Voluntary Confinement in Los Angeles

2008-09-01T21:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-02T22:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-22T00:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

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."

2006-08-12T23:45:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-05T23:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-23T19:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-07-14T23:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-09T22:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-30T22:55:00.000-07:00

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 theclichehÃ©s 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!)

2006-06-16T23:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-03T23:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-28T10:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2001-01-01T21:00:00.000-08:00

62%

2006-05-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-11T23:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-03T23:58:00.000-07:00

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.