Tissue Nose

After getting incredibly excited for coming back home to California for thanksgiving break, I'm greeted by a flu. I'm usually very happy to entertain old acquaintances, but this particular one seemed to have barged in uninvited and at an inconvient time. With only 2 more days of break left, I have an extremely bad case of tissue nose. "It's such a strange phenomena," I thought to myself, as I tore open yet another box of kleenex, "It's like a medal to be wore at the center of your head that cries out, 'I've conquered,' or in worse cases, 'I've been conquered,' or perhaps the worsest of the worst scenarios, 'I've conquered for myself.'"

I always expected places and things to be slightly different upon my re-arrival. Usually, this has been a good attitude, especially for things like an entire city. What takes me most by surprise however, is that things have been almost exactly the way I left them: the lizard that hangs out on the rock right outside my window, the drivers that almost kill you as they rapidly cross over 4 lanes at a time, my graduation gown that hangs on the coat rack on the side of my room. I feel like I've been teleported back almost half a year!

So I've Heard...

"So I've heard..." This phrase is perhaps the ultimate life-saver. Attach it to the end of any snoody comment and you protect yourself from foolishly misquoting or looking like a total jerk. Imagine with me dear reader: you find yourself at a wine tasting event when a middle age woman stands next to you. She looks over at your glass and says to you, "What type of casking was that merlot set in?" You reply, "Well-aged oak with a hint of coriander." You see a strange expression on her face slowly develop, but before she has a chance to reply, you raise your left eyebrow and qualify your statement: "Or so I've heard..."

The tension's broken, confusion sets in, and before she has a chance to call your bluff you excuse yourself to the bathroom in hopes of never seeing her again. Whether male or female, there's always a funny tension that occurs when you're asked a question. Immediately, it is associated as a type of challenge. You're put on the spot and you've only been given X-amount of time to answer. How you reply will somehow craft your reputation and consequently, how others will percieve you. Quick! Use "so I've heard..."!

As the questions get closer and closer to the core of who you are, however, there's always a baffling pause. Should you tell them the truth? Do you know yourself well enough to give an answer that accurately reflects who you are? Or do you quickly turn to other's attention towards some inflammatory subject: "Someone said abortion is murder!" "Gay-marraige! Tell me your opinions and/or grievances!"

I've been slowly work through The Brothers Karamozov for the past 3 months. In my opinion, what makes this read so worthwhile is that it always addresses this tension of identity. How well do you actually know yourself? Do you know yourself well enough to know what you want to hide about yourself? Have you been hiding things for so long that it's pure routine? Whatever the case, there's always a temptation to use "so I've heard..." in any conversation, whether its at an escargot dinner party, a wine tasting event, a sour date, etc. Its versatility is deadly, making it effective in the beginning of a clause viz. "So I've heard that...." or at the end (as demonstrated earlier).

Exactly Four Years Ago...

I was four years younger.

There's a pang of nostalgia tonight as I gingerly browse through my collected photos ever since I discovered the joys of a digital camera. I fondly recalled trips to the Getty Museum, beach outings where youthful men vigorously engaged in a game of shirt-less volley ball. Of course, in hindsight, it wasn't really cold enough to necessitate any "shirt-taking-offness." We probably just wanted to impress the ladies.

Picture yourself, dear reader, in a strange world where there's no such thing as memory or past. You wake up in the morning and every minute that passes by is like you're a newborn. The world is new, adventurous, yours for the seeking...and absolutely stupid. Oh yeah, and you're not wearing any clothes. Why are you clothesless? You've just never remembered to go shopping. In fact, you haven't remembered much of anything and you end up starving to death. The End.

Why this absurd scenario? Because little did you know, O reader, I have capitivated you with my literary talent and have successfully demonstrated to you the need for memory , even if at times, reminensce can prove quite painful. Events which occur never fade away into the past. They fight, grip at your soul, and many times, never leave. They formulate our souls and our identities. As I browse these photographs, I find myself saddened that forever (at least in my mind), I will be known as the young lad who suffered a bruised rib from a game of Ultimate Frisbee. The photograph makes me rub my side, then smile to myself as I think about just how thankful I am for my ribs. Now I shall go and drink a glass of milk.

It's haunting and comforting to know that we can still experience the past, today. The same feeling erupts when I think of the fact that some of those people really know me - they too can remember. It's like some Sci-Fi movie where a young aerospace pilot ventures off to a planet of crazed monkeys only to find himself empathetic to them, and perhaps in certain ways, the crazed monkeys are really more "human" than himself. Hollywood- you've heard it here first, I've got the copyrights.

Thankfully, monkeys are monkeys and we are not. It's not just my smooth skin, my undesire to yelp wildly and fling poo at things, but that I can remember. Not just things like remembering to do my laundry, eat food, or cut my hair (in which I am in desperate need). But that these past memories identify me in as much as I identify myself with them.

*NB: Addendum/Excursis- The death of YGLiDYM! has deprived the web-literary world for far too long, and in efforts to remedy the distraught souls of faithful readers, I (myself) have yet again, re-begun the daunting task of blogging. This and the previous post marks a new train of thought, a new thread of genius, a new... ... ... PROLITERATES OF THE WORLD, UNITE!

"I want an Oompah Loompa!"

Having moved from Orange County, CA to Chicago, IL has been perhaps the single most extraordinary thing to occur to me. Extraordinary coldness, extraordinary geese poop, and extraordinary people (in no particular order). I'm beginning to convince myself that America is really meant to be seen as a multiplicity of small nations, each with its own specific language, culture, and outward appearance.

A typical Sunday afternoon: I go to my local Trader Joes' after Church. As I exit the car, I step on goose poop. I go into the store and find sanctuary in familiar products. I go to the cashier, she asks me if I want a "bei-ah-g." I say, "What?" She says, "bei-ah-g." I say, "Why... are you the way you are?" I leave the store, but before I get into the car, I'll probably step in geese poop yet again.

In the midst of a innate desire to complain to God and declare my utmost hatred of this foriegn place, I find myself likened unto that little blueberry girl from Willy Wonka's Factory of Inevitable Doom for Selfish Children. These things are different, but I'm discovering that I'm the one who gets to put value on them: the ridiculous accents (you can drive north and arrive within an hour to Ken-noh-sha), the extraordinary people, and yes, even the goose poop. By value, I don't mean a sort of objective valuability...but a subjective sort. A subjective sort that only you can place (oh the irony).

We all know what happened to the blueberry girl can also easily happen to us. I happen to like my beige skin tone and non-spherical figure the way it is, thank you very much.