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.