The Bastard Child of Two Dreams

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.

Returning to Hanoi (and Giving a City Another Chance)

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 (Un)organized Consumption

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.

On Everything and Nothing & Reading and Not Writing

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.

Online Mourning and the Unexpected Refuge of Facebook

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.