---

As they say: because it's Harvard.

Because it's Harvard, because I have never been that interested in visiting museums, I left Harvard Museum of Natural History feeling delighted by the sudden breeze the above-freezing-temperature weather. Being outside in this weather made me happy. I hadn't seen the sky this blue for a long while. I was quite happy some days ago as well, when snow was falling and it was hailing and the snowflakes landed on the top of my hat made it wet, cold and numb. Today it was totally different, but I still liked it. Many people claimed to like everything in their lives. I'd recall from the top of my hat a list of things that I liked, and they would nod to each of them in approval. After a while, I'd just give up and tell them that there's a difference between being indifferent and liking something with a passion.

Comparing to most people, I do have a wide range and number of interests - in that sense of interest. For example, I love weather and being outdoor. I was the only one sitting/eating outside on the tables in front of Au Bon Pain, facing Harvard Square, when everyone else struggled to find a seat indoor where it was warm and well-lit. A lot of people listlessly passed by; and there I was, just sitting, enjoying my hot soup and the sight of people walking. Oh, that's another thing that I do love: the feeling of not being connected. Being among strangers and watching them always makes me feel satisfied; that typical feeling at airports, cafes, unfamiliar streets - if I've been without it too long I'll feel unfulfilled.

You don't know how much I appreciated this, and how much I appreciated this weather occurring on a Sunday. Had it not been Sunday, I would probably be sitting in a class, or sorting and replying to these emails, or in a meeting or two, or doing psets, or planning something , etc, and I'd have never stopped to raise my chin, look up at the sky and admire its blueness. Some people never noticed. However, they were fine with not knowing, while I was not.

Well, I made the decision to do all the schoolwork during weekdays and nothing on weekends for a reason.

I was happy. I was very happy when a blue-ish guitar line reached my ears at the inbound entrance of Harvard T-station. The performer sat on the bench, his hair white, his forehead crinkled, his fingers swift and energetic. Our eyes met - and I missed the train.

His name was Peter. He came from Russia. He didn't speak English too well.

Can I play? I asked. I hadn't touch a guitar for 4 months, and so the familiar feeling of the guitar neck in my hand touched me deep inside. A man standing not so far away looked at me as I played, and he smiled - a smile that, as I looked at it, clearly came from enjoyment and appreciation. In that instance, I was brought back to some previous days of my life that, before this, had seemed to pass forever. But I'm a performer, and again I was one - here was an audience, no matter how small or big, and here was I with an instrument. As I tried to think of what to play, my fingers caught it. As my eyes were fixed on the frets, my heart danced and the music leaped; the harmony plucked an invisible string on my head. The next moment when I looked up, my eyes caught his smile.

The guitar was not my instrument, but I couldn't have cared less.

Every time a train came and went, a new audience emerged after the old one. "The person who stole Peter's guitar: Why did you do it? What did you get for it?" Peter showed me those words written on a piece of paper when the screeching sound of an approaching train became audible. Someone stole his guitar the other day when he went into the bathroom.

Call me, I told him. I'm not the least busy person in the world, but I wouldn't miss a chance to come and play if I could. As I said so, I opened my wallet and was reminded of my habit of never carry any cash. "I'm sorry." He immediately made a "Don't worry, who cares" hand gesture.

The second I rose to the ground from Central T-station, I could feel the winds running through my hair. I stood by the stairs and enjoyed that feeling for a while. Just an hour before, I'd been wondering about various things, I'd not been sure about many other things. And maybe I would still be if the sky weren't so blue, the walk weren't so long, and people hadn't known how to smile.

---

I haven't been writing much, and there's a good reason for that. MIT is hosing (check #1 on http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?defid=1123604&term=hosed ), and honestly I just learned (I think) how to cope with it recently. Even so, I'm still occupied by many other things and didn't have much time to go and observe things outside of the Institute. Doesn't mean that I dislike life "inside" it - in fact, I'm enjoying every part of it, even the hard work (don't you enjoy the hard work that you love?); but I'm just aware that there's also much more outside its realm.

Those familiar with me and AoNikki know that this blog is not an account of my personal life, but rather an account of people and observations in my life: my Special Olympics trainees and their efforts, my friends at UWCCR and their stories, Siam Plaza in Bangkok and its luxuries, the limbless man on the pavement of a crowded street, my Hungarian roommate, the lottery ticket boy next to my house in Phan Rang,... Unfortunately, recently everything I have to say has been about me. Let's admit it, since I came to MIT I haven't been going out enough to get to know people and observe life. I hope to fix this is a near future, but in the mean time... I'm just busy.

So the reason why I haven't written anything in the recent months is more "I don't have anything to write about" than "I don't have time to write," although the latter is also true.

After some thoughts, I decided to extent the content of this blog to "things in MIT... and outside it, too." At least it's the subject of interest to some people. I'm also most likely to shift the focus of my writing from "how" to "what", for this new implementation. Of course, I still want to write about "people and other observations," and I hope I'll be able to do so more often. But in the mean time, at least I'll give you things to read.

So, yeah, something to read! It's the 7th day after my first IAP (Independent Activities Period, I'd give you a link if I were not too lazy to look it up) at MIT! Classes started... or whatever.

Some background information: I'm in MIT class of 2012. I live in Random Hall ( http://web.mit.edu/random-hall/www/ , also check wikipedia on MIT undergrads dorm). I want to major in either 1-E ( Environmental Engineering) or 2 (Mechanical Engineering). I don't know what else to say.

My first IAP consisted of mostly radiation and coding. I worked at NW12 (MIT's research nuclear reactor) 20 hours a week, and took 2 classes: 6.096 (C++) and 6.184 (the 6.001 crash course), none of them for credit. But now I program in C++ and Scheme, and understand computational structure! I also hunted in Mystery Hunt with off-by-2-pi, Random Hall's team. It was awesome. I had an open art studio project for one week in TSMC under the MIT Western Hemisphere Project called Business As UnUsual (BAU2, check photo section for photos). I played a ten-day game with the MIT Assassin Guild ( http://www.mit.edu/~assassin/ ). I guess that was it in a nutshell.

Talking about the past is kind of boring. Let's talk about today.

My 1.016 "recitation" section was a lot fun. I actually have a journal hosted on http://scripts.mit.edu/ about this class : http://catthu.scripts.mit.edu/1016/ . An account of today can also be found there ( http://catthu.scripts.mit.edu/1016/?p=5 )

I stopped by the APO office ( http://web.mit.edu/apo/www/ ) for a while, sort of intended to help out with BookEX ( http://web.mit.edu/apo/www/bookexchange.shtml ) clean-up, but had to leave early for the weekly Spherio radio section ( http://web.mit.edu/hemisphere/spherio/ ). It was my first time in a radio station, and it was really cool. I can totally write a whole story on this when I have time to get to it.

In my 7.014 (Introductory Biology)'s diagnostic test, the only question I could answer was "What was the last biology course that you took and when?" Oh well, I guess I'll have fun with this class. Will learn a lot for sure.

I got a shiny, hard-back Hitch Hiker Guides Collection book that I plan on reading this whole semester.

Oh, lastly, I love things with a website. It makes explaining much less work.

---

This morning, when the sun was about to rise, a song with Spanish verses came up from somewhere in Mass Ave and caught my attention. At first, I thought the usual buskers were starting early today. But, as the tips of my fingers touched the window's glass panel and the breeze outside momentarily chilled my radiator-warmed skin, I realized this weather was too severe for anyone to be on the street and sing for hours - even with the love for music and the passion of spreading it.

I also realized a couple of other things. Piles of wet, golden leaves somehow had disappeared altogether, and at my eye level were gray, leafless, vulnerable-looking branches. As usual, a column of smoke drifted from across the street, layered between the dull early morning sky and the concrete wall of MIT museum. The scene looked terribly industrial, but I liked it ( as I liked many other seemingly terrible things). Why, hello there, winter!

It was the 20th of November.

I should have been sleeping as I hadn't for 48 hours. But, instead, I went Christmas Card shopping. The day wasn't bright enough to sleep.

"Say, Jin-kun, what do you think is the most beautiful thing in life?" I once asked.

"I'm too philosophical to think about that," he answered.

I could spend hours in a card shop, smiling and reading through all of them. But after coming home and being all exhausted and just in the mood of being cynical, I detested how such well-versed and heart-touching words could be mass-printed on luxurious pieces of paper, identical to each other to the precision of two decimal places inches.

"Tell me something else about you," asked my Princeton interviewer.

"I love Hallmark."

What's funny about it was that I often used the adjective phrase "Hallmark-liked" to sarcastically indicate superficiality, facade, and phoniness. Yeah, I guess I had a love-hate relationship with Hallmark.

Just like with everything else.

"If you take a gap year, you can come to California and write about cowboys and cowgirls," said professor Ken Pottle, from Stanford's Department of English.

Why not? I could write about cowboys and cowgirls. I could also write about Spanish songs from a van stopping by in front of Random Hall in an early Thursday morning and what comfort it gave me after a white night. I could also write about Hallmark. I could write about science. Or I could write about why I was not a writing major - the moment an autumn leaf softly landed by my feet I could almost hear the click of the touch and the joy of the ending. That, among many other wonders, is significant.

Un olor a tabaco y chanel
Una mezcla de miel y cafe

I could write in Spanish, French, Vietnamese, or Japanese. I could describe in Spanish what Tokyo looked like from thousands kilometers up high. I could also write in music.

I would fantasize about being a flamenco dancer, laughing and swinging into the arms of a torero. I'd grab onto the back of his neck, rub my nose against his, smell the scent of tobacco from his breath, tangle his hair, until we were close enough for a kiss - then the fantasy collapsed and I'd hastily open my eyes, hoping for a confirmation. That was it. I could not write any more than that. Instead, I ended up writing about tenderness and solitude, and called it love as though I knew what it was. I knew what it was not, and I wrote about that. I stood and waited as if just one more step and it would leap, I would capture it in my hands.

"Although you're culturally rich, you're culture-less," remarked one of my friend. I did not see the boundary. I refused its necessity. My mind was simple and I thought that this particular boundary was bad.

Simplicity is such a beautiful thing.

The plain, gray wall of MIT museum outside my window was simple. The sky was simple. Everything in this room but me was simple - and I wanted to be, too. I'd love one of those T-shirts that said "Kick me" on the back - except that I'd let it say "Simplify me." That might just result in some people asking me if I was, say, an trigonometric equation - but who said that that kind of simplification was not desirable?

And as I gazed at the MIT's dome, with my head leaning against the window and my cheek numb with the coldness, I knew why I was not a writing major. I rarely wrote anything that made sense.

---

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...
- Jack Kerouac

This is my favorite moment, when I sit alone in the dark looking at my computer screen, listening to the clock ticking every second. There never seem to be enough time during the day, but at times like this I just realized how slowly time passes.

The scars on my wrist are still visible, and one of my fingers slightly bleeds where his nail has just been some hours ago. I bet he didn't thought it was that bad. If you saw me now with that and black eye-liners and didn't know the whole story, you'd think that I'm emo - which may be not completely inaccurate. I like certain kinds of pain. Once I watched a dancer dancing, with her bare feet badly injured, as if it was one of Lizst's craziest melody that she was dancing to. Her eyes were wild, and so were her movements. She laughed. Her laughter echoed. At that moment she was the truest thing in existence; and I knew it because I knew it was painful. I'd give anything just to feel it. To dance like she did. To laugh like she did. To suffer like she did. To love like she did when she kneed down and rested by the body of the person whose name she had soundlessly shouted out in her laughter while looking up at the gray sky. It's one unreal thing that's so much more real than many other things on Earth.

Or, there is a writer whom I knew very well. She liked to write from the second person point of view. I wanted to be like her, because I could only write as "I". Everything else sounded fake. I couldn't even write with third person narrator. Once, she told me when asked: "To write about 'you', you have to start with 'you'. Ask a question. This question."

I wrote as 'you' and spoke as 'you'. I also became so interested in that question which she advised me to ask that I made several videos about people I know answering it. I had a record of what everyone said. If you were asked and filmed by me at some point, you'll be asked and filmed again when I next see you. If I haven't done that to you, you might very well be the next. But don't think too hard about what you have to say - it just doesn't work that way.

Many people asked me back the exact same thing. I believe that I said a slightly different thing each time, but I often went with "I don't know." If that's what I gave you, then I'm ready to give you a new answer because now I have one. What's the answer? Ask me. You haven't asked me yet. And you should ask me twice, probably thrice, or even more, because I would still give you different answers. You just cannot imagine how trivial they are. I know I confused lots of you as the question was raised, but did you know I'm the one who's been most troubled by it?

I just went through all the videos that I had, and some of them are just really amazing. What's more amazing is that I know these people personally, and I'm still seeking to know more and more of such people - those that remind you of no other, the first of their types you could have met. People who would take off all of their clothes and dance together under the moonlight for the whole night. People who laugh even after their throats burn, their eyes blind, their hair ripped, their muscles sore. People who look down on standards and would make love to any other who has a passion that's great enough.

No, you can't really see all of that from my videos. But I know it because I know them. Or, for some of you, because I know you.

These people wouldn't ask me what I want in my life, because they know that the only true form of wanting is to want everything and to give everything. They wouldn't ask me how much I liked what I was doing, because they knew we either did something with passion or didn't do it. They wouldn't ask about my nationality because we just don't see the concept of countries and nationalities (and they're familiar with this because we have discussed this several times). They would never question the worthwhileness of something, however trivial and unimportant it seemed in other's eyes. They would never tell me "I don't think you need to do this" or "It's not as important as this other thing" or "What about money?" or "What about your life?" These people are always dancing their ways through life, in pain, with their chins up, and laughing wildly at the pains as well as the eyes watching them. They burn, burn, burn.

These eyes - they don't understand. They thought they had everything to be better than these crazy dancing people, but they couldn't be more wrong.

---

Since no new entry has been written for a long time, I decided that I should at least write something for the global Blogger Action Day. So here it is, an entry on Poverty.

Poverty for me is an abstract word. It's one of those concepts that seem to never become real, although people keep assuring you of their existences while reminding you of how lucky you are to not having to understand them. People, at the same time, blame you for this lack of understanding and the ignorant inconsideration resulted from that.

I was one of these people grown up inside the palm of poverty without being touched by it. Many years ago, when my sister and I was still living in my father's clinic, I learned to classify people. I could almost always tell whether a strange visitor was my parents' acquaintance or a patient; my rule of thumb was simple: friends looked alike. Friends rode motorbikes, put on modern clothes, made themselves home, and smiled to me. Patients were dark skin people with somewhat filthy long dresses, had a funny accent and spoke in a strange language to each other. Of course sometimes came patients that looked like friends, and I must admit I didn't really like them. There was something in their attitude that irritated me greatly.

Every child, and adults too sometimes, dreams of differences. Before I was old enough to comprehend what these differences actually mean, the other reality of those patients made an experience that I yearned for. A shelter in the middle of a vast rice field, a life in the vineyard or on a river, a small tattered house made of straw and mud, a living earned by selling home-grown apples in which my sister and I woke up early every morning and shared a small portion of rice before going to work... were things that I used to wish for. I still remember with details how I painted a one story, collapsing house of mud when told to portray my "dream house" - which my teacher looked at and exclaimed: "What kind of a dream house is this?"

When thinking back, I usually contemplated a lot about how the two worlds, namely mine and others, were juxtaposed. Poverty was something that, at the same time, so close and so distant.

Now, sitting in my desk in my dorm room on Massachusetts Avenue, looking out at the illuminating dirigible floating above, I don't really know why I'm writing about poverty. I don't know anything about it. I can't tell you what it is like or what it feels like; I can tell you what it's not like, though, but high chances are you already know that. I can be lame, and pretentious, and political, and tell you that poverty is the restrain of freedom of both individuals and society; but I won't do that. Actually, I can tell you what it feels like to watch poverty directly and with bare eyes. It aches. Sometimes it's scary. The scariness takes place when I observe the kind of people poverty produces, and it's something that you yourself have to witness in order to understand. Or of course, like many people where I grew up, you can choose to go past it blindly and without sufferings.

Poverty is something I'm working hard to understand. One of the factors that motivated me to apply to MIT was an article I found online on The Tech about a D-lab (development lab) course in which students practice poverty. Other than some inevitable freebies such as water and electricity (and shelter and many things else), they practiced living at the absolute poverty level of $2 per day, or less, for one week. The main problem with this was mostly food, since MIT students buy food themselves. Yet that only problem made them miserable - while they still having to handle the heavy workload. This model may not provide a thorough understanding of what poverty is like, but it does give an idea. As a graduate from the course, you know that poverty is something which is even more terrible than that.

Understanding is important. When you decide that you want to care about something, such as when you're inspired by a presentation, you have to make the next step to understanding in order to really care about it. That's the difference between theoretical speeches and concrete actions, and the only way through which you'll achieve something meaningful and significant. So, I don't know how much poverty means to you, but as a blog for the action day, my only message is : try harder to really understand it.