Video of performance
_____________________________________________
Sometimes, I want people to miss me. That sucks. That’s like saying, “I want people to like me so much they will suffer in my absence.”
I can do better.
Let me be better than that.
Let me thrive in untamed wilderness.
Let me flourish far from charted waters, apart from eyes and ears and memories.
So what if no one remembers?
I don’t remember the warmth of my mother’s touch when I was in the cradle, but she was no less loving.
I don't remember all the jokes I’ve laughed at, the music I've listened to, the rainstorms I’ve cavorted in, the sunsets I’ve appreciated, yet they are no less part of me -- just as I am no less part of them.
Yes, I am the sum of countless precious things, precious because they are unremembered.
Why should we tremble when we find overgrown temples to long-dead gods?
I quake more at all the temples we will never find.
I’ve heard it said:
“Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. The silence is their answer.”
I will stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts why I should care about their opinion.
Their answer?
Is the same.
So --
So what if they forget?
I dance not to sycophantic drumbeats but to syncopated heartbeats.
I am not some ' stillborn witness to myself, so let them forget -- I will have still ‘ borne witness to myself, and I will prosecute and perpetrate.
I am a constellation peering through the telescope, the marble and the sculptor, carving out parts of me for my own sake, like -- this is not for you. Though I will give some to you now, I’m not asking you to treasure it.
Do with it as you will.
‘Cuz --
so what if I leave no legacy?
I still left tiny 8-year-old footprints in the snow as I rushed home to sip my mom’s hot chocolate, left breadcrumbs by the pond to feed the ducklings, left the ones I love to chase a future I only dreamt of, and if that is not enough for you --
That's fine.
I will not beg you to remember this.
Just -- breathe. <inhale, exhale>
And be here with me now, in this gift we call "the present".
Thursday, February 6, 2020
Thursday, January 2, 2020
A Love Letter to Boston
Performance
I moved to Boston 2 months ago, and there’s a lot I want to say -- but haven’t yet, because it sounds too saccharine, too naive, too sentimental.
I wanna talk about how I’ve dreamed of living in a big city since I was 8, young mind taken by the endless potential of human proximity, imagination running wild through seedy alleyways, bustling train stations, public libraries; standing triumphant upon gleaming skyscrapers, gabled rooftops, crumbling bridges; gorging itself on greasy cookies, greasy pizzas, greasy stir-fries; dancing with Dionysian abandon at rain-slicked crossroads, sold-out concert venues, dim-lit nightclubs.
Yes, it ran fast, that imagination, but I chased it for years and years -- and in the end? I caught it, caught it someplace between Chestnut Hill and North Station, sometime between seeing my first perfect sunrise from Boston harbor and rushing to catch the last train home, somewhere between the word choice at a late-night poetry slam and the glimmer of truth tucked away in the American dream, somehow hidden in the ecstatic soreness of my muscles after they moved all the furniture into my new apartment or the beads of sweat I shed to be able to afford it -- to be able to call this place “Home."
And sure, home is what it is, but home is not all it is, because home feels too banal for that, because home is not a place where you are compelled to rhapsodize about the feeling you get when you’re not sure how to get there but you get there, the feeling you get when you work hard to achieve something and achieve it, the feeling you get when every passing moment exceeds your expectations, the feeling you get when you lay your head down at night and are proud of what you’ve accomplished, and so you cling to that half-lucid state between waking and dreaming because you don’t want to fall asleep just yet, because your dreams got nothing on your reality.
Because who could’ve dreamed of the pleasure of bearing witness to the vastness of the great Atlantic, or doing card tricks outside a club until the bouncer gives you VIP status, or basking in the same lamplight that inspired the Declaration of Independence, or marvelling at the richness only time can bring from atop Prudential tower, or making funny faces at toddlers on the T? Cuz see, they don’t have trains where I’m from, so it took me until now to understand Petro when he said, “A developed country is not a place where the poor have cars. It’s where the rich use public transportation” --
-- and yes, my car’s been towed twice since I got here, and I’ve gotten triple as many parking tickets, but I would do it all again just to feel the elation I felt after I went to the RMV and got my vehicle registered properly, like “Yes, I live here -- and now I got the paperwork to prove it,” official government documentation attesting to the rhythm of my heartbeat, incontrovertible legislative evidence verifying the culmination of my efforts, formerly manifest as words and wishes, now wrought in ink and metal.
So just as I bear witness to this city, so I ask you to bear witness to me as I say all the things I’ve wanted to say, but haven’t yet, these things that beat against the riverbanks of my ribcage like so many insistent raindrops, each one rippling in my bloodstream until those riverbanks could no longer hold them, and so they burst forth at last, flooding my body from stubbed toes to split ends with glorious affirmation, because sure, wounds take time to heal, but aspirations take time to ripen, and the deeper they extend their roots, the longer they grow their branches, the sweeter their nectar tastes, and it is no accident that to “aspire" means both to hope and to breathe, because we need both for our survival.
Yes, I am surviving the way the Torah survived Abraham, they way the pyramids survived the pharaohs, the way Armstrong's footprint survived the lunar landing, surviving in Boston as Boston survives in me, in the form of countless quiet moments and countless loud ones, some gentle, some breathless, some splintering under the weight of centuries, some raw as an uncut umbilical cord, some begging to be said, others begging to remain unsaid, but I have said them nonetheless, and now that I have said them, perhaps you think I am looking at a broken world through rose-colored glasses with doe-eyed idealism, and perhaps I am, but at least I will have said them.
Cuz see, I’ve wanted to say these things for a while, but I restrained myself because I was afraid
words would diminish them, and so I kept them private, but now I realize: The flame of joy does not diminish when shared -- it only fans hotter, bigger, brighter, and so I stand before you to describe the way my breath caught in my throat like <gasp> when I first saw the moonlit horizon eclipsed by sparkling towers of terrestrial starlight, or the goosebumps that appeared on my arm when my car came ‘round Memorial Drive and the full splendor of the Boston skyline was suddenly captured within the confines of my windshield, or when I crossed the threshold at Chinatown’s gate and happily paid in cash to abet tax evasion, or when I was sitting above the Charles and my happiness bubbled up and spilled through my lips as laughter, because smiling was insufficient, because it had to make itself known to the world as something more than “something more”, because I felt so whole I wanted to break something -- and there was nothing to break but silence.
I moved to Boston 2 months ago, and there’s a lot I want to say -- but haven’t yet, because it sounds too saccharine, too naive, too sentimental.
I wanna talk about how I’ve dreamed of living in a big city since I was 8, young mind taken by the endless potential of human proximity, imagination running wild through seedy alleyways, bustling train stations, public libraries; standing triumphant upon gleaming skyscrapers, gabled rooftops, crumbling bridges; gorging itself on greasy cookies, greasy pizzas, greasy stir-fries; dancing with Dionysian abandon at rain-slicked crossroads, sold-out concert venues, dim-lit nightclubs.
Yes, it ran fast, that imagination, but I chased it for years and years -- and in the end? I caught it, caught it someplace between Chestnut Hill and North Station, sometime between seeing my first perfect sunrise from Boston harbor and rushing to catch the last train home, somewhere between the word choice at a late-night poetry slam and the glimmer of truth tucked away in the American dream, somehow hidden in the ecstatic soreness of my muscles after they moved all the furniture into my new apartment or the beads of sweat I shed to be able to afford it -- to be able to call this place “Home."
And sure, home is what it is, but home is not all it is, because home feels too banal for that, because home is not a place where you are compelled to rhapsodize about the feeling you get when you’re not sure how to get there but you get there, the feeling you get when you work hard to achieve something and achieve it, the feeling you get when every passing moment exceeds your expectations, the feeling you get when you lay your head down at night and are proud of what you’ve accomplished, and so you cling to that half-lucid state between waking and dreaming because you don’t want to fall asleep just yet, because your dreams got nothing on your reality.
Because who could’ve dreamed of the pleasure of bearing witness to the vastness of the great Atlantic, or doing card tricks outside a club until the bouncer gives you VIP status, or basking in the same lamplight that inspired the Declaration of Independence, or marvelling at the richness only time can bring from atop Prudential tower, or making funny faces at toddlers on the T? Cuz see, they don’t have trains where I’m from, so it took me until now to understand Petro when he said, “A developed country is not a place where the poor have cars. It’s where the rich use public transportation” --
-- and yes, my car’s been towed twice since I got here, and I’ve gotten triple as many parking tickets, but I would do it all again just to feel the elation I felt after I went to the RMV and got my vehicle registered properly, like “Yes, I live here -- and now I got the paperwork to prove it,” official government documentation attesting to the rhythm of my heartbeat, incontrovertible legislative evidence verifying the culmination of my efforts, formerly manifest as words and wishes, now wrought in ink and metal.
So just as I bear witness to this city, so I ask you to bear witness to me as I say all the things I’ve wanted to say, but haven’t yet, these things that beat against the riverbanks of my ribcage like so many insistent raindrops, each one rippling in my bloodstream until those riverbanks could no longer hold them, and so they burst forth at last, flooding my body from stubbed toes to split ends with glorious affirmation, because sure, wounds take time to heal, but aspirations take time to ripen, and the deeper they extend their roots, the longer they grow their branches, the sweeter their nectar tastes, and it is no accident that to “aspire" means both to hope and to breathe, because we need both for our survival.
Yes, I am surviving the way the Torah survived Abraham, they way the pyramids survived the pharaohs, the way Armstrong's footprint survived the lunar landing, surviving in Boston as Boston survives in me, in the form of countless quiet moments and countless loud ones, some gentle, some breathless, some splintering under the weight of centuries, some raw as an uncut umbilical cord, some begging to be said, others begging to remain unsaid, but I have said them nonetheless, and now that I have said them, perhaps you think I am looking at a broken world through rose-colored glasses with doe-eyed idealism, and perhaps I am, but at least I will have said them.
Cuz see, I’ve wanted to say these things for a while, but I restrained myself because I was afraid
words would diminish them, and so I kept them private, but now I realize: The flame of joy does not diminish when shared -- it only fans hotter, bigger, brighter, and so I stand before you to describe the way my breath caught in my throat like <gasp> when I first saw the moonlit horizon eclipsed by sparkling towers of terrestrial starlight, or the goosebumps that appeared on my arm when my car came ‘round Memorial Drive and the full splendor of the Boston skyline was suddenly captured within the confines of my windshield, or when I crossed the threshold at Chinatown’s gate and happily paid in cash to abet tax evasion, or when I was sitting above the Charles and my happiness bubbled up and spilled through my lips as laughter, because smiling was insufficient, because it had to make itself known to the world as something more than “something more”, because I felt so whole I wanted to break something -- and there was nothing to break but silence.
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
On Chapters
“Just think: if you’d been here when all of this first started – if you’d seen all the lava flowing and the mountains pushing up – you would have thought the end of the world had come. But really it was just the beginning.”
Right now, I’m sitting at my desk thinking about how much I dislike the phrase “new chapter of my life,” especially when it’s preceded by the clause “so excited to start this”. The cliché rings with all the hollow triteness of a million social media posts sent in unison, full of pomp and noise, possessing no real substance.
Lives are not novels. Novels are planned with a reader in mind; their chapters are substructures intended to facilitate comprehension. Chapters simplify things. They break the longer text into discrete, digestible fragments. Lives are not so. Lives are complicated and random. Beginnings and endings often bleed into one another, linger, fester, taper off. Consider a failing relationship neither person wants to end, so it slowly dwindles to nothingness. Though the finale of the relationship may be concrete, the start of its decline remains murky and mysterious. “Where did it all go wrong?” we wonder. The truth is, there was no starting point to this chapter. The decline was the result of a slow accumulation of many factors – less time, fragmented attention, loss of interest – and conceiving of it as a chapter only fuels our suffering.
Another reason chapters suck is because it sucks when you feel like you’re between them. It’s listless, disempowering, uncertain. But even these moments are chapters, and we think of them as such -- boring, skippable filler with no point or fruitfulness. This is a harmful mentality. The present moment is all there is. When we give ourselves the freedom to be at peace with it, when we relinquish the chapter-based model of thinking, we gain insight and contentment.
And yet, I can’t resist. Here I am at the end of the college chapter of my life, sitting at my keyboard, wishing I could stop thinking of my life as discrete fragments, getting nowhere. There’s a weirdness to being at the end. I’ve been in school for pretty much my entire life. I was good at it. I liked it. I liked it so much that after my first week of college, I wrote the most naive, doe-eyed, saccharine post about how deeply I loved it. (I still feel the same Wei.) But here I am at the end of all that, wondering if I’ll ever feel the same. Will my life slowly wither as I get up at 6 in the morning to beat traffic, put on a suit, work a corporate 9 to 5, get takeout on the drive home because I’m too exhausted to make dinner? Or will my life ignite as I work on meaningful projects, impact the things I care about, fuel my talents and ambitions? Has the end of something wonderful come? Or is it really just the beginning?
(January 2020 update: It was just the beginning.)
Right now, I’m sitting at my desk thinking about how much I dislike the phrase “new chapter of my life,” especially when it’s preceded by the clause “so excited to start this”. The cliché rings with all the hollow triteness of a million social media posts sent in unison, full of pomp and noise, possessing no real substance.
Lives are not novels. Novels are planned with a reader in mind; their chapters are substructures intended to facilitate comprehension. Chapters simplify things. They break the longer text into discrete, digestible fragments. Lives are not so. Lives are complicated and random. Beginnings and endings often bleed into one another, linger, fester, taper off. Consider a failing relationship neither person wants to end, so it slowly dwindles to nothingness. Though the finale of the relationship may be concrete, the start of its decline remains murky and mysterious. “Where did it all go wrong?” we wonder. The truth is, there was no starting point to this chapter. The decline was the result of a slow accumulation of many factors – less time, fragmented attention, loss of interest – and conceiving of it as a chapter only fuels our suffering.
Another reason chapters suck is because it sucks when you feel like you’re between them. It’s listless, disempowering, uncertain. But even these moments are chapters, and we think of them as such -- boring, skippable filler with no point or fruitfulness. This is a harmful mentality. The present moment is all there is. When we give ourselves the freedom to be at peace with it, when we relinquish the chapter-based model of thinking, we gain insight and contentment.
And yet, I can’t resist. Here I am at the end of the college chapter of my life, sitting at my keyboard, wishing I could stop thinking of my life as discrete fragments, getting nowhere. There’s a weirdness to being at the end. I’ve been in school for pretty much my entire life. I was good at it. I liked it. I liked it so much that after my first week of college, I wrote the most naive, doe-eyed, saccharine post about how deeply I loved it. (I still feel the same Wei.) But here I am at the end of all that, wondering if I’ll ever feel the same. Will my life slowly wither as I get up at 6 in the morning to beat traffic, put on a suit, work a corporate 9 to 5, get takeout on the drive home because I’m too exhausted to make dinner? Or will my life ignite as I work on meaningful projects, impact the things I care about, fuel my talents and ambitions? Has the end of something wonderful come? Or is it really just the beginning?
(January 2020 update: It was just the beginning.)
Thursday, July 18, 2019
Lyrics: Crowdsourced Words
I asked some friends to send me cool words so I could make a rap out of them. Here it is. ________________________________________________________________________
Quintessential juggernauts rife with debauchery, paucity o’ rutabagas, bedlam, and menagerie, faucets ossify crepuscular amphetamines, lugubrious zeitgeists undulate cacophonies, the susurrus elucidates perfidious schisms and i-dyllic Orpheus reifies atriums, hornswoggles opulence with bombastic hopes while the zoetropes embezzle ephemeral cloaks, and ethereal bivouacs nix obsolescence cuz hysteria’s nefarious and effervescent.
Bioluminescent gumption ad infinitum, delectable genesis of esoteric items, genuflect to hyper-squalid apparitions or the assonance’ll daunt you with its mass emissions, synesthesia obfuscates aberrant NASA missions when the parallax convalesces solipsistic visions, a banal chrysalis of platitudinous moss thickens ‘cross the tabernacle and its jubilant boss, ionizes midnight with alpine gravitas, a veracious moment, a honeyed interlude, precludes vermouth from verisimilitude.
Omnibus of confidants and oxytocin extracts kaleidoscopic cadence from bovine locomotion, a wonderland of ludicrous kamikaze feats yields a plethora of dusky catatonia beats, humanity fritters meridians away while secretarial sunshine will rue the day, polaroid sunflowers raze loquacious surfeits, duodenum expulsion, avocado circuits, infinitesimal so confidence’ll quell the circus, confidence evermore, arboreal surface, and the mollusk brings superfluous purpose but singularity comes with immersive permits.
Nebulous panjandrums and gnarly xenophobia, caustic athenaeums and a mordant cornucopia dredging up desideratums of recalcitrant hooves, zesty pedants’ curation of pejorative goods, and amicable conduits to quixotic grinds quickly ricochets off trenchant formaldehyde cuz I’m a vivacious zealot with some lamentations: octothorpe gas like I’m sublimation, and when oblivion hents me I’ma play the kazoo, onomatopoeia like pop-pop and choo-choo, cuz nothin’s stoppin’ this train, from subterfugin’, skullduggery’s just laconic cold fusion.
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Analysis
Below is one interpretation of the lyrics, written mostly for fun. If you have a different interpretation, send it to me.
Quintessential juggernauts rife with debauchery
This (juggernaut) is Hegel's "Other", further developed by Levinas as a "radical counterpart to the self". The Other is both archetypal (quintessential) and full of corruption.
paucity o’ rutabagas, bedlam, and menagerie
The Other causes all kinds of bad things: hunger (paucity of rutabagas), boredom (... bedlam), and loneliness (... menagerie).
faucets ossify crepuscular amphetamines
The Other, represented here as a (faucet), stagnates our excitement, especially that sense of stimulation that comes at twilight (crepuscular amphetamines), or other in-between places.
lugubrious zeitgeists undulate cacophonies
It brings us to sad moods and periods of our personal history (lugubrious zeitgeists) that are up and down and chaotic.
the susurrus elucidates perfidious schisms and i-dyllic Orpheus reifies atriums, hornswoggles opulence with bombastic hopes
But there's hope: though they are only soft whispers, the power of icons and myth (Orpheus) can shed light on these terrible times and make our places of communion concrete (reifies atriums) while getting the better of the ostentatious Other (opulence).
while the zoetropes embezzle ephemeral cloaks, and ethereal bivouacs nix obsolescence cuz hysteria’s nefarious and effervescent.
Another escape is through music (zoetropes): it can shed the illusion. We can take shelter (bivouacs) in music, no matter how (ethereal) it is; it will always be up-to-date and ready for us, because the Other (hysteria) is fundamentally frothing evil, and the communal feeling of music will always beat that.
The second verse swaps to more standard rap braggadocio, which will eventually tie in to this idea of transcending the Other in the finale.
Bioluminescent gumption ad infinitum, delectable genesis of esoteric items, genuflect to hyper-squalid apparitions or the assonance’ll daunt you with its mass emissions
I will shine bright and persevere forever. I'm also the delicious source of many rare things, whereas you, by contrast, have to bow down to your own low-quality demons (hyper-squalid apparitions) or my lyricism (assonance) will intimidate you.
synesthesia obfuscates aberrant NASA missions when the parallax convalesces solipsistic visions, a banal chrysalis of platitudinous moss thickens ‘cross the tabernacle and its jubilant boss
My dreams and sense perception are so vivid that I have prevented government agencies from disaster and stymied God herself by dismissing her in a trite fashion, God being a (jubilant boss) of the (tabernacle).
ionizes midnight with alpine gravitas, a veracious moment, a honeyed interlude, precludes vermouth from verisimilitude.
I infuse the nighttime with a sense of importance, add truth to life, sweeten pauses, and am way better than alcohol, because I am so real I don't need it to do what it normally does: inject the appearance of truth into life (verisimilitude).
Having take that lighthearted break, we now swap back to the theme that concluded the first verse:
Omnibus of confidants and oxytocin extracts kaleidoscopic cadence from bovine locomotion
In fact, the Other is easily transcended; anything from a collection of trustworthy people to simple brain chemistry can make even the walking of cows endlessly interesting. This is an instantiation of a radical challenge to the Other's deadness.
a wonderland of ludicrous kamikaze feats yields a plethora of dusky catatonia beats
However, one should take care not to try too hard; pushing oneself too far causes darkness and immobility (dusky catatonia beats). This line contrasts with the positive mention of music (zoetropes) earlier.
humanity fritters meridians away while secretarial sunshine will rue the day, polaroid sunflowers raze loquacious surfeits
One example of pushing too hard was the Industrial Era, which has led to irreversible damage wrought by climate change. One of the worst parts of climate change is how seemingly blasé (secretarial) it is, similar to how beautiful flowers can actually be a weed and destroy rarer plants, plants so beautiful they can only be described using excessively poetic words (loquacious surfeits).
duodenum expulsion, avocado circuits
So if pushing too hard is bad, what is the alternative? The lyrics present two options: we could either get rid of the excess in a visceral way, or think outside the box and try to blend organic "green living" (avocado) with technology's explosive growth (circuits). Moore's Law, anyone?
infinitesimal so confidence’ll quell the circus, confidence evermore
Whatever path we choose, we have to take it with (confidence) backed up with knowledge, here represented as the (infinitesimal), a cornerstone of calculus.
arboreal surface, and the mollusk brings superfluous purpose but singularity comes with immersive permits.
An extension of the climate change line: with the wrong type of confidence, we risk making our environmental goals (arboral surface, mollusk) unnecessary, but if we unify, we can do anything. "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together."
The final verse brings everything together.
Nebulous panjandrums and gnarly xenophobia, caustic athenaeums and a mordant cornucopia
This is everything nasty about the Other: untrustworthy authority figures, explicit manifestation of our fear of it (xenophobia), poisoning of our libraries, and a cavalcade of other caustic things (a mordant cornucopia).
dredging up desideratums of recalcitrant hooves
This potential for corruption and evil brings something out in us: though it may be hesitant, it is needed (desideratum). This is the greatness in myself and others referenced in the second verse, here taking the form of (hooves).
zesty pedants’ curation of pejorative goods, and amicable conduits to quixotic grinds quickly ricochets off trenchant formaldehyde
We will have many powerful (zesty) enemies concerned with unimportant things and who have whole collections of bad ideas (pejorative goods). We will also face seemingly friendly paths that ultimately lead to pointless, tedious endeavors. However, all of this will bounce off of our vigorous, aggressive, structured persistence, represented here as (formaldehyde), a chemical commonly present in building materials.
cuz I’m a vivacious zealot with some lamentations, octothorpe gas like I’m sublimation
Another callback to the second verse, but here, in the presence of the Other, I'm not so dogged about my greatness; I do have some regrets. But these regrets vanish quickly, as is evidenced when the lyrics immediately return to the same style of braggadocio of verse two: Here, (octothorpe) is used to replace "hashtag", implying a technology-savvy yet still casual demeanor; (gas) is used colloquially to refer to something really good.
and when oblivion hents me I’ma play the kazoo, onomatopoeia like pop-pop and choo-choo, cuz nothin’s stoppin’ this train
This is one of my favorite lines. Just imagine the spirit of death, or the physical incarnation of the Other, coming for you, and you just calmly reach over and start tearing it up on the (kazoo) while making (pop-pop) noises.
from subterfugin’, skullduggery’s just laconic cold fusion.
This final line agglomerates all the different themes of the song into a singular, holistic lyric. Transcendence of the Other through self-confidence, the critical importance of understanding limitations, and reference to contemporary social and environmental problems unify in a resonant, triumphant battle cry. Seriously, it's in all there. Pretty neat.
Quintessential juggernauts rife with debauchery, paucity o’ rutabagas, bedlam, and menagerie, faucets ossify crepuscular amphetamines, lugubrious zeitgeists undulate cacophonies, the susurrus elucidates perfidious schisms and i-dyllic Orpheus reifies atriums, hornswoggles opulence with bombastic hopes while the zoetropes embezzle ephemeral cloaks, and ethereal bivouacs nix obsolescence cuz hysteria’s nefarious and effervescent.
Bioluminescent gumption ad infinitum, delectable genesis of esoteric items, genuflect to hyper-squalid apparitions or the assonance’ll daunt you with its mass emissions, synesthesia obfuscates aberrant NASA missions when the parallax convalesces solipsistic visions, a banal chrysalis of platitudinous moss thickens ‘cross the tabernacle and its jubilant boss, ionizes midnight with alpine gravitas, a veracious moment, a honeyed interlude, precludes vermouth from verisimilitude.
Omnibus of confidants and oxytocin extracts kaleidoscopic cadence from bovine locomotion, a wonderland of ludicrous kamikaze feats yields a plethora of dusky catatonia beats, humanity fritters meridians away while secretarial sunshine will rue the day, polaroid sunflowers raze loquacious surfeits, duodenum expulsion, avocado circuits, infinitesimal so confidence’ll quell the circus, confidence evermore, arboreal surface, and the mollusk brings superfluous purpose but singularity comes with immersive permits.
Nebulous panjandrums and gnarly xenophobia, caustic athenaeums and a mordant cornucopia dredging up desideratums of recalcitrant hooves, zesty pedants’ curation of pejorative goods, and amicable conduits to quixotic grinds quickly ricochets off trenchant formaldehyde cuz I’m a vivacious zealot with some lamentations: octothorpe gas like I’m sublimation, and when oblivion hents me I’ma play the kazoo, onomatopoeia like pop-pop and choo-choo, cuz nothin’s stoppin’ this train, from subterfugin’, skullduggery’s just laconic cold fusion.
_______________________________________________________________________
Analysis
Below is one interpretation of the lyrics, written mostly for fun. If you have a different interpretation, send it to me.
Quintessential juggernauts rife with debauchery
This (juggernaut) is Hegel's "Other", further developed by Levinas as a "radical counterpart to the self". The Other is both archetypal (quintessential) and full of corruption.
paucity o’ rutabagas, bedlam, and menagerie
The Other causes all kinds of bad things: hunger (paucity of rutabagas), boredom (... bedlam), and loneliness (... menagerie).
faucets ossify crepuscular amphetamines
The Other, represented here as a (faucet), stagnates our excitement, especially that sense of stimulation that comes at twilight (crepuscular amphetamines), or other in-between places.
lugubrious zeitgeists undulate cacophonies
It brings us to sad moods and periods of our personal history (lugubrious zeitgeists) that are up and down and chaotic.
the susurrus elucidates perfidious schisms and i-dyllic Orpheus reifies atriums, hornswoggles opulence with bombastic hopes
But there's hope: though they are only soft whispers, the power of icons and myth (Orpheus) can shed light on these terrible times and make our places of communion concrete (reifies atriums) while getting the better of the ostentatious Other (opulence).
while the zoetropes embezzle ephemeral cloaks, and ethereal bivouacs nix obsolescence cuz hysteria’s nefarious and effervescent.
Another escape is through music (zoetropes): it can shed the illusion. We can take shelter (bivouacs) in music, no matter how (ethereal) it is; it will always be up-to-date and ready for us, because the Other (hysteria) is fundamentally frothing evil, and the communal feeling of music will always beat that.
The second verse swaps to more standard rap braggadocio, which will eventually tie in to this idea of transcending the Other in the finale.
Bioluminescent gumption ad infinitum, delectable genesis of esoteric items, genuflect to hyper-squalid apparitions or the assonance’ll daunt you with its mass emissions
I will shine bright and persevere forever. I'm also the delicious source of many rare things, whereas you, by contrast, have to bow down to your own low-quality demons (hyper-squalid apparitions) or my lyricism (assonance) will intimidate you.
synesthesia obfuscates aberrant NASA missions when the parallax convalesces solipsistic visions, a banal chrysalis of platitudinous moss thickens ‘cross the tabernacle and its jubilant boss
My dreams and sense perception are so vivid that I have prevented government agencies from disaster and stymied God herself by dismissing her in a trite fashion, God being a (jubilant boss) of the (tabernacle).
ionizes midnight with alpine gravitas, a veracious moment, a honeyed interlude, precludes vermouth from verisimilitude.
I infuse the nighttime with a sense of importance, add truth to life, sweeten pauses, and am way better than alcohol, because I am so real I don't need it to do what it normally does: inject the appearance of truth into life (verisimilitude).
Having take that lighthearted break, we now swap back to the theme that concluded the first verse:
Omnibus of confidants and oxytocin extracts kaleidoscopic cadence from bovine locomotion
In fact, the Other is easily transcended; anything from a collection of trustworthy people to simple brain chemistry can make even the walking of cows endlessly interesting. This is an instantiation of a radical challenge to the Other's deadness.
a wonderland of ludicrous kamikaze feats yields a plethora of dusky catatonia beats
However, one should take care not to try too hard; pushing oneself too far causes darkness and immobility (dusky catatonia beats). This line contrasts with the positive mention of music (zoetropes) earlier.
humanity fritters meridians away while secretarial sunshine will rue the day, polaroid sunflowers raze loquacious surfeits
One example of pushing too hard was the Industrial Era, which has led to irreversible damage wrought by climate change. One of the worst parts of climate change is how seemingly blasé (secretarial) it is, similar to how beautiful flowers can actually be a weed and destroy rarer plants, plants so beautiful they can only be described using excessively poetic words (loquacious surfeits).
duodenum expulsion, avocado circuits
So if pushing too hard is bad, what is the alternative? The lyrics present two options: we could either get rid of the excess in a visceral way, or think outside the box and try to blend organic "green living" (avocado) with technology's explosive growth (circuits). Moore's Law, anyone?
infinitesimal so confidence’ll quell the circus, confidence evermore
Whatever path we choose, we have to take it with (confidence) backed up with knowledge, here represented as the (infinitesimal), a cornerstone of calculus.
arboreal surface, and the mollusk brings superfluous purpose but singularity comes with immersive permits.
An extension of the climate change line: with the wrong type of confidence, we risk making our environmental goals (arboral surface, mollusk) unnecessary, but if we unify, we can do anything. "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together."
The final verse brings everything together.
Nebulous panjandrums and gnarly xenophobia, caustic athenaeums and a mordant cornucopia
This is everything nasty about the Other: untrustworthy authority figures, explicit manifestation of our fear of it (xenophobia), poisoning of our libraries, and a cavalcade of other caustic things (a mordant cornucopia).
dredging up desideratums of recalcitrant hooves
This potential for corruption and evil brings something out in us: though it may be hesitant, it is needed (desideratum). This is the greatness in myself and others referenced in the second verse, here taking the form of (hooves).
zesty pedants’ curation of pejorative goods, and amicable conduits to quixotic grinds quickly ricochets off trenchant formaldehyde
We will have many powerful (zesty) enemies concerned with unimportant things and who have whole collections of bad ideas (pejorative goods). We will also face seemingly friendly paths that ultimately lead to pointless, tedious endeavors. However, all of this will bounce off of our vigorous, aggressive, structured persistence, represented here as (formaldehyde), a chemical commonly present in building materials.
cuz I’m a vivacious zealot with some lamentations, octothorpe gas like I’m sublimation
Another callback to the second verse, but here, in the presence of the Other, I'm not so dogged about my greatness; I do have some regrets. But these regrets vanish quickly, as is evidenced when the lyrics immediately return to the same style of braggadocio of verse two: Here, (octothorpe) is used to replace "hashtag", implying a technology-savvy yet still casual demeanor; (gas) is used colloquially to refer to something really good.
and when oblivion hents me I’ma play the kazoo, onomatopoeia like pop-pop and choo-choo, cuz nothin’s stoppin’ this train
This is one of my favorite lines. Just imagine the spirit of death, or the physical incarnation of the Other, coming for you, and you just calmly reach over and start tearing it up on the (kazoo) while making (pop-pop) noises.
from subterfugin’, skullduggery’s just laconic cold fusion.
This final line agglomerates all the different themes of the song into a singular, holistic lyric. Transcendence of the Other through self-confidence, the critical importance of understanding limitations, and reference to contemporary social and environmental problems unify in a resonant, triumphant battle cry. Seriously, it's in all there. Pretty neat.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
The Mind: A Love Letter
We are many, but one.
Our hands clutch tender journey-fragments, temporal puzzle pieces. Together, they are shards of a fragile destiny. When we are one -- when our rhythm rings out in single melody, hearts beating as clockwork, souls aligned -- we assemble the shards with ease, each one flowing into the next with casual effortlessness, bringing us ever-greater glories. We are glowing, gazing, dancing, cutting, splitting away from corporeal form, spirit unified, ascended.
We have exceptional triumphs. We bridge vast gulfs of understanding, unleash rapid-fire barrages of pure insight, resolve tumult and chaos with sublime clarity. These moments are nigh ubiquitous, yet each one steals our voices and molds them into more, shapes our breath into conjoined revelry, shrill exultation. Victory is anything but quiet.
Not so when we are many. When we are many -- when our tempos collapse in cacophonous dissonance, eyes flickering under the shadow of doubt, spirits disjoint -- the pieces in our hands contort into hieroglyphs beyond human understanding, glowing fragments writhing under the weight of their own incomprehensibility, amphigory defined. We are fading, failing, stumbling, tearing, relapsing into a more primitive existence, our spirits broken, denied.
Do we turn to the Stars for salvation? Do we call upon those capricious flecks of light -- so precious, so fleeting -- to save us from ourselves? Or do we press on in darkness, fueled by bated impulse, and risk damnation at hubris' hands? Whichever we choose, we press on, for the promise of grandeur itches in our minds, gnawing at us, corroding our sensibilities, driving us to madness. Perhaps now, we think again. Perhaps this time.
Our hands clutch tender journey-fragments, temporal puzzle pieces. Together, they are shards of a fragile destiny. When we are one -- when our rhythm rings out in single melody, hearts beating as clockwork, souls aligned -- we assemble the shards with ease, each one flowing into the next with casual effortlessness, bringing us ever-greater glories. We are glowing, gazing, dancing, cutting, splitting away from corporeal form, spirit unified, ascended.
We have exceptional triumphs. We bridge vast gulfs of understanding, unleash rapid-fire barrages of pure insight, resolve tumult and chaos with sublime clarity. These moments are nigh ubiquitous, yet each one steals our voices and molds them into more, shapes our breath into conjoined revelry, shrill exultation. Victory is anything but quiet.
Not so when we are many. When we are many -- when our tempos collapse in cacophonous dissonance, eyes flickering under the shadow of doubt, spirits disjoint -- the pieces in our hands contort into hieroglyphs beyond human understanding, glowing fragments writhing under the weight of their own incomprehensibility, amphigory defined. We are fading, failing, stumbling, tearing, relapsing into a more primitive existence, our spirits broken, denied.
Do we turn to the Stars for salvation? Do we call upon those capricious flecks of light -- so precious, so fleeting -- to save us from ourselves? Or do we press on in darkness, fueled by bated impulse, and risk damnation at hubris' hands? Whichever we choose, we press on, for the promise of grandeur itches in our minds, gnawing at us, corroding our sensibilities, driving us to madness. Perhaps now, we think again. Perhaps this time.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Boston Trip: Part Three
Day 4
This was my last day in Boston, so I decided I wanted the food of my people. |
| Dragon-kin, of course. |
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| Early-morning view of the park near the place I stayed. |
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| This train screeched like a tortured banshee. Still brought us exactly where we needed to go, though. |
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| The Massachusetts College of Art and Design had some cool art and design elements to it. |
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| Inside the museum, we found one of the funniest old-timey quotes I've ever seen: "My dear Mrs. Gardner, If I may without indecency(?) be permitted to employ a strictly colloquial expression, -- 'Hooray!'". I haven't had to ask for permission like that since prison. |
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| Another great quote: "When the haughty New Yorkers come here and ask with an aristocratical sneer whether we have any pictures in our Museum as good as the Marquand Collection, we shall say -- casually -- 'oh yes -- we have the best Botticelli in America -- would you like to look at it?' And we shall watch them wilt and slink away." |
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| Here's some actual art. |
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| I found these derpy horse faces mildly amusing. |
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| This analysis of the Botticelli pictured above was especially thought-provoking with its questions about the role of violence and women in art, especially when considered in the historical context of the time. It reminded me of all the reasons why art is so important. We make art because it changes us. It moves and inspires us. It allows us to share our most intense and significant emotions with the people around us. It is a conduit to our souls. |
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| This garden was phenomenal. It was designed to be four-seasonal, meaning its flora changes as the seasons change. |
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| Sadly, most items in the Chinese Room had been auctioned off, but there was still this interesting piece. |
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| Nearby was this piece. Note the shift to a more distinctive, modern style. This one was done by American artist Joan Jonas. One of my favorite pieces at the museum. It speaks for itself. |
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| It was part of this whole collection of pieces. The museum had a fellowship program where an up-and-coming artist would live there for a few months and make art, which was very cool. We were lucky we got to see this specific collection. |
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| Another example of the sharp contrast between two styles. |
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| Another of my favorite pieces. This picture does a bad job of capturing it, but the boy's face is rendered near-photorealistically, while the rest of the painting is more blurred, making his expression pop out of the canvas. The light in his eyes makes him look alive. |
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| A profile view of the garden better shows its grandiosity. Imagine just casually having one of these in your house. |
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| 13 works of art were stolen from this place in 1990. They are still missing. |
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| This is a weird face. I wonder if the guy whose face this face is based on had a weird face. Or maybe he had a normal face, and the artist -- maybe intentionally, maybe unintentionally -- represented his normal face as a weird face. Or maybe there wasn't a guy at all, and the artist just made a weird face. Whatever the case may be, it's still a weird face. Well, fine, it's not that weird of a face. But it's still kind of a weird face. |
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| We were lucky enough to be in this room at the same time a very knowledgeable woman was telling the story behind all the tapestries, so I had her explain them to me. This is part of a collection telling the legend of Cyrus the Great, King of Persia. In this first one, Cyrus' father hears a prophecy that Cyrus will overthrow the kingdom, so the father tells one of his generals to execute Cyrus (foreground). The general doesn't listen and lets Cyrus run free (background). All of the tapestries had this temporal evolution from foreground to background. It was an fascinating storytelling technique. Also, it really looks like that guy on the right is holding a frisbee in his left hand. |
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| When I first saw this painting, I said to my friend, "Imagine being this random guy and sitting still for several hours so the artist could do a portrait of you. Must've taken forever. Joke's on him though, because I could do the same thing right now in about two seconds with my phone." He looked at the room guide and told me it was actually a self-portrait, so I was like, "Oh, so he was actually painting this at the same time he was looking at himself, that's pretty cool." Later, we found out it was a Rembrandt, to which I responded, "Holy shit, this is one of the most impressive works of art I've ever seen. Look at the incredible shading work done on the left shoulder..." |
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| These swing-out panels create an intimate fireplace face-to-face in an otherwise massive room. When your house is massive and also an art museum, you need to find ways of making it a 'lil more cozy. |
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| This dude looks familiar. Where have I seen them before...? |
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| Oh, right. |
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| We exit through the gift shop, because art is fundamentally subjective. There were like 15 different journals with different covers. I took a picture of this one, then asked my friend to guess which one I took a picture of. He got it right on the first try. (We also got each other the same Christmas present one year, so we're pretty in sync.) |
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| More graffiti art. This one was just outside of a Thai place where we had dinner. |
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| There are some pretty lights hung up on the trees I failed to get a good picture of, so you get a blazing red stoplight instead. |
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| This is an ice cream shop we went to after dinner. The bathroom lighting looked extremely green for some reason. |
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| My friends and I parted Weis around here. An overhead view of the city at night was still on my checklist, so I finally made it to the Prudential building pictured above. |
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| I liked the building's logo. Sleek, elegant, cyberpunk-dystopian. |
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| Nighttime Boston in all its splendor, from 50 stories above the ground. Mmm. |
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| Neighborhoods |
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| Streets like veins and arteries |
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| Water |
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| At the skyview area, they had this section called "Dreams of Freedom: Boston's Immigrant Experience." As an immigrant myself, it got me pretty emotional. |
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| They had this faux game show where you answer questions on the citizenship test to see if you could become an American. As someone who took the actual test last summer, I thought it'd be pretty easy. My podium malfunctioned, causing me to finish last (by somehow voting for "Christmas" as the only holiday that was NOT a national US holiday.) |
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| This simple sign got me a little choked up. It triggered all sorts of wonderful memories: My immigrant friend telling me how much she loved this country; the guy who officially administered my citizenship test looking me in the eye and saying, "this country needs more people like you"; my parents' dream of a better life fully realized. Our family still celebrates the anniversary of our arrival to the US each year. |
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| The US is a nation of immigrants, and we are stronger for it. I hold to that with all of my conviction. |
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| Imagine taking the massive gamble of putting your whole life in a wooden crate and sailing across a vast ocean, having that gamble pay off, and dying knowing that your decision to emigrate was directly responsible for the future security and well-being of your children. |
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| One last pic of the library after I left. |
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| Oh, almost forgot: MIT was my dream school when I was young, so I bought this shirt at the Prudential mall. Which was incredibly fake, because not only do I not go to MIT, but I also didn't even buy the shirt at the university; I bought it at some random stall in the middle of a heavily commercialized mall. Still looks great, though. |
And there you have it! The full chronicles of my journey through Boston. Overall, I would rate this trip a 5-star, 10/10, A+ experience. Probably the best vacation I've ever been on. Subscribe to my YouTube channel.
Sunday, March 31, 2019
Boston Trip: Part Two
Part One
I only had a few things on my checklist for this vacation: MIT, history whatevers, and clam chowda. I'd checked a lot of those things off the day before with my friend (forgot to take a picture of the chowda), but there were still some things I wanted to do. One of the big things was to chase a sunrise. I was not disappointed:
One of the reasons I chose Boston for this solo adventure is because there was a big gaming convention taking place called PAX East, and I wanted to sit down and play board games for 14 hours. (I really like board games.) The doors to the convention opened at 10am, but after getting up at 4:50am to chase a sunrise, I collapsed back into bed and missed my alarm. I ended up getting there around 10:45, but it was still a solid 12 hours of board gaming, which was close enough to what I wanted.
There's this common trope in storytelling where someone gets everything they ever dreamed of, but then they realize it wasn't worth it, either because they sacrificed too much to get it, or because it wasn't as good as they thought it was going to be. It's pretty much a cliche at this point. "Nothing worth having comes easy," they say, the glint of wisdom flashing in their eyes. "Careful what you wish for." Well, I'm here to tell you that's a load of garbage. Sometimes, you get exactly what you wished for, and it's great, and it doesn't have any downsides whatsoever. I went to PAX for the single purpose of playing as many board games as possible. I met that goal perfectly and sacrificed nothing for it. When I wasn't playing a game, I was either finding people to play a game (which didn't take long) or eating (which took kinda long, but whatevs). It was precisely what I was looking for, and I loved it.
I was nervous about attending PAX. See, it's marketed for the "gamer" audience, and I often find the whole "gamer" identity to be super cringe-worthy, what with its implicit social awkwardness, gender exclusion, and association with being a "nerd". Fan culture in general is emblematic of some of the worst features of tribalism and consumerism, where people feel the need to prove they like something more than you do, and are constantly compelled to buy the next new thing to stay relevant. It can get gross at times. But here's an epiphany I came to during my time at PAX: At their core, fandoms are just a bunch of people getting together to celebrate something they love. And while all of that consumerist bullshit may be true, there's nothing quite so pure as that essential fact. So I realized -- maybe for the first time -- I'm proud to be a fan. A fan is just someone who loves things. Who gets inspired and excited by things. Who, in a very real sense, gets to experience some of the best parts of the human condition. What could be better than that?
PAX was a great event. I'm happy I managed to get over all those initial reservations, because I met a ton of funny, friendly people who were into the same thing I was into. As soon as we entered that giant exhibition hall, we shared an instant, visceral connection. We bonded through an art form that had brought all of us great joy. We spoke the same language. That was its own kind of magic.
I played games until the expo closed. As soon as I stepped outside, I gasped.
I was still jittery and excited and not at all tired, so I decided to explore nighttime Boston for a little bit.
Sometimes I feel like I over-romanticize public transit. Those times always conclude with me realizing I don't care if I do, because public transit is one of the greatest things ever.
I got home around 2:30am and slept until noon the next (same?) morning.
Part 3
Day 3
I only had a few things on my checklist for this vacation: MIT, history whatevers, and clam chowda. I'd checked a lot of those things off the day before with my friend (forgot to take a picture of the chowda), but there were still some things I wanted to do. One of the big things was to chase a sunrise. I was not disappointed:
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| Again, I really don't know what to say about this. Sat here for at least 20 minutes. |
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| There's something cool about being alone on an early morning train. I'm not sure what it is. |
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| Train stations are great examples of achievements in engineering and design. A lot of thought went into these tracks and buildings. |
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| Some more classic New England architecture. |
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| I do love that soft color gradient on the skyline. Mmm. |
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| There's also something cool about being surrounded by strangers on a crowded train. Like a more modest version of the magic of the airport. |
There's this common trope in storytelling where someone gets everything they ever dreamed of, but then they realize it wasn't worth it, either because they sacrificed too much to get it, or because it wasn't as good as they thought it was going to be. It's pretty much a cliche at this point. "Nothing worth having comes easy," they say, the glint of wisdom flashing in their eyes. "Careful what you wish for." Well, I'm here to tell you that's a load of garbage. Sometimes, you get exactly what you wished for, and it's great, and it doesn't have any downsides whatsoever. I went to PAX for the single purpose of playing as many board games as possible. I met that goal perfectly and sacrificed nothing for it. When I wasn't playing a game, I was either finding people to play a game (which didn't take long) or eating (which took kinda long, but whatevs). It was precisely what I was looking for, and I loved it.
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| The convention center was huge. The board games were at the very back. The food was pretty close to the front. I timed the journey from the board games to the food, walking at a brisk pace: 5 minutes. |
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| This game is called Root, and it was probably the best board game of 2018. I got a cute shirt for it. Didn't play it though. |
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| The gimmick of this game was a magnetic regular dodecahedron you stick tiles to. You end up with a planet that attracts various animals. My secret objective was to make a big Ice Planet, so I attracted arctic foxes, polar bears, and walruses (pictured). Also an owl for some reason. |
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| This game was about a blimp everyone uses to harvest resources and make deliveries. As the ship flies, night turns to day and day turns to night. Sometimes, those transitions happen gradually; sometimes, they happen in the blink of an eye. |
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| I played a bunch of games with this guy. He was one of the staff who knew like 30 games and wandered around teaching people rules by playing with them. Job came with full event access and pay. Seemed like a sweet gig. |
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| This picture is incontrovertible proof that I was having a massive amount of fun and was not feeling lonely, intimidated, awkward, or unsure in any Wei. |
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| This game was about various smartphone companies trying to outcompete each other. The indefatigable specter of capitalism was pretty cool. So was the art of the various company offices. Shooting Star is pictured above. |
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| I promised these people I'd remember all of their names. So, from left: Kimberly, Dave, Jonathan, me. Still haven't forgotten, and now have an electronic reference in case I meet them again. |
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| The board game section filled up over the course of the day. This was near-empty when I arrived. |
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| Root has some special art that makes it look great on the table. Here's some. |
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| Here's the artist. |
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| Taking a picture of people in cool costumes is compulsory for bloggers. Which I hate that I am now. But now you get to see some cool costumes, so maybe it's worth it? |
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| This game was absolutely ridiculous. I made one of the designers put his hand in the picture for a sense of scale. |
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| This game was also ridiculous, though not absolutely so. My hand for scale this time. |
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| This game was called Underwater Cities. One of its gimmicks were these little plastic domes (you can see some on the board on the right side). I assumed those domes represented Aboveground Towns, but in retrospect I may've been wrong about that. Also, the chart (pictured mid-bottom) looked intimidating. |
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| Futuropia was made by a designer named Friedemann Friese, famed for his design of Power Grid. It wasn't that good. Played like a less inspired, worse version of Uwe Rosenburg's earlier work, which is itself already kind of outdated. |
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| The main expo hall closed at 6pm, so the board game area really started filling up around then. |
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| More cool costumes |
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| Imagine going to a gaming convention and then doing something you could've easily done at home: play video games. Oh wait, that's exactly what I did, except with board games. Maybe it's somehow different? |
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| This was the coolest costume I saw at the event, so it's all downhill from here. Though the next one is a close second. And also the only other one. |
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| "This weird kid in a purple headband asked to take a pic with me, so I'm like, whatever, fine, just make it quick" |
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| Wingspan is one of the hottest new releases of the year. Over 200 different bird cards done in vivid watercolor, none of which managed to make it into this picture. |
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| The lady I'm sitting next to has met at least 3 of my favorite board game designers, one of whom made the game in the picture. She taught us how to play. She also got excited when I asked to take a picture with her. |
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| Blood on the Clocktower is a social deduction game, a lot like a souped-up version of Mafia or Werewolf. It was probably my favorite game at PAX. |
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| This game looked really cool! Didn't play it. |
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| These people have some cool shirts. They also got excited when I asked for a picture with them. |
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| Clank is a risk-taking game where you see how deep into the dungeon you're willing to go to bring back treasure. I played ultra-greedy and died. I was the only one to die, resulting in a rock-solid last-place finish. |
PAX was a great event. I'm happy I managed to get over all those initial reservations, because I met a ton of funny, friendly people who were into the same thing I was into. As soon as we entered that giant exhibition hall, we shared an instant, visceral connection. We bonded through an art form that had brought all of us great joy. We spoke the same language. That was its own kind of magic.
I played games until the expo closed. As soon as I stepped outside, I gasped.
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| Literally breathtaking. |
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| See, I told you he'd be back. |
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| This was the bar/theater/mall I explored. Bright neon signs are basically a shortcut to cool. |
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| The pool/disco area was next to a sexy bowling alley. |
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| No matter how hard I try, I just can't get that interested in bowling. |
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| It was lightly raining when I got back outside. |
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| There but for the grace of God go I. |
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| I crossed this twice: first to check which side I needed to be on, then again when I was told I was on the wrong side. Unrelatedly, my hand got dirty from the underside of a railing. |
I got home around 2:30am and slept until noon the next (same?) morning.
Part 3
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