KEEP IT PRIOR.

This morning represented well laziness. As I fully embraced the dusty pink cotton blanket and 'sandwiched' the big silky pillow between my legs, I thought of the scenario where I was making my very first pieces in a quiet, humble apartment downtown. These days I've been thinking a lot about my education, whether I should stay and continue my study at an expensive, fashion design-exclusive college, or study abroad at a worthy school. The risk is high for both. The advantages I'm having here and now will likely disappear if I move. But an average school and a not-so-highly-competitive environment can't fulfill my personality or improve my skills in any levels. I will fall asleep as soon as the first semester starts. 

After finishing that line, I ask myself why I'm still wondering if I've already known that I don't want to stay. ... Because I'm afraid. Like everybody else, even the ones who keep calling me brave and strong, I have my own fears and midnight is when my overthinking occurs. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to leave what I've built behind me and start a new life, new network and new habits. I can't imagine myself working part-time for money, struggle for it by the end of the month or having to have humble meals. Is this worth it? A couple of months ago I was so certain I would leave. What has happened to me? Is it what it feels like being insecure about our future? I always tell myself to be absolutely sure even when I'm not. Because if I don't say it, no one will knows.

I keep too much inside without sharing. Sometimes when it bursts, I collapse. Very few ones are willing to suffer from it with me. Very few ones find it easy to accept who I am when I'm weak. What I need now is encouragement so I'll have enough strength and focus to complete what I've started and get ready to go. By now, it's the only thing can keep me in sanity.

13.

I've always had a hunch of having the day 13 as the first day I met the special one. My intuition is so precise sometimes that I must ask myself whether there is a before life and I happen to remember a bit of it or not? In this life, it wasn't a date but the very first talk with a stranger, which was distinguished clearly by the similarities and differences we had. The stranger and I have been seeing each other for a month, from 13th December to 13th January. We have been through 3 fights and the most recent one was the biggest yet shortest-to-be-solved. I don't think it's bad that we have created some storms in one month because this is the first relationship that really makes me want to learn to listen and understand the other's differences while swallowing my ego. I wonder if he will do the same for me. In one month, I have had all the feelings I had in my last relationship plus so much more. The kind of feelings that questions me whether I am falling in love or I've had too much tea. I don't think this is love yet but I hope it will be. "If you fall in love with the wrong this much, imagine what it would be when you're with the right one." Can you imagine that? I'm blind already when I take this rollercoaster ride. But I'm sure that day will be beautiful. This thing that we are having, it's meaningful in its own fragility. Its ups and downs show me something absolutely different from other 1-month relationships. I see two people working on the issues together. I see my weaknesses crystal-clear while getting inspired suddenly by only thinking of our last night conversation or the touch or the gaze we had. The point is, not many people can strip down the cover I built for myself. So when it happens, it happens with all the fears and discomfort I possibly imagine.

Sometimes when we stay silent or rest after it, I feel strange. Perhaps I'm demanding? I want more of the petting, pampering and story-telling. I need to listen to his words, anything at all, so I can start telling mine. That's the key to my talking. I need to listen first no matter what the story will be. I want more of the actions. The risks. Look it's the risks that bond us all. The little and genuine surprises. The suggestions. The randomness.

I tend to lose sleep when I'm with someone. I'll stay up late to talk or be with them. This time, I don't have doubts if tomorrow I will feel the same way I feel at night. I know for sure he will care what happens during my day as much as how I feel when the sun goes down.

I remember in our first date, after watching Moulin Rouge, I smelled his shirt and I thought "Is it the smell I will be used to from now on?" He was almost exactly what I pictured the perfect man to date. Almost because his clothes were the opposite. And that perfect figure didn't have beard. But bless the beard and it usefulness. I think I'm seeing a poet and a coffee man that is like me in terms of fears and passion. We are emotionally intelligent, have good sense of humour and somehow are perverts. He, with all of who he is, has been able to crack me talking and sharing my privacy. But not that I am giving my full trust. I'm confused and I need a little push.

I hope for him having my back and vice versa. I hope for more of sympathy and stepping backwards for each other. I long for the protection. I wonder how many things we will be able to share unconditionally. I hope we will find the strength to take risks and just do it. In the end, we will know if it's love, if it's love.

DAVID BOWIE DIED.

David Bowie died yesterday. Heroes and Starman should have been played repeatedly by now but I can't listen to them more than once. I'm scared of this kind of day. The day that only happens once or twice a year. The day I have to try really hard to hold it in, to suck it up and seem normal. Usually I would make another tag, like how I call the others with their countries or the cheesiest tag I can give, which is "first love". It wasn't even love, just two teenagers happened to sit next to each other and share a bunch of stuffs. But today, I'm not ready to give another tag.

I can't believe I deserve this. This is not how I want to end anything. It's not polite, not right, not even true to who I am, or who he is. I hate social media and how it turns all the conversations to be. I ask myself if I would have told the same things I told yesterday face to face. I'm disappointed by the fact that he was the one to give up while everything he kept telling me was "don't write me off just yet." I really thought somehow I was a little in love. Because for the first time I really thought for someone but not myself. I put my ego down so I could minimize the damage. Or at least that's what I thought I did. 

Everything is different times after times, no matter what. And then they'll become the same. Shattered way back home, shattered music, shattered tea, shattered feelings. All will be shattered. I won't deal with this with hatred. I won't face it with weakness because anything goes against love and positive thoughts will only do harm. But I'm broken. I wish my good friend were here so she would hold me and pour a bunch of good things into my ears while I cry the shit out once and for all. I'd rather be stabbed severely than suffer from insidious pain. So that's what I will do even though it sounds like a coward, I will cry it all out until I'm ok again. Because I will be ok again. 

GOLDEN HAS LEFT.

I felt empty when Golden was announced dead. The same emptiness I felt the moment my mother left us. Flashbacks happened and I was a sleep walker walking from home to the pet hospital to pick Golden up. Flashbacks brought memories, those that weren't necessarily about me and Golden. But crucially about Golden. I miss him so much already. Golden always behaved. Never missed the right spot for WC, never bullied new kittens, never ate anything on the table before us. He was always the apple in my father's eyes. He was as big as a toddler, as wise as an elder and dope as eff. His fur, he probably took after a tiger. His eyes were marbles. Everything was very yellow. Golden was a romantic cat. Always went out at midnight and woke the neighborhood up while calling his girl in a scary tone. He was adventurous leaving home for 10 days and coming back fatter. Golden was generous. Always let his sister have more food and never told us if she was stealing some more of ours. He had a great taste. Never ate food on the floor, loved matcha cookies, sweet corn and lettuce. He could tell if your sweater is sh*t by sleeping on it. Golden was beautiful, kind and obedient. He would choke you if your belly happened to be his bed. That huge cat would warm you up at night and shoo you away in the morning for being too sentimental towards a cat. Golden was so cool. Silent most of the time. Only had dark chocolate. Very much hated mice and spiders. Had a great attitude towards annoying guests, which was cold as eff when they touched him.

I can go on talking about Golden all night. I don't know what we're going to do but that's tomorrow. Tonight I will sleep tight thinking of my dear man. Miu may or may not realize the fact but she will be fine. We will probably adopt a new cat. But Golden, that cool man, will always be here with us. I will keep some of his fur, again, that belongs to tomorrow.

COFFEE COLD BY GALT MACDERMOT.

This morning is coated with frozen breaths and rain. It rains differently in a tropical country. What a pity letting our shoes dip into the density of inconvenience. This kind of weather makes me long for noodles, any kind at all. Chewy dough, hard-boiled egg, tender meat, spicy soup, delightful veges. Those remind me of Motosan-Uber. I'm probably one of the few ones who give them compliments for the ramen. As artificial as it tastes, it's my ritual after hot chocolate or Earl Grey. It's my second stop after going for a walk, my second round for my stomach. And it actually rhymes.

I miss my unfinished paintings. I want to hug each of them and say I'm sorry for leaving them undone for so long. The colors, the paper, the smell of unfinished work. It cuts me. If the crayons and pencils had a brain, they would realize how terrible I am and rush to the door immediately. Even the paintings on the wall would break the frames and run away. My cats would help them run faster. The squeeky birds would stand next to the windows and sing bravo. Many things will happen in the ironic calculation of God to finally lead to the explosion of one big failure. Suddenly I'm well-known for no reason.

POEM: THE USUAL TEA.

Hot Earl Grey.

Japanese messenger's bicycle.

Old house in Trang Tien alley.

As seen at Lukas.

The little garden.

Hanoi swings in the cold of winter
Gives us time for cookies and tea
Dipped into the liquid
Softened with ease.

"No Dignity" played
Smoothened in jazz
Leather shoes danced
It wasn't bazaar.

Dark outside
Half past 5 no less
Tea ran out
Should have already left.

Jamie.

OUT OF SIGHT. OUT OF MIND.

The special friend I've never met but always like to talk to is now fading. I've stopped feeling excited about our conversations. I even feel awkward and less of myself talking to him. When the sense of humor disappears, I know something's wrong. I hate to see the reality of his not because of its core, but the fact that I don't know anything about him. The entire thing is about guessing and based entirely upon improvising. Sometimes I wonder what I have done to make him uncomfortable talking about his life with me. Every time I try to get closer, I screw up. Is it because of my age and that I haven't been through many stages of life? This distance is making me feel like a forgotten puppy. I don't like being lied to, who does? But I don't mind him telling it, either. I understand even though I don't know what I actually understand.

I want to talk to him more than to see him. I'm afraid if we meet, we'll become normal friends. All I ever want is one breezy night on the roof, two drinks and a sincere conversation. But all the things used to be simple have turned complicated. And distant. How can I ever talk normally again when I have to ask myself if it is true or not, whether he's doing it for fun? This disappointment isn't like losing. It's me having something that I shouldn't have.

Yes, I'm still thankful for his appearance. He turned up right in time to change me and give me more motivation, a reason to get back to my trait. I'm thankful because he spent time and I remember how he made me feel. But if we were near each other right now, I hope he wouldn't tap on my back and say hi. I don't know what to say. I don't know who is standing in front of me. All I can see is the vision he's created.

LEON IN REAL LIFE

Where should I start? I'm writing about a man who has no story to tell. He doesn't belong to anywhere nor anybody. This man, Leon, is the loneliest man on earth I've ever known. 

I met Leon in a different kind of life, the one you can only imagine. We'd never met face to face but we saw each other through our souls. The case of Leon was a mess. He grew up baring the departure of a parent and later parted from his daughter. He didn't know what a family was but he had a similar one formed with his chosen friends. Leon's life was a fucked-up one. When I knew him, I was so glad that he'd been through enough to understand me, and also that my life wasn't as fucked up as his. There was a part inside of him that died long time ago, before he even knew it existed. Maybe that empty space was the reason for the existence of Leon. He could turn into the wind as his body and soul contained nothing. Nobody would realize the transformation. Not that they didn't care. People cared enough to know he should have been the air. A man who didn't belong to anywhere, belonged to everywhere. Knowing a tiny edge of Leon's life, perhaps a little deceiving one, I feel sympathetic. I couldn't beat his age and that enormous amount of experiences. 

Leon told me to take loss as a gift and never compare myself with anyone. Regardless of his inability to love, I don't feel bad for Leon. I hope someday someone will come and change the distorted, heart-broken man in him. Give him warmth and a reason not to run away. For now, I don't know how this story will go. I'd like to be friends with Leon but he seems inattentive. That should have been my place with most of people I know. If the curtains are falling, I will choose to remember Leon. I have the feeling that one day we will stop seeing and talking to each other. Like looking at myself in the mirror, I'd have to break the glass with my bare hands. It'd cut my skin but that's my intention. Leon should be back to his life, now that he has successfully finished his job.

POEM: I LIKE TO SIT IN THE DARK

Copycat of Wayne Thiebaud. Lemon Cake. 

I like to sit in the dark. 
Even when it's daytime
Any where I choose will blacken
And my fingers will rhyme.

I like to sit the dark.
Beneath a ceiling of stains
Sipping tea in steam so hot 
That my lips could taste the pain.

I like to sit in the dark.
Nostalgic feelings delivered by fall
Soft breezes surf the greenish face
Reminding people what is lone.

I like to sit in the dark.
Disagree with the sun so bright
He comes up to lighten my faith
Bless those eyes no longer are blind.

A PAINTING ABOUT A CAFE.

I've been writing a lot lately but none of them was published. I've been every where, to a cafe, a restaurant or a theatre, write anything that comes on my mind. The truth is, all I ever want is to be. Not to succeed. Success is a product of the society we're living in. An illusion created by those who rule the world, like a bait and we're the fishes. I used to say I wanted to live in a house like this, wake up like that, do things like ta ta ta, then do things like da da da. But now I've changed. I'm trembled knowing how practical I used to be. And assured to realize how much I've learned to stop being so practical.

1. I only like a few of Yohji Yamamoto's designs, the minimal ones. His philosophy is good, but the messiness of his clothes doesn't exist in my world, hence, neither do I in his.

2. Fashion designer sounds too flashy and mushy. I don't like to label oneself. I'll be proud to make clothes as skillfully as a tailor.

3. I hate mediocrity.

4. I believe in words. I think kids who read, love animals and have dreams are the luckiest ones.

5. As much as I love to write, I find it hard to take writing as a job. I write because I want to. But fashion is different. I can't get myself out of it, like a debt from the past and this present life is my turn to pay.

6. I'm lazy. Very lazy. I create good things thanks to it. 

"Good artists copy. Great artists steal."

My lucky number is not 6, however, I'll call it a night, finish my painting and see you later. I apologize for not taking many photos of myself but honestly, I'm not sorry. This is not a fashion blog and I don't give people name tags of what I wear. You know me, it's easy, I wear clothes of people whom I work for. Good night.