Going, going, gone

After a lot of internal debate I am moving my blog here.

Actually, I've already moved it (and spent days yanking my dreads because it is, apparently, impossible to cleanly transfer old Blogger posts over to WordPress) but anyone who has an RSS feed to this site may want to know that I won't be posting content here anymore.

I feel bad. I mean, Blogger has been with me for a very long time. But times have changed and I have spent too much time wishing that it was something it never will be.

And now I have the resources to move along and build it better.

Keep it real!

Métier

The silence of the mountains was my only hope.

After reaching the pristine valleys of the Eastern Sierras, my one goal was to experience the stillness of Nothing for a stretch.

One can sit and stare out beyond the borders of civilization and watch the town creep across in the valley, spread beyond the gritty brown lumps of houses. Farmlands stretch from end to end, range to range, melting into the rise of foothills before blooming in year-round tips of white.

Yet somehow I never found a restful moment to spare.

Between the chitter of chipmunks and the crested birds, the act of feeding oneself and preparing for the chill onslaught of night, one is always busy. And when you have a 10 AM keynote address with the oldest of trees and a 45-minute commute, it makes for a very busy day.

An evening presentation at 6 PM by the Patriarchs. 30 minutes for break, and closing ceremonies with the rising moon.

Though I was miles from the office and thinking not of a single deadlined project, there is always work to be done. There are opportunities and stories in every step of life, in every reach of this Earth. I am indebted to craft something meaningful from our time together.

These ancient souls of wood have not withstood centuries for monetary gain, ROI, or for the interest of others... but they are no less worthy than anyone else who employs my time.

Beyond the White Picket Fence

Photo by Charlie Crane, from Welcome to Pyongyang

Growing up, SAT scores and mathematics were higher on my priority list than genealogy. I knew little about my family beyond my parents' own lives, that they were a city girl and a country boy brought together in Seoul's most prestigious university.

Now that I am older and my extended family has begun gathering more regularly, I'm hearing stories about Korea that seem straight out of a movie. It's hard to believe I am of their blood. 

My mother recently shared a very dark story about her uncle, my grandfather's brother. An aspiring political rebel from Seoul, he ascended to a position of power in the medical community in Pyongyang after World War II. Through the turmoil of the following decade (and a change in regime), he suddenly vanished without a trace. 

This is a typical tale coming out of North Korea, but inexcusable for any country with an ounce of respect for human rights. Should we be surprised?

It's bone-chilling knowing that if it were not for this, I'd have a bigger family. 

Moreover, my mother visited him with some regularity in the years before the division was final. She could have been trapped there; I could be witnessing the DPRK first-hand now, been executed at birth, or have never been born at all. 

You can sit around and mull over all the philosophical land mines (pun intended) in the "What if?" situations, but the simple fact is this: It's real. It's all painfully real and I've never been more aware that there's a big, nasty world out there. I only have the most distant idea of what it's like to have family stuck in the most treacherous country in the world, but this vague ghost of terror is so much more than I already want to feel. 

This is how I know that no matter what opportunities there are to travel beyond that border and take photos of a lifetime, it can never happen for me.

Perhaps my parents did the right thing not scaring their little girl with stories that don't have happy endings.

Notes of Language

Music is a powerful language of the soul.

Like language, the ear strains to understand, hearing familiar words in the unfamiliar rhythm. Words that you think you know. Words created from the context of your own life.

I listened to those notes and felt the rumbling shudder of steel, smelled the old stones of an old city, the tugging sea wind. I relived the creeping, cold uncertainty caused by confusion and distress.

The memories looped with each crescendo, drew breath with every pause.

Her story was different as she told it, but the beauty lies in the pictures that we see. They are all unique. They are all real.

What will you hear?

Keeble and Shuchat, Suck It

Keeble & Shuchat in Palo Alto, CA has bar none the worst service I've ever experienced in a brick-and-mortar shop. Here's how they've earned their way onto my Shit List.

You Are What You Say

It didn't happen overnight. I've been going there since before I've even lived in California – which is my way of pointing out I've been giving this place more chances than anyone should ever give someone. We're talking more than three years.

I may be a chump, but I'm no n00b to customer service. I've been working (in customer! service!) since 2008 for a company who is world-famous for their quality of personalized, human support. I have experience with all kinds of people, every minute degree of annoyance and I can say with some authority that how you treat your customers reflects on your business.

Someone is always watching. Someone is always talking. Even if you're having a terrible day. Even if someone stole your sandwich so you have low blood sugar that makes you want to bring that 1DmIV down on someone's head. Even if your customers ask irrelevant questions or are smoking crack. Even if they ask you, "What gives?"

I'm not sorry for much in this life, but I am sorry that so many awful companies succeed in this day and age. K & S, as an example, has a corner on the pro film processing market in the SF Bay Area. So many of us keep going back again and again and again...

Oh No She Dit'n't

Since day one I have been unhappy with them and each memory orbits around a single word: DISRESPECT. I've gone in there regularly over the last 2.5 years to browse and buy because they are the most convenient camera supply and film service shop. Plus, as a rule I prefer to patronize independently-owned local businesses. Every time I walk through the doors accompanied by my husband or a male friend, all help is directed at my companion, never at me, even when I'm the one asking the freaking questions. Chauvinistic sonofabitches.

I hate pulling the gender card, but seriously. Over the years they've thrown me a big fat bone to pick.

But whenever I ask for help, my presence is a huge imposition to them. Which is a real feat considering that half the time there's twice as many employees standing around than customers in the store. (Wow. Must be nice.)

A Moment on the Lips. A Lifetime's Loss in Tips.

I've recently met the most hostile sales guy ever permitted to set foot in a store in retail history. I made it clear that:

1. I know that there is one other person in front of me that I have to wait for, first.

2. I don't care, I am not in a rush and I understand. (I do this by pulling out my iPhone and leisurely checking my mail.)

3. I have a simple request, have been here before, I know the routine and exactly what I want. I AM AN EASY CUSTOMER. I'm the kind of customer you get your interns to help.

But hey, that's not good enough. I'm the scum of the earth to shoot film, to trust my priceless memories to this shop who can do what I cannot do myself. How dare I ask for them to process my film for me? How dare I try to shortcut the process by saying, "Develop only, and could I have the negatives cut and sleeved, please?"

(Another point: Seriously, I've been coming to you almost every week for 7 months. Could you not have your customer's contact information on file so I don't have to spell out my name and my phone number every time? Also, a smile would be nice, or some form of recognition that would make hauling my ass up there a little more welcoming. This is a lot to ask, I know, but I'm the Asian girl with dreadlocks and red glasses. Though it's moot because you'll never see me again.)

I felt something snap inside of me which may have been my patience, but was most likely my blinders finally giving way under the weight of a thousand fake smiles. I cut the crap, got the hell out of there and will never go back. It's a shame that I can't patronize a local business with something that I am passionate about, but I think it's a far greater shame to be repeatedly treated this way by a business and still give them your money. I'm excruciatingly, horribly embarrassed about that. I feel dirty, like I've escaped an abusive relationship. Which, in a way, I have.

I'll Take My Money and Run

It's back to mail-order processing for me, or I'll go up to the city. C'est la vie, but film has always been a delayed gratification sort of deal. They very clearly do not need or want my business.

The only thing I can thank K & S for is getting me fired up enough to actually update my blog. That's worth something.

Losing the Line

One of the most inconvenient obstacles I've encountered in my rebirthed career is the internet.

I've always been a spew-from-the-seat-of-my-fingertips kind of writer, back when I was scribbling crazy thoughts on scraps of diner napkins at 4 AM. They always ended up falling into some sort of order, a raw stream of consciousness that I have, over time, learned to trust.

You can't do that these days. Not in this business.

Streams-of-consciousness writing is not Google-friendly. You have to pay attention to your audience, think about what they're looking for, stay relevant, be consistent. But playing by the rules is a big creativity killer, dontcha know.

Because my personal blog is for myself, I don't generally care about any SEO implications here. But at the end of the day I don't have enough brain cells to rub together and create anything new. I'm sad to see that spark disappear.

I miss my winding ways, but the path of life has taken other forms that have results yet to be seen.

Snoqualmie Sunrise

Since my earliest days, I've longed to visit the magical land. The land of snowy mountains, rolling hills, sea stacks, pounding waves, eternal fog and metropolitan glitz. I wanted to be somewhere close to earth, sky and sea.

The Pacific Northwest.

I would read my books and gaze at the suburban stars and dream about how beautifully green and alive such a place would be.

And yet from the earliest age I've been told it's not worth visiting. It rains all the time and there are hippies and - even worse - liberals.

It took three decades to get there. It was worth the wait.

Seattle and Snoqualmie in spring.