i am now on tumblr!

Migrating temporarily here: http://christine-wei.tumblr.com/

Hopefully you’ll be hearing from me more this way.  Keep your fingers crossed!

a blog a day: step one

[This is a sticky post that explains the "aBAD" tag and some of strange blog titles you might read.]

Announcing my new project: A Blog a Day, otherwise known as aBAD. That’s right. For the next 365 days, in hopes of becoming a better writer, I will blog about something each and every day without fail — even if it’s just a few lines describing a sight, a smell, a feeling.

It all started with the brown bag lunch series National Geographic HQ began for the summer interns. A couple of days ago, we had the chance to sit in a semi-circle around Don Belt, senior editor at the NGM. His story was crazy, humorous, and wholly encouraging.

For starters, you’d think that someone with my dream job would have graduated from NYU/USC/Mizzou/Northwestern, landed a handful of cushy internships, then proceeded to climb up the ladder after graduation. In fact, I don’t even remember where he went for college. What I do remember, however, was what a haphazard and random path his life seemed to take. For some time, Don drove ambulances, dabbled in professional soccier, and did construction work — landscaping, as he told people at parties — amongst many other random jobs. No fancy writing gigs, no big name magazines, nothing.

But he never forgot that he wanted to be a writer. He went back to school and took classes. He went on trips and stayed up scribbling down the day’s observations by the fire after everyone had fallen asleep. He got up to rise and shine at 4 a.m. everyday during his construction stint and worked on his writing — and he isn’t a morning person at all.

Like all the speakers I’ve heard since working for the Society (I love being a part of A Society), Don was inspiring and captivating. Like all the speakers, he drew out a deep sense of longing and envy in me — I want to be in his shoes. Unlike all the speakers, however, he also made me feel relief. Sometimes I feel like I have so much more to makeup for to simply be on the same playing field as my co-workers at Traveler. I have no formal training past the high school level, I haven’t taken journalism classes, I haven’t landed those coveted internships — but neither did Don Belt. And look where he is now.

It was one of those days when you walk away feeling like you can do anything in the world. Journalism has changed drastically as a professional field, but I think the lesson remains the same. Figure out what you love, then go for it. You don’t need to charter an entire path, or even be on a path all the time. All you need to do is remember where you want to be, and take a step in that direction every day. It’s similar to what my aunt Alice, the first person I thought of when I heard back from Traveler, had told me: try your best and work hard, and one day those far-reaching dreams won’t seem so distant anymore.

So here it is. Christine’s step one.

What writers do when we write

From Teaching Life: Letters from a Life in Literature by Dale Salwak.

When Mozart was three years old he first sat down at his sister’s harpsichord in the family house in Salzburg “to find notes that like one another.” That become his life’s work. I enjoy sharing this story because I hear in it a metaphor for the writer — who strives to find words that like one another.

step 39: heartache

Silence are the things people don’t say.

So said professor Vincent Sherry. In my Virginia Woolf course, we are reading “The Voyage Out” and talking about feelings that know no vocabulary, that know no grammar.

The language we know, at the most, is inadequate. How laughable we may find the words, “I just want you.” There is no good way to say it, and how easily we roll our eyes at the ludicrously sounding cliches, the terrible writing we condemn romance novels for.

Then one day you are met with feelings that know no vocabulary and know no grammar. You sit there across from him, unable to articulate the weight that holds you down, knowing he is also held down without knowing whether the textures and complexities his weight bears resemble that which yours does.

And you realize that these clumsy phrase and grasping words, as inadequate as they appear, are the best we can do. In this place, you realize this desiring language encompasses a greater, uncommnicable condition.

You discover how difficiult it is to focus your vision on a face that appears so large, which looms so close.

You are surprised by how clearly you can actually see a reflection of your grim expression against the dark circles of two brown eyes.

step 38: back-to-school blogging

It has only been the third day of class, and already I am up doing work well into the night. And now I am…blogging? Clearly, I am struggling to find a routine to snuggle into.

Without a rhythm, it feels like I’ve spent the past week and a half waiting for the other shoe to drop — waiting for a moment when I can take a breath, when I can close my eyes without my mind racing to compile a list of tasks to next take care of. It pains me that in this craziness, aBAD has been a straggling project, ever since I have gotten back to St. Louis. Its not that I don’t have anything to say. Returns are just like departures, in that they are full of stories.

But in a way, there is a reason for all this, though not an excuse. Because wedged in the moments of blurred time, dusty unpacking, and new-year anxiety are also moments like this:

When everyone has arrived in town and the group congregates around a hearty dinner table for the first time, there is nothing but smiles and sparkles in the eyes all around. Everyone leans forward, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor one another, each tied to the words of recounted funny episodes, big news, and juicy tidbits of gossip. Around this lifeline snakes a golden thread of general cheer and warm fuzziness. Good food, good company. Even good beer (cider).

In moments like these, as sad as it might make me in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t break away at the end of the night to my computer. It is a great thing to write daily and sping stories and practice being a better writer. But it’s also simply wonderful to cling to the pleasures of feeling of fullness, in life, and to savor the taste of friendship till the last lingering moments of the day.

step 37: the south 40 at wash u

Over the years, Wash U’s underclassmen dorm area, known as the South 40, has undergone many changes — of the office chair, memory foam mattress variety. Now me, I’m sitting in an extremely wooden chair, failing to find a comfortable way to share a twin XL. Unfair? I think so.

As angry as I might be about the pretty European-looking new building with fancy glass coffee tables in the common room, I actually only have fond memories of my two years on the 40. In the midst of unpacking today, I found a poem I had written for Writing 1 freshman year inspired by a walk home on the 40 from class.

Super Sunday

The rustling of the trees;
Soft fluttering of wings;
Leaves that turn purple –
A bicycle runs by from behind.

The buzzing of planes in air;
Rumbling of a lawnmower;
Cicadas that call out –
A truck in revers shatters the calm.

The echoing last beeps;
Clattering chains on a cart;
Slow footsteps that patter –
A breeze races by bare ears.

The afternoon unfolds lazily –
The kind of day I like the best.

step 35: the last week

The last week of anything is always hectic. It doesn’t matter if it’s the last week of school, the last week of work, or the last week of a vacation or trip. During my remaining days in Taipei, I’m frantically making lists I’ll never finish checking off. I feel like I’ve been chasing my own tail, desperately running after time knowing I’ll never catch up..

There are always more things to do, more people to see, more places to go, and more things to eat. I’m starting to wonder if maybe we got it right in Boston after all.

A couple of months ago, I spent a few hundred dollars for a flight to see one of my best high school friends. I’d have loved to have more than a couple of days in Boston, but I figured half a week should be enough to hit all the major spots. People take weekend trips all the time.

Who knew that though it was a quarter into the new year, it would be freezing in Boston? Well, it was. Literally. It flurried. It snowed. It rained. I don’t remember if it rained and snowed at the same time so that it hailed.

But it was also vacation. So many days we found our selves finishing lunch at 3 or 4pm, or staying warm in the apartment. Many museum plans failed, and a number of parts on the sightseeing and shopping itinerary. We knew we should be maximizing the visit, but we more often than not couldn’t get ourselves to disentangle from the blankets or pull on the various layers and shoes.

We might’ve been lazy, and we might’ve wasted the days away. But when we weren’t full on laughter, we were stuffed with entrees and dessert. We always had good company and good food — which, in the end, are the most important things. Aren’t they?

step 34: love thy neighbor

During our two-hour conversation today about my post-grad plans, my dad wondered if my sister should be present. So she can learn from my experiences, he said.

I thought about it. I thought about telling her how she’ll probably get sick of making friends all the time a month into first semester. I thought about telling her how she’ll sign up for no less than two dozen clubs and show up to maybe four, then spend all her time at two. But she’ll figure these things out on her own. So I told her to be independent as possible so she will grow all she can.

But thinking about just starting college made me miss, just a little bit, the constant crowdedness of freshman year. Seeing the ever-present members of the freshman floor. Hall meetings. RA programming. Trying to fit in with existing members of the clubs you join. Making more connections at every event and party you attend.

Not that I haven’t moved on a long time ago. Just living in an on-campus apartment with other upperclassmen last year left me feeling a little claustrauphobic on occasion — though this might have something to do with living next to the fraternities.

What is it, then, about freshman year? Why do I look back upon it so fondly, even though I’ll give anything to not have to relive it?

I finally figured it out when I was reading my notes on my Japan trip and found the lines I’d jotted on a story our tour guide told us. It’s about this: we are all familiar with the concept “love thy neighbor,” but before this comes knowing thy neighbor.

The tour guide told us that on one Taiwanese tour, a couple of the boys he had been leading wanted a bit of help. One of their old professors moved to Japan years ago, and now that they were there, they wanted to pay him a visit. They presented him with a slip of paper, asking him to find them a taxi that would take them to the written address.

step 33: photography

A friend asked me today whether I love photography for the actual act of taking photos, a desire to preserve whatever it is I’m capturing, or the chance to do something with my photos. Since he’s on vacation with very limited internet and won’t be reading this anytime soon, I think it’s okay that I rehash share my answer with everyone here.

It’s easier to first discuss doing something with photography. The most important thing you can do with photography is, of course, to share with everyone whatever wonders and mysteries and gripping stories one finds — which can also be done through writing. This is no small matter. Particularly for someone who loves all things media, I’m highly interesting in the ways and the significance of sharing. But sharing, I think, is an aspect that comes second to, or at least comes after or follows, the other two reasons raised.

For a long time, I’ve realized that photography embodies a life philosophy for me. Both preserving a picture and actually taking it speak to some of the ways I approach the world.

As I was saying to my friend, everything in life is so transient. The deepest look, the most brilliant foliage, and the loveliest hug all disappear in an instant, fading away even in our memories as time passes. Blessed with the gift of witnessing such sights, there’s value in capturing a single, fascinating or beautiful moment and freezing it forever. This is part of hoarding that which evidences you have actually lived — something else writing can also accomplish.

But I also love the act of taking — or rather, finding — the photo. It’s first about actually seeing things. About noticing a funny groove in a large wedge of stone, about picking out a little boy and his grandmother from a crowd, about not missing a single building on a street. Then it’s about the way you see these things — how the groove resembles a heart, how close the boy holds his companions hand, how the cozy restaurant with white linens and delicate vases sparkles in a gritty city.

step 32: plastics and laser surgery

The plastics wing of Chan Gung Hospital is located on its twelfth floor. This is where my mom and I were to have our moles removed.

As the elevator pinged, I tried to quell any prior anxieties I had earlier this week. Stepping out, I peered to my right. It was pretty much what you would expect. Stark white walls, white linoleum floor, and ugly, ugly rows of plastic pink chairs that looked wholly uncomfortable.

“Here, this way,” my mom said, tugging me the other way.

I turned. Greeting me from my left was an entrancelit with soft, golden lights, flanked on one side by a floor-to-ceiling arrangement of bamboo. On the other sat a fountain, which hadn’t yet been plugged in because it was only 8:30 am.

After taking a moment to recover from my shock, we walked into the reception area — and saw that the interiors were every bit as impressive. Its walls and pillars were nothing less than a modern mosaic of faux-wood finish and gleaming glass. The waiting area boasted rows of leather-covered booths, some facing a giant flatscreen TV. More floor-to-ceiling bamboo installments. Tasteful, framed photographs. Shiny showcases of expensive products. Above and below it all, ceiling accent lights snaked all around, adding a brighter balance to the deep chocolate hardwood floors. Was I still in the hospital?!

I was staring. Gaping. Clearly. But eventually, the sound of someone speaking finally entered my ears. No limp white coat or shapeless pastel scrubs for the nurse, either. She donned a little pink tailored blazer, complete with two clear buttons down the front. I thought, I want one…

Just like the old times

This one isn’t for aBAD or for my wonderful readers in cyberspace (whom I love!). I visited my old school today. So this one is for all those who went to Taipei American School. You guys know what this is about.

Today at 3:00 pm, upon entering a snack bar, I grabbed a can of lemon Nestle ice tea from the fridges to the right just inside the door. I walked passed the rack of chicken burgers and nuggets for a box of fries. The fries went into a paper bag. Like a seasoned chef, I sprinkled salt, pepper, and a 17-herb mix into the bag, giving it a good shake. I sat down in an incredibly and stunningly bright orange cafeteria, and ate. Just like the old times.

(Wound from laser mole removal, which went fine, still bleeding a little and hurts. Have aBAD post already half-written in my head, but calling it a day. Real post in the morning — normal people time.)