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.