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. :)
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, October 17, 2005
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."
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."
Friday, October 14, 2005
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)
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)
Friday, October 07, 2005
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. =)
"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. =)
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
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"
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"
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
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! :)
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! :)
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
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...
welcome and happy reading! i'll be posting from the past and replenishing with the now from time to time...
Monday, September 19, 2005
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??
Thursday, February 24, 2005
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?
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?
Friday, February 18, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
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.
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
Thursday, January 13, 2005
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.
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.
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*
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