and I'm also working on a writing portfolio due in October. How's that for a workload?

I shouldn't complain, because I was the one who screwed up my standardized tests in the first place, but sometimes, I can't help wondering what this is all for. College is going to be only one point of my life, and yet everyone will have me believe that without a specific college on my future Resume of Life, I'll be doomed forever to an existence of pure mediocrity.

I guess it all boils down to myself, and the ambitions that come along with me. What do I really want? Why do I even want to attend certain schools? Because if it's simply for the name, for the prestige, for the "Oh, yes, I got into HarvardYalePrincetonStanfordBrownUPennColumbia, where did you get in?" I don't want to go to college. I will be supremely unhappy in that mindset, and all of my efforts will have been for nothing.

Don't get me wrong. I know why I want to go to my dream colleges, and it's not because of the prestige. True, I would like to aim for the best schools. But it's because I know that it'll only be at the schools I'm aiming for that I'll be able to see the world as I truly want to: larger, developed, and changing.

I want to meet people whose biggest concerns aren't simply how they look towards other people but truly about the vibrating relationship between themselves and the world. I want to see different lives and perspectives that I would never have considered, I want to see the intellectual journey being undertaken by such people at research facilities that are considered the best in the world.

Simply put, my goal at the moment isn't anything more than to simply develop. Sure, I have future career plans in mind, but I think my chief asset as a person is my adaptability. I like doing numerous kinds of things (although they are all oriented towards the humanities), and I'd probably be happy in any number of jobs. So there is no dream life planned ahead for me. I don't have huge ambitions of fame and success and wealth.

I would simply like to just...develop.

I want to learn. I want to experience. I want to understand, to empathize, to see things in ways that are so, so different from what's available to me right now. And frankly, I don't want this to stop simply with school. I want this to continue for the rest of my life.

So I guess that's why I would like to go to college. Yes, it'd feel really satisfying to tell people where I'm going and see their jaws drop and say, "Holy crap, you got in? Wow, you're amazing!" Hey, we're all human. We like to be told we're great. But my life will not be these people, most of whom I'll never see again. So, in truth, I need to think a little bigger. I need to see life on a larger scale.

To be so wide to fill a universe - that's the dream, folks.

a roll call for the social and anxious

Here's an anecdote for you:

I went to Sephora the other day to pick up a gift for a friend. It was her birthday and I hadn't seen her in a while, so I wanted to take some time to buy her something nice.

I arrived, I strode confidently in, and then a tremendously blonde lady came up to me with a big Can-I-Help-You smile. She said her catchphrase.

At the time, yeah. I actually did need her help. I actually did need to say, "Yeah, hi, I'm here to get a present for a friend. I don't really know what she'll like, but I know she likes to paint her nails, and she's also getting interested in eyeshadow. Do you have anything to recommend?"

It's so easy in writing, isn't it?

Instead, I just looked at her and stammered something along the lines of, "Oh, no, I'm okay, thanks," and then walked back out. I stood in front of Sephora for a while, because the lady was still there, and I couldn't very well just walk back in after I'd told her I was okay. I sat on a bench and stared at the entrance. I'm pretty sure there were at least two shoppers who walked past me and then looked back with a concerned expression.

Eventually (like two hours later), the lady was gone. She'd gone off her shift, she was in another part of the store, whatever. I'd been toasting in the hot sun, and with a bit of relief, I went inside.

No one assaulted me this time, so I weaved my way through the aisles. The good thing about being a teenage girl in Sephora browsing through the sections is that everyone thinks you're there to window shop. Everyone knows you can't afford any of the things in there, and that you're just looking through with curiosity. Sampling, spraying, swatching - you know the drill.

So no one talked to me, and I very comfortably went to the nail section, found two great colors, and went to stand in line at the cash register.

Three, two, one person left before my turn.

And then I left the line.

I left the line, much to the intrigued delight of the shopper behind me, and then I took the polishes and hid them in an obscure section of the perfume aisle. I made sure no one could see them behind Burberry's brown bottles, and then I left the store.

When I got back to the car, I asked my mom to go buy the polishes. She stared at me in outrage. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"I left my wallet in my room. Sorry. I'm really sorry. Can you please go get it? I hid them behind the Burberry perfume bottles at the perfume aisle."

I got a stern lecture about irresponsibility and how it was affecting people around me, and not just myself.

Haha. If only she knew, right?

I know this anecdote just sounds like a pretty horrible incident of a fail, of those giggly awkward moments that you tell to a friend later on in the month, but stuff like this has been happening pretty frequently.

Not being able to go get a cup of tea at a bookstore cafe because I don't want to do that fumbly thing with my wallet, walking out of a store because the cashier looks horribly irritated, thinking constantly about whether or not people are looking at the worst parts of my facial acne while talking to me...thinking, thinking, and eventually, freaking out.

With the latest trends in pop culture tending towards popularizing the geeky teen, the one who's uncomfortably awkward and says weird things at the wrong time, with the latest catch phrase being "awkward," it's easy to sort of assimilate these tendencies into the behavior of everyone else.

Let me tell you something. Being socially anxious really sucks. You literally cannot function around normal people. Your brain sort of haywires and eventually, you start thinking your responses in your head. Everything you're supposed to say, you think, and then you negate it because it's too mean, it's too dumb, it's too stupid to even mention aloud.

So you don't. And then you lose your voice. And then you become invisible.

If you believe you're socially anxious, because of your appearance or your behavior or your attitude, here's the voice in your head:

NO ONE CARES. AND EVERYONE FEELS JUST AS STUPID AS YOU DO.

It's an annoying voice that barrages you about the irrationality about your behavior. It sucks, but you know, sometimes, the voice is worth listening to.

I mean, do you feel conscious being nude at a nudist colony? Yeah, probably. But you have to realize that hey, you have a really cool new superpower. You are literally almost invisible. So everyone else is feeling too self-conscious about their own bodies to care whether or not you're fat or skinny or pretty or what not. You're just the same as them - nude.

I also feel like empathy sometimes helps. Put yourself in their position, or better yet, think about when you have ever been in their position. If you see a jogger running past your car, what do you think?

"Ew, why are they running in daylight?"

No.

"..."

That's probably more accurate. You think nothing. It's just a jogger. You have better things to worry about.

You are just as forgettable. And that is a good thing, because that means there is no reason for you to feel like every eye is on you. I know it sucks to feel the way you do when you walk into a classroom late and every student turns around to look at you. I know. (Read the anecdote above.)

There's not really much of a moral for this post. I just wanted to let you know...yeah. It sucks to be socially anxious. It feels irrational and crippling...but it is a problem we have to work at. We have to see that this isn't the end-all. I like to think of it like the plunge off of a rollercoaster...gritting your teeth and just letting yourself burst out into a conversation, a raised hand in class, a confident smile at the cashier.

And remember, no one cares.

an outfit: feeling blue

Here's the thing about summer: I usually end up staying at home the entire day. I'm not a loner or a recluse...but I do somehow end up losing touch with a lot of friends, simply because we've all become pretty busy with work and school. So basically, I don't have a reason to go out.

After spending six consecutive days in either pajamas or leggings and a t-shirt, I felt an itch to just put together an outfit for the sake of it. This was the (very simple) result.

1.) Printed blue box dress, DIY. My mom's been working her way through a pile of fabrics this summer, and she made this for me to keep cool under the raging California sun. It's a pretty loose, boxy shape of a dress, but for whatever reason, that's the shape I've been preferring these days. The color is a gorgeous cobalt blue, which, if you didn't know, is my favorite color. I have to say that the print is a little old-fashioned, but I have a fondness for it. Almost like I'm nostalgic for whatever past belongs to this print. But that's just me getting poetic.

2.) Pearl statement necklace ($8), XXI. This is a necklace I bought on a whim and dug up recently, after it had been buried under piles of jewelry in my accessory box. It's super big and definitely not the kind of thing I'd usually wear. What I did appreciate about this necklace was the fact that it was just a bunch of pearls shaped into an almost collar-like appearance, which is a pretty simple way of creating a statement necklace when it's Forever 21. Simplicity is the name of the game, and the white of the (fake) pearls and the blue of the dress match beautifully. Given the shape and old-fashioned print of the dress, I'd like to say this statement necklace is like the upgraded version of the "string" of pearls that housewives of the 50's wore so iconically.

3.) Sand oxfords ($4), thrifted. To keep the outfit from getting too precious, I switched out sandals or pumps for a pair of oxfords. They keep the old-school feeling in check while also adding a sense of masculinity to an otherwise super feminine piece. To be honest, these are a pair of shoes that haven't seen much sunlight either; I wore them once to school, and then forgot about them in a box under my bed. I do think I'll wear them more often; most of my other oxfords have gotten too worn out to wear on a long-term basis anyways.

Like me of summer, these three pieces have rarely seen the sun. I didn't choose these pieces with that specific thought in mind, and yet, when I pieced it together, that was what happened. Accidental poetry is a wonderful thing, if only because it makes you look cool. Or not. Yeah.

But it is interesting that this outfit turned out the way it did. To be honest, I didn't really choose the pieces with a lot of analysis; I just thought they looked good together. It was only after that I realized how a lot of it did actually fit together thematically...which goes to show, there's a lot of things in this world that's easy to BS. And fashion is one of them.

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Did you like this outfit? What would you wear if you haven't been out in a while? Tell me in the comments below!

july favorites

Ah, yes, a favorites list. I strive for originality and creativity in most aspects, but sometimes, I like things that are a little rehashed.

To be fair, I've been a consumer of blogs (and vlogs) for a lot longer than being a blogger, so I know what kind of posts I enjoy. And I really like favorites lists, because it feels like a genuine recommendations list from a genuine person. For whatever reason.

Anyways, July, being birthday month, means I had a lot of new stuff to try out. My gift-givers are infinitely more skilled at picking things for me than I am. Does that say something? I'm sure it does.

seventeen

So, I turned 17 last Thursday.

Here's the deal with this birthday: it didn't begin as a good one. For some reason, I was prepared to face it with the utmost of my negative energy. I wasn't having a party, I turned off Facebook notifications so that the majority of my friends wouldn't remember, I didn't remind my family members, and I was fully ready to spend the day doing ACT prep and procrastinating.

Obviously, I wasn't very happy. Which must frustrate you, as it frustrates me. Because here's the utter contradictory nature of my attitude towards my 17th birthday - I wanted no one to acknowledge it so that I could fully justify all of my self-pity, all of my self-projections of, "Oh, no one's going to remember or even care," but I also desperately wanted someone who would.

I don't know why I'm like this. I guess it's enough to say that sometimes, I'm a mess.

My negative attitude towards birthdays aren't simply geared towards self-pity though. Birthdays are too demonstrative of the passage of time. They show me, clearer than ever, that I am losing all of the precious time through my fingers and I am not getting a second of it back.

I'm 17. I'm older now. I'm almost at an age where I won't be considered a teenager or a kid anymore. I think about my age and I have to remember, I'm no longer a little kid. I won't be able to use my immaturity as a crutch anymore.

If anything, I think I suffer from the Peter Pan syndrome. Because growing up means responsibilities, and if there is anything I wish for myself in the future, it's a lifetime of carefree freedom. And how much of a little kid wish is that?

I just feel a lot of crushing weight, I guess. I'm getting older but I don't feel like I'm getting any smarter. If anything, I might just be getting a little bit more self-centered and selfish. I'm full of impending panic that I need to be wiser and of a better temperament, but everything I say (or don't say) and do are just...so full of my naivete. Truly, I have no experience with the world.

I don't think I deserve to be 17.

I watched a film once, called An Education. It starred Carey Mulligan with Nick Hornby's screenplay. I liked it; it was an interesting, thought provoking film.

In that film, Jenny, the protagonist, goes through her own coming-of-age story. At the end of it all, she faces her teacher with her consequences and says this:

"I feel old, but not very wise."

Maybe that's it. I do feel older. I feel more weary, which is ridiculous because I'm 17. But I also feel sick of the world, or at least the world around me, and I feel tired, much more often.

But at the same time, no, I don't feel very wise.

Ah, well. I guess that's what they call aging. And it is a sign of age, I guess, that I do actually feel this process of getting older and the consequences of the passing of another year.

I just don't feel ready to deal with it yet.

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How do you feel about birthdays? Do you still feel the crushing responsibility of age? Let me know below.

between a father and a daughter

While in Korea, I've spent a considerable amount of time with my father. From train rides to endless amounts of walking in the twisted alleys that weave behind Seoul's main streets, we were in each other's sole company for a week.

For many people, a father is a complex figure in their lives. For some, perhaps the father is a figure of support, a pillar of strength. For others, the father might be blamed for all of their problems. The absent father, the stern father, the playful father - we see them all, in many variations, and in many caricatures.

My dad is a person, first and foremost. It's taken me some time to realize this, but it's a realization that comes to most people as time passes. As a person, he's not limited to a certain stereotype, and it's he that becomes the parent - not the parent that becomes the person.

And people change. My father has been multiple variations of the stereotypes attributed to the role of the patriarch, and they've all been according to the way he's changed and developed as person.

To be honest, I don't feel very close to my dad. I'm not fully comfortable in his presence, and I'm constantly afraid that he'll be disappointed in me or find me lacking. In a sense, I suppose this is also attributed to the enormous amount of respect I have for him, but also in my father's very nature - he demands a lot from people, and he's not the most affectionate person around.

The stern figure that my father often demonstrates is not unfamiliar in Korean culture. It's one that's even encouraged by our cultural standards. As a result, our relationship has its limitations.  I am never unaware of the fact that my father, to me, is my father. A confidante, a friend, a playful partner - those versions of my dad are completely unfamiliar to me.

And yet, despite this stern and traditional portrayal of my father, I find it reassuring to find him the way he is. I might not be the most comfortable in his presence, or have late night heart-to-hearts with him about boys and the complexities of life, but I know that he stands there, nearly invincible, for his children. Weakness is not a trait I attribute to my dad, nor is selfishness or any sign of self-centeredness. As far as I am concerned, my father's life is dominated by his role as the head - and subsequent foundation - of our family.

To be able to feel such reassurance in my father, even at this age, feels like a privilege that I'm not quite sure I deserve, or should even have. Shouldn't I get to know him more as a person, as a human being, something other than the Superman he has been all of my life?

The understanding I have of my father's flaws is not small. My father has his lion's share of arrogance, stubbornness, and prejudice. He rarely tolerates flaws in others. He's prone to waspishness when irritated, unable to understand things like "guilty pleasures," and impatient with inefficiency.

And yet...

The influence my dad has over me is perhaps the largest one in my life. I certainly hope a day will come when we come to see each other as equals, able to have a conversation about the more personal aspects that define us both.

O Sing Muse, of Middlesex!

I read a book this summer. Sue me.

As you might know (from how much I've talked about it previous posts), I went to Korea in June.

And if you didn't know, the plane ride to Korea (or East Asia in general) is a whopping 14 hours from LA. Alas, I'm also cheap (and Korean), which means that I didn't take the 14 hour plane ride that went straight from LAX to Incheon Airport, but a transfer ride that went to Seattle in two hours, abandoned me there for four hours, and then took me to Seoul within a hellish 12 hours.

It was a hard time traveling, my friend.

The one good thing about all of this dragging around suitcases and staring at grey walls is that it gives you a priceless sort of free time where you have the excuse to not be productive. Free time is one that's been sorely lacking in my life and I took the opportunity to actually read a book for fun.

For once.

Middlesex is the Pulitzer-winning novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, an author whose name coincides with the main character for another favorite novel of mine (The Thief by Megan Turner, go check it out). I have to admit, one of the main reasons I started reading the novel was because of the author's name.

But as with all good books, I became completely absorbed in its universe.

The plot for Middlesex feels simple: a person who was born a girl becomes a boy later in his/her life. I first thought it was going to be some fantastical transformation, something that belonged to the Greek myths continuously referenced from the character's heritage.

Instead, it's about genetics. It's about a family's history, immigration, the development of American industry, gender roles, the influence of culture, the intersex movement, and a city landscape that is Detroit.

Here's the thing about books: they begin with one simple premise. A boy is a wizard. Teenagers fight each other to the death. A man becomes rich for a woman. A Russian heiress has an affair.

The development and quality of the book simply depends on how well you can layer onto this premise, on the voice you can give it to leave an impression on the reader. With Middlesex, I also found a literature nerd's wet dream - the inclusion of themes.

The American Dream, nurture vs. nature, the polarity of opposites, the inheritance of a generation, it's all here.

We find the voice of Cal (previously Calliope) Stephanidies, recounting his story as an intersex individual. But within that voice, and within this curious genetic mutation, we also find three generations of the Stephanides family, starting with Cal's grandparents, who brought themselves and their Greek culture in pursuit of survival, and later, the American Dream. It's a family epic, it's a coming of age story, it's a romance and a medical mystery, and it's exactly the sort of work I end up having (literal) dreams about.

There are times when you look at something and you just cannot help admiring the craftsmanship of it. How did they do it? How could they have possibly thought of that, and then put it together to become the perfect version of it?

(As a writer, beyond the admiration, I also feel the slightest bit of envy. If there's a word for the sort of work completed in Middlesex, it's genius.)

Middlesex was a brilliant introduction to a great American author. I'm aware that this was his second novel, and I have yet to obtain a copy of his first (which was also critically acclaimed, and adapted into a critically acclaimed film). If you have the time, I really do highly recommend it.

keeping up appearances: acne

Let's be honest: we all have/had this problem. But it's the rare soul who suffers acne on a debilitating scale, and yet at the same time, not so rare. To those of you lucky folks who get by with an occasional pimple, here's the deal for the oily, inflamed crew: it hurts.

I think the worst part of severe acne isn't the embarrassment or the redness or the scarring. It's not the horror of oh, I look hideous.

It's the pain.

First, there's the pain of the swelling. You know it's coming, and you know it's going to be huge, but the only thing you can do is rub on cream and pray. Every time your facial muscles move, pain spasms down that area. Every time you rub your face, wash your face, dry your face, your clumsy fingers disturb the swelling and you feel like the high heavens are raining down their vitriolic curses onto that specific area of your face.

Ouch.

And then comes the pimple. It's Mouth Everest, the kind of mountain you don't dare to embark and conquer because the pain isn't just concentrated onto the bump, but the entire zone. For many people, this zone is commonly the nose. Which, as you know, is pretty much the worst thing possible since it technically is the facial appendage that sticks out the furthest.

Ah, pain.

I won't go into the next few stages, which are pretty gross. The pus, the scabbing, the leaking, the blood, the dead skin...let's fast forward to two weeks. Two weeks since the initial stage of the swelling. How is the pimple now?

My friend, it's still there. It's still leaking like a little volcano. It still hurts to touch. And you just know that in another two weeks, it's going to concave in and scar something terrible.

The worst part about this process is that it isn't just one pimple. It's the same little mountain, except it's everywhere. Across your cheeks, down your chin, in the corners of your forehead, between your eyebrows, ON your eyebrows...there comes a time when it hurts to talk. It hurts to lie on your side because of your cheeks. It just hurts.

My friend, you may not suffer from severe acne. But you probably know at least one or two people who do. Imagine a pimple. You surely must have had at least one in your life. Imagine the pain, the irritation, the concern, the embarrassment that follows the one pimple. Now imagine it multiplied by a ten-fold.

That's the life I, and many other unfortunate individuals, lead.

Unfortunately, acne is not considered a noble injury. It's not a tragic illness. It's the burden of countless teenagers across the globe, due to misfortune in genetics and (perhaps) hygiene. It is, unfortunately, one of my own physical burdens.

I've had a pretty stressful experience during high school, although I do consider myself lucky. An academically driven atmosphere has its rewards. However, my time in puberty while studying has taken a toll on my skin, and now I face a complicated truth.

While in Korea during the summer, I was able to visit the dermatologist. This was my first actual medical consultation, which might strike you as curious if my acne is as severe as I claim it to be. But alas, insurance is fickle and decides that the skin isn't life threatening. So Korea it is, a country where my first cousin once removed resides, a cousin who happens to run a skin clinic and give his distant American relations treatment for free.

Let me tell you something: there is no miracle cure. I've been hoping and hoping for one because of how long I've put off going to an expert, but my skin has not drastically improved. I still have my pimples.

I also have a regular medication schedule, which include pills before and after meals. If you know me and my horror of consistency, I am not exactly the greatest pill-taker.

So where does this bring me? To be honest, my skin is one of my biggest insecurities. There was a point in Korea (O Korea, the land of purity, of innocence, of drastically pale skin that's been done over in BB cream multiple times!) when I hated looking in the mirror. I still sort of do. I cried when I felt my skin break out all over again, after I'd been on pills for a week.

There is not exactly a moral to this. I have not gone into some peaceful acceptance of my skin, of some nirvana where appearances don't matter to me. I'm a teenager. How does that even work out?

But personality-wise, I also do have a breaking point. My skin is induced by bad genetics and raging hormones. Unless I decide to decode my DNA, it is what it is. People have burdens. One of mine just happens to be severe acne.

I'll still continue my pills. I'll still slather on benzoyl peroxide and eat less dairy (ice cream, sob). I'll still be hyper-paranoid of dirty pillows and towels. I'll still refuse to go anywhere near skin makeup.

My skin is still a concern. But if there's any consolation to this indisputable fact, it's that I'm either incredibly fortunate or unfortunate that it's hardly my biggest. I have other things to worry about.

Actually, now that I think about it, this is not a good thing.

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Do you have acne? What do you recommend for pimples?

the beginning of a circle - where am i?

Put simply, I'm in Korea. (South, if you're asking. Although, really?)

I'm here for multiple reasons, but the biggest one is my sister's wedding. Big family event, I know, although I haven't been a huge part of the festivities aside from participating the multiple dinners we've been having with various relatives.

Being in my native country feels...foreign. It's a familiar paradox felt by all immigrant children used to the American lifestyle. It's a question of how everything feels like something I should be used to, and yet I just feel isolated and lonely. I can read all the signs and understand the language around me, but the basic of culture is...lost.

It's not surprising that I feel like this, and it's a feeling I'll be chasing for the rest of my life. I suppose I'm more fortunate, since my parents had a developed interested in educating me about my heritage. There are those who are more disconnected with their homeland than I am. But the difference is still felt, keenly.

Yet I find it suitable that I'm back where I started in the summer before my graduation. I'm tracing the beginning of my circle before I can start a new one.

The second paradox found on this trip is the unfamiliar family. It's not just the uncles and aunts I've never heard of, or the in-laws I'm meeting for the very first time. It's the new aspects of my father, my mother, that are revealed when they step foot in their native home, and in an extended way, their past. It's the grandparents whom I've begun to realize as people, in the unspoken way everyone realizes their family members are as they get older. My sister will also become a new person when she gets married, and this development, this transition...

I's oddly suitable for me, right now. It's a question of the curious connection we find in the past with the future.

In being here, a country immersed in tradition but also in transition, a country that places its historic palaces next to skyscrapers, I've fallen victim to that endless philosophizing that comes with the realization of the neverending stream of time. How much can you hold onto the past while also moving forward? How much can you move forward without losing the past?

I dislike change. I've realized that. It scares me, the way time moves. Never any room for mistakes, never any room for redos. My favorite part of the pencil is the eraser, and yet only those who put the point to paper are able to create anything. So it's a question of what's better - creation, or a pristine sheet of white paper?

Yet move on, we must. I can't stop myself from growing up, same as Korea can't stop developing as a country. I can't stop my sister from getting married, I can't stop myself from not understanding the basics of my native culture...but I can remember. As Korea leaves its palaces next to its skyscrapers, I can remember myself and the things I hold dear. I will move on, I will develop, my sister will get married and Korea will become one of the most advanced countries on this planet, but we will still leave behind the paradoxes and the old palaces and the old rooms of our past homes in reminder of the times that passed. They can stand monument.

The interlinking of the future and the past, the connection between our memories and our dreams - isn't that what we're all searching for in the end? How to achieve that balance, so that we don't lost touch with our beginnings, but we also don't miss out on what's to come?

This time next year, I'll be a high school graduate. Perhaps by that time, this blog will stand testament to the fact that I have grown while also leaving traces of myself, my past self.

In creation, hopefully, I will be able to find the balance in that connection of the time stream.

time waster, time spender.

Hi.

My name is Joyce. This is my first post in my new blog.

I suppose in a sense, I'm a veteran at beginnings and a beginner at endings. Or at least, at continuing things.

Yes, that's right. I'm the obnoxious sort of person who always makes new blogs, thinking she has something worthwhile to share with the world, and ends up having them peeter out pathetically because she's either too lazy or too discouraged to keep up with a public diary. Because of this, I've made many (many) introductory first posts. And so I mistakenly give myself the name of veteran at beginnings.

(Beginnings of what? Just blogs? No, also novels and projects and relationships and whatever else is worthwhile if you don't procrastinate. Alas, I fail miserably.)

Once you get into the habit of repeating the same thing multiple times, you find variety in the repetition. How can I make myself sound more interesting? More cynical? More world-wise and weary, more like someone with a (sexy) husky voice who'd randomly chat you up with epiphany-like advise at a dimly lit bar while you, the hero, are down on your luck and nursing a glass of whiskey?

Yet the variety is ultimately lost, and each first post becomes a painful exaggeration of the last. Look, I'm doing it even now. Can you hear my husky voice?

I hoped to shake it up a bit with this new first post by giving a simple, direct, near juvenile introduction to myself. And thus, this brings me to my point, after a long elliptical path of short paragraphs:

My name is Joyce. I'm a sixteen (soon to be seventeen) year old high school student living in southern California. Currently, it's summer, and so I remain stuck in the limbo that is the bane of every student's existence when they are asked the hated question, "What grade are you in?"

I was previously a junior. And yes, I will be a senior. You, sir or madam, are most insightful.

I suppose that you understand the significance of being (or going to become) a senior. You have experienced it yourself or found the numerous pop culture references that litter the works of post-20th century literature.

O the precipice of adulthood, of what epic proportions it shall determine the nostalgia of my old age!

But here comes college applications, physics, and most importantly, prom. Here comes the snobby superiority and veteran nature of all seniors, and the impending panic at the folly of independence.

In my long days as a student (pampered and privileged), I've gotten into the habit of recording things. With what limited foresight I have, I can vaguely predict that in the future, I might want to remember what it was like to be young and seventeen (In no way is this a reference to a certain dancing queen. Shut up.)

So yeah. This blog will be a record of my senior year. I might branch off and do other posts, but ultimately, it's a personal blog. I'm not quite sure what to expect from it. Ah, but so it goes.

To the future graduate in 2015, what can I expect from you?