Ophelia Vang

  I'm sorry I lied to you. I don't think I've written since June. It was the same beast on my chest as always that lured me away from spending more time with you. Before my mother took me away from you, I remember turning up the A/C to "play winter" and hide under the thick duvet like young, giddy girls at a sleepover. We told scary stories and watched movies and in the most intimate space of your home, you took care of me when I was sick. I told you I was allergic to night there as a girl, through my stuffy nose with the poise and politeness of a first-born child. When I came home from abroad, I slept next to you wine-warm and snoring happily as someone who has returned home at the end of a great adventure novel. You complained once, but you never stopped inviting me to your bed. Time marches on, and the last time I saw your warm and endless bed, it was covered in crumbs and spilled ashtrays. It was tattered by dogs. It was time for...

I'm moving again. I think it's time. Short version at the bottom of the post .   Photo by  Florian Wehde  on  Unsplash I have been battling myself in my head over and over, back and forth for two years. What will I do? Where will I go? Will I stay?  Staying never really seemed possible at all here, but I felt true contentment when here in the U.S. with my family.  The only reason I came here at all was because of a string of unfortunate events in my bad luck and extra theatrically bad timing. The pandemic and some poor decisions had bankrupted me. I risked it all in an expensive move and the very same day our first lockdown (and very first COVID case) occurred. After fumbling around and scraping by for the better part of a year on my savings, I decided to go home. I remember feeling very hopeful then. Stressed, but hopeful. My family would be back together. It would open up a new chapter of my life. I could catch up with all the people I hadn't seen in...

 I find myself angry at how fleeting my time with my family was.  I lived with a monster for my upbringing and when I returned to America as a twenty-eight(?) year old, my father and I brought my grandmother to her home as she had retired and we all felt better if she had support.   I decided to get my masters degree because I was home with my nana. I find myself angry that I didn't get enough time with my family that was happy.  But I got some.  I got time with a happy family and although it was short lived I got a lot of opportunities like the opportunity to say goodbye.  I'm eternally grateful for my family. I'm eternally grateful for the opportunities they worked hard to give me. I'm eternally grateful and I had always hoped to be able to return it and despite being so desperately sad to be away with them, I think this is my chance. Not necessarily because of whatever job I get but because of the opportunities and time I have to supplement it....

  I had said I would stop writing about music, and to a great extent, I have. I no longer review music or interview artists, as I have found that people hold it so dearly that it rarely matters what anyone has to say. Things like being objectively good don't matter, and I think that goes for all art. All art is beloved by someone. Good or bad, it can be charming and entertaining without necessarily having any merit. None of this has anything to do with this EP, I'm just re-introducing myself to writing about other artists with this preface. I don't want to act like I'm some authority on what bad or good means. I'm just enjoying things and wanted to remind people that it's okay not to take yourself too seriously. With that said, I recently acquired Petit Brabancon's new EP, AUTOMATA, and I wanted to talk about my experience with it. I have been a fan of Kyo in DIR EN GREY since 2002 and continue to follow his work as well as the work of the rest of the member...

  There's a notebook somewhere. It contains a piece of paper with "A Personal Piece" scrawled at the top and details every instance of rape and molestation that I had both experienced and witnessed as a woman who has traveled the world on her own. The list numbers well over twenty and is marked in Roman numerals. One in particular that stands out is getting raped on the back porch of my mother's home and remaining silent about it. The next morning my friend and I agreed that he was "kinda rapey". "Then why did you invite him?" you would be well within your rights to ask as I am well within my rights to deny an answer. His friend invited him. I never saw either of them again. I don't think that the immorality of being in one's early 20s should invite such a drastic and widespread harm. There's a time I remember when I was 12 years old that my mother told me I would get AIDS and become pregnant by the time I was 13. She said I would die. ...

  I recently got an inquiry that intrigued me: First and foremost, thank you for considering my thoughts on this question. I'm by no means an expert in either China or A.I. but I am interested in both. I am grateful to intrigue anyone with my work. There are many things I took with me when I came to China, one of those being the creativity that had been fostered from my childhood. I had considered that China gifted me the luxury of a lifestyle that allowed me to express that creativity, but then I thought long and hard. Dredge of Decay, my first novel which took influence from my time in China, was first conceptualized in 2017. I worked on my outline for ages, sometimes shelving it entirely. While living in China, I took photographs, spoke to strangers, and explored little-reached neighborhoods. In my head, I was observing the stories and everyday lives of people, something I naturally tend to do no matter where in the world I am. I was convinced that my story would take place in a...

  Gen remembered the foamy, pinkish slop that he’d slid in that day: Goh’s brains and apparently his eye. He didn’t know how important it would be then.  As hard as Gen concentrated here, he couldn’t seem to find the sack of flesh that popped like a blister under his heel the day prior. Goh couldn’t feel it himself, the representation on his ghostly figure missing as well unlike the rest of his pieces.  Gen had searched for a long time, already displeased with the several trips he’d made back and forth in his search.  “Why don’t we go back?” Goh asked cautiously, “instead of finding my head.”  He had already asked so much of the man who made it clear that he had no obligation to him and was just doing this to rid himself of a haunting. “That’s where I was cut up, after all.”   He shrugged.  “Yeah, we can try that.”  Gen’s voice had fallen back to his low grumble. The landlady’s jest had sunk his morale. He knew he wouldn’t find the piece that...