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©2003-2007
The days have become so long, and the nights so warm, that I've been able to take my evening walks again. It's a nice alternative to the gym.
Last night, as I walked around our neighborhood and near the local high school, I saw an orange backpack. It was just laying there, on the grass. If it could think, would it feel lonely? Abandoned? If it couldn't, well, I certainly felt lonely and abandoned for it. Actually, I felt bad for the parents who probably worked hard to buy it and provide for their child, only to have him/her leave the backpack there. I mean, you lose a pencil or notebook here and there, but to lose an entire backpack, on the grass and by the road? Whose kid was it? Does s/he miss it? Did s/he do his/her homework? What will happen to the backpack?
When you're a very young child, it's an entirely different story. I remember when my dad and I found a little toy laser gun that made different noises when you pressed the trigger. It must've fallen out of a little kid's stroller or carriage. He must've missed it. I also remember feeling very bad for that child and for the toy that lost its owner. Geez, by now the kid has probably forgotten all about it, but then here's me, years later, still thinking about it.
Or maybe he hasn't forgotten it. I still remember the first balloon that someone ever bought me. My parents never bought me any balloons when we walked by street vendors who sold them, even though I unsuccessfully gave hints by shooting many lingering looks. My cousin finally decided to buy one for me one day. It was big and purple and had the face of an octopus on it. It had little green balloons under it, like a bow-tie. Everything was on a string, which was tied to a little plastic bag with a piece of stone in it so the balloon didn't float away. I took it to our backyard and curiously opened the little plastic bag with the stone in it, wondering why that was there. Next thing I knew, the balloon floated out of my hand, and I was too young to know what the heck I just did. I remember seeing the big purple and green thing flying away into some unknown, never to be seen again. And I've never forgotten it.
I guess I lose things so infrequently that when I do, I don't forget it. It's always been like this. It's the complex set of emotions and memories that are tied to the objects. Sometimes I feel them very acutely.
Maybe I'm just an overly sentimental (mawkish? soppy? maudlin? what's the SAT word I'm looking for?) person when it comes to certain possessions.
That, or I'm always PMSing.
Thoughts from a sleep-deprived (freudian slip: depraved) civil servant:
- It is not anti-immigrant to say that people should not be granted legal status in this country if they use fraud to obtain it.
- 20% of the people should not be doing 80% of the work.
- It is crazy that people think about greener alternatives only when their pocket books are hurting. Already they should be thinking about it, every single day.
- It is ok not to belong and act like everyone else.
- Where are these iPod plug-in things that take place of MP3s/CDs and allow you to learn the language?
- Single-engine planes are not cool.
- Chain mail is stupid. People who send those along to their friends and loved ones are stupid.
- And to end on a more positive note, pomellos are delicious.
- Sleep is good, too.
When I started this blog in 2003 (!), I was just embarking on my graduate degree. Faced with the stress of school, the boredom of something that didn't completely and utterly excite me, and the feeling of loneliness in a strange crowd, I needed a constant outlet. The outlet did not have to talk back. It only had to absorb all that I had to give it - the silliness, the rants, the non-sense, the profound. The soup du jour.
I haven't felt the need to blog in quite a while, due to many reasons. Among other things, writing is a given at my job; sometimes I type up to 6-7 hours a day and the last thing I want to touch when I get home is a keyboard. And then, there was rediscovering that life is indeed wonderful and enjoyable, if you are at the the right place and the right time. Above all, I suppose, is the fact that I am no longer subjected by stress but choose to stress, that for the most part, I'm excited about what I do, and that I no longer feel like I don't belong. It is an inexplicable feeling to be home and to have a great support network. I knew there was a reason that I had to come home so badly, and once I came home, I just could not leave it.
Those are some of the reasons why I don't blog anymore. I think that is a good thing.
Sometimes, though, I do miss it.
I've been living out a hotel for almost the past month now. In the middle-of-nowhere Georgia. There's something constricting yet strangely liberating about it all. No car. Being at the mercy of people who do have cars. A lot of unhealthy food. Bad water. Deep south. Did I mention the middle of nowhere?
But, I love being able to roll out of bed and stroll downstairs for a nice breakfast. Clean sheets and towels on a daily basis. Not having to clean up after myself. There's cable TV. Even free wireless. The best feeling, however, is the freedom from stuff. All of my stuff. The closet overflowing with clothes that have spilled out to the rest of the floor. The boxes full of shoes that I couldn't seem to give up. The piles of purses stacked over one another. The drawers and containers full of makeup, perfume, stationery, jewelry, and an assortment of all other things.
I couldn't part with any of it, yet I'm living a life without most of it. Whew.
And there's the never-ending work that will await me when I head back. The traffic. The routine. The emotional baggage.
So I'm still learning to let go of a lot of things, some of which are intangible. And even though I was forced to let go of some things, I'm ok.
People who travel around the world, they must have an easy time of letting go.
Letting go of sights and sounds.
Letting go of the people they meet.
Letting go of baggage.
Letting go of the creature comforts of home.
Letting go of material possessions.
Letting go of stability.
Letting go of friends.
Letting go of a family, in some cases.
Letting go of attachment.
Attachment is an interesting concept. I recently met a colleague who had just come back from months' worth of traveling. He spoke of Asia, Africa, and living in remote places where one gets down to the nitty gritty of our work. This was after years of working with the distinguished and the prestigious in coveted settings. Obviously intelligent and knowledgeable, but constantly moving, flowing. And he loves it.
Unable to explain it, I felt a sense of attachment. There is a word in Chinese that is simply untranslatable, yuan, which most accurately describes this...personal connection that exists on a much broader level, if that even makes sense. Even barely knowing this person, just knowing that it is all fleeting left me with a feeling of lost.
Some people are not meant to be pinned down.
Others hold on to those who are meant to be fleeting.
Attachment is what it is.
Sometimes it is better to let go.
Some people don't mince words, but I do.
IRL almost everything I say is a result of some level of deliberation and thought.
I blush when people are straightforwardly blunt about certain things. As open-minded as I consider myself to be, I'd like to think most of us self-censor in polite company.
I live for the subtleties of language. I hint. I say things that other people may dismiss as nothing, but if they pay attention, they'd know what I'm trying to get at. Sometimes I hint repeatedly. Unfortunately 98% (99%, according to some) of the population does not pick up such nuances of context and tone, so our messages are lost.
Often I wonder to myself, why do I bother? Why don't I just spit things out as they occur to me, instead of bottling it up all inside, until it explodes with the slightest trigger? Why don't I just beat people over the head with what I think is obvious?
Well, even with something that's blatantly obvious, some people just don't get it. Still, something feels very wrong when we have to point things out to people.
I mean, we shouldn't have to. It's as plain as the nose on your face, right?
This is the fate of introverts, I suppose. We are so introspective that we become experts at reading other people. We struggle between being the diplomat and feeling frustrated that others don't understand us at all. People come and go because even after years of knowing us, they still don't know us.
Such is our lot.
Finally.
Exhale.
You are alive, and relatively healthy.
You don't have to worry about bills to pay, a family to support, or not having a roof over your head.
You are an intelligent person. Even if you feel stupid most of the time, remember people around you, those who have worked with you, and those who have interacted with you think you are smart.
Think of what you do know.
Take a deep breath.
Focus.
Want it.
My iPod has returned from the dead.
This is a "holy crap!!" moment.
So, after I dropped the iPod several days ago, the ominous "sad iPod" icon came on. Apple's site was of no help; it kept telling me to reboot and restore, but my iPod wouldn't respond. It gave this sort of "crying" sound whenever I tried to turn it on. (Hindsight: probably a loose cable trying to connect to the hard drive, now I think about it, not unlike the sound I used to hear with my desktop computer when the temperature got too cold and it refused to boot up because the jack came loose).
Like any other person would do, I googled the net...and found the secret 6th method to fixing a dropped iPod: bang the crap out of it.
Ok, maybe not so much, but seriously? It involved slamming the iPod, charger port down, on a legal pad. Or thick book. Or leather wallet. Whatever one prefers. The advice might have been given out of humor, partially, but soon I found myself reading hundreds of testimonials where more abuse actually knocked the senses back into iPods. Quite contrary to common sense, but clearly it was no joke.
So there I was, banging it on all sides, purposely dropping it, hurling it, slapping it, all to no avail. Maybe my iPod wouldn't succumb to this fix after all.
So then there I was, looking on Amazon and apple.com, seriously contemplating getting a new iPod. A full one, at that, maybe a 30 GB or 80 GB one, as opposed to my measly 4 GB iPod mini (which, BTW, is now a big collector's item because they don't make them anymore, thus making my beautiful apple green one that much more special). 2 minutes away from ordering one, and warming up to the idea of shelling out another $250-300 for a device that holds at least 7500 songs, and maybe a new protector with an arm band worth another $20.
Dammit. Out of frustration, I banged the stupid thing on my wrist.
Suddenly, the Apple icon came on. Strange, no crying... Could it be?!
Yes, it could. Thank you lord! Guess it just needed some spanking, and apparently some masochism on my part. Keep your fingers crossed, though.
I think I killed my iPod.
Down it went on the treadmill, off the treadmill and onto the floor. Wouldn't respond to my touch and wouldn't shut off. This was the first time I used it at the gym in about 2 months, too. Maybe it was meant to be.
For such expensive pieces of equipment, they really should be more resilient.
If you were, wouldn't you?
If you didn't, does that mean you aren't?
Someone came up to me today specifically to ask a question: Whether I was Filipina or Vietnamese.
That specific. It was a first for me for both guesses.
The person was so convinced that I was either, that when I said no, he went on to Thai. No to that, too.
Sometimes I like to play the game. I mean, who doesn't? We're endowed with curiosity. You wonder where someone comes from because of his/her looks, accent, dress, demeanor. As long as people are not asking to discriminate, there's no reason to be offended.
* * *
Yesterday several people asked for my age. People had me pegged at, "You can't be more than 22!" (Which is impossible given the amount of education I've had, unless I was a whiz and zipped through it all. Certainly am not a whiz.) Only when I said no did they reluctantly go up in numbers.
Hey, I'll take that reaction any day - especially the early 20s range. When they get down to the teenage years, like16, it's just a tad ridiculous. You have to wonder if some people are really that bad at telling other people's ages, or if they tried to flatter but went too far.
I don't know why there's this sudden interest in my ethnicity and age, though this is CA, likely the most diverse state on earth. At least people aren't asking me what high school I went to just to gauge my social status, like they love to do down in NOLA. Good lord.
Speaking of which, looking back, it's amazing how I ever managed to survive in and through that place. 9 murders within the first 11 days of the year, and with a rising crime rate. The most positive things the experience gave me, at this point, are points of conversation. Like Katrina, murders, and the damn roaches. Otherwise, you can't pay me enough to live in that city again.
Fun times.
