Poetic ponderings

There was a suggestion that I post pictures once in a while. I guess a well-taken picture is worth as much as my nightly ranting, maybe more. I'll think about it. Meantime, I thought to use some poetry instead of prose for a change.

I like to think of myself more as a poet than a prose writer. In my mind, a poet is one who uses minimal words, a lot of images, neatly creating and capturing a scene or an idea. In the case of the great haiku writers, they also succeed in surprising the reader with a new perspective without infusing too much personal meaning. (Read this random introduction to haiku writing for more details.) I don't adhere to the 5-7-5 syllable count, but I try to practice the principles of haiku writing in my prose. When writing poetry, I tend to actually imitate Pablo Neruda's more emotional poems. Unlike prose, poetry is an outlet for emotional duress, usually written in the depths of despair. I'm too insecure to actually share any of my poems as a result.

Someday I hope to write poems without emotional baggage. I really admire Wislawa Szymborska's poetry. I admit that I don't read much poetry, but Ms. Szymborska strikes me as one who is unusually witty and versatile.

Here's a rare semi-decent old poem of mine:

Have you?

Have you ever felt the need
to rush back into the past
to cradle the little girl
to tell her that things will turn out fine
'coz there'll always be someone
in the future
watching out for her?
Would she know?
Perhaps not.
But if she did, she would turn out alright,
and she did,
though not realizing,
that someone was always there for her.


I received another suggestion with regards to my lackluster writing. It's not that I can't write, but I don't think hard enough before writing; I don't put in enough effort, or care enough. I don't quite like this suggestion, but I'll think about it.

What it feels like

I'm feeling dissatisfied with my writing these days. No, I'm not fishing for compliments. I just don't like what I was writing. I liked the ideas, but the words came out all wrong. I failed to capture the ideas for what they were. The words didn't fit. I can't edit words that have already been written. I am incapable of doing that; I don't really know what's wrong. It's best that I start afresh. Someday, I will write about the same things again, and hopefully the essence will be better represented.

As much as I appreciate logic, I can't help but do things intuitively. Things either feel right or they don't. I can't put words to everything. It's not a good thing. When my intuition is right, it's all good. When my intuition is wrong, I end up looking really dumb. Being unable to explain things makes me feel bad about myself too.

There was once when all I was able to say was that it wasn't right. I tried describing what was wrong, but I ended up going round in circles. Eventually, the other person was able to explain to me what was wrong. But wait, shouldn't it have been the other way round?

According to a recent paper, our subconscious decisions are better than our conscious ones, especially when the decision is complex. I loved the advice that the department chairman gave us when we were deciding on our schools. "Flip a coin. If you don't like the side that turned up, you'll know that you've chosen the other school." I wish I could say that I knew then that I will find the most brilliant minds and the best researchers to learn from here. I didn't. What I felt was that I've found a place where I will be comfortable in. It wasn't the science but the philosophy that drew me. Learning is a matter of attitude as well, and perhaps more about that than being smart.

There isn't really a place where I belong to, but for now, I know I belong here. I didn't make the decision based on reason; I found the reasons to match my decision. Sometimes, it's better to just flow along.

In the black holes of memories

Certains images, certain words keep floating in my mind and I want to capture them here. Perhaps it'll make more sense to me when I write them down. If not, at least I recorded them when they existed.

It's an old tale that if you dig a hole in a tree next to a river, you can whisper your deepest secrets and seal the hole with earth. That way, you will have gotten rid of your secret forever. The secret will travel down to the ground, and make its way to the river and be washed away. I don't know the details of how it is supposed to work. I'm surprised that trees next to rivers aren't all dead yet. Very very few people must believe that this works.

This story didn't stick very well in my mind until I saw a variation of it in a movie. At the end of the movie, the man finds a hole in the wall of an old temple, whispers into it and seals the hole with earth. I see him pressing his face to the wall often these days. It doesn't work for any temple -- the temple was a special one with its own legend. But you see the point is really whispering into a hole.

I wonder about people with such great secrets to bear. I speak too soon. It will be me someday with something I want banished forever. Meantime, I take life as it comes with all the bittersweet happenings, until it breaks me.

There was an interesting variation on the removal of memories in the recent Harry Potter movie (Goblet of Fire). I can't believe I'm mentioning pop culture here. Anyway, Dumbledore removes his memories for safekeeping, so that he can look at them in the future and see all the details. He keeps everything, although I see only the saddest memories. He looks back at them to try to understand and learn from the past.

The two sources are very different, so it would sound weird to compare Dumbledore and the Buddha. But for a moment I wondered who is wiser. The one who allows others to throw memories away, or the one who stores everything to learn from his past? It is obvious that I can't compare the two. The Buddhist tale (as far as the tales are concerned, there is a Buddhist link) allows the suffering mortals to cast away their pain so that they can go on. After all, one must learn to let go. But then for the living man who is eons from enlightenment, I would rather that he learns from his past so that he does not repeat his mistakes. One day perhaps, he will find that there is no need to cast away his pain because they have already vanished.

The past does not matter. For now, there is that black hole, and more mortal suffering.

Will I be a fool?

One of the things that really struck me when I was researching for my trip to Japan last year was the fact that I shouldn't climb Mt. Fuji more than once. I was trying to find out more about the weather conditions, lodging and time necessary to climb the mountain and every website I visited told me this, "If you never climb Mt Fuji you are a fool, and if you climb it more than once you are a fool". Well, I'll keep that in mind.

The other statistic that jumped out at me was that most Japanese people never climb Mt. Fuji. I had always thought of climbing Mt. Fuji as a deeply traditional and spiritual thing for the Japanese, but 99% of them never make it up. They don't even think about climbing it. I mentioned to my Tokyo host that my mother and I were going to climb Mt. Fuji, and she immediately replied, "It's impossible!". I guess my mother's not exactly young, and I don't exactly look like a mountain climber, but the websites assured me that it was possible. It was just a matter of taking a little more time. My other host, a guy, thinks that he'll never make it up, so he didn't think two tiny females could. That was not exactly encouraging.

But we went ahead and climbed Mt. Fuji anyway, and we made it up despite my altitude sickness. At one point in time, I was panting alongside a very old man who was left behind his tour group of equally old people. Oji-san had to give up but I couldn't. Not when I dragged my mother up that mountain at 1am. My mom was doing well, but man, was I feeling sick.

I missed sunrise by 30 minutes, even though I gave myself more time on the account of my altitude sickness. But you know, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that I made it up. Officially, I am not a fool.

As far as climbing Mt. Fuji goes, it's a matter of willpower, not leg power. As much as I felt bad as seeing my poor mother fall down in exhaustion, there is something about the raw satisfaction of having climbed a mountain, and having accomplished what most people will never do. I am proud of my mom because she had the willpower to finish the monstrous task. It was a torture to go up, but there is no easy way down so you might as well go on.

Someday, I would like to climb Mt. Fuji again. I am told that I'll be a fool. Am I a fool for thinking it? Or will I only be a fool when I do it? It will be hard to go back, and there are other mountains to climb. But once you're conquered a mountain, it's yours to keep. It doesn't matter if a million people have gone up, because...just because. For all that you can learn from the experience of others, it is important to live your own life too.

Posing in pictures

I need to learn how to pose in photos. Perhaps I'm self conscious and thus I'm being too sensitive, but I tend to stick out in group pictures. Growing up, I've frequently messed up informal class pictures by being the one looking to the side, or downwards. It probably isn't apparent to others since it's one picture in an album, but when you're me looking at my old class pictures, the pattern becomes obvious.

I since learnt to look at the camera of course, but I still look out of place frequently. I don't know how normal people do it right, but I've managed to either smile too hard or look surprised in many pictures. A friend related to me what her mom said to her, "Why can't you smile a little more, like this girl (me)?" It's not always a bad thing. Yet somehow, I feel like I've managed to alienate the people I stand with, even though I was there with them. It sometimes looks to me like I was photoshopped into the picture.

Vanity, being vanity, doesn't allow me an unbiased opinion on this matter. I stick out of the picture because I'm looking at me. But why do I feel uncomfortable looking at myself? Does anyone out there understand the discomfort and disconnect in staring at your arm? It's painful pondering existence.

The coffee and tea dilemma

It hits me once in a while, like now, that all my writing is futile. What exactly am I trying to say that is so meaningful? I thought it'll be fine if I start out by telling myself that I don't intend to say anything here. If something meaningful does get mentioned, it is a matter of chance. I don't believe this consistently.

The other way to do things is to ensure that that my words are meaningful. But it's exhausting trying to make meaning. Sometimes it comes naturally. On other nights, I just want to let words take form and flow. There is something personally satisfying to see words link up. I have been told that I sound exactly like me, which is kind of nice. I've met several of real published writers and have always been disappointed because they are nothing like how I imagine. In other words, their words don't seem reflect who they are. But back to the point about meaning.

You can make meaning out of everything really. I recall this conversation with Nicolas. He asked me if I was a tea or a coffee person. Growing up, I've had a cup of tea every morning. A lot has been said about memories related to tea and madeleines, so I don't need to dedicate 20 pages to tea alone. Naturally, I declare myself to be a tea person. Nicolas disagreed. I am a coffee person, I just haven't realized it.

Well, what exactly do you mean by a coffee person? Imagine me with a cup in my hand. Imagine it filled with coffee. What do you think of me? Now, imagine it filled with tea. What do you think of me now? Frankly, the images of me with tea and coffee are colored very differently in my head. But I come with my own set of cultural prejudices about tea and coffee. That said, whether I am a tea or a coffee person doesn't mean I actually drink either. And whether I drink either beverage doesn't mean that I am either. You are not what you eat, not in that sense. Your choice of drink or food may reflect who you are, but the way you handle your choices speaks more about you.

That much said, does this mean anything to you? I have discussed the meaning of tea and coffee, and have realized that there could be meaning or no meaning. If I were more arrogant, I would call this a koan. But really, labels don't mean much, and I'm too uncertain to say anything more.

A 95-cent book for $1.50

Flightly and frivolous. Yes, that's what I feel like sometimes when I'm writing to you. And it suits my mood. I derive great joy from making fun of myself sometimes.

The story tonight is simple: I bought a book from a second-hand bookstore a few weeks ago. The exact number of weeks doesn't matter. You know how you can always tell the original price of the book because it's printed on the back cover? Well, the book was originally 95 cents. Guess how much I paid for it? *drum roll* $1.50. Yes, I paid $1.50 for a 95-cent book. Why did I do that? To amuse myself.

There was a second reason. I found a poem that I read a while ago. While I didn't like the poem very much, it somehow appealed to me that night. I could have found it online and printed it out I guess, for free. Frankly, I think I just wanted to buy a 95-cent second-hand book for $1.50.

How many times can I repeat myself tonight? It's rather amusing. "A 95-cent book for $1.50!" I hope you're not annoyed. The lady who was manning the counter certainly looked annoyed. I didn't say a word to her, but she didn't see that the 95-cent book was going for $1.50. Oh, the little details you miss when you're not paying attention.

Now what am I trying to say?

"Cats yawn because they realize that there is nothing better to do." (The Scripture of Golden Eternity, Jack Kerouac). That's not my favorite line from that book. But it'll suffice.

When seeing is observing is staring

When does observing someone become rude? I like looking at people, and I most probably stare. I like looking at my TA's eyebrows, coz he has a crooked one. I like looking at this girl who looks like a doll. Sometimes I get fascinated by strangers and wonder what they are like and what they do. But it's rude to stare, I know. It just happens though.

And it's fair, because I know people look at me too. No, I'm not being arrogant. I've had strange women come up to me and tell me that they like what I'm wearing. I don't mean the days when I'm just in a t-shirt and jeans, although that did happen two weeks ago. In fact, both incidents happened on the same day.

I guess the first one doesn't count. I bought a new sweater recently -- black with bright embroidery of flowers and plants. I know, it sounds awful, and I'm sure my mom hates it. I have a thing for large patches of asymmetrical embroidery though, and it actually looks nice. I walked past a lady on the street, who said "I like that sweater." There we go, someone does appreciate loud embroidery.

That same day, another strange woman taps me on my shoulder at the T station, telling me that she liked my jeans. Fantastic! Except this time, she went on about the color and cut, the pockets and waistline, and how she thought it looked really nice from behind. She wanted to know where I bought that pair, coz she wanted to get the exact same thing for her daughter. Well, I'm sorry. I got that pair 3 years ago. Goodbye. I did like the color of the jeans, but the comment about the cut was funny. That pair was at least 2 sizes too large, and way too long for me. And why in the world was she observing my behind? A friend who was with me agrees that it was unsettling, even though it wasn't meant to be.

For a period of time, Kate seemed to notice my old shoes. I had a pair of gold-metallic shoes that wasn't too worn -- "new shoes?" Nope, 3 years old. It was the same with my bathroom slippers -- "You bought them for the retreat?" Nope, I bought them 3 years ago. The clincher was really that free pair of red New Balance shoes. "You got them coz they were fashionable?" Nope, they were free, and I'm stuck with them. They are 5 years old.

There was a time I did get into trouble for staring. It was my turn to bat, and the pitcher shouted "Stop staring at me with those eyes of yours!" What? And of course, I missed. That was a low ball...

Okay, I admit that last story was a little out of sync, but I was thinking of my guy pals. Just to prove that this is not a post about my shoes and clothes. I'm all about being equal.

Parasitic living

How many lives do you lead? I discovered the existence of "other" lives a long time ago, but the topic resurfaced today when I was talking to the faculty administrator. His admin job is his day job. He is, in truth, a struggling musician. It's slightly anti-climatic (at least for me) that he's not part of a garage band, but part of a chorus. They do gigs every Sunday at some church. Gigs meaning he gets paid. And he's done recordings, and live accompaniment to old silent movies in theaters. Not quite absolutely cool, but it's still something to chew on.

The man running the FACS facility writes poetry, and he's trying to work with someone else in my department who writes tunes. They have a dream -- to combine their talents and write songs that they can perform, maybe make a recording, or perhaps even make it big.

I've known people who are scientists during the week, and mountaineers on weekends. It's a great distraction. Sometimes, I envy how they lead such diverse lives. In the meantime, I continue to write.

I haven't the imagination to explore fictitious lands. I haven't experienced enough of life to write about great loves, losses and tragedies. I haven't thought deeply enough to come up with new philosophy. Everything that has crossed my mind, someone somewhere out there has already thought of it. And they have written it down with more dedication and thought that I will ever muster from me. (To truly understand dedication, check out the guy who lovingly details every burrito he's ever eaten.) Well, so be it.

It is enough to spy on the lives of others. I am a free rider of their multiplex lives. I am just a scribe, recording and hoarding to no end, for no end. Words are comforting, and that is all I hope from them.

A view of paradise

I went deep sea fishing because I've never done it before. Paul thinks that having never done anything before is no reason to do something. True. But it sounded interesting.

There were a few things I wanted to be and to do when I was a kid. I wanted to spend some time working on an orchard, and I guess you can say that being on a fishing boat is a variation of the same idea. I like being out on a boat at sea, and there is something appealing about being able to catch dinner. I didn't like the idea of getting smelly and messy, but after a while, you tend to just adapt to whatever happens.

It is almost a comical torture. We sail out and find a spot, the captain tells you that you can lower the line, and everyone tosses their sinker into the ocean. It isn't an order, but it sure felt like one. The sore thumbs of soft city dwellers rub against the reel as we let loose the line, residual salt water spraying onto our faces. Every bob of the line feels like a bite. We stand, ignoring the bits of bait underneath our fingernails. Waiting and hoping.

After some time, probably depending on how everyone was doing, the captain tells us to reel in the lines and we go find the next fishing spot. It happens about 5-6 times, almost like a drill. It was freezing in the early morning, and the hairs on the backs of our fingers were standing frozen. As the sun comes out through the fog, things become more pleasant and you forget how silly it all is. A boatload of 50 people, standing almost shoulder to shoulder around the edge of the boat, holding fishing rods and standing still. We paid to do this. There is conversation, mostly about fish and someone's sister. You stare at the ocean and it's all good. Until you get burnt.

Despite what they say about knowing where your food comes from, I don't think it made much of a difference seeing my large fish reduced to a tiny fillet under the knife of one of the mates. I can recognize a haddock, a cod, and a perch; I guess I learnt something. Could I be a fisherman for the rest of my life? Perhaps.

The repetition of daily life is important to me, despite my liking spontaneity. The important thing is choosing what you will bear. Kundera described paradise. "The longing for paradise is man's longing not to be man. Its monotony bred happiness, not boredom." (The Unbearable Lightness of Being). He didn't describe hell, but it might have something to do with monotony as well.

I went deep sea fishing because I've never done it before. Paul thinks that having never done anything before is no reason to do something. True. But it sounded interesting. And I'm not ready for paradise.

Signifying symbols

In committing myself to writing every night (if I can find the time to), I have started to think about possible topics every so often when I'm free during the day. The problem with such a strategy, even though it was not consciously intentional, is that I feel very strongly about what I was thinking of, and by the time I get to the computer in the evening, the mood is gone. I could write about the same topic, but it wouldn't come out the same. Yet, I don't want to start blogging whenever during the day. I mean for this to be a ritual, a daily cleansing of sorts. Thus, should I write about what I thought of today? I think I do owe her that much, so here it goes.

Today, I thought of Lassie. She's the dog we adopted when I was 9, my one and only dog. I've always wanted a dog because of all the dog movies I watched. Somehow, my dad and my mom agreed to adopt this dog that would have been abandoned , and that's how Lassie first came into my life. My mom didn't want a pet; needless say, the dog wouldn't be allowed into the house. I have many memories of her, all tainted with guilt. I was not ready for the responsibility of pet ownership, although she brought me joy.

Sometime after she arrived, we finally got around to getting her a collar with her licence. Lassie wasn't trained, but she knew how to behave herself. She had a sort of class. When we finally put the collar around her neck, we took pictures to commemorate the event, a sort of mini-ceremony. The kids were as tall as the dog then, and we took turns standing beside her. When the entire fanfare was over, Lassie did the next logical thing: she tried to enter the house. My dad said "no", and she turned around, hesitated and tried to step in again. My dad repeated "no". She understood, but for a while after that, she was looking indoors ever so often. My dad was sort of chuckling about how smart she was, and how she thought that a collar was what it took to enter the house. The dog understood symbols. A discovery! Yet what sadness.

Eventually my mom learnt to respect Lassie as well. "She understands music," my mom would say. She used to hang out by the windows when the radio was turned on. But she was never allowed in. Things sorted themselves out, and we reached an understanding. She eventually moved to the UK with my neighbor. I can still see her blue-rimmed eyes.

Like so many symbols, a dog collar is only good for official reasons. It doesn't mean anything that wasn't there, but it has to be there. And that spoilt everything. She learnt to disregard the symbol, but it didn't mean that I didn't love her.

Drama in the concrete jungle

Prior to the latest experience, I have gone apartment hunting twice. The housing situation in Berkeley isn't exactly the easiest -- high prices, ruthless realtors, and rundown places. Having survived, I emerged confident that I can deal with renting an apartment anyday, anywhere. I also learnt that looking for an apartment can only be at the very best painless. Lessons learnt, I was ready to take on the world.

The rental market here in the Boston area is somewhat different from that in Berkeley. I found that out right away when I saw the listings on craigslist. There is not one page full of listings; no, the first page you see asks if you want to see places by owners only, or brokers, and if you want to pay a fee. Evidently, it was set up to confuse, and to intrigue. But the fundamental laws of the market will prevail, and I learnt the basics well. What could go wrong?

You have to be prepared here. In the big city, things move quickly. Want to see the apartment? Sure, how about in a couple of hours? I know the trees aren't blooming yet, but imagine the trees in the summer, and the breeze coming in from the deck... And if you want to change the color of the walls, I'll buy the paint but you guys have to do the work. The workmen have just recently installed the granite kitchen top, and they have finished the new wooden floors on the 1st and 2nd floors. They are doing the carpets next, and installing the dishwasher...

The buildings here have interesting designs, and the layout of the apartments are all rather different. The places are mostly well-kept, and inhabited. Hello, I'm sorry to disturb your little party, I'm just looking. I don't keep my apartments empty ever, 25 years.

I'll meet you at Toscanini's ... at ABP ... at Dunkin Donuts. Oh, I could have given you a ride. I would give you a ride but there are too many of you. Bring me the forms and the check. I'll meet you at 12. The owner wants to interview you.

If you're not dealing with the owner, you're dealing with the agent. Wait, the agents from different companies are showing the same places? First-come-first-served you say? My son and I were both on the phone with realtors who called to tell us that someone wanted the apartment. So it was really at the same time. It has never happened before.

We're going to get a new washer and dryer installed. We would go with coin-operated ones, but they break down all the time. I know how it is to have to go to the laundramat; I used to have to do it. It'll just take a few days to get the washer and dryer. I am handy with things around the house, but the shower cubicle, I leave it to the guys who know how to do it. I was so worried that I would have to choose new carpet material again. Fortunately they located the carpet just as it was coming out from the mill. The house was built in the mid-1800's. I grew up in that house you know. When we first got married, I handled the checking account. We went out, and had fun, and the bank called one day to tell us that we were overdrawn. I never touched the accounts after that.

Yes, things are different here. It's charming.

The value of the unknown

There needs to be some sort of a personal philosophy about writing, I think. I used to only write when I had something to let out, which means that anything I wrote was pretty much sad. I know some people like to write happy thoughts down, which is fine. But what about those in between days, when you're neither sad or happy? You still have thoughts, and I think they are worth just as much. A friend suggested that I write only when I'm in the mood to, but I think I should make myself sit down and write anyway. This is not a finished work, but a work in progress. I can throw everything else out later when I want to consolidate posts, but really, which post is worth more?

The thing is, when I write, it's always a stream of conscious thing. I don't really know what I am going to say next, and unless it came out really badly, I wouldn't delete it. That means there is the potential for anything with the next word that comes out. I shouldn't judge my words before they appear.

It's not so bad writing stream-of-conscious style. I unfortunately also happen to also say what I think, meaning I don't know what I'm going to say next. I can't rehearse a presentation, and I can't give the same presentation twice. The second one will always suck. I think I like the uncertainty of doing things off the cuff. It gives a special flavor to the generic flow of affairs.

I gave a radio interview once. Nothing special. The lady asked me (and some others) some harmless questions because we won some awards. It was, in short, boring. I don't know what parents would typically do if their kid gave a radio interview. My dad recorded the interview because I asked him to, but I have no idea where the tape is now. When he drove me to school the next day, he told me that I was weird and started laughing. It turns out that I almost messed up answering a simple question and because I didn't know what went wrong, my dad had to tell me what I did. I couldn't deny it because my dad had evidence, but I couldn't bring myself to hear the real thing.

So the interviewer asked me if I was surprised to receive the award. The correct answer, as we all know, is "yes". I said "no" very matter of factly, and my dad insists that over the air, you can hear a pregnant pause while she tried to think of an appropriate reply. "Why not?" she said, and her voice betrayed her surprise. I said "I knew my teacher nominated me for this, and the director of ___ wrote me a letter of recommendation, so I stood a chance of winning."

I didn't realize that I said something totally unexpected and arrogant. I have a selectively bad memory, and I might have blotted out the fact that things were awkward for a while on air. Maybe I am just socially incompetent. In any case, my dad was impressed that I made my "save". If only he knew what other things I have been saying to important people behind close doors... No, I'm not telling all. Not tonight, or the near future. I can't make promises about forever though.

In search of impulse

Once in a while I think of him, the man in a suit and hat, singing Sweet Caroline while the crowd cheers him on and sings along. It was at our department retreat last year, where we had an open mic for any singers beside the dance floor. A few people did sing, but I only remember the man singing Sweet Caroline. It was unreal. At first he was nobody, then for 4 minutes, he was somebody, and he went back to being nobody again. For 4 minutes, he was dancing up front, and the crowd was going "pum pum pum". The air felt different; you could feel the singular force of the crowd. Then he steps away, and people stop dancing for a second to ask "who is he?", and the herd is replaced by groups of dancers. I think the man got a friend to record his performance.

You can tell that I am a pessimist because I wonder if it is better to live a dream constantly, or to enter a dream-like state briefly. Transient intense encounters make better stimuli. Constant enjoyment dulls the pleasure. Call it tolerance, or adaptation. I need a surprise, a wakeup call. A shock, however unpleasant, brings a new acute sense to living, richness to life. We get used to a lot of things, too many things. I don't want to take anything for granted, but I know that I do. And on some peaceful nights, I think back and regret the intensity of time passed.

Why did the French lose the battle/war?

To begin, I have no idea which battle or war I am talking about. It might have been World War I, or even before. I don't know if this is a real memory, but Nicolas seems to have had a theory. He blames it on the old French honor, and the silly red uniforms that French officers used to wear. Firstly, you'll get shot at pretty easily if you're wearing something bright red on the battlefield. Secondly, if you decide to be honorable about it and allow the enemy to fire the first shot, of course you're at a disadvantage. So yes, that is why the French lost the unidentified battle-war. Of course, he added, the French got smarter and changed out of their red uniforms and stopped letting themselves get shot at. What is the moral of the story?

What am I if honor is going the way of the dodo? Living is the process of dying.

What is the value of my honor? My integrity? Are my standards uncommonly high? Or am I just not of this world? I hate to bargain the way bargaining seems to be done -- a ridiculous demand, a ridiculous offer, and meeting in between at a reasonable price. I have tried being fair, and no one seems to care. They think that I am just giving my ridiculous offer, and they make ridiculous demands. Each hoping to profit a little more, each hoping to give a little less. I withdrew from the old game and started a new one, playing by the conventional rules. Ridiculous offer, ridiculous demand, and we'll meet somewhere on reasonable ground. It's like a scene out of Pretty Woman.

Things may be easier for me if I were Dutch. A friend tells me that in his country, people take responsibility of themselves, and no one else. You don't ask for personal loans, you don't ask your friend to be your reference, and in the extreme case, you and your dad sign a contract for the car loan that you took from him. The interest was a number in between what he could have made putting the money in the bank, and what you would have to pay the bank. It's fair. I wish the world was run along such clear guidelines. But no one else lives like that, not here, not where I come from. When does trust meet honor? Where do I belong if I like such strange rules?

Taureaux piscine

I really wanted to use that phrase. "Taureaux piscine."

Yes, it has been stuck in my head since last week and maybe I'll finally be rid of it. An old review (The New York Times, 22 Oct 1989 to be precise) of "Travels with Alice" calls taureaux piscine "a (deservedly) little known sport". I don't know about that. Most sports come with pretty lame rules. What's so bad about trying to be in a swimming pool with a bull? It's like getting a little ball into a hole 300 feet away.

Right I should translate. Taureaux piscine is french for bulls (taureax) and swimming pool (piscine). I bet you could have checked that out pretty easily online but I'll save you the trouble. It's a rare sport in the south of France, and I don't know if it exists anymore (too lazy to google that unfortunately). Even if the sport is as bad as the kind reviewer has suggested, the sheer enthusiasm of Calvin Trillian has me totally sold. I won't go searching for it, but it might be fun to see it someday. I definitely think that it's something you should shout aloud, coz it sounds so good and I'm sure we can all mess up on the word "piscine". If you've hung around an "Au Bon Pain" in the US enough, you know how easy it is to mess up when saying something foreign, especially French. And the thing is, it's no one's fault that we're not all multilingual.

The other foreign phrase I would like to chant aloud, if I weren't that embarassed, would be this ...

"Muss es sein? Es muss sein!"

...quite a few times for the effect. If I were really good, I would complete it and say "Es könnte auch anders sein" but my bird brain can only stomach 3 German words. Yes, I know, brains aren't stomachs, and I'm extremely lame. I don't remember a thing from the Unbearable Lightness of Being, but these strange German words that make not much sense. "Must it be? It must be! It could just as well be otherwise." It sounds so much better in German.

One day, possibly soon, I will print this phrase out and stick it in my wallet.

"Wenn ist das Nunstück git und Slotermeyer? Ja! ... Beiherhund das Oder die Flipperwaldt gersput."

There have been rabbit's foot, four-leafed clovers and horse shoes. Clearly, given the size of our bulging wallets (damn those receipts), the best thing to carry around is a slip of paper. You can say it however you like, but I think it works best read aloud with a British accent. After all, wasn't that how World War II was won? (If you don't know, you should really read up on joke warfare.) Long live and prosper!

Wet snow

Wet snow looks surreal falling. It doesn't float down lightly, it doesn't just fall. It looks like white rain falling in slow motion, and makes you feel like time scales have somewhat changed.

It would be nice to recapture all those fleeting thoughts I had today, and really think them through. They were pleasant topics about life and living, but like always, conversations are too brief, and my attention span is too short to savor the ideas. Writing things out is important to me, to really be able to focus on that one thought and see the next step in my mind. I usually don't know where I'll end up next, but it's a stream of conscious thing, putting your finger on the object and caressing it, leaning your head against the wall and feeling the cool and rough surface.

I would prefer to keep my entries light and funny, but somehow it doesn't seem to be happening. The enjoyment of certain pleasures requires a serious outlook. Food, smells, friendly conversation and the feeling in the air. A quiet moment every once in a while to just feel the now, to travel back to the recent past and let the memory emerge from the folds of stored time, or to just plunge into daydreams. Only once in a while though, fortunately or unfortunately. The inner peace doesn't last, and life must go on.

This one goes out to Mark and Jon

The first page of a book usually has a dedication. I'm not dedicating this entire blog to Mark and Jon, but I don't think I would have thought to start writing if not for them. I don't think I was persuaded though. Mark's told me many times that I should blog for reasons I can't remember. I would like to think I suddenly saw things from a different perspective, and randomly decided to be an attention whore.

See, I've always wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write books. I didn't know what kind of books, although I've always assumed I would write fiction; everyone writes fiction. They teach you to spin stories in school, and take off a grade if you write something that doesn't make sense. It's lesson one in learning how to lie coherently, even though I'm sure deep inside, we know that lies need to be pretty solid. Oh, those good old times in school. But I digress.

Anyway, ducks are funny. (See supporting evidence.) I wrote a final paper for a class on American humor about why animals are so commonly seen in comic strips. I assumed in my paper that the cat and mouse duo was the funniest. There was Tom & Jerry, Itchy & Scratchy, and some other lesser known cat and mouse team chasing each other around. Of course, there were ducks, but they were mostly rather bitter. I should have known that Disney knew exactly what he was doing when he introduced Donald -- Mickey was really just too boring.