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.