Hello-Goodbye

Do you remember that time we sat at the Grind and just talked for hours? I don’t remember exactly what it was that we talked about, it seemed like we brushed upon every subject possible. I just recall it being a great afternoon; and I miss it. The thing is, we don’t seem to talk anymore. Oh, occasionally I would get a poke from you on facebook, or a third party would mention your name in passing; but that’s about it. It’s like the moment we left that campus, our lives have taken on totally different courses, you went your way, and I went mine. The earth maybe round and we may be walking in totally opposite directions, but our paths are destined not to crisscross ever again. I honestly don’t know how I feel about that. You see, I keep imagining that there is this parallel universe where we will meet again, and pick up where we left off. There is always that lingering question which I doubt I will get the chance to ask you, or we the opportunity to explore the answer together.

So it is that I continue with my life, and you yours. I hope somewhere; somehow you are still curious as I remember you to be of the world around you. I hope that when the hurly burly of the day has left you be, that you may just think of me just as I you. I know I have changed quite a bit since that day, perhaps in that parallel universe, you will find an Andy who is actually bolder and wiser. Perhaps, in that universe, we will spend more afternoons watching sunsets in silence.

Autumn

Pet by petal, the chrysanthemums shrivel.
Drop by drop, the streams slow down to a trickle.
The red leaves fall, the still pond ripples.
Here I sit, just me and my shadow.
Dreamy, 
Nostalgic, 
Quixotic.

The birds are flying south, their calls a distant echo.
Wine and food I have prepared, but alone I sit at the table. 
The floor is cold, silence reigns the house.
And so I remain, quiet as a mouse.
Pensive,
Yearning,
Hopeful.

Fall and Autumn

Have I ever told you how much I love autumn… yes, yes, I probably have, every single bloody year. I can’t help myself; I am drawn to the fall colors like a moth to light. It is beautiful, especially early in the morning or late in the afternoon as the sunlight sashay between the trees, cascading upon fallen leaves like light through stain glass windows.

There is zest, no overbearing heat, dreary humidity or biting cold. Everything is just right, balanced. The leaves, oh they are great; how I love to watch them fall, dawdling, lazily swishing about. I know where it is heading, I think they do too, but they are in no hurry, just floating as if exploring, prolonging the journey, enjoying every last moment. Sometimes I wish I live a life of a leaf; blossoming upon the highest branches, aspiring to greater heights, ever urging the tree towards light and better growth, contributing through photosynthesis. Then when my time has come, I become a brilliant red and orange, admired by many before I began my journey back to the earth where I eventually become another source of nutrient.

I think a leaf knows what it means to be have a meaningful life. A life that may seem idled to an observer. A life that may seem stationary, same view each day perhaps, maybe a little bit taller than the month before, but ultimately stable. Yet what great service it provides for the tree which it sits upon, and the ecosystem about it.

My Name is Shibboleth

I remember reading somewhere that most people are particularly endeared to their names, so one would do well to learn the proper way of intoning them if one wishes for quick way to people's hearts. If that is true, then my parents have made the way to my heart a rather challenging one. In their diabolically genius ways, my parents have given me a shibboleth of a name. For my Chinese name, they chose a character that is quite obscured, so much so that without proper introduction, most people are bound to get it wrong. Those rare folks who succeed on their first try are often the intellectuals, people of my parents' hearts, whom my parents want me to associate with. I remember as a child, whenever I am being introduced, it is always followed by a brief lesson in etymology. Even before I was cognizant of what my name actually means, I would say my name and regurgitate the origins of my name without being asked. 

To make matters worst, that obscured character is often mistaken for another character that phonetically means "bruised ego/ embarrassment" in Chinese. I remember dreading awards ceremony just as much as I dread a trip to the principal's office simply because I hate having my name being mispronounced in front of everybody. I have tried on occasion to be defiant, refusing to answer to a wrongly enunciated version of my name. It always end up with me looking retarded because everyone knew it was me they were calling, and they would wonder why I am not responding, do I not know my own name? Should I be even awarded? If I have done something bad, then that "bruised ego" pronunciation comes mighty handy for teachers to further rub it in before all to see. Correcting them only makes matters worst. 

Then, we move to Canada... things got even more interesting, because now, not only is my name difficult to pronounce correctly in my native tongue, it is even more so in English. I became known as the Hoisin Sauce Boy. To remedy the situation, my parents decided to give me an easy to remember English name... like Andy. Don't get me wrong, I love Andy, I grew into it. Yet, unbeknownst to me, some famous Asian actor/singer also goes by that name. Now, to add to my arsenal or explanations, I need to tell people "no, I am not related to him, and I can't do half the things he does". Great ego booster there as disappointed crowd walks away shaking their heads muttering "He's not the one". 

What is more... Andy rhymes with a lot of things, and when you are in elementary school, that rhyming technique to remembering name is not just a helpful tool, but a decisive way for others to make fun of you. Especially if they realized that girls are called Andy/Andi too... and out comes the Panty Andi jokes... Still I like my name, its my name, I have grown into it. But a lot of elderly folks are not satisfied with Andy. To them, I will always be Andrew, or Charlie... Introductions often goes like this "Andy, that's short for Andrew, right?" Once established, I will forever be Andrew, no matter how I find the name to be a bit too stiff for my liking. Why Charlie? I don't know, one guy said I looked like a Charlie, another said Charlie is just the name they call people of my color... Nice!

So what have I learned from all this... I don't really care about what people call me. I have decided that so long as they and I know they are referring to me, I will answer to any pet name they gave me. So don't be surprised if you see me replying to Ping Pong or some other Ding Dong name. Because apparently two Wongs do make a White.

Existence

There are moments when I feel truly drained; when all my efforts seem in vain, and despite being relatively young in body, I feel as if I have lived many more times in failure than my actual years. My soul betrays me in these moments, willing me to succumb to my demons. I began to doubt my purpose, and questioned my existence. Cynicism sets in like mercury; seeping through every crevice, poisoning thoughts, and massacring dreams. Though I may appear youthful, my inside withers away like a blade of palm in the midst of a barren desert. Like brittled bone ready to turn to dust at the merest breeze, a negative comment, however slight, threatens to disintegrate my being until I feel as if I am no more.

Yet, it is in these very trying times, when darkness hovers by, that I realize that what was once black is in fact my shadow wield by the light that flickers from deep inside. I am a charcoal, was black, now covered in gray, yet still I glow. Even though I may be dimming, I set those around me ablaze, and by virtue keep my flame alive. Is this what life is about, that once in a while, we must realize that we are not all born pure white, but are instead black as night. That from black comes gray, and eventually gray becomes white... white that contains all the spectrum of colors. White that is dust in the wind, at once substance and yet not.

Existence is vanity, in the end, we aim to become fine white powder, scattered across the plains, one in being with all things, flowing where the wind blows.

On Love

When do you know if you are ready for love? How do you know if it is a match made in heaven? Is it as they say something instantaneous and salient? Your heart beats faster, your palm starts sweating, you get tongue tied? Or could it be something that is more subtle and was in front of you the whole time? That special friend whom you confide to, whose image intrudes your thoughts regularly, and whose presence you sought whenever you feel alone?

How can you tell? Does it make you feel alive, more aware, more attentive to each and every little moments because you don't want to miss a thing; because you want to share it with that someone. Do you then walk as if upon clouds? Do you indeed grin stupidly at the mere notion of that person? Do you sigh uncontrollably, and dive into deep melancholy when they are away?

How do you know? How is requited love requited? Does it began with unrequited love until serendipity steps in and plays a hand? Or does fortune truly favors the bold, and you reach out confidently to pluck the rose that is imbedded amongst the thorns? Is it a want or a need whenever your heart leaps? Is it illogical, or can it be rational? Can romance blossom when the brain is in control? Can the heart be free, can one plus one makes one?

Where is the tipping point? Do you test the waters first? Or should you just dive in? How does one go about living; functioning when he or she is incomplete? Or can one whole be complete in oneself and not yearn for its half? There is love, and then there is romance, one does not necessary beget the other and yet they dance a sensual tango round and round.

Nostalgia

I find myself as a spectre drifting aimlessly down memory lane. Little spells of random nostalgia, reliving events that once carried much meaning my life. Funny how nostalgia works, it filters out much of the unpleasantness of the past, and present it in a more desirable light. I am not saying my past was that bad, after all it was memorable. Yet, I cannot help but feel bittersweet as the scenes unfold themselves before my mind’s eyes. These were happy memories of incidences that can never be again. One time occurrences forever embedded in my being to preserve me, to keep me motivated towards my tomorrows in hopes that I may find something similar if not better. Still, I find myself missing these experiences dearly. The places I have been, the familiar faces of people whom I have become intimate with, these are what shaped me. Yet, time has placed distance between me and these very things that have defined me over the years. In nostalgia I revisit them, while being painfully aware that they can never be again.

I have at one time promised that I will not let go, that I will not forget, and yet my reveries revealed to me that there is much that I have chosen to forgotten. I have suppressed much, and have definitely lost touch with many whom my heart still holds dear to, I hope they too remember me with fondness in my absence. There were many firsts, many of which felt at the time to be bungled attempts at best, but now in retrospect weren’t that bad at all. I realize as I peruse the ruffled pages of my past that I have matured over the years in ways not imagined before. I owe my present existence to the many people who have defined it, enriched it, and spurred it onwards. Many of these people I may never get the chance to speak to again, but if ever I can get the chance to, or should they somehow come across this, THANK YOU!

My life has meaning simply because my past allows me the courage to move on, my present to endure with integrity, and the future to live with hope. I can look myself in the mirror each day and smile because I saw reflected a composite of all those who have made each day worthwhile. I may have lost touch with a lot of you, but your presence and significance still lingers on. I may perhaps dwell in nostalgia, but I can only do so because you have all made it possible. My past is worth remembering because it is a bridge forged to carry me to the present, and I am forever grateful to those who have worked hard to make it as secured as can be.