---

As Yukiko has recently posted an entry on Facebook with the same title, I guess I'll write something about it as well. So, I once wanted to be a farmer - but seriously, who hasn't dreamed of being a farmer at some point in their lives? Also, my other childhood dreams include going to MIT (I will), writing a book for children, being a journalist, being a photographer, creating Rockman.EXE typed network/navigation/PETs. But let's not worry about them for now.

This story starts with Masakazu, Yukiko's brother. Masakazu-kun loved chickens. Once upon some recent time, he persistently asked for an egg from a farmer and eventually got it. He built some kind of egg-hatching machinery; and after a while a chicken was born. Then, two chickens. Then lots of them. They followed Masakazu-kun everywhere he went, and if they didn't see him they would go panic.

Later he moved to New Zealand, and one day his mom in Japan told him that all his chickens had been eaten by a fox. He cried, suffered a lot, and I'm not quite sure, maybe he still does.

This reminded me that I once had some chickens too, although I can't remember what happened to them. I'm not that concerned about chickens though - except that I often mistake them for "kitchens", which caused quite some problems when studying "Kitchen" by Banana Yoshimoto for my IB English A1 class. Nevertheless, Yukiko pointed out that although Masakazu and I didn't have the same level of interest for that little furry thing, we both wanted to raise our own animals and plant our own crops. You know that game series, Harvest Moon? I love it, especially FoMT and MFoMT. "Who knows," I told her, "the most unlikely things can come true."

"Let's build a farm together!"

"Cool! Let's start now!"

And we're off to making a plan. It's exciting, it's neat, it's weird. And it will come true.

---

"What is heaven?" He asked.

The candle on their table flickered, illuminating its surrounding with the reddish, dim flame. It shone on her right side and reddened the sharp lines of her profile, while leaving the other half unseen - covered by the remnant of darkness and the smoke from the cigarette between her fingers. He looked at her through the watery yellowness of a glass of ice tea, which somehow gives the place a glance of aristocratic luxury. "This?" She answered.

He chuckled. "What is 'this', Kate?"

At the next table, a little girl, about five or six, laughed out loud at the cream on her - even younger - brother's nose. Their mother wiped it with a handkerchief, her manner gentle and attentive. Not only her hand, but her arms, her eyes, her hair - all her body - were engaged in the action, as if wiping cream off a son's nose was the only thing worth doing in this world. Kate's eyes swiftly moved past them.

"When I was small, heaven was home." She said, finally. "Now, sometimes it still is."

"Cheers," He raised his glass, "very few people can say that." She responded with a smile of matter-of-fact attitude, half acknowledging, half questioning. "Can't you?"

"It once was." He said at once, without any contemplation.

"Then?"

"I changed."

The words came out like a reflection, prefigured by the previous answer, unaware of the restraint from the mind. He was astonished by the softness of his tone and the indifference it contained. Why did it matter, he didn't know; he couldn't see its implications, just as he couldn't see what it was in her eyes when she stared at him. Not pity. Not understanding. Not interest. "Higher standards?" she asked.

"No. Different standards. Or to be precise, lack of standards."

"What is heaven, to you, then?" She smirked, emptying her glass.

"Define heaven."

"That's exactly what I asked."

"Oh," He laughed, turning to the next table. "Heaven is a fallacy. It belongs to the same category with concepts like imaginary numbers. You take something that doesn't exist, give it a name, and..." He stopped to look at the shining red berries on top of the little girl's ice cream. She bent her head to take a closer look at them, then eagerly showed them to her father. "I'm listening." Said Kate.

"You know what... forget about it."

She chuckled. " You want to know what 'this' is?" She put her hand on her left chest, where her heart is. " 'This' is heaven."

"By what standard, Kate? By what standard?"

"By every standard. By common sense. You'll always find heaven if you look for it inside your heart."

He laughed, raising his glass before finishing the last drops of tea. "How about this," He smiled at her, tapping his head. "You told me to define heaven", he said. "I couldn't name what it is, but I knew what it isn't."

"What is it not?"

It isn't happiness, nor satisfaction, he thought. It isn't fulfillment. It isn't suffering. It isn't an emotion, nor a state, nor something you can name. It isn't something to seek for. It isn't...

"It isn't that." He pointed at her hand, still on her left chest.

She had been sitting still, waiting, perplexed. The dark corners on her face looked hollow and bottomless; although her cheeks, her forehead, her chin - everything exposed to the reddish dim flame - seemed burning, burning like the suppressed anger or a hidden passion suddenly revealed. Her confused face finally turned to a faint smile, which seemed to say "we can never reach an agreement, can't we?"

Heaven doesn't exist, he thought, not because it's an impossibility, but because it's a contradiction.

"Hey, why are we talking about heaven, after all?" She asked casually.

Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven
Would it be the same, if I saw you in heaven
I must be strong and carry on
'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven

---

"What is heaven?" He asked.

The candle on their table flickered, illuminating its surrounding with the reddish, dim flame. It shone on her right side and reddened the sharp lines of her profile, while leaving the other half unseen - covered by the remnant of darkness and the smoke from the cigarette between her fingers. He looked at her through the watery yellowness of a glass of ice tea, which somehow gives the place a glance of aristocratic luxury. "This?" She answered.

He chuckled. "What is 'this', Kate?"

At the next table, a little girl, about five or six, laughed out loud at the cream on her - even younger - brother's nose. Their mother wiped it with a handkerchief, her manner gentle and attentive. Not only her hand, but her arms, her eyes, her hair - all her body - were engaged in the action, as if wiping cream off a son's nose was the only thing worth doing in this world. Kate's eyes swiftly moved past them.

"When I was small, heaven was home." She said, finally. "Now, sometimes it still is."

"Cheers," He raised his glass, "very few people can say that." She responded with a smile of matter-of-fact attitude, half acknowledging, half questioning. "Can't you?"

"It once was." He said at once, without any contemplation.

"Then?"

"I changed."

The words came out like a reflection, prefigured by the previous answer, unaware of the restraint from the mind. He was astonished by the softness of his tone and the indifference it contained. Why did it matter, he didn't know; he couldn't see its implications, just as he couldn't see what it was in her eyes when she stared at him. Not pity. Not understanding. Not interest. "Higher standards?" she asked.

"No. Different standards. Or to be precise, lack of standards."

"What is heaven, to you, then?" She smirked, emptying her glass.

"Define heaven."

"That's exactly what I asked."

"Oh," He laughed, turning to the next table. "Heaven is a fallacy. It belongs to the same category with concepts like imaginary numbers. You take something that doesn't exist, give it a name, and..." He stopped to look at the shining red berries on top of the little girl's ice cream. She bent her head to take a closer look at them, then eagerly showed them to her father. "I'm listening." Said Kate.

"You know what... forget about it."

She chuckled. " You want to know what 'this' is?" She put her hand on her left chest, where her heart is. " 'This' is heaven."

"By what standard, Kate? By what standard?"

"By every standard. By common sense. You'll always find heaven if you look for it inside your heart."

He laughed, raising his glass before finishing the last drops of tea. "How about this," He smiled at her, tapping his head. "You told me to define heaven", he said. "I couldn't name what it is, but I knew what it isn't."

"What is it not?"

It isn't happiness, nor satisfaction, he thought. It isn't fulfillment. It isn't suffering. It isn't an emotion, nor a state, nor something you can name. It isn't something to seek for. It isn't...

"It isn't that." He pointed at her hand, still on her left chest.

She had been sitting still, waiting, perplexed. The dark corners on her face looked hollow and bottomless; although her cheeks, her forehead, her chin - everything exposed to the reddish dim flame - seemed burning, burning like the suppressed anger or a hidden passion suddenly revealed. Her confused face finally turned to a faint smile, which seemed to say "we can never reach an agreement, can't we?"

Heaven doesn't exist, he thought, not because it's an impossibility, but because it's a contradiction.

"Hey, why are we talking about heaven, after all?" She asked casually.

Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven
Would it be the same, if I saw you in heaven
I must be strong and carry on
'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven

---

These people, these glasses, these songs - they somewhat resemble the image I have had of this live music café since the last time I came. But the feel has changed, and that bothers me. I cannot find myself; and the person I was before suddenly becomes a mystery. What was she thinking, feeling, when she was sitting here, staring at the stage - was she tapping with the beats, or mentally playing along with the drum part like what I'm doing now? Time seems to have halted somewhere long ago. I could sense their immobility when sitting behind my sister on her electric bike, looking at the sides, feeling like Caufield inside the museum where everything remained simple and unchanged - except for the observer. This is where I come from, but now I don't belong to it.

That inflexibility makes me feel like a different person.

Well, I might be a different person from the last time I was here last year, and from the last time I spent in Jazz Cafe in Costa Rica. The change to the latter happened in just one long day. Just yesterday, when driving home from HCMC, we stopped at Long Khanh to buy some durians. Mom kept on bargaining with an unpleasant, unwelcoming face, scorning the fruit - not for the sake of truth which needed to be told, but out of self benefits. The woman - the seller - consistently refused mom's request to open up the durian with the repeating argument that Long Khanh durian sellers had their pride on their products and would never trick their buyers with something inferior. Another durian seller, from Hue, strolled by us and stopped to show what he had. Despite our unhidden lack of interest, he stood blocking our car's door, wouldn't let go, steady decreased the price until he decided just to give us one for free. "You know," he said "everyone living in life has to have a heart to other people".

"Yes, right, right..." answered dad reluctantly.

"We from Hue," the peddler went on "never cheat anyone. Dare you say we do?"

"Look, we never said that. We just don't want to buy any more durian." And by that we managed to leave.

Suddenly now, in my own room up on the third floor, I have all the privacy and aloneness in the world but much less autonomy; suddenly I was reminded that sometimes life is so complicated, not in an intellectual or philosophical way, that integrity becomes a luxury - something which people fool strangers that they have but teach their children not to abide if they want to be survivors. People grow up being clichés and identically aggressive without noticing it. I had never thought about all those things this way before.

The lighting in the café reminds me of the nightclub in Tamarindo, at Chaseten's wedding. I was sitting away from the dancing crowd, next to Ken, whom I told that I had been a bad daughter. "Why, I don't think so, you got into MIT and your parents must be very proud of that." He said.

"That has nothing to do with being a good or bad daughter."

"Is it?"

I shook my head. I wasn't too surprised by what Ken said - in spite of his ages, he was raised up in a Western point of view, where some values different from mine are used to measure the quality of relationships. But it really bothered me that one of my Vietnamese friend - the only person I asked - thought the same thing. I cannot understand that; and I'm not sure since when I have been always taking it for granted that academic achievements don't say anything about how good a child you are. I thought that it was a crystal clear and logical notion that almost everyone, if not all, had. It seems like I have mistaken. But still, I cannot understand and for me there's just no connection between which school you go to and how treat your parents. No correlation, thus no exception.

Talking about Ken again reminds me of one evening when Atalya told him (and QQ and me) that her not doing her homework or preparing for exams was not a lack of respect for the teacher - as Mr. Villarino usually put it - but a personal choice based on the matter of priorities, or in other words, studying was just not her first priority there. When I think about it, the "Occupation" field on custom forms always comes back to me - and I disagree. One can only talk about priority when he has the choice to do or not to do it; and for students, studying is not to be ranked in priority order - it is a duty. Students would say "Student" when asked about their occupations, just as teachers "Teacher", doctors "Doctor, businessmen "Business", housewives "Housewife". It is the students' occupation in the society, something they have committed themselves to as their duty, and thus, it becomes a matter of doing all what they have to do when they have they have to do it, than a matter of preference. I'm saying this because joining education is optional - although taking advantage of this optional-ness is strongly discouraged and preference to it is often not affordable. So if someone chooses to get an education and does get it, for me it's been always his duty to fulfill all he's expected to do - the way a doctor is not supposed to say "no" when a patient knocks on his door, or a teacher when his students request a tutorial. And, it's also a matter of gratitude.

That leads me to think about the talk that shifted my decision and the next 4 years. Life, college, career - it's not a race, you know. But this is an education that I chose to strive for and did get it. Once I finish my drink, stand up and walk out, I'll be looking into this spaceless society again and trying to break this timelessness - for me it's a duty, and more than that, a duty that I enjoy fulfilling.

---

Rain in Costa Rica has a particular feel to it. Sometimes you find yourself stepping out of City Port Java when it drizzles and notice the smell of soil perpetrating your nostrils, and can't help exclaiming "What humidity!". That nostalgizes me - not that it reminds me of something in my past. The glimpse of white, foamed, bouncing drops paints an exotic, separate reality whenever I happen to catch it: my childhood here, in Santa Ana, or my growing up as a Tica, frequenting volcanoes, sunsets on beaches, rain forests, rice and beans, ludicrous infrastructures. It's the ramification of my having observed numerous small and carefree souls enjoying themselves under the rain. That sort of thing can be seen almost everywhere, and goes directly to the heart of everyone on Earth who has in his or her past a somewhat peaceful childhood. Then as an older, worried child, I always stop for a latte, listen to something melodic, gaze at the membrane of water and the distorted perspective behind - no matter where I am and what I do. Now that I'm about to leave, again I am assured that rain is what connects my realities and keeps me from falling apart. Coincidentally, 'rain' was the very first word I said.

It's been noticed that I was not the sole rain gazer in the school. The gray and striped cat, looking as omniscient as Socrates but is forever hungry, could always be found sitting comfortably on his little 'veranda' - just wide enough to keep his waterproof mind safe from the repercussion of Newton's third law (namely, the rain drops' bouncing back after striking the ground). This is very misleading, though, because when it's sunny and dry and maybe windy, he turns out to be an scared brat, wandering around the waste baskets every meal, waiting for something half-decent to eat, fleeing whenever someone attempts to get closer, leaving the friendly cat-lover feeling ostracized. I would say that if he was such a mysterious (and thus seemingly able) philosopher, this revelation would be real ignominy. But he doesn't seem to care much; and to me, his indifference makes a virtue which most of human beings - who want to live happily and ignorantly - are deficient in. Now that I'm about to leave, I look for him whenever passing by the cafeteria, hoping to see his cynical eyes. Those hostile eyes always stare at me as if pointing out that my ideas of him were just a set of fallacies. I named him Caulfield, and ascertained that he was fond of it.

Something that I also enjoy doing when it rains is playing bass. I'm not sure how the low pitches get along with the ra-ta-ta-ta's, but it's real consolation. It's been my favorite time of the day, when I just mindlessly go through the four finger technique, fret by fret, while pondering the big and small things happening behind the membrane of rain outside. Although it's not the best way to practice, I admit, it's actually for the clarity of my thoughts more than my musicality (which needs to be worked on too). Knowing that I won't be touching a bass for a while after leaving here saddens me.

I pick up a tattered clover. It feels heavy as if the gray sky has fallen on me.