Lucia Speaking

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<channel>
	<title>Lucia Speaking</title>
	<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca</link>
	<description>Lucia Speaking</description>
	<pubDate>Tue, 10 May 2022 02:24:13 +0000</pubDate>
	<generator>https://luciaspeaking.ca</generator>
	<language>en</language>
	
		
	<item>
		<title>McDonald's</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/McDonald-s</link>

		<pubDate>Sun, 13 Mar 2022 21:21:02 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/McDonald-s</guid>

		<description>
McDonald’s

	
Celebrity collabs are cool, but you know what’s even cooler? Customer collabs.&#38;nbsp;

Product
People love playing with their food, and they come up with the most wicked ways to eat McDonald’s.

&#60;img width="2199" height="2382" width_o="2199" height_o="2382" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/832707697a1295bef85212e4ae80c64038564d8fe22ec90ec2a58c7e23dee404/adamfries.jpg" data-mid="137130949" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/832707697a1295bef85212e4ae80c64038564d8fe22ec90ec2a58c7e23dee404/adamfries.jpg" /&#62;
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Stunt
We want to celebrate our customers. Put them in the spotlight, show em’ a little love. So we changed the name of McDonald’s to the name of the creators of the Cereal McFlurry and Ramen Fries.&#38;nbsp;

&#60;img width="2721" height="2983" width_o="2721" height_o="2983" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5480d01daea4a8053509f9cfdad7365cb1050fc2b58d745f2e10963f6cc8ea14/tablet2.jpg" data-mid="137130958" border="0" data-scale="59" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5480d01daea4a8053509f9cfdad7365cb1050fc2b58d745f2e10963f6cc8ea14/tablet2.jpg" /&#62;
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OOH
&#60;img width="2000" height="1335" width_o="2000" height_o="1335" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f558a2e8ba0b1c69a2b655edf16b5a0d0e6acc46da34f3e998f79e43b98e392e/youbill.jpg" data-mid="137130963" border="0" data-scale="93" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f558a2e8ba0b1c69a2b655edf16b5a0d0e6acc46da34f3e998f79e43b98e392e/youbill.jpg" /&#62;
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In-Store
&#60;img width="1192" height="536" width_o="1192" height_o="536" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/58148586a089acf006a84566f0cfc15cddd73b78f1720a7fa68bc4c86f76071f/ramenfries.jpg" data-mid="137468223" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/58148586a089acf006a84566f0cfc15cddd73b78f1720a7fa68bc4c86f76071f/ramenfries.jpg" /&#62;

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Social
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Made with Paola [AD]

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	<item>
		<title>Penguin Books</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Penguin-Books</link>

		<pubDate>Wed, 15 Dec 2021 23:34:42 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Penguin-Books</guid>

		<description>
Penguin X Hinge: Read Me Like a Book

	
“If you go to someone’s house and they don’t have any books, leave.” Was the saying that inspired this campaign. The insight was that reading is a green flag in dating. When tasked to&#38;nbsp;bring books back to the forefront of pop culture, we accomplished just that by putting it where people already are: dating apps.&#38;nbsp;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Read Me Like a Book is a mode in Hinge in which users don’t see photos of users until they’ve matched, which is done purely through book-related prompts.


Submission for the 2022 D&#38;amp;AD New Blood Awards. View the official brief here.&#38;nbsp;Made with Arman [AD], Paola [AD], Ted [CW]With direction from Trent


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	<item>
		<title>Grailed</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Grailed</link>

		<pubDate>Fri, 08 Apr 2022 21:09:02 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Grailed</guid>

		<description>
Jaded for Grailed by Jaden Smith


	What’s the most sustainable fashion? Fashion that already exists.&#38;nbsp;
Shown at fashion weeks across the globe, Jaded by Jaden Smith for Grailed was born out of an homage to sustainability. Conceived using pre-existing listings on Grailed, we welcome you to witness the world’s first zero-waste fashion collection.


&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3d9d568d81ea330e5744daa91e26b07339e61ddd15164610e8ad88d04111bdca/new-jaden-grailed.jpg" data-mid="145561693" border="0" data-scale="39" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3d9d568d81ea330e5744daa91e26b07339e61ddd15164610e8ad88d04111bdca/new-jaden-grailed.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b9d615692e35a4471fe13bcf532677d7a02a36e8ab753113a37fc4c04361eda0/new-jaden-3-1.jpg" data-mid="142015172" border="0" data-scale="43" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b9d615692e35a4471fe13bcf532677d7a02a36e8ab753113a37fc4c04361eda0/new-jaden-3-1.jpg" /&#62; &#38;nbsp;
&#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0d4d3c004b479878fb4cfc2cfe98337a7067f177c6e824fcb8d46f8c07a59051/new-jaded-poster.jpg" data-mid="142015177" border="0" data-scale="34" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0d4d3c004b479878fb4cfc2cfe98337a7067f177c6e824fcb8d46f8c07a59051/new-jaded-poster.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/735ac7d57de13485bbc29363b1e7fe9f46878ff28345618b5b9d9d34ae20c135/new-jaden-2.jpg" data-mid="142015175" border="0" data-scale="40" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/735ac7d57de13485bbc29363b1e7fe9f46878ff28345618b5b9d9d34ae20c135/new-jaden-2.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp;

&#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/79976b8f0c0b5bd87403f4f108a2ae03547c76d9915c1c490b3469437da55ddc/milan-logo-correct.jpg" data-mid="142015180" border="0" data-scale="42" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/79976b8f0c0b5bd87403f4f108a2ae03547c76d9915c1c490b3469437da55ddc/milan-logo-correct.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0cde9f097719d4e05fe031b230244eeb3f126dd181074d5107fd3a61f8495e25/jaden-paris-poster.jpg" data-mid="142015181" border="0" data-scale="50" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0cde9f097719d4e05fe031b230244eeb3f126dd181074d5107fd3a61f8495e25/jaden-paris-poster.jpg" /&#62;
&#60;img width="3000" height="2201" width_o="3000" height_o="2201" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/cf474b04ff95d4edea213b0e643726ce745feeaf3b279498a72bd45d7709084d/new-jaden-wild-posting.jpg" data-mid="145561671" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/cf474b04ff95d4edea213b0e643726ce745feeaf3b279498a72bd45d7709084d/new-jaden-wild-posting.jpg" /&#62;
&#60;img width="3300" height="2550" width_o="3300" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/23885e58bf83a9268ee5531c70001a3d9fb7977f3e6d1276465759a69d656631/new-jaded-wild-posting.jpg" data-mid="142015176" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/23885e58bf83a9268ee5531c70001a3d9fb7977f3e6d1276465759a69d656631/new-jaded-wild-posting.jpg" /&#62;Made with Tyler [AD]


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	<item>
		<title>McDonald's (real)</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/McDonald-s-real</link>

		<pubDate>Tue, 08 Mar 2022 16:08:31 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/McDonald-s-real</guid>

		<description>


McDonald’s&#38;nbsp;

	
The Big Mac is the most iconic burger in existence, but Gen Zs are not giving it the love it deserves. How do we fix that? By showing them all the things it inspires artists to create.
The One Show shortlist X2
&#38;nbsp;
&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ece8adaff822505639c656257f0a2bbf97959e6657506e4496ddc661f7615a06/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Flowers.jpg" data-mid="168454218" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ece8adaff822505639c656257f0a2bbf97959e6657506e4496ddc661f7615a06/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Flowers.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ccd378d00810bd677f1e223f412fc1a3a7dfccd6864ea51980dc7ab5078b6097/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Nails.jpg" data-mid="168454222" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ccd378d00810bd677f1e223f412fc1a3a7dfccd6864ea51980dc7ab5078b6097/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Nails.jpg" /&#62;

&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/18b06dcbf73fef776ebbc96f886658c808ae948028ed0cccc80ce8f3de0e07c5/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Boots.jpg" data-mid="168454201" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/18b06dcbf73fef776ebbc96f886658c808ae948028ed0cccc80ce8f3de0e07c5/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Boots.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a26f1f55665762d691a3344acdfee30afbefd1261168d7ff7a74bd3394f6f6d4/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_CharacterArt.jpg" data-mid="168454207" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a26f1f55665762d691a3344acdfee30afbefd1261168d7ff7a74bd3394f6f6d4/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_CharacterArt.jpg" /&#62;
&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/47a320c9dfed1009aaa9be376f2ea22075f79c5677695123ae6c41aa5a91b323/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Dress.jpg" data-mid="168454215" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/47a320c9dfed1009aaa9be376f2ea22075f79c5677695123ae6c41aa5a91b323/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Dress.jpg" /&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8b52652c8c265817e0bfba9abb442f6353c36d077c4e55b85fd545c5bc5d76b8/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Makeup.jpg" data-mid="168454221" border="0" data-scale="49" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/8b52652c8c265817e0bfba9abb442f6353c36d077c4e55b85fd545c5bc5d76b8/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Makeup.jpg" /&#62;
&#60;img width="1763" height="2550" width_o="1763" height_o="2550" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9e807b082632e8c135678865922e455c55990f82787b7bdc33bca1f1c5dfa19d/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Grills.jpg" data-mid="168454219" border="0" data-scale="51" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/9e807b082632e8c135678865922e455c55990f82787b7bdc33bca1f1c5dfa19d/InspiredbyBigMac_OOH_Grills.jpg" /&#62;
CDs: Justin + Lorne


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	<item>
		<title>Etc.</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Etc</link>

		<pubDate>Tue, 08 Mar 2022 04:17:33 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Etc</guid>

		<description>


Comedy
Viewer discretion advised


Dance


Music: Lambert, Intro


Music: Sabrina Claudio, Wanna Know
Original Composition&#38;nbsp;


</description>
		
	</item>
		
		
	<item>
		<title>Poety &#38; Prose</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Poety-Prose</link>

		<pubDate>Mon, 07 Mar 2022 22:47:27 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Poety-Prose</guid>

		<description>


Poetry
Untitled
No matter where i am in the world


I think of you


I wonder what you ate this week.


I hope it was nutritionally balanced.


I wonder about the lines that have been settling in your forehead


around the corners of your eyes


I’ll have to see your age with predicted surprise


Because I won’t be around you to watch the change gradually 


I think about your pain.


is it better now?


has it gotten worse?


how is your family?


Do they still call you papo?


no matter where I am in the world 


you are on my mind


everpresent


Everluminescent. 


have you found happiness?


or whatever it is that you seek?


I know you have your reasons.

you don’t need to explain. 


say something, anything 


I won’t be greedy, I promise.


I’ve found new love


reclaimed old ones.


do the same for me will you?


Have someone there to take care of you for me.


I can’t stand knowing you aren’t loved by someone close to you. 


Someone whom you can wake up to, look forward to hugging.


you are a real boy. 


made of flesh and blood like the rest of us.


Don’t you know?


You do love me more.


Dearest beloved,

I love you today and every yesterday.

I love you tomorrow and every next year.

I love you now and before and ever after.

I love you then, there, everywhere.

All at once.

I love you day and night and dusk and dawn and twilight and just before daybreak.

I love you in the moments as I gain slumber.

I love you in the moments as I leave.

I love you in and out, past and through.

I love you head to toe, dread to heel.

I love you when I wake and when I lay.

I love you in my dreams, in the night and the day.

I love you through and out, through and through.

I love you with me and worlds apart.

I Iove you inside me

I love you on top of me.

I love you next to me.

I love you most in front of me.

I love your ers and ums, your darting eyes, uncertainty.

Your need for certainty.

I love the me who loves you.

I love you and it sinks deeper into me everyday.

I love you in my memories, minted and yet to be made.

I love you day and night, months and years, all my weeks.

I love you every hour, on the hour.

I love you every second I am me.

I love you fast and slow.

I love you as dew loves rain as rain loves sea as sea loves cloud.

Inevitably.

Inescapably.

Indefinitely.

I love you in all three panels of the diptych.

I love you in heaven.

I love you on earth.

I love you in hell.

I love you everywhere I am.

I love you everywhere I’m not.

Everywhere I’ve been.

Everywhere I will be.

Utters of I love you on my every passport stamp.

Train ticket.

Bus fare.

I love you on paper.

I love you in the air.

I love you thirty-four thousand feet in the sky.

Every time I’m thirty-four thousand feet in the sky, I love you.

Every time I’m not thirty-four thousand feet in the sky, I love you.

I love you through space.

I love you in song.

I love you in numbers and letters and characters I can’t pronounce.

I love you in ballads before our time and poems from centuries past.

I love you in four character chengyus that explain entire phenomena, lifetimes of wisdom wrapped up in just four characters.


The domain is infinite and so is the range.

Every x is I love you.

Every y is I love you too.

Untitled
He who loved me most in a past life reincarnated himself as flowers so I could fall in love over and over and over again.
At every street corner
Abundantly, preciously

Another Poem About YouA mid autumn child
where our similarities start
When you arrived 
the leaves were still a pulsating red 
endeavouring attachment 
still hanging, still hanging
By the time I graced this earth
they’ve lost their battle
branches barren and dry
leaves crisp, brittle.
You leave the sweetest,
most complex aftertaste
still bringing tears to my eyes
upon so simple a thought
A muse years after 
I last had your taste 

It’s so sweet

Knowing that you love me 

Though we don’t need to 

Say it to each other, sweet
If my memory hasn’t betrayed me
you taste of an uncertain turmoil
kind, tortured, velvety turmoil 
The complexity of an expertly blended scent
slightly psychedelic 
Unsavoured
Unfavoured by the unversed
Tis not an obsession
I wish it were
how much more poetry I’d write
how many more pages of prose would grace these leather bound pages 
my Tumblr drafts.
But obsession it is not
Attachment it is not. 
not a fervent battle against the reaper
but dying peacefully 
smiling six feet under
alas one that lives is more than all that has passed
So I sit glancing out into the first week of October
Wondering how many more poems 
How many more years 
How many more Octobers 
shall be spent 
yearning a lost you.
you introduced me to a side of myself 
I’ve only the pleasure of meeting
Through your acquaintance.
Patience, kindness, 
Though I sometimes wonder 
If I am simply good at 
imitating those I admire. 
They say people are like passengers on a train
going only one way
sharing segments of your journey with many
Some will stay many stops
Few til you rise
But what are the rules
for stepping off the train 
with them?
As Celine did
for Jesse
for Vienna. 
“Everyone has a Josh...”
I was once told. 
But I’m certain
that’s reserved 
only for those in the positives 
with Miss Karma.
Have you ever loved so hard 
It was equal parts gratitude?
For the love
Too for everything else 
It is a feeling rivalled
only by being by their side 
I love thee not for thine
Decorations 
for what thy does for me
for how thy makes me feel
I love you
For all that you are 
And all that you are not
I love thee for thine totality
for All that you’ve ever been 
All that you are
All that you’ll ever be
All that you could ever be.
Every single iteration,
in every single timeline.
But what good is such great love
When you are not here?
Poetry fodder. 
I am certain I will love others 
I am certain I will love more
of what I am most certain
I will remain loving you. 
-
Food, company, time, memories. Wishing you only best; I shall have nothing less for you, for you whom I love. Happy birthday. 

In lieu of “I love you”
Safe travels.
Hope life’s been treating you well.
...
Have you read Proust?
Have you read Ulysses? 
Sweet dreams.
...
You go be serious, I’ll go be silly.

Untitled 
I like old things
Clothing that’s hung in closets other than mine
Tarnished jewellery

Lovers who know what I’d order off a menu
Friends with whom to remember the past. 

I like leather
I like oud 
I like top notes that read of an oriental spice rack.

I like high thread count cotton
and silk
and linen and wool

I like ordering San Pellegrino
with a splash of lime and leaves of spearmint
In restaurants on the San Pellegrino

house plants 
lofts 
and high ceilings

I like Vietnamese noodle soups
bun rieu and bun bo hue
tea flavoured desserts 
hojicha and jasmine and rose
I like hydrangea 
always carrying the most weight 
like that one person
in a first year group project
too, ranunculus, lavender

I like flying many hours to hold a lover
I like being held. 

I like the colour green. 
Mint green, forest green, pistachio. 
My grandmother also likes the colour green.

I like wild salmon and halibut and purple rice and a simple salad of olive oil and lemon juice.
I like the plant and veggie balls from IKEA. 

I like fall, 
walking through its chilliness by myself in new cities of residence. 
I like buying unique objects.
hand made ceramics.
Painting nude self portraits
singing in contralto.
dancing to sultry R&#38;amp;B&#38;nbsp; 
shaking my booty
a booty I’ve had to learn to shake,
Learn to love

I like powder days and blue bird days
I really really like Lululemon.

I like perfume, sophisticatedly blended
I like the one named after me, Lucedar Wood.
I like he who blended it. 
I love him too. 
I think I’ll like New York. 
I think I’ll like Paris.
Even though I liked neither all the times I’ve been.

I really like Norway. 
I really miss D.C.
Something draws me back to Hong Kong.
a gorgeous Norwegian lover,
A Rusty bit of heartache.

I like nude beaches
and jumping off masts 
skinny dipping in the ocean
and making grown men tap.

I like men who pick up the phone when I call.
I don’t like men who do not respond to my texts.
I like men who give thoughtful gifts.
I like men with long hair and glasses.
I like men whose minds eclipse mine
though I’ve only found one so far. 
I like women with short hair 
who don’t wear any make up
though a little mascara doesn’t hurt,
you know who you are. 

I like volumes and volumes of filled out journals and sketch books 
medium nib Kaweco fountain pens
Ink wells
and wax seals. 
Hand written letters, 
love or otherwise.

Books, especially the ones with pencil marked prices on the top right corner
of the first page
Books that were a little slutty in their lifetimes, 
rummaged by many
opened by more. 

Philosophy.
Of Seneca and Aurelius and others I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know enough of.

Ruby Woo 
Caberanet francs and spicy mezcal margaritas.
Especially the one made by Crybaby on Dundas,
A Pina Colada by Mother on Queen.

I like Toronto a lot
Somewhat begrudgingly.
I like being superstitious
Believing that every time I see a Harvard sweater or someone with locs it in fact means that you’ve been thinking of me.
I like celibacy
And sobriety
And being fiercely independent
Assembling IKEA furniture by myself even when the instructions have that X over the cute little figure assembling furniture by itself. 

Being soft 
when the occasion calls for it.
I like spider guard into lasso
It reminds me of pulling in a lover close with my leg
and jumping guillotines.
Too similar to excited embraces after a long period of apartedness.

I like spending hours in a museum
pondering scenes in paintings
I’m certain I’ve seen in a dream of mine. 
Yves Tanguy 
and Matisse
and Seurat
and Degas
and Kandinsky
and Monet. 
I like mid century modern
And chairs from the Qing dynasty. 
The lines of T.S. Elliot and Lu Xun and Ezra Pound
Vivaldi’s four seasons.

I like Peter Cat Recording Co.
and Khruangbin
and Polo and Pan,
the way I discovered them with my good friend Johanne at a Steve Jobs themed party
her dancing to their hypnotic beats in burgundy velvet
in a remodelled row home 
in Columbia Heights,
pre-pandemic. 

I still like all the friends I’ve lost
Love, even
Lovers still.
I like the way French sounds
And the way I sound in it.

I like frequenting restaurants owned by friends
And knowing that I’ve got at least 6 more loves left in me.

I like Chinatown produce
Sometimes it goes bad right after I buy it
But there’s something real about buying produce slightly past the peak of ripeness
And something wholly unnatural about buying green bananas already in body bags.
 
UntitledMy love is slutty
OPEN in neon red and neon blue

My love is easy 
Liking 101, Infatuation 114 
Prerequisites not required 
No caviar, champagne bars, Michelin stars
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Spend a day laying on the grass with her
 let her rest her head on your thigh
&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;She likes being horizontal

My love is naive
Or perhaps just forgetful
Perhaps intentionally disregards the consequences
Perhaps has a positivity bias

Throwing herself
At everyone, for anyone
As if she weren’t the most prized possession
Available to only the highest bidder.

No, she is like tissues,
Kleenex
A mundane offering to anyone and everyone who may need it
For you and you and you and you too.
Because I have plenty
and you have none.
 
I once loved a man who guarded his love 
who doesn’t tell his friends he loves them.
But in my house I love yous dress my every windowsill
Adorn my every granite countertop 
Line my every mantlepiece 
Is free and abundant and profuse
like oxygen
like fallen leaves in autumn
like sun 
in a desert 
water
in the sea

Scarcity breeds value
and my love is worthless
is cheap
is branded green and yellow and Dollarama
is the stuff on the clearance rack of a suburban outlet Ross
is a Walmart love
A Great Value love
A made in China love
Give a little
Get a lot

Great Value, cheap, inferior, generic
[Oxy]moronoic
Great value for money
Give a little 
Get a lot

Maybe love is like company 
More the merrier
or perhaps diamonds
precious not because she is rare 
but because she’s a controlled substance

Maybe people wouldn’t value love the way they do
if everyone’s love were like mine
Or perhaps simply I am a slut
Easy
Naive
Cheap
so my love had not in its destiny to be anything but
 
But I’d gladly be easy naive and cheap 
To live a life filled with love
To rarely not be in love
To see love everywhere 
in every corner of everyone 
and everything

To love
To be love
To embrace love and be embraced by love
To live in a rose tinted world for most of one’s life
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with made in China
Maybe there are others like me
Who too do not guard their love
Who too offer it like Kleenex.
Maybe.
And maybe when I meet them 
We will throw so much Kleenex at each other we become mummies
and never run out 
despite all the crying for having found kin.

And we will live in a cushiony white embrace forever
Infinite Kleenex
 
That Which Cannot be DefinedI no longer chase it
for it is mine
I no longer define it
for it exceeds language
I no longer ponder it
for I have become it
It is no longer a question
for it has answered me
A glimpse at the force
larger than all of the multiverse
That birthed poetry literature and the arts
Perplexed the greatest minds
Millenia upon millennia
Through the rise and fall of empires and bloodlines
that which remains
that puzzles and entices and ruins
Imposters pretending to be
pretending to know
that which cannot be defined
that which is love

I yearn (for you)
I yearn (for you)to appreciate the smouldering, electric pink edges of undulating clouds 
between sunset and nightfall
the same cluster that exists
in every corner of the earth
To attempt but ultimately fail to fathom 
the devastating beauty of this realm 
For what are clouds 
but the former abodes of mermaids and leviathans
reincarnated in its next life 
as the first snowfall of 2002
crystals dancing on Crystal’s tongue? 

I yearn to be on the perpetual odyssey 
of unearthing the whole 
and all
of you
the totality of your infinite complexities

To make love 
and bare vulnerable
the very essence of each other
For what is love 
but the homecoming
at last
of the missing half 
Zeus took away from us?
To hold
and caress
to never misplace again 
for the rest of eternity
I yearn to have a Sufjan Stevens record playing 
while staring through each other’s eyes souls

To see all of nothing 
of everything 
in the geometry of your iris 

To understand
at last
the meaning of infinite
for its marker exists in our interstellar
universal-through-every-timeline
innate-in-our-dna
yearning for each other 
For what good is modernity
if not for instantaneous access to art with the ability to transport?
To remind us of dear moments 
shuffled away in time
if only through the shade closest 
to International Klein Blue
the salvageable notes 
of Romance Oubliee
if only in spirit, through memory?&#38;nbsp; 

I yearn to be understood 
To be bitten 
on unfamiliar places on my body yet recognize 
the familiarity of your breath 
a scent I’ll know as yours
in every single life time 

For what is synchronicity
but a symphony of accidental melodies delivering a most profound harmony? 
but starting
ending
finishing
post noting 
each other’s every other sentence?

I yearn for the dusk of a love 
which never sets
cradled between the sun and the moon
which finds its way back to us 
time and time 
and 
time
again
in a thermopolium in Pompeii
in Atlantis with the sirens
in mid century Connecticut 
between the Midlevel Elevators 
in British Hong Kong 
soon
, god 
damnit!
in post apocalyptic Tokyo
in galactic colony 352… 
for why do I reach the night so cautiously
if not for the fear of never seeing 

you again? 

“The number you have reached is not in service”
The night I met my first love
I called whom I thought
was my first love
44 times.
But I couldn’t remember his number
So the calls never went through.

Untitled
“I’m sad you’re leaving.”
“Don’t worry,
It’ll only be for a little bit
Just as 21 years
And 22 years
Were but only
A little bit.”

Things in your new room
A mattress without a frame
Amazon shipping boxes
books stacked on the floor
a Georgetown student card 
two closets
the same IKEA lamp shelf as the one in our old room
medical records faced down (which I peaked at)
(which I wasn’t supposed to peak at)
the wallet I got you that one Christmas you said you’d lost
clothes I recognized
clothes I didn’t recognize 
my old sweater that always fit you better than it fit me 
no soap, no toilet paper, no (clean) towel
the new laptop you bought after I flung your old one off a balcony
The night I slept over you clung on to me like I was still your family. And we rode an Uber to your work and spoke like we were still parts of each other. 


Prose


Untitled
I spoke to someone for the first time in a while and he said that he thought I’d have killed the soft parts of myself. “Why would I do that?” “For convenience.” How convenient it would be. But I’m a fucking savage and it takes much more bravery and grit to not only retain, but allow to flourish the maybe definitely shy, definitely soft, most certainly gushy parts of yourself. 

I’ve always retained that about myself and I plan on doing it for as long as I live for what is life without tenderness, moments when people whose lips you know too well but whose names your lips seldom pronounce enter your consciousness; despite your day, despite your current preoccupations, what fun is life if we do not allow ourselves to indeed get into a trance of remembrance, nostalgia, tenderness and sweet seeded raspberry jam every time such people revisit us? It takes immense strength to allow for that but difficult things are often the most worthwhile. 

I went Christmas shopping today in an ever-the-busy Indigo. I bought my cousin a Chinese cookbook, for she’s moving out to live by herself for the first time. She’s very sheltered, and I doubt she’d make much use out of it, but if she even makes one recipe from there I would be happy. I never learned how to make Chinese food, mostly due to my vegetarian tendencies, but she’s a carnivore and I hope that she takes as good care of herself as my aunt has for the past two decades.

I bought my mother a pocket Spanish phrase book as she’s been learning Spanish and just ventured out to South America for the first time with my father en route to an Antarctic cruise. A cruise my roommate from college and his girlfriend are currently working as tour guides in. 

I recently got back on Instagram after a couple months of hiatus. It always shocks me the variety of people that still view my stories. People from my travels, from different parts of college, from this hobby or that, this night out or another. Many of whom I’d met purely by chance, for a couple of hours or one night. Some of whom I’d shared sweet dawns with. If you are reading this, know that I would be over the moon to hear about what’s currently on your mind. I’ve always thought myself a collector of experiences, people perhaps. And as any good collector should, I enjoy tending to my collection.  

Untitled
I’ve been meeting a lot of new people recently and I’d ask everyone what their life stories were. Every single person, without exception, spoke about locations. I guess thats how we make sense of our lives, through the places we’ve lived. In Chinese there’s a saying whose sentiment roughly translates to, “we are shaped by our water and soil”. 
And of course I understand that the places we live make us who we are. Being from Vancouver, I practically came out of the womb in Lululemon. I’ve been skiing since I was five, doing yoga since I was 15, and I regularly... hike. Living in D.C. familiarized me to southern-ness and was where I discovered my love for cornbread and soul food, Shanghai introduced me to what a global metropolitan was, and how much I loved their mini wontons, and Toronto shook any previous ideas I had about diversity. And had me fall in love with momos. 

I have a beauty mark under my lip and growing up aunties would always talk about how its placement meant that I 口福,&#38;nbsp; “mouth auspiciousness”. And in recent years I realized that facial mapping really do be real. Because I really have been auspicious, mouthfully. I recently had a scrumptious Italian meal with my friend who happens to be dating my high school boyfriend, and she mentioned how he’d made a food snob out of her. I had a near existential crisis as I realized that my penchant towards gastronomy was too, a product of his tendings. 

What if we told our stories not through the places we’ve lived, but through people whom we’ve had the pleasure of letting affect our very being? What if my life story wasn’t, “...born in Shenyang, China, grew up in a suburb outside of Vancouver, but I take inspiration from all inhabited continents of the world”, but rather,&#38;nbsp;“My mother wasn’t the best caretaker which left a lot of emotional scars for me. My first love ruined me in ways I am still discovering, my second love healed me in the way only someone who reminded me that much of my father could, and I take inspiration from every person I see walking down the street, be it a piercing I start contemplating, a jacket I decide I must cop, or the way a couple may elicit in me a deep desire to too have someone to walk down Little Portugal with. 

And what if we told our stories through the food that make up our lives? How the act of 包饺子 will always be a deeply affecting tradition for me, one that&#38;nbsp; differentiates me from southern Chinese folks? 

I want to know from whom you got your recipe for that olive oil ice cream you make that hits just right. I want to know who taught you to wear your hair like that. Was it your mother? A grand aunt? An ex lover perhaps. I want to tell you about how for no reason other than the fact that I liked the way his lamps made his room room feel so cozy, like daffodil silk, that I’ve too adopted his disdain towards top lit lighting. I want to tell you how Kevin taught me table manners when I was a teen, and that that’s how I know where to place my napkin, how to fold it as it becomes progressively stained, what the different orientations of cutlery symbolize. And how a certain Stu taught me, in a university cafeteria in a small Swiss town, the proper way to eat with a fork. And how I’ll always order every single thing I want from a menu because Josh and I once concurred that our favourite thing from the menu was the salad, something I never used to order from restaurants. How I learned to fight because it was the one thing he said he’d change about me. How I will always think of How I Met Your Mother when I’m in New York because a high school boyfriend made me endure six seasons of Ted being absolutely terrible to women. And how a college boyfriend helped me discover one of my favourite shows by watching the first two slow seasons with me, horizontally, in the sun room of a Spanish colonial mansion we lived in in the University Endowment lands. 

People, places, things. It’s interesting that it’s only the first two that have effects on us. I suppose in a way places are just different parts of the person that is mother nature.&#38;nbsp;

Another June in Oslo
June in Oslo is all lilac and fallen sakura petals skating on the streets and friends who beg my forgiveness for concrete coloured sky. Eating&#38;nbsp;€15 kebabs under a sun that can’t bear to leave the midnight sky and gorgeous blond men who wear crystals around their necks reasoning that they’ve got many more bachata moves than they do Salsa. 


His and Mine and OursSkin as dark as laid asphalt, so abundant with richness, with opacity. Head in chest in arms in neck in elbow in thighs in calf in toes in lips in tongue in vagina in cervix in curled toes in bedsheets soaked through with passion and hunger and lust. His penis in a condom in my vagina my tongue in his mouth his fingers through mine his scrotum in my mouth my tongue caressing his cock his marble gaze into mine my nipples in his tongue his hands on my ass my arms around his neck his hands on my hips his hands on my waist my teeth in his skin his sweat on his sheets my blood on his towel his semen in his condom my fluid on his mattress his sweat on his forehead his chest his back his torso my forehead my chest my back my torso. Our sweat everywhere. His groans in my ear my heaves in his walls my screams in his mattress his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina his cock in my vagina our orgasms in each other.

You
Baby girl. It's you. It's always been you. The love, the laughter, the humour, the compassion, the thoughtfulness, the kindness, the perseverance, the acceptance, the candidness, the frankness, the fun, the silliness, the ambition, the glamour, the impeccable taste, the strength, the intensity, the camp, the cunt, the loyalty, the giggling, the serve, the sophistication, the poetry, the art, the romance, the all of the beginning of the end of the highs, of the lows, all of it was merely you. And it will continue being you until your last breath. Anyone who could ever have the honour of having your qualities projected onto them will only ever be just that– a different medium through which you can experience yourself. 

Untitled
I was staring much too close as per museum guidelines at one of Pollock’s pieces when I welcomed into my consciousness the thought of how paintings represent distinct moments in time.

The exact moment of first contact between paint and canvas, the exact moment the last drop of paint dries, the exact moment the signing pen lifts off from the artist’s signature and renders the painting complete. 

It felt all too akin to the exact moment two pairs of lips meet for the first time, the exact moment one falls in love, the last text exchanged by a pair of lovers who only used to be. I’ve often wondered if falling in love happens instantaneously or little by little. It must be little by little at first, all surmounting to a moment when it becomes solidified, definite, yes, I absolutely, unequivocally, without an ounce of hesitation in mind, am in love with you. The moment the paint becomes OK to the touch; hardened, solidified, exiting its previous liquid state into a new way of being. Solid. And once solid, one could never take it back to its previous form. So too, could we ever tuck love back into the tube? 

A June Day in Oslo
There are cotton candy strands of rain in Oslo. The type I’m most familiar with having lived most of my life in Vancouver. The droplets most velvety, a blanket of uniformity tranquility cascading down. No harshness, delicacy the only quality. Oslo reminds me of home. It’s the coolness; of the undertones of people, the breeze that resolutely cuts through my trench coat, the pastel nordic pallet of the architecture and cityscape. A city that knows no warmth yet is still tender. 

A tragedy happened in the household this morning. I spoke to the harpsichord player about his grandmother who just passed, of laborious work in the post office, of extramarital affairs born not out of insecurity, of being someone’s daughter-in-law for 34 years. Of speaking multiple germanic languages, of musicians exploring maslow’s hierarchy of needs from top down, of actors having the largest egos out of performance artists. Johanne keep apologizing for the greyness of Oslo yet I only see perfection. Phone calls are being made to family members in the bedroom, sustainability reports are being written in the living room, a foreigner only in nationality is writing a segment of her memoir in the kitchen, biting down on a granny smith. It’s 2:42pm and none of us have left the apartment, except to bring groceries up. 

Johanne said that I bring her calmness. That I invite her to see her city from a brand new perspective. It was only 3 years ago when Venus said that she experienced chaos vicariously through me. How much can change in 3 years when one is 23, or when one is me. 


An Ode to Vancouver Summers
Biking the seawall, watching the sunset slowly unfold itself through washes of peach and coral, the air saturated with salty mist. The vastness of the ocean invites you to come hither, and you allow it to envelop you. She and you become one as the rubber on your wheels slowly meld together with the rippling surface of her skin. You are no longer riding a bike; you are gliding through the surface of a crystal ball, the ball rotating, not you. 
Paddleboarding through False Creek towards Science World. The crystal ball has stretched out, losing its spherical shape and spread out like crepe batter on a griddle. You drag your paddle through the batter, and the scenery changes a tiny bit. Ahead of you a family of seals sunbathe on the rocks. You imagine them to be Korean and play out a scene in your head where the mommy seal slaps sunscreen on her unwilling son.&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; 
Watching the fireworks at English Bay. A Vancouver classic. You get there early to secure a log on the beach to rest your back on. But you were not early enough. The beach has already been polluted by other beachgoers and fireworks watchers. But you find a few square inches of dark yellow sand with more than a couple cigarette butts, declaring it your empire. You drink a couple of beers that had been pre-poured into coke cans because Vancouver is anal like that. You slowly await the sunset. You know what to expect because this has been a tradition amongst your friends since your high school days, yet the brush strokes that paint artificial rainbows into the night sky still takes your breath away every time. Their explosions into glittering kaleidoscopes, their provocative contrast against the dark of night, reflected above the calm shore, leaving behind epilogues of smoke and mirrors. And just when you think that it’s time to finish the last of your “cokes”, an encore of the most ambitious gems of colour blossom once again into the velvet sky. 
Wasting the day away high at one beach or another, Wreck or Kits. There is sand in every crevice of everything you own, body and belongings. An ice cream truck sings in the distance, and you’re reminded briefly of simpler days when that familiar yet exciting sound was all it took to achieve the same state of bliss that now requires 26 hours of sleep and a telekinetic lover and still only briefly during the first few minutes after a bowl of Blue Dream.
Cliff jumping off Lynn Canyon. The crystal clear water showcasing the architecture of the earth below it, one exquisitely crafted by the most patient of masters, Time. You swim towards the waterfall edged between two shelves of obsidian, and coquettishly ask your summer fling to take some photos of you, because after all, what is the point of all this if you don’t have any photos to look back on the freezing wet moments once the fling has all but flung?
UntitledI think I’ve finally come to understand that fall is my favourite season. And no, not because I have a strange obsession with pumpkin flavoured items that have no business being pumpkin flavoured. It’s the falling resolution (no pun intended) for what has come of the year. The climax, of course, being summer. Always summer. Summer is eating prosciutto wrapped honeydew in 12-hour days and skinny dipping with a boy who’s too pure for this world, fall is the uber ride back home. 
There’s so much contemplation in the fall. Perhaps it’s partly due to my having a fall birthday. November first, the day after Halloween. Summer was my last chance of being 17, 19, 21, and by the time October rolls around it’s time to gear up to turn a whole year older. A whole year older in one day, just like that. Somebody on the internet told me that dog people are simple creatures unable to appreciate the complex psyche of cats. I find that too, are summer people. 

People are just smart enough to make themselves miserable.&#38;nbsp; 
I fell in love again recently. 
A few months ago I thought about how people are like paintings. There’s no reason for a Manet to look at a Matisse and think, “I wish I looked liked her”. I feel very fortunate to have a plethora of life experiences I can pull from for my art. And as such I doubt if I’m actually a good writer or if I’m just good at describing things, things others could chronicle just as eloquently, if only they’ve also seen, experienced, lived. 
Hippo Campus sounds like dew drops rolling off wide, waxy leaves on an early spring morning, the juvenile rays of sun cutting through the layer of condensation in the air, illuminating micro rainbows against spider webs dripping with the chilliness of the newly exited night.
Vampire Weekend is thick, rubber soled Doc Marten boots stomping against a meadow of forget-me-nots and goldfields worn by freckled, red headed nymphets whose locks run down to their hips, running around crowned in their newly completed daisy chains dressed in lace trimmed cotton poplin dresses; the hand feel of a mug of hot cocoa made just the right thickness of smooth, not quite glossy pale blue and greige speckled china warming your palms. 
The days finish too early, it’s just a little too cold, too wet to go out. So you’re back home, musing over the golden, honey-coloured strands of Summer’s glossy locks which have been cut too short. Sometimes you spend so long reminiscing the sun that you fail to notice the coniferous trees which have dressed themselves in a robe of crimson. 
Last year around this time I was working at the Canadian embassy in Washington, D.C. I miss that time dearly. The monotonous days in my cubicle, the walk from the embassy to the bus stop, the wind always climbing up my legs barely sheltered by a thin film of hosiery. Capital Hill in D.C. is a beautiful neighbourhood, especially in the fall. The sunlight would illuminate the many facets of the trees the colour of gem tomatoes and project beautiful, distorted shadows onto the equally vibrantly coloured row homes. God, I will never stop describing D.C.&#38;nbsp;
Midsummer Night in Shanghai, or, A Story Without an EndingThe Australian bartender with the Shenyangnese ex-girlfriend poured us a round of yagers on him. We weren’t the regular customers of the dingey sports bar, slim women in short skirts, wandering eyes, and accessories that made it just clear enough why they were there. Them and their Middle-aged, Carlsburg-sipping European wine importing clients. We left just in time to give the others enough time to exchange Wechat IDs, decide on the going rate for the night. 
The air was heavy and humid, the type that drenches your entire body in a film of moisture the second you step out of AC. Around midnight, we walked back from the bar to my apartment, the citrus streetlights illuminating the street with a foil of orange haze. I walked behind you, surveyed you from crown to ankle. You wore grey suede sneakers with white socks up to your lower calves, and a White Rabbit Milk Candy tee you got from Tianzifang. Unlike the other laowais, you know the nuances of The Culture. You’re a local foreigner, meaning that cabbies spare you from the 200 kuai scam rides from M1NT, and you couldn’t ever be found in a button-down made translucent by perspiration, drunkenly trying to groove to whatever dog shit they happened to be playing at Bar Rouge. You went to Le Baron on Thursdays, to see sets played by your buddies from high school. 
You were over that night to book flights for Hong Kong. I’d never been, and asked you on a whim if you’d come with me. It was July of 2019, right in the middle of the protests against Carrie Lam. Everyone advised us not to go, but… 
“If you’re down, I’m down.” You were, and I was. 


Nikon F70
I have an inability to hang on to cameras. I lost my Sony a7 with all of Ecuador and Europe on it. After that, it was my Hero 8 with all of my underwater Oahu footage. And then most recently it was my mother’s Nikon F70 with photos of me and Robbe.&#38;nbsp; 

The ancient beast weighed a ton, contained no batteries, had no lens cap, and I had no idea how to use it. It sat in a camera bag the size of a small child with an all-Japanese instruction manual and a warranty that probably expired before I was even born. After experimenting with several rolls of instant film, I had decided for an upgrade, and my mom told me that there was an SLR collecting dust in our study. The machine is currently listed on eBay for a staggering $20, she bragged.

My mom pulled up to the drop off lanes in the ever-the-misty YVR in her Mercedes minivan, about to send her daughter off to Vietnam to start that all too familiar banana pancake trail in Southeast Asia. I had decided to drop acid the night before my flight so I would stay up all night and sleep on the plane; and because I was going to be in Asia for the next six months where even marijuana possession had a death penalty. As my mom was parking the car, I was on the 14th hour of my trip, trying to explain to her that, “...everything is written in the universe.”

It wasn’t until I’d gotten to Thailand that I’d found enough modern development to host a camera shop. It was right across the street from my hostel, with big bold neon signages for Canon and Nikon. Perfect, I thought. That afternoon I met the absolute most boring people from my 6-week trip. Americans, of course; four blonde nurses from Santa Monica on a girls trip. I took my mother’s antique to the camera shop in hopes that they could fix her up, after a failed effort to squeeze any meaningful conversation out of the ex-sorority women. I was greeted by a gentleman wearing thick black-rimmed glasses. He brought me these chubby batteries which he punched out the backs of their packaging and plugged into my mom’s machine. He then took me to the film rack and had me choose how many frames I wanted in my roll. 36. He fitted those in, and taught me the button-pressing basics. 

-

I met Robbe at an open air jazz bar in Chiang Mai. There were no walls which divided the inside from the outside. Its orange interiors were hand-painted with elegant swirls of tropical flowers. It was pretty and unpretentious. There was no AC; fans spun overhead, stirring the humid evening air just enough for us to stay and not take refuge in the air conditioned hotels nearby. Most everyone had a bottle of Leo in their hands, plus a few more empty ones on the floor beneath their stools. 

He was sitting on a bench in the back row, wearing olive linen pants and a classic white linen shirt with just one button done, exposing his chest. He had golden, collarbone length hair, a mole in the centre middle of this left cheek, and a body expertly sculpted by a vegetarian diet and the Siamese sun. I called out his name, and he stood up to greet me by the entrance. There was a small ditch right beneath the wall which divided the ceiling and the charcoal sky. Like a corny scene out of a rom com, my hello was abruptly interrupted by my tripping over said ditch and onto him. I fell into his chest, he reached for my arms, he caught me, I stared up at him, I giggled. 

We welcomed the wondrous music that flowed out of the local jazz band, number after number, offering their singular, creamy take on everything from Amy Winehouse to Childish Gambino. Their sound reminded me of the unintentional harmony of a symphony of tropical birds and insects, its beauty residing in its spontaneity and impromptu. We collectively agreed that that had been the best concert we’d ever seen. We had the most bona fide of laughters. Of course, his always were.

I don’t remember what we talked about. I just remember there always being something more that I’d wanted to know, always something more he’d wanted to understand. At last we welcomed slumber to the sound of the soft cricket orchestra performing for the moon and the stars and us. 

He was the most perfect human being; untainted and filled with sincere optimism despite the blight of the world. The human embodiment of the first rays of sunshine at dawn. He approached life with a child-like ardor which translated to an unexpected, unlearned form of charisma, that of the purest form. I loved that he makes, “smoo tees”, for breakfast, the way he kindly told me to, “cover for ze tees”. And his laugh, the type of wholesome, stupid laughter that babies make, filled with naivety in the most captivating way. 

I was at the departure gate waiting to board my flight to Lombok, Indonesia the next morning when he sent me a picture of his hand. He had the silver ring I’d bought from the night market the night before on his pinky. You forgot this. But I hadn’t. I had deliberately left it on his nightstand for him to find, in the spirit of passing along traditions. 

I wonder where my mother’s camera is, I wonder who has it. I wonder if the film will ever get developed. I wonder if they will ever find their way back to him, to me.DorothyHe came over the night before her flight to pick up his flowers: preserved blooms of purple and beige asymmetrically woven through a wooden birdcage. The flowers were sent to her by her best friends for her 21st birthday party which he missed. 
-
“What is this witchcraft?” He joked. She had flowers scattered everywhere, some tied at the stems with vine, others in various vases with their heads drooping, awaiting to be cut. Frail leaves, baby’s breath, and flower dust were scattered everywhere. She told him that she was planning on drying them to make an arrangement. He had asked her to gift it to him. She agreed. 
-
He grabbed a PBR from the fridge and her an IPA with the pop art packaging she took home from a work event. They walked up the stairs, each step lending a creak, and jumped on her bed. She rested her neck on his thigh which perfectly supported her neck. He started stroking her hair. 
“Hey, do you wear rings?” He asked her. She nodded.,“Here, take this.” He slid off and handed her the ring from his right pointer finger she’d seen him wear since the first day they’d met. “Where’d you get this?” She asked, bringing the ring closer to her eye to examine it“Hong Kong.” Interesting, she thought. The city was a backdrop to many of her fondest memories. “Where in Hong Kong did you get this?” She asked, hoping it’d be somewhere she knew.” 
“My grandma gave it to me, actually.”

Pause

Resistance 

Concession
-
They went by her windowsill to light a cigarette. She pulled up her windows, exposing them to the indigo night which sprinkled a light curtain of rain. She sticks her head out and takes a breath in. I’ll miss this place, she thought. D.C., her hundred-fifty-year-old house with real hardwood flooring, him… The cigarette brought them out of their hop-induced fuzziness, and the music brought her to her Mediterranean summers. 
“Close your eyes”
“&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;“
“Just close your eyes! Picture this: we’re in southern Italy, the Amalfi coast. We’re on a balcony lined with vines, dancing on terracotta tiles, by white cast iron fence bars. There’s a party going on inside that glows of gold and everyone’s wearing velvet for some reason. It’s summertime, but late, so a little chilly. The party inside just rolled out the cake and everyone is cheering. But us, we’re out here in this little oasis, dancing to Polo &#38;amp; Pan’s Dorothy. Do you see it? Are we in Italy?”
“&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;“
“Ok! Ok! Ok! Oh my god! Ok, now we’re in Barcelona. We’re walking through an alley right off of La Rambla, and the sun’s just set, so the sky’s a little purple, and there are tons of people on the streets. Performers, musicians, magicians, those weird levitating human statue things, it’s a whole party. All the patios are set up, lit by street lanterns. Servers in mahogany satin vests are throwing menus at us, and we’re trying to decide on a place to eat. I’m wearing a drapey silk orange dress with white flip flops and a floppy straw hat. I start skipping and you spin me round and catch me. We get progressively drunker on Catalonian chardonnay as twilight leaves way for night. 
Alright, alright, now we’re in the South of France, we’re in Eze. We’re walking up endless spirals of cobblestone staircases, climbing up the town vertically. Every once in a while we step aside to admire the glittering Cote d’Azur or the rich foliage that grows amongst the cobblestones. Up ahead a wall of magenta bougainvilleas falls down against a white and blue wall, and I kneel to smell the hydrangeas. 
“&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; “
“Ok now we’re at Joshua Tree, we’re taking that trip we always said we would. But I don’t know what Joshua Tree looks like so you’re gonna have to help me out here.” 
“&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;“
In her imagination, they were a singular force against the world. But for now, he was just someone very special whom she’s seeing, as far as she knew, for the very last time. 
 
&#60;img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/d7e84e0acbcc9fa25e65ab291a3dfe11/1e3b649175bed520-96/s500x750/8e19de817fe3b673a9b6218c95f4592738d4fe01.jpg" width="500" height="667" style="width: 332.546px; height: 443.617px;" data-scale="31"&#62;&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#60;img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/ebe85e9890600a97c0638cde5ad3715b/1e3b649175bed520-75/s500x750/abb1fc6d7f85035d5d2552e793ae25396cecf3f1.jpg" width="432" height="398" style="width: 432px; height: 398px;" data-scale="45"&#62;


Quarantine ThoughtsRecently I’ve been overindulging myself in the bittersweet, borderline crippling memoirs of times gone. Replaying imagery so memorable they’ve been branded into the back of my skull, while grasping on to others so nearly forgotten they hang on by just a single coat of myelin. Letting myself wallow unreservedly in the most dangerous intoxicant of all, memories; reliving the twinkling moments of times past in my mind again and again every night like flipping through a Carousel, thinking about how the stars which hang above me are the same ones which hung over in each of those fleeting moments of unadulterated bliss/pain/heartburstingthroughyourchestintoyourthroat/heartdroppinglikeanunhingedelevatordownintoyourstomach/otheremotionsimotsurehoweventocategorize.
Being in Vancouver feels like limbo. There is so much to experience in this world yet I am stuck in the sweet purgatory of the most beautiful place on earth. In these times of zero responsibility, nostalgia has me wrapped around its finger, grasped by the neck. You should live in the moment. But I much prefer welcoming the warm embrace of photographs, lyrics, scents, plane tickets, foreign coins, receipts, and laundry slips, for they bear the stories of heydays past.


Untitled&#38;nbsp;

A timid sun rose over the buildings of downtown Vancouver, illuminating the cold brew sky into an Americano that’s been sitting out for too long, slightly acidic. She moved slowly, like the subtle movement of your toes rubbing the soles my feet, my cheek caressing your hair. A skyline cased in gold contained perfectly in the frame of the window on my 22nd floor apartment, bottom right corner blocked by the outlines of your shoulder. My eyes focus on your skin, then back out the window, knowing that this is the closest I will ever be to you. 

I started writing a poem about you in the summer. I never finished it because I told myself to not be so sentimental, something I used to associate with weakness. I regret nothing more than not capturing exactly as my heart felt that walk back from my best friend’s house the day after you told me that you had decided to make somebody else yours. 

I’m reading a book on beauty and everything reminds me of you, of us, however brief that we were, the us that walked the line of reality; did we, or did we not exist?

“…moved into the space between us, words giving way, sensation the only thing left.” 

Or, in my own words, an energetic field so strong it engulfed my thoughts, moving me into the dimension above, that of pure feeling, pure emotion. It emitted photons or electrons or some such things way out of that room and enveloped the entire earth, because in those few countable moments we were the only beings that existed. 

I keep gaslighting myself by feeling the things that I do but that I should or can not, I’m not sure, still refusing to accept that your words carry more truth than the seventeen megatons of energy you sent by way of particles in the air. Refusing to believe that it’s all in my head, that July was the season finale of this anti-romance. 

I will for the rest of my life be like this, I’m certain. 

When I stared past the side of your head, your shoulder into the young morning, I knew that that was a moment I could not ever forget. It was a memory that would become branded in my memory one way or another, so I’m not sure if it’s there because I’d wanted to preserve it in the resin of my mind forever or if that’s where it was destined to be even had I preferred to have forgotten about it altogether.

Embraces overlooking metropolitan skylines, pt. 3.

I love men, and I love you. You should know, if you only gave me a chance to speak it into existence. 

It is a gift to be able to feel this deep, to be able to translate it into language that others could resonate despite feeling being a universal language we’ve all collectively decided to abandon in lieu of words. But it is exactly this game of hide and seek that we play with ourselves, the deliberate denial of feeling over thinking that gets us into this mess again and again. 

–

The sea saved me again as it always does. My heart a tangled mess, I started peddling a bike across the perimeters of Stanley Park because I knew that the time and subtle effort it took to push the bicycle towards the end of the circumnavigation would somehow untangle the wreckage that was my mind. And it did. Towards the end of the journey I parked my bike by the sea and watched as the waves came, crashed, and left. It reminded me of the impermanence of my fleeting thoughts, and somewhere along those thoughts I recognized that which was unique to me, this very feeling, the very ability to contemplate that which makes me feel. The way I could pause, if I should like, to savour the sweetness of a moment, the bitterness of another, the way I can do that, the way a wave cannot; the beauty and the end of humanity. As the waves are carried by its mother sea to shore over and over again ad infinitum, unable to pause for even a second to register the texture of the sand, the warmth of the sun soaked shore, I could dwell, for as long as I should like, in that which is equally chaos, as beauty, that which is you, the way you ever so slightly kiss me, the way our bodies fit together, nook in cranny, cranny in nook, as if formed from the same mould.
Forget Me Not
I started dating things– photographs, gifts, cards, letters, journal entries in the latter half of last year. My life has gotten to a point when it’s becoming hard to remember exactly when things have happened. The early 2010′s have started to meld together, blurring into a single chunk of memory collectively known as My Teenagehood. In late 2019 I often experienced things retroactively– as I biked home from my 9-5 down the narrow, crowded nongs of Shanghai’s Jing’an, I would often experience what was currently unfolding as a memory.

It’s so odd that two months from now, this bike ride, so routine and integral to my current life, will be but a forgettable component of a series of memories left in a storage unit somewhere in my brain, brown boxed with, “Shanghai 2019″ written in Sharpie over a strip of torn masking tape. By then the leisurely strolls under the mighty London plane trees, immune to the pollution of the Pearl through a self-cleaning mechanism will seem from a different lifetime altogether, completely removed from what my present life will be then…

My overpriced oat milk lattes, the couple from Guilin that takes turns making my rice noodles on lazy every night, my tiny apartment room with those grey checkered sheets, all of these just jigsaw pieces which complete the puzzle which is that specific time period in my life, which when quilted together with all of the other completed pieces, comprise the magnum opus that is my life. This microcosm, a series of memories frozen in time in the great Middle Kingdom, is about 10,000km away from the next puzzle.

My walk home from work in Washington, D.C. two months later was lined by the distinctively Washingtonian row houses, some almost two centuries old. Ghosts of D.C.’s deciduous guardians pile up on the sidewalks, unraked, at varying stages of decay. Blood-red maple leaves seemingly still breathing life, vivacious only moments ago lay atop gravity’s newest captives, stacked on top of veterans from last week, sodden with rotting flesh. Dancing around the breeze, carried up or down or wherever are crispy brown skeletons that have escaped decomposition, waiting to be cremated by the tip of a rusty metal rake or the light-up rubber soles of one toddler or another.

A November ray stamps against my cheeks, and a bead of sweat slithers down my temples.

Oh, how lovely this piece of a jigsaw

On… Love.
I remember telling you that being in love is like living your entire life through the pretty Snapchat filter and that I finally understood what the expression, “Rose coloured glasses” meant. My entire life had been tinted the colour of the sunset reflected off of the delicate ripples over English Bay at dusk, through the liquid rose quartz in my glass. The colour of delicate satin reflected onto the lampshade, casting shadows of the intertwining curvatures of our bodies’ undulating, harmonious symphony. The colour of my lips, bitten and swollen. The colour of the aura of our hearts souls, evolved into the deepest of reds when we are by each other’s side, enraging the burning wildfires inside each of us, desperate to join together as if the fires themselves, long lost lovers.

Rare yet everpresent at the same time. Deep, hard, passionate love, a shooting star falling from the cosmos at one million miles per hour. No, two shooting stars, one blazing through the star-studded fabric of the universe to catch the other, playing a game of cat and mouse like the first and second places in the final round of Mario Cart Rainbow Road.

At moments like these when my brain feels fuzzy, I’m reminded of how truly happy I was at one point, with you. How truly, deeply, unreservedly happy I was.

Thanks for giving me a sample of the best ice cream flavour in the world. 

The Sublime
I’ve been obsessed with the concept of the sublime ever since I’d first heard about it on an art history podcast about two years ago. 

Before I look up the actual definition, I think from what I’ve gathered it is an overwhelming, all-encapsulating feeling that washes over you when you are in the presence of something as terrifying as it is magnificent. Something so breathtaking that, one wrong step and it could take your life. If the sublime had a sign, it would be a Scorpio for sure. The sublime is larger than life, yours but perhaps even all of life. A beautiful woman whispers, “You can see, but you can’t touch. And if you dare proceed, I just might ruin your life” through her eyes, her breath, her intoxicating scent of equal parts peony, sea salt, and oud. The sea, the Alps, the Amazon, common iterations of the sublime, reverberates much of the same idea, but through energetic vibrations that reach into the very marrow of your bones, in the deepest of baritones. 

Casper David Fredrich painted many such scenes during his lifetime as he was fascinated by the sublime, as were most well-to-do continentalists with too much time on their hands to know what to do with. For CDF, the sublime meant, “…a reunion with the spiritual self through the contemplation of nature.” I saw in a video once, that the paintings of CDF have the same effects on you as drugs, insofar as drugs are defined as substances that alter your mood. His paintings are intended to, “…produce an expanded state of consciousness in which the pain of immediate troubles is lessened by the euphoric recognition of the immensity of nature and the cosmos.” 

The wallpaper of my laptop and phone have been his paintings since. Specifically, Monk by the Sea, and Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. 

I’ve had just a singular experience with the sublime. I was on a chairlift going up Blackcomb mountain on a ski trip in Whistler. About two-thirds of the way I turned my head to the left and saw the side of a mountain that looked like it was made of pure slate– no scattered skeletons of evergreens or orphaned rocks rolling about, just a shelf of piercing basalt. Below dropped what seemed like one million feet. Certain death. Directly above the drop of Certain Death, hung by some iron bars like socks on a flimsy clothesline, was me, a 120-pound girl with zero muscle mass, bundled in layers of dri-fit, fleece and Gore-tek yet still shivering from the forceful wind that blew flecks of snow through the sneaky crevices between my cheeks and goggles. There was a blizzard; zero visibility. The combination of snow blown from the ground up, the clouds, and the fog dressed the mountain in a robe of coolness, of unintentional nonchalance. As if you could be devoured by her drop of Certain Death and she wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelash. She had better things to worry about, like filing her nails or spitting out a piece of gum that had gotten too stale.&#38;nbsp;

You’re still here? You must be really into me. Here’s some more content for you to mull over. Be careful though, you just might fall in love.


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	<item>
		<title>About</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/About</link>

		<pubDate>Mon, 07 Mar 2022 23:18:18 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/About</guid>

		<description>
	

I’m so psyched you’re here, wtf. I never get any visitors. I’m Lu-SEE-ya, and it’s an absolute honour to have you stop by. By the time you get to the end of this page, you’re going to think I’m so cool and you’re gonna be so right.&#38;nbsp;


My first job was as a newspaper delivery girl from the age of 8 to 12. My favourite job was being a floral designer for Hermès, Tiffany &#38;amp; Co., Prada, Van Cleef and Arpels, and IWC Schaffhausen. Somewhere in between, I helped Nordstrom’s #1 stylist hit her $8 million annual sales goal, reported on congressional hearings in D.C. for the Canadian embassy (and had the Secret Service help me escape a slumlord), and onboarded fintech companies for British students to intern at in Shanghai. All of this before I was 21.&#38;nbsp;I had a three-year stint in advertising during which I worked on household names like McDonald’s, Ferrero, Nivea, Beiersdorf. As well as indie cannabis brands (under a non-indie cannabis conglomerate), and TIFF.&#38;nbsp;After Big Ad, I was brought on as a partner in a performance marketing agency and ran the creative department. Correlation does not equal causation, but after I joined, it went on to make 1 million MRR. I learned what ROAS, CPA, ICP, and different places in the funnel meant. And then I left. Because I couldn’t keep pretending to care.
All of this I did during the slivers of time when I wasn’t
-Getting my back taken in jiu jitsu

-Telling myself it’s too cold to run&#38;nbsp;
-Telling myself it’s too hot to run
-Starting and abandoning like four books by Nietzsche by now
-Being generally insufferable about food&#38;nbsp;-Being generally insufferable in general&#38;nbsp;
-Telling myself that I’m going to “learn music theory and start making music soon”&#38;nbsp;
-Being too pussy to go down blacks, even though I’ve been snowboarding for over a decade&#38;nbsp;
-Riding horses unsafely
-Getting wiped out at Tofino like once every 3 years and claiming that “I love surfing!!” &#38;nbsp;
-Taking photos of people I find attractive 
-Generating sankharas when I’m supposed to be observing my breath and sensations
-Doing yoga and pole pretty well, actually&#38;nbsp;
-Crafting scenarios in my head about the circumstances under which I’m going to see my one-sided long-distance delusionships&#38;nbsp;-Humble bragging and giving backhanded compliments
Now that I’m done with the corporate life, I’m exploring more of what life has to offer.&#38;nbsp;
 Based in Toronto-ish.&#38;nbsp;

Talk to me.&#38;nbsp;+1 6046009223&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;luciazhang981@gmail.com
	

&#60;img width="2048" height="3090" width_o="2048" height_o="3090" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/13287f895b452e4a8db46097ab1a013342ac79903ba856a03740d32c462ca860/000052350038.jpg" data-mid="219182263" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/13287f895b452e4a8db46097ab1a013342ac79903ba856a03740d32c462ca860/000052350038.jpg" /&#62;


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	<item>
		<title>Thoughts &#38; Life </title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Thoughts-Life</link>

		<pubDate>Mon, 07 Mar 2022 22:48:31 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Thoughts-Life</guid>

		<description>
	

What’s going on in that noggin of hers anyway?&#38;nbsp;

Below are life updates I send manually via email once every 4-6 or so weeks. If you’d like to be added to the mailing list, pls click that mail icon on the top right
&#60;img width="2160" height="160" width_o="2160" height_o="160" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ef51601da0490489ddb049e804544dce5ca527f21de6e8d938d2c8433ab8298a/Screenshot-2025-01-09-at-4.13.35AM.png" data-mid="224431209" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ef51601da0490489ddb049e804544dce5ca527f21de6e8d938d2c8433ab8298a/Screenshot-2025-01-09-at-4.13.35AM.png" /&#62;
I’m happy I’m spending the holiday season here. Last year I went back to China on the third day of December and missed out on all the holiday cheer. I’m going to so many holiday parties. The most notable being the ones with my jiu jitsu gym. All my crushes can finally see me in real clothes, not completely beaten up in a gi. 

I’ve done more yoga this quarter than I have in a long time. Misha brought me to the new place, and it’s simply sublime. I’ve really felt my practice deepen in subtle yet profound ways. It’s a very traditional practice, always the same set of postures over and over again. There is seldom any variation. It’s helping me understand firsthand what Bruce Lee meant when he talked about not fearing the man who has practiced ten thousand kicks, but the man who’s practiced one kick ten thousand times. 

Anne, my yoga teacher always speaks about taking the practice off the mat, and I do feel the most wondrous afterglow after every class. We did a couple of conscious body movements where we were to be conscious of our body moving through space, and as I was walking down the stairs, I, perhaps for the first time sans DOMS, felt my legs moving through space in a conscious manner. 

On my way to class today, it was snowing, and a man approached me, got down to his knees, bowed down, asking if I could possibly spare him some money for food. I had no cash on me and had to go to class, but it was genuinely heartbreaking. I thought that perhaps if he were still there after class I’d take out some cash for him, but he was no longer there. I reassured myself that I did the right thing, because my yoga practice will ultimately lead me to helping more than just one individual in the grander scheme of things. 

Something that’s been really heavy on my mind lately is the social dynamics at my jiu jitsu gym. I thought I ought to make myself more approachable, so I thought perhaps I’d smile more. I don’t smile very often naturally so I thought it would feel forced. So I settled on sticking my tongue out at people. Yes, that was the conclusion.

The date I talked about in my last note, at the end of it he said that I was so much better than he expected, that I was not as serious as he thought I’d be. He happened to know my good friend Rob, and when I relayed the sentiment he said, “Oh he didn't realize you were a goofy little guy eh?” I felt so seen, I told him that I was so happy that that’s how he saw me. He said that he’s sure plenty of people find me quite intimidating but that he knows better. 

I know many people find me intimidating/hard to read/mysterious what have you, but the ones who’ve gotten to know me all know me for who I really am– a wee little froggy lad. And here’s the thing, I realized that I’m really not what I’ve projected myself to be all these years. I’ve been embracing my silliness recently and it feels so much more authentic. I started thinking whether that image was one I curated because that’s where I perceived power to lay in women. And of course it comes so natural to me since I’m a scorpio. How was I so naive to think that I could be spared from inauthenticity? I don’t think the move here is to invalidate and deny that aspect of myself, but merely to understand it as a part of myself, a part which perhaps I have overblown over the years. And I think there is so much more power in being silly, being a goofy little guy :3 

-

My hair girl butchered my last hair cut and in effect I’ve lost a lot of my confidence. But come to think of it I manifested this. During my birthday shrooms trip I thought about how I wanted to stop being so superficial. I want to stop placing so much importance on appearances. It’s risky, because you know everyone is playing that game, and you don’t want to get the short end of the stick. I spoke about this with my roommate and she reassured me that I have the prettiest face, that I could shave my head and I’d still be beautiful. It made me feel better, but I think it missed the point. 

Either way it doesn’t hurt to cultivate the field inside. Plus I’m lowkey getting… a little too jacked lol. Which goes back to discussions around appearances and femininity but I’ve waxed on about that enough. 

-

The weeks are flying by at a speed that is slightly terrifying. I don’t even begin to yearn for the weekend before it’s already gone. 

Life has been very stable. I’ve three more weeks left in Toronto before I leave again, and I’m making everyday count. Seeing friends, getting my training in, putting more effort into the relationships I’ve cultivated. I keep thinking about how, “the time will pass anyway”. It’s a scary thought, which makes me all the more grateful for all the ways I’m investing in life– eating well, training, spending time with my friends, taking care of myself. A lot of Bojack Horseman clips have been popping up on my YouTube feed recently, and I think about all the shows I would have watched had I not become who I am today. All the shows I did watch and love. How I don’t think they were a waste of time. I didn’t have anything I wanted to do more back then. I didn’t have anything I’d rather be doing. But now I do, and it’s simple as that. 

Realistically, I suppose I haven’t sacrificed much for my training. Genuinely I don’t have anything better to do, anything I’d rather do. I’ve built my life around training, and it works. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself otherwise. I love jiu jitsu :’) 

-

Last night I had an extensive conversation with my Uber driver. He was a Sudanese agricultural engineer, with three daughters and two jobs. He’d lived in Austria and Manchester and when I asked him how he liked those places compared Canada he said that he much prefers Canada. He said that he could feel the racism in the way people spoke to him, looked at him, the questions they asked him. He said that Canada was a true multicultural country. 

He told me that the last time he visited was right before the civil war in his home country. I said that at least his family is safe here. He said that he still has family back home. That the concept of family is different where he’s from. And that’s why he works two jobs. His other job was in building maintenance because to work in his field he’d have to move to Saskatchewan or another prairie province, and his girls like it here. Throughout the entire conversation there wasn’t a single complaint. And I found that so beautiful. Here’s a man working two jobs, supporting both his immediate and extended family back home, living in Canada, living in general as a black man with a voice full of optimism and enthusiasm. He said that his father always brought gifts when he came home so he tries to do the same for his girls. People like that are rare. To confront the cards that life has dealt you, not with bitterness, but with gratitude and humility. A common theme I’ve come across in conversations with people who’ve recently moved to Canada has been all the ways they dislike it. The homelessness, the taxes, the government. But like my uber driver said, no place is a paradise. 

Cindy once told me that whatever happens to me, I don’t change. I keep my heart open and give people chances. I think he and I are similar. 

-

I’ve been getting really comfortable in my skin lately, and either because of or in tandem to that have become a lot more warm towards people. I never used to smile much, but now I smile at most people I run into. Because heck, I’m really happy to see familiar faces! Yes I’m aware that mere paragraphs earlier I said that I don’t smile much. A lot can change even in the course of one issue ok? 

Last night my salsa studio held a dance party and I had so much fun dancing. There’s a gentleman who goes there whose face has burn scars and it makes me so happy that he is living his life and enjoying the same hobby as me in the studio. I’ve seen him before in class and last night I learned his name. We shared a beautiful dance together. 

Before the dance party I went to Manny’s moving-out-of-his-apartment party where I spoke to his friend Tiffany whom I’d met a couple of times at the food bank. We were leaving together and I found out that she’s also an accountant, who recently got a new job at a private equity firm. I asked if she now makes more money than Manny and she said, “Yeah. But I’ve always made more money than Manny.” To which I laughed in embarrassment and told her that I was so sorry I ever thought otherwise. 

-

I’d meant to send this out before I went off to meditate but you know how things are before you travel. I’m on the plane en route to PVG, having finished my third Vipassana course yesterday. The meditation is so stupidly simple that it’s almost futile to describe because everything makes sense at the intellectual level, but the way it has singlehandedly changed my life for the better and been the single most impactful thing- more than therapy, more than psychedelics, more than anything, is nothing short of incredulous. 

For three Christmasses over the past four years, I’ve done a 10-day silent meditation course. You live the life of a monk, waking up in the early morning, meditating silently for most hours of the day. The technique is what Gotama the Buddha taught, whom I only found out through the course, wasn’t actually the founder of Buddhism. All he taught was the dhamma (the eternal and inherent nature of reality, a cosmic law underlying right behavior and social order, according to google), which consists of morality (five precepts of no killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct, and consumption of intoxicants), and mastery over one’s mind. The goal is to free oneself from the inevitable miseries of life caused by desire. The technique is called Vipassana, which means to see from within. The practice involves scaning our bodies and acknowledge the sensations we experience at the physical level– tingling, pulsating, heat, flickering, pain, etc. You recognize them as ephemeral, ever-changing phenomena and don’t develop attachment and craving to the pleasant sensations or aversion to the unpleasant ones. Instead, we’re meant to simply observe. As you do rounds and rounds from head to toe, you understand experientially that indeed, no matter how much your leg is falling asleep, no matter how much your nose itches, after some time the sensation passes, and that there is indeed no need to multiply what you were experiencing, good or bad, with the stories you make of them.

Buddha never started any religion, and in fact the term buddha was merely a title– that of a fully enlightened person. There were many buddhas before Siddartha Gotama, many buddhas in his contemporary, and many after. Jesus Christ is a Buddha, any fully enlightened person is. If one is fully liberated, what interest does one have in establishing a sect, procuring a group of followers? Jesus doesn’t need a testimony from you that he’s the son of God. In these courses I learned that religion is mere fan fic. And that’s why dhamma is completely non-sectarian. It’s a universal technique because suffering is universal. Anyone of any religion can practice it; it is merely a guideline and practice one can follow as part of a life well-lived. 

The first course I did was back over Christmas 2021. I had initially planned to do it in Myanmar on my travels to Southeast Asia in early 2020. I wanted to meditate because I wanted to find the longer, proper path to enlightenment after having experimented with psychedelics and taken a peek at what it was momentarily. The technique was first taught in India but got lost to the world except in Myanmar. I didn’t even know this when I was planning my trip, I just felt that I’d wanted to do it there. Ultimately I ended up doing my course in interior B.C. once COVID restrictions loosened up late 2021. 

A Chinese woman in my car pool reassured me that after the course, I wouldn’t realize how valuable it is, how the techniques will have positively influenced my life until about half a year after the course. And I think that was a great disclaimer. I’d definitely felt that there was a before and after from when I took acid for the first time. I had such a profound and deeply mystical experience– I understood and had a glimpse of all the ways of the universe. In hindsight more things were probably revealed to me than was necessary. After my first course, I felt no such way. Which made it all the more wonderful. Here was a technique, which does not give you anything superfluous. It’s a 1:1 ratio of reward vs effort. In fact the rewards compound the more you practice. Our teacher always said that this was a technique which gives you benefits in this life itself, not empty promises for the afterlife. I found that quite reassuring, as well as true from my personal experience. 

My most recent course went very successfully. It served as a reminder that I am in fact on the right path, and to keep doing what I know to be right. A big part of why I think it went by smoothly was because of my having tried my best to keep my five precepts. My daily practice kind of dropped off in the past year, but because I had maintained my morality for the most part, dhamma was still working in my favour. In terms of how it has changed me over the past couple of years, it has been nothing short of miraculous. I rarely if ever get angry. I have so much compassion towards everyone whereas I didn’t even understand what that looked like or even meant before. It’s very difficult for people to irritate me, whether they mean to or not. I’ve become a lot more generous, I’d say easily twice or thrice as much as before. I started smiling more. I have so much more love in my heart. I feel such great profound love towards the people I keep in my life and even those who are no longer. I find it extremely easy to love most anyone. I catch myself extending compassion to those I used to judge or feel negatively towards. Honestly my life has just been one big trend upwards since 2020. Oh yeah, I have also stopped hurting people for the most part. 

My close friends who’ve known me long can testify that I had extremely turbulent interpersonal relationships growing up. I always had fallingouts with friends, and an old friend of mine used to describe me as a tornado who doesn’t mean to, but inevitably wrecks everything in its path. My other friend expressed a similar sentiment and said that she’s learned to move easily breakable objects out of my way. 

One other big change, I completely stopped drinking just over a year ago after flirting with sobriety for a few months at a time for the past five years. What made me decide to finally stop fully was that one of the prerequisites for longer Vipassana courses was that one must have not drunk for 2 years previous. 

The next steps I see myself taking are being more serious about maintaining my daily practice, and also going back to a more vegetarian diet. The path of dhamma is a long one. It’s always difficult when I come back from my courses and my friends ask me how it is. Even what I’ve written today does not do the technique justice. I also tend not to go too deeply into it because it sounds too good to be true– a technique that can take me out of my misery in this very lifetime? People become suspicious, but it’s actually not too good to be true. In order to start on that path one must participate in a 10-day silent meditation course in which one wakes up at 4am, meditates for 10 hours a day for 10 days straight, takes no food after noon, and remains&#38;nbsp;in complete silence with no books, music, or&#38;nbsp;even writing. Afterward one keeps a daily practice of 2 hours, and maintains their morality. Once you break down the price it costs, it seems like a fair trade.&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;

The courses are completely by donation, with zero pressure or negative ramifications if you do not donate. No one keeps track. There are over 200 centres all over the world, and the one near Barrie I did my last course at was built completely by old students. The courses fill up within 10 minutes of opening and have over 200 people on the waitlists. If you’re at all interested in joining a course or just want to talk to me more about it, please reach out!! I’m the biggest slut for dhamma 

with an abundance of metta (love, goodwill),

LZ&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp;


&#60;img width="2150" height="156" width_o="2150" height_o="156" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/99c7af9ed2f3392b164a00988bab2b51d6780874c55b07e4307555b17cf05f83/Screenshot-2025-01-09-at-4.15.23AM.png" data-mid="224431228" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/99c7af9ed2f3392b164a00988bab2b51d6780874c55b07e4307555b17cf05f83/Screenshot-2025-01-09-at-4.15.23AM.png" /&#62;
It is Sunday night. I’ve just read the second ever response to my newsletters. I’m listening to The Universe Smiles Upon You. It is 11:13pm, and I am tinged with drowsiness but I feel inspired to write. 

In 12 days I will be 26. 25 always felt like such a milestone. My father has told me that you start going downhill after 23. But to those with less rigorous standards, 25 seems to be the arbitrary age after which one begins to decline. But genuinely, and I say this in full sincerity, for the past couple of years I have always felt like I am the hottest I have ever been. Like what the fuck is 26 going to bring? I’m so excited to go into my 30’s? Of course none of this can be said without the context against which aging as a woman is always coloured by– the ticking of the biological clock. 

This is how I spent my weekend 

Saturday

9-11am- catching up on work
11:15am-1:30pm- jiu jitsu
1:30-2:45pm- lift 
2:45-3:30pm- shower, eat, change
4-8:30pm- reading Being and Time
9-10pm- dinner
10-11pm-dropped by Misha’s house for a jam that I was extremely late to and therefore did not participate in
Midnight- sleep 

Sunday

9-11am- catching up on work
11am-12:45pm- jiu jitsu
1-2pm- pole
2-3:30- shower, eat, change
3:30-4:30 catch up on a bit more work, sent out the last email 
4:30-8:00pm- reading Being and Time
8:30-9pm- eat 
9-present- tried reading again, failed, texted my friends, responded to a response to my last email, now writing this. 

Every single hour of my day is accounted for. Because I do jiu jitsu 3-4x/week, pole 2-4x/week, lift twice a week, run 1-2x/week, and do yoga 1-3x/week. And social plans. And this quarter I decided to add on 3 extra hours of extremely dense reading I need to do for this philosophy class. What I’m trying to say is that I have too many fucking things I want to do, and I want to do them all well. I think about all the other things I want to do (the PCT, a PhD in philosophy, doing florals), and about how it would be so much easier if I didn’t also want to raise some humans. But then I remember that that is ultimately just another thing I want to do. 

I am a little worried, even though I know the preposterousness of worrying, about the path I am going down– that of a single woman in her 20’s living in the city and doing stuff. Silly, I know. But I just know exactly what I can expect, of course within reason (that there will be unexpected things out of reason). I spoke to one of my old jiu jitsu instructors last week and I asked him what life is like in his 30’s. Specifically what life is like for women in their 30’s. He said that the happiest ones are the ones who don’t want kids, and the ones who do are unhappy because they do not even have partners. 

*In Carrie Bradshaw voice* “Is that it? Am I doomed to be a 30-something single woman who’s miserable because she wasted her youth being too picky?” 

It’s a wholly valid concern! I can tranquilize myself all I want but the other side of “you will meet your person, never settle” discourse is the exact opposite: you may not meet your person, you should've settled for that guy you friendzoned. Not that I would. But how many of the unhappy women my jiu jitsu instructor mentioned drank the koolaid of the first sentiment without ever acknowledging the second? 

I’m not actually worried though. Because I’m special, obviously. And everyday I am getting closer to meeting my person.

My roommate who’s 30 had her friend over tonight. Shak is around the same age. She’s a lawyer who hates her job and life, and who just got approved for 2 months of paid leave for mental health reasons. She started dating a full-time musician, and my roommate also started dating a… Fem boy? Is what she called him at which I laughed because of obvious reasons. I asked Shak if they were obsessed with each other right away, and she said, “Immediately”. Which really just reflects my growing suspicion that, in this day and age, if there is no mutual obsession, it will not work. 

All this is to say that, I fucked that jiu jitsu instructor, we are not obsessed with each other, and it will not work. But what happened was actually really lovely. I went over to this place, threw my laundry in the wash, we played chess, cuddled and fucked, which is exactly what I would have done at home, minus everything except the chess. I am slightly upset that he is not obsessed with me, but alas I am not for everyone. 

That is also something I have been thinking about a lot. I traded my mass market long blonde hair for my pixie, and I feel like I am myself once again. I’ve always thought that I had to be completely myself despite everything, right off the bat, because how is my soul mate going to recognize me if I’m not being me? 

Alexa, play “I think about it all the time” by Charli XCX. 

-

It was Josh’s birthday recently. I did not get to wish him a happy birthday which I am sad about. I tried to look at his friend’s Instagram because she always makes a birthday post but THE MF MADE HER ACCOUNT PRIVATE. Smh. 

I’ve been trying to console myself with all the reasons I would have cut him off if I met him now. But such is not the way love works. I will not expand. 

I’ve been wondering if I’m ultimately being responsible or irresponsible for only allowing myself to fall in love with people after certain conditions have been satisfied. I don’t know if there is an answer for that. I think there are arguments for both, and the nuance is in what I want the love for. Pure, intense passion existing in a vacuum? Or that chemical reaction that happens in your brain that facilitates the rearing of a family? 

I was having omakase with my godmom when I was last in China, and I was talking to her about Josh. I told her about how I was tired of loving, how I didn’t want to love anymore. Thinking back to that conversation now– what is the alternative? There is none. Well actually, the alternative is a life where I do jiu jitsu 3-4x/week, pole 2-4x/week, lift twice a week, run 1-2x/week, and do yoga 1-3x/week. I wonder if I’d do less if I were in love. The answer of course, is no, but that is because I’ve had time to cultivate a love for those things in the absence of love for another person. But what if I hadn’t? What if I’d spent that time on a relationship? The thought of that makes me cringe and I think that is precisely the problem with romance today. We expect at minimum a positive ROI on our investment and we don't understand love to be what it is– something that is completely outside the scope of capitalism. 

A relationship that doesn’t work out is a waste of time. But we never think of hobbies in that way. I don’t think that I wasted my time doing any of the hobbies I’ve disposed of. The gender wars really need to stop. Here, I’ll start. I LOVE men. My roommate Rita is not attracted to men at all and as somebody who prides herself in being able to see from different perspectives, I was humbled. All other heinous states of mind, whether it be in racists, sexists, people who don’t like cilantro, can be traced back mostly to childhood trauma, but what happens to someone that makes them not attracted to men? My queer mind could not comprehend.

-

Work has been getting crazy recently. One of my copywriters quit on me and we broke the streak of never having had anyone quit at the company. My boss increased our scope of work and I am spending more time than I’d like doing it. Which makes me think about how I spent my entire weekend reading philosophy without any compensation and how I’d rather be doing that. One day I will quit my job despite everything (how well it pays, the flexibility, everything). Despite everything, I will quit my job. But the time has not come.

-

What I’m really looking forward to is my Vipassana course over the holidays. I didn’t do it last year and subsequently haven’t kept a daily practice and my quality of life in the mental cleanliness department has felt a dramatic dip. 

-

I miss my parents. They’re in Europe again. They keep going there. Time zones are hard enough to keep up with when they’re in Vancouver and China. Am I completely unfamiliar with CET? No. But it is much easier to minus 3 or reverse the am/pm than it is to add 6. 

My uncle came to visit recently. It was his first time in North America. We had lunch at the most abominable Thai place I was lured into by flashy menu items. He accidentally revealed the passing away of my grand aunt. That was the closest person whose passing I had to experience. She choked on a piece of food and passed away just like that. I visited her when I was in China last, and she was not living a dignified life. She had extremely severe and untreated depression. Her husband had passed away suddenly ten years ago and she’s been a shell of a person since. She told me about how he was so good to her and I asked her about their love and we both cried. 

I suppose some people are not as strong as others. 

She was the closest of my grandma’s siblings I grew up with. She was an English teacher and had this most vibrant energy and joie de vivre when she was younger. She loved me so much and I loved her as much. I made it a point to see her twice last time I was last back home.&#38;nbsp;She was no longer whom I remember. May she rest in peace with her love up in heaven. 

You really be at the most horrendous Thai-Hong Kong fusion restaurant eating the most disgusting mango salad of your life at 1:30pm on a Friday when news like this gets broken to you. 

There is so much in life that is out of our control. It deepened my resolve to make the most out of the things that are within my control. I asked my grandma how she felt about losing her sister. She said such things are natural and that at her age she sees everything very plainly. Is that what old age is? Seeing everyone you love pass away? I asked her if she wanted to video call and she said that she is behind on homework and will call me once she has more free time. I suppose I can thank her for my insatiable desire to learn. 

-

So I just found out about the lesbian masterdoc. It’s a 30-page pdf some 19-year-old woman wrote about identifying lesbianism and compulsory heterosexuality. And I’ve never felt straighter.

-
It’s been officially two months since I’ve been back in Toronto. It’s honestly hard to believe. On Thursday I wrapped up my last pole performance and it felt so fucking good. I’m sure I’ll cringe at it in due time but for the most part I’m happy with the way it turned out. My lines looked so good and I had more fluidity than any other performance I’d done before. I want to do this all the time. 

With the end of this 2-month intense pole run, I’m letting myself rest. In the past 3 days all I’ve done was a yoga class and the performance. I skipped Saturday comp class for jiu jitsu which I go to religiously. But I’m already itching. 

I haven’t journaled in a long time. Or gone to the food bank. For good reason; I’ve been so busy with life, but now that things are slowing down a bit I’m going to make a point to allocate my Saturday mornings to volunteering again, as much as I’ve loved having them to myself. 

I have a budding friendship with a woman I met volunteering at the food bank. She’s the smartest person I’ve met in a while. It’s funny because Misha and I were having a discussion about love and compassion and whatnot and he said that it’s fun doing philosophy with me. I nodded, to which he asked if I didn’t find it fun to do philosophy with him. I said that I hadn’t thought about it (because it wasn’t). It was garden variety mutual mental masturbation, which is fun I guess for the first bit until you wonder if you've not better things to do, if you’re not too old for this. With Zareen it’s completely different. The little I’ve spoken to her showed her mind so vast. Her quickness is unmatched. She has a beautiful mind and it's ever so humbling being around her. I haven’t felt this way about someone in a very long time, and in fact perhaps I’ve only felt it for one other person. It aligns that they both majored in math. One of these days I will learn mathematics. 

-

My roommate Emily is a psychotherapist and she had a client who was in a motor vehicle accident and got amnesia. She was a black woman and she kept asking Emily why everyone around her is treating her so poorly. Along with her memories, she also lost her grasp on racism. 

Today I am relating to that woman. 

In jiu jitsu today the coach was teaching an arm bar from side control. My training partner told me to put my foot between the arm and neck instead of in the armpit, and I blindly accepted. It turns out I had it correct the first time, so I annoyingly said how this always happens, that someone will correct me and they’ll be wrong. The coach went on to explain that there are different placements and there’s no right or wrong. Even though my way was correct for that specific technique. 

I absolutely hate how much of an ego I have, but the thing is I am punished for my humility by blindly accepting people’s unsolicited advice. I went home and went on the bjjwomen subreddit and related to so much of what was being expressed in that sub. 

The first time I got promoted I got two striped because my coach noted that it was hard being a woman in jiu jitsu. At the time I genuinely didn’t understand what he meant, but in retrospect I see that my naivety was only due to the superior community that was present in my first gym. It’s frustrating because it’s where I spend the most amount of time outside my home. I am filled with feminine rage. I used to derive pleasure from proving people who underestimate me wrong, but why? How about you don’t underestimate me? 

-

I had a fairly hard birthday yesterday. We spent the whole day driving up to the cottage, and it was the first birthday I’d spent without calling Josh. I spent the night crying silently and re-reading the letter he wrote me last fall. 

KP and I had just each taken some shrooms. I almost never do shrooms with other people, which I realize now is probably a vulnerability issue. 

(The shrooms kicked in right about here)

-

In retrospect my 26th was actually one of the best birthdays I had. I connected with KP on such a deep level and we recognized so much of ourselves in each other– we were tuned to the same frquency. We started calling it FM69. Half the people who were supposed to come to the cottage ended up dropping out so I spent the weekend with Kailin and KP and had a Chinese girly weekend. I love them both so dearly. I’d commissioned Gallz Provisions to bake a custom cake for me. KP and I brainstormed flavours together last month and I gave Julia a list of flavours I like. What she settled on was a corn sponge cake soaked in condensed milk a al tres leches, with a fig compote and Swiss meringue buttercream. She mistakenly gave me an 8-inch cake so I thought I’d have some leftovers to take home to my roommates. The three of us finished it in 24 hours. 

The cottage was very nice. We had a relaxing weekend. We worked, we cooked, we dipped in the hot tub, we laughed, we cried, we took shrooms and told each other that we would kiss each other’s feet. KP made us 疙瘩汤 following her basically in-law’s recipe, we made hotpot, and we made pizza with gorgonzola, pear, and arugula. She made a high protein dough with greek yogurt that was so deliciously doughy and chewy. The pizzas reminded me of Mercante’s at UBC. 

In all honesty the shrooms tripped me out pretty badly. They always make me face life’s uncomfortable truths in such a gut-wrenching way, and this time was no different. I found a newfound appreciation for my body and flexibility. I realized that I have to go back to the food bank, to cultivate humility. I need to go to jiu jitsu to train jiu jitsu and forget about the politics, and keep going to yoga to do the same thing over and over again. 

I went to therapy after that weekend, and decided that life is hard enough as is– there’s no need for me to make it harder. I also had to reckon with the fact that I had in fact been abusing psychedelics. It’s a very very tricky subject, my therapist says, but he gave me some tools that are far more beneficial in the long run. No funghi required. 

-

It’s been a couple of weeks since my birthday, and generally I’m feeling good. I don’t know how much of that is due to a really good date I had last night. I woke up at 8:15 this morning, volunteered, trained, got groceries and made food for the week (sukiyaki, steamed broccoli tossed in sesame oil and furikake, soy marinated ramen eggs, multigrain rice, oats, and defrosting salmon I'm going to bake tomorrow), and went to Icha to do some digital errands. KP was over because she had dinner plans in my neck of the woods and was exclaiming at how I was doing the most (everything was cooking simultaneously). “I’m always doing the most”. 

-

I was walking home one day earlier this week when all of a sudden I was craving crab. I was slightly miffed at the fact that my mom’s not around to make some for me. Too because the crab I’d have back home were always ones my mom would bring back from her friends who’d catch them in the Pacific. Today I picked up a crab, winced at how much it cost ($20), and brought him home. As I was putting him in the steaming basket I realized I simply could not do it. The way it was struggling, I kept on apologizing to him and saying how I’d never do this again. It was visceral and I was bending over myself. At last with the help of my roommate we steamed the thing, but god was it distressing. It tasted really good though. 

-

Last weekend I had no plans on Sunday and I’d not taken any Vyvanse so I decided that I was going to take my inner child to do something fun. So I went to the zoo. As the bus took me through Scarborough I looked out the windows and saw shops with Arabic, Ethiopian perhaps, and other forms of writing I could not understand. I couldn’t help but empathize with immigrant families who move here with three, four children, a language barrier, and just no fucking money. And to settle down in Ontario too. Ontario is really depressing once you leave Toronto, not that she’s not without her own flavour of depression. It’s flat, it’s cold, and it happened to be an overcast day. I saw shop windows advertising new immigrant services. I noticed that the stores I saw with the foreign script were mostly grocery stores. I thought about how for so many, the biggest concern really was just putting food on the table. We finally passed a block with a metro and Starbucks and I felt a weird sense of comfort. 

The emotional roller coaster does not come to a halt once I’m in the zoo. I was reading the intros to the organutans and was delighted that the word was a portmanteau of the Malay words for “forest” and “person”. Standing in front of the bios of the residents I started tearing up. I read about one who loved playing games on the iPad with her keeper, and really had to start looking up at the ceiling once I got to the one who loves babies, but after having five of her own, now just likes to chill and observe the visitors– especially the ones with babies. 

Like. 

Bruv.

The next day I called my dad to tell him about my experience and I started crying uncontrollably. Do they know that the people who take care of them are the same ones who are destroying their homes? I THINK THEY DOOOOO. I THINK THEY KNOW AND AND I THINK THEY FORGIVE USSSSSSSSSS. 

In each of their eyes, not even in their actual eyes but their eyes through their photographs, I saw such vibrant souls. I saw what I don’t often see when I look into the eyes of humans. So much wisdom. So much compassion. So much peace. 

The other animals had different dispositions. Cats had souls too but they exuded confidence and pride. Gorillas were brave. Monkeys were mischievous. But organtuans. Oh man. The organgutans fucked me up. 

It feels right to end the edition here. Talk to you in December. 

With humility, 

L


&#60;img width="3036" height="140" width_o="3036" height_o="140" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1569def7c393b987384bb309d5049884c81750254dced9b527d38aa0cbcfb88f/Screenshot-2024-10-20-at-4.41.30PM.png" data-mid="220040385" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1569def7c393b987384bb309d5049884c81750254dced9b527d38aa0cbcfb88f/Screenshot-2024-10-20-at-4.41.30PM.png" /&#62;
It has been far too long since I’ve written. I did write something back in August which I will include at the bottom. I never sent that one out because it felt unfinished and I never bothered finishing it. In hindsight it provides a lot of linear context.&#38;nbsp;

I started taking a course at UofT this semester. It’s a course on Heidegger, specifically on his magnum opus Being and Time. Perhaps I will speak about the work itself further along but first I must share a far more interesting incident that took place. 

Somehow, without my divulging it to him, my prof had found my phone number and called me one day after class. I had missed his call, and the only reason I know it was him is because he had called me on Whatsapp and Whatsapp has a name and profile photo associated with every phone number. I called him back twice to no answer, so the day after I texted him, “Sir all my friends and I are waiting for an update on the my prof texted me saga.” He read that message but ultimately did not respond. I also discovered that he had turned on disappearing messages, which had not been in place when I first saw his missed call, before I called him back. I never saw him wear a wedding ring in class but in the profile photo his ring finger seemed to glimmer with a hint of gold. A few days later I tried to pull up the photo to show my friend and realized that I could no longer see it. My friend suggested that it meant he had blocked me. 

I’m writing in a tea house on a Thursday, the day on which the class takes place. Today, for the first time, I see him wear his ring. He was interrupted by a phone call towards the end of class which he ignored. I overhead someone asking him about his office hours to which he replied that there will be none as he has an event to attend and as well, his daughter’s day care had just called him.
 
–

Yesterday I spent five hours cuddling with a boy from class. The first time we hung out we came to this exact tea house where I’m sat right now and we were served by a man who so happened to have written his graduate thesis on Being and Time. There was a lot of eye fucking so naturally I came back four times in the subsequent five days. I joked with the boy, “How much dick is Heidegger going to get me?” to which after reporting to him the incident with my prof I remarked, “However many I thought, we’re gonna have to add one more.” 

He lives very close to me on the top floor of a building on Spadina that used to be a hostel. There’s a massive rooftop patio decorated with fresh flowers, his yoga mat, copies of the Bhagvad Gita. Plato and palo Santo, incense, and crystals. He’s majoring in Philosophy and minoring in Buddhism, Psychology, and Mental Health. 

I have been living very hard ever since I came back. I average around 2.5 hours of physical activity everyday, and one day I partook in three back-to-back pole classes, followed by an hour and a half of yoga and an hour of jiu jitsu. I actually took the day off work today because I was feeling burnt out from living so hard. I’m competing in a pole competition this weekend so I’ve been rehearsing nonstop, but besides I’ve indexed pretty heavily on the masculine for some time now. Logical, methodical, exerting myself in the world. I got my period yesterday and had planned to go to pole practice and a run after doing some work at Misha’s place, but we started cuddling and I realized that I simply needed to rest. He had been on my ass about why I work so hard and I tell him that it’s a system I am sufficiently satisfied with, though I know it’s not optimal. I’d never made a friend from class in undergrad from what I can recall. It was him myself and another guy outside the building where our class takes place, and we'd made loose plans to go on a bike ride to the park together. The thought of that excited me so. 

I’ve been fascinated with the duality of the masculine and feminine for some years now. A few years back I decided to conduct myself in the manner of a white man because I thought that that was the default mode of being, which I see now is an extremely limited point of view. My therapist agreed with me that I have too much masculine energy and suggested I take some ballroom dance classes. And so I did, and in the classrooms of salsa and bachata I learned the value of being a follower. When I dance there is a sense of surrendering to the leader, trusting that they won’t lead me astray. Of course we’re all beginners so I am very often led astray, yet I feel no urge to correct them. I asked my therapist how I can lean more into my feminine, and as soon as I asked the question I realized that I was making a categorical mistake. There is no action that you can take to bring out your feminine. You must simply allow it to be. 

Last night I was feeling so guilty about skipping pole practice and my run even though I really did just need to rest and be held. After some journalling I realized that by feeling bad about leaning into my body and needs I was punishing my femininity. That was no way to be. 

Zhaoqi once made a comment about how I do pole to get in touch with my feminine side and I too thought of it as something to balance out the yang of jiu jitsu. But it’s actually quite the opposite. In jiu jitsu I find myself “being” much more. The joy I get from the game comes from never giving my opponent the satisfaction of tapping me. It’s reactionary and yin in nature. In contrast, pole requires so much strength, precision and intention (the pointing of toes, no microbends in the knee, knowing exactly how you’re going to transition to your next move) that I am always fully present in the doing. But really there are elements of both in every single thing. I think that when we first start out doing anything, we learn with our masculine side, and once we've gained mastery, it begins to flow through us. We transform into a vessel through which it passes.&#38;nbsp; 

Another thing I do which I realized is coming from the wounded masculine is my tendency to get into dick measuring contests with men. I feel a compulsion to prove that I have a bigger dick than the men I see, which I think actually stems from wanting to be proven wrong so that I feel safe and comfortable enough to let out my feminine side. Paradoxically the times when I’ve actually felt safe to be in my feminine have been with men who haven't been so masculine in the traditional and perhaps one-dimensional sense; It’s been with the ones who held space for me, who made me feel safe.

I really wanted to get into the habit of being today. I took the day off work and deleted my calendar, email and maps from my phone. I thought that I would simply be. Let my intuition guide me to allocate my time, direct me places. 

— 

As it turns out the server I mentioned earlier had just asked to be added to this mailing list so this should be interesting. 

This edition also feels unfinished. I have more things to say but part of allowing myself to be today was to not medicate and as such my adhd is getting the better of me. Or perhaps there is merit in not finishing your food, in leaving some thoughts unexpressed. Perhaps also I am comparing it too much to the last email I sent out which was so thematic. I really wanted this to be an exercise of writing more frequently and not writing perfectly. So without waxing on further, I shall go back, edit the words that have already been laid down, and send this out promptly to avoid what happened with the Vancouver edit. 

I think there needs to be more consistency in my writing. I had a lot of thoughts a few weeks back when I did my jiu jitsu competition, but that already happened; I had already processed everything and it doesn’t feel as relevant anymore. Perhaps the cadence needs to be updated because I’ve been back for barely a month and it feels like several lifetimes have passed. That’s something that I’ve realized about living in Toronto vs. Vancouver. The past month I spent in Toronto feels like several Vancouver months, possibly even a Vancouver year. I think that’s just the lure of Toronto for me. The stimulation is endless and as a being with adhd, stimulation is like air for me. It is a necessity. 

The last crisis I had was about moving out of Toronto. I wanted to do the PCT. I wanted to move to New York. Ultimately Reem advised me that if I’m conflicted, it probably means that something is keeping me here, and that once it’s time to leave, there will be no hesitation. 

–

I just read the first couple pages of his thesis and thought about how Misha told me that I had a very singular and developed mind. I think I’m naturally attracted to people who are interested in philosophy because I’m attracted to people who have mansions for minds. I made this analogy to a friend, that some people have one bedroom apartments for minds and some have sprawling country estates. Those of the latter are so much more fun to engage with. I told him about how I used to value intellect above all other qualities and in a conversation with somebody I went on a Hinge date with (also a philosophy major) I expressed the same but that I have since deprioritized it below other traits. Reason mainly being that if I needed intellectual stimulation I can always just read a book, and that in friends I look for characteristics that lend more to longevity.
 
–

So my theory is that my prof found my phone number on my website, so I naturally went to see what he would have seen. I re-read some of my writing and this happens every time, but I am always completely floored by the quality and convinced there’s no way I could ever reproduce anything of a similar caliber. Yet the writing spans years. It is quite an undertaking balancing all the things I like to do with only 24 hours in my day. I’d definitely abandoned writing recently, one of my most treasured skills. I’ve had this meditation before about how it’s so much easier to do physical activities due to the endorphins they produce, the feeling of productivity they bring, and the arguably higher necessity of doing them to maintain health. The reasons I took this course on Heidegger in the first place were plenty but one of them was to unrot my brain from my job. With every undertaking there is an opportunity cost, and I’m not sure how I want to balance my days. Social plans is most definitely the first to go as canon fodder, but my days are already pretty fucking min-maxed so I’m going to have to once again audit how I spend my time. 

If you’d like to see for yourself what my prof potentially saw, check out the “Poetry and Prose” folder at luciaspeaking.ca. I’ve also included all the previous emails I’ve sent in the “Thoughts and Life” folder. See, the fundamental desire is to be seen, understood, in that order of priority. The desire so primal that what I’ve done, really, is set up an open source OnlyFans of my mind on my site. Go wild. I’m sure you will.

How is physical balance achieved? When there is a strong core and equally developed limbs. What is the meta/non-physical equivalent of those things? I’m not sure honestly. An equal development of both sides of the polarities? 

I have been seeing my angel number a lot recently. Like multiple times in a day. 111. It will be my birthday soon too (11/1). I’m going to do this on a monthly basis so I never leave you without an update for such a long time again. My apologies. 

–

I placed third in my pole competition! I slipped from one of my moves so it came as somewhat of a surprise. The atmosphere of the dressing room and backstage was phenomenal. I did ballet for nine years as a kid but never competed and this is exactly how I imagined the setting to be. Women doing makeup in the dressing room, stretching, warming up. I had way fewer nerves than I do when it’s competition day for jiu jitsu. I suspect that the presence of women had something to do with it, but I honestly realize that I just love performing. It’s so interesting because it’s stand-up that got me used to the spotlight. As soon as I walked on stage for my first open mic I felt so at ease. As intimidating as you think it would be, the lights are so blinding that you can’t see anyone in the audience. It's your world, and everyone else is just living in it. Now that I’m done preparing for this intense competition I’m going to be preparing an exotic routine for my studio’s Halloween showcase. If you’re in town on the 24th and would like to come watch message me and I’ll send you details. I’m really excited to choreograph this one. It’s going to be so fucking slutty.

After my pole comp I went to Misha’s place again where he was jamming with two other musicians and I was singing with them and it was absolutely magical. It was the first time I’ve sung freestyle, and the melodies and lyrics just flowed out of me like honey. But hot honey, because as with everything I do, it’s spiced. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the saying, “how you do anything is how you do everything.” I think I’ve been mostly relating it to the intense manner in which I do things, but recently I’ve realized that I’m actually just really fucking good at everything I do. I just finished a chess game with my roommate who’s very good and it was a really good game. This morning at jiu jitsu one of the coaches rolled with me and said that I was not only, “deceptively strong”, but also, “extremely hard to finish.” I tried really really hard to hold back the joke we’re all thinking.

I think the central theme of this edition is about letting go. If I didn't surrender myself to the cuddles perhaps I wouldn't have felt as comfortable asking Misha what he was doing yesterday and may have missed discovering the joy of making music. And if I'd gone to pole practice instead I may have not had the insight that I've ought leave some things up to chance. At my last practice I accepted that there will probably be an element of improvisation during my routine as the way the poles are and how I stick to them is completely out of my control. If I didn't have these two precedents I may not have asked my roommate to a chess game. I'm learning how to balance a structured life with one that's receptive to the motions of the world and the impulses of my soul. I'm doing mental crunches and strengthening my mental core. 

I’m really glad that I decided against moving away. I like my people here. I like the things I do here. I like my boys here. I like my house and room here. I like my life here. I love my life here. 

Xoxo,

L

Below is what would have been called "The Vancouver edit", written in mid August

I have been in Vancouver for the better part of a month. 

And it has been incredible. 

It has been three years since I’d spent a summer in Vancouver, and I remember how I fall freshly in love with her every June. 

Something I was not expecting happened this summer– I found myself a participant in a wee summer romance with a local boy. The last time I dated anyone in Vancouver was in 2018-2019. I forgot how much there is to do in the city in the summertime. We went on hikes in the forest and swam in salt water and cuddled as mosquitoes feasted upon us under the stars while gentle waves pushed upon shore. Last night we went to a little night market at the Shipyards in North Van where I picked up frog stickers, freeze-dried durian, fig, and dragonfruit, a pair of white clogs, and a candle for my friend’s birthday hotpot I’m going to tonight. 

I told him yesterday that he reminded me of a tree. Physically he’s tall dark and handsome, but it was more so his demeanour. He was at all times minding his own business. Or in his own words, he just has, “nothing to prove”.
 
–

My grandparents came to visit in May and are leaving early next week. My mom says that it’ll probably be the last time they come to Canada because my grandpa has aged out of travel insurance. It’s been nice having them in the background. My grandpa picked up an electric clarinet-type instrument and has been subjecting the entire house to his practices of patriotic communist tunes. I helped him buy the instrument when I was in China last winter, and he’s been practicing without fail every day since. As much as I hate the guy for being a total prick sometimes, I’ve gotta give it to him on this front. 

My grandma is pretty deaf and it’s been a little bit of a struggle connecting with her. Having to repeat ourselves so many times gives the impression of her lacking something in the mental reasoning department, and I have to constantly remind myself that we just sound like birds to her. 

Overall it’s been very nice to have them around and if it were up to me I’d have them around every summer. 

I’ve also decided to spend the whole of next summer in Vancouver. At minimum all of July and August, and probably the last two weeks of June too. 

KP got a job in New York and will be moving there late this year/early next. She told me about her friend who wants to get rid of her very reasonably priced Williamsburg studio whose floors are caving in a little bit. "It's very you," she says. It’s much too early to say anything of moving to New York just yet but the prospect of not needing to house hunt is making me look forward to 2025. 

In my house in Toronto we welcomed a new roommate– a Ukrainian girl whom my other roommate Emma picked up by doing the splits at a club. I think. They're both sapphic. She told us that she had a boy over and that they played chess, she beat him, and he left. She’s also apparently been playing a lot of chess with my other roommate Emily’s boyfriend Bulut. I can’t wait to go back and play with her. 

–

Last weekend I went on a boy’s trip to the island. Our friend Fraser is a sea kayak guide in Ucluelet and we paddled off the coast of Tofino and camped out on Vargas Island. It was one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had in a long time. Coming back on the Monday it felt like I was coming down from drugs, something I haven’t felt in a very very long time. 

I’d wanted to do the Pacific Crest Trail for some time now. I learned so much on that trip and the PCT feels closer than ever. 

It was also like drugs in that I knew the feeling would feel far away and foreign with time. But as Fraser said, “You should always either be on an adventure or planning your next one.” 

It has honestly been such a good summer. Family, friends, good food, a little sprinkle of romance. No complaints, and as Bella would say, “It’s a good life.” I’ve been saying that a lot this summer. 

–

My boss is launching a jewelry brand and brought me on board to help roll it out and it’s the most fun I’ve had at work maybe ever. I honestly wish I could have been more involved with the whole process like sourcing designs, manufacturers, shipping, packaging, shoots, but as KP put it, my work is just a side hustle to my life.

New things I’ve discovered and liked so far 

Dry aged salmon and halibut at Bravo on Fraser/26th

Outline by Rachel Cusk

Pourover flights at Prototype Coffee 

–

Many things on the horizon when I get back to Toronto. A pole competition, several jiu jitsu tournaments.

&#60;img width="2156" height="154" width_o="2156" height_o="154" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/accf8a46ab6a565ed0ab28cc8297ab2343246718952a1c2083994570f336413e/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.38.42PM.png" data-mid="215008472" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/accf8a46ab6a565ed0ab28cc8297ab2343246718952a1c2083994570f336413e/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.38.42PM.png" /&#62;Being back in Europe feels like embracing the warmth of an ex who was only ever good to you. The smile that stretched across my face as I got off the airport tram was one bred from familiarity, safety, and homecoming. This was a place where, should you misplace a piece of your belongings on an airplane, half a dozen airport staff and travelers alike will help you retrieve it back. Where theft is not the least of your concern. 
It’s like that ex your family still asks you about. All your friends know them, know that you two had a great time, remind you that they treated you well. Someone you come back to because you feel safe in their arms. The architecture is familiar; the cathedrals, the cobblestones, just like certain patterns of body hair, the folds of an anus, the way their hips move when they walk. You tell yourself you’ve moved on, are on to better things, yet something draws you back. In it, in him, you find safety, acceptance, comfort. 

I’ve spent the last two summers in Europe and told myself this year that I was not to return; I wanted to explore a different part of the world. But on some overcast day in March I found a flight for $276 to Edinburgh and decided that the Highlands shall be explored. The rest of my trip emerged like this: Copenhagen, because I’d been meaning to visit and my Norwegian friend Johannes keeps telling me how much I’d love it. I have an open invite from my friend who lives in Helsinki so I thought I’d tack that on. And lastly, the cheapest flight back to Vancouver from all of Europe was out of Iceland, so that followed naturally as the last stop of my itinerary. 

Things are unfolding as planned.
It’s only been twenty-four hours since I’ve escaped the matrix of Toronto and I feel just as much at home as I feel outside of it. I’m staying at this beautiful hostel where 61 people are living long term. They volunteer to clean and to receive people and in return they get their bed for free. There’s a nurse here and a children’s book illustrator and an analyst of geological samples of old British buildings. Everyone’s food is kept in blue storage bins and a dozen fridges with different days of the week labeled to indicate the days on which they get cleaned out. I’ve just finished having my dinner of pasta with chicken breast and arugula, rocket, and a salmon bagel. I’ve been so spoiled by wood-fired Montreal bagels back home and this doughy, New York-style bagel was so astoundingly disappointing. I ate with a fellow from New Zealand who got a three-year work visa for the U.K. and who had just applied for jobs in some organic food stores. For the past ten years he’s worked in organic horticulture and decided that it was time to take a break on account of it being too hard on the body. 

I can’t stop thinking about how white traveling is as a hobby, as a lifestyle. How white all of the hostels I’ve stayed at have been, how much of a privilege it is to be able to do so. Surely travel is seen as a necessity for these folks. I later learned that it was a thing for British people to live in hostels when they’re in between jobs. If you’re a person of colour and you’re broke, you work so you make enough money for a roof over your head. If you’re white and you’re broke, you move to a different country to be broke in a different former colony.

I started to understand colonialism. You do the dirty work (but perceived as such only in retrospect) so that your descendants can be set for life. It’s really not that much different from the life where immigrant parents work and sacrifice everything so that their kids don’t have to, but just at a macro, intergenerational, intercenturial level. You take over the world so your former colonies can all have working visa agreements with each other hundreds of years later, and the children there can all communicate with each other and also the rest of the world with their mother tongue. I wish China had colonized the world. I suppose they’re trying their best to catch up. 

Ex-horticulture dude and I spoke about communal living and I concluded that everyone in Canada lives in comfortable misery. It’s not something I haven’t heard before. Most recently from a Sri Lankan Uber driver and my friend Mario, whose crowning achievement was spending two years walking the length of Africa from Capetown to Cairo. The first said that he wished he’d never left his home country, because though the country is poor, at least the people were happy. The latter is only in Toronto in between his expeditions as a professional explorer. He always maintained that Toronto is a bubble. I understood it only theoretically but today I got what he meant. Everyone in Toronto is doing more or less the same thing. And they’re at the same time convinced that everyone else in the world is doing that too. I can assure you, they are not. And it only took me 24 hours in a place as unassuming and tame as Edinburgh to be reminded of that.–Things are not unfolding as planned.Dad and I couldn’t hire a car for the highlands because his driver’s license didn’t have English on it and I’d forgotten the pin for my credit card and so couldn’t put down a deposit. The car rental process is brutal, and it has been every single time I’ve had the misfortune of going through it. 

We booked the next flight out to Copenhagen. A shame he couldn’t get to see the highlands, but I am happy to be spending a couple more days in Copenhagen. 

–

The short answer: softis. Scandinavia does soft serve right. I was so obsessed with softis the past two years I was in Norway that I looked into soft serve production and the key to a smooth, creamy soft serve is having the correct temperature in the machine. It’s always a crapshoot back home— 8 times out of 10 they do it wrong and it’s too icy. 1 time out of 10 the ice cream machine is “broken”, (McDonald’s has figured it out) and so you’re down to a 10% chance of getting a soft serve with good texture and consistency. And then it’s probably too sweet. 

The long answer: I was born in a cold place, grew up in a cold place, and live in a cold place. Oslo reminds me of home. I enjoy low sensory, bland assembled ingredients. People dress well here (in stark contrast to most rest of Europe, full offence).

Couple years ago I decided to conduct my life like a white man because it felt like he was the epitome of what a human is under our current paradigm. Unburdened, unbothered, unbridled reign to exercise his existence in this world. Not in survival mode. Not fighting for his life. Asserting himself in every possible way. 

I went on a design tour in Copenhagen today and there was so much talk about how the Danes designed their city and all I could think about was how, you could say trivial, the worries people have are when they’ve got all their needs met. Smooth cobblestones laid adjacent to regular ones to reduce the noise bikes make when ridden over them. Copenhagen this, Copenhagen that. Copenhagen as a prefix to describe meticulously thought-out design choices. Like the givingness of bench planks, degrees at which they tilt when leaned back against, how many hours they want their citizens to spend in them (2 hours and 5 minutes per week). The Nordics are the nation equivalents of the white man. They’re striving for the tip of Maslow’s pyramid.

Copenhagen keeps turning car parks into skate parks. Even underground car parks are abandoned simply due to their attracting more traffic. America rids of sidewalks altogether. When people chant, “people over profit,” it’s not empty, because there are places in the world doing just that. Why is America so obsessed with money? Is it because of a scarcity mindset after the Great Depression? It’s definitely why the Chinese are. They’ve been without for so long. Yet Norway was dirt poor and was literally owned by their neighbour until mere decades ago. I bootlicking white people, but save for the plight of the coldness of its peoples and the standard issue problems that face all privileged nations (xenophobia, indigenous issues), they’ve really done a lot of things right.

-

Dad and I toured the Rosenburg castle today. I learned that the Danish flag and monarchy are the oldest in existence. In the treasury there were Crown Jewels and swords and regalia. I thought a lot about power and the seeming necessity of violence in its acquisition. If women ran the world, would there be wars? Given that lesbian relationships have the highest rates of domestic violence, I’m uncertain we should think not. I think women are just as nasty as men. This one queen in ancient China blinded, muted (by way of cutting her tongue off), and chopped off all the limbs of her late husband’s mistress and kept her alive for decades. There’s a Chinese saying that goes, “the most venomous is but the woman’s heart.”

A couple days later we went to visit Freetown Christiana, a self governing, autonomous region in the centre of Copenhagen. Carved into the wooden gates as you walk out was, “You are now entering the E.U.'' The place was inhabited by people I could only describe as odds and ends. People who were not black but who had dreadlocs. People with missing teeth. They all had leathery tanned skin. There was a cafe in there that was Greenland themed, and the people seemed to be of that heritage and speaking that language. I find it endearing that the polar bear is a symbol of Greenland. 

It’s a place where weed is legal, and where people are, “free to do as they please so long as it doesn’t interfere with the freedom of others.” The roads were unkept and full of puddles. We had gone on a Sunday night and there was a band playing. I got a glimpse of what concerts must’ve been like in the 70’s. It was a band of men in their 60’s and 70’s performing classic rock numbers. The audience too was filled with people of that demographic. There was a woman in her 50’s or 60’s, a resident I was sure, in a leopard print sports bra, standing on top of a table, dancing like nobody was watching. I watched her and thought that I’d like to be her when I grow up. 

Though I’d not yet been, the whole place felt like a permanent burning man. There was street art everywhere, sculptures, a psychedelic indoor skatepark that was handbuilt in the year I was born. People there smoked a lot, and my father made a remark about people not enjoying the fine, pristine fresh air. Are the smokers infringing upon my father’s right to enjoy the untainted air? 

I thought if I should like to live in a community like that. I told my dad that it wasn’t that those were my people, because they were not, but it wasn’t that they weren’t either. I for sure wouldn’t reside there permanently, but I would jump at the opportunity to live there for a short while. He exclaimed that those were definitely not his people. That if not for anything the people there simply looked unhealthy. He wasn’t wrong. But I also think if perhaps they even care about such things as skin and oral health. Do we take for granted that a person should care about his health? 
Later on a post-dinner walk around the neighborhood I asked my father if he should prefer to have power or freedom. He said that he’d prefer to have freedom. I asked him if he thought that those people living in freetown had more freedom or the royals who lived in the Rosenburg palace. I think we settled on the royals. They could always, and have historically, abdicated. He then talked about how I was too power-hungry and that it was a symptom of having too much undue self-importance. Power in itself is neutral, but it’s how you use it that matters, he tells me. I did at one point want a large amount of money so that after my personal frivolities were satisfied, I could build rehab centres for those with substance abuse issues. 

I dropped by the Soho house and attended a workshop by a woman who runs a coaching program called, “The Simplified Method.” She was the token millennial girl boss. Having worked alongside founders and CEOs and in a plethora of global markets, she started her practice of coaching leaders on how to be more mindful, how to slow down. There’s something very late-stage capitalistic-dystopian about this entire venture, but I can’t be bothered to do a deep dive into that depressing thought. But being born at the cusp of the millennial-gen z divide, and myself having referred to myself as a millennial when I was a teenager because that was the up and coming generation at the time, I couldn’t help but be grossly enamoured by this woman who was 39, looked about 28, who’s had such a vastly cosmopolitan career, who too was so successful with her own business, and who presented without a hint of neuroticism. I looked at her website and one of her testimonials was the founder of Hinter, a collection of vacation homes in the Laurentian forest, one of&#38;nbsp; which I decided I had to book for my birthday. At the time it was so obvious why I literally had to, but a few weeks later I see how silly it is to think it anything other than a collection of well-marketed, beautifully branded airbnbs.

That same day, too at the Soho House, I took two yoga classes. There was only one other student in the noon class. She was a woman in her 40’s (or looked to be anyway) who told me in her heavy accent that she was, “Korean, from New York.” Does everyone who lives in New York for any amount of time just claim to be from there? I think back to my high school boyfriend who claimed to be from New York, while we were in Vancouver, even though all he’d done was go to college there. She had on a fabulous coat which I complimented and when I introduced myself and held out my hand she refused to shake it. She only shakes hands in business proceedings. 

“I always hug or kiss.” I’m not&#38;nbsp; one to judge people for their cultural practices but give me a fucking break. You’re Korean, from New York, meeting a Chinese-Canadian woman at the Soho House in Copenhagen for the first time after a yoga class. You can shake my goddamned hand. 
Copenhagen ended with a brief make out session with a Polish-Moroccan British… videographer/content producer (?) in Soren Kierkegaard’s grave. But the fact that it had been in Kierkergaard’s grave was the most interesting part about the whole affair. 

–

I’ve been traveling for exactly three weeks now. I’m staying at my friend’s place in Helsinki and living with her and her mom who’s come to visit from Vietnam. Yesterday her Russian friends sent her homemade Russian food: rye bread, lard, green onions, borscht, and these crepes filled with ground meat. It was delicious. 
Helsinki is an extremely underwhelming city. It’s very drab, for lack of a better word. It’s not as refined as Copenhagen, not as elegant as Oslo. The people dress in whatever. The buildings are grey and dull. I shouldn’t want to return.&#38;nbsp; 

Thuy has been indoctrinating me on her socialist and anti-work ideals and it’s been working. On Monday morning I smugly remarked at our both being working women, only to be met with her disdain. 

“I should be chilling on a beach eating berries, not destroying my posture and eyesight working in front of a laptop.” And she wasn’t saying it because she saw an aspirational tweet or tiktok about it on her timeline and felt that, theoretically, she could be chilling on a beach eating blackberries. She said it with her whole chest; and because every chance she gets, she does something akin to eating blueberries on a beach. 
That day I went for a walk in the forest. The next day I decided to do the same, and as I was leaving, her mom asked if I would pick some wild flowers on my way back. My heart burst, but why of course I will do that, with every last drop of my being, I will do that. I felt that my life had peaked in that very moment. It was what I was born to do. And so I did. I left with her mother’s clippers, gathered a bunch of odds and ends, dead branches and dandelions and some fuzzy white clusters and some fuzzy mauve and magenta clusters, and brought back with me those fragments and an entire colony of ants. 

I’ve been burning through books on this trip. I rekindled my love for Joan Didion, grew a love for Edith Wharton, was thoroughly disappointed by Susan Sontag, and felt both incredibly in awe and unsettled by Henry Miller. I rediscover, each time I’m on a reading spree, how most delightful reading is; yet for some reason always, after a period of frenzy, stop.

I predictably deactivated IG again and predictably feel measurably better about myself and the world around me. I rediscover, each time I do, how most delightful being disconnected is; yet for some reason resort always, after a period of peace and clarity, to redownloading the damned thing. 

I’ve done three 10ks in the past 2 weeks. The first one I could barely finish since I hadn’t run in a month due to an injury. The second was much better. I ran circles in Soren Kierkegaard’s grave. I’m serious. He’s buried in a cemetery in the middle of Copenhagen, alongside Hans Christian Andersson and other prominent Danes. It’s a great park to run and relax in. The last one was by the forest right behind Thuy’s apartment. My average heart rate has decreased, though my time has remained more or less the same, and I wonder if that’s a sign of improvement. 

The pack of gum I bought in a convenience store in a Helsinki subway station, which I carefully selected for its standard and unremarkable packaging, was more than 2 euros.

Thuy told me that people in Finland really don’t care about money or status or anything like that. 

“What do they care about then?”

“Who you are as a person.” I was genuinely shocked that there were places in the world where people actually cared about that. Not in a fastidious, self-righteous way, but in a genuine way that the Vietnamese girl who came here for school ten years ago and who has fully integrated will vouch for it to her Canadian friend coming to visit.

Citing Mario, citing the Sri Lankan Uber driver, citing my other friend in Finland who tells me that he moved here because it's supposedly the happiest country on earth– evidently, it seems, that everyone knows something we North Americans are not privy to. 

I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my friend Arthur in Norway on a pier in Oslo at sundown. 

“I never want to be like ‘oh, sorry I can’t help you with this because I’m trying to make partner.” I think about the never-ending packages that arrive at my doorstep. I think about the $7 coffees I’ve accepted as a sunken cost of living in the city. I think about the time I save by putting laundry in the dryer instead of on a drying rack; oh how tortured one’s life must be to need to save oneself the 10 minutes a week required to hang up laundry? It was the complete antithesis to Naval’s advice of ascribing an hourly rate to your time. I won’t say it’s complete bullocks, but it’s necessary that we understand both ends of the spectrum: at one end, ascribing your time the value of $5000 an hour (actual example he gave), and outsourcing anything in your life that would cost less than that to someone else, and at the other, finding the value in the time and consideration you take by hanging up your underwear to dry, one by one. 

How much of the marketing message today is about freeing up time so you can, “focus on what’s important?” Isn’t that a bit of an odd statement to make? If it’s important, wouldn’t you already be focused on it? One of our clients is an executive assistant staffing agency, and one of the value props is that their assistants free up time for you to do what actually matters. But could it be that each moment has the potential, if you allow it, to have just as much value as any other one in time? That the time you spend mindfully taking a shit, without a phone in hand, could be just as valuable as one where you’re cumming on top of the love of your life? Or watching your kid utter their first word or get your PhD or whatever for all you folks much more civilized than I.

At that Palestinian girl boss who’d just relocated from Hong Kong to Copenhagen’s workshop, she talked about slowing down. How you start by simply doing everything slower. Brushing your teeth, eating your meals, cooking. I didn’t quite understand it at the time (a week ago), but I think I’m starting to get it now? Food tastes better when you slow down to chew. You also realize how quickly you’ve been chewing. What are you in a rush for? The way the sea glistens under the sun when you stop to look at it, and I mean really look at it, is as breathtaking as any experience you could pay for. 

When I first moved to Toronto my biggest takeaway was that everyone in Toronto was doing something (aspirational), and that everyone in Vancouver was just chilling (derogatory). I finally see the errors of my ways. I think it’s such that there is so little life, and by life I mean nature, and the contending with it, that people must manufacture things to do in Toronto. Conversely, in Vancouver and places like the Nordics, the tropics, islands in general, nature is so vast and awe-inspiring that it succeeds, if only ever so slightly, in challenging capitalism and the Puritan work ethic. Thuy and I concurred that the point of travelling wasn’t to see the buildings, landmarks, but to experience how other people live. 

“It seems that you’re having a good trip.” 

I went to the sauna today. Sauna is such a huge part of Finnish culture that it’s a standard fixing of every apartment. In fact the word sauna is Finnish. There are public ones that cost five euros and also a bunch that are free. The one I went to was much more expensive (25 whole euros), and was catered towards tourists. It had four different sauna rooms, and it was right on the water so you could jump into the ocean to cool down. I forgot how nice doing rounds of hot/cold therapy felt– like my body was getting an oil change. 

One thing that has been a persistent thing I’ve noticed in the past little bit was how exotic and posh something can sound simply by virtue of it being expressed in a language other than that of its origin. China is not the chicest country by any means, but the sentence, “I had xiaolongbao in Shanghai” is. France is on the other end of the spectrum, but talking about manger des baguettes a Bordeaux loses its charm (the charm remains here because I’m writing in English, but I don’t imagine it anymore exciting than, “I’m getting timbits in Calgary.”)

-

Thuy, her mom, her friend Maria and I went on a little road trip into the lake district of Finland over the weekend. The more I travel the more I appreciate B.C. There truly is nothing like it in the entire world. Finland reminded me a lot of Ontario. They too have a cottage culture here. They call it Mökki. 

I feel so grateful to have been able to live as the locals do in the places I travel to, and I found myself so privileged as I drove through the Finnish countryside. 

As we stopped along the way we found wild blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. After tasting those I realized that it’s not that artificial flavours of things don’t taste like the real thing– it’s that the real thing we get isn’t so very real after all. 

“We are working when we could be picking berries.” 

“We have to work during the few hours of the day when there is actually sunlight in the wintertime.” 

We talked about cults and I professed that I’d be the first person to join a cult; I’ve always been extremely impressionable. But recently I’ve realized that no one is really correct about anything. Thuy is a socialist because she lives in Finland and is part of the workforce. If her circumstances were different her views would be too. I don’t really hold any political views because I see my role in society as fluid. And I never hold myself to any moral high ground over evil capitalists because I know for sure that I would likely make the same choices if I were in their shoes. Or perhaps that doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that I am an evil capitalist. Thing is, we don’t know, and that’s what irks me most about discussions surrounding politics or really anything about which people hold strong opinions. They are so painfully unaware of how their views are influenced by their circumstances– most of the time, it’s in its totality. My very view of this is influenced by my exposure to different ideas and perspectives through travelling and living in different places. Maybe one’s views ought be more firm. But for the pursuit of what? Continuity or stability? Most definitely. But it’d be detrimental to other pursuits, like neuroplasticity or existentialism. And which of these is more valuable? Do you catch my drift? 

I’m going to give up my apartment in Toronto and become fully nomadic next year. I don’t think there’s much left for me in Toronto. My only qualm is that my current apartment is very close to UofT and I do have intentions of pursuing an MA there. But I feel as though I’m learning and doing so much more philosophy traveling than I could possibly by reading. The real, applicable stuff anyway. I feel like the ancient philosophers did philosophy to figure out how to live, and the latter ones to intellectually entertain themselves, measure their dicks amongst their predecessors, and be written into canon. HOT TAKE I KNOW!!!!&#38;nbsp; 

I thought about if I knew anyone who was on a similar life path as me, and three people came to mind. First was one of my jiu jitsu coaches. He’d moved to Mexico for 5 years and then trained in Rio for 6 months before returning back to Toronto. I don’t think it’s quite the same as what I’m looking for but it is similar. The second is somebody I knew in college who travels to the most Instagrammable places imaginable with his yoga teacher girlfriend. I went to look on his Instagram to be sure, and through meticulously crafted reels of exotic locations, aspirational music and truly breathtaking scenery, I couldn’t help but feel that it was all a little too perfect. Perfect bodies, perfect sunsets, perfect willpower and discipline, a perfect couple. I think back to when I spoke to him about Vipassana and he told me that he’d already, “passed that level.” The last person I thought of felt to be the most aligned with my values. He’s the one whose house I stayed at last year in northern Norway. He’d purchased a farmhouse with a sizable slice of land on an island. He travels for half the year with his girlfriend and stays on the island the rest of the year, continuously renovating the place by himself. Arthur, the one who prioritizes helping his brother over making partner. He decided to stop using imessage and is now only reachable by email. Fucking guy. But I respect the hustle against the hustle. 

I ran again yesterday. This time around the lake by Thuy’s house, and I saw one of the most gorgeous sunsets of my life. That was after driving back all day from the cottage where we’d spent the weekend, around 11pm. That was my reward for pulling myself on that run, I thought. 

–

I’ve been thinking about how glad I am to have successfully de-centered men in my life. I have a body of writing from between 2019-2022 centered around the tumultuous feelings I experienced as a woman with self-diagnosed BPD, mostly regarding the men I loved. After a boatload of psychedelics, therapy, journalling, and meditation, I can confidently say that I’ve cured myself of the ailment. And I don’t really feel for men the way I used to. I lamented to Josh that I don’t know what to write about anymore. He said that I would write about inner peace, like the old masters.
Modern men are pretty fucked, much more than the modern woman. Men’s life expectancy are statistically lengthened when they’re married, while women are statistically more likely to die. I journaled about this moments ago, about how I don’t hate men, I just feel bad for them. I pity them. Oh to be a man in modern society, where if you’re lucky enough to escape the Andrew Tate manosphere, you end up in the realm of Youtube personalities selling you courses on affiliate marketing.

Thuy talked about a street interview she saw on Tiktok about how women were asked whether they’d rather be stuck in the woods with a man or a bear. The consensus was a bear. 

I’m thinking about taking out a lump sum of cash every month and just paying for things with that. There are far too few barriers between me and my Apple Pay, and it’s concerning. It’s been more than once that before I could change my mind about a purchase, my Face ID has already registered my face and paid for the damn thing. 

A lot of changes are coming, good changes. I asked my friend who’d called off her engagement, quit her job, and sold everything she had to travel, how far along she was in that journey, and what her plans were afterwards. She said that she genuinely doesn’t know, and I thought that to be so much fun. Life is a game, and a game’s only fun when you don’t know what’s going to happen next. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my future children. How I’d raise them, the type of messaging and conditioning I’d give them. Because really, you could instill any belief you want to in children. You could do the same to yourself too, it just takes a lot more work. I thought about all the things I’d do differently from the way my mother raised me. And then I thought about how I’m viewing child rearing as a way to redo my own life, when the reality is that I have that opportunity every second that I am alive. I could change, I could unlearn, I could rewire. For example, the fact that I have no limitations to do anything I wanted to was a concept that I only believed in after Josh told me that merely four years ago. The fact that I could do anything, because I’m a girl,&#38;nbsp;wasn’t instilled in me until a B.C. Ferries attendant gave me some tape after I’d asked her if she had anything to help me fix my broken backpack.&#38;nbsp;Imagine how different my life would be if that were instilled in us as children,&#38;nbsp;I remember lamenting to Ashley, my travel companion. These are things I’d like my children to know in their heart to be unshakeable truths. 
I’m looking into sailing lessons for when I get back to Vancouver at the end of the month. I’m going to sail across an ocean. Do the PCT. Ride horses in Mongolia. Do ayahuasca in Ecuador with a shaman the local guide I had on my volunteer trip I took a decade ago knows. Free dive with whales in Tonga. Spelunk the world’s largest cave. 

Back when men were still the main focus of my life, I’d still wanted to do all these things. I’d wanted my proposal to happen in a hot air balloon in Cappadocia. But then two years ago I went to Turkey so I just did it myself. I thought I’d do the cave on my honeymoon. It’s scheduled to happen either next winter or the winter after that. I think about all the adventures that Santi has with his girlfriend, and they look fun enough, but there is something profoundly beautiful about travelling the world with the only true and permanent love of your life: yourself. The grapes here are indeed sour. 

I’ve been dreaming about moving to New York for some years now, but I decided that I would go after I see the world. It’s a good microcosm, a distilled version of the world. But if you were to live there before seeing the actual world, you’re bound to think pyrite gold. 


&#60;img width="1924" height="176" width_o="1924" height_o="176" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/883ed76a49e6aa929b672652352d217daea5bf7c4440ad01576e8d0b82aa8668/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.36.25PM.png" data-mid="215008437" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/883ed76a49e6aa929b672652352d217daea5bf7c4440ad01576e8d0b82aa8668/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.36.25PM.png" /&#62;Hello or hello again darling,

Happy pride! 

As soon as I finished the last piece I immediately had more thoughts I wanted to explore. I wanted to do it as a short follow up but since then more substantial things have come up so we’ll see where we go with this one. 

&#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Part 1: Make your psyche a pleasant place to be.

I come from a separated family. Literally. My parents spent 6 months living in the same place after they got married before my father moved to a different city for work, and they’ve been in a long-distance marriage since. It'll have been 30 years in September. 

My mom and I moved to Canada when I was 6 years old and my father has split his time between Vancouver and China since then, continuing now to this day. And ever since I moved to Toronto two years ago, the three of us (I’m an only child) have lived our separate lives in different corners of the earth. I like to call this family dynamic the Vancouver special, except my dad doesn’t have a second family in China as is common with this model. 

He’s a very hard worker. He often tells me that the money he makes is through sweat and hard work rather than smarts. On top of working very hard, he spends half the year on his own, and he has for the majority of his marriage and family life. I give this context so you understand the conditions which I believe were at least in part responsible for my father’s astute stoicism. He doesn’t have too many vices or “red flags”, as we call them now, save for the fact that he, like every respectable father and cringeworthy boy, likes his craft IPAs a bit too much and thinks alcohol bottles constitute decor. 

He’s always told me that as people we will spend the majority of our lives alone. This checks out, as the way I describe what being an only child is like to others is that you are so lonely that it it your normal. Being lonely is the time you spend with your eyes open, and not being lonely is the time you spend blinking. Thoguh I don't think I was ever truly lonely. My father always speaks of the distinction between being alone and being lonely. "When one cannot withstand being alone, one becomes lonely". 

The question of, "how can they live like this?", comes up a lot when we hear of things like people who use 16-in-1 body wash, or eating only once a day, or carrying over thousands in credit card debt.&#38;nbsp;Surely my mode of existence is one unimaginable to those with siblings and big families. But it is the one I know best, and it is the one I would probably choose over other alternatives. 
I was walking down Spadina by myself when I thought about this. We spend so much time alone, we must make our psyche a pleasant place to be. To plant some flowers, sweep it up now and again, decorate it with things we enjoy looking at. 

Too many people have neglected and abused their psyche that they cannot bear being in it, and escape it via different routes– substances, sex, food, video games, shopping, and that’s no way to live. How can they live like that? How can I live like this? 

 &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; &#38;nbsp; Part 2. Freedom vs. Love 

My therapist talks about how there is a freedom train and a love train. And that when made to choose, men will always pick the freedom train, and women will always pick the love train. I think he’s correct for the most part. But recently, again as I was walking up Spadina, after running a 10k, I started thinking about all of my favourite things to do– jiu jitsu, pole, surfing, snowboarding, horseback riding, and why I do them. For many of them, the first word that came to mind was liberation. 

I’d been thinking a lot about how perhaps I should like to settle down in the next few years with someone I already knew, like an ex (I remain friends with all but one) or a long time friend perhaps. Someone I already knew. Like really knew.&#38;nbsp; Someone who’s proven that they’re not going to leave at the first sign of obstruction. 

I talked about this with my friend Reem, and she asked me why I wanted to do that. I told her that it’s because I wanted a big family, three children, and I’d always thought that I’d like to finish producing my family by my mid to late 30’s. She asked me what I’d say if she told me that that was her plan, and I told her that I’d support her but that I’d think that she'd be selling herself short. And she said that that’s exactly how she feels about me. Reem is one of my wisest friends and I take her opinion with a lot of weight. 

As I was thinking about all of my hobbies, I realized how the common thread amongst so many of my favourite things to do was the feeling of liberation, and how I’d be acting in literally my worst interest by choosing to settle down with someone for instrumental and not intrinsic value. 

One time I was getting coffee with a lover and I asked him where he saw himself in 5 years. He said that kids would probably be in the picture. He asked me and I said the same, that I’d probably be looking for a sperm donor, or asking one of my friends for a donation. I’d both jokingly and seriously asked more than one of my exes if they’d be willing to do that for me. No confirmations yet. 

“You don’t want a husband?” he asked me. I didn’t not want a husband. But I didn’t necessarily want one either. What I wanted was to raise children. Whether I do that by myself or with a man is irrelevant. 

Lots of my friends have pets. And I have developed forms of attachment to the animals that have lived at my house (evidently not very deeply). I see my friends pour so much love into their pets and receive as much back. I have one friend who walks her dog four times a day, every day. One of her closest friends is the owner of her dog’s best friend. Her life revolves around Milo and she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I held my roommate in my arms as she broke down as her rabbit passed away in her arms in the Uber I called her on her way to the vet. She’s grown up with animals her entire life and she extends so much care to all of her animals. But that’s not me. I can do without the love. I like my ability to fly anywhere on a whim too much. Or perhaps it's because I have enough self-love. 

My roommate’s friend celebrated her 30th at our house last night, and this afternoon she told me about how her boyfriend took her shopping all day, got her an iPad, got her two cakes because he’d messed up the first one. One of her friends got her a baby pink mini cocotte amongst other cute gifts, and I thought about how nice a friend she was. My good friend’s younger brother just got a girlfriend as well and he sent me a photo of him making chocolate covered strawberries for her. It got me thinking, is this what I want? On paper it seems obvious, who doesn’t want a boyfriend who spoils them? But I just wasn’t sure that that would make me happy. Sure, it'd be sweet, but it just wouldn't hit the spot. I thought about what a partner could do to make me happy, and it really wasn’t any of those things. I think those things are cute, but I generally use cute more than slightly derogatorily. Cute, as in, juvenile, as in, inconsequential, as in, dismissible. 

My top two love languages are physical touch and food, but perhaps there is a more nuanced third one: freedom.

–

Life is pretty crazy. Every day I am discovering so many things about myself. Recently it’s been my queerness and kinkiness. I had sex with my first they/them recently. Nonbinary dude. My binary mind had a pretty hard time understanding it. My best friend Tina, when I went to visit her last fall in Edmonton, said that it’s pretty perverted to be so focused on people’s genitals when we were having a discussion about trans people. I think she may have been right.

I also went to a queer rope event. I felt so relaxed and calm, my parasympathetic nervous system was fully activated. I’m not in queer spaces much so it was a very interesting juxtaposition to the straight spaces I’m always in, namely my jiu jitsu gym. The energy was night and day. And for the first time I was able to attach that feeling of safety to the pride and trans flags. 

I’ve never felt a strong connection to pride even though I am part of the community. Last year at my work’s pride event the drag queen MC’ing talked about how pride is not about gays, straights, trans, it’s about being proud of who you are whatever the fuck that may be. That resonated with me so much, and the baby queer in me felt so seen. 

I may be going to a sex party with a rigger (somebody who ties) I found on fetlife. I sent him a google meets invite to get some face time to sus out the vibes and I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow before my pole class. It was all very corporate. 

I may be competing in two jiu jitsu competitions next weekend and the weekend after that. 

Thanks for reading doll, appreciate you taking the time and effort to reciprocate my efforts to connect with you. Talk to you in a few weeks &#38;lt;3 

Xoxo

LZ 

P.S. I've started taking bachata classes and have fallen in love with it! P.P.S. If you're new and would like to see the previous edit, pls lmk and I'll send it to you! 


&#60;img width="1926" height="164" width_o="1926" height_o="164" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f34fdfa1ead380f5fb7dfe552c0ebbab93e02736e992726d11d539c64014b382/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.31.43PM.png" data-mid="215008389" border="0"  src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f34fdfa1ead380f5fb7dfe552c0ebbab93e02736e992726d11d539c64014b382/Screenshot-2024-07-21-at-12.31.43PM.png" /&#62;
Hello darling,

I’m so flattered that you’re here. And I’m so excited to spend the next little bit with you.

I’m typing away at the pretzel lounge of the Soho House in Toronto. Adelaide and Simcoe, right downtown in the entertainment district. 

It’s Sunday, May 22nd, and it’s a beautiful sunny day. I’m listening to Grimes. 

This first bit is NSFW, so skip as needed. 

—

Last Friday I finally got to do something that I’ve been meaning to try for years. It was in a neighbourhood I’d never been to before, Davenport. I took the College streetcar up to its terminal station and walked up Landsdowne for about thirty minutes up to 1444 Dupont. On my way, I stopped by one of my favourite ice cream shops in the city, Ruru Baked, and got a mini split of cornbread and vegan tofu pudding ice cream. The cornbread one was delicious, while the tofu one tasted as I had expected. I don’t like vegan ice cream.

I was walking myself to an introductory Shibari class. Japanese rope bondage. 

I don’t know when or how I was introduced to such a concept, but I’d known for all of my adult life that I liked being tied up. After the class there was an open salon, or a rope party, as they call it, where people would come to tie and be tied up. I was speaking to this Chinese man who was also a first-timer, and he asked me if I liked being tied up because it made me feel safe. I’d never thought about that before, but I suppose it is not entirely different from a tight whole-body hug, or a 360-degree weighted blanket. 

I was late because I thought the class started at 7:30 when it started at 7 pm. As I was walking in I heard the instructor say, “Now let’s get to the fun stuff”, and I knew that I was right on time. 

The instructor was a tall white man in his 40s. I’d later find out that he was engaged to a much younger Asian woman, the one who checked me in at the door. Judgements were passed. 

In the class I learned the single-column tie, the double-column tie, and what they call a Yuki knot. There were a few couples there, some older, some younger, some white, some people of colour. At the end of the class the instructor did a demonstration with his fiancé where he did a few different poses and suspensions. Throughout the demonstration, the two of them exchanged little bits of affection, like a boop on the nose, a sweeping of the hair away from the face, and I remember finding it rather sappy. 

I stayed for the rope party afterward and had an elderly gentleman named Paul put me in a Kazami-ryu takatekote. He wasn’t very good as he had asked me to try to escape and I did. 

There were two people at the party who stood out to me. One was a woman who was celebrating her birthday that night who had a severe limp in her leg. The play was that she was going to be tied up and suspended from one side of the room to the other. She wore a grapefruit lace bodysuit that was cut high, which revealed the sides of her red lace thong. She was pretty. 

I thought about the intermingling of disability and rope.

The other one was a big, bald man who was on the heavier side. He spent about an hour doing multiple different transitions on a very small Asian woman. The harness he gave her was beautiful, it was done with red rope and reminded me of Chinese knots.

I was then tied up by my instructor, who put me in a similar harness, but then suspended me, turned me upside down, suspended by my thighs into a slanted mermaid shape with my knees bent, &#38;nbsp;before turning me all the way upside down, hung by my feet. 

It was an experience that’s difficult to put into words. The instructor had talked about how in their classes they train their students to tie so that it becomes muscle memory so that they can focus on their connection with their partner rather than figuring out what to do next with the rope. And he had demonstrated the type of expertise, especially when compared to Paul, of a skilled musician. There was a level of both focus and detachment that was present in his energy. The way he moved my arms, the way he ran his ringers on my body to locate a nerve, whether to avoid or to circumvent I wasn’t certain, the way he handled the rope as it went over and underneath my body. My entire body was filled with arousal. It was just hits and hits of dopamine, from anticipation, from surrendering myself, from I wasn’t sure what else but there was definitely something else. 

The entire process lasted about twenty minutes, and after he untied me, we chatted a bit about aftercare. He introduced me to a website called fetlife which was an online kink community. He said that he had met many people who’d caught the rope bug, and I didn’t tell him that I felt like I was changed forever. 

There are a few things that I’d tried in recent years through which I felt a distinct before and after. The first time I went scuba diving, seeing what I’d ever only ever seen below me, schools of fish, above me, is a memory I will forever cherish. It was my ticket of admission into the ocean, somewhere I’d always felt was home. And then there’s jiu jitsu. There’s who I was before I started training jiu jitsu, and there’s who I’ve been after. And then there’s shibari. 

After the intro class but before the salon, the instructor’s fiancé asked me how I’d found out about this. I gave her the answer I explained earlier on in this piece, and she asked me if it was porn. Interestingly enough I’d never watched porn of that sort. It was genuinely an innate knowing. 

It’s been less than 48 hours since the experience so I’m not sure what effect this will have on me, but for now, all I can say is that I feel I’d opened the doors to a part of me I’d always been curious about. 

One way I can say for certain it has changed me is that it made me question the speed at which I pass judgment. The first thing I thought about when I walked into the room was about the general midness of the room. I spend a lot of time at Barry’s Bootcamp and pilates studios, and I generally select for physical attractiveness for my friends and lovers so I’m used to seeing conventionally attractive people. 

I remember reading this one post in r/blackpeopletwitter about how people need to stop using social media because she saw men of all shapes, sizes, incomes, and women of all weights sizes, with and without children loved and loved well. And on Friday night it was something that I saw with my own eyes. The bigger, bald gentleman had a beautiful partner who had greeted him with kisses, and after his session with the small Asian lady I oversaw the two of them cuddling on the couch in the lounge area, talking, laughing, her hand over his chest. 

There was another couple, and for the entire time they were there, there was not a moment when I didn’t see them smile and look lovingly into each other’s eyes. The man was around the same height as the woman, and he had a smaller build than her.

And another couple, they walked in a little bit later, a heavier Asian man with a very skinny white girl with blue hair and facial piercings. They too displayed such fondness and affection toward each other. In fact, after I was untied by the instructor she came over and asked if I wanted a cup of hot water. I felt like I was taken care of by a rave mom. 

The sensation was not unlike being on drugs. And afterward it did feel like I was coming down on MDMA. There was an emptiness, a stark contrast to the overstimulation that my brain experienced during the experience. It was by then around 11:30 pm, and I ubered home shortly. It was cold and rainy, and I thought about how this is something I’d much rather do with a partner. 

Even though I’d known about the Toronto Kinabalu Salon for years now, it wasn’t until a girl at my pole studio talked about it that I decided to finally go to a class. She said that it was meditative and liberating, both of which I can vouch for. 

I thought about how much Japanese culture (jiu jitsu, ikebana, and now shibari) I practice, and if in fact I’ve been a weeb all along. 

After I got home my friend who’d gone with her ex-boyfriend described it as nice because it felt like she was a little ham. And then I saw all the plants hanging in their macrame and could not ever look at them the same. 

—

I went back to China for two month in the wintertime, and I really did not have a good time. I had to contend with all the darker sides of my family that I’d never had to before, when I would visit China as a kid, just to shop and eat and have fun. I had to witness my grand aunt’s crippling depression, selfishness, and human nature, my grandfather’s exhausting narcissism, the abuse experienced by more than one aunt, and the simultaneous helplessness and oblivion of the Chinese person to the forces of their government, and the weight and effects thereof of five millennia of history has on the common person. 

Because of the above-mentioned factors, isolation from my usual support systems, and a disturbed sleep schedule for I was still working partial EST hours, as soon as I got back to Toronto, I was focused on getting my life back to the norm. I purposefully neglected my relationship with my grandmother and my parents. It was simply too painful. 

That was over three months ago, and recently during the ice bath portion of an exposure therapy session, all of my repressed emotions were finally exorcised. My good friend KP was in the tub with me and I can only imagine her thoughts as she saw me make faces that can only be described as gargoylesque. Afterwards in the sauna I told her what that was about, and that I was going to talk to my grandma about why I’d been distant. 

That was maybe a week or so ago, and a few nights ago I finally told my grandma all that was going through my mind. Her response was rather comedic. She said something to the effect of, “That’s a lot of questions! I have a lot of work I need to do before going to Canada, I’ll get back to you when I have a bit more time”. Mind you the questions in question were things like how she conceptualized love throughout different points of her life, how familial love differs from romantic love, and things to that effect. Now that I think about it I mean, fair, those are heavy questions, and she’s a busy gal. I hope I too have enough things going on in my life that I must tell my granddaughter that I’ll respond in 3-5 business days when I’m 82. 

She eventually did send me many voice notes, explaining how her and my grandfathers’ genders, orders of birth, and upbringing dictated the dynamics of their relationship. That he did care for her when she was ill, that she grew up used to letting many things go, that her high school crush asked her out eventually but it was too late because she’d already met my grandfather. It’s very sweet that she still remembers. The guy’s probably dead if we’re being real here, but he lives on in her memory. 

—

I’m going to be traveling again soon. I’m flying into Edinburgh, meeting up with my good friend Chloe for a long weekend, and then meeting up with my dad to do a road trip through the Highlands. After that, we’ll be spending a few days in Copenhagen, after which he’ll fly back to Vancouver. I will continue on to Finland to see a friend I met at Cannes last year, and then hopping over to Iceland to meet up with my friend Rennae before heading back to Vancouver. My mother’s in Shenyang right now and I found out recently that my grandparents will be coming back to Vancouver with her. I’ll be spending most of August in Vancouver with the big fam, which I’m very excited about. I miss my house, I miss my patio, I miss my kitchen and the dishwasher. 

I’m excited to see my blueberry bushes and eat her fruits.

I’ve been grappling with the ethics of my work a lot recently. You know the ads that show up on your feed more than organic posts these days it seems? I make those. Or as I’d like to call it, digital garbage. I had a talk with my boss about this and he explained it in quite a simple way. 

“Think about if this were hundreds of years ago, you’d have a market where people gather to buy things right? And each vendor would need a sign that says what they’re selling. We’re basically the people who write those signs.” 

And I mean heck, we are just providing a service. It’s convoluted beyond belief, but it’s really not all that different from a barber giving haircuts. At least that’s what I’m telling myself to tide myself over until my next shrooms trip. 

—

Mother’s Day was last week, and that was the shrooms trip that made me think about my job. It was difficult as it always is. I’ve had a tumultuous relationship with my mother, and though I think that we’ve moved beyond it, it is still a sore spot. So when I was peaking on shrooms, seeing people walk on Dundas with their mothers, with no respect or consideration to my circumstances, I was surely glad to have worn sunglasses. 

—

I spent the past three months dating people from Hinge, which came to a very conclusive end recently when I finally read The Moon and the Sixpence and realized that no boy from Hinge will ever stimulate me more than Maugham. 

I’m in a really good place right now and I genuinely do not see a place for a relationship in my life right now. I get plenty of love, affection, physical touch, quality time, and positive energetic exchange from my best friends here. Casual sex is predictively unfulfilling, and I’ve learned that as an introvert I cannot afford the energetic expenditure. 

My roommate Emily calls the men I see my “flavours of the week.” When my intern asked me what my flavour of the week was, I told her, “Didion”. 

—

I’m reading her book, “The White Album”, which is her recount of the events that happened in America in the 60’s. I’m not as familiar with Americana as I sometimes pretend to be, so a lot of the references get lost. But alas, one of the reviews for the book on Goodreads was, “She’s such a cunt. I love her”, and I have to agree. 

—

The weather is finally nice in Toronto. It’s actually my first May here. And I’m so sorry I missed it for the past two years. I think I made a really good decision to go away in the deep summer this year, because I really could get used to weather like this.

—

I’m doing a pole competition next Thursday that I’ve been rehearsing for. I’m very excited. I’ve been doing pole for nearly a year and a half but only recently got pole shoes. They’re clear with sparkles that float around like a snow globe. 
—

I’ve also been doing a lot of jiu jitsu. I switched to a new gym in February and have learned more in two months than I did the entire year I was at my last gym. I feel really good about my jiu jitsu. A guy visiting from Montreal told me that I ought to go train at his gym in Montreal, because “we’re all savages like you”. I tapped a brown belt twice in one round, and I was as surprised as he for getting the guillotine. Another blue belt complimented me on my attacks, calling them something to the effect of sharp. Few things give me as much happiness as jiu jitsu, and few compliments mean as much to me as compliments on my game.&#38;nbsp;

I’ve always been a passive player who stays on the defensive side, mostly due to laziness, but recently I’ve been a lot more offensive. Partly because I’ve learned more attacks, partly because I’ve been rolling with people who make me feel safe to attack them.

All the coaches at this new gym are great, but two stand out. One talks about really high-level stuff, real psychological stuff, which most coaches never talk about. And the other just has this jiu jitsu instinct in him. It’s like he was born to do jiu jitsu, it’s very metaphysical. I’ve never seen anything like it.

—

I’m really excited to go back to school in September. I registered as a non-degree student and I’m probably going to take a course in either linguistics or computational logic. I find myself straying away from stoicism which has been my modus operandi for a few years now. Josh has maintained that I will find more solace in eastern philosophy, and I think I am finally coming around. I also find myself interested in more quantitative subjects. Regardless of what course I take it’ll be very nice to reverse some of the brain rot I experience every day making digital garbage. 

—

That was a lot. Thanks for staying with me til the end. Share your thoughts if you feel inclined. Give me your life updates. How are your pets doing? What’s keeping you going these days? New treat you discovered in a cafe in the neighbourhood?

I don’t use social media anymore and I started this mailing list so that I can connect with people who care to stay in touch. You’ve made it this far, so stay in touch!!!!! 

Xoxo, 

LZ 


</description>
		
	</item>
		
		
	<item>
		<title>People, Places, Things, and Me</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/People-Places-Things-and-Me</link>

		<pubDate>Tue, 10 May 2022 02:24:13 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/People-Places-Things-and-Me</guid>

		<description>

People, Places, Things, and Me


	Shot on Minolta Freedom 140Ex and Olympus OM1

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</description>
		
	</item>
		
		
	<item>
		<title>Bonus</title>
				
		<link>https://luciaspeaking.ca/Bonus</link>

		<pubDate>Tue, 08 Mar 2022 04:32:16 +0000</pubDate>

		<dc:creator>Lucia Speaking</dc:creator>

		<guid isPermaLink="true">https://luciaspeaking.ca/Bonus</guid>

		<description>
	

Bonus
Long form musings
Poetry
Floral Design
Etc.


</description>
		
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