Write:

Words. Words are powerful. A simple yes or I do can mean a  life-time commitment. A curt no can destroy a man and bring him to self-doubt and question his existence. The Bible tells us a word was spoken, and God thus created life. A few inspirational words can help a losing team comeback to win a finals match. Confessions of the ugly truth, however, can crush the human spirit. Words communicate, words empower. They motivate and inspire. They paint pictures, conjure feelings, and create change or at least plant ideas.

For me in this New Year, I want to read more, write more, grapple with issues and then twist and turn and toss around words until I can make them fit my thoughts at least resemble what I want. I want to stop a bit, if even just once a week, to record my random thoughts, my emotions, my epic fail stories, songs to be sung, and funny conversation or quotes by friends. My memory sure ain’t what it used to be, or was it all even all that sharp before? Either way, there’s not a whole lot of excuse not to write. If I don’t have pen and paper, I for sure have my blackberry where I can jot down my to-dos or need-to-go-tos. Time to get writing.

Plan:

It’s like a four letter expletive to me the way I cringe when I hear or think of this word. What is it about me that is so anti-planning? Is planning so awful? Maybe I wish I were Mozart and all the ideas would come straight from heaven into my brain and then from my brain out of my mouth or to the tip of my fingers holding an ink pen. Perhaps planning for me seems like a trap, the exact opposite of spontaneity which equates to fun. Or maybe it represents the inevitable stepping into adulthood, which is full of responsibility and complex decisions, whereas “I don’t wanna grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid.” Truly, I deeply sympathize with the person who stated “maturity is an acquired taste.” It seems I am still in the acquiring stage and often avoiding placing helpings of grown-upness on my life paper plate. Still, think it’s time too to at least give it a go. Who knows, maybe my good friend Karen is onto something with “planned fun.” Perhaps it could be fun to chart out the possibilities of my life. If this, then this. Hypotheses with conclusions to be made through the final step of doing.

Do:

Nike, so cliche, but sometimes the simple cliche way is the best way. Why complicate so much? As a friend from high school once eloquently explained the way to approach a love interest, “喜歡就泡嗎， 幹!” I sit back, deliberate, and watch opportunity after opportunity pass me by. So just buy it! Like Groupons. I’m so glad I at least followed my impulses there and was able to check off sky-diving from my bucket list. What I need to do is buy or accept my plans. And to generate those plans. And to write down the plans, and the results, and the ups and downs along the way.

Small steps. Baby steps. One at a time. Soon we’ll be tap-dancing along the stage of this show called life.

I Stood Tip-Toe Upon a Little Hill

“Places of nestling green for Poets made.”
—Story of Rimini.

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly leav’d, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had play’d upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethren shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That naught less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
Fanning away the dandelion’s down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder —
The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to find,
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
Into some wond’rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile delay’d his mighty wheels,
And turn’d to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half-closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
To see the brightness in each other’s eyes;
And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:
Was there a poet born? — but now no more,
My wand’ring spirit must no further soar. —

- John Keats

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that Snuggies do not come with an added time travel feature. However, if you do happen to chance upon one of these so called Snuggie Pub Crawls that I somehow found myself at, you may look around and feel as though you’ve been transported off to Hogwarts or into the future where Jedi meet wookiees. Even funnier than the Snuggified Lincoln Park yuppies was the bizarre scene of quilted bearded men and snuggie adorned animal mascots that I drank in with my eyes while nursing my $2 beer of the month. Maybe you just had to be there… or maybe you just had to be decked out in a snuggie…

Oh, so now I can’t tell you how to time travel but I can tell you that books are a great way to travel, especially for those of you like me on a budget who can’t afford time machines or private jets out to exotic destinations. I was recently recommended The Time Traveler’s Wife by a dear friend of mine. A few days back, I closed the final chapter in the 500+page novel and found myself a bit unsettled. Must’ve been all that time travel by the protagonist Henry, who has Chrono-Displacement syndrome, and was whisked away into the past as unexpectedly quickly as it takes to say A-choo. Audrey Niffenegger does a fine job and is certainly a talented writer, but somehow the book for me lacked that inspirational character transformation or demystification or challenge of my philosophical questions that it just seemed to fall a smidge short. (That sounds like something one of the American Idol judges would say if they read books). But I do love the fact that it is set in Chicago and I could if not picture myself in many of the scenes and locales at least recognize the name. If not, those are going to be added to my list of must-see places in Chicago while I’m here. And time travel, still a very intriguing idea in itself.

When I think of time travel, Hiro Nakamura from NBC’s Heroes and John Locke of ABC’s Lost come to mind.  I for one am a big fan of these two TV series, though I can certainly admit I felt more drawn in during the first seasons more than the current ones. Anyhow, aside from examining the hows and whys of the chronological leaps of these characters, the repeated theme that stuck with me in these shows and in the novel was the idea of destiny. Purpose as a part of destiny, but also the inevitability aspect of our destiny, our pre-destination,  a combination of God, the cosmos, and our tendencies towards certain actions or decisions. Henry, even as he was able to jump back to the day of the accident that killed his mother, he could only watch the horribly depressing scene as a helpless observer. John Locke would probably stand up off his gimpy-leg and say Yes I can… Oh wait… that’s someone else…. he’d say “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” He and Hiro Nakamura are both obsessed with the idea of their destinies, their all-important roles to play that can either save the world or save his fellow plane crash survivors.

Do we often take on that attitude, that view that says I can shape my destiny, chart my path and course through the stormy waters of life? Some of us more than others. Where do we as individuals impact the world around us, or on the flipside,  are  we the ones who become the impacted and how? Well, I can tell you these books and countless shows or stories from others can only tell you so much, and you and I must examine ourselves and the world around us to find our purpose, our meaning, our contribution.

Here is some John Keats for your enjoyment…

Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl

Fill for me a brimming bowl

And let me in it drown my soul:

But put therein some drug, designed

To Banish Women from my mind:

For I want not the stream inspiring

That fills the mind with–fond desiring,

But I want as deep a draught

As e’er from Lethe’s wave was quaff’d;

From my despairing heart to charm

The Image of the fairest form

That e’er my reveling eyes beheld,

That e’er my wandering fancy spell’d.

In Vain! away I cannot chace

The melting softness of that face,

The beaminess of those bright eyes,

That breast–earth’s only Paradise.

My sight will never more be blest;

For all I see has lost its zest:

Nor with delight can I explore

The Classic page, or Muse’s lore.

Had she but known how beat my heart,

And with one smile reliev’d its smart

I should have felt a sweet relief,

I should have felt “the joy of grief.”

Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow

Of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno,

Even so for ever shall she be

The Halo of my Memory.

A puny mini speaker pumping out tinny techno beats and an unrecognized number blinking on the 2 inch LCD screen of a battered Nokia mobile woke this startled birthday boy. What time is it? 6am. Oh  no, is it my boss calling again? Please don’t let it be work related. I don’t know if I can deal… scrambling to get coffee orders downtown in the next hour is not how I want to spend the first waking hours after turning a year older. Just because I am older certainly doesn’t mean I want to feel like I am grown-up with only grown-up responsibilities filling up every moment of my life. No, instead it’s that lovingly familiar voice I remember from my high school days before a big test. “Jms, are you awake (in Mandarin)? Don’t you need to be at work soon?” It was my mother. I couldn’t conjure up much more than a throaty, early-morning croak to thank her for the birthday wishes. Fortunately, my mom knew me well and gave me the thoughtful gift of another hour of sweet sleep. Love you mom!

Throughout the rest of the day, my inbox was flooded with facebook wall messages, emails, and e-cards with greetings and shout-outs to a happy, fun, joy-filled day. A handful of other phone calls also chimed in with the birthday wishes and my coworker gifted me with a delicate and delightful, red velvet cupcake. Arrived home to find a handwritten letter (do people do this anymore?) and birthday card. Later, Yum! Had burger a la breakfast but for dinner with my best bud at Kuma’s, one of the best burger joints in Chicago (and people know it now too… watch out for long waits). Maybe I gained my freshman 15 instead at my 24th bday dinner with that 10 oz. burger and waffle fries in sausage gravy topped with an over easy egg.

I was overwhelmed with all the happy birthday wishes and want to say thank you to my friends and family for your love. I hope in this next year that I learn to give more since you all have given so much to me.

I’m not as photogenic as Elyce, so this pic sums up my contentment. Mid-Twenties… bring it!

Since I’ve been reading Yeats, thought I’d share another that I really think is brilliant.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But on man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down besides the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grewy,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

-W.B. Yeats

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway

Why did I miss this in high school or junior high? Well, I was in Taipei during those years. I probably cut back on a lot of pleasure reading in terms of novels and missed much of the American pop culture in those  years. Still, it’s not too late and fortunately I have a public library nearby.

On to the story. To be honest, I felt a bit bored and unchallenged by the book through the first half to two thirds. The language was simple, I did not find huge philosophical ideas, no witty turns of phrase, no hugely graphic descriptions, no intricately weaved plot. Instead, Hemingway purposefully narrates in short, straightforward sentences and alternates between the first (as Santiago, the old man) and third person. Perhaps I did went in with the wrong expectations. Regardless, there came a turning point and I sympathized with the old man. I could share his loneliness, his internal battles of will over flesh, and his struggling with his destiny and purpose. Far out at sea, he had no one to talk to except himself at many points. Hemingway draws you into the conversation between the old man’s competing sides, his pride/willpower and his cynic/realist. I often find myself having these debates internally. I can do it… I can accomplish all my New Year’s Resolutions. No you can’t, you will fail just like you did in the past and embarrass yourself. So the question after I read this book, how will I face struggle, failure, discouraging circumstances? Do I endure…. conjure up the courage and will to press on even if my entire prize has been devoured by the sharks of the universe? Will I doubt my own destiny? At least that man knew he was a fisherman. Who am I?

Then, I proceed to that room in the back to conduct business, my business. You know what time it is when I step into that special room with its business papers and various zines. It’s BIZness Time!

And just as I slowly relax my body and lower myself to give the poor legs some rest, I feel a stinging sensation that shoots up from my derrier through my spine. I want to scream but my brain is awfully quick and afraid of what others would think/say and cuts short my breath but not before a little yip escapes my lips. Just one expression comes to mind. “Freeze my ass off!!!”

What a funny phrase huh? Is this why they say that rather than speak of other body parts even when they are outside and clearly their ears or fingers are the parts most exposed parts to the bitter wind? Even if not, it makes sense to me.

Ah ha! Eureka! This explains why at home when I was a but a lad, my parents had those soft cushy seats. It wasn’t just for the comfort factor. I definitely need to appreciate my parents more.

Chicago is alright. Recent news headlines. My vanity versus that Wind off Lake Michigan. Round one goes to the Wind. I’ve been battling a darn cold/cough, and it must’ve been that one day I decided to bust out the new skinny tie and my black suit topped off with Fedora from my Smooth Criminal days. I have to say I looked pretty sweet. Right at the peak of my self-absorbedness, the wind caught hold of my hat and took it for several meters of cartwheels down Cermak Rd underneath the Chinatown El stop. I sprinted down the sidewalk (of course I looked out for oncoming traffic) and was right within an arms length when my feet flew out from under me and I laid sprawled out. My body must have decided then and there that I needed to be humbled because since that day I’ve had to don at least 3 layers of clothes consisting of mostly puffy, non-flattering woolyness. I hope this Thera-flu stuff does something because all my chicken soup and herbal tea stock is dwindling. Maybe I’ll try out Mike’s suggestion of a Jager-tee (rum with tea) or some hot red wine with spices and a cheeseburger. One of these cures should work, no?