Note

The original post has been removed as of August 2010. I've removed all 34 posts detailing my escapades at Stanford Summer College. Let's just say I wrote some not-so-nice things about certain people, and I'd rather not have those things come back to haunt me.

But if you're a longtime reader and happened to love that ridiculous series -- they're all sitting as drafts in my blogger account. You can breathe easy.

Wanderlust

This picture will have nothing to do with what this post is about. I just thought this was a good picture of the guitarist of Radiohead, Jonny Greenwood.

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I have removed what I previously posted in this entry; it was far too personal in terms of family matters to be publicized.

Tomorrow I will be moving into Stanford, where I will be staying for eight weeks. I will have Internet access there, so hopefully I will be able to continue blogging and emailing on a regular basis.

Somehow I feel like I should be more excited about living at Stanford for most of my summer, but I'm not. I am trying to remember if this is how I felt last year when I spent ten days at Berkeley -- I don't think I was particularly excited either. Part of the reason may be because Stanford doesn't excite me. My mother got very angry when I compared Stanford to De Anza College, noting that they were both in very close proximity to where I live.

It is a given fact that nearly every ambitious Bay Area parent dreams that his/her kid will attend Stanford University, and my parents are no exceptions. I, however, regard Stanford rather hesitantly. Even if I manage to get accepted by Stanford (given the low acceptance rate of my school, I think the chances are not so great), I am certain I will have second thoughts. Part of the reason is the restlessness, the wanderlust I am feeling at this age. I have never been to the east coast; the only country I have visited outside of North America is Taiwan. The biggest turn-off about Stanford for me is that it is too close to home. I love the Bay Area, but I don't think I will ever be satisfied until I leave this place and see the rest of the country for myself.

At seventeen, this is the age when everyone bombards you with questions such as, "Where do you see yourself ten years from now." I feel it is being rather presumptuous to say what your future will be, as opposed to what you want your future to be. Therefore, the following will be all a matter of intangible figments.

I want a career where I can contribute to humanity. With my parents like mine, it is easy to announce to the world, "I'm going to be a doctor!" I am well aware of the incredible persistence and patience it takes to work through years of medical school and residency. I have doubts of whether or not I will be dedicated enough to pursue schooling when half of my friends have already graduated and gotten married. However, I do know that I would not be happy in business or law -- the ruthlessness and deception many jobs in these fields require are clearly not compatible with my character.

Despite those philosophers and writers who have decried the beastly nature of man, I am an optimist in this regard. In this sense, the reason medicine appeals to me is because of the compassion involved in such a career. I am not the type of person who would put down others intentionally to make myself feel better. Although some people mistake my shyness for coldness, I am generally friendly to everyone. Although I may strongly dislike certain people, I can say with certainty that I do not hate anybody.

I am sure somebody will bring up the point: Well, if you love writing so much, why don't you pursue it? Despite the typical parent response: An English major will get you nowhere! -- there is another reason why I don't think pursuing English is in my best interests. If I am forced to write, the quality of my writing tends to decrease. If I am entirely dependent on my writing in order to feed and clothe myself, I will likely face massive writer's blocks and start to dislike the thing that keeps me sane when I am stressed.

Like anyone else, sometimes I have those groundless dreams that will never come true unless incredible luck passes my way. I have thought amusedly to myself of writing a ground-breaking screenplay for an award-winning film, racking up the accolades as I bask in the presence of Hollywood glory. I have imagined writing a best-seller novel, my name becoming synonymous with Rowling and Meyers. But I am first and foremost a realist -- my aspirations are grounded in reality.

So here is what I would like to see in the future, realistically. I want to be a doctor -- not a researcher, but one that actually deals with patients face to face. As a hobby, I will write on the side, perhaps minor in English; I do want to publish someday.

I also hope I will meet somebody to love. It is harder to live when you're fighting alone.

Bel Canto

Almost perfect. I changed the eyecolor to a greyish-blue -- the original was by Orioto on deviantart and had brown eyes. If he had a sharper face, a colder expression, and more piercings in the ear, this would be a young Rhys.

Thanks to time_to_freefall.

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I think I've referred to Howl often enough on here that people might have figured out who Howl is. If not, for these purposes let's call Howl... Petra Malkovich. Such an exotic feminine name, no? So east-European. There's probably some Siberian supermodel out there with a name like that.

So I was chatting with G. and Gov. J online, and I suddenly got a brilliant idea. There are all these noble charities out there dedicated to promoting awareness towards global issues such as genocide or AIDS. Many of them accept donations of money, food, clothing, and medicine in order to better the world for everyone.

So, I figured, why not partake in this noble movement and start my own charity? I call it SPF -- Sober Petra Fund. You see, Petra, being a popular supermodel and all, is unfortunately exposed to all sorts of horrible things that de-sober people. And of course, everybody cares about Petra. So everyone donates money to this lovely fund, which collectively pulls together enough money to rent a construction crane. Because Petra, no doubt, is in denial, the foundation will volunteer to strap Petra down so that the crane can quite conveniently ship our beloved supermodel off to rehab.

And for an added bonus, donate extra money, and you will be granted to send Petra a swift kick in the derrière as a farewell.

And with that, I shall present the SPF logo -- in honor of one of the most famous stories of Petra detailing the exotic pet in the garage.

Alice

If I were Alice, wandering in Wonderland

Would forgetting come any easier?

Or would you be the only thing I can remember?

Indulgence

So I just spent the last hour watching video clips of Gilmore Girls. I suck at time management.

"I've been thinking..."

"Geez, that's a surprise."

... anyway. My head is filled with a bunch of clutter, so now I am going to expel one massive diarrhea of nonsense. I have a feeling this post will get fairly personal, so I might take this post down whenever I please.

1. Monsieur Yin's last post really got me thinking. It never occured to me in my life that people might be jealous of me. There are so many things wrong with me that I have never thought I was worth being jealous over or whatever at all. I might as well make an entire list right now of all my faults.

• I eat too much when I'm stressed
• I am very indecisive and can get very nervous.
• I have very pessimistic tendencies
• Despite what people think, I am not great at math. Really. I can thank my parents for bestowing a calculus-worthy brain, but I don't intend to get anywhere near calculus unless I am forced to.
• I am an introvert who can't handle being in the spotlight and usually won't be the first to approach others.
• I am not a very confrontational or aggressive person.
• If I am nervous around certain people, I act very differently and can barely look at them in the eye.
• I am not very good at making friends.
• I am incredibly two-faced. Only very close friends see my loud, cynical, witty side. I am sure the others think I am incredibly dull, boring, and quiet.

I think that's a long enough list, but you get my point. Being jealous of my writing, I might be able to understand, because it's something I actually feel very lucky to have. Being naturally quick-minded is another. But I am really surprised to hear that K. thinks I'm pretty and nice. Which leads me to my next point.

2. My guess is that I am a very unusual seventeen-year-old. Why? Someone might say I am love-phobic. I have never slow-danced in my life. The only two guys my age that I have hugged are my close friend who doesn't even count and this weird guy who went around hugging everybody. Part of the reason may be because back then, I didn't even see the point. Those flings ended in a matter of months. It was stupid and pointless. Plus I hated holding hands, period. Even if we were just doing square dancing or something - I just thought it was gross. In short, I am not a clingy person.

I will have to confess, however, that I did admire people from afar. I just watched from a distance but I held no expectations or hopes - it was just making my life a little more interesting. At least, it lasted this way until Storm.

Storm was an infatuation that lasted for years. How many middle-schoolers can brag about that? It eventually died (and now, I don't even know what I was thinking), but it did shape my character greatly during those years. But that was when I was in my early teens. I am now almost an adult, and I will have to say that I have matured a great deal, both physically and emotionally.

Now it is Orpheus. I have known Orpheus for a very long time, but it has always been like a switch, flickering on and off. This has been excruicatingly irritating; there are moments where we can act like friends, and then there are moments where we don't even acknowledge each other's existence. The strange thing is how when we do acknowledge each other, I can talk so easily without locking up and sounding like an idiot.

I love Orpheus' voice. Maybe that's why.

But just like I can pick out all my faults so sharply, I am unfortunately very good at finding the flaws in others. It has been a constant game of tug-o-war. My brain warns one thing; my heart (for lack of a better term) runs the other direction. Eventually, something has to give -- and usually, it's the brain that wins.

3. I think I may have written about this on here already. I have always been insecure about how I look. Before I got braces, I had large front teeth and my lower teeth were crooked. I hated wearing my hair down and always wore really boring unflattering ponytails (which contributed to a receding hairline). I have never been tall. I don't remember who (but I am almost 100% sure it was Howl, that despicable waste of oxygen), but someone once told a friend of mine that I was ugly. I have forever been grateful to that friend who stood up for me and told him to shut up, but my self-confidence has never been very strong to begin with.

Meanwhile, I have some very attractive friends who often are the object of somebody's affection. Of course, I would rather not deal with those problems that Rogue faces every year, but sometimes you start taking those stabs a little personally. I will confess, part of the reason prom season was hell for me was because I knew nobody would ask me. Granted, I gladly and proudly went stag to Junior Prom, but I have to say, it really did hurt when all my friends had gotten dates and I was the only one going alone. (Fortunately, JC eventually got rid of that despicable waste of oxygen and I had some company.)

In short, I don't see anything attractive about myself. I've been convinced that I am not pretty -- just fortunately not disfigured -- and so when I get those compliments recently (esp. after prom), I don't believe any of it. Hell, I was surprised K. thought I was nice. There have been people in the past who mistook my shyness for coldness. I am plain and unapproachable. The end.

4. There are so many things I want to say. I just don't know how to say it in person.

The Dirge of Lenore St. Laurent

I go alone then, underground
When the night murmurs without a sound
Like a dying moth smothered beneath a jar
I go alone, beneath the ground
Away from the painted clowns and tinsel gowns
Where the blinking Ferris wheels go round
In the carnival above the ground.

He paces back and forth along the stair
Fingers running through his thinning hair

But what happens when Orpheus never appears?
Do I stay, do I wait? Do I listen for a voice --
For the stillborn confession lodged in his throat?
I confess, I fail to understand his fears.

He paces back and forth along the stair
Fingers running through his thinning hair

Still, I am no Eurydice
And he is neither Lazarus nor Hamlet
But Ophelia -- a rippled face below the water
They are not mermaids but ravens
The shelled carcasses (picked clean) drift across the ocean floor;
I stand alone by the jagged shore
As the voices gurgle, "Nevermore."
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[edit // 06.07.08]

There are a couple reasons why this poem has a deeper personal meaning to me, which I didn't want to share with my English class.

- Last year, I wrote mainly vignettes. This year, I have been writing mainly poetry, but before, I had zero confidence with poetry. I think this is the first poem I actually feel proud of.

- When I was reading "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," I don't know about everyone else, but immediately I started wondering about the object of Prufrock's affections. Did she know he was in love with her? Did she love him as well? If so, how did she feel, constantly waiting for him to make the first move, as conventions dictated?

This nameless woman instantly struck a chord with my own self. I will probably never know how the Orpheus of my story sees me, but I know all too well how it feels being the one with unanswerable questions. In a way, I transferred myself into the character of Lenore St. Laurent.

- Like Prufrock, I calculate risks so carefully that I usually end up sitting passively on the sidelines. Similarly (and just as pathetically), I fear I will end up exactly like Prufrock - middle-aged and trapped in unending strings of one-sided loves.

Anyway, I am thrilled that a bunch of people actually like this poem. I really am. When I got no response during my discussion, I completely panicked, because I thought my tendency to write obscurely had gone too far. And I am also really glad that I managed to give a decent analysis of the poem in front of the class. Despite those 8's and the one 9 I've received this year, this is probably the most personal (and most satisfying) one out of the bunch.

Ad Astra Per Aspera

"The night broke. The thunder cracked my brain finally. The rain is coming, I promise you. I didn’t mean to but your tears will bring life back. Purple flowers grow, the color blood looks in veins. They’ll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways, down the slopes to the sea. I’ll be in their faces. I’ll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky.

I’ll be inside the one who holds you.

And then I won’t be."

-- Wasteland by Francesca Lia Block

When I first read Wasteland in eighth grade, I was stunned. I still am never tired of that book.

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I must be chemically unbalanced. A viral trigger, a carcinogen, something that would tilt the razor's edge past the boundaries of sanity. Logic instructs one thing; Instinct acts otherwise. It is easy to rationalize when there are no shuddering pulses, no smoldering cheeks, no chiseled jawline anchoring down the magnanimous voice -- but only until the voice is unchained.

Your words swallow my oxygen.

Six Degrees

So this is Kim Yoo Bin, the rapper from the Korean pop group Wonder Girls. And apparently they are really popular now, because not only did I find their PV on Youtube, but you can find dozens of fan sites devoted to them on the internet. There are even sites dedicated exclusively to Yoo Bin herself.

No, I have not decided to become an Asian Music Blogger; it is just a coincidence that my past few posts have been about An Cafe and Anna Tsuchiya. The only reason I even found out and bothered to look up the Wonder Girls is because Yoo Bin went to my high school two years ago. I don't remember her very distinctly -- I was only a freshman, completely overwhelmed with the new high school life -- but her junior picture is in my freshman yearbook. Apparently she moved back to korea before her senior year, so she is not in my sophomore yearbook.

So, I cannot really claim anything like, "Oh my high school buddy is now a star!" and whatnot. It seems terribly superficial, now that I am writing it out, but there's a strangely pleasant feeling that comes with being connected to somebody famous, somebody people dedicate entire fansites to. I guess somehow, you feel just a litle more significant in this gigantic world.

Six Degrees is an interesting idea, and it complements well with our obsession with celebrity. We naturally play our own games of Six Degrees, figuring out how we're related to that guy in the newspaper or that girl at the storm of a rumor. This can pretty much be proven by my incredibly precise memory for these sort of connections, as opposed to my absent-minded condition when my mother tells me to take out the garbage, for example. And beyond the fact that Yoo Bin went to my high school...

- My cousin's friend is the nephew of Ralph and Joseph Fiennes
- Classmate and former neighbor's grandmother is friends with Jay Chou's grandmother
- Speaking of Jay Chou, my friend's father met him in Taiwan but had no idea who he was until he mentioned the story to his children (who are Jay Chou fanatics) after they went to watch Curse of the Golden Flower.
- The screenplay writer of the Korean drama My Name is Kim Samsoon is the cousin of my close friend's cousin's girlfriend. Apparently the relationship between the two lead characters was based on G's cousin and his girlfriend.
- My French teacher talked to Sting at a bar one night many years ago; she had no idea he was Sting until after he had left. She was also accquainted with John Steinbeck's (step?)daughter.
- John Elway (retired Hall of Fame quarterback)'s twin sister was a teacher at my elementary school. She died in 2002 of lung cancer.
- As everyone at my school is aware of, my high school is the same one Pat Tillman (the football player who gave up his million-dollar career and fought in the army) attended. His mother taught at my middle school.




If there are others, I cannot remember them off the top of my head, but I think this list proves my point. It may be sad, but I think many people out there develop this type of mindset. And who knows? Maybe I will end up in the spotlight one day.

... not likely.