what i feel

Cello practices haven't been going well.

Lately, Irina has been focusing on the quality of the sound I produce, but no matter how I tried, my right wrist always ended up in great pain from the pressure applied onto the cello strings. So as soon as I walked into her home today, I said, "Irina, this isn't working. I have too much pain every time I play." As usual, she leaned back against her chair, nodded her head a few times, and uttered, "uh huh, uh huh."

Like I said before, every time I learned something about playing the cello, it seemed that that principle could be applied to tennis, to work, to any aspect of my life. Today was no exception.

Producing a good sound from the cello doesn't result from pressing down onto the strings - Irina told me. What is important is to feel the vibration of the strings transmitted through the bow to my fingers. Only when I solidly feel the vibrations will I produce good sound. No force, no tension, no pain. I tried it, and it immediately worked. Irina's reaction: "Perfecto!"

On my drive home (in my new but now dirty Volvo C30), I couldn't help but wonder whether this concept translates to tennis - perhaps the key to a solid stroke is to feel the contact of the ball with the strings on the racquet. This contact creates vibrations of the strings which are then transmitted to my hand. Just like playing the cello.

Since I have this self-diagnosed, self-exaggerated ADHD, my mind wandered toward the myriad of other things I do. The feel and contact that I was starting to appreciate sounded a bit like something we discussed in my improvisation class last year - to be in the moment. It was then that I had this enlightened shiver up my spine.

Could it be that the process and principle of success is the same in everything I do in life? Somehow, I need to learn to feel through my fingers the vibrations of the cello string and the tennis ball, just like I need to learn to see and hear the people in my life, to solidly feel and appreciate my interactions with them.

I can tell you now that it won't be easy. A lot of old, bad habits will have to be unlearned. But I have to try.

How else am I going to perform the Vivaldi Concerto at the cello recital in January?

adios, barcelona

Someone wants me to stay in Spain.

Or at least tried to make it hard for me to leave.

I returned home early this morning at 2:00 am, only to wake up at 5:00 am to get ready for my flights - Barcelona to Madrid to Toronto to San Francisco. It was going to be a long day.

Someone made it seem even longer. This someone was first a man, then a woman, then a woman again, though I don't know if it was the same one as before.

After arriving at the Barcelona airport, I checked the board then headed toward gate A1 for my flight. Nice, I thought, just a short walk. Wrong, I realized, gate A1 was at the of the long corridor. Imagine a single, long corridor of gates from A1 to C100 or so. I was dropped off near A35, so I had a long way to walk. No worries. I arrived in plenty of time.

I began my leisurely stroll toward A1. Several minutes, just when I was approaching the gate, this English announcement came, preceded by its Spanish brother: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, please proceed to gate B49." Oh, brother. Couldn't they have done this earlier?

After a heavy sigh, I turned around and joined the other folks heading toward B49. I distinctly noticed the clicks of a particular woman's heels striking the ground.

Two minutes later, near gate A13, came another announcement, via a female voice this time: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, your gate has been changed to B65." Make up your mind, folks. My silent bitching lasted just a few expletives since B65 wasn't far from B49.

Some time later, I lost track of where I was by this time, came a third announcement: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, please go to gate A1 for your flight." Are you friggin' kiddin' me!?#@ Someone had to be playing a joke on us. I felt sorry for anyone on the flight with peripheral vascular disease or a heart condition. (That's as medical as I've ever gotten in my blog.)

I turned around. My bitching lasted longer this time.

More time passed. I was still walking. I was still hearing that woman's heels. I heard another announcement: "Passengers on flight Vueling 1012 to Madrid, your gate is B59." Don't ask me where I was when I heard this; maybe I was somewhere around T709. At that moment, I was hoping that there would be some threat from terrorists who were plotting to blow up our plane with loaded tripes and calamari rings and that this was the clever and ultra-sexy Spanish people's way of fooling them. But no, the only fools were those of us walking from A1 to B49 to B65 to A1 to B59.

Finally, I arrived at the gate. Boarding had already begun. I had to ask the hot Spanish guy collecting boarding passes what those gate changes were about (I had no other motive at the time). He offered no intelligent answer. I was disappointed.

Three flights, two continents, and one ocean later, I returned home to San Francisco.

Did I go anywhere? Did I meet anyone? Did I try new food? Will I do it again? Where will I go next time? With whom will I share that adventure?

first x3

Most of us have dreams, goals, fantasies. Some of those we want to have come true, whereas others forever remain sources of stimulation and daydreams.

I had a fantasy come true today. Actually, more like last night. It didn't seem possible at first, but ultimately a little divine intervention willed it to happen. I shall say no more.

Except that it was a first for me. x3

gaudy or gaudi?

Today was my Gaudi day. Everyday is my gaudy day.

A visit to Barcelona has almost become synonymous with a visit to Gaudi's architectural pieces, so that was my focus today. As I am not an expert in architecture, nor can I retain any historical data in my brain for longer than a day (sometimes less), I will not embarrass myself with any sort of pretense in understanding his art. However, what I can say that his work is one-of-a-kind and leaves an everlasting impression; therefore, by my definition of an artist, he has succeeded.

A quick internet search told me that the word gaudy dates back to 1582. I wonder if there is any correlation between the adjective and his name.

I took advantage of my trip on foot to Gaudi's various buildings to get lost. Please notice how I made getting lost sound almost intentional. I was generously awarded gastronomically. My yet-unfulfilled mission in search of amazing culinary satifaction in Barcelona came to an end.

I had visited a few travel guide-recommended tapas restaurants in the city, but none were spectacular. Today I wondered as I wandered, and I came across this little restaurant on a random street near Sagrada Familia. I ordered fried calamari and tripe. I almost died.

The tripe was braised with chunks of pork that were mostly just fat. It was an amazing combination. They must raise pigs differently in Spain. Why is it Americans insist on engineering our food to make them tasteless, unhealthy globs of nonsense is beyond me. I had never had pork fat like this - chewy, not greasy, with tons of flavor. I devoured both servings of food, short of licking every bit of juice off the utensils and plates. I wanted to cry.

I don't know if the six hours of walking I did today was enough to balance the amount of food I ate, but I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

I'm praying my heart will beat for a long time to come.

embracing fear

On the train from Valencia back to Barcelona today, I met a man.

A man from Orange County, California.

He had been laid off, so he decided to take the opportunity to do something he had always dreamed of doing - living and traveling in Europe. He made Valencia his home base - learning Spanish and making new friends. He also made his way all over Europe - on planes, trains, cars, bicycles, and foot. He would make random stops in small towns never mentioned in travel guides. That's how he met this Scot.

He didn't remember the name of this young man, nor do I that of my storyteller. Our young Scot decided to make the same trip - to spends months in Europe. But there was one important difference - he did so without a single shilling. He hitchhiked everywhere and made friends every stop along the way to ensure survival. "What else could you possibly fear after that," said the man from Orange County.

In some ways this trip of mine is also some form of confronting my fears - fear of the inability to communicate with people, fear of being ignored, fear of rejection, fear of humid weather. I can't say that I have or will overcome all of them...

That's all... What? Were you expecting something profound after that sentence?

calatrava, paella, orchata, oh my!

What is Valencia known for?

I think most Americans would say oranges. Sure, there's that, but if you read my entry from yesterday, you might have also said Santiago Calatrava. But I bet most of you didn't know that Valencia is where the classic Spanish dish paella was born.

Andrés is very proud of this fact, so he took me out on a trip to the beach to enjoy some local cuisine. A caveat, he added, was that we would not be having the best paella in town, for we had to sacrifice the best quality for a beautiful ocean view.

I could live with that.

For the paella to be perfect, the ingredients had to be perfect, just like making any other classic dish in the world. Even the water used to cook the rice is important. If my memory serves me right (this is my Iron Chef moment again), I believe Andrés mentioned something about the higher concentration of calcium in Valencia's water that makes its paella perfect.

I could believe that.

For a delicious lunch of authentic, but not the best, paella and another classic Valencia specialty of small, fried fish, the only thing we could think of was to have dessert. And, of course, we were on course to try another Valencian specialty - the orchata. Never heard of it? How about horchata? Or orxata? It's a milk-like drink made with small, hard nuts, which I later found out were called tigernuts. And by later I meant 5 minutes when I googled orchata. It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon; we were sitting in a restaurant-like café filled with people tasting this special treat. Andrés got a couple of glasses for me (they go down fast) in the slushy form, and I was hooked. Subtly sweet, with a gentle, nutty aroma. Nothing overpowering. Everything you want in a dessert. Anything to have another glass.

I could go on like that.

somewhere between b and v

Exactly one year ago, on September 13, 2008, I was performing in San Francisco with the Bay Area Rainbow Symphony.

In the audience was Andrés, a teacher from Valencia, Spain whom I met through tennis. He was spending a three-month sabbatical in San Francisco to flee the routine and reflect on his life. I might have done something like that myself. I might have done it twice.

Now, a year later, we are in Valencia together, one day after I watched him play in a tennis tournament in Barcelona.

My first impression as we entered Valencia was that this was a town much like Taipei. The colors and height of the buildings, the street-level store fronts and the higher story apartments, and the width of the streets - everything made me feel as if I had returned to Taipei. It was a good feeling.

The main attraction in Valencia is without a doubt Ciutat de las Arts y las Ciènces, City of the Arts and Sciences, designed by Santiago Calatrava. Now I have heard of the name Calatrava, but I had no idea he was from Valencia. Andrés took me to La Ciutat, and it truly took my breath. You'll understand why once I get my lazy ass working and post some pictures for you. In La Ciutat, one finds an opera house, an Imax theatre, an oceanographic park - all housed in unique architecture that reminds me at once of spaceships and of vertebrae: it's that cool!

In the evening, Andrés and I strolled through the old part of Valencia in light rain. Suddenly, I've left the future and returned to the past. There were towers, cobblestone roads, and draw bridges. I felt hundreds of years younger. The one odd thing was that it was exceptionally bright at night. There were some high-wattage lights placed every few meters on all the streets. Andrés explained that the lesbian mayor ordered these lights installed to make Valencia safer at night. Does she think that bad things don't happen in broad daylight? She must have never visited Wall Street.

Somewhere along Calatrava's Umbracle and Lesbian Mayor's crime-free fantasy land, Andrés gave me a quick lesson in Spanish: there is no v sound in Spanish. The v is pronounced somewhere between the English b and v. The sound arises out of nowhere.

Sort of like far-away friends.

advantage: me

Today I left Madrid for Barcelona.

What got me there was an airline called Vueling, which I suppose is something like Southwest here in the U.S. The company color was a pleasant yellow, represented nicely as a scarf around each attendant's neck. I was pleasantly suprised by its multi-lingual announcements: I wouldn't have known how to grab an oxygen mask had they not given emergency details in English.

The flight was disappointingly uneventful - no drunken passengers making a pass at me, no screaming children with screaming parents, and no odorous, obese man trying to fit every centimeter (I'm in Europe now - we use the metric system here) of his pannus into a seat meant for people weighing less than 80 kilograms. No, none of that. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm begging for drama. But ever since the airlines started charging for earphones, when it's a flight that short (an hour), I wouldn't mind just a little bit of soap as my free, in-flight entertainment. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The flight ended with the smoothest landing I had ever experienced.

When I walked into the airport, I suddenly had a surprisingly pleasant feeling. I felt like I was returning home to a place filled with fond memories - I just couldn't remember what those memories were - and at the same time like a wondrous place I had never been to was welcoming me with its warm mysteries. It was almost a jéjà vu kind of thing. And instead of rushing to the bus station to get into town like I normally would, I felt the desire, the need, to stay and have breakfast. That was my first Barcelona experience.

I know the one question on your mind now: what does one eat for breakfast in a moment like this. Well, I was craving for chocolate, so the first thing I grabbed in the airport café was a bottle of chocolate milk that looked richer than Bill Gates' bank account. As if that weren't enough, I then got me a piece of a delicious-looking morsel of pastry that would have been called pain au chocolate in France. In Spain? Who knows. What's the Spanish for bread with chocolate? I needed something different to accompany all this bitter sweetness. I looked around. That's when I saw the answer - the perfect accompaniment to my chocolaty, first Barcelona meal - stewed tripe. Yes, you read correctly: tripe. And know, you're not the only one staring. Boy, was it good.

My stay in Barcelona this first time around would be short, as my plans were to meet my amigo Andres, then drive down tomorrow to his home in Valencia. Andres is here for the Panteres Tennis Tournament, which is Barcelona's version of the US Gay Open. The tournament is taking place at the Club de Tenis - Barcelona Tennis Olimpic, which was the site of the tennis matches during the 1992 Olympics. As Andres was quick to point out, this was where Jennifer Capriati won the gold medal.

So there I was, at a tennis tournament, surrounded by beautiful European men. What was I to do? I watched tennis. Then I watched the boys watching tennis. It was a pleasant afternoon.

My first impressions of Barcelona? If you've ever seen the movie L'auberge espagnole, you would understand immediately, as my bus arriving at Plaza de Catalunya was exactly like in the movie. Barcelona really is a beautiful city. It's large, spacious, not over-crowded like Madrid, and its architecture is definitely its defining element. It's like meeting a strange-looking man, but being impressed and assured by his pleasant and amiable demeanor. That's Barcelona.

Tomorrow I leave Barcelona for Valencia.

lost and found

One of the things I really want to do - really, really want to do - while in Spain is to attend a Flamenco performance.

I am not certain whence stemmed this interest, but I think it's from watching some very memorable moments watching skating competitions. And no, I cannot blame this lack of precise memory on age, as my friends can attest to the fact that I've always been deficient in this department.

What I specifically want to experience is not the Flamenco dance itself, but the performance of the guitar. Another haunting image embedded in my insufficient memory is of a mesmerizing guitar performance in the fantastic movie Talk to Her, or rather Hable con elle. But, since I'm already here in Spain, why not enjoy this captivating tradition to its fullest. When in Spain, do as the... tourists do?

Here's the problem - I can't seem to find anyone who can tell me where to go. Not the manager of the bed and breakfast where I'm staying, not the waitress where I had the most delicious Iberico ham, not the hooker (don't get excited, it was a she) who tapped my shoulder and stopped me on the street. Everyone said these performances are everywhere, but no one seems to know exactly where: sort of like love... happiness... and great deals on flights.

And so it happens that while returning from the Reina Sofia Museum the other night, I wanted to find a shortcut home but ended up getting lost. No surprise there, it's 100% guaranteed that I get lost every time I seek alternate routes - anywhere. But as I've said before, good things happen when you get lost - except when you're in a hurry; then you just end up being lost and late. While I meandered the tiny streets of Madrid, I passed by many shops and restaurants that I otherwise would not have encountered had I not gotten lost. I walked by this cozy Tapas restaurant and made a mental note to return the next day, as enjoying an authentic Tapas meal was another important item on my to-do list.

Today, I retraced my wandering steps from the other night back to the Tapas restaurant, only to discover that it was closed. Darn it - looks like I would have to get my tripe elsewhere. Walking back, I was stopped three storefronts away by a Spanish man handing out flyers. He was obviously targeting tourists, since he spoke English to me from the start. Guess what - it turned out that he was handing out flyers for a Flamenco show tonight. Imagine that. While looking for a shortcut, I got lost. While getting lost, I found a Tapas restaurant. While going to the restaurant, I found a Flamenco venue. Or, rather, it found me. Each un-success leads to an unexpected success. Must remember that one.

Thus I was able to enjoy my first Flamenco performance tonight. The host had reserved for me a table-for-one near the front corner. It was set up higher, so I had the best view of the house. Every now and then, I took the time to study the faces of the vocalists, guitarists, and dancers. What I discovered was that the face of a person focused with great intensity is really one of pain. I suppose there really is some truth to the saying: no pain, no gain. The concentration required to present any artistic endeavor is immeasurable. And in the end, it's all about telling a story, no matter the art form. I know I lack this focus; I have this undesirable nature to want to do everything - it's my curse, really. But I do realize that if I want to achieve my goals, the journey will be one filled with sacrifices and pain.

Oh, I'm getting a headache thinking about it. Does that count as pain?

moving on

As I was saying yesterday, I noticed these Chinese people hanging around on street corners and in plazas every evening well into the morning hours of Madrid.

Now since I can count the number of Spanish words I know with one hand, I couldn't tell what they were saying. I could only tell that they're from Mainland China by what they said when they came across each other as they paced in the plaza. So I watched them walk back and forth with their backpacks in the plaza and sit idly behind their cardboard boxes on street corners all over central Madrid.

Finally, I saw. I witnessed a transaction. No, not drugs. Beverages. They were selling drinks to pedestrians and folks hanging out in plazas. How uninteresting, I thought. How strange... How sad.

The longer I watched their expressionless faces the more curious I became. How could selling drinks on street corners in a foreign land where you could easily be discriminated against be a better life than what you had in your native land? I immediately knew how naive and how privileged I am to not know the answer to such a question. I wondered about their lives in China. Various possibilities came to mind - none satisfied my curiosity.

Then I reflected on the new Chinese immigrants I've encountered in each of the cities to which I've traveled: New York, Paris, Vancouver, Sydney, and now Madrid. They worked in restaurants, they sold newspaper on street corners, they owned grocery stores, they opened laundromats. These were jobs that required little language skill; but still, selling bottles of water at 4 a.m.? I didn't understand.

Days later, when I joined with my friend Andrés in Valencia, he would attempt to explain by telling me that immigration is a relatively new concept in Spain. As these hopeful foreigners arrive, they have no choice but pick up any job they can find, however undesirable (I understand that is completely subjective). Sometimes, they have to create new work - whatever it takes to survive.

So is this what people mean when they say "welcome to the real world"? Yes, there is a world where people labor, work, compromise, and sacrifice to make a living counted in pennies. There is also another real world where money isn't counted in dollars but in thousands of dollars.

I live in neither. I can't imagine either.

Perhaps that's one reason I travel. To see. To learn. To love.

what i don't see

While in Madrid, I took some time to check out their two major museums - Museo Nacional del Prado and Reina Sofía.

Prado, which is not to be confused with Prada (I had to give it a second read the first time I came across the name), is pretty much Madrid's answer to Le Louvre. Although not nearly as big, it still has a great collection of works, with emphasis on Spanish masters like Goya and Velázquez, of course.

Reina Sofía, referring to the Queen of Spain, houses contemporary works, similar to the MOMA. What I found coolest about this museum is the architecture. It has two glass columns of elevators with Reina and Sofía written on each one.

This being a low budget vacation, I took advantage of the free entrance during the final two hours of each day. As I wandered through Prado in my Pradas, in search of the likes of Poussin's Parnassus and Goya's The Third of May, 1808, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why what, you ask? Why I was searching for the paintings on the list of "Masterpieces" in the museum guide - that's why.

Why must we be told by "experts" what the Masterpieces are? Why do we walk the maze-like hallways of Le Louvre, fighting through the crowds of tourists like salmons swimming upstream, just to catch a glimpse of La Joconde (Mona Lisa), only to be disappointed by its small size (trust me on this one - in this case, size would impress). Why must I feel content with a museum visit only after I have laid eyes on each recommended Masterpiece, even if just for a brief three seconds, ten feet away, over twenty-some heads, with their point-and-shoots held high, all trying to document their artistic worthiness? There must be another way.

Perhaps I should just forgo the guide, granting myself the freedom to stroll aimlessly through the museum, stopping in front of whichever painting that happens to catch my eye, without knowing which suicidal or homicidal genius graced it with his brush. Perhaps I could come up with my own list of Masterpieces. Perhaps I might even sit down in front of a painting, ignoring the high-heeled señoritas attempting to pass by, and just study it, admire it, question it.

Perhaps. Just perhaps

so that's why

Some of the first things Americans hear about visiting Spain are that they have dinner after 10 p.m., party all night, and have siestas everyday. What's that all about?

Within a day of my trip, I understood why. Well, it would probably be more accurate to say that I could come up with reasons for this cultural phenomenon.

Spain is hot. And no, I'm not just talking about the men. On my first day there, I could feel the heat rising as early as ten in the morning. By early afternoon, my delicate body was starting to wilt. I exaggerate. It wasn't my body wilting; it was my gelled hair. My first thought whenever it gets warm is to take a nap. That's when I understood the value of the siesta. What better way to spend a warm summer afternoon than enjoying a beautiful slumber in the comfort of one's cool, Spanish home. I suddenly felt very Spanish. "Hola" rolled effortlessly off my tongue.

After my nap, the sun was starting to set, and I noticed it was eight in the evening. Finally, safe to go out. Almost forgot - I re-gelled my hair before leaving.

I took a nice, leisurely stroll through the streets, finally understanding that calle means street. The shops were in full bloom, as were young lovers and after-work business folks. An hour of walking was sufficient, since I started to feel hungry, even with my jet lag. Why isn't my stomach ever jet-lagged? It seems to readjust perfectly to whatever time zone I travel to. In any case, I realized then that it was a good hour to socialize with friends, have a glass of beer (or milk for me), then gossip about... oh wait, I promised not to tell... then talk about the weather over dinner. Second mystery solved.

It was past eleven by the time I finished dinner. I wasn't tired because of the jet lag and of the long nap I took in the afternoon, so I sauntered some more in the Chueca neighborhood - the Castro of Madrid (that only means something if you know San Francisco). There is a nice plaza there, surrounded by shops, restaurants, and hotels. What a pleasant night it was. The discomfort of the blazing sun had evaporated; it was a perfect evening for a couple to be out - or, in my case, a lonely, single guy. To my surprise, everyone was there. By everyone, I meant chatty teenagers, waddling toddlers, wrinkled grandfathers, weary mothers, and all their cousins and friends. People of all ages were hanging out in the plaza. Could you imagine a scene like that anywhere in the U.S.? Little kids out playing past midnight? Without parents screaming after them? How refreshing! So this was one of the ways to party until the wee hours in Spain. I could get used to this.

Then I noticed them - the first Asians I saw all day. They were definitely Chinese. I could tell because I'm Taiwanese, and not all Asians look alike. Plus they were speaking some Chinese dialect. The strange thing was that they all were carrying either a backpack or a box. What the heck was this? Chinese terrorists?

I quickly found out. But that's a different story for another day.

it had me at hola (almost)

I'm about to give up my working bachelorhood.

What the heck does that mean? Well, after working no more than three days a week for the past four years, typically during afternoons, evenings, and weekends, I'm about to start a salaried position - Monday to Friday, nine to five.

Scary. So, to prepare myself, I thought I would take a short trip - to Spain.

I managed to maintain a blog during my two-month trip to France last year. I was a Francophile, still is to some degree. But for this Spanish sojourn, there will no traveling laptop, just old-fashioned scroll and quill accompanying me from Madrid to Barcelona to Valencia. Please note the "th" sound of the letter c. So in fact, I'm writing this blog entry after my return to San Francisco as I channel myself back to September 9, 2009 (that's 9-9-9, ultra-lucky in the Chinese culture) when I arrived in Spain for the first time.

My initial impressions of Madrid were generally positive. For me, public transportation is essential in any large city (Paris, New York, and Taipei are the best so far in my travels). Just a couple of euros got me a metro ride from the aeropuerto to the center of town - excellent start.

When I exited the estacion de metro, my first thought of Madrid was that it was the Spanish version of New York - lots and lots of people. However, there were a few important differences after I took in my first few Spanish breaths.

First of all, Madrid is nowhere nearly as multicultural as New York; it predominantly is a city of Spanish people with some tourists. As my friend Andrés would later tell me, Spain is relatively new to immigration, so the homogeneity in the faces I encountered was to be expected. Stay tuned - I'll return to this subject later.

The second difference is what I call the U-EQ - the urban emotional quotient. In New York, while most places you go seem to be exciting, full of the glitters of Broadway or fashion models, there are definitely areas which engender a feeling of loneliness, almost a suffocating solitude that haunts your soul. I didn't get that same feeling in Madrid, even though I don't speak Spanish and was traveling alone.

Thirdly, the architecture. There is a dark elegance to Madrid which I found quite seductive. I am not well versed in architecture (thanks to the arguably incorrect decision to study medicine in college), so I can't guarantee that I am using these terms correctly. But there is a pleasant Gothic quality to the city, sort of like Batman and Robin in Paris.

Here are a few pictures from Madrid. The first thing I saw on the streets of Madrid was McDonald's. What a disappointment.

what am I driving?

I suppose this post was inevitable.  I mean, after the previous two posts, I couldn't just leave things hanging there, could I?

So which car did I ultimately choose?  Behind the first door was a used but practically brand new Lexus IS 350.  The second door led to a brand new Volvo S40 with five years of free maintenance.  Choosing the third door would have given me a Prius with unsurpassed fuel economy.  What to do...

I was pretty much torn between the Volvo and the Lexus (sorry Prius, you were a distant third).  A friend suggested I went with my gut feeling.  So I sat quietly on my couch during the long commercials while watching Roger Federer destroy his opponents at the U.S. Open and listened to my gut.  Nothing.  I poked on my belly at little, hoping to prod it into life.  I first giggled reflexively like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  Then I waited.  Still nothing.  This isn't working.

Then another friend suggested that I crunch out the numbers - which one would cost me more on gas, insurance, maintenance fees, etc.  I knew from the beginning that the Lexus would cost much more, and that was the way in turned out.  But even then, I wasn't pursuaded that this was the right way to go.  

I decided to use my brain - not the part responsible for calculations, but the calm and collected part that has displayed great sense in the past, which not to infrequently was then trumped by the anxious, emotional part.  I asked myself:  what do I need this car for?  The key here is need, not want.  I need a car that gets me safely from A to B.  A smaller car that allows me to find parking more easily.  A car that doesn't have extraneous gadgets that I won't use (and pay extra for).  I came to a conclusion quickly this way.  The Volvo C30.

Wait a minute, what!?  When was the C30 in the picture?  Oh, that's right, I test drove it as a substitute for the turbo S40.  Cousin Elmer had told me that I would be a fool if I didn't test drive the turbo if I was already thinking about the S40.  I just never thought I would need or want a car with greater horsepower.  The dealer didn't have one of the latter in store, so he recommended that I test drive the C30 because it's basically the same engine.  I loved the drive and was immediately hooked - going uphill and onto a freeway were much more effortlessly done than with my old Volvo.  The C30 is very compact - a two-door hatchback.  I had always disliked coupes for the reason that it would be inconvenient for the third person to get into the car.  I asked myself how often I have a third person in the car (or even a second person, for the matter).  It was an easy answer.

So that's what happened.  I bought a Volvo.  A coupe.  A turbo.  In white.  All things which I didn't want in the beginning.  Go figure.  It has been a week since the purchase, and I'm loving it more and more.  The fuel economy isn't as great as I would have liked, but still...  I can live with it.

Just need to train my gut.  Maybe I need to feed it even more.

P.S. Thanks to my friend Joe for these pictures.

what will i drive now?

Vehicular dilemmas, part two.

All week long, I've been trying to decide which car to buy - not easy for an indecisive Libra.  I can't even figure out what to get on a lunch special menu at an over-sauced yet bland, Americanized Chinese restaurant.  

But I have narrowed down my search to two cars - Volvo S40 and Prius.  At least I thought I had.

On the way to meet my friend Joe for lunch today, it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten about the Lexus IS 250.  I had driven the car a few weeks ago, and though I wasn't terribly excited about the design of the interior cabin, I did like the smooth, comfortable drive.  Darn it, now I had three choices - this wasn't good.  And even if I could decide on a car, what color would I choose?  In the Lexus, only the Glacier Frost Mica and the Breakwater Blue interested me.  In the Volvo, the Barents Blue and the Titanium Grey weren't too bad.  But in the Prius?  They got rid of all the good colors the previous year.  What's a guy to do?

As I sat down to enjoy my burrito, I told Joe about my recent car hunt.  To my surprise, he told me that he was selling his car.  What car do you drive, I asked.  A 2006 Lexus, he replied.  Hmmm...  The model?  IS 350.  Interesting.  The color?  Breakwater Blue.  I nearly projectile-vomitted every bit of the delicious morsels of steak and prawn burrito in my mouth.  Was I finally receiving a message from above?

I couldn't wait to see the car.  And it was worth the wait - all five humongous bites of it.  The car was in perfect condition, with only 12,000 miles.  The drive?  Amazing.  This was the first time I drove a car with more than 250 horsepower.  I was excited, like a sixty-year-old grandmother behind wheels for the first time.

The rest of the day, I kept asking myself - Volvo?  Or Lexus?  Beautiful, sleek interior, or established reliability?  Five years free maintenance or great resale value?  The torment.  The agony.  The life of a Libra.  What's a guy to do?

Wait a minute, I forgot about the Prius!

what do i drive?

I know nothing about cars.  The only things I know about a car are the color, the make (most of the time I can identify its logo), and whether or not it's pretty (yes, I know that's subjective).  So this time around, I've decided that, since I'm living in a city such as San Francisco where parking spaces are hard to come by when one goes out and where traffic can be seen anywhere and everywhere, I want a car that isn't too big, has good fuel economy, and is reliable.  Immediately I'm thinking Japanese, Japanese, and Japanese.  The Prius comes to mind.  Definitely don't want another Volvo.

After looking at the Prius, Lexus IS 250, and Subaru Legacy last week, I decided that I'm going to streamline the process.  I scheduled appointments at four different dealers to test drive no less than six cars.  Yesterday, after my cello lesson, I embarked on my journey on a beautiful, sunny afternoon.

First up - Volvo.  Yes, you read correctly.  I know, I said I'm not buying another Volvo.  But two nights ago, my friends Papa Joe and Daddy Lo recommended that I at least check out the V50, a station wagon.  What!?  Do I look like a sixty-year-old grandma?  Please don't answer that.  I know I drive like one, but still.  We went on the Volvo website and discovered that they're offering five years of complimentary maintenance and service plus $3,000 off on the S40 and V50.  Since the ways to my heart are money and food, I took the bait.

I first tried out the V50.  Surprisingly nice.  The Barents Blue was excellent, as was the Titanium Grey.  The interior design was also nice - nothing excessive, just the essential elements presented on an upscale, IKEA-like, elegant panel.  Unfortunately, the Nordic wood trim on the panel had looked better online than in person, but the aluminum alternative was sleek.  I could already imagine how that that would get under the sun; it might be like touching aluminum foil on an oven pan.  As for the models, the S40 Sedan has a younger, more interesting design, but the V50 does offere more cargo room.  Those of you who are car enthusiasts are probably asking:  what about the drive?  All I have to say in that department is that it was good - steady, familiar.  Of course, before I left, I made sure that my cello case would fit in both cars - a very important issue as I embark on my cello career and prepare for my nationwide concert engagements.

Next, I walked the long journey onward to Subaru, affectionately known as Subie to those who love it.  It was next door - took me 30 seconds.  Now, you're all asking (I'm asking):  why Subaru?  Because my cousin Elmer (oh, I forgot, he's not really my cousin, just married to one) said that it's a reliable, fun car.  Fun car?  I don't know what that means.  Reliable car?  Now we're talking.  By the way, the name Elmer is an alias, sort of like Anastasia Beaverhausen.

The Legacy sedan I had tried last week was fine.  Nothing special about it, nothing bad either.  But what I remembered most during that trip to Subaru was the color on a Forester SUV - sage green metallic.  My heart skipped a beat when I first saw this color because this was the color of my vehicular dreams.  If I closed my eyes and imagined the color of my dream car which of course is amorphous at this point, it would like exactly like the sage green metallic I saw.  But who buys a car just for the color?  Certainly not me.  There are the chassis and drivetrain to worry about.  I swear I still don't know what these two things are.

Anyway, I sat in the beautiful sage green metallic Forester, which, for some reason unknown to me, has lost a bit of its original appeal.  The first thing I thought when I closed the car door was that everything inside looked cheap.  Did Subaru run out of material to build in the interior?  I drove the car nevertheless but found the engine loud, the ride rough, and the smell smokey.  That last part was due to the salesman who has taken a few too many rides on the Camel in his life.  So good-bye, Forester.  Good-bye Subaru.  Good-bye dreamy sage green metallic.  Good-bye smelly salesman.

Next on the list was Lexus.  It got a bit chilly pulling into the Lexus customer parking lot, so I put on my hoity-toity deflector shield on before stepping out.  I was here for the Rx hybrid and the much-hyped, brand new HS.  The fast-talking, very annoying, stereotype-fitting salesman named JB was busy telling me how wonderful and technologically unique the HS was.  I didn't bother to tell him I don't own an iPhone.  Nor an iPod, for that matter.  He rambled.  I pretended to listen.  Honestly, I wasn't impressed.  The car drove fine, it was interesting inside despite that bulky center console that was like the Playstation of the car.  JB tried to impress me (or dissuade me?) by informing me that there is a three-month waiting list to get an HS, that of the five cars coming in the following week, four have already been reserved.  Sticker price only.  Limited supply due to the economy, you understand, right?  Too many rich people lined up to get the next "in" thing, right?

While there, I saw an Asian family.  The dad looked like the typical business or doctor type - you can't tell with Asians - they all look the same.  But i was certain he played golf or tennis.  Mom was the generic well-dressed kind - meek outside, tyrant at home.  Two sons about high school age, dressed with oversized jackets and shorts like most teenagers nowadays (nowadays - that word really ages me).  They were checking out the HS for the son who was about to go to college.  I have to compete with some acne-faced, tennis-playing 18-year-old whose dad has too much money to throw around?  I don't think so.  But I digress.  Eyes back on the HS.  I would label the HS as a cool looking car that is a technologically advanced toy for rich, young people.  90% of what the car offers I don't need.  As JB played with the mouse to show me on the navigation screen all the nifty things that car could do, I did my best to keep my eyes on the road and not see anything that he was doing.  I did, however, foresee accidents with the HS as people play with the mouse and screen while driving.  Not for me.

I then tried the Rxh.  Of course, there were none on the lot because they're so popular.  So I tried a 2006 used one.  Once i got in, the whole thing felt so big that it overwhelmed me.  I felt really heavy, like I just ate a whole bucket of KFC chicken (and I'm not talking about the grilled ones).  Not a good feeling.  Drivewise, it was fine.  But I hated the interior look of the Rxh.  The buttons were nice, nothing looked cheap like in a Subaru, but it was flat.  Literally and figuratively.  As I think back to the IS, I remember that was pretty much how it looked as well.  So the Lexus is pretty much like a hot, young supermodel - beautiful on the outisde, ugly and soulless on the inside.  I pass.

From there I moved on to Toyota. I was amazed by two things there - that my cello case fit in the back seat of a Prius, and that there is a horizontal bar running across the middle of the rearview mirror.  The bar is the metal divider of the hatchback window.  Who the heck designed that!?  But the Prius does have one (and only one) thing going for it - the 50 mpg.  Nothing beats it.  So I thought I would at least check out another Toyota Hybrid - the Camry.  Bad idea.  It was déjà vu.  The moment I sat in it, the cheapness of the Subaru returned all over again.  I got out of the car even before I drove it.

So that was the end of my day of cars.  I still don't know what I'll get, but, to my amazement, Volvo is a strong possibility.  Prius is up there too.  Will keep you posted.

my true colors

It's a typical summer afternoon in South San Francisco - foggy, cold, dreary.

I'm sitting here at work during my break, and random thoughts led to a search for a very fond memory from my stay in Paris in 2006.

One of the many special moments from that trip came from (surprise!) a television program - La Nouvelle Star. It's basically the French version of American Idol.

The star of the show that year was a young homme by the name of Christophe Willem. He was plain looking, wore geeky glasses, and didn't dress particularly fashionably. But he sang with his heart and soul, and he was beautiful. I remember very well a song he performed - True Colors.

So during my break, I searched for his performance online.

Then I relived three magical minutes from Paris.

Often I have (we all have) wanted to be more this or less that and have criticized people around me for being too this or acting too that - most of which don't actually matter very much if I think about it. Feeling Christophe perform makes all of life's little wants and desires insignificant. It reminds me to just be myself, to live, to express my soul in any and every which way I can and to see people for their true colors.

Every now and then, I'm starting to see a glimpse of my true colors shining through.

And that makes me happy.

of roses and akira

Sometimes I just can't get certain movie images out of my head.  

Not that I want to.

Yesterday I saw the great master Akira Kurosawa's Rhapsody in August, which depicts an old woman's life as result of the atomic bomb during WWII.  I don't like wars.  I don't care for movies about wars.  The image that has enraptured me is the image of the woman carrying an umbrella in the midst of a strong storm.

As she holds the umbrella above her, the wind blows so hard that it flips the umbrella inside out.  At that moment, the umbrella resembles the petals of the rose seen earlier in the movie, and the woman its stem.  Throughout the movie, the woman's grandchildren sing repeatedly Franz Schubert's The Rose among the Heather, a song based on Goethe's Heidenröslein.  The lyrics, which I can't remember fully, were about a boy seeing a rose and, delighted by its beauty, approaches to take a closer look.

In the movie, Kurosawa includes an image of a trail of ants crawling toward and all over this rose.  At the end, the grandchildren run after their grandmother like the ants toward the rose.  Like the poem, they are all pursuing something beautiful.  And by taking a closer look at their grandmother, the children find something valuable.

I couldn't help but think that I too am like the children.  Perhaps all people are.  We all search for something; some of us know what it is, others never find out.  

I recall the one other image that has resurfaced countless times in my mind.  It also comes from a Kurosawa movie - Ikiru.

This image is a middle-aged man, dying of cancer, sitting alone on a swing in the park he built with his life savings.  As snow falls, he sings Gondola no Uta (The Gondola Song), one verse of which goes something like this:

Life is brief

fall in love, maidens

before the boat drifts away

on the waves

before the hand resting on your shoulder

becomes frail

for those who will never

be seen here again

I remember not being able to stop crying for minutes as I watches these last moments of the film.  I believe the rose that I seek is to create images like these to move people, to move myself, to remind all what is true.

I have this secret plan (not so secret now) to recreate the image of the man on a swing in a movie that I will make.

Maybe I cried because I don't want to be that man.

how she said it

Elizabeth Taylor, a legend in the world of acting.  

I saw Cleopatra this week, and that was the first time I had ever seen her work.  What I noticed immediately was the different style of acting compared to the films today.  Of course there was the obvious lack of extreme close-ups and special effects, which are too often overused nowadays.  But the most significant difference is the diction.  

What current actors accomplish with facial expressions and hand gestures Ms. Taylor did with variances in the tone and weight of her speech.  One word that recurred as I watched the film was that she was convincing.  Through her diction, I felt her joy and her pain, her anger and her pride.

Her portrayal of Cleopatra made me want to learn more about this legendary historical figure, and isn't that what films are all about?  To demand our attention, to pique our curiosity.

on the wings of music

It has been nine months since I began cello lesson with Irina.  

Everything started with a flyer in Paris in May, 2008.

Yesterday I had a moment.

For the past nine months, we have been working on getting rid of bad habits and developing new ones - that has been the most difficult thing.  I have had to change the source of energy for my bowing arm from my fingers to my shoulders.  I remember once in a lesson when I remarked to Irina that her arm was like a butterfly wing flapping so freely and effortlessly, whereas my arm was like... well, nevermind what mine looked like.  Then it happened yesterday.

I willed all the energy into my shoulder and allowed my wrist to be like jello, merely an extension of the upper arm, and all of a sudden, I felt my shoulder become free, almost flying like that of Irina.  I was so happy I screamed.  

Once I finish writing this post, I will return to the cello again for the first time since that moment, and I will teach my arm and shoulder to take flight again.

But all of this reminds me of a comment someone made to me a few weeks ago when we were discussing how busy each of us was.  When I related to her that I had a full schedule of activities planned for the summer, she was quick to remind me of the fact the things that kept me busy, such as tennis, cello, and script writing, were insignificant compared to what kept her busy - her children and family.  

I didn't quite know how to respond initially, so I let it go, even though I knew there was something terribly wrong with her argument.  After I hung up the phone, the response came quietly to me.  While it is true that my activities are personal to only me and that they don't involve such grandiose efforts like taking care of children, they are still things important to me.  They are more than hobbies or pastimes; I've learned perseverance, acceptance, forgiveness through them.  They may not be as difficult, but they are important because I do them.

So while I don't need to make sure my cello or tennis balls are properly fed and bathed each day, nor do I dream about their applying to Harvard or Stanford one day, they are part of the many things that make up my life, and that gives them all the significance.

It's great to reflect on life to convince others.

Even more so to convince myself.

untitled opus I

About yesterday...

Perhaps not every opportunity needs to be seized.  Not every opportunity is an opportunity.  This one simply wasn't enough for me to give up things for.  Learn from the experience.  Move on.

About tomorrow...

just sort of do it?

It all started with an invitation to an internship at a new friend's film production company here in San Francisco.

Everything was going to be great - I would watch and observe the editor and director at work, learn a lot of new things, and perhaps help with film projects.

Now, one week later, the internship has begun and ended prematurely; and my overthinking mind is left to analyze it to death.

First of all, it wasn't exactly an internship.  It was going to be like a semi-internship as I could only devote a couple of visits to the office each week.  During the first and final week, I was there three times, for a total of eight hours.  It didn't take long for me to feel that any time spent at the semi-internship meant time taken away from cello practice, tennis games, and, of course, script writing.  Besides, I was helping the company with research on business expansion and wasn't quite getting the hands-on experience I had hoped for.

At least that's what I told myself.

So, after one week, I told my boss Carl that the timing wasn't right, and I was overly ambitious to think that I could devote enough time to his company.  He took it very well, saying that when I am ready to commit to filmmaking, I would be able to give up the other things in my life and devote myself to it completely.

I had doubts.  Just like Meryl Streep at the end of the film "Doubt."

That's when I called my cousin Debbie, who is a singer/composer in Taiwan.  She had been through a tough period of searching for her place in the music world, so I knew she would be able to understand my situation.  Plus she always gives it to me straight.  No sugar-coating anything.  Sort of like a more pleasant, prettier, female version of me.

Minutes into our conversation, she was already pointing all the things I had feared were true but didn't want to confront.  Here were the questions she raised:

What makes me think I could gauge what the company is like after eight hours working with them?  Why should anyone hire an intern who could only devote eight hours a week?  Why should I expect to be handed projects that were to my liking?  What could I possibly expect to accomplish by working eight hours a week?  Why should I expect to be taught anything?  Obviously, this isn't medical school.

But the most important question was this:  if I am seriously passionate about film, why can't I give up everything else to do it, to breathe it, to live it?

I have lots of answers to each and every question, none of them really good.

As a side note, this brought up a brief conversation about the concept that each of us already knows the answer to the important questions in life, but 99.9999% of us have our minds clouded by greed, pride, and whatever other sins and desires you can think of.  But I digress.

I don't want to believe that my personality will lead me to everywhere and consequently nowhere (that's what my father tells me and hence advises me to stick with medicine).  But I do believe it is time to seriously reevaluate my priorities and what I really want to accomplish.

It would be nice to have answers handed to me.  But I know it won't happen that way.  The path toward my goals is likely 10 times more difficult that I was preparing for, and I am standing at every intersection, ready to provide all sorts of obstacle.  

The next time an opportunity presents itself, will I "just do it" or will I "just sort of do it"?

I have an answer:  I need to get rid of "me."

practice makes imperfect

At my cello lesson yesterday, my instructor Irina noted that, unlike some of her other students, I am very receptive to changes.

Her comment took me by surprise.  

I have enough self-awareness to know that I am open to constructive criticism, but it never occurred to me that others might not.  That's the part I don't understand - if you could improve something about you, why wouldn't you do it? 

Now I'm not talking about going to a plastic surgeon to get a face lift (at least not yet, ask me in 20 years; maybe 10), but simple things like improving the way you hold the cello bow, the way you hit a forehand on the tennis court, or the way you approach an eligible bachelor to ask him out on a first date.  If you could learn to do things better, why not?

Sure, it isn't always easy.  Often very difficult I should day.  But still - isn't that what life is about - finding ways to learn, to improve ourselves?  The corollary to all this is that it makes my life a bit more challenging - meaning I would never be satisfied with myself and that I would always feel that there is more to achieve, more to improve.  That's where the concept of the imperfect human comes in - I need to remind myself that my goal is improvement, not perfection.

Last year I read a book given to me by a colleague at Kaiser.  She has a strong interest in hypnotherapy and the concept of reincarnation.  An idea proposed by the author is that the purpose of each lifetime is to find and overcome a character flaw.  I must admit that it is quite easy to find my character flaw(s), but overcoming it is another story, as it is with most people.

But again, the issue here is change - finding that which needs improvement and addressing it.  Maybe that's why I'm so restless...  Maybe I'm closer to Nirvana than I know...

...Maybe I need to practice the cello a bit more today.

veni, vini, vici

This afternoon at 5 pm I was sitting in the Taube Tennis Stadium at Stanford University.  I don't know how many seats there were at the stadium - a few thousand would be my guess.  I was the only person there.

Over the past four days I attended the US Gay Open, a tennis tournament organized by the Gay & Lesbian Tennis Federation.  I wasn't there as a player; I was a volunteer - I didn't think I had enough match toughness to be in a tournament like this.  I thought it would be embarrassing if, instead of serving properly, I had to toss and retoss the ball because my left arm couldn't follow my brain's orders.  So the only other alternative to experience this tournament for the first time was to volunteer.  I had a blast.

I set up courts, prepared drinks, bought breakfast.  I even managed (very successfully I might add) the consolation rounds on a cool Sunday morning.

But more importantly, I met lots of people.  I saw them.  And I heard them.  Then I appreciated them.  

I saw how players competed at all levels, many higher than my own, but also many below.  I saw amazing points that ended after a series of unbelievable volleys, overheads, slices, topspin forehands.  I saw doubles partners hugging each other after a win or a loss and encouraging each other.  I saw people having fun no matter how they played.

Then this afternoon, when the regular matches had finished and all the spectators had departed, only the players of World Team Tennis and a few members of the organizing team remained.  They were playing on the outside courts, leaving me alone to reflect on the past few days in the stadium.  I heard screams.  I had laughter.  I had cheers.  

I left my solitude in the main stadium and ran up to check out the matches.  

I saw players wearing outfits that would probably send Queen Elizabeth to the cardic cath lab if they were ever to appear at Wimbledon.  There were tiaras, tutus, one-piece skirts.  Most of these were worn by the guys.  Watching them close up, you would laugh at how funny the guys looked.  Watching them from far away, you would laugh because you saw people having fun.  I noticed that I couldn't tell if the laughters I heard were male or female voices.  Then I realized it didn't matter.  They were tennis players who loved what they were doing at the moment in the Taube Stadium at Stanford University in Palo Alto, California.

So I decided I would play at next year's tournament.  So what if I couldn't get my serves in.  So what if some of my forehands would go long.  So what if I would dump the easiest overheads into the net.  I'll just keep hitting the ball and keep loving it.

I came.  I saw.  I heard.  I'll conquer.

the russians are coming

Well, not exactly.  But changes are coming.

Sometime last year I had this feeling that 2009 would be the last year that I would practice medicine.  It has been seven years since I finished residency, and it is now more than just a seven year itch:  it has become practically a wound.

To make the long story short, I've found a job as a medical consultant.  No, it isn't filmmaking.  I'm quite aware of that.  The teleplay that I'm working on with my friend in New York is coming along nicely, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed.  In the meantime, I'll start my new job in September - seven years and one month after I began working at Kaiser Permanente - five years and one month longer than my residency classmates and I had estimated I would last in medicine.

Last week I met a ballet dancer.  A Russian ballet dancer.  As expected, he was in perfect physical shape, charming, handsome.  I was intrigued to hear his story, his life, his plans.  In turn, I told him of mine.  He then mentioned that he had an idea for a dance-based theater project and that it might be fun for me to write it with him.  When I shared with him that it would be "incredibly, incredibly, incredibly" amazing if one day I would work on such a project and also work for a film production company, he immediately corrected me, saying that it would be at most "incredible," not "incredible, incredible, incredible."

I confessed my ignorance.  So he proceeded to remind me that if I work on something really hard then ultimately achieve the desired result, then there isn't much there that is incredible.

Well, of course he was right.  I don't know if I was misusing the word incredible, if I never understood its meaning in the first place, or if I was not giving myself the credit I'm due.  This isn't a multiple choice question - I already know the answer.

I remember that when I working in Santa Rosa as a full time primary care doctor, I had imagined how amazing it would be if I could one day work just a few days a week and spend the rest of my time pursuing the things I loved.  Well, that's exactly what happened.  I spent three years in Santa Rosa searching for my passion, I found it in filmmaking, and I moved to San Francisco to work part-time while learning about the art, playing tennis, going to Paris for months at a time...

Then during this period of hedonism, I imagined how amazing it would be if I could one day not be a doctor any more, then be lucky enough to find some job related to filmmaking while working on various writing or photography projects.  All this is slowly coming true.  I've worked hard to make it come true.  So what's so incredible about that?

Nothing.  Absoultely nothing at all.  So I'll march on to my own little symphony and keep exploring opportunities that take me to my dreams.  What once seemed amazing will one day be what I'm living.

Changes are coming.

come

I'm no longer going to wait for the future to arrive.

Instead, I'm going to bring my future to me.  

today is friday

Today is Friday.

On Monday, I wanted an apple.  I didn't see one.

On Tuesday, I saw a beautiful apple, but I didn't want one any more.  

I did nothing.

Wednesday came and gone.

Thursday was when I felt like wanting an apple again.  I couldn't find one.

Today is Friday.  I haven't come across an apple yet.  I still want one.

Tomorrow will be Saturday.  Already.  

From now on, I will keep my eyes open and take the apple when I see one.  

Because I don't want to miss it again.

i once saw...

This is my fourth day in New York.  Already.

I'm lazier than I thought, it turns out.  The purpose of this trip, other than seeing my brother and friends, is to work on the script with my writing partner.  We've finished the first draft of all 15 episodes, and now it's time to rewrite, rewrite, and rewrite.

But it's soooo hard.  Sitting down in front of a computer and letting my fingers fly and translate whatever ideas I had in my head into words was one thing; rereading these words and then fixing all the necessary changes is really something else.  I know that this one particular part isn't good enough, it simply doesn't work; but I don't want to delete it or revise it - it's like you bought a new home (some of us need to really pretend on this one), it's not exactly how you thought it would be after you move in; there are things you need to fix, but you just don't want to.

Maybe I'll learn to love it.  Probably not.

On the subway today.  I saw this seventy-year old Chinese woman.  In pigtails.  Just like Pippi Longstocking.  She was adorable.  Immediately I think that some people would ask, "why doesn't she get a haircut more appropriate for her age?"  Whether or not I am one of these people is beside the point.  (I'd like to think I'm not, but then if I'm not, why would I have thought of it in the first place?)  Wouldn't it be nice if people never have to act their age?  I want to see fifty-year olds playing hide and seek.  I want to hear a sixty-year old sing whenever and wherever she wants to.  I want to find a seventy-year couple on a see-saw, talking about stories of their past and envisioning plans for the future.

And I don't want to see or hear anyone judge them or laugh at them.

Only admire them.

no caution

Earlier this week, I saw the movie "Lust, Caution" for the second time.

I didn't like it the first time.

I liked it more the second time around, but that wasn't the only difference.

Ang Lee was there.  In the auditorium.  In front of me.

I like movies that make me think.  I like movies that let me think.  Ang Lee's movies do both.

During the Q & A after the movie, as I watched and listened to Ang Lee up on stage, I saw myself up there.  I was comfortable, funny, engaging, and more importantly, I was a movie director.

That's my lust.

i say, i say

I had one of those enlightening moments last night.  In the shower.

I've been ruminating over how to deal with my neighbor upstairs who insists that I hear her every footstep.  Pleading with her several times to lighten her steps has yielded no results; she even turned this issue around and accused me of harrassing her!  The nerve of some people!

So I decided to change tactics.  I realized it was futile to reason with an unreasonable person - after all, if she was going to change, she would have done so after my first plea months ago.  I decided to treat this as a challenge.  Each one of her annoying steps would be a test - a test for me to overcome my easily perturbed emotions.  Rather than feeling the flames of anger consume me, I would welcome each step and make a conscious effort to find my inner peace.

I know, they're just footsteps; it's not like I'm living in a war zone or something.  But, it's still a big deal to me.  When I made this decision and the calming shower was drowning out all extraneous noise from my ears, I told myself:  you know very well that you can't expect other people to change for you; all you can do is change yourself.

A second later, I realized I had heard someone say the exact same thing in the very recent past.  

What wise person uttered these words?  I realized a few seconds later that it was me - I had said this to my mother the day before when I offered her advice on how to deal with a difficult child (no, not me, another one - she's got plenty of them, the poor woman).

At the moment, I just laughed out loud for some reason.  I don't know what it was - realizing my own wisdom or some other random reason - but it continued for a good fifteen seconds.  We're always telling people that they are adept are solving others' issues, just never their own, and that they should listen to their own advice to others sometimes.  I guess I finally did it.

I listened.  

And I hope to hear more than footsteps.

when i write i get it right

I've been in a bad mood the past 24 hours.

Silly, really.  Just can't get some issues out of my mind.  I keep asking myself - why, why, why.  And, of course, I might as well be asking a worm since no answers came.  (Why a worm, you ask?  Well, I was going to say a tree at first, but I do believe that some trees are magical and will reply like the one in Pocahontas, whereas no one has ever heard a worm talk back, right?  But I digress.)  I'm troubled by affairs of the heart, you see, and as some of you who are more experienced in such matters would likely tell me as I so wisely inform you that I got no answers:  no, duh!

This afternoon, I took my mind full of unanswerable questions and a heart leaden with anger and jealousy and took them along to the Café de Soleil to work on episode 13 of my script.  There, without my cello, the internet, the TV, or my noisy upstairs neighbor to distract me, I sat and wrote for over three hours.  I got 15 minutes of the script done.  In case you're wondering, that was excellent.

On my way home, I felt a slight relief.  Perhaps I unloaded some of my angst on a character, or maybe I transferred my jealousy onto another.  I don't know; I felt a bit better.  

Notting Hill was on tonight.  For me, it's one of those movies that I don't mind watching over and over, at least some parts of it - mostly the group dinner scenes - they're full of... well, life.  One of its characters said this to me:  don't take it personally.  There is no rhyme or reason in life.  No one knows why some things work out and some things don't, why some of us get lucky and some of us don't.

Some of you may disagree.  You might tell me that everything happens for a reason, although that reason isn't always revealed to us.  Or you may say it's all karma - every action is a reaction to something either in this life or a previous one.

That doesn't work for me.  Because you see, I'm one of those people who would obstinately search for that reason now, however elusively, no matter if it is meant to arrive in 30 minutes, 30 years, or 30 lifetimes.  

And that's why no rhyme or reason works better for me.  I don't know why some things work out and some things don't, why some of us get lucky and some of us don't.

It all ends up the same way anyway.  The world doesn't work differently just because you believe it to.  But I do.  

And that's what's important.

what you see and what you hear...

I had the opportunity to see at play put on by the ACT last night called Souvenir.  What an amazing (and funny) experience that was!

The play tells the real life story of a society woman in New York in the 30s and 40s.  She was a singer who loved to perform and eventually did so at Carnegie Hall.  The problem was, she was tone deaf.  She couldn't carry a tune - not to its rhythm or melody; yet she wasn't aware of this deficiency.

As funny as the play was, what got me thinking was the idea that our reality - each and everyone of us - is based on what we see, hear, and know.  So if this woman believed that she sang well, that melodious music came forth from her vocal cords like poignant phrases from Shapespeare's mind, is that a reality just as worthy as our own, whatever they may be?

It is often said that geniuses like Da Vinci, Einstein, and Van Gogh saw the world different than the rest us do, and that is why they have been able to teach us new ideas and create for us unfathomable constructs (at least to the majority of the mundane world).  So then who are we to judge what others believe?

That said, I heard William Hung is making a come back.  

Just kidding.  I hope not.

it came to me

It's truly strange how inspiration works.

I've been sitting around for about a week, procrasting on writing episode 12 of my TV script because I haven't found the first word.  I was just hoping that some little thing would tell me how to take my character through the first few days after the death of his girlfriend.

So today, determined to progress beyond a blank page, I sat in front of my computer, waiting for the muses.  They didn't come.  Not any of the nine.

I decided to listen to some music instead, so I played Sarah MacLachlan's "Angel," a piece that I love to listen to when I'm in this purplish blue mood that has settled in me for the last four days due to various things going on with work and elsewhere.  

After the song ended and still staring at a blank page, the next song on my iTunes began - "I will remember you."  Within five seconds, images of the first scene of my script filled my mind, and I couldn't wait to start writing.

I will remember this.  What will you remember?

what, are, you, saying?

On January 20, 2009, most of the world watched America as we inaugurated the first President who is not a white male. Honestly, for me the entire ceremony was mostly a big yawner, other than seeing the massive number of people gathered in D.C. to witness the event.

The quartet that included Yo-Yo Ma was somewhat interesting. I took the opportunity to observe his technique and finger positions on the cello in hopes of improving my own. No such luck - the camera's focus on the musicians' faces didn't do me any good.

A bit later, a poet named Elizabeth Alexander was introduced to read her poem written for this occasion. Did you all remember that part of it? The title was "Parise Song for the Day." Not a terribly interesting title, but what the heck, it could still be good... I turned off the TV thirty seconds after she began talking; I couldn't understand what she was saying.

A few days later, in my acting class called "textwork for actors", the instructor brought a recording of Ms. Alexander's reading for us to analyze. It was then that I understood why I didn't understand. If you watched the ceremony, this is what you heard. "Praise, song, for the day. Each, day, we go, about our business, walking past each other, catching each other's eyes, or NOT, about, to speak, or speaking. ALL, about us, is noise. ALL, about us is, noise and bramble, thorn, AND din, each, one of our ancestors ON, OUR, tongues."

Did you understand? Yes, that's really what she said. No wonder I couldn't understand her - she never took the textwork for actors class at the ACT! I suppose she was nervous and awed by the occasion; therefore she wanted to enunciate properly to make sure each word of her carefully composed sentences was heard. But that was exactly the problem - we heard words. Some were louder than others, most were separated by unnecessarily long pauses after another.

So in class, we practiced how we might give the speech ourselves, and wouldn't you know it - I suddenly understood her poem.

Praise indeed.

the ups and downs

I've been quite frustrated with how my cello playing has been going the past two weeks - nowhere.

It would be fair to say that I have hit a small wall but couldn't manage to find some way to climb over it.  The sound that I'm producing on the cello just hasn't been deep and solid enough.  In the past, this is usually where i would quit.  Thankfully, I do still have some memory left and have decided to take past lessons to heart and stick with it.

During my lesson today, Irina - my cello teacher who pretty much resembles the stereotypical Russian music teacher -  told me that in order to produce a fuller sound, I must let the weight of my arm and shoulder pull down on the bow by pulling up my elbow.  What!?  How am I supposed to simultaneously go up and down?  It didn't seem possible.

It was then that I remembered hearing the same words some time ago - just over a year ago during my ballet lessons.  Yes, I took ballet lesson for a few months.  At this point, please allow me to discourage you from trying to imagine me in a tutu - it wouldn't be a pretty sight.  But I digress.  Getting back to my ballet class, I remember the instructor's words on doing a good plié - you go down by elevating your knees, and you come up by pushing down your feet.  It's that same seemingly contraditory concept of reaching up by pushing down and coming down by pulling up.

This takes me back to high school physics.  Remember Newton?  His third law of motion states that to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  Okay, fine, I'm not so scientifically minded as I portray myself to be.  My thoughts didn't go directly to Newton.  Instead it went to the image of a tree:  if a tree wants to take its leaves higher, I bet it would have to reach lower with its roots.  Makes good sense, doesn't it?  Well, at least it sounds good.

So perhaps it is the same with the cello, ballet, or anything else.  To reach high, we must dig down.  To reach low, we must extend up.  Go up left, we must go right.  Okay, maybe not so far.  But you get my point, right?

Now stop thinking about the tutu.

a tootsie roll?

okay, in my defense, i've been busy.

do i even believe that myself?  somewhat.  

it really has been nearly four months since i've written in my blog.  and while i have been busy, at times more than i bargained for, the reality is that i didn't think i had anything interesting about which to write.

i've been telling myself that all my creative juices are spent on the script i'm writing when in fact i've just been censoring myself.  bad thing to do.  one of the biggest wastes of my intelligence has been creating reasons why i shouldn't do things, when in fact if i stopped wasting time doing the said activity, i probably would not be so busy.  

over the holidays, i caught up with my cousin yishun who is a fantastic writer; we had been communicating sporadically with an email here and there.  with just a few words, she was able to convince me to write about whatever.  n'importe quoi.

so back to this evil of censoring oneself.  i remember now that it was a topic in my improv class a few months ago.  we are all constantly obsessed with the concern (sometimes even fear) of not being funny enough, smart enough, pretty enough, important enough, that we don't allow ourselves to just be enough and do enough.

just like michael dorsey.  or is it dorothy michaels?  remember who they are?  yes, from the movie "tootsie," which i just watched for the very first time this evening.  a one-sentence synopsis to refresh your memory:  michael dorsey, played by dustin hoffman, can't get a job as an actor, so he auditions for a role in a soap as the actress dorothy michaels.  consequently, he discovers himself (herself?) through the eyes of a woman.

so were they the eyes of a woman or a man?  good question, and that's exactly my point.  we all define ourselves as who we are supposed to be, and as a result, we miss numerous opportunities to explore what we initially believed impossible.  dorothy allowed herself to be a woman, to think like a woman - no longer must she watch baseball with a beer in one hand and scratching her crotch with the other (is that a stereotypical straight male image?), or, or... okay, i can't think of another such image at the moment.  

i'm not saying that i'll put on a dress tomorrow morning to embrace my feminine side; i'm saying that i want to challenge myself to do certain things and to express certain thoughts which i previously thought would make me appear weak, stupid, ugly, poor, boring, unsophisticated, smelly, uncool, or all of the above.  uhhh.... smelly?  n'importe quoi.

so i expect you all to check back here often, because i am interesting, what i write is interesting, and that's that.