At This Very Moment,

I believe, to a certain extent, in fate.

First, I believe that every single seemingly insignificant moment of your life shapes how you turn out, just as each minute twist of a brush changes the painting.

So this painting, the artist has something in mind, right? Easy to just sit back and watch as your expectations slowly whittle down to reality.

But let's say the artist accidentally dips his/her brush into the red instead of the blue, and leaves a large stroke of crimson across the entire left half. What to do then? Here is where fate gets interesting.

Some abandon their canvas and give up on fate. Mostly, however, the artist curses, cries, hurriedly dips his/her brush back into the blue, and painstakingly covers up any trace of the mistake. Life goes on once again.

But if the artist does neither? He/she steps back, looks at the work in progress, and realizes how much better red would be instead of blue in the top left corner. And instead of worriedly relegating his/her painting to the hands of fate, he/she sees something new, the dawn of a fresh path, a fresh fate, almost, if you will. It won't be easy, but (s)he decides to take this new path, wherever it may lead. And here is where my "to an extent" truly applies: I believe each can change his or her own path, whatever you imagine your painting to wind up looking like, it can be something different, something greater perhaps, something you might not even imagine if you do not mess up on a very disastrous scale at some point in your life. Fate can be changed.

Mistakes and disasters can be some of the greatest things to happen, and the painting can be something more beautiful than you ever imagined.

(Chang) Something cool I read in my Psychology textbook

I'm not in earth, nor the sun,
nor the moon.
You may search all the sky --
I'm not there.
In the morning and evening,
though not at noon,
You may plainly perceive me,
for like a balloon,
I am suspended in air.
Though disease may possess me,
and sickness and pain,
I am never in sorrow nor gloom;
Though in wit and wisdom
I equally reign
I am the heart of all sin and have
long lived in vain;
Yet I never shall be found in the tomb.

What is this poem about? Bet you'll never guess.

An Unedited Excerpt

from my diary, because every single time somebody asks me what it is I write in those pages, I have no decent reply. So, in an attempt to embody the ineffable, I have posted here the last two paragraphs from my entry this morning, which is in itself both a reflection of the night prior and a worthy paradigm of my entries.

"Unfathomable discoveries, unspeakable sorcery, all are as real as the stone that tumbles by my feet, and life is never, ever, the same.

To each his own - whatever path he or she shall seek and follow - and though mine is distant - no, enormously distant - from having been constructed, I shall forge onwards, through the hills and valleys, the curves, and embrace whatever - or whoever - shall come my way. And in this gallant fashion I shall approach each day - and treat it as if it were not my last - but my first."

The night is always darkest just before the dawn, a friend reminded me once.

Well, dawn has broken free.

Something

In the land of nothing, everybody was a nobody.

Yet, in the land of nothing, there was something – an oiled, wooden escalator that descended to somewhere. It was a constantly moving flight of stairs that transported somebody, when their time had come, to somewhere so quickly that it was impossible to ascend once descended. And that was everything in the land of nothing.

Everybody wanted to do something everyday, because doing nothing would mean that your time would come, and a nobody would become a somebody, forced down this escalator to somewhere.

Then someday, a nobody stopped and decided to become a somebody. Then when the nobody was forced down from the land of nothing into somewhere, the nobody became the last somebody by carrying a match.

And so in the land of nothing, there was something – a charred, black hole that lead nowhere.

In the land of nothing, everybody was a nobody.

(Chang) Free cheddar, brought to you by the U.S. government

Thank you in advance for the friend who referred me to this site.

(Josh's Edit: I'm sorry Chang, but for the approximately 3 people who read this, please don't take this seriously. This is just a huge scam. But funny.)

Long story short, Russel (or Chedda, as he would like to be referred as) hustles $$$ from the United States government. You can check his website for "the full scoop," but basically, he simply completed two online forms, and the government sent him a $12,000 check within 30 days, plus "$5 g's a month." Now he's happily livin' life with newly purchased goods, including a "car with some 'shoes' " and a "$15,000 jacob timepiece."

Apparently, the government doesn't follow affirmative action with giving out these grants, either. According to the responses at the bottom of Chedda's site, one of his "white fried[s] ... did the same thing" and he, too, gets the Benjamins.

This makes me want to try this thing for myself, but being the skeptic that I am, I have a suspicion that there's gonna be a catch somewhere in the process. But for whomever is reading this -- feel free to test it. According to one of the grant sites, this free money policy might change under Obama's reign, so if you're thinking about making some bucks, make sure to fill it out before January 20th. Let me know how it goes!

This calls for a Lil Jon moment:

His Masterpiece

In the dark dampness of a wine cellar that harbored a century of secrets, the old man painted. All around him lay columns of canvases stacked thirty high, and around those wafted the tears, the laughter, the nightmares, the dreams, that slowly leaked from the empty bottles, each scent slowly fading like the words upon the labels that still clung faithfully to their bottles. There were no windows, only a single lamp to admire the strokes of passionate color that flowed from his trembling paintbrush; in this manner he toiled every day without exception, from dawn till dusk, and interrupted only by the necessities that allowed the old man to continue breathing still.

There were never any mistakes, no accidental foray into the unexpected; every stroke was a deliberate attempt at attaching permanence to a fleeting instant. Here was a touch of cream for the chiffon of her dress, there was a dash of grey for the teacup’s shadow. The old man sat back and studied the captured instant with sparkling eyes. It was a portrait of a lady.

She was young. An invisible wind faintly pushed her long dark hair to the side and across her cheek, and her wide white hat was tilted at an angle that suggested a simultaneous embrace of propriety and being carefree. Her flowing dress fluttered against the white rattan furniture, and a teacup and saucer sat in tranquility upon the table before her. Behind her were blurs of willow trees, and blooming flowers, and people gossiping about their insignificant affairs, and white-gloved waiters to overhear and further distort such gossip.

But it was her vibrant face that brought life to the lifeless instant. She had an exceedingly beautiful face with delicate features; eyes that lent their brilliance to heaven’s constellations, lips that whispered answers to the ocean’s riddles, and a smile that promised hidden euphoria within the heavy folds of existence. Her hand reached across the table, and he took it.

He was young. A lieutenant returned from the war, devoid of decorations but proud nonetheless. He had promised to return, and she had waited upon that promise.

Later, they would return home from tea and embrace, never for an instant lifting their eyes from each other’s. They would wed, with much fanfare, to the uproarious approval of his army buddies and her friends from the textile factory. He would find employment at the office of a bookkeeper, while she would remain at home. On the weekends, they would travel into town and spend an afternoon at the movies. They would conceive a son and announce the pregnancy to everyone they knew. In the office, he would receive a promotion and he would surprise her with a new house. Their son would leave home to find work in the East, and they would read their son’s letters aloud together. He would retire, and they would pass their hours cycling, reading the same books, and sipping tea. She would contract a deadly strain of influenza, and he would cry by her bedside, clutching her hand in desperation. Their son would return home for the funeral, and suggest for him to move to the East and live together. His son’s wedding would render him teary-eyed during his speech; alone and wishing she was there. Then Alzheimer’s would find him, and he would feel his memories quickly fading from his grasp.

And so, in the dark dampness of a wine cellar, he would paint, with shaking hands, day after day, week after week, those starry eyes, whispering lips, and promising smile. With every canvas, he kept her alive in him another week longer. Canvases turned to stacks and stacks turned to columns thirty high, but never did the paint run dry.

If there were just one memory in all the world that he could keep, it would be her.

…her wrist was always bare of a watch. Whether it was his only mistake in portraying her or his single alteration of written history, nobody would ever know.

(Chang) Time to get nostalgic

Don't ask me why, but I was hit with a peculiar feeling of nostalgia tonight. What better way to prolong that than to look at an old yearbook?

Before too long, I decided to spend my time to peruse through my eighth grade middle school yearbook. It's only about a fourth as thick as my high school ones, but the memories tied are just as precious. With a cliched title of "Reflector," my middle school yearbook is -- in the rawest, most brutally honest adjective -- shitty. Some peoples' names are spelled incorrectly, cheesy alliterations are found on nearly every single page, and the pages that actually matter are in black and white.

But whenever I pull out this one particular yearbook out from my collection, it's not to look at the photos, but to read the variety of comments that friends have written on the inside covers and pages of the book. A bunch are generic, yes ("HAGS!", "cya at high school next yr!"), but for those that are not, they bring back flashes of good memories, like:

• So many people thought I was next-to-God at playing the trumpet
• I didn't smile very much (not that I do much now, but I think I do more now)
• A wasian friend used to show off how she could count to 7 in Korean
• Someone whom I respected for her intelligence thought that I was a genius
• I was said to be the next Yao Ming
• I punched people (actually, just one in particular)
• I didn't really talk much (surprise, surprise)
  
• A girl asked me what the French homework was EVERYDAY

...But I can't stay nostalgic forever. Fortunately, it looks like college is on pace for a much more comprehensive list of good memories.

(Trent) Expanding

Ok. How do you decide to dream? Are some people built that way?

I know some people have urges to travel, to try new things, to go outside their comfort zone... not me. I really, really want to be one of those people, but I'm not. 

People who like meeting new people, who thrive on meeting people who are different from their people... 

I want to be one of those people.

On Angels And Miracles

She called me last night.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I know we haven’t talked in a while, but, um, I was feeling kind of nostalgic, so…”

“Yeah, I know.” I didn’t actually know, in fact, I felt I knew very little of her now. But I wished I knew.

“So, how are you?”

“I’m good.” Not exactly, but I was petrified of telling her otherwise. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” She paused. “Things are fine.” Were they? I couldn’t tell. “Where are you now?”

“I’m sitting at the old piano in the dark room.” I slowly dusted the keys with my fingers.

She gasped. “You are? Can you play me something that shines?” My fingers froze. Shines? I waited for her to continue. “Something bright even when the world isn’t?” Maybe things weren’t fine after all.

I took a deep breath and dropped my index finger on an A.

“Can you hear this, five thousand miles away?”

“Almost.”

I pushed a little harder.

“Mmhmm.”

Something that shines. I placed her on speakerphone and laid the phone on top of the piano. My fingers searched and found several random chords, and I prayed that the black and white would somehow paint something more vivid. I tried to picture where she was, the foreign waters, roads, people that surrounded her, but all that formed was a shadowed, colorless haze. With every chord, I focused harder.

Then, there was a flutter in the dark fog. A glimmer of light. My fingers felt more confident of their destination as the light slowly unfurled itself among the murky waters, the dim roads, the shadows of people.

It was something beautiful, this light. It reached into the depths of the ocean, the corners of the alleys, the hearts of the people, and wherever it touched, black and white swirled together in a wonderful fury and sprayed a breathtaking palette of fireworks.

Then I looked into the light and understood. It was her. I had found the light that shone through the night, and I played and played until the light had graced every last cobblestone.

When I stopped, I realized that my fingers were sore.

“The piano keys are getting heavy, I don’t think I can make it another mile.”

“Then let’s just sit and listen, and embrace the silence for a while.”

And through the stillness like a postcard, I thought I heard her smile.

(Chang) Candid observations, an ethical dilemma, and a cherry on top

This blog has only been initiated a little over a week ago, but passersby may already be able to point out a general trend between the types of posts and the people posting them:

• Josh: Short stories or poems with elaborate metaphors that no one can really decipher, yet still marvel at, because it sounds oh, so Pulitzer Prize-worthy.
• Trent: Slumdog Millionaire.
• Me (Chang): Random blurbs, all with different tones and voices (AHHH IDENTITY CRISIS FJWAIOFKLDSNOX).

One would hope that such a colorful array of styles would attract all different sorts of people to the blog. Alas, this has not yet been evident, as reflected by the number of followers and comments per post. For all you followers out there: let us know you're reading! (You can even use your AIM screenname to post a comment, how much lazier can you get?) There's nothing more discouraging about writing in a blog than doubting anyone reads it. Yet, we will hold our heads up high and keep bloggin' (TRENT, THAT INCLUDES YOU).

So, since I'm the dude with the random musings, I'll present another before I peace out for the night:

Pretend that you're married to the love of your life, and you are the proud parent of two beautiful children: a 3-year-old girl, and an 8-month-old boy. Unfortunately, things look bleak beyond that. You are living in the middle of World War III, and troops of the opposing forces are guarding the premises near your house. Their orders have been to mercilessly shoot anyone in sight, whether it be civilian or soldier. As you hide in your panic room with your spouse and two children, you can hear the gentle thumps of the troops' boots outside. Your children have been sleeping, but the little one is beginning to stir. As a parent, you know that whenever he awakens, he cries his lungs out. You are also aware that anything louder than the crack of a knuckle would probably gather attention from the patrolling troops. You know right then and there that you have a split-second decision to make: Do you smother your son to save the rest of the family?

MMIX

It took six months for the great fire to finish burning the city. Six months, followed by an explosion to level the charred heaps of twisted steel and broken glass, a grand finale that made time pause and watch in melancholy.

When the dust had settled, I walked among the ashes. Nothing was left, skyscrapers and tenements alike were reduced to smoldering heaps. Everything was the same now, the places I loved and the places I avoided. The wind would blow, and the blackened remnants of the art gallery would collide with those of the securities firm.

There was little choice. I bent down and grabbed a handful of ashes, whatever they were, and locked them tightly into a jar. Cradling this jar, I walked to find inspiration.

I reached a city upon the ocean. There, in a market, I bought a fig and placed it into the jar with the ashes. Then I headed north. In another sprawling city, I opened the jar to catch a few drops of acid rain. From a tree growing next to a cabin in the woods, I plucked a few berries and plopped them into the jar as well.

I kept heading north, allowing the ocean to show me the way. From small towns I found stones, feathers, and a ring; all of these I placed into my jar.

Then when I could go north no further, I turned and trekked south. In a sleepy village I was given a painted seashell and this, too, I kept in my jar. A cold and busy harbor contributed a tiny doll, while a surprisingly quaint industrial town donated a stick of incense. I kept walking until I reached another metropolis, where I placed a folded fan into my jar.

Still following the ocean, I happened upon a dirty aging city still trying to cling on its fading beauty, and I plucked a wilted flower for my jar. The coastline led me to a younger city, where my jar expanded its contents to include a polished coin. From there, I walked until I arrived at a fabled capital, but all that I put into my jar was a single, rough stone.

My travels led me to an urban utopia, a shining metropolis that kindly emptied the contents of its champagne flute into my jar while I stood on a rooftop. Further south, a notorious city imitated the actions of the previous city by emptying, instead, its espresso cup.

By now the heat was sweltering, so I disobeyed the ocean and ventured northwest, inland, looping through towns and cities of all sizes that donated dead ants, a bottle cap, fish bones, and a porcelain spoon. When my loop was completed, the urban utopia left me with one last gift, smashing the champagne flute itself and sweeping the glass shards into my jar.

Now that the jar was almost full, I headed east, stopping for a short while in another bustling city that folded a napkin into a rabbit and gently placed it into my jar. From there, I continued eastbound and walked for a long while before finally stopping at a paradise of sorts, a place where dreams could be realized; there, I was given a piece of chalk for my jar. And finally, I headed south, once again, winding up in an arid and dusty slum. There, I took off the lid and waited for whatever would come. To my surprise, the city smiled, and I closed the lid quickly so the smile would not blow away.

I walked back home. There they were, the ashes, placid and scattered, just as I had left them. I kneeled down, placed my jar on the ground, and waited for the wind.

The still air gave way to a breeze, and picked up. The ashes swirled about impatiently, and I opened my jar, allowing the contents to break free and intertwine with the skyscrapers, the tenements, the boulevards, the alleyways.

When the dust had settled, I walked among the city. Everything was there, skyscrapers and tenements alike were resurrected in something beyond their former glory. The city stood before me in greater completeness than it ever had before. And yet, I knew that the city would never stop growing.

Six months to burn, six months to rebuild.

Countless months to grow. Let's start with twelve.

(The best of luck to all of you in 2009!)