Easy

EASY

INTRODUCTION

CREATOR SPECTATOR

EASY

PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE CREDITS

INTRODUCTION

A senior thesis project is a student's last given

in my thoughts sink into a fog. The matters of my hands and

opportunity to research and create work in an institutional

materials interchangeably blend into mere concept and the

context. Ideally, it is a way to represent, reflect, or object to

only thing directly in my sight of consciousness is the rhythm

the past years of one’s education. It is the final statement, the

of my work: the steadiness of breath, the sounds of sewing or

last expression and impression made before a change of time

cutting, the pauses when I hesitate or slow down to catch up

and place.

with my state of mind.

I spent the greater part of my year struggling to find

The process of creating is such a transcending

the best way to communicate the importance of my past

notion, that a simple retrospect is a frivolous speculation

four years of college education into one, harmonized project.

of the manifestation. In order to understand what occurred

I started off by asking myself a series of personal questions

during such an illusory process, one must analyze and

that had indefinite answers and slowly I realized that I was

connect the conscious and subconscious thoughts to the

targeting the very root of my pursuit—the question of my

final outcome, while also considering the physical process

initial motivation to become a designer. Over the course of

that took place. It requires an objective venture into one’s

time, be it out of mental and creative exhaustion, laziness

thoughts, history, and experiences, in relation to the present

from apathy, or dissatisfaction from failure, I lost sight of the

circumstance. In connecting all the seemingly separated

eagerness that I once had to create. I could no longer relate

elements, comprehension of what initially seemed impossible

to that initial passion, and I realized that it stemmed from a

to understand, ensues. For this reason, in order to have a more

comprehensive lack of understanding my own work.

profound awareness of my process, I separated the different

lineages of sub-processes that my mind innately follows

When I choose to create a garment, the desire to do

so comes with such sudden and urgent force, that if I do not

when creating garments. In the sub-processes, I take on three

have the opportunity to drop everything at hand and work,

different roles. I am a creator, a spectator, and a character.

all is lost. The onslaught of such a feeling is what brings me

to an elevated state of mind; the immediacy of the impulse,

to directly state a standpoint, similar to a way a speaker

the rush of visuals, the excitement of a potential outcome.

communicates in first person, speaking for and about one’s

I lose sight of the things around me, and the distinction

self. When a creator begins his or her process, the creative

The creator is an assertive position. One is able

direction is subject to his or her individualized choices, based

on past or current experiences and influences. By exploring

viewed it in its completion, to understand the discrepancies or

the role that is solely dedicated to the creator’s position, one

similarities.

is able to connect personal references to the design choices,

in order to understand the reason behind those choices.

that is considered in the creation process. The character is a

Ultimately, this reveals a historical perspective about the

creation itself, but it also embodies subconscious qualities of

creator, allowing one to connect experiences that may seem

the creator. Many times, the character, is whom the garments

irrelevant, to a product outcome, and see how they may have

are created for. When wearing certain garments, one may

influenced one another. This analysis gives a much more

take on a specific personality or specific characteristics that

comprehensive indication of a creator’s statement through the

are not necessarily representations of their daily self, but

creation.

manifestations of their subconscious self. In exploring the

character, one may realize certain subconscious thoughts that

The spectator can also be an assertive position,

The character is the most intriguing strain of thought

because spectators are able to cast their own analyses and

come out in the form of a character. Because each garment

perspective upon a piece of work. In this manner, one is

is created with specific philosophies and experiences, the

able to explore the role of the spectator in relation to the

character incarnates a narration of those specifics.

creator. As a creator, one creates initially for oneself, taking

on a specific idea and position. However, once the work is

that I could not grasp the process of my own work and the

completed and presented, it adapts a new context because

stimulus behind it, I researched anything and everything to

then, in most cases, it becomes an object that can be viewed

rationalize it. I wanted to personally contextualize the vast

and considered by others. The spectator can add his or her

spectrum that encompasses the motives behind creativity and

position to the initial idea. Once the spectator becomes

creating. I wanted to understand how one interacts and reacts

involved in a piece of work, interaction changes the context

to certain intrinsic and extrinsic qualities and experiences

of the piece. Exploration of the role as a spectator is essential

that may lead one to a final outcome. However, even after

because the relationship one has with his or her work once

breaking down the process into three different roles, I found

it is completed, is different from the relationship one has

that the only way to be aware is to actually engage in the

with it when it is still in creation. In a removed retrospect,

practice, while also being sensitive to the creator, spectator,

one can then connect the initial creation process to how it is

and character roles that I embody in the process.

CREATOR CHARACTER SPECTATOR

The creator is an assertive position, one is able to directly state a standpoint, similar to a way a speaker communicates in first person, speaking for and about one’s self.

The spectator becomes involved in a piece of work, interacting with it and changing the context of the piece. In an objective stance, one can connect the initial process to the outcome.

In truth, I got lost in introspection. Upon realizing

The character is a creation in and of itself, often incarnating conscious or subconscious projections of the creator.

CREATOR

The process of design is independent to each creator, but encompassing in the way that it encapsulates its precedents: the realization and development of new knowledge, articulation of concepts into creation, and the communication it creates with its spectators.

The design process is not always cognitive in the course of its action. Often times, it relies mostly on intuition and the sub-conscious reflection and expression of memories, convictions and sensations that articulate themselves into the design outcome.

Many creators work at a surface level, which actually allows their minds and hands to flow with less inhibitions, as opposed to when they are too focused on their concept, which can sometimes deter the process.

The practice is a sensation in itself. I often find myself transcending into a rhythmic and sub-conscious movement. I am, of course, thinking; not so much critically, but more in awareness of my immediate actions. It amazes me that in a loose sense, my hands seem to work independently of my thoughts, although in reality, my thoughts are dictating the actions of my hands, even if I may not realize it in the moment.

This is why reflection as the creator is vital in understanding my process. All the subconscious thoughts that connect through my nerve endings, allowing me to create what I do, get lost in the frenzy of physicalizing a concept. Analysis of my process, from the research behind the initial concept to how it was articulated can precipitate new or hidden meaning and reasoning behind why I chose to create what I did or why I created it in the first place.

This then provokes a critical analysis of my decisions. After I better realize my process, I am able to communicate more because whatever I might have created can now take on a critical standpoint or be representative of a critical perspective.

I first realized my love for intimates-- be it sleepwear, loungewear, or lingerie-- when I started living by myself in 2008. I was beginning my second year of college, finally beginning studies into my decided major after a year of foundational studies. I initially chose to attend Parsons to pursue a degree in Fashion Design, but after seeing the degree of talent and work ethic from my peers, I was deterred. In turn, I was encouraged by my newfound interest in the graphic arts, and with the affirmation of my professors, I decided that I would chose to study Communication Design instead. However, my passion for garment construction was unwilling to yield, and after some struggle, I finally decided to enter the Integrated Design Curriculum major which gave me the appropriate option to explore both. Unfashion was my first fashion class and I was intimidated by the confidence and passion that my peers and professor demonstrated. Because of uncertainty and fear despite the encouragement, openness, and acceptance of the class, I found the most comfort and joy in working and creating at home. Motivated by my confidence to think and create in privacy, I started creating garments that evolved more and more into intimates--into garments that one (I) would wear in the comfort and privacy of one’s (my) own room.

In retrospect, I realize my initial affinity for intimates. It was the safest and closest way to express my desire to create in spite of my insecurity. The garments were made in the intimacy of my own room, and essentially, they never had to be seen because they were meant to cover the intimate parts of the body, which would remain under other clothes. But in realizing this, I also saw the beauty behind the visceral and ephemeral qualities that intimates epitomize and from there, it evolved from a manifestation of my insecurity into my current venue of expression.

Intimates have the ability to represent many characteristics of an individual’s personality.

For this reason, I used different fabrics, patterns, and silhouettes to convey that they portray more than one characteristic. Intimates communicate a person’s desires on two different volumes. They are representative of the quiet, secret and private side of someone, while also representing a more outward boldness and personality in the wearer’s choice of intimates and how it is worn. The duality that these garments possess opened up the possibility of created characters that could portray the many characteristics that intimates carry, thus the character role in my process.

For the basis of my thesis collection, I wrote a short-fiction narrative about two girls struggling with identity. One is the narrator, or the spectator of the situation who is reserved and defensive. She is bitter and introverted, reluctant to really connect to anyone other than herself. The other girl, Easy, is who the narrator longs to be, a carefree and audacious girl, struggling to detach herself from a mysterious past and concrete identity. The garments I created are purposed to represent both girls and their personalities.

I suppose at the root of it, the created the characters because they are essentially me--they embody who I want to be or who I don’t want to be; who I’ve changed from or who I’m changing into. They are the idealized, imaginized (no, that’s not a real word), personified, crazy or lazy, little caricatures of me. Whether I am always conscious of my own self leaking into these characters or not is the reason why I choose to analyze the process as a creator. Through the analysis and understanding of the characters, I am able to realize what I am projecting, and strengthen or weaken that projection based on the newfound realization.

In creating the garments and characters, I understand how my personal history and position exhibits itself in my creation. The characters and overall aesthetic were not created out of spontaneity or impulse but from a mix of conscious and sub-conscious understandings of my own character, in critique and observation of myself.

After a final observation of my work as a creator, I am surprised to see how some of my work has slowly moved into non-intimates. Analysis of my process has deepened my understanding of my work and brought clarity to the question of why I create and express the way I do. And in finding a sense of definition and direction, I am moving away from the initial insecurity I had, and that movement is being conceptualized and physicalized into my garments. Whereas I once wanted my garments to only remain under other clothes or behind the privacy of closed doors, now I am arriving at a confidence and awareness that allows me to create more freely, exploring other shapes, silhouettes and parts of the body that I felt inept or too intimidated to explore before.

SPECTATOR

In the final outcome of all the work, I see the confrontation and harmony between prudence and audacity, intimacy and conspicuity, reservation and confidence. All of the garments have elements of virtue, while also being lined subtly, or not so subtly with sexuality.

Some of the garments, such as the pattern-print drawstring pants, or the creme-colored, paneled blouse have sections cut out of them, revealing rather intimate parts of the body which usually remain covered in those types of garments. The pants reveal parts of the upper thigh, and the blouse a large section of the back. They are two garments that would be quite conservative if not for those details.

Other garments such as the nude, mesh top or the black, sheer pants are much more apparent in their audacity because of the fabrics they are made of. The translucency of the fabrics immediately give a sense of seduction and intimacy, but the actual shape and silhouette of the garment is more prudent in the way that it covers all inti-

mate areas of the body and have a plain shape to them.

Aside from shape, details and fabrics, the color story of the collection plays into the notion of duality as well.

Light hues of pastel pinks, cremes, and nude contend with strong strikes of black, navy, and a deep, forest green. When one chooses to wear a specific color, it may be representative of their mood, or a certain presence he or she may want to portray. The lighter colors articulate a sense of youth and even innocence, while the dark colors undeniably give a much stronger, clandestine presence.

The colors, shapes, silhouettes, and fabrics of the final collection have all been used to physicalize the dueling concepts that are represented by the characters, who in essence capture a more personal struggle of reservation and assurance. Based on my observations as a spectator, I can see the reason for creating the garments and how they evolve interchangeably, from one entity to another. I can see how the development from introspection to creation is translated into the garments and characters I created.

EASY PROLOGUE I’ve recently become partial to fallibilism, the philosophical principle, that human beings could be wrong about their beliefs or their understanding of the world, because although we can assume things as knowledge based on experience and expectation, no knowledge can ever be rationally supported or justified in a conclusive way as truth. While it can be a cynical ultimatum, it doesn’t mean that I don’t believe or hope in anything, it just means that I’ve come to accept that whatever I believe or hope in, isn’t necessarily a truth. And for once in my life, I’m okay with that.

I’ve come to this conclusion after a subjective exploration of Buddhism, Protestantism, Existentialism, and Scientific Methodology, in that order. The commonality in all four, is the reoccurrence of slight changes in interpretation and meaning based on time and context, which in essence changes their entire philosophy, no longer making it any sort of constant or established truth— because people are too stubborn to accept anything the way it is; because everything in some way has to mean something specific and personal to someone, in order to be regarded as truth or profound.

And instead of becoming a pluralist and just embracing the good in all these beliefs, like the majority of my peers, (generated and influenced by the universalistclusterfuck of “post-post-modern” thought) I realized the futility and blatant lack of tenacity in the idea of faith and the “margin of error” that these philosophies require. And if these widely acknowledged, established ideas of truth cannot rationally justify or support themselves except through the necessary acquiring of “faith” or embracing “the margin of error”, then I unabashedly account my fallibilism to my lack of persistence in figuring out what truth is as well.

I am not abandoning every theory as false; I just believe that there is the possibility, that we could all be wrong about everything.

I

II

I live in a dangerously obscure town in the middle of nowhere.

I say the middle of nowhere, because it doesn’t really matter where I’m from, but it should be known that where ever this is, it is as insignificant and generic as the phrase, “the middle of nowhere” sounds. Nothing ever happens or changes here, except for the local diner which collapses every year on the account of it being built lopsided in 1950. Nevertheless, each year, it is rebuilt once again, only to be more lopsided than the previous year, needing constant rearrangement to keep it running. In this boredom-ridden place, smart boys and girls waste away, mindlessly filing papers in underground offices, dreaming of nothing other than what they might eat for dinner, because ambition is an unspoken word, a forgotten term, an ancient curse upon anyone who may have pursued it in the foggy past. Good music is spent in lonesome department stores, where lonesome, middle aged women come to shop, perhaps to temporarily whisk away the void they feel from growing up in this lonesome town- God knows.

I wasn’t born here, but unfortunately it is all I know. I was kidnapped at the age of two, before any cognitive memory, by my own parents. They vowed to plot revenge against a faulty birth control company, by planning to raise the most fucked up human being in history of planet earth.

Consequently, I have only ever loved two things in my life, both of which I have lost along the course of my adolescence. The first is my copy of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke, and the second, a boy called Crook- hilarious, really. The copy of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding was given to me by my grandfather, long gone, when I was twelve years old. I have read it every year since, although, to this day, it is everything but something I understand. Regardless, it was something I treasured dearly and I believe I may have placed it in a location that just happened to simultaneously be a wormhole. I wish the same thing had occurred with Crook, but occasionally I like to be realistic and masochistic and remind myself that that was not the case. After three affection-filled years, he told me, between bites of a breakfast burrito, that he had fallen out of love with me- as if it were that simple; as if love were a place or an object that you could accidentally stumble out of! As if I were to understand it, just as it was said.

The universe is a rotten place with too many wormholes in all the wrong locations and not enough wormholes in the right ones. For that reason, you must always be wary of where you choose to sit or place things. I always pluck a hair from my head and let it drop first, to see if it might disappear to another spot in the milky way, before I sit someplace new. It’s a worthy habit- you wouldn’t want to lose a possession or yourself in this vast universe.

For the longest time, the closeness of our neighbors bothered me. I was a twenty year old introvert living with my parents and the thing I regarded with utmost importance (after splitting doubt and self-defense mechanisms) was privacy. That is, until I realized the comfort in knowing that at least someone out there knew the mundane routines that make up my life.

Our neighbors were our agnostic gods, doubling as our best friends, a bit removed. They knew every detail of our lives.

They had no choice but to know; our walls were so thin and our windows, always open. They knew when we laughed, when we cried, when we messed up making dinner, or argued over the money we didn’t have. They knew when we were in love or when we were falling out of it. They knew when we woke up in the mornings and even the sounds of our alarm clocks. They knew us intimately in the way that they could smell us, see us, hear us, touch us (during good morning handshakes) and taste us (if we were feeling particularly lustful).

It’s a bit funny because despite all the various personalities and preferences that individuals have, as human beings with the innate tendency to commune, we just want someone to know everything about us. We want them to ask us what we’re up to, who we’re with, what we’re thinking; as if knowing this just on our own isn’t enough to serve as purposeful or meaningful in our lives. If we are the only ones who know something or experience something, it would only exist within us and only to us, but when it is shared, or when it is known by others, it is an affirmation of its existence in a wider context. It is an affirmation of our capacity and capability to think, and feel, and engage- an affirmation of our existence, to the world.

III

I gave up on the idea of unconditional love when I was thirteen years old. I was caught shoplifting a deck of cards from a local convenience store. I was escorted home by a cop, which I now realize was completely unnecessary— I was only thirteen years old and I stole a deck of fucking ninety-nine cent playing cards. But regardless, after the cop told my mother the details of the incident, she slapped me hard across the face with an unfamiliar look of wrath in her eyes and sent me to my room. I remained absolutely still in gaping shock before making sense of what had just happened. I ran to my room, slammed the door and laid prostrate on my bed in utter tears, hoping I would eventually fall asleep and die either from drowning or suffocation.

Later that night, my mother knocked gently on my door. I feigned sleep and remained unresponsive. Part of me hoped that she would think I really was dead and break into heart-wrenching sobs, overcome with guilt and regretting the very thought of raising her hand. I thought, maybe if I were dead, I could finally see that she actually cared. I was a highly sensitive, melodramatic kid. But instead, she came in and left a plate of apple pie on my nightstand.

In retrospect, I understand that this was her form of apology, her way of saying, “let’s move on from this day”. But that night, ten years ago, without the palpable affection and apology that I desperately longed for, I cursed love and gave up on it altogether. I picked up the plate of apple pie and smashed it against the wall, yelling, “FUCK PIE!” I was so angry, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but at the time, it felt justified.

From that moment on, I approached any close encounters of love with armed skepticism and bitter defense. Every short-lived relationship, lined with hormonal infatuation was just another experience to add to my increasing doubt and misery.

EASY

IV

(A) She left as quickly as she came.

I first saw Easy on a particularly chilly October afternoon, three years ago. She was walking into the house next to mine with a box in hand. That house had only been empty for a week before she moved in.

I was surprised at how quickly it sold and I felt sorry for my unsuspecting new neighbor.

Despite the weather, she was wearing a white shirt that showed off her back and the black push up bra she was wearing under it. I couldn’t tell if she was wearing shorts or not, they were so short. I could however, see the garter belt hanging down her skinny thighs, and I remember whispering unconsciously, “I never knew girls actually wear those things”. She had long, dark hair and she pushed it behind her ears with both hands to look at me and smile, before strutting into the house with the utter sexuality of a hundred porn stars, all while being innocuously barefoot and adorned with a bow in her hair.

She looked about my age, about twenty years old, though she was one of those girls you just couldn’t be sure of. She looked like she could be eighteen, but by the way she dressed and walked with seasoned ease, she looked twenty-five.

Over the course of the week, everyone was passive-aggressively curious about our pretty, new neighbor and her mysterious male roommate. They leaned out their windows or slumped around on their porches to watch her bring boxes into the house one by one. They stared in wide-eyed attention, as if it were the best television series they had ever laid their uncultured eyes on. I shook my head in disgust, but I was secretly envious of the attention she was receiving. But then again, she was quite a sight.

I caught glimpses of her outside when I came home from working at the godforsaken lopsided diner, half-bitter at the fact that it hadn’t collapsed with me in it yet. It wasn’t until I realized that I could partly see into her room from mine, that my curiosity grew.

At first, I tried not to look. My curiosity had to be an un-welcomed and intrusive manifestation of my boredom and even if we are all guilty of harmless eavesdropping and benign tom peepery, I didn’t want to be like the rest of my neighborhood. I wanted to feel sane. I wanted to feel careless and busy enough, where details of other people’s lives were overlooked and irrelevant to me. But how could I not be intrigued? I don’t know how to justly describe her. She was a fucking bombshell in a sea of nobodies and nobody knew where she came from.

(B) I was cleaning up a pile of papers in my room when I saw her in hers, slouched against her window in a see-through top, smoking a joint and singing to herself. I actually caught myself staring, that’s how long I had been staring. I mentally traced every part of her face— her skin pulled delicately over her cheekbones and jaw. The top of her lips met in the most persuasive archer’s bow, leading you, lock-eyed and anxious to the grooved, perfect pout on her lower lip. God was unfair.

Her eyes were large and had an indefinite sternness to them; rimmed by a million lashes aligned in the most remarkable curve. They were piercing to an uncomfortable degree, until the corners of her lips whisked upward, bringing those eyes into two half moons of absolute pleasantness and softness, pinching her eyelashes to the the top most mesa of her cheekbones. She was smiling at me.

All of my meticulous observations, which had started stringing into their own little fantasies, scurried at the realization of her awareness. Embarrassment rose with swiftness, painting my cheeks to the top of my scalp in inner heat. My eyes fleeted downward and I quickly turned my gaze to the unruly sheets, lackadaisically spilling off the side of my bed. That’s when I saw her move from the

corner of my eye. I looked up carefully, trying my best to feign carelessness and cool—-as if seeing her was like seeing dust settle on the window pane. She lifted her hand almost timidly, cocked her head in the slightest to her left, and curled her fingers toward her. Was she motioning me to come closer? I moved closer. She opened her window a little wider and put her elbows on the sill. She smiled again.

Come over. I had lost all cognition. I thought I was imagining it. Her voice broke my reverie. Hey, my name’s Easy. Come over.

I walked out of my room, questioned myself, shrugged it off, then walked out the door. This must be leading me to a wormhole, I thought, as I made my way down my steps. Before I reached her porch, she was already standing in doorway, framed by the darkness inside her house and the white paint of the doorway beams.

V

(A) In the minute that I realized she had seduced me, I was already falling fast through the wormhole that had been deceitfully (and so, so wonderfully) set. Seduction, was a designed sort of deconstruction, a nimble-minded trick to make me lose sight of even my deepest rooted routine. And I remember thinking, how could I forget? I had put forth such an effort to etch that movement of raising my hand, plucking a hair, and seeing it drop, to keep myself safe, so that my actions could not be breached.

And this is why nothing in this universe can be trusted. Because even your mind, a place that cannot be tangibly reached, can be tainted by the smallest trigger of desire.

And in that moment- the fall through a wormhole, which I had spent my entire life dreading, fear- an unfathomable notion, suddenly became a dull understood- and what filled me instead, was an odd upheaval of curiosity and excitement. I wasn’t getting lost in the universe; I was merely heading to a new destination.

(B) And it was as if we were never strangers. It was just that easy. From that day forward, I spent almost everyday in her room making small talk, listening to her strange Middle Eastern Jazz, marveling at her collection of clothes, and falling in love with every inch of her being. I wish I could have seen us from the frame of my room, just to give myself visual evidence of a once-reality, now dissipating into memory.

Things were simple; things were hidden. Her name was Easy, I didn’t know her age, I didn’t know her past, I didn’t even know her race; it didn’t matter. She smoked, but sparingly, she lived with her not-so-mysterious-anymore but seriously-handsome best friend, Jeff, and they were both drug dealers. It didn’t bother me. She loved dogs, but couldn’t afford one, she hated the educational system, but loved and longed for a proper education. She hated novels but loved poetry. She wasn’t particularly articulate, but she had sincerity for days. She kept so much to herself— she was private and poised and had the self-restraint of a British guard, but was affectionate and funny, and whimsy, and perceptive and so, very accepting.

It was as if falling through a wormhole led me to become myself but in a parallel universe. I was unafraid of being vulnerable to her; she made me feel as if there was nothing ever, to lose. All the infrastructures of my mental defense forts melted when she looked up at me, when she touched my hair, when she told me I was the pretty, when she passed me a blunt, when she touched her chin in thought, when in mockery, she sang the words of the book she was reading at the time, when she fell and sunk into her down comforter, sighing with exhaustion and good feelings after dancing to her strange music.

Only once did I stop and realize, I had no idea who I was turning into. I left whoever I was twenty highs and a galaxy ago, and I was glad to leave her behind. I don’t remember much else that happened in the course of the six months I spent with Easy. How could I focus on anything else. I was

drawn to her in so many senses of the word, and she loved me, strictly because of our camaraderie, strictly because she had so much affection to give and so much to receive, but only so few to give and receive from. But that didn’t matter much either.

One night, Jeff and Easy decided to throw a huge party and we spent the night dancing and being chased around by handsome boys, faces chiseled by their daily coke intake. A boy named Sig had gotten a hold of me and in a drunken haze, he started kissing down my neck, tongue swirling around my collar bones and heading southward toward my tiny chest. I leaned my head back, welcoming the long-forgotten warmth from a mouth, when I saw Easy at the far corner of the room, carefully and lightly kissing the boy who’s lap she was sitting in. It broke me. And in an instant, all of the doubts I so gladly left behind were rushing into my periphery without any concern of coming uninvited. I was a 20 year-old girl from the middle of nowhere, who had lost sight of everything except for this girl I barely knew anything about. The hottest guy I’d ever seen was physically entrancing me, and all I could feel was pain at the sight of Easy showing someone else the affection that I unconsciously longed for. It didn’t make sense. How could I be attracted to her? How could I have fallen in love with her, in that way? How could she not have known?

My mind did vomit-inducing twists and I felt a cold sweat of panic rise from the fog in my brain. I didn’t understand. I had to have gone insane. I choked the intrusive thought to the back of my head, gave Sig a kiss and apush and walked away without even a glance up, into Easy’s room, still ripe with confusion.

I was caught off guard.

She was already there, a cigarette barely hanging on her lower pout, lying on the bed on her stomach, legs bent upward, her feet, doing a little dance on an invisible ceiling, arms crossed over and holding down pages of one of Raymond Carver’s short story collections. She was reading.

She looked up at me and smiled. With sleep, alcohol, and the comfort of her presence invading the urgency I felt earlier to confront her, I must have fell into another wormhole, and this time I let myself fall willingly. I passed out next to her, unaware of anything except the flutter of paper as she turned pages.

VI

The time with her I remember with most vividness, even three years later, is when we were lying in a tangle of limbs on her floor, warm and laughing from an emptied bottle of whiskey she had conjured up from her unchartered past. We spent the afternoon helping Jeff clean up from the strange weekend before, and he had just left for work. She pushed a strand of hair back from my face and cautiously, treading lightly, said; I’ve never kissed anyone before, until this past weekend.

I froze in surprise. It couldn’t have been true. She looked like she had been with and destroyed the hearts of a million men.

I laughed and said, you’re so strange, Ease, to hide my utter confusion and speechlessness.

She laughed too and replied, yea, I guess I’m a bit strange in that way.

I turned to face her and said, You’re gorgeous, what does it matter. I was surprised at how easy this honesty and vulnerability came to me.

She stared at me with surprise, then with genuine gratitude she said, Thank you. I really appreciate that. You are too, I hope you know that. You must know that.

That was the last I saw of her.

VII

Like I so often did in the past, I could blame it on a wormhole, and maybe, in another consciousness, it is.

But to put it as shortly and painlessly as possible, someone tipped off the cops about what was going on at that house and Jeff and Easy were arrested.

The whole town was in tactless uproar over the incident and as expected, a short article was printed front page of our local newspaper the next day. It revealed very little information: “Jeff ” was 20 years old, “Easy” was a minor. She was 15…15 years old. She had runaway from her affluent parents who were unwilling to comment on the situation. Jeff and Easy were involved in the trafficking of marijuana. End of article.

Several cops came in and out of my house that week, asking questions and trying to find out more information about Easy and Jeff. I told them I had never exchanged more than a “welcome-to-the-neighborhoodhigh” with them. I was feeling bitter and audacious, but of course they did not pick up on my wit. They left us alone after that, and no one ever came back. Not the cops, not Jeff, not Easy.

EPILOGUE

I moved out the following month to the far-away city I reside in now. I couldn’t stay in a room that still peered into hers. I couldn’t stay in a world where gravity was so grounding and numbing, when I had grown accustomed to a yonder-world where I was always floating.

It’s been about 3 years since I met Easy, but I still think about her from time to time. It is all in painful vain, as I knew so little about her. But I suppose I am happy knowing that she was once a presence in my life. She was a bullet that ended my bitter state of inertia, a wormhole that I welcomed. Instead of questioning and over-analyzing everything that happened with her or to her as I would have and could do, I’ll leave it at that. She was Easy. She was a 15 year old drug dealer who knew more about the world than I or anyone, for that matter, ever will. She was everything I wasn’t and everything I wanted to be. She was other-worldly, extra-dimensional, even. Yet, she was human. Just in the way that I sought comfort in my strange, removed relationship with those around me, she, as private as she was, wanted that relationship with me. She longed to be known and loved and to know and to love. She wanted to relate and engage, and exist in world other than her own. She was my neighbor, someone’s daughter and the only girl I ever loved. She made everything I once believed so resolutely, crumble. She proved to me that everything I begrudgingly held in self-righteousness could be wrong. And I thank God, or whoever, whatever, if anything is out there, for that.

So here I am now, the most satisfied fallibilist, the most uncanny paradox one can ever meet, hoping to one day, out of marvelous chance, stumble across a wormhole that might lead me to her again.

God Mom, Dad, Andrea Park, Samantha An Sarah Stolwijk, Pascale Gatzen, Mathan Ratinam Eric Han, Fang Yu, IDC homies Michele Lau, Byron Escobar, Carl Sison, Riddhi Desai Joseph Kang, John Andrew Margallo, Kyle Baluyot, Hannah Oh GPC, BBR Yohji Yamamoto, Wim Wenders I can’t articulate how thankful i am for all your knowledge, love, fun, help, inspiration, support, prayers, and confrontations throughout the years, that have brought me this far. i’m going to cry, so i stop here. thank you.