It is almost always good in the beginning. A good idea, a hidden potential to tap, an exciting destination, a fiery romance. Eventually, things always sour.
Never been short on opportunities, yet there were always wasted, for various reasons. Distractions, overethusiasm, underenthusiasm, loss of confidence or interest, overambitiousness, foolishness.
Can't recall the last time I actually made good of something I had. I secretly wonder if I am alone in this regard. Then again, consolation from another person's shortcomings is the last thing I want.
The good beginnings are usually encouraging and enticing. That is why movies with happy endings only show the start of the happy ending.
I suppose the trick to making a difference in one's life is to actually go beyond the rosy start. Hurdle after hurdle. Day after day of struggling to improve.
Today, I have fallen. I've let my teammates down and shown that my mental game is fairly weak. Everyone lost money on the tournament. My knowledge of the game is also wanting.
I am also guilty of boasting prior to this defeat. At the very least, I mislead others to think that I am better than I really was. What a rotten person I am, and facing the truth is a just punishment.
The biggest difficulty I have is trusting myself. Only then can others believe me.
No more distractions. No more sorrys. No more false confidence.
Just a lot of sweat, blood and pain. Just a lot of desire.
I want a new beginning. This time it will be a bad and difficult one. And I will right it, because if I don't this life is a wasted one.
Miracles don't exist, but effort does.
I am ready to fight back.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Forever Forever
松居 慶子 ー Forever forever.
After 3 months of arduous practice and intent listening, the song I've been trying to transpose is nearly complete. I have once again proven to myself that patience, persistence and some measure of insanity are necessary to accomplish the impossible.
A friend of mine told me that it would take me years to learn to play this song after she heard it. Afterall, I can barely read music and wanted to attempt this song having played the piano for a month. Oh and the music sheet I found was incomplete and moderately simplified. The composer took out the hardest yet the prettiest parts when she penned the music.
But it still burns to hear her comment.
I love to be talked down. I can then show what I'm made of: pure stubborn.
I struggled for hours. I was going nowhere for a long time. But I sat at the piano, ipod in my ear, repeating the same 5 second interval of the song for hours on end, pressing countless key combinations, played a variation of a certain segment for days to match the speed of the song then played with the song playing in my ipod to realize that my variation was unpolished and awkward, back to try other key combinations. This happened over and over again.
I tasted pure stubborn at the back of my throat, from the weight of my eyelids and the strain on my neck.
Mastery came very slowly, but its rewards grew sweeter with each tiny step. It was the happiest I've felt in a long time.
This song is a reminder to myself, that I am still capable of sustained insanity. That I can trust myself to get things done.
After 3 months of arduous practice and intent listening, the song I've been trying to transpose is nearly complete. I have once again proven to myself that patience, persistence and some measure of insanity are necessary to accomplish the impossible.
A friend of mine told me that it would take me years to learn to play this song after she heard it. Afterall, I can barely read music and wanted to attempt this song having played the piano for a month. Oh and the music sheet I found was incomplete and moderately simplified. The composer took out the hardest yet the prettiest parts when she penned the music.
But it still burns to hear her comment.
I love to be talked down. I can then show what I'm made of: pure stubborn.
I struggled for hours. I was going nowhere for a long time. But I sat at the piano, ipod in my ear, repeating the same 5 second interval of the song for hours on end, pressing countless key combinations, played a variation of a certain segment for days to match the speed of the song then played with the song playing in my ipod to realize that my variation was unpolished and awkward, back to try other key combinations. This happened over and over again.
I tasted pure stubborn at the back of my throat, from the weight of my eyelids and the strain on my neck.
Mastery came very slowly, but its rewards grew sweeter with each tiny step. It was the happiest I've felt in a long time.
This song is a reminder to myself, that I am still capable of sustained insanity. That I can trust myself to get things done.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Shedding my lower branches
Consider this young pine tree. It grows by adding branches to its top while shedding the ones beneath it. We also can't identify the end of its youth and the beginning of a more mature stature.
We can barely notice the growth. Pine needles pop out at a painfully slow rate, such that our minds cannot comprehend the patience needed for it.
Even with this understanding, we still won't know if it is fully grown.
I would like to think that I am like this young pine: having twisted in the wrong directions a few times, I am ready to head upwards again. Although uncertain if I will botch up again, I am equally unclear what my full height will be. With every bit of apprehension comes an equal measure of hope.
We can barely notice the growth. Pine needles pop out at a painfully slow rate, such that our minds cannot comprehend the patience needed for it.
Even with this understanding, we still won't know if it is fully grown.
I would like to think that I am like this young pine: having twisted in the wrong directions a few times, I am ready to head upwards again. Although uncertain if I will botch up again, I am equally unclear what my full height will be. With every bit of apprehension comes an equal measure of hope.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Looking Out, Incoherently
Is it better to give or to take?
I've usually enjoyed attention, even remote interest in insignificant details of my boring existence. However, I forget to give that attention back to the sources.
So far, my life reads like a vapid emotional dialogue: Me? Me? Me? Me? Me?
26 years now, I've mostly taken. From my family, friends and lovers, I sought attention and comfort. Now it's my turn to give. Too little, too late? Sure, but it is better than not trying.
The selfish majority of my ego asks how I could be satisfied with such 'generosity.' My selfish ego enjoys mocking me. It is also amused when it asks me questions to which I obviously have no answer but are inclined to mutter something to.
Having taken from so many for many years, I know how to keep myself happy, even without asking. So I claim.
The ego guffaws.
I'll still try and even I cannot stop myself. Hold on, it is not going to be easy from here on.
I wonder how my ego keeps himself happy.
It is silent; as I expected.
I have to give it credit nonetheless. It's resilience carried me through numerous rough patches. It gave me a hand, a hug and a smile when I needed it.
Thank you dude. You are a fucking great pal when you are not a dick.
_____________________________________________
Indeed I don't know how to love. This includes myself. Much of the issue lies with detection. I don't know when loving happens. No clear sign and no confirmation when I think it happens. Hey, but if people around me can detect it, then why not try loving them. They'll know when they receive it!
Random acts of kindness. (How can kindness be random if kindness is intentional? Incomplete and inchoate phrases and loving it!) I've heard of this phrase. Maybe the person who coined it understands me.
___________________________________________
There are many people whom you simply cannot afford to love. They are too difficult to love, given who you are. But you feel like giving to them nonetheless. You claim it tickles you the right way: makes you laugh but you'd wish it would stop. Mostly, you can almost make people believe that you are enjoying it. What is the harm if nobody knows and hence nobody cares? Mr Ego can come to your rescue as necessary.
I think I've wasted enough time of people I've 'loved' already. Give them what they want the least to so that they can pretend to be happy so you can be really happy then they can be happy. Oh Happy times.
I wonder how many layers of dependent happiness two people can stack before it become difficult to tell? My silliness revealed; story of my life.
_________________________________________
At this point I've erased more than a page of writing I deemed foolish. I just want to point out how dedicated I am to making my life difficult. Can you also tell I spellcheck this blog? Grammar checking is too tough at the moment. Duanersaurus 3.0 is still in the beta phase.
You really cannot start over. I've tried looking for the 'reset my life' button many times in dreams. Video games become much less fun if you don't get to start over whence you falter.
Life is like a game; without the restart, select options/preferences, continue, pause buttons. And hacking life is considered morally offensive. WTF. This is one reason I think God does not really exist. If He/She/It did, not only would I not know what its gender is, I also think that He/She/It would make give these (restart, continue.. blah blah blah) options to make the game of Life much more entertaining to Himself/Herself/Itself. God also doesn't exist because there is too much gender guessing involved.
hfiu weaifu oipwaehfoiashd fkjhasdkl;fhja skljfk.
Sorry, I needed to let out some spontaneously accumulated frustration. Hey, but I got one word in that random keyboard crashing.
I wonder if anyone out there ever has their emotions completely sorted out. I suspect that these people have an entourage of incredible companions who can sustain that illusion of certainty. Me? I have only an unhealthy ego to conjure wisps of such illusions......eh. It sometimes works. No reason to complain.
I've usually enjoyed attention, even remote interest in insignificant details of my boring existence. However, I forget to give that attention back to the sources.
So far, my life reads like a vapid emotional dialogue: Me? Me? Me? Me? Me?
26 years now, I've mostly taken. From my family, friends and lovers, I sought attention and comfort. Now it's my turn to give. Too little, too late? Sure, but it is better than not trying.
The selfish majority of my ego asks how I could be satisfied with such 'generosity.' My selfish ego enjoys mocking me. It is also amused when it asks me questions to which I obviously have no answer but are inclined to mutter something to.
Having taken from so many for many years, I know how to keep myself happy, even without asking. So I claim.
The ego guffaws.
I'll still try and even I cannot stop myself. Hold on, it is not going to be easy from here on.
I wonder how my ego keeps himself happy.
It is silent; as I expected.
I have to give it credit nonetheless. It's resilience carried me through numerous rough patches. It gave me a hand, a hug and a smile when I needed it.
Thank you dude. You are a fucking great pal when you are not a dick.
_____________________________________________
Indeed I don't know how to love. This includes myself. Much of the issue lies with detection. I don't know when loving happens. No clear sign and no confirmation when I think it happens. Hey, but if people around me can detect it, then why not try loving them. They'll know when they receive it!
Random acts of kindness. (How can kindness be random if kindness is intentional? Incomplete and inchoate phrases and loving it!) I've heard of this phrase. Maybe the person who coined it understands me.
___________________________________________
There are many people whom you simply cannot afford to love. They are too difficult to love, given who you are. But you feel like giving to them nonetheless. You claim it tickles you the right way: makes you laugh but you'd wish it would stop. Mostly, you can almost make people believe that you are enjoying it. What is the harm if nobody knows and hence nobody cares? Mr Ego can come to your rescue as necessary.
I think I've wasted enough time of people I've 'loved' already. Give them what they want the least to so that they can pretend to be happy so you can be really happy then they can be happy. Oh Happy times.
I wonder how many layers of dependent happiness two people can stack before it become difficult to tell? My silliness revealed; story of my life.
_________________________________________
At this point I've erased more than a page of writing I deemed foolish. I just want to point out how dedicated I am to making my life difficult. Can you also tell I spellcheck this blog? Grammar checking is too tough at the moment. Duanersaurus 3.0 is still in the beta phase.
You really cannot start over. I've tried looking for the 'reset my life' button many times in dreams. Video games become much less fun if you don't get to start over whence you falter.
Life is like a game; without the restart, select options/preferences, continue, pause buttons. And hacking life is considered morally offensive. WTF. This is one reason I think God does not really exist. If He/She/It did, not only would I not know what its gender is, I also think that He/She/It would make give these (restart, continue.. blah blah blah) options to make the game of Life much more entertaining to Himself/Herself/Itself. God also doesn't exist because there is too much gender guessing involved.
hfiu weaifu oipwaehfoiashd fkjhasdkl;fhja skljfk.
Sorry, I needed to let out some spontaneously accumulated frustration. Hey, but I got one word in that random keyboard crashing.
I wonder if anyone out there ever has their emotions completely sorted out. I suspect that these people have an entourage of incredible companions who can sustain that illusion of certainty. Me? I have only an unhealthy ego to conjure wisps of such illusions......eh. It sometimes works. No reason to complain.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Still Trying Not to Quit
How many times have I given up? Too many times. This question, given to many others, would probably be answered no differently.
I forget when I first gave up trying. It happened after I was persuaded of its normalcy.
"It is alright to fail once in a while," a voice said.
"Stop being a perfectionist" it admonished.
"Maybe you should focus on what you are good at," the voice recommended.
This voice never explained why I should not try again. It led me to think it was acceptable to surrender in confusion. I would look around for company, hoping my cowardice is common. I focused on what I was good at: quitting.
Giving up became much easier after each "success", since I need not properly justify it to myself. I became proficient at making excuses and distracting myself. It became a habit too soon.
A new phase emerged.
There was once a clear line between things I cared obsessively for and things in which I do not. The line was defined by my willingness to give up: I hated to quit on obsessions.
The line progressed northwards. Obsessions were relegated to interests and then to philosophical arguments about why I should bother. For a time, making excuses were routine. Like a child learning to walk, the initial difficulty disappeared and it became inevitable. Giving up was so natural and forgiving myself for giving up became reflexive. Persistence almost felt wrong.
"Look around, people are giving up too."
I realize that I gave up too willingly. I was unaware of a better alternative to quitting. To keep on trying dammit. A dead end might not be genuine. It doesn't have to stop at a first failure.
Walking off a painful fall does not imply walking away. Stand up; think; march on.
Perhaps life is about trying and not getting anywhere in particular. A hot shower is more rewarding after a long run. A life might be worth more after a long struggle. Moreover, the struggle adds meaning even happiness.
We need reminders that anyone can laugh even in the most dire circumstances. Friends, stories or ice cream; whatever it takes to stand away and laugh at yourself, take a deep breath and dive in ready to give it your best shot again.
Gerbode. She showed me how to laugh in the most inspiring way.
March on, yes I will. This time singing and dancing I will.
There is beauty in everything, and they are not found in the usual places. Wonderment hides where their discovery might be the most rewarding.
Matt Dogg. He showed me how I listen to the words but not the story.
March on, yes I will. This time with my mind open.
Many people pin hopes on their children to accomplish what they could not. Apparently, they have already given up on themselves and the only saving grace is to transfer their dreams to their hopefuls. They know that it is impossible for them to accomplish their own goals before trying again.
I will try never to be such a father. In fact, I might even try never to be a parent since I'm not done parenting myself.
I forget when I first gave up trying. It happened after I was persuaded of its normalcy.
"It is alright to fail once in a while," a voice said.
"Stop being a perfectionist" it admonished.
"Maybe you should focus on what you are good at," the voice recommended.
This voice never explained why I should not try again. It led me to think it was acceptable to surrender in confusion. I would look around for company, hoping my cowardice is common. I focused on what I was good at: quitting.
Giving up became much easier after each "success", since I need not properly justify it to myself. I became proficient at making excuses and distracting myself. It became a habit too soon.
A new phase emerged.
There was once a clear line between things I cared obsessively for and things in which I do not. The line was defined by my willingness to give up: I hated to quit on obsessions.
The line progressed northwards. Obsessions were relegated to interests and then to philosophical arguments about why I should bother. For a time, making excuses were routine. Like a child learning to walk, the initial difficulty disappeared and it became inevitable. Giving up was so natural and forgiving myself for giving up became reflexive. Persistence almost felt wrong.
"Look around, people are giving up too."
I realize that I gave up too willingly. I was unaware of a better alternative to quitting. To keep on trying dammit. A dead end might not be genuine. It doesn't have to stop at a first failure.
Walking off a painful fall does not imply walking away. Stand up; think; march on.
Perhaps life is about trying and not getting anywhere in particular. A hot shower is more rewarding after a long run. A life might be worth more after a long struggle. Moreover, the struggle adds meaning even happiness.
We need reminders that anyone can laugh even in the most dire circumstances. Friends, stories or ice cream; whatever it takes to stand away and laugh at yourself, take a deep breath and dive in ready to give it your best shot again.
Gerbode. She showed me how to laugh in the most inspiring way.
March on, yes I will. This time singing and dancing I will.
There is beauty in everything, and they are not found in the usual places. Wonderment hides where their discovery might be the most rewarding.
Matt Dogg. He showed me how I listen to the words but not the story.
March on, yes I will. This time with my mind open.
Many people pin hopes on their children to accomplish what they could not. Apparently, they have already given up on themselves and the only saving grace is to transfer their dreams to their hopefuls. They know that it is impossible for them to accomplish their own goals before trying again.
I will try never to be such a father. In fact, I might even try never to be a parent since I'm not done parenting myself.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
To hold your future
I made this ring when I was still with my ex-girlfriend. I think it was a day before I left for the States. I hastily told the engraver that I would like our own names to appear on our rings. My ex-girlfriend must have felt surprised. She later asked, with disappointment showing, why had her own name was on her ring instead of mine. She sounded betrayed.
Having our names switched around made sense to me too. But I did not think of it when I made the decision to have our own names on our own rings. That was sensible to me, since the names would help identify the rings in case they were misplaced. Or so I thought.
Some months later we broke up. I was devastated and cast the ring aside since I wanted to be away from the artifacts of our relationship.
One day, many weeks later, I rummaged through my messy table and this ring, buried deep under a pile of ugly matrix calculations on napkins, rolled off the table. I picked it up and stared at it. I thought: "Who is Duane? Crap. I lost myself didn't I? Is that why I feel so helpless?"
This thought grew into a deep contemplation that lasted a good hour. Partly because I wanted to procrastinate from work, partly because I really felt motivated to think about it. Part a is of course more compelling than part b.
Ironic. I wanted to put my name on the ring so that I could find it when I lost it. Back then, it felt more like it found me.
The relationship with my ex-girlfriend disappeared overnight. No goodbyes, no reasons, just an busy signal over the phone. I was in California, she was in Singapore. Nothing I could do. I knew she was seeing someone else. I was devastated and lost too. I realized I had lost myself.
I could not motivate myself to do anything besides paint and run extremely long runs. I ran 5 miles a day at 5am every morning, painted the rest of the time, ate one meal of porridge every two days. I drew away from my friends and stayed in my room otherwise. I lost 40lbs in a month. Kinda weird to see my abs again. Also kinda weird to see the bones around my shoulder that clearly.
Running distracted me and helped me breathe better. Painting was like talking to an old friend about my sadness. I was in pieces. I was pathetic.
The ring found my memories.
It reminded me of the hope I had before I arrived in US. I remembered my dreams, my family, my friends. I remembered the hopes my parents sending me off, hoping that I could do what they could never accomplish. I remembered my friends asking me to take good care of myself. I remembered looking back at the airport watching my sister's eyes turn red. She almost never cried in front of us. I remembered how hard I fought to go to Mudd. I remembered saying to myself that I have to trust that I made a wise decision even if the rest of my world could not. I remembered promising myself that I will teach myself to fail and climb back on my feet.
My ring found me.
I sat in front of the ring, watching as layers of myself snap back in place. I did not bounce back dramatically. But I knew I was ready to return.
Thank you ring. You held a piece of me that I needed to revisit myself. I'm not sure when was the last time someone thanked a piece of cheap metal for a kick in the butt. But I think, inanimate metal or not, it deserved my gratitude.
Having our names switched around made sense to me too. But I did not think of it when I made the decision to have our own names on our own rings. That was sensible to me, since the names would help identify the rings in case they were misplaced. Or so I thought.
Some months later we broke up. I was devastated and cast the ring aside since I wanted to be away from the artifacts of our relationship.
One day, many weeks later, I rummaged through my messy table and this ring, buried deep under a pile of ugly matrix calculations on napkins, rolled off the table. I picked it up and stared at it. I thought: "Who is Duane? Crap. I lost myself didn't I? Is that why I feel so helpless?"
This thought grew into a deep contemplation that lasted a good hour. Partly because I wanted to procrastinate from work, partly because I really felt motivated to think about it. Part a is of course more compelling than part b.
Ironic. I wanted to put my name on the ring so that I could find it when I lost it. Back then, it felt more like it found me.
The relationship with my ex-girlfriend disappeared overnight. No goodbyes, no reasons, just an busy signal over the phone. I was in California, she was in Singapore. Nothing I could do. I knew she was seeing someone else. I was devastated and lost too. I realized I had lost myself.
I could not motivate myself to do anything besides paint and run extremely long runs. I ran 5 miles a day at 5am every morning, painted the rest of the time, ate one meal of porridge every two days. I drew away from my friends and stayed in my room otherwise. I lost 40lbs in a month. Kinda weird to see my abs again. Also kinda weird to see the bones around my shoulder that clearly.
Running distracted me and helped me breathe better. Painting was like talking to an old friend about my sadness. I was in pieces. I was pathetic.
The ring found my memories.
It reminded me of the hope I had before I arrived in US. I remembered my dreams, my family, my friends. I remembered the hopes my parents sending me off, hoping that I could do what they could never accomplish. I remembered my friends asking me to take good care of myself. I remembered looking back at the airport watching my sister's eyes turn red. She almost never cried in front of us. I remembered how hard I fought to go to Mudd. I remembered saying to myself that I have to trust that I made a wise decision even if the rest of my world could not. I remembered promising myself that I will teach myself to fail and climb back on my feet.
My ring found me.
I sat in front of the ring, watching as layers of myself snap back in place. I did not bounce back dramatically. But I knew I was ready to return.
Thank you ring. You held a piece of me that I needed to revisit myself. I'm not sure when was the last time someone thanked a piece of cheap metal for a kick in the butt. But I think, inanimate metal or not, it deserved my gratitude.
Monday, April 25, 2005
$723. Sam's Club
Socks, Chicken, Shirts, Bread, Eggs, Chocolate, CDRs, Toilet paper, Cheeses, Scallops, Salmon, Tomatoes, Crap for plants, Beers, Towels, Brocolli, Xbox game (!), Motor Oil ...
5 Physicists(Matt, John, Dave, Sharon, Me), 4 hours, 3 carts, 2 cars, 1 credit card. $723.
Matt was generous and paid for us in advance.
This place was enormous. A converted warehouse, with furniture, electronics, produce, food, clothes, stationery, computers, stacked 4 storeys high. It had 'distributor-sized' versions of everything, selling also at 'distributor's-price.' In more correct terms: gigantenormous portions at a small fraction of the original price. It makes Walmart look like a convenience store (from Dave). Yeah, makes everything look like 7-11.
Here are some random highlights:
A 10lb can of tuna. Yes people, a bowling ball made of tuna.
Watermelons the size of truck wheels.
An aisle with probably a ton of chocolate. I mean it, a ton. My favorite aisle in Sam's club. Kit Kat, Reeses (bought), Peppermint Patties (bought), M&Ms, Whatever the hell else.
Walking around, I thought, 'all that food here is going to end up in someone's gut. How much eating is that?' Then I look around and see the people shopping there. It sure looked like they ate that much. Hey, but they all appeared happy eating that much.
I nearly bought a bag of shrimp, thinking it was $8. I proudly showed Matt my achievement, having found such a magnificient deal. Matt looked at me, looked at the bag of shrimp, and guessed that I must have made a mistake. He said, "that's an expensive bag of shrimp." I looked closely, blanched and thanked him for saving my wallet. It was more like $35.
Nonetheless, I still ended up with a $126 bill. After paying off this debt, my checking account will read $13.77. Awesome; I managed to get broke buying 20lbs of chicken, 10lbs of salmon and 5lbs of scallops. It'll probably last me ages.
Poor John brought along his stat mech notes to study for his Qualifying exam. Well, we'll all be doing that pretty soon.
Dave drove us home in his Audi Quattro. Listened to Coldplay's "Yellow" on the drive home. The music painted the bleak rainy upstate new york forest with a wistful beauty. Saw Dave and Sharon hold hands while the song played on; while their memories played on. I don't mind crappy weekdays if my weekends were always like that.
5 Physicists(Matt, John, Dave, Sharon, Me), 4 hours, 3 carts, 2 cars, 1 credit card. $723.
Matt was generous and paid for us in advance.
This place was enormous. A converted warehouse, with furniture, electronics, produce, food, clothes, stationery, computers, stacked 4 storeys high. It had 'distributor-sized' versions of everything, selling also at 'distributor's-price.' In more correct terms: gigantenormous portions at a small fraction of the original price. It makes Walmart look like a convenience store (from Dave). Yeah, makes everything look like 7-11.
Here are some random highlights:
A 10lb can of tuna. Yes people, a bowling ball made of tuna.
Watermelons the size of truck wheels.
An aisle with probably a ton of chocolate. I mean it, a ton. My favorite aisle in Sam's club. Kit Kat, Reeses (bought), Peppermint Patties (bought), M&Ms, Whatever the hell else.
Walking around, I thought, 'all that food here is going to end up in someone's gut. How much eating is that?' Then I look around and see the people shopping there. It sure looked like they ate that much. Hey, but they all appeared happy eating that much.
I nearly bought a bag of shrimp, thinking it was $8. I proudly showed Matt my achievement, having found such a magnificient deal. Matt looked at me, looked at the bag of shrimp, and guessed that I must have made a mistake. He said, "that's an expensive bag of shrimp." I looked closely, blanched and thanked him for saving my wallet. It was more like $35.
Nonetheless, I still ended up with a $126 bill. After paying off this debt, my checking account will read $13.77. Awesome; I managed to get broke buying 20lbs of chicken, 10lbs of salmon and 5lbs of scallops. It'll probably last me ages.
Poor John brought along his stat mech notes to study for his Qualifying exam. Well, we'll all be doing that pretty soon.
Dave drove us home in his Audi Quattro. Listened to Coldplay's "Yellow" on the drive home. The music painted the bleak rainy upstate new york forest with a wistful beauty. Saw Dave and Sharon hold hands while the song played on; while their memories played on. I don't mind crappy weekdays if my weekends were always like that.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Time slips by. Tried to stop it. It still slips by.
No one to be happy for. No one to be angry over. No one to distract you. No one to tell, no one to reply. No one; not one.
Saturdays and Sundays are staring out the window, sounds of distant traffic, screaming silence at night. Wherever you turn, you are reminded that you exist, and yet exist alone. The weekend finally came. Yet you have another obstacle to surmount. You could sleep it away, but you'll be screwed come Monday. No where to go.
Your playlist haunts you. Long have you indulged in punctuating your life with music. You'll play a song over and over again, not paying much attention to it yet constantly feeding your subconsciousness with its melody.
Now, turning back, a familiar song might return a painful memory. Silence, though, stirs your memories even harder. Where to run to?
Can you run from yourself? Which way is that?
Looking back at yourself in the mirror is surreal. Your unkempt hair, unshaven chin, fading color, tired eyes. Who are you? Do you live for him or me? When will this droning stop? Poking yourself in the face while staring at the mirror feels strange: you see the motion, which clearly differs from the sensations of your face. You know you don't 'feel' like that image in the mirror. Surprise! You are supposed to.
You have this problem. You cannot, however hard you've tried, 'feel like yourself.' You feel like you should look differently. Not that you should look better, though improvement is welcome. Just that you feel like a different person. (Not transgender you dumbass)
No you are not depressed. You prefer contemplative. You have gotten used to this. Not much different from local anaesthesia. Look down and see people cutting you up. Look up and feel normal. You panic for a while, almost trying to feel the pain but greeted only by numbness. You sick bastard. After a while, your mind wanders again.
Do you live for yourself? If you were stranded in a lonely place, without family and friends, without TV or music, without the internet, without a care in the world yet none back from it either, who would you be? You would be just you. Oh, did you meet him?
Sorry, I forgot to introduce. I, this is me. Me, this is I.
People are excited to meet new people. Many prefer to meet pretty people. Freaks are ok, if they are exceedingly cool or handsome looking. Then they wander in a jungle of personas, none of them their own. Slowly they see behind these personalities and find themselves staring back at themselves. All this effor to find a mirror. Indeed, almost everyone in this game looks the same, on the inside.
You give up. You fucking give up. Tired of this silly game. Sick of believing you'll find someone special.
You decide to look for myself/yourself.
Saturdays and Sundays are staring out the window, sounds of distant traffic, screaming silence at night. Wherever you turn, you are reminded that you exist, and yet exist alone. The weekend finally came. Yet you have another obstacle to surmount. You could sleep it away, but you'll be screwed come Monday. No where to go.
Your playlist haunts you. Long have you indulged in punctuating your life with music. You'll play a song over and over again, not paying much attention to it yet constantly feeding your subconsciousness with its melody.
Now, turning back, a familiar song might return a painful memory. Silence, though, stirs your memories even harder. Where to run to?
Can you run from yourself? Which way is that?
Looking back at yourself in the mirror is surreal. Your unkempt hair, unshaven chin, fading color, tired eyes. Who are you? Do you live for him or me? When will this droning stop? Poking yourself in the face while staring at the mirror feels strange: you see the motion, which clearly differs from the sensations of your face. You know you don't 'feel' like that image in the mirror. Surprise! You are supposed to.
You have this problem. You cannot, however hard you've tried, 'feel like yourself.' You feel like you should look differently. Not that you should look better, though improvement is welcome. Just that you feel like a different person. (Not transgender you dumbass)
No you are not depressed. You prefer contemplative. You have gotten used to this. Not much different from local anaesthesia. Look down and see people cutting you up. Look up and feel normal. You panic for a while, almost trying to feel the pain but greeted only by numbness. You sick bastard. After a while, your mind wanders again.
Do you live for yourself? If you were stranded in a lonely place, without family and friends, without TV or music, without the internet, without a care in the world yet none back from it either, who would you be? You would be just you. Oh, did you meet him?
Sorry, I forgot to introduce. I, this is me. Me, this is I.
People are excited to meet new people. Many prefer to meet pretty people. Freaks are ok, if they are exceedingly cool or handsome looking. Then they wander in a jungle of personas, none of them their own. Slowly they see behind these personalities and find themselves staring back at themselves. All this effor to find a mirror. Indeed, almost everyone in this game looks the same, on the inside.
You give up. You fucking give up. Tired of this silly game. Sick of believing you'll find someone special.
You decide to look for myself/yourself.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Flicker
I like this picture. It is both benign and evil at the same time. A little devil doomed to the ashes. Reminds me a manta ray with flamethrowers for its mouth.
Drunk people lit it and left it to its own devices. The party, the flaming cup, both chaotically contained.
The stray flickers that seem to leap impossibly far away always enchant me. The dancing reactions somehow string together a path for the flame to hop along, asking it to burn its ass.
Where does the flame end? (Do rainbows end in a pot of gold or just pot?)
Enchanting, very much in a way that screensavers do. Yes fellow weak-willed humans, I too am mesmerized by cheap lines and silly whirling colors. That combination deadly; a sure invitation to procrastination.
Flames and human lives. When they flail around, they sorely seek is attention and warmth. Both thrash around violently, but neither of them last very long.
It is chaos, contained in an insignificant span of time.
Amazing where all the cup goes after it has burnt up. It used to have considerable mass. After incineration, the ashes weigh barely anything at all. Did all that mass just vaporize to make other gases?
(Disclaimer: I am not a nerd. Dammit, maybe I am.)
You know, if that cup actually completely disappeared, made no gas, just plain converted into energy, it could power Latin America for a few days. That is my ticket to paradise.
I met the crazy bus driver today. He's crazy because he drives about 50mph down the worn-out winding roads of Ithaca at 1:30 in the morning whistling, holding a (fucking hilarious) conversation with me, cursing brainless drivers who do not fear his recklessness and readiness to destroy, laughing at drunk frat boys, screeching to a halt from 50 in about a second then turns to you and says (in the nicest tone) "Goodnight. Watch your step." I mean, what can I say? "Thanks for not killing me again tonight?"
He drove the bus to the grocery store today. Snapping his fingers and whistling to smooth jazz music yet not forgetting his occassional remarks: "fucking bastard! Can't fucking drive to save your life!" and return to a polite conversation with his passengers.
Anyway, my funny German friend said he went bonkers one night and started driving in "pilot mode." He announced all the stops like an airplane captain would (maybe even commenting on tail wind and flight time ?). Then finally, before starting on the longest part of the route that has no bus stops, proudly proclaimed: "next stop, magic wonderland!" Fucking crazy bus driver. I'll miss him when I move to Dryden this summer.
If I bore you, well, this blog is really meant to entertain me.
Drunk people lit it and left it to its own devices. The party, the flaming cup, both chaotically contained.
The stray flickers that seem to leap impossibly far away always enchant me. The dancing reactions somehow string together a path for the flame to hop along, asking it to burn its ass.
Where does the flame end? (Do rainbows end in a pot of gold or just pot?)
Enchanting, very much in a way that screensavers do. Yes fellow weak-willed humans, I too am mesmerized by cheap lines and silly whirling colors. That combination deadly; a sure invitation to procrastination.
Flames and human lives. When they flail around, they sorely seek is attention and warmth. Both thrash around violently, but neither of them last very long.
It is chaos, contained in an insignificant span of time.
Amazing where all the cup goes after it has burnt up. It used to have considerable mass. After incineration, the ashes weigh barely anything at all. Did all that mass just vaporize to make other gases?
(Disclaimer: I am not a nerd. Dammit, maybe I am.)
You know, if that cup actually completely disappeared, made no gas, just plain converted into energy, it could power Latin America for a few days. That is my ticket to paradise.
I met the crazy bus driver today. He's crazy because he drives about 50mph down the worn-out winding roads of Ithaca at 1:30 in the morning whistling, holding a (fucking hilarious) conversation with me, cursing brainless drivers who do not fear his recklessness and readiness to destroy, laughing at drunk frat boys, screeching to a halt from 50 in about a second then turns to you and says (in the nicest tone) "Goodnight. Watch your step." I mean, what can I say? "Thanks for not killing me again tonight?"
He drove the bus to the grocery store today. Snapping his fingers and whistling to smooth jazz music yet not forgetting his occassional remarks: "fucking bastard! Can't fucking drive to save your life!" and return to a polite conversation with his passengers.
Anyway, my funny German friend said he went bonkers one night and started driving in "pilot mode." He announced all the stops like an airplane captain would (maybe even commenting on tail wind and flight time ?). Then finally, before starting on the longest part of the route that has no bus stops, proudly proclaimed: "next stop, magic wonderland!" Fucking crazy bus driver. I'll miss him when I move to Dryden this summer.
If I bore you, well, this blog is really meant to entertain me.
Step Up
An old friend of mine recently contacted me through Friendster. We got together many years back and finally decided to break up for a variety of reasons. Childish, petty, disappointed, history.
I did not fully comprehend my actions back then even though I felt I was making a very serious decision. I figured it would be our mutual benefit. I left the relationship scarred; perhaps she did too. For some reason, we did not talk for a couple of years.
Then she moved to the States for a few years, growing and learning in an Ivy League school. I finished with my army service, left for a small college in science in California.
In between these changes, I realized exactly how incompatible we were as partners. However, that made me wonder what could have kept us together for almost a year. Friendship, on my part. I believe it was true for her too. She was the friend who walked with me on a new path.
We might have emailed each other a couple of times, even promising a trip to Japan. I was curious to see how both of us grew different. I wanted to meet her and myself too.
As it turns out, I got together with another girl did not keep in touch with this friend of mine. She eventually graduated 3 years back. She emailed me again before returning home, hoping we could meet again. I was home for the summer and agreed. Again, we never met.
Was I busy? Was I lazy? I mean, Singapore is a small island. A meeting would be extremely easy, especially since I could borrow my dad's car. But, yet another but.
Since then I've lost contact with her completely. She stopped using her school's email address: the only contact I have.
All along, I thought nothing of it. My girlfriend back then and I got into a terrible breakup. I was devastated. I needed my friends. Many of them answered. They have my gratitude.
You see, I don't keep many friends around me. Mostly those who shared the best moments of my life with. My best moments are not always happy ones. They are usually the thought-provoking ones.
This friend of mine shared some of these moments with me. I thought that it would be nice to meet her again. I was lost in a sour relationship and needed to find the waypoints back to myself again. My few cherished friends lit these waypoints for me.
It would be nice if she was there too. She, like many of my friends, held a piece of my history. Finding it would be akin to dusting off that old CD which you listened to endlessly when you were a kid and somehow faded away.
I searched my tiny circle of contacts to somehow get to her again. I wanted just a phone call. Maybe an email. Like a quick dose of caffeine before you are drowned with work again.
"Too bad", life said to me. You missed it.
Time passed and the chance of speaking with her grew increasing remote.
A few days back, nearly a decade after our relationship, she told me, in an email, that she got married last June (maybe?).
My occassional memories of her that surfaced over the years suddenly greeted me in quick succession. They became annotated with new meanings faster than I could understand. It was one of those situations that would take you a lifetime to appreciate. Then I considered myself, considered her, and a smile broke out. I didn't realize I was smiling until I finished reading her email.
I am truly happy for her. Not the jumping-around-drumming-everything-in-sight-and-yelling-expletives type of happy. More like the kind of happiness prononuced as mellow.
Full circle, I thought. Felt like someone somewhere put a period in a sentence that became too long, too soon.
Movies end dramatically. Not always interesting, mind you. Just dramatic and somewhat contrived. Yet stories in reality would play out in the most fascinating ways.
Boring you say? Well, not so boring if you actuallly lived through it.
Step up to the plate now Duanersaurus. Where are you going next?
I did not fully comprehend my actions back then even though I felt I was making a very serious decision. I figured it would be our mutual benefit. I left the relationship scarred; perhaps she did too. For some reason, we did not talk for a couple of years.
Then she moved to the States for a few years, growing and learning in an Ivy League school. I finished with my army service, left for a small college in science in California.
In between these changes, I realized exactly how incompatible we were as partners. However, that made me wonder what could have kept us together for almost a year. Friendship, on my part. I believe it was true for her too. She was the friend who walked with me on a new path.
We might have emailed each other a couple of times, even promising a trip to Japan. I was curious to see how both of us grew different. I wanted to meet her and myself too.
As it turns out, I got together with another girl did not keep in touch with this friend of mine. She eventually graduated 3 years back. She emailed me again before returning home, hoping we could meet again. I was home for the summer and agreed. Again, we never met.
Was I busy? Was I lazy? I mean, Singapore is a small island. A meeting would be extremely easy, especially since I could borrow my dad's car. But, yet another but.
Since then I've lost contact with her completely. She stopped using her school's email address: the only contact I have.
All along, I thought nothing of it. My girlfriend back then and I got into a terrible breakup. I was devastated. I needed my friends. Many of them answered. They have my gratitude.
You see, I don't keep many friends around me. Mostly those who shared the best moments of my life with. My best moments are not always happy ones. They are usually the thought-provoking ones.
This friend of mine shared some of these moments with me. I thought that it would be nice to meet her again. I was lost in a sour relationship and needed to find the waypoints back to myself again. My few cherished friends lit these waypoints for me.
It would be nice if she was there too. She, like many of my friends, held a piece of my history. Finding it would be akin to dusting off that old CD which you listened to endlessly when you were a kid and somehow faded away.
I searched my tiny circle of contacts to somehow get to her again. I wanted just a phone call. Maybe an email. Like a quick dose of caffeine before you are drowned with work again.
"Too bad", life said to me. You missed it.
Time passed and the chance of speaking with her grew increasing remote.
A few days back, nearly a decade after our relationship, she told me, in an email, that she got married last June (maybe?).
My occassional memories of her that surfaced over the years suddenly greeted me in quick succession. They became annotated with new meanings faster than I could understand. It was one of those situations that would take you a lifetime to appreciate. Then I considered myself, considered her, and a smile broke out. I didn't realize I was smiling until I finished reading her email.
I am truly happy for her. Not the jumping-around-drumming-everything-in-sight-and-yelling-expletives type of happy. More like the kind of happiness prononuced as mellow.
Full circle, I thought. Felt like someone somewhere put a period in a sentence that became too long, too soon.
Movies end dramatically. Not always interesting, mind you. Just dramatic and somewhat contrived. Yet stories in reality would play out in the most fascinating ways.
Boring you say? Well, not so boring if you actuallly lived through it.
Step up to the plate now Duanersaurus. Where are you going next?
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
I'm Happy
You know, I'm happy. Screw the snow. Screw the cold. Screw seasons. Summer is home. The Sun's up and life is grand.
Procrastinating Bird
The secret lives of procrastinating birds.
Body: Did you ever wonder why birds just sit around in the sun? This bird, for example, did just that. It's just a regular bird, a mynah in Singapore.
I suppose it might be drying itself. I can't say it's really trying to get a tan. Maybe its trying to procrastinate. Maybe its partner told him/her to get some worms but it just didn't feel like it. Maybe it is thinking "why am I referred to as 'it' ?" Perhaps it is trying to remember a shopping list?
Or how about its trying to test out a theory it heard from a friend. Maybe it lost a bet at the regular "worm-bar" and had to stand out in the sun, fluff its feather pretend it is having a good time agape? Maybe its friends are about a block away laughing their bird brains out?
What I think, though, is that it is just like me. Maybe we both like to procrastinate. Perhaps whatever it is doing is secondary to its survival, but it feels good. Procrastination allows the mind to wander and consider the finer details in life. It feels like filling in the blanks in life which we create in our haste to accomplish whatever.
What if we allowed ourselves, an hour a day, moments like the one our bird-friend here is enjoying? I'm trying that out by blogging (word-crapping) to see if I actually get anywhere.
Body: Did you ever wonder why birds just sit around in the sun? This bird, for example, did just that. It's just a regular bird, a mynah in Singapore.
I suppose it might be drying itself. I can't say it's really trying to get a tan. Maybe its trying to procrastinate. Maybe its partner told him/her to get some worms but it just didn't feel like it. Maybe it is thinking "why am I referred to as 'it' ?" Perhaps it is trying to remember a shopping list?
Or how about its trying to test out a theory it heard from a friend. Maybe it lost a bet at the regular "worm-bar" and had to stand out in the sun, fluff its feather pretend it is having a good time agape? Maybe its friends are about a block away laughing their bird brains out?
What I think, though, is that it is just like me. Maybe we both like to procrastinate. Perhaps whatever it is doing is secondary to its survival, but it feels good. Procrastination allows the mind to wander and consider the finer details in life. It feels like filling in the blanks in life which we create in our haste to accomplish whatever.
What if we allowed ourselves, an hour a day, moments like the one our bird-friend here is enjoying? I'm trying that out by blogging (word-crapping) to see if I actually get anywhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)