I really like the song, Knock You Down, by Keri Hilson featuring Ne-Yo and Kanye West. I think the lyrics are great, and I absolutely love the way the music video was made - extremely creative, extremely classy, and very smooth.
Music is so powerful. It can do so much for a person and to a person. It can inspire and it can move a person to tears. It can invoke anger, joy, sociability, nostalgia, regret. It can aid in studying. It can forge friendships and it can preserve memories.
Like how If You Could Read My Mind by Stars on 54 will always remind me of being 8 years old in the summertime, standing under the sprinklers in front of my apartment. Or how Genie in a Bottle by Christina Aguilera will always be played in my mind by a car passing by in the middle of a hot night, waking me up from pretend sleep (I had trouble falling asleep when I was younger) as it blasted the song from its radio.
I will forever be thankful to Blink 182's Feeling This for being the bridge to my friendship with Krhystyne Pablo back in sophomore year of high school, and we've been best friends ever since. And, even though it brings back somewhat uncomfortable memories, listening to Ken Oak Band's Slow Dance reminds me that Chui Hung Wong is not only one of my best friends in life, but one that has seen me through some of the worst of my times...and never left my side.
(Yes, we stayed in 339, my little green, dimly lit, dead-flower infested dorm room, in the same position for more than 24 hours. With me lying down underneath my covers, and she, on my green disk chair, her legs racked up on my mattress and also underneath my covers...Ken Oak Band softly played in the background. Indeed, life has a soundtrack.)
Music. is. powerful.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I never thought I'd
hear myself say
Ya'll go ahead
I think I'm gonna kick it with my girl today
(kick it with my girl today)
I used to be commander in chief
on my pimp ship flying high (flying high)
'till I met this pretty little miss
Who shot me out the sky (shot me out the sky)
.........
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Narcissuses and Forget-Me-Nots.
I.
Love.
Flowers.
When I was 5, and had just moved into my new apartment (after living for one year in the apartment next to it), I discovered my very first treasure. As soon as we got to the apartment, my brothers and I began to explore it thoroughly, using a complex system of hiding, then having one of us seek the other three out -- Lewis and Clark definitely pale in comparison. It was the first day, so a lot of things were still unpacked in big boxes and such, and though this would be our second move that year, the thrill of a new experience fascinated us.
4...3...2...1...Ready or not, here I come!
As I quickly and quietly dove behind the shear yellow curtains (you could tell I was especially good at this game), I poked around a half open cabinet by my feet, trying not to sneeze from all the dust that had accumulated all around it. It seemed as though the cabinet hadn't been touched for years. There was a bunch of dusty magazines and newspapers and loose paper clips everywhere. The cabinet was disgustingly packed, and very unorganized. But, it didn't matter because right then and there, I saw it, glowing like the treasure it was in all its radiance and glory: a beautiful and lovely and precious set of maroon hardcover encyclopedias. Call me a dork, a geek, a nerd, whatever you want, but it might have been one of the happiest moments of my effervescent childhood.
You see, even though I didn't know how to speak English too well at this point, let alone read, this set of encyclopedias, which I still own to this day, was to become my best friend for the many years to come. Oh, the memories...
So! what does this have anything to do with flowers?
My favorite number is 6. Why? Because my lunar birthday is December 6, and December is the 12th month, which is twice 6. There are 6 people in my family, and 6 is a very easy number to write. Also, I love that thrice 6 is the devil's number (don't ask me why - I'm just weird like that). Finally, I love flowers. And flowers start with the letter F, the 6th letter of the alphabet...
I didn't have any toys growing up, so bear with me. This is what I did for fun. Think about why certain numbers appealed to me...
So anyway, the F encyclopedia taught me all there was to know about flowers...and flies, and frames, and fission, and fusion, and fainting, and framing, and fables, and yeah...
Wow, there is absolutely no point to this story, except that the pictures of flowers in the encyclopedia were fucking AWESOME. It showed me the anatomy of a flower, the different kinds of families of flowers and the different types of seeds there were. THEN, it went on to show me that every state has its own "state flower" so to speak, and OH, it was so wonderful you guys!!!!! Yeah. I'm such a girl. Stfu.
I'm sorry to my only two listeners out there for wasting your time. Lol. <3
So um, yeah. Please enjoy the following excerpt taken from one of my favorite books, The Alchemist.
------------------------------------------------------------
The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.
The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the goddesses asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But...was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder. "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally it said:
"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
College Essay (A Tribute to My Father).
I was digging through some old emails that were starred on gmail. It's weird - even though I star these emails, I never go back to look at them until it's kind of too late. Anyway, this was an email I sent to an old teacher for revision. It is the only college essay I ever wrote...
To My Father.
-----------I think it was the nightmares that did it for me. The slurred battle cries that pierced though the black silence, the sudden, half-awakened jerks in the middle of the night, and the familiar wide-eyed glare that seemed always to search for something that was not there.
I used to lie in bed wondering if I was the only creature awake, the only one that witnessed the horrors of this epic battle. But I wasn't. Sure enough, my mother would start. A gentle, meek spirit of a woman, and yet possessing a fierce will, she would grab a hold of his wrists and shake him violently. "The children!" she would whisper hoarsely into the night, with quick eyes that glanced sharply around the room for any signs of movement from the four of us.
I did not stir. Nor did my three brothers, sound asleep in their own sweet slumbers. And so soon was my father, who never failed to give his one last battle cry, the mightiest of them all, before returning to the comatose sleep that guarded him against consciousness and the memories of jungles and bloodshed.
I did not feel sorry for him, then, eight years old. In fact, I almost thought it was funny, in the perverse innocence of a child, thinking her father was putting on a show for her. In the mornings, I contemplated slapping him on the back, and saying, "That was a good show last night, Father! You were brave and powerful."
And at that age, my father was a giant to me. He had good defined features that spoke of strength and honor and he still retained that tall, bulky, muscular physique, a relic of his service in the South Vietnamese Army.
Now, he is much stouter than he used to be complete with a seemingly ever-growing stomach. The sharp lines in his face have long since faded and been replaced with the wrinkles of time and old age.
But despite his failing image, I would say my father is so much more a hero to me now than ever before. My father, who, after years of failure, finally brought our family from Vietnam to America, who worked in the mornings at a sweatshop factory and went to school during the nights to learn English, who taught my brothers and me how to climb trees and ride bicycles – he taught us how to make the best lemonade with all the lemons that life could throw at us.
This is the person that has influenced me in every way possible.
And I would like to say to him one day, "That was a good show, Father. Now it is my turn to be in the spotlight." And I will show him that I can be a soldier as well.
Recently, his episodes have become less frequent, the nights less turbulent. Even so, I don't focus so much on the nightmares anymore. For me, I think the dreams will do just fine.-------------
Thanks Dad. I know I haven't been much of a soldier recently, but I want you to know that you are still my commander in chief.
To My Father.
-----------I think it was the nightmares that did it for me. The slurred battle cries that pierced though the black silence, the sudden, half-awakened jerks in the middle of the night, and the familiar wide-eyed glare that seemed always to search for something that was not there.
I used to lie in bed wondering if I was the only creature awake, the only one that witnessed the horrors of this epic battle. But I wasn't. Sure enough, my mother would start. A gentle, meek spirit of a woman, and yet possessing a fierce will, she would grab a hold of his wrists and shake him violently. "The children!" she would whisper hoarsely into the night, with quick eyes that glanced sharply around the room for any signs of movement from the four of us.
I did not stir. Nor did my three brothers, sound asleep in their own sweet slumbers. And so soon was my father, who never failed to give his one last battle cry, the mightiest of them all, before returning to the comatose sleep that guarded him against consciousness and the memories of jungles and bloodshed.
I did not feel sorry for him, then, eight years old. In fact, I almost thought it was funny, in the perverse innocence of a child, thinking her father was putting on a show for her. In the mornings, I contemplated slapping him on the back, and saying, "That was a good show last night, Father! You were brave and powerful."
And at that age, my father was a giant to me. He had good defined features that spoke of strength and honor and he still retained that tall, bulky, muscular physique, a relic of his service in the South Vietnamese Army.
Now, he is much stouter than he used to be complete with a seemingly ever-growing stomach. The sharp lines in his face have long since faded and been replaced with the wrinkles of time and old age.
But despite his failing image, I would say my father is so much more a hero to me now than ever before. My father, who, after years of failure, finally brought our family from Vietnam to America, who worked in the mornings at a sweatshop factory and went to school during the nights to learn English, who taught my brothers and me how to climb trees and ride bicycles – he taught us how to make the best lemonade with all the lemons that life could throw at us.
This is the person that has influenced me in every way possible.
And I would like to say to him one day, "That was a good show, Father. Now it is my turn to be in the spotlight." And I will show him that I can be a soldier as well.
Recently, his episodes have become less frequent, the nights less turbulent. Even so, I don't focus so much on the nightmares anymore. For me, I think the dreams will do just fine.-------------
Thanks Dad. I know I haven't been much of a soldier recently, but I want you to know that you are still my commander in chief.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Old Friends.
So, I just got off the phone with an old friend. Not the kind of old friend with whom you could comfortably share deep-belly, tear-jerking laughs about the time James and Michael tried to experiment with Axe, some shaving cream, Purell, and a lit match, only to end up with a lack of eyebrows, and, in David's case, eyelashes altogether...or the kind of old friend that has stayed looking, speaking, and acting exactly the same for all those years you knew him/her, or the kind you could just sit in silence with after not speaking to each other for years, and still be comforted by the fact that you are sitting next to each other, even without words.
No, it was the kind of old friend with whom much time and intimacy and awkwardness and hurt was shared. The kind of old friend that you wanted to just quit, but couldn't quite let go, a scab you want to pick at, but won't because you know it would leave a scar. An old friend I tried to rescue from under a rock, but failed. Do you know what kind I'm talking about?
Anyway, the conversation was a little awkward. He changed, it would seem. No longer patient with my childish antics and no longer comfortable with my pensive silences. A lot of the old spark we used to have in our once daily conversations was gone. The well was dry.
Interestingly enough, I didn't mind this time. A couple of months ago, it would have frustrated and angered me. Why on earth did such a wonderful relationship end? How could two people share so many silences in comfort, so many deep-belly laughs, and egotistical smirking glances at each other on the train, because we thought (and knew) we were better than the rest; how could we be silent now because speaking was uncomfortable?
But, I am not angry. I think it's a sign that I have let go. There will be a scar. But, really, it's not all too bad. Once in a while, I'll reacquaint myself with it and think about what happened, and chuckle. It was a good time. There were many good times. And I'm a better person for it. We will meet up occasionally, and it will be okay, a little awkward, a bit of longing for the days we sat in the Union Square train station for hours on end, comforted by the stability of our relationship in so hectic a scene, and a bit of trying to fill in an exponentially increasing void. But, for some reason. It is all right.
There are people in our lives like that. It reminds us all the more how precious old friendships are. Like the folder from kindergarten you still keep in your chest of personal belongings, filled with the scribbles of a five-year-old still building the muscles and coordination necessary for legible penmanship. And drawings that looked absolutely dreadful, but you thought were beautiful because the grownups told you they were. And you softly chuckle. Then you start to reminisce and wonder what would have happened if you had told Tommy you had a crush on him, or regret that you pushed poor little Emily off the swings because she broke your favorite crayon. Cerulean blue.
You served detention for about maybe half an hour, and you cried because you heard the shouts of the other kids on the courtyard playing in the sun, and you knew you had done something wrong. Childhood is cruel.
But precious. And so are memories. And so are old friends...
And So, I have made a Resolution. This relationship will be what it will be. And it will sit in my chest of personal belongings, and I will take it out from time to time and look at it, perhaps even chuckle a little, because even though it looks absolutely dreadful, I'm the grownup now.
And I think it's beautiful.
No, it was the kind of old friend with whom much time and intimacy and awkwardness and hurt was shared. The kind of old friend that you wanted to just quit, but couldn't quite let go, a scab you want to pick at, but won't because you know it would leave a scar. An old friend I tried to rescue from under a rock, but failed. Do you know what kind I'm talking about?
Anyway, the conversation was a little awkward. He changed, it would seem. No longer patient with my childish antics and no longer comfortable with my pensive silences. A lot of the old spark we used to have in our once daily conversations was gone. The well was dry.
Interestingly enough, I didn't mind this time. A couple of months ago, it would have frustrated and angered me. Why on earth did such a wonderful relationship end? How could two people share so many silences in comfort, so many deep-belly laughs, and egotistical smirking glances at each other on the train, because we thought (and knew) we were better than the rest; how could we be silent now because speaking was uncomfortable?
But, I am not angry. I think it's a sign that I have let go. There will be a scar. But, really, it's not all too bad. Once in a while, I'll reacquaint myself with it and think about what happened, and chuckle. It was a good time. There were many good times. And I'm a better person for it. We will meet up occasionally, and it will be okay, a little awkward, a bit of longing for the days we sat in the Union Square train station for hours on end, comforted by the stability of our relationship in so hectic a scene, and a bit of trying to fill in an exponentially increasing void. But, for some reason. It is all right.
There are people in our lives like that. It reminds us all the more how precious old friendships are. Like the folder from kindergarten you still keep in your chest of personal belongings, filled with the scribbles of a five-year-old still building the muscles and coordination necessary for legible penmanship. And drawings that looked absolutely dreadful, but you thought were beautiful because the grownups told you they were. And you softly chuckle. Then you start to reminisce and wonder what would have happened if you had told Tommy you had a crush on him, or regret that you pushed poor little Emily off the swings because she broke your favorite crayon. Cerulean blue.
You served detention for about maybe half an hour, and you cried because you heard the shouts of the other kids on the courtyard playing in the sun, and you knew you had done something wrong. Childhood is cruel.
But precious. And so are memories. And so are old friends...
And So, I have made a Resolution. This relationship will be what it will be. And it will sit in my chest of personal belongings, and I will take it out from time to time and look at it, perhaps even chuckle a little, because even though it looks absolutely dreadful, I'm the grownup now.
And I think it's beautiful.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Experiment.
Blogging. It has never occurred to me to start blogging. I once had a "Xanga", but out of the three years I had it, I wrote three times...I simply didn't have the time nor the patience nor the inspiration. Recently, a few of my friends left to foreign countries on vacation, study abroad, or internship, all of whom sent me links to blogs they will be updating on a daily or weekly or momentary basis as they travel throughout their respective countries. On a lark, I decided, why not create my own blog?
To document my journey as well.
So. Here goes.
To document my journey as well.
So. Here goes.
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