This is a poem that i wrote years ago....probably 12 years to be exact. I was going through an old website that I had once, reading the previous stuff that I had written. This made me smile though. Read it, and you'll understand.
And cringe.
Samang
I always know what to say,
I have it rehearsed in my head.
Know how I feel,
I've gone through this a million times.
Every nuance, every pause,
down to the fullest detail.
Prepared for everything;
a smile, a twirl of your hair, a frown, and a no.
But in my heart,
praying for that smile, and that shy nod.
Ecstasy.
I slowly approach.
I know where you are,
As I come closer,
I admire your face,
already imprinted in my memory, my heart.
And think of the little things
that makes you different from the rest.
You turn around and see me
Our eyes meet for a second;
I turn my head first,
my heart cannot maintain that gaze.
I lick my lips in nervousness and call out your name.
The sound of the sweet title leaves my lips.
My faltering voice cannot do it justice.
Everything begins to crumble
as I look upon your face.
Time becomes a breeze that
blows over my house of cards,
my well crafted plans
And as I turn to leave,
with a borrowed pen in hand,
frustration aimed at my clumsy self,
I hold the precious object in
God struck awe
And remember that I must return it.
Another opportunity.
Another plan.
On a side note, the title means death in Korean. However, in the context that I was using it, my friends and I used it like having a crush on someone. Yeah. Something is lost in the translation, I know.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
momentum
11.08.2007
I hate winter nights.
I don’t mind the coldness of winter. The snow. The ice. The dryness in the air. But I hate waking up to dark sky and leaving work to a dark sky. At least in the summer, when the sun still lingers till later in the day, you still think you have a chance of doing something before the night comes.
Now, I might as well just pack it in for the night the moment I leave the office.
I haven’t written in a while. For a while, I’ve been focusing my energy into my novel. And that energy has been dwindling as I ran into more roadblocks. With each bump, a little more momentum was sucked away, till things, as of now, have come to a standstill. I guess this is my way of making more momentum for myself for the time being.
The optometrist said I had bright eyes last weekend. I went in for my yearly eye exam to get my contacts. Being the sucker that I am, I signed up for the 25 dollar photograph of my eye that would reveal if I had anything wrong with my eyes or if I was showing any warning signs. A completely precautionary measure.
Anyways, when the doctor brought up pictures of my eyes, he kind of marveled at how bright my eyes were. Apparently we are born with very bright eyes, but as we age these bright spots dim. I may have butchered the explanation that he gave me, but anyways, he seemed very surprised at how bright my eyes were, given my age. I told him that that explained my very childlike perspective of the world.
*rim shot*
Last weekend was an eventful weekend for me. It was weird, I guess. I feel like a lot happened, yet all I did was work. The best part of my second job is just hanging out afterwards and talking to the other employees at the bar. Each person has a story to tell. Each person is such a distinct character.
Anyways I was talking to one of the bartenders at the bar. We were in a backroom. He was telling me how he was a financial consultant for the past eight years before he got into bartending. He just burned out and realized that what he was doing wasn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. I remember just seeing him, cigarette in his hand blowing smoke up in the air. I remember the look in his eyes. It was the look that a person has when he doesn’t regret the choices that he made in his life. It was the look of someone that has made peace with himself and what he was doing.
For some reason, his look reassured me that my struggle was all for naught and that the choice that I so hastily made was not one I should be regretting.
We are all lost children in the woods. We are all running around seemingly aimlessly. Some of us choose trails already blazed and some choose to make their own trails. Some are more rushed than others. And some don’t seem in any hurry at all, and they just enjoy the sights around them. You can look ahead and see people in the far distance. They seem to know where they’re going. You catch up to them and realize that they are just as clueless as you, but they choose to keep moving despite that.
I don’t know what my trail is yet. I don’t know if it will lead me out of the woods. I don’t know what is outside the woods in fact. All I know is if I am ever going to get there, I have to keep on moving. That is my momentum that carries me through these long winter nights.
I hate winter nights.
I don’t mind the coldness of winter. The snow. The ice. The dryness in the air. But I hate waking up to dark sky and leaving work to a dark sky. At least in the summer, when the sun still lingers till later in the day, you still think you have a chance of doing something before the night comes.
Now, I might as well just pack it in for the night the moment I leave the office.
I haven’t written in a while. For a while, I’ve been focusing my energy into my novel. And that energy has been dwindling as I ran into more roadblocks. With each bump, a little more momentum was sucked away, till things, as of now, have come to a standstill. I guess this is my way of making more momentum for myself for the time being.
The optometrist said I had bright eyes last weekend. I went in for my yearly eye exam to get my contacts. Being the sucker that I am, I signed up for the 25 dollar photograph of my eye that would reveal if I had anything wrong with my eyes or if I was showing any warning signs. A completely precautionary measure.
Anyways, when the doctor brought up pictures of my eyes, he kind of marveled at how bright my eyes were. Apparently we are born with very bright eyes, but as we age these bright spots dim. I may have butchered the explanation that he gave me, but anyways, he seemed very surprised at how bright my eyes were, given my age. I told him that that explained my very childlike perspective of the world.
*rim shot*
Last weekend was an eventful weekend for me. It was weird, I guess. I feel like a lot happened, yet all I did was work. The best part of my second job is just hanging out afterwards and talking to the other employees at the bar. Each person has a story to tell. Each person is such a distinct character.
Anyways I was talking to one of the bartenders at the bar. We were in a backroom. He was telling me how he was a financial consultant for the past eight years before he got into bartending. He just burned out and realized that what he was doing wasn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. I remember just seeing him, cigarette in his hand blowing smoke up in the air. I remember the look in his eyes. It was the look that a person has when he doesn’t regret the choices that he made in his life. It was the look of someone that has made peace with himself and what he was doing.
For some reason, his look reassured me that my struggle was all for naught and that the choice that I so hastily made was not one I should be regretting.
We are all lost children in the woods. We are all running around seemingly aimlessly. Some of us choose trails already blazed and some choose to make their own trails. Some are more rushed than others. And some don’t seem in any hurry at all, and they just enjoy the sights around them. You can look ahead and see people in the far distance. They seem to know where they’re going. You catch up to them and realize that they are just as clueless as you, but they choose to keep moving despite that.
I don’t know what my trail is yet. I don’t know if it will lead me out of the woods. I don’t know what is outside the woods in fact. All I know is if I am ever going to get there, I have to keep on moving. That is my momentum that carries me through these long winter nights.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
chapter 1
So this is the rough, rough draft of the first chapter of the novel or book or whatever I'm writing. Its still really rough, but it felt good finally putting it on paper. More to come, and more edits to do but enjoy.
Chapter 1
I never thought this would be the way I would see him again. Not after two years. I always thought that eventually I would find him on my doorstep at some obscene hour, with a case of cold beer in tow, ruefully grinning as he barged his way through my half open door. He would then navigate his way to my refrigerator and scrounge every scrap of leftovers I had. His story would begin with ‘you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through’ and over food and beer he would tell me crazy tales of his mishaps and adventures. I would just sit there and smile and shake my head in disbelief. It would be like nothing ever changed from the moment I last saw him. That’s what I always thought.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We are making our final approach to Portland. It’s about eleven o’clock local time. It’s a beautiful day here in Portland, 75 and clear. We will be landing shortly. The fasten seatbelt sign will be turned on and we please ask you to stay in your seats.” There was a crackle over the loudspeakers as the captain turned off the microphone, followed by a familiar ding. The muted glow of the seatbelt sign turned on overhead. I stared blankly out my seat-side window and tried to clear my head. 11:00 am. It had only happened eight hours ago. I had been blissfully sleeping in my bed with my wife, exhausted and exhilarated by the knowledge that this was our first night in our new home, oblivious of the events that were transpiring a coast away.
I felt the plane lurch as we inched closer to our destination. My view from outside my window changed from patches of green to blue skies and fluffy clouds as the plane gently rolled as we turned. I found the change in scenery a pleasant distraction from my lingering worries.
Before the phone call, I had found myself thinking about him. I found a box of old pictures that I forgot I had while preparing to move. As I went through, I remembered how things once were. Growing up, we were practically inseparable. Where ever I would go, he would somehow manage to find a way to tag along. And without fail, we would somehow find ourselves mixed up in some situation or some sort of trouble. In it all, he would always find a way to laugh about it on the way back home. He always was able to laugh. Through pain and suffering and tears, he could find a reason to laugh and smile.
“Sir, you’re going to have to put your seat tray in the upright position.” I turned to see the flight attendant looking directly at me. She wore a off color blue uniform that seemingly gave her a pleasant demeanor on to be offset by her tight lipped smiled and annoyed look she gave me as she pointed to my seat tray. I had forgotten that it was down. I nodded my head in acknowledgement and scrambled to remove the assorted photos on my tray. I had grabbed some of those pictures I had found on my way out to the airport, along with mementos from the past two years that he had been gone. I hoped to show them to him when I finally saw him. As I hurriedly scooped the assorted memories back into my bag, I knocked a photograph off the tray. It fluttered to the ground by the seat next to me. The flight attendant rolled her eyes in exasperation and moved on to the next row of seats to inspect. The woman sitting next to me reached down and picked up the photograph and handed it back to me. She was pleasant looking women, graying, with the wrinkles you get around the corners of your eyes when you smile a lot. I had noticed her eyeing my photos beforehand, but she had not said anything to me.
“Is that you?” she said as she glanced at the picture. I looked down at the photo. It was a faded portrait of two boys, dirtied by a summer day’s play, standing right beside a lake, grinning without a care in the world. I nodded as I took back the picture, but my gaze lingered on the photograph. I remembered the days when that photo was taken. They were the lazy, carefree days of summer, filled with sun and laughter. As I focused in upon the smiling boy standing next to me in the photograph, I could almost hear his laughter from the latest mishap from that day. It seemed back then we always a reason to laugh.
“That’s me and my brother,” I said to her, handing the picture back to her. She gingerly took the photo from me, glancing back and forth from the photo then back to me. She smiled as she handed back the picture.
“Not so young anymore,” she said. I returned the picture to my bag, along with the other photos from the tray. “Are you two still close?”
“We once were….” I paused as I considered the next words that I was going to say. “Then…we had a falling outs of sorts. I haven’t seen him in two years.” Her smile faded. I wasn’t sure why I said what I said right then. In my head I knew she just trying to make pleasant conversation and that details were unnecessary. Right then and there, I didn’t really care though.
“I’m sorry. Where is he right now?”
“He lives in Portland apparently.”
“So you’re here to visit him?” I paused again. I pursed my lips as I wondered what to say.
“Sort of.” I half expected her to continue to pepper me more questions, but I was surprised when she simply just nodded. The plane rolled again, and my attention returned to the window. The plane had finally begun its descent down toward the airport below us. My attention returned to the window. No matter how much I’ve traveled, I always had a child-like fascination as I flew. The world seemed so diminutive from high in the sky. It felt surreal, being above it all, like you were no longer a participant like land bound inhabitants of the ground beneath. The houses and cars all seemed like miniature model pieces upon a game board set to be played. It was intoxicating to watch these little miniatures become larger and larger and more lifelike as the plane descended, as then surreal once again became real and familiar. And then reality always struck as I felt the plane bounce on the ground and my wings, now clipped, obeyed the laws of gravity.
It took a few moments for the plane to taxi into the gate. I anxiously waited, ready to bolt out of my seat at moment’s notice, once the all clear was given and the doors were open. I reached into my pocket and turned on my cell phone. I heard the familiar chimes as my phone loaded and turned on. 11:31 am. It had been eight hours and twenty one minutes since the phone call. I waited to see if I had received any voicemails while I was in flight. There were none. I next called my wife. The phone rang twice and went straight to voicemail. I realized that she had probably left her phone off since she was at work. I hated leaving voicemails, but I left one anyways telling her that I had landed safely and to call me when she received the message. Right as I got off the phone, there was another ding as the seatbelt sign flashed off and the cabin doors were open. I waited as patiently as I could as the other passengers filed out from the plane, down the hallway to the gate. Navigating with the overhead signs, I passed through the airport security, down a flight of stairs and finally managed to get to the appropriate baggage claim area. I nervously stood waiting for the turnabout to start and the luggage to begin to unload. I noticed several other people from my flight slowly starting to file in and similarly wait for the bags to roll out. We all formed a semi circle around the mouth of the conveyer belt. As more time passed, people eagerly pushed their way to the front as if to catch a glance of a passing movie star or celebrity. I just shook my head in disbelief as I looked at the scrum that had just formed.
I flipped open my phone again. No messages, no missed calls. 11:45 am. Eight hours and thirty five minutes since the call.
“I hope things work out between you and your brother.” I turned to see the women from plane standing right besides me. She smiled kindly at me.
“I hope so too.” I did my best to smile back her. Like a mother would do to her child, she gently patted me on my cheek.
“There you go,” she said to me. “You look so much better with a smile on your face.” She looked at me one last time and walked away. I didn’t even notice the baggage claim had started. I quickly scanned the rotary to see if my bag had been unloaded. It had not, so I waited as I watched the bags unload onto the belt. As each group of bags was unloaded, it almost felt as if I was watching bingo numbers being read and each traveler anxiously waited their turn for their numbers to be said. After a few groups of bags tumbled, it finally became my turn to claim my black travel bag. I walked left the airport and hailed the next empty taxi I saw. The car stopped and I opened the door and tossed in my luggage into the empty seat. I climbed in the car and shut the door. The driver turned around and propped his elbow on the seat.
“Where to my friend?” he said in a thick accent which I wasn’t familiar with. I opened my mouth to say something, but I found that I couldn’t speak. Not like this, I thought to myself. I never thought I would see him this way. Not after two years. It was supposed to be over dinner, over a few too many beers. I would tell him how sorry I was for what I had said. I would tell him that. “Where do you want me to take you?” The cab driver annunciated each syllable as if I couldn’t understand English and directly in my eyes like he could will the words out of me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“The hospital please.” I finally said. “As fast as you possibly can.”
Chapter 1
I never thought this would be the way I would see him again. Not after two years. I always thought that eventually I would find him on my doorstep at some obscene hour, with a case of cold beer in tow, ruefully grinning as he barged his way through my half open door. He would then navigate his way to my refrigerator and scrounge every scrap of leftovers I had. His story would begin with ‘you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through’ and over food and beer he would tell me crazy tales of his mishaps and adventures. I would just sit there and smile and shake my head in disbelief. It would be like nothing ever changed from the moment I last saw him. That’s what I always thought.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We are making our final approach to Portland. It’s about eleven o’clock local time. It’s a beautiful day here in Portland, 75 and clear. We will be landing shortly. The fasten seatbelt sign will be turned on and we please ask you to stay in your seats.” There was a crackle over the loudspeakers as the captain turned off the microphone, followed by a familiar ding. The muted glow of the seatbelt sign turned on overhead. I stared blankly out my seat-side window and tried to clear my head. 11:00 am. It had only happened eight hours ago. I had been blissfully sleeping in my bed with my wife, exhausted and exhilarated by the knowledge that this was our first night in our new home, oblivious of the events that were transpiring a coast away.
I felt the plane lurch as we inched closer to our destination. My view from outside my window changed from patches of green to blue skies and fluffy clouds as the plane gently rolled as we turned. I found the change in scenery a pleasant distraction from my lingering worries.
Before the phone call, I had found myself thinking about him. I found a box of old pictures that I forgot I had while preparing to move. As I went through, I remembered how things once were. Growing up, we were practically inseparable. Where ever I would go, he would somehow manage to find a way to tag along. And without fail, we would somehow find ourselves mixed up in some situation or some sort of trouble. In it all, he would always find a way to laugh about it on the way back home. He always was able to laugh. Through pain and suffering and tears, he could find a reason to laugh and smile.
“Sir, you’re going to have to put your seat tray in the upright position.” I turned to see the flight attendant looking directly at me. She wore a off color blue uniform that seemingly gave her a pleasant demeanor on to be offset by her tight lipped smiled and annoyed look she gave me as she pointed to my seat tray. I had forgotten that it was down. I nodded my head in acknowledgement and scrambled to remove the assorted photos on my tray. I had grabbed some of those pictures I had found on my way out to the airport, along with mementos from the past two years that he had been gone. I hoped to show them to him when I finally saw him. As I hurriedly scooped the assorted memories back into my bag, I knocked a photograph off the tray. It fluttered to the ground by the seat next to me. The flight attendant rolled her eyes in exasperation and moved on to the next row of seats to inspect. The woman sitting next to me reached down and picked up the photograph and handed it back to me. She was pleasant looking women, graying, with the wrinkles you get around the corners of your eyes when you smile a lot. I had noticed her eyeing my photos beforehand, but she had not said anything to me.
“Is that you?” she said as she glanced at the picture. I looked down at the photo. It was a faded portrait of two boys, dirtied by a summer day’s play, standing right beside a lake, grinning without a care in the world. I nodded as I took back the picture, but my gaze lingered on the photograph. I remembered the days when that photo was taken. They were the lazy, carefree days of summer, filled with sun and laughter. As I focused in upon the smiling boy standing next to me in the photograph, I could almost hear his laughter from the latest mishap from that day. It seemed back then we always a reason to laugh.
“That’s me and my brother,” I said to her, handing the picture back to her. She gingerly took the photo from me, glancing back and forth from the photo then back to me. She smiled as she handed back the picture.
“Not so young anymore,” she said. I returned the picture to my bag, along with the other photos from the tray. “Are you two still close?”
“We once were….” I paused as I considered the next words that I was going to say. “Then…we had a falling outs of sorts. I haven’t seen him in two years.” Her smile faded. I wasn’t sure why I said what I said right then. In my head I knew she just trying to make pleasant conversation and that details were unnecessary. Right then and there, I didn’t really care though.
“I’m sorry. Where is he right now?”
“He lives in Portland apparently.”
“So you’re here to visit him?” I paused again. I pursed my lips as I wondered what to say.
“Sort of.” I half expected her to continue to pepper me more questions, but I was surprised when she simply just nodded. The plane rolled again, and my attention returned to the window. The plane had finally begun its descent down toward the airport below us. My attention returned to the window. No matter how much I’ve traveled, I always had a child-like fascination as I flew. The world seemed so diminutive from high in the sky. It felt surreal, being above it all, like you were no longer a participant like land bound inhabitants of the ground beneath. The houses and cars all seemed like miniature model pieces upon a game board set to be played. It was intoxicating to watch these little miniatures become larger and larger and more lifelike as the plane descended, as then surreal once again became real and familiar. And then reality always struck as I felt the plane bounce on the ground and my wings, now clipped, obeyed the laws of gravity.
It took a few moments for the plane to taxi into the gate. I anxiously waited, ready to bolt out of my seat at moment’s notice, once the all clear was given and the doors were open. I reached into my pocket and turned on my cell phone. I heard the familiar chimes as my phone loaded and turned on. 11:31 am. It had been eight hours and twenty one minutes since the phone call. I waited to see if I had received any voicemails while I was in flight. There were none. I next called my wife. The phone rang twice and went straight to voicemail. I realized that she had probably left her phone off since she was at work. I hated leaving voicemails, but I left one anyways telling her that I had landed safely and to call me when she received the message. Right as I got off the phone, there was another ding as the seatbelt sign flashed off and the cabin doors were open. I waited as patiently as I could as the other passengers filed out from the plane, down the hallway to the gate. Navigating with the overhead signs, I passed through the airport security, down a flight of stairs and finally managed to get to the appropriate baggage claim area. I nervously stood waiting for the turnabout to start and the luggage to begin to unload. I noticed several other people from my flight slowly starting to file in and similarly wait for the bags to roll out. We all formed a semi circle around the mouth of the conveyer belt. As more time passed, people eagerly pushed their way to the front as if to catch a glance of a passing movie star or celebrity. I just shook my head in disbelief as I looked at the scrum that had just formed.
I flipped open my phone again. No messages, no missed calls. 11:45 am. Eight hours and thirty five minutes since the call.
“I hope things work out between you and your brother.” I turned to see the women from plane standing right besides me. She smiled kindly at me.
“I hope so too.” I did my best to smile back her. Like a mother would do to her child, she gently patted me on my cheek.
“There you go,” she said to me. “You look so much better with a smile on your face.” She looked at me one last time and walked away. I didn’t even notice the baggage claim had started. I quickly scanned the rotary to see if my bag had been unloaded. It had not, so I waited as I watched the bags unload onto the belt. As each group of bags was unloaded, it almost felt as if I was watching bingo numbers being read and each traveler anxiously waited their turn for their numbers to be said. After a few groups of bags tumbled, it finally became my turn to claim my black travel bag. I walked left the airport and hailed the next empty taxi I saw. The car stopped and I opened the door and tossed in my luggage into the empty seat. I climbed in the car and shut the door. The driver turned around and propped his elbow on the seat.
“Where to my friend?” he said in a thick accent which I wasn’t familiar with. I opened my mouth to say something, but I found that I couldn’t speak. Not like this, I thought to myself. I never thought I would see him this way. Not after two years. It was supposed to be over dinner, over a few too many beers. I would tell him how sorry I was for what I had said. I would tell him that. “Where do you want me to take you?” The cab driver annunciated each syllable as if I couldn’t understand English and directly in my eyes like he could will the words out of me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“The hospital please.” I finally said. “As fast as you possibly can.”
Saturday, July 7, 2007
progress
7/7/07
So I’m back at square one again. I gave the Fishmarket my two weeks notice.
Two steps forward and one step back.
I feel for bad leaving. I’ve grown attached to a lot of the people there. But on the same token, I feel like I’ve already got what I wanted to get from the restaurant. The mismanagement that I saw within the restaurant added upon the general inflexibility and frugality of the ownership, made the choice inevitable. In the end, I would find myself in the locker room after a long day at the bar, making hundreds of drink. Tired, exhausted, looking down upon a crumpled pile of one dollar bills and wondering really if this was all that the work I did amounted to.
I still couldn’t help feeling bad when I told the lady that hired me that I was terminating my employment in two weeks. She winced when the words left my mouth. I winced inside when I saw that. That is the part of me that forever wants to please. I guess I’ll never get completely over it.
But, in the end, I got to do what’s best for me. Me and mine.
I kind of have a job lined up already. I was drinking at a bar on Thursday and I got talking to the bartender upstairs. When my friend came, I found out that he was one of the owners of the bar. She then proceeded to ask him what it would take for me to get a job at the bar. By the end of the night, the bartender gave me his business card and his number and said that if I wanted a job to call him.
Two steps forward.
However there is a catch. I will not be working as a bartender immediately. He made that clear from the get go. Security, serving, bar backing and then bartending, if I make it that far. But I don’t know. I really want to work there. Just watching the owner of the bar bartend, you could tell that he had a passion for the business. He knew the story for every beer on tap, kept a bustling bar entertained but still managed to keep all of our glasses full. And he did something that no bartender has ever done to me. He cut me off. I was drinking a beer with higher alcoholic content and right as I was about to order another beer, he suggested that I drink one with a lower content. In no way was he demeaning or insulting about it, but he posed it as a mere suggestion by happenchance.
He was like a master maestro at work, and I, who fashioned myself similarly as a maestro behind the bar, just watched him work his craft in awe. It made me realize that I have a lot to learn about the art of making and handing out drinks to costumers that entered the hallowed sanctity of my bar.
One step back.
Thus I feel like I’m back a square one, no further down the path of where I want to go than I was four months ago. But, sometimes, I suppose not moving is still better than treading backwards on paths already blazed.
I had a random set of dreams last night. One of them had one of my ex’s in them. She looked different than I remember her as. Older. And hauntingly beautiful. Her countenance is seemingly engraved in my thoughts today. I wonder what it means. Are dream random synapses of an unconscious mind? Or do they hold a foreboding warning of future that is to come to pass or a past that is still unsettled.
Or maybe I am just lonely, and my memories lingered on the last time I had the companionship of someone that I loved and loved me, if only for so briefly a time.
I don’t know.
I am relieved that this chapter is over though. Only two more weeks at the Fishmarket. I feel empowered now for some reason; I’m waiting for a manager to cross me or chastise me or make my job any harder than it is. I’m waiting for the general manger, in all his pompousness, to come over and threaten my job over a trivial matter again. And then I would simply respond that I had already given my two weeks notice as a courtesy to the restaurant, and that I am not really obligated to do so. Then I would shout I QUIT before he can tell me I’m fired.
Juvenile, I know. But its still a good feeling knowing that I am able to do that if need be.
So I’m back at square one again. I gave the Fishmarket my two weeks notice.
Two steps forward and one step back.
I feel for bad leaving. I’ve grown attached to a lot of the people there. But on the same token, I feel like I’ve already got what I wanted to get from the restaurant. The mismanagement that I saw within the restaurant added upon the general inflexibility and frugality of the ownership, made the choice inevitable. In the end, I would find myself in the locker room after a long day at the bar, making hundreds of drink. Tired, exhausted, looking down upon a crumpled pile of one dollar bills and wondering really if this was all that the work I did amounted to.
I still couldn’t help feeling bad when I told the lady that hired me that I was terminating my employment in two weeks. She winced when the words left my mouth. I winced inside when I saw that. That is the part of me that forever wants to please. I guess I’ll never get completely over it.
But, in the end, I got to do what’s best for me. Me and mine.
I kind of have a job lined up already. I was drinking at a bar on Thursday and I got talking to the bartender upstairs. When my friend came, I found out that he was one of the owners of the bar. She then proceeded to ask him what it would take for me to get a job at the bar. By the end of the night, the bartender gave me his business card and his number and said that if I wanted a job to call him.
Two steps forward.
However there is a catch. I will not be working as a bartender immediately. He made that clear from the get go. Security, serving, bar backing and then bartending, if I make it that far. But I don’t know. I really want to work there. Just watching the owner of the bar bartend, you could tell that he had a passion for the business. He knew the story for every beer on tap, kept a bustling bar entertained but still managed to keep all of our glasses full. And he did something that no bartender has ever done to me. He cut me off. I was drinking a beer with higher alcoholic content and right as I was about to order another beer, he suggested that I drink one with a lower content. In no way was he demeaning or insulting about it, but he posed it as a mere suggestion by happenchance.
He was like a master maestro at work, and I, who fashioned myself similarly as a maestro behind the bar, just watched him work his craft in awe. It made me realize that I have a lot to learn about the art of making and handing out drinks to costumers that entered the hallowed sanctity of my bar.
One step back.
Thus I feel like I’m back a square one, no further down the path of where I want to go than I was four months ago. But, sometimes, I suppose not moving is still better than treading backwards on paths already blazed.
I had a random set of dreams last night. One of them had one of my ex’s in them. She looked different than I remember her as. Older. And hauntingly beautiful. Her countenance is seemingly engraved in my thoughts today. I wonder what it means. Are dream random synapses of an unconscious mind? Or do they hold a foreboding warning of future that is to come to pass or a past that is still unsettled.
Or maybe I am just lonely, and my memories lingered on the last time I had the companionship of someone that I loved and loved me, if only for so briefly a time.
I don’t know.
I am relieved that this chapter is over though. Only two more weeks at the Fishmarket. I feel empowered now for some reason; I’m waiting for a manager to cross me or chastise me or make my job any harder than it is. I’m waiting for the general manger, in all his pompousness, to come over and threaten my job over a trivial matter again. And then I would simply respond that I had already given my two weeks notice as a courtesy to the restaurant, and that I am not really obligated to do so. Then I would shout I QUIT before he can tell me I’m fired.
Juvenile, I know. But its still a good feeling knowing that I am able to do that if need be.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
i wanna save you
6/19/2007
I have a complex.
I like to help. I like to be helpful. I like to listen to people’s problems and be there for people. I like to dole of insightful pieces of advice. It’s my mother inside of me. She liked to fix things, even when her idea of fixing wasn’t necessarily needed nor wanted. Her constant involvement in the inner workings of my brother and my respective lives is evidence of that.
But whatever she had, I caught it.
I like to be needed. It’s how I feel wanted. Girls sometimes dress in provocative outfit for attention. Helping someone out is my low cut shirt. Feeling needed and being the person that they turn to is the attention that I desire.
Its kind of sick, isn’t it? It’s the superman complex. Over and over again, I get involved in relationships with girls that are broken somehow and I feel the need to fix them. They grow enamored with the devoted attention I give them and I grow dependent on constantly being needed and wanted.
I thought I stopped. I really did. After I saw how unhealthy it was, after I realized that the girls that I were with quickly grew detached helpful insights and wise words that I thought I provided, after I realized that people don’t change unless they make a conscious effort, no matter what I say, or do, or show them, after all of that, I thought I had enough.
But I have complex. I need to feel wanted. I need to be someone’s strength. I need to be someone’s hero.
It started off so innocently. I just helped the girl, in a time of need. Anyone would have done it.
And like a recovered addict that has dabbled again in his addiction, the flood gates began to buckle, as the waters behind it swelled. It felt great to be needed again. It felt wonderful to have someone say that she loved me. And after time after time again, I almost let myself believe that it was true.
You can only hear some things oh so many times before they linger and affect you, no matter how high your defenses are, or how sensitive your bullshit detector is.
So now I’m knee deep, stuck in a puddle of shit. In too far to walk back, but I don’t know how long this will go for.
I’ve caught myself in a lie again. But the strangest thing was that I’ve found that I’m the one telling the lies. I used to think I dove head first into things, eyes closed tightly shut.
My eyes are wide open now. And I can see the pavement below. And it is not any softer than the last time I plunged for a dive.
Maybe I need a superman to save me.
White Russian
1 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Kahlua
1 oz. Cream
I have a complex.
I like to help. I like to be helpful. I like to listen to people’s problems and be there for people. I like to dole of insightful pieces of advice. It’s my mother inside of me. She liked to fix things, even when her idea of fixing wasn’t necessarily needed nor wanted. Her constant involvement in the inner workings of my brother and my respective lives is evidence of that.
But whatever she had, I caught it.
I like to be needed. It’s how I feel wanted. Girls sometimes dress in provocative outfit for attention. Helping someone out is my low cut shirt. Feeling needed and being the person that they turn to is the attention that I desire.
Its kind of sick, isn’t it? It’s the superman complex. Over and over again, I get involved in relationships with girls that are broken somehow and I feel the need to fix them. They grow enamored with the devoted attention I give them and I grow dependent on constantly being needed and wanted.
I thought I stopped. I really did. After I saw how unhealthy it was, after I realized that the girls that I were with quickly grew detached helpful insights and wise words that I thought I provided, after I realized that people don’t change unless they make a conscious effort, no matter what I say, or do, or show them, after all of that, I thought I had enough.
But I have complex. I need to feel wanted. I need to be someone’s strength. I need to be someone’s hero.
It started off so innocently. I just helped the girl, in a time of need. Anyone would have done it.
And like a recovered addict that has dabbled again in his addiction, the flood gates began to buckle, as the waters behind it swelled. It felt great to be needed again. It felt wonderful to have someone say that she loved me. And after time after time again, I almost let myself believe that it was true.
You can only hear some things oh so many times before they linger and affect you, no matter how high your defenses are, or how sensitive your bullshit detector is.
So now I’m knee deep, stuck in a puddle of shit. In too far to walk back, but I don’t know how long this will go for.
I’ve caught myself in a lie again. But the strangest thing was that I’ve found that I’m the one telling the lies. I used to think I dove head first into things, eyes closed tightly shut.
My eyes are wide open now. And I can see the pavement below. And it is not any softer than the last time I plunged for a dive.
Maybe I need a superman to save me.
White Russian
1 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Kahlua
1 oz. Cream
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
forlorn and tired
6/5/07
I was going to start this entry with an elaborate analogy, relating how I feel these days to being adrift at sea and bailing water to stay afloat.
Hmm. Perhaps that description is better than any analogy that I could have written.
It has been nearly two years since my last girlfriend that I had. I’m not sure if I would label it as a relationship. Most of it was imagined mutually. Online conversations and phone calls led to a frantic love in my heart that really had no basis. In hindsight, I should have not been hurt nor surprised how things ended. I try not to hold any regret about it and try and take away the positive, I do regret the decisions that I made. In the end, though, the fault lies with me.
It’s been more than a year since I told someone that I’ve loved them and meant the words that I said. Once again, the last person that I said it to was in the context of a tumultuous relationship where she could not reciprocate. Had she, I’m not sure if I would have believed her.
It is so strange to see things in hindsight. Without the magnitude of passion and emotion that I once felt for these people there, it’s like examining the skeletal remains of someone that was far more beautiful and vibrant when they were living.
I stand, right now, in the center of a whirlwind of change in my life. People around me, the people closest to me seem to be caught up in a storm of change. Relationships ending or beginning, people coming and going — I wonder how long before these winds of change sweep into my life.
So I wait, anxiously, unsure of what tomorrow will bring. My dreams have been plagued these days with unsettling images. Last night, I was among of group of undead. The night before, Bill O’Reilly stabbed my right eye with a tree branch. Tell me, oh interpreter of dreams, what these images foretell of the next breaths that I will take.
My inability to proactively deal with each respective situation has played on my inherent insecurities that I am not a good friend. I feel overwhelmed lately. For each friend that I talk to after a long period of non-communication, I pleadingly ask for them not to have anything amiss in their lives. I feel like I need to take a vacation from my friends. I wonder if I could send them each a card, relaying to them that I will be away for next two weeks and that communication and such should cease unless you are contacted by me or that the situation will lead to your death and/or your inevitable death.
What kind of friend does that make me for thinking thoughts like these? I feel like a fair weather fan, only claiming allegiance to a team when they are winning.
Breathe. Sigh. Relax. Close your eyes.
My phone has rung thankfully little today. Not many people have chosen to message me this afternoon. I don’t have to go to work at the bar tonight, where the inter-squabbling between employees and employees and employees and managers leaves me wondering how quickly the night will come to end.
I am forlorn and tired. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps friends are what I truly need in my life at this juncture.
Greyhound
1 oz. vodka
Fill the cup with grapefruit juice
Same thing as a cranberry and vodka, except you use grapefruit juice.
I was going to start this entry with an elaborate analogy, relating how I feel these days to being adrift at sea and bailing water to stay afloat.
Hmm. Perhaps that description is better than any analogy that I could have written.
It has been nearly two years since my last girlfriend that I had. I’m not sure if I would label it as a relationship. Most of it was imagined mutually. Online conversations and phone calls led to a frantic love in my heart that really had no basis. In hindsight, I should have not been hurt nor surprised how things ended. I try not to hold any regret about it and try and take away the positive, I do regret the decisions that I made. In the end, though, the fault lies with me.
It’s been more than a year since I told someone that I’ve loved them and meant the words that I said. Once again, the last person that I said it to was in the context of a tumultuous relationship where she could not reciprocate. Had she, I’m not sure if I would have believed her.
It is so strange to see things in hindsight. Without the magnitude of passion and emotion that I once felt for these people there, it’s like examining the skeletal remains of someone that was far more beautiful and vibrant when they were living.
I stand, right now, in the center of a whirlwind of change in my life. People around me, the people closest to me seem to be caught up in a storm of change. Relationships ending or beginning, people coming and going — I wonder how long before these winds of change sweep into my life.
So I wait, anxiously, unsure of what tomorrow will bring. My dreams have been plagued these days with unsettling images. Last night, I was among of group of undead. The night before, Bill O’Reilly stabbed my right eye with a tree branch. Tell me, oh interpreter of dreams, what these images foretell of the next breaths that I will take.
My inability to proactively deal with each respective situation has played on my inherent insecurities that I am not a good friend. I feel overwhelmed lately. For each friend that I talk to after a long period of non-communication, I pleadingly ask for them not to have anything amiss in their lives. I feel like I need to take a vacation from my friends. I wonder if I could send them each a card, relaying to them that I will be away for next two weeks and that communication and such should cease unless you are contacted by me or that the situation will lead to your death and/or your inevitable death.
What kind of friend does that make me for thinking thoughts like these? I feel like a fair weather fan, only claiming allegiance to a team when they are winning.
Breathe. Sigh. Relax. Close your eyes.
My phone has rung thankfully little today. Not many people have chosen to message me this afternoon. I don’t have to go to work at the bar tonight, where the inter-squabbling between employees and employees and employees and managers leaves me wondering how quickly the night will come to end.
I am forlorn and tired. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps friends are what I truly need in my life at this juncture.
Greyhound
1 oz. vodka
Fill the cup with grapefruit juice
Same thing as a cranberry and vodka, except you use grapefruit juice.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
flashes of light
6/2/07
I was carrying around a bucket of ice today and my knee decides to buckle under me.
No warning, no indicator, just intense pain shooting up and down my right leg.
I forget sometimes how easily life can go from nonchalant comfort to intense pain. In my youth and yes I am still young, I get forget the fragility of the human body and the human heart.
But then I turn the corner and Fate, biding her precious time, reminds me.
I apologize to all my friends that are still in my life lately. I am worn. I am weary. I am tired. Lately, it seems that my life has not been a battle of defining victories or defeats, but one of attrition, where the only moral victory that can be claimed is that I made it through the day. Yet still, despite my constant preoccupation, it does not excuse that fact I have not been there emotionally for friends that have already returned that same duty for me.
I apologize, whole heartedly, because as I am growing older and hopefully wiser, I am still learning what it is be a good friend. And I make and will make many mistakes in this learning process.
So many circumstances in my life seem to be on the change these days. I feel the shifting sands beneath me and I wonder, metaphorically, if it was so wise to build my, once again metaphoric, house so close to the beach. I wonder if my foundation is strong enough. I wonder if I am strong enough to endure. I speak my answer, a resounding yes, but in the back of my head I hear the creeping doubts of no’s.
My mind plays tricks on me. While walking to my car tonight, I thought of the regrets I would have if my life ended in that very instant. The aching pain in my knee gave fuel to these sobering thoughts. As I drove home, there were flashing lights over head from thunderstorms rolling through. I morbidly thought of the last moments in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Was the last thing that those countless people saw just a flash of light?
It makes life seem so trivial.
No matter what I do, fate and time continue tread away slowly but surely. Each breath I take is one closer to my last. My friend sent me a text the other day. She is dealing with the inevitable death of one of her closest friend’s father. Tragic, since her own father passed only a few years ago.
“Is it better to know when you are going to die? I don’t know anymore.”
Either do I. I am still a novice when it comes to dealing with death.
If this is what every blue moon is to be like, I should be thankful that they are so infrequent. Close lids lead to dream plagued sleep and breathless goodnight to anyone still listening.
Blue Kamikaze
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. lime juice
1 oz. blue curacao
Here is a bartender trick. You know how all these bars have these exotic blue drinks? Two words. Blue curacao. Nothing more. Nothing less. Blue curacao is essentially blue dyed triple sec. You can use them interchangeably with any recipe and essentially make any cocktail blue.
I was carrying around a bucket of ice today and my knee decides to buckle under me.
No warning, no indicator, just intense pain shooting up and down my right leg.
I forget sometimes how easily life can go from nonchalant comfort to intense pain. In my youth and yes I am still young, I get forget the fragility of the human body and the human heart.
But then I turn the corner and Fate, biding her precious time, reminds me.
I apologize to all my friends that are still in my life lately. I am worn. I am weary. I am tired. Lately, it seems that my life has not been a battle of defining victories or defeats, but one of attrition, where the only moral victory that can be claimed is that I made it through the day. Yet still, despite my constant preoccupation, it does not excuse that fact I have not been there emotionally for friends that have already returned that same duty for me.
I apologize, whole heartedly, because as I am growing older and hopefully wiser, I am still learning what it is be a good friend. And I make and will make many mistakes in this learning process.
So many circumstances in my life seem to be on the change these days. I feel the shifting sands beneath me and I wonder, metaphorically, if it was so wise to build my, once again metaphoric, house so close to the beach. I wonder if my foundation is strong enough. I wonder if I am strong enough to endure. I speak my answer, a resounding yes, but in the back of my head I hear the creeping doubts of no’s.
My mind plays tricks on me. While walking to my car tonight, I thought of the regrets I would have if my life ended in that very instant. The aching pain in my knee gave fuel to these sobering thoughts. As I drove home, there were flashing lights over head from thunderstorms rolling through. I morbidly thought of the last moments in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Was the last thing that those countless people saw just a flash of light?
It makes life seem so trivial.
No matter what I do, fate and time continue tread away slowly but surely. Each breath I take is one closer to my last. My friend sent me a text the other day. She is dealing with the inevitable death of one of her closest friend’s father. Tragic, since her own father passed only a few years ago.
“Is it better to know when you are going to die? I don’t know anymore.”
Either do I. I am still a novice when it comes to dealing with death.
If this is what every blue moon is to be like, I should be thankful that they are so infrequent. Close lids lead to dream plagued sleep and breathless goodnight to anyone still listening.
Blue Kamikaze
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. lime juice
1 oz. blue curacao
Here is a bartender trick. You know how all these bars have these exotic blue drinks? Two words. Blue curacao. Nothing more. Nothing less. Blue curacao is essentially blue dyed triple sec. You can use them interchangeably with any recipe and essentially make any cocktail blue.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
perspective
5/29/07
I haven’t been writing much lately. I have been legitimately busy, no doubt, but still that really offers no excuse for me not to write. Instead I’ve been choosing going out after work to replace the late nights that I used to spend writing.
I’m not really happy how things are going in my life lately. I haven’t been faithful to the goals I set for myself. I realized this today as I sat out in front of the garage after our Memorial Day BBQ.
I’m off track. Like a lot of things in my life, I had such great momentum going in, but I failed to see things through. My writing has tailed off, I haven’t been running much lately, I’ve been falling back on bad habits, drinking too much. I got so many ideas in my head, but never do I really see them through. For me, starting is never hard. It’s finishing. It always has been my Achilles heel.
I realize that that is the biggest difference between my brother and I. Professionally and perhaps in life as well. Why he has succeeded, where I have failed. You see, Andy sometimes takes forever to start something. It’s an annoying attribute at times, I suppose. But then when he starts something, he always sees it through to the end. He’s wired that way I suppose, and in the end, I think that’s what makes him such a great project manager.
For me, it’s easy for me to start a million side projects all at once. Take in a ton at a time, but instead of finishing any them, I just start on another project, and another after that. I give excuses to myself writing because I just say that I’m out of ideas for the time being, which really isn’t a legitimate excuse. I’m never really ever out of ideas, I just sometimes don’t have the patience to write them all down at once. And that frustrates me. I guess at the first sign of difficulty that I find, I want to just jump ship.
In essence, I think that’s why I started writing. I would always use writing as an escape for any work or studying that had to be done. Not anyone surprise, but frequently my best writing periods often came at deadlines and finals. Now that I’m trying to write as profession, I guess therapeutic value is lost, and I’m trying to find my next escape as soon I hit some rough waters.
But I’m realizing that I don’t have that many luxuries in life anymore. I guess I’ve jumped out of too many ships.
I don’t drink anymore to get drunk. I realize I stopped doing it a long time ago. I guess I consciously realized it recently. Although lately I’ve been drinking with increasing frequency, I’ve been only drinking two to three beers a night. It’s almost a daily ritual to let myself unwind after working a full day at two different jobs. Lately, I’ve been working with a lot of younger people. Not even really younger in age, just younger at heart. They egg me on to drink more, stay out later. I don’t know how they do it; they live there lives twenty miles above the speed limit. I hit cruise control a long time ago. The days of me getting fucked up are few and very far in between.
I’m going to write more. I need to. I just needed a quiet moment to gain some perspective in my life again.
Sex on the Beach
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. orange juice
1 oz. cranberry juice
1 oz. peach schnapps
Now there are about a billion varieties to this drink and every one of them is right, dependent on who you ask. This is just my version, and its one that whenever I make it, people seem to like. It basically just a good drink for those who really, really don’t like the taste of alcohol. Because it really has not alcohol. Heh.
I haven’t been writing much lately. I have been legitimately busy, no doubt, but still that really offers no excuse for me not to write. Instead I’ve been choosing going out after work to replace the late nights that I used to spend writing.
I’m not really happy how things are going in my life lately. I haven’t been faithful to the goals I set for myself. I realized this today as I sat out in front of the garage after our Memorial Day BBQ.
I’m off track. Like a lot of things in my life, I had such great momentum going in, but I failed to see things through. My writing has tailed off, I haven’t been running much lately, I’ve been falling back on bad habits, drinking too much. I got so many ideas in my head, but never do I really see them through. For me, starting is never hard. It’s finishing. It always has been my Achilles heel.
I realize that that is the biggest difference between my brother and I. Professionally and perhaps in life as well. Why he has succeeded, where I have failed. You see, Andy sometimes takes forever to start something. It’s an annoying attribute at times, I suppose. But then when he starts something, he always sees it through to the end. He’s wired that way I suppose, and in the end, I think that’s what makes him such a great project manager.
For me, it’s easy for me to start a million side projects all at once. Take in a ton at a time, but instead of finishing any them, I just start on another project, and another after that. I give excuses to myself writing because I just say that I’m out of ideas for the time being, which really isn’t a legitimate excuse. I’m never really ever out of ideas, I just sometimes don’t have the patience to write them all down at once. And that frustrates me. I guess at the first sign of difficulty that I find, I want to just jump ship.
In essence, I think that’s why I started writing. I would always use writing as an escape for any work or studying that had to be done. Not anyone surprise, but frequently my best writing periods often came at deadlines and finals. Now that I’m trying to write as profession, I guess therapeutic value is lost, and I’m trying to find my next escape as soon I hit some rough waters.
But I’m realizing that I don’t have that many luxuries in life anymore. I guess I’ve jumped out of too many ships.
I don’t drink anymore to get drunk. I realize I stopped doing it a long time ago. I guess I consciously realized it recently. Although lately I’ve been drinking with increasing frequency, I’ve been only drinking two to three beers a night. It’s almost a daily ritual to let myself unwind after working a full day at two different jobs. Lately, I’ve been working with a lot of younger people. Not even really younger in age, just younger at heart. They egg me on to drink more, stay out later. I don’t know how they do it; they live there lives twenty miles above the speed limit. I hit cruise control a long time ago. The days of me getting fucked up are few and very far in between.
I’m going to write more. I need to. I just needed a quiet moment to gain some perspective in my life again.
Sex on the Beach
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. orange juice
1 oz. cranberry juice
1 oz. peach schnapps
Now there are about a billion varieties to this drink and every one of them is right, dependent on who you ask. This is just my version, and its one that whenever I make it, people seem to like. It basically just a good drink for those who really, really don’t like the taste of alcohol. Because it really has not alcohol. Heh.
Friday, May 25, 2007
unfinished piece
5/25/2007
……..What am I doing here?
It was a question I found asking myself as I stood in a corner of the cramped apartment last night. Shuttered away by the random pieces of art that lay strewn around the room, I did my best impression of a wallflower as I stood by a cracked window, mesmerized by the glowing embers of my cigarette.
There was a temporary break in the music. The silence was a relief from the blaring music of rappers now long slain— lyrics of smoking weed, alcohol, and scantily clad women laid over beat and a pounding bass destroying what was a peaceful summer night.
“What are you doing over there?”
My attention turned back to the room. The speaker was a Korean girl that I had met only thirty minutes before. I had already forgotten her name. We had spoken earlier about our mutual Korean heritage. Nothing memorable was said, just small talk to break the ice. From the way she floated from guy to guy across the room, I got the sense that she was looking for attention. As she approached me, I secretly wondered how many more beers I would have had to drink before I was more willing to give it.
“Just smoking my cigarette…” I answered. I smiled at her as I took another drag. She smiled back.
“Well, quit being a loner.”
I nodded my head and she headed to the refrigerator to get another beverage. I leaned back and resumed my perch on the windowsill. I took another drag from my cigarette and as I exhaled out the window, I found my looking to the ground four beneath me, and precociously I sat against the open window. As my attention turned back to the people within the room, I wondered if any of them would have noticed had I fell. As I decided that I would not test fate or my inebriated friends’ perceptions, I flicked my cigarette out the window and returned to the living room, where everyone was gathered playing a game of kings. With my beer cup in hand, I crumpled down next to the couch.
As I sat quietly next to the couch, I absorbed the scene before. It was a coworker’s apartment that we had all gathered in.
……..What am I doing here?
It was a question I found asking myself as I stood in a corner of the cramped apartment last night. Shuttered away by the random pieces of art that lay strewn around the room, I did my best impression of a wallflower as I stood by a cracked window, mesmerized by the glowing embers of my cigarette.
There was a temporary break in the music. The silence was a relief from the blaring music of rappers now long slain— lyrics of smoking weed, alcohol, and scantily clad women laid over beat and a pounding bass destroying what was a peaceful summer night.
“What are you doing over there?”
My attention turned back to the room. The speaker was a Korean girl that I had met only thirty minutes before. I had already forgotten her name. We had spoken earlier about our mutual Korean heritage. Nothing memorable was said, just small talk to break the ice. From the way she floated from guy to guy across the room, I got the sense that she was looking for attention. As she approached me, I secretly wondered how many more beers I would have had to drink before I was more willing to give it.
“Just smoking my cigarette…” I answered. I smiled at her as I took another drag. She smiled back.
“Well, quit being a loner.”
I nodded my head and she headed to the refrigerator to get another beverage. I leaned back and resumed my perch on the windowsill. I took another drag from my cigarette and as I exhaled out the window, I found my looking to the ground four beneath me, and precociously I sat against the open window. As my attention turned back to the people within the room, I wondered if any of them would have noticed had I fell. As I decided that I would not test fate or my inebriated friends’ perceptions, I flicked my cigarette out the window and returned to the living room, where everyone was gathered playing a game of kings. With my beer cup in hand, I crumpled down next to the couch.
As I sat quietly next to the couch, I absorbed the scene before. It was a coworker’s apartment that we had all gathered in.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
father's day
My dad just called me today. He rarely ever calls me. I was surprised when I saw his number on my caller ID.
I don’t really have a great relationship with my father. I love him and I know he loves me. That alone is more of a relationship than I know some of my friends have with their fathers, so I am appreciative.
But that really is the extent of our relationship.
When we moved back to Korea, my father took the role of provider very seriously. He always worked. His career really consumed his life. Six nights a week, he was at business meetings or job related functions. If he came home early, he usually just watched tv.
We hardly talked. He never knew what was going on in my life. He knew the big stuff, like school, but if you asked him who my friends were or what I enjoyed doing or what dreams and aspirations were, I’m not sure if he would’ve had the faintest what those answers were.
When I told him recently that I didn’t enjoy programming and I wanted to be a writer, I think that was the first time he even knew I loved to write.
Because I had such a minimal relationship with my father, I always sought for his approval. I chose my major because it was what he did and I knew that he would be happy knowing his son was following in his footsteps. I went to Purdue because that was where he wanted me to go among the schools I got accepted into. Even when I realized that I wasn’t happy within my major and what I saw if I continued, I kept with it. I kept with it because I knew it would make my father happy.
In our phone call today he asked me how I was doing. He heard from my mother that I am bartending now. I know he doesn’t approve. The last couple of times we’ve talked about it, he’s called everything from a loser to a disappointment and hung up on me because he was too angry to continue talking. He asked if I could see myself bartending for the rest of my life. I told him no, that’s not my plan. He told me he was afraid of that.
He asked me why don’t you get a full time job. I told him that I didn’t want to. He then just sighed and asked to talk to my brother.
I feel guilty painting my father in such a negative light. He was there for the big things in my life. He came to my everyone of the plays I was in, all the concerts that my brother and I played in, and I even remember one time he came out to watch me play soccer.
He wants security in my life. He wants me to work for some large corporation that will provide me with a 401K and two weeks paid vacation. He worries that I will fail in my dreams. When I told him that I wanted to write, he asked for proof that I was a good enough writer.
As I sit here and write this, I know what he wants for me isn’t something horrible. He isn’t asking for me to kill someone or destroy something. I know he only wants assurance that I will be able to survive and prosper, even without him in my life.
Life is hard. And I know the path I am choosing for myself is harder than others. But I’ve found the thing that makes me feel the most alive and happiest. I wish I could show him that. Even through this all, as bad as things have gotten, I still harbor a need for his approval of my life. Maybe someday I’ll be able to show that to him. Maybe someday he’ll know the answer to the question of what makes his son happiest. Maybe.
I saw a bottle of Galliano sitting at a bar the other day so it got me thinking about this recipe.
Harvey Wallbanger
Ice a Collins glass
1 oz. vodka
Fill the glass with orange juice
Float Galliano on top of the drink
I don’t really have a great relationship with my father. I love him and I know he loves me. That alone is more of a relationship than I know some of my friends have with their fathers, so I am appreciative.
But that really is the extent of our relationship.
When we moved back to Korea, my father took the role of provider very seriously. He always worked. His career really consumed his life. Six nights a week, he was at business meetings or job related functions. If he came home early, he usually just watched tv.
We hardly talked. He never knew what was going on in my life. He knew the big stuff, like school, but if you asked him who my friends were or what I enjoyed doing or what dreams and aspirations were, I’m not sure if he would’ve had the faintest what those answers were.
When I told him recently that I didn’t enjoy programming and I wanted to be a writer, I think that was the first time he even knew I loved to write.
Because I had such a minimal relationship with my father, I always sought for his approval. I chose my major because it was what he did and I knew that he would be happy knowing his son was following in his footsteps. I went to Purdue because that was where he wanted me to go among the schools I got accepted into. Even when I realized that I wasn’t happy within my major and what I saw if I continued, I kept with it. I kept with it because I knew it would make my father happy.
In our phone call today he asked me how I was doing. He heard from my mother that I am bartending now. I know he doesn’t approve. The last couple of times we’ve talked about it, he’s called everything from a loser to a disappointment and hung up on me because he was too angry to continue talking. He asked if I could see myself bartending for the rest of my life. I told him no, that’s not my plan. He told me he was afraid of that.
He asked me why don’t you get a full time job. I told him that I didn’t want to. He then just sighed and asked to talk to my brother.
I feel guilty painting my father in such a negative light. He was there for the big things in my life. He came to my everyone of the plays I was in, all the concerts that my brother and I played in, and I even remember one time he came out to watch me play soccer.
He wants security in my life. He wants me to work for some large corporation that will provide me with a 401K and two weeks paid vacation. He worries that I will fail in my dreams. When I told him that I wanted to write, he asked for proof that I was a good enough writer.
As I sit here and write this, I know what he wants for me isn’t something horrible. He isn’t asking for me to kill someone or destroy something. I know he only wants assurance that I will be able to survive and prosper, even without him in my life.
Life is hard. And I know the path I am choosing for myself is harder than others. But I’ve found the thing that makes me feel the most alive and happiest. I wish I could show him that. Even through this all, as bad as things have gotten, I still harbor a need for his approval of my life. Maybe someday I’ll be able to show that to him. Maybe someday he’ll know the answer to the question of what makes his son happiest. Maybe.
I saw a bottle of Galliano sitting at a bar the other day so it got me thinking about this recipe.
Harvey Wallbanger
Ice a Collins glass
1 oz. vodka
Fill the glass with orange juice
Float Galliano on top of the drink
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
untitled piece i'm working on
This is a short story I wrote a couple of months ago. I let it just sit around a while and reread and did some major revisions to it. Please respond if you like it or don't like it. Basically critique. And by critique, I mean respond about any emotions evoked by the piece or any confusion you have. I'm not looking for people to proofread for me.
-njh
All I could see left of what I wrote was the blinking cursor, only for it to be blurred as I felt tears slide down my cheek. It had just happened. As quickly as it began, it ended. Without any screamed words or possessions being thrown out, it ended.
All that remained were memories and the blinking cursor on an IM chat box. I thought the first night we met in person and spent together. She had managed to pin me down, and straddled my stomach as she looked down on me. She looked beautiful right then, with locks of her hair streaming over her face. She took my right hand and pushed it up against her left breast.
“You know most of this is yours, don’t you?” she had whispered as she looked down on me.
I wiped another tear from my eye and reread the last question that I wrote to her. If I didn’t want to be around anymore, would it even matter?
It had been a couple minutes since she had last written anything. Over the summer she had grown distant; she responded less to my messages, stopped answering my texts and phone calls. At first she would apologize and try and explain, but as more time passed these apologies less and less frequent.
My eyes lingered on the blinking cursor. No answer appeared. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I remembered the first time she had texted me. I had been out a bar with a friend and received a message from a number I didn’t recognize. All it said was I need to talk to you. There was never a question of who it was in my mind. I ran out of the bar and to my car and called the number. Within the first few rings, she picked up. It was the first time I heard her voice. We didn’t stop talking till we both were too exhausted to stay up.
But those days were long gone. It had been over a month since I had last received a phone call from her. My messages over the computer were rarely responded to and her answers were always so deliberately slow, if they came at all.
The familiar chimes of an incoming message shattered my reverie. My eyes quickly returned to the message box. Eventually. It was all she wrote.
She knew my disdain for single word answers. Yet, lately, she chose to solely answer with them. I continued to stare at the screen, hoping something more would come. My patience was answered by silence on her part. I scrolled up to a previous part of our conversation.
Because you want to be. As I read those words for the second time, they seemed to reverberate within my body. I had been in denial for so long. I made excuses for her, when she offered no explanation. I told myself she was busy with school when she had no time to talk. I told myself she was busy with her family, when she had gone home after school had ended and still found no time to talk to me. But her words were right there. I could no longer deny what I saw.
It had only been till five minutes since I had finally found the courage to ask her. Her answer was like a blow to the stomach. I wanted so badly to read that she needed me. Instead, she said the truth. Why was I still around?
Because you want to be.
I knew if I could have seen her eyes at the moment, I wouldn’t have seen the warmth that I saw in them the first time we kissed. I had made a bet with her that she would kiss me first, a bet that I knew I would lose the moment I first saw her. A bet she made sure I lost. And as I leaned to kiss her later that night, she turned her head away slightly, then mischievously whispered in my ear, “you lost.” But when she finally turned her head back and I brushed my lips against hers, I whispered back, “I wanted to lose.”
None of that would be there. None of the smiles or giggles, or jokes we shared. She had already walked away from that. I realized I had nothing to say to her anymore. I waited for a few minutes to see if she would write anything. She didn’t. I logged off my computer and headed to bed.
I tried to sleep. I tried not to dream. I tried not to think about anything. I tried. After tossing in bed for most of night, my phone went off. A text. From her. Her dog had died.
I’m sorry, I wrote back. Do you want me to call?
No, I don’t want to talk right now.
Well, I’m awake and around if you need me.
I received no response after that. I really didn’t expect to. I still waited though, hoping. I fell asleep with my cell phone in my hand. When I woke up, I found my phone had fallen to the floor beneath me. I didn’t need to check to know she hadn’t written me back.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you…” she had said to me the last time I saw her. We were in her car. There was a snow storm around us. Flakes of fluffy white snow threatened my drive home to northern Virginia and hers to Tennessee. I never wanted to leave that car. I just sat there in her passenger seat, leaning over to kiss her. She stopped me and looked into my eyes. For previous couple of days beforehand, she had been questioning our relationship. During the weekend we spent together, we had decided to try and give what we had a chance. She cradled my face with her hands and brushed her fingers against my lips. I kissed the palm of her hand. She then whispered those words.
It was the last time that I saw her. It was the last time I touched her. It was last time I held her. It was the last time I kissed her.
As I climbed into my car to drive to work for the day, I remembered how I felt on that winter morning driving away from her. I carried so much hope of things to come. I opened up my phone to the last text message she sent me and read it again. My mind drifted to last night and the conversation we had.
“Nothing but memories,” I whispered. With trembling fingers, I deleted the text message she sent. My eyes focused on her name in my cell phone directory. My thumb pressed upon the delete button. The next screen appeared and prompted me if I was sure. I pressed down on the yes button. Gingerly, I laid my cell phone down on my passenger seat like it was a volatile bomb ready to explode. I stared at the phone for awhile. “Nothing but memories,” I whispered again as I started my car and shifted to reverse.
Sangria
6 oz. of red wine
1/2 oz. of cranberry, mango, and strawberry infusion
2 oz. of strawberry concentrate
1 oz. of mango concentrate
1 oz. of lime juice
a splash of sprite/7 up
Add everything to a mixer, shake and pour into a iced schooner/fishbowl.
-njh
All I could see left of what I wrote was the blinking cursor, only for it to be blurred as I felt tears slide down my cheek. It had just happened. As quickly as it began, it ended. Without any screamed words or possessions being thrown out, it ended.
All that remained were memories and the blinking cursor on an IM chat box. I thought the first night we met in person and spent together. She had managed to pin me down, and straddled my stomach as she looked down on me. She looked beautiful right then, with locks of her hair streaming over her face. She took my right hand and pushed it up against her left breast.
“You know most of this is yours, don’t you?” she had whispered as she looked down on me.
I wiped another tear from my eye and reread the last question that I wrote to her. If I didn’t want to be around anymore, would it even matter?
It had been a couple minutes since she had last written anything. Over the summer she had grown distant; she responded less to my messages, stopped answering my texts and phone calls. At first she would apologize and try and explain, but as more time passed these apologies less and less frequent.
My eyes lingered on the blinking cursor. No answer appeared. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I remembered the first time she had texted me. I had been out a bar with a friend and received a message from a number I didn’t recognize. All it said was I need to talk to you. There was never a question of who it was in my mind. I ran out of the bar and to my car and called the number. Within the first few rings, she picked up. It was the first time I heard her voice. We didn’t stop talking till we both were too exhausted to stay up.
But those days were long gone. It had been over a month since I had last received a phone call from her. My messages over the computer were rarely responded to and her answers were always so deliberately slow, if they came at all.
The familiar chimes of an incoming message shattered my reverie. My eyes quickly returned to the message box. Eventually. It was all she wrote.
She knew my disdain for single word answers. Yet, lately, she chose to solely answer with them. I continued to stare at the screen, hoping something more would come. My patience was answered by silence on her part. I scrolled up to a previous part of our conversation.
Because you want to be. As I read those words for the second time, they seemed to reverberate within my body. I had been in denial for so long. I made excuses for her, when she offered no explanation. I told myself she was busy with school when she had no time to talk. I told myself she was busy with her family, when she had gone home after school had ended and still found no time to talk to me. But her words were right there. I could no longer deny what I saw.
It had only been till five minutes since I had finally found the courage to ask her. Her answer was like a blow to the stomach. I wanted so badly to read that she needed me. Instead, she said the truth. Why was I still around?
Because you want to be.
I knew if I could have seen her eyes at the moment, I wouldn’t have seen the warmth that I saw in them the first time we kissed. I had made a bet with her that she would kiss me first, a bet that I knew I would lose the moment I first saw her. A bet she made sure I lost. And as I leaned to kiss her later that night, she turned her head away slightly, then mischievously whispered in my ear, “you lost.” But when she finally turned her head back and I brushed my lips against hers, I whispered back, “I wanted to lose.”
None of that would be there. None of the smiles or giggles, or jokes we shared. She had already walked away from that. I realized I had nothing to say to her anymore. I waited for a few minutes to see if she would write anything. She didn’t. I logged off my computer and headed to bed.
I tried to sleep. I tried not to dream. I tried not to think about anything. I tried. After tossing in bed for most of night, my phone went off. A text. From her. Her dog had died.
I’m sorry, I wrote back. Do you want me to call?
No, I don’t want to talk right now.
Well, I’m awake and around if you need me.
I received no response after that. I really didn’t expect to. I still waited though, hoping. I fell asleep with my cell phone in my hand. When I woke up, I found my phone had fallen to the floor beneath me. I didn’t need to check to know she hadn’t written me back.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you…” she had said to me the last time I saw her. We were in her car. There was a snow storm around us. Flakes of fluffy white snow threatened my drive home to northern Virginia and hers to Tennessee. I never wanted to leave that car. I just sat there in her passenger seat, leaning over to kiss her. She stopped me and looked into my eyes. For previous couple of days beforehand, she had been questioning our relationship. During the weekend we spent together, we had decided to try and give what we had a chance. She cradled my face with her hands and brushed her fingers against my lips. I kissed the palm of her hand. She then whispered those words.
It was the last time that I saw her. It was the last time I touched her. It was last time I held her. It was the last time I kissed her.
As I climbed into my car to drive to work for the day, I remembered how I felt on that winter morning driving away from her. I carried so much hope of things to come. I opened up my phone to the last text message she sent me and read it again. My mind drifted to last night and the conversation we had.
“Nothing but memories,” I whispered. With trembling fingers, I deleted the text message she sent. My eyes focused on her name in my cell phone directory. My thumb pressed upon the delete button. The next screen appeared and prompted me if I was sure. I pressed down on the yes button. Gingerly, I laid my cell phone down on my passenger seat like it was a volatile bomb ready to explode. I stared at the phone for awhile. “Nothing but memories,” I whispered again as I started my car and shifted to reverse.
Sangria
6 oz. of red wine
1/2 oz. of cranberry, mango, and strawberry infusion
2 oz. of strawberry concentrate
1 oz. of mango concentrate
1 oz. of lime juice
a splash of sprite/7 up
Add everything to a mixer, shake and pour into a iced schooner/fishbowl.
Monday, May 7, 2007
something i forgot i wrote
While I was transferring stuff from one computer to another, I found this old entry I wrote earlier this year. Just decided to post it since I've been suffering from acute writer's block lately.
Why do we so easily settle for mediocrity when we get older? Why do our dreams plummet from impossible to the plausible and quite often enough mundane? What is it in our genetic code that drives me, as single man in his mid twenties to search out a nine to five job that will never come close to bringing me any sense of satisfaction in my life?
Andy asked me the other day, ‘is it bad that I have no new years resolution’? I didn’t answer, but I think it’s a little sad. We have confined ourselves to dreams aren’t distinctly ours. The dream of the model home with the two car garage and the flat panel TV and the 2.5 kids with 1.5 dogs and 2.25 cars. Is that what we dreamed of in childhood? Or in our adolescent years?
I find the idea of goals to be sometimes funny. I will do X by X days. We so willingly give up the ability to live in the here and now to sacrifice for an indeterminate future that might not even come to fruition. I don’t know why we do it. As youths, we never needed some benchmark within our lives to judge the progress we’ve made. But I guess in the end, I’m the one clamoring for my days of youthful innocence. This responsibility thing is just not what it was cracked up to be. It kind of scares me.
Am I jaded by a life marred by goals that didn’t come into fruition? Or have a clung to tightly to an innocence that is no longer mine to bear? Maybe I just have grown enough to have the dreams of the ostentatious nothingness that has been sold, bought, and marketed, and sold again for a slight profit by every vendor thought imaginable.
I dream of happiness. I dream of fulfillment. I dream of one day waking up and finding that my voice in the head is the voice that everyone else hears. I dream that the person that I see every day in the mirror is just a reflection of the man I aspire to be.
And I dream of sex. Copious amounts of sex. Hahahahaa. Only if that weren’t so true.
I wonder if the path I chose for myself is purposely hard. I wonder if this battle that currently manifests my life is not some intricate chess game between my id and my superego, where my life is the board that they play on. Morbid, no? And fate hovers over, gleefully clasping her spinster hands and she anticipates each move on the board, as if it was carefully scripted by her and each essence of my subconscious mind is an actor in her play.
Outside circumstances that always give me an excuse to take an easy way out. It’s too easy. I can’t really write these days. The characters that I think of, they just seem to be lifeless dolls that are made to feel and look human, but are cold to the touch. They haven’t come alive yet, except in the deepest recesses of my imagination, in some untapped corner of my brain.
I hope this is only writer’s block.
I talked to an artist about criticism today. This is something that I really need to work on. Accepting criticism, at least. In real life, I have a hard time being told I am wrong. It’s a mixture of desire to showboat and insecurities. I am insecure, especially about my intellect now. Fat jokes aside, my academic career has become the fodder of most of the jokes I tell. It’s crazy, because it makes incredibly insecure about it. I look around to my peers and see countless others that have face experiences like mine that have succeeded. And then doubt creeps into my head. I used to be confident of my abilities. But later in life there are no longer aptitude tests that you can take that can confirm to everyone how smart you are. No state wide board exam that will place your reading, writing, arithmetic, and scientific knowledge well beyond your own grade level. No SAT test that you hardly really study for to testify about your ability to do well on standardized tests.
The greatest leap from college to adulthood is there is no longer any grading scale. For sixteen plus years of our lives, we are rated on a grading scale. One free of personal opinion, concerns of hygiene or office politics. Just a pure number. A is equivalent to excellent, B good. With the loss of criteria, it’s almost as we lose a measurement of where we are in our lives and how we are performing. I guess that is the definition of being an adult. Sure, we have a year end evaluations given by our employers, but that, more than any other time in our lives, is more of a popularity contest and testament of one’s charisma rather than a true reflection of one’s abilities.
We grow up with the structure of a grading scale. Take that away and some of us will crumble.
Everyone has advice about how to write. Base your characters off your friends, write about what you know. Can writing be really taught and learned? Or is it truly just an expression. I don’t know. I don’t know. I wonder if those people that have had years of schooling and education about writing have a heads up on me. But then I wonder if my imagination is something that is quantitatively measured. And in the end, isn’t that the key to the worlds that I create? Keep trucking, my boy. Keep trucking.
Pometini
1 oz. of pomegranate concentrate
1 oz. of Vodka
a splash of fresh lime juice from a lime wedge
a spash of grenadine
1/2 oz. of sour mix
1/2 oz. of grapefruit juice
Add everything into the shaker with ice, shake, strain and pour.
Why do we so easily settle for mediocrity when we get older? Why do our dreams plummet from impossible to the plausible and quite often enough mundane? What is it in our genetic code that drives me, as single man in his mid twenties to search out a nine to five job that will never come close to bringing me any sense of satisfaction in my life?
Andy asked me the other day, ‘is it bad that I have no new years resolution’? I didn’t answer, but I think it’s a little sad. We have confined ourselves to dreams aren’t distinctly ours. The dream of the model home with the two car garage and the flat panel TV and the 2.5 kids with 1.5 dogs and 2.25 cars. Is that what we dreamed of in childhood? Or in our adolescent years?
I find the idea of goals to be sometimes funny. I will do X by X days. We so willingly give up the ability to live in the here and now to sacrifice for an indeterminate future that might not even come to fruition. I don’t know why we do it. As youths, we never needed some benchmark within our lives to judge the progress we’ve made. But I guess in the end, I’m the one clamoring for my days of youthful innocence. This responsibility thing is just not what it was cracked up to be. It kind of scares me.
Am I jaded by a life marred by goals that didn’t come into fruition? Or have a clung to tightly to an innocence that is no longer mine to bear? Maybe I just have grown enough to have the dreams of the ostentatious nothingness that has been sold, bought, and marketed, and sold again for a slight profit by every vendor thought imaginable.
I dream of happiness. I dream of fulfillment. I dream of one day waking up and finding that my voice in the head is the voice that everyone else hears. I dream that the person that I see every day in the mirror is just a reflection of the man I aspire to be.
And I dream of sex. Copious amounts of sex. Hahahahaa. Only if that weren’t so true.
I wonder if the path I chose for myself is purposely hard. I wonder if this battle that currently manifests my life is not some intricate chess game between my id and my superego, where my life is the board that they play on. Morbid, no? And fate hovers over, gleefully clasping her spinster hands and she anticipates each move on the board, as if it was carefully scripted by her and each essence of my subconscious mind is an actor in her play.
Outside circumstances that always give me an excuse to take an easy way out. It’s too easy. I can’t really write these days. The characters that I think of, they just seem to be lifeless dolls that are made to feel and look human, but are cold to the touch. They haven’t come alive yet, except in the deepest recesses of my imagination, in some untapped corner of my brain.
I hope this is only writer’s block.
I talked to an artist about criticism today. This is something that I really need to work on. Accepting criticism, at least. In real life, I have a hard time being told I am wrong. It’s a mixture of desire to showboat and insecurities. I am insecure, especially about my intellect now. Fat jokes aside, my academic career has become the fodder of most of the jokes I tell. It’s crazy, because it makes incredibly insecure about it. I look around to my peers and see countless others that have face experiences like mine that have succeeded. And then doubt creeps into my head. I used to be confident of my abilities. But later in life there are no longer aptitude tests that you can take that can confirm to everyone how smart you are. No state wide board exam that will place your reading, writing, arithmetic, and scientific knowledge well beyond your own grade level. No SAT test that you hardly really study for to testify about your ability to do well on standardized tests.
The greatest leap from college to adulthood is there is no longer any grading scale. For sixteen plus years of our lives, we are rated on a grading scale. One free of personal opinion, concerns of hygiene or office politics. Just a pure number. A is equivalent to excellent, B good. With the loss of criteria, it’s almost as we lose a measurement of where we are in our lives and how we are performing. I guess that is the definition of being an adult. Sure, we have a year end evaluations given by our employers, but that, more than any other time in our lives, is more of a popularity contest and testament of one’s charisma rather than a true reflection of one’s abilities.
We grow up with the structure of a grading scale. Take that away and some of us will crumble.
Everyone has advice about how to write. Base your characters off your friends, write about what you know. Can writing be really taught and learned? Or is it truly just an expression. I don’t know. I don’t know. I wonder if those people that have had years of schooling and education about writing have a heads up on me. But then I wonder if my imagination is something that is quantitatively measured. And in the end, isn’t that the key to the worlds that I create? Keep trucking, my boy. Keep trucking.
Pometini
1 oz. of pomegranate concentrate
1 oz. of Vodka
a splash of fresh lime juice from a lime wedge
a spash of grenadine
1/2 oz. of sour mix
1/2 oz. of grapefruit juice
Add everything into the shaker with ice, shake, strain and pour.
Friday, May 4, 2007
sick days
Lately, I’ve been feeling numb, contrary of what I’ve written before of me feeling hollow and/or empty.
I think it’s almost that I don’t have time to process everything I go through in a day. Anger, happiness, self doubts, disappointments, triumphs, sadness, depression, joy, laughter- they all have to be stifled and internalized to finish what you were doing and move onto the next task. Slowly, but surely, you’re trading in your individualism and creativity for that hallowed paycheck that you receive at the end of the week.
So I called in sick to work yesterday. I wasn’t really sick. I mean my nose was running, my throat tickled, but nothing that would really require me to stay home. I felt a twinge of guilt as I spoke to the manager at the restaurant as I called in. Then I really thought about it. No company, well especially the restaurant that I work for, really pays me enough money for me to feel guilty from allowing me the pleasure of playing hookie. Go ahead, question my loyalty. To them, I am a business asset. Likewise I view them as a ways to a means. They would show the same amount of remorse in firing me as I do in calling in sick. Sad, but true.
Revelation. My loyalty can be bought. My tolerance for inconveniences can similarly by bought. Shit. My pride can be bought.
But I will still revel in sick days even when I’m not so sick.
I’m going to cut this short. I can’t really think of anything else to write, and I’m probably going to write something more when I roll off work tonight.
Madras
1 oz. vodka
Half cranberry/orange juice
Ice a highball cup. Add vodka. Fill with cranberry and orange juice to the rim.
I think it’s almost that I don’t have time to process everything I go through in a day. Anger, happiness, self doubts, disappointments, triumphs, sadness, depression, joy, laughter- they all have to be stifled and internalized to finish what you were doing and move onto the next task. Slowly, but surely, you’re trading in your individualism and creativity for that hallowed paycheck that you receive at the end of the week.
So I called in sick to work yesterday. I wasn’t really sick. I mean my nose was running, my throat tickled, but nothing that would really require me to stay home. I felt a twinge of guilt as I spoke to the manager at the restaurant as I called in. Then I really thought about it. No company, well especially the restaurant that I work for, really pays me enough money for me to feel guilty from allowing me the pleasure of playing hookie. Go ahead, question my loyalty. To them, I am a business asset. Likewise I view them as a ways to a means. They would show the same amount of remorse in firing me as I do in calling in sick. Sad, but true.
Revelation. My loyalty can be bought. My tolerance for inconveniences can similarly by bought. Shit. My pride can be bought.
But I will still revel in sick days even when I’m not so sick.
I’m going to cut this short. I can’t really think of anything else to write, and I’m probably going to write something more when I roll off work tonight.
Madras
1 oz. vodka
Half cranberry/orange juice
Ice a highball cup. Add vodka. Fill with cranberry and orange juice to the rim.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
+ C
Breathe.
The very moment that I think I have my finances straight, something happens that just knocks me back to square one.
Like a 3000 dollar car repair bill.
I suppose that gives some insight to why I had such anxiety about driving my car. I grimaced when I saw my mechanics number appear on my caller ID. I cringed as he listed the litany of other repairs that my car required. I wanted to cry when he told me the total estimate.
Its amazing how quickly that you can go from a prince to a pauper in a single phone call.
I suppose I should be relieved that at least I had the funds available to pay for this repair. I guess this is a crash course into adulthood. Welcome to the real world. Where all the money you make is someone else’s before you can even contemplate using it.
Over dinner, I had this great conversation with a friend about C. I don’t know how we really got started talking about it, or how our conversation went tangentially (oh the puns) to math but it did. But it got me started thinking about C.
You see C is a constant. Let’s rewind back to calculus 120 (at least it was 120 for me). Let’s begin with a basic definition for differentiation. Basically when you find a derivative or an equation, you’re finding the slope of that equation at a given point. Now, why derivatives are so interesting and fun is that this slope doesn’t necessarily have to be constant, which graphically is represented as a straight line. Instead, you can find the slope of a curve (or rather a line tangential of the curve) at a given point. Why do we care? Well, say if something is accelerating, using a derivative, you could hypothetically find the speed of an object at a given time, even though just a second before and after it won’t be at the same quantative speed.
Have I lost you yet?
So anyways, now let’s go back to geometry. The equation for a line is y = mx + b (that is just one equation for a line. There are also several other forms of that). m in this case is the slope of the line. b is a constant value, or in this form, know as the y intercept (I might be wrong on that, might be the x intercept), essentially at what y value the line crosses the x axis. It doesn’t really matter anyways.
So basically when you find the derivative, you find a value or equation to compute the value for m on a line. b is eliminated because it doesn’t contribute to the value of m.
However, integration is the opposite of this process. Just like multiplication and division, addition and subtraction, integration is a reverse derivative. You start with a slope, and calculate all the potential curves that could produce this slope.
Now this is where C comes into the picture. Remember b? b was negligible in calculating the slope of a line, however the multitude of values for b is what distinguishes each separate equation that could potentially produced the derivative that you began with. All these collective values that could be b, are thrown into a generic variable called C.
C can range from being nothing, to being some incredible huge and greatly influencing the value of an equation, no matter what its input. I find it amazing that something that is so easily dismissed can be the most influential part of the equation.
I admit, I was the math student that always neglected to include ‘+ C’ in my integration solutions and got a point or two nicked off my grade. Now when thinking about it, I have a new appreciation with C.
We can live our lives according to formula and by the numbers. Go to school for x number of years, find y job, save z amount of money. But its always the ‘+ C’ that we cannot anticipate, cannot expect, cannot plan for and ultimately what differentiates success from failure, lucky from unlucky. I realize that this is a hypothetical of a hypothetical and the relation between math and real life is tenuous at best, but I think C represents that even math is not completely logical and clean. Just like life.
Right now my C is definitely -2,817 dollars.
Champagne cosmo
5 oz. of champagne
½ oz. of triple sec/contreau
Splash of cranberry
I got this recipe online, and it’s a twist on a traditional cosmopolitan recipe, except you use champagne as your base alcohol instead of vodka. It’s a great summer drink and something that can easily be used to cover the taste of mediocre champagne.
The very moment that I think I have my finances straight, something happens that just knocks me back to square one.
Like a 3000 dollar car repair bill.
I suppose that gives some insight to why I had such anxiety about driving my car. I grimaced when I saw my mechanics number appear on my caller ID. I cringed as he listed the litany of other repairs that my car required. I wanted to cry when he told me the total estimate.
Its amazing how quickly that you can go from a prince to a pauper in a single phone call.
I suppose I should be relieved that at least I had the funds available to pay for this repair. I guess this is a crash course into adulthood. Welcome to the real world. Where all the money you make is someone else’s before you can even contemplate using it.
Over dinner, I had this great conversation with a friend about C. I don’t know how we really got started talking about it, or how our conversation went tangentially (oh the puns) to math but it did. But it got me started thinking about C.
You see C is a constant. Let’s rewind back to calculus 120 (at least it was 120 for me). Let’s begin with a basic definition for differentiation. Basically when you find a derivative or an equation, you’re finding the slope of that equation at a given point. Now, why derivatives are so interesting and fun is that this slope doesn’t necessarily have to be constant, which graphically is represented as a straight line. Instead, you can find the slope of a curve (or rather a line tangential of the curve) at a given point. Why do we care? Well, say if something is accelerating, using a derivative, you could hypothetically find the speed of an object at a given time, even though just a second before and after it won’t be at the same quantative speed.
Have I lost you yet?
So anyways, now let’s go back to geometry. The equation for a line is y = mx + b (that is just one equation for a line. There are also several other forms of that). m in this case is the slope of the line. b is a constant value, or in this form, know as the y intercept (I might be wrong on that, might be the x intercept), essentially at what y value the line crosses the x axis. It doesn’t really matter anyways.
So basically when you find the derivative, you find a value or equation to compute the value for m on a line. b is eliminated because it doesn’t contribute to the value of m.
However, integration is the opposite of this process. Just like multiplication and division, addition and subtraction, integration is a reverse derivative. You start with a slope, and calculate all the potential curves that could produce this slope.
Now this is where C comes into the picture. Remember b? b was negligible in calculating the slope of a line, however the multitude of values for b is what distinguishes each separate equation that could potentially produced the derivative that you began with. All these collective values that could be b, are thrown into a generic variable called C.
C can range from being nothing, to being some incredible huge and greatly influencing the value of an equation, no matter what its input. I find it amazing that something that is so easily dismissed can be the most influential part of the equation.
I admit, I was the math student that always neglected to include ‘+ C’ in my integration solutions and got a point or two nicked off my grade. Now when thinking about it, I have a new appreciation with C.
We can live our lives according to formula and by the numbers. Go to school for x number of years, find y job, save z amount of money. But its always the ‘+ C’ that we cannot anticipate, cannot expect, cannot plan for and ultimately what differentiates success from failure, lucky from unlucky. I realize that this is a hypothetical of a hypothetical and the relation between math and real life is tenuous at best, but I think C represents that even math is not completely logical and clean. Just like life.
Right now my C is definitely -2,817 dollars.
Champagne cosmo
5 oz. of champagne
½ oz. of triple sec/contreau
Splash of cranberry
I got this recipe online, and it’s a twist on a traditional cosmopolitan recipe, except you use champagne as your base alcohol instead of vodka. It’s a great summer drink and something that can easily be used to cover the taste of mediocre champagne.
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