I'm Just Sayin'

On and On // Words with Friends

2011-06-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

This is a January and February conversation,

why don’t you March your way out of it?

April showers bring May flowers,

June gloom and bloom

into a July boom and Leo’s hot August night.

Do you remember

the 21st night of September?

Or the eight sides of October?

Indian summers of November melting into

the sobering punctuation of December?

Pedro

2011-04-05T15:41:00.000-07:00

If she had to pick one color, it would have to be blue. Just like that.

The threadbare pastel blue hand-me-down baby blanket. As the youngest, and only girl, in a family of seven, she was the last newborn to be received as the eldest son, Azure, was when he was born.

The steel blue and white tips of the wet shores, waning and waxing, consuming and integrating, the sounds of the rubber pounding on concrete.

The navy blue of her father’s and brothers’ broad backs as they walked one by one through weathered steel walls and rivets.

The dusty faded cornflower blue specks in the bathroom wallpaper that watched over her quiet examinations of soft spots located by concentrated, translucent dirty blacks and muddled blues.

Looking back, it’s always been like that.

And it always will be.

Ahead are celestial blues, marine blues, midnight blues, deep and true blues like the never-ending expanse of the universe, water, and possibilities.

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Written to accompany a series of photos by Miss Adriana Rodriguez.

The Motherland Visit, Part 9: Adventures in the [Unintentionally] Profound

2011-03-11T21:13:00.000-08:00

I was asked recently if I believed in ghosts. My knee jerk reaction was “yes,” and technically it still is, but trust…

I am not talking some Sixth Sense, out-to-settle-some-unfinished-business, nebulous-embodiment-of-someone-you-used-to-know, creepy type of ghost.* I’m talking about the manifesting but not actually existing at that moment in time, faint trace of something type of ghosts – the ghosts that stem from an experience, a connection, a feeling, that leave a lasting impression on your general mind state. Not entirely unlike Robert M. Pirsig’s ghosts.

*But we can certainly have a conversation about these types of ghosts and how their claimed existence says more about how we are afraid of death than anything else… I’m just saying!

These ghosts I see all the time. They haunt me and find their way into my daily life and private existential conversations between my protons, neurons, and electrons often. To have them with me is not a burden whatsoever, but a blessing. The best ghosts appear after you encounter a new experience, reminding you of the power of that breath, that word, that look, that person, that place. Right now, I feel like my ghosts are joining forces, banding together into a sort of Voltron super-ghost to challenge my development for the better. As of late my Voltronic ghosts are emphasizing:

“Simplicity is about subtracting the obvious, and adding the meaningful.” Just because something smacks of being not as advanced or developed, doesn’t mean that it’s not evolved or contains the very essence of advancement and development.

The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol that represents the cyclical nature of birth and death, creation and destruction, and beginning and ending.

Out of respect for these tandem concepts, the following are the highlights of my adventure in Thailand, or as I would like to think of it, Adventures in the [Unintentionally] Profound.

Humbleness / Humility

When I asked how most Thai folks greet each other, after they “Wai” (hands in prayer, slight bow), the three most frequent questions are:

Where have you been?
Where are you going?
Have you eaten yet?

It could be said that these questions gauge wisdom (the accumulation of knowledge), sense of perspective (what direction are headed, how far ahead are you looking), and demonstrate a human connection (I care that your basic needs are meet), respectively. These questions point you, at the very least, to concrete answers. Where people can judge you on how you act and the way you conduct yourself rather than by the heat of the air you expel when trying to tell them about yourselves. Juxtapose this with the United States:

How are you doing?
How’s it going?

These questions assume that receiver of the question knows their internal state well enough to speak on it. Kind of cocky, no? But, I do appreciate that they invoke the abstract. I’ve grown to appreciate the quiet humbleness that accompanies the understanding of how past actions and behaviors are affected by our attitudes and have tried to practice as much as I preach while maintaining my eyes on the metaphysical, abstract prize (figuratively speaking, of course). In order to understand the ways I’ve been affected by my visit to Thailand, I felt it was necessary for me to set up / qualify my thoughts:

The Motherland Visit, Part 1: The Background

The Motherland Visit, Part 2: Was it all a Dream? (The context)

Life in Context

We are all products of our environment, or at least in a working relationship with the environment. An extension of humbleness and humility, ghosts of experience past will no longer let me go quietly through life ignoring the constant interaction with my surroundings.

When the environment exerts its energy and we notice it:

The Motherland Visit, Part 3: A Brief Case Study in the GxE

The Motherland Visit, Part 4: A Love Letter

When we exert energy to understand the environment around us:

The Motherland Visit, Part 5: Creation and Inspirations vs. Collections and Preservations

The Motherland Visit, Part 8: Living with the Precious

When the energy exerted and created cannot be put into a narrative:

The Motherland Visit, Part 6: Visual Journey to the Thai Countryside

The Motherland Visit, Part 7: Thoughts along the Way

From all my ghosts and my conscious self: Sa Wat Dee Kah for your consideration. This was my Thailand.

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Ouroboros, continued:

In a gesture that I thought was incredibly sweet, my mother asked me if I was going to write a “Part 9.” I was in the process of sorting out how I wanted to wrap this series up, letting my thoughts marinate until the spirit moved me, so I said, “Probably.” “Probably” fishing for requests for more writing is more like it; she shut that down quick with the following statement.

In the Thai culture, the number 9 is a lucky number. We always try to make things in 9, so you should do the same.

Never mind what I wrote about. I just needed to complete the circle. Thanks, mom.

In all seriousness, I am actually quite pleased that my 9th entry will be both an ending and beginning. Ending of a series, of the written word, and the beginning of conversation. I look forward to taking this discussion off the written page / typed screen into the space between us... if you’ll have me.

Side note: In Thailand, the pronunciation of the word “nine” is the same as “progress” and “rice.” Pretty much staples in the Thai culture. Additionally, as Buddhists, most Thais follow the tradition of valuing odd numbers, especially the number three. 9 = 3 x 3. Feel me? The Thai Transport Minister certainly does…

The Motherland Visit, Part 8: Living with the Precious

2011-02-15T20:38:00.000-08:00

precious |ˈpre sh əs|adjective

(of an object, substance, or resource) of great value; not to be wasted or treated carelessly

Emerald vs. Platinum

Both precious, but in very different ways. One, a gemstone and the mineral that constitutes the famous Emerald Buddha (on show at the Grand Palace). The other, a metal that is the namesake of a multistory, bargain shopping mall.

The Emerald Buddha actually made of Jadeite and has travel the far reaches of South and South East Asia before having come to rest at the Temple of the Emerald Buddha on the grounds of the Grand Palace in Bangkok.

Side story: As found in many tourist destinations, there is a fee difference for locals and tourists. Upon entering the Grand Palace, we got the local price and proceeded towards the “Locals Only” entrance. I understand very simple Thai, but speak less. Once big words come into play, I tend to sit out. So when the guard asked me in Thai if I was foreigner (a word I didn’t recognize), I thought it was over for me. Mom and Dad to the rescue, “I’m from Thailand and am Thai, her mom is Thai, so she’s Thai!” BOOM.

The Grand Palace (Please go to the website, if for nothing else, to see that they call the traditional virtual tour “Virtual Reality”), itself, is exquisite. Actively used by the royal family, I could spend all day here. Built along the Chao Praya River, these series of buildings are a solid, almost textbook, example of Thai architecture and art. I’m no expert and there are lots of resources that go into detail. Believe me, the next library trip will include the search for these books.

Don’t ask me how these dirty, hazy photos happened, probably a combination of old camera, expired film, and minimal knowledge about photography. Either way, I kind of like it.

The Emerald Buddha is coveted among the Thai and a popular tourist attraction. It is a very interesting push and pull when it comes to popular Buddhist tourist attractions. I, for one, could have stayed and meditated in front of the Emerald Buddha all day, but I was sweetly rushed out by my dad and given not so sweet disapproving looks from other folks who have to come to “pray.” The norm, it seems, is to stay in front of the Buddha only for as long as it necessary to make a wish – I kid you not, a common wish is to hit the Thai lotto – and then move along. This hurry-up-and-pray aspect seems to be at odds with the original intention of a place that houses a revered statue. And out of respect, one is not to take pictures, so this is my janky rendition of the Emerald Buddha.

The ceiling is high and the statue sits atop a number of tables of different heights, filled with different symbolic offerings. It literally looks as if it is floating. As it should, rising above the earth-bound desires that clutter our heads. To me, the Emerald Buddha was very much an opportunity not to be wasted or treated carelessly. And I believe that Thai people feel the same. If there ever was a country in which it is easy to be spiritual, Thailand would be it. The connection is deep and integrated into the Thai lifestyle, from “tam boon” – donating food to monks – to having a shrine on site at your house or business to temples on the typical Thai tourist itinerary.

Juxtapose this solid, precious mineral symbol of enlightenment with the six story, clusterf*ck, shopping mall named after a precious metal, Platinum. Having cut my teeth on the vast, multilevel malls of Hong Kong where shopping should be a sport, this was daunting after my time at the Emerald Buddha and the Grand Palace, but not entirely undoable (is this English?). Luckily, I had my brother who was also considered a “big” person in Thailand as well, so I only got a mild complex because I didn’t fit into anything / wasn’t "developing country" skinny. We had fun sharpening our LBZ (LadyBoyZ … with so much drama in the LBZ … it goes on) spotting and haggling skills, zig zagging through the maze of stalls, but all in all the most jarring part of this experience was the feeling that this was also place of worship, if you will.

Even if I did take more than just this photo

they would probably not convey to you how thick and heavy the air was with locals and foreigners clamoring to get the best deals on the knock-offs of the latest styles imported to all of the world’s fashion centers. It’s not a stretch of the imagination to see the chain of events: a huge clothing brand decides to produce their line in Thailand, factories and human hands are responsible for producing the new season, the patterns for these clothes make their way into other factories where slight modifications are made to the pattern, perhaps a lesser fabric is used, et voilà, qua! A commodity that fuels the fire of materialism for people in country is that being exploited for… yep, materialism! I always had a funny feeling that having more superfluous decorations was the industrialized country’s visible and arbitrary tally for moving on up in the economic and social ladder, and it’s places like this that cement the notion. All hail the all mighty dollar. Gross.

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Very few things are as precious as our own memories, ripe opportunities, or the fact that nothing is permanent.

Saree Sangnavarat [my grandfather on my mother's side]

January 24, 1923 – February 22, 1984

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In the twenty years I have been gone from Thailand, my memories come in and out of focus, with faces and places fuzzy, then clear, then fuzzy again. The sequence of events jumps from chronological to importance. Morals of stories have changed to emphasize new lessons that hid themselves between the words.

In hindsight, this is memory of Thailand as a pure state of being, uncluttered by the desires to emulating exciting foreign cultures, can be attributed to my youth (at the time) and nostalgic revision. But is also perpetuated now by the hearing of new stories that involve, to my surprise, harsh lines drawn in the sand…

The most touching stories had involved the ever amorphous concept of love that seems so much more powerful because how preciously it was held … across time, distance, cultures and death.

Stories of men and women loving with a quiet fierceness that transcends the rules of traditional marriage and the black and white of wars. A story of a late night ultimatum and familial obligation. A story of an Indian woman for whom love was always slightly out of reach because it was culturally bound, for whom death swept away the life a young Indian man leaving a softness in the wrinkles around her eyes when she looks up. The story of a workaholic who would finds it more acceptable to take work home before the love found at the office…

Stories that involve true sacrifice I had not been told until now, spoken in the fashion of an ancient fable or movie of the past complete with teller’s glossy eyes that never quite meet yours. Memories and stories preciously held in the eyes and mind of the beholder; the common thread being that the idea of those harsh lines in the sand mark the point in which to judge how far one has to go, or conversely, has come. I’ve been throwing back and forth the idea of the power of those harsh lines for a while, and it seemed only fitting that as the winds of time carry forward, they also stir up the sand in such a way that the harsh lines disappear and only where you currently stand remains.

The Motherland Visit, Part 7: Thoughts along the Way

2011-02-10T10:51:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am one of those Moleskin-carrying travelers… I have no shame. Here are some thoughts collected during my Thailand journey.

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Twenty year old Minolta captures

Twenty year old memories

through a hazy lens

I should probably clean that

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heavy air

thick with scooter smoke

puffing dark grey clouds as they dart

like squid

streamlined octopi

appendages all tucked in

between the bulk of

four-wheeled vehicles

sharks

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cool breezes life the weight of humidity

street vendors heighten the sense of humility

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three generations of Kliengkloms

laying on their backs

wooden day beds

eyes to the ceiling

silence for just enough time

to catch our breath

there’s a lot of things to take care of

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Daddy-isms

We’re walking down the street towards the beach in Hua Hin and as per usual, my father is being gregarious to all street venders. In passing and with no intention to buy, he casually asks the Tulian dealer where they are from – tapping into a well of knowledge about local Thai fruit – for if they are grown in certain region, they will have a certain taste. With a wave and a fleeting promise of return, my father continues along his way to the slight annoyance of the vender.

Cut to a couple hours later when we are taking a tuk tuk back to hotel. From the tuk tuk we spot the Tulian stand one block ahead of us. We turn to my father and hastle him about his “friend” at the stand and how he was going to get busted for hurting his feelings. And sure enough, as we all turn to look at the stand, the vender waves right at us. BUSTED. And my dad laughs exactly like if he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

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In Thai:

Dad: There should be a price difference between playing golf in the morning versus the afternoon. It’s cheaper in the hot time.

Aunt (his sister): Who wants to hit balls when it’s hot?!

Dad: People that want deals!

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George: Dad, why don’t you have some friends around here that we can stay with?

Dad: I don’t have friends. Just ex-girlfriends.

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The Motherland Visit, Part 6: Visual Journey to the Thai Countryside

2011-02-07T19:20:00.000-08:00

As previously mentioned, we hadn't seen many extended family members for about 20 years. The Thai countryside is stunning. Enough with the words for now.

Cha Chaung Sao

Bat Sanctuary

[Bats under the protection of the Wat Pho Bang Khla]

Moung Kao Village [Purple White Village!] / Parchin Buri Province

This is where the infamous Pig Farm from my youth and my grandfather's ashes are located. This is where I got my first taste for riding scooters. My father had just taken me around the neighborhood on the back of the scooter and there were so many street dogs barking and chasing us. In a panic, I spread my toes and a flip flop was gone in the wind. Back on the farm, I geared up for my first lesson ... that landed me right into a small tree. Twenty years later, I'm back on the scene and never felt so free as when my brother and I took the twin Yamaha 80s out on the countryside.

The Motherland Visit, Part 5: Creation and Inspirations vs. Collections and Preservations

2011-02-05T15:28:00.000-08:00

“I strongly believe that the morality of the world population is deteriorating. And at the same time I cannot deny the advancement of science that is so valuable to mankind, incomparable in any era. We, Asians, believe that the scientific approach can bring knowledge to human beings. But it cannot elevate the spirit of man. It has only paved the way for materialists in their search for worldly happiness.

[…]

Sustainability and beauty have no boundary in age. This can be proven by the existence of art, paintings and architecture that were beautifully created by man as lasting treasures and have been handed down to us by our ancestors. Every piece of art is priceless. Some have become world treasures and adored by art lovers. They seem to have no nationality, no religion, no limit in time. Only art has bestowed the refreshing sprit on human beings up to the present day. Therefore, we should give more serious thought and interest to art.”

-- Pakpiern Viriyahbhun

I am a lover and hater of museums.*

I love that thoughtfully curated spaces of art, science, culture and information exist. I love that they can provide a sense of context, history and awareness to cultural products. I love when they expose me to new, amazing things. I love how there are people with lots and lots of money who want to contribute to art.

I hate that we are so attached to the physical aspects of great works of beauty and innovation that we feel the need to remove it from its context, then put it back into “context” in a potentially sterile, white walled building all in the name of “preservation.” I hate how museums, as physical spaces, live in the reflected glory of the art they are merely housing. I hate how museums have become a substitute for interactive learning.

I generally love specialized exhibits in museums and I generally hate permanent collections. I love what’s inside museums – the creative – and I hate museums themselves – the preservative. I’m weird. I know.

Patrons of Thailand: The Viriyahbhun Family

It cannot be denied that the Viriyahbhun family has contributed greatly to both the creation and preservation of art in Thailand. They are also simultaneously responsible for two perfect examples of why I love and hate museums.

Quick background of the Viriyahbhun family:

They were old money millionaires. They had always been in the automotive industry and they owned the first, and for a while the only, Mercedes Benz dealership in Thailand. They were and are fiercely loyal to Thailand.

The Erawan Museum: Convergence of Dreams, Faith and Gratitude

Built over the course of 10 years, and completed in 2004, this was my very first encounter with this museum. It is located in Samut Prakan, my father’s province, and very close to where we stayed. This museum was one of the last ones on the “Tour of Thailand.” I saw it from the freeway a bunch of times before I actually stepped foot on the grounds, and from jump, it was an awesome sight to behold.

Here are the important physical details:

The main attraction of the museum is massive, 3-headed elephant standing atop a domed, circular, columned building with a basement. It’s dimensions are 128’ x 39.5’ x 143’ (L x W x H). HUGE! The body weighs 150 tons, the heads weigh 100 tons total.

Model of the museum.

If you want to nerd out with me, I’ve scanned an excerpt from a book I bought that gives a narrative and some visuals about the building of the museum. Fun fact: In order to portray the elephant skin accurately, they used relatively small copper sheets that were put together by hand!

What is more impressive than the pure scale of this project? The thought, intention, and attention to detail are from some place larger than us. For example, this museum has been conceptualized as a model of our universe.

The basement, where the rare antique and valuable artifact collection of the Viriyahbhun family can be found, can be conceptualized as the base level of human desires. Though not described by the curators as such, to me the preservation of these items represents a desire to possess and narrate your “life” after death (e.g., living forever in a legacy through physical items that are pasted through the generations).

The domed, circular building has been purposefully likened to the Earth and decorated with an insane amount of thoughtfulness. First of all, the level of detail of the interior can keep you occupied for days. Between the meticulously hand-pounded tin pillars depicting different religions and the gigantic Ananda Fish (fabled Thai fish that lives under the earth, such that if it were to roll over there would be an devastating earthquake) strategically placed over structural support beams and columns

to the beautiful mosaics made only of broken porcelain bowls, cups, and spoons

to the German stained glass ceiling portraying the earth and the zodiac signs,

you can easily lose your mind – in a good way. Again, the theme of Earth comes shining as much through the natural light from the stained glass ceiling as it does through the symbolism of each aspect of the building.

Above the “Earth” is the 3-headed elephant itself. I certainly was at no vantage point to get the scale of the elephant, but these I could not help.

The elephant is a sacred animal in many cultures, especially south Asian countries. There are a number of excellent resources that explain the cultural symbolism of elephants, the most easily recalled being the Hindu deity of Ganesh. Erawan is just the Thai name of Airavata, the Hindu mythological white elephant with multiple heads who is most commonly associated with rain and water. I sort of have an affinity toward elephants, so you can imagine why I was drawn to this museum.

Visitors may enter into the hollow abdomen of the Erawan, or as I think of it, ascension into enlightenment. In order to ascend to the belly, you must climb a flight of narrow, spiral stairs (You’re actually climbing up one of the elephant's legs, don't worry there's an elevator in one of the other legs!) painted with other earthly creatures ascending with you. It is very calming for being such a small space. The belly has a rounded ceiling and walls with a beautiful mural of the universe at its height. The lighting is in shades of blue and yellow. Directly ahead is a walking Buddha image and a number of their antiques lining the walls. This space is very minimal and more like a temple rather than a museum.

While the external, physical structure of the building and the Erawan is impressive by it sheer size, it’s ultimately the internal architecture, the internal story as symbolized by painstakingly handcrafted works of art and the ascension into space, that sparks an internal feeling of calmness that is truly inspiring.

Last time I remember feeling like this was at Leigh McCloskey’s studio.

Guide to Muang Boran (The Ancient City)

Another museum credited to the Viriyahbhun family, the Ancient City is also located in Samut Prakan and is literally, a tour through some of Thailand and SE Asia’s history. Originally conceived as a golf course with miniatures of significant Thai monuments as backdrops to the holes, this is now a 200-acre historical journey. An interactive map can be found here.

Of the 116 mini-monuments, there are a mix of scaled down replications, reconstructions from life, and creative representations. Here are some of my favorites:

Mini-Miniatures of the Ancient City

Sumeru Mountain

Mythological center of the world / universe with the Ananda fish.

Pavilion of the Enlightened

Physical manifestation of the idea that there are many paths to reach Nirvana in Mahayana Buddhism

As you can see, I was drawn to the creative representations. Again, the patented Viriyahbhun thought and planning was intact, (e.g., the shape of the Ancient City in the shape of Thailand and the attention to detail for all the replications, reconstructions, and representations), but something felt funny to me.

I couldn’t place my finger on it until I was loaded up in the golf cart (bicycles were available for rent as well, you could bring your car in for a fee), started driving around the massive grounds and finding myself staring a perfectly scaled down version of a culturally significant Thai monument… As I cocked my head, my eyes got wide and it all became clear…

I was in the unintentional Thai Disneyland... where anything could happen. And it still kind of creeps me out.

Again, while the intention of the Viriyahbhun family was positive, their execution is a perfect example of why museums bother me. It is an emphasis on collection and artificial preservation. In faking it, taking it out of historical context, placing replications of actual places next to creative representations of ideas, the Ancient City explicitly asks you to suspend reality to experience a sort of hyper reality, where it gets a little too real.**

The city itself is not ancient (building began in the 1960s) and in fact, neither are the “sites.” Since many of the monuments of which the Ancient City’s sites are based are physically rooted to a distant location, there is literally a removal of reverence and historical context. Plus, I can’t imagine that most people are inspired to visit the actual monument after seeing it in the Ancient City!

While not as blatant as

A.K.A. Wax Museum, but you have to love the Thai name

but the Ancient City comes eerily close.

It’s a Thin Line Between Love and Hate

The Erawan Museum. The Ancient City. Both born of the Viriyahbhun’s desire to contribute to and preserve the Thai heritage, but both symbolizing two very different ideas.

Evidenced, even in their guidebook covers

one can imagine that the Erawan Museum is truly a product of the creative process and inspires. The whole structure is a work of art, not just a place to house precious artifacts. The Ancient City is literally a collection of artifacts removed from context and miniaturized with the intention of preservation. Obviously, I am biased towards the creative and inspiring, but again, I understand the very human desire for collection and preservation. Museums in all their incarnations will always be a part of my life and, while I may grumble, I am grateful for having been exposed to both the Erawan Museum and the Ancient City.

* Look, I’m trying to practice loving kindness and compassion and I know hate is a strong word. Dislike, feel uncomfortable or annoyed are perhaps more accurate descriptions of how I feel towards museums, but I need two easily understandable, equally valenced, polar-opposite meaning words. Cut me some slack.

** For an excellent essay in this very idea, please see Chapter 1 in Umberto Eco’s Faith in Fakes: Travels in Hyperreality.

The Motherland Visit, Part 4: A Love Letter

2011-01-30T09:47:00.000-08:00

Preface

A while back, I wrote this: A Thai Person’s Guide to Thai Food in Los Angeles. In this short post, I explain why if “Food” was entity of Facebook, my profile would simultaneously say “I’m married to Food” and “It’s complicated.” Then I proceed with discussing my favorite Thai restaurants in LA. Just putting that out there because I don’t want to repeat something I’ve already written. So, let’s get on with it.

It has always been a keen interest of mine to take note of how contexts influence human interaction, behaviors, and thoughts. Much like the premise behind The Botany of Desire (fantastic PBS documentary), I am enamored with the “novel” idea that certain things we thought were under our control actually can influence us in major ways. It is a symbiotic relationship that we often forget.

For example, when I was in Berlin, Germany, the refrigerators were smaller. Yes, this was a function of smaller living quarters (at least the apartments I stayed in), but the limited amount of space forced users to continually buy less items that needed to be refrigerated, but shop more often. This almost ensured that most items were fresh. Think about your American refrigerator and how many groceries it can accommodate and how long it would take you to eat all that. This is just a small but effective interaction between a kitchen appliance and humans to encourage different food choices.

In Thailand I was fortunate enough to eat healthier as a result of the proximity of where I was staying to where food was being produced and the tropical climate.

How long have nutritionists been touting the benefits of fish? And how long have we heard the horror stories of how fishing is dangerous for the environment or eating too much is bad for your health? These two ideas can and have caused cognitive dissonance within others and myself for a while, but in Thailand I freely ate as much seafood as I could get my hands on. There must be some mediating factor(s) to this fish / seafood = good + bad relationship... I propose two: freshness and a connection to the source. And I can provide two examples of how I encountered them firsthand: one delicious example and the other, not so much.

Delicious example: My father’s side of the family in Thailand owns a fish farm. And have friends that own fish farms.

And that’s what the fish farm looks like. A building that houses the people that tends to the fish. In those “plots” of water. That’s it! No crazy contraption in the ocean, no big nets to catch other animals while targeting “wild” fish. The fish are raised and to my knowledge there’s no funny genetic modification business going on. For the most part, people knew where their fish was coming from.

Not so delicious example: So, as you know, any traveler, from time to time when they frequent “developing” countries, gets Montezuma’s Revenge. In my case, it was Don Hoi Lot’s Revenge. Don Hoi Lot is a small town off the Bay of Bangkok (gulf side) where locals go to dine on the finest street seafood, often buying it from the stands or carts and sitting bayside to enjoy the tasty treats.

And hot damn, do they look good…

None of these were the culprit; it was these damn mussels we bought as gift for my mother’s friend! I felt like I was in rehab: sweating, tossing and turning, running from bed to bathroom, and drinking this Thai re-hydrating concoction of flat 7-Up and salt. This is where I was holed up for about 24 hours of abdominal pain:

In hindsight, the overheard comments of how the sea was dirty that day are the perfect example of how fresh and connected to the source those damn mussels were. Let’s not talk about this anymore and think other food related good thoughts, like this one:

Our local cook-it-yourself joint called Moo Gah Tah (Pork Pot)

Another factor that contributed to my healthy eating was the tropical climate. Fruits and veggies flourish there! Whenever I think of affordable and easily accessible fruits in the US, I think of apples, bananas, and oranges. Boring as hell, right? After a couple dozen times, even the LA fruit dude’s selection doesn’t seem appetizing. Not in Thailand! Here’s my janky inventory of fruits that I had the pleasure of eating. This list is obviously not exhaustive of all the fruit in Thailand and please ignore personal thoughts, dream lab notes, and especially bad spelling and grammar:

I call you your attention, the Makhamm Tate.

This is a delicious fruit as it is part of Tamarind family, due it's overgrown pea-pod shape. However the edible part inside is unlike anything I've encountered. It looks like a mini-white cabbage encasing a black seed and tastes sweet and peppery. They literally got offered to us after lunch at a roadside noodle shop for less than $1.

Other fresh fruit, vegetable, and related photos:

Thailand’s famous Floating Market

(The rightmost boat holds my favorite Thai fruit that I encountered:

The Rose Apple / Chompoo)

The real deal Coconut Bliss

Again, the simple notion that I want to convey is that I was pleasantly surprised to find that by simply being closer to the source and in a different climate that my eating habits changed. While this is not a profound notion, I think that it has implications for how one interacts with their environment to promote healthier eating habits. You say you can’t stop eating McDowell’s? Think about how many McDowell’s you pass on your way to and from work … If they weren’t so accessible and you had to drive out of your way to get it, would you still want it? If the answer is YES, don’t talk to me. Gross.

OTHER FOOD OBSERVATIONS

I have to say that I found it completely fascinating that I did not eat red meat and virtually no cow by-products while I was there. Upon doing a little bit of research, I found out that my family in Thailand doesn’t eat beef as a personal household choice and that it tends to be more expensive than the other white meat. There goes my profound epiphany about beef… Dairy farming, on the other hand, is a relatively new enterprise in Thailand. There are very few large-scale dairy farming operations and number of small farmers, but, in general, the demand is not that high, leading to an expensive price tag that perpetuates that unpopularity. Personally, I can understand that drinking creamy milk or a grilled cheese sandwich in a hot climate does not sound that appealing.

Why does everything in Thailand have to be so DAMN sweet? Where did this need for additional sweetness in drinks, food, and dessert come from? My father’s answer:

I don’t know why. If you ask most Thai people they don’t think its’ too sweet. They just say, “It just has to be that taste.”

I guess I just don’t know how to eat it.

Two words why you will never go hungry in Thailand … Street. Food.

Finally … Monks gotta eat too.

The Motherland Visit, Part 3: A Brief Case Study in the GxE

2011-01-26T19:57:00.000-08:00

Hi-jacked by psychologists for describing humans, a number of agriculturalists already got this simple notion on lock:

It’s not about nature vs. nurture, your genetic heritage vs. the environment … it’s the all about the interaction that creates unique individuals from such deterministic sources. And, the phenotypic results (i.e., any observable trait) of genes and environment interacting are called the Gene x Environment Interaction, or GxE, for short.

Hands down, the best part of Thailand, was watching my father’s personality blossom as a result of GxE.

Now, my father is strange cat. I’ve only been exposed to certain dimensions of his personality and the roles that he inhabits. As a father, he’s protective, but always gives that real talk. As a boss, he runs a tight ship (evidenced by 5 years of working with him at the family restaurant), is calculated and thoughtful. As a husband, he diligently attends my mother’s side of the family’s events, drinking and smoking with the uncles in the past, but still being cordial now that that time has passed.

But. Every now and then, I get a glimpse of other dimensions of my father. Old pictures like this (Um, excuse me? What’s that look? With the High-Life ringer tee?!) or this (Why with the gun?!). Stories of how when he came to America he and buddy started off as dishwashers at a Moroccan restaurant and moved up fairly quickly to basically run that. Or, how he got krunk and drove 120 miles per hour on dirt roads (a cousin witnessed this, my father never told me). What about how he would serenade my mother outside her house with his guitar? Let’s face it, at one point, my dad seemed like he was a severely cool guy.

So, maybe he can’t wild out like he used to, but let me tell you … there’s something about Thailand brings out the best in my dad. On the real, my dad is FUNNY. And smart, witty, and so open. So gregarious. I don’t know how to describe it. It is a wonderful event to witness.

I’m not saying he wasn’t all those things in the states. He’s lived in the states for over 35 years, more than half his life. He speaks English. Fluently. While he’s no professor, he understands how to make puns and be funny in English. He understands intonation and cadence to get a feeling across in English words. Don’t get it twisted. But, something about being in Thailand, speaking his native tongue … He’s so quick. Surrounded by smiles. Man, my dad is dope … I can’t write about it any more, I can only show you … Hopefully, his shine will emanate through the pictures.

All photos (with the exception of the super AZN ones) were taken with his old Minolta SRT102 that he gifted to me … It was kept in a dusty case for almost 20 years in Thailand.

The Motherland Visit, Part 2: Was it All a Dream?

2011-01-19T08:53:00.000-08:00

The Context

I consider myself quite a good traveler, in the sense that I am pretty aware of importance of time, being open, and myself.

The importance of [linear] time manifests itself in little things, e.g., jet lag and idle traveling time to different places, and big things, e.g., the amount of time you have afforded your self for the entire trip and at certain places, and how you structure your time with either purposeful adventures or purposeful idleness for the possibility of unexpected adventures. Again, I believe awareness of [linear] time (I just got done reading The Invisible Landscape: Mind, Hallucinogens, and the I Ching by the brothers McKenna; their discussion of “time” has got me all heated…) has the capacity to thoroughly enhance or hinder a trip.

Timing: I was in the Thailand for 14 days. The minimum amount of time I like to afford myself on a (relatively) new destination that takes more than 12 hours to reach by plane. While there was full itinerary planned for us, it was a “hurry up and enjoy” structure in the sense that they wanted us to see as many enjoyable things as possible, valuing the quantity over the quality. Although this is not entirely accurate because there are a number of things that we purposefully did not plan to go see that would have traditionally been on a lot of visitor’s itineraries. Simply put, there are many things of high quality (my bias is towards the architectural, spiritual, and cultural significant) in Thailand, and we could only do so much.

I’ve always viewed “being open” as an attribute, which by definition allows for some people to come equipped with an openness or to cultivate it much like one would any skill. Being open is the mental state I would ideally like to inhabit in regards to traveling. When you expect nothing, or rather do not have strict expectations, anything can happen. I try to approach every experience abroad with as much openness as possible, allowing for the full range of possibilities that may stem from that experience whether they be beneficial or detrimental (but for real though, that which doesn’t kill you will make you stronger).

Being open: This trip was exceptional in the sense that while I have cultivated an openness, my openness was tainted by the undeniable desire to compare this current experience with the one I had 20 years ago. Thoughts of “Was it going to be like I remembered?” and “What do I expect?” littered my mind once I opened the flood gates to finally letting it sink in that I was going back “home” (in a manner of speaking). I believe this contributed to the dream-like state of the entire trip, but again, that is a story to be told later. Again, I tried to be as open as possible.

Finally, being aware / knowing oneself (as much as possible in the moment) is a process that comes from introspection and experience, which simultaneously exerts influence on and is shaped by one’s travel experience. In a larger sense, being aware of oneself, there’s a certain freedom attained such that you can push the limits of comfort and discover parts about yourself and the environment that you wouldn’t normally otherwise. In the smaller sense, you can plan the sort of the trip you know you would enjoy the majority of.

Awareness: This trip is not necessarily the trip I would plan for myself. While the destination was a goal for the better part of the past two decades, the major difference between this experience and past travel experiences is that I was more of a passenger along for the ride. Basically, Thailand is the only place I would choose to spend two weeks straight with my family, in a family house, always within reach 24 hours a day, with the day’s activities being planned by an outside source. But these are the circumstances and I was actually looking forward to being placed in a much more passive role than I would like.

As I am still developing and reacting to the experience, I have yet to concisely articulate how my awareness has changed. I believe it has, I feel it, and hopefully the writing process will facilitate this process.

Thanks for listening.

Part 3 to come...

The Motherland Visit, Part 1: The Background

2011-01-18T04:59:00.000-08:00

Thai-American. Ethnically Thai, culturally straddling the United States and Thailand for as long as I remember. Until January 2011, my interactions with Thailand, the actual country, were a brief stint in 1984 and somewhat longer stay in 1991.

1984 – Age 2.5ish, Status: Lone child

My mother and father tried to follow the most proper recent-immigrant tradition of leaving their child(ren) in the old country to be raised by relatives while they worked in the new, sending love and money over the sea. That lasted about 3 months before my mother sent my father on a rescue mission. My mother never ceases to amaze me, but that is another story altogether.

This was also the year of the deaths of both my mother’s and father’s fathers in February and December 1984, respectively.

My brother was born in February 1985.

1991 – Age 9.5 to 10ish, Status: Eldest child who was upset that she had to leave the US during the beginning of what she considered of the “coming of age” period

My father is the only male in a family of 4 children. In Asian cultures males hold a special cultural space insofar as they are first in line to provide a sense of future legacy and male stability. Males are second in line to have a heightened sense of familial obligation behind the eldest child. Practically speaking, this translates into when there’s trouble at the fish farm, it is all male children hands on deck ... in the literal sense. So, we go. Sell most everything we don’t need (e.g., cars, homes, furniture) and transition to Thailand (with a brief layover in Fresno, CA). I live in Thailand for about 6 months. And for reasons specifically unarticulated to me for the time being, my mother, brother and I choose to come back to the US with my father following a number of months later. During this time, I become nearly fluent in Thai, attend a British-based, English speaking school, and get Salmonella.

January 2011 – Age 29ish, Status: Self-proclaimed grown-ass woman with childlike innocence and sense of wonder still in tact

To be continued ... Part 2: Was it all a dream?

Bievres

2010-11-18T08:44:00.000-08:00

We drove to Bievres with neighbor

and friends, but not friends

Sweet hearts to tolerate my "r"s

Berlin-style late nights

of the "old" Bob Dylan

yogurt

la la la through pursed lips

of cigarettes with tips cool to the touch

Remember the Edelweiss? Görlitzer Park?

But, of course.

I think it's the smoke that is stinging my eyes...

a kind of birthday / X everyday

2010-11-18T08:40:00.000-08:00

we celebrated our anniversary in paris

though it should have been berlin

midnight walks in the interim

of gusty drizzly days and nights of grey

we are essentially the same

different packaging but still

wearing our favorite coats

i still hate goodbyes

i saw your everyday paris

peered in your windows

through the cracks

while the curtains were drawn

your white walls

look clean

and unencumbered

from out here

while FNAC bags and cardboard boxes

hide the building materials

of the controlled exposure

of your secrets

Oceanside

2010-10-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

today i found myself walking along side the ocean

in a conversation without words

following the breath of the sea

as it exhaled softly onto the shore

and inhaled loudly onto itself

to the crash of white foam

and the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees

i forgot straight lines

the weight of each step

glowing white and light for a few second

before returning to a heavy brown

together we contemplated

vastness

depth

utility

pleasure

and the power of the moon

grateful for my hair

which danced on invisible streams

obstructing my view

these strong gusts of wind carried us along

rushing us toward an inevitable end

that i didn’t want to see

2010-09-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

the more and more you come around

i've come to the realization that

you don't sit

but hover

silently vibrating

and stirring the electricity in the small space

between yourself

and the chair

i can tell you've been here

the light dancing off the uneven surface of silver coins

and the slightest of weigh in my outstretched palm

that you left behind

Dream Lab Archive

2010-09-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

All recorded and experienced in Berlin, GM

10.20.2009

I'm inside and it is dark. I'm asking friend if they want to go. Liz Albertson is either friend or the other person who’s house it is. There is a delayed online chat during the party, with party people sending messages to voyeurs. I sent a tect message to Lindsay, saying "We can leave whenever". I told her that perhaps the person on the other side of the computer saw my text because somehow the electric signal got diverted and showed on the computer screen. I left the room, embarrassingly talking about how the just farted. Meanwhile, I’m in a dark room, trying to these new creature cats to go with me, but suddenly I encounter a Tabby that will not come. In my hands are two creature cats. Suddenly, baby panther creature with small, long alligator jaws opens slowly to bite my Tabby on the neck. I’m trying to swipe at it with the other cat creatures, but drop them and use my two index fingers to hold the mini jaws open and am calming yelling for Liz, “I need your help. I am not joking.” She finally comes in and helps to get the alligator creature off of me. Both my index fingers are lacerated to the point of needing stitches. I tape them together and try to hold them above my heart.

I'm now inside in highly lit party. As I am trying to get information on how to go to the hospital, I’m on a video chat with friends that mainly like Hip Hop. The screen shows the other side. Sean Paul’s “I’m still love with you” comes on the computer and we’re all laughing, Drew Blood is dancing. He looks like Danger Mouse with a blue collared shirt and brown pants. I see him entering a dark corridor dancing towards camera. “What?! Drew is doing the butterfly?” Lot of laughing. Stepping into the light we see he has an afro, and grabs an aerosol can of something – pretending it’s activator. He dances with it behind his back towards the camera, we notice that it spray fabric softener, and we’re yelling, “No! He’s not going to do it.” He sprays his hair and it actually acts like activator turning his fro into a Jheri curl. We say that he has to put this on DrewTube. I occasionally check my index fingers and the bleeding has stopped, but the tape is understandable falling apart.

I'm leaving the “party” with my busted fingers to go somewhere, presumably to get them fixed. Daylight outside, overcast. I end up walking down the street and cross a bridge where I notice that people are watching the water. I duck between legs and appendages down to watch through the railing. I see a Fabio character, cheesy handsome, no shirt sitting on a branch coming out of the water. My view changes when I realize that it’s a Las Vegas style wedding on the river, Venetian style. The bride is wearing a white dress and sits side saddle on the ledge with a rock-climbing / zip cord attached to her waist and you see that she’s calling something to the man (indistinguishable) and the man waves her over, while attaching her line to one that connects just beyond him in the branch so you can see that she’s going to land in her lap. I have the feeling that it already going to be very melodramatic, when she zips down the line and clumsily lands in him lap. He kisses her to hoots and hollers. Eyes are drawn downwards and a boat the same color of the murky river water, brown / beige, is there with an electric motor. Both get in and he rips the motor and it looks like they are going to skid out and away, but I become only slightly impressed when it capsizes with motor still going and we’re all sure that this is NOT part of the “show” and someone is going to get hacked into pieces, but it turns over again, everyone slightly damp, but in tact. Definitely part of the show and I feel cheated because I feel for it. They peel off and I get up to leave. I help someone pick up their dropped phone and find out that we both need to catch a cab.

It's nighttime. I walk out onto the street with other person (indistinguishable boy or girl) and catch a horse carriage with a big truck bed with a number of different characters, hipsters and one, older man in tux at end of the night and son in nicer clothes (~13 -15 years old). I find out that I’m in somewhere in New York / Berlin combo (vibe of Berlin, grid like New York). Father and son just got out of a show / event, they’re rich, and are trying to find a place to eat. I say I only know the Lower East Side and the East Village in Manhattan – suggest Tuck Shop on First and First. Heading uptown and nearest intersection that I see in we’re in Times Square heading north, with 20th Street running East to West. Somehow, heading to the upper streets = LES area. Completely upside down, but it makes sense. It becomes obvious that Father likes me and is asking where to eat, but son is being a brat. I try to talk to the son, but he’s giving short, smart ass answers and being a snob, in general. He doesn’t want this or that. The cabbie takes a “short cut” through New Jersey, which looks a lot like Central CA countryside , stating that we don’t want to go through Times Square during this time of day because of traffic. Somehow, I say something heartfelt / touching that makes the little boy question his attitude and now we’re best friends. Get the feeling that he is romantically interested / enamored with me, but keep boundaries. End up ditching the father somehow and cut to us together in a big Best Buy / Costco type stop where it’s fast forward / time lapse through our actions: sales person authorizing son to use father’s credit card and “you can decide to change the terms of service,” we buy video games, big dolls… montage of us getting stupid with games / toys, etc. End up feeling for the kid, who’s missing his father, and we try and find the father. Fingers still bandaged.

It's still nighttime. I deposit the kid somewhere safe to wait, and end up walking around where the Tuck Shop is, but it’s a hybrid LES and Compton / ghetto. I end up walking through a backyard. It’s trashy - old, non-working cars in the backyard, muddy, with tables filled with remnants of a party plus kid’s toys. There are wooden structure outside (Outhouses? Sheds? Storage?), and I infer that the family who lives her probably spends a lot of time outside due to lack of space and that they’re not home because they’re back door is wide open and no one is around. I bend down to play with raggedy animal and my eyes are drawn to see something on the table that is significant to helping the boy find his father. When I make to grab it, I see headlights from a van heading towards me. I duck and try to hide behind a car, but they get out of the car all dressed in red and I scoot in the dirt around the car trying to avoid their sights. I notice they are all Bloods, everyone wearing a bandana in various ways with at least one article of clothing that is red (shirts, caps, shoes) and they have weapons. I realize I’m fucked. I get up and state my purpose, stammering I’m trying to help this kid, but they don’t want any explains and back me out into the driveway. I’m backing up to the street with my arms up and I know it’s the end when a car pulls up the driveway, headlights on. I can’t see who gets out of the car, but I notice it’s a gang of Crips, not necessarily to defend me but to get their fight on and I just happen to be in the middle. One of the guys said they should kill me too, and why should they not? I stammer the same thing I said to the Bloods but with more detail trying to buy time, and am interrupted with, “What? You know (name)?” I say I was hanging out with his son all day and I’m trying to help him. It’s about to go down, but they offer to call him and if he doesn’t know who I am, it’s done. His brings the phone to his ears…

10.22.2009

I worked in a restaurant like my father's except it was super high-end that people had to wait outside and there were all these mosquitos out. My co-workers and I didn't get out of the restaurant until 7am and it was still dark. We saw a hugh cement wall in front of the restaurant. I said, "We need to get over that... I don't know why, but this looks like a quarantine." We walked to the other side of the neighborhood and there's the same thing. I said, "Fucking get rid of anything you can't carry because some shit is going down."

Cut to the next day and people are walking around like nothing is wrong, some people are sick looking but we're not. We're at a coffee shop and someone's like, "I think I know why people look sick." and I interrupted with "Mosquitos." And they all turned to me. "You just had to say it didn't you? Always interrupting." I felt really embarrassed and started climbing up the building to get away... then I saw people following me, and I thought that even if they were zombies following me, I'd just rather die than be embarrassed. I got up to the top of the building. People were already up there, they looked tired and on guard, but not sick. Then, they announced over the citywide loudspeaker that they were releasing 2,500 of those people... And everyone who didn't climb up anywhere turned around and looked .... the zombies... were... compact and ravenous.

10.28.2009

I'm waiting for a text confirmation from Lindsay Sharp that the wedding she invited me to was in Long Beach, CA and not some other Long Beach. I had booked a flight for over the phone without specifying. I didn’t realize I was going to be in Los Angeles during that time. I ended up waiting in a library on campus, possibly in Madison, with large windows with lots of light. I'm sitting by the windows on the ground. The DJs from WeFunk are broadcasting their show live from their BlueTooths in the library. I can tell by the way they are dressed and their voices. They sit with their legs sprawled out and their backs on the bookshelf, they look stoned. There’s a young Asian boy / possibly Pilipino that says he’s seen me at various Hip Hop events on campus. I told him that if I stayed for another two years and attended all the events I would probably know everyone that listened to Hip Hop at the school. I wanted to mention that I recognized the WeFunk DJs, but couldn’t find a way to work it into the conversation. He asked me if I liked Seattle’s Best, I corrected him and said Young Blood Brass Band, but meant to say Strange Fruit Project. I said it sounded like a coffee. DJ Static told me I should stop smoking because he overheard me talking and said my voice was getting as scratchy as his. I decided to wait outside and I knew it was the Mid-West because people were loitering outside. I was cleaning my glasses and looked in the sky. There was were dark clouds of circling bugs or birds in the distance, and when I put the glasses back on, I noticed that there was huge Bald Eagle circling. I was pretty much losing it because it was huge and I never saw one in real life. It was circling lower and lower, until I can diving down, head first, like a bullet about 3 feet away from me. It landed straight on its head with a CRASH. Got on it’s feet, shook it’s head, and then waddled away. That’s when I realized that Bald Eagles were descendant from Dinosaurs, specifically the thick skulled Pachycephalosaurus.

12.07.2009

I was in competition with my mom who was my age, but I knew was my mom. For some reason we had to stay up all night driving around, I think we didn’t have a home.

Date Unknown

I am an art student with access to huge studios. I am driving over a huge mountain pass with friends and my mom is in the back seat. There was a flood and it came to to tops of Berlin-style buildings. I wanted to take a picture, but we were driving too fast for me to get a good angle from the passenger side, so I handed my mom the camera and was like, "TAKE IT." I was really exasperated when she couldn't. We cross over the mountain pass and into the heart of the valley where the flood has become a river. We abandon the car and everyone is in the river water. It's not cold and people are floating around and standing on top of houses, but not really bothered by the fact that are in flash flood turned river. I see Jenny Anderson and Brittany Smith and they want me to bring a boat over to them. A plastic boat that floats, but s very, very thin. I fold up the boat, put it under my arm and swim, breast stroke, as hard as I could to bring it to them. As I was swimming, I noticed that there were people swimming next to me and at once I realized I was in a race. Immediately, I stopped trying, but decided, "Eh, I should finish anyway." (I think I lost my motivation for getting the boat to Jenny and Brittany in my efforts). So I did. After the race, I saw that I was ahead of all the boys and girls in the race (they were all in different divisions, but racing at the same time), but 3/4 of the way to the end you could tell when I stopped "trying" and slowed down to make it to the Top 10 (out of 20). At the end of the race, a guy approached me saying, "You could have won, but you just stopped trying 3/4 of the way through."

I was trying to tell him that it was precisely the fact I was not trying that made me go "fast."

Date unknown

Scavenger Hunt - collected everything by myself and with no bike... was going to win when people found out. I was no longer first in line. I dated an actor who was always having performance issues. I remember being very sympathetic.

fahrenhei(gh)t(s)

2010-09-22T13:52:00.000-07:00

2010-09-18T13:06:00.000-07:00

Early morning silence creeps into my noisy noiseless sleep

the stillness visible through slowly awakening eyes

that saw an alternate existence while closed.

Hazy as it drifts away,

dispersing in the muted sun light.

Fresh wounds from the night before

sting

and beg attention.

And are ignored,

for this morning belongs to the quietness

and the birds

and the rustle of the falling leaves

going about their ante meridiem business.

Clarity of reflection is afforded,

uninterrupted by the sounds of your own voice.

The expanse of the impending day

laid out before you,

taking shape like

slow lemniscate structures swirling

cream against the earth

integrating itself into the whole.

Eyes Wide Shut

2010-07-08T23:46:00.000-07:00

The Lilly that I know has three eyes.

When she’s awake and aware,

she rarely keeps more than one eye closed at one time.

Involuntary and voluntary blinks,

opening and closing,

faster that you can imagine.

Letting the light come in,

leaving a lasting image.

If you’re lucky you can see what she sees

when she closes them.

Quote

2010-06-20T00:22:00.000-07:00

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

— Mark Twain

HI Observations

2010-06-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

A change in climate dictates the amount of layers you can comfortably wear.

Logic dictates that music should be island specific, but it seems that no one minds steel drums between 20 and 21 degrees latitude.

You can climb mountains in flip flops.

2010-05-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

The Act of Descending

2010-01-31T17:10:00.000-08:00

Paris, France

2010-01-22T15:26:00.001-08:00

Walking up the Rue Dancourt as it turns into Rue des Trois Frères, I am transported back in time. I am excited but open the door with familiarity. A tiny door, by standards, and I need to watch the step. Crowded as usual and to my delight I am allowed to forgo the spotlight seat for the tucked away corner table. Deux personnes? Non, une. Thumbs up. I stare at the chalkboards, the same illustrations, slightly more expensive and I whisper my order over my shoulder and the shoulder of the male of the couple sitting next to me. The server corrects my French with a smile, repeating what I want to make sure he and I understand.

First course, fois gras with salad and toast. The foie gras is cold and is a perfect circle of the most perfect color of pink and brown I have ever seen. I stare at an iris from my dreams that looks back at me, a warm earth brown ring fading into a creamy coral center. I almost curse how rich it is and the small pieces of toast and the petit salad offering, but mostly I savor it. Taking breaks to be in transported to India by a woman's words which could have easily been my own, except for you can tell she was not born in the Bay Area. I am too conservative in the beginning and am left with one-fourth of the foie gras which nearly makes me faint because I know what comes next. A sensational assault. My entire sense, my only sense now is taste. It has the texture of silk mousse and a savoriness (is that English?) of all the things I was ever meant to eat. Salty, but not too much, rich... I close my eyes and make a sharp decision to learn more adjectives as I realize I am ignorantly imprecise. No thoughts past through my head for a while, just sensation.

The next course is Tartiflette Maison. A dish introduced to me by Gavyn, my French/Welsh flatmate of study abroad past, it has been the cause of many bathroom trips and a number of pounds. Stomach and body rebelling against Reblochon cheese, but my mind runs the show and it says you will habituated. And habituate, I did. A decent portion sits before me now and I know I'll finish it, but I know it will be a challenge nonetheless. The pieces of bacon, pancetta, pork belly, add the perfect saltiness to an otherwise creamy (again, must expand vocabulary!), soft and firm layers of potatoes and cream and cheese. I try to make the experience last as long as I can letting waves of memories, good and heartbreaking, wash over me. Wales, Steven, New Years, my inexperience, past innocence... and here I am. At the same restaurant, craving the same flavors, content to be alone as long as I can still taste.

I look over at the ignored wine glass of white wine, with it's thin layer of frosty condensation oozing from the inside out. In food drunk state, I make a mental compromise with the wine that I'm allowing it to become more flavorful by staying in the glass. As though through some crude semblance of osmosis, I'm allowing water to escape, but flavor to stay in. Chill, be cool. I think the white wine bought it...

The crème brulée and café crème elevate me from savory to sweet and the mix of sugar and caffeine leave me in heightened state of sense. I don't know how else to explain that I am a series of sounds, smells, and taste. CRACK. Spoon to caramelized crème. INHALE. Roasted earth. CRUNCH. My mouth exploring the bitter brown of brulée, the silky texture of the crème. I realize now, more than ever, why babies always put things in their mouths... Think about it. One of your only goals is to eat and this you do a lot of, this is the sensation that, for lack of better terminology, is exercised the most. You can barely hold your own monstrous head up let alone control your entire body, and you are dying to make sense of this big, bright interactive glob of moving shapes and sounds. So what is your most sensitive tool and skill you have? Your mouth and taste. Both have gotten a work out this afternoon.

I must have been there for one and a half, two hours. The lunch rush, gone, and I'm thankful no one is rushing me out. I am literally floating on air, I don't think I hear my boots click on their stone tile floor as I pay. I'm out the door with a merci beaucoup (I didn't have the wherewithal to say "Miam!"). But before I can reach the tiny opening, the people that leave before me open the doors to brass music.

La Paname sits upon a slight, windy incline on the way up to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, so the view is somewhat obstructed. You don't preside over all of Paris, but you're on your way either up or down. Not a bad place to be. I walk out unto the street to trumpet players flanked on each side of the narrow street blowing some sort of traditional French folksy number, the trumpet player on the other side, the one the westside of the street lugging a cart with the beat. He's got it. Older men, but light and still smiling, taking turns turning their flat caps upside down and right side up, blowing air into music. I donate the contents of my coin purse, ,30€. I would have gladly given more, charged by food experience and my guilt for not donating to the tuba and trumpet player in the Metro on the way over.

I stop at the square at the bottom of the hill, wink at the closed restaurant on the corner that Lindsay and I fled to after the incident in the artist's square / British pub. But I turn my back on it and look up at the incline, at the older men with their backs to me slowly making it up the street with alternating blows, at the smiles and taunting of people they pass, up past them all at the overcast sky.

Throwing on my hood I decide not to leave until those men make it up the street and leave me because I refuse to leave them. The acoustics are amazing and am reminded of the scene in La Môme and how she raced up the stairs to where her voice would carry. As these notes carry - they carry any thought I had out of my head until I am those notes, those feet propelling them up the hill, the smiles on people's faces and the light trickle of rain that has begun to think about falling in earnest. It never really does, but it hovers. The sound begins to mingle with cars over cobblestones, children's razor scooters that sound like train tracks, strong but gathering distance.

The men pause at the top of the street to applause, I hope, but cannot tell as if there is any, it is quiet and private. I only see the scattered, swift coming together of hands . The music continues as I know it will long after I have turned on my heels and begin the slow decent to the Seine.

No pictures, just this memory of Montmarte. I don't know why I am drawn to it as such.

An End of An Experiment (Part 10)

2010-01-20T17:27:00.000-08:00

Part 10

As a distraction to this whole sorted ordeal, I found myself in another situation where love was the main course of discussion. To call a spade a spade is only fair, and this was a rebound. That lasted over 3 years. To whom I loved, I was always guarded. Until one day I wasn't and I got what for. A broken heart. Another bright-eyed, wild youth who let me in with no reservations to wreck havoc among his glass hopes with my heavy bull horns. It's not that I couldn't be all that he wanted, in fact it was truly the other way, but in my sentiment I didn't want to let go of love. For a year and half it was passion, private fights, and convenience. This is the first relationship that put into perspective and where I could rightfully admit that I liked being a "girlfriend" and being in "love," and while I had standards, it almost didn't matter who you were. It was more about what you could do for me. The victim comes to terms with being the victor. It was only a matter of time for this episode to come to an end, and subconsciously I put myself in the position to pay a penance for past broken hearts and bruised egos. I was sick with heartache for the better part of a year. It was private battle as pride dictates, by my life was permeated with doubt and realization of the pattern I have come to play out in my interpersonal life.

Woof. I remember that the original act of putting to paper these words was physically draining... myself hunched over a typewriter with cold finger tips pounding onto the keys and the deep breath I took after it was all said and done... once I finished it, I folded the papers in half and didn't look at them again for a solid couple weeks. Now that I've have time to reflect piece by piece and as a whole, the experience is taxing in different sort of way. Before it was a relief and now it's almost instilled an anticipation ... a little bit of "what comes next?" I told you that sometimes when I write, it's like once it's on the page, I don't recognize myself as the author. Maybe its easier that way because sometimes I am embarrassed that this is what has been longing to come out and is the first thing that appears when given free reign. Sometimes, I'm not. Perhaps, not to long into the future, I will try this experiment again.

Untitled

2010-01-20T17:25:00.000-08:00

An Experiment, Part 9

2010-01-19T16:32:00.000-08:00

Part 9

Always a goddamn but. It was not enough. How could he love me if he didn't truly understand my past? How can he save me if he's never known heartbreak? He knew what he wanted, me, but what did he have to compare this experience to? How could he have been so sure?! I see now that this was purely my own internal workings vomiting itself onto a situation that most would have given their first born to have, but my first born was already promised to the deity who relieved me of Salmonella some years ago, but that is another story in and of itself. So, I left him. No other explanation other than I had to find myself. Bullshit, and he could see right through that. Bless his heart, he pursued me for almost as long as we had been together, the better half of 6 years. Again, I was in search of what I thought was love, and I knew what was there once before could never be again. Once I was woman enough to admit that, to relieve him of this unjust hold on his tender heart strings, he promptly married the girl with whom he'd been living with. Much to his unknown horror, this act of betrayal to a woman who presumed he had loved her wholeheartedly pleased by sadistic side to no end. It was then I knew that my view of love was still tainted and in need of solace.

An Experiment, Part 8

2010-01-18T18:26:00.000-08:00

Part 8

Then it happened. From out of nowhere a soft young delicate thing who knew nothing of the upperhand of love came to me in a whirlwind of the most traditional kind. We wrote each other notes, he asked me to be his girlfriend, wrote songs and sang them inaudibly in his backyard on milk crates. He loved me despite my past, fucked me despite his religion, and all at once I had the upperhand. Believe me, I tried in the beginning and slipped into old ways, instigating fights, and always questioning sincerity. I find that I sometimes still do after all these years, but I jump ahead. It was a fairytale love, proms and parking lots. Notes and dinners with families. Family vacations and confessions of undying love. But...

An Experiment, Part 7

2010-01-17T15:43:00.000-08:00

Part 7

I will say that the next time I encountered love, it was some years later. Between then and then there was a string of failed, weird attempts to excerpt an upperhand as I now knew I had a certain thing that boys wanted. Spending three years distracting people from purple spots and crying fits teaches you a couple of things. Discovering sex appeal and how to manipulate that is another teacher. Of course this was all in the service of trying to find a "healthy" approximation to what I had. I have no shame admitting that I was cruel, I was manipulative, and the harder you were to get, the meaner you were, the I wanted it and the harder I cried. I was a victim and victor in the most adolescent of games.

Part 1

An Experiment, Part 6

2010-01-11T18:58:00.000-08:00

Part 6

How it ended was more of a blur than how it began only due to the fact that I was in a constant haze of rearranging all that I knew about how to act in relationships. I switched schools, I remember that. I remember he threatened my father and brought me a dozen roses. I remember that he would call and ask how I was, injecting a feeling of the worse anticipation I have ever imagined, a combination of hatred and desire. I remember that one day I woke up and hadn't thought about him in a number of days. But his marks were clearly felt. And not only by me.

An Experiment, Part 5

2010-01-08T12:01:00.000-08:00

Part 5

I would have to say that my second experience of love occurred when I was 13. Put in a precarious situation of predictably absent parents and of wanting to find a place to call my own in the social sense led me into the arms of a charismatic playboy with a pension for verbal and physical abuse. I curse the marks that he has put on my body and mind, drawing a path on both that is hard to deviate from. To skip ahead, slowly these well worn grooves are smoothing out, but to go back they run very, very deep. It is here again that I encountered this upperhand. He had what I wanted, and I had what he wanted, myself aware of the power of the female form. What I wanted was this thing called love. For me this love was visceral. It made me sick on more than one occasion and made me contemplate the whole lot with knife in hand. Nothing felt more like love than force, words of the "carefully chosen hurting kind." The strength of what was in my heart was matched only by bruises, blood, and involuntary curses that escaped my lips when contact was made. The more it hurt, the more sure I was that what we had was special. He didn't posture with me, this was real and private.

Side Note: I haven't significantly altered any of what I've written since I conducted this experiment with the exception of typos and glaring grammar issues, such as missing commas. And it's difficult not to with every entry I post, but every time I do it is a self-inflicted lesson in humility. Goodness, this is tough.

An Experiment, Part 4

2010-01-07T12:07:00.000-08:00

Part 4

To which I would like to address the topic of love. My very first experience would have to do with my parents, and what I gleaned from that situation is that love will sometimes make you do things that disappoint the other with the intention of saving them from other major disappointment. Do not get me wrong I have learned the harshness that is unconditional love. The awesome and inspiring unconditional love of two (!) parents and for that I am grateful. I understand now what things were sacrificed and what things were done in the name of love, but it is just like me to remember the hard lessons of love, especially when I have a bellyache. There always seems to be an upperhand in love, where one has collected more experience than the other. Rarely do I see an equality in the tally of love experiences. This upperhand is the scariest and most desirable thing I can imagine. This, I imagine, is powerful and arresting at the same time. Both a boon and a burden. But I jump ahead of myself.

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

An Experiment, Part 3

2010-01-05T10:23:00.001-08:00

Part 3

I know there is nothing that interests me that doesn't involve the human condition. It is extremely hard to be impressed with reading something that has nothing to do with you, or that which you can relate to. It may seem bold, but as humans we have an uncanny ability to recognize our own consciousness and to possibly compel me into speaking with you about anything having not to do with this extraordinary gift is to render oneself obsolete.

Part 2

Part 1

Twenty Ten

2010-01-04T11:36:00.000-08:00

No Hate in '08 ... Tried my hardest, but I'm a hater by nature. Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Gettin' Mine in '09 ... Check, done. DING! Pick it up.

Lessons I've Learned 2009 Edition

Everything is temporary.
When you expect nothing, anything can happen.
People are going to think what they want to think about you regardless, so you might as well say the things you want to say.
If you say something, you better mean it.
It is amazing the conditions that human are capable of adapting to.
Sometimes it o.k. to stay in on sunny days and write. Or sleep.
Do what you gotta do, boo boo.
Timing is key.
You never regret the things you do, but always regret the things you don't do.
The universe will provide.
If you want something bad enough, you will make it a priority.

By nature, 2009 will never happen again. Events can be replicated, relationships deepened / weakened, and similar things can be "discovered", but the experience of 2009 was solely unique.

The year began with an personal acknowledgement to a new leader of the nation that I would sacrifice and contribute to a greater good, however that vision would be developed, only to find myself out of employment within a couple months. I always describe being laid off as the equivalent of being dumped, to which we all have experienced, but believe me when I say, I loved my job. The conversation went something like this:

Job: Listen...

Me: Yes, boo? What you need, I got you.

Job: Yeah, about that...

Me: You can tell me.

Job: Well, let me just say, it's not you...

Me: What? WHAT?

Job: It's me. I ...

Me: Are you... Is this for real?

Job: Yeah. I can't afford to have you around anymore. Baby, I've been trying for the past couple weeks to find a way that you fit in, but there's no room. I'm sorry.

Me: Oh HELL no.

And we're still not together. I haven't been seeing anyone since, but we all know what happens after an event like this... I immediately start rollin' for self. I hit the road. Almost instantly. Supplied with a cooler chock full of Gov't cheese and an automobile, I start gettin' mine in earnest. This year alone, I have gotten busy cross country 3 times and have stayed extended periods of time with New York City and Berlin, Germany. I'm not afraid to I became one of Travel's many mistresses because it's always a win-win situation. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Travel has always been my first love. I am and will always be faithful because Travel is always like, "I don't know why you're trippin', it's not like I'm going anywhere. Damn. Get at me when you can."

2009 has shown me multiple lives and countless alternative realities where I may exist. And for that, I am grateful, but I am acutely aware that 2009 has not been without bullshit. Some severe bullshit at that. Without going into the details, let's just say I have a greater appreciation of life, and from now on, I will do my best to be an active participant.

The world has opened itself up to me, shown its most brilliant opportunities, and I vow to cherry pick the best of what I learned from each and every opportunity and create a space - mental, physical, all that - where I fit... and can enjoy them all. Because, real talk, it's been inside me all along and I just needed an opportunity to explore all the possibilities.

So let the filtering process begin. Love, Respect, Responsibility, Friendships, Decisiveness, Knowledge, Power, and Collaborations, you're good. Bullshit? Gets the steppin'.

Love Always.

Keeping it Real

2009-12-29T01:05:00.001-08:00

Nothing is obsolete, everything serves a purpose. Though obscured by this and/or that, every action is functional, is fueled by motivation, desires, and ration, sometimes hidden even from ourselves. But, if you stand still and think about it, everything becomes simple.

***********

As much as I like to keep it real, some times it's hard to say the simplest things. To quote The Carpenters, "Sometimes the words get in the way." I believe this is why all the things I write can be linked or we're triggered by something physical. Nothing like a bellyache or a sunset to stop you dead in your tracks. It's so easy to become wrapped up in your subjective interpretation of what is happening in the world, but it is undeniable that "something" is happening. Something that can so rarely be manipulated and obscured by words / emotions. When the sun sets, it sets. Done.

It's when you find yourself saying, "This reminds me of..." or rather, relating a naturally occurring event to other areas of your life, or rather, inserting the meaningful into the obvious, is when connections are made and everything becomes ... who's to say? Projections, by definition, tell more about the projectionist than the object, nevertheless an object / an action / a phenomenon is needed. I am infinitely more interested in the Why of things, but I respect the Whats because they remind me that there are somethings I cannot escape and assist in articulation even if I can't at this given point in time.

An Experiment, Part 2

2009-12-20T13:40:00.000-08:00

Part 2

So what of the past? My past was lacking in mundane way, missing father figure, extremely shy with a malnourished creative streak. Solace found in books where somehow I got it in my head that all the great ideas have already been explored. Comfort in things that had a predictable cause and effect. Scared of change and loved routines. As you can imagine, this made for a weird childhood though nothing that could predict that the future has become now and I am still here feeling it out.

Part 1

Ouvre les Yeux

2009-12-19T11:06:00.001-08:00

When you expect nothing, anything can happen.

An Experiment, Part 1

2009-12-18T01:55:00.000-08:00

I think there is something wrong with me. I type as fast as I think. It's almost a one to one relationship, and when it comes to the Dream Lab (a whole other story...), I can literally type faster than I can think. It feels like the words literally go from my un / sub / conscious mind to the screen without going through the normal filters cultivated by years of studying psychology ("Wait, what does that mean? Why did that happen? Are you sure that's what happened?) so much so that I surprise myself with what I write as I'm writing. It's as if I'm reading someone else's words as they appear letter by letter before my eyes.

Usually this happens on a computer, but since I have purchased my first typing machine (German DDR-era), the things I chose to type have not followed the same flow. I actually like the way I am forced to think more carefully about what I am going to type courtesy of (1) no correction tape and (2) being a cheap ass and only having one roll of tape (I plan to re-roll it when it comes to the end and reuse it...). But I owed it to myself and the typing machine to test the limits the connection I felt from mind to body to metal to paper. One of the ways I did this was to conduct an experiment: I sat down and tried to type for as long as I could non-stop.

As I didn't set any restrictions and told myself that these words were never going to see the light of day, what spilled out was extremely personal and all pride aside... about love. To quote Sade, "Love is stronger than pride." And as much as I would like to say I wrote about something deep, this is what wanted to come out at this time. I was in no position to prevent what has been yearning to be recorded.

As I've read over the pages and pages of type and typos and misaligned margins since then, with different eyes, I am surprised at my own candor. This was an experiment in being completely open, letting my fingers literally pound out thoughts that I had not have the courage to even say out loud. And now I'm taking it to the next level. Because it's outside of me now, but born of me and I have nothing to hide. Nevertheless, I reserve the right to expose myself in pieces... a little here, a little there, eventually it will be here in its entirety... because I've asked a lot of myself already and that is no small personal feat. Baby steps.

Part 1*

They say that you can only, rather, you should, or rather they say nothing in the way of anything that can be interpreted as an opinion. I believe they say write what you know. Writing what you know is subject to interpretation. Telling the truth, even to yourself, is difficult. No one knows the real facts except the writer. And that is debatable. There is a burden of truth and a burden of representation. So what is it that you think you know? One thing I can say definitively is that I do not know. I can only recall the past.

...

* Part 1 has appeared, slightly modified, in Berlin Everyday.

Ap Lei Chau, Hong Kong

2009-12-17T09:34:00.001-08:00

Start time: 6am, December 30th, 2006

The sun is rising right now. Through the haze the sun is getting brighter as the night falls, thick, on the the other side. I want to go for a walk. I feel like smoking - not so much for the nicotine - more for the motion, the ritual, for the excuse to breathe deeply while doing something destructive and intimate - but I know I won't. And I don't. Smoke or walk. Not today. Is it fog or haze (man-made)? It takes on the color of deep blue, grey to light grey, blurring the distinct lines of the buildings on the tops of the mountains. Like distal concerns I can see their outline, I know they're there, looming but not intimidating, when I get there, to the buildings at the top, I'll be ready.

But here, on the 17th floor, I sit looking forward, a shift of the eyes down and I see details I did not see in the dark before the rising sun. Tree tops are clearly defined, I can see each leaf that makes up the canopy that blocks my view of the ground beneath, but I know what looks like as well. Save for a few small boats ferrying people, things, back and forth, the movement on the water is minimal. While there is plenty left to be explored and I want to explore it, I know I sit on the 17th floor, flights above, height that gives me clarity about what I walk through, experience every day, today and tomorrow.

My eyes shift up and proximal concerns, the ground, occupies only the lower portion of my view. I look up and as the light from the sun overwhelms my eyes, overpowering the lights from distant buildings as the main source of illumination, the buildings become less distinct, the lines more blurred, but what hasn't changed is that they sit atop a mountain. Ever present. Though created by hand those buildings sit atop a mountain. I realize that it is not the buildings themselves that are looming and not intimidating, they were just a focal point - just like Western eyes to find a focal point and regard it as the source of...

but it is the mountains that hold them up, that allow them the opportunity to be so "highly regarded", the silent foundation that strikes me with awe. I want to appreciate those mountains, feel the dirt beneath my feet - the pressure of the earth pushing me back as I push on it - propelling me up. The buildings atop the mountains have lost their glow, swallowed by the haze. The mountains, themselves, have softened into shades of brown and grey, the backdrop to another day. Strange, yet comforting, the things I see so clearly in the dark. In the light. And for the brief moment one gives way to the other.

End Time: 7:15am, December 30th, 2006

2009-12-16T11:08:00.000-08:00

When you meet new people you get to present yourself as you wish. They take your word for it. It’s like telling a story over and over. Eventually you trim the fat and perfect the punchline. Re-creating yourself and they think you are normal.

Sometimes you find that you are more yourself when you are not your usual self.

Mandatory Business as Usual

2009-12-14T08:21:00.000-08:00

Very rarely do I tear pages in my notebook, but tonight I feel that it’s worth it. Friday night - business as usual - but inside we are all riding bicycles in private storms, trying to find shelter amidst flashes of lights, loud claps, and sharp liquid. Chasing the sunlight. Some ride harder, some stand still, as wet drops stain light greys to black.

We fall into old habits, comfort zones. To things we think come natural in times of instability. We hold on to hope believed to be planted firmly deep beneath the ground as winds whip the hair into our already stinging eyes we don’t dare to close.

(Com)Passion

2009-12-12T22:17:00.000-08:00

In Paris I met passion.

Unbridled. Regardless of supposed tos.

Beyond arms and eyes,

Passion that has had time to explore

the deep

and shallow end,

and is still here to recall.

And I am in awe,

rather,

inspired by the wildness

contained

slightly obscured by layers and follicles.

I only caught but a glimpse of passion

personified

and I am a better person because of that.

I said,

“Save your heart because you are special.

Not everyone deserves something so special,”

knowing full well that this will be

taken into deep consideration

before being gently and with all good intentions,

set aside.

You didn’t think I saw

but your eyes

betrayed it all

as you lifted your arm

to wave good-bye,

rather,

to be continued.

My only hope is that I held up

the mirror for you

as steady as you held it for me,

as it was just us.

Compassion and passion’s words

carrying us deeper into the Parisian night.

Beyond the stars.

Into the universe

where all provisions are distributed.

-------------------------------------------------

An End Note:

COMPASSION: (n) sympathetic pity and concern for the suffering and misfortunes of others

PASSION: (n) a strong and barely controllable emotion

a) a state or outburst of such emotion

b) intense sexual love

c) an intense desire or enthusiasm for something

d) a thing causing enthusiasm

Berlin Everyday

2009-11-20T03:58:00.001-08:00

Baby Gurl's first exhibition. If you are in Berlin and I know you, it's almost a requirement that you come. It will also serve as a chance to say good-bye as I will be leaving back to the United States shortly thereafter. Yeah, it's like that.

Jazz Etiquette

2009-10-29T06:28:00.000-07:00

jazz sessions. görlitzer park. do you have friends anyway? will you sleep alone tonight? rico. harmonica holster. tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk. wait your turn for the rhythm then BLOW. fingers do the anticipation dance, the rhythm jitterbug. hunched over black and ivory. matte brass. closed eyes and breathe... breathe. bum bum BUM bum of calloused fingers. you close your eyes as it is the sense of least importance here.

Why I will never have a 6-pack

2009-10-20T04:49:00.001-07:00

Real Butter

Brie

Whole Milk

Linguini

Crusty Bread

Pecan Pie

Birthday Cake

Gristle

Pork Belly

Wine Wine Spritzers

Cumulus / The Sum of Your Parts

2009-10-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

from the balcony: tangible mass

soft, puffy, and formidable

from the balcony: slow

creeping across the sky, but traveling at a rate

faster than i can keep up

up close: translucent

it's cold and the wind carries billions of water droplets

in the same, different direction

up close: you're just your parts

i see right through you

Spring Green, WI

2009-09-30T22:03:00.001-07:00

out here things are a little different
every one and thing takes their time

people actually hear what you have to say
so make sure you mean it

barns are shitty because they are structurally unsound
not because they just look worn and torn

at night
great gusts of wind roll across the sky in waves
crashing through the dry leaves and stiff branches
violent and unrelenting
distant thunderstorms pound their muted BOOM
lightning briefly illuminating
clouds, acres, and rain
the misty half moon spell
over all of this

i close my eyes
and hear the ocean

Sol

2009-09-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

sometimes I look right at the sun
even when I know I'm not supposed to
to see how long I can last.

even though it burns
i know the ghost of the sun
pulsating under my eyelids
will fade over time.

berlin, germany

2009-09-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

October 11th to December 5th, 2009. Yep.

Tiny Vice

2009-09-13T09:21:00.000-07:00

New Year's resolution in Nasty Nassau

I should have known from the start

At first it was social, complimentary

Then more frequent, affordances of

still times

ritual

depth

and breath

Partner to times that raised my heart rate

the closest approximation to a campfire experience with

darting fireflies

a huddle and whispers

interrupted by bolts of laughter

Campaigns waged in my youth

picket signs discarded

Now I just pick at it

A scab

I'll never say never

but I will say "Not this time"

because our time has come

Memories

2009-08-20T00:24:00.000-07:00

What if our experiences

left physical marks on our bodies

as it does on canyon walls

and exposed tree trunks?

Imagine interpretations made by future archeologists,

sorting out the effects of

wind,

water,

and light.

S.W.C.

2009-07-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

We're going to keep doing stupid things

until we're done.

You'll think about it everyday

until one day you don't.

It'll always hurt until

one day

it won't.

Eastern Sierra Range

2009-07-21T21:17:00.000-07:00

Glacier lakes over 11,000 feet.

Cold and inviting,

every single pore

open and ready to receive

the burn.

Distant sounds:

The constant swoop and curve of the water over rocks.

Sweet treble.

Rocks sharply sliding downwards heavy with age, sun, and the slow movement of the earth.

Muted bass.

The wind snaking through your clothes. Your hair following the notes.

Idyllwild

2009-07-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

Silence is deafening,

but our voices carry.

We're covered

in a thin layer of dust

with smoke in our hair.

Pictures or it didn't happen.

You can only take our word for it.

Up on Suicide Rock,

we forget the aches

and breathe deeply.

AIDS LifeCycle

2009-06-15T17:51:00.000-07:00

A card I received in the mail from my parents, bless their hearts – no one knows how to insult, congratulate, and ignore proper grammar in sutble ways like Asian parents.

Dear Bee [family nickname],

Since we raised you, we know that you’re not a physical girl.

But for you to complete the bicycle ride for AIDS LIFECYCLE in June 2009 SF --> LA 545 miles.

"It was beyond our believe and our imagination!" [sic]

Congratulation to our Little Girl!

Love Always,

M + D Kliengklom

Bonneville Salt Flats

2009-04-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

the air is different here.

this is what it must feel like to be in a desert.

i'll take your picture

of you

taking a picture.

you say there's nothing to focus on...

the white expanse sharpening your features

as you squint and smile.

Bear Lake, Utah

2009-04-15T13:04:00.000-07:00

one man's abandoned property is where

another's treasures

are found.

pull off here

there is something I want to

take a picture of.

look,

it looks better in real life.

South Dakota

2009-04-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

Memories are made in South Dakota.

Road side stops.

Detours just because.

Sometimes all you can do is roll down the windows

and just listen to the road.

Fight or Flight

2009-04-09T08:36:00.000-07:00

i'll take off for a while

to build up my strength

Why Moms are Kinda the Best

2009-03-31T05:52:00.000-07:00

On Tue, Mar 31, 2009 at 7:48 AM, Tattiya Kliengklom wrote:

Oh yeah, and she gave me a $25 gift card to Red Lobster. I gave her a big hug. There's no way in the world she could have known that RL is my guiltiest of all pleasures, the cement that holds together the bond of a near and dear friend, Liz Albertson (located in Knoxville, TN), and I together whilst landlocked in Madison, WI, unless, of course, my contention that the cheshire moon was smiling specifically for me was true. Big sigh!

Can you say Crab Crackin' Monday?

Tattiya

From Villes to Boroughs to Burghs

2009-03-31T05:28:00.000-07:00

The trees change from lush greens and reds and purples

to reveal rusty patches.

my heart pounds through steel to rubber to cement to earth

through bare black arteries, branching veins and thin capillaries

blurring and softening the gray skyline.

It just might be a crackhead, got a hold of the WRONG stuff.

2009-03-23T22:35:00.000-07:00

Adventure with Crackheads / Austin, TX

So... Adriana and Marie were enlisted to offer $5 haircuts at 1808 during SXSW. Simple enough? I volunteered to get the ball rolling. Adriana gave me a very sweet french braid that wrapped around my head earlier during the day (trust, it was cute), and the plan was to get a bitty trim and re-braid. Trim? Done. JUST as Adriana starts the french braid, STRAIGHT from the alley, comes SHEILA. In all her glory. All up in Adriana's hands as she's braiding my hair. Choice quotes:

"You gotta wet ALL that."

"You gotta use the comb. Get all that baby hair."

"Here, let me show you."

"You gotta pinch it."

"Baby, am I hurtin' you?"

"I'mma make my own style!"

"Ooh, if you were here yesterday, I would have given you microbraids, with a little bead at the end."

"When you go back to LA, and you just take them our with your fingers, your hair's gonna be CURLY curly."

The way Sheila was yanking my shit and talking, I thought it couldn't be anything else but the bomb biggety, but what she gave me was straight. up. DOOKIE. braids. WITH... 4 little rat tails at the end. She worked so hard on my hair, Adriana and I both felt uncomfortable telling her that I look like a broke-ass, first time Midwesterner visiting Nassau / RZA. AND fools were taking my picture while the shit was going down. So not pumped.

I even tried to pop my collar to hide my rat tails, unsuccessful. Luckily when I came back to pick up the girls, hair undid, Sheila was back in the alley and did not recognize me... Moral of the story: do not, I repeat, DO NOT let crackies do your hair. Either that, or I need to grow a set of balls, and speak my mind when crackies attempt to cornrow my shit.

6:37pm CMT

2009-03-19T00:35:00.000-07:00

they say you shouldn't

for fear of what you'll lose

but i did

for as long as i could

red phantom dots accompany me on the walk back

thoughts busy with all that was gained

Think about it.

2009-02-21T01:49:00.000-08:00

Newton's Laws of Motion:

1) Every body perseveres in its state of being at rest or of moving uniformly straight forward, except insofar as its compelled to change its state by force impressed.

2) The change of momentum of a body is proportional to the impulse impressed on the body, and happens along the straight line on which that impulse is impress.

3) For a force there is always an equal and opposite reaction; or the forces of two bodies on each other are always equal and are directed in opposite directions.

Pop, Lock and Drop it

2009-02-20T11:46:00.000-08:00

Scene from Chinatown, Los Angeles, CA

Bitter / Sweet

2009-02-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

Main Entry: bit·ter

Function: adjective

Etymology: Middle English, from Old English biter

Date: before 12th century

1 a: being or inducing the one of the four basic taste sensations that is peculiarly acrid, astringent, or disagreeable and suggestive of an infusion of hops b: distasteful or distressing to the mind

2: marked by intensity or severity: a: accompanied by severe pain or suffering b: being relentlessly determined c: exhibiting intense animosity d (1): harshly reproachful (2): marked by cynicism and rancor e: intensely unpleasant especially in coldness or rawness

3: expressive of severe pain, grief, or regret

Main Entry: sweet

Function: adjective

Etymology: Middle English swete

Date: before 12th century

1 (1): pleasing to the taste (2): being or inducing the one of the four basic taste sensations that is typically induced by disaccharides and is mediated especially by receptors in taste buds at the front of the tongue

2 a: pleasing to the mind or feelings b: marked by gentle good humor or kindliness c: fragrant d (1): delicately pleasing to the ear or eye (2): played in a straightforward melodic style e: saccharine, cloying f: very good or appealing

3: much loved

4 a: not sour, rancid, decaying, or stale b: not salt or salted c: free from excessive acidity —used especially of soil d: free from noxious gases and odors e: free from excess of acid, sulfur, or corrosive salts

5: skillful, proficient

Astrological

2009-02-16T01:49:00.000-08:00

Sun Sign: Cancer

Moon Sign: Leo

Ascendent: Leo

Very interesting.

Rhetorical

2009-02-10T03:38:00.000-08:00

It's not rocket science

or even algebra

to know that

the unasked question

is never asked

because you already know the answer.

Road to Tarabithia

2009-02-04T00:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t even know that this movie/book is about or if it's even the name of the movie, but it connotes some epic shit, and on the real, that’s what we were on.

To start at the beginning:

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

On the eve of this historic day, United States citizens chose Barack Obama as their president-elect. Regardless of political affiliation, this man had to be, and was recognized as shift in the current collective tolerance for how government and the United States represents the American people.

Many others have far eloquent reflections from this very night, but from the ground up in Los Angeles, CA it felt like New Years. The streets were alive with smiles, arms, legs, hands, honks, cries, yelps, hugs, wheels, glass, fire, and smoke.

Personally, I was in a cozy bar with close friends sharing all of the above, hearts full and heavy, minds completely blown.

Fast forward less than 2 weeks later and with an email prompt from Liz Albertson, Michelle Garakian and I decide that there is absolutely no reason why we should not be attending Barack Obama’s inauguration.

And thus the epic 8-day trip begins.

Thursday, January 15, 2009: LAX – ATL – TYS (Knoxville, TN)

Saturday, January 16, 2009: Arrive in DC

Sunday, January 17, 2009: Welcoming Ceremony

Tuesday, January 20, 2009: Swearing in Ceremony

Wednesday, January 21, 2009: Arrive Baltimore

Thursday, January 22, 2009: BWI – ATL – LAX

Thursday, January 15, 2009

“Hello Stranger”

Somehow our excitement for the impending trip to the East did not translate into making sure everything was packed ahead of time, so once business was handled in that department, we found ourselves at the end of an equation marked

EXCITEMENT 2:00am at 2605 1/2 = two ladies + anticipation (a full pack, nearly 3 bottles of wine, Springsteen on vinyl, Barbara Lewis on loop) - work for the next 8 days

…exponentially increasing as the second hand ticked solidly into the morning hours

It was like the night before you knew you’d be heading to Disney World. We stayed up in anticipation of the things to come. Advice: If you’re going to pull an all nighter for no apparent reason, do not, repeat, DO NOT, switch to red wine after two bottles of white. You will be instantly knocked out and wake up with the most kickingest breath.

Armed with 3 hours of sleep and a healthy buzz, Michelle and I have the esteemed pleasure of having Mo Twine take us to the airport. Not without a stop along the way to (1) pick up forgotten bootleg Obama T-shirt from my house, and (2) croissants, cinny buns, and glazed treats. Apparently, Mo is quite versed in the donut game around town and this particular SpudNuts near USC is so dependably delicious that it also doubles over as Mo’s office and conference room. TCB.

“Bucktoof Bitch”

Recovered SMS conversation

Michelle: Me too. I could kill that bucktoof bitch.

Tattiya: Yo, why they always got the most scurryest broad to be the manager type?

Michelle: i’m so hungover this is a test from god.

Tattiya: dude i'm trying not to pass out right now.

Michelle: Shanzi has it. En route.

Tattiya: yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees

Michelle: You on board?

Michelle: Are you flying? I’m gonna stalk that ho

Michelle: FUCK THAT BITCH

Michelle: See you fools at 1046pm. Fuck these assholes.

Michelle: In coldlanta, leaving at 950 for knx. Be in by 1046. See ya then. Delta is for ho’s.

One expired license and expired passport later, Michelle was en route to Knoxville, TN. In the 1.5 hour between when I arrive to an unusually cold Knoxville (coldest day in 6 years!), Liz and I manage to experience Thai food and two Johnnie Walker Black Labels neat. $5.75. Goddamn.

Once we come back to home base, wine flowed and pizza was consumed while Liz let us experience her “Sister Wife” (read: Mormon) wig. It was perfect for Liz, sassy on Michelle, and made me look like a pretty pony. Did that stop us from tromps-ing around channeling Southern charm? Chris Buckner, affectionately nicknamed “Chrissy”, Liz’s roommate was not ready for us.

“Chrissy’s Southern Style Dorito Salad Recipe”

Layer Cool Ranch Doritos in a casserole pan.

Layer room temperature refried beans.

Layer grated cheese.

Layer Pace Picante or other nasty salsa.

Layer sour cream.

Another layer of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Sprinkle with scallions, black olives, and a can of Ro*Tel.

Serve immediately.

----------------------------------

Knoxville, TN

I’ve had the pleasure twice now to visit this city and it never ceases to entertain. This time I had the extreme pleasure of seeing it through the eyes of another experiencing the city for the first time. For Michelle, as for I, it was love at first site. We were educated, amazed, befriended, and of course, well fed and thoroughly intoxicated.

I found myself apologising upon leaving to a friend, “I’m sorry that I came in like a whirlwind or Tazmanian Devil for a day and a half and leaving carnage in the wake of my quick escape.” He said he kind of liked it that way, and I realized that I kind of do too.

Knoxville Set #1 Knoxville Set #2 TN to DC

Washington, DC

I came to here to do one thing… Bear witness. Unfortunate for me, I was sick the entire DC trip as my lymph nodes always revolt when there is a drastic change in temperature. That did not stop me, however, from putting all the clothes I had with me on my body and braving the cold to see history in the making.

I feel like when I try to describe this experience, I end up sounding like a mash up between child talking about her father’s job responsibilities – I can’t say that I’m 100% sure I know what he’s in charge of or how much power he actually has, but I do know that his responsibilities are immense, vast, and amazing – a really sentimental, idealistic girlfriend of some famous musician – in awe of how his presence and craft can evoke so much visceral emotions – or a crackhead – we needed some of that good shit BAD and I’m ready to go the distance for this fool if only he’ll give us what we want.

On the real, Barack Obama had me wide open.

First line about the opening ceremony in the Washingon Post, “Rap fans danced to country music…” When Garth Brooks singing “Shout” has thousands of people twisting down to a hunch, whispering “A little bit softer now…” and Stevie Wonder is vocalizing Barack Obama’s name, it sweeps you up and you can’t help but be optimistic.

Inauguration day was emotional, intense, and surreal. Taking the Metro and walking to the Capitol after waking up at 5am was sobering and intoxicating at the same time – was this really happening and yes, this is happening; people of earlier generations as well as mine own doubting that this event would take place in their lifetime. Elders turning to the very young saying, “See, you can do whatever you want.” Tears in trickles and floods. Boos for Bush, Hallelujahs and Amens for the benediction from all denominations, and pure enegry from the crowd. Navigating our way to the Silver section (we had tickets, hwhat?!), I leaned over the side of a highway filled with human bodies lined up and yelled, “What color are your tickets?” A resounding “PURPLE” and cheers instantaneous produced smiles all around. People were supremely pumped.

I, personally, always had a mixed relationship with being American. I was born on the Fourth of July and was the first generation raised in America as opposed to Thailand. Here people want to know my heritage, nationality (American, fool!), and ethnicity, but everywhere else in the world I’m an American. I believe in Buddhist teachings, but want a white wedding in a Church. I never said “God” during the Pledge of Allegence, but I love the way the American flag looks, red, white, and blue. I believe the underlying principles in which our nation is based are noble, but I am aware of the circumstances that lead the American people to collectively develop in a certain way. I love the United States and desire more for it at the same time. But, on this day – January 20^th – I was afford the time and space to believe that we are on our way to make the United States a better place, not just for Americans, but also as active participants in the larger world. Obama’s speech lingers in my mind and while I can say with confidence that he is not our savior, his ideals and goals are one that I would also strive and sacrifice for. I believe that he has our best interests in mind and hot damn, he has a long road ahead. As with all other important things in my life, I try not to have high expectations – I believe he’s going to do the best he can while serving the American people.

Side note: The Obama schwag was top notch.

Washington DC Set # 1 Washington DC Set # 2 Washington DC Set #3

Baltimore, MD

Amy (parahase): Baltimore was voted one of the ugliest cities in the United States – not really the city, but the people in it. I never thought I was hot, but when I walk into a bar, I’m pretty intimidating.

City of Scrapple, I hardly knew thee, but I would love to have you open up to me and show me what you got. Until next time…

Washington DC / Baltimore Set # 1

Many thanks to the Knoxville Crew: Liz, Chris, Travis, David, and Brian, DC Crew: Kara and Alex, and Baltimore's Finest: Amy, for being amazing hospitable; we are forever indebted to you.

Two

2009-02-03T15:20:00.000-08:00

of my favorite words:

Precise
Pronunciation: \pri-ˈsīs\
Function: adjective

Etymology:
Middle English, from Middle French precis, from Latin praecisus, past participle of praecidere to cut off, from prae- + caedere to cut
Date: 15th century

1 : exactly or sharply defined or stated
2 : minutely exact
3 : strictly conforming to a pattern, standard, or convention
4 : distinguished from every other

Concise
Pronunciation: \kən-ˈsīs\
Function: adjective

Etymology:
Latin concisus, from past participle of concidere to cut up, from com- + caedere to cut, strike
Date: circa 1590

: marked by brevity of expression or statement : free from all elaboration and superfluous detail

Reference from Merriam-Webster Dictionary Online.

Today

2009-01-20T19:30:00.000-08:00

Snow flurries in the AM.
Sunburn on my eyelids by the PM.
I guess the reflection from my tears didn't help.
The sun was a lot stronger than I thought,
cutting through the bitter cold,
finding my face for just long enough
to feel the heat later.

The First Shall be Last & The Last Shall be First

2009-01-15T04:29:00.000-08:00

It would be foolish of me to think I was the first
Even more so to think I'm going to be the last
But I do know the first time we met
I wanted it not to be the last
And the last time you left
I'll say, It wouldn't be the first

They say
You can lead a horse to water
but you can't make it drink
It's not your decision to make
The fault lies no more on the horse
than it does
the water
For they are what they are
It is what it is
but, it just might be what the horse needs

Moon Shine

2009-01-11T04:07:00.000-08:00

two nights of moon shine

full and heavy

with opportunity

we don't miss what we missed

your advantage

I've never had the pleasure

everyone seems to see so much more when the moon,

she is wide open

New Year's Eve

2009-01-05T00:31:00.000-08:00

When people ask me what happened that night, this is how I usually respond:

Pidgin

2009-01-02T00:29:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time I was fluent.
Navigating a new world, blending native tongues.
Together we talked
and understood
the nuances were keenly observed
between us
as onlookers struggled to decipher intonations but only
catching the harmony of the language.

Somewhere, somehow, I lost that ability.
And while I can only approximate what I only knew -
I could have sworn at one point when you said "oui"
it meant "you and me" -
I do know that when you asked me if I read your blog,
I hesitated
not because I hadn't,
but because I had.
A stranger in a foreign land
struggling to decipher intonations
catching the harmony of a new language.