2025, october 12

inside my book tales of a loud humab

a humab is the sort of creature you’d only meet if you accidentally tripped into the gap between a yawn and a sneeze. it’s shaped vaguely like a beanbag that housed a ton of sugar, with stubby arms like folded origami and a mouth that seems to run all the way around its head, like an unzipped jacket.

a loud humab doesn’t just speak—it broadcasts. its voice comes in foghorn-waves, like a brass band warming up in a cave, shaking loose dust from rafters and making teacups quiver in their cupboards. strangely, the humab isn’t aware of how loud it is. to itself, its voice sounds like the faint buzzing of a friendly bumblebee. to everyone else, it’s more like a marching band of friendly bumblebees—through a megaphone.

the humab’s noise isn’t only sound. its words ripple the air into wobbly patterns, so wallpaper peels, puddles ripple, and nearby pigeons lose their train of thought mid-coo. yet people forgive the humab instantly, because its booming laugh feels like standing in front of a bakery oven: overwhelming, yes, but warm and promising some kind of mischief-flavored bread.

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2024, july 2

inside my book mia

when mia feels sorrow, she’s constantly on the lookout for salvation in the most mundane things. she sees it in the dust particles floating around her apartment when the sunlight hits just right. she looks for it in an ikea ad, imagining solace in the sofa on the poster. she finds herself trying to draw comfort from a family of ducklings swimming in the canal, or from a passerby who smiles at them as if she lives a life of steady emotions, unlike mia’s weekly rollercoaster.

today, mia saw a young girl walking along the sidewalk. the girl wore a light pink dress with a leather jacket over it, looking like she had just turned six, having just outgrown her baby chubbiness into a more elongated, school-aged form. her black curls were tied back, and she had this incredibly determined gaze, almost as if she’d been cast for a film poster because of that intense determination in her eyes.

in the girl’s pink dress, mia found a kind of permission to stay soft. the leather jacket and the girl’s resolute expression reminded mia that she can face anything with a determined look. it hit her that she’s allowed to be radically inconsistent—that even if something causes her pain, she doesn’t have to let it go. mia can be inconsistent and still hold her ground with a firm gaze.

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2024, january 8

inside my book mia

mia is sitting in sydney, immersed in the heat of the new year, and her star lights dance on the ceiling, casting water-like reflections, and outside, the jungle garden is thriving with lush greenery, and her cat sprawls in her lap making the keyboard wobble, and through the window, mia sees people braving the morning heat, and the sunlight flashes into her room as cars pass by, reflecting the intense australian sun, and it’s seven in the morning, and she's sipping hot coffee from her tiny mug from saigon, and the freshness of a recent shower lingers on her, and her pajamas are crisp and new, and she’s wearing her black history shirt with the aboriginal flag, and, on her screen, a zoom connection bridges the miles to her friend in berlin, and her friend is enveloped in the winter coziness of her room, and it’s dark and snowy out there, and the berlin winter cold cools her, as if the chill seeps through the screen, offering respite from sydney’s summer. and her thoughts flow rapidly as she types, seeing her reflection in the dark tv screen, noticing how her hands swiftly move across the keyboard, and mia feels remnants of her recent illness lingering in her body, and even through the freshness of the shower, traces of the past days’ lethargy remain, and as she types, she’s sweating out the last of her illness, detoxifying as she writes, and her mind delves into dreamscapes, blending her sydney monday morning with her friend's berlin sunday evening.

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2023, december 11

inside my book mia

during this time of transition, mia woke up every morning without an alarm and first thing, she would read for minutes, sometimes for hours in her ocean-colored bed, sometimes it was five in the morning, sometimes it was twelve noon. then she would get up, and, still in her negligee, she would make her omelette with cottage cheese, onions, and scorchin’ hot chili oil, and she would cut it into little pie slices, to snack on through her working day, in breaks from her relentless admin toil, and she would cut avocado into little cubes to go with the omelette, and when her shoulders became sore from all the digital paperwork, mia would do a little workout until her shoulders burned in satisfaction, and in the early evening, when she had toiled all her admin energy out of her and the australian spring sun had lowered, she would head out for a stroll in kirribilli and wendy whiteley's secret garden, and while strolling she'd dictate writing snippets into her phone, and she'd walk the stairs in wendy whiteley's secret garden up and down until she started sweating and panting. and when mia came home after dusk, she’d cook something spicy and collapse on the sofa with a red wine and she’d watch australian shows about slut shaming, and her cat would sprawl on her lap, her purrs vibrating into the night.

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2023, december 3

inside my book mia

after a full day of binge-worrying, mia‘s mind unexpectedly shifted into a state of deep relaxation. it was a paradoxical surrender: the more she worried, the more her mind eventually let go. reminiscent of her experience with her tense shoulder muscle — counterintuitively, not relaxation, but further straining would loosen the muscle. doing a shoulder workout, she would push the muscle to its limits until it had no choice but to relent. further tension led to ultimate relaxation. same with her mind: mia had worried so hard, it was like she had worried the worries out of her system. overthinking burns itself out. she exhausted her anxiety, leaving her mind in a serene repose.

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2023, november 3

inside my book mia

mia finds people most beautiful when they’re hungover or heartbroken. it’s because they let go of all composure. their faces look like they are slightly melting. not horror movie melting, but firm melting like tealight wax after you’ve blown out the light and after a few minutes, it’s not liquid anymore but not hard yet. that kind of softness the tealight wax has. that’s the softness people have in their face when they’re letting go of all composure because they’re hungover or heartbroken. that’s how mia’s face will look. those tiny muscles by her eyes, they will be completely relaxed. almost like they’ve given up.

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2023, october 10

inside my book mia

whenever the mess flooded her apartment, mia would turn to painting. not because the chaos itself was inspiring – far from it. but because painting was her way of justifying this excessive clutter. seeing it as the mess of a forty-year-old made her feel incapable of life. but viewing it as the chaos of an artist she felt her genius underpinned.

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