C: ordinary harleys

This Is Just To Say

(for my students)
(and Muska)

I have let
the bird go free
a little while.

Its quick return
is a lesson
in smallness.

Every lonely bird
cannot be a sentry.
Every sentry bird

must not be alone.

10.27: Shades

During 太极拳 today, my breath and energy matched the red plant I stared at while training, and the yellow leaves above me as I stretched. I haven't noticed this sort of natural presence until now, when I am out of breath, when air transforms into need and meaning. "Not my song, but yours." I don't belong here, or anywhere else among this unnoticed beauty; nor doe anyone else. One day, maybe, when we can all rediscover stillness and let our lives blossom inward rather than spraying outward.

The more fulfilled and self-understanding I am on the inside, the lonelier relations get on the outside. This is one color of 道.

"By inconsistency and frivolity we stray from the Way and show ourselves to be beginners. In this we do much harm." -Hagakure

So much of this struggle is merely seeking to belong.

10.26: Beida's International Festival, one booth for every country

恩姐 mentioned that so many people have been or are going to be moving this year. I have seen this same ineffable transience and life-shifting on this side of the world as well. If you want to get superficially mystical about it, you can chalk it up to this being the year of the rat, the start of the lunar calendar's cycle and a mark of new beginnings.

昨天我们去了鸟巢, 奥运的体育场。正坐巴士时, 我跟高雅的朋友讲。他说, 对我们美国人， 他的感觉是: 我们都很活页。啊， 我以为他说 "火业"。 真的不同。他的话真的不错。我也记得苏晨一次告诉我: "When I think of Americans, three words come to my mind: freedom, creative, and crazy." 也不错。比照, 两个国家分开非常远。我那儿的家人, 我这儿的家人， 真的不能说。只有自己的心里。到时, 我也要分开, 跟我找到的道走。

To be indoors
while the wind
and the sound of wind
spin the world
like an autumn's lantern,
yes,
but one last day
is one lost day,
can you hear
the birds heading home
already, crying:
too soon, too soon

As a break from the paper I'm writing, I bought a green teapot with a filter coming through the top like a reverse chimney, for 18 kuai. I took it to the fourth-floor laundry room, washed it in some boiled water, and made some tea. The spigot is super rusted; I'm to the point now where I don't see it as beneath me as an American, or before my time as a Chinese, but rather simply as functional, and beautiful in that functionality.

Later, I walked across the shadows of campus to get some late-night 串儿, a spiced slab of 猪肉 on a stick. At the fruit stand next to it, the woman sat blocking her television softly playing late-night dramas. I ate as I walked, my shoulders high, hood over my head, breathing mist. Bicycles squeaked past, none of that old-brake screch of the daytime, no sound but footsteps on leaves and solitary conversations on cell phones. This is the urban quietude of which I always draw. At last now I feel like a student here, in this place.

10.22 & 23

10.22
One of the illegal taxi 师傅 in front of the hotel today had his trunk open as he clicked around the car in his business shoes to change the headlights. This machine is his livelihood. It started to drizzle quietly. Yes, this must be fall.



10.23
Today:

1. Sat in on a people's-court-like trial in a Chinese court near Olympic Village. The experience came with headphones with simultaneous translation, with very human translators trying to keep up. My favorite translation was "...and violation number four was sorry I forgot."

I call this the Epic Case of the Air Conditioner, in which a young guy sues his landlord over things that must be quite important to them. If China had a jury system, I would support neither side. But I learned some Mandarin in the process, and body language.

2. Beijing Opera. Sipping tea in the shadowy back, snacking on tea cakes; the shrill singing and the old-school drumming made for a very sophisticated (but not quite bourgeoise) evening. Didn't understand the story at all, but appreciated the reall connoisseurs appreciating the performance.

3. Aibosen Blindman Massage parlor (爱博森按摩院). Full-body, plus 刮痧 scraping along the meridians of my back. I just wish I asked for her name; it would make the hour seem even more communicative, rather than functional with an exchange of money. I felt like the young hero in House of Flying Daggers as she (not actually blind, this one) told me which muscles I used most and probably why. She said I should get back to my martial arts, for my health.

4. Back at Beida past midnight, eating meat on a stick and bumping into Yuland, the one of few 广东话 speakers here. A strong wind blows, the branches bow, and leaves sing sweetly down, like snowflakes of green and orange-yellow, forever falling only once. We watch the trees change color for a while.

B: first glimpse of Beijing

10.21

I am starting to reconsider my black belt all over again. "Today is always an exception." This just means any decisions here, in all my idleness, hold no value. I will only know the answer when the moment comes to speak and to do.

My frequent advice to others remains the same for myself: do what you feel you must.

I keep thinking that, despite the drama and the anxiety and the stuckness, Hong Kong was a much more earnest and valuable experience for growth than Beijing or even Dunhuang has been. Beijing for me as a student has been a bit mundane; Dunhuang was "gorgeously lonely," as Wendy has put it, but the trip was over-the-top extravagant. Maybe Hong Kong was just sooner in my journey and more solitary in living conditions.

Or maybe the fact that I was teaching just led to a frantic sort of quietude and sense of purpose. I wrote in my notepad then, on the same page I got my McDull On The Peak stamp: "If you treat teaching as art, then it may be possible I was born for it."

Shanghai was okay too, now that I think about it, because we were really on our own for that week, which was a bit frightening. It is always the outward frame of the poverty line of a place that most interests and enchants me. I can forget the search for the strip club and the bars, but deeply printed in my heart even now is the homeless man singing Tibetan hymns, his voice resonating through an underpass, otherworldly. I wish I had taken a picture of any number of communal water taps for running water that come out of a spigot along the sidewalk for washing bowls and utensils of personal use. I wish I could paint the dusty sight of a woman drawing water from an actual well in the city. There is a small community of artists on The Bund who draw amazing portraits of tourists for dirt cheap, each of them practicing and comparing with the one they call 大哥--big brother. It sounds romantic, and it does offer a spectacular sort of awareness of life; but then the poor grandmothers with crying babies come begging for money, and you realize the artists are only skilled workers, you realize we all have to learn to live somewhow, you realize the colors beneath this waterfront are not so clean after all.

There are so many beautiful distractions.

10.18: first day alone in a while

Today: fried scorpions; imperial gardens; paint; music (Chinese blues!); equipoise; solidarity.

People kept asking me for directions or about the train or subway system. That tels me I've been spending way too much time with white people here and now it's time to, for once, blend in.

At the Beishan Gongyuan north of the Forbidden City (along my journey on foot across the heart of Beijing from East to West), I hid from tourists and followed the green to less-beaten paths. I came upon a class of schoolchildren, probably 9 years old, each one sitting in front of a potted plant and sketching. The sight was at once mundane and unusual and full of quiet pride.

the imperial garden...
Chinese boy grins, beaming--
taking a piss

The 福声 music store (translated as Free Sound, but it should actually be Blessed Sound) was the perfect end to an epic day on the move. This time, the conversation in my broken Mandarin was not rushed by corporate need, or judged by cultural standard; it was just music, and sounds, and communication. The store owner helped me find some funk and blues albums. I'm sure he understood at the moment when I just broke into a smile at the esound of a "Hideaway" cover. This has been such a long search, and something inside of me has been validated by the fact that blues and singing guitar solos do exist in this language too.

The young 服务员 with the pouty lips who takes orders at the noodle place on campus was frowning at lunchtime and again at the same window six hours later when I came back. On the one hand, there is no racial segregation of labor jobs on the mainland like in Hong Kong (Filipinos) and America (Mexicans), so there might actually be some sense of kinship if not respect for workers here. On the other hand, the jobs are just as much dead ends and "careers" for a lifetime of repetition and function. I want to talk to her, to understand her and that forebearance around the shape of her mouth. But somehow I don't think 你好 is enough to start from. I'd like to genuinely begin with "My name is..." and really mean it, though it seems to me I don't even understand all that about myself just yet.

10.14 by now -- past midnight

Here's part two from Dunhuang

We were almost pickpocketed and/or kidnapped by some English-speaking locals that Mathew got too friendly with at the night market. When Sara disappeared (to buy fruit, it turns out) I really woke up and got on the situation. I'm glad that I can trust myself to do that now. These guys were going to show us a bar, but meanwhile calling up all sorts of people we ddn't know to meet us there and bumping up against us as we walked. They offered us cigarettes that they didn't smoke themselves.

I have smoken three cigarettes now. The first was marlboro over a beer in Shanghai; I still didn't understand its appeal afterwards. The other two were Cloves in Dunhuang (a special and a black), which are so sweet on the lips. But I am a martial artist and smarter than to continue. I'll try the vanilla Cloves while stil here, and then I'm done. My life needs levity, not mist.

During our $500-US Bing dinner on the rooftop, Shen Laoshi taught us about the actual education system in China. There is a test here before high school that determines whether you'll be college-bound or vocational. It's a one-shot deal. There's no law to this effect, but the importance of the test is so recognized that construction work stops around the days of it; parents get a few days off from work; a student with the ticket to the testing room can call for a police motorcycle if stuck in traffic; and sick students are brought in on hospital beds with IVs to take the test. Something like only half the students make it to the college-bound track. Many commit suicide over this.

The students I've spoken with at Beida are remarkable, ethical, earnest, and far more intelligent and learned than most at Stanford, comparatively. But they live in rooms with four to eight bunk beds, share public squatter bathrooms, and have to go to a different building for boiled water and showers. Their tuition includes 40 showers for the year, with 5 minutes of hot water each time; any more, and they pay per visit. "中国不容易," Shen Laoshi said. It is a matter of resources; haves and have-nots all over again.

Every decision I've ever made suddenly seemed frivolous when she explained that this is the reason so many people emigrate to America or Canada or Europe: not because they need or want to or can even afford it, but for their children's sake, for a safer route of education. This is my story. There is so much about our family's small histories that I am slowly growing up to understand now.

And here, meanwhile, I'm caught up in useless gossip with our groups in school. I went to a beginners' swing dancing lesson at a jazz club in Beijing. I take walks, and I draw pictures, and all the while I hardly see outside the bubble.

I also decided today to not continue on for my black belt when I get home to the states. This is exactly the opposite of what I wrote earlier, but now that I admit this in words I can't hide from its truth any longer. The reasons are clear to me, and not intended to be written down. But I know it's right now because I felt and realized the decision more than I made it. And I'll be okay, and still myself. I'm not running away or shunning. In simplest terms, this is love but I can't have marriage. I pray Sensei can understand that. Sometimes it takes a trip across th world to realize things you've been too afraid to know.

沙山心里

想像月球, 继续下去,

无论有空, 无论有眼,
都会知道, 晚上和平。



惟一咱们, 各面各心,

实在一起, 适应安静,

常过时间, 听着老天。



日出时候, 又是新天,

我们讨论, 还有活动,

已经忘了, 晚上方面。



想像月球, 记得朋友。

--
revision, 2/26/09, accounting in part for how things changed:

压顶月球，宿夕看天
等着日出，忘着世界
讨论春秋，宿夕扮演

唯一的话，各面各伈
有的友谊，好的心情
实在一起，适应安静

新天以后，还有责任
需要起飞，离开之间
抱着心目，抱着缘分

回国时候，看着月球
记得沙山，记得朋友

10.13 - back from Dunhuang on the sponsored Bing trip

My camera ran out of battery the first day, but I sketched the quiet motionlessness of things in this Gobi Desert town on the far end of the country, and I wrote my poems like ravens' scratches as the tour bus squeaked and jittered over 农村 roads.

The first stop was the Caves of Ten Thousand Buddhas (Mogao Grottoes), where centuries ago Western explorers deceived the guardian monk and stole sacred scriptures and even panels off of the cave walls. Many of the caves are closed off with regularity to preserve from deterioration by circulated carbon dioxide, but we got the special treatment from head security to have special caves unlocked. None of us had asked for this sort of pedestal.

1.
I can only imagine
the scaffolding
800 years ago:
paintbrushes, smell
of sunlight, dust and
prayer. On the ground
level, the eyes
of gods are scrached or chiseled
off. When we ask why,
the tour guide says heretics
and looks away. Another wall:

W. PAUCK
19 VII 37

like a kid's tree carving;
I scratch at my own eyes,
look for the light.

2.
The lounging Buddha
entering Nirvana, his foot
the size of myself,
red pigment faded
into the desert sand...
how long now
before the next lesson?

5.
I have studied this lotus sutra
and seen its manifestations
but never imagined it
with such need.

Leaving on the bus and thinking of the love and reverence put into those paintings, I decided to continue for my black belt when I return and wrote, "One of my greater moments of comfort and belonging is the fulfilling of potential and sharing in it."

From there, I slept until we went to the Jade Pass, the remains at the end of the Great Wall. It's much shorter here because if you can't get your camel over the small wall, you'll never make it across the desert anyway. I sat atop it and looked out at the dust of cracked earth crawling to the horizon, the bowl of clouds in the sky, the whole history of my people in the classical imagination.

This is the origin of wind. I heard it like coils of silk, straightening and unfurling, straightening and unfurling.

Then back to the bus: another haze of sleep and song.

the earth...
the sky...
hakuna matata

The next day, we stood over the ruins of the Yangguan Pass, where suddenly we were dots in a scape of dunes, where the red shades of earth along its curves foretold every sunset we'll ever know. here, the wind sounded like prayer beadss rolling. In some spots, it was the sound of a bird's wind; in others, the sound of secrets from another place.

And we rode camels and saw a muggy moon above the sand dunes before the sun went down, so textured it was like seeing Earth from another star.

This place was chosen for the Bing trip because of the moment in China Road when Rob Gifford is sitting on the rooftop of the fancy-ass hotel watching the sun set over the dunes with light instrumental music in the background. We stayed at that hotel, and watched the sun's first burst and last colors.

We could be silhouettes forever in a weightless world. See the smooth curves of our lines.

10.8: Life is a mellow night

I feel like you can spend a lifetime drawing pictures for every day,b ut the only one that would ever really matter is the one you intended solely fo rourself, to be kept hidden behind a drawer and gazed at secretly over the years.

Before I leave here, I'd like to paint one good poem in the classical style, vertically and swift with personality. I'll be sure to mention 友谊 because that is a valuable lesson I have been learning here. I still feel myself drawn back to Hong Kong, not even just for family but for the survivors left at KYP, for the language, for the heat. We make so much ado about love, happiness, freedom, purpose. But those are checklists, and with or without them we tend to go on living anyway. So why not live somewhere comfortable and fresh with memories, where there is music and bluntness in the language, where simply walking down the street can carry with it a full sense of expression.

What is the meaning or purpose of life? Years ago, sitting with our legs over the water at an Oakland park, Pierre told me it's expression. Too many people have told me it's God. My roommate here, before he moved out, said family. Michelle in Hong Kong said it's about feeling satisfied with where you are and what your'e doing. My language partner said it's to not have regrets. Pa Hua told me it's about being happy and letting others be happy. At the end of one drunken night in Shanghai, I asked everyone for their answer in one word before falling asleep. Heather said contribution. Eric's was advancement. Alex said masturbation. I said understanding.

And then the sun rises and we all have places to be. It is the bravest thing in the world for all of us to wake up in the mornings and move with some semblance of purpose before our questions have even begun to be answered.

有空油画, 有事有心, 有友有意。自由诗没有语言, 是生活的真工作。

你心里的内容有什么问题?

10.7: sewing up clothes and youtubing

Music must certainly be about harmonies: the just-rightness and matching in the atmosphere. I've felt the driving need to listen to contemporary Chinese music lately, but the only two names I even know are pop stars like Jay Chou and Coco Lee. After four months now, I finally really miss my guitar and the feel of her strings.

10.6 - informal discussion with Beida students about dating, relationships, and sex

One of the girls from the Stanford side explained that she typically dates less Asian guys because across the board they seem to be less socially confident. That cuts deep, because it's true to those standards and says a lot about the cultural and social values that have been pressures all my life. The outgoing personality in this case means a loose personality, catering to finite fun and a whole lifestyle of entertainment. I've never been able to compete with that, and when I seriously tried to my freshman year, it disconnected me from the things I really care about.



The next time someone asks if my mother tried to raise us traditionally or as Americans, I will say that she kept me as Chinese as she could, and the rest has been up to me to get back to my roots.

Some of our group went out swing dancing at a western club tonight. I've seen plenty of white leaders and Chinese girls looking for the dance, but I haven't seen a Chinese man dancing in Beijing yet. I don't know about them, but I know why I'm not dancing with strangers.



I'm looking for celebrations that come in their own right and not from fear of the lonely night. I'm looking for music that stops people, and stories that warrant longer attention. I'm looking to belong, to myself for once.



swing dance

while I go

Home.



一定要记得你是在中国, 因为你是中国人。这是你的心里。

A: china in no words or less

10.5: before I sleep

My black belt is just as much about preserving the joys of my life now as it is about moving forward from them. The thing with clinging to the idea of continual motion and progress is that reaching the goal of htat progress can be a frightening thing. Distractions are part of the path. But to abandon the goal entirely is to nullify all progress and blur the way. There are no straight lines without endpoints.

night traffic,
burbling water, fluorescence...
blanket

10.4 home (in beida) from shanghai

back to
single rooms
phone calls
an internet
of letters--
one umbrella
over every head;
fall.