“Cosa ha fatto di bello oggi?”
“Are you from America?”
“Oh, you speak English … yes, from San Francisco”
“I lived in America for two years”
“Where did you live?”
“New York and Florida. Then I came back”
“How do you like this job?”
“I divorced my wife and now this is what I do”
“Did you get a divorce while in the US?”
“No, I divorced my wife when I came back from America”
There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of our environment. We become aware of our environment at certain moments but we’re subconsciously liberated from it.
It was just another normal weekend. I had planned to go to a cabin to think about my next movie. In the last minute, Anna and her husband decided to join me. On the way to the cabin, I had this song in the back of my head that was endlessly repeating. Snake Eyes by The Milk Carton Kids. The repetition was so penetrating that I found myself disengaged at times. I was sailing through my own nagging thoughts.
We got to the cabin. The song was still stuck in my head. At some point during the night, Anna started sharing a personal story. I was still half engaged –until she tossed in a word that snatched my full attention. I immediately stopped her, grabbed my camera, zoomed in, and filmed her storytelling.
The short film you see below doesn’t portray what went on. What you see is merely an audiovisual depiction of the transition my mind went through –during the story. I was brought back to the environment by her story and I was curiously moved.
The word Tuyen entered my mind. I had never known anyone by that name.
The chap calls himself DB. I don’t know him. I have never met him, either. But I’ll never forget the moment I sat up and took notice of him. The moment that I knew I loved his music and that he was a different kind of musician. Granted, we both got out of the old country during our younger years and bounced around the globe to settle on the other side of the pond. DB’s music is multi-layered which is reflective of the depth and breadth of his interests and observations. The first time I listened to one of his pieces, it sounded like another house mix. And it was all in the middle of a crowded and pretentious lounge. But then, the mix went on to include one of the songs from Les Choristes soundtrack.
Les Choristes (The Chorus) is a low-budget movie about a dark, doom-filled school for troubled boys where hope is in short supply. A good-natured new teacher who’s a struggling musician, arrives. Only to find himself surrounded by juvenile thieves, chronic liars, unapologetic rebels, and lost souls. The teacher introduces these supposedly hard-core delinquents to something they’ve never experienced before: the joy of music. He then discovers there is far more to these children than anyone ever believed. The teacher helps recover their souls.
The construct of every piece of music covers rhythm where you can easily hear the downbeat, melody as the element for the notes, and the harmony: the vertical sound of music. But there is another captivating element that’s often neglected: The story.
You love the music you love, for the reasons pertinent to you. But you’ll love it even more when you know the story. The analysis of the construct of music will never trump feelings that it infers -because that’s not what music is about. The way a song moves us is ultimately what makes music lovers come back for more. It’s practically addictive. But the more you understand how the musician manipulates the fundamental elements of music, you get a peek behind the journey.
Today, I broke up with the blue phone for good. The blue phone and I have had six full years of tumultuous relationship. During this time, she hung up on me during conversations with other women, sent iffy text messages to wrong people, and even refused to book appointments at restaurants of my choice. But those are not among the main reasons for not wanting to have the blue phone around.
It was back in 2008 when I started getting familiar with the blue phone. In fact, I participated in making it. The blue phone has been practical, folksy, and functional. One of the very rare inanimate objects I’ve come to like. The blue phone knows more about me and my personal life than anyone else. It knows too much. It holds information that I’m ready to put into the category of memories.
There is significance around objects and things that become meaningful to us because of the way we use them and the meaning that we assign to them. The objects that populate an individual’s internal world are personal, specific and idiosyncratic in their meaning. I am not speaking here of having many toys, but of having relationships that encourage exploration, curiosity and play. Relationships that facilitate the exploration of the world, the self, and the self in relation. Such relationships create an environment that makes it possible to symbolize, memorize, and sentimentalize. The role of possessions in constructing a sense of past (via nostalgic memories) is inevitable. These objects are the stimuli for a chain of vivid memories. Memories that lead to other memories in an interwoven net grown rich in associations, moods, and thoughts.
It’s been awhile I’ve been thinking about throwing away the blue phone. But its retirement was triggered mainly because it received the most burning message from Taffy last Sunday. The blue phone suddenly ignited the bluest feelings in me -so much so that I found myself in cold sweat. I will miss the blue phone, but contrary to the common-sense, sometimes the greatest journey might be the distance between two entities -specially when one of them is blue.
I get home and open my fridge only to find some blueberries. They don’t look particularly fresh. I take one in my fingers and roll it to examine its freshness. I notice that the blueberry has an oval shape. The room is dead silent. The kind of silence that feels like the most violent sound of all. I look out the window and see fogs rolling over the bay. The Bay Bridge is now half covered by the fogs and there is constant reflection of lights bouncing back from its vertical rails. While staring at the bridge, I place the blueberry in my mouth and use my tongue to push it up against the top of my mouth. The blueberry gets crushed. I taste its sweetness. I’ve never enjoyed the taste of blueberry so attentively.
This whole experience seems odd. When I contrast it with other things that could potentially occupy my mind, it surprisingly stands higher. I think I have been spending too much time surfing my imaginations lately. Dreams and imaginations are extensions of real life. Notions like future and love get intimately conceived in the hallways of dreams long before any reality glimmers. Soon after, expectations get set involuntarily as a reflection of those dreams. This life-like amusement becomes humorless when the expectations refuse to meet reality.
We’re consistently taught to dismiss the past and live with our hopes and imaginations. I’ve always had mixed feelings about that counsel. I believe the business of life is the acquisition of memories. Simple memories. I may never remember what I had imagined a decade ago, but oddly, I will always remember the blueberry night.
As I write, the sun is falling. People at work are going to dinner. It’s been a pensive day filled with thoughts and doubts. I leave the building to walk home and air my thoughts. On the way out, I ran into an old friend who’s rushing away to nurse another conversation. Daniel Jr. kindly extends a warm “see you tomorrow” which portray his deep sense of humility.
It is the same type of day outside. The homeless is begging to those who are rushing home. Tourists take pictures of duck tours, and the cops cut tickets to people who’re blocking the sidewalk trying to buy a ticket to the show at the Moore theatre. These little observations murmur my sense of reflection.
I walk on the boulevard and pass by the immense number of shops and restaurants. I see no end of conversations around dinner tables. I think of friendships, romances, and separations that are formed around those tables. It all feels irrelevant to me as an individual, but it’s all relevant to my sense of curiosity. I can’t help but to think of the ongoing stories around me.
On quiet days in Tenderloin, I often find myself walking by the hotel where I had the first encounter with Taffy. I often look away because I have a deep desire to erase that memory, and the sense of regret attached to that scoop of life.
Tenderloin is lazy, indifferent, and somewhat rotten. It’s not glamorous as much as musing. On the days of wine and roses however, Tenderloin is glowing with a lurking flame which idealizes its sense of hope.
*Inspired by the opening chapter of Quiet Days in Clichy
During the holiday season, I cleared out my backlog of books, articles, and films. Here are the quotes I found funny / clever:
— If a girl likes you, she won’t eat pizza in front of you
— Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes it rains
— I don’t mean to be an asshole. It’s just genetic
— She’s a little heavy on the Botox and Chanel No. 5, but she’s nice
— Half of people have a penis but everyone is afraid to look at it
— I’ve been listening to my gut since I was 14 years old, and frankly speaking: I’ve come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains
Life crests early for some people. That means life goes on, but a plateau that can never be reached again, will burden it. Former presidents, hyper successful business leaders, and famous athletes are among those who will always look back to figure out what their second act should be to measure up to the first act.
Imagine a parent who has centered her life around raising a child. A mother spends decades nurturing and worrying about her child’s physical and mental well-being. One day the child goes off to college or falls in love, and consequently, gets detached from the family unit. What happens to the mother’s life? Obviously, her life goes on with the hope that something meaningful becomes of her child’s life. In any case, the mother will be burdened by always looking back to see what she could have done better.
There are many examples like these if someone cares to look with an independent eye. This is not to say that looking backward is the inevitable fate. But if you do, the dilemma becomes: how to respond to it? Do we look back and regret? If we do, what about the popular culture that treats regret like a mistress? … if you have one, enjoy the pleasure but deny it.
I’ve decided to spend the entire next year reviewing and correcting some of my past approaches. I have no plan that’s supposed to help me with racking up pleasure points. I have no vanity project that’s supposed to result in an everlasting youth – despite the fact that people try it so relentlessly. Instead, I look backward to see if there is a new summit in the future.
I have been very fortunate with family, friendship, and career –but I should seriously look to see if there is a peak in more meaningful aspects of life. That’d be possible only when one can gaze upon by turning back. Themes such as intensity, persistence, and curiosity can lend necessary tools. But the past must weigh upon us, not because it must cancel the future, but because of its undeniable heft.
I admire people who can comfortably deal with emotional complexity and odd settings. They are those who seem to have a perpetual smile in their eyes. They seem integrated, and their presence temporarily provides a fresh imputes to inner-peace.
Taffy is one of them. She comes around excitedly. With a calm demeanor, she demands attention. If lack of empathy in odd situations was an Olympic sports, Taffy would be accused of doping. You’re forced to believe that she is somebody closer to you than she really is.
I, on the other hand, would get eliminated in the first round of this sport. I am not emotionally thick-skinned. The dynamic of uncomfortable situations flattens me. If that’s a sign of dimness, I’m awfully dim. Though, I take comfort in the supposition that such trait makes me more patent.
Nowadays, we don’t instantly realize how many social rules we’re observing and inherently accepting. Unverified social norms, such as forced face-upkeep during uncomfortable setting, dictates a very set idea of who we are, or who we should be. The identity is often prescribed or just designed based on a series of widely advertised notions in magazines and social media. But these notions are just a construct, and when you take that construct apart as a free person you feel liberated.
I read a study that showed something fascinating about people who place bets in sports. The study asserts: after placing a bet, people are much more confident of their chances of winning than they are immediately before laying down that bet. Of course, nothing about the game actually shifts; it’s the same game, in the same field; but in the minds of those bettors, the prospects improve significantly once the bet is in place.
The reason for the dramatic change has to do with social influence. Like the other means of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is our nearly obsessive desire to be consistent with what we have already done. Once we have made a decision, we will encounter personal and interpersonal pressures to behave consistently with that commitment.
And then, there are feelings that come to the fore as the main source of infinite stupidity portrayed by lack of timely judgment. I feel stupid these days mainly because I don’t learn to resist at the beginning. Like the bettors, I let my obsessive desire for consistency be the hobgoblin of my mind. That said, there is hope. I now know there is something that needs to change.
“It is easier to resist at the beginning than at the end”, Da Vinci.
Relatively Speaking 