it's that hour again, the time when my fingers get a weird itch and feel like they need to start hammering away at a keyboard. it's late, completely dark outside, with only the hum of the heater running through the home. And I've just finished watching a compelling episode of Mad Men, actually the latest episode from the current season.

I don't quite know why Mad Men makes me so pensive and able to write at these odd hours of the evening. It's almost as if I don't have an ounce of sleep in me. Instead, my mind is whizzing at an incredible pace, thinking up all the things that have happened in my life. Usually the episodes end in a really dour mood, but this one didn't. In fact, it was optimistic, which is rare for this show.

The weird thing is, the reality of the ending was actually incredibly saddening. That's what we're told as the viewer, but we don't get that sense at the heart level at all.

I wonder if this is the dichotomy that I feel in myself lately. There's some sort of disconnect with how I should be feeling and how I actually feel. There's no doubt that this emotional status is not unlike many people around the world, but it's clear that I'm unable to distinguish this particular state.

I had a pretty ambitious meeting tonight with an old friend of mine, and it just added more confusion to my life. It's added more complexity, the very thing I wished to avoid.

For starters, I'm not quite sure when I really want to go to Japan now. A part of me can't wait to go there and start something there, or rather complete what I initiated during my three-week stay a few months ago. And another part of me keeps showing how much I can do here in LA, or at least in the States.

It seems that the one year commitment to Japan becomes more and more weighty as time progresses. I've realized how much I'm really giving up by being there at this point in my life, when everything seems to be in flux. But there are things that I can be certain of, that God has made these things come to pass for a reason. I know now that I am really much healthier emotionally because I'm quicker to realize things that happen in my life. I'm chewing slower and digesting better. I wasn't always good at that sort of thing, of compounding and processing events in my life. The past few months have made that more natural for me, to make me less talkative and more pensive.

When I was in Chicago, I was speaking with a person I had only met the evening before, while waiting for an hour and a half outside a bar. During the prior evening's brief conversation, I realized how easy it was for me to connect with someone, to draw them toward me with my interests. It was one of so many encounters I have had with people, women in particular, that were initiated through a preliminary conversation. I can think of at least 5 such instances through the past decade of my life. I don't know why it's so easy for me to make these connections, only to have them vanish with one common denominator: physical separation.

When I think about what has made these relationships, or rather, trysts work, is that they're all motivated by a singular attraction that expands on a hundred different elements at once. I remember a girl at this retreat I went to back in the early part of high school. I only remember her last name now, only because of its peculiar spelling. But I remember that raucous evening we spent playing ping pong and prancing around that retreat house until the early morning. Everyone around us seemed to be quite aware that we were attracted to each other while the two of us were not only oblivious, we were carefree. This sort of microcosmic relationship went off like a brief flicker once the reality of our situation was illuminated: we lived completely different lives in different parts of the city.

There's another relationship I developed while I was on a family vacation. It was brief, and I ended this one night's tryst with a kiss, a sweet one, and a secret one. One that scarely no one ever knew of. This was many, many years ago.

Then there was this Chicago one, which wasn't a tryst really, but sort of a shadow of one. Thankfully this time I had a dear friend tell me quite blatantly that I needed to come to my senses and see the state of my emotions. I was dreaming, or perhaps living out some crooked fantasy that had no place to grow. All I wanted was for this thing to keep up as long as I could, before someone opened the curtains. And honestly, in retrospect, I'm thankful that my friend did.

So I'm not ashamed of how I conducted myself on those last few evening in Chicago. I'm quite happy that I enjoyed myself and got to know someone a little bit better than casual banter at a party might produce. I'm also happy that I took some sage advice and evaluated myself, and changed my perspective.

Sadly that reality might also be that I'm really in no condition to open myself up to anyone. I'm wondering if this might mean that I'll never quite open myself to someone ever again. I'm not only timid about vulnerability, but doubtful that I could handle it. I'm becoming more and more convinced that, at least indefinitely, my life is meant to be one of self-evaluation and self-development, until I come to a point where I can truly handle the prospect of opening myself up in complete vulnerability to someone who can handle it.

i remember when the better part of my day was spent with how i was going to get the flowers, and what kind. i haven't bought them in a long time.

it's 1am in nagoya. back here after a stint in korea. flying back to seoul tomorrow.

the iridescent neon of this city, it just creeps up on you.

I didn't watch that Will Smith film, the one where they spell happyness like so, instead of the right way. I was watching this segment of Mad Men where Betty Draper is told that there's such sadness hiding under her facial expression. She disagrees with this statement. Then later on in the episode, she admits to Don that she's happy. I'm not quite sure what to make of this dichotomy, but it did get me thinking about what it takes to find happiness, especially in a relationship.

Sometimes we're brazen enough to ask someone if they're having a good time, or if they're doing well. I remember making these kinds of statements to my cousin, whom I love dearly as a brother. I'd ask him what he'd want and he would be so frank that I would doubt him. He'd voice displeasure or tell me how great something was. He's not the type that accommodates your emotions or says something just because you want to hear it. That kind of honesty is so refreshing.

On the flip side, there's this constant dialogue, this language that takes place mostly through bodily expressions, something that's so subtle that most people don't understand it. It's especially hard trying to figure this out, especially as a man. I think men weren't wired to pick up this advanced level of human communication. Maybe that's just an excuse, maybe it's just that I'm not observant enough to realize when people are trying to tell me something without words.

I guess it's really because I'm too proficient with words, too dependent on them. Words are like a crutch, or better yet, like a wheelchair (no ill-will toward people who use wheelchairs or crutches). Words don't beg for interpretation, as they're only liable to interpretation because of body language. It's probably why I resort to writing so much more than speaking. Then again, I don't usually have a problem with speaking. My problem is with listening.

In their infinite wisdom, my parents used to tell me that listening was the most important thing in a relationship. I made sure to exercise this dollop of sage advice. But I think there came a point when I became disingenuous, I became something of a farce. I didn't take listening seriously. Instead, I just skimmed, just like I do the morning paper. I'm a master of skimming. It's the unfortunate result of the blog and twitter age, when everything is so rapid fire that your corneas resort to schizophrenic hysteria. If you've watched Twelve Monkeys, see how the young, deranged Brad Pitt moves his eyes. It's how my ears move.

Finding happiness is countering this proclivity of mass confusion stemming from visual and audio over-stimulation. It's calming the hell down and thinking about every word, wink, wince, or expression. It's processing what someone says to you, becoming more intimate and closer with every interaction. Of course, I don't mean proverbial happiness, like the one Ancient Greek philosophers spoke of or the one your preacher talks about on Sundays (that kind of happiness is eternal, and a different thing, though not a completely different thing). This sort of listening-talking interaction is of course the basis of prayer and meditation, the discourse taking place between a man and his Lord.

A few nights ago I was distressed. Perhaps distressed isn't the way to put it; I think concerned might be it. I was in a place of desperation, seeking out some sort of answer. I knelt in prayer over my thin Japanese futon, sprawled in the alcove of this humble tatami room. I cried out to God, not knowing what else to do. After a considerable number of minutes, I just laid there. I just tried to hear something. I thought about truths I know from the Bible, things I know that God has affirmed. Truths about grace, love, mercy, God's holiness, his concern for his children, his infinite wisdom, his comfort, his shelter, his intimacy. That, more than anything, gave me a perfect sense of calm and hope. I don't remember sleeping in any more peace than I did that night.