I am sitting up on the bed in my tiny apartment in Pasadena. It's about 9pm, and my Indian neighbor is blasting his Bollywood music, the singer serenading the empty, melancholy space that divides each apartment dwellers from getting to know one another except of our music tastes. The ceiling fan hums above, trying its best to combat the stifling cubicle space that is of my home. The high-pitch singing goes on, intermingling with the mechanical sound of the to-and-fro Metro train. I stared at the window opposite of mine for a short second, its blind shut completely, yet the music escapes unmistakably with its longing plea.

My writing has become stilted. The naturalness is gone, despite my best efforts and intentions. It's difficult to fathom two years have gone by since my last blog entry. My original intention was to never touch this journal again, as it brought back a myriad of emotions and turmoil that was a daily part of my life. Yet from time to time I find myself going back to reread a few entries at a time, reliving what I thought was unlivable, and found my former self as someone I was not altogether presently detached from, despite the months and years that have slowly gone by. The current of life brought me respite from, but failed to completely erase the memory of, the Michelin of two years past. I would like to keep this journal alive.

With my sincereness, thank you for putting up with my trivial nonsense, ungrammatical writing, and rudderless aim at the concept of blogging. I have decided to put an end to this blog, as it has run its course. I will continue to explore the world of blog, and yours as well. May we meet again.

The program read Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 1 and Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 for tonight's performance. It was one of those evening in which the air hung heavy like a thick curtain, refusing to be stirred. Sitting at the elevated back section, one commands a panoramic view of the Bowl. I took out a box of tuna sushi bought from a Japanese grocer for $6, opting not to pay $16 for the ones sold at the Bowl. The box consisted of four nigiri sushi and several maki sushi, not exactly a bargain in real term but a tremendous saving compared to the price gouging at any entertainment event. Carefully I tear open the soy sauce package and spill the content into a small plastic jar, and ran my thumb and index finger over the package so as to squeeze out every single drop. (The preciousness of this act is only understandable to those who buy takeout sushi.) I dab the chopstick into the wasabi and smeared what clung to it on top of the nigiri, dipped the tuna, as if glancing, into the soy sauce, and swallowed the little piece of perfection in two bites. At the same time that I chewed over the raw tuna and rice, I cast several envious glances down at the dining section right next to the stage, where pre-concert dining is held, mostly among wealthy senior citizens. The servers bustle about to and fro; the diners dined and wined and laughed a great deal. They seemed happy.

After finishing the sushi, I felt bored and a strange emptiness left me enervated. I had half hour to kill before the start of performance. I took out the New Yorker but couldn't focus on the reading. Instead I eavesdropped on the conversations of fellow concertgoers. One guy was talking of how his cat liked to scratch the sofa; a girl talked of her meeting with overseas relatives; and a modelesque couple engaged in a ferocious make out session, parrying off curious glances by their complete indifference. I followed the conversations in dribs and drabs and soon lost interest. By habit I took out the mobile phone and went over the contact list, scrolling down and up of names, some of whom I strained to recall. Of those whose memory dated back three or four years ago, I chose to hit the delete button: what was the use of keeping them, for sentimental reasons? As Graham Greene once wrote in Orient Express (I believe it was Coral Musker, the chorus girl, who said it), "Perhaps I have a life in people's minds when I am not there to be seen or talked." I have long ago ceased to have a life in their imagination; it is time for I to suspend theirs as well.

Tags: Hollywood Bowl, Los Angeles Philharmonic, Takeout sushi

As the sky transitioned into an evening mauve, the streak of white cloud that hung precariously during the day evaporated with the going of the sun. Slowly and gradually the warm stillness of the day is chased away by the breezy evening, a changing-the-guard event which I am all too glad of. The residual daylight barely illumined the torn, yellowing pages of the used textbook, as sitting at the outdoor stone bench outside the Central Library I became a more voracious reader than usual. I read on, hoping to catch up on the reading schedule prescribed by my first-ever online class. The previous occupant of this bench had scattered small bits and crumbs of bread and flattened popcorn underneath the bench, thus attracting a troupe of pigeons gawking not far away from me at the morsels. A few brave ones caught me unaware and ventured cautiously under the bench to grab away what's left. A few more pages turned and the words became strained by the enveloping semi-darkness. On one command the street lights start casting a strange pall over the library veranda, intermingling with the dark purplish evening; the outdoor corridor is no longer conducive to reading. I walked into the underground parking, taking the stair on purpose so as to make up for the complete lack of exercise that is of my current life. By the time I steered the car onto the downtown surface street, the sky had turned completely dark, and the high level of artificial illuminations had put up an imaginary big tent to prevent the evening and the star from crushing down.

Tags: Summer, Evening

Dear anyone,

What prompted me to get up middle in the night to hastily compose this short writing is a matter much to complicated for my muddle-headed mind to converse clearly. Nevertheless, I will try. This moment shouldn't be forgotten for all there is. I am generally an agnostic when it comes to religious belief, but at a moment like now, when I am wrought by what once seemed a serendipity but turned out to be an unfortunate joke all to cruel for me to swallow, I think there indeed might be something up (or down) there who is conducting this little charade. I won't go into details but just let it be known that this is not pretty, and I, like an unsuspecting fish, took the bait all too eagerly.

It is pretty pathetic at a time as now to assign blame on something one doesn't usually associate with. When one is at the end of the cul-de-sac and have no way out, one is sure to curse at the bright blue sky that is smiling back at you -- more like a smirk. Forgive me.

Best of luck, from the depth of my...whatever,

Nobody

Awoke in the morning without the pensiveness of last night. The bare white wall was dappled in August sunlight. First thing I did after getting up was watering my small pot of cactus, then putting it on the windowsill where it gets its exposure to the sun. It gives me a sense of purpose always when watching the water slowly sift through the dry clay. Seeing the cactus exposed to the bright sunlight is another way of affirming my usefulness, however small it may be. The plant was somehow thrust into my care without my wanting it at the time, perhaps one or two years ago, but it is now an indispensable part of my daily routine.

Waited until my roommate is done with the bathroom. While performing the morning ablution I pondered about the upcoming Thursday, a day in which I look forward to as if standing on needle and pin. Thursday night is LAPHIL night at the Hollywood Bowl. The true excitement lay not in the music but the person with which that will be sitting next to me. And if that person happens to be a potential special someone, which is something that I am quite unaccustomed to, given my long absence on the dating scene, then one is bound to worry endlessly.

After a hurried brunch at an Italian cafe, I started making rounds at various grocers and stores, such as Whole Foods Market and Trader Joe's for salad ingredients and cheese and wine. Afterwards went over to IKEA to check out stemless wine glass (because plastic won't do!) for use at the Bowl. After much contemplation at the wine glass section, I chose two $1.99 rather unorthodox glass piece for their aesthetic appeal. Of course things don't end this easily at IKEA, for there bound to be useless things you would pick up on the meandering path to checkout counter.

Walking out of the giant IKEA building, the sun still shone brightly in the midst of its downward path. I did a mental check of the to-do list, to reaffirm my commitment for Thursday.

Ticket -- check.
Food -- check.
Refreshment -- check.

"Oh yeah," pouting my lips, and said out loud when no one is near, "I haven't even asked that special someone yet."

Tags: IKEA, Uncertainty

N. and I each hurriedly rushed out of our office to catch the first Hollywood Bowl Metro bus that is scheduled to depart at 5:40 pm. Along the way we stopped by a Taiwanese bakery, Japanese grocer for sushi, and Trader Joe's for an inexpensive bottle of pinot grigio and some cheese, all to be enjoyed at our picnic night out with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Usually the thought of Thursday late afternoon drive toward downtown and Hollywood is as unappetizing as eating at Taco Bell. But upon hearing about the park and ride program, which transport concert goers in Torrance straight to the Bowl without stops, we decidedly purchased the least expensive ticket available online (face value $6, plus $5 process and convenience charge by Ticket Master) and headed toward an evening under the spell of Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody. We arrived at the stop around 5:40, but fortunately the first bus was still there. We boarded the bus and found seating; we were mostly surrounded by enthusiastic senior citizens with picnic baskets and canvas bags. A single trip fare costs $2.50, with the benefit of not having to worry about driving and expensive and troublesome parking at the Bowl.

During the bus ride, curiosity and excitement interlaced heavily, in part due to the concert, but another for the bus ride along the 110 freeway, a first since my residence in Los Angeles. I looked out the window while the bus sped past cars as it slowly disengages from the massive flow onto the carpool lane, surpassing the gridlock of one-person vehicle lanes that I often find myself the victim in the midst of. Somehow, when I am not driving, the perception of the city softens, exuding a sense of skittishness. As the bus make its way past the tall steel and glass section of downtown, I dozed off; so did N. The muffled combustive sound of engine worked like a gentle lullaby. In under an hour we were delivered to the front entrance.

The crowd was heavily gathered at the monied section. The back benches where we belonged were occupied sparely. N. and I laid out the wine and the food on the bench, and decidedly put on our talent of eating on display. When the wine was drained about half way, the sky begin its gradual enclosure of darkness, and cool breeze gently blowing, along carried the strong scent of acidic red wine from fellow neighbors, soaking the evening air like spilled wine eating up white tablecloth. The open-air venue exposed a wide cloudless night sky, though only a handful of stars could be seen. The droning sound of cicadas regurgitated through the ears. Besides the eating, we conversed on just about every conceivable topics between two good friends, under the hidden stars. Then we spent the best Thursday evening immersed in Mussorgsky, Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky.

Tags: Hollywood Bowl, Los Angeles Philharmonic,

At each long communal table at Philippe's, strangers rub elbows with strangers, and spicy mustard in clear plastic jar is passed from one diner to the next. There are four or five wooden public phone booth by the front entrance, clearly lost in their purpose to society, but nevertheless provided the place with nostalgia that goes so well with the famed French Dip sandwich. The beef is sandwiched by a french roll, with the top end (or both, if you like) submerged in au jus. The exterior crispy; the interior laden with juiciness. The hour is approaching lunch time, and the crowd is only getting denser. The bus boy patrols up and down each single narrow lane between tables, to clear away finished trays. I am engrossed in the sandwich and the scene. The Dostoevsky novel serves no purpose this late morning.

Despite the airiness inside, sunlight was pouring down outside, though the temperature is mild for an August day. I put on the iPod headphone, listening to French Ecole lesson one to four -- Bonjour! Salut! Au revoir! Tres bien! -- and started the walking tour of Chinatown and nearby community prescribed by Angels Walk LA. The walk included the LAPL Chinatown branch, and I ended up spending an hour inside browsing the wealth of Chinese language materials. The tour itself was not remarkable, but there were few things that I missed on prior visits, such as Chung King Road, the Alley nearby and Bruce Lee's studio.

On the raised platform of Chinatown Station, waiting to catch the light rail train to Union Station, one is offered a panoramic view of the city shrouded in a semi-gauze. The rather long wait on the sleepy platform was conducive to self-introspection, from the weighty to the frivolous. The weight of summer semester has just been lifted off my shoulder, and the remaining three weeks are free for whatever whim I have, so long they don't cost more than $40 over a weekend. That is correct. I live so cheaply as a result of my tuition fees and the desire to travel as much as my finance and time allowed. I repeat to myself: lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi...Then it hit me, all of a sudden, the notion that I can't get a date in this city is simply that in my circle of acquaintance, and they are limited in numbers, sadly, almost no one shares any of my interests or views. In their eyes, I am the perculiar donkey that traverse downtown via public transportation and reads Dostoevsky and Henry James for hobby and listens to French-learning podcast, rather than clubbing in Hollywood three nights a week or showing off their latest Lexus or boast about how great Southern California is by not going anywhere or join a church. It is time for a new circle.

The light rail took me back to the Union Station through which I transferred to the subway line and exited Pershing Square Station toward 4th street, where the Grand Central Market is located. The open-air market has a distinctive Latino flavor to it, with stalls selling Mexican spices, taco stands and fruit seller being the most prominent. I have always loved open-air markets, from Vancouver's upscale Granville Island to sawdust-covered Grand Central to the less-glamorous neighborhood morning markets in Taipei. As a small kid I would be holding my mother's hand while she complains to the butcher about the price of pork and urging him to throw in a free batch of leek to compensate it. The scene in itself is indelible, and I recall with fondness whenever I need to escape from reality.

On the way home, I stopped by the Central Library, checked out 續集, an Eileen Chang (張愛玲) short stories collection. In it a particular passage I especially like, and in my clunky translation, they are:

"I buried my face in the rice bowl while sweeping up the rice, [to hide my] spirit walking on cloud nine, it was the most glorious moment of my life."

This was a scene in which Chang was about eight or nine and the family was gathered for a meal. Chang was already considered a genius at young age. She detected a slight medicinal taste in the chicken soup despite no one at the table had suspected. The perspicacious mother inquired and confirmed that the cook had earlier fed the live chicken some home remedy when it appeared sick in the yard.

I could not help it but to smile silently at the printed page 38.

Tags: Los Angeles, Philippe's French Dip, Grand Central Market, LAPL, 張愛玲, Eileen Chang, 續集

The late afternoon breeze was a welcoming change after days of sultry onslaught of heat and stillness that suspended all imaginative emotions except for that uncontrollable yearning for ice cold Coca Cola to be poured down my throat. The cool breeze wafted through the warm air like a messenger carrying nostalgic good news from home. A small puddle has gathered on a small depression close to the sidewalk, the water flowing down from the nearby sprinkler quenching the thirst of a big patch of grass colored like summer in a dry yellowness. Slowly the water surface expanded, forming a delicate dark mirror that reflected the cloudless sky that seem so heavy at times. I sat on the grass watching as two sparrows landed nearby the puddle and began drinking from it, though not without their usual cautious manner, taking tiny sip at a time and watching all too alertly for any disturbance or movement. One sparrow took the liberty of submerging its tiny feet in the middle, jumping about after every sip of cold water in a circular motion, creating a small ripple in the otherwise cool darkness. Their taking in of the cool liquid made me realize of my own thirst and hunger. I went into kitchen, took a plate of curry rice -- extra spicy -- and a big glass of ice water, and sat down on a shaded spot on the grass in the front yard, the freshly-cut grass felt cool and prickly against the rump. The confluence of curry and grass and heat and breeze were a combination of rather nice texture to the mind.

Tags: Summer

These days alarm clock is unnecessary as the muggy weather thoroughly invaded the room before Sunday sleep came to a satisfactory point. As a result one is awoken to the heat and humidity, a sensation more real than the illusory dream that perpetuated throughout the night. Once the mind became sentient to reality, one realizes the clamminess that stuck to the night shirt, and every pore on the skin is open for business, discharging an endless stream of salty sweat. The electric fan is continuously humming, but its effect against the unusual summery heat is almost neglectful. Before washing I turned on the iBook to check on the day's weather: 100°, partly cloudy with 66% humidity.

Thought about taking the camera out for shoot around downtown, but had to decide against it as I won't be able to last beyond 30 minutes under the balmy condition. Instead, took the car in for an oil change; did some grocery shopping at both American and Chinese market; got a coke slurpee from 7-Eleven; ate cold soba for lunch; and, finally, fought for the one last open table at the chilled enclosure of Starbucks and began reading Timothy Findley's Not Wanted on the Voyage, a random purchase from Chapters while in Vancouver. The heat is said to last till tomorrow.

Tags: Los Angeles, Weather, Heat

Trying to do some library researches using Windows, and this is what happened -- twice! Ctrl+Alt+Del took three minutes to work, only to be hit by the same problem again. Finally I had to force shut down everything and start all over on Mac.

Nice, eh?

Tags: Windows, Mac

Putting on a worn, frayed white t-shirt with chino pants, and a pair of flip-flop under my sole, the gentle evening breeze obliged the evening dinner plan with N. at a nearby Vietnamese cafe. It was only after getting to the cafe that N. called to inform she is stuck at work and won't be out anytime soon. I thought of leaving at once, but the faint smell of phở (or the imagery of it) persuaded my general reluctance of dining alone in a restaurant to let it pass. Instead, Lord Jim will be my dinner companion.

The patio section had five or six tables, all of which were empty, despite the agreeable evening weather. The patio view is nonexistent -- it expands into a gigantic parking lot of a strip mall, and a gas station stood at the corner of my vision. The depth of summer fading gradually in the course of the sinking sun, its impression upon the suburban landscape is of palpable one that turns from hard edges into mellowness, and behind the blue tapestry above the sketchy outline of moon began to take shape. What remained of the sun light reflected off the worn, yellowing pages of the book, a Modern Library hardcover edition dating to 1969, accentuating the fading ink that testify to the ongoingness of time.

Without so much as a sound the server placed the phở on the table, while glancing curiously at the book cover. "Good book?" "Excellent," I replied, "but very taxing."

As the whiff of beef broth slowly trickles through the air, I tear up a few leaves of basil, in addition with bean sprouts, to be added to the soup. The few slices of red raw beef sitting on top of the noodle formed a strong contrast with the sprinkled leafy green. I take in two spoonful of the broth -- a little taste of happiness -- and watched street lamps lip up one after another, casting a artificial pall over the suburban setting with which I try to extricate from.

Tags: Phở, Lord Jim, Suburb

Sometimes one cannot ask too much from life, especially when sipping coffee at Peet's Coffee & Tea on Lake ave. in Pasadena and reading a fine novel such as Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim. It is not everyday one gets a choice between Starbucks (there is one right across from here) and Peet's, when the former straddles just about every block in Los Angeles. The conclusion of a six-hour lecture early this morning has left me devoid of purposeful mind except for sitting here twiddling my thumb and occasionally casting gaze upon passersby on the sun-drenched sidewalk serried with shoppers going in and out of Macy's. Time imperceptibly ticks away, like a tree branch falling in the middle of a desolate forest. The fire ball in the sky continues its slow descend through the usual course, imprinting the city with a degree darker shade of light as it travels further away.

The long wooden bench on which I am sitting makes a reassuring creaking sound whenever I shift my position. I read through Marlow's account of Jim; of their conversation about the Patna; of Marlow's meeting with the French seaman; of Marlow's introspection of himself, of Jim, of the French seaman. In between pages the hue of gloaming, imbuing the city with a softer glow of light, brought the world beyond the coffer shop's window closer to one's mind, shortening the distance that was once put in place by the unbearable heat and glare. What followed immediately after was a dark radiance permeating the blue sky, all together intermingling to produce a pale purple ambience that bespoke of things sad and beautiful. As if by social norm, couples that once occupied tables left the establishment to attend perhaps their dinner appointments; the remaining ones sat stoically in the midst of their page turning.

Tags: Los Angeles, Peet's, Lord Jim

The morning light sifted through the blind and cast a soft brightness about the basement room where I am lodged. With just a slight tilt of the head while reposed, one could see the sharp blue sky without a speck of white. The whole dormitory was quiet, quiet to a point where I begun to suspect if there are other travelers besides myself. The communal bathroom was empty, and without any evidence of use, except that one of the toilet wasn’t functioning. While passing by the TV room, a girl sat motionless there, reading her paperback, without giving any thought to the passing person. I need not mention which day this is, for everyday in Vancouver started out this way.

Emerging from my dungeon, the sun light pierced through the vision like a penetrating gaze that one couldn’t stand looking at. The morning coolness, while slowly evaporating, served as a small respite before the full blast of heat. I walked the usual 12 minutes-walk to the nearby bus station, all the while passing by travelers and students alike. My right foot still aches, and my knees growing weaker. But the pain is worth it, as I am bound to recall every poignant detail of this short ship in the midst of school paper deadline and work. I took an obligatory detour into a small grocery market near campus and purchased a bus day-pass.

Traveling alone takes commitment, and not everything can go smoothly. While riding the Seabus going from Vancouver’s Waterfront Station to North Vancouver’s Lonsdale Quay, in the midst of 150-plus strangers, watching the ferry cleave through the smooth surface of the sea, the din of chatters from fellow passengers can really drown out one’s independent spirit. Watching as the Waterfront Station recedes into the distance and forming into a postcard scenery, and feeling the slight wobbling of the ferry, an uneasiness came over my mind, questioning my stubbornness in traveling alone -- will I travel alone for the rest of my life?

But I should not exemplify the abovementioned as what the trip concluded to be. Simple, blissful moments are abundant, and only could be achieved by my traveling solo. At times the aching of the foot grew so unbearable that it was excruciating to tolerate another step more. The cure of such annoyance turns out to be a simple C$0.99 ice cream cone from 7-Eleven. I walked as I take in the simple delight of life, and soon the sweetness made me forget all about the pain. The walk on Seymour to Gastown, from Davies to Denman, from the seawall at the Stanley Park to the inner forested trekking path, all were accomplished with patience and a little confection.

And there was the oyster burger consumed at the Granville Public Market. Bought at the fish and chips stall inside the teeming market, I chose a wooden bench laden with sunshine splashing down directly, with view of the tranquil English Bay to keep me entertained, the burger, though slightly overpriced, was as good as anything I have tasted on this trip. Savoring the moist texture of oyster and fish and chips, the sea water pushing forever gently against the pier, there might not have been a more perfect moment on the entire trip.

All good things must come to an end. YVR-LAX will take place at 9 am tomorrow. Many more things, nuances that I wish to convey to you will have to wait. Although some will be lost.

Tags: Travel, Canada, British Columbia, Vancouver

The morning during which I stood under the expansive sky of Vancouver, as if in response to my curious gaze, it smiled back in its big, sweeping way, something the sky of Los Angeles had not done for me for a long time.

The 7:40 am flight from LAX required waking up before the prevalence of day light, but the bulbous crowd at the airport gave testimony of people's eagerness to travel on the July 4th weekend. And seven hours after the landing at YVR, my legs are tired and hurting from a full day of walking and hiking. Each step I take is a reminder of my sedentarily wasted days and months working at a company I think not much of (also a sign of thinking not much for myself). At Blenz, The Canadian Coffee Company, a cup of Royal Tea Latte, at C$3.30, is working magically in its persuading my brain not to bother with the aching. As theclichehés goes, A painful day of traveling is better than any day in Los Angeles.

This is my first landing in Canada, a vast country so close to the States that one is certain to forget about. Aside from the occasional jab by comedians on TV poking fun of its northern neighbor, and the not-so-often newspaper articles on Canadian politics, I have no conception of what this beautiful, diverse country represented, as Vancouver serves as a small slice of the whole of Canada.

The public transportation is excellent, even without an extensive system of underground trains. From YVR to University of British Columbia, where my lodging is, it took about 40 minutes, including two transfer, one at Broadway and Granville, and another at Airport Station. Along the ride, with which my mind was jubilant at not having to drive, I took in as much as humanly possible of the street scenes of this foreign city, not letting go even small details such as the postal box and gasoline prices. There were quite a few travelers and backpackers in the same bus; we each smiled awkwardly to one another, but desist from inquiring more.

I decide to spend the first day exploring the campus and surrounding areas of UBC. A typical college town, if not for its situating in the midst osnow-cappeded mountains and renowned beaches, it did not impress too greatly in term of its architecture. The nearby Wreck Beach, a short hike away from the campus, is an experience I will not forget for a long time. Setting out for the hike with an innocent intention of capturing the beach scene with my camera, the beach offers a swath of naked sun-bathers whose pubic hair and private parts were one with nature. I wasn't sure which way to aim the camera at.

(It's with great difficulty to find a wireless internet connection near UBC, except by paying C$10 for access to the campus' wireless connection for 24 hours. Nearby Blanz's connection just doesn't work!)

Tags: Travel, Canada, British Columbia, Vancouver, UBC

The oppressing summer heat showed no signs of letting up as the clock hand strive toward seven in the evening. Behind the French window I sat alone at a small table, concentrating on the New Yorker that had just arrived by mail. On a Friday evening it is almost impossible to find a lone coffee drinker in the air conditioned Starbucks. I just found myself.

"Tall Tazo Green Tea Frappuccino Blended Cream with Melon Syrup," bellowed the barista behind the counter. A handsome Japanese couple went over and claimed their purchase.

My choice is simpler: "Regular coffee in short size. In my own thermal cup, please." $1.25. No embellishment. Just lukewarm coffee. In an air conditioned room.

After reading few paragraphs I habitually lifted my gaze toward the world beyond the wide windows, loitering for just few short seconds, fearing something may gone amiss without my realizing it. Although nothing ever happens. I took a small sip of coffee, and at the corner of my vision, a middle-aged, slouchy woman sat down at the table on the other end, normally a sight of no significance, however, her simple manner of enjoying the coffee I was unable to avert looking. On her table there were no books, magazine or newspaper; she had no interlocutor, the cup of coffee serving as the sole entertainment. Sitting with her back facing the sinking sun light to the west, her silhouetted profile looked refined, her ways of sipping as if she were savoring the precious dark liquid like a connoisseur. Occasionally, too, casting her gaze beyond the window, her brooding way of looking about made reflections that were as if looking at my own shadow.

"Tall Caramel Macchiato" was all it takes to snap out of my semi-trance.

Then I recall something I wrote down from The Book of Laughter and Forgetting: "Litost is a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery."

The middle-aged, slouchy woman left. Then a noisy group of teenagers occupied her place.

Tags: Starbucks, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Litost

The hollowness returned as soon as I concluded the lively phone conversation with B., a hollowness that in recent weeks in particular has attributed a poignant sense of unhappiness that I find unbearable as the days progress in their droning movement. Nevermind. I motion to return to the pages of The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, in which I find temporary escape from the mundane, from the helplessness that one ought to feel in my current context. Gazing over the pages, my mind, like a film wheel, revisited the phone conversation in a nuanced swiftness. Despite her carefully masticated words, hints of disbelief and sorrow that were hidden so well were excavated from the depth of her voice and emotion, as they are directed toward my predicament, toward the BREADTH of my ennui.

Nothing is more true than this blog in conveying the sentient mind. In speech, as in the phone conversation, the pressure is on the speaker to present ideas in a coherent, comprehensible way, so as for the interlocutor to reciprocate the correct sentiments that are fitting for the occasion. However, in ways I can't explain quite well, the process somehow loses its original intent, for the process itself is polishing the content and hurrying out the ideas in a timely manner. No, it has less to do with polishing than it is with getting the crude idea across to the other person. The spoken words are thus akin to manuscripts without proofread or merchandise without rigorous quality control. As a result, the main ideas are presented but the nuances that are central to the idea are gone missing and the interlocutor is left with an understanding that is not quite consistent with what the speaker was trying to say. I was never a gifted speaker, in public or private.

The din of airplanes can be heard occasionally in the evening as they travel in and out of LAX, and the sound of them rattles my placid, uninspiring life to a point where I fancied about dropping out of everything and take the path of a world wanderer. Of course this is just all fanciful thinking: What will I do with my books and belongings? My IRA? 401K? My social obligation to my mom, myself, my landlord, bank account, school and the cat I will be adopting once my financial foundation is lain? I am simply too worldly a person, still shackled by the things I somewhat loath; and those aspirations I secretly harbor in my daydreaming mind set are simply too chancy for my temperament to undertake.

Sadly, I am unable to convey even just one percent of the abovementioned statement to B. over the phone; it seems to me pretentious to be talking about the impossible. By the same token the chance to make speech has ruined many a times worldly opportunities that I sought. Seeing myself through her eyes, I am a lonely person living in a desolate city, waiting and waiting for my break, my futile hope that somehow in the next instant a thunderous roar will break open the great mountain that is obstructing my path. But in truth, I have no desired path except to escape it all by jumping over the fence and take life as I see it, though the unreality of it is sober enough that I dare not to heed the call of the wild. In compensation I assuage my feelings by living in a parallel universe in the novels, blogging, and my periodic traveling away from Los Angeles. I am quite content with my own unhappiness. Your pathos will be better received elsewhere.

Tags: Life, Los Angeles, self-examination

After a steamy shower sweat started pouring out of the back skin, soaking the fresh T-shirt to an uncomfortable stickiness. The electric fan hummed continuously in the background, at once mingled with silence, then it became the silence, an silence that was needed in order to finish the New Yorker that just arrived in the mail today. The spinning fan kept down the stifling heat only to a bearable level. It is still warm, the T-shirt sticking to my back reminds me the hatred I have of this summer weather. I put both elbows on the windowsill, facing the semidarkness outside. The evening air felt cool to the face, but somehow the window demarcated the coolness from entering the room. I go back to reading the fascinating article on Oriana Fallaci, a woman of both courage -- she had "balls" -- and silliness.

The heat just won't go away, and the warm air congealed into an unmoving mass that hovered about the room. The coaster, already soaking wet, sits under a big glass of ice water that needed refill every thirty minutes. When the heat gets unbearable, I would put the big glass of ice water next to my cheek, roll it around carefully, a sensation much like diving into a swimming pool, except on a far smaller scale. By the pale light of the lamp, sitting on a mat on the carpet, line by line I took in each word as carefully as possible, going from the magazine to Marguerite Dura's The War. Life isn't so bad, as long as you have got the strength and concentration to read. A particular passage in the book grabbed my attention: "It's wrong to move too much, a waste of energy, you have to save all your strength to suffer."

The next day I was again awoken by the morning heat. The sun pour through the window blind in a wholesale fashion. When my feet touched the carpet, it was warm from the sun light. I shut the blind with one angry pull, dive into the bed, trying wholeheartedly to dream again, but to no avail. I am no longer 18, where it was easy to go back to sleep in the morning. Gradually reality -- and my bladder -- swallowed every bit of dreaminess; sleep was chased away completely. I pull on the blind angrily to open, revealing the typical Southern California sky, where the speckless blue sky smiles down at you with its enormous breadth. It's really beautiful to look at, only if I could have it without the temperature. I thought about taking out a cigarette, like they do in novels, only to realize I don't smoke.

Tags: Los Angeles, Marguerite Duras, The War, New Yorker

Through the small window the sun light impressed a soft square spot on the sturdy wooden floor, exposing a dusty tube of air, almost unmoving, disturbed only when the waitress walks through it. At an early hour the breakfast cafe was already gathering a waiting crowd on the sidewalk. The serried pavement was stomped by youthful energy that is characteristic of Hollywood. One can even tell that some were club goers waiting to grab a bite before going to bed. The cloud-flecked sky of the past days was replaced by a big expanse of bright blue. Shorts and tank tops were the uniformity of the waiting young men and women. Summer has invariably arrived.

On the white-clothed table our vegetable omelette was delicious and coffee strong. N, in a red and white stripe polo shirt, with her collar turn up, was busy sipping and eating and carrying on the lively monologue with her animated physiognomy. She was so drawn into the conversation that the normally perspicacious N did not even notice my perfunctory nodding. Looking about the cafe, the arrival of summer-like weather has given Los Angelenos more reasons to lift their heads and smile at the gorgeous weather. Just then a plane cuts across the clear blue, soiling the sky with a trail of white and grey. In the midst of the morning languor her eloquence was muffled by a sudden clatter of plates and dishes hitting the floor, the sunlit square smeared with foods and sauces. The restaurant was hinged by a momentary suspense, unsure and fascinated by the spectacle -- an accidental work of art -- the waitress eyed her patrons with an entreating look before bending down to clean, and by consent everyone returned to their previously interposed conversations. The day went on just like any other, and I am drowning in monotony.

Tags: Monotony, N, Los Angeles

62%

The director at the School of Library and Information Science at San Jose State University sent out a fee increase notice on May 16, 2006 to students of the program. The fee increase for the special session in which I am enrolled, from $215 per unit to $349, a substantial 62% increase, is by no means an easy pill to swallow. While the director, Dr. Ken Haycock, did his best in explaining the reasoning behind the increase, pointing out that despite the increase the MLIS program at SJSU remains one of the most affordable in the U.S., I was rather piqued by his response to the deluge of student protests (mainly through email and electronic postings instead of mass demonstration and burning cars like those in France). His somewhat condescending tone did not do a good job in soothing student sentiment:

"The special session fee increase is not a “CSU fee” insofar as special session is to be an entirely self-supporting program; the faculty and staff extend themselves to provide the program; we are under no requirement to do so; we could simply cancel it and continue with the regular program of 600 students."

To even suggest closing the special session program in Southern California sounds as if we are an expendable lot of herds that should be thankful of the charity bestowed upon us by SJSU.

"Special session students have complained to me about inferior status, access to courses, quality of instruction, IT infrastructure; we can address these issues only through increased funds."

Improvement is the theme often cited to justify any means of fee increase. While I give credit to Dr. Haycock for addressing these apparent issues, I doubt the increased funds will propel any meaningful change to the current program; any additional funds will only be used in maintaining the status quo. It is just like gasoline, either at $2.50 or $3.37 the same mpg applies.

The trend of rising tuition costs across the U.S. makes it simply inevitable for SJSU to catch on. What caught us off guard, I believe, is the sheer magnitude of 62% increase. Imagine the happiness of getting a 62% salary raise at work, how will that change one's life? The same can be said for us students, already struggling with tuition and book and living costs in the state of California, 62% fee increase without any warning is not something we can stomach quietly.

Tags: SJSU SLIS, MLIS, Dr. Ken Haycock, Library education,

The fabled Los Angeles subway system, the Metro Red Line, betokened an impalpable excitement as I stood and stared incredulously at the entrance of Pershing Square station. The entrance is a long blackened staircase that descended into an airy wide corridor of steel and marble. Three ticket machines are moulded into the entrance wall, selling one-way ticket for $1.25. I had not a single change but a $20 bill. I inserted the feather weight paper money into the machine and got change all in the ever-unpopular Sacagawea gold dollar coins. (Try carrying around $18 worth of coins...) As I walked toward another set of staircase to embark on this sentimental journey, I was confounded to the fact that there were no system in place to check for tickets: riders were scurrying in and out of the station without anyone checking. My superfluous paper ticket remain unchecked throughout. Maybe Los Angelenos get to ride for free on Saturdays.

The platform on which I waited for the next train seemed a strong contrast to those in the Asian cities -- utterly lacking in commercialization, which might be a good thing in almost everything else, but in this case, no. The walls on both sides of the platform were black and bare as the innars of the tunnels, presenting no advertising opportunity for companies to showcase their latest products in colorful, well-lit graphic. Not that I cared much about the ads whenever I rode the Taipei MRT, but it does enliven the station and help pay the cleaning bill.

Los Angelenos are so in love with their cars and SUVs that the Red Line in thirteen years remains the only underground route in L.A. It goes from Union Station to North Hollywood -- a route that any one not living downtown would be insulated from. Looking about the platform, I noticed that no more than ten passengers were waiting. A few minutes later, a familiar sound gradually traveled through the tunnel and pressed upon my ears as that of the arriving train. Aboard the silvery train a strong sense of nostalgia swelled my city-hungry heart.

I took an almost unhealthy interest in every passing stations. Most were nondescript and dark; and some were rather filthy where plastic bags scatter about like the streets above some sections of Los Angeles. Exceptions were found in the Hollywood station (I can't recall which one) and the Union Station, with the former suffused with a colorful display of mosaic tiles and the latter an extension of grandeur of the Union Station. I sat placidly in the seat by the window, in between stations the occiput of the passenger in front or the small graffiti scratched on the back of passenger seats would direct my gaze for a short while. The swaying of the train and the familiar sound of doors closing and opening almost put me to sleep. But on second thought, this is Los Angeles.

Tags: Los Angeles, Metro Red Line, Subway, Mass Transit, Union Station

When darkness has fallen the 405 North continues its crawly motion into the foggy night. What was expected of a pleasant evening drive into Sherman Oaks turns out to be a many puckered brows. Luckily, the previous night I had had the foresight of downloading numerous podcast into the iPod to anticipate any prolonged idling on the freeway. A pair of high school friends of mine, who happens to study in Los Angeles as well, had invited me to their newly furnished apartment in the San Fernando Valley, a geographic area of Los Angeles that I rather not tread, for its endless succession attempts and that other L.A. newspaper, LA Daily News.

When I finally arrived and found a parking space, I am welcomed as always by my dear friends, who are a couple. Their freshly-painted apartment on the busy Wilshire thoroughfare exuded a sense of serenity that I found in them as well. Plastered on the walls are their yellowing photographs from childhood faraway places, from which I gathered the same warm smile that they still exhibit today.

After the brief tour of the apartment, a circle has gathered in the living room. Great, I thought, already we are skipping the alcohol and proprieties to play spin the bottle! Someone is kissing someone!

As I strategically picked my spot in the circle, at the same time eyeing for attractive faces, a anglicized voice sounded the salvo of the night: "Tonight we gather here for a genuine business opportunity."

"Huh?"

This genuine business opportunity gathering was no kissing matter; it was a multi-level marketing scheme presentation. A dump smile remained on my face for a few stuporous seconds, and immediately I thought of the precious $3.34-a-gallon gas that I spent on getting there. The presentation, coupled by forced Q&A session and psychological questioning and praise, lasted an hour and a half.

I walked out of the apartment, feeling duped and a sense of vacuity, and checked my money to make sure I did not pay $370 to get rich.

Tags: Multi-level marketing, San Fernando Valley, Sherman Oaks, Los Angeles

The narrow one-way street stood the residence of my childhood, a small ground floor unit that belongs to a grayish concrete building that stretches six stories high. The building itself is of common pedigree in the streets of Taipei, but the ground unit is especially pronounced by its facade -- a red wooden door that is twenty years behind the rest of the neighborhood, with its frail-looking, bright red paint been chipped away as time progress, leaving behind a look of withered spinster. Upon entering through the wooden door is a small garden, no bigger than perhaps a walk-in closet in many homes in the US. To call it garden is misleading, for the only foliage visible to the eyes are the uncultivated weed and dandelion that persevered in wherever crevices in the stone ground are found. But since the tiny square is well exposed to all earthy elements, I am inclined to calling it garden. I recall there once existed a small koi pond, in which during the sultry summer days I would dip my tiny feet in the cool water. There are, however, no evidence of any pond, and now everything is flatten and ugly and exposed.

I will like to take a few steps back and describe the street scene. I often think the street as a quiet fissure in the midst of noise and hustle and bustle of central Taipei. It takes two minutes of walk to reach from my house to the nearest MRT station. But I have never thought the place as noisy; in fact, it was almost too quite for my then restless young mind. On both side of the block are concrete buildings that are typical of ugly modern Taiwan architecture, the outer walls darkened by air pollution and steel bars in symbiotic relationship with glass windows. I didn't know what shielded the block from the busy movement of Taipei, but time there didn't seem to be in conjunction with the time outside. Tall apartment units stood row in row on both sides of the street. As a result I never knew what other people were talking about when they referred to a big expanse of blue sky; my notion of sky was always the long stretch of open air that hung above the block.

Tags: Childhood, Taipei, Taiwan, Home,

Seeing that unleaded gasoline has climbed to $3.24 a gallon, I have not the enthusiasm from last year about attending the annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at UCLA. But upon N.'s insistence that she will drive we left about 10 in the morning. Although the cloudy grey sky afforded not a shaft of sun light, the morning air was rather stuffy, the kind of weather that tells you to bring a light jacket that will never be used. We stopped at a convenience store to stock up on drinks and snacks for our little expedition to Westwood. As I exit the store and walked toward N.'s Volvo, I noticed her hands clenching the steering wheel, her face a brooding look. "What, again with the constipation?" was my instinctive question. She let out a little laugh. "I was just thinking, it has been almost five months since his accident. And yet, I have recovered well, almost too well."

"Not well enough to start dating," I said. "That means you haven't completely recovered."

"I think it will still be a while before I put myself on the market again. I just can't deal with that for the time being. But what I mean is that, life went on like nothing happened: I eat, I sleep, I laugh, all without great difficulties, and I am a little confused by it." She paused for a short moment, as if to gather her thought, but swallowed at the last second of whatever she was going to say.

We made way onto the 405 freeway, passing innumerable featureless Los Angeles architectures and scenery. Along the way we remain relatively quiet; if we talked, it was only small talk about our expectation of this year's book festival. Upon approaching Westwood, the area turned into a cluster of vehicles. The left-turning lane was backup for miles. We had to drive few blocks down and make an u-turn to get to the outlying parking lot. From there we had to take the bus to the festival, which I did not mind at all. When we got on the bus the seats were empty for our choosing; but at the next stop came on a swarm of riders and mix of body odors . This reminded me of Taipei, of living in a city where I am oblivious to the price of unleaded gasoline. The bus ride was short, and I almost wanted to tell N. that maybe we could just reminisce a little more of the ride. I kept my gaze at the passing Westwood Village and UCLA dormitories, at the gleaming million dollar high-rise apartments , till the bus reached our intended stop.

It was as if they never bothered to take down last year's festival settings and banners, because everything remain the same. The same Canadian tourism booth; the same $5 sale booth that always attracted the largest number of buyers; the same angry political activists yelling at the microphone. We were both a bit disappointed; and since we are not familiar with the author speakers, we had no interest in attending. We made an effort of going around every single booth at the festival, but it was clear that 90% of them had nothing to do with our literary taste. We found some decent paperback of Proust, Flaubert, Henry James, Virginia Woolf and Salman Rushdie at $ 5 each.

At noon the sky gave no hint of being one except for the rising temperature and humidity. We chose a big expanse of grassy hill, overlooking the south end of the festival, thronged by readers of all ages, and sat down for a little refreshment. N. went on to talk about her troubles; I went on a tangent about how I enjoyed the cozy bus ride. Then all of a sudden, N. said peremptorily: "I think he was cheating on me, and I suspect a girl at the funeral as his other girlfriend."

I did not at first know how to respond to this posthumous information. I went on sipping my coca cola. "He is dead. I am not sure if his having a side girlfriend will do any thing to help you feel better or not. You shouldn't bother yourself with it." I closed the conversation by reading the last few pages of Never Let Me Go, hiding the fact that I knew just a few months ago from a friend in Taiwan that this piece of information was indeed creditable.

Tags: Los Angeles, Festival of Books, N, UCLA

Every other week, a check would be deposited into my checking account, the amount would always be the same, and it was long ago that I stopped checking the number. I don't get to see the actual money a whole lot, for they are usually electronically sent out to places where services were rendered on my behalf. I do occasionally see them in physical form from my weekly $40 ATM withdrawal; but usually they are just some electronic number stored in a bank. It is a pity, I have always thought, that even though I worked hard for them for 40 hours a week, they provide no realization of anything tangible. Sure, they do their job just as well as real money, by keeping gasoline in my car and a roof over my head, but something seems missing. Instead of realizing dreams, the numbers are merely a tool of subsistence, of which the living had became tedious and dull. Yet day after day I perpetuate the daily going by furrowing brow at work and curse silently at disagreeable superiors. 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, fives times a week, the same s#$% would repeat itself, all under my watch.

Little consolation result from my attending graduate school. Graduate level courses demand a different set of ingenuity that my introverted personality so sorely lacks. Although first semester is coming to an end and I am in no danger of failing, instead of feeling triumphant or relief, a re-confirmation of my social-network ineptness is dragging my spirit down the sewage, swimming along with brown waters. I tried to compensate my social ineptness by studying hard for tests, but an B average student will always be an B average, as evidenced by my earning Bs in my first courses.

Well, life isn't so bad as I purport to be, like having lunch at that particular Chinese beef noodle place, of which none of my non-Taiwanese co-workers are willing to partake; or when in the afternoon a flock of certain colorful birds would form a choir and chirp for hours just outside of my big window at the office; or when I got to know a group of diverse and funny and smart people in classes, expanding my narrow universe just a bit wider. With Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go in hand, I chose a shady spot under a skinny maple tree and listened to the rustling tree. Soon the sound of a low flying airplane pressed upon my ears, reminding me that life is still worth living -- for now.

Tags: Trifle, Life, Never Let Me Go, Grad School,

"I always lacked common sense when taken by surprise."

The sentence was taken from Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, when Agnes refused an open umbrella, offered by Mr. Weston, the curate, under a light rain fall. Under similar context, what took place at the secondhand bookstore earlier today will have me writhe in regret. Will it end like the novel does?

Tags: Regret, Agnes Grey, Trifle

The nondescript wooden shack was pronounced by the surrounding concrete buildings, giving the prim-looking street a small touch of humility. I made a habit of going there for late night ramen during the three nights of stay at a hotel nearby. Every night, upon my going there, snow drifted, heaping on an already thick layer of snow on the roof. From outside, in the cold, one could see through the window, through the warm luminescence, in which the cook ministered to the boiling of noodle and the soup that goes in later. The seating was only few, laid out in a bar style; and every night only few men can be seen there, each sucking loudly of his ramen and beer.

The cook was a man of middle age, slightly over middle height, serving mediocre ramen (according to the hotel receptionist) that my uncultivated taste bud considered well enough. His face was square, perhaps too pronounced to be considered aesthetically; but perfect for a setting as such. He held a penetrating gaze at you whenever he handed over the bowl of ramen, an unmovable stoutness that bespoke stubbornness. The ramen soup and the beer warmed my stomach like nothing before.

The young waitress, perhaps his daughter, shared none of that intractableness the father had, comported herself in a quite, genial stride. She inherited her father's facial feature with a softened edge, by which she might be considered attractive in her own ways. Despite the drudge of menial work, she was always willing to supply that giddy smile of which I came to appreciate in my three visits there.

The dreaded date on the return ticket to LAX is fast approaching, rendering the last night of stay in Hokkaido ever more poignant. The voluptuous snowfall quickened its drifting motion downward, at a furious pace. I paid and went out joyously into the bitter cold for as long as I could, savoring the threefold luxury of travel, snow and melancholy.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, Travel

Noboribetsu (登別) was blanketed by a fine and substantial layer of snow by the time I finished the evening bath; and having just walked and ate my several rounds at the crab buffet dinner, a stroll in the snowy darkness was tempting enough despite the howling cold wind. Just beneath the hotel are rows of souvenir shops and convenience stores and restaurants, in which more or less the same products are offered and price variation does not fluctuate enough to justify taking the time for comparison. I took a borrowed umbrella, shielding from falling snow, and took each step carefully over the snow-covered slippery pavement. An underground canal is located right next to the hotel, in which the gushing of water toward the lower plain can be heard distinctively: it sounded clean, with a hollowness to it.

The distance between the hotel and the shop streets was of short, but the semi-darkness that demarcated the two was made more poignant by the running water and the snow. Emerging out of the darkness, the streets offered a teeming and cozy atmosphere where tourists like myself are prone to spend hard-earned dollars on kitschy things to take home. The streets seemed more remarkable from the top of the hotel, where the warmth softened my perception with a mawkish gauze; and having browsed four different souvenir stores with identical selections, my eyes grew weary, but the falling snow, a novelty in Los Angeles and Taipei, soon recovered my enthusiasm. I purchased a hot coffee laden with sugar and cream from the convenience store, and found a bench to sit down, adoring the white world around. "Wouldn't it be nice to live in a place like this?" the thought conjured a mental mirage that will have lodged in my mind for long, long time.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, travel, Noboribetsu, 登別, snow

On a mildly cool afternoon I sauntered along the airy canal and manifold shops of Otaru, savoring the sight and sound of things around, cherishing the last few days of stay in Hokkaido. A kitten, on the sidewalk opposite of mine, was about the cross the busy street, where cars and light trucks traveled on both directions at a rather high pace. I let out a gasp, seeing the kitten stamping his paws on the road when cars on both directions were closing in. My entrails convulsed at the thought of the kitten being crushed by the oncoming traffic. Fortunately, a loud squeaking braking sound was heard: traffic on both ends came to a temporary halt. The kitten huddled into a small furry ball, frozen in the middle of the road. The drivers let out a chorus of car horn and shouting and proceeded the kitten to the safety of the sidewalk. Tragedy averted, right in front of me. I regrouped from my momentary pasty appearance, made a murmuring sound toward the kitten, but enticed nothing. The kitten dashed for the narrow alley, in search of his fancy. "Good luck, kitten," I murmured, as the kitten disappeared into the distant alley. I consciously smiled on in watching the kitten venture on in life: a smile that is genuine and unaffected. I walked on toward the south end of the canal, relishing the sweet air of travel, feeling a bit better about the world.

Catching a bus back to Sapporo, a sense of doziness gradually overtook my faculty, I put down the novel, head resting on the bus window, and slept all the way back, perhaps with my mouth open. The sky was heavy with cloud by the time the bus arrived in the city, and the air imbued with wetness. After checking in at the Renaissance, I strolled around the streets, rode the subway just because I miss riding it, rub shoulders with Japanese high schoolers at the train station, blending into the mass of black hair, lost myself in the gait of the city. Utilizing the calm before the impending heavy rain, I stopped by the Old City Hall, Tokeidai, and Odori Park, taking in whatever sight and sound that were there, for my days of escaping reality were coming to an end soon. With a bit of an effort I found a twilit cafe with wireless connection. I ordered a cup of coffee together with a cream puff that was too big for my appetite, at once to write down the happening of the past few days before they escape from memory. Rain by now were pouring down hard and, with enough moisture in the air, snow seemed imminent. The panoramic glass window offered an unobtrusive view from the 3rd floor, where each sumptuous raindrop can be observed spattering the city. The clinking sound of silver spoon stirring coffee made me realize that I am unable to reflect the blissfulness of the past few days into words.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, Travel, Otaru, 小樽, Sapporo, 札幌

The first night in Tomakomai I was not able to sleep much. I cogitated in the dark, not thinking of anything important, but just sat on the chair and looking over the city through the French window. Slowly the street lamps were turned off by the batch. Soon the sun gravitated to the city and every streets and buildings were shone with a soft golden shine. The weather outside is 32°, but the perpetual AC fixed the room to warmer temperature than I have liked. Only remnants of snow can be seen on street sidewalks. Dressed in summer-like fashion I went down to the hotel cafe to have breakfast: Rice, natto (納豆), miso soup, egg and sausages.

I still had some time before the bus arrival. I put on a heavy coat and walked the streets around the hotel. In ways what the sultry air of Singapore did to my senses, the sharp, cold morning air of Hokkaido lifted my sagging spirit long inured by Southern California weather. Here and there a pedestrian or two can be seen going to work on bike or on foot, but generally the streets were sparse. White smoke is been puffed profusely out of the red and white industrial chimney to the north west. My heart was sinking a bit at the disappearance of snow. But with a sudden stroke of luck, the sky begun to relinquish a layer of light soft snow that disappear as soon as it touched ground. I felt exuberant; my heart tingedd with emotions as the white speckle danced elegantly downward. Slowly the dry pavements were mottled with small wet patches.

The bus punctually arrived to take me to Okurayama (大倉山) Observatory, the hosting site of the 1972 winter Olympic. The ski jump has now been converted to an observatory, overlooking the city of Sapporo (札幌). The road up to the ski jump is tortuous and winding, and the bus at times seemed not capable of gathering its strengthh against the gravitational pull. But eventually the bus deliveredd safely. By now snow was abound, and the wintry mountain top proved that my purchase of the heavy coat worthwhile. I paid a reluctant walkabout at the Olympic museum, shortly after, shelling out a few hundred yen, the cable car carried me off to the top of the ski jump. I have always had a vague notion that the ski jump must be a place of tremendous height, but seeing it for the first time from atop, as opposed to seeing it on television, the height and the steepness of this colossus surprised me. The clean air of Hokkaido offered an ever-expansive, picturesque view of Sapporo. I couldn't help but to click the shutter a few more times, from every angles possible. With my broken, rudimentary Japanese, I made an acquaintance with the old Japanese lady next to me. She was very polite and asked where I was from and my impression of Hokkaido. She had a wonderful wrinkling smile, and nodded her head every time I spoke, regardless of comprehension. We exchanged conversation much like what a dog and cat would, but we both knew we were enjoying the north island. Before going down I tasted a melon flavored ice cream cone for 300 yen. Savoring the ice cream with the whole Sapporo expanding right in front and soft snowflakes falling onto the ice cream, I tasted true happiness that I had not for a long, long time.

Taking the returning bus back down to Sapporo, the passing scenery of rural Japan put on their best appearance for me to appreciate, and snow added an inscrutable charm to everything that caught my fancy. On the way back to the city I saw a temple nearby, and I hopped off the bus to pay tribute and to wish my well being this year. When the bus reached Sapporo, my stomach was growling with hunger. Looking over guide books before I knew the place is famous for Genghis Khan BBQ (ジンギスカン鍋). I have heard many people telling as to why this sort of grilled lamb is called as such, but its true origin remains unproven. I was surprised to have found this dish in Japan because I had never come across lamb in all my Japanese food dining experience. Apparently Hokkaido is one of the few places, if not only, in Japan that offers lamb. With a tall glass of cold beer, it is a most satisfying lunch after a morning of wind and snow.

What can be better than a tall glass of cold beer? More beer! Nearby is the Asahi Brewery in Sapporo, open to the public for viewing and tasting. I followed the tour and watched in amazement at the efficiency of modern beer making. A large pool of manpower is no longer required, as machines and computers have taken over the operation. The guide explained that the whole brewery can be operated at full capacity by just two workers. I was amazed and chagrined at the same time to watch cans of beer been bottled effortlessly by streamlined machination. Photography was not allowed but I nevertheless did so in clandestine fashion. It looked more like a scene in Power ranger. After the guided tour of the brewery we were shown into the tasting room, at which we were treated with glass after glass of freshly brewed Asahi and snacks to go with it. There was a particular beer cake, slightly sweet with a aftertaste of beer that I grew so fond of that I brought two small cases home. "That is enough beer for today," I thought to myself as I strolled out of the brewery lightheadedly.

A reservation was made in advance at Jozankei View Hotel in Jozankei (定山渓温泉), in the suburb of Sapporo, for the night's stay. Jozankei is a famous hot spring town in Hokkaido; and the hotels there offered rooms in traditional tatami style. I recall as a kid my family and I would often drive up the mountain in the suburb of Taipei to take a hot spring bath. How far away were those memories! The tradition and rule in Japan goes that one must wash oneself completely before going into the hot spring. It felt a bit weird to be naked among strangers, but since everyone there is naked just as I am, I soon flung myself carelessly as everyone else does. The indoor hot spring offers a panoramic view of Jozankei covered heavily in snow. And the hotel also offers an outdoor rooftop hot spring in which one could be submerged in the hot spring and watch the falling snow in relaxation. This is where hot and cold go hand in hand. After the bath dinner was served in Kaiseki style (懐石). The food was a bit too much, but I had no problem in taking in the fresh sashimi. The dining hall had a festive atmosphere as kareoke machine is never short of singers. Songs in Japanese and Chinese and Korean are perpetually in rotation. During dining I have also made many new friends from elsewhere in Japan and Taiwan. It was with a blissful mind when I stepped back into my room. The tranquil night view of Jozankei laid picturesquely beyond my window. I sat on the tatami, with a cup of hot green tea in hand, gazed satisfactorily toward the night snowfall. All of my troubles seemed to be tossed away.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, travel, Tomakomai, 苫小牧, Jozankei, 定山渓温泉, Asahi Brewery, Okurayama, 大倉, Sapporo, 札幌

Before the alarm clock struck 6:30 A.M. I was fully awake. The early morning sun sifted through the window blinds and dappled the carpet with warmth. My mind was full of expectation, looking forward to traversing in the middle of a wide expanse of snow. Swiftly I got up and washed. For the seventh times since the night before I looked over the luggage, making sure no documents were missing. It was still early when I closed the door of my residence. The whole neighborhood exuded a Saturday sleepiness.

By the time I took care of long-term parking for my car and arrived at the international departure terminal by shutter bus, the check-in area was filled to the brim with people of every imaginable nationalities. Everyone was going somewhere, and I was one of them: I felt relieved at the change. As usual the security procedure for check-in luggage took longer than was necessary. I then proceeded to the Japan Airline counter, hoping for a business upgrade by showing my oratorial flash. Despite suggestions from colleagues and newspaper articles, which I tried them all, it went no where. Worse, the ticketing agent, perhaps getting annoyed at my futile persistence, issued a seat in the middle, neither aisle nor window, 47 E. "Sorry, this flight is full. That is the best I can do," said the agent. So much for my business aspiration. But my spirit was still high as I went through the security hoopla of taking off my shoes, jacket, open and power up my laptop, taking off the belt and put everything back. I walked a short distance in the corridor leading to the gate for JAL 061. When the boarding time came I boarded with a slight unbelief.

If there is one thing to complain about this trip, it is been stuck in the middle seating. My legs had practically no room to stretch, and going to the lavatory is just a hassle, much like asking for a bestowal from the fellow seat holder to excuse my bladder for functioning. Finally when the plane reached Narita I was elated at the prospect of a long walk to the domestic departure counter. I took a short JAL flight to Chitose near Sapporo. For the night I was housed in a business hotel in Tomakomai (苫小牧市), a sleepy, small paper-manufacturing port city near the sea. Hardly a soul was walking on the street. I felt too tired to venture out. After a simple nabemono (鍋物) dinner I went to sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. Thus concludes Day 1.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, travel, JAL,

This is the third day in and I am finally able to connect via high speed to the Internet. It was the JAL flight 061 that carried me across the Pacific into Narita, and another to take me to Sapporo, Hokkaido. Though my short trip is soon to be over, and the incoming post-travel depression is already stirring in the back of my mind, I am just having a blast. The picturesque Hokkaido offered a whole lot: clean air, crystal-clear water that taste better than bottled, soft snow, Japanese hospitality, cheap fresh seafood, and friendly people. As I am writing this in the comfort of the Renaissance Hotel, where reportedly the Rolling Stones are also staying, dark clouds are pouring down heavy rain and thunder sounding its fury. There are so many things that I wish to convey before they escape, but I just couldn't quite put it down for my mind is restless. Snow was falling lightly earlier yesterday, and I hope the same for tomorrow. Everything is so agreeable.

Tags: Sapporo, Japan, Hokkaido, travel

I often fancy a day in which television would be chucked forever out of my life and my future downtown apartment would be filled wall to wall with novels and smart books. I would waste no more valuable time transfixed in front of television set, instead the city skyline and the soft murmuring of radio will direct the attention of my senses. I will share the noise of the upstairs neighbor who will have taken up tap dancing at late hours of the evening; the couple next door whom are forever quarreling and hurling cruel insults to one another; and take in the endless, unsolicited advices from suburbanite that I have been cheated by paying for such small living space when a whole acre is up-for-sale out in the open. I will gladly include the aforementioned deficiencies as part of the package of living alone, nine stories up, from which my identity is represented by gilded name plate and two small square windows that looks over busy intersections.

Realistically, I am sitting in front of an 32 inch television, in a one story apartment unit, my facial contortions alternating from chuckling at TV shows to grimacing by sipping cheap, acidic wine. The big window to my right offered a nondescript, panoramic view of decrepit suburbia, where each single glance is a grim reminder of reality. Exhausted from work and school, pressed by the specter of tuition bill next semester, the Maugham novel, which was started engrossingly a few weeks ago, remain half way unattended. The newspaper was read in subject-heading fashion; the toil of journalists goes to waste day after day. The neighbor from two house down has a voracious appetite for ethnic music, macerating the whole block to his rhythmic gibberish every weekend. I have a long way to go.

Tags: Life, dream, reality, trifle

"I googled the term depression and depression.com came up." After a few sips of Kirin beer I confessed.

"I know you are mostly depressed, but I doubt it is clinical," said N., just when our cold udon with tempura and softshell crab were placed on the table. Her voice matter-of-fact as usual; but her eyes shone a gleam of empathy. "I hope it is nothing serious."

"No, just making sure that I am not. It felt weird browsing the site. My colleagues caught me looking at it but they mostly walked away."

Picking up the alabaster udon, I submerged it into the shoyu and swiveled around. A few specks of green onion and wasabi adhered to the noodle as I take in the deliciousness -- the chewiness of Japanese handmade udon. The wasabi made a strong, burning surge through the sinus, followed by muzziness. A few more sips of Kirin I was back to normal. By this time the waiting crowd outside grew denser.

"So did you learn anything from the website?"

"Well, yes. Besides the constant sadness and irritability, I found nothing else that fitted me, like sleeping too less or too much; eating less or too much; unable to concentrate. In fact, I see lunch and dinner as the bright spots of the day. Like now, I feel extremely happy eating."

"You are too skinny. Maybe depression will work for you."

I ignored her attempt at making fun of my weight. "But I did find something that fits me perfectly, a symptom called, what you call it, d-y-s-t-h-y-m-i-a, a low-level depression resulting from negative outlook of life."

We touched our glass and down the beer in one gulp. The tempura was fried to a perfect gold, and the shrimp slightly crispy on the outside and succulent on the inside. The famous udon restaurant in the South Bay did not disappoint.

Often times I felt overwhelmingly sad and depressed to a breaking point that I thought life to be not worth living. And there are times, like eating the delicious udon with N., I feel so blissful by the simple make-up of life. Whether dysthymia is something I carry around is not important. I have absorbed the grey cloud above my head as part of my lineament. Taking it away and I wouldn't know how to open my eyes.

Tags: Depression, dysthymia, N., udon,

Tonight the temperature dipped to 44°F and the wind chill factor made it seem even colder. The dark cloudy sky is still densely formed, but the rain only came down intermittently. Certainly the looks of it are more menacing than the actual substance. For supper I subsisted on rice, egg, carrot and brie; and oddly enough, they tasted quite good in one setting. Lemon the dog gave one languish look at the food and decided not to beg for it. I am always used to doing things alone, eating alone, driving alone, shopping alone, reading alone, watching TV alone, traveling alone, and on a cold day like today, drinking alone (some unheard European beer) seems to be the answer to everything. Forget what is bothering (the research paper); forget the ennui (life in general); forget what is to come tomorrow (the repeat of today).

Earlier in the afternoon, after returning a few books back to the central library -- it is always fun to borrow multiple books but returning them was never equally amusing -- and finding none of the novels I want to be available, I walked a few blocks outside, wearing the North Face jacket for the first time this season, watching the heavy cloud inching closer and eating away the few remaining clear sky. The sun strobed now and then, but was soon devoured entirely by the cumulus cloud. The air felt a bit stinging cold to the face.

While eating the four-course dinner desultorily, I flipped through the maze of cable television channels and landed on channel 243, BBC America, for the first time. The cold, vapid evening was spent in mild amusement at the eccentricities of Father Ted. Giggling to one's own self in a confined quarter sounds especially hollow if you just step back and watch in silence.

Tags: Trifle, Alone, BBC America, Library

As we tootled from the over-congested parking lot to our respective classrooms every Wednesday night, L. and I developed an acquaintance based on the seven minutes walk. The time frame may be short, but our conversation always engaging and peculiar, until today. Her parochial intelligence baffled me.

"I wish my CPA study would soon be over." Said L.

I sensed a tinge of melancholy in her voice, so I supplied: "Mine won't be over till two years after. We are all in it together."

"You? What do you have to worry about?" She said this wide-eyed and with a slight mocking tone, but maintaining her spruce appearance.

"My library and information study, of course."

"You are not serious, are you? You mean to tell me you want to work in a library?"

"Why would I be studying if I didn't wish to become one?" I retorted, losing a bit of my friendly tone.

She gave a slight nonchalant glance at me. "I thought you just like to study. Plus, shelving books is not really studying. It is different from what I do."

The field of librarianship is often misunderstood (I get that incredible look every time). But L.'s contempt and belittlement of my choice are what ravished my mind, could this person, who claims to have a master degree in biology from China, be so impertinent and ignorant (usually is one or the other)? I wanted to correct her mistaken notion, but refrained, as I wished not to meet her half-way of her cluelessness. I gave a scornful laugh and walked my own way.

Tags: MLIS, Library, Trifle

Instead of putting ink on my upcoming research paper I am again wasting valuable time by writing nonsense. Last week, I think it was on a Sunday, on a mild weather afternoon, while loitering inside the majestic Pasadena Public Library, I came upon a book that is all too familiar yet at the same time seemed alien. The book is Eileen Chang's Written on Water, or 流言 in traditional Chinese, of which I have read over and again. To see the actual copy of Chang's work in translated English (by translator other than herself) is like meeting an old lover in a foreign country. This analogy does not make any sense but I am sticking to it. Without a second thought I grabbed the only copy and scanned the library card. Records showed I am the second person to have borrowed this book.

My initial reaction to the English title is that it does not match the Chinese title, which translates as "Gossip." But by separating the word 流 and 言, they somehow do resemble the sentence "Written on Water", as in "stream of word." Moreover, the title "Gossip" does not resemble the theme of the book. This is typical of me, reading without thinking; taking everything for their face value. But to my defense, I am not the only dimwit to think this way. Look at Amazon.

Nevertheless my trepidation in opening the book was not appeased by Andrew F. Jones' (the translator) thoughtfulness in the title. After all this is the first Eileen Chang in English that I come across besides the ones she translated herself, which I thought were not as incisive as those in Chinese. I put aside my newfound fascination for Somerset Maugham briefly and flipped through the pages of Chang and have discovered that, as two worlds apart as the English and the Chinese languages, the translator did a superb job in conveying the subtlety and nuances and color of Chang into English. In the few short stories I read so far the resonance of the original version was there, like rediscovering one's old lover's good and bad habits in bed in a foreign hotel. (My friend N. says I should do away with this nonsensical analogy, but I am sticking to it!)

I tried to convey this new discovery to another Taiwanese friend of mine, only to be poured cold water over my enthusiasm. "Eileen Chang in English? How is that possible? They will butcher her writing, and you will never get the true essence." She said this quite confidently before even reading or touching the book. supposedly, if I were a native English speaker not knowing Chinese, should I abandon all attempts and efforts to read Chang even if I do wish so, because I will never achieve the native essence and wisdom? In that case we shall live in a world without Franz Kafka, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Milan Kundera, Haruki Murakami and Marcel Proust. Wake up, mandarin Chinese speaker, you cannot monopolize the language.

Tags: 張愛玲, Eileen Chang, Ailing Zhang, 流言, Written on Water,

The pitch-dark sky is varnished with a few speckle of stars that only appear on days after rainstorm. The stone ground is still damp from the early evening shower. I came upon a path covered with fallen foliage, and as I waded the leafy avenue, the smashing sound of crisp dry leaf broke the silence of the night and accompanied my solo walk to the desolate campus parking lot.

The most reassuring sound after walking alone in a cold night is turning on the car engine. Slowly warm air murmured and sifted around the interior; slowly I acclimatized to the artificial warmth, forgetting it is 45°F out in the dark. The monotonousness of the late evening drive soon overtook my conscientiousness, in which scene by scene the day's happening replayed in my head like a film wheel, vivid but glossed over with the drone of time. Trifles, mild surprise and introverted anger all mixed indiscriminately together.

"Time weighs down on you like an old dream."

Was it Murakami who wrote this? Or was it Eliot? Dostoevsky? I cannot recall. Out of nowhere the aphorism is etched in my mind at such a timely moment. March is here.

Tags: Trifle

Tonight is bound to be a sleepless night. A rowdy group of college students have gathered en masse at a house just half block away, showcasing their youthfulness and their aptitude in partying. The incessant blaring of rap, hip-pop, punk rock, heavy metal clashes with the tranquil look of a moonless and cool semi-starry night.

###

I sat contently in a small cafe surrounded by healthy, bright foliage in the hustle and bustle of West Los Angeles, slowly devouring two cups of coffee, laden with heavy cream, and the last 50 pages of Rohinton Mistry's Family Matter. As the plot thickens to its climax, resulting in professor Nariman's slow death from Parkinson's, out of the blue I felt an helpless sense that death will eventually befall anyone at any time. How will anyone move on when his or her loved ones gasp for their last breath? Apparently, they do, but at what cost?

###

The night continues to stretch long into the evening. The loud music only made it seem eternity. Isolation and misery, the dominant elements of my adult life thus far, are made all the more pronounced by the ruckus.

Tags: Trifle, Rohinton Mistry, Family Matters

Minutes before the alarm went off I was fully awake in bed, waiting for the alarm to sound. At 8:40 a.m., on a wet and grey Thursday morning (I had skipped work), the alarm went off, broadcasting news from NPR at a moderate volume.

(I had not planned on recording on such a day spent in mundaneness. Yet, roughly 40 hours later, while reading Siri Hustvedt's The Enchantment of Lily Dahl and under the comfort of my heavy quilt, I felt compelled to not let the day before slip away from my conscience.)

The waitress took my usual order of two eggs, sunny-side up, wheat toast and coffee. The Thursday paper is spread wide on the near-empty counter and stained slightly by two wayward drops of coffee. I consumed what was on the plate and glanced nonchalantly over the newspaper. As I got up and paid, the cloud begun to disperse; soon the sky turned into a bright cerulean. I felt an unexplained happiness to be driving under a beautiful picture as that.

At the Central Library's literature room, while conducting my rudderless research on upcoming term papers, in the glass-steel-encased bridge that lead from the reference desk to the fiction section, I noticed a succession of men in variegated appearance and clothing, like a row of unmoving tableau, each sitting and concentrating on reading: A perfect picture of Equal Distribution of Wealth, where the homeless man sitting next to the man in expensive-looking Italian loafer to the young student knitting his brow on some difficult calculus equations. Perhaps the library will be the only place where every person will be equal in our inherently unequal world.

Piled under the pressure from term papers, group projects, critical notes, tons of reading and a full-time job that I hate, I gasped for fresh air, as the sense of urgency is slowly setting in on my procrastinated mind. Putting away the Enchantment of Lily Dahl, walking away from the comfortable and airy reading room, I forged on into the maze of APA Publication Manual and the rest of my researches.

Tags: Siri Hustvedt, The Enchantment of Lily Dahl, LA Central Library

The foggy evening fell quickly as I let open the window wide so as to let in the cold and poetic feel of the night. Inside the bedroom closet there remained a Rubbermaid container that housed a sizable collection of scarves of every color and brand and dimension. The long hibernation inside the storage container had encrusted the collection with a layer of faint moth ball scent. After looking over the decision was made on the brown Polo checkered. Carefully extending the fine, delicate fabric vertically, making sure the bottom end does not reach the floor, I glanced over the checkered squares as if they each contained plaintive meaning. Next I wrapped one time the scarf around the neck; the familiar motion, or what it used to be, was repeated twice to make sure the length on both ends matched perpendicularly. Funny, on a night as such, the best warmth is provided by a long stretch of wool.

Tags: Trifle, Gloom, Depression, Night

The familiar, reassuring sight of cold water droplets that rime on car windows during the early morning hour has not been seeing for quite few days, an ominous indication that the transient wintry season is coming to an end. While the suspended morning air still retained a touch of coolness, the biting chill is no longer present. Already, with the twinkly sun rising from the east, a mawkish warmth is sifting through, a prelude to months of scorching weather that is to plague the land for months onward.

In the semi-privacy of my cubicle, with the pattering sound of numerous fingers striking computer keyboards in the background, I fixated on the new dark brown wool cardigan that hung precariously on a hanger by the wall, a new purchase of mine that has been rendered useless by the commence of balmy sky. Both of my hands unconsciously went into a chafing motion, imitating that of an action in cold, to appease my stirred annoyance at the early sign of warmer days.

The balminess still clenched the city tightly at 5 P.M., showing no sign of retreating. But I was no longer seething, for today I did not have to study. Over an expensive cup of macchiato I opened the long neglected Family Matters, dog-eared at page 103 from two weeks ago, and for a good hour and a half I was in India, humid, hot, more specifically, in Bombay, observing the clattering of kitchen wares and the tumult of street hawkers. The moldy smell of a small apartment packed with furniture after a long monsoon rain. Everything suddenly came back to me, of my former life in that subtropical, over-polluted island.

The phone rang, pulling me back to reality. It was N., asking if I wanted to dine at the Elephant Bar with her friends. With my brain still boiled with last night's lecture, the bed seemed like a more inviting place than bars serving cold beer, but recalling the disarray that is of my residence, I would rather have illusion take a few hours of my untidiness away.

Tags: Los Angeles, Rohinton Mistry, Family Matters, N.

The over-sized laundry basket is brimming with dirty laundry that dates back to early last week. Pens and papers and water bottles are strewn all over the wooden desk. The carpet is also littered profusely with books and clothes, leaving a snakelike trail in which navigation is barely possible without stepping over something. This is life in the midst of graduate school and working full-time. Everything is encrusted in a thin layer of dust and I have no time to get rid of; everything is an eyesore.

My mind can no longer focus: it skittered here and there and distressed constantly about the next paper due date and when will the researches start. No longer can I afford time to linger over Henry James's eloquence or George Eliot's fine subtlety. Topsy-turvy my life has become, and I have no idea as to what adjustments should be made in order to accommodate the whole stir.

Perhaps somewhere down the road the course will straighten itself; perhaps a gleaming dolphin will carry me off across the Pacific or the Atlantic; perhaps I will pass out in the middle, be revived by the arriving medic, and declared I had lost roughly half of my brain power, however scant it was in the first place.

I miss my cat.

Tags: Graduate school, Henry James, George Eliot, Research paper, Mimi

When the sunshine broke through the thick white cloud, warmth sifted through the cold morning stillness and whiff of salt, brightening the patio of a cafe nearby the beach. Two cup of coffee, with lots of cream and a touch of sugar, sits prettily on the wooden table, emitting its last cloud of steam. Few tables away, on a railing, a seagull is eyeing lasciviously at the half-eaten piece of cake that I neglected long ago. The rumpled Saturday paper also neglected: Bono speaking at the World Economic Forum is something that does not interest me. Instead my attention is fixed on The Killer Angels. What does the Civil War have to do with MLIS I do not know, but the novel is one of the most interesting required reading for class. Lee, Chamberlain, Longstreet, Buford. These previously unknown names are now circulating wildly in my head as the novel progresses to its epic stage. N. sits leisurely across the table in her white poplin shirt and spotted chiffon skirt.

She is leafing through The Thurber Carnival. The book is one of those surprise find one encounters in used bookstores, while going through the rubble. What caught my eyes to Thurber was he does his own writing and his own illustration. I am not far into the book yet but it seems that I could learn a thing or two about life and humor. This is further evidenced by N.'s occasional amused countenance and suppressed giggle.
As the hour approached noon the empty morning street was thronged by tourists and shoppers alike. The seagull flew away and replaced by dogs chained to the railing as their owners come in to grab a bite. By now the unimpeded sun was glinting brightly over our heads. We paid our bills and left. We took obligatory walks into Borders and J Crew and Sephora and Banana Republic and Urban Outfitters before we left the beach.

On the drive back (we didn't really know where were heading) we stopped at a Trader Joe's to stock up on provisions -- my brie and baguette; her California merlot. Lately I had acquired from her the habit of carrying my own grocery canvas bag. Actually it is more of a "re"-acquiring because carrying one's own reusable bag is customary in Taiwan. I recall the time going into Carrefour in Taipei with my dad and each of us would carry two giant-sized canvas bag to haul our grocery goods home. Almost always N. and I were the only ones carrying our own bags in any supermarket. It seems conservation is such a lax idea in the mind of American consumers.

When we waited at the checkout line N. remarked that today is Chinese New Year. We had both forgotten. So what should be a day of celebration with families, instead we acted like two non-Chinese Asians wandering around the city indifferently, not knowing where to go. Not that it makes any difference. Had we known the day would probably be spent in exactly the same way. We simply have no choice.

Tags: N, Los Angeles, Chinese New Year,

A stroll around the desolate campus during the evening, a confluence of feelings, akin to meeting a long lost best friend, refluented so naturally and so freely that an unsuspecting grin broke out while I looked toward the darkening sky, letting out a sigh of relief. The night air had a cold, sharp quality to it, conducive to awakening one's tired senses. The stately performing art center stands adjacent to the stone bench in which I sat and marveled from. However flat and suburban the campus seemed during the day, shroud it in quiet darkness under a starry night and it too has few aesthetic qualities.

I can't believe how long it took me to come back to school and being a student again.

I had quiet some time before my first class starts. The realization has not sunk in yet. A woman's voice directed toward me from behind, asking if I belonged to the MBA program. "No, I am here for the MLIS program," I proudly replied, enunciating each syllable carefully.

For now and for the near future, this place will be my refuge, a refuge from the pins and needles of the business world.


The professor spoke in a slow and measured tone, introducing the small class to the world of MLIS. The MLIS world has definitely gravitated from the "L" (library) to the "I" (Information). It can also be said that Library Science is now a subset of Information Science (red flag!). I jot down each notion hurriedly -- the words looking increasingly like they have been swept by strong wind -- and wondered whether I can decipher the writing later on. I wrote and wrote: writing gives me a purposeful sense. It does not matter what I write, as long as the pen inked the white paper. Often I straggled behind the professor's speech, hoping someone might asked the man to slow down. It is my personality; I cannot help it. Instead a classmate fancied working in a Mark Twain library.

That was yesterday night. Today is back to the morass of office politics and petty business Emails.

While grocery shopping might not be classified as recreational or leisure, every Friday evening, after work, with an gleeful state of mind, I head over to the Trader Joe's, armed with an orange plastic basket, and begin selecting, with my present state of economic sovereignty, the nutritional intake for next week's worth. To be single and poor and an unwillingness to cook, for the past 12 months, I have learned that eating healthy might not be such an easy task. Back at home, with mom deciding what food should grace my stomach, I need not to worry so much about eating healthy. Not that I am a health-conscious freak, but there comes a time when one is tired of buying takeout at either fast food chains or Chinese restaurants or Japanese supermarket bento.

The traffic is light this Friday evening. The sky clean and crisp as ever, and darkness soon descending. Slowly, motorists turn on their night lights. I turn on Marketplace at 6:30 p.m. sharp, as the radio program is devoting a whole week's coverage on China. The calm voice of Kai Ryssdal, together with sound bites of various Chinese interviewee, spoken in different dialect of Chinese, shortened the drive considerably.

The name Trader Joe's invokes an image of mom-and-pop grocer. In many aspects, the store resembles one, despite it being a chain of several hundreds. Compare it to other conventional grocery stores, Trader Joe's is much smaller in sizes and a fraction of king-sized Wal-Mart and Costco. Its offers, while limited due to its size, are more focused, such as organic (or non) vegetables and fruits and cheeses. I went ahead and picked up some baby carrots and spinach salad, paired with a triple cream brie and a roll of baguette. There is nothing I love more than brie and baguette. I also love the little recommendation stickers placed throughout the store because they are mostly hand-written.

While passing the sweets section, I purposely looked away, passing by in resignation. I had the urge to take home the small whole cheesecake sitting coolly in the refrigerator, waving its sweet indulgence at my lack of self-control. I stood in stupefaction, and a glimmer flashed across my eyes at the sight of that sweet love. Eventually -- thankfully -- I thought better of it and pass up the opportunity to satisfy my sugar craving. My promise in grade school that I will eat whatever sweet products I crave when I grow up will probably not be fulfilled any time soon.

What follows one indulgence is another. In a few steps of trekking is the wine section. It is often that I spend a good 20 minutes looking over the small but eclectic wine selection, not to mention its affordability. I scoured through the big barrier of two-buck chuck (the $1.99 Charles Shaw brand proclaiming itself as from Napa) and Yellow Tail, and landed in search of the newer arrival from Bordeaux and Rhone and Spain. The prospect of drinking myself stupid over the weekend is very alluring. I got an $8.99 bottle from Rhone, thinking it might be great with my frozen veggie pizza. And just before concluding this shopping trip, a tea tree oil soup and a tin of Altoids found the way into my basket. At the checkout counter, I was greeted with a warm smile; and in return, when the final total price was flashed across the computer screen, I flashed a suppressed smirk back to the cashier: it feels great to shop cheaply and not feel guilty.



P.S. The above images are BORROWED from Google Image search. I don't have the thick leather skin to take my bulky Canon and start filming cheese and vegetable. So thank you, anonymous photo providers.

On my conscience a promontory stands at a distance, faintly visible, yet lacking distinctive shape or characteristics. Without a doubt that object is something I am chasing after. I go through the proper motions and jumping through various hurdles, just so as to know I am after something. Days and months and years go by, that something is as illusive as when I begun chasing it. After days of sombre overcast, the sky finally cleared up, peeking down from its azure, splashing the city with warm sunshine, and occasionally providing gentle breeze that rustles the window curtain.

I stood by the window looking despondently toward the blue expanse, my elbows resting on the windowsill. The weekend was passed in a celebratory mood, for my roommate had just earned a spot on the U.S. Kendo team that is to participate in the next World Kendo Championship. Up and down the house champagne corks were flying in all directions and beers come in unlimited supply. Naturally I knew nothing about kendo, but knowing how hard he worked thus far I felt truly happy.

But when the alcohol started to ebb and the party ajourned, there comes a period of self introspection wherein one falls into inexplicable gloom. There is only so much I could endue myself with other's success and accomplishment; and when reality checks back after a brief hiatus and patters on one's conscience repeatedly, I irrepressibly began to feel once again how inconsequential and twilit my life has been. That promontory's indefinable shape lingers somewhere ahead, but giving no hint as to what it is. For all I know it could be but an illusion.

In eight more days my days of ennui will be altered considerably. Besides my full-time office job I will be attending night and weekend classes for my MLIS degree. Often in the moment before I fall off to sleep, in the dark I degusted over being a student again, to relish that special feeling when one is situated in an academic milieu instead of a cubicle. I often tried to attribute the promontory as my striving toward MLIS. But somehow the puzzles do not fit snugly together. There lies something else, something unknown.

"The boy exhibits antisocial behavior occasionally, I am afraid."

The mother is doing most of the talking, and her voice is tinged with a slight helplessness. I sat opposite of her on the plastic booth, with two cups of coffee sitting atop the unvarnished table in the play area of McDonald's. Whenever the conversation comes to an awkward stop, I pretend to sip and linger over the coffee.

"But he seems to take a liking in you, have you noticed?"

I nodded in agreement, while glancing at the boy, playing in his own little world.

"So will you be so kind as to watch over him for a few hours this Saturday? Of course you will be paid, according to the hour. What do you say?" The mother let out an entreating look.

It is not so much the pay or the need for someone to watch over the little boy. It was just something that the mother and I wanted to try.

###

The boy is now about seven. I met the mother few years ago in Taipei, when the boy was just a toddler. He had a most beautiful pair of sparkling brown eyes, and always exuded that precious innocence which can only found on children of that age. Whenever I proffered my arms toward him, he would reciprocate his chubby little arms upward to indicate clearance to hold him. It was precious because no one but the mother had the privilege to do this. Not even the father, who was always away. The child is especially shy in his nature, therefore to see that glistening, trusting look in his pretty eyes while holding him gave me a blissful feeling.

The marriage between the mother and the father was not one to be envied. Despite their good looks, reasonable wealth and good family background, they got off on a rough sailing and the boat never settled. The father was a known skirt-chaser that often spent his time away from the family. Amidst the stormy days the boy took in everything: the shout, the wail, the things that a child should be shielded from. Gradually those negative elements coagulated and hardened the boy's mind; his glistening eyes are now cloaked by a distant, hard gauze. They are still pretty, as I look at the boy now, but long gone is that shy, trusting look.

The boy had trouble getting along with his fellow playmates in school. He has no trouble learning -- actually quite bright, I was told -- but his withdrawn behavior worried the mother tremendously. As a result, to prevent the boy from further retreat inwardly, the mother thought of educating him in the U.S., where a child can receive a more liberal, creative learning. The divorce was finalized before their departure for Los Angeles.

How is the boy to cope with the divorce? How will he react to an entirely foreign environment? How will his little mind be shaped by the equivalent of a seismic shift? These are the questions that ran through my mind as I watched him, diligently sipping orange juice by the mother's side.

Trays of succulent raw oysters, steamed crab, clams, fish and chips, and spicy seafood soup are invitingly laid upon our small wooden table by the window that looks over the King Harbor and the Pacific Ocean. The crowd is sparse this Saturday afternoon. Few men and women dotted along the pier with their fishing rods, hoping for their big catch. A large pelican perched itself on the wooden railing, drawing a small crowd of onlookers. As I take in the view of the pier, all that there is left on the oyster plate is a mountain of empty hard shells.

"I told you not to wander off your spacey mind, now the oysters are all gone."

"Maybe you should chew your food first before speaking," retorted I, half jokingly.

This lazy Saturday, the four of us, including N., took a short drive to Redondo Beach and rewarded ourselves with heaps of every imaginable seafood, washing them down with a bottle of Korean soju. I am usually not much of a drinker of soju, but given the consensus opinion among the three other diners I gave in. After a few shots a slight buzz is already lurking in the back of my brain.

"Drink, drink. We can't order second if you don't finish your glass," N. urges on, while herself is unfazed by the onslaught of alcohol, and her two friends nodded in general agreement. Are you kidding me? I thought in the back of my mind. And before I know it, a second bottle found its way to our table.


After way too many clams and way too much alcohol, we took a leisure walk around the pier. The large pelican changed its standing position a few feet down the railing, but still oblivious to the minor stardom it has gathered. The weather is mild, not a cloud over our head, and the clear blue sky formed a tender contrast to the emerald green sea. We stood against the railing, watching the vicious wave pounding against the shoreline. The occasional sea breeze rustled my drowsy head. The four of us stood in parallel, gazing into the distance where the sea and the sky meet, and each of us formed our own independent thought, perhaps about the future, about the present, or about how to proceed in life. But midway through my inward brooding, the refluent alcohol flustered my train of thought. It hurts to think.

That unmistakable resonance of heavy raindrops plashing against the windowpane awoke me to the new calendar year. There is still a trace of lingering champagne taste in my mouth. My body is bundled into sheaf by two layers of quilt, as the storm from the North descended and plunged heavy precipitation and chilling temperature upon the arid South. I bundled myself even tighter, savoring the warmth as much as I can, so as to make up for the lost time during days which work prohibited such luxurious pleasure. The rain continues its unimaginative thud on the windowpane, apprising the world to wake up and smell the rain -- and the new year.

After much inward debate I finally got up (fighting off the chill is no easy task!) and washed. I breakfasted on two eggs, toast and the Sunday L.A. Times. I had ample time before N.'s scheduled arrival from Taipei at 5:30 pm, so, with a $20 gift certificate from Borders bookstore, I went and got the just-released paperback Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami, and Henry James's The Turn of the Screw.

I read and lolled and had dim sum with a friend until it was time to head to the airport. The storm, after a brief interval, had resumed its furious roar as I stepped out of the door. By a mere five, six second exposure to the rain, when I ran to the car parked on the street, my shirts and hair were drenched with cold rain, and a shiver of chill crept up behind my neck so unsuspectingly that I just froze there for a good two minutes until the heater started cranking up warm air.

The whole ashen sky is shrouded in a sombre countenance, not a single gleam escaping through. Though the airport is only 15 minutes away from where I live, the condition on the freeway was not fit for normal driving (I had already a few instances where my tires were skidding slightly as a result of the rain). I arrived a little later than the intended time, but N. has still not come out from the terminal. I waited along with others in the waiting area, hands on the iron railing that marks the boundary of the waiting area, its coldness so penetrating that I thought of N.'s misfortune, and stood there like a bough, conjecturing scenes of upon meeting her fragile frame.

Her emaciated visage was marked out amongst throng of visitors, for everyone else featured a bright smile upon seeing relatives and friends, and her especial weariness had a protruding effect, despite her slender frame. When she saw me waiting she affected a smile, but unable to mask her mournful touch. We embraced one another; and as I squeezed her, I felt she was about to let out a cry. But she held back the tear in her moist brown eyes, and held check the twitching upper lip.

We remain unspoken until we crossed the traffic lane to the parking lot. "I feel like I have aged ten years...Oh, I brought a gift for you. You will like it much. Thank you for everything," said N. episodically, while flashing a genuine, lambent smile.

"Good to have you back, Kitty," said I, blushing for no reason.