Category: Life

venturing away from the food table

@ the faculty club in UCSD, where twice a quarter they host a guest speaker or panel to talk about interesting stuff:

I hid behind the food table instead of walking up to the speaker. That usually doesn’t happen, but this guy was one of those hot shots in the design community, and the people walking up to him were also hot shots in their fields.

Or at least that was the assumption I made. They were old and had white hair.

I wasn’t hungry, but the plate gave me a chance to hold something so I wouldn’t fidget, and the food gave me a distraction, so I wouldn’t have to focus on how I was chumping out and watching the world pass on by.

Up comes a man in a green collared shirt. About thirty years older, slightly balding. He was the only other guy eating the snacks on the table.

“Hey, go ask him a question.”

I tell him I didn’t know what to say, that he’s already got enough people kissing his ass and wanting something from him. I made all sorts of rationalizations, but really I was just scared and intimidated. Here are all these professionals lining up to speak to him. Who the hell am I? What would I be able to offer?

He tells me: “You know, he’s a human being, too. And he likes being recognized and knowing that his talk made a difference. Go talk to him and make a comment about something he said.”

He offered a handshake, then left for the parking lot. To this day I have no idea who he is.

~

~

Two slices of flatbread later, I lined up. I even wrote down a question in my notebook, for when I would forget in the ten meters separating the speaker, me, and every other person wanting to speak with the speaker in-between.

But I wouldn’t need to look at the notebook. A man in a suit ushered the speaker away.

 

…

Damn! 

a thought on college job fairs

It’s like going on fifty first dates within a single morning. You’re unemployed (lonely), inexperienced (clumsy in the sack and unsure of what you want), and desperate for approval.

Please love me! you say as you hand out that résumé. Tell me that I’m wanted and needed, and that I’m not like the others. Tell me that I’m not a waste of space, and that the fancy slip of paper with my name on it actually means something. 

I kept the shorts and sandals at home and remembered to shave.

–

–

Up to the first company I go. The recruiter’s wearing a shiny purple ribbon, with “ALUMNI” embroidered in gold. It’s like he’s saying hey, I’ve been in your shoes before. He speaks first.

“So, tell me what you do.”

I tell him. Thirty seconds, tops.

“Cool, we’ll put your résumé into the system.” He opens his hand for the handshake, but by the time our hands meet he’s already looking over my shoulder.

~

~

There would be no second date for us.

a thought on reading habits

photo credit: Cup of Tea and a Book via photopin (license)
photo credit: Cup of Tea and a Book via photopin (license)

Someone was telling me that they read over two full-fledged books a week while juggling their own start-up venture and an undergraduate computer science workload. I felt like a chump sitting next to him. Is that even possible? I asked.

“Sure, I just make time for it.”

Whether or not he was exaggerating about his reading pace is beside the point. Reading is not a competition, despite my first desire to match his pace just to prove that, hey, I am productive and smart and worldly, too. Funny how envy and competition work, even for someone who identifies himself as not being overly competitive. Sometimes I wonder if I’m kidding myself.

There is something to be said about having priorities in life though, and whether or not your current actions match those priorities. I tell people reading is important to me, and that I enjoy it (and I do), so why wasn’t I dedicating more time to it?

“I don’t have time for it” is not a legitimate excuse. Everybody has 24 hours in a day. How you choose to spend that time speaks volumes about what is important to you — more than any words can do. It’s why neglectful parents have such trouble reconnecting with their children in adulthood. “If you’d loved me so much, why didn’t you spend any time with me?”

For them, it is too late — the damage stays. The possibility of death may speed the healing process, but they’ll never be able to recover the lost years and the pain it caused.

But I don’t think it’s too late for reading.

–

–

My father likes to tell me about his college days (“some of the best years of my life”), and how he juggled 21+ units (a lot) of engineering coursework as an international student to save his own father money for tuition, all while dating Mom at the same time. Every night he would read for at least fifteen minutes before going to bed. The only condition for proper reading material? Nothing related to classwork.

The more he read, the more interested he became in the world (and curiously enough, the more interesting he became himself). The more he read, the less shy he became in talking with other people. And the more ideas he exposed himself to, the more he had to share.

~

The writer has done her part. All you have to do is open the book and be open to what she has to say. Who knows, maybe you’ll have some words of your own to give.

The oddest compliment I’ve received thus far

Nich would leave for California in several hours, but not without some parting words and hugs for everyone. We didn’t know each other well, but he hugged me anyway and said: “Wesley, you are the most consistent person I’ve ever met.”

What’s that even supposed to mean? I never asked him, but eight months later I still remember this. Now I have to project my own meanings and interpretations onto his words. Is consistency a nice way of saying that you’re predictable? Boring? Or mature and emotionally stable? Is this too far back in the past to bring up in casual conversation?

Oh well. I may never know what he meant at that moment.

(Just a thought as I wait for the 202 bus to the grocery store in La Jolla Village Square)

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post #100

In one of my favorite videos of all time, Ira Glass talks about what it means to have your own work disappoint you, and how the only way to respond is to keep churning out more work. He talks about how even his own work stunk when he started.

For every creative matter there will be tension between what you aspire to do, and what you just made in front of you. Keep pushing on and churning out those ideas anyway. Close that gap by returning to your work.

This blog is one way I am trying to do that. Thanks for reading.

 

 

[Here is the first post I wrote back in the summer of 2013 when I was eighteen. Much has changed since then.]

unsolicited feedback (or: rollerblading, day 7)

There’s a flat pathway that separates the dorms in the International House. Aside from the manholes and sidewalk cracks, it’s perfect for honing your skating skills.  I do it at night when the traffic is light, and I love it because I can stop and chat with whoever I please.

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I’ve skated on ice before, but the concrete is foreign to me.  Fall on the ice rink and I’ll slide until I hit the foam wall. Fall on concrete and I’ll have a red butt to remember it by. (Fall in front of a cutie in either arena and I can bask in sympathy).

The heel brake on the right boot provides reassurance. Knowing it’s there makes me feel confident to take on more risks and speed, even if the brake itself doesn’t actually work that well. Take it as a learning opportunity — the lack of a proper brake means you’ll have to discover better ways of slowing down.

~

A full week has gone by, and I could only go in a straight line. That is, until Armando shouts from the third-floor window: “Put your hip into it!”

So I did.

And wow, what a world of difference that makes. Instantly, too.

~

Do anything out in public and you are bound to get feedback. Which should you listen to, and which should you ignore? What role should familiarity play in such a decision?

Armando and I were strangers when he first popped his head through the window at 1 AM. And yet, without his advice, there’s a good chance I’d still be struggling to turn left and right.

love and care

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The parsley plant in the kitchen was dying, and it was my fault. The instructions said to water it once a week, and not too much at once. I thought I had done that, but the stems were already wilting after two weeks.

“That’s not enough,” said my roommate. “You need to talk to the plant. You have to sing to it. Love it.”

Play Mozart for the plant and it’ll grow more than a plant without. Plants may not have emotions the same way a human may (tulips don’t get jealous if they see you water the daffodils more), but they still respond to nurturing environments like we do.

So I talk to the parsley plant — about my day and things like that (but only when we’re alone). My father warns me that people will think I am crazy when I talk to myself in the middle of the day.

Maybe they won’t if they see me talking to parsley.

wait, is that a ring on her finger?

I was scrolling down Facebook at 2 AM when I saw that two of my high school classmates just got engaged. Everyone knew they were high school sweethearts, but wow! I had not seen either of them since graduation. Funny how time passes by.

Hearts and smileys fill the comments section. It’ll only be a matter of time before someone starts posting embarrassing photos from those awkward teenage years.