Movie Review - 2012 Winter

Dear readers, with the Golden Globe so recently awarded and the Oscar nomination fresh out of the press this morning, I think it’s a most fitting and auspicious time to release the latest MMR that includes some Oscar contenders.  Though I’m tempted to do an Oscar prediction special MMR just to get you into the proper mood for your Oscar Viewing Parties (what do you mean you don’t throw one, complete with champagne and caviar?), I’m also facing unprecedented amount of work, thus I fear this Oracle of Cinema will have be silent this year.  Nonetheless, I hope you will dearly enjoy the following five films (yes, five…no, you cannot delete only reading until this point…I said NO), some of which were free viewings thanks to my job (need to milk all the benefits given the hours I work) making the monetary investment for this MMR rather low (wonder if I can claim my movie ticket expenses on my 1040?) and in times like these, that’s happy news to my ears.

Now, read on, my friends and foes (oh, you know who you are!).

Rating scale:  5 = pure genius  ---  1 = pure garbage

1.  Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – 2

            If and when the sun explodes, we will not witness that catastrophic event until 8 minutes later, during which time we will still be basking in the warmth and light of the last rays of sunshine.  It takes 8 minutes for sunshine, or the lack thereof, to reach us across the universe.  If and when someone we love dies, how long would his/her memory last?A month, a year, ten years, a lifetime?How long is our 8 minutes of memory?

            This film explores that poignant and eternal human question from the point of view of the 9-year-old Oscar who has Asperger syndrome, a more functional form of autism.  Oscar lost his father in 9/11.  Unable to cope with the loss and sorrow (and secret guilt), he tries to extend his father’s memory for as long as he can: repeatedly listening to his father’s last messages, recalling the various expeditions his father designed for him, and trying to find the lock that fits a key he found in his father’s closet.  The only clue is the work “Black” written on the key’s envelope.  Oscar, who is afraid of public transportation and crossing bridges, not apt at controlling his emotions and words, and uncomfortable with strangers and friends, begins a meticulous journey to find all those with the last name “Black” in New York.  This would take him 3 years. 

            As we follow Oscar on his journey, we meet numerous people dealing with their own tragedies and happiness.  We also discover Oscar’s stubbornness, impoliteness, fragility and imperfections.  For a part of the journey, Oscar has a companion: a mute old man with “yes” tattooed on one hand and “no” on the other.  At the end of the journey, we not only discover the significance of the key but also the boundless love and patience a mother has for her child.

             This film is designed to elicit sympathy and tears.I too felt victim to its sentimental influences, but my tears were out of reflex rather than true emotional reaction.While I sympathized with Oscar and his need to find a reason, any reason, to explain his immense and random personal loss, I couldn’t like him.  Instead, I found the young actor’s emotional portrayal tedious at time, annoying at other times and overall, dismissible.  I cannot imagine another child actor who can bring more insight and elicit more empathy if casted in this role, but I know this child actor failed in his attempt.  Though the human tragedy and hope illustrated in this film are bigger than just one boy or one point in time, they are unfortunately short of universal and timeless to give this film true weight and substance.

             In contrast, the supporting cast of seasoned actors led by Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock did a superb job of textbook understated character acting.  And amongst them is a gentleman named Max von Sydow, with over 60 years of experience under his belt.  Because his character is mute, he relied exclusively on facial expressions and physical movements to convey the most subtle and complex emotions.  And what subtly he brought to the screen!Watching this breathtaking performance is like listening to a master pianist perform or witnessing a master painter draw, he makes the most difficult things seem entirely effortless and leaves you no doubt as to his mastery of his art.  He more than deserves his Oscar nomination for Support Actor!

 Last word:  The title, though a mouthful, is rather apt because at one point in the film you will realize that a voice on the phone can mean such heartbreaking closeness and helpless distance simultaneously.

 2.   Mission Impossible 4: Ghost Protocol – 3

            I have no recollections for the previous three “Mission Impossible” installments, and after writing this review, I will soon lose my recollection for this latest one in a prolonged franchise featuring a star who refuses to act his age.  But what fleeting memories I have of this film are surprisingly fond ones, so much so that I must admit I was thoroughly entertained by this film.  With the high-tech heists, those hair-raising stuns and heart-pounding soundtrack, who can possibly fall asleep?  Well, I tried, but failed.  And for that, this film deserves its box office success, every penny of it.

             The plotline, as usual, involves a team of American secret agents (typical lineup: one hot girl, one computer geek, one guy with ambiguous past and intention, and the team leader who can walk on water with the help of high-tech gears) trying to save the world from nuclear annihilation (from a mad Russian professor, oh that surprise twist nearly killed this curious cat) by infiltrating buildings, climbing buildings and blowing up buildings.They drive fast cars, fire big guns, and jet around the globe to fulfill all our secret fantasies: be able to look good while fight for justice, and not worry about the insurance costs or dry-cleaning bills.

             What makes this “Mission Impossible” different from its predecessors is a semi-coherent screenplay that embrace the true essence of films like this: it’s pure entertainment, thus no need to give the characters souls but instead funny one-liners, no need to develop dramatic conflicts but instead non-stop loud explosions, and no need for profound morals but instead mind-numbing car chases in sand storm.  In other words, don’t take yourself more seriously than what you are.

             The true question is whether the next film in this series (what do you mean you didn’t see that one coming?) will continue this money-making tradition.  If they do, then we will have another installment of computer-cracking-bomb-averting-jail-breaking 2-hour of escapism from our ordinary work-home-supermarket-office lives, if not, then we will have to find another film that can serve similar purposes, which should be “Mission Possible.”

Last Words:  The true mission impossible is a nearly-50-year-old Tom Cruise somehow looking 20 years younger, for that, I must say “hats off to you, Mr. Top Gun!” 

3.  The Girl with Dragon Tattoo – 3

             This is dark film takes place in wintery Sweden, and what are darker than the subdued color scheme are the crimes involved: molestation, rape, incest, murder, to name a few. This is not your feel-good holiday film, but this is not the most horrifying experience you will have in theatre either.  It’s somewhere in that grey area between horror flick and tragic drama.

             In the heart of this film is a detective story where a disgraced journalist (apparently Europeans favor them over ex-cops as the preferred crime solving agents) tries to solve a 40-year murder case.  Daniel Craig, aka James Bond, plays the hardcore no-non-sense journalist; what an easy casting decision there.  The female namesake lead, though, is much more difficult to describe and even more so to cast.  A 23-year-old ward of the state, Lisbeth has had more than anyone’s fair share of physical and emotional abuses.  Her success as a private eye is built upon social isolation and emotional detachment.She’s thin as paper physically, cold as ice emotionally and hard as steel psychologically, yet there is something ever so fragile and tender deep within her, like a tiny stream of water flowing beneath a thick layer of ice.  Rooney Mara, a newcomer, effectively transforms into this unappealing Goth heroine that breaks almost all the Hollywood stereotypes.

             This is also a coming-of-age story that begins a trilogy featuring a most unlikely and unlikable female lead.  This is not your typical broken-outside-but-good-inside heroine; this is a woman who believes firmly in personal vigilante and revenge, who is socially inapt and sexually active, who follows no social decorum or etiquette, who respects no one’s privacy, and who will take matters into her own hands.  She is not pretty (though there was a transformation moment with the typical haircut and wardrobe change), has tattoos and piercing (not the tasteful ones that become accessories), is anti-social and violent (not just shy or angry), and does not ask for sympathy from anyone (a hug will not reduce her into a puddle of tears).  Not many people can make Daniel Craig look soft and weak, but Rooney Mara successfully did so through a girl who truly is unbreakable in spirit, or should we say there is nothing left in her to break and thus the absolute strength?

             While murders and physical violence are common in American mainstream movies, rape and sexual violence are noticeably absent.  Is this a reflection of our prudish culture?  Or is this a reflection of our value system, where sexual crimes might be deemed less destructive?  Whatever the reason, I think it’s about time a film openly depict and acknowledge the horror, pains and hatred such crimes can inflict.  I don’t anticipate this film to bring about social reforms and political changes, but at least we should learn to face evil and violence beyond just glorified fake casualties in action movies.

             Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the murder investigation, because it’s but a platform to showcase this fascinatingly destructive girl.  In other words, this is not a murder mystery as much as it’s a character study.  I look forward to the next two films to reveal more facades of Lisbeth, be them pleasant or brutal, be them tragic or unethical, be them darkness or light.  Her imperfections are exactly what make her so utterly human, and identifiable for those of us who cannot imagine a life such as hers.

 Last words:  Of the many characters murdered and abused in this film, the one that truly shocked me to the core with anger and sorrow was that of a cat.  Awwwwww, poor kitty! 

4.  Sleeping Beauty – 1

             I never have a particular liking for independent films, and don’t believe there is a necessary inverse relationship between box office income and good films.  For me, the distinguishing element of a good film is an engaging narrative, which need not be philosophically provocative or artistically innovative; it simply needs to be engaging; in other words, tell me a good story.

             The premise of this film is intriguing: a troubled young girl joins a professional prostitute house, where she pleases her client while she sleeps.  To be precise, she is drugged before the transaction, so that clients could have their ways with a sleeping beauty. 

             This plotline could be so different in the hands of different film makers: it could be a sexual expose challenging our moral underpinnings, a psychological experiment testing our social norms, a dark fairytale questioning our childhood believes.  Any of those would have been more interesting than this treatment, a pale sketch of a troubled young woman and her ambiguous circle of friends/family without depth or insight, culminating in an ending that makes everyone in the theatre feeling like idiots who have wasted their time in the past 1.5 hours and/or $12 that they could have spent much more meaningfully and entertainingly at another film.

             Though I don’t expect a film to answer all the questions it poses, I do expect that the questions to make sense, instead of merely trying to convey false emotional depth.  In this film, the female lead has all the ingredients of a tragic drama queen: an addict-gambler mother, a weak minded sister controlled by a money-hungry-jerk husband, a melancholy-dying lover, and of course her fascinatingly morally deprived nighttime job that pays her rents at an expensive but badly furnished apartment.  Incomplete conversations, ambiguous relationships, muted colors, long silences, this film has Venice or Berlin or Tokyo (film festivals, that is) stamped all over it.  Or should I say it tries to garner all those artistic characteristics and in the process completely neglects the fundamentals of a good film: an engaging narrative and sensible characters.

             If you think my inability to appreciate this art-house movie is because I didn’t take courses like “Film 405 – Historical Gender Roles in Contemporary Cinematic Context with Focus on Psychosocial Perspectives,” you’ll be glad to that know people who took those courses (aka professional film critics) didn’t like this film that much either.  But at least the film lives up to its title, because it almost rendered me sleeping too (will not comment on the beauty part, as I don’t want to appear more vain than I already am).

 Last Words:     The central question (at least the one in my mind) of the film is what the clients do to the sleeping girl.  If only to save you 1.5 hours or $12, I can tell you that nothing much.  Absolutely nothing much.  Just like the rest of the film, nothing much happened.

5.  The Flowers of War – 3

             During WWII, among the many horrific crimes of war committed by the Japanese during its invasion and occupation of China, the Nanking Massacre stood out as the most infamous and blood-drenched.  During a 6-week killing spree, an estimated 200,000 people lost their lives in acts of violence beyond human belief and tolerance.  It was Hell on earth.  The group that withstood the most unacceptable and unimaginable cruelty was the women, who not only were burned, mutilated and killed in methods known and unknown to mankind, but were also raped in manners beyond anyone’s nightmares.

             This film takes places during that week of horror inside a church, where two groups of females are hiding for their lives: girl students and women prostitutes.  Their protector is an American mortician pretending to the residential priest and a young orphan boy speaking broken English.  Together they will bear witness to one of the darkest chapter of humanity, some will live to tell their ghastly tales to future generations, some will perish and become a statistical number bearing silent witness to the unspeakable atrocity that turned rivers red with blood and darkened the sky with burn ash.  But besides the expected scenes of wartime ordeals and carnage, this film depicts the rare moments when life continues during such unimaginable times. 

           Christian Bale plays a common man doing heroic deeds, but without his Batman outfits and the Hanz Zimmer epic soundtrack.  At first he is just looking for some quick cash and bad wine inside an abandoned church, by the end he becomes the unwilling guardian of precious saved lives.  The Japanese troops, though inhumane and murderous, also receive a rare moment where we discovered that they are human beings turned into monsters by war, but nonetheless human beings.  Such a realization is both poignant and chilling, making us realize that it is human who committed such inhuman crimes.  The highlight of the film is the group of prostitutes, who bring not only color and light (with their beautiful Mandarin dresses) into a dull world of blood and ash, but also complex emotions and simple humanity.  Even in times like that, they still paint their lips, play their mahjong, and drink their wines.  Even when they are facing death, they still giggled about changing into student uniforms and demand a nice haircut.  They want to relive a youth they never had, even in the face of death or should I say precisely because they are facing the inevitable.  They are truly the flowers of war, ever so fragile and fleeting, yet so resilient and eternal.

   Some compare this film to “Schindler’s List” for noticeable similarities in subject matters and time period, not to mention certain characters’ personalities and the plotline.  The similarities exist, but also end there.  The soul and tone of the two films are markedly different.  While “Schindler’s List” was able to make a particular historical incident a universal and timeless plead for peace, this film is only able to convey a message about forgiveness and courage applicable for that time and place.It fails to invoke the emotional and philosophical epiphanies that would elevate it from the ranks of great wartime films to the ranks of great films.

 Last words:      Being Chinese myself, I thought it would be difficult to watch and evaluate this film objectively.  But to my sad surprise, though the film was engaging and moving at times, its emotional impact was much less than anticipated.  If you’re unfamiliar with this particular episode of human history, I’d nonetheless highly recommend this film.

             For those of you who read diligently to this point, my most sincere gratitude and applause –You are the reason I write the MMR.  For those of you who skimmed you way to this point, you still deserve a quick pat on the back, because this was a particularly long MMR.  For those of you who never reach this point, my sincere sympathy, for what wit and insight you could have read but shall never know!

Disclaimer:  The foregoing has been an authentic M Movie Review written exclusively and entirely by M (“the Author”).  No part or whole can be used, reproduced, cut and paste, quoted, submitted for publication, transformed into other manners of artistic expression, incorporated by reference into SEC filings, listed on disclosure schedules, incorporated into college admission personal statements, etc. without the Author’s prior express written consent.  All unauthorized use and reproduction are immoral and void, and all proceeds derived from such use and/or reproduction should be credited and contributed to the Author aforementioned.

On the Road

I just finished a two-week business trip, which is minor compare to the two-month one to come.  As I dragged myself through the airport checkpoints, the hotel lobbies, the repetitive presentations and conversation, I found myself exhibiting symptoms of a seasoned traveler who has been on the road too long and too much. 

• I pack and unpack in minutes, instead of hours.
• I can identify the airport by the décor of the arrival bridge, the hotel by its lobby perfume, the city by its air
  quality. 
• I nap during the rides between hotels and airports.
• I am informed of my frequent flyer status and hotel membership upgrades when I check in.
• I practice yoga and/or ballet in my hotel rooms.
• I stop hoarding little bottles of shampoo and lotion from hotels.
• I try to create “new” dishes using the usual and unsurprising breakfast to whip up an otherwise nonexistent appetite.  Perhaps adding fruits to the yogurt today, or
  may be mix the smoke salmon with the eggs tomorrow.   
• Instead of souvenirs and postcards, I buy necessities such as contact lenses solutions and SIM cards.
• Having finished the book I brought with me, I search for new ones as I travel.
• I am tired of shopping and bargaining.
• I stop taking photos.
• I befriend random strangers as though they are old friends.
• I no longer keep track of days, or weeks.

It’s not unpleasant, simply tiring.  It’s at times lonely, if I had time to reflect, though most of the time I didn’t. The constant motion, the routine changes, the expected characters, the unsuspected encounters, these are souvenirs that cannot be purchased, only collected.  The price is sleep deprivation, mental and physical fatigue, prolonged jetlag, and sometimes a profound sense of loss and lost. 

At a loss for identity while lost in these interchangeable cities.    

Most people explore their physical surroundings (through relationships, jobs, and travels) first, while exploring their inner selves (through reflections, depressions, and evaluations) later.  They battle the outside world, and then face their inner enemies. 

I am the reverse.  I spent the more youthful decade battling inner demons, fears and shadows, during which I avoided, if not was afraid of, changes. I was most protective of my fragile and fleeting emotional equilibrium, which could not withstand any outside challenge or external force.  I was in constant fear of falling from my shaking mental balance.

I am still shifting my feet to achieve inner peace, if such is ever possible, but at least I know that the key isn’t to avoid falling or achieve stabilization, but rather to embrace the fall and instability.  For change is the only constant in life.

With this limited psychological revelation gained through such prolonged period of self-assessment, I now seek the various adventures and experiences that other people have their youthful days.  Be it different jobs and career paths, relationship in its many forms and shapes, self imposed tasks and uninvited challenges, I want to see, feel, touch, taste, smell, and live all of them.

There will come a day, perhaps soon perhaps never, when I want to pause or even stop.  But that day isn’t now. 

For now, I want to keep moving on.  The direction is irrelevant and insignificant compared to the motion itself.    

For now, I’m on the road.  

Good medicine is always bitter

That seemingly contrived Chinese proverb is the first thing I could think of to describe my current mental state: my swallowing a bitter medicine of my own doing for my own good.

I met him the night before my birthday.  I wasn’t impressed or interested at first, but fate intervened and something possessed me to agree to a second date, when he held my hand for the first time.

The rest is history.  One year, eight months and thirteen days of history. 

We were happy together.  Rarely fought or argued.  Though we faced oppositions and challenges, somehow we pulled through together.  He saw me through one of the darkest periods of my life, and I saw him through (well, I tried) the greatest loss of his.  He was perfect: caring, loving, cooking, cleaning, listening, obliging, patient, willing to change/improve, funny, open-minded (even to ballet and facials) and to my knowledge, has the biggest heart of anyone I know of. 

He was my Knight and I was his Queen.

One night, he decided to ask the most important question of his life.  Looking into those eyes filled with love and expectation and hope, all I could muster were the cruel words “I can’t.”

So what went wrong?  He asked.  I couldn’t give him a comprehensible answer, and simply offered that age-old meaningless reason of him not being the one.

I just now realize that it is me who’s not the one for him. 

You see, he thought he found a girl who is kind, humble and loving, but in reality those qualities are only skin deep.  Beneath that beautiful façade lies a self-centered, judgmental and prideful soul that not even its owner is willing to acknowledge or able to face. 

When I needed his support, he gave unconditionally without judgment.  Yet when I gave him support and advice, I was making judgments about his abilities and character.  Where he always saw the beautiful in me, I was constantly distracted by his minor faults.  Where he put in consistent and continuous efforts to maintain our relationship and keep the romance alive, I stopped considering my appearances and manners.  Where he tried to move the relationship to the next step, I was focused on getting the emotional satisfaction I need and ignored his feelings and uncertainties.

I presume the relationship was becoming stale, when he was the one taking me to different places every month ever since the first.  I presume I am the one with the bigger vision, when I couldn’t even see his greatest qualities clearly when he was standing right in front of me.  I presume he doesn’t inspire me intellectually and spiritually, when I was the one who was too absorbed in my own meaningless thoughts to start conversations with him.  I presume I was the more mature and emotionally strong one in the relationship, but in the end it was he who voiced those words that I couldn’t voice due to my cowardice.  I presume he wouldn’t be able to provide the security I need in life, but I never gave him a chance to prove me wrong.  I presume he wouldn’t be able to echo my soul, but I never let him hear its sound in the first place.     

So I envisioned a doomed relationship out of my prideful heart and judgmental nature, and it became what I envisioned. 

Now that I’ve realized my own foolishness, shortcomings and imperfections, in movies this would be time I confess my sin and win a pardoning hug.  But life isn't the movies; it doesn't always end with a cheerful tune or the credits rolling.  Had I realized these and be a better person during the relationship, would the outcomes be different?  I don't know.  I don't have a magic mirror that can look into the "what-if" world; there is no what if in life, only what happend and what's to come.  Looking back with regret will do no one any good, and it will not change anything.  Life is a forward match, and thus I will walk on.

These realizations are only the first step to my rehabilitation, my redemption, my transformation.  The pain I’m feeling now, the image of him on his knee that still flickers before my eyes, the tears that lurk in the back of my throat, all these shall serve a purpose greater than regret or apology.  They will fuel me to learn now what I should’ve learnt before, to be inspired now when I should’ve before, to expand my soul now when I should’ve before.  I will start a journey to improve myself, to humble myself, to be more patient, more understanding, more forgiving, and truly become that girl someone once felt in love with. 

I am embarking on this pilgrimage into the dark night alone; some journeys must be taken alone.  The light that guides me is the love I once had but didn’t treasure.  I know not when this journey may end, and I don’t hold foolish hopes of someone waiting for me in the end.  I can only hope to meet a better person in me at the end.  I can only hope.

I have been waiting for someone to complete my broken soul, but that’s unfair and unreasonable to ask of anyone.  The only person who can repair my soul is I.  

Such brutal truths and agonizing epiphany are bitter and hard to swallow, but swallow I will and shall.  And digest.  And internalize.  And change myself.

This is the lesson I’ve learnt from a heartbreak. 

Is it painful?  Yes. 

Is it necessary?  Yes. 

Is it worth it?  I will make it so.   

A Walk Down Memory Lane

I lived and worked in NYC for almost 2 years, and always thought I’m a New York at heart: fast talker, brisk walker, aggressive driver (on freeways), discriminating food consumer, fierce art lover, and compulsive book shopper.

Having moved back to LA I am still all those things, and thought I will always feel a particular attachment to the Big Apple.  Before my one-week vacation back to the city of my dreams, I thought I would be haunted by memories so vivid and cry the moment I step on the island.  I thought I would feel my old self the moment I breathe the polluted air.  I thought I would rediscovered the fragile but independent me the moment I hear the trees in Central Park.

But I didn’t.

I walked the avenues, browsed the museums, attended the concerts, dined at the local favorites, but I didn’t feel much.  If anything at all.  That bittersweet feeling of returning to a place once so deeply loved and dearly missed eluded me completely.  I was neither sad nor joyous.  I was neither anxious nor bored.  I was neither my old self nor my current self. 

Every now and then, recollections and memories will overcome me.  Such as when I stopped at the train station, recalling how four girls once raced through there into pour rain under one big blue umbrella.  Such as when I climbed the stairs of my old apartment, recalling how a girl once dragged four suitcases up three flights fearing that she might slip and fall to her untimely (and unseemly) death.  Such as when I walked through my old office building, recalling how a girl used to wait in line for lunch even though the mere smell of food was making her sick and dizzy after 48 hours of non-stop working.

But these moments of a resurrected past didn’t stay long nor did they appear often.  They came and went like the spring breeze, unannounced, full of sweetness, gone ever too soon.

I then realized that I was walking down a memory lane so full of memories, too full of memories, that the walk itself became unmemorable, irrelevant and unnecessary.  It was like a drop of water in a sea of recollection – beautiful, but indistinguishable, even pale in comparison.

When I saw changes – new buildings, new shops, changed prices – I was acutely reminded of the fact that others have moved on.  When I saw no change – same waitresses, past apartments, old friends – I was acutely minded of the fact that I have moved on.

Everything and everyone have moved on.

Nothing remained constant.

Even my regards for the city has changed.  It was no longer the apple of my eyes.  It was no longer the pinnacle of my ideal metropolis.  It was no longer incomparable.  It was no longer unique. 

For you see, what was incomparable, irreplaceable and invaluable beyond measures is not the city itself, but rather my experience living there.  My existence there.  My life there.

What makes a place special is not its charming buildings or lovely restaurants, but rather how we once lived there.  When we say “I am in love with this city,” we don’t mean the city, but who we encountered one winter morning, how we felt one summer night, what we did one autumn afternoon.  Cities are but backdrops to periods of our lives, like painted backgrounds on stage.  The sceneries change between acts.  Looking at the backdrops, without the act, is a pointlessly exercise of attempting to recall lines and emotions once fully lived and honestly delivered, but no longer exist.

I can return to the city time and time again.  Taste my favorite omelet, bite into my favorite cakes, shop at my favorite bookstores, be lost in my favorite galleries … I can do all the things I used to do, even walk into my old office and greet old co-workers and be reminded of my miseries, but I can never be who I was then.  I am no longer an inhabitant there.  My life is no longer intertwined with the city.  My happiness and misery no longer part of its vast mural of human life. 

I am no longer a New Yorker.

Even though I am still a fast talker, brisk walker, aggressive driver, discriminating food consumer, fierce art lover, and compulsive book shopper. 

And I will always be.

I am just no longer a New Yorker.

"I found someone"

No, I am not about to announce my engagement, because there is none.  But a dear friend of mine will soon be walking down the aisle (though in her case, it more walking around the banquet hall, since she’s foregoing the wedding).

When I first heard the news, I was not shocked or surprised. 

When we met over tea to talk about this man whom I have not yet meet, I was not particularly intrigued, though I inquired after all the usual things: photo, height, age, personality, sign, blood type, etc.  Nor do I have a keen interest to meet this man before the wedding. 

This is not because I don’t care.  It’s because I care too much.

About my friend, who I suddenly realized is leaving me behind and starting a new phase of her life.

I know she’s happy.  I can see it in her.  It’s plain and obvious.  But I couldn’t bring myself to congratulate her.  Not there.  Not then.  Not in spoken words.

Because a part of me has yet to process the news.  A part of me has yet to accept this fact.  A part of me is not prepared for the impending changes. 

A part of me was too afraid to face her.  So though I stared at her, I was looking beyond her present happy smiling face, and staring into the image I had in my mind of the friend whom has been the echo of my soul for the past decade and a half.  I was trying to salvage some trace of memory and pause the progression of time for just a second.

I wasn’t really to make peace with the fact that we have drifted away over the years.  Both physically and emotionally.  Though we still can understand each other like no one else can, we no longer are each other’s human interactive radio for during our commutes.   Though we still share many common interests, we no longer go searching for some silly romance novels in one store after another.  Though we still care for each other’s wellbeing, we no longer depend on each other for emotional support as we used to, like two crippled kids holding each other up gingerly.

During the chat, I brought up stories about ex dates and past discussion about life/marriage/love, only to be reminded that I am the only one who still remembers those meaningless things like a puppy refusing to let go.  I joined the laughter and joked that if I don’t remember such things, who would?

That’s right, if I don’t, who would?  I didn’t bring up those old memories to tease her.  I did so because those stories about her are part of my memory of our friendship, and I need to bring them up, like someone taking out old furniture to polish once awhile, so they are not forgotten and fade way. 

Childish of me, right?  I know.

This morning while driving to work, the realization and acceptance finally hit me.   

Instead of lamenting the good old days and the potential change in our friendship, I was filled with profound gratitude.  I suddenly realized the reason I can lament now is that I have something to lament about.  Had we not met in high school that day, had she not asked me to buy some comic book for her, had we not end up in the same math class, had our paths not continued to cross for the next 15 years, I wouldn’t have any memories to salvage and won’t have the privilege to be her friend.

And it has been a great honor to be her friend.  One of the greatest of my life.

This is the girl that allowed me to eat off her lunch plate for years in high school, the girl that I shared so many inside jokes (even though those jokes are no longer funny and we both wonder why we thought they were), the girl that cried at my house one Sunday afternoon while sitting in darkness, the girl that saw me through many depression episodes, the girl that rushed to my house when  I told her my mom was ill, the girl that I called “my ex-wife” because we know so much dirt about each other.

I don’t know how good of a friend I have been to her, because it seems that I’m always the one leaning on her for support and indulgence.  But I have been as good and caring as I can be.  Honestly.  What I gave may not be much in other eyes, but I gave all I can. 

I believe we will continue to be friends.  Good friends.  I didn’t say “I wish,” because I know we will, and if I said “I wish,” I know my ex-wife will look me in the eyes and say I am crazy to think otherwise.

So, to that man whom I have not met, you are the LUCKIEST man in the world!  If you have even an inkling of doubt about that, I will beat it into your mind (quite literally).  If you ever forget about that for a second, I will also beat it back into your mind (also quite literally). 

And to my best friend in the world: Thank you for being there all these year and Be Happy, Be Very Happy!