Freud, and such January 31, 2007

Today I watched The Notebook, a movie inspired by a book written by Nicholas Sparks. In this beautiful, heart-wrenching story, a young man and a young woman develop an intense romance during the summer. The trust between the two is evident: she is ready to catch him when he falls, and he provides a patient support for her. It is almost too beautiful to be real, and unfortunately, it is. She is wrenched from him by her parents, cognizant that he cannot offer her adequate financial support. But, the tensions between the parents and the couple seem inconsequential when compared to the great love between the two. When watching the two interact with each other, I marveled at their mutual trust, companionship, and happiness displayed unaffectedly.

I wish that I could have this trust with another person here at Stanford. I have problems placing my full trust in someone. Maybe this can be attributed to the fact that when I was a kid I was moved around a lot, which forced me to adapt to differnet environmnets and made it difficult for me to make lasting friends. In any case, it is difficult for me to surrender my deepest, most introspective thoughts to someone. I tell myself that no one would concern themselves with such thoughts and that I shouldn’t bother. On the other hand, I cry out silently.

Stupid, I know.

What’s more, is that I’ve been more and more preoccupied with what people think of me. How can I be concerned with this when I don’t expect them to interact with me? Why does it even matter? The truth is, that it does matter in some cases.

I am so broken, that I can’t even put coherent sentences together.

I am so broken that there are a million pieces of me on the floor, and I don’t even have the energy nor the motivation to sweep them up into a neat pile and deposit them in the dustbin.

Let’s refocus on the things that give me joy.

Masterclass with the King’s Singers is coming up, as is their concert, of which I have a comp ticket. Sweetness! It will be awesome, ear-opening, and generally awesome, I am sure. Stephen Sano, director of the Stanford Chamber Chorale, and graduate of Cubberly High School in Palo Alto (back when it was still open), has the connections that allowed us to secure this masterclass.

Detective work with the political science department. No, really, the research is like being Sherlock Holmes. I have to go find books in the library and find specific militarized interstate disputes so that I can create narratives about these disputes. These narratives will lead to a better understanding and use of the data set of which the disputes are a part. It’s fascinating, rewarding, new, challenging, and relevant. Not much more that I can ask for! It integrates computer technology and paper technology (read: books) in this one project. Finally, I learn about the political happenings in many different countries in many different time periods. It’s great.

Freud class with Professor Douvaldzi. My views of the relationships of culture, language, literature, and psychology are forever changed. She brings such a vibrancy, focus, and intelligence to the class that we are perpetually reaching a higher understanding in a wonderful way-through intimate discussion of Freud’s texts. Also, I’ve developed an almost intellectual crush on one of the students in the class. I love watching the mental cogs in his mind turn when he delivers one of his clever comments. It’s a beautiful sight. (And he has beautiful, long, curly blond hair.) For some reason, I just started smiling in class. Not grinning like an idiot, (or at least I hope not) but rather smile that begins small, but gradually becomes bigger with the realization of the beauty of the moment. Marvel and wonder.

My roommate is awesome. He is so accommodating, neat, involved, and an all around great guy. The other day he had a date, and he asked me what he should wear. After about a half hour of deliberation or so, I picked out the right outfit for him. A dark, striped button down shirt, a pair of jeans-both mine.I felt oddly proud and amused at the fact that I was dressing my roommate. Later, he said that his date had remarked about the togetherness of his outfil.

Thanks, Matt!

Axess woes… January 10, 2007

Finding the right schedule is so tiring and stressful.

I thought that I was on the right track, having picked out SLE, Math 51 (multi variable and linear algebra), advanced swimming at Avery, and a South Asia development issues class.

Boy was I wrong. The swim instructor failed to show up at the pool, and when I arrived at the South Asia class, the instructor was unimpressive in his teaching style. Also, on a whim, I accompanied Adam to a Freud and Psychoanalysis class. The professor was direct, serious, yet warm while describing the amount of work that the students would put into her class (a lot) and the level of satisfaction that would result from this hard work (a lot). Hey, I thought, this seems interesting.

So, my schedule was out of whack. Damn, it’s so hard to find the perfect schedule. Anywho, after frantically paging through the class bulletin, a hand out in the daily news, and looking on Axess, I came up with

GerGen168A: Freud and the Enterprise of Psychoanalysis

EarthSys 101: Energy and the Environment

SLE: Structured Liberal Education

Math 51: Linear Algebra and Differential Calculus of Several Variables

PoliSci20SI: Workers in the Shadows: California’s Agricultural Industry and its Workers

Athletics: Yoga/Pilates Fusion

Music: Chamber Chorale

Music: Chamber Music

AHH there’s no room! Yet it fits perfectly together and has a great balance of subjects and type of work.

Yay. I will proceed to kill myself.

I’m hungry! January 9, 2007

Hunger pains materialized at around 11PM tonight, so I decide to walk down to the Treehouse to pick up a burger, maybe a burrito. “Closed on Monday January 8 at 10:00 PM. The Treehouse will resume its regular hours on Tuesday” the sign reads. Late night is closed too. Goshdarnit!

I’m pretty hungry, so I go to the vending machine in West Flo. Stick in exactly $1.30, pushing in the green dollar bill in backwards, with the design printed on the vending machine door telling me to turn the bill around. The machine takes it anyway, and I have a flashing moment of temporary relief. A dime, then a nickel. Pale lights illuminate my haggard, hungry, expecting eyes as they follow the coil of the vending machine turn and release a cup of noodles, roast chicken flavor, into the receiving part.

Success, but only momentary. I deliberately walk on the catwalks back to the lounge, deliberately taking the longer route so that I can see what people are up to and to not have to open another door using my keys.

There’s no plastic forks in the kitchen, and I get annoyed, so I go to the sink and wash off a metal one.

Microwave time! Enough said.

I take it out of the microwave, mash around the noodles with my fork, and try to forget the awful chemicals that exist in the flavoring.

And it’s not that satisfying in the end. Not enough noodles, the flavoring is off-putting.

But there’s not much you can expect out of this. And I didn’t really.

That’s ok.

Hot pot. January 4, 2007

So we had hot pot on New Years. For those unacquainted with this Chinese tradition, it involves boiling pots of water everywhere, many sets of chopsticks, intricately-woven, small, wire food-baskets with handles, fish, chicken, beef, shrimp, shrimp balls, shrimp paste, noodles, fun see, choy, other greens, tofu, dumplings, hot sauce, soy suace, curry sauce, and I’m sure I’m leaving something out.

Oh–tons of family and family friends. We gather round the canned butane powered hot pots, dipping, prodding, picking, sipping, steeping, dropping, talking, yelling, screaming, biting, passing–there’s action everywhere. Conversation is fast-paced and often ruthless in its intentions.

So how’s college, my relatives ask, and I choose to give them the good-natured, optimistic response. Where’s the girlfriend, some ask. That’s your next big project. Or at least it should be, they claim. I just smile and nod to dispel any notions that I’m with a girl. Damn, I’m not even with a guy! (yet.)

These are the moments where I can feel my heart sinking into my stomach. My body crumples, my defenses fall, my thoughts drop. I am resigned. I cannot win. I cannot respond in a way that would stop these inquiries into my personal life, because these are the types of questions that family ask. Nor can I think of a way to tell them the reality of the situation. That I, Mackenzie Lee, am gay. That I will never have a girlfriend. That I will fail, as the first grandson of both sets of grandparents, to produce a natual born heir to the Lee clan.

I understand the anthropological importance behind passing down a name, for it is more than just a sound. It contains elements of belonging, history, and masculinity.

But why do I accept this importance so readily? Maybe it has to do with the fact that family has been the most constant thing in my life. I’m not saying that the type of relationship that I have with my family is ideal, or even close to ideal, which it is not, but I would like to say that the constancy of having family around has been comforting.

Nothing has been constant, really. I’ve passed from infant to toddler, to young teenager, to young adult. I’ve moved around constantly. I’ve changed my thinking and the way that I perceive things. I’ve never really had friends for more than a year. As such, I’ve really given up on thinking that any large immutability exists in this world as I perceive it, and have resigned to accept change.

Speaking of change, I hate carrying change around in my wallet. It makes the wallet unberably thick and bulky which in turn juts out my pockets. But have you ever thought about the musicality of coins? The jingling, the rolling sounds, the whiz and whir of coins steadily circling to the bottom of the round donation receptacle make coins better than bills in terms of sound. I used to grab the coins right before they fell into the bottom of the recpetacle so that I could repeat the phenomena to watch and hear it over and over again.

Speaking of spending, I recently bought a pair of Vans with three velcro straps and white stiching on black cloth. And a pair of brown, tan, and white Puma sneakers. And a pair of Lucky jeans that were half off, yet still pricey. WHY? Who am I trying to impress? Does it really matter?

Not in the boyfriend department. I’ve tried that already during this past quarter.

Me? Hell no. I’ve been too disappointed by “me” lately.

You? Don’t know you, really.

Maybe I like pretty things. And then I want pretty things. It’s actually quite repulsive when you think about it. I feel disgusted.

Is it better to achieve and attain beautiful things through art, music, dance, or literature? Why not fashion? Food? Does the fact that you have to pay for the last two diminish their beauty? No, because I have to pay for the first four as well. So, is this my justification for paying $50 for the Vans, $60 for the Puma’s, and $80 for the Lucky jeans?

No. Because I feel that I cannot derive the same amount of satisfaction through buying a piece of clothing than reading a deliciously good book. Or can I? Or is it the quality and type of satisfaction that I should be concerned about? What if I cannot really complete my satisfaction without attempting to attain all six of these beautiful things?

Beauty. It’s all realtive. I’ve had more time over break, and, shamefully, I’ve been spending a lot more time looking at myself in the mirror. (Wouldn’t a narcissist justify this act by saying that he was trying to get more in touch with himself, and that the first step was to memorize and acquaint himself with his physignomy?) God, I’m ugly, I think as I look in the mirror. I compare myself to all of the impossibly beautiful movie stars that I have seen in the many films that I have seen over break. Juxtaposition of my picture next to Jesse Metcalfe’s would be disastrous. Beauty and its dangerously destructive relativity destroyed me.  And of course I’m talking about the physical beauty here.

Enough. I’m going to eat more blueberry boy bait. Yes, it’s a baked good. No, there’s no secret ingredient, and there’s no guarantee that you can snag a guy with it. I sure as hell did not see any disclaimer that accompanied the recipe.