On Leaving
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
Try as you might, you will not beat the pattern. Inhabiting Earth by the hemisphere, you are disposed to the same rotations, seasons, circadian rhythms, arrangers of spirals, symmetries, and cracks as an evergreen is. A stretch mark differs little from bark. And as we know from annual chopping and decking, we accelerate cycles if it means we can dress them in bulbous, elegant fashion before lugging them dry to the curb. Tradition venerates the sacrifice in art and some of us do not exempt ourselves. Frida Kahlo was impaled by a handrail and split her chest to sanctify the metal that nailed her whole. Van Gogh resisted moderation and produced 2100 works before he shot himself at 37. Expression and violence intermingle; the gods and the Medici were around before 10,000 hours.
In the toe jam of giants, I had my crisis when I didn’t want to continue architecture school. On a hidden heap of kindling, it swelled into an invisible blaze, but a black-edged axiom wafted: I burned out because I didn’t want to be an architect, not vice versa. But I writhed over what to do next. Exiting something once sacred made me question if I was flighty, if I’d ditch the next attempt and reignite. This was not a paranoid appraisal. I have found and left art all my life.
The first What I wanted to be when I grew up was an Artist, which meant painting family portraits. Improvising with Crayola, I etched triangles and sticks that unquestionably depicted my subjects. Laserdiscs on my lap, I copied the curves of the Darlings’ pajamas, but never traced. I then flew through a choreographed ballet of Peter Pan, eschewing slippers for rosined feet and flipping tour jetés. I clicked clacks with my shoes and swayed for another opening, another show, pivoting me towards my next What, a Triple Threat. I didn’t tell my agents, however, so for my trifecta, I got the keys to the piano instead. I’d crescendo up and scale down and hold the pedal to sustain. Making it last would be easy for nothing ends when you’re seven. You swear an oath to whatever first comes your way and you practice loyalty as taught. You don’t test that faith until adolescence.
Entrusted with technology, I wielded a camera to capture triangles and sticks to the millimeter. I recorded my friends portraying an ultimate kung-fu frisbee team; the bloopers made the cut. CD mixes flexed more discerning taste and collages recontextualized my room. Up for interpretation, I retook to the stage as a zombie-cheerleader-fighting-AARP-hot-dog-vendor since saving the world takes pretending. But I could feed it brownies then cowboy cookies as I did for the last day of school—which is where it ends. Playtime is over; exploration goes kaput; you can do this art thing or this other thing called STEM. Broadway didn’t accept my FAFSA, so I went with a course that was aesthetically satisfying and satisfyingly Asian. “Architect” looks a lot like “artist” when you take your glasses off.
My allegiances reset to one. Certain distractions sloughed off conveniently: my passion for the piano conked recitals ago; acting died with the cheerleaders; pasta Barilla whetted the appetite. Dance and film reclined effortlessly as I would not try these recreations further. I had an original destiny to fulfill. Like Salvador Dalí and Zaha Hadid, I would have a trademark, one that was as uncompromising as I was to myself. It often emerged as a density of lines, frenzied, voltaic, yet two-dimensional, which threatened to expose me. I was less an artist than an abuser at the ready. I pummeled my insides to supply past 100bpm, so the flares were creative sparks and the plumes of smoke, steam. To tell the engine it’s on the wrong train then is a failure not mechanical. My resolve to leave architecture was slower than my determination to generate it and there was no sign pointing to its replacement. I knew terror, but the unknown knew satisfaction, so I let myself break character. I wasn’t sure if there would be an encore or just another run.
Capitalism does not take kindly to Renaissance kids. Those without sugar patrons stuff ambition around day jobs and thus must rebel and choose wisely. I tossed about graphic design and costuming and quit those as was customary. I’m a deserter, a shirker, a goldbricker goof-off, and then we circle back. I’ve been writing for nearly seven years and called myself a writer for six of them. Like the other crafts, it was not clear I would take to it, but I was a reader before I was a writer.
The third What I wanted to be was an Employee at Barnes & Noble. I aspired to read all day and help others occasionally, and twenty years later, I aim for the same. Writing welcomes my experiences and rouses me to expand as it is boring to write about writing. A system that challenges and forgives is a gauntlet I can get behind. May not even be my last ring, but I would be blessed to see the eras of my way. I will not get out of the loop. I am no better than a tree.