growing up

I've known him for quite a few years, but it was only today that I noticed how alive his eyes were. Eyes that are seeing the world, and eagerly drinking it all up. His posture was relaxed, and his facial features were composed. But his eyes, those eyes were alert and thinking. He's lost the naivete. Or perhaps I finally see him for who he is.

"It's not about how smart you are. You'll meet someone who is half as smart, but way more cunning."
"So you've become more cunning?"
"No, you just learn to watch out."

And I could picture him watching and waiting. He won't attack you because the ones who do move out of incompetence. He will do what his job requires of him. After all, it's just business. Watching and waiting.

The Unicorn Code

“If you go to Yves Saint Laurent or Prada or Tod’s or Chanel or Hermès this season, there are three different versions of the same bag: mini, regular and oversize.”

She said the last word as if she were describing seeing a unicorn — magical, beautiful, altogether perfect.

The New York Times carried an article almost 2 weeks ago about oversized bags and how they are all the rage and oh-so-bad for you. I like reading fashion news, but this little bit in particular jumped out at me because of the unicorn.

I've been trying to describe a unicorn for a while but I can't really find anything with google. I mean, what is a unicorn supposed to symobolize? What are the search terms that I need to use? Or does a unicorn not symbolize anything? Then one morning reading about how bad oversized bags are for you, I found a somewhat-description of a unicorn. Good enough for now. A fourth word to describe the unicorn, as implied in the context of the article, is "elusive". To me, that might be the most important word.

Why am I currently fascinated with unicorns? Someone once mentioned a unicorn for reasons unknown, and I promptly forgot about it. Months later, I was trying to find a birthday present, and I stumbled across a toy unicorn. It was a rather violent toy -- a unicorn impaling a human. The avenging unicorn. You get to choose the human and even the horn. I considered getting it for my friend, but didn't figure that he would like it. I ended up giving him a button that said "Unicorns are pretty sweet". I was also considering a "unicorns are real dammit" magnet from David and Goliath (they seem to have rather cool stuff), but figured that it was too in-your-face annoying. And while I was trying to buy a unicorn, I wondered about what it actually symbolized. I have no idea still.

Anyway, if you didn't click on the link above, there is a unicorn code. It's pretty simple:

1. Unicorns never lie.
2. Unicorns always lend a helping hand.
3. Unicorns are loyal.
4. Unicorns can keep a secret.
5. Unicorns don't use drugs.

I quite like it. I feel like I may know a unicorn. I want to know a unicorn. I want to be a unicorn. I'm currently fascinated by unicorns.

Finding true love online

I know of about two online dating sites: match.com and eharmony.com. For the longest time, I was under the impression that eharmony was a more serious site because they had a detailed questionnaire that you have to fill in before they generate matches based on some complicated algorithm that takes into account the 29 or so aspects of your personality. I have, on several occasions, wondered what that questionnaire was like.

A couple of days ago, a friend told me about this friend of his who was deemed "undatable" by eharmony's quiz. Wow, that sounds pretty serious. I also learnt that one can take the quiz and sign up for a trial subscription (limit of 10 matches) on eharmony -- in other words, I can take that very informative quiz for free if I wanted to. eharmony's advertising campaign (it's scientifically proven online dating!) worked: I found myself spending about an hour, answering 12-15 pages of questions (I almost gave up), and getting several matches. But I jump ahead of myself. For those who have never tried online dating sites, I thought it would be interesting to give a few more details so that you can find out what you're missing out on. My roommate suggests that I try match.com, meet up with a couple of guys and write a comparative article on these dating sites and the results. It sounds like a little more trouble than I'm willing to go through. But I've done the first part of the research, and I present you here with the preliminary findings.

The first thing that struck me was that eharmony only allows you to be a "man seeking a woman" or a "woman seeking a man". No queers. I wonder if you can sue them for discrimination. I was next disappointed by 3 pages of words that may describe me, ranked on a scale of 1 through 7 (1 being not at all, and 7 being very). I should have kept better notes about what followed, but I didn't. There were a couple (or maybe 3) pages on activities that I may find interesting (ranked again from 1 through 7), some short questions on what I'm most passionate about, and who has been a big influence on me, and what I can't live without and am thankful for, what my strengths are and what my friends think of me. Of course, there needs to be a few pages on what I think is important in a partner (again ranked on a scale of 1 through 7), what I am willing to accept for religion, drinking habits, smoking, ethnicity, whether I want children, my height, age and all that mundane things (no, they didn't ask for my weight). And finally, there is the page where I say that I accept their terms and conditions and they give me my personality profile and find me some matches.

First thing about the personality profile -- they don't give you a report in 20 parts. No. Instead, you get a report that describes you on 5 different levels: agreeableness, openness, emotional stability, conscientiousness and extraversion. I basically found out that I am who I thought I was (what a relief!) -- rather moderate in all aspects except for extraversion (I'm reserved in case you didn't know). From those 12 pages of question and answer, I got out about as much information as I would have if I had taken some random online quizzes -- since you are described by 5 criteria, you probably need to take 5 quizzes. Of course, those short questions I had to answer were displayed on my profile page for my matches to read and find out more about me. The next thing to do was to see my matches to see how well the matching algorithm worked.

I came up with 6 matches -- 3 asian and 3 white guys. It seemed to me that the asian guys were very brief with their short answers (about 1-2 lines) while the white guys wrote short paragraphs that were more descriptive. If you're a guy reading my blog and you ever try these dating sites out, my advice to you is that more is better. Write freely, and make sure you write well. While everyone is going to sound like a SNAG (is this term still used these days?), at least you won't get thrown aside immediately based on the fact that there are other guys who seem more open and interesting. Enough said.

In general, my matches were people that I wouldn't mind meeting, although the asian guys weren't as interesting because they wrote very little, and very concisely. Perhaps if you had a different criteria, you would have a different opinion. There was an obvious mismatch, and he must have realized it to because he closed communication with me the next morning. I was not impressed with spelling mistakes (typos are fine, like putting in an extra letter somewhere) -- one guy claimed to have been a playwright, except he spelt "playwrite". I might have considered clicking the "start comunicating" button, except that spelling mistake put me off. I pretty much ended my eharmony session on that note.

This morning, I woke up to find 7 e-mails from eharmony.com: 6 telling me that there was a guy they wanted me to meet, and 1 telling me that a certain Mr T wanted to start communicating with me. I actually used a real e-mail address with eharmony.com because you communicate via server e-mails, and I didn't want to bother with checking a fake e-mail account.

There are 2 options for comunicating on eharmony: guided communication, or open communication. The guided comunication process involves 2 rounds of mutual Q&A's, and sending a list of Must-Haves and Can't-Stands in between, before moving on to open communication. The fast track version is jumping straight to open communication. Mr T chose the guided communication track.

As far as the 1st round of Q&A's go, it seems that he selects 4 closed-ended questions from a list and sends them to me. If none of the above answers work, I can fill in a 4th blank answer. I think that the 2nd round of Q&A's probably involve selecting from a list of open-ended questions. It's quite like a beauty pageant, with different rounds and chances for elimination. So far, I like the guided communication track.

Since I wasn't aware of the option to close communication immediately last night, I now have to deal with my new cyber friend. I started using eharmony.com to see my personality profile (disappointing), and to see how it was possible for a guy to be "undatable" (seriously, ouch). Should I actually communicate with Mr T? There are several more layers of screening to go, and I could eliminate him, or he could eliminate me along the way. But what if we actually make it through the 2nd round of Q&A? I wasn't planning on looking for anyone, and it seems that people who sign up with eharmony.com are looking for more than just dating partners. Maybe I am over thinking this. It would be fun to try it out. I don't know.

So far, the online dating experience has been rather interesting -- I do think that it is a good way to meet a specific group of people with the same goals. In fact, it is efficient. I might actually try online dating someday, maybe someday soon if I decide to carry on communicating with Mr T (I'm using the word "communicate" a lot because it's eharmony jargon). But I've used up my 10 matches limit on the trial subscription, and that's about as far as I want to take it for now. Now what should I do with Mr T?

Addedum: It turns out that I can't start communicating unless I subscribe. I guess that's it with Mr T then. I closed communication, and I would like to tell him the truth, except I can't actually say more than check a box. I checked the box that said "Other" for reasons I'm closing communication since I can't write my own reply.

on completeness

It's funny how you can intuitively know when it's complete. "It" here refers to my room, but I could mean this in a more general way. The last piece falls in place, and you feel that whatever-it-is-we-may-be-talking-about is whole. I finally bought myself a chair yesterday, and my room is complete.

I've been resisting getting a chair for a while because I don't like chairs with wheels, and I don't like the sterile look of those office chairs that people usually get for their desks. So the last time I went shopping, I bought a white footstool to use as a stool. It was a little short, and I hardly sit at my desk as a result. Yesterday, I happened to find myself in Ikea again, and I was thinking of getting a chair but I changed my mind after seeing what was available. I couldn't get anything the first time, and things haven't changed so much in 5 months.

*pause* Well, you know it's untrue. A lot has changed in the past 5 months, and Ikea has changed a little.

Anyway, back to the story. We were getting ready to check out when there and then, I saw this red wooden chair, and I thought to check it out. I decided to get it even though I thought it wasn't quite right. I was going to run back to look for a cushion just in case, but there in the bin of red cushions right beside the aisle was one lone cream-colored cushion. And they all come together.

I finally assembled the chair today, and it strangely completes my room. I never thought of a desk chair as a crucial component of a bedroom, but it does have its role. I am now writing to you in my mostly-white room, sitting on the cream cushion on the red-stained chair, at my completely white and plain desk with a white iBook. I think it makes a lovely picture. I hope this is when other things start coming together for me as well.

One can never plan; things just happen. Does it really mean that we shouldn't bother to plan? It's not quite the koan about worrying -- if there is a solution, why worry? If there is no solution, what good does worrying do?

Water rushes into the heating pipes. Where there is space, it will flow.

Chasing Cars

I don't really like how I keep making references to pop culture in my entries. It makes my writing style so predictable, but that's what I like though, linking all the things around me up so that they look like one huge idea. It's true though, I think we are all one. One. I had my One Theory many years ago, and I haven't thought of it much. But it's not to say that I've forgotten it. It just seems so obvious, that we have a lot in common, all of us people, living things. Somehow, we just focus on the differences. It's for the same reason why we wonder why we are 99.99% similar to most animals on this planet, and we are obsessed with how that 0.01% difference translates into such a huge difference in body structure and brain functions. I agree that it is quite alarming how something so small becomes something so important. But it doesn't change the fact that we are built from a very similar blueprint.

We heard this song in class the other day, about how everything was really the same thing in biology. I think that song was about cell signaling and gene regulation. It went by the name of "Little Phosphatases" or something. How true and how insightful. Yes, I'm a biologist. I mostly catalogue things, and realize that they are all the same. But that minute difference is the punchline of every paper that I will write. Something was slightly different. But of course! If it were all exactly the same, then it's the exact same thing.

I'm not making too much sense. But it's fine. I get into such a mood when I'm reading something by Murakami. We're just killing time until the next big thing happens. I don't know what the next big thing is, but it's really not the best way to live, thinking that this moment is being killed so that I can get to the next. No wonder they say that youth is wasted on the young. Who's they? I don't know. But I think I am one of them now.

Chasing cars, since I shouldn't make obscure references without explaining them, is the title of a song by Snow Patrol. The line I'm thinking of goes something like this "Let's waste time, chasing cars in our head." The rest is self explanatory.

Pardon the recent lack of humor. I blame the sunny skies of the approaching winter.

My Man of the Year

Have the words stopped flowing? Have my ideas all dried up? Not quite, but I am tired. Ocassionally, I feel sad. Sometimes I feel happy. Perhaps it is time for a break. It is all very well to dream of escaping, to say "Anywhere but here", but it is not enough. I feel that it is important to say what you want. Unfortunately, it means that you have to know what you want. What do I want?

I wonder where he is right now, the guy who left his suitcase with me. He said that he'll be sure to pick it up if and when he returns. I haven't heard a peep from him, and I am tempted to call him up. But I am afraid that I am imposing myself on him, like I've done so many times. He said that he may take the time off and travel and work a little in some place other than here. Every so often when I feel lost and want to escape, I think of him and wonder what he is doing, and wonder what if it had been me instead. But he is not me, and he may not even remember who I am. I am still here, and I cannot escape.

For the few seconds he was around, he made a difference. At the end of each year, I like to look back and ask myself who the most important person I met was. It's still a little early, but I think I've named my Man of the Year.

Sleep

What will you make of it if I told you that the best thing that's happened to me recently is that I managed to sleep 8 hours straight? Yes, I'm slightly insomniac these days. There is unfortunately nothing romantic about it. Thankfully I'm not worrying about it.

I wonder if it has anything to do with getting older. An older person explained how he didn't need as much sleep as he aged when we marvelled at how he seemed to always be working. I have a friend who ocassionally suffers from insomnia. She thinks that deep down inside, something is bothering me. While I am bothered by a few things recently, I doubt that they are keeping me up 4 days out of a week. I could of course be totally wrong about this. Perhaps I am truly disturbed by recent events.

It is tragic that I have to think about sleep these days. Clearly, it's not something one should think about. One could appreciate being able to fall asleep and waking up refreshed, but when you can't actually sleep well, good sleep becomes something akin to a gift, a miracle. Something beautiful, surreal, not totally unattainable but rare.

Intrigued by the title (and other things), I watched the Science of Sleep recently. It's a beautiful movie, best watched by the silly romantic who is incapable of living normally. Because I identify with the childish and adorable lead, I thought the movie was touching and poignant. A more pragmatic person thinks that the lead is crazy and needs to be locked up. If only I could solve my problems in my dreams, I would want to be a sleepwalker. The lead didn't manage to solve his problem, but at least he's more proactive than I am. We're both cowards really.

Is it a problem that I identify with people who suffer from the same character weaknesses and that I am drawn to them as a result? Not just anyone with the same weaknesses of course, but someone attractive who shares my weakness. A tragic hero. I love it when things are juxtaposed. Being able to accept a weakness and turn it into something attractive is probably the wrong way to go about it. But we need our flaws to make us more human, more loveable. A perfect person isn't real. And so I will carry on with my misguided ways. Because tonight I am a defensive insomniac.

Northern Lights

An acquaintance from the past has come back into my life, and somehow he is automatically a friend now. It's amazing how things just happen on their own. For all our lack of conversation the 3 years I knew him, I associated things with him. Things that I haven't thought about recently -- like the Milky Way, the Northern Lights, mirror-grinding, telescopes. Things that made me happy once, that I haven't seen recently because they no longer seemed important. But it is important to hold on to happy thoughts.

I just saw a video of an aurora borealis on youtube, and if there is one more thing I need to do besides finally visit Paris, it is to see the Northern Lights. Colors. Bright vivid colors of the fall foliage, of the dark winter nights. Dog sleds.

First things first though -- where can I see the powdery white stars of our galaxy again?

fashion statements

I like watching certain people. In fact, I'll admit to it. I track them. Not in a stalker-like scary manner, no. But when they are around, I can't help but look at them. One of the people I look out for is this French girl who used to stay in my dorm building. At first I liked looking at her because she was French, and she seemed really cute like Amelie Poulain. She had slightly disheveled hair and glasses, and looked every bit the romantic French scholar/artist. And you wonder why I like looking at her.

She always wore black. Street clothes, comfy clothes. Always black. I thought it was a fashion thing, a fashion statement. She was someone I sort of knew, a person who would smile at me and whom I would smile at if we happened to meet. We had a mutual friend, but I never really got to know her. But I've always thought that she was adorable.

I finally saw her again recently, after the summer. I've seen her twice since school started and the first thing that I noticed was that she no longer wore black. No, she had very smart looking clothes, very colorful, very fashionable. Perhaps she finally decided to dress the French way: stylishly. It's not an overbearing stylishness. She still sticks to the simple cuts and fabrics. But it changed everything for me.

I'm sure she's her cute usual self, and nothing traumatic happened this past summer. But why was she in black every single day for a year? Was that the normal thing, or is the colorful clothing the normal thing for her? Was she in a phase? Was she in mourning? Is she in a phase now? I have to admit, I'm currently in a black phase, but I wouldn't wear too much black because I don't want my phases to look too obvious. I mean, what will I do with a ton of black clothes when it's over? And really, there was no trigger, but what if people started asking?

I'm doing to her exactly what I don't want people to do to me if I went into an overt black phase and got out of it -- wonder if there is a deeper reason. As far as I'm concerned, there is no reason for me to go into a black phase. Perhaps this is how it is for her. No rhyme, no reason. Just a passing fascination.

With fashion, we are allowed to be fickle. I must remember to not read too much into anything.

The irony of life

It must be obvious and absurb that when a biologist is studying life, he often kills the organism he's working with. Yet, how much can we learn through pure observing?


On an unrelated topic, the tea bag labels have been very boring and I've pretty much grown sick of them. Ocassionally, I come across a gem and a recent one reads: Love, an ocean of emotions entirely surrounded by expenses. I disagree. But that's just me. It's not about the expenses, but how special it feels to be with someone, looking for new ways to create unique memories, only to want to erase them from your mind forever. I'm haunted by beautiful stories about heartbreak, like the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I'm looking forward to the Science of Sleep. There is nothing quite like a man on a paper-mache horse with his sweetheart. And I'm sounding rather banal.

The power of braids

I braided my hair yesterday, and boy what a difference that made! It wasn't an experiment on the effects of braiding hair on the general public, but I made some interesting observations that may or may not be valid. I mean, I don't usually braid my hair. I just happened to have had a bad hair day waking up, and I finally decided to braid my hair sometime after lunch. The clothes I was wearing yesterday weren't special -- a black t-shirt and jeans -- so I'm totally assuming that they played no part in eliciting the response that I received from the general public. You can let me know how you feel about my observations.

Incident #1
Time: ~3:15pm; Location: on a street in a residential area just off a main road

What was I doing? I was walking home from a bbq. The weather was lovely, so some people were driving with their windows down. Along came a car with windows rolled down. It stopped at the stop sign, and the friendly driver called out to me, "Hey sexy!" What? Me?

There was no one else on that street, so I think he was talking to me.

Incident #2 & #3
Time: ~4pm; Location: at a housewarming

Upon stepping in, my friend's housemate asked me almost immediately how I braided my hair. The French braid is slightly complicated -looking, so it wasn't an out-of-the-ordinary type of question. I take a tour of the new apartment, and when I came out to join the group of people hanging out in the living room, a classmate said that she liked my hair and asked me how I did it. Another girl replied for me. "It's just a French braid."

Incident #4
Time: ~9:20pm; Location: at home

My roommate, her boyfriend, and 2 other friends were chilling in the living room. My roommate's boyfriend called out as I walked by. "I like your hair. Got a date?" "No, I woke up to a bad hair day." Everyone laughs. My roommate considered growing out her hair and getting braids as well, and her boyfriend said that he would love her despite whatever she might do to her hair.

Incident #5
Time: ~9:30pm; Location: on the street at the corner of the road I live on

There were still some people hanging out after the block party, sitting around in a circle while the children chalked the street. 1 man and about 5 women, all 30 and above. I don't know the neighbors, and I missed the block party. And I was just walking by, so I doubt they know me. I think they called out to me. I might have been mistakened. They called out something again, and I turned my head. "Yeah, we're calling out to you." Oops.

"How old are you?" They shouted at me. "Wanna guess?" "20?" "Close, I'm 23." "Too young for me," said the man. The women laughed. "Yeah, don't even think about it."

Incident #6
Time: ~4am; Location: walking home from a friend's place

It was late, it was dark. The waning moon was a beautiful crescent in the cloudless sky. A couple of cabs are prowling the street. An ocassional car drives by. A quiet night, an approaching car, a wolf-whistle, a departing car. It disrupted the peace of the night for a while. And then fled as the darkness chased it away.


I guess hair is like clothes -- they help attract attention and start conversations. Does it happen to you that often? I wonder what it might have been like if I didn't have braids yesterday. Would I look as friendly and approachable?

Frankly, I thought I looked awful in braids. I'm glad the world isn't as harsh on me.

An ode to French braids: a lengthy blog piece in many words.

Understanding Koreans

I knew that Korean people were serious about their kimchi, but did you know that they are also very serious about their red pepper powder?

I've decided to finally learn how to make Korean food, and one of my favorite dishes is Sundubu Chigae (Tofu stew). The recipe I found online called for 2 tbsp of red pepper powder, and another website warned that the New Mexico chili powder has a different level of spiciness than the Korean version. To be safe, I decided to get the Korean version.

I went to the Korean grocery store, and figured that I'll pick out the red pepper powder. I combed the aisles, and I did not see a single bottle of that powder. There were bottles of various Japanese spices, none of which were right. Plenty of black pepper, onion powder (is that a Korean or a Japanese thing?), hon-dashi. You name it. But no red pepper powder. But it's a Korean grocery store, so I must be missing something.

I went to the kimchi section, and found jars and pots of chili paste. "That could be a substitute I guess." I wondered if the shop assistants speak enough English so that I can ask them. There was a Korean girl, and a latin-looking girl at the counter, and I went straight up to the latin-looking one, thinking she might speak more English. She did understand me, but she didn't understand "red pepper powder". Was I saying it wrong? Comes the Korean girl to the rescue. She doesn't speak great English, but it was enough. She showed me to the aisle where the Japanese spices were, and found an obscure little bottle of something that was obscured by a huge label. "For udon," she said. I was disturbed. This huge Korean place sells one type of tiny bottle of wimpy red pepper powder for udon? "Is it spicy? I want to make tofu soup."

She led me to the next aisle, and pointed to the large packets at the bottom. "These are the Korean ones. We use a lot of red pepper powder, so there are no small packs." No kidding. The smallest was a 1lb pack. Most of the shelf was filled with 2-3lb packs. I saw then why I didn't find what I was looking for -- I was looking for the wrong thing. She left me to decide which brand I wanted. I decided that I wasn't going to eat 1lb of red pepper powder, so the cheapest pack would be good. It was a pack of coarse red powder. What's the difference really?

I took the pack up to the front and got ready to pay. The Korean girl beckoned to me, and she took a look at the pack of red pepper powder and shook her head. "This one is for kimchi." She flipped the pack to the back and sure enough, tons of Korean words, and 3 large pretty pictures of kimchi. I didn't see the back. I wonder if I would have understood the pictures. "You want the smaller bits." She meant to get the fine powder. Sure.

I went back and got something that said "fine" on it. I guess I didn't learn, because I didn't check the pack for instructions. I went up front and gave her the bag. "Not this one." What? I pointed to the word "fine" and she looked lost for a moment and pointed to the ton of Korean words in front. "You don't read Korean, but this one is for making chili paste. " Ah. Well. At least there were no pictures. She decided then that it was a better idea for her to help me find the right pack. So we went back to the aisle and got the right pack of red pepper powder finally.

What did I learn today? 1. There are at least 3 different types of red pepper powder. 2. Korean people eat red pepper powder by the pound. How long will my 1lb pack last me? I don't know, but I sure hope the Sundubu Chigae turns out well because that's a lot of Sundubu Chigae in that bag of red powdery wonder.

fortune cookies

There is something uncanny about the fortune cookies I get at Changsho. The most recent one said "Heroism is endurance for one moment more." I should have kept the last one that I got because that one was right on the money. I've been insomniac the past 2 months or so, and last month, the slip in the cookie said something about fear causing one to toss and turn at night, while faith makes a good pillow.

Oh, and they use chocolate-flavored fortune cookies.


"My “I” is puny, cautious, too sane. Good writers are roaring egotists, even to the point of fatuity. Sane men, critics, correct them — but their sanity is parasitic on the creative fatuity of genius." -- On Self, NY Times Magazine, Sept 10, 2006


I've never been a great performer on stage. That's why I quit dance years ago...that and because I wasn't good enough anyway. I don't know. I feel like it might have been psychological, feeling that I wasn't good enough. Most of the time, arrogance plays no part in distinguishing me from the rest of the crowd because I was more competent anyway (yes, I did say that. I am capable of being politically incorrect you know). Except when it came to dance. Perhaps I would be a better writer if I were a roaring egoist.

*Roar*

A New Beginning....

Or so I thought. For a few days after I got back my computer, I was able to resist the temptation of carrying it around, and spending all night with it. I'm back to the old ways again...almost. I'm trying to read more these days. It's not really happening, but I'll try. I don't know how I used to read non-stop when I was a kid. It was good though.I seemed to have had plenty of time back in those days. These days, I wonder where my time's gone.

This next new book I have seems promising though. I should have opened it weeks ago. The foreword of Brave New World starts like this.

"Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean."

I have 5 days till the book is due back at the library. I hope that the rest of it is as fun.

she is happy

I haven't seen her in 4 years. The last time we met, we sort of knew that it'll be a long time before we would meet again. Back then, I didn't know that I'll be away from home for so long. She sort of knew that she wasn't going to be home often, if at all. And many things have happened these past 4 years.

I've known her for almost 10 years now. I don't know if I've ever seen her happy. There was always something going on in her life. Happiness, if it at all existed, was something nebulous and transient. I don't know how she held on, but she did. And she prevailed. She seems happy now.

I haven't heard her voice in 3 years. I usually IM her. They say that it's hard to really interact via IM properly. You can't see facial expressions, or hear the tone of the voice. But you can tell when someone's happy, happier than you've ever seen or heard her before. She'll talk about silly mundane, banal stuff that would be incredibly boring ordinarily, but somehow sound incredibly interesting because it's special to her. And because she has infused her words with feelings, you can feel them too. It's contagious.

When I think of her, I hear this song, This Melody by Julien Clerc.

This melody
Is a melody for you
Cette mélodie (this melody)
C'est l'océan entre nous (it's the ocean between us)
Cette mélodie (this melody)
D'eau salée et de mélancolie (of salty water and melancholy)
Dans ton pays (In your country)
Elle te revient parfois (she returns to you sometimes)
Comme ça, voilà, comme ça (just like that, voila, just like that)

Le vent d'ici (the wind of this place)
Fait voler tous nos oiseaux (steals all our birds)
Les champs d'ici (the fields of this place)
Font ce qu'ils peuvent pour les troupeaux (do all they can for our herds)
Les gens d'ici (the people of this place)
Qui ne connaîtront pas d'autre vie (don't know of any other life)
Dans ce pays (in this country)
Dont les fruits sont si beaux (where the fruits are so beautiful)
Qu'on se contente des noyaux (that we are placated by their seeds)
This melody
Is a melody for you
Les gens d'ici ne sont pas plus grands (the people here aren't bigger)
Plus fiers ou plus beaux (prouder or more beautiful)
Seulement, ils sont d'ici, les gens d'ici, (it's just they are from here, the people from here)
Comme cette mélodie (like this melody)

Les gens d'ici ne sont pas plus grands
Plus fiers ou plus beaux
Seulement, ils sont d'ici, les gens d'ici,
Comme cette mélodie

Tu est partie (you're gone)
Mais ton rève reste au chaud (but your dream remains warm)
Ce vieux soleil(this old sun)
Etait trop fort pour ta peau (is too strong for your skin)
Cette mélodie (this melody)
Qui reviendra parfois dans ta vie (that returns sometimes into your life)
Cette mélodie (this melody)
Dans ta ville s'est transformée en pluie, en pluie... (in your town is transformed into rain, into rain)

That's why
This melody is a melody for you

I don't know if the song makes sense to you, but that's this melody for me. Something that returns at times, whose memory in our old paradise remains a warm fuzzy feeling, but is no longer with me. Do I say "au revoir" or "adieu"?

circumstances and free will

I was going to write about how habits can change so easily -- I'm talking about how I have somehow adapted to not having a computer at home this past 3 weeks, and how I'm trying to minimize my use of the computer when I'm home these days. I find that I actually have more time to do things if I didn't try to multitask, like surf while reading. Then I distracted myself for a bit reading the New York Times, and came across this little line about love. "Love is always a combination of need, desire, compatibility and convenience that converge at any given moment." (Dust to Dust: An Affair Post 9/11, Aug 27, 2006, Nikki Stern) I think it's one of the best definitions of love I've ever seen. If you take away the part about compatibility, we could be talking about habits.

It might be a futile exercise, trying to break down my habits and past loves and try to understand them as parts of their more elemental components (I'm not sure if those 4 headings fully capture the most basic elements). But it's important to recognize that there is a part of the equation that takes into account convenience. Yes, I think that is what struck me. The admission that love, great as it is, is also circumstantial. To me, that means that love isn't really as great as it is.

It's what I've always been afraid of -- what if I had a say in picking my parents? Would I choose the same people? Do I truly love my family, or is it all circumstantial? And exactly what is so bad about a love being made up of, at least in part, by circumstances? I hate the idea that free will isn't enough. I can't explain why it is important that choices were made, and not thrust upon us. I like to think that we are free and responsible people. That we are not certainly troubles me. Because we are human, not animals, to paraphrase Dune.

I admire it when a person is able to walk away from temptation. It is then that circumstances don't matter. He can then say that he's above it, that he is one step closer to God.

Who is Dani California?

I stumbled upon a mystery yesterday -- who is Dani California? Yes, I know that you know the answer: she's the girl in the song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I only just realized that yesterday. For about a week, I kept hearing the song over the radio, and the only words I really heard were "California rest in peace". I thought it was political. You know, like the great state of California. I had to see the lyrics but typing in "Dani California" into Google, I saw that there was a wikipedia page on it. So I read it.

It seems that Ms. Dani California has a history. She was maybe twice referred to, by name in "By the Way", and possibly an indirect reference in "Californication" as the "teenage bride with the baby inside". According to Wikipedia, the lyricist Kiedis has explained that Dani "embodies all the women from his past relationships". I don't follow the Chili Peppers music too religiously, so I don't know if Dani has existed before 2002, or even 1999. Her sudden appearance is interesting. People don't just appear, if you know what I mean. I don't know if she really was a "teenage bride" -- Kiedis dates high profile women. If he did keep picking "teenage brides", I must say that he has some strange taste.

Ah yes, the things I wonder about when I don't have a computer to keep me company at night.

While we are on the subject of music still, have you ever heard of Intelligent Dance music? I really like the genre, and it's not because it's called Intelligent Dance music. I must say that it's a great-sounding name though. I'm putting in a plug for the latest single from Death Cab for Cutie, "I'll follow you into the dark". You know the song will be a hit when it starts off with "Love of mine, someday you will die..." It's the sweetest song ever. The other group that I really like in this genre is the Postal Service, but let's listen to Death Cab for Cutie for now.

I can't wait to get my computer back so that I can start blogging in the comfort of my own room. You must have seen videos about how the internet is for porn. I think blogging is like porn - best enjoyed privately. How is your week coming along?

all I want from Berkeley

Things haven't exactly been great the past 2 weeks, what's with my hand injury and my hard disk crashing. The one silver lining in the dark dark clouds is that the only radio station I like in the world (for now at least) is finally streaming online. Here's a link to their website: Live105. They are an alternative radio station based in San Francisco and it's slightly nostalgic listening to them. I am reminded of the times I was driving around on lazy weekends back in Berkeley. These days, they seem to mock me -- It's a blazing 76F in San Francisco. Temperatures were hitting triple digits here last week. It's nice to know that there is a cooler place on earth to be in. My consolation is that I am at least keeping current with the latest music after being out of the scene for a year.

If you do listen to Live105, listen out for the ad by the Shane Company. You'll recognize it easily by the signature monotonous male voice, Mr John (I think) Shane. The company is in Cupertino, San Mateo, Novato and Walnut Creek. They don't play that ad often, but if you do hear it, you'll understand why it's such a great ad. So now like me, you too will have a friend in the diamond business.

The one rock station I listen to here in Boston is incredibly rude to their listeners. "I wonder how fat people cope with the heat." Live105 does rude stuff as well, but in a much more refined and constructive way. This weekend, they are giving out tickets to a performance by a Jewish performer. The ad for the give-away recommends that Mel Gibson calls in for his free ticket to get to know Jewish people better. Since Mel Gibson is probably too busy to call in for his ticket, other listeners can call in after 5 minutes to claim the unclaimed ticket. There we go, public service!

I don't remember any other special weekend (even though they have something pretty often) except for the Pride parade of 2004. Live105 was "all gay all day" that weekend, and they played a lot of Madonna. Ah...nothing like a community-based radio station in touch with their listeners. How that Boston radio station survives making fun of every single type of listener beats me. I'm not quite getting the East Coast humor.

Next on the list of things I want from Berkeley -- the Berkeley Bowl.

choices in life

There are promises. There are promises that you will keep, and there are promises that you won't keep. And then there are promises that you don't know how to keep. What do we do with those? It's no longer about remembering. It's about finding a way, and no way am I going to put these unfulfilled promises with the ones that were forgotten. They haunt the mind. Why did you agree? Why did you offer? Because.

Because you want it to happen very badly, and perhaps if you hope hard enough and try, there will be a way. Because you want to give hope, and perhaps the other person will find a way. Don't give up. And we try, and we fail. And then what? I did my best. You did your best. I shouldn't have made that promise, and you shouldn't have held me to it.

Sunday mornings should be reserved for happy cartoons. I made a bad choice this morning, but it's still a beautiful day.

cycles of adaptation

It started off innocently enough. She told me that she would have to start cooking. And I asked how she survived in the past without cooking, wanting to know what made someone who never used to cook, much if at all, want to start. She whispered, "My boyfriend...and Trader Joe's frozen dinners." It wasn't hard trying to figure out which part was missing. We shifted the conversation topic to Trader Joe's frozen dinners.

It has been often said that you don't know what you're missing until you lose it. Maybe it's been said too often. I am afraid of losing everything in case I miss something. I'm thankfully not a packrat. I didn't think of the possibility of losing the function of a thumb for a week, but it's happened to me recently, and life has been very different for better or worse. Hopefully for the better of course. And then we adapt and everything becomes a blur again.

I don't like habits. But I have them. I couldn't survive without them, yet with them I am more vulnerable. We can hope that adapting means changing for the better, since you wouldn't want to change to make things worse. But having a new addiction just means a shift of reliance. Ah yes, life is one huge vicious cycle of shifting reliance. That is what you think I am driving at. Maybe. I don't really have an end in mind.

All I wanted to do is write.

incoherent thoughts

You look like someone who has lunched poorly and who has no expectations of dinner.

That is one of the better lines I've seen over at the Surrealist Compliment Generator. Exactly how is it a compliment? I don't know.

I don't know when I started deliberately trying to be show that I'm different and special. From not liking the fact that I was the odd one out, I've become so used to not fitting in that being part of anything coherent just makes me feel awful. It's one of those nights when I'm just moody I guess. I don't really believe that I'm that special, but I just need to feel that way.

I fell in love with the word "misanthrope" when I first saw it. Should I have been surprised to find out that my thoughts are not unique, that a long time ago someone figured out that such a malaise of the mind existed and gave it a name? I was relieved somewhat to know that I was normal in the grander scheme of life. I am not alone; I am with other tortured minds that have made good.

Growing up, my dad taught me a few things about friends. Always keep a group of people around you that you can trust. And what you see of them in 10 years, it is what you will become. I have failed to generate a good group, although I'm getting there. But there is no way we will be on the same path in 10 years. Promises of the present rarely carry forward to the future. The past shouldn't be the only thing keeping us together. It often fails to anyway.

thoughts while sewing

Sewing cushion covers tonight, I recalled the last few months of junior college, and the general pessimism that prevailed. When will it all be over? I was very worried at that point in time because some of the girls were joking about giving up and marrying someone. It was a pretty bad joke repeated too many times. If those girls I knew were failures, the rest of the world didn't have a chance. Or so I thought.

But it seems that the rest of the world is more resilient. Many awful things have happened, and will continue to happen, and humans go on living.

Did I mention that I was sewing cushion covers? The world continues to amaze me, and I continue to amaze myself, seeing the person I am becoming. I cook, I sew, and I can still be a feminist. We live in fortunate times.

Le battement d'ailes du papillon

I recalled while brushing my teeth just now the moment when I discovered the butterfly effect. It was a very romantic notion, the idea that the flapping of a butterfly's wings can cause a storm across the Atlantic. I was watching a movie, and the opening scene had a butterfly I think, and there I heard described the romantic idea that little things can have very big effects. In case you want to see the movie, the English title is Happenstance, starring Audrey Tautou.

I checked up on the butterfly effect for a fuller understanding of it, and I kind of gave up at that point. The real and deeper meaning of the butterfly effect has its roots in Chaos Theory, which I am proud to say that like 99% of the world, I am unable to fathom. Fine, I didn't try, but I was never under the impression that I was particularly gifted in certain aspects.

Let's go back to romantic version of the butterfly effect -- the idea that something very small and seemingly inconsequential has a profound effect on life. The idea that we are all linked, interconnected. That everything we do is of consequence, which by extrapolation means that we are all important players in determining the direction this world is taking. Take a deep breath and ponder on your importance. Now take a pin and deflate that bubble.

Reading further into that statement, I can also say that we are not important at all. Our absence will cause a reaction perhaps, and the world will go down another path. The point is, the world will change anyway and no one path is necessarily better than another. We don't know the unrealized path. It is not relevant. The world will go on.

Zidane's headbutt may have its origins in the Algerian war. The reason I am in my present location may have to do with a class I took years ago, or with a person I met years ago, or a more recent event. I don't know which was the butterfly's wings, and which was the contribution of the flapping of the hummingbird feeding one bright morning.

I'm not a person for what-if's. Not that I don't care about the butterfly effect, but beauty is not exactly always useful. I like beautiful things anyway.

I'm still alive

You probably know that, but I thought to be considerate and let you know anyway.

I was supposed to be in California last week, but I cancelled that trip and it wasn't a bad decision. I got to see the 4th of July fireworks in Boston -- which are the best I have ever seen if I may add -- and I got to attend a wedding. I didn't cancel my trip to do those things, but they happened.

Growing up, I've always thought that weddings were huge formal events with no hint of romance to them. It was probably impossible to feel anything for people you don't know. I liked attending weddings though because there was always a feast. Oh, the innocent joys of childhood.

The wedding I was at on Friday was a simple civil ceremony. There was no rehearsal, and the City Hall official presiding over the affair couldn't get my friend's name right, so he stumbled while repeating the words because he couldn't figure out what she was saying. My friend looked dashing and nervous, and when someone made a mistake, we all giggled. And the ceremony continued.

There was no official photographer -- I brought my camera along so I tried my best. I didn't know where the boundaries were, or if I was going to disturb the ceremony, but the kind City Hall official told me to go ahead. When the couple finally exchanged rings, she turned around and said that there will be a slight pause while she rearranges the couple so that people with cameras can get that important picture with the couple, the bouquet and the rings on their fingers. It was all unplanned, but very real. There was more goodwill towards the couple in that room of 20 people than in the huge ballroom of 200 people of my childhood. I think. Maybe I think wrongly.

Outside the City Hall, the bride tossed her bouquet and hit me squarely in my right shoulder. I wasn't paying attention and I flinched and the bouquet fell to the ground. Peter said that he had never seen that reaction before. Thus the bride had to throw her bouquet again, and this time, I didn't get it. Whew.

Not that I don't want to get married mind you. Seeing the people around me getting married and having children these past few years has made me realize my own mortality. My cousin once confessed that he didn't think that I was quite human. Dear cousin is quite wrong. I feel too. Tired, happy, sad, alive.

the way the world used to look

Remember that advertising slogan "I'm a Toys R Us kid"? I used to have one of those T-shirts, but I was never a Toys R Us kid. In fact, I was deeply disappointed and never found out why anyone would want to go to Toys R Us. And Toys R Us had no one else to blame except themselves.

Growing up, there was this advertisement on tv with children singing "I don't want to grow up..." and you see happy children running around this furry, child-friendly amusement park-like place with a giant giraffe. I don't think I had ever been to an amusement park then, but I really wanted to go to Toys R Us. I bugged my parents and finally they brought me there. I have no memory of going there unfortunately. The next memory I have with relation to Toys R Us is seeing the ad again on tv and asking my parents if we could go. They looked at me and said, "But we've been there and you didn't like it."

Since I have no memory of ever going to Toys R Us, I shall have to imagine what my impression of Toys R Us was. My guess is that I saw rows and rows and shelves and shelves of boxes, colorful boxes but nonetheless boxes. Maybe there were a few toys out for kids to play with, but there was definitely no giant giraffe prancing around, or rides, or gardens of fluffy giant animals. You can see how an impressionable child of 5 was scarred for life. Why would she ever be a Toys R Us kid? Clearly, Toys R Us had a lot to learn from MacDonald's with regards to marketing and children, bringing up hopes and dashing them.

I don't watch tv too much these days, if at all. I wonder how many other children out there get disappointed like I did when I was much younger. Monkeys don't hop out of cereal boxes (Cocoa Crunch used to have that) and swing around the kitchen. You don't get a strange tiger(?) on an adventure with children looking for hidden treasure (Paddle Pop ice cream) being chased around by a pirate. Having been taken in by one advertisement, I learnt to ignore those false advertisements, and consequently the products to prevent further disappointment. Paddle Pop ice cream will never taste good to me, and I didn't enjoy Cocoa Crunch. I'll forever be confused about why I don't get a swinging monkey in my kitchen, or a treasure hunt for ice cream.

Some childhood memories are strange, but they are the way I have seen the world. Silly as I may have been, I still make sense to myself.

written in 30 seconds

They are all my voices
And again, I shall speak
Of the past, the present, the future
Of thoughts, of emotions
Of hope and dreams
Of darkness and gloom
All part of one voice
A body, an existence
Repeating
Voices of the old have already spoken

Personal criteria for writing -- if it doesn't come out in as much as time as needed to type it all out, it's not ready to be written.

On a road

I know that I said that I would write regularly, but it's not going to happen these few weeks. I'm busy, and I will be busy. No, this is not some attempt to make myself sound important. There is nothing to be proud of being busy with the mundane things in life. I wouldn't dismiss my activities altogether though. Being busy with frivolous mundane things can be rather fulfilling -- there is a specific goal, and you know you can finish the task. It makes you feel good about yourself, and maybe there will be a virtuous cycle that spirals into larger things. Being busy keeps me from those existential thoughts that plague me, which is both a relief and a source of discomfort. Falling asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow, instead of staying awake and reflecting on recent events -- would it be absurd to claim that it's times like this that distinguishes the worker bees from the individuals? Maybe. For all we know, worker bees do think. We sort of follow these time progressions with regards to our responsibilities in life anyway. Maybe we are worker bees.

You know that rebeling is futile when the rebel follows a set of motions exhibited by (an)other rebel(s). If "On the Road" is the bible for the rebel, isn't that still following some sort of a guideline? A stereotype defined by society albeit different from another society stereotype that you are trying to get out of.

I walked past a poster for a play that had the word "Kerouac" on it. It was like the sign saying "for madmen only", and like Harry Haller, I had to walk in. Because, maybe.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate

One of my favorite lines of poetry goes "Ask me where I am going, and I'll tell you 'things keep on happening' " Well, something to that extent anyway. The original line is "Si me preguntais en donde he estado debo decir `Sucede'". I don't know enough Spanish to translate that properly, so I have to use the translation that I prefer, neglecting accuracy. It is obviously not accurate.

It goes nicely along with the "muss es sein" idea -- must it be? It could have been otherwise, but it's not. So what is the point of thinking about what is not? I've never been able to rid myself of the sneaking suspicion that things can very well be otherwise. I have been incredibly lucky, and I have to admit that to myself even if you prefer to say that I worked for it and thus deserve what I have. I won't deny you your belief of justice and fairness. Life isn't fair, but it's hard to say exactly how unfair life's been. For the better I say.

Ask me where I am going, and you know my reply. "Things, they keep happening."

Friday night poetry

I burnt my tongue on pasta sauce
and soothed it with yogurt.
A small plastic cup
of artificially-flavored goodness,
I lifted the metal foil of the lid,
and ran my tongue over
the layer of pink underneath
that cooled for a while
overwhelming with sweetness.

things happen

I shall admit that I listen to country music, because I find the lyrics somewhat down-to-earth and appealing. The song I'm thinking of today is "Here in the Real World" by Alan Jackson.

Cowboys don't cry, and heroes don't die
Good always wins, again and again
Love is a sweet dream that always comes true
Oh, if life were like the movies, I'd never be blue

June 03, 2006
--- *** ---

I don't remember why I wrote the above paragraphs anymore. I don't think I will recall it ever. I may find something else related to the above that I can write about in the near future, but chances are that I'll simply forget that I ever wrote it. Already, I read previously written prose and wonder how I could have ever come up with them. I can probably try to recall the circumstances under which I wrote, but it's impossible to recreate that exact mood that I was in when I was writing. It was a rainy morning, and I was having coffee at my desk. But what was I feeling? I didn't have time to record it before I was interrupted. Now, I shall never know what was going on, except that I was thinking of a song by Alan Jackson.

The world doesn't strike me as being very real. Real meaning full of the tragedy of the human condition. Most of the time, things are just ridiculous in some way or another. To be ridiculous is human? To be sad is to be real? Am I a Schopenhauer incarnate because I think that sadness is the true form of life? Yes, I am particularly susceptible to the pessimistic school of philosophers despite my blessed situation. I'm not ungrateful. It just happens.

The optimistic race

Why do you think that God is good? Sorry, I don't mean to sound sacrilegious, but it kinda popped into my head while I was having pizza. There was a bunch of people who were talking really loudly, and they were laughing and one guy exclaimed that he met God in New York City. Really? It turned out that he and a friend were lost, and a man took them all the way to the nearest subway. They realized then that they didn't have money to get a subway pass, so the same man gave them money to get onto the Metro. Okay. That sounds reasonable, but why do we assume (yes, me included sometimes) that God is good?

I thought about it, walking in the rain. I don't think that God is defined as good. Check out the first entry for God on Dictionary.com. Yes, like a dictionary would be the expert on God and related matters. But really, he could be sort of mean, not a devil (now a devil has a more precise definition) since the devil is defined as the opposite of God, but he could just be nonchalant. In our despair in life, I guess it's just more comforting to think that there is someone out there who is powerful and could make things right, who somehow made you suffer for a reason. Eventually, you will be rewarded. I don't have a problem with that, which makes me one of the optimistic race as well. Hah.

2 suitcases

I don't know how I came to this idea, but it struck me that it would be an accomplishment to be able to live out of 2 suitcases. It's a romantic idea to me -- packing and leaving whenever, only with 2 suitcases. I'm not complaining that I have too much, but I certainly think it would be great if I could get rid of whatever I don't need but still keep. That's not the reason why I like the idea of 2 suitcases. I think of it as a somewhat zen concept, the notion of not being attached to anything, not being burdened by the world. And of course, a Hollywood concept, people running across the globe, searching lost treasure, true love, the cure, an adventure, a new life, with at most 2 suitcases.

If I trace it right, the 2-suitcase idea came about when I started college. I had 2 suitcases. And since then, I've never been able to get around with less than 2 suitcases and 6 boxes. It's not much, but I need to get rid of 6 boxes. The idea of minimal travel really stuck with me for a while when I was traveling around quite a bit visiting various schools last year. I had little time to pack, little desire to bring many things, and a lot of people to impress. I came across this handy webpage describing how to live out of a carryon suitcase. At least I think that's the one I saw. The author travels for different reasons than I did. The bottomline is that the idea of a minimalist lifestyle really appeals to me.

It's not going to happen though. Not 2 suitcases. I'm a packrat and I need to learn how to let go. Perhaps I'll fly better when I'm not weighed down.

Why we exist

Two issues have always bothered me with regards to children. Don't get me wrong: I love kids. But I don't understand why we should have them, and what we should do with them. I sort of figured out the answer to the latter question recently, watching the children of a family friend grow up. With children, you basically watch them and be prepared to catch them when they fall. You don't succeed all the time, which is good coz they learn from that.

The former question is a little trickier. We don't live in the farming age anymore. So it doesn't make sense to have children because we need more hands on the farm. I've asked my dad why he had children, but there was no philosophical answer there. Two weeks ago, I was having another random conversation with the guy down at the FACS facility and he actually gave a great answer. The only thing is, I didn't realize that it was the answer I have been looking for till this evening while listening to an orchestra play boring jazz. Don't get me wrong: the orchestra was great and so were most of the other pieces. Just not that one. Anyway, Brian said that he would be happy if he could live long enough to show his son everything he's enjoyed in life. He didn't go as far as to say that he had children because he wanted to share the miracle called life, but I think that it is a good reason to have children. Of course, it doesn't explain why people who were overworked and suffering had children. Times have changed though.

So people have children because despite all the bad things that have happened in life, enough good things have also happened such that they would like the cycle of living to go on. That, and also because some people just don't know how to use birth control.

Despite his inability to tell me why I exist, my dad enjoyed raising his children. That makes me believe that despite being unable to explain what he had in mind (or perhaps he didn't know what he had in mind to begin with) when he decided to have children, my dad enjoyed the process of showing his children the things in life that he found wonderful.

I feel like my answer is rather anti-climatic. Who would choose to have children if they didn't think that life is worth continuing? Common sense, simple logic -- not so common, and not to simple to get to.

Proof that I'm not Proust

Perhaps I live in a Hardboiled Wonderland of some sort. Today, I saw a woman carrying a window going into the T station. It was a small square window, about 16''x16'', a wooden frame painted white with paint that has been scratched off at parts. The window was divided into four, and the four square glasspanes were in place. Where did she get that from? Where did she come from? Where was she going to? Where can I get a window as well?

I have never read Proust. I never made it past page 1, even in the English version. But I have read stories about him, and one of the things about him was how he didn't like newspapers. The stories were always too brief, too to-the-point. But what were the details of the crime? What were they thinking? What were they doing before? Who else was there? That sort of questions. Yet, he adored reading train schedules, imagining the exciting places that people travel to, the train picking up all sorts of passengers. I don't know if I agree about the newspaper bit -- newspapers are boring, and I'm not fond of tiny irrelevant details. But that thing about train schedules, now that is something all together different.

I like looking at maps, tracing the roads connecting cities to cities, the subway stops to other subway stops, the airplane hubs interlinked with airplane hubs. It's imagining places, people, dreams and goals. Walking around in unknown neighborhoods, wondering what lies behind those walls, wondering what I can see through the windows if I peep. Sometimes I do. It's riding in a train, wondering how the next stop looks like, looking at the people riding with me. At night, it's seeing the passing glow of windows against dark buildings and wondering who was there. It's about being there, yet being anywhere but there. Time and place are of no consequence when you're in the time warp of space travel, except if you lack a romantic soul.

The places I love the most are those whose streets I have walked on, whose concrete pavements I tried to wear out with my shoes. There is no need to plant a flag to proclaim that you have arrived; the land that you walk on is yours.

But back to the window. There was an old man who lived in the house behind my apartment back in Berkeley. I could see his living room through the window of my bathroom. And when I brushed my teeth at night, I could look beyond the screen and the tree to see him seated at his table reading the newspaper. I looked at him for two years. I noticed when he installed a computer in the living room. I've seen how it was when he finished reading the papers and left. I've seen him settle down to read his newspaper. The room was always glowing with soft light and the warm tones of wood. It was a different world than mine.

Certainly, I am not Proust. This is all I have to say about a window.

A suitcase of destiny

Despite its favorable ratings on rottentomatoes, I thought that the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants was kind of lame. But I'm a serious kind of person, and I don't like such movies. I mean, girls who pass magical one-size-fits-all jeans to each other? There were some really different sizes in that movie. Now though, I have my own version of the traveling pants. A small carry-on suitcase.

Yes, it makes way more sense than a pair of jeans. A small carry-on suitcase. Even if there were no change of owner, a suitcase on its own will have quite a story to tell about the places it's been to. And with 4 owners, a suitcase definitely has quite a history.

I don't know the full story, but as far as I know, the first traceable owner was from Hawaii. Somehow, the first owner gave the suitcase to a guy from Texas in some unknown place that they intersected at. This guy from Texas then went to Japan, and met my friend there. He gave the suitcase to my friend. This evening, my friend is in the process of packing to move home for the summer (he's also from Texas). He's got way too many bags to bring with him tomorrow, and he doesn't really need a small carry-on suitcase. Instead of throwing it out, he's giving it to me. I could return it to him if he comes back to Boston; I don't really need another small suitcase. But I could also meet someone before he comes back, if he comes back. Then the suitcase will have a 5th owner.

There will be no movie though, not about this suitcase anyway. Hawaii, Japan, Texas, Boston. What stories can my new suitcase tell? I had a pair of boots that saw the sunshine and rain in California, snow and salt in Boston three times, encountered the humidity in Singapore, and touched the dirt on Mt. Fuji. After that, it was way too worn. That was quite a life though, that one year it was around. Life isn't that exciting for most people.

Someone out there thinks I'm important

I don't really have a story to tell, but this is something that I keep telling myself that I should write up. Why? Because it's cute and it amuses me.

I was chatting with Jon as usual, and he mentioned that he had few real female friends. Few enough to count on two hands. Just in case, I checked to see that I'm on one of those ten fingers, and he assured me that I was. In fact, I'm either his "thumb or middle finger". I was pleasantly surprised to hear an assignment of fingers. Most people don't do that, but as Jon says, "impt people get impt fingers."

I could be awfully paranoid, and ask if the thumb and middle finger are the most important. I didn't. I'd like to think that someone out there thinks that I'm important to them. I know I'm not lying to myself. And just in case he didn't know, Jon's important to me too. There, I hope he doesn't get upset about me relating this little story to you.

One way to go

There was a lot of banging and clanking from the room next door when I was taking my breakfast this morning. For a moment, I thought they were fixing the pipes. Then I heard the sound of the vacuum cleaner. It was a rather odd sound. No one vacuums here, except for the janitor who is paid to vacuum the hallways daily, Monday through Friday. I thought that my neighbor must have been packing, getting ready to move out, and was probably cleaning up as well. It's been a while since I've heard anything from next door. I know the guy next door is alive and somewhere around because I still run into him every so often.

When I went out of my room to wash my cereal bowl in the kitchen, I walked past the room next door. The door was open. Instead of seeing a mess of moving boxes and my neighbor's skinny hairy legs protruding from shorts, I saw a man and a woman, both in the red top, black bottom uniform that janitors wear. I saw a professional but old looking black vacuum, and an empty room. My neighbor's left. Some time between the last time I saw him in the hallway with a basketful of laundry and this morning, my neighbor's moved out without anyone noticing. He didn't say goodbye, which wasn't surprising given how things were on our floor. Still, he managed to move out without me seeing any activity suggestive of a person moving out. It was somewhat amazing. You always see the boxes, but never the person moving. In this case, I saw nothing.

The guy next door was slightly odd. I am probably not the best person to judge how odd a man is, but he was slightly odd. He was in the government school, enrolled in a public policy program. When we first moved in, I chatted with him briefly and found out a few things about him. I don't remember anything about him now, except that he was from New Zealand, and was enrolled in one of the public policy programs at the government school. He wasn't very tall, thin, and had a rather extended and angular face. I didn't talk to him much, but from overhearing his long conversations at night, I know that his voice was slightly thin, and a little nasal. He used to talk a lot on the phone the first semester. The walls are a little thin, so I can always hear his voice. The exact words were a little muffled but I'm sure that I could have figured out everything if I had wanted to. His conversations didn't seem that interesting. For one thing, his voice, especially heard from the other side of the wall, sounded kind of whiny.

You would think that a man who talked so much over the phone would be a rather friendly person. The only stories I hear about him give quite the opposite impression. The only story that I ever hear actually, is about how he would go to the RA's room to tell him to tell whoever it was down the hallway to stop blasting opera. He must have been pretty good about keeping tabs on the guy who blasted opera, because I don't actually remember hearing opera the first semester. The variation of this story is about how he would storm out of his room in the middle of the night when the girl next door was coming back drunk and a little loud, and shout at her to stop being so noisy. I am a rather heavy sleeper, so I never hear their heated exchanges.

I should have kept in mind my neighbor's aversion to loud noise to avoid any variation of the above stories. But one night I forgot. I had a bunch of my classmates over to make Halloween costumes for the rhinos, and we were cutting and somewhat sewing pieces of cloth, and melding aluminum foil and wood together. Naturally, there was some organizational chatter, and the usual exchange of jokes. It felt natural. Then my RA stops by, which was again natural since my door was open. He thought that our little costume-making party looked rather fun, and I invited him to join us. He said that he would, but he had other things to do. "By the way, it might be a good idea to shut the door to keep the noise down." That was a good idea. I had really quite forgotten about the door in our rush to make the costumes by midnight. Then it struck me -- the guy next door probably got the RA to come over. The RA lives all the way down the hallway, and it was unlikely that he heard very much of us. Therefore, it must have been the guy next door. I was a little annoyed then. Why couldn't he have come over to tell me to keep the noise level down? I am generally a considerate person, and I would have shut my door and felt bad about it. Instead, he had to go to the RA to get him to inform me. I was feeling slightly guilty and annoyed.

He was really quite suited as a student of the government school on hindsight. His preference to do things officially, instead of informally, betrayed how his character was perfect for that of a potential bureaucrat. Interestingly, a friend also in a public policy program at the government school tells me that people in his program are actually rather impatient. There are some who would complain about how stupid people shouldn't be allowed to ask questions in class. Some of the people in the government school must have worked with the Peace Corps after college. I don't know how the two populations overlap, but given the fact that most of these people intended to work for some major NGO or another after graduating, I would have thought that they would be rather...nice. Definitely not impatient. I mean, these are the people who would take the time to iron through every single excruciating detail in their effort to improve the world. Right?

The second semester, the guy next door somehow totally faded away from sight. Opera music blasts every so often without restraint. I don't hear his conversations when I'm working at night. Occassionally, I see him coming back, leaving, or taking his laundry down. Perhaps he's given up on living here very much.

As you can see, it was no surprise that he would move out without saying goodbye. I'm just slightly bothered by how he managed to do so without me noticing. After the janitors were done cleaning his room, they left a yellow Post-It note on the door saying "Done". A clean-up job well done. You can't tell who, if anyone , lived there. If I had a better imagination and was more bored, I could have imagined that he was silenced (you know) somehow, and they moved everything of his out and got the janitors to clean up. That's how important government figures go. But he's not important yet.

The fortunate thing about being in public policy I guess, is the amount of red tape that separates one from the masses. Perhaps if he didn't have to live with a bunch of fortunate students in a developed country, he might have been a nicer figure on our floor. I wonder if anyone else missed him.

Dreaming

I remember last night's dream. There was a watch. A black plastic Casio, round and white-faced analog watch, like the one I really liked when I was in primary school. I don't know if I owned one, or if I wanted one back then. In my dream, I remember thinking that they came in 3 colors -- black, white and pink. Oh the nostalgia of a watch I might have once owned.

Says an online dream dictionary, " To see or wear a watch in your dream, suggests that you need to be more carefree and spontaneous. You are feeling limited and constrained." Okay.

Even if you don't remember, you dream every night. According to wikipedia, it's an average of 2 hours a night of dreaming, meaning you'll dream away 6 years of your life. The first time I found out that a person dreams every night was in college. I knew a guy who was into experimenting, and he told me that if I tried really hard the first thing I wake up each morning to remember my dream, I'll gradually get better at recalling what I dreamt about. The same guy experimented a lot with other things, like trying to stay awake for as long as possible. Funny how many guys I know who tried that out.

It seems like most of the dreams that I recall are emotionally impactful. But I can't be sure since I don't know what the dreams that I forgot were. They could have been even worse. Frequently before a long day in the lab, I would dream of the work I knew I would be doing. To do the same things in my sleep and when I'm awake is rather exhausting.

I just found it strange to recall that long-forgotten watch last night. I think it's a sign -- I should go shopping.

Why are we friends?

I've had two such conversations before. The first time was with Audrey. We were both in the same class, and we had a rather heart-to-heart chat for people who didn't know each other too well. I forget how long it was that I knew her. But we essentially agreed on this -- there was no one in that class that we felt that we had to be friends with. There is that feeling when you're in a group of strangers, meeting for the first time, that feeling that a person gives out that makes you want to know them. We didn't feel it in our new class. We became friends anyway, but it's not that kind of a friendship.

I related this story to Amy a few months after I met her. I told her that we aren't friends by choice, but by circumstances. She replied that even given the circumstances, we could have chosen not to talk to each other. Years later, she told me that I used to dress weird when I first started college. I don't think that conversation that one time helped. I don't think I've said anything like that to anyone since. She was probably right when she said that I got more normal after 4 years.

I realize on hindsight that if I could tell someone I barely knew what I was really thinking, there has to be a special something that made me trust that person enough to tell them that. There are thus 3 categories of friends -- the ones you don't care enough to tell the truth to, the ones you don't feel enough for but tell the truth to, and the ones that you feel for from the very start. I wonder if the first category even qualifies as friend.

It took me a long time to find real friends, i.e. category 2 and 3 people. Before I met people I naturally got along with, I was clueless about what friendship should really mean. I probably still don't. But there are just some people in the world that I know little about, barely see, and think a lot of. Time and distance make absolutely no difference. And there are others that I slowly discover and eventually accept as important.

Someone I recently met is leaving. I don't know if I'll ever see him again. It's my first time facing a natural friend that I may never see again. Someone I barely know because there hasn't been enough time; someone whom I feel can really be a close friend.

I don't feel sad though. Time and distance don't matter. Never seeing him again won't matter. Because I know he exists.

They say that I have a good name

No offense to my folks. Today, I will tell the story of how I got my name. My name came out of a book called "How to Give Your Child a Chinese Name". Yes, the book was in English. My parents found one that they liked the sound of, and found a suitable meaning to, and I was thus named.

I never figured out what my name meant till this year. There are 2 common "hui" used in a girl's name, and my name doesn't use either one of them. The character that my name uses is the name of a flower. Unfortunately I have no idea what the English name of this flower is. I had no idea what it signified either, until I was talking to a Chinese student at a dinner. He knew exactly what my name meant, and told me that the flower signified integrity. Everyone at the table assured me that it was a good name. They were also Chinese.

I had lunch with a Chinese person today. He asked me my name, and I told him. He told me that it was a good name. "Poetic" was the exact word he used. Thank you. My parents will be glad to hear that.

I've recently started telling the story behind my name to people. I wonder why. I think the fact that I look Chinese is beginning to become significant. I wonder what my former Chinese teacher would say if she knew that I was conversing in Chinese with a real Chinese person over lunch. I really tried to understand him, but I had to make him repeat himself, simplify the words. We ended up having to compromise with a hybrid of English and Chinese sentences. I know a white guy who understands classical Chinese. I can't even understand conversational Chinese. It's a little easier talking to someone from Taiwan.

Languages are fun though. I wish I could have seen how fun it was back when I had to learn Chinese. The emphasis on memorizing the 5000 or so characters really killed me. But the joy of being able to converse with someone in their language, a language that only the two of you share, be it English, French, Chinese or whatever else you speak, that creates a special feeling inside. The world is more interesting when you're actually living in it.

Of charm

There was once when I had to give a presentation on a person. I forget the purpose of the homework, but I recall that it was for English class. I think we had to read a biography or something. I was into female role models in politics, and the obvious choice would have been Hillary Clinton, or Margaret Thatcher. I gave a presentation on Eva Peron. She was the First Lady of Argentina, and I came to know of her through the movie Evita.

I still remember bits of her life story -- how she was working in an inn or a boarding house of some sort, persuaded a man to run away with her to Bueno Aires, and then persuaded other men to give her jobs. Because she was such a great public speaker and worked for a radio station, she eventually persuaded the public to vote for the man that she chose, and became the First Lady of Argentina. At least that was the version that I read. I didn't bother to check another source.

How is that an inspirational story? She ran the country into debt with her bad spending policies and all. But really, you have to admire this woman -- the peasants loved her despite everything. I recall how I ended my presentation. "Eva Peron was an amazing woman. Many women sleep around, but here is one who figured out how to sleep her way to the top." Her ability to manipulate people was amazing. I think that is admirable. Of course, the rest of the class took it for a flippant comment and laughed, but I was rather serious about it. I was a rather different 15-year-old from the rest of the girls. I went to a girl's school though, so I feel like I had the freedom to express myself. I'm all for girl's schools.

In general, I admire people with the ability to manipulate, for better or for worse. It's an art that I would love to master. The other thing that would be nice to have is a subtle charisma. Looks are only good for when you're young, and I need to learn to deal with growing old. And that is my arrogant advice to me and you tonight -- learn to be charming.

To Alice

I miss having someone to write to. In a way, the e-mails we exchanged are the prototypes for my current blog entries. I've tried to be funnier, more light-hearted in this more public form of writing. Whatever. The mere act of writing itself is doing me good. In writing to a greater crowd about personal thoughts, I am facing the problem that the usual public writer of current events and opinions does not have -- I am not writing to convince you of anything. I am writing to paint a picture, to show you my world. But there is no one you. I am lacking a muse.

The idea of a muse has been bothering me. I started public writing, inspired, among the other events that happened, by Calvin Trillin and his devotion to Alice. He was always impressing Alice.

-----
When I wrote in the dedication of a book "For Alice," I meant it literally. In that sense, the headline on her obituary in the Times was literally true, as well as in the correct order: it described her as "Educator, Author and Muse." When Alice died, I was going over the galleys of a novel about parking in New York -- a subject so silly that I think I would have hesitated to submit the book to a publisher if she hadn't, somewhat to her surprise, liked it. When the novel was published, the dedication said, "I wrote this for Alice. Actually, I wrote everything for Alice." ~Calvin Trillin, "Alice, Off the Page", The New Yorker, March 27, 2006
-----

There was a period of time in my life that I kept a collection of quotations. I still write a few lines down every so often if I remember to. Amy said that I keep the most banal quotations. She didn't actually use the word "banal", but I don't remember exactly what she said. I remember what she meant though. My criteria for keeping a quotation is simple. If it moves me, speaks to me, it goes into the book. There are things that stay in my mind that I don't write down coz I can't. For instance, I was at a performance of Orpheus X and there was this line that went "Only the dead and poets can see with indifference." There are things that stay in my mind that I don't write down, because there is no need to. Like the Fox. The line that I really want to refer to, that seems most relevant tonight, is this incomplete thing that I took down from the book that I copied the most lines from, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

"Love begins with a metaphor...love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory."

Why did I like this line? I liked the idea of a poetic memory. I hate to say this, but there are just some people who enter our poetic memories. You can't think of them in the same way you think of the other people. They just seem special, worthy of being a muse. I understand that we all have different criteria for appointing our muses, so I won't get upset if I'm not yours.

It's not only people. It can be a place, the weather, a building. Histories, the breaths of the dead and the past color the world. Some nights, the dampness and the fog of the past seep into the living. Like tonight.

Here's to Alice, a person I never knew. I suspect that you may at best be amused, but not surprised, that I am dedicating entries to people I don't know, most inappropriately. I know someone who wrote about the internal pattern. But I won't quote her tonight.

Myself, right or wrong

One of the most memorable things I've ever heard a teacher say was this. "I can't necessarily write a distinction essay, but I know one when I see one." The sheer honesty and tragedy of it all.

It doesn't take a lot to develop an eye or a taste for something. And then there is no going back. You can immediately judge quality, however unconsciously, and be disappointed immediately. A friend once accused me of this, "What gives you the right to judge? You can't even do whatever that person did!" True, and I am painfully aware of it. Let's just face reality. There is the ability to do something, and there is quality. The question is really whether or not to say it out loud. "I can't do what you just did, but it doesn't mean that you were good. In fact, I think you're quite a way from there." I feel like I would appreciate such honesty, especially if I were trying to improve. I also realize that I am wired a little different from the rest of the world in this one aspect (at least).

I feel like I lost a little of myself today because I have no idea what to do. To someone who has tried and was all excited and optimistic, I feel like I have to offer some sort of appreciation. But I stopped there unable to say anything truthful that was not equivocal. The irony of praising someone for their bravery. The very words I did not say, the very words that I chose to say, and all their hidden meaning.

There were days when I was so blut, and there is today when I tried to be nice. Which to be? This is not something that I will decide now and forever be. Fortunately I have always been myself, right or wrong, at that moment.

Back to the topic of tea

I am incapable of reading tea leaves, but I am able to read the label on my tea bag. This is what the tea bag I had over lunch said:

"Behind every successful man stands a surprised mother-in-law."

Wow.

I have given up on fortune cookies. It is rare to find one that has anything meaningful written inside. In fact, two cookies at the same table will have the same fortunes, no matter the size of the dinner party. It's happened when I had dinner with 2 other people, and when I had lunch with 9 other people. I have no idea what kind of probability distribution that follows. You probably think that I haven't enough data for good statistics. Perhaps.

Having taken classes in economics and statistics, I do understand how important using the right measure is. But how often is that applied in daily life? By regular people? I don't really think too critically about statistics all the time, even though I am supposedly trained to. I am not a natural critical thinker. But check this out: people have realized that it's not enough to show the top 10 most popular anime, but to show how the top 10 most popular anime were picked, i.e. using which statistical method. Indeed, the amateur fan is the best and most honest journalist; most magazines don't really bother to show you how rankings change given different criteria -- they just use one.

Whatever the case, I have yet to pick the same tea bag label twice, and that has made me somewhat happy. I may be switching to this brand of tea bags at home to facilitate the starting of my collection of Salada tea bag labels. The bottle caps with words on the underside have yet been proven to be as witty, and thus, to date, are unworthy as a collector's item.