Nesting

Image Source (pexels.com)

I am currently happily fixated on interior design even though my aesthetic has absolutely no formal training on the subject. I just like looking at pictures of other people's homes--to have an idea of what I consider as homey. We are moving to a new, modest-sized house (what others might consider as really small and too urban) that fits our lifestyle and budget. While my fantasy world considers the image above as the perfect interior (in a parallel universe where light fixtures do not exist, homes self-clean, there is no such thing as money, and time has been suspended in 1600s Europe)--I prefer pragmatic, affordable, understated elegance.  The home has to look nice, be comfortable, and should be easy to maintain--yet still instill a little bit of pride so as to freely invite family and acquaintances on special occasions.  Oh, it should also be accessible to essential locales and amenities, whether places of work, schools, churches, hospitals, and most especially---supermarkets. Food is a basic need of man.

It is a fact that I tend to romanticize the mundane.  Hah. Whatever rocks one's boat, right?

Sporadic revisiting

The mind and memory can play tricky games with our consciousness.  Looking back on the travails of these past ~3 years, I believe that I’m where I’m supposed to be. It was such a great feeling when during a chat with my senior colleague, she told me “...well, you’re wanted here.” What a wonderful statement to hear, isn’t it? I always thought that I shouldn’t expect validation and must not inordinately seek recognition, yet like most people, I probably innately crave it. I resigned to the fact that if I could go through things once again, I should have invested more on those which/who were worth the time rather than operate under the delusion that implicit biases or preconceived perceptions change. Sort of like Lindsay Lohan’s predicament on Mean Girls. I think I actually belong now. No longer the square peg trying to fit in a round hole. Yay!

Irrelevance

“Flawed finite human nature” was the phrase that was constantly stated by a deacon last Sunday. I definitely manifest this and am regularly reminded of this by my immediate surroundings...surrounders. 

I concede. Nothing further, your honor.

Missing the Status Quo

 

I always went to this courtyard for the past 2.5 years.

Would you not agree that status quo is relative? It is impermanent and will vary depending on whose perspective it is being viewed.  It is not the absolute absence of change. It's like climate--average weather, if you will. My status quo will now shift. It's like a re-calculation of my center...rather, a re-calibration. Mean-centering, in mathematical/statistical/numerical parlance.

What I miss about the recent past is the luxury of being able to walk outside of my work station and go to this beautiful quiet spot (image above). Actually, it's only one among a couple of wonderful hidden spots I went to in order to think (or not think). Think of things I'm not required to think about, I mean. You know, in school you are required to read specific books--but there are occasions when you just want to read what you want to read. It's very much like that. I relocate my physical self to a place where I coerce my mind to think of things I want to think about, rather than things I'm employed to think about. Do you understand what I mean? *rhetorical question...if you answer back and I actually hear it...I may have to start seeing a psychiatrist...actually, I'm collaborating with two but----STOP this notoriously crazy internal banter manifesting as non-stop finger tapping on a keyboard!*

Meanwhile, I have had the pleasure of meeting with a curator and since I'm facing a windowless wall---I  chose this respite-like piece of pseudo-reality that only I can appreciate (since people entering the room won't be able to see it as it is partially hidden by a book case on the right where the door is located). It's like  an instant escape on a hypothetical rooftop in some European academic hyper reality.

Sneak preview from above my monitor.

Periodic Melancholy

Bereavement is a ninja, isn’t it? Like a sniper, without warning, hits you right at the bullseye that is the seat of your emotions. I miss my father. The sort when you grit your teeth to stop the tears from flowing then you inhale with a staggered breath and your chest suddenly feels icy cold. A tear escapes, followed by another and another...and you exhale—surrendering to the feeling. Oh well. Life.