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.

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?

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.

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.

Addiction

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..."