Mister Candid – Jules Hardy

Amazing read…I couldn’t put this book down. The very hilarious husband of a friend of mine recommended it to me about a year ago and I just got around to picking it up via Amazon.com. Jules Hardy, first of all, is a female author, which I did not realize until well into the 406 pg novel. Most of the characters in the book are male and I assumed incorrectly that ‘Sheila was a man’ due to her succinct and to the point characterization of these men.

The book evokes a range of emotions in the reader, from horror and disbelief during more macabre scenes to curiosity and revulsion regarding sexual taboos. The way Hardy approaches both the sick and the gruesome is neutral and in a way without judgment, so that the reader himself is left with the scales and the decision to weigh or not weigh.

Morality is a funny thing. We all must have our own sense of right or wrong, but when it comes down to matching societal mores, what if our intuition goes against the guidelines set by the world around us? I have always intuitively been against the death penalty. To me, it is just wrong for any system to make a judgment on whether a person lives or dies. I have always felt that the higher powers that be make that decision for us, and courts should not intervene. That seems so intuitively right to me. And in terms of a person taking the life of another…I always abhorred the slight flitter of contentment I would feel when an evil character in a movie finally dies at the hand of the hero protagonist. Who are we to make decisions on the life or death of our fellow human beings?

Mister Candid challenged these views for me. As the back cover will reveal, the story is about a serial killer who rids society of its depraved offenders, namely rapists and child molesters. The title character, I hesitate to type “protagonist” but in a sense that is who he is, makes a career out of this societal “cleansing”, and I found myself rooting for his success in the end. After all, he is killing the vermin that have themselves killed and tortured before, so it is poetic justice, isn’t it? But who is to judge who should or should not be “cleansed” from society? Where do the lines blur before we evoke another Hitler extreme into our midst?

The story follows how Chum Kane, aka Mister Candid, became the serial killer that he is, and is paralleled by the soul-searching of Flanagan, a cop who wants to find Mister Candid and decide for himself which is the better way, to hand over the depraved to the justice (and often injustice) of the courts, or to enforce judgment upon them by pulling the trigger himself. I found myself closely relating to Flanagan’s moral struggle and when I set down the book reluctantly after the 406th page I found myself at a bit of a loss. Rooting for a serial killer. Hmm…

This novel is extremely well-written in a blunt, matter-of-fact style, and will keep you on the edge of your seat and your principles. If I were to point out any criticism, it would be that the ending seems a bit truncated, almost rushed. But perhaps that’s only because I just want to keep following Chum Kane until he finds redemption. Perhaps.

The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom - Don Miguel Ruiz

This book was gifted to me this Christmas by a incredible, sensitive soul in Vancouver whom I love…she knows who she is! This is an extremely short read, almost like a quick guide to finding happiness, but much more inspired than the many “self-help in a nutshell” guides you find in the Personal Well-being section of the bookstore these days. I am pretty much open minded to any of these “guides” and usually end up reading both fundamentally soul soothing books as well as the Velveeta ordained ones that just recycle a bunch of known “truths” in a jumbled and inarticulately cheesy mess.

So why is this one particularly good? I think it’s in the simplicity of what these agreements are trying to help the reader focus on. Also, as with all of these guides, the timing of when you read it and your readiness to receive the information within all plays into the effectiveness of the guide. For me, it seemed to reinforce things that I have been pondering recently, including the paradigms set by your parents early on in your life, thus creating walls of approval and disapproval that you eventually must break down yourself. There are no walls but those that you erect yourself. The only approval required is your own. How simple these concepts but at the same time it is this seeking of approval that results in the deep-rooted insecurities that plague even the most headstrong.

The book focuses on four tenets: impeccability to your word, don’t take things personally, don’t make assumptions, and do your best in everything that you do. I think the one that was most jolting for me was “don’t take things personally”. People’s actions germinate from their own motives and purposes, and even when they seem directed at you, the true instigator is within them. Thus, it doesn’t make sense to take things personally because it’s never about you. In the same way, your own thoughts and actions stem from within and there is no one else to blame for the feelings and emotions you experience except you. Being rather sensitive in general, I think this is one of those tenets that really made me find freedom in the recent past. I realized my sensitive reactions to other people’s actions were misguided and unnecessary, and that I was enslaving myself to guilt and blame. Once you divorce yourself from those two harbingers of pain and self-doubt, there’s this sense of liberation, of bindings slipped off, of tethers untied, and you begin to soar on your own terms.

A big thank you to the beautiful woman who sent this book to me…sending virtual hugs from Hawaii.

A Place Far, Far Away - Kona, Hawaii - a fragment

There’s just an hour and a half left to Christmas Day…Merry Christmas to you all out there in different corners of the earth. My Christmas has been awesome so far. Christmas Eve stretched out to the wee hours of the morning and by the time I woke up for Christmas it was already four in the afternoon. My kinda holiday. I am currently listening to one of my wonderful presents, Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi album, compiled by Thievery Corporation. Very chill stuff for a very chilled vacation.

This past week in Hawaii has been unbelievable. I feel so utterly removed from my daily life in Hong Kong, in a way it almost feels like I could just remain here in this Hawaiian bubble forever. My first five days in the Rainbow State were spent in a place far, far away from everything, nestled up in the hills of Kona on the Big Island. So removed is this place, in fact, that it is self-sufficient in terms of water (collected from the rain), power (generated by solar panels), and telecom (networked via satellite). Just knowing that makes you feel even more isolated, tucked away in your own little haven that could run without any intrusion from the world beyond the drystone walls.

The simplicity of life up there struck me immediately when I woke up the first morning to a peaceful quiet. The stillness up there is infectious. Even my own typically whirring mind was coaxed into silence. The usual drivel was held at bay and the only thoughts I really had were…hmm…gosh, did I even have any thoughts at all? I think for a moment there I even forgot what I did for a living. I may have even ignored my Blackberry for more than 48 consecutive hours. Just awesome. My buddies and I talked about music, constellations, old memories, recent memories, music and more music. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed incessantly, tickling the silence with our chuckles and guffaws.

Under the stars and in front of the fire (yes, believe it or not it was COLD in Hawai’i!) I got to know an amazing gathering of people, some of whom I knew before and some just recently acquainted. If you were to examine each of us on an individual level, you may think, wow, how did this random bunch get together? An unlikely assortment of backgrounds, ages, and professions. But there were such good vibes radiating from each person and within the group, it was obvious we were all meant to cross paths.

In the stillness, it was as if I could hear the pieces falling into place. A perfect culmination to 2005. 2005 was the year for finding strength and how we apply that strength in 2006 and beyond is completely up to us. It’s exhilarating to know that we have within us all that it takes to realize whatever dream we may hold in our hearts. Some of us may be selling crystal right now before traversing the desert to find our true calling, but selling crystal is part of this amazing process and not to be scoffed at. As long as we keep our hearts wide open we will hear the signs from the universe conspiring to help us towards where we are meant to be (unabashed references to Coehlo’s Alchemist as some of you may know ;), and if you don’t know, go to the nearest bookstore and hook yourself up!).

In that very stillness, it was as if I could hear my soul quietly mending, the tranquil up and down motions of a needle joining the formerly fragile fragments together, each patient stitch adhering strength to the seams, the seams together safeguarding the verve of my soul. Mele Kalikimaka, everyone. :)

In Transition - Yahoo! Cafe, Narita Airport - a fragment

Just yesterday I'd been complaining about how there's absolutely nothing to do at Narita Airport, and today I discover that there's actually a Yahoo! cafe in Terminal 2 where you can log on for free! Sweet! Not only that, had an excellent 20 minute massage and a bowl of kitsune udon that just hit the spot. Now there's just half an hour before I board my flight to Honolulu, a perfect slot to contain some of the thought-streams that have been go-karting around in my mind for the past few weeks.

Suffice to say that the past year has just been incredible. Full of ups and downs and all sorts of madness that makes life unbelievable. As the velvet curtain begins to draw on 2005, I find myself eagerly anticipating what the curtains will reveal in 2006. This last quarter of the year has been exceptionally enlightening...old patterns have been revealed and rooted to a common seed in the past, relationships have been redefined in my head and heart, or rather than redefined, perhaps it's more accurate to say that they have been 'updated' to my current reality, and strengths and weaknesses have been acknowledged and accepted, figuratively shown the welcome mat to my inner courts where previously they'd been weighed and judged. There's been a shift in me. One could call it a paradigm shift, as my buddy did, whereby unexpectedly, the world around me just seems a bit more in focus, and more importantly, the 'me' inside me has survived the harsh light of chronic criticism and somehow survived even more whole than before.

It feels as if all the minor adjustments that I've been making throughout the years have found a harmonious chord and things just feel right. Sometimes I'd look around me and felt as if I'd been treading water for ages, not making any actual progress and still in the same place, but now I realize that treading water just builds up those muscles for the long journey ahead. I guess now I feel like I've set off...the part of my journey for honing those muscles is coming to a close and now I am moving forward, not only within, but without as well. It's an exciting feeling, this sense that I am ready for anything that's to come. A few of my thirty-something friends have commented that they went through this transformation of sorts in their late twenties, and now that they are in their thirties, their sense of self is more secure and their need for approval has subsided. The only approval required is the approval you give yourself. Such a simple concept, really, but the implications are profound.

So in a sense I feel as if I am in transition, except this time there is no destination in particular. Sure, right at this moment my mind is on dropping my heavy laptop bag in relief when I finally arrive in Kona, but I find the beauty is in the transition. Every moment in our life is transitional, when it comes down to it. Focusing on the 'goal' gives you determination in a way, but better yet, why not focus on improving every moment in this ever transitioning life we lead? We never know what to expect tomorrow, yes yes, so cliched I know, but so very true. So rather than ask ourselves what we are transitioning to and where the destination is, I find for now I'd like to just relish in transition itself. The purity of your soul remains constant, but you can always define what part of your soul you would like to experience at any given moment.

Speaking of transitions, my layover is quickly coming to an end and if I don't 'transition' myself out of here soon I'll miss my flight to Honolulu...more to come later and in the meanwhile, happy transitions to all of those in my circle whom I know are going through changes, some major and some minor, in their lives right now. This journey is what it's all about, and as 'journey' signifies movement and change, let's make the most of these transitions together. ALOHA!!!

Mood: Cornflower - playlist

about to dash off to kona and honolulu for my soul vacation...so much to write about lately but no time just yet...will have to let the music do the talking...big aloha hugs and happy holidays to all you all out there... =D

1. Honey and the Moon – Joseph Arthur
2. Angeles – Elliott Smith
3. Scratch – Kendall Payne
4. A Lack of Color – Death Cab For Cutie
5. To Be Alone With You – Sufjan Stevens
6. Pocketful of Money – Jens Lekman
7. Cannonball – Damien Rice
8. They Weren’t There – Missy Higgins
9. How to Be Dead – Snow Patrol
10. For the Widows in Paradise – Sufjan Stevens
11. Between the Bars – Elliott Smith
12. Songs for a Blue Guitar – Red House Painters
13. The Sound of White – Missy Higgins
14. I Saw Her In The Anti War Demonstration – Jens Lekman
15. Details of the War – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
16. Love and Some Verses – Iron and Wine
17. On My Bones – Kendall Payne
18. Silent Sea – KT Tunstall
19. Saturday Sun – Nick Drake

John Banville - The Sea

I don’t know what possessed me to pick up this book in the first place, as I’d never heard of Banville before. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the title and the Magritte-esque cover, and of course, that stamp of approval on the bottom right hand corner: “Shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2005”.

What struck me most through reading this book was Banville’s prose…extremely elegant and at times esoteric as well. He uses words that I have never even seen before. “Blench” for example. I stupidly have always thought it was spelled “blanche”. Parboiled, leporine, lummox, costiveness, anthropic, polyp, vulgate, apercus. Words I’ve seen but forgotten: recreant, traduced, crapulent…so many, sometimes you feel like Banville’s choice of words is an angry onslaught to catch the reader offguard. You can almost imagine him spitting each distinct syllable of these foreign words at his ignobly ignorant readers, of which I am one. He demands an exercise of the brain and I like that.

Another distinction with his prose…he has no chapters. Just a part I and a part II. He slides in and out of scenes, memories, time periods, point of views in a quick turn of the pen and you feel securely seatbelted behind his mind’s eye, as it takes you for a ride. There are surprising moments, catches in his plot, points where you draw a sharp intake of breath as the twist dawns upon you, but it’s not the plot that keeps you going, but rather, the meandering vein of his prose.

The storyline circles around the grieving process of Max Morden, who has just lost his wife to cancer. Yet in grieving for his Anna, Max finds himself wandering through his childhood and past griefs. The intertwining of his adulthood and childhood forms a unique perspective as you trace the outlines of his mind. Unexpectedly, anger will boil up to the forefront, prompting him to address the dead Anna directly with foul epithets you wouldn’t think Max Morden could be capable of.

One particular passage that struck a chord for me…there is a moment when Max’s anger erupts in an all too familiar question that once ran through my mind during my early stages of grief. He demands of Anna, “Why have you not come back to haunt me? It is the least I would have expected from you. Why this silence, day after day, night after interminable night?…Send back your ghost. Torment me, if you like. Rattle your chains, drag your cerements across the floor, keen like a banshee, anything. I would have a ghost.”

All in all, the man has a succinct an elegant style that makes you keep reading. His perspectives are wide-ranging, sometimes you are deep in his neuroses, other times reading what seems to be just a straightforward, subjective account of a summer’s day. Which is so indicative of how one’s mind usually works…completely randomly. Deep one minute, then fixated on some superfluous detail in the next. He commands your attention by the very power of his prose and you follow, mesmerized in this alternate reality he weaves.

I Heart Hong Kong - a fragment

(obvious SATC reference, for those who are fans…)

I’ve been living in Las Vegas for a good part of this past weekend. I can’t say I’m proud to admit it, but it’s true and it’s been a helluva good time. I’ve been a semi-hermit this past weekend because I was supposed to be packing and performing a serious purging session, a colonic of sorts for the clutter that fills my apartment for no good reason. Old clothes I haven’t looked at for years, trinkets from xyz restaurants and abc vacation resorts that don’t really add much to my general “décor”, things I own that I don’t even know about, things of other people that I need to return…a one by one bagging of all the “stuff” that is just that…stuff. Not so much definition 2 found on http://www.dictionary.com/: “The essential substance or elements". But more like definition 3.c: “Worthless objects”. It's imperative that I start this purging as soon as possible, since my move is in less than a week, but...I just couldn’t do it.

So instead I retired to Las Vegas, the world of Ed Deline and Danny McCoy, ah Danny…now’s there’s a fine specimen of a man there. In between episodes I contemplated all that I had left to throw out and then proceeded to push the stuff out of my mind once the titles began playing again on the next mind-numbing episode of LV. Finally, the Sunday evening of a weekend that was earmarked for productive expulsion is drawing to a close, and I wonder to myself…why the heck have I been procrastinating so much? What’s keeping me from chucking out the first unnecessary item in my over-cluttered life? And then I realized…I’m suffering from DIP…Denial Induced Paralysis. Yes, that’s a medical term and you may want to go out and get the latest edition if your copy of Black’s Medical doesn’t have it.

I love Hong Kong. I love my little apartment on Mosque Junction, tucked behind the more boisterous Robinson Road and atop a beautiful little area us Hong Kong people call Soho, even though it really isn’t much like the New York equivalent it’s named after. But hey, in HK, we take what we can get. We have spatial limitations here but we make the most of the horizontal limits by extending vertically. Way vertically. I am sitting by my window looking out over my beloved city and I realize how goddam high up I am in my 17th story pad, which is considered not very high up in the HK scheme of things. I look out across the way to my neighbor’s flat 30 ft away from me, so close I can see the bubbles rising in the violet fishtank beside their window, behind the silhouette of, randomly, a row of four of five Chinese vases. Palpable, the humanity across 30 ft of thin air. Their light is still on and well, there’s my anonymous neighbor, HK style. 7 million of us stacked up like legos across this town, lit up at all hours, the constant inhale and exhale of 7 million souls fueling this little energy grid we live in.

My day began perfectly today. I left Las Vegas to cool in my DVD player and took to the streets. First, breakfast with my friend Victoria’s extremely impressive and accomplished father (who climbed Kilimanjaro at age 62 last year) at the newly erected Four Seasons hotel. Another incredible steel and glass structure adorning Hong Kong’s renowned skyline. Service with a smile trained into waiters, bellboys, and valets, alike; an immaculate and stylishly streamlined décor; a menu offering a range of international breakfast alternatives; basically everything you’d expect from the most recent addition to Hong Kong’s upscale hoteliers. From the lap of luxury I meandered through the many covered overpasses of the Central district that shield millions of suited executives from the sun and rain during the weekdays and shelter thousands of Filipina maids (aka “helpers” of these aforementioned executives) on Sundays. Funny how the day of the week can change the atmosphere along those walkways so dramatically. With the kind assistance of a random passerby I found a little shop in an alleyway that alters watchbands while you watch for a mere HKD20. Minutes later I left the crowded lane with two perfectly fitted watches. Ah, the satisfaction of small errands efficiently executed.

Up several lengths of the Mid-levels escalator and I run into a brand new café advertising San Francisco coffee, perfect place to get through the final chapters of the book I’m trying to finish. An hour and a few SMS’s later I meet a friend for a second breakfast at a little café in Soho. Brilliant use of space – we end up in the back “patio” section of the café, technically en plen air dining, but in reality a square of space completely enclosed by apartment buildings on each side, offering the very familiar and priceless sight of undergarments and mops dripping from laundry lines above. A visit to my favorite leather goods store, Lianca on Graham St., lightens my mood and my wallet. Then a bit of pampering at a hair salon on Wellington, whose second floor perch allows a direct view into the gym across the street, where a whole squadron of gym bunnies are sweating it out on a row of treadmills. All this, and it’s only 5pm when I meet an out-of-towner for a slice of French apple pie at Portobello’s on Staunton St. 7pm, take-out from Chicken on the Run and back to the comforts of my couch and the action on the Strip.

The simple details of my day feel so perfect that I realize that I must be a bit lovesick for Hong Kong, lovesick for the life I lead here. I feel so at home in my little flat, so comfortable in this little city with its cocktail of cosmopolitan accents cut with the ever-present dry and guttural local dialect. I’m spoiled by the ease of my Mid-level life, trudging up and down the escalators, to and fro in this microcosm. And speaking of bubbles, it’s 2am and my neighbors are still up but the violet bubbles have ceased their ascent. Ah…even fish need to sleep.

You’re probably wondering about the relevance of these details to the DIP I mentioned before. Simple, really. When you love where you live, it’s tough to take those first little steps of disassociation. The beginning of the colonic signifies the start of my move, and although my due date looms close I am still reluctant to acknowledge its ineluctability. Just one day more of simple comforts. There’s always tomorrow for the purging to begin. Now, to join the fish...

Sleep-deprived in Tokyo - a fragment

Don’t know if that’s even an apt title…”super sleep-deprived” is more like it. And I’m not really “in Tokyo” anymore per se, since I’m an hour away from landing in Hong Kong. Details. My mind is relatively blank as physical sensations vie for my attention. My spine’s whimpering from being scrunched up in seat D row 45. I’ve got that dull eyeball headache that comes from stress and a cigar hangover. My nose is raw and my allergies relentless, or perhaps I should just admit to the possibility that I’ve caught some flu from my colleague. The kind stewardess felt sorry for me mid-flight and gave me an entire box of tissues.

This week has been utterly exhausting, but there have been some very good moments, as always is the case when you find yourself in Tokyo. Last night was hilarious…ended up at a quaint cigar bar in Akasaka in the company of three great guys, a mini-goblet of Grand Marnier and a Montecristo No. 5. These three dudes are all married with kids and more than a decade my senior, but such a riot to hang out with. It’s so funny how people in totally different stages of life can just get along…sense of humor is the best common denominator. General grounded-ness comes in second, and rounding third is a shared love of chocolate – Japan’s got its chocolate culture down pat. That place has THE best chocolate in the world. Even in a cigar bar you get these little plates of exquisite chocolate coming your way non-stop. Okay, tangent. But like I was saying, it’s great to have a chance to hang up your labcoats once in awhile and hang out with the characters underneath, brings a lot more humanity into the workplace.

Tokyo is awesome, and even better in the fall. The crisp, dry air didn’t agree with my allergies but it was rejuvenating to breathe it in anyway. Scarves and trenchcoats are out and about and there’s nothing like a warm sake to stave off the chill after a stressful day of work madness. Work is absolutely insane and I’m dizzy just trying to keep track of all the balls in the air. We never seem to do things in a straightforward way, the pioneering company that we are, and I’m always finding myself deep in the brush and way off the beaten path. Tiring but exhilarating all at once. But you can’t complain about a job that takes you to Tokyo every so often to practice your elementary Japanese.

I could definitely live in Tokyo someday, would be so great to buckle down and learn the language with the locals, but seems my number’s being called in Shanghai, so Tokyo will have to wait. Not to mention, would kind of hate working in Tokyo because it really is annoying being a woman in the workplace here. There’s also such an abnormal degree of fronting that goes on day in and day out that I don’t know if I’d have the patience to keep up such a super-evolved workface…forget it man. I’ll live in Tokyo when I can just be a bum and hang out at the pachinko parlors…scary, scary prospect, that. Oh yeah, and there’s still Europe to do after China…ah well.

Things are so quaint in Tokyo, even the convenience stores have an elegance to them and you feel like you can eat off of any surface, everything is so psychotically clean! The word “clean” doesn’t even do justice to the level of hygiene these people keep up on a minute by minute basis. Amazing. You can pick any random place to walk into and it’ll be immaculate and the food will be good.

Most likely it will cost you as well, because Tokyo is also psychotically expensive. Our ride from the airport in a taxi cost over US$200. I know, I know, you’re thinking, what the hell were you doing taking a taxi from Narita into Tokyo, but exhaustion messes with your sensibilities and when you put three exhausted colleagues together after a long workday and a few hours breathing in stale plane air, a taxi seems like a really swell idea. We cited “economies of scale” as our excuse. Of course, still cost us twice as much per person as it would have to take a limousine bus or the Narita Express, but whatever…details. And what is up with those limousine buses anyway? I’ve heard that the Narita Express is purposefully kept from going any faster so that these limousine buses can stay in business and take their sweet time (give or take 2 friggin’ hours) to get you to and from the airport. Makes you really appreciate the speed and no-nonsense efficiency of the Hong Kong Airport Express…23 minutes into Central, trains every 12 minutes - it’s a beautiful thing, man.

We had a splendid listing anniversary cocktail at the Grand Hyatt at Roppongi Hills, the Lost in Translation hotel. This, after a wearing day of “lost in translation” sessions with an assortment of advisors. “Lost in translation” is a big recurring theme when you’re in Tokyo. Ask for two bowls using sign language of a) peace sign aka “two”, and b) cupped hands aka “bowls”, and they give you a stack of four little plates. Ask what the squidgy, lima-bean sized morsels in your free side dish are and get the answer “sperm”. I mean what in heavens name has sperm the size of lima-beans?? Hmm…forget I asked. Ask your advisors how many shares for blah blah blah and get a nod. “No, no, hooow…maaa-ny…shaaa-res,” you lengthen your syllables and make some totally unrelated hand gestures, thinking that somehow this will make them magically comprehend English. And without a hitch, you get the same exact response: a nod and an affirmative “mm” followed by an uncertain smile and silence. Perhaps that was Japanese sign/body language for “twenty-five thousand and six hundred shares”. Sigh.

I don’t want to imagine how much more lost I’d be without the few elementary phrases that I do know, e.g. “turn right at the next corner”, “I need to eat please”, “how much is that sea-foam green couch”…and my most recently acquired ancient Japanese proverb: “For desserts there is another stomach entirely”. "Amaimono wa betsu bara." Now I’m definitely all set and ready to roll.

Looking forward to getting into my own bed tonight. If you happen to be really lucky, Japanese hotel-rooms sometimes feature two twin beds circa Lucy and Desi era and of course they assign these rooms to one guest who will have so much use for TWO twin beds. Very, very strange. Also, be very wary when you see a row of buttons right next to your toilet seat. Can be more of a surprise than you can handle when you accidentally press a button at 1 am in the morning. Clean freak culture, I tell you.

I’ve also been toting around my yoga mat and practicing by myself in the mornings, which is great, except for my having no clue what I am doing - am looking forward to having an actual class tomorrow. Need to sweat out these stale stress fumes wading around in my mind and clogging up my veins...or is it residual Montecristo smoke? Uh oh, better close up, seems we’re descending into Hong Kong International Airport. Till next time, then, Tokyo.

Club Jin Mao, Grand Hyatt, Shanghai - a fragment

I am basking in the gentle haze of Shanghai’s early afternoon sunshine and I feel like I am on another world. In fact, I am sitting here at an elegant table previously set for six (now just for one) at the Shanghainese restaurant on the 86th floor of Pudong’s Grand Hyatt. The sun outstretches a lazy arm across my table and the fine china glows, matching the subtle golden tones of my chrysanthemum tea, served in one of those old-fashioned glasses with the silver handles. I’m surrounded by a very “old Shanghai” feel and the sun feels so much closer up here. Nice to be able to step away from the daily din and hang with the big guy for lunch.

I look down to my right and the river winks back at me, while boats move in slow motion up and down along its berth. I am definitely having a much better impression of Shanghai from this very excessive and over-privileged vantage point. It is so hazy here, is it pollution, I wonder, or just the by-product of the frenzied momentum generated by millions of entrepreneurs and opportunists below?

The food has arrived – three tiny but perfect looking xiaolongbaos still steaming in their bamboo crib. Baby bokchois laid out just so in a mustard yellow ceramic boat, their green crispness contrasting perfectly with the subdued browns of the ox-tongue slices layered in a similar ceramic dish beside it. Quaint and perfect. Must break for awhile and actually dig in.

First, a sip of tea to neutralize the palette. A cluster of chrysanthemums float atop the fragrant tea and I breathe in the calming fragrance. Mmm…the xiaolongbao is an exquisite explosion of soup and crab flavors, accented by a splash of black vinegar and a fine sliver of fresh ginger. I eat all three in quick succession after the waiter stops by to remind me that they won’t be very good if they’ve gone cold! What sweet service!

I move on to the next dish and the baby bokchois are as crisp as their coloring suggests. The mustard sauce adds a real kick as well. Looking out at the silhouettes across the river, it’s just unreal how expansive Shanghai looks, and well, actually is, I suppose. High rise after high rise form shadows along the skyline and deep into the fog (or smog?). I try a piece of the thinly sliced ox-tongue and am happily surprised by the gentle sauce that is tasty but not overpowering, allowing the ox-tongue’s natural flavor to come through. The combination of these distinctly flavorful dishes and the soothing tea is taking me back into a time I don’t even remember, maybe because, well, a) I’ve never lived in Shanghai before and don’t believe I have any roots here, and b) I have an over-active imagination so this “time” most likely never existed.

My eyelids grow heavy and I feel as if I’m in a strange swoon. Perhaps I am falling in love with this hazy city at my feet – full of new adventures and possibilities! Hmm…or is it just PCL, post-consumption lethargy? It’s not as if this vantage point allows me a clear view of the city below – I can’t really see much, in truth. The haze prevents clarity and clairvoyance. Hah! Maybe I’ve hit the nail on the head there…it’s probably the unknown factor of this upcoming move that’s getting to my head. I think I am finally starting to warm to the idea of moving out to this gi-normous, crazy city.

I finish my last bite of ox-tongue and set my silver-tipped wooden chopsticks down with a satisfied clink! Only one more delicacy left to top off this memorable lunch for the tastebuds and the mind – a hot soup dessert featuring pumpkin and hasma, otherwise known as frog’s testicles. Yup, you heard right. Frog’s balls. Didn’t think they had any, eh? I grin and lean back in my seat, taking in the view and contemplating the ridiculousness of what I am about to eat. The Shanghai sun is flirting with my eyesight and everything is taking on a golden hue now. Perhaps someone spiked my tea? Or is it just this heady eagle’s eye view sending me into a pleasant stupor?

My first mouthful of pumpkin and frog’s balls does not really impress me at all. This may be one of those Chinese delicacies that your mom swears is good for you, and you just gotta have faith in its secret healing powers and gloss over the fact that it tastes like absolutely nothing. I push the empty bowl away from me and am stuffed like a suckling pig…someone come now, gut me and hang me upside down in a Cantonese roast shop. I’m ready.

I stand in front of the floor length windows and am surprised when I don’t get vertigo looking all the way down. The sun is glowing brighter now and a rainbow halo surrounds its brilliant yolk. Better "mai-dan” and cross this big fat satin ribbon of a river below me, head back into the frenzy beneath the haze. Or, I could stay up here forever and just hang out with the sun. Also good. :)

Calm Before the Storm - a fragment

It’s Halloween today, well, not exactly Halloween, but for all intents and purposes it is, since tonight is our Superhero Deviants Halloween extravaganza. I’m sitting on my bed at home right now, enjoying the few hours of calm before the storm. The weather is absolutely beautiful today, despite slightly overcast skies. Fall has taken Hong Kong into its arms and the city feels still, almost as if she is holding her breath in anticipation of tonight’s revelries. Through the gossamer curtains I can see building upon building bathed in gentle light, basking in the quiet of a cool afternoon. These few precious hours, after the noon sun has given its utmost and right before dusk smoothes away the last creases of light, are my favorite time of day. In this balancing point between extremes, anything seems possible.

My phone rings and it’s the co-organizer of the party, letting me know that alas, the last detail to my ensemble tonight is still MIA: a stuffed animal teddy-bear backpack. Hmm…may have to rouse myself from my window-side reverie and descend into the city to complete the mission myself. Maybe just a few minutes more.

Today’s a day for introspection. My pensive mood is muddying all my features and the one release I can think of is channeling my million and one thoughts through these fingertips onto this glowing screen, where my thoughts can reside in peace, stripped from the dangerous alleyways of my mind. For some reason lately my rearview mirror has been taking me back not a day or a week or even a month, but across the past months and years that have made up my “mid-to-late” twenties. Does 27 count as “late” twenties, or could I still pass for “mid”? Leafing through my ‘at a glance’ planners of 2003, 2004 and 2005, sometimes the events marking the coffee-stained pages seem fictitious, notes of a make believe reality that I conjured up to make my past seem more interesting and melodramatic.

But no, these things actually did happen to me. Nice try, though. The ironic twists and turns that have made up the past few years were not figments of my ever-active imagination. Time and time again I’ve exclaimed to my friends and to myself, “you can’t WRITE sh*t better than this!” and it’s true. People who first meet me may think, ah, she’s just a drama queen, but after having known me for awhile, they too realize that sh*t just happens to me, good sh*t and bad sh*t, yes, but sh*t happens at a hypernormal rate. A week goes by and my whole life may have switched course because of some event of another, but the thing is, another week goes by and sure enough, another curveball whizzes my way and another tangent has formed, another pathway has opened up, or another lesson’s been learned. At least I can’t complain that life is boring. ;)

Sometimes I look back and I feel like I’ve traipsed through decades in the span of three years. I wonder if my Dorian Gray portrait is out there somewhere, showing the truth of who I am inside: not a girl in her MID-twenties but a middle-aged woman, shoulders slightly hunched forward, streaks of grey running through her hair, forehead creased and the stamp of crow’s feet at the corners of her rather small eyes. All in all a noticeably weathered countenance. But as you move down past the rounded cheeks and bulbous nose you find lips curved in an easy smile, and then you realize that the depth of the crow’s feet may have something to do with the fact that she’s grinning like an idiot despite it all. Because that’s exactly how I feel. Weathered, but still smiling. It’s like the base of me is happy, no matter what curveballs life decides to throw at me, despite the pain and hurt that runs through me from time to time. When it all comes down to it, the face in the portrait is a happy one. Content despite life’s discontents.

Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean I don’t have my fair share of complaints, tears of anguish, and fits of frustration, but, somehow, I know deep down that it is all okay. The up’s and down’s, the freak incidents and freak-outs, they are all okay. They’re just manifestations of life in all its grandeur. Let’s face it, sh*t happens and it’s up to us to either wallow around in it or scrape it off the bottom of our shoes. Okay, let’s move away from this analogy because it’s getting kinda gross.

And how it all affects me, well, that’s just a result of the way I choose to live. I let emotions run through me that some wiser than myself may choose to avoid or suppress. If I am happy, I am over the moon, and if I am sad, the melancholy roots deep into my soul. If I feel some intuition, I go with it, despite the fear of consequences. And sometimes that leads me into the wrong path, but in the end, are there any “wrong” paths to begin with? It’s the ability to have these feelings and emotions that makes me who I am. It may leave me weathered and stooped, but most importantly, it leaves me to be who I am. For that, I am content. For that, I grin like an idiot.

But now another minute more has turned into half an hour and my teddy-bear is still out there somewhere waiting to be found. The Warm and Fuzzy Lara Croft won’t be the same without a teddy-bear backpack full of Halloween treats. Better get on it then.

Fall Freedom and the Fear of Tears - a fragment

October is a “trigger” month. Pumpkins of recollection sprout out of nowhere and I stub my toes on their unyielding surfaces everywhere I go. Sometimes it’s hard to know if I’m growing them myself, or if God just likes chucking them my way this time of year. It’s not hard to understand why – Ryan’s birthday is at the end of month and he would have been 29 this year.

But October also marks the burgeoning of fall and the end of persistent summertime in Hong Kong. Fall is my favorite time of year no matter what city I’m in, but I anticipate it even more in this one. October is when the humidity begins to ease off, allowing fans and air-conditioners to heave a sigh of relief and take a break from relentless summer days. Despite the pumpkins clouding my mind and sight, the past few mornings I’ve walked out of my apartment complex into the brisk, serene air and immediately felt the need to stretch my arms out to the sky above, undoubtedly looking a bit foolish with a happy grin overtaking an otherwise stubbornly pensive face.

Always feels good to stretch up and feel those arm muscles lengthening towards the possibilities above, not so out of reach as they seem in the oppressive summer heat. Stretch up and feel the sense of freedom - freedom from the clinging smog, freedom from perspiration filling every single pore, freedom from having nothing in your closet to wear that would feel like another sweat-drenched wool sweater upon your skin…ah yes, the freedom of fall, crisp and clean, opening a whole other closet door of possibilities: minis atop knee length boots that instantly make you feel like a fashion icon, cashmere tanks that allow you to be warm and cool all at once, cute little berets and stylish skullcaps for bad hair days.

But I digress. Let me continue...to digress that is. Fall is also for falling in love, hehehe, I’ve always believed that. Come on, there’s a reason they call it “fall” right? No other season has an alias. Spring is spring, summer is summer, and winter, well, winter, but autumn has another distinctly suggestive name. Fall is full of possibilities and hopes and dreams hanging in the still air, hanging amongst the colored leaves aflutter in the gentle breeze, hanging like exhilarated first-time paragliders suspended above green seacliffs, hanging like that perfect line you could have said but didn’t, letting the moment pass you by.

This year, “fall” seems to have taken on another aspect of meaning for me - the cascading of tears from a well I thought had long dried up. Tears squeezing out from the corners of my right triangle eyes as I wince from another stubbed toe on yet another pumpkin. Tears catching me unawares as I relate to another moment in a novel that just so happens to be about a girl whose husband dies at an early age leaving her to traverse the colorful pages in her chapters of grief. Tears springing uncontrollably when I hit another “trigger point”, be it the never-ending estate paperwork that needs to be signed, or the anticipation of my godparents' impending visit, aka Ryan's parents.

You’d think years down this path alone would have steeled me from these tears, but just because you lock it all in an aluminum silo does not mean the waterworks dry up, in fact, as soon as an outlet punches through the metal walls the tears rush out with added pressure, much to your dismay. Not only that, but tears, I realize more and more, tears frighten those around you. Not only are you freaked out by them but those around you are invariably more freaked out than you are. I think it’s because our culture is not a big advocate of those big fat harbingers of emotional release that stream down our faces. You’re advised not to cry, to hold back, keep those emotions tucked safely away from sight, patch up that aluminum silo in your soul and dam those suckers from making their way to the light. Yet I wonder, what is so terrible about crying anyway? What is there to fear in tears?

Tears carry the grief out of you, don’t they? Grief, worry, helplessness, agony, fear upon fear are plumbed from the depths of your being, lined up one by one in bleary eyes awaiting to throw themselves onto the slide of freedom scaling down the contours of your face, ultimately to dry in salty patches on your skin or meeting their demise by Kleenex (or Tempo if you’re still in Asia). Each droplet distilling a part of those emotions somersaulting inside you. Each drop a part of the process, that beautiful process that transforms the Traumatized into the Survivor, and eventually, into just You, sans titles, sans labels.

So I say, cry away. Go crazy. Let those rivulets flow, I tell you. Let them tears freefall in peace.

No more fear of tears.
It's fall, for goodness' sake.

***sent to me today, by one who knows the way***
"...So let the mind with care o'rought,
Flow down the gentle tides of thought;
Calm visions of unending years,
Beyond this moment of fears."

Mood: Indigo - playlist

Another Friday...no words today, just a suggested playlist for this smoggy HK afternoon...

Indigo
1. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
2. Soul Meets Body – Death Cab For Cutie
3. Landed – Ben Folds
4. High – James Blunt
5. Collide – Howie Day
6. Goodnight and Go – Imogen Heap
7. You and Me – Lifehouse
8. Breathe – Anna Nalick
9. Tears and Rain – James Blunt
10. Then Go – Damien Rice/Lisa Hannigan
11. This Good Love – Jo McCafferty
12. Heal Over – KT Tunstall
13. We’ll Never Know – Lifehouse
14. I’ll Take You On – Howie Day
15. In the Waiting Line – Zero 7
16. Dice – Finley Quaye (mix)

Worry Whorls - a prayer for the weekend

Ah...Friday. I love Fridays. Fridays are full of possibility. Looking out across the expanse that is your impending weekend, every hour waiting to be filled at your whim - will it be an hour of doing nothing followed by an hour of doing absolutely nothing? Sinking back into the ease of my spacious white sofa, limbs outstretched with abandon, bassbeats of Bob Marley massaging my tired body, flushing out the toxins of weekday life aka Work and Worry...

"Rise up this morning, smile with the rising sun, three little birds, stood by my doorstep, singing sweet song of melodies pure and true, saying this is my message to you..." You all know how the rest goes. =) No? Alright lemme help you out then: "...singing DON'T WORRY...ABOUT A THING...'CAUSE EVERY LITTLE THING'S, GONNA BE ALRIGHT..." Somehow when Marley sings it you can't help but smile and believe him.

I look back at the week and think of all the worries that have siphoned through me, both my own and those of the people that I love, and I wonder...what the heck is it with worrying? We're all so obsessively concerned with the future. Will I have enough saved by such and such time to support the family I plan to have? Will I meet someone with whom I can share my mornings and evenings? Will I ever find a job that fills my pockets and fulfills my soul? Will he say "yes"? Will she say "no"? Will "we" make it?

Even the chillest of those that surround me cannot shake this disease of the mind that does nothing but mold that funny vertical line in between your eyebrows and clutter your brain. I imagine all these little worry whorls, born from the dust on the cellar floors of our mind, swept up by some irresponsible breeze of thought or another, twirling slowly at first, suspended in the stale air, then whirling at an increasing rate, reaching dizzying speeds, shooting up and up until meeting smack with the roof of rationality above, disintegrating in a millisecond, worry particles descending slowly down, down, down to rest upon creaky floorboards, only to be swept up again...ad infinatum. How much energy is wasted in this process, I wonder?

And yet, for all the the rationality we store up in our day-to-day, the worrying never stops, does it? We know worrying doesn't help, we recognize how it hoovers up our positive vibes, we see the muddied puddles it leaves after stomping through our minds, and yet we are all hard-pressed at stopping its onslaught.

So for this precious weekend unfurling at our feet, I bow my head and pray that all these dusty whorls plaguing those I love (and those I have yet to love) will remain lifeless, stay in "corpse" pose upon silent floorboards and allow us all some peace. Namaste. =)

Refuge - a fragment

Music has been my refuge lately. Not that there is anything so terrible out there in my world that I need to hide from, but rather, music drowns out the constant drivel in my mind…the doubts, the worries, the random hypotheses, the portentous scenarios…yep, music drives the drivel aside and gives me some makeshift peace.

So what cards have been precariously stacked into this rickety shelter of mine? So many wonderful artists out there to evoke a myriad of moods through the tightening of a chord, the piercing edge of a string, the persistence of a bassline or the impatience of drums. And, of course, the unique timbre of each voice crying out to be heard.

A few that have run through my veins lately…
Joseph Arthur – Honey and the Moon: Arthur opens the song with a delicate acoustic, joined almost immediately with his equally gentle voice. There something about this song that reminds me of a memory - sitting on a soft-sanded beach in Langkawi, hugging my knees for warmth as the sun descended inch by inch into the ocean spread before me. Stars joined me as I waited, first hesitantly, a twinkle here, another there, until the full glory of the starlit skies took my gaze upwards from the horizon to the deep indigo above. Whispers of contentment accompanied me as I patiently waited, uncertain of the inevitable and somehow still, safe. And hopeful.
“I wish I could follow you, to the shores, of freedom where no one lives…”

Damien Rice – Cannonball: Maybe I’ve been in an acoustic mood lately. Rice’s voice in this song, however, is not really gentle like Arthur's, but more contemplative. Like he’s undecided, mulling through whether or not the person beside him is the one. Lately I’ve been lying in bed at night feeling such a sense of relief that I am sleeping alone, rather than with the wrong person breathing softly beside me. I remember how I used to go to bed feeling a sense of loneliness that I could not shake. Now, after getting back on my feet, having fallen for the wrong person again, I am more relieved to be without. It’s through these dichotomies that you learn about yourself, though, isn’t it, the wrong one teaches you what the right one should be...
“Stones taught me to fly. Love taught me to lie. Life taught me to die. So it's not hard to fall, When you float like a cannonball."

Howie Day – Collide: Another ballad from a male singer/songwriter, what is my deal? Howie Day’s hopeful ballad explores two people crashing into one another…always makes you wonder, is it meant to be? Some sort of destiny, or just randomness? The romantic optimist in me will always aver that everything happens for a reason, you don’t JUST run into people, your energies bring you together for a specific purpose, big or small, doesn’t matter. Each shift in energy changes you, and those that you collide with imprint you forever. It’s such a beautiful image to me, all these collisions that happen every split second of everyday, people weaving in and out of each other’s tapestries, sometimes a recurring pattern, sometimes just a single thread seemingly misplaced but perfect from an eagle’s eye perspective. Makes you wonder though, when a collision occurs that only you are aware of, how does that thread play into your unsuspecting counterpart’s tapestry? A thread missed, unrecognized, blended into the background, while simultaneously that same thread stands out brilliantly in your own weave, shouting out for recognition.
“Out of the doubt that fills your mind, you finally find, you and I collide.”

KT Tunstall – Heal Over: Tunstall’s voice soars above simple chords, intoning lyrics that resound so true to my heart that I was taken aback the first time I heard this song. She offers to wipe my tears away and I am beside my speaker ready to take her up on it. I know, a sad and pathetic image, but have you heard this song yet? A woman speaking to another woman suggests such loving friendship, the kind that gets you through each snag and bramble in the path ahead. Reminds me of how lucky I am to have the friends that I have now, each having tread a well-worn path straight into the depths of my joys and sorrows, each unafraid of the un-ending torrents of emotion that overcome me, each at the ready with the remedy of the day, be it a word of comfort or jest, massaging deep into the pain I sometimes feel or caressing lightly the bruises I accumulate from the sometimes trying, sometimes trivial travails I encounter daily. Healing me over, everyday. Yeah, you guys know who you are. :)
"And I don't wanna hear you tell yourself
That these feelings are in the past
You know it doesn't mean they're off the shelf
Because pain's built to last
Everybody sails alone
oh but we can travel side by side
Even if you fail
You know that no one really minds"

Gods and Monsters - a fragment

So...many thoughts lately...all convoluted and jumbled up, served on a platter like a plate of poorly scrambled eggs (shells and all)...sometimes my mind just self-entertains and I like to sit back and watch my own internal mono-drama-logues unfold. I got an email from Matt the other day...Matt who is my "soular" ambassador, the one who always prods me to focus on the inner light, the core of enlightment, the seat of the soul, you know what I'm talking about...the ME in me. The last time Matt came around was the last time I practiced energy channeling, the last time I chanted like we used to do in the Tunnel, that underpass in Irvine where we'd sing our overtones and scare away all dogwalkers and jumpsuits straight out of a scene in the O.C. So weird, seems like a parallel universe, the me singing mantras to a harmonium and the me sitting here covertly typing away in my little "corporate" cave, skiving on the work I should be doing. Alright, time for some beautiful Hawaiian skies to take the edge off...(picture courtesy of my big-hearted buddy BLU)


But that's the thing...the day to day life I lead now doesn't really make a lot of room for the chanting of mantras, does it? And so those mantra muscles atrophy, until someone like Matt comes around and reminds me through his cheerful emails...knock knock knock, hey you, looked inward lately? Matt and I had this whole plan, we did...of using music to communicate to one another from the O.C. to Hong Kong, yes I know it sounds crazy but hey, I'm not one to deny my own penchant towards weirdness. It was those hours in the Tunnel though, that I'll never forget as such an important part of my self education, my contention with the gods we have to choose from in this wide world of religions and theories and spiritual guides, you name it. Exploring the tools for purging the monsters within us: will it be energy channeling? yoga and meditation? Tarot card readings? Occult practices? Yikes, ok maybe not the last one. For me, the primary means for inviting more peace into my life was through reading…hehehe, big surprise coming from me.

Matt was the one to lead me to read a book that made so much sense to me that it was as close to “enlightenment” as I’ve ever come. The book is Conversations With God by Neale Donald Walsch and as much as I’m sure many would say his claim of being dictated to by God is preposterous, well, I guess somehow I just was able to suspend my disbelief, get past what seems implausible and benefit from a lot of the explanations and theories provided therein…some would call this a leap of faith, I suppose, and yes it does seem like one. Feelings are the language of the soul; the opposite of love is fear; what would Love do now?; every soul must walk its path – I guess I could go on and on about the points that resonated in me from the pages of this book. I believe Walsch has since reached some sort of cult status worldwide now, but cult-related or not, “Conversations” helped me through one of the toughest times in my life and still guides me to this day.

It’s been more than two years since I’ve read it…hmm…may be a good time to pick it up again, review some of those basics that brought me such peace in a time of need, see how my mind would process it now after two more years of random experiences and emotions. Maybe I’ll even start singing mantras again…Matt, be prepared to break out your harmonium! :)

diary of a madgirl

hmm...so here it begins, my first weblog. i can't say i'm completely comfortable with this whole concept yet, but ah well we all have to take the plunge sometime. i am not sure what this will be for, but i figure some form of release is due for the 27 personalities housed in this skull of mine...hehehe, thus, madgirldiaries in the plural...

welcome and happy reading! i'll be posting from the past and replenishing with the now from time to time...

Reflections - a fragment

It happens all over again, you know, every time I retell the story to someone new. Yup, he’s there again with his “Big Dog #1” jersey on the glossy basketball court floors where I can almost make out my own reflection of helplessness and horror. Comes back everytime. It’s as if my masochistic brain never tires of the image. But two and a half years later, it’s a bit faded, that reflection. Years of dust and neglect. Bring it up, though, tell that story again, and it’s like rubbing on a layer of wax, rediscovering that lost person that was me so long ago. And there he goes, falling over each time in slow motion just the same. I don’t know the exact timing of when the soul left the body or when the heaving in his chest was out of bodily reflex rather than his life force, and I will never know, because if I didn’t know then that he was dead upon arrival, how would I ever really understand it now, looking back through that dusty glass pane of memory?

So I wonder. When I reach out to others who are going through similar experiences, do I make it worse, or even just a little bit better? Last year, I was still scanning the crowds in a weird and slightly disturbed way, still scouting peripherally for tall people in the distance. It’s surprising that in the past few years I have yet to meet people my age or around my age who have gone through similar experiences, meet them and talk to them and relate to them and hopefully offer some mutual support. St Barbara is the closest I’ve come to but his loved one died more than a decade ago.

If I were to observe the reflection on the dusty floor of that basketball gym, what would I see today? I've led a great life in the past couple of years, despite the grief and sadness, or maybe even, because of the grief and sadness, which makes you appreciate what you have around you so much more. The pain has subsided, mostly, and my memories of the one I lost, the one who escaped this world, or this sliver of reality, are all mostly happy...kinda like warm embers at the base of my soul. I haven't "moved on" or "let go", it's not like that at all, really, it's more like...I've survived. And hey, in a weird peaceful kinda way, that's really alright with me. What with all the emotional pitfalls and heartrending challenges surrounding you in this minefield of day-to-day life, survival is not to be scoffed at. Okay, so I've survived...what now?

I met someone recently who was talking about this Indian practice called Atma Vikasa (?), evolution of the soul/self. I couldn't help but wonder what that entails, and what one discovers about himself through this inward focus? And I wonder, would I have the courage to face those demons inside of me, all those negative ions lurking, ready to pounce and remind me I am capable of so much good and yet I choose to lead my life not based on how much good I am doing on a daily basis? I mean, I'm in finance for goodness sakes!

Then there is the other side of me that thinks, well, every soul is experiencing who it really is not, in order to embrace who it truly is, right, which means that we are all entitled to the experiences that we are creating for ourselves on this plane, in this particular slice of reality. Haha, yeah, many would laugh at that and call it some major metaphysical rubbish just to make our new age selves feel better. And there’s probably some truth in that as well. In fact, there is truth in so many conflicting, contradicting statements that we are surrounded by in this lifetime, that is it even possible to really pinpoint what the heck truth is, or is it that simple, really, just to turn inwards and be content, enjoy the experiences you create for yourself each day and decide, make conscious choices in the face of those decisions, good or bad, better or worse, responsible or irresponsible? Deep down I know that each experience I have right now will give me another building block to stand upon the day I do become a teacher or a writer or both. But that gut feeling doesn’t stop me from feeling like a sell-out so often. Well, maybe not even so often anymore, as daily life takes over and ambitions get shelved.

Sigh...so I guess we'll see. The job is taking me to a new bright lights big city, and do I really want to go? Not really. I don't feel like leaving friends and family behind. But will I go? Most likely...another jungle to scout out and attain survival in? Why not??

Doubt - a fragment

Doubt can be introduced so quickly, in so fine a point. The lightning slash of a pickpocket’s blade, the almost nonexistent tap of the space bar in between letters strung into words, the breathtaking moment when sunset slips into dusk.

I think doubt is a self-protective shield for those who are afraid of exposing their hearts. Even upon mouthing the word “doubt” in my mind my expression is contemptuous and disdainful, not very pleasant at all. Why introduce doubt? Nary a pleasant conversation could be had with doubt at the cocktail party of blossoming romance.

Is it because I am a hopeful romantic full of optimism on the possibilities between a boy and a girl? I know what I feel, I know what I don’t feel. That’s the way it’s been and that’s the way it remains, with me. I don’t have a million doubts, no, not when I feel the way I do, which is that there is someone on the planet that I’d like to be sitting next to right now…and carry on sitting next to for a good long time. No, we don’t have to be doing anything mind-blowing or mind-numbing, I don’t really care what we do at all. Just the presence is stimulating enough. That is such a special thing in itself, I do not want doubt to come in and ruin it all. One seed is enough, just one.

Perhaps I have exposed to much too early on, in my writing, in my intense verbiage that has the potential of driving persons away. Ah, but yes, only those who want to be driven away would be, isn’t that true? Those that harbor doubt, those that bring doubt to the forefront, what are they sidestepping? The potential of disappointment? But what difference does it make to anticipate disappointment? You will be disappointed all the same. All you have, other than having potentially soiled the path ahead, is the sick satisfaction of being right. Somehow you were astute enough to sense the impassable walls ahead. But what do you miss along the path when you are busy craning your head forward to anticipate said walls? And that leads to the overwhelming question: which is the bigger risk, to risk happiness by harboring doubt, or to risk disappointment by harboring faith?

stars whisper of soft romance,
planets rise to dance,
supernovas lead in Chance.

- 'haiku #15', y.h. nogi

Love hangs out alone in the rain beside a lamppost, tulips drooping in his hands.
Then suddenly she appears, glances at his dripping eyebrows, refuses the outstretched bouquet, and bestows a quick kiss before dashing into the house.

And soaked to the bone, Love grins in victory, presses wet flowers to his heart, and begins his return home.

- "Matters of the Heart", Johann Nichy Fiergen

emotion is so habitual.

the hand that reaches to pick up the telephone forgets who it trembles for when the phone remains quiet. once you're resigned to the concept of quiet, what was once a constant murmuring at your ear becomes a fleeting thought that accosts you at whim, like various
perfumes from darkened trees in an autumn night.

and once again, slowly, ever so ponderously, the lake settles with the flagging of white capped waves. the ripples reach the shore and turn back again unto themselves. And silence takes me into his arms, once again.

Love never burdens the soul,
rather, it unshackles the spirit,
sends you freewheeling into newfound freedom.

- "On the Banks of the River Styx", Erin J. Fenchan