Hidden

There was once a time when anybody could have asked me, what do you want to pursue in life, what kind of work do you want to do, to which I would have said:  I want to write, especially write for Rolling Stone and go on the road with bands and cover rock and country and folk concerts and some such.

And now, about three years after my senior year of college, I find myself in a big quandry. I don't know what I want to do anymore. I like writing. I enjoy it. It gives me a thrill to put words to paper and put pieces of a puzzle together to create something beautiful, and then get paid for it. But there are such things as reality too. And the reality of it is, that my profession, journalism, is changing, and in many ways disappearing so rapidly that the jobs are just not there.

Don't get me wrong; journalism will always exist because people will always want information and stories about their government, religion, schools, institutions, celebrities, communities, friends, entertainment, nature and everything in between. But well respected news from the trusted news sources is being produced by fewer and fewer people and more journalists are becoming freelance, scratching together an existence in spite of low advertising revenue and distribution.

People have told me to do what I love and the money will follow, but I find this hard to believe. It's not like going to LA to be an actor; a hard feat, because of the competition, but not because acting is going away or changing. On the other hand, traditional journalism, the kind of journalism that paid a decent wage, is going away, and in this case, I feel like being a journalist is probably the stupidest thing I could do right now.

My heart also makes me wonder if I could be a real reporter. The kind of reporter who's writing day in and day out, even if I was lucky enough to get a staff gig, about murders, and drug cartels and poverty and stupidity and incompetence in our government institutions. Is writing worth the mundance depression that would go with such a position, the constant reminder of all that is wrong with the world?

I don't know. And for this and so many other reasons, I remain on the fence, trying to figure out what will make me happy, what will make me want to go to work, and how I can make the comfortable living I desire doing that thing. Mix all of this into an economy where I'm not only fighting with other young college grads as well educated as I am, but with professionals who have years of experience on their resume.

Without a direction, I feel stuck in a mire, and I don't know what to do. I used to know myself so well. I used to be extremely self aware. And now I find that I'm hidden even unto myself.

I don't know what to do and I'm waiting for the day where I can leave the crossroads I'm at, and head down the trail I want to. Until then, I guess I'll just keep writing and putting one foot in front of another.

JetBlue Flight Attendant is My Hero

This last week we all heard the story about the JetBlue flight attendant who snapped when one of his passengers refused to follow his instructions; the flight attendant (or FT as I will call him) had had enough, and in a burst of quitting glory, ended his sobriety when he went to the beverage cart, pulled two beers, went on the plane's PA system to harangue the passengers, and opened the emergency-use-only inflatable slide to exit the plane.

Upon hearing this story, I laughed out loud. For anyone who's worked in a customer service field, especially if you're smarter than the average cretin, we've all wanted to do this. We've all wanted to have our say, embarrass the stupid costumer and throw it in, telling our colleagues, our customers and our bosses just how much we hate the job, and how much better we are than what we've been doing.

To me, the FT was a hero, not a zero, and in the last month, when I'm working at a job where I do twice the amount of work I was doing two weeks ago, with no raise, barely living on the money I make, hating my situation, wanting a job and being offered two job interviews only for the jobs to be filled by internal hires, I'm with this guy.

The whole world can take it and shove it, because he and I are so much better than the work we are performing.

Love. Addiction. Same thing.

According to a study mentioned in Wired magazine, love is an addiction. I laughed to myself as I read this because that's always been my experience with love. The utter surprise of hitting it off with someone becomes an endorphin stoker, pushing my happy hormones to excited levels. And then comes the anxiety that is attached to happiness; to get so happy means that should it not work out, the disappointment is crushing, so the anxiety acts as a preemptive downer.

Then comes the inability to sleep, the difficulty in concentrating, my mind jumping to the love high at any given moment, savoring it, remembering it, feeling it. My mind becomes ever so excitable, so it's hard to stand still and my thirst to keep moving increases.

When I get the text message or the phone call, the high is refueled, my heart jumping into my throat or my stomach and I crave more and more. I crave more dates, more physical contact, more glances, more kisses, more emotion from him.

And then, when it doesn't work out, even if it's for the best, I jones for it. Like a junkie who is dope sick and thinks one more dose is going to fix everything, I jones for his voice, his mouth, his smell, his words.

According to the Wired study, when the subjects, people who were still in love with their exes, looked at photos of the exes, a part of their brains lit up on a neural scan. That same part of the brain also lights up when an addict indulges or is craving another fix. On a positive note, the study showed that time does heal all wounds; those subjects who had been broken up longer than others had the weakest reaction to their exes' photos than those who had just broken up. The more the time, the lesser the reaction, the lessening of the addiction.

Addiction is a funny thing, and one I hope to kick one day.

Risks

It's only the anxiety, I think to myself as I move forward with my business plan. I'll be honest enough to say that I'm not sure if I'll see it through; like, I may get to the point where I finish the plan, see how much money I would theoretically need, look at the interest in the terms of inked finance loans, and might in the end, decide the risk is too great.

Risk is something I think about often. I was born a planner with an adventurer's heart, a methodical and rational thinker, a safe, straight-arrow type person with a thrill seeker's soul. This is my problem. Having lived through crushing lows and desperate periods, I tend to walk a line which I know will keep me happy and balanced. But, the thrill sometimes is too great. Don't get me wrong, I dream and I pursue dreams. Freelancing is a dream, and one I pursue. Owning property is a dream, and one I continue to cultivate. So is the garden I planted, which will yield something and has taught me about my connection to the earth and my own two hands.

Everyone asses risks and then chooses whether the risks are worth taking or the potential backlash is too much. I'm somewhere in the middle, trying to think about the hypothetical payoff versus the negative outcomes. We'll see. But for now, I'm happy to dream and place one foot in front of the other, moving forward with my business as if I am really going to do it.

It is now 1 in the morning and although summer's heat hasn't come yet, I find myself in the midst of pre-summer insomnia.

I've been thinking about integrity. I hope to become assertive enough and bold enough to hold my integrity, that when there's a chance of giving in when I don't believe in something, just to make things work, I'll back off and take the punishment for standing by my word.

Germany's Metropolis and the American Dream

I've never seen Metropolis but am quite sure I know what this epitome-of-German-expressionist-film's story is about. The crucial and seemingly never ending struggle between the poor working class and the wealthy in a capitalist society.

This just in: the American Dream is now dead. I kind of finally understand what Hunter S. Thompson was searching for. Perhaps in his drug-addled state, and in my sober one, he and I have come to the same conclusion. This depresses me, but I believe in not wasting the pretty. Not wasting the most precious commodity, time.

The world is Mad Max and the post apocalypse of the Postman. I've moved past sadness although it still tugs at me, into looking out for me, my family and my friends alone. That's all that matters. It is a dog eat dog world and I'm going to make it if I have to use tooth and nail.

Signing out.

Also, in an attempt to keep this blog closed to stupid Asian people who keep commenting with Asian language characters, I'm seriously thinking about revamping my privacy settings. If you don't know me, I don't want to hear your comments, especially if you are too stupid or cowardly to write them in English. Post one and it will be deleted.

Enough said.

This One's for the Girls

I want to take this time and truly thank all of the utterly fabulous lady friends I have in my life.

Although months or years had passed since we were really close, you opened your arms to me when I came back to LA, broken and discouraged. The same friendships I had let lapse at times, the ones I grew up with in high school and childhood ballet classes, those friendships were stronger than ever when I came back home.

Heartbroken last summer, breakfast with Amelia at Dupar's soothed my soul. When my anxiety over finding a job and doing everything I ever wanted took over it was Amelia who constantly reminded me "it doesn't mean it won't happen, it's just not happening right now."

When I've been anxious, sad, crying, these lady friends never paused before saying "you can talk to me whenever you need to," or "what's going on?"

These ladies were also there to open me up, to expose me to downtown LA bars and dancing and getting drunk and hangover breakfasts and all the things the more straight-laced Carolyn wouldn't try without provocation.

They've had advice and more importantly, a willing ear to hear everything I have to say. When I'm lost, they give me perspective and hope. They remind me that fear is merely a feeling, not a reality. They boost my confidence and make me feel at home. They are my heart and my soul and my life partners.

As Samantha said in Sex and the City 2, "A long time ago we all agreed we'd be each other's soul mates."

I've felt that way for a long time, but I haven't said it out loud. I am now.

I can't thank all of you enough for the roles you play in my life and the people you are. I feel truly blessed to know all of you. Thank you for being a part of my life. And I know you are all my soul mates.