Rêverie

With the final days of the summer I sensed the end was near. It was time to let go. So I did.

Pain, resentment, sorrow...all receded into seemingly distant past. But I felt empty never, for my love still remained, ever so beautiful, ever so blissful, the root of everything I shall ever do henceforth. And this I want you to remember, long after the days you have forgotten.

au revoir, mon amour...

080826

S and I have begun having breakfast before work from time to time. The young junior designer has found me to be her mentor of some sort and she had asked many questions about the design industry, the firms I used to work for, and what she should expect outside of her first professional job.

This time we met at Lulu's Creperie for our early morning rendezvous. She was telling me about her boyfriend of six years. After being away on business for three months, S's boyfriend was due to come back in a month. She confided in me some time ago that, instead of missing him, she felt relieved, liberated. Upon his return, she was expected to accept his proposal. Having the time to think about it, she said, made her even more unsure.
 
"Can I ask you a question? You don't have to answer if you don't want to," I said.

She looked back at me with curious and anticipating eyes.

"Do you have a crush on someone else?" I asked.

She lowered her eyes.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"He's married, isn't he?" I asked her back.

Her jaw dropped.

"Really, how did you find out? I never told anyone," she said, baffled.

This time I lowered my eyes and shrugged, taking a sip of now lukewarm coffee. Our beret-wearing server stopped by to clear the plates. Except for an old man sitting at a table next to us, apparently a regular, the restaurant was empty. The fog had lifted and the sun was shining through. In the warmth of the morning sun we sat, contemplating. For the life of her she would never figure out how I knew.

080823

You have completed a full circle.
Now you are as the day you were born.

Happy 60.

080817

I saw you in my dream last night. It was a night of endless images but all I could remember was you, standing there, smiling. Then you called me this afternoon much to my surprise. You sensed gaiety in my voice. I didn't want to admit I was actually glad to hear from you.

Watching men's swimming in Olympics lately had me thinking of you. You never did lose that athletic swimmer's body from your days of youth. The morning after the first night we spent together, I woke up and saw you looking out the window, a white towel wrapped around your waist, hair still wet from shower. You were tall, lean, shoulders broad, hips proportionally narrow. For the first time I marveled at a man's body, which until then had been a source of certain repulsion and contempt. I found you as beautiful as you found me.

You have come and gone all in the course of this short evening. All I'm taking from tonight is how you wrapped your hand over my left hand and wrist and asked if it was still hurting a lot. Yes, I said, it's the most mundane activities that give it pain. You wound your fingers tighter around my hand and dozed off.

Yet, my friend, I love you not for I love another, even though this love is made of equal parts resentment, sorrow and madness. I seek from you the comfort and familiarity of our bygone childhood years when life was simple and innocent. Neither do you love me. We each hold back so much from each other, wanting, but not giving, knowing not to utter the same words we whisper in bed when we're clothed.

Selfish is what we are. Measured is the time ahead of us. Hurt we both shall be at the end of this time.

080813

in time. our paths shall not cross.

080809

"So, when are you coming back?"

I'm hit with this question not infrequently. "In time," I would answer, "in time."

She put me on a spot and asked me the question in front of others.

"When do you want me back?" I asked in return.

She said, "tomorrow."

"Well, only you know my timing of things," I said.

She always throws the craziest fun parties and it was the most fun evening I had in a long time. Yet, driving back home to the deep woods of Orange County, I welled up and let the tears fall. I wished I could give her a different answer.

I thought of the dream I had a while ago. Years passed and I was back. Many were strangers to me. Someone asked why I came back. I answered, "because A is here."

That would be my answer indeed...some day.

080729

11:42 AM. Magnitude 5.4 earthquake hits the southland. No frayed nerves--back to business as usual before noon.

Twelve hours later, however, I spent the evening updating the emergency kit with bottled water, couple of granola bars, medications all different sorts, flashlight, extra batteries, and even change of clothing. And I'm in bed wearing shorts and tank top, way more than what I'm used to wearing to sleep.

I miss the days when I was young and oblivious.

080727

Ours is not an act of love. It is an act of sex, a contemptuous act which at times is rough, sometimes violent, always animalistic, and never, to me, satisfying. I am too inhibited by thoughts, dreams, and diary full of yearnings for another man that I keep hidden under the bed. Yet I failed again to whisper au revoir into his departing ears.

Frailty, thy name is woman indeed.

080720-Sick...again

I had been feeling foul all that day. I came home agitated and with bitter aftertaste in my mouth. All night my dreams shattered into pieces and rained on me, except for the following portion which remained with me.

* * * * *

I was wearing a black pencil skirt, a strapless black brassiere and a sheer white shirt over it. First I found one little blood stain on the shirt. Then another. Then everywhere. I could not figure out where it was coming from, whether it was coming from within or without.

* * * * *

Next morning I awoke with a fever and migraine in the morning. There was no thermometer, but drawing from earlier experiences, I could tell that the fever was getting close to a dangerous level. Tylenol only worked temporarily--this unexplained fever was relentless.

So now, five days after it all started, I am on antibiotics and beginning to eat solid food again. There is slight fever still, but it is much more manageable. I lost ten pounds. I did not want to lose them this way. I don't know why I am constantly getting sick.

[dream] Kiss

I'm housesitting for a boss who I care not for, in a house that feels more claustrophobic than my own apartment. The only thing that makes my two week stay tolerable is the two-year-old yellow Labrador with a strange name. It is in this uncomfortable house that I began having vivid dreams again.

* * * * *

He came up to see me and kissed me. He still had me in his arms when she called. He answered, not letting go of me. Though I did not show it, I felt nothing but resentment.

After he left a tall pretty blond girl walked in. I approached her then kissed her as I would a lover. Her lips were dry, cracked, and felt rough on the tip of my tongue. She wanted more. But those lips of hers were a turn off. I walked away.

080706 - Why I thought of Renee Magritte

"You mean, you think I'm sexy?" I questioned.

"Yes, you're very sexy," he replied.

"Really?" I asked again. I had to.

"Do you really not know there are tons of men out there lusting after you?" he said, and immediately I had this image in my head.

I felt sick afterwards. I spent the entire long weekend buried inside my apartment.

080704 - Birth

I dreamt I was pregnant. The bulging stomach was unlike that of any other pregnant women's--a subtle convex of a curve from just below my chest. My hands could trace the head and limbs of the fetus inside. The long and skinny being inside my body was moving about constantly.

Instinctively I knew the time had come. I laid down on bed and breathed in deep to prepare myself. But without any pain the baby was born. It was a girl--a very special girl. She did not cry. She was her own complete person from the moment of birth.

I was not her mother. I was only her carrier.

* * * * *

I shared this dream with my sister and asked what she thought it meant. She had often hit a bullseye with her interpretation of my dreams. This time she was a little baffled.

"There's no way it means that you want a baby of your own. Maybe it means you'll soon face a new beginning of some sort," she suggested.

I think she's right again.

080702

For the past week or so, I have not been sleeping well. I would toss and turn, have vivid yet unrecognizable dreams, then in the morning wake up groggy, restless. Perhaps weather was to blame. Perhaps I need to cut back on caffeine. Perhaps I should stop watching movies like Camille Claudel.

Then last night, in bed, I found the source of my agitation.

What if I wake up to an intruder?

I have had such preoccupation before, but Mission Viejo supposedly being the safest city in the country, this thought did not occur to me since the move. But suddenly there it was, completely unfounded and benign. As I drifted into the Neverland, I thought, Pajamas. I should start wearing pajamas. Like that'll save me from armed intruder.

So I reached a conclusion that I need companionship. I think I'll opt for the four-legged kind.

080701

Suddenly there was a sharp shooting pain in my head. I tried to endure hoping it'll simply disappear, but it was stubborn. After popping two maximum strength Tylenol I grabbed my car keys. It was over 90 degrees inside my car, parked out in the sun. I didn't care as I crawled into the back seat. I lay there with not a single window cracked open.

I was drifting out of consciousness. My hand, still holding onto the keys, fell to the floor. I laid there for what seemed like an eternity. Until I found myself whispering, not yet.

So after fifteen minutes I was back. When I came back inside, no one had the faintest idea how close I came to being gone.

080630

Just when I think it's safe, I slip and fall. Music of Debussy, almost transparent blue eyes, stubbles of his unshaven face.... Suddenly memories come drowning me and I realize I ache no less.

I retract my timid wings once again.

080622

Friday.

Called in sick. I was suffering from heat exhaustion, but more importantly, a big disappointment with a bit of regret. I decided that a day off was in order despite the deadline. All morning I thoughts of things I wanted to do--go to the Aquarium of the Pacific or the zoo, have leisurely lunch in Laguna Beach, so on and so forth. In the end, I did absolutely nothing--just the thought of stepping out into that sweltering heat was enough to nauseate me all over again.

In the evening, I took a cold shower to cool down and put on my white linen dress before heading over to Corona del Mar. It was fourth night of the Baroque Music Festival to which I was the patron subscriber. The night's program included Torelli, Telemann, Bach, and a Swedish composer named Roman. Dr. Burton Karson's introduction was entertaining as they were all other nights, Elizabeth Blumenstock worked wonders on her 1660 Guarneri violin (still strung with sheep gut), and Timothy Landauer's Telemann was out of this world.

I was walking to my car after a stop at The Crow Bar for a drink when I saw a bright shooting star, through all the light pollution around and the moon's perigee. I tried not to think too much about its meaning. But it was too radiant and too splendid--it flamed into extinction over and over again inside my head.

Saturday.

I wore the same linen dress. Even at 7 in the morning, I didn't need a sweater to cover my bare back. I drove the freeway at 85 mph. It took 1 hour 10 minutes, door to door, to get to Beverly Hills. It included a stop at a gas station and a long drive-thru line for iced coffee.

AIA LA's Spring Tour took place exactly sixteen hours after the official start of summer. I needed that stimulus---I've been stuck in OC for too long, where clients and designers alike lack sophistication. Two designers from my company in attendance were obviously struck with awe. While having lunch at Paperfish by Clive Wilkinson Architects, they said that people at the company wonder if I will leave to come back to L.A. I just smiled and brushed off that comment. That was all I could do.

I took photos at Broad Contemporary Art Museum and stopped by the grocery store I used to frequent before heading back home.

Sunday.

Another very warm day. I took a nap and woke up at 3pm. The fifth and last of the Baroque Music Festival concert was to start at 4pm. I jumped in the shower knowing I would be late.

Following another magnificent concert was patron dinner reception. I sat next to an old lady who took much interest in me. As it were, I was the only non-silver haired patron in attendance and the only one of different race. She spoke to me extensively about her children and different cities where she used to live. She's seventy years old, she said, and of failing health. She wants to live fully before the inevitable, she said. At the end of the evening, I walked away with a promise that I will accompany her to a concert at Hollywood Bowl this summer.

On my way home, I listened to Deborah Voigt and Placido Domingo singing the finale of the second act of Tristan und Isolde over and over again. I drove through the dusk imagining the night the lovers were enveloped in.

080622 - Sunday morning

We finished two small bottles of sake and had moved onto a twelve year old Glenfiddich. We were unusually chatty--for us, at least. I do not recall how our conversation got there, but I found myself saying these words:

"If I had been born a man...."

Before I could finish the sentence, he chimed in.

"...you would have made many girls cry."

"What makes you say that?" I questioned in protest.

"Because only one person gets to be a free bird in a relationship," he replied.

I knew exactly what he meant without having to read through many lines in between. The surprise was in that he knew me that well. I changed the direction our conversation was headed.

"As I was saying, if I were born a man, I would have become a priest."

He gave me a look. That was enough to put me on a defense, citing differences between priests and nuns. But he, too, grew up a Catholic. I knew my argument was the losing one but stood by it nonetheless.

* * * * *

Of many of our childhood plays, one remained in my memory bank more vividly than others. There was a big mound of left over sand from construction at one corner of his yard. I would gather rocks and use them to reinforce the mound of sand. He would bring over a bucket of water to wash it all down. I knew my attempts were futile but refused to give up, gathering the sand and bringing more rocks to build a bigger, stronger mound. All he had to do, he knew, was to keep pouring water over it. We would be at it for a long time, neither of us relenting, until his mother called us back to the house for dinner.

* * * * *

I had on my white linen dress, a favorite of mine on those extremely hot summer days. I stood up from where I was sitting and looked down. There was a little red dot. On my dress. The dot grew and grew into a coagulating mess of my own blood.

* * * * *

It was early morning hours but my east facing bedroom was already filled with bright morning sunlight. I drifted in and out of sleep through his snores. It was a lazy Sunday morning.

080619

All day I thought about the couple next door. Their fight few weeks ago must have been a bad one. Now that he's left, the girl is in the process of moving out. This morning, I noticed that the little fabric wrapped ledge that used to perch on the window sill for Lucy, the cat, was gone.

I have a project with Friday deadline. But I left the office even before my usual time. I was tired.

"I know you're busy, but just one question...is it okay to stop caring?" I wrote, before putting the car in reverse gear. I pressed the send button.

She sent me back her response in two separate text messages.

"Whoa! That sounds loaded. My quick answer is..."

"NO. But are you talking work or love life?"

I replied, "Work. You know I have a love-less life.... Okay, I'll try a little more."

What I really meant to say, in lieu of "work," was "life." But I knew better than to bother her with that load of baggage before her forthcoming deadlines. And we both knew I only had myself to blame.

People call it quits all the time. I did to my own marriage. I did to an eighteen year old friendship. But I cannot to things I am expected to.

I opened a bottle of Lambrusco when I got home. I'm on the course of finishing it before this evening is over.

[travel] From Midwest, With Love - 2008

I

En route to Chicago.
The storm was going through the Midwest. My plane was fortunate to depart and land on time but many others, I later learned, were delayed or canceled. I know not when it started, but for some time now, prior to all my trips I pause and wonder if I would ever come back. So far I made it back each time. And I would always come back--until that one time when I won't.

II
Merchandise Mart, someone told me, has its own zip code. On floors 3, 10 and 11 are the manufacturers' showrooms. Booths were also set up on floors 7 and 8. Every single elevator was packed with people like sardines in a can. Feet were tired, shoulder grew heavy, all sensory inlets overloaded.

Even though it was my first time attending NeoCon, it was a disappointment. New products were few and far between. New innovations were more thinly scattered about. I know and understand the products and manufacturers enough to know that this year, everyone held back. Parties, too, were done at modest scales. Steelcase party only served one type of cocktail which tasted like melted Jolly Rancher with a teaspoon of vodka diluted in melting ice water. When asked if we could get vodka straight up, bartender refused. No parties were held at empty floor of Sears Tower. It was the sign of times.

III

I like Chicago. The city is eclectic, fun, and most importantly, full of life. It would not be a bad city to consider living in.

Of the Chicago I have seen so far, Frank Gehry's Jay Pritzker Pavilion was the most impressive (for its acoustics), Anish Kapoor's strangely (or not) Jeff Koons-like outdoor sculpture Cloud Gate was the most amusing, the subway was the most nostalgic. I spent time in good company, sharing great meals, good Scotch, and engaging conversations. Views from Sears and Hancock Towers kept me in prolonged moments of awe. But the best moments I had in The Windy City were the ones I spent alone wandering the streets, map in tow but never bothering to look at it, eating Polish sausage and sweet potato fries at a hole in a wall, finding wonderfully well stocked bookstore, and crossing the streets before the lights turned green like the locals do.

But even in the midst of city with glitz and charm and life, the first waking moments of every morning felt desolate. I looked over at the undisturbed pillows and sheets next to me. Only one person was in my mind. Even the change of pace and scenery couldn't help it.

IV

Onekama, Michigan, is a six hour drive from Chicago. Thank god for my iPod and the bountiful greenery around that kept me company. I listened to John Adams' Naive and Sentimental Music and a lot of Schubert driving up (days later, on my way back was a Mozart fest, including Le Nozze di Figaro in entirety). Around the little town of Holland, dull but persistent pain troubled my right shoulder. I knew rain was on the way.

V

She gave me the same room I had stayed in before. First thing I did in the room was to get down on the floor and look under the dresser. There, plugged on the outlet, was the adapter plug I accidentally left there ten months ago. I reached under to retrieve it. Some things have a way of getting lost, then finding a way back. Like a dozen treasured photos of my childhood that I had once lost. Like this adapter plug. People, too, have a way of coming back. Sometimes.

The storm came the next night. It sent a poor standard white poodle in a frenzied panic attack. Me--well, I loved it. It felt like summer. By bedtime, the storm was hitting hard. I went to sleep, listening both to threatening thunder outside and Beethoven's Pathetique. The storm caused power failure that lasted all next day. A little inconvenience was well worth one spectacular night of summer thunderstorm.

Last time I was in Onekama, I wasn't sure if I could ever come back. But here I was again, less than a year later. I sensed a certain melancholy here that I did not feel here before. Nothing had changed at Rosegate. What changed was me.

VI
Soon after the plane left O'Hare, I found myself enshrouded in so many thoughts. And like I did in Ojai listening to Dawn Upshaw singing Alban Berg's Die Nachtigall, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. But when one single drop of tear escaped through the corner of my eye, the flood gate was open. I let them come as they are.

[travel] The Polar Opposites of Midwest

Day 1, Sunday: Chicago. Stormy Weather
Vacating the apartment and place of work for an entire week involves a significant amount of preparation. After two hours of restless sleep, I headed to the airport. I recognized faces of half of the passengers on the plane. They were all headed to Chicago to attend NeoCon. So was I.

Upon landing at O'Hare airport I learned that severe Midwest storm kept many flights delayed and canceled some others. My coworkers came in late, and my boss's flight was canceled. That was fine--I didn't feel like meeting up with them for a drink that night anyway.

That evening my sponsor and I went to dine with style at Room 21. The decor was eclectic, bold and colorful. We started with beef carpaccio, then I had tomato bisque and seared scallops with salad, all prepared to perfection. But the warm cardamom doughnuts with chocolate and raspberry sauces...if food heaven exists, it is inside that subtle cardamom flavor of piping hot doughnut, freshly deep fried to order, with a drizzle of the perfectly dark, yet not overpowering, chocolate sauce that is neither too thick or too thin. And the meal was capped with 18 year old Macallen, before and after dinner. This is a close--very close--second to my favorite meal of all time, at The Restaurant at Getty.

Menu at Room 21

Afterwards we got together with couple other vendors and went to The Bar at Peninsula Hotel. More scotch there. I never made it to Allsteel party at Apple store. It was raining when we left.

Day 2, Monday: Chicago. Crazy NeoCon Day

Merchandise Mart--a whole zip code of a building

Knoll hosted breakfast at Aria Restaurant at Four Seasons for Orange County designers. I ordered crab cake eggs benedict while others ordered homemade granola and yogurt. I said I was embarrassed for my choice of menu, but really, I wasn't. After breakfast we took a cab to Merchandise Mart, that obnoxiously big building which I was told has its own zip code. After a walk through of 11th floor showrooms, I headed over to Joey Shimoda luncheon symposium hosted by Steelcase. He spoke in depth about the design process of new Steelcase showroom at the Mart. I walked away with my creative charge fueled up.

The Knolls

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I met up with AK and her nephew. We hung out at Steelcase party which only served one type of cocktail that tasted like melted Jolly Rancher with half a teaspoon of vodka diluted in melting ice water. Ugh.

Inside-Outside

Really, guys, you couldn't afford linear diffuser?

A close encounter with a column

For dinner, I managed to tag along with AK and her sponsors to David Burke's Primehouse. I ordered 55-day aged ribeye for entree. But as good as the dinner was (with a four-digit price tag to go along), it did not leave much impression on me. Maybe it was the wine--it started giving me a headache. After a brief stop at Signature Lounge on top of Hancock Tower to finally meet my coworkers for a drink, I headed home to sleep.

View from Signature Lounge, Hancock Tower

Day 3, Tuesday: Chicago. Why did I wear my maryjanes?

I always claimed that my maryjanes were the most comfortable pair of shoes I own. After all, I am able to wear them hiking up the hill of Hollywood Bowl with no problem. But I guess to walk around in it all day is a different story, even with extra silicon padding I slipped in underneath.

After tour of more showrooms in the morning, AK, her nephew and I decided to do some sightseeing. So after lunch we headed to Millennium Park where, coincidentally, Chicago Symphony Orchestra was rehearsing at Frank Gehry designed pavilion. We sat for awhile to listen before goofing around the awfully Jeff Koons reminiscent Cloud Gate by Anish Kapoor.

A simpler, outdoor version of WDCH

I'm in there somewhere as a dot

Then off to Sears Tower we went. This time, we took the train instead of a cab. Staring out towards the tracks, I thought of an old dream I had.

54th and Wabash

From Sears Tower

We went from Sears Tower to Hancock Tower to join AK's sponsors for drinks. I bid them farewell as they headed off to dinner. As much as I loved their company, I needed some "me" time. Alone. I tossed the maryjanes and changed into flats before hitting the streets. I went to a hole-in-a-wall for some spicy Polish sausage and sweet potato fries. I went to a bookstore and bought H. Hesse's Pictor's Metamorphosis. Being completely alone in a city that I do not know--priceless.
Day 4, Wednesday: Chicago/Michigan. The Drive.
Never have I learned to sleep on the middle of the bed. This day was no exception and I woke up staring at the undisturbed pillows and sheets next to me. Only one person was in my mind.
In the afternoon I picked up my rental car, a Chevrolet Cobalt with 780 miles on it. No power windows. Getting through all those toll gates gave me enough exercise on my left arm for the day. Through Illinois and Indiana I drove, and up Michigan along the lake. I managed to find a classical music station on the radio. As my luck would have it, it was a pledge week. After an hour of that, I tried listening to Conrad's Heart of Darkness (on Classic Tales Podcast). But the view was too pretty, atmosphere too pleasant, for such sullen telling of a story. Instead, I listened to John Adams' Naive and Sentimental Music and a lot of Schubert. By the time I reached Holland, MI, my shoulder was sending painful signals of rain to come.

Driving Michigan

It was quarter after 8, EST, by the time I reached Onekama. GU and her niece E welcomed me. After dinner and walk to the pier and dessert (in that exact sequence), we played few games of Pente, a Greek game similar to Connect Four, except with five.
I was given the room I stayed in last year. I wouldn't have wanted to have it any other way. Back then I accidentally left my phone adapter on the plug under the dresser. I looked under--it was still there. There was no need for it any more with my new phone, but I gladly retrieved it. But as I unpacked I realized that I left the camera battery charger at the hotel. You gain some, you lose some. Oh well.
Last time I was in Onekama, I left thinking I may never come back. But I was here once again, less than a year later. I sensed a certain melancholy this time that I did not feel here before. Nothing had changed at Rosegate--what changed was me.

Day 5, Thursday: Michigan. Real Storm Begins.

We took a late morning walk to wood carving artist's studio. Otherwise it was a laid back, uneventful day.

Wally-meister

Zoe-berger

GU's sister, brother-in-law, and mother arrived by dinner time. We had excellent dinner (maybe I should instead call it supper) of grilled pork tenderloin, grilled peach and goat cheese salad with balsamic syrup, creamy polenta, and homemade blueberry cobbler. Sitting at the porch to another round of Pente, rain started coming. With each minute it fell harder, winds growing stronger. In the distant skies we saw lightening which sent poor Zoey an anxiety attack.

Thunderstorm

I loved the thunderstorm. It felt like summer. By bedtime, the storm was hitting hard. I went to sleep, listening both to threatening thunders outside and Beethoven's Pathetique.

Day 6, Friday: Michigan. Back to the Basics.

The thunderstorm of night before knocked out power in the middle of the night. Plumbing was shut, too. Life really had to go back to the basics.

The weather was clearing up. 6-7 possible inches of rain was had in one night. 31 highway was closed from Manistee south because a bridge got washed up. The whole town of Manistee was in disarray after the storm.

It was a lazy day with walks to the beach along Lake Michigan, more games of Pente at the dock, and a nap.

Washed up deer carcass

Despite the lack of power and water, we still managed to eat like kings. Most everything was prepared on the gas grill. Grilled flank steak, blanched asparagus, sliced heirloom tomatoes, and choices of desserts. After dinner GU, E and I went for a walk along the channel and out to the pier to see the sunset. At 9:30PM, the sun was still peeking out from the clouds, albeit close to the horizon. The power was back on when we came back home.

9:10 PM, EST

9:32 PM, EST

Day 7, Saturday: Michigan. Journey Back Home.
In the wee hours of the morning (2:22AM to be exact), I woke up from my sleep. I looked over at the empty twin bed next to mine. For a long time I could not fall back asleep.

The farewell was emotional. Neither of us showed it, though. GU packed me lunch to go like a mother would, wrapping each slice of sandwich individually, done so it would easily peel even while driving.

Because of the road closures along the stretch of highway I was supposed to have taken, I took a detour per GU's instructions. It was an hour detour which I made in 45 minutes. I did not stop all the way to Chicago except to fill up the gas. It was a 6 1/2 hour drive. I created a mini Mozart fest, with complete listening of Le Nozze di Figaro, Symphony No. 40, and Piano Concerto No. 20, among others. How would I ever travel without my 80GB iPod?

Soon after the plane took off, I found myself enshrouded in so many thoughts. And like I did in Ojai listening to Dawn Upshaw singing Alban Berg's Die Nachtigall, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. But when one single drop of tear escaped through the corner of my eye, the flood gate was open. I...didn't hold back.

080612

Michigan.
I have only a few moments on the net. Not that I could not be on it longer, but that I'd rather not be. It is pouring rain with some serious thunder and lightening--this actually feels like a summer, and I love it.
I catch up on some other blog reading. The OC Register's music critic called me a name--Orange Countian. But I'm still an Angeleno by heart, damn it!

Just a mid-cap of my trip.
Chicago--crazy. Probably deformed my feet for good, but a lot of fun and, most importantly, great food. The drive up to Michigan was good. Not what I expected, but good. Lots of dead animals along the road. And I thank god for GPS. But my right shoulder hurts by the time I reach Holland, MI--it is a fail-proof indicator of rain to come.

I get to Onekama, and it is like I never left it. What is it about this place? I do not know. But I am certainly glad to be back.

Ojai

Friday evening.
My friend and I found our seats next to Tim Mangan of OC Register who apparently mistook us to be a "young couple," of which we are neither. Francois Narboni's El Gran Masturbador was awful. It seriously had me thinking that whatever he was smoking when he wrote it, he should never share it. But it was okay--I only cared for Chaplin's Modern Times anyway, which turned out to be enjoyable.
Saturday morning.
We stole a listen of Dawn Upshaw and Gilbert Kalish from the bleachers at the tennis court. During Alban Berg's Die Nachtigall, I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. But a single tear escaped from the side of my right eye and ran down my cheek to neck then further down inside my shirt.

Saturday afternoon.
I was second in line to get my copy of the book signed by Alex Ross. I drove back home ecstatic.

Saturday evening.
Back home, I'm packing for my week long vacation. Going away thinking that I may never come back--it has become a habitual thought of mine before a trip.

080605

Shall I speak of jealousy?
Really, shall I speak of all my maddening moments thinking about an old muslin dress?
And would you let me speak about young Werther whose untimely death was an easier choice than mine?

Would you hear me out?


Would you care...?

[dream] Seriously, I hate that shade of green

It was a dreary subterranean corridor of an old building where I was walking. Pools of cool fluorescent lights were distributed at irregular intervals. Corridor was dim otherwise. I was wearing my black dress with pearls around my neck. With each step my stilettos made clicking sound against the concrete floor.

He walked hurriedly from behind to catch up with me. When he did, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a janitor's closet where in claustrophobia and unflattering light he stole a kiss. But I was too cool and collected. I felt nothing--except antipathy against his green plaid shirt, a shirt I had never seen him wear before. I turned to leave as he pulled me back. Promise me, he said. My face was frozen solid as were my eyes and tongue.

Oh, how fragile is love...!

080602

Sunday morning.

I was still feverish when I woke up to a ruckus from my next door neighbors. It was an apparent fight between the couple. The girl locked the guy out. The guy went on banging the door while cursing liberally. The girl opened the door, crying. After a short while, the guy walked out with a duffle bag which I presumed to contain his belongings. I couldn't care less what the fight was about. But I was worried for their cat, Lucy. I wondered if Lucy was hiding under the bed.

I stayed lying on my sofa wrapped in fleece blanket. Just the thought of lifting the blanket off to walk over to the bedroom gave me chills. And I watched tennis on television even though I could not really see the ball due to poor reception. Better that than infomercials, I thought.

What r u doing? he text'ed. I could have ignored it. But I didn't. By mid-afternoon, he was over at my apartment.

We had very early dinner and finished an entire bottle of Lambrusco. He said he's going to Chicago for a week. A job interview? I asked. He nodded. He would be arriving in Chicago the day I would be leaving.

Later, as we lay on my bed with his arms around me, he asked,

"Why do you want to keep moving away? Why don't you just stay here?"

"Speak for yourself," I said, "you're the one going to a job interview in Chicago".

"But the job is not in Chicago. It could be in San Francisco, Pittsburgh, anywhere, but I'm really after the job in Irvine," he answered.

"Really?" I questioned. Then we both fell silent for a while.

"Then should we live together if you get that job in Irvine?" I asked. I wasn't serious. I just wanted to put him on the edge.

But what I got back was unhesitating and enthusiastic, "sure."

"Really?" I questioned, again, then started playing along.

"Just don't expect me to cook. We'll go out to eat on the days I have to cook," he said.

"Then you pay rent, I'll take care of all the household stuff."

He agreed.

"Well, we would still need our own space, so at least two bedrooms...."

"Can we get a dog?" I asked.

"Depends on how big a place we get," he replied.
Oh, he's serious about this, I thought.

"But you know, your mother could decide to visit you and we'd be busted," I said. Then added, "if my mother doesn't bust us first--she's closer by."
I thought about my father, then his brother, then his wife, then her brother, then his son who was lying next to me. I certainly did not want to create havoc in all our families in between.

We did not speak of the matter afterwards. We just fell asleep tangled in each other's arms. And I dreamt. I dreamt that I was standing at the edge of a cliff late at night, looking out into the midnight blue of the sky and the ocean. Full moon rose from the west, its shine almost blinding to my eyes, then quickly set on the east. The night was enveloped in the comforting darkness again.

In the morning we left my apartment together. He gave me a little hug.

"I'll call you," he said.

I nodded. "Drive carefully."

I got in my car and headed to work. Another same old goddamn week was starting.

One Fine Spring Day

...Spring days pass by
listlessly

Petals fall and scatter
in the wind,

Like my beautiful love
who cannot remain...

080526

Summing up my Memorial Day weekend:

• Great dinner and conversations with my dear friend M
• New additions to my CD collection - John Adams' Naive and Sentimental Music, Gustav Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde, Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf conducted by Kent Nagano and narrated by Patrick Stewart
• Terry Riley organ recital at Walt Disney Concert Hall
• A lengthy, late night conversation over wine and tapas with a friend and her child prodigy husband about my new short story idea and more
• Another great dinner and conversation with some friends and a retired musicology professor who had personal acquaintance with Jascha Heifetz and once taught Deborah Voigt
• A phone call affirming new...possibilities

old acquaintance - Kim So-wol

옛낯 - 김소월
생각의 끝에는 졸음이 오고
그리움의 끝에는 잊음이 오나니,
그대여, 말을 말아라, 이 후부터
우리는 옛낯없는 설움을 모르리.

At the end of a thought falls somnolence And at the end of longing follows oblivion, Dearest, do not speak, from henceforth We know not the sorrow of old acquaintance past.
translated by: smy, aka diaphanus

080522

At first I didn't realize it. Then I tried to ignore it. But eventually, I could not help but admit to my addiction. The substance of abuse came programmed in my new smartphone. It's called Solitaire.

I spent most of my waking moments at home (yet strangely never anywhere else) playing this mindless and repetitive game. From Friday nights to Monday mornings I never left the couch, except maybe to go to the bathroom. I scavenged through the cupboards and refrigerator to find food that took least amount of effort to be consumed. Dishes started piling up then around the sink. Junk mails were scattered everywhere. On nights when I was fortunate enough to find my way to the room in my half sleep, I slept on one side of the bed while the other half of my comforter was weighed down by clothes I had shed off. I knew through it all that this addiction to Solitaire was only a symptom to a bigger and a lot more serious problem--yet another bout of severe depression. I knew, because I played through the half of the games in tears. I knew, too, because I was staring at fluoxetine bottle again.

When she returned my call this evening, I was again sitting on my couch playing Solitaire, holding the phone in one hand and the stylus in the other. Rain was turning into a pour. Suddenly her number--still speed dial #7--popped up in the middle of a three card draw. I tucked the stylus away and answered.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," she said back.

* * * * *

E and I were sitting on the floor of the living room, talking. Television was on for a background noise. We were having yet another conversation about T.

The story about T is complicated and quite stupid. I met him at the tail end of my three year relationship and had introduced him to E, a high school friend of mine. But quite unexpectedly and belatedly, T and I discovered our mutual attraction for each other. First thing I did was to tell E, to come clean before anything got serious. She said she wouldn't see him any more, that she wasn't that attracted to him anyway. I ended my relationship not to be with T but because it had obviously run its course. T and I, well, we never got together. As mutual as our attraction was, so was our incompatibility. At the end of the whole debacle, E and I were roommates.

I was still hung up on T. And because E was the only person who had seen it all, she was the only person I confided in. And that evening, I was doing another spiel of "what if" when she interrupted me.

There's something important to tell me, she said, then confessed that she and T had continued dating for some time afterwards and through our move-in as roommates. I told her that she could have saved me many months of my sanity. With that, I cleared any residue I had left in my mind of T and E and everything involving them. At the end of the lease, E and I parted ways and never saw each other again.

* * * * *

She asked how I was doing and I said I was okay. That wasn't too convincing, she said. I'm not really trying, I replied. We talked on the phone until she got home, mostly about gossip and work. And somewhere in that gossip came my moment of clarity.

"Oh, I wish you would have told me this sooner--I'd been so angry for the last few weeks."

"But it would've made you even more angry," she answers.

"No," I said, "it would have made it burn off faster."

Before getting off the phone, she said, "hey, chin up."

"Thanks," I said with a smile, whether she could see it or not.

The rain, by then, stopped. After getting off the phone, I continued my Solitaire game. I'm not going to quit my addiction in a losing streak, I thought. After a few games, I won. Deal again? it prompted me. With the stylus I clicked No.

I played Mozart's The Magic Flute in my iPod and went about the apartment, cleaning. I took the trash out (all five bags of them), put away all the laundry I left out to hang dry, replacing the empty toilet paper roll with a half a roll that's been sitting on the ledge. The best I saved for last--the dishes. There is something meditative about hand washing the dishes, the very platform onto which we place our food for all its implied significance.

During the two hours or so of clean up I realized--finally, after five months since moving into this place--I could really use some artwork on the walls. Maybe I'll finally frame the John Baldessari poster I have been saving. I could use more color in life. Really.

mirror

Dense fog rolled into my nights.
Dreams dissipated into white noise.
Gone, too, are the little sparks in my eyes.

[diary] 080506

"Take an emotional risk and meet me half way," he wrote. I scoffed and deleted his email. In response to my silence, he wrote me one last time to call me "human igloo."

I could easily be in a relationship right this minute--for all the wrong reasons. But I don't believe in bad start transforming into something good as Hollywood loves to have us fantasize. I'm a skeptic--I've been married before.

Severe cramps had me handicapped all evening. I could not find acetaminophen in my medicine box so I opened a bottle of Glenfiddich instead. It turns out, Scotch works better than Vicodin.

The Scarlet Woman

Fenton Johnson (1888-1958)

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.
My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.
I had nothing, so I had to go to work.
All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.
Starvation danced with me.
So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.
Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.
Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.

* * * * *

Since reading this poem for the first time, I often--too often--recite the last verse of this poem to myself. Work is my gin. But I'm growing tired of drinking my gin.

[diary] 080503

Deja vu.

I woke up to my usual morning alarm. 6:30AM, set for every morning. My body ached and eyes felt dry. I undraped the fleece blanket off of me and got up from the sofa. Stumbling toward the bedroom I turned off the kitchen lights and let myself flop on the bed before silencing the alarm. Dark silence enveloped my consciousness again.

I was awakened a couple hours later. I lay there staring at the ceiling. This routine has become too familiar, too often repeated.

Deja vu.

The word hung over my head stubbornly.

[diary] 080501

My rosemary is dead. Negligence, I find, is a superb talent of mine.

letter - 080429

Dear n,

August, 2007. We both missed our deadline. And I thought I missed it for good. But perhaps there is one more chance, most likely a last one. Come, dear friend, the grandest of all metropolis awaits us.

s.

[diary] 080428

Three for three.

A third call from a headhunter in three months.

This time, I asked for details.

[diary] 080426

A woman, some twenty plus years into a marriage, catches her husband at a brink of an affair. And to what she thinks to be the world, she announces, referring to the other woman, "that c*nt had an affair with my husband."

* * * * *

Years ago beyond the time my memory could capture, my father had an affair with an older, richer woman. Upon discovery, my mother did something entirely unexpected. Instead of confronting the woman, instead of confronting my dad, instead of making a scene and ruining his professional and social reputation, she went home to her parents, leaving all three of her children behind. It was no more than three days before my grandmother ordered my father to go and beg her to come back. She resisted and let it stretch out an entire week. When she came back home, the affair was over. For good. This story lay buried until many many years after my father passed away.

* * * * *

Apparently the woman's comment was made when my friend and I attended a concert in Santa Monica some months ago. She said it to Mr. S., who later told my friend of it. And my friend decided to tell me tonight, I guess, in celebration of our first get-together in five months.

"Did you see an old flame that night?" he asked me.

"No," I said. I was not lying.
"She probably mistook you for someone else. Of course, I defended your reputation."

I kept my cool smile and spared my words. We moved the conversation on to different subjects.

I had long sixty miles of drive home afterwards to think about what I might have said had I decided to flaunt my words. Perhaps that my reputation is not his to defend nor anyone else's. Or that this reputation he felt compelled to protect means nothing whatsoever to me. Or perhaps that the woman's comment was less a testament of my character than the reality of her marriage and her insecurities.

I thought about my mother. I thanked her for what little strength and wisdom she was able to pass onto me. With that, I pushed the accelerator further. I wanted to get home fast.

[dream] Glory in gray

I was in London. Early to mid forties in age, I suppose. Under the gray sky were the gray streets along which I walked, wearing gray slacks, gray turtleneck and a woolen gray coat that fell past my knees. I had success. But that was all I had. I wandered the streets aimlessly until I could walk no more.

Back in the hotel suite, I sat next to a luggage I left open in the middle of the room. Some personal belongings were scattered carelessly around the floor. And I just sat there in dead silence, not moving, until time stood still.

This dream dates back to my college days. I'll have to wait another decade to see if this dream was a prophetic one.

[dream] Knulp

Along the green pasture I began a long journey on foot.
There were sheep and herding dogs and tranquility around.

I woke up with the sun shining in my eyes.

Henceforth I begin a long journey, one different than the journey I have led so far.
I have finally accepted the person that I am.
And that changed everything.

Why I write

I think in most abstract yet most universal language of all--images. And in those images I preserve all the sentiments that go with it. Writing, to me, seemed most counterintuitive of tasks.

Precisely why I began writing, I cannot now recall. But at some point in my adulthood I learned to transcript my thoughts, dreams and remembrances into words. To each disorganized fragments of images I gave bones and flesh, and in my words each image molded, forever encapsulated in as much beauty and honesty as I could afford to give it. And in so doing, something unexpected happened--I learned to forget. These capsules of images could now be set aside to make room for others. I stopped reminiscing. Now I simply collect, in my vault that has no end.
In remembering we forget, and in forgetting we remember. If I must and it seems that I must, I choose the latter. And that is indeed why I write, of old and new wounds alike.

[dream] Small heart still beating in my hands

I was just moved into a new apartment. Seven floors up, it had a balcony looking out to a marvelous cityscape. With the final dust settling from the move, I grabbed the red nylon leash for my new dog, a black and white Jack Russell, and handed it to a friend leaning against the railings of the balcony. The dog followed the leash. With my back turned to him, my friend threw the leash out the balcony for reasons that went unsaid. And the dog jumped through the railing to follow it.

I gasped in horror and ran downstairs. Miraculously, the dog was still alive. But I could not find a veterinarian anywhere. I held onto the bleeding dog, heartbeats of its poor little life numbered in my own hands.

[diary] 080416

"Girls, I have an announcement to make," I yelled out.

"Are you getting married?"

"Are you pregnant?" asked two girls simultaneously.

I said, "No," looking at one, then turning to the other one, I said, "if I am, it would be the second coming of Jesus Christ."

"I am just announcing that I'm going home, even though I'm far from ready for tomorrow's presentation."

They all chuckled.

Another one threw me a question from the left field.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No," I said.

"Do you have a 'friend'?"

"No."

"Are you dating?"

"No."

With perplexed look she asked, "why not?"

"I am emotionally unavailable," I said, "and I'm going home."

I left the girls behind. I typically stay with them through their over time to boost their morale. But this day was a tiring one. I cried on my way home. I just wanted to go to bed and curl up in my dreams, the only place where I can let my heart go abound.

[diary] 080415

This afternoon I received a second call in three months from a headhunter.
It seems that the likes of me are hot commodities despite the recessing market.
I am flattered, I told her, but I am not considering.
That I ultimately want bigger and better things--it's a thought I left within the confines of my head.

850413

One morning in early summer of 1984, I woke up and looked over to where my dad was supposed to be sleeping. He wasn't there. In his place was my sister, still sleeping. I went over to the kitchen to find my mom. She asked if I slept well, but instead of answering, I asked where dad was. He's at the hospital, she said. She did not look me in the eye.

The discovery of his illness came suddenly. He was out drinking with his friends the night before when he noticed slight tremor in his left hand. Among the group was a neurologist with his own practice. So at midnight, they decided to go to the good doctor's office for what they thought would be a routine exam. Within an hour dad was admitted to a hospital. Brain tumor was the diagnosis. They gave him two months to live.

He lived past the two months he was given. Summer passed and autumn came. He was discharged from the hospital not because he was getting better but because there was nothing else they could do. My mom convinced him to get baptized. Augustine, they named him, and my mom, Monica, was his spiritual mother.

With the approach of winter, his condition worsened. By then he quit the expensive radiation therapy and stayed home. He lost all of his handsomely thick, graying hair and was visibly weakening each day. He went on a million different medications, some prescription, some herbal, some just plain nonsense. His liver, too, started failing.

By the morning of April 13th, 1985, he had been unconscious for a few days. It was first Saturday after Easter and the weather was glorious. I woke up from a terrible nightmare and looked over at dad on his bed. He looked the same as the day before and the day before that.

Back then, schools were on for six days a week, so I got ready and left for school. On the way I met my grandmother who was coming back home from a sleep over at her friend's house. How is your dad doing, she asked. He's fine, I said. He's fine. I don't recall anything from school that day, but I do recall that I kept to myself. I even walked home alone without any friends, which was rare. On the way home, I counted four butterflies. Four white butterflies.

When I turned onto our street, I saw my dad's best friend walking out from our house. He walked to a post nearby and taped on a sheet of paper with two Chinese characters written on it. I could not read what it said, but I remembered seeing it once before when an old lady across the street had passed away. I tried not to think of it and went over to say hi. He said nothing and looked away. He moved on to the next post.

The main gate to the house was open. The gate was never open except when we received important guests. I walked in and went up the terrazzo steps. At the entry to the house, there were many pairs of shoes, so many that I had to leave mine outside. I saw my grandparents in the living room and said hello. They did not say anything back. Then I walked into the small room adjoining the master bedroom.

My mom saw me and got up from where she was sitting. I looked into the master bedroom where there hung a black cloth with white embroidered cross in the middle about a third of a way out from the opposite wall. Many people gathered and sat in front of it, reciting prayers in unison. I turned and looked at my mom who now stood in front of me. Daddy passed away, she said. I burst into tears. She put her arms around me.

We joined the prayer group and sat close to the black drapery, behind which was my father's lifeless body. The undertaker was working behind the drapes. All I could hear over the murmurs of prayer was the sound of cloth ripping. Silk, I presume. From the sound of it, the undertaker would have ended up with many long strips of cloth. I wondered what he needed them for. My sisters came home later at different times. Both of them, as if they had made a pact to do so, just sat down and cried silently. I felt embarrassed for how I reacted.

My dad's funeral procession was the biggest that the neighborhood had ever seen. I heard later that easily a thousand people had gathered. The body was moved from our house to the church for the funeral mass, then to the cemetery that was an hour drive away where there were lake and frogs and tadpoles and birds, where red dragonflies rested on tips of grass complacently.

I have not gone back to his grave in twenty-two years. Now I'm afraid to go, afraid things will not be as I remember them. Perhaps I would go back some day when these past years and changes and grief bear meaning no longer. I hope to find that day at some point in my lifetime.

[dream] Rain

I was wearing a white dress. As I walked down the street rain started coming, heavy drops in slow steadiness. The dress eventually soaked in rain. It felt liberating.

Vincent Desiderio, Woman in White Dress, 2003.

[dream] Ugly

And I looked in the mirror to find myself distastefully ugly. He was near, I knew, so I went in frantic search for my make up set. I needed something, anything, to cover my deplorable looks.

How true some dreams are!

[diary] Windy City

First time I went, I absolutely abhorred Chicago. It was a business trip and I had to dine at Red Lobster, for the first and last time in my life. On the way back home, the airline canceled my late night flight. I had to find a hotel room to stay the night in pouring rain. The hotel charged me double tax.

My second visit of opposite experience happened, ironically, because of my first visit. The airline had given out vouchers for a round trip ticket in exchange for canceled flight, and the expiration date was drawing near. A friend had just moved to Chicago a few months prior and I decided to use the ticket to visit him. It was below freezing in March, but my friend and I went bar hopping and midnight subway-riding. And I bought a white leather Wassily chair, disassembled and packed it in a box, and brought it home with me (it was before 9-11).

This last visit was seven years ago. Since, the airline that flew me out there both times went under, my friend twice moved about different continents, and I sold the white Wassily chair and bought a black one in a better condition at a better price.

I expect my third Chicago trip to be the best. Besides having to partake in the company's business development, I should be mostly free to do as I wish in that vast Merchandise Mart, seeing new things and mingling with people to do a bit of self-promo. Finer food will surely come my way. And when all that chaos is over, I will once again find indescribable peace and serenity in Onekama, Michigan....

Never before was I ever so excited as thus about my vacation plans. Santa Fe Opera will have to wait yet another year, but I don't feel too bad about it. In fact, I will wait gladly.

View from Hancock Tower, Chicago, IL, March 2001

[diary] 080404 - un moment

Night after night in the land of Sandman I see a face, one so dear and familiar with eyes in which I once found home for my little soul.

I met those eyes among the sea of people today, looking at me wandering aimlessly with a glass of Chivas in my hand. All I could see were the blue of his eyes...and all I could hear was the pounding of my heart. A split second later, I turned around and walked the opposite way. I had to be perfect tonight. I could not break down, not here, not now.

I met many people tonight. I was jovial, conversant, maybe even charming. But all night long through all the Scotch they sent my way, I thought of that split second moment, the only moment we could afford for one another, a moment that, for us now, is too much luxury.

[diary] 080331

Eighteen heads rolled today.

Mine is well intact.

In fact, the company is diligently looking to hire another one like me.

I should still be perturbed but I'm not.

It was a house cleaning well done.

[travel] Park City, Last Day - I'm still me

Snow stopped falling and the sun came out once again, melting icicles.

I walked around in the morning again with my camera. I thought long and hard about what I was to take back from this trip. There were no special moments and certainly no new revelations. I still was as I came.

Back in LAX, I called up my sister to pick me up instead of taking the limo back to OC with the rest of the group. I told my sister I could not stand another minute as a member of a group. She said I have a personality defect. I shrugged and replied, "whatever."

Day 4, 8:38 AM MST

[travel] Park City, Day 3 - Loss

The night was sleepless. My emotions went on a turbulent ride, sometimes despondent, sometimes resentful, sometimes enraged, my poor little heart still hurting through it all.

With the sound of morning alarm I headed out the door with my Nikon. Snow shower was just starting. Last time I saw snow falling, I was in Tehachapi with an old friend. An Alaskan Malamute named Char came to greet us. My friend taught me proper Buddhist way to bow. I took many pictures with my 35mm, eventually titling one "Snow Flower." Shortly after this trip, my friend of eighteen years and I parted ways. Three years and some months have past since.

Snow fell heavier and heavier as day grew old.