[14-1113] then I am glad at least you are at ease....

blind love - cnblue

will this love fade with each passing season...?

your smile I can't erase,

memories tangle with scent of flowers all around

I'm missing you

Oh girl you are meant for me

Thought you were mine

I hate you, I resent you, I miss you so I cry

will this love fade with each passing season...?

you're nearer when I close my eyes

but will I forget you...someday...?

once there was love so beautiful

I reminisce the moment we kissed, the moment frozen in time

I'm missing you

Oh girl you are meant for me

Thought you were mine

I cry, I swear, I miss you so I laugh

is this love like petals of flower...?

they fall, they scratch my wounded heart

you who left me, are you relieved now that the troubles have passed

then I am glad

at least you're at ease....

can I erase you out of my mind?

you're nearer when I close my eyes

but will I forget you...

someday...?

080823

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

Happy 60.

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.

One Fine Spring Day

...Spring days pass by
listlessly

Petals fall and scatter
in the wind,

Like my beautiful love
who cannot remain...

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.

Raymond Carver

I like Raymond Carver. I can see what attracted Haruki Murakami to his writing. At the same time, I can see why he hasn't gained a wider audience. His stories happen every day, to every one of us. Carver's stories hit too close to our hearts, and we can't help but face the fact that we simply learned to ignore the wounds that never since healed.

cubicularis

On my bed there are two pillows. I sleep on the left pillow--on the one to my right, my companion changes with frequency. Most all are men, though I have on occasions invited women. Some are young, some are old, they come from different backgrounds and speak various languages. There are those who tell stories of love and tenderness while others speak of violence and vulgarity. I am teased, caressed, sometimes shaken and thrown around, while I hope and pray that this is that rare one, the one who can penetrate so deep inside to finally touch me, move me, awaken me.... Then, when the end--or boredom--finds me, I leave him aside and seek out another to accompany my nights. And thus my intimate rendezvous repeats each and every night, before I meet my dearest in the Neverland.

Tonight I face choices--a Jewish-Bohemian from Prague, or a former janitor from Washington. On second thought, why not ménage à trois. Unlike my previous bedmate to whom I bid farewell this very day, they both have long been dead--Franz Kafka before the second World War, and Raymond Carver of lung cancer in 1988.

de la luna

The stench of blood lingers around my nose. That nauseating smell--or the illusion of smell--seems to emanate from within, coupled with a sense of vertigo. The sleep, much disturbed, is laden with vivid images and panic. But dreams are not the main culprit waking my sleep throughout the night. It is the pain--the most senselessly excruciating pain.

I let out a moan.

Then another.

Carefully I turn to the other side and curl up, like a fetus in a womb. Staring blankly into the dark void, I breathe in deep and hold my breath for a few moments. Then slowly and steadily, I let out the air I held in my lungs. I repeat. Again. The pain subsides slightly not a moment too soon. The eased pain is only temporary, I know, but I welcome the break.

My mouth is dry. And I am overcome by fatigue. In my head I still smell the goddamn blood. I drift slowly into the haze of sleep, knowing well that this unpleasant cycle will repeat shortly thereafter. I know, because this has been a recurring episode month after month for many past years, as it will continue month after month for many more years to come. This is only a slice of my womanhood.

Fortune Cookie

Words of wisdom from my Chinese take out.

The Desert Music

I remember when and where I heard Steve Reich's The Desert Music for the first time. It was at a house other than my own, lying on the soft, giving cushions of sofa in the family room while two standard poodles kept me company. It was summer then. And I did not find this music to my liking.

Months pass, and winter finds us. Now I seek out the music I once eschewed. The blanketing silence of the vast landscape, dry chill permeating through the thick coat and scarf, the ironic vivacity of life in every surrounding object, the subliminal beauty of nature in which I stand...it is all there, in Reich's music.
I love the desert in winter. I would never go in summer. So it is also with The Desert Music.

exaresco

I desire a road trip. Anywhere that is as dry as can be, away from any lakes, rivers, and oceans. Death Valley, perhaps.

Towards a boulder I walk. It seems so close, no more than a few paces away. But walk and walk I might, I never reach the boulder. It's only an arm's length away, my mind would insist. Hush, I say, this is the desert.

And you, you are at the opposite end of this salt basin. So far away you are, my eyes fail to find you. Yet I hear you whisper my name under your breath as if you whisper it right into my ears ever so softly. Yes, this is the desert.

The deadening silence. The diffracted sense of perception. It is to this sublime nature that I vow, my last sacred temple.

Race Track, Death Valley, California (source: Radeka Photography)
(I wish I could have used my own photo from my trip there two years ago.
Unfortunately, all photos came out underexposed--
I was still using film camera then.)

After Life

If you had to choose one memory from your life to take with you to eternity, what would it be?
After I watched After Life the first time, I pondered many hours about which memory I would take with me. I had then decided on a memory of years and years ago, when I was probably no more than four or five years old, on our way back home from a family outing one evening. The street was dark. Dad held my right hand, mom held my left. As we stepped into the light from the street light above, my sisters, walking ahead of us, disappeared into the darkness. No one was around, and I felt like it was my dad, my mom and me all to ourselves in this world. It made me happy. Taking this memory, I would forever be young, innocent, and unconditionally happy.
But now, I would choose another, in which Maria Callas sang a famed aria one night within the confines of my car, parked in an unsafe part of town. Breathing in those moments, I turned equally blind to the consequences as I was to the surroundings. No longer so young, and certainly no longer innocent, it is this memory I would still choose, even if the tears and pain that so soon followed it must also come. As someone once put it, it is the unintended and unexpected consequences of my existence.

Morning's Foggy Commute

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.

In the Mood for Love

...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.

Happier Birthday

Single malt trumps all gifts to date.

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.

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