The Blues by sebit min

sebit min

series

bitter

observations

Twisted memories, lost times. Today I walked around the streets of New York City. Or more to be exact, walked around without reason, direction, nor destination. After saying goodbye to X, I started my way from the very tip of Soho, on Broadway and Lafayette, shying away from the buzzing crowd, into the corners, streets, and common scenery. As if composing a tour route for future friends’ visits, I conjured a map in my head of the streets I love to walk; the wide street way with the coffee shop, a momental dark alley across a ramen joint, awkward merging of two streets, past the gothic cathedral to the used bookstore. Before hitting Union Square, I quickly changed my plans (although there wasn’t really one) and thought I should walk through west village towards the office. I had left my phone there, and although I didn’t really need or want it, I figured it would be a good excuse to try up 6th ave., hoping for another chance encounter with the cute guy. The first coincidence took place a week or two ago, on that ave between 20th and 21th street. I had always thought that this guy, with extraordinary eyes and a snide smile, was attractive even a few years back, but real attraction sparked during this summer when I had returned to the studio. He remembered me from back when, and we gradually progressed into a ‘casual small-talk’ acquaintance. That was it. But somehow he became a fragment of my fantasy, and I would imagine and at times enact, in my head, the conversations we would have, the places we would go, the intimacy we’d build, the sex, the sex. That was one of my worst, and yet strongest, tendencies. Going too far in my made-up imaginations. I know that this fascination is unhealthy—forfeiting every chance of a real fundamental relationship; yet because of this, I could not, not pursue

him. Albeit, I wouldn’t know how it would’ve looked in the third perspective, I had tried within my range of astronomical shyness, to be as flirtatious as one can be. Yet my efforts were fruitless and as a result, I now spend a fairly large amount of my dazing moments imagining that chance encounter. It was this particular reason I chose the walk up 6th ave, but the encounter didn’t happen (chances were too slim anyways) and without even a hint of defeat, I headed on towards Madison Square garden. Just yesterday, I was running across these streets during a calmer minute of a heavy rain storm. My open-toe sandals were damp and disgusting as were my feet, but the wet reflections of the lights, people scurrying across streets, the bright empire state building, seemed scenic, even romantic. I guess this would be the image people have of how hopelessly romantic life in new york would be, or maybe, once again, its just me and my pathological glorification of imagination. But today, sans the rain, and, instead, with the cool autumn breeze flowing through the tall trees, it was nostalgic, reviving me of the one too many walks I took just a few years ago with Y and Z on late nights with take-out coffee in hand. I felt a sudden pang of emotions—sadness, for none of the two friends being here with me, yet, happiness for the sake of having such an uneventful, ordinary memory to look back to. That’s what I instinctively gravitate towards—the memory. I am at my most comfortable reviving and treasuring the past. Finding comfort in situations with a fixed outcome, where a mistake has already been made, a period already marking its end—has only increased my fear of the present. The present, intoxicated with vulnerability, awkwardness, and with so little predictability. I can feel my face stiffen as I retreat a step back from my outer shell, the level of self-awareness rising along with deprecating self-esteem. I’ve got to figure out a way to be more confident, more comfortable, more gen-

uine; the wants are endless as well as the needs, yet I tread on the opposite direction. .. Once I escape the park, I retrace the path of the past. Past the tiny frame shop where during the day, a gigantic mirror almost the size of the shop itself, would sit next to the entrance, in hopes to lure customers in. It’s a clever marketing tactic, since without it, one would have never thought a shop existed in that small sliver of a building. Past the big corporate office building, where two immigrant cleaning ladies converse in their thick accents. Across the street, workers in uniforms fill their stomaches with food from a nearby truck. They’re the real workers, those who spend the most honest hard day’s night. I imagine the older lady slumped on her couch, after work, in a house far away in Queens, barely finishing her late dinner as she drowns into sleep.

I wonder how they’re all doing, yet I have no desire to contact them and disrupt our natural decay of friendship. The scenery is now so familiar, almost too much so. I have been up and down these streets countless number of times. Yet, things are slightly off. Memories are like that. My virtual map has stopped its clock at exactly 3 years ago when I last vacated the area, but everything else has, and will continue to, move, change, grow, fray, age, disappear. Slowly, gradually without a pause. I continue towards a place I once called home, stop in front of the doorsteps. The window on the 13th floor is dark, I wonder who lives there now. It was a crabby room (structured chaotically) with no a/c nor heat; but with a full-size window for a wall, it gave plenty of sunlight. It was perfect for my first room in the city. But this concrete building, now only holds the fragmented memories of my home, nothing else. My walk has lost its sense of direction. a walk nowhere. ..

The scent of warm, a bit too savory, food hits me before I make a turn past Murray Hill. I realize I’m a bit hungry and that I had totally forgotten about this little exotic part of town. While waiting at a stop light, a tall blonde girl curbs in front of me on her citibike, and cries in to her phone, “Why?” I look up to see the underlying tone of this instrument, a joke perhaps? and seeing her face crushes the hope. Why—a question, an exclamation, an expression of hurt and betrayal. The harsh note lingers on in the air and pierces through my ribs. I sympathize with her deeply at that precise moment and want to offer consolation, but I know that the “New Yorker” protocol dismisses that kind of creepster activity. Best be on my way. I had to awkwardly dart my eyes, trying not to prod even an inch of her private, intimate moment. Past the thai restaurant where a group of friends had a good-bye dinner for a friend leaving town for good. Past her place, past his place.

I feel exhausted and still, even more so, hungry. Going further uptown seems meaningless at this point so I head down on 3rd ave. The pizza place with the friendly, red-faced Italian guy has transformed in to a sleek, modern bar/grill. The shitty chinese place that Z hated so much, has made an investment to revamp their neon signage. I peek inside, and see that isn’t the case elsewhere. Perhaps the color of the photos of their various synthetic cuisines has faded a bit more. A fruit cart marks its place in the center of a large, dark, and empty alleyway. Dim street lights barely outline the shape of the fruits. It’s past 9, the street is too quiet for any night, let alone a Friday in the city. I walk past mindlessly, pause, and retrace my steps. Taking a second for my vision to adjust to the darkness, I find what I’m looking for. I stretch my hand out to it; my signal to the merchant. I ask to make sure, “Are these peaches?”

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The hand written sign reads 2 for $1, he offers a discount of 5 for $2. It’s a good deal, but I protest, “I can’t eat that many!” He chuckles. I hand him a dollar bill, enjoying the fact he has a few less fruit to carry back home. As he hands me a small plastic bag, he quickly picks up another peach and adds it in. Words of thanks spur out of me, he grins, wishing me a good night. I thank him once more and also wish him the same. As I walk away, I wipe the peach with my shirt and bite into it. It’s delicious and realization chokes up. This is the most precious human interaction I’ve encountered in a long time. I am saddened and happy at the same time. I notice that those two emotions have been coming simultaneously more often now, maybe a mark of growing up. Past the school, past another chinese place, past the numerous restaurants we always said we would go but never did, the vintage store, the cafe, the nail salon, whisks of perfume, piles of plastic bags. the nowhere walk gradually merges in to a walk back home.

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“Come and play with me, I am so unhappy”

“I am not tamed.”

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velcro hooks

velcro loops

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h av e

da y !

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thank thank thank thank

you you you you

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twisted memories, lost times

is that it?

pp diary entry 07.30.2013

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“You have as many hours in a day as Ciara” photography© Rachel Willey

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Overgrown, untamed palm trees look like saggy grizzlys.

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playground in front of my grandma’s place. 19 dong, Eun-ma Apartment. Daechi-dong, Seoul.

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the holy act of de-eyeing Jan Mabuse, Adam and Eve source: Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum

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velcro

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pp diary entry 07.30.2013

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volcanic eruptions

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smile for happiness

a part of

Index Zine

⁄ 30 the blues sebit min

4pp publication