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.