PASSING REMARK

In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don't like too much to happen.

In personalities I like mild colorless people.
And in colors I prefer gray and brown.

My wife, a vivid girl from the mountains,
says, "Then why did you choose me?"

Mildly I lower my brown eyes —
There are so many things admirable people do not understand.

William Stafford (1914-1993)
from Stories That Could Be True (1961)

Dead Poets Tour of America (and Beyond)

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive FOR." -- Dead Poets' Society

I guess you could say I've a new hobby. (This is my euphemism for "obsession.") Poetry has entered my life once again, this time in full force.

I've been a fan of and an advocate for the written word for some time. I'm that girl who taught you how to use semicolons properly (in between two independent clauses, without the need for a coordinating conjunction). I'm also the girl who proofread your essays for whichever grad school application you wanted to submit. (By the way, you still owe me lunch.) Anyway, you get the point. I love words! More specifically, I love when they are crafted in such a way that they evoke, challenge, and inspire.

I visited F. Scott Fitzgerald's grave today (with Henry's help a la Google Maps all the way from California when I got lost) when the weather cleared up for an hour or so. The author of The Great Gatsby wrote on behalf of the Lost Generation during the post-WWI era. In an attempt to reconcile the collective disillusion of this generation, he created a protagonist, Jay Gatsby, who would ultimately become the hero of every passive-aggressive man in the western hemisphere. And every creepy guy who has ever hit on me. (Sorry, but it's true.) I can't say that Fitzgerald was my favorite, but he was definitely one of the best known American authors whose work still remains relevant to this day. I paid my respects to Mr. Fitzgerald and thanked him for giving me an idea.

So I looked up where some of my favorite poets were buried. Ever since ever, I had assumed that most of them had a space or at least an epitaph reserved for them in Westminster Abbey's Poets Corner in England. I was right, for the most part. Rudyard Kipling, T.S. Eliot, and Lord Byron are all commemorated there via statue, epitaph, or mini-monument. However, I had failed to consider the many poets that must be buried in the United States. To my surprise, I found that Edgar Allan Poe and Dorothy Parker are both buried in Baltimore (40 minutes away). Then, I found that F. Scott Fitzgerald was buried in Rockville, Maryland, one city down! Tons of other authors are buried along the eastern seaboard, and I intend to visit as many as possible. I also compiled a list of dead poets' grave sites across the United States and abroad. Next September, when I go home, I plan to drive cross-country. Now that I have my list of Dead Poets, I have a great excuse to stop in certain locations during the long haul.

Let the Dead Poets Tour of America begin!

A little less than morbid, a little more than impulsive. But you gotta admit, it's an endeavor worth trying.

"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." -St. Augustine

Let It Snow!

I woke up this morning to what I thought was the sound of rain. My roommate told me that it was snowing outside, and before my eyes were even completely open, I stumbled over my own feet on my way to the window. My breath fogged up the glass as I pressed it against our picture window and observed for the first time Maryland's winter wonderland.

I threw on every warm article of clothing I owned within a 10 ft. radius of me and ran outside with my camera.







It's so beautiful to watch the trees fill up with snow. No wonder snowfall inspires so much poetry. It really is quite a sight to see! If only Robert Frost could have been standing there with me to witness such a morning! I stood there in the quiet morning and recited one of my favorite poems by him from memory:

Whose woods these are, I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not see me stopping here
To see his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I've got promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

It was one of the more soulful moments of this life of mine. As much as California is still where the heart is, no matter how hard it tried, it would not be able to reproduce the same experience.

Gratitude for Platitude

I had my first bowl of pho in three whole months within half an hour of landing at John Wayne Airport. There's no place quite like Home.

I picked guavas with my Dad; went shopping with my Mom; spent quality time with my brother; saw my little sister from another mister; read poetry aloud; had a jam session; visited Grandpa; played Rock Band; camped out for Black Friday (and got McDonald's breakfast); had a sleepover; reorganized my bookshelf (now the American authors and European authors each have their own section); had a hyper-crazy spell; bought a microphone; karaoke'd my heart out; bought more books; saw my roomie from UCDC; slept in my own bed; visited UCI; and caught up with girl talk before I flew out. All in all, a good trip home. Two and a half weeks until I fly back again.

On this particular trip, I felt the Difference for the first time. It happened when I saw a girl wearing a scarf in the middle of 72 degree weather. Then I remembered how scarves are more fashion than function in California's "winter." I laughed at how I used to indulge in the same practice. I proceeded to think about how I might have changed since the last time I was Home.

Emily Dickinson once wrote,

Heavenly hurt it gives us -
We can find no scar -
But internal difference -
Where the Meanings are.

"Heavenly hurt" is the only way I can really describe what it felt like to be around familiar things but carry the knowledge that I could never fully recount my experience on the east coast to people back home unless they were there with me. How could I ever relay all that I had been through in the past three months to people back home who have never seen our office, never been to D.C., never ridden the metro? It was so easy to fall back into the Same-O Same-O, which only ratified my sense that Home is a comfort and a bubble. My "meanings," so to speak, would only be understood by me and whomever else has shared my experiences. In some ways that's frustrating, but at the end of the day, that's life.

Within coming back home lay a lesson that there are some things that will never change - in the good way - and people who will always remind you of who you are. In lieu of the season, I'm thankful for both.

Breakfast With the Nguyens

Silence enters through the back door -
Unannounced -
And sits down at dinner.
It is an inconspicuous guest,
Though we cannot ignore its arrival.
It waits until the food is out and then
Begins to feast,
Not on our plates
But on us.
Snakelike, it slithers around us in a feigned embrace
And then constricts our throats,
Stealing our voices.
Our eyelids drop
Until our downcast eyes can only stare deep into our hollow bowls,
Forcing us to look emptiness straight in the face.
Reminding us that we consume
To fill that emptiness.

Morning in the Nguyen household. The clock ticks to calibrate the dawn in lazy seconds. Today is a gray day. There are dirty plates in the sink. There is a bowl of ca kho voi com or catfish with rice covered with saran wrap - leftovers from a dinner nobody finished. There is a scent of eucalyptus oil – a Vietnamese cure-all – imprinted deep in all the furniture. The couch’s cushions have been worn down by sleepless hours passed while flipping channels. The latest Nguoi-Viet Magazine can be seen on the ground, exposing a slender cover girl wearing a traditional ao dai dress who is wearing too much makeup, flashing a glossy smile.

The centerpiece of the family room is a baby grand piano, on which a new layer of dust has settled. A bust of Frederic Chopin sits on top overseeing the space. Old music books are arranged neatly in a rack placed to the side. The pages have gotten stuck together from staying unturned for so long. To separate them now would ruin the print altogether. Silence and dust fill the gaps where music used to live.

Dad avoids his own eyes in the mirror as he combs his hair. By now, most of it has thinned and turned gray through middle age. Still, he combs what is left deliberately, not pausing even once to lament it. No use in it anyway. With sleep still in his eyes, he splashes water on his face, pats it dry, and walks off while starting on his tie. He is on the go. Whether it was getting to work or fleeing his home country as a war refugee, he had always been light on his feet.

Mom sits up in the guest room. She hasn’t slept in the same bed with her husband for years, a symptom of her own quiet rebellion. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she massages her right elbow rhythmically with her eyes still closed, listening to Dad’s movements in the other room. By now she has his routine memorized like a play she’s watched a million times. She sits and waits for her cue to enter the charade.

Dad eats breakfast alone, standing. Cold cereal again. His tie is slung over his shoulder to keep it out of the way. He stares at a nonspecific point in the kitchen tile and notices that his right toe is protruding out of a hole in his sock.

Mom walks in, cloaking herself with an old robe. She doesn’t look at him.

He does not acknowledge her but engulfs another spoonful to occupy his mind as she walks by.
From the fridge, she takes out some Tupperware and packs it into a lunch box. She leaves it by him, then starts on the dishes in the sink. There are only a few in the sink now that the kids were no longer living at home. She was still not used to the change.

Neither one looks at the other.

Clank. Clank. Swish. The dishes rub in dissonance against each other as they are rinsed, prompting an uncomfortable symphony that contrasts the silence. She scrubs with intensity and control, letting her mind slip somewhere in between the sponge and grease.

He chews more slowly now. With longer intervals in between spoonfuls, he realizes - when he finished his breakfast, he would have to walk the bowl over to the sink. He would have to face her not facing him. It was an ongoing rejection. The kind no husband should feel. The kind no man wants to feel.

She shifts her weight subtly from one leg to the other. The last thing she wants to do is to give off any impression that she feels the need to adjust anything about her behavior. Even her posture.

Then, the dishes were done. The cereal bowl was empty.

A fly buzzed somewhere.

A pregnant pause stands between them as they both realize they’ve exhausted their ruse.

Instantaneously they move – he toward the sink and she to the dishtowel hanging from the fridge. Avoiding each other had become a reflex.

He washes the bowl himself, shakes off the excess moisture, sets the bowl on the rack, and grabs his keys, desperately seeking an exit from the thick moment.

As he approaches the front door, he thinks then about how long it had been since he had touched her. He exhales abruptly to purge his lungs of any trace of her scent. What had happened? He had worked two jobs for over ten years, helped her open her business, slept on the couch, fixed the cars, painted the walls, buried deceased pets, provided a safe home, supported the kids. What was he doing wrong? What did she want?

To be free, she thinks to herself, would be impossible now. She stands in the very center of the kitchen, leaning forward on the kitchen island with both palms pressed on the ledge. Now, there was family to take care of - the kids, her mother. Who has room for frivolous pursuits? Time, she had in surplus. Energy, however, ran low in supply. She had stopped trying to explain herself to him. He never understood. Through the years, she had learned to seal herself off. For bricks, she used work, the kids. For mortar, she used excuses.

If she couldn’t escape, she could at least pretend in her self-imposed emotional isolation that she had.

She notices the lunch box.

“Anh,” she calls out, only half wanting to get his attention. The sound of her own voice startles her. The inside of her mouth still tasted like morning.

He stops with one foot out the door.

She walks toward him but stops just far enough away so that he’d have to come to her. She dangles his lunch at arm’s length, as far away from her own body as she can, with her head turned sideways.

He goes back for his lunch without looking her in the eyes, turns, and walks out to the car.

The SUV starts with a deep roar that echoes throughout suburbia. The engine’s vibration upsets the dew that had settled on the car windshield overnight. In the rearview mirror, he sees as he drives away that she had waited for him to get to the corner before closing the front door. Even if she were never to say it again, he knew then that she cared.

===============================================

First stab at "fiction." I place it within quotations because what is fiction anyway but reality with the dull parts cut out?

Would love any form of feedback possible! If possible, leave comments regarding the following:

1. Perspective - Who do you feel the narrator is? Not much is revealed in detail about the narrator, but through his/her commentary, you learn more about the characters. What relationship/attitude do you think the narrator has toward the two main characters?

2. Dialogue - There wasn't much, but did the format of the description of the characters' actions work? Should it be more specific, more general?

3, Setting - I'd like to get your impressions on what you think the setting is. What kind of house does it seem like the two characters live in? What kind of neighborhood? What time frame?

4. Characterization - How did you feel the characters were best developed? Was there anything missing? What holes were not filled?

5. Passages you found interesting - Which phrases, sentences, passages stood out to you most and why?

Any questions for me?

The Wheels on the Bus Make Life Profound

Some of my life's most profound lessons have unfolded themselves while in transit. Perhaps it's the idea of being in transition from one place to another that elicits a wisdom only travelers cultivate. Then, the need to share the ripened wisdom with those within your parameter.

For example, the summer after tenth grade, on the way from Cordoba to Madrid, Spain, I met an older man with whom I spoke for two hours straight. This was the first time I had ever spoken to someone in a language I didn't grow up speaking - without consulting a dictionary. The two-hour conversation proved to be such a milestone for me that I decided to enter college two years later as a Spanish major. I learned then that while there are many barriers to communication - linguistic, cultural, or personal in nature - enthusiasm, earnst, and humility are understood without ever saying a word. I took an important lesson with me that day.

This time was no exception.

If you've ever ridden the Chinatown bus from D.C. to New York, you know that the boarding "process" is a fight for your life. Neither your seat nor your life are guaranteed by the time you make it on to the bus. Despite the fact that you have pre-purchased a ticket online. The bus is usually overcrowded, poorly ventilated, and if you're traveling in the fall, wet from the rain that hitchhikes on people's shoes from puddle to bus. With my fortune and agility, I score a seat by the window and get settled into my cramped environment. It smells like wet felt. The person in front of me has graciously reclined their seat all the way back. And there is a complimentary plastic trash bag imprinted with a smiley face hanging on each seat which reads, "Have a nice day!" Oh, Chinatown. You've always had a knack for irony.

Azam, a man in his mid-forties, stumbles down the aisle holding nothing but a small duffel bag with his belongings. Gasping for air, he plops down into the seat next to me. I like his thin wire glasses and convivial smile, but I don't say anything. City life has hardened my initial native Californian sunny disposition. The driver angrily yells at all the passengers in Mandarin, and before the unexplained guilt of being yelled at (even in a language we don't understand) sets into its passengers, the bus begins to move.

"What did he say?" Azam asks. It takes me a while to understand that he directed his inquiry at me.

"I have no idea. I'm not Chinese," I told him, slightly irritated at his assumption.

"Oh, sorry. Looks like Chinese," he smiled, gesturing a circle around my face with his index finger. I'm slightly more irked that he said that out loud instead of thinking it to himself, but I pretend to go to sleep. "Chinese people, some of the best people!" Seriously? I'm pretending to sleep and he's still talking. He has absolutely no idea how to take a hint.

"Like I said, I'm not Chinese, but I'm sure there are a lot of nice people of all backgrounds," I preached a little.

"You know, I think you are correct! Where are you from?"

Concluding that he meant to ask about my ethnicity, I replied, "I'm Vietnamese."

"Oh! You speak Thai?"

"No, I speak Vietnamese." I guess that wasn't as self-explanatory as I thought.

"Oh, I speak Urdu. You borned here?"

"Yes, I was born here, but my parents are from Vietnam. They were immigrants."

"I immigrant too! Born in Pakistan. I come here 16 years already," he says with much gusto. He puts his hand over his heart and sits up straighter as he tells me this. I decide then that maybe I shouldn't be so judgmental. He seems like a decent man. "I am Azam."

"Lily." I extend my hand to shake his.

"You have a pretty name. It means 'flower,' no?"

"Yes."

"My name means 'king.' You are a flower and I am a king! Heh, heh, heh!" His chuckle is the lighthearted kind, the kind that shakes your shoulders up and down when it exits your body.

I want to laugh too, but I don't know whether it would seem like I'm laughing at him instead of next to him. So I stay quiet. A silence sits between us for a while, but he doesn't seem fazed. I can tell he's the kind that is energized simply by being around others.

"You like people, don't you?" I think aloud. I can feel myself becoming friendlier, less resistant to his company.

"Yes! Already you know me well! How do you know?"

"I had a feeling."

"Yes, yes! Heh, heh, heh! Can you believe me? I learn English only from customers. I have the best job, dream job. Do you know what it is?"

"No, what is it?"

"Dunkin Donuts! The best job. I meet so many people every day and I learn from them different things." He is beaming as he tells me this. Not everyone would boast about a job at Dunkin Donuts, but this guy would stand on at the top of the Empire State Building and scream it out loud if he could.

"That's great! You speak English very well."

"Thank you! You too! Heh, heh, heh!"

"Will you teach me some Urdu?"

"Okay, I will teach you to greeting. You must say, 'Kya hal he.' for 'Hello.'"

"Keeya hal huh," I struggle awkwardly with sounds I've never tried to produce before.

"Very good! You are good at learning language! You like it, no? Just like me. I love to learn language."

"That's a very good guess. I do enjoy learning languages a lot. I'm trying to learn as many as I can. French currently. Now I can practice Urdu thanks to you."

"Wonderful! Wonderful! I am glad I meet you."

He gives me a few more Urdu phrases to practice. Since I don't have any paper with me to write on, I type it into my BlackBerry and save it there. We talk more about languages, Pakistan, Vietnam, and New York.

"There is place for everyone in New York," he states with wisdom, as if the idea was purely an original one. I tell him that I agree. "I love to live in Manhattan. It's best place!"

Another silence between us. I start to think we've exhausted our topics for conversation so I close my eyes. Django Reinhardt is playing on my iPod, and I start thinking about what I'm going to do in the city. Then, the bus swerves and the jolt wakes me up. The driver is honking and yelling in Mandarin. Azam notices I'm awake again.

"You know, Lily, I'm glad I meet you. Bus driver is terrible and weather is suck, but company is good. Sometime you meet people who think like you and you are lucky. You are lucky because you are not alone to love life." Here I was simply expecting to get from D.C. to Manhattan alive, and I get a personal thesis as an added bonus. He continued, "To be human is a wonderful thing. You could be borned animal or plant, but you are human being. Human can feel, learn, and create. Human have built pyramid and created governments. Human can survive on their own. If you want to learn language, it is easy. Human can do much harder things."

With that, he chuckled one last time and closed his eyes. We didn't exchange any other words the rest of the way. To be human is a wonderful thing. I let that sit with me for a while. At a time when my mind is constantly reconciling the nexus of desire and capacity in my life, my life and Azam's intersected to produce that salient moment. In that moment, I felt inspired to make my life - my human life - as extraordinary as I possibly can. I owed it to probability, or improbability, rather. That I was born into this life instead of any other is already a blessing, and since my time on this earth is limited, I'd best make good use of it.

When the bus arrived in New York, the weary travelers filed out of the bus with heavy feet into the Manhattan smokescreen. I turned around to say goodbye to Azam, but he was gone. I felt a sudden stab in my side because I regretted not being able to say thank you. All I knew of his whereabouts was that he worked at Dunkin Donuts.

Some people come into your life for a season, teach you something about yourself, then leave as quickly as they came. Even if that season is as short as a 4-hour bus ride, what you take away lasts much longer. Maybe one day we'll meet again, but until then, I'll continue to be grateful for my brief encounter. Now, I can't help but smile fondly whenever I pass a Dunkin Donuts in the city, thinking that Azam the king might be chatting up a local customer and passing on his philosophy with a hearty chuckle.

Gunpowder, Treason, and Plot

Co-workers and I had an awesome conversation that started out about party flyers, then speculated on what Soviet Party (get it?) flyers would look like.

This is what we came up with. Did I mention I love working here?

Who WOULDN'T like Soviet humor?

Oh, yeah. The Soviets.

Chase the Wanderlust: Autumn in New York

A good friend told me once that when you need to introduce a new hen into a coop, you can't do it in broad daylight when the rest of the hens are watching. This is because the Old Hens have already established their pecking order. The introduction of the New Hen might disturb the flock as a result. So what you do is wait until nighttime when the Old Hens are sleeping, then sneak in the New Hen. When morning comes, the Old Hens don't notice. They simply think the New Hen had been there the whole time. The funny part is, the New Hen doesn't notice either. She also thinks she was there all along.

Similarly, I arrive in New York on a bus from D.C. late in the evening, camouflaged against other New Yorkers by my need to get somewhere and get there fast. The coop, so to speak, was my friend Nick's apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We quickly drop off my stuff, go out for a bit, then come back where I crashed on the couch. When I wake up the next morning, I yawn away the remainder of my travel weariness and immediately feel at peace with my surroundings. It was as if I had been away visiting D.C. and finally came back to New York instead of the other way around.

Some places I'll visit and know I'll be back. New York is always one of them. Each time I have visited has been a unique experience. With the million people who live in Manhattan comes just as many perspectives from which to see the city. I feel fortunate to have a friend who has been lived there long enough to consider himself a local (and is nice enough to show me around), a break from the tourists' typical regimen.

Why don't you move there? I've entertained this thought, and it's less a matter of whether or not, more a matter of when and under which circumstances. Do I want to work there? Or do I want to be a student there? Still open questions to be discussed and thought over. Until then, I will inhabit the idea.

Food

1. Donut Plant - Creme brulee, pumpkin, Yankees (?), and tres leches donuts. Chai tea brewed in a pot by the cash register, scooped into your cup for you via ladle. Don't ask how. Just try.
   


2. Butter Lane - $3 cupcakes with amazing buttery frosting. Hot apple cider to accompany.



3. King's Feast - (Brooklyn, Polish district) Thanks for taking us here, Nick! Try the pyzy or anything else that has a name containing voiced consonants. This will not be hard. Accompany with one of their standard tall glasses of Zywiec beer.
   


4. The Sixth Ward - (Lower East Side) BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS. Irish brunch. Eggs benedict, home fries, salad, and sausages. DID I MENTION BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS?
   

Brooklyn

First time in Brooklyn. Cheaper housing and quieter streets around Greenpointe. Rumor has it that hipsters live in the vicinity, though.

Halloween

It's what you think it would be. Halloween in New York is like a 1990s, post-Wall Berlin street party. People drinking, laughing, taking pictures, dressed up in the most bizarre costumes - everything from naked to nun, angels to ghouls, Fidel to Marx. You name it, someone was dressed up as it.

Heading to Philly this weekend for a Zee Avi concert! Any suggestions on what to check out?

[chasethewanderlust.blogspot.com]

Raison d'etre

As of late, I catch myself smiling for no reason, reciting and writing poetry, leaping out of bed in the morning unable to contain my fervor. Muffling a giggle during a meeting. Tapping my foot on the metro. The cloudiest of days do nothing to daunt me. I have experienced a reawakening of sorts, the flame in me re-lit and burning certain. It has been a long and arduous courtship, but I have finally fallen in love.

Yes, I have finally fallen in love with the French language - and everything about it! To those who know me well, this comes as no surprise, but it's boiled over to a point where I just have to announce it to the rest of the world!

It started the summer after 8th grade when my family and I flew to Paris, France, for a week. That was the first time I'd visited a country where I couldn't understand the language. My family had gone to Vietnam before this, but my lackluster conversational Vietnamese still got me by. In France, I had no idea what anything was past "baguettes" and "champagne," the latter of which I was too young to consume anyway. Out of curiosity, not necessarily a desire to learn French, I bought myself a French/Italian/German phrasebook and sounded out as many nasal sounds as I could. ("Co-MAHN tu t'apelle?") However, I decided that I'd never be able to pick up another language by reading phrasebooks alone. So I gave up.

Instead of trying to learn French, I pulled my focus back to resources I already had: the two years' worth of basic Spanish vocabulary I had stored in my brain...which wasn't much, but it was something. I went to Spain two years later on a trip that eventually transformed and defined my young adulthood. Entering college, I chose to major in Spanish. All in all, the French language's career in my life was forced into early retirement. Bu like a stubborn worker, it never gave up on me.

French came back in different forms. French songs slowly made their way onto my iPod, Edith Piaf's gusto sounding the first alarm. Close friends would recommend French films to me. Disney released Ratatouille. Even Target started selling black and white photos of Paris! I dismissed this as an effort to capitalize on France's appeal. Too easy. Why would I want to give into this mainstream false romanticization of a city I walked through once as a girl?

But it wouldn't stop. It was incessant, insistent. It found other tactics to enter my life. My brother's entrance into culinary school and penchant for French cooking introduced terms like boef bourginon into my vocabulary. My college roommate Jenny went to Switzerland one summer and came back wanting to learn French. For months, my nights were subject to YouTube tutorials of French playing in the background. My former boss' mom, whom I spent a considerable amount of time with, would speak French to me when I drove her around, encouraging me to study the language because it was "tres sexy!" When I moved to the east coast, I quickly learned that the immigrant demographic on this side of the U.S. consisted of many West Africans, many of whom spoke French beautifully. Hell, even Vietnam's colonial past communicated to me through textbooks that French could have once been in my blood. If not, it was at least part of my cultural heritage.

Okay, I thought. Fine.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago. I woke up one morning and decided I wanted to learn. I started with songs I already knew and painstakingly taught myself how to pronounce words. I went back to that phrasebook that I bought years ago and flipped through the pages hopefully. What a rush. I had forgotten how thrilling it was - how FUN it was - to learn a new language. After reaching fluency in Spanish, I didn't have much to learn past additional vocabulary. I did take German as a senior in college but couldn't even finish a full year because it was one too many courses on my already-full schedule. Learning French, though, was not going to be something I half assed, I told myself.

I sought out a group of people who meet at a restaurant called La Lavandou every weekend of the month for French workshops. After showing up, I met people who were equally excited about learning this language. My teacher was surprised of my prior knowledge of the language. This surprised even me. Who knew how much I already knew from my brother's cookbooks, my former boss' mom's French interjections, the French films I'd watched, the songs I listened to, and the phrasebook vocabulary I had retained?

You could say I've found a "nouvelle raison d'etre" while out here.

The thing I love most about learning languages is not how the process makes me feel. While it is the closest thing I will ever know to heaven on earth, I love that language is both a barrier and a bridge to other people. It is a means to which we can learn more about each other and about ourselves. In learning a new language, we come to understand our limits but eventually come to realize that enthusiasm, earnst, and humility are understood without ever saying a word.

Signing off for now and bidding everyone bonne nuit et a plus, til next post!

Kal Penn and other updates

Kal Penn (White House Office of Public Engagement) at the APALRC's 11th anniversary banquet. The man whose hand he is shaking is our Executive Director, Myron Quon, who is the real celebrity here.

I remember Fiona Apple said once during an interview, "I don't think I've ever stopped myself from having a good time just so I could write a song."

Similarly, I haven't updated too much lately because things are moving right along here in D.C. I apologize for my absence! Here's a quick snapshot of where I'm at.

• I'm in the process of looking for new roommates. Not that anything's wrong with my current ones. My current roomies have recently purchased a house together and are eager to start making a Home out of it. That leaves me looking for two others to take their spots. The search has left me with a kind of double life as a pseudo, after-hours real estate agent. It's also left me with an incentive to keep the place clean.
  


• Work is amazing. My project is picking up momentum and I'm in a very Zen place right now, very content with the decisions I've made because of my contentment with where I've ended up. In this environment, I feel valued, trusted, and spoiled even. The APALRC already has a warm place in my heart. Also, Kal Penn came to our 11th anniversary banquet. How can you go wrong with that?
  


• Music. I haven't been playing as much as I want to, but that's because my energy level at the end of the day is kaput. I did, however, perform at an open mic last week! That was tons of fun, and I'd do it again. Met great people, had great support. You know me, though. In no time, I'll be back at it. Also - guess who has Zee Avi concert tickets for November in Philly? It starts with M and ends in E.
  


• Movies. Netflix is still my best friend. Thank you to everyone who contributed to that deliciously long list of French film recommendations. The majority of the films are now on my queue. I checked out the theater close to my house called the AFI Silver Theater. It was bought by the American Film Institute and remodeled. Now they have film festivals there all the time and show tons of indie flicks.
  


• Trips. I'm going to New York for Halloween!! Staying with Nick, my former R.A. This is going to be an awesome trip. I always am stoked for an NYC trip. Going to Philly in November for a Zee Avi concert. Hoping to plan a day trip to Baltimore sometime soon. I love being so close to other states!

That pretty much catches you up to me. By the way, I still haven't received photos from everyone yet! I've asked for mug shots but only have received pictures from Jenny and Anton (thanks, guys!) So send 'em over. I would love to decorate my cork board with your faces!

On a family vacation once, I stayed up all night talking to my mom. I don't know what compelled me to say it right then and there, but I whispered to her, "I'm going to be a writer someday."

"I know," she answered, pulling the sheets over her. "I know."

I Love You...At My Earliest Convenience: A Working Girl's Take on Love in Your Twenties and Thirties

On Cupid's to-do list, those in their early twenties to early thirties are swiftly overlooked. Brimming with both adrenaline and hormones, this age group is left to fend for itself without Cupid's catalystic arrows. Unfortunately the results are often cataclysmic.

Let's start with some givens. Typically, your twenties and thirties comprise of (but are not limited to) the following:

• Exploring different interests


• Meeting new people


• Starting a career, post-graduate studies


• Self-discovery, soul searching


• Traveling


• Establishing a core group of friends


• Seeking independence to some degree

This list is definitely subject to commentary and/or criticism, but from talking to others my age, I've found that these are common denominators among my cohorts.

My theory is rooted in the notion that it is a challenge to find love at this point in your life. (Note: I did not say that it's impossible to find love. In fact, it's very possible and very true for a lucky group of people who are in happy, stable relationships.)

At this age, we busy the days with setting ourselves apart, standing our own ground, and establishing our niche in the wide world. The future is ahead of us and any distraction is simply a headwind we have to face. As we make progress as young professionals, Love begins to take a backseat to personal goals, which is why I think people who are in long-term relationships at this age experience friction with each other. You suddenly have less time, less energy, less interest in spending every waking moment with your significant other like old times. You're trying new things, becoming more independent, so the 24/7 kind of affection you once found endearing suddenly feels like suffocation. Couples who are flexible with the change or who are willing to work through it, I think, are the ones that make it over the hurdle. Those who decide they need more space (or on the flip side, more attention) move on and end up in the singles pool like yours truly.

Anyway, here's my theory. This goes out to everyone else who has recently had a run-in with heartbreakers (the only euphemism I could come up with for "assholes" or "bitches") . If I come off as bitter or critical, I really do mean to be reassuring, so help me out and read between the lines!

Ever hear, "It's not you, it's me"? Similarly, what I'm trying to say is, "It's not you, it's everyone!"

From a woman's perspective, I'll say that it's a challenge to harbor my feminine instincts to be cared for and wooed while at the same time know that for myself, I want to find a career and excel at it. So as a result, I'm cautious - wary, even - of "getting too attached." To me, being in a a relationship is another full-time job, one that requires an investment of even more time and more emotion on top of those that my actual full-time job already demands. This is the plight that I feel many people at this chapter in life share. If a guy gets too clingy, I tend to back off and think, "Whoa, there, mister. I don't have time to pine for you. I've got people to see, places to go, languages to learn, and marathons to run before I have time and energy to allocate to THAT."

Therein lies the rub. At the core, doesn't everyone want someone to feel that way about them? Then to be able to return those kinds of feelings, genuinely? So then, by keeping your feelings at a threshold, you end up prompting the other person to do the same. And you have a desperately thrilling but incredibly meaningless kind of thing that dissipates faster than you can spell out "dissipate" at a spelling bee. In a way, by trying to keep yourself from getting hurt, you actually set yourself up to be disappointed.

Then again, if I had a penny for every time I heard someone say, "Oh, I'm just having fun right now," in regard to relationships, I could spend at least a month in the penny arcade. Now, why would I want to waste my time with someone who sees things that way? Why should you? Ultimately, the freedom that you have in your twenties is reason for celebration as well as for caution in terms of love. You have the flexibility to choose and to try but at the same time can be chosen and tried. Ya dig?

I don't know. I deliberately leave this post without a conclusion so that you all have room to insert your own thoughts. I really enjoy the feedback some of these posts get, so keep it coming! We could get a really interesting, perhaps even helpful, discussion going.

I'll take the extreme on this one and decide not to expect TOO much out of Love in your twenties. Part of that I say in jest, but really - I'd rather be pleasantly surprised by being proven wrong than disappointed by being proven right.

Part the Second: The Day I Said, "The World Can Wait"

The Day I Said, "The World Can Wait"

started at Busboys & Poets on 10/12/09
finished at work on 10/14/09

The day I said, "The world can wait,"
The clocks froze in their tracks.
The Minutes retired silently;
While in vain the Hours fought back.

Conversations paused mid-sentence;
A painter dropped his brush mid-stroke.
One hopeful lover said, "I do,"
The other ceased, half eloped.

A fly buzz was the last refrain
Heard for a thousand miles
A widow's dirge cut short,
Her pain half-reconciled.

A hunter cocked his gun,
The bullet stuck inside.
His game stood still - fixated -
Staring Fate straight in the eyes.

The stoic captain firmly stood
Feet anchored, mouth tight lipped.
The deck had tilted sharply
On his halfway sunken ship.

The china lay in pieces
While a couple griped the cost.
If I hadn't begged the world to wait,
What else would have been lost?

A sewing needle had begun to mend
The lace of a wedding dress
The hum of Mother's lullaby
Would have eased her child's distress.

The sight of that day's sunset
Would have left the dead inspired
The words scrawled on a napkin
Might have changed the world entire.

Good news to tell by telephone
The number just half dialed;
The frown on someone's lips
Had almost curled into a smile.

What caused me to imagine
A plan so lost, depraved?
Think - if the world had waited,
What else could have been saved?

The Day I Said, "The World Can Wait"

I'll admit it. I'm a woman possessed.

I was looking at Google Maps the other day while trying to find directions for an errand for work. While staring at the destination point on the map, something compelled me to zoom out, and out, and keep zooming out until the point was barely visible. I saw first Montgomery County, then nearby D.C., then the state of Maryland, the entire U.S., North America, the western hemisphere.

Then I saw it - the Atlantic. The vast blue stretch of ocean that separated the point from Europe. Six hours, I thought. That's how long it would take to fly from Maryland to Europe. That's it. From California, it would have taken twice as long.

Once I saw it, I couldn't stop seeing it. London, Madrid, Paris, Berlin. London, Madrid, Paris, Berlin. LONDON, MADRID, PARIS, BERLIN! Insatiable, this girl. I wonder what it's called when you can't ever be satisfied with where you are. Is there medication for that? Ritalin, probably.

It doesn't help that in this whole week, I saw Paris, Je T'aime, Amelie, Coco Avant Chanel, Before Sunrise/Sunset, Julie & Julia, and other movies starring my favorite European cities.

Not too long ago, I thought, "The world can wait." Get your gig together, stay on track. Write down your plans, divide them into steps like you usually do. Find a stable career and you'll find time for the fun stuff later. Well, let me tell you something. Nothing stirs my insides like knowing that there is still so much world out there to see.

For the first time, I let myself admit that I want to put things off.
London, Madrid, Paris, Berlin.

At a loss for anywhere else to go with this information, I called my mom. For the first time since I got here, I let myself admit everything. In the middle of a Barnes & Noble, with a W.H. Auden poetry book in hand, I confessed my insecurities. I want to end up practicing law eventually, but there is something in between now and law school that's calling to me, and I can't deny it. I feel good about the work I'm doing here in D.C., and I'm not going to stop doing it, but when this year comes to a close, I had been dreading having to buckle down. I want to sing, act, travel, dance, learn as many languages as I can, write. Oh, how I long to write. My mother listened on the other line as I poured my confused little heart out. Then, to my biggest surprise, she answered with great ease and in a tone devoid of any judgment, "Okay."

In the pregnant pause that followed, I let my eyes wander to a line in the poem I had been reading. W.H. Auden's wisdom seeped through the silence:

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

She told me to do it. Do all those things. Be yourself. Go sing if you feel like it. Pick up another language because you've got a knack for it. Do what makes you feel alive. Make a short film. Audition for a play. Write some poetry. Start a book. And if you want to travel the world, I'll come with you!

All this time, I'm thinking - what happened to the typical Asian parent response? All my life, I felt I'd been rebelling against the pressure to find structure in my life. I felt so...relieved, for lack of a better word. The fact that my mother supported me meant the world. I could have cried right then and there, and W.H. Auden's stanzas would have been blurred beyond recognition.

After that conversation with my mom, I've felt so at peace. I'm excited to wake up in the morning. I can't stop smiling. Life feels so wonderful now that there's no rush. In a way, I've renewed my citizenship of the world and I again feel connected to everyone around me in a strange, metaphysical way. My friends think I'm crazy, but my mind is clear. That's all I can ask for.

A few months ago, I told myself, "The world can wait." But the truth is that's it's me. I'm the one who can't wait.

(my newest recording, and appropriately, it's in French)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlM8r1iCgmM

Do What You Are: The Myers-Briggs Scale

If you're anything like me, you have spent countless hours, days, weeks, months, years even - trying to figure yourself out. It's important to know at this point in your life. You've in college, just graduated, or long gone and are interested in what the hell you should do with your life. If only there was some kind of formula...or quiz you could take...to help you put the pieces together.

While I'm familiar with Facebook's many personality quizzes, I have to admit I'm not a huge fan. I'm not really interested in which U.S. state I would be if I were one, which celebrity I would date, or what vampire I am in Twilight. I like substantial stuff. Applicable stuff. But it's really not exactly easy to find in the brimming pool of online quizzes there are out there.

So I tried something new. I picked up a book. (Yes, with actual, physical pages.)

There is something called the Myers-Briggs Personality Type scale, which I've found to be incredibly accurate. It's also used by big businesses and has made quite a name for itself over the years. Don't believe me? Google it. Anyway, my roommate here just got her MBA and told me this is one of the first things her program made her do. The name of the book, "Do What You Are," piqued my interest more than anything else because like I mentioned, I'm not a fan of personality quizzes. Ever since I took this for myself, though, I've felt enlightened with a stronger sense of who I am. More importantly, I've wanted to be useful in helping others figure out who they are. (This also stems from my personal curiosity of what my friends' results are.) So I re-posted the test here.

DIRECTIONS: There are 4 parts to this test. In each, you will choose which result BEST fits you. Answer as honestly as you can. At the end of it, you will have acquired four letters that will be incorporated into your personal vocabulary word bank of self-discovery. Remember these letters well!

Part One

Extravert (E)
(yes, with an "a" instead of an "o")

• energized by being with other people,
• like being the center of attention,
  
• act then think,
• tend to think out loud,
  
• easier to "read" and know
• share personal info freely,
• talk more than listen,
  
• communicate with enthusiasm,
• respond quickly, enjoy fast pace,
  
• prefer breadth to depth

Introvert (I)

• energized by spending time alone,
  
• avoid being the center of attention,
  
• think then act,
  
• think things through inside their heads,
  
• more private/prefer to share personal info with only a select few,
  
• listen more than talk,
  
• keep enthusiasm to selves,
  
• respond after taking time to think things through,
  
• prefer depth to breadth

Part Two

Sensor (S)

• you trust what is certain and concrete;
  
• like ideas most if they have practical applications;
• value realism and common sense;
• like to use an hone established skills;
  
• tend to be specific and literal;
  
• give detailed descriptions;
  
• present info in a step-by-step manner;
• are oriented to the present

Intuitive (N)

• trust inspiration and inference,
  
• like new ideas and concepts for their own sake;
  
• value imagination and innovation;
  
• like to learn new skills and get bored easily after mastering skills;
• tend to be general and figurative, use metaphors and analogies;
  
• present info through leaps, in a roundabout manner;
  
• are oriented toward the future

Part Three

Thinker (T)

• step back, apply impersonal analysis to problems;
• value logic, justice, and fairness;
  
• naturally see flaws and tend to be critical;
  
• may be seen as heartless, insensitive, and uncaring;
  
• consider it more important to be truthful than tactful, one standard for all

Feeler (F)

• step forward; consider effect of actions on others;
  
• value empathy and harmony;
  
• see the exception to the rule;
  
• naturally like to please others;
• show appreciation easily;
  
• may be seen as overemotional, illogical, weak;
  
• consider it important to be tactful as well as truthful

Part Four

Judger (J)

• happiest after decisions have been made;
  
• have a "work ethic" of work first, play later;
  
• set goals and work toward achieving them on time;
  
• prefer knowig what they are getting into;
  
• are product oriented (emphasis is on completing the task);
  
• derive satisfaction from finishing projects;
  
• see time as a finite resource and take deadlines seriously

Perceiver (P)

• are happiest leaving their options open;
  
• have a "play ethic" of enjoy now, finish the job later;
  
• change goals as new info becomes available;
  
• like adapting to new situations;
  
• are process oriented (emphasis is on how the task is completed);
  
• derive satisfaction from starting projects;
  
• see time as a renewable resource and see deadlines as elastic

Now that you've gotten through all these parts, remember your four letters _ _ _ _.

Results:

1. ISTJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ISTJ.html
2. ISFJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ISFJ.html
3. INFJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html
4. INTJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/INTJ.html
5. ISTP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ISTP.html
6. ISFP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ISFP.html
7. INFP - http://www.personalitypage.com/INFP.html
8. INTP - http://www.personalitypage.com/INTP.html
9. ESTP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ESTP.html
10. ESFP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ESFP.html
11. ENFP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ENFP.html
12. ENTP - http://www.personalitypage.com/ENTP.html
13. ESTJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ESTJ.html
14. ESFJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ESFJ.html
15. ENFJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ENFJ.html
16. ENTJ - http://www.personalitypage.com/ENTJ.html
    

There is plenty more literature online about these results on Google and Wikipedia. I encourage you to read up on your personality type. Chances are you won't agree with everything, but with greater knowledge of yourself, you can better relate to your own actions and reactions as well as those of others. You can stand more firmly in your ground and make choices affecting your life according to the knowledge you have of yourself. It's incredibly self-empowering information.

Let me know what you guys get! I'm keeping track. :) If you really want to know mine, I'll tell you, but I avoided posting it here so as to avoid bias.

My Season of Magical Thinking

Yesterday marked 100 days since my grandfather passed. One hundred days since 8:15AM that morning when our family stood in columns, steady sentinels of his life, waiting for an end none of us wanted to accept. I rely so much on words to express myself, but I remember being at a complete loss for them for so long after.

I never talk about this with anybody, which I why it helps, I guess, to keep a journal.

In Vietnamese, we call a funeral đám tang which carries a double entendre. It also means "to dissolve" or "to fade." A funeral marks the beginning of the fading or dissolve of that person's existence. In my mind, I would will this to be less true, or even downright false. But I can't deny that the things I do remember are solely impressions of my grandfather. None can manifest themselves into my grandfather himself.

Wild geese fly, disoriented, calling out for deceased members of their gaggle. Dolphins refuse to eat for days after one of theirs passes. Elephants return to the site of the deceased, even years after their loss (hence, the term "elephant graveyard.")

It is natural to grieve. Isn't it? Humans react in similar ways and display similar psychological changes and disorientation.

The poet Walter Savage Landor writes in "Rose Aylmer"
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.

In Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking, she chastises Landor for allocating merely one night of memories and sighs to mourn. But I have to disagree in the reading of these lines. To me, a "night" can mean a figurative night, one whose length depends solely on the individual experiencing it.

"Grief is a place none of us know until we reach it...I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole."

Looking back on these past few months, I already recognize this as being one of the touchstones of my adult life. Whether or not there is any function to that realization, I have yet to find out. I do acknowledge the element of selfishness that piggybacks on grief. Is my grandfather's death something that happened to him, or something that happened to me? To my family? I have to ask myself that constantly. None of the times I have asked that question has yielded an answer.

Once, when I was driving with my mom, she began talking about my grandfather and in her broken-English reverie described him as "touchful." My cousin told me her mother often recalls, "He was the most loverly man in my life." When I hear accounts like these, I realize that we will continue to eulogize my grandfather as long as we live. He will, as they say, stay alive within our hearts and minds.

So why doesn't that bring as much comfort as it should? Why do those words (he'll stay *alive* within our hearts and minds) leave such a bitter aftertaste? Because at the end of the day, he's gone. And there's no changing that no matter how much we delude ourselves.

Yesterday I was filling out a form that required emergency contact information. My mind raced back to pre-school, when my mom taught me how to spell my grandfather's name and memorize his number so I can always remember to add that to my permission slips, then through every year thereafter when his name was always my first emergency contact. Thanh Pham. To this day, I can only first remember how to say his phone number in Vietnamese. If something happened, my grandfather would know first. I stood staring at my form through dewy eyes and turned it in blank.

At the local community center this past weekend, there was a Tet Trung Thu event, an annual Vietnamese festival to celebrate the onset of autumn. Looking around the room, I observed grandparents who had taken their grandchildren out. They were dressed in the traditional ao dai, waiting in line for a lantern. I remembered a picture of my grandparents kneeling beside me and my younger brother. I'm dressed in a yellow ao dai, with the token bowl haircut. My grandpa has large-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows, his hair peppered with black, gray, and white strands. Standing amidst the children toting their lanterns and chewing their moon cake, I wished so much to return to that photograph's simplicity.

My grandfather had a record player that played 33's and 45's. I would toy with it each time I came to visit, but much to my disappointment, my uncle sold it a while back. So I found a record player at a store in downtown Fullerton back home. Each time the needle hits the vinyl, my thoughts jump to Grandpa.

I just wish he were here so I could show him.

A lot of what I consciously do now is based on that mantra. He made an effort to be intellectually strong all his life. I read, write, and search for facets of learning everywhere I go, with more vigor now than before, with my grandfather in mind. He lived for his family and loved ones. I make a conscious effort to be there for my family (a handful of friends are included in this category) to carry on the legacy he left. I do things every day that I believe connect me to his spirit. That's the best I can do for now.

To every day henceforth, Ong Ngoai, this is for you.

Doesn't Anybody Stay in One Place Anymore?

Sing it, Carole King.

I might have to move again.

Just when I thought I had gotten settled and decorated my room to the point where I didn't need to tape anything else up or move anything else around. My roommates just bought a new house for themselves. They mentioned that they were looking for one when I signed the lease, but I was in denial about it for a while. Congratulations to them, but friggin A for me. I have two options:

1. Take over the lease and find two new roommates and take care of rent for the rest of the time I'm here.

2. Find a new place to live.

There is opportunity in both options. If I take over the lease, I can charge my two potential roommates more and ultimately pay less rent for myself. But at the same time, I'm only going to be here for a year and don't really want to handle rent for a property I don't plan to keep. Also, with my roommates moving out, there won't be any other furniture around at all other than that in my room, nor kitchen supplies. I'd have to invest in some of that.

If I find a new place, I could move downtown into Silver Spring or College Park. There would be younger people there. And much more to do. Right now, downtown D.C. and Silver Spring are accessible to me via the metro and my car. The small town I technically live in, Wheaton, is like a Santa Ana of sorts. Lots of families, not too much of a commercial district, not too many younger people in general. People go outside of Wheaton to hang out. No one really wants to come here to hang out, if you catch my drift.

So I looked around, and I found some awesome listings in downtown Silver Spring, Takoma Park, and College Park for cheaper rent than what I'm paying now. Plus furnishings. And possibly younger roommates, not that I have beef with the ones I have now, but it's always nice to live with people around your age.

Anyway, this week I'm going to be scoping out new places to live. I talked to my roommates, and they're going to try to negotiate something with the current landlord to see if I can stay and not have to take over the lease. We'll see how that goes. I'm going to keep my options open. Once again I run the risk of skewing my perception of Home.

But I've never run into any challenges without coming out all the better for it. So you're on, Life. Let's write this next chapter.

When They Were 22...

• At 22, Johnny Cash went from decoding Russian communications for the Air Force to recording his first country single at Sun Records.

• Bill Murray, a one-time aspiring surgeon, was arrested with nine pounds of marijuana at O'Hare Airport. The incident forced him to drop out of college, and his brother eventually persuaded Bill to give comedy a try in Chicago.

• At age 22, Jack White started a band with his wife. They later became known as The White Stripes.

• Dissatisfied with the direction of his life and longing for immediate involvement in politics, Karl Rove dropped out of college. At 22, after being accused of trying to steal an election, he was rewarded by then Republican National Committee Chairman George H.W. Bush with the national chairmanship of the College Republicans. Rove was later instrumental in the election of George W. Bush in 2000.

• Pamela Anderson discovered at a football game at 22 after getting her first breast implants.

• Giorgio Armani originally wanted to be a surgeon but realized it wasn't for him. So he tried his luck at photography. Still struggling, he took a job at a department store and discovered his love for fashion. His boss, recognizing a talent in him, gave him a promotion. He later started his own fashion chain that many people recognize today.
  

• At 22, Desi Arnaz moved to Miami from Cuba when Fidel's regime moved in. To make ends meet, he bussed restaurants, drove taxis, and did odd jobs. Unable to deny his desire to perform, he began playing at local night clubs, then started his own band. He and his band were discovered and made it all the way to broadway, where Desi met the starlet Lucille Ball, six years his senior.

These amazing stories that I've been posting on Facebook and Twitter all week are from a book called When They Were 22 written by Brad Dunn. As promised, I revealed the source of all my anecdotes as soon as I turned 22! So I'm joining the ranks of others on the endless road of self-discovery.

A few people thought that I was posting these anecdotes to show how behind the rest of us were in our lives compared to these celebrities and entrepreneurs when they were our age. Far from it! These are instead to show that when they were our age, they didn't necessarily know what they wanted from life either. The point is to keep trying new things, keep being true to yourself, and remember - as they say...

The best is yet to come!

Thirty Days Hath September

Out on the pier where I first believed
Sits a dream deferred, a soul bereaved.
The sun sinks alone and thaws in the sea.
The remains - bathed in dust - picked up by the breeze.
9/30/09

I wrote this today while sitting at Au Bon Pain. I usually allow green tea, windows, and cold weather to elicit whatever they please. This poem is what resulted. What's it about? asked a friend. The best answer I could give is that it's about running out of time. Knowing that you can do anything, but you can't do everything you want. If you can gather that kind of emotion from reading it, then I've done my job. And you can pat yourself on the back for getting how poetry works.

Anyway, time for updates!

I've been reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, in which she outlines the year after her husband's sudden death. She expounds on loss, grieving, faith, spirituality...It sounds incredibly depressing, doesn't it? But it helps me deal with a lot of emotion right now in regard to my grandfather, whose death I don't allow myself to talk about enough. At the same time, it's difficult to do so when the closest of my friends are, ironically, far away in miles. I simply don't open up so readily to just anybody.

Tonight, I went to a Tri-Caucus (Black, Hispanic, Asian-American Caucuses) mixer at the Newseum, which usually costs money to get into. The view was fabulous, and the drinks were free! Thank you, Nabila, for taking me out and introducing me around to Hill staffers. I had a great time. Check out the view to which we were privy:




All aboaaaaard! For a special promotion of the new A Christmas Carol movie with Jim Carrey, directed by Robert Zemeckis, Disney decked out - not a hall, but - an entire train! On display inside were samples of the movie's original artwork, demonstrations of the CGI technology they used, and interactive activities for the family. Outside, while we were waiting in line, we were serenaded by carolers. I hauled ass to Union Station downtown after I got off work and was greeted by the smell of gingerbread and the sight of fake snow. It felt like a California Christmas. Great job, Disney. The spirit found me on the east coast, and I couldn't be happier.






My mother sent me banh trung thu (moon cake) for the autumn moon festival. I have been having moon cake for breakfast with artichoke tea every morning! Joseph sent me this awesome picture of Mickey Mouse moon cake:


Gotta admit. I'm not in love with it, but I am warming up to the city. There, I said it. Netflix awaits. Tonight it's Aaron Eckhart in Thank You for Smoking. Good night, everyone!

Just watched Catch Me If You Can. Bought the book (used) soon after seeing it. If Frank Abagnale, Jr. could con banks country-wide and worldwide before turning 19, then that means I'm behind!

Although I don't plan to make a career out of conning government agencies, life still awaits. A lot of the time at night I wonder why I'm not at home with my family and close friends. Other times like today there is a split and I start thinking, Now waittaminute, Lilian. There's still a lot to be done. And there is!

For instance, today I met with a partner non-profit to outline the year in terms of what we want to get done in terms of community outreach. There are phone calls to be made, interviews to conduct, programs to plan, and much more than I could ever have imagined. I find that although I'm far from home, being here enables me to do a lot of good for a community that is growing. I am now a part of this process and am eager to make myself useful.

It's gotten to a point now where I have begun to question: Could this one year stint away from home potentially be a springboard for more adventures abroad? I know I gripe a lot about missing California, but now that I've dealt with re-location and displacement, could this mean that I could go through the motions again in a different place, doing different things? I'm doing Washington, D.C. for a year. What could be next? New York? Boston? Paris?

Thanks a lot, Abagnale.

We'll see...I'm going to take this one step at a time. Next step: Make lunch for tomorrow. I think I can handle that.

Weather or Not You Like It

We had our first rainstorm yesterday. I woke up to the sound of rain and fell asleep to it. What an amazing feeling. Weather was always missing from California, so it's a nice change to be able to experience it. In California, we drive to find certain types of weather, which is a good and bad thing. We drive to the mountains in the winter to find snow, up north for cooler temperatures, and travel farther south when we need tans. Maybe the inconsistency of weather on the east coast characterizes its allure. It's less predictable, changing all the time.

I took this picture from my car, front of my house. It had just started raining, and I wanted to make use of my macro mode.

I also went to the Library of Congress Book Fair. Ah, the dissemination of knowledge. There were readings, signings, and sales. Apparently, Nicholas Sparks was there.

Django Reinhardt found his way into my mailbox recently in the form of an early birthday present. The London and Paris sessions from 1938! My Fischer-Price record player was happy to see it. Thank you so much, Henry!

Mommy, I made friends today

Just to give you an idea of my relationships with my friends back home, here are people's various responses to when I texted them that I made friends today here in Maryland. I'm exposing you all!!

Henry: Imaginary ones don't count, Lilian.

Ysidro: You do realize puppy dogs and large old trees with lots of character don't count right?

(Me: One person said, "Welcome to our club" after I quoted Arrested Development and it reminded me of two years ago when you said, "Welcome to the family" after I understood your Family Guy reference.)
Tony: And I've regretted that moment ever since!

Khanh: Are any of them cute? You want to keep them for a while, right?

And my favorite...

Mom: Are they boy or girl?

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Well, screw you all! Haha. I did make friends today! That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

In the Maryland office, we share office space with an organization called Asian American Lead, which focuses on creating opportunities and programs for at-risk youth. My desk is right next to the door that leads into their office, so I couldn't help overhearing some awesome conversation when I first came in this morning. I got up and introduced myself and found out one of the girls went to same training as I did in Philadelphia back in July. After talking to the rest of the staff, I found out they were into Arrested Development, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and the Office.

SOLD!

Don: I am officially declaring lunch.
John: You can't declare lunch.
Don: Screw you, I'm declaring it.
Me: Usually, people declare stuff like war, bankruptcy...Lunch, not so much.

Jessica: This woman has five daughters and one son.
John: I too...have a son.
(He doesn't really.)

Me: New Office episode tonight! I'm so excited!
Don, Edison, and John: (from the other room, simultaneously) PARKOUR, PARKOUR!!!!!

We spent lunch watching the Afternoon Delight episode of Arrested Development. I think I'm going to like it here.

Ain't Too Proust to Beg

So today I got to work from home. I went into D.C. for a staff meeting, had lunch with my supervisor in front of the White House, and came back home to write up a memo because we're having some technical difficulties with my computer at the office.

While trying to be productive at home, I watched Little Miss Sunshine again. I love the writing for this movie. In this scene, Dwayne (15 year old played by Paul Dano who whose lifelong dream of joining the Air Force has just been shattered because he just found out he's color blind) talks to Frank (played by Steve Carrell, a suicidal gay professor whose boyfriend just dumped him for another scholar) about sleeping through the hard part of life and waking up when it's all over.

Frank: Do you know who Marcel Proust is? French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh... he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, Those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18... Ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school-those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that.


Within the scope of my life, I guess it would behoove me to look back every once in a while and appreciate if not celebrate the bumps along the way. They have shaped (and mis-shapened) who I am. All in all, I'm glad to be here. So next time I'm unbearably homesick, I'll channel it into a song, poem, or story instead of call home 5 times a day and bug the heck out of my mom. That way I can look back and feel like I've gotten something concrete out of my suffering. Ha!

This is what I love about movies. They have emotional capacity. They frustrate you, educcate you, stimulate you, and empower you by telling the same story in a variety of ways. This movie isn't the first or the only one about a dysfunctional family, self-discovery, lost loves, half-met dreams, and downright failures. But we pay attention because it's interesting and because the characters bring different chemistry to the screen. Then if we really pay attention we can get something more out of it too because of good performances and writing.

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Last night I had a dream that I launched rockets for a living. Don't know what that means, but it was pretty fucking cool. I experienced zero gravity in my sleep. Does that count for anything on a resume?