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.

New adventures in kite flying

When they say that you shouldn't fly a kite where there are trees, it is true. But of course you knew that. I did too. But I was itching to fly my kite after almost a year of not touching it. It used to fly at the Berkeley Marina, on lazy Sunday afternoons when I would lie on the grassy slope staring at the tail dancing in the wind. It tugs away from me, savoring its limited freedom. Then I grow tired of holding, and I pass the kite to someone else to hold when I just stare.

The wind doesn't blow as strongly here, not along the Charles. There are trees, not all tall, but treacherous all the same. There might have been enough space in between the trees if I knew how to fly my kite right, if the wind would stay its course. I did pretty well for about 10 minuutes really, then the wind really died and my kite plunged into the embrace of the twiggy branches of a short tree.

Do I tug? Or do I let the string loose and hope that the wind will catch it again?

I stood and held on, looking at the girls under the tree, jumping futilely with a long fallen branch, trying to loose the kite string from the tangles of the branches. It was cute, almost comical. How old were they? My age, yet we suddenly felt like kids.

Kite flying has its share of drama around here, but it's all good because there is someone else to help me out. And then we all laugh and life goes on.

When things are so happy, I wonder if this is all for real. Between the troughs and the peaks, life on the average is pretty good.

I fell in love again

What makes a person fall in love?

I have lived in several places now, but nowhere captivates me like where I am now. Perhaps I've romanticized it before even coming to stay; perhaps it's all that has ever happened to me here. But here, I feel this pulse that makes me feel excited and that reminds me how much I like it here. Things feel more alive; there is more energy. Today, I fell in love with the Charles again.

I have to admit that I was excited about coming to stay in a new place, but when I arrived here, I wasn't exactly that happy. They have nothing to offer here that I didn't have. It was just a change of place to get to know more people. A few days later, I saw the Charles in the summer, glistening blue with green banks and I felt like I will learn to love this place so much. It is something that the Bay back in San Francisco never whispered to me, that the sea back in Singapore never sang to me, that the Hudson in NYC never told me; it sounds something like: this is a beautiful place where you are living. It felt close and personal. Like how a river should feel. (I do like the Central Park in New York, but it is not a waterbody so I won't name it.)

There is something about this river -- crossing it to get to Boston, to the Longwood Medical Area, rowing on it. Every contact with it smacks of life. And in the winter when it is frozen over, it feels like sleeping giant, a gentle totoro. Nevermind that it is all polluted.

I am not doing a very good job of telling you why the Charles is different. Maybe you'll feel it like I do the next time you cross it. Maybe you'll find your special river.

I just wanted to say that I fell in love with the Charles again today.

When I think of me, I mock myself

I think about myself and my writing fairly often. You probably knew that. It struck me last night how gendered my writing is, meaning you can pretty much tell if I'm male or female. You can also piece together a lot of details about me based on the context of my writing. It is a scary thought somewhat, except I'm among friends here so it really doesn't matter. But it does amuse me to know how gendered my writing is.

The story that comes to mind when talking about how gender-specific my words and thoughts happened a year ago. Since it involves gender, you must deduce that the other party communicated with me without ever having seen me or heard my voice. He knew my name, but he couldn't tell a thing from it. You must have figured out by now that we probably communicated through something like e-mail, and we did. I contacted someone I didn't know, and I actually sent in my resume and everything when I contacted him. We exchanged a few e-mails, and I pretty much sealed the deal even though he had no idea what I am (excellent example of a gender-blind process) or what I was like as a person (I would say that this is dangerous even though ability should count more than character in certain processes). It didn't matter to him what I looked like but he realized that he needed to know my gender in order to refer to me; he could have written "It contacted me, and I refer it to you" but that makes me sound like an alien. Finally he asked me "Since I cannot deduce anything from your resume or e-mails, I'll have to ask you. Are you a man or a woman?"

It made me laugh.

All the resumes I've learnt to write since college (I didn't need to write a resume before college) don't have a place for gender or race. Because of this, economists and other social scientists have been able to carry out experiments with false resumes to check how gender and/or race biased employers are. (There is a bias in case you didn't know.) It makes perfect sense since we often should hire someone for their ability and not physical attributes. It didn't quite occur to me that the eventual discovery process would be so amusing.

Things are different elsewhere. Having come so far, I cannot go back to being forced to reveal my religion, race, gender and even ancestral origins without much contemplation and annoyance, even if it is the norm. Exactly why do you need so much information about me? Sure, I understand with gender, maybe race, but religion? I'm currently of the Jedi cult thank you. I might be converting to Tolkienism in the near future just coz I've always thought that elves must exist. And the Dutch think that American forms ask way too many personal questions. Wait till they find their way to Asia. Oh the wary look on faces when people get asked for their SSN; I know a land of people who compulsively write the equivalent on every piece of paper they can grab ahold of.

I didn't mean to mock others; I set out to mock myself. Someday I will write about ducks. And it'll be the funniest thing in the world

To someone I don't know

When do objects and places begin to have meaning? I had never heard of Belarus until a few months ago when I met someone from there. I am usually not good about keeping up with news, but I actually made an effort to read about the elections in Belarus when they happened. It is why we love our rose. It is why we love our fox.

"He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made a friend, and now he is unique in all the world." -- The Little Prince

Yet it is not enough.

The idea of Belarus was suddenly appealing because there was a story, a family left behind. For the same reason North Korea is shrouded in mystery and sadness, for the same reason why South Korea caught my interest when only when placed beside North Korea.

A struggle is beautiful exquisite pain. I have mentioned that sad thoughts should be as valued as happy thoughts, and I stand by that. But when it comes to appeal, there is more mystery for me in pain. It is truer to say that there is equal meaning, or lack of, in happiness and sadness. But sadness just seems more poetic.

It would probably trouble them to know why I am fascinated by them, fascinated by their lives.

Is that why I feel less for people coming from happy places, like the utopia I belong to?

I could never have become a politician. I confuse politics with social work. To me, a leader is one who cares for his people, who was elected to represent them. But when I was trying to help my leader help others more effectively, I was told that we are not social workers. Another politician told me that people forget easily.

I would have dedicated my life to helping the nameless faceless person I never knew, except I kind of gave up. Because he was nameless and faceless, I never knew who I was living for. It really makes more sense to live for myself, for the moment. Even though I'm wondering about the person I never knew.

Embracing coffee

I hate to admit this, but I've taken to relying on coffee for those days when I just can't wake up. Like today. But I also got lucky today -- the pot of coffee sitting in the cafeteria was freshly brewed, and it was just fragrant. As a result, I have decided to change my mind about coffee.

I don't like coffee for its image -- hardworking addicts who don't sleep enough. Depending on where you're coming from, you can either admire the people who stay hook on coffee to do the great work that they do, or you can mock them for not appreciating life. Coffee was a tool to keep awake. If I need it, I go to the cafeteria for a cupful, complete with cream and sugar. It doesn't taste bad; in fact, I kind of enjoy it. But I was fearful of being hooked on it for its chemicals, and I certainly don't want to be one of those who need a little help with living. (I apologize for my gross and baseless generalizations of coffeedrinkers.)

Then today, I had a cup of coffee and really enjoyed it. They usually serve Starbucks at the cafe, but it really made no difference. It was just coffee, sometimes too sour, sometimes with a bitter aftertaste. Today, the pot ran out, and I had to ask the lady for a fresh pot. Somehow, this pot of coffee was done just right. It was lightly fragrant without being overwhelmingly so. It left no bad aftertaste. It was liquid delight, the perfect companion for walking in the rain. Suddenly, the day looked beautiful.

It's a pity that I can't count on the cafe for good coffee everytime. But I don't feel bad about wanting to taste it now. My problems and worries about coffee and caffeine have nothing to do with the drink, but my lack of self-control. Let's face it -- that regular-sized cup you get is made for those who really need coffee to get going. If all you want is a taste to appreciate it, 1/3 of the cup is more than enough. No more will I think of coffee as another prop to prolong my awake time!

They forgot one crucial thing in giving you value for your money in this country -- the law of diminishing returns. Sometimes too much just makes you want to throw up.

Tales from long ago

Every so often, a fairy tale I used to know pops into my head after years of being forgotten. I don't know what makes them surface. Last year, I was obsessing about the Emperor and the Nightingale. I remembered only fragments of the story, and when I read it again after more than decade, I cried. I recall thinking that it was a rather sad tale as a kid, but I wasn't old enough to fully appreciate it back then.

Since last week, I've been thinking of the Red Shoes. All I remembered was that the girl was dancing non-stop, and finally had her feet cut off. I was under the impression that she bought the red shoes despite being warned against them. I can't find that version anywhere; instead, I get the original tale that has the girl wearing red shoes to church and thinking obsessively about them. I'm in the midst of searching for a pair of red shoes myself. Maybe I should give up on that.

How well do you know your fairy tales and nursery rhymes? I am under the impression that I know more tales and rhymes than most people. I have never asked anyone though. Fairy tales don't always end with "they live happily ever after". There isn't always a prince or a princess. Yet, mention fairy tales and these are the very things that pop into one's head. Darn Disney.

My father tells me that I used to have an excellent memory as a child. He says that it was hard for him to skip even a word when reading to me coz I would catch him. I think it is something common to all children if you read to them enough. What good did the fairy tales do me? I can't really say. The versions you get in bookstores are sanitized, with little moralizing left in them. I can read and write like everyone else. I have always found it easier to write than most others, but that might have been inherent. My little sisters grew up to me spinning tales instead of reading to them. They turned out differently despite having had the same treatment. Does it matter if you read to an unborn child?

I bought a book of nursery rhymes some time ago for a newborn. I had a lot of trouble finding a suitable book. With nursery rhymes, you can't mess up on the words, but many publishers sure have messed up on the illustrations. Instead of dreamy swirly Mother Gooses, I find stark cartoons of scary lions masquerading as kings. Few collections are complete. It was depressing because I know what the book should look like, but it cannot be found. I had to settle for a poorly drawn, overpriced, truncated collection of nursery rhymes. It might be easier to buy a book for an unborn child.

Nothing accomplished, two new items on my wishlist: cursed red shoes, and a proper book of nursery rhymes.

On fun

Whoever invented the Velcro Wall knew exactly what fun is. Fun is wearing a stiff plastic suit with velcro, bouncing on an air mattress, and trying to throw yourself onto a sticky wall. When you latch on, the suit catches but you don't, so you fall into your suit and there is a little jerk as the suit catches you. You recover from the mild shock, peel yourself off the wall and then jump again. Wow. It is that easy. And that is not the only big fun inflatable game you can play. I knew that you can rent inflatable houses for children's parties, but you can apparently do the same for parties meant for older people. I know what I want in my garden when I have a party.

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It's rather true when they say that girls have more fun. At the carnival today, they hung tires from trees and there were mostly girls swinging on them. You see their long hair flying, and notice that there is at least one guy pushing her. Ocassionally, a guy would get on the swing, but it was rare. They also tend to not swing as high, possibly because their girlfriends just can't push them. For guys who want to have fun, it is clear that you need a strong girlfriend to go along with your games.

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Fun is when your college is rich enough to hire a famous live performer, rent inflatable games, put out a picnic, and hire security to hold a carnival. They also close the dining halls to force the students to eat dinner at the carnival, and hopefully engage in some good distraction, like wrestling in sumo foam suits, before heading back to hit the books. The things that I missed out on when I was in college. Where I went to, they made learning fun, so I guess there was no need for giant inflatable boxing rings to amuse the students.

Fun is running on the grass with bare feet, focusing on that very moment on whatever you are doing, ignoring the coldness that is seeping into your toes. It is running from the person on the swing, yet trying to get near enough to give him a push. It is colliding and laughing. It is forgetting.

Someone said that we're the happiest bunch of graduate students she's ever seen. I didn't really know what I was getting into starting out, but I certainly wasn't expecting this -- incrediby smart people trying to bait a bumblebee with sugar in chloroform. Oh life!