Monday, September 19, 2016


Junhong flew away today to go on an adventure with his love, Emma.
I am a mix of joy, sadness, fear, excitement and pride.
I stare at Google maps wishing I could track their every move.
This is a rhythm I will learn to get used to - this clutching, this releasing, this clutching, this releasing and on and on.
I may not be able to sleep for the next month.

Sunday, July 31, 2016

spicy miso sauce

It's been a while since I have posted a recipe. I guess it's been a while since I have had the time and space to think about food creatively. But today, first time alone for dinner in a few weeks, I improvised a miso sauce that goes well with salmon, or can be a sauce to stir into cold soba noodles.

Mince 3 cloves of garlic, a 2-inch knob of ginger (about 2-3 Tablespoons of ginger chopped ginger). Sauté this in a few tablespoons of canola oil, over low heat for about 5 minutes, being careful not to let it brown. When soft and fragrant, add 1 Tablespoon of brown sugar and 2 Tablespoons of white miso paste. Stir till combined. Then, add a splash of water (1/4 cup or so). Let cook on medium heat till thick.

Finish with red pepper flakes and a dash of sesame oil to taste.

Next time I make this, I will stir this into cold soba noodles and serve it with cold smoked tofu and stir fried greens.

Monday, May 30, 2016


Today, I did my first Bagua practice in a few months.
Circling and spiralling between the earth and sky, I am reminded that Bagua is my mother and my father; and when I walk the circles, I feel less like an orphan.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

the voice

The voice.
The voice is the implement of rage.
Once you can let that rage from your hips hurtle out past your open throat in an inchoate roar into the universe, you can drop into the grief that inevitably comes after. I think grief is a music that shakes up the ribs, the abdomen. And when that is done, you can drop into the softness of your heart; find words to love with, words to fuck with, words to make peace with.

love and violence

I am learning that I can be wild and bad and tempestuous and still be loved. Still held, despite the scratchings and the clawings. Still heard, over the screamings and roarings.

I am a bundle of ruthlessness, held against the bosom of my beloved, and turned into a bundle of joy.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

dancing in the master's house

If you dance in the master's house in order to take it down, you must think about the tools at your disposal. You must think about the walls in the house as well as the walls in the bodies; and how you are going to dismantle them.

The tools at your disposal are vectors and vortexes that you create out of bodies in space and time. Your materials are your body and all the bodies in the house. How do you free these bodies? You dance. But what does it mean to dance towards freedom? Marten Spangberg, in this talk says that one of the functions of dance is to lose yourself. I think there is something in this.
(And suddenly I am thinking of the dancer as terrorist. You annihilate yourself in order to annihilate the container of oppression)
There is something in rhythm, repetition, duration, phrasing, silences, suspension.
There is something in making time disappear.

And if you dance in the master's house without wanting to take it down, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you dancing?

Thursday, May 26, 2016

blowing the rage out of my eyes

Oh, the irony of reflecting on how the Model Minority straight jacket has impacted every fucking aspect of my life and body, from the most public to the most intimate, while listening to Madama Butterfly very very loudly.