Wednesday, December 25, 2013

a small Christmas thought

Today, we wish Christ a happy birthday, and give gifts to each other. Perhaps there's another layer in the symbolic exchange of gifts, for "God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." Colossians 1:27.
Happy birthday, Jesus, and happy re-birthday to you, too.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

for my teacher


It's been a semester full of surprises, some more welcome than others. One month ago, my music theory teacher Mr. Yowell announced his sudden retirement. To de-numb myself, I scoured through the why's, but found no answer. So instead, I'll present my small why's for Mr. Y: why his departure hurts so deeply, and why he shall stick in my memory.

Mr. Yowell took on the music theory class, but his primary attentions lay with school choirs, in which I sung for two school years and a summer. Cantare Chorale, the all-female ensemble, was by far the best time of the day. Following every class, we girl-chorists gamboled down the halls, humming "Follow Me Down to Carlow" and Tahitian folk songs. Mr. Yowell elicited confidence from shy singers like mine, hammered good posture into the sluggish ones, made smiles from sleepless scowls. From a mishmash of voices (some mellifluous, most... crunchy), Mr. Yowell crafted a single, fine instrument, which he played masterfully.

With his encouragement, I explored new territory:
  • uke-strumming for "Hey Soul Sister"
  • tricks of the piano-accompanist trade
  • ad libitum violin solos
  • the percussive-ness plastic eggs, zippers, claves, and tupperware
  • golden hand-bells (with which I famously ruined the beginning of a solemn Latin dirge, in-concert. As I chimed the opening chord, I [and the audience] realized that I had grabbed a tri-tone instead of a perfect fifth. He... hehehe)

Last summer, Mr. Yowell led the choirs on a tour of Italy. Somehow, he arranged for his high-school minstrels to sing Franz Biebl's "Ave Maria" in the Vatican. For me, it was the performance of a lifetime--reverent and resounding. We bused up the boot, singing for fishermen and their fan-swishing wives at their seaside chiesa, distributing flyers in rudimentary Italian in shady alleys, chomping our way through sun-dried tomato everything. Lo sono in cielo, I am in heaven, fell glibly from our oft-opened lips.   
  
In a public school that scorns public declarations of faith, Mr. Yowell courageously included Christian repertoire in every song set ('twas natural; the bulk of classical choral compositions are ecclesiastical). Students barred from wishing others a "Merry Christmas," caroled it instead. With music as his medium, Mr. Yowell advanced his ministry.

Summer arrives, music-sheets hit the recycling bin, and the piano dons its dust-cover. The choirs sing "Irish Blessing" to send off seniors, variables in the high-school equation. I expected Mr. Yowell to be a constant, but he, too, has shifted. In farewell, here's an Irish Blessing for my teacher:

May the road rise up to meet you. 
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again, my friend,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.


helplessly hoping

Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you. My dad spotted an M. C. Esher-esque photo op.
I present to you selections from Crosby, Stills & Nash, pieced together with colored patches of my own. Wrap up in the quilt!

Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby 
H... h... h... hahhhh. I love the way alliteration hums along.
Awaiting a word 

Accompanied by the sound of silence: In restless dreams I walked alone/narrow streets of cobblestone. Narrow streets, elsewhere: “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few. Matthew 7:13-14.
Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit 
How might a spirit be both gentle and true? How easily I supply the former, often in a feigned fashion. Is it really possible to hold others higher than oneself?
He runs wishing he could fly only to trip at the sound of good-bye... 

Alas, poor fellow. Every good-bye leaves the tingly possibility of another hello. 


Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you 
S... s... s... My fourth grade teacher gave everyone detention for hissing.
Confusion has its cost 

Best to speak, for silence leaves more room for misinterpretation.
Love isn't lying, it's loose in a lady who lingers

Lingering... Waiting for the denouement, answer, affirmation.
Saying she is lost and choking on hello

So be patient with her. 


They are one person, they are two alone
They are three together, they are for each other.
Hey, Plain White T's! I've spotted a maybe-root of the song "1234": There's only one way/two say/three words/for you. The syntactic idea is the similar, but the sentiment differs. "1234" is aglow with warm love, but in "Helplessly Hoping," love is distant, and demands third-person treatment

Here's the actual song, uninterrupted by globbish glibbering. I also have a soft spot for the King's Singers' rendition.


Friday, December 6, 2013

gratitude unlocks the fullness of life

Scenes from another Woodleigh Thanksgiving

My parents in a rare moment of cooperation. My dad cannot cook, and is rather resentful of kitchen over-activity, but he is a carving--an artist. My mom, on the other hand, is a Bauman College-certified Natural Chef. See the way she tosses the purple cabbage! I must describe her signature dessert, the tiramisu (located at right). 'Tis dusted with hot-chocolate powder, contains a good glug of (un-evaporated) Kahlua coffee liquor, which enriches pillows of mascarpone-zabaglione. Makes tipsy munchers. The dishes sit atop our laminated astronomy and geography place-mats - gourd (good) feast-time reading.

Two little kids, one a little littler than the other. My brother Samuel and small cousin Evie used to have a strained relationship, due to The Incident in the Car: several Thanksgivings ago, my mom chastised Samuel for not buckling up, calling him a very bad boy. Evie, bizarrely observant for a toddler, held onto this memory and deliberately avoided contact with the very bad boy. Samuel was not permitted pat her, eat pumpkin muffins with her, or occupy the same row in the minivan. The three-year Reformation of Samuel's Reputation commenced, requiring gift offerings and acrobatic displays from my brother. Persistence won back Evie's heart, and here they are now--within two feet of each other! 

A game of I Spy reveals my cello-wielding cousin Joyce, my yellow-apron'd mom, my dad rearranging chairs (his favorite activity). In the foreground, a glass of fizzy beer (not mine), and my dear Catherine in a turkey-induced slump.

I am thankful for these scenes, and all that goes on behind them. Thank you, God, for another day. 

Sunday, November 10, 2013


Studio smiles! I love my piano family.
12 years ago, at my first piano recital, my dad reminded me that smiling was of the utmost importance. I took him very seriously and grimaced fiercely, quite like a lunatic, throughout Singing in the Rain, and also through the plaintive piece - Greensleeves! - that followed. My teacher waved frantically for me to stop grinning because it was scaring audience members. I was very confused, then, but today I am not - I pursue music because it makes me smile.

And smiling really makes quite the difference, in any situation! Thank you, Dad, for this precious piece of advice.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Saratoga Tales, as told by Gladys and Edith

Thank you Chaucer for writing Canterbury Tales, Ms. Head for the assignment, and Julianne (click it! Click it, I say!) for collaborating with me on this Frankenstein.

General Prologue

Here begins the Booke of The Tales of Saratoga: When autumn unfurled upon the sanguine Saratoga folke, and crispy yellow leaves drifted down like dandruff, and bulbous, warty gourds filled the farmer’s market, the local finishing academy decided to host a school-wide night hike to Bald Mountain. The teachers sought chaperones, and I happened to be in town researching moss growth in Bigge Basin. The Literature teacher, familiar with my trustworthy soul, requested that I supervise the excursion. Thus, I had the profound pleasure of examining each and every one of these unique Saratogans, and I shall begin with the Bizarre Buffoons.
There were two of these mademoiselles, who were quite chatty and exuberant indeed. They were constantly of excellent disposition, as they had large imaginations with which to keep themselves occupied. They were quite literally ‘attached at the (chubby) hip,’ piercing the fresh air with giggly, unintelligible conversation, one having low intonation and the other high pitch. Indeed, they were an indulgent pair when it came to nosh, and kept food diaries to record their gobbling habits. They plowed and chowed through many a food joint, insatiable as they were. The only anguish either had known was the slight emptiness of a gut. Following their food pillaging, they flubbed about on the ground, full to the brim with good grub. The buffoons were known as Edith and Gladys.
Next came three marvelous Scrubs who kept a pointed distance from the bizarre buffoons. These boys were pale as the winter moon from lack of outdoor activity, and very much single. However, they were by no means ‘eligible bachelors,’ for their intellectual ambitions rendered them asexual. They had gloriously sonorous voices, honed by years of speech and debate. One could easily spot the three among the hikers by their drooping gaits. Regarded as surly and aloof, the Scrubs shrouded themselves in misty mystery. They were named Pongo Chen, Pingie Pwu, and Hansel Su.
A flock of Taiwanese mommies, known simply as the Zumba Clan, served as caboose to the procession. There were six of them, all sprightly and spry, full of jiggles and joy. Frequently found baking, quilting, and pestering their posterity, these beloved mothers amused themselves with dainty pastimes. They dressed strangely stylishly and sported swishy bobs, reminiscent of schoolgirl-hood. Each of them had a clueless, uptight husband of the squinty variety. These delightful ladies were, in turn, referred to as “____’s Mama.” 
There were several Small Citizens of Saratoga High, fawned over by the entire female population. They were stolid and tranquil folk, unbearably adorable, though they were understandably resentful of their short statures. All of them wished to grow a foot or so taller. Thus, they tended not to enjoy the attention they received from females and attempted to avoid any topic on height, exhibiting notable discomfort whenever complimented for their cuteness. They were called Peter, Paul, and Saul.
A trio of Pudgy Pianists dragged their feet in perfect rhythm, humming Hummel and mewling Mozart, slowing the parade. The more bounteous the bottom, the more dedicated the pianist, after all. At school, they prioritize piano over people, scuttling off to the music building during passing for a couple moments of frantic practice. Stoic, ascetic, and masochistic, they considered themselves true “Exemplars of -ic,” and as a result were subtly snobbish toward their non-musical classmates. I knew them as Nikolai Chowsky, Boris Krushchev, and Yekaterina Yov.
The Alternatives consecrated themselves from the general school population as delegates of ‘different’. They dressed differently, thought differently (à la Apple), behaved differently – they were artists, and they knew it. Indeed, they were every bit as talented as they led people to believe, but their philosophical physiognomies often drove people away (perhaps an intended effect). They called themselves Burning Ermine, Twiggy, and Star Blanket.
Floating along and diffusing Victoria’s Secret body spray were three Fluffy Girls – girlfriend types, one might say. They were always clean and dressed in pastels, very soft and smooth to the touch. They were like docile, content white kittens, basking in boyfriend-bestowed affection. Though they orbited in a beau-centric universe, one could not be vexed by these lovely misses, who were sweet toward all who surrounded them. They were called Milano Cookeigh, Lily Lin, and Mary Sue Muffet.
The History Ballers I save for last, for in history lies the secrets of statecraft. They possessed vast knowledge in many areas – medieval Europe, ancient Rome, Persia, fine arts, East Asian – though their expertise extends beyond history. They dominated Physic, Alchemy, and Abacus by day, and hit the buzzers at night. Despite slight social ineptitude, the Ballers (and other Bowl folke from the realms of Quiz, Science, and Ethics) commanded respect for their tasteful treatment of trivia. They were simply History Ballers, subliminally serious and seriously sublime. And that was that.
On the great night-trek to Bald Mountain, these myriad specimens quibbled and quarreled in earnest. Sometimes, diversity can be a bit of a drawback. I proposed that they tell stories to celebrate their differences and see through one another’s eyes, for once. They went forth with my idea, strangely enough.


Prologue of the Bizarre Buffoons


Edith and Gladys volunteered to go first, bursting to impart the fruits of their identical imaginative trajectory. “We are very mindfully aware of our flaws,” they said knowingly. “Indeed, we feast voraciously on every bit of grub we encounter, and abuse adverbs, but we regret our behavior. We are attempting to control our stomachs, but it is a gradual task, you see.” The History Ballers and fluffy girls smiled amiably at the buffoons and gestured for them to proceed, while the scrubs - wary of their unusual proximity to these odd girls - excused themselves to the restroom. “We tell this story to exacerbate our troubles and remind ourselves to keep on the road to recovery. Let us begin.”
~~~
Here begins the tale of the Bizarre Buffoons: “Partake in the genius of the Bizarre Buffons (buffons, like muffins). This is the anthem of the anomalies, the neither/nors, the Bridget Joneses, the ravenous crumb-droppers, and the Prattling Non-Peaceholders. The tragedy begins thus:
One octagonal October day, Maestro Boyt’s cherished orchestra students, Judel Wee and Glodel Bee, decided to go off-campus for lunch. The portly pair burst forth from the rehearsal room (which reeked of sweat and cookie dough) and shuffled into Judel’s polar bear-colored shuttle.
Belting Les Mizzles all the way, Judel and Glodel cruised down Saratoga Aditusque toward the esteemed eatery 5Guize. The gluttonous pair were hungry as Hungarian Horntails, and upon entering 5Guize charged straight for the free-peanut barrels (which happened to be in the shape of 3D rectangular prisms). They inhaled piles of perfectly toasted peanuts without shedding the shells, , and left a trail of peanut carcasses in their wake. Very cleverly, Judel snitched an extra cardboard boat (also of rectangular prismic form) for future sampling. She was ever so clever, once again.
Fleeing the 5Guize bell-hoppers, Judel and Glodel sought sanctuary in nearby Sprouts Supermarche. The bulk section dazzled them. Glodel, in the manner of Eve to Adam, convinced Judel of the legality of taste-testing (or so she thought). Judel deftly pocketed a peanut butter cup, as manipulated by Glodel. They both misappropriated several multi-colored Alpine mints. Scuttling over to the frozen food aisle, the pair came across antipasti cart. It was chock full of olives, white beans, and marinated mozzarella (called bocconcini), all laid out like jewels on display.
The bocconcini swam in an olive-oil bath, adorned with roasted red peppers and flecks of rich pesto. The charming white globes, so pure and pearlescent, beckoned Glodel and Judel. They could not break away – the lovely aroma of red pepper cornered and caressed them - they simply had to sample - they could not dilly-dally a moment longer!
Without waiting for the mocha mothers and pasty employees to evacuate adjacent aisles, the pair pounced. Swiftly, Judel extracted the pilfered peanut-boats. With a sweep of the tongs, Glodel procured two snack-sized spheres from the vat and deposited them into the cardboard chariot (which happened to be a 3D rectangular prism).
Victoriously, they popped the bocconcini into their mouthies. As their fangs sunk into the soft, they felt... Sparks. Nicholas Sparks. Familiar food-induced tingles, almost romantic in nature, erupted throughout their jiggly bodies. These decadent sensations catalyzed their serious sin: they took three more without a drop of gustatory guilt.
Glodel, referencing the nearby romaine, nudged Judel: ‘Lettuce fly, comrade!’ The thieves extracted yet another three bocconcini for the road and sprung out of Sprouts Supermarche. They tucked themselves into the polar bear-colored shuttle, and (oh what fun!) sped down Saratoga Aditusque, gobbling all the way (ha-ha-ha)!
Alas, Judel’s eyes were not on the road. As she turned into the school’s parking lot, the pair battled piggishly for the final cheese. Judel was just about to pop it into her mouth when Glodel used her stolen tongs to knock it out of her buddy’s flubby grip. Judel, in fierce reflexive reaction, floored the gas pedal and whipped the wheel violently to the left.
The polar bear-colored car careened past the office, soared up the quad steps, and crashed dramatically into the sweaty-smelling rehearsal room. Cinderblock crumbled like cookies. The great Chinese gong rolled out from the rubble and danced like a top on the quad. As its spinning expired with a final crash, the Snack Sneaks breathed their last. A tiny ball of mozzarella, slightly melted, was discovered at the scene.”
~~~
The two buffoons exchanged piteous glances. “Let this be a lesson to you all – do not drive under the influence. Also, dairy has questionable side effects. Above all, control your id! Id temperare.” Their mouths tugged up symmetrically and simultaneously in ponderous humor. “This tale does bear some semblance to reality.” 
Finis.
A note to the reader: We (the true writers of this Saratoga Tale) tried to make it as obvious as possible, but just in case, it is important to note that the weirdness and redundancy of the two buffoons’ tale is intentional. The strange sentences are meant to reflect the buffoonery of Edith and Gladys, as they would likely tell their tale in such a way.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

when fallen

Backyard persimmon cloud.
Stuart Little wondered in his movie, "If every cloud had a silver lining, wouldn't that make them kind of heavy?" A valid point, I think. 

After tests, my friend Julianne iterates the Spanish equivalent: "No hay mal que por bien no venga!"

John Milton planted the idea in 1634: 
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
turn forth her silver lining on the night?
I wonder, where does one find sable clouds? We only have cotton-balls here. I do remember brown skies in Beijing, but even those clouds wore a bit of argent jewelry.

Humans have hundreds of ways of saying "hang on to hope," but my favorite is the silver lining.



Wednesday, October 30, 2013

the persistence of memory

general thoughts on essay-writing and blogging.
These questions pop into my head as I craft a college application.

- After you have graced this world for eighty years or so, how would you like to be remembered? What impact will you make, and which sacrifices will it take?

- Would you like be widely admired, oft quoted, and resurrected in The American Pageant? Steve Jobs, whose contributions outshone his personal conduct, comes to mind.

- Or would you rather be thought upon daily and deeply by a handful of loved ones? I think of the stay-at-home-moms who exchanged a career for a well-loved brood.

- Must you pick between the two? The love of close company and appreciation of the masses need not conflict. Superficially, it's either/or, but closer examination detects traces of both potentialities.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

a love story

Pinky and Qiomi in marker heaven
When we first bought Qiomi (chee-oh-me), he was only three inches long. He had silver scales smudged with charcoal, and a distinctly mango-colored head. We intended for him to be Chubby the goldfish’s companion. But within a day, Qiomi took a large bite out of Chubby’s tail, securing his status as sole occupant of the tank. 

Qiomi had a passion for flesh. Blame us not, we didn’t know that koi oughtn’t to be mixed with other fish. To compensate company-wise, we procured another koi, this one a camellia blush. Pinky, creatively dubbed, was twice Qiomi’s volume. Surely Qiomi had met his match - for a few weeks, anyway.

They plumped with each passing day. Whenever Qiomi detected a sprinkle of shredded shrimp, he would dart toward the surface and slurp furiously. He had a way of nosing Pinky out of the way, and poor Pinky settled with crumbs, taking in one-tenth of what Qiomi did. Pinky probably needed prescription goggles.

It took one month for Qiomi to surpass Pinky in brawn. Qiomi measured one foot in length, while Pinky maintained her four inches. The mismatched pair swam together for four years - married for eons in fish time (Note: I assigned the genders. Qiomi was ever-so-manly in temperament, despite being named after my mom's female colleague, and Pinky was lovely as a lotus. They never had eggs, though. Maybe they were just really good friends).

Each morning, before cooking her own breakfast, my mom would greet her two fishes. Pinky tended to sleep in. But Qiomi, in the manner of a golden retriever, would poke his yellow nose out of the water and let my mom pat him with her finger (I lie not!). Mom was the Fish Whisperer. Being a tactful guardian, she never prepared sushi in their lines of vision.

One still night, Qiomi "jumped the dragon gate" (like the carp from the Chinese idiom who became a dragon) and landed in the kitchen sink. He broke two hearts: my mom's and Pinky's. 

Pinky faded. She floated listlessly, never eating (fish get anorexia, too). Her bones, devoid of vitamins, bent unnaturally. We tried to revive her by introducing a new fish friend, but she was disinterested. The little pink ghost passed away from loneliness a month after Qiomi.

My mom buried both of them under a cement stepping stone that I made in kindergarten. An apricot tree grows there now, and Pinky and Qiomi sleep in its shade.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

late-night lesson libretto

The scene. I told you that shoes were an accurate indicator :)
Every Tuesday night, several hours after sunset, I stifle my yawns and head over to my violin teacher's house. On the way there, I let pop music fill the car and yowl with all my might (preferred mode of de-stressing). I began learning with this teacher just three months ago, and I've never been happier. I will miss these days of juggling two instruments - they are marked by constant exhaustion, but also infinite inspiration.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

trinkets with link[ets] part two: music + math

1) march of the metronomes

Wahohoho (sorry, just listened to The Fox)! Schooling has the same effect, sometimes. 

2) music theory, as presented by möbius strip

George Hart writes: "The connections between mathematics and music are many. For example, the differential equations of vibrating strings and surfaces help us understand harmonics and tuning systems, rhythms analysis tells us the ways a measure can be divided into beats, and the study of symmetry relates to the translations in time and pitch that occur in a fugue or canon."

3) dancing sand

An experiment very much worth its salt.

link[ets] to trinkets part one: music is medicine

1) Street Symphony

Robert Gupta lives out Schumann's words: "To send light into the darkness of man's heart - such is the duty of the artist."

2) Landfill Harmonic

Brings to mind my favorite song by Gungor: "You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of dust."

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Lesson Libretto

My piano teacher, Miss Olya, lives in a music box of blue stucco. The grounds are piped with jonquils and white peach trees, the latter of which are shrouded by black mesh to deter wayward snackers. Each week, I follow a cobbled path to the gate and unlatch it with quavering fingers. Sandals are shed upon the welcome mat, and imminent company calculated from the array of shoes: brown mules with a brass buckle (Asian mother with taste), smallish dirt-dusted sneakers (the youngest boy in the studio), clogs bound by velcro (Asian mother of shabbier variety). Wisps of sound escape through the mail slot.

The studio has the look and texture of a pumpernickel loaf, with walls and cushions dressed in some variation of fawn or honey. The smell of beige-colored Kosher foods wafts from the kitchen; cabbage potage, smoked whitefish, and sweet-potato pancakes meld into a nostril-tickling tang. A wave of reassuring warmth accompanies the recollection that Olya is a soup-maker first, and an instructor second. 

Sturdy shelves blanket the wall opposite the entry, packed with Henle and Schirmer editions of everything from suites to sonatas, preludes to partitas. Hal Leonard's latest Guide to Solo Repertoire nestles dictionaries in French, Italian, and Russian, all of which are bookended by the stoic busts of Haydn and Bach. I am not limited in my choice of pre-lesson reading, however: the coffee table overflows with the tattered adventures of Charlie Brown and Garfield.  

To maintain musicality in the restroom, Olya hangs fanciful art on its walls. I am most partial to the painting of a fat Titian beauty strumming a lute; beside it, a curio case displays Korean opera masks that quite resemble Easter eggs. Two more composer-busts guard the sink, locked in a staring contest with the masks. Their glare warns me me not to butcher their handiwork. 

I assume my usual spot on the bench and arrange my books with particularity. Pieces that promise the most head-patting are stacked on top, while incipient ones sink to the bottom in a natural emulsion. A mobile of toothpick parasols - the kind found atop tropical drinks - pirouettes above, despite the still air. It has a life of its own, like every other item in this inspiriting place. Here, Olya and I breathe life into silence. 

Plum amongst her pictures is a formidable portrait of Beethoven. Fury flows from every charcoal crevice of his face. Yet his eyes are turned upward - toward heaven, perhaps. I lift my own eyes to the oatmeal-flecked ceiling and send my regards before facing the music.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

crumbs

2100 meals ago, I began a food log to check my robust eating habits. Every munchie of mine, etched in cursive, invokes a memory. I thumb through the plump palimpsest once in awhile, and each meal - a pocketed token - helps me reconstruct lost days.
Vivid among the fuzzy pixels of my baby-hood is the softness of my nanny’s steamed eggs over porridge. Li Ma, a sturdy woman who took the Caltrain from San Francisco, would dollop a pillow of egg into my bowl as I watched Baby Mozart. She was the first person to note to my rhythmic potential: every so often, I would swat away the spoon, exit the high chair, and shake my bottom with metronomic accuracy to Rondo Alla Turca.
The Relativity Revelation took place via avocado several years later. I was slicing the fruit for a salad, one eye on the butter knife, another on the clock, when - poof! - my internal ticker shifted. Time's fugacious ways revealed themselves with the sneakiness of wisdom teeth. Farewell, lolling hours; make way for the lifelong scramble (yum). 
Visits to Taiwan are so distant that the majority of my memories have evaporated, leaving only shapeless colors: green and gray, washed together by the rain. Of course, tastes lingered too - I can recall each meal shared with my mom. The snacks could always fit in one hand, because we plucked them off street vendors while hustling between bus stops. I remember slurping a seafood soup with noodles finer than the streaky rain. Drops landed in my bowl, displacing most of the soup. Rain soup, seafood soup - the ocean was still there.
I had red bean pancakes on my first date. The perfect medallions were velvety within, but tongue-singeing without. With no time to wait for them to cool, we tucked the cakes into a to-go box and hurried to the movie theater. The container, poor thing, sat on the floor, where it was eventually squashed by a fattish man tiptoeing through the aisle. Oh, well - the death of a dessert begot something far sweeter.

Saturday, August 31, 2013

do the unco pill, the unco pill!

That's Unco Pill on the paddleboard.
My dad celebrated his birthday on August 26. It was the second Monday of the school year, and everyone was laden with things to do. Somehow, we managed to scoop out an hour from our normally concrete routine and have dinner as a family at Mimi's Café. My dad procured a handy-dandy coupon, and off we went! I brought a laptop to finish some English homework, set it up next to the bread basket (in quite a show of digital-age manners), and typed to the rhythm of munching family members. It was an atypical school night that I hope my dad will remember. 

Now, for some notes on Dad:
- Mr. Bill spends many hours wandering the digital world. He's navigated into the farthest corners of the Internet, pocketing countless online treasures to share with his friends and family. Not a day goes by without his emailing me some fascinating snippet. Here's a typical subject line: "3D Printed Building. Bay Area Innovation FTW!" (I have learned not to cringe at FTW, because my dad says it aloud rather often. Another one of his favorites is 'sketch.'). I respond in the lamest of ways - a meager smiley is all I can manage - but I do read them all. If you see this, Dad, I thank you for enriching my life in this way!


- It's an Asian-church (or simply Asian) custom to address every member of your parents' generation as Uncle or Auntie. My dad, the lone white guy at each church we've attended, is Uncle Bill to his countless nephews and nieces. This summer, we gave him a (ferociously loud) Beats Pill speaker. He totes it everywhere, hence the nickname Uncle Pill. Uncle Pill bestows the gift of loud music to all dishwashers, laundry-folders, and shower-ers that cross his path. My dad has the most eclectic music taste: Hawaiian yodeling, Fergie, harpischord concertos, ska, and Irish folk music are his go-to Pandora stations. 


- My papa has been a fine scholar all his life. Feed him a question of physics or philosophy, and he will surely address and digress! The remarkable breadth of his knowledge gives him a peaceful perspective on all earthly matters. I confess that I tend to side with my mom when they disagree, but I always admire the wisdom and swift rhetoric of my father's points.


- Though he looks best in brown (in my opinion), my dad refuses to wear it - he will only wear a shirt if it has a splotch of bright color on it. My favorite T-shirt of his has a neat row of peachy houses along a turquoise river and says 'København' - I wear it to school, sometimes. He was drawn toward California by its gem-like seas and Spanish tile - everywhere is an exercise in his preferred bright colors. My dad paints his days with a very lively palette, rarely within the confines of a line, but always with careful brushstrokes. In dreary circumstances, he reminds the rest of us to don our halcyon-hued glasses.  


This is the tiniest sample of all you inspire, Dad. Happy belated birthday!

Saturday, August 17, 2013

The best time of day

is when I see this:
light filters through the beveled glass above the front door, casting a rainbow over the keys
Life is full of beautiful things. Thank you, God.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

timekeeping: a tribute to high school

The metronome marks the jerks of life.
It pulses through the blue-gray halls, amplified by hefty speakers in the band room. It pounds across the flat football field, transforming into the thundering drums that echo down the hill and throughout town. 
Put, pot, put, pot. Increase the tempo.
The students, wrapped in blue-gray sweaters, migrate from class to class. They keep pace with the metronome, matching familiar footsteps. Put, pot, put, pot. The somber procession moves through the blue-gray halls.
The pulses cut their lives into tidy chunks - each activity corresponds to a put or a pot. Better finish within the allotted time. Rise, wash, dress, chew, think, chew, work, chew, work, sleep - next movement. How predictably one measure follows another!
The metronome and clock are kin, as safeguards of time and success. Coldly, they press forward. They do not lend themselves to the needy.
The blue-gray students walk to a variety of tempos: some set their metronomes to one pulse per hour. Others, the frenetic ones, prefer fifteen beats per second. Each sets the dial to a manageable beat.
Adagio appeals to the younger ones. Generous gaps between each pulse allow them to walk with rubato. Some eager beavers realize that their metronome-flouting days are numbered, so they rush through their measures, forgetting to phrase.
The metronome sneaks up on the juniors. For a while it had been gathering speed, but timekeeping hadn’t required such attention before. Now the pulses arrive with such velocity (or, in special instances, celerity) that juniors are tripping instead of walking. Blinking costs a beat. The catch-up period is dreadful - mostly graft. But that’s the only option on stage: keep playing!
One foot over the other - put pot put pot. The weary juniors jog through two semesters of etudes, building the endurance to survive all tempos.
When spring settles in, the metronome sleeps for the seniors. April fills the blue-gray halls with yellow and tan: light and bare legs. A dusting of pollen causes students sneeze in rapid succession (if a metronome could assign a tempo to the sneezes, what would it be)? There is time to wonder about useless things, like the tempo of successive sneezes. To gaze at things in wonder, and to create.
The metronome is silenced in June. This is a welcome pause from the marked jerks, until band camp rings in a new year:
"Managers! Fetch me the met!" requests the conductor as he stoops over a knot of black wire. The summoning of appropriate gadgetry and a full turn of the volume knob release the metronome.
In perfect time, the students draw their bows across the strings. Rosin clouds rise from the instruments, illumined by a streak of 10 A.M. sunlight from the doorway. One ear obeys the metronome, but the other is turned inward, to hear the heart. The resulting sound is the child of both ears.

They are contained, but free to express. The metronome jerks them to life.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

why I must move to Scotland upon graduation

forget 101 Dalmations

"The golden retriever and its history were feted by 222 goldens and their masters who gathered from around the globe for a celebration in the breed's ancestral Scottish Highlands home in July. Hosted by the Golden Retriever Club of Scotland, The festival is held at the abandoned home of Dudley Coutts Marjoribanks, who bred the first golden retriever.
- courtesy of Yahoo News

Neue York

We passed through Hell Gate to enter Manhattan from Randall's island, and truly, driving in NYC was no heaven. We were two country bumpkins in a green shoe box, generating a symphony of horns.

After being liberated from our car, we had dinner with a friend who drove a cab in college. "If you're raised in Manhattan, you'll be sharp, that's for sure," he said, one hand on the wheel, suavely swerving through the city.

We stayed in a researcher's apartment for its approximation to Columbia. Our dank little refuge had a fantastic bookshelf, which overflowed with Urdu love poetry, physics textbooks, and the New Yorker. Wahoo!

The next day was ours to fill. Following a Columbia tour, we walked through Central Park to the Neue Galerie, the best art museum I've been to (maybe because I'm a Germanophile, maybe because of the rhubarb cake). The smallish space made each work more accessible - time to ponder and absorb. A handful of paintings by Gustav Klimt, my favorite artist, adorned the walls. An old man gestured to the painting below, telling his wife to look twice:

The Park at Kammer Castle (1910). Can you see the head dipping into the water?

I saw only a fat hedge, at first. All artworks are palimpsests.

The German secessionists were featured in a special exhibit. This group of artists - whose mediums varied from watercolor to wallpaper - sought to heal the world of the "negative aesthetic and social consequences of the Industrial Revolution." On display was a silver coffer commissioned by Gustav Mahler for his wife, Alma. Klimt painted Schubert at the Piano. How amazing to see these lives overlap!

We encountered a beautiful skylight:
shell-like colors
A note about our adventures on the Metro: people tend to avoid eye contact, but my mom kept disobeying this rule. She interviewed a group of model-like Norwegian tourists and complimented people on their babies. I am proud of her. The Metro also had somewhat of a crime scene: we emerged from a stairwell to hear a woman shrieking for help as she flailed after a shady man, who had stolen her cell phone. They sprinted out of the station before the passersby could comprehend her plea. :(

On our final morning, we decided to descend from Morningside Heights into Harlem and attend First Corinthian Baptist Church. My ears had never been so full of sound - praise was blasted at full throttle. Happy shouts of "Hallelujah!" were right in rhythm. As attendees of a comparatively silent Asian-American church, my mom and I were entranced.

I thought that the Bay Area was diverse, but New York sure is one batch of mixed nuts.

Yum, yum.

Monday, August 12, 2013

far east movement, continued

happy times at Quincy Market!

Cambridge

I love the Irving House, with its carpeted stairs, the Bengali cook (with a pretty vermillion streak), and stacks of novels (free for the taking!). It was a hop and a skip away from Harvard's Memorial Hall, where we ambitious young ones convened for an information session. Mira Nair, speaking to us from the opening video, encouraged all applicants: "You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain." ~

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! This was the soundtrack to our week of college-touring. 

We located a natural foods shop called Life Alive, where dishes were dubbed "The Lover", "The Sufi Poet", or "Coconut Alive". The inside was crawling with green things, as was each plate. The food was inspiring - it left you radiant rather than indolent. Many people cringe at such hempy and nutritional-yeasty offerings, but the community of Cambridge was all for it! 
mushy nosh: "The Lover"
Smoothies in hand, Mom and I continued down Massachusetts Avenue. We strolled for over five miles. We intended to take a bus eventually, but we kept resetting our finish line. Stops at Berklee, NEC, and the Mary Baker Eddy library (APUSH applied, again!) filled out our afternoon. I meandered through New England Conservatory on my own, because my mom befriended the security guard in the lobby. I got lost in dark stairwell - all the exits were locked! - and found my way out again, led by the sound of a cello.
the Charles is the bluest river I've seen!
Stumbled upon the Borromeo String Quartet rehearsing in a closet-sized corner room

Williamstown

Mom and I spent so much time losing our way that we missed our rental car appointment. After a slightly harried, unforeseen trip to the airport to pick up another car (a lime-green shoebox), we began the journey to Williamstown, located in Massachusetts's farthest corner. We smuggled the free walnut cake from Irving House to sustain us, and thus began our most wearisome expedition yet - maneuvering the Mass. turnpike for three lightless hours. 
late-night arrival. Happy to see pillows
The roads were straight, but foreign. The highway was surrounded by scenic sights, I could tell, but night doused them in shadow (especially the lakes, which felt like abysses on both sides). Williamstown is situated at the end of the Mohawk Trail, a skinny road that twists past the Berkshires. Together we navigated, our glances never straying from the windshield. Our eyes were exhausted by the evening's travel, and our legs panged from the afternoon's. How happily we settled into our beds at the House on Main Street; thanking God for replenishing our patience, and anticipating the morning.
The House on Main Street
 The beauty of Williamstown is best conveyed by showing:
state-of-the-art facilities at Williams College, nestled in a village
nature's lace doilies
The image that lingers in my mind: Williamstown is a girl in a pristine lace frock, gamboling through a meadow. There's a whole spectrum of green on display, from jasper-hued mountains framing the town, to tea-colored grass blanketing each hill. Then, the white: the glowing early morning, the color of each carefully restored house, and the bowl of butter at breakfast.

We collected new acquaintances: a Virginia couple celebrating their 45th anniversary; a schoolteacher with very large eyes; a theatrical innkeeper-chef; a widow with a connection to California... My favorite guest was a 95-year-old man, who fought in the Battle of the Bulge. The exchange of words gathered momentum as we fed ourselves eggs, grits, and Brazilian beans. Testy to begin, friends at fin.
conducting no one at Tanglewood :)