A Bowl of Stupid

Much as I did when I first arrived in Asia, I’ve started writing again freehand, often without any intent to publish here, but simply to clarify what’s going on upstairs. This is one of those posts. And while it is obviously melancholic (to say the least), take it with a grain of salt, and take it for what it is — simply a free-wheeling dictation of what was going on in my mind at one particular point during this latest “adventure.” Like most things, it may change with the scenery.

28 Feb 2010; Apia, (Western) Samoa
Right after this gnawing ache in my gut –- the result (I hope) of something I ate in Bangkok right before I left — the next feeling I’ve got is an overwhelming desire to break down a little out of sheer frustration.

It turns out my sister may not have been right –- at one point during the past couple years (I’ve forgotten exactly when), she relayed to me a little bit of bumper-sticker profundity which, at the time, I found especially appropriate to my recent life choices.

In trying to understand our extremely different takes on life, she saw a quote that put into perspective my life, which until then was probably fairly incomprehensible to her compared to her suburban domesticity –- she told me that “not all those who wander are lost.”

I thought it wonderfully simplistic, and yet at the same time, delightfully profound. My ego agreed with her, telling me that I obviously have all the answers and I’m just traveling to satiate my desire for adventure. I told myself that that was, of course, the main reason why I chose to leave the States and wander throughout Asia for the better part of the 21st century.

However, now I’m starting to recognize just how wrong she, and I, was -– I am lost. I’ve been lost for a very long time, I suppose. And it’s only been my over-inflated ego and well-honed ability to live in denial that’s kept that fact from me for so long.

When I was younger, I held the undying belief that I would be a complete person when, and only if, I met ‘the one’ person who would be able to complete me. For that reason, I spent most of my 20’s moving from one dysfunctional relationship to the next, hoping the next girl I met would be “the one.”

After having the pleasure of getting that myth thrown back in my face with alarming force several years ago, I abandoned my search for ‘the one,’ knowing that the dream is nothing but a myth.

Instead, and without even knowing it, I transferred my obsession with perfection and happiness from a person to a place — if only I could find “the place” I would finally be happy, or at least content.

So I left Miami, and I keep moving all around the world –- Costa Rica, Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand — always in the hope that the next place I’d go would be “the place” for me. That it would all come together in one blinding shot of inspiration.

But it’s not been that easy. I’m starting to realized that is probably never is. Because no matter where I go, I’m always there –- and therefore, it’s always the same. And it’s always wrong.

Apparently, I’m still in a dysfunctional relationship, I’ve simply changed the unhealthy source of longing.

That aspect of my life is far too personal and complex to even begin discussing in earnest here. However, I will say that my search –- albeit unknowing – has left me weary. I am just so, so tired. I just want a place to call home. And that fatigue has led to frustration, which inevitably brings me to tears.

I want to go home. More to the point –- after so many years of moving about, I just want a home. It’s been so long since I’ve known exactly who I am, where I am, or where I will wind up even next week that I can barely tell the difference any more – one place looks just like another, only the weather and the languages change.

I’ve only just arrived, but already I sincerely doubt I’ll find what I am looking for here in Samoa. Shit, it’s a lush tropical paradise and yet I can hardly bring myself to leave my hot, sticky motel room. To me, it’s just another tropical preserve with people and customs to which I can’t fully relate. So really, what’s the point?

I am just so tired. And I just want to go home. If only I knew where that was …

When you speak of a path, where are you now? And where do you want to go? If these are known, then we can talk of a path. Know first where you are and what you are. There is nothing to be reached. There is no goal to be reached. There is nothing to be attained. The conception that there is a goal and a path to it is wrong. We are the goal or peace always. You are the Self. You exist always.

-Sri Ramana Maharshi

**

Although I’ve cut down on my publication of posts here over the past 6-8 months, it doesn’t mean I stopped writing entirely. To the contrary, I’ve probably been writing more, albeit more personal works not really suited for mass consumption (and subsequent regurgitation).

However, by both choice and necessity I’m settling down to (what I hope will be) a long term commitment here in Bangkok. I’m also becoming re-acclimated with the concept of living like most everyone else does — getting a job, getting an apartment, going to work, going to the gym, paying bills, hopefully one day accidentally getting shot in the head during a daring daytime robbery attempt — you know, the normal stuff.

That being said, I’ve found myself inside and on the computer much more than I have been in recent memory. Similarly, I’ve worn a suit and shoes probably more during the past 10 days than I have during the last 4 years combined. Honestly, I will always prefer sandals to closed-toe shoes, but I can’t say I don’t like the change more than just a little bit.

The whole “ex-lawyer surfer bum” thing does get old from time to time. And dressing like a grown-up again has also reminded me of just HOW MANY TIMES I’ve reinvented myself during the 5 years alone — which I sorta started writing about last month en route back to the States for 2 weeks. So I thought I’d put it up here (not that anyone’s really still reading this shit anyway).

** Yeah, the picture has absolutely nothing to do with this. I just like the idea of a polar bear taking a piss in a public bathroom.

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I’ve just started reading Sean Wilsey’s autobiography, “Oh The Glory Of It All.” From what I can tell from the first 100 pages or so, it’s not the most compelling of reads, despite the columns of many corporate shills professing otherwise. However, the way I figure it, I’m going to be spending the majority of the next two (2) days in the air (which I am now, en route from Saigon to Hong Kong), so I’ll have some free time on my hands to read.

At the outset, Wilsey goes through great pains to describe his parents and their history. What I find personally remarkable about them is how, although his parents took different paths, joined up briefly, and ultimately wound up in different places, they both seemed to have lived multiple lives. Both Wilsey’s mother and father were each married four (4) times. They each seemed to have separate families dating from different times in their lives. And they were both masters of reinvention.

It’s an issue I’m dealing with right now, actually. I’m leaving Asia, and heading back to the States, for the first time in a couple years. America is the country of my birth. It’s where I was raised. And where I was schooled. And it’s where I lived my entire life, up until just a few years ago. But going back now, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Although I’m still relatively young, I feel like I’ve already lived several lives at this point — Philly, Arizona, Alaska, Oregon, San Diego, California, Florida … geek, student, fisherman, slacker, law student, attorney, surfer, rebel. I’ve changed and altered myself almost every time I’ve moved that I can barely recognize those prior person(s). My latest, and most public, persona is what now lingers.

But I feel it turning. I have been for a while now. A new persona is needed mainly because I need money, and I need full-time work again. But, as I’ve mentioned several times over the course of the past year, it’s also because my current lifestyle is losing the appeal it once held for me. And my desire for change is metastasizing more each day. If things work out the way I hope they do, I can finally see the next reinvention — more than just the amorphous ‘need’ I’ve voiced previously.

[Me, post-operative -- with new nuclear power core]

I’m just not the hero type. Clearly. With this laundry list of character defects, all the mistakes I’ve made, largely public. –Tony Stark

So it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything here.

To be honest, it’s due to several issues really — I’ve been traveling throughout Nusa Tenggara a bit, I’ve been spending some time with friends, most of what I have to say can just as easily be posted via Facebook, and finally, … well, I’ve been getting my chest opened up by doctors and stuff.

So, while I suffer no illusions that anyone still visits this blog on a regular basis — mostly due to my frequent bouts of inactivity while traveling the backwaters of Southeast Asia — I still feel the need to post a little bit about recent events, for posterity sakes if for nothing else.

As I mentioned previously, I’ve made an effort to hunker down in Indonesia for the summer in an attempt to preserve what’s left of my ever-dwindling supply of cash reserves, simply because it’s cheaper here than anywhere else in Asia (except perhaps India … and we all know how I feel about that shithole country).

So I’ve been alternating between here in Bali, and going out to Nusa Tenggara for surfing and to visit friends. I recently was out there surfing, and then took a side trip out to Flores for a little exploration. Although Flores was a bit tumultuous at times, I had a great time.

The down side was that I acquired a bit of a medical problem while there. I’ll explain…

Over the past several years, I’ve built up a lump on my breastbone from where I lay on my surfboard while surfing. It sometimes gets swollen when I surf too much, and it sometimes shrinks when I stay out of the water for a while. But it has, all in all, been steadily growing over the past couple years. In medical terms, it’s an unattached, mobile, subcutaneous, cyst-like … ‘thingy’ that, in itself, poses no harm.

However, for whatever reason, while I was in Flores, it got infected. Maybe an ingrown hair. Maybe just internal bacterium. Don’t know why. It just started to swell, and hurt. I’ve had similar issues both back in University and in Law School (altho on my leg and my lower back, respectively). So I knew what it was, and I knew I had to return to Bali to get it removed by a doctor before the infection spread.

The problem is that, although Bali is the closest place to get competent medical assistance, it’s also extremely expensive to do so, since the hospitals are used to catering to rich tourists with extensive travel insurance. Unfortunately, I am neither rich, nor do I have travel insurance.

So I spent a good 2 days going from hospital to hospital, clinic to clinic, doctor to doctor — spending about US$200.00 in the process on ‘consultation fees’ — just to find someone who would help me without getting financially raped in the process. I found out the hard way that, as a foreigner, this is much harder than it would first appear.

Indeed, at one point, I found myself negotiating for assistance with the surgeon at Kasih Ibu Hospital in Denpasar — like I was buying a car … or a mango.

Beforehand, I wasn’t aware that ‘standard of care’ was negotiable. Now I know better.

Regardless, I finally found a decent, relatively inexpensive, and ultimately competent surgeon at Prima Medika Hospital, also in Denpasar. He opened up a 3 cm hole in the middle of my chest, sucked up the infected material, cut out the scar tissue, and cauterized the cyst-walls. I’ve had the wound left open for 3 days now to let the whole thing continue to drain until the infection is gone.

I return tonite for the doctor to add the new nuclear power cells and stitch the whole thing back up, after which, I should be god to go.

And I’ll be able to fly and shit too, yo.

True. True.

With an area of just over 5,600 square kilometers (just over 2,170 square miles), the island of Bali is fairly large — nearly 10 times as large as Manhattan. And three decades ago, the Balinese economy was largely agriculture-based.

But now, tourism is the largest single industry. And tourist season is in full swing.

So, in addition to the 3.1 million or so natives, the 1 million or so other domestic workers (from Java and other islands), there are about 2 gazillion tourists roaming the streets, clogging the roadways, and otherwise kooking up the surf. And while it’s good for the locals (they need the tourism money) and it’s nice to see the new faces (sorta), it’s also still getting just a bit much for me.

After one of my good friends broke her leg in 2 places this week when she got hit by some kook on a motorbike, and after I went surfing out at Uluwatu’s a couple days ago with about 100 (no joke) of my closest ‘friends and family’, I remembered my initial plan when first moving to Bali — I wanted to use this island ONLY as a supply point and a ‘stepping stone’ to those other spots in Indonesia I TRULY love.

So I’m going someplace a bit calmer for a while.

First, I’m heading to Dili (East Timur) for a visa run, then I’m going back to Pulau Rote — about 1200 square kilometers, with an estimated total population of 100,000.

The village where I’m going (pictured above), there’s no internet, no running water, and the electricity is turned on for about 6-8 hours per day. The tourist population is limited to other silly foreigners looking for surf and quiet. And there’s not much to do besides surfing, sleeping, and the occasional jalan-jalan to the next village.

Hold all my calls, I’m gonna be off the grid for a while.

Anyone who knows me or who reads this blog (especially recently) knows that music plays an incredibly important role in my everyday life. I listen to my iPod on my motorbike, while shopping, or just walking around — pretty much any time I’m not in the water surfing, really.

In addition to forming the soundtrack to my life, that same music also reminds of places I’ve been and people I’ve known over the years. And depending on the situation, any particular song can simply jog an insignificant memory or, in some cases, remind me of something so radical as to momentarily turn my world upside down.

Today at the coffee shop, I heard ‘Jesus, Etc.’, from Wilco’s 2002 masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

The CD came out soon after I first moved to Miami. It was just after the September 11th attacks, I was working as a lawyer for someone who later turned out to be one of my better friends for the next 4-5 years, my sister and brother-in-law just had their first child, and I living with my beautiful and brilliant (now ex) girlfriend in a small one bedroom apartment in South Beach.

Looking back, it was one of those glorious transitional periods we don’t often recognize while we’re in the midst of them. I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to what I think I want, then I was at that particular time in my life. I suppose I’m lucky to even have had that. But it sometimes hurts to be reminded of what I had, and eventually lost.

In case you’re curious, I was the one who ruined things in the end — I left almost immediately after my ex suggested we buy a condo together. The typical commitment issues, I suppose.

Regardless, until the end, our relationship was fairly solid. Of course, like all couples we fought on occasion — people just tend to grind on each other, especially when they live together. But, also until the end, we always seemed to resolve things — mainly because, although she was younger than I, she was also far more mature (and intelligent). She usually did something to appease my ego while still getting me to see her side of things — effectively diffusing the conflict with little skin off of her nose.

After one of those fights, she bought me a copy of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot — one of her favorite new releases at the time. Although I had heard it playing in the apartment, I hadn’t really paid it much attention. But she handed me the CD, together with a piece of paper upon which she had hand-written:

OUR LOVE IS ALL OF GOD’S MONEY

She took the CD and played the song from where the lyric came — Jesus, Etc.. Then she sat down with me and put her head on my shoulder while we listened together.

To this day, I can’t remember what we had fought about, or (besides the obvious) why that particular act of kindness immediately resolved the conflict. All I remember is how loved and comfortable and just … good I felt at the time.

But now, with the passage of time and additional experience, things are different. Now, and particularly today, when I heard that song, and that particular lyric, it was like getting the rug pulled out from under me. Because now, in comparison, I just feel lost.

Sure, it may just be that’s the loss of blissful ignorance talking. But it stings just the same — and then the melancholy comes over me like a warm blanket.

I’m going back to Vietnam next week for a few days. So today, instead of finally leaving Hong Kong Island, I went to the Vietnam embassy to get my visa. And I wound up exploring the Wan Chai neighborhood.

Wan Chai has earned a reputation as Hong Kong’s Red Light District. But from what I saw, I’m guessing either it doesn’t hold a candle to Bangkok’s many red-light extravaganzas, or things don’t get started in Wan Chai until the sum goes down.

Regardless, my posts about this trip are starting to resemble a soundtrack rather than a descriptive travel blog. I was playing the following song for most of the afternoon. It’s brand new, the video is (for now) only on Local Motion, and can only be seen back in the States (unless you’re using an ‘anonymity’ web-proxy program … ahem).

Like a lot of the new music coming out lately, it hearkens back to the type of shit they were producing in the 1980′s — saxophones, heavy keyboards, and more melodic songs. The video is a short version of the song.

Watch the video if you can, and then go over to the KEXP site and download the MP3 and listen to the extended version. It made for a great day walking about the city.

The Dears – Disclaimer

You never know what is enough, until you know what is more than enough.
~William Blake, Proverbs of Hell

Man, I’d forgotten just how delicious an emotion anger can be.

I’ve been working on managing my anger (and other emotions) through Buddhism, meditation, and yoga ever since I first got to Asia. I’ve been doing it for a variety of reasons — in Asia, it’s culturally unacceptable to get angry in public (i.e., everywhere), it’s generally healthier to focus your anger towards such positive outlets (i.e., yoga, surfing, etc.), and because I’m just generally trying to be a nicer, more mature person (i.e., I’m getting to the age where it’s just unbecoming to be angry).

But as I noted in a recent post, pushing those emotion too far away also has consequences. Like letting TOO many things slide without a fight. Like a failure to acknowledge when someone else has been mean or rude or reckless with you. Like diffusing the emotions so often that it becomes emasculating.

Right now, however, I’m over it. Now? I’m just mad. No, strike that — I’m fucking pissed off.

Man, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this way. And you know what? It feels good. Because it is rage justified. And anger fuels better decisions.

I don’t care if it renders my behavior immature, or surly, or what-the-fuck-ever other judgment call is thrown back at me. It’s unnatural to remain smooth, calm, and unaffected by the frustrations experienced in life. And if there’s no slack — either I’m too soft or I’m too surly — fuck it. it’s nice to be happily pissed off again, if only for an hour or two.

It reminds me of who I am, and that I’m still alive.

The sheer stupidity to which I sometimes live up to the title of this blog is staggering. And for how much insight I can often glean when reading people in how they deal with others, it is also staggering at just HOW wrong I usually am when I try to apply that same insight into my own life (the only reason I know is when people have told me months, or even years, after the fact).

But more distressful than either of those things is the fact that, even after all these years, I still sometimes pout like a little boy when things don’t go my way.

I’ve always been a brat, yes, that’s true. But I had conquered (or at least begun to master) the silly little temper tantrums I used to throw when things didn’t go my way.

But all this living alone, and doing everything I want, and going wherever I want, whenever and however I want — day in and day out for the last 3 years — has softened me up again to the point where I’ve forgotten how to deal with things, and people, when I DON’T get to do what I want. And I’ve returned to that place I was at when I was a stupid little boy — acting like a complete ass until I get my way.

It is not who I am. And, after a couple days reflection, I just want to beat myself about the head and neck with a handful of cocktail straws. But unfortunately, it’s something I need to deal with again.

For the moment, I’m too tired, and too angry with myself to explore — in words, at least — how best to deal with my apparent loss of maturity and self-control. And I’m hunkering down against a massive case of sensory overload and culture shock here in Sydney right now.

I really am a bit worried about how, and if, I’ll be able to readjust when I finally do return to the herd.

With that being said, I’m heading out of Sydney to visit friends in Melbourne for several days. Then I may stay with another friend in the small coastal town of Woolongong to get some surf, and try to clear my head a bit. Because it’s all just a bit much at the moment.

I’m back in Bali for a week or so before heading down to Australia for a while. I don’t know just how long I’m gonna be there, but I’m thinking in the 4-6 week range (depending on fundage).

Ironically, I’m having a pretty nice time here in Bali right now. The surf (although small) has been fun, the beaches are relatively clean, and the rainy season seems to have stopped (for now at least). Moreover, the same group of friends I was traveling with through Borneo last month are here. Which has made this week even better.

Like I mentioned, I head to Australia on Sunday — Gold Coast, Byron Bay, Sydney … and working my way down to Melbourne.

Once again, if anyone has any suggestions as to where I should / need to go along the Eastern Seaboard, please either comment or drop me a line — I’m always up for hitting great restaurants, towns, and (most importantly) surf spots!

First off, while I really do appreciate all the emails I’ve received over the past couple weeks concerning my (apparently far too well documented) love-life, I will say that commenting on the site itself is far more helpful at times — in terms of site-traffic and my own reading (given my constant traveling on and off the grid).

Anyhoo … right now, I’m still in Borneo. Malaysian Borneo, to be precise.

After leaving Brunei, I flew into Kota Kinabalu, the largest of the Borneo airports, where I stayed/slept overnight before taking a connecting flight to Sandakan, which is known for its proximity to one (1) of four (4) of the only natural orangutan preserves in the world.

After meeting up with my friends in Sandakan, we made the hour trip to the jungle preserve, where we stayed for two (2) days seeing all kinds of neat shit — orangutan’s, macaque monkeys (mean little fuckers, they are), monitor lizards, hornbills, and the ever elusive Honky-Tonky, Winky-Wonky Monkey.

From there, we went off the grid for a couple days, heading to the Kinabatangan River in southwest Malaysia — which, measuring 560km, is the longest river in Sabah — where we took stayed overnight for a river tour through the forest.

It was really nice. We saw wild elephants, proboscis monkeys (the ones with huge noses), pig-tailed macaques again, and a whole bunch of other great shit. I usually don’t go in for the whole ‘set-up safari’ kinda thing (preferring to instead just hire a boat and do it myself), but I was with friends and it was a fun time.

We left yesterday morning, traveling all day via 3 separate buses, and arrived here — in Semporna, Malaysia — yesterday evening. There’s finally phone and internet service again, so it’ll be nice to catch up and take care of some business that I’ve been neglecting over the past couple weeks.

I’ve yet to get a bead on this place. It’s a port town, and it lies on the border of three (3) countries — Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines — so it’s got that dodgy ‘port-town’ feel. It is best known for its amazing diving (according to some, among one of the best in the world) … and for its international piracy (due to its location, its an almost ideal smuggling and/or escape route from/between Malaysia, Indo, and the Philippines). So there’s a HUGE military presence here.

Yet despite this, and the ubiquitous tourist vibe due to the whole diving scene, the place also has a great vibe. Unlike Indo, where it’s almost expected and/or frowned upon to hav a cursory knowledge of Indonesian, when they hear my limited Malaysian (the same language, but for slang — sorta like the US and the UK) here, the faces light up, they laugh, and they try to help me with the next sentence. It’s still unique, I think, for them to see foreigners who speak even a little Malay in this part of the country.

Ironically, I’ve avoided this part of the area since there’s no surf here, and it turns out to be one of the nicest places I’ve visited in Southeast Asia so far.

In two (2) days, we’re going diving — taking a boat out to an old converted oil-rig, on which we’ll be staying for four (4) days diving our brains out (9 dives in 3 days, I think). I’m not sure if they have internet on the diving rig, so after tomorrow, I may be off the grid again.

We’ll see how it unfolds.

“Few players recall big pots they have won, strange as it seems, but every player can remember with remarkable accuracy the outstanding tough beats of his career.”
–Jack King, Confessions of a Winning Poker Player

There are no nice ways out. Not really.

Even now, almost 8 years later, I can remember with clarity one particular moment of realization.

I had been with my then-girlfriend for several years and our relationship was in the final throes of a long, slow death rattle. And we were going shopping, or to the movies, or off to do some such random shit. And as we were walking down the stairs from her apartment to my car, I realized that, although we were still technically a ‘couple’ … I was alone.

There was just nothing there anymore. Whatever had been was gone. And I was on my own again, for better or worse.

I’ve had similar epiphanies over the years — with respect to both friends and intimates — and for some reason those times seem to be the ones I tend to recall with the most clarity.

Based on (among other things) many of your recommendations, I decided earlier this week to follow up on the spark I found on the beach in Vietnam last month.

So I’ve been in Brunei for the past several days visiting my princess before she goes home. And for a variety of issues — many of them mine own — those days unfortunately contained far too many uncomfortable moments than I care to recall.

It sucks not being able to make things work out the way you want them to.

So this morning, as I was walking back to my hotel after having just made travel arrangements to leave Brunei for my next port of call, I had a distinct sense of deja vu.

Despite still being in the company of that beautiful princess I fell in love with back in Vietnam, I was once again on my own.

Once I made that realization, I was (and am) actually okay with it. It just is how it is.

But fuck man, it’s been so long since I put my heart into someone or something to the extent I have these past weeks — even when I went to Boston for KB a couple years ago. I didn’t realize until it was already done just how much I had pinned onto this one person all my hopes for stability — which I guess have been building over the past several years now.

It just gets so tiring sometimes, tho. It’s tiring carrying the entire load of everything alone all the time under my particular circumstances — constantly moving, the cadre of ever-revolving friends, not having a home … everything.

I really thought I didn’t need anyone’s help.

Apparently I was wrong. And I didn’t even realize just how wrong until my unconscious pressed the issue — one which would not have otherwise existed in normal circumstances. I just wanted someone to help me take care of things a little bit, y’know?

It was unfair and inappropriate to look for that — especially from someone on holiday. But sometimes you can’t see these things from the inside looking out. And while I still don’t think I’ll be able to look at pictures from Cambodia or Vietnam for a while without a little bit of my heart breaking, I can tell that I’m alone again.

And the worst part is that, if the past is any indication, despite the amazing time I had then and there, I will most likely recall most vividly only today’s walk back to my hotel.

Nothing is over until we decide it is!

Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?

Hell no!

Now then, may I have ten thousand marbles and an airplane ticket, please?

Apparently it’s “Existentialism Week” here at The Bowl. For the second time in almost as many days, I’m posting about some personal crap affecting my world rather than events affecting the world around me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had a bunch of garbage rattling around in the attic for a number of weeks that I can finally put into words. Perhaps a couple days in the water is starting to clear my head a bit. Perhaps I’m just trying to pass the time. Regardless, this week, we are a true ‘web-log’ again.

Several years ago, my aunt and I got to discussing how my cousins, my sister and I have changed since we were kids. I told her how, in my mind, I saw us all completely altered from the people we were when we were younger. My aunt disagreed. Having witnessed all of us growing up from her adult perspective, she thought that, but for such growth that life throws upon us, we’re all essentially the same personalities as when we were kids.

After thinking on that comment for a couple years now, I’m beginning to think she was right in some respect, but wrong in another.

With respect to my sister and I, our personalities have always been radically different — she the pragmatic, studious, responsible older sister … and I, the eccentric, searching, risk-taking younger brother.

Our life paths — especially right now — tend to reflect that underlying truth. My sister is happily married, has two (2) gorgeous little girls, a good job, and a nice house in an upper-middle class neighborhood. I obviously have none of those things at the moment, as I wander randomly throughout the bowels of Southeast Asia.

And while we almost always enjoy each others company, the conversations admittedly tend to drag whenever one of us tries talking to the other about what constitutes a meaningful event in our respective lives. She obviously (and rightly so) loves talking about her family, while I obviously love talking about myself the places, people and philosophies I’ve encountered.

But this is where my aunt is wrong, I think. Because every so often, my sister and I expose a depth to our personalities that often goes undetected, even by others in our immediate family.

Yesterday was one of those times.

Yesterday my sister blindsided me with a piece of eccentric profundity I never saw coming from her. And while it was fairly simplistic (sorry Sis), it struck a chord with me because it was perfectly suited to my current state of mind, and it served as proof that she knows me far better than I give her credit for.

I don’t see her enough. And I don’t talk to her enough. But she may very well know me (if not fully understand me) better than anyone. She is the strongest link to my past (even including my parents with respect to some things). And I miss her.