The Joanna Club

I've packed my schedule with work because I didn't want to be burdened by the feeling of having so much time on my hands at the end of the year. We are supposed to rest and have peace, but what have I done all year to take a break from? It's almost like nothing happened. Yes, I have challenged myself to do some things. I've started writing more frequently, and in the summer while traveling alone, I wrote a few short stories, which I never thought I would. Somehow I just ended up writing them because the reality was too funny not to record. It inspired me, the reality—and I think that's something that hadn't happened for a long time. But in terms of people, I haven't expanded any of my relationships. Instead, I shut down quite a few of them out of sheer sadness that I cannot come through. No amount of words could help me make myself understood. However much I study every day, however much I read books and memorize the words, it never helps me say the things I...

I heard today at work that one of the boys who works with me stole clementines. I mean, he didn't steal them, but he ate five of the clementines that were given as a souvenir from one of our clients. And allegedly, it wasn't even during a break—he just went for it while working, because he liked clementines. And when he was reaching for the fifth clementine, his boss caught him and asked, "Isn't that your second one?" He couldn't dare tell him, "No, sir. It was my fifth." So he went along with the story, just confessed to one of his peers. But when the boss came back and inquired him further about the clementines, he felt a twinge of conscience. "Actually, it was my fifth one," he confessed. What an honest man. If it were a fairy tale, he's the kind of man who would receive both the golden and the silver clementines. "The clementines must have felt very happy," I told him. laughing. Honestly, that's how I felt. If I were ...

After I took the test, I took a short trip to the suburb. I met my friend in the bookstore at the station and immediately headed towards the food court that I had visited before. I remember sitting inside a Thai food restaurant alone, eating Khao Man Gai, and typing out a story that I had started to write. It was about a woman in middle age on the verge of having a secret affair—a cliché for sure, but somehow it inspired me enough to keep typing into my computer. Around that time, I was reading Miranda July's latest novel, All Fours , and felt rather revolted. No, no, it shouldn't be like that. As if I knew the proper way to age, but in a way I felt like I did. As long as I have a typewriter, no one would question why I am eating alone. It works as armor. So do words. I try to learn words not because I believe I'm a literary genius, but because I am anything but that. The lack of words for what I feel every day is what keeps me going. I'm learning words just to give a ...

I studied for two more hours today, sitting in a cafe, drinking clam chowder with a sandwich that tasted like airplane food—meaning pretty good. A man and a young girl were sitting right next to me, and I couldn't help overhearing their conversation. He was bragging about his high scores on standardized tests. "It's not that difficult," he said. "You just have to know how to study. Don't think too much about the whys. Like, don't ask yourself why you're using an equation—just remember that you need to use it to solve the problem. That's where you start." The girl listened and nodded, and I could feel her admiration for him. If I'd been sitting in her place, I would have told him to shut the fuck up.  Don't ask why, just solve the problem.  Like a machine. Program yourself not to ask questions, do what you're told, become a useful cog in society's machinery. Right? I couldn't focus on studying—first, because I don't giv...

I’ve spent a few hours studying for the test I’m taking the day after tomorrow. And what do I feel? Anger. “This is bullshit,” I tell myself. Nobody even cares what languages are for anymore. Right or left, it doesn’t matter; it’s win or lose, nothing in between. You either understand it or you don’t. No space for imagination. I  try to read the intention of the test maker while  taking it and wonder how mediocre he must be to spend his life creating something like this. He’s using language to determine who’s superior mechanically, like separating chicks by sex. No, no, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Language was supposed to build a bridge. A bridge between you and me. Not to separate us.  Without it, we would never be able to understand each other, and so we invented the word “Hello.” Like anything else, language is a tool. It isn’t proof of intelligence. Just because you know the definition of a word, it doesn’t mean you’re intelligent. In fact, maybe we need word...

    Something is starting to move. I don't know what, but it is. It took years for me to know what I want in my life. Is this it? I flip the page and close the book. How about this? Another page, and then I close the book again. What do I want to do? I want to begin. In the beginning, there was the end. Do you know what I mean? If I'm going to start, I need to know where it ends. And I'm in search of a story that doesn't end with death. But every story ends with death, right? True, and yet there is always an exception to the rule. What I'm looking for is a miracle. The one that cannot be imagined. The one that is real and exists without violence or madness. I don't mind the story being mediocre, as long as it's mine and true. I need to live it, feel it, walk through it step by step, and most of all, love it. My life is not a performance. It doesn't need to be recorded by a camera. My value doesn't depend on the whole world watching. Then why record i...

  A story ended, at least that’s what I feel. Last night, I made my dinner for a change. Perhaps it’s about time I listened o my body and did a little more to take care of myself, for the sake of life. I took a break from the errands, sat on my bed, and read Clarice Lispector again, wondering how I felt this time around. It’s strange, but since I’ve read it to myself over and over again, I feel like her words are already inside my body. And whenever I reread it, the words in the book interact with the cells in my body. "How do I see it this time?" They swirl around in my stomach, finding a place to land. Do I adore her? Yes. Respect her? Absolutely. Do I feel compassion? More than I could imagine. But do I feel a slight difference from what I felt the last time I read it? Sure I do. I used to feel that I could never write like her; that her book was all that needed to be read; that her work was the answer to all the questions I had in my mind at that time. And it helped me en...

A miracle happened. I cleaned my room for 60 minutes today. I woke up at 5:30, thinking it was too early to start the day. But what if I did anyway? Start my day? So, I did. I did my laundry, cleaned my room, wiped my floor. I did everything people are supposed to do. It was refreshing. Can I do this every day? I mean, I will have so much time to do the things I love if I can finish errands this quickly. And work. I always have work to do. But it’s a joy, so I don’t mind. The only problem is that I don’t get to do what I truly care for. Because what I truly care for has no value in this society. Today, I met a boy. I don’t know exactly why, but I like him very much. He’s always fidgeting, as if he’s nervous. Sometimes he looks disappointed, but it doesn’t bother me. Maybe he’s sensitive enough to feel constantly judged. He’s trying to resist that, and I respect him for it. Let’s retaliate, together. We are accomplices. But I doubt he feels the same. After that, I met an older man....

I woke up around 6:30 a.m., but I was able to go back to sleep. Sleeping without drinking seems like a good habit for me. Reading paper books also helps. I soak myself in the world of Agota Kristof and feel safer there. True art helps me find ways to face reality, not escape it. I set the timer and clean up for 20 minutes. Placing things in order requires so much of my energy that I often prefer to lie inside the chaos. Doing nothing, changing nothing, living without lifting my fingertip. It’s better to live inside chaos than commit suicide, right? Anything is better than death. Living requires strength, and resisting death is sometimes enough. I do my laundry, take a shower, and dry my hair. I pick a bright green sweater I bought for around thirteen dollars at a thrift store. I think I look more like myself when I wear cheap clothes. I should keep searching for ways to express myself in the slightest way. Never give up. Someone might notice it and say hello. “Are you striving?” “Y...

Ever since I started reading Agota Kristof’s novel, something has changed. The novel gave me a different meaning to words. Most people write to be valued; so much of what is written is embellishment, and I feel that I must strip it away to see what’s beneath: the raw thing. But reading her novel, I noticed that the word itself could be the end. To write is the end. And I feel her passion and joy through the words she left, in such inexplicable strife. What if I wanted the same? And wanted strife? To be? Perhaps I should follow the way of the Rafflesia and pretend to be rotten meat in order to survive. And so I met a fly. And we fell in love. (But that’s all in my imagination. And his.) While I’m working, I stop breathing. I start to function—the little function that I have. In a way, I die a little while working, but without this death, it’s hard to feel the joy of living. When I was working as a waitress in a café in a not-so-hip town, I used to read poetry in the small waiting roo...

Yesterday, I went outside thinking I would figure out what I should do. But after walking for a few minutes, I got bored and went into a noodle shop. When I finished the oily noodles that didn’t go well with the hot spices I added, I felt even hungrier, so I bought a bag of chips and ate while walking. And then I thought: to hell with it . I could keep going, keep eating and eating and eating, trying to satisfy this greed. But I wasn’t even that hungry. So I went into a thrift store instead and picked out two shirts and a sweater. There was a tall girl with short blonde hair trying on a beige jacket. She asked her friend if it looked good on her. I bet anything would look good on her. And she knew it, too. I felt like I was an extra in a movie and all the spotlight was on her, as most stories are. But funny enough, in reality, I am the protagonist of this story. That’s when I realized I need to plan things before I leave the house. I should at least know where I’m heading; otherwis...

I’m sitting in a café in a tired suit. My hair and makeup are all messed up, and I am carrying a huge computer, preparing for work tomorrow. This is how I live my life. I skip from story to story, listening to the fragmented confessions of strangers. Perhaps I am a slutty priest, secretly finding joy in learning the truths of others. But it has to be insignificant, not a masterpiece, because whoever thinks their words are worth publishing has an ego far larger than most souls. I like humble souls, muttering their stories without reason. I enjoy imagining what it’s like to live as someone else. Honestly, anything sounds better than my own life. I spend most of my time contemplating, observing, trying to understand reality. My words don’t reach most people. I don’t even try. At least, that’s how it feels. And even if they did, I wouldn’t pay much attention. Some people, for some reason, start to adore me, as if they’ve discovered something rare. But even then I feel misunderstood. ...

I couldn’t sleep last night for no real reason. Maybe I’ve been studying too much. My mind is wide awake, yet I keep trying not to fall off the cliff. One step in, and it feels as if the whole world would collapse in front of me. I live inside my solitude,. My impulse to communicate is somewhat satisfied by my job. I like being under the radar. Anyone who is kind to me in a trash can I would trust, but once I’m framed in a museum, compliments mean nothing. I don’t give a fuck what you think.  So  why would I even aspire to land there?  I’m still reading Updike, uncertain of what I’m supposed to feel. I’m also reading the journal of a girl who committed suicide. Too many of us do. Why are we more interested in the souls of the dead than the ones alive? Would I have cared to read Sylvia Plath if she had lived into her nineties? Tragedy is relatable, but happiness isn't. There is beauty in death, but not prolonged meaningless life. Death is poetic but life is filled with ...

I was able to sleep until 7:00 a.m. for a change. That changes everything. Sleeping gives us energy, and without it we feel too drained to do anything. I selfishly closed the stories, not caring too much about the people who were involved in them. My heart says no, and then there is nothing I can do. And yet strangely, I miss them. Particularly the boy who lives in the hip town in Tokyo, who sounded like he was drowning inside his fine apartment.   Perhaps it was his vulnerability that impressed me. He was drinking after work every day to escape his reality, but sounded bubbly and happy, at least, in those moments. He carefully selected the food and drink that pleased him from the convenience store. I liked how he talked about food, it showed that he found comfort in eating. Not to satisfy is his greed, but to feel a hint of joy in his otherwise draining life. On the other hand, I was happy with just about anything — not selective at all, which made him laugh. Are you drinking tha...

I was inside my bubble, sleeping and drinking, talking and talking and talking endlessly. Maybe it was my way of escaping reality, because my head was scattered, unable to follow a single story. And every story disappointed me. I didn’t want to flip the pages anymore. And when I did want to, the other person hesitated, looking at the tired old cover of my book. “Who wants to read this?” So true. Who? Well, there is a saying, “No one wants to be a member of a club that they could belong” (Think it was Woody Allen). And I close the books so abruptly. “Okay, no more polyamory.” And monogamy? Not quite sure. Lies, lies, lies ---- I spit out lies to survive. Pretending to be okay. Pretending to be numb. Pretending I don’t feel hurt every time I turn on the TV. I can’t believe I’m part of this reality, where everyone is staring into a screen, uninterested in the world itself, searching for something, anything, to stimulate them. A WALKING FUCKING DICK. That’s what we are. But I don’...

I wake up in the morning, too early, around 4:00 a.m. Alcohol isn’t good for my sleep; I know that. But sometimes I still need a way to blur my reality because I’m too alert. I need to alleviate the overwhelming sensation I feel over almost nothing. Last night, I had a conversation with a boy. He went to a prestigious college, and works for a big trading company, constantly swamped with work, or so  he says.. He found me, and I called him back just to let him know where I was in life. As if he cared. I have this impulse to report the things that are happening, as if narrating them organizes my reality. I put things into words, and then I can let go of them as something of the past.  I sensed that the boy grew more interested in getting to know me, perhaps because I sounded happy. People expect me to give away happiness, to share it freely, without noticing what lies beneath it. As if I had endless candies to give away, so you take one without thinking. But no I am not g...

When I am typing, I imagine that I am playing the piano,  touching the keyboard while breathing, expressing everything through the tips of my fingers. Today, suddenly, I thought: How about doing something for a change? Instead of just feeling, perhaps it’s about time I start doing, although doing something has always horrified me. Because doing means abandoning other things. It’s like choosing a soulmate: I want to know your story, and therefore I cannot allow myself to know the other ones.  That vow terrifies me, because I am too curious. Won’t I want to know other stories? Yes, I would.  I went to work early today,  picked the earlier shift. “Oh, so you’re early today,” the lady said, surprised. “I have an early morning tomorrow,” I answered. I do, but that’s not the reason.  Work, for me, is only a reason to go outside. If I didn’t have work, I would be in my room,  contemplating and contemplating, feeling and feeling, desiring and desiring, eternally. ...

Last night, I wasn’t going to drink, but I had one can of lemon soda and suddenly felt bubbly, and I wanted to keep going. Since no shops were open, I ordered pizza and some drinks, then fell asleep. I was woken by the doorbell and freaked out for a moment. Who’s knocking at the door? Uber. Nothing mysterious. I watched a few clips online while eating. Everything started to feel boring. Everything looked like everything else, and so there was no point. Why are people so obsessed with how things look? Why are we brainwashed into thinking we need to worry about it? I worry about it for a minute, cleanse my face, put on some makeup, and then feel bored again.  Perhaps it’s because of the invention of the camera that people are so obsessed, Since they feel the image isn’t passing, no longer something temporal,  they feel that we will be forever defined by how we look. I read the comments under the videos and am astonished by how many people worship beauty. It’s almost like a ...

I just had Chinese at a restaurant near my house. There were three men seated at the tables, all looking somewhat tired. One of the men seemed surprised to see me there. Perhaps it’s an oasis for tired men, but not tired women. I throw my jacket on the chair, order egg and stir-fried eggs with wood ear mushroom. Wait was I on a diet? Yes I was.  I bought a lip gloss, a toner, and a toothpaste at a drugstore, thinking I might take better care of myself if I did. I think I picked the wrong color. When I wore it later, it looked like I was trying to look young, which I’m not. “Okay, I’m going to look sexy today,” I say to myself, sitting in front of the mirror and layering on makeup. I’m far from precise, don’t really know how to do it, but I manage to make myself feel a little more confident, even if no one cares. I sometimes watch video clips of women talking about beauty, but I get bored quickly. Is that all you’re going to talk about? Forever? Looking nice, taking care...

I spent a sleepless night yesterday. At 9:00, I decided to talk to someone I’d known a few years ago, ordered some drinks although I was planning to sleep early. It was a small re-union. We share a secret not one I’m proud of, but we can laugh about it. That’s life. It isn’t always beautiful nor poetic, marked with specks of dust and old stains you forgot to wash off. I woke up at 6:00, prepared for work for three hours on my desk. The work went smoothly because I’d prepared for it. That’s a lesson I’ve learned recently: if you prepare yourself, you might actually succeed. Simple, but true. I feel that my mind has shifted again, like the land slowly shaping itself to find balance. Now I’m interested in telling several stories, perhaps all at once. Ready, set, go. (Which one is going to reach eternity?) Kind of how God started it, or so I imagine. But there’s no longer a longing for answers. My mind isn’t haunted by the same questions anymore. I’m simply looking for a story to tell. I ...

My two antennas are messing me around, leading me nowhere. A few nights ago, I went to an art event, neon lights flashing, music blasting. But I don’t belong here. My soul won’t happen here. I knew that all along, even back in New York. I was never an aspiring artist; I only wanted to be, to be whatever it is that I am: obscure, valueless, incomplete, messy, chaotic. Because that’s who I am. I want to make me happen. And in order to let myself be, I had to explore the world through the eyes of a nobody. Since God gave me a rather mediocre body (not a beauty queen’s), I simply managed to exist, unnoticed and freer because no one was watching. Who the fuck cares about her? Nobody. Even I didn’t care about myself. I just kept on caring about what the world is. People want to be beautiful, to be valued. But perhaps it’s because they’re already close to perfection that they start to care about the tiny gaps between what’s perfect and what’s not. Looking at those doll-like, picture-pe...

  I’ve been talking to this toy poodle for a while. I was never particularly attracted to toy poodles, they look too much like toys to me. I don’t feel their emotions when I encounter them. Maybe it’s the size; they’re just too small for me to imagine what’s on their mind. He is 23 years old, lives in the suburbs, has light brown curly hair, is good at driving, and has horrible taste in music and underwear. “It’s been so long since I had such a fun time. I want to see you.” Of course you do. You don’t know me. “I don’t think I should see you.”   He mistakes my sentiment for self-hatred. “Oh, by the way, I don’t care about looks or age,” he adds.  Why do they always assume I am worried they won’t accept me?   I just don’t share much with them. Their values are, most of the time, of no interest to me. Not particularly because I judge them, but because most people are interested in the same things: pleasure, sharing pleasure, being treated as something of value, ...