Windy Day

A cold wind is blowing through NYC today, people are bundled up, and the "get out of my way" NYers are still plowing through the streets. I notice that those seem to be the people that are not really from NY, but feel that overcompensation can rightfully grant them a place in this great city. On days like this, the oppressive winter can lead one to such bouts of depressive thoughts that there can be no release from the prison of one's own thoughts. It's days like this that make me want to be enslaved to another's whims and fancies, to lose control of the spiraling darkness that life tailspins into on random occasions. Luckily, these thoughts seem to best manifest in lonely silence, and on the streets of NY, I was mainly able to avoid such a destructive fate.

Rather, I ate with family and friends, and had conversations of nothingness that gained me a moments peace from my own problems. There's nothing like the miseries of another to brighten up one's own world, and since there are myriad circumstances that overshadow my fanciful problems, I never focus long on that which cannot be controlled. Without a second thought, I plowed through NY with my own style, sidestepping the raging bulls while arriving in a timely manner to all destinations. It was a good day, a lovely, biting, windy day, and I remembered that all can be so dramatic.

The sun seems to be breaking through more now, and it's a sign that health can be such an overriding influence on our emotions. Without much more interesting observation, I look forward to a healthy, happy new year, and hope that all my friends and family will also turn towards their health, fix the nuts and bolts, and enjoy the sunshine that caresses our faces as we emerge from the depths of the subways.

The Brooklyn Birds

Wheeee!!! The pigeons soared parallel with the on-ramp to the Williamsburg bridge, flapping around in circle after monotonous circle, burning what they've ingested to keep themselves light enough for flight. Actually, that's my interpretation of what's happening, but maybe it's got a kernel of truth in there, no?

I mused at the disappearance of Little Italy under the weight of waves of continuous Chinese immigration, the days of Italian regulation of the Chinaman are a distant memory that are recounted by my relatives. We walked into a packed Big Wong's, tables bustling with foreigners of all sorts, a sight that I don't find much in this haunt of old Chinatown blood. The dirty streets of the original NY Chinatown may be dingy and downtrodden to the casual glance, but there are stories brewing in the filth and dank sewers, stories and tales that are guarded closely. We're seated next to a group of 6 foreigners, who proceed to put on a comedy for us.

Wife: Do NOT order anything strange... You know I don't eat seafood... (Stares at our plates)
Husband: Yeah, yeah, I know... (Struggles with a corkscrew and their bottle of Merlot) Umph... (Pulls at the cork)
Uncle: 呢個人唔識用嘎...
Me：係囉...
Uncle: Would you like some help with that?
Husband: Yeah, sure, thanks!
(Uncle unscrews the portable corkscrew a little, positions the groove, and pulls out the corkscrew with ease.)
Uncle: Here you go. :-)
Husband: Thank you! Do you guys want some?
Uncle, Me： No thank you. (We dip our 油炸鬼 into the 粥 and eat our 油菜同埋叉燒.)
Husband: (Orders with the waitress) We'll take some wonton soups, and what is this thing? (Points at 蝦米炸腸)
Waitress: It's umm...It's like what they have. (Points at our plate of 蝦米炸腸)
Husband: Hmm...
Wife: Honey, I TOLD you, nothing too strange, just get us some soup...

I don't understand venturing into restaurants with different types of cuisine and then not wanting something not too strange. Why didn't you just go to Johnny Rockets then? Anyhow, at least they ordered the dish in the end, and unlike the other table next to us, they didn't order Kung Pao Chicken in the Cantonese barbecue restaurant. I had a quiet a few quiet glances and laughs with my uncle about the strangeness of these foreigners. Foreigners into this piece of land that is America, foreigners to a different neck of the woods.

Comic relief was abundant today with the whirling pigeons and gastronomically challenged foreigners. Afterwards, I headed to the pool hall where I was again much too early. I sat, ordered the drinks for everyone that would be showing up, and swigged away at my Corona as I relaxed to some 張愛玲.

問世間...

窗外的黑暗世界沉沉的睡着去了。燈光充滿整間房，書本曡曡重重歪排在書桌上。溫暖的寢室裏，只有我與我之間的對談，我與我之間的電腦對看。飛奔找尋情分時，忽略了我自己和他自己的空間嗎？還是過敏于簡單的忙碌人生呢？當然，這問題無答案，亦無爲有答案。到一個人想到這麽複雜的時候，已是時候往後退一步的時間了。各讓一步海闊天空。透一口涼氣，身體微覺舒鬆。

世間上，有多少問題可問呢？有多少問題值得問呢？這個問題，不屬於其中之一。

何物也？如癡如夢。
何時也？有天一朝。
奈何也？無法可擋。
既已道其名，彼亦煙消否？
若非其名，魂未全散否?
如是，
不道不談，不思不慮。
若實我思，寧永不提也。

身周的物事排列正常。電腦發出嗚嗚微聲。發洩一下，未免不健康。所積累的思考，名之以廢之，則安睡一晚。

Snowy New York

The sky turns dark prematurely, but I think it has finally ceased to do so as of today. The solstice is over, so now that winter has arrived, it can only begin to slowly step away once again. It ran into town this year in a huff and a puff, blowing mounds of snow all across the city. I walked through that first snowy night, biting winds tearing through the layers upon layers I put on.

Late at night/early in the morning, I walked through a quiet Queens street watching the build up continue. As the wind kept blowing, I slanted ahead on the streets, looking now and then at the foot deep footprints on what were sidewalks in the morning. There's an awesome still in the snowstorm during the early morning, when all seems clear for the walk home. The air so chilling that your brain cannot be but functioning at full capacity to guide your way home.

I jumped the four steps down to the front door and fell on my knee, the snow drift that accumulated cradling and coddling my fall. I waved my magic wand and the door unlocked for me, freeing me from the open winter snowstorm.

The first snow of the season, and I was lucky enough to take it all in. Like all things, I'm glad to have had the experience and try to not think too much about what it means.

Rainy Day in Queens

The day started off dark and rainy. The sun didn't shine through the slits of the blinds this morning, showing up as more of a murky, dull, yellow glow. It's the kind of weather where you know that reflection and thoughts would most likely torment your mind. As to whether or not it would be productive pain is another question entirely. I like to save that analysis for the sunny day that follows.

The day was also different in that hunger was late in coming, so I knew that something in the health department was working against me. And while I take steps to keep that from happening, sometimes it just doesn't work out in the end. While the germs were having their festivities in my nasal cavity, I read, watched pointless television, and plotted. I'm still not sure what my plotting was directed at, but I'm pretty sure that it'll come to me soon. One of those thoughts that we wait patiently for, the one that'll bring forth the thunder and lightning to announce the breaking of sunshine through a completely clouded sky. I'm still waiting for that moment, so I hope you're not holding your breath.

While the sunshine hasn't yet broken through, communication did start. I directed my thoughts at a couple of people and got immediate responses. It was a good sign that the nuts and bolts haven't entirely rusted beyond repair. It was the single ray that shot out yellow to unmuddy the gray of this morning, and thankfully, cycles mean that eventually something else will come along.

When my Kali rage has finished, I hope my friend's comparison was not totally false, and that something good does come of it. Thanks, C.

Suburban NJ

I wandered the streets for a brief half hour the other day. It was a cloudy Friday afternoon, everyone was most likely sitting at home in a turkey induced coma with a dose of pie sugar shock. The wind was blowing hard, and I could count the number of people out and about with my two hands. The clouds rolled lazily by, and cars swooshed by every now and then, sparse enough that a quick stride got me across the street safely.

To one side of the street, though the road would lead to the glamor of NYC, the stretch that I walked down was barren. A suburban wasteland of quiet and the absence of human existence apart from the random houses with abandoned porches and weed-overgrown lawns. A little further down, one side of the street was paved with green tennis ball sized fruits of some sort, with wrinkly appearances. The insides looked kind of like many pine cone seeds smooshed together to form the globes that littered the streets. They just as dry as pine cones. The side that I walked down had acorns scattered around the sidewalk and grass, but I didn't catch any squirrels hunting for their storage goods. Maybe the onset of winter has beckoned them to their cozy shacks in the hollows of the shivering trees.

After a good ten minutes, I about-faced to catch the other side of this road, the side that did not lead to the city, but to the glitz of suburban life, strip malls paved throughout the country roads, where parking was in surplus. Down that side, cars were more abundant, and the stores were a mite more intriguing than the empty warehouses and sad houses that I had already passed. I stopped in at a minimart to take a look for my toothpaste, but didn't find it. The people glanced quickly and went back to their business. They could sense my hesitation before I even stepped inside. The way back was much quicker, because familiarity hastens all processes. I walked at a slower pace to cool down.

Down the street of townhouses, the wind intensified four fold, and leaning into it, I could almost stand at a 45 degree angle without worrying about scratching up my face. I looked around briefly at the greyness and dull landscape. Here, I didn't have to worry about the world collapsing around me. Here, I didn't have to worry about life passing me by. Here, everything stopped momentarily for me to catch my breath. Unfortunately, time stops for no one in the end, so it's about time to get back into the city.

A Cold Wind Blows...

It's been a while coming, but the final moments are always the most memorable. Maybe it's because we inherently remember the beginnings and the ends most clearly, but also perhaps these are the REM moments when the experiences are boiled down to the essence of our stock, when the liquid is chock full of flavor and color, and when everything finally comes together. For whatever reason, these final days in Seattle are settling in deeply and every moment seems to come at a clarity beyond any of the other days in which I stayed here.

The winds have turned cold, the skies are mostly cloudy, and the rains are a short ways off. Everyone has been awaiting this change, and some look forward to it while others dread it's arrival. Then you have those in the middle that lean one way or the other, and the others that just don't know which way leans heavier on their opinion. You see people walking in and out of the cafe, riding their bikes, talking to their bfs/gfs, holding hands or patting each others' backs, it's bittersweet for the uninvolved observer, wondering about the exact relationships and causes that lie beneath the facade of concrete actions.

Unexpectedly, the sky opens up and Seattle has sported another sunny day, allowing everyone a final moment of sunkissed warmth. Everyeon is stooped over a computer or book here, studying hard, looking hard, doing everything hard to get to that point they've been working for all their lives. If every single one of our actions were understood like this, it'd be quite intense. And yet, that really seems to be the major reason beyond our actions, to move forward, to push up and above, to go beyond our present state.

But what is this idea of progression? What if I want to step back and redo something? Surely that is not allowed in this day and age, that would be very passe, would it not? When did our intense feelings about tense develop? This obsession with one particular of language that is not universal at all, and yet it consumes our thoughts and actions. Tense. Maybe it's time to take a step back and look at whether an action has been completed or not, but not at whether it is a finished and completed action that is duly placed in the past, rather at it's mere completion. Maybe this would help us re-evaluate our relation to time in a more positive and fruitful light...

Seattle Cafe

It's the post-drunken-Friday Saturday coffee stop after errands have been run, food has been eaten, and sleep has been deprived to make me drowsy enough to be light-headed, but not enough to continue my sleep. I chose Stumptown today to keep on checking out what may become a good cup of coffee and on a friend's recommendation, but the french-press coffee is a bit grassy, like it's still a raw bean. I guess it's kind of refreshing tasting, but it lacks the deep aroma of Vita or Vivace. The layout is two benches with cushions, my little part on a slight incline for whatever reason, adding to my daydream prone delirium.

I take a look outside at the club that I've frequented quite a few times during my stay in Seattle as it is one of the few places where you can be a person of color and not feel surrounded by a sea of whiteness. Of late I've had a deep anger towards that sea of whiteness, and for good reason of course. My Portland visit last weekend revealed beautiful coastlines, to which my friend noted that it must have been even nicer before people showed up there. To which I corrected them, noting that people were here before the current populations. Another instance of the disappearance of the native americans become reality.

I sometimes wonder if it's possible to not think so much about these issues, about society, about the ills that pollute our minds, clutter our thinking, and misguidedly lead us to a wakeful nightmare that we frolic in. I want to stop being so self-righteous, trying to convince people that they are messed up in their thinking, that asians hating darker skin is an attack on ourselves, and that the moment of good feeling we delight in will haunt us for our whole lives.

I stepped into the Portland restaurant late last weekend, waiting to have my name put down, when my white friend sauntered up next to me, and the dumbass white waiter/host asked my friend for her name after scanning both of our faces. To the west coast liberal that finds the west coast enlightened and easy going, I say up yours for living your delusional "liberal" dreams.

The anger almost explodes inside your stomach, eating at your organs like so many worms, feeding on themselves once your body is left no more. Thank goodness for bell hooks' outspoken hatred become maniacal murder in the face of racist occurrences. The light shines through the leaves outside, a cool wind blows down Pine, and the busses and people move about. Two months ago a white boy in the elevator greeted me with "Hi there, Asian dude." And he rubbed it in with another "Goodbye, Asian dude," as I left the elevator where he and three other friends now occupied. Two phrases that he will forget the next instant will haunt me til my dying day. The fury in me wants to lash out, strangle him, beat him, assault him, for the pain that is now forever impressed in my soul, in the darkest corners where your hatred seeps and festers. My assault would become a crime, an act against law, an act against proper procedure. But the cancerous pains that puncture my stomach every day have no law to uphold their wronged tissue. The law will keep him safe from my fist that itches to puncture his stomach, grab out his beating heart, and ingest it with such mad and furious laughter that would make you tremble in fear. I move past the pain and anger, but it is impossible. I try to think happy thoughts and believe in the goodness of man, but it is difficult. Life is not easy, and never have I thought that it might be, but the injustice of it all is heavy.

Thank you to all of you that can share this burden with me as we try to find ways to cure this disease.

Bright Nights

As the clock strikes 8:30 pm on a windy night in San Fran, people, strangers, enter and exit the hotel lobby. Accents from near and far mingle every now and then as whispers tickle your ears. It's an empty Victorian style lounge, the type that you know you don't belong in, and that you were never meant to feel natural in. I type in those last emails for my day of work, which has yet to end at this time, knowing that the next day will begin bright and early, beginning just as the skyline melts into the dark night.

An elephant trumpets quietly in its corner at entering guests, its frame forever frozen in a ferocious affront to passersby. Its kind of like how the screams in your head never quiet, never stop yelling at all those incidences taking place left and right, silenced by an unconscious knowledge that it may be useless. The glimmer of hope that tells me that this is not so cannot stop your repeated entreaties to just let it out.

You'll be punished, I say, unfairly, unjustly, uncommonly angrily by the masses that don't consent to your ways. Ways that are violent in the most fundamental way, battling against your soundless war against not only eternal souls, but the essence of the properties that enable us to functionas private independent beings, not so liberated in the end.

And so I sit back and watch the reflection of the wind blowing the leaves, swaying frigidly in the Western winds. And sit back to enjoy a little reading that will allow the screaming to momentarily howl through the words that I absorb. To release the seething anger that I know cannot be unleashed in full force. And my throat burns with a sudden thirst that cannot be quenched by water...

Arrival in Seattle

I arrived in Seattle in the middle of one of the worst snow storms of Seattle. Apart from being blown off course with rides and walks, appointments and schedules, I've also found myself blown off course from what I was planning about 2 years ago. It's all about change within the familiar landscape that we impose ourselves upon.

Trudging through the icy sidewalks on that dark wintry night, I dragged my heavy luggage through the all too familiar cross-stitched map of the University District. The roads didn't change, the light patterns remained the same, and Jack-in-the-Box's sign still sat upright on the corner of 50th and the Ave. The only noticeable change was the absence of all life in the quest to stay warm in a town unknown for snowstorms of this magnitude.

The days passed slowly yet happily, I felt that a goal had neared accomplishment, that I'd finally reached where I was headed for 5 years ago. That doesn't say much since it has been pretty much a full circle from where I began 5 years ago on the steps of my shared apartment 8 blocks from where I now reside, but sometimes we just operate in circles, spinning back to where we began.

Apart from a few construction zones that weren't present over a year ago, it's eerily so familiar. I've come back to friends that had long changed beyond notice, yet their appearance was not so different from before. What is the value in their change? How do I measure our accomplishments and failures? How are our lives weighted on the scales?

I wondered that very hard for the few blocks it took to get from Hotel Deca up to near Cowen. And that's about it, I wondered, and it remained unanswered.

All the options, all the possibilities that seem endless at every corner in life now seem to multiply in front of me. Every time I hear another doubt or insecurity, another fifty options lines up. You might be wondering what kind of opportunities I could possibly be exploring, after all, aren't I still searching like my new clique of floaters? It's the opportunity to get by every doubt that has been expressed, because an obstacle is there because it can be overcome. Obstacles impede, they don't produce dead ends.

I write this at a moment of hope and possibility. Perhaps after a couple of months of reflection I'll come to more pessimistic and down-trodden viewpoint of the misery of unemployment in a time of downturn. But why foresee misery when it's always just around the corner? I'm enjoying my new savor the moment kick, and hopefully I can persuade more people to take appreciation of the simple pleasures of life. We'll see if the simple things in life are really the most important...