The Texture of A Memory

Ritual as a physical space.

Dec 04, 2024

I’ve always thought that airports were cool.

They act as the perfect intersection of memory—a crossroads of starting anew and going back, functioning as a link between the past and future. I watched the old couples at the airport diners, sleepy-eyed at the bar and wondered where they’ll be tomorrow. Who is waiting for you? Who do you come back home to, who do you want to be when you emerge from the exit?

What names do we assume when we go back home?

My parents call me Pumpkin or Soju Girl, sometimes Kim Gangster which I find funny. I came back home for the holiday last week, pulled a small bag down the ramp and ran into the arms of my father who drove directly from work. He was holding a small bouquet of orange mums. I watched the streetlights chase each other through the light rain that had collected on the windows as we drove a familiar path back home. The lights are on and my mother opens the door in her flannel pajamas as the croon of a Frank Sinatra song floats out into the night.

I cut my bangs not too long ago, (a 5 AM chop if you will) and was pleasantly surprised with the results after a few days of self conscious dissatisfaction. I think I look a lot like myself as a kid.

My mom tells me that she wishes she could keep me in her pocket like a koala. She pats her stomach as she says this. Kangaroo, I gently correct her. She repeats, “I wish I could keep you in my pocket forever like a kangaroo,” before realizing that this only applies to baby kangaroos and once a kangaroo reaches a certain size it can’t fit in the pocket anyway. She deflates—I miss you even if I’m right next to you.

I feel bad because a part of me was hesitant to go back to Southern California. I felt a weird longing to stay in San Francisco, in my small studio apartment filled with knick-knacks and random ephemera that I’ve collected over the months of me living here. I wanted my noisy espresso machine and my three cotton comforters, my tiny vacuum cleaner and a fridge covered in art postcards. But I went back, dragging my suitcase in the rain, drying off in the sunlight of my family’s smiles and it was 100% worth it.

Most of the time, I say that I don’t want to live as a regretful person while I simultaneously succumb to my natural routine. I find a lot of comfort in doing the things that I’m used to doing, like making my coffee with a sugar and four ice cubes or laying in bed for a few hours after work instead of taking a walk outside. I don’t read at bars anymore because it is expensive, so I drink cheap beers and type on my laptop with fingers that are oily from fried chicken.

The remains of the day collect at the bottom like the last sip of wine in a glass, lolling gently from side to side as I peer into it, translucent and barely there. My routine is simple, and there is nothing wrong about that, but it’s dissatisfying—I cannot tell if this is even a “routine” at times, especially with the introduction of the corporate lifestyle. I am just here, to put it bluntly. It is a slow acceptance of a lackluster existence, and I would like to adjust this in some manner.

Rituals are to time as rooms are to an apartment. They make time accessible like a house. They organise time, arrange it. In this way you make time appear meaningful.
Time today lacks a solid structure. It is not a house, but a capricious river.
Byung-Chul Han. “I Practise Philosophy As Art” (Interview on ArtReview, 2021.)

It’s already December and I am coming back to you again and again—at least, that is something that I will never regret.

January means that there are more resolutions and more inspirations to be a “newer” version of myself—this means hitting the gym and taking on a new hobby and trying to get a raise at work. Usually, these aspirations are carefully cultivated for a few weeks (or if I’m extra motivated, a few months), but they usually fizzle out as I go back to the serenade of a practiced waltz that requires little to no effort. But I hope that the Jinju of 2025 is willing to be more grungy, with an increased willingness to be embarrassed and trying.

The second best time to start is now, and that is all the time I need.