i am sitting in the central library of hong kong. the view is gorgeous. it is a saturday night, and for some reason, it is filled and packed with people. perhaps this is how it always is on a saturday night, but it strikes me as odd that there are so many people on a saturday night who seemingly have no other place to go than the library. then again, perhaps all are just looking for a quiet place of solitude, which are indeed hard to come by in hong kong.

sitting on the eight floor, it is a joy watching the victoria park, stretched out from left to right, with the sea behind it, and the towers of tsim sha tsui lined up in the distance. the lights are calm and express a sense of restlessness interspersed with some resignation. cars turn, twist and pass by on the highways below. where do all these people come from? where are they going? what would it be like to live their lives for a day? what is occupying their minds?

i am wearing my headphones, listening to a mix i once made, many years ago, when i was at penn. the playlist is titled “during penn 07″. i remember riding my bicycle through downtown philly, listening to these tracks. i remember it being winter and cold. i remember a girl. i remember being infatuated. i wonder what she is up to these days, where she is, and whether she is happy.

the day came and went. i woke up, with some trepidation went out, since my weather application warned me for a “very hot day with the possibility of heat strokes” and “thunderstorm warnings”. in the end, it wasn’t that bad. i ended up going to a cafe in causeway bay, where i had some tagliatelle bolognese and a cup of tea. i find myself having strange cravings for western food at times. the food here is nice, but like many other facets of society, very homogenous. the different choices offered are in tiny variations of similar objects. so sometimes i plunk money down for a plate of pasta, or a baguette with baked ham and emmentaler.

the library has a solemn and stern air ..

check it out.

I remember how surprised I was the first time I saw you. We were in the living room of my parent’s home. We heard the sounds of someone coming down. We turned around and it was you, with a smile so bright, so full of life.

It wasn’t until later that I found out that the smile was hiding a deeper sorrow, a heartache caused by a breakup. But by then, I already had fallen hard for you, and you, unknowingly or not, shattered my heart in return.

I am in my room, sitting on my bed, with a book in my hand, probably a Murakami. A few days before Christmas, it is cold, but the house is alive, with all its family members back, filled with excitement of hosting new guests.

I hear steps coming up to my room. It is you. You ask if you can come in. You ask if you can borrow a book from me. Surprised, but pleasantly so, we start talking. We sit down on the thick carpet of my floor, lean against my bed, and before I know it, we are talking about all the important things in life that people talk about when they first get to know each other – with an understated tension, but a spark of unanticipated excitement.

At some point, you fall asleep in my lap. I am frozen. “Does she like me?” “What does this mean?” “What do I do?” “What am I supposed to do?”. I decide to gently lift and hold you in my arms, carry you to my bed and cover you with a blanket. I look at your face for a long time, serene but so fragile. In amazement of this small miracle. Afraid you will wake up, because I don’t want this moment to end. My finger tracing your neck, thinking I discovered the secret of life. I sit on my bed, next to your side, and guard you, until I forget time.

Hours later, you are up and we are sitting on my bed – a comfortable silence and conversation, deep in the night. And then, there is the blackout. “This can’t be for real”. Sensible as you are, you suggest to look for candles. I go down and come back, you light them. A faint and soft glow envelops the room. We continue our talk, and at some point I mention to you that I don’t know how to tie a tie. You tell me how you used to help your grandpa on Sunday. You look up and ask me if I have a tie, and I hand you one. You get up and sit close behind me. You slowly wrap your arms around me, softly whisper in my ear, gently show and teach me, how to tie a tie.

Days later, and you left. Snow fell the day after, as if to erase the footprints in my memories. Faintly, I still hear you knocking on my door, asking if you can come in.

As if snow was falling in April.

It’s 6pm. I’m sitting in my chair, with a book. I look out the window, and listen to the cars drive by, drifting away in distance.

I imagine we’re walking on the streets, your hand in mine. The sun is setting, radiating a slow golden glow that covers the city, the trees and the streets. Life slows down, and we are no longer in a rush. The occasional talk. Silently smiling at me with your eyes. So natural, yet so extraordinary at the same time. Your hands feel soft. And the world is made just for you and me. Melodies in my head, playing the soundtrack of our life. As time goes by.

Standing in front of the door, I remember the feeling of coming back home.

I walk in the building, greet the concierge, go into the elevator, anxiously wait for it to go up to the thirteenth floor. The cranky elevator takes it sweet time, every time, no exception. But then I am there, in front of the door. And I know you are behind that door. Waiting for me to come home. I no longer have to come home to an empty space, unlit and dark, curtains drawn, cold, with only the walls speaking to me.

You are lying on the couch, book in hand, covered with a blanket, soft music playing. You hear the sound of the key turning, the door opening, and you look up from your book to greet me, a smile understated from the outside but so warm from the inside. I walk over to you and I give you a hug. Your hair smells nice, you must have just showered. I rest my head on your shoulders for a bit. You stroke my hair, and ask me if it was a long day. I nod, close my eyes and feel the tension flow out of my body, finally home.

It might be silly, but I am fascinated with reading about top athletes, and what they make of themselves over the course of their career. Kobe Bryant is of course an inspiring example, someone who not only has so much potential, but also works *so* hard at pushing himself towards excellence. What we often forget is that this comes at a price, something that perhaps became really clear during Michael Jordan’s Hall of Fame induction speech.

The anti-Kobe might be someone who has as much potential, but did not put in the same amount of work, every day, relentlessly. That person might have a decent or even a good career, but not the stellar career we all thought he had in him. This person, is Chris Webber.

So what, I hear you think? Does it matter that Chris Webber never reached the level of Kobe or KG? After all, he has 5 All Star appearances, led the League in Rebounds in one year, and made it to the All-NBA first team. But I also remember the absolute hype when he first appeared on the scene: his talent was unprecedented, a big man with the skills of a guard. He was LeBron before there was LeBron. But you can argue that LeBron at this point in his career already made more out of his potential than Webber ever did.

Whether at the end of the road, you can look back on your life, and are happy or not with the life you have led, is a personal choice. Whether you have been relentless in the pursuit of excellence and often sacrifice everything for your career, or whether you decided to have a more balanced life, is a decision made by you. There is an excellent, excellent book I am reading that perhaps sums it up the best: The Book of Basketball, written by “the Sports Guy” Bill Simmons. His book is chuck full of awesome stories, and perhaps the best part are the footnotes. Here’s the footnote on Chris Webber:

Considering Webber earned nearly $200 million, can you call him disappointing? He ended up being no. 72 instead of no. 28 … is that the worst thing in the world? I think it comes down to one issue: You know when you go to a car wash and they offer you the “everything” package? Only a few NBA players are chosen every generation for the “everything” package. If they fuck it up even a little, it’s disappointing. So yeah, Webber finished no. 72. But he still goes to sleep every night knowing he could have been forty or fifty spots higher. And if he doesn’t think about it, then that explains everything.

And if he doesn’t think about it, then that explains everything. That’s pretty damning. It’s easy to be critical about top athletes, because we expect them to be competitive. But what about your own life? Are you living up to your potential? Are you thinking about it? But it can be quite lonely up there. And be careful: Fly too high, and the sun might burn you..

it’s sunday in boston, and the fall weather is gorgeous, but i haven’t been able to see much of it today. mostly because my body was telling me: you’re tired, you need to rest. so that’s what i did. it’s 3pm now, and i just woke up, again. earlier, i was reading in bed with my laptop, fell asleep again.

i feel super refreshed! i also feel like i could have kept on sleeping and sleeping, crazy. two funny things in my dreams:

i was in amsterdam, with a classmate from annenberg, looking for belgium belgian fries. i haven’t had them in so so long. and suddenly in my dream, i crave them. like there is no tomorrow.

another weird thing, walking around in the mall (a mall in holland!), looking for the stand with the belgium belgian fries, i can’t find it. music is blaring in the background. it is that song “til the end of time” from lau siu wai and the other dude. i remember thinking in my dream “wow i just heard that and now they are playing it here in the mall”.

that’s because i listened to it while i was working behind my laptop. so i remembered this in my dream! i sometimes think the dream world and the real are separate realities. not that they don’t influence each other, because of course they do, but if somethings transfer, they warp in the process, change slightly. but in this dream, the me in the dream, clearly remembers something i did in the real, before i fell asleep. pretty mind boggling. (i’m sure i’m not the only one out there, but this is the first time i have a recollection of this after i wake up). enjoy the song (a total classic polygram (now defunct label) karaoke song – from the Laser Disc era – check out the hairdo of the dude – a total relic of the nineties – didn’t we all have a haircut like that at some point?!)

ps anyone knows where i can get some good fries in boston? anyone?

the grey skies are vast. a ray of moonlight breaking through. connecting the present and the past. hold on to it, watch it flow between your fingers. a moment of transcendence, time transfixed. images of you, of us, from the past, present, future, all replayed in that basket of moonlight.

(some time in 2005, philadelphia)

In the park. Music in the distance. Reading.

When a girl came to sit next to me. Quietly.
With headphones.
Her look drifting off. Smoked a cigarette.

I lean back, and gaze at the sky.

After a while she puts out her cigarette
picks up a pocket book from her bag. Japanese.

I’m breathing real slow. Life is good.

(to the girl with headphones who came to sit next to me, in washington square park, on a sunny saturday afternoon – July 25, 2009 ~4pm)

green trees solitary, passing by
quiet, desolate towns
stories, unspoken and untouched
clouds, still, stern and magnificent. looking over us.
blue, endless blue sky
the end of summer
the end of all summers