I'm making such great headway on my paper here on the sixth floor of Geisel. I staked out my corner of sequestration, fittingly picked out some more books on breakout violence, suppressed nearly uncontrollable giggles for about twenty minutes over G's email delineating the perils of running out of toilet paper, opened the blank Word document that will become my 15-page masterpiece on the armed conflict in Colombia, and then promptly took a one hour nap. I was woken up, drooling and still drowsy, by the screamo blaring from the headphones of some dude next to me and since then have gone through my entire blogroll of To Read's...twice. Upon such completion, I figured it only appropriate that I now write a dribble of my own.
These days, I feel like I have been missing Spain quite a bit. Although to be honest, I don't know if it's so much that I miss Spain or that I just want to be somewhere else (or if it's that I suck at school and thus am only longing for Europe's faux academia).
Some evenings, visions of the street night lights in Rome, Venice, and Paris just will not leave me. Some mornings, the sunrise in Malta is the only way to begin the day. Some days, it's Portugal that I desperately miss. Other weekends, it's Switzerland. Then there are weeks when I simply cannot stop lusting after the unknown and dreaming of all the countries and cities and sites I have never been. Brazil, Cuba, Haiti, India, Turkey, Egypt, Greece...and you know it's bad when even Asia starts creeping in too. I suppose it doesn't help either that I read the New York Times Travel section more often than I check my email (note to reader: when I start checking more than Facebook, that is when you stage an intervention).
Oh, the drab life of being stricken with severe wanderlust and stuck in San Diego (I know, I know, I live a life of such utter hardship). My primary symptom of itching to move on every five months into any given geographical venture has me ants-in-my-pants ready for the next adventure.
But of course, I've come to realize that the restlessness is tempered by just wanting to travel the world with the right people. Lone rangering in the Lands of Fantastic doesn't quite allow the full development of the anticipated amazing. I remember going places last year and wishing for so and so and he and she to be there to experience and take in that particular everything with me.
So I suppose after all that what San Diego lacks in novelty, it makes up in company. While I'm here facing the 'mundane;' being forced to be a good student (and failing...), being forced to be serious about growing up, and being forced to remain somewhat stationary for the present, I revel in the joy and close proximity of relationships more blessed than any could ever hope for.
In the midst of reminiscing and pining away to be anywhere but here, I ultimately came to conclude that regardless of my current geographic location and its debatable merits of excitement, I really am thankful for those here in sunny Southern California.
...but really, traveling, anyone?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Me llamo Lorenita Leticia.
I have not stopped eating since I got home Wednesday night. And I don't mean crappy junk food snacking. I have been up to some serious gourmet gastronomic consumption. Such are the glorious perks of coming from a family in the food business. (And yet how did I still end up a cooking dud? Eh, I digress.)
So far, I have been devouring my mom's hand-fried carnitas tacos with tomatillo sauce, platano frito con crema, pupusas with the requisite pickled vegetables, fried yuca with jalapeno sauce made from scratch, tortilla soup with the freshest fixings, pan con frijol, grilled carne asada tri-tip, chismol, pina y mango, espresso with condensed milk...oh yeah, and I paused for one small Thanksgiving luncheon of typical white American food (plus white rice, of which I naturally did not partake). You can imagine the lackluster response put forth by my tastebuds to the latter meal.
Why in the world would God pretend to make me Asian? And then stick me in the United States? Meh.
Really now, I'm too dark and chub to be true Chinese, mathematics have always eluded me to the most embarrassing degree, I'm clearly not going to be a doctor or engineer, and my Chinese is crap compared to my Spanish (okay, okay, my Chinese is crap, bar none). I have never set foot in Asia, I don't glow when I drink, I have eyelid creases and a nose bridge, and I'm even simultaneously writing a paper on guerrilla groups in Colombia and Peru right now (30 pages of papers due? Bring on the blogs, baby!). My family also consists of the strangest mix of culture ever.
Wahhhh. Latin America, OPEN SESAME.
Porfa. Porque você é onde quero estar...
So far, I have been devouring my mom's hand-fried carnitas tacos with tomatillo sauce, platano frito con crema, pupusas with the requisite pickled vegetables, fried yuca with jalapeno sauce made from scratch, tortilla soup with the freshest fixings, pan con frijol, grilled carne asada tri-tip, chismol, pina y mango, espresso with condensed milk...oh yeah, and I paused for one small Thanksgiving luncheon of typical white American food (plus white rice, of which I naturally did not partake). You can imagine the lackluster response put forth by my tastebuds to the latter meal.
Why in the world would God pretend to make me Asian? And then stick me in the United States? Meh.
Really now, I'm too dark and chub to be true Chinese, mathematics have always eluded me to the most embarrassing degree, I'm clearly not going to be a doctor or engineer, and my Chinese is crap compared to my Spanish (okay, okay, my Chinese is crap, bar none). I have never set foot in Asia, I don't glow when I drink, I have eyelid creases and a nose bridge, and I'm even simultaneously writing a paper on guerrilla groups in Colombia and Peru right now (30 pages of papers due? Bring on the blogs, baby!). My family also consists of the strangest mix of culture ever.
Wahhhh. Latin America, OPEN SESAME.
Porfa. Porque você é onde quero estar...
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Today I Miss Spain.
This morning the sky was clear blue despite the forceful rainstorm that flurried La Jolla last night. The air was crisp, my favorite purple scarf was snuggled around my neck, and I was fresh off a full night of sleep. All was well with the world. Thanksgiving break tantalized me as I strode across the deserted campus with two classes still on the day's docket (apparently, everyone else had already headstarted their vacation ::shakes fist::). Ahh, long weekends. I miss those. In Spain we had long weekends, oh, about every other day.
Woah. Spain.
As James Morrison came crooning on my iPod, the replay of familiar melodies that were on continuous play all last year swung open the floodgates of Barcelona memories. A strange pang stuck my stomach with a prod of unfamiliar nostalgia. I've been reveling in the Land of Heaven for about four months now without hint of Spanish longing. Spain was a crazy, very full year. A good chapter in life that I mostly look fondly on, but one that has closed and given way to whatever I'm currently entrenched in now (which, don't get me wrong, is proving equally full and memorable). But right now, I'm taking a break from the present. While I realize S is about the only person for whom the following will tener sentido, here is my amble down memory lane...
Being here, a million miles from Spanish life removed, I find that all the grievances that plagued us become significantly understated and even laughable.
Living in a dim, lightless room for six whole months. The horror that was Miggity Migs and Chinca. The physically painful awkwardness of sitting near Patty at any given time. Long lonely friendless days at la Autonoma. Laia's bratty but expert manipulative skills. Aggressive creepers galore and the damn phrase "Hola, guapa." My first night at Catwalk. Starving to the point of eating crusty baguettes off a dirty kitchen floor. A migraine and the epitome of a bad "date." Getting kicked off at the end every bus line. Stewing about horse stampedes and missed flights. Rotting shower curtains, broken washing machines, and faulty front door handles. Condis employees and terrible customer service in general. My laptop being out of commission for a torturous eternity. Malodorous armpits touching my face on too many sweltering summer metro rides. Siesta business hours. Cooking with the brownish-yellow spatula and hacking at canned goods with a potholder-wrapped cleaver. Dow Jones, Club Mojito, and the week of trashy white American boys. The eery Ramblas "artists." Catalan pride. Accordion Sundays and repetitively redundant repetoires. Sitting at my desk missing B and aching to be home on a regular basis. Jamon.
And then the memories that were already succulent retrospective fodder become even more sweet.
Early Saturday mornings of fresh croissants and lounging on the blue couch. Walking down Carrer de Sants by myself late late at night. Changing from the metro to the train at Diagonal to get to school. Staking out in the hallways of la Autonoma to secretly smile at letters and care packages in between classes. Chocolate banana milkshakes at Clandestina, passionfruit tea at Bliss, cappuccinos at White Cafe. Huddling under an umbrella to watch the lightshow at Monjuic in the pouring rain. Traversing Born and spontaneously wandering into the caipirinha and popcorn bar. Crowded sweaty smokiness of Harlem, salsa, and a live Cuban band. Walking briskly through the chum park to get to work every morning. Assailing Jon and Nico's receipt log with the broomball picture. Kitchen nook chuckles. Admiring every variation of alstroemerias on Las Ramblas. 1 euro fresh fruit smoothies from the Boqueria after school on humid days. Dangling my legs over the jetty at the end of Barceloneta. Downing overpriced Fanta de Naranja at the chiringuito in Sitges. Getting candy chucked at us by a passing parade on Kelby's birthday. The drunken madness that was New Year's. Ceaseless stupid laughing and visions of trucks on the beach during La Merce. Snooping around the Frenchies' room and bolting the hell out when Jort came home. Suppressing giggle fits while Skyping Si during strictly solemn moments. Chupito bar with Ellie and speaking Chinese all the way home. Reflecting at Port Vell. The singing Brazilians at Patagonia gelato. The glee of discovering Jamboree for the first time. Our BFF's at the neighborhood falafel joint. The joy of Parc Ciutadella in the springtime. The white rag that stuck out of David's couch one night at celula. Journaling the shit out of Barce every. single. day.
Mm, that was fun. Oh, life...I could go on forever, pero suficiente por mientras. Adeu.
Woah. Spain.
As James Morrison came crooning on my iPod, the replay of familiar melodies that were on continuous play all last year swung open the floodgates of Barcelona memories. A strange pang stuck my stomach with a prod of unfamiliar nostalgia. I've been reveling in the Land of Heaven for about four months now without hint of Spanish longing. Spain was a crazy, very full year. A good chapter in life that I mostly look fondly on, but one that has closed and given way to whatever I'm currently entrenched in now (which, don't get me wrong, is proving equally full and memorable). But right now, I'm taking a break from the present. While I realize S is about the only person for whom the following will tener sentido, here is my amble down memory lane...
Being here, a million miles from Spanish life removed, I find that all the grievances that plagued us become significantly understated and even laughable.
Living in a dim, lightless room for six whole months. The horror that was Miggity Migs and Chinca. The physically painful awkwardness of sitting near Patty at any given time. Long lonely friendless days at la Autonoma. Laia's bratty but expert manipulative skills. Aggressive creepers galore and the damn phrase "Hola, guapa." My first night at Catwalk. Starving to the point of eating crusty baguettes off a dirty kitchen floor. A migraine and the epitome of a bad "date." Getting kicked off at the end every bus line. Stewing about horse stampedes and missed flights. Rotting shower curtains, broken washing machines, and faulty front door handles. Condis employees and terrible customer service in general. My laptop being out of commission for a torturous eternity. Malodorous armpits touching my face on too many sweltering summer metro rides. Siesta business hours. Cooking with the brownish-yellow spatula and hacking at canned goods with a potholder-wrapped cleaver. Dow Jones, Club Mojito, and the week of trashy white American boys. The eery Ramblas "artists." Catalan pride. Accordion Sundays and repetitively redundant repetoires. Sitting at my desk missing B and aching to be home on a regular basis. Jamon.
And then the memories that were already succulent retrospective fodder become even more sweet.
Early Saturday mornings of fresh croissants and lounging on the blue couch. Walking down Carrer de Sants by myself late late at night. Changing from the metro to the train at Diagonal to get to school. Staking out in the hallways of la Autonoma to secretly smile at letters and care packages in between classes. Chocolate banana milkshakes at Clandestina, passionfruit tea at Bliss, cappuccinos at White Cafe. Huddling under an umbrella to watch the lightshow at Monjuic in the pouring rain. Traversing Born and spontaneously wandering into the caipirinha and popcorn bar. Crowded sweaty smokiness of Harlem, salsa, and a live Cuban band. Walking briskly through the chum park to get to work every morning. Assailing Jon and Nico's receipt log with the broomball picture. Kitchen nook chuckles. Admiring every variation of alstroemerias on Las Ramblas. 1 euro fresh fruit smoothies from the Boqueria after school on humid days. Dangling my legs over the jetty at the end of Barceloneta. Downing overpriced Fanta de Naranja at the chiringuito in Sitges. Getting candy chucked at us by a passing parade on Kelby's birthday. The drunken madness that was New Year's. Ceaseless stupid laughing and visions of trucks on the beach during La Merce. Snooping around the Frenchies' room and bolting the hell out when Jort came home. Suppressing giggle fits while Skyping Si during strictly solemn moments. Chupito bar with Ellie and speaking Chinese all the way home. Reflecting at Port Vell. The singing Brazilians at Patagonia gelato. The glee of discovering Jamboree for the first time. Our BFF's at the neighborhood falafel joint. The joy of Parc Ciutadella in the springtime. The white rag that stuck out of David's couch one night at celula. Journaling the shit out of Barce every. single. day.
Mm, that was fun. Oh, life...I could go on forever, pero suficiente por mientras. Adeu.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Muerto completo de mi alma
Okay. So I'm being way dramatic. Channeling the more simplistic emotions of M, I am so sad.
No but seriously.
Mi piercing de ceja, despite the lacking longevity of its run as my one overt token to badass-dom (or so I liked to think), has officially become obsolete. Infection-induced efforts to take the ring out for cleaning led to a disturbing explosion in my eyebrow and immediate closure of the piercing in a matter of minutes very much to my dismay.
Call me superficial, but I feel like half of me just died. Funny how I absolutely loathe solely being associated as B's girlfriend, but wrap my identity up in a minute metal curve and I couldn't be happier. In between gouging out the remainder of my ocular region while reading the worst book in the world (Just and Unjust Wars by Walzer; don't do it, people, you will surely die!), I've been soberly contemplating the meaning of life and other such deep profundities in the wake of my eyebrow piercing's tragic demise.
Who am I [left to be]?! What am I doing with my life?! How will I ever move on?! Where do I go from here?!
Well. At least I still have my good looks and biting wit, right? Just kidding.
Now is about the time when a weekend jetset to Portugal would be nice. Maybe then all the pondering would bring to fruition... some quaint word fruit baskets nicely wrapped in gauzy rhetorical eloquence. I have the urgings to draw out myriad lines of thought these days, but alas, natural written cohesiveness eludes me. The constipation may actually kill me before does the heartache of my recent loss.
Spelling it out, inspiration (or lack thereof) is my excuse for dearthly updating as of late. My freshly induced season of mourning may put things off even further. But stay tuned because clearly, my life is so scintillating and the events so monumental, you can't help but rivet yourself to the seat and bite your nails in anxious anticipation of my next installment. I know.
Good [read: bad] day to you.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Ugggghhhhhhhhhh cont.
If I could assail the proverbial source with an entire postman's truck (and more) of hate mail right now, I'd so be spending the rest of the night writing passionate, angry letters, irrespective of the fact that I have to wake up early for an interview tomorrow. The problem is I just don't know who I'd send it to. Hugo Chavez for ruining lives? Manuel Zelaya for being an incapable idiot? Hurricane Mitch for undoing 50 years of progress way back in 1998 and causing a continued landslide of regression? The desperate for whom dirty money is just arguably money? Injustice for...existing?
I admit part of me is just really bitter because my family is beginning to cut painstaking ties out of sheer necessity. Logistical preparations for the next two years have begun to make family history nothing more than history and cherished memories of good times past. Because of the imminent end of an era, I was determined to max out. Alas, messy politics intervene and override again to my extreme dismay. No December trip it is. Boohoo. It's not even summer 2010 and much of me is dying already.
But another, hopefully not so whiny, part of me is upset because, well, how does one go about fixing shit like this? Where do you even begin to hope for change much less think about how to take action? As of August, Honduras has joined the ranks of countries like Venezuela, Bolivia, Dominica, Nicaragua, and Cuba (!!! and those are not positive exclamation marks) as an officially recognized member of ALBA (Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas), an alliance of leftist Latin American leaders with socialist tendencies. Honduran President Manuel Zelaya says a lack of international support to tackle chronic poverty forced him to seek such aid.
It's unfair that some countries are stuck in a rut of perpetual poverty, economic woes, political quagmire, and severe inequality among many other tragic problems that all combine to create a cyclical, inescapable mess of a situation. (Especially one in which it is generally the poor who suffer most direly.) How does someone like me with heartfelt ties and little influential power, or really anyone for that matter, change a seemingly hopeless downward spiral of a nation that always had it coming?
Sending remittances comfortably from America to areas or organizations it appears to be needed, working with street children one at a time, or even reforming entire orphanages despite the best intentions will not change the plight and direction of the country. Not to be a Pessimistic Patty, but sometimes simply statically standing by and watching numbly seems unfortunately not just the only option but the most effective (and this is applicable to too many other situations all over the world).
Argghhhh.
I admit part of me is just really bitter because my family is beginning to cut painstaking ties out of sheer necessity. Logistical preparations for the next two years have begun to make family history nothing more than history and cherished memories of good times past. Because of the imminent end of an era, I was determined to max out. Alas, messy politics intervene and override again to my extreme dismay. No December trip it is. Boohoo. It's not even summer 2010 and much of me is dying already.
But another, hopefully not so whiny, part of me is upset because, well, how does one go about fixing shit like this? Where do you even begin to hope for change much less think about how to take action? As of August, Honduras has joined the ranks of countries like Venezuela, Bolivia, Dominica, Nicaragua, and Cuba (!!! and those are not positive exclamation marks) as an officially recognized member of ALBA (Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas), an alliance of leftist Latin American leaders with socialist tendencies. Honduran President Manuel Zelaya says a lack of international support to tackle chronic poverty forced him to seek such aid.
It's unfair that some countries are stuck in a rut of perpetual poverty, economic woes, political quagmire, and severe inequality among many other tragic problems that all combine to create a cyclical, inescapable mess of a situation. (Especially one in which it is generally the poor who suffer most direly.) How does someone like me with heartfelt ties and little influential power, or really anyone for that matter, change a seemingly hopeless downward spiral of a nation that always had it coming?
Sending remittances comfortably from America to areas or organizations it appears to be needed, working with street children one at a time, or even reforming entire orphanages despite the best intentions will not change the plight and direction of the country. Not to be a Pessimistic Patty, but sometimes simply statically standing by and watching numbly seems unfortunately not just the only option but the most effective (and this is applicable to too many other situations all over the world).
Argghhhh.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Ugggghhhhhhhhhh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrpEeblEx0A
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzAKdVu-KyI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6edugoBGMss
Freaking politics. Mourning Honduras...sad face.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzAKdVu-KyI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6edugoBGMss
Freaking politics. Mourning Honduras...sad face.
Monday, September 8, 2008
On being kind of old...
"So there I was my senior year in college, still feeling like I had no clue what I'd be doing after I graduated. [...] And the more I read the Scriptures, the more uncertain I became about my plans for the future, or even of the wisdom of making plans in the first place, since God seems to be in the business of messing them up. It didn't help that I was majoring in sociology, the study of human behavior. (How much more vague can you get, and what do you do with that degree?) And folks were asking me what I was going to do when I graduated from college. People always want to define you by what you do. I started saying, 'I'm not too concerned with what I am going to do. I am more interested in who I am becoming. I want to be a lover of God and people.'"
Shane Claiborne wrote this is in his book The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, but I feel like I could have written just that in my journal over the last months.
Oh wait. I have.
As the ominous senior year approaches, the questions inquiring what I'm going to do with my life thereafter have been raining down like sucker punches in a schoolyard scuffle. I've taken to barely holding my ground by ambiguously throwing out maybe working in DC mutter mutter maybe grad school but ehh mutter mutter maybe teaching English somewhere for a bit mutter mutter. Mutter mutter. Mutter mutter. All this to say, heck, I have no effing idea. As disappointing and impractical as that may be to my parents (and a lot of other folks and sometimes even me), I really just don't know.
There are certainly some things I am interested in, some things I feel God has given me a heart for, and some things I definitely don't ever wish to pursue, but pulling them altogether into a life-lasting "occupation" of sorts is one thing that still eludes me. I have attempted many a time to somewhat organize my thoughts in written manner with the hopes that when I read back through them, a cohesive answer will magically appear on the page. And every single time, the only thing of which I am more and more sure is the same sentiment Claiborne expresses in the above paragraph. Hum. Así que, vamos a ver, ¿eh?
On another note, it's uncanny in how many ways I identify with Claiborne as I read through his book. In fact, many times what he writes, I have written the same thought processes, questions, insecurities, indignations, etc. in my own journal. Weird.
I'm sure there will be more entries to come as we see how the book finishes out. I hope it gets messy...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Silly. Sillee. Seelly. Ceilie. C-li.
I am usually a strong anti-chain letter note thing proponent. That is, unless it's the week a 10-page paper on Brazilian colonial slavery is due. Thanks, B...
5-Thanks to Spain, I now get headaches when I don't drink coffee. C'est terrible.
6-On that note, the perfect afternoon: cafe con leche, a plush sofa, and some Hemingway or Fitzgerald.
7-Hammock lounging in summertime sunshine is a close second.
8-I strongly dislike drying dishes, can't stand bad table etiquette, and hate when people boss me around the kitchen while I'm cooking.
9-Sophomore year of high school, I made it my new life mission to learn how to play drums. Then drums became cool and trendy and everyone else at church jumped on the bandwagon shortly thereafter. That was the end of that goal and so began the epoch of the acoustic guitar.
12-Obsessive teeth brushing is a compulsive [dis]order of mine. And Burt's Bees chapsticking.
13-I'm even more competitive than B. I am entirely not above leaping over kitchen countertops and things of other such ruthless nature for the sake of victory. After all, what matters in the end is winning...right?
14-My favorite character in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights is actually not Javi (Diego Luna), but the Cuban singer in La Rosa Negra. With her dark buttermilk skin, the headband that perfectly holds back her hair (I wish I could work headbands like that), sweet dance moves, and job singing in a freaking Cuban club is who I'd not-so-secretly like to be in another life. Dang being Asian.
15-One summer, I memorized the entire book of James for 50 bucks to go towards a Mexico missions trip. Sadly, I can only parrot out a few verses here and there now...
16-Ever since I got all four wisdom teeth pulled one horrible March and was bedridden, wavering in and out of consciousness from searing pain, and vomiting blood for the entirety of the week, I have come to take spring breaks very seriously. Let us play!
...I also consider "playing" to be something that is, really, irrespective of vacations, holidays, and freetime, so hang out any time, all the time we shall. :) Yarrr. Llamame.
Directions: Once you’ve been tagged, you have to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you.
1-I lost my first tooth sitting in Troy Aiken's cubby in the locker room of the Dallas Cowboys.
2-In kindergarten, I wanted to be a paleontologist because I was obsessed with dinosaurs. In first grade, my life calling changed to baker. For a long while after, I entertained the thought of art school, then briefly (very, very briefly) considered majoring in biology and pursuing medicine, y ahora...quien sabe but that I don't want to live comfortably. Hopefully Latin America, street children, and grassroots will also be somewhere in the mix.
3-I am sure that someday I WILL visit every country in Latin America though, especially/including Cuba.
3-I am sure that someday I WILL visit every country in Latin America though, especially/including Cuba.
4-My top five favorite movies (I believe these say a lot about me): 1) Motorcycle Diaries. 2) Solo Dios Sabe. 3) City of God. 4) The Science of Sleep. 5) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
5-Thanks to Spain, I now get headaches when I don't drink coffee. C'est terrible.
6-On that note, the perfect afternoon: cafe con leche, a plush sofa, and some Hemingway or Fitzgerald.
7-Hammock lounging in summertime sunshine is a close second.
8-I strongly dislike drying dishes, can't stand bad table etiquette, and hate when people boss me around the kitchen while I'm cooking.
9-Sophomore year of high school, I made it my new life mission to learn how to play drums. Then drums became cool and trendy and everyone else at church jumped on the bandwagon shortly thereafter. That was the end of that goal and so began the epoch of the acoustic guitar.
10-I suck at talking. I cannot for the life of me figure it out, but verbal articulation evades me to the most frustrating degree. But writing...let's just say, I've amassed 13 journals in my lifetime and am currently working on my fourteenth. It's a little embarrassing...
11-I got my ears pierced when I was about five months old. If you look closely, you'll see the holes are uneven because I, being the feisty soul that I have always been, did an antsy jig or something and moved at the last minute.
11-I got my ears pierced when I was about five months old. If you look closely, you'll see the holes are uneven because I, being the feisty soul that I have always been, did an antsy jig or something and moved at the last minute.
12-Obsessive teeth brushing is a compulsive [dis]order of mine. And Burt's Bees chapsticking.
13-I'm even more competitive than B. I am entirely not above leaping over kitchen countertops and things of other such ruthless nature for the sake of victory. After all, what matters in the end is winning...right?
14-My favorite character in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights is actually not Javi (Diego Luna), but the Cuban singer in La Rosa Negra. With her dark buttermilk skin, the headband that perfectly holds back her hair (I wish I could work headbands like that), sweet dance moves, and job singing in a freaking Cuban club is who I'd not-so-secretly like to be in another life. Dang being Asian.
15-One summer, I memorized the entire book of James for 50 bucks to go towards a Mexico missions trip. Sadly, I can only parrot out a few verses here and there now...
16-Ever since I got all four wisdom teeth pulled one horrible March and was bedridden, wavering in and out of consciousness from searing pain, and vomiting blood for the entirety of the week, I have come to take spring breaks very seriously. Let us play!
...I also consider "playing" to be something that is, really, irrespective of vacations, holidays, and freetime, so hang out any time, all the time we shall. :) Yarrr. Llamame.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Home sweet sweet effing HOME.
Tomorrow is the two week mark since I re-touched ground in the Land of Heaven. Essentially, I have this to say:
I have the best life. And the best friends. Ever.
July 15th turned out to be infinitely more grand than I spent months imagining it would be. The second the plane wheels thudded on the LAX runway, there was no sign of a disappearing act for the nutty grin that had plastered itself on my face. I'm sure the airport maintenance lady thought I was completely off my rocker when I excitedly asked her where the nearest bathroom was and practically sprint-skipped in the direction she pointed. The next thing I knew, familiar chums were popping out from under towels in the back seats of Mrs. Olson's beast of a car chattering nonstop nonsense and before I could even catch my breath, old times slipped in as if I had never left.
I'm figuring out slowly that Spain wasn't just a figment of my oft unruly mental capacities after all, but I could swear I've been in America for at least months now so much has happened. Glorious Trifecta reunions. Rampageous elephants and magical 21's. BBQs with domestically advanced best friends I never would have guessed I'd have. Precious hours with the one person I love most in this world and soaking in the sheer joy that is seeing Grams. Delightfully delicious dinner parties and more food than my poor stomach knows what to do with. And finally, temporary release from twelve months of being strapped into an emotional roller coaster more dippy and loopy than any expert Magic Mountain engineer could dream up.
Oh, but it's so good to be back.
I have the best life. And the best friends. Ever.
July 15th turned out to be infinitely more grand than I spent months imagining it would be. The second the plane wheels thudded on the LAX runway, there was no sign of a disappearing act for the nutty grin that had plastered itself on my face. I'm sure the airport maintenance lady thought I was completely off my rocker when I excitedly asked her where the nearest bathroom was and practically sprint-skipped in the direction she pointed. The next thing I knew, familiar chums were popping out from under towels in the back seats of Mrs. Olson's beast of a car chattering nonstop nonsense and before I could even catch my breath, old times slipped in as if I had never left.
I'm figuring out slowly that Spain wasn't just a figment of my oft unruly mental capacities after all, but I could swear I've been in America for at least months now so much has happened. Glorious Trifecta reunions. Rampageous elephants and magical 21's. BBQs with domestically advanced best friends I never would have guessed I'd have. Precious hours with the one person I love most in this world and soaking in the sheer joy that is seeing Grams. Delightfully delicious dinner parties and more food than my poor stomach knows what to do with. And finally, temporary release from twelve months of being strapped into an emotional roller coaster more dippy and loopy than any expert Magic Mountain engineer could dream up.
Oh, but it's so good to be back.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
And so it is. Life goes easy on me…mmm, well, most of the time.
I daresay some of my most emo moments here in
July 15th is actually approaching rather quickly, but ironically enough, I have been feeling increasingly torn regarding my imminent return. There are moments when I can hardly stand the seeming centuries that remain. The thought of finally physically being in the same place as where my heart is brings me to states of bursting impatience. The impending joys of particular reunions, of familiar foods, of the comfort of merely being home are nearly unfathomable but oh-so-enticing.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
When $100 Feeds 100 Mouths
So Barack Obama won the nomination and Hillary Clinton officially acknowledged her defeat.
The most prominent thought in my mind is this: money.
Was that really our country's best way to spend those hundreds of millions of dollars? A bid for a position of power (one that is no doubt globally potent in its own right). But when they push for elimination of poverty, etc., what about all the money spent to get to the inevitable point where only one continues on. I admit I have no solution for the discrepancy this poses, if there even is a realistically plausible one, but...shit. How many more people could have lived?
The most prominent thought in my mind is this: money.
Was that really our country's best way to spend those hundreds of millions of dollars? A bid for a position of power (one that is no doubt globally potent in its own right). But when they push for elimination of poverty, etc., what about all the money spent to get to the inevitable point where only one continues on. I admit I have no solution for the discrepancy this poses, if there even is a realistically plausible one, but...shit. How many more people could have lived?
Friday, June 6, 2008
Where Did My Baby Go?
Lost passion has come up in quite a few conversations as of late. It's just that I have been feeling so apathetic to everything these days. Things that used to get me so excited about life have hardly served to conjure any emotion or feeling. What issues I coddled as my own passionate points of pursuit have evasively eluded me.
It seems that the more educated (hah, take that with a grain of salt) I become and the more I learn, the more hopeless the global situation seems to get and the more insignificant my role as a potential world changer becomes. I'm taking or have taken quite a few honestly fascinating classes on Latin America this year...am I just becoming desensitized? Reading the news has become a chore I avoid, and merely thinking about street children a nagging obligation. An inconvenient one for which I feel have no time at that.
A myriad more of questions swirl around as I navigate this seeming crux. Is God using this to lead me in another direction, or am I just being stubborn and not putting in the effort? What was I doing before that I am doing differently now? Have I become stoic and even more cold hearted and just plain unemotional?
Whereas before I thought I was so sure about the things I wanted to pursue, so much presently dangles in the air strung by uncertainty. I suppose I do still have time, but now that the point at which I'm expected to figure out what I want to do with my life is fast approaching, I am more unsure than ever and it's starting to freak me out. Where oh where has my passion gone?
It seems that the more educated (hah, take that with a grain of salt) I become and the more I learn, the more hopeless the global situation seems to get and the more insignificant my role as a potential world changer becomes. I'm taking or have taken quite a few honestly fascinating classes on Latin America this year...am I just becoming desensitized? Reading the news has become a chore I avoid, and merely thinking about street children a nagging obligation. An inconvenient one for which I feel have no time at that.
A myriad more of questions swirl around as I navigate this seeming crux. Is God using this to lead me in another direction, or am I just being stubborn and not putting in the effort? What was I doing before that I am doing differently now? Have I become stoic and even more cold hearted and just plain unemotional?
Whereas before I thought I was so sure about the things I wanted to pursue, so much presently dangles in the air strung by uncertainty. I suppose I do still have time, but now that the point at which I'm expected to figure out what I want to do with my life is fast approaching, I am more unsure than ever and it's starting to freak me out. Where oh where has my passion gone?
As I perused through some old journals, I came across a snippet of a conversation B and I had last summer before he left for Malawi. Here is something he said that really resonated with me and is just so appropriate on all levels these days:
"It's analogous to relationships since everything is relational, us and God, us and our passions. But it's easiest to see in romantic relationships. It's all good within the first few months. Then people either take things too fast and make mistakes/get burnt out...or get bored and bail...or do the hard thing and work it through. Same thing with passions in life and our relationship with God; same three possibilities. It always seems more rewarding to start something new. But it's far more outwardly beneficial to work through the troubles and establish a relationship with your passions that is concrete and can be a foundation to build something upon. Heck, you can even see the problem in baseball. Rookie pitchers and hitters are great until scouts figure out the initial weaknesses. Then it's up to the player to overcome the issues, or get sent back to the minors."
When R&K came to visit, we talked about things we hope for in life, things we want to do, burdens God has "blessed" us with. It was exciting to see God place such different things on our hearts yet have them fit so intricately together in the grand scheme of things like global change. Old passions re-stirred in my heart like buried embers, unseen but still warm after all, and for the first time in a long time, I got excited again about life and social justice and active obedience and pushing for movement in the KOG. I glanced through old, bookmarked websites of street children ministries all over the world, read through some past xanga entries (1 / 2 / 3), watched some video documentaries, and it was still work, but I felt my heart melting a little bit... Oh to feel again.
B later ended the conversation with one of my favorite lines ever:
Personally, I hope I have my heart broken to pieces.
I can only pray for the same.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
When The Shoe Fits
So R&K, they came and left. And, well, it was great.
I love how natural our friendship is. Honestly, I rarely see them and we hardly ever talk. Emails are sporadic and even when my computer was functioning, Skype conversations were at best occasional. Even when I finally found them at the airport, it was this nonchalant, "Oh hey. Cool. You're here," and then we picked up from where we never left off.
It was so refreshing to finally be around people who get me. I guess I had forgotten what that felt like. B asked me, "How do you feel life differs when people get you?" Well, I suppose when you process life aloud to them, if they didn't already somehow know it all, at the very least they know where you're coming from and they get why you think and feel the way you do. It's just...inherent. And then there's the glorious "no shame" dimension devoid of embarrassment and in which absolutely free are you from fear of judgment. Who the hell cares when you know they love you no matter what, right?
So many forgotten little personality nuances came rushing back to me both in increments of small whispers and strong gusts of winds alike. Things you have come to love about someone, learned to love, struggled to love; facets that range from those you want to shout to the world to those you feel the urge to defend. I don't know. To me, that's part of 'getting it.' Loving that stuff and letting people love your stuff unashamedly. Therein lies the beauty of friendships just meant to be.
Wah. I can't wait to go home.
So many forgotten little personality nuances came rushing back to me both in increments of small whispers and strong gusts of winds alike. Things you have come to love about someone, learned to love, struggled to love; facets that range from those you want to shout to the world to those you feel the urge to defend. I don't know. To me, that's part of 'getting it.' Loving that stuff and letting people love your stuff unashamedly. Therein lies the beauty of friendships just meant to be.
Wah. I can't wait to go home.
Monday, May 19, 2008
"We always thought you were mature and down-to-earth but apparently, not in everything."
Hm. Imperfection. Novel concept.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
She Had It Comin'
I need to get back to Christ. I've been so obsessed lately about how much I've changed this year and the new "me" I've become that I suddenly think I can manage on my own. I've been so focused on being semi-rebellious for once in my life, a little euro-crazy, trying to separate myself from my former goody goody church girl self, that these days, God and the role He plays in my life is nearly a hinderance. What the heck? Where would I even be without Him? Clearly, the state of most things in my life right now is a plain example of the emptiness and fruitlessness of a pursuit of life devoid of God.
I have changed a lot this year though, and while I've made my mistakes, I daresay, most of it has been for the better. Nonetheless, where I am currently is not where I want to be at all. The mental, physical, emotional, spiritual state of things at the moment shows me that God still has so much farther to take me. I want freedom from the chains of complacency that hold me from experiencing the even greater or better yet, the absolute very best.
I have 69 days left. That's over two months. I know God can (and will) rock so much more in that time. I hate getting to the point of things where all I have left is to ask Him to break my heart because every other time I have done so, man, has He brought it. The end product is always beautiful, satisfying, fulfilling. Naturally. But the process is so painful. I'm no masochist arrogantly praying to hurt, but I know that often times I don't truly learn until God burns and scrapes and cuts and breaks.
Even now, I want to continue to write verbose sentences to avoid saying what I really need to. In my finite human mind, I only see the immediate struggle and heartache with no patience and wisdom of the ultimate good to sustain me. And though I know I will falter (and badly so) and will need to humbly remind myself again and again...I trust God.
So, God, *takes a deep breath* break my heart.
I don't want to remain in this disgusting state. I want freedom to live, to love, to worship. In a genuine, honoring, and steadfast manner. Break my heart, begin me anew, and refine me to the point of 'perfection.' (06/05/2008)
And so it begins...
I have changed a lot this year though, and while I've made my mistakes, I daresay, most of it has been for the better. Nonetheless, where I am currently is not where I want to be at all. The mental, physical, emotional, spiritual state of things at the moment shows me that God still has so much farther to take me. I want freedom from the chains of complacency that hold me from experiencing the even greater or better yet, the absolute very best.
I have 69 days left. That's over two months. I know God can (and will) rock so much more in that time. I hate getting to the point of things where all I have left is to ask Him to break my heart because every other time I have done so, man, has He brought it. The end product is always beautiful, satisfying, fulfilling. Naturally. But the process is so painful. I'm no masochist arrogantly praying to hurt, but I know that often times I don't truly learn until God burns and scrapes and cuts and breaks.
Even now, I want to continue to write verbose sentences to avoid saying what I really need to. In my finite human mind, I only see the immediate struggle and heartache with no patience and wisdom of the ultimate good to sustain me. And though I know I will falter (and badly so) and will need to humbly remind myself again and again...I trust God.
So, God, *takes a deep breath* break my heart.
I don't want to remain in this disgusting state. I want freedom to live, to love, to worship. In a genuine, honoring, and steadfast manner. Break my heart, begin me anew, and refine me to the point of 'perfection.' (06/05/2008)
And so it begins...
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Ode To Beginnings
Mmmm. Early mornings (well, as "early" as you can get being a 20-year-old living in Barcelona, Spain) with no particularly pressing agenda or commitments and the small bubble that is my life quiet and still just peacefully mine. As close as this flat has come to a notion of home, I can't wait to spend these hours in California. I can already taste the skies cloudy at dawn, sharp salt air, soft hooded sweatshirts, the Pacific Ocean breaking on the shore...
This morning I spent the first few hours visiting an old, familiar but unknown world. Reconnection (via the most unromantic means of Facebook), even in a most static way, has brought my worlds of past and present into a collision of surreality.
Besides TL, BC (BJ now, I suppose) was the girl I wanted to be and maybe still do. I have these strangely distinct hallway memories of my first youth retreat, of the occasional conversations in various CEC locales, of desiring to embody that same beauty, that same depth of faith. To this day, I still remember what the cover of her journal looked like...
Perusing through her xanga entries spanning the last four years, so many thoughts are stirred within me. The ability to write well--to exude eloquence and beauty and novelty of thought through the means of written--continues to be something that powerfully captures my respect. I've been going back and forth about starting a new blog for awhile now, but hadn't been able to conjure up a good enough rationale or justification. Don't think I have even now.
Too fine is the line between knowingly sharing with the public what is real and genuine in my life and consciously writing to please. I know the minute I discover the demographics of my audience, my writing is immediately affected, intentional or not. In most cases, I believe the true beauty and value in heart-inspired thoughts lie in their original, raw state, unadulterated by the vulnerabilities of openly sharing. Why are the ramblings of my personal journal not sufficient? Is it the secret (or not so secret?) desire for validation and affirmation? Or simply the search for a means of revealing dimensions of life I'd otherwise be incapable of sharing?
As I continue to work through these debates and no doubt post-then-delete entries, here goes nothing...about half a penny's worth of thoughts.
This morning I spent the first few hours visiting an old, familiar but unknown world. Reconnection (via the most unromantic means of Facebook), even in a most static way, has brought my worlds of past and present into a collision of surreality.
Besides TL, BC (BJ now, I suppose) was the girl I wanted to be and maybe still do. I have these strangely distinct hallway memories of my first youth retreat, of the occasional conversations in various CEC locales, of desiring to embody that same beauty, that same depth of faith. To this day, I still remember what the cover of her journal looked like...
Perusing through her xanga entries spanning the last four years, so many thoughts are stirred within me. The ability to write well--to exude eloquence and beauty and novelty of thought through the means of written--continues to be something that powerfully captures my respect. I've been going back and forth about starting a new blog for awhile now, but hadn't been able to conjure up a good enough rationale or justification. Don't think I have even now.
Too fine is the line between knowingly sharing with the public what is real and genuine in my life and consciously writing to please. I know the minute I discover the demographics of my audience, my writing is immediately affected, intentional or not. In most cases, I believe the true beauty and value in heart-inspired thoughts lie in their original, raw state, unadulterated by the vulnerabilities of openly sharing. Why are the ramblings of my personal journal not sufficient? Is it the secret (or not so secret?) desire for validation and affirmation? Or simply the search for a means of revealing dimensions of life I'd otherwise be incapable of sharing?
As I continue to work through these debates and no doubt post-then-delete entries, here goes nothing...about half a penny's worth of thoughts.
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