Remember this one, or even this one?

I wrote those entries four years ago¹. Amazing how much they apply to the situation I’m in now. Except this time, I’m stronger because I know that I survived this once already. It’s sad that at the end, all my efforts turned into an attempt at making sure I wouldn’t regret anything by giving more of myself than I should have. Because when all that you’ve given makes no difference, and you have nothing left, you know for sure that there’s nothing else you can do. You can always say that you took the chance, and it doesn’t matter if you get hurt in the end, because often you can’t separate the two.

That’s the price you pay to look back without any regrets. That’s the price of moving on.

And I always pay it gladly.

1. It’s quite a trip to see that I was mature or smart enough to figure this out back then. [↑]

People here say I’ve changed.

It’s been five years, and my grandma used to describe me all the time as “seun”, a Cantonese word for “pure, clean, unmixed”. But when I arrived last week, she said she wouldn’t recognize me if she saw me on the street.

They used to say I looked like Leon Lai.

Yeah, this guy. Now they’ll concede that I’m better looking than my dad.

People notice the white hair and say I used to have a baby face. That I’m older. Or more mature.

It’s true that I feel completely different than the person I was five years ago. I tend to reflect and evaluate on a daily basis (which is far too often) so I never get a sense of any long term changes.

It’s reflected in ways that I’m not accustomed to noticing. Not just in the way I see the world, but from the way I handle things. The way I speak with those older than me. My interests in what they have to say. I didn’t even start working yet the last time I visited.

But at the core, I’m still the same person. The same morals, the same logic, the same intellect. It seems like it’s only the way these core traits manifest themselves that has changed, most likely from the things I’ve been through.

Five years is a long time to be so blind to these changes.

It’s quite surprising.

I almost walked out of Tai Chi class the other night.

Someone asked me if I was going to “pass out again”, because I got light-headed the class before and had to leave early, most likely due to a side-effect of the new medication I’m on, though I was far from passing out.

I was flat-out offended, and began experiencing what my therapist explained are “automatic thoughts” — irrational thoughts that affect mood negatively. I had to step back from the situation, put the words out of my head, and calm myself down. If not, I would have overreacted, and probably regretted it. But I couldn’t figure out why I was so upset. After all, I’m far from one who gets offended easily.

Was I being publicly emasculated? Was I being judged without consideration of all the facts? Was my commitment to attend practice after not eating for two days being belittled? Was it the tone? Was it because I couldn’t speak back and defend myself, for fear of polluting the sanctity of the class¹ with my personal politics? Probably a bit of each.

I tend to have similarly bad reactions to people being surprised that I don’t know something. It feels like I’m being judged, as if they presume to know who I am. Even though it’s supposed to be a compliment, it’s a back-handed one, like saying “I thought you were smarter than that”. John used to be especially guilty of this², but he successfully corrected the behaviour years ago. It took a psychologist to point it out to him, and adverse reactions from several people, including me.

I know I’ve already come a long way. I’m not so sensitive about my weight (for a guy) any more. I stopped caring what people think when I know the truth. But this incident made me realize that I still harbor a sensitivity to certain things. I still have some growing up to do. Still have to realize that people say things without thinking, or don’t mean what they say, or that I may even take innocuous things the wrong way. Even though I feel that I had a right to be offended, I still don’t want to be.

And the fact that I was offended just makes me more upset.

1. I approach my work with the same kind of reservation and detachment to remain professional. After all, these are situations in which we can’t choose the people we work with, so there’s nothing to do but accept and any unpleasantness. [↑]
2. And quite self-aware of it. As a person oblivious to pop-culture, he loved to hold it over people when he knew something they didn’t. [↑]

The most yielding thing in the world
  will overcome the most rigid
The most empty thing in the world
  will overcome the most full
From this comes a lesson —
  Stillness benefits more than action
  Silence benefits more than words

—Verse 43, Tao Te Ching

Sometimes, temperance is the greatest weapon.

When someone attacks you with words or tries to make you feel any less than yourself, you merely need acquiesce.

In doing so, you disarm them. You rob them of their only weapon — anger — and their words lose all meaning and significance.

Tai Chi, as the physical manifestation of Taoist philosophies, follows the same idea.

Then you will understand the flow of internal power, and, having repeatedly practiced and refined your technique and explored your own awareness, you can use and control your internal power at will.

The T’ai Chi principle is as simple as this: yield yourself and follow the external forces.

—Waysun Liao, The Essence of T’ai Chi

When your opponent expands, contract. Create a void in your stance, and let them fill that void. By absorbing your opponent’s energy, you reduce it to nothing.

I’ve finally come to fully understand such an idea. The theory made sense, but I never put it in practice, and practice is what makes the understanding complete. It was only recently that I had the chance to apply it. The old me was hot-headed with too much to prove. When faced with insulting, patronizing words, I would have reacted, instead of following the principle of wu wei. The situation was a test of myself, and I passed.

From this I’ve learned how much I’ve grown.

I used to fancy myself a poet. Then I read a series of poems by Susan Musgrave and realized how naïve I was to believe such a thing. So I stuck with writing, and fancied myself a writer, until I read Aurora’s words, mysterious and resonating, still bitter from the breakup in January.

A while ago, it felt like I ran out of things to say. Now I realize that it’s not a lack of subject matter, but a lack of conviction.

Even as recent as January, Dave Seah, prolific creator of the Printable CEO, Procrastinator’s Clock, and fellow 9ruler, said that I wrote with “literate-yet-conversational intensity, the kind of writing that sounds good when spoken aloud”. Now my entries are dry and technical, devoid of the intensity I used to feel, and I fear that it’s a reflection of myself.

Maybe this is why I’m so quick to embrace my moods and emotions. They let me write the way I used to, with the lyrical quality and style I once enjoyed.

So I sit here, with the lights out and Leonard Cohen on, the early folk stuff before he went synth in the 80s, songs of love and hate, windows open to the night, trying to recapture the passion that drove me to write when I started this blog.

I’m not a writer. I can’t write.

I’m simply a thinker, with the need to express himself.

What an overwhelming experience.

There was barely any time to explore; we took one walk and pretty much stayed within a 10km radius. Too much reading, testing, and meeting to do anything else. It felt like the time went flying by, yet dragged on, the longer I was from home.

As an introvert, you fall back on memories and past experiences, and it drives reflection and re-evaluation.

I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t affect me. I learned more about myself in the last two weeks than I did in the last year, and I’ll be writing about it for weeks, if not months.

Continue reading

The thrill is gone
The thrill is gone away
The thrill is gone baby
The thrill is gone away
You know you done me wrong baby
And you’ll be sorry someday

—BB King, The Thrill Is Gone

Our relationship was a nightmare of ups and downs.

You had the amazing ability to make me feel good about myself, by saying the right thing with intelligence and eloquence.

Yet every time I felt like I was making progress, progress that took tremendous effort and energy, progress for you, you would put me down. Every time I took a leap of faith and put myself out there, you would hurt me. It wasn’t even a case of brutal, tactless honesty; you would insult my pride for no reason.

I think it betrayed a subconscious insecurity. Something you would do to make yourself feel better. Like your constant need to prove that you’re busy and moving on. It’s as if your life is empty, void, and you’re desperate to fill it with something.

I had to end things when you went too far.

There were no regrets, because I did my absolute best to make things work. Even though I suffered, I ignored the pain, and tried working through it. I only gave up when you proved too stubborn to change or understand.

The relationship wasn’t a total loss. It was an interesting introduction to the subculture. It was passionately sexual. It also made me more confident, although I realize now that it wasn’t because of you. You barely gave me any trust, and every step forward I made, you pulled me back two. It was me who fought through all the insecurities and rose to the occasion.

When you came back in January, without a word of apology or mention of the wrong you did, I had no interest in continuing the relationship. After that, I thought of you whenever I heard the song Buried Myself Alive by The Used.

Unfortunately, it was at an unstable time in my life, so I asked you to back off and wait. Your idea of backing off and waiting is leaving me creepy comments and dating to fill the time. I just can’t understand how you keep making these mistakes. It’s almost like you purposely sabotage yourself.

I don’t want to be involved in the drama anymore. Nothing is ever simple with you. Even though you say you’ve changed, it’s not worth the risk to me. You had your chance, and it was a damn good one.

You’ve wronged me too many times. The last time you left my house, not knowing when or if you’d come back, I felt nothing.

I knew then that the thrill was gone.

A few other things:

• On the phone, your voice could be so cute that it would make me weak and forget everything you did.
• Out of all my girlfriends, you were physically the least attractive, yet you were the most conceited about your looks.
• It was very much appreciated when you brought me flowers at work, and the times you’ve dropped off food and other goodies at my door. No one else has done this for me.
• The way you would remember events was often completely wrong. It wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t completely convinced that your interpretation was correct. It made things rather scary, like dating a schizophrenic. You could totally fabricate how things went, the way you wanted to remember them. The root of an argument would turn into my fault, instead of yours.
• You were a knockout in bed.

The Letter To An Ex-Girlfriend series

1. Introduction
2. Ashley
3. Michele
4. Christie
5. Jackie
6. Louise
7. Bronwen

This is Gerald, or Gerry as he prefers, an alumnus of my high-school, Upper Canada College.

Gerry was born in Germany, but being a German-Jew, he soon moved to Holland in the years leading up to the Second World War. “My father was rather prescient”, he put it. Eventually, he came to Canada. For four years, he attended UCC, graduating in 1940. I was in the class of ‘99. After a year at university, he volunteered for military service at 19.

“19?”, I asked in disbelief. With a smile on his face, he told me, “You grow up fast”.

He began as a commissioned officer for an artillery unit. Responsibility of the lives of many men under his command was something he didn’t want, but his knowledge of German, Dutch, and English moved him to a more preferable position as an interrogation officer. His superiors would send him co-ordinates of intelligence to gather, sometimes behind German lines, sometimes in a downed tank, and a private would drive him in a jeep to obtain the information.

He survived.

From left to right, his medals are:

• The 1939-1945 Star
• The France and Germany Star
• The Defence Medal
• Canadian Volunteer Service Medal
• The War Medal 1939-1945
• The Service Medal of the Order of St. John

His proudest accomplishment is the Maltese cross he wears on his chest — The Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, presented by the Governor General herself. Even though he’s a commander of the order, second only to knights or dames, he’s extremely modest about it. The framed award presented to him lies in a pile of assorted things in his bedroom.

I first met Gerry a few days ago, after finding out about him from the bi-annual newsletter published by UCC. The newsletter, called Old Times, is a way for alumni, called Old Boys, to keep track of the goings’ on at the College. There was an article about the school’s prized Victoria Cross medal collection being presented to the new Canadian War Museum here in Ottawa. These were the same medals I walked by in the front hall display case every day at school, too young to appreciate their historical significance. Gerry was one of the veterans invited to attend the presentation ceremony.

However, my interest in Gerry stemmed from a different section in the same issue of the newsletter, announcing a photo contest open to all past and present students. The contest seemed like a great project, not only as a way to practice my photographic skills, but to test myself as well. I would have to find a subject related to the school in some way. Gerry, being an Ottawa-area Old Boy, was my closest connection. Taking pictures of someone, let alone someone I had never met before, was a daunting idea, and I would have to step out of my comfort zone to do it.

After looking up his name in the phonebook and gathering up the courage, I called Gerry. He was happy to meet.

I’ll be submitting the second photo.

For years, I listened to music based on my mood. Playlists were well suited for this. I had one full of sad songs for my sad days, days that would last months at a time. I had one with only quick-paced, aggressive guitar riffs and lung-spitting screams, for the pockets of rage I’d encounter every now and then. One that was mostly electronic inspiration — songs that would move me when I needed to move. One for the particularly difficult days, consisting of stoic melodies that could fill me with grit determination. There was even one for the bittersweet moments, perfect for a post-show buzz. Every song served a particular purpose.

This motley grouping of single tracks may have been the result of the way I discovered new music. Tenaciously, with ears always open, I would record as much as I could that caught my fancy, jotting down any discernible lyrics I could use as a basis for a search, and never stopping until I could find the song. Hysteria, by Muse, is just one example, which I happened to discover while watching an awards show. For a long time, it remained a song I’ve enjoyed on my for it’s subtle build-up, and energetic, nearly chaotic, synth-inspired bass lines.

Things changed when I lived with Trolley. He exposed me to bands of different genres, and being a musical collector, this exposure took the form of complete albums. One of them happened to be Absolution.

Now that I have the entire album, Hysteria is known to me as track 7, coming after the pensive Interlude, but before the gentle, ethereal, Blackout. In this context, preceded and succeeded by two equally significant tracks, the song doesn’t sound the same.

Eventually, none of my playlists were appropriate for what I was feeling. At first, I thought that this was the result of increasingly subtle or complex emotions, but I’ve come to realize that it’s simply because I’ve matured, and as a result, my emotions have evened out. With the wisdom and serenity associated with growing older, came the loss of emotional highs and lows that would inspire me.

Now it’s become difficult to listen to a song in a playlist. Every album has an order. Every track has its place. Listening to a song out of its musical context may be hard, but listening to music without the rush of inspiration is harder.

And this has become my musical context.

Things have changed.

I don’t write the same anymore, or about the same things. I’ve lost my fervent verbosity. Every time I sit at my computer, my mind blanks. Writing has become a chore. Even this entry has taken me days to think through. I find myself writing and rewriting every point, every paragraph.

In the beginning, blogging was a form of catharsis. Developing cognitively beyond my adolescence was an emotional period, filled with confusion and growing pains. The only way I could make sense of it all was to write out my thoughts, forcing myself to reflect and learn from every challenge.

It was also a useful tool in figuring myself out, as a part of my life where I could approach things with the conviction that I lacked in the rest of my life. Now that I’ve gained enough confidence, it doesn’t seem so necessary to prove myself with words anymore. It would seem that I’ve become a victim of my own self-assuredness.

I could fill this blog with entries, finding solace in the written word, when I was going through something as simple as a bad day. As time has passed, I’ve eliminated most of the things that bother me enough to turn to this medium. It was a slow and systematic process, both internal and external. My new-found serenity has left me with little rage. I’m happier now, and happiness is too hard to write.

There have been few epiphanies, and even less inspiration, in the last while. Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of a transition. It takes a foundation of stability, something I haven’t had in months, to grow. My life hasn’t quite settled yet.

Writer’s block is a sign that I’ve stopped growing, a testament to what and how much I’ve been through.

But more importantly, it’s a sign that I’m approaching where I want to go in my life.

On days like this, it’s better to wear light clothing, and throw on a hooded windbreaker. The rain outside is just a drizzle, so it’s comfortably cool. Pay no attention to the hydraulic hiss of the windshield wipers, or you won’t be able to help hearing them through the quiet parts of every song. Window seats are prime. There are fewer distractions from people walking down the aisle.

The 95 goes from one end of the city to the other, straight through the heart of Ottawa. Every stop is a memory. Old haunts. Past lives.

Here was your first apartment. Sometimes you’d find Christie waiting for you here on the benches between classes. How long ago those days seem, how immature and relatively innocent. The next two stops are on the edge of the university campus, four years of scattered truancy. Two stops later is where you use to buy a medium caramel corretto every morning after an exhausting night with Louise. Your old government office is another two on. The concrete building looks so foreign now, and you wonder if the same people are still inside. Another few stops is your last apartment, before buying the house, the end of bus rides home every day.

Music never meant so much.

You pass by construction sites, finished buildings, see the evolution of the city.

Six years of experience, six years of shifting, ever-changing anima.

Six years passed.

Six years lived.

Six years grown.

I wasn’t planning on writing another part of this series until I asked John for his opinion. He was extremely hesitant to commit but eventually opined, with earnest consideration of his words.

His most significant insight was that I may be hastily passing judgment on something that I’ve only begun to experience. “It’s time, not the awareness of our accomplishments, that teaches us what’s seminal”, he put it. I find it difficult to disagree. After all, I have no idea how important the last year will be. All I know is that it’s been important up until now.

I always trust what John says. Like a preacher, he speaks the truth. It’s good to have a friend who can keep me in check, who can give me some perspective. Perhaps I’ve been looking a little too hard for meaning. I want to believe that these things have changed me, made me a better person.

But only time will tell me for sure.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion

In the last year of high school, I was called into the guidance office for some direction in choosing a post-secondary institution. The councilor, a very, very Caucasian man, went through the features of each university, noting especially the ones with nice campuses. In an effort to save his time, I explained that the esthetics of a university were of no consequence to me, because they wouldn’t affect my life. Apparently this was a different approach from other students, whom he believed decided on the direction of their education through a desire for lush lawns and big dorm rooms.

I’d always believed that I’d feel the same way about a house as a campus. Give me enough room for my computer with walls thick enough to crank my music and I’ll be happy, I used to say. While this may still hold true, I’ve discovered that I’m even happier with a nice place. I finally understood that councilor, four years later, after changing universities for a brief post-graduate stint. The new campus was big, modern, and inspiring; quite a difference from my previous university with its brown buildings and constant construction.

It’s the same when comparing a rented place of residence and an actual house. A house begets security, and in turn, a sense of confidence. There’s a distinct feeling, every day, waking up in one’s own home. Knowing that every paycheque is going towards some equity, a little piece of property I call my own. Having a comfort zone, a place that I don’t have to deal with anyone I don’t want to. A place where I make the rules, not having to answer to landlords or security.

It was the process too, that helped me grow. Aside from the common sense of owning a house as a long-term investment, I was inspired (or should I say “driven”) to move because of a roommate. After one particularly childish conflict, I decided more than four months before I actually had time to look, to buy a house and take Trolley with me. We moved in before the lease was up on the apartment.

I went through the entire process myself, knowing nothing at the start. I had never done anything on this scale before, and while it may seem trivial to those who have been initiators their entire lives, this was a big step for me. It let me know that I could actually accomplish the things I want.

And that cast aside all the doubt that was holding me back.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion

The first catalyst involved in my “transformation” was my job. It could be said that the only reason this job was so significant is because I had never had such a job before. Perhaps things would be different if I started my current career at a different time, although the same could be said about the other two factors.

I was hired to work closely with one of two owners, a man with the drive, mind, wit, and personality to run one of the top companies in the industry. I see myself as a tool, an extension of his person, responsible for things that he doesn’t have time to do. By freeing his time, the company is able to grow faster, because his resources can then be put to better use.

My role is as a sort of submissive. This works out well, because in (most of) the rest of my life I’m dominant. Like me, many submissives at work are also dominants at home, and vice-versa. People want change from the everyday life of their career, and in fact, my submission in this role is what makes me a better dominant in others (more on this extremely significant point in the forthcoming part of this series).

I don’t have the personality to run a business, the way my boss doesn’t have the personality to work for someone else. Our roles are clearly defined, and I’m much more productive as a submissive in this situation. It’s this productiveness that has given me so much confidence. I know how good a worker I am, how integral my role is in the company, and how difficult I would be to replace.

Relational roles aside, however, there are several other factors of my job that contributed to what I consider explosive growth. The responsibility I have was a big thing. As the only IT person there, I have to make sure that all our hardware and software is sufficient for what we’re doing. When the nature of the business changes, the upper echelon comes to me for a solution, whether it’s upcoming VOIP implementation to save on long distance, wireless tracking of our pick-ups and deliveries, or something as simple as a server upgrade to handle the market growth.

Even things like making phone calls have changed me. I was never comfortable on the phone. Only a year ago, ordering pizza was a difficult thing to do, and Trolley can attest to this after getting him to call for me several times. The only explanation I could come up with for this behaviour is that there are people on the other end, but I still can’t really make sense of this aside from poor self-confidence. All I knew was that my telephone shyness was a problem. I got over it by forcing myself to make phone calls at work. After all, one does not stop a project at a telephone conversation when one’s boss wants something done. I still have my off-days, of course, when I avoid making calls altogether, but those are few and far between.

Not only has my job sparked a change in me, it’s paved a way for other growth as well. Even financially speaking, I now have the freedom to pursue my other goals and hobbies.

Every day I work, I’m thankful.

The Trinary Maturity Series

1. Introduction
2. The Job
3. The Girlfriend
4. The House
5. (In)Conclusion

God, I’m fucking exhausted. The day was a mix of nervousness. Partly shy, partly anxious, partly caffeinated. People testing me, people appreciating me, people who call me brother.

As much as I’ve grown, as far as I’ve come, there are still things that are difficult to do.

All I want to do now is write, but I’m too tired. Life is moving at a quickened pace. I came here to vent, but all I’ve done is barely scratch the surface. Oddly enough, I still feel better. I think of calling John, but I hear him explaining my thoughts to me, in my head, and suddenly, everything makes sense.

It’s like Louise and cuts. When getting a cut, her first instinct is that it hurts, but when she realizes that they’re supposed to hurt (what I see as the nature of perfection), they cease to hurt.