cindy's world

When I got home yesterday, I watered the cat, started dinner and went upstairs to change into my flannel PJs, came back down, lit some candles, ate dinner as I watched TBS’s 3 back-to-back “Friends” episodes, then fell asleep as I expected to. At some point, I woke up in pitch darkness except for the glow cast by the TV. I had no idea what time it was, and I got up on one elbow and turned my left wrist toward the TV to see my watch. It was 11:15p. I thought I heard a voice directly to my left in the kitchen, but looking there, not only could I not see anything as I was bathed in the glare of the TV light, but I had fallen asleep in my contacts which then dried up in my eyes, so now things were not just contrasted, but blurry. I looked forward again toward the stairs. There seemed to be an orange glow coming from upstairs. I wondered if Vanessa had come home and walked by me completely unobserved. Or maybe the glow is from the streetlamp pouring into the side window of my hallway. I finally decided to get up and turn on the torchiere lamp. Vanessa was indeed smiling at me drinking water in the kitchen. “When’d you get home?” I asked her.
“Oh, not that long, about an hour ago.”
“How long’ve you been standing there?”
“Not that long, just taking my herbal supplements and meds. Want some water?”
I realized I did not drink a drop of water all day. “Yeah, thanks,” I said, and she brought me a tall glass. Since I was laying down on the couch, she sat Indian-style to my left and petted my cat as he walked up to greet her. “I’m all messed up,” I whined.
“Wanna talk about it?”
So we did, briefly, and half-watched “Friends” and “Will & Grace” as those shows flickered by on the big screen. At some point, she got up to use the restroom, and I fell asleep again. When I awoke at 4:30 a.m., I was again curled up in darkness save for the patterned lights strewn from the TV. Vanessa had blown out my candles and turned off the lamp, but left the TV on “in case [I] need the background noise to sleep,” as she’d told me the last time I fell asleep in front of the TV and awoke to find the candles extinguished and the lights off.
I looked behind me and saw that Dodo was also asleep, curled lightly sideways with the upper half of his body on his catnip scratching pad and the lower half on the carpet. I turned off the TV, walked upstairs, and laid down in my bed. I don’t know what it is about my bed that is so extremely comforting. I slept until 7a when my alarm went off, but drifted in and out of sleep instead of getting up.
I guess I thought that getting enough rest would reset myself mentally and physically, and instead, I was craving even more sleep. I examined the rounded puffy bags under my eyes as I squeezed the toothpaste onto my toothbrush. I’m not sure if I’m under-rested or over-rested, but something did bring me to a realization as I drove to work.

It’s not the bad things that are done to me or happen to me that bring on the depression. What really shakes my ground is the losing, or the loss, of faith in where I am in life. I want to be committed to where I am, but if things happen to make me doubt my present choice, the fact that I know I have the power to change my path and yet not knowing whether I’m meant to change it, that brings on a conflict of emotion vs. intellect, heart vs. head. I don’t like big choices like this. I don’t even like small choices, like does this object of clothing go into the delicate, regular, or heavy duty pile of the light or dark loads? That’s the prime reason I hate doing laundry. I’m also not keene on huge lifestyle changes. So when I get pieces of information that tell me a choice I’ve made in the past may no longer be the right choice for me in the present or future, now I’m panicking. And stalling only makes things worse as I’m conscious of the fact that the longer I drag things out, the more the alternative opportunities slip away.

I guess I’d always known this on some level, but I usually don’t address it and don’t give the thoughts much exploration. Maybe the extra sleep gave me the ability to deal with that global aspect.

Over the weekend, I sat quietly on the balcony and watched as a little hummingbird tried to land on a metal rod that the hummingbird feeder was suspended from. The imitation twig rod is about a half-inch in diameter, and I think it’s made of black iron. It’s attached to a hinge that’s bolted to a vertical support beam, and it reaches upward at approximately a 60-degree diagonal angle from the post and from the top is a loop that the feeder is hung on. The little hummingbird, probably thinking it’s landing on a tree limb, tried to stop on the rod but couldn’t stop flapping its wings because he couldn’t stabilize himself on the rod; he kept sliding down. So he’d flap and struggle to go up a bit, and as soon as its skinny little feet landed on the rod, he’d start sliding downward toward the hinge. He tried and tried for maybe 30 seconds, flapping and shuffling his feet trying to move upwards, but always sliding back, until he gave up and flitted off to investigate the feeder itself.

I think my mood as of late has been like the hummingbird. Left alone, I slip downwards. I need constant flapping and struggling to stay in the same place, otherwise the natural law of gravity, or perhaps Newton’s law of motion, would take over. It’s tiring, especially when the flapping isn’t solely up to me. It’s crazy how something small could totally make my mood. If only they knew how easy and effortless it is.

Happy May Day, people. On the drive to work this morning, a listener called the radio station and asked the on-air personalities what they think of “Mexican Day today.” He was referring to the planned walk-out Mexicans here are doing today for demonstrations and rallying downtown in protest to our present immigration laws and policies. The caller said he was “100% Mexican,” and that he’s in support of their demonstration, but feels that to make a real impact on the importance of Mexican immigrants in the nation, they shouldn’t just do the walk-out for a day; they should do it for weeks, or a month. The DJs said that if people demonstrating stay out for a week, they could lose their jobs, and the kids who walk out of school to support the demonstration long-term would be losing out on their education. The caller said, “But when you want something done, you need to be ready for the consequences. I say we get all us together and VOTE –” The DJs said, “But most of these people demonstrating can’t vote because they’re illegal, that’s what they’re rallying about –” The caller jumped in with, “Well, if it were up to me, I’d walk out there, have my Uzi and I’d point that around –” and the DJs cut him off there and said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Now what’s THAT gonna prove for you? Now if it were idiot walk-out day, I’d be on board for that!”

I’m exhausted, I can’t focus my eyes, and I couldn’t call in sick today because administration’s policy is that anyone not appearing at work today without a doctor’s documentation to verify actual ailment would be assumed to be acting in solidarity with the Mexican ditch effort and we’d be considered absent without permission/pay.

Stupid.

Do you ever miss something so strongly that you feel saddened and empty without it, only you don’t know what it is you miss? I’m nostalgic for something, but I don’t know what. If there was someone so truly special and wonderful to me that my sad times are a stark contrast to being with him, such that it brings up tears and nausea with how hard I long and yearn, I don’t have any distinct memories of him. Maybe it’s a time I miss. Maybe I miss a time when I was secure and happy. I just miss something or someone so much right now that I want to curl up in a ball and cry. I feel like my conscious memories have been wiped clean but yet something instinctual and subconscious remembers. I remember warmth, and yet some coolness. I remember rosiness. I remember comfort and trust. I remember feather-light caresses, loving strokes upon my head. I remember feeling so protected that I could let everything go because of the faith that nothing could happen to me if I relax. I remember white light, and a sense of being surrounded by white wings wrapped around me from behind.

Here, I feel cold and alone in the dark. I’m often miserable. I’m aware of other light sources around me, but it’s not the same. There, a few dark dots may appear in the light; here, it’s the rare light that thinly penetrates the darkness. And a lot of the light isn’t bright, it’s more of a gray. People who seem lit eventually turn gray on you as you see more of them.

Is it some sort of sick coincidence, or is there a connection and a reason to why, just after you’ve expressed aloud how great someone is being, or how great things are, that they do something to completely offend you? I always think I’m jinxing myself so I hold back from thanking someone for being good to me, or remarking to others about how great someone has been. Cuz as soon as that’s done, the person you’re grateful to will pull some jackass move and make you feel completely betrayed and make you eat your words. Why can’t it work in the opposite way? Why can’t I commiserate to someone that so-and-so never does such-and-such for me despite knowing how much it’d mean to me, and then walk out and see that so-and-so has indeed just done such-and-such because of how much it means to me? I have a weak theory, tho. I think that a lot of people, once you’ve shown them gratitude about something, get so cocky about it that they feel like they can do whatever they want despite the fact that it may be breaking a promise or hurting you. These are the people who get spoiled and take you for granted. You give them an inch and they take a foot. You can’t give these people brownie points because you want to make them feel good and give them credit where credit is due; if you do, they all of a sudden feel entitled to some things and their heads get blown up.

I’m so sad.

Diana and I are deep into an email conversation in which I’m probing her about the mystery dude who was making eye contact at her from across the room at her recent work-related dinner, as written about in her recent post. I guessed that he must’ve been cute since she uncharacteristically made repeated eye contact with him and smiled back at him. Her description of him was, in part, “…he was cute and had a very nice smile, although i am sure he is older.” I asked whether she’s found that more older men have been interested in her lately, and she thought about it and responded that she’s pretty much always had her share of “very young and very old.” Then she asked about me. Now that we’re forced to evaluate and summarize the ages of people who have been interested, she concluded that her range of admiring fans have been from 22 to 38. She laughingly noted that it’s a huge range. Then she thought of me and my history, of which she’s well aware. And laughed at my 22? to 50s. Ick.

That of course begs the question, which she opened up in a statement: “you must have different qualities that make you desirable to the young and the old. ;)” I wrote back half-jokingly, “Asian fetish and groundedness for the young; brains, youth and humor for the old.” Her response to that came back nearly instantaneously and reads, “or hot, sexy girl for the young; and the mature, witty, hot, sexy young woman for the old.”

That brought a big smile to my face as I wrote back, “I like that better, haha”, and just as I was thinking, Hmm, how do I blog this without looking conceited?, she responded that this conversation warrants a place in the blog. “Yours or mine?” I asked her. She said both, since we have different writing styles. So here we go. I got an email from her like 10 minutes ago saying she’s done with hers already. I said that apparently, my post is longer than hers.

That brings another interesting point between she and I. She noted how “brevity is [her] middle name”, such that when she writes an long post, people know something’s up and that it’s an important post. I, on the other hand, ramble on — aimlessly at times — saturating my posts with detail (show it, not just tell it, my 5th grade writing teacher used to chant), such that when I have an unusually short post, people know something’s wrong because I’m withholding information. Haha.

Okay, I’m gonna go read her post now and probably feel stupid about mine.

***
Addendum –
Diana’s most recent email as I was writing this post:
“ramble faster. i am dying to read urs.” HAHAHA!

We ditched yoga last nite and watched Better Luck Tomorrow as recommended by my cousin Mark. I was all punchy from lack of sleep anyway, and my body hurts from the ravages of PMS. I only hit the gym once this week (Monday), and went to jujitsu once (Monday), didn’t run at all. Oh well, everyone’s entitled to a week off here and there, right?

I guess Better Luck Tomorrow was pretty well received, and the artsy factors of the movie were done well and interestingly, and I did reassume familiarity with some SAT words such as “punctilious.” The psychological discomfort that this movie leaves you with, however, is not a turn-on. My mind kept flashing back to certain scenes. It is, on a smaller scale, what watching Unfaithful did to me. As much as I could relate to the background of Better Luck Tomorrow better than Unfaithful because the setting may as well have been my old high school in Diamond Bar, the kids may as well have been my peers, the classes may as well have been my own classes, I walked away from both movies with an emotional gasp and gratitude that it’s not my own life that went horribly askew in the way of the characters’ lives. Just as I snapped out of Unfaithful being grateful I’ve never cheated on a relationship and with newfound motivation never to do so, as the credits rolled in Better Luck Tomorrow, I was glad I didn’t roll with the wrong group in high school or college, because it feels like I very well may have misstepped in the same direction. I don’t know that to be true, my moral compass tends to be fairly strong, but the story presented itself as the tragedy of everyman. That may be what’s most artful about the film, aside from the naked exposure of Asian American youth culture and youth (underground) subculture/counterculture.

Oh, yeah. And John Cho turns out to have range beyond the goofy token Asian boy in American Pie and Harold & Kumar go to Whitecastle. This is definitely a film noir.

Remember back in the day before the epidemic of cell phones and caller ID, when the phone would ring and you’d run to it all excited cuz you’re hoping it’s someone interesting? And sometimes it’s a person you happen to have a crush on, and then there’s the surprised “Oh, hi!” with a smile so large the other person could hear it? And that’s how you know someone was genuinely happy to hear from you, cuz they don’t have enough time to fake it between the first pensive “hello?” and your responsive “hey, it’s ___.”

There’s no romance and mystery anymore.

So I’m driving to work this morning, bopping around in my car listening to 80s rock at full blast, eating a banana. And then the thought arbitrarily entered my brain that I should lick or eat the banana suggestively when some of these guys who are driving around me look into my car at me. After I had that mental image in my head (which made me laugh), I so wanted to do it! My brain was trying to talk me into it with, “It’s a bigger deal to me than to anyone who sees. They’d just laugh and tell their friends about it. It’s not like I know any of these people. I’ll probably never see them again.” It’s a good thing I don’t get intoxicated before my morning drives, or I may have.

But I’m a good, respectable little girl. Who’s just a little delirious from lack of sleep.

I didn’t finish the Raytheon roughs until midnight, and Sandy was still working next to me on her own laptop. This girl works till about 7p, and then goes to some group meetings at work, and then comes home at 8p, gets on her laptop, and continues working remotely while IMing and telephoning with her project teammates. She says she normally goes to bed about 1a. Anyway, we chatted for a little bit, I showed her some random photos that were taken since I’d last seen her in December (which I wrote about here and here). Then I left at about 1a. After the parking garage gouged me $65 for parking (it was automated, there was no one to argue with, and the $10/hour rate was not posted ANYWHERE, I checked), I drove toward what I thought was the 710 fwy entrance. Turned out it’s changed somewhat in the last 2 years or the sign’s fallen off on the street, cuz I ended up crossing bridges and going to the ports. I was following these big tanker trucks at 1:15 a.m., getting really nervous, cuz there’s nowhere to turn around, and I’m over water. Finally, I managed to get off onto a side bridge and went back up on a street that had a name I remembered passing while going down the 710 South to her house. And I was right. There was an entrance to the 710 North on that street. So happily, I got on… and got detoured off on the very next exit, Pacific Coast Highway. Apparently the freeway was doing some construction or something, and everyone on the freeway (there were amazingly quite a few of us at 1:30 in the morning) got herded off onto PCH. Soon, the “freeway detour” signs disappeared. I found myself driving God knows where passing factories, run-down storefronts, questionable staggering men, and strip clubs. Lots of strip clubs, offering full nudity on their Girls!Girls!Girls! as proudly emblazoned on their neon signs. I finally called Sandy and wailed. She had just come out of the shower so she was still up, and she at first didn’t recognize the streets I was on and told me to pull into a gas station to ask for directions. I refused at that hour at that time of night. Eventually I got to an intersection she was familiar with and she guided me to a different freeway entrance and saved me. I didn’t get home until past 2 a.m..

I am so wired.

I’m at my childhood friend Sandy’s apartment in Long Beach right now working on a program flyer for an upcoming Raytheon conference. I haven’t done advertising/marketing since the days when Sandy and I both worked for i2S Institute and I did all their ads. Sandy used to say then, “Man, we have the best ads.” But that was 8 years ago when we were college kids and now we’re adults and working for more established companies. Not that Los Angeles County Superior Court is a “company.” Not really, anyway. I’m taking a break after completing the first page of the flyer. I used one of my personal photos for the background to prevent any copyright infringement on photos. She wanted a photo for the background wash but didn’t have one ready, so luckily one of my Cancun scenery shots did the trick. Good thing I brought my laptop, too. She said she was gonna have Raytheon pay me as an outsource contractor for the creation of this flyer, so now I have something to add to my photography resume and my advertising resume. Cool, huh?

Well, break’s over. Time to hit page 2.