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.

japan is so quiet. living here in relative anonymity, just spending the days cooking food at home (nothing particularly interesting, just comfort food here and there). watching tons of TV that I've had to catch up on in the last year. roommates are usually out and about. i stay up really late until the sun comes up, then sleep until the sun's about to go down. i have no sense of time any more. i'm not sure if i like it or not, but i'm getting used to it.

it gets me thinking a lot about the life that i've lived in the past year, how fast it was, how incredibly quick everything went by. it's a blur compared to what i know now, just counting the minutes and hours in their sludge. it's the good kind of vacation. in some ways i wish i could just settle here, get a quiet desk job or maybe even in some kitchen, cooking ramen or making noodles or something completely menial. then again, i wouldn't be doing just menial work, there's so much good work to be in done in japan, and i really like that. in some ways, it's so much more meaningful than anything i could do in the US.

I could live out my days here as a missionary, helping out the ministries here, making new friendships. i have no desire or concerns about having a family in the near future, though i guess that could be a possibility. i don't know, i haven't thought about that kind of thing for a while now. it's just sad to think about it.

i've been watching mad men, and it's sad to see the life that don draper lives. in some ways i envy that exterior, the stepford life of his wife, living in the suburbs, raising the kids, downing beers on the weekend. I don't think i'm inclined to his lascivious side, spending late nights in the city and absconding with numerous women. that's not really my style. but i love the socializing in dark restaurants, the shaded offices with thin beams of light illuminating the crisp french cuffs and the scotch glasses. it's so incredibly romantic, but it's also dreary. i might get tired of that really soon.

i'm finding that i spend more time reading the bible, but that it doesn't necessarily propel me toward meditation or prayer. that's something i need to work on. it's the good kind of contemplation. don draper always seems like he has something going on in his brooding mind, but i should be filling that with the deep thoughts of God's word.

I think what interests me most about draper's life is that it's so wrapped up in thoughts, much like my life in Japan is now. I'm freed from having to interact with people, which leaves me to my ruminations. Oddly, this hasn't resulted in an outburst of thoughts. My fingers have been immobile lately, except for this rare moment. I haven't been able to commit myself to the travel and food writing for which I was so diligent during my time in Indonesia, but i think the banter and badinage of companions led me naturally to the keyboard or the notebook. I seemed to have lost my favorite blue pen, which has prevented me from writing in my notebook. It's only now that i've discovered the perfectly comfortable position for typing, which is sitting in the middle of this tiny loveseat, pulling together the two large armrests, and putting my feet on the coffee table. I write with only a tiny light illuminated above me while the fluorescent kitchen light remains brightly on. The way it shadows the dark living room, with the translucent japanese style doors letting in that tiny bit of light, it reminds me a little of 1960's New York.

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I was on this track. A track to the idyllic life of love, marriage, family, and career. I had just about everything going for me. Then everything changed. Now I'm a vagrant, wandering like Goldmund in Hermann Hesse's novel of which I can't seem to finish despite my constant reading. I'm unsettled, looking for something to land on, to bring me back to some sort of concrete understanding of the world after everything i knew to be certain was tilted. i'm wondering if i have the courage to leave it all behind in LA. Should I start a new life in some other city? Or maybe I could just become a shut in once I get back. I won't take calls anymore. Heck, I'll even change my phone number. I'll lose the blackberry, quit text messaging, check email once a week instead twice an hour, take public transportation and bike everywhere instead of paying for car insurance. i don't even have a car to drive anyways.

I'll just go to church on the weekends, meet up at small group during the midweek, find a night job like bartender or a lonely desk job in burbank. Eh, I'd rather get the night job, that way I'd have an excuse not to meet up with people any more. I really need to quit twitter and facebook and all social media. It doesn't help with anything. I keep trying to quit but I find that it's more addictive than smoking or coffee. I'll quit writing the food blog. I know it's tragic, it's been something that's defined me for the past three years. But i'll just go ahead and delete it all, just saving it on my computer for reference.

I just like the quiet life because this way i won't have to make any more of those emotional risks, the ones that are gut-wrenching and result in endless waves of recollection, pain, and regret. I convince myself that I don't have regret, but does that ever really happen consciously? I think the only thing that covers regret is to forget. Forgetting only happens when you don't have enough time to think. Or maybe, you think so much that you get sick of it and finally move on. Or maybe you just write about it so much that it becomes completely dissolved from your system.

If I start over in another city, I can do what I'm doing now in nagoya. I can become anonymous. I can meet people on my own terms, which is rare, or never. I can be holed up in my room and watch a never-ending parade of TV shows and movies on my tiny little netbook, reading myself to sleep on boring old novels that no one cares about, or cooking in my kitchen, delighting only my own belly.

How different everything is.

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i once had aspirations of becoming the restaurant critic for the New York Times. In my mind, there is no person with greater authority in the food world. This person lives the high life, in one sense in complete (or at least attempted) anonymity. All the meals you desire are at your whim. Every dining extravaganza is at your fingertips. Every evening is a chance to see another production of sauces and service.

my other dream was to become a quiet bartender in some foreign city. Fiona and I hatched a plan to open the ideal cocktail bar in Jakarta. To me, Jakarta is the quintessential postmodern, post-millennial city. The expanse of the urban area is pocked with skyscrapers and massive developments of multi-story malls and high-rise apartments. The roads weave through like arteries from Minority Report while the cityscape colors itself in neon, advertisements, and signs galore. We'd made a wonder emporium of libations, me dressed in a snappy, crisp white shirt covered in a dark wool vest. I'd shake cocktails, break ice, stir up perfect manhattans, take a drag off a cheap cigarette, then tip my hat to the jazz singer on the small stage. it's the mad men of the 21st century.

I'd get home at 4AM, sleep until 1PM, when the thick Jakarta air would nearly suffocate my slumber. I'd pick up fresh tropical fruits from the street carts, get to the "office" at 4PM to chop up the ice, then open for business at 6, just when the first office workers let out. "Lunch" would be some satay or nasi goreng (fried rice), perched on the counter while the musicians set up for their renditions of Blue in Green or Stompin' at the Savoy. Mix drinks, take checks, offer cigarettes to loyal regulars, show a newcomer the special drink menu or the list of Hudson Valley bourbons.

I could never get sick of the jazz.