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.