Air.

When I was little, I was denied that seemingly best feeling in the world. My mother and aunt had their seats right at one of the rounded glass/plastic apertures, and as a disciplined child that I was, I was afraid I might get into trouble running along the passages on the plane. My mother switched seat with me so I can get a glimpse of what was below. But a goddam attendant came and told me the seats were gender divided, I was like "I didn't know that there is discrimination against certain people in seating schedule on the plane." I cried and thought flight attendants were evil creatures.


Preventing a child from sitting in the rear seat next to the windows on an airplane should be made a crime. Curiosity is human nature. The earth is round, and how far does a normal person come close to witness that one simple fact? Only at an altitude of 43,000 feet aboard an airplane. Higher than the Everest. Above the land, the sea, the mountains, the skyscrapers, people. So small under, mingled in the terrain of what we all call home. Far on the horizon, earth meets the sky, the color spectrum shifting from a telluric brown to a muddled white which dispersed into various tones of blue upward. No longer on the ground, I felt like I was a separate entity and so was the earth, and a sense of belonging materialized from within. It was a bit of loneliness with a nip of pride, of courage with a sip of unspecified sorrow.

Grain.

When I picked up my first camera ever, my dad told me not to. I said “Why?” and he said “You’d become too absorbed in taking photos,” he paused, “just like I used to.” I didn’t understand. I thought it was simple: hold the camera still, click the shutter button and you’re done. “Once I lived on photos,” my dad said as he pulled out chunks of old grainy photos from the attic, “these were for customers that never returned to pick up their pictures.” Pretty ladies in blouses and gentlemen in suits with hair combed back standing by Hoan Kiem Lake took me into a wormhole. This was here. This was right here. This was part of what we are, what I am. I guess I will never feel guilty of taking what was a part of me with my existence.

Chase.

I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights. The waves of colored gas ions light up the arctic skies in blue and red, and I, among the Alaskan pine trees surrounding, watch as they glow and shift shapes. I knew I would be there, hunting the magical forces that create the auroras on trails through the North Atlantic taiga woods. I was destined. I was simply drawn to the pursuit. Nothing can be done to change my direction. The interest has so long manifested within the region of my aspirations, which knows no boundaries as far as appeal is concerned.

Shore.

I've always dreamed of waking up at the dawn of a late summer day, it'd be about 3 or 4 in the morning, or even earlier, for the sun hadn't had its say on the horizon to the east, which was still dazzled with a mixture of deep blue and peachy red. We'd roll up the blinds and yawn so wide it'd break our jaws; we'd load the trunk with just underwear and water guns; we'd let the car windows down and feel the cool breezes on the highway; I'd catch a sleep when you'd drive; you'd tap a thin blanket on me; when I woke up we'd have already stopped, and you'd be smiling, your teeth all shiny and your eyes all shrink to creases. I'd shake my head and open my eyes and definitely feel fresh and alive, as the salty air fluxed in my nostrils exerting a sense of complete release from everything. And as I ran to the shore, pitching sand high up in the air, and finally dipped my feet in the cool water, you came from behind and wrapped your arms around me, the sun rising from the womb of the sea, glamor and gleam, waves crashing, like me crashing in you.

On a Warm April Night

So I guess that's what this blog is all about, I mean, about me, my life and myself. Egocentric, everything should be me-related. But the problem is when it gets to anything me-related, it will grow distant from me, the subject matter, and close to some sonuvabitch and his annoying misconducts.

I want to write fictions, real fictions, complicated fictions, that's what I aim for. Too bad every time I set my hands on the keyboard, all I do is whining about my lousy activities that last from day to day, never-ending and everlasting. I also want to write essays on a variety of subjects. Right now I don't know what is the problem with me, I think I don't have time-management skills or something.

I've been quite cheerful lately, due to the fact that my lovelife has gotten so much better and sweeter. Of course you can't expect to obtain any leaked information here, but I still have to tell you that it's mostly what I give my thoughts to these days.

Anyway it's 1:32 in the morning, and I'm sounding like some creepy old dude so good night to those reading this.