Donald Miller made me do it

Donald Miller’s new book just made it to paperback for 7.99 on Amazon but chances are I get it for free because he held a contest giving a free copy to the first thirty people to post this news on their blog and seeing that I am awake in China and the rest of you are probably sleeping somewhere out in the America’s. I win. Hey, he’s a nice guy.

And one more thing. I can’t watch Don’s video because I’m living behind the great Chinese firewall but I want you to watch it…enjoy.

The Old Man and the Salt Marsh (or) Oyster Fields Forever

At night, the salt and water comes in, the water and salt leave and the oysters stay behind. The salt marsh spreads from the mainland to the adjacent island close to my former home. This is an oyster farmers land.

Mid-day – it’s June – the sun beats down again on an old tired back. Mr. Yang has done this before. Feet sunken hunched low in the quagmire shadowed only by the weavings of his bucket-rimmed hat, his soiled calloused stubs reach under the steeped silted rock upon which he adds one more to a sack full of oysters to later be shucked.

Meanwhile,

Another Mr. Yang with a very different fate sits in the comfort of a first class jet. Mr. Yang has done this before. Sunken deep into a beige leather seat in the air conditioned cabin. Sipping a fine burgundy colored wine the attendant reminds him to buckle for landing. Adjusting his slippers, he stretches his neck and fingers a bit. Putting his things into his black leather bag he takes another drink and rubs out the sleep that had rested on his freshly shaven face as he takes a passing glance to the landscape below.

As he buckles the silver buckle the plane shadows the oyster farmers tired old back. Sweat and salt drip deep down into his glossed eyes as he lifts his head to the ominous roar of the dragon above.

In an odd and yet understandable way both Mr. Yang’s tighten their grip on their respective possessions.

–
post-script: Solomon, my former roommate told me something similar to this one day after he went running along the coast by our former house and I just couldn’t forget it . . . thanks.

On the Stir: Flora & Fauna, Guangzhou, Passports and Bono

I’ve been watching the BBC LIFE series narrated and written by David Attenborough. It is astounding. It documents all forms of life on this great planet.

Well, here are three things that I saw:

Outside of the human race the most destructive and carnivorous creature in the planet is probably the great white shark. I watched as it slipped, sank and sliced its way into unsuspecting seal meat. The memory and scent of last years catch hurled this great beast through miles of salt and water. A dull-grey-locomotive-force propelled effortlessly through the vast and pounding ocean for one reason only, food. The protein and blubber will help it survive another year of razor sharp destruction and blood shed.

I also saw another large animal on top of the earth – another dull-grey-locomotive-force, a bit more subdued of course – the trumpeter of the animal kingdom – the elephant. I watched it as it went lumbering slowly across rust colored deserts in search for the faintest trickle of water. Desperate, cracked and dry the clan stamped dust high in the gritty air with every strained step forward. The promise of water tugged these large beasts to a mysterious spring somewhere in the wind.

I also saw one of the most mobile animals above the earth – a bit smaller and splashed with a little more color – the monarch butterfly. In droves they fluttered their beguiling wings through fluffy-milk-biscuit-clouds to escape the bite of the frigid Canadian air. They were seeking a vacation, a midsummer night’s dream on a perch in a Mexican tree. Survival whisked them down through the American continent.

All these animals, all this movement, all these journey’s around and through our great earth got me thinking a little bit about us. Why do we travel?

It can’t be for the same reasons. I mean, before the grand and unsustainable experiment called the industrial revolution, sure we settled around water hunted for food and didn’t really want to freeze (with a few exceptions of course – the history of the Eskimo’s still baffles me).

Our world is different. Trucks fueled with yesterday’s sun hurls food from farm to store. Invariably we can our tuna. Dasani and Aquafina compete to bottle and distribute our water – in some fortunate places it even taps through privately owned faucets. Central heating and air conditioning flutters southern and northern air into our sealed-off and comfortable bedrooms. The animals I mentioned above would find it hard to believe that we can bring what they desire most to our doorstep with little to no exertion from ourselves. We’ve become motionless in our pursuit of these precious commodities. We move for other reasons. But still why do we travel?

Recently, I was on a bus to Guangzhou to apply for a new passport. I have a few stamps in my passport but I still don’t know why I travel. Certainly, my reasons aren’t for survival. I guess I like the concepts of adventure and renewal, I like natural and ethnic diversity but that’s not enough to drag a man to a horrid city like Guangzhou to pay money to the United States Government for another United States passport. I mean, Guangzhou’s full of crooks and ‘tutes (why it’s a modern day boom-city still baffles me).

Maybe some travel toward love or others away from failure . . . I’ve seen some pounce on money like a pissing tomcat and I’ve seen other’s flee bad memories or a destructive storm or worse a war. As The Great Storyteller once told, men and women go down to Jericho in search for that small hankering in the bottom of the soul. Another storyteller spoke of the Hebrews and their search for a land clogged with milk and honey. This narrative of travel seems to follow and hunt us down wherever we go.

I’m looking down my window at a fiercely busy train station towards the end of this Chinese New Year. I’m watching as clans and families scurry and wait to move but still I don’t completely understand why they are moving. The anthill is never quite finished. It’s always in motion.

I hate this as much as you do but Bono’s usually right when he says, we still haven’t found . . . But then again maybe it’s just the hallow city of Guangzhou that leaves a man wanting.

A KFC Menu Poem

pre-note: many months ago I scratched this on a menu at KFC . . . I just found it tucked away in a notebook. Enjoy!

Do nothing
To stop
ambition
Economy
Is most
important
for
Capital
Skills
Talents
Use
Them all
to
Get ahead
Work
Go, go

Desire
Lost in the
Cold
Burning from
Inside
Flash
Bang away
Sounds
flare
Fragile
People are
Conveyor belt
Living
Compartments are
Disjointed
Segmented
Apart
Connected
Not
Moment by
Moment
Event maybe
Leisure maybe
Today a
Little more
Creativity class
Demand
Some
Free talk
Harmonious
Society
Steps
Punches card to
Meaning
Lost in the
Cycle
No, no
Meaning
Abused
Tangled
Living
Pointless
Aimless
Better have
More
Aim
Than the best
Man
Moving
Headlong
To gain
BMW’s a
Symbol
Status
Face
Affirmation
Junky
Shows up
Don’t
Make
a mistake
Don’t
Lose

Do I love?
No, no
no
Never
Go Forward.
Can we
Riot?
No, no
no
Never
Shut your
Damn
Mouth
Hush
Remember
You’re
Happy Everyday
Progress
Ahead
Look at us
Loudest yelling
Man with
Microphone
Clutching
Tension
Suppressed
Bitter
Anger
Explodes
Chao
It’s the way
Up
Don’t
Question

Contemplate?
Think?
No, No
Never
Forward March
Onward
dammit
Go
Money
Get more
Move up
Climb
Higher
Mind
Turn off
Go, Go
Go
Shake
Hands
Move up
Rattle more
Chain

Smoke
Drink
Cheers
Money
Money
Give me
Take Me
Fast
Forward
to it
Go
Drink
Smoke
Overflowing
Wallet
Spills
Empty
Living

Give nothing back
Take and keep
Grandma
was poor
Don’t
Be
Like
Grandma
Poverty is
Scary
To us
Go, go

Can I
Get someone
to
Judge me
Grade me
Affirm me
And
Or
Talk to me
Skin
Deep
Breath
No, No
Robots
Forward march
Don’t
Stand in line
Waiters get
Served last
Don’t be
Be
The same
Set apart
On
Top

Remember
A Mao
Saved
Is a Mao
more
To busy
Tomorrow
I’ll dig
For bones
Answers
Today
Show me more
Money
now
Move out
Of poverty
Ignore it
Go, go
Go
Forward
Don’t stop
Halt
Never
Stop
Onward
Up, up
Up
Dammit
Move out
Nothing
stops
Progress

The Music Box

There is nothing comparable in the history of the world to the cultural gap between the young and old in China today.

Tonight Qian Yu, one of my very attractive neighbors, sent me a message and invited me to KTV (karaoke). When a beautiful girl asks you to do something, you (I) usually do it. So I flagged down a taxi and showed the driver the address to The Music Box. Upon arrival I found room 119, opened the door, and saw something very strange. A bit odd. I saw Qian Yu’s parents (they were in town visiting for the Chinese New Year). Mother and Father sitting down, arms folded in silent observation of all this “new stuff.” They were out of place: shiny marble floors, dancing strobe lights, blaring speakers, erotic music videos, and now me, an outsider.

I greeted them. They grinned. I sat next to Qian Yu. They smiled.

Qian Yu sang a song. She’s a good singer. Not knowing the words, I watched onscreen as a fresh-faced Japanese love story unfolded. We clapped. Qian Yu smiled.

After I successfully deflected their attempts to hand me the microphone, on the grounds of ignorance, Qian Yu gracefully walked over and handpicked a song for her mother to sing. This song was a bit rigid, it came from another place, a different time. The luster was gone. Again without knowing the words, I watched the video unfold. It featured Chinese children waving Chinese flags, snapshots of Chairmen Mao and historic sites like The Great Wall. Mother knew every word. It was more propaganda than art (granted Qian Yu’s Japanese love story was more emotion than art, but that’s beside the point).

Mother finished. We clapped. Mother smiled.

They persisted so I went to pick a song. I searched the English menu. Qian Yu so graciously piped in and suggested Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” so I went with that. I knew what I thought of their videos; now I wondered what they thought of mine. Lady Gaga is a crass and capricious individual. She’s very different from the banality of patriotism. I was certain that when the words “I want your psycho, your vertical stick” came out of my mouth, Alpha-Centauri would explode, rendering our world moot. The only thing salvaging imminent apocalypse this time was the blessed confusion of Babel . . . thank God.

I finished. They clapped. I smiled.

After Qian Yu sang another song she playfully said it was hot so she took off her long over coat which revealed a black halter-top of sorts featuring swan feathers with hot pink tights hugging her legs running into magenta colored high-heel shoes (for the record it actually didn’t look as ridiculous as it sounds). Upon revealing her dainty shoulders, I watched her mom’s confused and nervous gaze at her singing daughter’s skin. She really didn’t know what to think of it all. The skin. The colors. The feathers. The shoes. Was this her daughter? Mom was wearing a dull colored wool overcoat with plain black pants awkwardly squeezing against the top of her boxy shaped black shoes. Daughter’s hair was long flowing and vibrant mother’s hair was wiry short and grey. The Music Box kept humming. We kept smiling and clapping.

You’ll be glad to know that I finished the evening off with a little evangelism and a lot more confusion. I selected Kanye West’s video “Jesus Walks.”

Thanks Lucifer

Teaching at a local middle school a while back there was a girl who was an outcast. She was significantly bigger than the rest of the students and in China where the genetic code predicts that about 83% of the people are going to be skinny this compounds the stigma of being “big boned.” She sweated a bit too much. There was a silken red scar over her throat that had been operated on and poorly stitched. She stuttered when she spoke all while being oblivious to the intentions of others and what made it worse was that she was eager to participate in class, which only invoked heinous jeers from them.

My heart went out to her and I tried to sedate the laughter as much as possible but she wasn’t really helping.

I was erasing the board after class when she came up and insisted that I give her the eraser so she could help.

She said it was her “duty” because she was the student and I was the teacher. I didn’t protest very long because I could see in her eyes that she honestly wanted to help and she wasn’t the type to give up.

As I gathered my things I could see that this task was forcing her to take a few deep breaths so I kept it simple by asking her what her name was (there was fifty students in each class and I only saw them once a week so I had no idea).

She sort of stuttered a bit and said, “LLucifer.”

It took me by surprise as it would anyone so I had to . . . “Did you say Lucifer?”

Still wiping the board she spoke confidently over her broad shoulder, “Yes, yes Lucifer.”

Narrowing my gaze, “L-U-C-I-F-E-R is that right?”

She nodded the bulk of her head through the thin cloud of white chalk swirling in the air, “yes, yes.”

“How did you get that name?” I asked with more curiosity than a damn cat.

“My friends gave to me.”

A pensive moment of silence swelled in my heart. “Oh yes, yes, of course your friends.”

As she finished the board, she awkwardly bowed in my direction and lumbered out the door.

“Ssee you tomorrow teacher!” she said with the delight of a child who had just pleased mother and father.

“Ok, bye bye” I weakly said in her direction.

Now, left alone in the classroom with fifty empty chairs I whispered through my teeth a most sinister sentence, one that I’ve never said before I said, “Thanks Lucifer.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the “friends” she spoke of weren’t really “friends.” I never thought I would actually meet Lucifer. Face to face with Lucifer is a chilling thought. If Eve drank the Kool-Aid what would I do?

A cruel world we live in. For years, the Milton horned devil of darkness and deceit haunted my dreams but now I’ve met Lucifer and it was nothing like I imagined it was much worse. To be honest I felt more pity for Lucifer than fear. I guess it was the smug, comfortable and able forty-nine other children who I feared more than Lui.

Here’s a quote I read by Karl Kraus a few years ago while preparing a paper on pain and suffering, he sardonically wrote that the devil was an optimist if he thought he could make people meaner. I think he’s right. I mean, what in the hell is so vapid and scary about the human condition that forty-nine twelve year old children give a fat girl a name like Lucifer?

Why can’t we be all the Adjectives?

I teach too much. I’ve been teaching from the same four books for seven months now. I’m not magical but I’ve come to foresee every question, every laugh and every mispronounced word like a sorcerer sees a shrew. This can be mind numbing at times but sometimes, rarely my student’s unravel strange things about the world with their adventures into the feral jungles of the English language.

The other day I was teaching two university-aged students named Lilly and Frank and towards the end of class after learning how to describe people I ask them to envision and describe their dream husband and wife.

The boy’s usually grin in silence while the girl’s start rattling off lists. Of course, Lilly went first. Ladies always go first in Chinese English class. Frank listened carefully. Lilly’s very attractive. Frank would be lucky to have Lilly. I think Frank secretly likes Lilly.

She started saying things about height and muscles and about how caring and generous he should be. She pontificated (as if she had thought about this question before) about eyes, hair, job, bank account and family and then she paused for a moment caught in the thick underbrush she said, “He should . . . uh . . . uhmm . . . what’s the adjective?”

What’s the adjective? I don’t know Lilly but keep searching.

It’s in these remote canopies that I think about my family and friends back home. I think about funny little things like blazing stars and the mystery of language and why creatures are bigger on the inside than they are on the outside . . . but now I’m thinking about adjectives and why we can’t be all of them.

In scope, I haven’t been doing this for very long but I’ve learnt a few things along the way. For example, it’s very important to look away when a girl’s searching for the proper adjective. It’s only polite . . . you’ve got to give ‘em space.

It’s funny how a glance in the other direction can clear the way. So I looked under the table. The shiny glass balls dotting Lilly’s red shoes were shimmering in defiance against the cancerous glare above. The answers to the universe seemed to be caught somewhere in the flux of those beguiling rays. I couldn’t help but think that Lilly was going to be disappointed by whatever adjective she finally pounded into her sentence. Most women are.

Meanwhile, while Lilly was busy being inarticulate I looked at the other pioneer in the room, Frank. Frank was wondering about what an “adjective” actually was. No matter what it was he desperately wanted to become it. Whatever “adjective” meant it now merited the transformative attention of his cerebral cortex. He was determined to become “adjective” for Lilly’s sake.

Frank has forgotten that he and Lilly are both nouns. Adjectives describe nouns. Frank, the noun, is a cluster of sticky adjectives. Adjectives give expression to Frank’s Frank-ness.

God made Frank and Frank is . . .

Lilly’s answer escapes me now. I’m sure it was rapturous or something like that. But that’s beside the point. What incites me is of another sort. Something in my soul tells me that God made you and you’ve been trying on all sorts of adjectives ever since. My question is, what adjectives are you running to and what adjectives are you running from?

I’ll be a gentleman and look away.

What would you say to a Chinese Journalist?

The boss hovered over and said, “Eric, let’s talk.”

This is odd because my boss doesn’t speak much English. What did I do? What did I not do?

I went to the end of the hall with him where he takes his smoke breaks by the window.

He lit up.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Looking out the window he started talking about his daughter. He wanted me to tutor her in English before she went off to college next fall.

His daughter happens to be a brilliant young lady who had just turned down the opportunity to study in America because she was accepted by one of China’s top schools, Peking University in Beijing. An impressive feat considering the fierce competition surrounding a school like this in an overpopulated country like China.

She’s studying journalism in one of the best schools in a country with one of the strangest outlooks on the art form. It has been called “Marxist Journalism.” Marxist Journalism is essentially that journalism which promotes, guides and does not rock the social order of things already established. Chinese harmony is imperative to the art form. Puppetry if you will.

But I get to meet with her twice a week for the next few months and discuss anything I want. Anything! She is a delight and her English is excellent so we can get pretty deep into issues.

You’ve heard of propaganda. You’ve heard of The Great Chinese Firewall. You’ve heard of benign journalism that puts people to sleep.

For example: We were talking about the Dalia Lama (a terrorist to some in this country) and it came up that in 89’ he won the Nobel Peace Prize and she was shocked. She had never heard that before. And then I told her about the Burnside Writers Collective and she was shocked because she couldn’t read it because it is censored and blocked (I didn’t really tell her about Burnside but it is still blocked by the firewall to prove my point). And yesterday I read the paper about the new shiny train that goes from one city to the next (snore).

I imagine that journalism in this country will change in the next twenty or thirty years but for now the government still meddles in the press and sniffs out the dissenters who want to tell the real story. This kind of media turns out child-proof-news with no edges or slants. Safe, swallow-able tablets called news. Though, in some respect it might be better than the dogfight that the news organizations are engaged in back home. There are definitely no Jon Stewart’s or Colbert’s in this country, not yet anyway. But there is Sally . . . my boss’s daughter.

So what would you say to a future Chinese journalist if you had her ear for the next few months?

The Hong Kong Steeplechase

There was a girl in my bed the other night. Yes, a girl in my bed.

Let me explain . . . I can explain. The other night I was coming back from Hong Kong to my hometown here in China on an overnight bus. And as you might imagine they have beds on these buses. Two walking aisles separate three bunk-beds lining the bus like this: [] [] []. In case you can’t imagine a bus with beds as I’ve tried to show you imagine a bakers cart lined 3 wide with knotted dough.

So, as you know me, I was talking to a very smart, pretty and funny young lady (23) from Hong Kong. It was nice. She was nice. But there was a slight problem. A man had come in between us. To be more honest he was snoring in between us. This was our first relationship problem and it needed to be fixed. And to fix it: she being the more beautiful, kind and graceful of us sacrificed her seat and came over to my bed. Thus I had a girl in my bed the other night. But nothing naughty happened. We listened to music and shared food and other innocent things like that. And besides . . . her mother was far too close.

That said: our (mine and the girls) departure was much too brash. I was marshaled off the bus with flashlight glaring in my eyes at four AM to a rainy and cold place somewhere 10 miles outside of the city. I was then packed into a small-grey-van-taxi with what appeared to be characters straight from a William Faulkner novel. The driver was busy puffin’ on his new cigarettes from the big city as the rain from his window cracked against my cheek like prickles of ice. All of this was happening while the girl on the bus – warm and snug – went away without me.

Well that’s not really where I wanted to begin this story. That’s more the end of my story about Hong Kong than the beginning but I thought I might grab your attention by telling you that I had a girl in my bed the other night and you know it probably worked for those of you who are either erotically or morally inclined (for different reasons of course – though there’s probably not too much of a difference if you think about it). No matter what, I’m pretty sure Zach Allen put this down a long time ago. TLDR he might say (love you Zach).

–

FOUR DAYS BEFORE I HAD A GIRL IN MY BED:

I had to go to Hong Kong to acquire my work-visa.

To be honest, this might legitimately be the most adventurous thing that I’ve ever done. I like to think of myself as taking to adventure. I’ve been in some tight squeezes around this world. But I’ve never been to Hong Kong. I’m being completely candid by saying that I was real nervous about this one.

I’ve done some pretty “adventurous” things…sure. But as I was telling Solomon, if there is any brilliance to be found in my adventures . . . if you can salvage anything from them . . . then it is that there has been somebody else planning of guiding or leading most of those adventures. Not me. I’m not a leader. I’m a wingman. I can admit that. The world needs more wingmen in my opinion like Barney is to Fred, or Robin is to Batman or Shaggy is to Scooby.

Solomon soberly says, “You’re going to the most western city that you’ve ever been too.”

I agreed, “yeah, but I’m going alone.”

I’m half-brained most of the time. I get lost in the rush and cluster of fast things. Fast things scare me. Hong Kong scares me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being lost. It excites me. It awakens that “inner child” in me if I can say that. I love it. It’s a thrill. It really is. But only when somebody else knows where I am . . . or where I should be. I get lost and turned around in Joplin, Missouri for Buddha’s sake.

I went to bed the night before whispering, “Hong Kong, here I come.” That means I was scared but up for the challenge.

–

NEXT MORNING: THE DAY OF RECKONING

Took the 7:05 bus across the city. Ate my McDonald’s breakfast chicken sandwich (horrible) at the bus station. A big white shirted man with a hairy lip was sleeping behind his desk. He had a gorilla head. One of those oversized jobs. I sat and ate beside him in relative silence. He was sleeping. I said good morning a few times and eventually had to rattle and tap my cup against his desk. I wouldn’t have done it but I needed to know if I was in the right place. The ice startled him. I stepped back. He put his big glasses on his big gorilla head and nodded to my question. I was in the right place. Good to know. He motioned me to sit down. I sat down. His big hairy lip plopped back out.

A few minutes later his counterpart a short dumpy man came and tapped at his desk. He put his glasses back on and motioned me to follow this man to his small-grey-van-taxi. I got in. The door grunted shut. I turned to see an old couple who would be traveling with me. So this was how we were getting to the big city. I listened as they talked in the local dialect which happens to sound more rhythmic to my ears than Chinese. And I just have to tell you that we drove on a few side-walks (it’s very common here).

He took us to the real bus station. We met other people. Other travelers. Somebody said go outside and we went outside in the back ally and stood for about five minutes with our luggage and knap sacks. A colorful bus with plush reclining leather seats stopped to pick us up. So this was how we were really getting to the big city.

–

ON THE BUS: A CHINESE COUNTRYSIDE

Its looks real nice about 20 minutes removed from the sounds and sights of concrete and traffic. Out here farmland lay for kilometers and kilometers on end. Little shack villages and perfectly lined fields. Greens and Browns spread out so far and wide.

Big round wicker Chinese hats dot the land. You see scarecrows and motorcycles and little brown paths connecting each field and lakes and creeks with skinnier cows than ours bowing ever so gently to the earth. The hats bob in and out of focus . . . up and down they went in that continuous harmony sweetened with the hum of the engine. I dozed off in this dreamlike wonderland. And I awoke as the hum of the engine died down. We were at a rest stop. The old women travelling with me smiled and motioned that it was time for lunch.

After living in lands where I don’t speak much of the language I guess I’ve learned to survive with motions and hand gestures. I could change and just learn Chinese but that would be too easy. Charades is too much fun for that. I’m getting pretty good at it.

We ate lunch, the old women and I. The old women got up. It’s time to leave. I’ve noticed that when Chinese people are ready to leave . . . they leave. It happens fast. You have to be ready for it or you’ll get left behind. Not one to be left behind . . . lunch was over.

This thought occurred to me as we pulled out of the parking lot. Here I am on this bus in this tiny little corner of our big universe puttering from this city to that city and there you are on your little clod of earth. Why?

I have two thousand or so dollars (RMB) tucked into my socks. Who’s walking on twenty Chairmen Mao’s and has two thumbs? This guy!

At the next rest stop I picked up an apple pie and a coffee from McDonald’s. This stuff is going to kill me I know. But you have to understand that the coffee and pie make me feel like a real journalist and I like feeling like a real journalist.

I wonder if these peasants out here farming this green and brown land know anything about the Hong Kong skyline. What does the major city I come from and the major giant city that I’m going to have to do with these people? I don’t know. But then again what does a quiet little place like Carthage, Missouri have to do with let’s say Chicago? I don’t know.

I read the other day that there’s this push in Shanghai to outlaw the eating of dog meat in China. That’s good and all I guess. I mean, I love dogs but out here it just seems arbitrary. It doesn’t seem like it would make much sense to these farmers grinding plows against the earth. A posh Gucci sunglass wearing Audrey Hepburn look alike walking her French poodle in Pudong Park spouting off about animal rights just doesn’t make sense out here where survival seems a tad bit more important than a dog. I guess you could say that these two people live in two different worlds . . . two different realities . . . two different cultures . . . two different countries.

As we came nearer I had to pee. That part about being a real journalist (coffee and pie) has a downside . . . and it was catching up with me. I guess I don’t have what it takes to be a journalist after all. Thinking of dry arid deserts and squeezing my legs together I just remembered that I don’t have anyone meeting me when I arrive. It’s nice having someone meet you. But not this time. Not today. Today it’s just me and that city.

A friend that I made on the bus named Mickey helped me find my hostel. Thanks Mickey, I couldn’t have done it without you. Crowded streets. Bright lights. The rush of the city comes over a guy. With barely a pot to piss in I’m set up with a bed and a mirror and a make-shift sink to wash my face in the morning. This place was small but cheap and apparently safe. I bargained for the price and won or at least that’s the story I was fed by the fast talking owner Mr. Cheng. He quickly left me and moved on to his next victim/customer.

–

DOWN AND OUT IN HONG KONG:

This morning I’m in Burger King eating a sausage egg and cheese croissantwich (personal favorite). I think I’m addicted to fast food. I’m getting fatter every day. I have to tell myself that I’m not 22 any more. But myself doesn’t listen. I’m a theo-environmentalist/economist hypocrite. This stuff doesn’t sit in the physical or moral stomach quite the same way it did a few years ago. (Burger King and McDonald’s are sinful on nearly every front). Sitting, drinking coffee and looking out of the 2nd floor window I watched the street below. Imagine a bunch of really cute well-dressed Asians running intently every which way with newspapers tucked under their arms. That’s Hong Kong at 9AM. I figured it was a throw back to the London days. You don’t see this in the mainland (people reading newspapers) or at least I don’t see it.

I took the subway train and found the embassy and did what I came to do. I came to apply for my work-visa. But that’s not interesting. Well, I guess, tomorrow we’ll see if I get to go back to China…cross your fingers.

–

Afterwards I went and had a cup of tea downtown and read this J.D. Salinger quote from TIME Magazine in the memories of his recent death, his character Franny was quoted as saying, “I’m so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else’s values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn’t make it right. I’m ashamed of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I’m sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of a splash.”

I think he’s on to something.

–

I’m staying on one of the busiest foot streets in the world . . . Nathan Road in Kowloon. Trust me; Hong Kong is fantastic except for the Indian/Pakistani hustlers trying to get you to buy the greatest watch at the greatest price in the greatest city in the world. Or his best friend trying to show you the finest suit made out of the finest fabric for a fine tailored price just for you my friend. They are constantly in your face jockeying for your attention. I feel that their biggest mistake is assuming that I’m rich. I’m not rich. I teach English in China. The Chinese are rich. The greatest pleasures I can afford are those Chai Tea Lattes with shots of Vanilla-extract from Starbucks . . . and I did. Everyone is so well dressed here. I’m clearly third class. No watches or tuxes for this working class peasant.

–

THOUGHT FROM ANOTHER DAY FOR THIS DAY: I’ve noticed that an indulgent man knows for certain that either this world is coming or that this world is going depending on his temperament. Whereas a moralist only assumes that he’s preventing this world from being. But the world keeps defying him and continues spinning. The indulgent man nonetheless has scars that the moralist is quick to point out. But the moralist doesn’t know what the indulgent man knows.

–

I had a dark, cold and smooth Guinness on tap and it was good.

–

I ate a giant bacon cheeseburger at a British Pub with a cute girl from Thailand that I met there named Lamii. She was nice enough to grace me wither her presence. She made a seemingly normal lunch by my lonesome way more interesting. I’ll probably never see her again but that’s okay. Here’s a secret: Lamii was hot!!

Looking over Lamii’s dainty and tanned shoulders I had a view into the kitchen. My burger was much too large and greasy for me to stomach and especially with Lamii sitting there I didn’t want to look oafish or anything like that. So I sent some of it back and from over those flawless shoulders I saw the old Filipino cook, they called her mamma, take a bite or two from my lunch and toss the rest in the trash. Why do I see things like that? Things like that soften my heart and expand my mind. But things like that make me stop enjoying lunch with hot Lamii and I like hot Lamii.

–

QUESTION FROM ANOTHER DAY TO THIS DAY: Why did the British Empire give this place up? You know they could have kept it if they really wanted too.

–

When I went out this morning I went down the back stairway and into the ally. I saw an Indian/Pakistani sleeping on old potato sacks burrowed into the hard concrete by his DVD and trinket stand. This softened my previous judgment of the hustlers the night before. Why do I see things like this? But I still don’t want to buy a damn watch.

“I pity the poor immigrant who wishes he would’ve stayed home” -Bob Dylan. More often than not that song is about me.

–

The human eye is far superior to the camera lens I said to myself while sitting at one of the most famous harbors in the world on a normal Wednesday afternoon in Hong Kong. I guess you could say that this skyline ain’t bad. It has some color and neon.

–

Walking down Nathan Road standing waiting to cross the road I check out this Indian food restaurant banner on the corner. An Indian/Pakistani young man summons me and says he’ll take me to this place for dinner. I say okay. So I followed Malik (Malik means King in Arabic) to an obscure location up a dimly lit elevator shaft to the sixth floor to his restaurant called Ziafat (I don’t know what that means in Arabic). “Why is it on the sixth floor” I ask Malik in the elevator. With the thought lingering in the back of my mind that he’s either going to rob, kill or take me as a hostage because as it is I happen to have some racist and prejudices thoughts towards people who look like him. He patiently says, “Because it’s too expensive to have a store front.” “Oh, okay!” “So where are you from” he asked me, “America.” “You?” “Pakistan.” Ding.

I see a young man smoking a big hookah pipe surfing Facebook on his MacBook and two younger guys playing dominoes and drinking Coke. Malik sets the table and a short wrinkled old lady with smiles brings out my Chicken Masala and Naan! Aren’t we at war with Pakistan?

–

Down at the harbor again. Looking at that humble skyline again. Especially that building that Batman jumped off of in that Dark Knight movie. Have you ever noticed how dumb people are when they take pictures? We are weird you know. People stand hugging big plastic things massed produced for any city in the world and like that snap goes the camera lens. Why? It’s raving mad. It’s mostly girls. I don’t know how that kind of picture could bring any joy or happiness or memory into any ones life. Ask Tyler Payne how to take a picture if you don’t know.

–

The next day at the Hong Kong Art Center I read something painted on the floor by a piece of art that the artist was exploring the connection objects to their maker. He said, “A thing becomes a thing because of the vigilance of a mortal” –from the The Missing Parts Gallery.

I think he’s on to something.

I couldn’t help but think again about the mortal vigilance that went into that humble little skyline outside at the harbor.

–

Subway sandwiches, Captain Crunch and Dr. Pepper need I say more. Those things take some kind of mortal vigilance too I guess.

–

I met a Dutch girl with really flat hair at my hostel. Sorry that was my first impression of her. We talked a little and she says I’m reading the Message in the Bottle and I love it. “Really, I say. I’m shocked! The Message in the Bottle by Walker Percy? That’s one of my favorite books!” She scrunches her bland nose in a fit of doubt. Hair doesn’t move. She pulls out Message in the Bottle by Nicolas Sparks from her bag. I should have known better. A flat haired Dutch girl will never be cool. Next.

–

Walked into the Chinese Embassy like Clint Eastwood and walked out with my work-visa. I get to go back to China. Thanks for crossing those fingers back there.
–
INTERESTING FACT FOR SOME OTHER DAY: Wikipedia says that there are more people living or working above the 14th floor in Hong Kong than anywhere else on Earth making it the world’s most vertical city.

–

THIS IS COOL: I met up with my old friends JC Vandegevel and Aaron Carmichael and we went climbing up the tallest escalator in the world.

Later Aaron and I followed the white rabbit down the hole for about 10 city blocks underground. She was flawless. I ask, “Why is she walking so fast?”

“She probably thinks someone is stalking her,” Aaron says.

”There is. We are,” I say. He chuckles.

–

Aaron and I took the Lords Supper that day with Dr. Pepper, Chocolate Milk and Ruffles with ”big ass ridges.” Communion never tasted so good.

On this one street corner on a normal Thursday afternoon sat two young men from Carthage Missouri in the prime of their lives in the one of the most progressive cities in the twentieth-first-century. We sat in front of a chic Hong Kong boutique and ate Ruffles with big ass ridges. Thank you Plano Texas for giving us these cheesy ridges. A young girl looks back at us from her mothers side and I say for Aarons amusement only, “those are chips little one.” Aaron chuckles.

–

Later he sees me off. I think we hugged goodbye but I can’t remember.

–

Back to the beginning of my story. 4:27AM in that tiny-grey-van-taxi outside of the city with William Faulkner characters next to me. There was this old man, who looked blind, forced in the back seat next to a younger peasant couple gnawing on stalks of sugar cane and who happened to be talking very loudly. The blind mans wife was helped up front by a genteel gentleman in a black raincoat. She was old and frail, tight thin onion skin pulled hung against the sharp rigid bones in her face. I don’t know why but my stomach has always turned a little whenever I see old people.

There were these other two indistinguishable but warm bodies pressed against my shivering shoulder. The spiritual thing was, was that I could see myself in the rear-view-mirror. Driver was still puffin away on his new smokes from the big city and I was still getting sprayed with sharp spikes of cold rain. With the soft yellow glow from the dome light bending and twisting in the smoke I again checked my existence in the rear-view mirror.

And then the driver starts shouting “money” at me. He wants me to pay. I don’t have patients or time for this shit. I’m not rich. For Christ sake, the cute girl was warm and snug in her bed on that bus in that other story and here I was in this new story getting wet and irritable. I tried to woo him but he wasn’t having it.

–

He dropped me off at a bus stop. I told him too. Again, I stepped into the cold and rain and climbed into bus number one. My body cringed as it met the hard cold dead plastic of the seat. It’s still dark but 5AM is coming soon I reassured myself. Shivering. It starts up. Rumbles. Plumes warm smoke comes out of the wet pipes and enters the cool wet air outside. Fog lay in the windows. We picked up one, two, three . . . old people . . . women mostly. Where the hell were they going? They ignored me. I must have blended in. I was glad that I blended in. They talked and squabbled like all old women do.

My chin was involuntarily bobbing up and down. One lady took off her shoes and socks. She was rubbing and massaging her frail foot on this cold morning bus. My stomach turned. I hate when old people do things like this. It makes me nervous. I mean it looks like they’re going to break and fall apart.

Was this a secret society of old people? Let me remind you that nothing was going on in the city. 5AM. No lights. No nothing. Where were they going? They all got off at the same stop. My stop. I got off. They pitched their umbrellas and walked in a single file line into the shadows of the dawn. I heard them squabble some more from a distance but I dared not follow fearing rain and hoping for warm sleep. Someday I’ll find out what those frail stomach turners are up too.

I stood alone shivering under a bus awning. Bus 71 was beaming its cockeyed lights at me and the driver was perched in his seat. He was dry and warm. He taunted me. But he wasn’t ready for riders yet. I almost took a taxi but that would have cost me a lot of money and it would have defeated the purpose of not paying the small-gray-van-taxi. You got to live by principles or you’ll die in this world. Eventually the door opened and I got on and warmed my hands with breath and friction and fell asleep almost instantly in those cadaver plastic seats.

Nauseous from the jerking of the bus and sleep and with a body temperature that flirted with death I made it to my bus stop. With water puddles everywhere. I ran home. Running. Red lanterns hung in the trees. Orange bars of light were trying to shoot up from the foggy horizon. Cloudy. Rainy. Home. I fell. Slipped right on that slick marble slab that happens to be put everywhere in this country. Hurt. Pissed. Tired. But beautiful and ugly. I was home. Back in China. In that Clint Eastwood fashion.

–

An Angry Conversation of My Own

(A Tribute to Susan Isaacs and Her Book)

Have you ever been dumped in the name of God? I have. Have you ever dumped in the name of God? I haven’t. Well from my jaded perspective I think Valentines Day is a good opportunity to correct some misguided theology in regards to love. That said, I invite you to enjoy my lament . . . my imprecatory psalm . . . my story.

–

What the Hell God? Why do you keep intervening and ending all my relationships? I may not be perfect but I’m not a jerk in that traditional sense. I don’t cheat on anyone, I pay for dinners and I open doors and you can believe me Lord I am real polite when I meet mothers. And yes for Your sake I would never hit a girl.

Yet still you and your angels conspire against me. You whisper messages in the ears of these naïve creatures which leave them saying things like: “it’s just not right.” “It’s not you, you are great, really you are, it’s me.” Or: “I’ve just prayed about it and God doesn’t want this for my life.” And my personal favorite God is: “God has not given me peace about it.” I’m no saint but that’s melodramatic bullshit.

I mean, who can argue with the Almighty God who sits on high? Can anyone dispute you? You bet I can.

Lord, why aren’t you telling me about peace of mind and about the future of your will for my life? You have to know that these third-party-marching-orders are confusing the hell out of me and my thoughts about you. It looks like you are passing notes again God and I’m the smelly kid in class. Is this the case? Answer me.

Don’t be fooled by their delicate frames and bashful cheeks. They are evil, nothing good in them I tell you. They’ve high-jacked your language and marred your words. Their irrational emotions mixed with your authoritarianism is shame to my ears. They’ve used this Judeo-Christian-babble far too long. They’ve used it to cover up razor-thin insecurities about themselves and the world around them. Yes God, you own cattle on a thousand hills but you’ve been robbed. These wantons have stolen and ripped your words from your cheek to save their own skin. They twist and tangle your rhetoric and use it to fuel this hellish and heretical harangue that they insist you’ve proclaimed from on high. It looks to me as if they are throwing your will around like it’s a chew toy. Muzzle them.

Because hearing, “its God’s will for my life is getting old.” I mean, I’ve heard it four times now. Four times from these lucrative little prayer warriors of yours. I don’t want to name-call or anything but they are cruel and malicious with your words. Women like this have declared war on men in your name for centuries. I admit Lord that some Christian men do it too. My disdain burns for them as well. Avenge them all. Rid this from the face of the earth. Remove it from our memories. Dismember it from limb to limb. And leave nothing behind . . . no carnage, no tracks, no blood, nothing Lord.

Rein them in. You are better than this. Tell them the truth about love. Tell them that you don’t care about who they marry just as long as when they find themselves at this point that they give themselves whole heartily to the other person. Please tell them that love cannot be divinely orchestrated because if it is it’s not love. Make that clear. And gently guide them into the charm and vulnerabilities of a relationship. Tell them about how it’s both scary and wonderful to love someone more than yourself. Invite them to this table. Let them taste the fruits of love.

Please Lord don’t let this treachery and deceit off the hook. Don’t let them slid and slip and weasel their way out of your hands. They’ve ransacked my heart with your words and now it’s starting to fuck with my theology. I find myself questioning you because they expound with the surety of the prophets. Am I insane? Answer me.

Why are so quiet all of sudden Lord. You talk to them but you won’t talk to me?

It’s hard to blame them. I mean they don’t know what they want. Really who does? Take a girl with her mind made up and God’s Will is about all that will suffice. Have them confess their reluctance to be in a relationship. I could handle this kind of honesty and life wouldn’t be so confusing. You, Lord, wouldn’t be so confusing. I could move on and know for certain that you didn’t have it out for me. I would know that the master of the universe wasn’t plotting against me. Naturally, I don’t think you are but I’m starting to question your ways O God. A guy can’t help himself with this banal message of God’s will for my life cackling and ringing in his brain. I’m losing respect for Christians like this as we speak. So I’m asking you to tell those fluffy-pontificating-psycho-boy-hating-quasi-Christian-girls to silence their pretty-crimson-traps. And Lord, I beseech that you act in haste.

God, like I said, girls have done this for years. They go around wielding the get-out-of-jail-free-card (God’s Will for my life) and you let them do this. It’s safe to say that they’ve pillaged more men in your name than the Catholic Crusades. The Conquistadors, Lord, were dirty, rotten and mean but they have nothing on these conquering-matriarchs seeping up from the gullies of Gehenna. Hell, some part of me wishes that someone would Salem-Witch-Hunt them. I might be getting too mean here but these lewd Philistines are not interested in introspection. They’ll never pursue to understanding their own emotions. They could careless about knowing themselves. These gangly creatures masquerade behind a flimsy-self-construed-spiritual-mask wrapped taut before their shifty gaze. I’m baffled that you let them get away with this pageantry. Why would you do this O God? Shall I remind you that they’ll disown you quicker than they disowned me. And then they’ll give credit to some grotesque edifice that they’ll erect in a whim of loneliness. You’ve seen it all before. Shall I remind you of the fleeting Hebrews melting metal at Sinai?

How can you just sit back and watch them continue to break hearts in your name? I am convinced that the poets and sages . . . that the artisans and custodians of our language cringe at such negligent sophistry. Save face and stop this immediately. If you don’t, I will turn into a withered soul and then I promise I won’t even try to love again. I suspect that there is more heresy festering in the cracks and crevices of these forlorn creatures than there is in a Mormon tapping at my screen-door. In my opinion they are worse than the patriotic-George-Bush-Jihad-War-on-Terror that you were so frequently pinned for. Not quite as bad as Dick Cheney though . . . but then again nobodies that bad. You laughed at my joke. I made you laugh but yet you remain silent to my questions.

Don’t you know that you’ve been reduced to a trite excuse crafted to cover up an inability to connect with another human person. You should not be blamed for this fragile incapability of theirs. There’s no dignity in it Lord . . . none at all.

I have decided to date non-Christians. At least until this, God’s will for my life talk settles. Non-Christian girls won’t use your name to justify things like natural hesitancy and incompatibility. Yes, I’m fully aware that non-Christians are bad people, horrible people, profane people whose names are blotted from the book of life. Your great word makes it clear that they’ll be seared and licked by the dancing flames in your brooding lake of fire and that their teeth will rattle and gnash for all of eternity BUT Lord they won’t dump me and call it your will for their lives. And you know God, I can live with that. They’ll just dump me for other reasons. So God, until things change I’ll be dating non-Christians and I’ll be calling it your will for my life. That’s peace of mind.

Happy Valentines Day!