Back in November, the week of Thanksgiving break (actually, the night before Thanksgiving day), I found myself stranded at 12:35am with fifty other people and steady rain in a parking lot in downtown Los Angeles. Usually, I fly back to the Bay Area from my school in San Diego– if I book my tickets sufficiently in advance, the costs are worth the visit back home; however, this time, I didn’t book my flight tickets early enough. Seat availability plummeted, prices skyrocketed, and I decided that taking the budget-friendly bus would be a good alternative.
I didn’t sleep more than an hour that night. We ended up left in that parking lot for reasons I’m to this day unsure of– the bus driver had stopped, told us all to vacate the bus because we were supposed to transfer, and promptly drove off as soon as the last person had removed their bag from the under-bus storage. Needless to say, there was no transfer.
We were in that parking lot for about an hour and a half until the company sent a replacement bus to pick us up. I tried to doze off again on this bus, but the frigid air blowing through the vents kept my mind active even though my body was craving rest. We made it to San Francisco by seven thirty in the morning, and I reached my home by eight. Continue reading
A couple days late on this tangible reflection, but that’s okay. New Year’s posts are some of my favorites to write just because they give me a great excuse to go down the nostalgia rabbit-hole that is this blog.
One of my best friends hates reading.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good analysis of a book,” he said, “I just feel like I don’t get anything out of reading the novels they forced on us in high school English class. Like, it makes me feel like it’s a waste, because just the fact that I had to read it on a certain timeline and do a certain thing with it ruined the book for me. I feel like that sucked out the chance to really get anything out of the book.”
At first, I was appalled.
I waited in line for twenty minutes. At this point, the long string of people almost wrapped around the corner of the building. When I finally walk into the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco, a blast of humid air envelops me, closely followed by a musty, almost foul smell. I feel a grin stretching across my face as I trace the scent through a tropical plant oasis into the large gallery that holds the perpetrator.
A titan arum plant, popularly known as the “corpse flower” for its stench, awaits in its terra cotta planter home. A long, yellow protrusion–the spadix–rises from the center of an open, frilly base. The spathe, I remind myself, studying the maroon and green folds of the leaf structure before I tune in to a staff member talking to a mass of wide-eyed visitors.
I stepped out of the airport to a blast of heat, inwardly grumbling at the prospect of quickly becoming drenched in sweat as I lugged my bags toward the car. However, as the week went on, I quickly found myself adjusting to the heavy, humid air as my cousin and I roamed the streets of DC and New York City.
It seems that as I grow, the number of years matter less and less.
My sporadic passions can be much like ocean currents carrying jellies, taking me across vast spaces with potential to travel a thousand different directions. At any given time, at least three or four or ten different projects are circulating through my head. What kind of article should I write this month? Where would I want to travel next? I should read more. What can I paint next on my wall? How can I connect art and science and share it with the world?
What next? Continue reading
When It Rains, Restless Heart Syndrome, World So Cold…I scrolled through my finished playlist with decided satisfaction, hitting the spacebar on my bulky hand-me-down Mac and turning up the volume in my headphones. The soft guitar and choir voices of Yellowcard’s Paper Walls title track played through the speakers in my ears, coming to a quiet stop right before the amps kicked in and began to dissolve the churning sensation in my gut.