The ride home

Scraps of Life, the thoughts of a kat

My personality never gave me a chance. Being an INTJ, the thing that most drives me to either sit in the corner peeling the skin off of my thigh or plot the bloody demise of innocent children is misunderstanding. And yet the way that I, as a soul, have been designed seems to make it nearly impossible to make my intentions understood. Perhaps an even greater finger-in-the-eye is that due to my many years of training on social interaction (AKA being around humans and having to survive in a society), I’ve come to function relatively smoothly in social situations, thereby giving people the wrong expectations.

The thing that often trips me up, I suppose, is that though, being an artist, I do have strong emotions and am aware of them, my decisions and behaviors are based on thoughts rather than feelings. This does not work out well sometimes.

Once, when I was living in Seoul, Korea, during a small group gathering, my close girlfriends and I were sharing our thoughts and feelings. We were really baring our souls and being vulnerable. One of the girls, a neighbor of mine, in fact, shared some honest fears, to which I was quite compassionate.

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The typically 15 minute cab ride home lasted about 3 hours that evening. I was always taught, in counseling classes, to address the current issue, and not to form general conclusions. So if my friend was feeling insecure about how people feel toward her, doesn’t “people” include me?

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It was time to be comforting. Some other people might not have thought to tell a friend how valuable she is. But I wasn’t going to be “some people”. That’s how we get people who go through life wondering if people love her.

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So I began…

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But then my feelings tried to fight my brain. “This is weird, you crazy woman!” they said. But my brain rebutted, “That’s what selfish feelers say, which prevents them from being kind and logical humanitarians. Shut up!”

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I don’t know what I expected to happen. I think I thought that she might just say “thank you” and that we would stop for shaved ice on the way. Instead, the reality of the situation hit me like an angry woman with a dead fish in her hand. I’d made a monumental mistake and now I was, once again, the awkward girl in the group. How would I recover from this? What would make this right?

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Thank God for socially capable people.

Social Equity

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As much of an accomplishment as it seems to get one’s doodle retweeted by @sketch_dailies or someone that many might call a “celebrity,” it’s not something one can put in a resume. With that said, here’s a silly little happy moment: my tank girl got retweeted by @sketch_dailies.

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Oscars 2014 dresses

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lupita Nyong’o was just beautiful in her Prada dress and sincere words.

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Portia de Rossi in an intricate Naeem Khan gown.

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Kate Hudson in Altier Versace was just stunning.

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Jennifer Lawrence in Dior was just stunning.

Stylizing

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I am officially searching for my fellow unicorns.

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Unlike many artists that I know, I grew up longing to fit in. Standing out and seeming to be unique always isolated me. Am I alone here? In a culture where individuality is not only encouraged, but prized, I’ve also been unique in having these feelings as well.

Being an even split between an INTJ and an INFJ, and also between a harmony-seeking idealist and an independent thinker apparently makes me a mentally deformed mutant. It’s possibly also why I have so many interests and jobs.

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Sometimes these different worlds collide. Perhaps not too many people who enjoy my illustrations know that I also do things in fashion. Mostly hair/ makeup & styling. When I’m working on a set, or thinking of an outfit, or styling someone, I tend to sketch out the ideas and I’m endlessly grateful that I don’t have to hire an illustrator for projects.

I’m still looking for other unicorns.

A scene behind the glass

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It’s a basic human need to be validated and supported. Yet those seem to be the very things we refuse most and the needs we despise most in others. It’s frightening to me that people are judged (meaning condemned) for having insecurities. Who doesn’t have them? Insecurities are wounds from a lack of validation. So judging them is a lot like hating someone for having a bleeding gash. Humans are evil, no?

So what keeps me interacting with them? Moments that remind me that we are all just mushy piles of goo. What was this couple beyond the glass talking about, so intensely and yet tenderly? Something about their moment, as far away and separated from me as they were, grabbed me and kept me long enough for me to draw them. He leaned in, she swept her hair behind her ear, he looked down, she took a drink.

Just goo.

boundaries

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once when i was five, living in korea, i had a small argument with a friend.  i distinctly recall talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up.  naturally i said, “artist”.  or did i say, “a fly”?  oh, right; that was another story.  sorry; childhood memories… they’re a like an acid trip, am i right?

anyway, we were talking about what good career options there were out there (yes, we were.) and someone brought up the idea of becoming president one day.  being that we were both girls, my friend laughed and said that there are no female presidents and there couldn’t ever be one.  though at an early age, i believed there were definitely differences among men and women, career options didn’t seem to be one of them.  i emphatically disagreed and turned to my mom to seek support for my noble protest.  she smiled to herself and nodded, partly proud of my audacity and partly amused by my naivete, no doubt.  afterall, it WAS korea.  and… that’s all i’m going to say about that part.

fast forward to college and actually pursuing a career.  i learned quickly that i should be thankful that my zen master father and buddhist mother never tried to impose any popular ideals of success or purpose on me.  becoming an artist was never a question.  it was what i was meant to be and that was that.  and come to think of it, whatever i wanted to be or do, aside from a murderer or a missionary, was completely fine to them (uh, and let’s keep the worms inside that can for now, yes?).  needless to say, i’d been brought up in a super bubble:  one of freedom from the pressures of status, one detached from the discrimination and restrictions, which, for much of the world, is the human condition, and one in which creativity and dreaming was encouraged and celebrated.

ew, is that enough hippy-dippy nonsense for you?

anyway, korea has a female president.  i could indulge the sappy gods of obvious commentary by writing about the country’s progress, open-mindedness, and hope for the future, but i’m not gonna.  i don’t know much about this broad.  i plan to find out, but for now, we’ll see how things go.

what i know is that there were probably many little girls about 30 years ago in korea who were told they couldn’t do this or couldn’t do that who decided to gnaw on the bars anyway, and either bleed to death or finally break free.  thank God for those little girls and i wonder sometimes, if i’d stayed in korea, would i have been one of them?  my surroundings here in the states and the convictions of my parents were what primarily influenced my determination and decisions… or were they?  who knows.

whether girls or boys, men or women, white or yellow, poor or rich, i’m always for pushing boundaries and seeing what happens.

life story