oxymoronica

Exam

Cold fingers of air pull back on her hair as she speeds down the slope, her skis grinding down on the snow with a distinguished scraping sound, her body hunched as her legs press against the mountain, side to side, a feeling of pure exhilaration. The fear that gripped her in youth has been replaced with boldness in age. Quite the opposite of what she expected, yet so very appropriate for the mountain, this mountain. The ride of her life. So focused is she on the air the land under her feet, she becomes an extension of it, she and the slope gliding as one; yet time and again, the obstacles tear through her confidence, shred her soul. A flicker of uncertainty in the mind and her entire body registers. She falls. This is the one mountain she can't possess. She is chasing the tail end of winter before this wonderland melts, seeps into the earth, and disappears forever. As all things must be absorbed back into this rock from which they rise. Yet that knowledge does not make it any easier. It will be difficult to let go. She simply can't let go.

Call me a veteran of commercial flight.

Seat 20A. The seat on flight 1002 that has my name on it. Not for any particular reason other than the evenness of the number. And for how the seat lines up with the cabin wall between the windows just so, such that the sloping side of the window portal becomes an extension of my headrest. And for its location in the rear of the plane, more likely to be empty and first group to board (therefore first dibs on the overhead bins).

Gate 27. Much like my regular coffee counter, the Cape Air counter in Logan International IDs me immediately upon approach. Cold enough today for a cafe au lait? 11 o'clock for Martha's Vineyard? Even my oh so crucial proof of identification has been waived; for me!

Terminal 5. Under 12 minutes. The time it takes me to get through security. Shoes, jacket, and sweater off and in a bin. Except for one site-visit day the first week of January. The queue to enter security was so long it not only folded upon itself at least five times but extended beyond the end of the belted area clear across the terminal lobby before it hit the wall and proceeded to wrap around itself from there. Never in my life have I heard so many times a single line uttered, "Is THIS the end of the security line?" I barely made my flight that day.

Luggage inspection. Rare for me, though each time has been memorable indeed. There was Buffalo, where I was questioned about the curious contents of my bag. No, it's not a lethally sharp object. It's an acrylic and metal laminate sample of a wall installation. Yes, for an exhibit. Yes, I'm an architect. And in SFO over the holidays, it was for my tin cans full of explosive cocoa powder and chemically charged mulling spices.

Spread thin with travel in the last couple of months, bits and pieces of my semblance reside along both coasts. My likeness in security videos, life contents recorded in xray. Split between each locale, it has been increasingly difficult to focus on any one thing. Yet these disparate pieces have become as much a part of me as I have them. And my life has been enriched.

The best laid schemes of mice and men.

Tomorrow Wednesday will take me to my Martha's Vineyard jobsite. Not so much a job with this project as it is a walk in the park, literally (yes, literally). The team is superb; the client, delightful; and the scenery, magical - in early December it's a cold crisp autumn light. Not to say that there are no bumps along the road; this is no perfect world. But compared to the trials of recent years, I have been blessed with a sweet little high end residential breather. The cynic in me calls it the eye of a storm. Because as it turns out, I am being equipped, no, armed, to head up institutional projects on the horizon. (Gee, I must have done SO well on the previous one). With my university experience, and the latest LEED accreditation, big boss has now given me 'incentive' to get my architectural license. Which is good as, yes I'll admit, I need the nudge. Good enough that I won't even delve into the switch from the positive incentive originally promised to this negative one that is currently goading me on. Yes, I need it. That's all. In fact, I am actually looking forward to holing up with a bunch of books over the winter. (Not being sarcastic here.) After four years away from academia, I have no hesitation delving into the purely cerebral again. And so the trooper (read: masochist) in me says, bring it big world! (This includes you, projects of institution).

Two days ago Sunday brought my phonecall to a restaurant where my parents gathered with their closest friends. Mom and dad returned home to California on Thanksgiving, back from Taiwan, where they dealt with trials and institutions of an altogether different caliber. And so this Thanksgiving - an altogether different caliber as well. It was good to hear my mom laughing, talking animatedly. I welcome this coming Christmas, where my entire family will be together again. It will have been over a year now. And within that year, new meaning has been imparted to the holidays, as this year has been so different from all others. A double edged sword, the holidays. Losses and near-losses will serve to remind me of all I am thankful for, all I cherish. Yet, it has become a reminder of that which has been lost, of that which we are in position to lose, and of that which cannot be. It fills my heart with a sorrow, barely bearable and inexplicably deep.

There is a black squirrel that lives on the grounds of the projects near my apartment. I see him every so often on my way to work in the morning. A beautiful specimen, glossy jet black coat, bushy tail, shiny beady eyes. Now I can't say for sure if black squirrels are rare, as I am not often in the wild, but this one is the first I've ever encountered. What undoubtedly comes to my mind after the initial awe, is whether he is aware of his uniqueness. Not only that, but do the other squirrels recognize it as well?

There is a star in the southern night sky that has been catching my eye lately. It is the brightest star in the sky. Well, it is the only star visible in this metropolitan sky of ours; but in fact, it is no star, it is planet Jupiter. It shone bright and true last night, since the moon was new and invisible. And had the big city bright lights not acted the successful foil by washing out the rest of the heavens, I would not have put second thought to it. Yes, for those who don't realize, the New York City night is without stars. Yet, I only have to locate myself some miles away, and the spread of magnificent pinpoints reveals itself again. It's such a wonder that the sky we look up to see, is the same sky everyone finds themselves under, yet can appear very different from the context in which it is viewed.

There is a certain rifle I like to use at the range. Not for any particular reason other than I'm accustomed to the way the sights line up. Last night, after 150 rounds or so of erratic pinpricks into the black and white bullseye target, I was about to chalk it up to being out of practice. Examining the inconsistent spread of holes, devoid of any groupings that would suggest any semblance of accuracy, I just couldn't let it go. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I slowed it down, took it easy, recalled some pointers, relaxed my stance; making myself more aware. Gingerly, but not without pressure, I pulled the trigger. Dead center. A couple more, and 7 of 9 tore a 3/4" group around the initial shot. Five more and I ended up with 10 of 15 total in the 3/4" circle. Looking at the 10 of 15, I saw a potentially superior marksman. But looking at 15 of 200, I see something very different altogether.

I get the sense the seasons are going through a bit of identity crisis this year.  Summer lingered longer than usual here in the city, not a full-fledged deep humid summer, but under-developed, like a ripe Spring pushing its boundaries.  Not that I'm complaining.  It was a wonderful Summer.  Now comes october, and Autumn finally takes to the stage.  With full force, trying to reclaim days lost.  The switch so sudden it has thrown us into a bit of confusion; our own little identity crisis.  The gray clouds blanket, and the air outside bites.  There are those still in tank tops, and others in coats and scarves.  There are Halloween decorations in some storefronts, while pink flower cut-outs dangle above the counter at the southern cafe downstairs from our apartment.

I'll admit, I was a bit startled by Fall this year; not so much by its full-force decent, but by the intensity of emotions that came along with it.  A momentary bout of the blues when the skies turned gray.  Now, a full embrace of the reality that is Autumn.  A changing of the seasons that I find nostalgic and deeply comforting.  I'd be delighted to settle there.

Yesterday morning I walked into the office lobby and was at the end of a group of people waiting for the elevator.  In front of me was an animated woman asking the woman next to her if she had any models upstairs who had long bangs to sit in for a short tv segment.  She shook her head, "Sorry, no."  Mid-conversation, the woman turned around, saw me, and lit up.  "Do YOU want to be part of a Fox News segment on how to trim your own bangs?  (Not particularly.  And I already do trim my own hair.)  It's from 12:30 to 4.  Oh, but you're probably working anyway."  I confirmed this apologetically, and she continued, "I figured as much.  It's just that when I turned around and saw you standing there, I immediately thought you were a godsend or something."

Yesterday was my father's birthday. My email wishing him best of food, fun, and health could not catch up to the 12 hour time difference between this city and his. (I should have emailed him Saturday instead).

Today is my parents wedding aniversary.  I'm embarassed to say that I don't know how many years my parents have been married, (nor how old they are without doing major calculations in my head for that matter), but I'm delighted to say that the years must have been pretty smooth, and pretty great, or I would have felt time painfully counted.  I suppose it would have been 35 years now.

The other day while on the train headed to work, an ad for Duane Reade drugstore read: "Get everything you need in 15 minutes. Or as New Yorkers call it, lunch hour."  I couldn't help but laugh.  I certainly didn't need to be reminded of how true that can be.

Two days ago my mom left a voicemail saying she just wanted to liao tian, to gossip, talk, shoot the shit.  It was good hearing her voice again after three chemo treatments.  Unfortunantely at the time of her call, I was entombed in the belly of metropolis' steel snake and was off the radar until I surfaced from the subway a couple of blocks near my apartment.  She said she would call again when she has time.  I pressed '9' to save that voicemail.

The line at La Colombe, my weekday morning coffee spot, was about five people long. Not long at all compared to Starbucks, but longer than usual considering more often than not, I'm up at the counter almost immediately after walking through the door. Anyway, it was long enough for the barista to see me. By the time I reached the counter, I didn't have to say anything before he told the cashier, "the iced coffee is for her". And there it was, sitting on the counter next to a small ceramic saucer with metal spoon and plastic lid waiting for me, its light mist of condensation percolating in anticipation.

With coffee in hand, I walked down the sidewalk with a wry smile on my face. I am a regular. Or just regular?

How does He know to pick me up the minute I’m down?

Nancy just called moments ago to get my address. And without even a mention of how I feel my life is spinning out of control, she said:

Why should I stress about something I can’t control? All I can do is go along with it, keep on going, and enjoy the ride.

I'm overdue for a vacation (staycation). Or an evening at the range.

Today, I worry I’m close to that point.

After leaving the apartment early only to get into the office even later than usual because of uncontrollable subway circumstances, it further impresses upon me that there is not much within my control anymore. I could not believe how irritable I was as I tromped down the sidewalk, not even stopping in the usual coffee spot for my morning iced coffee. Had anyone provoked me in the slightest, or even just given me reason to think that they were provoking me (whether or not they were would be irrelevant), I would have lashed out. And oh, the rage, unstoppable. Try as I might to ride this damned wave of ill-fated happenings – household paycut to be added to the list – I might as well be surfing on a board of newsprint paper, quickly dissolving under my feet.

So today, I wonder how much more I can take before this tensely strung tightrope psyche of mine snaps from the weight of all the balancing acts performed upon it. To put professional development on hold for not being able to pay fees. To have to reinstate my (trusty) Excel spreadsheet. To not afford travel to visit family in need. To be there for family in need. To give in to anger, sadness, and so much more. And to have to keep up the pretense of strength in this weakened shell of mine.

It all seems out of my control now.