We can argue and fuss all night / But I propose that we go to the floor and we slow dance

One of the pitfalls of working in an office environment is not being able to dance whenever I feel like it.

This is one of those moments... but fortunately I have a cubicle divider so I can leave groove in my chair, head bumping and swaying side to side.


Sometimes even my feet start tapping.

And just take it easy / And celebrate the malleable reality

... waiting for inspiration ...

or something to whop me up side the head and re-align my brain.

Aliso Street: 1854
When early settlers arrived at the Los Angeles River (El Rio de Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles de Porcinucula) by way of Mission Road, they picked as a nearby gathering point a huge sycamore that gave them shelter and became a landmar, "El Aliso." That Spanish word for sycamore was later used to name the road carved out near the river, which then was not a concrete channel.

Alpine Street: 1887
Before it was named for one of California's 58 counties, it had been known as the Street of the Virgins, a place where the young ladies of the pueblo strolled with their duenas (chaperones) past admiring caballeros (gentlemen).


Alvarado Street: 1855
Named after Governor Juan Bautista Alvarado, who in 1836 became the first governor to promote public education.

Arcadia Street: 1872
Aracadia Bandini, born in 1823, was the daughter of prominent ranchero Juan Bandini. She came to be regarded as one of the most beautiful belles of Los Angeles and was just 14 when she married 40-year-old Abel Stearns, who had come west from Massachusetts and acquired Southern California's largest land-cattle empire. Stearns built a home for his bride one block south of the Plaza--the community's central gathering area-- and the house, called El Palacio, became the social hot spot. In 1858, Stearns constructed a two-story business block on Los Angeles Street nearby and called it Arcadia Block. The street was officially dedicated one year after Stearns' death in 1871.

I like it in the city / When two worlds collide...

Good night.
Bad morning.

As we usher in what I hope will be a new era of politics and society in America, several states, including California, just pushed us back into an age of ignorance and what could only be seen as fear and hate.

Californians went to bed last night with the first Black President of the United States. People across the country and the world erupted in celebration and tears. I don't think there is anyone out there who doesn't understand and feel the significance of seeing Barack Obama accept the huge responsibility of being the face and leader of this country.

But, we woke up this morning to find out perpetuating a wrong that so many has tried to fight-- discrimination on the basis of something as basic and unchangeable as the color of one's skin or the reproductive organs we are born with.

It's a hard morning.
I want to celebrate with the same vigor and enthusiasm as last night, but it's hard to knowing that so many people, including many of the people I love and would give my life for, have just been told that they don't deserve a fundamental right-- that it is somehow okay to publicly say that they deserve the rights of a second-class citizen.

I'm thankful for last night... thankful to the people who stood in line for several hours to vote and to the people who canvassed, donated, and lost a lot of sleep to put forward a successful campaign. We have a Democratic President who actually inspires people to care about their government supported by a Democratic House and Senate.

But, I'm more thankful to the people who are going to continue this fight, because as the passage of Prop 8 shows us, it's far from over. People still can be forced to vote against their gut by fear and hatred.

Si se puede!

Seems growing up / Didn't take long / I feel strange, I feel good / I feel better with you

It's amazing how a little paradigm shift can make such a difference in one's life.

This was the weekend I finally did it-- a cathartic cleansing of the bedroom. The final moving boxes have been emptied, three years later, and it felt good to just throw the entire thing out. It's nothing like the 100-thing challenge my friend is doing, but for me, it's a pretty good start.

There is a pile of clean laundry on my bed and a pile of dirty dishes in my sink, but right now, it's great to just enjoy the newness of an old room. Perhaps this will motivate me to reorganize the other parts of my life-- to usher in a new self, from the old pieces.

I'm ready for a real fall... no more Santa Ana winds bringing 90-degree weekdays and firestorms. I want crisp breezes whisking my skirt up for one dangerous moment, orange leaves, and blue skies. I want evenings to be just chilly enough that snuggling into my down comforter with a book is the only perfect thing to do on a Saturday night. I want an excuse to wear long coats and scarves to the office and an ever better excuse to disappear to the park next door during my lunch hour to enjoy them both.

Rain, rain go away / Come again another day ...

I choose not to celebrate the day that Columbus arrived to North America, bringing with him disease, colonialism, and what could really be considered the end of entire, non-Westernized civilization.

Instead, I choose to celebrate the 50th birthday of a beloved childhood friend...

(And I commend google.com for not buying into this Columbus-Day crap and identifying a much more significant holiday for its splash page graphic.)

I always wanted a stuffed version of this cuddly-marmalade-and-tea-loving lost little bear. Perhaps this is when I fell in love with well-designed coats (look at his little peacoat!) and floppy hats.

Unfortunately, the only coat I had at the time I met Paddington Bear was a bright pink, puffy jacket, that was about two sizes too big (so I could wear it for several years... oh that economic mommy!). I have a diary entry, written in my 3rd-grade scrawl (oversized, bubbly letters, a little slanted, and certainly eager), about that jacket and the Santa Ana winds. It was the only thing keeping me warm during recess during the winds, and the only thing heavy enough to keep me from flying away.

Now, I have lots of coats (and they aren't two sizes too big thankfully). The Santa Ana winds are still blowing, spreading little fire sparks across the southland. I have the protective shell of a well-made Japanese car to keep me from flying away and a lot less recess time. Instead of a Paddington Bear, I have Noah, my little brown bear that's absorbed a lot of laughs and tears since we met in 2003.

Cheers Paddington Bear.
Keep rocking that peacoat.

I probably should have asked for permission before stealing this, but I figure so long as I keep it anonymous (until the person I stole it from demands I give credit and lunch), it should be okay.

It is astounding that at this part of the process you still find yourself thinking outside the box of that which you represent. But, what do you fear? Where do you want to go? Whose ideas will you challenge and how much are you willing to give up?

Remember everything about this process because it will never happen to you ever again in your life. You are privileged to know these things and ensure that others can understand the life of multiculturalist movements.

Find answers for others and yourself. I don't want to forget where I am coming from nor who who has been there at the worse moments. Try to love but not fall in love. Learn people's names. Make people smile. Stay humble. Dress calmly. Smell good. Read more.

In more concrete terms, remember this as a moment of concientization about the powers of privilege, the balances of power, the way in which the things you say are perceived. Challenge yourself. Be an intellectual. Be daring.

Recognize that fighting apathy is nearly impossible, and doing so might have to be as complex as the tools needed to manufacture consent.

Be fair. Let go. Grow up.

Honor your father and mother.

Change people's minds.

Live on other people's shoes.

Remember we are a people of advocacy. No flashy promises.

Fight (with a smile on).

Lovely.
Just lovely.

me: what you know about commercial paper?

e: not a whole lot
very similar to cash... or a CD

why?

me: government purchasing commercial paper to aid in "bail out"

e: so here's my understanding of commercial paper

big name companies, usually financial institutions, use it as a short-term borrowing tool
so think of a company like... Lehman Brothers, for example, issuing something like a 3-month CD
the CD is actually commercial paper... and Lehman leverages the money they get for their operations

whoever buys the commercial paper (usually big institutional investors like money market funds since CP's are considered relatively low-risk) are due the principal + interest when the CP matures

just like how a CD operates

me: yah

e: but... if a company like Lehman is unable to make good on the CP when it matures... the value of the CP on the open market suddenly drops significantly

which is what happened with all of these firms being over-leveraged and the on-set of our current credit crisis

and alot of these companies rely so much on short-term borrowing

so essentially, the govt wants to step in and buy up these CP's acting as the short-term lender to these companies

and then there are asset-backed CP's... which are CP's that have a pool of asset-backed securities used as collateral... mtge crisis has rendered the asset-backed securities worthless

meaning that those ABCP's are 'guaranteed' by worthless securities

me: so basically...

banks have no money.

banks going bankrupt.

government = new bank.

e: exactly

me: woot woot

COMMUNISM HERE WE COME!

e: hooray

let's move to Canada

Still can feel you kiss me love / Still can see your brown skin shine...

Dear You,

I'm not sure who I am writing to. Perhaps it is for the people that hurt me in the past. Or maybe it's for those I have hurt recently.

It's been a strange month. On top of dealing with my own romantic mishaps, I was fielding calls from multiple friends trying to talk them off the ledge of their own circumstances. Maybe the heat is making us a little crazy and the remnants of the always-too-indulgent summer are being stretched into what is supposed to be autumn. Regardless of the cause, there is a lot of heartbreak and confusion in the air.

For once, I can't claim myself the victim. I've now been placed in the interesting position of being the perpetrator.

I've hurt someone I care deeply for, despite the fact we haven't known each other very long. He is someone that reminded that good-hearted and generous people still exist in the world. His kindness is completely natural and actually even makes me feel ashamed of my inability to be that good. It may not be apparent to most people, but he contains a type of inner-strength that is not displayed by many people his age. He's learned to forgive people for the gravest errors with an open heart and learned to believe in change. He can take abuse and hurtful words, without so much of a flinch, and turn back around and still be supportive and loving. Most of the time he looks happy-go-lucky, as though he isn't thinking about much beyond the task in front him, but like most things, his exterior is deceiving. His mind is constantly busy with thoughts of his friends, his family, his life...
I hurt him by pushing the boundaries of his kindness and generosity. I exploited the very things that drew me to him and that I have come to endlessly respect. I tested the number of times he would forgive me and the things he would forgive me for. I'm testing him even now, offering myself as a friend, when the last thing he might even want or need from me is my friendship.

And now, I find myself in the situation of possibly repeating my mistakes, mistakes that I made only a few weeks ago.

You see, I have a cycle. A very predictable and a very sad cycle.
No matter how wonderful or terrible the individual in front of me, they get three weeks. After three weeks, everything comes tumbling down. My expectations of the other grows exponentially-- anything less than perfect is unacceptable. Perfect means being appropriately attentive and independent, being available on a whim without appearing overly eager; it means being both loving and cruel. I guess I put a whole new spin on wanting everything.
Suddenly, the closeness I felt to the other, the need to include him in my life, disappears. My independence is threatened... my identity is threatened. The idea of trading my impetuous ways for stability and support suddenly appears absolutely unacceptable.

In the envious position of having one too many desirable suitors, I find myself with another who is willing to put me pretty high on his list of priorities. I arrived as a disastrous disruption in his life and rather than running from me, he's embraced me closer, embracing the instability that is... well... me. Although I argue otherwise, he asks for very little in return for indulging most of my whims. A phone call, an hour of face time, a hug... and in return I get a gopher, driver, personal cook, receiver-of-my-anger-rants, and overall supporter/cheerleader.

It shames me to think I'd be willing to jeopardize it all to have a night of doing-whatever-the-hell-I-want. My love of adventure, of meeting new people, of engaging with the world around me, and of expanding my list of ridiculous stories makes me almost hate the thought of being attached to any one person. I'm willing to gamble my whole bank account, for the rush of taking the risk and the (small) possibility of winning even bigger (whatever that means).

Three weeks have passed and I am stuck. I can't bring myself out of my head and I'm awaiting my best friend to help me cut through the confusion.
I need to figure out what I want.
Do I want to be in a relationship?
If I don't, what do I want otherwise?
What do I enjoy about relationships?
What scares me about them?
Can those fears be overcome?
Is this the time to overcome them?
Am I willing to accept my own realities and face them?
Am I willing to accept that I might not be able to fulfill everyone's idea of what I should be doing?
Am I willing to accept that I like being alone? What does that mean if I do?

Thanks You, for reading.
It's been a hard week.

I just want to know today, know today, know today / Know that maybe I will be okay

I keep seeing him everywhere.
On the street on a skateboard.
Eating an ice cream.
Exiting the elevator.
Waiting on the street corner.

He's a little shorter,
a little younger,
a little fatter,
slightly different hair.

Different iterations of the same person, appearing everywhere.


Maybe it's because school has started again and the village is filled with 60,000 more people than before, increasing the chances that my eyes will play tricks on me.
Or maybe, I just need to sleep more.
Or maybe, I just need to mail him those cookies he loves so much and I've been thinking about sending him (for the last week).

Or maybe, I have a good thing going and it's approaching three weeks and I'm having the same old freak-out session that I always do.

I have the strong desire to run away, to buy a plane ticket somewhere and not tell anyone that I'm leaving for a few days. I don't think it is natural to be this turned off to commitment... it seems like one of those things that would have been evolutionarily weeded out a long time ago (although, I guess promiscuity would be more genetically favorable, man or woman, if it means I am diversifying the future gene pool by mating with many partners). I'm searching for anything to ruin what I have so I don't take responsibility for the fact that I am a genetic sport (hooray for self-sabotage).

I wonder how he and I ever made it as long as we did. Granted, we fought to the point of breaking up everything three months, but we still made it pretty far. I suspect that given the difficult year we were both living, we just needed something, even if it wasn't that great (and possibly more damaging than either would care to admit). That, and he took my abuse and bizarre/sarcastic comments better than anyone I know.

It's been nearly two and a half years since we first met.
A year and a half since we broke up.
Almost a year since we began speaking again.
Two months since we stopped.



And now, it's been two and a half weeks since he asked for a modicum of commitment from me.
A month and a half since hypotheses were tested.
Two and a half months since we began talking.
Sixth months since we first met.


Approaching three weeks.
Temptation's right around the corner (several corners, actually) and I'm concentrating on not succumbing to it.
I have to believe that people are capable of overcoming their own terrible judgment, otherwise I'm condemned to make a lot of enemies.

Mini Update

I've started about two or three other entries and haven't managed to make much progress on them (there goes my secret-- only SOME of my entries are stream-of-consciousness entries... some are written, left alone, and re-written when I feel like it...).

So, just so you all know that I'm alive (if anyone is reading this in the first place), here's a mini-update:

• Got a deathly cold (told I looked terrible and to go home several times by my boss) that I'm still kicking... stupid cough.
  
• Whether it is related or not, I have weird aches and pains (like pain in my fourth and fifth digit on my right hand and a pain in the arch of my left foot).
  
• As soon as I figured I was no longer contagious (and donning safety gear), I started baking again. This week's concoctions? Caramel Apple Cupcakes with a Cream Cheese Frosting (with homemade caramel!) and Pumpkin Cupcakes with a Ginger Cream Filling and Chocolate Ganache Frosting (recipes courtesy of http://cupcakeblog.com).
• I'm stuck back in my head, thinking about my relationships with people (friends, family, and lovers) and the meaning of life.
• And of course, I'm preparing myself for the elections by getting together my own little voter guide. Be ready friends! You'll know how to vote by November 4th-- (and in case you haven't PLEASE REGISTER TO VOTE!)

Alright. Proper update comin' soon.

"I hate the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live."
-John McCain, February 17, 2000


"I will call any interrogator that tortured me, a gook. I can't believe that
anybody doesn't believe these interrogators and prison guards were cruel
and sadistic people who deserve the worst appellations possible. Gook is the kindest appellation I can give."
-John McCain, February 17, 2000

DEAR SENATOR McCAIN
By Bao Phi

Dear Senator McCain

I write this letter on jungle leaves
and the skin of a white man.

I am a gook, a jungle spook,
a steamed apparition
of piss and foot rot
building torture devices from old rotary phones
and the rusted hulks of American cars

I am that gook, when you turn on the light
I scramble away and if you see me
you know there's ten more
where I came from
catching tracer bullets like fireflies
in my teeth
my language like malaria
sweating itself into your brain

I am a gook, riding on top of water buffaloes,
waving welfare checks like a white flag of surrender
but shot in the back by your finest when they thought
I was standing in a martial arts stance

I am a gook, miscellaneous bomb bait,
agent orange evolved primate
creeping thru cashmoney colored jungles
and masturbating neon onto Wall Street
slit eyes fixed on white women
fingers like 10 long drips of grease

I am that villain in a white lab coat
trading bomb secrets for red cash
stashing code in surgery folded eyelids

I am gook, no speak no Engleesh
too much headache, tell me go back to my country,
motherfuck you eh?

I am indeed a gook, polished gold yellow
at Yale, driving my Ferrari horse-powered dick
deep into your spread-legged streets
while Miss America screams out an orgasmic "There goes the neighborhood!"

I am gook
that gook waiting in that nightmare jungle
that gook in front of you with 17 items in the 10 items or less lane at the supermarket
that gook born with a grenade in his head
that gook that got a better grade in your shop class
that gook uppity enuf to stand with his brothers and sisters and demand an apology
that gook who patted you on the back and said "That's okay--I hate gooks too."

I am that gook who stole your bomb secrets,
that gook that held you hostage,

that gook whose culture your daughter robbed for her tattoos, trinkets and t-shirts
that gook whose language your son attempts to speak so he can crack some nookie
from the fortune cookie

I am the gook who blazed you
the gook who saved you

I am gook, chink, slope, slanteye, victor, charlie, chan, suzie wong, dickless rice picker, model minority, binder of feet, your favorite sushi waitress, piss colored devil, nip, jap, snow falling on cedars, miss saigon, memoir of a geisha, joy luck club, ally mcbeal,

I am gook,
I ate your motherfuckin cat

I am that gook who will hang himself on Nike shoelaces
so your sons and daughters can play pickup or NCdoubleA final four,
I am that 14 cents an hour gook whose ghosts paint those Gap commercials white,
I am that gook that took over your pool hall and your roller skating rink,
I am this gook, I am that gook, I am your gook, I am my gook
I am that gook, popping out of a motherfuckin bowl of rice
to ask:
senator
what's the difference
between an Asian
and a gook
to you?

In a different place / I see another you / And in another place / I see a different you

"Love abolishes the distance, the in-betweenness which always exists in human intercourse, and if virtue will always be ready to assert that it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong, [love] will transcend this by stating in complete and even naive sincerity that it is easier to suffer than to see others suffer."

-- Hannah Arendt

I'm leaving... / On a jet plane / Don't know when I'll be back again...

Where I was...

Where I am...

First business trip : First time in Colorado : First time in a long time being away from other people of color : Learning a lot of... well... firsts

"She's a girl who's generous to a fault. Except to other people's faults."

He couldn't bring himself to ask.

We held hands to keep each other balanced.

I could see it coming for a week.

"She finds human imperfection unforgivable."

I couldn't bring myself to tell him what he wanted to know.

By the time we got to the car, we still couldn't let go of each other.

We went away where no one else could see us.

"When I discovered that my relationship to her was supposed to be not that of a loving husband and a good companion, but that of a kind of high priest to a virgin goddess."

He looked uncertain.

I was still tipsy and his hand felt as though it was melting into mine.

Everything happened in a rush.

"I suppose you'd still be attractive to any man of spirit, though. There's something engaging about it, this "'goddess"' business... something more challenging to the male than the more obvious charms."

I struggled to keep my eyes open; he couldn't get his off of me.

I ran towards the water the minute we hit the sand; his eyes followed me.

We moved together; our eyes were locked.

"We're very vain, you know. 'This citadel can and shall be taken, and I'm the boy to do it.' "

Even in the dark, I could see him watching me, as he held me.

Our hands glowed against the breaking dawn.

My vision was blurred against the light; his lips tasted salty.

"... I'm contemptuous of something inside you you either can't help or won't try to."

I was surprised he didn't try anything more.

I felt like time stopped while we laid on the sand.

There was no time to think.

"Your so-called 'strength"... Your prejudice against weakness, your blank intolerance."

It made me smile to come so close and to have nothing more happen.

I don't think I've ever felt anything as intimate as our hands touching.

My heart was racing and my face was flushed.

"... you'll never be a first-class human being or a first-class woman... until you've learned to have regard for human frailty."



"It's a pity your own foot can't slip a little sometime... but your sense of inner divinity wouldn't allow that."



"This goddess must and shall remain intact."

I shouldn't have done what I did.

I shouldn't have done what I did.

I shouldn't have done what I did.

"I don't even like to stereotype and say 'gang members.' I say they're disenfranchised youth," he told NPR. "They don't really have all the tools to make the right decisions that's necessary in today's society, and they don't fully understand the system."

-- Darren "Bo" Taylor (1966 - 2008)

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/13/nyregion/13detain.html?_r=1&partner=rssuserland&emc=rss&pagewanted=all&oref=slogin

But most of everyday / Is full of tired excuses / But it's too hard to say

... While I have succeeded to some extent, there are still some things here that I can't seem to part with: the idea that the universe is designed, that there are a few simple rules, or laws, physical laws, from which all the manifold processes of life and nonlife can be derived...

-- E.L. Doctorow (City of God)

Now I remember watching that old tree burn down / I took a picture that I don't like to look at

Memories have been lingering.
Dreams have been vivid.
A lot has changed in a year. The last post I had before starting anew was documenting the break-up. I went back to find the entries that reminded me of when we started. Instead, I found awkward drunken memories from in between, with people completely unrelated, but totally relevant.
We had broken up just a month prior. I thought it was the moment to finally face what I thought I wanted. I made trips to San Diego and to Santa Cruz to test the boundaries, only to come back to LA even more confused.

The night has a surreal quality to it. Everything was a bit last minute, because I wasn't expecting to attend the meeting, but my presence was necessary and I booked my flight only a few days before. I wasn't drinking as much as the others, using my antibiotics as an excuse (but really, to keep me out of trouble). I am switching between interacting and watching, egging on the drinkers with more shots of tequila, then stepping back and watching the madness. (Yes, I am an instigator. I can't help it sometimes.)
I watch as they are embracing in the kitchen. They are talking to each other and you can see the looks from the others in the "party room." We all know one of them likes the other. The question is, will something happen? The lights go out, as an over-eager and very drunk friend decides to shake up the jar a bit (if you will allow me to use a metaphor here). They step out of the kitchen, looking a bit confused. He stumbles out and I follow after him. He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to his room.
He collapses on the floor of his bedroom near the door. No one knows what just happened, but it's clear that he is very drunk. He pulls me in and I can smell the tequila on his breath. The smell makes me a little drunk too. I take him to the bathroom and leave him there as I go downstairs for a cup of water. I can feel the eyes on me, but I walk with my head up, determined to find a clean cup and some fresh water for him. I don't make eye contact with anyone downstairs as I march upstairs. I find him cleaning himself up and he pulls me close again. This time his breath is minty and fresh.
I walk to the window. Suddenly, people barge through the door and throw on the lights. There is yelling and laughing and then... collapse. More people on the bed. She giggles in her drunkeness. The first time she has been like this in front of us. People leave the room, leaving the three of us alone. He turns the light off again. Slyly, who knows when, he locks the door. We are on the bed... giggling. We know this is scandalous. Being in a dark room alone is enough to fuel gossip amongst our friends downstairs.
He's drunk. His hands are moving everywhere. On me. On her.
I'm confused.
Then it dawns on me.
He's drunk.
She and I giggle, knowing that the jokes are starting downstairs.
What do we say? What is our alibi? Nothing happened, right?
3:22am... we leave. He calls me a few minutes later. Where are you? Come back? Stay over here.
I laugh. He's drunk. I tell him to wait fifteen minutes... that if he isn't asleep, then I'll go back. What he doesn't know is that I would go back in an instant if I could, except, he wouldn't remember the next morning. Fifteen minutes will tell me if he will remember. He remembers the first five and ten minutes, but in the last fifteen, I can hear him falling asleep on the phone.
So ends my night in Santa Cruz.

That frequency inside my head that says / I'm going at it the hard way

We spent an hour talking about the difference between being good and being virtuous.

We agreed that being virtuous had more to do with conforming to societal standards than falling on either side of good or evil. Virtuousness is what we assume to be good-- eloquent, kind, sympathetic. But, all the virtue in the world won't combat the evil in it. Eloquence won't stop people from killing each other and sympathy won't uncover the roots of inequity. They are qualities we want to see, that we assume are reflections of one's motives and purpose. Virtue requires an audience, to watch and to comment on the virtuous character.

Goodness, on the other hand, can be none of those things. Goodness can be clumsy, inarticulate, and seemingly cold. Goodness is driven by the desire to remove evil. A good person doesn't need an audience and is often times better suited to act without one. It is by nature dirty and violent. It is emphatic and painful, because being good often means being able to feel evil. It necessitates making that hard decision, being completely honest to the point of vulnerability, and taking responsibility for every action. It means being aware that a decision will hurt someone you love and still being able to do it and not turning your back on the pain you've caused, all because it had to be done.

He and I struggle with this constantly. Both of us had led pretty virtuous lives. We are, by our own nature, people-pleasers, and thus, easily fall into the trap of adhering to social mores. In recognition of this, we have been struggling to find ourselves and act as we are, rather than as we should be.

He spent the last year learning to be alone, because his fatal flaw is that he hasn't been. He's always had a companion, a cheerleader, a lover... we couldn't get along because he couldn't relate to my life, a life that had spent much of its time in solitary confinement while he was sleeping with a different girl every other day and building relationships now and again. I wanted him to find his own strength, a particular type of strength that would enable him to stand up against me, his Achille's heel.

"I learned to be happy without you."

My year has been spent doing the opposite. My fatal flaw is my blind dedication to independence and self-sufficiency. I could never share my life with him, because sharing it equated to losing it. It was a year of learning to be more open, to be more honest, to not hide myself behind clever words and a lot of hand gestures. It was a year of trying to learn how to love somebody and be happy with somebody who wasn't him.

All these growing pains, just so one day we can say to each other I love you. I choose you. All of this, to be able to know that with all of the potential configurations of people, relationships, and love, we still only want each other. This way, our relationship isn't by default, but by conscious choice; we don't see each other because we don't know how to be with anyone else, but because we know that we are the only ones we want to be with.

Whether a year is long enough to be apart is the golden question-- particularly if it's a year where half of it is spent talking everyday (twice, actually). I believe his growth, and mine, is still purely theoretical-- we've never been apart where the risk of really losing each other was real and tangible. We have to continue with the possibility without ever seeing each other again, because to do otherwise, to do as we have been doing, is cheating. It's a risk that makes my heart stop, because I have the potential of losing one of the most important things in my life.

So, we give each other another six months of being alone and being with others. Six months before we say a word to each other, because speaking to each other is dangerously euphoric and we fall back into old habits and unravel into each other. Six months, because he will leave and he has to say good-bye before he does.

We've both said it out loud now. We can't be in each other's lives until we are ready to only be with each other. Any other way and we endanger our goodness.

In case you didn't know, I'm famous:










Source: http://www.halfvalue.com/wiki.jsp?topic=Famous_Korean_people

Famous Korean People >> Politicians >> Tina Park: External Vice President

I get to confuse lazy scholars for years to come!

Thermo-dynamic miracles... events with odds against so astronomical they're effectively impossible, like oxygen spontaneously becoming gold. I long to observe such a thing.

And yet, in each human coupling, a thousand million sperm vie for a single egg. Multiply those odds by countless generations, against the odds of your ancestors being alive; meeting; siring this precise son; that exact daughter...

... until your mother loves a man she has every reason to hate, and of that union, of the thousand million children competing for fertilization, it was you, only you, that emerged.

To distill so specific a form from that chaos of improbability, like turning air to gold... that is the crowning unlikelihood.

The thermo-dynamic miracle.

But... if me, my birth, if that's a thermodynamic miracle... I mean, you could say that about anyone in the world!

Yes. Anybody in the world... But the world is so full of people, so crowded with these miracles that they become commonplace and we forget... I forget.

We gaze continually at the wrold and it grows dull in our perceptions. Yet seen from another's vantage point, as if new, it may still take the breath away.



- Watchmen (Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons)

You know theres no need to hide away / You know I tell the truth / We are just the same / I can feel everything you do

I'm squinting to see the screen, blind without my contacts. How terrible my eyes have become. It's getting harder and harder to see the things that are in front of me.

How metaphoric of life.


But, I set that thought aside. It is not the time to be waxing poetic... Updates are to be given, seeing that I cheated in my last post and only provided updates on my baking life and not my waking one.


Life continues to shift and unfold, while I sit, grow fatter, and contemplate my next move. The friends are back (finally), leaving me to enjoy their presence, their wisdom, and their laughter for a few weeks before we are separated by land and sea once again. Our dinners together feed my belly, while our conversations feed my heart and soul. I don't think I could ask for better friends, for who else can I talk about all unspeakables with at the dinner table? We jump from love life, to political life, passing ideas past each other as we try to re-examine and resolve not only our personal lives, but the world around us. Morning cups of coffee are had with discussions of politics and morality, while pancakes are shared between twitters of girlish giggles about the men we adore (or don't).



The weekend was a necessary break. My shoulders are heavy with contemplative thoughts, trying to figure out if what I am doing is right or wrong. I hate the idea of hurting others, despite my tendency to be accidentally cruel. I struggle to be honest and tactful at the same time... to be patient and not presumptuous.

But, I speak in abstractions and nonsense. I'll leave these thoughts, too, for another time.

Do You Know the Muffin Man / the Muffin Man ...

Last Sunday I had a brilliant idea: What if I baked a different cupcake everyday for a week?

Thus, the ERA Cupcake Challenge was born. The idea is simple enough, bake a different type of cupcake every night to bring to work every day. The cupcakes should be striking and unique, taking advantage of some of the delicious fresh produce we have in Southern California (and, of course, the summer season).

Having reached the last day, I've realized that I might have a slight compulsive disorder (because really, who bakes EVERY night for 3+ hours?) and I probably should talk to someone about it. Regardless, I have met my challenge and produced five different cupcakes (plus four different brownies) for this week. My neighborhood Ralph's is now like a second home and my hands are a little stiff from beating the batter with a fork.

So, what did I bake?
Below are the cupcakes for each day with the recipes. Enjoy!
***
MONDAY: Late Summer Peach, Blueberry, and Thyme Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting
From Chockylit at (http://cupcakeblog.com):

For the Roasted Peach Mush:
2 medium peaches

1. Cut the peach in half, remove the pit, and roast cut side down in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes.
2. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.
3. Scoop out peach flesh and mush with the back of a fork.

Peach, Blueberry, Thyme Cupcakes
12 regular cupcakes / 350 degree oven
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
1-1/3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup roasted peach mush
1/4 cup blueberries
2 teaspoons loosely packed, fresh thyme leaves

1. In an electric mixer, beat butter on high until soft, about 30 seconds.
2. Add sugar. Beat on medium-high until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.
3. Add egg beat until combined.
4. Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl. Add to the mixer along with the milk and beat to combine.
5. Chop thyme leaves.
6. Fold the peach mush, blueberries, and thyme into the batter.
7. Scoop into cupcake papers about two-thirds full.
8. Bake for 22-25 minutes until a cake tester comes out clean.

Note: Leave cupcakes undisturbed for the first 15 minutes of baking (always) and then rotate the pan once to ensure even baking.

Thick Cream Cheese Frosting

4 ounces Philly cream cheese
1/4 stick butter, room temperature
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Beat butter vigorously with an electric mixer.
2. Scrape the bowl and add the cream cheese and beat until combined.
3. Add the sifted powdered sugar and vanilla and beat until smooth.

Assemble
1. Top cooled cupcakes with frosting.
[Optional] Sprinkle with thyme leaves.

TUESDAY: Carrot Cupcake Deliciousness
From The Cupcakery at (http://the-cupcakery-blog.blogspot.com)

Carrot Cupcake Deliciousness
Makes 24 cupcakes
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups vegetable oil
2 cups finely grated carrots (about 3 to 4 medium carrots)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 can (8 ounces) well drained crushed pineapple
1 cup shredded coconut
1 cup chopped pecans, divided
1 cup raisins (or golden raisins)

1. Preheat oven at 350° degrees F. Line 12-cup muffin tin with muffin papers and set aside.
2. In a mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients; stir to blend.
3. Add eggs, oil, shredded carrots, and vanilla; beat until well blended.
4. Stir in pineapple, coconut, and 1/2 cup of the pecans and raisins.
5. Spoon into cupcake liners with small ice cream scooper. Bake 18 - 20 minutes until the tops are golden brown or until a wooden toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.
6. VERY IMPOPRTANT to cool completely before frosting.

Pineapple Cream Cheese Frosting
1 brick (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup pineapple juice

1. Combine cream cheese, butter, salt and vanilla in a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer.
2. Alternate powdered sugar and pineapple juice and beat mixture for 5 minutes until fluffy.
3. Add Wilton gel food coloring "Peach" until pastel color is achieved. Pipe onto completely cooled cupcakes and sprinkle toasted coconut on top.

WEDNESDAY: Lemon Drop Cupcake with Strawberries
From Coconut & Lime at http://coconutlime.blogspot.com
Ingredients:
juice of 1 lemon
zest of 1 lemon
1 1/2 cup flour
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup buttermilk
7 tablespoons butter, at room temperature
2 eggs, at room temperature
12 small to medium sized strawberries

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350. Grease and flour or line 12 wells in a cupcake pan. In a large bowl, cream the butter, zest and sugar. Add the lemon juice and the eggs. Beat to combine. The mixture may look a little curdled but that is okay. Mix in the buttermilk. Continue to mix and slowly add in the flour. Beat the batter an additional 2 minutes, until light and fluffy. Pour an even amount into each cupcake well, filling about 3/4 of the way. Place a whole strawberry, point side down in the middle of each cupcake. Bake 15-20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted on the outside of the strawberry comes out clean. Cool in pan briefly, then remove from the pan and cool completely on a wire rack. Ice*.

Icing suggestion: make a basic buttercream and substitute lemon juice for any liquid and add some lemon zest. I actually made a cream cheese icing: 8 0z cream cheese, confectioners' sugar and some lemon zest.





THURSDAY: Rich Chocolate Cupcakes filled with Chocolate-Mint Ganache topped with Mint Buttercream
From Chockylit at http://cupcakeblog.com

Chocolate Cupcakes
24 regular cupcakes / 350 degree oven

200 gram bar of Valrhona 61% cocao
3 sticks butter
2-1/4 cups sugar
8 eggs
1-1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup cocoa powder, unsweetened
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
pinch of salt

1. chop chocolate and transfer into the bowl of a standing mixer.
2. add butter to the chocolate and place the bowl over a pan of simmering water. stir until chocolate melts and butter is combined.
3. remove from heat and stir in sugar. let mixture cool for 10 minutes.
4. beat in an electric mixer for 3 minutes.
5. add one egg at a time, mixing for 30 seconds between each
6. sift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and a pinch of salt into the mixture and mix until blended.
7. scoop into cupcake cups and bake at 350 F for 25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Chocolate-Mint Ganache
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup + 1 teaspoon chopped mint leaves
1 tablespoon butter, room temperature

1. chop chocolate and transfer into a heat proof bowl.
2. heat cream and 1/4 cup mint until bubbles form around the edge of the pan, pour cream through strainer, over the chocolate.
3. let sit for 1 minute then stir until combined.
4. add butter and the remaining teaspoon of chopped mint and stir until combined.
5. let cool then transfer to the refrigerator to thicken, 30 minutes to 1 hour.

Mint Buttercream Frosting
1 cup (2 sticks) butter
4-5 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1/4 cup milk
1/8 teaspoon all natural peppermint extract
1. beat butter until creamy, scrape bowl.
2. add 4 cups of sifted powdered sugar, milk, and peppermint extract, beat until combined.
3. add more powdered sugar as needed to get piping consistency.

Note: I tried to keep the mint flavor subtle and not too overpowering. I recommend starting on the light side with 1/8 teaspoon or less and tasting to get the flavor you want.

Assemble
1. stuff the cupcakes with ganache using the cone method (cut out a cone shape from the top, cut off the pointy cone part, stuff the whole with filling, then put the top back on)
2. frost them.
3. top with something green (if you want), like a mint leaf, green candy, or whatever you fancy.

FRIDAY: Peanut Butter Filled Cupcake with Chocolate Ganache
From Chockylit at http://cupcakeblog.com

Chocolate Cupcakes
24 regular cupcakes / 350 degree oven
5.4 ounces dark chocolate or 3/4 of a 200 gram bar of Valrhona 61% cocao
22 tablespoons butter
1-3/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
6 eggs
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour
4-1/2 tablespoons cocoa powder, unsweetened
1-1/2 teaspoon baking powder
pinch of salt

1. Melt chocolate and butter over a water bath.
2. Add sugar and stir, let mixture cool for 10 minutes.
3. Beat in an electric mixer for 3 minutes.
4. Add one egg at a time, mixing for 30 seconds between each
5. Sift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and a pinch of salt into the mixture and mix until blended.
6. Scoop into cupcake cups and bake at 350 F for 25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Peanut Butter Filling
4 ounces or 1/2 package of Philly cream cheese
1 cup creamy peanut butter
2 cups sifted powdered sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons milk (*I added 3.5 tablespoons)

1. Beat cream cheese and peanut butter until combined.
2. Add powdered sugar and vanilla and beat until combined.
3. Add the milk and beat until combined.

Chocolate Ganache
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate
5 ounces semisweet chocolate
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon butter, room temperature
2 cups powdered sugar

1. Chop chocolates and transfer into a heat proof bowl.
2. Heat cream until bubbles form around the edge of the pan, pour cream over the chocolate.
3. Let sit for 1 minute then stir until combined.
4. Add butter and vanilla and stir until combined.
5. Transfer to the bowl of an electric mixture and let cool for 10 minutes.
6. Sift powdered sugar into the mixture and beat until combined.
7. Continue to beat with an electric mixer until lighter in color and creamy.

I spent a lot of my childhood trying to find different ways to disappear. My strongest memory is playing in my mom's closet, seated on the wood floor underneath her dresses and my dad's suits, with the sliding door open just enough to let a sliver of light in. I was guaranteed a good couple of hours without any interruption. When I outgrew the closet, I made a little fort in the corner of my room (better light) with a couple of thin blankets, and entertained myself with my books.

Even today, I have a strange attraction to small spaces. I used to study the best in small office spaces-- I could lock myself in a cubicle and write for hours before I realized I should walk around a bit. In high school, I used to sit in the back of my math class, underneath the table, until class was over (I was really bored...). I love unwinding in my car... I can't even count the number of times I've just slept in my car whenever I was stressed out.

At this point, I'm looking for my next little closet.
My brain feels muddled and slow. I'm in a constant state of exhaustion and boredom, leading me to sleep most of my daylight hours away (when I'm not at work, of course).
I get like this when I feel out of balance. I love my friends in LA, but I miss my girlfriends. I miss our summer nights, getting dressed up, and hitting the bars. I miss their support, their love, their light! I love my job, but I love indulging in art and in spontaneity. I miss late-night drives and new LA discoveries. I miss going out with my camera and not feeling like a fraud or self-conscious. I miss design and pretty things.

Life is becoming rhythmic and while I am thankful for the knowledge that I am secure in my life and future, I am also fearful of the complacency this can bring.


I need a wake-up call.

Stolen from another blog.

Sue: Well, you've lived in Los Angeles, so that
part of city living must be familiar.
I: Oh no, the cities are so different -- my
friend has the best metaphor -- she says, If the
gods were giving birthday presents, they could
wrap up New York or San Francisco and trade
them like jewels, but Los Angeles has no edges
so you can never pick it up.

Is the city I live in / The City of Angels?

I've been away at a two-week design charette for work (it's complicated why I'm here... let's just leave it at the simple fact that I'm here) and haven't really had the chance or the energy to update properly.

I figured a good way to solve this dilemma is to post the blog entries I've had to write for the charette.
---

Sunday, June 15
Being one of the few participants from Los Angeles, it's strange re-introducing myself to the city. It was only a month ago when I was one of the many Angelenos trapped in traffic on Alameda, trying to get to over the 101-overpass during rush hour. My challenge is to overcome my familiarity with the project area and force myself to see this city again with a fresh set of eyes.

I've been enjoying the questions that arise from my international cohort, especially after our site visit-- they've made me question my own LA quirks and habits and wonder what other possibilities there are for us. Selfishly, I am more excited than ever about the project. Of all the participants, I may actually have the chance to experience the fruits of everyone's labor and enjoy the newest Freeway Park sometime in the future.


Monday, June 16
One of the panelist captured it perfectly: it's a no-man's land. The expanse of sidewalk and street between the edge of the Civic Center and the beginning of Chinatown is desolate. If ever I forgot that Los Angeles was and is a desert, that strip of concrete was a good reminder. In the car, it's a quick drive through a slightly winding road, with an interesting-enough view. On foot, it's dry, hot, and never-ending. I tried to imagine who walks on this street. While we did our site visit, I didn't see too many people. One woman was parking her car on the street to avoid paying the $20 for two-hours of parking at the Cathedral. A few tourists were heading back to their car after an afternoon of sightseeing. Add a few Chinese grandmothers and that was about it. It's exciting to imagine the possibilities of the site, but it's also hard to think about who would use it...


Tuesday, June 17
The last two days have been intensive, as the project managers attempt to get 24 non-Angelenos familiarized with this city. The variety of speakers and viewpoints have been great-- better than I expected, in fact. They have managed to capture the underlying history of the region, one that is not always just nor particularly nice to think about. But the question, of course, lingers in my mind, "What is everyone actually getting out of this and what are we still missing?" We have yet to really probe into one another's minds to see what elements were picked up from our panel discussions and what were left out. I imagine that our individual filters will be revealed as we begin to sketch out our visions for the project site. I begin to wonder about my own filters and what I choose (or don't choose) to keep in my memory bank for future uses.


Wednesday, June 18
While the project scope itself is extremely interesting, it is equally fascinating to observe how people think. The afternoon and evening was spent in groups, intensively thinking about the vision of the project. We each got caught up in our own ideas and inspirations, trying to pull in the other group members to consider our respective visions. What seemed so simple to others, were incredibly complicated and abstract for me. When I see an issue or an opportunity, my mind immediately moves to "what could this be used for?" rather than "how could this look?" I think about who could the site serve now, while others think about who could it possibly serve in the future. I've been fortunate enough to have a group who is willing to work through all the different processes and thoughts to form interesting (and what I think are balanced) interpretations on each of these disparate things.


Thursday, June 19
The stress is mounting and you can see it in the personal interactions. More people are stepping outside for breaks, there's a good amount of stomping about the studio, and you the sounds of frustration are audible. A deadline looms and it just doesn't feel like it's enough time. Strangely, I feel calm throughout all of this. Perhaps it is recognition of the fact that this is a "visioning" stage-- an opportunity for ideas to be a little incomplete so more people can become involved in the creation. Or, it could be that my skill sets don't really put me in a position to be doing the mad-cap scramble to prepare all the sketches for Friday's presentation. Either ways, I am looking forward to our first real interaction with the stakeholders-- I'm interested to see what they have to say and what they think would benefit Los Angeles.


Sunday, June 22
My weekend was spent in two very small, very quaint towns: Carpenteria and Avalon (on Catalina Island). While I appreciated my time there, I wouldn't want to have downtown LA to be this way. These towns are... well... towns. People move there to have the small environment, where everyone knows each other, everyone has been to school together since they were 5 years old... People move to downtowns for very different reasons. I like the disarray, the chaos! As I think about it more and more, I don't want to use the 101-freeway to capture the nostalgia that people have about downtown. Highly urban areas are about something different (to me, at least). They change, radically, within short periods of time... this should be captured in the use and the design of our park. We will never be the city we were 50 years or ago or even 5 months ago. I think we need to be prepared to defend this point to the potential nay-sayers come Friday.
Suffice to say, I'm excited for the rest of this week.


Monday, June 23
And the week begins.We are still trying to define our "big" concept. The designers attempted to design the most democratic plan, pulling in the elements of each previous design to build something that, theoretically, should have worked to make something grand. What we were left with, unfortunately, was a plan that didn't have the innovation of the others. The elements got lost amongst one another. I have moments of frustration where I feel like we're designing something without fully understanding where we are and who we are doing this for. We say we are considering the Los Angeles of the future, of the next 100 years, but we have no sense of who they will be.

There is a constant push from the visitors to our studio to think about who we can draw in to use the park, without any encouragement to think about the current communities who would greatly benefit from some sort of public space. The site was selected because there is a viability in it already with 50,000 residents who are park-poor, low-income, and have typically been left voiceless in these types of matters. We've left our final ideas with a team of three to see if without the distraction of 21 other voices and opinions they might be able to return us to the grand vision we once had. Perhaps in the relative quiet of their workgroup they will remember all of the elements and all of the people here as they create a plan.


Tuesday, June 24
The days are blurring together. Three more days before the final presentation... At this point, there is nothing more to believe than the simple fact that we will somehow pull it off, because with this group of people, it would be impossible otherwise. We have split into teams, based mainly around skills. In a form of organized chaos, it's hard to tell what people are doing and if they are working at the appropriate pace, but by the time of evening pin-up, everyone has something to show for themselves.

Do I believe that the final design will be something that fits for Los Angeles? I don't know. But then again, is there anything that will ever fit for Los Angeles? With competiting opinions about who should live in LA, no one can agree about what this design should do and who it should serve. Is it about the new potential residents or is about serving those already here? Is it about creating something iconic or about creating something functional? Is it about infusing new ideas or respecting the existing ones that create the current urban fabric? Of course none of these questions should be considered in a binary plane, but what do the alternatives look like and how can they meet each other?

I'm trying to hold onto every moment when I am inspired to move away from my old views of Los Angeles and integrate them into the final presentation, because I hope, that is what will inspire the policymakers, the stakeholders, and especially the protectors of LA's nostalgia will embrace this design.

You may say that I'm a dreamer / But I'm not the only one

J.K. Rowling's Commencement Speech to Harvard's Graduating Class of 2008:

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates.

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.
Thank you very much.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Why the rest of the world respects the United States so much...

We let monkey men run the country.

And the hardest part / Was letting go, not taking part / Was the hardest part

I'm a believer that some of the most profound life-changing lessons come in the form of the most mundane experiences.

When I was in high school, I wrote a college essay about the profound experience of shopping for back-to-school clothes. In my mind, that annual family experience captured my family's dynamic, our socio-economic conditions, some of my culturally-infused values, and most importantly, a major life lesson I had come to learn throughout the course of my childhood.

To summarize, in my family, shopping is a bit of a sacred tradition. We were never rich enough to buy new things all the time, so my parents made it a point to avoid the shopping malls altogether. So, when we did go shopping, it was always an experience. We would wake up extra early, get showered and properly dressed (my mom always wore her nicer clothes, my dad would be in khakis and a button-up shirt), and we would spend the day indulging ourselves in material items that we would never be able to afford throughout the year. My brother and I would load up on new clothes for the upcoming school year. We were fortunate to live in Southern California, where the weather stayed pretty consistent and different clothes weren't really needed for different seasons.

Buying clothes would always be a struggle for me, because I was always extremely underweight for my age. Pants would fit around the waist, but would be too short at the ankle. Dresses were a no-go, because I would swim in them. It would be embarrassing to ask for a size '8' when I was actually 12 years old. I would only be able to afford a few select "cool" articles of clothing, because that's all we could really afford. Shopping, as exciting as a family event it was, always left me a little dejected by the time I got home, because nothing would fit quite the way that they should.
It took me years before I could come to accept my body for what it is. I'm still a little too thin, a little too lanky, and extremely flat-chested. But over the years, I learned to find what works for my body, rather than trying to fit my body to what's popular. Finally realizing that I didn't have to wear what everyone else was wearing was one of those profound life lessons about learning to accept and be happy with who I am.

The mundane, yet profound, life lesson I thought of today has to do with my hair. Walking into the office, a colleague noted that my hair looked particularly pretty put up. I had tied my hair up to eat my lunch, without putting much thought into it. I know though that if I try to mimic this hair again, it'll never happen. My hair is just funny like that-- if I try to make it do anything, it just doesn't work. I realized that life is like that too. Planning for it sometimes doesn't do very much. Just trying something, without thinking about it, yields great, unexpected results.


Given this view of the world, I am prone to think a lot about every little interaction and situation, trying to determine if there was a greater lesson to be derived from it. I guess this is what makes me such a serious person most of the time... I'm always thinking and reflecting about life's that has already happened. I figure at some point I'm going to have to let this little obsession go and just let life be, but for now, it's fun to think that everything connects to everything else...

The things you have learned / They sit with you so beautifully

I'm employed!

Update: 05/13/2008
And... it's official!

"I want you to feel that Iraqi life is precious."

The US government is finding that negotiating a settlement with Iraqi civilians is harder than they initially thought.

The US is quick to jump to a monetary settlement-- they assume that because they put a price on everything, others will do the same. They want to know if $10,000 to cover the amount the victim would have earned for the family will be enough, or perhaps $400 for the car that was destroyed by the shooting. Assessments of the situation are done, not to really find out what happened, so much as to find out what didn't happen, in case someone tried to file a false claim.

Negotiating a settlement is harder with the Iraqis, than it is with Americans, because they don't want the money first... they want an apology.

... traditional Arab society values honor and decorum above all. If a man kills or badly injures someone in an accident, both families convene a tribal summit. The perpetrator admits responsibility, commiserates with the victim, pays medical expenses and other compensation, all over glasses of tea in a tribal tent.

Funny, to think that that we, the purveyors of Democracy and Justice, would rather slap a price tag on a situation, rather than try to find peace between the parties.

What does it say about American society that we would rather try to settle with money, than by dealing with the situation and the emotional consequences of it? What does this reflect about our ideas of fairness, equity, right and wrong? How is this reflected in our justice system, in our policies?

We are disgusted when a mother is willing to give up her child for money, or the first thing an injured party does is sue the other in a civil case... but what could be expected when this is what all Americans do, whether they are a citizen or a leader?

Who needs keys when we've got clubs? / Who needs please when we've got guns?

And for that matter, who needs education when you have "national security" issues to consider?

Charter school will focus on homeland security
Thursday, April 3, 2008

The first high school dedicated to preparing students for the front lines in the Nation's homeland security has gone from theory to planning in Wilmington.

The Project Manager for the Delaware Academy for Public Safety and Security, New Castle Attorney Thomas Little, signed a contract with Innovative Schools, a professional firm which will coordinate the mechanics of preparing the school for its eventual opening.

The process to find and fund a site for as many as six-hundred young men and women in Wilmington's inner city is underway.

Curriculum choices for students, who are to be called Cadets, range from SWAT (Special Weapons and Tactics) through prison guard, water rescue, paramedic, fireman, professional demolition and emergency response operator, according to a Board statement.

The first Principal of the institution is to be Dr. Fred Fitzgerald. A retired Captain in the Marine Corps, Fitzgerald teaches English, speech and debate at New Castle Christian Academy. Fitzgerald is also a former executive for Coca Cola in Jacksonville, Florida, and a former Director of Operations for the Port of Wilmington.

On the academic side of the new charter school, parents will agree to attend a monthly meeting at the campus with faculty for progress conferences.

To meet personal curriculum goals, all physically capable cadets are to attend a daily after-school exercise program. In addition, two hours of after-school sports or homeland security training will be available for cadet volunteers.

Yes. Let's make them soldiers instead...
Oh wait, we're already doing that, except we've had that inconvenience of waiting until they were 18 years old to sign them up for the military... Now we can skip that whole silly process of waiting until they are no longer considered minors and just start training them at 14 years of age instead!

Absolutely brilliant.

But metaphors help eliminate what separates you and me...

"But what I can't stand are hollow people. When I'm with them I just can't bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn't. With those women-- I should've let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can't do that. I say things I shouldn't say, do things I shouldn't do. I can't control myself. That's one of my weak points. Do you know why that's a weak point of mine?"

"'Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there's no end to it," I say.

"That's it," Oshima says... "But there's one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the people who murdered Miss Saekis childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it's important to know what's right and what's wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They're a lost cause, and I don't want anyone like that coming in here."

Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami (2002)

I will remember you / Will you remember me?

Clearly, the United States, or at least the voters of Pennsylvania have not forgotten about once-Republican-sweethearts Mike Huckabee and Ron Paul.


Oh those Republicans. I think they're getting a little jealous that the Democrats are getting all the media attention and they had to figure out a way to get some back. What a better way than to vote for two nominees into the double-digits, despite having a presumptive nominee already? I'm glad to see that the Republicans of Pennsylvania were voting in decent numbers, even though the decision has been made for them by the rest of the country.

I think even bigger kudos should be given to Ron Paul. The underdog of the entire race and he beat out Mike Huckabee! There are 128,467 people who really like Ron Paul in Pennsylvania and made it a point to tell him so!

Worry not Republican hopefuls-- you won't be forgotten too quickly.

... Better late than never, I suppose ...

Helen DeWitt, Yale Review of Books, Winter 2005

LETTER TO AN UNDERGRADUATE

For a long time I was a trustee of an NGO called Camfed, which raised money for scholarships so girls in Zimbabwe could finish secondary school.

It started out very small. The director, Ann Cotton, had gone to Zimbabwe to do research. She met two girls living on school grounds in a hut they had built, lucky to be there because their family could pay the fees; girls from poor families might be pushed into marriage at 12 or 13 and start having children. She felt she must do something, so she went back to Cambridge and started selling cakes. She would tell friends about the project.

If you’ve ever told friends about something you cared about you will know how risky this is. You explain, say, that girls who miss school often don’t come back at all, and sometimes they miss school out of embarrassment because they have their period and nothing but rags to use. So the program covers all costs – uniform, books, supplies – and it even provides sanitary napkins. Sometimes the friend says, “Here, take this hundred dollars, no no I insist, no wait make that two hundred, no let’s make it five.” And sometimes the friend says, “What a good idea!”
It can be quite discouraging to find out how many of your friends think it’s a good idea.

This was not a very effective form of fundraising, of course, and now they mainly raise money through grant applications.
I was thinking about this when I was asked to write a Letter to an Undergraduate. It’s easy to see that talent is being squandered if a 13-year-old drops out of school, permanently, for want of a Kotex. Maybe it’s not so easy to see talent being squandered in an undergraduate.

There is a simple little idea of school, which is that the student is taught and assessed by qualified persons. Education = classes + assignments + exams. This can allow for wonderful things: the excitement of curiosity, advances in intellectual sophistication and rigor, introduction to disciplines of great explanatory power. But it can’t, by definition, offer the experience of working without surveillance.

The concept of missing a class is pretty straightforward. There isn’t really a ooncept for missing something not tied to a class. The need for big blocks of time for independent reading (or other work) isn’t recognized; there are simply blocks of time (vacations) which are defined as times when the undergraduate is not receiving instruction. If you have a vacation job you are spending about 30% of your time fundraising, but it doesn’t matter because an undergraduate just is someone whose intellectual development is tied to the class.

Newton laid the foundations for his work in mathematics, optics, and physics during an enforced absence from Cambridge (closed down because of the plague). Some of his university work was useful, some not; it was the block of time without interruptions that allowed him to follow his obsessions, taking what was useful as a basis for work of startling originality. The present system guarantees the conditions of Newton’s study of Gassendi while leaving the discovery of gravity in the lap of the gods.

It is a system which likewise leaves no space for connecting powerful theoretical work, such as that of Amartya Sen on famine and entitlements, with the world it was meant to change.
[. . .] represents a writer’s block of several days, Undergraduate, or rather whatever it is that has led to 100 unfinished novels in Documents. “Stand By Me” is playing on radio station in Keene, NH. I think I should reread Sterne’s Chapter on Hobbyhorses.

My copy of The Internet and Everyone is 500 miles away. My copy of Lang’s Astrophysical Formulae is 500 miles away. Tufte’s Envisioning Information is 500 miles away. I do have Reynaud Camus’s Tricks, Pierre Moron’s Le suicide, and Calvino’s Le città invisibili. I have a book that states: For each of those two points, the strictly concave indifference curve of the principal is tangent to the zero rent isoutility curve of the corresponding type.” My copy of Cavendish on Whist is 500 miles away. Why not start Opus 101? Well anyway.

We live at a time of relentless specialization. We can see just how far this has gone when we look at what it takes to fight back. The spectacular Astrophysical Formulae explains a dazzling array of equations and constants, including bibliographical references for the research that produced them – and that’s what it takes if research is not to be incomprehensible even to those in the field if they are not already specialists in the subject.

What we see much more of, though, is the strategy of C.S. Lewis, commenting on Milton’s preference of Hebrew lyric to Greek: “…the rest of us, whose Greek is amateurish and who have no Hebrew, must leave Milton to discuss the question with his peers.”
This passage made me rabid when I read it in my first year at Oxford. The entire educational establishment of the Anglophone world had ignored the advice of Milton, one of the greatest poets in the language – and that was why I had had to start Greek at 18, and learn Hebrew independently, instead of getting started at the age of 9. It’s not that anyone had sat down and read Greek and Hebrew poetry and decided that Milton was a poor deluded fool; they had devised the elementary school program from a state of ignorance. And here was CSL comfortably sanctioning this philistinism.

If you know either language at all you will know at once that Lewis is misleading his audience. A couple of hand-outs, one with an introduction to the Greek alphabet and a walk through a Greek poems, the other with comparable assistance for Hebrew, would at least have given readers the chance of experiencing Milton’s first shock of delight. Ignorance is a design problem (which could now be solved with intelligent use of Envisioning Information), not a gauge of linguistic or literary ability.

Design problem solved, readers could decide whether they would like to know more of one, either, or neither language, instead of relying on someone else’s preferences, whether those of Lewis or Milton or anyone else. But then, design problem solved, children could easily discover such inclinations or disinclinations early on. The parochialism that has become so deadly would find no foothold.

Undergraduates are embedded in a maddening system, one which presents impossible choices because so many were made on their behalf. The frustration this causes – especially when so much money is at stake – is self-evident. But perhaps the undergraduate is the solution to the problem.

Because disciplines are so highly specialized, they change rapidly. Keeping up and contributing already take more time than is left from teaching, grant applications, and administration. Borrowing from other fields is confined to the state of play when a specialist was an undergraduate. Segregation is not strict – there are reviews in the NYRB, there is contact with other disciplines through bridge or poker or tennis, through synagogue, church, or mosque, through friends or family or significant other. (Has structural anthropology really had its day?) But the undergraduate is the only one who systematically engages with a range of disciplines as they are understood right now.

The hand-outs mentioned above could be prepared for uninformed lecturers by any competent undergraduate studying the languages. Most information is less easily transferable – it may require an understanding of what it is in Field A that might be important and interesting to someone in Field B when those in Field A think Field B is a total waste of time and vice versa. O zero rent isoutility curve, where art thou?

A repository for instruction, a source of papers to be marked, Undergraduate must be one whose absence is necessary for serious work. No wonder no one cares what Undergraduate does in this work-conducive absence. No wonder Undergraduate gets no funding to go beyond what’s taught. The system is prey to a kind of collective learned helplessness, and Undergraduate is at the bottom of the heap. New game.

Camfed is famous in development circles. The explosive political situation in Zimbabwe forced most aid agencies to close down their projects – they were dependent on foreign staff, who had to be evacuated. But Camfed had not only left day-to-day management to local groups; it had set up an association of graduates of the program. It has been able to keep going through famine, terror, and exponential inflation because of the courage and obstinacy of young women in their late teens and early twenties. Education ministers across Africa want more of the same.

Meanwhile, you’re the crème de la crème. Shouldn’t you have a voice? I’ll be a lot of people will think it would be a really good idea.
Don’t get mad. Read Laffont and Martimort, The Theory of Incentives – and get even.