RVB

The Young Suspect

2009-09-20T10:23:00.011-05:00

As the murder case of Annie unraveled, all seemed to pin down one suspect, the 24-year-old Ray. He had stayed silent - there was not a footage of him speaking, which made everyone guess his nature, character, and temperament. But from the various pictures, he seemed to be just an ordinary young man: tall, rather handsome, perhaps a little introverted at times, but nevertheless outgoing when surrounded by friends and family. His life up to this point was pleasant and stable to the outsiders. With a job that paid, a dog to pet, and a girlfriend whom he was to marry, he was on his way to start a family. Within a week, all that had become merely a vapor. Dreams, ambitions, shattered, gone. At such a young age, he could soon be put behind the bars for a lifetime, and to the worst, even be executed abiding CT's death penalty for murders.

What had he done? What happened that day in the lab? What was his relationship with Annie? How did he just lose his mind and threw his life away? How could he commit to such crime? Was it an accident? Why didn't he come forward and confess?

Before he is put on trial and before he is convicted as a murderer, these unanswered questions merge into a thin, invisible wall, giving him a slight protection from the large community who mourns over the tragic death of Annie. If Ray was to seek sympathy, he would be terribly disappointed. If he did what he is accused of doing, it was him who threw his own life away, unlike Annie whose life was ended unwillingly by another. Unless it wasn't him, then he better prove it.

What has our world become? When did civilized, intelligent human beings decide that it is easy and okay to end another's life? Why has violence magnified and multiplied?

The media was doing what it does best: take any sip of information, exaggerate it and spread. Ray's terrifying halloween picture of him dressed and face painted like a devil was featured frequently. Although some of the testimonies from his friends backed him up with neutral and even positive remarks, the media seemed to focus on the small negative comments from people who didn't know him well such as the neighbors. As a result of such bias, the community was insanely outraged toward Ray. They responded to this cruelty with cruelty. "Kill him like how he killed Annie" said one reader on an online coverage. It was followed by another, yet another, and countless vulgar comments: "Put him on the hot chair", "he deserves to be put on death penalty", etc. These comments disturbingly received popular votes. While you wonder why people lose their moral sense and kill each other, it's clear that anyone who was capable of saying such things are capable of killing under circumstances.

The disease has permeated and it is officially incurable.

Letter to Lisa

2009-09-14T12:10:00.004-05:00

Dear Lisa,

I am sorry that I never called. You probably thought that I just disappeared and how unfair of me to leave without a proper goodbye. The thought of picking up the phone and dialing your number crossed my mind so often, but as each day progressed, it seemed more reasonable to write instead. I have searched for your e-mail address, or even looked up Kisha's studio to see whether I could get your mailing address, yet nothing came up. A year has gone by without contacting you, and now even calling becomes unrealistic.

You've taught me so much about happiness that I could not have learned otherwise. Without you, everything is so difficult. I try and keep on trying, but can only find my true self in these worthless sobbing words. Then all start from zero the moment I begin to sympathize my little insignificant soul. I fall, far into the bottomless darkness, and let the timelessness take over my fear. If I were lucky, if God allows, let me remember your voice so that I regain something to hold on to. You see, I couldn't call you, and I couldn't say goodbye. I fear that our goodbye will erase you from my memory, and I need you so to remind me of my worth. So, Lisa, please forgive me for being rude and heartless. I am too selfish to let you go.

yours truly.

Box and Box

2009-07-30T14:06:00.007-05:00

Location: Outdoor Tent
Event: Classical Concert
Time: Intermission

"Hey, those box seats are empty. Wanna move up to sit in the box?"

"No. I am not a bento item."

"......"

A Cat's Prayer

2009-07-08T22:50:00.015-05:00

Dear God, meo-wo
Would you fill my bowl please?
It is empty
It was full
Only moments ago
Could it be full again? meo-wo-wo
Could it stay full?

I pray that limitless treats
Await me
I will happily accept any
Flavor you grant
Tuna, meow
Chicken, meow
Cheese, meo-wowo

Days go by with too many
Interruptions
Foodless intermissions
Rejections

So
I
Sit

Respectably
In front of my food bowl
Praying, meow-wo
Waiting
For your mercy to pour
Over me

Tell me how I can try harder
Should I purr more?
Meow more? Meow meow
Play cuter?
Let humans to hold me longer?
1 second?
5 to the most
Meow, meow-wo

My Lord, hear my prayer please
I close my eyes
(Concentration it takes)
Would you grant my wish and fill my
Bowl?

Meow-wo-wo

Three Bridesmaid

2009-03-08T16:31:00.012-05:00

On Sherly's 23rd birthday, she moped: "What am I gonna do? I'll be 25 and unmarried."

"Oh com'on!" My impatience broke through,"Don't be pathetic - people these days are not getting married until they are in their 30s and 40s! Why would you want to be settled this early?"

"My mom had me when she was 27!"

"SO?! Things are different now! Besides, you are beautiful, talented, and young. I'm sure many people will want to marry you, when the time is ready."

"But why doesn't he want to then?"

Poor Sherly. Pete was just not the one for her. She tried hard to make him commit. Everyone could've told her that Pete got scared, and her church-going didn't earn her enough brownie points.

A month later, she took a bold decision of leaving the country. In the foreign land of the east, she met a man under God's eyes. Things happened so fast. He proposed a few weeks after meeting her. Sherly insisted on getting married before she turned 25. Her wish was answered with a splendid wedding. Right before she walked that aisle, she let out a long sigh of relief.

I made it. I'm safe now.

Goodbye, Nana.

2009-02-13T14:20:00.005-06:00

February 12, 2009
"Where have you been? Couldn't get hold of you for days. Nana passed. We just came back from the cremation service. She couldn't breath at the end, and probably died from suffocation. Cancer, you know. It was all over her lungs. Hm..? No. No last words. Yeah... Chu was crying."

January 30, 2009
We were going to visit Nana today. This would be the last time we see her, but everyone kept that to themselves.

Dad was concerned about what to bring. Fruits? She couldn't eat. Health products? There would be no point. Mom was skeptical about flowers, but I thought it would be nice. We stopped by a flower store on the way, and picked out 3 bouquets of tulips. They were bright orange with golden rims.

When we arrived, Chu's wife opened the door. She was about to head out with the daughter to visit some relatives. It was the 5th day into the lunar new year. According to the tradition, each family supposed to pay respects door to door among friends and relatives. Firecrackers were going crazy outside. It was going to be that way for 15 days altogether. I couldn't bare.

The wife said: "Such a torture. Whatever disease there might be, don't anyone get this."

Chu was sitting there, quieter than usual. He greeted us with a faint smile. I believe that was the best he could give that day.

Through the narrow hallway, we walked into a small room where Nana was.

"Nana, we are here to see you!"
"Nana, look at the flowers! Aren't they beautiful? They are for you!"

Lying on the bed, she was not the Nana that I remembered. Her shriveled body was in a rather awkward position, but she was too weak to adjust it.

She couldn't take her eyes off from the tulips. They were exquisitely beautiful for her. There were so many of them that we had to use three vases. Her room suddenly lit up with a little energy, a little liveliness.

"Nana" Dad said, "I'm here to pay you repect - happy new year!"

"Kneel in front of me then." Nana replied. Her voice was weak, yet commending.

thud. Dad kneeled without a second thought.

This was not the Nana I remembered.

Mom broke the uncomfortable silence, "Nana, how are you feeling these days?"

"Not good. None of what a human being does feels right."

"Nana, look what I brought you." I suddenly remember of the CD which I burned for her. "Remember you said that you didn't know what I was writing my paper on? Ravel's La Valse. See, I put it on track 5 for you."

Chu brought over a laptop, and we quickly set up the audio for her. The firecrackers were too loud, so we plugged in a headset. The disc was playing. Nana closed her eyes. Her hands began conducting to the beats. She seemed more relaxed and more at peace.

"Ma loves music." Chu said, then sighed.

When Nana was enjoying the music, dad asked about her condition. Chu thought it was matter of days now. He told dad not to be too somber: "Everyone has this day. It would be a relief too when she goes."

I watched Nana from a short distance. She was still waving her arms to the music. Such energy and conviction were coming through these little movements. I leaned over to see if the music was still playing.

"No." She commended. She didn't want me close. She was self-conscious about her smell.

My heart felt heavy. How could she be so helpless, lying there and waiting to be taken away?

I sat there next to her for a long time, during which she said not a word to me, but was immersed in the music.

Then she felt tired. "We should go and let her rest." Mom suggested. We all shook hands with her, each and every of us. Her hand brushed by. It was the last moment that I'd ever remember of Nana.

December, 2008
"Hello? Nana? It's me! I'm calling from America! How are you..."

"Child! Nana misses you... But don't let this burden you..."

"Nana, I'm coming back for the new year. I'll come to visit you. Hanging on there..."

"I'm going to try my best to wait for you."

Bedtime

2008-12-09T20:52:00.006-06:00

What is this restlessness that gnaws my nerve?
I bite my nails
My fingertips bleed

I can feel the blood running through
My each and every vein
I am too tired to scream
My body could burst
I could rest

Could you hum me a tune please?
A nice tune
Soft and swaying
I close my eyes
My feet are dancing

Regrets

2008-09-24T13:09:00.003-05:00

"Life is like a dream. Sometimes I think I'm still dreaming."

Nana,

They told me that you fell the other day and broke your leg. You are in a fragile state right now - don't get me wrong, by fragile I meant your health, not your spirit. Should it Never be your spirit... Please listen to the doctors and let them take care of you. Mom said that you were complaining about difficulty in breathing. They couldn't tell you. Don't blame them. Yes it has spread to your lungs... You already knew.

You've always been optimistic and brave. But now at the final hours of life, what are going through your mind? You told me that you had a good life and there was nothing else you would ask for. But Nana, are you sad? Are you scared? I try to empathize (you hate sympathies,) yet could not comprehend what it would be like to face death. Forgive me for not able to ease your pain. And forgive me for failing to understand what you are going through.

Perhaps you had no regrets, but allow me to tell you mine.

I regret that I wasn't around much to get to know you better. You have always been my favorite relative whom I never once dreaded to visit. You are an intelligent woman and a wonderful human being. It always amazes me that you speak such fluent english and have a broad knowledge in art, history, music, or anything else, while ironically, you lived in a sexist country where women had no education or social status. How did you do it?

I regret that I wasn't around to help you to write a memoir. You gave up on the idea because of your eyesight. Nana, I would sit down with you and record everything you have to say. I would. I really wanted to.

I regret that we never finish our conversation about religion. When I saw you this summer, you told me about your relationship with God. Nana, your english was so good and your story intrigued me: you were once a young devoted christian. When science and evolution seemed to contradict with what you faithfully believed, you were hurt. Then the amount of guilt that was piling up on your shoulders became too heavy for you to bear. So one day, you prayed to God: "Father, take my life tonight. Let my death be an evidence of your powerful existence." You left a note under the pillow explaining your death, then prayed, cried, and prayed more. How young and naive you were. He would not take your life because he loved you too much. In the morning, as you woke up finding that you were still living and breathing, you tore up the note and began living your life as an atheist.

Oh Nana, I wish we could talk more that day about this. We haven't even got the chance to talk about the years you lived by yourself after your husband's fatal accident. There are so much more I want to know about you. I regret that I didn't visit you again as I said I would. I regret to overlook the importance of our last meeting. But more so, I will soon regret for not having enough courage to send you this letter.

Nana, please hanging there and be strong. You will truly be missed.

Love always,

M

Flaws

2008-09-22T19:45:00.012-05:00

I want to tell you what my flaws are
Except you already knew them so well

But please allow me to reiterate
My imperfection
I will confess them with honesty and sincerity

Would you
Love me for who I am -
That's the idea that people like to impose
Before fleeting away
Hastily

You are still here
I want you to stay

So here we go with the flaws:
Irrational, emotional, temperamental, jealous, insecure
Everything I despise about myself
Nothing that you don't already know

What I hope is to obtain your love
Eternally
Even though my confession might seem to be a strange
Approach
And what I ask for is rather shameless and selfish

Will you
Love me for who I am
For a lifetime and more?

The Falling Psychiatrist

2007-07-18T01:48:00.001-05:00

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?"

Moon Fantasy

2007-07-15T01:08:00.000-05:00

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

Fear

2007-07-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

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.

"Oh God, there is no God."

2007-07-06T14:17:00.000-05:00

"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."

"The Cicadas are Coming!"

2007-06-16T19:31:00.001-05:00

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.

Mean Santa

2007-06-07T13:43:00.000-05:00

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

Testimonial on Tony's Behalf

2007-05-27T03:09:00.000-05:00

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.

Lost

2007-05-26T15:05:00.000-05:00

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.

Curiosity Mustn't Die

2007-05-24T09:18:00.000-05:00

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?

A Starbucks Incident

2007-05-22T13:02:00.000-05:00

"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!

Ear-Plugs (Retry)

2007-05-20T01:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Truce

2007-05-16T14:07:00.000-05:00

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.

Dream Sequence 5

2007-05-05T18:58:00.000-05:00

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.

The Wind-Up Bird

2007-05-03T23:27:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-05-03T02:27:00.000-05:00

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.

To: My Pilates Trainer

2007-04-25T13:38:00.000-05:00

"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.

Dream Sequence 4

2007-04-19T14:47:00.000-05:00

"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?!"

To: E.Y.

2007-04-09T21:08:00.000-05:00

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!!!

High and Above

2007-04-06T18:28:00.000-05:00

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.

Dream Sequence 3

2007-04-02T01:07:00.000-05:00

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.

Jake's Monologue

2007-03-04T12:25:00.000-06:00

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.

Body Endeavor

2007-02-27T16:35:00.001-06:00

"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.

Dream Sequence 2

2007-02-21T12:05:00.000-06:00

“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.

My Dear Friend...

2006-01-10T00:43:00.000-06:00

My dear friend…

You need not to be overly critical on yourself. The fault is not yours, and the pain is not for you to embrace alone. Watching you sink deeper into despair, I only wish that you could accept who you are and realize that you are truly blessed.

Stop seeking the flaws in you, for you will only hurt yourself more. Don’t you know how fragile you are? After each turmoil, you cling onto the little strength there is left, barely standing with nowhere and no one to lean on. Then you face your worst critic – yourself. Shutting everyone out and accepting the brutal self-critic alone, you become the most pathetic and the loneliest soul.

We shouldn’t be this lonely… We should never make ourselves lonelier than we already are…

Don’t undervalue yourself and please don’t give up. It is our biggest task to keep an optimistic spirit no matter how rough things are. Things will get better as long as you believe in yourself.

Addiction

2005-10-24T00:42:00.000-05:00

Do you know the game Snood?

I can't figure out why this game is so addictive. Is it the weird faces and their peculiar names? Jake, Zod, Mildred, Sunny, Midoribe, Geji, and Spike - they grind their teeth, stick out their tongues, and make faces that push your button just a little.

Could it be the mischievous satisfaction of playing it for free till the limited rounds are used up? The vicious poems at the end of each level and the "pleeease" that is sung by a chorus of snoods surely do make you feel guilty, though there still will not be payments - ever. Apology to Dave Dobson - the creator of Snood!

Whatever it is, I find myself spending hours and hours on the game in trying to break my own record. The curiosity of what the highest score that ever existed aggravates my obsession.

So I dragged it into "trash" - numerous times, since it somehow always got dragged Out of "trash". Then I decided to delete it permanently.

The latest news is that, Snood is "re-born" once again on my computer - it's material for this blog entry! On a second thought, did I choose to write about Snood only because it was a perfect excuse for me to download it again?

"Hello everyone, I am a snood-addict..."

Dream Sequence 1

2005-10-22T00:40:00.000-05:00

There she was, more beautiful than I feared her to be, standing closely by your side and quietly completed you. I wanted to be her so badly so that you would look into my eyes with the same warmness and tenderness. What had once belonged to me was now gone and I could only watch it with envy from far. The truth was, she was perfect. Even though I could not gather enough courage to tell you, but I had told myself so over and over in my head. And I finally understood: you and her belonged together.

So I left the scene alone. Yet the dream went on: you came to me in tears and you said that you were sorry. Watching you cry only hurt me more. I put my arms around you, wanting to cry but unable to shed any tear, wanting to speak but nothing sounded. I was exhausted and consumed. There was nothing left of me except a wounded heart and an aching soul.

Postlude to A History of Violence

2005-10-07T00:39:00.000-05:00

What a hypocrite that you are! You have talked and talked about your dislikes, yet turning around to praise highly of what you hated. Don't you see, you are becoming one of those people while I am cherishing you as a dear friend.

Yes, I have always treated you with much care despite all of your mishaps toward me. You are blind, for you speak much of friendship though never once have looked around you. I could care for you more and I have always wanted to care for you more. Why wouldn't you let me enter your world and allow me to ease your pain?

You never understood me, never even tried to. But why would you? I should curse myself for always quietly being there and letting you know that you could count on me no matter what happens. This vulnerability is the ultimate stupidity on my behalf. How naive I am as I offer you everything that I can give, but expect only your honesty in return. Yet you still manage to fail this smallest request.

Please do not speak of your hurtful experiences, for you have also hurt others.

Back to Uncivilization

2005-09-28T00:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish we are not civilized and educated so we can't over-analyze our feelings and emotions. Sometimes I wish we had the IQ of below normal, so we wouldn’t pity ourselves even when others do.

It's dangerous to dig in deeper and deeper - how can one possibly save him/herself when the conscience of struggle is lost for good? Any surfacing changes are only temporary relieves and cures. But when those are gone, you fall back into the routine and being sucked into that quicksand even faster than ever.

Why do we torture ourselves this way? It's abusive and it has got to stop. IT HAS TO STOP IT HAS TO STOP IT HAS TO STOP!!! And we all know that the only person who can save us is the person you see in the mirror.

Blank out, space out, think nothing, be un-intelligent for a change - you might actually find it refreshing. Most importantly, love yourself so others can love you.

The Death of A Centipede

2005-09-19T00:39:00.000-05:00

I just committed murder...

It appeared from nowhere and crawled quickly with its 60-some legs toward a hiding spot - the dark space behind my bulletin board.

This centipede was by far the largest I had ever seen. It was over 2 1/2 inches long, and its legs looked like fake eyelashes in extended-length. The three-seconds glimpse of this creature terrified me and I knew that it had to be killed in exchange for a peaceful night out of my own selfishness. As I lifted up the bulletin board, I couldn't help but to scream and scream. I hated the fact that I had to do it and I hated myself for being the weakling who feared this long-legged intruder. Four sheets of paper-towels in my hand, I pressed as hard as I could onto the wall, crushing its little body. Instantly, a wave of sadness hit me and I felt an urge to cry.

I wish that someone else was there besides me, someone who was brave enough to save this creature from being killed under my bare hands.

The Unfortunate Specie

2005-08-06T11:18:00.000-05:00

Why do mosquitoes exist?

They do not benefit the world or the nature in any way that I can think of (for example, bees produce honey and some others help to spread flower seeds); unlike some insects who do not cause any harm but only to live in their own terms, vicious bites and transmitting disease are what they are famous for.

Mosquitoes are what I call the "mini-vampires". In order to generate batches of eggs, the female ones have to seek for blood meal. We the humans obviously are a good blood source for them. Of course, the poor little species are doing what they are made to do, and have absolutely no control over their own habitual. Just like the humans and any other type of living species, they do anything to live regardless how short their life cycle is.

Nevertheless, the "millions" of bites that I get from them are unforgivable. They sting you before you realize it; they get away with a full stomach and leave you a swollen bump that itches for days; above all, if any of them unfortunately dies under my palm, the dead little body always manages to make me feeling a second of guilt for killing such a small, helpless creature.

If Noah's Ark was a true story, he shouldn't have let the mosquitoes to sneak into the boat. It was a mistake... indeed...

Domestic Warfare

2005-04-12T23:16:00.000-05:00

It all started when ants decided to invade my apartment over the weekend. Everything was carefully planned. First, they sent in a few "pawns" to investigate the apartment. I spotted one of them in the bathroom and terminated it without a question. There must be others that escaped my eyes. But they were there, perhaps hiding somewhere in the corners, watching the giant human being walking around in the room, and praying not to be spotted like their lost ones.

They waited and waited... Then, I left for the weekend. They knew it was the perfect time for the invasion. It could not be missed.

I returned from my trip two days later. Exhausted from the train ride, I was more than glad to be home. As I sat down and flipped open my laptop, a black shadow passed in front of my eyes so fast that it disappeared within the blink of eyes. "Shit.." I quickly grabbed some tissue paper, lifted up my laptop to hunt whatever that shadow was. What I found, was not one, but fifteen of them, hiding under my laptop!

Angry and disgusted, I was determined to kill every single ant on my desk. However, I underestimated them: they were Not easy to kill. Somehow, they managed to come back to life even though I used many ways to "finger-press" them with tissue papers! The "army" of ants... they put up such a good fight.

My desk was clear after 10 minutes. How did they get onto my desk...? And where were they coming from? All of the sudden, I gasped as my eyes starred at my bed: "What are those moving things...?!"

For the next hour, I stood by my bed, killing every ant I saw, one after another. There was no end to it - they just kept coming.

Unable to handle this all by myself, I called for rescue. Raf came in and quickly found the ant's entrance to my apartment. It was the window near the bed. They came in through cracks, slide down to my bed from the cord of my alarm clock, then got to my desk. Raf lifted up the alarm clock... there were too many underneath that I couldn't bring myself to take a second glance.

"This is gonna be a massacre!" Raf declared. He covered the "creatures" with some paper towel, followed by a series of heavy poundings. The rest, is not appropriate for me to describe.

We sealed the crack on the window, sprayed some Raid and set ant traps. That was the end of the war. It was brutal... indeed.

I had to terminate them. When I was young, the movie "Killer Ants" traumatized me; therefore, it was Not acceptable for a massive amount of them to intrude my apartment. I spent my night at my cousin's. Now that I'm back here, writing this post in my bed, I keep being alert to any moving objects in the room and terrified that they might crawl all over me. Ants, they might return for revenge. But for the time being, Raid will keep them out; and the possible return of the ants will haunt me during my sleeps.

Memory Elapse

2005-04-11T02:25:00.000-05:00

The recurring nightmare came to me last night. In my dream, my cat died all over again. She held in her last deep breath, then her little body hopelessly collapsed on the floor. I woke up feeling disoriented.

My friend tried to comfort me: "You will forget it soon." I fell into silence.

I can't forget, and I don't want to forget. I am terrified that one day I would wake up, and not remembering what she was like and what she meant to me. The thought of losing her eternally in my memory tears me apart.

The flashbacks of her last days are so vivid as if it was yesterday. It causes me tremendous pain each time I allow myself to bring back the memory. Yet I'd rather miss her terribly much than not remembering her.

So then, let be the nightmare. It can come and go as it wishes.

The Perfect Break-Up

2005-03-30T00:28:00.000-06:00

It just occurs to me that Meg Ryan makes break-up seem like a breeze. Have you noticed in Sleepless In Seattle, her break-up with Walter (the allergic-to-everything-guy) is exactly the same as her break-up with Frank (the typewriter-obsessive-guy) in You've Got Mail? In both movies, she sits down in a fancy restaurant with her boyfriend. At certain point, someone awkwardly brings up the fact that he or she doesn't love the other person. The other person coincidently feels the same and then happily accepts the break-up. They continue their conversation as if they are old friends with no hard feelings or-so-ever. The "magic" of romantic comedy makes Meg Ryan one lucky woman: she either flees away to meet Sam, or she claims that she has the "dream of someone else" and meets her 'dream" soon after.

I wonder what the purpose of romantic comedy is. Is it a hopeful reminder of the existence of romance or is it a sarcastic laughter towards real-life relationships?

After each break-up, we often tell ourselves and each other that "there's no easy break-ups", "no better ways to do it", or "no good time to do it". The pain level depends on how much the other person means to you, and it varies from 1 day up to 5 years. Regardless how long it takes one person to be okay with the break-up, there is still a process that everyone goes through.

Apparently, Meg Ryan doesn't need to go through anything!!! At the end of her movies, when "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" comes up in the background, I find myself unable to control the "water-works". I wipe off the tears on my face, resentfully: "This is bullshit..."

Pulper versus Non-Pulper

2005-03-16T23:00:00.000-06:00

I was approached by a friend one day: "Pulp or no pulp?" It was referring to orange juice, of course. "Pulp. Lots of pulp." I answered confidently.

"Pulp, lots of pulp" sounds like "Bond, James Bond". The way it is phrased puts an extra emphasis on the statement that makes it sounds more determined and convincing. There is absolutely no alternative for me. "Pulp, some pulp" or "no pulp, no pulp" simply do not work nearly as effective.

Just like many other things, we are divided into Pulpers and Non-pulpers based on our personal choices. Personally, I like the chewy-ness of pulps. It re-assures me that the drink is made out of real oranges. The pulp is such an important feature that distinguishes orange juice from other (for example, Fanta) orange-flavored drinks. Therefore, "no pulp" to me is not acceptable. Although, the worst has to be "some pulp." What is the point of having a few of them swimming around in your mouth?? They say there is no such thing as black and white. But in the case of orange juice, you are either Pulper or Non-pulper, there is no in between.

And I am proud of being a Pulper!