So much to say in my head, but when I sit down, it all disappears. It’s as if being in front of a blank page, with the all the possibilities before me, is catharsis enough.

Many things to do has left me with little time to write. A trip to Toronto for the long weekend means I have to make sure all my batteries are charged (one for the digital camera, two for the HD camcorder, three sets for the flashes), and my memory cards (two for the digital camera, two for the HD camcorder) are cleared.

Thunder has interrupted this post. I opened up the blinds to see the rainfall, and the light from the street lamps has come spilling into the room. This makes me realize that the hot chocolate candle Shirley gave me for Christmas, along with the glare of my Macbook Pro screen, weren’t doing a great job of illuminating my writing nook. I had Thrice playing, but have turned it down so I can hear the sheets of water pouring through the street.

Got a bunch of stuff done tonight. While picking up some groceries, I was served by a bookish girl with braces. She had a distinct lisp, but carried on ebulliently as if she had the most beautiful voice in the world. Later on, as I walked through the mall, I caught this Katherine-with-a-K slouched back in a seat in the food court, eating dinner with one arm in her lap. It reminded me of an entry I wrote about a girl doing the same thing six years ago. How I wish for that kind of peace and serenity. How long ago that was (university!). How different I was back then.

Been feeling very aloof lately. Not sure if it’s me, or something my mind is doing to protect itself. Maybe it’s a way of disconnecting myself from the world. I must need it right now. This afternoon I was reading from a book of Tai Chi classics Louise bought me, and found one part particularly fitting¹: “Do not be concerned with form. Do not be concerned with the ways in which form manifests. It is best to forget your own existence“.

1. Listed as the first of the Eight Truths of Tai Chi. [↑]

She is the light, I am the prism.

She is the words, I am the voice.

She is the viola string, I am the vibration.

She is the bud, I am the bloom.

She is the life, I am the living.

She is the heart, I am the pulse.

She is the medium, I am the message.

She is the water, I am the waves.

I’m going through another phase where I’m tired of the comfortable stagnancy I’ve created for myself. I need to throw my life into a bit of disorder so I can fix it again.

So amongst the projects that have been occupying most of my time lately, I’ve started making plans to see friends I haven’t seen in a while. It’s about time for another long drive out to Toronto, a trip to John’s cottage, or playing host for dinner-and-a-movie-night.

There’s a different sort of comfort to be found in other people. It’s a different voice, instead of the one in my head. A way of gaining some objectivity. The key is finding right people. Fortunately, my friends all fit this category.

Maybe I’m trying to occupy myself, as a way to stop thinking so much. Maybe I’m just craving a change, because I think it’ll fill a little part of me that’s empty inside.

I have 106 unpublished drafts in my database.

Things I don’t feel like saying. Parts of myself I’m not ready to reveal.

The written word has always been my medium of choice. Photography is only an extension of that, when I need to express myself better than words can let me, and video goes one step further.

Aside from picking up a useful word here and there, I’ve never made a conscious effort to improve my writing. The things I say are taken from my memories, experiences, and thoughts. How I say it is inspired by snippets of Nabokov (when I’m feeling lyrical or verbose), Cohen (when I’m feeling sad or romantic), Herbert (when I’m feeling dry), or Irving (when I’m feeling quirky or honest). The only way I’ve been able to gain any semblance of a writer is by mimicking to the best of my ability the lyrical styles I enjoy the most.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Writing is often a need, not a want. I do it when I’m feeling restless, when I have something to say, when things are unsettled, when I have things to figure out. And the case most often is that life is filled with these moments. Perhaps if I ever find some sort of permanent serenity, I’ll be able to stop.

But I probably wouldn’t want to.

This little vial, along with a few drops of anti-coagulant, is filled with blood. My blood. I needed some for a photography project I’m working on, so I got a friend of mine in the medical industry to take it from me.

Now I’ve both figuratively and literally bled for my work.

When I was young, the only affection my parents ever showed for each other was occasionally (maybe five times ever) holding hands in the car. They never kissed, never hugged, never said “I love you”. Aside from sitting down to eat dinner, their lives were completely separate. They wouldn’t even sleep in the same room.

Now that I have a car, holding hands while driving has come to define a relationship for me. I leave my right hand on the shifter, tapping it to the beat of my music, but I always have this urge to hold someone’s hand, as if it’s some strange ideal I’ve never been able to experience.

Last class, Mike asked how I was doing, and as a somewhat phatic response, I told him I was doing well.

He told me, with a chuckle, that if he didn’t know me any better and went only by my writings, he would imagine me to be like Joe Btfsplk, with a perpetual rain cloud above my head.

So I went home and read through the last couple pages of my entries, and found that they painted a somewhat lugubrious picture.

I’ve always contended that happiness is too hard to write. When I feel like expressing myself, it’s often because of a problem of some sort, internal or external, that I need to figure out. Writing has always been a way for me to get my thoughts in line, and off my chest. Not much of a peaceful, detached, care-free Taoist, am I?

The funny thing is that my life has improved tremendously after therapy. I used to be a very dark person. After gaining the stability of a house and a career, along with separation from my mother, not much else has changed. I’ve come to realize that it’s not so much the things in my life that’s improved in the last few years (aside from the struggle with anxiety), as my attitude. To be honest, I have nothing to complain about.

That doesn’t change the fact that my entries have been somewhat depressing.

Perhaps I’m still not truly happy yet.

Or perhaps I’m still not looking at things the right way.

 

For Canada’s 141st, Aaron had the regular characters over, along with some new faces, for the annual barbecue. We stayed outside this time, lawn chairs in a semi-circle while the burgers and dogs were being cooked, and took it easy while the sun bathed us.

It was a beautiful day; sunny, with a refreshing breeze blowing through the air.

I don’t get to do this often enough.

Which is why we can never truly prepare ourselves. We may see it coming, we may understand why, but that never makes it any easier.

Every day is a chance to heal.

The blinds are open so I can see outside.

Secretly, I hope a face from one of the windows will appear and look outside, someone who’s thinking the same thing, so that I may not be so alone. A way of comforting myself, when I’m by myself in this veneer of a house.

I’m not sure if it’s working.

If you beat a dog, don’t be surprised if he runs away.

—letter to my uncle, March 2008

When I was a child my mom would always ask me if I’d let her live in a nursing home. She would do this as a form of reassurance, a way of addressing her insecurity about dying alone. To Chinese people, this is a fate worse than death. I understand that there may be medical conditions or other circumstances that make it impractical for a family member to live in your house, but that doesn’t change the fact that being put in a nursing home is like waiting to die.

At the time, I was too young to understand the gravity of such a question, so I would always reassure her, no. Maybe I even loved her at that point, and meant it. But I’ve since cut off all ties with her, and after the divorce, she has no one left. Her relatives lead their own lives, and she’s never had enough of a personality to make any friends. I’ve lived with her long enough to understand what a hollow, empty existence she has.

Now I’m old enough to know that she’ll die alone.

And that it’ll be exactly what she deserves.

In the dark, our bodies fit like puzzle pieces — face in neck, crest in valley, curve in curve. I’m completely vulnerable when she lets me love her like this. She brings my guard down.

It’s the way she makes me happy without trying. The way I’m filled with tenderness every time I feel the warmth of her skin against mine. The way her existence gives me hope for the rest of the world.

If I chose to fall back on old habits and kept my distance to protect myself, I wouldn’t know this ineffable feeling. I may get hurt, but it’s worth every moment I can be next to her.

Maybe she’s right, and I’ll feel differently by the time it’s necessary. Until then, there’s no use in fighting it.

My heart never gave me a choice.

I should really be in bed, but whatever.

Tonight I dug up a letter John sent me a few months ago after he hurt me like never before:

I’ve been reading your blog and calling you all weekend…I know you need attention and I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful of you that it’s reminded you of the way your parents treated you. Please stop contemplating suicide as a realistic course of action in order to remedy the problem. I love you and would really miss you and at the end of the day in a selfish way I’m scared that I’d hate you if you left me here by myself feeling as guilty as I’d feel if you did it. I think you have fundamentally misordered the priorities we all come hardwired with. To rank the absence of sadness or the presence of happiness or whatever suicide would gain you as goals higher than survival is the first error and then to seek those first goals using the methodology of suicide is the second. You’re a little Chinese man who drinks fruit shakes and is definitely intended to live longer than the genetically predisposed to die in his early 50’s Caucasoid over here. Lets keep it that way shall we, I haven’t got your eulogy polished to nearly the degree you’d want it to be.

At the time, I couldn’t get past the first few sentences because the pain was too fresh. And his words too poignant. Whereas I’m very vocal with my feelings, John is the opposite, and for him to say these things made me feel like my heart would burst. I read it tonight because I wanted to be reminded that I’m important to someone, the way I need to be.

It made me realize that a little part of me still defines myself through others. But I don’t care anymore. I have someone who loves and needs me the way I love and need him. That’s what matters. That’s what makes me feel important, like my life means something.

Knowing this brings me a great deal of comfort.

And that will be enough to get me through.

(I wonder what he’ll say at my eulogy.)

Sometimes, life moves too fast for words.