The stuffy enclosure I find myself situated in Monday to Friday week after week provides me with a meagre subsistence in the form of biweekly paycheck. The rectangular piece of paper is then taken into banking branch in exchange for small white receipt on which numbers are specified of its potential economic clout in the open market, and they are generally spent on things needed but not desired especially such as rents, gasoline, grocery, dry cleaning -- the minutiae of everyday life. Occasionally, aided by passing whim, various clothing retailers may be the recipient of my anemic monetary exercise. The rest is then divided into savings and book buying. I have inherited from my mother her inclination to saving over spending carelessly as my father was prone in his youth. The book buying budget is distributed between Borders, BN, secondhand bookstores, Amazon, Ebay, Half.com, Abebooks, et cetera.

Hardly the life I had imagined before taking the eager plunge into adulthood. The building's internal stale quietness continues to drone, goading at my conscience and causing a slight mental headache. The adorned calendar upon my cubicle's barrier read December 29th, 2005; it is in its final stage of life. Tomorrow it will be taken down and discarded along with millions of its siblings like they never existed. Such a staid morass I find myself sinking perceptibly deeper, and I remind inwardly so as to not forget I once had puerile ambitions in life, however abstract they may now be.

For the 15th time today, I clicked on the Firefox icon to check my Email. And for the 15th time, there are none to be read but spam.

As usual I headed to a nearby coffee shop to read after work; and to participate with numerous working men and women (whom for good reason do not have the desire to be home) in an acquiesced, nonverbal understanding that this is the closest we will come to in terms of companionship, of camaraderie. The proximity of fellow human beings, though each of us remain stubbornly quiet and going about our task in reading or computing or eating, serves as a form of opiate in dulling of our lonely senses, in giving another chance to humanity before feeding ourselves to utter indifference.

The sky was briefly mauve before turning black, and the wintry weather is reappearing after days of absence. I look about the world outside through the bay window, and saw that 2005 -- my first full year as an independent adult -- taught me more things than many other years combined.

In a strange twist the cool night air, mingled with a muffled croaking sound of a frog, filtered through the window screen and settled into the permanence of early morning hour. Throughout the day the temperature remained stiflingly warm for late December days, a strong contradiction to snowy Christmas commercials shown on television at any given hour. The croaking sound (I am not sure if it is really a frog), though faint as it is in making it heard, proved to be a good distraction to my wakeful mind at such late hour. My chest heaved according to the rhythm of the sound -- almost imperceptibly -- and my lung did the same in regulating the intake of the night's misty air. I found most amusing in this pointless exercise. Slowly I dozed off, and along brought the frog with me.

When I come to my sense of time was flustered because the sun is heavily shielded behind heavy, thick cloud. This is of no concern, since I had no presents to open. Just as I reposition myself to fall asleep again the mobile phone rang.

"Good morning, my dear, It's Christmas Eve." N.'s voice trickled slowly into my brain.

"Oh...hey....how did the funeral go?" Stammered I, trying to quell any sleepiness in my voice.

"I think I can shed no more tears. This whole thing is left me a dry well. How is your trip to Vegas? I read it on your blog. Are you seriously considering moving back?"

Sensing that she wanted not to talk about the funeral, I gladly took the hint. "You know that's impossible until I finish graduate school. I guess I was just overcome by nostalgia, you know, the ghost of the past."

Oops.

I knitted my brow for using such reckless phrase, ghost of the past. If anyone is going to be haunted it will be N. The breadth of her boyfriend's death is unfathomable. She and I both fell silent for few seconds, and I futilely tried to come up with something to fill the blank. Finally she moved the conversation to something unrelated; inwardly I heaved a reproaching sigh for my insensitiveness. We ended the phone conversation by my giving a few encouragements and wishing to see her soon.

An act of sheer folly on my part, and it will be a blot on my conscience for at least a few hours. I tried to find solace in George Eliot. But after reading a few paragraphs I tossed the novel aside and went in search for my nonexistent holiday spirit in the worldly world.

What was once an endless stretch of desert overgrown with cactuses are now covered by asphalt miles across as far as the eyes can perceive. New housing constructions are forever humming as the buying spree refuses to cool down. I am standing at the peripheral edge of the city Henderson, and looking into the distance where the splendor and kitschiness of Las Vegas Blvd. that outshone the moon and the stars. In the back seat of the new Toyota 4Runner, I inwardly thought how the city has expanded since I was last in town seven years ago.

Do not mistaken I am in town for the gambling or partying. Part of my adolescent years were spent in the sin city, and therefore I had come to developed a special bond with the city that quite differed with what a tourist would consider the city to be. The mid-size SUV in which I am riding in drove smoothly down the immaculate paved road, farther away from the lights and glamour, and quietly made its turn into a residential community situated on the edge of a small hill. I still cannot believe I have made the capricious decision in coming to Vegas right after Thursday's work (driving four and a half hours alone in the dark). But I am here, and my long time friends, E. and Y., a couple together for over six years, are by my side and showing me their newly-purchased home.

Next morning we took their dog, A-Chu, and another friend E. to a nearby park and watched A-Chu do his thing. There is no question that Las Vegas, besides its famous gambling halls and night clubs, are more suburban in its lineament than Los Angeles (and to the best of my knowledge, there is not a decent second-hand bookstore); but somehow, strolling along the park with friends and watching the dog enjoying the morning sun, made me forget the many philistine aspects of the town. My mind was at ease and all my past and present melancholy evaporated into the cold, clear sky.

Thick cloud gathered as we had a wonderful lunch at a Memphis barbecue restaurant, getting our hands smeared with barbecue sauce as we devoured the babyback ribs like four hungry hyenas. A light rain begun to fall at a slow pace. We abandoned our original plan to visit Lake Las Vegas; instead the four of us headed toward Las Vegas Blvd. I was shown some of the newer hotels that did not exist -- and there are plenty -- before my exile into Los Angeles. The hotels are more or less the same in their kitschiness, but I am still captivated by the (free!) fountain show at the Bellagio, despite it was my 27th time of seen it. For propriety's sake (I have no gambling habit) I put in a $5 bill into a slot machine and after two spin I won $18. Gleefully I quickly took the ticket to the cashier and exchanged for cash. I used the money to buy ice cream for five people. Everything was perfect thus far, except when I was at the casino cashier counter, I was not asked to proffer my ID for age check. (Have my look gotten past that stage already?)

Four days went past by sweetly, doing nothing but visiting old friends and old sites, talking of future plans and complete nonsense. The days so relaxing and blissful and lazy that my novel remain unread for the duration of my stay. My fixation was solely on my best friends and the camaraderie that one can only capture when in the company of people whom one trust completely. It was not till 8 pm Monday night that I had to tear myself away from the good company of friends. The long, winding I-15 of which I traveled south bound back to Los Angeles was shrouded by a gloomy gauze. I thought of turning back repeatedly and never return to Los Angeles.

It is with a heavy and longing heart that I write this post. Deep in the recess of my heart there rest a childishly euphonious thought of moving back to Las Vegas. The frisson of that thought is unmistakable: the thudding, thumping sound can be heard distinctively like a heavy boot touching on the stone floor in a quiet corridor.

Taipei is my home. Las Vegas is my home away from home. Los Angeles, what will you be?

After hearing the bad news on my voice mail I immediately rushed to N.'s apartment not far away from my work, despite my manager's entreating and half-threatening glance that I ought to finish the unfinished task. The front door into her apartment was left ajar, but not a trace of illumination coming out of despite the evening's stealthy approach. N.'s boyfriend in Taiwan has just died from a horrific motorcycle accident on the highway, her quivering voice recorded onto my mobile phone.

I looked through the door ajar and saw nothing but a pallor darkness. I called out her name two, three times; nothing audible returned my calling. I made entry into the short corridor and searched timidly with both hands for the light switch. As I got into the living room a faint crying sound was heard. Notwithstanding the pitch-black surrounding, I was familiar with her apartment so as to navigate in the dark without encroaching the many flower pots situated around the room. I found her hugging her knees by the bed, sobbing, the only illumination coming from the moonlit French window that was in the room. I put my arm around her, trying futilely to calm her senses, though the best thing for situations as such is to just let her cry.

Under the moonlight I saw clearly the horror that is transfiguring her delicate, pale face. Her deep-set black eyes, normally with a depth of sarcasm and confidence, are now filled with tears, and their breadths replaced with a profound helplessness. Her face, lined with streaks of dry and wet tears, no longer exudes that proud lineament. I, holding her still, sat quietly by her on the cold hardwood floor, not knowing the right things to say, was as incapable as she is now. The apartment is filled with a deadpen quietness, and everything external was heard: the clatter of dropped utensils from next door; the purring sound of stray cats lingering atop the roof; and the tipsy singing of her neighbor who is perpetually slightly drunk. Every sound, every movement of the outside world seemed so cruel and heartless, while I caressed her gently so as to invalidate her sensitiveness to foreign noise. Episodically she convulsed under the strain of his nonbeing: it was the first time that she and I both felt the encompassment of death. We just sat there, spoke nothing, and let fate take its toll upon her smitten, rumpled soul.

That was four days ago. N. is now on a flight back to Taipei, to gather her memory up and to prepare for the funeral arrangement. My mind, when seeing her off at the airport, was interlaced with sorrow, sadness, shock and a tiny tinge of indifference -- indifference! I blame myself for not been able to fully share the burden of her tragedy, for my heart is gradually hardened by my voluntary confinement.

A peculiar question floated on my mind as of late. As I sat in the small coffee shop, waiting for my 10:45 pm show of Pride and Prejudice, sipping the lukewarm coffee and glancing at George Eliot's Middlemarch, I suddenly recalled the physiognomy of a waitress, whom I cannot recall her name, yet I was sure she was once an acquaintance of mine, only her importance to me personally was of transient nature. I stole few stealthy glances at her between chapters; she possessed a sturdiness in ways she carried about her work. Her fluent and somewhat familiar movement aided a sense of my knowing her but did nothing to help in recognizing it. She did not possess any recognition on my being. Nevertheless, she is not central to this post; but she did unknowingly give assistance to my tottering conscience. The aforementioned question I put forth is one bound to seem stupid and vain to any outsider looking into my feeble mind. I wondered, in extreme toil, of how much I am worth to this world.

On Friday night the theatre is busy with foot traffic and the floor littered profusely by empty food and drink containers. Certainly the traffic is not here for movie adapted from Victorian novel. I lingered at the lobby; besides me are the concession stands selling over-priced popcorn and soft drinks. I debated internally of whether to go into the threatre and suffer through long minutes of movie previews, or sat at the bench at the lobby and watch disagreeable teenagers touting ostentatiously of their mobile phones and speak in their incomprehensible utterance. How much am I worth to them? Absolutely nothing. But I was once one of them! I was worth something then. Since I am of little value, and they to me, better to find me in a situation in which darkness could shield my general unease. As expected the theatre is devoid of a large crowd, and only few delicate laughs can be heard at witty remark been made on the screen.

As expected the movie ended on happy ending: Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth living happily under the umbrella of holy matrimony. Everything seems so easy in the movie, as lives are condensed into two hour capsules and everything is spoken in deliberate decisiveness, unlike the drone one suffers in present reality.

The next day, my mind still clouded, I went to have dinner with A., a dear friend and a former colleague of mine. Our circumstances in life after university could not have differed much. We went through the insufferable, the unrelenting and the unthinkable. We both find lives to be difficult to adjust to with our bachelor of arts degree. And both of us are now looking forward to graduate school, a respite for our mundane life doing inconsequential jobs.

"I will say our lives could not be worth a bit, except for sentimental reasons," I declared, just as plates after plates of food is put on our table.

"Correct. Our degree means nothing. We work in meaningless, dead-end jobs that are really meant for trained-monkeys. Now we will strive more toward that graduate degree, of which we will be under illusion for two more years," A. supplied with much enthusiasm as we both find our statements reciprocal. An old-time camaraderie instantly refluented in my chest. We dined and drunk and had much fun bowling with her friends well past mid-night. When I got home, leafing through George Eliot's writing, and find a description of Mary Garth, the governess, I found worth learning and an answer to my question. A light rain begin to fall, plashing on dry pavements and giving it a dappled look:

"A vigorous young mind not overbalanced of by passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its own powers with interest."

Right foot on the pedal, left foot idling; left hand holding the steering wheel, right hand fiddling the radio dial, tuning circular from KJZZ to K-MOZART to NPR. My foot and my hands and my basic reflexes steering the vehicle, my mind already wandering miles down the road, beyond the freeway, across the ocean, brooding over what I always brood about. The immaculate evening sky hung quietly above, surveying down with nonchalance, together with the crescent moon, imbued by Louis Armstrong: the chiseled multitude created one melancholy surrounding.

The car stopped at an intersection while awaiting the left-turn signal. The theatre to the right painted in big bold black letter of showing Pride and Prejudice. My capricious spiritual half thought of going for the 11:00 pm show; my other sensible fleshly half, usually triumphant -- and this time is no exception -- checked myself from indulging in sleep deprivation. The signal turned green, putting away my fanciful notion.

I continued my corporeal drive home. I opted to take surface streets instead of the freeway in search of quiet contemplation. It's queer to feel so effusive at a time when one is alone in a vehicle, segregated from worldly affairs, yet when putting one's hand on a keyboard it felt exceedingly difficult in translating those lyrical thought, as if they never manifested. I do not wish to let go of those feelings, but they almost always fleetingly escaped my capture, opting to take their own pertinacious path. Their whereabout buried forever in the warp of time, and I shall join them once my time on this earth is expired.

Bahans Haut-Brion '00 Pessac-Leognan, the second wine from the famed Chateau Haut-Brion, the closest I will ever come near a First Growth in the 1855 Classification of the MÃDOC, is now standing atop my IKEA coffee table, exuding suppressed haughtiness. Before you start criticizing my uncalled-for extravagance, let me just make clear the wine is not intended for my tongue, but for my landlord and landlady as their Christmas present. They have been the most caring people on this earth besides my mother, and that is why I splurged on this precious 2000 vintage bottle.

***

X'mas shopping season is clearly warming up to its eventual culmination in the next few weeks. Already parking lots at various shopping malls and plazas are filled to the brim on weekends. To be smart one should avoid the dreaded indoor shopping malls, but having a sweater that needs to be returned, today I found myself along with hundreds and thousands in the midst of a suburban shopping mall. The ritual is all too familiar: circling around parking lot trying to find an opening; the claustrophobic feeling one gets while standing in the midst of holiday crowd; extra long lines at the register, while babies are crying and kids are running around and teenagers acting puerilely -- not a moment of tranquility. Surprisingly, once I was summoned by the cashier, the process is extremely simple. The return process at Banana Republic is finally heeding speediness and efficiency. They took my receipt, checked the merchandise, scanned the bar code on the receipt, a return receipt is printed out, and everything is done under one or two minutes (no forms to fill out and I didn't even have to show my credit card!).

Once I suffered through the commotion, I guiltily rewarded myself with a trip to two used bookstores. One in Manhattan Beach, Dave's Olde Book Shop, and another in Long Beach, Acres of Books. Dave's used book shop is possibly the cleanest and most organized one I have ever encountered. The store is spotless and the books rest nicely on shelves without the presence of any dust. Dave himself is extremely friendly and helpful. I came out happily with two 1951 Modern Library hardcover edition of Nostromo and Lord Jim, an International Collectors Library edition of D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, and two Penguin paperbacks of Stendhal and W. Somerset Maugham. Acres of Books is a giant warehouse of used books that covers any conceivable subject. The fiction section is considerably larger than Dave's, but shelving is a bit disorganized and dust is as much a presence as the books. I thought about going through column by column but soon was disoriented and had to jump inefficiently from author to authoress as I can recall. I was only able to come out with two: Henry James's Roderick Hudson and The Other House, the latter I was not even aware of its existence. Before going in there again one must be prepared to take allergy pill and eat a good portion of breakfast; it is like going to war, sorting through writers and dispelling dust and dirt. For the day a total of seven novels for $35.

Sitting next to Acres of Books is Terry's Camera. I am always in need of a tripod but could never find one at a right price. I walked in and next thing you know adventitiously I came out with a $40 tripod -- completely out of my frugal calculation. That's okay, I guess, since I had earlier returned a sweater. And as I took my leisure walk to take in the view of downtown Long Beach, my vanity was soon attracted by the twinkly clothing display of Nordstrom Rack. Sure enough, I went in, and got out with two bags of clothing for gift and for myself. Despite my careful planning of not to buy I still contributed a great deal to the commercialization of X'mas. I heaved a deep sigh, hands busy carrying plastic and paper bags, and put up my white flag to surrender myself to Consumer Spending.