Flux 2

Recently someone I work with and have befriended asked me, "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

I was hurt. "Yes," I began. "I have lived in the U.S. since age 16..." and continued to explain.

The point is I shouldn't need to explain. An immigrant is constantly having to prove him/herself. If you're not "from here", just how American are you? Are you American enough? Somehow, you learn that you are never American enough.

My friend was probably just not assuming one way or the other. But she could've prefaced her question with "I am not assuming one way or the other", or, better yet, asked instead, "What did you do on Thanksgiving?"

She didn't mean anything by it, I believe. I thought she was a cool person. When you have never been an outsider in your own country, it must be hard to imagine what it is like.

This is the only country I have known and loved. This is the only place I have lived all my adult life. I grew up in a colony with a serious case of identity crisis. I never had a strong sense of where I belonged or who I was. Nationalism is something I have never experienced. This frees me from feeling particularly superior to another race or ethnic background, allowing me to fit right in in America.

And now I don't know America anymore.

I blogged recently that my mother was expressing regret about having sent my brother and me away at a young tender age. It turned my world upside down. If she's questioning her decision, I'm questioning my life. Was it a mistake to have come to America? Was my whole life a mistake?

I don't know how to adult elsewhere. My coworker and I recently pondered this aspect of existentialism: in adulthood, you need to have basic functions. Home is where you know how to pay your utility bill, we concluded.

It is true. A business associate who lived in Oregon for decades moved to Mexico a couple of years ago, to the surprise of a lot of people. It was close to Christmas. Apparently in that town the only option to set up your power is to physically visit a certain government branch in person. But the government was on sabbatical because, hello, Christmas! Them Catholic. Big time. So no power for two weeks. Couldn't cook, had to light candles, no internet. And by the way even if you had internet you couldn't pay your power bill online.

When one is younger one's sense of adventure tends to be stronger (at least true for most people). As one ages, fear sets in. Starting over is fucking scary.

When I was in therapy I was congratulated for having had the courage to leave my ex, move upstate, and go back to school. In hindsight, damn! Being in your early 30's - that is still young.

And yes I am glad I left the guy when I did.

I don't like to dwell on the past. But who is without regret? Even when I advocate against regret because it is a giant waste of time, it is hard not to feel a tinge of bitterness about lost youth. It is true youth is wasted on the young. I thought I had time for mistakes. I thought I'd be beautiful forever.

The more I know, the more I realize I don't know. I just can't deal. A country I used to be so proud to call home. Now I am ever more aware that you don't know who your friends are. Heck, you can't even trust your government to be doing their job to serve the basic rights of its people.

These days it is near impossible to know how to feel about the future. I feel utterly helpless and confused both on a personal level and a cosmic level. I feel like the America we live in today is a nightmare and we can practically hear a time bomb ticking. And it may be an atomic one. Planning seems pointless. Everything seems pointless. Life itself.

Of course, once again, I've been told that needing life to have meaning is an INFJ thing.

Just... one day at a time, I guess. Cuz what else you got?

Quote 265

“... there exists a spot in the mind from which life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future, the high and the low, ... will cease to appear contradictory.”

 ― André Breton

Rot

Only recently I realize sitemeter.com is no more. Apparently July 1, 2017 it officially "retired".

I had the tracker on my blog since day 1. 11 years' worth of visits. And now, poof! Gone. Kind of harsh.

That'll teach you the impermanence of things in life and life itself.

Site Meter is dead, they say. Looks like they started to go downhill circa 2012-2015, depending on whom you ask. There was talk about unethical practice such as stealing customers.

I feel betrayed. So unsettling.

Site Meter is dead. Shouldn't surprise me, since blogs have been dead a while now, too.

My mother recently revealed that at some points in her life, she was working three jobs to save money for the future.

"Before you had us, right?" I asked. I knew that she'd worked hard in her 20's just to save up to get married, have their own home, etc.

"Even after," she replied. "It was going to take a lot to put you through college."

That was a punch in the gut. "That was why I worked so many hours," she continued. "Even in the weekends."

I do recall. But I hadn't realized. I worked three jobs myself in the first quarter of 2016 and was exhausted. Can't imagine doing that on an continuous basis. And I have known women who do, day in and day out, for decades, just to have enough to support their family. I don't know how they do it. I shudder.

To think that for years I thought my mother a workaholic. I thought she enjoyed work more than spending time with us. I resented it.

Many Sundays, her only day off, she'd stay in bed until noon or past it, reluctant to start the day. I thought she was in no hurry to get up to spend time with her own family. I felt slighted.

Little did I know.

For years I struggled to forgive. Turned out there was nothing to forgive. I am an asshole.

Oh, the things that parents don't tell you.

You know what they say, that essentially you marry your parents (if you are "normal", I guess).

RJ has characteristics that are clearly my Dad's. No surprise there. He is artistic, a free spirit, loves nature and science, doesn't believe in convention. I am just now connecting the dots between him and Mom. *gasp*

RJ also is not thrilled to get up in the morning. Like, ever. And I am just now wishing that it wasn't so.

I understand. He has been this way for as long as I have known him. I understand what life can do to crush one's soul. I know better than to wish your spouse would change.

Yet I do find myself wishing that RJ had reasons to get up, things to be psyched about. Joy.

Joy: which I often also lack.

When I visit my parents, I feel like I am getting up for them. Back stateside, there seems no motive. I imagine a partner who may want to rise early, have breakfast, and go hiking (JD would laugh - Asians and their hiking!) and inspire me to do the same.

But I know that one must not look outside of oneself for joy and raison d'etre. It is not up to my partner to lift me. I am responsible for my own damned self.

My. Own. Damned. Self.

Blogs are dead. It is so like me to hang on to the antiquated and expiring.

Good Grief

Recently saw Patton Oswalt's latest standup, content of which had to do with his wife's life and death and his (and his daughter's) coping.

I will say that I never cared much for Oswalt as a comic until this performance. The raw emotions, honesty and pain were just all so relatable.

Great comics have a gift of storytelling that reels the audience in, captivates them, and impresses them in such a way that leaves them never the same again.

The 60 or 90 minutes or whatever it was just flew by. In the end, as any full circle goes, Oswalt parts way with this from Michelle, his late wife:

It's chaos. Be kind.

So concise and powerful, these words resonate. Earlier in the show Oswalt challenges the notion of "Everything happens for a reason". Indeed it doesn't. Life makes no sense.

In college (the second time) my favorite class was in Religious Studies. It was called "Death, Dying" and something. Perhaps the fact that I don't recall the "something" speaks volume. It was the most fascinating class. I've regurgitated this one phrase, "If you don't know how to die, you don't know how to live." I was on this quest of how to live.

I've been called morbid at various points. Fact is there is no point in pretending we'll live on forever. It is silly that death is a taboo topic. OK maybe I am a little obsessed with death. I enjoy wandering through cemeteries, studying graves, imagining the stories behind those extinguished lives. I thought that being close to death would prepare me for it, my own and that of my loved ones.

I've come to realize, though, nothing prepares you for death. And I haven't learned how to live, either.

I have given up on making sense of life. In accepting the senselessness, there is hope for peace.

It's chaos. Be kind.

Marvel

A few months ago I received notification that Taylor had viewed my LinkedIn profile. I was super annoyed.

Why? I asked. He let me go a long time ago. Why bother?

I was reminded of this phrase JD and I used to laugh at in the song "Separate Lives":

You have no right
To ask me how I feel
You have no right
To speak to me so kind

Of course, to speak of entitlement... Too convoluted a subject. Too subjective as well.

I didn't like that I was still allowing this person (or the notion of this person/who he used to be) have power over me.

Truth is Taylor has been a sore spot for years. I have talked to RJ about it. We all have people in our past that haunt us, don't we? They're just... always there.

I really liked me when I was with Taylor. And I really liked us. That high was really difficult to get over. In my mind our time together was like the perfect movie. So many indelible scenes. An illusion, but unsurpassable nonetheless.

Taylor had this luck of having many exes who were obsessed with him and couldn't let go. He had this way of making them feel like the best girl in the world.

The last time I saw him was eight years ago. Seems longer.

Today I receive a note from Taylor via blog comment. He said it was nice that I still thought about him from time to time. And he said that he was dying.

What?! What does one do with that?!! You don't just tell someone you're dying and leave it at that. WTF?

I was in turmoil. So. Many. Questions. Should I ask? How?

"Hug the dog," he said. Did he ever get another dog after Lloyd*? I wondered.

He probably doesn't need to hear from me. But would I not be heartless not to at least try to reach out?

The man is dying, and I am making this about me? Jesus.

Years ago, Taylor was once accused of rape. He would NEVER. I know that all mothers and friends and family of anyone accused of rape (or other crimes) would say this. But I did know him, his core, his mind. He would NEVER.

It was ugly. It changed him. I wanted to know more. The details. Turned out everyone around him wanted to know more. The details.

That might have been the most upset I ever saw him. He said we needed to know the details for us, for gratuitous purposes. He didn't need to retell the story. And thus we were being selfish and inconsiderate.

I have never forgotten those words.

Fast forward to today: Taylor doesn't "have much longer to live". What would I say to him? Do I need to know more, the details, for me? Is it wrong to want to know more?

I texted Taylor at his old number, which turned out not to be his number anymore. Doesn't really surprise me. Must be still escaping stalkers of exes (he moved around and took precautions hiding whereabouts as he had literal stalkers).

Driving home, I pondered, "What would I say?"

I was reminded of the beginning of knowing Taylor. It was such bliss. The sense of being good and part of something good which warmed me to the core and propelled me to love the world as a whole...

And in that instant, I was filled with that love all over again. That greatness of being.

I would say:

Taylor, I have always loved you. And I always will.
Goodbye.



*Not his real name

Awash

I have just returned from my birthplace where my mother, for the first time, expressed regret about having sent my brother and me abroad at such a young age.

"If I were to do it all over again," she said, pain washing over her face. "I wouldn't."

We are 30 years too late. What does one do with that?

I learned this week that Denisse would not be joining us for Thanksgiving, the first time ever. Denisse just got married last December. She and her then fiancé had always come to Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's.

I couldn't deal. Life progresses, people grow. Denisse is finally welcome in Enzo's* family circle. I should be glad. Instead my abandonment issue kicks in. I don't like change. I'll miss her.

And besides, who is going to make green bean casserole?

This while missing my parents like I have never missed them before. I've engendered this theory that all these years I have not allowed myself to miss my parents. I don't think about them much. The disconnect allows me to live my life and let years go by without visiting them. The pain otherwise would be too great to bear.

In the past year or two I have started really identifying with being an INFJ, the "rarest" personality archetype in the Myer-Briggs model. MBTI has fallen out of favor over the years, largely discredited in the psychology industry for being a valid paradigm. It has helped me, however, tremendously. Reading about how INFJ's feel and think makes me understand and accept how I've always felt and thought. And I don't feel so alone anymore.

This and being an HSP, too. Now I don't have to feel apologetic or less.


*Not his real name

Wanderlust

About three years ago I ceased to fantasize about travel. I stopped watching the Travel Channel. Perusing Via Magazine from AAA stirred something in me that was not yearning, but disconnect and irritation.

Oh, right, that was when I, at the ripe age of 43, finally got a real job, had real bills to pay, and was forced to grow up.

When I was a kid, traveling was exciting. Packing my own bag was exciting. I couldn’t wait to go, even if it was just a day trip. Your senses were enhanced, your sense of being was enhanced, you were in awe. And there was the notion of “anywhere but here”. I longed to be away.

In my 20’s, probably like everyone else, I had a list of countries I had to see “one of these days”, an ever-changing list. It always had Egypt on it. In my 30’s, reading articles and having a calendar of Greece up on the wall sufficed. In my 40’s, when reality hit that I had neither the time nor the funds to travel, I justified that I didn’t need to go anywhere. After all, with the internet at your fingertips, the world is, too.

Turns out seeing images of a buffet is far from tasting it.

Recently I had the obligation to travel to China on business. In my old age I prefer routine (and I was never spontaneous to begin with). Change is hard. The unknown causes anxiety. I was having all sorts of anxiety. (My therapist would say control issues. Duh.)

I slipped into the local scene relatively effortlessly. At a communal meal early on, I had this Bourdain moment: everyone was coming together, I was exposed to local ingredients being prepared to suit the locals’ taste, not mine, as they had been for centuries. And it was glorious.

I had some language barrier and a fair share of culture shock – that was to be expected. To my pleasant surprise, I did not feel out of place, or unwanted, as I had felt growing up or even in the States where I live. Even nationalist sentiments did not turn me off. I could, dare I say, relate. (Not in absolute terms but nonetheless.) And it scared me. I could imagine living there, being content, feeling accepted... I was at peace.

One evening before my departure, we were journeying on a quieter dirt road at dusk, just around a river bend under an overpass. I could see the dim lights lining the bank and the reflection on the water. The air was thinly veiled in smoke from leaves burning in a distance. Everything was a grayscale bathed in warm hues of gold. For a moment there, it might as well have been 19th century Paris. It does not get better than this.

That was when I remembered: oh, yes, I used to like to travel. And I remembered why.

I was transfixed and instantaneously transported to the winter in Belgium when I was 18. I was staying at my uncle’s and the occasion was my cousin Jojo’s impending wedding which no one was looking forward to, myself included. One chilly morning, in my crazy youthful defiant mode, I snuck out of the house so I could go to the park to a pay phone to call my then-boyfriend. And also to get out. My days were being planned against my will and I was feeling unhappy and suffocated (not unIike my childhood leading to that point).

I was the only one there. The sun hadn’t risen. It was twilight at its best. It had been snowing, and still was, ever so gently. I watched snowflakes fall with the street lamps as backdrop as I strolled, leaving boot prints on the blanket of virgin snow on the path. I strolled as if I'd never have to turn back. It was tranquil. It was freezing. It was magical.

I have often looked back to that moment citing how the world is SO beautiful when looked through young, unjaded eyes. I have missed that sense of wonder, and mourned it.

Until this recent trip. I may not be that doe-eyed lass any longer, but, oh, to have that sense of abandon again, to just observe, take in, and be. Oh, to be fearless, and exhilarated for being so. All may not have been lost after all.

Boisterous

For years, RJ and I never fought. Literally. If we disagreed, we talked about it. And that was that.

I often dared not share this bliss with peers, especially when it was apparent others did not enjoy peaceful coexistence with their spouses or long-term SO's. They played mind games. They stopped speaking with each other for days. Not RJ and I.

Early into our marriage, I shared this with my mother. Essentially she responded, "You just haven't had something to fight about yet." which sent chills down my spine.

I credit my time spent in therapy. When something upsets me, I step back, cool off, and analyze why I react to such an extent. As Buddha may have said, and I paraphrase, expectations and desire lead to disappointment. Recognize when your expectations are not realistic (or, worse, not important in the scheme of things). I know not to enter a relationship expecting the other person to change. It never works.

If I got upset, I'd be mindful and not make my issues about RJ. He was still the same person.

When things are not easy, I remember what I love about RJ, what makes him him. Hopefully the person you're with — you truly love his core. I love RJ in dimensions: as a boy, as an adult, as a person. So many things, simple things, he does, I adore. You have to relate to someone on that level, on all levels, I think. Or the bond is not complete.

That acceptance and multifaceted love grounds the relationship. I have joked that we are fine until dementia changes one of us.

Since RJ and I started working together this year, the dynamics of our relationship inevitably has changed. I was apprehensive, but we stumbled upon the arrangement without a choice.

I have never wanted to be in a managerial position. I know myself. I have traits that do not make an ideal supervisor. After all, I am my mother's daughter. Given specific circumstances, I can be overbearing, micromanaging and all-around shrew-like.

Well at least I realize that, right? It is remarkably a far cry from when we met, when the one adjective that RJ used the most to describe me was "sweet".

Personalities are not a duality, but a spectrum.

RJ, on the other hand, is soft-spoken, mellow, and patient. He also is intelligent and tireless in his problem-solving ways. Our working styles may be "slightly" different...

And thus I find myself picking on things that in hindsight are often trivial. Mind you, this is the opposite of what I do in our personal lives. In the professional realm, I am much more a perfectionist. I am impossible to please. Again, like my mother.

Coming to terms with that will help me ease up. Still, I find myself apologizing at night for having been harsh during the day. Talk about a case of Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde!

I'd say to RJ, "Was boss lady mean to you again today?" We'd laugh. You gotta stick with humor (and be sincere about it).

It is a learning process. I do feel that I exceedingly exasperate RJ more and more frequently on both the home and the work front, which leaves me ruminative.

I neglect to mention the bright side is we get to carpool most days.

This evening, as we were coming home, RJ was behind the wheels. We tend to show off our skills parking as far away from our neighbor's spot as possible, which means that we slide very close to this column in the corner of ours. (Because a concrete column poses less threat than a human being.)

I watch intently until he was done backing into the space, almost holding my breath. (I have trust issues. Our car is only several months old.) The side mirror of the car was literally only half an inch from the concrete column. Then, with a straight face, I said, without giving away any sarcasm, "You should have gotten closer to the column."

RJ looked at me like... there's no word for it. You should have been there. As he opened his mouth to (I imagine) defend himself, I could hold it no longer and burst into laughter.

"I was being facetious!" I said, now laughing in spasms. There was no cruelty in that, I swear. Just that he was so cute.

As we walked to the elevator and then in it I still was laughing hard, almost snorting. I kissed him repeatedly on the cheeks to make up for my mischief. RJ, being his zen self, just gave me this "Oh,  you..." smile.

But then I got to thinking: have I become such an irrational partner that he actually believed my ridiculous complaint?!?!

The Most Beautiful Creole Man

Today I saw the most beautiful Creole man I’d ever met. I was at a Pacific Islanders event, my first. He was working at a Filipino stall.

He had the most astounding bone structure. The jawline, the cheekbones. And OMG the most beautiful, mesmerizing eyes, pale blue and awe-inspiring, juxtaposed against his warm skin tone — there were no words.

Yet he was devoid of joy. The way he uttered “Aloha” and “Mahalo”, it was as if his soul was emptied out. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t connecting.

When I encounter someone like that I always wonder, Who has hurt you? And my old self would try to fix it.

I wanted to slip him a note which would read:

I am not coming on to you. But you’ve got the most beautiful eyes.

Really they were like the entire universe. And then some.

Later I noticed that he was sporting a Space Jam t-shirt, in baby blue, much like his eyes, but paling in comparison and that is an understatement. The former profound and dumbfounding, the latter, a commercial piece of…

Why had he chosen this article of clothing on this day? Did it mean something? Did it not, and perhaps that was the point?

I am drawn to beauty and sadness. Not knowing your own beauty. That is the saddest of all.

Quote 264

You must always be drunk.
... But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish.
But be drunk.

- Charles Pierre Baudelaire

Quote 263

You're so quiet you're almost tomorrow.

- Ocean Vuong

Bane Ban

This morning, on my walk back from retrieving RJ's Sunday NYTimes (we live in a top floor condo so getting the paper is a bit more involved than stepping out the front door on to the driveway), I had  a tinge of my usual weekly uneasiness: a part of me craving to be out and about (oooh! Sun on my skin!), and a part of me looking forward to the "nothingless" of staying in (it is not exactly nothingless — deeply soulfully satisfactory activities await the introvert).

Just then, the light breeze carried upon me the aroma of some neighbor's cooking, a delightful blend of spices, not acrid but remarkably sweet, fragrant and inviting. I envisioned a happy family sitting down at breakfast. I felt the happiness, and took it in. I thought, how lucky it is, to be alive and to have the olfactory sense fully functioning. How lucky it is, to be living in a community where one is often greeted with such warm, delectable scents. I felt utterly content. I felt happy.

And it dawned on me that I hadn't had one of these moments in a while. Not since I took on this job where responsibilities have grown alongside the number on my paycheck. It is a good thing, growing up for the first time, in my 40's, as I coin it. For the first time, I have money to put away toward retirement (better late than never!) But, as I'd always known, the very reason I had refused to grow up for as long as I could put it off in the first place, growing up has a price. As far as I could tell, grown-ups are seldom happy. With responsibilities come pressure, angst and worries. Those can wear you out and bring you down.

Not today. Even the thought of Monday being right around the corner did not dampen my spirit. I don't completely understand how my mind works. It was so much easier when I could chalk it up to being bipolar. Now it's become this "the more I know, the more I don't know" phenomenon. I've given up on labeling things and people, including myself. That just gets nowhere and is exhausting.

Now I just am. And see where life takes us. Maybe being grown-up is not so bad after all. But then again, it could be the distillery trip of gin-agave-whiskey tasting yesterday that is still spinning me giddy. Who knows. Having money left over for fun takes the bitterness out of work. Can't dispute that. Having had a taste of financial independence doesn't hurt, either. Don't burst my bubble.

Niceties

Sutra* broke up with me today.

I had been wanting to rid of her. I have never been good at breaking up. So I let it drag on until I just couldn't. Then I ghosted, and got what I wanted.

Still a firm believer in the Law of Attraction, I have to wonder why, when it comes to gf's, I always wind up with losers *cough* I mean people with issues. Have I been willing myself subconsciously?

On the surface, Sutra and I got along great. But I didn't want someone just to get along with. I want more. Ultimately, why do people break up? You seek something the other is not delivering.

As in all other breakups, once I had my mind made up, there was nothing left to say. Too exhausting to even explain.

Online, when I am inclined to comment "No words", sometimes I find it absurd. To express this thought, simply do not leave a comment.

Sutra, true to herself, wrote me an 18-paragraph letter to list her grievances. Which I haven't read because, you know, life is short. I am not surprised. This is her pattern. She's done this with plenty of friends and employers. It is always the other party's fault. She reminds me of my ex Hulmes. This is a chilling and jarring revelation.

If people keep leaving you, stop and wonder. Perhaps you are the problem.

I am upset. I am usually the explainer. It hurts that she thinks I have wronged her. I can't even.

When I was dating, I used to say that hopefully every new person is an upgrade. In hindsight, that certainly wasn't always the case. I am just so grateful that I am with RJ, someone who just lets me be me. EVERY relationship should be this easy. Sadly most are the opposite.

If being in the presence of someone brings negativity, why put yourself through it over and over? Living in the past is not my thing, either. Sutra's golden years were her 20's and it is like she has had nothing to talk about since. We are talkin' 20 years since her heyday. That is sad if one does not examine one's life and raise questions. And she is entitled, not in touch with reality, and just not very interesting. There's gotta be more to life than makeup and food and reminiscing? She drains me.

Surely it is not unrealistic to need a friend to be my intellectual equal, has mentally grown since the 9th grade, and remembers at least some of the things we have discussed in the past? I simply cannot be with someone I do not respect/relate to/have zero symbiosis with.

When I was getting closer to Sherry back in the day, my best male friend then, Derek II, flat out said, "V, you deserve cooler gf's." Remarkably incidentally both Derek and Riley who I thought were my real friends turned out to be not.

Having been best friends with Sherry makes me realize that I have been searching for broken souls still ever since. I can't do that anymore.

My coworker friend, Joya**, has advised in the beginning of my friendship with Sutra that perhaps I was expecting too much in a friendship. "Not everyone is going to be your soul mate, or should be," Joya said.

Months later, today Joya concedes, "You're better off. Glad this happened. Should have happened sooner!" I laughed hard. Out of relief, perhaps.

See, I don't need any Joe Blow (or Jane Mundane) to dine out with or kill time any other way with. I am perfectly happy with my own company and that of a select few. I choose quality over quantity.

For years since my divorce I thought I needed more friends (or, some would be nice). Says who? Maybe I had just been conditioned by society to believe so. Often in a group is when I feel the most lonely and misunderstood.

When I was little, my mother noticed my loner ways and would reprimand my nature. "People are supposed to be gregarious," she'd say. I didn't have the vocabulary then to rebut.

I am an INFJ. Perhaps this lifestyle (or lack thereof) is what I am destined to have, and it is exactly what I need. There is peace and liberation in that.


*Not her real name.
**Not her real name.

La La Land

Because everybody is a film critic (and a food critic) these days.

(Spoiler alert: don't read on if you haven't seen La La Land and intend to.)

I've heard that there is speculation that La La Land may win Best Picture.

No.

It is a pretty film. It is a cute film. It is unique. And refreshing. I applaud the courage of the producers and writers and cast and crew for creating something that could have been easily dismissed as unpopular.

Did I like the film? Yes. I even teared up at times. That's what it caters to do. It is a chick flick. I'm a chick. (I categorically detest rom-com, though.) Actually, it's a chick and gay dick flick. My apologies for the stereotype. Heard it on the radio. Not in so many words. I'm sure there are those who fit the demographics but don't love musicals. I'm sure you exist.

But Best Picture? No. (I am not saying it won't win. Because it's a white industry. I am saying it doesn't deserve to win.)

I can see that Ryan Gosling is charming. I can understand why women swoon over him. Props to him for learning the piano in merely three months. He pulled it off impressively. And the recent speech at the Golden Globes thanking his wife Eva Mendes? Genuine and sweet as heck. But I have not been attracted to Ryan Gosling. Not even in The Notebook. There. I've said it. Blasphemy, I'm sure.

But the sadness of Ryan Gosling's character at the end of La La Land got me. That's right. I'm attracted to sadness. Always have been. Of course it had to be a sad ending. Sad endings make for the best love stories. If Gosling's Seb would've married Emma Stone's Mia, that would have been boring. The parallel universe of what could've been (or should've been, if you're that kind of a romantic) was perfect because it was bittersweet. And that knowing nod and smile - that IS the perfect ending. Thanks for comin'. It doesn't matter what happens for the rest of their respective lives.

You can tell that the actors literally just took dance lessons. Great effort and heartfelt performance, but there is better on Dancing with the Stars (and I don't even watch that show). The rise and fall as they waltz is totally lacking. (There is some grace.) The tapping is barely adequate. Mad skills they are not. If you've seen Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers... I am sorry but their contemporary counterparts don't even come close. But they are pretty and young and easy on the eyes. And they are trying. And I do find the acting to be quite good, especially Stone's.

Then there is the scene of the lovers' first fight. The way the dialog escalates is unbelievable to me, it feels so staged. Also the fact that the argument takes less than five minutes, and all of a sudden the bird in the oven is burnt beyond recognition, triggering the smoke alarm? They literally just sat down at the table! So the bird would've burnt anyway. Seb took all his time planning this surprise dinner, and the bird would've overcooked within minutes of Mia walking in? Nah. Don't buy. That is poor writing.

The cinematography is... nice. You get to see L.A., and L.A. is always nice to look at. Big blue sky, palm trees, landmarks... they all stir nostalgia and sentiments of adventure. Shots at the Griffith Observatory are visually pleasing. But no one scene is particularly breathtaking or groundbreaking.

When I think Best Picture, I think life-changing, a film that compels you to reevaluate your perspectives of the world, challenges your values, makes you a better person even. Is that too much to ask? La La Land, while highly enjoyable, is not even a believable love story. We see a white guy hook up with a white girl, we don't question. What do they have in common? Examine the broken pieces, and you will conclude: no wonder they didn't work out.

All this said, boy, Ryan Gosling really rocks a dark suit with a skinny tie. And I still have no desire to fuck him.

Trimmin's & Fixin's

I have a handful of fond childhood memories with my mother. Don't get me wrong. I had a happy childhood, one that is envy-worthy even. I have tons of happy memories of the four of us: my parents, my brother W and me. But involving solely my mother and me, those are far fewer.

One of those memories is my mother clipping my nails. I would feel so pampered. She was meticulous about it. Truth is it was rare when I felt she was poring over me, focusing on just me. She was a career woman and I needed more attention than she had time. These moments are much cherished.

The best part is toenails. The sensation of her digging into the corners attempting to get all the crud out - if that isn't love, I don't know what is. It was guilty pleasure too, just borderline erotic and as close to incest as one gets without actually committing.

Years later, one summer my Mom is visiting at W's, and we're all hanging out in the living room. Elsie is clipping OC's toenails. Tirelessly, just as my mother did. OC just sits back and takes it all in. In fact he is so relaxed he appears to be sliding off the sofa any minute. I reflect on a mother's love and how I could not fathom the depth and vastness of that selflessness.

My mother then comments along the same line, that it was so special Elsie was doing this. Taken aback, I blurt, "You used to do the same for me. Don't you remember?"

The smile freezes on her face. Awkward. She doesn't remember. And she admits so.

Mom is sensitive about the subject of forgetfulness as she ages. So I drop it. But I can't help but feel hurt. This act of bonding - did it not mean as much to her as it did me? Obviously not, right? Then anger sinks in. I already have so few mother-daughter memories. By not remembering, she has taken one away from me. It is as if it never happened.

This line of thinking is illogical, of course. And it can't be always about me, now can it?

Few more years go by. Another summer, my mother is diagnosed with lymphoma. We are an ocean apart.

It was a difficult time. Difficult for my mother as she (and her side of the family) are notorious worrywarts and negative thinkers (who happen to have a long family history of cancer - a little correlation there?) When she can't relax, she can't relax. She thinks of the absolute worst. When I come home a little late, she doesn't just wonder. She envisions gang rape, torture, and my mangled body tossed off a cliff. She can't help it. When she hasn't heard from someone in a while, death is the first thing on her mind. Not because she is in her late 70's now and of course death is on her mind. This goes way back.

And difficult for my father, her sole caretaker who is older than she. Even before she became ill, he cooked and cleaned and did all the dirty work around the house. I found out just recently that, before my late grandmother, my mother's mother, promised my mother to my Dad, she sat him down to have a talk. It went something like this according to my Dad:

My grandmother:
Look, K (my mother's name) ain't ever gonna cook. She ain't lifting a finger. You understand? If you won't accept this, I can't let you have her.

My father, crazy in love, agreed. And he has kept his word ever since.

They have had only each other in their empty nest for decades now. I shudder to imagine the fear of losing the one person you see day in and day out, depend on, the only one you have loved all your life.

Between September and November, my mother had 3 rounds of chemo. All things considered, she did well. There were inevitable effects. Could be worse.

Not being able to be there for her was the most difficult part. She assured us it was for the best. Her doctor had advised against visitors at all costs to avoid infection and complications, since her immune system was so compromised.

A strong, independent, whip-smart woman all her life (except for the little things like not being able to make real food and asking about a kettle "How can I tell when the water is boiling?"), my mother would comfort us during this time. We did try to comfort her as best we knew how. Not sure it made a difference. My mother is not easy to convince. She would say things like, "What if the 3 rounds are not enough?" I reminded her to focus on one step at a time, and to view the treatment sessions as milestones. The concept of living in the present is foreign to the woman. She's a planner. This went against every grain of her nature.

But she did it. She conquered. She retested and is now cancer-free.

When I visited during the holidays, she hadn't had that last consultation yet. Nobody knew if she was in the clear or not. She felt fragile, apprehensive. But I could see that glimpse of hope, her allowing herself to entertain the better what-if's. I tried to stay positive for her. I refused to think too far ahead. What's the point? I argued.

One evening during my visit, I find my parents having one of their little squabbles in the dining room. My mother is trimming her fingernails. Her fingertips have gone numb from the chemo, apparently a common side effect. It can take months for the sensations to return. This makes it challenging to trim one's own nails, we find out. Doesn't help that her hands are - she still is - weak in recovery.

My mother reaches out to my Dad for assistance. My Dad is reluctant at first. "I'll miss and cut your flesh..." My Mom insists that it is unlikely, that it is child's play. My Dad acquiesces, but gingerly.

"You are not getting close enough!" My mother criticizes.

"I'll cut you if I try to get closer..." My Dad repeats. This goes on.

"Let me give it a shot," I volunteer.

I feel the flesh of my mother's fingertips with my left hand, and guide the nail clipper along. I ask questions. Am I too close? Doesn't hurt, right? Is this short enough?

She always wants shorter. "See? This is easy. I told you," my mother quips, addressing my Dad.

Secretly I was filled with love and pride in this act of reciprocating the favors she did me decades ago. Oh, the circle of life! And pleasantly surprised I didn't suck at this nurturing task even though I had never been anyone's caretaker in my life.

"Are you sure you want shorter?" I ask one more time. "This is pretty short already."

"Yes, shorter." My mother replies. "Next time I'll be on my own again."

She didn't mean to, but my heart broke a little.