The Rice Bowl

Don't Slow Down

There's a box where I keep every letter I've received.  Underneath it is a pile of letters I've written to no one in particular, they've never been sent.  They're waiting, sealed in silence, their secrets kept tight in their adhesive.  The box is covered in words.  Words that speak, to me.  "This is where.Make your mark.Planes, trains, and chasing cars.Tell a captivating story.Beginnings.Blog.Reclaim the girl you left behind.Love notes.Music.Discontent.Visionary.Welcome to the jungle.Lost.Daisy.Smart.Secret Life. When you're smiling.Style.Touch.Trouble.London Calling.Morning Rescue.Never Hide."

Never Hide.

Every word is a part of me.  But "Never Hide", its an affirmation.  It's a reminder.  It's a lesson and a lecture.  One day, maybe I won't need the words on a box to affirm this in me, daily.

Once, I read a letter that I had written, years ago, in complete reckless abandon to what my heart felt could be love.  It was stupid.  It was sweet.  It was beautiful and heartbreaking.  It was like watching the replay of a car crash, where everyone miraculously lives, in slow motion.  It was beautiful, even the destruction.  In retrospect it was.  During, it was...horribly broken.  It was nice to know that I was capable of silly girlish love though.  Maybe I'll find that again?

Tomorrow I turn a year older.  Magically.  Like someone snapped their fingers and it just happened.  I'm always filled with thoughts about life, plans, loves.  This year, I think about my parents.  My two best friends.  The two people who have been there to stand up for me.  The two people that dealt with my tears over falling off a bicycle, a broken teddy bear, mean girls in the neighbourhood, a jealous boy, impossible loads of homework and countless cups of coffee, broken hearts, and leaving home.  Where would I be without them?  I would definitely not be me.  I got lucky.  I feel like I won the DNA lottery with my parents.  My only struggle this year is finding any words at all (are there even any?) to express my gratitude to them for being, not only the best role models, but the closest friends I could ever ask for.

A year older.  365 days older.  7665 days of life (give or take).  Wow.  They've been good ones.  Ones filled with more thoughts than you can imagine.  Ones filled with more insane experiences, good and bad, than most receive in a lifetime.  I wouldn't trade any of it for the world.  I'm busting open the champagne and celebrating every triumph, trial, and failure with a smile and a toast.  But most of all, I'm celebrating with a hope, a wish, a dream, that one day, I might figure out a little more about me, or someone else might and be able to share it with me.

If I've learned anything in this life, it is this: I am not my own.

So now, more than ever, as I face another year, the words are clear.  Never hide.  Never hide, because that's how you miss things.  Things that define who you are.  People who help you find what defines you.

21, you're going to be a good year.

I Know Nothing Stays the Same...

I have a friend.  He happens to be my best friend in the whole world.  I've known him since...well, I don't remember.  Every memory I seem to have, somehow, contains him.

He sat in forts made out of bed sheets and dining room chairs with me while we read Green Eggs and Ham to each other.  He knew where all my secret hiding places were, and of course, he was the prefered friend to all my imaginary ones.  We sat in a garage together (which was really a beach) on a towel and under an umbrella while the rain poured outside.  We dove under the covers with a flash light and read Harry Potter books while silently gasping at all the right moments.  He was the first person I told when I fell in love with the boy who lived down the street.  He contains every thing that seems to compile what it is to be me.

Sure, he's had some rough times.  The leather that once covered his nose has long rubbed away.  His eyes are almost always covered by his matted fur.  The holes in his paws seem to get bigger by the day, and, well, I'm the only one that can tell that he has a smile, still.  He's been thrown in suitcases and backpacks and dragged across the globe.  His passport is as thick as mine.  He's soaked up more tears than anyone can ever know and he's battled the washing machine many times.

Horrifyingly, his head fell off one night while I ran to my parent's bed, sick with a fever.  I climbed into the bed only to discover my best friend's body was missing.  Distraught, I ran out of the room into the corridor where his lifeless corpse lay, headless.  My mum promised to sew him back together, but I think it took a good hour before I had finally cried myself to sleep, needing my friend to comfort me when I was ill.  After that day his head seemed to roll off every now and then and the hole in his neck seemed permanent until we had him professionally reconstructed.

3 years ago, an airport security guard pulled him from my arms and violated him in front of me.  Tears stung my eyes and when the disgruntled guard was finally satisfied that he wasn't some drug smuggling hippie, the guard received a few angry words from me notifying him that if I had been 10 years younger he'd have had a huge problem on his hands.  The ordeal was scarring for the both of us, to say the least.

As a birthday draws nearer, for both of us, he's the piece of home that I cling to.  He's every memory that I know of and I cannot help but think, he'll still be there for whatever is to come.  He'll still be the one that I confess my secrets to, sitting in my room, waiting for me to sit on my bed with him.  I'm sure I have more tears for him to dry, we have more adventures to share, and more secrets to tell.

I don't ever want to be a grown up.

Looking Alive

Once again, I feel neglectful of my writing, though this time, it wasn't by choice.  It simply just happened.  The fates were against me and the planets were not aligned in my favour, it seems.  My plans for spring break dissolved before my eyes due to doctors appointments and a mystery diagnosis.

It seems that I am not allowed to have an enjoyable spring break, because something always seems to jump in the way or some sort of event prevents me from doing the things that I want.  I have a track record with this, unfortunately.  Spring break, you are cursed, and I've never been able to enjoy you.

Weeks ago, I noticed something was not right with my belly button.  When a part of your body that has no actual function starts acting funny, it causes a strange amount of alarm to arise.  I figured I would fix the problem in no time by keeping an eye on it and being careful.  In a week, I ended up doubled over in pain and unable to walk or even breathe without being in pain.  I sought medical attention, which I tend to avoid. 

I dislike doctors, mostly because growing up overseas didn't inspire much faith in the medical community.  For the most part, I was diagnosed by my mother and placed on antibiotics by her.  The handful of times that I've needed to see a doctor for something 'serious' the issue was skirted around for months or even years before anyone would take my issues seriously.

My issue was not taken seriously for several weeks.  I was placed on different antibiotics while my symptoms merely escalated before my eyes.  I Googled and WebMDed my symptoms and even presented my findings to the doctors.  They were less than impressed by this telling me that self diagnosis never works.  Instead, I sat around, taking antibiotics waiting for the moment when things would get bad enough for someone to do something.

It happened.  My normal belly button began to protude from my tummy along with the counless other symptoms that I had.  I was told that I had a cyst and given more antibiotics which didn't work.  I came back and was told I had a hernia and given a referal to a surgeon.  I met with my surgeon and found that my issue was more serious than a mere office job and needed to be put under for a day surgery.

Buh-bye Spring Break.

Last week I went in for surgery and found out that I really did have a cyst, after all!  I cannot complain about my surgery at all though.  The doctors and nurses were all amazing and very attentive which helped me out incredibly.  When your parents are thousands of miles away and your friends are scattered throughout the world, it can be scary.  I'm so very thankful that I do have family around here though.  The staff was amazing with me and laughed at me as I raved about Twitter and Linux in my drug induced state.

Last weekend was spent in bed, sleeping and recovereing (knitting).  Being whacked out on Vicodin and having no motivation to move and aggravate my wound was a good inticement for me to stay put.  However, I (once again) found out that I don't deal well with pain releivers much stronger than Tylenol.  I was struck with dizziness, headaches, nausea, and severe mood swings.  I was every where from laughing hysterically one second to curling up in a ball crying that I missed my family, friends, room mates, and surfing.  It didn't take me long to realize that I was no good on the drugs and stopped taking them.

It's disturbing waiting for your body to do normal things though.  It's frightening waiting for the moment when you have to go to the bathroom again, just to make sure that everything is working fine.  And it's worse when you can't and you're curled up bawling because all you want to do is make your body work again.  It's like being broken, only you can't find the glue to put the pieces back together.

I am happy to report that I am fully functional once again and I am back at school and busy as ever, which excites me to the extremes.  It's good to be back in action and busy with things again.  It distracts me from my mind and gets me away from the phone that never seems to ring when I really need it to.

It's good to feel alive again.

Happy Birthday Mum!

Happy Birthday to the best Mummy in the world!  Thank you for all the worrying that you do about me :)  You're the voice in the back of my head, telling me what I should do when I get stuck.  Thanks for being amazing in the kitchen and giving me something to aspire too, and something else to look forward to when I go home.

Thanks for being the only girl I can get mad at, yell at, and then tell all my biggest secrets to and watch Colin Firth in his wet shirt over and over and over again with.  Thanks for giving my first steamy romance novel and teaching me that its okay to stay in your sweats all day, eat chocolate, and watch chick-flicks all day.  You're the bestest friend a girl could have and I miss you all the time!  Hope you have an amazing day :)

Took the time to write down all my thoughts.

Yesterday, I pulled a college student day.  I've been known to be a ridiculous procrastinator on so many things in my life--school work very much included.  However, since moving to Portland and starting fresh, I've been very focused and really good with my school work, until recently.

I hate research papers.  Let me explain this.  I hate the research part of research papers.  I have so many high school flashbacks of breaking down in tears in front of the computer at 3 am because the Great Firewall of China had struck once again.  To this day, I have nightmares about my internet connection shutting down because of the wrong phrase typed into Google all for a school assignment.  Yes, yes, I know that I am free of those restrictions, but I still hate it.  Research papers tend to leave me with the overwhelming feeling that I could have written so much more because there was so much more information I could have used but never got around to.  Research papers are daunting.

Don't get me wrong, I can write an amazing research paper, and given the right topic, I can somewhat enjoy the topic.  But there's a reason I decided to drop the science major, and there it is.

My writing class was assigned a research paper a few weeks ago.  The catch?  The topic we chose had to be a current international issue...and we were allowed only ONE internet source.  Sure, I understand the stipulations of this.  This is a lesson in using resources out side of Wikipedia and that third grade web report on George Washington.  But, of course, I chose a topic I wouldn't be bored to tears with and had no chance of being duplicated by any of my fellow classmates.  I chose to write on the effects that blogging has had on the media industry.  Of course, this topic limited my offline resources severely, and I knew this.

So, I avoided it like the plague.

While avoiding this paper like SARS, I contracted my own illness.  Irony, awesome.  I spent the last couple weeks running into the doctors with my mystery illness and the rest was spent paying more attention to what was wrong with me, rather than what was due.  On Monday my mystery pain was finally diagnosed, and the sudden realization that I hadn't even looked at this paper let alone started it hit me and I scrambled to find my original proposal for the essay.

In a move filled with awesomeness, I entered the library 7 hours before the research paper was due, emptied the bookshelves dealing with blogging, the internet, ethics, and journalistic media forms.  And there I sat for 7 hours, reading, highlighting, copying, typing, sourcing, and contmeplating taking a nap on floor.  But I got it done without completely wanting to kill myself or shred the books infront of me.  Success.

But I noticed something during my time spent scouring the bookshelves and flipping through pages; I miss libraries.  I've always found comfort in sitting between the stacks and flipping through some volume from the past.  I love the smell of books.  I love the delapedated covers from the 60's that stare back at me.  I love the idea that someone else read the same book I posess and that they were standing in the same place I am when taking it from the shelf.  I love searching for a book from the call number on the spine; it's like detective's work.

When I was at school in Hawaii, the library was massive, but it was also...unwelcoming.  The library was being remodled while was at school and it was never truly and completely peaceful.  The books were being placed in boxes and everything in the place felt incomplete and missing.  Not to mention, the school was small and when you live on campus, you know everyone.  People constantly came over to talk to you in the library, to say 'hi'.  It wasn't a place where you could lose yourself.  You couldn't sit in the stacks because someone would come by for a chat or the spines of the books you ran your fingers over were screaming for their missing counterparts, burried somewhere within a box, remembered only by their barcodes.  The windows were tinted, the flouresent lights were blinding and the air conditioner was set far too low.  The place was cold and dark, and not in a welcoming way.

When I sat in the confines of the Rock Creek library yesterday, I wan't affected by the atmosphere in a negative way.  I fell in love with the library's book collection last term when I found myself reading Dostoyevsky infront of Shakespeare (there's something brilliantly beautiful about that moment).  The library is open and bright, inviting, warm, beautiful.  The frustrated kids frantically flipping through their books, don't look that frustrated after all.  The library has couches, and ample outlets for laptops in the desks.

But here's my favourite part.  Lamps.  The library contains personal lamps at every desk, rather than depending upon the harsh, loud light of flourecents.  They're primary light source are the 180 degree floor to ceiling windows and sky lights.  Beautiful.

Plus, it helps that I don't know anyone on campus well enough to hold a conversation with.

I think I've found my new inspirational sanctuary, and that makes me giddy inside

Happy Birthday Dad!

Happy Birthday to the coolest dad on Earth.  Thanks for being filled with awesome and thus making my life so!  You're one of my bestest friends in the world.

So here's to the guy that poured my first shot, gave me my first cigar, bought me my first hockey stick, and spun the sweetest tunes at my graduation party.  I miss you and can't wait to see you again.

FlyRice and All Its Meaning

I've been asked a few times what exactly 'The Rice Bowl' means, how I came up with it.  The same question has been asked about my comment name, 'FlyRice'.  I comment under a different name than my own, even though I use my own name on this blog, I think its part of habit.  When I'm asked about my bizarre names I guess I answer with a tinge of surprise.  I don't think I've actually ever gone into detail as to why those names were chosen.

My first blog was called 'The 8th Comment'.  I started the blog a few years back, when I was in my early years of High School.  I was searching for my voice.  Blogging was still new, however growing rapidly, and I had no idea what I should write.  I was interested in politics at the time.  I lived off of current affairs and would die if I didn't watch the news for at least 3 hours a day.  But at the same time, I used the blog to do my normal blitching about my life as a high school student in a place that I didn't fit in and didn't want to be.  Yes, it was used as a diary/blog.  I would rant about everything in my life and it really had no real grounding.  It was the '8th' because at the time I was playing Water-polo and that was my number.  Number 8.  It was lame...basically, I couldn't think of anything else and it just sounded good.

'The 8th Comment' disappeared after a while.  I forgot about it for a while and then my account disappeared.  After joining MySpace, and abusing the blogging feature, I decided to give blogging another try.  I used Blogger and started 'The Rice Bowl'.  At that point I had already invented the name 'FlyRice' which was originally, 'FlyRice817', combining my two favourite numbers for sports reasons and sentimental reasons as well.  Eventually, it was simplified.  I chose the name after I saw a shirt with a bowl of rice with wings.  I identified with it and made up my own little story about it.

I identify with Chinese culture since I've lived there most of my life.  I feel like an outsider when I'm not in an Asian atmosphere.  But at the same time, I love the thrill of being in new places and experiencing new things.  Sometimes I feel like I am one grain of rice in bowl, and that idea can terrify me and excite me all at once.  I like to stand out sometimes and I like to do things on my own a lot.  I'm not the most social creature and I've always liked working independently.  So, sometimes, I feel like that one piece of rice that gets stuck on the side of the bowl or manages to fly away from the rest of the grains.  With that I created 'FlyRice', my cyber identity.

What better place to live in than 'The Rice Bowl'.  I think the whole story suits my current situation and the situation that I've been anticipating my whole life.  I'm breaking away from the rest of the grains and finding my own way.  I'm making my own story and I'm finding my wings, but I'll always keep a part of my past with me.  I'll always be from 'The Rice Bowl' (China/Asia/Home) and I'll always be able to fly back to that and know that I'm welcomed somewhere.

As for the drawing, its a design that I've jotted down several times.  I'm not a great artist, I admit, but I stole my friend's drawing tablet for a couple hours and abused her Photo-Shop pretty good.  Its not the greatest thing in the world, but it's my expression...and now my mascot.  So if you look close, I have my Rice Bowl, and above it, there's me.  The one flying grain of rice, off to make her way through the world.  There's my philosophical answer to the history of 'Rice'.

'The Rice Bowl' has slowly started to find its feet.  Yes, I still use it as a diary, sometimes.  But its more of a way to let people look in on what's happening with me and my life.  I spew thoughts, events, stories and even song lyrics when I get bored.  'The Rice Bowl' moved to TypePad sometime in 2005 when my father (GZExpat) started his own tinkering in the art of blogging.  We both went 'corporate' and bought domains for our blogs as we both used them frequently.

So with the face-lift that the 'Bowl' has endured (and there might be more tinkering to come) I feel like I'm ready to fly on to my next adventure, whatever life may bring.