albums featuring asian ladies from 2009 that i enjoyed:
(as told through their covers, in order of release date)

(best show of my life.)

i only got four y’all. let me know what’s missing in my life. here’s an honorable mention ep.

(sweatiest show of my life.)

bonus!

karen o is up for a grammy?? killin’ it.

the hard thing about creative non-fiction for me, and in having to create narrative that should probably include more characters than just a single narrator, was how to write other characters that are not me. i cannot imagine other lives outside my own body, and worry about the violence i might (and inevitably do) commit against their stories and experiences.

so i ended up mostly writing about myself, narcissist that i am. it was a liberating experience.

however, although i got the opportunity to write myself, it didn’t automatically mean that i got to choose how others read me. which proved to be a frustrating experience. there is still plenty that i need to work on in figuring out my sense of self (through writing and otherwise), and this work will continue to be constant throughout my life, i am sure (how could i have it any other way?)

that said, i never, have never, self-identified as what was referred to me in conference, what was written in the comments of my assignment.* not to say that i would not identify nor disidentify in that regard, but it makes me feel like i have (even) less control over who i am, want to be, can be, only be.

what is the point of me unwriting when you’ve already got me written?

i feel like i’m regressing to middle school when i thought i was a rebel and shunned labels that boxed me in. but there are some labels that i proudly bandy about, boxes that make me feel warm and comforted. do they not get to be mine if they do not fit into your logic?

this is difficult. these things get slippery.

anyway. here is more writing from that class (the first autobiography exercise; please be kind) because i never feel like i write enough for this blog and this is my terrible excuse at over-compensating.

I am woman, would-be fag, born and raised in California with a too-tall torso and cuffed jeans. I have my mother’s calves. She is a feminist, though I do not know if that word translates into Vietnamese, so I do not know if she could even agree. I doubt she would, but I do.

I live in Saint Paul and walk to school because my bike’s pedal broke. Her name is Antigone and she may be suicidal, but she is mine. Walking strains my calves sometimes.

I like developing habits and trying new things when I’m not tired and sleeping when my body needs to. I have been dreaming more in my new queen-size bed. I submit to consumer indulgences. I want to settle and domesticate. My dream job is to open a gay bed and breakfast. And by gay I mean queer.

I fell in love with a girl named Rachel in eighth grade, but she told me to get a dog for companionship instead. I have allergies, so I married the internet instead. The internet introduced me to riot grrrl and zines and voyeur-able obsessions. I am more of a curator than a creator, though I believe there is creation in curating. I am an assemblage assembler assembling.

*lesbian. there. i said it.

At this time of the year and my life, I should probs be considering applications for grad school. But instead, I’m downloading applications for my BlackBerry. Just got one for WordPress y’all!

susan sontag has a short story called “project for a trip to china” in which she documents her tenuous relationship to the country and her desires to go but maybe not really. i had intentions of writing something similar this winter break, but on the plane ride home i remembered that mimi nguyen already kind of beat me to it. dang.

Physically, I haven’t been back to Viet Nam since, but I can’t get away from it. Viet Nam follows me around, this phantasm that makes demands for something –I don’t know what– from me.

I’ve become obsessed with finding out what it wants.

dang. anyway. here is a piece from my creative nonfiction final portfolio: làm sao cho ngon.

2009 – what to say?

It wasn’t a super awesome year, but it certainly had it’s not so bad moments, good moments and even some awesome moments. I’ll save the icky parts for the post I plan on writing for the end of the year, but this seemed like a nice project to remember the good points. (And because clearly I need one more project to work on!)

As I think about everything that happened this year, I have to ask myself, “Was it really only 365 days?” So much happened…

Eight thing! Best Moment of Peace.

I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this or not, but I’m not a settled, peaceful person. I have a lot going on, I’m almost always on the move and frankly? I like it that way.

I recall one moment of actual Peace in my life and it was so very profound. I was sitting in my office at the travel agency and around 3pm I just had this overwhelming sensation that a weight had been lifted and I could breathe. I would find out later that day, that it was LN passing away and taking his final breath. Freaky? You bet your fricken ass it is.

This past year though has brought several “Peaceful” Moments. The kind right after the weight has been lifted from your shoulders and you can breathe…alternately, when you can ask the question, “Does this REALLY matter?” and the answer is, “No.”

Most recently, it was after my evaluation that I was worried about. I was stressed out about lots of stuff including The Fam, HeWhoIsNoLongerSpokenOf, work review and I think I was coming down with something. But! After I left my bosses office and that part was done I went back to my desk and just breathed.

Life wasn’t bad at that particular moment.

Other moments of “Peace” (I keep putting it in quotes because I know what I find peaceful isn’t what most would think of…) included pealing apples at Daddy-O’s house for pie, stretching in warm sheets after being able to sleep in, four hours of “Say Yes to the Dress” in my hotel room in NYC and having some down time, realizing that losing a friend could actually have benefits, and the moment of contentment curled up in E’s arms after some nookie. (The relationship didn’t last, but meh – whatever! That moment was pretty good.)

So! I ask you…what was your best moment of Peace this year?

#bestof09

resolutions for 2010.

• call home frequently. be conscious of the time i have with family. tell them i love them. listen to their stories. ask them for more.
• be conscious of the time i have with my friends. initiate, strengthen, and maintain relationships. be kind. push myself to be open.
• take care of and love my body. go outside for sunshine and soak in vitamin d. exercise, really. meditate, maybe. get regular sleep. hydrate. cook more veggies, eat less processed foods.
• start up queer craft club w/ abby (who hooked me up with craft supplies for my birthday! thanks!). make things with my hands. finish projects. allow room for creativity.
• re-invest in on-campus activism. try to revitalize the women’s and gender resource center. re-energize AZiNe, my baby.
• bake a new cupcake recipe every week. experiment with cookies, brownies, other delicious vegan items. bring joy to more people. try new things.
• write. write some more. explore ideas and possibilities. synthesize thoughts. share.

ed. update: i forgot to include that i really want to graduate next year too? move on with my life.

It’s cold enough weather outside that I’ve stopped wearing bras regularly, hoping all of the layers I pile on (five this morning) will deter anyone from noticing. As if it matters, but I don’t want my nipples to embarrass me in public.

There’s a new display at the library kiosk of busts that women made at a workshop sponsored by the Health and Wellness Center. Most come with captions that are ostensibly from their creator, and some speak of how their breasts (and their appreciation/acceptance of) relates to their sense of femininity. There’s a comment box at the front with slips of paper that ask passers-by “What do your breasts mean to you?”, and I’m not sure I know.

My breasts do not represent femininity to me. They do represent a sense of sexuality that I will take effort to highlight at times (i.e. wear bras to support and enhance girth). I haven’t always enjoyed this about my breasts, and it really wasn’t until the end of my first-year that I warmed up to them. I had put on more weight living at college, and the majority of this went to the external parts of my body that would identify me as a woman: breast, hips.

And though I’ve settled and am more than happy with my identity as woman, which is directly but not solely related to my physical body, I am cautious about how that term is sometimes prescribed to be coterminous with feminine, and that is not exclusively the case with my body.

It’s funny though, because in thinking about breasts and femininity, my mind did wander to the idea of breastfeeding (which these days is considered a terrorist act of sorts: “This specific situation escalated to a point where we were concerned for the safety of our guests, so law enforcement was called.”) As much as I’ve thought about becoming a mother and having children, and even after taking Women, Health, and Reproduction, which was the first time I started desiring actually giving birth, I had never considered breastfeeding as applied to myself. Which may be to say, I’ve thought about bodies and I’ve thought about motherhood, but I’d never really thought about them together this way.

Pregnancy, in my mind, was conceived(!) of as a liminal act, one that had a determinate end. But now I have to reconsider, because my body will not just be my own, but my child(ren)’s, and not just when I give birth nor breastfeed, but all the time. Like when I run to my mother to be comforted, or am curious about the scars on her hands, or run my hands through her hair. They will want and need my body in a particular way that will not be the same as how I want my body, and I will have to learn and grow with how to live with that.

(video here if not above.)

sorry for the poor video quality; this was recorded on my cell phone and the natural light wasn’t the best. but hopefully you can see, and hear, mrs wilson the neighbor’s cat attempting to paw his way into our side of the duplex. frightening. i had to exit through the back door that day.

LN Nov 09.pdf

Latest Norwegian (LN-) Updates Nov 09. – PDF File.

things that are difficult for me to talk/write/think about:

• my non-materialistic desires.

LN Oct 09.pdf

Latest Norwegian (LN-) Updates Oct 09. – PDF File.

november 20 was transgender day of remembrance, and only just days before as vigils were being planned, two more names were added: Jorge Steven Lopez-Mercado and Jason Mattison Jr. (possibly triggering details here.)

there is so much injustice in the world that fills me with grief and fear.

josé esteban muñoz theorized about disidentifications, which many a mac student are prone to bandy about (myself included) in reference to just about anything, but it must be remembered what comes after the colon in the title of his seminal book: queers of color and the performance of politics. disidentifications has to do with survival, the tactics that queers of color need to employ because we do not have the luxury of being single-issue. but it doesn’t always work.

saddened though i am, it is inspiring to read the article linked above, where people are organizing not in favor of increased police surveillance and punishment of criminals, which only supports the prison-industrial complex rather than protect communities. no, they are able to point to what is truly at stake: “Systemic homophobia and transphobia killed Lopez-Mercado and Mattison, who like other queer or gender non-conforming youth of color, faced barriers like street harassment and discrimination in every facet of life.”

oppression is a daily struggle, and sometimes it hard to get up and going with life when violence and its ever present possibility surrounds, but our lives are precious and vital and there is more hope and beauty to cope and overcome. below is a poem that helps pick me up.

—

“A Litany for Survival”
by Audre Lorde, from The Black Unicorn

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

last weekend, i attended late nite at pillsbury house theatre, which is hands down the best deal in town. for $5 (student rate, but they are so kind, they don’t even card you), you get a homecooked meal and a ton of stellar (and some less than stellar) performances. it’s always nice for me to go and see an intergenerational and multiracial crowd, and more often than not, someone there to give me a ride home (thanks lindsey!) some may describe the twin cities arts scene as insular, but i like to think of it as homey. though we couldn’t stay till the very end (late nite = 8pm to midnight = past my bedtime), we did catch some cool acts worth mentioning.

—

one.

bill cottman and j. otis powell staged an in-progress work about jazz. i don’t know much about jazz, and have only heard of coltrane, not yet listened to him, but i do know that i love music and people. both cottman and powell are programmers at kfai, and the set-up had cottman at a desk with headphones and a mic, smooth-talking on the air. i have had enough shows at macalester’s wmcn to know that i don’t necessarily want to have a regular dj show (too much stress and awkwardness), but i would like to posts a few playlists here and there, or dream up some mixes every now and then. it’s like how i don’t necessarily want to be an academic as my day-to-day, but still have life-long intellectual engagements.

for an autobiographical exercise, i wrote about my musical progression, which began with me absorbing my brothers and sister’s music, before getting into my own style via obsessive internet downloading. music is where i find my ego. i listen mostly to women, of color and queer, and sometimes there is a venn diagram with overlaps, but not often.

—

two.

aniccha arts had two dance pieces, which were beautiful and moving and inspiring and lovely. since living in the twin cities, i have had the opportunity to consume much dance theatre, at macalester and in the community, but i still find myself at a lost when processing it all and grasping at language to describe what i see and felt. i also hardly ever know what the gestures represent or mean, if anything, if everything. i have to really focus, and sometimes i get lost and then it’s over and have to pretend i know what happened when people talk about it afterward. all i know is that i love it when bodies move together, when you can see labor and love collide. make babies maybe on the floor.

i also love multimedia and intermedia. there was a screen with projected digital images that somehow felt organic and moved about so, growing and dying, and jumping about. there was play with layers and bodies and desire. i believe in postmodernism, and i believe it is about movement.

big ups to b96 and prof pain.

Born to extinguish light from eyes, despoiler of human life
Force of destruction fury and fear, oceans of bloodletting and death draw near
Bred only to fight and to kill, my axes swinging arcs of death
Unholy bloodshed and chaos, your lungs choke and fill with your last dying breath
Rabid aggressor, frenzy of violence
Exuding evil and deadly malice
Skulls hanging from chains, crowns of slaughtered kings
Cries of headless victims, haunt my every dream
Born to extinguish light from eyes
I am the despoiler… of human life
Die, die, die, my blade deep in your chest.

I’ll never forget the first year that MAR said to me, “C’mon, we’re going out for LN’s bday.”

I asked if you were even old enough to drink. (It didn’t matter, none of us were.)

It was a damn fun night from what I recall, but I don’t know that I interacted all that much with LN. It was over the next few months that we became closer at work and this happened.

His birthday was always a special time. He insisted it be so and that was just fine with the rest of us…it was just another reason to party, get a little out of hand (or maybe a lot) and live life…

I hope wherever you are today and for the rest of the weekend, the beer is flowing, the ladies are flocking, and you’re having a blast.

I love you LN, but you know that.

for creative nonfiction, i’ve been writing a bit about my mother and family. sometimes i call my parents and ask them for their stories. it started out with me asking them where they were in their lives at age 21, where i’ll be in just over two weeks. my mother, already a mother, and my father, a soldier in the south vietnamese army.

thursday’s soup and substance, besides being absolutely delicious, drew heavily from history. the panelists (including one of my favorite strong women of color, prof. pain) reflected on their generational history before giving answer to the topic at hand. as i was chatting it up with rod beeskey during the interactive portion of the program, i thought about my relationship to history, and how for me it generally stops short at my parents. i hardly know my parents’ stories, let alone that of my grandparents or beyond.

questions of culture and authenticity can be difficult for a diasporic child. it’s hard to even get past the language with which to address them and work through. i don’t communicate with my parents in the same language that i use to relay their stories. it’s easy to get lost and commit false truths in translation. but it’s a start. and to take the charge to embark on the excavation may prove to provide even more questions than answers, more journeys.

my mother didn’t grow up eating bò bía; she learned to cook it only after making the rounds of vietnamese grocery shops in the united states. she ate the vegetables that she and her family farmed, boiled.

The Revolution Will Be Blogged: In the Radical Women of Color Blogosphere, connection is about survival, not career boosting.

this weekend, i spent (probably) the last warm days of the year indoors nesting. it was relaxing and resting and glorious. i got to use neha’s all-powerful dust buster (thank goodness, because swiffers are not sustainable y’all.) not everything on the to-do list was accomplished, but enough linens and clothes were laundered to make me feel so fresh and so clean to begin a new week.

on friday night, a bruvluv dinner was arranged and spring rolls were made and good times were had. as the meal was my speciality (and my favorite! bò bía), i was coordinating cooking activities. this led later to comments of my elevation “from sous chef to master chef.” while i do not see myself quite at that level, i am reminded of how much closer i am to being my mother. which is not to say that much, but i have been able to overcome small fears since my foray into adulthood: the heat from the oven, the heat from the stove, the heat from the sink. i can feel my skin toughening. it takes risks and practice.

—

i have little to no career aspirations. the closest thing i may want to be occupationally is a librarian. (or in halloween costume custom for women, sexy librarian.) it’s senior year, and there are people who:

• already have jobs lined up
• are studying for the gres/applying to grad school
• have applied for peacecorps/teach for america/[insert time-limited post-grad program here]
• maybe need to consider their visa status (nonster????)
• aren’t really/maybe kind of/sort of sure what to do/where to go

and i’m kind of floating around all of those possibilities. i’m not into imagining where a career might take me as much as i want to buy a house and settle down. and have babies (eventually.) and have nice things that look good. material things aren’t necessary, but desires are desires and i want to make a home on my own terms.

—

on sunday, i had a craft date with my friend abby. two years graduated, she lives in a house that is not quite hers, but has made a home that is all her own. she has a craft station with a sewing machine, hot glue gun, cordless drill, x-acto knife set, practically everything (besides mod podge.)

i worked on this jewelry box:

all of the jewelry pieces are from my sister, gifts from when she went abroad. last weekend, she bought me my first fancy (read: expensive) piece of jewelry for my birthday (a really fly amber necklace), and i’m already looking forward to acquiring more. not because i’m into jewelry (perhaps peripherally through a burgeoning interest in fashion), nor do i believe that i will begin wearing them with any regularity. it’s more that i’m into starting and growing collections.

i like themes and seeing the ways things connect.

—

right now i’m listening to mates of state’s first album, my solo project (big ups to claudia for turning me onto grooveshark,) and contemplating whether or not i should purchase tickets to their december show*, although i’ve already saw them earlier this year (and bought my favorite tee-shirt). they are probably the oldest/longest band that i’ve listened to consistently, and who still put out new albums (r.i.p. sleater-kinney) and all of their songs are starting to sound of settling because they’re a wife and husband duo. rather than listen to emo pop songs, i prefer listening to domesticated pop songs.

—

*bought!

Tworzenie skrótów wydaje się być łatwe i jest, ale w systemie Linux istnieją dwa różne rodzaje skrótów – miękkie i twarde. Wszytko to można wykonać jednym poleceniem ln, ale najpierw wyjaśnijmy sobie dwa wyżej wymienione pojęcia.Skrót miękki działa tak samo jak w systemach z rodziny Windows, tworzy odwołanie do jakiegoś zasobu na dysku. Skrót miękki (soft link, symbolic link) posiada następujące właściwości:

• jest plikiem, który można rozróżnić od innych poprzez literę “l” przed uprawnieniami do pliku (ls -l)
• link można utworzyć nawet do nieistniejącego zasobu
• link można usunąć bez żadnych obaw o utratę danych
• link może wskazywać na plik, folder w obrębie tego samego systemu plików
• link może wskazywać na plik, folder w innym systemie plików

Inaczej sprawa wygląda w przypadku skrótów twardych (hard link). Hard link posiada następujące właściwości:

• jest inną nazwą dla pliku
• nie może być utworzony dla katalogu
• po utworzeniu dowiązania twardego usunięcie pliku oryginalnego, nie spowoduje tak naprawdę usunięcia danych, ponieważ plik ten będzie dostępny pod nazwą dowiązania twardego
• po wydaniu polecenia ls -l nie widać, że jest to hard link, ponieważ jest to tylko inna nazwa pliku, która wskazuje w systemie plików na  to samo miejsce na dysku
• dowiązania twarde nie mogą przekraczać granicy systemu plików
• dowiązanie twarde musi wskazywać na istniejący plik

Jako, że jesteśmy już niejako uświadomieni w teorii, to teraz zajmiemy się również teorią, a mianowicie omówimy sobie składnię polecenia ln oraz jego opcje.

Składnia polecenia ln przedstawia się następująco:

ln [OPCJE] CEL NAZWA_LINKU

Warto wspomnieć, że polecenie ln bez opcji tworzy link twardy, więc nie możemy tego stosować dla katalogów!

Opcje opiszę dwie. Ponieważ ln posiada sporo opcji jednak nie wszystkie opcje dotyczą tworzenia linków.

-n – tutaj mamy do czynienia z sytuacją, gdzie tworzymy link miękki (symboliczny) do katalogu. Jeżeli tworzymy skrót do skrótu, który wskazuje na katalog, to dzięki tej opcji program ln stara się zamienić stary link na nowy, zamiast tworzyć kolejny

-s - ta opcja oznacza utworzenie dowiązania miękkiego

Nadszedł czas na przykłady:

ln /home/user/skrypy/wylacz stop

Powyższe polecenie utworzy dowiązanie twarde do skryptu “wylacz”, które będzie nosiło nazwę “stop”. Jeżeli po tej operacji usuniemy skrypt o nazwie “wylacz”, to nadal plik będzie istniał ponieważ wskazuje na niego plik/link o nazwie “stop”, co może budzić słuszne skojarzenia, że polecenie to potrafi działać jak polecenie cp (kopiowanie plików).

ln -s /home/user/dane skrot_do_danych

Tutaj po przeprowadzonej pomyślnie operacji zostanie utworzone dowiązanie miękkie do folderu o nazwie “dane”. Dowiązanie to będzie nosiło nazwę “skrot_do_danych” i zostanie utworzone w katalogu w jakim się obecnie znajdujemy. W tym momencie jakbyśmy usunęli katalog “dane” stracilibyśmy katalog ponieważ skrót miękki może wskazywać na nieistniejący zasób.

Zachęcam do przeczytania podręcznika systemowego dotyczącego polecenia ln (man ln, info ln).

top five feminists books*:

1. when the moon waxes red by trinh t. minh-ha
2. disidentification by josé esteban muñoz
3. methodology of the oppressed by chela sandoval
4. impossible desires by gayatri gopinath
5. dictee by theresa hak kyung cha

top five fiction books**:

1. kira-kira by cynthia kadohata
2. the god of small things by arundhati roy
3. written on the body by jeanette winterson
4. the gangster we are all looking for by lê thi diem thúy
5. interpreter of maladies by jhumpa lahiri

*like derrida, i have not read all of the books in my library, but i do hope to read these five books well.

**both of these lists are always works in progress.

ed. note: it is difficult for me to think about lists of books because really i’m more into articles and stories. and because i have a hard time remembering the things regardless of how much i like them. so these lists are actually just books that i appeared in my life more than once and stuck around. i am catholic; i need repetition.