Homage

The stairs creaked as the little boy sneaked down, waiting for a glimpse, a mere hint of the bowl full of jelly that would signify Christmas, and, more importantly, presents. Daintily, he snuck, more cautious than a fly in a crowded kitchen. For the last two years, Santa had evaded his requests to meet in person, to come face-to-face with the boy who was most certainly his biggest fan. His parents would smile naively, in his mind, trying to convince him that Santa was busy, and that all the children in the world needed their presents before Santa could rest.

But the boy knew that Santa was the best at his job. He could spare a few insignificant minutes to make significance in one boy's life. The boy was thus adamant about Santa's presence on Christmas, and it was on this eventful night that the boy was determined to glimpse at his hero.

And so he crept, ever so slightly, at least in his mind, down the wooden stairs. It was strange, really. All the stairs of his friends' houses weren't wooden. They were carpeted or tiled or surfaced with some form of slick linoleum. He didn't think his stairs should be the only ones that creaked and moaned with the light footsteps of a child, but they did.

But this was no time for petty thought. This was a time of urgency and focus. The boy would meet Santa, if only for a few sparse moments. Thus was the unyielding mindset of a toddler.

The boy, however, was shocked to his panjama-covered toes when he reached the family room. To his utter dismay, the couch was occupied not by his jolly idol, but rather, by his parents. They had all been in the living room earlier that night, his parents and his older sister and himself, to listen to his father read Christmas tales. They were wonderful, of course, stimulating the imagination and whisking away the boy to Yuletide adventures, but they had their time. This was not the time for his parents to be in the family room, keeping warm by the fireplace.

This was everyone's bedtime, and his time to meet Santa. What right did his parents have to tell him to sleep while they stayed up to do whatever it is grown-ups do in front of a fireplace? What right did they have to put him to bed, telling him that Santa would be coming to deliver him a present in the morning when they themselves were not sleeping? What right did his father have to smile at him when he asked these question?

Then, it struck the boy like a lightning bolt strikes a vane: They were up to see Santa too!

"Go back to your room, son. Santa isn't here yet," his father tried to convince him. The boy would not move.

"How come you get to stay up to see Santa?" he asked, undeterred by his father's insistence.

But father was not in the mood to convince him. Mother, always patient, spoke before father made his always-unflattering demands. She smiled as if the boy had said something funny.

"You can stay, sweetie. As long as you keep quiet. You can sleep here with mommy."

The boy thought about it for a moment, but quickly realized that the compromise was a much better alternative to sleeping in his room, where he would surely miss Santa.

And so, his father got off the couch where he was snuggling with his wife to make room for the boy. The toddler laid in his mother's warm arms while his father sat on the armchair, unmoving but smiling quietly.

And of course it did not take long for the child to fall asleep.

But he did not regret it, for the snowy sunrise brought the boy a new present waiting in the stocking. Santa had come and delivered as promised. Before he checked the stocking, however, he paused.

He hadn't seen Santa because he was sleeping. His mother was still in the same position she was when he had fallen asleep, except now draped with a blanket his father surely had provided. She remained in slumber. His father was already up and about, making coffee and checking his email. His older sister came running down the stairs, nearly tripping as she did so. She opened her present before the boy did, and she was delighted. So was he, and he forgot about his goal for the night before.

His mother woke up from the delighted giggles of his sister, and his father joined the family around the fireplace. Upon the boy's inquiries about Santa's visit, his father just smiled and handed him another present to unwrap, easily averting any thought of Santa.

His mother and father shared another knowing smile.

To the boy, Santa didn't matter anymore. He was only a part of Christmas, now. The presents had to be unwrapped. Breakfast had to be served. His family had to be together. The snow had to fall, and Christmas traditions still had yet to be carried out.

Plus, he could always try again next Christmas. At least, if Santa still existed then.

Per Diem

My final is approximately five and a half hours on top of a day in front of me.

I am not ready.

I'm tired of organic chemistry and the endless amounts of sadness the subject brings to me.

I guess the only thing to do now, other than the necessary studying, is to blog about the Olympics.

I find it disgusting that NBC, its affiliates and the mainstream media in general all love to milk or create Olympic stories of triumph. It's not that I, born and raised under the red, white and blue, don't enjoy a good underdog story as much as the next American. Hell, we were founded by underdogs, and my ancestral roots find themselves in the most generic of American underdog refugee stories. My family and my history bleeds underdog. So no, I'm not quite anti-American. It's not that I don't enjoy these stories. It's just that we are shifting our attention too much on the sweet triumphs of our athletes when the Olympic games should be about the unity of all countries.

Is it really necessary to have a Medal Count on the front page of Yahoo!? Why are we so preoccupied with the numbers, counting our way to superiority? We may have more medals than any other country right now, but what does it matter? A bit of national pride, yes, but I get the feeling that all this medal counting and Americans-as-the-underdog storytelling is just setting us apart from the rest of the world. We are in no way the underdogs. Americans are brimming with athleticism and dominance. Our economy allows us to be.

Most other countries don't have enough food to feed their people. How can they be expected to dominate as wholly as we have? Plus, China has WAY more gold medals than we do. So no, we are no longer the best, nor, I suspect, shall we be the best any time soon in the Summer Olympics.

Americans make everything about winning. These awards are supposed to show how diverse the athletic world can be, with many countries winning various medals. We aren't SUPPOSED to win gold in everything. We aren't SUPPOSED to be competing ONLY with the Chinese communist bastards. We need to back down from this idea that we are the big dogs, especially since we're competing in THEIR homeland.

That being said, Shawn Johnson is the cutest being to grace the earth since Togepi hatched.

On another, equally important note. The South Ossetians want OUT of Georgia, but do they want IN to Russia? Russia's just as bad as we are in terms of asserting dominance. In fact, they are exactly as bad as we are.

1. America went over to Iraq to "spread and establish democracy" as we do periodically, to our economic favor. Under democracy's guise, we went over and toppled a probably bad regime. Russia claims it is doing something along those lines. They claim they want justice for the South Ossetian people. However, what Russia really wants is to reclaim its international dominance, its pride in being a world power. They are saying that they won't take shit from Georgia, the lowliest of former provinces, who, by the way, tried to assert ITS dominance onto a de facto state.

Actually South Ossetia, which is technically a province of Georgia on the Russian border along the Caucasus, governs itself, along with huge monetary aid from its Russian sugar daddy. It isn't internationally recognized as an independent nation, but it sure as hell acts as one, hence "de facto." Georgia recently tried to take it back, and Russia said, "No-no. Bad girl. Don't pick on little South Ossetia. We have to roll in with our tanks now to do some "peacekeeping."" To which America said, "No-no. Bad boy. Don't pick on little Georgia. We're gonna nuke you if you come near that oil line."

Ah, war. <3

2. What Russia did had equal severity as America's War on Terror in Iraq. We have more power, so we can wage war across continents. Russia could too, but they did the equivalent of a war abroad. They went across the border to assert their power. This is the same as California rolling tanks into Baja California and saying, "It has the name "California" in it, so it's ours!"

Yeah, California is the shit, but we're just happy to be part of America. Likewise, Russia should just be happy to be part of a world where peace is still possible. The world's gotta stay united, as these Olympic games remind us, as we face the problems of the future. Namely, I'm scared of the return of the dinosaurs. If we aren't united when they arrive, how will we stave them off? They have hella T-Rexes! And we only have Christian Bale to save us!

Lordy, I'm tired.

Best comment gets a prize.

Blog?

My avid fans, my loyal readers and/or my sympathetic friends have yet to see a normal blog entry on my site. "Normal" in this sense means that my blog must consist of my daily activities, usually with some sort of revelation or epiphany.

Or sometimes, a normal blog entry simply means an update on my supposedly eventful life. But as with all bloggers typing away in the lonely hours of the night, I am torn between how much I want to reveal and how much I actually reveal.

Right now Joe, my roommate for the summer down here in Riverside is playing some Korean pop music. It sounds like a parody of Korean music, sung by other Koreans. Them Koreans have a strange way in the form of entertainment, they do. Regardless, Joe has been more or less a fun roommate. However, like the 6 (now 5) other people with whom I have opted to reside these candid 9 weeks, he has a problem with keeping a clean environment.

Now, I am not saying I myself am Prince OxiClean, which is a sodium percarbonate (C₂H₆Na₄O₁₂) detergent, according to Wikipedia, but there has to be some hint of cleanliness in these people. I have called them my good friends for the past school year, but they have little regard on the single resident who actually lives in the oft A/C-less apartment. I can't, by nature of distance, leave on weekends, unless I stay at a friends'.

I feel like a mother looking after five extremely intelligent children. They study hard enough, but leave their napkins and whatnot all over the place. They rarely take responsibility for their messes unless called upon and half of them complain about the other half. "So and so never does this" and "Such and such always leaves this hanging around."

It's mildly frustrating, to say the least, but hey, your friends are your loved ones. Do I complain about the mess? Yes, but only to people who don't live in the apartment. For now, I am content with living each weekend and cleaning the weekly mess that these children leave behind.

For those of you who have kept up, there were seven people who lived in this apartment until this morning. Christine's parents drove from Arizona and promptly took her back this morning, before the last three weeks of our purported nine-week hell was to begin. She and Lily were the first to greet me here, cheerfully saying to me the first night, "This is just like The Real World!"

I guess, like MTV's disgusting show, it was much more real than she imagined...

Wow, I'm dramatic. I guess it's weird since I spent the last two days with only Christine. We walked to the Village for our dinners and watched a few movies together. We talked a lot, too, and she is just a cool person.

But I guess I'll see her back at Pacific in three weeks so it's not that bad. =)

To update further, organic chemistry is far from riveting as a subject. In fact, I would go so far as to call it mundane and difficult, of all things. I mean, some classes are boring because there is no way on God's green earth they could be interesting. But organic chemistry is boring in a way that there's a hint of interesting stuff to come, but it never really does come. Instead, we are bombarded with pointless laboratory experiments and write-ups and weekly midterms.

I guess that's the nature of the beast. I miss Northern California. I never should have left, haha.

School starts soon. =D

For those of you who haven't seen this yet, it is required viewing. Lily Park: International Pop Star


I actually started this particular entry before posting my last one. I had the first paragraph written, but really had no idea how to finish. As usual, I found words to fill in the blank space.

I talk a lot, but I don't say much, do I?

Per usual, leave a comment here. If not, no hard feelings. >=/

We're not a married couple,
But we've duct taped these boxes
To put away firmly
In the back of our minds.

We don't have the heart
To throw out this stuff,
The miscellaneous mischief,
Missing all kinds.

The winds have been blowing,
Flailing the trees.
They were once so tense,
But now they unwind.

The redwoods, sequoias,
Reaching so high,
Wanting and grasping,
Just how I pine.

And like a broken valentine,
It's a symbol, a sign
Of how some things never shine
Once I've made it all mine.

I've lost the touch
Of Midas, my king.
I loosen my clutch,
Lose everything.

Because because because

The many differences that set each of us apart inevitably and inexorably force us back into the realms of conformity. We are all different, which makes us all the same. Thus, the many facets of blogging all force us into one, common hobby. We have all our own pages, our own words, yet we all must be thrust into the same capacity as a means of expression.

Well, I guess these capacities and media can vary, but in general, we as a modern society rely on cinema, music, blogging/writing, reading, gardening, running/exercising, playing video games, watching TV, sleeping, eating and any number forms of excess, superfluous action in order to assert what we hope and think is our individuality and what we hope gives meaning to our lives.

Yet we carry on, often without the thought of life in the absence of meaning. Does life have to have a purpose? Is there necessarily a crux or cruces that make our lives worthwhile?


I think not. Our lives should be worthwhile already without any added flavor.

But I guess it does help to have something for which we focus and into which we delve our noblest efforts and thoughts. The meditative among us wish to extend an invitation. Enjoy.



Let the Rivers and Rivulets, Pt. 1
A Short Story About One Man's Place in the World (or Lack Thereof)

The rocks that lined the Colorado River had seen their fair share of rough times. Millions of years had colored, shaped and thus defined them to their identities and their place along the banks of the often turbulent, always uncaring waters. There seemed to be an unnecessary anger to the motion of the Colorado's waves, and indeed to many waters familiar or unchartered. Nature minds her own, with little regard for the frivolities that are human desire.

Gary was minding his own as well, as he watched the water fall smoothly and succinctly into Feldman's Creek that flowed violently into Feldman's Lake. A lake, in Gary's mind, was a beautiful thing. So too, was the concept of an angry river. Feldman's Creek was no Colorado, but nor was it the gentle, passive and submissive rivulet that so often appeared along the sidewalks after a hard rain, disappearing with an hour of sunlight as the water rode quietly below the asphalt into their temporary homes, the sewers. Those lonely tunnels were foster homes to the orphaned rainwater, collected into a network of tubes and channels, finally placing them in a new home, once again without regard for their own desires. Too much is out of our control, but somehow, there is an order to things.

Feldman's Creek was simply a place to watch the water release its frustration. Feldman's water had no control over its fate. The water was comfortable somewhere, undisturbed and certainly not complaining, until it was forced to fall, as if nature deigned to drop all things, push all things off a cliff to her own liking. The water had no choice to go where it had to, but nor did it give up easily. No, Feldman's water was determined to fight until it was forced into submission by the clutching claws of the lake. The lake, it seemed, was a likely sedative to tame the wild nature of Feldman, but the creek had no such calm, no such submission. The creek made manifest all the contained anger, the bound rage the waters must have felt once subjugated to the inevitability of fate. And of course, this anger is again quelled by fate's forceful hand.

But Gary loved watching the creek scream and thrash. It calmed him to watch the waters fight against the inevitable. In the end, they must lose, as all things must, but their fight, their unending battle to escape their destiny brought hope in Gary's eyes. The taciturn life he led was made righteous because there would always be someone or something else fighting when he could not. Gary could settle for that. In a sense, he had to settle for that. The waters that settled in the lake had to settle, but maybe they felt better knowing that others still fought against nature and her uncaring plans.

Gary was the lake. He had no fight in him, and only remembered the fights that once were, the battles that raged and shaped him into his calm, uneventful life as it was now. He had drive once, Gary did, and it was a drive that thrashed every bit as much, if not more than these waters in front of him now did. Gary was old and had given up. His fights were battles lost and won, tiresome in their majesty and grandiosity. He was 18.