Chemicals

What are emotions? Just chemicals in our brain? Something as a result of a chemical reaction in our brain? If so, then what is that 'something?' What are the triggers that cause those chemical reactions?

Are emotions energy then? Pulses of electricity that travel along our nervous system? Energy transmitted from cell to cell, across nerve ending to nerve ending?

These days, research and modern science tells us stress physically destroys our body. Not only is there a mental toll on our brain, but a physical one as well. Chemicals released as a result of distress or anger or extreme sadness actually eats away at our cells the same way that toxins or poisons or drugs do.

Do children heal faster and better from this same kind of deterioration? We know they are more resilient to bumps and bruises, cuts and scratches. But how about the kind of damage that comes as a result of negative emotions?

What does it do to a child when he feels such burning anger, or such deathly sorrow at such a young age, without experience or wisdom to keep his head above water, without rationalism to help fool him into thinking the world isn't so cruel?

It's been over 20 years since I buried my first pet, and at least a decade since I last thought of him and those horrible moments I described in my earlier post. But to this day, the anger I felt then wells up in me again, so easily and as quickly as if it all happened hours ago.

One dead pet doesn't need to mean shit to anyone else in the world. It doesn't need to mean anything to anyone in the grand scheme of things, especially when compared to starvation in impoverished countries, and soldiers dying in wars being fought for worthy principles. But it did mean something to one boy. It was, for one moment, a pain in his heart the depth of which no one could fathom. And, as if fate had to select the perfect moment for wickedness, just at the moment that the very small world of one boy came crashing in on itself, some other kids decided that it would be fun to watch, in mockery, a boy mourn for his pet.

I have the will, the power, the cunning now... to destroy the adults that those neighborhood kids have grown into, should fate or luck lend me a hand and let me cross paths with them again.

What becomes of a heart that has carried around so much hated? What joys, or possibilities of joy, atrophy beyond all hope or recognition?

Strangers again

Before I left Hong Kong, my former colleagues from the university threw me a going away dinner. We went to a place near Tsuen Wan in the New Territories called Sham Tseng, or Deep Well, in English. We dined on roast goose, and later, ate dessert by the seaside.

To protect the innocent, all names and identities in this post have been fictionalized. To a point. Sort of.

Out of the five people in this picture, only one of them is still at the university, where we all had met each other for the first time. The froggy looking guy on the far left was an intern from France, who became of one my closest friends in Hong Kong. Kombo (a.ka. His Kombo-ness a.k.a. Komber-ino) is now back in France, finishing up university studies and looking for opportunities to see the world again. The grinning idiot next to him managed to find his way to Japan, where he currently serves as a slave to his company and the tag-teaming Odakyu and JR train systems. Continuing to the right is another one of my very best friends. Despite being a few years my junior, Batz was (is) decades wiser. We started working at the university on the same day, and indeed, he was the first friend that I made on this trip to Hong Kong. What I will never forget is his maturity and support during one of the toughest times of my life, when I was made single again by my girlfriend at the time. If it hadn't been for him, I would have never chose the path that I did, and would have missed out on one of those rare opportunities to feel alive. He is still in Hong Kong now, making eyeglasses all Frenchmen would be proud of.

To Batz's right is Michigan, another guy I will never forget. Although we never spent quite as much time together as the other guys, he and I became fast friends, and met often for dinner. In fact, I can say without a doubt that Michigan was the first Hong Konger I met that spoke excellent English. It shocked me the day I first met him in his office at the university; it was good enough that I had wondered if he was an overseas born Chinese.

I remember the moment that Michigan and I met; my boss took me and Batz into an office to meet him and some other colleagues. Him, Batz, and I were the only ones among the few guys in the office that spoke decent English. After the obligatory greetings and small talk, we all just kind of looked at each other and stood around with our hands in our pockets. It must have been after a lengthy moment of silence that we all grinned and said our "Nice meeting you, see ya later"s.

Obviously, Michigan didn't study abroad long enough, because he didn't even know what the hell 'pasta' was. He's still in Hong Kong too, enjoying (or trying to) his current job designing stuff that he doesn't really know how to design. Well, there is always Karate.

Last, but not least, we come to the lone survivor of the university gang. Although he and his wife joined our group gatherings every once in a while, he and I never really spent much time hanging out. Mostly, I think, because we were both shy about our respective second languages. But I can't think of a friendlier or humbler person than Sam. I hope, with all of us gone, that he is still enjoying that corner desk with that amazing view from the 11th floor.

I remember... when Batz and I first got to the university, we initially worked in a basement lab that was empty save for a few old filing cabinets, a couple desks, and a fast prototyping 3D "printer". A PC was brought down for me to use while Batz lived off his trusty laptop. It was only the two of us down there, and no one ever came down to visit us. In fact, I doubt anyone even knew that we were there. Most likely, even our boss forgot that he had hired us and stuck us down there. Our daily routine was to spend the morning hours "doing research" on the internet, then go to lunch, then spend the next couple of hours trying to keep our eyes open, and finally, till 5pm came around, refining our email and net surfing skills..., uh, I mean, doing more research. At 5pm sharp (not always, as there were occasions that we had longer than usual emails to draft), we would pack up and walk down to the train station together. I'd ask him if he'd gotten any work done that day, and he'd reply "No." My answer was, strangely enough, similar, whenever he asked the same question.

I miss my friends. They are, and always will be my friends, but as the days, hours, minutes, and seconds pass... we become strangers again. Living our own lives, in our own countries. Getting married, finding girlfriends, changing careers. Despite convenience of technology, emails and online greetings get fewer and farther between. Eventually, you find that you easily forget about those that came into your life at some point or points in the past. Time has a way of dulling the most piquant memories involving the best of friends.

Forgetfulness is supposed to be a natural defense mechanism, I suppose. If we lost the ability to forget, to let go, we'd go mad from wanting. No where to go but forward; nothing to do but move on. Memories and old friends touch us so deeply only because we had to say goodbye. As is our nature, we inevitably take people and places, moments and events, for granted until we realize later that these things don't repeat themselves in exactly the same way as the first time.

Philosophy and other shenanigans

"This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You wash your hands using the blue soap - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You wash with the red soap - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

-- Morpheus, from The Matrix, unreleased Editor's Cut

While visiting Bangkok last month, I managed to find my way to some sort of zoo/tourist trap where I saw tigers, alligators, and elephants playing soccer. As pleasing as all that was, the most interesting bit came from the men's washroom, where I found this dual soap dispenser. It seems the Wachowski brothers became theatrically inspired while on vacation in Bangkok, soaking up all the fun that elephants and soccer balls and little brown people prodding the poor things with sharp metal hooks have to offer.

It also seems that there are quite a few Thais in Wonderland. And who says you need recreational drugs and prostitutes to have a good time in the Place of Olives?

On the subject of matrices...

The common mortal... is not capable, at least not continuously so, of observation that in every sense is wholly disinterested.... He can turn his attention to things only so far as they have some relation to his will, however indirect it may be. [The] ordinary man does not linger long over perception, does not fix his attention long on one object, but in all that is presented to him hastily seeks merely the concept under which it is to be brought, as the lazy man seeks a chair, and then it interests him no further. That is why he is so soon done, with works of art, objects of natural beauty, and indeed everywhere with the truly significant contemplation of all the scenes of life.

--Schopenhauer

Why are we satisfied with rules, formulas, concepts? Why don't we... why don't I!... wonder about what is beyond our senses, our perception, our logic? For some, there is enough safety in knowing that there is a Creator. He is the rule and the exception, and the origin. For others, a big bang. Okay, so we don't know exactly where we come from. But how about where we are? What is our reality? Are we in it? Is my reality someone else's reality? Can two beings share the same reality? What is sleep vs. awake? What is a dream? Where is a dream?

What if reality is the following: a dream, dreamt by one person. We are all in that person's dream, but we also are dreaming. In our dream, we fall asleep, wake up, and have dreams.
Is The Matrix just a movie? It's an idea, which is all we can grasp of it. The idea of a reality outside of the one we know. More than just chop-socky satire, anyway.

Reflections...

In my seventh-grade science class, one of our projects was to design an ingenious container to hold an egg and prevent it from breaking after being dropped from a height of about 15 feet. The most creative kids encased their eggs in containers of Jello or peanut butter. Me? I wrapped my egg in so many layers of cardboard, foam peanuts, foam padding, and tape that it could have survived a trip around the world, including a stopover in Iraq, and a plane crash. But it wasn't creative. I saw the look on my teacher's face as she watched me spend at least 5 minutes cutting open my monstrosity with dull scissors, and producing my egg, still in tact and without a scratch. Her look made me feel like I would have been better off if it had broken. Some feelings of rejection and failure, no matter how insignificant at the time, stick with you for life.

I had a green parakeet named Ernie. I loved him more than I could remember. What I do remember is how I tried to spoil him. With watered down apple juice as a treat instead of plain water (not sure if he ever went for that). Fresh lettuce leaves and apple slices for snacking. New newspaper lining his cage, at least a few times a week. And I remember one day, he couldn't sit on his perch anymore, but instead hobbled about on the floor of his cage. Each time he tried to fly or climb up to his perch, he would fall off. That evening, my mom put Ernie and his cage in the garage. I remember it was a cold night, too cold for a sick bird at least. The next day, I buried him in our front garden. I had made an "awning" out of a shoe box lid and some straws to cover him when it rained. The neighborhood kids, who never liked me but liked to make fun of me, came over to our yard and stood over me, laughing, as I tried to make my awning stay upright over his grave.

My brother and I were latch-key kids. We had keys to the front door of our house, and almost always came home from school before our parents. I remember, on one occasion, he and I got home at the same time but he had forgotten his key. I had mine, but wouldn't open the door until I had made him get down on his hands and knees and lick the dirt. Sorry, bro.

Children know not their cruelty.

In movies, we see ill-fated lovers parting ways at the train station. Each gazing upon the other's face; within a matter of seconds the distance between them turns infinite. They continue looking, well past the range of sight, as if to imagine they could still see each other, like specks on the horizon. One on the train. The other, standing alone on the station platform. I consider myself lucky to have experienced this once, as the one staring out the window as the train pulled away. Like in the movies, you really do put the palm of your hand on the window, as if to reach out to her, that feeble, impossible gesture... just one last touch of her hand. How many times in life can you say you've been there, done that? Humphrey and Ingrid managed it much more gracefully than I did; my tears came from an endless reservoir. First on the train. Then the plane. The bus home. The next day. And the days that followed. How lucky I am to be haunted by the memory of a broken heart.

Here's looking at you, kid.

From a university philosophy class, two things I might someday forget:
1. Descarte's Meditations
2. Plato's Allegory of the Cave

From the same class, something my professor said that I will never forget:
"I have spent the majority of my life misjudging people."

Parting shot:

On the way from the airport to the hotel, my first glimpse of Thai culture, from the inside of the tour guide's van.

Tales from the Frontal Lobe, Part 4

Bangkok

Bangkok is NOT cheap. It's a wonder why tourists who shop in Bangkok think it is so cheap when countries like India and China have so much (for so much less) to offer. At least, this was what some Indian woman was jabbering on the phone to someone else while sitting next to me in a bus.

Next time I go back, I am going to eat more local food. To hell with being a tourist.

The Floating Market has lost its appeal. Probably lost it a good 20 or 30 years ago. Gone are the brilliant colors. Sitting in a boat in the narrow canals these days feels more like sitting in Los Angeles traffic at 6pm on a Friday evening. Forward progressing movement occurring in such minute increments that you might as well be going backwards (which actually happened quite often in those stupid boats with our stupid boat driver who never could put us in the right direction).

Running

Newport News Park. 5 miles a day. Deer. Birds. Water. Sunsets. The unwinding at the start, limbs and joints figuring out how to coordinate with each other, lungs fighting to expand, mind struggling to escape from a day's worth of thoughts. Soon after, things start loosening up. The breath comes easy, eventually unnoticed. The beating of your blood pump fades into the gentle and satisfying thump of feet on trails padded with leaves and pine needles. In motion there is freedom. How I long for it now....