seantime

Life is certainly strange at times.

Imagine, for a moment, that you were invited by your favorite recording artist to a rather intimate venue, and after having wanted to see her live for over 4 years, you drive nearly 3 hours to watch her do a 10-minute set, and then afterwards you were too nervous to approach and talk to her. That’s what happened to me.

Being a Norwegian pop sensation, it’s been rare that Marit Larsen is ever in the US. Having no idea that she was in the Bay Area and preparing for a US debut, I was caught off guard by her twitter messages stating that she was visiting radio stations and doing some small concerts in the area. I was obviously a bit sad that she was in the Bay Area and it seemed impossible to actually buy tickets to any of the concerts, which were promotional. So I posted a despondent tweet, wherein I learned what the @name thing does in twitter. The fact that she responded to my tweet caught me off guard; that it was an invitation to a performance was stretching the realm of credulity. (Unrelated, but she has a US website now, too.) Despite the location being in Sacramento, this would be one of the few things that would compel me to spend 5 hours driving to see. Sacramento is kind of far away from the peninsula. I guess it isn’t that far from, say, Oakland. I didn’t really expect her to respond again when I said I would be excited to go (even gods forget their promises to little people), but she did, so it was on.

Ms. Larsen’s music set was pretty great, 3 songs from her second album. Her performance was about what I expected, which is to say that she is incredibly charming and ebullient. You don’t love her for strong vocal chops, but she’s still a great singer with a unique voice and amazing, polished songwriting skills. But if you’ve been reading this blog, you probably know that already.

Granted, given my lack of being a disciple of the cult of celebrity, expecting me to perform in this instance would be like expecting a freshman benched all season to pull through on game-winning free throws in the NCAA finals.

And granted it’s hard to talk to celebrities, especially ones whose albums you’ve listened to literally hundreds of times (only partly because you were too lazy to switch out CDs in your car), because then they become real.

Also granted that Marit Larsen is female, and girls are kind of scary to talk to.

Additionally, granted that there was also a really strange social interplay going on, because I might have been the only person there to see her perform and not some dude who won American Idol (I had no idea who Kris Allen was, not having had a TV and not keeping up with American Idol in any case, but now I know that I’ve heard one of his songs on the radio a few times), so there was this social pressure to not act too excited; and I wasn’t sure if maybe it would be really out of place to be chasing her down in between sets or asking for her autograph when everyone else was all casual-like and in all probability really didn’t know who she was. Celebrity, I suppose, is partially in the eye of the beholder; I’m straining my brain trying to think if there’s any entertainer that I would have wanted to meet more than Marit Larsen.

Even granted she kind of disappeared quickly after her set and then only appeared in the audience right before the guy’s set, and ran out before the end of Kris’ set, I still feel kind of dumb that I didn’t get to talk to her, and was too nervous to approach her, for example, in between Kris’ songs.

Upon some introspection and a day-long deconstruction of the events of Tuesday, April 13, 2010, what I was left wondering was what did I really want? In one sense, I got out of it exactly what I wanted, which was to see Marit Larsen perform live. And there was already the icing on the cake that she responded to me on twitter. People I admire have a strong sense of integrity and humility in the presence of fame or power — that is, being true to oneself despite the seductive pull of circumstances — and Ms. Larsen demonstrated that in abundance.

Even now, I’m not sure if the primary emotional response I feel for not talking to her is regret or bafflement. I mean, I have a fairly strong dislike for the cult of celebrity, and am afraid that the lure of fame might corrupt those whom I admire, but I can’t but feel somewhat that there was a missed opportunity. Yet, my expectations were mild, and they were met that day.

In many ways, my life is absolutely ridiculous. Life had been handed to me on a silver platter, but I balk because it wasn’t gold. Almost everything I’ve wanted, I’ve been able to get. In terms of struggles, physical or otherwise, my life’s been a cupcake. I’ve been able to go to the college I wanted to, get the jobs I’ve wanted to. I’ve learned from top professors, I have first-rate friends. I’ve never been materially wanting or hungry.

Yet, those who know me know that I tend to complain a lot. It might be true that how one views life is how one experiences it, but I do not think it is as easy to change one’s outlook and perceptions as most people do.

Maybe I’ve become what I’ve tried to avoid. I’ve been given privilege without expectations and have been aimless with my abilities. After being admitted to Stanford for undergrad, my goals have been vague and formless. Of the things I want, I can get, but maybe I don’t know what I want. I’m not talking just about the girlfriend thing here, or just the fact that if I really really wanted to talk to Marit Larsen, I could have and should have.

Basically, I’ve been guaranteed a very comfortable existence with a minimum of effort or hurdles. I won’t ever be particularly wealthy, nor would I want to be, but the life trajectory that my parents put me on will all but keep the stream of honey flowing. And the disturbing thing is that, short of the apocalypse, this won’t ever stop. So where does the motivation come to do anything?

There has to be meaning at some point, a devotion to some purpose or some desire that causes one to not stagnate, to not be too comfortable in one’s station. There has to be some expectation that what we do is worthwhile, confirmation that our work will be appreciated, that what we strive to do is correct. I’m afraid that I might miss another opportunity like Tuesday’s, none the wiser from experience. Worse, I’m afraid that I might not care enough to change. And I think that would be more pathetic than what transpired that fateful day.

For most of my life, I viewed the body as a vessel for the spirit or mind. This might seem a bit strange or contradictory as I am not one who thinks of the mind as separate from the physiological self (no ghosts in machines here). Yet, the “emergent properties” that constitute consciousness or intelligence or mind are, at least theoretically, separable from the electrochemical processes in our brains. So I guess there still is some sort of mind-body duality, in that there are some things we do for the brain versus for the rest of ourselves.

Thus, it was my belief that the physical body should only be afforded the minimal amount of maintenance to ensure that the other parts survived. Of course, being young and invincible helps that manner of thinking.

Some things have changed, surprising even myself. As the ailments of age slowly manifest themselves, it becomes ever apparent that it really does require no small effort to maintain the aspects of youth. I’m no spring chicken anymore, as it were. Being healthy is easy when it requires no work. Also, that slowing metabolism really sucks when trying to lose weight.

It now strikes me as being a bit intellectually smug and naive to think that mental improvement alone is a worthwhile personal achievement. Of course, it’s hard to blame people like myself, who have been comparatively gifted in intelligence and weaned on learning, to prize that which we possess. However, if it is through human efforts that value is derived, then the striving of physical beauty is certainly a huge human accomplishment. One might say that the latter pursuit is ephemeral, but one might also say that everyone dies in the end. In terms of personal goals, all are selfish.

It wasn’t until I started ballet that some of these ideas began to sort themselves out. I’ve slowly come to realize that beauty can be an end unto itself and that self-improvement physically is as important as mentally. (Hidden shout-out to Cardinal Ballet for their Urban Nights performances, as well as obligatorily to tp girl.) So what before seemed disdainful, now it is almost disrespectful to not appreciate the effort she puts into making herself beautiful. One friend commented that it’s okay to compliment a woman on her ass, as a nice ass is always a product of willful action, while, for example, breasts are for the most part endowed by genetics. While my gestaltic view on female beauty disagrees with his, and not to mention my hesitation to objectify women, I think he has an interesting point. All this is to say… something. I’m not sure what. My thoughts are pretty jumbled, and it is late.

I still remember — it must have been over a dozen years ago — the profoundness I felt when I first heard the condition of the elevator: people are there in close proximity, but psychically everyone is in their own world, trying their best not to make eye contact or interact with others. I also remember thinking while riding the bus in Berlin (also so many years ago) that this “loneliness in the crowd” was attenuated by the fact that at least I didn’t speak the same language as everyone else. There’s really no “excuse” for our quotidian interactions.

It’s a strange world that we live in, where physical distance doesn’t have much bearing on our associations and empathies with people. Of course, the internet and other technologies make this worse. I, of course, am very guilty of indulging in this trend: most of my best friends I rarely see or even talk (as in, on the phone) to, but we keep communication online. And outside of the college dorm community, which in some deep sense is not representative of any standard cross-sectional sampling of society, I have never really built rapport with neighbors.

There is something comfortingly defensive about this passive stance, however. Especially for the introverted like me, it is one of the only ways to manage to fact that there are so many people in this world. The number of people we superficially see or come in contact with each and every day is mindbogglingly larger than what our evolutionary social senses are adapted to comfortably accommodate. I have a hard enough time remember the names of people, a situation of which my sectionees are painfully aware; and I have little interest in getting to know or befriending thousands of people. Those people that I know are just fine, thanks. (Well, except for the, you know, girlfriend bit.)

Perhaps this is one reason why I like ballet class: this feeling of forced solitariness (loneliness?) in a crowd. Outsider, no talking, intense concentration on something that’s not the people right around you (tp girl ruins this, (un)fortunately [can't blame her for being so cute and good at dancing, though {am I nesting parenthetical comments correctly?}]). Everyone is focused on what they’re doing, and their neighbors are present in mind but incidental. One gets lost in the moment, each building a similar world with obviously different precision.

There is, however, an unshakable difference between the “loneliness in the crowd” and the “loneliness in your room.” Namely, that despite efforts to deny it, the presence of people does have an effect on you, even if, for the large part, you choose to ignore them. I think it is one of my deep, Emersonian wishes to be somehow completely self reliant, able to do things by and for myself and without consideration of others, “an island unto myself” or such. Mostly, to convince myself that my actions would be based off some universal imperative (whatever that means), as opposed to peer pressure or the dictates of society — the crazy lives of secular humanists. I am more antisocial than most, but I can say that almost surely (that’s a probability joke, which I don’t get) this wish is bound to fail. We humans are just too intertwined to be able to give up societal interactions.

But the mind is a difficult thing to satisfy because it knows absence as well. That is why, e.g. I am dreading going to tomorrow’s party. The people there will be the nicest in the world, friends that I really do want to see, but at the end of the day, only that emptiness will be felt. “Every night I shiver alone before I sleep,” etc. Just like the “exercise high” dissipates after a few hours, so does the “social high.” This, along with the arbitrary artificiality of enforced social interaction, is why I dislike going to bars and clubs. But even after seeing good friends, there is still that lingering hollow aftereffect. At the end of the day, when all the fun is done, my only companion is myself, and everything fades.

But of course, on Sad Men’s Day, what would one expect from me but some rumination on the helplessness of my situation?

It’s not that I don’t believe that the rational, scientific efforts I use in every other part of my life won’t work for love. It is a rather naive view that somehow we humans aren’t predictable, that we can’t make (fake?) ourselves attractive to others. Everyone has buttons that can be pushed.

However, I don’t want to think of love in that way which would work easiest. Just because it is as much a matching problem as finding a job doesn’t mean that we must treating finding a girlfriend the same way. There is a fundamental desire to work in a different light, to not have one’s entire life conform to one strict philosophy, to keep some parts of this world left to wonder. So even if I as a rational agent don’t believe in true love, I desperately want to. I don’t want to prepare for dating as I would a job interview. And I am willing to give up that success in order to keep this belief alive. Perhaps this is undue stubbornness on my part. But we are made to compromise on everything else in life that I think maybe this is somewhere where I can take a stand. At least you know now how to be alone for 27 Valentine’s days.

Part of the problem is that I’m not even sure what I want, or what I could even offer. I don’t want someone to love me for material reasons, and so I do not pursue wealth. I also don’t think anyone will love me for my mind. I’m not dumb, but I’m no genius, either. Perhaps it’s because my cohort is so amazing, or maybe because I don’t like myself all that much, but if you’re my friend, chances are I think you’re stronger, smarter, and sexier than me. And no one will love me for my physical self, I can guarantee you that. So what else is there left for me to give? I can only offer my flawed self.

I do know, though, that there are three people in the world who would love me for as me. And the record shows that I could be a better son and a better brother.

But shouldn’t love be something simple? Life is complicated enough as it is without all these machinations, speaking obtusely, complicated societal rules of engagement. Surely someone else also sees through the masque; truth is simpler than fiction.

All of this is to say that I am confused and alone, as always. It is silly to think that we were put on this world to be happy. Most of us suffer, and it’s not hard for me to believe that love is only for the lucky and the strong. So until inspiration hits, I will wait until my grave, and I will wait.

I remember during a Friday Lunch a few years ago, a coworker asked about how I came to be such a picky eater, and didn’t my parents force me to eat foods? It’s true that my diet probably gives health-conscious people the fantods, although I don’t see why, really. My theory on eating is to eat what you want, don’t overeat, and take a multivitamin every day. It’s not like I don’t eat any fruits and vegetables. I just dislike most of them.

Anyway, the way I recounted the story was:

You know how at some point in your childhood, when you refused to eat your peas or carrots, your parents would force you to stay at the dining table until you finished your plate? Most kids would eventually relinquish after a while and eat the damn things. Well, I won that battle.

I don’t recall all the details, but I do remember that this was a rather protracted campaign. There were nights when I sat at the table for two hours before my mom would give up. Headstrong runs in the family.

It’s practically the job of little kids to make their parents’ lives difficult. I don’t think I was too badly behaved a child, but I’m sure cases like these made my parents doubt for a minute. There’s always that power struggle, and someone must bend in the end.

In retrospect, the independence gained from such an act was probably not as great as it seemed then. After all, if a person is the product of nature and nurture, then her desires will never stray too far from her parents’, who contribute on both accounts. They may be rebellious, but those kids are rebellious in exactly their parents’ ways.

Nowadays, I’m introduced as the guy who “only eats meat,” a categorization I abhor only because it is a categorization. It’s like introducing someone as black, or Jewish, or gay, or something. As though some single characteristic can largely define a person. I’m not so foolish to think that stereotyping doesn’t derive from a useful attribute; after all, the ability to group things together and tell things apart proffers us the positive definition of discriminate as well. But of course, when brought to the forefront, that which is easy to see overwhelms the rest.

I was going to segue into an exposition of who I am (besides totally lost), but I am tired now (tiredness being part of what I am). Perhaps another time, soon.

I had the most sobering IM conversation with a friend last night, shocking enough that, after having to wake up and pee at 5 AM in the morning, I now can’t fall asleep. What he said — almost debonairly, maybe with a slight tinge of regret (it’s hard to read the subtleties of emotion online) — was that he probably had “no time for childish games” such as Starcraft 2, that highly-anticipated game which will inevitably be successful as all Blizzard games are, and whose predecessor we immersed ourselves for so many countless hours throughout high school, throughout college. My mouth nearly dropped to the floor when he said this, for it brought into focus a startling reality: that my friends are growing up.

It is true that this fact, long developing, did not escape my attention for years and suddenly whack me on the side of the head. After all, in the five years post undergraduate, friends have gotten married, completed graduate school, worked their way up the corporate ladder. Even a member of the Sad Men’s Club, self-jokingly infamous for our romantic failures that one college summer, is now engaged. People really do change.

Perhaps it is because I just finished reading if you lived here, you’d be home by now (S. T. Loh). Not the most engaging or luminous book, but its themes struck the right chord at the right time. The protagonist’s struggles to accustom herself to her situation, to forge a new life, to find her place underneath the LA sun. The irresistible draw of money and materialism despite the most bohemian of intentions. That way one’s youthful ideals slowly dissipate, until you are left with only memories, a vague feeling of warmth and naivete.

While I was working, a former coworker said of another (both of whom I admire and respect) that when she (the other), just out of college, started working, she (the other) had “no sense of urgency” when doing her work. It is just now that I realize that this is not so much an indictment against a person or a personality, but rather a symptom — a phase — of growing up. Maturity, or whatever else we wish to call it, is developed through one’s experiences. For most of us, we simply do not have a “sense of urgency” while in the structured life of high school or the freewheeling days of college. Only after having worked for a while, when those deadlines and worries about paychecks whose importance are enforced by our being accustomed to a higher standard of living than our now seemingly squalid college lifestyle, do we start to realize the gravitas of being mature.

Is it really time to drop this mask of youth and innocence, and to don the accouterments of adulthood? I don’t think I’m ready, and I’m not sure I want to.

But what makes me so goddamned special that I don’t have to grow up?

I can blame it on my utter lack of romantic relationships, my contrite or attritional attitude, but at what point does that become disingenuous? Am I not merely holding culpable the symptom instead of rooting the disease? True, not having someone to share in the maturation process, someone who can drag you along when you’re most unwilling, is hindering. But at this point, that is putting the cart before the horse and wondering why things don’t move.

Maybe I don’t want to grow up and want to stay a Toys ‘R Us kid forever. But that isn’t true, either.

Yet, it is so hard to change, to steer a hellbent ship laden with inertia. For what life do I know except the one that I’ve lived? Who can I possibly become but the person that I am? Yes, I am probably too comfortable in my station, too conservative for a complete overhaul. But the status quo will not last. Next year’s Econ 1 students whom I’ll TA will still be 18, now born 1991. And I will be a year older.

Time slowly ticks away, exacting its meticulously torturous edict upon us all. I am not as flexible as I used to be. I can feel my brain forgetting things, slowing down at a glacial pace, but like a glacier, inevitably and forcefully flowing downward, downward.

Perhaps it is time to do something with my life. Perhaps it is time to (*shudders*) grow up. Tempus fugit.

I got destroyed by the GRE math section. I’m simultaneously flabbergasted, mortified, and resigned. The last being because nothing has gone right for me in my quest to get into a Ph.D. program. Just another straw on the camel’s back. Some things, I guess, are just not meant to be. Without inspiration, without desire, I think I’ve hit my limit.

I don’t know if this constitutes a full crisis of faith in myself. If it is a clarification, it is hard for me to see so far. I think I feel physically ill from this. Waiting for the angels to speak…

On my way to watching Katita Waldo teach a master class, I think I ran over a squirrel. It made me sad, for the squirrel could not have known better, nor could I swerve out of the way. It is a very unfortunate circumstance, and now I am burdened with this knowledge. In order to distance ourselves from other animals, it’s typical for us to not ascribe to animals the social traits which we suppose are wholly human in nature — that they might have a family, for instance. Forgive me, squirrel relatives. That I could turn back time.

On an unrelated note, my sister said she was able to get me the present on my birthday wish list. I’m giddy and listless with anticipation.

A Chinese man and a white woman in the airport lobby
In SD, that city by the sea,
On their way to San Jose, like me,
A quarter-size violin at their feet,
Chatting of movies and Suzuki
Recitals, busily checking their Blackberries,
While their sons, about five and three,
The younger watching the older quietly
Playing Nintendo DS; and me -
Across the aisle – they do not see,
A figurant in their biographies.
A dream fulfilled by others, at least,
Gives me hope to keep living.

“Faith” is a fine invention
For Gentlemen who see!
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency!

–Emily Dickinson

The difference between religion and science, as far as I can see, is summarized above. God might be so cruel to deny salvation to those who don’t believe, but science operates whether you believe it or not. Medicine will (or won’t) work even you don’t believe in it; same with gravity. And if God will save the faithless, then is there need for faith?