As I slowly opened my eyes, I could not be sure for about thirty seconds whether it was dawn or dusk and whether it was still Sunday or had Monday already came. I was relieved to find that it was Sunday still, yet became extremely upset that something had woken me up from my only sanctuary place--my dream world, my ultimate escape from reality, my "sleepscape!"

Sleepscape allows me to enter into a world where the concept of space and time does not exist, nor do consequences and responsibilities. The best part of this world is its ability to allow me to experience without imposing and assuming any real consequences. Nevertheless, I often feel trapped or run into dead ends there; but almost by the whim of the will, I can be immediately transported away from danger into another set of situations just like the wizards and witches in Harry Potter engaging in apparitions. At worst, I get apparated back to my waking reality. Even if being thrown back to the real world is undesirable, reading a few pages of a dull novel like The Magic Mountains on people bitching over their temperatures can quickly make me fall back to sleep and back to my sanctuary dream world.

Besides helping me to cope with the insufferable realities, sleepscape is also economically and environmentally friendly.  When I dwell in sleepscape long enough, I find that I am able to live on with only one meal a day. While in sleepscape, my usage of electricity is also at a minimum. Therefore, it allows me to conserve both internal and external energy and in turn minimize externalities.

It was the vibrating sound of the phone that had pulled me away from sleepscape and back to reality, to face the fact that in about 14 hours I would once again be joining some thousands of zombies in suits in marching toward another week of mechanical and meaningless labor. I am always amazed when observing how New Yorkers in such overtly crowded trains with one face only a few inches apart from another can each manage to find a blank spot to stare and never have one pair of eyes meet another. Those expressionless faces staring into non-existent spaces never fail to remind me of just how isolated and alone we are, that every human being is essentially a monad in itself, and that ultimately, "we perished, each alone."

I picked up the phone and answered in the negative to the series of interrogatory questions: did you eat?... did you run errands?...did you exercise?...did you do laundry?... Those tasks which to me were burdens of living were to my mother obligations and duties which I had failed to fulfill. Our brief conversation ended leaving her concerned and disappointed, and me destitute. Yet, I thought to myself, after all, I could let my life be different. After all, I could get my body moving this very second to complete those tasks, getting my life organized and make my mother happy. I could pick up that phone and call father for once in my life to show some love and care as a daughter should do. I could do all that in the brief period of two hours out of the twenty-four in every single day of my life, for even if I am indifferent toward my own well-being, at least I should feel responsible to the only two human beings in this world who love me unconditionally and whose hearts would be torn to pieces had I perished right here, right now. Yet, and yet, my body froze...I could not move...or rather...I had no will to move. Instead, I let myself fall back to sleep, back to sleepscape, and I dreamt another dream.

In that dream, I encountered the guy who had stalked me for a month when I was in second grade in my home town. I was seven or eight then, and my stalker was in high school. Although he was just a boy, a juvenile, for that one month of my second-grade life at least, he was my real life bogeyman. In my dream, I was my present self, but my stalker still had the same high-school-boyish face, although he should've been a mid-aged man by now if still alive. We were climbing a mountain together somewhere in the US, and we conversed with such familiarity as if we were old friends. Upon reaching the mountaintop, his face turned pale and ashy. I laughed at his weakness and his fear of height. How could I ever even come close to dreading someone like you as the monster of my life! Said I. Still out of breath, he moved closer to the edge of the cliff and with an expressionless ashy face stared into non-existence. Right there, right at that moment, I gave him a gentle push, and he fell from the edge of the cliff, swiftly...soundlessly...gracefully. It was a beautiful fall. As if such beauty was magnetic, I, too, dived into oblivion, and experienced the feeling of free falling~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On Tuesday, March 10th, 2009:

- was officially sworn in by the first department to practice---

- one word that got stuck in my mind was, “reputation”---

- looking at my unruly head of hair in the mirror, i began to see a poodle---

- so i got a flat iron for $240 to tame all the wildness---

- because---reputation is more important than anything else.  

"What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question…The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark…This, that, and the other…Mrs. Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs. Ramsay saying, 'Life stand still here'; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment something permanent (as in another sphere Lily herself tried to make of the moment something permanent)—this was of the nature of a revelation. In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability. 'Life stand still here', Mrs Ramsay said. 'Mrs Ramsay! Mrs Ramsay!' she repeated. She owed it all to her.” ---Lily Briscoe thinking to herself as she finishes up her painting of Mrs. Ramsay, a painting she started while Mrs. Ramsay was still alive.

Woolf's "To the Lighthouse" is a novel preoccupied with the question of the nature of human experience. The individuals' experiences are portrayed as having no permanency, and as constantly shifting from moment to moment.  Thus the quest of the novel becomes a quest for permanency in the midst of chaos. What is it that's holding those bundles of human perceptions together? Lily Briscoe, the artist in the novel, solves the problem there as she finishes up the painting of Mrs. Ramsay. The answer is not Mr. Ramsay, not the husband, not the philosopher. It is Mrs. Ramsay, the wife, the "trivial" one--Mrs. Ramsay bringing them together, Mrs. Ramsay creating order out of chaos at the dining room table, Mrs. Ramsay making the moment something permanent. Alas, was this not Woolf, the artist novelist herself, expressing her sense of nostalgia for the traditional Victorian femininity represented by her mother through Mrs. Ramsay?

The idea of buying some fresh flowers thus suddenly struck me as I finished watching the movie. Before having furnished my studio with a desk, a chair, a lamp, and a coffee table, I would decorate it with fresh flowers. Having no servants at my command, I would buy the flowers myself. But first thing first, let me start by choosing a vase.

I love Sunday mornings the most. It is when subways are empty, clean and odorless (relatively); it is when one can find a lovely spot to sit at Starbucks; it is when stores are quiet with merchandise neatly displayed; it is when one can do things without waiting in queue; it is when drunkards and bums are sleeping; it is when one can enjoy a solitary walk in the park without being hassled by tourists. It is all these and many more. It is also the day that God rested.

On this Sunday morning in late autumn, nature disclosed to me its open secrets and freed me from any labor. All I had to do was to stand still and click, click, click...