May 1, 2024
I ask my dad about the student movements in Korea in the 80s. The Gwangju uprising and massacre of May 1980, when hundreds, perhaps thousands of students demonstrating against martial law were beaten, raped, and killed by the military. The years of student-led movements that came before and after. I see his eyes move with memories and he says, “so many students died. So many young people were tortured, killed.”
Maybe he sees himself, marching with hundreds of other youths, scared and emboldened by the revolution that lives a thousand different lives. And he laughingly tells me a funny story about an overpacked bus that took him there.
Maybe he sees further back, his family, refugees from North Korea, fleeing persecution for being intellectuals and artists--an uncle, cut in marble with youth and dreams, burned alive in his studio for refusing to paint communist propaganda--starting over with nothing in the half of the county they could not choose, watching as those leaders chose the idea of communism, capitalism, progress, and/or tradition over people. But he tsks and lectures me on how difficult it is to be an artist instead. A short tsk and a long sigh.
Maybe he sees himself, now and past, and me, and our lives lived together and apart, wondering whose dream we are living in, mine or his, or whether, in all its shadowy freedoms and unhinged repetition, this is after all, our best lived lives, together more than apart.
And he says, in a moment of impenetrable pride and conviction, “Students saved Korea. They can change the world.”
April 1, 2024
LA
This city has a light like no other. A particular mix of sun, marine layer, pollution, wind and heat that makes these dirty sun-bleached apartments glow, a sunset that burns orange even through a citadel of black storm clouds. And when you want to see the sky, it's only a short drive to the nearest freeway onramps to float above the city streets and drive into the sunglow, imbued with a sense of abundance and delusions of grandeur attainable only while driving too fast with everyone else on the 101.
Everything is here.
And yet, there are times you feel it is just an illusion. You drive 45 mins to your favorite Hong Kong diner, which is shuttered so you settle for a $21 egg sandwich instead. You cancel plans because you don't have it in you to drive another 50 mins to get a $7 coffee or $19 cocktail with a friend, or because your grandma isn't able to drive herself anywhere, a prisoner of her own home without a car, and you decide to take her to the store instead. When you manage to meet, you always leave early so you can go to work tomorrow, sitting in relentless traffic of the 5 with the sun turning cars into a dry sauna.The protracted negotiations for space, safety, money, services, meetings, parking, a table, survival, dignity, becomes a constant simmering battle for anyone who has not managed to buy claim to them already, and even if one had, there is the fear that at any point, it could not simply be lost, but be taken away by someone younger, prettier, bolder, newer.
Yet I'm an LA girl, no matter where I live. I know its cars and drivers. The vintage Alfa Romeo collection hiding behind the gated hillsides of the Valley, the pristine 60s Chevys in the backyard of the tire shop owner slash community organizer in HP, the Priuses with the twice-replaced catalytic convertors in East Hollywood, and the jejune rabble of white Teslas lined up to exit the 110.
But what do you do if you don't want to drive anymore? You don't want a car? When you remember that this place has everything you want, everyone you need, but it's not for you, at least not right now.What is the curiosity and hope that drives me away from this light?
Anyways, thanks for another nice visit. I'm going back to my new home. It's no LA, but I haven't figure out all its kinks yet. Will report back when I do.
March 1, 2024
Julie, Brenda, and I are starting a nonprofit for death, to build community, access, and power to collectively approach death and dying together. We decided on the name “Good Mourning Club.” Nothing too heavy, a little cute, easy to remember.
Our mission is:
“To help our community find the various shared paths to living with death and loss. We help create collective ways to engage, whether it is through music and art, facilitated conversations, or community-centered legacy planning. Through this process, we hope that we will all individually and collectively find peace and possibility in living with death.”
Death is a life-long experience, inevitable, universal and profound. Loss and grief are not simple wounds that can be simply healed before we "move on." We experience them throughout our lives in different ways, durations, frequencies, and magnitudes. Death moves us and changes all of us, yet there is no single “right” way to engage with it.
We’re starting Good Mourning Club because we ourselves are still learning how to live with it all. During this process, we feel that doing this work with each other– our friends, (chosen) family, and community–gives us the purpose, courage, and strength that we do not have alone. Why should everyone not have the same access to collectively grow in grief, love in loss, and dream the death that they desire?
Excited to build something with two of my closest friends, and reimagine our life with death.
“In finding purpose, peace, and possibility in loss, we create a shared future of collective joy and liberation.”
I ask my dad about the student movements in Korea in the 80s. The Gwangju uprising and massacre of May 1980, when hundreds, perhaps thousands of students demonstrating against martial law were beaten, raped, and killed by the military. The years of student-led movements that came before and after. I see his eyes move with memories and he says, “so many students died. So many young people were tortured, killed.”
Maybe he sees himself, marching with hundreds of other youths, scared and emboldened by the revolution that lives a thousand different lives. And he laughingly tells me a funny story about an overpacked bus that took him there.
Maybe he sees further back, his family, refugees from North Korea, fleeing persecution for being intellectuals and artists--an uncle, cut in marble with youth and dreams, burned alive in his studio for refusing to paint communist propaganda--starting over with nothing in the half of the county they could not choose, watching as those leaders chose the idea of communism, capitalism, progress, and/or tradition over people. But he tsks and lectures me on how difficult it is to be an artist instead. A short tsk and a long sigh.
Maybe he sees himself, now and past, and me, and our lives lived together and apart, wondering whose dream we are living in, mine or his, or whether, in all its shadowy freedoms and unhinged repetition, this is after all, our best lived lives, together more than apart.
And he says, in a moment of impenetrable pride and conviction, “Students saved Korea. They can change the world.”
April 1, 2024
LA
This city has a light like no other. A particular mix of sun, marine layer, pollution, wind and heat that makes these dirty sun-bleached apartments glow, a sunset that burns orange even through a citadel of black storm clouds. And when you want to see the sky, it's only a short drive to the nearest freeway onramps to float above the city streets and drive into the sunglow, imbued with a sense of abundance and delusions of grandeur attainable only while driving too fast with everyone else on the 101.
Everything is here.
And yet, there are times you feel it is just an illusion. You drive 45 mins to your favorite Hong Kong diner, which is shuttered so you settle for a $21 egg sandwich instead. You cancel plans because you don't have it in you to drive another 50 mins to get a $7 coffee or $19 cocktail with a friend, or because your grandma isn't able to drive herself anywhere, a prisoner of her own home without a car, and you decide to take her to the store instead. When you manage to meet, you always leave early so you can go to work tomorrow, sitting in relentless traffic of the 5 with the sun turning cars into a dry sauna.The protracted negotiations for space, safety, money, services, meetings, parking, a table, survival, dignity, becomes a constant simmering battle for anyone who has not managed to buy claim to them already, and even if one had, there is the fear that at any point, it could not simply be lost, but be taken away by someone younger, prettier, bolder, newer.
Yet I'm an LA girl, no matter where I live. I know its cars and drivers. The vintage Alfa Romeo collection hiding behind the gated hillsides of the Valley, the pristine 60s Chevys in the backyard of the tire shop owner slash community organizer in HP, the Priuses with the twice-replaced catalytic convertors in East Hollywood, and the jejune rabble of white Teslas lined up to exit the 110.
But what do you do if you don't want to drive anymore? You don't want a car? When you remember that this place has everything you want, everyone you need, but it's not for you, at least not right now.What is the curiosity and hope that drives me away from this light?
Anyways, thanks for another nice visit. I'm going back to my new home. It's no LA, but I haven't figure out all its kinks yet. Will report back when I do.
March 1, 2024
Julie, Brenda, and I are starting a nonprofit for death, to build community, access, and power to collectively approach death and dying together. We decided on the name “Good Mourning Club.” Nothing too heavy, a little cute, easy to remember.
Our mission is:
“To help our community find the various shared paths to living with death and loss. We help create collective ways to engage, whether it is through music and art, facilitated conversations, or community-centered legacy planning. Through this process, we hope that we will all individually and collectively find peace and possibility in living with death.”
Death is a life-long experience, inevitable, universal and profound. Loss and grief are not simple wounds that can be simply healed before we "move on." We experience them throughout our lives in different ways, durations, frequencies, and magnitudes. Death moves us and changes all of us, yet there is no single “right” way to engage with it.
We’re starting Good Mourning Club because we ourselves are still learning how to live with it all. During this process, we feel that doing this work with each other– our friends, (chosen) family, and community–gives us the purpose, courage, and strength that we do not have alone. Why should everyone not have the same access to collectively grow in grief, love in loss, and dream the death that they desire?
Excited to build something with two of my closest friends, and reimagine our life with death.
“In finding purpose, peace, and possibility in loss, we create a shared future of collective joy and liberation.”