a delphinium interlude
when apocrypha rings true & recent silly mischiefs
On our way to morning bagels, my partner remarked, “It’s the middle of July, but it’s still so cold.”
“What are you talking about?” I huffed, shrugging off my jacket. “I’m already sweating.”
“That’s because you’re wearing down!”
True, a summer in San Francisco is unseasonably cold – “the coldest winter” as Mark Twain apocryphally remarked. Blustery gales whip at your face before slithering up the exposed chinks in your outfit, rattling your bones until you wish you had just stayed in and ordered delivery. But on those rare days when the temperature finally deigns to hover above 70, the city has never seemed so glorious.
Today is one of those days. Although I’m inside, writing to the sound of kids squealing in glee and Passion Pit frontman Michael Angelakos belting into the mic, I feel great. My body and mind feel rested for once. Whether from sleeping in or the lazy morning stroll or enjoying a fresh iced latte, energy fizzes through my senses and I want to savor this moment.
Switching things up
July has been a month of experimentation. Staying home for an extended period of time has presented the opportunity to overhaul parts of my routine that weren’t working for me anymore (almost all of it). I spent the past few months attempting to conform to my “ideal” schedule and miserably failing. Turns out, no matter how much you want to wake up before the sun rises, if your body is rebelling at every possible instance, you might want to take the hint.
Same goes for fitness. I recently signed up for the gym and forgot how much I missed weight-lifting. Running consumed a lot of my time without bringing me proportionate joy. But straining my muscles, wondering if this barbell is going to cave my skull in if I accidentally drop it onto my head? Utter delight (even if it’s the masochistic sort).
Instead of Morning Pages, I’ve turned to Morning Sketches instead. That early, my brain is barely capable of stringing two words together. It’s simpler and more pleasing to press an oil pastel against the page and watch all the vivid colors and textures bloom at a single touch.
The trickiest part of figuring out a routine is establishing a rhythm. And rhythm is all about evenness. Balance. The tension between doing and not doing. Pushing toward and pulling away. Exertion and relaxation.
My friend recently suggested listening to How to Know What’s Real, a podcast exploring our relationship with digital spaces and our increasingly tenuous grip on reality. Right off the bat, I was drawn to the episode “How to Rest” since, like many of my peers, I struggle to rest without guilt overwhelming me for not dedicating my spare time to do the “things I wish I had time to do if I weren’t tethered to the yoke of capitalism.”
Although “how-tos” rarely spur meaningful action on my part, this episode raised a point worth considering—that rest is an act of restoration, and often, the best methods of restoration are active rather than passive. As much as lounging on the sofa watching YouTube gameplays is mindless and comforting, loafing around doesn’t restore my energy.
But, for whatever reasons – waning novelty, a chronically depleted social battery combined with introversion, or the self-inflicted pressure that what I do must lead to a better self – my go-to hobbies and interests drain me as well. Another possibility is that my activation threshold has crept so high that I’d rather stay inert than muster the energy to go out and do the thing, even when I rarely regret the decision afterward.
Which then begs the question: what activities do restore my sense of self? Leave me feeling more Energizer Bunny than withered husk? After pondering for a while, the list I came up with is quite short:
Eating conveyor belt sushi alone while reading a book.
Coloring with oil pastels.
Flailing around at a fantastic set.
Zipping through Golden Gate Park on a scooter.
Mixing on the controller.
Watching anime with my partner.
Why these? Well… because they’re acts of pure indulgence. I don’t care how good I am at any of these, nor have I tied my social or personal worth to what’s listed above. The sensations they yield appeal to my most primal self. Pleasure. Messiness. Colors. Movement. Speed. Exhilaration. The wind on my face. A story that speaks to the kid inside.
I’m not really thinking when I do any of these. But it’s different from the mindless state I enter when I’m spoonfed from a screen. I’m engaged. I’m not thinking in the right way. I’m driven by the instinct to play rather than the desire to disassociate.
Little joys of July
It’s been a while since I’ve watched Jenn Im’s videos, but she mentioned something in “A New Chapter” that stuck with me. To resist falling into patterns of self-loathing, she’s learned to “never question the good in your life. Just accept it and be God damn grateful.”
And since I’m practicing less thought-spiraling, more doing and accepting, here are the little things I’m grateful for this month 🙏
A playlist to sleep to, a playlist to wake up to
Common advice suggests you fall asleep without anything playing in the background, but I confess listening to something lulls me to sleep faster than staring at the ceiling in complete silence. Sleep meditations, stories, music – anything at a low enough volume level and fuzzy enough texture can knock me out like a light (probably why I fell asleep in class so often… is there a pattern here?!)
My most recent sleep obsession is radio host Derrick Gee’s playlist. At the first tinkling of the piano keys, my shoulders inch down two inches and the blankets feel that much cozier. Something about Ryuichi Sakamoto and, surprisingly, Aphex Twin activates my homeostatic sleep drive right away, and I’m out in less than five minutes.
Waking up is a different story (and playlist). Although my brain can’t handle much beyond gentle instrumentals first thing in the morning, I’m in the mood to listen to something more optimistic to match the dawn of a new day, even toss some synths in there. The dreamy vocals of artists such as King Krule, Phum Viphurit, and hitsujibungaku dust off the last remnants of sleep lingering in my being, ushering me into awareness on my own terms.
Pan’s Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun by Guillermo del Toro and Cornelia Funke
I recently learned that Guillermo del Toro teamed up with author Cornelia Funke on a novelization of what is arguably his magnum opus, Pan’s Labyrinth. An avid fan of both the film and Funke’s novel The Thief Lord, I decided to give the book Pan’s Labyrinth: The Labyrinth of the Faun a shot and found myself immersed in the fertile imaginings of both these artists.
Where the novel differs from the film is the additional worldbuilding and POVs. Rather than experience the story (mostly) entirely from Ofelia’s point-of-view, Funke gives her stepfather Captain Vidal, mother Carmen, the housekeeper Mercedes, and even the doctor Ferreiro dedicated pagetime, fleshing out these characters in ways that demonstrate the extent to which they will go to act on their motives. More subtly portrayed in the film, the conflict between the soldiers and the rebels set during the Francoist regime is spotlighted far more in the book, revealing that the true horror isn’t the Pale Man, terrifying as he is, but how easily and eagerly people can wield their cruelty when given the authority.
Not to say the fantasy component isn’t as lush in the novel as it is in the film. In fact, Funke and del Toro sketch out the underground kingdom that Ofelia’s spirit originally hails from in even brighter color and detail. Interspersing the chapters are new fairytales that tie many of the plot elements together – such as why a labyrinth even exists in the middle of the woods to begin with, or why the millhouse the soldiers and Ofelia’s family take residence in appears cursed.
Pan’s Labyrinth transmutes already stunning source material into the rare adaptation that offers something new to look forward to whilst protecting what made the original so beloved, like a hollowed out tree wrapping its bark around a tender, beating heart.
Masego at Stern Grove
Ever since the supremely talented Masego, who can “DO EVERYTHING,” first popped up on my radar with the release of The Pink Polo EP, I’ve always wondered why this man isn’t more popular. His production skills, playful and impeccable vocal performances, and ability to play multiple instruments prodigiously well – HIM + SAX = MAGIC – make Masego a must-see artist for me… which is why it’s embarrassing to admit that I haven’t seen him until now.
But it’s been a blessing to wait this long because I got to experience his full glory at Stern Grove, one of the most beautiful venues in SF. A major perk of living in the city is the incredible music scene, and the non-profit organizers of the Stern Grove Music Festival bring residents a summer of FREE live music. The lineup is pretty killer too – this year alone brings in acts like Alex G, Sylvan Esso, Franc & Moody, Tegan & Sara (so sad I was out of town for this act), and of course Masego.
As soon as Masego took the stage with his drummer and bassist, people got to their feet. It’s impossible not to groove to “Mystery Lady” or sing along to the pleas for a sugar mama in “Old Age.“ “Afraid of Water” reminds me of the lazy, slingshot hooks of Janelle Monae’s “Water Slide.” Masego proudly wrapped himself in the Jamaican flag and moonwalked across the stage. He threw roses into the crowd, a yam to the side of the stage, and beachballs that floated far enough to reach where my group was sitting.
And “Tadow” was every bit as sublime as I imagined it to be. Certainly one of the live performances that I thought was just as good, if not better than Masego’s recordings.
You can pay to reserve one of the many picnic tables in front of the stage if you don’t want to fight for a spot on the slope, but it’s not difficult to grab a good spot and vantage point if you go 30 minutes to an hour before the acts begin. Just bring your picnic blanket, snacks, and libations, and get ready to enjoy a gorgeous, gorgeous afternoon.
Collecting all the precious, tiny memories
As much as I want time to slow down because it seems to zip by instead, I’m kind of in awe at how much can happen even in a “slow” month. I was still in NYC at the beginning of the month, celebrating the birthday of a dear friend. We ate, biked, and played lots of Bananagrams together with other friends. So many adventures happened in erratic succession, but the joy I experienced felt steady and familiar – as if I had it in me all along, engraved into my bones from the very moment I set foot into this world.
We still can’t figure out whether the Wanted poster is legit or part of a guerilla marketing campaign. If it’s the latter, it worked.
Happy to report that life back in SF has been eventful but steady. A couple of friends and I threw a “beach episode” gathering at Ocean Beach, visited the Asian Arts Museum to check out the Dream State exhibit, and caught Lucky Daye at the Warfield. Screaming along with hundreds of others at the sight of Lucky Daye taking his shirt off and dancing with a woman from the audience felt peak R&B perfection and part fever dream, which is what I tried to depict above in a collage of masking tape, dry-erase markers, and notecards, all hastily composed in 17 minutes.
Life as one mild fever dream doesn’t sound too bad.
Poll-of-the-essay:
Would you rather give up your favorite piece of media or your favorite food dish?
really loved this publication and you’re writing style is amazing! i really enjoyed reading it! i love having a peek into other people lives and see how they spend their days and even get inspired by them, by thoughts they have and discovering new things.
“Eating conveyor belt sushi alone while reading a book.” haha i love how specific that is! except i’d probably prefer bringing the sushi home to watch in front of some trashy reality show or k-drama 🫢 speaking of energy depletion, i can probably only dig into a book when my energy reserves are ready to tackle something less mindless. hence the things i read/watch on holiday are usually more interesting (and challenging) than the usual post workday binge.