Playing cards

     You are under extreme stress. You have a few hours after the exam and a few hours before the next. You know no letters would make any sense to you, and that you'd prefer sleeping or doing anything else but study. You turn your laptop on, wondering if there is something new that you can do. Your obvious choice is the Internet. The place you can read, write, play games, or watch movies. A place nothing restricts whatever you were to do.

A scene from Solitaire 1 suit

     That is the prologue - how I got to know this game. Solitaire 1 suit. The sole goal of this game is to stack the cards in the right order. K-Q-J-10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-A. Eight stacks. The cards were shuffled, and like The Tower of Hanoi, they could not be moved to be stalked against the order.

     The winning strategy of the game is seemingly simple - create all the piles of cards to be in order so that every card set would be in order always, ready to be put into combinations. Yet this method does not work in all cases. In fact, it is the easiest way for you to lose in this game. The ironic thing is that the best tactic is to put all possible cards in order but make the stacks if possible. And in this way, it is necessary to destroy the previously organized order of cards.

     Of course, if lucky, the player has no need to make extra movements to make the stacks be in order. Yet the tendency is that in order to get a higher score, it is better to break what was previously accomplished. Nothing is ever guaranteed to come in order. Not only the sequence of random cards, but life events are also randomly given out. But if they are all put behind so that they could be handled later, it is more likely that they are lost before they can be seized.

A chance is like a flying bird.

Spinoza 

Reminiscence

     I remember that cold winter evening. I remember I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, or was about to do. I remember, inside my mind played the usual Mozart Violin Concerto No. 3, played by Hilary Hahn, the one I have been listening for the whole past semester. I remember that I remembered Hahn played the piece for the pope's birthday, live-broadcasted around the globe. I remember the memory discomforting me even more in my unusual black dress, holding my instrument with hands wet from sweat, staring at rows of portable seats that were empty a few hours before. I remember catching some familiar glances filled with excitement - and instinctively turning away from them. I remember the stage was bright - so bright that everyone had to squint to see - but the air was freezing cold, while my back felt so hot from the self-heating pads which my mom attached while I dressed in my new clothes. I remember, my heart raced.

     Have you ever felt as if you were born again, completely new to your life? You are as you were, but suddenly the world is silenced - leaving your heartbeat - that 'lub dub' - sound louder than ever. You know you have not passed out, that the world still has colors besides white, and that you are still the same 'you', but everything seems so new. The school gym you used to know even before you got to school, the members of the orchestra that you have been playing music with for at least two years, the conductor whom you have definitely fought with the most for the past couple months, and yourself reflected in the looking-glass. You are so new - but that is not because your mind is so blank, it is just that everything changed to be made suitable for the day. Is this so important, you wonder, for all these people to be busied, just for the event? But soon some important-looking figures arrive, wearing their suits so black that you wonder if they were absorbing all the colors existing. You glance at your friend, who mouths you "the mayor". You roll your eyes - since when were classical music concerts so interesting for so many people to come? Since when was the government so interested in our school that they decide to come, dedicate on the night of the brink of the year? Unwillingly accepting the reality, you go back to the stage, playing that video of Hahn displaying the delicate memory again and again inside your mind. You know nothing really happened, but feel the temperature dropping as the night approaches.

     I find the percussion team waiting for their stage. Their giggles irritated me - maybe it derived from their confidence in performing. Maybe it was because it was their first time receiving so much attention. Maybe it was because they had no solos, but were sharing the spotlight. I could not guess which was the answer, but felt my heart racing harder every second. Perhaps a last-minute practice might help, I thought to myself, and started fingering the notes on my violin. But time flew, soon I was on stage, and discovered everything ended as I was playing the last note. Oh no, I'm totally screwed was my first thought. Maybe no one heard me play. Hopefully no one will remember. Maybe it all was a dream. Maybe when I wake up, everything will be fine, and I would have another chance to play it better.

     If one could feel the time stop, that was when I felt it stop. Everything was so still for a moment. My face was red and hot, more than anything for a moment. Then slowly the clap began. The audience clapped for a moment. I caught a few smiles from some familiar faces. For a while.

     I have no remembering how I played that night. I was unwilling to find out, though I did have a video clip, and probably never will. But I can say this for sure - that the experience was so strong, and that I will remember the night.

Monday has feelings.

     Mondays are hard. The good thing is, everyone feels the same. The bad thing is, there is no remedy for the so-called 'disease'. There even is a song <월요병가> (by Stella Jang) complaining the hardness of starting Monday after the sweetness of weekend. It is obvious - Mondays are hard for everyone.

     But things can be worse than Mondays - when we talk about Sunday evenings. The dilemma between nice feeling from the memory of weekend and anxiety deriving from fear of what has to come conflict, and result in the ultimate dread of time passing. It is then when you realize the singularity that Sunday is both the day you wish to come and at the same time fear its arrival.

     Are chances worth missing, in fear of performing worse? Harper Lee, the author of To Kill a Mockingbird said she could not publish other novels since she was afraid of writing a less successful novel. Some do say that it might have been better if she had not published Go Set a Watchman - a novel she wrote before publishing To Kill a Mockingbird - but who knows if she might have wrote a even better novel than To Kill a Mockingbird.

The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.

- Eleanor Roosevelt 

Sixteen Going On Seventeen

The Von Trapp children singing So Long, Farewell

     I remember the first time I watched Sound of Music. Though it was involuntary, I was amazed how so many songs I knew were from this movie and how the actors had such beautiful voices, despite their young age. Of all the songs, I was most impressed by the duet of a young but unfortunate couple.

     The lyrics of the melodies sung under the gazebo were simple - about a sixteen-going-on-seventeen girl singing about her naiveness compared to a seventeen-going-on-eighteen boy. Their innocence in love is what makes the story more enchanting. While watching the movie, I promised myself that I would watch this scene again when I reach this age, see time shifting my age from 16 to 17. Now that I see the shift listening to the music, mixed feelings come to me.

     When I was younger, I believed that I would never be so older to become one of the seniors or adults I know. At least I thought I would have been smart enough to be able to escape any situations I am stranded in, such as that I would be smart enough to elude such stance by attaining abnormal abilities, like being able to fly. Unfortunately, I now am old enough to figure out such things are impossible. 

     Every time I face my birthday, this sudden urge of not wanting to leave the Neverland suddenly dominates me, giving me ideas to make my birthday disappear. One of the ways was to name 31st of November (which apparently does not exist) as my birthday (and that is how this blog got its name, trente-et-un (31st) novembre (November)). But it occurred to me, and I realized that I am afraid of my birthday and the fact that I am getting older but at the same time am desiring to face my birthday.

All children, except one, grow up.

J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan 

     Becoming older means responsibilities. The numerous situations where choices will make you pay for it. Though some people need to work on being a better adult and adulting, it certainly is one of the things people just refuse to face.

     But at the same time, it is the door that leads to a totally new thing, opening your eyes and perhaps making you feel like a stranger. Having many responsibilities and fulfilling them allows the individual to make own decisions and be trusted. This is why to espouse the awkward feeling of birthday.

     I like to name my birthday the premiere of the finale. A bittersweet ending, but the period to embrace a whole new world.