Maybe you should have just named me Cordelia. But I'm glad you didn't.

April 25th.

Today would have been my mother's birthday. She would have turned 47.

April 25 was one of the first dates I ever learned to remember. I remember when I was little, I asked my mom one year how old she was, but I had already forgotten when her birthday came around again the following year and she had refused to tell me her age again. Of course, eventually I just remembered her year of birth and calculated from that whenever I lost count. I teased her when she hit 40. And then I stopped writing or mentioning her age, even though I would secretly tell my friends because then they would be impressed at how young my mom was.

I also made her a card every year, and she would stick them on the wall, just above her bedpost, or on her bedroom door. I had a phase during my early teenage years when I really liked to do amateur graphic design, so I would make tacky graphics on Adobe Photoshop and print them out for her... she liked those too. After I went to university, her birthday would always fall in between my final exam period, but I would still go shopping for her birthday present without fail.

It's a special feeling, shopping for your mother. There really are limited ways you can give back to your mother for all that she's done. Shopping for her gift always served as a kind of activity in which I could reflect on how thankful I was to her, and how I really can't give back anything that would be enough to match what she's given me all these years. That is, life itself, and unconditional love.

Facebook decided to remind me that it was my mother's birthday today, too. Seeing her name on the side bar after midnight, I clicked on it. I was one of those kids that kind of enjoyed having their parent on Facebook--I thought having a mom that knew how to use the computer and even had Facebook was pretty cool. Even though she never really used it. Her profile today is the same as always, void of activity except for me and my aunt wishing her a happy birthday every year. In 2009, I sent her "lots of love". In 2010, I asked her if she was using the bag I gave her--ah, that's right, I sent her a handbag by mail for her birthday last year.

I don't know why I do this to myself, looking to breaking my own heart over and over again, doing stuff like looking at her Facebook page, at our past messages to each other, our emails... it's a shame we don't really have pictures together. It's probably my fault. I was a rebel child until the end, reluctant to even say "I love you" most of the time. Even though I did love her so very much... I just couldn't put it into words. Why is it always so hard to say what you mean?

When she lay in bed at the hospital during the last few days of her life... I kept telling her, I love you, I love you, I love you. As if I could make up for all those times that I didn't say it to her. For all those times she wanted to hear it, but I had foolishly valued my own pride over a few very simple but powerful words. If perchance she had been happy to hear those words from me towards the end of her life... why had I not given her many more days of happiness before that, when I could have easily done so?

Only my mother would ever forgive someone as twisted and ugly as I am. And so she did, many, many times.

But this kind of unconditional relationship doesn't exist anymore for me, not in this world. I am only left with memories of such an incomparable love, and all I can do now is to keep these memories close. It breaks my heart every time I think of it and regret continues to tear at me (as it should), but I don't ever want to forget. I mustn't forget. I can only remember.

April 25, in remembrance of my beloved mother. Happy Birthday, Mommy.

I love you.

This is perhaps the most incoherent entry I have ever written.

I recently came to realize that I've become a rather serious person. This sounds ridiculous, but I was sipping on my cup of tea at a tea salon this past Saturday, when the thought suddenly came to me: I think I'm someone who prefers to communicate in something more abstract and indirect than speech.

I was with a friend at the tea salon, and we were on the topic of how we interact with strangers and how acquaintances progress to being friends. Not that I'm selective when it comes to friends; I'm not so egotistic that I have a checklist--I actually think it's quite easy to be counted as one of my friends. Having said that though, I have very clear definitions in my mind of who is a friend and what that means to me. Maybe this is an example of my overly serious personality, but I always feel that there are responsibilities in being someone's friend.

At the tea salon, my friend was saying how she is the type of person who would be quiet on first impression, but the more she gets to know someone, the more she talks to them--which, I think, is perfectly normal. But it occurred to me as she said that, that I was the complete opposite. The less I know someone, the more I feel obliged to talk, to be entertaining, to seem pleasant. Not that I'm too unpleasant otherwise (or am I?), but in complete honestly, I'm also often a depressing existentialist who has trouble seeing things in life as anything but mundane and futile. But despite being so, nevertheless I do try hard to appreciate life in the world that I was born in and to be thankful, and the closest of my friends understand this. So it's like lighting a candle to conserve energy instead of having to turn on all the lights; the candle may cast shadows, but the important thing is, there is still light amidst the dark and that's all I really need for now.

Basically, my realization is that, by nature, I am a person of few spoken words who constantly drifts between being deep in thought to focusing back on the real world. Writing is different because it's a private sphere; they are my thoughts and they don't have to connect if I don't want them to (versus a conversation where one topic usually leads logically into the next). There are many things I feel and think about that I will never be able to put into words, much less within the constrictions of speech and conversation. Perhaps this is another reason why I like literature, because it is one of the only ways, in my opinion, in which another person's thoughts can infiltrate into mine, and an exchange of thought can take place but only privately within my own mind, where I'm free to go at whatever pace I like and turn certain thoughts over again and again.

Being of few words doesn't mean I don't enjoy company, however; I value friendship immensely and am always, always grateful for having people with me. I just feel especially comfortable around people who respect the abstract side of me, friends that I can be with and not have to spend extra effort in entertaining them with meaningless chatter. I enjoy days of lying in the sun on a grassy field, reading a book at a cafe for hours, sitting on a bench and watching people pass by--quiet activities, time spent in silence. I also enjoy a slow conversation while sipping on tea on a cold Saturday afternoon, taking a walk around town with a friend, going on a hike in the mountains and having a picnic, listening to stories and to other people's thoughts if they're willing to share them with me.

I guess there isn't really a point to this entry. I was simply reflecting on the energetic child I used to be, but now that time has molded me into someone else, I guess I have just been feeling a deep sense of loss for that in addition to the loss of my mother. In regards to losing my mom, the pain is still fresh and comes in waves, sometimes overwhelming and other times subtle enough to ignore. It just so happens that there were a few things I encountered over the past couple of days that reminded me so much of my mom and of my childhood. I silently grieve for those in my mind, and walk on.

I am trying to remember why I decided to blog about friendship and memories of my mom and how they were connected (see what I mean?). I think it was because I always think that I should keep my unhappiness to myself, because it would be a burden to other people around me. Personally, I feel especially distressed whenever someone else is sad, so I most definitely don't want the reverse to happen. It's very tiring to worry for someone else, and I don't feel that anyone else should ever have to do that on my behalf. I want to share other people's distress, but I don't want to share mine. While this sounds awfully selfless of me, I can assure you that it isn't. Basically, I like all negative feelings to be under my control, and the only way I can do that is if they're contained within myself. I feel the most secure this way.

I have no idea where I'm going with this. But let's just say that, in the end, I'm glad that there are people who continue to uphold my faith in humanity with their goodness and kindness towards me. And I want to pass that on. Having grown up a bit more, I want to love the world not blindly as I did when I was a child, but from having experienced more ugly sides of life, love the world and its people in their flawed states.

I want to be able to take a deep breath every morning, and embrace the world.

They say there is a time for everything, but now is just not the time.

Words cannot express my feelings about the 9.0 Tohoku earthquake last Friday. I myself have been obsessively following the news since, but still I can't even begin to imagine what it is like to be there, living the horror. Everything is so surreal when change hits you at such a speed that you have no idea how to react. The many lives lost, the many lives left, the many lives yet to come--how all of these will differ from one another in experience and perception of the world. We are, once again, at a loss in the face of nature and what it can bring upon us, and no doubt, we were fools to think that we had conquered it and its power over human society.

But no one needs me to tell them these things, and already, a week has passed. The ongoing struggle continues as many people affected by the disaster wrestle with the numerous consequences. What I do want to mention briefly, though, is what has been apparent since the disaster as a means to cope with it: nationalism.

Of course, there are good and bad things that have been said both to and by the people living in Japan. There are many people living in Japan that I follow on Twitter (which has been playing an amazing role in this ordeal) and common phrases that have come up are「頑張って日本」(Keep going, Japan), 「日本人だから」(Because we're Japanese), 「日本人のみんな」(Everyone Japanese). I have no problem with referring to Japan as a nation, but as author Hoshino Tomoyuki mentioned on his Twitter recently, 「日本人」 or "Japanese" has become a sensitive term to use simply because it's come to have an implication of exclusivity, forgetting about the many people who are not necessarily Japanese by blood, but live in and love the country and are part of it all the same. Getting off track from what is really important, the earthquake disaster has been used as a means to promote Japan and the Japanese people, that because they are and only because they are "Japanese" that they can pull through this. Simple encouragement has become a nationalistic pride.

There are instances like the article written by author Murakami Ryu, and has even been translated into English for the New York Times; if you haven't read it, you can access it here. Praising the concept of the "Japanese group" and promoting loyalty within. Then of course, there are other instances on the opposite end like Ishihara Shintaro, governor of Tokyo, who talks about "the Japanese people" as if they were all complicit in some kind of national thought crime. In an interview a few days ago, he said:

「我欲に縛られ政治もポピュリズムでやっている。それが一気に押し流されて、この津波をうまく利用してだね、我欲を一回洗い落とす必要がある。積年たまった日本人の心のあかをね。これはやっぱり天罰だと思う。被災者の方々、かわいそうですよ。」
"It's shown in politics bound by selfishness and populism. Those are washed away all at once effectively using the tsunami; there is the need to wash off the selfishness in one go, the dirt collected in the hearts of Japanese people for years. This, I think, must really be divine punishment. Those who are victims of the disaster, poor them."

Needless to say, it was a horrible statement but not surprising for Ishihara, infamous for his heartless comments; the man doesn't even identify with humanity. In any case, the "Japanese" have been grouped together for both good and bad accusations and though it may not be the most obvious thing, I believe that it can potentially create additional, unwanted havoc over time. Nationalism is not important at a time like this; what is important is what anybody--not even limited to Japanese people--can do with what they have at hand to help those in need now.

Two days ago, there was a teach-in hosted by a professor at my university in response to the earthquake and its effects. A friend of mine and another instructor were having a conversation on the 日の丸 (hinomaru), now used as the flag of Japan, and how many people have been putting it on places like their Facebook profile pictures or their avatars and creating this wave of the hinomaru symbol. I have no doubt that this is done obviously to show support for Japan and all those living there or are affected by it in some way. However, it's unfortunate that most people are putting these up without a second thought on what the hinomaru actually is and the role it has played in history; that it could, on the contrary, hurt people.

I would think that most people think of the flag only as a picture of "the rising sun", which is fair enough. But this flag has so much history behind it, and the contexts that it was used in before has turned the image of the hinomaru into something that is controversial, as subtle as this controversy may be. The hinomaru was mostly for militaristic use in the past, and was frequently used as propaganda for imperialism and nationalism in and around Japan. Despite it being a symbol of pride for the Japanese at the time (or for some in the present day), it has been used in many cases as a form of oppression in schools, in cities, in colonies in Korea and other places.

Nowadays, there are many Koreans living in Japan (many of which are second, third generation) who may embrace the country as a huge part of themselves, yet the hinomaru seems to represent only those who are purely Japanese. And so, when the hinomaru is used to show support for Japan, I personally feel like people are forgetting the many other residents in Japan who are not of Japanese descent, whose heritage might be of a people that were oppressed by symbols like the hinomaru. Not only can the hinomaru be a sensitive matter for people who are not Japanese by blood, but even Japanese people may find it difficult to look upon the hinomaru, something that reminds them so much of World War II, the bombings and the occupation of the United States that followed. I cannot even imagine how it must feel to be reminded of such, many years later, in yet another time of disaster for the country.

My point is, throw that nationalistic pride out the window and just help those in need. Be a support for anyone and everyone affected by the disaster, be them Japanese or not, living in Japan or not. Discern what is really important from what is only a cover-up for egotistic, ethnocentric pride. Disaster, sadness, loss, love, support--there are no boundaries for these. They are shared feelings. There are many people who love Japan very, very much, and I think that anybody who truly cares should look deeper and come to a fuller understanding, so that they can effectively support everyone in a time of need such as this.


P.S. If anyone is wondering, the picture is of a tag they gave me to put on my shirt when I visited the Consulate General of Japan ( I went there very early that day, thus Visitor No.1.)--but I forgot to give it back on my way out, so now it's become part of the decor on my desk.

Time, what can I do to understand you better?

Today was my mom's two month death anniversary.

I woke up this morning to pretty nice weather (considering there was a snowstorm last night); the sun was shining and everything looked really bright. But I had been thinking about today since a few days ago, and I guess I was subconsciously waiting for this day because in my dream last night, I was burying someone I loved whom I assume to have been my mom. There were dandelions, whatever that means.

It's like how they say "age is only a number"--dates, too, are merely numbers. But I found myself rather depressed all day today, crying in intervals or moping about otherwise, heaving long sighs every other minute. I was trying to catch up with a lot of reading for school today, but my mind kept wandering and eventually it just broke my concentration and I gave up trying to read.

I'm really not good with telling people my feelings in person. I don't think I've ever cried in front of anyone save the night when I received the phone call a little over two months ago, telling me I had to go home to see my mom before it was too late. I'm not sure if it's because I feel embarrassed crying in front of other people, or that I've always seen crying as something really private so I just automatically save it till I'm alone. It may have caused skepticism from some people when I didn't cry at my mother's funeral.

In any case, I've become more grateful for my poker face as my emotions have been going all over the place lately... makes it easier to function everyday. Yes, I've been feeling rather mechanical these days.

The reason I have a picture of IKEA above is because I went there last Tuesday to do some furniture shopping for the study space in our EAS department building. I was supposed to go with one more person, but she couldn't make it so I went with my friend who generously agreed to accompany me and drive me there. It was my second time at the IKEA in Montreal, my first time being when I arrived in Montreal to move in for school in the summer of 2007.

The first time I came here was with my mom. I didn't know anyone, and my mom and I shopped for quite some time at this IKEA trying to decide what I would need to spend my next 4 years here in Montreal. So this place, in a way, served as a very significant marking stone at the beginning of my journey in becoming more independent. But I never thought that the next time I went to this IKEA, the person who had come with me the first time would already be gone forever.

I guess nobody would have ever suspected IKEA to be such a painful place for anyone. I still enjoyed the trip last week nevertheless, it was just the exterior that reminded me so much of that summer day when my mom and I walked in through the doors together.

It's not just the store though, a lot of the furniture from IKEA in my apartment, we had assembled together. The bed that my mom spent hours twisting in all the screws, the table and chairs set we had debated over, the blanket over the couch she had picked, the bookshelf we had an argument over while putting it together... everything I look at, everyday, has my mom in it.

I can't believe it's been only two months since she passed away, while time still seems to fly by so fast everyday. I can't explain the feeling of thinking something to be an event from a long time ago because you've thought so much about it and relived it over and over again in your head... but in reality, it's only been a short while since then and the pain from it all is still here.

I miss her so much I don't know what to do. Meanwhile, life goes on and the futility of it only throws me deeper into despair.

I suppose it doesn't help that I've been reading poetry like this over the weekend:

Spleen


J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.


Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,

De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,

Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,

Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.

C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau,

Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.

— Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,

Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers

Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.

Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,

Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,

Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher

Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.

Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,

Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années

L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité,

Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.

— Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante!

Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante,

Assoupi dans le fond d'un Sahara brumeux;

Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux,

Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche

Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche.

— Charles Baudelaire

===============

I have more memories than if I'd lived a thousand years.

A heavy chest of drawers cluttered with balance-sheets,

Processes, love-letters, verses, ballads,

And heavy locks of hair enveloped in receipts,

Hides fewer secrets than my gloomy brain.

It is a pyramid, a vast burial vault

Which contains more corpses than potter's field.

— I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon,

In which long worms crawl like remorse

And constantly harass my dearest dead.

I am an old boudoir full of withered roses,

Where lies a whole litter of old-fashioned dresses,

Where the plaintive pastels and the pale Bouchers,

Alone, breathe in the fragrance from an opened phial.

Nothing is so long as those limping days,

When under the heavy flakes of snowy years

Ennui, the fruit of dismal apathy,

Becomes as large as immortality.

— Henceforth you are no more, O living matter!

Than a block of granite surrounded by vague terrors,

Dozing in the depths of a hazy Sahara

An old sphinx ignored by a heedless world,

Omitted from the map, whose savage nature

Sings only in the rays of a setting sun.

(Translation taken from fleursdumal.org)

It's two sides of the same coin and only one person gets to have it.

I haven't written any entries in a while, so I thought I should update. I hadn't been writing anything new in the past month (well, I don't think to anyone's surprise) since I didn't really have much I wanted to say aloud after December 6th, or rather, maybe so much to say that I already gave up on trying the moment I thought of it. So I guess the one thing that I can really say as of late is this: I've come to have an increasing dislike for society.

Not that this dislike for society is new or anything. I think anybody who decides to write or study literature must have some kind of dissatisfaction for human society to varying degrees--why else would one be so keen about ink on paper instead of enjoying life as it is now? I don't remember exactly when I began to realize that the world was not as bright and dazzling as it may have seemed when I was fighting to get out of my mother's womb. But I know it was at a very young age because I was born different from other people, and it was only a very short matter of time for me to realize the obvious: that any kind of worldly society can be a curse. I like individuals very much, there are people I love in this world. But people are so bad at functioning in a community, and what we call "society" these days corrupts and changes so many of these perfectly fine individuals, molding them to fit into a system only a fraction of people can benefit from, and at the cost of others. Society is diseased with luxury, selfishness, ignorance, gossip, falsity, self-justification, competition.

I've loved reading all my life, but in my high school days especially, I had a passion for film production. Being able to document things audio-visually was fantastic, I thought, and just the process of doing so was such an exciting idea. I was able to enroll in two short, one-week programs for high school students at the Art Institute of Vancouver, where I learned and experienced a bit of visual effects editing in film one year, and post-production audio editing another year. I mean, this applies to literature too, but I think it's easier for most people to see that it takes a lot of time, effort and revision to produce one perfected moment that's finally to be documented onto film and distributed for the world to see.

But that last part is the problem, and is what makes me unable to bring myself to pursue this industry. Of course, there are small film companies that produce independent films, but they're all overshadowed by the horrible, self-indulgent, elitist group called Hollywood. So much money, media coverage, marketing, et caetera are devoted to an hour or two of being able to sit in front of a screen. Why are actors getting paid so much? There are many regular people who work regular jobs but are exposed to so much more work, risk, and labour, but get paid only a fraction... or if you want to think about child labour, some don't even really get paid at all. I'm sure actors are very busy people and have a ton of work, and I'm sure they work hard at what they do and (some) are really good at it; I have no doubt that acting is a talent. But there are people in this world that, no matter how hard they work, will never be recognized, and their jobs are so much less glamorous even though they are so much more necessary than, say, roles in the entertainment industry. Why are budgets for movies--entertainment for the upper middle class and above--talking tens of millions of dollars when a regular person on the streets of Bangladesh can barely even think beyond when he'll receive another dollar?

Movies are great, I love films. But if Hollywood could make only five less films per year, everyone in the world would at least have something to eat everyday for that year. That's about nine, ten less hours of entertainment for us, but really, can that even be made into a comparison? It's too bad that we wouldn't be able to see some fun stuff on screen, but I think that's okay if it can save more lives than we can even imagine.

I'm not saying that because there are people in poverty, everyone should live in poverty. I just can't stand the idea that such extremes can even exist. That someone only has to have a few pictures taken and put on a billboard to receive hundreds of thousands, when someone else would go as far as committing murder or selling themselves for a completely different purpose just to put bread on the table the next day. That something can be so obviously, ethically wrong, but accepted and allowed in our world today as if it was just another common fact in life. It's our society's lack of conscience that is so horrifying. "Are we humans or are we animals"... I don't know which is the insult. At least some animals aren't actually capable of a conscience whereas we are and have the means to act on it, but instead, choose to ignore it.

Of course everyone would like to live in luxury, if it's not at the cost of someone else. Of course everyone would like to live a comfortable life, if they could without feeling guilt. But unless everyone in the world is able to live an equally luxurious life or at least a good one in today's standards, I don't think anyone should live in luxury at all. Not when there are people on the other side of the spectrum from you, and not when that could easily be prevented if only fine dining had to be sacrificed. I don't know if I'm going to expand on this since 1) I don't know if I can justify myself completely and 2) this is just my personal idea of how our world could be anything close to utopia, but every time I try to think of the many different lives that many different people live, yet at the same time and on the same planet... it makes me so incredibly sad.

Human beings are so easily influenced by their pride, and their relation to other people's standards of life. If carrying brand name bags is the trend, we get ourselves a Louis Vuitton. If driving a car is the trend, we drive around a Mercedes. If not driving becomes the trend, we get ourselves a chauffeur or take a taxi. If being educated is the trend, we go to Harvard. If being environmentally friendly is the trend, we wear lingerie made of bamboo and soy. If acknowledging poverty is the trend, we go adopt a few African children.

Aren't we pathetic?

I often hear the words (and indeed, sometimes saying it myself) "life is so hard", when we don't even have anything to compare it to. It's not like we've ever experienced anything else other than life, so in comparison to what can life be considered "hard"? If we were comparing ourselves to fellow human beings, then we should feel all the more ashamed. Can you really say that life is hard when some people would give anything just to be able to say those words instead of living in fear and silence? Are we, people living in higher society, mocking the people who at least have the most right out of all of us to say that? We are so conceitedly lazy, and anything that requires even the least bit of effort to do needs to be fixed, according to our society today. We constantly produce new technology, things that make our daily life easier so we can, instead, do nothing, because apparently we'd much rather do nothing than anything at all.

We don't need technology to let us do nothing, we're already not doing much at all. It's the idea of doing even less than nothing that motivates us to do something now so we can do nothing later. This whole world is so ridiculous. And I can't imagine how much more ridiculous it would seem to someone who doesn't identify with humankind like I do.

I am so ashamed to be a human being sometimes.