Reading · On That Note...

I’m a big fan of feelings.

I like my emotions, even when they overwhelm me.

I like feeling big feelings.

I can cry so much that my tear ducts sting,

smile so hard that my cheeks ache,

and scream so loud that my throat burns.

I am capable of some of the most overflowing love; it soaks and drowns my heart.

Sometimes, my heart gets so oversaturated that I nearly can’t take it.

In these moments, I remind myself that a drowned heart is always better than a dry one.

Even though a drier heart is a lighter load, it lacks some necessary nourishment. It lacks moisture. It lacks feeling.

I love feeling love.

I love feeling things.

I also love feeling things that aren’t emotions, such as soft bunny ears

and rough, salty cashews that leave a film on my fingertips.

Such as a quenching, crunchy cucumber on the tip of my tongue

covered by smooth, warm, salty peanut sauce.

Such as fingernails running through my hair

and the pressure of a weighted blanket on my sternum.

There is texture to life. There are textural sensations and somatic manifestations of the things we feel inside. This emotional texture can influence the way we experience the physical world and the tangible textures

on our fingertips, teeth, and tongues.

These past few weeks, I have been overwhelmed by feelings and textures

of all forms.

Good, bad, syrupy, sharp…

When I saw my dear friend Claire after a very long time apart, we whipped up some texturally exciting vegan Vietnamese-inspired summer rolls and accompanied our delicious dinner with some riveting conversation, a salty-and-sweet Trader Joe’s snack selection, and some Studio Ghibli.

Very emotionally textured, very tasty.

Inside chewy-elastic rice paper rolls, we plopped down some refreshingly crispy cucumbers; some soft and meaty Kimchi marinated tofu; über-crunchy and juicy julienned carrots; spicy-sharp scallions; delicately moist and buttery avocado; chopped honey roasted peanuts; some red peppers and mushrooms sautéed down with sesame oil, garlic, and coconut aminos (due to Claire’s newly-discovered gluten intolerance); and a warm-salty-tangy sesame peanut sauce (peanut butter, tahini, sesame oil, coconut aminos, garlic powder, vinegar, and other seasonings).

What a delight.

What a texturally profound experience.

So many feelings and flavors to be felt.

So much was right.

On that note…

I wish to be truly carefree,

to freely flow with the faucet,

to softly float by a red leaf in the wind.

Unfortunately, though, I’m a planner…

I’m a planner who knows that there are certain ways things should be done to yield a better result.

Unfortunately, my wind-following tendencies have long been barred by my rule-following ones.

It isn’t all unfortunate, though. Maybe

I should choose my words more wisely.

Rule following, ironically, permits a certain resulting sense of freedom.

When you know “how” a thing “should” be done,

and are aware of “why” a rule exists,

breaking the “right” part of a rule, and reaping superior results,

can be the most freeing thing of all.

I do this a lot.

I was amazing at bullshitting essays in high school…

Well, I say “bullshitting,” but, really,

I knew the rules of essay writing

and knew how they “should” be done,

so I knew

just how much work

I should put in

to make them “good”

with little effort,

and I knew just the “right” rules to break

to make them lively,

and fun,

and real.

I mean, even this Substack takes some unusual creative liberties.

This is — sort of —

an “enjambed journal”

in which the “rules” of writing

are thrown away.

They’re known,

but they’re thrown away.

I am this way with cooking, too.

I watched so much Food Network and cooking content as a child that so many basic “rules”, fun tricks, and techniques

are deeply ingrained in my psyche.

Whether it’s an unlikely flavor pairing, or some peculiar formatting in a poem, or a social “norm”, or a feeling that you feel when nobody else feels it…

“rules” are so much fun to break

when you’re aware of the things you’re breaking.

On that note…

Sometimes

the best things

take time.

And

waiting.

This is a “rule” I’ve struggled with for sooooooooooo long,

and it’s one that can’t really be broken.

Whether it’s massaging and marinating your chicken for hours for the moistest, most nostalgic mall-style chicken teriyaki

or it’s waiting THREE WEEKS for disposable film to get developed,