My Pretty Weather Days

A great deal of my time is spent on recalling past events.  I'm always making reminder lists of action items to follow up with at work. I constantly try to remember how I felt at particular times in life. Something that I don't do often is think about how others remember me. I'm not sure whether this is because I am afraid that it may be in a negative light (I'm sure there's plenty reason for some people to) or just because I simply don't remember. I think the truth is that I really don't know.

Egotistical or ignorant... I can't say.

I do wish that others think fondly of memories created with me-- that when they piece the individual bits together, it assembles into something of beauty. Cohesive or fragmented. at least worthy of being remembered for that moment in time. When a familiar song that you haven't heard for so long comes on, a violent storm of emotions hits you. For a couple of seconds, there is confusion and uncertainty as to why you feel that way. You sit there stunned because your brain hasn't quite processed logic or reason. Frozen, you are a blank slate splashed with instincts and physical responses. I hope that it's that if I somehow have the privilege of being the reason for that short moment of bewilderment... that it's a good one.

I've had the good fortune of having so many good memories that I can call my own, bestowed upon me by the people who I have had the pleasure of knowing. Some are fading and others stored away in some hard-to-access areas of my brain, but each shape the way I perceive the world. It bothers me that there are so many things I can't remember even though I know they happened (not in terms of alcohol, because that grief is more often than not self-inflicted.) It's strange because at one time it was the present. It's even more troublesome that some still hold me hostage emotionally even though I can't even get everything straight.

I have a soft spot for Hollywood because there's narrative closure at the end of every movie. I've been reminded from my experiences and those of others that this isn't how life works. I hate that French expressionists were right. All you can hold onto when the lights come on are the feelings elicited. And even that's being a little generous. You have to be able to hold onto them. I hope that the ones you held onto were the good pieces of us.

My Neverland

“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” - Banksy

If that little piece of pseudo-introspective bullshit bit was true, I would make it my life's goal to whisper the name of every person who has ever lived at least once. I thought about this while laying in bed a couple of weeks ago and did the math. Let's say I can say one name every two seconds. Multiply it by thirty and and then by sixty. I'd be at 3,600 names an hour. Multiply that by nine and a half hours a day because I am have the reputation of a hard worker to maintain and five days a week because we're in America and I'm not working in a sweat shop. We're at 171,000 a week. How many people have lived on this earth? God knows I will probably butcher their names considering all the languages that I'm not familiar with. Hell, I'm considered bilingual and I can't even read half of the names in those languages correctly. How many Alan Lins will I come across? I'll read it for the kid who dominates Google when you type in my name. I'll read it for all of them.

Do you remember wanting to grow up so bad? By old I mean 12, obviously, because being in your 20's meant that you're ancient. How are the 90's not ten years ago? When I was in my teens, I watched so many films. Are there better breeding grounds for drama than celluloid strips? Plot lines weaving through each frame, intertwining with each other through themes and motifs. Some end up resolved while others don't. I remember thinking, "Damn, people are fucked up. Is that how adults are?" Then I would scoff and turn the movie off as soon as the credits start. These days, I sit through the credits-- and it's not because I have suddenly found an appreciation for the production assistants or grips (even though I really should, considering I majored in Film & worked on High School productions.) These days, I stare blankly at the screen with my eyes unfocused as the credit roll because everything is so relatable. You know you're in trouble when movies speak to you just a little bit too much. When the drama becomes yours to live, you know you're in it thick.

So many aspects of adulthood were thrust upon me this year, and it's every bit as vulgar as the innuendos that you can come up with. Too many deaths, too much responsibility and transitions and rites of passages. Wait. So how deaths qualifies as "too many?" Well, I guess one is enough and more just kind of overdoes it, no? In the cultures that I've been raised on, there's no defining event that declares you a man. Especially not Taiwanese culture for that matter, which is why you have so many kids still latched on (the teet, duh.) Is that why thirteen year old Jewish boys have Bar Mitzvahs? That way if the Mom and Dad come across a shitty blog entry that their kid posted to deal with growing up, they can say "Hey, you got a Bar Mitzvah. Shut your mouth and deal with it." I think they're onto something, this four-thousand year old religion. Who would have thought?

My Grandfather

My mother's father, which I guess would make him my Grandfather, passed away on January 9th, 2012.

Honestly, I wasn't close to him in any sense of the word. In fact, I can probably count how many times I have seen or spoken to him with just one hand. I'm not very close to anyone in my either of my extended families. While I might have looked up to a cousin or two back in the days when my thumbs blistered from trying to hadoken on Street Fighter II, to me it has always been my nuclear family against the world. A "I'm sorry for your loss" or "Are you okay?" really is not in order here. There arn't any flowery adjectives or metaphors that try too hard to be humorous in my words to hide behind because there just isn't much emotion to disguise. There's only disconnection. I can't even say whether he had a good life or not-- because I don't know. There's just a looming fear of major life events taking place. Birth. marriage. Death. But where is the adventure?

On a more joyous note, my sister who is four years senior, is getting married. As delightful as this development is, somehow it just adds more anxiety to someone working a full-time job who doesn't feel (or look, for that matter) a day older than fifteen-- a man-child struggling with adulthood.

I'll never get to say goodbye to my Grandfather. With all the family values-- what should and what shouldn't be-- ingrained in our minds, the sentence sounds much more sentimental, more impactful than it really is. If he sat next to me, Nu'er-Hong (Chinese Wine) in hand, I'm not really sure what I would say. I'm sure he would sit there with a smirk, thinking about all the things that I've yet to learn and accept. The man lived to be 100. I just know that I would thank him for giving birth to my Mother.

Earlier tonight, I spoke to my Mother for the first time since I found out he passed away. This is the woman who always seems to know what I'm thinking. The woman who with a singular glare could stop any words of protest from coming out of my mouth. The woman who I inherited my exceedingly good looks from. The woman who I will lose too, some day.

It was a mere three minute conversation. Suddenly the Alan Lin who could talk someone's face off at will became the little boy who couldn't form any words. It was like trying to wake up Snorlax without a PokeFlute... No can do, baby-doll. My Mandarin became even worse than usual, and nothing came out right. All I could muster was something along the lines of "We are here for you" and "stay strong"-- all the things that no one really wants to hear. I realized that there wasn't much to say. Sometimes words (especially when you are at a loss of them) won't do the trick. This seems to be a reoccurring theme of late. I can't begin to comfort those that I care for because I'm not there.

She sounded rushed and winded. The rhythm to her voice and the way she was breathing was unsteady. I can tell that her mind is at so many places at once because it was as if she had to remind herself that she was on the phone with me. It's disheartening because she's trying to give off the impression that everything is business as usual when in fact, my presence is just another place that she had to be. I didn't realize that this was her father when I never felt like I had a grandfather. This is the man who fed and raised her to be the woman that I love.

I guess that's the funny thing about family. We're all connected by the same tendencies, traits and deficiencies in the blood flowing through our veins. We're manifestations of history. Through our breaths, maybe all those who were once loved continue to breathe. I'd like to believe in this. I really would.

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懇請阿彌陀佛接引林火土先生到西方極樂世界