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 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.
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...
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We are slaves to attraction. These bonds keep the atoms that make up our corporeal bodies from disintegrating. It keeps us tethered to the earth, and it is what draws us to each other.
I believe who you find attractive isn't fixed, but I don't think you have any semblance of control over it. Everyone has a picture of their ideal partner in their heads, a composite of features that when realised is the manifestation of one's desires.
I've known that I'm gay for a long time, and I've had my fair share of guys to whom I found myself attracted. They were different guys of different backgrounds and ages, but in each case, attraction was instant, inevitable and undeniable.
As it is, attraction often leads to a violent, destructive event. Two bodies meet, one exerts a greater force of attraction than the other, they collide, resulting in the smaller, more fragile one being annihilated.
In the aftermath, you feel broken and the core of who you are has been fractured and ejected back into the atmosphere. You linger, vestiges of that same cataclysmic attraction still keeping you near, but at arms length from your destroyer. You exist but only as fragments, clouds of dust and sharp, jagged shards caught in his orbit.
All those years I've spent alone
building a tinder-dry
fortress of wood and twine
All it takes
Is one spark
From your fevered lips
To set me alight
And reduce me to ashes.
Coalescence
It will seem like eternity. Your shapeless form will seem like it's the only one you've ever known. But eventually, attraction will grow feeble either through the passage of time or perhaps through the awakening of other forces of attraction. You will drift away and escape. You may forget, or you may not, after all, you still bear the scars of that encounter.
Slowly, you begin to collect knowledge as you move through space and time. Your body will change, your mind will be an accretion of memory and experience, and you will grow. Soon, you will no longer feel disembodied. You will feel your bones within you, you will feel your breath return to your lungs.You will feel alive again.
And when you are ready, and only when you are ready, will you know attraction once again. You will feel its familiar pull towards a brightness whose countenance might stir fear in you. The fear of once again being broken and hollow. The fear of falling.
But even as you draw ever closer, feel that rush of air beneath you, your heart beating in your throat, a thought is kindled in your mind: this is what we do. We fall. We pick ourselves up again. And we learn.
This is Day 5.
(Hey, future husband. If you're reading this, this is where your head should be resting: beside mine.)
...is the start of a story that doesn't have a good ending. So I downloaded this dating app* last week and created a profile with a nice photo of myself (see below), and browsed the guys around my local area, not expecting much, because you know, Prince Charming isn't just going to be living a couple of blocks from you. No, that would be too easy.
I got a couple of invitations to hook-up but nothing that addressed what I wanted as stated on my profile. I intimated that I wanted "lasting connections, friendships or more" which a cheekily added "be a guy I knit for."
Nope, nothing. No bites. But, really, no worries. I'm realistic.
Field studies Most mobile dating apps these days come with location services as standard. This coupled with travelling on the train provides an interesting way to create a transect across Melbourne's suburbs to collect data about the guys that use these apps. I mean, did you know that the number of guys with washboard abs and/or lumbersexual beards increases with proximity to the city? There's a journal article to be written here somewhere. Could guys with washboard abs and/or lumbersexual beards please contact me? It's for research. Into the deep end I decided to be proactive about talking to guys and started messaging guys whom I found interesting. 'Interesting' for me isn't just about how the guy looks. If he hasn't put enough detail about himself in his bio, you already know what he's banking on to get noticed. Unfortunately, none of the guys replied to my messages. For me, honesty is my currency. I try to present my best self to people and attempt to be as upfront about my intentions with people I meet, whether in person or online. To be this honest makes you vulnerable, and for introverts such as myself, this is perhaps the hardest thing to do when meeting people. And I'll always, ALWAYS reply to a message, even the really odd ones. I really don't mind if you say that I'm not what you're looking for. In fact, I would prefer it. What I really don't appreciate is ambiguity or apathy. The internet can be a toxic place, there's no doubt about that. And you don't have to say hurtful things to someone to cause hurt. Ignoring them can be just as detrimental. It's often been said that if you wouldn't say something to someone face-to-face, then don't say it to them online. Likewise, if you were any kind of decent person, you wouldn't turn your back on a handshake extended to you in friendship. So what happened to those dating apps? I've deleted them off my phone. I decided that they were doing my head in. If that means that I've effectively nullified my chances of meeting someone through those channels, then so be it. I'm fairly certain the kind of guy I'm looking for, who has the same values as I do, who would treat people the same way as I would, wouldn't be there anyway. I think it's been a good decision.
Please be good to each other, guys. Day 4.
(And oh, yeah: I trimmed my beard. Behold: designer stubble.)
(*Actually, calling it a dating app is excessively generous. It's a hook-up app for gay guys, but it seems to be the predominant way to meet people these days.)
...but first
I feel like I need to apologise right now for spamming your Facebook and Instagram feeds with my mug. I've just realized that taking a selfie is one thing, and it's another to share it on your social media. It won't happen as often now, but if you still want to come along on my #takeabetterselfie journey, just come and read my blog; I'll share new selfies here. I'll get better at this, I promise.
Advice for the uninitiated
So, on Sunday morning, I woke up feeling crappy over the events of the days prior. Without thinking too much, the first thing I do is check my phone, and this article on Medium by Aanand Prasad about taking better selfies appeared on my Facebook feed, which I suppose provided me with just the impetus to embark on this whole thing.
Besides providing really useful tips on how to #takeabetterselfie, Aanand is pretty easy on the eyes and has an English accent to boot. Seriously, check out his Instagram for the selfies that made his cut. I could listen to him talk about his new washing machine all day.
Anyway, if you can tear your gaze away from his beautiful eyes, Aanand actually has some great tips to make your next selfie a success. Here are a few things I've learned from applying his tips:
One is rarely enough.
Chances are the first few shots you take will be shite. You'll be self-conscious and your face won't do what you want it to. Here's when most people will quit: the shot won't be right, you won't like the way you look, it puts you off taking selfies altogether.
Aanand says it usually takes him anywhere from 1-20 shots to get the one that makes the cut. Don't worry -- taking selfies is just like any other skill: the more you do it, the better you'll get. You'll know which angle you like being photographed, what kind of lighting suits your skin tone, etc.
I've been guilty of being impatient with the process, too. Just relax, allow yourself to experiment and you'll get the shot right.
Walk, don't run, into the light
This is key, guys. You'll most likely get the best selfies in indirect natural light. Too much can make you look pale and puffy. Aanand recommends starting off indoors, near a window. If you have blinds or any means to control the amount of light coming in, use it.
Try out different apps
I don't like the iPhone's native camera app. When you use the forward facing camera, it captures a mirror image of the photo you took. This isn't the way I see myself, which is a strange thing to say because the camera's just showing me how other people see me. The way I'm used to seeing myself is my image in a mirror, so I try and use apps that take photos the way I am used to seeing myself. I agree with Aanand's recommendation to use B612 [iOS/Android]. It has a bunch of nice filters too and its pretty easy to use. Instagram's great too, but I use it more as a sharing platform.
Thanks for sticking with me, guys.
Unfortunately, today's not been the best: a combination of being uplifted by new music (I just discovered Troye Sivan) and at the same time fueling the pyre of my yearning for well... everything I don't have (see again: Troye Sivan). Yep. :-/
Watch the video below. Feel your heart swell, etc. This is Day 3.
I've never been the gregarious type. When I get invited to parties (which is very seldom), I always, ALWAYS make friends with the host's pet first rather than the people invited. It should come as no surprise then that I'm a complete slouch when it comes to dating.
A photo posted by Wil Villareal (@watchwilwritewords) on
My generation (X) invented online dating, and it's here that I've found 99.99% of my dates with guys (I say 'dates', but really, I don't always mean 'dates', in the traditional movies-and-dinner kind of way). Gay.com, Manhunt, and more recently Grindr, Scruff and Jack'd are apps that you can download on your smartphone and you can start browsing the hundreds of guys around your local area (and the world)! With this kind of mobility, you'd think this would make things much easier, right? Guys pairing off left, right and centre. Unfortunately, this isn't the case, or at least it hasn't been in my case.
What's your 'type'?
Here's the thing: I know that everyone's got their own personal preference, their own set of characteristics that they look for in a potential partner. This is true regardless of sexuality: some guys like brunettes, some girls like guys who are taller than them, some people are into particular physical stereotypes. And that's okay.
When looking through dating profiles, I always key in on guys who seem to be liberal in their tastes in guys. And if I'm feeling confident enough to upload a photo, I do -- just so they know that I'm Asian. But even then, when a guy's profile says he's into Asian dudes, he might only be into a certain type of 'Asian'. But of course, there's plenty of us to choose from: Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Filipino, Indian all have physical archetypes.
Complex as this is, it gets even hairier when you consider that within gay subculture, there are quite specific 'types' that people identify with and base their attractions on: Bears (largish guys, almost always hairy), twinks (younger, slender guys), jocks (athletic, Adonis types), geeks ('smart' guys, glasses) etc.
It's like you have to pigeonhole yourself in order for someone to find you attractive. It's... in a word, demoralizing for someone such as me, who is the human equivalent of a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. *ahem* I mean, I'm not horribly unfit, but definitely not a jock, nor a twink. I'm definitely a geek of more than one stripe and proudly so, but even if you open identify with one section of the gay spectrum, doesn't mean that you automatically get a free pass if say, you found someone interested in dating an Asian man.
It's an easy path to thinking that no one finds you attractive when you don't get any messages expressing an interest in meeting or even chatting. Worse still is when you pluck up the courage to message someone and they don't even acknowledge you. Some guys argue that in this day and age and in the context specific to dating apps, it's more expedient to just ignore messages you receive from guys you don't find attractive rather than reply and give them a reason to believe that you're even a little bit interested. Many will say I should learn to expect this, to grow thicker skin, that "it's tough out there, kid!" I find it baffling that in search of emotional connection, we are told to divest ourselves of our capacity to feel when you experience rejection. Show vulnerability, but don't be surprised if you get hurt.
Right now, I'm on the train pondering this and wondering whether any of the three guys I messaged and never received responses from over the weekend thought this way, but it's just making me sadder.
This is Reason #2 why I'm trying to learn to #takeabetterselfie. Those three guys might have passed on me, but I'm not going to. This is Day 2.
I've never been one to like my photo taken. I've liked very few photos of me over the years; I've always detested how I looked in them, even as a child. It's mostly to do with my weight and the self-esteem issues that are inevitably tied to it. Sideview = double chin. Forget it. It ain't the Renaissance, kid. So not a lot of photos of me growing up, except those begrudgingly taken during family events.
So why start taking pictures of myself now? Especially when eschewing the technologically-mediated narcissism brought on by the cult of the selfie seems to be the more virtuous option?
Well, there are a couple of reasons:
Over the past few months, I've experienced a bit of a health crisis: I was diagnosed with a disfiguring skin condition, type-2 diabetes, and hypertension all in that short span of time. Needless to say, I've had to make drastic changes to the way I live, and it hasn't been easy. But I'm coping, and there has been some progress -- not as much as I would like, but slow and steady is better than none.
A photo posted by Wil Villareal (@watchwilwritewords) on
As a result of my physical frailties, I've been feeling emotionally vulnerable. My spinning and knitting have been keeping me buoyant which is for me is literally lifesaving. But late last week, it came to a point where things Just. Got. Harder. Admittedly, it's partly my fault for inviting the black dog in (again) but I'll talk about Reason #2 in the next post.
As many of you know, I'm gay. If you don't then, yeah, Wil's gay. It's not a big deal, I assure you. I just like men. And I like many other guys like me, I hope that one day I can share my life with someone who's just as crazy about me as I am about him. Maybe I'll even get to walk down the aisle, and for those of you who have shown me love and acceptance, I hope will all be there to share this experience with me.
Anyway, I'm not romantically involved with anyone at the moment. I haven't really had a significant other since my last long-term relationship ended... I want to say 2006 or '07? I can't really remember, and in any case, it's not really important. My former partner of 8 years is one of the most loyal and compassionate human beings I've ever had the fortune to know and is still one of my best friends. I still love him, and I hope I never fail to show him how much. He's a big part of why I'm trying to learn to #takeabetterselfie.
But yes, I'm single. And last week, with my emotional unease already high (thinking about Oliver Sack's death, the refugee crisis in Europe, general depression over the state of Australian political leadership, or lack thereof), I made the mistake of entertaining thoughts of the futility of trying to meet someone for a long-term relationship. What if I never get married? What if I never experience the joy of living a shared existence with someone? What if no one finds me attractive because of my weight/ethnicity/medical conditions? Will I ever be happy again?
The answer to all the questions, was predictably, 'no'. So far, I've been pretty good at talking myself down from these kinds of precipices before, which is probably why I've been generally okay with being by myself all this time. But last week was a little bit more difficult, and I couldn't prop myself back up. I needed something to remind myself that I was OK, am OK, and was going to be OK. I need to to affirm this to myself.
There are no real rules to convey affirmations to yourself: you can stand in front of a mirror, or lie in bed, or have your eyes closed on a crowded train. It doesn't matter; what matters is you let yourself hear what you need to hear to get you over that bump.
For me, I've decided to take selfies. And I'm going to try to be good at it. Taking a good selfie just says to me, "Hey. you look good today." or "You're totally dateable!" or simply, "Today was a good day. You should be proud of yourself."
For me, taking selfies isn't so much an exercise in narcissism. For me, it is an act of survival. I need to celebrate myself and the life I have every chance I get. I need to remind myself that I am complete, and I will make one lucky guy out there a great husband.
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.
