Hear/Say

I never really thought that moving to Seattle would change much– I mean, I knew it would, but to think that my entire perspective on so many levels would engage with the exciting new place I have moved to… it wasn’t really in my mind. I was more thinking about how dumb it was going to be to make entirely new friends. In retrospect, of course it’s a strange freedom to “become a new person” or revert to who you actually are without the intense scrutinizing of people who think they can read your mind. It wasn’t so exciting for me; instead, I spent three weeks at the ESL table because that was where I could sit unnoticed. Where I could fit in; but not really, because most of the girls who sat there were Japanese anyway.

Angst aside, to think of the place I *used* to live– well, it’s mind-blowing to ponder an alternate future if I had stayed. The western suburbs of the “Greater Chicago Area”: where the farmland stretches on, the corn is ten cents, and the only thing greater than finally getting a car so you could actually do something outside of the house is… well, God. If you think of the ultimate boredom of “white/American” normality, Wheaton/Glen Ellyn is it.

And I didn’t live there all my life; before that, I lived in Springfield, Illinois. You’d think, being the hometown of Abraham Lincoln, and the capital of the great state of Illinois would be more than it is. It’s not. I remember the tiny apartment in my very early years… it’s like a dream… the ugly carpet, the bunk beds, the small backyard. The fact that I would always shut my eyes and wish my mom would turn left, towards the supermarket and the mall, so I wouldn’t die of boredom at home… and I faintly remember the phase I went through where I celebrated the word “bastard” and sang it all over town (my parents had no idea what it meant). I remember Rachael, my doll that closed her eyes when you lay her down, and how infuriating she used to be because she was so blonde, blue-eyed, and helpless. Whatever, she was my best friend.

I’m getting carried away, though: the one legacy in Springfield in which I revel in is Mr. Eggroll.

via flickr plasticfootball

Mr. Eggroll is the Chinese take-out restaurant my dad and my uncle opened– they designed the building (my uncle’s an architect), built the building themselves, and ran the place. I remember the yellow booths, and my dad teetering on the tallest ladder while he painted a giant mural of– well, the female Buddha.

They used to sell fried pineapples. Those were my fave. And the dessert was jello that looked like the Italian flag, with red, white, and green layers. The sign “Mr. Eggroll” that decorates the top tier of the building is mirrored. Funnily enough, I don’t remember eating anything other than the fried pineapples and the jello because my mom never worked. The building is still there, and the inhabitants consider it slightly historical because of it’s unusual and iconic design (I coincidentally ran into people who grew up there at a hostel in New York City who told me this). Now, my dad is in Taipei, Taiwan, and he has quite the noodle shop. We ate there all summer; there are tons of noodle dishes– lo mein, chow mein, noodle soup, different kinds of noodle soup, different kinds of noodles… and fried rice, congee, as well as other regular side dishes.

Even at a meager 22, Illinois feels like another lifetime. Having snow in November feels like another lifetime. White Christmases, and the flat land under the huge flat sky… I’ll probably visit soon. Tina’s starting her M.B.A at UC there. I wish I could have a reason to visit Springfield again, but that past will probably stay behind me.

Graceee

I hesitate to see myself

In the world that appears before me

Where lunch breaks rule the social life

And suits are bought to adorn me

This is what I think I must do,

As I rewrite a resume—is it true?

Will my closet become a palette of grey?

Will 5 o’clock be the end of my day?

Would I be one to giggle and pose

For a man to come along and propose?

I think not, at first, for if it were so—

I would blindly let these questions go.

But “knowing thyself” is bullshit advice,

Change is change and it comes at a price.

Who knows what values stand up today,

If it were tomorrow, would I say

The same thing once again, for sure?

Who knows what histories could occur?

Have they who live in suburbs wished

A quiet life like that they own,

Where should and shant’s are clearly drawn,

Like the fences that separate green lawns,

Where busywork tends to the green green grass,

And spontaneity withers into the past?

Where responsibility and should’s trump their dreams,

Where weariness over petty things has dulled life’s gleam?

Will I be obsessed with money, come and go?

And values of stocks going to and fro?

Numbers on a screen, a wealth machine?

Is that what my life will come to mean?

And with those in thought, I dot my I’s

Adjust the margins, hold in my sighs,

Submit the few words that attempt to be who I am,

And secretly wish I don’t give a damn.

Graceee

I daydream about ridiculous ideas, like how life naked would be better or worse.
I’m still not sure about that one.
I also wonder whether I am an intro– or extro– vert; I love company, but I get tired of them so easily, or bored. I’ve refused to go hang out with le fam today, so the punishment is starvation (it isn’t, but I’m too lazy to go to the ATM by myself). Which brings me back to the first point: if i were alone, I probably wouldn’t be so lazy in feeding my appetite, and I would have the option to hang out naked. I’m not saying I would (I’m leaning toward clothing right now) but the fact that my options to do what I want is restricted drives me nutso.
This is all irrelevant. I’m posting some stuff in my sketchbook that I’ve done this past month and some here in Taiwan.

The first time I play with the new pencils, my drawing is literally retarded:

Saucier:

I was in such a bad mood once that I started drawing everyone in the cafe as devils…

I drew a picture of me holding Sultan, the kitten I had for a month:

Playing with markers…

…and some doodles…

Graceee

My brother Michael has a blog. He isn’t really an avid blogger, but sometimes he’s forced to post… his writing is mostly hilarious:

Hello. You may not remember this, but insideperspectives is a blog made by Tina Yang’s or Grace Yang’s younger brother. If you have subscribed to this and think this is spam, then shame on you.

Click HERE to check it out.

Graceee

…or just six. Done yesterday, during the doldrums of Saturday evening.

http://gracie.imagekind.com

Antlered Angst

Lightness

Print me

Sweet Nothings

Dandy

Flying pigs need flying slop

Better pix can be found HERE, at my gallery.

And now for homework!

Graceee

My mother. !

My mom reheats this chicken soup for me; but I look in the pot, and it looks like two mangled parts of a fish are floating on the oily golden broth. Exclamation (me): WHAT IS THAT; followed by her “Oh, that’s just black chicken.”

I start freaking out about why the hell it’s black, and she soaks in my distress and calmly says

“It doesn’t matter. It’s like how people are black; it doesn’t matter.”

Astounded. Trying to decide if it’s offensive.

Graceee

Consciousness is simply a snap of electricity!

But look-see-here, some consciousness of Greece I saved just for you… sketches, a rough amateur poem… the rest of my thoughts lay in kebabs and a smartcar.

gracie.imagekind.com Red Beach, Santorini

gracie.imagekind.com Rock isle on Kamari black beach

gracie.imagekind.com Kamari beach cliff

gracie.imagekind.com Poem sketch poem

 Can’t wait for the next shock of inspiration I might have… spring-time sprouts laziness in my brain and pushes out all brain functions through my ears.

Graceee

I’m totally going to Rome in like, 9 hours.

Filthy sik.

I will try very hard not to look like this

To my dear family and roommates: do not fear, for I have tattooed my face into the insides of your eyelids. You will never forget the asymmetry of my face.

To my dear friends and/or co-workers: I will return 100 fold stronger and greater than ever before; but also 100 times as merciful. Be excited. Be wary. But be excited.

To my facebook friends: I will be deleting some of you soon. 2010 calls for a purge.

To Elliott Smith, Michael Cera, endearingly awkward darlings, and Seattle:  I love you–! Marry me!

Love,

Gracious

PS: keep u posted

Oh cute

TWOOO THOUSAND NINE was FINE. It grew on me, like a case of eggs had blown up and the egg whites congealed in a half-cooked mess, seeping into the nooks and crannies of cold, wet pavement.

I’m the cold wet pavement.

I say it’s interesting that the idea of  a new start is needed to drastically improve oneself. We need an institutionalized deep breath (time, a holiday to celebrate the progression of time) in order to take a step back and view our lives in this layer of light. This makes everything so much easier in terms of socializing on New Years. Everyone is resolved to be nicer, and a better person. Wait, unless they’re busy getting wasted.

I usually don’t have any resolutions (I used to be that snot-face that went around going Uggghh, It doesn’t matter, looooooosers), because I’m already neurotically thinking of ways I suck everyday. I really need to stop mumbling. I need to stop being so judgemental. I need to cut back on hedonistic pleasures. I need to stop pestering. I need to read more, I need to stop being so lazy, more pro-active… why am I so whiny, and inconsistent, I need to have more conviction, dedication, perseverence, patience… just thinking about what I “should” do is ironically discouraging.

SORT OF LIKE STUDYING FOR FINALS.

But enough of that. I have a shower to enjoy before I make a nest of spoon-fed knowledge.

GUH

RASHE

US