虎 , 龍

During my late morning nap, I dreamt of a legendary animal. It was half tiger and half dragon, beautifully golden in color. Its tail, easily three times the length of its body, was tangled around its own torso and neck, debilitating the animal. I began to undo its tail from the body, starting from the end. However, neither the beast's magnificent beauty nor its incapacity to free itself moved me. I felt nothing but distance and detachment. As the irony would have it, this creature...was me.

I was awakened from my dream by a phone call. My sister, who was taking a day off work, wanted to come over with mom. I said no--it was the first time I ever refused a visit by my family. I fell immediately back to the unconsciousness of sleep brought on by deep exhaustion. By the time I woke up, the sun had already set and my body had succumbed to fever yet again.

Der Mann von fünfzig Jahren

Hermann Hesse

Von der Wiege bis zur Bahre
sind es fünfzig Jahre,
dann beginnt der Tod.
Man vertrottelt man versauert,
man verwahrlost, man verbauert
und zum Teufel gehn die Haare.
Auch die Zähne gehen flöten,
und statt daß wir mit Entzücken
junge Mädchen an uns drücken,
lesen wir ein Buch von Goethen.

Aber einmal noch vorm Ende
will ich so ein Kind mir fangen,
Augen hell und Locken kraus,
nehm´s behutsam in die Hände,
küsse Mund und Brust und Wangen,
zieh ihm Rock und Höslein aus.
Nachher dann, in Gottes Namen,
soll der Tod mich holen. Amen.

071224

Christmas Eve.

I woke up late morning. My only thought was to eat something so I can take my medicine--the flu symptoms had come back. After eating a cereal bar and two tangerines, however, I fell back asleep on the sofa.

After a disturbing dream full of anger and resentment, I woke up at 4 in the afternoon. My body had completely given in to the illness during my nap, and I felt pretty darn awful about the dream, too. I did not want to drive out to my sister's house. I came very close to calling to say I wasn't going to make it. But I changed my mind. If anything, I would be fed better over there than I could feed myself with my given condition.

I was only good until the end of dinner. As soon as the fork and knife went resting juxtaposed on the side of the plate, I excused myself and went to sleep in the guest room. The task of sitting up had become too much of a demand on my body. So I went away, asking them to wake me when dessert was being served. Before my consciousness blacked out again, I silently wished for someone to have a better Christmas than me.

When I woke up, thankfully feeling a bit better, everyone had either gone home or gone to bed, except my sister. We sipped Aberlour 10 year Scotch (best she had in her cupboards), watched a couple episodes of Frasier (our old favorite--she and I often felt like Frasier and Niles of our family) and just chatted about things. I told her again about my particular dislike for OC, not that anything could be done about it.

I turned down her invitation to stay the night--I much preferred my own bed. On my drive home, I thought about the year Christmas lost its meaning for me. It happened way too early for me, in 1984.

Winds are gusting again.

Smoke

담배 - 김소월

나의 긴 한숨을 동무하는
못 잊게 생각나는 나의 담배!
내력을 잊어버린 옛 시절에
났다가 새 없이 몸이 가신
아씨님 무덤 위에 풀이라고
말하는 사람도 보았어라
어물어물 눈앞에 스러지는 검은 연기,
다만 타붙고 없어지는 불꽃
아 나의 괴로운 이 맘이여
나의 하염없이 쓸쓸한 많은 날은
너와 한가지로 지나가라

Smoke - Kim So-wol

Smoke, the unforgettable urge,
the companion to my wearisome sigh!
Some say it is the grass
growing atop the grave of a mistress
born in the old forgotten days,
her body untimely withering away.
The wavering black smoke,
the spark of light burning, disappearing,
Oh the pain of my heart,
the endlessly lonesome days,
do pass me by like the dissipating smoke.

p.s. My dad smoked one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. The smell of it still persists, though faintly, on his old ivory filter, some twenty plus years after its last use. When I picked up the on-again, off-again habit at twenty-four, I typically smoked no more than my dad. I recently bought a pack of cigarettes after a long hiatus. This time, I can smoke no more than half a cigarette once a week. My body rejects it--I am obviously not healthy enough to smoke. But for those personal moments, as brief as they are, I have a silent companion who understands it all.


"I like cigarettes. . . . I like to think of fire held in a man‘s hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his own expression." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged, 1957

My dad used to smoke one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. The smell of it still persists, though faintly, on his old ivory filter, some twenty plus years after its last use. When I picked up the on-again, off-again habit at twenty-four, I typically smoked no more than he. I recently bought a pack of cigarettes after a long hiatus. This time, I can smoke no more than half a cigarette once a week. My body rejects it--I am obviously not healthy enough to smoke. But for those personal moments, as brief as they are, I have a silent companion who understands it all.


I lit up a cigarette this evening. Benson & Hedges Ultra-lights Menthol and a lighter in hand, I stepped out onto the balcony, wrapped up in a blanket to protect myself against the chills of the night. Sitting on a little stool, I was staring directly into Sirius, the alpha star of Canis Major, or known better, appropriately, as the Dog Star.

I brought the lighter close to the tip of the cigarette, now resting between my lips, and lit up. With a short inhale through the little white stick, the tip turned into an amber glow. As I exhaled, the cigarette let out a delicately thin, white smoke of a sigh. I perched my feet up on the ledge and leaned back, staring again at Sirius.

Cold winter night, cigarette is such a tempting companion.

Two things always come to my mind every time I smoke--my dead father and a poem. Dad used to smoke no more than one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. He always used an ivory filter (he probably hated having cigarette smell on his hands), and the smell of his Dunhill still persists some twenty plus years after the last used.

A Wistful Fairy Tale

A castle with a grand staircase built out of cold, gray stone blocks.
A contract-bound woman.
The pain of lovers separated.
The ultimate elopement of the lovers to the "new world."

The unusually narrative dream of last night was full of high drama and intense emotions. Throughout the course of this dream, I went from being the unseen observer to an insignificant extra to, eventually, the story's protagonist. The gusty winds woke me from my tiresome dream. As the morning light began to fill my eyes, the delicate details of this dream fell through the crevice of my mind like the grains of sand in the fist. But its operatic ending, with a soprano singing a beautiful aria as the lovers disappeared into the night, is still resonating in my head.

071219

The throat feels better today, but the headache persists. Any sudden movement of the head feels as if the brain is bashing against the skull. It's awful to get sick so soon after starting a new job.

I have worked at this new place for a week now. Somehow I have surrounded myself with people who cannot tell uni from unagi, or Puccini from porcini...mere mention of any of those things just raises question marks on their faces. And the lack of certain amount of tension (whether it be a deadline or a design emergency) in the office makes me feel a little bit uneasy. Oh, did I mention the quartet of carolers in Victorian outfits hired for the Christmas party for the design group? No need to say any further--I feel like an outsider, a stranger. I was not prepared to be so desperately homesick.

John Baldessari, Gavel, 1987

p.s. Today marks my uncle's would-be 71st birthday. He passed away two years ago, after a number of years of estrangement from his family. They never quite forgave him, even after his death.

071218

Flu and fatigue came crashing down on me Monday. Sore throat, fever, headache, muscle aches.... I can only think of short, choppy sentences. I realize now that an act of creativity, even as pitiful as this blog, requires a healthy body, which I have not presently.

Heather Flowers

It was the night of my new company's holiday party. The food was less than mediocre, served buffet style, and they did not have any single malt Scotch. Having worked only two days there, I knew less than my fingers could count out of over 400 people. I left soon after dinner. I much preferred to come home to a sip of heather flowers.

071214

Debussy brought me a little magic this afternoon. I was soaking in nostalgia through his enchanting music, just as the nostalgia of Bvlgary perfume prompted a man to pick up the phone. Though our conversation was brief, I felt home again in his voice.

Random thought...01

This,

may be path I have taken, but one thing is for sure--
I always walked along the road that lay ahead of me.

071212

An old journal entry cast a ray of light into the cave of my mind. It was written in August of 2000, three days into my first job in commercial interior design. For reasons I neglected to disclose, I came home and cried that day. I confided in my then boyfriend who saw me go through three jobs in one year. After hearing me out, he said,

"Do you know what a mouse does when it gets cornered by a cat?
It fights back."

This turned out to be one of the best advices I have ever received. It not only changed my attitude about my job, but it changed my mindset completely. A month or so later, he asked why I wasn't complaining about work any more. I said I didn't have anything to complain about. He said he felt threatened by my new job. Few weeks later, I left him. I stayed at that job for almost three years and set my career path.

I have a new fight that starts tomorrow. I plan to win it. And with the new outfit I picked out to wear tomorrow, I'll look good doing it.

071211

I visited my sister this afternoon. She and her family moved to OC a week before me. As a housewife with a toddler, her only outing destinations were shopping malls and we headed to a less than fantastic mall nearby (my suggestion to just hang out at her new house, partially due to my aching back, was duly ignored). After walking around a bit, we sat ourselves on the bench near the play area for children in the middle of the mall, straight black coffee in our hands. We were watching my nephew playing in and out of various toy cars and trucks, when I said,

"I think I'm gonna die in OC."

There was a hint of sarcasm in my voice, a trait my sister is more than used to.

"Why, are you that bored?" she asked.

"No," I said, "I mean that literally."

It was the morning of last weekend, exactly one week since moving down to Mission Viejo. The moment my mind was awake, even before my eyes were open, one thought came fluttering about in my head--I'm going to die here. What a conclusively morbid declaration to have.

"L.A. offered me a sense of freedom, " I went on, "that I could pick up and move to New York next month if I so desired. I know what mom has to say about my health, but that freedom was still out there, always flirting with me. But now--I don't see myself going anywhere after this. That sense of freedom is lost. This is where I end."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I've been feeling a bit trapped since moving down here," said my sister.

"No, no. If you feel trapped, there's a sense of, or an urge to, escape. There exists a concept of 'beyond'. What I'm experiencing is like the desert silence, the kind so deadening that your whole existence gets suspended in time and space just by closing the eyes. Except, now, opening my eyes doesn't seem to be an option. This freedom that I seem to have lost is not for the physical mobility but for that of the mind. Languid mind makes the body idle. So I'll just live, until I die, here in OC."

I could not tell if the brevity of my sister's response was due to lack of rebuttal, or because she didn't grasp my words, or because my nephew was done playing.

"We need get you out more often," she said.

Driving home later in the evening, I thought more on this subject. The roads were lined with trees turning their seasonal color. Up above, the winter sky was pouring its bright, twinkling stars. Close to 10 PM, most of the neighborhood was already asleep. All these things that now surround my every day are constant reminders of the loss and my unspeakable pain for that loss. They're like a consolation prize that I'd rather lock up...but can't.

(s)He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

W. B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

It's a sleepless night. All those winter stars combined cannot soothe me to sleep. Something about this night recalls in me the song about a blackbird.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird - Wallace Stevens

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing
And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

Snow

Snow died early this afternoon. He was suffering from pneumonia, rare for rabbits, with his little body already succumbing to a walnut-sized tumor. His weakened muscles made him incontinent, and he was gasping for air.

Rabbits let out a death cry the moment they die. It is the only sound they would make in their short lives. Snow wasn't given the chance for that one and only cry of his life. I can't determine if that's a blessing or a misfortune.

071207

I wake up this morning in between the rain. The glimpse of sunlight peeks in through the clerestory window in my bedroom, dissipating my dream. The moment I open my eyes, I have one thought only in my head--that I am not ready to face this day.

My French lop named Snow is ill. He hasn't eaten since Sunday and he is malodorous. I must make another century mile round trip to take him to the doctor. At eight years old, however, he has lived three years past the average life expectancy for lops. My hunch is that this may be his time.

Too many deaths happened in the last few weeks. I am not ready to face another, especially when it is a physical death of a living being.

071206

A lunch turned into a seven-hour outing.

The drive to Culver City was just over an hour. After a leisurely lunch and a brief stop at my former workplace to say my goodbye to the office poodles, I took a gelato break at the corner cafe. I was still too full from lunch for dessert. But it was the hesitation that held me there, that strange sense of "home not being home any more" feeling that I never got used to despite bakers' dozen moves in three decades. I sat there wondering if telepathy really works. It didn't. At 3 o'clock, I got up to head back home.
I figured it would take me an hour and a half to an hour forty-five minutes to get home. My estimate was off--way off. The drive along the 405 freeway took 3 full hours. I regretted not accepting G's invitation to stop at the art gallery for a jewelry show with her and her friends that evening. But it worked out fine--I took advantage of the hideously long drive home to finally let myself...grieve.

Once home, I started to organize a whole plastic container full of my old school papers that have been accumulating since high school, from course syllabuses to term papers. And among them were ten notebooks in varying sizes plus a packed 1-1/2" binder, all containing the handwritten records of my thoughts, my activities, and my obsessions--my diaries since twenty years ago.

Evidently, my journal keeping was most active during my college years. In my freshman year, I wrote almost a full page of college rule paper every other day or so, filling up the whole binder. I wrote little in my second year, but I filled two medium size sketchbooks' worth during my junior and senior years. Back then, I wrote mostly in Korean, and because I wrote so frequently, my penmanship was tidy and almost pleasant to just look at. How I've changed over the years. Now my writing is predominantly in English which, if handwritten, is hardly legible even to myself.

But no matter how I have changed, one thing is for certain--that throughout it all, it was me all along.

The Awakening

I dreamt I was in Michigan again.

I was swimming from Lake Michigan towards Lake Portage along the channel. The sapphire blue water, glistening beautifully in the warm sunlight, felt pleasantly cold against my body. Midway through the channel, a wave of current rushed toward me, pushing me back toward Lake Michigan. I kept swimming on, but another wave pushed me back. Every attempt I made only pushed me out further into the middle of unfathomably vast body of water, until I lost my way back.

But dear Kate, I will not have Edna Pontellier's fate.

071201

7:30 AM.

Being lost in a deep sleep, it takes a few moments for me to realize that the sound from my cell phone is a phone call, not the morning alarm. It is my mom.

"Are you done with your shower yet?" she asks.

I answer with an utterly incomprehensive response.

"Huh?"

"You're not up yet? Do you know what time it is?"

Only then do I look at my clock and realize that I overslept by an hour and a half.

The movers are to show up in an hour. I decide I have no choice but to forego the shower. But because of that, my now short and always stubborn hair must be slicked back. And in my moving day outfit of black yoga pants, a white long sleeve T-shirt and a black short sleeve T-shirt overlayer, I look like a boy.

A short time later, my mother and my sister show up, breakfast in hand. Mom makes this day an exception and lets me drink coffee. As we sit down to eat, she spots a plastic bottle containing small blue and white pills on the table. She reads the label. Having worked at a pharmacy before, she's familiar with many prescription drugs, but this one stumps her.

"What is this for?"

"It's an anti-depressant, mom."

"Why do you have such a thing?"

"My doctor thinks I need it. I've been staring at it, but I'm not taking it."

Really, I should be more careful with the things I leave out.

With their help, the last minute wrap ups come about more easily. The time is now 8:50 AM, though, and the movers are not here. I call the moving company to ask about their whereabouts, and thus begins the moving day fiasco.

When I made a call to make an appointment last Tuesday, initially they said they charge four hour minimum to Orange County. I went ahead and booked them for Saturday. Few minutes later, they called me back to say that they have to charge five hour minimum to Mission Viejo because of the distance. I said that's fine. However, the lady with the moving company thought "that's fine" meant "fine, I don't need your service" even though I meant "fine, I'll pay for five hours." I guess she did not hear me say "see you Saturday" before hanging up the phone.

After clarifying the miscommunication, she apologizes profusely (as she should) and reroutes one of the afternoon appointments for me. She cannot guarantee the exact time, though. So my sister takes off to go to her office, as my friend, M, arrives. M is not an early bird, and I feel bad that she got up this early on a Saturday morning to help me.

To make the long story short, the three of us sit and wait for the movers, like Vladimir and Estragon waiting for Godot, for six hours. M does not speak Korean. Mom does not speak English. I have to either channel the conversation both ways, or have two separate conversations simultaneously. For six very long hours.

By the time the movers finally arrive, the wind picks up significantly. The palm trees lining the sidewalk of my street are swaying back and forth with an incessant sound of rustling leaves. Cold, windy yet sunny day...I am overcome with the desire to drive to the dessert, but I cannot. The guys empty my apartment in about half an hour. The speed and the efficiency with which they move is truly admirable, especially when one guy single-handedly lifts and carries my Stones coffee table made of cast concrete.

I barely make it in time before the Leasing Office closes. I complete my paperwork and receive my keys. The truck shows up only a few minutes after I locate my apartment. Unloading is more difficult than the loading, though, because the apartment is on the second floor. The guys are tired, too, I'm sure. The move is complete, including the dismantling and re-assembly of my bed, in four hours flat. I send the guys along with the five hours' rate plus tip and some soft drinks for the road.

My sister shows up again, this time with her coworker, R. She brings a housewarming gift--a vacuum cleaner, which had not been a necessity for the hardwood floor that I so loved for the last five years. R assembles the vacuum, wires my VCR, DVD and television, and finds a wireless signal to "borrow" for internet access. I'm glad to have this contact with the outside world.

Later, all five of us go out for dinner. I quickly learn that closest non-fast food restaurants are at least five miles away. After a bit of driving around, we end up at Lucille's BBQ. It is one of those loud chain restaurants with almost inhumane portions of food. Five starving people order three dishes, eat to their heart's desire and still go home with enough food boxed up to feed three others easily. I'm afraid such chain restaurants are all I will find in this area.

After dinner, others take off but M sticks around for a while. I want very much to be alone, but I figure her visits will not be as frequent as before. I offer to put her up for the night, but she insists on going home. I walk her to her car. The air is incredibly chilly. But being away from the pollution of light that floods the city, the stars shine brilliantly, especially Mars, the Red Planet, in its peak.

Midnight.

I find myself alone in a new apartment in a new neighborhood. The move is complete. I wonder what my dream will be tonight.

Last Day

I remember the rain on my first day of work here. It was a chilly day, that second day of February, and I wore my black slacks, ivory turtleneck and a black coat. The rain started coming in the afternoon. By the end of the work day, it started to pour, and the short but uncovered walk to the parking lot seemed impossible. I hesitated by the back door uncertain of what to do. A coworker, virtually a stranger I had just met that day, was kind enough to run through the rain and open the door to the back stairs of the parking structure in the alley.

Now on my last day, it is raining again. How appropriate...rain marking the beginning and the end of my chapter here.

071129

I came home after a small good-bye soiree with my co-workers at a wine bar next to the office. My mom came a few hours ahead of me to help out with the packing. I walked in, and the first thing she noticed is that I had a drink. Only a glass of wine, I uttered, barely. Then I turned around and broke down in tears. After a moment or two, she said, "it is your choice," in a matter-of-fact tone and resumed packing.

She had also come by two days before. Again, she came before I got home. I realized short time later that she had seen a keepsake of mine. She came across it not through snooping (that is just not what she does) but because of my carelessness. And being a brilliantly smart woman that she is, I instinctively knew that she figured out from the little that she saw what has been ailing me lately. She said nothing about what she saw. Absolutely nothing.

Will I ever achieve the strength and wisdom that she has? I may imitate, but such magnanimous integrity, I fear, is beyond my reach. But I do feel blessed that a woman of such character is my mother, that I am undeniably her flesh and blood, no matter how lacking I am.
The kitchen cabinets are empty. So are all three storage closets. Boxes after boxes are packed, stacked, and waiting in a zen-like posture within the surrounding chaos for the movers to show up Saturday morning. Only I am restless within the confines of a home that I am soon to abandon.

071127

Four days until my move to OC. I am not ready--and I don't mean that in terms of packing.

Lily Allen, Littlest Things

A Letter of Joy

즐거운 편지 - 황동규

내 그대를 생각함은
항상 그대가 앉아있는
배경에서
해가 지고 바람이 부는 일처럼
사소한 일일 것이나
언젠가 그대가 한없이 괴로움속을
헤매일때에 오랫동안 전해오던
그 사소함으로 그대를 불러 보리라

진실로 진실로
내가 그대를 사랑하는 까닭은
내 나의 사랑을 한없이 잇닿은
그 기다림으로 바꾸어 버린데 있었다.
밤이 들면서 골짜기엔 눈이 퍼붓기 시작했다
내 사랑도 언제쯤에선 반드시 그칠 것을 믿는다
다만 그때 내 기다림의 자세를 생각하는 것 뿐이다
그 동안에 눈이 그치고
꽃이 피어나고
낙옆이 떨어지고
또 눈이 퍼붓고 할 것을 믿는다.


A Letter of Joy - Dong-kyu Hwang

That I think of you
may be as insignificant as
the sun setting and the wind blowing
against the background of
where you are always seated,
but if and when you are lost
in the seemingly relentless misery
I shall call upon you
with that lingering triviality.

Truly, truly,
the reason I love you so
lies in having transformed my love
into an eternal wait.
The snow began to cover the valley by the night fall
My love will also find its end some day,
only I am thinking of how I will perceive my longing then
In the meantime I know
snow will melt
flowers will blossom
leaves will fall
and the snow will cover the valley yet again.

p.s. This is an entirely unauthorized translation, but it is how I interpret this poem, one of my favorites since junior high. I have long wondered about the meaning of the title, but it is yet to be understood.

071125

The apartment debacle of the weekend is finally over. I now have a home in Mission Viejo, the third safest city in the nation.

071124

I spent much time putting on my make up and fixing my hair in an up-do with pearl and crystal studded hair clips. Then I slipped into a formal strapless ball gown with elbow length satin gloves and wrapped my shoulders in a delicate organza.

When I was finished getting ready, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself. I could see flaws but I still looked pretty. I desperately wanted him to see me this way.

At two in the morning, I decided that he shall indeed and uncovered my tripod.

John Sargent, Madame X (Madame Pierre Gautreau), 1883-1884

071120

How fragile, this nameless flower. It withers away only hours after leaving its stem, its petals drooping more and more each minute. This flower is small and insignificant, unsubstantial, trivial.

Yet it is this nameless fragile flower that I love--it holds more significance for me than a hundred dozen roses ever could.

071116 - PTO Day 7

I stay all day in my robe. I make a couple of phone calls to set more appointments to see apartments on Saturday, but that is about the extent of my activity. Another movie matinee comes across my mind, but there isn't a movie that I care to go see. Instead, I watch Limelight, one of Charlie Chaplin's later films, on DVD.

Later in the afternoon, I suddenly feel my heart palpitate with strange sense of anticipation. There is no obvious reason for this, none that I can think of logically. A thought occurs to check on my tree...and there I find a little note pinned up. It is simple note of only three words. They are the words that I long to hear each and every night before I sleep.

[dream] 071116

He asked me a question.
I did not have an answer.
The look of disbelief in his eyes silenced my dream.

071115 - PTO Day 6

Driving around OC all afternoon, I listen to five out of six CD's in my CD player.

• Olivier Messiaen, Quatuor pour la fin du temps
• Beethoven, Missa Solemnis
• Mozart, The Coronation Mass
• Verdi, La Traviata in entirety

I spend all that time driving around, only to look at two apartments. One, in South Coast Metro area, is a loft style townhouse. It is rather small, but very nice and bright as it faces south. The other, in Mission Viejo area, is an older condo in an amazing location. It is much more spacious, but it has an electric stove--a deal breaker. I decide on the first apartment and put in a holding deposit.

I have dinner with my sister and her coworker before I head back. The fog has rolled in along the 405. It syncs my mood to the last moments of poor Violetta in her tragic death.

071114 - PTO Day 5

I hate apartment hunting.

071113 - PTO Day 4

A single strand of hair announces the official end of my youth. For the first time in over thirty-one years, a gray--or, against my jet black hair, white--hair is found. I save it to commemorate.

Late afternoon, I visit my mother at her work and when she gets off, we have dinner together. I had not seen her in quite some time, or so it seemed, and fill her in on my recent events. She shows a little resentment in that I, again, made decisions without consulting the family. That the decision is something she would have approved of to begin with does not get factored in somehow. This is a trait that surfaced only recently in her, and seems to become more and more pronounced as she ages. I do eventually convince her that I am doing the right thing.

I attend the Camerata Pacifica event at the Huntington Library in the evening. After a violin sonata by Schubert, comes Beethoven's Trio in B flat major followed by Ravel. Wilson and another Ravel are lined up after the intermission. I leave before the latter half of the program starts.

071112 - PTO Day 3

At night I dream that I am at an airport. I go up and down many flights of stairs and run into a number of dead ends, looking for Terminal 'B'. I see big bold signs everywhere telling me where to go, yet I am lost. I wake up before finding the terminal.

In the morning, my landlord comes by with a potential tenant, an older woman, probably in her fifties. She wears heavy make up, and she speaks loudly. She counts the number of closets and complains that the space is very small, then starts to babble on about accumulation of stuff (or junk) over the years. I immediately find her not to my liking. The thought of her occupying the space I still call home is somewhat unsettling. But why should it matter who occupies this apartment, when it was never mine to begin with?

Late afternoon, I receive an email from the people down in Irvine. To my amazement, they are making an offer even bigger than the asking salary which I already adjusted up at their suggestion. I think about the reason why I sent my resume there in the first place, so far away from all things familiar. It is the same reason why I now must go. And it is also the same reason why I would have stayed here if things panned out differently, if only to delay the inevitable. All signs lead to Terminal 'B' and I still got lost....
Soon all traces of my existence will be erased from my current life. My apartment will be occupied by someone who will never know the laughters and cries I experienced within these walls, and others will take over my workload like grass filling in the void patches of the earth. Where I am right now, I will no longer be. I should not care, I know, and simply walk ahead. But something in me wants to shout out the words of the ghost of old Danish king, "Adieu, adieu, remember me."

[diary] 071011

My dreams have disappeared. In my last dream, I was left terribly heart broken at a train station. I haven't dreamt since.

Se jie

The time is 1938, in occupied China. For the sake of "greater good", Wong Chia Chi, an ordinary, innocent young college girl, assumes the role of Mrs. Mak to seduce Mr. Yee, who is a high ranking official in Japanese-controlled government. She sacrifices her innocence and virginity to play the role of a seductress, but the war takes Mr. Yee to Shanghai before a rendezvous. For thee years afterwards she lives a life of self-enclosed hell, with no goal, ambition, or a plausible future. It is by chance that she again joins the resistance movement and resumes the role of Mrs. Mak. Only this time, the betrayal runs deeper and to everyone around her, including herself.
"When their sex drifts steadily into S&M, the nature of their relationship shifts. It is impossible to say that Wong Chia Chi/Mrs. Mak likes his tastes in pain and bondage, but they create a fearful intimacy that, for both of them, transcends their lives apart. And it is that tension, between private fascination and public danger, that gives the movie its purpose." - Roger Ebert

* * * * *

There was something in the heroine's looks that reminded me of myself. No, I am nowhere near her beauty, nor do I possess the delicate frame of a body like hers. But there was something within her, something in her eyes, that I could identify with. That something was defiance.
Lust, caution.

071109 - PTO Day 2

Finally it feels like a day off as I sleep through the early morning hours. Both my alarm clocks stay silent. I wake up around 9am but stay in bed until noon or so, checking and returning emails and researching apartment rentals in Orange County.

With a bowl of cereal for lunch, I turn on the television. To my amazement, Jerry Springer still has his talk show. I soon lose interest in television and start leafing through the past week's TIME magazine before I start to get ready. I take some serious time in the shower, just standing in that rain of hot water with a million thoughts running through my head.

By the time I'm done primping myself, I had already missed the show time for "Lust, Caution". Instead, I go and watch "Wristcutters: A Love Story". I walk into an already darkened theater and soon realize that I am the only person there. I take my usual spot in the theater--the middle left, second seat from the end--to watch the unfolding story of Zia, the protagonist who "offs" himself by slitting his wrists and lands in a purgatory. To summarize, the subject of life-after-death was dealt with much more creativity, pleasantry and sophistication in "After Life", a movie I highly recommend. The only thing I got out of "Wristcutters" is a reminder that I do still love the arid desert landscape of California, a reminder I needed since my trip to Michigan.

After the movie, I head out to the valley for a friend's housewarming. It is a small gathering, and I am late as usual. A glass and a half of cabernet almost knocks me out, and as we gather around to watch two episodes of "Nip/tuck", I take a short nap. I leave shortly after midnight. With winter drawing near, the air feels cold and piercing.

When I get home, I pause in front of my gate and look up at the sky. Even in the middle of the city notorious for light pollution, the winter stars shine through. First I spot Orion and his belt. Just below him is Canis Major with the sparkling eye of Sirius. Then I find the twins, Castor and Pollux, before my eyes stop on the Taurus. The bull has a bright red star Aldebaran for an eye in the heart of its distinctive "V" formation. The seven Pleiades sisters are still weepy, but somehow, they appear cheerful, as if hope is on the horizon.
Another day ends. Tomorrow is a sleep away.

071108 - Personal Time Off (PTO) Day 1

It is my first day of PTO, yet I get up even earlier than I normally do for work. I leave the house about an hour and forty minutes ahead of my appointment to make sure I'm not late. Fighting the rush hour traffic and the morning drowsiness, I drive fifty miles south, to the city of Irvine.

My appointment lasts three hours. Before I leave, I am told that I will be made an offer shortly. And they suggest that I should reconsider my asking salary--to be higher. Where did I find an "EASY" button to press?

Driving back, I take the 405 freeway instead of the 5. I call my sister to see if I can get free lunch out of her, but she doesn't answer. So I keep on driving, and a while later, I find myself in the office with McDonald's lunch. I figure I will stay 2-3 hours just to tighten up loose ends. By the time I take off, however, the janitor has arrived and I am once again the last person leaving the office. On my day off.

At this moment I am home, lying down on my couch with my laptop sitting on my stomach. In the background, Angela Gheorghiu's Violetta is nearing her inevitable end. And I am thinking about ways to treat myself. Perhaps a weekday matinee is in order. Hmm...I'm thinking either "Lust, Caution", or "Wristcutters: The Love Story".

071107

I am sitting here in the crow's nest. I should take off, things will somehow find a way of being taken care of, I'm sure. Yet, I am still sitting here in Dave Brubeck's company, contemplating a certain Biblical death.

Herod is no less guilty than Salome for the beheading of John the Baptist. Only, in this situation, Herod and Salome acted their written part in the farce but John decided that he will keep his head attached to his body and refused Salome her satisfaction. Does that mean Herod and Salome are free of guilt, or are they still guilty for their intentions?

Caravaggio, Salome with Head of St. John the Baptist, 1606

071106

그녀는 대범하거나 영리한 여자가 아니며, 내 상상같이 악한 여자도 아니다.

다만 그녀는 지금의 상황과 그녀의 결혼생활, 더 나아가서 그녀 자신의 존재성에 대한 불안정함을 고스란히 내게 드러내 보이는 실수를 했을 뿐이다.

나를 찾아옴으로서 그녀는 우습지도 않게 마지막 카드를 던져버렸다.

그가 선택한 여자가 좀 더 현명한 여인이길 바랬건만....

071105

"I would love you more for your strength," he once said, and immediately I felt ashamed of my weakness that had me driving in the middle of the night. If I show any trace of strength right now, it is only because he wishes it for me. I am merely a weak and helpless woman, lamenting the idle distance that I must keep from my love's suffering.

[dream] October 31, 2007

A man was selling watches. The small store with dim lighting had rows after rows of them displayed, each box stacked on top of the other like the blocks of Ennis-Brown House. It felt eerily silent and static. Only upon examining all the watches did I realize that every one of them had stopped, each one displaying a different time. I had to pick one of these dead watches, dead like the old lady who made them, whether I wanted to or not.

* * * * *

After weeks of silent sleep, dreams finally returned. This first dream proved to be prophetic, not unlike the Asian superstition about shooting stars. A little death occurred that day. It was an ugly death for something so sweet and beautiful....

Agnus Dei

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.

In the Mood for Love

[diary] 071023

The phone rings. It is a simple melody that always triggers a sense of nostalgia in me. Only one person can ring me up that way, and when it rings, I grab the phone and walk outside without excusing myself. To the voice on the other end, I offer a vague explanation for the uncharacteristically cheerful air about my voice. But the real reason, which I am too shy to admit, is to hear that voice that follows this pretty song, the voice I miss evermore.

...and on they go waiting

Estragon: I can’t go on like this.

Vladimir: That’s what you think. Well? Shall we go?

Estragon: Yes, let's go.

What would Didi and Gogo do if they were to stop waiting for Godot? Would they actually leave? Would they really hang themselves? Is it even an option to stop waiting?

Caspar David Friedrich, Two Men Contemplating the Moon, 1819

Caspar David Friedrich, Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon, 1824

Marathon? Really?!

I hated running as a child. In fact, I hated any kind of physical activity whatsoever, but running was the worst. "Chasing after a butterfly" was how my family described my attempt at running, and if the neighborhood kids I was playing with started to run, I would stand still and, eventually, cry. Although it turned out later that I was not without any athletic bone in my body, the act of running still remained something to be dreaded.

The year I turned twenty-five, I had many reasons to frequent the hospital. Aside from the now chronic gastrointestinal problems, a benign tumor the size of my fist was found and had to be removed. As I was waking up after the four-hour surgery, the television happened to be showing a marathon and I said to my sister, "I'm going to do that when I get better." I'm not sure whether it was the influence of the anesthesia that made me say this, or if it was my new found determination for a healthier life, but it did lead to a resolution to participate in the marathon before turning thirty. A year after another year passed by, however, and even the thirtieth year of my life passed. And I gave up on the marathon.

* * * * *

Just couple of weeks ago, a coworker of mine was talking about her completion of the marathon. In passing, I mentioned that it had once been my goal. A few days later, she approached and asked me if I wanted to participate in the next marathon, that she is getting a group together. It came unexpectedly, and I was not sure. Could I really finish a marathon? Do I have the discipline or the endurance? Am I, or will I ever be physically fit enough? I didn't have the answers, but I found myself signing up.

This morning was the first training. It was my first time leaving the house--or opening its front door--on a Saturday in a very long time (when that last time was, I had forgotten long ago). Along the beach of my favorite drive course we met, all three of us and a dog. The air was cold but the sun was beautiful, and we ran and walked, then ran some more. Before we knew it, we had come rather far, and by the time we were back where we started from, it must have been at least four or five miles. Not too bad for a first run in a whole year.

It was never my intention to run all 26.2 miles. The game plan is to run a mile, then walk a mile. And I think I can do it if all goes as this morning...but first, I should make sure my muscles are responsive come tomorrow.

Sleep

Excerpt from Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World:

I thought about rain myself. A mist so fine, it almost wasn't rain. Falling, ever fair, ever equal, it gradually covered my consciousness in a filmy, colorless curtain.

Sleep had come.

Now I could reclaim all I'd lost. What's lost never perishes. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to sleep.

Bob Dylan was sing A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, over and over.

Happier Birthday

Single malt trumps all gifts to date.

[diary] 070926

K called today. It has been months since I last spoke to her, and even longer since I last saw her. We made plans to see each other next week.

We have known each other barely a year, K and I. She is a bit older than me, married, and lives by the Nike slogan, "just do it". We have completely opposite personalities, which, at times, made it a strenuous chore for me to meet up with her. But she had the gift of ability to redirect my perception somehow, to untangle my problematic thought process and simplify things for me. The seemingly daunting tasks became "no big deal" after consulting her. If not for her, I may still be sleeping on the floor and dining from the sloping surface of my Maya Lin coffee table. I have to admit that it is a rare and exceptional gift, given my resolute stubbornness.

She always said that for as long as she is around in my life, "things will pan out wonderfully" for me. Whether or not I believed in what she said, I would have to say no, but it was comforting to me that someone could imagine my prospects to be so bright. And such reassurance is what I seem to be in need of the most these days. To reconnect with her now gives me the faintest of all hopes that, maybe, the worst is over...for now.

[diary] 070917

I spent my evening hours listening to Pierre Fournier's rendition of Bach's cello suites and reading The Brothers Karamazov. Mother later called to ask if I had a good day, and I --gasp!-- lied. Of course, she knew I was lying but didn't inquire further.

Evidently, I can write no more, for I cannot think. And I cannot think, for I am too consumed by feelings of unsurmountable sorrow and hopeless sense of failure. In such a state of mental paralysis, Dostoevsky, once a foe in my sleep, is proving to be the only capable friend. Irony never ceases to surprise me.

Leonid Ossipovitch Pasternak, Evening Before the Examination, 1895

exaresco

So it is in the bottom of this well that I find myself again lately. How long I have been down here I do not know, but the telling sign that it has been too long is the disappearance of my dreams. In such arid state of mind, my thoughts, ironically, are absorbed by poor old Ophelia.

[trip] Salk

A brief drive somehow turned into an overnight trip to La Jolla. And of course, I visited the temple of Salk. I will never tire of this place.

[trip] Michigan - Prologue

Death does not exist in Onekama.

But of course, things die there every day. During one morning's walk alone, I saw two dead salmons, one floating on water and the other beached ashore, its flesh torn by the hungry birds. I know that the monotonous sound of the cicada I heard on my first day did not belong to the one making same such sound on the day I was leaving--these poor insects live but a week after spending seven years buried underground. Raccoons and possums, all victims of road kill, lay lifeless along the sides of the road everywhere. Even the history of each of the houses there involve deaths of someone or another. But all these deaths are merely a part of regenerative cycle of life itself. Without any philosophical or metaphysical concepts tied to their ends, it is unnecessary to distinguish "death" from "life".

And thus death, as I know it, does not exist in Onekama.

XXXVIII - Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Los suspiros son aire y van al aire,

Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar.

Dime, mujer, cuando el amor se olvida

¿sabes tú adónde va?

Marc Chagall, Lovers' Dream

[dream] In the monastery, 070809

A dozen priests and a dozen nuns live in a remote monastery up in the mountains. The late night supper is taking place in a dimly lit hall, with a humble meal fit for such setting. The nuns are as saintly as can be, and they sit quietly in their seats. The priests, on the other hand, are all thugs. They are disorganized and boisterous as they stand around the table.

Elsewhere in the cloister, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, represented in five thick encyclopedic volumes of books, are deteriorating, rapidly, visibly.

[dream] Lost Face, 070804

Men dressed in tuxedos, easily a couple hundred in number, were involved in a game of dodge ball. To distinguish one from the other was an impossibility, and I managed not to find the person I was looking for. In what was supposed to be a festive occasion, I found no joy.

It was my first dream after a seemingly long absence of dreams.

9 at the Bowl

My meager writing skill was pimped out for two free box seat tickets and a parking pass at the Hollywood Bowl. Wonder what I need to sell out next for free meals from the Patina Group....

The Last Symphony

[dream] Siberia, 070728

In my restlessness I dream incomprehensible dreams. They fall apart, then reshape and metamorphose themselves, then they fall apart again. Whatever bits and pieces I can retain after I awake become precious fragments of self-empathy.

Last night, I dreamt I was on my way to Siberia in an old-fashioned steam engine train.

[dream] A Dream of an Invalid

Someone had stolen a red journal that I had kept for three years. Its pages had been copied and passed around. I finally found and confronted the culprit. But nothing I said could express the rage I was feeling for such violation. My voice, my actions, carried no weight and I had to endure the implosion all on my own.

The Chronicles of Gastroenteric Troubles

Monday

Palpable symptoms of gastritis first thing in the morning. Packed a carton of milk and a bottle of Nexium to work. Skipped dinner but prepared for the worst, and I slept with the phone next to the pillow.

Tuesday

No E.R. visit in the middle of the night, but woke up feeling queasy. The half day of work that I planned stretched into a full day. Had porridge for dinner, just to be safe.

Wednesday

I started thinking that I diverted a need for E.R. visit. My spirit was up but my focus was lost. I clocked in and out of work.

Thursday

Woke up moaning. The condition obviously took a turn for the worse, but I stubbornly readied myself and went to work...only to leave before 10AM. The doctor quadrupled my prescription dosage, and gave me other medications. At home, in bed, a good night that went unsaid the evening before turned into a regret.

Friday
I could not get to the medications in the kitchen. Thankfully, mom called around lunch hour to yell at me for not taking care of myself, so I forced myself up. In a couple hours, I was finally able to sit up.

Saturday

The fever finally subsided. Family swung by to take me out to see some sunlight. Except for the nausea that follows each meal, stomach feels much better. It is mostly the weakness from not having eaten more than one meal's worth of food in four days that need tending.

Sunday

No more porridge. Please.

G35

It is an instant attraction.

The compact body with smooth ivory skin glimmers in the sun. Even while parked passively in the parking structure, I am drawn to its bold and carefree nature that show through. With the remote I unlock the doors--the headlights flash, as if to whimsically wink at me.

There is no hesitation. I throw the key off to the side and impatiently push down on a button to start the engine. It plays for me The Doors' "Light My Fire." Oh, I get the message.

We don't take time to get to know each other. I know only what I need to know, and it doesn't need to know me at all--and that is fine. Before long, I am driving it through the surface streets at 50mph, weaving in and out of traffic. As I pass the police station, a thought briefly registers to slow down a bit...but it whispers to me, there's no fun without a little danger. So I continue speeding through the streets, hugging every curve within my reach.

It is not a long drive. I hit home as abruptly as I fell into its charms. When I do, I simply walk away. There is no lingering, no looking back.

At night, alone in bed, I find myself wondering...is this what one-night stand is like?

TL

The set of keys I hold feels different in my hand. The remote is slightly bulkier, the key is slightly longer. I press a button, and with a soft ticking sound, the doors unlock, beckoning me in. It is an unfamiliar territory...but I succumb to its temptation and open the driver side door. It already recognizes me, and caters itself for my comfort. I am yours, it says.

As soon as I shut the door after me, I realize that its black leather interior is a vortex. I cannot get out...until it is taken for a good ride. I do not rush. With a slide of a button, the moon roof opens, revealing the clear blue sky above. I run my fingers around the leather-bound steering wheel, then wrap my fingers around it. My eyes close for a second, then slowly bring the key to a blue ring of light.

The key is a perfect fit, and I give it a turn to start the engine. The blue lights of the dashboard lets me know it is ready. As I breathe in deep, I reach for the gear. The gear knob, also wrapped in leather, fits perfectly in my palm. Slowly, I shift the gear to drive. We--it and I--spare a split second to sync with each other, then I roll it out of its parked misery.

The first music we share is Mozart's String Quarter No. 15. The music may be mellow, but it is not. With the slightest nudge on the accelerator, it wants to jump, it wants to fly. I still feel a little reserved about roughing it up...just a little. But in no time, I apprehend the dynamics of its two pedals and we finally become one....

This, I must say, is the biggest love affair since my '79 Mercedez 450SEL.

[dream] April 13, 1985

It was the most two-dimensional dream I have ever had. No sounds were heard, no emotions were felt, "time" was nowhere to be found. But its haunting memory still persists.

My father and I were being chased by a giant snake. He was running behind me to make sure that I didn't fall behind. The snake was already very close, and had its mouth wide open.

* * * * *

I never woke up from this nightmare, and my father never woke up from his coma. When I came home after school that day, my mother told me he had passed away. We had been preparing for this for months. But saying good-bye never seemed appropriate...until it was too late.