A Dream within a Dream (Pt. 2)

Has it really been a whole year since I've last blogged?

That's not to say life is always generous with time, but I do feel that something has been misplaced. Along with it are good conversations with a friend or two over pasta and salad, tinkering with guitar parts and making anew in a cold wintery morning with a fresh brewed coffee, long sleeps followed by a day in pajamas, and admiring a Mondrian piece at a gallery or simply floating about James Turrell's spaces. Not all were opportunities available to me, but unfortunately, I admit I have neglected a few. I find consolidations in thinking, 'Yes, I could do worse.' Yet, I know many people, who make the best of their time, applying themselves to things they believe. I know few who find joy and meaning in science. I know a friend who makes it a mission to travel whenever possible and experience different cultures. I know a buddy who believes it's worthwhile to play the numbers game in finances, everyday. As naive as I may be, I think there is nothing more exhilarating than a purpose-driven life full of vigor. While they may be different amongst my friends, and everybody, I'm akin to think what I believe is a choice. As if it's mine and I possess these beliefs. They're as personal as my scars. It's a beautiful thing, I'd say. But, time seems to run counter. Of time, of place, of memories, of existence, and of being, they're all lost in the end. I'm finite and I couldn't possibly claim time, however small of a fraction it may be.

I wonder, with a sense of disquiet, where do they go? And more importantly, who does it belong to?

Thought Ink

What to write. What to write? I could post those black and white photographs I've taken from Toronto and New York a while back. No, no. That's too easy. Picture is worth thousand words. One click. Thousand words. It's too easy. Curious though, I bet that phrase came along the same time the film photography was first invented. It took hours and even days to develop a single slide. So, with the selection process and timely consuming efforts needed, that phrase might have adequately matched the weight of thousand words and a single photo. But maybe not these days. Pictures are more costly in information, too. Photo comes in units of megabytes. Thousand words? Tens of bytes at most. Anyways, I'm getting side-tracked.

What to write?

Fashion? Spring is at the peak, and summer's nearing. It'd be perfect. I shall call it "A Study in Cotton". I mean, nearly everything is made of cotton in summer. Perhaps, save for sporting gears. But that's utility, not fashion. Or is it? Hmm. How about "Muse"? And just post pictures that I liked from fashion blogs. Something colourful and whimsical. But then again, I never do whimsical. That doesn't really grab my attention for long. I might even start disliking it after few hours. Anything from my previously abandoned posts? Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Well, what about that depressive note you wrote months back but never posted because - wait, I can't remember why I didn't post this. I mean, it's not terrible. It's not frighteningly dark. Oh, right! It's too abstract. That was the reason. "The mountains were high. It was a starless night. Wonders unseen and gone." What does that mean? Even I'm not too sure. Ok, next? How about "The Curious Interpretations of Reality?" I think that was the post reviewing and listing my top favorite documentary films. Hold on. Ah, crap. I still have to watch "The Cove". Those poor dolphins and evil Japanese fishermen. Okay, never mind. Anything else?

Argh! What to write!?

It's like there's a massive roadblock in my head. Well, better smash it with my thought train. Hopefully, there's nobody onboard. Wait, who's driving the train, then? Is it me? Am I going to survive? Well, you have so far, haven't you? That's true. I will be fine, I think. Technically, I don't think it's possible to project yourself into someone, or something, in your thoughts. People do engage in meta-thinking. Yes, they do! But, the subject and the object of thoughts are always ourselves. It'd be nuts if you were assessing your thoughts on someone else's thoughts in your own head! What if you could dream that? Haha. Even "Inception" wasn't that crazy. It'd definitely be a cool dream though. Okay, stop. Just let it come to you. Breathe. Silence.

Silence. You're doing it well.

Silence. Donut! Ah, damn it! Am I hungry? I think I am. I'm salivating. Or, is that just milk? No, it's much more viscous. Yea, definitely salivating. It's the donuts I bought this afternoon. Well, there're still several left and they're sitting on the kitchen table right now. So, just finish this post and go eat! There's my motivator. But, do you think people will think I'm nuts when they read this? Well, you could certainly come off a little odd. And weird. But, who cares? Clickity-click. Posted! Done!

Donuts > People.

"Untitled" by Cy Twombly (1970)

Intricacies

One evening, I was called out for a chat with a school friend. I enjoy good conversations, especially over coffees and teas, though this wasn't the case. It was outside a convenience store. In Korea it's common to have tables and chairs outside convenience stores for people to eat, smoke, chat, drink, and pass out, though not necessarily in that order.

Insert chuckle.

Regardless of the place, it was a good conversation. We started talking about jobs and careers, naturally. I find this all too common a topic nowadays, but he said something interesting. The précis goes something like this: our generation was taught and brought up to believe that we can achieve anything if we try hard enough, and we should have passion for what we do in life; it's a great message, but where's the responsibility in that?

The problem here isn't that the belief is inherently wrong. The problem is that the message is oversimplified. Passion is of great importance to our lives; it concerns what we do and why we do them. But too often whilst pursuing our passion, we leave our responsibilities behind. And when we fail at achieving what we want, we are devastated because passion has become our identities. Responsibilities work counter, though in conjunction, with our passions. Responsibilities are the precautions and preparations we take, and the actions we plan to take when we invest in our passion. It's also about understanding the boundaries of your passion, acknowledging the risks and consequences of your actions.

Halt.

These are fairly robust definitions, yet they are still just preliminary definitions of responsibility. Given the context of passion, it's rightly so. But passion, as you experience in all endeavors of life, involves choice. The more encompassing view of responsibility is related to our motives for our actions. It involves our intentions and conscience for the choices we make. If dreams and choices are what we do, then responsibility is how and why we do them.

A designer designs.

Take John for an example. John is a passionate industrial designer. Ever since he was little, he loved drawing, crafting things, sketching ideas, and at an early age he had become fluent in the visual language of objects. He graduated from a top design school and he got a job afterwards, doing what he loved best - designing. The hours were long and sometimes the tasks were menial, but he rarely complained. Overall, he enjoyed his job. And years went by, until he met a girl and got married. The unforgiving hours often kept him away from home, the less-than-average pay was distressing, but combined with his wife's salary they managed. A couple of years passed and now they want to start a family. But John fears that with his wife off the payrolls, he will not be able to sufficiently support his family. He begins to feel burdened and confronted with this reality, John contemplates a different career, moving out of the city, or compromise by creating an independent start-up design firm. He needs to make a choice.

What would you do?

Understandably, I am a guy and the scenario is gender-biased. But, the interlink between choice and responsibility is a universal phenomenon. Simplified, all choice leads to an action. And all actions have consequences. Responsibilities are the challenges of meeting those consequences. Whether you are a boy or a girl, a man or a woman, if you exercise choice then you will appropriate responsibilities, which you must face. When you apply for a job, when you enter a relationship, when you buy a car, when you eat a Big Mac, or when you make a promise, consequences follow. And to manage those consequences is, in part, to be responsible.

One porcupine. Two porcupines. Three porcupines.

The thing is, I want John to continue to design. He really loves what he does, and he is ardent and passionate. I believe, if he strives harder and persists, he is going to be okay. But the question is now. And nothing is certain about his future. Suppose he continues to design. Some may admire his passion for design while some will write him off being selfish. He'd risk suffering his family's quality of life. Well, is it selfish? Or is it passion?

Is this a standoff?

This is where my initial thought train began. It was the problem of choice and risk, namely its consequences. But while pondering, I realised two mistakes on my part. First mistake was that I phrased the question wrongfully. If I only considered the outcome of John's choice, then I would've disregarded the purpose of his action altogether. If I only focused on the result, then I would've fallen in trap of explaining John's choice as simply goal-oriented. And in this scenario, fear is an alternative explanation. And this conjures up a new question: does motivation matter in responsibility? To explain better, let's say John moved out of the city and decided a different career path, because family comes first. It's a sound decision, but we have no indication to his internal states. He may have acted on love. Or he may have acted out of fear. In fact, he may have thought that the risk of his family's quality of life diminishing was good enough a reason to make that decision. And while some may answer John's responsibleness adequate, the decision made out of fear and a decision founded in love are qualitatively different. It's the difference between giving a gift because you love someone and giving a gift because you fear he or she will leave you. It's the difference between a leader listening to his crowd because he is concerned and a leader listening to his crowd because he fears the crowd revolting. Would you call such person a responsible lover? Would you call such person a responsible leader?

Actions matter and John's actions indeed have consequences, but the definitive solution is found in the motivation. For John, it's the difference between John doing so because he fears for his family's well-being and John doing so because he is reminded of his love for his family and identifies who he is amongst his family before his work title.

I'd overseen this quality in responsibility by asking the question of passion versus responsibility as a simple tug-of-war. Truth is it's much more complicated. Even more so, most decisions we make are often mixed with motives. They are in the gray-area where it's partly fear-driven and partly love-driven. And in most cases, I believe that's normal and healthy. But it does add to the already existing complexity of choice, action, and motivation. And it's something to always be mindful of.

Sine. Cosine. Tangent.

The second mistake is much simpler and easier to explain than the first. The second mistake I made was that I didn't include John's wife in the decision-making process. After all, it's her decision just as much as it is his decision. I'm not sure what John's wife would say though, because I don't know her. John is a fictional character, and it was hard enough pulling out a person from thin air. I don't think I could do two. But whatever the decision, if made together, I believe it will be the right decision.

So yes, John should talk with his wife first.

Good luck, John.

P.S. The above photograph was taken across the Graduate House at University of Toronto. I miss my Toronto friends.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Let us ponder this question for a moment. Many argue the question is too careless and gives too large a room for responses inherently indubitable, but I believe I can find a solution by further developing the question then circumstancing my personal reflections. Despite the satirical nature of the question, I'll derive a conclusion, however exclusively subjective. I'll attempt to push the question as far as possible. With each iterative addition of condition argued in regard to the initial question, I'll provide an answer to its current state and another scenario purported by following additional conditions. And when all possible variables have been annotated, I'll inductively reason to uphold an answer and conclude with a final remark. Then, I'll add a personal insight to my conclusion.

So, why did the chicken cross the road? Let's, for the rest of this exercise, disregard all existential doubts. The chicken indeed crossed the road. This remains a fact and for those inclined to doubt any evidence at this point let's note that at point-x and time-y the chicken began to cross the road. Hence, any responses that deter from this observation will be treated as false. Similarly, the essence of the chicken is subdued by the exact cursor. The essence of the chicken is defined as the common domesticated bird which lays eggs and its meat processed as poultry. Responses which counters denouncing its existence, such as 'What chicken?' or 'It was really a rabbit', will be dubbed inadequate and premature. Same logic applies to the definition of road and its validity as a road.

Another pretense the question holds ambiguous is whether the chicken was genuinely the victim of its intentions. To phrase otherwise, was the chicken passive or active in its decision to cross the road? The question is elusive in this regard. However, the question hints clues. Considering its semantics and grammar, the chicken is the subject and the road is the object. It does not refer to the road being crossed by the chicken. Additionally, I argue that it's more probable that the chicken actively crossed the road and it was not unaware of its actions. Therefore, the chicken was intentional and its actions were ascertained deliberately. In the likelihood it was not intentional, I logically assume that the chicken was not cognizant. Given this condition, 'The chicken was sleep-walking' or 'The chicken was blind and deaf' will suffice as a response. However, this argument is defeasible. It introduces a new variable in the question that defers the subject of the question away from the chicken itself by displacing its authority in intention elsewhere. And along with it comes a twist but only posterior to the prior information. Thereby, it artifices a conclusion. I comment it as an ill-witted response to an impostor of a question that'd derail both the trickster and its audience altogether.

This leaves a final pretense which must be addressed. That is, what were its environmental conditions? And the most concise response is that there was nothing else present besides the chicken and the road, the question's initial givens. In the same manner as the chicken's internal state has been clarified, its external states can be clarified also. In the likelihood the chicken was not alone or there were other environmental variables present, the argument is defeasible due to an unlikely, convenient prior information only unveiled posteriorly. Though not perfectly certain, these are the logical presumptions I make when I attempt to answer the question: why did the chicken cross the road? And only when the conclusion derived from the alternative, or the question's givens, proves fallible will I revisit the assumptions made thus far.

So then, what are the givens? The givens are two things. The chicken and the road. From here on, we can deduce several other facts. First and the most obvious, a road is divisive by definition. While it functions to form a path which traveling can be accompanied through, it also entails separation of two sides. The chicken is on one side and there is the other side. Second, the question is not interested in whether the chicken successfully crossed the road or not. As mentioned previously, the question is primarily concerned with the intention of the chicken. Hence, the proper response to a question of 'why' would gender a statement starting with 'because' or 'to' followed by a verb.

I've hinted the answer. From here on, you can begin to formulate the possible answers. But a response which begins with 'because' does not work. 'The chicken crossed the road because' instigates the internal intentions which still remains unforeseen by the readers. Hence, this deduces the choice of answer down to one. 'The chicken crossed the road to' - to do what? And here we find the answer in plain sight. It's inherent in the word 'cross'. Cross is defined as to move, pass, or extend from one side to the other side. Hence, the chicken crossed the road to get to the other side.

So, yet again I ask. Why did the chicken cross the road?

The answer is this: to get to the other side.

This answer may seem anti-climatic to most. It may be less of an answer expected, but less is more. There's a twist. And this is the cunning, dual nature of the question and the answer together. While answering in the most obvious means possible, the other side is a reference. We assume, because the chicken and the road are physical manifestations, the question relies on answers that are both material and existential in nature. However, we bypass the notion that it need not necessarily be true. And that the response may as well be metaphysical and metaphorical. In here, 'the other side' is an allegory. The other side of life. Death. Beyond life. The chicken did not merely cross the road to set its feet on the other side but to experience death.

We find multiplicative answers in a single line of response. The chicken crossed the road to get to the other side. Inclusively defined as to die.

Rest in peace, dear chicken.

Image sourced from Mizz via Google

As You Were

What does it mean to be compatible? In a dating sense, I mean. Does it mean sharing interests and activities? The chemistry? Attraction, whether simply corporeal or carnal? Emotional connection? Intelligence? Having a community of supporting mutual friends? Does it mean not missing a beat when having a conversation? Disliking the same stuff? Believing in something mutually? How do you define compatibility?

The conventional wisdom is that compatibility, above all, entails someone who's willing to take them as they are and not change them. It's defined by taking the other person lovingly for his or her entirety and accepting them. It means not having to change yourself, because that's love.

Bullshit.

The best relationships are the ones that challenge us and change us. They change us to become better, to reciprocate, and to humble ourselves, because it's not about us. It never was. Relationship is never about the individuals, together or separate. It's about what's in between the two. It's about building and prioritizing the relationship before yourself or the other. It necessarily requires change. This contradicts the conventional wisdom of compatibility. The irony of compatibility is that it falsely assumes individualism. And we're told a lie that somehow if you and your partner both like kayaking, reading novels under the shade, and Star Wars, then you'll be fine. The argument is that you'll be better off if both share these interests rather than only one. That somehow, in a probabilistic sense, your relationship will be fruitful based on good compatibility. It's absurd. To be fair, it's great if two can enjoy an activity together. It's precious time spent together. Memories inscribed, love nurtured, and smiles engraved. But if relationships are founded on compatibility, it'll never stand attest to time. Compatibility is inherently selfish in nature. It's always about your interests and how their share of interests can fit into your life. Same can be said for personalities, intelligence, and physical-emotional chemistry.

I believe love has become an ideal. And with it, ironically, there's an equivocal pessimism. When we enter a relationship, we have clear expectations and desires. Many even subscribe to lists of traits they wish to find. Dating sites are notorious for them. From eye to hair colors, to height and jobs, school backgrounds, hobbies, and activities, we're led to believe we have a good chance at successful relationship because he or she is who you're searching for. But at the same time, the ideal has incited a pessimism that nobody is good enough. If the other person does not behave in accordance to our ideals we're quick to label them as flaws and dismiss them. We've got it backwards. We've put self-fulfillment before self-denial. And as long as we have it backwards, we'll imprison ourselves in disillusions.

In denial, as I were.

Aftermath

When I was applying for architecture graduate schools last winter, I told myself that I'd post up the portfolio and the results regardless of what results I got. So, these are the results. A portfolio that's no longer viable and 4-of-4 rejection letters. If I sound bitter, it's because I am bitter. Nonetheless, a promise is a promise. Well, here's to sleeping better after I post this and can get it off my consciousness. Cheers.

First, the portfolio. It's not the best viewing method, but I cut down the portfolio to post as picture files. Few pages of the portfolio are missing, but they're mostly cover pages, eye-candy photos, and table of contents. Altogether there isn't much to look at, if it helps here's a link to the higher-quality slideshow. I only had 3 projects. The first one was a conceptual build-up of typography and manipulation of its space. The second was a labor-intensive work of luthiery and fascinating an instrument facade into a visual space. The third is an easy piece that encodes calendar information into spacial context; basically, it's like a watch that tells time except it tells the month and the date.

As for schools, I applied to four programs. They're Harvard, Princeton, Yale, and MIT; and I didn't get into any of them. Why these schools? Go big or go home. That was the spirit. I wasn't going to settle for less. Personally, I've always been interested in only 1 school: MIT. I like the other 3 programs as well, but I believed I'd find a good home at the MIT program. My grades and GRE were fine. Speculating, my essays were weak for Harvard and Yale. But architecture admissions rely heavily on portfolio. And in most cases, the portfolio speaks for itself and the rest of the application are supplementary.

So, that's that. My last application was submitted early January. I received all my results by mid-March. I remember the last of its days. Ever slipping, I finally cracked.

What's next? Who knows. Life, perhaps.

Stray Cats

I've become accustomed to feeding stray cats near my place. These two are the regulars I feed. There is one more cat and a dog that come by time to time. But they don't befriend me at all. So, these two are the only ones I feed. And I guess they are the closest thing I've had as a pet because I've never had a pet. Well, technically I did. I owned few hamsters, turtles, a pair of birds at one point, and fish. I also had an ant colony in my desk drawer that gathered around the crab claw I souvenired from the previous night's dinner. That was grade 2, and my mom cleaned it up. I was unwilling to clean it, because I thought it was cool. Anyways, point made, I did have pets. But none of them were large enough to pet, which is my definition of a pet. If you can pet it it's a pet. I sometimes wish I did or could, but given my current living arrangements I can't accomodate one. My brother and I have always liked the idea of having a dog, but sadly that never happened. Reasons being allergy, lots of moving around, disapproving parents, and so on.

The black one is addicted to tuna. It does eat cat food if it's really hungry but rarely. It's also much less timid than the orange cat. The black one will eat food out of my hands whereas the orange one will only eat if I'm at least 3 feet away. Having said that, recently the black one's begun to claw my hands whenever I hold food out for him. It has sharp claws so when it claws, I'd drop the food and it'd just eat the food off the ground. Cunning little prick, but I like the emerald eyes.

Perfection

I think we all think that if we could be perfect, or just simply be better, we'd be better in all sense. That, being smarter, more athletic, more sociable, more talented, wealthier, and better dresser, or even innate characters such as having more empathy, being punctual, and being agreeable. But more and more I realize that it's not true. It's the relationships we make and the qualities of them that define our value, whether good or bad. If we could really be better by being more perfect, then some would be much more unfortunate than others. And I don't think people are made equal though all are valued the same. Some are simply smarter, more athletic, and more talented in different aspects of life than others. But I believe we all have the same potentials to love or hate another. Cherish and endear those who we love, and it inherently betters ourselves. Hate and despise one another, and that has its consequences also.

I have people who I look up to. I admire great people and the historical figures. To list some are Winston Churchill, Oscar Wilde, and Bill Gates. But reflecting on this admiration, I have trouble calling it love. It's mainly because I don't have a personal relationship with any of them, but I noticed that it's also because I've come to idealize their character. To me they are, in one sense, complete. I have easier time expressing love for those in need, hungry, and not loved. And it's because love is better found in redemption and in act of console. It's the imperfections that I can readily perceive which enables my heart to open up and empathize. With people and things I see perfect or simply good, it's much harder. And although I haven't tried, it often seems impossible. It's that opportunity or space reflected by another's imperfection that you can come to forgive, redeem, and love. If we were all made perfect, we wouldn't need to be forgiven, we wouldn't need redemption, we wouldn't need to depend on another, and we would never find love. We'd be self-sufficient.

There was once a dream that was timeless. A perfection that spoke of paragons of ideals and stood impeccable to corruptions. With virtues and might, he mounted himself on the fragile plane where he could only whisper of this perfection. Anything more and it would vanish. But to what end?

Redemption is better than perfection. Photo from Insadong, Seoul.

Narratives

The stories I tell myself and believe are the ones most compelling.

I used to talk to lots of people. Nowadays, I find little time to do so. And since I can't find the time to make new dialogues or engage with someone, I reflect on past conversations. I think about the context, their life-stage, and what I understood and what I did not. I wonder how some of the people I've stopped talking are doing. I wonder how they changed, or I think about how some of my friends I've stayed in touch over the years grew. I realize the past changes. The younger me was an absolutist; he cared little about what happened in the past and always looked forward. To him, the past remained as-is and it remained a fact, like the mosquitos trapped in ember. They were immovable. He was wrong; they move, and they can be stirred. And it's because people change; and people can change. And when you change, your perception changes also. Past, present, and future.

Years back, coming up to college I had a simple plan. I was relatively a simple boy and in a way, I still am. But I intended to keep things all simple; I'd do good in college, study what I enjoyed, go to a med-school, graduate, live somewhere rural, practice medicine, and enjoy hobbies with a family. And it's what many dream, coming into college. Is that good or bad? I don't know. It's naive, but naivety is neither moral nor immoral. Being a doctor or wanting to become one is certainly not immoral. I thought I'd be a doctor ever since I was young and that wish continued till my senior years in college where I took a turn. I no longer showed any interest in getting into a med-school. I began to think doctors were boring people, med-schools were overrated, and as a profession it seemed too constraint. I've become free of the Asian stereotype or the imposed choice of profession in the capitalistic society. So I went onto study something different. And I never looked back. Until now. I've always told myself that things worked for the better and that I should always be thankful at where I am now. That is a good attitude to have, and I should be thankful. But if I were to be fair to myself and test my character I'd stop assuming I was right and drop that narrative. The narrative is that I stopped dreaming of med-school willfully, and that I was the agent of change, when in fact I was passive. I had doubts whether I could get into med-school and whether I had the skills or talent. In effect and truthfully, the choice was never mine. It's convenient to believe that it was mine though. I'd feel more assured where I am right now, I'd be more confident, and I'd have more faith in myself. So, choosing the previous narrative makes more sense than the alternative. But at what cost?

Everyone has a narrative.

Francis Thomson
In attempts to improve your character, know what is in your power and what is beyond it.

In Dreams Begin Responsibilites

You were crying in your sleep. It was all but a dream yet the pain lingered. Then you realized it wasn't a dream, but a memory. Wonders unseen and gone. You wondered why you still felt the pain. It's because you have not yet faced it truthfully. Don't try to erase it because it's impossible to do so. Memories are the most secret diaries we carry in ourselves, however bitter or sweet they may be. Good or bad. They cannot be undone, just as you cannot be undone. Therefore, I must ask you to do the hardest thing. Accept them, and you'll find yourself again.

Connecting terminal. An old crow speaks.

When I was younger, I was wiser. There was a time when I understood words like purity, tranquility, and decency. But with age comes regrets and reality. Oh, the realities! They are the fiercest enemy you can find. When I was young, I believed if I could fly higher I'd be able to do much more. They agreed. I believed in a cause and they thought it was noble. I believed love was all I needed, and they guided me through their plans. They said it was just as necessary if my belief were to come to life. But rubbles! Why did I listen to them? Stranger, if my words can reach you then listen. Do not be blinded by reality as I have been. Love is all you need. It is unparalleled; it is one and the only one of its kind and does not compare. Plans, actions, happiness, money, and food are all necessarily important. But in light of love, they're secondary. When you find love, it'll do you good as laying a foundation which you can build yourself. That is, a foundation on which you can build plans, happiness, food, and shelter. But without love, we are hopelessly lost. Without it, we are weak. Without it, we're even more limited. Family, lovers, and friends share and carry each others' burdens. Love is the link that binds them together. Do not be mild about it as I was. Cherish it. They'll become your strength. And remember, we cannot take just what is good in our eyes, accept the good only, and reject the rest. Love is not partial. Remember that, stranger. Etch it inside of you. It'll help you in times of need. And lest you feel ashamed about your imperfections, don't be. Do not try to be perfect. It is as absurd as trying to create the perfect snow flake.

I've seen countless snow flakes, each one of them beautiful.

Never Let Go

I hate the fragility. We're so weak. Yet the bonds we make can be so strong. I think that's what keeps us intact most of the time. And most of our lives. Friendships and love, that is.

Human beings are like that.

That day, you asked me a series of hard questions which I didn't have an answer to a single one of them. I have some responses now, albeit poor. You asked me why people asked questions like 'What do you do for a living?' You thought it was strange that people would do something in order to live, and breathe, rather than to live to do something. You kept saying 'What do you live to do?' would be more correct. And all the while you seemed completely emotionless. Then you mentioned about the other time you were watching the television. In the program the parents of a son had found out he was dating. And that the parents would nag him about her job, height, family, and a picture of her. You thought those were very strange words to describe love. You asked me of which, asking him to describe her eyes or asking him for her job description, would tell more about the relationship and his love? You seemed to be a little snarky by then. I don't know whether you were being rhetorically critical or simply confused. But I thought about this for a while and it never crossed my mind. But I think it's strange too, that people would request such mundane information. So, maybe next time I ask a friend about his relationship I thought I'd try ask him about her favorite color, the shoes she likes, what kind of food she likes and how she eats, and ask him to describe her eyes and smiles. And hopefully, if I think about it for a while I'll see more and more what you meant. You stayed quiet for a bit afterwards. Then, you spoke up again abruptly as I was just about to leave. You asked me what people meant when they said 'Time heals.' I was confused. I didn't understand the question. Then, you expanded the question by adding what was innate in time that could heal? I still didn't get it. So, you asked me to try remember one of my past wounds that have healed. I did. Then, you asked me whether I just sat through after my wound or did I have somebody to talk to and comfort me. I sat back down and thought long and hard. I got what you meant after few minutes. I did have someone whom I will always be grateful. So, I had come to my resolve. I don't believe time heals. Relationships heal. Time is a necessary agent for healing because it takes time for relationships to grow and to understand one another. Time is simply a necessary prior for healing. But when I figured it out, you had already left and I never saw you again.

Wine over water.

When what you have is bigger and more precious than you, never let go.

Photo sourced from Google

Be Right Back

Hello blog, it's been a while since the last time we've talked. Before I say anything, I wanted to apologize for what I said to you before. I may have taken you for granted and you may have felt used, adulterated, and perhaps obsolete. None of what I said was true and I hope you can forgive me. I'm grateful that you selflessly post up anything I want to, without a fight. I know that some things you want to keep between you and me, and sometimes it works or sometimes it doesn't. But I'm thankful anyhow for your keen understanding and the times you've spent with me, inspiring me to explore and write, letting me sort things out and untangle personal issues and dilemmas, always inviting me to much-needed solitude and tranquility, and being patient while we spend countless hours on failed pieces. Sometimes we'd have to invite Dictionary.com and Wikipedia.com because we couldn't figure some stuff out on our own. I know you hated that, sharing my attention between 3 or 4 of us but you always appreciated me. Thank you.

Unfortunately, I must ask of you for something. Something urgent. I will be very busy till December and I'm afraid I won't be able to blog much. I may drop by and post fashionable pictures or comics now and then, but I'm afraid I will no longer have the luxury to sit down and converse with you. I will come back to tell you all about it though. But until then, I hope you'll be patient with me. Once again, thanks.

The Velveteen Rabbit

What is real?

Back then, I've understood loneliness to be just another part of life. An impossible acquaintance to rid. Yet, it was perfectly benign. Once you've mapped out the boundaries of loneliness it had began to feel more like a chore than an emotion. Just another variable in life that I needed to deal with. Of course, appearances can be deceiving. Loneliness wasn't benign. It carried a heavy price; you'd have to suffer not feeling anything at all. Outside, life continued on but I wouldn't respond. I had forgotten how.

Post-modernism.

I used to believe that it didn't matter how horrible I treated someone. It would be justified if I treated myself worse. If I upheld certain values and expected people to live by them, it would be all okay as long as I accounted myself by even more stringent values. The saying, 'do unto others as you would have them do unto you', was still in effect. If I got angry with someone because she had disappointed me, the anger would be justified because I've gotten even more upset with myself when the same mistake was made by me. It was all relative. Hence, right or wrong only existed in contextual, perspective-dependent basis. It was merely a perception.

Time passed and I realized that not everyone was so thick-skinned like me. People got hurt. But I only took pity. Life is tough and I had shown them a piece of it. I wasn't sorry. They didn't understand it. It was their fault! I believed tears were a sign of weakness. And I wouldn't ask for help, ever. Dependence was admitting defeat. I would continue this phase for years, distancing myself more and more from people. And slowly I found myself alone. But I'd continue, until I couldn't feel anything. Life had become a clockwork. There was no pulse, only ticks.

Love.

The numbness persisted. It was a while before I felt the pain. I couldn't go on like that anymore. It wasn't humane; all reality had been sealed off and by lack of, I was suffocating. The pain, which felt like a dryness I could not quench, would grow more and more. Then came the hunger. I was hungry for something real. I wouldn't care what it was, as long as it was real and genuine. Yet, I'd still try to ignore the pain. But then something happened. I saw something, or what was about to come. I saw darkness brewing and the malevolent bane it had conceived. Eventually, it would swallow me whole. I got scared. I started to crumble down the very walls I've built around me. I'd turn back and open myself up again, slowly. Eventually, reality started to sink back in and I was adjusting again.

I had started reading more. I frequented morning and afternoon teas. I was playing the guitar again. Writing, photography, design, music, and architecture seemed fun. What seemed like strenuous endeavors before became enjoyable. The subway rides to school became a lot less mundane, silence became a lot less uncomfortable. Flowers seemed brighter, air crisper, conversations were more intriguing, and the city became more interesting. Food had become more palatable and I'd go out more with my friends, meet new people and see new things. Requisites for love and life had taken toll and unbeknownst to me then, months after, in the following spring, I would fall in love.

"What is real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Write On

I may not have much to say, or I may have nothing to say at all. Sometimes I feel I have nothing of worth to say. Sometimes I feel as though given enough time and effort, something will always surface. But even if they were to surface, sometimes I may or may not want to hear my own thoughts. And even when it comes to facing my own thoughts, upon hearing them, sometimes I may or may not want to let them out. And even if I were to let them out, sometimes I may or may not want them to be heard. And even if I were to let them be heard, sometimes I may or may not want to be my friends, but rather strangers. And even if I wanted my thoughts to be heard by my friends, sometimes I may or may not want myself to be judged upon them. Sometimes I may want to be accountable for what I say and take counterpart in a dialogue, or sometimes I may just want the wind to carry-on the wings of my words and just seemingly dissipate them in the ears of whomever and in effect comparably lightening the weight of my thoughts and mind. And even more, if my thoughts were to be heard by whomever, sometimes I may or may not want them to be remembered. And even if they were to be remembered, sometimes I may or may not want them to be altered through time in memory. Perhaps, they could be fixed, perhaps not. Hopefully, it's possible to remain as-is. But even if the original context and meanings of my thoughts were to be changed, sometimes I may or may not care at that point.

Sometimes I want to actively facilitate and be able to take hold and control the entire realm of my thoughts, or sometimes I want to just let it run free. I may or may not have much to say, but I always know whether I wish I had something to say or wanted to remain silent. Whatever it is, this or that, I just write on. Because at least that much is predictable. At least, in that much I have a choice and I can remain consistent. It's the action itself I think which gives weight and makes things more concrete. I figure if I were in middle of an ocean, in a storm, there's no point trying to calm the waves or still the weather. Rather I'd want to invest my time and energy in building a solid anchor. Panic gets in the way of that, of course. Sometimes I wish I had the power to control all things around me, my thoughts included. And perhaps, I can sometimes. But other times I can't. So I keep on writing, on and on and on. Sometimes my hand gets tired, or sometimes my thoughts burnout on itself, or both. And sometimes I may or may not take much sympathy. But even if I were to take sympathy, it's highly unlikely that I'll stop writing. So no pondering about that at least.

Disconnect. Reload. Revolution.

I'm an avalanche. As an avalanche, I will cease to exist upon my completion of momentum, when my inertia has died. I do not choose what's underneath me or what lies ahead but with force I can overcome them. I may halt upon reaching the bottom of the mountain's valley or long before then by the obstacles that exist to oppose me. Whatever the case, the end is inevitable and each day brings me closer to it. Upon that day, I'll cease to be an avalanche and become inanimate, just snow. Nobody knows exactly when but that won't matter. Each day I'll exact my fiercest prowess as if to claim that today's not the day. That as long as I live it's never going to be today.

Morning Debriefing

If Sally proclaimed her love to Billy because she simply wanted him due to an emotional angst, would that justify love? Then what if Sally, without any amity nor affection, claimed that she loved Billy because she needed him by her side? Perhaps, too utilitarian but would you say that is love? In a different scenario, what if Sally had felt equivocal of her feelings toward Billy and plunged into a forceful declaration of love to find how she really felt? Would that be any more real? How about if Sally knew and understood that Billy would not and never could take Sally essential to his life, but confessed her love anyway? A willful act of enslavement. Would that be a fool's love, an act of bravado, or no love at all? Varyingly, what if Sally were a necessity but unwanted by Billy yet she would choose to love Billy? Or, what if Sally had neither adoration nor need for Billy but had chosen to honor the tradition to devote herself to Billy anyhow? Is there any love found in honor or vice versa?

I wouldn't know. For all I know, people have decried their love for far less reasons than these. Plus, who the hell is Sally?

I remember someone asking me one of those broad, philosophical life questions. Do you tend to choose and love a person because you wanted to be like him or because you needed him for all that you could not be? Because, they say couples grow up alike but they also say opposites attract. To be fair, there's a saying that contrasts for just about any other sayings. But it's still interesting to ponder. And I think sometime later, maybe months, I thought the answer must be both. I can't say much why, but I figured love, if it could be dissected, is made up by 3 parts. They're desire, need, and choice. A person must want another person, or an alibi for affection; a person must have a need for that person, and thus depend on him or her; and, a choice needs to be made to love him and for him, her. The reasons for someone's desire and needs largely vary from one individual to another, and the proportion of those desire and needs are likely to vary as well. Some are more independent than others, some feel less than others and are seemingly less affectionate, and so on. And choice, that choosing to fully accept and love, is important. The choice part is the most personal part of it all, and perhaps the most mysterious as well. I think, to some extent you can rationalize love; you feel more confident and like yourself around him, she seems to always know exactly what you need to hear, he's irreplaceable, and so on. Explain it the best you can and it ought to make some sense, but it should never be complete because it wasn't meant to be expounded. But these aren't anything new, I suppose.

I'll finish my anecdotes here. And about the photo. It's actually one of my favorite shots, of an island near Naoshima, Japan. I've often heard that silence is a sound you can hear. I understood what that meant but I've never felt it. That is, the disparity between knowing the path and walking the path. This photo was that moment. Put in words, the aesthetics of information found in lack of information. A message clarified through ambiguity.

Question to self: Why are you writing this 7 in the morning?!

National Museum of Korea

I'm not big on old stuff, like antiques. That's what my mom's interested in. Not me. I don't have the patience to stand and read all those historical events and background information that are written on the plaques beside the artifacts. When it comes to fine arts, I'm like a kid with ADD. I need to take-in and feel it right away. You know, like modern and contemporary art. They need to be visually refreshing and conceptually novel. Old ceramics, archeological artifacts, yellowed-out maps, engraved stone tabloids, ancient jewelries, and clothes-that-haven't-been-washed-over-two-centuries rely on subtle contextual differences and small details which I tend to overlook. So it's surprising that I decided to visit a historical museum and the biggest one at that, the National Museum of Korea. Well, afterthoughts? Personally, it made a good lesson for cultivating my patience. But for those who actually enjoy historical museums, I'd say go if you get the chance. The museum's also huge, so if you're on a diet and looking to ambulate I'd say this makes for a good afternoon session.

In all seriousness, the museum experience was great. Admission is free, the National Museum of Korea holds the biggest Korean-Asian heritage and artifact collections in Korea, it has solid interior designs, there are some nice cafes to rest, and the people who work at the museum really do care. I saw a couple of security guards just zoning out of their duty and gazing at a piece. And few discussing amongst themselves. I always find that kind of interest and sincerity to be an encouragement for the visitors, like myself.

The pictures aren't in any particular order. For higher resolution slideshow, click here.

Dangerous Equilibrium

These days, I find myself waking up to brush my teeth while sitting infront of Youtube videos for minutes on end. The electric toothbrush intermittently halts at the end of its cycles before I hit the start button again. And quietly, I'm gargling my own toothpaste foam in my mouth. I've also gotten in the habit of turning on a new music playlist whenever I dust, vacuum, cook, read, write e-mails, play games, draw rainbows, or eat food, thinking my time then will be 30-percent more efficiently spent. And perhaps, it is the better way to spend it. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with it. But nowadays, I'm trying to set up time for one thing at a time. A date with my guitar, then my book, then my toothbrush, then my food, then my music, and so on. I think there's joy in simplicity and having that full engagement in just one task at a time.

It's one-zero-zero-one-one-zero minutes past one-zero-one-zero.

The problem with pain is that pain is an ambiguous symptom, physiologically and emotionally. It doesn't necessarily entail a specific problem, because healing is just as painful as the initial pain that caused it. Yes, healing is painful, too. Almost all treatments and therapy require personal sacrifice in proportion to the damage done. But through the process, the fight, one progresses and heals. It's not easy though; healing requires one to confront the problem and often re-experience the pain. It is necessary and essential, yet we fail. I've failed many times. And failure to confront can be debilitating. Yet, it can be rather comforting. At least, much more so than confrontation. So we continue to live our lives, devoid of pain. We believe we've won over it because we have stopped feeling pain when in fact, we've become numb. The real problem is when we don't feel pain when we ought to, when we've become partial to our own selves. A progression in life that's defined by stillness. A dangerous equilibrium.

I hate crying, but now and then I feel the need to cry.

Nonsense Implosion

Suppose that the moon really was just a giant, green cheese. Would we harvest that too until there is nothing left of it? Suppose that we could catch falling stars. Would it just become another jewel? Will we use it to further divide the rich from the poor? Suppose that a parallel world exists. Would we engage in a war with our parallels? Suppose we could eat whatever we imagine. Would we condone all creativity and imagination? Will it be subjected to yet another regulation? Suppose sound were a source of pain. Would we use music as our weapons? Or will we wield our words to start wars? Suppose people could bear children made of gold. Would we still find love? Will we love our children for who they are and not what they are? Suppose Mother Earth had a tongue. What would she say?

Skip to confessions of an aphasic.

You know that doodle tinkered and that I want to sit him round and king measured of technology like you want before. I kindled my mother on the television and did not understand the door. It was too breakfast, but they came from feathers to memory. My mother is not too gibberish for me to be young. The card tramped over the hose on the envelop and took soul with her. Oh mistress, triangle and while listen you walking well things things this for year for you. I just don't sorry what you're doing and you just saving walking and walking around here. I kind my own eat for my and everything like that and clearing my dead me by is always clean me reverent eating and I can watch and everything in the morning. Hypertension and two won cricket, bowling, batting, and catch, poor old things, cancellations maybe gossiping, cancellations, arm and argument, finishing bowling. Ambition is very paper and determined. Better to be good and to post-office and pillar box and to distribution and to sail and survey and headmaster.

Here and Then, Now and There

Nostalgia literally means a painful yearning to return home.

Home, that is. Your memory. Comfort. A sense of belonging, warmth, and love. A connection dearly missed and hoping to be rebuilt. Time spun back to a place and time, that which we embrace as treasure. A fleeting utopia. The place that cannot be. Ephemeral in nature, it perishes with a single sigh. Wound that never fully healed. Chains that were never entirely severed. Bitter. To relive your memory as your own prison. Yet so sweet. Most blissful you remember them to be. And flawless from the distance afar. The displacement that speaks of aging youth and experiences gained. A sanctuary for those who wish it to be. And perfectly fragile.

To the average viewer, there's nothing special about the photo above, nor does it seem related to the post. It tells a mere story of a fish market warehouse on one afternoon. But I was with an old friend from abroad that day, visiting me in Seoul. And as I was taking the photo I remember reminiscing and the afterthought that came immediately. How silly and pitiful I seemed drowning in nostalgia. But it felt nice. Bittersweet, as most would say. That's what this photo means to me.

Voids

It doesn't matter much anymore I suppose, because I know the answer. And I have always known it. The bottle isn't either half-full or half-empty. It's both. But isn't it such a strange feeling? Though you have answered and beat a question so precisely right, you still feel beclouded. As if you're missing something.

I sat there staring at the Corona bottles in midst of all the cheers and laughter. The semester had ended and my college department had gone out to celebrate. Half-full or half-empty? I was reminded of the times when a friend had asked me that in high-school. After answering them blatantly in either-or fashion for a while, I found myself finally caught up with the answer. The truth is that it's both half-full and half-empty. How obvious it is when you've phrased it. By definition, one state entails the state of another. But we often miss that fact, because we seem so obliviously focused in answering the question rather than testing the question.

I quietly withdrew myself from the bar. I needed some room for myself. I'm not too fond of bars anyway. But still wondering about which, I felt the insuperable gap between perception and the truth. That is, how can you think beyond what you can perceive? Given the answer, you can say the bottle is both half-full and half-empty. But for those who haven't realized, how do you go about acknowledging that it's both? What pushes them to see that? If you're stuck, what makes you unstuck? My thoughts trailed on and I wondered whether this is very much the same as understanding another person. The differences and the likenesses of myself to another. I can easily identify how we are different and how we are similar. But trying to sense and withhold both the differences and the similarities together is distressing. Hard.

I'm not sure if I make much sense.