A Return to Poetry

After my holiday hiatus from writing, I am finally ready to come back to the blog and back to poetry. It was the feeling of being too overwhelmed with Christmas bustle and so many events within the past week.

The first three days were designated Christmas shopping days. We stopped at silk and clothing markets and I eventually made the rounds in my new neighborhood in Beijing.

A new discovery: the Bookworm café. It will undoubtedly be my new hangout for the next six months. It is a combination café/bookstore/library. Membership is cheap, the atmosphere is cozy, and the coffee is strong. The first book I checked out was Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores.

Christmas Eve consisted of baking cookies and pie. Afterward, we all went to the Kro’s Nest for pizza and beer. I had a pint too many and the next morning, halfway through opening presents, I slipped into the bathroom for an hour-long spell of sickness. After a half-hour lie down, my episode was over. The rest of the day I was in the kitchen with my aunt, preparing a holiday feast for ten people.

My favorite Christmas presents included two woolen pleated skirts and a grey woolen poncho. Perfect for the cold Beijing weather. The winds have picked up, coming down from the Gobi Desert, and I feel like I’m back in Wyoming.

Boxing Day was as lazy as I could get. I never changed out of my pajamas and never bothered to shower. I sat on the couch with Little Women and leftover apple pie. Today was more of the same.

Tomorrow, however, it is back to work, so to speak. The job hunt continues. Down the road, within walking distance, is a middle/high school that might be looking for new teachers. A friend of mine teaches science at the school and said he would set up a meeting for me. Prospects are promising.

If that works out, I’ll devote the rest of the day to poetry. I’m looking forward to working the words again. I still have a few more errands to run over the next few weeks – getting gym membership and buying a two-day train ticket out of the country to renew my visa – but in the meantime it all feels like a vacation.

The Train and Beijing

Soft sleepers really are the best way to travel.

After I hauled my two over-sized suitcases up the platform, then dragged them on to the train, I found my berth on the second car. There were four beds: two bottoms, two tops. I had the lower left and an older, middle-aged woman had the bottom right. The two tops were to get on at the next stop. Both men. Obvious jokes came to mind.

I read for the first hour while the woman across from me watched me with a strange interest. At one point, she actually reached over, grabbed one side of my book, and twisted it towards her to see what it was. I knew she couldn’t read English, but she could immediately recognize by the form of the writing that it was a book of poems.

“Poetry,” I said. She nodded as if she understood, then went back to staring while I continued to read on. It didn’t occur to me until after I finished the book and set it down in front of me that her interest might have had something to do with the cover of the collection, which prominently features an ink-brush drawing of a nude woman embracing a larger-than-life-sized penis. I was reading “Harlot,” by Jill Alexander Essbaum.

After the hour with the penis-book (which is what I’m sure the woman was secretly calling it to herself), the two men arrived and our berth was full. It didn’t take long for my three train companions to fall asleep, so I switched off the light and sat in darkness, watching China float by in the night.

What I saw passing by were rail-side homes, shops closed and locked up for the night, concrete highway bridges, so many factories and their adjoining barracks, street lamps in their amber sentry, night-rider taxis, and enormous high-rises that looked like monsters after midnight.

There is something incredibly soothing about trains. The hum, the roll of the tracks, the slight rocking, and the steady pace of the railway as it pacifies your voyeuristic desires, all easily lull you to a trance. I’ve never been so comfortable when traveling as I was last night. And the most surprising thing of all may just be that the toilets were western and not squatters.

When my train finally arrived in Beijing, the sun was shining in the early morning traffic. I have not seen sunshine in over two months; Hangzhou has been consistent in its rainy season. Now that I am in the north, I can enjoy colder and drier temperatures along with more of the natural vitamin D. The feeling was incredible and made the twenty-minute taxi ride all the more likable. I sat in the cab, amazed at the sheer size and volume of this city. Beijing goes on and on.

Arriving at my new accommodations (my aunt and uncle’s apartment), I plopped my bags in the street and stared up at a Pepto-Bismol Pink building: home for the next six months. I have my own room at the end of the hall, adjacent to the master bedroom. Two twin beds and a mattress softer than any mattress I’ve felt in the south of China. Down the hall, on the other side of the living room – now decorated in Chinese red ornaments and white snowflakes on a six-and-a-half foot tree for Christmas – and next to the biggest kitchen I’ve seen in China, is my cousin’s room that he shares with his girlfriend. This apartment is a great size and feels like home already.

The neighborhood is its own foreign city central. Just around the corner is a delightful little market called April Gourmet, where I promptly snatched up the best food I have seen since my two-week visa stint to Wyoming in September. Across the street from this was a little Italian restaurant where we all had lunch. I’ve basked in the goodness of a palate cleansing and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. Already, I love this city.

My aunt M and my cousin’s girlfriend, J, took me shopping in the silk markets this afternoon. Our goal was a specific Christmas-shopping list. I had a few things in mind. The main events: a sweater for my cousin Z, and his brother, JET, who will arrive from Canada on Christmas Eve. I bargained with every stall in the first, second, and third floors of the market. Today was not a successful bartering day. I did manage, however, to buy a nice Hilfiger knock-off for my uncle E. One present down. Four to go. Tomorrow I’m going to work on the others.

As I suspected, life in Beijing is far better than it has been in Hangzhou. Compared to this capital city of twelve million people, Hangzhou may as well have been the countryside. It’s a whole new ball game.

At The Grandma's

Sunday evening, the girls took me to a famous Zhejiang province chain restaurant to celebrate the end of the semester. In a few more days, I will be moving to Beijing, Reena will go back to Korea, and Tina and Lucy will finish out the rest of the school year here in Hangzhou.

The name of the restaurant is called “The Grandma’s.” Not “Grandma’s” but “The Grandma’s.” The Chinese characters refer to going to mother’s mother’s house and eating food more delicious that what you can receive in your parent’s house. The food was delicious and there were a surprising number of vegetarian dishes on the menu. I stuffed myself with cauliflower, eggplant, spring rolls, and fried tofu (not of the stinky variety, thank goodness) with nuts, honey, and cucumber.

The girls had Szechuan beef and raw salmon, while Lucy and I shared a large bottle of Xi Hu (West Lake) beer and toasted past, present, and future.

Doing My Part for the Chinese Economy

It was another gloomy, rainy day. My remedy? Shopping. I needed to spend some money. Lucy told me about a street not too far from where we live called “Garbage Street.” I walked. I was on a mission to find dark brown boots. There were dozens of shoe shops. A girl’s paradise.

I couldn’t believe my luck. The first pair of fake Uggs I found was only 145 yuan (about $20). They are a deep chocolate brown and come halfway to my knees. They’ll go with everything and they’re extremely comfortable. Bonus. I know guys aren’t particularly fond of these boots, but we girls are all over them. The beauty and convenience of these babies knows no limits. I’ve had several pair over the past couple of years, but made the mistake of buying the tan-colored ones, which get dirty very quickly. Now, with the rich chestnut, I’ll be able to hide their age when I’ve had them for a while. The scruff won’t show as much.

I also found a slightly overpriced pair of tall fake leather-ish brown boots that are perfect with my jeans and, because the fake Uggs were so cheap, I decided to splurge on these second pair of boots. You cannot understand the sheer joy of finding these. I didn’t care that I was paying too much because I have always had problems with finding stylish boots to fit my calves. I have big calf muscles and it isn’t easy to get snug high boots to come around them.

The beauty of these boots is that they have snaps along the side, which means I can pull them up over the thicker part of my calf and snap them snug when they are all the way on. Voila! They also have versatility. I can leave them unsnapped and roll the tops down to show the not-too-leopardy print on the inside. For the most part, though, I think I’ll keep ‘em snapped and snappy.

After my good fortune on Garbage Street, I decided to head into Hangzhou to Wu Shong Guang Shong (the Night Market) and buy parting/Christmas gifts for Lucy, Reena, and Tina. I found each of them a different color beautiful scarf and hunted down handcrafted/hand-painted wooden bracelets that were a similar shade to each scarf. I coordinated.

I also found a cute black hat for myself at a street vendor. Across the alley from the vendor was an expensive scarf shop that I probably shouldn’t have entered. But I did anyway. The material was, by far, superior to anything else at the market and I couldn’t resist an oversized woolen scarf that I could use as a wrap on the cold winter days. It was too much, but I bought it, nonetheless. (But because of the price, I got free gloves to go with it. At least that’s some consolation for spending too much money.) Its base is black, with a houndstooth plaid in brown, tan, and charcoal gray, with a touch of deep blue between the plaid-ish pattern. It will look amazing over the grey coat I bought at Carrefour.

After dawdling through the Night Market, I headed to the Carrefour center on Yan’an Lu and found a charcoal grey winter coat for only 149 yuan. Who can say no to that? In addition to the coat, I bought some deep wine-colored nail polish.

The best buy of my day, however – the one that makes me feel triumphant over all China – is that I finally found a pair of black Chinese jeans to fit my big western ass. Even in the States, I have what you’d call a ghetto booty. But here in China, it might as well just be called colossal. Victory is mine!

The Ground Beneath Our Feet

Today I ran into a woman I frequently see at Starbucks. She’s a cute and petite Malaysian woman who is living in China with her husband. We sometimes chat about what’s new in our lives because we both happen to speak English.

We both love hiking and being outdoors and this afternoon our conversation shifted from trail-blazing talk to the difference between city-dwellers and country folk. We were encompassing all such people of every nation.

I told her about living in Wyoming and she gave me a general idea of what it was like growing up in the Malaysian countryside. We’ve both spent a great deal of time in big cities, and in countries foreign to our own. However, we agreed that knowledge of both urban and rural living is naturally a good thing to experience.

She said something to me that stuck out as an interesting observation, not to mention an interesting turn of phrase. She said, “People who live in cities do not know what the ground feels like.”

I haven’t yet figured out how I am going to use it in a poem yet, but I know it will find its way into one, somehow. She referred to the joys of being outdoors, of having harmonious connections with nature and the slower temperament of the environment beyond a concrete metropolis.

Ain’t no sidewalks in the Snowies. No pavement in Medicine Bow. No asphalt at Vedauwoo. I have felt the ground under my feet and I miss it.

Temporarily Defective 临时地 不适

My first experience with Chinese cold medicine. A drink that Lucy bought for me in the Chinese medicine store because she feels guilty that I caught her cold.

The name is 感冒灵颗粒 or gan mao ling ke li. Roughly translated: “Cold Excellent Powder.”

I wouldn’t call it excellent, at least not for taste. Naturally, it is like the underneath of a rotting tree: bitter, earthy, and a soil brown. The next time you’re in the forest and it starts to rain, bend down and lick the base of a dying tree. You might get an idea of what I mean.

The powder itself was like cracked ginger crystals, darker than raw brown sugar and less transparent. The little grains were pellets in my cup before I poured the boiling water.

I’ve been warned of a drowsing effect. That suits me just fine. I’d rather sleep through a cold anyway. For two days now I’ve tried to ignore the sore and swollen glands, the stuffy nose, the sneezing, the coughing, the headaches, the foggy dizziness; but now I think I’ll admit that I’m sick. 不适. Bring on the bark-rot liquid.

Where are the Basics?

Yes, professor. What do they teach them at these schools? Tomorrow Tina must hand in her final research paper for her senior project. Her topic: why Christians should be more tolerant of New Age music.

She’s had this project since the beginning of the semester and, up until today, has not let me help her with her paper. Why? I have no idea. I taught 5 consecutive semesters of freshman college composition and yet she didn’t want my input until this evening. Unfortunately, it is now too late.

I read her paper this afternoon and noticed some egregious citation problems, as well as lack of credible sources in general. I eventually looked up from the paper to ask her, “Have they taught you how to research at your school?” I got the deer-in-headlights stare. Of course they haven’t taught her how to research. How silly of me to think that, before assigning them a research paper, they would instruct them on the fundamentals of research methods.

I began at the beginning – a very good place to start, says Julie Andrews. Keywords. I am astonished that this was a new concept to Tina. A simple Google search of key phrases and words produced over a million sites related to her topic.

Next came the issue of source credibility and substance. Oh my, how the young ones love Wikipedia and the dictionary. Her reluctance of revising her essay was based on the fear that new information would change her claims. That, I told her, was all part of the research process. If you find evidence to suggest your claims to be wrong, maybe you need to rewrite your claims. This was met with whines and groans.

This brought us back to the matter of showing me her essay so late in the game. With only tonight to make these major discoveries, there is no way she will get her paper to the level of where it needs to be. I’ve written comments in the margins, given her helpful research tools, steered her in the right direction, pointed out organization flaws, confusing and contradictory statements, even corrected all of her grammar. Now the crunch begins.

When, oh when, will they learn? But an even better question: Why aren’t the schools teaching them what they need to know in order to do the lessons that the school assigns in the first place? Where is the logic of the curriculum?

Mmm's the Word

I have recently discovered a liking for sliced pumpkin. It has that nice gord-y taste and with a bit of salt it is nearly like combining the taste of squash with the texture of mango. And, I admit, there are some Korean foods that I have dared to try and ended up liking – Korean pancakes, for starters (safe enough). Rice cakes. These are not the rice cakes you and I are familiar with – the Quaker Oats, I’m-on-a-diet-and-I-need-a-snack-that-tastes-like-cardboard rice cakes. No. Korean rice cakes are long tubes of compressed rice. They look like mozzarella cheese sticks. In the frying pan, with a little bit of honey, they’re not bad. Korean curry is something else I don’t mind having every few weeks. It is rather fruity and not very heavy. However, I still prefer an Indian curry to any other.

I try to be open about food, but I have a certain distaste for things that make me squirm. Packaged dried squid. Vacuum-sealed dried fish that you can rip apart with your teeth like jerky. The brains of any animal. Chicken feet. Stinky tofu. Fruit that looks like a Nerf ball. There are some things regarding food that I will never understand.

And somebody please tell me what is so great about Sushi. It has become this craze, this trend, this popular dish that everyone raves about. They hunt through cities to find the best sushi restaurant. They go out of their way to spend outrageous money on such a simple meal. They consider it a treat. Seriously, people. It is raw fish and rice with seaweed.

Unless it is traditional fish ‘n chips a-la-U.K., I’d rather not eat fish at all, much less raw fish. That said, I’m going to go ahead and be a hypocrite and say I love raw oysters on the half-shell. Really cold, just a squeeze of lemon. But honestly. Sushi? Someone explain that to me.

I’m sure that now that I’ve made this speech about sushi, in a year or so I’ll develop a taste for it and become on of those sushi-loving snobs. But for now, it’s not for me. So, I am a bit of a picky eater. Not too picky, I don’t think. Not enough to annoy people completely. But picky enough to be called “a bit of a picky eater.” Quintessentially, I’ve learned to accept that my taste buds are not inclined to many Asian foods, but favor rather more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern cuisine. And, of course, I am desperately fond of Mexican food, too. Really, anything starting with an “M.”

The Midnight Disease

Michael Chabon’s well-named alias for insomnia. And I’ve got it. For about a month now I haven’t been able to fall asleep before dawn. I’ve watched the sun rise nearly every morning now - or at least I have watched the haze over Hangzhou get lighter by the hours.

Part of the problem, I’m sure, is that I’ve resumed my old addiction of lattes and cappuccinos. One thing I would never recommend is taking up the habit again after four years of java abstinence. Sometimes I slip and forget to order decaf. It’s like coming back to heroin.

The coffee isn’t all to blame, though. I have no discipline when it comes to switching off my brain. I construct emails, I draft poems, and I make lists, all in the dark while my head twitches on the pillow. I do this for a routine hour or two every night before I realize sleep just isn’t going to happen. I give up, turn on the light again and read (or come back to writing).

It is fear that I will miss out on some profound line of poetry coming to me, that I will be laying in my bed with my eyes closed and a poem will slip into my head and, if I don’t get up and write it down immediately, it will slip out again.

In Wyoming, I got into the habit of falling asleep with a pen in my hand and a pad of paper just underneath. If a line or a thought came to mind, I’d simply scribble it down in the dark, sometimes without ever even opening my eyes. In the morning I’d have to transcribe my own downward-slanting chicken scratch onto the computer. This seemed a good method and I might return to it.

Another problem, not surprisingly, is the constant noise and interruptions of the apartment and those girls with whom I live. They leave their cell phones and their organizers and their messenger thingys all out in the living room to beep beep beep all night long.

For four nights in a row this week, I have jumped up to an alarm going off just outside my door. Today I asked them, “Did you hear it?” They answered yes. Why, then, was I the only one to emerge from my room to silence the darn thing? They are not my belongings. I don’t know how to work a Korean internet phone, nor an electronic Korean dictionary/organizer.

I thumbed the small machines in the dark, trying to find off switches. At one point, I considered simply chucking them out of the window, but thought better of it. It is currently 3:30 in the morning and I have already switched off one machine. I wonder how many sounds and bells and whistles I’ll wish to break in the next few hours to come.

Then, invariably, there is always the girls’ morning routine. They rise at 6:00 am and the unremitting noise only ends when they are out the door at 7:45. I hear singing, yelling, screeching, shrieking, and cries of Korean morning clangings.

Peace finally comes at 8:00 am and I am able to sleep until around 11:00. At this point, the housekeeper bangs the laundry poles against my window, hanging up the morning’s washings. So, I rise. I check the weather. Then I walk a mile down the road to Starbucks and have the latte that will keep me awake again.

Coming Through the Rye

Tina and I finished reading The Catcher in the Rye today – a book I haven’t read in about ten years. I’m happy to revisit it. Unfortunately I think the cynical and trite voice of Holden Caulfield may be sticking in my head. For one, I’ve felt like swearing a hell of a lot more than usual.

I think reading this book has been a good turning point for trying to teach Tina to start thinking more critically about literature and how it applies to us all outside the world of novels. She has led a very sheltered existence and there have been many fits and starts during our readings and analyses where I’ve had to bite my tongue and remind myself that she has not been subjected to many of the nuances or idioms or ironies of life. In short, she just doesn’t “get it.” Everything must to be explained.

The hardest, for me, was getting her to make certain connections for herself, instead of pointing them out for her. There are things I consider obvious, and had done even when I had read Catcher at Tina’s age. I also wonder if there is something to be said for the reader’s own sexuality when reading this book. Not preference, mind you, but sexual maturity, in general. I see Tina as still being a very, very young girl, despite her actual age. This book, I believe, lies a bit beyond her own years, even though she happens to be the same age as the main character. Some of us grow at different rates.

I pitied Holden Caulfield in high school and I pity him now. It is unfortunate that I can also see something of a female counterpart in Tina. It is also unfortunate that I would say Holden was less pitiable than Tina, since we all assume he eventually gained some sort of self-awareness through it all. Regrettably, I believe Tina may still be a long way off from this.

On the other hand, Reena is only 14; but I enjoy teaching her because she has a quick mind and interesting ideas. I can talk to her about how one views the world and what sort of questions to ask to become a critical thinker. We read a few books together this semester. One of them called BreadWinner, about a young girl, struggling to survive in Afghanistan under scrutiny of the Taliban and forced to disguise herself as a boy in order to provide for her family. Reena made wonderful discoveries while she read the book. She has the gift of insight.

We also read a book called Speak. It was a good thing for her to read, I think, because she is soon to come upon the same things the young girl encountered in the book - although I hope to hell her high school life won't be as tough. But we discussed teenage emotions, rape, boyfriends, high school social life, and the social-political hierarchy of popularity, etc. These are the times when I really like teaching.

My time with these girls is almost up and I worry what will happen to them in the future. However, I must admit that I am far less concerned with Reena than I am with Tina. Reena is independent, self-starting, motivated, intuitive, and curious. She’s strong and has no problem figuring things out on her own. Conversely, Tina is the one who will be a college student next fall. I wonder if she’ll be ready for it all, or if it will suddenly overwhelm and confuse her. I can only hope there exists some safety net, wherever she ends up – that maybe someone will act as sentinel, that she finds her own catcher in the rye.

Christmas Kick-Off

My younger student, Reena, had a choir performance this evening in Hangzhou for the Tree Lighting Ceremony at the Hyatt Regency on West Lake. The tree was beautiful and filled its branches from floor to vaulted ceiling in the lobby. The kids all wore Santa hats and sang carols. Tone-deaf middle and high schoolers belted out a not-so-Silent-Night while the parents (yes, Lucy and I included) shut our ears with free mulled wine, passed around by cute little Chinese waitresses in Mrs. Claus costumes. This, of course, was the best part for me, since mulled wine is my favorite. I kept the cinnamon stick.

Shakespeare Comes to China

About ten months ago, in February, my dear friend,
John Kenny, told me about his theatre company, TNT, and their touring production of Romeo & Juliet. When he said they would be touring China, I never dreamed I would be here to see it. However, when I had made my decision to come to China, one of the first things I looked forward to was that I might actually have that chance.

So, here I am, having already spent seven months in China, and I have had this on my calendar ever since I arrived. I’d circled and highlighted this date so that I wouldn’t miss it. Originally, when I was still teaching at RQA, I thought I might be able to organize a school field trip and take all of my students. Unfortunately, that hope has long since been dashed. Instead, I came by myself. There is something to be said, though, about sitting alone in a theatre, in the dark.

I got to the venue (the Theatre in Zhejiang Museum of Art 浙江省群艺馆小剧场) an hour early to purchase my tickets. Don’t be fooled by its title. Being the third theatre I’ve been to here in Hangzhou, I have to say I am rather disappointed in these ‘temples of the arts.’ It doesn’t seem at all like China takes pride in their theatres. Then again, I could be a bit of a snob.

Apart from their being no heat, it felt cold in design. It was just as dirty as most building, and the proscenium arch was as unadorned as the front door to my apartment. The stage itself looked like nothing more than pressed wood paneling – the sort you expect to find on the walls in your parents’ basement if it had last been decorated in the 1970s. The walls were boring white plaster and the seats reminded me of those in an old public high school auditorium – or a baseball stadium.

What baffles me perhaps the most about Chinese entertainment venues is that, when you go to a movie theatre here, you pay the same price for any seat, even though it is assigned seating. However, for the theatrical or musical performances I have attended, there has been no assigned seating. It is first-come-first-served. And yet, the prices for tickets range from 60 yuan (which is always sold out) to anywhere upwards of 300 yuan. What is the point in different prices, if you’re not paying for a seat worth the price? I paid 100 yuan for my ticket tonight and, because I got to the theatre early, I picked a great seat. But what about the poor bastard who pays 300 and gets there five minutes before curtain rises and has to sit in the last row, with all those heads in front of him? The logic just doesn’t quite work out for me.

What surprised me this evening was the small amount of foreigners in attendance. I expected more. But since there were Chinese subtitles displayed on a screen, stage right and left, I’m glad people took advantage of it. It’s great to see Shakespeare reaching as far east as it has. Dude knew how to go global. Consequently, I also wonder about the translation. What must it sound like to the Chinese? After all, even for native English speakers, there can sometimes be a language barrier between late 16th century iambic pentameter and 21st century colloquial speech. Is the Chinese translation in poetry? Do they use tradition or simplified characters? I could not really tell the difference, but I can’t imagine using traditional Han, simply because it is my belief that most Chinese are more literate in the simplified.

To speak to the performance itself, I must smile. The actors kept up a great deal of energy (special regards to the bloke who played both Capulet and Benvolio), despite having to deal with a difficult audience. Incidentally, what the hell are people thinking when they bring a baby to staged Shakespeare? The infant could not have been six months old yet. Are the parents banking on osmosis? The kid will magically grow up able to speak in rhymed verse? And seriously, folks. Have some damn courtesy for the actors and switch your frigging cell phones off! I was embarrassed and wished I could apologize to the cast. This is when courtesy and etiquette take its cultural toll on my nerves. It’s just plain rude.

Nevertheless, I’m extremely glad I went and I say hats off to the TNT theatre company. Some extremely promising talent and choice bits of directing. Blocking was some of the best I’ve seen and the minimal materials, sets and props, were well used. Well done, all.

No Bird, But Many Thanks (and Potatoes)

Since the Chinese don’t believe in ovens, this was my first Thanksgiving without turkey. Instead, I cooked couscous with veggies (and mashed taters on the side). Yes, I'm full, but it isn't that Thanksgiving I-can't-eat-another-bite-nor-will-I-ever-eat-again kind of full. That's a good full. And, no pie. I did find Nutella at Carrefour, though. I had a Nutella-dipped banana for desert and I sneaked a bottle of chardonnay into the apartment. A couple of hours ago the girls went to bed and I retired to my room to watch Home for the Holidays and toast myself silly. What I’ll really miss is the leftovers and those amazing, creative, and protuberant sandwiches that only come from Thanksgiving scraps.

My mother called me this morning to wish me happy Thanksgiving. She started a tradition in my family years ago. It's a tradition many families observe on this holiday. As we sat down to dine on the last Thursday of each November, before we picked up our forks and shoveled cranberry sauce and green bean casserole into our faces, before we drowned out the noise of company with a few glasses of wine and the glazed (mythological?) sleepiness that turkey’s tryptophan can induce, we went around the table, each of us proclaiming, like some solemn or reverent whatever, what we were grateful for that year.

Every year, when it comes my turn around the table, my mouth cannot keep up with my brain. It isn’t fast enough to list all the things I am grateful for. Afterward, when the torch is passed to the person sitting next to me and we continue with our thanks-giving, I remember long lists of items forgotten, events and people I’d missed out on mentioning.

This year only one thing came to mind. It was the most relevant and in-the-moment tribute apropos to my current situation. It may be that, being so far from home, living in a foreign country on the other side of the world, and having no reminders of the traditions to which I have been accustomed over the years, I was feeling homesick and (dare I say it?) perhaps even a little patriotic. Yes, it may be a piece of cheesecake. Yes, I may have to answer to jeers and jokes after I say this; but I’m going to say it anyway. I am grateful for my country. I’m grateful for the United States of America.

Who's Your Mommy?

Yesterday evening I got an email from another of my older student’s teachers, saying she was still falling asleep in class. This is a problem we’ve been having since the beginning. Very often, I will have to shake her awake in class. She can be reading and, mid-sentence, she’ll nod off. Now I hear that she’s even dozing when she is taking a quiz.

She spends 97% of her day studying and doing schoolwork. She stays up until all hours of the night, even after she has finished her work, to continue studying. Her dedication is admirable, but there comes a point where, if your head and eyes are drooping, you aren’t taking in much studying at all. I’ve explained this to her countless times. Still, she constantly dawdles her way around her bedtime routine.

I confronted my student about the problem immediately. I suggested that we rearrange the after-school schedule a bit, so that she has a choice of either having time to take a nap, or starting her classes with me earlier so that she can finish earlier and go to bed earlier. Unfortunately, she isn’t exactly what you would call a decisive girl. When you give her options, she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. This is also something I’ve been working on with her.

It occurs to me that these are the issues a parent (not a live-in tutor) should be discussing with their child. However, as her parents are in Korea, the responsibility falls on Lucy and I as her temporary guardians. Yet, it astounds me that her parents can be so controlling from so far away about everything else under the sun – so much so, that the poor girl has never learned to make decisions for herself.

I remember the same problem when she was trying to decide to which colleges to apply. I gave her a long, comprehensive list. Yet, when it came time to narrowing down her final choices, she was stumped. Too many options. I talked her through every single program, showed her how to make a list of pros and cons. Still, her choices seemed half-hearted and ambivalent.

Last week she completed five out of seven of her college applications and I, in turn, wrote her a letter of recommendation. I have written letters for people before (namely to recommend a professor for tenure), but have found it easy to boast and rave about them. This time, however, the words came, but with some reluctance. I’ve often wondered how some professors must struggle to rhapsodize over a student about whom they weren’t 100% confident. Now I have some understanding.

I want my student to succeed. I want her to go to college and I want her dreams to come true. I am of two minds. My letter is not necessarily a lie; I do believe she is capable of the things I’ve suggested. Nonetheless, also think her potential may be slightly delayed more than others. I worry about how much catch-up she’ll have to do once she gets there.

Rejection

The literary magazine called Rattle is going to do an issue some time next year that will be devoted to Canadian poets. Well done, California. Way to wave to the people up north. I plan on submitting some of my work from my MFA thesis.

I recently submitted poems to this magazine in October. I got the rejection letter today, but I turned right around and sent them another five poems. I’m optimistic that maybe one of them might find its place in their archives.

You know, it's strange, but rejections just don't bother me all that much. This is just one more reason why it’s great to have a theatre background. We are used to rejections. You audition for a part, you're just not right for the role, so they don't cast you. It's the same with poetry. You send your work, it just doesn't fit their style, so they don't accept it. You move on and submit more poems to more journals and eventually you find one that fits.

I’ve been lucky this year and I’m extremely grateful. So far, I’ve had four good-news replies. It is only natural that it should be balanced with at least an equal number of rejections. It is all subjective. Some people take it too personally.

Is There a Chinese Love Guru in the House?

I recently had an email conversation with a dear friend who is going through some man-trouble (aren’t we all?). The following question came up, which I found to be an interesting one: “Are any of us, truly, perfectly whole?” It’s a question to bear in mind, no matter whether you are man or woman, or at what stage of your life you are in.

My answer to her was this: I can't tell you what my answer would be, mainly because it would not do you any good to know it. I could say yes, that it is possible, but how would that help you? Or I could tell you that no one could ever be whole, and how would that help you either? The truth is, I don't know. I think that's part of the journey - what we are supposed to find out for ourselves along the way. I will say this: that I believe that the possibility of being whole is there for everyone, and whether we reach it or not is completely up to the individual. As always, it depends on the person and the choices they make, who they are and what they take away from their experiences. It also helps if they know what they truly want.

Is this possibly-mythological state of being a prerequisite for entering into a relationship? So many have said, “he completes me,” or “he’s my other half.” But is this healthy? Or is it just that we reach another level of “wholeness” when we exist as significant others? I’ve begun to consider that, as long as you do not become solely dependent on being in a relationship to keep you in that status, I say what’s the harm in being overly romantic, so long as you’re not fooling yourself? It is, after all, just a turn of phrase. But then again, I’m a poet and I take words seriously. What are our interpretations of whole? Isn’t that what we first need to take into consideration? And, even after the interpretation, is there ever a viable answer to our question?

What Will You Take With You?

I just spent the twilight hours of this Saturday at the movies. The audience wasn’t nearly as noisy as the last time, but perhaps that is because I picked a film that is, itself, noisy: 2012. I’m glad I made it to the theatre before they got the chance to dub it all in Chinese and I would have to wait until it came out on DVD to see it. That wouldn’t be a terrible thing, necessarily, but I like seeing big blockbuster catastrophic films on the big screen. It’s great to get the huge effect.

The only part of the Chinese cinematic experience that bothered me this time (apart from there being no heat in the building – thank you, REI, for parka vests!) was the fact that the projectionist shut down the film before the credits rolled. People sure were in a hurry to get out of there. Personally, I am one of those people that like to stay until all of the credits have scrolled. I like looking at the names, who was involved in production, how big the crew, the music score information, and where it was filmed.

The end of the world is a frightening thought – for me, at least. A dear friend of mine always says that people like to think of themselves as living in an apocalyptic age. People enjoy feeling important, like they’re living in historic times. Perhaps that is true of many people, but not me. No, I would be perfectly happy and content with a boring life’s end. Give me a good old fashion she-died-in-her-sleep-at-the-age-of-94 death and I’ll be just fine with that.

But here’s a question for you: if we in fact are living in the eleventh hour of the End of Days, and if you had a chance to save yourself, what would you take with you? Apart from the obvious “loved ones” answer, what material possessions would be important to you? I’ve spent the past hour trying to think of my own response to that question…

First, I would have to take my baby teddy bear with me. His name is Lancelot. He’s a small, khaki brown GUND® bear with softer and lighter material on his four paws. He has a sad face and always looks like he’s crying. I’ve never washed him, so when I smell him, I can smell my childhood. For a 26-year-old stuffed animal, he’s in pretty great shape. You’d never guess his age by looking at him. I always assume most people’s teddies and monkeys and whatnot are always tattered from so many years, but my bear has held up. Lancelot has been with me all my life, and he has accompanied me on every one of my adventures so far – Australia, Spain, France, College, Ireland, England, China, Wyoming. He’s better than a passport. I wouldn’t let him miss out on the big trip.

Second, a must: literature. I’d also include literature of spiritual philosophy of world religions. Would want a copy of the Bible, the Qur’an, the Bhagavad Gita, etc. I would take a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. This is a no-brainer, and I assume needs no explanation. He has been one of the most important writers in our history and he shouldn’t be left behind. I’d want him with me. I’d also want to take some key poetry with me, as well as certain prose, novels and such. Jack Ridl’s poetry would surely be first on my list. He was my dear father poet and I carry him, like Lancelot, wherever I go. I’d also take Craig Arnold, Kate Northrop and a few other mentors’ poetry. And for goodness sake, Elizabeth Bishop comes, too. Yeats, of course, and Keats. Some Brits, some Scots, and some Irish. Sappho’s in the bag, along with Dante, Chaucer, and Poe. In short, I could just say I’d bring a few volumes of the Norton with me. And just because the world needs an asshole, let’s bring Robert Frost.

Third: paper and pen.

Will writers be a necessity on a new world? Certainly. We are important. All of us. After all, “All the world needs is farmers and poets: one to feed our stomachs, the other to feed our minds.”

Here's Looking at You

While the girls have been on their five-day field trip, I keep thinking about all the wonderful class trips I took when I was in grade school. I count myself lucky.

At Catholic school, we made annual trips to Greenfield Village in Dearborn, with the Henry Ford Museum nearby. As we got our yearly slice of early Americana, I always remember the feel of having a small piece of colonial New England right there in southeast Michigan. We held class in the one-room schoolhouse and each got our turn being swatted on the backs of our hands with a switch. The corporal punishment experience.

In eighth grade, we took our social studies trip to Washington D.C. and I busted my knee walking one block from the White House. They used a needle nearly a foot long to draw the fluid out of my joint.

Then, in high school, I went to France and Spain for two weeks when I was 15 years old. I cruised the streets of Barcelona with my friend, Larry, who nearly got all of his money stolen from his rucksack. A young boy reached his hand up to unzip the pack and I got him. He and his brother fled the scene before Larry even realized what had happened.

In Versailles, I had my first taste of Nutella (I was done for) in my very first crepe. In Paris, I learned how to read a street map and learned how to navigate the underground metro on my own.

At 16 and 17 years old, I spent spring break in New York City with a small group of theatre students. We attended somewhere around 10 Broadway and 5 off-Broadway shows. My first Broadway show was Eugene O'Neill's "A Moon for the Misbegotten." It was also my first experience waiting backstage to meet the cast - something we did after nearly every show, after that. Gabriel Byrne and Cherry Jones. I still have the picture of me and G.B. I was in love with him after that. I still remember what he smelled like.

The girls return tonight from their little trip up to the northwest of China. I wonder if they’ll have some of the same sort of memories I have from my own school trips. Somehow, I doubt it.

In the meantime, I have been tempted to have a cigarette. It doesn't help that I've been watching old black 'n white movies, where every Bogie and his Bergman or Bacall was lighting up. For the past couple of days, after dealing with the first cravings I’ve had in a very long time, I folded and bought a pack. If they only sold single cigarettes. I quit smoking over four years ago and today I had the first smoke since then.

I considered just going out and buying some champagne, but I didn’t. You know a writer should be able to drink, but I’ve never really been able to. Maybe I’ll have to work myself up to that, too. Whiskey – that’s a writer’s drink. I used to drink it in college, but couldn’t handle much more than a couple of shots. Perhaps I’m no fireside writer.

It was both a relief and awful at the same time. One cigarette certainly enough to remind me that I am glad I’ve given up the awful habit. I quit because it eventually made me nauseated. So now I have a pack of cigarettes stashed away in my bedside table and no reason to smoke them. Maybe I’ll hang on to them as a reminder of my weak will.

Just Another Wonderful Day in China

The whole idea of this week was that I was supposed to have five days of peace and relaxation. So far, success has been thwarted two days in a row. I think China is still holding a grudge against me. She’s really putting a crimp in my style, boy.

Yesterday I went to the phone company to top up my minutes. Dealing with the guy at the counter was murder. Or, rather, I nearly committed murder. I gave him 100 Yuan. He said it was loaded, so I walked away, thinking that – like many times before – my phone would be working again within twenty minutes.

An hour later, still nothing. I went back to the store, thinking I could get him to fix the problem, whatever that may be. I spent the next hour arguing with the guy. He knew just enough English to piss me off, and I knew just enough Chinese to get seriously frustrated. Between the two of us, it was quite the back and forth. I informed him that if he could not fix the problem, I wanted my money back. His answer? “No.” That’s all. “No.” My response? “Yes.” Simple. Direct. “Yes.” I will have my money back. There is no logic in paying for a service when you don’t receive that service. I explained this to him. He shook his head. I made my I’m-not-leaving-until-I-get-what-I-want face.

He turned to the computer in front of him and tried to translate several things to me from Chinese to English. It didn’t help. Translators are not very accurate and half the time they end up creating sentences that make no sense whatsoever. In fact, I’m fairly sure his translator made up some new words I had never seen before.

In the end, I got what I wanted. My phone worked. He had called headquarters, gone online, took apart my phone, checked the sim-card, and I might have even seen him do a little dance that looked like the chicken. Whatever he did, it worked. When I called Lucy to tell her what happened, she informed me that this dude is famous for ripping people off. He’s a cheat and a crook. Not on my watch, pal.

That experience, however, was trumped by today’s little blunder. I ran out of bread, like you do. This is inconvenient when you plan on spending the entire day in bed, or walking around your apartment naked after soaking in a bath. But that wasn’t the calamity. The source of today’s chagrin would be that my electric scooter was stolen. Yes, the Malibu Barbie bike has vanished, never to return. It would seem that even a bike lock, key/ignition lock, and wheel lock is not enough to stop a determined scooter thief.

At this point, I can hardly be bothered to care. If anything, it simply means I will have a very long walk to and from the grocery store. I griped for about two and a half minutes, then threw away my little face-guard helmet-like thingy, and started to walk toward Starbucks. When in doubt, have a latte. The resurfacing of my old addiction has perfect timing.

Sweet Morning Dew of Java

Coming down from blood-boil mode, getting caught up with LoLcats, getting snarky in some emails to old friends, and just being generally in the mood to spend some quality time with the computer. Now that the big C has left the country and the girls are off on their school field trip, I can try to get back to my Happy Place. The next five days are MINE.

I have been retraining myself to drink coffee again. It has been four years since I had my last espresso and now it is pure joy to splurge once more. My problem is that I am the coffee equivalent of an alcoholic. Once I’ve started, I don’t want to stop. Four years ago, I was up to four triple lattes per day (that’s 12 shots of espresso, folks). Not only did I give myself an ulcer, but also the caffeine was giving me the shakes and jitters, not to mention the fact that my heart felt like it was going to bounce out of my rib cage. Now I fear I may have set myself up for another relapse and then the inevitable detox. Coffee rehab, anyone?

Also on the better-news front, I have found a website proxy that allows me to post to my blog. It only works some of the time, and when it does, I have to be quick about it, for China’s internet spies are everywhere and they block me again within a few minutes. Nonetheless, the taste of those few minutes is sweet and the rush of a time-lock is thrilling. Who’da ever thunk that writing could be such an adrenaline-pumping race.

And then comes the approaching denouement of my sentence in Hangzhou. Parole in 33 days. Along with anticipation of a new city, new job, new whatever, comes also anticipation of new people. I hear there are some hot expats in Beijing. Maybe I can wrangle me up a Swedish dude. Or maybe German. I’ve always wanted to speak Deutsche.

Holiday Time - Or Close Enough

Last night I dreamt I was a polar bear. I rolled in the snow like a puppy with fluffy white fur and the other polar bears thought I was crazy. Even in my dreams – and as a polar bear – I am an outcast. Whatever. It was fun and it didn’t feel cold. Or rather, it did, but I liked the feeling. I figured this was just another way of letting me know I’m ready for the winter, ready for Christmas, and ready to be finished with Hangzhou and the rain. I want snow.

Dreams are such strange things. One minute you’re yourself, walking down a mountain with your family, overlooking a beautiful valley in Australia while a murdering thug tries to chase you down and turn you into a manikin (normal dream, right); the next minute, you’re a polar bear, like something out of Golden Compass, and bounding through the Arctic.

Then I woke up with “I’m the King of New York” stuck in my head from Newsies. An odd day, so far.

Starbucks has gone Christmas crazy and I’m ok with that. Usually I refuse to start getting geeked up for the holidays until after Turkey Day, but since it is such a comforting feeling while I’m so far away from home, I’m all over that business. Toffee nut lattes galore. They have Christmas music playing on a loop and each time I hear the Bing Crosby/David Bowie version of “The Little Drummer Boy” I get goosebumps and start to cry. I’m not sure what it is about that piece, but it gets me every year.

Countdown to Temporary Peace

You know those days when you try to avoid your boss at all costs? You slink behind desks, duck behind doorways, avoid the office coffee machine altogether… I’m having one of those days. Unfortunately for me, I cannot get away. This is the trouble with living where you work.

It is impossible to go two weeks without a visit from some female Korean relative. Mother, aunt, grandmother, whatever. I’m a bit of a loner when it comes to living quarters, so – to put it mildly – I have found it difficult to be bombarded with company and roommates 24/7.

Reena’s mother, Carol, has come to visit from Korea for the next few days. Yes, another mother from Korea. Here we go. I have many opinions about this woman, but none of them appropriate to post to such a public forum. Suffice it to say I gave her a not-so-affectionate nickname at the beginning of my four-month sentence.

On Monday, Carol will go back to Korea, both my students are leaving for a five-day field trip to the Northwest of China, and Lucy will be with her boyfriend in Shanghai. I will have a working week of peace and quiet with no smelly smells from the kitchen. In all honesty, I’m mostly looking forward to just being able to walk around the apartment naked.

Subbing

I’ve taken a second job as a substitute teacher at my students’ international school, across the street. Having only six more weeks left in Hangzhou, I figured it would be a good use of my time and a nice form of supplementary income, especially considering it may help make up for some of the expenses of my PhD applications.

Today was my first run. One of the high school English teachers was sick and I took over her 5 classes – two Language Arts, one modern literature, one journalism, and one AP English course. All right up my alley. All a joy. All a piece of cake and each one a relief. Finally, to be in a real classroom again.

The downside is that (along with bad canteen food) I had forgotten at what an ungodly hour school begins. 8:00 am, which means I now have 16-hour workdays when subbing. School lets out at 3:00 and I walk back across the street with my student-roommates, where I continue to teach until 10:30 pm. I’m exhausted.

However, during lunch I was grateful for English conversation with other adults and faculty members. At the end of the day, though, the school got a little surprise when the weather decided to drench us with monsoon rains and winds. The sky went practically pitch. I’ve never seen lighting like that in my life, even during Michigan’s tornado season.

Tomorrow’s expectations are these: I have been asked to sub for the second grade teacher. This will be my first experience with elementary students. I’ve done nearly two years of preschool and kindergarten, two years of university-level, and now six months of middle and high school-age students. After tomorrow, I’ll have run the gamut.

Halal Birthday

Yesterday was Lucy’s 32nd birthday. Her boyfriend, Louis, came to visit from Shanghai and we all went out (including Tina and Reena) for Indian cuisine, my favorite. There are three Indian restaurants in Hangzhou and the five of us trekked to all three to get service. The last, of course, was finally a success. The first two seemed to be practically empty and devoid of hosts or waiters. The third was a place I had been to before and was familiar with their food, so the wait was well worth it, in my opinion (free West Lake beer with the buffet!). The only thing missing this time was the belly dancer.

I stuffed my face with all the vegetarian dishes and even went up for seconds. The makings of my rare feast included heaps of plain nan, lemon rice, vegetable curry, mushroom chili, spicy red potatoes, veggie pakora, and an appetizer dish of cold chickpeas and cucumber with cardamom.

It had been a while since my last beer (my September trip to Laramie, in fact), so the amount of food helped keep me sober. I usually have absolutely zero tolerance for alcohol, considering my stomach/intestinal problems, but the West Lake brew is quite light and goes well with the Indian fare.

Tradition in Korea states that whomever drinks the last drop of beer will acquire great wealth. So, naturally, we were a long time wrestling the bottles from each other for the last dewy drop.

And of course, afterward, there was cake. There has to be cake. But Chinese cakes are not like what we are used to. They have practically no flavor and consist of mostly an airy whipped cream on top of the flavorless sponge. All the same, cake is cake and I ate some, then washed it down with another pint of beer.

By the end of the night, I was feeling pretty sated. A meal of your favorite foods and a few pints can help cure even the most wretched PMS.

Stand-Down Mode from Korean Estrogen Invasion

Tina’s mother and grandmother flew in from Korea on Wednesday and finally left town again yesterday (a day earlier than planned). This week apartment was crowded with Korean estrogen. Since I am the only non-family member, I kept my distance and remained aloof.

During their stay, they decided it would be best to send the housekeeper away. Now that they are gone, Ayi (“nanny” in Chinese) is back. If you recall, I wasn’t too keen on our old Ayi. I thought she was lazy, inefficient, and a thief. It seems she stole 1,000 RMB from Lucy’s bedside dresser. However, the new girl has bumped up the standards.

I’m totally digging the new Ayi. She is a much better cleaner and is pleasant, quiet and always keeping up with us. My laundry no longer feels like an S.O.S. pad and she never tries to do things for me when I obviously feel like doing them myself – although, I admit I enjoy that she occasionally takes the initiative to get the tea stains out of my coffee mugs, since I always do such a poor job of it myself.

Kudos (do people still say that?) to the new Ayi.

Tricks and Treats

Today was Halloween and I decided to treat my students with a day-trip to West Lake. Incredibly, neither of them had been on a bus in China, even having lived here for well over a year now. We chilled out in a Starbucks for a while. They really needed to get out of the apartment. They are normally not allowed outside, apart from going back and forth to school, which is only just across the street. Even then they must be accompanied either by their guardian, by Ayi, or by me.

But Tina's mother and grandmother left this morning after a five-day visit to go back to Korea and their guardian doesn't come back until tomorrow. So, I've sneaked them out for a little fun. Harmless, I should think. These poor girls. Imagine having to keep something so innocent a secret from their parents. They aren't allowed to do anything except study, but they work so hard and, as far as I’m concerned, they really need a break. "All fun and no play makes Jack a very dull boy." I'm just trying to avoid a Stephen-King outcome. I don't want them to get cabin fever and come through my door with an axe.

Reena, my younger student, being on a slightly looser leash than Tina, took me over to her school last night for a little Halloween party. We were both bored by the childish activities, but it was nice to spend time with her. She is an incredibly smart girl and very mature for only 14. I am proud of her.

We felt bad for Tina. Her mother wouldn’t let her go to such a simple affair across the street to eat candy and have her face painted. Instead, Tina’s mother went out to dinner in Hangzhou with Tina's grandmother while Reena and I were gone, leaving Tina in the apartment all alone and feeling left out. It wasn’t much, but Reena and I decided to stop at the store on the way back home and buy some candy for Tina.

Slowly, I am introducing them to the idea of what it is like to balance their rigorous studying with some good clean fun. I’m sure their parents, if they knew what I was doing, would consider me a terribly bad influence and fire me immediately. But it is well worth the risk to give these girls a taste of fun, instead of eventually sending them off to college, knowing that a consequence of ‘study until you pass out’ (not an exaggeration) could result in their going wild once they get there, and perhaps doing something stupid and even dangerous. I don’t believe I am overstepping the line too far. But, are good intentions justification enough? After all, even though I believe I am acting in their best interests, I am not their mother.

Post, Posts, and the Posted

I admit I have been lax in writing for the past week or so. My time staring at the keyboard has been usurped by completing the application process for PhD programs. Finally, on Monday, after many drafts and revisions, I finished writing the last of my essays and writing samples.

On Tuesday, I went into Hangzhou to the International Postal Service and finally mailed off all my application materials. It feels good to be done, even though it has left me utterly broke. Mailing a few simple documents from China to the U.S. costs a ridiculous amount of money. In all, I spent well over $300. However, if the results are positive, it will all be worth it.

The list of programs was long – eleven schools, to be exact. I was a few months in narrowing down the list, but think I would be happy at any of the ones to which I have chosen to apply. Suffice it to say, I’m extremely eager and excited about the prospects of going back to school. The university environment is where I feel most comfortable and content.

With my task now completed, I have more free time on my hands. I hope to use a good deal of that time to get more exercise (which means more walks in Hangzhou) and to write more.

Chinese Fugitive

This was my last weekend squatting at a friend’s apartment in Xiaoshan. This morning, before I left to make the drive back to BinJiang, I had to turn in the key and electricity card to the property manager. I went down to the lobby with my trusty electronic translator and asked the woman at the front desk where to go. She escorted me around the building to a customer service center.

They wouldn’t let me turn in the key until they shut off the water. So one of the guys at the water company followed me back up to the apartment to shut the water off, but was flummoxed when the toilet kept running. It does that sometimes. You just have to take the backing off and push the lever down manually. No biggy. Of course, I couldn’t tell that to him. He was too impatient and kept trying to flush the damn thing repeatedly before the water even had a chance to rise.

While he kept fiddling with the toilet, I looked at the time and realized I needed to get back to BinJiang if I was going to have time to shower and lunch before teaching. I told him I needed to leave, that he should hurry. “Kuai yi dian.” But he was adamant about getting the toilet to stop running.

I figured I would be waiting half the day if I stayed; so, while his back was turned, I left the key in the door and gave him the slip. I didn’t take the elevator, since that’s where he would probably come looking for me when he realized I wasn’t there. Instead, I hid in the stairwell for a moment and snuck out via the fire escape on the side of the building. This way, if he called his buddies downstairs, they wouldn’t see me come down through the lobby. I ducked behind cars in the parking lot until I found my bike and then scooted the hell out of there.

They have no contact information for my friend, or me; however, they now have the keys and the security deposit. I figure we’re square. I had to laugh to myself as I drove away, because I felt like a fugitive. I half expected to see someone in my mirrors, running after me.

But that wasn’t the end of my morning. No, sir. I probably shouldn’t write about this, since I know my mother occasionally reads my blog and if she knows what happened today she might have a heart attack. You know how mothers can be.

Halfway to BinJiang I was hit by a car – again. I had a green light and some idiot ran the red. He was turning the corner and I was going straight. He didn't look. I can only go 40 kph on my bike, so it was more irritating than harmful. I thought for a second my bike was broken because it skidded halfway under his van. Luckily, I actually saw that it was going to happen, so I veered the bike sideways so that it wouldn't be a head-on crash.

My day felt like a regular Harrison Ford movie. At least he apologized, since he knew it was his fault. I picked up my bags that had sprawled across the road, brushed myself off, and kept driving. What else do you do?

Exposed

This evening, while waiting for the bus from West Lake back to Xiaoshan, I watched a haggard man bathe himself in a small fountain out on the street. He seemed to have no qualms about performing such an act in public and took ample time in it. He used a long, narrow strip of worn-out material for his washcloth. It looked more like a sash or a scarf than a washcloth. Nevertheless, he took each end in either hand and swished the wet material back and forth against his shoulders and lower back. The ritual looked like a dance, a jig – like the twist. He did it for a long time and with such vigor and enthusiasm I thought for sure he’d rub the skin right off his body. From afar it looked as though his hygiene was very thorough, and it would have been, had it not been for the lack of one essential cleaning element: soap. Water can do only so much, fella.

As I boarded the bus, I wondered if maybe my standards were set just a little too high and maybe I should cut China some slack on the cleanliness front. Then, I took my seat next to a tired-looking man who proceeded to try to drown two medium-sized cockroaches with massive gobs of phlegm-filled spit. I think I’ll keep my standards as they are, thanks.

More Saturday Social Studies

Have you ever lied about yourself to a total stranger? I have. I do it all the time. I tell people I’m from different countries all over the globe. Today happened to give me that opportunity again.

Another Saturday spent scouting West Lake. This is a terrific place for people watching. To me, people watching is the act of observing and does not include interacting. However, today a woman came up to me as I had my nose in a book and asked if I was from France. Taking my cue, I answered, “Oui.” Do I look French? Awesome.

What kills me, though, is that when she discovered I was French, she tried to carry on a conversation with me in English. Temporarily more interested in the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe and not really being in the mood for conversation, I knew just enough French to keep her confused for a few minutes before she finally realized I was beyond the bounds of her communication skills and left. Some people make no sense to me.

Do I feel guilty? Not really. When the mood strikes me, I can talk a person’s ear off. Earlier this morning, for instance, I shared a taxi with a man from the Philippines. We carried on for well over an hour and I was grateful for some English conversation. Subjects of travel inevitably ensued, as well as jobs, future plans, the difficulties of China, and finally the state of economy. So, I bear no guilt for brushing off the woman at the Lake.

After I’d had my fill of observations and macabre short stories, I decided to take in another movie. There was one English-speaking film and I didn’t care what it was. Fortunately, it just so happened to be something I was in the mood for: mindless and cheap horror tricks. It is October, after all, and Halloween is two weeks away.

“Rogue” was the English feature in Hangzhou. Killer Australian crocodile movie, very reminiscent of “Lake Placid,” but without the comic relief of Betty White. I’ll admit, there were a few moments I jumped in my seat. Yet, even though it isn’t the sort of movie you really need to pay that much attention to, I was finding it hard not to be distracted by all the commotion around me.

You know those annoying ads at the beginning of movies that tell you to please turn off your cell phone and no talking during the movie, etc.? Well, they don’t have that here in China. In China, you can chat at normal volumes with your buddy sitting next to you; you can light up a cigarette; and you can keep your cell phone switched on with full ringer volume. Hell, you can even strike up a phone conversation in the middle of the movie (no kidding).

I’ve sat during movies with a room full of 20 sugar-wired pre-schoolers on pajama day and it was quieter than the audience tonight. No matter how many times you spit out “Shhh!” they just don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to make noise. My two Chinese cinema experiences so far have left me with a major headache. That said, I’ve always loved going to the movies and I don’t think even these irksome quirks will stop me.

I Smell Fear

There are rumors of stricter internet blocking in China. Evidence is already materializing. Google and Yahoo already lose connection on a regular basis throughout the day, and I hear tell that there will soon be a ban on gmail. The reason is allegedly the government’s growing concern of pornography. I call shenanigans.

If it were only pornography they sought to purge, sites such as Facebook, Blogger and Twitter or Foreign religious sites would not be banned. Now there are even embargoes on certain Wikipedia sites, most especially (but not limited to) ones with any negative indications toward China. In fact, many sites, if holding information that may not paint China in a particularly gleaming light, are prohibited. It is a closing grip.

It is amazing enough that I even hear word at all about the Han and the riots in the northwest. But how do I hear about them? Not through Chinese media, but through the BBC (bless them). Fortunately, China has relinquished some control over major foreign news corporations, but only under pressure of looking like a tyrannical prison ward of the information highway. This was not the case a few months ago, when there was a block on sites such as MSN International, Google International and Live Search (among others). Even now, if you type in keywords that include “China,” you will most likely be censored? Why? Because China doesn’t want to look bad. The paranoia stretches far.

Note to China: The problem with trying to control 1.5 billion people: YOU CAN’T.

An Exit 退出

This morning I woke to quiet, something I am not accustomed to in China. The apartment was empty for the first time since I’ve lived here. Taking advantage of every moment of sublime solitude and scrumptious silence, I toted my MacBook out into the living room and sat up shop on the sofa. This was the first time I’d been able to sit out in a common area and work. Normally, the two girls and their circus-like tomfoolery bombard me, or I’m interrupting either the housekeeper’s nap or the live-in guardian’s yoga routines. Today I had the space to myself and, as a result, got a lot of work done.

As pleasant as these sacred, cloistered hours were, I was still curious as to the reason behind my sudden privacy. When Lucy returned with the girls at 3:15, she informed me that the housekeeper had quit. It is no secret that I did not think she was a great maid, but I was puzzled as to her unexpected departure. It seemed like a breeze of a job, to me. Do a little dusting, make everyone’s laundry stand up by itself, cook smelly Korean food, take long naps on the sofa, and get paid. I shrugged. However, this was not apparently as simple as all that.

I’ve said before that I’m glad I am not the one paying this woman, but now I firmly stand by this statement even more than I did before. Unfortunately, Lucy had given her an advance on her next payment only a few days ago and is now out a considerable amount of money with nothing to show for it. The worst of it: Lucy’s bias against the Chinese has just been – in her mind – further justified. Would I call it racism? Maybe not. Let us just say that, in my experience, the general Korean attitude towards the Chinese is less than affable.

Chinese Cinema

Saturday held my interest, starting with an unusually long walk around West Lake. For no other reason than to get a little more exercise, I spent several hours wandering the surrounding streets of the area. Near the end of my walk I discovered a cinema that I had not been to before and decided to take part in the Chinese movie experience. There was only one film with English subtitles, called “The Message.”

In the theatre I sat next to an older couple that felt it necessary to both talk and smoke through the entire film. Movie theatres in China are assigned seating – I was trapped. The smoking only made the WWII-era film seem a little more authentic as it hovered over us in the glow of the silver screen, but the talking was definitely unnecessary. To top it off, some young punks behind me thought it would be amusing not only to kick my seat through several scenes, but also to leave their cell phones switched on. As I watched violent interrogation and Asian espionage on the screen, intermittent tones of Chinese pop music kept chiming in.

Despite these unpleasant atmospheric nuances, the film held my attention. If it makes it to the States, I’d suggest a viewing. But by all means, feel free to rent the DVD and enjoy it on your sofa, sans public interruption and white noise of the cinema.

Revisions

On Tuesday I started a poem, the first I’ve written in several months. Yesterday I looked at it again. Besides giving it a title, I actually took more time to work on rewriting it. The revision process is strange and sporadic for me. Usually it is a focused process, a few hours at a time throughout a week. However, there are those rare and glorious times when a poem comes all at once and there is no need for revision. All in one sitting the poem is created – sometimes as if not by me. This has only happened a few times, but it is profound when it does. The last time this happened, I received second place in the Wyoming Writers Contest. The poem, like only a small, select number before it, arrived all in one bundle. I can only be grateful and astounded when those moments hit. But this is not one of those times.


Pedestrian


In Xiaoshan
he toes the section of sidewalk
designed for keeping blind men on track.
It is uneven beneath his feet,
like a barcode in cement;
his instep has gotten used to the rough
and has worn a callous.
He stops at a street food vendor,
pays three Yuan for grilled lotus root,
spits out the grains of dirt.
A young boy clips his elbow
and his feet veer just inches off the track.
The tattered scarf around his neck
gestures a summons, the frayed ends
curling upward in a humid breeze;
but he needs no help. After all these years
he still thinks he can see.
He knows when he leaves the north street,
when he crosses the bridge,
when the traffic is heavy.
The scents of piss and stale gardens,
feeling the city walk past him,
and the night market booming low bids,
he doesn’t need to be told it is Thursday.

A Lost Cause

While in the San Francisco airport last weekend, I succumbed to the annoying tickle of pop culture and bought a copy of Dan Brown’s latest blunder. I am ashamed. As suspected, the one-dimensional book included a plot line that was predictable and writing that was less than remarkable. For the entire five-hundred-and-nine-page dramatic spasm, I cringed my way through, nearly gagging at every phrase in Italics (the thoughts of the characters). They were reminders to me that I was reading below standards.

Perhaps it is just a personal literary pet-peeve, but I’ve always found it absurd and insulting to use characters’ thoughts as a way to volley information back to the reader, thrusting facts down the reader’s throat, especially in such a way as to make the characters sound as though they’ve uncovered a major revelation when you’ve just made the same discovery three chapters prior.

Simply put, Dan Brown is an annoying author. True, he can keep you mildly entertained on a surface level, but ultimately you wind up always nine steps ahead of what I’m sure he thought was intended to be anticipation. Instead, it was more a sense of “Are these characters really that dumb?”

It was five years ago that I read both The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons, so my memory may be slightly skewed. However, I seem to recall the main character of these novels as somewhat intelligent – at least, not unintelligent. Now, though, our friend Bobby Boy has taken a dramatic drop in I.Q. points.

This downshift in intelligence, coupled with Brown’s irritating lecture-like quality of writing, left me a little less than thrilled. That said, I still claim he has an interesting way of bringing together connections, myths, legends, etc. That is clever, yes; but how many times can you use the same predictable plot formula in order to develop a novel with the same character? Hello, Dan! People can see through this! Thus, The Lost Symbol is a lost cause, and I’m sure Mr. Brown is laughing all the way to the bank.

The only reason I would be interested in watching the film adaptation would be the incredible cinematography I anticipate to be filmed on location in Washington D.C. For this reason alone, I would advocate going to see the movie. Plus, Tom Hanks is just awesome. That is all.

Reflections on Writing

I admit, in China, as a poet, I have been a failure thus far. How many poems have I written since May? Two. A whopping two poems. That’s all, folks. However, I feel the need to justify myself. Sometimes you need a break from one medium. It seems as though my writing has morphed into a catalogue of various subgenres. I am now no longer just “poet,” but “writer.” It has been ages since I’ve written prose that didn’t immediately trigger my gag reflex. While I don’t consider this blog of particularly publishable quality, I will say that it has been worthwhile to write and I’ve felt productive.

Am I just making excuses? Maybe I am. For some reason, I haven’t felt particularly inspired to write poetry lately. In the past, I’ve gone through phases, which I’m sure each poet does. It went something like this: In high school I began with trite love poems; in college I moved toward the dark and mysterious; in between my undergraduate and graduate experiences, I sporadically dipped into a bit of pastoral and transcendental work; then in my MFA I actually began to develop an aesthetic taste.

During my two years in the MFA, I learned an important lesson: poetry doesn’t always have to be pretty. The ugly can be beautiful, too. After all, can’t the gross make us laugh? So, today when I was trying to work out why I hadn’t felt like writing poetry in the past few months, I immediately copped out. But now I see the error of my ways. I am guilty, by reason of temporary insanity.

Yes, I should be writing more poetry. I should be grinding pen into paper every vile smell, odorous armpit, mangled fingernail, and hacking loogie. I should be writing that poem titled “Asian Holes,” or asking why so many Chinese walk backwards on the sidewalks. I should catalogue bargains and barters, or keep count of how many locals ask to take my photograph.

Even through inadequacy and feeling unimpressive, I still have the desire to create poems. It’s there. I feel the urge every day. Then I disappoint myself and the cycle of unrest continues. Today, however, I am breaking that cycle:

He toes the section of sidewalk
designed for keeping blind men on track.
It is uneven beneath his feet;
his instep has gotten used to the rough
and worn a callous.
The scarf around his neck
gestures a summons, the frayed ends
curling upward in a humid breeze;
but he needs no help. After all these years
he still thinks he can see.
The scents of piss and stale gardens,
feeling the city walk past him,
he doesn’t need to be told it is Thursday.

October

I made the 45-minute commute on my bike this morning from Bin Jiang to Xiaoshan in order to spend the weekend in solitude. My older student, Tina, has company for the next three days. Her mother is visiting from Seoul, Korea and I really don’t feel like making polite small talk when I know I have a mountain of writing and research to do for PhD applications. So, I’m devoting the next 48 hours to reading, writing, and maybe some pizza and a movie.

I started my morning with a 7:00 am trip to Starbucks, grabbing a hot drink for the road. During my leisurely drive across the city, I noticed it is the beginning of leaf-burning season in Hangzhou. A local farmer was out early in the morning in order to send off more carbon dioxide into and already-polluted atmosphere. As the smell of the smoke hit me, I thought of all those fall days back home when little fires burnt on the side of the street in my childhood neighborhood in Michigan. Fall is my favorite time of the year and now that southern China has finally begun to calm itself out of a suffocating summer, I can finally start to look forward to sweaters, scarves, colorful foliage, and soy caramel macchiatos.

Because W.S. Merwin got it right: “Echoing Light”

Happy Birthday, Red

It occurs to me that every U.S. citizen needs to spend a substantial amount of time in China (or an equivalent third-world or developing country with a government more restrictive than our own). Exactly how much do we take for granted as the almighty Star-Spangled Kingdom? It is immeasurable. Americans are in desperate need of some perspective.

Today was the sixtieth anniversary of communism in China. Now, this may not be something that you and I would celebrate, but the Chinese went to extraordinary lengths to make it a memorable event. In Beijing, some big doings with uber-military marches and whatnot, including an all-female regiment with white go-go boots. Quite the spectacle. Rumor has it the Chinese government wouldn’t allow anyone to march if they weren’t a specific height. If you can bring up a video, you’ll notice all members who marched were the same height.

My plans for this evening were to make my way over to West Lake to watch the celebratory fireworks and other goings on. I imagine there would be plenty. However, residual jetlag caught the better of me and I found it too tedious to make the trek to the other side of the river in the rain. After all, I can just as easily watch the fireworks outside my window as they burst my eardrums.

As I saw sections of this ordeal on Chinese news channels, I thought to myself, how is it that they are so proud of communism? Then it hit me. I have never experienced the ordeals of growing up through a revolution. Compared to the strife that older generations had to endure, I’m sure the introduction of the Communist party in 1949 was a welcoming site. Just imagine being so hard pressed that you think communism is a step up. We have a lot to be grateful for.

Back in the Belly of the Beast

Dear China,

Leaving you was a sudden and temporary solution to our relationship problems. Hopefully the time apart has made us more able to cope with each others’ differences. If you can try a little harder to stop being a pain in my ass all the time, I will try to stop being such a whiney brat. I’ll try.

Last night I arrived back in Hangzhou and, therefore, back into the realm of Chinese censorship. Once again I’m forced to send these posts as black market email so others may keep my blog for me. I’m reminded once again that, in China, there is no direct route to your destination. For once, I wouldn’t mind a non-stop flight.

At 4:00 am, Linus and I left Laramie for Denver. He gave me the choice of Interstate 80 to I-25 or to wind through 287. Naturally, I asked if we could drive 287. Because it was still dark, as we reached the foothills of the pass, I asked him to pull over so that I could simply stare upwards. The sky was pocked with stars and I knew I wasn’t going to see them again for almost a year. The complete darkness made them seem almost closer.

At the Denver airport, the woman at the check-in counter for United Airlines nearly gave me a heart attack when she told me I’d missed my chance to enter China. Fortunately for me, she was only a poor reader. My valid enter-before-this-date was Sept 16. She didn’t happen to notice that it was of 2010, not 2009. My panic subsided.

The great thing about having a 4 hour layover in San Francisco is the fresh seafood. For a late breakfast: Dungeness crab eggs Benedict. Yes, the traditional eggs Benedict, but with enormous chunks of crabmeat. Delicious. Just the thing to prepare you for a twelve-hour flight across the Pacific.

Notable in-flight movies: 1) “Easy Virtue.” Someone please give Stephen Elliott my thanks for capturing Noel Coward’s genius on film. 2) “The Soloist.” I’ll watch anything with Robert Downey, Jr., and this was as good as expected. It also helps if you, like me, adore the cello.

Incredibly, when landing in Shanghai, I was not quarantined this time around. In fact, I believe the Porky and Babe Virus scare has started to dwindle, since there were no biohazard ogres boarding the plane to take our temperature before we were allowed off the jet.

Two taxis and a two-hour train ride later, I finally arrived at the apartment in Hangzhou. I immediately jumped into the shower to wash away the grit of travel. As I did so, I couldn’t help thinking that I was reluctantly washing away Wyoming along with it.

Predicted four-day forecast: Jetlag.

Aspen Alley and the Quiet West

Last weekend I had the opportunity to take a two-hour drive with some dear friends up over the Snowy Mountains and into the Sierra Madres of Carbon County. We came to Aspen Alley. Wyoming’s fall may not be as colorful as New England’s, but it is still stunning. The aspen tree leaves turn to a bright pollen color, as if they’ve soaked in the color of the sun, making everything look like it has been coated in amber or dusted in gold.

Carbon County’s beauty just proves my devotion to the autumn season. It remains the perfect time of year, and my favorite. It is an artist’s paradise.

We picked a clearing in the grove to set out several folding chairs while we picnicked on sandwiches and grapes. For the first time in over four months I was cold and it felt great. I borrowed Kaijsa’s Washington sweatshirt and snapped a few dozen photos of our group as we relished the serene surroundings.

On our return, we stopped in the tiny town of Woods Landing for pie and coffee. What better way to top off the American trails than with the all-American dessert? We turned out our pockets for change and invited the jukebox to play Elvis, MeatLoaf and some Bob Dylan.

Coming back into town, I reflected on our day. It is times like these that tell me why I love the quiet west. There are rare occasions and infrequent places that allow us to commune so closely with the natural world. Like Thoreau, I too wish to transcend from the hustle-bustle of urbanity. When I do, my mood shifts upwards and I see what contentment looks like. Here I can breathe.