You thought you suffered, and were a victim in this whole thing. In the absolute spin of your own universe, your sacrifice was the ultimate truth.
But you didn't realize where you stood (back then) in reality. You were, as a matter of fact, already standing on the edge of the cliff. On the contrary to your belief, there was no intention at all, no one ever had, of pushing you off that cliff.
No, you were not a victim. In order to be one, there had to be an arch enemy. The presence of a victim requires that of monsters which impose the undesired cruelty. Where were they when you fell?
She did not step in; he did not choose you.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
My Idol (2)
This is no gesture of arrogance; however, up until this moment, i just didn't think i had an idol, or anything similar in nature.
But on the other hand, i also realized there should be someone out there that i admire (possibly not very consciously though) - after all, there is always someone for everyone.
Without too much difficulty, i thought of Rushdie and his incredible capability of telling the impossible tales, even just describing a sunset in the distance. Indeed, he could serve as my literary idol.
i've wanted to tell stories. But the cruel fact is, among the genres of fiction, drama, and poetry, i could only achieve prose. i thought, alright, if that's the best i can do, then let it be so. That is why i've been, diligently, "farming" my MSN space over the past few months. In a few days school is about to begin again, and i'd really like to carry on.
The difference is, i've been writing in Mandarin (Traditional Chinese). i've always thought telling stories in Mandarin actually represented elegant artwork; it seems to me that the language itself flows in an extremely solid way, character by character. You can of course argue that, when characters are printed onto sheets of paper, that is exactly how they look like. Yet, that is not what i mean.
But on the other hand, i also realized there should be someone out there that i admire (possibly not very consciously though) - after all, there is always someone for everyone.
Without too much difficulty, i thought of Rushdie and his incredible capability of telling the impossible tales, even just describing a sunset in the distance. Indeed, he could serve as my literary idol.
i've wanted to tell stories. But the cruel fact is, among the genres of fiction, drama, and poetry, i could only achieve prose. i thought, alright, if that's the best i can do, then let it be so. That is why i've been, diligently, "farming" my MSN space over the past few months. In a few days school is about to begin again, and i'd really like to carry on.
The difference is, i've been writing in Mandarin (Traditional Chinese). i've always thought telling stories in Mandarin actually represented elegant artwork; it seems to me that the language itself flows in an extremely solid way, character by character. You can of course argue that, when characters are printed onto sheets of paper, that is exactly how they look like. Yet, that is not what i mean.
Friday, August 19, 2005
My Idol (1)
A few weeks ago around the street corner, Sam saw a couple "Four Brothers" posters and pointed to me: "There! There is your idol!" And i thought, well, Mark Wahlberg is definitely (one of) the sexiest human being(s) on earth, but...is he my idol?
True i visited his official website, purchased "The Fear", and will probably get a copy of "The Italian Job" too. Shall these make him my idol? Isn't my idol supposed to be someone whose way of doing things, whose ideology, whose beliefs have the power to transform me?
So i thought back. About fourth grade, i read a story of the "ultimate" nurse, Florence Nightingale, admired her, and wanted to be like her when i grew up. However, mom did not think being a nurse - which means working late-night shifts, taking care of the sick, sometimes watching people die - would be a nice, decent career for me. At that time of my not-yet-too-clear decision, she simply said, "i don't think you are built to care for others." It was almost like saying "you don't have it in you" to me. Much later in life, i proved her wrong: i am just as caring, nurturing, and patient as any other devoted nurses could possibly be.
During 1989, my high school freshman year, George Michiael's solo debut, "Faith", topped the Billboard chart. Back then he was such a pop idol, and he became mine too. i devoured news about him, bought the album, learned each song, collected pocket-size pics of him, and looked very hard for his autobiography, which unfortunately was not available in my home town. i adored him just as every fan of his would have. But a few years later, i swtiched completely to heavy metal, and almost forgot about him.
True i visited his official website, purchased "The Fear", and will probably get a copy of "The Italian Job" too. Shall these make him my idol? Isn't my idol supposed to be someone whose way of doing things, whose ideology, whose beliefs have the power to transform me?
So i thought back. About fourth grade, i read a story of the "ultimate" nurse, Florence Nightingale, admired her, and wanted to be like her when i grew up. However, mom did not think being a nurse - which means working late-night shifts, taking care of the sick, sometimes watching people die - would be a nice, decent career for me. At that time of my not-yet-too-clear decision, she simply said, "i don't think you are built to care for others." It was almost like saying "you don't have it in you" to me. Much later in life, i proved her wrong: i am just as caring, nurturing, and patient as any other devoted nurses could possibly be.
During 1989, my high school freshman year, George Michiael's solo debut, "Faith", topped the Billboard chart. Back then he was such a pop idol, and he became mine too. i devoured news about him, bought the album, learned each song, collected pocket-size pics of him, and looked very hard for his autobiography, which unfortunately was not available in my home town. i adored him just as every fan of his would have. But a few years later, i swtiched completely to heavy metal, and almost forgot about him.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Exercise
Starting this Summer B session, i have been working out regularly at Dodge. Each time i do the StairMaster for half an hour (and moved from Level 3 to 6 within the past five weeks), and then i work on a few other "muscle" machines.
This is the second time that i seemed determined to take regular exercise. During our last few months at Eastern, Sam got me into practicing racquetball. But until now, i only played racquetball twice at Dodge. Playing alone obviously does not attract me.
Isn't it odd i work out nowadays only to avoid period pains? i used to be fine with sweating. When the beads of sweat, at times even streams, rushed down my cheeks, my back, or my chest, satisfaction arose. This pure delight of working out is similar to making love; it is a pleasure to enjoy one's own physical being.
i used to love running to my top speed, feeling the breeze, the sweating afterwards, and i liked being under the sun, being outdoors. In elementary school, i was on the track team, until dad decided to pull me out, giving a lame excuse to the team coach that i caught colds often (as if staying away from exercise helped not getting sick). i still stuck to sunlight. Later in junior high, i wasn't a terrific basketball player, but i took every opportunity to play basketball with friends, even in bitter cold when my ears were frozen to the point that my head hurt.
Can't recall when i actually stopped the craving. It was as if i, half-consciously, half-hypnotizedly, bid farewell to a friend that i had long cherished.
Some people might argue, and i tend to agree, that physical training brings inner calmness. i never tried it when feeling blue (which i should have), but it is not hard to imagine how it works. Hard training and tough workout exhausts the body, thus numbing the senses. i think it is also true that, when one falls asleep (due to fatigue), s/he simply does not feel upset or depressed.
Almost had a heart attack today at the gym, or so i thought. It was after i got done with the StairMaster that i began to have some strong stabs of chest pain. Sam said it sounded like low blood sugar, but i did not feel weak as i did every time the low blood sugar occurred.
This time, it might be easier to stick to my workout. After all, i am no longer working alone. The machine is my coach, and it monitors my activity, exact to the second. As long as the physical condition allows, i don't think anyone would want to "surrender" before the machine beeps.
This is the second time that i seemed determined to take regular exercise. During our last few months at Eastern, Sam got me into practicing racquetball. But until now, i only played racquetball twice at Dodge. Playing alone obviously does not attract me.
Isn't it odd i work out nowadays only to avoid period pains? i used to be fine with sweating. When the beads of sweat, at times even streams, rushed down my cheeks, my back, or my chest, satisfaction arose. This pure delight of working out is similar to making love; it is a pleasure to enjoy one's own physical being.
i used to love running to my top speed, feeling the breeze, the sweating afterwards, and i liked being under the sun, being outdoors. In elementary school, i was on the track team, until dad decided to pull me out, giving a lame excuse to the team coach that i caught colds often (as if staying away from exercise helped not getting sick). i still stuck to sunlight. Later in junior high, i wasn't a terrific basketball player, but i took every opportunity to play basketball with friends, even in bitter cold when my ears were frozen to the point that my head hurt.
Can't recall when i actually stopped the craving. It was as if i, half-consciously, half-hypnotizedly, bid farewell to a friend that i had long cherished.
Some people might argue, and i tend to agree, that physical training brings inner calmness. i never tried it when feeling blue (which i should have), but it is not hard to imagine how it works. Hard training and tough workout exhausts the body, thus numbing the senses. i think it is also true that, when one falls asleep (due to fatigue), s/he simply does not feel upset or depressed.
Almost had a heart attack today at the gym, or so i thought. It was after i got done with the StairMaster that i began to have some strong stabs of chest pain. Sam said it sounded like low blood sugar, but i did not feel weak as i did every time the low blood sugar occurred.
This time, it might be easier to stick to my workout. After all, i am no longer working alone. The machine is my coach, and it monitors my activity, exact to the second. As long as the physical condition allows, i don't think anyone would want to "surrender" before the machine beeps.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
My Parallel Blog
To celebrate, i named this particular moment "birth of my other self."
This space is surely not to record an instance of schizophrenia, from which i probably would never have the artistic privilege to suffer. It is rather the "rest of me," which i do not share on my other blog, the MSN space.
My MSN blog is open to the public and is written in Mandarin - making it almost impossible for me to spell my entire heart out. i don't suppose those who stop by (if any), most likely by accident, would ever associate this space here with my other half on MSN.
i am pretty secure here, i guess, and thus...free to roam.
This space is surely not to record an instance of schizophrenia, from which i probably would never have the artistic privilege to suffer. It is rather the "rest of me," which i do not share on my other blog, the MSN space.
My MSN blog is open to the public and is written in Mandarin - making it almost impossible for me to spell my entire heart out. i don't suppose those who stop by (if any), most likely by accident, would ever associate this space here with my other half on MSN.
i am pretty secure here, i guess, and thus...free to roam.
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