Hello there, Spring

I take in a lungful of your blooming skies and sunny flowers, and immediately sneeze. The hay-fever you've taught my body has gotten better at clogging the senses and dulling the nasal passages. I feel disheveled with you, and disjointed within. Your warmth sparks a fresh fervor within my brittle bones, and I shamefully yearn for respite.

Since your last visit, it's been a rough time. Family has become laborious, and work troublesome. Too much of my own time and energy has gone into situations better avoided. And I'm old enough now to understand that a day is finite, that there's only so much of myself I can offer before I am exhausted. It frustrates me that years into my life, I'm still weighed down by maintaining what I have instead of chasing what I could be. Like a tree that clings to a cliff-face for so long and has forgotten how to blossom, I wonder if I've survived long enough to forget how to live.

But hey, you're here now, heralding the new blossoms which are pretty and reassuring. What is new is neither good nor bad until reframed in the context of one's life. And through inflamed and watery eyes, I gaze once more as petals fall.

Photo Credit: What is Hay Fever?
BGM: "Undercover Martyn" by Two Door Cinema Club

the hungry

It is a living thing. I starved it, when I said I would write, but didn't. No thoughts to words for years, I would only sometimes pause on this little notebook of penned titles. Titles of unwritten stories in fading ink will soon be forgotten.

But today I thought about it for the first time in what felt like forever, in the odd few minutes between drudge-work. What a relief. What unbidden release. It was starving, but not dead; withered, but surviving.

I fed it Thai music, and it stirred. I felt its hunger. It swallowed the melody, the unintelligible emotions, and the yearning. It wanted more, so I tossed it a quote: "Drink from the well of yourself and begin again." 

More, it said again. This was Bukowski's quote, from a poem. Bukowski wrote about dirty realism, and transgressive fiction.

Keep going. Wouldn't that titled story fit Bukowski's style? That story would write itself. Add a note about a Thai OST.

Good, keep it coming. And remember: "Don't try." 

Photo Credit: Mixed race man holding fork and knife at table
BGM: "แค่เพื่อนมั้ง" (Just Friend?) by Nanon Korapat

If Gravity is Falling

I figured I fell for you eventually. Like gravity's ebb, that pulls slightly with decreasing distance and increasing urgency. But I doubted at first. I was used to that kind of romance that jerks your heart--the ones in movies, the ones I get teary-eyed about.

It's been, what, 2 years now, or 3? I'll have to check our first message on the phone for the date. It doesn't come so easily to me, forgetful though I am, I think it's more to do with how un-unique the "event" was. How extremely natural I felt when I met you and chose to be with you. There was no need to celebrate such a mundane occasion as the clearing of skies or the twinkling of stars. 

This is the order of nature, I figured, and all of my existence is bounded and is bound to this. Like the ebb of the sea and the rising of the tides, this love is the ocean where, you, the moon of my desire, holds sway.

And by the way, if you've seen Boys in the Band, this is the phone call.

Photo Credit: close up of huge, green and mighty sea wave crashes on sandy beach and break at night in full moon light

BGM: "Alone Together" by Chet Baker

Non-zero Sum Life

A tap on the shoulder, "Dean-san, sorry to bother you during this busy time."

I turned from my PC monitor and found my coworker standing beside me with an ornate box of biscuits.

She offered the box, "It's my last day today, thank you for all the times you helped me out with our project."

"Thank you as well, for being patient with me and my complicated explanations," I said with an earnest smile as I reached into the box and picked out a carefully wrapped morsel.

Apologetically, she explained that she will be trying something new in another company, and I rejoined with some nostalgic comments about her hard work and contributions to our project.

She is "majime", for sure: a Japanese quality she proved time-and-time again with her attention to detail, and thorough output. She was all that, as well as a warm presence in our team in her polite and ever cheerful manner.

I will miss her. And I am also jealous.

I, too, want to find within me that wellspring of casual joy that can carry me through the endless days of deadlines and troubles. I want to knock those goals one after another with a real smile on my face. That's a good life, I think.

But nowadays, each step forward with one goal feels like 2 steps backward with another goal: finish the laundry, forget to take-out the trash; submit the revised specs, miss the project roadmap planning session; get some gym-time in, end up eating everything in the fridge.

Is life teaching me that you can't have everything? I refuse to believe it. There must be some combination of prioritization and scheduling(not to mention copious amounts of coffee) that will let me have that life well-lived. Maybe if I keep trying, each day, slowly increase my endurance, my tolerance, stretch out time, push my own limits, maybe, just maybe, I might. I've got the rest of my life to keep trying.

Just keep at it, and life can be sweet--exhausting, but sweet.

I unwrap the biscuit and take a hearty bite. I taste the rich fudge bits that complement the flakey maple crust that graze my teeth with a satisfying crunch. Another bite, also amazing, and then suddenly it's all gone

Photo credit: Biscuit
BGM: "Riu Riu Chiu" by King's College Choir, Cambridge

Order. Design. Tension. Composition. Balance. Light. And Harmony.

"It is good to see you, George. Not that I ever forgot you. You gave me so much." 

"What did I give you?"

"You taught me about concentration. At first I thought that meant just being still, but I was to understand, it meant much more. You meant to tell me to be where I was, not some place in the past or future. I worried too much about tomorrow.

What about you, are you working on something new?"

For the past few months, I've been obsessing about the perfect week--and by perfect, I don't mean the sexscapade. Instead, I imagined my 30's would feel like those weekly TV sitcoms I grew up with.

And by sitcom standards, life was an eclectic apartment, spontaneous visits from friends and family, a fit body, work that sorted itself out, and the weekly event that drove the storyline of my life gradually, inevitably forward.

It feels naive when I idealise fiction, but it was the best model I could find at the time. From my side of the TV screen, there weren't many exemplars to choose from. In real life, most people I knew had a less than picture-perfect home, or complicated friends, and that one difficult relative, or that tenacious love-handle, plus the daily dosage of blood-pressure medicine. And when it came to their jobs, everyone had their own unique miasma of work grievances.

But as if part of good storytelling, everyone eked out a living somehow despite the un-ideal. In my young mind I thought, "That must be what being an adult was about: always moving on."

Nowadays, my life hasn't been moving on as much as I'd like it to. Most mornings I wake up to the question, "Am I OK to repeat the same old yesterday until the day I die? Is this what feeling mature is like?" No, I just feel old.

The solution to this rut, I thought, was to fashion the perfect week: maintain a clean apartment, a few drinks with friends, an intimate call with family, two or three sweaty workouts, and work deftly managed.

Maybe if I get all that done, I'll feel like I'm moving again, and with luck, one morning wake up renewed.

"Stop worrying if your vision is new

Let others make that decision, they usually do

You keep moving on

Just keep moving on

Anything you do

Let it come from you

Then it will be new

Give us more to see"

Photo Credit: Musical Theatre Repertory at USC
BGM: "Move On" by Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford from "Sunday in the Park with George"

gathering embers

Remember. That rising heat in your soul is rage. It is rage for doing excessively but still not having done enough. It is rage for emptying yourself out and making room for the arbitrary whim of of the people around you and the circumstances that govern them. It is rage for fulfilling it all, but not fulfilling yourself. It is rage at one's self for being selfless.

Remember. That twisting sensation that pervades your stomach is guilt. This is guilt for letting events, people and the world have their varied, obtuse, selfish ways and taking it all in stride. This is guilt for thinking that harmony begets success--no, that's supposed to be peace. This is guilt for hoping for peace when peace is meant for the dead or dying. It is guilt for bridging gaps when you should be making an impact.

Remember. That pervasive flush that crawls through your skin is discontent. This is discontent for lowering your standards for sanity's sake and instead finding yourself at the bottom. This is discontent for the irredeemable nights of toil, lost hours of heroism, and wasted instances of initiative that have all led to a place as extreme as it is undesirable. This is discontent for being content a little too soon.

Remember all these sensations. Feel the unsettling urgency to remedy this affliction, this blight upon your life. Let the sharp edges of these memories roil within you, and gash and cut against each other hotly until, like bright flintstone, crackles and sparks. Let all these thoughts and emotions come together. Then set it on fire.

And when you grow giddy with heat, and feel vibrant with flame, pour this energy out and into the world. That is passion. And passion, much like fire, does not choose its impetus nor kindling. It simply remembers itself, and burns.

staying warm

I was walking outside, on a sunny Sunday, the first of the year and at the cusp of the coming week of usual work. Like everyone else, I was all tucked and fleeced in winter layers, trying my best not to expose any bare part of me to the sharp chill air. I walked slower than usual. I was distracted. I was consciously keeping my feelings in check, feelings about the return to the rat-race tomorrow. For every outburst of worry that shot out from the dark pit of my soul: I reached for it, caught it, and carefully wrapped it in a warm bundle of optimism for the new year.

I passed some stoic parents, orbited by little packages of scarves, wool and legs. They had a far-away look in their eyes. It reminds me of that scene from western movies, you know, where the leading man, riding his trusty steed, trods away from the town he calls home. And against the backdrop of the setting sun, he turns for a last glance back. There was no worry in those eyes, and it wasn't sadness either that tinged that scene.

I think, it was the beginning of resolve that dawned upon people crossing over a threshold in their lives--one of many, probably. You see, the young are lucky since they haven't gone through enough of life yet to know how important it all is; the old are equally lucky since they've already gone through enough of life to know how pointless it all is. For the unlucky few caught in the middle, we venture forward and against the harsh, ever-present, winds of change. In our journey, we shed our innocence, our naivete, our youth, and fashion for ourselves a sturdy mantle woven from the advice of friends, the follies of yesterdays, and the keen wisdom born from a kind heart.

On this new year, instead of preparing resolutions that dwell on goals about work, love, or health, I would instead like to make a resolution regarding my temperament: that whatever this new year may bring, wherever it will take me, may I face it all with grace and sensibility. Let this single thought blanket the rest of the year.

And in that manner, we shambled, the crowd and I, in comfortable shrouds of our own making.

Photo credit: Wool Scarves by beth mercer

Creature Comforts

Tonight is a quiet night. The moon is full as I walk home from the gym, but the streets are empty. It's Golden Week in Japan, and everyone has gone somewhere special. Everyone's gone off to string the sequence of holidays into memories of the sparkling seas, or misty mountains, or disheveled bedsheets.

I've made a lot of progress in the bedroom front myself, where I've conquered a pillow-case sized bag of popcorn and pizza the size of car tires while watching "Practical Magic" and "Romy and Michelle's Highschool Reunion" with friends after a fulfilling day of buying raunchy gay paperbacks at the annual "Yarou Fest (Rascal Fest)."

Luxury must be this freedom for irresponsibility. I think the novelty will die quickly though, along with the contents of my bank account if I'm not too careful. But I've started feeling somewhat numb about it. Where before a pang of guilt would strike, now, a dull ache throbs within my heart and yearns for something more.

I step into the bookstore near my house and, for the first time since I moved into the neighborhood 2 years ago, took a look around. The latest monthly serial that included the groundbreaking gay story "Ototo no Oto (My brother's husband)" was on the shelves. There was also a "Boy's Love" section as well, a full bookshelf of it. I start to wonder why it took me so long to stop by here.

Oh. Right. I can't read any of this stuff.

The most striking twilight zone episode for me was the bespactacled man who loved to read books. The story starts with a nagging wife and troublesome acquaintances that keep interrupting his book. He bears it grumpily. While he hopes for the abrupt demise of those around him, he continues his reading, until a nuclear bomb hits. He survives somehow, and revels in his answered prayer. He rushes through empty streets and the derelict library. There's no one in the world to interrupt him, and all the time in the world available for him to relish each book here. But, alas, he stumbles, and steps on his glasses.

Japan's been like this for me. I make headway somehow in friends(3 orgs and counting!) and knowledge of culture(I hate tourists now, too), and I am still optimistic. Yet the door remains closed, and I glimpse through the gaps and cracks the absolute satisfaction that waits for those who aren't illiterate in a foreign tongue.

Tonight is a quiet night, with no foreign words to capture the beauty of the moonlit night. I, too, am quiet. But, I must admit I've grown comfortable with it. I may not fit into this strange corner of the world yet, but the nook I've fashioned for myself is not too shabby. Not shabby at all.

Photo Credit: Library by Stewart Butterfield

this existential restlessness

A few days ago, in the bright sunshine typical of post-rainstorm Tokyo, officemates huddled together on the worn wooden benches at the nearby quad after lunch. Our conversation veered here, there, and everywhere (with a few stopovers to google or wiki something), and somehow ended up with my OKCupid page.

I apparently made one a few years back and it was filled with such witticisms as "just a simple guy living a simple life." I imagine I must have made it in college, judging by how effective I was at playing casual and aloof.

Everyone had a laugh. I agree, it was funny, in that I think everyone can relate to that phase in their life when being cool and being numb meant about the same thing. With that flash of kinship, I continued explaining my, now mature, thoughts on life and happiness, pointedly. Before the eventual awkward pause, a friend thankfully commented on the heavy atmosphere and smoothly brought us back on the usual lighthearted track.

I guess I've got some steam to blow. When usually I'd be bubbly with friends, I've lately noticed I'm at a loss for words and pull back into myself and grow pensive.

I fear I may be in a rut.

Which is a shock to me, since everything in my life has been going swimmingly so far. I'm on track to getting in shape, we've just completed our annual concert to much applause, we shipped our application on schedule, I've got money in the bank, I just came back from a refreshing trip to visit my closest family and friends. Everything is great, so what am I worrying about?

I guess I don't feel excited about life lately. There's nothing challenging nor daunting in the horizon, just a long list of things that must be done, or waiting to be done, or hoping to get done. I guess this is what most would call stability, or security? I watch the fruits of my daily labor grow on the branches of my life and dutifully wait for them to ripen and fall.

It's mind-numbing. Who wants to watch trees when you can do cartwheels down the hillside? Or fool around with the neighboring shepherd boy?

But all the remaining things in my bucketlist require some preparation, a bit of leverage, a bit of planning, and with costs that are too significant to mark-off as one-time splurges (that means my credit limit can't handle it).

Which is a kind of delayed-gratification: do the overtime now so I can have piece-of-mind later? skip that order of fries now for those killer abs in summer? save up money now so I can move to an awesome apartment with a great view of the city skyline?

I live by a code of happiness--but before people brand me a nepotist, luckily my happiness includes the happiness of others--and the problem with chasing happiness is picking. I don't really know yet how to quantify whether this happiness is greater than this other one. Will hooking up with this guy, or hanging out with my volunteer friends be more enjoyable?

Where before, I was in raptures imagining the sheer pleasure I would find trying those fantastic, crazy, unheard of things I would do once I've secured my place in the world. Instead, now I don't know which is fantastic enough, sufficiently crazy, or even where to listen for these unheard of things.

Life was simpler when I just meant to be alive; now, I am trying to find what it means to live. I'm still confused but I did realize something: maybe my college thoughts on a simpler life isn't as foolish as I think and may be worth revisiting.

the March of Clouds

Most days, because of the hectic schedule, I end up taking lonesome lunches. It doesn't really bother me eating by myself, but I make it a point to find a tucked-away nook where I won't have to worry about seeing anyone else. I'm not embarrassed or anything, I just don't want to have to explain why I'm by myself, nor consider if I should join them for lunch. I just want to get this necessary routine out of the way so I can get back to the stack of work waiting for me at my desk.

And when I do this, my favorite spot is over by the windows. In our 8th floor cafeteria, the ceiling-high windows are lined with white-clean, narrow counters and a row of stools each. The counters are just wide enough to accommodate a tray of food, and allow for a commanding view of the surrounding suburban sprawl as you munch on lunch, or the glittering city skyline as you partake of dinner. It's a nice place to sit, and conveniently let's you turn your back on the crowded floor and instead watch the wide horizon.

But yesterday, after the typhoon-drenched weekend past, the afternoon view was bright with sunlight and the sky gleamed bluer than usual. The Tokyo weather portrays so well the calm beauty after the storm. The lofty clouds, so massive, somehow hang upon this calmness as they gently wade across the sky.

Or I may just be projecting my own sense of quietude. The 4 month long project just succeeded in a vital release earlier this week, and I'm recollecting the days gone by, how quickly they move from reality to memory as the present shifts into the past.

In the time of the project, I've joined a gay chorus, sang in a concert, lost weight, gone bungee-jumping, gone to Izu and Nagasaki, settled my credit card debts, regained some semblance of financial stability, been promoted, gained back some weight, gotten drunk more than usual, volunteered for LGBT parades and movie festivals, said goodbye to a few friends, shook the hands of a few new ones, kissed deeply and have made good memories.

I worry, actually, that the road of my life is milestoned by work. And in between these milestones, there is nothing but grit and the fading remains of my footprints. But it seems this isn't so, I've managed somehow to live--despite myself.

I look out the window and watch the majestic clouds again. They seem so voluminous, so awkwardly large, I wonder how they can proceed so serenely, so placidly, through the vastness of the seas, the tumult of storms, and the peaks of mountain ranges.

A good friend of mine, while we were walking home, told me how people who live in cities forget to look up at the sky, forget how big it is, and slowly lose that sense of perspective of how small we are in the grand scale of things.

I see his point now. We're all just clouds in the infinite sky. We grow dark and stormy sometimes, or get pulled from here and there by capricious winds. But we all manage to march on with our lives, across the endless blue, and always toward our horizon.

Photo credit: Passing Clouds by Dumdad