Missing You

It's been a year since 11/11/11. It seems so long but then it feels so close. It is a funny kind of sadness.  Different from all the other sorts of goodbyes. I could almost cry, but then I sort of also smile. Because of all the wonderful memories.

It is at random moments I think of you and miss you. Whenever I walk into the Barnes and Nobles where we used to spend our weekend afternoons reading, working, and gossiping. Whenever I pass by BTI where you worked. Whenever I see that blue couch of yours sitting in my living room- our houseguests still sleep on the pull-out mattress. Whenever somebody mentions the Catskills, or lunch at the Heights, or desserts at Madeleines. Whenever I hear one of those songs you gave me- you liked quirky songs - they are still amongst my most played songs in iTunes. Whenever I see a luffa.  

That January in Taipei, I didn't know that it was the last time that I would see you in this lifetime or I would've hugged you harder. Last October on Skype, I didn't know it was the last time we would chat or I would've not gone off to answer another phone call. I would've sent you more e-mails and letters and packages if I had known that this was the last stretch of time to remind you that you were appreciated and loved. Should have, could have, would have.

But I guess what I can remember now is to really appreciate life and friends. And how you told me while I was complaining about all those mundane things, including not having a boyfriend, how you told me that 活著就有希望, there's hope as long as you're alive. And I remember how you were so brave, how the last time we were on Skype, around a month before your death, you really sounded at peace.  Death is not the most horrible thing, you said, there are worse sufferings and pain. And I try to remember that, when I can, it puts many of my little worries and anxieties in perspective.  

You once told me you were afraid that once you were gone, people would get over it quickly. That eventually everybody would move on, that nobody would miss you for long. I'm writing this post to say I still do think of you, miss you, wish you were here. That I smile when I think of you. Even if I'm sad. But that's a good way to leave an imprint on someone's life. And I'm sure many of your friends feel that exact same way.

Judging a Book by Its Cover

The way I prefer to pick books to read is much like the way I prefer to make friends.  Naturally, through a chance encounter, or introduced by a trusted acquaintance.  Our time spent together should not be forced- trying too hard makes the relationship chore-like.  Our friendship should be genuine- not to make use of any gains this friendship may present or would it be for showing-off that I know somebody cool.  Any book that I purposely read, just because it is a "classic" or other people love it or I want to appear sophisticated while sitting in a cafe- those books usually fall flat.

As we grow up it seems that it is harder to make friends.  It also seems harder to find time for leisurely reading.  Reading without an agenda.  Socializing without viewing it as a networking event.  And in my life, in the pursuit of being scholarly, my Ph.D. studies have taken time away friend-making and book-reading alike.  It is the book-reading that has suffered the most.  Books have been replaced by PAPERS.  Science papers.

Although it is also the written word- somehow it is hard to feel cozy with a paper or find papers good bedtime reading.  Sleep inducing, yes, but not appropriate bedtime reading material.  Seldom do I feel like I would like to take a paper on vacation or to a park.  I do not reread a paper for the comfort of familiar characters, like they way I reread Harry Potter, or because the prose sings.  Mostly if I have to read a paper more than once is because I didn't understand it much the first time.

So scientists are lousy story tellers, or sometimes probably they don't have very compelling stories to tell.  But survival in academia dictates that we must publish something even without a compelling story, and the day to day life of a graduate student means I must sift through these papers in case there is a compelling or at least useful story hidden somewhere.

And so by the start of my recent vacation, I was determined to get some non-paper reading in.  In hindsight, it was fortunate my kindle recently broke.  Ever since I acquired a kindle last year, I rarely meet books the old fashioned way anymore.  Shopping the kindle bookstore is like online dating.  The selection is limited and not so enticing.  Some really good books are not available online.  The store pretends to make informed recommendations, as if they know anything about your tastes. I always come away from it slightly dissatisfied. 

At the beginning of my vacation, a Sunday in New York City, it was beautiful out, and not too hot.  I decided I wanted to read a book in the park under a tree.  Because it had been awhile since the book in a park under a tree scene has occurred in my life.   So I found myself, on the Upper West Side of New York, in a cramped used bookstore, searching for something to read.   

I usually find myself a shallow person- appearances matter.  Slightly when it comes to making friends (so all my friends- you are good looking!), more so for dating, and extremely when it comes to books.  Sometimes I will read a book just for its cover art.  And I will refuse to read a book I was planning to read if the cover is ugly.

But I know all that is nonsense.  That even though the author and editors have a say in the cover art, and that it is probably true that the choice of cover says something about their target audience or who they would like their target audience to be.  It is also probably true that great writers and editors could have very very poor taste in aesthetics.

And so I encounter this book with a rather unfortunate cover design.  It is pink.  I love pink, but this pink has a gradient, changing from white to pink at the bottom, like a powerpoint slide.  The title is pink "Women and Fiction", in some type of calligraphic font, and the three words take up half of the cover.  The rest of the space is mostly filled by an incomplete list of the (female) literary greats it includes.  And much more!  It declares on the bottom.  Something like a stock photo of a book with rose petals fallen on the open pages is sandwiched between the humongous title and the list of authors.  It is small, appearing squashed by the title above it, and intimidated by the authors below it.   It is not entirely the best cover for its contents.

   

It is a compilation of short stories.  That's why it's so ugly.  They made it for cheap and probably was not thinking about marketing it properly.  Short fiction seems perfect for the park.  It's stories by women about women by great authors I've read and have wanted to read.  Kate Chopin.  Virginia Woolf.  Edith Wharton.  Joyce Carol Oates…. Nice representation throughout the ages too.  And it's only 4 dollars.  4 dollars for anything seems like a steal in the City.

So despite its rather disturbing cover I buy it and plant myself under a tree in Central Park near a Jazz trio.  Some old guys are playing enthusiastically.  They play quite well, with their sax, bass, and keyboard.  And I feel quite luxurious as I slowly make my way through a few stories and lounge away the afternoon.  

The next day, I am at JFK enroute to see my family, and I am having trouble with the self-check-in kiosk, so I flag down an "airline representative"

"What are you reading there?" says the airline representative who sees the book poking out of my purse.  He's black, tall, fit, my age, maybe younger, being friendly.  

"Short stories."

"I'm not gonna judge you, cause at least you're not reading 50 Shades of Grey."  he teases.  "I see people reading that everywhere, and I do judge them."

Suddenly I comprehend what he's assuming the book is, and if I knew how to blush I would, but I rarely show any color in my face, so I blush internally. 

"No, no, it's not…  I mean, this is literature.  Like Edith Wharton and Virginia Woolf and famous authors like that, from all different times."  I quickly rise to my book's defense.

He's apparently never heard of Edith Wharton.  He laughs  "Literature? It looks like…"

"Here."  I interrupt and shove the book at him.  "Read a bit of it and you'll see…"

He reads a paragraph of a random page or so, and says "I'm sure at some point a guy will come in and…"  he catches himself before the verb.  

I decide the situation is mute and give up and make small talk instead.  "So have you read 50 Shades of Grey?  I guess you didn't like it?"

He says, "Oh, my ex-girlfriend used to own a copy.  I didn't read much of it.  I prefer porn- visual stuff.  But you ladies, you can imagine things.  More imagination..."

I smile and we exchange a few other sentences about the difference between sexes.  And I depart, amused, and pretend that I'm nonchalantly carrying around my pink "romance novel".  But on the plane, I catch a few people reading the discussed "50 shades", and all of a sudden, I feel very very defensive and sad for my book.  Because it is a rather nice compilation, and does not deserve to be classified in the same category a cheap romance novel with bad writing.  I defiantly read my book in an angle that the cover is extremely visible, but pretty soon I forget about the cover, and get lost enjoying Gertrude Stein and her "Picasso-like" writing style.

The Ease of Happiness

It is easy to be happy.  But I forget.  It is also easy to forget- especially when one is a giant ball of stress.  I am stressing out about basically what others think about me- about research- what I think of myself.  What am I doing with my life?  What is anyone doing with their life?  Argh.

But it was Lola who reminded me of the ease of happiness yesterday- as we were going to Greenstar to get Ice Cream, and we were talking about French croissants and yoga and simple things, that I observed, it is easy to make Lola happy.  And I felt envious- that is a nice character trait to have- I want that character trait too. 

But then I thought about it a bit, and realized that I have forgotten it is easy to make me happy too.  Good food.  Warm tea.  Music you can dance to.  Cozy conversations.  Sleeping in.  Being indoors on a rainy day.  And French croissants. 

But sometimes I try too hard.  Try too hard to be happy.  Try too hard to make friends.  Try too hard to learn how to flirt.  Try too hard to work (and get really frustrated when I get stuck).  And things don't really flow.  I've been reading "Tao-te-ching" and "The Tao of Pooh" lent to me by a dear friend.  And it is reminding me how sometimes you have to let things flow naturally.  Be yourself.  Trust in the universe.  And just let things happen- even if they don't go your way- even if you think they are bad things.  The Taoist principle 無為 (woo-way), which sort of translates as "do nothing", is not really laziness or inaction, I realize slowly to not go against the nature of yourself or of your surroundings...  or in western culture, this is called "The Pooh Way."

So - I will stop letting my stress and mess and myself get in the way of happiness.  Because there is much to be pleased with - it is summer, Ithaca is beautiful, we are young (and can still effortlessly walk, breathe, dance, laugh), and life continues to unfold in expected and unexpected ways.  (AND~ pretty soon I'll be having one of those French croissants!)

Gossip

So my new bff, who shall remain nameless, was jealous that I didn't mention him in the last blog post: "Serendipitous Connections".  In my defense, it was written before we bonded over gossip. 

So this is what this blog post will be about- dedicated to you know who you are…

I have mixed feelings about gossip. 

Sometimes I have the suspicion it is toxic.  But then being in the know and knowing tiny details about others gives one a sense of belonging to a community.  It is also a  way to feel closer to a person- to share secrets.

And usually that's the way I gossip- about myself.  I am like an open book to all my friends.  They usually know all my secrets.  Sometimes so many people know my "secret", that really it ceases to be a secret.  Not that I have especially juicy ones- usually its only my anxieties and thoughts and frustrations and crushes.  I will share them with most of my friends without thinking or evaluating the possible consequences of being so open.

I also like having the listener reciprocate with secrets of their own, and delight in knowing their innermost thoughts, emotions, fears and scandals… not that many people have delightful scandals.  But I only feel close to somebody once they open up and tell me things they don't share with just anyone, either revealing vulnerabilities or some darkness or some depressive state.  So if you are one of those people who don't have any of those things going on in your brain, and are generally sunshine and happiness, I don't think I'll ever feel you are a close friend.  Sorry.

But then gossip can also be misused.  To confuse situations or stir trouble or cause misunderstandings.  One must be careful in not being malicious about gossip or accidentally spreading gossip that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others.  I have made the mistake more than once of doing the misdeed of spreading such gossip.  I have also made the mistake of revealing too much about myself that it has caused a bit of embarrassment to my own self.

So it is a hard act to balance.  So maybe I should gossip less.  But then my new bff and I would have nothing to talk about. 

Serendipitous Connections

The other day, outside of my habitual mourning of connections severed, lost, distorted, dropped, or faded- I realized on the flip-side I should rejoice in those serendipitous connections.

This post is for the friend I serendipitously met at an interschool mixer where we bonded through our lamentation of the lack of hiking boots in our friends' lives.  I think now I believe in "Friendship at first sight."  Through all our busyness I think we have not gone hiking even once together yet- but thanks for all the lunch gatherings, and gossiping, and anecdotes about life in the Law School.  You're wonderful and a reminder that serendipity is beautiful.

This post is for my friend far away in Mumbai who I was really excited to get a call from on Sunday, who I met by chance on a ride to Boston.  I almost didn't meet you, cause you made a last minute decision to take me up on my rideshare offer.  I remember we talked for 6 hours- I never knew I could sustain a conversation with somebody for so long.  I miss having your company in Ithaca- but I know other meaningful connections and exciting journeys are in your path.  The world is your oyster, it's so much larger than Ithaca, and also slightly larger than Mumbai, don't forget!  There are also lots of cute/wonderful/decent guys out there.  (Somewhere, but don't ask me where...)  

This post is for my colleague and as of late travel-mate where we've suddenly had the circumstance to share lots of high density bonding time.  That magical mixture of a few drinks and nobody else to hang out with might never happen again for us.  But truly you are awesome and funny and nice.  You are nice- you shouldn't deny it.

Last, but not least, this post is for my darling friend who recently shared with me stories of serendipitous encounters with new interesting people, and exciting new possibilities for life.  And for that crazy evening where we had froyo at Smart Yogurt, then bubble tea and mochi at CT Bento, then apple pie a la mode and cheese fries at the State Diner.  You appreciate serendipitous connections in the way I'd like to appreciate them.

I'm trying to use these tidbits, joyful little scraps, to encapsulate the joy of serendipitous connections.  Every day I'd like to record somehow those interesting conversations or warm exchanges or crazy dessert nights or sad stories or shared anxieties- but I am not skilled enough as a writer to capture their texture.  So for now, I'm learning to be grateful, to the universe, for these connections, however shortlived.  Even if I forget the details one day, I am so glad for the existence of you, and you and you and you who have made all these days wonderful.

Writing: The Story of Stories

When I was young I wanted to be a writer.  Mostly because I loved books, books held a magical power over me.  And I was such a bookworm.  While my healthy active sister played outside with neighbors, I liked to sit inside with a pile of library books, solitary.  I think I went so far as preferring books to people.  My greatest anxiety in life was that there were too many books in the world, and I would not be able to read all of them before I died.  It took me awhile to realize that not all books are worth my time.  But to this day, I still get slightly depressed at the fact that there are worthwhile books and movies that I will never cross paths with.   This is the power stories have over me.

 I remember as early as I was 9 or 10, I would have spiral notebooks filled with a few failed attempts at writing a novel.  Every night I would lie in bed dreaming of characters and plots and how to begin my novel.  But beginnings were all I had.  I never got beyond three chapters before I decided my story was stupid and boring, and then I would go make up another one.

This is why I gave up this dream.  I felt I never had any interesting stories to tell.

I did not lack encouragement.  Once in awhile I would have something published or win a small school-wide writing competition, and I came across teachers from elementary school through college who had good things to say about my writing, and they tried to encourage me to polish my grammar, learn more vocabulary, and read more books.  (My writing in Mandarin has always been plagued by some type of English style grammar and vice versa…). 

Other than that there was a deep feeling that I couldn’t write interesting stories, that I hadn’t experienced enough of life or human nature to actually write about life and human nature.  And I was always an ambitious girl- I wanted my work to be moving, important, profound!

Laziness and ambition are a bad combination.  No it is not an impossible combination.  These people are what we call dreamers.  I guess I am a dreamer.  So it is in part laziness I chose to be a scientist, where the material for the stories I would tell were in some sense “written in the stars”.  I just had to learn the language to tell them.

But now, I am trying to be “un-lazy” by blogging about my mundane life.  It was actually Sumiran, my office-mate who accidentally motivated me to start doing this.  We were talking one day and as usual I was blabbering and going into detailed descriptions about the origin of my every statement (this my friends somehow bear patiently while hiding their annoyance).  And Sumiran made an observation: “You talk like a writer.”  I was amused, “How? Why?”  “The way you seem to be thinking about how to say things…”  And I admitted to him I love writing.  I crave to write something important! Gigantic! Magnificent!  Somehow he pushed me in the direction of “start somewhere, start small.”  And so I started this blog.