After my hour commute from the literary agency, I waved ‘hello’ to the halal cart man who had become an unexpected friend. He gave me some free snack fries. He treated me like a kid. Then I jotted something down that I stared at all night:

I want to always be known as a child. My faults expected. Free to change my mind and make myself the fool.

I looked back at my past posts, terrible. I read the word, “woman,” more often than I was comfortable with. The times I argued I was an adult, I was a child. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the fervor nor the interest to make my point. God, I’m losing my interest.

ph. by me

I’m not saying that New York has wrestled it from me. That the city’s trains hold the mourning and unfamiliarity has changed to dislike. But I have lost something. To make up for it, I throw post-its up on my ceiling, fridge, drawers. I remind myself, you’re still a person and even if you have nothing, you have your goals. The shocks of bright paper tell me I know who I am. Yet, on special days when I come up empty and my desires turn to smoke, the bit of child that does remain wonders what she’ll get for giving up– as if all must be fair.

And the dream has a pain in its heart

the wonders of which are manifold,

or so the story is told.

-James Tate/ 1943/ “Dream On”

ph. by Shakeisamu

After one discussion, an editor approached me and called me, “medieval.” He asked why I still believe in broad terms: fate, sacrifice, human power. “That’s superhero stuff,” he said. It made me think. I don’t have anything, if not the belief in my own significance—in carrying a role that no other persons could fill. The editor must have called to me not for an explanation of terms, but because he was surprised that my adulthood had been survived by such child-like hopes, dreams.

I feel my medieval understanding is often viewed as cynicism. I’m already dubbed “crazy” for not absorbing products and Internet memes. There’s a real danger in prolonging laughs from such elusive distractions: the satisfaction of one’s day, which in actuality ended without note or change. Then, I am this crazy for knowing the people around me have a far greater capacity than they allow themselves to see. Mostly dubbed so, for my look of disappointment when these individuals forgo such responsibility.

New York City

“It’s not enough,” was the first thing that came to mind. Half-year into 2011 and by luck, I’ve had the opportunity to work with: The Orange County Register, WongFu/afterschoolspecial, Gulf Stream/Entasis/TriQuarterly publications, over 10k twitter followers, first tattoo piece, Columbia MFA acceptance, Steppie/MaryLenore with Sylvia G Photography, comics site Critiques4Geeks, trek in Guatemala, and see the polished 7th chapter of my novel draft. I owed it to the goodness of my colleagues – for allowing me to dip into their projects, for assisting me with mine. Despite my gratitude (and to that of my body, harboring unknown energy for pursuit), I sat cross-legged on a patio chair in the garage and thought, all the things combined was not enough.

Guatemala (that’s me!)

The works didn’t satisfy my conception of accomplishment. I understood that I had yet to cement my existence. In other words, in my absence, there would be no greater or lesser number of people affected by my acts or my person. I wasn’t a part of a fundamental ideal – simply, I wasn’t doing enough. I had certainly enjoyed my last half-year, but I needed to yield more somehow. Hearing the humdrum of the garage-dryer and the last of my pillow cases tossing in the tin bin, I thought I sounded impatient. Impatient to be where I couldn’t be certain that I’ll go. Impatient to know the extent to which one can reap from this life. The last thought I had, peering into my brimming laundry basket, was that I could double, triple my output – and that I would have to.

South Korea

I wanted the lush sight to sink into my bones, the feeling that I could bound over the mountain edge into the black space. I must have been in a snow globe when the top cracked open, a whole set of capabilities and vigor widening my mind. Like I hit “empty bin” to the trash I didn’t know that held me back physically, mentally, psychologically, socially from fitting dreams/goals into a worth life. Sometimes, there are grave mounds on the mountainside, the old generations that sleep with one eye open. I smiled out of ego. The past and their spirits, the precursor staring wearily at the future generation that drives by on bald tires. The feared world they must have left. I wanted to make them proud.