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