Tell the story of a person, place, or thing now lost to you, through your own actions (or inaction). Appreciate. Apologize. Say one last goodbye and close the door behind you.
There’s this city I remember. I liked the way it made me feel as I roamed about, lonely but free. The harsh winters numbed me down but I loved the stillness of the snow, having access to a well-stocked public library, the punctual buses, being part of a campus town.
My bedroom was beneath the stairs. I used to fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of footsteps going up and down. We had a cat named Ophelia who liked burying her wet nose in between my elbows for warmth. Sometimes she’d lick my face, tickling it with the bristles of her rough tongue. On nights where I couldn’t sleep, I’d draw or write bad poetry/short stories for no one.
The kitchen was my source of comfort. I’d make dishes with nobody to impress. Even accidentally setting off the fire alarm several times couldn’t discourage me. It was in my early 20s that I developed all sorts of erratic cravings, like French toast for dinner or dipping salty Ritz crackers into jars of Nutella. Kimchi fried rice topped with a sunny side up. Almond milk for days.
When the depression got bad, I’d go to the gym and run with the idea of sweating all that sadness away. On a lot of days, the sky would turn pitch black by 5. I’d miss Malaysia’s tropical thunderstorms and used to imagine the awnings of storefronts, heaving with raindrops.
But Iowa City was where I spent my key developing years. It was where I developed a real interest to study and get better, where I could study literature and do Pilates and take an arts course even if I was a Business major. I could have cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner and buy ice cream for 99 cents. It was where I realized how small my place was in the world and felt what it was like to be a ‘minority’ for the first time in my life (I’ve previously written about this here).
It was also where I dealt with my first breakup and the death of my grandfather when I was miles away from home. I remember streaming Coachella on YouTube and not realising that tears were running down my face when Beirut started playing. Much like winter, going through a breakup thousands of miles away felt both alienating and relieving. Nobody could ring my doorbell or call me on the phone. There was no WhatsApp or Facetime or Instagram then. I didn’t have too many ways to document my grief. It was like being blanketed by a silence that was new to me.
This city was the place where I developed my drawing skills. Insecurities over never being able to draw straight lines turned into something of an advantage. Shapes shifted out of lines to make way to eyes, lips, a face. Asymmetrical, worthy, different than writing but also, good.
Do you know how Bon Iver sings that line in ‘Holocene’? And at once I knew, I was not magnificent? This track never fails to take me back to how I felt then and there. Is there anything more humbling than realising that there’s simply so much more to this world than your presence?
Till now, my longing for that Midwest town remains surprisingly sincere and real, even if all I wanted then was to go home. Returning to the States doesn’t feel possible anytime soon in this post-Trump era. But at least for those few years, I can say that being there made it feel as if it wasn’t so impossible to find your own self if you tried.
This is where I sink & float 