Yes, it is true - I turned forty earlier this month.
But if you know me, you know that I don't particularly pay much attention to birthdays or holidays - whatever joy or celebratory feeling you get on those days should be maintained on every day of the year.
Instead, there are two dates of special significance to me - January 17, 2010 and today, October 31, 2013.
On January 17, 2010, I provided medical care to a patient for the last time in my life. Even though they say "once a doctor, always a doctor," I no longer considered myself one. Contrary to most people who have journeyed through medical school and coveted that symbolic white coat, I couldn't wait to shed that embroidered garment heavy from unwanted responsibility and lifelong expectation. I was halfway toward freedom.
Today, October 31, 2013, I finished my last day as a medical consultant, more than ready to put to rest the medical degree that has accompanied me for the last 18 years. Surprisingly, as it was on my birthday, I felt no particular joy or relief; it's just another phase of my life that has come to an end - just like going grade school, living under one roof with housemates, organizing a tennis tournament, or eating the most delicious meal - except that this thing lasted 18 fucking years. I will take another class at another time, will live under another roof with another person, will organize another event, and will eat another meal even more fabulous than the previous one. It's all to come.
Some people have asked me why I endured all these years of medical training and practice if I didn't enjoy it, and how I can throw it all away just like that. I suppose it might be something like an arranged marriage: you enter it not knowing what to expect but always hoping for the best, and if it doesn't work out, if you live through everyday hoping it would end that day, then, if you're lucky, you have the choice of ending that marriage, even though you don't know what the future has in store for you.
Luckily for me, I know what I have in store for my future. My first project after ending work at 2 p.m. today was to dream up an idea for my Halloween costume this evening. Dressing up as a doctor would have been a symbolic end, but that was too easy and expected. I looked through drawers and shelves around the house, hoping to be inspired by some forgotten item from the past - I found the sarong purchased on a Hawaii trip two years ago. That and the puka shell necklace given as a souvenir at the Luau I attended on the same trip would complete my ensemble. The best part of this was that it wasn't something I would have done in the past.
I quickly found instructions on sarong tying on Youtube and, after a matter of minutes, mastered the technique of arranging a large, colorful diaper around my hips. I briefly contemplated going commando but ultimately decided on briefs.
So now it is 10:31 pm on October 31, 2013. I am another day older. I am one career older. And I am one great Halloween costume and party older. The future will be tricky, but there will be no tricks. Because the next marriage is not arranged. It is for love.
And it will be full of treats.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Monday, October 22, 2012
of jazz & friends - new york style
Note to self: taking a red-eye flight from San Francisco to New York isn't the smartest idea.
Original plan: sleep during the flight, arrive in New York after a restful slumber, then roam the streets in search of great ideas.
Reality: four 1/2 hours of flight time with insufficient leg room contracts to 1/2 hour of sleep. Arrive in New York tired and groggy, then stay in brother's apartment to sleep through the entire morning.
To jazz up my trip after the long nap, I attended Parlor Jazz at Marjorie Eliot's with my cousin Debbie and her fiancé Alex, also a jazz pianist - not that I, Alex, am a jazz pianist, but that Marjorie is one as well. You understand my point.
My first live jazz performance and two hours at this legendary institute was nothing short of extraordinary. This institute is actually the home of Marjorie Eliot, who for the past twenty years has assembled a few other jazz musicians every Sunday afternoon to offer New Yorkers and tourists a taste of jazz. A few measures into their first piece and after a few strokes on the ivory keys and plucks of strings on ebony wood, I knew these were masters of their crafts. The ever cerebral guy that I am, I couldn't help but as Debbie whether they had all the music memorized or were improvising from start to finish. I was instructed to feel and not think. Probably the best advice I got all year.
So I tried to stop thinking. I stopped trying to feel too. What I got in return was being mesmerized by a couple of solo piano pieces by Marjorie and a piano and flute duet. I remember well a couple moments when the piano came to a pause, and the brief silence before Marjorie played the next note was simply perfect and sublime. It's hard to describe these silent pauses in music - there really isn't an exact formula for their lengths (not that I know, anyway); you just recognize a perfect pause when you hear one. I got two that afternoon.
The piano and flute duet was another kind of magic. The flute started out alone with a pensive and spiraling melody. A couple of minutes later, the piano joined in - subtly but assuredly. It was like a good friend who is always just behind you even though you don't know whether exactly he is. At the right moment, just when you need it most, he steps in and offers a supporting hand. That's what Marjorie's piano sounded like as it joined the flute - like a good friend who has always been there then quietly appeared.
After the performance, the lovely Marjorie personally greeted every guest, several of whom were foreign tourists. The first thing she said to me was: "Are you an actor?" To a physician-turned-screenwriter, this was high compliment.
I told her no, but one day I hope to have fibbed.
Parlor Jazz at Marjorie Eliot's
Original plan: sleep during the flight, arrive in New York after a restful slumber, then roam the streets in search of great ideas.
Reality: four 1/2 hours of flight time with insufficient leg room contracts to 1/2 hour of sleep. Arrive in New York tired and groggy, then stay in brother's apartment to sleep through the entire morning.
To jazz up my trip after the long nap, I attended Parlor Jazz at Marjorie Eliot's with my cousin Debbie and her fiancé Alex, also a jazz pianist - not that I, Alex, am a jazz pianist, but that Marjorie is one as well. You understand my point.
My first live jazz performance and two hours at this legendary institute was nothing short of extraordinary. This institute is actually the home of Marjorie Eliot, who for the past twenty years has assembled a few other jazz musicians every Sunday afternoon to offer New Yorkers and tourists a taste of jazz. A few measures into their first piece and after a few strokes on the ivory keys and plucks of strings on ebony wood, I knew these were masters of their crafts. The ever cerebral guy that I am, I couldn't help but as Debbie whether they had all the music memorized or were improvising from start to finish. I was instructed to feel and not think. Probably the best advice I got all year.
So I tried to stop thinking. I stopped trying to feel too. What I got in return was being mesmerized by a couple of solo piano pieces by Marjorie and a piano and flute duet. I remember well a couple moments when the piano came to a pause, and the brief silence before Marjorie played the next note was simply perfect and sublime. It's hard to describe these silent pauses in music - there really isn't an exact formula for their lengths (not that I know, anyway); you just recognize a perfect pause when you hear one. I got two that afternoon.
The piano and flute duet was another kind of magic. The flute started out alone with a pensive and spiraling melody. A couple of minutes later, the piano joined in - subtly but assuredly. It was like a good friend who is always just behind you even though you don't know whether exactly he is. At the right moment, just when you need it most, he steps in and offers a supporting hand. That's what Marjorie's piano sounded like as it joined the flute - like a good friend who has always been there then quietly appeared.
After the performance, the lovely Marjorie personally greeted every guest, several of whom were foreign tourists. The first thing she said to me was: "Are you an actor?" To a physician-turned-screenwriter, this was high compliment.
I told her no, but one day I hope to have fibbed.
Parlor Jazz at Marjorie Eliot's
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
of ands and buts
I've been back in San Francisco for three weeks, and I've done such a fantastic job of getting resettled that it's feeling as if I never left. I need to rediscover that positive energy and curiosity that come so easily while traveling.
A couple of nights ago I had dinner with a fascinating guy named Alan. His life is one that appears in books, movies, or dreams. After college, he wanted to get away from his life, so he went to New Zealand and lived and worked there for a year. While driving from Missouri to San Diego, he stopped by Flagstaff because he had seen pictures of its beauty. He ended up staying for over six months. He has lived in Kenya, Hawaii, and Hong Kong. Oh, and he routinely runs marathons and participates in iron man competitions. Sitting across from him, I felt as small as the unsatisfying piece of fish on my sandwich.
I told Alan that I too have aspired to stay in Cambodia to volunteer at the Angkor Hospital for Children and in Thailand at Elephant Nature Park to devote myself to caring for those less fortunate, but my work and various responsibilities back at home prevent me from making such a drastic turn in my life. The problem, he quickly pointed out, was the word "but." How often have we made a statement about wanting to do something, then followed it with but? "But" is the enemy of reaching one's goals and dreams. Next time, follow that aspiring desire with "and" - more specifically, I want to do xyz, and I can make it happen by doing abc. That little "and" changes everything, doesn't it?
And what is it that drives us ordinary people to fantasize about a different life in a foreign country and to admire those with the courage to do so? My theory is that we all want to disappear sometimes - disappear from our current life or our future, destined life. The problem is that we don't know if and where we will reappear, hence the dilemma and hesitation. How will I support myself? Will I find another job? What do I do with all that I own (which really isn't very much to begin with)?
These questions and anxiety about the future are what prevents us from charging toward our present. It will take great effort to rewire my brain from the "but" to the "and" attitude. It might even require some intense therapy.
And do I know of a good therapist?
A couple of nights ago I had dinner with a fascinating guy named Alan. His life is one that appears in books, movies, or dreams. After college, he wanted to get away from his life, so he went to New Zealand and lived and worked there for a year. While driving from Missouri to San Diego, he stopped by Flagstaff because he had seen pictures of its beauty. He ended up staying for over six months. He has lived in Kenya, Hawaii, and Hong Kong. Oh, and he routinely runs marathons and participates in iron man competitions. Sitting across from him, I felt as small as the unsatisfying piece of fish on my sandwich.
I told Alan that I too have aspired to stay in Cambodia to volunteer at the Angkor Hospital for Children and in Thailand at Elephant Nature Park to devote myself to caring for those less fortunate, but my work and various responsibilities back at home prevent me from making such a drastic turn in my life. The problem, he quickly pointed out, was the word "but." How often have we made a statement about wanting to do something, then followed it with but? "But" is the enemy of reaching one's goals and dreams. Next time, follow that aspiring desire with "and" - more specifically, I want to do xyz, and I can make it happen by doing abc. That little "and" changes everything, doesn't it?
And what is it that drives us ordinary people to fantasize about a different life in a foreign country and to admire those with the courage to do so? My theory is that we all want to disappear sometimes - disappear from our current life or our future, destined life. The problem is that we don't know if and where we will reappear, hence the dilemma and hesitation. How will I support myself? Will I find another job? What do I do with all that I own (which really isn't very much to begin with)?
These questions and anxiety about the future are what prevents us from charging toward our present. It will take great effort to rewire my brain from the "but" to the "and" attitude. It might even require some intense therapy.
And do I know of a good therapist?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
what's a little cold?
Over the weekend, I hopped on Virgin America and bid good-bye to San Francisco and her gloomy, cold rain.
An hour later, Los Angeles welcomed me with a blustering rain storm. With a kinder gesture, my mom welcome me in her SUV. We then drove in the infamous LA traffic for over two hours, instead of the typical 45 minutes. There were cars going every which way, yet no one seemed to be going anywhere.
When we finally arrived home, what awaited me was our dear, near-freezing home. How could I possibly have forgotten her temperament? You see, she is scorching in the summer and frigid in the winter. How fondly I have loved and missed her.
Over the next few days, my mom caught me up on her exciting life of back and joint pains and the joys and woes of being a grandmother. And I, well, I shared with her my knowledge of Skype and MacBooks. In between our talks over hot water infused with lemon wedges, she cooked up a storm of her own, enough for the two of us, my sister, her husband, their two kids, and the three quails held prisoners as pets.
I returned to San Francisco this afternoon, to my apartment which is so small that it is rarely cold. I also returned to three days of junk mail, an inbox full of emails to be addressed, and an empty refrigerator. Luckily, my mom had sent along with me three days worth of left-overs that safely passed through airport scanners unscathed.
The heater and the cups of hot water may have partially warmed my body in LA, but it was my mom's cooking, 400 miles away from their origin, that warmed my heart in San Francisco.
Life is good.
An hour later, Los Angeles welcomed me with a blustering rain storm. With a kinder gesture, my mom welcome me in her SUV. We then drove in the infamous LA traffic for over two hours, instead of the typical 45 minutes. There were cars going every which way, yet no one seemed to be going anywhere.
When we finally arrived home, what awaited me was our dear, near-freezing home. How could I possibly have forgotten her temperament? You see, she is scorching in the summer and frigid in the winter. How fondly I have loved and missed her.
Over the next few days, my mom caught me up on her exciting life of back and joint pains and the joys and woes of being a grandmother. And I, well, I shared with her my knowledge of Skype and MacBooks. In between our talks over hot water infused with lemon wedges, she cooked up a storm of her own, enough for the two of us, my sister, her husband, their two kids, and the three quails held prisoners as pets.
I returned to San Francisco this afternoon, to my apartment which is so small that it is rarely cold. I also returned to three days of junk mail, an inbox full of emails to be addressed, and an empty refrigerator. Luckily, my mom had sent along with me three days worth of left-overs that safely passed through airport scanners unscathed.
The heater and the cups of hot water may have partially warmed my body in LA, but it was my mom's cooking, 400 miles away from their origin, that warmed my heart in San Francisco.
Life is good.
Friday, January 14, 2011
it's hard to believe...
It was not the best of weeks, it was not the best of days.
Okay, so mine isn't exactly A Tale of Two Cities, but it is a tale that happens in one city - San Francisco.
The last few days have gone by miserably for me, and I write this as I wallow in self-pity. They were days when nothing seems to go your way.
I wondered... obsessed... reflected... and wondered some more.
So, thankfully, I had the foresight one month ago to take the day off. To take my mind off my life, I drove myself to Ocean Beach at 11 in the morning. Perhaps watching other people live theirs would encourage me to have a little excitement in my own. It's time to wander instead of wonder.
After days of clouds and rain, San Francisco was surprisingly blue today. As I watched crystal blue sky, the foamy waves, and the shape-shifting clouds, I couldn't help but think about a song that holds special meaning for me.
It was about 7 or 8 years when a good friend of mine asked me to listen to a Mandarin pop song called Believe. Typically, it takes several rounds for me to warm up to a new piece of music. This was love at first note. I particularly loved the lyrics, which goes something like this:
Suddenly I realized I was all alone,
a bit of loneliness mixed with a hint of sadness.
I don't know how tomorrow will be,
even though today the sky is blue, the clouds white, and the breeze soothing.
I'll allow myself to leave today's entry blank in my diary,
no need to worry about everything that has happened.
Abandon any desire to work or any troublesome thoughts that surface,
abandon the desire to think about you,
what is mine will one day come,
I will not walk away from this challenge.
I sang in this song in the car, in the shower, in my mind. The words always surfaced during times like today.
A few years later, I found the music video for the song on YouTube. And there it was - the name of the composer - my cousin Debbie from Taiwan.
So there you have it - my attempt to leave today blank - no script writing, no work, no trace of its existence - except for this blog entry.
But it's hard to believe... As much as my brain wants to, my heart won't cooperate. Too many questions without answers. Too many beginnings without endings. One plus one is seldom two, especially when one doesn't know one.
That is how my day has been - a walk on the beach, a stop at Burger King for an Original Chicken Sandwich, and a few thoughts about the most important questions in life: should I get a dog? How wrinkled will I become when I get old?
There were other questions, most without answers. I wonder when I'll be an answer.
It's hard to believe...
Okay, so mine isn't exactly A Tale of Two Cities, but it is a tale that happens in one city - San Francisco.
The last few days have gone by miserably for me, and I write this as I wallow in self-pity. They were days when nothing seems to go your way.
I wondered... obsessed... reflected... and wondered some more.
So, thankfully, I had the foresight one month ago to take the day off. To take my mind off my life, I drove myself to Ocean Beach at 11 in the morning. Perhaps watching other people live theirs would encourage me to have a little excitement in my own. It's time to wander instead of wonder.
After days of clouds and rain, San Francisco was surprisingly blue today. As I watched crystal blue sky, the foamy waves, and the shape-shifting clouds, I couldn't help but think about a song that holds special meaning for me.
It was about 7 or 8 years when a good friend of mine asked me to listen to a Mandarin pop song called Believe. Typically, it takes several rounds for me to warm up to a new piece of music. This was love at first note. I particularly loved the lyrics, which goes something like this:
Suddenly I realized I was all alone,
a bit of loneliness mixed with a hint of sadness.
I don't know how tomorrow will be,
even though today the sky is blue, the clouds white, and the breeze soothing.
I'll allow myself to leave today's entry blank in my diary,
no need to worry about everything that has happened.
Abandon any desire to work or any troublesome thoughts that surface,
abandon the desire to think about you,
what is mine will one day come,
I will not walk away from this challenge.
I sang in this song in the car, in the shower, in my mind. The words always surfaced during times like today.
A few years later, I found the music video for the song on YouTube. And there it was - the name of the composer - my cousin Debbie from Taiwan.
So there you have it - my attempt to leave today blank - no script writing, no work, no trace of its existence - except for this blog entry.
But it's hard to believe... As much as my brain wants to, my heart won't cooperate. Too many questions without answers. Too many beginnings without endings. One plus one is seldom two, especially when one doesn't know one.
That is how my day has been - a walk on the beach, a stop at Burger King for an Original Chicken Sandwich, and a few thoughts about the most important questions in life: should I get a dog? How wrinkled will I become when I get old?
There were other questions, most without answers. I wonder when I'll be an answer.
It's hard to believe...
Saturday, December 25, 2010
plutôt la vie
I've always felt that classical music's magic in moving people without words is sublime.
Sometimes the unique ensemble of words achieves the same effect. This is especially true with the language of Molière.
Andrés, my good friend from Valencia who is fluent in French, sent me a card with the French photographer Edouard Boubat's famous "Plutôt la VIE" photo. First impressions of this phrase probably include a political statement and the importance of life (vie). However, on a literary level, I find the word plutôt much more intriguing.
Plutôt means rather, instead. It signifies a choice. And if life is one choice, what is the other? Death, war, imprisonment, or something else? Additionally, it suggests a difficult choice. Under what sort of a difficult circumstance must one make the difficult choice of life? The answer must be different for each person.
"Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche." These gentle words come from Edith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose." When I read French, I don't attempt to translate it into English or Mandarin - for me it's too difficult. Each languages possesses its own rhythm and life that simply cannot be mimicked by another. Rather, I simply fills these words with images.
I think of "des yeux qui font baisser les miens" as "eyes that make lower my own." Whose eyes have the power to make me lower my own eyes? I don't close them, I don't turn away, and I don't look back - I lower my eyes. Elegant, isn't it? But why? Am I shy, embarrassed, ashamed, or do I have something to hide? It conveys so much meaning that no translation (at least not mine) can do it justice. Word for word, the second phrase is "a laugh that loses itself on his/her mouth." My heart melts every time I read these words. Whose mouth is it? What does a laugh on a mouth look like? Why does it laugh? How does it get lost on the mouth? In what manner - mischievously, lovingly, coyly, playfully?
I don't have answers; so much more fun to imagine.
Sometimes the unique ensemble of words achieves the same effect. This is especially true with the language of Molière.
Andrés, my good friend from Valencia who is fluent in French, sent me a card with the French photographer Edouard Boubat's famous "Plutôt la VIE" photo. First impressions of this phrase probably include a political statement and the importance of life (vie). However, on a literary level, I find the word plutôt much more intriguing.
Plutôt means rather, instead. It signifies a choice. And if life is one choice, what is the other? Death, war, imprisonment, or something else? Additionally, it suggests a difficult choice. Under what sort of a difficult circumstance must one make the difficult choice of life? The answer must be different for each person.
"Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche." These gentle words come from Edith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose." When I read French, I don't attempt to translate it into English or Mandarin - for me it's too difficult. Each languages possesses its own rhythm and life that simply cannot be mimicked by another. Rather, I simply fills these words with images.
I think of "des yeux qui font baisser les miens" as "eyes that make lower my own." Whose eyes have the power to make me lower my own eyes? I don't close them, I don't turn away, and I don't look back - I lower my eyes. Elegant, isn't it? But why? Am I shy, embarrassed, ashamed, or do I have something to hide? It conveys so much meaning that no translation (at least not mine) can do it justice. Word for word, the second phrase is "a laugh that loses itself on his/her mouth." My heart melts every time I read these words. Whose mouth is it? What does a laugh on a mouth look like? Why does it laugh? How does it get lost on the mouth? In what manner - mischievously, lovingly, coyly, playfully?
I don't have answers; so much more fun to imagine.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
how to boil water with a cello
Feelings.
We all have them (I think), but which of us can fully express them or even create them with an object.
That is perhaps the epitome of a true artist - someone able to elicit feelings from another being through an object such as a pen, a camera, or a cello.
It's a good sign, really, that Irina and I are exploring the emotions of a musical piece; that suggests I've made enough progress to advance beyond the basic techniques of cello playing. But, as a Valley Girl would tell you - it's like, so, hard.
I was questioning whether I possessed any feelings as Irina and I plodded through a sonata this afternoon. The tempo of the second movement was adagio, and Irina's words were - oh, how shall I put this... yes - "When you play the long notes, Alex, I feel like dead." Hey, no kidding, I felt that way too. Then she demonstrated how long notes should be played, and of course they sounded amazingly alive.
It's like a pot of boiling water, she told me. Honestly, she has an endless supply of analogies that I should put in a book. When I play, it's like a low simmer - not much is moving: all the water is safely contained in the pot. When she plays, it's a pot of vigorously boiling water - everything moves and there is tremendous energy: drops of water are craving to jump right out of the pot. Same temperature, yet very different results and feelings.
I completely understand the concept. But finding a way to unleash this energy will be a journey. A difficult one, as I will need to think in ways I haven't wanted to in the past.
Expanding on this concept of expressing feelings through music, Irina recalls attending a concert where Gil Shaham played a violin concerto by Mozart. She is a fan of Mozart, but until the concert, she simply enjoyed Mozart's work as great pieces of musical literature. On that day when Gil Shaham stood on stage playing Mozart, she felt as if Mozart were present and infusing her with his music.
I haven't experienced such an epiphanous musical moment myself, unfortunately. The closest I have gotten is getting goosebumps and chills down my spine when I listen to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. But again, I can understand that moment - it's a moment when you feel as if some great, divine truth is pouring into you and you understand everything that revolves around this world, be the moment music, poetic, verbal, or cinematic.
To be honest, I have had a very brief with the moment, but I cannot recall when, where, or how. Perhaps it was in a dream. I don't know. I just remember for those few seconds, everything was clear - I saw and heard and understood all. I think writing about this moment and telling stories about it will help me to find it again.
It's a cold day in San Francisco. I'm going to boil some water for tea.
We all have them (I think), but which of us can fully express them or even create them with an object.
That is perhaps the epitome of a true artist - someone able to elicit feelings from another being through an object such as a pen, a camera, or a cello.
It's a good sign, really, that Irina and I are exploring the emotions of a musical piece; that suggests I've made enough progress to advance beyond the basic techniques of cello playing. But, as a Valley Girl would tell you - it's like, so, hard.
I was questioning whether I possessed any feelings as Irina and I plodded through a sonata this afternoon. The tempo of the second movement was adagio, and Irina's words were - oh, how shall I put this... yes - "When you play the long notes, Alex, I feel like dead." Hey, no kidding, I felt that way too. Then she demonstrated how long notes should be played, and of course they sounded amazingly alive.
It's like a pot of boiling water, she told me. Honestly, she has an endless supply of analogies that I should put in a book. When I play, it's like a low simmer - not much is moving: all the water is safely contained in the pot. When she plays, it's a pot of vigorously boiling water - everything moves and there is tremendous energy: drops of water are craving to jump right out of the pot. Same temperature, yet very different results and feelings.
I completely understand the concept. But finding a way to unleash this energy will be a journey. A difficult one, as I will need to think in ways I haven't wanted to in the past.
Expanding on this concept of expressing feelings through music, Irina recalls attending a concert where Gil Shaham played a violin concerto by Mozart. She is a fan of Mozart, but until the concert, she simply enjoyed Mozart's work as great pieces of musical literature. On that day when Gil Shaham stood on stage playing Mozart, she felt as if Mozart were present and infusing her with his music.
I haven't experienced such an epiphanous musical moment myself, unfortunately. The closest I have gotten is getting goosebumps and chills down my spine when I listen to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. But again, I can understand that moment - it's a moment when you feel as if some great, divine truth is pouring into you and you understand everything that revolves around this world, be the moment music, poetic, verbal, or cinematic.
To be honest, I have had a very brief with the moment, but I cannot recall when, where, or how. Perhaps it was in a dream. I don't know. I just remember for those few seconds, everything was clear - I saw and heard and understood all. I think writing about this moment and telling stories about it will help me to find it again.
It's a cold day in San Francisco. I'm going to boil some water for tea.
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