But it doesn’t feel like I’m turning 29 today. More like I’m turning a-year-away-from-30. 29 has always been so inconsequential. One step on a staircase before setting foot on a landing.
The thing is, I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen when hit 30. I expect something big, but I don’t know what exactly. Like I have yet to open my eyes to something. Maybe because 30 has always been adult territory in my mind, not 18.
So if I still feel like I haven’t grown up yet, is something going to happen in this year? Something to make me feel like an adult by the time November 13 hits in 2010?
I turn 30 in 12 months, and I don’t know what to expect.
(Thank you, Rachel, for giving me yet another title)
I’m going through a sort of re-evaluation phase right now. I’ve been feeling peaceful and serene, maybe because things have been going well lately, so I’m left trying to figure out what I really want. Whether I can sustain this happiness, and how. What is important to my existence and survival.
I have an appointment with my therapist in three days. I haven’t seen him in over a year, but it doesn’t seem like that long ago. He says he still remembers me and remembers where my file is in his cabinet. I’m glad we didn’t sacrifice our patient-doctor relationship for a friendship (as I asked him about once) cause otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to see him like this, and I’d be trying to find another therapist. Instead of feeling like I need to be fixed this time, I’m just wondering where I go from here. A follow-up appointment of sorts, that my work is covering through the health plan.
I suppose the reason I want to talk to him is really that I need to hear myself talk, and I generally don’t talk to anyone about this stuff. Probably because I don’t know what the hell I’d be saying. John’s the first person I turn to when I seek guidance, but conversations with him are somewhat forced because he’s terrible on the phone. He needs to talk for a reason or purpose, and I could never explain this feeling to him. My therapist, on the other hand, has always given me a guiding hand, pointing me in the right direction so that I can start to figure things out on my own.
I have a feeling this long-weekend, while mostly spent alone in my house, will go by sooner than I’d like. My artistic endeavors have taken a back seat to paying-work lately, and now I have the chance to spend some time doing what I want, for me.
I almost did something stupidcrazyexciting adventurous tonight. But I didn’t. Maybe it was too last-minute. Maybe I was feeling too shy and introverted. Maybe I’m complacent. Maybe I’m too comfortable where I am right now.
Maybe the consequences of failure were greater than the potential gains of success.
Sometimes I wonder when the scales will tip that balance. When — if ever — will I be unsatisfied enough with things to step out of my comfort zone and take those chances?
Sometimes I question whether or not I really know what suffering is. Reading back on my last entry, it struck me that in many ways, my life wasn’t that bad.
A Hero Of Our Time was written during great military conflict, where people were frequently “exiled” by being sent to remote places along the front of the Russian-Circassian War, where Russia had already been fighting for over 40 years. Some may argue that I don’t truly understand suffering, because my culture hasn’t been through something like this, whereas such pain is already in the blood of Russians. Even in popular culture, such as Babylon 5, the Russian character Susan Ivanova (whom I quoted in this tweet) seems to follow this stereotype.
So can I truly relate to this without having gone through any of it myself?
If you look at Aya Nagatomi’s performances of Chopin, specifically her interpretation of his Étude Op. 10, No. 12, you can tell that it’s technically amazing — certainly a virtuoso in the making as she’s only 19 in this video — but you don’t feel the rubato with which Chopin intended it. As such, it sounds like it’s being performed by a computer. You have to wonder whether it takes a certain degree of hardship experienced to do it justice, perhaps going through the political turmoil of the November Uprising in Warsaw that inspired Chopin to write this Revolutionary Étude.
Could Leonard Cohen have been able to pen a song like Famous Blue Raincoat without having suffered through a few lonely nights in New York City? I think not.
I don’t know enough about Chinese history to know what my ancestors went through. The relatives I know of in previous generations escaped the Cultural Revolution — where they would have been subjected to unbelievable hardships — to Hong Kong. Maybe it’s not in my blood, and I’m just drawn to the idea of Nihilism on a superficial level, never truly understanding it any deeper.
But a long time ago, I remember reading an entry by Tina where she felt disturbed by other people’s opinions on how jaded she was feeling, as they were saying she had nothing to feel bad about. I told her not to compare herself to others. That one person going through heartbreak is a different kind of suffering than a person going without food, and that one can’t said to be more “painful” than the other.
I may have been well-fed, healthy, and from a middle-class family in my childhood. But none of things mattered to me because it was the emotional connection that I was seeking, but could never find.
I’ve always had the bad habit of comparing myself to others. I should probably just follow my own advice and enjoy the comfort, beauty, and inspiration that Russian literature gives me.
After all, if I can acknowledge that my suffering is my own, no one else would truly understand anyway!
Often, when someone thanks me, I find myself saying “Don’t mention it” or “No need to thank me”. Yet when someone doesn’t thank me for a favour, I feel like I’m being taken advantage of.
It’s a funny thing that I feel like a thank-you is unnecessary only after someone has said it. Maybe it’s because as long as the person appreciates the favour, that’s all that matters.
It’s similar to the way Pat once offered to let me stay with him and Jen if I ever find myself without a job and a house. I’d probably never take him up on the offer because I never want to be a burden anyone. At the same time, he knows this and doesn’t expect me to take him up on it, but he offered anyway because he knows I wouldn’t take it for granted, and would still be happy to take me in if the situation warranted it.
Perhaps such acts become more of an acknowledgment than a practical gesture. As long as I know that someone is appreciative and recognizes a favour, that’s all that matters. But really, isn’t that what a thank you is — an acknowledgment through thanks? At the same time, without a thank you, how would we know that someone is appreciative?
It’s like the act itself is simultaneously necessary and unnecessary.
When I was young, my dad had a fight with his brother over opening a convenience store next to a pharmacy (my uncle is a pharmacist) in a plaza that my grandmother owned. Both types of stores have lots of competing products, so the argument was about who would be the one to open their store. I guess my dad won, because he bought the convenience store and ran it for quite a few years.
After that, I didn’t see my uncle or his family at all. For so long that I completely forgot that I had a cousin, Crystal.
When my grandmother came from Hong Kong to visit one year, she reunited the families again, and I saw them for the first time in a long while1.
At that time, the popular thing to do was play cards. I had the reputation as being the fastest, most dexterous dealer out of all the kids. But when I went over to my uncle’s house one day and we were playing Asshole, I noticed Crystal dealing exactly the same way I did, except faster, without even paying attention.
It was at that point that I realized, “This person is my family”.
The only other time I had such a stark realization was during my trip to Hong Kong earlier this year. At an international buffet, we grabbed some dessert from the cart and ordered some tea. My uncle, aunt (both siblings of my dad), and I were sitting at the table, with delicious pastries in front of us, but none of us were touching them. When someone asked my uncle why he wasn’t eating his dessert yet, he said that he has to have tea with his sweets. And it turns out that was the exact same reason me and my aunt were waiting too. One of these little quirks that one never expects someone else to have, and sometimes we’re even ridiculed for it, and yet here we were, three people doing the exact same thing for the exact same reason.
I generally believe that humans are more likely a product of their experiences, with a touch of inherited qualities too. After all, I’m almost nothing like either of my parents. It was only these two experiences that made me admit that there’s a little more of us that’s inherited, that we’re a product of our genes, than I would have believed.
I even discovered that I had a new cousin, Darren, who was Crystal’s brother. [↑]
The about section of my site has always remained somewhat spartan. Even though blogging gurus say you should have a blurb about yourself so your audience can “identify” with you, it’s always seemed pointless to me.
I’ve never been one to describe myself. I prefer to let my writings be my description, especially since I’m evolving all the time, and it’s reflected even more in the changes to my writing style. In English class, you learn “say, don’t tell”. So instead of writing, “Tim was scared”, write something like “Tim’s forehead tightened as a bead of sweat fell across his trembling face”.
About sections are the telling, but entries are all about the saying.
I also tend to write without explaining things. Like the fact that Dolly is my cat (although I don’t think many people are named Dolores nowadays), or that John is my best friend. Entries are a stream of thought, instead of stopping to make sure that new readers are caught up. That means anyone who follows me here is jumping right into my life. Sure, it’s probably hard to follow without all the context — like trying to watch 24 by starting in the middle of a season — but I’d rather assume that people already know what’s going on.
It doesn’t make me very accessible, but the things I say probably aren’t that accessible to begin with.
It’s been a relaxed existence here. Aside from spending time with my grandma when she’s awake, making sure she eats throughout the day, and the occasional visit to the hospital, there’s no set schedule for anything. I’ve only been to this house a handful of times in my life, but I feel remarkably comfortable. There’s no formal need to sit at the dinner table until everyone is finished eating. There’s no obligation to talk to someone. No one feels the need to entertain me. I can nap when I want. I can raid one of the three fridges when I wake up at night and can’t fall asleep. I can walk around in my pajamas all day. I can disappear for hours to write. Like we’re actually family, even though I barely see these people.
My grandma tells me feel at home because we’re “our own people” as it’s said in Chinese. Even though I always understood the expression, I’ve never really felt it until now.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have so much baggage. How my relationships would be different. Which ones would have worked, and which ones wouldn’t have changed at all.
Love, in all it’s multi-faceted wonder, levels, and types, is never a sure thing for me. I may feel it, but feel that it’s fleeting and conditional at the same time. Other people have the luxury of taking love for granted. They assume they’re loved. How comforting it must be. For me, it’s always been a struggle for stability. “We won’t love you if you don’t do well on this test. We won’t love you if you don’t practice piano. We won’t love you if you don’t finish your dinner. No one’s going to love you if you always stay this skinny.”
It feels like I haven’t survived my childhood yet. And I arrive at this fact so many times when trying to figure out the source of my issues that it’s starting to sound like an excuse. Therapy has helped identify my issues, but it’s still taking work on my part to resolve them, along with patience on the parts of others. I’m beginning to question why people would accept and love me. I guess it’s worth it to some, but things would be so much easier if they didn’t have to deal with my insecurities.
I’ve come to realize that I cling to pain and yearning because they give me inspiration. They may not be the sole source, but certainly a great deal. I always listen to Leonard Cohen and Elliot Smith during such moods, as they have the ability to intensify and deepen the sadness.
I can tell it’s something of a destructive habit. It’s almost like I subconsciously choose to dwell on things that have been resolved for the sake of something to write about.
It makes me think of the last lines from King Missile’s song Ed:
“Yes, this is the answer. This is the ending. I shall keep on running, because a body in motion tends to stay emotional, and it’s better to feel. Pain is better than emptiness, emptiness is better than nothing, and nothing is better than this.”
Is this how I feel alive, a way of bringing significance to my life? Or is this the way I truly feel, and I’m simply a slow healer, and too much of a thinker?
Or perhaps the better question is this: does happiness inspire me just as much?
Every song is a time stamp. A place in life, marked by the exact moment that it’s first heard. In this moment, your surroundings, circumstances, and emotions all become attached.
There’s a song for everything, from a single moment — like losing your virginity — to an entire year — like your last one in high school. Perhaps my childhood is such a blur because I never started listening to music until I was about 14; there was no anchor for my mind to associate with my experiences.
In preparation for my housewarming party, Trolley and I decided on a set of music to be played during the festivities. It was my idea to split the songs into two categories, day and night, to take us from the afternoon to the evening. We sat at his computer, and as we went through the list, I told him how to categorize each song. It seemed like such an arbitrary act to him, but for me, there was a distinguishing tone to each song that made it appropriate for a certain time of day.
Two examples:
The quintessential night, Bring Me the Disco King, by David Bowie, (featuring Maynard James Keenan & John Frusciante).
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And the quintessential day, Another Sunny Day by Belle & Sebastian.
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I wonder if I’m the only who can hear it, because of my experiences and when I heard these songs first, or whether the order of certain notes express a certain connotation of sun and moon.
Accepting a song from someone, as opposed to finding something yourself, always puts the song in the musical context of that person.
The connotation then comes from this person’s experiences, your relationship with them, or both. You hear the song through their ears. It changes the notes, the chords, the core sound of what you’re listening to. From someone like Darren, a song is totally different than from Julie.
I admit that I not only save other people’s posts, but entire blogs.
Sometimes, there are entries I like to read over again. Other times, I just like to be reminded of how right I was. But more often than not, it’s the ephemeral nature of blogs in general, combined with the fickle nature of adolescent writers still trying to “define themselves” on a free medium, that gives me the itch to save. So many writers I used to follow have changed domain names, started protecting their entries, or deleted their blogs.
Some things are garbage and should be forgotten or thrown away — but some things deserve to be kept too. Word-for-word, exactly the way it was spoken, because that’s the way it was expressed.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point-of-view, our words do last. Just because they aren’t there anymore, doesn’t mean they were never spoken.
There are consequences to the things we write, whether we want them or not.
Sometimes, she reaches down and grabs a handful of my derrière. I laugh a nervous laugh, and she chides me.
It’s a reflex. None of my girlfriends have been so zealous in their pinching, or reveled in such an act. My laugh is one of surprise, and a good one at that.
This is what upsets her. But how should I react otherwise? I hardly consider this thin-framed body, a frail comparison to the physical conventions of a man, as being sexual or attractive.
This is why I think she loves me.
Otherwise, she’d see me as the rest of the world sees me.
I’ve been reading Andrea’s blog lately. Normally, I don’t read blogs of people I’ve never met1, and even though I’ve met Andrea, I’ve never had a penetrating conversation with her, let alone gotten to know her. Andrea’s blog is a little different though. To the uninitiated, it’s a regular journal, but there are bits of insight and emotion scattered throughout that leave you feeling like you’re looking at someone stoned, naked, and through their kitchen window. The ordinary mixed with a dash of extraordinary is what truly gives one a sense of empathy, and it was this that drew me in.
It’s been making me feel so fucking nostalgic.
I remember being in that stage of life. Back in school. Getting drunk. Chasing girls. Unsure of anything but the way I was feeling in that exact moment.
It’s made me realize that I don’t write like I used to. My entries used to be so experimental. Aside from a single sentence as a last, concluding line2, and a penchant for being a little too personal, I hadn’t developed a particular writing style. Back when I posted something almost three times a day because I had to. When my posts had no titles (the same way Andrea has nothing but an incrementing number and location stamp) because they were about everything and nothing in particular.
Now, there’s too much purpose to my writing. Carefully planned out posts, trying to express something specific, without the stream-of-consciousness I used to enjoy. Lost is the old whimsical nature, the ordinary mixed with the extraordinary. I never used to care whether something was significant enough to post, and would just write it and hit that publish button.
I miss it.
But I can’t tell if it’s the way I used to write, or my life back then, that I miss.
Blogs rarely interest me when I don’t have a bit of personal insight from a first meeting. [↑]
Almost every single pots in this blog ends this way. [↑]
Let me give it to you straight, straight like an arrow.
I’ve had these words stuck in my head for some time now. Lyrics from the titular Dears track I first heard in university, back when I would go home in the summer and watch The Wedge on Friday nights.
I know that’s awfully cynical to say, but I need proof that it is possible today.
I just wish I could accept that fact. I’m starting to wonder if that’s why I keep hearing the words in my head. It’s my subconscious reminding me, keeping me grounded.
Maybe that’s why we watch these movies. Hollywood would have us believe that love exists.
It’s the same story, where guy sees girl, falls in love, and happily ever after. In between, there’s always the overused plot element of the guy winning over the girl by revealing himself and his feelings. After all, this alone is enough to win any girl over, regardless of whether she found him attractive or not, she was married or single, or he was the nerd and she was the cheerleader.
But love doesn’t exist in real life, as much as I want to believe that it does.
