A few portraits taken over the summer. Most are taken with the 24–70mm f2.8, which has come to be my main portrait lens, instead of a prime like the 50mm. I find that I can take advantage of the wide end of the lens to come up with some interesting distortion, such as the first one that really brings out Bronwen’s eyes. Unfortunately, it’s so heavy that it’s difficult to hand-hold steadily, so most pictures are taken with bright ambient light or a flash.

New layout. Back to my old grayscale style, because that’s how I’ve been feeling lately. Neutral. Took me about three days, mostly from scratch. I was satisfied with the old one, until two months ago, when I began reading several design/typography/colour books at work. The powers that be let me spend around $300 on educational material, and as I explored each one with fervor and thirst, I began to notice all the fundamental design mistakes I made. Ignorance is bliss.

It’s Friday night, and with my legs curled under me, Dolly sniffs at my feet, looking for an opportune space on my lap. Fall is approaching. The window in my room remains open as soon as the sun sets. I’ve been overwhelmingly busy, and as a result, I haven’t quite caught up on any sleep in the last two weeks.

Things have changed.

I don’t write the same anymore, or about the same things. I’ve lost my fervent verbosity. Every time I sit at my computer, my mind blanks. Writing has become a chore. Even this entry has taken me days to think through. I find myself writing and rewriting every point, every paragraph.

In the beginning, blogging was a form of catharsis. Developing cognitively beyond my adolescence was an emotional period, filled with confusion and growing pains. The only way I could make sense of it all was to write out my thoughts, forcing myself to reflect and learn from every challenge.

It was also a useful tool in figuring myself out, as a part of my life where I could approach things with the conviction that I lacked in the rest of my life. Now that I’ve gained enough confidence, it doesn’t seem so necessary to prove myself with words anymore. It would seem that I’ve become a victim of my own self-assuredness.

I could fill this blog with entries, finding solace in the written word, when I was going through something as simple as a bad day. As time has passed, I’ve eliminated most of the things that bother me enough to turn to this medium. It was a slow and systematic process, both internal and external. My new-found serenity has left me with little rage. I’m happier now, and happiness is too hard to write.

There have been few epiphanies, and even less inspiration, in the last while. Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of a transition. It takes a foundation of stability, something I haven’t had in months, to grow. My life hasn’t quite settled yet.

Writer’s block is a sign that I’ve stopped growing, a testament to what and how much I’ve been through.

But more importantly, it’s a sign that I’m approaching where I want to go in my life.

Under the guise of some trouble with her iPod, the old second generation clunker that I gave her last Christmas, my mother calls me on Saturday, close to midnight.

I can hear the congestion in her nose. She’s been crying. It gets lonely when you’re alone in the house on a Saturday night, the same house you’ve inhabited for the last 15 years of your life with your façade of a family, and the façade is torn down.

Our last phone-call didn’t end well. She wanted to know why we weren’t as close as other sons with their mothers.

“How can we be close”, I told her, “You go crazy every time I tell you something important. You’re stifling. Overprotective. Growing up, it made my life a nightmare.” For the first time in my life, I revealed a glimpse of how she had wronged me, not even bringing up the memories of mental abuse I keep buried in my chest for times like this, like an ember ready to be stoked into a fire.

“It’s because you’re my only son, and the only thing I have left now.” Saying these words, sparking a sudden realization, makes her sob more. She tells me that she wants to start over. It’s never too late. She wants to be stronger so she can survive this divorce, and close to me so she’s isn’t left without an emotional bond.

Unfortunately, forgiveness isn’t something that’s in my power. I have no pity for her. Knowing how vulnerable, weak, and depressed she is just a reminder of my own childhood, and only time has a chance at edulcorating the bitter taste in my mouth.

So she calls me on Saturday, pretending to need some help with her iPod, to see if I’ve forgiven her yet. If I ignore her, I become as terrible a person as she was. I only wish I could believe that she didn’t deserve it.

But I can’t.

A bowl of egg-noodles, with barbecue pork, shiitake mushrooms, shrimp, carrots, bok choi, and green onions in a chicken broth, is considered comfort food for most Chinese people. They say that comfort food soothes the mind by acting like an opiate, hitting the receptors in our central nervous system. We go to it in times of stress, and in addition to keeping us full, it keeps us pacified.

As Pat and Jen cut, and wash, and cook, they never nibble. Everything that’s prepared goes into the pot. Not too long, or the vegetables will lose their firmness. With chopsticks and a spoon, they serve the noodle soup in large bowls. One eats from the spoon, which is used to scoop the broth, while the chopsticks are simply used to put the desired ingredients on the former utensil.

I don’t have meals like this anymore. Chinese food is a complicated affair. It takes a motley set of ingredients, most of which is only available on a single street in this city, so I’m grateful for a real home-cooked meal.

Everything about it brings me back to a time when I was a child, living with my parents, living off Chinese food every day. The contrasting colours of the pork against the noodles. The full aroma. The savoury taste of broth. Even the dulcet slurp of noodles.

If only my childhood was worth remembering.