Stuff

I feel a little disgusted by excess, by myself. I went furniture shopping with my Mom today, on my first full day back in NY. It's my first time staying at their new home in Long Island, deep in the boonies, off the side of some middle class road where strip malls are "shoppes" and all produce is organic. The house is big and still mostly empty, spread thin with traces of our old home in Queens. We grew up poor, but sometime while I was away at college and later working in LA, things changed.

Unexpectedly, I was at once relieved and saddened to find that the many items they had hoarded and refurbished over the past 20 years in the US had been thrown away in the move. And as we snaked through the various show floors in search of a second set of couches for an upstairs seating area, I felt an uneasiness welling up with each but cursory glance my Mom gave to the price tag of something that caught her fancy.

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A few weeks ago, I bought myself a nice Marc Jacobs purse. In all fairness, I don't shop often, and when I do, it's usually one or two items on sale (like the purse). Buying stuff isn't usually top of mind for me. I wear items that last and clean out my closet regularly for Goodwill.

And, so, I justify nicer purchases as occasional investments that will be used until their dying day--just like my old phone whose screen was cracked and crumbling, and was only thrown out when it finally refused to wake up one balmy summer morning..just like Carl, my 1991 Toyota Cressida who spun out on the highway, hit a side railing causing engine damage, and eventually decelerated into an eerie silence off the shoulder of the 60 East.

All this writing, even now, is a shame-based attempt to convince myself that I haven't sold out to a level of comfort that is unnecessary but permissible by the world's standards--not completely, wholly, or easily. Part of me is still putting up a fight. In all honesty, the most freedom I've felt in recent years came with the selling/giving away of my few belongings before heading out to China to teach for three months. There I lived in the girls dorm with communal showers, out of just one suitcase with two pairs of jeans and my Chicago sweats. It was plain, austere living among others doing the same, and I haven't since then felt that I needed anything more.

But I have so much, I realize. Coming home to the States after those three months, I eagerly clicked through Craigslist listings for single room rentals. Pack light and be ready to go. Perhaps sensing this and worried about my inability to settle down, my parents asked me to find some cheap real estate as an investment. It only made sense in a buyer's market, they said. And, so I did, and furnished the empty space with well-loved items with character from thrift stores and a couch I rather like purchased with a glut of amassed credit card points. I somewhat took pride in the final product that cost little, but was still very much more than what I've needed or wanted.

I have pictures on my walls.

People notice that I have interesting choice of art on my dining room walls. More often than not, they become sort of an awkward joke for guests.

This is Christophe. He's a gay, French expat and ex-dancer who once performed with Bett Midler.

No, I did not get to a first name basis with all the models at the atalier.

Home (.,!,?)

Because I've moved every three or four years throughout my life I have been holistically conditioned to expect and want change. In China, I moved two or three times before the age of five, from living with one extended family to another. When I turned five, my mom and I left Beijing for the US and found ourselves in an Irish-Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY where we stayed a couple of years before moving to Queens. Between the ages of 7 and 11, we bounced from one community within the borough to another, from Woodside, to Elmhurst to Rego Park, and finally to Forest Hills, where the demographic was whiter and more affluent, where people listened to moody rock songs instead of angry, boisterous rap. This is where we stayed and where my sister was born.

By senior year of high school, my family had finally settled in to the comforts of financial stability, and I chose to leave NY for Chicago, only to move back to NY for a couple of years after graduation before selling my belongings and relocating to LA--again of my own volition. Then after two years, I felt a leading to go to China and moved out of my apartment in West LA. I gave some stuff away, and stored the rest at a friend's place before jumping on a plane with just enough clothes for three months. And when that time was up, I came back to LA wondering about when I'd go back again.

That was when my parents started to worry. They started pushing this great idea of "settling down," being more "comfortable," finding a place to call my own...which essentially meant "stay put long enough to meet someone and get married."

Who knows? Maybe they weren't trying to kill my wanderlust after all, and sincerely wanted to take advantage of the crappy real estate market. Whatever it was, they somehow convinced me to oblige, and here I am in Hacienda Heights, a relatively small community wedged between the City of Industry, with its warehouses, smoke stacks, day workers, and bad air; and Diamond Bar, with its manicured lawns and one of the best public school districts in the nation.

I guess it's okay. The area has some perks: mainly a very short commute to work every morning and an abundance of cheap Asian food.

The downside, though, is how far I am from everything else in the world and how far I have to drive to interact with the things relevant to my life: I'm 30 miles from Church, 40-50 miles from Life Group, 30 miles from a decent art studio, and at least 30 miles from the closest Trader Joes.

Slightly bothered by the notion of a real permanent residence, I stalled on buying things to fill it. I even renovated to appeal to the presumed tastes of the local demographic (for easy renting) rather than based on my own tastes. I planned it so that all my furnishings (which I did pick out to my own liking when I finally got around to buying them) would fit into one of those nice-sized storage pods just in case, you know, I had to go.

It took 4 months before I accepted that this would be where I'd be for a little while ("little" "while") and finally turned the space into something I'd actually invite people to: mostly clean with places to sit.

I've even committed to plants.

City of Industry

One thing I find intriguing about LA is its weird mish-mosh (heehee. "mish-mosh") of industry, deterioration, wealth, and nature. It's rather wonderful in a strange, ironic, and depressing way. I'm trying to get a picture of snow capped mountains rising above the 60 freeway.