On Solitude: Zu Mir Oder Zu Dir?
“Do you miss them?” He asked with a cigarette between his fingers.
I shook my head slowly.
“Have you ever missed anything?” He said with a lingering smirk and I knew it wasn’t a question anymore. They said to be known is to be loved and in this particular moment I was loved.
Most of the time, I recognize and remember but do not miss. I found missing something or someone to be a futile feeling that does nothing but vacuum your heart and take you away from the present. But I kind of miss this. When dance is your whole world and your life. When dance and your body are so big that there is no space for anything else. It’s just you and this cult-like obsession. Following a path religiously, thinking this is a gigantic cornerstone in your life. Life is heavy but anchored. There is nothing else to think about. You can always be better; you’re never good enough. It was almost effortless to feel sorry for yourself.
I used to be like that.
“Too much ambition, more joy!” The facilitator shouted to all the pretentious young dancers who believed they would “make it” one day. What does “make it” even mean? Perhaps that’s what went wrong. There was only ambition and nothing else. At some point in life, I realized there was more to life than dance, then life became more complicated, more multifaceted, more nuances, and more choices to make. I lost interest in ambitions, being a star, being the best, or being self-absorbed. I got interested in joy, other emotions, and other parts of life. But I kind of miss that. When life is nothing else but being ambitious.
I used to think about doing grand things and achieving remarkable events.
“Have you thought of moving to Berlin?” She asked as a matter of fact-ly.
We met each other when I was only 19, thinking about achieving grand things. I wanted to go far, go fast, and go alone. I wanted to know the answers to life. I wanted to figure out life. Now ten years have passed. We joked about we needed to do a ten-year retrospective report for each other. How do you measure ten years? With the places you have been or your professions or the events that you have experienced? Why are we so obsessed with the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves? She laughed like I do. Loud without holding anything back.
“I used to want to but now the mere thought of moving to a brand new city tires me. Maybe I’ve had enough.” I grabbed a piece of injera and wrapped it around a chunk of spicy lamb meat artlessly with my fingers.
The dinner table was wobbling on the sidewalk so she picked out one yellow Haribo from her bag and put it under the table leg. I wish most of the life problems could be solved with a few Haribo. I met her when she just published her own book at the age of 24. For a 19-year-old me, I instantly became a fan girl, admiring this young woman traveling to Senegal and Congo by herself and writing beautiful adventurous stories out of it. On a few occasions, we became acquaintances and this was the first time we had dinner privately. Of course, we talked about writing. What do two writers do when they get together anyway? We talked about life and how to write about life. She represented the person I used to want to become, doing grand things. I told her I planned to write a book.
“What is it about?” She asked in a business-like manner.
I explained my concept to her that it would be about ordinary moments in ordinary life. I used to think I needed to write some grand ideas or have an epiphany about life to write about it. I stopped believing in that.
“Exactly. You thought you needed to go so far, do this and that, so you can write a good story. Somehow it’s impressive if you can write about ordinary moments in a skillful way.”
“You should write. I’ve read all of your writing. They’re good. I just didn’t give it a ‘like’ but I read them. You really should write.” She added.
The person once I admired now appeared to be so ordinary in front of me so I tried to take her compliment in an ordinary manner but those words made me giddy. That’s how you measure ten years. I recognized the price you have to pay for going far and alone or the privilege to do so. I recognized I was no longer being impressed by people’s talent. I recognized the doubts I always carried within me. Ocean Vuong once said, as a writer, you can never be too sure of yourself. Once you’re so sure of yourself, you stop observing and taking in. Imposter Syndrome is Imposter Strength.
“I’m not very motivated to date. Germans aren’t very flirtatious, are they?”
“ ‘Do you have a lighter?’ is how they flirt.” Our laughter can fill up the entire Straße.
A month ago, I traveled to Silcuzin, a tiny village in the south of France that can only be reached by car for summer school. I spent a week living collectively with a group of thinkers, professors, and philosophers, discussing the annual theme of “conflict.” The format seemed like a casual French salon to me; every morning people presented the topics of their choices freely and a group of people discussed whatever came up or threw out questions. We covered the rise of the right-wing in Europe to the never-ending China/Taiwan conflicts, and then we drank, smoked, laughed, and slept under the same roof. Sitting there absorbing different ideas, I was reminded of my ignorance and how much more to discover. I spent the rest of my time reading Alain Brossat, a renowned French philosopher, who founded this summer school and now was wiping the dinner table in front of me and slapping flies with the classic blue-and-white Taiwanese slipper.
I was suggested to give a movement workshop in the program which I gladly accepted. We arranged the workshop on a river bank, where everyone could join barefooted (or not) on a green grassland. I watched a group of brainy thinkers (and their children) following my cues and lying down motionless on the grassland somewhat self-consciously. I watched their bodies relax and the self-consciousness subsided. I watched them unfolding themselves and being silly. By the time it ended, the air seemed softer and slower. The workshop was well-received and they were delighted to experience something different from what they’re used to. A few days ago, I received an email from one of the professors, telling me my workshop has somehow stayed with him and he was wondering how can he continue this inspiration. He subjected the email “Riverrun.”
I used to think about doing grand things and achieving remarkable events but not anymore.
“You are a progressive-thinking woman yet maintain family ties in the most traditional way.”
I flipped the firm tofu in the frying pan, watching it vibrate while turning beautifully golden. I kind of miss this. I mean, cooking for others. Several years ago before I left home, I cooked for my family on New Year's Eve. I expected them to sit down and enjoy food together while having some conversations. However, that was never the family dinner I grew up with. The TV was on; everyone just had their food on their own. I always say romance needs to be practiced.
In my ideal Christmas, I would have friends and family coming over for dinner. I would shop for the ingredients a few days before just to make sure I have everything fresh and ready. I would probably have something marinated sitting in the fridge for a while now. Or a taste sample that I made last week. I would start cooking the moment I woke up. I would forget to feed myself that day but I wouldn’t mind because I know I can eat a lot at dinnertime. I would have my love helping me out but mostly I would just be anxious and annoying and my love would figure out what to do. My love would take our dog for a walk as it’s getting upset for the lack of attention. I would definitely bake something. A pie or a fancy cake but must be something chocolatey. I would ask my love to set the table up at 3 pm so I could adjust every detail until 7 pm. All of the tableware and napkins would be carefully selected by myself with a simplistic and sexy style that I would be anticipating for compliments later on the dinner table. Then people would start to arrive. They would start chatting. We would slowly need to raise our voices to hear each other. I would miss part of the conversation because I would be trying to make the plating perfect. Then everyone would arrive and say it smells nice. Then someone would sneak a look at what I am cooking. I would say “It’s ready!” 20 minutes before it’s actually ready. I would start bringing all the food to the table. People would show appreciation and comment on how good they look. Then we would pass a few things just to get it started like the big spoons in the salad bowl or napkins because someone already used their napkins to wipe the wine they spilled earlier. We would taste the food and people would say “it’s so good” and I would act as if it’s nothing but secretly feel very proud of myself. I would listen to their conversations as I didn’t catch up on what they were talking about. Then I would laugh. Then I would talk about the time we had so much fun or how embarrassing/funny something was. Then someone would ask me how I made this or that and what is the recipe. We would open another bottle of wine. I would remind them we still have dessert. Then someone would reply, as if rehearsed, “There is always a space for dessert!” Then someone would say they feel a bit warm and tipsy. We would laugh some more before I brought out the dessert. I would try to squeeze in the dessert plates and pastry forks on the already-crowded table. People would taste it and say how amazing it is. We would almost run out of wine now but luckily I would remember that I still have two bottles that I bought from a trip in my cupboard. I would take them out and people would be already showing their after-food laziness on the chairs but some would still pick up their pastry forks for one last attempt at that very nice dessert. I would offer a room in my three-room apartment and the mattress on the floor in case someone is too lazy to go home. Then someone would remember that they brought Christmas gifts for each other. Then people would get on their feet to get their presents. Some would go to the toilet. Some would be lying on the sofa. Some would need to go home earlier so I would hurry everyone to exchange their gifts although we all know the ones that say they need to go home earlier would stay for another hour or two. I would get books as usual and I would give them handwritten cards because I love to write and make people feel special. We would keep talking more but now the topics are more intimate. Someone would start cleaning up the table or nibble on something on the plates. I would yell, “Don’t worry about it, leave it there”. I would start feeling sleepy because I woke up very early to prepare the food and I drank too many glasses of wine. Then I would be cuddling my dog on the floor at this moment. We would talk some more until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Then I would ask how is everyone going home. I would hug those who are preparing to leave and turn the hug into another 5 minutes talk. I would hug someone twice because they said they were leaving 30 minutes ago but they were still standing there and this is how it should be done. I would thank everyone for coming and they would thank me for the wonderful time and food. Then I would prepare the guest room because some of them would be sleeping over. I would ask them if they need a toothbrush or a towel or a pyjama. Then I would be too tired to take care of all of that so I would ask my love to make sure everyone is sleeping well. I would say goodnight to everyone and announce I’m going to bed. I would be lying in bed awake for a while because of all the food and wine I had but I would think about the wonderful moments that had just happened. Then I would fall asleep. Then the next day we would all wake up around noon. My love would already be up and making coffee. I would say good morning and kiss my love. I would ask “How did you sleep last night” and I would get a response about how late they had stayed up because they couldn’t stop talking about something and then one thing led to the other. Probably the past. Then I would smile and I would see people coming out from the guest room and waking up from the air mattress on the floor. I would ask them if they want coffee and I would start heating up some food from last night’s leftovers. Some would comment they really like a certain dish from last night, is there any more left? We would have a very slow brunch without talking too much because we all just woke up. We would talk about what are we going to do for the days before New Year’s Eve and on New Year’s Eve. We would talk about how time has flown and how old we are. I would start cleaning up the mess from last night and the rest would tidy up the floor and the guestroom before they leave. I would hug them tightly and say see you very soon. I would return to my quiet self and my love would know how important it is to give me my own space and time so I can digest all the moments and feelings I’ve been through. I would get some messages and photos on my phone. I would post them on my Instagram stories. Probably 5 or 6 pictures. On that very same afternoon, I would write something about it. How good the time was, how grateful I was, how drunk someone was. Then I would look at the gifts I’ve received again and feel a sense of warmth in my heart. Then I would pick up the book, open the first page, and start reading in my pajamas. Then I probably wouldn’t do anything for the rest of the day except just be, reading and occasionally lying on the floor.
But this year it’s not my ideal Christmas just yet and that’s okay. It reminds me there is somewhere I want to go.
- Written on 2022 Chirstmas Eve
I would like to bury myself in time.
She said the sense of belonging is built upon going to the same bakery over and over again. In other words, time and repetition are the key. The willingness to bury oneself in time instead of running against it. In order to be buried, you need to exhale, soften your body, and stay still for a while.
I’m craving the touch of skin I would feel when there is an arm that goes under my waist when I’m lying down and scoops me up for a hug. I kind of miss this.
I talked to you a lot in my head.
Solitude tastes sweet when you just wave goodbye to the people you love and you know you are going to see them very soon.
I used to think about doing grand things and achieving remarkable events but not anymore.
