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March 12, 2002
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· · *SUPERPLASTIC
In a few days, no doubt, we'll be overhauling ourselves again. This time, the respect goes out to you, the consumer. This time, we're enjoying the bubble gum era to its finest.
This time, we're going *SUPERPLASTIC.  6 comments
March 5, 2002
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· · Respect At Socrates’ Feet
It really took me a while to feel like I was wanted there.
Amidst the scene of emotional chaos that takes part in Jacques-Louis David’s The Death of Socrates, I, the viewer, standing in front of the 51 x 77Ľ inch canvas at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, felt unwanted. In the foreground, ten figures are present—and not one of them finds me important enough to pay attention to. Instead, everyone is in a state of turmoil. Socrates is about to commit suicide.
The size of a canvas as well as inherent idea that “Wow, David actually painted this exact one!” are two of the main factors that increased my experience as the viewer of the painting. Unlike looking at the work of art on a postcard—resized for postal convenience—the actual painting has the ability to emit the notion that I am there. In front of him. While it’s happening.
And that’s what makes it so special. The glaring sadness (and beauty) of Socrates’ death in front of my own eyes. The characters of the scene portray intense emotion toward their subject’s future, enough so that I, the bystander, am left alone to gaze around for myself. Only then did I notice something in the real thing that isn’t present in any postcard: There’s a guy—the one in the back, to the left, with his hand raised, looking toward me—who is telling me that it’s okay. It’s fine. That I should relax.
The fact is not that I’m unwanted. The fact is that I should pay my respect to Socrates at his feet, for I’m there in his last seconds. Simple. 10 comments
March 4, 2002
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· · Good Something To You
It's oh-so-ironic that I posted a picture of the view outside my window last week. Because I'm not there anymore.
Packed up and moved out to a room on the 16th floor—10 below the former. The view here would have been reminiscent of the one I had this summer had it not been for a few unfortunate hours. And those I'm still in the process of digesting.
It's still surreal.
Over spring break—that would be next week—expect a new version of this site. I'm not sure what it'll be called or how it'll look, but changes are in effect. This version has torched its name on five separate months, a feat unmatched since Version 1.0.
Three midterms in this upcoming week. More intriguing details of my young life. Etc, etc. Something like that. Coming soon, so stay tuned. 3 comments
February 27, 2002
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· · Wanting To Leave It All Behind
6:57AM. Outside my window. Lately, I've been going to bed later and waking up earlier. Forcing myself into completing my 90 minute sleep cycles in class. Preparing for the future. Yah, maybe I'm just ahead of the game. 7 comments
February 26, 2002
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· · When 2 + 2 Doesn't Equal 4
Sometimes not even your body fits. Everything feels loose; the skin is tougher than it should be. The world is heavier and gravity is suddenly not your friend. Your feet is grounded, but you want to fly. The world is wide-open, yet you can't breathe. The room is only small because you are so big. And you can't smile because you're already smiling a fake one. Sometimes. 5 comments
February 25, 2002
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· · Brooklyn Bridge Bound, Smiling
I have a magnet in my head. It is small yet highly effective. It has a small imprint on it that says, "I Love New York." One would imagine it exists because I have so much love for this city, but lately, I've realized otherwise.
As on every cornershop in Times Square, the term above is one that perennially defines the tourist scene in the Big Apple. It exists, I've come to believe, for the same reason the magnet exists: For the tourists. For their navigation. And to find me as their guide. Indeed, it seems that tourists like me. They really really do.
I'm not sure what it is about my face or how I look, how I dress or how I walk—but I get stopped a lot for directions and other touristy purposes.
It's okay. I don't mind. I was once a tourist too.
Today, after I missed my bus and then missed the A/C trains from Fulton St., I walked on and tried to grab the 4/5 Express. As I stood there, in sneakers (this is a rarity; occurs quarterly), waiting for the train, an old lady with a staunch British accent suddenly grabbed my attention as the 5 train was nearing the platform. "Is this uptown to Chambers St.?" She was wearing a rather large, fluffy and white fur coat. And had on rather interesting Oh-Darling-Aren't-You-Absolutely-Fabulous! sunglasses on. She desperately needed a cheshire cat in her arms. And maybe a shopping bag from Bergdorf Goodman. Would have been a charmer, no doubt.
And, as luck would have it for me at this cursed 4/5 station, I watched the train pass me by as she kept on conferring with me for directions. She insistently apologized, and I insistently said that it was fine. Because, indeed, it really was. Sometimes things happen.
The world works interestingly. I only felt angered for a split-second. Soon, the thought of helping out another person—one that could have been me—alleviated my tension. It didn't matter if I was late. I had helped someone out. I had made her smile. 2 comments
February 20, 2002
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· · Method Via Madness
I have a midterm for my Introduction to Marketing class tomorrow. While I'm hard(ly) at work, I thought it would be interesting to show you how my thought patterns flow:
There are five uncontrollable, environmental factors that are part of the marketing process. To remember these, I think of the environment. Nature. Water. Flowing. Remember that LifeSavers commercial that had the candies swinging in the jungle and on the slopes of Antarctica? I take the latter vision of the icy lands and convert it to Certs. They're white with a blue center and resemble icy cold lands where the environment is issue number one.
Certs, therefore, deal with the environment. CERTS. Competitive, Economic, Regulatory, Technological and Social.
Bring it. 11 comments
February 17, 2002
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· · A Ninety-Nine State Of Mind
on and on and on and on
i stared at her as she spoke on about him. earlier (months ago), when i had asked her simply "has there been anyone you think you've fallen in love with or were quite close to being in love with?" she had answered with his name. today, she once again brought him up. apparently she spoke to him last night about his life, his plans, his future and whatnot. you could see her eyes sparkle, light up, her cheeks get mellower, her eyebrows relieve themselves, her lips implicate joyous implications.
what she spoke of him during class was not enough. when we took our usual walk through the halls as we do everyday, she continued speaking of him. it made me happy and sad and joyous and melancholy all at once seeing her speak of him. it was as if this aphroditic beauty was flying out of my weakened reach and into the arms of her herculean prince.
we talked about fate one night until dawn. we talked about how it would be to know that the person you might be searching for all your life may just be in front of you all the while.
this afternoon, i happened to come across a thought: maybe she is suited for him, and he for her.
maybe it was always meant to be.
yea, like the beat goes on
on and on and on and on --> halcyonic stylee
—Asymmetrical Iterations, March 4, 1999, Dequinix.com Version 1.0 / Obsidian in Amber 2 (previously unpublished) 9 comments
February 12, 2002
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· · Because Tomorrow Passed Us By
Running for the bus, I must have caught her off-guard. I yelled her name just as she was about to get on. She turned around, her eyes searching for recognition of a face and found mine. She let out a smile, and we entered the bus together.
Seats were filled, all but in the back. Two seats, smack dab in the middle. We grabbed them making sure we gave each other enough space. Yet, somehow, I don't think that's what we wanted.
"Haven't seen you lately, busy boy, huh?" She had this thing she did with her eyebrow. She peeled it forth, not so much as arching it, so much so that the motion propelled you to fall in love. Alright, so that's being too forward. But you get what I mean.
"Yah, first time in a week I get to go home before midnight. Need a job, need money, need to do this and that and this and that. Well, you know the drill. Just, uh, multiply that by two." I winked at her when I spit out that last part.
She smiled.
Wait: Who is she? I don't know. Seriously. I have her in a few of my classes, I think. I see her here and there and even sat next to her a few times. But, I guess, somehow, someway, some sort of a relationship formed between us. I only know her full name because I saw her on the class roll. I'm not exactly good at this stuff, it's not what I do. Keeping track of my own life's a challenge. But yeah, she caught my eye. My fancy. Whatever you call it. And it came down to this.
"What're you reading there?" She peered over and noticed the orange-laced, purple book in my left hand. She was sitting on my right.
"Oh. Sputnik Sweetheart. Good stuff. Had to snipe out the library shelves for a week to snatch this baby. The author, he's Japanese. My fav. This was the latest one to get translated, but since I'm a cheap bastard, I didn't feel like buying the hardcover. Plus, hardcovers—they're not the same. The feeling, it's all wrong. You can't curl up with a hardcover. Paperbacks are your friends. Alright, so that sounded mad weird. But you know what I mean." Alright, so I babbled. Hope she didn't notice?
"Hrm. Okay. What kind of story is it?" She seemed interested. Genuinely, possibly. I mean, she could have ended the conversation, right? Right.
"Well, girl falls in love for first time. With someone much older. Who is married. Who is a woman! Good shit, huh?" This is where I'd find out if I could really fall for this girl. The next few words out of her mouth would be worth their weight in gold.
"You like it so far?" Alright, so a bit disappointed. But damn, what the hell did I want to hear? I don't even know myself, to be honest.
"I do. Yah." Simple.
"Lemme read it afterward, ok? Sounds kinda interesting." She smiled once again. Click.
"Yah, definitely. Definitely."
I think that's how the story goes. Something like magic, out of thin air. Something that's supposed to, does happen. It's not exactly destiny. Destiny's harsher, with defined actions. This, it's different. It's about chance and a soft, malleable condition of the soul. A heart that's ready to try something else, that's ready to take control. I believe in this. Someday it'll strike again. And yeah, I'll be waiting. 10 comments
February 10, 2002
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· · Mediating The Defenses
"I think most people live in a fiction. I'm no exception. Think of it in terms of a car's transmission. It's like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything's all nicely in sync. That's how you keep your fragile body intact. Does this make any sense?"
—Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami 1 comment
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