I could explain how awesome this night was, but I think this beard speaks for itself.
It’s a custom-made piece by Emily Comeau — named the Smirkin’ Merkin — and a prototype for Jesse’s merch. As a person who’s never even come close to having a beard, I wanted to keep it SO BADLY even though it was brown and didn’t match the curtains (or the carpet, for that matter). I wore it for the first song I played, but it got way too warm to keep on in a house full of people.
I haven’t had much to say lately. Suffering has always been a prerequisite for my creativity, as I only need to write when unfulfilled or unhappy, and lately I haven’t felt either.
The realization that I was happy only came when someone asked how I was doing; I responded with my usual, generic, “I’m doing well, thanks”, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn’t feel like I was lying.
Not that the desire to write has left me completely. I still want to, though only because it’s an enjoyable exercise in itself, not because I need to get something off my chest. The world finally makes sense, and I wonder if it’s necessary to have this blog a place to sort out my thoughts anymore.
I’m satisfied with the person I’ve become. I’ve stopped trying to change, or constantly figuring out how to improve. I like me.
The serenity is getting better still, almost to the point where it’s an unconscious state-of-mind. Things don’t bother me the way they used to. I can dream without desire, I can live without bias, I can give without expecting, I can think without worry, and I can enjoy without guilt.
I turn 30 in half a year, and I finally feel like I’m where I should be.
The three of us, plus boy.
Like old times — camping, weekends at the farm, studying in the comp sci lounge — with a twist.
One of us is expecting, one of us just bought a house, and one of us has been thinking about kids of his own some day.
One of Trolley’s shots.
If, 5 years ago, you asked me where I’d be now, I couldn’t have even given you a decent guess.
I never imagined I’d be working in graphic and web design at a dental lab. Or that my job would shift to more of a corporate level, something that happened because I happened to have the right set of skills at the right time.
I never imagined I’d meet people like Bronwen or Julie or Heather, or Frédéric and Misun, or Jesse and Audra, or Shane and Krista.
I never thought I’d discover bands like Magneta Lane, The Knife, From Autumn to Ashes, and Muse.
I never knew I’d start playing the ukulele. Or have an art gallery show. Or finally, finally, finally start learning astronomy and own a telescope.
But I’m not surprised at where I’ve ended up. And who knows who I’ll meet, what I’ll do, or where I’ll be? Long ago, I decided I’d stay in Ottawa until my Tai Chi teacher retired, and that’s soon coming. This city is comfortable, but it’s also just as small, and I’ve always dreamed of living in an alpha city like Hong Kong or New York or London.
It’s easy to fall into the belief that we’re in control of our lives or our destinies. The reality is that we’re just traveling through life like leaves being carried by the current in a stream. There are so many things that can happen along the way out of our control. Connections you can’t predict. Experiences you can’t even imagine.
I turn 30 in seven months, and I don’t know where I’ll be, in life, love, or home.
Man cannot cast off this mask; it is a projection of his own flesh and spirit. He can no longer remove from his own face this mask which has already grown like skin and flesh so he is always startled as if disbelieving this is himself, but it is in fact himself. He cannot remove this mask, and this is agony. But having manifested itself as his mask, it cannot be obliterated, because the mask is a replica of himself. It has no will of its own, or one could say it has a will but no means of expression and so prefers not to have a will. Therefore it has left man with an eternal face with which he can examine himself in amazement.
—Gao Xingjian, Soul Mountain
I turn 30 in eight months, and I still don’t know if I’m the person who smiles, or the person who hides behind the smile.
Before getting on his train, Jason asked me if I was a hug-person. It was the right question, because I’m most assuredly a hug-person, and we embraced before he stepped out onto the platform.
We grew up at the same time in the same neighbourhood — a small suburb somewhere in the middle of the 500km that separates us — but never had a chance to meet until he gave a presentation in town for the HR Council for the Nonprofit Sector. Until now, we only communicated through blog comments and e-mail exchanges.
When I first met him, it struck me how much tall he was, and how much deeper his voice was than I expected.
Jason is like me in so many ways, something I find extremely rare. We share a strong self-awareness and a penchant for self-improvement, as well as the same views on love and tastes in women. Perhaps it could be said that Jason is an extroverted version of me. We could discuss things we normally reserve for our close friends, and continue as if we had already known each other’s stories for years. He’s a true kindred spirit, and many times I felt like believing in him meant I believed in myself as well.
Brunch was filled with such stimulation that I forgot to take a picture, so I settled for this one when I went to see him off at the train station. I’m so glad I was able to capture his perpetual smile, that same smile I see in his pictures when he traveling the world, in Budapest, Ghana, New Orleans, and other places with names too foreign for me to remember.
When I look at this picture, I see the flaws. The stretch marks on my back, and especially prominent on the side of my ass. Those strange red blemishes on my shoulder that I don’t remember having. The lack of junk in the trunk so common in Asian people. I didn’t even know I had a mole down there.
I used to have body-image issues. Always thinking I was too skinny, and too ugly.
Then someone made me feel differently. She treated every part of my body with as much attention and love as I treated hers. She was the first person to ever make me believe that I was attractive too. Some days, I felt as handsome as she was pretty.
I turn 30 in nine months, and now that she’s gone, I wonder if anyone will ever see me that way again.
I used to be a crier. Any strong emotion, good or bad (though more often the latter), could bring on tears like a reflex. Now, I can’t remember the last time I cried, which means it’s been a while. More than a year, I suspect.
Getting misty-eyed doesn’t count; that’s too easy. A poignant scene in a movie, the right song at the right moment, even seeing someone demonstrate a Tai Chi movement with masterly detail and precision can cause my heart to swell, but the feeling only lasts as long as a few blinks after the blurred vision. When I refer to crying, I mean when the tears are enough to overflow and leak.
When I was young, the kids in school would laugh at boys who cried — much less socially acceptable in this culture — but I was never embarrassed about it. I thought it was natural, the way some people are gay or Caucasian. I thought I’d grow out of it, the way one grows out of a fear of the dark gradually and subconsciously, but I kept crying well into my 20s.
I’ve always wondered if my dad has ever cried, even as a child. I can’t picture him doing it, not even when my grandmother dies. He’s so carefree and logical that I can’t see anything affecting him emotionally. With my dad as my early model for a man, I’m sure this is part of the reason I don’t feel like an adult yet. Society teaches us that adults, or male one’s at least, aren’t supposed to cry.
I’m not sure why it’s been so long for me. Maybe the therapy, combined with my study of Taoism, has evened out my ups and downs, helping me acknowledge my weaknesses (so I’m not as hard on myself), as well as the uncontrollable nature of life. Maybe my life is stable enough now that I didn’t need that kind of release.
I turn 30 in 10 months, and I wonder when I’ll cry again.
A little while ago, I stopped shaving. I had the flu for about five days, and already had a five-day shadow developed when that began. Then with a lack of social engagements, I decided to let it keep growing, lest I lose such a generous head start that only began because I was too lazy when I was sick.
I took this picture, and it was more than three weeks without touching a razor at that point.
Aaron always keeps a neatly trimmed beard, so I asked him how he takes care of it; which direction to shave, what length to start trimming, etc. It was strange to be seeking shaving advice from someone at this point in my life. Most of the hair is around the mouth and on chin, with only an embarrassing half-dozen wires sprouting randomly from my cheeks, so it required a touch of maintenance.
For a long time, I didn’t know what to think of it, whether I liked it or not. Aaron said to me, “Sometimes, you don’t need to know”, and I went with that for a while. Maybe time would give me an answer.
Soon after, I started shaving again. It wasn’t getting any thicker, and I didn’t think I could pull it off.
I turn 30 in 11 months, and I still can’t grow a beard.
I probably looked like this the whole weekend, cause it was non-stop awesomeness.
Last week, Aaron asked me if I wanted to go to The Japanese Village. I thought it was just to hang out, since we hadn’t had a guy’s night in a while, so I didn’t clue in that it was for my birthday until the day of. Aaron told me I could order anything I want, as it was his treat, but I ordered the only thing I ever get when I’m there; the filet mignon cooked medium rare, which I think is the best in the city. It was good to hang out with him and Trolley again.
And, of course, silliness is always present with these guys around.
John’s been working two straight months, without a weekend off. The last time was when he came to Ottawa to visit. Between all the activities, we only had enough time to watch one movie — American Graffiti — and between the two of us, we could sing every song that came from this film based in the 60s (me covering The Platters, him covering everything else).
I usually only get to see him once a year, so twice in two months was a special treat.
I’d love to do games nights on a regular basis, but people aren’t available on the same days, so I used my birthday as an excuse to get as many people as possible together for a giant Cranium party. I told them that instead of giving me a present, they should just come to the party. It worked, and we had enough for four teams of three. Some people also brought snacks, like honey mustard pretzels, carrot cupcakes, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
It was the highlight of the weekend.
On Friday, my dad called me to wish me a happy birthday, and told me he was in town for 10 days. We made plans to have dim sum. John came too, which is always interesting to see his reactions to what food is as the token white guy. I had a phoenix talons for the first time1, because I was feeling adventurous, and I have to say that they weren’t bad, but I didn’t care for them either. They’re too hard to eat, and the sauce wasn’t to my taste. It was strange to see both John and my dad at the same place, and in Ottawa instead of Toronto.
I told my dad he could probably sit and observe one of my Tai Chi classes, so he could see what I do, but he wasn’t interested, and I’ll admit that the indifference hurt a bit. Afterward, I asked John what he thought as a 3rd party observer, and he told me I had a good relationship with my dad. I’ll take his word for it.
I needed this weekend so much. To recharge. To stop thinking about things. To get completely wasted. It felt like it was my birthday the whole weekend, and I wondered what I did to deserve it all.
I turn 30 in 12 months.
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.
Being sick is one of the most difficult things for me. It’s a psychological mind game. Not only am I unable to be productive1, which is something that normally keeps me sane, it’s the only situation in which I feel like I can’t take care of myself. All I’m left with is this misery, this suffering that mentally wears me down. On a long enough time line (though I’m talking months to years), I lose the will to live.
I started getting some symptoms since Tuesday afternoon, when I was feeling faint at work. When I woke up the next day, the symptoms had gotten worse. I spat into the sink, and cheered the fact that my phlegm wasn’t dark green, which is the case when I have strep throat (something that seems to happen annually to me). I should say that I only suspect swine flu, since I didn’t have a blood test confirming it, but the person who gave it to me told me she had it, so I’m going on her word, and my symptoms match up with how swine flu is different from seasonal flu.
For me, it’s been:
This flu, though drawn out, has actually been easier than strep, which is so painful for me that I get fairly severe headaches. I went through two entire boxes of tissues, and I’m sure I would have gone through more, I had not spent almost the entire time like this:
On the upside, it was an excuse to drink Neo Citran every night, which I also call Yummy Sleep.
In the five days since I realized that I have the flu, I didn’t leave my house, aside from going across the street to buy groceries. Not a single one of my friends called me (although some of them probably didn’t know I was sick), which was a little disheartening, but I didn’t let it get to me. Jen offered to pick up groceries for me, but I didn’t take her up on it because the offer was enough of a morale boost.
This time, I survived, I did it by myself, and I’m stronger for it.
To keep myself sane, I watched a record number of movies. Usually, it’s hard for me to watch movies, because I feel guilty for not being productive, but this time I embraced my sickness. I may watch one every two weeks when I’m healthy, but this time it was nine in five days (ten if I hadn’t passed out in the middle of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice). Here are some quick reviews. Warning: SPOILERS.
I should start by saying that I’ve wanted a piercing since late high school, either an eyebrow piercing or a tongue stud1.
For some reason though, I never seriously considered it. To me, it was like having children; one of those things you know you’d want some day, but don’t take it seriously. Then last week, I was sitting at my desk and randomly thought, “Why not?”. So I slept on it, and woke up the next day still wanting one. That’s when I decided to do it.
My biggest concern was that it wouldn’t match me. Some people with piercings look like they’re trying to overcompensate by being part of a “scene”, or by being younger (i.e. the midlife crisis, which my dad seems to be living out with three piercings last year), or it just doesn’t fit their face. The last thing I wanted to do was get something that screamed attention for the sake of it. Most people have told me that I’m a far cry from mid-life crisis age, but I’ve feeling much older lately.
So I figured that I’d rather get it at this age, than when I’m in my fifties like my dad, when it looks ridiculous. But as Tiana reminded me, it’s much less permanent than a tattoo. If I don’t like it, I can just take the piercing out with minimal scarring (as long as there are no other complications).
So I decided to get a horizontal, because I find that verticals are not really my style (and altogether too common for my tastes). The side seemed somewhat arbitrary to me, and I didn’t decide which side until I did my hair one morning and noticed that the part on my hair was on the right, and so it seemed like there was a more open space there for the piercing to fit.
Misun, aka my big sister, visited from France yesterday. We gorged ourselves on all-you-can-eat sushi, and I let her surprise me by choosing not to know what she ordered for us. Now I wish I had kept note so I could order the same things again.
It was hard to argue with her about the bill. She kept insisting that she pay because she’s older (from her Korean culture), and I kept insisting that I pay because I’m the host (from my Chinese culture). I even used the argument that if it’s the elder who pays, then she would always be paying. Unfortunately, the hostess took her side and refused my money.
She was only able to stay in Ottawa for the night, but before turning in well beyond our bedtimes, we caught up as people can only do in person. We’d been keeping in touch the whole time we’ve been apart, and now had the chance to fill in the details.
The time I most felt like I knew what it was to have a sister was when we brushed our teeth together in the bathroom. Afterward, we compared grey hair, me laughing at her three strands, as I have a steady diet of salt added to my pepper.
When I woke up, I found this cute note, with our faces (including Dolly’s) drawn on it.
Hi, how’s it going.
When talking about haircuts, I always say, “My stylist”. As soon as this comes out of my mouth, I wonder if this makes me sound snooty and pretentious. Most people seem to say, “hairdresser”, which I imagine is the same thing, with the former being a way to charge an extra $15–30 for a haircut. But the only reason why I say “stylist” is because that’s what the receptionists say (“…and what stylist would you like?”) when booking appointments. But stylists are so different from barbers, in my experience. And my stylist has gone for courses in the US, so I’m thinking this actually gives him the title.
I also say “chacun à son goût” when the phrase is appropriate. I wonder if this makes me sound pretentious too. The only reason why I say that instead of “each to his own taste” is because I learned the expression first in grade 8 French class. There was a picture of King Henry saying, “chacun a MON gout!”, as if he was famous for being in demanding king. Ever since, I relate the phrase to the French. Sometimes, I imagine I’m in late Imperial Russia, when French was considered the hallmark of a civilized society, so people threw in French phrases to impress people or fit in. I imagine myself saying, “Ho ho, mon cher, je méprise les femmes pour ne pas les aimer car autrement la vie serait un mélodrame trop ridicule”, while throwing my head back with dainty laugh.
Sometimes my nights are spent like this:
My favourite pastime at the moment is playing Flight Control while listening to music. I have a sort of running competition going with Pat (high score 99) and John (high score 67). So far I’ve been able to best their scores at 292, but now I’m trying to pad the victory even more, because Pat and John have as much of a healthy competitive streak as I do, and actually spend some extra effort trying to beat each other. So sometimes I’ll just sit down and put some music on and play. I’ve also tried cooking while playing, but my foods ends up getting burnt. There has also been some stand-up comedy listening while I play, but laughter always gets in the way of fine motor controls.
When I was younger, my parents owned a convenience store. It got held up a couple of times, late at night when my dad was working. He never talked about it, not because it was shocking, but because he didn’t care. Sometimes, I wonder how my dad felt with a gun pointed at him. One time they caught the three or four guys involved in one hold-up, and my dad had to go to court to testify. Somehow my dad handled it, but going through all of this would probably freak me out.
