"A rose is a rose is a rose." Gertrude Stein


He keeps giving me roses, but I simply prefer tulips.

"I heard a statistic once that female Chinese drivers are the worst on the road..."

I picked up my friend the other day to go for coffee. With our windows rolled down and the warmth of the sun gently kissing our faces, we chatted excitedly, this being our first time getting together since her return from studying abroad. How sweet and familiar is her friendship.

But suddenly, the little red car following me (rather closely, I must say) sped up on my right-hand side. The driver, a big and brash bulldog of a man, rolled down his window and barked a string of profanity at me! Wide eyed, I stared at him in disbelief.

"I can't believe this! The jerk. Can you believe --" I turned to my friend for support, who instead, slowly reclined in her seat. Oh. Did I do something wrong? I looked at him again. He didn't have to be that mad. Geez. After all, I am half his size. After all, I'm just a rookie driver. And, after all...I am female and Chinese.

My teacher is a remarkable woman. I can only hope to be half the musician she is, for her relentless dedication to music and to her students have fueled my love for this art. Having studied with her since the age of six, I am bound to inherit a few things from her. For instance, the coffee table near my piano erects a tower of music books that wobbles each time I put a book on top, and God save me if I need to retrieve a book from the bottom. I have also picked up the habitual, well, talking to oneself when looking for a misplaced book, as if the book could hear me. Fortunately, I have not yet found myself teaching piano with velcro rollers in my hair (because she only does this on occasion). Though what really kills me is this next thing we have in common: our perfectionist character.

Realize that for a pianist, the slightest carelessness of touch produces a completely different sound, and thus, a completely different meaning. And it's all about making the notes mean something -- every single note. This kind of exacting standard is for the most part positive, and arguably, absolutely necessary for the musician. But for the perfectionist who searches but cannot find the ideal sound, this is depressing. Very depressing. This search becomes an ambition, an obsession...only to become a blunt reminder that nothing is ever good enough. It isn't clean enough, expressive enough, light enough, fiery enough, on-time enough, balanced enough, sweet enough, brilliant enough. It's not enough; I'm not enough.

...but His grace is enough.

"I'm a woman, and I can pump my own gas."

Today marks the day of my freedom and independence after years of oppression. Today, my parents let me drive the car alone for the first time. And for those of you who know my age, I know -- it's pathetic. This is what happens when you are the female only-child of a Chinese, Christian family; it's similar to living under a Communist regime. For years, my dad insisted that I was not ready to drive by myself and so, if I wanted to drive, he would sit in the passenger's seat instructing me to stop at stop signs and accelerate at the green light, while gripping the door handle nervously until his knuckles turned white. He was, no joke, scared for his life every time I drove.

I decided to stop at the gas station to fill up the tank. I've seen it done a number of times -- the task appeared simple enough. I even remembered my driving instructor showing me once. No problem, right? I pulled up and positioned the car with confidence, ready for this new experience. Only, for some reason, the gas pump was stuck. It wouldn't come out no matter how hard I pulled! Confused, I retraced the event of my driving instructor showing me how to pump gas -- of course, he just took out the nozzle without complication. I searched around for instructions, but to no avail. But of course, who needs instructions on how to pump gas? (Me). I concluded that the stupid thing was broken, got back into the car, and pulled up next to another gas tank. I hope no one saw. But wait. This gas pump wouldn't come out either! I wrestled with it for a good few minutes before I gave up. I stood there, perplexed. I debated leaving the gas station altogether. But by this time, people already noticed me standing in front of my gas tank...and not pumping gas. I couldn't leave now. A muffled male voice came from the loud speaker:

"Lift up the lever"

Entrenched in my confusion, I paid no attention to my surroundings and thought nothing of the voice. I just wanted to get my gas and go. I continued staring at my gas tank, wondering why everyone else could pump gas but me. Faced with great temptation to talk to my gas tank, coax it, plead with it, the same voice from the loud speaker sounded again, this time loud and clear:

"Maam. Lift up the lever. You have to lift the lever, maam. The lever."

Oh no. He was talking to me!The lever? Ohhh. The lever. I looked around to see who was looking at me. Everyone. I quickly pumped around five dollars worth of gas, sheepishly paid for it and drove off.

Mental note to self: never pump from that station again.

she lies awake in darkness with hollow eyes and cheeks sometimes crimson sometimes pale at the thought of him loving her maybe mocking her and in her lyric madness hears the wind and stringed music drawing breath from the breathings of her imagination which taunt her at night like this night until she can take no more and covers her ears to scream like the whistle of the bright red kettle only to feel her tongue bound by impregnable silence and in this moment she wishes for a time when they can laugh with their eyes at their present misgivings before they each go and fade and walk away O to be sure there will be time to wave him over with a smile and win him over with a song and feel his utterance of her name dance on her skin and tingle her affections and she will ask him to say it again until his voice spins around her head like the fragrant memory of an orchid in her hair and only then will she release her tears and inhibitions and finally tell him he leaves her breathless.

"Performing is like making love with your audience." -- Krystian Zimmerman, concert pianist

Live performance is a thing of beauty and magic. I love performing. There is little in this life that brings me to such a deep state of vulnerability. And under any other circumstance, I hate being vulnerable. Performing is like bearing my longings and darkest secrets -- only, I'm not whispering, but screaming. It is so raw, so real. Thus, performing for a one-person audience is a highly intimate experience...it's like being gently carried in the cup of one's hands until the final note is released. I don't feel safe enough to do this with many people, and so ultimately, I prefer to play for strangers.

But what makes performing beautiful is not simply the state of vulnerability. It is the mysticism of being both vulnerable and empowered, at the same time. It is a subtle uproar, a protest, a stance, a conviction. Like any art form, it is the liberation in screaming and being heard. And body language has nothing to do with it. I am a performer, not because I tilt my head, or close my eyes, or part my lips, but because I have an urgency to communicate. There are no 'natural' performers -- there are only those who speak and those who don't. Listen to the music; don't look at me.

On that note, one can only speak adequately if well-practiced. And right about now, I'm only mumbling, ha. I have a recital tomorrow, wish me luck.

Cantopop abbr. Cantonese pop music, a rip-off of North America's worst popular music, except less innovative, less ambitious, and more obnoxious.

There is nothing more annoying than trying to practice Mozart while Cantopop blares from the television in the other room. Let me explain. My house is 'open concept', meaning the main floor somewhat resembles a loft in that it has no walls to separate living spaces. My piano, which regally sits in the living room, is big and loud. The television is located in the family room. And my mom likes Cantopop. So when I practice, my parents turn up the television volume to compensate. The louder I play, the louder the television becomes. This well-established system works insofar as I can hear myself practice and they can hear their Cantopop, regardless of the likelihood of my entire family losing our hearing prematurely. But last weekend, our volumes were sorely unbalanced, and my patience cruelly tested.

While trying to achieve the perfectly elegant and suggestive touch for Mozart's clean and simple melodic lines, all I could hear were synthesized drums and singers just missing the pitch of their notes. They were almost there...just a semi-tone further...but they couldn't quite make it. I wondered if it could possibly be as painful for them as it was for me at that precise moment. Not wanting to seem like a self-centered-bratty-only-child, I decided not to ask that the volume be lowered, but to ignore it. Only, the sheer volume of Cantopop made this impossible to do! Cantopop enveloped, consumed, the entire lower level of my house, save for a few chuckles and comments from my parents. By this time, I was practicing my right hand alone, while plugging my ear closest to the television with my other hand. My eyes were shut and my head leaned close to the piano in attempts to hear myself better. In retrospect, I'm sure I looked ridiculous. I was still hearing muffled Cantopop, wishing my parents would look up from the television and notice my anguish, and wondered how my life would be different had my parents not subscribed to satellite for the Cantonese channels. When I finally decided on the futility of practicing like this and stopped, their Cantopop program ended at the same time. My mom, excited from just having watched Cantopopstars, comes into the living room where I'm closing up my piano. With compassion, she notices that I'm frustrated and that not to worry, "Your pieces will sound better tomorrow", and proceeds up the stairs to sleep. Yeh, if I can hear myself tomorrow. Defeated. By Cantopop.