>I love my friends
>I love my family
>I love my girl
>I love my city
>I love my life
>And it's not over

    Resavoir, LML, 2019

>So please, don't steal my heart
>Don't make me start over again
>Please, don't hurt my pride
>Don't make me hide my loving away, away

    Spelling, Always, 2021

*****

I’m currently sitting here in the living room of this new home. I’m sitting here trying to uncover — or at least try to find a better way of describing — the roots of my discontents and insecurities and fears. It feels as I continue writing, interrogating myself, my context, my individual and collective memory, I grow more stuck. I feel a quicksand of guilt, a shameful resistance. I’ve tried to address discomfort sometimes. They’re my attempts to re-contextualize my being, every angle I can approach myself with. A stolen memory, collateral damage. Displaced. An immigrant. A Victim, pathetic and without agency. Will these absolve me of my insecurity? The shame attaches right back like it loves me. Discomfort cascades every chance it gets, coating me, bathing me. I’ve been spiraling a lot recently. The growing list of shit that sets me off on this path permeates. Sometimes anything and everything feels applicable. Anything will look as melancholic as I command it to. When I sit here and look out the screen door, the wispy branches and vast skies meld into a vat of information, simultaneously still and racing. Sometimes it feels impossibly motionless, sometimes the backyard spins. I never thought we would have a backyard. There’s familiarity somewhere here: a grill, fit for grilling short ribs and onions, and a plastic table on the concrete, fit for family friends and churchgoers. I can try to construct comfort. More disappointingly though, it’s alien. I’ve only known this place for two months; I don’t know my neighbors — I haven’t known my neighbors ever. No memories have been created here. Not quite a tabula rasa, it’s difficult to separate every home from this one. I feel really lost right now. When I look out the screen door I’m transported to every window I’ve looked out, every landscape that bleeds through the windshield, every wispy branch and sky I lose myself in. Every time I’m suspended in time, every time Time delegates and settles me, directions me as I await my next deployment, assignment, every affect and effect. I’ve awaited departure and attempted to stay present far too much to count. I’m more confused where I’m supposed to be than ever. Arms. That’s where I want to be the most. If not a physical home, then a figurative spiritual one built of love and security. I’ve grown dismissive of any of Omma’s efforts to hold me. I don’t think I made a conscious effort to set such high emotional boundaries, but our relationship now feels impersonal. I now have an aversion to Omma’s gentle hand; I flinched. The nature of our relations isn’t ugly or violent, just cold. Whose arms then? In my daydreams, past lovers hold me. Ooh come back sweet sweet Ms. Nostalgia. In my desires, my family holds me, my friends hold me, my lovers hold me. Most importantly, I hold myself. I don’t think I’ve figured out how to embrace him, still. I’ve been thinking. A lot about kids, scarily enough. How beautiful it would be to have them. Not just the novelty of new cute faces and first impressions, but the security of it. The profound sense of purpose that I hear about, living to serve someone, a home. I know I won’t anytime soon. I know better than to move with these selfish impulses, that I don’t have what it takes right now to raise a child. I’m young and broke and have far too many questions for myself unanswered and pains unresolved. I want to extend far more grace and patience for myself before acting on those desires. Is it escapism? What’s a more damning declaration of distance from my family than starting my own? My brother made distance. I too, in my youth, have found a way to make distance. For Omma and Appa, access to the full range of my personhood is limited. Parts of me already uncovered for others are still waiting to be excavated by them. It’s not an exclusive blindness. There’s much lost in translation, both literally and in a symbolic distillation of our characters. A speaker of Korean, paradoxically native and underdeveloped, and two English speakers whose learning of the language came well into their adulthood _can_ talk to each other. Though, I won’t grasp their humanity entirely. I don’t know how witty they are, how complex their arguments are, the conviction of my Father, the charisma of my Mother. When we fight, we sound infantile to each other. Can we even comprehend the gravity in our cries? I’m sure the harsh ugliness resonates, but can we hear it with the delicate ear that our cries deserve? The intricacies of a cry, all the memory and history behind it, the specific needs it demands. I should learn how to speak Korean, for real. If I can’t speak to them, what does that make me? A bad child. A child unfit; He’s without the sufficient instruments to fully embrace his family. I’m faced with unresolved vignettes of discomfort, glimpses of family traumas and impossible conversations that none of us are ready to have yet. I swear I’ll get this shit together by 30. I repeat narratives about myself that I don’t know are true or false. In these portrayals, I am abandoned. Every single time we move I’m heartbroken; I know these points of fissure will result in an incongruence with myself and who I had most recently labeled home. I’m heartbroken when I feel my needs are discarded, when I’m an afterthought, collateral. Friendships and immediate community tearing away makes my four valves ache more, and any indication of impermanence, every breakup, every “I love you” turned silent — much like allergies — threatens me, someone who remembers and fears. I am abandoning. I am someone who can’t keep a lasting meaningful relationship. I leave. They leave. My friendships expire; my exercises in romance are further evidence. I leave my family, just as I worry they will. There’s an immediacy to my fears. I don’t afford myself the comfort of slowing down, the privilege of taking it in. I *have* to find someone to trust, to love, to offer myself, to care for, to confide in, to hold. Who am I without external validation? How do I hold myself? Upset with how unsubstantial the answer is, I correspond to find new solutions for this trudging sense of lonely and emotional displacement. In response, maybe I should practice detachment, the fluidity of it all, Miwon Kwon style. I felt the need to adopt this nomadic nature in my search of intimacy — Oh by the way, I prefer to call it 'the practice of ephemeral intimacy’ over hoeing, thank you very much! (lol) I’m not very good at it. Maybe because I still haven’t held myself.

It feels like I live to experience melancholy. Fully living in melancholy. I worry everyday & It’s never worth it.

Coney Island, NY

New York City, NY

A Letter to an Ancestor:

I want to meet you.
I want to see what you look like.
What your name is.
How wonderful you are, how horrible you are.
How traumatizing you are, how traumatized you are.
I want to recognize your smile.
I want to recognize patterns at your most wrathful.
So that's where they got it from.
I want to taste your cooking; see how Omma's compares.
How mine compares.
You probably made the best tasting food.
A warmth that got diluted in each passing of generation.
Or maybe the food got better,
perfected, continuously workshopped and growing.
Maybe it's only Omma who can cook like that.
That warmly.
Either way, teach me how to cook.
I want to gather together and eat a meal as our family does.
Not that I'll act so different.
I'll still be the meek and shy son that I am.
But to be present there, I would do anything.
I want to sit down with my parents, and their parents, and their parents,
eager to share stories about each other, about you.
I want to hear what you believe in, who you believe in.
I want to understand you,
and learn our language better,
so I can actually understand the stories that you do tell - if you want to tell any at all.
I want you a part of my life.
A compass.
A reservoir full of reference and guidance.
I need an intervention.
I wonder if you'd stress about how I'll turn out like how your descendants stress.
Would you be scared of me?
See me?
Hear me?
Would you shoot me with the belittling and judgmental gaze of the uncles in church?
Or would you call me pretty, and tell me I favor Omma like the aunties in church?
Who taught you how to love?
Are you doing a better job than those before you?
Am I doing okay?

Best.

Additional comments on MR SS24, Irony, Post-postmodernism (new sincerity), I mean It, Sebin rambling

Silky nighties, hi-vis coats, sports jackets & jerseys, 9-5 blazers over shimmering clubbing shirts.

Martine Rose's SS24 displayed that her references to British queer nightlife, Caribbean heritage, punk, football, and pedestrian office/work wear are as sharp and nuanced as ever. The styling is also just <33!! Like Nike Shox with hosiery? Come Onnn!!

This collection exudes a sense of opulence divorced from contemporary signifiers of Capital "L" Luxury. In its class ambiguity, it feels more genuine and weirdly endearing - Think old classy silky nightgowns that your auntie got from TJ Maxx -- like the thrifted whatever-sized blazer that you get for a night out (see thatadult). It's indicative of a democratic and more 'human' sense of indulgence in a way that isn't defined by exclusivity/inaccessibility.

In this age of postmodernism, conventions and expectations are expectedly and accordingly subverted. Although often used as an act of critique, parody, hyperbole, and often smothered in a thick coating of irony, these subversions are sometimes sincere proposals - asking if something can be celebrated - genuine 'what-ifs?'

When reading this Hypebeast interview with the designer herself about the recent collection, I couldn't help but notice a bit that stuck out to me.

In discussion with my other friend, Mateo we covered forms of harmful irony - irony punching down - and we came to the internet phenomenon of "hood irony"- where its proponents/users/mememakers? (often non-black) satirize and bastardize Black culture, fashion, media, AAVE, etc. It effectively turns "the signifiers into content that's avant-garde, nonsensical and oftentimes meaningless" (yes, I just cited Know Your Meme). The type of interaction best described between participants of hood irony and Black culture/aesthetics is alike to the way zealous, play-hungry children look at that sandbox part of a playground - the ones with the small excavators. Hood irony is the ultimate presentation of the way Black culture is delegitimized and turned into playthings. Misused AAVE turned to trendy "Gen-Z" phrases and sincere expressions into costume and cosplay, popular dances turned to Fortnite perks. The attitude is how can I use something separate from myself for my own enjoyment.

For a beautiful physical manifestation of all of that, look no further than rapper/social media presence - 'Joeyy'. There's enough overlap in his visual and sonic aesthetics that he can blend in the noise of the off-kilter, obscure, niche rap scenes of Drain Gang/Surf Gang. The space he occupies is ambiguous enough to where you could easily dismiss any weird shit by saying "It's not that deep". Regardless of what admiration or genuine appreciation he may have for early SoundCloud, cloud rap, and Lil B-adjacent scenes, he's still white with a lineup and rolls around with alt-right internet loser, Sam Hyde like idkkk.

Weirdo activity IMO.

You can see how participation in the ironic satirization of cultures and groups by which you aren't either part of or oppressed can just be.... gross. That's why alternatively, it's a lot more refreshing and feels a lot more genuine when subversive styling/mixing of "low" - "high" culture signals are done by those that come from marginalized backgrounds -- and represent those marginalized backgrounds. That's the difference between Virgil styling basketball shorts under suit pants vs Balenciaga making pants that sag: one of them isn't informed with the sincerity or nuance to make decisions like that.

Poor people don't get to casually wear high-fashion to appropriate or play with. The fact that anytime the working class does, it's in fleeting participation in "good things" or Luxury (again with a capital L), shows the type of power dynamics that's present - who gets to signal what.

Idk... there's a lot to be said about the bending and inversions of status/class through ways of signaling, and I think Rian Phin or thatadult has really good breakdowns and recorded essays that go a lot more extensively into those topics.

SebNotes (Summary): uhh idk whos joking or being real anymore.. sooo maybe we should be more sincere.

Edited by Aidan Glenn (ty for cleaning my grammar luv uuu <3)

A note on the ever-progressing experiences of an immigrant:

I am exhausted. It is 1:59 AM right now. I had been on the phone with American Airlines on and off for the past maybe 28 hours. I just got off the 5th or 6th call; I'm not entirely sure which one that was. Every call was an excruciating wait: about an hour hold per.

It's not the easiest task to communicate with, probably equally exhausted, customer service people, explaining the situation over and over again cause of course it's never the same person on the other end of the phone every hour-long hold. It's not any easier to do that, while simultaneously explaining my intentions and what the representative is telling me to my parents at the same time. So many barriers and triggers: language dissonance, pride, money we can't afford to lose. 

I hate talking to customer service, or anyone on behalf of my parents. It feels the same every time. Same thoughts, same fighting, same feeling, same waiting, same i-can't-wait-til-this-is-over:

"How the fuck are we fighting when I'm your mouth? Like huhhh? Trust - I'm just as frustrated, I don't even know what they're telling me either. How is it my fault? You're not listening. Leave me the fuck alone for a few minutes; I don't feel like picking up the phone right now."

I continued to stick through with the phone calls. Maybe cause it was guilt or tenacity, but also what else can they do? By the 4th call, after expressing that I was tired and didn't want to call anymore, my dad questioned:

"What am I supposed to do?"

That helplessness was ugly. Desperation? His question was one that I had considered before. Will I keep being this middleman between my family and the world we live in? I assume my role will only have to be more diligent as time progresses -- they're getting old. Maybe I'll bite my tongue a little bit more. Not be so quick to feel embarrassed. Maybe my brother will step up. Be the child that they need, not one that can't stand helping them. A child that can speak their language. An eternal commitment, to serve, defend, protect, shield, interpret.

What I thought would be the last time I would ever need to call American Airlines, it seemed like we fixed the issue. We got our flights transferred, canceled, our credit reimbursed, time and time again, but it's all done now. They emailed us our confirmation code with everything we needed for our new booking.

There were the tickets, with my mom's name spelled incorrectly.

Of course I would have to call American Airlines again - I probably will again, and again, and maybe the IRS again too, and maybe even our insurance again, maybe even the landlord too.

First entry -- just sayin hi. idk who/if anyone is gonna see this but this is just a place where ima blog, post anything I like, wanna talk ab, etc. completely self-serving, yes. :)