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.

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.

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!  

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.

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.

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.

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.