Oh happy day...

Oh happy day, the stars are brightly shini... no those aren't the right lyrics. Well anyway, it was a significant day (not particularly for me but for the happy couple of newlyweds). A day worthy of celebration undoubtedly. Also a day of epiphanies, especially for someone as neurotically introverted as I...

I guess today was interesting in that while I think we as a species are ultimately ephemeral/transient beings, there are times that we do seem to try to live in opposition to that. Take marriage, for example, that is a perfect example of a "rejection of transience", if you will. With it, a couple declares a commitment to perpetuate something they've developed for as long as they can, defying the waves of life that may attempt to push those joined apart. Well, anyway, this was the lesser of the two observations.

The more pressing observation was that I realized that I'm a huge kid, just a huge 25 year old kid. And I mean that in a very serious way that's not attempting to extract sympathy. I've never really had, or probably more accurately "taken", the opportunity to live life for myself. To put it briefly, I've yet to take significant risks. Everything I've done has really been in this context of a very safe and probably cloistered environment. This is probably one of those significant contributors to my insecurity when I talk to other people around my age. It seems everyone has gone somewhere to do something ... whatever it may be. And I'm just here... running around in circles as it feels sometimes. Doing... very... similar things everyday, being in very similar places everyday. I can't help but think that maybe it would've been more ... beneficial overall... if I had exposed myself to more. But, no, I never did. And now here I am, lost in the light of the moon that seeps through my window (no, those are lyrics...). I look out the window often and I wonder what's out there. I really want to find out one day. Well, soon, when I make my own money I suppose. It just never really felt right to do those things on someone else's dime, especially when they're already contributing so much for other things in my life. And, clearly, I was always too lackadaisical to earn my own keep, you know. Shame on me, perhaps. Well, whatever... we're almost there. Maybe one day, I'll be like those crepuscular rays that seem to find their ways through the seemingly constant cloud-front.

Bakudo

I want to give up ... not that that has ever or will ever be an option, obviously. But, seriously, after so long of 'giving it my best' only to come up with the same sub-standard mediocrity, I'm really finding it difficult to muster the motivation to keep this shitship afloat. I mean, it really is just a matter of incompetence. There are smarter ways I can study but I, the perpetually stubborn fool, can never accept it until the water reaches up to my neck.

...fuck off

Strange Days

Good morning
Don't cop out
You crawled from the cancer to land on your feet
Are you crazy...
To want this...
Even for a while?

The first verse of "Strange Days" by Matthew Good Band seems to be especially poignant of late. I think I'm finally feeling the initial burnout period after studying for far too long. Some stat (though one that was most probably biased) said that 73% of pharmacists aren't happy with job/career. How hilarious would it be if, after a near decade in studying, that I fall under the percentage. I might seem like a pessimistic guy but I really do try to stick things out even when things seem bad at first. Of course, now that I've tried that strategy a few times, hindsight does seem to indicate that for majority of the time a passive waiting approach really does jack-shit for me. Blah blah blah, please spare me the bullshit platitudes about taking initiative, if you think this type of "general advice" is anything remotely novel to me, I'd humbly submit that you should gracefully go fuck yourself.

Well anyway, it's a great song, one that I've been listening to for well over a decade, and I can actually sing it relatively well (imo). I'm still surprisingly motivated enough to wake up at 7 to catch a ride with my aunt to the subway (no pleb bus for me in the morning woo). I just hope desperately that I can last through the next two months.

I wish I wasn't here.

A futile maneuver

For the past bit, whenever I go to restaurants or coffee shops, I get this weird feeling when I look around. What I see is very run-of-the-mill: normal people eating, families with young children and grandparents, young couples smiling and enjoying each other's company. And I see myself, in a similar position, eating with my own family or friends (um... not the couple one, obviously). It's a strange notion, that I'm just sitting there, stuffing my face with this food, paid for by this money that, by some great miracle, seems to exist as my own property. It's a strange notion because beyond the restaurant walls, there's an entire world that is characterized by strife and tragedy. There are people out there who would count themselves lucky enough to eat three relatively substantial meals with less than the cost of my single meal, people out there who call pizza once a month a luxury, people out there caught in the midst of war, some of whom may even simply cease to exist before I can finish my meal. And, yet, despite all that, I sit there maneuvering the airplane into my mouth so I can satiate some inane physiological desire. Not just me, not just this particular establishment, but this scene multiplied by every similar iteration on the planet. It is as if we all share in a communal idle, enacting this collective apathy to the world just outside the front doors that seal us in our comfortable seclusion, to a world that, in fact, desperately needs our collective effort to pull it through to tomorrow. And yet, we sit and wait for our meals like ignorant children, unwilling to accept the harsh realities that permeate the lives of so many of our fellow compatriots. And, of course, in my oh-so-typical style, I just sit there like the best of them and, while my mind futilely flashes these impressions to me, I lack the spine to follow those things my heart seems to exclaim with all its might. Like a good little boy, I eat my fucking noodles, with a tinge of guilt ... but that's for damn sure not gonna help anyone. So say we all!

Goodbye, trees

Now that majority of the deciduous leaves have converted from their typically green dispositions, I can finally say with certainty that fall has indeed arrived. The season has a different feeling this time around; there's a more definite sense of conclusion. While my body aches from yoga, my mind aches for my unceasing academic career to end (or at least take a break of a few years). Although that time is coming very soon, I've been around this university long enough to say with certainty that it will not just go gently into the night. It will thrash, it will tear, and it will try to consume every last piece of my soul before finally being cast by my final strike. Assured is my victory but I still am not looking forward to the very imminent strife. The falling leaves remind me that time is indeed still progressing at its usual unrelenting pace. They remind me that tomorrow is coming and will always just be around the corner. When I see these downed leaves, it also strikes me that this may be one of the last times I can really experience this season in this city as comprehensively as I do right now. In a way, those leaves might very well be the final goodbyes from those trees. 

Quite poetic for some fucking leaves right?

zzz

I don't really participate in a lot of the Christian rituals nowadays. Hell, I barely like associating with the overtly theological. But, there is definitely something of value that the religion still holds for me. Maybe it's just me being nostalgic for a time when life was less worrisome. I was able to spend a little time reflecting on religion and its role in my life as it is right now. And so, the question arose: how exactly do I fit in Christianity and its sometimes unwieldy theological notions into my life as it is right now? It's late and I don't have to consciousness required to write a very long post so I'll just write down what stuck out for me today. Well, without using overt theology, which I find has the risk of appearing and existing as lip service. God isn't as specific an entity as he "felt" back in the day. It's honestly hard for me to believe that God is a truly active being right now. But I do believe that he is at least a thread that connects my life together and it helps to direct me on a conceptual level. Anyway, what I realized in the midst of drowning in my growing pool of anxiety and regret, is that I shouldn't worry about tomorrow. Even if all those things that I'm striving towards fails tomorrow, I'll still wake up the next day, just to continue living a life where loving others matters. The rest of these details, while still important, shouldn't be allowed to drag me to hell. I should breathe a little more I guess ...

vesper placidus

My, my, being downtown first thing in the morning is nothing foreign to me but doing it on a Saturday, today might've actually been a first for me. Well, after a surprisingly enjoyable training session about how to stick someone with a needle (something I still can't legally do for a year despite the training) and a less enjoyable attempt at doing readings, I went for a walk around campus. Boy, was this Saturday evening different from the weekdays. On top of the peculiar paucity of people, they closed down a fair number of roads (for some sort of book festival). The sun had recently come out of hiding after a day that had been mostly characterized by rain (finally got to use that umbrella after, how long's it been, 3 months?).

So picture this: standing still, with the sun sandwiched between the cloud line and the horizon shining clearly to the right and with birds fervently jumping back and forth along a vine wall to the left, the normal university hubbub with its busy-bodies and integrated city traffic strangely absent replaced with the sounds of chirping and the muffled sounds of a piano playing in a closed room somewhere in the near distance, all bundled together with the smell of fresh, cool, moist air that follows after any long period of rain in the autumn (I guess technically it's late summer, given that autumn officially starts tomorrow). What a very welcome novelty.

I've never been a particularly experiential guy, but I would like to remember this moment.

Lost and found (well, maybe the opposite)

After what has probably been way too long, I feel like I finally understand. It's now that can see clearly how all those pieces are supposed to fit together: academia, extra-curriculars, socializing (the ordination of that list really shows me priorities don't they). And this conclusion comes after only ... let's see ... seven years, in my last 3 months of school no less. Ah, the things I would do differently if I could restart. I'm finally ready for university, after all!

I talk to people many years my junior and very often I just feel completely afunctional in comparison, a truly strange and completely disconcerting feeling. I always was a bit of a late bloomer though. It just doesn't feel like I'm all here a lot of the time, so maybe certain things just take longer to settle in that others. I don't really know though, maybe I will after another decade or so.

Very frequently, I still wander the streets aimlessly, desperately trying to find ... something ... to hold onto I guess. Prone to wander, sounds about right. I guess the method that I employ just isn't very efficient or direct. I just kind of drift around, amassing fragments all the while, and just seeing if they stick. A very haphazard means that I might regret utilizing later on. But, for now and for most of my life thus far, it feels the most natural.

Well, anyway, rambled a bit there at the end. I don't know. These are just words after all. They don't generally mean much to me nowadays ... just the same tired combinations recycled over and over again to describe the same prevailing emotions that flow through my veins everyday of this vapid ephemerality.

So, whatever, "Lost and found", but probably the opposite would be more true. Hahahaha.

(fuck you)

Rejuvenation

Oh look, the first Monday after Labour Day. Rejuvenation, a very fitting word actually (the root from the Latin "iuventus", in English "youth"). I wonder how many of these strange new faces are those of frosh. Filled with excitement in anticipation for their imminent journey, one that's just brimming with seemingly endless potential: academic challenge, new relationships, and possibly one of the first times they can really exercise authority in their lives.

To be honest, I'm kind of envious. I remember a time years ago when I was excited to start school, not with a cynical desire to complete my program, but with a sense of hope in engaging in a truly novel environment. Oh, back then, when all these new possibilities that I could take into the world had been laid bare before me. Even the air seemed fresher and more able to permeate even the remote (apical) regions of my lungs. A time when the green grass, the cool breeze, and all those imagined promises weren't mired by the tumults of tomorrow, a time when it was perfectly ok (well in my mind at the time anyway) to focus only on the present, both its joys and its stresses.

Not so today, when the present is only a waiting room for the hardships of the future guaranteed by the not-so-innocuous decisions made in the past. Well, at least I listen to cooler music nowadays...

Doppelganger

I have a doppelganger. I see him around campus. Like a well-oiled machine, he is always attentive in class, is always on task whenever preparing for tests and working on assignments, and is always the centre of attention of his social circles provoking the laughs and words of all those around him. Although we share all our classes, I still feel like I see him a bit too often. Sometimes, I even feel that he is, in fact, following me around, casually slipping into my field of vision whenever I poke my head up for air.

But I do find one thing strange, if he is truly following me, why is it that I always see him first? He always seems to be in the room before I am, already studying as I set up my laptop at the library, already engaged in some intricate conversation before I even see anyone I could even converse with. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised given that our souls, myself and my clone, are inexorably linked. And, since he always ends up one step ahead, thanks to his limitless resourcefulness, it is only natural that only remnants and scraps await me when I finally reach the dinner table; the cosmic balance must be maintained, after all.

I bear no ill will towards him, of course. He is living his own life and does so seemingly well. But, I wonder, does he, from his glimpses of me when I am on the examining table, view me with the same acceptance?

I don't really know. Who can truly say what is in the hearts of others? But, for me, if I were in his position, I would have nothing but venomous disdain: for my lackadaisical work ethic, for my obstinate inattention, for my complete lack of social maneuverability. Should he find my imprint somehow lingering in his consciousness, that acute disdain would undoubtedly fester into a chronic frustration before transforming finally into a fulminate rage.

"What rubbish. Truly man can take an example from this poor chap as how one ought never live. Does he not know that what is lukewarm is completely unpalatable and immediately rejected? In a world such as ours, how can we permit such a lowly serf as him to impede our earnest efforts? Surely, for the sake of justice, the swift eradication of him and his ilk would be our only acceptable recourse. And, I, the quintessence of this world, would be happy to play the role of their reaper. With such noble purposes in mind, I would swoop in with my weapon of choice and inflict the requisite mortal wounds (and a bit extra for good measure as well as a statement of my own resolute conviction on the matter) to each and every one of those parasitic insects who think it somehow be ever tenable to live in such a squalid manner. Woe to them whom think it wise to hesitate and loiter. Society has no place for such vacuous entities."

Um, something like that, maybe?

"Be confident"

"Being confident", the age old mantra. Stand up straight, look people in the eyes, never stutter, and never look back. Thanks for the advice, really. I really do get the parts that make up confidence. But, why exactly am I supposed to exude this arbitrary attribute? Well, let's see, it is the key that's supposed to get me anywhere in life, right? Great. Well, I guess it makes sense to put on that facade and "be confident" whenever it serves my purposes, you know, so I can convince them that I am in fact a very well-adjusted individual.

I hear "be confident" thrown around a lot (not necessarily at me, I'm not that beta). Ok, don't get me wrong, it makes total sense as a means. But, somehow, I find that advice a bit hollow. It makes the notion of "being confident" seem like such an active process. Shouldn't we reach a state where we are confident as a natural extension of ourselves? Wouldn't it, then, be much better advice to start advocating for people to "feel confident"?

But, aye, there's the rub, isn't it? Now this advice requires us to deal with all those issues floating in our thoughts that weigh us down. So, then, why exactly should I feel confident? Am I not just some mite attached onto a chunk of rock, hurling at breakneck speeds through the vast emptiness that is the universe? Are we not just a set of biological processes, processes that each and every single one of us mites clings onto dearly and tries, almost desperately, to prolong for as long as possible.

Given all this, why should I feel any ounce of confidence? All those actions that I perform day after day, after day after day, are just not very significant anymore. The aggregate form that I have developed into today really isn't much of anything. And, all those little things I worry about, sometimes profusely so, really mean nothing when my eyes adopt an upward gaze.

But, at the same time, this harrowing condemnation seems also to be an avenue of salvation. If those things that are supposed to build me up become trivial once taken into perspective, then so must those things that weigh me down. And, those things that weigh me down are, definitely, legion. But with that meaning less, maybe, just maybe, I can actually walk through these crowded city streets unabated by those pestilent thoughts. Maybe it's ok that I don't have all my ducks in a row or that I'm still rife with rough edges. Because, really, are we not just mites, each and every one of us, firmly grounded on this chunk of rock, which itself is tethered to our giant fireball, flying through the great superunknown?

todo el mundo

After what seemed to be a generally therapeutic summer, I have returned to this same classroom, sitting in the same spot with the same people. It's hard to imagine that four months have already passed. Already my face has adopted its glazed configuration while some lecturer chatters about at the front. Soon, however, this will all be an artifact of the past. After three more months, I will finally be released from this self-imposed prison.

Surrounded by all those familiar, yet foreign, faces and idle chatter, I feel as if I am washed over by a suffocating wave. Just being here for such a short amount of time makes me want to get up and run away.

I didn't miss this part at all. These pestilent feelings of inadequacy, elicited almost instantaneously upon exposure to this stimulus.

Go away, mina-san ._.

Svo Hljótt

Þú söngst til mín svo hljótt

The above is a lyric from the song "Svo Hljótt" by, you guessed it, Sigur Rós. Translated, it means "You sang to me so quietly". One day, I hope I'll be able to meet someone who will sing quietly to me. I myself am quite fond of singing actually; I do it whenever I get a chance and when a song comes up on my player that I know the lyrics to. Despite that, I rarely sing in front of people, I don't even like singing at home when people are there.

There's something intimate about the idea of singing to another person. This probably applies less to the minority of people who have been gifted with the siren's voice. For the rest of us, whom may not have good intonation or a pleasant timbre, to sing to another person is to put oneself in a vulnerable position. One's vocal flaws are exposed and allowed to be readily dissected. Something like that can end pretty poorly if the receiving parties don't really have the singer's heart in mind (i.e. dissections of vocal flaws can lead to entire vivisections of a person's spirit).

Well, I guess the original intention of this post was to link those lyrics to some cheesy notion of "trusting others" but whatever, I'll spare y'all the redundancy. Let's just take a minute and reflect on this idea of "Þú söngst til mín svo hljótt", shall we?

Redux

Time to get back to work...

With the training session, test, and school coming up, I was going to spend August working ahead so I don't drown again, a very unpleasant feeling if you've yet to have the pleasure. Well, regardless of how I was feeling yesterday, as a whole, I feel much more capable again now, much more than I did in May or June (I still remember this one time in May that I just stared at a pot of water boiling, laughing and thinking to myself how much of a nutcase I was at the time, lying in bed and yelling obscenities to myself all day).

I still have nothing but vehement disdain for my program and for myself for ignorantly placing myself into this panic-inducing box. But, it'd be an even greater folly to bail out now and leave myself out here in the middle of this harsh desert, no matter how bad the ride, right? The trip's almost over anyway, I'm sure I'll be able to figure something out after reaching the junction.

Konjiki Ashisogi Jizō

I've watched Bleach since high school and it's the only manga that I really still follow today. I have to admit that the author, Kubo Tite, has done nothing but disappoint me with his atrocious story-telling abilities (though some of it may be due to the constraints put upon him by his publisher) but I've been following this for so long, I might as well follow it to the end, which apparently is coming up in the foreseeable future.

I've found that, for at least a few years now, my imagination has become quite fond of using certain imagery from Bleach as a sort of manifestation for my emotional coping mechanisms. That sounds really pretentious, but whatever the fuck man, that's the best I can do right now.

The Bankai of 12th Squad Captain Mayuri Kurotsuchi is Konjiki Ashisogi Jizō, Golden Leg-Cutting Jizō. Jizō is the Japanese name for the bodhisattva Ksitigarbha, the guardian of children (which explains why the bankai looks/sounds like some creepy-ass baby). It's been shown twice so far (well, canonically) and during its first incarnation, one of its abilities was for it to burst out a protruding set of blades through its chest, which I assume would impale the things it rams itself into.

Anyway, it's not like I would want that as an ability per se; it's pretty useless as far as the Bleach world is concerned. But, sometimes, my mind uses that as a visual metaphor for catharsis. All those poisonous thoughts that take hold of me, accumulating in that central area of my chest, they really do sometimes feel like blades, each capable of a greatly damaging visceral pierce. It would really be swell if those blades that seem content at wreaking havoc within would manifest themselves and burst out so that I could swiftly rip them out to stop their meaningless onslaughts once and for all.

What a shitty, childish post. Oh well...

Nihil lacrima citius arescit

I thought I was ok, that somehow the past three months had been enough time for me to put enough distance between me and those demons that had such a pronounced grip on me. Apparently it wasn't enough and after today's very unpleasant jolt, I can once again see those fractures, fractures that seem to have remained unmended. Kicking and screaming, I felt like I was dragged once again into that empty darkened space where the bitterness, maintained in degree through the incessant reliving of ravaging memories, abounds. The toxic choking haze surrounds me and I am powerless, as I had been before. How long will you stalk me? I wish you would just leave me alone.

Today, I was looking around a few folders and I came across a random file with a Latin filename. This was downloaded so it wasn't me who made it. It was entitled "Nihil lacrima citius arescit" or "Nothing dries quicker than a tear" in English (I'll just add proudly that I translated most of it without having to look online).

I hope that's true.

Mille viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam

Well, that's two days worth of shitty blog posts I've decided not to put on here because they were just shitty pretentious pseudo-intellectual musings. And, clearly, I'm not narcissistic enough to put that shit up here to try to appear like some fuck-nut with an opinion worth anyone's fucking time.

Anyway...

I was looking out the car window tonight (I was being driven for once after a long while... what a strange feeling). As I cursorily analyzed the buildings passing by, I noticed that there were quite a few churches, generally Protestant. Did you know among the Protestant Christian community, there are over 30,000 different denominations (that number seems way too high but that's like what the wiki totally says man)? I don't really know how that came to pass but each of these denominations probably came into being as a result of some fundamental distinction from its parent group. It's quite a puzzling aspect of the religion and definitely appears as a sign of disunity. Don't worry, though, this post isn't going to devolve into strings of theological jargon justifying the multitudes of denominations.

Even though there're so many denominations, theoretically all Protestants agree on the important points. And so, in a way, these distinctions really just become personal preferences. For the longest time, I accused my old church of being stagnant and insufficient. They were too busy conducting their church business and had forgotten how to be proper ambassadors, after all! Well, maybe I was a bit too harsh, a bit too judgmental. Something I realized early on during that recent, failed experiment was that it was ok for two parties to have different priorities and desires. The two may not be right for each other when those differences become sufficiently unscalable but by no means does that disagreement necessarily imply a deficiency in any one of the parties (though I guess it'd be unrealistic to assume for flawlessness in general). 

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that my old church and all those old churchmates probably were just going in a different direction than me. And, even if they were seemingly lacking in some priorities that I thought would be second-nature for any Christian, the fundamental Christian precepts were nevertheless there. From a theological point of view, in terms of denominations that have that Nicene creed alignment thing (or whatever) worked out, all roads do lead to Rome. And, so, why have I been so bent out of shape that that other road wasn't to my liking. It just wasn't for me and that's ...just fine. So it's only fair for me to say... oops.

P.S. The great irony of the first post mentioning religion after who-knows-when being written right after my commission of certain, um, indiscretions is not lost upon me.

Fuzzy Wuzzy

Home sweet home, well not me, but for a certain someone who has been the sole focus of several familial households for the last couple of weeks. As I sit here, not having to think about driving back and forth from those sterilized hospital walls, the finality of the two major events that have so absorbed my attentions as of late dawns on me. But, it might take a bit longer until I once again reach that very sporadic placid equilibrium. 

Much like that post-caffeine anxiety that I am prone to experiencing, hints of mugginess and uneasiness pervade. But, at the same time, there is also a certain contentedness. I'm listening to "Blind" by Pacific UV and I find that this song, particularly the fuzzy melodic instrumentals in the introduction (starting ~1:00), really captures the current mixed cocktail I've settled into today.

Syzygy

Syzygy, in astronomy, refers to the alignment of three celestial bodies. The most relatable syzygies would be the alignments of the sun, earth, and moon, occurences which produce eclipses. However, other syzygies exist, some much more rare, such as that of other planets, whose orbits are not associated with each other.

I can't help but think the events of the past few days, and even the past few weeks, have been a syzygy of the latter type. This alignment, though, of course, is not one of celestial bodies but one of personal circumstances and miscommunications*. And, just like a sequence of dominoes, the individual components, which by themselves could be considered innocuous, all happened to align conspicuously and, in a spectacular blaze, culminated in the net effect of this grand experiment, all that has happened in the past however long it has been. As I reflect, however, maybe I'm wrong in referring to this syzygy as one of the rarer varieties. Maybe this syzygy was an eventuality bound to happen sooner than later, one that could have been easily prophesied to occur the very moment our fateful orbits began.

On a related note, my nano recently broke, so I've been using my iPod touch again. I was listening to good ol' Donald Pleasance and had for the first time read the full lyrics. There was one phrase that kept repeating itself over and over again like a drum nobody ever ordered: "I came here only to say goodbye". Quite fitting for today's turn of events, a little too fitting (though, to be frank, the fit comes not from any initiative on my part). Sometimes I wonder if these circumstances will all mean something later on. Then again, maybe it's just the confirmation bias talking.

Anyway, it does seem that that is all she wrote. Too bad, I think I was just about starting to get her.

*ok and that horrible, terrible, abominable thing I did, the thing I profusely apologized for, and the thing that I would continue to apologize for until the very end of this age if only it were worth a damn, it was a momentary lapse in judgment, seriously, seriously

Oh so warm and dry

The blue sky in my room

The thousand changing stars

I’m lying next to her

Just like in a dream

All a memory

It’s all so unreal

Ah, definitely one of my more well-liked songs I’ve heard in the past couple of years. And, how coincidental that its title just fits so seamlessly with this blog’s overarching theme as of late. I'm waiting for one of my aunts to finish up so I can drive her back. I don’t want to crowd the room (or smell it) so here I am, staring out into the dusky Western sky. This is different from the city that I’ve milled around for the past … however long it’s been. Even though the downtown still requires much development before finally becoming that “world-class city” that it wants so hard to pride itself as, it’s still a common phenomenon for me to become lost in its hubbub.

A thoroughly appreciated change of pace, and, though overt metropolitan artifacts still clutter into the current panorama, I am reminded now of this almost cliché epiphany that pops its head up as needed by my often waning sanity: as many constructs as we may create, no matter how high they extend and how hard they try to reach into the sky, no matter how suffocating they may seem to be with their artificial ability to loom and lord over us, there is still this huge world, and this infinitely huger universe, just around the corner that just cannot be conquered by any acts of our collectively grasping mortal hands.

And with that in mind, I feel like it's ok for me to just sit here for a bit and breathe, in and out, and to let my mind rejoin the clouds, if only for a short while.

Namaste

Somehow, the first two times I ever hear this word occurs within 24 hours of each other. Not that I'm trying desperately to grasp at some significance, but it is notable, at the very least. 

Namaste is both a phrase of greeting and a phrase of parting. Consisting of the two Sanskrit roots "namah" meaning "reverential salutation" and "te" meaning "to you", this phrase translates to "salutations to you". As an aside, "te" is also "to you" in Latin, I vaguely remember some other association Sanskrit and Latin before, well I'll look into that later. Anyway, the more formal form of namaste is "namaskar", where "kaar" is the root for "form", thus forming the meaning "salutations to your form", relating to the Hindu idea of the inner soul being of Brahman and the outer surface being merely an illusion. 

Well, I mean, that's what a cursory reading of Wikipedia tells me anyway.

infinite finitude

I guess my recent obsession with the sky fits in well with the name of the blog, chosen so many moons ago: "ciel". I'm not really sure what led to me picking that word to represent so many aspects of my online persona. But, there it is.

I've been driving back and forth from the hospital (and driving in general) a lot these past two weeks. I presume it isn't a particular reach when I say that pavement and upcoming traffic are not very exciting things to look at. Maybe that's why my gaze has leaned a bit more upwards as of late. Also, there's a big-ass window (c.f. big ass-window) in the canteen with a nice skyward view that I spend a lot of time looking through when I'm waiting for one of my aunts.

The best word that describes the impression that sky-gazing leaves with me is "finitude". This isn't something I bring up often with people nowadays because many seem to be perfectly content to shrug me off immediately, as if it were some sort of reflex they've developed. Whatever, fuck 'em all, right? Ok, maybe that's too harsh.

But whenever I reflect on the vastness of the great cosmos that abounds above us, I can't help but lament. Lament that I'm stuck here in this finite body, destined to live my life out worrying about and carrying out all these trifling finite affairs, that, in order to achieve some level of contentedness, I'm even supposed to force myself to derive "meaning" from these infinitely finite things. Will there be a sum to these physiological processes that I seem to help keep perpetuating?

I guess I can see why people would so readily shut me down when I bring up this topic. Even the lament of futility is futile. And so, our only option is to continue on unwaveringly? And, we're just supposed to take it?

How boring.

It was the clouds.

Something about the lighting just seemed a bit off as I left the house. The world seemed to be tinted in this pink-yellow hue, like one of those aged photos from a few decades ago: a strange lack of blue. Refreshing, it felt as if I had just stepped out of the music video for "Strange Days" by Matthew Good Band and had begun seeing, after a long period of their absence, red, yellow, and green.

It was the clouds. The sun had just nestled itself under the horizon but its light still shone across the dusky sky. Spread all over were delicately spaced streams of clouds: lit a warm yellow under their bottoms and left darkened on their tops, where the light no longer reached. That light reflected must have been what had cast upon the entire landscape its temporary golden hue.

So there I am, driving westbound on the highway, conveniently emptied to allow me to cruise at a comfortable speed. With the city passing by in this peculiar light and "We Could Die Chasing This Feeling" by Hammock in the background (rad coincidence there with the music video by the way), it didn't feel like I was driving that all-too-familiar route to the hospital, that I had been regularly taking for the past week.

No, for a brief moment, I felt like I was driving in a faraway place, worlds away from all those trivial and not-so-trivial matters that seem to wrack up with such ease in my consciousness. And, for a brief moment, the word "beauty" actually meant something to me.

Another blue night over me (or Starálfur, again)

I posted this on my other blog. But, given the content, it feels much more appropriate here so I'm just going to copy it here. This marks the second in-depth post I've made about this song, Starálfur. I wonder why I like this song so much.

Lately, it seems I've been going back through my already bloated collection more than trying to find newer music. Sigur Rós's Ágætis byrjun has been playing a lot in my car. Not the whole album, mostly just "Starálfur", "Viðrar Vel Til Loftárasa", and "Ágætis byrjun". It's always surprising when I remember that this album was released back in 1999, though I didn't get a copy myself until probably 2007.

I was sprawled across the backseat of my car late last night. Just outside the window were the pale stars all in their familiar arrangements. Starálfur was playing and it was just so fitting. The first two lyrical lines are translated as "Blue night over the sky; Blue night over me". Whenever I hear those lyrics, I'm immediately reminded of the great wide sky that encapsulates all of us as well as the infinite cosmos that lay just beyond that. Always a welcome reminder since I'm so anxious all the time (says a friend that I hadn't seen for years; and here I was thinking my anxiety was only particularly noticeable in the past year or so).

Anyway, here's the album version of Starálfur. I swear I've written a long-winded post about this already. I guess it was probably for the other blog.

caelum caeruleum

The blue sky says hello. For all whom fall under its jurisdiction, it is open and accepting with its all-encompassing embrace. Staring into the seemingly unending expanse, the trivial mundane matters that so occupy our thoughts and cause us distress begin to appear as nothing more than specks of sand on a beach.

Oh, if only you could reach down from that transcendent realm and pull em away from all these daily non-sequitors. I would be happy to forfeit this corporeal cohesion if it meant an existence beyond reacting to these petty and meaningless sequences of events.

But you do nothing. You sit there in your intangible kingdom and lord over us, mocking our inalienable futility and our abject denials of any claims of such.

estne, estne, estne

Room's way too muggy. The quad-core probably isn't helping much.

If I had made different decisions that day, decisions which were completely innocuous at the time, this situation may have evolved in a completely different way. But, ultimately, the circumstances ended up becoming aligned and, now, there's quite a situation, isn't there.

It's not my fault. I've read enough posts and watched enough clichéd shows/movies to know about the unproductiveness of misplaced guilt. And, so I clearly won't let myself dwell upon this. But the impression still remains.

Why did she have to stare at me? Why did her tears have to begin welling up as she was staring at me? Did she know of those insidious thoughts that had remained dormant up until that very moment our eyes connected after those stupid fucking dominoes fell? Worse, does she not share in my assumption that my guilt is misplaced?

I haven't gone to see her since. I just can't. Shit is fucked up is what it is...

Deus ex machina

Another hot, muggy night that clearly wishes to offer me no sleep. Well, technically, I slept from 11-3, so, those are four good hours, right? No matter. I guess I'll type a few thoughts up that I had been toying around with in my head today.

For the first time in ages, I find myself actually optimistic about my future. Yeah, yeah, pharmacy, profession, stable job, I know the mantras, but I mean, I've become authentically positive about the future beyond that tired, old jargon.

When it comes down to it, what it really boils down to is perspective. I've been in this city my entire life: in the suburbs for the first 17 years and then mostly downtown for the next 7 years. I only happen to venture out of the city limits on rare occasions. Hell, I was going north on 16th the other day and was legitimately surprised to see a vast field containing nothing but... corn. Seriously, what's up with that?

So, clearly, the city is ultra familiar and close to my heart. It's an obvious option for where I'd like to work later on. Therein is where lay much of my previous consternation. Within my field, from what I hear anyway, the chance of working in my particular urban centre of choice is quite slim, especially for a greeney such as myself. So you can imagine my underwhelment (I'm not sure if this noun form of "underwhelm" officially exists) when I'm forced to consider job opportunities in areas that are ~5 hours away from any friends and family (not to mention Chinese food). But, I realize now that that's just fine.

This sudden change was most probably precipitated by the books I had been reading lately on Aboriginal and Hong Kong history/culture (though the trend itself has been a process ongoing for years). On the one hand, you have the overt institutional racism and assimilationist processes that Canada forced upon the Aboriginal peoples. Of course, nowadays, there have been major improvements in terms of supports for Aboriginals as well as attempts to make reparations (though whether one could say these constitute as "equivalent trade" is another topic entirely). Still, I take pause when I consider that residential schools had been open all the way up until the 1960's, merely one generation ago.

On the other hand, we take Hong Kong as it was in the early 1900s, a time when housing consisted of fire-prone wooden shacks and when the rate of tuberculosis infection was >90% in people above the age of 14. Despite these conditions that would be considered deplorable by today's standards, we have a population willingly placing themselves in this setting, which only illustrates that conditions were even less desirable in the places they had initially come from.

Just from those two examples, I can't help but be thankful that I'm alive in this day and age. When institutional racism is largely a thing of the past and when it is so easy to live a safe, comfortable life. Hell, there's even Internet now. How ridiculous is that shit, right? And, so, working a few hours from where I consider is "home" suddenly seems much more to be this extremely midget potato. Suddenly, all those worries I had been carrying around with me for the past half-year or so seem much less burdening.

Quite pleasant, wouldn't you agree?

"Heunggongyun"

My next set of readings are a collection of papers regarding Hong Kong, all published around the time of reunification (i.e. 1997). While topics were numerous (politics, economics, culture, etc.), I focused on the sections dealing with culture and identity.

My parents and my grandparents had lived a significant portion of their lives over there and it's clear from my discussions with them that they clearly associate themselves with Hong Kong and not with China. And so, I'd say it's a very fair presumption that the "Chinese culture" that I've been exposed to all these years is indeed of the HK variety. But, what exactly is that?

"Heunggongyun" is a term used rather frequently in the couple of papers that I've read so far, literally "Hong Kong people" (Tam 1997 & Mathews 1997). The authors use it to denote the culture developed in Hong Kong and distinct from that of China's. According to these articles, Hong Kong describes a space not merely in which Eastern and Western values meet but as a one where they are integrated. Add to that the diversity and emphasis on city-life that comes with living in an international business hub as well as the possibility of great self-created success and you may very well have the core ingredients of "heunggongyun".

Of course, the concept described above may very well be a bit antiquated. These articles were, after all, written in 1997, just as reunification occurred. With such a major change, certainly a sufficient amount of time would be required before any trends in the evolution of the "heunggongyun" mindset could be observed. According to the Mathews, the attitude in Hong Kong had already been shifting away from "Hong Kong apart from China" to "Hong Kong a part of China" and I'd imagine it's only kept shifting in that direction ever since. Also, my impression is that, since 1997, China, at least its urban centres, has become vastly more Westernized as well as affluent. And as a final point, it does seem the idea that one can achieve great successes through personal effort seems more of an artifact of Hong Kong during the post-war and ~1960's period. And so, taken all together, the concept of "heunggongyun" today is probably much less distinct from Chinese culture than what it was when these articles were written.

Nevertheless, antiquated or not, these readings have been informative, to say the least (there should be a couple more posts just from these two readings coming up). Hopefully, this is the right track. I certainly feel like I'm getting closer to something ... important.

1. Siumi Maria Tam (1997). "Eating Metropolitaneity: Hong Kong Identity in yumcha". Australian Journal of Anthropology. 8:291-306.
2. Gordon Mathews (1997). "Heungongyahn: On the Past, Present, and Future of Hong Kong Identity". Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars. 29:3-13.

si quando precor...

It seems I only come to you when I feel hopelessly overwhelmed, more as a sort of last alternative than anything else. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't find comfort in those rare moments when I do turn to you. Tomorrow scares me. I'll be going around, facing what I can only imagine as a seemingly endless torrent of rejection. I can just see the looks on their faces right now: either apathetic or disdainful, but always simply cold. I wish tomorrow would never come, that somehow I could just stay in this moment for just a bit longer.

Lately, I've been losing sleep, again. It seems those demons have finally caught up with me. And all I have is this chipped blade and this decrepit armor, totally useless. The last time that I hit the trough, I cried out to you and I remember that, soon afterwards, there was a definite sense of peace. Something was able to melt away those choking anxieties. I pray that you would be with me again, if only for a just a little bit longer until I get over this all too familiar hurdle.

Ah, me of little faith. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't let these little waves throw me into such disarray.

Appendix 3

Just a few quotations I want to get down before I return this book (the one on mixed-blood Aboriginals).

My mother's cousin owns a shop on the reserve, so we go and visit her every now and then. I was up at the reserve recently, and I went to see her. And she gave me a really big hug. I think it was a turning point for me. It was almost as if receiving a message - "It's okay, you can come back. You're a part of this family now." Maybe I always was but this was an acknowledgement of it. It felt really nice.
- A "C-31" Story

But you know, I still feel kind of disconnected, sometimes, around who I am. Because when I really put it in perspective, coming from an Indian family - there's not one person in my family that has not been affected by some kind of violence. I have cousins in prison. I have people who killed themselves. I have alcoholism and residential school. This is my blood family, but I still feel pretty disconnected from all of those experiences. It's hard to explain, because genocide touched me in a different way.
- An Adoptee's Story

These excerpts are from the stories found in the appendix. They are the last two in the section (in the order presented) and I can't help but think that the author had indeed intended the ordering of these notably varying accounts.

I'm definitely going to try and pick up a copy of this book somewhere (though it's definitely available on Amazon, I'll check the bookstore first).

Active transport

So, recently, as per the past few insipid blog posts, I've been reading on the topic of culture and identity. So far, I've gone through works regarding the cultures of the Vikings, Mi'kmaq, "mixed-blood" Aboriginals, and a little bit on Chinese diaspora. I honestly wouldn't have minded reading more on the Aboriginal cultures but that, ultimately, is something that I won't be able to fully relate to.

And with that line of thinking I've begun reading this work on Chinese diaspora  ("At Home in the Chinese Diaspora: Memories, Identities, and Belongings", edited by Khun Eng & Davidson, 2008). One chapter spoke on the role of intergenerational transmission of memories in creating senses of nostalgia and belonging, particularly in those whom had never experienced it first-hand. I remember one phrase in particular: "culture is a discursive construct rather than a natural one". The idea is that memories of home are conveyed not en masse but are done so in a purposeful way in which only information that contributes to the narrative that the conveyer wants to construct is passed on. Well, that's my interpretation of what it means, this book is actually heavily academic so I really do feel out of my element as I go through it.

I took from that reading that the development of cultural knowledge is an active process. And so, if I do want to break out of the current cultural confusion, I'll need to start engaging the people around me that had at one point been immersed in "Chinese". It's not like I can just put a book under my pillow at night (not that I really use it nowadays) and hope that the information will enter my brain via passive diffusion, right?

And, no, it's not a particularly radical notion in that I have to exert effort in order for my will to be enacted. Still, I'm glad that I came across this. I really think there is a good chance this simple concept would've completely eluded me had I not encountered it. I'm not exactly the most critical of thinkers...

Can't stop

I can't stop, I can't stop yeah
I can't stop, I can't stop yeah
-"Can't Stop" by M83

When I told my friend that I periodically went to campus to read, he suggested that I not as I should really get away from the place that had caused me so much stress during the year. I appreciate the sentiment, but, as I lie here stricken with these thoughts and emotions that I thought I had finally been able to purge myself of, I can say with some semblance of confidence that it was never really the institution that set me on my downward spiral, but quite simply just an uncontrollable impression of inadequacy. And that is something that follows me around like a bad habit.

I've been taking the summer easier in the hopes that I could have some time to gather up those broken, shattered pieces on the floor around me. For a while, I really thought I was making progress. But, now, as I hit the two-month mark of my self-imposed vacation, I realize that I'm really still a smouldering wreck inside. I just wish I knew what I could do. The usual suspects of my anxieties are as easily discernible as the birds casually chirping outside my window or the sun that's set to rise about an hour from now. I guess there aren't too many things I can do about them (since regret comprises a majority of my qualms, and, well, simply put, I can't go back in time). However, I guess I should go ahead and take care of a few small things.

Maybe then I'll be able sleep again...

Right?

Continuing along with my exploration of Aboriginal culture, I’m currently reading “‘Real’ Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood” by Bonita Lawrence. All in all, this has been a real engaging read and I find myself getting through it like a hot knife through butter.

I’m approximately 60% through the book and I find that, though she describes very well the issues that have affected and are still affecting Aboriginal identity, both at large as well as in the individual, there hadn’t yet been too much attention specifying what Aboriginal traditions actually consist of. I’m glad that on page 160, the author had begun to elaborate on this topic. The following is a portion of an interview that I just found said so much.

I can say that I’m traditional, coming from being raised by my grandparents, having them raise me in their traditional ways – a Métis way. But it’s not like traditional with the sweetgrass, or other things. We were traditional in that we were isolated. There were not a lot of white people we were exposed to. We didn’t have electricity, or running water … I grew up with trapping. So for me, I’ve seen skinning, I’ve seen meat smoked, fish smoked. I grew up with fish and traditional meats, and they passed all that on. And the uses of certain teas, and bear fat, that are good for certain things. 

But it’s also the way I was raised, right? The language was passed on, the way of raising children – I grew up in an extended family, where children were never hit; you are taught by example. You don’t realize, until you’re an adult, the values you’ve been raised with. My grandmother would teach me things. Like, if I did something bad, she would say, “You shouldn’t do that – think about how that person is feeling!” Right? So we were taught to put ourselves in the other person’s position, so that we would not do something to hurt somebody. And we were taught by example. They gave us verbal examples. That’s the way our morality was taught. So they taught me a lot of things, even though I didn’t realize it until I was an adult.

My recent forays into topics of culture seem to consist of one part lame identity crisis as well as another part of desire to understand the diversity found in the human experience. And, yeah, the passage itself isn’t an exhaustive exposition on native tradition or whatever, but for a second there, I find myself relating to something in those words on a very fundamental level. And, because of this, I feel that, somehow, this topic was a good idea. Right?

文化

I’ve been reading this book on the Mi’kmaw people from Nova Scotia (“First Nations, Identity, and Reserve Life” by Simone Poliandri, for those curious). As I read this work, which focused on aspects of identity and culture, I found myself questioning of where I stood when it came to matters of what I see as my own identity and culture. This has certainly been a growing topic of interest for me for a while (and quite likely one of the reasons I was drawn to this book in the first place).

Quite obviously I’m ethnically Chinese. But, in terms of culture, that’s much more questionable. What is it of my day-to-day that is an expression of “Chinese”. Truth be told, the only overt examples I can think of include my ability (though perhaps “inability” would be a more realistic description) to speak Cantonese as well as my daily consumption of Chinese food. Well, I guess also how pretty much all my friends are Chinese (and pretty much only naturalized, English-speaking ones).

But, truth be told, I don’t know much about “Chinese” culture, and I refer specifically to HK culture since I see myself relating to that more than I ever would with that of mainland China. And so, from the get-go, it’s not even that I can say definitely that such and such aspect is or is not “Chinese”. Nevertheless, the more I reflect on my life, the more I realize the nature of my own cultural ambiguity. And it’s not so much something that I want to be “Chinese” as much as it is just the realization that there can be real and tangible discontinuities between myself and others of my ethnicity.

So, back to the book, language was something that occasionally came up as a measure of cultural identity. Some of those interviewed by the author had outrightly said that to be Mi’kmaq means to speak the language. Furthermore, the unfortunate population that had been subjected to residential schooling would often refer to their loss of lingual fluency as a primary indicator of cultural loss.

And, on that note, I can relate to that line of thinking, in that I do view my inability to speak fluent Cantonese somewhat ruefully. Certainly not because it prevents me from watching TVB shows or listening to Cantonese pop (the latter, in fact, might be for the better). The primary source is probably my inability to communicate meaningfully with my grandparents. I am, and most probably will be, their only grandchild. And whenever I do think on this topic, I can’t help but feel a little remorse that I am willingly letting all that wisdom and cultural wealth acquired over the span of their lives simply end with them, all because I couldn’t be bothered to learn a few extra words and grammatical rules.

And I think it goes further than that. Language also influences the way one thinks. I’m not sure of the specifics but surely words can serve as a constraint upon our understanding of certain ideas. As I reflect on some poorer examples of communication with my mom, I can’t help but begin to wonder how much of it was due to a concept simply lost in translation or due to a perceived implication that was there only because of a literal translation between languages. Although, I guess this is more about language itself, rather than anything to do with culture.

Anyway, those are just a few musings on what is certainly a far-reaching topic. The rabbit hole of cultural limbo surely goes far deeper. 

Essence

A part of a Q program (on CBC Radio 1) I heard a few days ago recounted the life of photojournalist Tim Hetherington. At one point, the interviewee, Sebastian Junger, said that Tim's primary approach wasn't as a photographer, per se, but as someone who wanted to understand the human experience. That desire was apparently key in his subjects opening themselves up emotionally and ultimately allowing him to capture photographically the essence of whatever particular moment or situation he was pursuing.

Well after many minutes of painstakingly typing and deleting the various attempts I've made to continue this entry, I seem to have lost perspective on what I was initially trying to get at.

I guess I just wanted to note that interesting point that a person's career can be more of an indirect extension of him/herself and that I definitely relate to that desire to understand the human experience, that is, to understand those unique sets of circumstances that each member of our species finds itself in and then attempting to distill all of that into a few essential human components.

Reflection

So yeah, I like wandering around downtown as a means of relieving stress, that's certainly not a new revelation. During my recent meanderings, I've begun to notice something new: all the high-functioning go-getters in the city, you know, productive members of society kind of thing. Of course that's nothing new; the downtown core is where all the business is at, so, unsurprisingly, there is where one would find all these type-A's.

And then I look at myself, who I am, what goes through my mind, and one thing consistently goes through my mind: "Who is this girl I see, staring straight back at me?" (ok, I don't consistently think of the Mulan song but it just happened to pop into my head today, as I was looking into a mirror, in the midst of all these perfunctory thoughts; also, feel free to replace "girl" with any derogatory term that would fit your fancy).

I'm not that. I can't talk on the phone like that guy in the suit, fully convinced of whatever he's trying to push, or that guy walking confidently down the sidewalk in his well thought-out costume plus sunglasses. I mean, I could wear a pretty shirt or walk like a normal person but that'd be it, it'd just be some external piece covering an internal reality that is really disparate in quality.

And I'm sitting here, typing all these words out, and don't really know what to do, as fucking usual, I guess. lol...

Blank

My emotions are useless. Well, no they serve a role, though one that is completely dispensable from my perspective.The emotions that I feel seem to be largely limited to anxiety and regret. Such should not be for a mid-twenties guy like me of course, right? Well, all I can say is that they are my natural responses to stimuli, such are emotions, would that be a fair statement? It's not like I choose to feel certain things because it makes sense. Emotions are not, after all, necessarily rational (interestingly, when typing "are emotions" in Google, the second suggested search string is "are emotions irrational").

Anyway, I'm not complaining about my life. That's silly. My life is great and my perspective has been shaped to recognize that quintessential truth of any (greater or equal to) middle-class person. And that perspective really helps me calm down whenever I find myself going through an episode of one or more of those not-so-pleasant emotions.

But the fact of the matter is, and I say this earnestly, I just generally don't feel good emotions as much as I probably should. And I know that running water and Internet already makes my life so much better than too large of a proportion of our Earth's population. Yet, having that perspective still doesn't serve to evoke any emotional response. And I don't know what to do. Am I just exaggerating my situation? I don't even know. I don't know anything right now. I don't want to know anything right now. I just want to go back into my quiet dark place, assume the fetal position, and just rock back and forth until everything just fades away when I can return to my tabula rasa.

Submission

乖

After many years of conditioning, I think I've finally attained the state of "乖" ("gwai"). It has become one of the more frequently used adjectives when relatives describe and/or attempt to compliment me.

The adjective describing good behaviour or, less glamourously, submissiveness and the expected state of any child. I don't know how conscious a decision it was for me to embody that quality but, for better or for worse, it is now a central aspect of me.

I guess it has its roots in my constant desire to receive good will from others. Since I come into contact with my extended family a lot, naturally, a part of me just tries to play the role of the obedient younger person placating their whatever expectations.

As I look back, I see that attitude spill into the other aspects of my life, most prominently in my volunteerism. I volunteer a lot (i.e. work for free). I've always tried to keep a positive outlook and do my best, even if there really is no apparent benefit other than a gentle nod from my supervisors. The goal was to impress them so that they would finally give me a job but that obviously wasn't always the case. And, sometimes, when I get unlucky, I get the distinct impression that they are slightly taking advantage of my good will.

And now here I am. Certainly, 乖 can describe me. But what use is that now that I'm 24, now that I am no longer a child (or shouldn't be anyway)? After the years of submissive volunteer work and the submissive robotic memorization of two degrees that never required a noticeable level of critical thinking, I sit here realizing that most of the things I've done have been to satisfy demands outside of myself.

A while back I happened across a few talks by Noam Chomsky and he talked about how one of the goals of the school system was to promote obedience and submission, to instill into people the notion of "doing things for the sake of doing them", such as meaningless assignments. And, boy, that sure was an eye-opener. If only it were isolated to my school experience but no, that sense of submission has, unfortunately, permeated quite well into my approach to life.

Well, that's no good, it's no good at all.

Mundane prophecies

There's a guy I bump into periodically, from my program, and we are bonified acquaintances, though I guess that is how I am with most of my classmates.

It is strictly business whenever we talk: school, extracurriculars, and summer plans (not the recreational aspects of it). And, I'll be honest, I'm a little behind others as far as my extra-curriculars go, which was also a huge factor in my prolonged period of anxiety culminating around a month ago. He has a tendency of prodding on those subjects, I imagine he does this in order to keep a current idea of the "pulse" of the general achievements of his colleagues. Well, let's just say, my responses are never quite impressive enough and I always get a huge judgmental vibe from him, pretty much every time. It's a huge turn-off and I hate it when the conversations end up like that, which unfortunately seems to be an inevitability every time.

It happened today again and, yes, the conversation progressed through its predictable course. And, as I reflect on it, I wonder, does he share in the disdain that I have for our conversations? The reason I can't stand our conversations is because, probably, we just don't have the same priorities and so when we talk, we just completely fail to relate to one another, making it a wholly futile exercise.

A similar thought came up yesterday. I was walking around the neighbourhood and happened to cross two yuppie-phased men and one was talking about some aspect of his work and he seemed to talk about it with such conviction. It dawned on me that that sort of attitude is so far removed from my experience. I don't just don't rank work-related issues (ok, not that I'm working right now) very high at all in terms of things I actually give thought to.

And so, it is actually curious to think about how my dear acquaintance views the conversations we have. He probably thinks I'm some ambitionless dumbass who doesn't apply himself nearly enough if he actually wants to get anywhere in this short life of ours, someone who would be much better off in some dark cave on Trill (DS9 7x03, duh). We certainly don't talk normally and so I imagine that he doesn't take our conversations to be the highlights of his days either.

Hopefully, though, I don't come off as an asshole.

Sunshine lollypops and ...

So here I am again, a familiar environment for sure. But, this time it is much different: it is completely optional. There are assignments to complete, no tests to prepare for, no nagging obligations to take care of. A strange vacation in the place where I usually am.

I got a Metropass this month so that I wouldn't have that disincentive of using tokens. I feel this was a good call as now I can finally go explore all those nooks and crannies of this city as well as be in a better position to read all those books I had short-listed a while back (as well as to catch up on my web development and database skills).

So far, I've found it to be much better in the sun and in the midst of people than to be lounging around in the dark isolation of the house...

Not sure if ironic or...

This post is less... extensive than the past few.

For someone as melodramatic as I am, I find myself quite easily perturbed by the exaggerations of others. When I look for music on Reddit, I oftentimes see embellished titles that are nothing but indulgence. Here are just a couple from /r/postrock that have pushed me to go on this tirade, "Not strictly postrock, but incredible nonetheless" (ok, that one's not too bad) but then there's "Giants - Sleeping False Idol (from 3:07 I just stop counting how many heart attacks I suffer from listening to this song)". Are you being real right now? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Save your heart attacks for something worthwhile, gotdam.

And yes, I've heard this song before. In fact, I quite like it along with the rest of the album. But it doesn't give me fucking heart attacks. Can I rock out to it? Yes, of course. But.. ugh.

You know what, it's post titles like those that give me motherfucking heart attacks.

Rule 32

It has been two weeks since I've been squatting at my mom's place. She went off to a few distant lands for vacation and I, as the obliging son, offered to look after her place while she was away. Definitely, the past two weeks have passed relatively quickly and I've come to a better understanding of home-ownership. But that's not what this post is about.

I brought both my guitars here with the intention of playing uninhibited, due to the lack of fellow house occupants for whom I am ever volume-considerate. And, since my arrival to this foreign landscape, I can say with great pride that my guitars have been utilized a sum total of zero times. I don't even sing much, which I had probably been looking forward to doing more than fiddling with the guitars. So, here I am, and as I sit in front this giant wide-screen, typing out another block of text, I find there really is no desire within me to be musically active to any degree.

Music factored in way more when I was studying. Having something on while I was doing my mindless studies seemed just enough to drown out the multitudes of thoughts that try to encroach upon my consciousness when I attempt to memorize verbatim words and ideas that, truth be told, mean nothing to me.  Singing also served a cathartic role as I would try to relieve those pent up academically-mediated frustrations with strained utterances with whatever tracks happened to exist in my limited vocal range.

Now that we've entered a less busy phase, I find there is less drive and incentive for me to look to music. I've been through this thought process before, probably last summer, but clearly I had forgotten its significance, as I had enthusiastically been looking forward to honing my musical abilities this summer.

Quite simply, I just don't see any point in developing those abilities. So what if I learn how to strum and sing concurrently or maybe just a few extra obscure chord progressions? I could much more easily listen to those same chords by the original artist. Even if I were to create my own music or make covers that were stylistically distinct from their originals, I just don't think I'd be really into it. And, the thought of me recording and publishing myself for the entire world to see just seems to elicit a slight sense of narcissism, which does nothing but make the entire exercise just a little more distasteful.

There are two possibilities that come to mind as to what's going on here. Either A) I'm just missing the beauty of making music and just need to do it a bit more to understand it or B) there was some aspect of listening to music that was enjoyable, that I've yet to abstract. I'm sure there are other possibilities, but I, as I've recently been discovering, am the greatest of thinkers (but that's something I'll probably write on a bit later on).

The title of this post "Rule 32" is a reference to Zombieland, where the lead actor narrates a set of arbitrary rules, the last of which being Rule 32, "Enjoy the little things". It came up as I was talking to a friend about this very issue and he said that maybe I should stop analyzing the process so much (namely the narcissistic elements that I accuse it of harbouring). But, as I write this post, I guess I've become more aware that maybe it's not so much that my anhedonia is due to my disdain for the process but rather that maybe it was never that process that I was enamoured with (that is, option B).

Beats me...

Vulnerability, addendum

This isn't the second part, just an addendum to the previous entry.

It's not like I'm oblivious to the necessity of some tenacity in this life. I've had the great displeasure of witnessing certain friends and family members enter terrible work environments and seeing their struggle through it. My grandfather fought in the war and when I ask him what his earlier life was like, he summarizes with the single term 捱 (this is Google translate, so um slight possibility this isn't the right one), Cantonese for "endure". Suffice it to say, I haven't brought up that topic ever since.

No, the realities of 捱 have been making themselves known to me, particularly during this school year (see "Ecclesiastes"). Of course, I also say this knowing full well that my life has been, by many orders of magnitude, easier than all my previous generations: food is so easily accessed, a good amount of money secured more than sufficient for a modest lifestyle, no persecution or war. Whatever the 捱 that my grandfather was referring to, I've been lucky never to have experienced it and I might just be lucky enough to never experience it.

These kind of reflections are always positive experiences. Much like that time I had that epiphany facilitated by the famously photographed Afghan girl (see "The problem with first world problems"). Of course, I'm not going to stop seeing the negative sides to things, I still feel that it's an important consideration, but definitely, I shouldn't let these things bog me down as much as I do.

So, that's half of what I wanted to talk about, hopefully I get time to jot down all those fleeting thoughts before they once again vacate the premises, as my tenants are so prone to do.

Vulnerability

Manliness, what is that exactly? As corny as it sounds, one of the things I had set out to do this summer was to refine my understanding of it. Surely responsibility factors heavily into it, that's honestly easy for me, I'm pretty mindful of my obligations and do make an effort to attend to them. But what of stoicism? Certainly there is some place for it? I find that I am less keen at adopting that one. I was never one to shy away from expressing my emotions and it just happens that the frequency of negative ones tend to outweigh that of the positive. Is that a problem?

Our society does not look kindly to whiners. And, I guess I see why that may be the case. Whining may be an expression of an inflated sense of entitlement: "I deserve more than this, why aren't you providing this for me?". In that sense, whining is an act of indulgence and serves only to further the self-centred desires of the whining party. "Stop whining" and "Don't be a pussy" are two immediate quotes that come to mind (Schwarzenegger from Kindergarten Cop and Downey Jr.fresh from Iron Man 3).

Something that holds me back from adopting a purely stoic approach to life, however, is honesty. Of course I'm not equating those who don't bitch about their problems to snake-oil salesmen. But I mean, to omit negativity from our daily discourse, to act as if the problems were less troubling than they really were, it seems a bit disingenuous. And my optimistic outlook deems that we embrace those aspects as much as we do everything else. Surely our lives are littered with trials and tribulation (some much more than others) and it seems only right to recognize hardships as a communal human characteristic.

And yet the only we can really bond over this sort of thing is if people are both cognizant and open to share about these aspects of each other. Not in an indulgently, but in a way that is mindful and respects the degree of one's particular trouble, in a way that keeps these instances in our discourse in order remind each other that our lives are not perfect specimens but, contrarily, speckled with blemishes.

Maybe that's why, right now, I'm just not that sold on the ideal that stoicism is a core attribute of manliness. Keeping it all locked inside definitely seems to be an unsustainable approach, especially with the increasing awareness and understanding of mental illness.

This post originally was going to be me bitching about having no friends I can truly be vulnerable with (hence the title) but I opted not to continue with that because it seemed a bit too indulgent and somehow this semi-intelligible monstrosity was conceived.

It's late, I should sleep, there's a second part but I'll finish that up tomorrow.

Another incoherent rant

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something

I'm talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
And I know, I know they've all been talking about me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow I've lost my mind

I find myself, more often than not, relating to the lyrics of "Unwell" by Matchbox Twenty (the two verses above) ...most prominently the accidental mutterings to myself publicly and the bouts of sleeplessness. Of course, I'm not that off the top (e.g. I don't make friends with shadows nor do I hear whispers) but I do feel the instability creep far too close to my core cerebral functions for comfort.

Obviously, I'm not crazy... just a little unwell? Would that be a fair thing for me to say? Would that just be indulgent and totally unmanly? I guess oftentimes I can be quite the whiny little bitch... add to that my overt naivete and, dayum, you've got a stew going... a stew that no one in their right mind would ever partake of. But, to be otherwise, just seems so foreign at the moment...

Unfortunate, as always...

Ecclesiastes

I think the realization that life is fucking hard is only now really dawning on me. Until now, everything had been pretty much handed to me or obtained with minimal struggle. For whatever reason, only now has the true nature of struggle become a reality for me, before it was always just soundbite I quoted from Ecclesiastes.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was really, really scared. Decades of toil. The very thought numbs me in a very undesirable way. My heart shudders and falls from the cloistered fortress that had previous hidden me from life's reality.

I feel like such a fucking kid. I'm 24. When my mom was my age she already had a fucking kid, and I'm still here moping in my room like some dumb-fuck teenager.

I guess I don't blame people for not giving a shit. I suppose it's hard enough to focus in order to keep one's own life in order. But, it would be nice if.... well I'm not going to go there.

Someone today said that life is slow. Truly, at times, it seems interminable, moving at a snail's pace. For me, it is now, during this interglacial period between obligations and deadlines, when that definitely seems to be the case.

This post is shit, where is the overarching narrative? Nowhere to be seen. This is why I'm in fucking science.

Greener

The summer is finally here. Why then, do I find myself completely unable to relax? Why am I still plagued with anxieties? Well, there are many reasons and I've grown sick of going over them again and again so let's skip that part.

I feel different. Something in me really did change over the course of the last year. What a fucking brutal year. I don't think I was always like this. There seems to be this persistent weight that I drag around, perhaps all the accumulated self-loathing over the past bit. I've done quite a bit of that in the past three years, if I recall properly.

It's probably up to me to let it go. I don't even think there's anything wrong with me. When I try to analyze my current state (which I am oft to do now that.. well.. that there's pretty much nothing else to do), I get the impression that I only feel the way I do because I've put myself in a box, a very particular frame of mind that is completely intolerant of any perceived mistakes committed by the self. Oh, a sentiment I can relate to all too well.

Maybe it was better that I didn't get a job this summer. I feel like I need the time to pick up my heal my battered psyche, to pick up the pieces of my shattered spirit that have been strewn all across the landscape.

Right now, I think the best thing I can do is just to breathe. Slowly let all those accumulations diffuse out. I must arise from these ashes or else, well, I'd have to start worrying about how I'll get through the next few decades...

Ain't no rest for the wicked

Forgiveness is a cornerstone of the religion to which I proclaim allegiance. I'd like to think that I've been able to develop some semblance of mastery with it. But there is one particularly noticeable discrepancy in my application of this tenet. There is always that one person I can never bring myself to forgive and that person is no other than ... me. You know, over the span of the last two decades and a bit, he has amassed quite an abundance of fuck-ups. An idiot of Herculean proportions. I look back and all I can do is cringe and apologize in my head to all those who've been so unfortunate as to having been dragged into the twisted inept logic of my former self. It is truly gut-wrenching my idiocy, the insufficiencies of my rational components.

Thankfully, the degree of disgust associated with my "misactions" nowadays is quite modest, generally (except for those two stupid giant elephant demons that I inadvertedly summoned, but, fortunately, dispelled recently). But me, as the misguided youth as I was, was truly a senseless creature. How does one come to accept that? How does one persist for the entirety of one's life while constantly accruing these regrets?

Roller Coasters

It's all going to collapse soon ... it's all been leading up to this moment ... the culmination of all my works, actions, decisions are about to come to fruition, that is, its self-destruction. For a person so unskilled in the art of fire-breathing to play so casually with fire is certainly folly to anyone with half a fucking brain.

Why couldn't I see the writings on the wall? They all glaringly pointed to a spectacular demise, one unseen since Lucifer's descent into the eternal darkness.

Part of me wishes that these fragile supports that still suspend me in the air would just give way already so I'd be able to feel the full fury of freefall, unhindered. That I may hit the cold, hard ground and finally begin my real life, unabated by these present spectres that haunt me so.

But, alas, I must wait. The seconds, minutes, hours, and days pass by agonizingly. A strange and pathetic limbo, neither in Hell proper nor anywhere close to salvation. It is here that I sit, on the top of the hill in my roller coaster, awaiting, powerless.

Is Anybody Home?

I hate Saturdays, that strange fucking limbo between Friday, the last day of work, and Sunday, the preparatory day for the next week's work. I can't do anything but be paralyzed by this constant sense of emptiness and seclusion. Sometimes it really does feel like I'm the only person alive, despite the multitudes that share the common spaces (library denizens and TTC commuters). When exactly did Saturdays become so worthless? At least since 4 years ago... but I suspect it's been even longer than that...

Why am I typing this out... when has any of my outrage ever resulted in anything worth a damn... more meaningless inquiries... fantastic.

Shipwrecked

On a cold night, we lay down
Under starlight, we break down
Spent my whole life, seeking shelter
Til the last time, gone forever

Shaka, when the walls fell

Behind the walls ... waiting ... always waiting. The oceans have swollen and consumed my once glorious homeland. This ruined fortress is all that remains of the now shattered kingdom, and I of its once buzzing populous. The walls creak as the waves batter upon them unrelentingly, as if mourning for times long past. And as I stand and gaze at this place that once held so much meaning for me, I wonder what I can do other than await for that inevitability when my entire world will come crashing down. No, there is no hope, no chance for escape. Although my lungs still take in air with each breath, my heart has already sunk to the very bottom of the seas. But what other choice do I have? I will persist ... stalwartly ... resolutely ... and oh-so-very ... futilely.

The Hours

Can I wait the hours...

The past few days have been horridly unproductive and I've tried, my god, I've tried... I go downtown and stay in the library... but to no avail, nothing is accomplished... if not only because I'm not convinced that I can study effectively with exams still comfortably far away, the important ones anyway.

So here I am, lying on my bed, typing out this meaningless post. I have a small meaningless thing I have to do for tomorrow but, seriously, who gives a shit? I don't. I'll finish it later tonight. For now, I'm just lying here, listening to whatever to make the time pass as soon as possible...

I'm also waiting for something else ... it's been steadily growing over the past bit and has swelled into a distractingly noticeable mass ... but I am still not totally convinced, my resolve is a bit incomplete ... there's a fair bit of conflict stirring in that chaotic pool of ideas of mine ...

All and all, I think the Beach House lyrics (from "The Hours") above and maybe its entirety, are pretty relevant... ugh, what a twisted web we weave...

Conviction

"We have seven exams."

He said it with such fervour. The intensity in his eyes were like embers burning into mine. Now that I look back, maybe a part of me was intimidated, if only for a millisecond. To be escalated from a placid conversation to a point of such conviction was definitely unexpected. But, he was always a studious one, a lot of them seem to be. Myself, I care, of course. Just passing is no way to live after all. But my conception of good study habits doesn't necessitate a desperate obsession. And, maybe, just maybe, I'm being unfair to the particularly studious ones.

Maybe, it is not them, but me that is doing something wrong. They certainly are a dedicated bunch. Most of them work part-time jobs, while studying, and one even tries to keep up playing guitar for an hour a day. Me... I don't do jack shit anymore. I don't even try to play the guitar, despite not working and not having as many volunteer obligations anymore.

Where did the fire go? Did something extinguish it? Was it ever there in the first place? I don't ... really remember.

Maybe I do need a break...

Warmth

You're thick-skinned, but it seems 
You're hiding in daydreams
Can't find our way to the light 
And when this routine ends, through nights and weekends 
We'll see daylight through the blinds

The excerpt above is from the song "The Kids Were Wrong" by Memoryhouse. I guess for the past bit, it feels like I've been wandering in the dark, slowly edging my way across a wall, feeling its surface, in the hopes of finding a door that'll lead me back to... somewhere, the place I ought to be? I don't know that part exactly.

At this point, it definitely feels like I'm just waiting. That it's not a matter of me finding the door but rather just for me to endure until the door opens. That time was originally summer. After all these dispensable academic obligations are done with, I was wanting to spend an inordinate time (I was intending the whole summer) in improving my musical competencies.

Well, whether or not I'll actually have an entire summer (rather than just the evenings and weekends) to recharge my empty cells, there's no doubt that the end of this school year (which, I'll admit, has been particularly arduous compared to all my other years) is what for which my mind yearns. I can't wait until those nights and weekends of memorizing things for the purposes of having a favourable number assigned to me are a thing of memory (for a few months anyway).

It'll be nice to see the daylight again, to be enveloped by both its brightness and its warmth...

Your system is infected!

These commutes seem to be becoming more unbearable with each passing day. For around an hour each way, I am left alone, unstimulated, unoccupied. It is now that my mind is left to its own devices. It is now that my mind runs its viral scan. A great process to have. Problematically, I only have the detection module installed. The other half, the cleaning module, seems not to have been included in the installation package. I blame the manufacturer but the warranty expired long ago and I don’t think any manufacturer will really take a look at this chunk of coal anymore.

So, we have this normally useful process picking all these viruses. To be honest, I’ve seen the detection screen countless times. I could probably recite both the directory as well as the time of infection for each individual instance verbatim.

Another flaw in the installation package is that I cannot control the calendar option. It just seems to run automatically whenever the system load falls below a minimum threshold. A good option that would maximize efficiency in a normal setting. But this is not by any means a normal setting and I am forced to recall every infected instance far too often, with no reprieve other than to increase workload on my aging (though still relatively superior) processor.

I should get a refund...

Discontinuity

Why do the days seems so ... disjointed? They just seem filled with one thing after another but these things are all independent, separate, they lack cohesion. The days pass by, I see them pass with my very eyes, they pass before me as a river flows onwards unrelentingly. And, like water, they flow around me, pass me, even though I try to capture "it" (a futile maneuver), they evade my grasp. And, so, after everything, I am left with nothing.

Nothing but these cloudy images that linger. Remnants of whatever had transpired. Bits and pieces, but never even a semblance of an overarching narrative. Stuck with my... machinations... vapid, arbitrary associations between arbitrary points that would have no qualms with having nothing to do with one another. And, all I can do with these amorphous things I hold onto is to force them into these meaningless combinations of lines and dots.

Why I try to convey these "ideas", I have no idea. Arbitrary fates for arbitrary entities, seems fair to me...

Reckoning

Captain's log, supplemental:

It seems I've sat in this same area for an eternity, albeit discontinuously. The people come and the people go, their faces never staying the same for long. Here, mingling and earnest studying seems to blend seamlessly. All these people, from different walks of life, from different programs of study, they indeed seem a disparate, heterogeneous group of people. But there is one thing that binds them all these different people together, one critical aspect that no one is probably aware of: they are destined to remain strangers, to me at least. They will continue on with their lives without ever knowing me, the snowflake-man.

Curses be to fate! Why do they not shower me with their attentions and their affections? I would so gladly do it for them and yet they seem content to allow me (the snowflake-man) to wither away in obscurity. Oh, the casual cruelty; oh, the humanity.

Surely, they will rue this day. They will, won't they? Their destined omission is surely justification for their eventual torment, right? Yes, and I will be the instrument of their demise. Every last one of them will fall before me. They will look back, at the very end, and wonder, "What did I do to deserve this?", and they will know nothing, because they had shielded their eyes, their minds, for far too long.

Blessed will be the day that justice will be reaped for (and by) the snowflake-man (me).

Excision

By now, the parasites had become legion. He could see them squirming around his chest cavity on the ultrasound and he would swear he felt them too, as if that were possible. Infection had become a common phenomenon since the water supply had become tainted all those years ago. But, people smartened up quickly and infection could easily be avoided if one simply took the time to boil one's water and cook fully one's food.

But he had become sloppy, haphazard in his day-to-day dealings with what he consumed. He found himself retracing his steps and regretting his inattention, his lack of insight previously. But now it was too late, the parasites had seeded themselves into his viscera, with particular liking to his cardiac muscle. Slowly eating away at him.

The only thing the doctors could do now was to excise his unsalvageable tissue and replace his heart with a mechanical prosthesis, a contraption that experienced quite a boom in the past decade.

And now, as he lay there on the operating table, he waited with bated breath. The doctor was clearly in no rush as she nonchalantly joked around with the assistants and nurses. He just lay there, eyeing the surgical chainsaw that the doctor would need to gain proper access into his chest. He wished he could just reach for those serrated blades, push them straight into his own sternum, and tear it open with his own bare hands so that he could rip out his diseased heart, with parasites and regrets in tow, by himself. He wanted to be rid of all those evils he had accumulated over the years. He couldn't wait for the day that he could start anew, with a clean slate, never to make those obvious mistakes ever again.

But, alas, this was all but fancy. The local left his whole body paralyzed and all he could do was lie there ...like the poor sap he was.