0 This is what happened: Theater Rice, Aged to Perfection at 02:52

I'm still awake at 2 AM, and that's entirely my fault. I had a pounding headache for most of the day, rendering me mostly ineffective whenever I was on my feet, or moving. I thought it was from caffeine withdrawal, so I had some coffee in the late afternoon, and since it didn't help I had a mocha at 8 PM - so, here I am. I took an aceptominophen pill which seems to be working quite well since I feel better, but I can't fall asleep to save my life.

I went to Theater Rice's show tonight and was well pleased. There were plenty of laughs, but this time around I was close to tears. It was the act about a couple, and one of their last moments as the man is on his deathbed, having slowly lost himself to Alzheimer's.

Maybe their acting was just too good. But I didn't like what his wife did - she yelled, screamed angrily, pleaded for him to say something, please. "Just say something! Let me know you're in there, somewhere. I want to talk to the man I fell in love with."

And in a flashback scene, his monologue: "I'm going to lose long term memory, motor coordination, and eventually be unwilling or unable to communicate."

It all hit pretty close to home.

I think about death a lot. Maybe I'm morbid, but it's a topic that keeps my mind occupied. What if I died? What if I died suddenly? What if I got cancer? Would I have time to go skydiving? Do skydiving companies accept terminally ill customers? Would I rather be in a coma for years, hanging onto a slim chance of recovery, or jump to the afterlife as soon as I get a chance? I'm not morbid. I just think a lot.

(In a tangentially related note, I died over 5 times this week in my dreams. In one night.)

But I thought of two things tonight when I thought about death. First, my grandma, and her slow succumbing to dementia and Alzheimer's. I remembered how in the span of an hour of talking to her, she'd have probably asked me the same questions at least five times. Over the course of the summer, I thought some things stuck by the time I left - that I was in college now, and H had already graduated, and no, I don't have a girlfriend but he does - but when I call her now, she still asks what year H is in, and if I was in high school yet. Any updates on her condition I could only rely on my parents to relay to me - she still says she is set on staying at home, by herself.

So that's what I hated about the wife's acting in that One-Act Troupe tonight. No, she acted very convincingly - but it's nothing close to what a wife would feel at the end of a long battle with Alzheimer's. After so many years, you'd have no energy left to be angry. It took me weeks and weeks to run out of patience, and I snapped once and for all - literally, the last time I will be angry. I know that by the time she has to go, I will have no anger at the fact that she can't respond, or if she doesn't know who I am. And by the deathbed is no place to hope for a miraculous recovery, for a sudden clarity of mind and recall of all the years that have gone by in a haze. It would be wrong. (The Notebook, I'm looking at you - you are guilty of getting people's hopes up.)

Second, I thought about how I'd feel if/when I am diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and I begin to lose myself, in pieces. According to wikipedia, the disease is not linked to genetic causes (though some genes are risk factors), so just because two of my grandparents had it hasn't automatically marked me.

I think I would be scared, if I ever had a moment of clarity. I know that's why my grandma lashed out quite often. I will, too. To only 'wake up' once in a while, and the first thing I'd know is that I've just missed out on weeks or months of my life, unable to control myself, or really exist.

Well, damn it, I'm crying now. So good night.

0 This is what happened: Lady at 18:07

"Well, thank you, Yi. That was very good."

I smiled and picked up my backpack. At last... Lunchtime!

I left the conservatory to beautiful blue skies, with no hint of rain.

"What? No performances?" I heard a lady mutter.

An Asian woman was standing in front of a blue, now blank poster. It usually had a large white list of "upcoming performances" at the conservatory, but it was gone today. I noticed yesterday that it was outdated, anyhow - the last performance listed only went to sunday, the 11th, and I wondered when they would put up a new one.

"It's April," the lady muttered, protesting.

"You can go inside and look on the wall." I said. "performances are listed there."

She looked around and smiled at me, saying, "Thank you, thank you."

0 This is what happened: Invisible MUNI at 12:04

This is the bus I take to school.

I was late to class this morning because this thing didn't show up when the bus stop said it would.

I hate being late. I hate things that make me late, and one of those things is what I have dubbed "Invisible MUNI". There are several ways one can find out the next coach's arrival; by text, Nextmuni, by calling 511, or lastly, at the bus stop itself if it is equipped with the orange LED marquee. With all these resources for planning one's commute, how can one be late?

I admit this morning I woke up later than I had intended - I was having a very pleasant dream which contents escape me and I will probably never recover, or perhaps feel its familiar murmuring under my fingers if something today triggers its memory. I digress. While I made my coffee, I went on nextmuni to look up how many minutes I have to get ready. This is my system; I know now, by experience, that I must allot myself five minutes to leave my door and get to the stop; any less and I will miss my intended coach.

The options were coming in one minute, and the next in 8; after that, the next coach was coming in 17 minutes, and I'd definitely be late. 8 minutes it is. I have 3 minutes to get everything ready and leave. Not a lot of time; I'll have to eat breakfast once I get to school, again.

I can see the bus stop as soon as I exit my door, and I see another 71 just pulling up. Too bad I'm down the block, because it won't wait for me to catch up once the light turns green, so I took my time getting to the stop; another woman was already waiting for the next coach; I joined her and plugged in my earphones. The marquee confirmed what nextmuni had said; 71 in 4 & 12 minutes.

5 minutes into the first movement of Nielsen's 3rd symphony, I looked up at the marquee again. It had been, for the past three minutes, insistently displaying the next bus was 'arriving' in 1 minute; the other woman waiting kept anxiously leaning into the street, looking down the gently sloping road for the telltale orange lights of the 71 bus. I really hoped it was just hung up on some stubborn elderly people with walkers.

Two more minutes into the allegro espansivo, the marquee gave up the ruse and displayed only the next bus, coming in 8 minutes.

Another problem with invisible muni is that the longer the interval between coaches, the more people build up at each stop; consequently, a bus that is late will be later and later as it needs to stop at more stops than usual, to accommodate* people getting on and off at even more locations.

I ended up being 17 minutes late to class. Damn you, invisible muni!

*Who knew accommodate had two M's in it?

1 This is what I think about that: Stage at 23:59

Once in a while, I feel like I belong on the stage.

Sometimes I feel like I belong on the stage. Usually I feel like that when I actually am on one. I don't know if it's because I want the attention. When I think about it, I really don't. I get nervous and anxious like everybody else when I have to play and people are watching. I get terribly self-conscious and I can hardly focus and my hands forget what they're doing. Sometimes I feel the most terrified when I'm on stage.

But at other times, such as this weekend, I remember what it feels like to exist on a stage, to own it. The sudden clarity of existence and mission; when time stops dragging me around like a whirlwind, and instead I am the master of consciousness, of being. Seconds, instead of being minutely immeasurable, are huge, thick, ripe plums, and I can enjoy each one or toss it away.

And the silence. Oh, the glorious silence when I know the whole room's eyes are fixated on my hands, each ear tuned so expectantly, including mine, and the silence fills the room. There is nothing louder and more resonant. One of those moments when a watch would tell me only five seconds have passed, but I have lived an entire chapter of my life in that long, drawn breath.

The audience is there, but I don't feel them anymore. Once I start playing, I'm not sure if anyone else exists. It helps that I'm usually playing music so difficult I'm always thinking about the next notes, the upcoming physical gesture for the next passage, the phrasing, and I don't have time to think about anything else. I don't know what it would take to interrupt me. At times, even thinking about breathing takes too much bandwidth. So I make do without oxygen at times.

Once in a while, I feel close to God.

0 This is what happened: Practice at 00:59

I had a good four hours straight to devote to practicing this evening, which is quite rare so I decided to make the most of my time. Showered, turned on the heater, comfortable clothes, slightly hungry; prayed, and got down to it.


I forced myself to do at least 10 minutes of warmups, which quickly evolved into doing the hard passages of Merlin II very slowly, attentive to every position, every note quality and balance of each chord. Careful sixteenth notes up and down. Careful transitions into the next passage to make sure I memorized it correctly.


Usually when I practice I block out thinking about anything else. It is blissful in a way to be so focused and in flow that I know nothing can bother me. Many times last year I'd start practicing, and the next time I look at the clock two hours have passed, though it felt like no time at all. It's a trance-like state, almost similar to the rare momentary blissful blankness you get when you wake up perfectly rested from a great dream. That's when I love practicing, and I get a lot done.


While I've been learning Merlin this semester, though, I've noticed something in the learning process. I've been tackling the hardest passages first and working them over and over to get them familiar, before I learn the easier, more repetitive bits (though I'm discovering that only about 5% of Merlin is easy and repetitive). I guess sometimes I can never fully tune other thoughts out, because I'd be thinking about something else simultaneously, perhaps another scene or memory as I drill a section, and when I go back to run it the same feelings or memories play in my head. So I've associated other mental processes with some sections as I learn them.


But for some reason, dark thoughts poisoned my head tonight. I didn't find it any more difficult to practice and learn new measures - in fact, I learned four measures in and hour, and was feeling very encouraged by my pace to keep going. I noticed, though, that every time I painstakingly inched through the new measures, testing the accuracy and strengthening my new neural associations, the same painful scene played through in my head, taunting me. I didn't anticipate that I could have also imprinted bad thoughts into my passages.


I took a break to eat some food, and watched funny videos to distract my mind, and went back to the same passage i was working on, now in hopes that I could imprint happier thoughts onto it. No such luck; perhaps I was thinking so hard about coming up with new associations, or I had already learned it too well, but the same sequence of notes triggered the same unhappy thought.


I set down my mallets for the rest of the night.

0 This is what happened: Impeccable Timing 2 at 12:00

I suck at timing the drive home. I had made it all the way without encountering hardly any traffic; but of course, once I hit Los Angeles I hit the sea of red. The Red Sea, if you will. Of traffic.

Literally crawling along, I started texting people to announce my arrival - What are you doing tonight? Hey, I'm gonna be home in three hours. Are you busy?

K texted me back. Come over at 9.


It was 1900. I'll try. Do you have food?


K: Yeah, we have food.


Without traffic this last leg would only take me forty minutes. That's never happened, though, and the average time it took me to drive back to Irvine from Northridge, where I had lessons, took me an hour and a half.


At 2030 I, impatient at the Jamboree exit, decided to get off the freeway rather than wait another 10 minutes to travel a mile to the exit that would take me home. As soon as I was on the offramp, however, I realized I'd never navigated to K's house from this direction. It was somewhere to the east, and north. I went down Jamboree and turned on familiar neighborhood street names. With every solitary intersection I encountered and waited for the light I regretted more and more getting off the freeway an exit early.

Finally I pulled into the neighborhood and circled around, looking for parking - the streets were unusually full. I quickly parallel parked and walked up to K's house, keys still in my hand. As I knocked I checked the time on my phone.

2100.

0 This is what happened: Impeccable Timing 1 at 01:07

I was woken up by a soft kick at my feet.


"Let's go," said Z.


"Showtime," I said. I sat up on the percussion studio hallway - it was five minutes to four. I walked out after Zach, down the hall to where A and J were waiting outside the Salon doors.


Okay. Pre-concert check. Shirt, check. Pants, check. Shoes, check. All set.


We lounged around patiently, staying quiet in case the double set of doors weren't soundproof enough. The small elevator arrived with a ding, and two elderly ladies came out. I shifted to the right to give them a straight path to the door; one of them smiled at us before she went in.


A few minutes pass. "How do we know when we're supposed to go in?"


Oh. Hm. We never went over that with the coordinators when we set up an hour ago. This entrance was also the farthest from the stage - perhaps we should wait at the rear entrance?


We joked about completely missing the performance because we never walked on stage - perhaps they announced us and are waiting awkwardly in there right now! Haha.


A ten second pause of silence. The anxiety quietly poked at me, so I suggested we go to the rear entrance just in case. I pried the door open quietly - 


The second door was open, and I could hear a woman's amplified speech echoing. "...have just performed at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C...." Hey, we performed at the Kennedy center last month.


The sound guy looked at us and said, "Good, you're on."


"...I will read their names. Well, their first names. A, J, Z, and Yi." Applause.


I never stopped walking since I opened the first door, and walked directly on stage to my vibraphone. I smiled, looked at Z to make sure he was watching as I bowed, then picked up my mallets. Showtime.

0 This is what happened: Bus stop at 16:49

On Tuesday, right after class, I suddenly found that I had a block of free time in the afternoon before another rehearsal - so I decided to go home and practice. 11 AM found me waiting for a 71 at the corner of Van Ness and Market St.

You can really get to know a city by taking its public transportation because of all the people you meet or see using it. Nextmuni told me the next coach was six minutes in coming, and with each second that passed I wished more and more that I had brought my headphones. At first, it was just three sassy black ladies that joined me, talking about their boyfriends in their powerful, nasally voices. I stared intently at the Bank of America in front of me, trying to tune my ears into whatever music was playing in my head. I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until - Wait, is that Paparazzi? Damn.

Suddenly I noticed a man to my right, also staring intently - at me. He was tall and homeless, everything about him somehow the same shade of grey from living on the streets. His eyes were wide and mouth slightly askew - I made the mistake of making eye contact when I looked at him, and looked away quickly. Please don't talk to me.

"Why aren't you at school?" Can't you read my mind?
"What?"
"I said, why aren't you at school?" He was hardly making an effort to enunciate his words.
"I was."
"You don't have school today?"
"I did have class, I'm done for the day."
A pause. "Huh? What grade are you in?"
"I'm in college."
"Oh. I thought you were a high schooler."
I didn't know what to say - he was probably the first person who's ever guessed I was younger than I am.
"How old are you?" I asked politely.
"Guess."
"30," I said politely.
"Nope. Higher."
"40."
"Nope, higher."
"50."
"Nope, higher."
"There's no way you're 60."
"I'm 52."
A mustard orange F car slowly trundled into the stop. "I never would have guessed."
"What's your name?"
I hesitated. "David."
"Can I shake your hand?" He held out his hand. I wondered when was the last time he had washed it. I shook it anyway.
"What's your name?"
"Have you heard of 'Hark the Herald (harold?*) Angels Sing?'"
I didn't understand. Did he not hear my question? "Sorry, what?"
"Have you heard of, 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing'." He repeated.
"Oh, yeah."
"My name is Harold."
"Nice to meet you, Harold."
The next bit caught me off guard.
"I'm a messenger from God."
"Oh?"
The streetcar stopped in front of us.
"I'm here to tell you that, the number cause of death for kids your age..." He leaned a little closer. "...is automobile accidents."
I didn't know what to say again.
"Well, that makes sense, we don't have a lot of other reasons to die," I joked, for the first time trying to add to the conversation.

He stared at me blankly, got on the mustard orange F car and it trundled off.

0 This is what happened: Drive to Norcal 2 at 00:36

The day did not start off well when I realized I left DS's mix CD in my mom's car. I really liked listening it 5 times on the way down, and now I don't know what to do with myself on the ride back.

I departed after church on Sunday, heading north to the 5 to pick up R, D and B. The day before I looked up their addresses and debated picking each of them up individually, but they each lived within a fifteen minute drive of each other and having them rendezvous first would probably save an hour of waiting and packing. Though the plan was for me to leave at 1300 and get there at 1400, I knew I was in trouble as soon as I merged onto the 5 and was greeted by a clumped mass of painted metal and lit taillights. Oh, Southern California traffic, my mortal enemy.

As a strict rule I don't text while I'm driving, but I do make allowances when I'm crawling along at under ten miles an hour, too slow to be graphically represented on my speedometer, so I texted B to let them know I was going to be a bit late - projected ETA, 1430. It was the same crawling pace for another half hour, punctuated by a few hundred yards when gaps would open and we'd accelerate to an exhilarating 20 miles per hour to the next stopped wave of red lights. The minutes started to crawl as I wondered if I'd make it back to San Francisco before 10.

I did have company and conversation this time, unlike my other drives alone. Four people can only talk about their spring breaks for so long, however, and the silences filled with music grew longer and longer as the others knocked out or grew preoccupied with studying. I can never read in a car anymore, though that's because I'm usually the one driving, or if I'm a passenger I can hardly keep my mouth shut. I love engaging, involved conversations on a road trip, but I'm not complaining. Conversation is like poop - if you force it to come out, it'll be crap.

We stopped for In-N-Out at exit 309 right around dinnertime, which was deliciously exclusively Californian, as always. The rest of the ride was even more quiet - everyone had slept late the night before, myself included, so I didn't blame them.

Now, the most interesting story of the day.

I'm not an aggressive driver. My road rage only manifests itself in flashes that last long enough for me to curse, or more recently to honk, but never so long that I'll cut somebody off. I was stuck in a long line of cars barely inching above the speed limit, the kind of buildup that happens when a truck somewhere ahead is trying to pass another truck. There were too many trucks in the right lane for me to use to gain any position, so I resigned myself for a long wait for traffic to clear - when all of a sudden, a silver Bentley roared beside and behind me, and in a blazing second gained an incredible one car position in front of me. I don't know what ill road sense and compensatory psychology drove that man to waste the gas and exertion (though I admit it was a brief but beautiful display of driving ability), but for the next ten minutes he was stuck right in front of me, unable to move any more forward.

Traffic cleared up and space opened - as the silver Bentley roared ahead, I also disengaged cruise control to climb back to my preferred speed, which in a few seconds became clear was the same as the Bentley's. There was a long, long stretch of straight darkness in front of us, and it was just he and I, almost side by side now, blazing through the dark. I had plenty of time to toy with the idea of cutting him off, but I'd never take a chance with passengers in my car, and places to go. For a minute the two of us pressed north, rivals of the road, headlights in my mirrors dimming to flecks.

Then a hilarious thing happened. Bentley was on the left and I was on the right, and in the approaching distance I saw the red taillights of a car in the left lane. He wasn't going slow either, but the two of us were just that much faster and slowly catching up. At the same time I noticed headlights that were growing in the lane behind me, and I realized someone must be going really, really fast to catch up to me. I needed to change lanes to let him past, and soon! But the Bentley was almost right next to me, and there was still space before him and the car we were catching up to. So I gunned it and with a satisfactory acceleration I rarely allow myself on the freeway, I pulled ahead of Bentley and right in front of him - the same maneuver he had done to cut me off - and had to brake to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me - at the same time mister speedy in the left lane had caught up and passed by, so Bentley couldn't immediately switched into my lane when I cut him off. As soon as Speedy passed, the Bentley roared again and this time sped off so far into the darkness I couldn't see him anymore. I laughed at my accidental jackassery - too bad none of the others were awake to witness it.

Miles and miles later I saw the flashing blue and yellow of police interceptor lights at the side of the road, and slowed down to the speed limit as I passed - by the brief second I had to look, he had pulled over a silver Bentley.

0 This is what I think about that: Honesty 1 at 02:03

Let me first clear this from my mind: I am breaching such a heavy subject and composing these heavy words at such a late hour because I expected to be rehearsing at school late tonight, so in preparation I took a caffeine-shotted power nap in the evening and now I cannot sleep. These are the thoughts whizzing through my head and I need to write it down.


I think honesty is the most important thing in a relationship. I long for and crave openness in communication and interactions. I believe very deeply in trust and by it I most deeply judge someone's character - although I shouldn't be judging at all. Mutual agreement to tell the whole truth when necessary facilitates very good conversation and communication, and brings relationships to new places.


I recall a defining moment when I realized my conservative/traditional Chinese upbringing was partly responsible for my compulsive lying. I was at an auntie's house, and she asked me if I wanted something to drink; I said no. Then I was aware of my thirsty throat and dry mouth. I said yes, I would like some water.


When I was younger, for some reason at the onset of puberty I became a compulsive liar. I was very sarcastic, and not even for the effect of humor for which I use sarcasm now; I was ironic for the sake of annoying or offending other people. And of course, I wanted to bend the truth when I wanted people to like me. I reported had higher marks on a test than I actually received. I read that book way before you. Yeah, well I caught a fish THIS big once.


Oh, for the days when concrete measurement were the only way to judge each other.


I guess the lies I kept telling after a few years just became too much to keep track of. When you have a clear conscience, you don't have to keep track of all the stories you've told, and to whom. It was awkward and somewhat embarrassing for me to say Yes, I do want some water. Maybe the auntie never noticed, but there was a hidden cry in my response that shouted and echoed through my mind: I was lying. I was lying. I lied.