Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Long absences and homecomings

Where have I been?

Nowhere, really.  Those of you I see on a regular basis can attest to the fact that I haven't really gone away.  I've just been... quiet.  But I have been up to a few things.

More than a month ago, I attended the a queer craft group at Hares & Hyenas in Fitzroy and met some lovely craft-positive people.  The day itself was auspicious as it was National Coming Out Day (11th October), and this meeting would be my first time meeting people socially in the 'community' again.

This wasn't my first time 'coming out'.  The first time I did such a thing was a few years after I arrived in Australia.  I joined the Young & Gay group, a program run by the Victorian AIDS Council where guys my age could meet up and talk about relevant issues.  I wasn't sure where I plucked up the courage to join the group, given that I was still finding my feet then, still negotiating identities (Asian, new Australian, gay, etc.).  But as with all coming of age stories, my recollections of this initial foray is bittersweet for reasons I'll probably reveal in a future post.

The second time happened a few years after that, when I joined the Melbourne Spikers, a LGBTI social volleyball group.  I enjoyed attending the Tuesday sessions and improving my game until life got too busy and I had to stop.

Venturing into a bookstore -- a space where I would normally feel most comfortable, in part of a city considered to be one of Melbourne's so-called queer heartlands, one would think would be akin to a homecoming of sorts.  In a way, it was, but as with all homecomings, there is always a feeling of trepidation and uncertainty which leaves you wondering whether you really belong.

I'm not sure if I've found home in Melbourne.  I've certainly envisioned places where I've never been (yet) to be home, and this yearning to belong drives me to keep on seeking it out.

I do know what it feels like.  I know it's bound up in feelings of security and safety, of comfort and warmth.  It's a space where you are free to be yourself, to be alone with your thoughts. It's where you come to nest.  It is soft.  It is where sleep comes to you easily.  It is where your books gather dust.  It is where you share you meals.  It is where you heal, where you lick your wounds.  It is where you can stare at the ceiling, and see beyond it, the skies, the stars with clarity.  It is where you invite those you wish to share your life.

Do I feel at home in Melbourne?  Do I feel at home in Australia?  Yes, to a degree.  I have definitely set down roots here, and there are many things here for which I am grateful.  The friends I've made, my employment and my education, the fact that I can receive world-class medical care if me or my family needs it, the intellectual, psychological, social freedom this society affords.  I am privileged and blessed.  But do these make this place home?  I'm not sure.

In any case, I hope to be writing more often in the next few days.  It's really nice that a few of you have been asking about the blog, and when I was going to update it.  Thanks for reading, and for sticking around.


Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Sticking to the script

Well, this was never going to be easy, was it?  What's a journey without a few scrapes and stumbles, right? Nevertheless, I've decided to continue in spite of my doubts.  But I did have to pick up a few "power-ups" before continuing (that's basically, gamer-speak for finding things to shore up your confidence).

Again, I find myself revisiting the first ever Margaret Cho stand-up show I watched, all those years ago, on SBS, "The Notorious C.H.O.":

On her struggles with weight:
"What if this is it?  What if this is just what I look like, and nothing I do changes that? So, how much time would I save if I stopped taking that extra second every time I look at myself in the mirror to call myself a big fat fuck?  How much time would I save if I stopped taking that extra second every time I looked at a photograph of myself to cringe over how fat I look?  How much time would I save if I just let myself walk by a plate-glass window without sucking in my gut or throwing back my shoulders?"

On self-esteem and body image issues, for both gay men and women:
"As far as marriage for myself, I don't know.  I continue to love myself until I love another.  And I have self-esteem, which is pretty amazing 'cause I'm probably somebody who would necessarily have a lot of self-esteem as I am considered a minority.  And if you are a woman, if you are person of color, if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, if you are person of size, if you are a person of intelligence, if you are a person of integrity, then you are considered a minority in this world. And it's going to be really hard to find messages of self-love and support anywhere, especially in women's and gay men's culture.  It's all about how you have to look a certain way, or else you're worthless.  You know when you look in the mirror, and you think, "Ugh, I'm so fat", "I'm so old", "I'm so ugly": don't you know that that's not your authentic self?  But that is billions upon billions of dollars of advertising: magazines, movies, billboards, all geared to make you feel shitty about yourself so that you will take your hard earned money and spend it at the mall on turn-around cream that doesn't turn around shit."
When I posted last on my blog, voicing the negativity I felt about my appearance, my teacher, muse, fairy-godmother and friend, Charly commented and shared a similar experience she had in an acting class.  She wrote about our 'scripted' versus our 'unscripted' self, and how they come into conflict with each other.  Our scripted self is the posed one, the made-up and done-up self, the one that gets to choose the angle, the lighting, the filter: the self we see in selfies, whereas the unscripted self is the one caught in the moment, candidly, unassuming and unaware of being observed.  The tension between the scripted and unscripted self arises because we perceive them to be different, one more real than the other.  It's like being given two mirrors from which to see your reflection.  But the reflection that we see in each isn't two different people; they are different aspects of the same person.

Now, I'm not sure whether the way forward is to reconcile these two reflections, to somehow make their reflections identical.  We all can do things to change ourselves physically: diet, exercise, etc. But there are limits to how much we can change.  And it seems pointless and downright unhealthy to force yourself to conform to a particular physical type.

Perhaps a better way to look at it to see these two reflections as indispensable parts of yourself, with the scripted self reminding you are capable of being happy, of being proud of the decisions you've made, and the joy of knowing that there's just so much more to learn and experience in the world, while your unscripted self serves to keep yourself humble and grounded.  It exists to remind yourself that no matter how much we've transformed ourselves, we can always do better, and be better people.

For the time being, I don't I'm ready to go off book yet.  So for the time being, I'm sticking to the script.  I'll choose the angles, the lighting, the filters.  I'll choose how to see myself.

Here's me projecting a halo.
Day 18.

Monday, 5 October 2015

Harsh reflections

One thing I've learned with this whole blogging thing is that finding things to write about can sometimes be hard.  Sure, there might be legitimate reasons why this is true, but perhaps it's not that hard finding something to write about, it's just that we've run out of easy things to discuss in our writing.

Today, Rob and I went to the Gisborne Market which happens every first Sunday of the month to see what it's all about, but mostly to visit Cathy (of Cat & Sparrow Fibres) and Erica of Small Finds at their stall.

Now, I could go on about how beautiful a day it was (no, really -- it was a gorgeous day, although one could be forgiven for thinking that someone cancelled spring and we were already into the first week of summer), or how awesome the market was (there were tons of people, and so many amazing stalls, so much that I'd like to make going there a regular trip), or how much I am coming to like Gisborne (it is  a lovely place; I've only been once before with friends, and while the market really does transform the town, the charm of the place is quite evident.  Maybe I'd even like to move there some day).

All easy things to write about, right?

Well, that's not what I'm writing about today.  As it happens, some pictures and videos were taken today which made me confront the way I saw myself, and how I thought how other people saw me.  Rob very kindly shot a few photos and videos of Cathy and I spinning, all in good fun.

But when I first viewed them, it wasn't my spinning that I noticed.  Predictably, I saw my double chin, the unflattering folds around my waist, the scars up and down my arms (I thought, "My god, they are really noticeable.  You'd be blind not to notice them.  They must think I'm some kind of freak."), my general unkempt appearance and poor posture.  And now they're up on my Facebook in all their cringe-worthy glory.   Sigh.

I thought to myself, "This is why no one wants to be with you.  This is why you don't get asked out on dates.  This is why no one calls you back."

Admittedly, I was pretty harsh with the internal dialogue.  Actually, it wasn't so much a dialogue as a one-sided complete and utter put down sesh in my head.  And I've found that I'm terribly good at it.

Body image, for me, as it probably is for a lot of people, is such a pernicious issue, and I'll be the first to admit that I haven't really found a solution that has 'solved' it for me.  Affirmations get you part of the way there, but there comes a point where even the most receptive of minds will perceive them as cloyingly trite.  And if you think about it too much, you can get down on yourself because you're being down on yourself about such a petty and trivial thing like physical appearance -- some people have some real problems, goddammit.

It's a damn shame that I've let something so small affect me so much that taking another damn selfie is the last thing I want to do at the moment.  So for the time being, I'm covering all the mirrors.  I'm sorry.

Friday, 2 October 2015

Week in review

Gah.

I've been so slack with blogging, and for anyone out there following me, I'm so sorry.  I've not been entirely dormant.  Quite the opposite, really.  I'm currently on holidays until next Monday, and this week has just flew by.

Let's do a rundown:

Monday saw Robert and I meet up with a friend to attend a concert at Melba Hall.  They usually have lunchtime concerts there during the semester and that afternoon they featured three young cellists as part of the first ever Melbourne Cello Festival.  We then had a light lunch at Moonee Ponds afterwards.

On Tuesday, I visited the Handweavers & Spinners Guild in Carlton North to exchange a pot of dye which I bought last week, but already had some of at home.  I should really keep an inventory on my phone.  Then, later on the afternoon, I caught up with an old anthropology lecturer of mine at uni.  She's always been incredibly supportive of furthering my studies, but I've always struggled with pinning a topic down that would sustain my interests for the long haul.  We did discuss my 'journey' into handspinning and how it has become my tether to what matters to me most now.

Wednesday, I visited Cathy of Cat and Sparrow at her home and spent the entire afternoon just talking fibre.  I toured her working space, met her family and sweet fluffy Kira, and had the most sumptuous dinner.  It was amazing.  In exchange, I bought a S'mores pie for everyone to share.  Not too bad for a first attempt, methinks.












Thursday, I met up with my dear, dear friend Dr Lisa.  I've not seen her for so long and missed her terribly.  Life does get in the way of great friendships, but it was wonderful to pick up right where we left off.  We had awesome food at a cafe in Balaclava, a part of Melbourne I don't get to visit very often, but it's very hip with boutique self-serve yoghurt places, bespoke coffee roasters and cafes up and down the street.




I had a really nice mushroom burger with a couple of eggs in a rustic grain bun and some really tasty veggie chips on the side.  Dr Lisa had something equally healthy: smoked salmon salad with eggs and what I believe was a veggie croquette(?).









I had Pilates later that night which was a tad more challenging than last week, but ultimately very rewarding.

And to finish off the day, I had some of my friend Charly's special homemade Pecorino cheese with Yarra Valley truffles on my penne boscaiola.  I am very, very spoilt.











Today, Nev very kindly helped me pick up a wool picker I won off eBay in Ballarat.  I've always wanted one, and now my stash of alpaca fleeces doesn't look too daunting to process.  Here's my first cloud of alpaca which I dyed previously.


















What a full week!  I've not managed to take a lot of selfies to post, but I do like this one which I took today.



Day 17.

Monday, 28 September 2015

Field Day at Cranbourne!

The fibre-fun filled weekend continued today at the Cranbourne Public Hall!



This event was bigger and busier than the one in Pascoe Vale (which was super cozy).  Robert, my housemate, and I arrived to a frenzy of fluff and fibre.  There was a small petting zoo with rabbits, lambs, goats and chickens.  No photos, sadly, but I left wanting to raise a little clutch of Frizzle hens.

There was a sheep shearing demonstration (I don't know about you, but there's something about a guy who knows his way around a pair of shears that gets me all hot and bothered; LOL), a spinning bee in the centre of the room full of men and women with their wonderful spinning wheels, a fleece market, and a lamb on a lead in a diaper.

Rob and I had a good wander around, and we picked up some handmade soap from Jumbuk Julie.  I also got some felt squares from her for a not-so-secret felting project.  I hope to reveal a bit about this in the coming weeks.

Charly and Paul's exhibit seemed suspiciously fluffier than the day before (I think she may have elves visiting her at night doing her dyeing), but while I restrained myself yesterday, I did try to make a dent in her stock today.






I also bought a French Oak phang-style spindle with a lovely green crystal inlay from Paul.



I also managed to sneak a candid shot of Cathy, and while she may not like this particular photo, I think it's a lovely one regardless.  Cathy gave me a Night's Watch batt as a thank you for helping out yesterday (totally unnecessary, as I enjoyed myself a whole heap) but I wouldn't be a spinner worth my salt if I refused. Thank you for my lovely gift, Cathy!

I also met up again with Erin of Beer & Skittles, and snagged a set of braids of Optim from her.  I also met a few more exhibitors, one of whom piqued my interest in getting a Saori loom!

I'll share pictures of my 'haul' in another 4Things blog post next week.


I'm all caught up on posts, guys!  Day 16!

Saturday, 26 September 2015

Play Day at Pascoe Vale

I had an amazing day at the Spindle, Spin and Fibre Play Day with the lovely ladies of the Pascoe Vale Hand Spinners and Weavers Group and their guests.





I hadn't seen Charly and Paul McCafferty since the Bendigo Sheep and Wool show this year, and I always love catching up with them because you know, #relationshipgoals.  Charly also gave a wonderful demonstration of several hand-spinning tools and their cultural significance to a captive audience.




I also finally got to meet the lovely David Johnson and Imogen Stockton, the hands and minds behind Luxury Overdose.

But my partner in crime today was Cathy Johnson of Cat & Sparrow Fibres for an afternoon of rolag and batt making fun.  (I was going to insert our selfie here, but I may have neglected to save it -- sorry, Cathy!)

The generous Pascoe Vale ladies put on an amazing spread for tea which kept everyone's energy levels up for the whole day.  And yes, it was definitely worth that grueling climb from Pascoe Vale station up Gaffney Street.  Damn you, Google Maps, Y U NO SHOW ELEVATION???



All in all, I made a bunch of new friends who are as enthusiastic about our craft as I am.  We shared laughter and stories, exchanged ideas, and hopefully inspired each other to try out new things.  Fibre folk are truly the best folk.



Day 15.

4Things: a finished object, a book, new music and an old story

Some of you may know that I helped family friends at their food stall at the Singapura festival at Federation Square several weeks ago.  The proprietors are lovely people, and I wanted to do everything I could to help their business get a foothold here.  While I knew it was going to be a hard slog, I wanted to help.  What I didn't expect was to be paid for my time that day.  I was gobsmacked when they handed me an envelope of money (too much, in my opinion) for the work I put in.  I wanted to give it back but it would have appeared ungracious.




Instead, I made 'Auntie' a shawl to thank her.  I used some charcoal gray yarn I had in my stash which I was initially unsure of -- I wanted to her to have something more colourful.  But my judgement turned out to be sound when I not-so-slyly showed the shawl off to her earlier this week, and she remarked that neutral colours appealed to her the most.

The shawl is constructed simply: stockinette all the way through with increases/decreases on one side and a moss stitch spine.  I borrowed heavily from a favourite pattern: Nae in making this pattern up.  It's super cozy. And its wide.


When I was waiting to meet my date last Wednesday at Readings, I was lucky enough to snag myself a copy of Philip Pullman's Grimm Tales: For young and old from their famous Bargain Table.  Pullman, of course, is the author of the beloved His Dark Materials trilogy.

As much as I love fairy tales, I love subverting them even more which leads me to believe that I'll definitely enjoy Pullman's take on these stories.

















Earlier this week, this arrived in the mail:


It's a signed lithograph of the cover art of Troye Sivan's WILD EP, and it says it all about how I feel about him and his music. Today also marks the release of the second music video accompanying the second single off the EP.  I was bracing myself for the kick in the guts this video was going to deliver, and it doesn't disappoint.










Ouch.  And that little teaser at the end for part 3 is killing me.  KILLING. ME.

Finally, I also wanted to share another story with you.  It's a very short story, but I think it stands by itself: Today I saw...

Day 14.

Friday, 25 September 2015

Picking up where I left off

I'm unfortunately a couple of days behind on my posts (reasons for which are forthcoming), but I'll just have to make it up this weekend despite anticipating it to be rather a busy one.  I'll be attending the Spindle, Spin and Fibre Play Day hosted by the Pascoe Vale Hand Spinners and Weavers Group on Saturday, and on Sunday, I'll be trundling down to Cranbourne for the Sheep and Woolcraft Field Day hosted by the Black & Coloured Sheep Breeders Association of Australia .  It'll be my first time at either event so I'm looking forward to it!

Not counting

On Wednesday night I had another date, this time with a guy I met through RSVP.  I joined the site a couple of weeks ago and sent a few guys introductory messages.  It was mostly par for the course ('thanks, but no thanks' and a lot of no responses), but the gentleman I met yesterday was one of a few who replied.  We exchanged messages for a bit and met up at Brunetti's after work.

We had a lovely time getting to know each other, and I can definitely see a friendship growing between us as we have a lot of common ground.  He's rather shy and quiet, but it went better than expected given two introverts meeting for the first time. He loves the same food as I do, which is a plus. I've extended an open invitation to him to have lunch somewhere nice in the city which I hope he'll take up soon.  Whether anything else develops between us, only time will tell.

Building myself up

Last night, I went to my first proper Pilates class at a physio clinic close to home.  My instructor's awesome and attentive, and has a great way way of making me understand the movements and what I should be doing to achieve good form when doing them.  It's a small class with 4 other ladies, so I'm the odd one out, but I don't mind.

I don't think I did too badly; I felt pretty good afterwards but after dinner I promptly fell asleep which was a good thing. I don't really feel too sore this morning, something which I was eager to avoid. Now that I'm older, I don't think I can recover as quickly from physical exertion, low impact or not. 

I'm hoping to insert a 30-min stair machine set in my routine at least twice a  week at one of those 24hr gyms next (there are at least a couple at the town centre).  I think I like the idea of popping over at 11:30 at night, get a set in, and then going to Pancake Parlour as a reward for my hard work (please don't judge me).

Day 13.


Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Getting over the line

I'm not sure if you follow the Emmy Awards, but I couldn't help but pay attention this year because of this woman: Viola Davis


Davis, a Juilliard educated veteran of stage and screen won the award for the Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series.  She is the first black woman in the history of the awards to be honoured as such.  She is best known for her strong performances in Doubt (opposite the late Philip Seymour Hoffman and Meryl Streep) and the civil right period drama The Help (with another wonderful actress, Octavia Butler).  This award was given to her for her portrayal of Annalise Keating in the TV series, How to Get Away with Murder (HtGAwM).

Of course, Viola Davis' talent is indisputable; her work speaks for itself.  For her craftsmanship to be recognised in this way is not only fitting, it is also most certainly overdue.

She starts her acceptance speech by quoting African-American abolitionist Harriet Tubman:
"In my mind, I see a line. And over that line, I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line, but I can’t seem to get there no-how. I can't seem to get over that line."
She follows this with another statement, this time her own:  "The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity. You cannot win an Emmy for roles that are simply not there.” Indeed.  (I also love that she goes on to acknowledge Shonda Rimes, executive producer of HtGAwM, the fantastic Taraji P. Henson from Empire and Person of Interest, and equally talented Kerry Washington from Scandal).

Representation in media, in essence, visibility is still something that is being fought for on various fronts.  Whether its race, as comedienne Margaret Cho bemoaning the fact that she never saw Asian people on television in the clip below:


Or realistic depictions of the LGBTI community.  I've always struggled with identifying with gay characters on screen; they were primarily white, physically attractive men being portrayed by primarily white, physically attractive men.  Television series such as Queer as Folk comes to mind.  I felt torn between having to like it because it made strides in giving the community to which I belonged the visibility that we craved, and being dissatisfied with it because, as an Asian man, my membership to this community was somehow still veiled, or even worse, caricatured into stereotypes (e.g. 'ladyboys'; although one could argue that all the main characters in QaF were caricatures: the hypersexual Brian, the innocent Justin, the nerdy hero Michael whom were were supposed to be rooting for, the effeminate Emmett, and the socially inept Ted).


We can do better.  We need people who can write better stories for us, create better parts because we are coming to realise that visibility is not enough.  We also need clarity, a truthfulness about who we are.  Black, Latino, Asian, gay, transgender, Aboriginal, lesbian are all adjectives that we describe ourselves, but it is not what defines the sum of our being.

A bit late, but this is still technically Day 12.

Monday, 21 September 2015

Parting ways

So, my first foray into dating just ended yesterday.  We met up for coffee and decided to just remain friends.  The decision was (thankfully) mutual, and I can honestly say that this was probably the best of all possible outcomes.  I don't regret going on the date at all, and I've learned a lot about myself and how I carry myself in these situations.  I don't think I do too badly -- I can conjure up some charm if needed, and I can usually read signals pretty well.  I've learned that I'm a decent conversationalist, and that being attentive goes a long way.

I'm inserting a gratuitous shot of the Ferrero Rocher Waffle I had at the coffee shop because... reasons.


What I'm struggling with at the moment is answering the question, "How do you muster up the courage and energy to try again?"  I suppose it would have been worse if he or I wanted to continue dating, and the other didn't.  That would definitely be the harder situation to deal with, but I'm faced with the realization that I will most likely have to come up against this again EVERY SINGLE TIME  whenever dating doesn't work out.  Where do people find the energy to get back on the horse?

Pieces of me

Over the weekend, I reopened my Google Drive on a whim and rediscovered some old writing was still there.  I did a whole lot of writing maybe 3-4 years ago, when I was in the midst of my Honours thesis, mainly to distract my mind from the dry, academic writing.  They were mostly fiction (high/dark fantasy, magical realism) and some poetry -- heavily influenced by the usual suspects: Gaiman, King, Martin and a bit of Gabaldon, for good measure.

I reread some of them, and one of them really hit me quite hard.  I didn't expect that something I wrote would affect me so, but there I was: getting teary over a half-written piece about growing old with someone.

What I'd like to do is to share them here, as I found them, entirely unedited.  I'd love for you to all to have a read, and tell me what you think.  Let's see if I can make you cry.

Only Voices

Day 11.





Friday, 18 September 2015

Thought for food

There are many of us who struggle with weight, body image and eating disorders.  For me, I've always been conscious of how much weight I carry around, and whether people notice.  I've already mentioned that I don't really like my picture taken.  Back when film still needed to be sent to be developed (yes, I know I am ancient), I would cringe as I flipped through the photos.  All I'd notice was a double chin, chubby cheeks, a bulging waistline. It didn't matter that the photos were of happy family gatherings or what not.    It still didn't feel good.

I've always struggled with weight -- many of my family members have.  It's not really a surprise considering we love our food.  Family gatherings would be a buffet affair that would go on for hours.  I've never really had to face this until I was diagnosed with type-2 diabetes several months ago.  This kind of diabetes is strongly heritable, and as such, it was already in the cards for me.

I had to make changes not just to what I ate, but also how I ate.  Part of diabetes management involved making better eating choices such as limiting carbohydrate intake and eating smaller portions regularly.  This coupled with increased physical activity and medication is usually enough to manage the disease such that you are able to keep your blood glucose within normal ranges.

But more than these practical measures, I've found that listening to what my body was telling me was essential in making these changes more than any diet ever can or could.  Being aware of when I was hungry - real hunger (not the kind of impulse to eat when your brain is craving some sugary gratification because of stress or boredom), and more importantly, being aware of when to stop.

Myself, I'm not doing too badly.  I've been able to keep my blood glucose within an acceptable range, and starting my regular Pilates classes this week will no doubt help keep it in check as well.  But perhaps what I anticipated to be the hardest thing to do turned out to be the easiest: my fizzy drink addiction.

If you've ever eaten out with me, you know my meals inevitably always comes with a cola.  For a long time, it's a been a given; meals just seemed incomplete without a cold fizzy drink to chase it down.  It was an addiction, no doubt about it.  I used to drink a lot of it a day.  I won't say how much because looking back on it now it just seemed an obscene amount.

I'm pleased to say that on most days, I can go without drinking a single drop.  Nor have I replaced it with something else.  I've just gotten control over my consumption.  I don't have cravings, but nor do I deny myself some now and again.  I am thankful that I've not experienced any withdrawal symptoms or headaches as some people who have attempted to give up cola have reported.

What I suppose I'm touching on by writing about this today is how mindfulness has helped me treat my body better and in so doing manage my diabetes.  I'm not a big believer in diets.  Denying yourself this and that only weakens your resolve and makes you more likely to fall off the wagon.  The implications of such a fall are equally as damaging: it means you failed.  Plain and simple.  Do this any number of times growing up and it becomes self-perpetuating.  It seems paradoxical, but people who go on diets end up more likely to gain the weight back.  There has to be a better way.

Last night, I came across this TED talk by Sandra Aamodt, where she talks about why dieting doesn't work, relating it to her own experience as a young woman and her present career as a neuroscientist.  She talks about mindful eating, and I think she's onto something here.  It's worth a watch if you have time.


If you're into the idea of mindful eating, I'd love to hear from you.
And hey, I made it to Day 10!  


Thursday, 17 September 2015

This is normal

Date night

So, some of you may know I went on a date last night.  A normal one.

A mutual friend of ours introduced us, and after a conversation on the phone, we decided to meet for dinner at a restaurant just outside the city.  I won't detail what happened on the date, 'cause you know, I'm not that kind of guy, but I will say that I really enjoyed his company.  It dawned on me during one of the few moments of contented silence which peppered the evening how this sort of thing happens everyday.  Meeting someone new, sharing a meal, a glass of wine and just talking to a real person.  

I realise now that this is what I've been missing: your old common, garden-variety kind of normality. The kind of honest, unassuming kind of meeting devoid of pretense that says, "This is who I am.  I'm not perfect, but I like who I am, and I hope you'll take the chance to get to know me.  Perhaps, you'll like me, too."

Happily ever after?

I can understand why people would want something more than 'normal' though.  We all want to be the exception, the hero of the fairy-tale or  the object of the romantic lead's affection in the big screen adaptation of your life.  Bridget Jones, basically.

Yes, admit it: there's a little part of you that wishes, "If only that could happen to me."  After all, who wouldn't want to be able to tell their grandchildren the charming story of how they met.  How magical it was.  How it was love at first sight.  Kismet.  How unnaturally fortunate they were.

For all that these stories appear to promise, they tell very little of the life that follows.  'Happily ever after', as these stories would tidily end.  After the orchestral music fades and the credits have rolled, we are left to wonder if indeed whether this kind of happiness is guaranteed.

Normal, on the other hand, promises nothing.  It doesn't guarantee a happy ending, or ask you to hold to any vows.  All it gives you is a chance, and it's up to you to make the most of it.  And if you do, you'll have more than what you started with, and you'll be richer for simply knowing this.

Where to from here?

I'm not sure to be perfectly honest.  A second date is in the cards.  There's plenty of ground to cover, but he and I are going into this with eyes open.  No promises, no expectations.

Day 9.


Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Immune responses

Fools

On Friday night, I went to bed at a respectable hour as I had to attend a Pilates assessment the next day at 7AM.  It's a bad habit, but I usually check my Facebook feed at least once before going to bed, when someone I knew messaged me through Whatsapp, a mobile messaging program that I primarily use to stay in touch with friends.

This guy and I haven't seen each other in a while, and suffice it to say, we've certainly had our differences.  Yes, we physically intimate together which was pretty darn good, but we never could move get it past that point, despite indications that we were all systems go on the emotional side too.  (As it turns out, I was, but he wasn't).

Anyway, I usually ignore his messages or reply with an emoji, but tonight was different.  I didn't think I had anything to lose (I was wrong), so I asked him, "What went wrong with us?".

He replied and said it was his fault, and apologised.  This admission was the start of a lengthy conversation (which I will not detail here) which essentially ended in a mutually agreed resolution: that we would meet and catch up as friends, and see where that goes.

Over the weekend, we continued to chat -- friendly banter with subtle hints reasserting my interest in meeting up. I knew that he was busy with work so I didn't press for an immediate meet up.  But I thought at least he would try to at least have more time to talk once he got home.  Yesterday, I asked him if I could call him up that night.  "Just let me know when you're free," I said.

I guess he still isn't free because I've haven't heard a peep out of him since yesterday.

Giving the story away

I freely admit to being a romantic.  I see guys on the street, or on the tram, and I've already written several chapters in our sweeping love story stretching through several continents, where we get entangled in wild adventures and intrigues, but ultimately culminating in a quiet night's dinner of rice and curry in our little house on a hill.

Yes, it's that bad.

Which is why I had to give it up for a while.  I had a long stretch where I did away with being romantic or entertained romantic thoughts.  I even thought I forgot how to fall in love at one point.  I thought myself incapable of it.  Or to put it another way, immune to it.

But no one is immune to everything.  And no one is immune forever.  All it takes is a strain your system hasn't encountered before to weaken your defences and you're down for the count (again).  Which is probably why I thought it would be 'safe' to let this guy back into my life again.

"What went wrong with us?" I asked.  It looks like I got my answer.

Anyway, I'm gonna leave this [lyric] video right here.  At least Troye Sivan understands me.


This is Day 8.

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Breaking the thread



Last Sunday, I spun for the first time in over a week. Many of you who know me will know that this is an extraordinarily long time for me to go without spinning or crafting.  I'm not entirely certain why I didn't immerse myself in spinning when what I needed most during this time was the comfort it provides me. Instead, I avoided it.  It's hard for me to say now, but during those few days, spinning and knitting held very little meaning for me.

When you spin yarn, more often than not, you're aiming to achieve consistency throughout its length. A consistent single-ply yarn is the basis of a balanced plied yarn, and when you have a balanced yarn you're more likely to achieve a better result in your finished garment.

A lot of factors can affect the consistency of a handspun single: the fibre you're spinning, the wheel or spindle you're spinning on, how you have your wheel configured in terms of tension, drive, etc. When you're spinning, you're engaging your senses, training them to keep track of different sensory inputs: how much twist is going into the fibre, how much fibre you're making available to receive the twist, how fast the spun single is being drawn into the orifice.

Hand-spinning teaches you above all else to be present, to be in the now.

The problem was that I wasn't.

Slipping through my fingers

When you don't pay attention when spinning, one of the things that can go wrong is the fibre can be drawn in too quickly even before twist can enter it.  Without twist, it fails to gain structural integrity, individual fibers slip and slide past each other and eventually, it escapes through your fingers.

During that time, I wasn't present.  My mind was racing, pandering to every worry that filtered through, slowly building an extensive catalogue of what-if's.

Kierkegaard once said, "The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you'll never have," and this was certainly true for me.  I was reliving professional and personal disappointments and unrequited loves.  And once you start entertaining the notion that you've effectively doomed your future happiness by the choices you've made in the present, why would you even want to be here?

And so, sadness kept my away from spinning.  At least temporarily.  Perhaps I did not seek solace in it as I wanted to keep my craft untainted by this darkness. That perhaps by keeping it at arms length, I could preserve my refuge, and by extension, keep some wisp of hope of alive that would lead me back to safety, one day.

I'm still not sure if I'm completely present, but I think I'm getting there. I still find myself drifting in and out of dismal moods when disappointment overtakes.  But at least I am spinning again.  I am learning how to let the feeling return to my fingertips and get my hands moving.  I know that if I can just learn to feel the yarn come alive in my hands as I spin, it will be my tether to the now.  To the present.  

Day 7.


Monday, 14 September 2015

Getting under my skin.

In my first blogpost, I wrote a little about the health problems I've been having.  In today's post, I thought I'd write a little bit more about the most obvious one of them: my skin condition.

Gross anatomy

My mum tells me when I was an infant, I had a bad reaction to some formula and as a result, I developed sensitive skin.  I would put the intermittent appearance of rashes, spots and other blemishes as I was growing up down to this sensitivity, and for the most part, they would go away on their own.

About 18 months ago, new spots started appearing, but like always, I brushed it off as some sort of dermatitis.  They were extremely itchy, and I often found myself, unconsciously scratching at them, leaving deep craters in my skin (the medical term, I later found out, was my skin was excoriated because of the scratching).  They appeared across my chest, back, down my arms and some on my trunk, but the parts of my body that were most severely affected were my lower legs, around the shin.  They would appear as single lesions or as clusters, but always unbearably itchy.

They were quite obvious, and a constant source of embarrassment, and I often rehearsed explanations as to how I would explain my condition to people I met in case they'd ask.  "Oh, it's a skin allergy.  I get them really bad during summer/winter."  I would say it's dermatitis, psoriasis, or really bad acne, but really I didn't have a clue.  And for a long time, I ignored it.  I learned to hide it as much as I could, but it was difficult.  I'm usually very casual in my work attire: jeans and a Threadless tee is my basic template so the lesions on my arms were always visible to some degree.

What it isn't 

My biggest fear was that what I had was Kaposi's sarcoma (KS), a cancer commonly associated with HIV/AIDS.  I've always been circumspect about how I conduct myself sexually, but its never 100%. 

While my lesions looked for all the world like KS, I couldn't be sure until I sought help. So I did. My GP did a battery of tests which ruled out KS, but wasn't  able to definitively tell what it is. I was referred to a local dermatologist who  saw me and began treatment based on diagnosis of prurigo nodularis, basically "itchy spots" in Latin. Thanks for the obvious, medical science. 

When I first saw my dermatologist, he injected steroids all over my body to  provide immediate relief from the itching. While I felt like the human equivalent of a pincushion, I was grateful for the relief. I also took prednisolone, a glucocorticoid which acts as an anti-inflammatory. 

It helped a little bit, but wasn't able to resolve the worst of the lesions, and unfortunately, it also raised my blood sugar (which was bad news considering that I was already dealing with type-2 diabetes, but more on that another time).  When we didn't get much progress with prednisolone, my dermatologist eventually brought out the big guns and put me on cyclosporin, a drug commonly given to patients who have received organ transplants to prevent rejection, in addition to a preparation of 8% salicylic acid.

The good news is that I don't itch any more.  The scars are still very noticeable (you can see a bit of it on my shoulder in the photo), but fortunately, almost all of them have healed.  My shin area is still the most affected, but the skin is appears to be healing well there too.

Turn out the lights

Of course, there are implications to all this.  I'm all for full disclosure, especially when it comes to communicating to potential (sexual) partners.  And this is going to be those things that I'll have to explain if/when it comes to that.  I'm most concerned about them freaking out and rejecting me because of my skin condition.  There's no denying it's confronting, but will my explanation be enough?  Will they understand?  Are they going to be able to see past it?  I don't really know.  This is what I fear the most.

This is Day 6.