The other day I went to the dollar store near where I live. I’ve been there several times before over many years, but that day the owner of the store was different from the owner I thought was the owner. So I couldn’t help, as I waited in line, but think there’s been a changing of hands. I don’t know why it’s happened but it feels a little sad.
It’s refreshing to buy just the one thing you need. I had cash on me, which is why I walked the six minutes to the dollar store. I was happy to spend the eight quarters I had.
I spoke with Lucy Tulugarjuk the other day on Zoom. It would have felt like a reenactment of some parts of her new film, What We See, co-directed with Carol Kunnuk. But I was distracted. I was looking at her eyes and hearing her voice. Our Zoom call cut off after 40 minutes, and she knew it would cut off but she kept speaking. That’s pretty amazing. I remember the cadence of her words but not what she said. I look at the transcript, which doesn’t align with what I remember she said.
I walked around the mall. I didn’t understand why certain people smiled and said, “hey there.” I don’t understand, but I can not resent them for it. I could see myself in the reflections of mirrors, and I wondered if I looked just like any other person.
I attended a bootcamp on innovation entrepreneurship run by CSI Toronto. On the second day we met in person and settled into a session on active listening led by Maryam. I took some notes. I really tried. Most of my notes don’t make sense to me now. We watched a short video on the four levels of listening that Otto Scharmer theorized about. Listening is crucial to leadership and all domains of life. But the art of listening has nothing on the art of not speaking, the peace of being mute, which if you were able to speak from birth, takes a lifetime to learn.
I’ve always loved Emily Dickinson. Heralded as one of the most “inaccessible” poetic geniuses (because she was such a recluse, lmao) by maybe one person, I think it’s really great that she now finds an audience in many corners of the world. I don’t know how her poems become translated… That feels almost impossible. But many things I’ve thought impossible have happened. It’s like a haunted underpass.
I think I now understand why funny people have such closeness with sorrow and sadness. Robin Williams… RIP. Then their death is a shock to us, and I don’t know why we can’t just look a little bit inward and understand why it is a shock. I think of this because while I was looking for mental health resources I came by a series of classes called “Laughing Like Crazy.” It’s where people who have experienced mental health issues and the mental health system can learn how to transform those experiences into a standup comedy act. I thought about it for one second.
I was thinking of this quote recently: Literature is proof that life is not enough. It’s by Fernando Pessoa. It’s stark to face this language, when you realize that the living and the literature can be at odds. It’s another way of saying, do you want to live or do you want to write? At what point is life enough? Why wouldn’t it be enough? I was telling the emergency room psychiatrist, in order to write you need to have thoughts. He seemed to understand. Thinking about full moons, and life cycles… it’s interesting how this world works. When once I was begging my doctors to have mercy with the dosages and number of medications (which I stand by), I now am unsure I’ll get access to a prescribing physician. I’m ashamed to say that life has been very good to me, so there is no need to ever worry about being okay.
A few months ago I took a quiz on what kind of philosopher I am. Do I think language and perception are tied? Well… no, I don’t, on some level. Because things exist outside of my perception. Whether or not I have language, a dog exists if it’s there in front of me. It would be solipsistic to think otherwise. It also would be parochial, to think that if someone does not share a common language with me they cannot perceive the same thing I do.
Language is just a way for us to be witnessed—seen and unseen. What kind of corpse needs a glass of water?
A few years ago when I was in the hospital, I would pass judgment on all the nurses who did rounds. Kerry was the best. One of them was okay. I gave her a hard time. I’m forgetting her name in this moment. Once she said to me something along the lines of, ‘you know, you’re always thinking about the future. What happens next, and then what will happen after that. It’s not good.’ At the time I thought it was funny, but later I found it pretty infuriating. Who does she think she is to talk to me that way? But maybe she was just being human. It’s hard to separate work and life, after all. I really liked the earrings she wore, my eyes kept being drawn to them. So I guess we’re square.
If I had restraint and purpose, I’d write like Jhumpa Lahiri. I watched a short video about Lahiri and her writing process many years ago. The first shot is of a swimmer diving into the water from high above a rock. All writing, all art… is just a wild leap… She doesn’t know how she writes, how it happens. And in the not knowing I suppose there might be some solace. Knowledge isn’t always good, we know this. But for my part I’ll always rather know than not know. I like to draw (well, I don’t like it in the sense of enjoying it) sometimes because it allows me to check my perception. If I can draw a hand in proportion it means I am seeing things correctly. There’s skill involved, but there is much more than pure skill involved.
When we open our mouths to speak, in a support group, a workshop, a classroom, the urgency is there because we don’t want to forget what we want to say. That it will disappear because we’re not taking notes. That it will no longer be relevant if a beat passes. Listening is just trying to remember, as much as it is wanting to be heard. But if we allow ourselves the freedom to forget, and to let the world pass through our bodies, I think there is a lot of hope there.
This so so beautiful Anqi, I’ve been going through something similar where I find my diary entries, my photography was the space relished and felt strong emotions about life. I’m realizing though, the less I write, the more I’m really truly present, the less work I need to feel and see my memories fully. You’ve put into words what was so hard for me to capture in my thoughts, hope you’re well
"Listening is just trying to remember, as much as it is wanting to be heard. " Beautiful.