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.