MGPARK


Man I promise she so self-conscious


I am balls to the walls proud of this kid who moved into her dorm at UCLA yesterday. She unpacked her things and my mom turned the mattress and cleaned the drawers and I stood by the window and wondered aloud if the hazy building to the west was the Getty or just a sprawling white estate. I thought I played it real cool, accompanying her to this monumental thing, like a chill person seeing her sibling off, and then we had to leave before the parking permit expired and it was just me and my mom driving out of the city and after all that I was still the hard-faced person walking into her old room which is why I cried like a small person because my baby sister no longer lives in this empty room. 

I am balls to the walls proud of this kid who moved into her dorm at UCLA yesterday. She unpacked her things and my mom turned the mattress and cleaned the drawers and I stood by the window and wondered aloud if the hazy building to the west was the Getty or just a sprawling white estate. I thought I played it real cool, accompanying her to this monumental thing, like a chill person seeing her sibling off, and then we had to leave before the parking permit expired and it was just me and my mom driving out of the city and after all that I was still the hard-faced person walking into her old room which is why I cried like a small person because my baby sister no longer lives in this empty room. 

And fear is a hilariously vainglorious thing. I can assure you, until you get good, no one gives a shit enough to look. If you’re already good, stay good by making risky new good. Get it out there. Good ideas are not finite. Practice. Evolve. Incur judgment, who cares? Stop festishizing output. It’s stupid.

Mary H.K. Choi

I’m the newborn who just found out about Mary H.K. Choi. Let me tell u bout reading her mom essay and biting down on my fist, feeling ecstatic and grateful and thrilled. Or this essay about having to chill with her Korean family at a cemetery. 

There is nothing wrong with reading a set of Cheever’s exquisite stories and his white-haired men on their commuter trains. Or letting Didion tell you about the sound of bougainvillea leaves on the driveway. But it also feels so, so fucking divine to get to read about the Korean mother who smeared raw garlic bits on pieces of sandwich bread. 

tru

tru

What I have written—and how I came to write it—is most powerfully what I am.
It’s wonderful to be hated by idiots.

On the first day of my [writing] workshop with Angela Carter, in my sophomore year, Carter was charged with reducing the number of would-be participants in her class to fourteen. Maybe thirty people were in the room, and she simply stood before us and tried to take questions. Some young guy in the back, rather too full of himself, raised his hand and, with a sort of withering skepticism, asked, ‘Well, what’s your work like?’

You have to have heard Carter speak to know how funny the next moment was. She had a reedy and somewhat thin British voice, toward the upper end of the scale, and she paused a lot when she spoke. There were a lot of ums and ahs. Before she replied, she cocked her head and said ‘um’ once or twice. Then she said, ‘My work cuts like a steel blade at the base of a man’s penis.’

reblog pt. 2

reblog pt. 2