becala tagged me for this one ages ago. I've thought about it off and on, and in typical nanila fashion, taken what was probably intended as a fairly shallow meme way too far. So I give you seven random things about me.
I like weird tinned food. Spam. Condensed milk. Lychees. I grew up with them in Hawai'i. It wasn't until I moved to the mainland States that I learned (via humiliation, of course - the childhood type that burns long and bitterly) people thought that stuff was gross. But if you go to Oahu and order ramen from any proper noodle stall, you should expect a whacking great chunk of spam to be floating in it. And fishcake. I don't eat any of those things now, being somewhat obsessed with proper nutrition, but when I go home, I dive back into my old tastes (stinky pickle sushi!) with gusto.
I'm no longer determined to date only people who share my taste for industrial music and goth/industrial nightclubs. In fact, that criteria was so deeply ingrained in me that it wasn't until I started dating someone who didn't share the same history with it that I realized it was there. I'm glad because in a way it's become exclusively mine. I feel I own those memories, those dancing nights, those difficult times when I drowned myself in sound to drown out the world I couldn't cope with. When I need to go back there to hide, it's still there for me.
I'm not able to paint as much as I would like. If I thought I could scrape together a decent enough existence doing a job like my current one part-time and selling my paintings, I would. But London prices, my insecurities about my artistic ability and lack of training and my unwillingness to move back to the States prevent that from being anything more than a fantasy.
When I see a pigeon, I have to suppress consciously the urge to spread my arms and chase it. My inner six-year-old is quite an insistent brat. Other things she always wants me to do include: shout "Here comes the traaaain" when the hot wind starts to rush down the tunnel in front of an arriving tube train, avoid stepping on the cracks in the pavement, run my hand along railings to play them like a monotone xylophone.
I don't think I properly appreciated silence until I started commuting daily in London. A quiet tube or bus carriage, packed full of people and yet host only to the occasional rustle of newspaper or a soft "Excuse me"...now that is a slice of blessed peace in a crowded, noisy city.
I'm terrified about the impending permanent swap from the Cluster to the Cassini job. It's impostor syndrome all over again, just in a new context. I'd thought I was over it, but I guess I'd just had a reprieve due to the extended bout of euphoria I had about putting my life back together again after it all fell apart, nearly two years ago now. Granted, I don't think it's as bad as it used to be. I know that the best strategy for coping with it is to own up to my ignorance and to read as much background material as possible. But it's still difficult not to be paralyzed by the fear that someone will discover I didn't know how to do a job that I wasn't supposed to know how to do before I started it in the first place. (The previous sentence will probably only make sense to those who also suffer from impostor syndrome.)
I often wonder how I come across in this medium. Do people find me difficult to approach? Do I write too much or too little? Should I post more/fewer photos, or more/fewer paintings? Do I come across as overly protective of my personal life? Should I give up on content and just camwhore every day? I've been asking these questions for almost seven years (!), and the answers keep changing.