Facebook Album

Remember the old Facebook when you couldn’t wait to upload an entire album after hanging with your friends? Every event felt monumental especially after you’ve copied your entire digital camera and tagged everyone in the pictures. It was up to them to untag themselves because who cared to select the best pictures when every moment was equally precious. I miss that sense of naivety — before understanding the dangers of the Internet, and more simply the amount of storage space pictures take up. Here’s my album in film from the past several months for your scrolling pleasure circa Facebook 2010.

As the Internet evolved and there’s the belief that $big$money$ can be made if you just brand yourself correctly, just market your services correctly, just share your work consistently you’d eventually reach the pile of gold and all your hard work will mean something. Anything. Betting on virality is a losing gamble & at least in a claw machine I have an illusion of control: seeing exactly how my placement of the claw affects the grip of the plushie. I willingly convince myself that each coin inserted and each readjustment means a step closer for the plush to fall through the chute. It’s easy to overlook how much luck factors into success; how much luck is tied to the cards you’ve been dealt since the day you didn’t ask to be born. I try to steer away from the binary thinking that more numbers = better and lower numbers = not better. I’ve realized through multiple incidents recently that a positive prejudice brings as much inconvenience as a negative one.

Someone I met for the first time asked why I seem to push my feelings down with logic, why I rushed to answer with what I think when he asked how I feel. Is it not natural to prioritize intellect ahead of emotions? Were we not taught to value achievements over sensitivities? I’ve forced my way against my instincts my whole life to be rock hard, how come you want all the gooeyness I’ve since emptied myself of now?

Without an objective reference, I’d consider I try really hard to live. I am not particularly hard-working academically, a notorious procrastinator actually. Digging through all those 2010s tumblr drafts were either about me pushing the limits on procrastination or ruminating on relationships that were bound to fail. I just feel like I’ve been working non-stop at life to adapt to the shortfalls of the hand I’m dealt with, only to be nowhere as close as I’d like to be at this ripe age. How do I go about working smarter without shame after feeling duped by the promise of working harder?

One of the overlooked privileges I envy most is family privilege. How much the upbringing and support you had growing up affects the way you think, the way you problem-solve, the way you make decisions as an adult. The foundation of your safety net expands with every nuclear familial ties you have; the stronger the relationship, the bigger the net and therefore the less impact every failure has on you as you grow. Apathy to me isn’t a sign of support. Sure it’s not resistance — it’s not guidance either. At best it’s freedom & at worst it’s neglect. Support has to feel active & consistent. Although support can be done from afar, the further the distance, the higher chance for misdirection.

I watched Anatomy of the Fall in March, and one of the key dialogue in the film is between the child and the child protective service worker. “Actually, when we lack an element to judge something, and the lack is unbearable, all we can do is decide.” In an artist interview from 2021 I remember rambling on about my biggest fear being misunderstood; that my intentions may not match up with the impact of my actions. I don’t think I care as much about being misunderstood now. I decide to believe in the self that continues to work really hard to live.

I patroned a lot of live-events this year, at the same time witnessing the demise of the Toronto Arts scene with organizations and institutions asking for financial donations, to reconfigure and restructure the work environment. I hope to be in a place in my career to witness the general public support the arts emotionally, physically and financially. I hope to not tirelessly advocate for the minimum, or have people share experiences being taken advantage of by repeat offenders, and not be belittled when I’m painting on the streets.

I wrote this in April and decided it wasn’t worth sharing. 5 months later I’d forgotten about it and reading these words makes me wince knowing the darkness of the cave I’ve dug myself in then:

• April is National Poetry Month. I used to think poems are cringy. Mostly because I didn’t understand them and it was embarrassing to write anything, let alone writing in an art form that embraces melancholy. This year I learned I just need to give poetry time, and in turn time for myself to digest each word as I journey through the stanzas.

• In this season of reconciling with overdue grief
  I find myself stumbling over words —
  climbing over the descender of “y”
  only to trip over the ascender of an “f” when I write
  misfired neurons sputtering and my speech incoherent
  I repeat from and eventually decide to stew in the comfort of silence and familiar frustration
  how do I go
  how should I go