The Skinny on My Past Life

Most of you already have a pretty good idea of what an eating disorder is – if not, then what it means to have body image problems. I have yet to meet a person who exclaims, “I love everything about my body and myself!” What is “ideal”? How did you come to that conclusion? Where did you get those messages? Why is it important to fit the model that others feed us? Have you ever thought, “If only I could look like (or be like) so-and-so, then I’d be so happy?” I have.

It’s a sad thing that eating disorders are now a commonplace idea, event, or occurrence. We live in an age where we are constantly being “told” what to look like, what is “ideal” and further, we are instructed to be judgmental of others who don’t fit the stereotypical visions fed to us since early childhood. I had once been a victim of those ideals that are still considered to be an embodiment of perfection – except that “perfection” became perverted to “at any cost” and “thin” was “never enough.”

I am an only child, and early on, as far as attention came or went, I did not have to compete too much for it. I had my physical needs met – “food, water, shelter, air, and so forth,” as our book says. Maslow said that “the key factor determining which need is dominant at a given time is the degree to which those below it are satisfied…” I had also completed the requisites in Erikson’s models for trust versus mistrust, and initiative versus guilt to a functional degree – No one told me about my early childhood other than with the adjective, “precocious.” I learned to read at a very young age, did the cursory things kids did: played, had imaginary friends, fought with my cousin like a cat when I wanted something that I coveted, and figured my way out of my innate shyness by the time I was in the second grade. For all intents and purposes, I was just another normal child with no glitches. In fact, I excelled at everything that I was tasked to do, and minded my manners very well. I believed that every problem could be faced down, and in my estimation, the world was a good place to live. I had been classically trained in piano, raised in two cultures – both Japanese and American, and managed to juggle these different realities pretty well. I had my safety needs met – I was adequately protected from physical and psychological threat, had order and structure, and was generally protected from fear and anxiety. Perhaps I was even a little too overprotected.

The problems started when I reached my teens. Everything went out of order: first, naturally, my body changed, and I had not been sufficiently warned about this impending metamorphosis. Then, my father got orders from on-high – our family was to pack up and move to Guam. At that time, I had learned industry versus inferiority and was far ahead of the curve in many areas of my life. As far as Maslow was concerned, I had achieved membership, acceptance, belonging, feeling loved, and feeling wanted with my friends, school, family, and musical instruction. I was content, and thriving.

On Guam however, the family I knew, as well as the system I’d grown accustomed to would change overnight. I went from being a child who could rely on reality to one whose reality was fractured and fragmented. I had to leave all my friends behind; I had gotten popular in middle school, and had been selected to study classical piano at college entry levels at 13 years old. On a fateful February 2nd, I was transported from this, to all the unfamiliar things I never expected or knew existed. My mother decided to immediately go to work where she could be with Japanese friends, and my father discovered a second life. I not only lost the world “out there,” but I also lost my family, and the effects were devastating. Identity versus isolation became a theme in which I would remain stuck for years. At that tender age, I was just barely tapping into Maslow’s “Ego and Esteem Needs,” having a modicum of respect and liking for myself and others. I had learned competence, creativity in the arts (classical piano) and academics, freedom, and even got a little fame in my small world. It would take me many years to fall from that state of grace, back to the bottom of Maslow’s triangle, and then crawl my way back up towards a degree of self-awareness, where I am learning to stand today.

When I was 16, I was going out with some friends and had on some skin tight jeans. I was already a little uncomfortable with my shifting body, when my mother caught a glance of me before I left and said, “You’re not going out wearing those pants, are you? Your legs are too fat for them.” That was the pivotal phrase that would stick in my mind for years – even a decade or so beyond, and that would nearly kill me. Looking back, I can see that my mother was merely projecting her fears onto me – visiting her own negative body images onto her daughter, who was an embodiment of all her insecurities. That’s the way it tends to work: we see something in someone else that makes us uncomfortable, and we point it out because we’re afraid of it within ourselves. Of course, I didn’t have this kind of awareness at that age, and I believed my mother’s words. I quickly learned that I should hate my body as my mother continued to visit her negativities about my new weight. She compared me to others – as she did regularly, but now it was body-for-body: if you only had so-and-so’s legs/body, you’d be so pretty … too bad you’re not as pretty as so-and-so … too bad you’re short and heavy … why are you eating? Each day, I hated my body more and more.


Leading up to my high school graduation, I made a resolution that I never broke thereafter: to lose weight to the point that I was entirely content with my body and to be as thin as my friend. I had a new resolve, and decided that anything was just an issue of mind over matter. By graduation, I had dropped from 130 to 110 pounds, and was well on my way towards my goal. My first benchmark had been achieved: 110. The next stops would be incrementally marked off every ten pounds until I hit the three-number barrier. Everyone thought I was so very together because of my will power, and I was excited to be receiving long lost attention as well as a sense of accomplishment after years of perceived decline and failure.

About that time, I had read about a young girl who had starved herself down to 55 pounds and nearly died because she couldn’t see herself as thin (she was 4’11”). I admired this young lady for her efforts! More and more literature started randomly appearing about this topic, but still, I didn’t connect the dots that I was like them. I started taking laxatives because one of the sad side effects of my rigorous dieting was constipation. It was an innocuous act, but my logic immediately began to warp its use. One pill became two, which doubled, and so on until I was taking upwards of 130 pills of the strongest laxatives on the markets and even shoplifting them to support my habit. Still, I pressed on, and no one was the wiser. My body had actually gotten physically dependent on laxatives, and psychologically, it made me nervous to consider reducing the quantity for fear of gaining weight. I felt trapped. I was down to 100 pounds and was so dehydrated that at any given point, I was near shock – the symptoms were all present: acute drop in blood pressure and fluids, cramping, flushing of skin, sweating, cold sweats, increased or irregular heart rate.

Still the skinny ads and movie stars were pervasive and to be my public and private mirror; more and more stories started appearing about women’s extreme dieting killing them; Karen Carpenter had passed away, and several celebrities had been afflicted by this disorder. It seemed to have become public overnight. Eventually I broke the 100 pound barrier and at 95 pounds, I was hospitalized. In my head, I couldn’t justify hospitalization because the women I had read about were far below that weight – 95 pounds was heavy. Immediately upon hospitalization, my kidneys started to fail – I was urinating blood, and this created quite a stir. The doctors put me on IVs and electrolytes, and forced me to eat. Eating had become an unreasonable task to me; I decided what and how much I was going to eat – not anyone else; I trusted no one. It seems I was going backwards on Erikson’s model of growth. I remained in the hospital for nearly three months – to what end, I couldn’t see back then. I thought the medical staff was worried about nothing. If weight was an indicator for wellness, then I was cured because I had gained 15 pounds and now weighed 110 pounds. Immediately after being released, I dropped back down to 95 pounds, and not long afterwards and within a year, I was hospitalized at 83 pounds. This time, I had initiated the process and sought out help at UCLA’s famous Neuro-Psychiatric Institute. Looking back, I am not sure what I was hoping to achieve because I was dead set against gaining weight and ended up fairly close to where I started three months later. I think I was so lost and confused that just being in a “safe place” was a good thing – even if it meant a slight weight gain.

Unattended issues surrounding my teenage years started swirling around me in my 20s, and I fought with my parents daily. I had not forgiven them, and I hated them for uprooting me years ago, and for ruining my life. My condition, as far as I was concerned, was their fault. While they had been out living their lives, they had never stopped to notice that I had been hurting inwardly. Meanwhile, I gave university life a chance and managed to have a brief one year reprieve of sorts (I had learned of bulimia) and got straight A’s, was accepted to the honor’s program, and was noted on the dean’s list each quarter. Tragedy broke when I received a B. I fell apart, believing that the B was the ultimate evidence that I was a failure and too stupid to succeed. After that, I struggled with my eating disorder for several more years while working in the corporate world rather successfully, though with some physical difficulty. There was at least some evidence that I was capable of holding down a job, of going to school, of being amongst people, but my primary mission was to remain thin and be the best I could be at everything – especially losing weight.

All things fall apart. I stopped working. Unattended issues came back with a frightful haunt. Eventually, I lost all steam and plummeted down to 80 pounds again. I went in for treatment and still resisted. I was given no prognosis – not a chance of living. By the second similar hospitalization/treatment, I arrived at their doorsteps at 68 pounds and dying. Tests revealed that I had already suffered very mild heart attacks, had incurred unknown kidney damage, and was dangerously underweight. Even at 68 pounds and emaciated, I fought fiercely to continue down my path of destruction. The treatment center eventually sent me to an actual hospital where I had to receive IVs through hyper-alimentation and cut-downs because my veins had collapsed or shrunk for the lack of fluids. I bear the scars of those procedures with great reluctance and some residual shame today. The only industry I knew was anorexia nervosa. Otherwise, I was merely inferior. I lived in shame and guilt, and took minimal initiatives towards living and my recovery.

For some – for me, things had to get so abysmal for so long that the only way left to go was a "slow up.” At some point, and years into this disease, I decided on a lark to volunteer. I was interested in law enforcement and decided that it might do me some good to pursue it. Long story short, I started volunteering at a Sheriff’s Station in Los Angeles and before long, they immediately hired me. Slowly, I started coming out of myself. I looked to the female officers as my physical role models because they couldn’t be thin – they had to be built up for their jobs. I started working out and working with people in the community. I began mentoring at-risk children and living outside of myself. I actually started to feel alive, and could laugh again.

After four years there, I left the department for another corporate job, and realized that I was no longer the same sick person I used to be who could shut off emotions to do unpleasant work. The position lacked meaning and purpose and I realized that until and unless I went back to school, I would not know my life or myself. I fell into a deep depression and emerged from it with one class at PCC. It was a decision – just like the volunteer work had been, and just like my decision to not use numbers to measure my well-being. (To this day, I do not get on scales – that is the one appendage I cannot shed because my recovery is far too important for me to become obsessive or distracted by silly numbers.) One successful class led to another, that number doubled, and before I knew it, I became a full-time student. Instead of quitting because of a B this time, I kept on, mourned my losses, and faced down my demon of perfectionism. That B, as it turned out, wasn’t going to count towards my transferable credits and further, I got an A in the class that really mattered. When I had pushed myself sufficiently with school, I decided to add tutoring to the mix – a little work and school. It was the best job I never had before! Finally, upon all that, I am here, talking to you about an ordeal I once went through. This ordeal has taken a toll on my life and has not been without a price: I have paid thousands upon thousands of dollars for surgeries, treatments, doctors, hospitals, and dental care – starvation and bulimia are definitely not good for the pearly whites! I lost many good friends who I pushed away because they cared, and my family had to endure my worst moments.

I have climbed slowly up Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and I guess the point of all this sharing is to let people know that it is entirely possible to fall down and get back up – we are a resilient lot – the human race. Sometimes things can get so dark and hopeless to the point of not wanting to continue, but somehow, we all do – we continue and we endure, and we survive the unsurvivable; and when we’ve faced ourselves – even incrementally, we start to see the light. It is only dark when we hide our faces from ourselves and others. We all have the ability to overcome – each in our own unique ways because each solution must be custom-made to each of our journeys and struggles, and because we are the often unknown architects of our life – both for good and for ill. The answers, I discovered, had to come from within, but the instructions and counseling had to be received from people around me who cared. We are a social animal.

Polaroid Haze

I look back longingly

For the old faded days

When the things were fresh

And the world was newer

In days of 8 millimetres 

And faded Polaroids 

In this brave new digital age

I have become pixilated 

Copied and pasted 

Into jagged hews

All dimly lit and dulled

A syntax error

Control-Alt-Delete me

And Photoshop my mind.

Look Both Ways

You will understand me if you ask. If you judge me, you will understand less. If you berate and condescend, I will be your mirror, which will carry your reflection. If you assume who I am without knowing, and insist upon the rightness of your assumptions, I will ignore you. If you yell at me about me I will fall silent because I will not indulge lower communication, though I will acknowledge your frustration. If you cry I will hold you, if you speak to me I will respond. If you talk over me, past me, through me, or irreverently close out my voice, I will not try to talk over you and will fall quiet as your words bleed out of my ear. But if you converse with me, we will achieve everything our words convey to one another. I will not be a victim of bullying because I was sided against as a child. It may be what I've known, but I have never tolerated it. I am your greatest ally or your worst nightmare: the choice is yours. If you are mean to me, I might shrink, but eventually I will figure it out and draw strength from it. And because I am human, if you corner me, I will fight back and come to regret my words and all the hopes belying my love. If you cannot find the strength within yourself to keep a modicum of your promises, I will see the pattern and begin to doubt the integrity of your words. I am a gentle person with an abundance of patience, but if a line is crossed I am far less forgiving. "Sorry" is a good start and doing is a better one.

Dear Universe...My Unconventional Résumé

Dear Universe,

On Planet Earth, we are not allowed to truly shine on our merits anymore. It doesn't matter what good work or experiences are accumulated, whether or not one is intelligent, hard-working, caring, and so willing to work hard. On this planet, people are not permitted to contradict policies because expectations and qualifications have to fall within the image of the thing, rather than the thing itself. So, to you, Great Universe, I am offering this covering letter and résumé for all the future jobs, people, and events I endeavour and aspire to, and I leave this in Your capable hands, and not In the hands of those who would hinder me.

I am a very enthusiastic person. I am happily able to do basic work that doesn't require a great deal of thinking, but rest assured, I am capable of much more. I hold my hands up to the errors of my past, the gaps in my resume of life that are difficult to fit into the continuum of a resume. If there is one lesson I have learned, it is that I am a survivor and fighter, and I crave opportunities to shine and be so much more than the sum of my past tragedies and triumphs. What I lack in the continuity of my resume, I make up for it in wisdom, patience, and even a modicum of intelligence if allowed to utilise it. 

I have potential, creativity, and dedication to those who would be kind enough to trust in my abilities. I may not have the credentials that are expected and I understand how you wouldn't want to take your chances on an unlettered person with uncertified qualifications. I speak, write, and fundamentally understand English grammatically and love words, their spellings, and permutations, and ensconce myself in writing about the Transatlantic differences of my chosen language. I can also converse colloquially in Japanese, as well as write its alphabet and some Chinese kanji characters. To a lesser degree, I can follow French and Spanish roughly, enough to greet, ask for things, and thank the people of France, parts of Spain, and Mexico. I love linguistics. I love maths, physics, chemistry, natural sciences, philosophy, literature, art, and music in the many ways they help shape my understanding of the world around me. 

My learning has been a long journey based on pain, joy, autodidactic pursuits, curiosity, love for life, and great passion for what I believe in -- the quest to grow and learn and love until my very last breath. I am a writer, an observer of life, lover of nature, a musician, a poet, a thinker, a photographer of nature and beauty, and an artist, and my language is kindness, patience, love, and long suffering. I understand the nature of people, and occupy myself with anything that permits me to learn, study, and achieve. 

Alas, I am as imperfect as they come, and the aspects of me that define kindness, patience, and long suffering cut both ways: on the other side of the better part of me is sensitivity, perfectionism, and introverted and introspective tendencies. None of these diminish me, but the can be tedious to the observer. Additionally, I have a half of a century of life to remind me that I have survived my weaknesses.

However, I will not bend to the will of those who would speak to me with condescension, doubt, and mean-spiritedness -- whose expectations are rooted in fear, contempt, impudence, and belittlement -- those who demand respect and deference and judge, but command nothing that would warrant the same. I may seem frail or weak, absent-minded, spineless or frivolous, but beneath what others see, I see, and I accept the views of others and try not to take to heart the dubious words sometimes reflected back to me. Invariably, once false pride is set aside, I humble myself to the error of my ways. These are the unspoken rules by which I abide.

If it is the will of all things greater than me for me to fade into the sunset of my life, I will gladly follow (with a fight, and screaming and kicking, as the case may be) as I trust the greater Universe in all the wisdom contained therein. If this is my lot, then let me be useful in other ways that help pave the way for others. I beseech You not to act punitively or to judge too harshly, though I almost certainly deserve the occasional kick or nudge to remind me of the error of my ways at times; however, I will never heed to unkind spirits that would see me as stupid, foolish, unworthy, ugly, and reviled in ways that are cruel to the heart. Those who belittle are smaller than the object of their belittlement.

Take a Deep Breath… 28 March 2009

Pinch me, for I must be living in a dream.

Every day, wherever I am here, in the UK, I have to remind myself that I am not dreaming. I don’t mean to sound corny about it, but there is so much richness and history here, and the architecture is beautiful on a grand scale. Whether I’m walking to school, or meandering on an off day, I’m constantly reminded of this very different world – as if to be in an acute state of dreaming while awake. I am hyperaware of my surroundings, and when I am not, this surreal reality whips back at me and my senses are deluged by this new reality at any given moment. The sights – of the respective areas and of the variety of people, the sounds of different languages, the different smells – breads baking, coffee roasting, fried and ethnic foods coalescing, and the feeling of cool air upon me as I warm up during a brisk walk…



Yesterday, I went to London with Professor Branzburg. I had missed the first tour because I got sick during the first week, but I made up for it in spades. Every corner I turned, I saw a new picture – a photograph I had to take. We take so much for granted – media gives us a sense of “being there,” but when we’re actually in the picture we see on the television or silver screen, the experience is breath-taking. I had to occasionally take a deep breath and orient myself to the experience of seeing firsthand the scenery of London.



One of my goals I’ve kept since the beginning of my Oxford stay was to take a picture of every Starbucks that I encountered. Even though there are Starbucks here, and while many of the features are the same as the American stores, there is an infusion of something “different” within – whether it that reflects the more relaxed coffee culture here or the way the interior is designed. For instance, as I mentioned in a previous entry, from the outside, things often look fairly “status quo.” However, upon walking in, one of the Starbucks I looked into was incredibly spacious. Another one, which will appear in my follow up pieces, was quite quaint. Upon looking in I saw several people reading newspapers, facing the outside along a table along the window front. Finally, in an upscale London area, one of the Starbucks was decorated with rich black and gold wood frames. Each one has its own personality.



We walked for four hours straight before we took a break, and I was exhausted, but nevertheless wanting to take in more. I realized at dinner that I needed to travel to London alone and take in the view incrementally – piece by piece on different days, and allow myself absorb – as if by osmosis – this brave new world I am in. After walking, Professor Branzburg and I decided it was time to sit down and have a bite. I was very insistent on going to a pub, or at least an English restaurant; we were in London after all. My other goal is to experience at least one new pub a week, if not two. The beer is really good – the alcohol content is higher as a rule, and not all beers are chilled. Many of the pubs have their own “select” beer(s).

Going to the Market

The small things in my daily life make my life, in general, an adventure, for which I am grateful. Today I went to the market. “Going to the market” has a very different definition than it did when I lived in Los Angeles. No cars – just walking and hopping buses is all that is entailed in my day-to-day activities and errands.

We live on a road that is semi-parallel street to Cowley Road and Headington Street. The road grids in Oxford are circular, as opposed to the north-south/east-west standard roads I am accustomed to in the States. Sometimes in the circular grids, it is easy to think you're going to take a short-cut and end up walking in a much bigger circle and losing time. This forced me to find the most direct or least deviating paths to the places I go.

For the longest time, I was quite afraid of violating jaywalking rules and of crossing the streets without proper crosswalks. Towards June and July (a few months since I had been in Oxford during the previous study abroad program), I started understanding the pedestrian road rules – there are places one can cross without having to go all the way to the street light. Since the roads are semi-single lanes, there are islands in the centre of the road between the two directions of traffic. If the cars are backed up, you can simply cross to the middle. Once in the middle, it's just a matter of waiting for the opposing traffic to pass before finishing the crossing. If no crossing island or streetlight are present, one just crosses (at one's peril) and employs jaywalking.

Today, I only went down the street to the Cooperative Market which is only a few blocks from where I live. The Cooperative is the first of a string of small stores and venues. It is probably the size of a large 7/11 convenience store but has pretty much the basic items one needs from day-to-day. Grocery stores are generally much smaller than even our smaller chain stores in the States. Nearby the Cooperative, is a post office/convenience store, a liquor store, and finally, and fish and chips shop.

It is a beautiful day today – there are few clouds out, the warmth of the sun feels good against the light and cool breezes. Skies here are blue, and we have clouds (and, of course, rain). Towering green trees populate the yard spaces of various buildings and houses, and everywhere you look, you see old and quaint houses, schools, and other places. The greens of spring and summer are pervasive. Soon the autumnal colours will begin to appear – as the leaves already show signs of darkening or changing shades. I didn't have to wear a jacket either – something that is unusual for me as I'm still acclimating to the cooler temperatures.

It only took about ten minutes to walk over to the Cooperative. It wasn't crowded; there were probably only five shoppers there when I was there. However, for the size of the aisles, people have to negotiate their way with other customers. There are no shopping carts (for obvious reasons just stated) – just baskets. I've noticed that people here favour the baskets to the carts; this is probably a function of proximity wherein people can go to the market more frequently and tend to walk or take buses which would make it a futile venture to buy too much at any given time. This necessity draws people out of their homes and out to the shops. It is very common to see people coming and going from shops, from buses, and into town; cars are superfluous except that they create congestion on the roads.

So ends my day of minor errands. I wish I could transport people I love over for a day to give a guided tour of this quaint, old, modern place - Oxford. Maybe one day you’ll see this all for yourselves; it is definitely worth investing in - trying on different places and spaces. Godspeed.

If not truth, words, and action, then not real...

In truth, without the words and then the actions, nothing one does makes a damned bit of difference towards expression because most people walk around with gaping holes in their souls where their hearts used to be and from lost nuggets of time in which they have been hurt in past lives. The nature of the beast is that humans insist on carrying the luggage of pain and angst around with them wherever they go, despite all evidence to the contrary. And the older people get, the tighter they hold on to their baggage and insist upon misery over happiness as the rule and not the exception. There are no solutions; one tries, one adapts, one works, one hopes, one goes out of one’s way, one wishes to feel the hand of a lover gently placed upon a shoulder, or to receive a kiss, or to be seduced by or be desirable to one's lover, or even to be touched by accident, if that is the only form of affection to be gained. One hopes for hellos and farewells, good mornings, and good nights, but one never wishes to change the object of one’s love, so the choice is engrained deeply to embrace desolation in the face of love because fear is the stronger emotion more often than not. So, humans have learned the metaphorical act of “running away” from the light, and into the damp safety of their dark nights.

Such a world is devoid of expectations because there is no recourse to expectations – they are fleeting and have no meaning except to fulfil a deep need to feel alive again – even if momentarily, and if momentarily, then why any at all? Why not just do away with it completely because isn't that the stuff of disappointment – and wouldn’t life just be better without disappointments, even if it means preventing the fleeting joy that accompanies a form of fulfilled hope? That would be the irony, paradox, and oxymoron in a nutshell. The light is bright, even if the world is at its darkest. Being blinded by love is sweeter than honey, and dumbstruck better than stupid, and hurt better than having missed out – being blinded by love allows one to open one’s eyes and see the world for its glorious beauty. And thus, the argument against love is rendered moot, and the long twilight struggle continues as humanity feels around in the dark for a light switch that is closer than can be imagined...

The Centre Cannot Hold...

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
~William Butler Yeats
“The Second Coming” 1919



Things do fall apart, and the world is changing. It is not so much a matter of the ubiquitous “globalization” that many point to when there are uncertainties; things simply change. Old forms lose their shape, entropy sets in, and things fall apart. Democracy is one such “thing” that has been exhausted – something that was once extremely revolutionary and functional for its time, but it has grown into the old man whose every cell is being pulled to the earth by gravity, and whose body is decaying in plain view. The centre cannot hold.

The best lack all conviction… Ideas, simply stated, are similarly “things” that must be challenged in their due course, and we have grown complacent and cannot be bothered to care about what other people decide for the sheer scale of who those “other people” are, and what “super powers” they possess. While the worst are full of passionate intensity, radical fools reach out from the bowels of the underworld to produce noxious, dangerous, ridiculous – almost laughable – outcomes if it weren’t for the toll taken upon humanity, the animal kingdom, and the earth herself.

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere there ceremony of innocence is drowned… A great many scholars and thinkers have addressed everything herein, including Yeats, who obviously gave consideration and ample expression in “The Second Coming.” Marx also had it right – in theory: it all shakes down to those who have, and those who do not. Power and riches protect themselves while the poor look on with empty gazes, wondering when hell will freeze over for the fat bastards in their posh chairs and fancy offices, signing away lives en masse with a single pen stroke of illegible credence. Darwin might have had it right too: it’s about the survival of the fittest, and “fittest” in modern parlance would mean “possessing (hoarding) the riches” while masses perish under the weight of the same.

What exactly is this notion we hold that our “votes” make an iota of difference as to the direction in which humanity is heading? Democracy has become an arcane ritual – a blunt object used to “make right” what wrongs it has created from bygone eras and recent histories. For there to be “right,” the whole thing needs to be scrapped and taken apart – piece by piece – dissected, and completely dismantled, as it were. It no longer works, and is no longer viable for the world that is now governed by economics rather than politics – economic strategy as opposed to political strategy because it all comes down to the monetary units concerned.

Though “democracy” needs to be disassembled, civility must be pursued because we cannot afford for mere anarchy to become loosed, but this takes thinkers, and I am not such a person. I have no alternative ideas to offer up except for those anecdotal “Indian” stories of American history that speak of taking no more from the earth than that which is required, and living on egalitarian terms that neither oppresses or asks much sacrifice except for the shared experience of the long-lost community. We are systems functioning within systems – cogs within wheels and gears that have reach maximum capacity and have no means of continuing to fuel ourselves. We are the lost tribe of modernity – one without a face or name except for “me” and “I.” History, in America, starts out its preamble as, “We the people…” Now that that task has been squared away and every square inch of territory claimed privately public, something else must take place. Ownership must be foregone for humanity to survive – we cannot own what is not ours. We share life, but we are not the only actors, and yet, this is the only planet we live upon.

"Darlin'"

I’ve been in the U.K. for nearly a year, and people regularly ask me why I love England so much. I can only answer with innuendos and with subtle references: it’s not a single place or point or the ancient histories and buildings, for it is all of these in various doses; it’s not merely the culture or community or lifestyle; and, it’s not just a romantic notion I’ve carried with me my entire life through English childhood books and multitudinous collection of pictures. There exists an intoxicating atmosphere of observing and partaking of life daily in this place, amongst the people, within the groups, of listening to the intellectual banter over game shows such as University Challenge – at a pub; it is the rhythm of living, the predictable safety of watching friends religiously saving crossword puzzles for each other towards completing them; and, it is the experience of my proud self being humbled into the often frightening realization that I know invariably much less than what I thought I knew. I came here for a study-abroad program that should have ended last May, but the tides of change and the unknown have pulled me mightily back here in every way – I, also unstoppable in every way, fought to remain upon this land. My dream is not solely the “education within the ivory towers,” but that of many simultaneous realizations that include my education as a subset of the larger picture. In my quest for new experiences, I ended up falling in love with one who I now call “love” and “lover.”

I have a fondness for words, and my favorite word here is “darling.” “Darling” is a regularly used word amongst friends (women use this word when addressing either gender, and men often use it to address women friends). I love the terms of endearment here: “How’r ya doin’ love?” or “Y’alright my lovely/darlin’?” There is a charming quality to these words, sentences, and greetings. Maybe these are English terms used less in the United States than in the United Kingdom, but to be referred to as “darlin’” in terms of endearment is a word like none other I have known, and it softens all the rough edges of being in a foreign land, a million miles from all things familiar. Said with the right tenor, pitch, and tone of love, it removes traces of alienation and doubt, and pulls me into this new world without reservation. “Darling” is synonymous with long bygone words such as, “dearest,” “beloved,” and “sweetheart” and when my love addresses me with this singular word of many facets, I feel safe; those fears possessed in the moment melt away in rapid succession, and most importantly, I know I am loved. It is perhaps the smallest great joy I know, for the greater joys contain him, and more to the point, us.

I write with certain naïveté because it is in my nature to try and capture the world in different ways -- apart from the pervasive cynicism and exhaustion of what ought to be, in my estimation, fresh and filled with wonder. My story, which is now a shared story with my love, is a story that unfolds page-by-page, plot-by-plot, and in chapters and subchapters, like a poetic novel filled with conflicts and resolutions that keep the kindling sparked, and the embers glowing, even on the coldest and most tumultuous days and nights. In the instance of the utterance of the word “darlin’”, I know that I am loved and that all will be well without so much as another utterance. Whereas, words like “love” must be tempered, and its placement in discourse carefully chosen whilst maintaining spontaneity because an overused word is an abused one if misplaced or worn down with frequency, “darlin’” is the title I bear with great joy and pride and I can endure its repetitive use.

Regardless of my interpretation of these words, I think that one of the reasons I’m continuously drawn here, at the end of the day, is that I am a romantic at heart, and here, I am free to find that self who sees the world through a prism of possibilities, as opposed to the singular lens that I once wore that I outgrew to a degree. I have a possible future of many futures, and the brightest one is here, now, today, and shared with my love. A thousand worlds ago, I might never have ventured to such a land filled with uncertainties, but today I stand here with hope that the next thousand worlds will be far more adventurous and filled with wonders than the former; for that, I will die a happier person because I will have lived.

Neither Here Nor There...

Today I am not a student, although I’ll find my way back hopefully soon. I guess I haven’t been one for a while now. It’s funny how things turn on a slow dime sometimes. When I first came to Oxford, I was an enthusiastic student who had some kind of academic horizon before me, but by the time I returned to “pursue my studies,” I became more of something else, and less of another: I fell in love and found joy through it. My life is a zero sum game: my A-student column has been subtraced from, and the results have been added to another column. Now I am somewhere in the middle of the deep end, being pulled away from my original aspirations, away from being strictly in my head, and I love feeling again.

My father warned me not to forget why I came, and I didn’t: love brought me back, and school was the means to achieve it. I just didn’t know any better at the time, and now I’m quite ashamed of myself. I’ve painted myself into a corner for denying the real reason I returned. When you’re my age – I’m at the half-way point right now – and when life has been loveless and barren – when love happens, it takes precedence because of the connection that is made with someone as opposed to something. I am facing the problematic question of knowing what my limits are. Today, I am less of a student than a lover, and surely not all that I can be in either arena. I am good at doing one thing thoroughly well, but rarely succeed at doing more than one thing at a time; multitasking is not my strong suit. I have known academic excellence, and have hit a bump in the road which has undermined my confidence and highlighted my long-perceived ineptitudes.

In the last communiqué to me, my father said, “Try really hard.” I’m not sure if I can (try harder) right now – more than I already am. But life isn’t fair, and all my choices have led me here to a strange crossroad that I’ve faintly seen before. If I could talk to him about it, I sometimes think it would help, but I’ve burned that bridge (with strong consternations as proof before I came back). If I could share with my parents what love has been like for me, I think I would feel less guilty about being in love and trying to make it all work for everyone. But an old warning they faced now faces me: "you made your bed, and now you must sleep in it." I wouldn’t take anything back; circumstances are such that the only way to keep love is to continue my education. I would pay that price again and again for what I have now; unfortunately the financial price has been paid by my family and I have to find my own way to make it work in the long-run.

* * * * *

There is boredom in the routine of doing something for too long; patterns set in, the picture gets muddied if not too clear, and joy gets stripped away from what could have otherwise been beautiful. Producing something in the image of something else or in others’ preconceived ideas of the world is boring, though no excuse for doing poorly in anything. Creating something for the purpose of art is joy; I must muddle my way through that boredom and proceed, as I always have, although I desperately want a respite. I am sure such notice will bring heartache to my family because they are depending on me to do well, and counting on me not to be whisked away by petty things such as love.

What happens when the original premise is weakened, and something unexpected grows into the stuff of dreams? I cannot stay here without the original premise for I am merely a guest, and therefore unable to remain with the one I love without it. What a fool I am! I have spent the better part of four years depending on my academic excellence to define me, and today, I don’t have that crutch to lean on; today I am just a person who is struggling to make it in this strange and foreign land. My heart is not easily divided. I have built up a wonderful academic resume, and gotten this far, and life has now presented me with the most unknown element known to humankind. I am no longer “smart” or “clever,” but just average, if not below average, and my star does not burn as bright as it once did. On the other front, however, I am greatly rewarded and blessed. I know that someone loves me; I have many wonderful friends who I cherish and wish to keep.

For this, I have lost my own family in a sense, and sometimes, that burden is more than I can bear for they are no longer a part of the goings-on in my life. I have failed them and hurt them by coming here as I did for I am their only child. I expect no forgiveness on that front for they have given me so much and I have given back far too little to balance the equation. I can see that from their perspective, there is a point where happiness is an irrelevant pursuit if it serves no physical purpose. There is no one to blame but myself, and only I can rescue myself from what lies ahead. I wish I wasn’t so alone right now… Things will come to pass as they will.

Prolepsis Analepsis

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 2010

Prolepsis Analepsis

I am at the same café I started my Oxford journey on, a little over a year ago in March, 2009, during my first week’s exploration of my new surroundings. I’m sipping away at my cappuccino outside (though it’s still a bit chilly), enjoying the blue skies above. The airplanes are still grounded due to the Icelandic volcano so there are no jet streams traversing the clear blue.

I just made my first visit to the Citizen’s Advice Bureau on St. Aldate’s Street in City Center to explore my options for establishing residency in England. I am going to try to work part-time, volunteer, and study on my own time next year; I need a respite from all the radical changes I’ve undergone during this past year. What future holds – I am not certain. It has all been a little overwhelming and I need to pull the reigns in a bit so I can make sense of the choices I have made, am making, and will continue to make.

I really love Oxford – and the greater England – it’s like a home to me, and I can’t imagine returning to the sterility of Los Angeles with all the cars and distances between places. I can’t imagine not hearing the many permutations of the English accent that I hear daily, nor can I imagine not seeing the numerous friends I’ve made here. I also can’t imagine not walking or taking a familiar bus to places that are now mapped out in my head.

There is so much life here – people from all over the world come here to see Oxford; I was one of those tourists with cameras once-upon-a-time, and now I look to the newcomers and smile to myself with some quaint sense of satisfaction. Students from various European countries regularly cluster together, speaking their respective languages, and there is a flow to life now, here.

A boutique in the Covered Market caught my eye today; there was a part-time job offering posted on their front door. I went in and inquired as to the nature of the job, and indicated my interest. The couple who owned the store seemed nice enough, and we joked about my “Americanness.” I’ll bring a CV to them soon. It would fit in with my 20-hour a week mandate, and though I wouldn’t make much money, it’s a start. I just want to be a regular person here – not a student, and I want to receive a little moral support for trying.

My “sensitivity” is the whack-a-mole hammer that reduces me to nothing and makes me out to be an idiot, so I now tell myself that I’m on my own – this is between me and myself; no one outside will or can do a thing to help me or offer their comfort. Next stop: Job search. I might have to go back to the U.S. to renew my visa, but I don’t really care anymore. I’m on my own, and this is the life I chose way-back-when, last year. I wish I were strong. Instead, I’m realizing how weak I actually am, and how foolishly I act.

In this world, one is on his/her own; battles aren’t played out with others holding your hands or helping. Battles are fought on lonely fields, and in times of uncertainty, one’s word means nothing; actions speak for themselves and words are cheap. So I press on, hoping that I will be able to resolve matters on my own – all strings severed. Expect nothing, and everything else will be a surprise.