A few snaps of Jeff and Darren from a quick shoot last night. I never realized how much I need my new 70–200mm lens after getting a full-frame camera; 70mm is much too short, even in my small studio room.
It’s strange to see so much natural vignetting. I’m not sure if it’s the lens or the way the light falls off when spread across the background from one direction.
Got my new tenor ukulele and it’s an absolutely gorgeous instrument, although I’m sure that’s related to the cost1. After a few weeks of trying out the Aquila’s they came with, I put on some Worth brown strings with the low-G.
Study in A Minor is a great piece to learn because it’s relatively simple (so I don’t get discouraged too easily), but there are three tricky parts to focus on improving. They’re also each difficult in their own way, gradually working the dexterity or flexibility in a certain finger or two.
I wanted to film this as a record of the way the ukulele sounds now; it’s a solid lacewood spruce body, so the tone will develop over time as the wood matures. Also, so I can have a quick reference of what it sounds like with longer nails on the picking hand (which were promptly cut after, because they were driving me nuts). It’s relatively clear sound, whereas without nails it’s sort of “wet”.
I first learned this on a soprano ukulele, and I had to retrain my fingers to stretch on the tenor. It was a BIG difference, and I didn’t think my fingers would stretch far enough at first.
It feels amazing to practice something for weeks, and to finally have it click one day. Then you never want to stop playing cause you’re afraid you may lose it the next day.
I’ve only shared about two conversations in my life with Chris — the last of which was about seven years ago — owing to the fact that we live on opposite coasts of the country. But Darren and I recognized him as one of us: someone who thinks for himself and doesn’t buy into the whole Chinese culture unquestioningly. This is in contrast to many of our other cousins, who seem to love their parents simply because they were birthed by them, not necessarily because their parents are good people.
Chris happened to be passing by for a wedding, so I hosted him for two days. It was interesting to meet him at this point in our lives. I wonder if I’m actually more similar to Chris than I am to Darren, mainly because of how our creativity defines us. It was so easy for me to relate and talk to him. And as with Darren, I actually felt like Chris was family, closer to a brother than a cousin, which is all too rare among my blood.
As an industrial designer he does amazing drawings, full of vibrant colours that pop-off the page. I asked him to draw something on my dry erase board because drawing is a creative ability not in my possession, and I find the process fascinating. It was a logistical challenge because he would smear his existing work every time he rested his hand on the board for stability.
He’s my exact opposite when it comes to health. He’s a vegan, while I’d find it impossible to give up meat, let alone butter and ice cream. He just literally biked 100km a day across Canada, while my lifestyle could be considered sedentary at best, with only Tai Chi and some mild calisthenics in my exercise routine. And yet we’re the same weight and shape. It’s sort of eerie to see him drawing in this video; aside from a shorter haircut, it’s almost like I’m watching myself.
The time he spent here passed quickly, as I introduced him to the ukulele. Aside from catching up and learning about each other, most of the two days were spent experimenting and playing together. Eventually, we went to a music store and bought him his own Mahalo ukulele, which filled my heart with glee. Darren and Jeff are coming up for a visit next week, and hopefully Chris will be able to hitch a ride with them for our ukulele band before we all head back to Toronto for Crystal’s wedding.
The tears and the smears on my glasses which I look through to type this are telling me I’m still not over her. Or perhaps, the idea of her, because she had always held back a part of herself from being mine completely.
This is what happens when a true friend stabs you in the front. I guess I’ve been avoiding these thoughts for a while now, and confronted with them in conversation, the reality has never been more clear.
I’m still a broken man.
Even with the mixed signals, the inconsistency, and the pain, it was still the most significant relationship I’ve ever had, and that’s what makes it so hard to let go. My other relationships may have been free of all the drama, but they also lacked the depth, intensity, and intimacy.
There’s nothing I would have changed but the end, which dragged on for a year, one suture ripped out after another. It was far from a clean break, and anything but resolution.
I know I wasn’t the only person to go through the pain of separation, but the break wasn’t supposed to last forever. I was willing to step away so I could heal and be strong enough to be friends in time, to be there for her, to be ready to accept the next guy. And most importantly, I was willing to come back.
She was supposed to be strong enough to let me go until I was ready.
I believed her.
Why couldn’t it have ended that night, instead of the mindfuck that continued for months after? Why couldn’t the last thing for her to leave me be the letter she wrote on the stationary I gave her? Why couldn’t she have kept the promise she made to do whatever it took to keep me in her life, and stayed away?
We haven’t seen each other in over half a year. It’s been even longer since we had an actual conversation. It’s time for me to wake the fuck up. It’s time for me to deal with my emotions and the reality of the situation. It’s time for me to move on instead of holding on. It’s time for me to understand that I’ll never be what she needs, and she’ll never accept me as I am.
It’s time for me to realize that it’s over.
Music has always been a big part of my life, so it’s strange to consider the fact that I only seriously took up an instrument the year I’m turning 30, which I generally consider late to be starting anything new.
I used to play piano and flute, but that was never really my choice. For the former, it was more of my mom wanting me to be a good Chinese boy, and me not wanting to let her down. When it came to the latter, my school had a strong emphasis on arts, and either visual arts or music were mandatory. I chose music1, and played the flute; far from ideal for a teenager going through puberty and an identity crisis.
I bought my first ukulele a few months ago, and I don’t think I’ve stopped playing since.
Jammin’ in my jammies. With what may possibly be an erection.
Photo by Jess.
So much of my life has been filled by those four little strings. It’s an entirely new medium I’m still exploring, a muscle I’d yet to flex, a way of expressing myself that’s so unlike any of my other outlets.
I get pains in my fingers and wrists from playing too much, so I structure my life around the breaks; doing laundry, writing, cleaning my room, sorting my paperwork until the tingling or pinching goes away. The pads of my fingers are dead. I used to fall asleep thinking of her — now I work out scale patterns and chords across the fretboard in my head until I pass out. I even decided to make the ultimate commitment and grow out the nails on my strumming hand because the longer they get, the more pleased I am with the sound (and I find both long nails and asymmetry absolutely disgusting).
It’s come to the point where I’d rather play ukulele than play games, or go out, or talk to people. I love playing so much that I enjoy it even though I’m still no good at it.
I turn 30 in three months, and music is my hot hot bath, my dead end, and my girlfriend.
My lack of writing about her lately hasn’t been an avoidance of the subject, or an attempt to feign some kind of detachment. It’s because my thoughts about her never fully form anymore. Or they come in little bits and pieces, lingering memories in an off-guard moment.
The careful steps I took to avoid the loose tile on the path to her house, so as not to wake anyone when leaving letters in her mailbox. Her saccharine voice when she’d ask what I was thinking, and the first time I couldn’t lie (I’m thinking about how in love with you I am). A tear we shared, as it rolled from my eye to hers. I’ll even catch that uncontrolled giggle of hers in the melody of a song that drifts in the air. So many details found in the sublimity of our time together that I told myself never to forget.
Maybe that’s why it’s still hard not to think about her. Nothing was ever ordinary when she was involved. I don’t talk to my friends about it anymore; there’s nothing left to say. Only memories that follow me like a shadow. I wonder if they avoid bringing up the subject with me anyway.
Sometimes, I still second-guess myself. Could I have saved us in some way? Would things be any different if I had let her heal, or shared more of myself, or given her more time, or been a stronger person? If only vulnerability or infatuation or hopeless romanticism was considered charming. If only love or desire was enough to win someone over.
Maybe I’m just clinging to the fact that I believe she truly loved me back. It was one of the only things in this world I knew was real, and it made my heart swell every time she was next to me. The world made sense, if only for a moment now lost to the past. Or maybe I’m scared I’ll never feel this way about someone again because she was everything I ever wanted, even flawed in all the right ways.
I’ve been ruined, and I don’t mind. Not anymore, at least.
I’d rather be alone than with anyone else. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m stubbornly trying to honour what we had, or a subconscious part of me is waiting for her to come back because my heart can’t give up on someone who made me feel so much. After all, she became my life, and to give up on her would be to give up on myself.
I know I’m not the only one who’s ever gone through this. Fate has proven foresight to be in vain for many a mice and men. Some people lose their spouses — the person they expect to be with for the rest of their lives — and pick themselves up. There’s no reason I can’t do the same.
But I’ve already picked myself up, and I’m happy. It doesn’t matter that she’s not with me now, or that I haven’t stopped loving her, or that she probably doesn’t even think of me anymore. The experiences have left me satisfied and fulfilled. Our relationship may have lasted only a few seasons, but in that time I loved and was loved enough to be content with what I had for the rest of my life.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
I barely stayed for two hours. It wasn’t the game (though it did prove to be as frustratingly random as I remember it) or the people (who were quite nice and refreshingly intelligent). When I told Jess, she said, “But it’s so early.” I just shrugged my shoulders. As an introvert, she understood.
Sometimes I wonder if I come off as an extremely anti-social person. I tend to be the first one to leave parties, and sometimes so early that the host will ask me if everything is alright. When it comes to being around people, I’m definitely a high-maintenance person. I’m much happier in one-on-one situations, and even more often I prefer being alone.
As much as I’ve grown and changed, I’ve always needed the world in small doses.
There’s no revelation more startling than the fact that your dad is cooler than you.
This is especially true of my own father, who isn’t just cool for an old guy, he’s cool period. As a teenager, I remember him wearing a leather bomber jacket, and learning to ride a purple Kawasaki Ninja sport bike which he eventually traded in for a silver Porsche.
When I was even younger, my friends would tell me he looked like a secret agent. One time he came to help me move out of residence, and his jeans had wider cuffs than mine (and back then I loved wearing wide-leg khakis). I can’t remember a time when he didn’t wear something by Lacoste, Polo, or Tommy, and even though he may dress far younger than his age, he can still pull it off.
Now he’s a man moving closer to his 60s, driving a Mercedes and a BMW, with what seems to have a coterie of women whose common interest is him. He watches popular movies, practices singing, and dances on a regular basis. Even my grandma once told me that people like him because he’s the fun one to be around.
This is all very different from me; a shy, introverted, awkward person whose idea of a good time generally involves being in front of a computer.
Still, with all these differences, I know I’m his son. Just a chip off the old block, with the same work ethics, the same perfectionist tendencies, the same neurotic tendencies.
We get grumpy when we’re hungry. We hate feeling sweaty and sometimes have to shower twice in a day. We make the same silly jokes when we’re around new people. We decorated our houses exclusively with modern, minimalist furniture before we knew what each other’s houses looked like. And as I grow older, I’ve also started developing the same night owl habits, carefree attitude, insomnia, and digestion problems.
I turn 30 in four months, and I’m becoming my father’s son.
Got a ticket booked for France in the Fall. Instead of staying in Paris, I’m going to be living with Frédéric and Misun in the town of Chartres. That way I’ll save money on accomodations, since the train goes to Paris every hour, only takes an hour, and is much cheaper than a night for a hotel there.
With three weeks booked, I know I’ll be able to go at my own pace in the city, with plenty of time to spend with Frédéric, Misun, and the boys too.
These three Frommer’s books came in one pack. I was happy to find one that focused on Paris alone.
My French comprehension has rusted to the point of being non-existent, so the dictionary and phrase book seemed like a good idea too. It’s filled with hilarious phonetic pronunciations, like “ehs-kuh tueh praw~ lah peel-uel” for “Est-ce que tu prends la pillule?” or “Are you on birth control?” in the Getting Intimate section. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paris was the only city to have this section, which includes translations for “Harder!”, “Faster!”, “Deeper!”, and “May I come inside?” (although I suspect the last one isn’t exactly the meaning I’m thinking).
I also bought this Paris Moleskine, embossed with the city’s name on the spine. It’s overpriced for a notebook, but worth it for the convenience. Contains condensed versions of all the most useful information, including numbers for transportation companies (including air balloon!) and city maps.
Started a few months ago, and I’m pretty sure I’ve racked up a few thousand views in that time.
What a wonderfully understated moment, about stolen love and stolen identities, shot on stolen film.
One summer in my teenage years, I volunteered at a kinder camp1, and that filled a gap in my knowledge about anyone under 10. Unfortunately, that gap only spanned children between 3 and 5, and aside from that range, I knew nothing about kids.
So interacting with children who’ve yet learned to speak I found especially awkward. I never understood how to talk to someone who didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. It was like talking to a stuffed animal, which I’m pretty sure can’t be done by any sane person without feeling creepy.
Not to mention how phony it sounds. Why do people raise their voices, as if a child trusts them more if they sound like them2? They don’t normally talk like that.
Then I realized that I do kitty talk, with the boospy, and the schmoopsy, and the pokey of the belly. I talk to my cat all the time, a habit I’ve probably picked up from living by myself for the last three years, combined with the fact that I’m an extreme introvert and stay in my house for the majority of my time.
Which is strange because Dolly doesn’t understand anything I’m saying (though I’m sure cats are intelligent enough to evolve to talk if they believed anything a human had to say could be important). And this is after I wrote an entry seven years ago, specifically about how awkward I found it to talking to cats.
Maybe I’m comfortable enough with cats now to hold a conversation with one. Or maybe I’m going crazy.
I’m getting more comfortable with kids too. Not just talking to them, but the idea of having them myself, maybe because my friends are getting married and giving birth and I’m spending more time with a few adorable boys and girls. I can talk to them even though they only respond in monosyllables.
Jodie Foster once described having children as the most creative thing she’s ever done, and I completely understand that now. I can’t think of anything more creative than nurturing growth, curiosity, imagination, and ideas in another human being. One day, I’d like to experience it for myself.
I’ve discovered that bonking my cat on the head with a pepperette will not dissuade her from eating it.
Then again, I probably wouldn’t give up bacon if someone slapped me with a pound.
By some, he’d be considered a catch, but only because he follows the rituals of relationships (even if it is without an appreciation for them), and is exceedingly normal, something more and more uncommon when combined with the quality of being single as we get older.
He has a good heart. This fact becomes particularly clear by his fourth domestic beer, which he drinks because he can’t tell much of a difference between brands and it’s cheaper than imported; though he’ll happily stock his fridge with Corona when his friends come over. The alcohol makes him sloppy, but never abusive or acerbic.
Sitting just outside the mainstream is his taste in music. It’s neither eclectic, nor particularly interesting. If one of his favourite bands happened to have a sleeper hit, he wouldn’t care, or even notice.
There’s an evenness in his demenour that makes you wonder whether he can truly feel joy. If he tastes the same thing as you do when biting into a piece of medium-rare steak, or if he really appreciates her.
But he treats her well, and that’s all that matters. Maybe not as well as you did, but it’s good enough to make her forget.
When she’s with him, she knows what she was never sure of with you. He’s uncomplex, yet so unlike yourself that you can’t figure out what it is about him.
Their happiness is based on something you were never able to share with her. You’ll spend your whole life wondering what that is, and he’ll never know how lucky he is.
