Big ideas in small containers

Or, I confess and I claim

Because of how my brain is wired (did I mention ADD-leaning in addition to depression? Thank you Ali for reframing the former as Poet’s Brain!), I not only tend toward the depths with sensitivity, but the depths like to play with each other, sometimes at a speed that defies my own understanding. Given this, to create work, I find boundaries and containers helpful—like deadlines, word count limits and poetic forms.

In trying to take sweet-sized steps in rebuilding this body memoir, I’ve given myself the challenge of entering a personal essay into a short creative nonfiction contest. (Please breathe with me here.) There is a 1000 word count limit and a deadline of May 1st. Hallelujah twice! I confess I’m not entering to necessarily place or win, but to continue with my (ahem) “writing business plan” of casting my voice outward more and more boldly. At the very least, if I complete this gesture of faithfulness, the eyes of a gifted creative nonfiction author (the judge) will land for at least a few minutes on my work.

Oh, and did I say the theme for this contest is Duality?

Yes, a creative nonfiction essay on Duality in 1000 words of less. Yow and Yikes and Yippee!

I inhabit so many dualities, if it weren’t for art, I’d explode. Really!

And now, a tonal shift into a docent’s voice: Now, we shall observe small confessional Hows and the current What, from the little body of a contemporary, duality-overloaded body memoirist.

Tonal shift back:

Does this look like I’m writing my essay?

This (above) is Project Makeover, apparently game number 3423 (“egads!” emoji). I realize the treachery of makeover culture. And, having come through—well, life to the present moment—it’s also hard to resist, this iPhone-playful joy of progression from chaos to a new order.

Mostly though, this is why I play Project Makeover: The Rules of Engagement. I play because I’m compelled to figure out (through playing itself) the game’s rules of engagement. It’s like a cultural survival impulse as a third-gen Asian American. Apparently it’s something I still need, at some level, to do.

This is Angry Birds Dream Blast. Today I am at level 2718! First of all, the visuals and haptics with these baby birds are too cute to resist. Second, this one is less about rules of engagement than it is about refining my strategy. The reward for landing on an effective, efficient approach is a celebratory Boom! An explosion of cuteness where no one is harmed. Whether my strategy succeeds or not, I’m met by funny cuteness. I like the increase in skillfulness without sacrificing an enduring superpower of innocence.

And we must not forget Match Ball 3D! When I move my finger over the orb, it rotates in a way I experience as 3D. How do they do that?? So. much. fun! Then, when I tap on any of the toys, they get moved to the bottom row. The goal is to find like kinds in sets of three . . . this is SO therapeutic for me! Rarely being in the majority in many spaces I occupy, it’s like getting a hit of “Hey, we’re alike!” or “Yay, we found each other!” and “Ooohh, you totally get me!”

All of which, I’m sure, the game designers at some level know, and capitalize upon. I’m such a happy sucker.

Because more than chasing dopamine for my brain and soothing for my socialized spirit, when I’m playing these games, an alt part of my brain gets to wander around under the radar, muse, and watch connections and associations arise between ideas, words, phrases, moments and images. I don’t even want to analyze or understand it any further. I just want to appreciate it.

It’s sooo not mostly about thinking. It’s about allowing, listening, following, shaping. Hooray!

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Here’s an excerpt of my What for the CNF contest. We shall see what it becomes in six days, by that May 1st deadline, if not before! Thanks for bearing witness to this excerpt-and-essay in progress:

I couldn’t remember ever being called that name before.

American.

I’d grown up in the Crenshaw district of Los Angeles, where post-Great Migration Black families and post-WWII-internment Japanese American families found homes that we were variably able to buy and live in, catalyzing white flight. It was normal for me to identify as Japanese American (dissolving the Okinawan, we’ll save that reality for another time) and as third-generation Sansei. Within Sansei circles, my identities went a level deeper; I was Westside; we were Buddhaheads.

American was a name for which my maternal grandmother studied to become a naturalized citizen. (note to self: research naturalized; why, how was this word chosen, when the process was not natural at all?) American was the name refused to my dad’s parents as they were mass evacuated from Southern California then incarcerated in Poston, Arizona. American was definitely not a name my sunkissed, pidgin-speaking mom was called by her new schoolmates upon arrival to Salt Lake City from Maui.

So. Yet. Despite. Because. It’s hard to know which transition to use.

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In the game,

Coke