After a recent conversation with my husband, I realized that our tiny house is the bastard child of these two very different dreams. Built on wheels, with a traditional facade and an interior with bits of modern design, the house is a confused byproduct of two goals and two lifestyles — and a symbol of my fragmented self.
It feels odd, perhaps unnatural, to age in a place as timeless and anachronistic as Las Vegas: where night is masked as day, where clocks are nowhere to be found, where things happen and are never spoken of again once you’ve left.
I remember then feeling I had to rise against it, that Hanoi was something to be conquered. Maybe I wasn’t in the right place; maybe it wasn’t the right time. You never really know with cities. They’re like people, and you don’t always hit it off.
On pondering where my writing lives.
I have nearly 50 drafts in my blog’s dashboard — waiting, forgotten, abandoned.
I guess, deep down, I do enjoy the labyrinthine-ness of the web. I complain about feeling left behind. About not knowing the best ways to do something. But I’ve never really been someone who expects — or wants — to conquer each minute of the day, to be some kind of marvel of productivity.
So here I am, molding jet lag into something productive and creative, carving out a bit more time.
Sometimes I envision my Twitter feed as rushing water: my presence is a dam, and each tweet is debris making its way downstream. It’s now a challenge to let information simply flow—to let tweets swim by without me seeing or interacting with them.
Alone, I sobbed. Yet I sobbed with Facebook open—his life revealed and exposed in bits on my screen, his friends spilling tears on his profile. I sobbed at home, by myself, but also with everyone else.
In between these meetings, we’ve created a space for us, just us, online: a portal through which that flow sustains. A borderless space that transcends geography, that exists somewhere only we can access.