Let's continue this shall we?

I've been on a roll with these lessons, realizations, things on my mind pizazz while I am here in Vietnam, so here it goes:

• I do not believe you can change people and their habits by merely telling them to.
• I do believe that being the way you are may just be the way life is.
• I think that people can better themselves, but only through their own experiences, not yours.
• Mistakes are nice. Disaster may be even better, because when you survive then it shows that it wasn't that bad in the first place.
• Life won't get any easier - so why not do what you like?
• Age has nothing on maturity.
• I am really really bad at idioms. The above sentence probably doesn't make sense.
• Don't expect to receive if you don't give.
• Taking things personally will not get you anywhere.
• Meeting me may fortunately or unfortunately be nothing like the way I write; depending on who you are.
• People who think they are all that, actually aren't.
• People who don't think they are all that, actually are.
• Coffee makes me feel passion sometimes. 
• I don't like to force anything on anyone. 
• I won't really try to get to know you because I already have enough trouble trying to get to know myself, unless you feel like getting to know me. I really appreciate those who try to get to know me.
• I realized that a place means nothing without the people, it's all about the people you meet. Buildings can't feel.
• Some people are idiots.
• Some people really do deserve a second chance.
• I've seen adults talk about love as if they were my age. With that came the sudden realization and shock that love isn't what I thought it would be when older.
• Rude, immature people are very hard for me to deal with emotionally.
• I like people who genuinely laugh at me. Only I can tell.

Chi Anh, who is a board member of Pacific Links Foundation, recently gave me this book by Andrew Lam, called East Eats West. I just read a few of his short essays and I really like it so far, especially this line:

"A radio commentator and a writer, I am a traitor now to the old ways, for my medium is the written word, and my playground is the public forum onto which my private passions spill. The written words are my songs." 

This quote speaks volume for my seemingly lasting search for my "medium" which I realized in February. I had a chance to meet the author when he was in Vietnam with PBS Newshour filming our organization.

I realize I get to meet lots of pretty cool people here that I probably wouldn't get to meet otherwise. The other month or so I shook hands with Dustin Nguyen, from 21 Jump Street. I held my excitement in pretty damn well, especially since his last Vietnamese movie, Canh Dong Bat Tan (Floating Lives), made me cry my eyes out and is one of my favorites during my time here.

Also, I may meet the author of the book Canh Dong Bat Tan in her hometown in the rural areas in Ca Mau in the Mekong Delta, where she resides despite her fame! Legit.

I meet so many rich characters and people here, so full of life that they don't even know it. Today I went to go eat Pho at my usual place a block away from the house. I haven't gone in a while, since I don't like to eat out too much. They know me, and every time I go eat there, I bring a new friend. It makes it seem like I always have new friends. The man said I looked fatter, which I thought was rather sweet.

Comments about my weight are what I like to say very Vietnamese compliments - the kind you give to people so you know that they remember you, that they remember what you look like, and recognize you. It's their way of saying "How are you doin'? In a very genuine way...  I ask his wife for some coffee, but she doesn't have condense milk. And I make a sour face. She then asks if we want her to order it for us, and we say yes. She goes across the street to call us coffee. The coffee lady knows me too. Her rough face is disrupted by a big smile. "Where have you been?? I haven't seen you in so long?!" It's a question I know well and get a lot from people around here. I disappear for days and months at a time. Basically, I don't come out to get coffee. I tell her that I've been working a lot, and that I go to and from Saigon and Long Xuyen too much. I smile really big.

They share with me things that I take with me, from a small conversation to a seemingly minute gesture, all of it adds up to an amazing experience in Vietnam. I never ask too much from people. Well, in fact I never ask anything of anyone, something my dad has unknowingly taught me, to not trust anyone for anything. I like things the way they are. Floating along, undisrupted by my presence. In the end, we'll meet if time allows us to, our lives will intersect, and things will come together just as they do for me now.


---

Very few of us live in the present. I mean if our mind is allowed to choose between the past, present and future, why would it want to stay in one place? Unfortunately, our bodies can only be in the present. Our souls, dreams, and desires on the other hand are able to transcend the limitations of the real world.

Sometimes when I meet or hear about extremely materialistic people, who really are creatures of their own sort, I wonder how they came into existence. How a person, a human being can find happiness rooted in a Louis Vuitton bag. Surely the bag isn't very warm. It's not that nice, in fact it's probably a bit rough, cold and hard. Maybe they're just a really awkward person. Maybe the Louis Vuitton bag is like their imaginary friend that makes them feel good. An adult imaginary friend manifested in objects.

"Isn't this bag so cute! I am so in love with it!!"
"In love with it?"
"Yes!!"
"Jesus, I've never uttered those words to a lover, let alone a bag"

This is how I feel about the iphone. Another adult imaginary friend. It feels good to get recognition from tweets and facebook likes doesn't it? Feels good that someone is validating your experience as a human being who spends most of your time staring at a screen (*hypocrisy unfortunately noted as I am typing this). Awkward? Let's stare at the iphone, dance your fingers on it so you look really cool, but you damn well know that you got nothin' on the dance floor.

In conclusion, expensive unnecessary objects such as Louis Vuitton bags and iphones are like I said, adult imaginary friends for awkward people trying to be cool.

Unfortunately for me, since I don't have these objects to hide behind or be my friend, I end up being just an awkward person looking awkward.

And I will end it with that.

Awkward.

P.S. My very very good friend Sally Kikuchi is also not a fan of iphones. However, since I cannot access face book anymore, I decided to google her name to see if I can find an awkward picture of her. Low and behold on a japanese kickboxing website:

P.P.S. Yeah! We don't need no damn Louis Vuitton bags OR iphones. What it do.


I love you Sally "anti- iphone" Kikuchi! (I would vote for you for senate).


---

GRE distraction and procrastination accomplished. I write my best during these times.

Have you ever tried to trace rain droplets as they dance by?

Happenstance childhood pass times of mine include putting black olives on each of my fingers and eating them one by one. Like sitting around with my finger on the record button waiting to record a song from my favorite band on the radio with a tape. Like trying to follow the rain droplets as they hit the window on fast freeways. One of the reasons why I abhor driving is because I enjoy being a passenger. 

I get to see so much more. And for the conveniences of my happenstance childhood pass times I rather enjoy the long bus rides. As evidenced from my previous blog posts I am not having a good time transitioning back to Vietnam. I don't think its homesickness necessarily. I feel it is a helplessness that I can control but don't feel like it. It also has something to do with the energy that is surrounding me. 

I was reminded of one of my happenstance childhood pass times as I stared out the window of the big orange bus that I take for 5 hours at least once a month here in Vietnam.

Long Xuyen --> Saigon

Saigon --> Long Xuyen

5 hours at least once a month in Vietnam.

I go to the bus station in Long Xuyen which is a 3 minute walk from where I live. I avoid eye contact with xe om drivers as they ask me if I need a ride. No you twit, I'm at the bus station. I think to myself that, but never say anything. I should be nicer.

I get there approximately 10 - 15 minutes before. I get my ticket from the ticket counter 90, 000 vnd ($4.50 USD) At one point a woman working there recognized me and my name. Why are you going this time Kim? For fun I reply. She smiles and wishes me a good trip. Sadly, I don't recall her face so I won't know if I saw her again. There is something about hegemony, that when are not really a part of it, especially language wise its hard to remember.

From there it is a 30 minute ride to the ferry. Sometimes the wait to get on the ferry can be up to 30 minutes, which drags on for what seems like forever. If there is no wait, then it takes about 15 minutes to cross the ferry. I pretend to sleep so I don't have to get off the bus, since its a "rule" for passengers to get off the bus and onto the ferry by foot. I guess, for our safety. Disregarding my safety and facing the possibility of drowning, I delight in staying in the bus. A small win. Then I proceed to look out my window at the people on the ferry. Little kids jumping from the side into the muddy unclear waters of the Mekong Delta as if no water born diseases exist. Only fun did. That was the only thing on their mind.

Unlike them, that is never the only thing on my mind.

Children, women and men of all sorts, from the small child who sells lottery tickets who doesn't know further than the boundaries of Long Xuyen, but knows more about the hustle than I could ever know to the woman who is trying to raise her two kids on selling fruits and cigarettes from a small basket. I find them fearfully resilient. For them to be positioned where they are, but to be able to somehow make the most of it, I find ever so strong. A strength that I fear. But I suppose its about survival more than anything and when you gotta survive you do what you have to do. Survival for me comes easier and I recognize this.

Unlike them, that is never the thing on my mind.

Before my bus got on the ferry I watched the droplets. They were not from rain but from the fact that the temperature of the air conditioning in the bus contrasted greatly from the humidity outside. I was really cold. The droplets reminded me of times where I chased rain droplets in the U.S. since going really fast on freeways during the rain resulted in the droplets hitting the window at a really high speed and therefore causing them to dance. I always tried to trace them as if it would result in something. It never did, they just danced in this repetitive cycle. New ones came in. Old ones out. Transient.

This past weekend I made the trip emptily. I didn't know why I was going but felt the need to get out of Long Xuyen, since I knew I was going to feel lonely. Might as well feel lonely in a big city than a small town. I thought to myself. Bad choice. Of course I get a splitting headache from feeling useless and hopeless. Sitting in a very pretty cafe I was unhappy with where I was. Why I was there. Purposeless. All the work that I had to do. Unmotivated. Even talking to a people I felt so emotionless, I knew it came across as so. Everything that I had to get done didn't mean anything to me. Moot if you will. Moot is a word I learned in 9th grade.

Moot: Having no practical significance, typically because the subject is too uncertain to allow a decision.

Right now its gotten to the point where music isn't hitting me the same. And that's a bad bad sign in Kim Dam's book. However, Fleet Foxes's self titled album is keeping me hopeful and afloat and does tracing rain drops even if they don't dance by. Even if they don't dance by. Still. 


Comparisons are my weakness. I do it alot. Where I compare my life to others. And then get sad over it. That they are living a "better" life. But I gotta really kick myself and remind myself that all these thoughts are arbitrary. I am only seeing what they allow me to see. I only compare what I see. The good. Which is why I'm trying to better relate my stories and what I see in my life. Regardless of where I am. At least once a month I travel somewhere. It doesn't hit me that I've traveled to 8 different countries in the last 1.5 years of my life and more cities, provinces, villages, v.v.  than I can count.

Time to refocus. Time to focus on the positive. Time to not let myself down. Time to get out of this unhealthy rut. Time to not be sick and exhausted all the time. Time to feel. Time to find the roots of things again. Time to do me. Time to get things down with passion. Time.

It's just time.

Timing.

About time.

I delighted in the fact that he watched over souls.

The graves keeper kept quiet and followed. The musty sun was trying telling me that he once witnessed my 12 year old mother drive a car through the rice paddy fields with kids in the backseat. He hoped that she would not fall in. And while he was trying to talk to her, he now felt a distance.  He continued to follow. It was a type of distance two childhood friends feel when they move away from each other and see each other. Voices familiar become watered. I think the dirt roads were also trying to tell me something, but I couldn't quiet hear clearly. Our wheels barely noticed, having gone through on nice flat cemented roads. Hidden underneath, the bumpy road whispered to me, that my dad once ran through it not knowing the events the future held. The road did not know he would not see my dad for more than 30 years.

And as he crept closer, my attention was finally caught. Distracted by the sun and the dirt roads, I had not noticed that he was there. I read the "Noi Quy" (rules) of the cemetery. The words foreign. A man of calm, he wore a washed out one piece uniform precariously holding a cigarette in his mouth. Maybe so the ghosts can identify him. I had found myself in a cemetery to the left of Ba Temple in Chau Doc, a very famous Buddhist temple with devout followers who during a certain time of year make their way there, hundreds and thousands of people go to Chua Ba every year pouring our their struggles, hopes, and dreams. She listens. He follows. The sun and road tire.

We enter the cemetery after we convince our mom that she should find her grandmother's grave. Having made it here after hours and miles of travel with a plane, bus, and car I told her your grandmother is going to be angry if you don't see her as we were just outside the gates. My mother did not remember the sun. He was foreign to her. It was a small cemetery, consisting of Chinese people. Like her connection to the sun, she could not remember where the grave of her grandmother was. We looked and looked, and I stood there rather helpless since I could not read Chinese, I decided that the sun, dirt, and graves keeper could keep me company.

He seemed to have dust on him. The kind of dust that won't wash off. His skin was dark and folded, the sun too familiar with him. He followed us into the cemetery without telling him who he was, but he immediately offered help in trying to find the grave. Modest, he revealed that he watched over the cemetery."I look over this place, I know that TeoChow people are on the left and Hanh people are on the left." After talking to him, we told him a family member's name and he knew which grave it was. It's this one and the other one way in the back. He knew all the graves. I was fascinated that this was his life. In fact a tad delighted that he was the constant presence among souls long gone, and that he spent most of his days with the souls of graves. Stories tucked underneath cement he would never hear. However, I would imagine that watching over the graves, one would piece together stories as relatives came in and out paying their regards. Moms, Children, Dads, Uncles and Aunts sparsely make up the identity of the soul he watched over.

We asked him to help our family take a picture with my great grandmother, but he advised that taking pictures in three was not a good idea, that it was bad. He was superstitious, naturally. We thanked him for watching over the cemetery. And as we left, our wheels driving over the dirt road, I couldn't help but think that another piece of the puzzle was given to him, as he tried to piece together the stories of souls.

I spend Sundays mostly wading.

A knock and a wail wakes me up this Sunday and similar to other Sundays I wake up tired from the week. But there is something about Sundays that bring ends together. For the last few months I've spent my Sundays being lazy and not doing much, but Sundays were always about that for me. While on a plane early this morning I flip through the newspapers to (excitingly) find a cartoon section (!!!!!!!!!!!!). Boxes entertained my eyes, as Garfield, Calvin & Hobbes (never really liked that one) bounced from one square to another, making some statement on the goodness of donuts or childhood nostalgia.

Maybe this is where my creativity came from, or at least one of them. Comics in the Sunday newspaper. On days I spent lazily. On Sunday mornings my parents would go buy the Sunday Los Angeles Times, not to read articles or be updated on the recent current events of whatever the press likes to mention that week, but for the coupons. In goes $1.50 into the newspaper stand, and as always and penny pinching they take three newspapers. Three because that was the limit of how many coupons can be used on one item at the grocery store (back in the day) and with double coupon ability my mom was the best and smartest shopper I knew. She somehow was able to turn $67.87 turn into $3.45. The women behind her were amazed and probably grumpy from staying in line so long. The machine probably out-beeped its days worth too. She was smart. She searched for the unsuspecting teenager cashier who never looked carefully at coupons. Maybe something about moving to a foreign country with very little resources allowed this coupon-money-saving-talent grow or maybe it was innate. But as whiney American wannabe kids, we wined and made it hard for my mom. 

Why do we have to shop for so long...

Man, are you done?

Noooooo, I don't want to stay in line!

and complains galore as any two little kids who probably spend more time in grocery stores not buying things than kids who steal things.

I knew my grocery stores in Ontario and Chino, CA, maybe in Covina, San Dimas and West Covina too. I knew which one had free food samples, which ones had reduced price chicken after 5 pm, which one were most crowded and popular, which ones looked old and remodeled, which ones had the newest carts, which ones had the nicest managers or the dumbest clerks, I knew them all.

The pile of newspapers drops in the car seat or on the dinner table, and instantly my brother and I rip them apart. We each grab for different things that we like to read. So with three sets we are able to each have a copy. If we woke up late our parents would get to the coupons at first then leave the rest for my brother and I to search through. My brother was rather systematic in the way he took out his favorite sections of the Los Angeles Times. Always neat. Mostly they were the electronic store ads. He read them in a certain order and always put it back neatly into the recycle bin as if no one had touched it.

I cannot clearly recount my own process but I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted the cartoon section, not the lame section with women who complain about their weight cartoons, cartoons with soldiers or the kiddie section with lame crossroad puzzles. I quickly skimmed the front to get through all the "political" cartoons really quickly because I didn't get it. Then the second page was the classics with the peanuts gangs. Then with the third being the charm it was my favorite page with all the "modern" cartoon strips, with non-sequitor and the likes. Then I read the Calendar for stupid celebrity gossip, their small section on cartoons, Ask Marilyn, and possibly an article or two if I found it interesting. Then onto the New York Times magazine to glaze over pretty photos of rich people's houses. Then now onto the colorful ads of each store in town from circuit city to best buy to target to see if there was anything that I can pretend to want to buy. And MAYBE just MAYBE I would actually read the newspaper but that was hardly ever the case.

My Sunday mornings would end with a full recycle bin and cut coupons scattered across the dining table and the rest was spend hoping that school wouldn't have to start. I enjoy routine. Or maybe I just miss it.

On Sundays my mind wanders from the weeks events. It's going to be Monday again, what happened? Time falls faster than I can catch it sometimes. Sometimes I don't catch it at all.