Minor falls, major lifts

So I've been failing to blog ever since starting this entry over a week ago. And now that it is 6AM on a Sunday morning and I STILL haven't fallen asleep, I'm going to pound this one out. It's going to be an interesting Sunday/Monday. But anyway, regarding my lack of blogging output:

Symptoms? Starting to blog about something and then either losing interest or having my vocabulary evaporate into a cloud of illiterate idiocy.

Diagnosis? Possible ADD or a (more likely) case of too-much-crap-going-on-at-once-itis.

Prescription? Bullet points.

So here goes.


1. Stress. How it affects us differently, and how we have learned to deal with it differently. Specifically, how I'm starting to worry that I don't worry about certain things.

2. Housing. Shenanigans all around. Finally found someone to sublease my place, but now the scramble begins to secure housing for May. Additional woes of transportation and the lack of car.

3. Travel. China with Katie basically confirmed. To do: plan itinerary, buy plane tickets, suck up to relatives and polish off that Mandarin. And I don't mean cleaning oranges.

4. Employment. Shit. I haven't done jack, and if I don't find some (gainful employment), I will be woefully idle for the month of May.

5. Food. Trying to learn how to cook Korean. Examples, tteokbokki:
Delicious. Trust.

6. Love. Or rather, lack thereof. Interpretation of my (apparent) dismissal of all things romantic has garnered interestingly mixed responses (read: shits all over the map). Not sure how to interpret these interpretations. Why don't people talk to me instead of about me anymore?

7. Diversions. Relaxing into old (bad) habits and failing to turn helpful academic activities into normalized routines. But I still have the rest of the year to work on this particular resolution.

8. Whimsy. This one goes out my girl Maddie who is our self-proclaimed bus driver to the burning place. Well, Maddie dear, I have found your vehicle:

Stolen from Ms. Sewell.

Auspice and simple serum

Every time I screech to a halt, let the dust settle, and survey my surroundings, I find that everything has changed and nothing has changed.

All of a sudden, I find myself in the midst of a veritable hurricane of emotional turmoil. I sit in the eye unaffected by the tumult that surrounds me, but I'm still asked to guide the motions that I observe. No less than six individuals have approached me, and once again, I am supposed to be the relationship guru.

Some of the scenarios have not changed since my nadir into this field.

"I don't want to see this person, though I already promised to have a lunch date with them. How do I get out of it?"
"How do I not freak out and turn into a blubbering idiot the next time I see ___?"
"What's the right way to tell someone that they don't give good head?" (I shit you not.)

And then some things show us how old we're getting, but more importantly, how much less we're taking each other for granted.

"__ and I really get along. But our politics and values are like oil and water. It isn't a problem yet, but I'm worried it will be, and I think she's the one. What do I do?"
"We really like each other. But we made plans before we met each other, and we want to remain true to them. Do we stay together for this brief time, or do we give in to the inevitable and just become friends?"
"How do I reconcile my dreams with my love?"

And then I look at myself, and once again I have to say "Why do I feel like I'm still standing still?"

And I have no answer.

Creation's case for irony

I have to admit that sometimes my fascination with my own mortality extends into a curiosity on the mortality of mankind as a whole. And it doesn't help that the Discovery and Travel channels appear to have figured this out and subsequently developed programming that sates this piqued interest.

And as cool as the concepts of the shows are, at the same time they're somewhat disturbingly morbid.

Take, for instance, the Travel channel's 1,000 Places To See Before You Die. I like the premise of this show. There are so many amazing places around the world that everyone (ideally) should have the opportunity to experience. All you have to do is look at these people's photo albums to be convinced of this. But OH MY GOD, the title of the show. Talk about blunt and awkward. I don't mean to imply that death is somehow a taboo subject, or that the mass media should stick the happy-go-lucky side of life, but this is something that's just disturbing.

And then there's the Discovery channel's shows that are centered on the extinction of mankind or the outright absence thereof... due to an implied extinction. There's a show (maybe a series of specials?) focusing on the various forms of natural disasters that can occur which would wipe out life in various ways: animal life, terrestrial life, and even all life in general. It covers freaky stuff that includes the impact of a comet and generic stuff like global warming. They go into detail about how many days it would take for the human population to die out given current technology and infrastructure and have fun with the idea that any of these, while unlikely, are not as unlikely as we would like to think. And then there are shows that focus on premise that humans will kill each other off somehow, and the rest of the world will move on as if we simply packed up and left. They go buck wild with computer generated models of projected animal species if humans were to disappear and CG animations of what ubiquitously urban areas would look like thousands of years into the future, completely inundated in flora and fauna.

They're extremely interesting to watch, but at the same time, sobering in their implications. It's one thing to despair about one's impact on humanity and the "world"... it's another thing entirely to think about the big picture of big pictures, where even civilizations don't matter.


Moving on, everyone should get a Twitter account. Just take a gander to the right. It's like facebook stalking for those of us without iPhones... or until someone else releases a cheap, mass-produced phone that can access websites with the same ease.

Go out and make an account so I can follow you.

Drenched denim and blush

RoKS just ended.

All the evidence and all the signs are pointing toward this RoKS being one of the best ones in years. But in the overarching big picture of things, in the spotlight of hindsight, in the glorious afterglow of an anticipated experience... I feel underwhelmed.

Maybe it was the fact that I spent most of my time sitting at a table with Carleigh, checking in delegates and asking for damage deposits. Maybe it was the fact that I spent the rest of my time running IT and dreaming of sleep. Maybe it was the fact that I felt betrayed by the circumvention of conference structure by would-be delegates. Maybe it was the fact that I experienced a wholly unfounded and unreasonable feeling of inappreciativeness from everyone I came into contact with. And maybe I'm just getting old as an AIESECer, and I've finally hit the dreaded "sophomore slump".

And now that I'm sitting in LTM listening to everyone talk about how amazing this past weekend was and how to best bring that experience back to the rest of the membership, I'm struck with the realization that I now know what people mean when they say that they've become stricken with an inordinate feeling of boredom, the sinister form of boredom that makes one feel idle and useless. And maybe this is what has been eating away at me.

I need to focus less on negativity. But this is something I need to reconcile with myself and push through.

Please pray for Mojo

So I realized that I haven't made a new post in over a week now, so in the next 20 minutes for before I have to run out the door and haul tail to class, I'm going to pound one out.

I've learned not to try to think about the future too much. In all fairness, it's unavoidable to an extent, but there's a fine line between sage planning and overwrought fretting.

It always begins with my professional prospects and my outlook thereof. I've narrowed my career of choice down to a neighborhood but am still clueless as to which house I should move into. And this neighborhood is pretty frickin' huge. With an INTA degree, I could go into a vast variety of fields. I could go to business school next and do international consulting. I could go into law school and work for NGOs and transnational organizations. I could continue my studies into INTA/IR graduate school and go into academia. I could attempt to enter the foreign service and go globetrotting with the state department. And the list goes on and on. And where does AIESEC fit into all of this? Sometimes I see myself being the prodigal alumnus, continually giving back by way of Mike Flood and Peter Stewart. And then other times, I can't wait to get out and let the new generation find their path. And the problem, I think, lies in my inability to reconcile the two into a suitable compromise.

And then this bleeds into the growing panic of "how will I stay sane and happy?"

I've been stricken with a serious case of the "grass is greener". When I lived at home in a small town, I dreamed of the fast paced life in the big city. And now that I'm here, I'm becoming sentimental for the comfortable ease of the small town. Not to mention, these have all be in the South East US. What about New England? What about the west coast? Hell, what about other countries? I've spent ample time in Canada, western Europe, China, and had a taste of Morocco. They all have their quirks and their special qualities. Different cultures, different ways of life, different perceptions of day to day goings-on. And this isn't even factoring in specific neighborhoods and regions. And what's the most unsettling is that I'm probably going to have little to no control over where I'm placed.

And then this bleeds into the growing panic of "what about my romantic life?"

It's disturbing how rational I've become. I haven't had a real crush in well over a year. Why? Because every time one rears its head, I analyze it until I can find something unrealistic about it. I always find something that tells me "this will never work, don't even try." Sometimes, I look back on those and think "yeah, that was a good call." And then sometimes, I think "jeez, am I sabotaging myself?" And the fact that I can say that about even one of them throws them all into doubt. I can't say for certain whether I've actually met anyone in the past couple of years that I've legitimately liked anyone. Have I, against all odds and logic, turned myself into a bitter asexual?

And then this bleeds into the growing panic of my mortality.

My parents had me at 24. That's two years older than I am right now. To me, my parents look old, even though they're only in their 40s. When I think about children, I feel it both ways. I know that to have any in the near future would be wholly unfeasible and unreasonable, but I know that to have them much later would result in a very strained parenthood. It's the perennial dilemma for our generation. Do you put your career first, or your potential children? If I were to do the jetsetting international thing, there would be no room for children in that. The lack of stability would create maladjusted teenagers. And then when I'm older, how can I expect to play soccer with my child when I'm hobbling around at age 50+? And then there's the issue of grandchildren. I want to be around to see them. But if I don't see myself living past 70, would it even be possible? And speaking of mortality, I know I have an expiration date. I don't know when that is, but I know that it lurks in the haze of inevitability. How am I going to maximize my time here on this Earth so I don't look back and say, "What a waste."

And then this makes me think about what I'm going to do with my life as far as my career and general work, which only further throws me into this vicious cycle.

GAH! Please see title and comply.

Vivid machination, coarse inspiration

I used to wonder why artists, writers, and artisans in general took sabbaticals. Now I think I realize why.

There's nothing more incendiary to your imagination like the deprivation of the senses and restriction of action.

Of course, I'm ruling out the muses that ride in on chariots of emotional turmoil. But you can't force those, so why try?

I rendered this image on PhotoShop out of sheer curiosity and fascination.

The influence? The White Tree of Gondor.

Ravages of distance

When I think about all the times in the past when I'd wax philosophic about the effects of time, location, and circumstance as the pivotal dynamic between individuals and groups, the historic trend of my output strikes me as something approaching absurd. And when I say absurd, I say it because I have yet to discover a word that can completely and successfully encapsulate my feelings on the matter. I can only step out of myself and look on in wonderment.

Each time, my vantage point changes. The permutations of time, location, circumstance, and people are never the same, and it's only now that I realize duplicity is virtually impossible. Consequently, anxiety about these differences becomes ridiculous, so I think I'll be easier on myself. All that's left is to consider each situation as a unique, separate entity.

Still, it seems inevitable that I'll repeat this cycle ad infinitum until the day I die. And I don't know if I'll ever reach a suitable conclusion to satisfy my need for rationality. For now, I'm still telling myself that it's all research for potential literary ambitions in the future.

On Christmas Eve, there was a party at one of the neighboring houses. It was the old school Chinese crowd from the past decade. It was an odd experience. I hadn't seen everyone in nearly a year, at least not all gathered into one house like that. All the parents seemed to have shrunk, while all the kids became veritable goliaths. All the parents simpered over me like some communal prodigal son, even though in reality I'm now not any better than the other children. In grade school, they all fawned over me because of my affinity for the piano and my enrollment in magnet programs. Compared to the 9 year olds still learning long division and the socially awkward, pubescent 12 year olds, I'm sure they thought I was the second coming of Asian Jesus. But now? Some of those kids are being courted by Ivy League schools, some are more musically talented than I ever was, and I'm sure they're more driven than I am. But that's how the Chinese mindset works sometimes, I guess. In their minds, I'm still the paragon of filial excellence, regardless of the truth in front of their faces.

Sometimes I think that's why Asian cultures produce such motivated, passionate, and unhappy people. They spend so much time trying to achieve a state of faultlessness and still never seem to satisfy their parents. It creates a quagmire of festering bitterness, directed to all fronts: their parents, their perceived rivals, and themselves.

Walking home from that evening presented myself with even more food for thought. There's nothing more startling than the realization that your grief, no matter how anguished and sincere, is merely a smokescreen for something else that lies beneath. I came upon this epiphany when I passed Seymour's house for the first time since I last blogged about him. I hadn't mustered up enough courage to ask his other students where his grave was, and it seemed reckless to ask his family direction. As I gazed at the quaint house, similar to mine but wearing a different coat of paint, I was inundated with a flood of memories that I wasn't prepared for. I never expected to react that strongly to his memory, and I didn't. What surprised me was everything else that rushed into my consciousness. Middle school anecdotes, feelings of inadequacy, all of the inner turmoil associated with those teenage years. They had snuck out and into the forefront of my mind hiding under the memory of my former history teacher. I still don't understand why all these things correlate in my unconsciousness. And I don't know if I want to know.

Speaking of death, it turns out one of our nicer neighbors is beset with prostate cancer. I never really took the time to get to know him or his family, but as I drove my mom home from work today, she rattled off the entire history of his illness. To be honest, I didn't catch all of it because I had instinctively started to tune her out; she can be really long-winded sometimes. But what I did hear was heartbreaking. He'd be fighting his diagnosis for years, probably ever since he had his house built across the street from us and moved in. I never saw much of his wife, but according to my mom, she was always working as a waitress somewhere to supplement their mounting costs, even though they'd retired long ago. Apparently chemotherapy is really expensive, even more so than I had ever thought.

Anyway, for years my parents swapped produce with Jack and his wife. My parents grew prize greens and various other vegetables in their garden, and Jack had an orange tree and banana tree. Over time, my parents had planted an orange tree of their own, and Jack had started his own modest garden under my mom's supervision. My mom is especially proud of this rapport. Our other neighbors only trade furtive looks with each other, ourselves included. Every chance she gets, she sighs and laments the poor sense of community that surrounds us. But I digress. This past fall, my parents' orange tree yielded no fruit, and they had none to share with Jack. In response, he sent over nearly all of the oranges from his own tree, but he had to ask his daughter to deliver them. When my mom started talking to her, she found out that he had decided to stop his treatment before his illness completely drained the money that he had saved with his wife. He didn't want to leave her destitute and dependent on their daughter, who had flown in from Alaska to spend time with him in his remaining days. He was so weak he couldn't even walk across the street with a bag of oranges. My mom told me that he probably won't survive past this winter.

My mom has already offered to teach Jack's wife how to maintain the bed of leeks, bok choy, and Chinese broccoli that Jack had so lovingly maintained. She declined, and my mom can't figure out why she'd let it go fallow. I have a hunch though, and it has nothing to do with an interest, or lack thereof, in gardening.

I finally got my hair cut on the 28th. I went back to Scissors and, hilariously enough, got attended to by the same nice lady that cut it back in August. She seemed to remember me and we had a nice chat about what we did in fall. She tried to convince me to grow it out again and come back in a year, when I had another ponytail to donate to Locks of Love. She even promised to style my hair for free. She almost had me convinced, but the thought of maintaining a wild mane for another year scared me into demanding that she give me the cut. As I left, she called out after me, "See you again in 4 months!" Who knows? Maybe I will.

To end things on a much lighter note, DEATH TO YOUTUBE AND THE WRITER'S STRIKE. I've lost too many hours of my life in the viewing of reality TV.

Climbing up shadows

"You're crying. But you endanger nothing in yourself. It's like the idea of crying when you do it."


I'm getting a head start on my resolutions for this upcoming year.

In previous years I had always reasoned that doing such things meant you were on the losing side of the existential battle between who you were and who you thought you couldn't be. The stigma associated with these self-made promises is the inevitability of defeat. You always hear people talking about their grandiose plans to succeed each January, and then later on, the topic of conversation becomes how they managed to fail yet again. The whole thing becomes a joke.

But I've decided otherwise, this time. Like all things popular and commercialized, the true meaning of the action lies in its owner, not the fancy clothes that it wears. Those who only understand the consumerist version of the winter holidays should have no bearing on those who regard it as the epitome of reflection, charity, and humility.

The sad thing is that of all the people I know, I think I lack self-control the most. Looking back through my spotty and sharply receding long term memory, I can't seem to pinpoint any specific occurrence which may have contributed to this. But I know they exist. In my mind they're as conspicuous as that last tequila shot you downed that previous night. You might not be able to recall sucking on that final lime wedge, but you know it happened.

So what does this mean for me? I'm going to be taking this whole thing as an exercise in discipline. Before long, I will have become "the Man". I won't be able to hide behind the labels of "child" or "student" anymore, and the full weight of responsibility will be on my shoulders. A younger, more cynical version of me might have waved all of this off as trifling and overdue. But for the first time in a long time, I feel a sense of urgency that always seems to precede the irrational panic of maturity. If I don't do this now, I'll be stuck here forever.

So, resolution #1: No more red meat. More greens. Also, limited salt and fat intake.

No, I'm not going on a diet. But in the spirit of health and preserving youth, this probably isn't a bad idea.

Trial by grace

I've been thinking about my audioblogging lately. I'm honestly astonished that I didn't draw this connection sooner.

One of my secret indulgences has always been the first couple seasons of Felicity that I have on hand. I ran into some more insomnia last night and instead of reading like I should have, I watched some old episodes. (By the way, just to illustrate how evil and bizarre Wikipedia can be, I went from the link above to the page about Janeane Garofalo, and from there to the page about that frigid bitch Katherine Harris)

Anyway, dusted throughout the first two seasons of that show is something of a cultural anomaly. Felicity communicates long distance with her friend Sally through audio cassette taped monologues, which are essentially letters spoken out loud. It's been years since I've watched this show, and now that I think about it, this is remarkably similar to the audioblogging/podcast revolution that's slowly sweeping the blogging world. In hindsight, the seed in my mind that has blossomed into this audioblogging frenzy was probably planted by these once-nascent episodes.

For awhile, I used to want someone to trade tapes with, and it didn't matter if I knew them or not. The promised therapy of making the tapes wasn't the only reasoning that went into it; even though there was some solace in knowing that an understanding soul would unwrap each tape to commiserate, there was added comfort knowing that the same person trusted you in the same capacity with equal fervor, and you could expect similar tapes from them.

I think the advent of the internet and the birth of the blog created somewhat of a strange beast. Previously, people kept diaries and journals to keep track of their personal thoughts. If they wanted these thoughts to be shared, they either had to write letters to specific people, or just talk about them in person. Albeit of minimal effort, each action was its own. Now, someone can perform the same diary-writing action on their blog and with a click of a button, make it available for anyone in the world to view. To me, the entire thing feels like it's lacking emotion. It's like a hospital almost: cold, hollow, and static... I can almost feel the fluorescent lighting.

I'll admit, it fills a void that some may have difficulty filling otherwise. You write a blog entry and publish it, and if its public, you assume everyone will have read it by the end of the week. In a way, you free yourself from the responsibility of divulging your history to those you wish to tell. Accountability shifts to them instead, because after all, they have access to it. Why wouldn't they read it?

The difference these have from letters are the personal touches that go into them. When you write a letter, you're writing to one specific person, or at most one specific group that will share the letter, and you've emotionally invested yourself into this fact. You pour more of yourself into it, because unlike an email, letters take more time. You hand write the words. You doodle in the margins. You speak familiarly, but probably don't use familiar speech. You're more willing to say some things, but less willing to say others, depending on the letter. Everything about this letter simply drips with your personality and being. But more than anything, letters are returned. Even if the time between each letter is longer than mere hesitation, there's a rapport that's created there. And as warm as that connection is, it's still lacking. Because as symbolic as each letter is of who you are, that's all it is. Just a scrap of paper.

And then there's verbal conversation, a common occurrence. This kind of communication goes one step further in that it brings in the range of subtleties contained in human interaction. It's dynamic, it's unpredictable, it comes from the heart. Things are communicated that don't necessarily come from words. But not all of us are as perceptive as we'd like to be. And the sad truth is that, in a way, we all censor ourselves around people. There are things that we feel we can't say, not to anyone, to the point where it's hard to even say to yourself in the dark. But every part of you inside is screaming to say something, to come clean, like the proverbial shaken bottle of soda that's about to explode. Sometimes, it's because we're in denial, and to say it out loud is to acknowledge the fact that it exists and is true. But usually, it's because we fear reaction. There's no telling how someone will receive what you tell them. You're caught in this self-inflicted trap. "I broke the vase last week." "You actually do look fat in those jeans." "I love you."

I'm not trying to tout any of these three mediums as the best option. Indeed, they all have their individual, optimal usages. But for now, I think I've found a happy medium, if you'll pardon the pun. This talking-to-myself thing has turned out to be pretty cool. I'd still love to have some anonymous confidante to trade tapes with, but the truth is, life isn't a TV drama. Our lives feel as complicated as the figures we see each night and in the movies we watch, but in reality it's all very simple. The entire basis of such a relationship would be grounded in the cathartic release associated with each tape. When you strip away the overblown, romanticized versions of yourselves and when your respective lives even out and calm down, what's left? Do you resort to small talk, or simply cease communication? It's just not feasible.

Hah, I feel like I've spent the past half hour typing/talking about absolutely nothing. I guess that's striking in a way.

Their fanciful gaze

Sometimes, when you least expect it, you get ambushed by rush of emotion, nostalgia, and wonderment that defies all reason. It opens the door for you. It takes the seat next to you on the subway. It offers you the cream for your coffee. And then it has you.

It ranks high amongst the oddest sensations one could ever experience. That sense of deja vu is expected when in the presence of similar artifacts or surroundings. It's similar to the reason why some people experience motion sickness while in a car but not while driving. When you're in control and can anticipate the movements up ahead, they don't affect you as much.

The aftermath is just as baffling. It hits you and you end up swimming around in a haze of memory, and then you emerge and it dissipates without a word. They're like those dreams that you know you've had but can't quite remember. All you have to show for it is your emotions. And I am no exception. I wish I had more to expound on, but sadly I am left only with those emotions.

Stepping out of the library and suddenly feeling guilty.
Riding in the passenger seat of someone else's car and suddenly feeling a strange contentment.
Reaching for the salt shaker and suddenly feeling indescribably miserable.
Opening my book bag and suddenly being unable to suppress a goofy smile.

Call it a coincidence. But I find that I'm the most susceptible to these attacks immediately following a yawn. Maybe it's the fact that I'm tired. Who knows? As a related side note, however, I find that any facial expression following a yawn tends to be the most believable to me, and the most sincere.

Recently, every time I listen to music, I catch myself secretly thinking of ways to apply that music to video or pictures. I analyze everything: mood, relevance of lyrics (if applicable), genre, matters of rhythm, length, and timing. Sometimes my reveries progress so rapidly that I soon find myself hallucinating the visuals that I'm trying to evoke. I tell myself that it's the residual effects from making the banquet video, and that after time, this will subside and become nothing more than a fleeting thought. But deep down, I fear that I may have awakened a deep seated desire to create, to inspire.

And this scares me. I'm reminded of something I read a few weeks ago from Atwood. Art, and this includes all manifestations of it, exists as the energy extracted from your soul that you have carefully molded and fostered within yourself. Once you've created it in tangible form, it becomes it's own being, and in it you have lost the two aspects that made it yours. First, control over its genesis and evolution. And second, the very energy that went into its creation. And you yourself become what is left over.


My semester is pretty much over.

My formal AIESEC role is pretty much over.

What do I have to look forward to? Montreal over the New Year, and then classes. But what about after that? How else am I going to keep my life dynamic? And until then, I'm left with this stagnant period where I feel like I can't do anything but reflect on my life and my existence. And I don't know about the rest of you, but generally I find that to be an upsetting and disturbing endeavor.

My makeshift safari

Went out on the town last night with Gina. Ran into Sumeet, Saie, Nick, and Naya. Good times.

However, being in such a provincial town as G'ville made me really appreciate the AIESEC way of life. I couldn't wait to get back to Atlanta.

But! Some interesting things I ran into that night.



Guess who. And it was handcrafted too. We ended up at Saie's friend's apartment watching Superbad, and this was right next to their front door.




I feel like I could create a lawlcat caption to go with that. This was at the next house we went to. The guys there got a kitten and let it run around on their couches. The above pic is the result of kitty exploration.

Shalom, pallid traveler

It didn't occur to me until tonight that the AIESEC GT landscape could be completely different next spring.

It's somewhat of a bittersweet vision. Of course, there's the newer members of the present blossoming into full fledged AIESECers, and the fresh crop of newies that always reaffirms everyone's vision of what AIESEC really is.

And then there's the everpresent absence: those who have left for traineeships but their presence lingers like a sweet summer scent... and those who have moved on in life and won't ever return, gone but not forgotten.

I never realized how attached to certain people I had become. There's no other way to put it. Once all those people are gone, if I'm still around, I don't know if it'd be the same. For the first time, I understand why people return from really long traineeships and have a hard time reintegrating into their LC. Everyone they knew is gone... the LC had changed on them. True to form, home had disappeared and left an alien, yet friendly replacement.

I guess that's just the nature of things. But it's still unsettling to think about.

Shades of gloom

I've been told I'm too pessimistic, too negative, and ultimately that I don't seem like a happy person by any standard.

And not just by one person, or by one group of people.


I have to admit I'm a tad surprised. And I'm not quite sure what this implies. I thought I had my place in the world all figured out, at least for the next couple of years, and I had such grand plans. Now, I'm not sure that any of it is valid.


What do you do when you're told, "It's not enough"?

Seek and discover

Some people live for art and its expression.

Some people live for spiritual enlightenment and its inner peace.

Some people live for their families, both blood and not.

Some people live for the pursuit of knowledge and the question "Why?"

What do I live for? I'm not sure yet. I'm hoping I figure that out before I die.

Ice, water, vapor

Sometimes I forget that I'm part of the nomadlife family now, blogwise.

It's so inspiring to just go blog surfing and read up on all these wondrous adventures that people are having.

... and it's also very grounding. I was so proud of myself earlier for coming up with the genius idea of combining ketchup and ranch dressing to create a novel dip for my veggies. Now I just feel stupid.