Ramblings

So I'm having a short crisis, where I think that those 22 months were pointless. I mean, if I really had to give reasons, I could, but they still feel pointless. I'm hung over it so often, and I've moved on to the next one, but I wonder why. What's the point of all of it? Why does it end up bothering me so much, and what is the purpose of it? I don't know.

You know, I never wrote down a single moment with you. I don't have a single diary entry dedicated to you. None of my happiest moments are written down. None of them. And maybe it's for the better, maybe it's a defense mechanism, so that I cannot be intensely sad re-reading them when they are all gone. I'd like to think I could be happy re-reading and remembering them, but perhaps that would create a false sense of reality and I would spend so long imagining the past. This is what he mentioned. He said he saw no point in dwelling in the past, forgetting the present, and he said there was a certain hypocrisy to his allowing himself to be close when he knows he plans to leave. Who's right in the end, because I cannot let go of my nostalgia. It's because it pervades my essence that I refrain from keeping too many trails of my past, or else I would drown in my memories.

Ramblings

"You're an enigma," he said, reaching a hand out to brush a stray strand of hair on her cheek. "I can't seem to read your personality at all."

She stared back steadily, her face an empty mask. There was nothing she felt like saying. A million thoughts shot by her mind, none of them standing out yet all of them catching on.

"For example, I could touch you, like this," he cupped his hand on the side of her face, gently, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, "and you don't react. No smile, no flinching; I swear, you don't even blink. What's going on now? What are you thinking about behind that stoic mask?"

Sighing, she turned her face, raising an arm to brush his hand away. She absolutely detested the feeling of someone touching her. Physical affection was not a necessary part of her life, nor would she ever make it so. It was inconceivable to her that just by wrapping their arms around her waist someone could simply enter into her life. Some called it cynical. She called it reality.

Looking down towards the ground and the tip of her shoe, she chose not to answer for awhile, leaving the unbidden silence hanging between them. Moments alone with another person, one-on-one, made her life difficult. Sometimes, she wished to be alone for her thoughts to consume her until the wind whisked them all away and she could deal with people again.

"You don't make this easy, do you?" he asked, frustration lining his tone. "Why can't you tell me what's wrong? I look into your eyes, and I don't find sadness lingering there. You're always standing off on your own, yet I don't feel as if you are lonely. It's almost like it would be wrong for someone to be standing next to you. You carry yourself as if you were made to be so independent. But you're not happy. I know you're not content."

"Why does it matter?" she questioned curtly, running her fingers through her hair and pulling her bangs back. "I'm doing fine; I'm living my life. Why are you trying to poke into it? Maybe this is who I am made to be. I'm not that difficult to know. You're just making it out to be more than it is. So you know what? Just drop it. Leave it alone, because it's not that big a deal. I'll figure it out. Get over it. Go on with life. I can find a way to make myself happy and you don't have to worry about it. Worry about yourself for a change. Maybe then you can figure out why you're so unhappy about me when I don't need you to be."

Pushing herself off the concrete ledge, she stood up and swiftly crossed the balcony to the door. With a solid yank, she pulled it open and disappeared inside, the glare of the setting sun on the glass hiding her from his sight.

"Older Bro" / Batman

It's been so many years, I can't even remember properly. The shape of your face, the smile on your lips, the sparkle in your eyes. I'm sure my perceptions of you are not only old, but blurred by the biases that my mind adds on over time. I hope you never read this, and I hope that you never find it or know of it. This blog seems perhaps a bit obsessive, and for those reasons long ago you stopped talking to me. Honestly, I was pleasantly surprised that you added me on Facebook at all, yet I hesitate to talk to you because I fear what past perceptions you had of me would resurface.

Just a simple message is all I want to give to you, and if it was the only sentence I could say to you for the rest of time, I wish you knew: You have been the most monumental change in my life.

It has nothing to do with the intricate emotion of love that stories, muses, and bards believe is the only true molder of human character. In fact, I am not even sure if what I purported to be me liking you was even that feeling of infatuation. What I am sure about, what I do know, is that you opened me up. With your outgoing personality, light words, and strong charisma, you drew me into society. I spoke up because you asked me to. I wanted to answer your questions, to prove to you that I was just as "cool," so I tried to be like you. And strangely, I found out that I liked being like you, at least in the most general way possible. I liked having myself be heard while still listening to others. I enjoyed relaxing and taking a break from schoolwork. I reveled in rebellion when I discovered that it was not a matter of pleasing my parents, but a matter of pursuing my own desires.

Without you, I honestly can say that I believe I would not be where I am today. I would be far more awkward, with little to my name and credit than good grades. You planted me in involvement, watered me with encouragement, weeded me with reality, and let the sun shine on me by extricating yourself and your shadow as my "big brother" from my life. Perhaps it was for the better that you stopped talking to me and broke off. In so many ways have you shaped who I have become, and to you I dedicate this month and this story.

NaNoWriMo 2009 - to the person whom I credit my amazing life.

Revelry in San Francisco

H'okai, so here's the earth. Here's San Francisco. (.) Yesterday (Oct. 3) I headed up to San Fran to hang out with my friend Kean who was in town for the USC vs. Cal game. Unfortunately, the beginning didn't start off well. I was planning to catch the 9:30 Marguerite shuttle in order to get to the CalTrain station in time to catch the 10:30 CalTrain. Well, much to my chagrin, I realized only when I got to the Marguerite stop that the Marguerite bus I was planning to catch didn't operate on the weekends. Fail #1. So instead, I started walking to the CalTrain station. It took me a good half hour, but my power walking did the trip and I arrived early. Kudos #1. Well, when I tried to buy my ticket, my card got an error reading three times (one time I inserted it wrong...) and I had to pay by cash instead. Fail #2. Luckily I had just the right amount of cash. Kudos #2.

When the Cal Train finally arrived, it was so packed with people that I had to find standing room only. And there were police who had arrived at the station while I was waiting, and they searched the train before it actually left, so I was stuck on a crowded train with nothing to do but hope half of the crazy looking people didn't attack me. Reason behind all this? It was Lovefest, and nobody had given me forewarning. Fail #3. (BTW, yes, I had mentioned that I was going to SF that day to a bunch of upperclassmen who were well aware of Lovefest). So on the train, I'm standing by people downing beers (already), a guy with a shirt that says "Dose Me," someone who's smoking a joint, and a girl who got high off of laughing gas (really, really, really extremely annoying). Fail #4. Luckily the conductor had a brain in his head to turn it into an express, so we skipped pretty much every stops except San Carlos, Millbrae, and San Francisco. Kudos #3.

Random Story of the Day

So today my roommate and I were just chilling in our dorm room with the door open. Two African American students came by and gave my roommate a small bag of candy with a little invitation attached.

They said, "Hey, welcome to Stanford! Come to the first BSU meeting!" (or something to that effect. BSU was definitely in there somewhere. After that, they turned around and left.

As they exited the door, my roommate asks, puzzled, "Wait, doesn't my roommate get an invitation too?"

The girls then reply, "Uhm, sure. I guess she could get an invitation and come too if she wanted..."

After they finally left, my roommate finally read the invitation and said, "Oh, they're black! Black Student Union." HAHAHAHA.

Story of the Night

So there's this tiny spider that's been hanging out in the corner of the dorm room since forever and ever ago. It just hangs there and moves up and down every once in a while. Unfortunately, neither I nor my roommate wanted to kill it and we had yet to meet someone who would.

Tonight, we called our friend Josh into the room, and he picked up Malaika's (my roommate) huge water pack like he was going to toss it at the spider. She was yelling at him not to (of course), and he almost did, but he pulled a "psyche!" at the last minute. Next, he took up her shoes, and chucked them at the corner. It's a given that the aim was not fantastic, especially into a right corner angle of the room, so he missed a million times over and left a shoe mark on the wall. He tried tossing a shoe once again, and thought he made it, so the spider's body would drop down. Squealing like a little girl, he jumped back and pulled his arms to himself. It was hilarious! Malaika and I almost died laughing. Then he looked back up at the wall and said, "Dude, you have a black mark up there." Gee, I wonder who put it there? -_-;;

Luckily, the RA, D-Tran, a.k.a. Dr. Tran, stepped in to save the day. He borrowed Malaika's chair and a tissue and squished the poor little spider to death while thinking we were ridiculous for being so afraid of such a little thing. Yes, that's our life. Then he tried to convince us the spider wasn't really dead and it would come crawling back out of the trash can. Fantastic. Overall though the RA's pretty chill.

So I went party-hopping after that. Jumping through three frat parties in one night. Very interesting. Smells disgusting. Feels disgusting. Looks disgusting. Tastes disgusting. I've realized that having people hit me on the head because they're flailing like a dying fish in order to balance themselves while grinding on a girl since both that person and the girl are drunk is not my scene. No thanks, I like my head and I like my space. No grinding, no body-rubbing, and nothing awkward like dancing with the only friend who hasn't run off while both of you are sober. Doesn't work.

Belonging

As I wax nostalgic (yet again XP) I begin to think that this is a blog I should have written a long time ago. Over four years ago, actually.

So, in July of 2005, I found myself taking part in a summer program for eighth and ninth graders called the Oxford Prep Experience. Yes, this program was based in Oxford, United Kingdom (for more information, please refer to www.oxbridgeprograms.com). And the first official day of the program, ironically, happened to be July 4th. Needless to say, that was the first time I ever spent the fourth of July in the country that had the least reason to celebrate it. Or perhaps they had the most reason, if arguing along the lines of "look-at-that-one-trillion-dollar-debt-we-don't-have-to-pay-and-that-horrible-fashion-sense." The latter statement arises from a recent Gallup Poll that deemed the British to be in the top 3 most fashionably dressed tourists, along with the French and Italians. I digress.

Within three days of me being in the program, the directors and teachers were already telling us kids to call our parents and tell them that we were safe. Can you guess what happened? The July 7th bombing of the London Tube (subway system). It didn't seem like much at the time; I was in Oxford, and that happened to be two hours away from London, so I felt a bit indifferent to it. A week later though, on July 14th, my group was in London for our day-trip.

As the bus meandered through the packed city streets, we stopped suddenly. There was no honking from behind - all the cars surrounding us had stopped too. The bus driver turned on the radio solemnly and opened the door. Confused, all the students opened their windows too, wondering what the bus driver was waiting for. Glancing outside, we could see that everyone on the sidewalks and in the cafes, restaurants, and windows were standing still. It was eeriely quiet, as if a virus had swept, undetected, throughout the population, and none of the usual boisterous city noises could give voice to the harried emotions they were to express. A few bird chirps, some quiet engine motors, and perhaps babies crying or children whispering to their parents were all that convinced us we were still in reality.

Suddenly, a voice crackled over the radio and said that the moment of silence observation for the victims of the July 7th bombing was beginning. It was a pleasant surprise to see that even people on the streets, without a radio near them, were observant of the time and the silence that was to be held then. As I sat quietly, my eyes darting around the bus and streets, I felt as if I was a part of the British community. It wasn't just that I was there at the moment and being silent out of respect - it was also that I had been in the country when the bombing happened, and I was in the city during the moment. It's not quite something I could put my finger on. Simply put, I felt more apart of the people and culture, in the midst of London during such a crucial moment, than I could have felt were I still in Oxford at the time.

Later in the day, the moment of silence forgotten, my teacher for my major class (International Relations) decided that we (my class) would visit the bunkers where Winston Churchill had stayed during WWII. I was a bit displeased - I had thought the London trip would be mostly free time, culminating in a play at the Globe Theater, but there was sense and reason in visiting the bunkers then. Upon resurfacing, I was hoping that I could ride the Tube in my free time, but I saw that the stations were closed in the fear of another repeat bombing. There actually had been a threat that day.The last Thursday that I spent in the United Kingdom there was yet another bomb threat.

It was a very surreal sense to be around when the British equivalent of 9/11 happened. Although I feel guilty for admitting it, by being that close and more aware of such events (thanks to my age and my class focus), I felt more affected by 7/7 than I ever did by 9/11.

I can't tell whether it was the summer program or the 7/7 events, but regardless, I think it's a part of the reason why I feel so strongly compelled to return to the United Kingdom for my study abroad, almost more so than I feel like going to Kyoto. But when I do not wax nostalgic, they are about even, with Kyoto as a front-runner since I've never been to Japan.