|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| We went to Cape Cod this past weekend, and we spent a morning in the
town of Provincetown (where The Original Pilgrims landed, fyi)
shopping. Provincetown has probably one or two main streets,
lined with one-or-two story wood paneled shops. If you can
imagine what a province-town would look like, this is it. Little
shops selling all sorts of odds and ends - from antiques, to salt water
taffy and fudge, to jewelry, to indonesian clothing.
We came upon one complex that could be considered a mall. This
building is probably two or three stories tall, has a movie complex on
the second floor showing four movies tops, and has maybe ten store on
the first floor, one of which is a nut-fudgery. And in this
complex, named Whalers Wharf, I found the perfect little store.
I am a huge huge fan of jazz vocals. Not because of the depth of
the singers or the musicality or any of that, but for purely
superficial reasons - I love how it sounds. It's got that
relaxed, loungey feel that a lot of people hear, sneer, and mutter
"elevator music" under their breath to their friends. Not
me. But enough of that.
This little store is a little bigger than the size of my dorm room and
sells ONLY jazz vocal cds. Talk about heaven. I wanted to
buy every single cd in there. Unfortunately, they weren't
discounted and there's no way I can afford 20bucks a pop on a whim just
because a store knows my heart.
The little old man who owns the store was playing a new cd by a singer
named Chantal Chamberland called "Dripping Indigo" and I loved
it. Smooth and a little... Well, I did say that I like it
for the loungey feel, not for the musicality. Disregard my
disability to articulate why; I loved it. I asked the little old
man about her; he told me that she's this girl from Canada, real
young, can't be more than 22, and proceeded to show me her most
popular cd from 2003, called "Serendipity Street," a big seller in his
store, but you won't be able to find it in any of those Big Name stores
because she's not famous enough. He put on the first track,
started singing along to "It's You," and after a couple minutes asked
me if I wanted to hear the French track "Les Feuilles Mortes," to which
I gave him a little smile and a nod.
The cd is beautiful and slow and wonderful, and convinced by his little
pitches, I made the purchase. The whole time, though, in the
store, making the purchase, listening to it in the car, listening to it
now, I wish I had bought the cd that grabbed me - "Dripping Indigo."
But what do I know, right? Just a little girl, barely an adult,
barely old enough to know quality from Kenny G.; just a little girl who
pretends to know jazz but really just listens to what sounds
good. And so I kept my true wishes inside and went along with
what everyone loved, with what this connoiseur of jazz vocalists said,
with what this little old man sang along to as he ate a bowl of
clam chowder for lunch. Is that who I am?
As I get older I find that I'm not necessarily growing older too.
And I know that that motif is one of those really important ideas that
has been retold, readvised so often that it's lost it's value and
become one of those hallmark-packaged ideas.
So stop sending those cards, parents, friends. Just send me a
letter saying "thinking of you" or "miss you" or "wish you were here,
these are the amazing things going on in my life" and let me figure out
the rest. Or all your well-meaning advice will just get dumped in
the overflowing shoebox of mass-produced sentiments. My life is
meant to be lived by me. I need to figure it out, one
mis-purchased cd at a time. What does it matter if I love Kenny
G., anyway?
| | |
| Bored
I was looking through old pictures today (only a few actually) and they
got me thinking about how I've changed since high school -- in what way
and how much. And also what has changed in general, like my
friendships and relationships and whatever.
I read on Bronty's xanga that "maturity" from the self-reflective
perspective is pretty damn ambiguous at best. Or at least that
was my interpretation.
I haven't grown, I haven't gained weight (though my fat : muscle ratio
is definitely debatable), and my hair is still pretty boring, but
moreso now because I haven't dyed it.
I think I've either gotten uglier or less photogenic. I honestly
can't tell and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't either. One
way I won't believe you and the other way I'll deny. So refrain.
I've also definitely gotten whiter. I glow next to my
sister. I still bite my nails and I still pluck my eyebrows in
generally the same shape.
In high school a friend told me that I seemed to be an honestly happy
person, and though I had never thought about that before, I could
generally agree after a minute or so of deliberation. But I don't
know if I could say the same now.
Since high school I've stepped out of my neighborhood. I'm on the
east coast and even though Boston is a college town and there are a
good amount of Asians here, the type of people I surround myself with
are very different from those at home. This summer the crew I
worked with was majority public school grads who hadn't been or weren't
intent on graduating from college, much less attending graduate school.
And each time I didn't feel completely out of my comfort zone; I didn't
freak out even though I did [do] get sad about the number of people I
now know who smoke cigarettes. And I don't remember what my point
was.
Basically the bulk of my current personal dilemna (caused at least in
part by the shit weather we have today) is just that -- personal.
And I'm not going to post it here because it'll either bore you or
embarrass me or both.
College is a time of change, it's true. I'm just not sure if I like the changes that have so far taken effect.
That ^ was stupid and pointless. Sorry if I made you as bored as I am.
| | |
| Dear My Friends
I have been neglecting you all. I am not the most thoughtful of
people, which I am sure you all know, but I recently realized that
although credit should be acknowledged and given where it's due, in
this matter I am definitely overdue.
So I would like to thank you all -- my friends. Those of you who
have given me something of yourself, whether a pinch or a bucket, that
has added to and altered the taste and color of the melting pot that is
me. If you think you're in here, you are. No matter if what
you gave was bitter, because I've had enough good in my life to make it
into something bitter-sweet. Too much sweet gives you cavities
--which I've had my fair share of-- and also makes you fat, but I'm
getting off track.
Just-- thank you. You all really deserve something more than just
a simple, impersonal xanga thank you, but one of the faults that I have
besides thoughtlessness is laziness. I'm a work-in-progress, so
please excuse my many failings. And again, thank you.
ps: If any of you have time and would like to contribute to the
Decorate Dale's Sad Empty Wall Fund, please send me (mempachi@gmail.com) pictures of
anything -- the wackier the better (but nothing vulgar you sickos!) --
and you'll get printed and stuck on my very very tall wall. And
then I'll have one thing more to thank you for. But hopefully that will be quick in coming.
| | |
| Home Life
I woke up bright and early this morning at 6:00 -- bright and early
describing the morning of course and not my disposition, which edged
more on the side of dark and late. It's no fun waking up after two
hours of sleep because of the demands of school. Nor is it enjoyable
to be nagged awake, regardless of the fact that the person calling
until I pick up my phone is doing me a favor -- a favor I called in
(grattitude extended to Chris Moon who isn't at all a nag).
Anyway, through an incredible show of willpower I managed to drag
myself out of the comfort of my bed (dorm beds with a mattress pad (or
two) can be as comfortable as a high quality mattress at home) and to
my desk for a statistics-studying-filled morning.
Like I said, the morning was bright and sunny, which is unusal for
Boston, but this is Springtime and I had a test to study for, so it
wasn't at all unusual for the New England weather to smile down on the
city in the pretense of today being a good day. It was such a nice
morning and the sunlight was so bright, in fact, that I didn't even
need to turn on my desklamp to read the formulas that had haunted me the
night before and prevented me from a good night's rest.
I had resigned myself to a doomed morning indoors that seemed much
darker than
the morning outside when I heard the zoom of a car as it passed by my
window. And then I heard another-- and another-- and then two at
once! People from suburban Boston (a legendary place of which I
have
never traveled to nor seen) were commuting to work by means of Storrow
Drive (the road outside my window which is, by all relevant
definitions, a highway). In my fatigued and easily distracted
mind,
commuters reminded me of home because you simply can't get around the
island without a car.
The zooms and swoosh-es of cars brought back, unbidden, memories of
being nagged (read: yelled at and threatened)
awake at 6:30 by my dad after 4 hours of sleep (my mom called me "owl"
in high school), not being able to open my eyes because of the hot
Hawaiian sun shining through my blind-less windows, stumbling in and out of the bathroom, the half hour commute down
Kalanianaole
Highway accompanied by NPR, and getting to class just as the first bell
rung. Boston traffic (notoriously different from Hawaii traffic)
made me miss home.
Boston traffic and Boston drivers (which are even more notoriously
different from Hawaii drivers than Boston traffic is notoriously
different from Hawaii traffic) reminded me of all the aspects to home
life that are absent from college life. I get up to shrieking,
annoying alarm clocks (and the occasional wakeup call), roll out of my
standard college issue brick-mattress-covered-by-a-foam-pad bed with
just enough time to brush my teeth, and let my mp3 player wake me up
during the walk to class.
No longer does my dad yell at me and turn on my light; no longer do I
fall asleep to international headliners on the way to school. No
longer. No longer.
College is to high school as Boston is to Hawaii. It's so different now. | | |
| I have never closely followed the news. I've always known that
it's good to know what's going on in the world I live in; I've been
aware of the importance of the daily news, but unaware of the events
chronicled in the paper.
It's always bad news. And no news isn't bad news.
Recently, though, I've taken interest in reading the daily paper;
it's good reading material for breakfasts in the dining hall. I
also recently subscribed to The New York Times online, and get the
headlines in an email every morning.
I read an article in The Boston Globe about a week ago about a
religious planting in Israel. Embarrassingly, I'll admit that I
can't remember what exactly the article said, nor can I remember the
name of the planting ceremony and its religious importance. But I
do remember the myriad of conflicts that the article contained.
And they all centered around -- you guessed it -- religion.
I, with my limited world knowledge, firmly believe that the only way to
perfectly resolve all the conflicts in the Middle East is to completely
destroy it and rebuild it anew. Raze the region to the ground
with a nuclear bomb -- or maybe an asteroid since that's a bit more
nondiscriminatory and, you know, not controlled by a tracking system
and a push of a button -- and completely erase everything: people,
culture, religion, history. Everything. And then start from
the present and create a complete region, not one split by a
centuries-old canyon. People would live within the newly created
hole on the ground and not on opposing sides of it.
Strong beliefs are rooted in the hearts of these people from before
they're even born and are made even stronger through time.
They're so well-supported and reinforced that they don't give an
inch. Roots go deep, yes, but don't forget the tale of the grass
leaf and the ironwood tree: the morning after a strong storm with
powerful gales, the ironwood, though sturdy and venerable and weathered
-- and with wood so strong and dense that it sinks in water -- was
found ripped from the ground and dying on its side, while the grass
under it had bent with the wind and survived.
Religion, it seems, is a personal affair. It can be social and
cultural, but on its very basic level, it is individual. Everyone
has a different definition of it, even if the difference is a single
nuance. It seems so contradictory that two people of the same
faith, whether it be Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddihst or
whatever, have different beliefs. How then, is it the same
religion? This conflict can be seen not only in religion, but in
every aspect of life. Nuances, though small, are pivotal.
As I started, I'm not big on the news. The conflicts of
Christianity is a rather, er, hefty portion of Les Miserables, which
I've been listening to of late. The same god and religion guide
two men down very different paths.
Les Miserables and the Holy Land. Eh, they're sort of similar.
I don't know what compelled me to write about religion; the subject is
a vast and formidable sea. And I, though of little religious
faith, am afraid to sink.
[edit]
Just testing out this eprops thing again. It'll probably scare me away. Again.
[re-edit]
Sorry about the negative feelings this created. I didn't mean
to. I know the stuff of this entry was entirely un-PC, but then
again this is a blog and most of its contents are inappropriate and
shouldn't be taken seriously unless you're a serious person who cares
deeply about serious issues. And that type of person I am not, so
suman for stepping on toes when I should've been aware of the
repercussions.
I am also not a very worldly or knowledgable person and can be quite
naive and this entry stemmed from that. Like I said, I don't
really read the news, and lately I haven't even been eating breakfasts
in the dining hall, so that time dedicated to the Globe has been
cut. I do know however, that the conflict has lasted for
centuries, and I figured an asteroid would be an easy solution because
of my inability to see one more tactful and -- more importantly --
viable.
Not that I'm saying that I actually want an asteroid to hit the
planet. All I wanted to say was that I'm sorry if I offended you
(even if only an inkling) and for coming off as so rough and
abrasive. I'd love to have world peace, too, but I'm pessimistic.
| | |
|
