My 3.20.14

The smell of Old Spice body wash reminds me of summer camp. I was 14. My body had just started changing and I got contacts just before school let out.

I brought my guitar just like the year before. That was my thing. My favorite website was Newgrounds and I still secretly loved pro wrestling.

When I got to Kentucky, I decided that I liked a girl, Kelly, who had red hair. At least I thought that I did. Until she showed no interest. So I moved on and liked Leah instead. No luck there either, but I kept trying anyway. I didn’t talk to Kelly for the rest of the time there. On the last day right before my best friend’s mom picked us up, Kelly passed me a note and told me to read it only when her hockey player brother had picked her up.

Her handwriting looks like Helvetica’s fat second cousin. The dots weren’t hearts, in case anyone was wondering. But in pink gel pen the note said, “I liked you all throughout camp.” I threw it away. I wish I had saved it. It would make a good keepsake for my kids, especially if I end up having a son.

My coworker Josh walked by me today and whatever cologne he was wearing took me back to Camp Ernst. I decided to write it down because maybe the next time I remember will be when I’m thirty-four. And I think by then I would have forgotten that I had thought of it today, and will have tried to pass it off as something I had not thought of before. Well, maybe it’ll mean something a little bit different by then.

I really want to be a bit more honest. Maybe straightforward is the better-suited word but I think that ladders up to honesty. I haven’t been lying, but I feel that I’ve existed in a limbo that hasn’t produced anything of substance. A thought has crossed my mind that this is a quarter life crisis, but then I realized I haven’t the slightest clue what that means.

My Invitations

A thought has been lingering, “Whose weddings would I be invited to?” At my age, it’s a fair question to ask.

Spoken to a couple of people before about my tendency to section off parts of my life somewhat arbitrarily. It’s unlike me, the part about these boundaries being defined without a set of rules, because I typically like to operate in a system with patterns to note. But I think this was developed out of necessity given that the only constancy that I have known is change.

For illustrative purposes, I imagine this to be like when steel doors on the Titanic begin to descend, locking the watertight chambers and sectioning off the flood. It might be because my older sister loved the movie and I watched it many times when I was far more impressionable (side note: To this day, I could still probably freehand Kate Winslet’s breasts with a pen) but there is a shot from it that still stays with me: the back of a crewmember left behind, sealed is the chamber and his fate. I imagine the immediate seconds of his life after James Cameron has already cut to the next scene. What he must feel. Certainty. Helplessness. And what he means cinematically. A tribute. A forgotten, secondary dramatic device. A necessity.

Like so, I have compartmentalized the past in messy little packages—sectioning off the people, the words, the thoughts. Unbeknownst to them, or anyone really, I am in a constant state of retrospection. Reliving and reimagining moments. Things that were said, weren’t said, and things that should have been said.

I am constantly thinking of you, friends. And I would really like you to know that. 

It would be nice to say that this is as if the crewman had never died. It’s left ambiguous and you never do see him drown in the movie. But just because you’re the type of person to look back as you walk forward, it doesn’t mean what you’re looking for is still there, or was ever there.

So back to my original question on whose weddings I would be invited to.

The ones that matter, I think.

My Zuckerberg Moment

I had a Zuckerberg moment… back in 2001.

I didn’t know it, but I did.

It was just before what we would call our daily morning meetings. As sixth graders, we started our school day sitting together in a circle as a class, Indian style. I guess sitting like that in itself is worth commemorating because I’ve just been made aware that style of sitting apparently no longer exists. It’s now called criss cross applesauce now, which sounds all sorts of absurd to me.
A morning meeting is pretty straightforward. Instead of talking non-stop about the N Sync VMA performance from two months ago or if you were like me, the Newgrounds assassination short that let you shoot up all the Gap kids, we would share somewhat more intellectually engaging stories on topics decided by our teacher Mrs. Stephens. This was a pretty good way to jump start our day before going off on a rigorous academic day of watching Bill Nye the Science Guy.

The dynamic of that classroom was as you would imagine. Kids had their cliques and there was a definite hierarchy of who was considered cool and who wasn’t. I’m sure that you’re well aware of how sixth graders— or rather kids in general—can be pretty shitty. But now that I reflect back on it, the kids in my class weren’t the shittiest in the world on the shitty scale. I mean yes, the guys gave each other bro nods and snickered when Mrs. Stephens’s nipples poked through her dress and girls… okay I had no idea what girls were doing or thinking about then. I even had to make up that N Sync example at the beginning of this paragraph. My point being that kids didn’t know much better, and to our credit, Mrs. Stephens was pretty bangin’. Nevertheless, I’m still surprised that how well received these morning meetings were.

The staple of the morning meeting was the agenda: the plan for today’s meeting was written on a 22” x 28” flip board, usually with a question with empty space bubbles underneath for kids to respond to. Sometimes it would be something along the lines of, “If you could have dinner with anyone alive or dead, fictional or real, who would it be?” (Alfred Pennyworth) Other times it would be a simple poll like “Pizza vs. Fried Chicken” (Fried Chicken.) Interactivity and engagement in the analog age! One day, I asked Mrs. Stephens whether I could do it for a particular meeting. I wrote the shit out of that agenda. Injected energy and liveliness into the words, decorated the board with different colors and even included an inspirational quote from Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul. I would frame that fucking poster if I still had it.

This is the prestige… The question I wrote down for the day?

“What is your AIM Screen Name?”

I wrote the agenda because I wanted to holla at the girls in my class but had no idea how to get in contact with them. I knew that I had game (I didn’t) and if only I could get them to talk to me, I would be able to charm their face off (I couldn’t). I think at that time, I had maybe five people on my buddy list. The “Shoutoutz” section of my info was pathetic with or without sticky caps. This was the perfect ploy. I wasn’t going to be the most popular class, but you bet your sweet ass I was going to have more people to chat with while I surfed the web and watched WWF (second screen experience, anyone?)

Does the perfect ploy ever go well? Maybe I was too obvious, writing the screen names down blatantly in front of everyone, but my question were met with little enthusiasm with a low response rate—and worse yet, I got people’s AOL screen names. You know even if they had AOL that people still downloaded AIM for all the extra cool features.

At that point, I thought, “The world would be better if people and things were more accessible and transparent.”

Okay, that wasn’t exactly it and I merely thought “lol” after every sentence written in green font was going to charm the person at the other end of the screen but the sentiment was there. I felt the need tell stories, no matter how nonsensical they were. I wanted to share and had no one to share it to. If I were a brilliant twelve year old, I would have conceptualized Facebook right there… or less brilliant, MyFace (trademarked TacoCorp.)

There’s that quote about luck, opportunity and preparation that has been plastered on corporate posters around the world and passed around more often than the Michael Jordan urban legend on being cut from his high school JV team. The reason why I decided to rehash this story is to remind myself how the really good ideas solve the really simple, and thus most important problems. More importantly, to keep looking at the problems that need solving.





As a side note, a big shoutout to E.H. Greene Intermediate School class of 2001. It’s been a while.  Hope everyone is doing well. The last time I checked (read: stalked), a lot of you are republican and married.

My Connection

At what point is someone worth listening to? What is the scale of measurement to gauge the validity or relevance of someone’s perspective? It’s strangely refreshing when another living and breathing human being echoes your own sentiment. The connection… it’s a straight shot that punches you in the chest, resonating with you and makes you feel like you’re not alone. That’s the ticket.

I long for the day to come when my words, whatever form they decide to take, to transcend the human touch. For each sentence to feel like a hand on your shoulder on the worst day of your life—words colliding together, friction from which creates heat to create warmth. I want the serifs of the typography to dance with you in moments of ecstasy. Enjoy your youth together in a grand crescendo and in silence when you don’t want to give single thing to the rest of the world. I want my words to be indirectly responsible for your sorrow. 

It’s all because I recall memories not by events, but rather in glimpses of imperfect recognition when feelings just barely begin to register. I don’t remember the restaurant where we ate or the time of the reservation, but forever ingrained is how comfortable it felt to be uneasy because I was able to share something that I never have before. I couldn’t tell you the color of the dress that you dieted for a week to fit into for the wedding, but the smirk on my face when I held your waist in elation as you posed like a flamingo? I still have that same smirk right now. My life is measured in heartbeats, not locations and possessions.  

I want nothing more than to communicate in feelings.

My Aphasia

It seems to me that the Broca’s area of my brain is damaged, if not underdeveloped.

Words coming out of my mouth are jumbled, crude arrangements of the thoughts that reared them. I want to be articulate so damn bad, but the sentences escaping my tounge lack any trace of structure and it’s every word for itself. Instead of forming a cohesive whole, the nouns and verbs fight each other in epic battles to destroy any traces of meaning. It really is madness. Each time I try to verbalize what’s running through my mind, I unleash a terrifying flood of undecipherable, yet relatively well-annunciated mumblings. I just picture a little kid barely tall enough to ride a Disneyland roller coaster standing in front of a giant claw machine, picking the words I’m about to gift to the world, hooking little blocks of lazy transitions and unclear subjects.

Well, I guess I would be that little kid then… which might just sprinkle a bit of tragedy on this bit. I think if word bubbles appeared every time I talked, “their” and “their” would somehow be used interchangeably. 

This might be why I’ve always preferred writing. On a blank piece of lined paper, I can cross out and restructure. I have the luxury of staring at a blinking cursor on my screen as I take my sweet time in constructing anything resembling to something that I feel or wish to convey (The two things are not one of the same at times.) I love the freedom and the ability to erase. Nothing is of permanence, unchanged indefinitely. I am at my own pace and if I remember my grade school education correctly, they taught me that slow and steady wins the race. If need be, I am welcomed to take a sip of my red wine blend straight from the bottle. No one is waiting for my thoughts because no one knows that I have anything to say. Honestly, sometimes I really don’t have anything to say.

Asdfjkl;.

And I’m back. 

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.

阿公安息
懇請阿彌陀佛接引林火土先生到西方極樂世界

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.