I can’t help but be somewhat refreshed every time I visit the city, although usually in different ways. Sometimes it’s a fashion renaissance, sometimes a palate orgasm, sometimes a much needed broadway getaway. On this particular occasion…I think I just needed to GET-AWAY in general.

I remember seeing something on one of the days I was there that struck me in an interesting way. While walking along a street corner, I stumbled upon a most unusual contraption of sorts, made of umbrellas, blankets, dirty jackets, rope, etc. that bulged out from a gate wall. Confused at first on what this was all about (an abstract art project maybe, taken live onto the streets?), I took a closer look. There I discovered a sleeping man underneath all that hastily, but still tactfully made mess, covered in more dirty blankets and snoring away like a dog off duty, oblivious to the world of visitors that graced and just as quickly left his front doorstep. My god, I realized…it was his home. I’m not sure why this surprised me. Homeless people litter the streets of NY like dandelions litter an unkempt backyard – this particular dandelion was just adorned with a few more leaves.

Looking back, I think this afforded itself a second glance simply because I was impressed. Humans can be so tenacious, don’t you think? No money to buy a home? Why not string together a few umbrellas? It may be the silliest looking, most embarrassing social exhibit ever, but hey, at least you are shielded from the wind and the rain, at least you have an abode, a home, of sorts. And it’s fairly cheap rent. For some reason, this kind of uplifted me. In a subtle way, the after-thought of this image reminded me that there really is no problem out there that doesn’t come with a solution, no break in the road that can’t be fixed, even if you have to use tacky glue and duck tape, because after all, it seems like humans are just built to survive. I admire your shamelessness, NY homeless man.

Human ingenuity at its finest.

3:45am. Brain is jello pudding mush. More to come later…

She’s HERE!

Eyes closed, calm and steady
Expelling, erasing, freeing
What was, the now, and tomorrow
The buzz goes on.

I hear the laughter, I join the applause
Sing with me, the last song
A lullaby for one.
The buzz goes on.

The first time was when I was in middle school, when I buried my pet hamster Macy after she had mysteriously grown silent inside her porcelain den for one too many days.  Macy was a golden white furball of curiosity and squishiness, no bigger than my fist, and at the time, I was thoroughly convinced that she was hands down the cutest hamster on the face of the earth.  Now that I am no longer bathed in bias, of course, I realize she was actually quite fat and ugly and had genitals the size of a large grape.  But still, she was my first real pet and I had as much love for her as any middle school kid could for another creature at the time. 

I was crushed when I realized that Macy had died.  Three days had passed since she had shown any signs of activity, and I was becoming bored and impatient.  Then, a fourth day of suspicious hibernation.  Poke, poke.  My finger met a rock hard resistance, not the usual warm, furry flesh that bounced off my fingers.   In horror, I watched as my dad gingerly lifted the den away from the layer of fluffy wood shavings to unveil a lifeless animal that had slept to its death.  The actual cause of death – unknown.  I conjectured all kinds of possibilities in the coming days.  Contaminated food or water?  Pneumonia?  Depression?  Heart failure?  Diabetes??

My dad decided he would wrap Macy in a paper bag and bury her along the outskirts of our small backyard, since we were on the first level of our condo unit — I helped him dig the hole.  I remember my dad holding my hand and telling me that he would pray for her, so that she can go to heaven and be at peace with Jesus.  But that night, I didn’t sleep very well.

The next morning, I returned to Macy’s burial site and discovered that Macy’s hole had been dug up by a fox, and the shredded pieces of the paper bag were littered throughout the yard.  I remember thinking at the time, very distinctly and with a soberness beyond my years, that the world was a very cruel place to live in. 

The second time came a few days ago, when I said goodbye to my rabbit of more than four years.  As you can imagine, rabbits are not the world’s most affectionate pets, nor are they terribly smart or entertaining to have around.  Some people say it’s like having a giant hamster that costs more, takes up more space, eats more food, and poops more crap everywhere.  Indeed, sometimes I could swear that I had the world’s dumbest rabbit who couldn’t even sniff out and find a food pellet just 3 inches from her face, or who would blissfully leap into the air, only to land straight into the wall or my coffee table leg.  On more than one occasion, I remember propelling whole assortments of cables, remote controls, even purses and shoes at her that she had chewed up and destroyed during the precious few moments she managed to escape my watchful eye.  I mean it’s amazing how destructive those tiny front incisors can be when left to it…amazing.  I remember angrily chasing her around the room like a heathen on crack, knowing full well that this little animal could easily outrun me even on my best day.  Eventually, reality would catch up to me, if I wasn’t already on my knees trying to catch my breath, and I’d resort to other forms of punishment, such as grounding her in her cage for a week, or revoking food privileges, or simply throwing her the most evil, hateful looks of death that I could muster with my facial muscles.  Truly, she was, sometimes, without a doubt, just a big ball of trouble.  At one point, I debated renaming her Excedrin, because I could swear my migraines were caused by that sneaky little furball.

But, a death of a pet is not easy.  Even though she was just a rabbit, Hazel’s death was much harder to swallow than I had imagined it would be.  Maybe because despite all the mischief and trouble she caused, she still possessed a certain sweetness that can only originate from the purity of animals.  Maybe because after 4 years of a life ridden with change, she was really the only tangible constant in my life.  And maybe because I was just unwilling to face yet another part of my life that I had to let go and yield into the hands of a force that I had no control over. 

With the help of a friend, I buried Hazel properly this time, fox-proof. 

I think I want to believe in an animal heaven.  Because that’s where Hazel and Macy would be right now, cage-free, happy, and properly loved.  I’d like to think so, anyway. 

Rest in peace, my Hazelnut.

So it’s a new year, and I’m supposed to talk about New Year’s resolutions and all my hopes and dreams on how this year will be grand and how I will finally magically morph into this brilliantly perfect human being. I actually can’t remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution. Wait, I lie, I made one last year, but only because for some reason, church people love to do group-y activities like going around in a circle and sharing your goals, ambitions, dreams, your whole life story…and New Year’s resolutions. I guess it’s supposed to make you feel closer and more bonded with each other and whatnot, although quite honestly, I’m pretty sure everyone is sitting there silently hoping the person before them will keep talking so they have more time to madly fabricate a resolution that will appear to be one they were awarded after weeks and weeks of pensive deliberation, and perhaps even some dutiful prayer. But in the end, they aren’t creative enough and end up saying something generic like, “I want to lose weight this year”, or “I want to be better to my family”. Last year, I got too distracted being amused (sarcasm) by other people’s generic resolutions that I didn’t have enough time to come up with my own and before I knew it was my turn… so I ended up saying, “I want to work out more this year”. Go me.

I remember a cliché quote a friend had sarcastically recited to me once after braving through my rant about how much my life resembled a pile of dog feces. It went something like, “Live every day like it is New Years Day, like it is a new beginning, a fresh start, a second chance at the life you wish to own.” Something you might imagine reading in one of those self-help books. Naturally, I rolled my eyes and told my friend to never give me advice again.

I’ve never been too big on the whole New Years hype, except for the excuse to wear shiny tiaras and short dresses and get foolishly intoxicated off of champagne. New Years, to me, was just another day in the calendar, a continuation of time and space, the day after the last with a slight change in its name. Crime rates do not decrease, bad habits don’t die, and diseases don’t get cured. Just another beginning to another end… Don’t hate the cynic.

Strangely enough though…this year, I find myself wanting to allow myself to succumb to the hype, to really actually believe that this year will be different. And that the idea of a fresh start, a “second chance at the life you wish to own” is not just a cliché phrase to scoff at, but a reality veiled under a curtain of doubt and pessimism. I suppose when you are in a place where change is so desperately needed and that shaggy winter coat has long been ready to be shed, a “new beginning” holds a certain appeal. To me it’s like a medium-sized box, set some distance away from me – it’s wrapped in the most dazzling and beautiful wrapping paper, like the kind you see in an upscale Macy’s holiday display, and it taunts me, challenges me with its loud colors and shiny ribbons, demanding to be unwrapped and realized, it’s mystery and glory unveiled. But, I wonder if it’s just a mirage, like the golden presents in the department stores, pretty on the outside, hallow and empty cardboard in the inside.

2011 was many things for me. 365 days of great moments that swell your heart with pride and joy at its recollection…365 days of horrible memories that you try so hard to squeeze out of your psyche, but still manage to, once in a while, squeeze back in and shrivel you down to the bone. 365 days of love and laughter, of regret and disappointments, encounters and hello’s, break-ups and goodbye’s. 365 opportunities to wake up and “live like it’s New Year’s Day”, with renewed drive to make the most of every moment, to salvage the blessing of being alive, healthy, fed. Yet, when I look back… sadly, so many of those opportunities fell wastefully down the drain. What was I passionate about? What accomplishments am I proud of? What did I learn? How did I make a difference? How much did I love…? It brings me sadness to think that so much of the year was spent in just that – sadness. Somehow, I allowed myself to be defeated by so many different things – family, friends, God, men. Sometimes, you strive so hard to be the person you envision yourself to be, to have the perfect life you think you should have, to be loved by those you want it from the most, that all the while you are trying so hard…you forget to enjoy it all.

So, if I had to decide on a New Year’s resolution, that’s what it would be. 2011 ended in heartbreak, but I’d like to start 2012 with a smile. Because despite it all, I am thankful for the people who were in my life and are in my life, in all the ways they have enriched it, and because I still believe that God can somehow turn all that mess into something beautiful. That is worth smiling about. =)

To sum it up, Christmas day – the most boring day of the year. Because for some reason, someone a long time ago decided that on the 25th of december of every year, people no longer need to have NEEDS. Like the need to mail things, or buy cat litter from the pet shop, or get a long overdue haircut, or I dont know, eat (except for korean businesses…those hardworking fools). But I guess all’s fair because he or she still wanted to watch movies

Personally, this Christmas is slightly more difficult, but slightly sweeter at the same time than most for me. Christmas time is a time where the beauty and joys of life are celebrated. The focus is mainly on love, blessings, cheer and good tidings…never on hatred, poverty, and the milliions of dark, cold alleys that for one old man, will be the only constant and comfort in his life. All the season’s soup kitchens and salvation army donations still dont amount to the millions of dollars spent each year at toys r’us and the apple store. And I’ve never seen a christmas card that read, “Conscientious Christmas and Contemplative Holidays to you!”. And you know what, there’s good reason for it. Everyone needs some time to not have to think about the ugly and the broken and to simply rest in the warmth of what is good. Maybe that’s why everyone loves Christmas, even those that don’t believe in Jesus. There’s just an unexplainable air of good cheer, of expectation, a magnetic pull towards happiness. That’s why I have always loved Christmas.

Maybe it’s because I am getting old, maybe its because I have recently lost a happiness in my life, maybe I just have too much time on my hands to let my mind wander and explore, but this Christmas feels different. Yesterday and today was as warm and joyful as ever, if not more, with the addition of new members to the Cho family. The whole Christmas deal – good homecooked meal, rubbing of full bellies and washing it down with makkoli, opening gifts, sharing stories and good times, attending church.

But I can’t really explain the incongruence. Why, for some reason, the inviting smile from my mom reminded me of my shortcomings as a daughter, or why the carefree and liberating laughter of a 2 year old drew attention to the constraints of my own. Sometimes when you see the fullness of love and of life in others, it paints such a clear picture of the emptiness in parts of your own.

Its 10:30 pm right now on Christmas day, and I can only imagine how many families there are right now cozied up by the company of loved ones, and even not-so-loved ones in the family. At the same time, I also cannot imagine how many souls there are out there wishing this night would end quickly, less painfully, perhaps with the help of alcohol to wash down the reality of their own decrepid lives. There is no hot, homemade meal at their table, no gifts wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper, no tv to watch the game while drinking your favorite beer. And it makes me think…I wonder how Jesus would have spent Christmas. Granted it is his birthday, he’d have a hell of a lot of party invites, probably to some really nice ones. But would he have wanted to go? To celebrate himself? Sounds appropriate…but I fancy imagining J finding some dark, cold alley somewhere, settling down next to that lonely old man, with a beer and an extra in hand and keeping him company through that harsh night of Christmas. I think that his focus would not have been of all the love and blessings, but all the lack of it in this world. I think its safe to say that Jesus is probably the world’s most unconditionally loving pessimist

All the while, I do feel extremely blessed. My mom received her very first Coach purse for Christmas, the first handbag she’s ever owned that cost more than $20 from the local Ross store. I, on the other hand, own four Coach bags that I have held onto for years before I even thought to ensure that my own mother had nice things too. But still, she was so grateful, so full of joy and appreciation for the show of miniscule generosity, as delayed as it was. I’m thankful for second chances, of a wealth of love that may not be able to replace the loss of old loves, but that which, if embraced, can help heal it. I’m thankful that no matter what, even if I am a hopeless disaster, there is an unchanging constant in my life – that I am loved by Christ.

Happy birthday, Jesus. Forgive me for not keeping in touch, but I’d like to talk soon…maybe over a Heineken or two. I have a lot on my mind..

Broken pieces of a barely breathing story
Where there once was love
Now there’s only me.

I think we all like to picture ourselves to be a certain way. There’s the cookie-cutter white high school chick, skinny as a tooth-pick, dressed in a triple-0 abercrombie miniskirt with a pair of uggs (because god-forbid it’s all of 50 degrees outside). She’s the Quinne Fabray of her school, deeply part of the crowd that is always on the starting end of the slushy massacre, never the receiving end. She has perfect locks, the perfect body, reputation, and boyfriend (quarterback of the football team, of course). There’s the “musician”- the introspective and earthy mix of dark gloom and soulful insight. She can bring a roomful of open ears to humility with the perfect pitch of sadness and celebration, with a chord that is just right to conjure up a wordless message. The musician enjoys walking around with a guitar case slung on her shoulder because it’s what identifies her. It’s what sets her apart and brings color to what is otherwise just another run of the mill face in the crowd. Then we have the sunglass-wearing, gum-chewing, hand slugged on belt policeman. He wields his baton with pride, as it embodies his authority and power, and well, sadly in some cases, his very manhood. It’s what allows him to stand above the driver he’s just pulled over with a cocky slouch and a tone in his voice that could border on rude, and use harsh imperatives to respectable individuals with respectable families and jobs.

But what you don’t see is that little miss Quinn Fabray actually has no idea who she is. She becomes pregnant, loses all golden standings with her then-inferiors, and finds herself in the pits of high school hierarchy. In the privates of her bedroom, she is just a lonely girl who was simply more successful in obscuring the glow of insecurity and doubt than the other girls. The musician – she’s lost her smoky eyeshadow palette and finds herself heading desperately to sephora to buy another. She’s not quite the musician without it, and lately, all the chord structures she’s been using in her songs seem the same. She actually has no idea what her own lyrics even mean. And well, we all know that the policeman lives with a dominatrix wife.

Usually, we can shield ourselves from brute reality. Some people go on astonishingly well, in fact, under the illusion of who they believe themselves to be (we’ve all met that one huge douchebag who no one can figure out how he doesn’t realize just how douchey his white sunglasses really are). But sometimes, in a moment of sinus-clearing clarity, we realize that we fall short of that person- that person we’ve so meticulously painted ourselves to be.

I’ve had such a moment today. It’s humbling and shattering all at once. It leaves you feeling wounded, from a blow to pride maybe, and from the initial sting of it all. I don’t aspire to be perfect. I’m no Jesus. But I do hold certain standards and expectations for myself. I believe myself to be a certain type of person, a type that qualifies me to be “good enough” in my books and allows me to hold a level of esteem and respectability. But do we ever stop and ask ourselves… what if we’re not that person? What if, when put to the test, we’re forced to throw off our safety cloak of illusion and bare what lies underneath. What if we don’t recognize what we see, then?

What then?

Side note. My housemate’s new puppy is barking like a mother fucker upstairs and I kinda really wanna kick it right now…