Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Falling Psychiatrist


Astrud smelled like heavy alcohol. Even though she balanced herself quite well on her feet, her speech was rambling and her eyes were unfocused.

"I was not a cat person and never wanted a cat. Sheba came to my door one day, so I gave her some food and milk. Then she kept coming back. Day after day. For 17 years."

Sheba was Astrud's black cat. Astrud installed a Cat Flap to give her the freedom of coming in and out of the house whenver she wished to. The cat was quite aloof. She stayed useful in doing her own business - catching moles, birds, or other small kinds, and never cared to purr to win attention.

"When she got old, she became quite affectionate, which was really not her usual self. She stayed indoor most of the times and preferred to sleep on my laps or by my feet. I guess she needed my company. She was a good cat even though I didn't even want to have a cat. But she came and she never left. And we grew old together."

Astrude caught herself repeating the part how Sheba came about. The sun was strong that day, so she went inside to retrieve her straw hat.

The straw hat was the exact same one that she wore 10 years ago when I first met her. Knowing that she was a retired Psychiatrist, I stuffed our conversations with questions about dreams and the unconscious and subconscious worlds, hoping that she would satisfy my appetite with her intellectual freudian analysis. Astrud never said much about those subjects. Even so, I believed in her and never doubt a second of her knowledge.

She had already continued talking when she walked out with her hat. Her voice faded in: "...not eating well and I knew she was sick. The vet couldn't save her. I couldn't save her. I held her on my laps, stroked her until her eyes closed and she stopped breathing. She was a good cat. How strange it is! I never liked cats before. Sheba came to me like a gift from God. I fed her and she stayed..."

"By the way, did you hear that Lou across the street fell and broke his hip last Wednesday? And Jackie Herman had a minor stroke?"

Oh Astrud, poor Astrud, why couldn't you confess what was really killing you? Not Sheba's death, not Lou's accident and not Jackie Herman's stroke, but your lifelong friend Gary's lost battle to cancer. You couldn't deal with the pain and you were too frail to face the truth, so this became the sole subject that you forbad yourself and anyone else to draw near. Perhaps you didn't understand why he was gone and resented the fact that he didn't want you by his side in his last months. It might have even crossed your mind that all these were only one big fat lie. So you talked about Sheba, which hurt you badly; Lou and Jackie, which worried you. But Gary, Gary, Gary - a name that you would from now on speak to no one of, but whisper in the deepest of your mind thousands, millions of times.


Standing alone in her garden with her straw hat and a glass of straight vodka in hand, Astrud seemed to be in deep thoughts. Her lifeless eyes gazed afar:

"Did I tell you about Sheba?"

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Moon Fantasy

Fly me to the moon
and let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like
on Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, hold my hand.
In other words, baby kiss me.

Fill my heart with songs
and let me sing forevermore.
You are all I long for,
all I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
In other words, I love you.

- written by Bart Howard

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Fear


I study my hands closely:
The lines around each knuckle have grown

Complexity, they scream
Aging, they confess

Like a piece of crumbled-up paper
Destined to be abandoned in the wastebasket
Bearing the unbearable pain in its ugly creases

Since when did wrinkles creep onto my skin?
I fear that one day they would take me by force and conquer me
My hands would become foreign
So would my face my body

Promise me that you would then leave me be
Sulking in the wastebasket like the abandoned page
Any consolation would only cause agony
For the creases can not be smoothened
Even by the finest ironing.

Friday, July 6, 2007

"Oh God, there is no God."

"Are you religious?"

Simple and direct, the question caught me off-guard.

At age 87, Naomi's keen mind and big spirit compensated her ultra-petite body. She spoke four or five languages, although her German heritage often leaked from her accent: "Vat vas that vonderful muzic?" She had lived a long life, or several lives as she claimed and I believed, in which she experienced everything life had to offer, joy or sorrow.

"Are you religious?" She looked straight at me through her over-sized glasses. Those lenses immensely enlarged her eyes, at the same time magnified me in her vision.

I felt naked and transparent. I had to tell the truth.

"Yes." My voice was small and I felt the need to defend myself. "Well, somewhat, I guess." Then I was ashamed.

"Well, you see, I believe in the existence of God. But my ignorance to Christianity... um... There are too many things about this religion that just don't make sense to me. Yet." I went on and on about my experience with the religion, what I liked and disliked, about miracles and lies. I tried hard to make sense of things that came out of my mouth while Naomi just sat there silently, watching and listening.

The truth is, I didn't know where I stood in terms of religious believes, and I wanted to hide the fact that I still could not make up my mind after many years of questioning and searching. A strong force had been resisting me to believe, while the opposite seemed to be omnipresent in my subconscious, surfacing now and then when I thought that I had forgotten.

I fell in silence. It might have been an abrupt stop, but I didn't want to make a bigger fool out of myself by continuing to talk nonsense.

Naomi spoke:

"My father was a very nice man. He was a great father and a great husband. He always gave money to the poor and always went out of his ways to help others. And he believed in God and the goodness in God. He had done a large amount of charity work locally. We all loved him so dearly."

She took a deep breath and went on:

"I never understood how such a wonderful human being, a faithful, loyal child of God, would die in such a cruel way - he was murdered in the concentration camp. He was still quite young. Young and handsome. A loyal husband and a dear father of two. They took him and they murdered him."

Naomi failed to continue, as I found myself in a similar position. We just sat there across from each other. The clock was ticking and the tears were streaming.

"So I say, Oh God, there is no God."

Saturday, June 16, 2007

"The Cicadas are Coming!"


7-year-old Kimmy was the one who told me over dinner that the Cicadas were coming. Her cute face lit up: “It has um… orangy eyes and um, you know, clear wings, so it flies around. And it goes ‘chiiiiiiiii-chiiiiiiiiiiii’. Yup! Just like that!”

I had long forgotten about the existence of cicadas. While Kimmy was enthusiastically drawing one with crayon on the paper tablecloth, I searched hard in my memory and finally that “Chiiiiiii-Chiiiiii” sound zoomed-in an old, yellow-stained snapshot of the past:

I was about the same age as Kimmy, young and carefree. Walking in between my parents, each of my hands safely locked in their hands. On my left was my father, tall and handsome. And my mother was walking on my right side. Gently smiled, she could not have been more beautiful. It was an after-dinner walk in a mid-summer night. Neighbors were outside their apartments trying to catch some breeze. Some were playing chess and some were simply just sitting on a chair, cooling themselves with bamboo-made fans. My parents occasionally stopped to chat with friends and I would just hop around them, being happy, being silly, and being a child. While all these were happening, the cicadas were resting on the trees, making their “chiiii-chiiii” sound like a background serenade in a typical summer night.

“Chiiii-Chiiiii…” Kimmy was still making that airy but somewhat annoying sound. Her drawing turned out to be pretty good, although retained little resemblance of an actual cicada. Her mom signaled her to stop so she pouted, soon began to draw a tree for her little orange-eyed friend.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Mean Santa


It wasn't Christmas
Nothing felt like Christmas
Except you were Santa in this heated day of June

The bag in your hands
Full with secrets and surprises
Promised happy smiles and much more

As you handed out little square boxes
To each visible human being
I anxiously awaited my share of awards

Then your eyes met mine
Freeze
Silence
A heavy load of Awkwardness

Two mere seconds were long enough for the truth
I had been a bad girl
Santa was punishing me with crippled fortune

Smiled
I walked away in an injured dignity

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Testimonial on Tony's Behalf

Tony,

Please forgive me. I am such a fool. I can't believe myself for dwelling on some insignificant unhappiness so obsessively during your short visit. Time flew by right in front of my eyes, and before I realized that I should be overwhelmed with our good times, you were already gone.

You probably felt hopeless in saving me. Please don't. Your visit meant so much to me that I can't thank you enough. For those few days, I finally escaped from my phobia of being alone. It felt safe and I knew that whatever happened or were about to happen, you would be right there by my side, making sure that I wouldn't fall. You are too kind. Sometimes I question whether I have done enough good to others to deserve this unconditional friendship.

So, thank you for coming, my friend, and thanks for rescuing me. Drinking on the roof while listening to Mahler 9 was the best time I ever had.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Lost

Lisa was right. I have gone completely mental.

During my last Pilates session, she unexpectedly interrupted our usual routine: "Are you okay? You don't look happy." What a strange thing she said! I was in quite a good mood that day and felt particularly light-hearted. Perhaps I was over-concentrating on the work-out. Perhaps I was getting impatient by the seemingly unprogressive pace. Or, maybe, just maybe, Lisa knew me better than I knew myself.

Earlier this morning, after a frantic 30-minute search inside-out of my apartment, the delayed truth dawned on me: the wallet is gone, for the second time in a short time of 3 months! Not stolen, but lost under my own carelessness. I searched in my memory but found no recollection of any last trace. It was just gone, along with my sanity. Dispersed into air. Dissolved into rain. Disintegrated into ashes.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Curiosity Mustn't Die

Several years back in one of my graduate classes, the professor one day asked our opinions on the Terri Schiavo's controversy but found no responses. The shock on his face would never escape my memory. He took off his glasses and looked around the room. When his eyes met mine, I felt a sudden burning on my cheeks, but was quickly convinced that everyone else's face was as blushed as mine - we were ashamed for our ignorance and terrified for the consequences. It seemed to be a long silence before the professor spoke in a trembling voice:

"I know that you are music students, not academic students, but that is no excuse. Do you read about what's happening in the world? Do you think and care about what's happening around you in your own lifetime?"

Of course we mocked the incident as soon as we left the classroom like any other immature students would do, but what the professor said formed into a stone of guilt, sat heavily on my shoulders. I couldn't deny the truth that I was young, ignorant and narcissistic. I glorified classical music as the only form of so-called High Art that glowed at a sacred and purified artistic level, which none other was able to reach, thus cared little of anything else.

Do you read? Do you think? Do you care?
These words ring in my conscious and unconscious minds ever since, motivating my curiosity and preventing it from being buried under the sands of laziness.

What are you reading, thinking, and caring?

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

A Starbucks Incident



"Tall coffee Frappuccino please."

"Did you know that you could get a medium size with Only 50 cents more? Would you like that?"

"Uh. Sure!"

I never ordered anything larger than a Tall, or else I would have trouble finishing the drink. The cashier lured me into getting my first medium-sized Frap. "Oooonly 50 cents" sounded like a deal or a promotion of the day. Only when I quickly glimpsed the price board as I handed her the money did I realize that there was no special deal! 50 cents extra for one size larger is the normal charge for every type of drinks on the menu!

It has nothing to do with money but everything to do with a subtle manipulation! How could she trick me like that? How could I be so naive to fall for it?

She grinned, didn't even try to restrain her satisfaction from this small victory: "Have a nice day!"

You sneaky little nymph. No tip for you!

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Ear-Plugs (Retry)




Let me hear nothing but my own breathing.
In the waves of each breath,
I am more at peace than a willow tree.

The randomness of poetry,
Could only be understood by a drunken tree.
As its leaves wave and wave at me,
Weep weep, weep, weep,
Rhythm or not,
I am more content than it can ever be.

No one could pierce through my transparency.
I am immune and I am saved.
The ear-plugs promised to protect me.

Oh the sea is slashing and the tree is crying.
Weep weep, weep weep,
I have truly got nothing but this pair of ear-plugs that keeps me safe.
So I put them inside my ears deeply.

While my mind becomes soothing,
I lower my guards and set myself free.
In the moment of so-called heaveness,
I allow myself to weep happily,
Weep weep weep weep,
Just like the willow tree.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Truce

Let us leave it like this:
We have different values.
And call it quit, call it truce.

I wondered what happened to us,
But I already knew the answer.
We have different values.

Value, what an intriguing word.
There is no right or wrong,
Selfish or generous,
Black or white.

We are incapable of understanding each other.
We have different values.
It's okay.
It's really okay.

Believe me that I didn't want to fight.
We fought.
We have different values.
The violence of verbal abuse has done harms,
So we better shut up,
Once for all.

I wish you could promise not to speak
Another word about us.
But that's too big of a request
That it's unfair for me to ask.
What I demand myself can not be demanded on others.

So let us just leave it like this:
We have different values.
And call it quit, call it truce.

Saturday, May 5, 2007

Dream Sequence 5

In the first night, he was with some other woman; second night, a different one. But last night in my dream, he was with me.

I finally understood what happiness really was - a heavenly state in which one could be so peacefully satisfied that there was absolutely nothing more to desire.

He gazed at me lovingly. A incredible sensation filled and expanded every particle in my body. I felt as light as a feather, that even the most gentle breath would lift me up and make me fly.

Our little family. Our little world. Ours. His and mine.

It was real, wasn't it? It felt so real.

Then the dream took a different turn.

Suddenly I was standing in the center of a frozen lake all alone. Skating was never a talent of mine, but I was looking for an entrance or an exit, so I skated on the thick layer of ice. I was free. For a moment, I even thought that I was flying. Yet my heart was heavy and I could feel the warm stream that began to accumulate in my lower eyelids.

When the ice cracked into chunks, I didn't panic as if I had been expecting it to happen. There was neither resistant nor struggle. I allowed my body to sink into the water. It was supposed to be icy-cold, but I felt nothing.

"This is the end." I thought to myself but did not care a bit. Embraced by the water, I closed my eyes and let my consciousness drift away.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

The Wind-Up Bird



It was calling for me in my sleep. The monotonous and persistent chirping patiently dragged me out of my lucid dreams. My ears perked up, trying to determine the direction from which the sound originated. As my other senses began waking up one after another, my eyes unwillingly opened last. Daylight had already broken into the room through my pink curtains. It was 6:17 in the morning.

At first, I thought it must be my neighbor whistling a ridiculous, high-pitched tune. A boring tune that was made of a repeated pitch and an occasionally lower pitch at precisely a minor third apart. Not much longer did it take me to realize that this sound was a rare bird-call rather than a hideous human-produced noise.

I gasped: it was the wind-up bird! I was convinced. A wind-up bird, that's right, the exact one that Haruki Murakami spoke of in his novel The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

What is a wind-up bird anyway? A mechanical toy bird that needs to be winded-up ever-so-often in order to mimic a real bird for the amusement of children?

Murakami gave life to this bird. "To wind-up the spring," he said. The bird and its strange chirp was heard throughout the novel, scattered but significant, each time as a premonition of a catastrophic event.

The bird was a myth. The bird was a legend.

And it was there, just outside my window, chirping away like no one's business. It reigned over other birds, making their chirps only a rhythmical accompaniment.

I hope nothing catastrophic is going to happen. If so, I will have to shoot the wind-up bird down in resentment to its cursed prophecy.

Defending S.A.T.C.



HBO's TV show Sex and the City was a hit alright, only to the female citizens of the United States. Many men expressed their dissatisfaction towards the show. Most of the complaints targeted on the egotistic female perspective reflected by the main characters' luxurious life-style and their attitude of "men are disposable."

The show was indeed controversial. First time on television, the topic of sex was focused as an essential element throughout the series. Blunt, shameless, at times brutal truth of human sexual behaviors blended with a sense of humor in the cleverly written dialogue, freed female viewers from awkwardness in talking about sex. The show was not just controversial. It was brave. It was daring. And it did make a statement.

But it wasn't just about sex. There was rarely any explicit nudity, which might have been disappointing to some male viewers. The show was about relationships and human interactions, from the female perspectives: how women think, feel, react, behave; how irrationally and emotionally they can be, in spite of right or wrong; their habits and their flaws. The facts were vulnerably true, all of them. The small number of men who secretly enjoyed the show might have the potential of making themselves better boyfriends because of their open-minded attitude in finding out what women are truly like. Though, men wouldn't understand SATC and are not expected to understand. HBO should have rated the show as NFM, i.e. Not For Men. But for them to accuse the characters as egotistic were simply an unintelligent mockery out of their own egotistic imbalance.

Please read under the lines, male friends! Everything is slightly more complicated than what it seems. When you thought Carrie or Miranda or Charlotte (excluding Samantha here) were treating men like disposable toothbrushes, they were only trying to take a failed relationship as lightly as possible, in order to protect themselves from being hurt. They were not heartless. Women tend to get attached quicker and deeper. They would give up everything for their loved ones in their search of the "perfect one." And it's not easy. After many heartbreaks, they eventually learn how to be brave. If what it takes to be brave is to say such thing as "men are disposable," please don't take it personally, for they are just trying to comfort themselves from another catastrophic break-up.

So what else were men offended by? Women's independence? Women's successful careers? Women's powers? Don't be offended, because those are true facts in this 21st-century. Men's odd behaviors? Well, yes it was brutal to see them on TV, but let's call it fair, the show equally revealed women's freakish behaviors. "None of the girls are even beautiful." Perhaps, but that's how real life is. You don't end up with cosmetic models, but real women, who might not be perfect, but beautiful in each of their own way. Maybe SATC should have a sequel, from the male perspective, if they'd like to get even.

Now the SATC movie is under the making (which I think would be a failure,) we should expect a full theater of female fans and a few unwillingly presented boyfriends.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

To: My Pilates Trainer




"Keep going, going on ... I can't go on. I will go on."

- Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

Lisa,

You would be so glad to know that I have been practicing Pilates on my own almost every day of this week. The motto posted on the wall at BE center (which I starred at to focus during our sessions) kept me going:

"Within 10 sessions, you'll feel the difference;
another 10 sessions, you will see the difference;
10 sessions more, you'll have a new body."


Now that I've completed about 10 sessions, my changes are apparent to others but unfortunately, imperceptible to me.

Perhaps I have become numb over the years. "What makes me happy" and "what is happiness" are questions that constantly looping in my head. I desperately searched for this so-called happiness so I made myself a list:

Things that Make Me Happy
  • morning coffee, fixed in the way I like.
  • purchase something pink.
  • soft things. towels, blanket, pillows, etc.
  • reading a great book while sun-bathing.
  • the smell of grass.
  • the smell after rain.
  • make a good, hearty meal for myself.
  • a walk in the park.
  • buy a coffee mug.
... ...


See, it takes so little for me to be quite satisfied, and I do enjoy life as I live it. A few years back, I came to realize that it was necessary for me to be alone for a while in search of a kind of self-identity. Independence, you may call it. So that I could determine my happiness without letting those who orbited around me do. Oh but they had done so, in such brutal ways. They had my happiness at their fingertips, lifted and dropped as they wished. It was my own fault, really. I let them. I allowed them. No more of that. My life is in my own hands now and I'm motivated to make it worthwhile. Things have finally come around and I can actually see a future. A future that is colorful and stable, like a beautifully arched rainbow sitting in a distance which I believe I can reach.

But all these happened before my ten sessions of Pilates. I have not changed since then. I learned how to make myself happy and perhaps I was and am happy. Though, there is still this one missing piece in me. Its absence pronounces its presence like a black hole. Slowly, it eats bits of me alive: my patience, my confidence, my optimistic and idealistic believes. Every now and then, I would forget its hidden presence. But when it wants to remind me that it is still there, within my body and my mind, it shatters all the shields I have built for myself.

Life is not about living for one self. At least not to me. I admire those who are satisfied to be alone. As a blind believer of many things, I will go on believing that one day in the near future, I would find that happiness which I seek. And I would be so satisfied that I could even die smiling. Meanwhile, there is always Pilates and our weekly session that keep me going, even though these might not be able to make me anew as promised on that wall, and as I have secretly hoped for.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Dream Sequence 4

"We had a good time together, didn't we?"

"Yah. We were happy. You needed my emotional support as much as I needed yours at the time, so it worked. It worked real well for what it was. Although I have to admit that I idealized you. No. We idealized each other. You really didn't know me. And I can't say that I knew you well enough either."

"I KNEW YOU! Of course I did!"

"I was young. I didn't even know myself."

"You remember us, don't you? You will never forget! I know it. I know that you still keep my letters."

"They are gone, Sam. I threw them out. Letters, E-mails, pictures, promises, dreams."

"I know you kept them..."

"I had to move on. You moved on, why shouldn't I?"

"... but you would always remember us..."

"Yes I would. But I'm not tormented anymore. We broke up both in reality and in my dreams. It took me a long time but I finally got it and I am okay."

"No regrets?"

"I wish I had gone to see you as I promised. I'm sorry that I couldn't. Things might have turned out differently for us."

"You are still the same... didn't change a bit. Are you... happy?"

"I am."

"So this is good-bye...?"

"I guess so. We'll meet again. In another life, perhaps."

"..."

"Take care, Sam."

"... You know I cared for you. I still do and will always do. Remember we said these things at the end? Do you remember? Do you remember?? I never stopped caring for you. Okay FINE. Loving you I meant! Do you hear me? Do you hear what I said?"

"Sam, don't come to my dreams anymore."

"I bet you still love me! Don't you? Don't you?!"

Monday, April 9, 2007

To: E.Y.

You are a mother to be!

I am invaded by so much joy that I simply can not restrain myself. Congratulations, my dearest friend! From this moment on, you are not just a woman and a wife, but a sacred, blessed mortal who is destined to bring a new life into the world.

You are a mother to be!

What an honorable thing! A baby. Not a plant and not a pet, but a tiny little human being with its own potential and life and future and more and more. I cannot yet grasp this concept fully, but I glorify it like those faithful Christians do or at least should do.

You are a mother to be!

I imagine holding your new born with the utmost care - such a precious and delicate little body in my arms, crying and kicking, breathing and living. The thought of this makes me wanting to cry. So I weep, shamelessly, out of true happiness for you and the little seed in your belly.

You are a mother to be!!!

Friday, April 6, 2007

High and Above


Location: Gallery
Floor/Aisle: 6/3
Section: Center Left
Row: J Seat: 119


"Last row here! Yuuup, right there. Noooo need to go any further!"

The usher spoke in a rather sarcastic tone and handed me a program booklet: "Enjoy the concert!"

Gallery in Chicago's Symphony Center, a.k.a the "nose-bleeding" section, exists six flights off from the Main Floor. My luck that day mercilessly destined my seat to be located in the very last row of the Gallery. I was quite aware of the randomness of the seat assignments from last-minute rush tickets. But, Com'ooon... SIX flights up, And the last row? How could it be This bad!

It was a CSO concert that I had looked forward to: Charles Dutoit was to conduct the "Pathetique" Symphony - one of my favorite symphonies by Tchaikovsky.

The air up there was thin and suffocating. Smells of human odors seemed to be fanning at me from different directions like waves. Instantly I felt nauseous.

The seat, let's just say there wasn't much of a view of the stage to be polite, but in fact there was no view at all. Sitting comfortably in a normal human being and chair interaction, I could only see the heads of the percussionists and the empty area behind them, and of course rows and rows of Gallery-mates. I tried to lean forward, but became uneasy to be extremely close with the man sitting in front of me. A sweaty man, I may add, who began to fan himself with the program in hand.

Lights dimmed. An immediate silence took place, so forceful it muted all sounds and movements.

All I could see was darkness.

Quietly, I folded up my seat, and leaned carefully on the edge.

The lit-up stage appeared far below, glowing like a gold mine.

Everything seemed surreal. Those small black dots on stage were constantly moving, but I could hardly associate their movements with the music I was hearing. It was a TV screen. It was the end of a black tunnel. It was the fantasy world through the key hole of Alice in Wonderland.

My legs were getting sore from half-standing. Lisa's voice whispered in my head: "Hug the mid-line..." I pressed them together.

By the end of the first movement, the lower half of my body had already gone sleep. I gave up, I gave up. Sitting down, I closed my eyes and fell back into darkness. But the music, oh the beloved music of Tchaikovsky, lifted me up higher and even higher.

Monday, April 2, 2007

Dream Sequence 3



Says who that men are from Mars and women are from Venus? You and I are not only from the same planet, but are also the same specie.

Yes, you and me. Just us. No one else. Despite the fact that we have not met. Despite that you know neither my name, nor my mere existence.

"We are the same specie!" I said to you when you came into my dream last night, and soon studied your baffled reaction. Your face, resembled that of your picture precisely: fair, kind and somewhat melancholy. And your eyes that conveyed so much emotion silenced me instantly.

We Are the same specie. Please take my words for it. I have fallen in love with your writings. Your thoughts are what I accumulate in my head, and your words reverberate in me, pounding in my heart and throbbing in my vein.

At least we met. Even though it was only a dream. I have said what I needed to say, and that is more than enough.

Sunday, March 4, 2007

Jake's Monologue

If I were a painter, I would brush the canvas with lush colors in attempt to express my joy.
If I were a musician, I would create the most sublime piece to celebrate your presence in my life.
If I were a poet, I would never stop writing, for you would be my muse, my inspiration.

But you see, I am not an artistic man.

I wish I were knowledgeable so that I could fulfill your curiosity by answering all your questions.
I wish I traveled often, and be able to fascinate you with my trips and stories.
I wish I had lived an interesting life. But my life has been so grey until you came along.

The truth is, I am only an ordinary man. Perhaps the most ordinary man you've ever met.

I want to be stronger to protect you from any harm, and funnier to make you laugh. And you ought to know that your laugh is the most precious to me.

Because of you, I desperately want to be a better man. Yet I can only soak in despise for being none of what I wish to be.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Body Endeavor

"Inhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, exhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, inhale..."

This is my third Pilates session. Since last time, my trainer Lisa has picked up the pace in her counting and added 5-10 numbers on each routine to train my endurance.

Not that I didn't believe in exercise before, but purely out of laziness, I against exercising for twenty-some years. Once or twice, the fashionable workout outfits did lure me into fantasizing a run in the park. Kodak this: Reebok black/white top and bottom, Reebok running shoes (yes, I dig everything Reebok,) bottle of water in hand (Reebok bottle of course,) pink iPod on left arm, and hair is tied into a high pony-tail. I actually could be mistaken for a sporty one! Most of these occasional impulses turned into a jog of 2 blocks and out-of-breath for 15 minutes.

"Let's do the 'Hundred.'" Lisa guides my body into the right position - an almost V-shaped pose. "Now pump your arms on the sides of your body. Inhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, exhale, 2, 3... pull your abdominal in and up!"

That was kinda tough.

"Hey Lisa, Why is it called the 'Hundred?'"
"Uh... because you do at least a hundred of the pumping..."
"A Hundred??! Uh oh... I think I only did 30..."
"No. You did 50 just now. Another 50 later."

I guess that's the good thing about having a trainer - they plan it out for you and you actually don't get a chance to slack off.

Men and women in the gym, presumably those in-shaped ones or getting in-shape at least, obtain such a strong will to get through with their exercise routine despite the sweat and the pain. It is really quite admirable.

I am still reluctant to suffer in order to get in shape. That's why I'm settling for Pilates. Some stretches - piece of cake!

Lisa has me sitting on "the chair" to do some legwork. In Pilates, there are several props: the Mat, the Chair, the Cadillac and the Reformer. Except the Mat, all others have some kind of moving carriage and resistant spring attached, oddly reminding me of Cirque de Soleil.

"Push the pedal down with your feet. Accenting the up motion. Let's flow the pace. Fast!"

This is really painful!

"Ten more!" Lisa commands. "Look into the mirror!"

WHAT?!

"Look into the mirror!" She repeats and explains: "Look at your straight posture, tighten your fists...."

For some reason, I am definitely having trouble looking at myself in the mirror while I am ... working out. My eyes shift from side to side, around my blurry image but fail to focus.

"Look at yourself! Look into your eyes!"

This can't be for real. No, I refuse to...

Lisa uses her hands to stabilize my head: "It's okay. Just look. It'll help you to focus."

There I am, in the mirror: no make-up, blushed face, disheveled hair and all. A complete stranger. A stranger who looks like shit.

Not an ideal Kodak moment, obviously. In fact, it would be my worst fear if someone took a picture of that.

So this is what I find most challenging in exercise: accepting what you look like in your worst shape to achieve a better body, better health and better spirit. I've only taken a small step toward that, giving an excuse that this is only my third Pilates lesson.

It's definitely promising though. I could feel it.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Dream Sequence 2

“So what about you? Are you seeing anyone else?”
“No. No. But there is the dream of someone else.”

Somewhere between my conscious and unconscious states, a stranger, tall and handsome, came to me.

It was love at first sight.

The moment he held me, a flow of energy released from the core of my body, and my existence suddenly made sense. Our bodies melted into one and he was the missing piece.

I opened my eyes - it was 6 in the morning.