The Sunshine Post #6

I have renamed all my e-mails of love to all you beloved New Yorkers and ex-New Yorkers into one uniform, numbered subject line. When I did this to my Asian brethren, there were 100 e-mails; my imagination is neither big nor patient enough to think of 100 titles. :-) Stay in touch, dears!

Hello dears!

I have been catching up with the art scene in Manila. The design bubble burst the year after I left, and there are now so many new artists out there who are making money doing what they love. There's a part of me that is so happy because I think I picked the right field to replace the lab. I actually intuitively get it, am consumed by it, and I wouldn't mind having to do it for a long time. I think I can even do this anywhere in the world, as long as I have peace and quiet, up-to-date software, and a speedy Internet connection.

The designers I've met seem more down-to-earth, less impressed with themselves, more in disbelief that something they love to do is appreciated by other people. I'm still a bit wary of the moody, arrogant-looking types, but I have developed a sixth sense for those people now and I just stay away. Run! Run! But on the whole, they seem less intimidating, since I look at them and don't see these scary degrees, but instead, immediately think of the work they've done. They seem so much happier as well, in contrast to my old life where the people looked like they were on the verge of killing themselves. Creativity is our lifestyle, and because of it, work essentially doesn't feel like a job at all.

But there is another voice in my head that bugs me about it all. I realize that I need to rethink my opinions about art. I grew up thinking that it's too self-indulgent, and that for all that ails the world, what I should pick is something that helps people, instead of just making the world pretty. Beauty is a good goal, and yes it has a lot of fantastic secondary effects, but I think we should strive for something beyond that: ideas that make you think and that prompt you to act on that thought, and hopefully make your environment better for it. I am not a big fan of the whole philosophy of "art for art's sake," although I can understand and appreciate this way of thinking. But dude, I can't just sell cute T-shirts and die a fulfilled person.

I think that's another fear: becoming one of those emo pseudo-artistes. I have this nightmare where I have an out-of-body experience and land in a parallel universe, where I see another version of myself. That person has greasy streaked hair and bad skin, is waving a paintbrush maniacally after shooting up on heroin, and then painting a freaking dot on a wall-sized canvas and calling it her masterpiece. She has no family, no real friends, no direction, nothing happy to give the world.

I will beat her to a pulp without a moment's hesitation.

I am hoping that there was a reason why I chose to study molecular biology to begin with. To love both art and science isn't new, but I've noticed it's more common to choose one or the other. That's one thing I'm relieved about with what I fondly call my "academic ejection" – I still truly love science. I think it's spectacularly amazing and beautiful, and that it belongs to everyone, not just to the sickos who need tenure. Maybe I just need to serve it in the best and happiest way that I can.

I hope I've found my calling, yo. I ran into one of our trainers in the debate team late last year – in the UN of all places! Ugh. After summarizing our lives in a few sentences, he told me that I can't go into law, business and finance – fields with a high probability of me meeting evil people. I feel very sad that despite me being raised to think I can do anything I want with my life, I am limited by virtue of personality alone. Crap. Maybe instead of finding my field, I have to carve out a niche for myself and die in my own little hole. *sob* But you can bet that it will be a happy hole!

But my irrepressible side of sunshine is still optimistic. When I was in Shanghai, a Chinese lady came up to me and said that my face was "lucky." I was with a group of delegates and we were shopping like there was no tomorrow. Another time, I was in NYC's Union Square going to my, uhm, personal mecca and headquarters, Barnes and Noble – still one of the best things about America, in my opinion! Along the way, a loopy blonde woman dressed in blue approached me and said that she was a "spiritualist" and that she saw "something" in my "aura." Both times, and in all other similarly creepy cases, I smiled uneasily and hurriedly walked away. I am wishing that this means there really is something important I'm supposed to do with myself and perhaps hopefully explain why my life always been pretty eventful and annoyingly dramatic despite all my attempts not to make it so.

Or maybe David, the guy who sat next to me on one of my earlier flights to NYC, was right: I look like a target. Hmph. I hope not. I still remember him: middle aged, white, hairy, gregarious, works in the field of aboriginal media -- one of those culturally insensitive guys who thinks I'm so exotic I'm like Pocahontas, and then feels like the earth moved when he finds out my English is better than his. Annoying cow. The flight attendant thought we were "together." Eww. Watch it, lady. I am no one's Miss Saigon.

Lots of love,
Cathy