Busking has become more than a hobby for me; it has become my rice bowl as my father would say ("ah fan woon" which means break the rice bowl which means break someone's wallet which means stealing someone's means of supporting himself). Busking has also become a religion of sorts because I get to aerate my feelings and vent in the 14 Street station after 9PMs when it is quiet and all is serene except for rats screwing each other on the tracks and for homeless persons' stomachs rumbling in their seats. I would get these itches to busk around the night time because I consider singing to female subway riders a romantic thing especially when they get off from work or after they depart with their boyfriends. But busking also depends on the atmosphere as well and also the amount of money that I make and the amount of compliments I receive from fellow New Yorkers. For the moments that I love New Yorkers, I hate them more for ignoring me and simply walking past me or moving their seats when I begin singing. But I cannot blame them because their honest move is better than sitting there fidgeting or raising their volume on their iPods maybe because they have higher standards of music (My father would say they have "go sui-jun" which means they have high standards [in music].) or because they simply are not in a mood to listen to anything else but their music and if what they hear is not the least pleasant they will block it out and neutralize it at all costs. I have also realized the reasons why people just don't want to listen. Mostly because they are not in the mood to hear any kind of music or that they don't want to be taken away from their thought process at the time they pass me on foot, which is why they speed by. But I also notice that some people don't approach me and stay fifteen to twenty feet away. I do this to performers too because I don't want to not give eye contact. I feel like I want to listen to them and even stop but I don't want to walk away once I have stopped to give them an ear; I would feel extremely bad for walking away from them after I have been engaged by them. Hopefully I will give them a dollar and if I don't like them I will walk away and not give a dollar but this will make me feel criminal so to avoid all this I simply don't approach them and I simply listen from a distance. When I get angered by New Yorkers not approaching me when I perform I think about how I react to other performers, people whom I consider "fellow" musicians, yet I distance myself from them because I initially believe that they are not as good as I am or as unique as I am, whatever that is supposed to mean.
There is continuous social stigma in the Chinese/Asian community that my parents continue to bombard me with negative statements like mo gnan haw nee do gung, ho deen, sut meen, mo mehn, which translate to no one wants to offer you a job, very low, losing face, no face. My Dad continues to prognosticate that I will not graduate because Hunter will scrutinize my "conduct" which he claims includes hanging out with the "wrong people" and staying out late. I told him that I am twenty two years old and that I am free to do what the hey I want and he retorts that anyone over the legal age still needs to be under the consent of their parents. I didn't go as far as telling him off that this is America and that this is not China, but I did let him know that I cannot be chained and once I get a job there might be times that I need to go to the bar or do evening dinners with my co-workers. He turned a deaf ear and said that I should be at home promptly by 5PM. How absurd, how absurd. Back to the stigma concerning busking: even Steven, the pimp that I talk to occasionally, told me that people regard my busking as begging. I told him that I am not begging; beggars simply ask for money, but I provide a service---I sweeten people's ears with my music and they pay me a dollar for lightening their wait for the next train. It is disappointing how my Dad tells me that people will consider me a hut-gnee, a beggar. He thinks that my entire apartment considers me as a beggar and a low life who is simply not conscious or valuable enough to remain alive. He thinks that the police can shoot at me and erase me because I have lowered myself by playing guitar in the subway. This way of thinking discourages me to no end. Just when I thought my parents supported me in music they discourage me more. I doubt they worry about my safety in the subway, for they care more about their own reputation, about their own face, for being the sorryass parents to this short kid named Ken who cannot play the guitar or sing.
Listening to Jennifer's single Let You In rocked my evening and I have been listening to it ever since. I love her patterning and her raw vocals. I had underestimated Jennifer mostly because she did not attend the guitar open mic sessions for a few months. Just her disappearance made me consider her less. But those who appear less frequently prove to be diamonds in the rough; they prove to be the most outstanding especially when they do not flaunt their talents and they do not advertise themselves massively or even "sell out" as some people would call it. Jennifer does not busk and she does not go about spamming people about her music; she keeps it under wraps and continues to learn and grow as a musician at heart. This sense of patient nourishing and tender growth is keen for a musician who does not brag and does not flaunt. It is key for musicians who want to discipline themselves in the art of being humble. Jennifer inspires me to write but she doesn't go that far because most of the things and people that I claim to inspire me only fade away after a few days because I would have moved onto something else. It takes a lot to move me and it takes a lot to inspire me mainly because I do not give heavy consideration to these things that have inspired me; I don't see them as huge inspirations but only for the moment. So after the enlightening moment is over I hide my inspirations from light and possibly forget them especially if they are musicians who sound better than me or who I have deemed to be impossibly amazing. I seem to be jealous of them and to equalize this feeling of jealous I praise them instead and I laud them of their precision and talent with their voice and songwriting, but on the inside I am burning with jealousy that they can accomplish something that I have always wished to accomplish.
Duetting with Jessica was uplifting mainly because Jessica evokes this sense of freshness, this sense of being a child at heart. She is effortlessly amazing and chill to be around mainly because she is a chill person who is carefree in her aura. Despite our amazing age difference we go together in terms of height and stature. I consider us in appearance to be brother and sister but she claims that I look nothing like her. I met Jessica during Tannenstock, a tribute concert for Tannenbaum. What drew me to her was her tacky red Dewey gym shorts. I joked with her that she looked like a student who ran away from gym class and sat in the lawn to listen to music. I met the pair Jessica and Sarah and I realized that they both loved to sing. I offered Jessica the opportunity to duet with me mostly because I wanted to hang out with her. So I insisted that we meet up and jam to a song. When we met up at the park I realized that Jessica was incredibly poised in attention and also really inquisitive because of her attentiveness. This fresh breath of vitality and vigor allowed me to see how energetic life can be, even when in Jessica's shoes I can live vicariously when I am hanging out with her. I also like the 8th Avenue setting that we rehearsed in because we passed by the park and the ice cream store that Tiff took me to almost two years ago when we first met. It was there that she informed me, "you eat like a four year old," telling me that I was forever a messy eater. It wasn't until our second hangout and dining at Dogmatic Union Square that Tiff acknowledged my sense of foodsmarts. But when I ran home with diarrhea the fourth hangout at Shake Shack, Tiff knew that I had ordered way too much and had overexpected a full meal.
I am so proud of my homegirl for being certified as a SHSAT tutor because now she can get paid more for her hours and she can be received by high-paying families who need a ready-to-go and well-rounded tutor. I cannot believe that Linda has come so far from sitting with me at the New York Film Academy's Cafe table and wishing for math to be the end of her, to being certified and wearing collar shirts that accentuate her teaching days. Maybe I can get her a Club Monaco or J.Crew or Rugby skinny tie to accentuate her status. The days of studying are not yet terminated and this is what I mostly agree with when it comes to our friendship: Linda and I want to nourish our brains with knowledge and expand our knowledge instead of being stuck at traditional nine to five jobs. We want to pursue higher education by being lifelong learners even after the diplomas have been printed with our names on it. Though I do think that the switch to medicine is abrupt I do not discourage her because she has come this far and there is no point to beat back a friend who I have such immense respect for. But some part of me feels that Linda was affected by Claudia and this is interesting. For the few consecutive days that I hung out with Linda I was rekindled with our time we spent exactly last summer when we met up for the picture meetup. In fact we want to go again and skip the stupid dollar fee and troll on the people who probably do not remember us. But I do remember that Chinese woman in her late 20s who stared at us momentarily. I had thought the guy with her was her boyfriend but who knows; she was too old for me anyway and she was probably a noob at photography.
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