GOD IS IN THE DETAILS

I paid a visit to the MFA (Museum of Fine Arts) one night last week for an Architecture class assignment. I walked through the first level of the Arts of the America's wing looking for something interesting to draw.

Then walked back to the front of the gallery to where this Grecian Couch from the 1800's sat on display. It was the first object that had caught my eye when I first entered the hall. It also had very intricate detail. I stood there for a little over a half hour, sketching. There were a ton of sculptures and statues I could've opted to draw, austere and colorless, they stared down at me as I moved past them, but I wasn't looking for anything easy.

It was another moment of realization in this ongoing inner journey of self study I find myself in. Studying the Grecian couch made me understand why I gravitate toward the more challenging options, what requires attention to detail. A little more effort and close examination. I tend to think it is reflective of my own preferences of people, the few I want to look at a little longer, while wondering if the palm of their hands are rough or smooth. What were they like as children, and what principles do they live by, and why? What color are their eyes, and how many scars do they have beneath the layers?

ARCHETYPES

one of my many quirks is having spontaneous bursts of yearning, and because i am generally hanging out on my own when these bursts occur, like today after the Architecture class i'm taking, where i sat introspectively on the bench in the quad, observing the stream of students walking by me in segregated clumps - a gaggle of chirpy white girls, a cluster of designer-wearing Asian kids, a pack of athletic guys in baggy jeans and Red Sox caps, a group of freshmen reveling in their new found freedom, all of whom i feel no affinity toward, i direct the intent on sharing these aspirations toward my unsuspecting brother. But sometimes he doesn't answer my calls, so the yearning i experience slowly dissipates within the abyss of my mind, and that's that.

i'd never gotten sucked into the trend of cliques and all that bullshit, in high school or wherever, so i don't really have any horror stories that allows me to personally relate. but just observing these sort of things around me is fascinating. it's like people have restrictions, like they can only hit it off with people who look and sound just like them. last week i was talking to a girl from Saudi Arabia, and she was telling me how she was already in her third year and she calls her mom at the start of every semester to cry and ask to come home. she isn't weak or timid or anything, in fact she's pretty bad ass and easygoing. obviously, i was really surprised. she explained to me that because her English was a little broken she gets slighted by other students on a daily basis. when asking for help, to form study groups, that sort of thing. when she asks about the assignments just to clarify, they look at her like she's stupid.  "just imagine," she says to me at our table outside of the campus' Dunkin Donuts. "if they were in my country, or any foreign country, and did not understand something. and there was no one to help them. how would they feel?" ah, empathy. a lost practice. at least i think so. of course it never crossed the minds of those dipshits in her classes. why extend any courtesy to the foreign students sitting right in front of your face when you can do a study abroad in their country for a semester and only then suddenly be fascinated by their people and culture? why travel to distant lands like Saudi Arabia and the like when there's Europe with their sidewalk cafe's and Western brethren who are more recognizable?

BECAUSE EVEN ANGELS HAVE THEIR WICKED SCHEMES

DID THE CAPTAIN OF THE TITANIC CRY?

Andy: You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific?

Red: No.

Andy: They say it has no memory. That's where I want to live the rest of my life. A place with no memory.

ONLY THE HONORABLE SACRIFICE THEMSELVES

LIFE IS A HIGHWAY

Back in San Francisco, back where we started.

We did manage to road trip through some of California, heading south through San Jose, Santa Cruz, Santa Monica, Pebble Beach, Monterrey and Carmel, Morrow Bay and last stop Santa Barbara. We spent two nights in Santa Barbara, as it's a pretty nice city. Nice in a very unproductive-unaffordable-homogenous way. But whiteness tends to add a tinge of manufactured niceness to places, as evidenced by certain limited areas of the world. The streets were lined with sky high palm trees, sidewalk cafes, Italian eateries and South Asian restaurants, againt a backdrop of elaborate idleness.

I am here right now, at a cafe called Mochilla in The Mission district of San Francisco. Observe this sad scene of every patron staring at a computer screen. Cafe's, for those who have trouble remembering or were not aware of its significant history, were originally places of socialization when first established in the Muslim world. A French guy named Jean Chardin wrote in the 17th century about his first experience of a cafe while traveling through Persia -

"People engage in conversation, for it is there that news is communicated and where those interested in politics criticize the government in all freedom and without being fearful, since the government does not heed what the people say. Innocent games... resembling checkers, hopscotch, and chess, are played." (from Wikipedia)

Another degradation of a culture by the soulless West. Is this the beginning of a bleak and apathetic future? Because if this is San Francisco, and the way of progression, count me out.

LIBERATION

Being in a minority, even a minority of one, did not make you mad.

There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.

- 1984, George Orwell

CITY OF CHAMPS

Two boys from Philadelphia paid me a visit a few days ago.

We strolled through the upscale Beacon Hill neighborhood and walked over the bridge along the Charles River, leaving downtown Boston and over into Cambridge.

We decided to sit at Peet's after all that walking to just talk and people watch. I know I've said this before but I feel it deserves another mention - Peet's is the coffee place that originally inspired the birth of Starbucks. They opted to keep it really low key though, which is why they are not as successful with world domination as the evil empire. At this point you will call me out on my hypocrisy, "but Zihan, you clearly visited a Starbucks as evidenced in the very first photo in this post. That green straw is unmistakable." Good point!

As much as I come off as a hypocrite I also have a reasonable explanation for it. Allow me to refer to a conversation I had with Naveen earlier in the day where the topic of coffee came up (my brother and I are former Starbucks baristas, while Naveen is a former barista of The Coffee Bean) and I stressed on the fact that it's hard to find a traditional coffee shop nowadays because everywhere you turn sits a Starbucks. In fact, there are about four on my street alone, and three in the mall in the same wing. You can't escape it. And so, feeling lethargic and a little desperate one results to paying four dollars for a cup of coffee.

To put it into perspective, there are only five Peet's stores in the whole state of Massachusetts.

Starbucks on the other hand, can be best illustrated with this accurate observation by comedian Lewis Black.

RUMI

What is the use of mirrors when I can see myself so clearly in words?

LET GO

I made cupcakes.

You guys want some?

GOTHENBURG

Walked into the foyer this afternoon and see a package sitting on the ledge by the mailboxes. I see my name written on it, and recognize the handwriting immediately. Was not expecting another package from Sweden! I clutched the package to my jacket and run downstairs to my apartment, reveling in the notion that someone had me in their thoughts. I mean, it's nice to have something waiting for you after a long, rough day.

Thanks, Rebecka. I'll be sending you my dentist bill in the very near future.

"ASK ME WHAT KIND OF PHONE I USE." "WHAT KIND OF PHONE DO YOU USE?" "IT DOESN'T MATTER."

Josie, who sits on my right in Beginner Spanish, likes to read the news or check her e-mails on her iPhone while we wait for class to begin. Last week she was asking me something about auto correct spelling. "I don't have that. I'm using a Sony Ericsson from 2008."

My response was received with some titters from several of the other students.

Being the semi-luddite that I am though, I'll likely stay loyal to what works, and that's my Sony Ericsson, until I get laughed out of a Sony store by employees anyway, when I ask if they do repairs or replacements for my model.

I JUST WASN'T MEANT FOR THESE TIMES

Everytime I experience this sensation of feeling out of place all of a sudden, I find myself going through my iTunes and YouTube, looking for music to help prolong my nostalgia of simpler times. At least that's how i remembered it.

These include people like Tina Turner and Jon B to bands like Chicago. I face ridicule from others sometimes for being a Chicago fan, but I can't say I care. True story - an old boyfriend wanted to get me a gift after we'd been together for about three months. He knew i'd been talking about getting the new Chicago Greatest Hits album that had just been released at the time (2004's The Chicago Story) so he told me over the phone he wanted to get it for me instead. A few days later he gives it to me when we see each other. I stare at it. It's the soundtrack to the film Chicago with Catherine Zeta Jones and Richard Gere that had been released right before the greatest hits compilation by the band Chicago. Even worse - he was too lazy to go out to a record store and buy it himself, so he asked his older brother who was running errands to get it and pass it to him. That stuff means something. It's always the little things that count. After I explain to him that I was talking about the band, he reacts with total confusion, saying, "wow. I didn't think you listened to Chicago."

Side note - every bad ex boyfriend story I've shared on the blog is based on one guy. He was your typical useless nineteen year old boyfriend, the only incompatible guy I've ever dated due to bad judgment.

All was good in the end though, because after I told my brother about what had happened and he laughed, he went out and got me the actual Chicago album for my birthday a few weeks later. And I played it to death.

♫ Chicago - Here In My Heart

I don't know if feel the same way, but listening to old school music really is a mystical experience for me, because I can go back to the late 80's and remember the cloudless day in Taipei when I was in the car with my parents as we headed to the hospital, as my sister and I excitedly tried to guess what name they had decided on for the brother we were about to have. Or standing at the bus stop with my mom on an early cold, grey morning as she waved me off, and then stepping off the same bus later that day to see her standing there waiting in the same spot, and asking in utter shock, "were you waiting here for me the whole time?"

Anyway, revisiting the days of my childhood and certain memories, moments and feelings with clarity, with nothing altered but still as how it was left behind made me consider all the things that have transpired between then and now. Childhood and young adulthood. And with these 90's hits playing in the background, about lovey dovey love, and hopes and dreams, I felt a deep seated frustration rise up from the pit of my stomach as I thought of all the missed opportunities in my life. 

Missed opportunities defines my life in such a thorough way. I realize it now, the accuracy of it. Times in the past when I had something great in front of me, but just didn't reach out to grab it. I am not just talking about people, but you know, anything that comes your way for a short moment, and if you're fast enough, things would have turned out differently, and maybe you'd have been a different person. And yet I don't think that's actually a comforting thought.

EGYPT

posted by @NevineZaki from Twitter - 

"A pic I took yesterday of Christians protecting Muslims during their prayers."

TIPPING POINT

Last night I took a midnight walk around the block, which stretched into another six blocks and past several men rhythmically shoveling the sidewalk, as the snow fell and pelted me in the face.

The scrape, scrape, scrape sound of shovel meeting snow and ground the only sound in the frigid air, and a cop car silently making its rounds, my eyes watering. Were they stinging from the cold, or were they shedding tears?

In the eye of the impending storm, me and the frozen streets.

Picasso said that every child is born an artist. Maybe every child is born a poet, it's all about if you choose to remain a poet as you grow older, and allow certain moments, places, people to enliven your senses.

This is a story I read somewhere once several years ago, I forget where, but in the version I read, a woman tried to pass it off as her own work. I mean who does that? I did not know this until I came across it again recently, and realized it was actually written by Douglas Adams. It's a great short story, and because all great stories should be shared - Cookies by Douglas Adams.

CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE

"What are you going to say about Philly on your blog?" my brother asked when I went over to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection last Thursday.

"Probably talk about how lame it is," I replied.

Which of course couldn't be farther from the truth. having spent the past five days there and being able to see more of the city, and just walking around in no hurry this time, I was able to fall in love with it for awhile. It was a nice break from Boston, the predominantly white and churlish Boston which will always be special to me, as it's where I came to know who I really am, but the lack of diversity makes it mundane after awhile. Philly has a reputation for being tough and notorious and I definitely got that vibe while walking through the streets, but there is something about danger that appeals to me. Not like I seek it out, but I mean being prone to living recklessly has made the edge on life seem rather thrilling and cultivating instead of fearsome to me.

I came bearing gifts - cupcakes I'd baked the night before for the boys.

You can't see it clearly, but I asked my brother what those pieces of paper were with numbers on them that were taped to their front door. "When we first moved in we didn't have the apartment number outside to identify the house, so one of the guys wrote the numbers out and gave it to one of the other guys to cut and paste on the front door. He taped it to the front door without cutting it and no one bothered to fix it so it's been like that ever since."

I was teaching Izzat how to make corn bread and cupcakes one night. One of his roommates, Adam, joined us. Naveen appeared not long after with his two friends visiting from Iowa. It was around 2am then. We were all on a sugar high by the time we called it a night at 5am.

Watched a really excellent play spontaneously that night while walking through Old City, after an Afghan dinner. A Moon for the Misbegotten by Eugene O'Neill, set in rural Connecticut. The original price of a ticket was about $35, but since we showed up ten minutes before showtime, and were students, we got tickets for $5 and second row seats. Time well spent, as it was a great production.

Philly cheesesteaks in South Street, and an impromptu haircut courtesy of another of Izzat's roommates, Rushdie. 

Now back to another blizzard in Boston.