Enigmata

Roots

2010-07-31T14:27:00.000-07:00

The seeds sown in me when I was a child are too deep, too nostalgic and too real - they are not leaves that fall and change with every season, nor new branches that bud and grow with the rain. No, they are the very roots that ground me, without which I will surely fall.

2010-03-23T08:32:00.000-07:00

There are those who read what others write
And then there are those who write what others read

coffeeshop reflections

2009-12-30T11:16:00.000-08:00

It is a simple pleasure, to come in from the blustery cold into a warm cafe, noses still pink and numb, taking off rain-trodden gloves with undisguised relief and sharing a $2 chocolate crepe with the relish of a well-worn traveler. Warm food never tastes so good as to wind-chapped lips and a cold stomach. To sit for awhile in an unpretentious place, to eat for awhile to fend away the cold more than from any real hunger, to take my jacket off and dust off bits of wayward snow. To watch as people walk by, hands mittened and necks scarved, and wonder where they are off to on such a cold, snowy day. To know that in a few minutes, I too will be walking amongst them again, strolling to my next destination, perhaps never to return again to this one cafe, in this one town, in this one life. But for now, I will recline in my rest-stop, savoring the moment, breathing the scent of fresh coffee and absorbing the murmur of lunchtime conversation that really I have paid to partake, for but a brief moment in my life.

There is nothing quite like hopping in and out of warm stores on the pretext of browsing, but really to enjoy the bursts of warmth like sunbeams on my face, refreshing me before I bow out into the cold again. There is nothing quite like walking into a foreign language bookstore and flipping through the books with quiet marvel and bemused curiosity, how the texts seem oh so much more mysterious and learned because they are in a cryptic language. Or browsing through trinkets in a tourist shop, feeling the cheap metal keychains tinkling in my hands and fingering the flimsy scarves and cardboard magnets we all know are worthless but still buy for relatives we want to gift but do not want to pay much for.

I bite carefully into the simple sugared donut with the languidity of one who has all the time in the world, and sip the watered down orange juice the hotel provides, as if it is but nectar of the gods and not mass-produced grocery juice. I stir my hot chocolate and watch the lumps dissolve and transform the water into a thick brown stew, with two packets of sugar like jewels glistening and vanishing into the chocolately vortex. There is kingly enjoyment in simple things, if one takes the time to let them dance on your tongue, and to realize for a moment what pleasure there is in simply eating, and drinking, in the presence of enjoyable company. One may never have another moment quite like that, quite exactly like that. In the future, I may be dining from fine china, with the richest of fares and the most complex and orgasmic of sauces. In the future I may scoff at $2 crepes and disdain cartoned juice and refuse to even consider an unnamed donut from an unnamed bakery without raving reviews. I may morph into a person I could never dream of today. But for now youth is my money and simplicity my jewels, and I will enjoy the simple things I am given, before they are consumed by the distractions of tomorrow.

We all seek glamor, but really, glamor is really a symbol of fine living, and fine living can come in surprising and quiet ways. To me it is more of a surprise to see peace staring back at me in someone's eyes, to hear content in their voices, and a calm trust, than to see glamorous people with fancy clothes. It is the hardest thing to achieve a lasting contentment, and to be able to be quiet for long periods of time without being tormented. I still, am tormented by the quiet, and turn the radio on to distract myself so I am not plagued by ghosts of the past or constricted by sudden pangs of regret or realization. I too, have not yet found a true measure of peace to which I can sit silent by myself for a few hours, still and reflective, without feeling the need to bolt or to drown my worries with distraction, any distraction. Peace is more elusive than Ferraris or chanel bags or whatever the media plasters on our minds is the symbol of fine and exquisite living. I know if I work hard enough, earn enough, those glitzes will be in my hands, but peace? That I cannot guarantee, and will never be able to guarantee.

2009-12-08T11:11:00.001-08:00

what makes me sad/ reflective is

looking into the eyes of a child and knowing that someday evil might reside in those frank, unwavering eyes, that trust will be displaced by disbelief, and love, by lust.

Nights Like These

2009-12-04T22:37:00.000-08:00

There are nights like this, when I feel an insatiable, inconsolable need but know not what it is. All I know is there is a hollow that is in my chest, but I know not the shape of this hollow, and so I cannot fill it. When nothing, not gustatory pleasures, nor audible trinkets, nor ordinary distractions and pleasantries seem fulfilling - they seem like sugar and icing when all I really need is bread and water - filling and true. How do you cure something when you don't know the problem?

When people are around me but I feel so alone, when words surround me but have no meaning, when all that seems real is the softness of my pillow and the cool detached sound of cars passing outside the window - the world seems to have ballooned leaving me suspended in the middle of peaceful, lonely air.

There are moments when you feel you are so right, but the world makes you feel so wrong - one person yelling in slow motion in the middle of an impassive, self-absorbed crowd. And then doubt seeps like an unwanted guest through the doors of your heart until the hinges break down and you crumble into many pieces and dissapear, silently, into the thronging, throbbing mass. And beat as one mass of humanity, discordant in pockets, but generally flowing in the same common direction. Where are we going? Where are we all going?

Life is tolerable for the great majority of the time, pleasant and blessed for the most part. But there are nights like these of self-imposed terror, minds stricken by wayward thoughts that throw one out of sync, while the world rolls on rolypoly in its own gargantuan triumph. The discordance is in part sickening, in part illustrative - and I am torn between the two emotions, so that I can't feel either in full, but both in jagged snippets like interference on the television. I suffer in my own hands, at the mercy of my own relentless mind. I feel a stranger to the world, but a shadow slipping away into the night, with no body to chase after.

I love FedEx!

2009-08-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

I love FedEx, I love UPS, I love post offices and people who drive delivery vans!!!

Part of it is due to watching King of Queens late at night, part of it is due to me expecting a few parcels and amazed that things can be shipped from all around the world and change hands to me!! The little things we take for granted, how the world could stop running without the mail (reminds me of Newman in Seinfeld as well)... so appreciate the next letter you get and wonder where it came from and who had it last!

How do you cure a broken heart?

2009-07-29T18:29:00.000-07:00

And for me the answer is, you wait
Through the moments when even inaction is too strenuous,
The time warp where the shortest second is too long
And the longest night, unbearable
When the world moves like clockwork while your heartbeat is weak
And your lids hang heavy but your eyes cannot sleep.
The wait is unearthly and the torture, divine
Like whips the minutes of doubt and unraveling regret
Slapping against your skin in wayward, clumsy design,
Parched and dying everything seems either mirage else cruel farce.
You crawl in the desert of your own mind,
Searching desperately for the next drop of water,
For if not, you surely must die
But the water never comes and yet your body inches on in unwanted miracle,
Superhuman? Or merely, an animal in fierce raw battle with the world?
The sun beats terribly upon your red, raw back
Every second surely must be your last, surely this pain will smite the very breath from your lungs,
With feverish cheeks you await the explosion of your infinitely fragile heart
But it does not come, but pumps on vengefully, mechanically in its empty shell,
Slowly leaking out the love it contained and replacing it with empty air or gall.
People walk by but they are aliens
For it seems no-one can understand your singular agony,
Surely no-one has ached as much as your emaciating heart
Or died a thousand times in a single night.
And the answer is, you wait,
Force food down your mouth to quiet your stomach,
Drink down water like its beer free-flowing from a tap,
Hold the bedpost tight through the nightmarish dark,
Drench your bedsheets from a dozen sweated shirts and a hundred other tears,
Howl to the moon even when it's light
Feel a werewolf's pain and the wildness of its eyes
Live exquisite moments of dullness and the plainness of hollows
The solitude of corners and the solace of shadows
You are out of harmony, disjointed from the world
Surely everyone must see you and rush you to the ward
But yet no-one does, and so the answer is that you wait.

2009-07-29T01:41:00.000-07:00

Of late I've been into "vignette" movies more than anything else -- movies that are focused on capturing a few days or a few weeks in a character's life, which never have the impossible-fairy-tale-ending or the catastrophic tear-jerking moments, but rather boast of the quiet joys and small sorrows of everyday life. I like to see realistic characters with their quirks, to understand their daily struggles and the minor issues people deal with every day-- to fall in love with a character rather than a plot, to weep and celebrate for the small triumphs and tragedies with a few ordinary characters in the brutal honesty/ humility of normalcy. The slower pace of these types of movies, the simplicity of their scenes bring me close like a zoomed-in lens and I have to hold so still and rapt to get a sharp, beautiful picture, where each statement could be loaded with hidden meaning, and every scene cloaked with artistic beauty.

I had a set of posters once called "quiet beauty" -- a series of muted soft-lit photographs of flowers, vases, grapes, and I hung them on my wall because they were soothing and reminded me of the natural grace and calm present within simplicity. Isn't it amazing, that no matter where you are, in what area of the world, there is beauty? That beauty does not lie in just one specialized locale on the globe that we have to pilgrimage to in order to partake? Something I tend to take for granted.

It's not easy to do the right thing, neither is it always right to do the easy thing.

And so we hang on, clutching at what we can and hanging on with all our might........

2009-07-20T22:11:00.000-07:00

Joanna Wang - Let's Start From Here

Giving up, why should I
I've come too far to forget
We're beautiful, we just got lost
Somewhere along the way
So much was missing when you went away

Let's start from here, lose the past
Change our minds, we don′t need a finish line
Let's take this chance don’t think too deep
Of all those promises we couldn′t seem to keep
I don't care where we go
Let's start from here

Standing here face to face
A finger on your lips
Don't say a word don't make a sound
Silence surrounds us now
Even when you were gone I felt you everywhere
Let' start from here, lose the past
Change our minds, we don′t need a finish line
Let's take this chance don’t think too deep
Of all those promises we couldn′t seem to keep
I don't care where we go
Let's start from here
Let's start from here

2009-07-19T01:28:00.000-07:00

I came across this song randomly again and it made me smile despite
myself. I have of late been bombarded with torrent after torrent of
opinions, objections, persuasions - what have you, and my mind has
been greatly turmoiled - but tonight, listening to a simple message,
reminds me that I have a core, and this core cannot be compromised
- and that my truth may as well be just as valid as another's truth, and
that gave me strength.  "I can't deny what I believe, and I can't be what 
I'm not".   I was doubting myself, thinking myself the victim of youth,
immaturity, inexperience, but even a child has feelings and real gut
instincts.  Even a child can feel good and can fear evil.  I have to trust
in myself and not let myself be torn apart by a thousand different horses
all pulling in myriad directions.   I was thus far believing myself to be
foolish and trying hard to impose an older point of view on myself and see
how I would look from the lens of someone much older and wiser -- but this
song, for the moment, liberated me to feel the earnestness and foolish
resolve of youth striving to survive in a world of cynicism - the flame must
be kept alive, for sometimes it is the only thing that is true and it is truly,
the stuff of dreams come true.

Because every dream comes from fluff, from nothing,
from the fervent imaginations of a feverish night,from
hundreds of lonely 3 ams when all the world is asleep.
And sometimes it is hopeless, impossible, defiant
belief that births the greatest of miracles.



No matter what they tell us
No matter what they do
No matter what they teach us
What we believe is true

No matter what they call us
However they attack
No matter where they take us
We'll find our own way back

I can't deny what I believe
I can't be what I'm not
I know I'll love forever
I know, no matter what

If only tears were laughter
If only night was day
If only prayers were answered
Then we would hear God say

No matter what they tell you
No matter what they do
No matter what they teach you
What you believe is true

And I will keep you safe and strong
And sheltered  from the storm
No matter where it's barren
A dream is being born

No matter who they follow
No matter where they lead
No matter how they judge us
I'll be everyone you need

No matter if the sun don't shine
Or if the skies are blue
No matter what the end is
My life began with you

I can't deny what I believe
I can't be what I'm not
I know, I know
I know this love's forever
That's all that matters now
No matter what

2009-07-19T01:23:00.000-07:00

Apple Cider tonight

2009-07-19T00:58:00.000-07:00

Sipping cold sparkling apple cider on a hot sticky summer's night is one of life's little pleasures. While listening to Hallelujah, while the sky is black above and the stars all winking - for a moment, the world seems simple and almost pure. It is like an unexpected smile in the midst of a thousand sullen stares.

so help me God

2009-07-16T00:25:00.001-07:00

Tonight I looked at myself in the mirror and told myself to do the right thing, and my mind suddenly and quietly added, "so help me God". This simple phrase, tacked at the back of solemn oaths, had never really made an impression on me but now it suddenly struck me as deeply valid and dearly vital. I think I do need to ask "so help me God" every time I make a promise, every time I make an important decision, every time I face a temptation, no matter how seemingly trivial. It reminds me that the price of goodness is extremely steep, and that to be a constantly and consistently good person is a in fact a Herculean task. I told myself that in even in my daily life - not before a court or a pastor, I would silently ask "so help me God" to get through any struggles; Now that I better understand the levity of adulthood and all its complexities, I realize that the potential to fall short lies in every corner.

To do good, often it is necessary to deny oneself, or to cut deeply into the flesh of one's own urgent desires and instincts. And yet that is so counter-intuitive - my entire mind and body fights for selfish gratification, while my conscience reins both back -- painfully, and it hurts excruciatingly to be held back in spite of my natural inclinations. "Do the right thing" is sometimes so painful that it feels so "wrong", because it goes against what I would do if I were moral-less, religion-less, society-less, friend-less, people-less-- if I were just a self-satisfying animal creature surviving for no other purpose than survival itself. But I'm not. So we tame the beast inside that is rearing to be let wild and to live carpe diem, my conscience the bit in my mouth and the blinders that shut my eyes from the temptations all around me; I live for another day and for another purpose, and do not indulge in my wanton, irresponsible wants.

2009-07-09T01:47:00.001-07:00

Lullaby

Sometimes when my mind is tousled and windblown, I search on youtube for Brahms Lullaby and listen to it before I sleep, and the melody is so soothing that it calms my soul. Sometimes it's okay to be a baby once again, a small child needing a lulling melody to make you feel once again comforted and for the moment, surrendered to a higher cause.

The Adventures of a girl who can't light a match

2009-06-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

I don't believe I've ever lit a match in my life. I don't know how I managed to get through these two decades plus without ever lighting a match or starting a lighter, but yes, somehow I have. Even through chem labs when I would get someone else to light it, even through myriad birthday cakes and candle-lightings I have successfully abstained. Yes, even through fireworks. The closest I've ever gotten to matches was saving the matchboxes to put toys inside, or being passed an already-lit match to help light candles on a birthday cake. Even then, I'd do it really quickly, always worried the flame would somehow engulf my finger.

This morning I woke up and realized I had not brought any food. No bread, no cereal, no eggs, no breakfast food at all. I briefly contemplated running to that scrumptious bagel place a couple blocks away, where they have the yummiest fresh bagels and eggs and juice, but alas, it was already deadly hot outside. After suffering for the latter part of yesterday with yet another heat-induced headache, I was not about to go caraveening outside again, even for a dozen minutes or so. I felt like a prisoner of sorts, of my own doing, and it was a funny kind of feeling. So I set about scavenging the kitchen for abandoned morsels.

I found a jar of oats. Gleefully (sense my desperation?) I set off putting the oats in a pan and water on it, until I realized. That our stove was somehow spoiled and the only way to get a fire was ... a match. Or a lighter. That my mother had told me this information the last time I was home, to which I promptly handed her the match and she promptly lit my pot for me. And after which I promptly forgot about the whole thing.

In a mighty effort (prodded by my grumbling tummy), I pulled out the lighter and tried to light the flame. Maybe today, fueled by hunger and urgency, I would finally overcome my fear. Perhaps it would finally be the day I could be proud of and I could excitedly message my friends .... that I could now light a match? Congratulations, indeed. Click. Click. Nothing. I could smell the gas so I turned it off, turned it on, and tried again. Nothing. All I had was me, the empty kitchen and the reeking aroma of gas.

I peeked at the box of matches lying in the drawer, picked it up and absently rubbed the rough edge with my fingers. Nah, I tossed it back in. The search began again, as I rummaged through the fridge. My eyes came across a packet of red bean porridge, with instructions to microwave for 2-3 minutes. I could do that, easy. And though my taste buds rebelled at the thought of watery, smushed, sticky redbean paste, I microwaved it anyway and settled down with my newspapers.

After four mouthfuls, I could not go on. I can handle a couple of red beans sprinkled on some dessert somewhere, but hundreds of them mushed up for breakfast and in a hot glob on a hot day was somehow too overwhelming for me. I shoved it down as best I could and then looked around again. Salt, salt, I needed salt to counteract the cloying sweetness that somehow tasted wrong.

Went to the freezer. Ah, potstickers, my salvation! Dumping them quickly onto a plate, I set off microwaving them. Until I read the back of the instruction packet more carefully, and realized that microwaving was not recommended. This was starting to get mildly ridiculous, but also amusing. After five minutes, the microwave beeped and I cautiously removed the plate. The potstickers looked... doughy.

Not one to be picky at this point, I set about eating my potstickers, or rather, the insides of them only, prodding them open to eat the oily chickeny flavorful insides and discarding their doughy uncooked shells. Aftermath of which I felt slightly sick and had to douse it down with water. I had also microwaved a lotus bun I had found, and promptly burned my finger taking it out because I was already so harried by then.

I sat down with my newspapers spread out on the table, the spoils of my breakfast sitting on them, and shook my head feeling slightly silly, but yet I couldn't help be amused by the sequence of events today.

So twenty odd years of not lighting a match did finally catch up to me. (**Disclamer: the above events are neither typical nor reflective of my usual breakfast routine nor my usual state of mind while having breakfast. Read: I'd like to think I am usually not that silly!**:)

Reflections on a hot summer's day

2009-06-27T19:10:00.000-07:00

I am home tonight, in the house of my teenage years and all its tender blossomings. I do the same thing I always do whenever I return-- go through all of the rooms and touch everything - faded photographs, dusty knick-knacks, opening cabinet drawers and looking through them, breathing in the sweet dusky scent of familiarity. It is always the same, I see the same things each time I return, but fond reflection of days past has always been a favorite past-time, and I dutifully pay homage to the bittersweet embrace of my past and my memories.

Quiet time is ever so dear to me nowadays, but also ever so damning -- my thoughts are often the most unrelenting of tormentors, more wearisome than any interrogator because they just never stop. And so I have learned unconsciously to suppress them and drown them before they reach full resolution. Yet recently I have been experiencing abrupt flashes of memories, often of single scenes and places that last no more than a few seconds, of places and things I didn't know I had stored, and hadn't cared enough to recall before. Memories pop up unsolicited from many years ago, triggered by who knows what -- unusual because they are neither fond nor horrible memories, merely very benign and neutral experiences that seem a whole nother lifetime away. Ostensibly nothing special, but I guess they must have made some form of impression for they explode like lightning across the sky of my internal vision - flash once and then are gone, just like that. It is vaguely surreal, and it both jars and piques my curiosity -- that perhaps my mind is somehow "un-repressing" my memories behind my back and without my knowledge? Perhaps like over-taut springs wound back too tight they are now fighting back and making me take notice? I know not, but I will reflect upon this.

I flip through my old writings and notice that my handwriting has changed, taking on a messier and distinctively more absent-minded flair, speaking of a woman whose thoughts spill faster than her fingers can write and so who must rush her penmanship in a hurried kind of way. No longer the meticulously straight and perfectly spaced typewriter font of before, but rather now haphazard scrawl that belies the complexities of the adulthood experience and my inability to render life neatly into organized and fully cohesive episodes, anymore.

2009-06-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

The passing of MJ was for me like saying goodbye to an era of my childhood; his music streamed in and out of my child's life without even my awareness. He had always been around as long as I could remember, and I felt a strange emotion yesterday, disturbed, as if some portion of my distant past had been dislodged from its slumber and then folded back to rest, gently closed. And then I realized how some people and things, although not a part of our daily conscious life, are still what we like to have around, existing somewhere, out there. He had always been around as I can remember, our existences parallel, but now no more.

For all of life's struggles, we have or will all pay our dues. At life's closing, let us allow those who have passed to go in peace and with best wishes.

Songs are like discrete capsules of time, locking in the smells, sights, and sounds of little pockets of time and our lives, and for that, I am ever grateful. It's funny how the songs of my parents generation have also become the songs of my childhood, by default. I remember trying to zone out my father's music as he blasted them at home; it seemed the whole house would pound with his loud beats. I remember sifting through piles of dusty CD cases and playing them when he was at work, skipping the tracks until I found a jewel or two of a song I liked. I remember lying in the back seat of the car listening by default to what I snubbed as old-fashioned music. But yet now I can sing along to their oldies and appreciate -- even seek, them in a moment of nostalgia; sometimes an old song is what I need to remember, and always will be. It is comforting in a chicken-soup-when-i-am-sick way that no modern song can ever provide, for once again I am mommy and daddy's little girl clutching my Piggy doll, and they are both, infinitely capable.

picture credit: deviantart.net

On Sensitivity
I am highly impressionable. Metaphorically it's like if a thumbprint could be left on the skin of my soul just by a single touch, that would describe how I am. I am sensitive to slight cues and invisible nuances, to the constant buzz of intricate emotions that surround every human being and his web-like relations to others. I believe in sympathy and that if we cannot get across to someone, we are merely pressing on the wrong spot. We are not two-dimensional; we are all prisms that reflect light in different directions and have shadows cast upon different sides at any given time. If we don't see the darkness but only the light, we are not looking close enough; if we don't see the light but only the darkness, we are looking the wrong way. I like to believe in the fundamental goodness of every person, but also of the basic ease that this goodness can turn sour. All good things spoil without constant care, yes even as our faces grow lines and we slather creams on them, so our souls age with time and too much weariness. We must guard against entropy in all areas of our lives, yes, we must fiercely guard or we will fall apart to the destructive pullings of the universe and of each other.

2009-06-10T22:38:00.000-07:00

This song doesn't seem to make much sense initially, but it resonates with me with such simple accuracy, especially the way it is sung... so dreamy and transfixing....
It is almost like a child is speaking, or a lost soul with half-expressed thoughts calling out to something she feels and knows, but cannot express with clarity...

Ode to my Family - Cranberries

Understand the things I say, don't turn away from me,
'Cause I've spent half my life out there, you wouldn't disagree.
Do you see me? Do you see? Do you like me?
Do you like me standing there? Do you notice?
Do you know? Do you see me? Do you see me?
Does anyone care?

Unhappiness where's when I was young,
And we didn't give a damn,
'Cause we were raised,
To see life as fun and take it if we can.
My mother, my mother,
She hold me, she hold me, when I was out there.
My father, my father,
He liked me, oh, he liked me. Does anyone care?

Understand what I've become, it wasn't my desiring.
And people ev'rywhere think, something better than I am.
But I miss you, I miss, 'cause I liked it,
'Cause I liked it, when I was out there. Do you know this?
Do you know you did not find me. You did not find.
Does anyone care?

2009-06-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

I like the lyrics to this song; they reflect turmoil in a uniquely expressive way.... yes, maybe two wrongs can sometimes make a right; maybe tension is but a passing note, to a beautiful, beautiful chord (sixpence)...

I am beginning to think that this is possible, that accidents can miracles make; that deep mistakes can the best beginnings be born... Please let it be so...

10,000 stones - Adrianne

10,000 stones are hanging
deep in my heart
no I don't know how they
don't tear me apart
how could I ever believe
10,000 stones would build
the best of me.

I've seen a lot in my life
I've seen two wrongs make a right
When everything was crashing
I know that you got your plans
You're always taking your stand
But I was only asking
I was never asking for

10,000 stones hanging deep in my heart
no I don't know how they don't tear me apart
how could I ever believe
10,000 stones would save the fool in me
10,000 stones would be a strange blessing
10,000 stones would build the best of me

Sometimes I smile in the mirror even when I am not particularly happy, flash myself the brightest and most brilliant smile I can manage.

Sometimes I watch random videos on youtube just to see a stranger's heartfelt smile and feel the warmth spread through my heart. I wish then that I can reach through the screen.

Sometimes I smile through the tears, just to know I can.

Sometimes I smile at little kids playing in the supermarket and it heartens me when they smile, shyly, back.

Sometimes I smile just to practice, so I may not forget.

It is funny but I believe the gift of foresight at a young age makes one seem awfully precocious and presumptuous, and in the face of such criticism, foresight is stuffed down the gutter in exchange for starry-eyed mistakes.

2009-06-01T20:38:00.001-07:00

Instinct

2009-05-27T16:03:00.001-07:00

Question I've been harboring in the back of my mind: If a wrong is committed by weakness and not by strength, by inaction and not action, is it any less wrong and why?

The older I get, I find that my ability to justify and to create strong reasons for any which scenario and position is increasingly befuddling and stifling my natural instinct. My skill in understanding all perspectives and ability to fight ardently for each one perpetuates terrible raging battles in my soul, such noisy clamoring and unrelenting arenas of turmoil that sometimes I throw my hands up to the sky and ask please for respite. For quiet and for the calm that comes from knowing and seeing less. Perhaps that is why we were only given two eyes and not twenty, a physically limited body and the inability to be two or three places at once; one heart that we may not have too many broken; one tongue so we can only hold one conversation at once. We are not nebulous like air or like liquid, everywhere at once, formless and free.

As a child, instinct reigned supreme and unquestioned, unchallenged by my then-nascent and unformed sense of logic and reason. A bad guy was a bad guy to be avoided, without having to give excuses for his "haunted past" and dig up countless reasons why he might be that way, to be hindered by matyr-like justifications to "reach out to him". A bad decision was a bad decision, without worrying about whether it could turn out somehow (however unlikely) to be a good decision.

Increasingly and without knowing, I have come to value and obssess over logic, reason, and my own sense of analysis and prize these over gut feeling, emotion, and instinct - perceiving the latter to be biased, weak, and deeply suspicious. I trust that everything has a reason and an explanation, and as an astute excavator I could doubtless uncover it all, if I am unrelentless and unforgiving about the pursuit.

But a conversation yesterday changed that. A little bit.

Since I was little, I have always had an affinity for a certain cousin of mine above others, and I have at multiple points questioned myself and wondered why. There was no ostensible reason for this preference, I did not spend time exclusively with her, in fact, rarely spent time together due to geographical reasons. But of course, at that tender age, like simply meant like, and I had not the motivation nor the skills to adequately parse through all the possible reasons explaning this preference, neither did I have the know-how to have carefully or artificially constructed these feelings through seasoned reasoning. But yesterday in a heartfelt conversation with her, I conclusively saw all the underlying, "core" similarities that we both harbor - something that I had instinctively felt a long long time ago but only now finally confirmed.

It reminded me of the mysterious power of instinct. And it should be so powerful, because as a child, as a teen, as a nebulous young thing with weak reasoning skills, we STILL need to survive, we STILL need to differentiate harmful from beneficial. And so we were given innate gut feelings so we could filter through environmental phenomena with some accuracy and speed, even while our mental reasoning capacities were developing. It wouldn't make sense for us to ONLY be able to make decisions when we have fully reasoned them out; because by then the zebra would have been dead if it didn't run when he first heard the lion, instead of trying to calculate the lion's velocity and vector position etc and its hunger rate etc etc. And as I alluded to in my earlier post, if we all remained motionless while waiting to be wise, the world would probably have died off a long while ago. I think reason and instinct should continually supplement and correct one another (checks-and-balances), but neither should be the dictator-tyrant.

Knowing me, I'd still try to parse through and analyze the reasons behind my instincts, but I'm grateful to have at least had this insight.

Who's to know, what a child dreams in his starry-eyed world or draws upon the blankness of his slate?

1-10 (2)

2009-05-21T15:09:00.000-07:00

I see my sister in a story of my eight-year old father, checking the moon-cake fish for the bigger fish eye; I see my father in my eight-year old sister, checking every new toy for a black mark. I see the past looped into the present, looped back into the past.

My father has been emailing us stories of his childhood. For the first time I envision getting to know my father as a child, innocent and unmarked, instead of a man made wise by years of disappointment. It presents a framework that somehow allows me to see the growth of a child into a man linearly forward, instead of retrospectively; it is as if I am somehow watching my father grow up in these stories instead of learning retroactively, how he grew up. It is my belief that our formative years are from 1-12, or even 1-10 years of age, and even though our "rebellious" teen years are "supposed" to be our period of finding self-identity and forging our own independent selves, I believe that by then it is already somewhat too late: that we are already actually indelibly marked and irrevocably shaped, despite our fervent self-denials to the contrary.

I was thinking about the debate of nature v. nurture. In the context that your biological parents are the ones who take care of you till adolescence and adulthood, I think the two are actually quite indistinguishable, because the genetics that make up your parents and the environments that molded them bleed infinitely into every little thing they do to you and for you. Part of their inherited and accumulated psyche infiltrates their every action and every thought and every belief, which in turn infiltrates you. Children are fragile, sensitive creatures, able to filter through acts and pretenses and sense very subtly underlying currents of social dynamics, even if they are unaware of such a sensitivity. They absorb like greedy sponges every little bit of knowledge generated around them, AND the undercurrents of these interactions. Perhaps a child has more of a proclivity toward violence genetically, BUT depending on whether this tendency is being encouraged (even tacitly) or discouraged as a child is what is going to "free" this "genotype" to become expressed as a phenotype or not.

We can do the most change (and damage) to a child, and after he becomes an adult we still can change things no doubt, but it will be like going against a river current rather than sailing down with it. That's why, I believe that if we can get to the core of a person and understand what has happened to him, we can predict with significant accuracy what will happen to him in terms of how he will react and act. We are not as random and 'mysterious' as some of us like to claim; we are more the sum of many many ever-changing equations, the axioms (immutable laws) of which probably began at our infancy and early childhood, and are different for every person. Habits take on average 30 days to alter, and can be altered, even the most debilitating of addictions can be shirked with enough effort; but unless a gargantuan life-altering experience or realization occurs, as of now I don't believe it is easy to fully escape our inner psyches formed through childhood, in any significant way.

I wish more people would understand the absolutely critical function of being a good parent to a child. It is perhaps the most basic way in which we can change the future, and bring hope to it -- by raising a good and worthy individual, who will then likely raise a chain of good, worthy individuals.

folly

2009-05-13T00:29:00.001-07:00

We all do foolish things, but maybe it might not be *complete* folly; just from the perspective of moving the world - forward, backward, sideways -- any way but status quo. If people thought too much, we might not get anywhere. And that's how the world goes on, sometimes fueled on effects of our rash, insensible acts.

On Relationships

2009-05-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

I am trying to put into words my understanding of the well-known adage that all relationships need work.

Increasingly I have come to consider the human soul as more liquid than immutable; highly susceptible to chameleon-like changes, but often in the most hidden and even unconscious of ways. We are often never jolted into drastic change, but rather, slowly and unknowingly conducted to change in a series of mild uncomfortable but often minor irritations that gradually and softly provoke us to alter.

We are the most sensitive and wondrous of instruments, and we are never really the same person, every day, every hour. We are changed daily in miniscule ways, like the ocean lapping upon the shorefront of a beach and slowly morphing its curves. Some of these ways don't matter; some never surface; some occur in temperemental and obnoxious bursts; and others occur through the sorest of failures.

The bottom line is, if people don't grow together, they grow apart. Just as species divided by natural phenomena in separate environments grow into distinct species over time, unable to mate or co-exist as before (speciation, for those who care!) Small deviations can cause the greatest of chasms, and their fatality arises precisely because their subtlety makes them easily disguisable, or overlooked. In my observations about societal discourse, most of our relationship mistakes occur not because two people purport or plan to hurt the other, but because they have grown so separate that the hurt is an inevitable result of jamming together two discordant or non-conforming entities. Loving someone is not necessarily a guarantee of eternal devotion, but a promise to strive for said eternal devotion - a start, a benchmark, a spark that must still be fanned continually in order to grow.

Patchwork Lives

2009-05-11T16:59:00.001-07:00

It occurred to me, with a dull ache in my chest, that many people live ramshackle, patchwork lives. It makes me sad, on retrospect, that most dreams peak around our tweens and early twenties and then are consecrated to an uneasy limbo that fades steadily, almost dependably, into oblivion. We live buoyed predominantly by our daily motions, movements carved out by the gales of fate and luck and increasingly, apathy, rather than by a firmly directed and knowing hand. We relinquish our dreams as surely as we relinquish our youth, hand-in-hand; In time we dream less, and accept more, until the final product is a potpourri of things sewn together and unfitting parts seamed into one dissastisfying whole.

Yes, I believe it is the hardest thing to be happy -- not singularly or periodically happy, but rather to possess a sustained contentment and enjoyment of life that comes from balance and purpose of being. At the end of the day, I envy those whose souls hold a rare tranquility -- an aura of peace and faith so achingly valuable in this precarious world. And though beaten down, as we all are, by the struggles of this world, whose eyes still carry the flicker of candid optimism most openly seen in the eyes of a child.

The stories we piece together day by day form a lifelong fabric - the screw-ups; the gaps; the stains - they nonetheless will comprise the shroud with which we will one day depart - our legacies, our singular marks which will someday join the ranks of anonymity in an increasingly cavernous past. Thinking about this transports me decades into the future, imagining the moment I will hold my life-fabric in my hand, stroke it and mull over all the scratches and perfect parts and mismatches -- will I bemoan any large gaff? Or will I be be satisfied overall with the work that will define me when my life has faded?

Being around older people in my volunteer work and reading novels from the perspective of people twice my age or more have made a certain curious thing possible for me. It is as if I can already know and feel how an old person might think, inducted into the sunset of the human experience. It is as if in my fledgling journey, flexing my supple wings, I already can imagine the finish line, folding my wings away for the last time and the thoughts that might be running through my mind then. Pondering over this has carved a precious dimension in my vision; as I prepare for flight I strive to understand the beginning and the middle through a consideration of the end.

I clutch the young, uncompleted cloth in my hands now; with today's hands I can strive to prevent tomorrow's tears.

diamonds

2009-05-05T15:47:00.000-07:00

We never know if we are diamonds in the rough, unpolished and undiscovered. Someone has to find us. Or we find ourselves, but it is hard to pick through our own crusted, tarred emotional scars and chip through to our own inner brilliance. A passionate diamond, burning with all the rawness of a fire sputtering to live. I stoke my own fires, even through searing and exquisite pain, in hopes for even a pin-sized facet of brilliance. I desire a vibrant life, if only minutely so.

We are not who we pretend to be. We are diamonds waiting to be mined, pearls begging to be unclamped from our stifling shells, bubbles waiting to be blown into life.

We are luminous souls, but not all are stadium floodlights. Some of us are but the soft leftovers of a falling star or the minute specks of light skipping like stones on a glistening pool - subtle but always enough to make others stop and stare.

cracked vases

2009-05-01T01:16:00.000-07:00

It's the little imperfections that allow us to connect.

We can't connect or understand someone or something that is perfect. We can admire; we can covet, but at the end of the day I doubt we can fully understand and hence, deeply bond (referring to human relationships).

We bond with others when we share vulnerabilities, weaknesses, worries, even the tiniest little foibles. It allows us to feel and to be human without shame. To bemoan the same concerns, to weep over similar battles - this is what binds us together in a truly inexplicable way.

Dancing for the Fun of it

2009-04-30T22:02:00.000-07:00

I was dancing today in my room just having a good time, to the Proclaimers' 500 miles. The funny thing is, I was bordering on ill for the last two days, but today both my appetite and my readiness to randomly dance came back! It is such an uplifting feeling, to let loose and be goofy, silly, happy and carefree all at once, wholly encapsulated by rhythm and beat. Belonging solely to the present, your body an instrument carving out a love song to today.

"It's so nice to say, we played in the dirt..." - Beautiful Mess

It whittles me down to some mysterious level, part child-of-the-universe, part woman, part student, and part teacher of life - as if all levels of myself simultaneously transcend each other and birth forth one after another in one simple intoxicating harmony. But for a moment, my internal battles hush and quieten, my wounds are glazed over, my discords reconnect and smooth out seamless like newborn skin; I am but one whole unbroken soul living in a ephemeral harmony. I look at the mirror and smile, for it is rare that my smile is so reckless and wide.

Thoughts on a Monday morning

2009-04-28T21:28:00.001-07:00

Volunteering at an adult literacy program has changed me, in small and soft ways.

It has fine-tuned my sensitivity, humbled and weakened me, and made me even stronger for the breaking. I hear stories of recent immigrants struggling with the language barrier, hit even harder by the bad economic conditions, where speaking English no longer becomes a want, but a desperate need. I hear a touching story of a cleaning-lady who has come to care deeply for her employers, and who is motivated to learn English so that she can communicate with them more meaningfully, beyond the usual apathetic pleasantries. Another of a Jamaican man who came to the country with no friends or relatives, who met an English tutor through the program, which blossomed into a 20 year friendship -- she was his lifeline to this place, and his only friend.

Sitting there reading and comprehending everything with mindless facility and smooth ease, I feel suddenly humbled that I can even read a phone number or answer simple questions in English like What is your name? without any hesitation or further thought. I feel an abrupt coldness run from my chest all the way to my stomach, that I was somehow chosen and given a silver, golden, or even platinum spoon in my mouth from my first gulping breath, whereas others had come into this world gasping for empty air.

As I sat there, fully groomed and educated, my heart broke for the people who didn't have the same chances that I did, who would struggle so hard for certain "successes" in life that were to me merely things I already had, and I wanted more, more.... more..... For a second, I feel almost guilty and then, deeply responsible. To utilize myself in some way for some further good than my own personal enjoyment of this life, for to live thus would be to think that I somehow were deigned "superior", given everything but with no strings attached. Can I really be so arrogant, and so very callous?

For the Struggling and the Lost

2009-04-11T02:01:00.000-07:00

This is a line from a song that comforts and inspires me in times when no bright future seems imminent, when hope is as fleeting as a wind-blown petal. When advice gets old, when distractions lose their power, when people turn away, remember -

One day more, another day another destiny. - One Day More; Les Miserables

Through the bleakest of night and huddled in the storm,
We await another sunrise
We breathe another dawn; we sleep another dusk;
We face who we were meant to be, who we were born to be
We take it day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute
With gritted teeth if need be and trembling hands
We let ourselves unfold layer after layer, skein by skein,
Each second we approach completion; every hour we are refined
And every day our destiny changes just a little bit more.

Trip Down Memory Lane - Stars (Javert)

2009-04-11T01:44:00.000-07:00

I used to listen to my brother's Les Miserables CD collection without ever having seen the actual play, always moved by the depth and the soul and the levity of the lyrics, shrouded in timeless, epic romance and tragedy. Although I liked Cosette's and Fantine's songs, the one that always haunted me was Javert's Stars:

JAVERT
There, out in the darkness
A fugitive running
Fallen from grace
Fallen from grace
God be my witness
I never shall yield
Till we come face to face
Till we come face to face

He knows his way in the dark
Mine is the way of the Lord
And those who follow the path of the righteous
Shall have their reward
And if they fall
As Lucifer fell
The flame
The sword!

Stars
In your multitudes
Scarce to be counted
Filling the darkness
With order and light
You are the sentinels
Silent and sure
Keeping watch in the night
Keeping watch in the night

You know your place in the sky
You hold your course and your aim
And each in your season
Returns and returns
And is always the same
And if you fall as Lucifer fell
You fall in flame!

And so it has been and so it is written
On the doorway to paradise
That those who falter and those who fall
Must pay the price!

Lord let me find him
That I may see him
Safe behind bars
I will never rest
Till then
This I swear
This I swear by the stars!

I'm not sure why it resonated with me even from such a young age, but I remember imagining a line of silent, silver stars watching the world - a lonely and distant and omniscient audience. And the concept of "the fall" - even in my favorite book Crime and Punishment, I was always particularly haunted by the small and large falls of humankind and our journey from innocence to sin and to redemption. The fragility of human goodness, the dark power of sin, and the never-ending tight-rope to stay the course. We are never free and we are never really safe from this - every day, every hour, ever minute. And now, more than ever, realizing the significance of how small compromises can amass into huge misdirections.

To fall from grace - in any way, large or small, is deeply humbling.

what kind of world?

2009-04-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

What kind of world is this,

That for some to live, others must die
And for some to thrive, others must weep
For some to step higher, some must be stepped on

What kind of world is this,

That we must all erect shields and hide behind them
And those who choose no weapon are shown no quarter?
That we must all have forts against each other
And those left in the wind are shut out?

What kind of world is this,

Where the weak are stomped out and extinguished
And the meek trodden on and forgotten
To be our shadows in their muted existence,
the darkness that lets us shine bright?

What kind of world is this,

Where not enough tears are shed in empathy
Where water runs murky and not pure
Where hope is plucked like a weed in a yard
And cast in the garden bonfire to be burnt and gone

Where goodness is choked and has to sputter to life
Where purity is a dying ancient breed,
fading to dust even in the museums of our minds
Where morals are something evoked only to blame another
But conveniently forgotten when the defendant is ourselves.

what kind of world is this,

Where to forget a hundred horrible things
We go out and do another ten?
Where we have a thousand excuses
But only a fraction of apologies
Where it is a sign of weakness to cry
But not necessarily so, to lie.

Why?
Why?

Childhood Memories part 1 - Presents

2009-04-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

I was the first of my siblings to bike. I remember running down one morning on my birthday (ages ago) and being so excited to find a little red bike with training wheels parked outside our front door. Of all the childhood presents, this is the one I remember the clearest; and the childish exhilaration in which I adored this bike. I remember hours of paddling its tiny wheels amidst flights of delicious fancy; most often of which my bike was my loving horse taking me on myriad adventures.

And when my dad took off the training wheels, I remember falling and falling. I remember circling our yard, images of grass spinning all around me. I would ride this bike around all the time, by myself, until after many falls I could stand on it and ride without hands and confidently swerve and speed around the yard. Such a simple memory but with so much significance, and even today I replay in my mind my happiness at finding a bike on my birthday morning. And what I would give right now to be my father at that exact point in our lives, observing me and all the antics I went through before finally speeding everywhere on that little red bike.

The next time I want to ride a bike is on a beachfront, where I will bike faster and faster as fast as I can go, with the wind rushing in my hair and drowning my ears till I can no longer tell time and place and space. And I will remember the little girl who taught me how to ride.

I remember the exact moment I knew I wanted to play the piano. It was while reading an Enid Blyton book about The Naughtiest Girl Elizabeth when she played a piece that sounded something like the storm and the seas and then the calm that followed. And I remember wondering at how one could feel things, could experience emotion and imagery and euphoria through playing an instrument. And that was when I went to my aunt's discarded old organ and began pounding out whatever music I could make, driven and enthused by a tantalizing thought that if I mastered enough, I too could began to see stories and make stories through music.

When another aunt gave away a piano, I was ecstatic, and began to take lessons on my new-old piano, a black upright. My father allowed these lessons because I was genuinely interested in pursuing the music and eventually he bought me a beautiful rosewood Yamaha that I love for its unique, quaint elegance. Years and years of "do re mi fa so" and scales and arpeggios and repetitive, childish pieces gradually blossomed into pieces of increasing sophistication and grace.

And then the moments came. Writing has endowed upon me some of the best euphoric moments of my life, and so has playing the piano. It is pure magic to be surrounded by music and living it, almost levitating singuarly to its powers, both mastering and being mastered by the sound. It is almost, a haunting. It is then that I began to start to understand how some can live and die in the quest for capturing the perfect tune -- an alluring siren song that takes captive with no resolution.

What simple memories stand out in your mind? Which firsts do you fondly cherish?

Beauty and the Weight of the World

2009-04-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

I have always been moved by the story of Atlas holding up the world for all of eternity. Moved by the poignancy and simultaneous tragedy that one could bear the burdens of all, with no respite. There are moments when I feel similarly; fleeting moments when I feel so heavily for the world's problems and sufferings and my own helplessness against them; it seems that I care for an entire entity of beings who have no idea that I even do. I do love humanity as a species, but it is a love song that also bears much frustration (as in the case for any love relationship?).

Of late, I have been feeling rusty, so I will try my best to reinsert myself into the blogging culture, if for nothing else than to oil my wheels and get in touch with myself again.

I have recently begun to see our obsession, attraction, and (for some) enslavement to beauty in a slightly different way. That we are naturally attracted and seek beauty of physical form for a reason other than just pure aesthetics... and that has to do with "the golden ratio", formally expressed by Wikipedia as :

"In mathematics and the arts, two quantities are in the golden ratio if the ratio between
the sum of those quantities and the larger one is the same as the ratio between the larger
one and the smaller. The golden ratio is an irrational mathematical constant,
approximately 1.6180339887."

This is a ratio that has been found occurring in many natural phenomena such as tree branches and DNA, and has been postulated to be aesthetically pleasing when physically manifested in human faces and bodies. We have long been (even intuitively) aware that proportionality and symmetry of form in humans are prized as more attractive, and there have been studies proposing that faces that better fit this golden ratio are more attractive. But now scientists are also postulating that we perceive better proportionate individuals as more healthy.

This is of interest to me, because if true, it indicates that the search for beauty (which is often criticized as 'superficial') may in fact biologically and fundamentally be an age-old mechanism for the search for a healthy mate -- a rudimentary and innate tool or radar, if you will, for a higher probability of safely delivering our genetic heritage (reproduction). Of course, I am aware that now beauty has evolved and taken on its own distinct roles in society, social strata, culture, arts, self-definition and self-expression, etc, but still it is interesting to note where it probably all began, and that an admiration and thirst for it might not be that superficial after all. What is interesting to note is that nowadays with no shortage of plastic surgeons and an increasingly prolific culture of going under the knife, a "beautiful" person might not be a sign of who's "healthier" after all, but who's got a fatter wallet!

The Closing of Doors

2009-04-01T16:25:00.000-07:00

-When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window-

But not always at the same time. So in darkness-- blinded and in stupor, we sit awhile, awaiting the slant of light that will herald a new beginning. Or a much sought-after escape.

What is but mirage, and what real?

Nature's Gifts

2009-03-10T18:04:00.001-07:00

It occured to me while peeling the skins off a half-dozen of these tiny little gems that I was unwrapping a gift, revealing the plump juicy morsels inside and unleashing the fresh sharp scent of new citrus. Nature gives us so many presents, wrapped in the prettiest of skins and colors, waiting to be savored. That nature not only gives us the appetizers and the main course, but she doesn't forget about dessert:

And that there is a type and a color for almost anyone and any taste and any mood.

Ripe and fresh and loving.

on fading memories

2009-03-04T22:21:00.000-08:00

Do you still remember me?
How do I look like, in the window of your memory?
Am I still me, or am I but a figment sculpted, distorted by the whims of your memory?

" Some memories will fade with time and some will be distorted by generalization... We need a signal to say, 'This is an important memory. Write this down and underline it.' That signal is emotion. When you have feelings of fear or joy or love or anger or sadness, these mark your experiences as being particularly meaningful.... And that function, memory indexed by emotion, more than anything, is what a brain is good for."
-The Accidental Mind, David J. Linden

I have been of late, silently wallowing over what I perceive to be my increasing "loss of memory"; a growing scattered-mindedness that requires, more and more so, the use of planners and calendars to keep me on track, keep me parallel with the practical world. For I tend to go off-kilter more than usual, so that the passage of time is mostly now skewered in my view, either crawling with the lethargy of a winter's day or else downright shocking in its sneaky alacrity (it's March already?) Untethered to the routine grind of a working world or the stone-cold reality of deadlines, my mind has been floating more and more into a world of dreams and ideas; as far as I can remember, this is the most unharnessed my boat has ever been to its anchor of reality.

And I am free.

My mind mentally unbridled to fill as I will with as many trinkets or poisons as I might choose.

2009-02-22T17:32:00.001-08:00

Grief

2009-02-13T13:42:00.000-08:00

I do not know how humans handle grief or anguish of the most heart-wrenching kind: the loss of a loved one. I cannot comprehend how the human mind and heart can find the strength to get over such intense mourning and move on. But yet we do. I believe it is something no amount of preparation can ever suffice, or even make the slightest dent, in a task as horrifying and arduous as that : I believe people survive such a horror day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, second by painful second. But I don't know how they do it, I never wish to know.

I find in my chest nowadays a thousand tears, all ripe to be shed.

Tears that flow easily and much whenever I see a sad scene, read a sad line, hear a sad story... flow so easily so the world can believe that those tears I shed are for others, and not for myself.

Image: Rick Berry, Papereye.com

Winging It

2009-02-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

Sink or swim. (or use a boat.)

"The final reason for shucking your notes is good old down-to-earth physiology. To pump out the adrenaline you need to focus your mind, you need a healthy dose of creative terror. Only some fear of failing - the nightmare of losing your place or blanking out in public - is galvanizing enough to push you to your natural summits." - Winging It, Keith Spicer

All or nothing -- you either give it your best shot at that point (while winging it) and be an absolute marvel, or you have a chance of becoming a fumbling incoherent mess and never live down the end of it... exhilaratingly scary isn't it? Or of course, you could take the middle road and -not- wing it, come prepared and steadily deliver, neither marvelous nor horrendous.

2009-02-07T21:27:00.001-08:00

"Depend on it, sir... when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully." Samuel Johnson (1778)

Such an eloquent way to express "performance under pressure". Perhaps this is (one of) the reasons for our incurable mortality, that we may concentrate mind, will, emotion, and sheer being into the richest explosion of experiences we can ever have, in the face of impending non-existence.

I often feel this way, as if the contents of my mind are an unfocused, nebulous and nascent "fuzz" pulsating with imminent potential for new thought, if only I could cogently harness these thoughts into meaningful connections. I yearn desperately to "pull everything together", to somehow draw together these wispy thoughts to form something more solid. It is so tantalizing, and yet so agonizing -- a bittersweet yet fatally addictive challenge.

You must be a fountain

2009-02-05T08:41:00.001-08:00

-- "But remember, that above all else, you must be a fountain" --

Abundant. Life-giving. Exuberant.

The Beauty of Love

2009-01-14T13:57:00.001-08:00

Look at the drink and those two straws. Fundamentally Man is a self-interested creature. Without love, there would be two drinks, two separate straws. Or one drink, one straw, and someone else with a sad face. But love to me is so powerful precisely because it calls us to share, and to sacrifice, to take pain, and to give happiness -- to take from ourselves so we may give to someone else. Love at-once empowers and debilitates, and makes us stronger for the journey.

Boredom

2009-01-14T13:42:00.000-08:00

In my book, Boredom leads to three options:

1) Distraction
2) Creation
3) Reflection

Alas I have so often fallen prey to the first category, preferring mindless divertion to animated creation. But Boredom is not necessarily a bad thing. Let me repeat that, boredom is not always bad. In fact, my deepest thoughts often come from moments of utter stagnancy. Just as a blank piece of paper leads to a million possibilities, so does an unengaged mind -- imagine the possibilities...

The Oddest Thing

2009-01-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

I haven't painted in over ten years. When I was painting yesterday just on a whim, the oddest thing happened. For about 10-15 seconds while painting, I completely zoned out -- it was as if I were on this dreamy trance-like plane, and while my hands were still steadily painting with a mind of their own, my mind was absorbed in some surreal experience, almost -floating-. I don't mean that I was daydreaming about other things or absorbed in other thoughts; I mean that for that short interlude it was as if I was completely lost, transported out of myself. It was such a rare, and awe-inspiring feeling. My hands, though, knew what to do, and when I "came to", I was amazed at how nicely the painting had turned out. It was as if thinking and consciousness, for once, was a hindrance, and their suspension had somehow enabled a mysterious deeper part of me.

I do believe that these are the moments when Muses visit and earthly reality pales in comparison to divine inspiration. I don't claim to be a Picasso or a Shakespeare or a Chopin, but I do believe there is some part of that we can all share, to some extent -- the beauty of creation, of the liberating and refreshing utter freedom of the mind. When we suspend rules, and logic, and instruction and we just merely listen to the call of imagination.

My words fall short to explain how wondrous and fantastical the feeling was, but I have felt it at least once before, while I was writing a short story in the library and the hours slipped by completely unnoticed as I "left" myself into an all-consuming world of imagination. Those moments of absolute rapture are moments of true beauty for me, a soaring uplifting sensation so painfully rare and so moodily unpredictable. I can't call on them whenever I feel like it, cannot summon these sensations at my whim -- they are like shooting stars in the sky of my soul -- sudden and ephemeral but always simply breath-taking.

Hug

2009-01-10T19:06:00.000-08:00

No words.
No shame.
No price.
No reservations.
No barriers.
No time limit.
A simple action so breathtaking it is profundity.

This world has so many nooks and crannies. I feel choosing a little corner, away from everything, where no-one can ever find me. And this includes you, Guilt, and you, Shame, and you, Regret, and you, Reason. Just scrunched down into a little tight ball in some little crevice so small that even you, Pain, can never squeeze in. But I know you rapscallions are too clever and too fluid and too powerful, and you cads will find a way into everything. So where, oh where, should I hide?

Corinne May -Everything in its Time

2009-01-09T16:48:00.000-08:00

What do you see?

Sometimes I wonder what lies ahead
How long till my hunger is fed
They say it's hard to make it in this part of town
So many people on this merry-go-round

The river runs and the river hides
Out to the ocean and under the sky
I promise you, the answer will come
Hold on to patience and watch for the sign
Everything in its time

I often feel like I'm two steps behind
Somebody must have moved that finish line
There are a thousand reasons
Why I should give up
But I'm stubborn in the things I believe

The river runs and the river hides
Out to the ocean and under the sky
I promise you, the answer will come
Hold on to patience and watch for the sign
'cause maybe there's another plan
Funny how time changes how we see...

The Need for Speed

2009-01-06T02:19:00.000-08:00

Speed is undeniably intoxicating - demanding risk and courage and defiance of all our deep natural instincts of self-preservation and caution. Yet why is it so addictive, so alluring, its danger so seductive? We know it is, but why? Even those who play it safe must be in awe of the maniacal power and attraction there is in reckless speed. I will ponder this and I hope you do too.

White Rose

2009-01-05T02:31:00.000-08:00

Today I am sad, and I will weep with the tears of a white rose.

For that people judge without understanding, point fingers without compassion, and would smear a name without considering that our name is sometimes all that we have. To never stand in another's shoes, to malign another person, is to never possess true empathy, despite the most watertight of pretenses and the most lofty claims of "moral standing". To stain another's reputation for the sake that our own be relatively (comparatively) boosted, that to me, is really such a shame, and a disappointment. When you strip someone of dignity, you rob from them a commodity much more precious than gold and silver, or almost anything in this world. You rob from them their very worth as a human being.

I felt my heart sink a slow, sluggish viscous descent - breaking in slow motion. But yet deep inside me, I understood the need and I understood the person, and so I quietly forgave. The need to seem better by making others seem worse.

I once wrote that perhaps we are but night lights in the sky, lighting the way for each other; and that perhaps we carve the paths not that we may walk it, but for someone else's better journey. But if the darkness is black so that the light may shine bright, should the light scold the darkness and scorn in contempt? For the light would be naught without the darkness that defines it.

I believe we are all gems, just some have been more polished and others have fallen to the wayside. Without having journeyed another's life, can we truly and earnestly say we understand? Perhaps we "should" be "thankful" for "bad" people because they make us look like saints. I have never bothered about the opinions of others, because I believed that as long as I am at peace with myself and accountable internally, it does not matter. But I do care when it comes from someone close to me. Whom I trust. Whom I love. It is the most heartbreaking of betrayals.

I am sad tonight, yet another petal of naivete falling from my flower of youth.

On Conscience

"A good conscience is a good pillow"

What Is good? What Is bad? With each sunrise I am lucky enough to see, I've witnessed my perspective on this shift and deepen in complexity. I've become more of what I will call a Relativist, someone who characterizes actions according to the situation. Like a camera with many different frameworks (night view, portrait, zoom, black/white etc), the same scene can be captured with many different points of view. Obviously the cameraman is going to have a different viewpoint than the subject. Unfortunately, a lot of times, we the cameraman consider ourselves akin to the subject.

To illustrate the ludicrousness of this, I will use the above photograph. The cameraman can see the insect and can see the finger and can see the green background, but can he feel the finger, or can he feel the warmth and can he feel the tension between bug and man? And even more importantly, is the cameraman the bug? Last time I checked, bugs still have not invented the technology to take pictures.

2009-01-03T15:55:00.000-08:00

I want to do good things, he said, as he ran out the front door.

What good things? his mother cried, where are you going?

But the little boy was already off, skating quickly on his skateboard, with his lunch sandwich dangling from his hand. The day was bright, and the birds were out, and he wanted to do good things.

There was a beggar who lived down the street, who slept in a sleeping bag and kept all his life belongings in a shopping cart. The boy had often passed this man and pitied him, and always wished he had a few spare dollars to give to him. But today, he had his sandwich. He gave his PBJ sandwich to the beggar, who took it with a toothy grin. He had not eaten in two days. But as soon as he started to munch the sandwich, his face began to convulse. Unbeknownst to the little boy, this beggar had a severe peanut allergy.

The horrified little boy started skating down the street as fast as he could to try to get to the nearest clinic to ask a doctor what to do. But he was skating way too fast that he lost control and crashed into a lady with a bulging belly, who bent over in aching pain, and her groceries fell all over the ground and rolled into the gutter.

I'm so sorry, cried the distraught little boy, trying to pick up the groceries and wipe them off with his shirt. The lady was forgiving. But there was one can of soup that had rolled to the other side of the road, and as the boy ran over to retrieve it, a bicyclist which had not seen the kid, braked suddenly to a stop and flipped over on his side to avoid the boy. He had not broken anything, but he had grazed arms and knees and a cut lip.

I'm so sorry, cried the distraught little boy, I was trying to do good things.

What good things? said the annoyed man, dusting himself off and glaring fiercely.

The little boy went back to find the beggar but he found that he was gone. And even worse, the shopping cart of belongings was now half-empty; someone had looted the poor beggar. And now, even his sleeping bag was gone, his last defense against the cold. The peanut butter sandwich lay, greased and dirty, on the ground. Upon seeing that, the little boy's salty tears began falling from his face.

Dejected and wary, with an empty grumbling stomach, the little boy walked home, his skates dangling from his hand. His mother asked if he wanted dinner, but the boy just shook his head. He went to his bed and closed his eyes.

Nostalgia has a scent

2009-01-03T15:40:00.000-08:00

I was sorting through my old emails yesterday, and 2007 me resurfaced as surprisingly and refreshingly as a cool splash of water on my face. This "me" came alive through my writings much more vividly and almost, unrecognizably, than from my pictures of a year ago. I still look pretty much the same on the surface this year and last, but my writings belie a girl of such difference that I had to blink to recognize myself. She seemed much more uninhibited, naive, hopeful, idealistic, dotting her little emails with markedly more exclamation points and breaths of exuberance. She refreshed me. She embarrassed me. She reminded me.

She seemed like a little lamb, slightly lost without her shepherd but overall, good-natured.

I have an old box full of diaries and letters from a long time ago, from the time when hand-written letters and stickers and ribbons were such a happy part of my life. I remember waiting for the postman to deliver a letter from friends far away, and then excitedly ripping open the envelope and uncrinkling the pages inside. I still do receive letters, but now many are bills and useless advertisements, yet another induction into the adult world. Most of my communique are done online, through email now, but yet there is something sweetly nostalgic and magical about receiving a letter in the mail, almost as if it carries the very care and time of the sender wrapped within its seal. Holding the papers that they touched, running my fingers over the words that they inked -- there is a connection there that cannot truly be replicated though email.

Nostalgia has a scent, an unreplicable and haunting scent.

Welcome 2009!

2009-01-01T11:07:00.000-08:00

As the new year rang in, fireworks exploded right on time outside of my apartment, a sound of celebration and triumph that fueled the excitement in my soul, as if someone were popping a bottle of champagne right in my sky. We have lived to see yet another new year, and that in itself is an amazing feeling. What caught my breath even more this year was that for one singular moment, I could almost feel the thronging good cheer of the masses of people all around me - common for once in our momentary jubilance. It is a feeling of sheer wonder, that people everywhere are bonded in ephemeral unison for this time of hope and reminiscence. I made sure to welcome the new year smiling and with unbridled optimism for the coming year, like a child beckons each new day.

I wondered about the cyclical nature of years, and the embedded optimism it confers: a time for endings and new beginnings, a time of resolutions and renewed faith. No doubt a manmade convention, but I wonder how things would be different for our spirits if we did not repeat months, if somehow this were month # 4094859898398281181198198, and there were no "new years". Just a thought.

Rain and the gift of sight

2008-12-21T01:32:00.000-08:00

I was driving the other day with the rain pounding down in relentless shards against my freezing windshield, and my wipers mechanically fighting away like black whips on the windowpane. I peered out into the gray fogginess as the lines of the wiper intermittently cut across my view.

I couldn't see very well. The water droplets kept falling faster than they were being swept away and no matter how much I focused, the roads, the cars, the people, all seemed like blurred outlines of colors mixing and swirling and distorting in front of me - much like water-colored painted people who just got smudged across their canvas. A metaphor flashed vividly into my mind, striking my very soul with the force of its poetic beauty.

I envisioned the windshield as my literal field of vision, and the rain as tears falling across my world, blurring and distracting emotional torrents that could blind me in an absolutely frightening manner given the amount of risk and responsibility of the situation. I envisioned the windshield wipers as the mechanical, objective tools of reason and logic meticulously and repetitively trying to alleviate the effect of the flooding torrents. How scary it is, to drive without sight; analogously, isn't it just as frightening, to act without reason?

I slowed the car down because I couldn't see, and waited for the rain to stop and the sun to come out again. Then, I picked up the car again and drove with the assuredness that comes with clarity and the gift of sight.

In the same manner, should I not slow my mind and wait for the tears to stop, and for reason to emerge once more? Maybe then, and only then, will I have the wisdom to move on without accident.

seasons

2008-12-14T01:09:00.000-08:00

As I lay shivering under the covers, winter my constant unwelcome guest, I wondered to myself why seasons even exist and wouldn't it be wonderful, if there was just one perfect temperature all year around (and I do mean lovely-perfect). Then we wouldn't have to expend so much energy being too cold, or too hot, or working to drive away either extreme. Which of course led me to the whole la-di-da about spring bringing fertility and renewed life after a long spell of winter (flowers budding, fruits ripening, young new leaves with the requisite frehsness of dewdrops etc).

Autumn, a time of reflection and nostalgia and reconnection, my favorite season for remembering what-has-beens as the days lengthen their shadows and the leaves flutter one by one into aged dust on the ground.

Winter, washing in a torrent of life-bringing water and mind-numbing cold. A season of suffering, especially for the unroofed and homeless, the most thankful of the seasons for me, but also the dreariest, bleakest, and most depression-inducing.

Spring, a time of hope and awakenings, of fairies and new birth and all things possible and impossible. A time of new resolution and of stirring activity, the most promising and delivering of all the seasons.

Summer, a dry spell in which the heat promotes lethargy, viscosity, and languidity. Lazy days in the sunshine and falling asleep upon one's dreams and ambitions, with an ice-cold pina colada by your side.

Which then led me to wonder if perhaps the emotions and experiences of us humans too, can be modeled by the necessary and cyclical influences of the four seasons. That our happy moments are necessarily tempered by periods of routine coldness and barrenness so it can purge the weaknesses within us and spring forward only the newest, toughest buds and the sweetest, ripest fruit.

We all go through similar cycles: renewed motivation & hope (spring), a resulting placidity/resting on laurels (summer), nostalgia & reflection upon mistakes (autumn), suffering & tears as consequences (winter)... repeat. And that this is somehow always dependably cyclical (which means that that spring always comes again, after the bleariest of winters).

The mental image I drew from this metaphor is so breathtaking as to almost make me feel somehow comforted. I think too much. I should sleep.

2008-12-13T23:01:00.000-08:00

if I could say goodbye again
i wouldn't say it with a frown
or while looking down
at my checkered shoes.
i wouldn't be distracted
with thoughts of today's laundry
or the peach pie in the oven
or the rain clouds passing by
or a million mental weeds.

if I could say goodbye again
it would sound a bit like sorry
for all the pain that i have sewn
and the prideful things i said
and the times i made you sad
i try to be an angel,
but my wings are still in training,
with some patchy spots called sin.

if I could say goodbye again
it could never be too long
i don't care if it is teary
i don't mind if i look small
i won't heed the people looking
or the minute clock that's ticking
oh not at all.

i would ask for a reunion
i would jot the date right down
i don't mind if it is late
or a million miles away,
just to have. and to hold.
and to smile, when i'm cold
without you
-----------------------------------------

random poem:

you have put, the silver in my cloud
you're my muffler when i'm loud
my bandaids when i hurt
the lengthy to my curt
you're the dimples in my smile
and the modern in my style,
you're the chocolate in my milk
the shimmer in my silk,
and the bubbles on my soap.
you're my handy pocket clown
and my up when i am down
you're the cheeky in my wink
and the lightbulb when I think
you're my shade when it is hot
and my happy tickle spot
you're the ribbon in my dress
and the cleaner of my mess,
the eraser on my pencil
the squiggle on my cake
the perfect picture-take
the nickel on the ground
the prize in lost-and-found,
you're the model for my art,
and the keeper of my heart.

you're the curvies in my smile
and the tinkles in my laugh
you're the vowels in my nouns
and the jewels in my crowns
you're the wind in my willow
and the stuffing in my pillow,
you're the gloss that makes things shine
and you're the only one that's mine!

------------

we reap what we sow
and i pick you
a seed in a hard kernel
holding in your heart an entire lifetime
of bloom and warmth and water.
i hold you in my hand, tinier than my fingernail,
but one day you will be so big you will hold me in the palm on your shade.

The Evolution of Decisions

2008-12-13T22:48:00.000-08:00

A child's decisions: the red or the green (lollipop).

A teen's decisions: the red or the green (dress).

An adult's decisions: the red or the green (to stop or to go).

Oh how I miss those simple, luxuriant days.

--If we are lucky enough to find rainbow-dust, what should we do? It is so strange, so translucent against the familiar brown of earth...

the Race of Man

2008-12-12T20:32:00.001-08:00

It never fails to amaze me, that Man just won't keep to his place.

That for such small creatures, we can achieve such great things, and that we refuse to be put into place. Or even to define such a boundary. The achievements of science constantly surprise, defy and mind-boggle; while the daring of the arts constantly reaches new heights of soul-searching, searing beauty.

We are a conquering race, an undying race, passing down the baton of wisdom from one generation to the next, so that each generation may constantly and unfailingly surpass the first. It is a message that gives me infinite hope and makes my heart soar with so much pride, awe, and earnestness. In the constant struggle between man and nature, many have been lost, but as a species we have learned to wield wind, water, and fire. We have harnessed wild beasts and sailed the black expanses of outer space. We have seen things so small and so far away the naked eye couldn't possibly imagine, and we can hear things (and each 0ther) from such great distances away. We can traverse the skies and float on the oceans. We refuse to be put down, and we refuse to quit. We can dream big, and we can dream impossible-- and we can realize all those dreams.

To "live" or survive in the strictest sense, we need food. air. water. reproduction. But apparently humans need one more element : purpose. meaning. A question I am constantly seeking to answer, is why do we strive the way we strive, for things "unnecessary" to basic survival? Is there a higher calling, and if so, is it to a superior, or merely, to ourselves? or to nature?

(I know that for such small creatures, we are also capable of such massive destruction and horrific hubris, but that is for another [non-optimistic] post).

Lessons from the Snow

2008-12-12T18:38:00.000-08:00

Brimming of pine scent. And snow. And hot chocolate. In the serene quiet of a snowy land 9000 feet in the air, encapsulated in a small rocking gondola overlooking the entire lake and miles and miles of trees below, the world seemed momentarily at peace. Resting. Waiting. The expanse made me feel at once small, and yet my heart wanted to explode at its majesty. Next time if I have a kid I will bring them to place like this and tell them this:

when you feel too great, remember how small you are and that you are but one among many.

when you feel too small, remember that even the actions of a tiny thing like you in the midst of the cavernous unknown can change the whole wide world.

know your place, but don't be afraid to change your destiny.

En route to Tahoe, I got caught up in an unplanned detour that cost me one hour. It was a scenic detour, an escape deep into the hearts of the forests and into tiny roads that clung to the edges of roaring cliffs overlooking the valley. As the sun's rays poured through the leaves, liberally casting a pumpkin-red-and-yellow hue, I was struck breathtaken by the quiet beauty of the trees and mountains around me, morphing silently from red to brown to white, ushering in the cold days with a brilliant and blazing display.

I felt all alone, as if I had somehow stumbled across a mysterious world all to myself, a quiet and peaceful one. Even in my constant and slight annoyance - I can't believe this detour is making me one hour late! - I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps fate had cast me into this alcoved fairyland, the road less traveled by, forcing me to stare headfirst into the purity of nature and swallow its beauty whole.

I drove faster. Nature slowed me down with its hills and curves.

I sighed. Nature sighed louder and more beautifully, with its thousands of waving trees.

The trees seemed at once old and sage, and yet on the other hand young and wistful. I couldn't decide which. The sun was setting in liquid gold, pouring weak rays of light over everything it touched, and here and there I could see pockets of snow, angel-white against the brown and green. I turned the radio off, wound the windows down, and listened to the music of the forest that sung for few to hear, for few traversed these parts. And thus for an hour, I was spellbound despite myself.

--
I learned an important lesson from a kid at Tahoe.

He must not have been more than six years old, and yet he was a daredevil on the snowboard (and somewhat of a showoff, but in a cute way). And the kid was good.

I was sitting on my snowboard taking a rest and observing this spunky kid who would flash a grin every time he did a perfect run. But there were good runs, and bad ones. And yet throughout it all, he picked his little body up and huffed up the hill again. And when he fell, he would laugh and look for all the world as if that too, was all part of the fun.

Kids don't give up, do they? Precisely because they are young, and brash, and have so much to learn, they absorb like a sponge and keep trying. Of course they should, because they are young. Right? And if they don't know something, it's alright, because they are young. But somewhere along the years, we somehow lose the kid in us. We get shy. We get self-conscious. "Of course I can learn" becomes "I should know this" or "I'm too old to learn this". And that's why kids learn like lightning, and adults, just a tad slower.

I picked up my snowboard and tried again. I knew I was going to fall, but that's alright. For I would pick myself up over and over again, and that was all part of the fun.

Hope- Don't Drop It

2008-12-08T15:33:00.000-08:00

But it is so. slippery. And my hands are so. tired.

There must be a better plan, and it will unfold when it is ready. And I will believe that, and I will hold on. I had a good chat with a good friend yesterday, and she told me, "I have plenty of time to be cynical later (when I am old), but for now I will believe the world is wonderful."

You can't fight divinity, whatever you perceive it to be -- a God, a predetermined fate, or merely random interlockings of chance occurrences. It is like sailing upon a great ocean. When the winds are calm and the sea is still, your paddles and engines may serve to change the course of your boat. But when the sky deigns to be moody and the winds began to roar, what was once purposeful direction now becomes but feeble acquiescence to what must come to pass. I must remain humble, and willing.

A million lights

2008-12-08T15:24:00.000-08:00

In the darkest of the night, even the smallest candle is a god-send; the tiniest flame a lighthouse. What more, a million lights? Individually, we can light up the room; together, the world.

Why is light comforting, and blindness terrifying?

Life's Little Naughties

2008-12-06T20:25:00.001-08:00

Everyone needs a little wiggle room, a little naughty to liven up the nice, a little idiosyncracy sprinkled here and there like sinful powdered sugar, a knee-trembling weakness to know we are all after all, human. These are a few of my life's little naughties:

True blue romance and fairytale endings

Every girl wants a fairytale ending. I wrote that five years ago and I'll write that again today. Love is timeless, and I'll never be ashamed of crying at a romantic movie. (See the heart between the two lovers?)

A Scent in a Bottle

Tiny perfume bottles-- which is prettier, the bottle or the scent? I can't honestly say.

All Things Shiny

Was I a bird in my past life? For there is nothing shiny that won't catch my eye, ranging from bling-bling jewelry to sophisticated branded wear. You will rarely catch me without a watch on my hand.

All Things Miniature

Yes, I know they are just plastic toys the size of a quarter. But I will willingly spend five minutes of my time gushing over them at a store display window, no matter how much of a hurry I'm in.

The Solace of a Well-Loved Book

Words well-placed gives me a thrill that nothing else in this world can; oh what power lyrical prose has upon my thirsty mind. A great book can be a friend, lover, and rapturous teacher.

A Little Gossip Here and There

Spends, trends, and how to make amends. Great coffee-shop reading or 10-minutes-between-classes browsing but never really worth the buck, heavens no.

Gorgeous Dresses

No explanations necessary. Ask my (over)-stuffed closet.

Sweet Hot Drinks

Cold day, warm day, any day, take it iced or take it spiced - I'll take it all, any time. One of my dreams is to convert caffeine into workable, beautiful ideas.

Chocolate Mousse

There is almost no way I can resist a bite of pillow-soft, sweet, gooey mousse, no, not even on the fullest stomach or to save my life.

Photo credits:
http://lh6.ggpht.com/elaing.zhang/R4juT9gGLYI/AAAAAAAAKIo/wbLPZfInyeI/s800/Bae_Seul_Gi_06.jpg
http://i210.photobucket.com/albums/bb265/Qodesh59/romantic-couple.jpg
http://www.lifesabirch.com/LRHGtwistx.jpg
http://www.artnuvobuderim.com.au/images/artwork/large/Page_7%20-%20Tall%20Perfume%20Bottles_1300254265.jpg
http://fashiontribes.typepad.com/main/images/two_tone_chocolate_mousse.jpg
http://healthyhollywood.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/hot-chocolate.jpg
http://www.alcohol-stuff.co.uk/images/pink-cocktail-dress.JPG
http://image46.webshots.com/46/4/92/72/2356492720089456956ARKNkq_ph.jpg
http://www.fashtastic.net/images/magazines.jpg
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v480/kiwi_acc/rement/main.jpg
http://www.jcpenneyjewelry.com/res/img/cat_personalized_prim_img.jpg

Security Blanket

2008-12-06T20:17:00.001-08:00

http://www.vitaminabebe.com/product/BD/109.jpg

I forget to be thankful for many things. But it is a rare occasion that I do not breathe a grateful sigh of relief for soft, laundered blankets providing a cocoon of warmth and rest against the nippy winter air.

It is. so. wonderful.

My body, thirsty for rest, rewards me with a gorgeous thrill of good feel that runs up and down my spine - and my mind, soaked with the day's activity, eagerly drinks up the body's many thank yous. Perhaps we never give up our security blankets, after all, merely tuck them away from the rest of the world in the daytime, and retreat with a sigh to their womb at night.

Message in a Bottle

2008-12-06T02:51:00.000-08:00

http://byrningbunny.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/message-in-a-bottle-with-me-thumb.jpg

A long, long time ago, messages were sent floating across the restless seas, in hopes that it would reach someone in a distant land -- a voyage of dreams buoyed by the substance that gives us all life. Now, these messages-in-a-bottle are viewed with fond nostalgia, or occasionally as an ultra-romantic, but frivolous gesture. Connected by planes, trains, and most speedily and overarchingly, the Internet, we no longer need these glass messengers, but I like to think that their essence still exists, merely in a different guise. The spirit of these hope-bottles lies in the Internet today -- in social networking sites, in personal ads, in youtube videos -- people reaching out to other people far, far away, for acceptance and understanding and sometimes for help, all the while hoping for the warm response of another human heart.

The Beauty of Potential

2008-12-06T02:21:00.000-08:00

A crane can be a thing of beauty. I learned this as I was driving past a construction site and for once lifted my eyes high into the sky to meet the head of this graceful metallic creature. My dad being an engineer, I was often forced unto construction sites -- to me the ultimate pits of smoke, noise, and dust, and an abhorred place to visit. I keep away from these places as much as I can help it, and yet for the first time that day I paused to appreciate the grace and ingenuity and basic simplicity of a machine created to birth such beautiful architectural wonders. I saw in it the beauty of potential, and in that yet-empty, yawning space, I saw suspended the awakening dreams of an architect in the invisible tendrils carved out by the moving crane.

Months, or years later, when the building -- whatever it may be, is completed in all its shiny newness, when the noise and the dust has long since faded away, this site will no longer be an annoyance and a hazard, but instead welcomed as a place of purpose and perhaps even beauty. But I will recall this crane and the people who manned it, and remember that they stood for -- in the hot dreary summer days of tiring construction, the beauty of potential and what can be.

The beauty of a fork in the road is that you can go either way. The beauty in a budding flower is in the hope for its blossomed charm. The beauty in youth is in its unfettered opportunity. In ambiguity lives the deepest of potential, and this is something that inspires me every day.

Childish Sophisticate

2008-12-06T01:55:00.000-08:00

I was thinking today, that I am in a morphing, transitory state that I can best term a "woman-child". A phenomenon akin to adolescence, only it's a state of awkward balance between all three jurisdictions of childhood, teenhood, and this mysterious circle of adulthood. My body has blossomed in inductance into the sensual realm of womanhood - a state I picture as a world of pressed flowers, expensive perfumes, lipstick marks on coffee cups, reading the paper in the morning, and grocery shopping with a list. My mind has been opened by its years of living and its intellectual endeavors and by an ever-increasing knowledge and despair of a world and its struggles. And yet there exists a side of me that steadfastly resists "growing up", an impish side that will not quite accept the realities crowned by adulthood, a playful bantering side that lives still in a child's mind, hopes and dreams with a fervency foolish to many adults.

It is a gangly stage, striding both boats and dreaming that I can tread them forever. But for now I refuse to relinquish the five, ten, and fourteen-year old mes laughing and dreaming inside, while the twenty-three year old me faces the world with a complacent and porcelain mask. This picture for me (my dining chair) aptly captures this curious duality, an elegant black chair occupied by a cartoonish, rectangular stuffed cow.

Cute as a Cupcake

2008-12-06T01:39:00.000-08:00

It occured to me to wonder why many girls have a soft spot in their hearts for miniaturized versions of everyday objects they affectionally term "cute". I myself can never resist gushing over a tiny cupcake or a tiny shoe or even a tiny car. My friend once asked me, "Why is something small automatically 'cute'?" And a few days ago, a possible answer came to me, that perhaps women are endowed with a special heart for tiny things so that when a baby first emerges from their wombs, the tiniest, warmest, squiggling bundle ever, they will smile and say "how cute!", and thus be forever bonded.

It is a sweet thought, one that makes me smile.
http://socutesosweet.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/029.jpg

Introduction

2008-12-06T01:29:00.000-08:00

I have found, that for me, life's biggest lessons have often come in the smallest of packages, and the most humble of ways. Many of my greatest revelations descend in the most innocuous and unsuspecting of moments, like a butterfly's kiss as it flutters against your cheek, temptingly tender but ever so slight.

It occured to me to start a picture-blog, of sorts, journaling everyday objects that I encounter and the everyday lessons they confer. And that in some way, I might leave some footprint upon this large expansive universe of the Internet, in hopes that someday, somewhere, someone's life might be inspired by these tiny lessons I am learning every day.