Global Winter Wonderland

Great America brought a Winter Wonderland light show to the Bay Area this Christmas. We went to see trees ablaze with LED lights and inflatables of the Wonders of the World. We also enjoyed garlic fries and hot chocolate to warm us in the brisky night air, saying so long to another Christmas and welcoming the year 2012.

The Way to the Gate

Taj Mahal

Snaking dragon made from porcelain. We saw many of these structures on display during our '08 Viet Nam trip.

Mom & Dad with the Peacock

Mom & Dad at the Eiffel

Wonders of the World

Tung & Dad at the Pyramid

Hugs from a Cuddly Snowman

The Scorpios

Ode to my Car

Her name is Little White, and I started my journey with her. All through high school when I first got my driver’s license, to my undergrad and graduate degrees in college, to my first few internships leading to a fulltime, permanent career. I talked to her in my loneliness of starting things anew—new schools, several interviews, fresh jobs—and she’s also experienced the laughter of friends and family whom I chauffeured around. She has been broken into three times, and during the first, she was crashed into a street light pole, abandoned in the middle of the intersection, and declared “Salvaged” when I reclaimed her from the towing station. She’s had her original license and registration stolen, and I went to the DMV to get her a new identity. Her original radio broke down, and a thief attempted to take out her first after-market radio before being deterred. She’s been through five accidents, including a time when a driver fell asleep behind the wheel, bulldozed down our house’s steel gate, and ran into her as she was parked in the driveway.

People say a car like this must harbor negative energy. Some even tried to convince me to give her up since the first theft and opt for a newer car with better security features. But she kept running and hardly ever gave me a real excuse to get a new car. Insurance and maintenance costs decreased for her over the years, and she saved me money that went toward other, more immediate things. She’s been through a lot. She sports many battle scars that remained unpatched. I think of all the heavy rains and harsh suns that she has had to endure, having spent the majority of her life parked outside of a garage. I think of the crooked radio antenna, the brittle plastic parts that have gradually crumbled, the faded fabric of her seats, the automatic mechanisms that eventually stopped working, worn with age.

Some may think it’s a pity borne by anthropomorphism. Cars don’t feel. They live to perform, and then they die, without fear, without pain, and you are saved the grief of having to hold them by the hand to help them make it through. She’s taught me a lot during her life and all that we have been through together. That you wear your battle scars with pride, because every hurt, though it’s ugly and mars the superficial surface, is a lesson that will bring you wisdom. That you can endure more than you think you could and still keep chugging along. That integrity is not measured by newness or beauty, but by a weathered soul and how well you serve those who mean something to you.

Her death began at the start of winter; like me, she was never a fan of the cold. A yellow-orange fluid started leaking out of her, which we discovered to be rusty water. The mechanic confirmed that it was radiator fluid bleeding out of the brittle hoses that snaked under her hood. He replaced one major part and sealed up another, but the leak continued through a few weeks of pouring water into the radiator before driving. Eventually, not enough fluid was maintained in her system, and the heating within the car also gave out. It became evident that in time, the rust will infect the more important parts such as the engine, like poisoned blood running through her arteries and veins.

With a “Salvaged” title, she doesn’t have much hope. I did the last thing possible so that she could do some good in her last run—I donated her to the Humane Society of Silicon Valley. The proceeds will at least help the animal shelter get some funds to benefit their cause. I cleaned her out, removing old items of sentiment: a stuffed animal faded by sun, addresses and driving directions to friends’ old houses when they have long moved away, back in the days before GPS, when directions were hand-written. She sits now along the curb, engine parts splattered with rusty remnants, aged and retired and waiting for the donation tow truck to take her away. And I thank her for all she has gotten me through, for the roads we traveled together, for everything she has done for me.





Rest in Peace, Little White.
Age: 20 years
Odometer: 144,908 unforgettable miles

Ikkyu Test

 

Test for my First-Kyu rank at Aikido of Silicon Valley
December 10, 2011

Snippets from my Pre-1st-Kyu Dreams

The nights are cold in the dojo, the darkness comes down fast, and I prepare to test. I watch others on the mat who will go up for the same rank, the way they struggle and brain-freeze through their practice sessions, and I fear that it will be me. I throw my all into my own preparations, absorbing advice, releasing tension, trying to get it right. In jiyu-waza, I adjust distance, timing, speed.

“Keep your distance, but don’t back off.”

“Draw out our uke, but don’t get in too close.”

“Be grounded, but don’t bend over when throwing.”

“Harder, softer, faster, slower.”

I take all these mis-matched jigsaw pieces of advice, pondering over how to make them fit.

After class each night, my overworked brain and body know only the carnal desires of a hot shower, a simple meal, and a good rest to heal up. When I sleep, I dream the exhausted dreams of someone who has spent hours preparing, weeks of practicing, months of anticipating. Under the covers, there is not enough air. I am doing jiyu-waza and gassing out fast. I run out of techniques, forget to blend, am incapable of keeping it up. I run into a rock, something hard and immovable. I am holding my breath, putting my strength into it, but something is wrong.

“Where is your shihonage?” someone asks. “Find your shihonage.”

I am standing before a great iron door, rapping on it with my small knuckles. The knocks sound feeble and hollow, echoing down the long halls on the other side. The door swings open, and it is cold and dark within. An invisible presence impatiently awaits my question.

“Where is my shihonage?” I ask it. “I cannot find it. Please, will you help?”

The darkness comes toward me, swallows me whole, and I am falling. I grab onto an arm with a morote grip, and I am launched into a stemi. The hard ground comes up quickly to meet me, and I struggle to turn my body the correct way.

“Tuck your head. Head down, feet over.”

I land with both feet sunk into the mat, elbows resting on knees as a weight on my back pushes me down.

“Bend your knees. Get down lower. Look away and whip it!” This is koshinage, do or die.

Someone is telling me something, half prose, half song. I try to grasp onto the voice, but a jarring sound cuts through my dreams. My alarm clock is waking me up for another day. Another step closer to the Ikkyu test this weekend. Ready or not, here it comes. Soon, it will be go-time.