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

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.

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.

You feel the physical sensation, a swelling of pressure, that squeezes the walls of your cavity. Each breath harbors an inexpressible sentiment, pushing against your coat of skin with a desire to be released.

You see, somehow sense, the same despair given away by something in his tired stance, limbs as rigid as your. Longing takes the form of outstretched hands and a drooping head or a pinched, somber face.

You feel your feelings. You recognize if, but not what, he feels his feelings.

“What are you thinking?”

You are feeling. Greater meaning, and thought, elude you.

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.

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.

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?

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.

The problem was that Japan’s roads are winding and their road signs not so visible. The taxi driver, who had been at the job for years and years, simply couldn’t take the boys where they needed to go. He did know, however, the approximate area the address should be located in, and dropped them off there.

The boys were talking amongst themselves when a middle-aged man stopped to see if they needed any help.

“Ah!” he smiled. “I just happen to know a man who moved here year ago, came from Taiwan, and had taught at a university before coming. Let me take you there.”

He led the boys through paths behind the clusters of residences where they had been dropped off, taking a right on a little street here and a left on an even smaller alley there. After a 20-minute trek, the man took the boys to the door of their old professor. Delighted, they tucked him into another taxi, not wanting to make him take the long walk back on their account.

Last year, I had no idea who else lived in my apartment, except for the few freshman floormates I bumped into coming in and out of the building every so often. This man, on the other hand, not only knew who lived as far as twenty minutes away, but also knew a little something about their histories.

I’m moving into another apartment suite in a week, and I frankly probably won’t care to find out who else is there too. But in the days I get beyond halls that begin smelling like beer after dinner three nights a week, I think it’d be lovely to have such a sense of community as that man in Japan did.

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.

In instances like this, it’s about picking out the beauty in everything. In others, it’s about being patient, like waiting for the clouds to pass so the sun throws formidable shadows in the glittering snow. And sometimes, it’s about being in the right place at the right time, and recognizing that you are, so you press your shutter button the moment a duck takes a drink from a puddle on a college campus field.

This is why I love photography. Becuase this is what I think we must do in life. The years that we add under our belts don’t mean much if we can’t find the beauty in them. And if we don’t stop for the precious moments — or worse, don’t realize we’ve been blessed by their gift — then what, really, will we have?

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…

After we filled out the necessary forms and plopped ourselves down on the cushioned seats of the booths, I glanced around. To the side of the TV were rows glossy magazines shelved one side of a pillar. Small paper cups and a neat tray of colorful teabags took station on another side. And…what were those? Numbered chronologically, it looked like four little rooms housed individual booths complete with individual TVs. Panels of smoked glass created a chic doors for privacy.

The only sign I was in fact still in the hospital was the periodic buzz emitted from a small digital screen above the nurse’s desk, jarringly announcing patient numbers. Then a different nurse approached us, smiling and carrying a tray. “Would you like some drinks or a snack?”

There are hospitals, and then there are parts of hospitals that rake in all the profits. And take extravagance beyond all known human limits.

I would stop right here, both for dramatic effect and because this was the most salient part of my laser surgery experience. But it doesn’t seem fair to leave off without a bit on the actual procedure, so here it is. After filling out the forms, we actually sat around for an hour with a topical anesthetic around our moles, giving the cream time to do its magic.

Did it numb the area? Yes. But did it still hurt? Unfortunately, yes.

The laser surgery was a curious experience. When the machine is on — I admit I didn’t get the chance to sneak a peek, so I have no idea what in the world it looks like — it generates a buzzing noise, similarly to what one would hear seated by the wings of a plane. Which, in fact, is where I tried to imagine myself to ignore the pain that did come. At first, I couldn’t feel the movements of the pop-pop-popping sound which I guess was the laser. But after half a minute, each pop suspiciously began to come with a dull pain. It was the kind of pain that if you focus hard enough, maybe it wasn’t there. Thus the mind games.

Don’t worry. In the end, it’s nothing you couldn’t survive. It only lasted a couple of minutes.

The only surprise is how much such small wounds can bleed — don’t try to clean off the scab, like the nurse did while disinfecting my ear prior to applying ointment. I’m still afraid to touch the wound in the slightest for fear of fresh blood. Throughout the day, the wound also did sting a bit. It’s supposed to heal in a week.

Before we were free to go, we waited another half hour for the blood to stop after my scab was yanked off. But when everything around you is so pretty and snacks are catered right to your seats, what’s a mere sixty minutes, right?

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.)