2012-01-17T23:48:00.000-08:00

It's just the thought of you.

You are far away tonight, so much farther than I would like you to be. But across these far flung miles and the expanses of time, it's just the thought of you that is enough. I don't need anything else, no keepsake or reminder, to make me smile. I am quietly eager, lost in daydreams in the midst of the monotony of everydayeverything else.

The mere idea of you is comforting and startling. Ah, the mere idea of you, I bask in it. To find, to be found, to know, to be known. Yes, the mere idea is enough, overwhelmingly enough.

You'll never know how slow the moments go until I'm near to you. These glacial inches that bring me to you. How I long for you, you'll never know. Perhaps.

It's just the thought of you. The very thought of you.

2012-01-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

Lead on, O King Eternal!

2011, you were a year of trying patience that wore me down to newfound layers of anxiety and release. You brought my to my knees, to tears, to indifference, to delusional fantasies, to heart palpitations, to anger and annoyance, to corporate volleyball tournaments, to Rise of the Planet of the Apes, to my twenty-third birthday in New York, to my first Thanksgiving back home in five years, to planning a wedding, to a startling realization of humility in the moments as I left you for 2012.

My Bible study teacher in high school told our class once that we could see God most actively and definitively working in our lives each year while we were in high school. It suggested this sense of urgency as if everything would become monotone and dry once we were out of our teen years. I'm approaching two years out of college, and I can say with assurance how incredibly how wrong he was.

Almost ten days into a new year and I've done something that I've never done before, something that I've always been afraid of. And I've discovered that I have so much more to grow. And I have people who will grow with me. Lead on, O King Eternal! Lead me on and I will run after You.

2011-12-27T13:18:00.000-08:00

See me. Draw me. Know me.

I have always been an introvert. Always. I'm certain I always will be. My energy seeps out and diffuses into large groups of people, and I am left exhausted. Occasionally content, but still exhausted.

As I've grown older, I developed a pseudo-extroversion that acts as a survival mechanism in my need for people, a need that my introversion often tries to stifle. I think I realized I needed these bouts of extroversion because it made me feel like I was finally being understood in many ways. This extroversion consists of recognizing and acting on social cues, and appearing amiable towards strangers, and, perhaps most importantly, being openly loving and affectionate.

Being open with my emotions and sentiments is extremely difficult for me, because no one really ever taught me how to do it. How do I tell people that I appreciate them? How do I address people when I'm angry? How do I show people that I do want them in my life despite my rampant introversion trying to set me apart? Even now as I've had years of practice, I put myself under this delusion that everything about me is readily understandable but the reality is that I am still enigmatic and aloof as the sun is shining. I always wonder what it would be like if people could simply read my mind, but that would be incredibly selfish. (Something that I obviously combat with.)

I'm sorry. Really. Sometimes I get so desperate.

See me. See in me. See that I am earnest. I am overzealous about everything and I compensate it with my hyper-rationality. See that I love with so much that I'm too scared to even tap into all of it.

Draw me. Draw me out. Let bits of me trickle out in tiny streams to create pathways for so much more I want to show you. Draw me slowly and patiently, and with so much care as I can crumble as easily as a house made of dandelions seeds.

Know me. Know my heart. Know that I am terrified of so much in the world, and even more terrified of facing it alone. Know that I've met so much success and so much failure, so much joy brimming to my eyes and so much emptiness and sorrow that hope still seems so farfetched sometimes.

I don't ever mean to be complicated even though I always try to hide. I don't ever mean to put myself above you, because I do want you in my own readily incomprehensible ways. I don't ever mean to make it about myself, but sometimes all I want is to lay myself down and rest. So please, see me, draw me, know me.

2011-11-19T00:25:00.001-08:00

Let's put language to it!

I've been using and thinking about this phrase a lot lately and this is what I have understood it to mean:

putting language [to it]: the act of verbalizing a thought, emotion, or experience; utilizing words to convey a point

I actively thought about what this meant. What did it mean to put language to something? What did it result in?

My immediate assumption was to think that it somehow made the spoken subject real, that words had the effect to invoke reality. And as quickly as I thought that, I knew I was wrong. It doesn't make sense to believe that words had the effect to quite literally make something real. Reality exists regardless of language. Regardless of words.

What putting something to language meant was to acknowledge its existence and to harness it for communication. In putting language to something, it doesn't become objectively real but it becomes subjectively real to oneself. Moreover, putting language to something concedes to allow another party to partake in the subjective similarity of the spoken content.

And as always, I wonder what that means to the writer, to those who literally make a point in putting things to language as an integral part of their identity. Putting things to language is quite literally my life. Doesn't that mean that the centrality of my life is built upon this need for communication?

I've heard it said so many times that the desires of an adult is bent on the reflections and needs of their youth. So I wonder: perhaps a writer's greatest desire is some sort of quasi-solution for having been perpetually misunderstood.

I know that I'll continue to put language to things, because I also know that I am too often misunderstood. And I know that's true whether I acknowledge that or not.

2011-11-10T21:48:00.001-08:00

It's Okay.

She meant for the best. She always had.

She knew she was capable of many things. And because of that, she chased after a better life, which isn't a bad thing at all. She knew her conquests were noble and thoughtful and praiseworthy. She wanted to be everything she could be, that she thought she was meant to be.

She chased after dreams and opportunities that she never had.

Years passed. So many years that her rough hands from years of manual labor and the deepened lines of worry in her face took her by surprise one day. Looking into the mirror, what did she see? A dreamer who tried to make her dreams real. Brave and bold, she thinks of herself.

She looks around at the pieces of her life. She sees that her bravery and boldness coughs up only to the pieces of the past she had that she didn't want. Missed opportunities to make a real difference with what she had. Dreaming flightless dreams for what she thought she deserved while forgetting about the reality of her life.

She still pursues her dreams, though with more caution. Her bravery and boldness remains afire, occasionally flickering on and off in the face of her mistakes and lost chances. She's broaden her dreams to encompass other missed opportunities. It is as if she carries a great sack with her through life trying to figure out how to have everything and collecting the wrongs of her past to somehow make it right somewhere down the line.

And despite her years, she naively believes that she can fix all of her mistakes. That she should be allotted second chances to make things right. But no one gets a true second chance with time. When it has passed, it is the past and there are some wrongs that can never be fixed to be right.

2011-10-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

I know your face.

Every wrinkle, every curve.

The arch in your brow, the hollows of your cheek.

Even in dreams, I can paint you with my hands.

I smear blue-indigo watercolors into the air and paint the lilts of your voice.

I breathe you in, the smell of autumn leaves and old books.

I whisper your name.

But everything washes out,

I wake up,

and find that time will not let me forget.

Yes.

Stay.

I think I loved you.

Don't say a word, memory.

Just come over and lie here with me.

2011-09-30T23:37:00.000-07:00

inbetween

I've been fooling myself with the notion that I am at an in-between stage in my life for years. I thought that middle school, high school, college were these glorified times of transitions that would later set the foundation to what I believed was the more stable and sedentary life. The grown-up life.

It dawned on me recently — actually, four days ago on my 23rd birthday — that life is just one really big inbetween. Everything leads to the next which leads to the next which leads to the next which will one day lead to an end.

And until we reach that end — that magnificent end that we run to, that end which makes all the insecurities of the in and out betweens make sense — the only thing else that matters besides what we run to is who we run with. Who are we with in these inbetweens?

In between silences, in between words. In between flights and text messages. In between those seconds that seem to last forever and days that fly faster than the wind. In between sad smiles of departure and the joyful hugs of return.

For so long, I was so set on racing alone to that beautiful end that my tunnel vision impaired me from reaching out to run with anyone else. I was caught so firmly between believing I could do everything on my own and assuming that no one would want to do anything with me anyways.

And with so much humility that tears are not enough, I am proven wrong. This past week in New York, in between cab rides and work hours, in between last-minute errands and birthday celebrations, I was proven so incredibly wrong and I am so glad for it.

To know that my inbetweens are shared with the inbetweens of the loveliness and grace of people I am unworthy to even share these times with, these people who tolerate my strangeness even when it doesn't make much sense to them, I know that it is this race we run that makes it all the more sweet. And I am grateful beyond measure that we are together in these inbetween times.

*dedicated to those I met with during my fall 2011 NY trip

2011-09-11T11:09:00.001-07:00

Ten Years Later

I was twelve when the planes hit the Twin Towers. I was on the way to school when the radio broadcasters announced that all airports were temporarily shut down. I saw the video footage of the smoke pluming across lower Manhattan in my morning science class.

My twelve-year-old Californian self couldn't understand the magnitude of this event, of this loss. As stories of heroic firefighters and families with lost loved ones poured in, I absorbed them the best I could in this artificial way of caring. I perused these news articles and examined horrific photos trying to force myself to feel them, to feel something. Then, New York was just a faraway land with no connection to me.

Even after I came to New York for school five years later, I had such a difficult time wrapping my head around this event. The New Yorkers in my classes recounted the events of that day, we read poetry and anecdotes about it, we remembered it with a fervor I didn't understand.

A few years ago, when I heard someone I knew speak about looking for his wife who works in Financial District that day, and finding her stumbling up to their Upper West Side home with dust and debris all over her clothes, and when I read about the refuse that spread across lower Manhattan, so that all traffic below 14th street where NYU was centralized was shut down, that's when I began to understand.

And when I saw the footage of 9/11 that surfaced a few months ago, I sat in front of my computer screen crying. My eyes traced the lines of the buildings and streets, those lines I knew so well. Those that I walked upon and have been surrounded by. The lines of the city that built me and held me together.

I once wrote that New York taught me how to feel. And it did. New York taught me how to care. How to belong. How to see beyond myself and to be a piece of a whole. And to know that the horror of September 11, 2001 had happened while my unassuming 12-year-old self went about life, I feel so much of myself converge together now and shatter into three thousand pieces.

Ten years change so much. But New York — that perfect and beckoning city — is still strong, still passionate, and still bright. Nowhere else could have survived 9/11 the way New York had. Nowhere else could have thrived as New York had. Nowhere else could have found me.

So in remembering 9/11, we remember the lives and families that were lost on that day. But we also recognize the city that withstood an incredible act of hatred and stood against it with strength, in unity, and through the deepest losses imaginable.

New York, New York, this is my tribute: you have my heart and the hearts of thousands of others. And no one should even have to wonder why.

2011-09-02T00:20:00.000-07:00

On some days,

You linger between my eyelashes and earlobes, leaving me warm. I lean into your incredible softness, falling and falling into Your steadfast hand.

You crash into me like a freight train, jolting me awake from dreams and nightmares, snapping the frail strings of illusory reassurances that took me years to paint.

I feel You so closely.

I feel nothing.

2011-07-31T23:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes:

I am lost

I feel used

I lie to myself and I mostly know it's a lie

I don't understand why bad things happen

I rationalize myself out of feeling things

to travel and never look back seems so much more glorious

the smell of mornings make me smile wistfully

doing what's wrong doesn't always necessarily seem wrong

all I want is to be a Gospel-driven woman living by the beach in Cape Cod, writing essays and short stories

doing what's right isn't easy

there is such assurance that this is right

I think I can settle

emotions are the drive of me

I don't understand why good things happen

I am understood?

I feel loved

I am found

2011-07-02T03:31:00.000-07:00

Hip hop and comic books were my genesis.

Music is not songs, but memories.

Whenever I hear Clazziquai's "Romeo N Juliet," I'm immediately brought back to a cleanly crisp November day during my sophomore year at NYU. I remember this specific moment walking up Broadway from White, passing by my then-favorite yarn store and walking up to SoHo.

Coolio's "Gangster's Paradise" reminds me of a summer day during my elementary school years. I was in my bedroom with my brother, crouched down on the floor next to a radio trying to memorize the chorus.

Walking to the MUNI in San Francisco to my publishing internship a few years ago, I passed by San Francisco State University around 8 o'clock in the morning with Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat's "Lucky" filling my ears.

Following my high school graduation, a group of friends and I went beach camping for a week. We spent our last night on the beach stoking a small (illegal) campfire and singing Michelle Branch's "Goodbye to You" into the crashing waves of the black ocean at the top of our lungs.

I was nineteen-years-old, standing in the third row of the pews at Bethel in June. Too overwhelmed to open my mouth, I let the words "Your light will shine when all else fades," echo and sink into my skin, my mind, and my heart. I cried, because I was just beginning to learn how true this line was.

In 5th grade, I printed the lyrics to TLC's "No Scrubs" off the internet. (This was when the internet was relatively new and people still used dial-up connection.) I remember bringing it to my fifth grade class and showing the lyrics to a bunch of my peers. At the time I didn't like a girl in my class, and I said I would show the lyrics to everyone if they didn't show it to her.

I listened to Augustana's "Boston" when I was a sophomore at NYU and I remember sitting at my dorm desk in the evening, listening to the lyrics of the song. As soon as I heard, "You don't wear my chains," I wanted to cry. And when I heard, "I think I need a sunrise/I'm tired of sunset," I did start tearing up. Sitting in front of my computer and really beginning to love New York, I felt this song so deeply and sadly. In some ways, I think I finally understood why I chose to run away to New York. 'Cause the song isn't about Boston really, it's about knowing that you'll always be alone in some ways and still wanting more.

I was shopping at a streetwear boutique when I was thirteen when I heard Slug's voice fill my ears for the first time (the song was "If I Was Santa Claus"), and I still can't get enough of him.

2011-06-07T23:41:00.001-07:00

Why I Love YA Literature

I prefer the company of books, reading or writing them, to the company of people. Surprise, surprise. And my preferred reading styles is predictable once a person looks over my GoodReads account; I read trade, some graphic novels, and a lot of YA.

Ah, yes, this 22-year-old is still hung up on YA literature (Young Adult, ages 10-18). Though I do occasionally feel a little awkward, lounging around the children's section at Barnes & Nobles...

When I look back on the history of YA books in my life, I suppose it began with Madeleine L'Engle's And Both Were Young which I read when I was nine. I was intrigued by the drama, character development, historical context and (of course) the romance.

Since And Both Were Young, my relationship with YA has snowballed into a sort of attachment that my fingers have grasped and molded into. Why? Why do I love this sub-category of children's literature so much? Why do I spend so much time reading about vampires, pixies, witches, high school, prom, teen angst, and hormonally imbalanced characters? Haven't I outgrown that?

But the thing is... I haven't. I can't outgrow it. I read my first Danielle Steel book when I was eleven, desperate to grow up. I wanted to be more adult, more couth, just more of everything. Clutching L.J. Smith in one hand and Fern Michaels in the other, I was torn between two worlds. Balancing on a borderline that spanned for years.

Slowly moving past that stage of awkwardness and the belief that it had to be one or the other, I realize that I can have both!

My favorite thing about YA is that it's all about a transitional period in life. (Just as my teen years were so evidently for me.) Things seem so certain, yet they can fall apart as quickly as a bubble bursts. Trade fiction seems to forget that sometimes. (And trade sometimes tries too hard.) Things change, for better or worse, but they are always changing. Bad things happen — things worse than nightmares — and it's about overcoming it when they do even when it seems easier not to.

I read so much YA that I'm sometimes embarrassed to admit how much. But what I would give for someone to talk with me about my trinity of chick lit YA writers (Sarah Dessen, Susane Colasanti, and E. Lockhart.) Or of L.J. Smith's eternally delayed release of Strange Fate. Or of The Hunger Games trilogy or the Harry Potter universe or the perfection that is Ella Enchanted. Or the strange ambivalence I have towards Walter Dean Myers' Monster or the strange affection I have for Pam Bachorz's Candor. Or how much I truly love Ruby Oliver. Or even of the styles of cover art that each publishing house releases. Ag, help.

Last year, Gayle Forman's If I Stay was one of my favorite reads. It was heartbreaking and traumatic, but so beautifully written. I read her follow-up to If I Stay which was titled Where She Went last weekend. It was similar in format, but rather different in content. There is a gap of several years in between the books, and the readers get to see the characters in a very different light. There was something about going through Mia's pain with her through the first book and going through Adam's pain with him in this one. There's something about growing with them, and finding that you're growing too.

Isn't that what it's all about?

2011-06-06T23:22:00.001-07:00

What Matters

Those who vaguely know me think that I am cooler than I really am.

Those who know me fairly well think that I am more limited than I really am.

Those who really know me know that I am more complicated than that.

But to You who knows my innermost thoughtsbeingsinnardsandways

You know that I am nothing more than a passing breeze,

lingering for a moment and gone the next.

2011-05-31T23:32:00.001-07:00

A year changes so much.

It's been one of those weeks when I miss New York, and being in the Bay Area doesn't make much sense.

I remember what my days were like a year ago. I remember absurdly humid days, uncertainties upon uncertainties, and a constant fluttering in my chest that echoed countless questions beginning with "What if..." I remember the streets and the people that welcomed the littleness of me, carrying me to my next step, my next interview, my next day. I remember it so well.

It is a wonder to stand here. It is a wonder to relive a year ago in these stark and vivid memories, now crying and only understanding an increment more of this path. This path that reveals only a step at a time. Yet I don't understand why or how I am standing here, in this place. A year changes so much, yet I am still the same in my changes.

Across worlds and through swift and formidable heartbreaks, I hear you softly say, "You haven't failed; you're playing beautifully." I feel you smile as I stand bewildered, trying to comb and peer ahead into the next year.

2011-05-22T22:51:00.000-07:00

Buried

After Easter season had ended, I stopped writing regularly (blogging, journaling and the like.) It was easy to stop, because I got so caught up with work and church and trying to keep up with life.

Even though I wasn't actively writing, I kept thinking about it. About stringing words into phrases into long-winded sentences. About the character development of A. and S. About interesting topics I should write about later. About the root of all sin in the theological and philosophical context and whether it was only the diction that was off.

This sudden lack of writing seemed to have built a dam where words and thoughts were accumulating and suddenly, my emotions running to high, cracks and fissures began creeping up and up and now

I can't seem to stop writing. And it's not the kind of writing that I can blog or even write longhand, because it comes in these overwhelming spurts and I'm stuck with a bunch of strange entries too raw and too uninhibited locked up on my computer.

Ah, to be eased back into writing, but to be writing nonetheless. To have it embedded so deep within my skin that it's still seeps out when I don't expect it to. Front stage, backstage, it's everywhere.

2011-05-08T00:52:00.000-07:00

Oh, brother.

You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

Sometimes I think about this saying. Friends make sense to me; we are drawn to those who we interact well with. We choose them (whether it's conscious or not.) But my family is a combination of such radically different people, so I know this saying to be rather true. A person can't choose the family they're born into, because my family wouldn't really make much sense then.

Maybe the senselessness is what makes it beautiful. Being forced together in this completely raw and intimate way that no other circumstances would allow. My family, so strange and beautiful.

My family with the memories of the creek in our backyard, of playing basketball and running to and from the Indian house, of Saturday visits to Sun Video, of Brite Tree and Brain Child, of the dyed celery science projects. So senseless but so wonderful. Would I have chosen this if I were given the chance to choose? Would I have chosen this means and foundation for my life?

But to my brother: after twenty-six very eventful years and being with me through all twenty-two of mine, if I were ever to choose, I would have chosen you.

2011-05-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

Lately

You keep me in need, but not in want. So I will trust you even when it is very difficult.

2011-04-28T21:35:00.001-07:00

Echo

I think that I was ten when I wrote my first real story. It was essentially a spin-off of a Lurlene McDaniel book based off a minor character. I wrote about what I thought had happened to her after her short appearance in the story. So my first real piece of storytelling was essentially a fanfic... I'm not sure whether I should be embarrassed or not.

Then I think about how I first began to write, and I wrote because of its effect on me. The power of words and a simple story can be so evocative. I was so drawn to this kind of power and I wanted to somehow harness it for my own. I wanted to master words and spin them around in my own ways. But, first, I had to learn to write. I had to learn the parts of a story, styles, and symbols, and whatnot.

I learned how to write through imitation, through echoing styles and patterns of writers and themes that I admired. I had my short-lived Lurlene McDaniel phase, a supernatural YA phase, a blogger-esque phase, a Gertrude Stein phase, an ekphraisis phase, a flash fiction phase, a C.S. Lewis phase, and so many more. I was pondering this the other day, and I sadly wondered if there was anything about my writing that could be original.

And the thing with originality is this: can anything truly be original? Or is everything just a fallen block in the domino effect of the universe?

What I do know to be original is my experience. My understanding of my life is absolutely original in that there is no one with the composite of everything I am, even if someone might be similar to me. (And this is such a different topic that I love to explore too.) So I think I use my (imitative) writing in a way to relate the loneliness of our innate originality. Don't we all use something as means? Too true. To be "idem."

So I echo styles, embracing modernity and jargon, but still writing me. I hope.

2011-04-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Forlorn

If anyone really knew how obsessive I am, I don't think I would have any friends. The level to which I analyze things and try to speculate what will happen next or what I want to happen next is just...unhealthy. Over the years, I've been able to abate it to a more reasonable magnitude, but sometimes I just get these weird spurts of what-did-it-mean-when-he-said-that-does-it-mean-this-or-this and what-if-this-happened-and-this-happened-and-my-life-ended-up-like-this-wouldn't-that-be-interesting that go on for a while.

I notice this happening a lot while I'm driving. I spend a little over an hour commuting everyday for work, and in between hip hop playlists to keep me awake, I get lost in thoughts, overanalyzing anything that I am convinced matters. So what matters to me? What twists and turns do my mind take when I let it wander?

I think that my obsessiveness is so, well, obsessive lately, because I don't have a clear outlet that I can channel it through. No accountability, no one to hear my grumblings about singleness, my sadness about not being in New York, my surprise at being content in the Bay, my epiphanies about God, and the many new things that I'm always learning. I feel like it's all trapped in my head, turning to mush, and the details begin to converge, so my obsessiveness begins to try to sort and figure everything out.

All of this just points to one thing really: this is not the end. There's more, and I'm still waiting for it.

2011-04-24T16:55:00.000-07:00

Jesus Lives and So Shall I!

O, Amazing Grace, how You find me on this perplexing day.

I read over John 17 again and I think back to several months ago when I had attended the day-long Jonathan Edwards Conference in the Village. I remember being completely blown away by how Nick had explained the glory of God made available to us through Christ's sacrifice. To see His face, what a privilege! And it's so strange to ponder about what I had thought of His glory and grace before. And it really reveals the sanctification that is evident and necessary in the Christian life. I don't doubt my salvation that came when I was fourteen, but it is very obvious how I have grown since then.

And today, on Easter Sunday, I am engulfed in grace and swimming in it. Learning that nothing is easy and that love, perfect love, was bought with an incredible price. To be the adopted heir into this miraculous benefaction, what am I to do, but trace the pierced palms that hand it to me so freely. I feel my weak heart grow, and it grows stronger than the emotions that too often toss me around.

You call me Yours and I don't understand why. You call me Your daughter, Your bride, Your heir, and Your own. I don't understand it, and I know I never really will, but I do know that I need You with so much desperation that it scares me.

Your hand covers me, calms my trembling, and keeps me still to know that You are enough and this is indeed what I have been looking for. O, this amazing grace that gingerly lifts me up from the dust and breathes life into me. Jesus lives and so shall I! Death, thy sting is gone forever.

2011-04-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #35

Lent ends tonight, which means no more Lenten writing. Perhaps I'll begin a new daily project concerning blogging. When I first began this series, I wondered if self-reflection was possible if it was being forced. On the course towards Easter, I think I realized that I didn't have to force it, because I am naturally self-reflective. Give me pen, paper, and some time, and I will somehow succumb to syntax and memories. Which means that I did a lot of self-reflecting and creating and succumbing to the powers of my own brain. Lovely.

On the other hand, I think a lot of examining happened outside myself also. Hm, who knows exactly.

2011-04-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #34

What is different about Easter weekend this year from last year? What has changed in my life during the past year?

A year ago, I was divided between two churches that I loved and just beginning to learn the bittersweet taste of grace. I was picking up the shambles of my life and learning to forgive for the first time while trying to blindly move forward. I had the accountability and love that people dream of and a city that I never dreamt of leaving. I was confused but so extremely content.

Now, I am — what. Learning the sweetness of grace and the beauty of timing outside myself. My heart is spread out across the country and yet I still feel a homeward calling not to a city but to someplace beyond. I feel myself being stretched and wrought out, yet with love and care. And I'm once again content. Not satisfied the way Lacan spoke of desire. But so, so, so, content knowing that I have no control — thank goodness — and trusting the hands that do have control. Loving those hands and wanting to hold those hands.

O, Time and its moving hands, how you have me! O, beautiful Friday! You find me so humbled by mercy and grace and I find that the glory that has been allowed is so overwhelming. I am to explode, I'm sure. O, Good Friday, the curtain torn in two, and my Jesus who beckons me home to a place better than the white shores of my dreams.

2011-04-21T22:07:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #33

One thing I'm always perplexed by is the constant changing nature of a person. I feel like it's a common trope that I discuss, because it was such a central idea in my undergraduate studies and it's still a theory I'm developing. My life acts as a support to the concepts, so that I can make sure that they're valid (or not). Which pretty much means that my own life is always under scrutiny.

This certainly allows a certain amount of surprise when I find that my stabilities are always shifting and growing. And though I know this with my head, it's still not a truth that's truly sunken in. Which is why I keep writing about it.

Shifting and growth is necessary as context always paints new backdrops for us to fill. But I suppose it's what we hold onto with all the new paintings we inhabit that truly matters. We all cling for some steadiness, often coming in the forms of people, places, beliefs, or standards. But nothing is truly black and white until the end; everything turned too gray after the fall, so I'm rather glad that we have planes to traverse and new territories to explore and conquer.

At least something can come out of this mess.

2011-04-20T20:42:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #32

When it comes to movies, TV, books and music, I'm pretty liberal. Much more liberal than most people think. I watch and read and listen to a whole slew of stuff that I don't think is necessarily healthy for me. Though it is a lot of fun.

Sometimes when I try recommending TV shows like Misfits or Shameless to people, I have to give fair warning that it is often colorful. Excellent, but still colorful. When I watch and re-watch movies like Sin City or Step Brothers, I don't know why I do, but I know there is something deeper or funnier (respectively) than just meets the surface. Listening to Eminem while growing up made me callous to the curse words, but more attentive to the flow and sadness of every song. I remember reading Judy Blume's Forever when I was 12 and being befuddled the same way I was when I read Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood this past summer. There was something about it that would stick with me, even if I didn't know why until later.

When Jesus said that we should be in the world but not of it, perhaps I took it too literally.¹ I am rather taken with media and history and culture. But I think it's because I want to find a redeeming feature in it all — in all this art — even if the artist is not yet redeemed. It gives me hope that he or she could find the everlasting Hope in the beauty of art that is often evident in itself. Perhaps it will lead them to the Truth as Einstein was led to some of the Truth through his studies.

So when I came upon Lady Gaga's "Judas" a few days ago, I was disturbed much more than I have been in a long time. The kind of disturbed that worries me into weird goosebumps. The thing is that she's using the Truth to mask what she thinks is art, rather than masking art as the Truth. Doesn't she get it? Or maybe she really did mean it when she said, "This is my way of saying ‘I’ve already crossed the line. I won’t even try to repent.’ Nor should I.”² She's not even playing with fire anymore, she's playing with her life. And it's so sad, because I know what she's trying to do. Trying promote self-thought, self-love, and independence. Gaga, you were born this way and you are to love it, but you are to realize that there is better out there.

I suppose I do have my limits then. But I don't think that is a bad thing. To have limits. And it's not so much of a limit as a ceiling might be, crushing and smothering me. But rather a standard to uphold and to grow in. It's not like there isn't space to move around either; I suppose that I'm just naturally drawn to the sunlight. Or rather where the sun touches so that I might see what the light is capable of.

Footnotes
1. John 17:6
2. NME Magazine

2011-04-19T23:01:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #31

Happy birthday, Janice. You are 21 now.

I still remember when you were seven. You sat at the back of the lounge and didn't talk to anyone for weeks, while your brother ran around wreaking havoc. But now I think that it is fair to say that both of your voices are equally loud.

You are opinionated, but not (always) flagrant about it. Willing to be corrected, though sometimes afraid to do the correcting. Loving, but quietly.

We were watching The Lord of the Rings for TAG a few weeks ago and Jinni got so excited, she ran around yelling, "They've got a cave troll! They've got a cave troll!" and I swear I saw her in you. Perhaps that's why I favor her sometimes.

You are far away tonight (and often), but I'm sure you're perfectly, perfectly well.

2011-04-18T22:40:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #30

"To know that one is dreaming is to be no longer perfectly asleep." —C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves

I've always been interested with the act of sleeping. It began when I was really young, since I think I had a problem with being hyperactive. It always took me forever to fall asleep. I remember this one night several years ago, I couldn't sleep so I went online to look up facts of sleeping. Things like the average person falls asleep in about seven minutes. Things like people can only dream of faces that they've seen, at one point, in their lives, whether it was for a half-second in a crowd or someone they've known all their lives. Things like white noise creates a consistent background noise that helps babies fall asleep. Things like if a person falls asleep within four minutes of being in bed, it's a sign of exhaustion and a lack of overall sleep. Or that REM, the deepest sleep possible, is where the really bizarre dreams happen.

I remember when I was twelve, I thought the idea of time and sleep were so interesting. The fact that time still moved forward though my mind was unconscious of its procession. Falling asleep one moment, and though it seemed like I had only blinked, it was four hours gone. Seconds and minutes and hours had passed without my knowledge of it. At the time, it was strange to consider that there was an actual moving world that continued even if I did not.

I think I was sixteen or seventeen when I began to dream lucidly. While I was dreaming, something would trigger my mind that I was asleep. In the beginning, I would freak out in my dreams and force myself to wake up. It was usually in nightmares and making myself wake up usually led to frequent bouts of sleep paralysis. But when my nightmares began to bed down, I would typically bring myself to fly in dreams. And it wasn't the ways that birds soar through the wind, but a sort of levitation that felt really wobbly. It was truly a strange thing to experience, even in dreams.

Well, I'm about to be go to sleep right now, and the bed is really beckoning to me the way that it often does. Sleeping is such a routine and necessary act, yet it's still so strange to me. That life goes in even when we do not.

2011-04-17T01:41:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #29

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes.

2011-04-16T02:07:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #28

I am writing a novel(la) of A. and S., which I will further explain another time. But between these sleepy sentences, I'm hopingpraying that the words of this grand undertaking won't be my own. Not that they ever really could.

2011-04-14T23:35:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #27

I think You're building me up, but I'm not sure. I hope it's not to break me down again, but I know that there's some refuge in those artful dexterity and lavish strokes of Yours.

2011-04-13T23:35:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #26

Please keep me. Please.

I need You, I do. And, I swear, I want You. I don't want You as an emollient making life run more smoothly for the moment. I don't want You as a passing gratification only to be left dryer still.

I want You to run deep. Deeper than skin deep. So deep, past my skin and into my muscles that You will be the living reason that I am able to move at all. So deep, into my organs that my involuntary functions wouldn't make sense without You. So deep, that You are wrapped around my entire heart and it is You, only You, that makes it pulse and pump so that I can take my next breath. So deep, that my brain thinks and knows nothing else but what is of You.

Please. Please keep me. Please keep within me. Please find something worth saving and inhabiting in me, because sometimes I only feel the emollient and I know of the dryness that is deep within me.

Like the decaying lungs of a closet smoker.

And this incredibly great need of You begins to crush me.

Like that of an asthmatic and an inhaler.

Oh, please, won't You keep me?

2011-04-12T23:05:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #25

Unbelievable!!

I spend over four years in New York for college and I barely gain a single pound! And then I'm back home with a new job and I can suddenly feel the rolls in my gut beginning to develop! Seriously!?

It might have something to do with the kitchen that's less than 50 feet from my desk. It's one serious kitchen. Free lunch, free snacks, free beverages — when did free stuff become so dangerous? Dangerously delectable is equivalent to dangerously detrimental when one has no appetite for self-control.

Who even has a taste for self-control when presented with pesto pizza with butternut squash, pot roast, grilled mackerel, and mango mousse topped with white chocolate shavings?? And sure the shortbread cookies I can't stop snacking on have no preservatives and no artificial sugars and is supposedly healthy. But when I'm on my fifth bag, does it even matter?

This is becoming a serious issue. I value my self-control when it comes to anything else, but my taste buds have serious minds of their own. Save me from my gut!

2011-04-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #24

Ha, God makes me laugh sometimes! No matter how far I try run from Him, I round a corner and smack right into His gigantic Providence. And no matter how hard I may try to hide something, He only needs to think of it as a passing thought and I am brought back to my knees. And no matter how virtuous I want to believe I am, He knows the lurkings in my heart and I am often one step closer to rebuke. Ha ha ha!! I am dumb to try and fight Him.

2011-04-09T22:28:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #23

In the event of my demise, I would like the following songs sung at my funeral/memorial service:

1. "Great is Thy Faithfulness," Thomas Chisholm
2. "Jesus Lives and So Shall I," arrangement by Redeemer Presbyterian Church
3. "In Christ Alone," Stuart Townend, Keith Getty
4. "I Will Rise," Christ Tomlin
5. "The Power of the Cross,"Stuart Townend

I used to ask people: If you could choose five non-family people to eulogize you, who would they be and why? I was probably a little morbid and annoying, but I mostly wanted to see who people would choose to trust with their memory.

I think about that question now, and I feel like the notion of it is wrapped up in selfishness. I suppose some selfishness is merited if you're dead and everyone wants to feel like they left something, anything behind. But I think that I like the idea of using music better, since it seems more representational and not self-driven.

Along with my chosen five songs, I would like Psalm 73:24-25 and maybe some of Joyce's Ulysses read aloud. Hm, I might change the latter because I think everyone will get confused.

2011-04-09T01:40:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #22

Sometimes I fear Possibility. The extensive assortment of variables that are presented. The opportunity to choose seems so novel and lovely, yet so overwhelming that it often seems better to have something chosen for me. Though I speculate that that is what life is. A collection of my choices wrapped in an ultimate choice.

2011-04-07T23:39:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #21

"Do you ever think about that night?" A. asks me quietly. His hand holds mine over the white tablecloth and I am caught so aware of its warmth. He looks away from me, afraid of what I might answer, and I suppose that I am also afraid of what my answer might be.

I think back six years ago to when I read David Foster Wallace books like religion and haunted jazz bars more nights than I was in my bed. I think back to when I saw A. onstage for the first time, strumming the guitar as he began to sing a ballad. His eyes scanned the sparsely populated crowd — it was only nine in the evening on a Tuesday — and caught mine. Such a shocking shade of blue, so deep that I could feel myself fall in. He smiled at me crookedly, as though he knew what to expect of me. How wrong he was.

A. squeezes my hand suddenly and I am brought back to the present. I look at my hand that he holds. His calloused and dry hands. He strokes strokes the ring on my finger. My wedding band.

I pull my hand onto my lap and think of S. My S. The way he shivers every time I stroke the nape of his neck with my thumb, the scratchy feel of his unshaven face against mine, the scent of a soapy clean with subtle traces of aftershave that permeates his clothes. The way his hand trembled as he slipped this ring onto my finger in front of two hundred guests.

A. says my name quietly. I look up and before I know it, I say, "Don't."

A. flinches and I begin to see the lines in his brow, the grays that fleck his blond hair, and a distance between us that suddenly seems worlds apart. What we had, or rather what we could have had, was only sketches, dreams, and blueprints that never came to fruition. I had learned to live without him. And I knew from his songs, his sad and slow songs that I knew to be about me, that he had not. I want to tell A. that I am sorry but I am not. I get up and walk away and that is the last time I see him alive.

2011-04-06T17:10:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #20

You give me what I need, not what I want. Of course! Everyone knows that. Everyone who believes in the saving God who sacrificed His perfect Son for mankind that needed salvation so badly but couldn't acquire it themselves knows that.

So why am I so speechless and awestruck that You provided me exactly with what I needed for the past ten months? Ten tiring and sad months. I probably did not use the time the way You had intended me to, and yet it was what You had intended.

Isn't that a perfect illustration of our relationship? You meet my every need and more, and I respond ambivalently in between intermittent silences.

You provide and You provide so well. You take my fears so seriously even though I'm so scared to trust them to anyone else, and You orchestrate this perfect, perfect plan, hiding Yourself in the details as though You want me to dig You out and find You myself. And You trace the trail of tears of relief that slowly slides down my cheek, suspending each moment as You are in each moment.

You listen when I say no! No, I won't move back to California! No, I won't compromise! No, I won't consider overseas mission! No, I won't give up my elitist ways! No, I won't humble myself for the sake of the church, because I have to convince myself that I am good enough, that I am good enough for You! Because You are so perfectly good to me.

What can I do in the face of such boundless love? That You love me even when I am being completely unloveable. That You love me when I am being unbearable. That You keep providing and providing and loving me. What can I do.

2011-04-05T23:49:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #19

I miss New York. Suddenly and desperately.

I built happiness with my own two hands and I left it all behind. And for what.

2011-04-04T23:01:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #18

Sometimes there are deeds that are harder to forgive because my instinct is to drive a car into someone's house or scream at the top of my lungs. My instinct is to let my anger propagate into a towering monster that squashes everything else out. Sometimes I can't understand why. Why? Why would you do this? Sometimes I have to sift through my thoughts and force these scars to remain scars and not reopen as wounds.

Forgiveness is not always a one-time action that flits through one moment and is gone the next. Forgiveness is not always letting things go and moving on with life. Forgiveness is not always forgetting.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the most active thing that can be done. Sometimes it would be easier to let wounds bleed out and to let an infection devour my soul. But somehow I've grown — I've grown! — to understand that indifference and apathy would have me kill myself and I choose to live and to live vibrantly.

Scott Sauls once said that forgiveness will always hurt the forgiver more than the forgiven. And that forgiveness will feel like flesh being torn apart. So I don't know why I'm choosing to do it, but I am. Maybe it's because I know that deep within me, at the scraping bottoms of who I am, I need to be forgiven too.

So I forgive you. I'm forgiving you.

2011-04-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #17

I really like men in suits. So much.

I'm so glad that I'm a woman, so that I could walk down the aisle to a man in a suit.

Oh, vanity.

2011-04-02T00:53:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #16

I have to stop expecting people to be as interested and zealous as I am about:

1. Lord of the Rings,
2. New York,
3. deep discussions about life.
4. Harry Potter,
5. the definition of love,
6. Shameless, Boardwalk Empire, Misfits, The Good Wife, Fringe,
7. vampire-related media,
8. Redeemer & Tim Keller,
9. learning how to cook/bake, and
10. Taylor Swift.

2011-03-31T23:41:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #15

For a long time, I was neither a fan of Russell Brand and/or Katy Perry. I thought Russell was too outlandish and disrespectful and Katy was too outlandish and attention-hungry. And when I first heard of the birth of their romance, I thought that it was well matched and I went on with my life not thinking much of it.

But strange things happen when people fall in love and I'm in love with love so I notice these things. The first time I took a notice of their relationship was when I saw Katy perform "Not Like the Movies," at the 53rd Annual Grammy Awards, and there was something soft about the song and the montage of the her wedding to Russell in the background. Then I saw how Russell spoke affectionately of Katy on the red carpet at the 83rd Academy Awards.

Afterwards, I googled Katy Perry and found this interview where Perry talks about writing "Not Like the Movies" and how her relationship with Russell helped her to finish writing it. It was sweet, sentimental, and, above all else that I love, it showed growth. Then, while I was surfing on Tumblr, I stumbled upon this excerpt of Russell's second memoir Booky Wooky 2: This Time It's Personal about how he met Katy and fell in love with her (Bear with me, it's rather long but well worth the read.):

"The thing about me is ..." I announced to the assembly, "is I'm a sorcerer with the birds, an alchemist, you put a dame in front of me and I will hypnotise her with my sheer magne ..."

I was planning to say magnetism, in fact I had a whole brilliant speech to give on the subject of my supernatural ability with women but I had to stop to observe the bottle that was arcing towards my head at some pace from the other side of the room.

Thud. Ouch. The bottle hit me right on the head and although it was plastic, it was half full, or half empty, depending on your perspective, and it hurt.

Everyone laughed.

What had I done to deserve such insubordination? I surveyed the missile's trajectory for clues to reveal the culprit - and there she stood.

Beaming and pleased with herself, hidden by sunglasses, a beanie and a yellow sweater the sleeve of which was a giraffe glove-puppet concealing her right hand, Katy Perry stormed into the laughter she had created.

"Hey, Brand!" she cockily cawed.

"Come on brain, let's go," I thought, but my brain wasn't working properly, I think perhaps because of the bottle.

Plus my stomach felt odd. Sort of sick. "Got you on the head there, huh?" she said. "Kind of an easy target, it's big and you've got that ridiculous hair ..."

The lads, MY LADS, laughed. As did the MTV folk, plus a few of the crew stopped working to watch.

"Come on," I appealed silently to myself in a split-second prayer. Wit, don't fail me now. The audience looked on.

"Yes, your aim was impressive. Particularly as, judging from the fact that you're wearing sunglasses indoors, you must be blind ..." "Which would go some way to explaining your decision to wear that ridiculous sweater."

Katy, though, doesn't miss a beat.

"You know it's hard to take fashion advice from a man who looks like a lazy transvestite."

"Yes, I suppose I do look feminine ..." I parry neatly, "... compared to you."

I was doing well, especially given my head injury and the strange feeling in my stomach. I march up to her and command that she remove her glasses.

"I'm not removing anything I'm wearing around you, I could get herpes."

Sensing this slanging match may not be going my way, I expertly sequester her away from the gawping crowd which now numbers about thirty and see if I can dazzle her better without an audience.

She takes off her sunglasses, which I thought would give me an advantage, but it just made me feel more queasy.

She has very beautiful eyes. Big and questioning, playful and tender. Away from the crowd my wit will surely return to full strength.

"Your bracelet," I announce, "... is nice."

"You think so. Thanks." It is an Alexander McQueen bangle, a simple hoop with two skulls facing each other at the ends.

Wordlessly she smiles, removes it and places it on my wrist, gently handcuffing me.

The floor manager bellows that we are needed on stage to rehearse the intro.

We separate, and by now I'm feeling really weird like when you do acid and resist its mercurial pull - when you don't, as Jim would say, "ride the snake".

Crammed in my glamour pen like a reluctant Houdini I listen as Katy half-heartedly sings, the way they do when they rehearse, like they can't be bothered, every syllable subtextually screaming, "I'll do it better on the day."

"We will, we will, rock you ..."

I look at my big daft name on the back wall and nervously come down the stairs. I look at her and it makes the vertigo worse.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she says, "please welcome the biggest queen I've ever met, Russell Brand!"

I smile as I walk past her and sort of want to pull her hair.

When I reach the end of the runway from where I will deliver the monologue , the stage that Katy is standing on is being lowered to make room for the next performance set-up. Slowly she descends, the ground swallowing her. My wit returns, like I always knew it would.

"Thank you for that introduction," I began, then gesturing behind me, "And, before your very eyes, in a chilling foreshadow of the next twelve months, Katy Perry disappears without trace." Just as her head passed from view.

Katy and some of her friends are hanging around by the mixer.

I feel the bracelet on my wrist. I really don't want to give it back but consider it would be ungentlemanly to stroll off with it.

"Erm. I'm going now, so ..."

"OK," she says and smiles.

"Well. We should stay in touch," I mumble like a twit even though I am going to see her the next day at the award show we just rehearsed.

"Oh. Yes?" she replies. "And how are we going to do that? Smoke signals?"

She's flirting. I think this is flirting. All my instincts are being affected by the head wound and stomach disruption.

Plus now I'm getting short of breath and hot.

"I could give you my phone number?" I say. She takes it.

"Right. Bye then." "Oh, I forgot to give this back," I say, flimsily attempting to remove the bracelet, but she interrupts.

"It's OK. Keep it. To remind you of me."

And I begin to understand what all these symptoms are. I look at her and it makes me feel still. Then looking into her eyes, quietly I say, "I don't need anything to remind me of you."

That is how I fell in love.

The next day we did the show. Throughout I carried the bracelet in my pocket. Even though she was there.

That night we went on our first date and she was so funny and pretty but more importantly she emits some gentle power that makes me want to be good.

You'll think it frivolous of me to say I knew I'd marry her on that first date, but the truth is I fell in love with her when she hit me with that bottle.

Like Cupid in a riot.

From the first date I changed. No more women. Well, actually, thousands of women. I wake up to a different one each day, but they're all her.

She's sleeping next to me now, tranquil and silently beguiling, it's impossible to ally her with the incandescent girl that blazes through the day.

Her hand rests on her shoulder and I can see the ring I gave her when I asked her to marry me, at midnight on New Year's Eve in India, under a full moon, a blue moon.

Once in a blue moon. She said yes. She chose me, bottled me and cuffed me. And now this is my life, my girl, this beautiful woman.

Just her and the revolution. (source)

This man can write! And he writes beautifully!...which is so strange...considering his crassness... And it makes me realize how wonderfully purifying and innocent love can be. But I know that there's more to relationships than that initial reaction to being hit in the head. It's about the commitment to stay even when it's becoming cold or turbulent, which I know is difficult to do in the Hollywood panorama. I'll always be on the optimistic side though, always hoping for the best for everyone no matter who it might be.

2011-03-30T23:26:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #15

Over the past several months, I've been particularly sensitive to subject matters concerning families. Perhaps it's my own desire to start one or it's what I'm currently learning from my own. When I watch Friday Night Lights, Shameless, Modern Family, my heart seems to clench in watching and trying to understand these people.

Sometimes I think it's ridiculous that I see so much of life through a TV screen rather than through life itself. But that screen functions as a sort of barrier to keep me safe, to ease me into actuality. But I do get these diluted bits of a family, of what it's supposed to be.

If there is anything I have learned about families, it is the absolute necessity of grace. And it breaks my heart really. Because families are just little clusters of broken people trying to get by together. Trying to make sense out of life and love and why things happen.

The beauty in the broken is not in the brokenness but in the grace that restores it to the glimpse of the wholeness to come. That sheer, undeserving grace that pours out and overflows with only the prerequisite of needing it. And don't we all need it. This perfect and senseless grace.

To see people somehow squeeze out more room in their hearts for what needs to be forgiven, forgotten, done and dealt with — that's what really breaks me. That grace, which seems impossible but pours down so freely, drowning and teaching us. I don't understand it, but part of its beauty is in its mystery, and I am slowly learning of its necessity.

2011-03-29T23:13:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #14

"...he was banishing her nightmares by stealing into her dreams." — Linda Crew's Children of the River

For as long as I can remember, I have been in love with ideas. The idea of love, existentialism, music, dreams, experience, another world, etc. I like to keep my head up in the clouds away from the reality of this world that often stains my detailed fantasies.

At the same time, I like to make sense of everything and to know what to expect. When I am forced to come down from my fluffy clouds, the gravity pulls me down a little more firmly and I make lists, charts, spreadsheets to avoid disappointment.

Lately, I've been coming to terms with the merging of the two. The sane way to go about life is to allow my dreams to trickle onto the reality that I've created. To cling to my fantasies in the backdrop of life.

And that is not a bad thing at all.

To know of a perfect and real love. To know that it exists somewhere, even if it's not yet. To know that it isn't just rainbows and laughter, but also rain clouds and tears. To know that there is happiness, and a sorrow that allows it all to exist. To know that it is going to be a foretaste, just the smallest snippet, of the greatest love there is.

No, that isn't bad at all.

2011-03-29T00:28:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #13

When people ask me what I want to be, I typically answer, "I want to be a wife."

This often leads to three reactions from people, which goes along the lines of:

1. "Aw, that's sweet. That's good that you know what you want," which actually means, "I don't know what to say to this."
2. "You should enjoy your single life now," which means, "You're idealistic and you don't know what you would be getting yourself into."
3. "That's perfect for you," which means, "That's perfect for you," or, "I can't imagine you doing anything else."

Perhaps I exaggerate.

For a long time, I had the notion that independence was the most valuable thing to possess. I wanted to do everything by myself. Or, if with anyone, then with God, because He seemed inescapable. I thought that control and stability were the most valuable assets, so I spent a long time muffling passions and emotions.

However, repression just causes things to trickle or explode out at very inconvenient times. And through doubts and tears and an emptiness deep enough to fill chasms, I learned that it doesn't have to be like this. It's not supposed to be like this.

Even though I didn't want to, I realized that I had to accept that I didn't have control. I realized that I had to trust people. I had to offer my heart even with the fear that it might be abused, squeezed, wrung, and trampled on. And I had to be trusted with the hearts of others, and find it in me to treat it with utter care and importance, which was something I wasn't sure if I was capable of.

Now, this doesn't mean that I go up to everyone with my heart on my sleeve. If anything, I'm even more careful about who I open up to because I know the repercussions of offering it too easily. But having been alone for so long, it makes me ravenous for that connection, for that contact.

My passionate whims and my control issues create this wonderful balance of reality. To hope, but to hope patiently. To not be satisfied with the bare minimum, but to know if it's right. To wait on God rather than to cave into the flesh.

To explain why I want to be a wife is pretty simple: "It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make him a helper suitable for him."¹

I want to be a pair. I want the sheer ordinariness of it in the landscape of my unordinary life. I want to cook dinner, think of window treatments, shampoo and vacuum the carpet. I want him to kill bugs, plunge the toilet, take out the garbage. I want to travel together, laugh together, pray together, and all through the grace of God.

I want the compromise, the arguments, the commitment, I want it all. The good and the bad, the boring and the fun. I want to know what it is to trust someone with all of me and to have someone feel the same about me. To hold his life with mine.

Some would say that my standards and issues hinder me from finding someone, and, yes, I agree to a certain extent. But my standards are always shifting as I live and grow. And all of it exists so that I don't settle for the first person who looks my way, but to find someone who will draw me out and learn me.

I want it all so badly. But "there is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven."² I'm hoping it's sooner than later, but I can wait. I've been waiting my entire life.

Footnotes
1. Genesis 2:18 NASB
2. Ecclesiastes 3:1 NASB

2011-03-26T23:46:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #12

I was cold and alone today.

2011-03-26T03:14:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #11

"For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain."
— John Keats to Fanny Brawne, July 3, 1819

Why do I always fall so deeply in love certain dead poets? I don't even like poetry! But there are a few poets who just reach into my soul and excavate it.

Grace Paley wrote one of my favorite poems "One Day" and is also the author of one of my favorite short stories "Love." And I love anything along the lines of love and relationships and couples, but Paley uses these subject matters and creates a completely nuanced and complex illustration of it that always leaves me with a little more than I had to begin with.

I remember memorizing "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" and "A Road Not Taken" when I was in fifth grade and I momentarily fell in love with Robert Frost. I love the smooth iambic rhythm of his lines. For a while, I wanted to get "But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep" tattooed on my back, but that phase passed. I remember reading "Fire and Ice" during my emo days. And I remember trying to analyze "Mending Wall" when I was a college sophomore, being confused but somehow saddened by it.

I will always love Shakespeare's sonnets and I will always love his plays. I will always love his gigantic ego and genius. I will always love his unreal expansion of the English language, allowing the actions of blanketing, betting, puking, numbing, and swaggering to come into the mind's eyes. "Though this be madness, yet there is method in it" and "neither rhyme nor reason can express how much."

The German Democratic Republic (GDR, East Germany) era will never cease to fascinate me. It was such an unusual time filled with strange stories and lifestyles, and it's amazing that such a talented writer emerged amidst all the political propaganda and censorship. But Bertolt Brecht did it. He managed to slyly include criticism of GDR in his poetry even though I think he was a serious patriot (which is so strange to me!) I loved watching The Public Theater's rendition of Brecht's "Mother Courage and Her Children" for Shakespeare in the Park in the pouring rain.

I began reading bits of Emily Dickinson while I was going through my Lurlene McDaniels phase. Her poetry and her isolationism reached me in ways that I didn't understand. I could relate to her need to escape the world. I wrote a five-page essay on the spatial metaphor in poem 1129 ("Tell All The Truth But Tell It Slant") and it was just wonderful. I remember I was so angry when a character on Law & Order: SVU kept repeating the line "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" and they didn't attribute it to Dickinson. Still veiled in her sad quietness.

Ah, King David. He was seriously the complete package. A man after God's heart, leader of nations, slayer of Goliath, poet and musician. "Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts," he wrote. (Psalms 139:23 NIV) And there's so much that is human about him, so much to show that he wasn't a man to worship or put on a pedestal. He was a man just as much in need of a Savior as the rest of humanity.

Oh, my favorite! John Keats! Such a lovely, lovely man. He died so young, but he accomplished so much. Becoming one of the greatest Romantic poets, falling in love, and, I don't know, just being amazing. He had a way with words. Yes, he did. Keats' life and work were remarkable. There's just something about Keats that draws me to him. His eternal youth, his earnestness, his views on fate, his love for Fanny, his lilting play with words. I'm in love.

2011-03-25T02:30:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #10

I ran into someone from my high school today. I haven't seen him in over four years, and yet I immediately recognized him.

The last time I saw someone from my high school was two months ago when I had lunch with a childhood friend. Before that, it was three years ago. I don't know, I've never felt inclined to keep in contact with my pre-New York life. It's as if anything before that didn't really hold weight worth carrying.

It sounds weird and a little pretentious of me to say that, but the high school me was complicated and weird and far too malleable. I was so unsure of myself then, and it was just a piece of me. Such a small piece.

So it was a little weird to carry conversation and ask what's changed in the past few years and smile, because I know that it's evident that I'm not who I was back then. But, then again, I suppose I should remember that no one is.

2011-03-23T23:16:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #9

I hate job interviews.

I hate researching the position and its requirements, and then comparing myself to them. I hate looking up the company's history, memorizing names of CEOs and its presence in the current market. I hate thinking up questions that the interviewer might ask and trying to eloquently phrase an answer. I hate trying to think of questions that I might ask him or her. I hate worrying about what to wear and how to do my hair that will make me appear right for their corporate culture. I hate gathering copies of my résumé, preparing pen and paper for notes, and securing breath mints in my bag.

I hate how I can never sleep properly the night before, waking up in intervals for the fear of oversleeping. I hate the appearance of routine as I put on my makeup while my insides begin to churn.

I hate the formalities of checking in at the lobby. I hate the introduction, forcing affability and smiles, and imagining, though just for a second, I might belong here. I hate the utter friendliness of the situation that masks a quiet but critical evaluation.

I hate that I rush home afterwards, often clutching a business card, and sending an e-mail thanking them for their time and looking forward to hearing back from them soon.

I hate the days following the interview as I wait for the verdict. I hate how I suddenly begin to reach a new level of anxiety as I inadvertently equate my worth to their decision. I hate how I grow angry and frustrated that I am not enough, I am not worth enough!

And I hate how I always forget that my worth had already been determined by a love of perfect being and Savior, who doesn't care or see me for my education or internships. Who sees me for the true worthlessness that I am and still somehow gives me worth. I hate my forgetfulness!

I hate that I realize all of this, trying to reconcile my fleeting heart with my head knowledge. I hate that I've been through this process over and over again and I still don't really learn.

I hate this waiting, all this waiting.

2011-03-23T02:27:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #8

Today was the first time I've ever attempted a Thomas Keller recipe. Today was also the first time I've ever felt like I failed at a recipe.

The unfortunate recipe was from Keller's Ad Hoc at Home for white cupcakes.

For the past month that I've been home, I've been baking more than cooking mostly because it's cheaper. And for the past month that I've been home, I've been baking from scratch without an electric mixer.

Attempting a Keller recipe was an experience. Reading his instructions, his attention to details emanates off the page. This is a man in love with the art of building food and flavors. This is a man who is driven by meticulousness and focus for presentation as well as substance.

Dang it! I fail so much in comparison!

Since I didn't have a mixer, the butter melted more than it should have, creating a strange consistency. On top of that, the egg whites + sugar mixture was supposed to be whisked on medium, then high speed to create a meringue with stiff peaks. My arm muscles were only able to create a syrupy, slightly foamy liquid.

The outcome was a sticky and very un-cupcakelike texture. It reminded me of a deflated souffle. Sure, it still tasted fine — actually, it tasted pretty good — but its taste did not compensate for its disastrous appearance.

I've had strange outcomes in the past without a mixer, which included a cake batter separating while baking in the oven. But that still turned out delicious and bearable to look at.

However, this turn of events has convinced me that I can't rely on my own strength. I must rely on the electric mixer and the genius of Thomas Keller. Why must life always be about accepting that I don't have control over everything?! Or anything?! Next time I blog about food, I will be the owner of an electric mixer. Hopefully.

2011-03-22T01:33:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #7

I still have a lot of growing up to do, I think as I organize my closet by the color of clothes.

2011-03-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #6

If I had five minutes to live, what would I regret not having done in my life? I was thinking over this question today and a lot of typical answers flew past me: never getting the chance skydive, not traveling more, not having kids, not reading more books, not swimming in the Mediterranean, not learning more languages.

But when I began to carefully and deeply think about this, the only regret that stuck was that I had not loved God and His people more. That I had lusted for the world than desired His face.

It sounds cliché and it is a strange thing to become aware of, but I do know that it is true. When life comes to an end, I do know that there are far greater white shores that await me. And if I even have the opportunity to look back on my microscopic life, I know that the only weight that I would carry is not the little undertakings that I hadn't the opportunity to accomplish, but that I had not loved enough.

I am standing at the end of the greatest source of love being poured out and spilling over. It drowns me and it's enough to bring me back to life. And since I stand at the end of that source, I want it to overflow onto everything around me.

Yet I know that I fail. I am often too short with my thoughts, too curt with my words, and too muffled with my true sentiments. I know that this is only the result of my wandering eyes, I know that I frequently love the world too much, but I also know that my enduring strength and salvation lies in savoring Christ and His redeeming blood. On Christ the solid rock I stand!

2011-03-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #5

There is something about driving alone down a highway in the wee hours of the morning. The headlights reveal only the next few feet and everything seems possible. Cathartic lyrics ring through the air and you're left alone with your thoughts.

2011-03-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #4

A little more than a year ago, I began to develop an interest in cooking. It might have been the collision of watching Julie & Julia and interning for editors of cookbooks that burgeoned this fascination. And after a year, I'm reading Thomas Keller for fun and baking/cooking from scratch every other day. I even baked Irish soda bread today in spirit of St. Patrick's Day!

Sometimes I think about how strange my newfound interest is. Me, who could only make instant foods, scrambled eggs. And maybe bacon. Me, who thought that the only bread worth eating was Wonder bread. Me, who thought that Denny's was fancy... Oh, how times change.

And now I can braise and roast and make reductions and sieve! I can tell the difference between oregano and thyme! I can fold and whip and knead! I know what cake flour and clarified butter is!

As stupid as this may sound, my developing culinary interests really make me believe that (just about) anything is possible! What happened a year ago is that I stopped living in the delusion that abilities were black and white and that I could cultivate skill. Practice doesn't make perfect; perfect is unattainable. But practice makes us closer to perfect, and all I had to do was try. To be interested and try.

So I can cook, yes. Which makes me wonder what else I am capable of. Anything, I suppose. But I can't bring myself to imagine that I can enjoy heavy metal music... Or using Porta-Potties.

2011-03-17T00:04:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #3

I just came home from a day spent in San Francisco and I am pondering over thoughts that were latent throughout the day.

While I was in New York, I learned this faux extroversion that I cloaked myself in when I found myself in quiet situations. I thought that silence was considered awkward, so I fought it at every chance I got. Whether it be with strange antics or arbitrary questions thrown out, I wanted to keep the ambiance active. But with my innate introversion, this is a very tiring thing to do. And I have to ask myself: what's so wrong with silence? With the right people, it's the most comfortable thing there is.

Also in New York, I discovered an occasional spontaneity integrated into my daily routine that sparked up the day. Things like walking down SoHo to get a cup of coffee at Dean & Deluca rather than riding the subway back to my dorm. Things like sweeping into Strand to browse but buying a rather unneccesary copy of Peter Pan instead, since I already have two copies at home, but books are so lovely! I love the tiny spontaneities sprinkled amidst plans. I think it's a good reminder that not everything can be controlled in a rigid structure and some things just have to be dealt with head-on, right when they're in front of me. Even if it might be sea foam sweeping onto the beach or a BBQ joint inside a gay bar. Life just seems more lovely, more colorful, with these surprises.

Silence and spontaneity aside, I am beginning to know — know inside my heart — that everything and everyone changes. But I suppose that that isn't always a bad thing. No, it isn't.

2011-03-15T16:36:00.001-07:00

Easter Series #2

Who are you, I muse.

How did you find me?

I have been wondering for a long time.

I wanted to tell you that I wish you were here.

Somehow, the existence of your presence comforts me.

And maybe I'm wrapping myself in romantic delusions and fancies.

Maybe I'm falling in love with strangers

the way Joel did with Clementine.

A chance afterthought of a life forgotten.

Whatever it may be,

I hope you'll enjoy it –

every minute, every post –

as much as I am.

2011-03-14T22:25:00.000-07:00

Easter Series #1

For the Lenten season, I have decided to blog daily.

Perhaps I am forcing self-reflection, and I don't know if that's even possible. I might cringe when I look upon these posts several years from now, thinking that they are trite and forced. Or I might not.

This is the first time that I am committing to doing something rather than abstaining from something for the cause of Lent. I'm going to find it risky to say that I am blogging specifically for the purpose of Lent, since I am not doing it for Lent. I am calling these posts leading up to the Resurrection "Easter Series." This is because the freedom that is made possible by the death and resurrection of the perfect sacrifice gives those who are saved a purpose, a calling from God. And the days that lead to Easter, I want to focus on a part of my calling, which is to write. Which, in turn, somehow always leads back to Christ anyways.

So here is to the blood that was poured out for the sake that I may write for Him. And that these words may not fall silently, but echo back to their true Creator.

2011-03-03T04:10:00.001-08:00

#21
Currently Living People I Would Like to Have a Conversation With Right Now:

1. John MacArthur
2. Thomas Keller
3. Justin Bieber
4. The Cast of The Misfits
5. Taylor Swift
6. John Piper
7. Sarah Dessen
8. Christopher Nolan
9. Eminem
10. Margaret Atwood
11. Neil Gaiman
12. Kazuo Ishiguro
13. C.J. Mahaney

2011-02-21T22:22:00.000-08:00

#20
I Am Fluent in TV:

1. Okay, the title is a lie. I don't watch any reality shows (except So You Think You Can Dance, some American Idol and The Biggest Loser. And an occasional episode of Top Chef.)
2. But I do watch a lot of TV. A lot.
3. It began when I was maybe 7. I watched Hercules: The Legendary Journeys with Kevin Sorbo. Now that I think about it, the stories were contrived and sex-driven. But I was really drawn by the mythology and heroism, which probably led to my affinity with supernatural premises.
4. And I certainly do love my supernatural premises. I remember loving Roswell (even though the 10-part book series was very different, but good also.) I was a fanatic for Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and its spinoff Angel, I loved Alias and Heroes for a while, Battlestar Galactica and Firefly were fun, and I'm a huge fan of the currently airing FOX show Fringe. And the black smoke in Lost was so much more interesting when we didn't know what it was. But supernatural premises aren't enough, I also need some quality plots.
5. And who doesn't need quality plots in a TV show? (I mean, besides those half-hour sitcoms, which I'll come back to later.) And it's not just the plot, but how the plot develops into another plot and then into another plot. Which — does what — creates character development! The limiting aspect of movies is that there is typically one plot for a character thus we see them only in light of that one situation. However, TV's continuous storylines counter that!
6. And we can see serious character development through Meredith Grey and the seven seasons of Grey's Anatomy, Dexter Morgan and the five seasons of Dexter, and Dr. Gregory House and the seven seasons of House. Just look at how Gil Grissom changes throughout his time on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. Watching these characters face new situations (or plots) and grow into someone else (or someone better) makes it more personal. As if you're growing with them.
7. This isn't the case for just sole characters either, development is also evident in couples or groups. To see the growth of a partnership between Benson and Stabler (on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit) and Brennan and Booth (on Bones) has been an interesting journey to go on. Viewers literally got to see the family on 7th Heaven grow and the friendships of Dawson's Creek blossom and pass away. Watching Coach Eric Taylor, his family, and the community of Dillon grow and develop together with football as the impetus on Friday Night Lights has been nothing short of astounding.
8. Character development doesn't always have to come in these dramatic forms either, comedy sitcoms have been fun and engaging. The growth of Michael Scott during the seasons of The Office has been subtly deep. George Michael and Buster Bluth's character on Arrested Development has been hilarious to watch.
9. People might scoff at me on this point, but I think the character and plot development on animated series can be great too. All of the characters in Gargoyles have been so entertaining and Ken's conversion in the second season of Digimon was heartbreaking.
10. Regardless of development throughout series, the development through a single episode can be evident. The last two minutes of Scrubs always used to make me cry because of its reflection on the antics of the first twenty-eight minutes. Even X-Men: The Animated Series and Batman: The Animated Series (and even the first season of Batman Beyond) has shown such growth.
11. And sometimes the backdrop of shows really ousts it into greatness. I never thought that a space western was even plausible until I saw Joss Whedon's Firefly which was fun and intriguing. Following city gangsters-slash-politicians during the Prohibition Era in Boardwalk Empire? A body language expert who can tell lies just by looking at a person to solve crimes like Lie to Me? Combining Southern lifestyle and vampires like True Blood? A New York ad agency during the 1960's in America in all its glamour and cigarette habits like Mad Men? A really hot con artist and a stand-up FBI agent teaming up like in White Collar? Seriously, how can you resist?
12. And when it all really comes down to it, it's all about the writing. The writing is central. I mean, the Writers' Strike from several years ago should've proved that. Shows lost some of their caliber during that time. (Heroes, for one. Excellent in its first season, very strange in its second.) The dialogue, the plots, the development, it would be nowhere without the writing. I take writing very seriously, because look at what it is able to do with TV! I love TV and I love writing. Well, I'm off to begin the first season of UK's Misfits.

*I've watched at least one regular season of every show mentioned in this post.

2011-02-02T23:25:00.000-08:00

#19
I Was the One Worth Leaving (A Farewell to New York):

1. I came here in tears, so I'm expecting to leave in tears. Though, I wonder when they will begin.
2. This was the first place I realized anything.
3. I have (or had?) true fellowship and genuine friends.
4. My desire to have a foundation always contests with my desire to be a nomad.
5. I am restless.
6. I expect to return.
7. I realize that I probably won't cry. Tears are usually the result of intense emotions for me. And I realize now that New York has dug a hollowness that has more permanence than a few passing emotions.

2011-01-25T20:57:00.000-08:00

#18
On My Mind:

1. Award season is my favorite time of the year after Easter and Christmas! I like it even more than my birthday! The Academy Award nominations were announced today. Although I'm always unnerved by some of the nominations, I feel like following the Oscars as close as I have for the past six years should have given me some edge. It turns out I'm still too idealistic and prone to expecting people to think like I do. I wish that Chris Nolan was nominated for Directing, Mark Wahlberg for The Fighter. There were other notable snubs. But, then again, 2010 was a pretty splendid year for movies.
2. I listened to John Piper's sermon at Passion Conference from several weeks ago and it refocused me in some ways. Tim Keller's sermon from this past week at Redeemer pounded it into me a little harder. I feel like I am always being lured into these lush trees that are about to fall, yet I'm trying to hold onto this rock — a rock that will never even crack. Simultaneously, I wonder: what are my ends? I've written about this often in the past, yet Apostle Paul says to "examine yourselves," and I think he meant that in a continuous, ongoing, sanctifying way. What are my ends? I examine my heart and it's not always clear.
3. I've been trying to minimize my use of Facebook. Maybe I'm getting bored, or maybe The Social Network affected me, or maybe this article freaked me out. It's difficult to evade Facebook because my fingers type it into the address bar of the browser instinctively. So I'm trying to visit NY Times, CNN, Salon, and my usual Twitter/Tumblr/Blogger more regularly. I love the ability to communicate via technology, but I don't think that it all has to point to an self-preserving, self-satisfying, and ultimately hindering portrayal of oneself to an unnecessary audience. We have an audience of only one that will ever matter anyways.
4. Sometimes I feel like my entire world hangs on a thread. A silver lining. I suppose it's what I make of it that really matters though. Sewing and weaving and wondering, "When do I stop? What is enough? Where is all this taking me?" I smile and I sew and I wonder.

2011-01-21T00:29:00.000-08:00

#17
Old Men (Alive and Over 50-years-old) that I Find Attractive:

1. Geoffrey Rush
2. David Strathairn
3. Jeremy Irons
4. Hugh Laurie
5. Brian Williams
6. Steve Buscemi (but only in Boardwalk Empire)
7. Stephen Fry

2011-01-19T02:08:00.001-08:00

#16
To Do During My Last 2 Weeks in New York:

1. Stuff my face with pistachio cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery in the LES. I think cupcakes are the most banal of all pastries, but these little things are amazing. Scrumptious and lights, the cream cheese frosting and savory cake bread are perfect, ag. I need to find a way to make a suitable substitute, at the very least.
2. Play the interactive brain games and wave at the dinosaur skeletons at the American Museum of Natural History. This is my favorite museum. Ever since I watched Night at the Museum, I find an extra wonder in all of the exhibits. I love how everything is so interactive and colorful. Plus, it's in the Upper West Side which is an area that I love. Last time I visited was with 2-year-old Cecil and he waved at all the dinosaur skeletons.
3. Read and people-watch at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. Ah, one of my most prominent New York pastime. I spent so much time in this building for so many reason. Schoolwork, leisure reading, writing, author events, meeting people, bathroom emergencies... It feels like home to me, how I know where everything is. I sound strangely pitiable, but I love the breadth of this place. Ah, well, perhaps I should have invested more in those independent stores, like HousingWorks and Books of Wonder.
4. Eat Wafels & Dinges. No one should even have to ask why. I'm not a fan of eating food that comes out of trucks or carts, but the these are a wonder. I like the black-and-tan, but the bacon-syrup one is great too. I think I've gorged myself getting the WMD too many times.
5. Meet up with Michael & Sara, Cecilia, Jessica, the Gwins, Stacey, and Kaela. And visit Morningside one more time, especially to see Nina. These are just people who I adore, but don't always spend a lot of time with, so I want to make a little bit of a farewell fuss for them.
6. Go to the Met and get lost, and sit in front of Monet's Reflections on the Water-Lily Pond at the MoMA for at least ten minutes. Neither of which will be too difficult.
7. Try to attend as many dance classes at Broadway Dance Center as possible. I haven't taken a dance class in five years, but my friends got me a gift certificate for BDC and I always wanted to try! Think I'm gonna go for some contemporary jazz.
8. Eat a crepe at Bar Suzette at Chelsea Market. I love Chelsea Market; it feels mildly yuppie and there are bakeries and food markets everywhere. I love the Bowery Kitchen Supply there. I would buy it out if I could. Anyways, I've always wanted to try a crepe from Bar Suzette, but I was never hungry when I was there, so I would just stare at the people making them. Well, not this time!
9. Buy and try to sell some books to Strand. I love Strand, and it's going to be one of the things I miss the most about New York. There are treasures everywhere; I got The Complete Works of John Keats, a copy of Fredrik Nyberg's English translation of A Different Practice, used copies of Sarah Dessen books, an old copies of Harry Potter that I felt like reading though I left them at home. Strand is the only place I (very) regularly buy books at in New York. Used and new alike. I'm sad now.
10. Eat soup dumplings at Joe Shanghai and a ShackStack and a purple cow at Shake Shack. I'm going to be obese by the time I leave the city.
11. Try to find the time to walk around these neighborhoods: NYU/Washington Square Park, Great Lawn in Central Park, Soho/Nolita, Greenwich, and Tribeca. Though, I think I'll be fine if I just sit on one of the benches on the north side of the Great Lawn for a little bit. With this weather, we'll see how that goes.

*A lot of the things on this list are things that I've done many times before during my several years here. I didn't want to add a lot of new things, because I want my last few weeks here to remind me of why I love New York and perhaps make that sentiment a little more potent before I leave.

2011-01-16T22:55:00.000-08:00

#15
What I thought while watching the Golden Globes tonight:

1. I remember when Natalie Portman wore a potato sack-looking dress when she won her Best Supporting Actress for Closer several years ago. Now she won Best Actress for Black Swan and evidently being a hormonal pregnant lady makes a person more loopy than being tipsy.
2. The camera randomly shows shots of Jack MacBrayer (Kenneth Parcell on 30 Rock) when people are winning their awards, but I don't mind because he is a little crazy-happy looking. It makes me laugh.
3. Why are you gay, Matt Bomer? Why?! Ag.
4. Thank You, God, that Andrew Garfield isn't.
5. It seems like hanging out with the cast and crew of The Fighter and becoming Jesus has done loads of wonder for Christian Bale. I think I might want to meet him now. Yeah, maybe.
6. Okay, I admit it. I am not a fan of Glee. I recognize its unique innovation of popular music into primetime TV, but I really don't think it deserved any of its rewards tonight. The substance doesn't measure up to the hype. David Strathairn and Modern Family and a few other talented individuals were overlooked for Glee's sake, and something about that doesn't seem right. Okay, hate on me, but I stand by it.
7. Why do Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie look like the parents of the night or something? The bowtie, the lip gloss, the been-here-done-that laid back attitude is kinda fun.
8. Helena Bonham Carter always looks a little crazy and British.
9. Were Hailee Steinfeld and Justin Bieber born when Toy Story first came out?? (Just looked it up: Steinfeld was probably in her mother's uterus and Bieber was one-year old. I feel really old.)
10. Diane Warren wrote Monica's "For You I Will," and I was obsessed with that song when I was 9-years-old. And that is why I know her to this day...
11. I'm actually wondering where the cast of Harry Potter is.
12. If I ever win an award, I hope Michael Scott and Liz Lemon present it, and that Ricky Gervais is nowhere to be seen. And that Andrew Garfield recites a monologue with the word "inspiringly."
13. I like Emma Stone. I want to be her friend.
14. "Elite is not a bad word, it’s an aspirational one" says Aaron Sorkin and it makes me incredibly happy. I really have to keep my humility in check.
15. Wait, did Inception really just get overlooked throughout the entire night??

2011-01-15T00:51:00.000-08:00

#14
One of my favorite clothing brands is eryn brinié. My cousin Loice first told me about the brand because the designers are Korean and they were opening up a flagship store in Soho. I fell in love with their simple, but still bold, style.

I usually describe the designs as a softer, silkier Anthropologie-in-neutral-colors. A lot of their clothes is sleek and drape-y. It has a really refined touch to it that I find refreshing and clean. Their play on shapes and fabrics is always a pleasant surprise. And whether it's the buttons or the stitching, it's so evident that they're meticulous on details. I love their simple photo shoots, often outdoors and always simultaneously soft and edgy.

The brand has been downsizing, recently closing its flagship in Soho and now planning to close their online store. I'm a little sad, but I'm hoping there are enough fans like me who will keep going back to eryn.

2011-01-11T20:23:00.000-08:00

#13
Is anyone else tired Ted Williams? He has an intriguing and very commercial talent and he has faced difficult times. And he's also been offered an amazing, and nowadays rare, second chance.

I just don't understand this spectacle that we've made him out to be these past few weeks. I don't understand why we have to hear the same story over and over again and why cameras follow him wherever he goes lately.

It's not making us better people. It's not even that heartwarming to me really. I think it's a strange hyperbolic symbol of how we feel humanized; we watch vulnerabilities through the TV screen, through YouTube clips, through newspaper articles and pictures. We choose the stories we want to hear and we fixate on them.

Why aren't we searching for things that break our hearts, shake our foundations, and build each other up? Why are we so caught up on this faraway person instead of those who are right in front of us? Why are we not searching for more?

I am also guilty of having inspiration and fuzzy feelings delivered to my table, growing obese from instantaneous gratification. And perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps I am finding it difficult to understand the meaning behind things thus misconstruing things itself.

2011-01-01T23:25:00.000-08:00

#12
As 2010 comes to a close, I am reflecting on the past year as I merge into a new one. If I could sum up 2010 into one word, it would be: humility.

In 2010, I learned about humility on many levels. I learned that there is no such thing as the perfect plan, the perfect family, the perfect church, the perfect me. Everything is in the process of changing and (hopefully) becoming better.

In that light, I approach 2011 with a sense of lowliness. I am coming out of a year that tossed me around with a whirlwind of uncertainties. But these doubts bring shades to experience, helping me to realize that I am too wrapped up in my rigid legalism.

So my decision to move back to California after several years in New York does not come easily, but it does come surely. The past several months, I forced myself into the illusion that working a full-time, 9-to-5 cubicle job was what I wanted since it was what everyone else was apparently aiming for. I thought that it was New York or nowhere else, allowing a city to define who I am.

It turns that I'm not that easily defined. I'm a writer, and I can't be confined to a stereotypical label or a city, even if it is a city as great and as diverse as New York. And I'm a Christian, who is being called elsewhere, to gather what I have learned and go into the field.

Am I sad to be leaving? Yes. Undoubtedly yes. But will I still leave? Undoubtedly yes.

But I will chase after more than just being.

2010-12-13T23:43:00.000-08:00

“I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?”

— Sylvia Plath

2010-12-10T00:38:00.001-08:00

#10

The one singular advice I have ever received from every professional writer I have ever spoken to is this: KEEP WRITING. I've heard it said to me between my verbose scrawls and parched dry spells. I've heard it so often that this one piece of advice is so deeply etched into my identity that my words-per-day-punched-out determines how focused I am overall in life.

Today, I spoke with current affairs writer Peter Gwin and KEEP WRITING was the one advice he gave to me (with a few others concomitant with it). It's refreshing to have it said to me again, to verbally trace those words back onto the forefront of my mind.

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in context and supposed inspirations that I forget the truths that are self-evident to my soul. I will always be a writer, but what am I writing about? I will always be a writer, but who am I writing for? I will always be a writer, and I will always write, but will my words hold weight?

I am ready to KEEP WRITING and writing and writing and exposing more of my fragmented life in the only way I know. But, first, I must leave.

2010-12-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

#9

I am a 22-year-old child masquerading as an adult.

I don't want to grow up, but I want to. Oh, the cleverness of me! That I should discover the key to life before I find the sufficiency to carry it out!

I have grown up too early and became too young too late. And ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I will still go to the Creator who will take me as I am. I will trust that my lives will converge and that the dregs will fall away.

2010-12-07T22:40:00.000-08:00

#8

I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm not particularly extroverted or open with people. I don't like sharing details of my life that matter to me. I keep to myself, because it's easier to deal with life that way.

I don't want to be outlandish with my thoughts and emotions, and I especially don't want to appear in a manner that lacks control. (I've had bad experiences on the flip side, and I've learned from my mistakes.) I like composure and assurance in what I do. What I reveal is what I want to reveal. And I realize that it's impossible to maintain all of these qualities in life, because life is more unexpected than anyone can ever know.

But I want to deal with matters calmly, quietly, and as correctly as I can. I want to put aside emotions for the time being and let life go on. If emotions wish to arise later, they're a great source for a muse, but they'll be a byproduct of a life-situation if anything else.

So I think it's really annoying when people get wrapped up in emotions and let them direct the mode in which situations progress. It is almost as if they value the unstable whirlwind of emotions rather than cool, collected order.

The only response I have to a ridiculous action is silence, because the elicitation of a response indicates a certain level of being controlled by the cause, thus becoming an effect. Though, I suppose I should try to correct the bits that I still find under the control.

2010-11-30T16:12:00.000-08:00

#7

I tend to get sick easily. I think it's a combination of sensitivity to pollen and dust, weak nasal bridges resulting in frequent nosebleeds, resistance to medication until the need is too dire to ignore, and always dressing with less clothes. I ordinarily have a cough almost all year round (but I think that's due to allergies.)

But I don't get very sick too often. Maybe once or twice a year, snot comes pouring out my nose, my eyes water so quickly I can't see, and my cough makes me sound like I've been smoking for years. I've broken out in hives, I've gotten 20+ mosquito bites, I've had my voice sound like nails on a chalkboard. All of this, I am used to.

However, yesterday took me to a whole new level. I was extremely lightheaded and nauseous, my tonsils were so swollen it hurt to swallow, my entire body ached and I simultaneously felt cold no matter how many layers I wore,¹ my skin was so sensitive that wiping my hand with a towel felt like steel wool scraping my skin, and I was walking in a haze. Every time I coughed, it felt like someone was kicking my head. And I'm sure I smelled gross since I kept sweating and I hadn't showered in two days.

I'm thinking that it was 몸살, which is loosely defined as "fatigue" in Korean and lasts about 24 hours.. 28 hours later and 19 hours in bed, all that is left is my lightheadedness, swollen tonsils, chills, and slight headaches... Okay, I'm not 100% yet, but I feel that I will be tomorrow.

Typically, I don't mind being sick because I think that it's a good reminder that I'm fallible. But, this time, I'm really over it. It feels like having dementors floating around me room...

Footnotes
1. This is incredible, because I never feel cold. Or if I do feel cold, I usually prefer it because I hate feeling hot. But I wore three layers and used two blankets yesterday!

2010-11-17T19:03:00.000-08:00

#6

I am just beginning to become aware of how big of a nerd I am.

I know that I am often overenthusiastic about geekery of all kinds, from movie paraphernalia to recalling exact lines and scenes from Harry Potter. I like my personalized taste in various passions. I am, beyond a doubt, geeky, but I've never really thought of myself as...nerdy.

Recently, I've just been talking to people and thinking about things I like. And it makes me wonder about how I have friends sometimes. I mean, for me, learning is fun. I'm not kidding. I like to spend my time learning about new things, I don't like to kill my brain cells partying or laying around like a sloth. Not usually anyways.

I favor facts. When I talk to people, I like to talk about ideas or concepts. Or, at least, events. When I babysit, I like to teach math or spelling or something. (I was so proud when I taught a 5-year-old how to spell "polish!" A 6-letter-word for a 5-year-old!) I like to keep my mind active and engaging.

So what's this whole hoopla I'm having about being a nerd? I just can't figure out why I didn't fully know it until this past week. I've always been in nerdy classes, hung out with the nerdy group in high school, and talked in my nerdy sort of way.

Maybe I was just in denial this whole time? I don't know why I would be since I think knowledge is power and all that jazz.

2010-11-14T23:58:00.001-08:00

#5

If I'm nice to you, it doesn't mean I like you, but it doesn't mean I dislike you either. If I'm mean to you, it doesn't mean I dislike you, but it doesn't mean I like you either.

Yeah?

My behavior is temperamental to context. It doesn't mean that I'm shifty or unstable, it just means that behavior is rooted in some substructure and its tendrils are formed with emotions that fit the environment. Am I losing you? I'm losing me too, but somehow I believe this.

So if my behavior is unreliable marks of my affection, what is?

Two things: money and time.

If I want to meet up with you and/or spend money on you, those are very good signs.

So this makes me wonder about how this relevant in my relationship with God. Do I spend time with Him? Do I put up offering on Sundays?

It really aligns my focus to where it should be, to want more than what I already have. It makes me want to spend more time with Him, to need Him consciously as I already unconsciously do.

Lately, I've been trying to tithe better. It never get easier to put a good chunk of money into the basket that's being passed around the church. I barely make any money working part-time as it is, but I've been compelled to give back and give thanks since these small graces are not of my own doing.

That pang I feel when I'm putting my tithe in is good though, because it indicates to me that I'm offering something that really matters to me; it also signifies what is more important. And sometimes it's difficult not to become Pharisaic and want people to know what I'm doing. But God has been humbling me a lot lately, wanting me for Himself than for any part of the world.

Wait- how did I get here when I began writing about my outward behavior? I suppose it just means that that there are things deeper than behavioral tendencies, though those depths do exude out through other ways. And if that is truly so, why not focus on that base rather that glorifying our fleeting emotions? Anyone wanna spend time and money with me?

2010-11-14T02:49:00.001-08:00

#4

For as long as I can remember, I have had trouble falling asleep.

In preschool, we would pull out these blue mats and take out a blanket and pillow we brought from home.¹ Around noon, we had nap time. I never slept though. During the entire year I was there, I never napped. For some reason, I never could. I would roll around, play with other kids who stayed awake for a little while, but I was mostly really bored. After an hour, I would be so relieved to see the lights back on, so I could put on my shoes² and go out and play.

I've had this weird form of insomnia all of my life. I like to try to exhaust myself to the limit so that I can pass out when I get to bed. The time it's taken me to get to sleep have ranged between ten minutes to several hours. Sometimes I would develop habits, like sleeping with my iPod on or with books on my bed. I would switch sides on where my head was on the bed, sleep on the floor, sleep with different blankets. Nothing ever really worked. As far as I could tell, the fastest sleep came to me when I was in unfamiliar beds.

I once read that white noise helped people fall asleep. And then I noticed that the several of the parents I babysit for turn on fans or other systems that emitted white noise.

So I downloaded a 30-minute mp3 file called "Sleepy Noise" that's a cross between the sounds of white noise and the beach. I wasn't sure if it helped me fall asleep until I tried sleeping without it. The noise isn't Ambien³, but it definitely does what it's supposed to. I think I definitely fall asleep within the 4-7 minute range that is average for sleepers now.

It took me 22 years to finally find a method to help me sleep. How much longer will it take to find a method that will help me sleep at a normal hour?

Footnotes:
1. I had a pillow-blanket set that was yellow with an embroidered sun and rainbow on it. I loved it almost as much I loved my baby blanket, though I still have my baby blanket and I have no idea what happened to the pillow-blanket set...
2. Sometimes I would put on my shoes on the wrong food (the left shoe on the right foot and right shoe on the left foot). I remember consciously being aware that my shoes were on the wrong foot, but I would never take them off and put the right ones on. I wonder why.
3. Ambien is a miracle drug. I'm not kidding.

2010-11-11T21:28:00.003-08:00

#3

I think that I will write longhand tonight. I like feeling the impressions of my pen on the pages of my Moleskine.

2010-11-10T22:47:00.000-08:00

#2

When faced with a ridiculous situation, I tend to laugh. I'm not sure why I laugh or when I started to react this way. However, I'm beginning to think that it is a response I should abstain from.

I think that I was under the impression that it would make me appear carefree or light; I try not to take things too seriously. Upon closer examination, I think it's really the opposite of that actually. I laugh because I tend to take a step back and survey the whole situation, like it's from a film. When viewed that way, anyone would laugh. But this approach to handling a situation is terrible because it distances me from reality.

The other day, I was babysitting my three usual munchkins (5-year-old Isabella , 3-year-old Maya , and 15-month-old Cecil). Maya began behaving very badly. Very badly. This included a lot of disobeying, shouting, running away, and other unpleasantness. After reprimanding her, Maya began yelling some gibberish at me. Isabella told me that Maya does that as her own outlet of expletives. So I was being cursed at by a 3-year-old in some rubbish language. So, of course, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I was so frustrated and helpless that laughing just seemed right. Isabella then looked at me and quietly said, "It's not funny."

This made me realize that my reaction to Maya's bad behavior was misleading. I was detaching myself from a situation, because I no longer wanted to deal with it. But reality isn't that easy to turn off.

I'm under this notion that I can be strong enough to let nothing really affect me. And I suppose that I am capable of that if I really wanted to be. But living in a world where my interactions help me grow as a person, my withdrawal method of laughing is only detrimental. Taking things seriously is so much more difficult.

2010-11-09T22:26:00.000-08:00

#1

Sometimes I wonder about the events that led to the formation of my personality.

Since I've been babysitting a lot lately, I witness how parents protect their kids from certain TV shows and movies. I see how they are constantly supervising their kids and their movements. The parents watch the way they eat, say, act, do. I suppose this is also taken to a new level since it's Manhattan and one can never expect what will happen.

But all of this makes me wonder where my parents were in the midst of my childhood. How on earth did my parents allow me to watch Stephen King's It when I was 6-years-old? Did they know I was watching Dawson's Creek and Roswell in elementary school? Did they know I liked to run off to the creek whenever I got mad? Did they know I was more passionate than my body could contain by the time I was 9? Did my parents even notice that I was reading Judy Blume's Forever when I was 12? Did they know of my doubts, such doubts, during sophomore year of high school? Did they know how many all-nighters I pulled in high school because of my skewed notion of good and bad? Or that if I truly had the chance, I would have pursued art?

This sounds like a rant of a hormonal teenager, but these are things I wonder speculatively, not hostilely. I'm not criticizing my parents, because I know they did the best they could given their situation. And I'm sure that the weird context that I grew up formed my strange personality today.

But it still makes me wonder: were the scars worth it? I'm prone to say yes, but I'm never really sure.

In the argument of nature versus nurture, every case is different. But I really think that nurture hit me really hard. And I think I can say that correctly concerning my family.

So sometimes I wonder about these events that led to my personality.

2010-11-08T20:55:00.001-08:00

The Body of Christ Broken For You

It is undeniable that I love communion at Morningside. Ah, dipping that small chunk of challah bread that Pastor Mark rips off into a cup of grape juice with bread crumbs already floating about. Oh, the effects on the palate are incredible. I always feel a little awkward standing in line in the middle of the room, but my anticipation for juicy-bread always trumps it. Mm, so good.

But I actually love the communion at Redeemer as well. We pass around the trays of what tastes like stale crackers and mini-cups of grape juice until everyone willing has received one. All of this happens while singing hymns. Then, the preparer motions for us to take in our designated crackers and juice.

It's different, yet I find some deeper sort of significance to it.

As the congregation simultaneously crunches on that cracker, it literally represents Jesus' body being broken for the sake that we might receive the Spirit. And that juice that we simultaneously swallow signifies His blood being shed and poured out for our sins.

What more, there is a large group of us who believes this to be true. This sacrament binds the body of the church together with the one thing we have in common with each other: our faith.

The word "communion" comes from the Latin root communio, which mean "sharing in common." And what can bind people of such radically different backgrounds than the unifying power that is in Christ?

NEXT: I'm going to attempt daily posts with writing prompts. I need to practice writing more and I might as well try this out.

2010-10-19T20:29:00.001-07:00

On My Mind

Several weeks ago, John MacArthur's devotional Drawing Near explained the manners in which Satan diverts our attention from Christ: through persecution, peer pressure, and preoccupation. It was an entry that hit me hard, because I know which method Satan so easily uses on me. Preoccupation. Of course.

Whether it be the latest Grey's Anatomy episode or the perfected Camambert soaked in apple brandy, I am always preoccupied. I like to know about things. I love the arts (literature, film & television, fine arts, stage & dance, culinary ) and I love structure (handwritten lists, Microsoft Excel, color coordination).

At the same time, I love these deep-rooted concepts and sensibilities. I get lost in them until they eventually seep onto the rest of the surface of my thoughts.

Well. It turns out that most people connect to each other in some stratum between the surfaces and the recesses of the mind. Some layer that I seem to be missing.

I come to realize that I become easily bored with clichés. And, to me, just about everything else is a cliché. I know I'm bring cynical. When people begin to open up to each other in heartfelt and sincere ways, I mostly write it off as a banality; it's happened before, it's nothing new. But the gist of the matter is... clichés exist because they are, to a large extent, legitimate and widespread.

And I, always trying to be different, choose to linger on the fringes of this cliched-but-necessary strata of human contact. I choose to preoccupy myself with meticulous details or overly intricate laws of the universe. I choose details and tenets, because they cannot be hackneyed, only further explored. I choose to be different, choose to be sought in a different way. (Or do I choose at all? Perhaps God in His providence and omniscience chose it for me, but that is a different matter.)

Because of this, I am often alone, being carried away by preoccupation, hoping that it will somehow lead me somewhere.

And it does! Strangely, it does. As I submerge myself into my fascination with the minuscule and ginormous, God reveals that I am actually not alone. I might be rarer and more esoteric, but I'm never alone. He places people in my life who prove that to be true and an earnestness in my heart to search all the more.

I don't mean to write this in a way that might make me come off as an elitist. I most certainly am not. If anything, I am even more flawed. But I do acknowledge that: i) I am often lonely, ii) it is my preoccupation that causes it, and iii) God still finds a way to me. Even in temptation and my shortcomings, I am found.

2010-10-13T22:57:00.001-07:00

A Memory

You ask me, "What do you want?"

And in my naïveté, I answer, "To be broken."

So You begin breaking me, chipping at me, and carefully pulling me apart piece by piece. My soul trickles out along with my pride and the illusion of control. I try to sweep everything back together, my arms unable to carry the weight of it all. I cry to You and You hear me, "I wanted this, didn't I?" And You keep breaking me and I keep trying to collect these stubborn splinters, shards falling out my arms while I bend down to pick up another. Until finally, You break these pieces that I had once believed to be infrangible. You demolish it and it shatters my heart. My whole world stops and everything I try to carry fall out of my arms.

I fall to my knees and whisper, "I think I'm done being broken." And You stitch me back together, sewing me with such delicacy and care. But some scars are permanent.

And again, You ask me, "What do you want?"

And in my eagerness to heal, I say, "To be a grown-up."

You are silent. I begin to whine for this; I beg for order and reason and some form of structure back in my life. I shuffle papers, walk upon streets, and hold my head high, pretending that I know what You have planned. You are silent; I grow restless. I grow impatient and weary and sad. Flustered, I tell You, "I am doing what I am supposed to do!" And You slowly give me flashes of what this ordinary life I want would look like. As these scenes flicker by, I realize that I'm not ordinary. I want to be, but I never will be. You made me deeper and stranger and so alone.

I cry, because I'm always wrong.

And You ask me, "What do you want?"

And through tears and sighs, I say, "I don't know. I don't know; make of me what You will."

2010-10-05T21:22:00.001-07:00

Obviously I have trust issues.

2010-09-30T20:58:00.001-07:00

TV Shows I Love: So You Think You Can Dance
Part 3 of 10

The first routine of FOX's So You Think You Can Dance that I ever watched was Tyce Diorio's Broadway routine to Hairspray's "You Can't Stop the Beat" for Benji and Donyelle. I was intrigued. When I tuned in again the week after, I watched Mia Michaels' contemporary routine to Celine Dion's "Calling You" for Heidi and Travis. You know, the one that launched the show into more than just a dance competition. After crying while watching that routine, I was completely hooked.

When a person watches So You Think You Can Dance, one comes to know the judges, the choreographers, the dance styles, the signature moves, the lingo and the various contestants in each season so well. And one tends to become emotionally attached to these things. You develop favorites (Mark Kanemura forever!) and annoyances (Cat Deeley's chills) and take the judges' words with reverence and a grain of salt. Whether you have ten years of dance experience or none at all, you can always appreciate the aesthetic presentation and the skillset required for this competition.

I think the easiest way to really get into the grits of why I love this show is better explained by giving a brief survey of my top ten favorite couples routines. Across 7 seasons, you can see my biases and loves. I think it's a good list though.

Kayla & Kupono’s contemporary routine by Mia Michaels to Sara Bareilles’ “Gravity”
This is undoubtedly my favorite. Kayla and Kupono were my early favorites of season 4; Kayla looked like she was capable of anything and Kupono had this flair that Mark had but more diluted. Exploring the affects of addiction, this routine displayed so much strength in its movement and meaning. Sometimes, I feel like the show limited Mia Michaels from exploring dance in the ways that she is capable of. But with "Gravity," the choreography, the dancers, and the music melded so beautifully. Mia Michaels also won an Emmy for the choreography deservedly. [Clip here]

Chelsie & Mark’s lyrical hip hop routine by NappyTabs to Leona Lewis’ “Bleeding Love”
Okay, I admit that Chelsie and Mark are my favorite couple of SYTCTD history. It wasn't so much the skills they had, but the chemistry of their pairing. This routine is the epitome of that. You see their isolations and synchronizations, but that's not why you love them. It's the way that they do everything! Napoleon and Tabita choreographed this perfect piece, utilizing characterization, and it plays on emotions so well! Chelsie and Mark play it so well! During the routing, Chelsie becomes that heartbroken girl and Mark really seems like a stiff workaholic. And you find yourself feeling for them. Ah, I love Mark; he adapts to every dance technique and style so well. [Clip here]

Neil & Sabra’s jazz routine by Mandy Moore to Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams”
I love this routine. Neil's plange. Mandy Moore choreographs excellent jazz routines, but it never fares well unless she has equally excellent dancers. The idea of a business meeting is so ingenious and incorporating the table added a nice but not an overbearing touch. Honestly, I loved each movement in the routine. From the Neil's finger wave to their synchronized turns that fanned out, it was enjoyable to watch. But Neil's plange. That was stunning. [Clip here]

Pasha & Sara’s West Coast swing by Benji Schwimmer to Fatboy Slim’s “The Rockafeller Skank”
There's something so endearing about this pair. Sara seems so cool and Pasha seems sleazy in a nerdy way. I really loved watching them in this routine. It seemed so free, but still challenging. And I feel like you can feel the fun oozing from it. The choreography, the subtle gestures, and the busyness of their feet. I loved this routine by the former SYTYCD winner. [Clip here]

Hok & Jamie’s jazz routine by Wade Robson to “The Chairman’s Waltz” from Memoirs of a Geisha
A hummingbird in love with a flower. Ah, only Wade Robson. And Wade Robson is a genius. He takes these two dancers and utilizes their skills into his work. Look at Jamie's grande plie! Look at Hok's b-boy dance move thing! The structure of their movements complements each other's skills. The jerky isolations, the fluidity of growth, I love this routine. I actually love the music to this routine as well. [Clip here]

Alex & Twitch hip hop routine by NappyTabs to Lil’ Jon & LMFAO’s “Outta Your Mind”
This was so crazy. This little ballet dancer blows everyone's expectations with Napoleon and Tabitha's hip hop routine! And with Twitch nonetheless! I was worried when Alex drew hip hop, because it seemed so unlikely for him. But this routine was fantastic and you can't take your eyes off him. I think I watched the routine 5 times in a row when it first aired (thank you, DVR). [Clip here]

Heidi & Travis’s contemporary routine by Mia Michaels to Celine Dion’s “Calling You”
Ah, the bench dance. So popular and probably talked about. There are three key things I love about this dance, and it's i.) the hands going through the bench, ii.) Travis' weird meltdown on the bench, and iii.) Travis inching away as Heidi pulls closer. Those three things did it for me. The dancing and the concept were beautiful, and I tend to usually like Travis. [Clip here]

Katee & Joshua’s contemporary routine by Mia Michaels to Adele’s “Hometown Glory”
I loved the assisted run! I loved the throws! I wasn't too big on Katee's look, but I liked everything else about the routine. The first 30 seconds of the routine is actually my favorite when they're mirroring each other. I just love the aptness of Katee's movements; she moves so well. And the beauty of the story behind the routine played well into the dance. Not always a fan of Joshua, but he did okay. [Clip here, including behind-the-scenes with Mia Michaels]

Danny & Lacey’s Samba routine by Dmitry Chaplin to Club Des Belugas’s “Hip Hip Chin Chin”
This dance is so hot. Danny and Lacey are easy on the eyes, and their choreographer Dmitry, a former SYTYCD contestant, is also...hot, I guess. I loved the sassiness of the routine and all of Danny's subdued glances and movements. That finger thing he did 0:16?? Man. The dance was intense and bold and fun to watch. I'm actually a fan of Danny (though I liked Neil more that season). And Lacey was, you know, Lacey. The only way I can describe her is "on fire," whether that be good or bad. [Clip here]

Chelsie & Gev’s contemporary routine by Sonya Tayeh to Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine”
I don't think this is a very popular routine, but I think it's beautiful. It was when I was still unsure about Sonya's choreography and I wasn't completely sold on Gev yet. The first half of the routine seemed a little forced and harried, but the second half quiets down. Sonya makes these strange but alluring movements that stick in your mind. I thought that Chelsie and Gev were lovely in this and this song is one of my absolute favorites. [Clip here]

2010-09-24T22:43:00.000-07:00

TV Shows I Love: Mad Men
Part 2 of 10

AMC's Mad Men mainly follows the lives of Don Draper, his family, and those in his advertisement agency. What makes the show unique is its setting in America circa 1960s. The show tries to follow trends, lifestyles, and historical events of that time period.

It's the 1960s style that first drew me into Mad Men. I love the presentation of outfits, work life, families, and whatnot. It's so old America; something that I find glamorous and appealing in its antiquated-ness.

But it's all in the characters. The characters and the heartstrings that they pull is what makes this show thrive. Somehow in the banality of their lives, a voice is caught in the undercurrent that makes you, for some reason, care. Characters caught in the midst of affairs, work pressure, alcoholism, mental breakdowns - strangely, it is the ordinariness that makes this show extraordinary. You see people dealing with their lives the best way that they know how.

Everybody loves Don Draper in his genius and flaws, but my favorite characters is probably Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser). Pete Campbell in his boyish looks and desire to become man by his own terms. I love the way he talks and the subtle glances he gives. I love the things that happen to him and how he deals with it.

Hm, maybe that's where the artistry of the show lies. Everything that happens on the show seems natural, as if life really went on this way back then. And, in turn, the characters give a realistic and complex response to these lifelike struggles.

What would it be like to be Don Draper, the mysterious advertising genius? Or Joan Holloway, the boss lady of the office? Or Peggy Olson, a copywriter trying to make it in a man's world? Or Roger Sterling, a womanizing executive? There is an earnest sentiment to these characters that makes the show inexplicably fun to watch.

In recent episodes, Don Draper began writing a journal. I must say, it's giving Dexter Morgan's narrative a run for the money.

On a side note, the opening credits for Mad Men is my favorite of all time. More than HBO's True Blood and ABC's Modern Family. It's clean and sharp and it reminds me of the opening of Steven Spielberg's Catch Me If You Can, what with the silhouettes and whatnot. I guess it makes sense since the whole show focuses around an ad agency.

NEXT: FOX's So You Think You Can Dance

2010-09-08T15:24:00.000-07:00

TV Shows I Love: Dexter
Part 1 of 10

I recently watched all four seasons of Showtime's Dexter and fell in love with its premise and characters. Dexter Morgan was adopted when he was three. In Dexter's childhood, his foster father (and police detective) Harry discovered his urge to kill without remorse. This urge consumes Dexter and it comes to define him. Rather than allowing Dexter to become a criminal, Harry trains him to live by a code. This code allows Dexter to avoid being caught and to kill only those who are already murderers. In present day, Dexter works as a forensics scientist for the Miami police department. His job surrounds him with his one thrill and provides innumerable candidates for his "projects."

The original reason why I was drawn to this show was that it rivaled HBO's True Blood on bloodiest scenes on TV. It seems like a ridiculous reason to watch a show, but I have this thing for gore. What I was surprised by (though I shouldn't have been) is the poignancy and depth of the show.

During the second season, Dexter begins to comb through this darkness inside him. He fraudulently attends a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and confesses to the group of the monster inside him. He says,

"I'm Dexter and I'm not sure what I am. I just know there's something dark in me and I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even... especially not me. Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately there are these moments when I feel connected to something else... someone. It's like the mask is slipping and things... people...who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter. It scares the hell out of me."¹

I was completely taken aback by this monologue. What struck me was how much I - always wrapped up in secrecy and trust issues - relate to him. Albeit my issues are nowhere near as tantamount as his. But, honestly, isn't Dexter's Dark Passenger the bane of all humankind? Isn't it sin?? Maybe I'm getting a little over zealous or maybe I'm having a revelation, but Dexter's relationship to his Dark Passenger is such a blatant struggle with mankind's struggle with sin.

And that banal metaphor of God taking the wheel and directing my life comes to mind. Do I take the backseat? Do I let the God of the universe and stars, of my thoughts and sighs - do I allow Him to duke it out with the Dark Passenger for my life? Or do I try to alleviate my conscience and give into the seducing words of my Dark Passenger, taking the wheel and retreating further into myself?

I must admit that Dexter is still ahead of the curve. At least, he acknowledges his Dark Passenger. Some of us can't see through the darkness. After all, "The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."²

NEXT: AMC's Mad Men

Footnotes
1. "An Inconvenient Lie." Season 2, Episode 3 of Showtime's Dexter
2. The Usual Suspects (1995)

2010-09-06T13:08:00.001-07:00

Perfected Foods: (Red) Pasta Sauce
Part 2 of Foods

I've been making my own tomato pasta sauce for several months after I tried this recipe on Smitten Kitchen (which is my favorite food blog). I've veered pretty far from it now, since I've been improvising to my preferred tastes. I realized consuming that much butter regularly is a little disgusting and glorious.

Italian food is actually not one of my favorite foods. I think it's because I've grown so tired of pasta and it's so easy to mess it up and make it bland and generic. However, creating my own personalized sauce helped me appreciate the art of cooking and the ability to really individualize something. Am I becoming chef? Another artist of sorts? Hah, far from it though I can dream.

I read once that the Golden Rule of cooking is to "prepare the dish as you would want to enjoy it yourself," whereas the Platinum Rule of cooking is to "prepare the dish as the person eating it wishes it to be."¹ Okay, so I'm slowly learning the Golden Rule (and the Platinum Rule indirectly), but I want to master flavors and tastes to really get to the Platinum. It's like the Olympics of cooking!

How do chefs like Daniel Boulud and Jean Georges Vongerichten and Thomas Keller create recipes and methods that can achieve the Platinum among so many people across the board? To understand the taste buds of so many? That astounds me. Perhaps this culinary fascination will lead me to a better understanding of other people rather than of food itself.

Ingredients
16 lb. of any pasta (I prefer rotini or farfalle.)
28 oz. of canned whole tomatoes
1 1/2 large onions, finely diced
3 tsp garlic, minced
1/3 lb. ground beef
2 medium carrots, chopped
1-2 tsp of thyme
1/2 cup of corn
1/4 cup of scallions, chopped
olive oil
salt & pepper

Directions
Boil the water and cook the pasta first. (You can set it aside or cook it simultaneously if you're into multi-tasking.) Adding salt to the boiling water allows a higher boiling temperature and adding a little bit of olive oil prohibits the pasta from sticking to the pot. After draining the pasta, it's important to wash it over with cold water if you have to wait a while to finish the sauce. The cold water prevents the pasta from sticking together.

While that's going on, put the diced onions, garlic, carrots, corn, scallions, and ground beef onto a shallow sauce pan with olive oil. Add thyme, salt and pepper. Cook on medium high for about 10 minutes or until the vegetables begin to soften; the ground beef should be browning. Add the entire can of tomatoes (including the juice), stir, and cover the saucepan for about 10-15 minutes on medium high. When the sauce begins to simmer, lower the heat to medium low. Leave the heat on for about 45 minutes, occasionally check on it and crush the now softened tomatoes with a fork or spoon. Add salt to taste. Leaving the sauce on low heat for longer will create richer flavors, but it isn't necessary if short on time.

Servings 4-6

Footnotes
1. Costello, Lauren Braun., and Russell Reich. Notes on Cooking: a Short Guide to an Essential Craft. New York, NY: RCR Creative, 2009. Print.

2010-08-21T20:56:00.001-07:00

Perfected Foods: Breakfast
Part 1 of Foods

I am rarely awake early enough to eat breakfast. Moreover, I rarely eat breakfast even if I am awake early enough for it. Thankfully, foods aren't biased to the times of the day and I can enjoy breakfast food even when it's midnight. I love eggs, grits, sausages, toast, bacon, oatmeal, waffles... Yum. But what would be a perfect breakfast? What would be my perfect breakfast?

I can imagine it now. Eggs. Lots of it.

1. I want one egg, scrambled with a little pinch of salt & pepper, a dash of milk and some fresh chives thrown in. The milk makes the eggs fluffier and a prettier shade of yellow. I'd eat it with a bit of ketchup.

2. I want the next egg over medium with the yolk of a gooey consistency (but not runny) and the whites completely cooked with browned edges. I know this sounds absolutely obscure but I like to eat fried eggs with a little bit maple syrup.

3. The third egg will be poached with a small bit of spinach, all atop a lightly buttered toast. The egg will be covered with a gruyere-white cheddar white sauce. It's a variation of eggs Florentine that I've customized. I don't like English muffins too much, which is why I prefer the toast.

Three eggs. Is that too much? I don't know.

There would be three slices of 6-inch applewood smoked bacon, though not completely crispy on the plate.

During the summer and spring, I would have a side dish of fresh fruit (blueberries, peaches, strawberries, nectarines) with some plain Greek yogurt, granola, and honey. During the fall and winter, the side dish would instead be a bowl of oatmeal (steel cut) with brown sugar, dried cranberries, and pecans.

I'd probably drink water or maybe fresh squeezed orange juice. Maybe I should get back into coffee...

I worked really hard to make this image so that you can get a visual grasp of this wonderful meal. It took me over an hour.

2010-07-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

BERLIN!¹
A Travelogue in Reflections

A year ago, I spent a month in Berlin for a study abroad course that surveyed the city's historical and cultural events in the twentieth century. Knowing very little about German history, I went eager to simply travel abroad and into Europe for the first time.

Through my time overseas, one thing that became very apparent about me is my tendency to place myself in unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable, situations. Coming to school in New York, I knew very little of the East Coast and its magnificent harshness, which led to a lot of struggles and questions. And going into Berlin, I put myself through a similar masochism, though at a lesser magnitude.

Besides my self-proclaimed masochism, I enjoyed Berlin for many other reasons. I remember the first day in Berlin when I was walking down Adalbertstraße in Kreuzberg and wondering what on earth I had gotten myself into. The unfamiliarity of this scene was so wonderful and intimidating that I immediately wanted to be a part of it. I came to love the Turkish restaurants, the Bauhaus buildings, the daily farmer's market near Kottbusser Tor, and especially the best baklava I've ever had in my life at a local bakery.

Riding the U-Bahn, I would often go to Alexerderplatz in Mitte to return to some of the traditional American indulgences (from Dunkin' Donuts to the Body Shop, they really had it all.) And it's amazing that in the midst of all the consumerism, there were so many landmarks, museums, and the Berliner Dom surrounding it.

Or I would go to Uhlandstraße in Charlottenburg and walk along the stores. I went to a small Kathy Kollwitz exhibit available at the time and there was something about her self-portraits that was so profoundly sad. I tried currywurst (it's amazing!) for the first time in Charlottenburg near the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church which was mostly destroyed during WWII. The remains of a bombed church on the same street as the second largest department store (KaDaWe) in Europe, imagine that...

I remember taking the S-Bahn all the way to Wannsee after watching HBO's Conspiracy about the conversation that affirmed "the final solution of the Jewish Question." I spent several hours at Lake Wannsee, which was beautiful, before taking the bus to the villa-turned-museum where the notorious conference was held. It was pouring rain that day.

I went on so many tours with my class: the Berlinische Galerie, the Jewish Musuem, the Soviet Memorial, Checkpoint Charlie, a boat ride on the Spree, The Holocaust Museum, the Soviet Memorial... But the wonderful thing about Berlin is that the city is a monument in and of itself. It's a testament to history. And just as my struggles reveal who I really am, it is the same with Berlin.

Though there is such a stained history, there is so much to appreciate as well. It faces (or tries to face) its past to the best of its ability and still progresses forward. How does one even move on when its past is so tainted? When there is really nothing to hide behind? And yet, it does.

Despite its heavy historical presence, Berlin is really a young people's cities. It's so much more affordable than other European cities and there is such a nightlife. There is so much to do if that is what you want, but there is also the option to really relax and let the city sink in.

In Prenzlaur-berg, I had this sudden whiff of home; it wasn't home as in California or New York or even America. I was reading on a bench on Schönhauserstraße after coming from St. George's English Bookshop on Wörtherstraße and it was a mild summer day. There was a sudden breeze that crept up and it kept me still for several moments. I can't forget that breeze for some reason. Even after a year, I can feel it linger.

And as easy as that, Berlin caught my heart. Sometimes you'll see me poring over maps of Berlin. My eyes and fingers trace the streets as I wonder what it's like there now and who else is being inspired.

1. This blog is displayed in the font Futura, displaying the shapes that Bauhaus is renown for. Futura was created by German typeface designer Paul Renner in 1927.

2010-07-01T11:20:00.001-07:00

EXPLICATIONS OF ME : indulgences in narcissism

Part 16: MUSIC THAT MOVES ME

Music finds me in little pockets of inspiration that triggers pages upon pages of words. It is where sense meets sensibility.¹ And there aren't many mediums where that happens for me. And sporadically there is a song or melody that envelops me with more than just thoughts and emotions, transcending me into another state of inspiration.

It's a quick fix. Music is my Muse, and I regurgitate it into writing.² So here's just a taste of what moves me:

"Conversations," Jon McLaughlin
"Lover I Don't Have to Love," Bright Eyes
"Taking on Water," John Mayer
"Romeo n Juliet," Clazziquai
"The Artist in the Ambulance," Thrice
"기억," 윤하 feat. Tablo
"God Loves Ugly," Atmosphere
"Unfold," Jason Mraz
"Nothing Better," Brown Eyed Soul
"Be Thou My Vision," John Rutter
"Southern Girl," Erykah Badu feat. Rahzel
"그해 여름," 강타
"Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See," Busta Rhymes
"The Boy's Gone," Jason Mraz
"You Got Me," The Roots feat. Erykah Badu
"White Horse," Taylor Swift
"Great is Thy Faithfulness," Thomas Chisholm

Footnotes
1. As I've said before, I'm trying to figure out how to bring things together. Compartmentalization is sometimes easy, but it is proving to be a little painful in the light of current contexts.
2. I wish I could talk about everything I'm trying to explain here: how music is a quick fix, but the substance behind all I write ultimately comes from other writings, how I've always loved reading mythology and I say Muse the way Homer says, "Sing to me of the man, Muse," how all great art forms are depictions of the fundamental layer in a human to love/create as said by Socrates...

2010-06-21T13:57:00.001-07:00

a blog entry

I'm very good at retrospect. I said this in an entry before, but I am realizing it more now. And I'm very good at retrospect, because it helps me distance myself from the raw chaos of a situation. I like to figure out why things happened and how it affected everything else, and I am capable of understanding something like that in retrospect.

I like to compartmentalize my thoughts, emotions, and memories.

Lately, God has been reconciling these compartments together. Why? Because I drew limitations to what I wanted. I said, "God, I have these boundaries, but You are free to move any way You want within them. This is how I work, God." And I thought this, as if He was not the one who pieced me together.

So these lists that I have been making for the past entries have been my attempt to not necessarily rid boundaries but perhaps expand them. To feel and to know at the same time. Why do I hold on so tightly to things that are sure to pass away? To words, to ideas, to concepts? Why do I want to slip into the archetype of postmodern writers: too proud, often petty, and forcefully profound.

Don't I have a higher calling? Don't I?

2010-06-21T13:42:00.001-07:00

List 4: Thoughts

1. I am afraid, always afraid. Afraid of the future, afraid of opening up to people, afraid of being alone, afraid to fail, afraid to hope, afraid to be wrong. I am often able to muffle said fears through the excitement of the unknown. But lately the unknown has been slowly spreading darkness, scattering seeds of doubt that grow rapidly and voraciously. And the darkness that I once loved for its mysterious beauty chills every corner of my soul. And You whisper, always in a whisper, "Do not be afraid."*

2. I was watching a documentary on Pink's career when she said, "People say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But I don't so, I think it's just annoying."** And I was like, this girl has been reading my mind. I was thinking the exact same thing, but I felt pretentious thinking it. It's good to know that someone understands me. And I always seek understanding from other people, but I don't ever seek uniformity. If you want to flatter me, just tell me that I don't suck. Let's just all be ourselves.

3. I've been thinking a lot about how I want to be remembered after I die. And I'm not suicidal or terminally ill, but I'm at that stage where the world is at my fingertips and the next move will be the trickles that will bring upon the surge of life. But do I even want to be remembered? I don't know, I feel that I have more to look forward to, no? I have this fanciful vision of never being tied down to anything, of being floaty and nomadic forever. But I want to be tied down. I want to find something worth being tied down to.

4. Sometimes I wish I was the more commercial kind of weird. You know, the quirky and fun kind. Oh, well. I don't think I was ever meant to be that smooth. One of my professors once told me that writing comically is one of the most difficult things to do. I try, but I don't think my weird humor always come across properly. And I reference too many obscure things at the same time. Why, oh, why is this my plight?

5. "What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the Law, but that which is through faith in Christ - the righteousness that comes from God, and is by faith."*** I didn't really know what this meant until I reread it two days ago. It's amazing what context does.

* Luke 12:32 NASB
** "Behind the Music: Pink" VH1 (2009)
*** Philippians 3: 8-9

2010-06-04T19:41:00.000-07:00

List 3: 25 Random Facts About Me

1. One of the reasons I avoided doing this for so long is that I didn't want to go with the crowd and do what was popular at the time. But I realize now that this notion just makes me seem slow and slightly passé. Lol whatever, I do what I want. And I'm reading over my list now and it's super long. Oh, well. Stick with me if you can.

2. Home is where the heart is, home is where the heart is. I used to tell this to myself whenever I was depressed or homesick. But then I think of Homer's Odyssey. Now, there's a man who was homesick! Odyssey is typically referred to as a journey, usually a journey through life or something like that. But Italo Calvino's The Uses of Literature had a fantastic essay about how Odysseus was on a journey back to somewhere. Ithaca is what kept Odysseus moving; it was his goal, sometimes just a layover. So when I say, "Home is where the heart is," home (and the heart) is my anchor. It's what keeps me grounded and it's what keeps me moving. It's where I began and where I will end up. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is fixed upon an everlasting cornerstone. Is there a worthier home?

3. I'm INTJ. I'm like the definition of INTJ. I'm arrogant, calculating, want things to make sense, and what I know (and what I don't know) is my life. I hate the process of things, because I typically have a strong vision for the end. So when I say things like, "Can you keep up," I mean it. Can you keep up? And you'll be like, "What are you talking about?" And I'll think, "I'm alluding to Destiny's Child, my Tumblr, and your blatant unawareness all at the same time." Mm, I have issues.

4. Before, I used to perceive people based on their intellect and knowledge. I think I got over that spectrum of measuring things, and now I perceive people through their curiosity. I love people who are interested, passionate and excited about the things they don't know and the possibilities of what the world holds. Complacency is my greatest enemy. I cannot understand people who are so satisfied with their situations, because satisfaction is an indication that a person has decided to limit the possibilities of the world. I think I still struggle with this, because it gets tiring sometimes to always be yearning.

5. If I could have three wishes, I would wish for 1.) an unlimited supply of money; 2.) humility; 3. self-awareness. However, Tim Keller tells me that 2. and 3. are contradictory. :/

6. I love food. I love the art of cooking and eating. I love how smells, tastes, and the physical appearance create such a sensory experience. And I can eat just about anything, but I really appreciate great food. I love the pan seared duck from Citrus Bar & Grill. I love the ice cream sandwich from Ed's Lobster Bar. I love macarons from Laduree, clam chowder from Fisherman's Wharf in Monterey, 떡보쌈 in LA, deep-fried Twinkies from Santa Cruz Boardwalk. I love roasting chicken, sauteing onions and garlic in olive oil (it produces the most amazing smell), waiting hours for something to braise. And I really, really like pork.

7. I really like awkward people. I think it's because they feel more genuine to me. I don't like those polished, perfectly witty and eloquent people. I just like that natural grit of getting to know the details of a person. And I love dry humor. I love Kristen Wiig.

8. I read a lot. At least, I think I read a lot. I know a lot of books. I like a lot of books. Books make my world so much better. Books make my world so much bigger and brighter and more beautiful. I don't think I'm necessarily restricted to a certain genre; I really just appreciate excellent writing and there's never a shortage of it. (There is a lot of bad writing too though...) I like YA, classical and contemporary lit, cookbooks and some memoirs. I love graphic novels and short stories. Not so big on commercial or chick lit though. :/ And I love talking about books.

9. I love the environment that I grew up in. I love my family: parents, grandparents, older brother, younger sister, and...cousin. They truly bring out the worst in me in a way that no one else can. And it's beautiful. And I consider it more than a blessing that they are my family. I wish I wasn't so far from them.

10. I really want to get married. And I don't idolize weddings or marriage or anything like that, and I don't romanticize it in any way. But since I'm INTJ, I know where I want to be long-term, and it's this really slow process that aggravates me. I don't want to date, I want to get married. And people says things like, "You're too young, you don't know anything yet," or "Have some fun while you're young!" Honestly, I'm not made like that. No one is ever fully ready to get married no matter how old they are and, believe me, my idea of fun is probably different from yours. I don't mean to sound defensive, but, c'mon, I'm not stupid. Usually.

11. I'm really happy to be Korean. Or, rather, Korean-American. I was pretty white-washed until the summer before coming to NYU when I became obsessed with Super Junior. And now I have a minor in Korean. Oh, how things change. But Korean entertainment aside, I love Korean food and the culture and the nationalism. And as much love there is, there is also hate. Because I seriously hate the uber-patriotism. And netizens. I hate netizens.

12. I have semi-fetishes... but it's not provocative or anything! I really like it when guys wear TOMS shoes, and I really like softly accentuated collarbones.

13. My favorite color combination is blue and gray. I specifically like navy and a fair shade of gray. I like the serene intensity of the blue and the coolness of the gray. While I worked at Banana Republic, I loved to dress men in navy V-neck sweaters and lightweight wool gray dress pants. You know, just for fun.

14. And 13 leads to the fact that I love menswear. I really like business casual to formal menswear. I'm really glad that men get married in suits. It's a nice vision to be walking towards.

15. I like to travel alone. Last summer, I went to Berlin for a month for a short study abroad program. I spent some time in Lutherstadt Wittenberg, where Martin Luther lived and preached. I loved the weekend I spent in Paris and Versailles. And I loved doing it alone. I think I spend so much time taking account for what other people want to do and making up for anything that lacks that spending time alone is such a relief. I'm excited for the day that I meet someone who I would want to take with me on my travels. Hehe.

16. I love Bethel, the church I grew up in. Seriously, that group of people is completely irreplaceable. They are family in way that still surprises me. And just like my real family, they are capable of bringing out the worst in me. (And hopefully the best sometimes.) I have memories and ties there that take me to a whole new level of nostalgia. From staying up all night talking about life to going to Denny's way too often to beach excursions on New Year's to spending half of the summer (and winter) breaks at Steven's, they are just a foretaste of the home I will return to.

17. I'm really OCD sometimes. I get inexplicably picky. When I get in one of my moods to clean or making everything aesthetically proportionate, I get a little crazy. I like when things are in order and aligned. I alphabetize books and DVDs, set up a lot of different computer folders, and line things up on my table. On top of that, I'm a little ADD so I tend to have a short attention span.

18. I have a weird taste in music. Since I basically listen to whatever inspires my writing, I listen to songs and not artists. It's rare for me to find an artist that I can say that I like more than a handful of songs of (i.e. John Mayer, Jason Mraz, Clazziquai). But there are a lot of different songs that I ardently like, ranging from K-pop to Christian Hip Hop. Music is probably my second biggest, if not equal to the first, inspiration for my writing.

19. I like to substantially talk to people. I like to meet and learn about people. I like to find out what people are passionate about and see what they're like. But I don't think people always like my relentless questioning. Believe me, I don't like it either, so I love it when a person can keep a conversation going well.

20. I don't like how my voice sounds when I talk. I think that I talk too choppy sometimes, and my breathing gets weird when I get too intense. And whenever I get really serious, my voice drops maybe two pitches. But I love talking about my passions and I don't think people are used to that kind of fanaticism.

21. During college, I had the hardest time committing to attending one church. I attended Morningside, Times Square Church, Redeemer, Morningside again, Redeemer again... At the same time, I discovered my inability to really open up and commit to other people. I have a fear of vulnerability that kinda takes on this whole new kind of damages. I hate revealing struggles while in the throes of them, but I love talking about it in retrospect. I'm soooo good at retrospect. Michael Keller says that it has to do with my pride. LOL nothing new.

22. I watch a lot of TV and movies...

23. I like face-to-face communication. I'm bad at online chatting and texting. I guess I'm okay when it comes to e-mailing but it takes forever for me to respond (even when it's on my Blackberry) and I really like phone calls, but I tend to put my phone on silent and forget until about four hours later.. So, yeah. Just talk to me.

24. I'm a Christian and a writer, and I consider only these two things to be somewhat fixed about me at this point in my life. But I'm beginning to realize now, after two years of studying the foundations of identity, that things always change even if it is within boundaries. And my desire for stasis only thwarts my simultaneous desire for growth.

25. As a Christian, the Bible is the Word of life and the source of Truth. And I'm still discovering the beauties of it. And as a writer, there have been some works that have had a heavy influence on me; namely, Jorge Luis Borges' "Borges and I," Marguerite Duras' "Writing," Margaret Atwood's "Happy Endings," Neil Gaiman's Sandman: Seasons of Mist, etc. I write. And "I write" in the intransitive verb way that Roland Barthes said that writers should write.

2010-06-01T23:54:00.001-07:00

List 2: Things I Discovered While at NYU

1. Gallatin is for the passionate.

2. Berlin is more beautiful and inspiring than you can imagine.

3. Boys will be boys, until they become fathers. (But even then...)

4. Love and its details

5. Who I am

6. Food, drinks, and the meaning of friends

7. God has impeccable timing that will always seem inconvenient until seen in retrospect.

8. Marguerite Duras, Gertrude Stein, Italo Calvino, Roland Barthes, Jorge Luis Borges, Jacques Lacan, Jane Kenyon, and Grace Paley

9. James Franco is ruggedly hot.

10. Life and people are complicated, but sometimes it's worth it.

11. The applicability of intellect

12. It's okay to be weird. But don't try to be.

13. Walk quickly.

14. Redeemer and CCM ♡

15. The Word and its truth, veracity, authenticity, inherence, inspiration, sufficiency, and clarity

2010-05-18T22:25:00.000-07:00

List 1: Things I Am Bad At

waiting

commitment

budgeting

2010-05-03T21:51:00.000-07:00

a temporary string of rants

I am in a bad mood.

But it's always dark before it becomes brighter, so if my flesh will rip and if I will be stripped down to undercurrents...

I guess I'll just have to wait it out.

I think it would help if I knew someone was waiting on the other side

OR

if someone was with me, just with me...

I am learning that
love doesn't make sense,
forgiveness goes against all logic
and life is barely bearable.

2010-05-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

a temporary string of rants

If imitation is really the highest form of flattery, it is also the most annoying one

OR

maybe I'm just.

.

.

.

Take me home. Please.

2010-04-30T20:58:00.000-07:00

a temporary string of rants

I recently had a conversation with someone about being a writer and the merits of it. He kindly said to me that writing is a good outlet for emotions.

At that moment, I wanted to reach across the table and smack him for saying that, because: 1) he's not a writer, 2) he's putting labels on things he doesn't understand, and 3) writing is not simply an outlet. At least not for those who are true writers. Those who are writers by nature.

Because being a writer strips me down to my element. It sifts through my life, taking apart bits and pieces and bringing them into words. The strings of syntax and diction course through me as images and smells rush across my senses, composing fragments together to create an opus that is wholly new and concurrently old.

It is me; it is not an outlet. For the writer, the pen is the extension of the hand. Calling writing an outlet for a writer is like saying that shooting a gun is an outlet for a soldier. Sometimes it can be, but shooting something is one of many constituents that make up a soldier. Shooting a gun may be a attribute that is present in a soldier, just as exposed words may be an evident feature of a writer. So even without my pen, I am still a writer just as a soldier is still a soldier without his gun.

Moreover, there is a different responsibility that comes with a weapon as lofty as a pen. It is not physical lives you hold such as it is for a soldier, but it is the consciences for molding that are at your fingertips.

One destroys, the other builds. Yet, it is impossible to fully understand it without being one of these.

2010-04-16T00:22:00.001-07:00

EXPLICATIONS OF ME : indulgences in narcissism

Part 15: FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

Mr. Darcy, Morpheus Dream of the Endless, Will Hunting, Gandalf, Spike (from Buffy), Tyler Durden, Gambit (Remy Lebeau), Coach Eric Taylor, Howl, Hannibal Lecter, Jeremiah Land... This is only a mere sliver of the fictional characters that I love. Well crafted and beautifully characterized.

And as I sit and ponder about these people who are fabricated with the mere thought and the stroking of a pen, I also think about the writer, the creator, the authenticator in them.

And I think about the characters I create, I mold these people into being from the details of who I am (as writers often do). And if this assertion holds true for writers (and I believe it does), these fictional characters consist of the likeness of their creators and their experiential encounters.

Fictional characters are made in the image of man. Of real, existing men. These characters in books and shows, no matter how beautiful or profound they may be, are only pale reflections of the poignant depth of the real human.

And God said, "Let us make man in our image, in our likeness."

And real, existing men are the pale reflections of God. The failing reflections, yet perfected in our weaknesses.

2010-04-09T10:45:00.001-07:00

EXPLICATIONS OF ME : indulgences in narcissism

Part 16: HANA YORI DANGO (花より男子)

I watched all 20 episodes of season one and two, and the 2.5-hour long movie of the Japanese drama mini-series 花より男子 (Hana Yori Dango. Trans: Boys Over Flowers) during two weeks.¹ It was a very intense two weeks.

I tend to veer away from the teen-obsessive and fan girl-type dramas and music, because it makes me...into an obsessive fan girl, which is little bit disgusting.² But after a negotiation with my suitemate³, I was coerced into this drug of an entertainment.

You see, the thing about Hana Yori Dango is that their characters (based on the original manga) are achingly ideal and relatable⁴.The one thing I hate about teen romantic media is that the source (such as the author, writer, director, actor) often creates a persona that fits the general ideal of adolescent lusts.⁵ But I have come to like nearly all the characters (and they really are profound characters) in Hana Yori Dango, which amplifies my obsessive nature, and I think that this is just the result of always trying to understand people and their motives and nature.

The relationship between the two main characters Domjouji Tsukasa (Matsumoto Jun) and Makino Tsukushi (Inoue Mao) is my kind of endearing. Sweet and annoying and almost unbearably ridiculous. I find Domyouji's frightul use of language my favorite characteristic about him. His sneering arrogance and brutal honesty has warmed me the way that Mr. Darcy did: with time and nuance.⁶ And I actually love Makino's character: enduring, bold, and ambitious.⁷ I like that she explores who she is and what she wants, rather than giving into the whim of emotions.

And Rui. My husband Rui. From his violin skills to the way he way he eats apples, what is there to dislike? I was taken with him as soon as I saw him sleeping in the stairwell with a book open on his face. But I fell in love when he began to say "Makino" in this sing-song inflection. It's as if her name is an incantation on his lips the way. Ma. Ki. No.⁸ And the exclusivity that Rui places on those he cares about is something that...I want. Heh.

Okay, this entry is getting too long. But quickly, the direction of the plots throughout the series is highly comical, but thoroughly entertaining. It makes you feel for them. Or, at least, for the story as a whole. It's juvenile in the way a first infatuation is.⁹

Footnotes
1. I know, great use of my time. What can I say, I had just passed my colloquium.
2. See prior Super Junior entries from 3 years ago, such as this one. -_-
3. Suitemate Grace and I agreed that we would watch equal time allotments of Hana Yori Dango and Friday Night Lights (a show to be discussed in a later entry.)
4. Yeah, it's an oxymoron.
5. Characters, like Twilight's Edward Cullen or Jacob Black who fit into any girls fantasies. Ugh, gag me.
6. It's the subtle facial expressions, innocent words, the awkward naivete, the inability to articulate well... These hints reveal the newness of love and the layers of characterization, which works on me every single time. It's the exceptions they make for those they love that makes me beam and follow them until the end.
7. Makino got a little frustrating during second season, due to Domyouji's retardedness. But she pulled it together well.
8. If you got this reference without reading this footnote, we can be friends. Light of my life, fire of my loins. The way Rui says "Makino" reminds me of the first page of Nabokov's Lolita where he does a fantastic wordplay on the name Lolita.
9. I mean, in the way that first loves and sorrows tend to stick with you if not in the continued potency of the sentiment but opening the possibility to mature far beyond it.

2010-04-04T21:20:00.000-07:00

EXPLICATIONS OF ME : indulgences in narcissism

Part 15: PASSION

passion n. from Latin passionem (nominative passio) "suffering, enduring." late 12th cent. "sufferings of Christ on the Cross"

What are you passionate about? What brings you to your knees that you would suffer for it, endure all things for it, and, against all apparent logic, live for it? To live for something is more difficult than to die for something. The consequences that we avoid by stifling and drowning the truths that we already know come to surface at the brink of one's death and rarely any sooner. It is what we do next that really matters.

Do we give into death? Or do we tread on?

But there are those cases where the light is too bright to ignore, the scent too strong to avoid, and the beauty too alluring to resist. So, I choose passion. I choose the truth that convicts and moves me to ashes to show me who I really am. Or rather, it chooses me.

So, wait, what are you passionate about?

2010-03-25T21:58:00.001-07:00

EXPLICATIONS OF ME : indulgences in narcissism

Part 14: WORDS

Two weeks ago, I took my Gallatin Colloquium. A Gallatin Colloquium is about an hour and a half long conversation with three professors (of my choosing within standards) about the premise of the concentration that I developed over my time in college. It was the pinnacle of my academic prowess at NYU and an extremely humbling experience.

During the course of the conversation, the reason of why I write came up. Why do I write? I wrote an entry on this a while ago, but it was interesting to revisit it. During the colloquium, I said quite assertively that I do not write for fame, and I sincerely meant it. And I think about the "logos that is joined with the advent of desire"* and its affect on me, fame is not the desire that I write for, then what is? What is the desire that I lack that spurs me to write?

I thought about this after I my colloquium, trying to flesh out the implications of what I said. I write to...connect...with...people. Because God definitely knows that I have trouble with that. (I'm not being sarcastic. I seriously do have a problem.) And complete connection is unattainable, so this is my desire in writing. For camaraderie, for the hope that someone can cognize me.

Since I am bound by desire, there will always be an abundance of words for me. As caritas continues to stream into me, my words stream into...you, my reader. So each word I write is a symbol of love, becoming a hand that reaches out for contact, for understanding. And as it nears you, it crumbles and is swept away by the wind only to begin again.

*Jacques Lacan's "The Signification of the Phallus"

eunicism