The stomach illness resurfaced on Friday and I was knocked out cold. I guess my improvidential desire to eat a full portion "Tonkatsu bento" at a take-out place Thursday night was the catalyst for my retching all next day. Funny how one feels when retching -- the stomach turning, convulsing, writhing, as if all of one's internal organs were going to burst outwardly through the opening.

Having the possibility of retching-any-time, I resorted to staying home Friday and Saturday, perfectly wasting two days that could put toward improving my personal statement at the Central Library. I will be there tomorrow, though.

Despite my stomach illness my appetite has slowly crepted back to live. While reading Rohinton Mistry's Such a Long Journey, all of a sudden I crave vegetarian curry at the local Indian grocery store. The intensity of this craving so exorbitantly I could almost taste the curry and basmati rice mingled together by one deft scoop of the fork. But having learned my lesson Friday, better judgment prevailed. It will be a few days before I can eat regular food. Now my diet consists of apple juice and plain porridge. This illness has set me back 8 lb.

It's Thursday night and my brain is boiled with anticipation of another fleeting weekend. The monotonous cycle repeats itself week after week; my life slowly but cruelly chipped away, piece by piece, however small, imperceptible to eyes it may be.

While driving amidst Thursday late afternoon traffic, I have all of a sudden lost count of my real age. It took a few seconds of subtraction for the current year and my birth year to sort out the confusion, and the result was not satisfactory; the truth is always a little higher than what one would of liked.

The profusion of so many quality photo blogs of Taiwan, by natives and foreigners alike, is making my resolve to stay in the U.S. waver. What am I doing with my life as of now will surely contribute to my future regrets, or will it? Oh well, at least I still have my grad school acceptance/decline letter to look forward to in the next few months. To be accepted is to fortress my resolve; to be declined I might as well hop on a aircraft and backpacking in China till my savings are dwindled to naught. But the sad part is, I will never be that capricious. I will continue to whine like this and not take any tangible step.

Much to my abhorrence I have come to love Starbucks. No, I don't care much for the drinks, but for the privilege to sit and read without a bother in the world is really something else. Of course, some would argue that library would serve the purpose at no charge, but I simply cannot stand the 'aesthetics' of community or branch libraries in my neighborhood. The only library I adore, the L.A. Central Library, is too cumbersome on weekdays to travel to due to traffic congestion. At Starbucks I don't mind the coffee bean grinding noise or chatters from the table next -- they are what I consider 'noise of life.' Funny how milieu can change one's preference. At Taipei city I strongly detested Starbucks; at enervating suburbia the coffee joint is becoming my sanctuary from ennui.

Yesterday I was struck with a mild symptom of retching from bad food of the night before. No big deal, just no food for the day. I took a day off from work to convalescent. But it seems rather silly to waste a full day at home doing nothing but sleep when I still had the energy and the desire to breathe city pollution -- any chance to get away from my suburbia ennui. So, with my The North Face backpack, in it contains Such a Long Journey the novel, an electronic English Chinese dictionary and my digicam to snap pictures, I set off to downtown.

As usual my driving was not intended for any particular destination, just aimlessly burning low-grade fossil fuels. By the way, gasoline price is going through the roof these days.

Taking advantage of the Library parking validation, I once again stroll down to Pershing Square and caught sight of a sparrow bathing in the cool fountain water amidst the blazing sun.

By now I am already tired and hungry from excessive walking. Living in Southern California really will take away your walking tolerance. So I somehow drag myself back into the car and drove myself back to my misery. I am afraid I might not last long enough; I am afraid I will be on a plane back to Taipei next year, before my contract is up...

Al-Qaeda 'destroyed in Pakistan'

As I was preparing my personal statement for grad school admission I heard this hilarious piece of news on BBC World Service: "Al-Qaeda does not exist in Pakistan any more," according to Pakistani President Musharraf. At first I thought I had heard wrong, as often my ears are only half-functioning, but after finding the news on print I laughed so hard my stomach started to hurt. I always had some sort of illusion that President Musharraf was somewhat learned and erudite (from what source I do not recall), but apparently any learned person will not make such a buffoonery of himself or herself by proclaiming an unfounded and unrealistic statement as was said. Even President Bush knows to stay away from that.

The sole electric pole visible from my rectangular window stood motionless as it has always been, observing my daily trifles with indifference. The room in which I am confined to is filled with music and spoken words from a radio station in Taiwan. Not so much the music but the D.J.’s reassuring and soft utterances is what I am attuned to. All of a sudden my native land seemed not so far away after all; the effusiveness of my loneliness assuaged for the moment.

Today I had the opportunity for a little debate about the merits of conscription in Taiwan. After reading an article on nationalism in the Financial Times we fell to reflecting, and discussed as if the temperature has risen, though we were soundly situated in a perfectly cool office building.

My whole take on conscription in Taiwan is that we should do away with such an ancient, authoritarian practice that was passed down by the KMT. In all seriousness, what is the point of forcing young men who are eager to try their trade in the world to be confined to one and a half years of military training? To better defend our perilous island from the communist? Bosh! better to use that money to train our students to be better prepared in the international arena of academics and commerce. Intelligence and money are by far the best and most defiant weapons to possess. Unwilling young men serving in the military not only hinder the overall effectiveness of an unit but could also very well damage the morale of those otherwise who wish to make their trade in the military. Of course my dim-witted co-worker retorted my argument as "coward, treacherous", and that it's "a Taiwanese men's duty to serve in the military." I'll tell you, those KMT education ministers back in the old day really did a number on us. Even in Taiwan's present on-going democratic progress those KMT-brainwashed conscience are still very much alive.

As to the topic of nationalism, I have only a simple thing to say: Be proud of where you are from, but don't let it go to your head. You may be willing to ___ (fill in your blank, i.e. die, plunder, go to war) for your country, but on the reverse, your country will never ___ for you.

In an empty café I sat transfixed to the chair, my left hand feeling the lukewarm coffee cup, my right hand spinning a plastic pen quite adroitly without my knowing it, eyes straining on a novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The coffee was brought to me not long ago, but its contents barely consumed. The waiter stole a curious glance at me, whether a friendly one or not I chose not to bother. The exchange of my hard-earned dollar for a cup of coffee was not so much in the allure of the taste or aroma but the justification to occupy a sitting place by the window in an air-conditioned room. On a Friday night the café is usually empty but a scattered few lonely souls. The waitresses and waiters, glad of their having free time on hand, chatted enthusiastically about the true spirit of Russian vodka.

Taking a short break from reading, allowed my brain to become obtuse, I placed my hand on the window overlooking the four-way intersection. The coolness emitting from the window construed a comforting thought: The marine breeze has finally overtaken the summer heat that had smoldered the earth throughout the day hours. Hereabout I abandoned the profundity of Sabina and Tomas and fell to random thoughts.

So much for random thoughts; the first thing that came to my mind was the contour of Sun’s face, the particular way of clothing he is chosen to veil himself. I hadn’t seen him for over four years, and the artificial memory of his external features were slowly been sanded away by the cruelty of time, notwithstanding the cruelty he has inflicted upon me. So real and lifelike was the image of he that I felt as if he were sitting in opposite, speaking trite and cajoling in his usual fashion. How has he done me wrong, through no faults of mine.

Much to my chagrin the night is still young. I paid and gathered everything up in my backpack and up and left the café. The coffee cup remained full; my conscience screamed half-empty.

As of late I have been under the spill of Thomas Hardy. First Jude the Obscure and now The Mayor of Castebridge. Before this was the wave of classical Russian writers I was riding, but their oftentimes boasting of Russian pride and straying off of topics in mid sentence I had just enough. My cup of tea has always been those that are "tragic, melancholy, saturnine, gloomy and hypochondria." Hardy provides plenty to my liking. I remember first picking up the paperback copy at a Borders bookstore and didn't know what to expect from the novel, except what was provided on the back cover. Surely enough, the reading provided a voracious appetite page after page, dwelling into Jude Fawley's rosy childhood ambitions and his later many phased predicament, such as his striving to be erudite and ill-fated marriages. Likewise, Fawley's cousin and second wife, Sue Bridehead, was also a person so tragic, so alive in her conscience that which one cannot but to pity her self-denial of true love. In the end, everyone -- Jude, Sue, the dead children, Phillotson -- all achieved what is so prevalent in our modern society: An one-way ticket to perpetual loneliness.

When opportunity comes around for a new mobile phone I will seize the chance like a tiger does when fresh meat is in sight. My phone for the past 12-month was the Sharp GX-31. The phone works great but new mobile phones never cease to amaze me. The Sony Ericsson V802/V800 caught my eye. The 3G features are great, though I have no use for them. The phone is just downright beautiful. In terms of picture quality Sharp GX-31 still reigns, even though SE V802 has a slightly higher resolution. I am never one happy with the "default" lineups of mobile phones that major wireless carriers here have, but if one knows where to go one can find many imported models, like the SE V802, at heavily discounted price (very often free with one year activation), though a little bit bargaining is required, for those mobile phone resellers are always playing the sniping game without your awareness. Not a bad week: New digicam + new mobile phone = the awakening of my shopping DNA and the lamentation of my incoming credit card bill.

My camera was for some strange reason unable to focus on the SE V802. Why?

Do you know the feeling when you are in a party that you don't belong to but has no way of getting out? Well, for 16 hours a day I am trying to fight off such trifling situations. This society has no place for me: I am a loner, stranger, foreigner, someone who is forever searching for her own circle to lie down, a circle of which she is comfortable with, only that circle of privacy is never sacrosanct, but repeatedly violated by some unforeseen worldly matters. Passersby pays scant attention upon me, those who do view me as if I were a rare species that survived the now homogeneous world, but not interestingly enough to be placed on the endangered species list, only to be poked here and there with a stick, to see how I would jerk and react. Their curiosity dies fairly soon, leaving behind the stick and the wounds it has engendered. So I dig deeper, run further away, become more taciturn, in search of my circle. A circle with which I can read and rest comfortably without a bother in the world. That place is distinct, yet so far away.

Armed with my new camera on a sunny Sunday morning, I navigated my way to the Los Angeles Central Library at downtown. The relatively light traffic provided an enjoyable drive through the 110 freeway into downtown. Nice to get away from the usual placidity of the neighborhood I live in; and the mediocre library nearby that I have to put up with when in need of a quiet place to read.

The library is situated amidst towering office buildings in the heart of downtown. Given the potential land value it seats on, the library provided no disappointment both in its contents and aesthetics. I spent a great deal of time browsing the Literature and International Language sections. The library's Chinese language collection was a slight letdown, though, comprise of no more than 3 to 4 aisles of books that one would easily spot at a local Chinese bookstore. But I did find a Chang Aileen novel of my liking. I sat down at the Literature section of the library and help myself with a copy of Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge.

The library offers parking validation on weekends for only one dollar. Given the skyrocketing downtown parking price one has to endure, it's nice that the library is able to gather a deal with the parking garage for a obscure fee. But do be aware, stupid me, for being there 10 minutes before opening time. I was required to pay the full day rate of $7 because of my car's being there earlier than the library opening hours. The automatic teller/pay machine offers no concession. You bloody hound!

If one gets tired of browsing and reading of books, the library is walking distance to many major Los Angeles landmarks, such as the Biltmore Hotels, Bunker Hills Steps, Maguire Square, and so on. I just find the little newspaper stands charming.



It was nice to get away from my everyday suburban surroundings and for once experience what is it like to be in a American metropolitan. Being away from Taipei made me realize how grown used to I have become to noises that are indispensable to any city of large size. The car horn, street hawkers and the relentless pace of pedestrians all became a familiar and reassuring scene for me.

The luminous mid-morning sun shone through the window, chasing away the remnant chill and darkness from the previous evening. A lethargic Saturday morning awaits my come to. I looked at the clock, the hands read 9:54 am, let out a moan and got up to cleanse myself.

A small note pad sat inert on the mahogany writing desk. On it was a listing of numerous chores that needed my attention: 1. bank deposit; 2. a trip to the dry cleaner; 3. automobile mechanical maintenance; 4. grocery shopping. Such are the things I must attend to on any given off-day from work; such is my life, aimless, pointless, phlegmatic.

The calendar reads July 2nd, 2005. A joyous week for those who live in the U.S., a celebration of American independence, but more so because a three day weekend lies ahead for most working people. I am no exception.

For a solitary person living in a solitude, a three-day weekend serves as not a cause for relaxation but 72 hours of mercurial wandering of the physical and ethereal world. It is quite disheartening, come to think of it.

Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls paperback being my accompaniment, I set out for my weekly commonplace adventure in the midst of the suburban jungle. If only Sun was here, perhaps all of my low spirits would instantly perish into thin air, but reality has it that I am just a broken shard, with no intention to patch myself up.