taylorwritesaboutthings

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

something

I am at last

in some tide, or air traffic

at least

in something, incomprehensible

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

secret beach date

W paid one dollar to the bartender and couldn’t find the white ball. Borrowing the one on the adjacent table, the bartender threw it into a corner socket, hitting the other which was stuck inside and both rolled down to the bottom. W kept glancing at me as he circled the table, and I kept smiling awkwardly. I told him I wasn’t used to such staring, but he replied with an unfortunately non-romantic excuse, that he was unsure I was having a good time. Apparently my smile seemed defeated and uncertain, afterall, I was not succeeding at the game and I didn’t know what to talk about. At first I’d just stare at the ball long enough for him to help me, being indecisive and self-conscious. He told me to have just “a moment of focus” , and helped me choose which shots to attempt. But soon, he was on his last ball, and repeatedly couldn’t get it in, and grew quiet. I focused on making decisions for myself again, slowly ending up clearing the table. After I’d got the 8-ball in, I told him how it all made sense, my character - you think I’m losing, don’t know what I’m doing, and need advice, but gradually, you see how my actions come together and sometimes surprise you and myself. 

I’m certain it meant something about him too. On the shore, W ventured out into the water - regardless of the stingray warning. I didn’t have swim shorts on. I stayed in a small circle of an area, picking up sand and clams with my feet. 

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Based on Will Toledo’s Advice

Basically, be genuine, and forget about what the audience wants.

How am I supposed to live like this? Myself & my art are so polluted by everything around me; my emotions are easily tipped over by you or lack of you; I think I’m the sh then I feel like sh, as predicted in proverbs and history. I can only seem to write half-ass poetry. When I’m actually trying, well, I don’t like it. I can only be here, and write this, right now there is no future I have no future, I tried looking for it but it didn’t respond. Just sent me automated rejection emails. That’s life ! I was never raised to have a life like this, everything was so easy, given, free - love, food, house, forgiveness, acceptance

I am demonstrating that a stable house doesn’t mean all house-dwelling-people are stable. It’s a logical fallacy. I’m an extreme home-body, while my siblings have to go to beaches or banks or practice. I guess I’m practicing retirement? Why did no one influence me enough to break things? I can only be polluted by what is around me - classic literature, too much fruit, extremely bright days, people quietly studying or stuck online. Oh YES, I’m NOT in tranquil paradise! I’m too local in the golden state, trapped on this side of the bridge!

What have I done ? (it’s hard for me to tell without comparing)

I have only just discovered how I enjoy writing (about myself, mostly) Previously I was a bare minimum worker. Just enough for no one to judge me, or admire me With all my time - what did I do ? I have no idea ! Child me would stare off, think about crushes, feel ashamed about crushes ( ever since the computer chat and curious parent incident of 2003), stare at bugs, do ballet. Now I sound like my sentimental roommate. Perhaps I also wish my past versions were accessible to me now.

How do I want to live ? I was more naive but also more faithful, honest. Being honest with myself is almost as mind bending as 1984 doublethink.  Now I need to leave this chair and this rant.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

writing at home

My story is underway, but I often feel as though I’m making a stop motion animation with the minimal amount of progress I achieve, and whatever I do write is a flimsy representation of the plot I’m trying to carve out. Working on my personal statement isn’t any easier, in fact I find it more difficult because I’ve never really enjoyed explaining why I do things. I just want to do things, and let people grasp some understanding of me through observing my work, like a true ego-centric artist. Honestly though, while their impression of me may be vague, how much closer are they really to knowing who I am by me fictionalizing myself through a document? I guess it does represent me in certain ways, that they may never realize - I am continuously editing it and cutting things out and crying over it, a reflection of how I change my opinion all the time, my emotions are attached and detached to ideas constantly, and I’m incredibly insecure.

Application essays have always been painful to me though. Applying for college was the most stressful time of my life, and was both physically and mentally taxing upon me. Digging into my intentions and translating them into essays that I felt properly represented myself, on my best days, and amplified every possible amazing thing I’d done, felt like constructing the grandest lie over the course of 3 months.

Yet I’m the one voluntarily torturing myself this time, perhaps because of some work-obsessive drug they gave me at RISD. It’s even clearer to me now how much productivity and workaholism is esteemed among artists, but I am grateful for it more often than not. I’m definitely not as busy as when I was in school, but I am urged on to complete something each day. The downside is, when I don’t sense any completion, the days pile up and feel superfluous.

And now, a positive conclusion. I’ve discovered several things about my main character that would only be possible by my constant rereading and rewording. I’ve sent out an early first chapter to a dear friend. As much as I want to apply for grad school this year, I understand that it’s not my only chance; having more experiences beforehand could benefit me. I don’t have to go to school - I simply want to place myself in another crazy environment like RISD to see what I’ll turn into next. So we’ll see.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

My opinion on dresses

Of all things to wear, I have always been attracted to the simple beauty of wearing a dress. A dress can be suitable for nearly any occasion, any weather, any expression, and if you choose a comfortable one, you may just wear it all the time. When I was young, my mom would take me shopping to find dresses that I could wear for my cotillion class, and for my everyday ease, yet we’d rarely come upon a suitable one. We’d scour the displays and racks, ending up empty so many times I thought the sense of defeat was natural while shopping. I preferred modest yet contemporary styles, high-quality fabric, and a comfortable fit. There was a scarcity of this combination, especially because the trends veered off to cuts that exposed as much skin as possible, many girls’ styles were made with cheap material, and sizes didn’t accommodate my small frame.

Today, I have discovered that this vacancy is slowly being filled, as high end brands are drawn to more traditional, or woman-friendly dresses of the 30′s-50’s, when a dress was all a woman would wear. I was genuinely filled with joy when I walked into a store for ---, finding beautifully long gowns, each crafted with a sense of integrity and intention for use. With a walk around a more budget-friendly store, such as --, it is apparent that these influences are seeping in. There are flowing lengths and retro patterns, working or lounging woman friendly. I hope they will continue to spread and diversify. If so, young girls will not need to resort to jeans or fast fashion all the time. I hope this is a forecast of carefully made wardrobes for frustrated girls who might be as particular as I was (and am).

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

The resulting transportation

This is a long conclusion. 

We missed our bus back to Providence, and had to negotiate a transfer to a bus going to Boston, which we discovered is not easy. Luckily, the Greyhound representative was a pinnacle of customer service, helping everyone sort out their issues and save whatever money they could. He got us a bus that would arrive in Boston at 9PM, in time for the MBTA train at 10PM. Since we didn’t have time to sit at a restaurant, we called in and ordered our food 15 minutes before arriving. We probably ordered too much - eggplant basil, chinese broccoli, watercress pork soup, turnip cake, shrimp dumplings, a sweet/salty yellow sponge cake, and some red pepper clams. We ate some of the messier things at the station then boarded and set up the rest of our feast at a booth table. By the time most of it was gone we were extremely stuffed.

The next day was my flight from BOS to LAX. First, the silverline airport bus had a temporary delay, which only minorly worried me. I passed through security about an hour before boarding. The flight attendants lead us on board, then it went still for 30 minutes. I figured something must have been off, but continued carefully eating the ceasar salad I had bought for my dinner. At last they gave an announcement that there was an issue with the engine, and a mechanic would have to asses it. It took them a bit longer to finally excuse us all from the plane, as the assessing alone was going to take at least 2 hours, and if it needed fixing, who knew how long we’d have to wait. I wandered around the airport for a while, finding a bookstore to browse. I found Murakami’s Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, and started reading it but became so immersed I bought it, which I have never done at an airport bookstore. 

I returned back to the gate, but was quickly notified that it would be another couple hours at least, and they would provide meal vouchers for all passengers. I checked my phone to watch the increasing delay time, stopping at 6:00AM the following day, then looked for the email meal voucher. It said I could spend $12 on board an AA flight. Great, I could eat a single airplane-price sandwich in return for being stuck in a terminal for 6 hours. 

I freaked out a bit, since I had to do another thing I’d never done before. If I wanted to stay in Boston, I’d need a place to crash. I called Kay, and she reminded me that Shell and Conny lived there and might be able to host me. I figured I’d ask Shell, since she owed me a place to stay since her week-long crash at our dorm last summer. Turns out, as I had preconceptions about, only Jun was staying there, but Michael was visiting that night, so I continued to tell myself it would be fine. I admit I even felt a bit excited. I got in touch with Jun, who seemed surprised and gave me his location. After a delay of 20 minutes, I got to South Station then transferred to the Red Line to Alewife. 

Jun & Michael were hanging out and skateboarding at Harvard Commons, which I found mildly amusing since neither of them went to Harvard, Jun was a drop out, and Michael was unemployed for the most part. But here we were, partially naive misfits surrounded by an obviously elite college town. Michael had also recently arrived, so we dropped our stuff off at the apartment and Michael took a well needed shower. We grabbed dinner and beer at a nearby store with some self-serve food options. On the way we checked out a bookstore (I found one title with something about a fish, but I can’t remember anything else so the memory is pretty useless) Michael bought a $40 textbook about physics, and Jun got 3 from different genres, and I didn’t buy any. 

We ate outside, on the grass back at the Commons, and got bug bites all over our legs. I started getting cold and we went back to the apartment. I lay on the couch and messed around with some guitars, loving the satisfying confidence of the electric guitar. I tried reading a bit but got sleepy and indicated I’d like to sleep soon. First though, they wanted to test their abilities and try waterboarding each other in the bathtub. With one bending backwards over the tub, and a wet washcloth over their face, the other would pour a steady stream of water on their nose and mouth. They came out coughing and wet, and asked if I’d like to try; wanting to not be too surprised, I stood and smiled silently in response. I pretended to take photographs, and they joked that I was probably an actual spy, and therefore had already really experienced waterboarding torture. I enjoyed this idea, so I remained quiet.��

Finally, they calmed down and Jun hugged me goodbye since he’d sleep in, and I curled up under my blanket and passed out. 

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Canada 6-9

Our only goal of the day was to have special breakfast and a good lunch before taking the train back to Montreal. We cooked a minimal version of huevos rancheros - with corn tortillas, black beans, fresh salsa, and a side of mushrooms and spinach. For lunch we wanted to try multiple dishes again, so we got one meal bowl at a vegan place to start. It had various patties, a bed of lettuce, quinoa, sauerkraut, beets, and hummus - much better than the previous vegan place we’d been to. Next we stopped at Piazzeria and ordered a 10″ 3 cheese pizza and an apple-baguette-neufchantel salad. The waiter was very kind and gave us a size up of the salad so we’d have enough to share. Everything was fresh and delicious.

We were nearly out of time again so we rushed our way to the bus, which dropped us off in a suburban area. It was strangely a normal looking place, with plain lawns and houses. We were on a sidewalk that cut through the neighborhood, then out and around a hill to the parking lot of the train station. On the train, we played more rounds of our card game, which we named ‘Truth’, until we felt like napping. It was evening by the time we arrived, so we just dropped our things off at the room and set out to a Japanese restaurant. The first one we had in mind was closed, the second had a line out the door, but we eventually found a little bar-restaurant called ‘Otto’. We ordered several small plates - Wasabi octopus with seaweed, steamed egg with sea urchin, Parmesan and dried fish salad with soft boiled egg, grilled veggie skewers, dried and grilled small mackerel, rice balls, and finally a scoop of hojicha ice cream. I found the sea urchin difficult to eat - it tastes like condensed ocean - but it paired well with the egg and rice. The roasted fish was crispy and savoury. I didn’t really understand the salad; it didn’t taste like much, but it was citrusy and refreshing. The ice cream was perfectly simple, as was the grilled vegetables.

We didn’t want to go back to the room since it wasn’t that cozy and we craved more dessert, so we strolled around to find something sweet. I wanted milk tea, and Kay wanted grass jelly, and Ben was impartial. We settled on ChaTime after much indecisiveness. I chose a roasted milk tea with grass jelly and pudding, and it was perfectly sweet with plenty of grass jelly. Sadly Ben didn’t enjoy his, it was overly sweet.

We were glad we only booked one night at this room. Many things were broken, and while there was lots of space, I felt somewhat claustrophobic from the plain walls and stiff decorations. The beds were sufficient though, and we slept well.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Canada 6-8

Our routine breakfast fit perfectly at the little wooden table in the cabin-like basement room. We prepared to explore the very touristy Old Town in Quebec City, taking the 30 min bus ride to arrive around noon. We just browsed some stores first; Kay was searching for arch-supporting sandals and we didn’t know yet where we’d like to eat lunch. In our search we didn’t find any suitable sandals, but ended up misplacing my cap. We had to retrace our steps and found it at the Croc’s store. 

On our way towards the castle, we figured we’d try multiple spots for lunch. First we tried a duck confit salad with cranberry, carrot, and pistachios, a baguette side, and a mushroom soup from a chain restaurant called “Paillard”. It was a tasty starter, a perfect variety of flavors and textures. Then we searched for a reliable crepe place, which took a considerable time since too many were tourist traps. At last we found a delicious sounding crepe at “La Buche”, which happened to be a place our host recommended. It was a salmon, goat cheese, and spinach crepe with Bechamel sauce. We were satisfied, since it was perfectly rich and fluffy that we didn’t crave any more savory food. We hiked to the castle, and all the way up the hillside. Atop a green patch of grass, we could see the castle, the river, and the town surrounding both sides of the water with spots of colorful house facades. The sun was pleasant and welcome - perfect for napping. 

For our first dessert, we discovered a little pastry place that I cannot remember the name of, tucked into a brick building. There was a single case of pastries, and they all looked delicious. We picked out a small tart with a cone of meringue on top. The custard was orange and citrusy, delicious with salty sweet, crusty crust and light meringue. Our second dessert was not as harmonious, although it looked promising. We got a ‘Paris Brest’ from Paillard; a choux pastry ring filled with praline cream. Sadly, the choux was dry and the cream was not very full in flavor. We figured there could be a good gelato place outside the square, so we hopped on a bus over to a newer part of town, where there was a little ice cream shop. Kay ordered a grapefruit sorbet, Ben got a double chocolate, and I got apricot caramel, yet I didn’t really care for mine, as it was too sweet. My cravings weren’t satisfied, so I suggested getting some tea from a place we’d walked past. After picking up some groceries from a little grocery store for dinner, we ordered a black tea, jasmine tea, and sencha. Ben lead us to another grassy park where we lounged around and I played with dandelions. I braided a flower crown, and we ceremoniously placed it atop a little ginko tree and gave it a blessing. 

Back at our place, I cooked chickpea curry with tomatoes, spinach, onions, garlic, cilantro, carrots, mushrooms, potatoes, hot pepper, lemon juice and rind, and garam masala spice. It was very fulfilling as we hadn’t eaten many vegetables all day, and the spice was refreshing. We forgot to buy playing cards, so we thought to make our own small set with paper we found there. Ben handled tearing, Kay glued, and I drew the designs. We developed our own card game meant to create insightful, personal conversations by ascribing meanings to each of the numbers. It’s kind of like a tarot system - some are symbolic and vague and others are more direct. We played a round for debugging, then watched the season finale of Sex Ed while eating watermelon.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Canada 6-7

Today we took another slow morning, I got up earliest to prepare pancakes for breakfast. They tasted a bit like baking soda, but it was easily masked by the maple butter and cream cheese. We still had about an hour before check out, so Kay and I did a short upper and core workout while Ben laughed and took photos of us. Well, we all laughed, especially trying to do back bows on the tiny living room floor. 

At noon, the cleaning lady promptly arrived; she was very friendly and kind and told us not to rush. We left soon after to get lunch from one of the many vegan places in the area. We hopped on a train to a place called “Antidote”, where we ordered tacos, mini poutine, and smoked ‘salmon’ salad, as well as a ginger pineapple lemonade. Unfortunately the lemonade just tasted like watery pineapple juice, and the ‘salmon’ was really not like salmon and overly salty, and much of the flavors were so mixed and layered that it was too intense. We all enjoyed the poutine though - the faux-fromage was like savory goey mochi, the gravy was creamy, and fries fresh. I debated asking for another drink, and we discussed the tacky DIY aesthetic of the interior. Overall, our rating was ~3 stars.

Since we had a few hours before our train to Quebec City, we considered getting ice cream, but chose to see the Barbie Expo at a mall in the Financial area. It was free, so we didn’t expect much, and we were pleasantly surprised. Along the walls in long glass displays were barbies in detailed costumes of all kinds - brides, celebrities, nationalities, seasons, eras, holidays, and more. It was quite hilarious how ridiculous many looked, with stiff wide smiles and perfectly visible irises. Our favorite part was a life-size barbie box which you could pose inside of. We each did - I definitely blended in the most, considering I’m Caucasian and wore a matching yellow shirt. Then we all squished in at once for a group photo.

We were possibly going to be late for the bus, so we rushed to the station, yet the train was late. We waited at a small station, with brilliant sunlight on the trees nearby. When we found our seats on the train, they were all facing around a small table - perfect for snacks and entertaining ourselves. We didn’t bring a proper dinner, so we ate out last orange, cereal & yogurt, bagels with the bit of cream cheese left, and I attempted to slice the mango. It was very squished and practically all pulp, so I had to scoop it into the yogurt, which tasted delicious together. We’d arrive in the city around 9pm, so we played several rounds of pictionary. I realized that winning was dependent on your own drawing speed and the ability of the other players to identify your scribbles with little information. After our game, I spaced out to some music for a bit, while admiring the pastel sunset and lush scenery passing by.

We originally booked the ticket to 2 stops previous, but the train lady let us stay on board. We called an Uber to take us the rest of the way - down a suburban street with short, simply shaped houses. Ours had a little attic window, and our room was in the basement. It felt like we’d entered a cabin; it had walls of wood panel, red and blue accents, a minimal but well crafted kitchen space, and wood furniture. It was definitely cozier than Montreal, yet we found them to be a close tie of quality. 

Before settling in, we ruched out to a nearby grocery store for breakfast items. Since it was about 9:20pm, the sun had set, but the air was not too cool and the neighborhood was peaceful. 

In addition to the usual apple, eggs, soy, and tea, we got carrots and a watermelon to snack on that evening while watching Netflix.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Canada 6-6

We woke up slower today, had our routine breakfast at the BnB out on the patio since the weather was warmer. All in our shorts, we were ready to hike around this expansive park, called Mount Royal, to see ‘Beaver Lake’. It was so scenic, it felt like a video game with saturated colors and an ultimate quest of reaching the lake. We discussed which fellow walkers were more like MPC versus players while on the trail. We also realized a part of the game was to pretend you were an MPC, since they’re OP, and the more players you identified, the more points you get. 

At the summit, we were so tired out by the stairs that we easily bought popsicles as soon as we saw a vendor. I got strawberry-banana, Ben got pina-colada, and Kay, lime-coconut. We ate while overlooking the city (which we decided was an HD GIF or a video on 24 hr loop). A bit over the slope, was the lake - a picturesque desktop scene with green hills and dandelions and families. Kay rolled down a hill, and we didn’t want to at first but Ben and I just laughed and followed along. We laid around for awhile, picking apart our pomegranate, until we wanted to find lunch and the produce markets. Ben directed us to a popular and colorful spot called “La Banquise” for poutine. We ordered ‘L’ obelix’ - smoked meat, mushrooms, cheese curds, & gravy atop a bed of fries - and a coleslaw side. As heavy as it was, it was so good that we ate at a steady pace.

 To walk it off a bit, and get groceries, we headed towards a market a ways away. It was mostly outdoors and abundant with cheese, meats, soaps, fruits, vegetables, herbs, and flowers. We bought syrup, swiss chard, mushrooms, a mango, blackberries, and apples. We tried the samples from nearly every fruit to make our decision, while telling a guy at the stand that we were headed to Quebec City next. 

For dinner, we cooked bean sprouts with garam masala and tofu, and swiss chard with mushrooms and ginger. The tofu dish needed a bit of acidity, but otherwise we agreed that it was good firm tofu, similar in texture to paneer. The rest of the evening, we simply watched ‘Sex Education’ and ate orange slices & bagels. 

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

Canada 6-4 to 6-5

We scrambled onto an Uber (I forgot my phone, and all of us forgot to grab the tickets) and finally arrived at the relocated stop to find the bus had been delayed. It arrived about 20 minutes later, and we all flipped open our passports and happily found the bus to be quite empty. The bus would make a long stop at Boston, so we didn’t try to sleep yet. We treated ourselves at Chinatown to some grass jelly with red bean, taro, sweet potato, mochi, & bubbles at Sweet Kingdom. 

When I entered back onto the dark bus, I felt very sleepy. Kay & Ben quickly passed out, but I was too uncomfortable and cold to sleep. I may have gotten about 1-2 hours total. Getting out for the border crossing at 5am felt like an illusion, and my legs were liquid. 

When we finally arrived, it was 6:30 AM and I still felt dizzy and underwater-walking. Ben lead us, as we were floating blobs, to an open cafe. It was like entering a wall of chocolate croissant air, which woke me a bit. We ordered 2 lattes, chai & matcha, and I drew in my mini sketchbook. 

Since we couldn’t check in until after 12, we decided to cafe hop - with Ben as the guide. He found us a little cafe filled with succulents called “Leaves Cafe”, where we bought a biscotti and a london fog with macadamia milk. Needing something salty & substantial, we found another place called “Crew Cafe”, further in the financial district, embedded in a grand, classical-style, bank-like building. The ceiling was patterned and far above, and the cafe low and glowing with chic suede furniture. On the sides, there were glass-walled office & meeting spaces. Around a rectangular table surrounded with business-casual people, we ate a thickly sliced multigrain toast topped with bacon fig jam and a boiled egg, and a tomato bell pepper, sweet potato soup. The jam was perfectly balanced between too salty and too sweet, toast warm and savory, and soup comforting and herby. After our meal, Kay & I feel asleep with our heads upon our arms. We must have looked like some lazy high-schoolers on summer vacation. 

We then set out to a park near to our BnB, finding one near to a river. It was too perfectly green and evenly spaced, with a bulldozer shoveling dirt in the background, that it felt a bit uncanny. Yet it was pleasant with plenty of shade, so we stopped and snacked and slept. 

When it was well past noon, we headed towards our room, first doing some shopping at local markets for food to cook. We bought some pork & taro, huge oranges, a pomegranate, tofu, bean sprouts, eggplant, mushrooms, and apples, then measured out pancake ingredients and spices from a store where you bring your own containers. We also got this bread/sticky cake thing made with cassava - thinking it would taste like sticky rice, but a lady told us that it was an African bread cooked with a special oil and cassava leaves. Kay cooked the pork-taro and I made mushroom-eggplant, while Ben heated the cassava bread. Sadly, it tasted too much like fermented mochi to us so we had to throw it out. 

Originally, we planned on relaxing the rest of the day, but we all wanted bagels, so we departed again after lunner to 2 famous bagel shops. First, St. Viateur - which only took cash so we had to walk to the nearest TD bank through a neighborhood that was clearly primarily a Jewish population. Kay got really excited about this sign of authenticity (for good bagels). They were amazing bagels. Unlike NY bagels, they are soft and sweeter, with a slightly crunchy crust, and thorough coating of sesame. Our second stop was Fairmount Bagels, not too far away, in a compact location under a lit plastic sign. In the entry way, it was made extremely narrow by walls of orange crates filled with bags of bagels, clearly fresh and ready to ship. I enjoyed their sesame bagel more, as well as their ‘bozo’ variety. It was smoother and a bit more chewy, and I like the flavor of the poppyseed. 

With two paper bags full of bagels, we walked back and viewed a beautiful pink-orange sunset. Our final stop was a small jazz bar, called ‘le petit bar’. We were early for the show, so we walked over to a magically lit fountain surrounded with lounging people before heading back. At a small table, we ordered a cider and a gin & tonic to share, then the musicians began. There were 3 - an oboist, clarinet player, and an accordian player who sang - who all put their best effort in the performance, a theatrical event. Although we had no idea what they were saying, it seemed like a narrative, and at one point everyone was chiming along, singing like drunk cats. 

I could barely keep my eyes open, so we left before the end, and the musicians bade us farewell - saying in english, thank you for listening even though you couldn’t understand anything.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

I’ve been writing

inside my journal regularly.

I now have 4 and 1/2 notebooks full of my past 2 and 1/2 years at college, but I’ll spare the internet a mass of wandering tales and the farthest I’ll go back is my grad trip to Canada. It was 5 days long, and has a bit of a romantic backstory, which I will get to in a future post. 

On another note: I have been writing in increasing amounts ever since I realized I want to go back to school. I told my friends I couldn’t stand another year at RISD, which is mostly true, but I’ve been dreaming about getting my Masters from Brown University in Creative Writing. To me, it seems like a bit of a surprise path, but apparently even my SAT prep instructor could foresee that I’d want to write my own novels someday. So now I’m all inspired by Haruki Murakami and trying to organize all my random observations into a cohesive work of fiction. Hopefully I’ll post bits of that soon as well.

Best, 

Taylor

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

trespasser

5-27-17

Packing was not too bad after all, even with the rain, her cold, and my droopy mood. We finished moving in two trips before 4pm so we had all afternoon, which we spent slowly and enjoyably, first tiring ourselves out by recapping all the views around providence, then preparing all our leftover food into a tray of sliced fruit and toasted bagels for movie snacks. We watched “Juno” that night and sighed and cried and suspended our disbelief in love. Ellen Paige as Juno is gorgeous and confident and crazy and I swore it would be a worthwhile effort to be more like her. 

I did have a headstart; I’ve always been a bit crazy when it comes to romance. In Kindergarten for example, I can distinctly remember two boys I liked. One was blond haired and had a lisp because of his gaped teeth and was named Seth (which was unfortunate or cute because of his lisp). The other was round and wore cargo pants and was named Philip. My first and only real "date” was going to see Spy Kids with Seth. Of course our moms took us, but we got to sit next to each other and I still recall a slight fluttering feeling whenever he turned to smile at me. But I guess I was fickle because then my affections turned towards Philip not long after. We were out for recess one day, and I gave him my first kiss on his squishy cheek and only felt embarrassed when all the other kids started screaming. 

In middle school, I had an obsession with a short boy who wore a black and blue striped hoodie a grade above me, so I did the sensible thing and devised a plan. On valentine’s day I wrote a love note and coded it with my name, attached it to a bag of lemonheads, and left it on his chair during lunch. I know him, and he’s never told me if he figured out the code. All through high school, I was less gutsy, plus I never really had many options, being in a homeschooler group in all. 

The night before packing day, I couldn’t sleep and found myself writing a note at 3am. Adam’s face is carved so distinctly that I can still zone out into a mass of trees and picture him waving and smiling. I had only just hugged him goodbye that evening so the visualizations were even more tangible. While ignoring an imagined situation where my arms were stuck wrapped around him, I wrote a simple, honest, minimally poetic note. Next I folded it and tucked in an eraser stub and stapled it and zipped it into my hidden chest pocket and sang it to sleep. 

I was going to walk with Kay and have Michael let me in to Nightingale. My fingers kept playing with the pocket zipper and I felt it every time I jumped across the pavement; I couldn’t listen to anyone else and, before I knew it,  it took over my legs and I was running up the hill. I directed my feet to the number on the map, the cross of prospect and olive. Then everything slowed; I waited for a resident to pass through so I could slide my hand in assertively, but casually. My side found and shrunk next to a whitewashed beam as I tried to ignore violations of trespassing. After being frozen for awhile, the smell of someone burning their popcorn snapped my attention back and my feet found their way through the tunnel of stairways, and to a door marked with “Adam.” I quickly stuck the note on with blue tape and poked my way back down and out of the house, gradually faster and faster with the slope of the hill, unable to stop from the momentum. I didn’t stop until I reached my bed. I fell across my mattress with my arms wrapped around my head, realizing that my hair was damp and cold. He’d probably not reciprocate, his smile could be given to anyone in the nearest seat and that was me two out of four classes a week. 

I left RI and he replied when I landed in LA. It was no.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

still here

5-12

After a week of internal fog, I finally recovered to a reasonably awake state and felt satisfied with my drawing homework. On the grey board I had drawn my portrait framed by a cardboard house, with a gaze that I steeped in my drowsiness and tucked in a mess of hair. Each element was symbolic of something that I didn’t feel like explaining, but I hoped would be understood as poetry. I leaned it against my desk and prepared some meat to slow cook for dinner. There was one whole piece and a few bones of pork left, and I planned to make tacos with it. I caked the meat with all the spices I had, then placed it in our large black pot, and submerged it with a few cups of water. We still had lemons stashed in a coffee cup, so I squeezed all their juice into the meat-spice water. It smelled too sour so dropped in a small chunk of brown sugar as I turned on the stove. When I left my room it had already begun to bubble and evaporate and cook the spices into the air, the mixture friendly and appetizing.

I came back greeted by a concerned neighbor, a public safety officer, and a charcoal scent. I was only gone for an hour, but it was enough time to cremate the bits of pork and fill my room with smoke. The clouds hugged the air and laughed in my lungs as I darted inside to grab my backpack. Thankfully, there were no flames, and it cleared out the window by the evening, but everything was defiled by the smell. Taking a shower felt useless, the body wash just primed my body for a layer of smoke scent that hid in my towel. As I wrapped the blankets near my face, the clouds snuck into my nose and seeped into my dreams, preventing any real sleep.

I took a nap after my morning class the next day but the fatigue and smoke still lingered. I found myself at the Met hovering near the early lunch crowd, when I came across Tom, which is a rare moment. He responded just like me, sitting in the corner of couches, quietly smiling as he waved hello. Detecting the ash and grey circles, with a few blinks he gave me his reflective eyes and told me that I’ll be alright. He didn’t mind watching me press my forehead or mesmerize the blue of his jacket, since his shift at the athenaeum had no regimens, and he liked having long breakfasts. We shared cocoa puffs from a paper cup but didn’t talk much; our hands spoke to each other until his disappeared and I took the last piece.

After sitting at the cafeteria and eating my lunch alone, I still had painting class to prepare for, but I was too drowsy to plan discussions with Adam. I left with my usual supplies - headphones, an apple, and a sketchbook - hanging the tote over my shoulder until placing it on a stool near my palette and forgetting about it. Gazing towards the rain outside the window and the direction of his easel, I tried to appear calm but soon talked faster and more casually than I intended. I gave no indication that I had dreams about our casual conversations a few times a week, that I could hear the words stagnate and grow with the smoke in my pillow. As I twisted my feet around my chair legs, I bent to his current tone of speech; it was fresh and exciting, but with a powerful aftertaste that made me almost forget everything. It was all in my head and he seemed fine; I couldn’t read any unbalance between his lips and his forehead. He had less than two weeks left, then he’d drive back to New York and be more rare than Tom. I wished the rain was a curtain, then I could pull it shut already and not come out. But we had two classes together, and a sort of friendship, so we were still here, on the ground together. It was so casual I wasn’t casual anymore; even just questions about homework were open to my interpretation. I didn’t want to write about him anymore.  

He waited up for me during break, but I left to the canal after buying my tea. It was pouring when I found Tom sitting alone, shielding himself with his rain hood, which he pulled back when I lifted my umbrella over him. He took out a bag of gummy worms from his pocket and offered some to me. I ate one so slowly that my tongue grew numb from the sugar and sour coating. I realized how Tom couldn’t be characterized by his favorite candy; he’s more like marshmallows, although not physically. I could have silently searched for fish among the water and floating trash for the rest of my break, but I remembered that he’d also be staying in RI during the summer.

“Where are you living during the summer?”

“Off campus with some seniors. How about you?”

“Off campus, with Cherry and Tiffany.”

“On Benefit?” “I think so.”

“Cool.”

I noticed a school of used paper cups in the inky water, but they soon turned into white specks in the haze of rain. Water dripped into my eyes and clung to my hair but I felt cleansed of all the moments before, and the smoke.

“You should visit me sometime.”

He nodded.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

primary observations

5-1

Dear diary,

I just began to remember a day that seems to have lasted forever in the painting studio. It overlaps with so many days, that it is hard to distinguish when I finally put my sack of brushes and paint in the locker. I tried dividing it into days; the acronyms were lined up and prepared to categorize the events, but the soreness had crept up my elbows and the colors blocked out my memory.

I can hypothetically narrow it down to one week, beginning probably around Tuesday, when I normally finished Thursday’s homework then headed out to paint until climbing club. My forearms throbbed as if sore from traversing, so I’m not certain whether I painted before or after climbing, or both, or it was a different day entirely. Some afternoon or night, the studio began empty and I blocked out the silence with my headphones, but I was interrupted a few times. Tom wandered through the 5th floor, so I discovered him, and our meeting was as short and kind as his curly black hair.  I also discovered people next door who were painting, but not Tom, he was in furniture and kept some distance from the easels. Yet he was there with his navy blue coat, I’m sure. He handed me an apple, but it was too bright and green for my paint-soiled hands, so it dropped back into his pocket. It reappeared in my tote bag several hours later, I scrubbed down my skin in the sink, and reached to it with both hands, shaky from low blood sugar.

When I had finished half my apple, I noticed Kevin had been there all along - he practically lived in the ISB with his blasting red speaker and ready-made playlist. If you were a floor above him, his presence was still obvious and hummed through the walls. He had spread out his four paintings across the room, so he would jump back and rush towards another canvas at random intervals, startling me into a strange rhythm. He encouraged me to dance but my feet could only manage a slight tap since my shoulders had also adopted the ache. I felt a different ache in my stomach, and I must have gone to the cafeteria; the oily sauce and bread soaked and moved around too much in my stomach as I reached for my brushes. Things went still by the time the food was quiet. Kevin left back down the stairs, the four easels rearranged into natural positions and my ears cupped only by my headphones.

I don’t remember when Adam first appeared. The yellow sheen of his bottle hit the corner of my eye when I saw his arm extend with a palette knife. As finely tuned my sense of him had grown, my only foretelling hints were his aluminum canteen and long shadow, he didn’t enter or exit like Kevin. I heard the water collapse in the metal bottle, then his canvas was stored, and supplies tucked away. I believe it was silent again for a few hours; the only colors I distinguished were desaturated by the LED of my screen. It must have been late, but the windows still sent in pure light to contrast the dull room, and the solid-hued shapes of paint never changed. My phone glowed to remind me of climbing club, and I found my arms swaying as I walked to What Cheer to wait for the club van. I could have escaped my canvas for a few hours, even if I couldn’t hold onto the top rope walls. But nobody arrived; I stood in the grey concrete hallway for several minutes but only one club leader came to tell me it was cancelled. The grey turned into the brick sidewalk as I returned back to ISB’s 5th floor.

My arms were exhausted when I noticed yellow again, in the shape of pants. They walked around the studio to my corner and Adam’s voice highlighted the intensity of my video game color palette, but my lips moved too slow to form a compliment. Tom also came by a second time, instead with a light blue jacket. I followed him to canal, wind embracing us as the sky clashed with his jacket. Covering my face with the rim of my cup, I felt the steam gather on my cheeks and relax my muscles. I peered over the edge and I saw him turn into a blue dot moving back to Washington place. At this point, I didn’t mind being alone again, although I doubted I had been outside at all. I remained in my spot until it finally grew dark and there was no more blue or red or yellow and the artificial green light had seeped into my eyes. I closed them and discovered a new color; I matched the saturated violet to the night that surrounded me as I strolled back across the canal to 15 West.

[taylorwritesaboutthings]

my favorite weather

4-21

The puddles in the sunken brick and the droplets spotting the air were quickly welcomed by my rubber shoes and floating hair as I walked from painting class. I told Hannah my well-rehearsed speech about rain from the standpoint of a west coast romantic. I could have entered and elaborated on multiple snapshots, but I began with me as a mud-loving toddler in the backyard of my first house in San Lorenzo:

“Between our backyard gate and a golfing range, there was a small creek which flooded after rain, with a dotted path of stones leading across to my and my brother’s treasure cove. Whenever the water rushed out of the tunnel into the stream, we’d stick our hands in and find bits of old bikes or shopping carts and collect them in our cove. I’d already be wearing my boots as the clouds blocked sun from our sliding glass door, which happened almost every week, so my purple raincoat also became a fashion staple.”

It was only drizzling now; Hannah adjusted her coat zipper and but kept tucked under her hood.  She was used to the environment, her home was constantly wet, but I was the only one who didn’t mind being umbrella-less. Even though I misstepped and drenched my shoe in a small pool, I resumed the story and explained a more recent experience, at my Socal home when thunderstorms were rare.

“Perhaps because I connected rain with the rewards in the stream, I idolized the rain cloud and immortalized it with an obsessive amount of photos, even if they were too high in the atmosphere to actually contain water. One winter, it barely rained at all, so I tried to be content with the deceivingly round and buoyant clouds that only stayed on my camera. But spring came and fulfilled my cravings; as soon as my mom said she could smell the dampness of a storm, and my dad pointed to a mass of green moving towards the coast on a weather radar video, I prepared the buckets, took off my shoes, and hung the camera over my neck. Not only did I document the minor flooding in our flower gardens, and the saturated, candy green hues, but I collected the water itself in buckets, to transfer it to a kettle, then to my teacup. I drank the steeped rain and jumped on my trampoline until my feet were clean and numb from the raw wetness.”

Hannah checked her shoes, which appeared to be grey and soaked, as we stepped on the mat in the entrance area. She grinned slightly, eyebrows raised in thought, and said:

“So you came to love clouds so much you became them.”

“Basically.”

We discussed other possible reasons why people would worship or record the rain until dinner was over and I had to prepare for the next day’s craft sale. Before going to bed at 3am that night, I met up with Hannah again to hunch over a small table and fill out lists of things to bring. She spread out her pile of stickers and presented to me her earring display, while I gleaned her enthusiasm and imagined crowded rows of people lining the streets. I packed up my 18 space-themed felt pins, which had taken about 18 hours total create, the minutes stolen from the middle of sci-fi philosophy class and the long ends of days before falling asleep on my desk. I cut out a stack of business cards, hand drew and labelled each one, double-checking my etsy account before writing down my shop name. I organized my outfit with sunbeams in my eyes: grey tights with a denim dress, reserving a spot on the front pocket to show my favorite pin.

In the morning, I pulled up the shade to a dimly-lit day. It was still early, so I expected the sun was waiting to come and evaporate the overcast as I walked uphill with Hannah. We laid out our merchandise on a tablecloth, which was adhered with tape because of the mild wind, and tucked ourselves behind the table with our hands folded into our laps. Our fingers were getting numb, and my tights were too thin, so we sent a few friends to retrieve blankets and hot water. Before they returned, my black display board began to collect more stars, little dark drops from clouds kept darkening above us.

“I hope this isn’t because of me,” I said, pointing to the growing greyness.

“If it was anyone, it would be you,” Hannah said, half-sarcastically.

I didn’t mind at first, and neither did Hannah, mostly everything was waterproof anyways. But our customers did - unlike my crowded imagination, barely anyone was out shopping today, and I began to feel dispirited. Our display boards took it the worst - they warped as the soaked, defying gravity and bending discontentedly as we tried to press them flat. My handmade business cards also became soggy and sad. I pinched one in the air and it bent depressingly downward and crumpled in a customer’s hand. I thought I’d have some food to cheer up my stomach, since the blanket could only help my legs. But my box of scrambled eggs and hash browns tumbled over and scrambled with a puddle, leaving only chunks of pineapple for my lunch. I was trying to digest my acidic food by tucking in my legs and wrapping the blanket around all of me, when the wind came through and pushed an unfortunate pin in the wet road as well, so I had to unshielded my body and fix everything in place with more tape. Hannah copied me but had frozen up to her voice, only breaking silence to comment on the dismal condition. After an hour of the blanket cocoon state, I couldn’t feel my feet even though they were held in shoes, and had to keep reminding myself of when I had walked through 13° F snow and wind. We tried to huddle by sharing our blankets, but our stomachs had already internalized the cold, shivering uncontrollably.

The curious eyes shielded by rain hoods or hovering hands became fewer than the sparse amount before as our tablecloth grew heavy from the shower. The other tables gradually went bare again, and an organizer of the fair came over with a sorry smile and wide eyes to tell us how the weather reporters had failed, and that the fair was closed. For the first time I wished the radar had been clear of the green mass, and longed for the boring blue skies of the west coast. Weighed by our soggy stuff and disappointment, we returned to 15 West. Hannah encouraged my last bits of positivity by purchasing one of my pins and a flower clip, which she stuck in her hair like the ones I was already wearing. I teased the plants on our heads, telling them to not look so happy when the rain had ruined our day.