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
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Friday, December 31, 2004
2004 End of the Year Review
If I were to think about it, 2004 actually was not that great of a year for me. I mean, let’s face it, 2003 sucked big time, but 2004 wasn’t necessarily that much fun either. The reason why I’m coming to that conclusion now is because I’m trying to think of a song for Rememories 2004 that embodies my 2004 “feeling” and I am invariably coming up with depressing stuff.
The theme to Winter Sonata, for example, really does not conjure images of happy fairies prancing carefree, streamers in their hair waving turquoise in the soft breeze, dancing their rain dances in a bug-free forest. Images thrown into the subconscious silver screen may include cool tears rolling drop by drop in a painfully slow manner ceaselessly down the pale porcelain cheek of Yujin-na, female protagonist in said series.
Another song, You’re Not Here by Leehom Wong, sung in Mandarin in his almost plaintive tones, calls to mind a lonely evening spent staring out the window into the humid Hong Kong haze, wondering where my soul was hiding as renegade strands of smoke curled past the window frame to coalesce into the mist outside, already heavy with the stubbed out whorls of pensive smokers contemplating the night.
Drops of Jupiter by Train is the most upbeat yet, and I do feel that it fits in an ironic way. I needed a soul vacation since January 2003 but I never took one. That song reminds me of perhaps what I should have done, instead of filling my life chockfull of new stresses and complications to force out the need of dwelling on that minor chord reverberating relentlessly at my core.
I thought I was happy. Or perhaps, I kept myself busy with happy thoughts and lively activities so as to drown out the low murmurs of my soul’s melancholic discourse. The main problem was exhaustion. I think I was chronically tired from the lack of sleep built up since early 2003. I was tired of waking up every morning to the same nightmare that was my reality. Tired of going to bed knowing that I’d have to wake up to that dead feeling at the pit of my stomach again in the morning. Then awareness slipslided into general anesthesia and I effectively shelved my pain and neglected my grief, except I called it “moving on”. But was I moving on? Not really. I felt that same frozen sensation, where the habitat of your soul has transformed from a cozy duraflame lit, chenille thrown living room into the tiled, antiseptic waiting room of another body storage facility, be it hospital or morgue. Subzero temperatures required to retain the integrity of the body the soul’s left behind. Subzero temperatures holding me hostage in a moment of time I didn’t want to leave behind.
So that was 2004. One random experience after another, setting up a chain of completely unrelated incidents that made up my path of progress, juxtaposed by a chain of completely unrelated literature that made up my means of escape. I read a lot of books in 2004. Must have been 15-20 books I read. Almost all escapist in nature. And all that reading time was facilitated by my physical hopping around as well, traveling almost every single month out of the year either for personal or business reasons. Creating artificial pockets of alone time where I could curl up as best as economy class would allow and throw myself into an airplane featured movie or another complicated plot novel by Dan Brown.
My most prized accomplishment in 2004? The friendships that I’ve made, hands down, no doubt about that at all. I have made ten lifetimes of friendships in the past two years, and 2004 didn’t disappoint, with so many people that I am so lucky to have in my life. The million and one weddings. And two babies to top it off.
***
Moments to remember...
January - Started the year off with the Jacknife Sugartruck gig at Amnesia on January 10th, playing the part of um…a 25 year old Avril Lavigne. Finally fulfilled dream of being a rockstar, can close that chapter now. Back to LA for Ryan’s first year anniversary. Decided in feverish state that it was time to leave LMN and look for less yellow pastures…thus leading me to the skittish frenzy of Finance.
The theme to Winter Sonata, for example, really does not conjure images of happy fairies prancing carefree, streamers in their hair waving turquoise in the soft breeze, dancing their rain dances in a bug-free forest. Images thrown into the subconscious silver screen may include cool tears rolling drop by drop in a painfully slow manner ceaselessly down the pale porcelain cheek of Yujin-na, female protagonist in said series.
Another song, You’re Not Here by Leehom Wong, sung in Mandarin in his almost plaintive tones, calls to mind a lonely evening spent staring out the window into the humid Hong Kong haze, wondering where my soul was hiding as renegade strands of smoke curled past the window frame to coalesce into the mist outside, already heavy with the stubbed out whorls of pensive smokers contemplating the night.
Drops of Jupiter by Train is the most upbeat yet, and I do feel that it fits in an ironic way. I needed a soul vacation since January 2003 but I never took one. That song reminds me of perhaps what I should have done, instead of filling my life chockfull of new stresses and complications to force out the need of dwelling on that minor chord reverberating relentlessly at my core.
I thought I was happy. Or perhaps, I kept myself busy with happy thoughts and lively activities so as to drown out the low murmurs of my soul’s melancholic discourse. The main problem was exhaustion. I think I was chronically tired from the lack of sleep built up since early 2003. I was tired of waking up every morning to the same nightmare that was my reality. Tired of going to bed knowing that I’d have to wake up to that dead feeling at the pit of my stomach again in the morning. Then awareness slipslided into general anesthesia and I effectively shelved my pain and neglected my grief, except I called it “moving on”. But was I moving on? Not really. I felt that same frozen sensation, where the habitat of your soul has transformed from a cozy duraflame lit, chenille thrown living room into the tiled, antiseptic waiting room of another body storage facility, be it hospital or morgue. Subzero temperatures required to retain the integrity of the body the soul’s left behind. Subzero temperatures holding me hostage in a moment of time I didn’t want to leave behind.
So that was 2004. One random experience after another, setting up a chain of completely unrelated incidents that made up my path of progress, juxtaposed by a chain of completely unrelated literature that made up my means of escape. I read a lot of books in 2004. Must have been 15-20 books I read. Almost all escapist in nature. And all that reading time was facilitated by my physical hopping around as well, traveling almost every single month out of the year either for personal or business reasons. Creating artificial pockets of alone time where I could curl up as best as economy class would allow and throw myself into an airplane featured movie or another complicated plot novel by Dan Brown.
My most prized accomplishment in 2004? The friendships that I’ve made, hands down, no doubt about that at all. I have made ten lifetimes of friendships in the past two years, and 2004 didn’t disappoint, with so many people that I am so lucky to have in my life. The million and one weddings. And two babies to top it off.
***
Moments to remember...
January - Started the year off with the Jacknife Sugartruck gig at Amnesia on January 10th, playing the part of um…a 25 year old Avril Lavigne. Finally fulfilled dream of being a rockstar, can close that chapter now. Back to LA for Ryan’s first year anniversary. Decided in feverish state that it was time to leave LMN and look for less yellow pastures…thus leading me to the skittish frenzy of Finance.
February - Mellow, the hyperactive shih tzu, comes into my life, ringworm and all.
March - started a new job in finance, beginning of my friendship with St Barbara on the Chair day. Matt passes through town on his way to meet Sai Baba.
April - Best memory – In the Mood For Love party on Saturday, April 17. 40 or so close friends all decked out in 1962 gear for a memorable Chinese banquet. Jeremy with his mustache, Alan with his glass-less spectacles, Wilson with his comb over, Matt with his wig that everyone thought was real, Chris with his Afro, and all the beautiful cheung-sams on all the lovely ladies. So much love around the room. Cohibas at Peak Lookout with Brad and Eric.
May - Rememories 2003 published. June gets married!
June - Jenn's Taipei reception and Ros’ wedding at the St Regis Monarch Resort in Dana Point.
July - my brother and Trici get married on the 3rd. Anne’s wedding reception at the Grand Hyatt on July 11th.
August - Marc passes through town and we spend some quality time talking about everything. Tokyo for my first IPO drafting session, aka the Lost in Translation meetings.
September - Missed Kathryn’s wedding in Jackson Hole. :(
October - Missed Dave's wedding in North Carolina on the 9th. IPO in Tokyo. Once Upon a Halloween Eve party as the Fallen Angel Burning in Hell.
November - Totally depressing start of the month with Bush reelected on the 2nd. Excellent performance of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition amongst other pieces by UBS Youth Orchestra with a very pregnant Connie. Namkungs visit and have their terrible accident with the speakers at Grappa’s at Jardine House. Hawaii for Yidrienne’s wedding. MIT Sports Day with Rach, Sooly, Ed, Jean, Eliza, Mark, Julie, Kyle et al...woohoo!!
December - (Charlotte/NYC/Capetown) Xmas Eve Housewarming Toaster on the 24th at my house. Ed and Sooly’s with Rachel for Xmas dinner. Capetown for Helen’s wedding. And two babies born - Michael to Ros and Kurt, and Ashley to Connie and Tom.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Mercy - a poem for st. barbara
Mercy
The pain runs through you and through you
A fleet of overzealous electric eels,
Grazing every nerve ending rubbed raw
Over and over, Time’s relentless wheels
Me, a bystander, barely standing myself
From the invisible, intangible tidal waves
Pouring forth from your being
As you cry out to be saved
But who will show you mercy
In such an hour, such a state?
Will new prayers on bruised knees
Move the gods to undo fate?
How many sidelines must you share
For another withering friend?
How many bedsides must be graced
With tears that have no end?
If only these currents running through me now
Can siphon away tears from your sea,
Then I will form a million rivers
To channel your pain to me.
*14dec04*
(for st. barbara)
The pain runs through you and through you
A fleet of overzealous electric eels,
Grazing every nerve ending rubbed raw
Over and over, Time’s relentless wheels
Me, a bystander, barely standing myself
From the invisible, intangible tidal waves
Pouring forth from your being
As you cry out to be saved
But who will show you mercy
In such an hour, such a state?
Will new prayers on bruised knees
Move the gods to undo fate?
How many sidelines must you share
For another withering friend?
How many bedsides must be graced
With tears that have no end?
If only these currents running through me now
Can siphon away tears from your sea,
Then I will form a million rivers
To channel your pain to me.
*14dec04*
(for st. barbara)
Friday, October 08, 2004
Hunger - a fragment
I’ve grown so comfortable in this place I’ve created for myself, surrounded by the fluffy down of memory. Walls of my cell lined with frames of you and I, interspersed between bookshelves overflowing with things-unsaid and things-that-maybe-should-have-been-said and things-that-would-have-been-nice-to-say. How can I take these pictures down, these photographs lodged into my being, the removal of which would be like a surgeon going in to the jugular for repairs? I would have to tear myself apart to tear myself away from you. Is it true that when people die they grab onto a piece of you on their way out, a piece which stretches across parallel dimensions like multicolored taffy? My multicolored taffy soul has stretched over a million miles of memory. A million miles of you.
It’s so sunny in this place, so warm and fuzzy without being itchy or uncomfortable like last winter’s sweater mistake. I could lie here forever, reading, rereading, writing and rewriting more and more volumes of imaginary conversations.
But there’s no food in this cell and I’m hungry. I know, it’s mundane. It’s not otherworldly, this hunger. But it’s true. The little “love” gremlin inside me has shriveled up, malnourished beyond recognition. This little monster is dying. It looks out of the bars it’s created for itself. Looks out at the Love Out There and knows its spindly arms cannot reach this coveted L.O.T. So it steps away from the bars, averts its eyes, slumps down onto the cement floor and raises its weary head, distracting itself with the frames, the multicolored frames on the walls until finally it falls asleep. The next day and the day after that. And now the monster, once chubby and burping out loud, has lost its chatter. No strength to grasp the bars and peer out anymore. Slowly the L.O.T. has become another frame, another memory, another distant non-reality. Another dream snuffed out of That Which Is Possible. And T.W.I.P. slowly recoils and begins to take the shape of the perimeter of this cell and its friendly shadows.
I never wanted to live this way. You know that, I know that. So what is stopping me from coming out of this cell, anyway? (In case you didn’t know, this cell is unlocked. The jailkeeper and the jailbird have conspired and merged.) I just can’t seem to tear myself away, just can’t seem to shake free of my taffy web, the more I twist and turn the further cocooned I’ve become in this sticky sweet, funhouse dream. Even I have drowned out my own muffled cries.
*08oct04*
It’s so sunny in this place, so warm and fuzzy without being itchy or uncomfortable like last winter’s sweater mistake. I could lie here forever, reading, rereading, writing and rewriting more and more volumes of imaginary conversations.
But there’s no food in this cell and I’m hungry. I know, it’s mundane. It’s not otherworldly, this hunger. But it’s true. The little “love” gremlin inside me has shriveled up, malnourished beyond recognition. This little monster is dying. It looks out of the bars it’s created for itself. Looks out at the Love Out There and knows its spindly arms cannot reach this coveted L.O.T. So it steps away from the bars, averts its eyes, slumps down onto the cement floor and raises its weary head, distracting itself with the frames, the multicolored frames on the walls until finally it falls asleep. The next day and the day after that. And now the monster, once chubby and burping out loud, has lost its chatter. No strength to grasp the bars and peer out anymore. Slowly the L.O.T. has become another frame, another memory, another distant non-reality. Another dream snuffed out of That Which Is Possible. And T.W.I.P. slowly recoils and begins to take the shape of the perimeter of this cell and its friendly shadows.
I never wanted to live this way. You know that, I know that. So what is stopping me from coming out of this cell, anyway? (In case you didn’t know, this cell is unlocked. The jailkeeper and the jailbird have conspired and merged.) I just can’t seem to tear myself away, just can’t seem to shake free of my taffy web, the more I twist and turn the further cocooned I’ve become in this sticky sweet, funhouse dream. Even I have drowned out my own muffled cries.
*08oct04*
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Frozen - a fragment
I am caught in a time that only I can remember, because this time lives only in my memory, my memory and yours. But your memory is gone, dissolved away as you did not too long ago. And it wasn’t too long ago, was it, since the last time you reached out to swallow my hand in yours? Not too long ago, since we fell into a friendship that plunged into a romance, and sent me careening into a happiness I never knew could exist.
And then I was frozen. It happened in a millisecond, or 2.5 milliseconds as you would have put it. The air hangs still. You can almost see the frozen molecules clinging to one another, forming a quiet nothingness that preserves you lying there, and me standing here under two megatons of realization waiting to fall upon my head. I am afraid to exhale, to bring me into the next moment that follows this one: the moment in which you are pronounced dead.
I have been holding my breath for the past year and nine months. Sometimes I wonder if anyone notices. I like to pretend that they don’t, that they cannot have the intuition to know the difference between the me that walks around everyday, going about my business, and the popsicle me inside, dead amongst the living. No amount of warmth from the suns in all of the solar systems out there can melt it. The core of me lies dead with you, interred in a cement grave with a green plush pony, a high school varsity jacket, the biggest watch you’ve ever laid eyes on, a wallet with pictures of you and I (a double of which stands in my living room to this day), and an urn containing your ashes. What are ashes, anyway? Remnants of molecules, piles of atoms reconfigured, a desperate preservation of that which was you. But the dead are most finely preserved in memories. Memories from those who knew you that don’t necessarily correspond with others’ memories or with reality. Wayward, inconstant memories that deceive and give an approximation of truth, leaving the memory-addict wholly dissatisfied, frustrated in its evanescence, pissed off in its perversions, angry in its clarity, and ultimately, fiending for more.
I can live with your blue shadow forever, can’t I? There’s no compelling reason for me to join the rest of humankind, out there in the real world beyond the comforting chill of preservation. I used to abhor the cold, but now I look for love in its twilit corners. Swathed in indigo gauze, this world of you and I keeps me dead amongst the living.
It hurts to live this way. It hurts like when you are holding your breath underwater and your sinuses start to press in and the sockets of your eyes ache because your head is about to explode. It hurts like when someone dies on the news and you realize you can’t feel any sadness for it. It hurts like anticipating the dizzying but necessary pain you will get when you’re about to move an arm or a leg that’s fallen asleep. It hurts like all the pain you’ve ever felt in your whole life compacted into one heavy bullet lodged deep in your heart, all 2.5 megatons of which pull the whole of you down, down, downwards until you fall upon knees already bruised.
*07oct04*
And then I was frozen. It happened in a millisecond, or 2.5 milliseconds as you would have put it. The air hangs still. You can almost see the frozen molecules clinging to one another, forming a quiet nothingness that preserves you lying there, and me standing here under two megatons of realization waiting to fall upon my head. I am afraid to exhale, to bring me into the next moment that follows this one: the moment in which you are pronounced dead.
I have been holding my breath for the past year and nine months. Sometimes I wonder if anyone notices. I like to pretend that they don’t, that they cannot have the intuition to know the difference between the me that walks around everyday, going about my business, and the popsicle me inside, dead amongst the living. No amount of warmth from the suns in all of the solar systems out there can melt it. The core of me lies dead with you, interred in a cement grave with a green plush pony, a high school varsity jacket, the biggest watch you’ve ever laid eyes on, a wallet with pictures of you and I (a double of which stands in my living room to this day), and an urn containing your ashes. What are ashes, anyway? Remnants of molecules, piles of atoms reconfigured, a desperate preservation of that which was you. But the dead are most finely preserved in memories. Memories from those who knew you that don’t necessarily correspond with others’ memories or with reality. Wayward, inconstant memories that deceive and give an approximation of truth, leaving the memory-addict wholly dissatisfied, frustrated in its evanescence, pissed off in its perversions, angry in its clarity, and ultimately, fiending for more.
I can live with your blue shadow forever, can’t I? There’s no compelling reason for me to join the rest of humankind, out there in the real world beyond the comforting chill of preservation. I used to abhor the cold, but now I look for love in its twilit corners. Swathed in indigo gauze, this world of you and I keeps me dead amongst the living.
It hurts to live this way. It hurts like when you are holding your breath underwater and your sinuses start to press in and the sockets of your eyes ache because your head is about to explode. It hurts like when someone dies on the news and you realize you can’t feel any sadness for it. It hurts like anticipating the dizzying but necessary pain you will get when you’re about to move an arm or a leg that’s fallen asleep. It hurts like all the pain you’ve ever felt in your whole life compacted into one heavy bullet lodged deep in your heart, all 2.5 megatons of which pull the whole of you down, down, downwards until you fall upon knees already bruised.
*07oct04*
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Funny thing, grief... - a fragment
Grief is a funny thing. I wear it around my shoulders every day. Sometimes I flaunt it, a badge of honor for my emotional travails. Other times I draw it close, taking comfort in its familiarity. It doesn’t always match the other items I wear and most of the time it’s a clichéd black wool knit, although the tightness of the knit varies upon occasion. Mostly, the knit is tight.
I often wonder how many others I pass in the course of the day are wearing similar shawls. I suppose some wear veils instead, giving rise to vacant stares or spiderwebbing ‘round squinted eyes. Others perhaps have chain mail undergarments, imperceptible and impenetrable. But mine wraps around me where his arms once were, warms me in the night, my thin armor against the leftover world which barely understands, if at all.
I’ve constructed a special wool that’s non-itchy on the underside, but prickles any hand that tries to find a place upon these shoulders, separating us from them. This shawl allows for a particularly comfortable defensive position as I draw it close around me and clasp my hands upon my sternum, my heart safely defended from them.
*06oct04*
I often wonder how many others I pass in the course of the day are wearing similar shawls. I suppose some wear veils instead, giving rise to vacant stares or spiderwebbing ‘round squinted eyes. Others perhaps have chain mail undergarments, imperceptible and impenetrable. But mine wraps around me where his arms once were, warms me in the night, my thin armor against the leftover world which barely understands, if at all.
I’ve constructed a special wool that’s non-itchy on the underside, but prickles any hand that tries to find a place upon these shoulders, separating us from them. This shawl allows for a particularly comfortable defensive position as I draw it close around me and clasp my hands upon my sternum, my heart safely defended from them.
*06oct04*
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
April
“April is always the cruelest month…”
The first tear always comes as a surprise,
Even when you feel your eyes well,
Your sinuses pressing in,
But that first splash upon your cheek always startles.
*19apr04*
I feel nothing, but in a weird, uncomfortable kind of way.
It’s like dead-air on a radio station.
*21apr04*
The first tear always comes as a surprise,
Even when you feel your eyes well,
Your sinuses pressing in,
But that first splash upon your cheek always startles.
*19apr04*
I feel nothing, but in a weird, uncomfortable kind of way.
It’s like dead-air on a radio station.
*21apr04*
Saturday, December 06, 2003
Unknown - a song
Unknown
you ask me what can you do
you tell me you haven't got a clue
you send me a cut of your heart
a slice of your soul as you depart
what's it supposed to mean to me
i'm not the one to set you free
you're too afraid of the unknown
to know what you already know
open your eyes but it's your call to see
what your future's meant to be
it's not about falling into "we"
and it's not about me
or playing the part
you're turning to leave
and trying to believe
you're part of a whole
leaving behind your soul
and a gift of chords
cutting into me like swords
i'm turning to leave
and i try to believe
you're part of a whole
not leaving behind your soul
i don't want another line
i'm tired of seeing signs
>
but i got myself here
let you in too near
open heart and open wings
never know what tomorrow brings
nevermind another day alone
not afraid to stand on my own
it's not about me or you and me
i'm just a mirror for who you could be
no angel
(a song in need of a tune)
*06dec03*
you ask me what can you do
you tell me you haven't got a clue
you send me a cut of your heart
a slice of your soul as you depart
what's it supposed to mean to me
i'm not the one to set you free
you're too afraid of the unknown
to know what you already know
open your eyes but it's your call to see
what your future's meant to be
it's not about falling into "we"
and it's not about me
or playing the part
you're turning to leave
and trying to believe
you're part of a whole
leaving behind your soul
and a gift of chords
cutting into me like swords
i'm turning to leave
and i try to believe
you're part of a whole
not leaving behind your soul
i don't want another line
i'm tired of seeing signs
>
but i got myself here
let you in too near
open heart and open wings
never know what tomorrow brings
nevermind another day alone
not afraid to stand on my own
it's not about me or you and me
i'm just a mirror for who you could be
no angel
(a song in need of a tune)
*06dec03*
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Thoughts - a fragment
i have a million thoughts rushing through this swimming consciousness, bordering on madness
and the streams flow, crisscross, connect, contradict eachother - a million revisions, decisions, indecisions
and i hear all these voices, suggesting, negotiating, placating - all forcing rationalization where none can be had
because what we are dealing with here is emotion, an everpresent web of unconscious and conscious sensory overload
there is no sense in emotion, no stillness, just constant motion charging your fingertips, challenging your heart to withstand it all, telling your brain to shut up - youre just a bystander, step aside
and the streams flow, crisscross, connect, contradict eachother - a million revisions, decisions, indecisions
and i hear all these voices, suggesting, negotiating, placating - all forcing rationalization where none can be had
because what we are dealing with here is emotion, an everpresent web of unconscious and conscious sensory overload
there is no sense in emotion, no stillness, just constant motion charging your fingertips, challenging your heart to withstand it all, telling your brain to shut up - youre just a bystander, step aside
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Bottled Prayers - a poem
Bottled Prayers
why do i feel this way,
bottled and corked with an expiry date ahead,
thoughts of you peering through smoked glass
forlorn and trapped within things unsaid.
soon to be pruned and withered,
gasping for oxygen, heaving to be heard,
nothing escapes, not a mote of smouldering ash
that in another lifetime were thoughts of you.
so how shall i proceed, how shall i continue?
staunch these errant proceedings of my mind,
nick these curdling swirls in the nick of time,
siphon them helpless, muzzled and holed,
a million bottles in the basement of my soul.
for you are no longer,
and though thought persists,
my thoughts should not be of you,
forever you.
and in the twilight, still, oh so still,
even the tremblings cease,
a million thoughts brought to their knees
praying a hundred prayers for peace,
and a hundred for release...
*25nov03*
why do i feel this way,
bottled and corked with an expiry date ahead,
thoughts of you peering through smoked glass
forlorn and trapped within things unsaid.
soon to be pruned and withered,
gasping for oxygen, heaving to be heard,
nothing escapes, not a mote of smouldering ash
that in another lifetime were thoughts of you.
so how shall i proceed, how shall i continue?
staunch these errant proceedings of my mind,
nick these curdling swirls in the nick of time,
siphon them helpless, muzzled and holed,
a million bottles in the basement of my soul.
for you are no longer,
and though thought persists,
my thoughts should not be of you,
forever you.
and in the twilight, still, oh so still,
even the tremblings cease,
a million thoughts brought to their knees
praying a hundred prayers for peace,
and a hundred for release...
*25nov03*
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Holding On - a song
Holding On
It's been 111 days since you last smiled at me
Scenes fade in and out, skies change incessantly
And I stand, still, waiting, waiting for you
To turn the corner, come around, the way you used to do
They tell me I'll never see you again
But who are they to know
They tell me time will make amends
But they just don't know
How it only took a whisper
To reach you in the night
Just sitting side by side with you
Made everything alright
In the living room, slow dancing
The world around dissolved
And our hearts beat against each other
As the stars above revolved
But that was then, and now, well, I am
Shouting at the sea, writing in the sand
Talking to the clouds, holding out my hand
But nothing comes, nothing in return
Silence weighs, and the hands turn
They tell me I'll never see you again
But who are they to know
They tell me time will make amends
But you see, they just don't know
How it only took a moment
To realize you're the one
Laughing with each other
Our fears soon came undone
What I'd never dared to dream for
You brought into my world
And with every passing minute
Our life together unfurled
But that was then, and now, well, now I am
Searching in the dark, feeling for a line
Crying out your name, looking for a sign
But no one comes, no one in return
My heart waits, and the tears burn
But have I missed the point,
Missed the signs while missing you?
Finding something to hold on to,
When I should be letting go of holding on to you?
No, I don't think so.
(a song in need of a tune)
*13may03*
It's been 111 days since you last smiled at me
Scenes fade in and out, skies change incessantly
And I stand, still, waiting, waiting for you
To turn the corner, come around, the way you used to do
They tell me I'll never see you again
But who are they to know
They tell me time will make amends
But they just don't know
How it only took a whisper
To reach you in the night
Just sitting side by side with you
Made everything alright
In the living room, slow dancing
The world around dissolved
And our hearts beat against each other
As the stars above revolved
But that was then, and now, well, I am
Shouting at the sea, writing in the sand
Talking to the clouds, holding out my hand
But nothing comes, nothing in return
Silence weighs, and the hands turn
They tell me I'll never see you again
But who are they to know
They tell me time will make amends
But you see, they just don't know
How it only took a moment
To realize you're the one
Laughing with each other
Our fears soon came undone
What I'd never dared to dream for
You brought into my world
And with every passing minute
Our life together unfurled
But that was then, and now, well, now I am
Searching in the dark, feeling for a line
Crying out your name, looking for a sign
But no one comes, no one in return
My heart waits, and the tears burn
But have I missed the point,
Missed the signs while missing you?
Finding something to hold on to,
When I should be letting go of holding on to you?
No, I don't think so.
(a song in need of a tune)
*13may03*
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Technicolor Dream - a poem
Technicolor Dream
You smiled and my spirit awoke in technicolor dream
The possibilities, you said,
Are the butterflies swirling and a thousand tones whirling
And I, you said, I am here, love, always
Listen as the waves crash against the wedge
Be still as snails journey across sidewalks
And I, you said, I am here in all ways
As salt winds graze your face, for we are one
As the sun gives you rhythm, we are one
Did you think that I could leave you behind?
The gate is open, love, your heart is free
Take my hand, remember me
But my love, said I,
I kiss your salt winds, dance beneath your sun,
But I tremble before the gate, my love,
And fear how my heart can be without yours
Then, your hand cradled mine, spirit tears fell
And we, you said, we are one, we are free
Just remember, you're never without me
Yellow shells are glinting on opaque sands
Lapis lazuli swells are echoing
My love, search within and be free with me
*02apr03*
You smiled and my spirit awoke in technicolor dream
The possibilities, you said,
Are the butterflies swirling and a thousand tones whirling
And I, you said, I am here, love, always
Listen as the waves crash against the wedge
Be still as snails journey across sidewalks
And I, you said, I am here in all ways
As salt winds graze your face, for we are one
As the sun gives you rhythm, we are one
Did you think that I could leave you behind?
The gate is open, love, your heart is free
Take my hand, remember me
But my love, said I,
I kiss your salt winds, dance beneath your sun,
But I tremble before the gate, my love,
And fear how my heart can be without yours
Then, your hand cradled mine, spirit tears fell
And we, you said, we are one, we are free
Just remember, you're never without me
Yellow shells are glinting on opaque sands
Lapis lazuli swells are echoing
My love, search within and be free with me
*02apr03*
Saturday, March 22, 2003
Two Months
Two Months
Wring it out, my soul,
Wring it dry of melancholy molasses, oozing gently and unrelenting.
Sticky sweet tears drip drop drip.
Hang it up, my soul.
Hang it up where dark corners lie, where cobwebs threaten softly.
I have done with it.
Can you see?
Threadbare and worn, coarse and frayed where it has dragged along pavements,
It is of no use to me now.
Leave the fall leaves falling, oh, leave me soulless,
If only for awhile,
Until the drip drop stops.
Then give it a spin, whirling dervishes,
Crank the dials, cycle: dry.
Then a coin drops clink and the whirling begins.
Are you there, soul,
Or have you done with me as well, left behind like a lone, holed sock.
Leave me, soul, please
But don't leave me behind.
*22mar03*
Wring it out, my soul,
Wring it dry of melancholy molasses, oozing gently and unrelenting.
Sticky sweet tears drip drop drip.
Hang it up, my soul.
Hang it up where dark corners lie, where cobwebs threaten softly.
I have done with it.
Can you see?
Threadbare and worn, coarse and frayed where it has dragged along pavements,
It is of no use to me now.
Leave the fall leaves falling, oh, leave me soulless,
If only for awhile,
Until the drip drop stops.
Then give it a spin, whirling dervishes,
Crank the dials, cycle: dry.
Then a coin drops clink and the whirling begins.
Are you there, soul,
Or have you done with me as well, left behind like a lone, holed sock.
Leave me, soul, please
But don't leave me behind.
*22mar03*
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
Vacancy - at random
Her eyes were vacant, as if she was staring out at the sea. She could feel her helplessness welling up inside her, pushing past any reason, any sense of propriety, flooding eyes that were already swollen and exhausted and forcing her to acknowledge its presence. In a few seconds, the tears began to ebb and she was not betrayed. Telephones rang, keyboards chattered, people moved around her. Her heart quieted and her eyes regained their focus. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mini hand mirror propped up on her desk. First the rising bump on her chin (must be lack of sleep, stress, being pissed off, all the usual culprits). Then the naked, chapped lips, not yet forming the infamous pout, but fixed in a stoic, frightening way. She was more used to seeing those lips jutted out in defiance, or slightly upturned in gentle joviality, right before the careful application of lip liner, or the dabbing of lip gloss. A sense of grief seemed to manifest in all her features, in those stony lips, the unrelenting nostrils, the drawn face, and the circled eyes with their deadened gaze. She flared her nostrils, once, then twice, just to add a bit of the ridiculous into the picture, but to no avail. She had the look of someone beyond consolation.
Her phone rang and she answered mechanically. It was her cousin, the annoying one. After listening for a few moments, responding as needed, she hung up the phone and returned her gaze to the mirror. The slight animation of her features had smoothed away the look, and now she only saw her rounded face, slightly puckered. Her little indulgence had passed. An indulgence in self-pity, a wallowing of sorts in the middle of the workday to appease her low spirits. Her face lost interest and her thoughts turned elsewhere. Just as well. Time for lunch then, she thought.
Tuesday, April 09, 2002
The End of 23 – a fragment
It is Tuesday afternoon, a nondescript, Tuesday afternoon in Hong Kong. The sun has declined to make much of an appearance today, lazily meandering in and out to produce hazy overtones throughout the afternoon that are now receding quickly into the dusk. All day long I have not eked out a single verifiable ounce of productivity and it almost seems as if I could easily melt in this ergonomically efficient office chair without attracting much noise or attention. Perhaps the smell of a melted person would get to those around me. They would cock their heads to the left or right, depending on their relative position to my little square meter of space, if it could be called “space”, just for a moment, wondering perhaps even aloud to the person beside them, “What’s that strange, putrid odor? Wasn’t there someone sitting over at that desk just a moment ago?” Shrugs all around followed by the repositioning of all heads to face their respective computer screens, not even a moment lost really. It would only have taken about 10-15 seconds to notice, acknowledge, and dismiss.
Strange thoughts on a strange, languid afternoon, the insipid and uneventful hours of the day compounding together into a gigantic pounding in my left ear...no, actually, that’s Bjork. Nice try. There isn’t even a pounding, actually. Frustration has ceased its beating on the door, has thrown its hands up into the air, announcing to no one in particular, “Whatever. I’m getting paid for zero professional growth. Fine. So be it.” Packed and ready to go at 6:30 pm sharp. Unless of course, one of the higher ups that I answer to is still brooding in his little corner of the office. That usually involves another minute by minute manufacturing process of things to make you look productive when you actually are far from that, until the moment arrives when the higher up logs off and finally makes his exit. When will that be tonight? 6:15? 6:17? Or will I truly have to sit here until 6:45??
I think I’m getting hives on my face. Or perhaps even my face is bored and trying to create some sort of diversion from the vapidity surrounding me. I would love to go running tonight, raise my heart rate above “Almost Dead”, sweat to verify at least my physical presence, stretch to feel the aching of muscles and joints in action.
So the topic of the day is the impending end of my 23rd year as JHC. In less than a week I will be 24 years old. I will be firmly lodged in my mid-twenties. I will no longer be mistaken for a college senior (not that I was this past year, but anyway). I was writing to M the other day, trying to lift her spirits but at the same time finding myself mired in a little conversation with myself that materialized unexpectedly, disguised as a conversation with her. It’s great how so very often the advice that you are actually imparting to a fellow or friend really pertains more to yourself than anybody else within the 20,000 mile radius. Definitely hives. Here’s an excerpt:
Aside from the breakup factor and what you may have desired within the framework of one relationship, the Sally-like symptoms can also be shoved into the "Just Another Woman Thing" category of life's psychoses. Seems like there are all these benchmarks notched into the wood of the door, except rather than marking our height, after a certain age, oh, say 18, these notches begin marking our "status". Are we all planners? Some of us are the day-at-a-glance, month-at-a-glance variety, others mentally pack decade-at-a-glance organizers programmed into our heads at the age of five when we had our first stuffed animal family. Ages begin to creep up on you, reminders of those ridiculous benchmarks still etched mentally in a certain block of a certain year, e.g.:
Benchmark 1: "Find love of my life."
Benchmark 2: "Married."
Benchmark 3: "Mother."
But as we actually make our way out of the greenhouse and into the wilderness beyond, we can either let the significance of these benchmarks consume us, or let them fade away, soft impressions worn smooth over time. Life takes its own bullying course, and most of the time you are just dragged along for the ride, not even noticing the dusty at-a-glance volumes falling out of your pockets every bump of the way. The trick is how to maneuver the bumps and roll with the punches as they say, and in this, my dear, you are doing just fine and better than most. Takes bravery to do what you are doing. You go girl.”
The truth of it all is, that whole sh-bang was more about me than about her. I am definitely beginning to feel the creeping of the years, less on the personal and emotional side and more on the professional and career-oriented section of the brain. The dissatisfaction with the job in general is laughable. I have no real clue of what I want to do, and on days like this, a position as a mocha-happy barista seems more enjoyable than the forever feigning associate with no “deliverables” to clock. Things will crop up, I’m sure, and then I’ll be screwed. But aside from these waves of non-productivity, the bigger question remains to be answered: “When the hell am I getting myself out of this?” It’s been three years. Three years sucked dry to the marrow, three years witnessing leaves of interest and ambition falling withered and dry around me, crunching goodbye beneath my feet, three years of a pruning soul, wrinkling in disgust at the complete lack of heart in the deeds I accomplish during the insipid hours of insipid days.
But what deeds of tomorrow could I replace the deeds of today that would un-prune this soul? At this time, it seems that having a job at all is reason enough to keep your complaints to yourself and those that are still employed. It’s a tough environment out there and the fear pinching my eyes into right triangles gives me away- I am a coward. An almost-24-year-old coward. Call me Leo. Hear me roar my financially-enabled, soul-disabled roar.
My eyes are tearing from two consecutive yawns, my face itches, those darn hives. A puffy bubble has formed underneath my thick skin, a pillow of venom rising on the rugged landscape of imperfections, craters, blemished spots and overly enlarged pores that comprise of my complexion. It’s really not like I needed another flaw, but thanks, thanks for playing. The bold SINOPEC sign is the first to glow of the neon corporate ads that form Kowloon’s capitalist waterfront display. I wonder if these darn hives are as conspicuous as that obnoxious, tomato-red sign, pulsing red and emboldened by nightfall.
I suppose I could turn towards happier thoughts but that is so much less fun and always edges on smugness.
Okay WHOA. Major chills. I just checked my hotmail account and apparently M decided it was time to take our friendship to the next level by sending me a link to the play by play details of her sex life. Great. I really needed to be accosted with that. It’s like you’re watching Bambi and 30 seconds of hardcore somehow found it’s way into the reel- reminds me of Fight Club. Okay, that was seriously gross. I did not need to read about the shapes and sizes and colors and textures of other couples’ sordid sex or lusty lovemaking or whatever the HELL you want to call that. Talk about breaking the TMI boundaries, GEEZUS! I have a sick feeling in my stomach. *bleah* *CHILLS* I guess she didn’t think that her typical revelations of how horny she is etc. etc. etc. was NOT enough information already.
UGH.
People are really weird, man. Let’s NOT take it up a notch. SHEE-AT. God, get that out of my head NOW!
Hate it when disgusting images remain in your head. Like a few nights ago we made the simple mistake of watching an indie flick about the Cultural Revolution that entailed some very disturbing images of a young girl being voluntarily mauled by nasty men and I could not get the image out of my head, that horrid vision of youth and innocence raped.
UGH.
And there I was, just about to get into “happy” thoughts, up a few paragraphs above, before this disruption. Deep breath. Okay, back on track.
So at the risk of sounding way too HAPPY for a mid-twenties singleton (in the “unmarried” sense of the word), some thoughts need to be absorbed into this diatribe of what sucks about life, for undeniably a huge portion of it is more amazing and wonderful than I could have ever expected it to be. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s true. I was re-reading the issues we'd had in February, and all those issues have completely dissolved since. That is amazing. Usually, couple issues take months and months of heartache to dissolve. With Ryan, life is different. Things actually get fixed, gripes are understood and resolved, apologies are sincerely made and sincerely accepted. It’s nice. He challenges me in every way, and I have never been more inspired. Now, it remains for me to determine where to apply such inspiration.
Aha. Back to the Cowardly Lion.
Saturday, February 16, 2002
HK Library - a fragment
It’s been more than a month since I have been able to record anything, thoughts, sights, sounds, emotions, revelations…that is assuming that I have been experiencing any of the above. Heh heh. The past month has been as eventful as the month prior. Let’s just say that since mid-December life has been in a surrealist state of upheaval and total chaos set against a rich comforting cornflower blue backdrop of joy. I don’t even really know where to begin, what thoughts rank first amongst the ranks of thought ghosts crowding around me, silently begging for attention. A short story perhaps in the making, based on, who knows, experience of a 20-something year old in Hong Kong, a 20-something year old in love, a 20-something year old freaked out and afraid of the future suspended, a unfocused, faded motion picture still taunting her, as if to say, this is what’s to be, this is the next step, all in cloud puff lettering that dissipates with your next exhale.
I don’t want to fall into another session of self-analysis but I can see I’m already knee deep. I think that the main issue I am contending with now is how to be happy in the present without worrying so much about the future. I am always, always too concerned with the next step, the correct next step, that I can barely sense what is around me and enjoy the energy that surrounds me now, energy from being in love, being loved, being with a wonderful person, being with myself, being myself.
I feel nauseous. Those oysters at the Excelsior Hotel brunch/lunch this afternoon did not do me good. Bleah. My neck is sore and itching like a million razors are chipping and flaking away at the dried, inflamed rash that has settled upon my throat, remnants of diving and snorkeling and pernicious plankton. I am about to make myself feel better by sneaking half a crunch minibar into that rashy throat of mine. Ah, forgot to locate myself. Ryan and I are at the Causeway Bay Public Library, on the fourth floor, sitting almost next to each other but not quite, in seats A12 and A10 respectively, with a prickish fool in between us occupying A11. To the right a vast row of basketball courts open up beyond the floor to ceiling windows, chalkboard green and dusty from a myriad of rubber sneaker bottoms. A line of tall nondescript trees beyond that, then an expanse of grassy lawn, most likely made up of that stubbly coarse grass that usually graces football fields, followed by a whirring rim of cement highway before the bay itself waves lazily from one shore to the other, back and forth, deceptively blue from a distance. Whoops, chocolate streaks my right palm for a second before a lick it off, as the crunch bar half goes down the hatch, unnoticed by the busy librarians and library chaperones that patrol the premises. No food or drinks allowed, missy.
I am slow, unfocused, writing about nothing, just writing for the sake of putting words in a row on the screen, words that sound delicious to me, phrases that taste splendid to ears, teasing, taunting touch. I am also not making much sense at all. Nice. Can I blame it on vacation vacancy? Or perhaps the all-purpose PMS excuse will suffice for now. I am tired and I don’t really want to be here. I would much rather be at the Peak, at PCC, plinkering away at my lovely laptop with a nice fat latte steaming at my right. There’s a kid across the thoroughfare to the left that looks like a younger Jay Chao. My face continues to peel with a renewed vengeance. It is so uncomfortable here. Jay Chao looks up every thirty seconds or so, bored from his studies no doubt, perhaps just as uncomfortable as I am, sitting here, no coffee, peeling.
Thursday, December 06, 2001
Dimsum at the China Club - at random
There I was, young, ignorant and quite out of touch with reality, to be honest, striding with an air of determination and vigor towards the old Bank of China building. Head bent, knees awhir and heels clacking on the uneven Hong Kong pavement, I nodded eagerly to whatever nonsense a firm executive was half speaking and half spitting into my right ear. The sleek Coach briefcase I clutched tightly encased a handful of presentations still warm from the printer, presentations full of useful information that would eventually be yanked fresh from its fine carrying case and dutifully discarded into the trashbin under my desk, three and a half hours after the stress involved in proofing, printing, and binding them.
We hurried up the steps that led to the elevator lobby of the venerable and humble predecessor of the tremendous steel and glass giant looming close by that now represented the Bank of China. The elevator doors closed upon our party of four and reopened to a dimly lit, carpeted foyer. A sense of old Hong Kong suggested itself through the oak finishings, antique ornaments and plush armchairs that rested like distinguished elderly gentlemen lounging in an afternoon salon, a bit worn, a bit wrinkled, but with an air of history and refinement. We were conveyed by a pleasant hostess through heavy frosted glass doors, past the general sitting area humming with executives engrossed in high class dimsum and important conversation, and entered a private room in the back. The first thing I noticed about the well-lighted dining room were the rather anachronistic wall hangings. Large modernistic paintings in bold blues and reds hung against a backdrop of softly toned wallpaper, the most promininent being a juxtaposition of the old and new Bank of China buildings standing one next to another, a nondescript matronly form in the foreground dressed in what seemed like soft silk burgundy pajamas.
Two of the five invited guests had already arrived, and after a round of introductions and fumbling with namecards we were all seated at the round table, patiently engaging in polite conversation as we waited for the remaining guests to arrive. Mostly I attempted to appear as interested as possible, bobbing with a complaisant smile between two lines of conversation split across the table. Intently I stared at the quivering waddles of each person as he or she spoke, taking in the details of a tie, a gesture, a tone of voice and the range of accents that skirted the table. Perhaps I should be just as involved in the actual content of the conversation, I thought to myself as "content is king!" erupted from one particularly stubbly waddle in a rather predictable manner, commenting intelligently on the telecommunications industry. I couldn't resist taking the time to notice the China Club design that sprouted on the napkin and glossed the fine china. A small red star, overlaid by a large yellow star which in turn enveloped a smaller white star, suggesting what I could not begin to fathom. Just as I was happily surprised to find the same star logo embossed on the wet handtowel I was using, someone said something delightful and a round of chuckles and nods rippled around the table. I participated, of course, seemingly engaged and truly enthralled by whatever I had missed.
As the food began to arrive, placed neatly before each of us in nicely sized portions, the usual fear began sneaking into my psyche- will I make an absolute fool out of myself by dropping a chopstick, dripping a sauce or projecting some morsel, Pretty Woman-style? "Slippery suckers," I would say with a laugh to recover my composure. I wondered then if anyone else at this table harbored the same concerns. Glancing around the table I detected no visible traces of consternation within the animated faces of three high-powered executives from blue chip corporations, two partners from a renowned American law firm that dominated the Asia Pacific legal world, and four finance gurus from a struggling international investment bank. Ho-hum. Snapping back into the flow of conversation I abandoned the wanderings of my slightly neurotic mind and refocused instead on the dimsum. [tbc]
We hurried up the steps that led to the elevator lobby of the venerable and humble predecessor of the tremendous steel and glass giant looming close by that now represented the Bank of China. The elevator doors closed upon our party of four and reopened to a dimly lit, carpeted foyer. A sense of old Hong Kong suggested itself through the oak finishings, antique ornaments and plush armchairs that rested like distinguished elderly gentlemen lounging in an afternoon salon, a bit worn, a bit wrinkled, but with an air of history and refinement. We were conveyed by a pleasant hostess through heavy frosted glass doors, past the general sitting area humming with executives engrossed in high class dimsum and important conversation, and entered a private room in the back. The first thing I noticed about the well-lighted dining room were the rather anachronistic wall hangings. Large modernistic paintings in bold blues and reds hung against a backdrop of softly toned wallpaper, the most promininent being a juxtaposition of the old and new Bank of China buildings standing one next to another, a nondescript matronly form in the foreground dressed in what seemed like soft silk burgundy pajamas.
Two of the five invited guests had already arrived, and after a round of introductions and fumbling with namecards we were all seated at the round table, patiently engaging in polite conversation as we waited for the remaining guests to arrive. Mostly I attempted to appear as interested as possible, bobbing with a complaisant smile between two lines of conversation split across the table. Intently I stared at the quivering waddles of each person as he or she spoke, taking in the details of a tie, a gesture, a tone of voice and the range of accents that skirted the table. Perhaps I should be just as involved in the actual content of the conversation, I thought to myself as "content is king!" erupted from one particularly stubbly waddle in a rather predictable manner, commenting intelligently on the telecommunications industry. I couldn't resist taking the time to notice the China Club design that sprouted on the napkin and glossed the fine china. A small red star, overlaid by a large yellow star which in turn enveloped a smaller white star, suggesting what I could not begin to fathom. Just as I was happily surprised to find the same star logo embossed on the wet handtowel I was using, someone said something delightful and a round of chuckles and nods rippled around the table. I participated, of course, seemingly engaged and truly enthralled by whatever I had missed.
As the food began to arrive, placed neatly before each of us in nicely sized portions, the usual fear began sneaking into my psyche- will I make an absolute fool out of myself by dropping a chopstick, dripping a sauce or projecting some morsel, Pretty Woman-style? "Slippery suckers," I would say with a laugh to recover my composure. I wondered then if anyone else at this table harbored the same concerns. Glancing around the table I detected no visible traces of consternation within the animated faces of three high-powered executives from blue chip corporations, two partners from a renowned American law firm that dominated the Asia Pacific legal world, and four finance gurus from a struggling international investment bank. Ho-hum. Snapping back into the flow of conversation I abandoned the wanderings of my slightly neurotic mind and refocused instead on the dimsum. [tbc]
Wednesday, October 31, 2001
Silence Ajar - a poem
Wonder if I’ve felt like this before,
Standing about, talking nonsense.
The door to my heart ajar,
no welcome mat to greet.
Only periodic cries of silence,
Wafting from the windowsill.
And here I am, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Watching my life like a movie reel,
Reality tepid brown and faded.
Heart’s grown bland,
No use for the door
Just no longer here anymore.
Shards of my heart,
Fragments of my mind,
What is it worth?
Palms on the windowsill,
Scream out into the night,
And silence retorts,
Sneers mockingly at me,
My mouth agape, face aghast.
Then turning once about,
Even silence disappears,
Slips ‘round the corner,
Sarcastic lips upturned.
And still, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Standing about, talking nonsense.
The door to my heart ajar,
no welcome mat to greet.
Only periodic cries of silence,
Wafting from the windowsill.
And here I am, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Watching my life like a movie reel,
Reality tepid brown and faded.
Heart’s grown bland,
No use for the door
Just no longer here anymore.
Shards of my heart,
Fragments of my mind,
What is it worth?
Palms on the windowsill,
Scream out into the night,
And silence retorts,
Sneers mockingly at me,
My mouth agape, face aghast.
Then turning once about,
Even silence disappears,
Slips ‘round the corner,
Sarcastic lips upturned.
And still, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Tuesday, October 23, 2001
Herman's Birthday - a fragment
It’s Herman’s birthday today. I have not seen that guy in so long. It seems like ages ago since we sat on the steps of the Asian American Activities Center, puffing on cigarettes and sketching plot twists with dramatic, overkill enthusiasm and complaining, forever complaining, about the love or past loves that soured our hearts at that particular moment. How would we incorporate our own rich (oh, but rather trite) life experiences into a dramatic catharsis, shouted from the very rooftops of over-privileged college youths playing playwrights in between classes? But what a pleasure, what a thrill, truly, to eke a bit of drama from our daily microcosms, mold it into some metaphoric butterfly or melancholy melody, and send it fluttering from our souls to grandiosely greet the world, inevitably flying smack into the concrete wall of reality. Every event could be fodder filling a scene, every personality a character building a cast. So completely self-serving and self-indulgent and so completely gorgeous was life back then.Perhaps this third post-collegiate year that I am now living has broken my optimism a bit. This rut that I have freshly dug for myself proves even more suffocating and unfulfilling than I predicted. So happily ambitious were these plans, to move on once again and start anew in a cosmopolitan urban sprawl, new position, new title, new team of happy investment bankers, new friends, new apartment, new neighborhood, new country. So long Midtown, Soho and my beloved Meatpacking District, sets once called home yanked across the plankway and off the stage during the second long intermission of life post-college, curtains opening to a freshly painted backdrop of Central, Causeway Bay and Midlevels.
And in all actuality it is a rather fresh new act that I’ve stepped into. Hong Kong is fascinating, there are roots here that have broken through the topsoil, entwining the core of who I am to the undercurrents of this city. My relatives, the language, the general Cantoneseness that pervades with its callousness, materialism, trendiness, all enshrouded in the sweet and sticky musk of money. But dramatization aside, career-wise I am definitely unsatisfied and stifled. [tbc]
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