Tidbits from Memory (mostly as a result of boredom in econ)

I’ve forgotten how wonderful music can be for the soul.

Everyone talks about how music is vital to their lives. I’ve seen dozens of blogs/lists of 25 things that proclaim the sacredness of music, how people “can’t live without it.”

I’m not sure if I wholeheartedly agree with literally dying in the absence of music, but oftentimes the combination of melodies and words or simply just melodies or words alone can affect us deeply, delve into our innermost thoughts and envelop them in a sense of comfort.

Music is like a friend who will never betray you, like a shoulder that’s always available and will always listen. It’s ironic, then, that we listen to music. I think that when we listen to music, we are listening to our own thoughts and are allowed to roam freely in the fields of our minds. So music is in fact a friend who will always listen to us, because it allows us to listen to ourselves.

I just finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom. Personally, I think it’s an overrated book, simply because it was recommended to me with such acclamation. It’s a pretty original concept and story, and it’s touching on a few levels, but I don’t think it’s all that jazz. Same with Slumdog Millionaire.

I compiled a list of specific things I dislike as a writing exercise.

I hate waking up to disheveled blankets. My sheets should not be sideways, chaotically and haphazardly flayed and layered about.

I hate setting my alarm and going one minute later than I intended, forcing me to press the button 60 more times. Sometimes I’ll take the extra fate-given minute, but I can’t always. Sometimes I’m an hour off and need to press is 24 more times. I hate that. I also hate setting my alarm to a different 12 hour setting, as in 7:00PM instead of AM. It’s frustrating.

I have an unreasonable and probably unhealthy fear of falling off a treadmill. It has nothing to do with running too far or too fast to control, nor does it lend itself to the metaphor of living my life and the fear of stumbling emotionally. I’m just physically scared of falling, and it’s kinda weird, I think.

Ever since I learned this in chemistry (high school, methinks), I think of eating my foods as limiting reagents. If there isn’t enough ketchup, I refuse to finish my fries. If there isn’t enough Sweet ‘N’ Sour Sauce (or BBQ), I refuse to finish my Chicken Nuggets. If I don’t have enough tofu to complement my rice, I get more rice. I hate it when I get too much rice and need to get more tofu, and the cycle spirals out of control until I’ve literally eaten enough for 4 people.

I hate dressing up without going anywhere. Sometimes I wish I could just see into the future for 24 hours so I can dress accordingly.

Because yes, it gets hard to look this damn beautiful all the time.

The God of Small Things

No, I'm not making fun of Brian.

I just finished reading a book called The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. It's about an Indian family and other stuff. It's honestly one of the best books I've ever read. I haven't read many books, but this one is easily the most uniquely written style I've seen in a long time.

Actually, it's ok. You should check it out for yourself. I'm going to insert it now (my favorite excerpt)

It didn't matter that the story had begun, because the kathakali discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don't surprise you with the unforseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover's skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again.
That is their mystery and their magic.

Next up is Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom and Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

I don't know why I've started reading again. It's a bit soothing, actually.

I've also started going to the gym again too. It's thrilling. I've never before experienced that rush of endorphins that seems to elate everyone else, at least not until last week.

Since then I have been running more and feeling really good.

My life is going well right now.

It's hard sometimes to recognize when that is, so thank you to all my friends who make this possible.

I'd like to thank the Academy as well. Together, we shall prevail.

My Life is Complete

I follow religiously the Ball Don't Lie NBA blog on Yahoo!

J.E. Skeets, the editor, often holds these "Create-A-Caption" contests with fake prizes. He posts up a picture and beseeches his readers (who number in the thousands) to create the funniest caption, which he chooses and puts under the next contest.

On more than one occasion, I offered my own NBA-related humor, but always to no avail. I wasn't hurt by it, really, since I know there are dozens of other submissions. BDL is extremely popular.

However, the other day, one of my captions was recognized as a runner-up. My Yahoo! nickname is AJ. The picture for which I wrote the caption is not the big one, but this one. I can prove it by showing you my original submission, which is number 41.


I am funny after all.

Or at least, I was funny once.

Denver Overload

I got a call from Anna, Cece, Hien and I think Lana. It was 4AM. Wonderful. Haha, they're hilarious, those Denver girls. I hope the retreat went well.

About 15 hours later, Matt and I picked up Quyen from Lion Plaza. I met her parents, who are very chill and funny. We ate at Sushi Boat, which was ok. Matt was marveling at the carousel of boats going counter-clockwise with its crew of sushi plates aboard.

He commented at how many boats there were, how it was so hard to choose a boat from so many.

And I of course commented, "Now you know how our parents felt."

There were a lot of edamame plates. Matt and I decided to place six of them on one boat, just to throw people off. Quyen, of course, wanted nothing to do with it.

"OMG, I don't know you guys," was her constant intersession.

Well, for those of you who understand the dynamics of sushi-boating, it takes a bit of time before one round is complete. So Matt and I got 3 or 4 plates of edamame on one boat. Running out of said edamame plates, we waited, plucking up innocent edamame plates along the way so as to hold them off for the mother ship.

I see our boat coming back around, and Matt and I make quick of our work. We run out again however, and only got about 4 on the boat. So we just waiting one more time for the carousel to come back around, again plucking up more plates of edamame.

Then, I catch a glimpse of the boat.

"Damn it," I exclaimed. "Guess what Matt?"
"What," was his reply.
"Wrong boat."
"What?"

We had almost covered up two different boats with edamame.

Epic edamame fail.

But at least we got frozen yogurt later. =)

It's Business Time

This is an interesting setting, in more ways than one.

I feel a sense of digital deja vu, typing along in the wee hours of the night. Those who know me understand that "wee" in this context doesn't mean the early hours of the morning. This time, it means "little" or "very small." 2:30AM is not late, it is a small hour, a time ungrown into the day. It's still early for me. My deja vu comes not from my physical setting, the school of business is very new to me. It comes from the familiarity of late-night procrastination.

These hours have inadvertently become familiar to me, like a child who never grows up, trapped in an innocence that we cannot help but come to love.

But maybe we don't love children like we think we do. Maybe we simply have grown used to their presumed innocence, their assumed naivete. We are used to their smallness, their youth that we sometimes envy. And maybe it is not the Love of emotions, but rather the Love of habit that we feel for them.

For we are often broken-hearted more over habit than for love itself. It is the habit of care that becomes for us a part of our day, a part of our lives and a part of ourselves. And when this habit breaks, against our will, against our choice, we become desolate, like we lost a part of ourselves, a sandal in the ocean that the tides take and never return.

I hate these hours. I used to revel in them. I used to dominate the nightly/morningly rants and adventures that were a part of me like the air I breathe. They were the branches to my tree and my leaves were golden, shimmering just as the sun hinted its suffocating arrival.

But like a tree, my leaves have fallen, and I grew accustomed to my emptiness. I didn't mind losing my leaves, my glistening foliage. My branches were barren, but I still had myself and I was okay. But autumn's end inevitably brings winter, and now I am laden with snow. I embraced my fate with optimism at first, admiring the twinkle of each snowflake, the beauty of powder glistening around me.

Then the snowflakes built up. My boughs were burdened with blankets of blizzard-induced snow, and their weight pushed me down.

Now these hours are lived without adventure, without enjoyment. They are a burden on me. My choices have left me heavy with duty. Each new dark realization becomes an icicle below my branches, stabbing into the air like a falcon's talon, searching for weakness.

I don't want to be a tree anymore. That's lame.

We were all young once, wishing, yearning to be free. I was too. So I chose to reach as high as I could go. I never realized that no matter how high I want to go, that no matter how beautiful the journey and growth may be, I will always be firmly rooted in the Earth. Terra Madre holds me down.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Cuz it's fuckin' boring in a cage.