It’s Friday!!!

So, I’m sitting at work with some down time before lunch (free sushi today!), and started doing what I usually do whenever I have free time: flip through pictures I’ve seen like a million times and psych myself out. And yes, i realize i’m killing this topic by beating it and talking about it every chance i get. Anyway, someone posted these pictures of the law school on a law school discussion site that I obsessively visit and wanted to share because it still feels so surreal.

Look how pretty~

Oh, for shame.

I’ve been flipping through old xanga entries, and I totally have a crush on my old self. Why did I have SO many things to say and write about in college and now NOTHING? Even the stuff about nothing was funny, HENCE the writer, ME, could be called FUNNY. (”Yeah! HENCE!”)Yes, yes. For all the smart asses out there, the operative word is “was.” I get it. One of my old entries talks about how my greatest fear is that my kids won’t think I’m funny. Forget worrying about what my future kids think, I don’t even find my own writing in the present remotely close to reflecting funny anymore. Now, to a lot of people, this isn’t a big deal. I’m overreacting in your opinion. We must not really be friends then, because, you would know that as someone who identifies too closely with Josie Gellar, “words are my life.” Someone once said he was bringing sexy back. Well, Shortysilvs is bringing funny back. 2009 has just been modified from “The Year of Luscious Locks” to “The Year of Bringing Funny Back in addition to Luscious Locks.” Okay, but not for this blog because I already know what I want to write about and it’s not funny. This disclaimer is for the aforementioned smart asses.

So, I’m getting ridiculously nervous about moving across the country. Drastic moves have been a bi-annual activity for me the last 8 years, and one would think the routine of it all would dispell any and all queasiness. But alas, such is not the case. And I have no effing idea why. Eff.

Maybe because for the first time in my life I feel like I have direction and I don’t want to blow it.

Maybe because, contrary to personal belief of everlasting nomadic spirit that I broadcast at every opportunity, I really am an old fart and I want to stay near my family in one place for all the live long days.

Maybe because i like my job despite the God-forsaken commute and being able to walk outside into the middle of Old Town Pasadena whenever I want and be minutes from Forever21, BR, Guess, H&M, Bebe, A|X, Gossip, Macy’s…the list of Shortysilvs’ sacred places of homage goes on…

Maybe because it’s that time of the year again, and I find myself seduced by the SoCal summer, as I’ve always been since I left to chase glorious piles and piles of…snow.

Maybe maybe maybe.

Sure, with English Lit I still felt I had direction, but for some reason, my love for the study of it never really translated to a concrete grasp of making a career out of it. I guess it’s not that surprising…abstractions have never translated well with me…which is totally paradoxical to my brooding romantic nature…HAHHAH! No, but really. Anyway, it’s just starting to hit me that all my investment in literature boils down to “it-was-nice-while-it-lasted-and-i’ll-always-have-the-experience” and that I’m not going to be professor after all. Relieved, but oddly wistful over the change of plans. Oh, and walking around Oxford didn’t help. I would love love love to go back. One way would be to go to the University of London through UConn’s study abroad program but do most of my homework at Oxford. Much like how I’m going to attend UConn Law, but plan on reading at Yale.

Anyway, I’ve started looking for an apartment walking distance of the law school and it totally creeps me out that so many freaks of nature live so close to the school and have the means of owning property. Craigslist may not be the best way to find a place, but it sure as hell is the best way to find the freaks leasing out the places so I know what areas  not to play around. 

This is all crap but I’ve written so much I don’t want to erase it. How I pine for the days of yore when my disarming humor got me tens of eProps per post. The good news is, it’s 5PM on a FRIDAY.

I Am Four-Eyes

I had the best sleep on the train today. I’ve discovered that my oversized bag makes a delightfully plush and all-head-engulfing pillow, and my “Property of Delta Silvia” blanket not only preserves heat, but I swear generates it. But more than these, I decided to wear my glasses to work for the first time today. Every morning, as I try to go to sleep on the train, my contacts feel extremely dry and a lot of times, this discomfort messes with my ability to fall asleep and I feel precious minutes of sleep just slipping away and then I get sad about the loss. On top of that, once I do fall asleep, I wake up to find that I can barely open my eyes because the contacts have dried out. And I hurt. So today, I thought, “I’m going to opt for comfort and wear my glasses.”

 

Poor judgment call. Wrong executive decision. Winning The Best Sleep award came at a price because unbeknownst to me, I looked (and I quote): Whoa. (nervous giggle) you don’t….do you normally, I mean, have you worn glasses to work before? If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of the type of “whoa” to which I’m referring, you will want to hug me. Right this second. And whisper sweet nothings to reassure me that I make a beautiful ethereal four-eyed creature and if I had wings I could definitely pass for a fairy.

 

I realize that while glasses shed a sexy light on many, I am not included in that club. My appearance is not illuminated by what is an accessory to others. To me, it’s Debbie Downer; a burden. And I don’t mean emotionally to my self-confidence. So I look like crap. Whatever. I mean Debbie Downer and burdensome literally—burdensome to the small ears and big cheeks that must pick up the slack of a hardly present nose bridge. A Debbie Downer because my lenses are thick and heavy, causing the glasses to slowly but surely slip down the said hardly present nose bridge, thereby dragging down with its weight my little ears and crushing the cheeks on which they so burdensomely perch. Confound it all!

 

Anyway, the sides of my head feel awfully pinched, my hardly there nose bridge feels compressed, and my ears are super sore. I am ready to go home!

WWII Veteran Freezes To Death In Own Home

http://www.wnem.com/news/18566890/detail.html

I could not believe it when I saw this headline. Of all the appalling and shock worthy things that surface as news around the world, this story severely knots my stomach. Perhaps it’s the lack of violent context that highlights the gravity of this veteran’s death. Perhaps neglect of this kind by a city of someone who braved a war for his country is more unsettling than I expected. I do not understand how someone is left to die of hypothermia not out in the wild, not out in the streets, but in the “comfort” of his own home.

Yes, this gentleman was informed via mail and door postings that his bills were overdue, and paying your bills on time is an issue in itself, but to me, that a company would even consider opting to utilize a limiter that automatically shuts off heat and electricity in the middle of winter is a moral issue with which I can’t bring myself to reconcile or stomach. Has our society reached a point where people running companies can’t distinguish the difference in gravity of context and go about shutting off someone’s heat in the dead of winter with the same ease and automaticity as shutting down someone’s plans to go on a shopping spree???

It’s said that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference, and for some reason, with all the dehumanizing acts of intential and deliberate hate, ones of indifference frighten me most.  At that point, what is being dealt with does not feel, it simply puts in place a device that flips a switch when the numbers don’t add up.

Cheers!

2009 started with a week-long visit from my annual migraines. I should name it, as its presence is just as regular and all-pervading as Helga. I’m open to suggestions. Helga might be more visible and attract cringeful stares, but the migraines are debilitating and far more miserable. I hadn’t realized that my stash of Relpax was depleted and I hadn’t renewed my prescription since moving to California. So, I resorted to the next best thing at 1 a.m: a CVS run for Excedrin Migraine pills marked the start of the excessive pill popping.

As the old familiar feeling of dependency grew stronger with every pill I popped over the recommended dosage, I was reminded of how much good health is a blessing–to face the morning sun without aversion–to listen to my favorite songs without wanting to gouge out my eyes–to eat, drink, and be merry without nausea–to close my eyes and be able to sleep without wanting to scrape out my brains from the depths of my skull. It’s crazy how a single burning streak of pain can incapacitate my entire being. I know all this may seem like I’m being overdramatic, but I’m not. Believe you me. The seemingly insignificant things make such a difference once they malfunction; sometimes only when they do.

So, I feel the need to toast the often underappreciated value of health. Weeks can be so damn long, but finally at the end of each one, in the company of deliciously free-spirited people, good food, a few cold Guinnesses and counting, beautiful socal weather and scenic views, no one needs to twist my arm to say “Yep. This is the life.” It’s all very glorious if you ask me. With that said, here’s to appreciating good health in one of the most gorgeous places to live. Cheers!

Still I notice You

As 2008 comes to a close, I realize that this year has been one marked by many closures and is itself one big closure to yet another “chapter.” Closures of the heart, broken and stapled back together, of plans, of changes both unforeseen and self-induced.  

It’s been a tumultuous, albeit interesting, year. From finishing my thesis while making plans to leave academia and pursue law, to experiencing first hand the very exhilirations and despairs that inspire great literature, 2008 has been the best of times and the worst of times.

I saw how twisted pride can be even in despair. I saw that I believed my despair to be so great and so deep that it should have the power to cripple me forever and if it didn’t, then it somehow it detracted from the genuineness of what was causing the despair. But as in the words of Robert Frost: “Everything I’ve learned about life can be summed up in three words: It goes on.”

The other day, I found an unexpected confidant and as I recounted openly for the first time in a long while of where I’ve been, I was able to fully realize that after almost 365 begrudging days to the tee, the soul does not die from losing a soulmate. As much as I want to twistedly immortalize the despair of losing what I had found and thought was mine to keep, I learned to my dismay that Time runs its course and in the process, buries the crippling despair. In the end, the soul does not die. The loss runs deep, but it is not fatal. Do I have the audacity to really say with conviction that I am doing just fine? Yes. An audacious, exhilirating “yes.”

It took me twenty five years to figure out that I can analyze the hell out of existence without knowing the hells and heavens of existence. But those times come a-knocking, both the good and the bad whether you’re ready or not, and you learn what you’re made of and that it’s okay to face yourself, to hate and love what you see because when all is said and done, the only eyes that matter look at you and say they see beauty.

Nothing can separate me from my Beloved, and nothing is worth separating myself from Him. He takes notice of me and through the seasons, I notice Him in the little things; the little victories evidenced by the smiles I notice are returning in greater frequency. 2008 was a year of recovery and I hope 2009 is a year where I celebrate that restoration.

Happy New Year!

36-hour night

I’m exhausted but my sleeping schedule is all off, so I will write myself to sleep, slowly recounting the miseries of the last 36 hours or so. As this is a flight related story, I can practically hear people’s lack of surprise. I know. It’s anticlimactic in its awfulness. Some things just don’t change!

I’m in New York for my cousin’s wedding and it took me and my family 24 hours to get here. Scheduled for a 10PM flight out of LAX to Ithaca connecting through Newark, we arrived at 9PM and remained in the custody of one airport or another for the next 24 hours due to Continental’s repeated excuse that the delays were from the weather.

Me: “5 hours?! Will we be compensated in any way???”

Lady: “Dear, we don’t control the weather.”

Me: (Blink-blink. Blink-blink) “I…don’t understand how that answers my question…

Lady: (Blink-blink. Blink-blink) “Well, it’s an act of God.”

Me: (Blink-blink. Blink-blink) “Excuse me?”

Lady: (Blink-blink. Blink-blink) (Silence).

-exeunt Silvia, stage left-

Our 10 o’clock out of LAX was pushed to 3 AM, and we missed our connecting flight from Newark to Ithaca. We got rebooked onto the 3PM flight, and come 3PM, it was cancelled altogether. At this point, I had shown all the colors of Silvia, trying to appeal with different rhetorical strategies I’d learned in school: pathos (“it’s taken us 12 hours to get from LA to NY and we’re so tired…sniff sniff”); ethos (“listen, my cousin is an air traffic control supervisor for Ithaca airport and he just confirmed that all flights into upstate New York are clear to land. Why won’t you people just admit it’s not the weather but you??!!!”); logos (“But you just said there’s a flight to Ithaca out of  La Guardia in one hour. If weather permits them to leave for upstate New York, why can’t you guys?!”) All to no avail. So, we did what Chungs do best: drive. We ditched our plans to fly, rented a car, and drove 4 hours to our destination. Let me tell you, when you’re happy to be stuck with your family in a bright blue PT Cruiser for hours, you know life is good.

We took the opportunity to swing by Rutgers Law School to see if I could picture myself there for three years. The building is so nice and the library, expansive. Looking down from the top floor into the first floor lobby, I saw that it was embedded with a large brass compass. A compass only points North and that’s all that’s needed–just one reference point. Standing there in the Center for Law and Justice, staring down at this oversized compass, I felt the pounding excitement of knowing that life goes. Be it there at Rutgers or elsewhere, I need to know what is to be my point of reference and fight to keep it in sight.

We started our trip at 10PM and arrived at our destination at 9PM the next day. Our family arrived at the hotel without one of our bags, another family is stuck overnight at an airport, and another family got into a car accident. After things subsided somewhat, my uncle said on the phone as his car was being towed, “Don’t worry Eunjean. We have the rest of the weekend to screw up some more. We’re making memories and stories to talk about in the future.” That’s perspective at its finest right there. What’s important is everyone’s enroute, and we get to celebrate the first wedding on my mom’s side together.

And now, it is officially an ungodly hour to be awake.

The Not-So-Good-Ol’ Iron Horse

Today started out kind of like Alexander’s “Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” for grown ups.

Today, it took 2 broken trains and 1 overstuffed train to get me to work. Granted, I am by no means a morning person and I admit that when my perfect seat is taken, it warrants flipping out, but I believe today was the 2nd most awful train ride experience. The first was the time I got on the 10PM train from LA Union station, and it didn’t leave until 4 hours later at 2AM. I don’t want to talk about it.

Anyway, I decided to take a slightly later train today and got on the good ol’ iron horse at 6:50AM, found my perfect seat, arranged the “Property of Delta Silvia” blanket over my chilled knees, plopped my sleeping eye mask (courtesy of Papa Chung) over my heavy lids, slipped my hands into my gray woolen mittens (courtesy of Papa Chung), and was about to retreat into my post-boarding slumber when “BEEEEEEEEEEEEP – ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some mechanical difficulties so, uh…hang tight.”

Fine. It happens. 7:20 rolls around. I’m still in Irvine. 7:40 rolls around. I’m still in Irvine. 7:50 claws its way around and I hate Irvine. But good news! We’re told that the problem’s been solved: another train is coming up from San Diego and “we will simply hook onto them and be towed all the way to LA.” That is the great solution. I am suddenly very aware that these “master minds” who came up with this “great solution” are conducting the transportation of so many precious lives. And mind you, one train is about 6 cars. 12 large cars will be linked together and I keep hearing last night’s news “LA’s MetroLink train service has been ranked 3rd most dangerous in the country.” Excellent.

So, our rescue train pulls up on the next track over, continues on for about 500 yards to the fork, then proceeds to back that iron horse rump and all its junk in the trunk so we can attach our train to it. We’re told to unboard our train so I must now go through in reverse the entire process of getting into post-boarding mode. Off with my woolen gloves, off with my sleeping eye mask, and refold the awesomeness that is my “Property of Delta Silvia” blanket. I am so pissed at the forces that dare disturb my slumber….sigh.

Finally, with 2 trains worth of passengers packed into 1 train, it is time to go. Except that it’s not time to go. The biggest sike of all times. We move about 2 feet and the conductor gets back on the intercom all cheeky and trying to be cute says ”I think what the first train had is contagious. This train just malfunctioned and is completely down. Train down folks.” I wanted to track him down and punch him in the face. We’re told to take the NEXT train and these 12 cars aren’t going anywhere. Ever, I hope. Lashed together, I hope those 12 cars are condemned to the depths of the underworld and never resurface again. 2 trains worth of people packed into 1 train all unboard and must now make our way up one set of stairs to the other side like a herd of cattle. Or refugees.

In the end, 3 trains worth of people are crammed like farm animals into 1 train and we are off for the promised land that is Los Angeles at what couldn’t have been more than 40 miles an hour. Needless to say, I have been a treat to be around all day. Crankfest 2008.

There is however, one good thing that came out of this unacceptable chaos. The train runs parallel to the mountains, and until today,  because I’m there too early and pass out with a sleeping eye mask over my face, I never knew how pretty it is when the sun comes up from behind them.

Ode to Writing

These days, most of my thoughts are triggered by the books I read.

 

I’m almost reluctant to use the word “enjoy” to describe what it is I feel towards Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead.” It’s the first book that seems to validate my own struggles, ones that I rarely disclose to the world. Even my aversion to disclosing too much to the undeserving public finds some sort of ally in Dominque. But it is her appraisal of Howard Roarke that has revealed to me so much about myself.

 

He is an architect whose buildings defy and offend the frivolous tastes of the majority. His work is audacious and unpopular because it makes the incompetent grossly aware of their own shortcomings. But for those who get his genius, like Dominique, it is something that reflects an intimacy almost greater than his physical presence. When she walks through his buildings and scans the layout, every angle and arch, every room and its dimension is a translation of his mind and the spirited passion that drives him.

 

I appreciate music and singing, but singing has never moved me the way words have. Back in college, I was a part of my church’s creative worship ministry, and being a member of an acappella group at the time, everyone naturally assumed I was getting on board the ministry team as a vocalist. I remember how surprised people were when they realized I’d rather be writing lyrics than singing any day. I think it was really clear the first time we went to a recording studio up at the Media Union on North campus. Fifteen minutes into the session I was getting fidgety and started taking bathroom breaks every five minutes because I “really had to pee.” Conveniently. But I could sit up all night writing. And it was in college that I learned my own weakness for words and the belief that it truly is an art. Style is more readily discernible in singing but even when someone is a “good” singer, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I am or ever will be drawn to them. Their singing, perhaps, but not them. Strange. And it may not always be clear why, but once in a wonderful while, certain singers can make you feel like they are confessing the essence of who they are.

 

Same with Rand’s architect. Same with writers. More than singers, I am moved by writers. More than melody, I am moved by lyrics. It was only after I finished my graduate studies that I really knew how much I relish the impact of words arranged with such artistic deliberateness, and marvel at literature’s power to change the reader. You know, the humanities are labeled as such because those disciplines study what it means to be human and reveal to us our virtues, our follies, and our vices. But there are times when it suddenly hits us that we are experiencing the mind of the writer. The intimacy of seeing the thoughts that make them essentially who they are left on paper to be internalized by the reader is still one of most profound rushes for me.

 

So, I guess I’m writing about writing and it doesn’t get much more circular than that.

Two Kinds of Women

It’s been ages since I’ve blogged and as I place my fingers on the keyboard, I remember how much I loved doing it even as I feel strangely shy, as though I’m meeting someone new. 

I commute two hours to work by train everyday, and in an attempt to make the most of a potentially eye gouging arrangement, began reading for leisure again. I am reading Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” and of the many topics she addresses (many with which I can’t completely agree), I found one particular idea most interesting.

On the topic of love and sex, Rand discusses two kinds of women: the woman who measures her worth by how many men fall in love with her, and the woman who finds a man worthy because he falls in love with her. The former is self-explanatory and quite common, but the mentality of the latter, rarer class of women is what intrigues me. By virtue of him falling in love with her, he is elevated in her eyes as someone capable of discerning that which is worthy of devotion.

Lofty? Maybe. Arrogant? Hardly. It got me thinking how true it is in this case that one can’t just bestow worth on someone else without fully recognizing one’s own. Excepting the unwarranted vain self-worshippers and the occasional deluded sufferers of the awful princess-complex, it takes solid assurance to objectively say that one has something valuable to offer another. After that, it’s not arrogance that leads a woman to think that it is the man whose worth is increased for loving someone like her and not the other way around. Arrogance parades around and trumpets one’s superiority while scorning those that don’t acknowledge it. What Rand prizes is that quiet self-acknowlegment, equally quiet indifference towards those who don’t recognize something valuable, and unbridled dive into those who do. 

But how many women are truly vested in their spiritual, mental, and emotional fullness and have experienced the exhiliration of finding a man raised in her eyes because he is someone who can’t resist that fullness? I wonder how many women can genuinely say that they desire that kind of man–the kind that loves her for the very things she openly loves about herself. And of the things a woman sees in herself, accepts, and love, how much does it matter to her that those are the things for which she is loved by a true counterpart? Because isn’t that what makes him worthy? Not that he merely fell in love with her, but did so for the very things that make her love herself?

I don’t agree with a lot of Rand’s Objectivist philosophy, and yes, her friendship with Alan Greenspan and his subsequent worship of her ideas is often blamed for bringing down our highly unregulated capitalist economy, but all that aside, I feel like I found a kindred spirit in Ayn Rand.