BLACK ANIMALS.

Are you feeling uncomfortable? Let's hear my joke aka my life.

Last Thursday night, after hanging out with our designer and manager, I came home and found the worst nightmare ever happened in this family's history. Hedi, my cat, shit all over my blanket. LITERALLY SHIT ALL OVER IT. It was bad. It was really bad. His stomach was ill. I could tell by the color and the smell of his shit. My whole room smelled like a kingdom of shit. I took off the blanket cover in disgust and terror. I had to detect every corner of my bed for any sight of shit with MY NOSE. Even when it was done, my room still smelled a lot like shit. My window was wide open, my fan was working hard. I thought it would be a terrible idea to turn on the air-conditioner in that situation. If any machines in my room had feelings, they'd never forgive me for that night. I was sleeping in fear. The fear of sleeping in a bed full of shit. Next day's morning was slightly covered in the same smell and I also found a shit mark on the floor near the door. 

The worst part is, I kicked Hedi twice that night. I was really angry and shocked. I felt so disgusted. I don't think that shit machine will ever know guilt. But take a look at it again, it was my fault. Hedi was ill indeed. That was on me, my responsibility. It makes me feel even worse. It's the same thing that happens over and over in my life: I fuck up and blame the world for it. Hedi is normal now and I gave him a petting earlier. I still feel I owe him an apology and a better attitude of me being his care taker. Maybe it wasn't me sleeping in the bed of shit. Maybe it was me being the shit. 

Talking of fucking up, I've been thinking of my father lately. Most of my life, I have never fully trusted him. He always fucks something up. He wasn't a good husband to my mother. He is a careless dad. It's one of the reasons for who I am today. Of course, he's taught me things. But it would take a ridiculously strong person to be his daughter and the price would not come cheap. I paid that price and at times, I wish I had a better father. Because I think I would be a happier person, I'd smile more and open up more. My life wouldn't be so closed and difficult. When my mother died, everything changed. The only person that held the warmth of the house was gone. My father never spent a minute discussing about it with me. He never made that effort. After two weeks, I broke down. Bad things take time to kick in and for me, it took two weeks, There was one time I thought I could find some of my mother's pills in her wardrobe. To do what, I wasn't sure. But I was thrown into that idea deeply. I don't think I have the guts for suicide. Does it even take guts? Killing oneself is not a brave thing. Whatever happened, I knew I had to move on and live well. Strangely though, I was thinking I really needed to have that presence of pills near my bed. 

I never found any pills. In fact, I never actually did it. For a while, whenever bad things happened, there was this thing that kept coming up in my mind: "What do you mean? My mother died!" Like "What do you mean this doesn't work / it's not good enough / I can't do this? I no longer have a mother. Isn't that bad enough?" It's silly. It is.

I also learn that bad things are blessings. Yes, I'm angry at my father. But I love him more. And the first thing everyone should do to their family is to protect them, for better or worse. In the end, he lets me do my things and doesn't get disappointed when I fail. I have learned two greatest things from my father:

1. Never stop learning. If there has to be a person nominated for biggest love of learning, I'll suggest my father.

2. Love animals. He's the start of my love for cats and the one that agreed we could have a dog. Because of A-chim, my dog, I was saved.

He taught me how to read maps. I was good at remembering capitals of countries in the the world. Overall, my memory was impressive. He encouraged my interest in astronomy, taught me how to meditate and always made me watch Discovery though I hated it sometimes. Because my father never had a childhood, he never knew any fairy tales. When I was little, he had to make up a story about a bear and two rabbits to tell me before bed. Over and over again. He had no idea about children's stories. His version was something that goes like this:

In a stormy and cold night, an old bear's house was torn down. The destruction was terrible and the bear had to get out to find a shelter. He ran to the White Rabbit's door and knocked:

- Dear White Rabbit, please let me in. I'm soaking wet.

The rabbit looked at him through the window and said:

- No no. You're so big. You'll tear my house down.

The bear looked down sadly. He ran again to the Black Rabbit's door and knocked:

- Dear Black Rabbit, please let me in. I'm soaking wet.

The Black Rabbit rushed to the door and opened it. He welcomed the bear:

- My dear, please come in. Hurry.

Inside, the bear was offered fire and food. When the storm went out, the Black Rabbit helped the bear rebuild his house. The White Rabbit saw that and felt bad. He came towards the bear and apologized for not letting him in during the storm. The bear said:

- It's ok, dear. 

They smiled at each other and together, the three of them built a house.

That's the story. The learning value of it is: always help people in need and how people look doesn't define their quality. Because at that time, I found black animals ugly.

So that's about it. Have a good night and we'll see each other again in next post.

THE WOODEN NECKLACE.

Hot chocolate. 

Let me acknowledge to type again. These few weeks have been rough and exciting in an oddly unpredictable way. I've been hyped, blind, and weirdly enough, calm after a long while of disappointment and discontent. When it hits the deepest it could get, something rises up in return. 

I cleaned my room today. God knows what the heck I'd been stocking. Everything was dirty, messy, some covered in stains, some stunk, some even stroke me with surprise for their unbelievable uselessness. However, some reminded me of home, the one I had ten years ago. In that exact corner of the room, with that exact jewelry, I was looking at myself in the mirror, wearing a cheap wooden necklace, and thinking: "Nope. Never again." It went straight to my childhood box for years and years, so one day, one random day, to be discovered again. That day was today. Sunday, 11th July, 2016. I stared at the wooden necklace for minutes, held it tight in silence, and put it in the throw-away box. In the process of cleaning, certain things are meant to remind us of ourselves and be placed proudly on top of the shelves, some, however, should be remembered in our heart not as an object but a dearly memory. Therefore, its past belongs to the trash. Its presence stays. Its future remains unclear. 

I threw away a lot of 'wooden necklaces' today. I also kept plenty. New 'wooden necklaces' will soon fill this room. A piano, a white table for pattern cutting, a sewing machine, perhaps soon, a mannequin.

A picture book of artist Bui Xuan Phai was found next to my old bookshelf. Such a beautiful product of technology and dreams. Written in English and French, full of paintings and sketches. I wasn't surfing the book. I was detaching it. Chunks of paper were glued by moss and dirt. The end of it had an ancient corpse of a young brownish spider. As if the grief of ruined beauty couldn't get any sadder, a Japanese notebook came up in the same condition. Goodbye friends. I will find you in another copy and we'll soon meet again. 

Tomorrow will be busy. I'm up for it with all my heart. Today has been a ride of sweat and smiles. I rewarded myself with a bowl of ramen, Earl Grey, and hot chocolate at Tadioto. You know I'm happy. Now is the time for a good sleep and a definitive enter. I'll hit Publish and on this side of the globe, we'll go to bed, while on the other side, people will close this post and go on with their lives. Some of them will clean their room today and find their own 'wooden necklaces'. Such random happiness, don't you think?

Earl Grey.

Miso, the saltiest option.

Reminds me of an African cult.

Is it some kind of mother goddess worshipping? 

An illustration in the Mekong Review.

I found it under this. Will try the yellow bottle next time.

They put a branch of leaves up there. Lime leaves?

MOM AND FUN COLLAGES.

Hey, another blog post.

Summer feels much better this year with less heat and sweat. Good news is, I haven't got tanned much. Still pale with no sign of pimples or such. 

I made a so-called childhood discovery several days ago: an eight-year-old Upwords, which is a 3D Scrabble, a decade-old coin collection, my mother's red leather luggage tag with her handwriting, her wedding ring box from Berlin, and some pieces of paper she jotted down phone numbers onto, which I admit were found by my sneaky wallet behavior. 

They were all in good quality and memory. I like the idea of possessing old stuffs with Western aesthetics. I thank my mom for it. She used to tell me stories about her lunch always being smashed potatoes and sausage, when she and her friends would have parties, how fast the German trains could be and what was the difference between a well-tailored piece and a fast-fashion product. I have a beautiful, red thick coat 'Made in Germany' handed down by my sister. It's the same age as mine. Put it on in the winter here, you'll never know cold. 

Even now, my mother's wardrobe is still with us. Sometimes I open the door to hear the creaking sound of the wood and smell the scent of old sweaters. There's this one in pink with white stars, pretty much like Stella McCartney. And another one with rhombic-cell pattern in dusty yellow, blue and pink. My mother had a nice figure so everything she wore fitted and matched an idea of style. 

Like other normal women, she had a habit of fixing my clothes without my willingness. I only noticed the change after showering, when I put my night clothes on. It could be a more flexible pants' rubber band, bigger pockets or none, shorter legs, or even a patch with a different pattern. My night clothes used to be full of floral and geometric prints. Several of them were made by mother herself. Before heading to Germany, she worked as a tailor for a garment factory in Vietnam, where she befriended needles and threads. I was exposed to fashion like that. We, indeed, had biscuit boxes for thread rolls, aka snack bummer; silver food wrapper to keep the needles; tiny boxes for buttons; and other silly tools I still have no idea how to use today. 

MY VERY FIRST MAGAZINE