The King of California

In this day of post-christmatic Sunday, I watched a movie on Netflix. “King of California”

Apparently, according to the movie, the name California was originally a made-up name to mean a place with lots of gold…
Michael Douglas’s character, Charlie, tries to find gold by digging into a Costco floor (yes through the cement, and into the sewage line). Needless to say, he died in search of the mythical gold leaving her daughter Miranda by herself. The movie ends with Miranda finding new immigrants, Chinese, I believe, asking her if he’s arrived at America. (It’s a thing of Chinese language to use some supportive sounds to ask a question. “America, ma?” I remember my own arrival in the US, when I had asked a similar question by saying “Shannon ne?”, where the “ne”, making it a question asking where is shannon, got swallowed by Shannon, and the person I asked could not understand why I was saying some girl’s name at him, and explains patiently, “No, I’m Chris, Shannon is somebody else!”
Alas, I feel that I am closer to Charlie’s gold than to Miranda’s suffering from Charlie and certainly long time has past since that time when I was fresh out of the water.
Some days, like today, I really really envy Charlie, and I wish I had the faith, the conviction, and the vision of that bright yellow light so that I could take off my oxygen mask and swim through the narrow opening and into the wide golden brilliance.

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