ON 30

I find my hope to everlast slowly eroding. I’m an echo. My loudest shout was in the past, and my residue is all I have to reproduce. This is the dread of death that begins when the hope of life becomes real.

I realize how lucky I am. I am the  product of love and support and privilege and talent and hard work and commitment and stubborn energy that wants nothing more than to succeed. These are my triumphs, not my own alone, but shared among myself and other selves.

But as age grasps me as I am, I am faced with the number 30. 30 is a full life in ancient Chinese. The etymology of my own name 世, is meant to mean a full life. The end of life used to come at about 30 you know.

30 is a chance to reflect upon who you are and how you became it. 30 is a chance to see and recognize, and /celebrate/ this incorrigible creature that is you. Yes you are incorrigible. Apologies end at 30.

At 30, more things will in fact happen. You will experience highs and lows that reach higher and stretch lower. Pain will continue too: You will find things that sting harder because of their constancy, and yet others that sting most because of their newness.

30 is defined by what you carry with you. You still may be going somewhere, or doing something, but those things depend on what you are bringing with you. No one cares anymore about just you, but the /complete/ you, filled up with all the joys and sorrows of allness.

30 is pan-human. You begin reaching deep into human experience and connecting to others in ways that never ever felt possible. Clans becomes less of a ser verb, and more of a temporary state, an estar. The way you feel is not the way you are, and this wisdom hits home only now, at 30.

At 30, my despair and contentment spin around with unapologetic regularity. This is a product of my age. I’ve made it this far and it’s not going to stop any time soon. I do sincerely hope it does not stop.

There is no parting message, there is no vow of hope, or declaration of despair. The earlier years are best spent doing that. All that’s left, at 30, are questions. Frustratingly accurate questions. Trolling questions that are meant in earnest because they don’t just troll you, but they troll the asker too. We are waiting for something, and something awaits us, at 30.

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Poem: “Reality”

At first, there is you.
Then there is reality. And then,
there are memories.

Memories mix with realities.
These memories are in you—this dissonance is really in you.

Anger, pain, exclusion, fear-and-paranoia.
These feelings are in you—these feelings are really in you.

Reality is hard to capture, to defeat, or to at least soften—but it is really in you.


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You—yeah, you—you may have some binary thoughts…

I’m sick of Democrats, I’m sick of Republicans,
I’m sick of white people, I’m sick of people of color,
I’m tired of politics, I’m tired of apolitical intellectuals, 
I’m tired of environmental activists, I’m tired of climate change deniers,
I wanna be famous, I wanna be unknown,
I wanna be busy, I wanna be available, 
I want love, I want people to leave me the f*** alone, 
I want to think with my heart, I want to think with my brain, 
I want to be in my body, I want to leave my body and float above it, 
I’m tired of arrogant people, I’m tired of timid people, 
I’m tired of nice people, I’m tired of rude people, 
I’m tired of riding the train, I’m tired of taking Ubers, 
I’m sick of nice weather, I’m sick of shitty weather, 
I’m sick of getting sick in any weather no matter the weather, whether or not I’m sick or not….

…and so on and so on. But, hey, remember to also look deeper…

(“I’m sick of Democrats, I’m sick of Republicans”)
Democrats and Republicans aside, you can always be a critical voter.

(“I’m sick of white people, I’m sick of people of color”)
Whiteness and Color-ness aside, you can always be mixed race with pride.

(“I’m tired of politics, I’m tired of apolitical intellectuals;
I’m tired of environmental activists, I’m tired of climate change deniers”)
Politics can be a part of life no matter what: “the personal is political.”
Politics is like the environment: the personal is environmental too.

(“I wanna be famous, I wanna be unknown”)
You can be famous while being truly known by only a few.

(“I wanna be busy, I wanna be available;
I want love, I want people to leave me the f*** alone”)
You can be both busy and available.
You can have both love and autonomy.

(“I want to think with my heart, I want to think with my brain;
I want to be in my body, I want to leave my body and float above it”)
My heart and brain are part of the same body.
Your body is not a defining element to your person.

(“I’m tired of arrogant people, I’m tired of timid people;
I’m tired of nice people, I’m tired of rude people;
I’m tired of riding the train, I’m tired of taking Ubers”)
Arrogant and timid people aside, you can always be genuine.
Nice people and rude people aside, you can always be genuine.
Trains and Ubers aside, you can always walk.

(“I’m sick of nice weather, I’m sick of shitty weather, 
I’m sick of getting sick in any weather no matter the weather, whether or not I’m sick or not….”)
All weather is nice and shitty.
Sickness is a necessary part of life.


We say “don’t think twice” as if it’s a bad thing. Thinking twice is a good thing. Thinking three times is even better. Four times is better still. Think as many times as you need to finally surpass the binary logic of yes/no, either/or, always/never. There’s a world beyond this binary, and it is filled with real truth. Truths in the form of both, neither, sometimes, perhaps. Behind every brutal binary is a deep truth that is inclusive, multitudinous, and total. So, flood yourself with those binaries only to eventually overcome them, after which you can seek a truth beyond binary, and perhaps beyond brutality too.

Depth surpasses the limits of a binary. This is very important, so I’ll say it again: Depth surpasses binary limitation.

When you transcend numbered thinking, the number two inside you erases itself, making room for unknown depths. Thinking twice is a good thing. Thinking three times is better still. But the best is to think so many times that the number is no longer countable, and the act of counting itself is no longer desirable. The binary is the avant-garde, as well as the final frontier, of the brutality of numbers.

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Writing With My Dick, In the Style of an Afropunk Article

Let’s just say I’m Asian.

When I was in grade school, my first sexual encounter was in kindergarten, when a Black  classmate from the projects stuck her hand in my sweatpants and played with my penis. She laughed and giggled and had a great time and exclaimed “I can’t believe it’s so small!”

When I was in high school, my high school sweetheart (White) told me that “it was just a perfect fit” (referring to my dick inside her).

Then, years later, in the fifth serious relationship of my life, a White girl tells me, “I can’t believe how big your penis is.”

As an adult, I’ve had a Colombian girl nation-alize my sexuality, saying that Americans are known to be great in bed; I’ve had a White girl art-ify my sexuality, saying that artists know how to sense their partner’s needs intuitively; and I’ve had a Black girl mutt-ify my sexuality, telling me that my combination of two different races was just so hot, and a “perfect mix.”

I’ve had every explanation in the book for my sexuality, but never, ever in my life, for my Asian-ness. Why? Because racism.

As an adult, almost 30, I realize after much feedback, from many relationships and a few one-night stands, that I’m pretty good in bed. So many girls/women have cum on me so many times–more than we could count in a single night… I’m starting to realize this skill as a fact, after the years and years of insults that reach me in person and through the media, for Asian-American men across this country.

If you’ve questioned the size of my penis in the above words, you are a racist. I’m not Asian. I’m actually white. If you have been affected deeply by my opening statement, “let’s just say I’m Asian”, (which is factually not untrue), and felt it appropriate to connect it intrinsically to a discussion about penis size, you are racist. I just said I’m Asian to test you. I’m not actually Asian.

Don’t worry guys, we’re all racist (just a little bit)! But just so we have that out there, and you White readers have had a little time to get over your guilt, we can now really start the real talk.

(Just kidding, I’m not White, I am Asian.
…Or am I? I guess you’ll just have to keep reading…)

I would like to shift focus towards the (perceived) sexuality of African-American people, since there is truly no other way to address race in our society, than through the brutal, faulty, binary logic of Black vs. White.

Amidst the ugliness of racism, there are a few poetic links between Asian men and both Black men and Black women.

I have a few Black friends that have admitted to me of the absurd pressure of a Black man to have a porn-star sized penis, especially when sleeping with racist White women.

In this particular instance, Black men hold a stereotype in favor of Asian men, that of penis size. But similarly, and potentially much more damaging, Black men are stereotyped as lazy and unreliable, while Asian men perceived as hard-working and reliable. What’s important is that each stereotype complements the other: Asian men can only be hard-working and reliable because Black men occupy the equally racist position of lazy and unreliable. Black men can be perceived as sexually gifted  with huge penises because Asian men occupy the equally racist role of small-penised and asexual. Each label can only be occupied by one race only: a false scarcity of satisfying sex and a responsible work force, respectively, is created to assert White supremacy on all races.

Under the surface, the other hidden connection is between Asian men and Black women. Black women suffer from de-valued sexuality the same way Asian men do. This is directly linked to the hyper-sexualization of Asian women and Black men (both within a White pan-genderized and pan-sexually racist lens). It is as if only enough sexuality for one gender per race is allowable under White supremacy–a cruel way to enable White rape-culture upon people of color. Black women are not considered as attractive as White women because the racially sexualized female is currently occupied by Asian women, similar to how Asian men are considered not as attractive as White men because the Black male currently holds the same role of the racially sexualized in the male camp.This niche, the racially sexualized, does not pertain to White people, because they are the standard, even among communities of color, through the saturation from the media and entertainment industries. Being racially sexualized is a fundamentally dehumanizing social niche that limits the target’s romantic potential, whether you are on the winning” or “losing” side.

If you’ve made it this far, good job. If you wanted to stop reading because you couldn’t mop up your tears in time for the next paragraph, you’re racist.

If you stopped reading because I didn’t clearly identify my race to you, then you’re a racist.

I can’t clearly identify my race because I’m mixed race: Irish and Chinese. I’m both and neither, everything and nothing. I never lied when I said I was White, I never lied when I said I was Asian. These self-racializations were my choice–my way of forcing you to grapple with the absurdity of race for yourself.

Aside from race, though, I want to say that I love all people, and I wouldn’t mind fucking the hell out of as many of them as possible.

My Dick

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Love is a rock

Love is an answer to everything. When you are touched, whether in animosity or endearment, you can answer with love. Love is a small simple rock that stops an entire river in its tracks. It will work everywhere, every time.

But love is a mysterious rock that dissolves when used untruthfully. It disintegrates itself instantly, and the angry river rushes onward as if nothing happened. Love is keenly aware of truth and is willing to sacrifice its very existence for the sake of truth.

Love feels no pain and revels only in joy, yet it exists for living things. Living things of course do feel pain and do not revel only in joy. This is love’s great hypocrisy.

Love is the loud, strong, proud hypocrisy of living things, and it is indeed an answer to everything.

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Scars and scabs and scars

Time does not heal old wounds. Time only reopens them. You are left with scars, scabs, scars that turn to scabs that turn to scars that turn to scabs. You are nothing but a scab and scar and time is the ecstatic affirmation of your identity.

Each new touch, however loving or hateful, is a laceration upon you—trauma. And each new touch points to an over-sensitive-you, to a self-infliction.

Sharing is your own damn fault. When your heart is on the line your heart is hurt often, and you know this damn well. When you share your truth, your truths are often shaken. When you try to be good, that good is challenged. When you try to do anything, that anything is consumed and spit out into your face in all its venomous, saliva-mucous rage. That rage is your rage and that meal is your meal. It’s your own damn fault.

Sharing is the answer to nothing and that nothing is what sustains you. Your soul doesn’t mind that nothing is nothing, only that there is indeed an answer. Your sustenance is a rage that creates and receives itself, lacerating and scabbing and scarring all the way to the grave.

But death perhaps is more than nothing. It may be something. It’s also not the answer. But the somethingness of death is what pushes us to constantly share our painful nothings with each other, to live.

This is something I’ve shared with you, and I think I feel better after sharing it. It depends partially on how I feel after you consume and spit it back into my face. But the onus is on me—it is the burden of my own infliction. The unending healing rawness of the scar and the scab will be all that defines me in the end: my identity, an amorphous, cyclical pain.

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Back home

Back in the place
that once home was
Is a momentous occasion
for anything but,

For the home that once was
Is erased from memory
and replaced in time
With anything but.

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The Medium Signifies Nothing

[see title]

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I Need To Float, an undelivered speech

The following is a speech I wrote for an event that was not able to provide a piano. I chose not to deliver the speech after learning that the presenter wanted something more theatrical, and that political statements were discouraged for this particular event. It is entitled “I Need To Float.”


I have so much to tell you.

Only 15 minutes though.

15 minutes is all we have.

So let’s not waste any time.


I could create a poem for you.

I could create a monologue for you.

I could create nothing for you.

I could create something.

I could create a monodrama.

I could create a percussion piece.

I could create a short form mini-opera.


I could create an essay for you.

I could create a stump speech for you.

I could write a story for you.

I could play chance operations with you.

I could invite audience participation.

I could say no words at all, and simply act through gestures only.

I could say only words, and simply express through words and words alone.

I could decorate my body to express what I need to express, and simply stand in front of you for 15 minutes.

I could eat fruit on stage.

I could throw tomatoes at you.

I could sleep for 15 minutes.

I could strip naked, and masturbate in front of you while drinking a diet coke.

I could say and do nothing.

I could say and do everything.

Or, I could say and do some things.

I could waste 15 minutes with a list of 4,342 things that I could conceivably do with fifteen minutes of your time.


I could list the tragic loss of non-white lives in this country, dating back to the first Europeans to purge Native American people, and the first slaves kidnapped from the continent of Africa.

I could tell you how tired I am of white, male privilege. How much it angers me.

How much it saddens me.

I could tell you how much.


I could tell you about the things I love.

I could tell you about how much I love music.

I could tell you why I love music.

I could tell you about my family.

I could tell you about my friends.

I could tell you these things. I could give to you these things. These things I could create for you.


[turn page]


All of these performative ideas–whether musical or not–are essentially diversions, artistic and sometimes artful refusals to engage in the literal, in the exact. It floats in the clouds of ideas, rather than the Earth of immutability. My ideas are more playful than they are courageous, more riddled than they are solvent, they don’t lay upon the ground, they float above it.


I grapple with this often. I feel worried at times that I won’t land upon the ground in time. Or at all. I’m afraid that I won’t portray my life as an artist clearly enough amidst my cloudy thoughts. I’m afraid of having said too much while saying too little. I feel afraid the way a kite without a string must feel afraid. I feel afraid the way a swing without a seat must feel afraid. I feel afraid the way a bee with too many wings must feel afraid. Or too many stingers. Or too many hives.


I am very smart. I am very brave. I am very loyal.

This is the first time I’ve ever spoken those words in my life to another human being. Others have spoken them for me, but I have never before produced them with my own mouth.


I am a musician. I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a performer. I am a composer.


These are all things I mean to say, and know how to say. I am very smart. I am very brave. I am very loyal. I am a musician. I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a performer. I am a composer. You see? I’m trying to ground myself. I’m trying to be exact. I’m trying to be the string to that kite, the seat to that swing, the one-wing-less, the one-stinger-less, the one-hive-less to that bee.


To be in the world is to be many things: complicated, angry, personal, passionate, cruel, sweet, murky, radiant, fast, slow, easy, telling, spacious, patient, and beautiful.


I’ve spent  all of our time thus far floating about.

I would love to share a neatly packaged story that makes you like me, relate to me, connect with me, so that you can go home and say to your spouse, friend, cat, dog or journal, “hey, that guy’s not half bad.”


But that neatly packaged story that makes you like me does not exist. I wish it did.

It feels wrong (perhaps impossible) to bring me down to your earth.


I’m a kite that doesn’t reach the ground; I’m a swing that doesn’t reach the ground.

No matter which way I hang, no matter which way I swing, I do not reach the ground.

But I do reach the ground sometimes, just not for you, right now. When I’m on the ground, I’m a broken swing, a useless kite, a bee with clipped wings, a bee with a lost his stinger. You don’t want to see that side of me.


I’d like to think of music as in-the-air. Sound travels out of our instruments, through the air, and into our ears. I’m sort of preoccupied with the through-the-air part of the experience, the voyage rather than the origin or aim.


This has become a long speech.


I turn the page [turn page]


As a day passes. I think of leaves when I think of pages — in many languages, a piece of paper and a leaf from a tree are the same word. Feuille in French. Foglio or foglia in Italian. Hoja in Spanish…


When I was a little kid, I told a story to my dad that if I was a leaf, my dad would catch me before I hit the ground in the Fall, take me inside and keep me warm and give me water during the Winter, and in the Spring, glue my leaf body right back onto the tree again. My dad asked me what would happen when he dies, and I told him then I would die too, and that would be okay, because then we can die together.


To this day I’ve kept the superstition that you can’t take a leaf from a tree unless you catch it in the air as it falls from the tree. Perhaps this is what t.s. eliot saw in the leaf. There is a rare, tragic, lovely beauty in a falling leaf.


But I don’t mean to get too tragic here, with you here and all. A falling leaf can be caught. A fallen leaf can become ground cover and fertilizer for future plants, a fallen leaf can be what you use to wipe dogshit off the bottom of your nice shoes. Think about it.


Now, to talk a bit about music.

I particularly like the mid-to-high register–the top part of the alto register, through the meat of the soprano register. When Norwegian composer Kristin Bolstad asked me to “think of the most beautiful sound you know of” and ” transfer this sound from your mind to your body, and to your instrument”, I came up with two notes: C5 and E5. I think my particular love of Nina Simone’s version of Little Girl Blue is because of the simple melody she uses, introduced in the heart of this register I love.

[play melody]

The melody is in Ab major.

I have a special love for Ab major. I have a special love for the feel of Ab major at the piano. The first big, serious piece I ever played was Beethoven’s Op. 110 in Ab major. I was also learning Liszt’s Liebestraume at the same time, so the comfort and warmth of Ab major really made an impression on me. The cozy comfort of consistency (the 2 groups of 2 black notes) softly imposed against the piano keyboard’s architectural inconsistency of 7 white notes to only 5 black. The G happily slides off the Ab and the C does the same from Db. The step from Bb to C is cautious yet distict, as is the Eb to F.

The relationships within Ab major are balanced, kind and smooth—all things I aspire to be and become for myself and acknowledge and celebrate in those around me.


My least favorite key is G major. I think it is a product of working on Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I’m an obsessive person, but Bach finds a way to out-obsess obsession itself. Bach maintained a rare formula that rendered him incapable of burnout. Bach is probably my favorite musician and composer of all time.


My second favorite is not a person but rather an assortment of pieces:


Luciano Berio’s “Wasserklavier” from Six Encores

Arvo Part’s “Fur Alina”

Frederic Rzewski’s De Profundis, for narrating pianist

Johannes Brahms’s Haydn Variations for orchestra

Erik Satie’s Trois Gymnopedies, for solo piano

Nina Simone’s version of Little Girl Blue

Robert Schumann’s “Wehmut” from Liederkreis, Op. 39

Morton Feldman’s Piano and String Quartet


But they are all just words and names…Music doesn’t exist in the naming of things. Music is a symbol behind the eyes and under the ears of the heard naming of a thing. With words alone I am simply naming things—it is you who must symbolize the music.


Symbols are powerful objects.

Objects are powerful symbols.

Symbols are objects,

Objects are symbols.

A kite with no string is an object and symbol

A bee, with 3 wings,

A swing, with no seat,

These are objects and symbols.

(But symbols are not that important. What is truly important are subjects and people.)

Objects and symbols are what we deal with in words – subjects and people are what we deal with in real life.


Is the rope to a swing what a string is to a kite?

Or are they opposites?


Is a bee with 3 wings and two stingers more reckless than one with 2 wings and one stinger?




One of my favorite pieces of music ever written is Erik Satie’s “La Balancoire” (The Swing) from Sports et Divertissements. The words in the score read:

C’est mon coeur qui se balance ainsi, It is my heart that swings

Il n’a pas le vertige, It does not have vertigo

Comme il a des petits pieds, What small feet it has

Voudra-t-il revenir dans ma poitrine? Will it want to return to my chest?

It is my heart that swings

It does not have vertigo

What small feet it has

Will it want to return to my chest?


A swing needs a rope to float

A kite needs a string to fly

A bee, and all things in the air, still must land sometime.


Floating is part of my identity

But I need the Earth and all of you on it, in order to float.


My fifteen minutes could have been spent











But instead I floated around. I floated around, all around. Because I need this. I need this for me.

I need to float.

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How Art and Economy Intersect (notes for an essay)

This short entry comes from overflow notes from an essay I wrote for FOCI Arts in November.

I am an artist, through economic use-value in society. I am a performer, composer, writer, accompanist, teacher, discussion moderator, engraver, and perhaps others that I am forgetting. It is in all of these ways that my musical commodity is rendered economically useful, through exchange with others for their commodities.

As an artist, I feel a tinge of embarrassment when defining myself through “use-value.” And when thinking of economy, I have a tinge of embarrassment in having emotion, generally. These embarrassments are due to shortcomings in these two different ways of viewing life–mutually shared shortcomings that compromise their ability to meet. One shortcoming of the pure field of economics is that it does not value creativity in its analytical processes; One shortcoming of art is that it ignores the commodification of itself, and fails to learn from it. Perhaps a dialogic equilibrium can be achieved between artists and economists here in a transaction that benefits both equally.[1] Where artists fall short, economists can pick up slack, and vice versa. Cherry-picking thoughts from both art and economy, I will attempt to manufacture a dialogue between the two fields of study that is mutually beneficial.

Economics is a massive field of study that studies relationships of people and the objects between them, and the very meaning of value and worth. Art, surprisingly, strives to do the same. The only difference is approach: Economics takes a cultured reading–the further cultured the better–of the human experience, while art strives to be comparatively un-cultured, pure, direct, visceral.[2] Economics acts to define relationships between people and things, while art, explores the undefined, and sometimes even actively un-defines the previously defined. Economics makes definitions while art reacts to definitions. In this sense, economics is a more innovative field than art.

Despite direct commonalities and a constellation of complementary differences, economics and art still suffer from an uneven relationship, and as a result, hold some antipathy towards one another. This is because art is subjected to economic influence. Economy flexes its muscles in order assert its domination over art, through a highly criticized Wells Fargo ad and a highly criticized Old Navy T-Shirt design. Equally, artists fight back constantly to this prejudicial treatment, through such anti-currency statements such as “all money is dirty” (Nikki Giovanni, from Gemini) and “money is stupid and cowardly.” (Werner Herzog) Violence begets violence.

Perhaps a truce needs to be struck, in order to be mutually productive. Neither art nor economy, as we know it, can exist without society, so perhaps society itself can act as a common denominator. Perhaps the final recommendation is for both art and economy to be more socially engaged.

[2] I am thinking of Smith’s definition of “equilibrium.”
[1] I am thinking of Veblen’s use of the word “savage.”

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