Bubbles & Happiness

Emotional states oscillate like emulsion of oil in water. As if the two naturally coexist, for every droplet of joy, there is equal volume of pain. One second I am floating in complete bliss, the next I drift into a globule of sorrow, not knowing when I will drift out again. The bubbles of happiness, seem so ephemeral and fragile. I wave my hands around but I can never quiet catch them. It really is a jungle out there. I could be having the best day, strutting in paradise where there are endless pleasant exchanges. A smile, a compliment, a pat on the back. The next thing I know something blows up in my face like a landmine. A frown, a complaint, a silent look away. My brain automatically and incessantly seeks out those behavioral hints, triggering the translation of external factors into stimuli that will dictate my emotions. Am I crazy to be so easily influenced? MY emotions, MY happiness, my very own sanity, is at the mercy of other people’s simple gestures that may or may not mean anything. I am almost ashamed to admit to such instinctive need for confirmation and ingrained eagerness to please. Toiling over the interpretation of these cues, something is lost: a sense of identity and self-worth.

Someone said to me once, “Only you can make yourself happy. A more reliable source of happiness is gotta be somewhere deeper down within yourself. Don’t let anything or anyone ruin it.”

That’s it, my 2008’s resolution.

The Unresolved Questions

Why do you want to be a doctor?
What are your strengths and weaknesses?
How has your childhood shaped you?
Why should I admit you?
How are you unique?
Why you?
Why?
You?

This is only one hundredth of the lengthy list of questions they could ask me. And I would be asked again and again, until my palms sweat, my hands shaky, and my eyes no longer confident enough to return their glaring gaze. If my brain will still function at the end of this stress test, and if I will remember what I was talking about, then I have showed that I am psychologically mature enough to study medicine. Nobody can give you those answers, so there is no use comparing to others.

That's not even the scary part. What is worst? After long periods of introspection during which I dug deeper and deeper, picking my brain and soul apart for answers, I was petrified to find that I do not have those answers. Aren't those questions about me? Shouldn't I know that much about myself? Why are questions about myself the hardest to answer? Am I a stranger to myself? Introspection is a strange thing, it pulls you out of your skin, lifts you up until you can see yourself sitting there, hunched over the sheet of paper, scratching head, and pulling hair out. I wish they make injectable dosages of "peace of mind".

Nothing could placate the turbulence in my head, until I saw this quote:

"Be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart and try to love the question themselves."

On a lighter note, when stressed out, there is always food. Today's calorie intake (in addition to the regular three meals) = poppy seed muffin, clam chowder, gummy bears, oreo ice cream. I was gluttonously craving all of those at the same time, crazy. First bite of that muffin I know that four-mile jog was gone, all down hills from there. Eat up, life is too damn short.

Imperfections

“To be mature is to accept imperfections.”

That’s what my fortune cookie said, from dear old PF Chang.

It’s a much needed reminder, as I waste life away dissecting the flaws of myself as well as of others. I was not blessed with tolerance and temperance at all. Easily agitated by the most trivial things and only to regret immediately the rash manner of my way of dealing with dissatisfaction. I could almost be textbook Type A personality:

excessively time-conscious --> can’t leave the house without my watch
incapable of relaxation --> caffeine and adrenaline addict
workaholics who multi-task --> go to the post office, convenient store on the way to work
driven by deadlines --> don’t remember a thing without my daily planner
unhappy about the smallest of delays --> much rather walk upstairs than wait for elevators
covert insecurity --> always comparing myself to someone else
free floating hostility, which can be triggered even over little incidents.

I have tried to change, I really have! I try to apologize afterward I realize I have made blunt comments. I try to go with the flow and mute the incesssant planning in my head. I try to take a moment to breathe when I feel my temper rising. I won’t turn into a Type B person overnight, but the way I am impatient about changing the above qualities makes me Type A again.

Palm reading and full-body massage

A Lao girl read my palm and said, “You have a long life and an easy time pursuing your career. You will have money, but not enough. You have two dominant male figures in your love life, you love only one of them but you will marry the one you don’t love.”

I also got a full-body massage at the parlor on the second floor of a sketchy building. We went in a group of five, otherwise the place really would make me fear for my life. I don’t think I enjoyed the massage that much. The masseuse was a tiny woman, but very powerful hands. It was painful at times but mostly ticklish. I was concentrating very hard to not burst out laughing.

The Thai Captain Jack Sparrow

Uncle John's Restaurant has become one of our favorite hangout spots because everything else in this tiny town closes around 6pm. It is even named in the Lonely Planet Guide to Thailand. The walls are reddish orange in the dim light, which faintly illuminates two huge terrariums. Water trickles down from the ceiling on a glass panel and continues in a stream running under the bamboos in the darker corners. The waiter serves Spicy Squid Salad with a rainbow-colored parrot on his shoulder.

While we were drinking Singha and eating cracknuts, a motorcycle thrusted straight into the restaurant. The driver, in a black leather jacket and a dusty helmet, brought the bike to an abrupt stop. The waiting staff made way for him to drive through and park right next to the bar. We all turned around and looked, "Who does he think he is? Does he think he own this place?"

He does actually own this place. It was Uncle John himself! A firm handshake and he sat down to have a beer with us. Instantly there's something intriguing about him. He was about mid-40s, born in Bangkok, spent 18 years in London. Upon return to Thailand 8 years ago, he opened this restaurant that serves select western food and plays Madonna on big plasma TV from 8am to 12am. Two ivory beads on a bronze chain dangled from his neck, occasionally beating against his open white linen shirt. Dark amber stones encircling his wrists made clicking noises as he gestured enthusiastically with his hands. This man, lean, dark and slightly hunched, talked about smuggling goods across the Thai-Burma border, but also collecting donation to help children. He’s like Captain Jack Sparrow, real life Thai version.

My first two days in Mae Sai, Thailand

My entire body stooped to the right. Extremely ignorant of the natural phenomenon, I thought maybe the malarone drug was starting to have crazy effects on me. Getting malaria or dealing with the dizziness and headaches of the prophylaxis, I chose the latter. I couldn’t register why the walls were shaking before my eyes until somebody yelled, “Earthquake!” I stood there with pen and paper still in my hands ready to continue our activism workshop. Apparently the last time they felt anything like that was during the Tsunami. And later that day we found out from the news that there had been a 6.1 earthquake in Laos, which is not very far from Mae Sai, a northern Thailand town on the border with Burma.

For dinner we sat at this restaurant called the Melting Pot. The balcony over looked the Mekong River, which separates Burma from Thailand. The river was literally running under our feet. The moon light put a silver veil on everything. The view was spectacular, maybe that’s not the right word. The Burmese side of the river was completely dark except the border patrol posts. In sharp contrast, the Thai side of the river was well-lit by cars, street lamps, and restaurants. Listening to the water splashing against the shore, I wondered if we will see any refugees trying to escape to the Thai side tonight, which the owner assured us happens daily.

The White Bicycle

It’s like a silent movie. The rain drizzles, visible only in the haloes of the street lamps. The trolleys come and go, load and unload college kids who haven’t acquired gravitas in their childish strides.

I watch Huntington Ave through the glass wall on the third floor of Marino, my legs mechanically pedaling the human invention called “elliptical.” Music from my headphone drowns out the humming of the machines, although none of the lyrics registers in my mind except the beat synchronizes my breathing. I rest my eyes on the ghostly white bicycle leaning against an electric pole.

All that mess from the day is gone now. His body removed, his blood stain washed away, the police sign taken down, and the curious crow disseminated and gone on to tell their friends and family what an appalling accident they saw today. Only the white bicycle remains, placed there by a heartbroken friend to mark the spot where his soul left us for the other world.

The unnatural whiteness pierces the shadows of the night, from twenty-something yards away, stings me straight in the eyes. Drops of sweat roll down my neck. The tingling sensation gives me a chill, although the machine tells me I am burning 400 calories per hour.

Exercise daily. Eat healthy. Quit smoking. Drink moderately. But one day a car comes at you, you see a flash at the end of the tunnel and none of it matters anymore. The precariously thin film of life vaporizes like a drop of water on the sun-baked sandy beach---instantaneous and traceleess, a whisper of sizzle only when luck decides to visit.

April 16, 2007 Thirty-three people were gunned down at Virginia Tech.
April 11, 2007 A cyclist stuck by a truck on Huntington Ave.
April 3, 2007 One NU student fell downstairs and died.
March 31, 2007 One NU student died from snow tubing accident.

Death. Descending upon us. Hold my hand. I’m not scared, I just want to remember your warmth.

Fear is only in our minds,
Taking over all the time.
Fear is only in our minds but it's taking over all the time.
~Evanescence “Sweet Sacrifice”

This Aint A Scene, It's an Arms Race

On the day of our university’s Presidential Inauguration, the Boston Globe ran a front page report on how down to earth the Boston University President is. I think that’s blasphemy! Every proud Husky should get out there and find a Terrier to step on.

Either the BU public relations office bought out the Globe to get some good press because they are afraid NU is stealing the spotlight, OR, the Globe thinks there isn’t enough white-hot competition among all the universities crammed in this town. Bostonians, many of whom are loyal alums with vested interest, watch the local universities so closely, not unlike how teenage girls read Hollywood gossip magazines. And they all seem to want a fierce dogfight. From ads all over the T stations to pages of spread on the Metro, bragging is an understatement. When did educational institutions become so cut-throat and degraded to commercial products and so tainted with the smell of greenbacks?

This aint a scene, it's a god damn arms race,
Fitting you with weapons in the form of words
And don't really care, which side wins
~~Fall Out Boy

Blog Anniversary

Happy anniversary blog!! 365 days ago I started this! Not many things last this long. I admit I am a product of this society with high turnover rates: I have slight commitment issues. Like most people, I myself can never seem to get enough of the thrill, the rush of dopamine, when the five senses are stimulated by novelty.

The wrappers for the Ipod Mini are still in the trash can, already eyeing the Ipod Nano. Poka dots are sooooo last fall, this spring fashionistas live in parallel universe (aka stripes)! And stop checking out that cute guy sitting two rows down in class…

Before I turn this entry into a Cosmopolitan article that brainwashes every girl into the same female, the point this: interests wax and wane. High-tech gadgets, fashion trends, even people and relationships, obsessions and infatuations will all die…eventually.

One Starbucks coffee cup says, “There is a difference between interest and commitment. When you’re interested in doing something, you do it only when circumstances permit. When you are committed to something, you accept no excuses, just results.” (yes, I drink Starbucks way too often to know that, and I stare at the cups every day from 1:30pm to 2:40pm when I have Physics.)

So I tried to trace how I kept up with this blog. The purpose initially was to fulfill the study abroad requirement, which I substituted with a hand-written journal. The second fold was to keep my friends posted while I was abroad. I came to the realization that very few of them actually read this, chuckles. I still liked rambling to myself in cyberspace though. Write papers, write reports, write memos. Write to professor, write to boss, write to the committee. On daily basis I write anything and everything but a little self-reflection for myself. I must generate at least 1000+ words of formal written communication each day that I feel my creativity draining. For unknown reasons, it reminds me of when a nurse drew blood from my veins. I saw the warmth of my blood creating vapors on the walls of the collecting tube.

Happiness, gratitude, anticipation, nervousness and uncertainty, all submerged in the insensitivities of electromagneticism and molecular cell biology. Even in the writing class I take, we beat writing to death with too much rhetorical analysis. I am taking a break from all of these by sipping coffee and listening to music. They seem to have written lyrics for all the stuff you feel inside and have put chords to accentuate that feeling at the right syllable. If I could have any talent, I wish I can write a platinum album and dedicate songs to people.

Some new favorites songs: the entire Back to Basics album by Christina Aguilera (the lyrics are amazing), If Everyone Cared Nickelback (love their voice to death), A Lack of Color Death Cab for Cutie, Breathless Corinne Bailey Rae, Speeding Cars Imogen Heap, Only You Joshua Radin (his sleepish music is strangely addictive), Blue Eyes Cary Brothers.

On our way

CONGRADULATIONS on your big job offer!! It’s more than big, it’s over-the-top unbelievable!Thanks for the phone call too, I felt elated for like three days. I should expect free front-row tix to NBA playoffs annually, right? When you look down from your office way up there on fifth avenue, wave to me, I am the tiny spot that always loiters around the area and occasionally gets dragged away by the police (just joking, I won’t stalk you at your work, but I will always be your big fan!). How things have changed!! A couple years back we were preoccupied with Buffalo wings’ night and Mardi gras buffet at the dinning hall and the free T-shirts and mugs they gave out at college fair. Little did we know this is where and how we would be today! You were all worried, about getting that first Co-op, about the program in Australia, and about this job. Now look at where you are! You have made it through them all! I knew you were something special, I saw it in your eyes when we were both standing in that maddening crowd of freshman moving into Melvin (what a weird connection it was that we spotted each other). Hawaii, Australia, Mexico, Greece and now Europe, you have no limits! Your exuberance and fearlessness were definitely infectious and made my college life that much better! It saddens me that our time together on NU campus has come to an end. Next year it’s going to be hard, with you and 2pac gone. But we are on our way, to great things and even better days!

I love Motorcycle Diaries (both the book and the movie)!