Lingering Images from NYC and Boston

On the butter-yellow staircase at Poet’s House, I always take a moment to pause. The staircase leads on to a room I wish I had discovered earlier, with book nooks and wide tables overlooking the water. The building is in an unlikely spot down by Wall Street, and I got a chance to revisit only on my final day in NYC. At the tail end of two weeks of traveling, I was fried and needed somewhere to set down my overstuffed bags. There’s not much romance in NYC for me anymore, definitely not as much as when I left the Pacific Northwest 6 years ago. The energy tires me out rather than excites me. But the people who carve out space there still serve me a big helping of homesickness. I slept on their couches and took up their time, huffing through the grey labyrinth of city streets to meet for coffee, dinner, an event, or a stroll.

Snickerdoodles meant to be shaped like bears (from a cookie cutter courtesy of the Barnard Library!) ended up as balloons.

 
I got to Boston by pure luck. The bus manager let me get on the bus departing earlier and during the ride, by text message, I found out that my original bus broke down before leaving NYC. Boston is a place where folks I dearly love call home, and I regularly have to make a pilgrimage there. My clearest memories of my time spent there are very different than in bustling NYC. Rolling around on a black and white carpet well after programming hours, telling a close friend my abridged travel narrative. Making balloon bear cookies in my host’s well-equip kitchen (see photo above!).

You like to think you have some continuity in your decision-making, that it follows a thread which can be traced back. I think most of us make narratives of our experiences, not just the writers, and mine was that I left the Pacific Northwest – and this sounds bad – because it had little to offer me. I wanted to get far away so that I could find something “else out there,” and I don’t regret having done that. Even this return doesn’t feel prodigal. If I resonated with somewhere else, I would probably be living there. But what my younger self couldn’t see about Washington is now in view; I now feel like there are too many opportunities rather than too few. I am excited to put down roots and grow tall branches here. I am also excited to clear out old spaces and make a new home here. I’m just at the very beginning, but the path feels right.

Where in the World Is...?

Shaka - bracelets made out of shells, here shown in different stages of the cutting and carving process.

Currently, I’m in transit. I’m headed to New York to speak at the Muslim Protagonist conference at Columbia University. Just three weeks ago, I was in Dhaka living an entirely separate life. And for the interim it’s felt as if all of that melted away as soon as I left the landing strip.

Flying that long of a distance is really strange – your time perception gets messed up no matter how regularly they dim the lights and project a starscape up on the overhead bins. When I hit the airport in Dubai, the past 8 months already felt like an elaborate dream. And Dubai airport is not the place you go to get a grip on reality. I forced myself to sleep for the majority of the flight time – my special skill – but there was a painful few hours at the end of it where I couldn’t go into vampire mode. I sat there trying to imagine what going back to my childhood home would feel like after all these months (and even years) of being away.

I think the only thing that taught me is that it’s impossible to envision how you will feel in the future. I could easily picture the big kitchen island, but I couldn’t know how surreal it would feel to be there without my dad. How frustrated I would get when I didn’t know how to change the light fixtures; how many ghosts would creak up and down the hallways, making it impossible for me to go downstairs. The friends who I grew up with remarked on it instantly when they visited – the creeping emptiness now that my dad (and the cat) have moved south.

But that wasn’t apparent at first. When I landed at Seatac, it was just as if I had come home for another brief vacation. I still haven’t fully accepted that I will be living in Seattle full-time after coming back from NYC. I have barely processed how fast things have moved. In the past two weeks, I’ve accepted 2 part-time jobs, submitted several pieces, and hosted a writing workshop at Hugo House on writing complex characters of color. All while getting through the physical effects of too-rapidly moving through time and space.

I'm in transit, but looking forward to putting down roots. I'm here, but I don't yet own it. Ringing in my ears is the sound of the Homeland Security agent's voice as I entered the country: “Welcome home.”

Places to Leave

This week, I have a piece out in CultureStrike on transnational adoption. It’s a very personal piece and it took a lot of work to put together (thanks, Michelle!) so please give it a read. Now, back to the action.

A mala (floral necklace) made of red roses, orange and yellow accent flowers.

I’ve left a lot of places this month. Since I last wrote here, I’ve been living out of suitcases traveling to different family homes across Dhaka and across Bangladesh. New Year’s came and went. My father came and went. While he was here, we knit together his partner’s family and ours through a series of dinners and celebrations. Car ride after car ride after car ride – no wonder my stomach got upset and took me out of commission for a few days at the end!

It’s been a real honor to meet with so many new faces and travel to places I have not yet seen, but adjusting back to the quiet of everyday life has been its own delicious treat. I’ve been thinking (and reading) a lot about emotional labor and am working on a much larger piece chronicling some of those thoughts and feelings. But that’s all for later. For now, I leave you with some selected photos and images from my various trips.

My father (in a suit) and Raina (in a bright pink sari) seated and smiling with red and white malas.

Me and two friends laughing.

Meeting everyone in our Kushtia village - many people and children gathered around plastic chairs in our courtyard.

A bunch of mohish (water buffalo) on the shores of the Padma at Raita Ghat (a landing spot made by the British for boats to dock)

A kukur (dog) looking back at my camera as I take a picture of rice paddies in Noakhali.

Plants in red pots lined up against a wall at Noakhali Science and Technology University.

Two young children on stools looking deep in thought as they sit next to a pukur (pond) in Noakhali.

Got Ourselves a Bleeder

 

Street art on a closed sliding door; a painting of a monocle-wearing man's face whose beard is made of letters.

And now, a personal anecdote from my travel in Spain.

In Madrid, the streets are narrow and sidewalks accommodate one person, maybe two, at a time. It’s hot and you’re ill and wandering around. The perfect way to spend a vacation. For a moment, you stop to consult your GPS and that’s when it comes on. The nosebleed actually announces itself.

You can feel the blood sluice down your nasal passage, thick and warm. You turn your head skyward but it’s a little too late – several drops of blood escape onto your arm and the pavement. It’s fortunate that you’re wearing a rust-colored dress. You close your eyes and with one hand pinch your nose. With the other, you fumble for your bag. No tissues. Not even a crappy napkin from the coffee shop you’d just left. You don’t know any Spanish and can barely walk two steps without shooting blood out of your face. You resolve to pace back and forth ineffectually.

Someone taps your shoulder. “I saw you!” Suddenly there are a stack of paper towels in your hand. The shop across the street has a glass storefront window and the very kind woman inside has run across the street to help you. You can’t thank her enough, smiling through a mound of reddening paper.

You soak through all the towels in minutes.

Hurrying along the curling streets, you pass an older couple who tells you (in Spanish, with gestures) to go to a church nearby. She adds a lot of explanation that you can’t understand. You wander off in the direction of the church, but when you get there it is closed. A couple is standing in the doorway, looking a bit concerned as you approach. They point towards a bar across the square, but it also looks closed. Then you see the water spigot at the edge of a nearby playground.

The little kid who holds the lever for you is your new best friend. He gives you enough time to wash the blood off your arms and face before bounding away. You thank him with a thumbs up sign. You’ve never used the thumbs up as often as you have off of US soil. It’s not a universal symbol – not by a long shot – but people can deduce a lot from it. That you’re American, that you’re content with something, that you probably don’t speak their language… You have to throw away the towels you’ve been holding, but that means you’re back to square one. As you calculate the distance between your location and the metro, you’re worried the blood will come back.

Someone makes a noise and you turn around. The bearded man from the couple has come up to you with a half empty packet of tissues. You give another thumbs up sign.

“Broken?” he asks.

You smile, wondering if you should make up a story. “No, just dry.”

I’ve been processing some of the images and experiences I’ve had while traveling, and I’ve come to realize that I’m most inspired by the small moments. I’ve been dying to tell this story of my Epic Nosebleed, otherwise known as the day I made many temporary friends. I’ve been struggling with a less image-based piece of writing for a few days now and so it’s nice to return to something that’s a little more concrete.

Working Out My (International) Travel Stories

Traveling is a sensory overload.

I'm winding down on my international tour through Spain, France, Italy, Greece, and Turkey. In a few days, I'll be back with family in Bangladesh trying to build a whole 'nother life on the subcontinent (though I'm sure my compulsions -- book buying, tea drinking, and writing about people in public -- will still stay much the same).

Drawing of Athens as seen from Mt. Lycabettus -- my phone overheated and so I took out my pens and sketched till there was no more light (thankfully I have been carrying red, black, and blue ink pens!)

On this trip, I've been drawing more than writing, photographing more than drawing. And each medium is so different. Drawing resonates with my emotions more than my eye; photographs give me a realistic slice of scenery, but not the depth (emotionally or physically). Writing just feels stubborn. How do you portray the visual and emotional in one line? How do you honor the place while not essentializing/stereotyping it or its people? I've been caught in the trap of overgeneralizing in my early drafts -- trying to capture the details in a very general way. Thus it's been my self-appointed writing assignment these past few weeks to capture the feeling of a place rather than its contours. I'm starting with a place that's in my near memory from just a few days ago in Istanbul. Stay tuned for more.

P.S. I'm also including two drawings that I've done on this trip -- both from amazing places in Greece. These pictures are straight from the notebook, so apologies in advance for the weird angles (neither, after all, is a photographic representation!). I think that they do well to capture the emotional energy of those places.

Drawing of a pebble beach against cliffs and the Aegean sea on Agistri in Greece, using pen and colored pencil.

She wasn't pretty like women you'd see standing on pedestals in the museums with their elegant robes draped just-so. She had hair that wound around her square face and eyes so dark and vacant that in the dim light they appeared pupil-less, staring past you. I stooped to look at her. The carved line of her cheekbone cast a shadow across the dark water below. Her head was upside down and, a few meters away, another version lay tipped on its side.

We had wound around the corridors - past the wishing spot and down a set of slippery stairs - to greet her. I turned to look over my shoulder at a patch of unlit columns, catching a glimpse of some fish encircling them as another amateur photographer's flash went off. I inhaled and turned back to her, her stone expression lit up and darkened as people drifted by. Many just went for the picture, a single burst, then power-walked back onto the path. I lingered. Then the next wave of paying guests arrived.

I was reminded of how often I've heard her name: Medusa. Snake-haired and turning people to stone (hence why she's been placed upside down/on her side). When I had safely returned to the dry and well-lit cafe area, I became aware of my shallow breathing. I was surprised at how much the eeriness had affected me; many tourist attractions lose their power due to the onslaught of people and gimmicks. The Basilica Cistern, underground and filled with dark corners, retained its well.

From being here, I've come to know a basic history of historical architecture: cisterns supplied the Ottomans with water before they installed pipe systems. I've come to know that several ancient empires had a lot in common, including their pantheon of gods. I've come to know that the way a few people find out about this place is through Dan Brown's Inferno. It makes me curious about how we put together the parts and pieces of our knowledge - popular literature, high school history classes, signs in museums - and reminds me of how terribly limited my own knowledge is from these sources.

It's hard to stumble upon these things in an American life. You have to want to know, then move from there. A day later, I stumbled into an English language bookstore and took a shot.

You Can't Get Here by Walking: Traveling between Coasts

The prompt for this piece was an exercise that I did at the Indiana University Writer’s Conference this year with our poetry teacher, Gabrielle Calvocoressi. A fan of 3 or 4 pronged projects, she challenged us to write a letter that was also a map leading to (at the retreat) a cemetery to someone we’d not seen in a while. I figured it was the perfect way to write about my cross-country tour from New Mexico to Indiana, then Detroit, Toronto, and Chicago before getting back on a 2-day train trip to Seattle. Check it out!

Dear,

You don’t get here by walking. You start out on a relay race of buses, trains, and airplanes with squalling babies all aboard. By the time you arrive, you’ve stripped off all the expectations of this place – you aren’t that kind of person whose researched and planned every moment of their travel, though there are moments you wished you were. Having so recently left the cramped dark city, the red rock cliffs astound you. The open spaces flecked with turkeys and mousing cats make you tingle with delight. Today, your friend helped guide a horse off a busy two-lane highway before you went on your way. There is laughter when you and your friend slather yourselves in mud and parade from hot spring to hot spring, feeling cleansed and sleepy on the way home. Home. This is the first state you’ve felt like you could live right when you stepped foot in it; you’ve fallen in love with the sprawling western-style houses and everything coated in chili.

When are you getting here? You’ve just missed the shuttle. The airport is humid. You spend your time re-folding clothes in your bag on a cushioned bench. When are you getting here? You come upon the tiny town in less time than you thought and wander where there are no stoplights, looking for all the greasy food you can handle. When the classes start the next morning, it finally feels as if you’ve arrived – a solid 6-8 hours a day drawing doodles and weaving images into plain notebook paper. Who cares if they’re good? At least they’ve gotten there. When social interaction is too overwhelming, you disappear to watch Midwestern roller derby, but remember too late that small town buses don’t run at night. Then you find yourself walking two miles down a dark road in a town you’re unfamiliar with – a story you tell only after you’ve survived it.

Take a detour and read my piece about wandering the city of Detroit.

 

Landing in a new city across the border, your first instinct is to go to the cemetery. To the old jail-turned-health-center and the small farm across the way. You find ponds that inexplicably frighten you; places where you think they could easily dump a body. Something about the city tires you. You meet new friends and eat bad Indian food and try to stay out of the rain. Meet me at the Necropolis, you’d like to say.

This is the last stop. It’s taken you an overwhelming amount of time to get here – night trains and day trains all conveniently delayed. By the time you’ve reached your host, you’ve started to flash back to New York. This is a scene familiar to you: big buildings clustered downtown, tourists flocking to the park. You get stopped by Christian college folk conducting surveys. You and your host pull out books and discuss them one by one. The night before you leave, you take in a play about Muslim women and post-9/11 Islamophobia that brings tears to your eyes. Then it’s yet another rain storm and yet another train.

 

The world is flat until Montana. You catch a glimpse outside your window when you’re not sleeping or nose-deep in a book. No internet here, sometimes no cell signal either. Spending two days on a train makes your teeth go soft; you clench your fists at some of the conversations of your fellow passengers. But every once in a while they surprise you. The conservatively dressed Amish people who depart in a cluster midway through. The older Idaho farm consultant, burned red in the sun, who talks politics with you into the night. For someone used to speed, this is not the way to go. But though the mountains slow you down, they also whisper “welcome.”

Wandering the City of Detroit

Being on the road lesson #1: don't expect yourself to get as much done as you planned. I had this grand plan to write about each of the places I had visited right away, publishing a post a week, doing them all justice... alas. You'll just have to settle for my retrospective. We'll start where I just left:, Detroit. Eventually I'll get to San Diego, Arkansas, New Mexico, and Indiana. Now let's get moving!

I've been walking for days. Not having access to a car in the Motor City makes it pretty difficult to navigate the spread-out landscape. My pedometer cheerfully chirped out that I was a marathoner yesterday - a real neighborhood Olympian.

I've been taking a breather here to reflect and rest. I'd come from a writer's conference in Indiana that was jam-packed with inspiration but after a 5 days on a tight schedule and surviving on campus cafe salads, I needed something else. It's easier to sleep in when you don't feel like you'll miss out on some life-altering piece of information shared by your lecturer.

In my walking, I've seen a great swath of town. One one day, I went from Wayne State to John K. King warehouse of used books and back. Some pockets are going strong - the fancy coffee shops and pocket art galleries, the student areas with newly paved sidewalks - while others are a study in contrasts. Like the buildings downtown where, at one end of the block, you can order a $7 coffee drink and at the other stands a beautiful roped-off building with all its windows shattered. There's endless construction and demolition.

As a reader from afar, I romanticized Detroit for its arts and activism scene. Radical possibility rising from the collapsed heap of a capitalist ruin is an incredibly sexy metaphor. But, as I should come to expect, the lived reality is a lot more complicated. What I've loved here so far are the neighborhoods. Walking past houses where people say 'hello' from their porches. They have fancy brick turrets, most of them, even on the boarded up houses. I've loved going to free outdoor movies and participating in that DIY life with my host-friends. I'm privileged enough to see how the Motor City does Pride.

But I'm a little embarrassed to say that, of the five cities I've been to in the past two weeks, Detroit was the one I had the most expectations about. I didn't come with any plan other than to see what's here, but I did want this city to answer my question: what does it look like to build something new? And the answer I got was just another question, humbling and unexpected: what does it look like to live when no one's looking out for you?

The Wheel and the Hook

Passionate about ordinary things, like how ingredients become food – that detail was included in the winning story told at the Moth event I attended last week. The detail was in reference to the storyteller’s friend (the subject of their piece), and I felt a kinship because of that choice; I too am passionate about ordinary things.

The storyteller was actually a Barnard grad. It was some coincidence to walk into a bar in Portland and be identified immediately by this piece of my New York life. On top of that, the story they told was powerful and hit close to home. It seemed closer to fate than coincidence when this person who shared several of my identities got up and told a story about their days on campus that played on the theme of the night: ‘Save’. I wish that I could have snagged them afterward to thank them for telling it, but by then they had disappeared into the night.

Me trying to feed a carrot to a b&w fuzzy llama; I'm trying so hard to get them to like me.

I have been doing a bit of travel lately. Apart from moving back to Seattle from NYC, I have also been visiting friends in common and uncommon places. Several weeks ago, I went to visit my high school friend in Arkansas where he is now teaching. I feel like I’m still processing that brief trip; it was my first time to the South and to a town like Pine Bluff, where the urban decay is so visible. I felt in many ways that I was in the Land of Contradictions, so I’ve been thinking about how to write in a way that really honors that. I’m working on a (more polished) piece about it, so stay tuned.

Last week I was in Portland where my best friend from elementary school lives. We did our usual gallivanting – thrifted for butter dishes and books, saw that amazing Moth Storyslam, adopted a cat. We also went to #realOregon for a sheep to shawl festival that I got very excited about. I’m an avid knitter and also am interested in the political implications of knowing about how we get our clothes (knit and otherwise). I’d never been to a shearing, so watching a llama get its hair taken off was actually super interesting.

But perhaps the best part was seeing people spin yarn out of fiber using nothing more than drop spindle. For some reason I thought that you needed the big machinery of a loom in order to spin yarn, but it appears that for a more traditional practice you only need a funny looking little wheel on a hook. As my friend remarked, it really does make you think about all the effort that goes into making a garment by hand. Sure, we do have factories now and different processes are more automated, but there are still so many hands that go into making the things that we buy (much too cheaply for the labor, I might add).

I’ve been thinking a lot about things that we take for granted: clothes, food, safety. Coming back from the trip, I found myself reading Vandana Shiva’s Staying Alive and Googling restorative justice programs. I don’t yet have a clear picture of what I’ll do with all this information – for instance, even though I now possess a drop spindle, I doubt I’ll start making all my clothes by hand. But at the event, I felt humbled and encouraged by the storyteller’s rendering of their friend’s life. Through their use of language, they elevated the ordinary and left me chewing on ideas of how to do the same.

Some Last Words (on the BZF and Leaving NYC)

Spread of watch parts and descriptions of watchmaker industry.

I'm moving out of NYC, my home of the past six years, today. I'll be setting off for a wild and woolly adventure around the country and the globe (in case you weren't aware of my travel plans, take a look!). I'm going to be taking some time to seriously commit to my work as a writer and healer by first giving myself some well-deserved space and self-nourishment.

But that doesn't mean I haven't been feeling mixed about leaving! I feel like there's a lot that I could still do in NYC, the most recent example being with the Brooklyn Zine Fest response and aftermath. As an update: we donated a good chunk of money to the Audre Lorde Project by soliciting donations during the reinstated Black Lives Matter panel (which I heard went well, based on the Tweets!) and selling Black Women Matter zines via Underground Sketchbook. Several zinesters also donated their proceeds to the cause, which was fabulous. And there were plenty of folks who were interested in continuing the conversation about keeping DIY spaces accountable to POC voices - names/emails were collected and a brainstorming meeting is forthcoming (if you're interested in joining in, email nyczinegroup [at] gmail [dot] com for more info!).

Basically, a lot of energy went into responding. And I'm both grateful for and tired out by it.

Organizing people is not only a logistical challenge, but also emotionally taxing. No matter whether the motivation is a healthy rage or a deep care for someone, it takes a lot of energy. We only have to look to recent news, with unimaginable tragedies from the Nepal earthquake to the protests for Freddie Gray to see that people are putting in tons of emotional labor. And it shouldn't be made invisible. Though only a small drop in comparison, there were moments during this process of putting out a response to BZF, planning my other workshops, while packing where I just wanted to say 'I am a human being with feelings, and I need rest.'

I won't give you another Dispatch from Burnout Land, but I will say how excited I am that I get to choose this upcoming path and spend time to recalibrate. I articulated it best to a friend this week: the work is important, but in many ways I am the work. In the end, I can only change me. As with the nights (and afternoons) when I've crashed after a baby's been born, I must remind myself that sometimes nothing is more important than rest. Taking care of me and knowing my needs/wants help me provide better care to others.

My bags are packed or shipped, I've said many a heartfelt goodbye, and I fly out tonight. Grateful to the many people who have made my experience in NYC both wondrous and survivable, a place of possibility and grand design. Here's to leaving our comforts to see where we can land.

Other things that I've been super proud of recently are: 1) getting my article on the capitalism of jealousy published on BlackGirlDangerous and 2) hosting a really lovely zine workshop at the Brooklyn Museum this past weekend. Take a gander at the article and don't hesitate to Tweet me with your thoughts!

The Familiar Stranger

Who is the intimate stranger in your life? And what should you do when they reappear? A little creative non-fiction from my trip to the West coast and back.

I woke up on couches and beds all the way down the West coast. Road trips were sandwiched around my best friend's wedding - a few days in Seattle, a few in California, then back to Oregon to collect strange postcards and eat way too much rich food. On hard futons and under comforters dense with stuffing, I thought of the bed I had slept in as a child, now sporting faded leopard-print sheets and pillowcases.

In previous years, I spent as little time as possible at home. It felt like being caught in quicksand. I would hole up in coffee shops or run away to Portland, where my best friend lives, to escape. As another ex-patriate from Washington put it, "going home is like taking a sedative." But there's always a lingering question when we talk like this, making my stomach twist. What about our friends and families that still live here? Do they feel the same lethargy? Or is it just another part of home?

On the drive back to Portland from San Francisco, it began to sink in that I was leaving. My mind was already re-arranging itself into to-do lists. I felt the familiar stranger detaching from the shadows in my mind.
My best friend and I stopped off at a gas station in northern California and I picked out a book from a bag in the backseat.
"You can read this to me," I said. It was Jamaica Kincaid's Annie John.
We don't really get read to as adults. There is something intimate about it. You and the other person are both sharing literary discoveries at the same time - taking breaks and making small jokes as you go along. I think less about the content than the feelings of the story. I will remember that night as the one when my best friend read to me as our car hydroplaned on highways slick with rain.

When I wake up in New York City, flicking a cockroach off my shoulder, I still don't feel like the sluggishness has worn off. I think about how New York makes me feel like I'm behind on everything. I've taken to a vampiric sleep schedule, sleeping in too late and getting everything at night.
At the top of the stairs, there is a small child peering down at me, asking me why I'm still in bed. No matter how many times I try to explain, to make friends, they disappear when I sit up. I wonder if the sedative has worn off yet, or if it takes a few weeks. In the meantime, I find myself permanently in the blue glow of a computer screen, searching and searching for the next opportunity.

Why haven't you finished your list for today? The small child asks me, daring to come close to the end of my bed.
I ignore them, the dark cluster of shadows with slits for eyes.
Where are the groceries? Where is the end to your story?
They speak in a peevish voice, remaining always in the corner of my eye.
Why can't you listen to good advice?
I realize that this familiar stranger has been following me for quite a long time. I look up.
"I want to be better than ghosts," I say.
I begin to read my words out loud to the dark.

Heading Home!

Tomorrow, I will be embarking on my journey home to the United States. As such, there will be a hold on new written posts until a week from now (as I recover from jetlag and all the residual sadness of leaving. However! You can enjoy a series of photo posts from my trip for the next week, starting on Sunday. Tomorrow a quote, then a picture, then all the pictures of scenes I'll miss/I found interesting while living in Dhaka, Bangladesh for the last three months. Enjoy!

Travel for Writers: 5 Ways

Yet another list today, but this one a little more on the how-to side; having recently done a bit of travel, I feel it is mandatory to put up a post on the best ways to travel for a writer, from hyperlocal (really really hyperlocal) to global, travel can be just what you need to recharge your creative energy. Rather than continuing to sound like an infomercial, I present you with five ways to travel and their best practices:

Build with your ideas.

 

Bringing In the Rain: My Arrival in Dhaka

Last week, we landed in Dhaka, Bangladesh, an independent country to the east of India where my family originates from. It was a full 24 hours in transit - passing from Seattle to Chicago, Chicago to Abu Dhabi (UAE), and finally to Dhaka, which I must admit leaves you feeling a bit like you've stepped out of a time capsule. It is also, however, a very effective way to mark the transition from everyday life to summer. It is especially rejuvenating to be in a place that is semi-familiar, but also wholly different from my everyday experience in the United States. But, rather than talk about it from the outside, I'd like to instead share what I first wrote when I arrived here, a little personal essay about bringing in the rain:

Moving Day!

Today was my moving day, and tomorrow I am flying out to Seattle, so posting is on hold until Friday! Peace out, NYC!

Ready for Vacation? You Bet I Am!

I am going to be heading out to Seattle tomorrow in the wee hours of the morning - I hope it's a good uneventful flight that I can sleep on! Hello spring break!

In the meantime, check out some of my creative projects to bridge the gap.

Class Act

I have been fading in and out on this blog recently, but not without regret. In the past month or so, I've been trying to keep up with some strangled emotions - when my boyfriend left for Singapore, when I was hospitalized for respiratory problems, and when I (not two weeks later) had to uproot my life once more and move back to New York City. Needless to say, it's been a crazy time.
But I hope to commit myself more fully to my blog this school year, simply because I will be once again doing interesting things that are not so hard to talk about! Creative writing class and basic drawing alone should account for a lot of my miscellaneous adventures.
So enjoy this recap post and look forward to some more au courant posts in the near future!

Week of August 29th to September 4th:
- Moved back to NYC in 2 days. Much hunger and panic over household items ensued, but I love my apartment and I got to move in early so it wasn't totally insane
- Promptly became a Well Woman* at a week long training full of laughter and death by heat exhaustion at the Student Services Fair
- Survived the two biggest milestones of dorm living: getting locked out and killing a cockroach

- Went on a crazy Chinatown search for pho, found it, came back the next day and got TERRIBLE service (so that place is out)

- Had my roommate Liberty move in (yes, now it's official!)

*Well Woman is Barnard's wellness center; it consists of peer educators (like me!) and infinite resources for stress management, sex, and overall health

Week of September 5th to September 11th:
- Went to the Museum of Sex (quite an interesting experience)
- Found another pho place in Chinatown (much better service!), and hung out with Nina and Bradley
- Went back to class (Black lit, French, Perception [psych with lab], Drawing, and Fiction), went back to work (mail room and zine library), went back to having my head explode with buying groceries and expensive textbooks...

- Made a few excellent meals and then ate cauliflower mashed potatoes for the rest of them...

- Submitted my Extemporaneous Speaking Project zines to the Barnard library - check them out when you get a chance!

- Kept up with a continued version of my Outfits Photoshoot project - I call it: the Daily Outfit project!
- Bought art supplies downtown and had the handles of my portfolio break in the subway

- Wrote a draft of my blog post for Refuse the Silence!**

**I will now be blogging for Refuse the Silence, Awaaz, the Well Woman blog, and the Barnard Zine Library blog, so if you're interested in class/race privilege in liberal arts colleges, South Asian art and new, wellness topics, or zines, look me up!

Rollin' Rollin'...

I have returned to Seattle! And so have my boxes (finally).
I feel as if I am still in transition from New York to Seattle; I wouldn't say that I had major jet lag, but I definitely woke up at 6:30am everyday since I touched ground and am only now getting on to a reasonable 8am. The greatest adjustments are getting back to living with my parents, obviously, and having to find a new job and means of entertainment. A lot of people are still in school, so I mostly have to make my own way around here - it's all good though because I am definitely having a blast trying out new things and finding my own routine.

New To My Life:
1. Roller skating!
I became infatuated with roller derby, so I decided I would jump right into it this summer. I bought all my first-timer gear and started to practice skating again (even going to a PFM New Skater practice and getting my butt kicked!). I haven't done it since elementary school so I obviously need a lot more work, but that is what the summer is for! I hope that I will become comfortable enough on skates before I go back to NYC that I can start trying out for practice teams there - I seriously think that this form of exercise beats walking by a mile!

2. Working at ZAPP!
Yesterday, I started work at the zine library at Richard Hugo House, and it is pretty awesome. I get to hang around the zines all day and the work is pretty chill - I get to do the same things that I had done at the Barnard library and also work on my own zine (which I was going to do anyway, but this is a happy motivator). It was a great reunion feeling when I came back to Hugo House for the first time; I am thinking about taking a summer class there too if I have the time. This time it will be for one about editing novels, since I want to get my NaNo 2009 novel up and running.

3. Driving!
This isn't really a new one, but when you've come back from a land of public transportation, it sure feels new. I am not worried about my skills, but I definitely feel more shaky on the road these days...

4. Health and fitness transformation!
No, not a crash diet and some other craziness, but I am going to start making an effort to take care of myself again. I feel like when I was in the dorms, I let myself go in favor of hitting the books or some other stupid reason, so I have decided to regularize my routine, get a few new products, and start exercising [biking, swimming] in between my skating.

The rest of the updates are my typical over-planning: read books, write blogs, watch movies, go places, be awesome. Everything that keeps me entertained is sticking around, including the writing reviews and other updates. Consider this an atypical post as I adjust to my surroundings - content to come!

P.S.
There are new links at the Cool Links section! I added a lot - does that say something about my summer internet use? Check it out!