On my mind right now: Gum, and Positive Journaling

Writing in a journal is an act of catharsis -- that's what people say, anyway. The act of breathing physical qualities into opaque thoughts acts as an anodyne to the temporal quality of emotion -- in essence, recording, sharing, and copying hermetically seal our cogitations against the whims of short-term memory. But not all thoughts are meant to be preserved forever. Our literary canon is the .001% culled from a morass of raff ideas. Having written in a journal (almost) every day for the last 7 years, I can say that sometimes, instead of providing release, writing actually promotes rumination, and distends already toxic fixations. My counterattack has been to introduce a positivist bias into my writing, which I learned from popular tech blogger Jason Shen. It might promote a skewed perception of reality, but on those peaceful, reflective nights when I go back into the archives of my life, reading about the transient successes of my days sparks in me a renewed sense of purpose.

On July 12th, 2011, I wrote a diary entry for this blog, in what seems like an attempt to kill two birds with one stone. The first attempt was passable, but I'd like to revise it -- for content, for style -- and show you what half a year of rock-solid writing progress looks like. This took 1.5 hours, from 9 p.m. to 10:30 p.m., to write. Enjoy.

--

How pleasant it is -- quixotically pleasant -- to realize that the unalloyed act of chewing gum can make your day. Gum isn't pabulum; in fact, by inducing you to chew without having anything to swallow, it makes you even hungrier. Despite its prominent display space at the check-out counter, it exists on the fringes of my nutritive world -- which doesn't make sense, considering how much I enjoy it when I do chew it.

To put it colloquially, chewing gum makes me feel like a boss. Popping a Trident in my mouth before walking onto Ludlow Street for the F train is an act of sublimity. I can't explain why. Maybe it's nostalgia: growing up, the cool kids all chewed gum. Maybe it's science: the burst of flavor elicits excess serotonin. Or maybe it's as inane as: the act of chewing convinces me of a holier-than-thou multitasking status. I'm walking, and chewing gum -- what about you? Whatever the reason, I tend to chew with a smirk on my mouth.

The flavor doesn't matter. Peppermint, wintergreen, "cool mint" -- all of them are banally unobtrusive and wholly unmemorable in the scope of my Asian-American palate. At the same time, I've grown past the juvenile desire to experiment with shocking, slightly-artificial fruity flavors. The ideal sensation is more mature, more muted; one that, after the gum has already been discarded, leaves my mouth unregretful of the intimacy yoking together teeth, tongue, and gum. In fact, I rather enjoy gum that sours after all the flavor has been imbibed; it gives the act of ejection a competitive quality: don't be the amateur who coddles it past expiration.

There are downsides, of course. I've experienced numerous abortive attempts to jettison a piece that's lost all its flavor: sometimes, there's no trash can, and you can't place it on the underside of a chair (U.S. Embassy), or fold it inside a ripped-off nub of paper (SAT test), or just throw it onto  the curb (Singapore). Cue my resourcefulness: I've pushed it into a fold of my ear, wedged it underneath my tongue, molded it around a button on my shirt. Once, I tucked it into my pocket. When I tried retrieving it, the gum melted into a super-resin bond with a $20 bill. That situation took a while to fix.

The net benefit, though, is still overwhelmingly positive. But I can't chew it everyday. Its placebo effect is lost if gum turns into anymore more than a once-in-a-fortnight pick-me-up; as an easy, embarrassment-free avenue to temporarily boost my confidence, its effectiveness is tied to its scarcity. So for those who notice that the same desultorily cracked half-sheet of gum sitting on my bedside counter has been there for months, well, that's because each individual piece is, to me, a tab of felix felicis, waiting for its moment to shine.

--

Original post (888 words):

I bought gum for the first time in months this weekend. Trident. I've been popping one in my mouth before I leave for work every morning. I think having something to chew makes me feel more confident. Or maybe I've always associated chewing gum with being cool. It might have something to do with my inability to blow bubbles. The pieces of gum have exploded out of the case, so individual sticks are strewn over my desk. Next to all this is my Berkeley 2011 mug, with the names of everyone in our class. There were 2 names that nobody in BK'11 knew; I think one was a 18-year old math prodigy and the other was a transfer student. On the floor is my guitar, my cardboard signs that I tote with me when I play guitar, and 4 bags of trash. Today, when I came home at 10:30 p.m., I did not turn on the computer. Instead, I picked up my guitar. The Bm chord is finally coming easy to me. And while I haven't taken out the trash yet, my roommate's intense odor issues are a bigger problem. I spilled laundry detergent all over the trash a week ago and I think it's had a neutralizing effect on the odor.

My fingers had mad bad blisters last week, and the skin peeled all weekend, leaving me with raw, pink skin I was going to harden with even more guitar playing. Thankfully, I didn't play for 3 days, as I left my guitar up in Midtown, and my fingers are better right now. My head really, really throbs. I feel like I should take an Advil, except, I've never taken one in my life. Swear to god. Which reminds me, I need to drink more water, and I need to take my vitamins. I've always wanted to do an A/B test with my life to determine if eating vitamins actually improves some facet of my daily energy levels or interaction. I heard about the primal diet a day ago -- no carbs, only vegetables and meat. Eating like caveman did before. I think I talked about that with a bunch of people yesterday too. I still have two pieces of bread I haven't eaten.

I've taken to using a rubber banded, twice twisted, to hold all my important cards together, instead of using my bulky wallet. As in, I have my dorm ID card, my Yale ID card, my unlimited MetroCard, and a wad of cash just bundled up with a rubber band. It feels so much better in my pocket. I'm going to use it this way until I lose it, which I actually dont think I will. In fact, it actually feels safer this way, because I'm consciously more careful, there aren't as many pockets to hide in, and I have to put it in my front pocket, which prevents extra burglary.

I also signed up for Google+ last night. It's hard to get into it -- I tried to organize people into groups, but I got up to 23 people before I realized I don't care that much about categorizing my life into these buckets. At least not yet. Not enough people are on it at this point. I've been sleeping this summer like I've been sleeping last summer: I always get to bed much later than I plan to (I thought I was sleeping at 12 a.m.) and I fall asleep almost instantly. When the alarm goes off in the mornings, my roommate (on the weekends) turns it off, or I have to climb down and turn it off. I'm a little scared of falling off my perched bunk bed, but not really.

F*ck. My eyes hurt. Like I've been using them too much today. Or the computer monitor is too bright. I'm getting my Warby Parker glasses this week! No prescription, though, which means I'll be a fake hipster for now. Also realized that I'm alot more confident when I'm wearing bright clothing and those glasses. I saw a rat run by me on the subway stairs as I was walking up them. Ew. And I'm going to sit there and play guitar? Tomorrow is a big day: I start training for my new job (as a street fundraiser, I'll write about why later) and I have to run the powerpoint for the pre-sales meeting that my publishing company has. I'm responsible for clicking over, from slide to slide. Hey, at least it means that I'll be at the meeting. Lolz. The job really is a sinecure, at least until I move into Editorial, and who knows when that will be. Right now, I'm really excited about (a) brushing my teeth and (b) checking my email while brushing my teeth. Like Charles Z. said in an Econ seminar a year ago, Utility Monster! But in this case it's the Efficiency Monster. So crucial for days (and summers) like this one. I'm also excited for dinner tomorrow.

The lights have just been turned out by my roommate. I think it's time to go. Goodbye Moon. Goodbye, harsh truck sounds over the moon. Goodbye, taxi cab honking under the moon. Goodbye, cow over the moon. Goodbye. Good luck?

(Not edited at all. This was literally all stream of consciousness, 12:55 a.m. to 1:14 a.m.)

The View From a Hill

Inspiration: Eric Weinstein.

The View From a Hill

A mango turns soft
The hill grows grass and I
do not grow grass
I drop guacamole on my heel

A dress turns soft
My firm hand on her back
very Titanic hand
Handshake awkward when I make to leave

A mango is red
unripe spots sour and bleed
I once-sip soda
courageous in excess sugar

A dress is red
fabric measured and quartered
I see clearly and walk slowly
above potholes of speeding motors

A mango rises in the sky
the sky swallows my sighs and
carves wide lengths to wallow
A galaxy expands that might otherwise dust

A dress rises in the sky
collects deciduous light
My slouch is curved yellow
I am curved not yellow

A mango sits
the flesh turns fibers
to sweet orange soda or a round pothole
a Milky Way spread thick with hummus

A dress sits
on a damp plaid cushion
in the downward slope of the city
in the lantern scope of the city

A mango and a dress turn soft
A mango and a dress rise in the sky
A mango and a dress sit
not long or tough or not enough or not sweet enough, not perfect

Tasteless

is my bowl. A spicy sauce
floats on top, steam
glassed

noodles heap in sun
rays. No credit.
Cash.

Pucker and ladle
stems, beef,
chili

penance into
these lips and teeth,
salt

each bud, feed
me lemon
wilted.

protect
我, and bend, at the
waist,

of every day. Empty
the grit, dark
root dirt.

sate,
sake, spake, or would it
be enough

to just chew away, chew away.

The end of Peter Writes

You guys, you guys. I have important – and somber news – to announce. Today, November 8^th, 2011, one hundred forty-six days after this blog opened for business, its doors will close (though they may be left open just a crack so the winter winds can occasionally rearrange the papers). It’s been a good run: 150+ posts, 5,000+ unique visitors, 25,000+ page views, and an unexpected symbiosis and synergy with my offline life (missed connections and Simple Pickup, anyone?).

I started this blog to become a better writer. After 120,000 words – about how I learned to play guitar, my relationship with alcohol, Jasjit, Sleep No More, Love and Other Drugs, tipsy writing, subway stories, my Yale janitor, my first crush, a summer at a publishing company, my first Friday night in Manila, and an MLK essay – I have become a better writer. My voice is more self-assured, more nuanced. Big words ease into the prose, instead of sticking out. Transitions between ideas just flow better.

But my mantra of self-improvement, especially with regards to writing, is centered around change. When comfort sets in, so does complacency. It would be easy – and I’d be happy – writing 800 word posts daily about counter-intuitive insights and dramatic stories. But there's only so much the medium can convey. Quality clashes with quantity. Beholden to the blog, I don't have the flexibility to spend a day vomit drafting,  or crafting one great sentence. I could just publish whatever I accomplished, as a means of – you guessed it, accountability – but that seems like a lackluster compromise.

So I’m taking my writing offline. Accountability will have to be derived from within, but I’m looking forward to the challenge. It’s not like there are a dearth of projects: I’m attempting to write a novel (though I’m fast coming to realize that, holy shit, I don’t actually know anything about the world); I’m submitting non-fiction and personal essays to online publications; I’m a mercenary for an e-book publisher. I’m also dancing around poetry. I’m sure there will be more.

A month ago, I asked one of my favorite writers for advice. He took a look at my blog and responded, “Publishing a blog post every day is probably the exact opposite of what you should be doing. Instead, work on your best idea for a couple weeks, get it perfect and then send it out.” I couldn’t agree more. It’s a scaling up of priorities: I’m moving from daily posts to a few people to monthly posts for thousands. The inherent risk, of course, is that what I write won't be published anywhere, but that's the uncertainty built into the enterprise. Better get used to it. I wouldn’t give up this blogging experience for anything in the world, but now’s the time to move on.

Check back here every few weeks or so. I might continue to publish weekly updates, and maybe, when I’m inspired just to write, a short story or narrative of my past. And if you’re ever wondering what I’m doing, day-to-day, just email me!

Finally: a shout out to everyone who’s been a regular reader. You guys know who you are; thanks for the kind words and encouragement during this journey. Like I mentioned in my last Yale Daily News column, the world is wide, wide open. It's time to go exploring. Stay in touch,

-peter

Week 20 and Week 21: Marginalia and The Novel

Moments of clarity in life -- unblinking, elemental, mere momentary openings to pure consciousness -- often rise, unpremeditated, after the fallow yeast of experiences has had enough time to steep within itself. One such moment unfurled four days after I boarded a plane bound for Puerto Princesa, carrying a backpack containing Chekhov: Plays, four sets of clothes, my cell phone, a blue ballpoint pen, and my small Moleskine notebook. The situation: I had renounced my computer for a week, and, newly birthed into an environment without the weight of refreshing my online persona, I planned only to think, and then to write down those thoughts. It happened. I thought constantly: riding in a cramped van to El Nido, sitting on the sodden porch of our $3-a-night hotel room, balancing on the cramped seat of a motorcycle tricycle into the city, straddling the the rails of a rickety charter boat, walking down the bleached white sand of Helicopter Island. I observed; I questioned; I wondered.  The volcano of ants emerging from mounds of wet sand, the ersatz quality of local Gatorade, the indigo floral pattern on the dress of Art Cafe's most beautiful waitress, the translucent highlights of swaying moss growing on the undersides of river rock -- the details of the islands shook out some indelible truth out from my core, and while my emotion were bursting inchoate, I was convinced that scribbling it down would allow me to, after an indeterminate time, stumble upon those old words and thoughts after they had hardened into an unassailable truth about my world. After three days, my notes, scribbled in the margins of my Chekhov book -- words often in layers on top of each other, given my frequent night-time revelations -- looked, as an oeuvre, flighty and unfinished, the phrases antediluvian leaf pressings in a musty old book, thinned and dissolving with the passage of light and time. In the months since, I've tried categorizing them, and re-reading them, to stoke the kindle of revelation, but these questions, recollections, observations, well, all of them have become normal and affected, taken away from its original environment, as if the magic of the moment imparted from pen to paper had evaporated off the surface.

Except for one idea.

I'm going to write a novel. 

The idea first fomented when I was 6 years old, and wrote "Cosmo's Space Adventure." An intrepid space explorer on a time-warping, noble quest to save his parents, Cosmo needed to travel from Planet A through Planet Z, facing and surmounting challenges of increasing heft and complexity. The plot, as egregious as it seems now, was limpid and serene in my 6-year-old mind, an unapologetic romp through imagination and emotion. The story, on a Microsoft Word file, hasn't moved in 15 years; but the thought -- of having a story to tell, and wanting to tell it to the world -- has transformed, burgeoning and shrinking, competing for mind-share with the other ambitions and desires in my life. Writing, especially fiction, was a buried need, making spot appearances only when necessity called for it -- a final paper for a class, essentially -- and was never animated into a free-standing goal until I took my first fiction seminar, in my last semester in college.

Michael Cunningham, the 1999 Pulitzer Prize winner for his novel, The Hours, accepted me into his class knowing I'd never written fiction before in my life. I showed up as the oldest person and with the least experience -- reading and writing, most likely -- and proceeded to gorge myself on the fiction I'd been missing out on for 20 years. Virginia Woolf, Hemingway, James Joyce, Denis Johnson -- I was a virgin, initiated to the club. My first short story, "Beads," was an unmitigated disaster. My second short story, "Almost but Not Quite," was a more bearable attempt. Then the semester ended, and I strut into -- and past -- graduation sailing on an amateur cockiness about how artful a writer I was.

That cockiness is gone, dissipated long ago in the Manila sun, but on the fourth day of my vacation in Palawan, a redolent, gemmule triangle was sketched: a platoon of fiction knowledge, acquired and congealing in the last half-year; the flowering of latent resolve to become a writer; and, the last element in the trifecta, an idea. That idea is still a mere impression; an excogitation of the ideals that have surrounded my habits and actions for my entire time. It revolves, like an electron beholden to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, around the struggle between knowledge and social interaction; around the unquenchable vector of time, and around the mutability of living in a connected world. If this sounds vague, that's on purpose. Currently, without my own continental philosophy to drift upon, I'm simply going to take the advice of Haruki Murakami wrote: I have a single image in my head, which will take me away.

--

In Week 20, I spent 38 hours online: 13 hours and 9 minutes writing, and 13 hours and 11 minutes browsing the web. In Week 21, I spent 25 hours and 44 minutes online: writing for 12 hours and 55 minutes, and browsing for 4 hours and 22 minutes.

Here are some articles I think you’d like. Hopefully you will find one or two satisfactory. The 9 essential geek books; the top 10 moments in Full Tilt Poker; a comprehensive recap of Obama’s chances next year; this Aaron S.C. guy at Yale is a pretty good writer. The group behind the enlightened(?) mayhem? The birth of Jeff Bezos. Rebecca Taber and a story about war and love. I’m not sure if Foong is a great blogger or not. Steve Jobs’ commencement address. Amazon war stories. The future of punctuation is here, and it’s not pretty. Steve Bartman on NYT. Again on Yahoo Sports. How to get published by Jennifer Weiner. Stanford in 2009 beating USC. Music discovery sites: The Sixty One. New Yorker: How Steve Jobs took back Apple, and Truman Capote from the 1950s. And, I could have used this app while I was in LA on public transportation.

Epic Poem #1: The Sex Bear

One to read aloud to the kids. It rhymes, and I'm working on the iambic pentameter, via the verse form Onegin stanza. (Go Vikram Seth!) Dedicated to all those FOOT trips gearing up to go into the woods.

The Sex Bear

To introduce a story sweet and scary,

Enter Yale. The ides of summer, 2007,

Our hero is a wide-eyed freshman.

His name is Forest.

A high-school whiz: 10 APs, 10 clubs,

His love life, though, had been a flub.

So college – sans parents: new life,

midnight food runs, frats, and mixers

blue-ball redress, seduction’s elixir.

“Forget my roommates, the guys next door—

The girls will adore me, every floor!”

Loading his backpack, for FOOT

Forest waltzed in his day dreams,

Saccharine images stayed put.

He stepped through Phelps Gate September 1^st

Pots, pans. A make-shift band pounded

His ears, the shrieks, cacophonous bursts,

His heart turned weak, a tremendous first.

He saw neon shirts and bandanas

Stately Elm trees and soft crabgrass

And his leaders. “Hi, I'm Panda!

Senior in Morse, best college ever,

That’s what we all say—get used to that.”

His fellow FOOTies: normal, crazy, fine

Normal was Colin, Trevor, and Jay,

Crazy Steph, and Kira, let’s just say

Her tan legs, blonde hair, and ample,

Uh, personality, befit a dime.

The Appalachian was duress, inclined,

Boulders, nettles, iodine-sapped-time.

They worked on bear bags, tortillas with honey.

No phones, no watches, no need for money.

At night, fires, A-frames, eased their burden,

And Forest told stories, details dead certain,

Of his life, for example, 5^th grade gym,

Falling on his bottom, class guffawing him.

Colin bored, Steph still crazy, but Kira—

her honey eyes met Forest’s, and he saw an

I want you look. So midnight, snores sonorous,

They crept to Ender’s lake, flashlight in hand

In nothing but long johns, warm but porous.

Their lips touch fire, ears start roaring

With the scritch scritch of crickets’ wings.

Forest thinks: “I’m young, sexy. I’m soaring!”

This nighttime thing – his first college fling.

Buttons ripped off, the briar bush heaves

They stumble tree to tree, crunch dead leaves.

A hook comes undone, a B-cup dangles;

Kira’s wrists drop silly bands, all her jangles.

“Ohh, right there,” she groans to the clouds;

“Shhh,” whispers Forest. “You’re being too loud.”

The moment dawns, call to consummate

But, alas, they can’t see him, watching from above.

He’s hungry, grumpy, with a fiend gait.

So he pounces. And eats them whole.

The next morning, over a chocolate pan-cake

Colin yells out, “Kira, Forest! They’ve flaked!”

The search party fans out, distresses,

Until Panda, poor soul, discovers the messes.

Here’s a collarbone, here’s some muscle,

“That’s a distended eyeball,” says Steph.

“Little ones, what happened was no puzzle.”

(Says Panda.) “The two, at night, vamoosed,

Seedy intent, hormones too loose,

Unaware of villainy in these woods,

black/white morality, the gangsta’ hood.

Not Loch Ness, nor Decepticon awaited:

'Twas more cruel fated. Hardly prepared,

unaware, predated by—(wait for it)—the sex bear.”