Acts of Grace

2:34:58 PM PST
Feeling Silly
Hearing Soundtrack for "Kuro Tokage"

Heartfelt thanks to my friends who remembered my birthday which, incidentally, was October 23rd.  And, this year, there wasn’t going to be a party.  I did end up having just an intimate dinner a day later at the fervent behest of my superstitious mother.    My mother, bless her heart, is an abbot practitioner of I Ching and numerology.   She believes that whenever a set of numbers are deduced to the number 4, some negative energy or bad luck will gravitate towards the person associated with that ill-fated number: Four.   This is how she arrived at such conclusion, numerologically: The sum of my numbers this year is eight, which represents a double 4 or 4 twice over (4 represents death among numerous other negative fortunes).

    Oh I know, it’s not a logical interpretation, nor is it an authentic numerological deduction.  What’s important is that my seventy-two-year-old mother believes in all the myths and power assigned to that number.   All she wanted was for her only son to have a safe and happy birthday without the influence of any negativity.  After having recovered from a stroke two years ago, she hasn’t been her usual tenacious self so I decided not to dismiss her request to celebrate my birthday a day after in order to mislead the negative energy away from the happy occasion.  My mother was appeased.

   So, the next evening seven— usually a lucky number-- of my close friends came over to my place for a birthday dinner.  It was an impromptu decision and the guest list was made on the basis of availability, especially on such a short notice.  My newest friend who writes scripts for horror films arrived with her fashionista girl friend bearing an over priced aroma therapy set called “Moroccan Figs.”  My most elegant friend who’s a corporate attorney brought her long-time assistant PK, who, despite his muscular exterior, struggled up the flight of stairs to my loft with a case of wine.  My best friend, a hair designer came with his latest love interest who spoke with a heavy Dutch accent.  My room mate, a former classical dancer, helped serve dinner to my guests.  I made the heart of palm salad with mustard vinaigrette dressing served on a bed of endives.  I also whipped up my specialty pasta dish—linguini with chunks of king crab meat in a creamy basil and sun dried tomato sauce. Two bottles of champagne and four bottles of chardonnay later, the reason behind my decision to celebrate my birthday a day later resurfaced.

   I felt obligated to reveal the truth regarding my superstitious mother, and I thought that would be the end of that.  But, of course, one of the guests HAD to bring up the fact that there were eight of us there, the double of number four, the dreaded number I tried to avoid by celebrating my birthday a day later.  Suddenly, the number four became the focus of everyone’s attention.  Someone said out loud the date: October 24th.  Then, my room mate pointed out the wine bottles all had the year 1994 printed right there on the front label, with 4 seemingly larger and bolder than the rest of the numbers.  My best friend, sarcastic as ever, couldn’t help himself and cried out. 

   “Oh for the love of @#$#, why don’t you bring out the Ouija board while you are at it!”  

    With that, we all chuckled nervously and drank a toast to the number four, hoping that by making fun of it somehow the power we assign to such superstitions might dissipate.  I hoped and prayed that we’d get through the evening without any “bad” incidents.  And, that’s exactly what happened.  There were no broken dishes or glasses, no one slipped on any unfortunate scrap of food I found later on the floor, not even so much as a paper-cut.   

   The entire evening afterwards was excruciatingly uneventful.  On the one hand, I was glad the dinner went with out a hitch, but on the other hand I was left with the annoying thought that perhaps my mother had been right all along.   There is no way of ascertaining whether or not my mother’s superstitious reasoning had any merit at all.  With Halloween fast approaching, I have ample opportunity to observe how people’s preconceived ideas manifest as myths through their choices on costumes and behaviors.  Hey, this is one of the perks of being a writer: I can play anthropologist

whenever I feel like it, even on Halloween.  

 

   

                                       

 

   “…sometimes the power of myths comes through the most unlikely source.”                                    

                                                                                --Joseph Campbell

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9:50:41 PM PDT
Feeling Happy
Hearing guilty pleasure

   A couple of months ago I was chatting with one of my writer friends about my beleaguered blog.  Sure, I had a couple of dozens or so loyal readers but I knew that I was not being heard by the general “netizen” population.  My crafty and resourceful friend paused for a few seconds then sent me a link to the VIVI awards page.  I have been using AOL for more than five years but never heard of this award thing.   Truth be told, I am hardly the “award” type of a person.   Well, it has more to do with one of my earlier unresolved issues than my alleged high-brow nature toward such superfluous concepts.     Years ago, while I was still a pawn in the cut-throat, narcissistic fashion industry, I was up for an award, or two.  One such award was a rather prestigious one given by a major fashion magazine.  Back then I was much younger and was easily enamored by the glamour and glitz of the entire notion.  My marketing team egged me on to make appearances and give interviews at every turn.  I even spent money on some promotional mailers to influence my chances at wining the coveted prize.  All those around me at the time assured me that it was in the bag for me because, of course, I was the "best."

  Sadly, I believed it, and set my self up for a fall that was to leave a scar on my emotional wellbeing for years to come.  Any number of egos had been bruised, if not scarred permanently in the process.  Friendships morphed into rivalry, and valued alliances that took years to forge disintegrated before a single award was given out.   Needless to say, I am no longer a fan of awards.

   This time, however, I am not in it for the glory, nor any sort of monetary compensation (there’s none).  I just want to share my point of view with as many people as possible.  The “recognition” that everyone involved with the VIVI’s were talking about, despite my acquired aversion toward awards, felt genuine and sincere somehow.  It all seemed pretty kosher on the surface, especially since there aren't any dollars involved.  But, of course, where there are more than one thinking bipedal, there will be conflict.  I really am not quite certain what had taken place behind the cyber curtain of these awards, but for a while during the nominating process things looked as though the entire endeavor might become a non-event.  Through some well intentioned maneuvering by few diligent souls championing the VIVI’s, it astonishingly sprung back to life.    

   With my faith in the people affiliated with the awards restored, I am making this entry with all the positive wishes I can muster with words.   And, I do care whether or not I win.  Of course, I won’t suffer any damage emotional nor professional, even if I don’t win this time, because it really is a win-win situation: I have achieved my goal just by being nominated.   My heartfelt thanks to my loyal friends and wonderful readers whose kind words and acts of grace impel me onward.  

   Okay, NOW I’m ready for my close-up.  :-D

           

                

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3:18:42 PM PDT
Feeling Frustrated
Hearing Bridge over troubled water

   This past weekend I went to a birthday party of a friend’s twin sister in an affluent neighborhood of Huntington Beach.  I suppose I should have expected the majority of the guests there, apparently obsessed with spondulix (yes, this is a word…look it up, I certainly had to) over the age of thirty would most likely be conservative republicans.  I never thought, however, that this party beneath the star-lit sky with the fragrance of late Summer Sea would become a forum for heated political debate before the cake-cutting-ceremony.   

   As most of you know I used to be as apathetic as the rest of my colleagues in the fashion industry when it came to politics.  Sure, I’d turn up at the poll every four years, but I usually went with the liberal candidate just to spite my own upbringing as a conservative Catholic.  Truth be told, it really was not very important to me then.  I am quite aware of all that is at stake in this round of American politics with the war, the terrorists, immigration, gay marriages, etc., and that apathy is NOT something we can afford as a people right now.  I hate writing about politics in my journal—if you recall all the fundamentalist freaks who left threatening messages after that entry about “killing in God’s name”—because of obvious reasons.  And, yes, today, it is impossible to separate religion from politics in spite of those sagacious well-intentioned men who created our constitution. 

   I am not going to discuss in detail the content of the “polarized”discussion that transpired at this party, much to the dismay of the birthday girl who just wanted to shoot some tequila and have fun.  One thing I am willing to discuss is the true nature of the Iraq war.  It is not about the theological conflict between the Judeo-Christian West and the Islamic- fundamentalist Arabs as the “shrub” in Office would have you believe.  OMG! I know I am going to get so much “flack” for this, but hey, I have to get this off my chest for my own emotional and mental wellbeing.  What makes this entire diatribe so insidious is the lack of sincerity on the part of our so-called leaders.  A writer/editor friend put it best when he wrote: “George W. Bush, who probably doesn't have a sincere bone in his body, manages somehow to fool an amazing number of people into thinking that he is sincere.  But that's politics, where faking sincerity is something of an art form.” 

   So, what is the “real face” behind the mask of this “theological conflict?”  It is the blueprint for the future of our economy, which by the way, does not include the oil producing economies, as drafted by the multi-national conglomerates that are behind the puppet politicians whose masks of insincerity most of us fail to see through.  The Arabs in particular, finally having realized that they have been “had” by these Western corporations—AMERICA, as they are known in their world—are understandably upset, especially since they are no match against the military might of their perceived enemy.  Their solution?  TERRORISM.  There, I said it!  Hopefully, this will be the last time I’d have to write about it here.

   Now, PLEASE do not think that I sympathize with the terrorists, or try to lasso me in with that “either you are with us or against us” nonsense.  Remember, “only a sith deals in absolutes.”  May the Force be with you, and God Bless America because we really can use a healthy dose of Grace right about now.

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9:56:52 PM PDT
Feeling Silly
Hearing sublime magic

   Last night, after having finalized all the mind-numbing details involved in submitting one of my short stories to a literary magazine, I was too tired to fall asleep.  I figured I’d watch a little TV and, that usually helps in this situation.  I was pleasantly surprised to find a rerun of one of my favorite comic Margaret Cho’s earlier stand-up routines: “I’m the one that I want.”   Years ago, I had actually seen her perform that routine live in Los Angeles while she was on a “nation-wide” tour.  Back then, her recounting of the terrible experiences she’s had with “Hollywood” made me laugh and cry at the same time.  I laughed because the way she delivered the jokes was very funny, and cried because her pain resonated with me in startling ways.  In my former career as a fashion designer, I‘ve had my share of the spirit-killing, mind-boggling, “glass-ceiling” experiences as a person of color.   Yes, it's true, even the fashion industry with all of its gay designers and the self-proclaiming liberal patrons of the craft can't seem to rise above the banality of discrimination, if not out right racism.  This time, now that I am about to become a member of the "literary world," I was too busy thinking about my own definition of what being an “Asian-American” is all about.

   About half-way through the routine, Cho made it clear that she was quite miffed at the Korean-American community in general that did not accept her raw, unconventional humor as an individually unique quality, and a Korean-American reporter in particular who asked her whether her Korean parents would be ashamed because of the things she’d talk about on stage.  Her answer was that “…yes, they’d be ashamed, but not because they are Koreans.  Any parents would be ashamed.”  I’m not sure I’m getting the quotes hundred percentperfect, but it was something to that effect.  The point she was making, I think, is that there is no clearcut definition of, or a way-to-be, an Asian-American.  Towards the end of her routine, she illustrated how she made the mistake in thinking that because she failed as the first Asian-American sitcom star, that she had failed at being who she was, and that she was not good enough to aspire to her own dreams.  She made that common mistake we Asian-Americans often make: We define ourselves first and foremost by our ethnicity.  But, WHY?

   I can sit here and let my digits type away some smart-ass explanation that points to the mainstream American media as the evil culprit.  Or, I am quite certain, I can make a reasonably sound case on the prevailing lack of understanding among various ethnic groups that is the sad but undeniable result of our system of education.  Instead, I’d rather talk about what it all means to me, personally.  How do I want the world to perceive me?  What defines me?

   As an aspiring writer, I have already encountered numerous alarmed reactions from the “industry people” when they find out that I’m a gay Asian- American writer.  They immediately try to contain you into a category so that they can market you in a more convenient manner.  I know it’s an honor for me to be mentioned in the same sentence with Amy Tan or Chang-Rae Lee.  However, I am positively certain that they would also be horrified to be categorized only as Asian-American writers.  I’m not even going to open that “bag of worms,” or the "Pandora's Box," depending on your own set of phobias, by talking about my sexual orientation here.  That’ll have to be an entirely separate session.  I understand that we are all slaves of our sensory perception, and that what we see is what makes the greatest and most lasting impression on our brains.  I know that my wasp neighbor can’t help herself when the first topic of our small talk is which Japanese restaurant I’d recommend.  I know that I can’t escape all that my ethnicity entails, but I will most certainly assert my individuality to the best of my ability.

   I know I don’t yet have all the answers.  I only know that I am proud to be an Asian-American, but I do not want that to be the only defining aspect of who I am either.  Yes, I AM the one that I want, but I want you to want me for my work as a writer, as a person who appreciates the beauty of nature, an individual with at least one unique talent, a lover of life, a peaceful traveler, a thinker and a cynic, just me period, damn it!  So, how do I merge the chasm between my proud heritage as an Asian-American and my need to be an individual?  I’d be sure to let you know when I figure it out. 

   Until then, “oh me so horny, me love you long time?”     

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3:08:51 PM PDT
Feeling Hopeful
Hearing K-Pop compolation

   One of the most daunting tasks of writing for me is finding my “voice.”   In the beginning of my “writing career” I thought a writer’s voice was something that would surface naturally as I gradually develop my own style.  Yes, style has a lot to do with “voice” but it’s not the same thing.  I’m writing about this because I’m trying to figure it out for myself, and writing about it always does the trick for me.  If I babble on long enough in writing the answer I’m searching for sneaks up in there somehow, even if I don’t happen to see it right away.  

   When I first realized that I could not define my own voice, of course, I began reading voraciously on the subject.  Every writer has his/her own theory, or at least an opinion, about it.  Some writers say it’s like the colors a painter chooses to put on the canvas, while others say it’s like the melody of a song.  In a “how to” book on writing I read that novice writers should look for their writing voice by listening to their own speaking voice first, then move on to your inner voice.  So I tried that for a while.  I surreptitiously recorded my phone conversations and listened intently, hoping to come upon the first clue.  At first, I was very surprised by how different the tone of my phone voice sounded from the tone of my “natural” voice.  I also discovered that I often ended my sentences with a nervous sort of snicker which sounded kind of condescending.  Of course, that was not my intention at all, but if I were the person on the other end of the line I would have wondered silently, whatthe hellis he snickering about?   I became so flustered with that bit of self discovery that for months afterwards I consciously tried to control my vocal tone when ever I spoke on the phone.  But, that didn’t help me with finding my writing voice.  Then, I remembered the part about the inner voice, which perplexed me even more.  I knew about the importance of introspection, having read the sage advice of Rilke.  Knowing about it was one thing, but actually applying it in my work was far out of my reach.  Yes, nothing great comes that easy.

   I suppose we do live our lives on the surfaces, but as a serious writer one must reach down deep and expose the "un exposed."  Most people I know, including myself, would rather not visit the bleak core of our inner self because our comfort zone exists on the familiar surface.  The only way, then, to find my true voice is to somehow go down to that unspeakable place within and turn the unspeakable into words.  The true color, or the tone, of my voice can only come through what I dare bring back from that place.  So, courage is vital in finding my voice, it’s as simple as that.  Do I have that kind of courage?  I am really not sure yet, but let’s keep that thought aside for now and talk about the kind of voice I want to have.

   In Paulo Coelho’s novel Alchemist, an old man tells the main character Santiago that “in this world there is one great truth.  If you desire something with all your heart, it will happen.”   I desire the effortless lyricism of F. Scott Fitzgerald, the ferociously beautiful diction of Annie Proulx, the suspended prose style of Yukio Mishima, the magical imagination of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and the measured, morally right voice of E. M. Forster!  I really, really, with all my heart desire all that.  I know, don’t hold my breath, right?  I hope the old man in the Alchemist is right about the “one great truth in the world” because I’m going to keep trying, wanting, and desiring all that.  In the mean time, all I can do is to concentrate on the narrator’s voice of the piece I’m working on at the moment. After all, my story is not as ephemeral as all that.

   Oh, about having the courage to take that plunge deep into the core of my inner self.  Well, I’ll make sure my ankles are secured with a strong enough bungee cords.       

       

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3:35:42 PM PDT
Feeling Hopeful
Hearing Nina Simon  

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6:03:52 PM PDT
Feeling Anxious
Hearing Old Cultureclub compilation album

   One of the most often heard replies to the question "what's up?" in online chats is "just killing time."   Yes, the concept of time is usually relative and subjective, and one of the most mysterious and malleable elements in the ordinary course of our lives.   It can make us the apathetic and laziest couch-potatos, or the inventive and busiest work-a-holics.  Sometimes there's enough of it that we can frivolously kill some of it, and at other times there's so little of it that it can nearly kill us. 

   We all have spent the obligatory Sundays with some relatives we can't stand and experienced how time can simply stop; it takes the entire life-span of an elephant just to sit down to dinner.  In Joseph Heller's Catch-22, one of the characters is so convinced that he was going to die in World War II that he devises a scheme to do only the things that he "hates" so his life will last longer.  I can positively attest to the fact that it took a lot longer for me to reach the legal drinking age of twenty-one from the time I got my driver's license at sixteen, than from my twenty-second birthday until I was able to take part in the "experienced drivers" program through the Auto club at age thirty-two.  

   On the other hand, we all know that time is passing us by, and sooner or later we'll all regret the times we tried our damnedest to "kill" some of the life's most precious commodities.  We are always trying to make time, or beat it, or spend it or kill it.  In the long run, however, it always outfoxes us.  Moreover, because I am not a fatalist or a pessimist, I won't stop trying to outrun time rather than let the time run out on me.  It really is the proverbial double-edged-sword!!

   When I am sailing smoothly through page after page of my novel, I forget all about the passing of time.  In those truly transcendental moments, I can forget the ticking of the clock, the trials and the tribulations of my ordinary life as a struggling writer.  More often than not, however, I'm laboring like a sweatshop worker just to get through the impossible hours with every ticking second ringing in my ears.   Where am I right  now?  Well, I'm somewhere between the ecstasy of the  possibly brilliant outcome, and the misery of trying to figure out a way to get there.  So, here I am, taking a piece of the precious time to clear the clogged passages of my brain in one of my usual sessions of cerebral diarrhea.   

  "...but, you must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.  The fundamental things apply, as time goes by..."  Play it again, Sam!!

       

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2:09:25 PM PST
Feeling Happy
Hearing Life in Mono

   When I  first decided to give up my cushy job as a fashion merchandiser in a well-known design house in order to pursue my life-long dream of becoming a writer, I made a grave error in judgment by announcing it to everyone I knew.  The less than warm reaction from those I thought would be so happy for me really caught me by surprise at first.  Of course there were few sympathetic "friends" and relatives who gave me the obligatory "how nice...hope it works out for you" speech.  The overwhelming majority, however, reacted by trying to discourage me from making the "biggest mistake of my life."  One friend from work said, "but you are so talented...and good at what you do," which really meant "I don't think you are really talented enough to make it as a writer."  My best friend asked me, "how will you afford to maintain your lifestyle?" which really meant "will you still be able to go on our yearly shopping trip to Europe?"  After encountering a barrage of such double-sided reactions disguised as "friendly concern," I had to stop telling people of my new life plan.

   After a period of agonizing introspection, I realized that the "cool" reaction I had encountered from almost everyone was in part due to my own lack of understanding: The human complexity.   Human beings generally dislike having to break out of their comfort zones, and my new "life  plan" had somehow encroached in on their's.  "Don't try to fix it, if it ain't broke," people say.  I suppose that all our relationships are based on maintaining some sort of balance among all the various "comfort zones."  Everything we the "ordinary people" do is based on some sort of structure that all of us had to struggle to maintain.  Now I understand that my thoughtless announcement had brought that structure into question, if not seriously threatened them.

   Desperate to maintain my resolve to keep writing and to forge ahead with my plan, I began reading about other writers--really famous and respected ones--in order to somehow validate and to justify my own conviction.  However, instead of finding some nourishing nugget of encouragement all I had discovered were examples of how wrong my premature announcement had been.  Hemingway said that "...to talk about your work is to give it away, to weaken it, to take away its magic and its strength."  Jane Austen, I read, wrote on a sofa in the drawing room and kept a sewing basket nearby to cover her writing in case someone walked in.  Gertrude Stein lashed out in her usual peevish fit when someone dear to her wasn't sufficiently appreciative of her work.  "Very well, then," she said, "I will just write for myself, and strangers."

   I suppose it's really too late to undo the damage now.  But, true to form, I refuse to let it bring me down.  After all, I have overcome much greater obstacles that came my way.  As some of you know I have just gone through a pretty complicated eye surgery in order to stop my vision  from degenerating further, and if possible, to improve my night vision.  I am happy to report that the procedure went very well and I am quickly recovering.  Now, only two days after the surgery, I am able to post this entry without the aid of magnifying glasses.  In time, I hope to be able to drive again (and in LA, not being able to drive is more like a curse than a mere handicap).  

   I am an aspiring writer, but a writer nonetheless despite the portending failure or success of my novel.  In the mean time, I have this blog/journal, which truly is my "ticket in immortality's lottery."  A piece of me is floating out there in the cyber Universe, and until every last entry has been deleted, every computer smashed, every Internet user gone, I'm not bound by the rules of time.  Now, armed with the precious encouragement from a handful of people I really trust, and with the gift of improved vision, I have everything I need to dash forward.  I am, at last, transcendentally happy, to be living a literary life of my own.  And, that's what writers are suppose to do, at least in their hearts and souls, to bring a little piece of that illusive but attainable transcendental happiness to their readers. 

  

 

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3:13:32 PM PST
Feeling Hopeful
Hearing Marisa Monte

No, I am not talking about the popular brand of computers.  As some of you already know I've taken a trip to NYC, also known as the "Big Apple."  The reference to the "core" (aside from my silly attempt at metaphor) happens to be a literal one.  I have always had an unusual abhorrence to the New York Subways.  In all the years I have lived and worked in Manhattan, I can count the number of times I used the subways on two hands.  This time, however, a friend of mine had somehow convinced me to take the subways to visit the Ground Zero."  Normally, I would have insisted on taking a taxi but a pretty traumatic experience which haunts me to this day made me hesitate for a moment (some of you know exactly what/who I'm talking about).  Before I could hold out my hand to hail down a cab, my friend was already guiding me down the steps leading to the Penn station.

As I tried not to breathe in too much of the stale subterranean air, a train thundered in with a gale force wind which punched in the foul air deep into my lungs.  It almost made me turn around and head up for the "fresh air" of the streets above, but I was already nudged into the train by the crowd.  My concerned friend asked me how I was doing, and instead of telling him that I felt ill from breathing in the subway air, I put on a brave face and said that I was doing fine.  We sat for a relatively calm ride for couple of stops, then had to transfer to another Downtown train that was much more crowded.  I suppose my survival instinct kicked in at last and my grip on the hand rail tightened to keep me from hurdling onto the lap of a little old lady sitting behind me.  My friend tried to keep me engaged in some pleasant talk about the history of the area but I was too busy concentrating on keeping myself on both feet for the duration of the ride.

As you can Imagine, I was immensely relieved when we finally arrived at our destination: The Ground Zero.  The bleak scenery I was now faced with where the glorious modern symbol of our nation's success had once stood proudly made me forget all about my unnerving subway ride.  Instinctively, my hands reached for my digital camera and started snapping shots.  I was not quite certain what I shot or why, but when my friend guided my aimless focus to the symbolic "Cross beam," I stopped.  

I realized at that moment how pointless all this picture taking amongst bus loads of tourists that were wondering around not knowing what they were looking at, or what they should be looking for.  However, that moment of cynicism lasted only for a few seconds.  Despite the seemingly degrading sight of all the tour buses and the rubber-necking gawkers that were attracted to a disaster sight, I understood the true meaning of what I was doing there.  In retrospect, I suppose some unseen force had helped me endure the subway ride so that I may come to this point of "enlightenment."  I can only speak for myself here, and I can tell you that the symbolism of the Ground Zero had somehow gave me a renewed sense of purpose and the strength to go on with my own struggle.

My journey towards becoming a published writer have been an arduous and harrowing trip.  My lack of formal training in fiction writing had always handicapped me from punching through the glass ceiling of amateurism.  This trip to NYC had changed all that.  Through a serious of unforeseen but fortunate turn of events I was able to acquire the necessary tools to finally make that break through.  Ah...and I owe some of the credit to the Internet as you may have noticed on my previous entry.

On the Sunday of my trip to NYC, a writer friend took me to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.   It was to be another one of my private triumph, for I also have a slight fear of high places (the Yin/Yang thing again!).  The aftermath of 911 had made the excursion a much more bothersome experience with all the security measures.  My writer friend and I discussed how the photo-op maybe a way of keeping tabs on everyone who comes into the building disguised as a souvenir ploy.  once we got started on the government conspiracy theory, even the way they checked in our tickets through a computerized machine was suspect: they could be taking our finger prints!! 

Once we finally got through the maze of roped out trails and elevator rides, the enclosed portion of the observation deck was a pure let-down.  The entire place was lined with Airport type souvenir shops and crowded beyond our comfort level.   We tried to escape the claustrophobic enclosure by venturing out to the open deck, but the bone-chilling wind made us scurry back in for the "comfort" of the enclosure.  I lasted long enough to take a 45-sceond-long video out there, but the final result was a shaky mass and mostly out of focus.  As we came back down to the ground level my friend voiced his disappointment; the experience was not as satisfying as he had anticipated.  I, on the other hand, was not disappointed at all.  To me, it was only fitting that I'd go up to the top of ESB after I had been to the bottom of the WTC.  Somehow in my mind, that had completed the circle of experience, the balance of the Yin and the Yang.  By "bird by bird," and one day at a time, I hope to finally reach my own point of balance.  What better way to symbolize my new resolve than to take this mini-journey from the core of the Big Apple to the top of the Empire State Building?  

RIP...King Kong!!       

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3:08:43 PM PST
Feeling Hopeful
Hearing Grace Jones

   YES, I did say that didn't I?  Everyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I am a cynic and a skeptic.  I pride myself in my ability to see through the facade and not be easily swayed by all the fly-by-night concepts and the flash-in-the-pan trends.  I am as apathetic towards the concept of cultivating any sort of meaningful relationship from the Internet as the next guy.  Well, I should rephrase that and make it a past tense now,  I know what you all are thinking: "What is he up to now?"..."Right, see how long that kind of delusional thinking will last"...and so on and so forth.  All you nay sayers should stop reading right here for it will only further infuriate you to go on with what I am about to share here.

   Not only have I made great friends in the cyber space, I have quite successfully transitioned them over into the real world.  And, not just one or two but more than I can count on one hand.  These friends are  human beings with all their wonderful shortcomings and flaws.  These friends experience happiness and joy as well as grief and annoyance.  Some of these friends are poor in monetary terms but wealthy beyond  comprehension in their ability to bestow grace and generosity upon one another.  Some of these friends are not the physical specimens of perfection but their inner beauty shines through to blind you of their physical imperfections.   Some of these friends are not geniuses but their practical understanding of the world will help guide you through the toughest dilemmas you'd come to face.  And, I humbly stand among them and beam proudly as one of their own.

   I am not trying to justify the dehumanizing that is one of the unfortunate side effects of the Internet for some.  I certainly am not defending the nut-jobs and idiots that populate the cyber space to prey upon the innocent.  However, as is the case with all humanity's technological inventions and intellectual concepts, flaws are bound to be intrinsic components because human beings are flawed creatures.  I dare say that I can now embrace the once detested but necessary media and even be an advocate.  Whatever we may complain about the Internet, let's face it,  it is here to stay.  Instead of admonishing it's flaws we should use it to benefit each other in ways that it's original inventors would stand up and cheer.  

   I am grateful that I am privileged to live in an age where this amazing and wonderous media exists.  Sour grapes will no longer sprout from my lips.  I promise. 

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