MINUS WHITE

A Dream within a Dream (Pt. 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 30 Oct 2014 16:51:00 +0000

Has it really been a whole year since I've last blogged?

That's not to say life is always generous with time, but I do feel that something has been misplaced. Along with it are good conversations with a friend or two over pasta and salad, tinkering with guitar parts and making anew in a cold wintery morning with a fresh brewed coffee, long sleeps followed by a day in pajamas, and admiring a Mondrian piece at a gallery or simply floating about James Turrell's spaces. Not all were opportunities available to me, but unfortunately, I admit I have neglected a few. I find consolidations in thinking, 'Yes, I could do worse.' Yet, I know many people, who make the best of their time, applying themselves to things they believe. I know few who find joy and meaning in science. I know a friend who makes it a mission to travel whenever possible and experience different cultures. I know a buddy who believes it's worthwhile to play the numbers game in finances, everyday. As naive as I may be, I think there is nothing more exhilarating than a purpose-driven life full of vigor. While they may be different amongst my friends, and everybody, I'm akin to think what I believe is a choice. As if it's mine and I possess these beliefs. They're as personal as my scars. It's a beautiful thing, I'd say. But, time seems to run counter. Of time, of place, of memories, of existence, and of being, they're all lost in the end. I'm finite and I couldn't possibly claim time, however small of a fraction it may be.

I wonder, with a sense of disquiet, where do they go? And more importantly, who does it belong to?

A Dream within a Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 30 Oct 2014 16:50:00 +0000

By Edward Allan Poe

Merry Halloween!

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 31 Oct 2013 17:00:00 +0000

Plenty of Fish

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 24 Oct 2013 11:42:00 +0000

INT. CAFETERIA - DAY

Jake enters the cafeteria. Ryan, his friend, is sitting alone. His notes, laptop, and lunch are simultaneously sprawled across the table. Ryan is typing away.

Jake: (spotting Ryan) Hey.

Ryan: Dude! What the hell, man. Why weren't you at class?

Jake: Um, I just woke up.

Ryan: (glances his watch) It's one. PM. Wednesday.

Jake: Uh, yea. Sorry.

Ryan: Whatevs. (discontent) If you hurry they might still have a sub or a slice right now. Unless you want the soup. Nobody wants that shit though.

Jake: I'm good.

Ryan: You probably need the notes, right? Hold on. I gotta finish this.

Jake: Actually (cuts himself off).

Ryan resumes typing. Jake sits himself, pulls out his water and takes a sip. A minute or two passes. Ryan stops, lowers his laptop screen, grabs his half-eaten lunch and begins munching.

Ryan: Long night?

Jake: She broke up with me.

Ryan: (stops chewing) When?

Jake: Last night.

Ryan: I'm sorry, man.

Jake: Yea.

Ryan: You okay?

Jake: Uh huh, I think so.

Ryan: Why did she break up with you?

Jake: I don't know.

Ryan: She didn't say?

Jake: Well, she said I was the right guy but at the wrong time.

Ryan: What the fuck does that mean?

Jake: I don't know.

Ryan: (chewing again) That's messed up.

Jake: Yea, maybe.

A moment admits.

Ryan: Cheer up dude, there's plenty of fish in the sea.

Jake: Uh, what? No. I don't want another fish.

Ryan: It's a big sea. You never know.

Jake: No, don't give me that bullshit. That's not how it works, and you know it. If your copy of 'Halo' broke and I told you, "It's OK, there are other games in the sea. Here, play 'COD' instead." What would you say? You'd be like, "Fuck that, give me my 'Halo'." There is no other fish.

Ryan is speechless.

Ryan: (murmurs) Wow.

Jake: That's what I thought.

Ryan: That is some next-level, I don't even know what to call it.

Jake: (sighes; pausing) Yea. I wouldn't mind playing 'Mass Effect' though. I read some good reviews.

Ryan: Wait, is the analogy still on? Because, you know, who's 'Mass Effect'?

Jake: Shut up. You know what I mean.

Note: This post was inspired by a 9gag entry I saw a while back.

Thought Ink

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Fri, 31 May 2013 16:40:00 +0000

What to write. What to write? I could post those black and white photographs I've taken from Toronto and New York a while back. No, no. That's too easy. Picture is worth thousand words. One click. Thousand words. It's too easy. Curious though, I bet that phrase came along the same time the film photography was first invented. It took hours and even days to develop a single slide. So, with the selection process and timely consuming efforts needed, that phrase might have adequately matched the weight of thousand words and a single photo. But maybe not these days. Pictures are more costly in information, too. Photo comes in units of megabytes. Thousand words? Tens of bytes at most. Anyways, I'm getting side-tracked.

What to write?

Fashion? Spring is at the peak, and summer's nearing. It'd be perfect. I shall call it "A Study in Cotton". I mean, nearly everything is made of cotton in summer. Perhaps, save for sporting gears. But that's utility, not fashion. Or is it? Hmm. How about "Muse"? And just post pictures that I liked from fashion blogs. Something colourful and whimsical. But then again, I never do whimsical. That doesn't really grab my attention for long. I might even start disliking it after few hours. Anything from my previously abandoned posts? Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Well, what about that depressive note you wrote months back but never posted because - wait, I can't remember why I didn't post this. I mean, it's not terrible. It's not frighteningly dark. Oh, right! It's too abstract. That was the reason. "The mountains were high. It was a starless night. Wonders unseen and gone." What does that mean? Even I'm not too sure. Ok, next? How about "The Curious Interpretations of Reality?" I think that was the post reviewing and listing my top favorite documentary films. Hold on. Ah, crap. I still have to watch "The Cove". Those poor dolphins and evil Japanese fishermen. Okay, never mind. Anything else?

Argh! What to write!?

It's like there's a massive roadblock in my head. Well, better smash it with my thought train. Hopefully, there's nobody onboard. Wait, who's driving the train, then? Is it me? Am I going to survive? Well, you have so far, haven't you? That's true. I will be fine, I think. Technically, I don't think it's possible to project yourself into someone, or something, in your thoughts. People do engage in meta-thinking. Yes, they do! But, the subject and the object of thoughts are always ourselves. It'd be nuts if you were assessing your thoughts on someone else's thoughts in your own head! What if you could dream that? Haha. Even "Inception" wasn't that crazy. It'd definitely be a cool dream though. Okay, stop. Just let it come to you. Breathe. Silence.

Silence. You're doing it well.

Silence. Donut! Ah, damn it! Am I hungry? I think I am. I'm salivating. Or, is that just milk? No, it's much more viscous. Yea, definitely salivating. It's the donuts I bought this afternoon. Well, there're still several left and they're sitting on the kitchen table right now. So, just finish this post and go eat! There's my motivator. But, do you think people will think I'm nuts when they read this? Well, you could certainly come off a little odd. And weird. But, who cares? Clickity-click. Posted! Done!

Donuts > People.

"Untitled" by Cy Twombly (1970)

Small World in Motion

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 14:33:00 +0000

This is a clip of neutrophils recruiting to the site of laser damage in mouse inguinal lymph node, taken and submitted by Dr. Olena Kamenyeva at National Institute of Health (NIH). Neutrophils are a type of white blood cells, part of your immune system, which travel to aid any part of your body under attack whether physical, chemical, bacterial, or viral. It won first place for last year's competition for Nikon's Small World in Motion Competition. I must admit; I am a sucker for pretty visualizations. And, while I was watching this, I found myself asking 'Can they do this using Brainbow, too?'

I mean, this is awesome. But that will be awesome possum.

I Love You (Son)

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 18:20:00 +0000

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE NATHAN'S ROOM -- THANKSGIVING WEEKEND

Nathan's mother stands outside Nathan's door. She is tall and slim. Her hair shows hint of graying, and her hands show wear. She holds out her knuckle, hesitates, then knocks.

Nathan: Yea, come in.

She gently opens the door, stands by the door, and speaks. Nathan swivels his chair to face her.

Mother: Dinner's ready. I made your favorite, lasagna.

Nathan: Oh okay, thanks.

Mother turns to leave.

Nathan: Is dad still mad?

Mother: (turning back) The insurance is going to cover it. Don't worry about it.

Nathan: Really? Even the engine?

Mother: Yes.

Nathan: That's good. (beat) But dad's still mad.

Mother: You know how he gets. Give him time.

Nathan: Yea.

Mother: You're safe. That's all it matters.

Nathan doesn't respond.

Mother: (concerned) How come you're not going out with Chris this Thanksgiving?

Nathan: Oh, I told him I'm too busy.

Mother: But, you guys go out every year. Did something happen?

Nathan: No, I'm just busy. And tired. You know, I graduate next term and I have to figure things out.

Mother: Figure things out?

Nathan: My next move.

Mother: Oh.

Nathan: I applied to a bunch of jobs last month, in the West, but didn't get any of them.

Mother: How come you never told us?

Nathan: It's not a big deal. I'll tell you about it later.

Mother: No, no. Tell me now. I want to hear.

She walks in and sits on his bed, now an arm's reach from Nathan.

Nathan: (sighs) Y'know, next summer I'll be out of college, and I kept thinking what should I do, what should I do? And I talked to Chris, and he said he's applying for jobs at Silicon Valley. And I thought it'd be cool if we could live in the same city again. And it's California and all. So I did. To about fifteen places. But, yea.

Mother: Well, there's no rush.

Nathan: Mom, it's only six months away!

Mother: You know, your father and I are completely fine with you staying here while you sort it out.

Nathan: Yea, but I don't want to do that.

Mother: It's your home and you're always welcome.

Nathan: (distressed) It's just weird. I've always been away. I mean my stuff's here, but other than that - and plus, I have nothing to do here.

There is a long silence.

Mother: Nathan, do you feel like you're at home when you're here?

Nathan: What do you mean?

Mother: I remember that time when you came back from the high-school band trip. Where did you guys go again?

Nathan: Which year?

Mother: Your senior year.

Nathan: Um, Phoenix.

Mother: My goodness, no wonder it was so expensive!

Nathan: (chuckles) Yea, it was like Philadelphia, Rochester, Pittsburgh, then Phoenix.

Mother: Well, you came back from that trip on Friday and you stayed in all weekend. And you said you were sick and asked me if you could stay in Monday too. I knew you weren't sick so I told you to go to school. But I understood you just missed home, and being on the road with people wasn't your thing. You missed being comfortable, getting rest, or just being home.

Nathan falls silent, reminiscing.

Mother: Do you feel like that when you're here?

Nathan looks up slowly and shakes his head.

Mother: (smiling) We need to find you a girl.

Nathan: (surprised) What?

Mother: Get you married.

Nathan: (more surprised) What?!

Mother: Everyone needs a home.

Nathan: Mom, I'm twenty-two!

Mother: (continuing) Someone who trusts you and loves you.

Nathan: Mom, are you even listening? I'm twenty-two!

Mother: Your father and I dated for two years, and he was twenty-five when he got married.

Nathan: But, you guys are from the Stonehenge!

She lets out a laugh.

Nathan: Mom, that stuff is way down the road.

Mother: Well, you have always been more mature than your age.

Nathan: And plus, the person should always come before the marriage. It doesn't make sense that - oh, I want to get married so I should go find someone. It's not like a goal.

Mother: (smiling) See?

Nathan: Seriously, mom. That is not even in my view sight right now.

Mother: Maybe.

There's a brief pause. Then, she stands up, draws closer to Nathan, and kisses Nathan on the forehead.

Mother: I love you.

Nathan: I love you, too.

Mother: (leaving) Come down for dinner.

(Painting by Mark Rothko "Orange and yellow" 1956)

Paperman

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 14:18:00 +0000

For those who haven't seen this short film yet, this is a recent animation by the Walt Disney Co. It's quite lovely. It centers around a man striving to get a second chance with a woman. With a graceful mix of fluid lines, light noir, and fantasy, the energy of the film brings delight to the heart. Watch it, and you'll see.

I love films like these, films that cherish good story-telling. Good stories stir hearts and incite empathy. And empathy is the cure for the cynics and the antidote for the wounded. Watching the film again, I had a curious thought. Every love comes with a sense of fate. Yet, it's also a choice. How so?

Strange.

It just happens today's Valentine's day. My phone says it's a holiday back in Canada. But, I'm sure my phone is misinformed because I remember having a midterm on Valentine's day few years back. So much for a "smartphone".

Have a radiant, amorous Valentine's day.

Fit for a King

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 13:25:00 +0000

Via Calm Blue Oceans

Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 2 of 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 20:25:00 +0000

Continued from Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 1 of 2)

She spoke so graciously, thankful for the memories. Not bitter, angry, or betrayed. I found her poise remarkable. I sensed what the memories and Josh had meant for her. But, despite the pain she spoke truthfully and with endearment. However, I had begun to get frustrated. I could not understand Josh's actions. 'How could he have just left her like that? Without a word! She thought of him as her best friend, and he was the world to her,' I thought. 'Where is he now? Did he forget? Did he die? If he weren't dead, the least he could do was say bye,' my thoughts lingered.

Unsettled, I bursted. "Aren't you sad?"

She was a little taken back. She answered, "Of course I am, Luke."

"Aren't you angry?" I expounded.

Emily frowned at me. I had stirred an unchartered emotion in her. I immediately regretted having darted Emily such reckless questions. But, she collected herself and spoke, softly, "I was, Luke. When Josh didn't come back on the fourth summer, I waited and waited desperately. I was worried, tired, and angry. But, not now."

A bit apologetic, I took a moment to approach. "Why not?" I asked her.

"Because I cherish the friendship we had. He had shown me so much. Yes, I was angry and I felt betrayed, thinking that he had forgotten me. At the same time, I was worried sick if he were okay. But, as time grew, I also realised something. Friendship is a blessing, Luke. And you cannot own blessings or make them your own," said Emily. She seemed at peace.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I loved Josh, and he was my best friend. But, such things as friendship and love are blessings given to you. They are not earned, and they cannot be ransomed. And to have been given an opportunity to experience true friendship, and true love, is a gift in itself. Yes, I've lost Josh, but to have had a friend like Josh and lose him is better than not having had a friend at all," she replied.

It was then. I was moved. I felt my anguish shell crack and give way to chasm of unrelenting memories. I sat there, sobbing. My tears streamed down my cheeks, and I could feel them wash my hands as I pressed onto my face. Drops brushing against my fingers and my palms, and the warmth of the Sun on my back, I sat there crying. I had lost a friend earlier that year in an accident, and I felt the surge of emotions spring up. I found myself lost, again.

When I calmed down, Emily finally spoke. She asked, "Are you okay?"

"I don't know what to do," I cried.

"What's wrong?" asked Emily.

"I don't know what to do," I repeated, "I know it's not my fault she died." I wasn't making much sense.

Before I could continue, she interrupted, "Who died, Luke?"

"My friend, Ellie," I said. Ellie was my friend, and I had known her since I was a kid. She was my best friend. As I told Emily the story of how Ellie died, I couldn't stop sobbing. "It was six months ago. She was just walking home from school, and I know it was a red light and she shouldn't have crossed, but the driver must have not seen her or something. That fucking driver."

Emily listened.

"I know she didn't mean to die. And, she didn't leave me. It just happened. I just don't know what to do. I feel so jaded, angry, and alone. But, then I think I'm being selfish only thinking about my feelings. But, I can't stop. I know she's not the blame. That fucking driver."

More tears came out. It took me a while to calm down, much longer than I had ever imagined. I had never cried much. I felt like a fool who couldn't manage himself. When it was all over, Emily spoke again, "I'm really sorry, Luke." She was deeply empathetic. She understood.

When I've calmed down and came to my senses, I was embarrassed. "This is embarrassing," I regressed.

"No, it's not," she replied.

"I guess I really needed to vent, huh." I shied away.

"It's good," she said, "I think you ought to share. Have you shared how you feel? With friends?"

Unfortunately, I didn't have friends who wanted to talk and my parents had thought I had 'problem moving on' when I had continued to be solemn months after months. "I tried," I replied.

She remained silent. Naturally, I thought she'd console me then. Having understood my pains, I believed she would help. But, she didn't. Instead, she surprised me. "Luke, this might sound strage to you," she said, "but pray your tears."

"Pray?" I asked. That did sound strange.

"Yes, pray," she confirmed.

It might have sounded lesser strange the second time, but I didn't understand. "Pray? As in pray to God?" I asked, "I don't believe in God."

Emily gave a slight smile. Then, she said, "Prayer is just a petition your heart makes, Luke." She continued, "Petition brings pain of its own, because it's a struggle. That is unfortunately so. But when you have declared your pleas, confessions, and pains, you'll find peace. You'll see that prayers help you grow. You'll find strength. And peace is a kind of inner strength."

"What.." I stumbled. My thoughts were in disarray. Nevertheless, I reacted. "But, who do I pray to?" I asked.

"Be honest, and someone will always listen," she affirmed. "Don't hold them in or try to vent. Sometimes, it doesn't make any sense but just be honest, and you'll always have someone who will listen." She paused, then continued, "Fortunately, Luke, I believe in a God who will listen even if you don't believe him, or even if everyone turned back on him and nobody believed him."

I sat there, struck by her words. I was confused, but part of me believed her. I had always tried to push my emotions and pains aside. I had always tried to ignore or rid them. I had never taken time to confront them and be honest to myself. A picture entered my mind. There was a pair of hands, bleeding, as it picked up broken shards of glass. There were piles of them, but the hands would continue to pick them and continue to bleed. I thought how utterly stupid it was to pick up pieces of glass by hand, but I understood. I wished those were my hands. And I sat there, thinking. My heart resonated.

In silence, time passed. I looked up. The sun had moved well past its meridian, and I could see it glaring behind shields of clouds. It must have been around three or four o'clock, I guessed.

Eventually, Emily spoke. "You're quiet, aren't you?" she asked.

"I am," I replied with a slow nod.

"But not shy," she added.

"No," I answered.

"Josh was quiet, too. He had a nickname at school. They called him the Lone Wolf," she said, "I didn't like it, because I didn't think it suited him. Plus, I don't like wolves. But, he took it as a compliment. He said lone wolves tend to be older and wiser."

I don't know why that was funny, but I was a little amused. I let out a chuckle. And, Emily smiled.

We continued to talk for hours. She told me more stories of Josh, and I shared my stories of Ellie as well. We found a commonplace in each others' hearts and rested there. Time flew. And soon, the moon began rising at opposite end. Air chilled and its scent became fresher. The blue skyline darkened into a dark indigo. I saw the stars envelope the atmosphere, and I dreaded the thought of heading back to the deck. Eventually, I did. I said goodbye to Emily, to which she simply said, "See you later." I rowed back with dim light from the light stand by the deck as my only guide. My heart still heavy, I felt uneasy. I felt perplexed and my thoughts continued to wander. But, I sensed hope. Without knowing how or where, my heart had already begun its course. I didn't know where I was, or where I was going, but my heart was in pursuit. Paradoxically, I felt lost but not without an intent.

I pulled the boat into the bank and onto the deck. As I pushed the boat into its rightful place I found that morning, I felt the engraving at the boat's right rowlock again. "Emily", my fingertips reminded me. I wondered if Emily knew that Josh had engraved her name on the boat.

Again. "Emily".

I pictured two hearts engraving each others' names as they communed. And, I wondered if that is actually what we do when we care, love, and understand one another. With each passing moment, we etch deeper. When one of us goes away, we are left with a void. The largest void would hurt the most. Then, I wondered if I should be in joy that it had hurt so much for me. All the while, I thought how ridiculous it was to imagine hearts with arms and legs etching names onto each other. But, I understood the sincerity. And, I wished one of those hearts were mine.

The end

Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 1 of 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 20:25:00 +0000

One early morning, I began rowing on a stolen boat, working myself toward the center of the lake. I had always seen this boat by the deck nearby my cottage, but I had never seen its owner. It was a simple wooden-boat with no mast, a pair of paddles made from pine and its body painted yellow. With care, it had aged well. There was a name engraved by the right rowlock, which read "Emily". I didn't see a last name, and I did not know an Emily. Perhaps, it was the name of the boat, I thought.

Slowly paddling the calm, blue lake, I drifted agaze at the echoes of water ripples created by each stroke. I had always loved the waters - lakes, rivers, seas, and waterfalls. I find myself transfixed at the sight of its vast body, and all calamities of thoughts cease. The anxieties evaporate and peace settles. There's an element of healing to the waters, I always say. And perhaps, each time I long to go out to the waters I'm looking for healing. And perhaps, that's why on that day I decided to steal the boat and row into the waters aimlessly.

By the time I reached the center, the morning mist had cleared. I could see the sky, light blue with a temper of orange at the edge of horizon. I gathered the paddles and placed them below the center thwart. I slouched, bedding my shoulders on the front thwart and resting my head against the front edge of the boat. Thinking of which, I realised I had rowed the boat backward, though it didn't matter. With my face skyward, I pictured myself seen from distance in supine position, hovering on water as if the boat didn't exist. Then, I imagined the world upside-down. This was the bottom-end of the waters and I had been peering down into the sky from above. Few minutes passed. I don't remember what I had been thinking then. But I sense that it was ominous. Then, I fell asleep.

I woke up to a woman's voice. "Josh?"

When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining right down on me. I couldn't open them. I heard the voice again, "Josh? Is that you?" Her voice was much clearer.

I lifted my head, and saw the lake. The boat was about as far from the banks as I remembered. There was nobody in sight. Then, I heard the voice again. It came from below. "Josh, is that you?"

I straightened up and looked down. And unbeknownst to me, the next two minutes would be the strangest two minutes of my life. There was a catfish, the size of a small child. And I heard it speak, the words as clear as the day. But, I would not believe it. It motioned, it gestured, it spoke fluidly, but I would not accept it. I felt the blood rush into my head, and I froze. My senses had dissociated and I felt inanimate. Like a stone.

When I had collected my senses, I was able to understand again. "I'm terribly sorry," said the catfish. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"I'm really sorry," repeated the fish.

Then, suddenly, I felt the blood drain from my head, and I felt dizzy. I had a headache. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead where I felt the pulse.

The fish seemed concerned and asked, "Are you alright?"

I was able to respond. Yet, still surreal-struck, I murmured, "Yes."

I opened my eyes and the fish was still there. Our eyes met. Still in disbelief, I wanted to ask if it had spoke. The question lingered in my head but my lips remained unmoved. A moment passed, and she broke the silence. Her voice softened, "I'm sorry. But I have to ask. Where did you find this boat?"

I replied slowly, "By the deck, that way." I pointed south.

"Do you know the owner of this boat?" asked the fish.

I shook my head. Then, I asked her, "What does he look like?"

"He must be about forty years old now. Brown hair," said the fish.

Almost all of my cottage neighbors were gray-plus. "I don't know," I answered. I asked, "When's the last time you saw him?"

"About twenty-five years ago?" she replied.

I blurted, "How old are you?"

Realising my rudeness, I quickly blushed. She noticed my blush but answered me anyway. "I, too, am about forty."

My eyes widened.

"You don't go fishing often, I reckon?" She would later tell me that you can easily estimate the fish's age by its size.

I shook my head.

"You look about fifteen," she guessed.

"I'm sixteen," I replied.

She smiled. "It's quite rare to see someone come around the waters and not fish. Well, it's rare to see someone so young come around here at all." A beat, then she continued, "How did you come about this boat?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I stole it."

"You don't seem like the type of person to steal," she remarked.

I was a little embarrassed. I replied, "No, I don't know why. I just felt like coming out here." I took a deep breath. "I..."

"Needed to be alone," she filled in.

"Yea."

There was a strange familiarity in the dialogue, as if our encounter had been recited many times before. We chatted for hours. She told me that her name was Emilia, and Josh used to called her "Emily" or "Em". I introduced myself also - Luke. She told me about her summers with Josh. He'd come to the lake, and he'd always have a bruise or a scar from his adventures in the wild. He was small and skinny. He had short brown hair, round hazel eyes, and a smile like Calvin's from "Calvin and Hobbes". He often brought books, magazines, and comics with him into the waters and read with Emily. She really enjoyed "Calvin and Hobbes", she said. One time, Josh had brought a mini-rocket and he shot it into the sky. It missed and actually shot into the woods. And, she would listen to Josh go on and on about how the rocket nozzle design was improper. He'd bring another one, and another one, until he got it right on the 10th try. She said she remembered every one of them. Another time, he brought Emily fruits, mostly berries, just to let her try. She didn't understand how people could eat something so distasteful, she said. Emily told me stories after stories; I listened mostly. I was magnetized. Her experiences and tales compelled me, and I felt myself live through them. But, as she ended her tales of Josh, I experienced the sharp pain led by the premise of our encounter that morning. After 3 long summers, Josh had disappeared, and Emily didn't know why or where. She didn't have a chance to say goodbye. And, after 25 years, she didn't even know whether he was alive. This yellow boat was the only reminder she's had, and I had reluctantly ridden it that day.

Continued on Yellow Boat (Goodbye, Pt. 2 of 2)

Excerpt from Casino Royale

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Sun, 18 Nov 2012 14:50:00 +0000

174 EXT. CLINIC PORCH -- ANOTHER DAY

Bond wakes in a wooden lounge chair. His stubble has turned into quite a well trimmed beard. Vesper sits beside him, more beautiful than ever.

Bond: Are you alright?

Vesper: (re: her bandaged fingers) Nothing that can't heal. (looks at him) I'm being awful. I can't resist waking you. Every time I do, you look at me as if you haven't seen me in months. It's so lovely. Makes me feel... reborn.

Bond: If you were just born wouldn't you be naked?

Vesper: See, you have me there.

A moment, now admits.

Vesper: The truth is... you can have me anywhere.

Bond: (a little surprised) I can, can I?

She climbs onto the arm of his chair and drapes her arms around his neck.

Vesper: Yes. Here. There. Anywhere you like.

Bond: Would you say you are warming up to me?

Vesper: Yes, that's how I would describe it.

Bond: Because not too long ago I would have described your feelings toward me as.. let me find a better word than loathing.

Vesper: I fear I am a complicated woman.

Bond: That is something to fear.

In-Between

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 05:29:00 +0000

Given that it's my graduation term, I am quite busy these days. But between my work I watch lots of videos. And play some games time to time. This video is a recent find; it's made by a 5-member team from Paris, story of which centers around a shy girl.

I love the color palette. And the crocodile! It's really cute. Do you agree?

Intricacies

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 27 Sep 2012 04:42:00 +0000

One evening, I was called out for a chat with a school friend. I enjoy good conversations, especially over coffees and teas, though this wasn't the case. It was outside a convenience store. In Korea it's common to have tables and chairs outside convenience stores for people to eat, smoke, chat, drink, and pass out, though not necessarily in that order.

Insert chuckle.

Regardless of the place, it was a good conversation. We started talking about jobs and careers, naturally. I find this all too common a topic nowadays, but he said something interesting. The précis goes something like this: our generation was taught and brought up to believe that we can achieve anything if we try hard enough, and we should have passion for what we do in life; it's a great message, but where's the responsibility in that?

The problem here isn't that the belief is inherently wrong. The problem is that the message is oversimplified. Passion is of great importance to our lives; it concerns what we do and why we do them. But too often whilst pursuing our passion, we leave our responsibilities behind. And when we fail at achieving what we want, we are devastated because passion has become our identities. Responsibilities work counter, though in conjunction, with our passions. Responsibilities are the precautions and preparations we take, and the actions we plan to take when we invest in our passion. It's also about understanding the boundaries of your passion, acknowledging the risks and consequences of your actions.

Halt.

These are fairly robust definitions, yet they are still just preliminary definitions of responsibility. Given the context of passion, it's rightly so. But passion, as you experience in all endeavors of life, involves choice. The more encompassing view of responsibility is related to our motives for our actions. It involves our intentions and conscience for the choices we make. If dreams and choices are what we do, then responsibility is how and why we do them.

A designer designs.

Take John for an example. John is a passionate industrial designer. Ever since he was little, he loved drawing, crafting things, sketching ideas, and at an early age he had become fluent in the visual language of objects. He graduated from a top design school and he got a job afterwards, doing what he loved best - designing. The hours were long and sometimes the tasks were menial, but he rarely complained. Overall, he enjoyed his job. And years went by, until he met a girl and got married. The unforgiving hours often kept him away from home, the less-than-average pay was distressing, but combined with his wife's salary they managed. A couple of years passed and now they want to start a family. But John fears that with his wife off the payrolls, he will not be able to sufficiently support his family. He begins to feel burdened and confronted with this reality, John contemplates a different career, moving out of the city, or compromise by creating an independent start-up design firm. He needs to make a choice.

What would you do?

Understandably, I am a guy and the scenario is gender-biased. But, the interlink between choice and responsibility is a universal phenomenon. Simplified, all choice leads to an action. And all actions have consequences. Responsibilities are the challenges of meeting those consequences. Whether you are a boy or a girl, a man or a woman, if you exercise choice then you will appropriate responsibilities, which you must face. When you apply for a job, when you enter a relationship, when you buy a car, when you eat a Big Mac, or when you make a promise, consequences follow. And to manage those consequences is, in part, to be responsible.

One porcupine. Two porcupines. Three porcupines.

The thing is, I want John to continue to design. He really loves what he does, and he is ardent and passionate. I believe, if he strives harder and persists, he is going to be okay. But the question is now. And nothing is certain about his future. Suppose he continues to design. Some may admire his passion for design while some will write him off being selfish. He'd risk suffering his family's quality of life. Well, is it selfish? Or is it passion?

Is this a standoff?

This is where my initial thought train began. It was the problem of choice and risk, namely its consequences. But while pondering, I realised two mistakes on my part. First mistake was that I phrased the question wrongfully. If I only considered the outcome of John's choice, then I would've disregarded the purpose of his action altogether. If I only focused on the result, then I would've fallen in trap of explaining John's choice as simply goal-oriented. And in this scenario, fear is an alternative explanation. And this conjures up a new question: does motivation matter in responsibility? To explain better, let's say John moved out of the city and decided a different career path, because family comes first. It's a sound decision, but we have no indication to his internal states. He may have acted on love. Or he may have acted out of fear. In fact, he may have thought that the risk of his family's quality of life diminishing was good enough a reason to make that decision. And while some may answer John's responsibleness adequate, the decision made out of fear and a decision founded in love are qualitatively different. It's the difference between giving a gift because you love someone and giving a gift because you fear he or she will leave you. It's the difference between a leader listening to his crowd because he is concerned and a leader listening to his crowd because he fears the crowd revolting. Would you call such person a responsible lover? Would you call such person a responsible leader?

Actions matter and John's actions indeed have consequences, but the definitive solution is found in the motivation. For John, it's the difference between John doing so because he fears for his family's well-being and John doing so because he is reminded of his love for his family and identifies who he is amongst his family before his work title.

I'd overseen this quality in responsibility by asking the question of passion versus responsibility as a simple tug-of-war. Truth is it's much more complicated. Even more so, most decisions we make are often mixed with motives. They are in the gray-area where it's partly fear-driven and partly love-driven. And in most cases, I believe that's normal and healthy. But it does add to the already existing complexity of choice, action, and motivation. And it's something to always be mindful of.

Sine. Cosine. Tangent.

The second mistake is much simpler and easier to explain than the first. The second mistake I made was that I didn't include John's wife in the decision-making process. After all, it's her decision just as much as it is his decision. I'm not sure what John's wife would say though, because I don't know her. John is a fictional character, and it was hard enough pulling out a person from thin air. I don't think I could do two. But whatever the decision, if made together, I believe it will be the right decision.

So yes, John should talk with his wife first.

Good luck, John.

P.S. The above photograph was taken across the Graduate House at University of Toronto. I miss my Toronto friends.

Just Wanted to Share

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 04:30:00 +0000

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 04:41:00 +0000

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Let us ponder this question for a moment. Many argue the question is too careless and gives too large a room for responses inherently indubitable, but I believe I can find a solution by further developing the question then circumstancing my personal reflections. Despite the satirical nature of the question, I'll derive a conclusion, however exclusively subjective. I'll attempt to push the question as far as possible. With each iterative addition of condition argued in regard to the initial question, I'll provide an answer to its current state and another scenario purported by following additional conditions. And when all possible variables have been annotated, I'll inductively reason to uphold an answer and conclude with a final remark. Then, I'll add a personal insight to my conclusion.

So, why did the chicken cross the road? Let's, for the rest of this exercise, disregard all existential doubts. The chicken indeed crossed the road. This remains a fact and for those inclined to doubt any evidence at this point let's note that at point-x and time-y the chicken began to cross the road. Hence, any responses that deter from this observation will be treated as false. Similarly, the essence of the chicken is subdued by the exact cursor. The essence of the chicken is defined as the common domesticated bird which lays eggs and its meat processed as poultry. Responses which counters denouncing its existence, such as 'What chicken?' or 'It was really a rabbit', will be dubbed inadequate and premature. Same logic applies to the definition of road and its validity as a road.

Another pretense the question holds ambiguous is whether the chicken was genuinely the victim of its intentions. To phrase otherwise, was the chicken passive or active in its decision to cross the road? The question is elusive in this regard. However, the question hints clues. Considering its semantics and grammar, the chicken is the subject and the road is the object. It does not refer to the road being crossed by the chicken. Additionally, I argue that it's more probable that the chicken actively crossed the road and it was not unaware of its actions. Therefore, the chicken was intentional and its actions were ascertained deliberately. In the likelihood it was not intentional, I logically assume that the chicken was not cognizant. Given this condition, 'The chicken was sleep-walking' or 'The chicken was blind and deaf' will suffice as a response. However, this argument is defeasible. It introduces a new variable in the question that defers the subject of the question away from the chicken itself by displacing its authority in intention elsewhere. And along with it comes a twist but only posterior to the prior information. Thereby, it artifices a conclusion. I comment it as an ill-witted response to an impostor of a question that'd derail both the trickster and its audience altogether.

This leaves a final pretense which must be addressed. That is, what were its environmental conditions? And the most concise response is that there was nothing else present besides the chicken and the road, the question's initial givens. In the same manner as the chicken's internal state has been clarified, its external states can be clarified also. In the likelihood the chicken was not alone or there were other environmental variables present, the argument is defeasible due to an unlikely, convenient prior information only unveiled posteriorly. Though not perfectly certain, these are the logical presumptions I make when I attempt to answer the question: why did the chicken cross the road? And only when the conclusion derived from the alternative, or the question's givens, proves fallible will I revisit the assumptions made thus far.

So then, what are the givens? The givens are two things. The chicken and the road. From here on, we can deduce several other facts. First and the most obvious, a road is divisive by definition. While it functions to form a path which traveling can be accompanied through, it also entails separation of two sides. The chicken is on one side and there is the other side. Second, the question is not interested in whether the chicken successfully crossed the road or not. As mentioned previously, the question is primarily concerned with the intention of the chicken. Hence, the proper response to a question of 'why' would gender a statement starting with 'because' or 'to' followed by a verb.

I've hinted the answer. From here on, you can begin to formulate the possible answers. But a response which begins with 'because' does not work. 'The chicken crossed the road because' instigates the internal intentions which still remains unforeseen by the readers. Hence, this deduces the choice of answer down to one. 'The chicken crossed the road to' - to do what? And here we find the answer in plain sight. It's inherent in the word 'cross'. Cross is defined as to move, pass, or extend from one side to the other side. Hence, the chicken crossed the road to get to the other side.

So, yet again I ask. Why did the chicken cross the road?

The answer is this: to get to the other side.

This answer may seem anti-climatic to most. It may be less of an answer expected, but less is more. There's a twist. And this is the cunning, dual nature of the question and the answer together. While answering in the most obvious means possible, the other side is a reference. We assume, because the chicken and the road are physical manifestations, the question relies on answers that are both material and existential in nature. However, we bypass the notion that it need not necessarily be true. And that the response may as well be metaphysical and metaphorical. In here, 'the other side' is an allegory. The other side of life. Death. Beyond life. The chicken did not merely cross the road to set its feet on the other side but to experience death.

We find multiplicative answers in a single line of response. The chicken crossed the road to get to the other side. Inclusively defined as to die.

Rest in peace, dear chicken.

Image sourced from Mizz via Google

Higgs Boson Explained

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 13:55:00 +0000

I barely understand any of this, but from the little I understand I think it's pretty cool.

Via PhD Comics

As You Were

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 16:39:00 +0000

What does it mean to be compatible? In a dating sense, I mean. Does it mean sharing interests and activities? The chemistry? Attraction, whether simply corporeal or carnal? Emotional connection? Intelligence? Having a community of supporting mutual friends? Does it mean not missing a beat when having a conversation? Disliking the same stuff? Believing in something mutually? How do you define compatibility?

The conventional wisdom is that compatibility, above all, entails someone who's willing to take them as they are and not change them. It's defined by taking the other person lovingly for his or her entirety and accepting them. It means not having to change yourself, because that's love.

Bullshit.

The best relationships are the ones that challenge us and change us. They change us to become better, to reciprocate, and to humble ourselves, because it's not about us. It never was. Relationship is never about the individuals, together or separate. It's about what's in between the two. It's about building and prioritizing the relationship before yourself or the other. It necessarily requires change. This contradicts the conventional wisdom of compatibility. The irony of compatibility is that it falsely assumes individualism. And we're told a lie that somehow if you and your partner both like kayaking, reading novels under the shade, and Star Wars, then you'll be fine. The argument is that you'll be better off if both share these interests rather than only one. That somehow, in a probabilistic sense, your relationship will be fruitful based on good compatibility. It's absurd. To be fair, it's great if two can enjoy an activity together. It's precious time spent together. Memories inscribed, love nurtured, and smiles engraved. But if relationships are founded on compatibility, it'll never stand attest to time. Compatibility is inherently selfish in nature. It's always about your interests and how their share of interests can fit into your life. Same can be said for personalities, intelligence, and physical-emotional chemistry.

I believe love has become an ideal. And with it, ironically, there's an equivocal pessimism. When we enter a relationship, we have clear expectations and desires. Many even subscribe to lists of traits they wish to find. Dating sites are notorious for them. From eye to hair colors, to height and jobs, school backgrounds, hobbies, and activities, we're led to believe we have a good chance at successful relationship because he or she is who you're searching for. But at the same time, the ideal has incited a pessimism that nobody is good enough. If the other person does not behave in accordance to our ideals we're quick to label them as flaws and dismiss them. We've got it backwards. We've put self-fulfillment before self-denial. And as long as we have it backwards, we'll imprison ourselves in disillusions.

In denial, as I were.

Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Wed, 16 May 2012 16:53:00 +0000

When I was applying for architecture graduate schools last winter, I told myself that I'd post up the portfolio and the results regardless of what results I got. So, these are the results. A portfolio that's no longer viable and 4-of-4 rejection letters. If I sound bitter, it's because I am bitter. Nonetheless, a promise is a promise. Well, here's to sleeping better after I post this and can get it off my consciousness. Cheers.

First, the portfolio. It's not the best viewing method, but I cut down the portfolio to post as picture files. Few pages of the portfolio are missing, but they're mostly cover pages, eye-candy photos, and table of contents. Altogether there isn't much to look at, if it helps here's a link to the higher-quality slideshow. I only had 3 projects. The first one was a conceptual build-up of typography and manipulation of its space. The second was a labor-intensive work of luthiery and fascinating an instrument facade into a visual space. The third is an easy piece that encodes calendar information into spacial context; basically, it's like a watch that tells time except it tells the month and the date.

As for schools, I applied to four programs. They're Harvard, Princeton, Yale, and MIT; and I didn't get into any of them. Why these schools? Go big or go home. That was the spirit. I wasn't going to settle for less. Personally, I've always been interested in only 1 school: MIT. I like the other 3 programs as well, but I believed I'd find a good home at the MIT program. My grades and GRE were fine. Speculating, my essays were weak for Harvard and Yale. But architecture admissions rely heavily on portfolio. And in most cases, the portfolio speaks for itself and the rest of the application are supplementary.

So, that's that. My last application was submitted early January. I received all my results by mid-March. I remember the last of its days. Ever slipping, I finally cracked.

What's next? Who knows. Life, perhaps.

Stray Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Wed, 09 May 2012 16:03:00 +0000

I've become accustomed to feeding stray cats near my place. These two are the regulars I feed. There is one more cat and a dog that come by time to time. But they don't befriend me at all. So, these two are the only ones I feed. And I guess they are the closest thing I've had as a pet because I've never had a pet. Well, technically I did. I owned few hamsters, turtles, a pair of birds at one point, and fish. I also had an ant colony in my desk drawer that gathered around the crab claw I souvenired from the previous night's dinner. That was grade 2, and my mom cleaned it up. I was unwilling to clean it, because I thought it was cool. Anyways, point made, I did have pets. But none of them were large enough to pet, which is my definition of a pet. If you can pet it it's a pet. I sometimes wish I did or could, but given my current living arrangements I can't accomodate one. My brother and I have always liked the idea of having a dog, but sadly that never happened. Reasons being allergy, lots of moving around, disapproving parents, and so on.

The black one is addicted to tuna. It does eat cat food if it's really hungry but rarely. It's also much less timid than the orange cat. The black one will eat food out of my hands whereas the orange one will only eat if I'm at least 3 feet away. Having said that, recently the black one's begun to claw my hands whenever I hold food out for him. It has sharp claws so when it claws, I'd drop the food and it'd just eat the food off the ground. Cunning little prick, but I like the emerald eyes.

Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Tue, 01 May 2012 04:55:00 +0000

I think we all think that if we could be perfect, or just simply be better, we'd be better in all sense. That, being smarter, more athletic, more sociable, more talented, wealthier, and better dresser, or even innate characters such as having more empathy, being punctual, and being agreeable. But more and more I realize that it's not true. It's the relationships we make and the qualities of them that define our value, whether good or bad. If we could really be better by being more perfect, then some would be much more unfortunate than others. And I don't think people are made equal though all are valued the same. Some are simply smarter, more athletic, and more talented in different aspects of life than others. But I believe we all have the same potentials to love or hate another. Cherish and endear those who we love, and it inherently betters ourselves. Hate and despise one another, and that has its consequences also.

I have people who I look up to. I admire great people and the historical figures. To list some are Winston Churchill, Oscar Wilde, and Bill Gates. But reflecting on this admiration, I have trouble calling it love. It's mainly because I don't have a personal relationship with any of them, but I noticed that it's also because I've come to idealize their character. To me they are, in one sense, complete. I have easier time expressing love for those in need, hungry, and not loved. And it's because love is better found in redemption and in act of console. It's the imperfections that I can readily perceive which enables my heart to open up and empathize. With people and things I see perfect or simply good, it's much harder. And although I haven't tried, it often seems impossible. It's that opportunity or space reflected by another's imperfection that you can come to forgive, redeem, and love. If we were all made perfect, we wouldn't need to be forgiven, we wouldn't need redemption, we wouldn't need to depend on another, and we would never find love. We'd be self-sufficient.

There was once a dream that was timeless. A perfection that spoke of paragons of ideals and stood impeccable to corruptions. With virtues and might, he mounted himself on the fragile plane where he could only whisper of this perfection. Anything more and it would vanish. But to what end?

Redemption is better than perfection. Photo from Insadong, Seoul.

The Love Competition

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 14:24:00 +0000

A friend of mine shared me this video. A fun game of whose brain will show most intensity when thinking about your loved ones. I study neuroscience, so while watching this I have a tendency to refute the definition of love, measurements and controls, and sampling size. Don't be like me. Just watch and enjoy!

Narratives

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 16:41:00 +0000

The stories I tell myself and believe are the ones most compelling.

I used to talk to lots of people. Nowadays, I find little time to do so. And since I can't find the time to make new dialogues or engage with someone, I reflect on past conversations. I think about the context, their life-stage, and what I understood and what I did not. I wonder how some of the people I've stopped talking are doing. I wonder how they changed, or I think about how some of my friends I've stayed in touch over the years grew. I realize the past changes. The younger me was an absolutist; he cared little about what happened in the past and always looked forward. To him, the past remained as-is and it remained a fact, like the mosquitos trapped in ember. They were immovable. He was wrong; they move, and they can be stirred. And it's because people change; and people can change. And when you change, your perception changes also. Past, present, and future.

Years back, coming up to college I had a simple plan. I was relatively a simple boy and in a way, I still am. But I intended to keep things all simple; I'd do good in college, study what I enjoyed, go to a med-school, graduate, live somewhere rural, practice medicine, and enjoy hobbies with a family. And it's what many dream, coming into college. Is that good or bad? I don't know. It's naive, but naivety is neither moral nor immoral. Being a doctor or wanting to become one is certainly not immoral. I thought I'd be a doctor ever since I was young and that wish continued till my senior years in college where I took a turn. I no longer showed any interest in getting into a med-school. I began to think doctors were boring people, med-schools were overrated, and as a profession it seemed too constraint. I've become free of the Asian stereotype or the imposed choice of profession in the capitalistic society. So I went onto study something different. And I never looked back. Until now. I've always told myself that things worked for the better and that I should always be thankful at where I am now. That is a good attitude to have, and I should be thankful. But if I were to be fair to myself and test my character I'd stop assuming I was right and drop that narrative. The narrative is that I stopped dreaming of med-school willfully, and that I was the agent of change, when in fact I was passive. I had doubts whether I could get into med-school and whether I had the skills or talent. In effect and truthfully, the choice was never mine. It's convenient to believe that it was mine though. I'd feel more assured where I am right now, I'd be more confident, and I'd have more faith in myself. So, choosing the previous narrative makes more sense than the alternative. But at what cost?

Everyone has a narrative.

Francis Thomson
In attempts to improve your character, know what is in your power and what is beyond it.

Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 17:58:00 +0000

In Dreams Begin Responsibilites

noreply@blogger.com (Issac Rhim) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 17:40:00 +0000

You were crying in your sleep. It was all but a dream yet the pain lingered. Then you realized it wasn't a dream, but a memory. Wonders unseen and gone. You wondered why you still felt the pain. It's because you have not yet faced it truthfully. Don't try to erase it because it's impossible to do so. Memories are the most secret diaries we carry in ourselves, however bitter or sweet they may be. Good or bad. They cannot be undone, just as you cannot be undone. Therefore, I must ask you to do the hardest thing. Accept them, and you'll find yourself again.

Connecting terminal. An old crow speaks.

When I was younger, I was wiser. There was a time when I understood words like purity, tranquility, and decency. But with age comes regrets and reality. Oh, the realities! They are the fiercest enemy you can find. When I was young, I believed if I could fly higher I'd be able to do much more. They agreed. I believed in a cause and they thought it was noble. I believed love was all I needed, and they guided me through their plans. They said it was just as necessary if my belief were to come to life. But rubbles! Why did I listen to them? Stranger, if my words can reach you then listen. Do not be blinded by reality as I have been. Love is all you need. It is unparalleled; it is one and the only one of its kind and does not compare. Plans, actions, happiness, money, and food are all necessarily important. But in light of love, they're secondary. When you find love, it'll do you good as laying a foundation which you can build yourself. That is, a foundation on which you can build plans, happiness, food, and shelter. But without love, we are hopelessly lost. Without it, we are weak. Without it, we're even more limited. Family, lovers, and friends share and carry each others' burdens. Love is the link that binds them together. Do not be mild about it as I was. Cherish it. They'll become your strength. And remember, we cannot take just what is good in our eyes, accept the good only, and reject the rest. Love is not partial. Remember that, stranger. Etch it inside of you. It'll help you in times of need. And lest you feel ashamed about your imperfections, don't be. Do not try to be perfect. It is as absurd as trying to create the perfect snow flake.

I've seen countless snow flakes, each one of them beautiful.