My Cinematic Adventure

I am Jack's clean slate.

Early film theorists aimed to define cinema as a medium. They asked themselves, "what sets film apart from other forms of art?" Rejecting schools of thought that saw film as an extension of literature, theatre, or music, many experimented to explore the boundaries of film. This birthed an abundance of  movements currently studied by academics across the world. There's so much to say about the Germans and their mise-en-scene-- everything in front of the camera. The carnival that Dr. Caligari walked through are recorded by ultra-flammable celluloid strips and fallible human memory, yet it remains untouched in film history. The Left Bank filmmakers painted 1960's Paris so vividly with such stylistic camera work that you can still feel the condescending glare of its inhabitants. Their bitter commentary still sharply pierce through your fragile sense of individuality as you wander through the city that is no longer not quite the same as it appears on screen. The Russians weren't so fortunate. Low production costs meant that they had to deal with what they had. So they were able to pioneer the art of montage for the sake of bringing film to the common man. At its core, film is the child of sound and image bound together by time. Everything that else just comes with the territory. (I am aware that you can pull this information from an introductory film studies course. This information is not impressive. Fuck off)

Me? I'm still a slave to David Bordwell and his theory on narration. To me, stories have always been a manipulation of feelings and emotions. I know this because it's never the plot that quite sticks with me. It's the sentiments evoked, the feelings that are kept safe within the confines of my brain, withstanding the sensory overload of everyday life. I find myself still remembering the most mundane (read: useless) details of my childhood. I didn't know it at the time (who did?) but events such as my being bit by the German Sherpard twice my size when I was six or the time when I missed the tree trunk sledding down a steep hill may have been the greatest adventures of my life. There are some things in life that you just don't forget.

Before I continue to type away at my keyboard, I want to make it known that it's not bad at all to be Alan Lin at this moment in time. There is simply so much to be thankful for. At this moment, I wake up exhausted but carry on with so much to look forward to. Even if it's just to experience the marking of a new year, something not so distant in the future.

With that said, I live a cinematic life without being born into one. I stare off into space and breathe in deeply. There is a full orchestra every time I head into bed. Each dark corner I round, there's another never-ending hallway waiting. I pick my own soundtrack for rainy nights. By now you should know: I am a hopeless dramatic.

As the bitterness of each sip of alcohol reaches my lips, it washes away each smartass, inappropriate remark that I could have but didn't make at work. The vodka and carbonation in the diet tonic water sets production for the opening scene for Touch of Evil-- a lengthy escape destined to end up in flames. The first drag of the well-deserved cigarette: I am Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. As the nicotine from my second puff enters my bloodstream, I am Vincent Vega. By the time the chemicals in my body take over, I am a prop with legs ready to be put on strings. I am Min Sik Choi. I am Sessue Hayakawa. I am DeNiro, Untouchable. I am Boris. I am invincible.

Then I blink and I realize that I'm out of frame-- a little lost, holding onto whatever I have with my dear life... barely a production assistant. But I guess it's okay. I know what I felt and what I didn't get to feel yet. There's always a sequel, and I'm planning to make this a franchise.

My Foot over Another

Distance.

As with every other concept of measurement, it's less concrete than I am comfortable with. Are our leaps and bounds measured by inches or are they judged by things that we've left behind? Or maybe it's by the amount of time that has passed. I guess it depends: am I trying to see whether I can finally chalk up the old wall in my garage adding an inch to my height (being 5'11" is a burden to the obsessive compulsive soul) or is this another assessment of self-development or rather the lack thereof. Is there really a unit that measures progress if not regression, a way to calculate change using a standard equation: After minus Before over Before (By the way, I had to Google that as I have in the past ten years of my life. How's that for a college degree?)

I guess we live in an age where money can buy anything, even to close voids of any kind. And I guess it's too bad that it's not something that I have a ton of. It's cold where I want to go. There's so much character I don't have enough to offer just yet. I know I don't belong because I have to find my own way there first.

There are so many similarities between who I am now and who I was two, three, five years ago.  My writing provides irrefutable evidence. The frightening thing is that all the emotions are the same. The night sweats never left. Here lies the same sadness with just a little splash of incoherence masked by achievements. I may know a few words with more letters included in their spelling, but I haven't learned the definitions yet. Have you ever heard a word and it just took your breath away? I mean literally feel the knuckles of its syllables jut against your stomach so hard that you have to regain your footing. Because you know: you just felt perfection. You also know that the feeling of perfection doesn't come around easy and can't be savoured-- no matter how hard you try.

When you feel anything right at all that, you don't want to let it go. I guess you shouldn't let it go. Regardless of the tangible distance, there are some things that can't be measured.

My Avant Garde Movie Script

You can't count on me to write even when there is something on my mind anymore.

How do I begin to put words together when I don't even have a steady stream of conscious thought. It's like I've been writing a script with no unifying notion or theme to tie any of it together. I feel like the synapses in my brain are firing off with complete disregard. Drifting off, I'm in so many places yet none at the same time. So all I can do at this point is to beg for any sort of competency to articulate, to communicate my state of disbelief and loss. Evidently a couple of sentences in, I'm not answering my own prayers.

The past couple of months have been a little strange. At this time, I'm forced to reflect and I can't quite wrap my head around it-- unable to distinguish the good and the bad. It's been a little bit of a blur, really. I'd describe it to be like a roller coaster, but not in an "up and down" kind of way how people would usually imagine, but rather one of those fucked up sections of the ride where the designers put a couple of corkscrews in there just to fuck with your sense of orientation. You can't quite see where you're going, but you just know that you're moving forward. Eventually it's all going to come full circle as the brakes engage-- I'm just hoping that I'm not on a ride designed in Roller Coaster Tycoon. I was always the kid who made unrealistic coasters that would send riders to their demise. ("[Roller Coaster Name] was too intense..." Pussies...)

I can't help but think I've been a little reckless. A little too young. Yet at the same time, I'm only getting older. How do I live without consequences kicking me straight in the balls? I feel thankful yet so unfulfilled with a definite sense of self-entitlement.

I'm still not all here and there is a something constantly wearing away at the empty space. The walls continue to erode and little chunks of myself are being washed away day by day. That's the problem with filling a void with anything other than yourself.

My July

Everyone needs something or someone to hold onto.

Just to keep him or her afloat. It doesn't even have to be tangible. It can be a conviction, an ambition, or a daydream. Something to keep him or her going-- fuel. Because as much as we'd like to be self-reliant, we can't just live for ourselves for some sick reason. Like the buddy cop who dives in front of his partner, in slow motion and all. Some people do it for a greater plan, a larger power.

Maybe in the end, it is actually for ourselves.

So why not skip it and just be better for yourself? It just might be the solution for me. Sure, it may sound selfish. But so is using other people just for a sense of purpose. People get hurt, and the worst of it is that you're responsible for their suffering. To me, there's nothing worse than causing someone's emotional distress, and I've played the part on both ends of the bargain. I forget that there are 4.6 billion self-aware,  living people who feel just as I do. They breathe, hearts beating, looking up at the skies wishing that others are looking at the same exact picture as I am. The best thing I can do is to take comfort in the fact that they exist-- perhaps not thinking the same thoughts but breathing the same air.

I sit on my balcony that I knew would be a place of solace, Adele playing in the background, scotch in one hand (switched over to wine for the night already) and cigarette in the other. I look at the Palm trees in sight. The birds just made a noise and I'm trying to hope for humanity's sake that they're not bats... why would they be? The night air is cold and I can barely feel my toes, but it's strangely sobering. The bass is bothering my neighbor enough for him to knock on my door ("I am not trying to be that guy... I'm not a dick...really... but these walls are so thin") so I'm forced to castrate my music. This is what my night is shaping up to be like... how it's been the past month. It's not so bad, but the problem that I have is with the mentality that I've been going about it... wishing for something to save me.

I need to heed that nothing can save me from myself. A breakfast omelet will not be made without my making it. My problems will not be solved by anyone else. No one can take these deep breaths for me. So I suppose this is yet another entry about manning, growing up. That's all I can write about these days, I guess. I wake up tired and come home exhausted, but it's all a luxurious suffering. It's all the beautiful struggle of a spoiled kid.

It's still all beautiful.

My Pen with Dried Ink

I can't write.

It's not your typical writer's block. In fact, words are flowing if not pouring out, matching my steady stream of thoughts normally fragmented. Instead, my tongue is tied because I can't bring myself to materialize these thoughts in fear. I'm afraid of the consequences. I am scared of feeling too vulnerable and exposed because they are private. I don't want anyone feeling singled out as I document their presence or absence. I am terrified of writing because it means that everything becomes tangible and real.

You may think that all of these things can be avoided if I kept a private journal or somehow made these entries unavailable. The truth is that this would be unsatisfactory. Call me an exhibitionist if you must, but I believe that making these things public is a integral piece of expression. The writer scribbles his words not for the sole reason of showing others, but he prepares for the possibility of their being read. Even with a limited, or even imaginary audience, these entries are as intimate as locked eyes or a close embrace. Because the truth is that all I want is to feel that I am not alone-- that I'm not this oddity, a walking abomination, a fucking train wreck.

But I am alone. I haven't decided whether that's a good or a bad thing. It may be both or neither.

So I'm stuck here.
Writing about how I am unable write.

My State of Sadness

It was brought to my attention tonight that when I talk about sadness, I tend to be vague. This took me a little by surprise because it wasn't always this way. After thinking about it however, I realized that it's true. More importantly, it dawned to me that it sort of makes sense.

Yes, I've got sadness running through me.

For no particular reasons that I can think of other than hormonal imbalances, I've got lots of it. It's a fundamental part of my being. It is responsible for my heightened ability to empathize. It's my creative driving force, materialized by each and every step that I take and every sentence that I struggle to construct. I embrace it and sometimes thrive on it. Absolutely and unnecessarily painful, I live my mundane life as if it were the cinematic sequence where a supporting character walks away cradling his unrequited love. But this makes me better because I continue to live in a constant state of dissatisfaction that leaves me hungry. Hungry not like the obese woman in a stroller going back to the buffet for her fifth plate (sometimes that too) but hungry with and for a hope that there's always room for improvement.

Yet I choose to keep the sources of my welcomed illness to myself. Or better yet, I am perfectly able to articulate them and the consequences that they have on me with eery emotional detachment as if I were narrating in a third person. The truth is: people leave. And I leave. So you tell me what the fuck the point is. They're much more prized and in-tact locked inside my head. Maybe I'm afraid that the sadness could be cured. In fact, I know that it can disappear-- it has before.

I'm not ashamed of the multiple sides of me that make up my being. If I were, I would not proudly exhibit it through my writing. Although these entries are not written for validation, I am well aware of eyes that skim through them (yes, yours.) I encourage, if not crave for people to understand how I think. It's rewarding when someone makes an accurate remark about me that I've never thought about before.

But know that these thoughts are mine, and mine only.
And so is my sadness, regardless of the things and people who have caused them.

My Mortality

You know how when you sleep on your side sometimes and your ear rests right up against the pillow, you're able to hear your own heartbeat? I fucking hate it.

It's a steady beat that speeds up slightly when you inhale and slows down gradually as you breathe out. There's a consistency that you take for granted. But do you realize that while it continues to pump oxygen one second, it can easily stop the next? The sound of my heart beating is a constant reminder that I am mortal. I've always said that the only thing that I can't get more of is time, and there are so many things that I want to do. Chances are, I don't even know all of the things that I want to do yet. In other words, at some moment in time before some truth is revealed to me, I'm going to drop dead.

And yet, I abuse my body constantly. I drink and smoke too much. I'm awake at ungodly hours thinking the most mundane thoughts and writing the most cliche words. I'm not helping my race against time. But God damn it, it's during these times that I feel the most alive. It's as if we are cursed to think in dichotomies-- if it's not this, then it's that. If I'm killing myself slowly but I'm not dead yet... I must be alive. So nobody can kill me other than myself. For that, this life is sublime.

My Sleepless Nights

I sit here exhausted but awake, barely able to assemble a complete sentence. It's laughable for me to even attempt to construct a coherent train of thought. I really wish that I could take these fragmented flashes and build something useful. But thoughts fly by, slipping between my fingers everytime I try to connect the dots. As scattered as 80's movie montages may be, the champion always come out trained and ready, the house is cleaner than ever, and the ugly duckling transforms into the girl that every jock desires. (That last one usually only involves in the taking off her glasses, by the way... Don't be fooled by Hollywood movie magic, fellas!) For me, I'm only rewarded with mental rug burn.

I've had trouble falling asleep for a long time now. These nights come in waves. Like a school of piranhas, once they arrive, I fall prey to their sharp teeth sunk deeply into my skin. My body becomes a punching bag-- taking vicious blows from my own drawn premises, countless "what-ifs" and an endless pursuit of the truth. My heart beats in rhythms measured by a couple of "I'm sorrys," a few more "fuck yous," too many "goodbyes" and not a single "I won't ever leave you." Eyes wide open, I lay hoping for a moment of tranquility. And sometimes for a second, I get it.

But sometimes a thought can take your breath away.

I wouldn't say I tend to overanalyze. I am a firm believer in looking past the bigger picture. Because really, it's easy to see what is shown to everyone. But it's behind the covers-- the fine print-- that lays the reward. The problem is that as I lay in bed, I'm trying to decipher a different language. So far, my translation is, "I'm scared, I really want you to understand. I haven't been giving you my all and I think you know. I'm not sure if I ever can."

Why do I have to be so comfortable?

Thoughts are not defined by time. Like a film, you can replay them over and over again-- celluloid strips may wear with time but chances are they'll last longer than you will. So we dream. We wish that our version, complete with alternate endings, subtitles, and do-overs can be released as the Director's Cut. But the truth is that while feelings and mental images are not confined by the clock, events are. Our every action, consequential, are in ink. So we settle.

And by this time, I've become too warm underneath the covers and every slight physical irritation becomes a grand obstacle for me to fall asleep.

The sun rises. The tear ducts around my eyes involuntarily water as I yawn. Two particular thoughts come into mind. "Well, here comes a new day" and "Fuck, I never closed my eyes."

Rinse. Repeat.

My Big House Party

I'm sure you've noticed-- college house parties are not quite how they make them out to be in movies. The host is not getting duct taped to the tree in the back of their massive house for the most part, people are not getting peed on (by John Cho, for that matter), and cops are generally going to show up with a yellow piece of paper to shut the party down sometime before the clock strikes 2AM. Either way, it all ends up being routine. Even with small variations (i.e. topless Oompa Loompas running around, numerous selections of sweets being licked off females by the gay fellas, Elmo on coke passed out in the backyard, gargoyle on the keg) they all somehow follow a schedule. If I'm being efficient enough, I can usually parallel the amount of alcohol that I force into my bloodstream with the party's different stages in progression.

When I'm not too busy poisoning and mummifying myself, I take the time to sit back and observe this (sometimes) controlled madness. The truth is that the social interactions that make up the basic foundation of these parties not only bore me-- they exhaust me. Not in a physical way obviously considering I've been working out a little bit (The ten push-ups every other Sunday have gotten the ladies to take notice!) For me, mental autopilot drains more fuel. Talking about subjects that I take interest in with people I care about takes far less energy than my attempt to engage in a conversation regarding how that last shot tasted. I'll try my best to make a witty, inappropriate remark... but it's really out of courtesy. Plus I'm pretty sure, or at least I hope that it didn't in anyway resemble King Kong's asshole on a hot, humid day.

The perks of being a wallflower are that you get to see what is really going on. I've always been a fairly observant person. People-watching and eavesdropping are my hobbies. Even during nights when I'm feeling strangely social, I'm still persistently taking in my surroundings. So within the first few minutes, you can tell the identities of each participant like a game of "Guess Who" made too simple.  The overcompensating guys who are going to start shit and ruin the vibe. They're the ones who come into the party with a full car, didn't bring anything, and is hogging the handle of Captain Morgan for the night-- one guy carries the bottle underneath his sweaty armpits, another the 2-liter of coke, and two more to follow them around with a douchey smirk that makes you want to punch them in the fucking face. The whoo-girls are in another corner. They're the ones who are telling every person they find remotely attractive to take a shot with them in desperate attempt to strike up a conversation. They dance away at "their jam" on the kitchen counter, drinking not really alcohol, but their insecurities. The people who just ripped a few bong hits are sitting on the couch. A little bit too stoned to function, the world is passing them by at lightning speeds. Words slurring (but who's arnt?) and eyelids heavy, their mouths move but the sentences arn't quite constructed correctly in accordance with grammatical rules. Then there are the people who stand near the wall with a look that screams pompousness as if they are better than you.

Oh. I guess I can fit into that last category-- but I don't think I'm better than you. Not by a long shot.

So this begs the question, "Am I going to miss this after I leave... after it leaves me?"
But I guess you can miss anything.
And I think you should be allowed to miss anyone.

My Direction

Conversation these days can be narrowed down to the following categories: relationships, unfinished to-dos, and the future. The last one on that short list seems to dominate. In fact, I'm a member of the guilty party who uses this topic as my go-to. You know... the one that you always have in your back pocket whenever a conversation runs dry. I guess it's normal considering the place in time. But I think it's really that there are so many ways you can spin it. The feelings towards it-- the general uneasiness with a new beginning or excitement of change. The logistics and plans whether short or long term. The future... it's all we can change and only thing we can look forward to.

I guess there's some merit when people say that I'm lucky because I have an idea of what I want to do. But realistically, I don't think luck had much to do with it. I knew my strengths and weaknesses. Although this never did give me an edge over other candidates per say, at least this hyper self-awareness that keeps me up at night created a sense of direction. I've always known that I want to work with people in a creative environment. I'm not particularly artistic, but I get along with those types of people and have a strong ability to empathize. The path in marketing and advertising path then showed itself. And through some poking around (ex. apparel and entertainment industries taught me some great lessons) I realized that an advertising agency may a good fit-- and I went for it. Is it the ideal job? I don't know. But at least I know I wouldn't suck at it and along the same lines, I won't hate my life.

I will be working in Los Angeles next year.

It's a bittersweet next step, but at the end the logical one.

I'm not much of a wanderer. If anything, wandering without, sometimes even with direction causes me great anxiety. I'd call rather myself a nomad-- a person who can't stay at one place for an extended period of time, but decisively travels from one home to another. As I mention all the time (honestly, I'm such a repetitive prick it's not even funny. I'm the most unoriginal person I know) this has left me with a very disillusioned idea of home because really, it's anywhere... but nowhere at the same time. If I don't have plans, at least I know where I might want to go. This is so very exhausting and I can barely keep up with my own footsteps, but the clock only ticks one direction.

I've decided the next part of my adventure. You might not know where you're going or where you want to be quite yet. But who knows-- maybe you're heading the same direction.

...So won't you come with for the time being?

My City of Sin

Last weekend, I went on (yet another) Vegas trip. If you know me, it's an understatement to say that I frequent the city. There's something about the place that draws me to it. Free from inhibitions, everything goes. But even though you go there to escape, it always turns out to be one oversized UC party anyway.

I just felt like writing my feelings and perspective regarding this city of sin. It's not all fun and games-- in fact near the end of each night, you can probably find me with my head down in a state of contemplation. It's like a comedown when all the thoughts that I ran away from, drowned in alcohol, begin to surface and start to overwhelm. My breathing starts getting deeper and more rapid and my teeth grind together like the rusty parts of a machine running too many years past its prime.

 

How I see Vegas is like a familiar scene from a film. The protagonist, fighting his demons, seeks escape by overindulgence-- whether it's alcohol, sex, or just some sort of obsession. As a spectator, you see that there is no healing in the process, but it's how he gets by. I keep going back because that's how it works. Like a band-aid, it temporarily makes the issues that you'd rather not deal with disappear. They come back-- they always do. But for that moment, you can catch a breath and not think of the toxic fumes in the air.

It's funny, before my first time there, the ex-girlfriend (by the way, my new hair wax kind of smells like her-- it fucks with my head so much) told me that I'd love the city and at the same time there's always going to be something about it that bothers me. She never specified what, and could just be pulling something out of her ass, but is absolutely correct.

If nothing good happens after 2AM and nothing starts in Vegas until 2AM...

So, when are we going back?

My Manhattan State of Mind

It's strange. Seems like every populated urban center of some kind is referred to as "the city of lights" and somehow none of them ever sleep.

This past weekend I took a trip out to New York City for the first time in my life. I suppose a reason should be given for the decision to travel 2443.79 miles (I googled it-- don't be so easily impressed.) The past few weeks I've felt trapped. Not by unwanted obligations but by complacency and uncertainty. This feeling was amplified by abandonment and self-deprivation. Restless, I would have trouble breathing. Nicotine and tar were partners and excelled in performing CPR. The truth is that I just had to get out of here. I wasn't sure exactly where, but somewhere other than here. Anywhere other than here. I felt like a Holden Caulfield with less balls and sin prostitute... and I was the phony.

I wanted to go to a place to fall in love with it. Normally I would be against with such a grand premise, but one can dream.

Did I fall in love with the city?
...Sure



Realistically, I do think that it's partly because I was raised a nomad. With a disillusioned idea of home, I'm like a weed who thrives anywhere-- but only for a short time. I find a new environment exciting and I smile like a little boy rewarded with a new toy at its novelty.

But there's something about New York City...

The desire to succeed is in the air. Its inhabitants, although partly self-absorbed and highly citycentric, are motivated to make better of themselves. There's so much assertion of control in their own paths that it's almost (even to a weekender) overwhelming. There is character that runs through its streets. Flawed and incomplete, but undeniably present.

A line from "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)" popped up in my head.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

I've been made soft (erection jokes are welcomed, if not encouraged here.) Constantly I preach self growth and betterment, but at the end I've been overtaken by emotional imbalance and dependency. At this stage in my life, my own instability needs to take the back seat. I wish to work toward something that I can be proud of, something I can show for. I've always described myself as an idealist trapped in very real confines. It's time to navigate around these walls so I can breathe regardless of my identity. If not now, when?

My writing is a representation of myself at a point in time. I'm frantically typing away because I want to put this perspective in ink. More broadly: for the few moments that I take it all so seriously, I've always meant the words that I say. Even if it stands true for just a particular moment, I'm never just playing house-- not even during a one night stand.

I'll be back, New York. Hopefully I can say that you never left.

My Choices

We are the decisions that we make.

They define the person that we are and are the steps that we need to take in order to be the person that we want to be. From striking a match to light your cigarette to the decision to put it out prematurely, these are the words that you pick out of the thesaurus to form a sentence. Because even if you lack a word bank that were so conveniently provided on a foreign language test, you're going to have to fill in the blanks. Even the choice of not making the call is a decision-- one that chooses indecision.

Some judgment calls are meant to lead to a dead end while others can lead you down a path you never thought you'd walk down. We're still running along though... until you reach the next perhaps, ready or not. The people in your life are often checkpoints can change the direction you're going, but the truth is that they come and go. Fight for the ones worth staying, but when you fall asleep, you're the only one dreaming your dreams.

(Bing, bing, bing... time extension... I'm reminded of "Outrunners" in Arcades where you choose your path to go around the world. Sadly, I never got past the third stage)

My Insomnia

Archive: 3/5/2011

My lips sealed shut with enough superglue to hold my thoughts together-- as if they could be quantified. My fingers taped together to my own horror. I made a pact to myself years ago not to feel a certain way. But it's moments like these that begs for the questions, "has anything changed?" These improvements, the progress that I preach and strive for... while not in vain, have they made a difference?

One step forward, three steps back. Moving to find the qualities that I lack.

The same indifference to anything that makes a difference. The same involuntary reaction to meaningless actions leave me breathless. My last breath is then left for the actions that leave me exhausted. Only then I'll be able to fall asleep.

This doesn't mean shit.

My Impressions are Weapons

Archive: 1/31/2011

Every day we walk past countless faces-- each with their own story. And if somehow by chance we do get to interact, we're altering bits and pieces of our narratives. In essence, we co-write pages of each other's choose-your-own-adventure books (Don't turn to page 84. Trust me.)

The paragraphs that I leave aren't always the most glamorous excerpts and my good intentions don't always come to fruition. I am irresponsible, self-centered, and there's no one else to blame for this other than myself. The worst part is that the ink that we're writing with is permanent-- they're still there even if you try to cross them out and cover them up.

In the end, the pages keep turning but they're limited in number. I just hope that the amount of good parts outweigh the bad.

One way or another...
Baby, I'm living in color.

My Marathon

Archive: 1/9/2011

Afraid to be stagnant, I'll keep moving. With distance as my own personal goddess, the objects that once towered over me can now be crushed by the tips of my fingers. The street lights of the city will pass and so will the relationships and friendships that once shaped the landscape around me. I can't put all of them in my pockets, but they will remain as impressions much like those left on a celluloid strip. Their fragmented replays occasionally sting-- unexpectedly like when the elementary school nurse told you that your first vaccine would "sting" but instead made you tear. But the truth is that they're always worth the admissions ticket.

Who knows, maybe I'm just running around in circles. That's fine... I just hope the place that I'm heading for, wherever that may be, is a better place.

I'm sure it is.

My Cigarette in Hand

Archive: 12/17/2010

My cigarette looks like a flame slowly dwindling until I give it life again.

My cigarette is a voluntary act. It is a moment of mental weakness-- a singular misjudgment as opposed to physical necessity. It symbolizes a glimmer of hope with facade of assurance. It promises a split second of pain relief, a minute of dizziness, a half hour of an upset stomach, and unmeasurable regret.

My cigarette does better in social situations than I do. Nicotine and ammonia fit my saliva more than our interests ever will. The tobacco leaves rolled tighter than any hand shake. On occasion, it meets more lips than I do.

It fucking hates me, but we have great chemistry.

My cigarette is a bargain. With each inhale gives birth to a new thought while it kills me a little bit inside. I always lose, but it's always there for me. Sometimes you just have to be the bigger man and call it a day. You're welcome, motherfucker.

(Via melissalee.com / mellylee.tumblr.com/; Old photo, obviously)

My Empire to Lose

Archive: 12/13/2010

Maturation is a damned thing. It's puzzling to me how some people can just float-- especially at this age. They wander aimlessly without a goal or ambition. In a few years, we're going to look back and think how exciting opportunities were and that the world was filled with possibilities. And indeed, it is. We just shut ourselves off, blinding ourselves with complacency.

People give me too much credit, and are somehow always more certain that I'll succeed than I am. Throughout the years, I think it has molded a false projection of confidence. This mixed with my inherent insecurities is a fundamental paradox of my being. At the end of the day, I realize that I haven't done anything worthwhile.

So what keeps me going? It's a fear of failure. Because I know that I've already cheated with the privileges that I was born into. I realize that each step that I take is on a red carpet laid by someone else's hard work. And despite the fictitious notion that I'm venturing off into uncharted territories, the fact is that I already had a head start. The game isn't fair, and it's only worse if you lose with an advantageous handicap.

The truth is, I'm just trying not to be the incompetent, pompous prince who fails to reach his father's greatness. The one who sucked on a golden tit the minute he was born. I refuse.

My Impaired Eye... Yours bloodshot

Archive: 10/27/2010

The basic foundation of this concept is that we tend to think of our memory as a video camera. Believing that our mind is recording our lives accurately, we are also duped into trusting it as a reliable unit of storage. This is false. Our minds are actually pretty damn faulty in that manner. However, the brain is powerful in its processing power, and from evolution, we have become efficient at noticing patterns and weaving fragments together by association. Because of this, we tend to give meaning to the bits and pieces that we do in fact, remember.

So instead of having perfectly accurate footage, we actually have scraps of the event lumped together, and these connections form our recollection. This is why we do well memorizing with jingles (think commercial slogans) or memorizing information by acronyms. And the strings that weave these chunks together, the associations, are the meanings that we attach to events. Experts on a certain subjects don't "know-it-all," they just know how to get there faster because their web of associations is more efficient.

The fact that our mental capacity is actually based on pattern recognition and not storage means that the act of recollection is a creative and destructive act. By that I mean because we think with meanings and connections, we're putting together pieces that becomes a subjective whole. Moreover, each time that we try to remember an event, our brain erases the past "versions" of these memories-- like a rewrite. This is why studies show that the first recollection is often the most accurate even though they get more specific and detail-rich as the witness repeats their accounts. This is also why false confessions are possible especially during duress (e.g. torture.)

Hopefully I didn't completely butcher that concept. Fuck it, I'm too lazy to proofread.
TL;DR: Our recollections are not of events, but rather the meanings that we give to parts of the event.

In essence, this means that our memories are subject to negotiation. And yes, we can manipulate our own remembrance of the past. Because we're not really changing events, but our rather our perception of the events.

This is why nostalgia is so easy to fall into. Things in the past can seem so inviting. I guess the reason why I was interested in this concept was because I wrote on this a few times already (I totally didn't realize this until a second after I wrote the previous sentence.) Either way, the power is in our hands, and scarily enough, it is also in other people's hands. This certainly means that it becomes easy to dwell on traumas or beautiful moments as remembered, but I would like to think that by knowing that we are often seeing things that we want to see, we can begin to unravel these meanings consciously.

If it were up to me, I'd make it all beautiful.

And instead of living in it, I'd smile and walk away in satisfaction.

It was all beautiful.

My Splendor

Archive: 9/20/2010

I find the world fascinating. With the curiosity of a young boy, I wander the world-- always observing and learning. I've always inclined to look at the bigger picture, but often you need to concentrate on the small, individual mechanisms in order to figure out how the well-oiled machine works. And with that being said, I think people (including myself) tend to miss out on the details. It's unfortunate because it is the fine print that makes the world go around.

I've found the idea of light years incredibly intriguing, and it didn't really come to me until I thought about it. The measurement combines the concepts of time and distance together. This compound relationship somehow ties in the single commodity that we can't buy more of with the obstacle the stands in the way of the human touch.

Just think: the brilliance of the stars, hundreds or thousands of light years away, that you're watching with someone you love, or alone hoping that someone you love is watching them at the same time, took that long of a time to get to your eyes. At this particular moment, it is perfectly possible that the star is no longer shining, or even nonexistent. We have the privilege to observe the radiant night sky at its prime. In essence, Defying limitations of the persevering ticking clock and failing reach, we are witnessing perfection.

In the sky, with diamonds.

Just take a breath.

My Abandonment

Archive: 8/28/2010

When I decide whether or not to proceed with something, anything really, I always try to weigh the pros and cons. More importantly, I start assessing what I would gain and/or lose from it. In turn, I begin this mental tug o' war that leads me to a conclusion. With thousands of these going on a day, I'm left exhausted and wounded.

This leads to my question (I purposely rephrased, "this got me to thinking..." so I would not sound like Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. Fuck you, I've watched the show,) when you have nothing to gain and nothing to lose, do you go on?

I am the old, dusty toy that was the best thing that had ever happened to you at one time. I sit at a special spot on an even more special shelf, and represent the person you were at a distinct point of time. But when you look at me now, the feeling that you get is a simplistic wave of nostalgia-- a dangerously idealistic impression of me. At best, I can only take solace in the fabricated notion that I still symbolize something significant, and the old pedestal that I am placed upon is in fact, special. The person who you are is no longer the person who I thought I could love, and I am merely an old photograph. I am the jacket that hangs in your closet only because of the memories. I matched with every single outfit that you wore in middle school, and kept you warm when nothing else could. The color has not faded although time has left wear and tear, and I'm rougher around the edges. You know exactly what to expect when you put me on even though I fit a little bit too snug and don't quite match with anything you own anymore. I am a reminder of maturation and things that you'd rather leave behind.

After the rainstorm has passed, the noble steed of the prince has failed him, and he kneels in defeat, unable to go on. Fairy tales can only last for so long.

When it rains, it pours.

My Beautiful Struggle

Archive: 8/11/2010

What if your life looked like one straight, smooth road. The pavement gray and the scenery without splendor. And it just keeps going, and continues on until it reaches something resembling oblivion?

The saying is that every person is fighting their own battle. I've been thinking about how insignificant some events that were absolutely devastating to me while growing up now seem so mundane. Whether it is the time in fourth grade when my genius plan of forging my mother's signature to get out of doing homework for a month was finally exposed or the countless times where I felt inadequate due to failure-- they felt so real, and in so many ways they were. And I'm sure when I look back in a few years, the obstacles that appear detrimental in the present will look like child's play when I walk away unscathed, laughing. To me, the interesting thing is how these events seemed so very frightening and overwhelming at the time. With that said, I think it's important to realize that these battles, no matter how trivial they may seem to another person, may in fact be consequential to those affected. But if you flip this logic around, the result is that these battles may only be significant because of the definition that one assigns to them. Obviously, this theory can only be applied to a certain extent.

I've expressed my belief that these challenges in life mold our character and eventually define our personalities. But the fact is that sometimes we are hurt to point where a little part of us die inside. It's like the part of a fruit chewed by an insect that has fermented or the broken window on a freshly painted house-- tarnishes of an otherwise immaculate whole. And when we realize that we are bruised all over, self-defense mechanisms become activated. We build walls and erect (fuck you, I will use that word in a context other than a hard penis if I want to) barriers in order to hide... because it's easier to be numb than to feel.

I'm the type of person who believes that you have to go out there and get what you want in life; nothing you want will ever be handed to you. Half of the time, it is the squeeze that makes the juice that much sweeter anyway. If this means that I have to fight for what I want, so be it. In relation to people, while it's evident that no one is irreplaceable, what has to be decided is whether that person is worth being replaced in the first place.

I don't want my life to turn out like a convenient store.

Because when you settle for the instant ramen flavored by powdered broth, you miss the lobster tail dinners with the fine champagne. I want my life to meander to unexpected places, and I want to come out of it at the end of the day, saying "fuck yeah" with a bruised hip-- rocking chair, fireplace, scotch and all.

TL;DR:

My Trip to the Twilight Zone

Archive: 8/2/2010

After about a month and a half since my last visit, this past weekend marked the return of debauchery at it's best-- Vegas trip.

My last visit was for my 21st birthday. While I can't totally say that it lived up to every bits of its expectations, I think it is fair to say that I survived with flying colors. That's not to say that I didn't need four Powerades to last me through the weekend, and that the second day didn't involve in my feeling absolutely miserable. Either way, I would say that I handled myself quite well.

This time was different.

To give you the basic summary of what happened without embarrassing myself too much (too late,) let's say that I pumped my veins with alcohol until I reached the ends of oblivion. After clubbing at Tao (it was fun, from what I remembered-- running into dancers as well as well as others,) I decided to go gambling. Now, I was doing pretty well at first but this is when it all became hazy. According to my very fragmented memory and my friends' recollection, things that happened included:

1. Coming back to the hotel room to grab more cash;
2. Getting kicked off the roulette table because I spilled beer and was unresponsive to questions. I'm going to guess that I transformed into my elementary, fob state.
4. Getting lost in my hotel (friends have a theory that I was in another hotel...)
5. Proceeded to get really angry (absolutely furious)while walking around in the halls; yelled on the phone (Batman voice), "Where the fuck am I?" while calling my friends every 5 minutes-- they were searching for clues as to where I was. Apparently through the phone, they could hear angry people yelling, "Shut the fuck up! You're waking people up!"
6. Punched a bunch of things... My right knuckles still hurt.

When Simon finally found me, I was in front of the ATM despite the fact that I had 200 dollars in my pocket. I think I'm going to stop talking about what happened and get to the conclusion because I'm literally cringing in my seat as I type.

What happened that night scares me. While reading these events might bring a few chuckles and disapproving head shakes even from myself, I can't help but to wonder, "what could have happened?" I had to check my bank account the next day to make sure I didn't do anything (too) stupid. I never want to have that feeling again. It's simple to dismiss this episode by summing it up as, "Vegas," but if you know me, it's not the type of person that I am. I believe that there are lessons to be learned, and unless you take them in, something worse is just going to happen along the same lines to reiterate them.

I am a person of balance. During the weekdays, I'm a publicity intern who does what he's asked and is hungry for more work. I don't think the proper counter-balance would be to go apeshit like I did this past weekend. I've had a reoccurring feeling that my life is spiraling out of control, an emotion that is a mixed cocktail of forced maturation, helplessness, and loneliness. While I certainly don't see this as hopeless by any standards, it's fair to say that there are a fair amount of things that I'd like to fix in my life.

In closing, I wanted to thank my friends for being patient during that particular episode-- especially Simon who dragged me back from the "Beyond" section of Bed Bath & Beyond. (It was a dark place.) Hopefully my misery the next day, both physically and mentally, can be a token of repayment somehow.

TL;DR- Alan blacked out at Vegas; sees it as a warning sign and wants to reevaluate life

My Expression Through Movement

Archive: 7/16/2010

Tonight at Proof, a friend and I were catching up... When I asked the usual, "How's shit? What have you been up to?" She replied, "Life..." (One of the better answers that I've gotten...) Later on, we started got to the inevitable subject that always seems to come up between my friends and I-- dance.

After a brief run through of her agenda, she asks, "You're done with dancing, yeah? No?"

At the time I could only muster, "Erm, well... I don't have a lot of time right now, I'll start dancing again when school starts." This was a pretty logical answer, but I feel as if the topic deserves more thought.

Am I done with dancing? This is a question that I've asked myself many times before, and have never quite come to a conclusion. As I age, the real world responsibilities become that much more real. The anxiety of finding a job, doing the job, and excelling at the job has me in a tight guillotine lock, and it's asphyxiating me more as each day go by. I look at life in objectives, because by the time you head to bed and turn off the lights, what really matters are the things you gain in relation to the things you lose. In essence, what do I get out of dancing?

I certainly have no regrets so far in being a dancer-- it has done nothing but good things for me. This includes meeting a group of people, family, with whom I have had a rewarding three years so far. Through the discouraging times and gratifying moments (the former being overwhelmingly more frequent than the latter,) I have truly enjoyed it. Even though I hate the label of being a dancer and continue to have great disdain for how much of the scene works, I have enjoyed it so far.

I'm afraid to admit that something has changed. The fire and passion has dwindled.This is not to say that I do not still wave like a stupid idiot while driving in traffic (By the way, that is really fucking dangerous; no idea how I have not gotten into an accident yet. I do this frequently and it gets pretty fucking tricky when you get to your legs... I think I'm a better popper sitting down than being on my feet. No joke.) and I still cannot control the urge to hit when a strong clap goes on-- girls think I am having a fucking seizure in public... I think it's a dealbreaker. Either way, there is simply no motivation for me to dedicate time to train, and the path for improvement, something that is valued so greatly by all dancers, has no shortcuts.

So now I have to come to a point where I decide what to do. Being relieved of my board duties for Bboys Anonymous this upcoming year, it's as good of a time as any to seriously think about this. I do know that there are elements of dance that I still wish to explore and still find exciting. For example, choreographing pieces that are not specific to any style, but rather one that reflect my own inclinations still get my heart pumping. I guess I'm not quite done with dancing yet, but I certainly think I'm borderline floating in limbo.

TL;DR: I'm fucking lazy, and need to get a job after I graduate. Not sure how I feel about something that I've done for the past three years-- something that other people define me as (I fucking hate it) and given me so much.

My head held up high

Archive: 7/12/2010

Copeland- Chin Up

It was certainly a turbulent week. It has reminded me that every person is fighting their own demons and issues. Whether it is something as petty as trying to figure out what to eat for lunch or something serious like wondering where the next lunch is going to come from, these battles slowly chip away our sanity and continues to wear down our walls. And for better or worse, new barriers are erected-- eventually we find ourselves drowning in our cubicle of misery.

I just wanted to take this opportunity to let my friends, whoever happened to be curious enough to read this, that I am here. Even though I may not be always around. I'm never quite on schedule, but always on time. Similarly, you're not alone. For one, I am most definitely struggling,and most of the time losing, on various fronts. This is evident by the episode I had a week ago where I pretty much went through the three stages of emotions in fifteen minutes (self admittedly, the last stage lasted much, much longer.) And I know, especially from these experiences, that while I am the one who has to deal with these problems, I couldn't have done it without the care and support of those who care about me. And for that, I'm thankful and indebted to them.

I know that this summer has brought a lot of strife into people's lives. But I think it's necessary to keep in mind that it is these obstacle, the assessment and overcoming of them, that give us the opportunity to better our character. And lastly, the most important part is that you keep moving forward. (My God, that phrase has so many meanings. Versa-fucking-tility at it's best.)

My Message in a Bottle

Archive: 6/30/2010

There are some things that you just have to take as-is and let go. Because if you begin unravel it and try to analyze it, it's simply not going to make any sense. And because of your inability to rationalize, you're going to feel confused, angry, and disappointed. As a matter of fact, you're probably going to feel disappointed regardless. So the most effective course of action is also the most necessary, yet counter-intuitive one-- deactivating all present self-defense mechanisms and move on. The focus is then shifted to the betterment of the individual, not the situation. And from this mental shift results development, leaving behind what once reminded you most about yourself and the person who once completed you.

Recharge
Revise
Relaunch.

My words are my weapon of choice

Archive: 5/18/2010

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day."- Ernest Hemingway

On being a writer

God forbid that I write something in regards to myself in a (relatively) concise and forward manner on my own blog. I ran across this quote from Hemingway, whose writing style is about as close to a 180 as you get from mine, a while back. I began to reflect upon how I came to be known as a writer, and thought it to be a little interesting (for myself.)

For a fob...

In case you didn't know or couldn't tell, I was born in Taiwan and started speaking English at the age of 8. I still remember how inferior I felt in elementary school when I could only somewhat understand instructions from teachers and comments from peers (half of which were probably cheap shots mixed with half snickers, I'm sure.) To this day, I still feel like it had a substantial hand in how my personality was molded along with the fact that I was fat-- but I digress...

For a fob, I think it's funny that I would turn out to be a bigger fan of English than math. As elementary school passed me by, I traded algebra for cheesy Chicken soup books and eventually started writing angsty poetry. Eventually I saw my English grades rise and vice versa. Part of it I think is how I was just meant to be-- and no matter what barriers stood in front of me, I was going to develop into the person that I am. I don't see myself as an exceptional writer by any standards (that takes work, and I'm far too lazy) but I guess through my past experiences, I've just kind of fallen into that category. I'm guessing that eventually, it will play a significant part in shaping my career as it has already.

Recently, I took a short screenwriting course. I was assigned to write a short screenplay, and decided to elaborate on a concept that I had developed in a previous blog post (not on my tumblr) as a channel to rant about everything about me. Without going too much into it, the piece took a toll on me emotionally. I placed myself in the position of the protagonist and became too attached-- only having to destroy it (something beautiful) later. The result was nothing original and was melodramatic as it takes endless revisions for a work to be somewhat satisfactory. I haven't had the courage to return to it just yet. Someone told me that I would when I'm ready... although I'm not sure when I will be.

On the nature of this tumblr

It's weird and uncomfortable for me to share my thoughts to the rest of the world, and I apologize beforehand if my posts seem pseudo-intellectual/artistic, angsty, and/or pompous. The truth is that I've also taken in some sort of pleasure in being cryptic as if hoping that someone would take the effort and time to guess my thoughts. Plus I take solace in the fact that half of these images and music that I share are aesthetically pleasing. Secondly, there are plenty of other blogs (you probably follow them) that are plenty more annoying to read. Lastly, for those who point their fingers at me in saying that I'm just contributing to the junk on the interwebz, I will point one right back at you (not the index) to say that this is my blog.