Flowers in the Dark

A bouquet of flowers in ribbons and cellophane lies on a shelf in the dark. The street lights shine in from beyond the window, through the light rain just past midnight. The flowers are mostly white in color, but they reflect a pale orange in the dim light, blending into the black of the shadows cast by the surrounding furniture.

Calla lilies, stargazers, orchids, gladiolas… soft, inviting white petals, with shy hints of color added by a stalk of chinese lanterns and a pair of roses tinged with bashful pink and red. So beautiful, chosen with attention and meaning and hope. But fragile as they are, they are still made of sturdier stuff than the hopes they were meant to gird.

Flowers unaccepted. A gift refused. I’ll retrieve them in the morning.

Rejected again. It seems unrequited love is the only kind I’m destined to know, and that’s no one’s fault. I don’t fall in love so easily… Maybe once every two years or so on average, I ask a girl out, or let her know how I feel. Without exception, the answer has always been negative. I can’t play the martyr, either – for the two or three times that affections have been turned in my direction, my answer has also been no. It’s not right to pretend at feelings that aren’t there, and to be fair about it, I can’t ask for falsehoods – even kind ones – from those who have the misfortune to become the subjects of my affection. This works both ways. Or rather, it doesn’t.

I’m not surprised that I have an affinity for rain. People associate it with melancholy; emotionally, my life has been mostly melancholy. Tiny, misty droplets of midnight rain filled the air as I walked home, dusting me with beads of water too small to make an umbrella worthwhile. They alight on the window, leaving tiny spots of shadow across the flowers sleeping on the sill.

But it was the kindest rejection I’ve had yet. She lowered her voice below the surrounding din, with an almost embarrassed smile. That lovely smile, one of so many things I loved about her. She couldn’t take the flowers, she said. She couldn’t take any of it. She said it honestly, she said it directly. With a smile, and sympathy, and care. Maybe such things mean very little to most people upon rejection, but in all truth, this is the nicest anyone’s been to me while rejecting me. No sudden changes in temperament, no instant coldness, no frown… no emotional spite, no accusing looks, no hint of loathing, of disdain, not even any implication of harsh words behind a saccharine smile or a grimace of discomfort that would say, “What gave you that idea?” or “You’re creepy, you know that” or “Stop stalking me.” None of the decisive hostility I’m used to, hostility that I have come to know is meant to kill my affections as quickly as possible, to remove me from life and awareness with the finality of ultimate denial. I know sometimes women try to be as mean to the guy as possible, to make him forget – for both their sakes – quickly and without regret. In my case, that never works. Though she had no romantic affection to offer me, she did offer me tact and kindness, things which I have come to believe are themselves gifts that also can’t be demanded. However disappointing they may be against the backdrop of original hope, I recognize them for what they are; something she was not bound to offer me.

As I bought the card and flowers, as I contemplated what to write, I knew that by the day’s end, I would either be happy or sad. I knew that, whatever I felt, it certainly wouldn’t be nothing. I’m sad now, yes, but I chose to ask, and the emotional consequences are mine to bear for it. There’s nothing I could blame her for – all I could ask for was an honest answer, and I got it. And it was delivered kindly and compassionately. We love who we love, and we don’t who we don’t. And I can ask for nothing beyond her honest answer. And I knew that, far more likely than not, the answer would be “no.” It didn’t surprise me… I could have thought of several good reasons why that would be her answer. Were I in her place, they would certainly have made a difference. My body trembles with stifled tears, but there is no fault on any side. It is not my fault for being attracted to her despite myself, and it is not her fault for not reciprocating. There is a complete absence of blame, of wrongdoing, of sin… there are only tears in the dark.

I have changed a lot over the years. Become more insightful, more patient – gained some small measure of wisdom and maturity with the passing of my youthful years… learned more of compassion and altruism, of selfless generosity, of holding fast to principles in the face of disdain and spite, and the joy of fighting for good causes and for healing the strife plaguing the minds of friends. Certainly these improvements are all relative. I may not be a swan, but I was a very ugly duckling. But what am I now?

I sit by the window, the orange light of the streets filtering in at one in the morning. Tiny droplets of rain cling to the pane, casting bits of shadow on my face, a pale, morose figure outlined in the dark of my unlighted room. The lilies close their petals. My lashes meet. The last drops of water trace their way down the stalks of the roses and gladiolas as the final salted tear finds its way down my face. The flowers turn from the window as the lights fade to nothing. I close the shutters against the streetlamps and settle into bed.

I will see the flowers again in the morning and take them home. Cut flowers are ephemeral. They will not live long, but for that time, we will have each other, because we have no one else.

I hate myself.

Everything’s All Right…

It was the beginning of Flyback Week, a week with no classes at my law school. The purpose of flyback week is to give second- and third-year students an opportunity to attend job interviews abroad. Having already accepted a job offer, however, I had this week more or less free and I was looking forward to some relatively relaxed time to myself.

So I had been sitting at a table in a San Francisco Starbucks after practice, waiting for my ride home. My laptop and several books lay strewn across the table, my staff leant in a corner, and an empty plate sat before me, having just been cleared of cheesecake. Hero was playing off a VCD in my laptop; it was a good time for a break, with my mind somewhat tired from law school and my body weary from workout. It was an afternoon of relaxation for me, blessed by the absence of any mandatory schoolwork due the next day, but it was a busy day for the Starbucks… at another table, a college student was typing up a economics paper, while her classmate snoozed with his feet propped up on another chair. A pair of old friends were catching up on old times in another corner, and a large group of chinese San Franciscans were enjoying a social gathering at the big table while their kids played games and make-believe with each other in a scene that could have fit comfortably into warm memories of almost anyone’s childhood.

Some of the kids took an interest in the movie playing on my laptop. I turned the screen and adjusted the volume for them, while laying a sheet of paper over the keyboard; when you have kids in a coffee shop, spills are an obvious potential hazard, but I didn’t feel inclined to shoo them away. I turned back to my books, and not a few moments later, I saw a plastic coffee cup cover bounce past my computer, dappling the screen and paper covering the keyboard with streaked droplets of hot chocolate. One of the boys had been less than careful about handling his drink, but it was a minor, harmless accident.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

I took the sheet of paper, spattered with little drops of sugary cocoa, off the keyboard and turned to fetch a few napkins from the counter to make a new keyboard cover and to clean off the screen. But when I turned back, there was another chocolate-milk spill on the now-unprotected keyboard, this one markedly bigger than the harmless spray I had been attending to.

“Please don’t do that!”

It was impossible not to be a little frustrated by that. Two spills in less than twenty seconds. Just goes to show you really can’t be too careful when you have children, liquids, and electronics in close proximity. I hurriedly grabbed more napkins and moved to wipe up the spill before it had a real chance to sink in and start playing havoc with this laptop on which I depend so heavily in school. The sound of my tense voice startled the “culprit,” a little girl who couldn’t have been more than four or five years old, and the beginnings of fear crept onto her face. She started crying.

I hadn’t noticed, but her mother was right there. She quickly shepherded her daughter away. No words from the child, but all the intended messages came through quickly enough in her plaintive wailing: “I’m sorry! It was an accident! Don’t punish me! I didn’t mean to!” In one hand she held a little box of chocolate milk, in the other, a foil pull-tab that had obviously popped free of the drink with an unexpected jerk, causing the splash. She held both items up in front of her mother, in a gesture of partial guilt, partial innocence, and a search for forgiveness. Her mother turned to me.

“I’m really sorry…”

I waved her off quickly. “It’s okay.” I said that in the even but hurried tone of a person busy with an immediate problem. She left, her daughter held close in her arms, while I dabbed at the keyboard, soaking up the larger part of the spill. I tore off the corners of the napkin, reaching in between the smaller cracks and crevices in an attempt to absorb chocolate milk that had managed to break surface tension and slip into more dangerous territory.

Several minutes later, I had finished cleaning the keyboard, and did some diagnostic typing to make sure everything was in working order. I looked around the room, but didn’t see the little girl. With everything all right, I was soon calm again, and returned to my books. The college students were still sleeping and writing, the kids were still playing, and everything was normal again.

But everything wasn’t quite all right. A nagging sense of unfinished business dallied around the edges of my thoughts, and twenty minutes later, I scanned the room again, and this time I caught sight of the little girl, sitting in her mother’s lap at the table at the far end of the store. She sat quietly, while her mother conversed and laughed with the other adults at the table. The carton of chocolate milk sat on the table before her. Being kept out of trouble, I see. But she was playing with the other kids, earlier… and now she’s just sitting there. It had just been an accident – a potentially costly one, to be sure – but it was over, and there certainly wasn’t any reason to ruin the rest of her afternoon.

I got up and walked towards the table, and knelt down next to her mother’s chair. The little girl looked at me; her expression not quite readable, but showing something halfway between uncertainty and apprehension. I waved hello from perhaps two feet away, and smiled quietly.

Are you ok? Everything’s fine. It’s all right

The rest of the table hadn’t noticed, but her mother turned when she heard me speak. I looked up at her and repeated, “Yeah, everything’s fine. How is she? Is she ok?”

“Your computer is fine?”

“Yeah, everything’s all right. Is she ok?”

A smile from her mother. “Yes, she’s ok.” The rest of the table and quieted and turned to look at me. I turned to look back at the little girl and brushed my knuckles lightly against her hand, trying to be reassuring. “It’s all right.” I wasn’t exactly expecting a response. I was just hoping she would feel calm, forgiven, or at the very least, not afraid of me. I got up and walked back to my table.

My ride showed up about ten minutes later. I packed up my books and laptop, retrieved my staff from the corner, and headed for the door. On my way out, I noticed that the little girl had been let out of her mother’s lap, and that she was looking back and forth between the other kids and me, on my way out the door. With one last smile and a wave goodbye, I pushed through the door and headed for the car.

That’s all I really wanted – that she have this afternoon free to play with the other kids. Human memory’s a strange thing. I’m not sure what makes a memory stick, whether good or bad. I have no idea why some memories are so intense that they get repressed, and why others, equally vivid, manage to bury themselves so close to waking consciousness that they get brought to the surface with regularity. She probably won’t remember this afternoon, but on the off chance that she does, I would hope that it at least isn’t a sad memory.

This is all a bit much thought to be giving what amounts to a pretty ordinary afternoon. Maybe I did the wrong thing; after all, we’re taught not to trust strangers and largely for good reasons. Maybe I’m just soft, not wanting to leave a bad memory with some kid who, for all I know, could either grow up to be a lovely saint or a lethal man-eater over the next twenty years. A run-in with me barely amounts to a drop in the bucket of a lifetime of human experiences. Maybe I was just trying to even the scales in my own memories, having spent enough time as the scared little kid who was always the runt in school. Maybe I didn’t want to be responsible for a child’s tears. Maybe this kind of thing happens all the time and nobody cares enough to give it a second thought.

Nah. I know why I went to the trouble. It was important to me. I spent enough time as a child sulking at school with my head down and my hands in my pockets, wishing that life could be fairer, or failing that, that people would just care a little, just a little, about my feelings. It’s just not the way people are, I guess. It’s not anything I’ve known most people to think much about. But they should.

Angel Dream

I think my new desktop wallpaper inspired an interesting continuation off a dream I had about two years ago. The wallpaper depicts two angels locked in battle, blade to blade, over a fantasy cityscape. One angel is classically heroic, muscled and fair-haired, the other is bald and vaguely sinister-looking for the shadows cast across his back. Both dreams were fuzzy and somewhat indistinct, but the concept must have been sufficiently memorable… most dreams I don’t remember unless they’re recurring nightmares, so even recalling this one makes it noteworthy to me.

Please pardon the dramatics, ‘cuz it means that, at least in the dream, I was some sort of angel. Ruefully wishful thinking, I know. I’m not even religious. Still, religious or not, the mere idea of angels and demons is fantastic and inspiring. The symbolism isn’t wasted on me, even though religion isn’t much a part of my life.

But I want to remember it later, so I’ll record it for myself at least, liberally, uh, ‘embellished.’ No, it wasn’t quite this extraordinary, but if I write it down, maybe it will come back.

The sky looks different in heaven. It is not the azure dome of the terrestrial sky; it looks more like the aquamarine blue of a pristine equatorial ocean. The blue extends so far into infinity that you can’t even perceive its great distance; on earth, you think you can see where the sky ends. Not so in Heaven; the view of infinity is so profound that the mind can’t conjure even the illusion of a periphery. There are angels here, some dressed in simple white robes, others in sharply cut finery of pearlescent elegance. Their wings are like those of doves, and they float amongst the clouds with regal poise.

My wings, though, are speckled and dark. I’m not beautiful, like these angels. My wings are angular, with long, spread pinions, and not comforting to look at. I don’t have their refined bearing; I’m smaller of stature, disheveled, and I lack their radiance. My dress differs; my clothing is older, coarser, torn and frayed at the ends, and singed. I wish I belonged here, but I know I am out of place. I am always out of place.

I regard the other angels with a tense longing in my heart. I want to be accepted, but I’m too different. They don’t even talk to me. I want to be with them, visions of grace and beauty all… but instead I lean backwards and to my right, winging over into a dive. I cut downward through the skies of Heaven with mounting speed, wings folded tightly to hasten my descent. I’m angry. I don’t exactly know why, but the rage adds strength to my dive and intensifies the scream of the wind that accompanies my plunge.

The sound of the air roaring in my ears is muffled by my entrance into a thunderhead below, and the stately blue gives way to the opaque grayness of the Boundary between Heaven and Hell. A few eerily silent minutes pass before I emerge from the cloud’s lower extreme.

Here, the sky is sooty and gray, seared occasionally by painfully jagged lightning strokes. Their glow limns the figures plummeting from the Boundary with flickering highlights of blue and violet. The winged figures streak towards the shadowy expanse below, trailing streams of cloud torn by their descent through the thunderheads. All of them have wings like mine; the wings of hawks, of raptors and falcons. The wings of birds of prey; the wings of war. We carry swords, but we aren’t wearing armor. Why am I doing this? I’m no warrior… why have I left Heaven for Hell?

Horrid humanoid beasts rise from the shadows below to meet us. Some of them I recognize from life, others I do not. They rise upward like a flight of missiles. We are outnumbered.

I roll forward and snap my wings open, bracing myself as I slow my descent violently. Sword raised, I meet the first of the demons who soars upwards towards me. It grips barbed chains in its talons and we clash, link to blade, and recoil, riding the currents to find a favorable position. His venomous chain rakes my left arm and I feel pain.

I do feel pain in my dreams, sometimes. This bothers me, since I’ve always been told you don’t feel pain in your dreams. This being the case, though, I can only hope I don’t have a particularly violent nightmare one of these days.

I see the other demons taking advantage of the opportunity to pass us by, streaking ever faster towards the Boundary. They mean to attack Heaven; I can call on no one for help; the nearest angel is far away, and similarly encumbered. I have to kill this demon myself, and I have to do it quickly. The demon means to ruin my wings with his weapon, but I coil and deflect, knocking it askew, and out of readiness. He needs time to overcome the inertia, but I don’t give it to him; timing my flight, I slide past him, and I run my sword across his midriff. I don’t see what happens, but I know he’s doomed; my inherent viciousness would have me gloat and hack away with bloodthirsty abandon (How is it that I can be an angel? In battle I am every bit as terrible as the opponent I’ve just dispatched), but I beat my wings furiously to gain altitude: the legion of slimy, jagged horrors mounting Heavenward must be stopped before they can bring harm to the graceful ones above. I cannot let them be hurt.

None find their way through the thunderhead, but it is close. Many times, they fall back into the shadows afore a vanguard of lightning strokes. Others I catch, somehow, in the disorienting gray of the Boundary. I become tired and weary; I have trouble lifting my sword, but every time I chase one of the vile creatures down, a familiar surge of wrath gives me the strength I need to kill another one. I am frustrated with the fair ones above; they know what I am doing here, but they are creatures of peace. They cannot defend themselves, and it falls to the rest of us to hold back this evil tide that would bubble upwards through the Boundary to put them to pain and torture. Exhausted, I fall backwards through the Boundary, and a winged shape blasts through the cloud cover, following in my wake.

I am relieved, literally: the other angel gives me a nod, and I nod in return. I level off and begin regaining the altitude to return ‘home,’ as my replacement knifes downward to fight in my stead.

I clear the upper reaches of the Boundary, emerging into that wondrous blue expanse; and again, as beautiful as it is, it does not feel as though I am being welcomed home at all. I’m just here to rest; I’ll be going back down as soon as my sword arm recovers.

Why am I being made to do this? It isn’t fair.

No, it isn’t.

Why can’t I be with them? Why do I always have to fight like this?

It’s your nature. You are not peaceful; you don’t love yourself, though you love others.

Always you fight. You sought to fight the good fight, and so that is what you do. You have spent so much time learning how to fight that you wouldn’t know how to live the life above; you spend more time below the Boundary because it is what you have prepared yourself to do.

I wasn’t given this choice.

Yes, you were. It isn’t fair, but the only reason it couldn’t be fair is because you never believed it could be.

This is thankless. They don’t even know how much danger they’re in, all the time! They never glide below the Boundary. They never fight, fist to claw, with those evil hordes down there.

But you don’t want them to get hurt, do you?

They can’t defend themselves. They have no idea how!

No, they don’t.

You chose to be what you are now. It causes you pain, but the alternative would hurt you more. You won’t ever be happy, and I’m sorry for that. You say you weren’t given a choice, but you were.

Do you really even want to know what is fair, and what is not? In at least one way, the angels above and the demons below were alike in life. They chose only to be what came naturally to them. Many of the angels and many of the demons never made the choices you did; they entered the circles of Heaven and the ranks of Hell without making any choices. In many cases, the only difference between the ones that you protect and the ones you slay were decided practically by accident of birth; the selfless and the caring, you love. The selfish, you despise. It’s not so much that Heaven is blue and Hell is dark; it’s just that this is the Boundary you choose to see.

That’s ridiculous. I can’t be alone in the way I think; what about the others with whom I fight?

They see the same Boundary that you do. I did not say that your Boundary was without meaning; the Boundary divides a difference as stark as the one between night and day.

Enough for now. Maybe, some day, you’ll become wise enough to find your answers. Maybe you’ll understand well enough to know that the questions you have now aren’t as important as you make them out to be. Maybe then you’ll know peace. Until then, you’ll fight, because that, at least, is something you do understand.

I don’t like what you’re suggesting.

You think I’m suggesting that you shouldn’t care. I said no such thing. But perhaps this will soothe you: you could have been one of the ones below. That is who you once were, and you rejected yourself. As unnatural and painful as that might have been, you at least made a conscious choice. That is also why you spend at least as much time in Hell as Heaven. All the same, your choice was a good one, though not a perfect one.

You’re not explaining very much.

Hardly. The depth of what you are depends greatly on the depth of what you understand, and though I could force-feed you what it is you want to know, you wouldn’t yet have the capacity to appreciate it. It would only confuse you now. If it were as easy as merely explaining it to you, you would already understand it.

Are you saying that once I understand, I won’t have to fight anymore?

Even asking that question proves to me you don’t understand yourself as well as you think you do. Just rest for now.

The angels circle above. I am still too afraid to join them.

Maybe I could enter this into a Bad Writing Contest and earn a little supplemental dough. I hear that such a thing really does exist. I could use the money; I’m quite poor these days. Anyways, this probably all means that I wish I were a tragic hero, but really I’m just plain tragic. Whatever.

Another Golden Afternoon

Advisory: contains marginally geeky content. Reader discretion is advised.

I’m back at Boalt for my third year of law school. Just before I moved back to the East Bay, though, I had the pleasure of catching up with enji for a day. We don’t get to hang out much, certainly not compared with before, and one-on-one time is becoming increasingly rare and precious. I spend a lot of time studying, and enji spent most of her time this year out of town. Sushi and tea in Mountain View, for about four hours or so.

We spoke of tea, of law, of music, of spliced movie titles, of expectations and family relationships - indeed, we could probably talk about almost anything and have a good time of it. Such is a conversation with Enji - there is always something to touch the soul, to tickle the wit, and sometimes, a sudden and unexpected or abstract observation that gives a moment's pause for consideration. "Wow. Hmm, give me a moment to think about that." We ended up spending about an hour and a half of that time talking about statistical probability. Very geeky, yes, but very fun; admittedly, we both have backgrounds in computer science, which explains the geek factor, but leaning back and looking at the discussion from a third-person perspective inspires a fit of girly giggles. (Without knowing more, the thought of an artist and a law student trying to figure out a puzzle of probability and statistics strikes me as a case of the blind leading the blind. Some of my fellow law students freak out when faced with the task of taking the average of three whole numbers.)

I vaguely remember coming around to the topic of the Monty Hall Paradox (an elegant problem of statistical probability if ever there was one) after playing a few rounds of various card games (always a handy segueway into the subject of probability). Mostly, I’m writing this down so I don’t forget how we came across the answer to this puzzle. It’s a nontrivial puzzle with a counterintuitive answer; I make no claims to being particularly clever, since reverse-engineering the explanation from a known answer is usually a heck of a lot easier than coming up with the observation in the first place. Still, I’m a little jazzed by the fact that we figured it out, so I’m posting the answer to myself so that I won’t forget it. (I sure didn't get it the first time around, about 9 years ago. It's been nettling me somewhere in the far reaches of my subconscious for all that time, I'm certain.)

The Monty Hall problem arises from the old “Let's Make a Deal” game show, where the host, Monty Hall, presents the contestant with three numbered doors and invites him to choose one. One of the doors has a prize behind it; the other two doors conceal (frequently undesirable) gag gifts. The contestant, of course, has a 1/3 chance of picking the door with the good prize. But after the contestant has made his choice, Monty opens one of the other two doors (one concealing one of the gag gifts. If you take any two of the three doors, at least one of them conceals a gag gift.) Monty then asks the contestant if he wants to change his mind about which door he’s chosen. With one of the three doors eliminated, the answer that suggests itself is this: the contestant has a 50% chance of winning, whether he sticks with his original door or picks the other one. However, the real answer is this: if the contestant stays with his original choice, his chance of winning remains 1/3, and if he switches, his chance of winning rises to 2/3. The answer to this problem apparently confounded a number of esteemed and capable mathematicians and academics.

My memory of the problem was less than perfectly solid (hey, I didn’t really get it the first time around, after all), and so we start drafting decision trees and combinatorics into enji’s travel notebook (which already contained a pretty interesting mix of practical reminders, travel notes, and word games).

Basically, the Monty Hall paradox is understood by realizing the actual effect of Monty’s revelation of one of the bogus prizes. The information Monty reveals after the player’s original choice inverts the outcome of the player’s choice. If the contestant had chosen the correct door to begin with and switches, he loses. If he or she picked one of the wrong doors, though, Monty’s choice ensures that the contestant will win if he switches. The 1/3 original win turns into a 1/3 loss, and the 2/3 original loss chance becomes a 2/3 win chance. If the player pre-commits to a strategy of always switching, he or she can take advantage of Monty’s inversion of the win probabilities.

If the player picked the right door to begin with (a 1/3 chance), he will lose. Why? Monty can reveal either one of the bogus doors; it doesn’t matter. The player’s switch will be away from a winning door to a losing door.

But if the player picked one of the wrong doors to begin with (a 2/3 chance), Monty’s actions are constrained; by the rules of the game, he can’t reveal the winning door, only a losing door. Since the contestant is tentatively standing on one of the losing doors, Monty must knock out the other losing door. By switching, the player moves from a losing door to the winning door.

And that’s how it works. The rules of the game cause Monty’s information to perfectly, without exception, reverse the original outcome, turning wins into losses and losses into wins if the contestant has committed himself to switching doors after Monty’s information.

After we worked out the reasoning, I plopped back into the chair, lifted my teacup, and dryly mumbled “another golden afternoon.” But really, there’s still some of the geek left in each of us, so I have to confess that I really did enjoy the mental exercise, and I think enji got a kick out of it too.

Sad Splat

Was tooling down 280 North, headed towards the city at the speed of traffic, with j-pop on the car stereo and a welcome stillness in my thoughts. I catch sight of a pair of moths fluttering in the distance, a courting pair. (Hey, insects court too, didn't ya know...) We normally think of attraction and affection in the context of higher species; these soft-bodied invertebrates may not be capable of feeling much in the way of emotions, but on some level, the expression of that fundamental instinct is instantly recognizable. They strayed not more than an inch from each other, fluttering along in an erratic, meandering aerial dance, following one another, seeming not to know who was leading whom, or where they were headed; insignificant details, regardless. They were perhaps a hundred feet away or so... a distance closed very, very quickly by a car on the freeway during off-peak traffic hours.

A moment later, a reddish-brown smear on the windshield is all that remains of one of them. And just one. I'm quite certain that one of the moths was pulverized by the passing of my car, and the other one was blown off in another direction by currents of air. In any event, there was only one smear. I'm not so cruel as to have deliberately aimed for them, mind you (and besides, that would have been one hell of a stupid way to die in an auto accident, losing control whilst trying to run over or dodge a pair of moths fluttering in the interstate breeze). I felt *really* bad about that... it would have been better to have missed them both. Failing that, it would have been better even to have pulverized them both painlessly on the windshield. The only way Romeo and Juliet could have been made even more tragic is if only one of them died, leaving the other to wallow and thrash in the dramatics of grief for who knows how long, screaming, wailing, bawling, and wracked with inconsolable loss. That Shakespearian tragedy may be the paradigmatic expression of romantic loss in our common socialization, but at bottom, it's still a story of romance first and grief second. No, the fact is - things can get a lot worse than that.

The wipers swish back and forth, accompanied by a spray of soapy cleaning solution as I twist the lever that promised to clean the mess off my windshield. Sorry about that, Romeo. Romeo's mashed innards are stubborn and refuse to leave the glass. Juliet by now is a quarter-mile behind me, fluttering alone in the breeze, mercifully lacking in the necessary memory and intellectual faculties to understand exactly what happened back there. Though moths are even more at the mercy of life and random happenstance than human beings are, they do at least have it easier in one respect... I don't doubt it's easier for them to forget.

Another Bittersweet Moment

3am and I can't sleep. Perfect time to blog. This journal is perpetually in danger of sliding off into oblivion, but I suppose it's a good thing I don't post much. I don't do much but whine anyway.

So it's time for another pseudo-whine perhaps, tangentially related to the subject with which I'm probably the most familiar: unrequited love.

But this one has a happy ending :) So let's go:

M.Mellow had a quiet crush on someone. She didn't like him back, of course - but let's not dwell on that overmuch. Let's talk more about her. I'll call her Shysmile, for the purposes of this story. Shysmile broke up with her previous boyfriend, I'm not so sure how long ago. "Breaking up is hard to do," but perhaps not so much for the fact that it involves the loss of a relationship (an imperfect one, in hindsight, of course) as for the forlorn fear of being marooned in the landscape of loneliness from now to the end of one's days, for who knows when, if ever, you'll find a real soulmate? (Even once, never mind twice!) Shysmile is lovely in an unusual way, somewhat tall, creative, and artistically gifted. I can barely draw stick figures, and I can't really carry a tune; people who have artistic talents have a kind of genius that will never be within my grasp. Book smarts I'm somewhat familiar with, but artistic gifts I will never be able to fully fathom, and it's that kind of mystery that holds me in awe. So for several months, Shysmile was somewhat adrift in that state of being where love is uncertain, where life is bearable but painted over with a thin wash of sorrow, and where it's easy enough to smile, or party, and have friends, but still feel somewhat lost. The ether of melancholy colors life's troubles as well... anything that's not going well seems faintly magnified, in the way that an infection will cause even a superficial scrape to redden and become tender. Of this land, M.Mellow is a permanent resident, and I know its contours well. Would that I had no neighbors at all. But back to Shysmile - she summed up her situation in a way straightforward enough for many of us to understand: "No one I like, likes me. And the people who do like me, I don't feel romantically attracted to." For several of those months - I'm not sure how many, being more or less an outside observer - she had a crush on someone she works with. A crush that, as far as she knew at the time, was unrequited.

That lucky person, I'll call Chivalrous. I've had a few good conversations with Chivalrous. He's tall, handsome, humble and modest (to a degree that I almost can't believe, but it's refreshing), unpretentious, generous, and somewhat old-fashioned (which is why I call him Chivalrous). He holds a lot of the same beliefs regarding personal relationships and personal principles that I do, and I'm glad; I was starting to feel ideologically freakish. Anachronistic as our philosophies might be in this day and age, it's nice to be able to talk to someone who won't make me feel like I hold true to outdated romanticisms about love and life. Chivalrous had several women chasing after him; he didn't feel the same way about any of them. No one is to be blamed for this; love's cruel like that. For many of us, you don't like someone because she's "nice" (as some friends seem to insist I ought) or "hot" - on some level, you truly have no control over with whom you fall in love. You fall in love with someone who, for reasons you may or may not be capable of articulating, makes you feel truly alive; someone for whom you long, whose very proximity makes your heart leap. It's as though life itself acquires another dimension, and everything is suffused with emotion. Indecision and anticipation never carry the same sting in other situations. No other kind of stress is as welcome. Hope and yearning become so bittersweet that you don't know if you can bear the thought of actually breaching the question, of treading into the territory where you will know the answer: does she feel the same way? And you are content, but only barely, to let the wishful thinking continue because even the slightest hint of its intoxicating caress is enough to sustain you for another day. Chivalrous tried not to hurt anyone's feelings, but apparently women these days can be very... aggressive, and Chivalrous was losing incredible amounts of sleep trying to extricate himself from the situation while doing the least damage possible. Rejection is as bitter a pill as arsenic; when caught in a spot like this, there's no chance you won't inflict some harm. The best you can do is take the path of lesser evil; not an easy necessity to figure or face for someone who's good of heart, unselfish, and inexperienced. This isn't something Chivalrous had much experience with, despite being an attractive person (moreso than I think he realizes). Through the whole thing, though (which lasted the better part of at least two months, maybe longer), Chivalrous was very attracted to Shysmile. Given his, um... awkward personal situation, however, there wasn't *that* much time to get to know each other. Interested - and caring - third parties intervened, on a number of subtle levels.

Dare I call it a courtship? They're both so shy! It's very cute. They couldn't make eye contact easily. So much trepidation, so much apprehension. It was only tonight that they held hands in the presence of mutual friends. They even seemed giddy about it. As I said - it's refreshingly old-fashioned... I didn't know love still happened this way. I've become far too much of a cynic for my own well-being. Speaking on a purely superficial level, they are, quite simply, the most attractive couple I've ever seen. As to them as people, I love their personalities; both are sweet, thoughtful, and self-deprecating. Chivalrous' life will be made easier if everyone knows he's taken. (And Chivalrous has never had a girlfriend before, which is fairly surprising to me since I can only guess he's about 21 or 22.) Shysmile's life will be made easier because Chivalrous seems like the kind of person who really can make everything better just by being there. (Not that he'd just be standing around, mind you. He's a very attentive boyfriend.) Though they seem more than a little embarassed by the amount of recognition (including much accompanying applause), they also seem to be relieved at being surrounded by so much support and approval. Is that a prerequisite? No. But it at least ought to assuage any fears they might have about not being good enough for the other, or any suspicions that the attraction is one-sided.

M.Mellow departs with a smile on his face and tears in his heart. I am both sad and filled with a sort of impish glee; hardly ambivalent, however, as I know all of what I'm feeling and why I'm feeling it.

Perhaps I'm an insufferable cynic, but tonight? Well, tonight I'll say - Sometimes, in love, the right thing does happen. And nothing else I've ever known breathes so much life into the dying embers of a cynic's heart.

Vacuous Mirth

Well, not really. Relatively frivolous posts like these aren't my style, but I like to think I'm not so stuffy that I can't just be simple and silly sometimes. Life's too painful to bear being taken seriously all the time ;)


Magister Mundi sum!
"I am the Master of the Universe!"
You are full of yourself, but you're so cool you
probably deserve to be. Rock on.


Which Weird Latin Phrase Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

I don't think I'm full of myself. Perhaps I'm somewhat self-absorbed, which strikes me as a fault, but... ah, hell... shouldn't get too bent out of shape/self-analytical over a webquiz. There's too much else to worry about these days.

take care, all...

love our leaders

especially when they say things like this:

from http://www.cnn.com/2004/ALLPOLITICS/02/18/bush.marriage.ap/index.html

"I strongly believe marriage should be defined as between a man and a woman," Bush said during an Oval Office session with Tunisian President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali. "I am troubled by activist judges who are defining marriage."

"People need to be involved in this decision," Bush said. "Marriage ought to be defined by the people not by the courts. And I'm watching it carefully."

How about trying this one on for size? Presidency ought to be defined by the people, not by the courts. Given that our current president didn't exactly win the popular vote or anything, and was awarded the tiebreak by the highest court in our land. Separation of powers aside, the statement smacks of ingratitude.

Granted, presidency is defined in the Constitution, and our courts have the duty of interpreting that Constitution. I guess he knows enough to see that it would basically take a Consitutional Amendment to achieve the vision he's after. I guess, living so close to SF, I don't see what the big deal is. Matter of perspective.

Speed Bump

One of the many things that makes professional school different from undergraduate school is the age range of the student population. Lots of people here seem to have impending 25th birthdays.

That can be a bad one if you don't see it coming. I'm not yet thirty, though I will be once I graduate... but since most people think of thirty as one of the more dreadful birthdays (i.e. no longer able to euphemize one's standing as a 'young adult,' mid-life crisis looming in the background, incessant ticking of biological clock. etc.), 25 shows up without too much prior apprehension or appreciation. But 25 allows you to rent a car (in California) and call yourself a quarter-century old.

'Quarter-century' is the melodramatic way of describing that 25-year mark. Natural thoughts include, "Wow, I'm 25. What have I accomplished? Am I anywhere near my dreams? My parents are telling me to get married," and so on and so forth. There's also a fair bit of anxiety as well - a lot of people around here seem to have been hoping to be well on the way to accomplishing their amibitions or dreams at this age, however unrealistic that might be for most of us. That perceived 'failure' to reach those goals by this 'ripe old age' is what causes that stress, of course. The temptation to chortle, "Oh, grow up..." is overwhelming. Some people 'make it' by 25, but fortune is not nearly so generous with most of us. We'll do things on the best schedule that we can. That's all.

Even so, I tell them, "25's not so bad, as long as you see it coming. Evaluate where you are, understand the reasons, and then it won't bother you. It's only when you can't see it coming that it floors you. Otherwise, you'll know when to duck."

Wisdom? No. But it's no use to be so overwrought.

Uncharacteristic

I don't usually blog about anything political here. Those are the kind of thoughts I like to keep to myself, partially because I don't find many people who agree with my political beliefs (I'm very much a moderate; I'm only an extremist when it comes to criminal punishment, and even then, only jestingly), and I don't like starting unnecessary arguments; political debates, in my experience, accomplish relatively little. You're either talking to a receptive person, or you're up against a brick wall, and the latter is more likely than the former. The converse is also true; few people go into a political conversation willing to be swayed.

Hearing that Saddam Hussein had been captured made for a curious moment, however. At first, I didn't believe it. I figured they were never going to catch him, just like they haven't managed to capture Bin Laden. Did the news make me happy? I suppose on some level it did. You'll excuse me for not weeping when his sons were slain, and for feeling no sympathy when their bullet and shrapnel-punctured corpses were shaved and displayed on TV. A bad end for bad people. May their souls dance over hot coals for all time.

But ultimately, this war, this capture, these deaths - I'm not certain that the administration's war on terror will really bring terror to an end. I don't think terror will *ever* end, so long as people hate each other, and I'm too cynical to believe that there will ever be a day that humans stop hating each other. We're like ants; our nature is to hoard material possessions and to slay one another in covetous fits of jealousy. Smeagol and Deagol fighting over the One Ring. One of us dies, and the other gets turned into a wretched thing cursed to forever hoard its corrupting treasure. Excuse me for saying this, but the only thing that's going to get human beings to stop hating each other is something ridiculous in the extreme, say, an alien invasion a la Independence Day, whereupon we can all agree that we hate someone else even more than we hate each other.

Out here in Berkeley, I get rather tired of hearing about the constant tensions between Israeli and Palestinian sympathizers having trouble being heard, and watching the issue dance like a hot potato between student groups and law school functions on campus. Their hatred for each other is intense, with missiles being fired in one direction and suicide bombs running toward discoes on the other; the American interference is unwelcome. "Butt out of our business and let us go on hating each other. Your super-powered meddling will not change how we feel about one another." I've lost track of the number of cease-fires those people have had over the past decade, and I remember a time earlier this year when a CNN poll reported the American public's jaded reaction to yet another peace accord in the Holy Land: 70% believed that the ceasefire wouldn't even last the month. One student at Berkeley, a staunch Palestinian supporter, tried to convert me to his side of the debate over lunch. I asked him if he would be willing to hand his family home over, forevermore with no strings attached, to whichever Native American tribe once ranged over the soil on which it was built. He didn't see the parallel.

Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein... they and people like them will rise to power and lead themselves and others to ruin in the name of their own hypocritical causes. Even if the administration manages to oust one from power, another will rise in the future, so long as anyone has any reason to resent any other person. None of this is surprising; the only tragic thing is that so many of the foot soldiers who die on either side of these conflicts often do so believing that they're doing the right thing.

I don't think everything's relative. There are clearly good people and bad people, and however you might want to dance around the fuzzy lines and the gray areas, I will never back down from the belief that the people who act on simple desires of selfishness and self-gratification at the great expense of others are the ones who are the most evil. Those are the people who contribute nothing to the world around them, only taking and never giving. They survive only at everyone else's sufferance, for without meek or unknowing victims, they would never find sustenance.

And as hopeless a picture as I may be painting on this blog entry, on this day of all days, it's exactly the reason why I think it's important never to give in to forces like that. The struggle may be an endless and inevitable one. But there are people who, despite their other flaws are still motivated by compassion and the will to defend the helpless from harm. If they give up the will to fight for themselves and to protect other people, the fight will be all over, and the cynics will have been proven right again.

They caught him, and that's good news. If nothing else, it's good news for Bush's election prospects (of which the less I have to say, the better). But the war on terror, necessary or unnecessary as it may be (for I do not truly know the answer to that), is just another escalation in the endless struggle between colonies of red and black ants. The answer to this kind of struggle seems to lie beyond the wisdom and ability of the people who hold all the power in this world. It certainly lies beyond mine.

M. Mellow was off the grid

I'm convalescing at home at the moment. That's overly dramatic, of course, but this second year of law school has been very busy, such that I've been writing and studying about 14 hours per day for the past two months, weekends included, and I had no energy left for blogging. Given my limited readership, I'm sure my absence has hardly meant anything but to a few people. (To those of you who it meant something to, you have my simultaneous thanks and apologies. I'm still alive, that's all I dare say for the moment.)

The semester started off unhappily enough, with loneliness and job-hunting taking their toll. As a coddled native Californian, I'm spoiled when it comes to the weather and thus don't transplant well to other climes; I didn't insist on finding an internship in the Bay Area, but that's the way the interview process turned out. The interviews themselves weren't horribly grueling... I've been through job interviews before, and a 20-minute interview, though it has its attendant difficulties, is nothing like a 6-hour technical interview replete with enough programming questions to suffice for an undergraduate computer science final. Nothing like a difficult economic climate to make for stressful job hunting. When the economy got sucked down the whirlpool at the end of shit creek, a lot of us engineering types just happened to be lashed to the bowsprit on the Nantucket Sleigh Ride to hell.

No bitterness in the end, though - the job search came and went, and I have an internship for the next summer. The first half of the semester - at least as far as mid-October, anyway - was defined mostly by having to put classwork to the side for the sake of the upcoming summer, and by running around for a couple of weeks on end jumping in and out of business suits for interviews and civvies for study. It was necessary, ultimately successful, and not a whole lot of fun. Plus, hearing about half of my friends announce wedding engagements wasn't doing anything for my mood. I'm not a selfish person, and I feel happy for all said friends, but when I'm handling 18-hour days at school wallowing in solitude and unappreciation, hearing about everyone else's happy relationships rubs a little unintentional salt into the wound. (Well, one friend broke up with her boyfriend and that was quite sad... she took it well enough, but it seems to be further proof of how hard law school can be on relationships. People either get married and stick it through, or break up. There doesn't seem to be much middle ground.) Well, no matter. Like I said - it was the first half of the semester, and it wasn't fun... but when that was over, I more or less dropped off the face of the earth in a struggle to get all my papers written. If I were any less a compulsive student, it would have been flat-out impossible for me.

I made a bunch of new friends in the second half of the semester, though (Mostly outside the law school), and felt like I had managed to reclaim some sort of life - and youth - for myself in the month and a half preceding finals. Those two months seemed about as long as an entire year, which scarcely surprises me given the raw number of hours I had to stay awake and working. But it was a fun year. I watched a lot of movies and listened to a lot of cantopop and jpop. I did a lot of writing, ate a lot of warm porridge, and drank a lot of tea. By the time finals rolled around, I was on top of my work and happier than I'd been in years. Someone had once asked me what it was like having Berkeley as an alma mater, and the best analogy I could come up with was that it was like having a horrible ex-girlfriend that you still loved anyway (not that I could speak from personal experience). It's nice to come back here, as a graduate student, and feel like I had found the home that I never found here as an undergraduate.

I've found a home. Things aren't so bad... no, not by a long shot :)

Section 2 of 4. Hurry now

The sword sweeps across and tucks, the trailing flag makes a rippling sound as the blade comes to rest along the length of my arm. I pause for a moment, extended in stance. What seems like three seconds of waiting is probably more like one... if we unconsciously keep time by heartbeats, that would explain it.


Niceties of motion - the tempo is something that takes a lot of work to learn. In the beginning, most wushu students do everything more or less at the same speed, even if they’re conscious about the need for varied timing. When you're just trying to remember the movements, it's hard to worry about too much else, but you still don't want to learn any bad habits. With more experience, most of us just start trying to do everything as fast as we can, which isn't exactly right either. The body may be a marvelous natural machine, but achieving speed is something you do after you understand body mechanics. I'm anything but an athlete... stuff like that takes me forever to learn. 10 years of training, and I know some people who've learned what I have in less than half the time. Other people take much longer... I seem to be just about in the middle.

It's natural to try, unconsciously or not, to cut corners in the movements in order to move from one motion to the next. It's counterproductive; if your center of gravity isn't in the right place, or if you haven't completed the full trajectory of the preparatory sweep, or taken the time to exhale at the right moment, you haven't built up enough energy and haven't gotten your body into the right position. Any speed you might have gained by cutting corners is outstripped; if you spend more time applying acceleration ultimately your velocity is higher. Crash courses and Cliff's Notes don't usually make PhD's or master theoreticians; sometimes, if you want something real, you really do have to put the time into it. It's strange and sad that the human psyche - or at least our social conditioning - seems to prefer convenience and expediency over substance and care. It's rather institutionalized... as a society we are addicted to speed. Once upon a time, a word processing document could take about 15 seconds to load - 10 seconds to load the processor and 5 to read the file. Nowadays, if a document doesn't flash onto the screen in less than 5 seconds, we get impatient. We are constantly feeding, and constantly inventing, around our addiction to speed.

The moment of silence transitions quietly into a coil and charge – there are four steps, accelerating gradually from a poised stance into a controlled run that culminates with a leap that fills your ears with the rush of wind. The metal rings from two flying stabs, both before and behind..

Don't get me wrong - speed's a good thing. Ultimately it means either more time, or more productivity. It's just that our craving for it is so fixated on the short term. Instant gratification. It's probably also why the retention rate in wushu is so poor - this stuff takes a long time to get good at. There's an urge to learn quickly, the faster the better - and the pressure of the clock is a real factor as well. It's hard not to feel rushed when you understand that there are few people over the age of 30 who can do this sport much at all.

It’s a choice. Not a very conscious one perhaps, but it seems we’re always racing the clock. Life is short, after all. Software’s a good example – nothing’s advanced so quickly in so short a time, but most products are replete with bugs. The people who code for NASA do things differently – since lives are on the line, they’re very professional, incredibly meticulous, and remind themselves daily that they need to have a different mindset from other corporate coders – they’re intense, they’re not young, and they wear suits to work. The faster, looser culture of the dot-com bubble may have dissipated somewhat, but I remember a time when programmers came to work toting inline skates and wearing shorts and sweatshirts, proud of their new-school hipness, eccentrically adorned cubicles, and their deconstruction of the perceived uptight, old-boys-club stodginess of stereotypical business culture. They were the rock stars of the new economy.

Version 1.0. Version 1.1. Version 1.11. Version 1.20. Version 2.0. The yearning for speed is made manifest in the rush of the software development cycle. The buglists for software products are incredible; a product may have thousands of bugs, but it gets rushed to market anyway. “We’ll fix it in the next release.” Sometimes it’s irresponsibility at work, but usually it’s not – it’s an artifact of our desire for speed. First-to-market often wins, so you can’t let your competition get ahead of you; if someone else gets to market and the consumer base gets acquainted with its product first, you lose, even if your product is better and more bug-free. It’s a lot of work to make up on a lost lead, because people like familiarity. You have to be much, much better than your competition to get them to change allegiance. Programmers cut corners because we wouldn’t have it any other way.

No, really, we wouldn’t. Gamers wait impatiently for the release of the next hot game or the next patch. Concerned shoppers want security holes plugged as quickly as possible. Antivirus software is an issue of urgency; “No, it can’t wait until after the weekend.” This industry – and our way of life, becoming more and more inextricably tied up with the Internet and the potential for instant access to the ever-growing sea of human knowledge – and instant accessibility of tangibles through the wonders of online shopping carts, UPS, and FedEx. The inconveniences along the way are dealt with on the fly and on the run, because things move fast and that’s the way we like it. I am of the last generation that will ever know about life before the Internet, back when phones still had cords and TV was the most interesting thing around.

I land and the world spins; I used to think about it, but I don’t now. My arms and sword whip in a circle and there is a moment of fear before I slide out into a forward split.

That’s a complex movement, actually. Thank goodness for myomer memory; there are so many pieces to the above movement but it only takes two or three seconds. That forward split at the end, though – that’s a killer. I started wushu at a rather late age (19, which is pretty old for wushu) and the little kids can do it just fine – it doesn’t hurt them at all and they just land in it like it’s nothing to them, but for me it’s not so easy. That’s always the way it is, though – someone’s always better, and someone’s always worse. I used to get treated like shit by most of my former classmates, but that was many years ago. They didn’t like my personality and my comparative inability at the sport was to them even more reason to dislike me. But I stayed, and I’ve given more back to the sport than any of them did. And a decade down the line, I’m still training. I can’t say the same for most of them. I’ve been honest with myself and I found my reasons for staying with it. That forward split is still hard, but a decade down the line, at least now I can do it.

You hold the split for show, but it’s also a chance to relax and catch your breath, as long as you don’t look like that’s why you stopped. Another one of those two-second pauses that feels like five. I’m back on my feet, slashes and footwork carrying me backwards and leading into a sword punch, a sword thrust, and a spin clear, the staccato rhythm of strikes a vivid contrast to the floor-clearing charge of only a few movements preceding.

Halfway through…

Comment

Heat makes for grumpy research assistants

We've just had something of a heat wave here in the Bay Area, and I'm not a fan of heat. It turned out to be a day spent in the library as well, and I'm none too fond of libraries, either. I have trouble concentrating in libraries... I'm one of those people who needs a certain quantity of ambient background noise in order to stay focused. (Well, to stay awake would probably be a fairer description of it.) I like studying in cafe's.

However, my job for the day included poring through the Omnibus Revision History of the 1976 Copyright Act, and the 17-volume series of bound transcripts, drafts, and comments has non-circulatory status here at the law school. Not being able to take out out of the law school, I just had to sit there and read it in the library's main reading room, which, like most of Boalt Hall, doesn't seem to have working air conditioning.

So I'm just sitting there, as happy as a mollusk at a clambake, perusing the Register's Report of 1961 (which is actually quite an amusing read at times. They do joke around a little, despite the seriousness of the business - they're human after all) and in some parts, it's like watching some of those old Cold War newsreels. There's a certain preoccupation with "commies" in general and "the Russians" in particular and how copyright law was stifling our scientific progress, etc. etc.

I'm making progress, despite a certain lack of comfort, when I hear the following addressed to me in an irritated monotone: " Could you keep the racket down, please?"

I look down. Well, well, looks like I've been turning pages. The acoustics in the reading room are less than ideal for a room in a library. There's a terrible echo in there, and you can literally hear someone turning pages a hundred feet away. If someone closes a book, coughs, pops the tab on a soda can, or clicks a pen, you're going to hear it, whether he tries to muffle it or not.

I look back up. I have no idea who the guy is, but he doesn't look like a law professor, or a lawyer for that matter. He might be a very old student with lots of body hair. Fact is, we get some strange characters in the law school with alarming frequency... but then, this is Berkeley after all, and oddballs come with the territory. As long as they're not surfing for porn on the library computers, we pretty much tolerate them.

I'm fairly irritated with this one, though, because he of all people has no cause to complain about my innocent page-turning. He had already released two rather sonorous farts in the past 15 minutes, which I did my best to ignore despite the room's reverberation and the stifling heat (which if anything, amplifies the effects of just about every kind of pollution, I'm sure). Look, dude, if you can hear me, I can most definitely hear you.

I shoot him that weapon-eye look (You know, the aforementioned "I'm going to go through you, and the guy behind you, and the guy behind him"), and go back to my reading, shoving the annoyance bubbling over in my psyche into a quieter corner of my mind. I was tempted to shell out 20 bucks and an hour of time just to photocopy the entire section I needed to read and run off to a cafe where I can read about the 1960's preoccupation with commies and copyrights over a tall, frosty glass of iced orange juice.

I ended the day with a cold shower, which felt absolutely wonderful. You know it's a hot day when a cold shower feels this good... in fact, it's still toasty in here, and I might take another one just to keep cool...

Home is where the heart is

I've done some traveling, but never for an extended period of time. The total number of days I've actually been outside California could probably be easily crammed into a single year with lots of room to spare. That said, I have several places right here in the Bay Area that I could call home. Home isn't where you spend most of your time - if that were true, a lot of people would be calling the workplace home, and for most of us, that place is anything but. Home is a place that welcomes you. There may be nothing deep about that, but then, happiness isn't always a deep thing. You could at times, have very deeply-seated philosophical foundations for a feeling of peace or contentment, and lots of people seem to go about seeking higher truths that will give them that feeling every day, all the time - religion, philosophy, yoga, etc.

I don't know much about that... but those blissfully naive moments of happiness that I'm talking about for today are those that neither arise from the Id nor derive from the Superego, and have nothing to do with a little devil or angel sitting on one's shoulder. I don't normally think about why I'm happy when I'm happy. I just am. Depression lends itself to self-analysis; depression is uncomfortable and unpleasant and makes one wonder why things have to be this way. Happiness doesn't lend itself to introspection nearly as readily; if you're happy, who cares why?

No thoughts necessary for the moment. Steam rises from a freshly poured cup of green tea. It's the second cup; as with most good (real) tea, the second brewing is better than the first; not as astringent, more flavor. This tea isn't sweetened; dessert is for later. The seat across from me is empty, attended only by a crumpled napkin and an empty teacup. A friend of mine was just sitting there. We'd been talking pleasantly for hours but it was time for her to hurry back; plane to catch back to Southern California. "Don't worry about the bill; I've got it this time."

I take a sip and lean back into the wicker chair, which creaks slightly. These chairs see a lot of use, and a few of them need repairing. It's all good - it's not going to collapse with me in it. I haven't seen this room very often in the past year, and it's nice to be here again. So many memories, and all crafted within a few years? I'm not sure. It might have been two. It might have been six, but that's all beside the point. Time is a poor measure of things. The two years I've spent working have so far been the fastest years of my life, because they were so repetitive. But a year spent in school seems to last much longer, mostly in a good way. I might have been coming to this place every day for a year, or only once every few months, but the only thing that's really different about some of these visits is the intensity of nostalgia that accompanies walking through the door. And after that, it's home. I wrote most of my law school applications here. I've often come here after work, to take tea and a nap. I read the first four Harry Potter books sitting at the table on the other side of the room. I've been brought here by friends, and I've brought friends here. I sometimes study for finals here, too. That collection of little books on the shelf - I've read them all. I know the menu inside and out. This place is a little like a bar for people who don't drink beer. Even if the analogy isn't a strong one, it's Cheers to me.

Here, I'm not so much a law student, a martial artist, an engineer, or an economist, as I am myself. If places could get up from a table and give hugs, this would be one of them.

Section 1 of 4. Things I think I've learned.

Hands down, sword at rest position in left. Deep breath. Relax, turn slightly right.

Who knew relaxing could be so much work? It is, but it isn't. However hokey and cliche'd the old yin-yang philosophy may seem, it's stayed around because it made sense. There's a lot of ridiculous mysticism that surrounds the martial arts, but this isn't part of it. It isn't Magic. It isn't Truth. It's just the way things are, without a hint of pretentiousness. In wushu, you relax so that you can generate power. It actually helps you move faster, not slower. It may seem counterintuitive at first, not to put every last ounce of strength into a strike or a stance, but there's a point of negative returns; tense muscle fibers create resistance and friction; your sword point, fist, or kick reaches the target faster when you're not fighting yourself. It's not a floppy, weak-limbed motion either, though - ideally, you don't shake at the end from a sudden stop; you know where the move starts, and where it ends. It should slide right into place, a metered motion. I don't know all the details, but part of it is pure efficiency; removing wasted movement. If you tense, and anticipate, your body becomes committed to a particular course of motion. Worse yet, the tension suffusing your body makes your center of gravity rigid and actually roots you to the spot; it's no wonder that motion afterwards becomes less than natural. Tensing up also telegraphs your next move... I think it's one of those things that, in a sparring match, your opponent could probably sense.

Eyes sharp right, as the right hand rises palm up. Snap left, right hand returns, sword presents, but still at left.
Pause, but stay fluid
Right-slap-kick-clear-both-arms-left-foot-back-drop:-cat-stance

Eyes and timing. Two things that really stand out when you're doing wushu. If the eyes are the window to the soul, they're a window into your own fears as well... vulnerability, timidity, strength, or resolve. The first time someone told me that your eyes are as much a weapon as your hands or your blade, I had trouble taking the comment seriously. I think I'm beginning to understand, though. It's kind of like basic street-smarts; thugs and crooks are lazy like most human beings. They prefer easier targets. If you look like you're going to be more trouble than you're worth - if you look like you have an escape route, if you look like you can run fast, if you look like you're not preoccupied, if you don't look like you'd be a deer in the headlights when they try to jump you, they'll wait for a more hapless target. They've got time; they don't have jobs. There's no rush. They're like tells in poker; and when you're doing your forms, there's some of that essence there too. It alters the perception of everything else you do. If you do your forms with unfocused eyes, the judges (and your peers) can tell. If you look at the ceiling all the time, you look like you're always trying to remember what move comes next. Ditto if you gaze at the floor. If there's no ferocity in your gaze, it makes you look like you're moving even slower - like you're not putting any effort into the routine, or worse, like you're half asleep. All the same, you also try not to sneer or look constipated... that's not too attractive either. The ideal is an aggressive, combative gaze that's not too overwrought; the feeling is not so much a frenzied I'm going to kill you!! so much as a forbidding yet calm, I'm going to go straight through you, and then the guy behind you, and then the guy behind him.

The timing's also harder to grasp than I would have guessed. This was true when I started, 10 years ago, and it was still true last year. So many nuances, so many details. When you read the form in a book, you can't see the timing. This is one of the reasons why learning martial arts may always be a tradition of master and student; without someone to watch, to constantly evaluate your improving performance, it's hard to know exactly where to vary the timing. If you do everything at full blast, and at the same speed, tension inevitably builds due to the nonstop exertion and accumulation of fatigue. The pauses give you a moment to refocus, to catch your breath, and to shed the excess tension so that you can maintain a good average speed throughout the form, rather than starting out with power and ending with exhaustion. The balance of relaxation and explosive speed, or exhalation and rest, is one of the things that seems to make for good wushu. Always that balance. That includes treating your body right when you're not practicing... if your body needs nutrition, go out and eat some good food. Make sure you get your vitamins. Get enough sleep. Don't work out to the point of self-destruction; if you need to rest or heal, then take the time out and do it. A day off from practice may feel like a delay; two months out due to an injury is much worse. Macho posturing doesn't pay when your body's health is on the line.

Remember to breathe
*slam* *leap* *land*
clear block, palm strike. Transfer sword to right hand, and flower behind.
Eyes return forward, left hand readies... slow rise, back, and then forward

I'm no expert... three years doing this form, and there are details in the above I learned just last week.
Hm. All of that motion, and only now does the sword make its way to the right hand.

Fastest part of the set. Forward step. Thrust. *Snap*
Turn, coil, swing left, right, coil, left, right, step right, arm-clearing flower, horizontal, reassert center stance, vertical flower, stand up, thrust skyward. *Snap*

Kids have the advantage in this part of the set. Come to think of it, kids have the advantage in all aspects of the sport, except possibly maturity. They have energy to spare, so the niceties of the whip-and-relax balance of motion are sometimes lost on them. They don't feel fatigue the way we do. It's still one of the most visually impressive parts of the set, though - especially to people who don't know wushu. All they see is an explosion of movement. Once, at a demonstration, I went into this part of the set and someone in the front row made some kind of surprised squeaking noise. I nearly lost my concentration at that...

clear stance, transfer sword to rest position, running start, jump-front-kick
retrieve sword, jump-inside-crescent kick
land, sword behind, left arm blocks skyward
stance rises, sword readied along right arm
flower, jump, turn, land, aggressive circle slash left and right, chamber and coil behind right shoulder
straightsword cloud flourish, return forward, slowly clearing block
Thrust forward *Snap* Relax Thrust left, open posture *Snap*

1st section done. Don't forget to breathe.

Hmm. Needs work...

Birthday Solitude

It's really quite easy to be alone in law school, if you want. Particularly if you don't drink and spend lots of time trying to keep up with the reading.

My birthday's this weekend, and although I'm not generally a fan of solitude... for the first time in a long time, I think I'd like to spend this one alone. I need a moment in time to pretend that I'm the only person in the world... or at least, to have a day entirely to myself.

I can't name a single person here at law school. (As in, "single") Every last person I know here is either married, has a fiancee, or a significant other. It's a wonderful thing, of course - but the one thing that's inescapable is that it seems, in every conversation that lasts more than a few minutes, matters concerning said spouse/fiancee/significant inevitably arises in conversation, almost without exception. I'm glad people are happy, I really am. And if they're having problems, I've always been willing to lend an ear.

It grates a little bit, though. I don't think people really understand that. I can tell them, and they can nod their heads and tell me they empathize, but not a single person I know here at the law school has ever quite grasped it.

"Oh, it's good to see how happy you are :) "
internally, demon says: just another reminder of how single >you've< been, eh? heh heh heh

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you're having problems... do you want to talk about it?"
internally, demon says: oh, listen to them whine... they're just going to tell you how awful and how much trouble it is to have a significant other, oh woe is them...

"You haven't dated in 3 months, and being alone sucks? Yeah, I hear ya..." internally, demon says: oh, f*cking cry me a river and drown in it, will you? 3 months is nothing, try *never*, *forever*. Try being told that you were never good enough for anyone. Can't take a year alone? Try ten. Try more.

But it's the natural topic of conversation. It's so close to everyone's lives. Friends share their joys, their hopes, their dreams, their fears, their disappointments, their triumphs, their confusion... they share these things with me *because* we're friends. If I were a stranger, I would not be privy to these thoughts and musings. If I were a stranger, my reaction wouldn't matter. It is only because I am a friend that there is a wish, or a need, or desire for them to share various aspects of their lives with me. Sometimes they want feedback. Sometimes, they just want someone to listen. But I count it as one of my personal bits of damage that every mention of this particular topic stings me a little bit. Almost every substantive conversation with a friend, therefore, leads to a little prod with the pitchfork. It's not the friend's fault - it's the demon who's doing the digging. (Think I'm oversensitive? Try reopening a wound regularly over the course of 10 years. No one with even half a heart left would have skin thick enough to be pricked so and not bleed.)

I don't want to tell them this. It would drive a wedge into our friendships. It would lead to awkward silences, hesitation, and interest-kill in conversations. If they knew that they were causing me discomfort just by *talking* about it, they would perhaps not talk to me at all. And then I would be truly alone, moreso than now. If my friends had to tiptoe around my feelings every time we talked, we certainly wouldn't talk as much - and my companionship would lose a lot of value, I'm certain of that.

The patience to deal with this is part of the price of friendship. It's a price I pay regularly, the wages and toll of the deeper bonds that reach farther than casual camaraderie. On net, we all come out ahead. It's just that lately... it's come to a head, and I find that, for just this one birthday perhaps, I find myself with this strange feeling...

That which I've never wanted, that which I've hated, that which, for every day in the last ten years or more I've wished away with all my might... is what I want for my birthday.

Just for a day, to be alone.

Small Wishes

I wish a cup of hot chocolate really could cure everything. I wish life were that simple.

I wish that I had more time now, to spend with the people I love most.

I wish that I could have saved myself the experience of grade school.

I wish that I could feel safe again, warm again. To know in my heart of hearts that everything will be all right at the end of the day.

I wish life could be so accomodating, that life could be less cruel, period - for everyone, especially those whose lives put our most horrible nightmares to shame.

But it seems, if you're standing around waiting for life to be nice to you, you're wasting your time. Oh, it happens, for some people - but I don't think you can demand it. Being deserving or undeserving seems to have nothing to do with it. You can take the credit or the blame for a lot of things, but windfall is windfall. You can bemoan bad luck or quietly appreciate good fortune. Maybe someone, somewhere, is listening. And maybe the Universe doesn't have ears.

I wish I could believe otherwise.

"And yer out!"

The Supreme Court recently upheld California's Three-Strikes Law. (3 strikes and you're out - on one's third conviction for a felony and certain classes of 'serious misdemeanors,' there is a mandatory sentence for 25 years to life.) This has gotten most of my law school, including many of the professors, into a (mild) uproar, evinced mostly by indignation, disgust, and a certain amount of good-natured and not-so-good-natured derision of the Supreme Court.

I can't help but think that the reaction is, in some ways, a knee-jerk response. That's not to say that the intuition is incorrect - I tend to agree; the three-strikes-law is a crude and blunt instrument unworthy of the sanction of law. What disturbs me is that here, at one of the nation's top-ten law schools, that the opinions I've heard scarcely scratch the surface of any sort of analysis, impassioned or dispassionate; they're reactionary. And we're the people who're supposed to be thinking about this stuff.

The Three-Strikes Law entered codification here in California shortly after the trial of Richard Allen Davis, a disgusting and entirely morally defunct, beastly predator who had kidnapped and murdered Polly Klaas, whose age hadn't even reached the double digits at the time. Davis not only failed to show any remorse; he smiled and grinned on camera and gave liberal doses of the double-deuce to the television cameras, in full defiance of the stature of the legal system and in unwholesome spite towards the rise of public outrage. Any sentence short of death was probably too good for this animal, and enough of the state apparently agreed, to the point that they voted in the Three-Strikes Law in the heat of righteous passion. If I recall correctly, many people were quoted as suggesting that torture, perhaps, should be made legal again. How frighteningly like the Roman Mob we remain, in our modern and information-driven age.

But with the Supreme Court's ruling, not more than a week ago, all I hear now is outrage, that the Supreme Court would even dare to uphold a statute that is so clearly unconstitutional. The poster children of the inherent injustice of the three-strikes law: Gary Ewing, ill with AIDS, who was sentenced 25 to life for stealing three golf clubs from a country club, petty theft; and Leandro Andrade, sentenced to 50 years for stealing four videotapes.

Outrageous. Grossly Disproportionate. Unconscionable and flagrant disregard for the 8th Amendment's ban against 'cruel and unusual punishment.' Yes, indeed, 25 to life is cruel and unusual punishment for stealing three golf clubs, and 50 years is entirely out of proportion to the value of four stolen videotapes (well, assuming that they're four relatively ordinary videotapes.) These were the cases brought before the Supreme Court; as such, their outcomes have shocked and violated our sense of fair play, and our faith in the sanctity of our Constitutional rights. It's barely short of the ancient practice of punishing theft by amputation of the thief's hands. This is the angle much of the media seems to take on it, anyway.

Yes, this is ridiculous. But before we start grabbing torches and kindling for the great Witch Roast, let's think for a moment about our relationship to our courts, and especially the Supreme Court.

The judicial system is often criticized for yielding verdicts so narrow as to hardly clarify or define the law in any substantive way. Judges are painted as being too timid and too gutless to make wider, more sweeping verdicts based on the 'common sense' of the ordinary citizen, creating a morass of tiny rules circumscribing only tight sets of ridiculously specific fact patterns. In response, scholarship and judicial opinion alike often cite the need for 'Legislative Deference,' reminding anyone who'll listen of the fact that the Legislature makes the law, and the courts only purport to interpret it much of the time; that if the country wants change, it is up to the Vote and up to the State; it is not the purpose of the courts to make our laws, only to generate the common law as necessary to patch the gaps that riddle the words of our codes and statutes.

"Courts work on a 'molecular' scale; vast sweeping declarations of law are not the ambit of the judicial system."

"It is better to let ten guilty men go free than to wrongly convict one innocent man."

Standard maxims in legal scholarship. We prefer to err on the side of caution. The Supreme Court makes what appears to be a sweeping decision, however, and all of a sudden, our criticism of the courts' conservative habits vanishes and we demand the opposite of them. "Topple the Three-Strikes-Law! It's Unconstitutional!" Sure it is, but it's not wholly inconsistent with past rulings the court has made about the sovereignty of the state's ability to define crime. Patterson v. New York and Mullaney v. Wilbur discuss instances where the Supreme Court gives deference to State statutes. The State, after all, has much of the power to decide what constitutes a crime in its jurisdiction and what does not. (Look at Nevada for a moment, if you need an example.) California had decided - no, in a sense, many of us had decided - that the commission of three felonies in any shape, form, or combination was itself a crime punishable by 25 years to life. We made this rule: "3 crimes = a 4th, separate crime." We were within our rights... subject to 'obvious constitutional limitations,' of course. That's what Patterson said, anyway. The Court seems to be saying that there are some mistakes it won't fix for us - namely, those which are our job to fix for ourselves; how dare we impose our views on a Three-Strikes Law upon another state in the nation?

The problem with the Three-Strikes Law is not so much that the Supreme Court was wrong in letting us have our 'way,' even if it was a way chosen in a moment of justifiable outrage. The problem is that situations like the two outlined in the recent decision reveal it for what it is - too blunt an instrument. It lacks surgical precision. You can't use a broadsword to excise cancers and expect not out to cut out innocent flesh. One of the motivations behind the Three-Strikes Law is the fifty-yard rule: to deter illicit behavior by proscribing a circle of 'possibly bad' behavior around it wide enough to keep people from even taking the risk. Looking at it from the Richard Allen Davis view, the Three-Strikes Law is a fifty-yard rule. Looking at it from the Ewing and Andrade view, it's a 50-mile law, inflicting more harm on society than good. (Note, however, that even a 50 mile rule was not enough to keep these dimwits from doing that they did. That's one reason why the law is ineffective in many situations, wide proscriptions notwithstanding.) This is the dividing line that the rule fails to capture; it is a bad law because it punishes in excess, and violates the intuition behind the legal maxims listed above.

There is something behind the Three-Strikes Law that probably has the bearing of a good rule; that repeat offenders are bad human beings who need to be rehabilitated or contained lest they continue to wrongfully and maliciously assail, wound, and victimize the innocent members of society. The Three-Strikes Law was passed in part because the punishments for many felonies simply weren't serious enough; an offender knew what he was in for, knew the price he'd pay, and was apparently okay with it. The same old punishment simply didn't have any bite on a hardened criminal.

Even as relatively law-abiding citizens, most of us are familiar with the concept on a lighter scale and do not object to it; too many speeding tickets, and your license gets revoked. The first ticket is just a slap on the wrist. A second ticket carries a sterner warning, both from the DMV and your insurance company. Keep it up, and the state shakes its head and tells you that you shouldn't be on the road. We don't generally complain about that. We find it fair. It makes sense that a 'repeat offender' may need to be corralled for the moment, that the threat of a more weighty, permanent punishment is necessary to keep people more in line; what else would deter a chronic speeder who has all the money he needs to pay for the speeding tickets? What right does a road maniac have to endanger the rest of us on the highways simply because he's rich enough to pay for the privilege? The idea of ramping up the penalty doesn't seem so unreasonable.

But in many instances of criminal law, this principle is not applied. In Smallwood v. State, the accused was an HIV-positive ex-convict who knew about his status, who knew that AIDS is deadly, and who had been told that it was imperative that, if he were ever to engage in sexual intercourse, that he use a condom lest he infect his partners. This son of a bitch promptly went out and raped three separate women. His evil ass was dragged into court and he was charged with three counts of 2nd degree murder. He was acquitted of all three; the court determined that, not only was he merely motivated by the desire to rape, and not the desire to murder, but that even considering that he knowlingly raped these women knowing that there were a chance that he'd infect them - the likelihood in each case was not enough to uphold a conviction.

In other words, the murder counts were dismissed because, individually and separately, the probability of infection and subsequent death by AIDS was not significant enough.

We argued this one in class; if the chance of infection were 50%, infection was as likely as not. We took it that this meant: a 50% chance would generally not be enough to prove knowledge of murderous consequences beyond a reasonable doubt. I was particularly upset; the fact that he'd done this three times in a row raised the overall probability of infecting at least one of his victims to 87.5%. If it were me, I'd have convicted this guy of one count of 2nd degree murder or attempted murder, and even that's rounding down from the expected number of infections, 1.5. But because the court viewed each crime as separate, and not reflective upon or relevant to each other, it decided that none of these three incidents would amount to a conviction. It is for reasons such as this that I think that crimes should not be viewed in clean, padded rooms wholly separate from one another; they are all a part of the same person, as surely as Mother Teresa's saintliness is greater than any one individual act of kindness she performed in her life.

The Three-Strikes Law is heavy-handed, not even-handed. But the result in Smallwood is no less vile to me.

But how are we ever to come up with a better rule, if all we are ruled by is passion? Passion and thought, in equal parts. Justice must be devoid of neither.