change

the more we think, the more we overthink. the more we overthink, the more we worry. The more we worry, the more we are afraid to act. THE more we are afraid to act, the more we hide. THE More we hide, the less we do...and so on and so forth.

Sorry I was going to keep going until every single letter was capitalized...but as soon as that "M" went up there I fully realized how bad an idea that was.

A life unexamined is not a life worth living, or something like that. Still, while overthinking, or being highly analytical (read "too") can be looked at positively and labeled reflection, maybe even wisdom, it does often lead to inaction.

We also dont' want to be creatures of pure emotion, pure feeling. If we just act upon carnal feelings of pleasure and pain and fear and desire...well we'll end up like the animals scurrying about after shiny things or scraps of meat.

I think that the answer lies somewhere in the stars. We have to think about what our dreams, goals, prayers, and ambitions are. We can plan, analyze, and worry about how to achieve them. But dont' worry about how others, including society, have to say about them. We can act, rush, and fly into these dreams...without losing focus on what these dreams are.

A person's life should have a tangible end, that requires the part of us that plans and worries and thinks. And it should take a passion that absorbs our soul and satisfies us.

We all deserve that.

Long awaited Post

Another long silent spell, but I wasn't really lacking things to write about. Rather, the last few weeks there has been a great deal going on...good friends visiting, new home new location new feeling, new function at work, and so on. But the relevant thing is that I'm writing more and more...just not on my blog.

Story ideas: Spindy, City, The Pilgrimmage, and one about a monster. Of course, I haven't even finished a damn draft of any of them, but I've been scribbling away like mad my ideas and inspiration seems to bubble forth compared to the on and off trickle of before.

So what's this post about? None of the above. This post is about my favorite video games of all time ^_^.

In no particular order:

Eternal Daughter- This is a creation of a guy named Derek Yu and his friend Jon, and Indy platform game centering around the adventures of a slave girl, Mia, who's fate goes beyond even freeing her people.

The game incorporates beautiful character design, good graphics (for a free game no less), and most important: great gameplay and storyline. The atmosphere of the game is really awesome, with a twisting storyline and perfect music that really gets you into the world Yu has created.

The jumping and control, Mia's light sword, collision detection, powerups and new abilities all make the gameplay nearly flawless. And due to the level of difficulty of Eternal Daughter, this is even more important. The game is a real challenge, from fighting Hume in his drill machine to completing the Dark Tower stage, I was hitting restart and cursing at a volume level I would be ashamed of except for at the time I was living alone =). The difficulty is on par with almost any platformer out there past or present, and I had shades of Ninja Gaiden in my brain with each death (but rest assured ED is not as "cheap" as Ninja Gaiden with it's insane jumping puzzles like when you leap over a chasm only to have a little bat swoop from nowhere colliding with you and sending you to your doom yes that memory still gives my legs a little twitch of annoyance).

But the combination of difficulty and atmosphere will have you keep coming back; battling harpies while listening to the beautiful piano in the ice stage or making your way through the forest really gets you immersed in the world. I hate to spoil anything, but the chaotic falling action really reminded me of the Dark Festival in the anime Berserk, and seeing your comrades around you in battle against a common foe in a nightmare world is really powerful.

The ending is appropriately beautiful. This game is free, here (or just Google "Eternal Daughter"): http://www.download-free-games.com/freeware_games/eternal_daughter.htm.

Damn I want to play this one right now, go Mia!

Castlevania: SOTN- Must be the best platformer ever made. Awesome graphics on the PS, spawned indy hits like ED as wel as console platformers everywhere, non-linear gameplay, magic con StreetFighter style joypad motions, familiars, a seemingly never ending supply of weapons equipment and enemies, GREAT music and atmosphere, Dracula, a secret second half of the game (which if you don't get to and complete, well you just haven't really played Symphony of the Night) and PERFECT gameplay.

I would suggest not using the Shield Rod + Alucard True Shield combination as it is cheap and allows you to coast through the remaining third of the game.

I must have played through SOTN 3 times.

Cave Story- Japanese name is Doukutsu Monogatari. A platform/shooter where you control a nameless warrior robot. You know nothing in the beginning and almost everything by the end. The anime style graphics and chunky explosions are perfect, seriously in terms of presentation this one beats out ED or any other indy game i've seen by a long way. Engrossing dialogue and characters, this one is more polished than ED...indeed more of a complete game than I'd say 95% of games out there on any platform. It is simply a perfect game.

Cave Story has a unique weapons interface where destroyed enemies leave powerups that upgrade whichever weapon you have equipped when you pick them up. Conversely, everytime you get hit your equipped weapon will lose some ferocity. The variety in weapons is pretty sweet. This one is more Metroid compared to ED's Castlevania, you get missiles, lasers, and other modern ordinance while Mia fights nearly exclusively with her light sword.

The multiple pathways in Cave Story are subtle yet very important. You can miss a lot, and gamers will probably be going out of their way to find each and every character to talk to or retrace steps-and not just for that elusive powerup; the story and world created are so cool you will want to get every answer to every mystery.

Presented in a very classic, 8bit style mixed with modern graphics, Cave Story also has a huge optional ending that honestly I could not complete. The game's difficulty is not on par with ED, but this "extra stage" was something I still need to conquer. It's not just an extra stage, it's the world. Get this game here: http://www.cavestory.org/index.php


Final Fantasy VI (III in US): My first RPG, I remember playing it on my SNES in my basement Christmas Day, the snow falling outside mimicking the swirling blizzard of Narshe.

Best story.

Best characters.

Best Final Fantasy.


Play these games if you haven't!

Psychedelic Shit

Man. For those of us who indulge in alcohol, for those of us on weed; for those of us who pop the pill for those of us who heed the warning of the psychedelic dark shrouded in tone, mistakes and errors beautiful waiting on the phone. We break it down and churn it up, in belly's vile with bile, and lest we sway to 'blivion our mind's eye sails the Nile, to plains white and green where the sun strikes down a pose so innocent and pure with a scent of decompose that lifts our spirits as the sand drops down and falls each grain we yearn to get back on our paws our toes our life.

Relationships are scattered by time of day and yeast, the work we put or not determines our heart's inner beat the corniness of writing this exposed and under siege means nothing compared to sitting by a peaceful chaotic, necrophiliac ocean's breeze.

To rich and haughty, handsome and fat, the wealth accrued is a matter of fact that brings order to the world and order to your life order to the filth and order to the knife. We dream of wicker chairs and fences feces dropped and names relentless. We lose our way and find our soul.

Every fucking weekend.

Heads roll. (our own)

Walk with Headphones on (something old I found)

Building a cresecdo with steps that align with bass and tune.

Afraid to take off headphones and listen to the dead silence of reality.

Knee creaking reminds me of mortality and I reflect again.

Lost to my own reflections.

But I’m getting better.

I wrote that letter as a goodbye to you, and to me (the old me you hated and I hate now but not the oldest me that was raised the right way)

23 and just learning not to look at people like supermarket shopping.

23 years and I can be friends with a girl and not want to use people. What’s the discount, the opportunity cost, the quality, the brand, and how useful?

Feeling at home in a place that can never really accept me as one of the family. Do I like that? Or did I just run out of options back in my real home?

Seeing images that turned my heart and gripped my fingers. Wanting to see these everyday to make me understand I had to change. Learning to do it myself from the inside. But those images still freeze my thoughts and shatter my complaints.

Not worrying about doing it myself, cherishing what I have instead. Realizing it’s ok to rely on others, to be ignorant sometimes, and to fail. Realizing that I have been helping people for most of my life and it makes a difference.

Just a little, beat by beat, it can grow into some symphony of happiness before it all slows down. But I’m not worried about time or the future.

23 years young and I think I am finding myself in a big way. Didn’t you always wish for this, David? Tears welling in your eyes not because you’ve had a drink or two, or made up with your girlfriend, or met a new girlfriend, or thought longingly about family or thought with a mixture of pity and protection about Megan or someone less fortunate than yourself. Stop myself and realize the music is so big. Maybe I can blame the music pulsing in my ears and giving me pause to accept the fact that this is just another “living in the moment” virtuoso that once again I will forget and later on forgive myself when I write another one.

No. I really have to believe it. This time. Simple life is something I can do. Complicated life is something I can do too, because I have some simple rules to live by. Loyalty, listening, patience, holding the ego in check, loving, spending time with those I love not those who fit the bill. Looking outside my window. Writing. Reading.

I’m a lone wolf, not a wolf but a rabbit who needs people now more than ever. But I sure can dream a lot by myself. That’s where I need to be, beautiful places that are merely a flight, train, bus, taxi, bike ride, walk, two steps away. Disconnect when I can, but accept the fact that I have bad habits. Those can only be changed with some patience. And if they don’t’ change happiness can still be achieved. I ramble on until I stop.

The real last goodbyes

Wind sucked out of my sails, leaning over the bike he just gave me because I didn't know what else to do, I watched as G Money jogged across the dim lit street at 4 in the morning.

"Take care of the bike, bro."
"Thanks a lot, man, I really really appreciate it."
"That's ok."
"Hey you should call Yumyi she and Chucky were calling me worrying where you were."
"Yumyi's freaking out." He was drunk and seemed almost disoriented, more so than usual.
"Yeah, think so."
"Well, I'm gonna get a cab."
"Here, G, take this," I tried to hand him 15RMB for a cab back to his house. He'd just given me his bicycle, it was the least I could do but he raised his hand in protest, anxiously.
And, then he left with a short and awkward hug. No promises of another meeting, no calling me little brother. He could have stayed on the corner we were on and hailed a cab; instead he jogged across two lanes away from me and he was still in sight as he waited for a taxi. I wasn't sure what to do, wasn't sure if i was supposed to reach out or go home or if I should have said something more.

That was how it had been with G Money for the last half year.

A little less than a year ago, Mast and G and I were drinking at the apartment Mast had helped G rent. We had already known each other for 6 years, these two older guys I really looked at as my brothers. I had stayed at G's house in the Philippines, gone to him when I was sick or needed advice. Mast had kept me going and guided me while I was hopelessly pursuing the girl of my dreams. We toasted. We put a strong, but emotional arm on the shoulder of our brother, a gesture that as the night and the whiskey wore on became more and more frequent until we weren't drinking anymore but instead confiding the importance of each other as more than friend but family until we all grew old. We cast our doubts into the water, real doubts that we knew would be scooped up and set aside by our brothers with warm words and confidence we ourselves couldn't muster until it came time to offer the same to them. We wished, and guaranteed, each others' success.

In the beach hotel, away from the girls and the brute, G Money and I sat across from each other with a bottle of his father's whiskey. It was very good whiskey, a bottle of Johnny Walker Premium. We had glass after glass; it was the first time during the whole 3 week trip that we'd been able to talk without the others around or worrying where to go next. He told me he felt like I was part of his family, and I replied that I was his little bro. We laughed about how that big brute had dove into shallow water all cocky and adventurous, came up shuddering shouting at me about something on his back and then lumbering into the boat with his back shredded by coral. We talked about his Korean girlfriend being accepted by his family. We talked about how much I missed my own girlfriend.

Me and KCho discussed the "death of our friend" right before KCho left. It was almost like he had changed, and since we had lost contact for so long I struggled to remember how it was that first Jiao Da Semester. G Money, the big bro, the prankster with a twinkle in his eye, the caretaker. Somewhere I know he's still all those things. But we were left instead with sharper memories of him having to teach English at 10 at night, of a tired and unenthusiastic voice on the phone. I knew I could depend on him if I needed him, this whole half year I've known it. But the downtime, the easy time, seemed lost.

And sadly, running away from me in the night, having left me with the exact gift I'd needed for 2 months, it seemed right.

Beijing Huan Ying Nin 北京欢迎您！

What are the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing about?

"This is China's party. They spend a lot of money, transform Beijing, and show off to the world for a month before getting dirty again."

"The Chinese government relocated business, homes, people and did anything and everything to insure a successful Olympics no matter the cost or moral turpitude. This was the ultimate example of the autocracy that still exists in China."

"Beijing and China are so polluted Western athletes were forbidden by their coaches from practicing outside. The environment is still on the back burner in China."

"Chinese athletes-- look at those female weight lifters--are doping. That's why they have so many golds."

Chinese athletes aren't doping, but they are kidnapped as children and then enslaved, beaten, and "trained" until they are gold medal-winning machines."

"Liu Xiang is a punk."

"Tibet."


There's a significant amount of cynicism and negativity surrounding the Olympics this year, that's for sure.

But one memory will remain, for me:

Plaza 66, a shopping mall on Nanjing Xi Lu. A huge projector TV hangs over a velvet red dais-platform showing the gold metal match of womens' 75kg Judo. A Japanese woman and Chinese woman tug, push, pull; hold the jokes about whether they are gals or guys because, honestly, they were more like bears.

No less than 60 people crowded around on the dais in the mall, watching intently. Japan has a 10 point lead. There is one minute left in the match. They grapple, with that big Chinese woman red faced, vainly tugging at her equally tired but game opponent. She pulls her down! She has a chance, but she can't flip her Japanese opponent for points, instead feeling the weight of adversity on her back and shoulders. They stand again, sweaty and exhausted, and I remember Rulon Gardner beating that undefeated, scary Russian Dude by basically laying around and being unmovable. In Judo, just as with Greco-Roman wrestling, the same factors applied: Too much weight, too tired, too late. The match counts down to 10 seconds, and the Japanese woman slaps away the hands of the Chinese on her way to the gold medal. The shopping mall crowd, who had been worriedly watching and voicing concerns, are now silent with nary a "Jia You!" to be heard.

And then Tong Wen threw Tsukada Maki and every one of those 60 people erupted. I saw one young woman with her face in her hands, shaking her head like she couldn't believe it and wanted to cry. Two old bald men laughed and hugged. I felt in that moment that the jubilation I was witnessing could only from Chinese, from people who follow their country with unwavering passion, whether right or wrong, just or unjust, good or bad, their pride in countrymen and then I thought about their hard daily lives, about the rail thin men peddling miles and miles every day with their huge burdens dragging behind them, thought about the soot covered grandmas looking for bottles to collect for a little bit of money.

When I saw that young woman with her face in her hands, shaking her head like she couldn't believe it and wanted to cry, I turned to the screen. And onscreen Tong Wen cried with joy, her coach jumping into her arms like a little child. Somehow these spectators were there, too, in the Judo champions huge arms, hugging the life out of her in a joy that was pure and real.

This is China's party. In that moment in a nondescript department store mall I felt inspiration and emotion mix together among strangers. It warmed them like hot congee soup. It settled in their bellies and made them smile. And it made them, in that moment at least, family. I think that's what the Olympics are about: moments like that one, stretched out over an entire month.

change, but not cutting chords

Idealism, romantiscm, self-loathing, personal tragedy affixation.

Cutting ties, freedom, embracing change and running away.

Variety and art, friendship and dislike and hatred and pride.

Disillusion, doubt, discovery, warmth.

Love, marriage, accepted and approved affairs, dishonesty.

Truth, light, kindness, and Love.

For Nana

You always wanted us to have something good. Whether it was the turkey, chicken, beans, potatoes, macaroni and cheese, pumpkin, Grape Nuts, or ice cream. Whether it was planning Easter Egg hunts, dinners, tips, or just coming out from that house in the Blue Ridge Mountains to greet us with open arms and a smile that brings to mind one word: happiness.

Nana was kind in the way grandmothers are thought of. She gave me presents, told me to study hard, and held me and hugged me. When I was bad to my sister, she would chide me, in a way so gentle even at a very young age I would feel ashamed for not listening to her. She told me I should be good to my sister, but she always told me I was a good boy. I wanted to please her.

Nana loved the birds, flowers, and fresh air up there in those mountains with Ding. That is my strongest and lasting memory of her. Sitting in a wooden chair or on the swing, kneeling by the garden or by my sister helping her find that elusive egg, or standing in front of the house always clad in a pastel blue or pink or yellow as soft and natural as the mountains and breeze.

Nana made the best bread I ever tasted in my life. The golden rolls, and especially the slightly sweetened loaves she knew I loved. I always wanted that bread, when we're kids we always want something good. And she gave it to me. Even when her mind began to deteriorate she wanted to help out. As before, she never wanted others to do the dishes. She wanted to help even more, perhaps she knew what was happening to her and was determined to fight it and show she was still the same old Helen Hawks. It was within a year that she tried once to pour salt into my cereal, asking me if I wanted to try something good. I remember I felt annoyed. As months and then years went by and her condition worsened and I sometimes wondered to myself would I cry when she died. I had begun to feel something like...ambivalence. I had forgotten my grandmother, forgotten how she was.

That time when she mistook salt for sugar, she was only staying true to her nature. She wanted to provide something to make me happier and a little more satisfied. Even in the later stages of her Altzheimers, even when she failed to recognize anyone except for Ding (who's always been by her side and she by his), one could feel it. Her smile was still there, she still loved the birds and was concerned about my education and informing me of what was important. The last time I spent with her was this June. She looked sad to watch me leave, but she was happy when she recognized me-flashing that warm and delicate smile and the clearest symbol that she was still herself shone through the haze. She was still Nana. I am sad to hear of her passing, but happy that we all got to know one of the kindest and warmest women in the world.

I love you Nana.

loss

Loss hits you in different ways.

a book store in the north

I'm leaving in about 15 minutes.

It was a great trip, these past 2 weeks.

Those I did get to see have matured, grown, blossomed even. I'm not talking physically of course, instead I saw people on career paths, language skills, successful relationships with friends and family.

The nature here is wonderful, and I just depressed myself by saying that. The nature in Washington, D.C. really made me say that? Ridiculous.

I'm going back not ready for the 14 hour flight and airport shuffle. I think I hate that most of all. Wish I could teleport. Such an arduous amount of time spent flying and traveling really makes me want to stay.

And, indeed, a part of me wants to stay. A lot. It's not just the fresh air. It's not just the people I can relate more to (whereas once upon a time about a year ago I was scoffing at the ignorant Americans when I visited home...arrogant in my labeling them as arrogant); relate to people I see on the street and will never talk to but we share a kinship in country and mindset I can't share with Chinese. It's not only the food and a lifestyle I deem now as luxury but once could afford. It's not just my friends who've known me for years, people I can talk to and who make me want to be good and remember that I am good and used to talk about right like it was truth instead of talk about wrong like it could maybe be right and probably was the reality we had to face. It's not just my father, a father who sits like a stone marker to all father's cool and wise and unmoving and dependable in a grove surrounded by obsidian trees that stretch near to blocking out the sun, he's there in that opening with all the answers on how to traverse everything and anything, he sits in that clearing not on some pedestal but rather in the bedrock of a little hill covered in grass and I can find him always. It's not just my mother, like some delicate fish I can talk to, when I was growing up I told her most anything and when it was hard on me to fit in or I felt sad she was there with a hand on my shoulder and a hug and the sweetest voice I ever heard from a woman and now she's a lily I want to protect and correspond with and maybe even work with as an adult the one who bore me and nurtured my kindness through her own infinite spring of gentle caress touch and words a soothsayer I can teach and learn from now. It's not just my sister, the one I must protect and I must cherish, the honest angel prone to fits of emotion that are something of great exaggerations of our own ups and downs we try and keep the water in her porcelain bowl fresh and replenished without spilling over but it will spill over time and time again and I want to be there because she is the one and only sister I will ever have and she is a reminder of good and purity and right and I love her. And she's wonderfully flawed and beautiful.

It's not only for all these things...but also a feeling I get here. Slower, more tranquil, a feeling of poetry.

It depresses me to think that I will always chase beauty, the kind of beauty you find at the end of a book. But it shouldn't. Sometimes I feel like the only way to live that kind of beautiful existence is to run away, again and again, to some new place touched by the same sun in a different way.

Fall in love. Over and over again. Be loved, leave, over and over again.

Chase beginnings, butterflies.
Shirk the responsibility of being around when things require real effort, discipline, love.
Be forever in the exposition, and the pages leading up to the end.
Heart quicken, breath slows.

I'm stuck here, waiting to turn the page and see that space of white indicating the end of this journey.

And the beginning of the next one.

See ya in Shanghai.

2 things: beautiful scenery and depression

I was thinking about how much a change of scenery affects our mood. Like music, only the song is a palette surrounding us on all sides, with smells in addition to sounds filling our heads and hearts. You can sit in a place like this and think, or not think while trying to find a Zen-like tranquility or a spiritual revelation.

It's feelings like this that people travel to places like this.

Safaris over sun packed earth, golden and brown and baked. Adventure and vigor and the wild.

Azure fields of grass tickling and caressing while another sun touches our faces from above. Nostalgia and innocence and soft beauty.

Nighttime walks through giant graveyards, fear and respect checking each other on a scale. Mystery, culture, mortality.

Nights measured in thumping bass and glamarous flesh, and bathed in rain and neon. Love, lust, and denial.

Rained on by kisses
from the happy mouths of kind strangers and family
Dark as delight
Sweet as salt

The next day
And it all ends perfectly,
Or bitter sweet at least as you drive past it out the window.
His neck hurt, he couldn't look anymore and turned around.
And we go home with a treasure in our hearts
It can't be sullied
but
It can't be recreated ever.

It's a shame I can't uproot some of this grass from the hill, mix it with the warm earth and sand, and put it in my mouth and swallow it to make me whole.

single in Shanghai

means if you are home at 10 47pm on a Friday night, chances are you ain't feeling right.

working from home

So China wants the foreigners out after Tibet. They couldn't handle that situation properly, got a lot of flak (rightly deserved) from the rest of the world, and want to do everything they can to avoid anymore during the Olympic Games in Beijing. It's harder to get visas, or should I say much harder to extend visas within China. China says: If you're not bringing something to the table, beat it. Young guys like me with minimal work experience are among the first on the chopping block.

Starting this week I've been working at home in my living room. Hunched over, unmotivated, and very fucking lonely. I see the nice weather on the outside, and feel angry at the situation that has left me a prisoner in my apartment. Whoever said working from home is great never had awesome colleagues at work.

One thing this has done is give my life a much slower pace than the past few weeks, and ultimately a chance to reflect on a very big decision I made. At this moment, I'm writing because I'm alone, scared, and kind of unhappy. I thought maybe I was getting off this emotional aysmptopic (that a word?-it is now) roller coaster that I've been on for as long as I can remember. I want to get off it. I feel like such a damn child, not able to stick with my decisions or maintain a semblance of will.

I'm partied out, again. I feel unclean from the inside, there is no washing away the sins possible. Something spiritual is in order...a trip to a temple or mountain or a conversation with an old person. My body hurts from the alcohol I drank last night, the poison ruining my mind and morals. I feel like I need to get out of Shanghai.

All of this i just thought of in the span of the last ten hours. Monday I was loving Shanghai and my lifestyle Maybe I need some sleep..

Oh yeah...I forgot I have to go back to the living room and finish up a lot of work I chose to ignore during the day. Fuck.

ooo the flossy flossy

Hang up my dirty coat, smelling of smoke.

And those lyrics are still in my head: "G, L, A, m, O, R, o, U, s. First claa-ass, up in the sky...champaa-agne, livin' my life..." the song is Glamorous by Fergie. It was the anthem, along with a couple others, of Shanghai 2007.

I love this song, my Korean friend and mentor tells me, my first semester of Jiao Da. We are sitting across from each other on the black marble tables. There are friends and lovers here, also next door at the famously strangely decorated "Korean restaurant" next door. That place is full of tears, goodbye's, hugs, and broken dreams set against a backdrop of black and white domino tiles and action figures. But back to the song and my friend.

This is my favorite song, he says, as I hear the words softly through his headphones on the table. The tune is beautiful, the words barely breathed. But listen to the words, not the delivery. Her lyrics begin, "My daddy told me..." fades away into the true meaning of the song: "If you ain't got no money take yo broke ass home!" And there you have it.

I cannot think of a song more appropriate to drive home the point in the way it is meant to be driven. We dream of neon lights, high rises, a towering view with all glass window, dim light from the outside illuminating a gray floor as we sip wine from an expensive glass held elegantly by forefinger and thumb watch as the cars go by 60 stories below and the beautiful people are ants on the streets going to visit some romantic nook or cranny in this, our city...it is our city; we built ourselves this life of leisure toasting with the successful, snapping pictures to capture our happiness which we cannot clearly remember after the rooster's crow.

I never wrote about starting work, which has been probably the most significant change in my life of the past four months. I work for a small company doing small but meaningful tasks. My first impression was: these people treat Shanghai differently. They are living the Shanghai life that I used to live when I first got here, even though most of them have been here longer than I have. I also felt,

"Damn, I'm doing robot work."

Tired every night, with eye strain and heat enveloping my brain from staring at a computer screen all day, I thought about quitting after my first month. I thought that even if I was making twice the salary I was, I wouldn't be happy doing this company shit.

I looked at Shanghai and the world through my all too familiar glasses: one lens was that of money, seeking the fast lane good life, easy women dancing on tables who could be yours. The other lens was the poet the questioner the money is not happiness life is happiness. I rationalized that businessmen were inherently cheaters, and had a different set of values. Dreamers, like me, while we sinned from time to time, were inherently good and had a moral fiber that made us unbecoming to the world of numbers and dollar signs.

I love my job now, my coworkers, and being able to go to work. I've had to work from home for the last four days and I absolutely hate it (more on this in another post). I think that says something. My morals haven't changed, but this small company where even my new voice is heard and where even my small decisions make an impact, is fun and what Shanghai is about.

I am not living the life. There's no Cristal on the shelf and I feel guilty if I pay over 100 kuai for a meal. Sometimes I dream of fresh grass, the beach, and clear skies. I dream of getting out of the city and working outdoors. I dream of finding a place to write and be away from the shiny exteriors.

But I think I've come to learn that all that glitters is not without value, that just because you work in a business doesn't make you a businessman and just because you aren't suited to the business world doesn't mean you can't help a business grow. Whew. We'll see whether this job gets me rich (unlikely) or stressed out (likely). But for now, I'm happy with my life.

It still remains to be seen whether I will need to escape this city for something more natural, more soulful...or whether I will find the soul within these dark, golden walls caressed by smoke and mascara.

I never thought I'd be here four years ago.

when that thing that should control the world doesn't

are we too different?
do we want the same thing and just can't make it clear
are we too yin or too yang,
or is the biggest thing fear?

i see crystals big and small
floating on the surface of water,
there are emeralds hidden in the grass, too.
and when the sun rises up
and up we finally realize where we are
and it won't matter how far we've come
or where we're going,

as long as I'm with you,
as long as I'm with you.

The true meaning of love

and someone sang:

and realized my mistake...

"I need love!
Love's divine!
Please forgive me
Now I see that I've been blind
Give me love, love is what I need to help me know my name."

I an not a poor, ghetto child who worked himself into success. Nor will I ever be, of course. I am not a genius, nor an ambitious entrepreneur, nor a young success story. I am a young man who's idea of success for so long (indeed even now) is love.

I felt, I feel that a love that I can count on both in the girl and in my own heart, is success. A child, a wife, a marriage in the future and a partner for the rest of my life is my vision of success. I want love that transcends boundaries and obstacles.

Well, I have discovered that life is a lot more complicated than love. One must be successful to show objects to friends, to hold up golden fleeces and stories to peers and opponents alike. We must have plaques adorned with sequin. We must make our families and friends know that we are exceptional. We must be on the tongues of others. Love will be a back note ultimately.

I have just broken my own heart. I don't know if it was my own choice or not. We are separated from animals by our ability to choose right from wrong, moral from un-ethical. Our primal instincts are ours to resist if we choose it. Love is not enough. Love cannot defeat circumstance. I do not know if love can defeat primal urge and instinct. If it can it is worth fighting for.

I am in love, an d will always love, the woman I have separated my heart from.

For all the rest, I claim ignorance. I will feel.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

When you first see Robert Ford in this movie, he is a shuffling, little man with a ragged stove-top hat. He makes his acquaintances in a halting, shy manner with glazed eyes that shift away lazily and the smile of a simpleton. Your first reaction will be more disgust then pity. So too, is the reaction of Jesse Jame's older brother, who shoves the 19 year old away with a six shooter in the opening scenes.

The film is narrated as if from a book, with eloquence added to by a very apt musical score. Sad, foreboding fiddles provide for a tale cold and unhappy. And if I could choose three adjectives to describe the movie I would choose dream-like, tense, and sad.

It was very hard for me to find empathy with any of the characters, from the aforementioned despicable, childish Robert Ford, to Brad Pitt's Jesse James or any of the other characters. The film's most charismatic character, womanizing poet Dick Little, is little more than a footnote I felt was put in to add more color to the drab gray canvas painted by characters, narrative, and score.
Yet the slow moving, drab atmosphere created takes on a very dream-like quality that I have not witnessed in films in my recent recollection. The language, whether accurate to 1881 or not, is a dash of Southern drawal sparkled with eloquence. Even the rhubes and hillfolk that make up the James Gang speak beautifully. I had to use English subtitles often enough, despite my Southern roots (sorry, Dad).

Another aspect that adds to the dream-like feel are the shots. The camera work is absolutely brilliant and often times both ghostly and beautiful. The first train robbery comes to my mind, as well as icy fields and sepia, photograph like scenes. Some scenes the edges of the screen are blurred, and this only serves to match the hazy reality we are given.

Indeed, relationships between characters, conversations, and intentions are all very....weird. The movie gives you a world where you cannot easily trust anyone, and this must have the intention: as Jesse James himself struggles with paranoia and a prophetic vision of his eventual betrayal he cannot escape even as he lays out preemptive vengeance. Even the one true "gun battle" of the movie is unreal, with pauses in the action that seem impossible as the 2 former friends fire at each other at near point blank range.

The tension is there when Brad Pitt is there; the narrator begins the movie with the line "Rooms seemed hotter when he [Jesse] was in them...rains fell straighter...sounds were amplified. Pitt is truly an intimidating presence in the movie. The lack of trust between the members of the gang and each other, between them and Jesse, is there in nearly every single scene. Conversations are awkward, halting, and yes visibly tense. It adds to the slow pace of the movie, the intensity, the dream like nature. I could not remember dialogue and character interaction like this in other films. Ironically, these characters appear very, very realistic in their mannerisms. The acting is top notch, every conversation is perfectly imperfect, and not once did I find anything corny in the movie.

Finally, the movie ends not with a bang, but predictably like the last few drops of a sand in an hourglass. We know Jesse will be killed, and Robert Ford not glorified but made a pathetic, hated, caricature. In the end I finally learned to empathize with the sad man, who wanted something of glory alongside his boyhood hero, only to find more rejection and more reminders of his incapabilities.

Can you handle such slow paced movie style? Imagine the movie like a Sunday afternoon, lazy and drawn out, with meandering convo now and then. I liked the movie, I think it stands out. The movie as a whole is fuzzy and a bit perplexing. I do not think it gives us a very clear portrait of the famous outlaw, his men, or even of his killer. But perhaps that's the point. Legends are part truth, part rumor, and there is no such thing as ultimate truth in history. Whoever wins gets to write it, and sometimes it's not even clear who the winners are.

When the good ones go, you feel it.

The past couple of weeks has been a bit of a transformation in Shanghai life for me (more on this in another post). The short of it is I am more happy here in Shanghai than I have been in a long, long time.

Part of it is working full time instead of bumming full time, another part is that the weather is getting warmer. Yet another part is that the friends I have here are not just going out, clubbing buddies. They are people I feel i can talk to, chill out with, and who I care about.

Last thursday one of my faves, I call him Randolph, came back from Singapore for a visit. He has been staying at our house. His energy, passion, and good nature really made me realize how much I liked him. Our interests are very similar. Back during my first semester at Jiao Tong, we had a lot of moments where we shocked each other because of this. Our styles couldn't be more different, he's loud, dyed, and will start cursing at you once he gets your name. I'm quiet, diplomatic, and am uncomfortable crossing many boundaries with people I don't really know. He is very Chinese/Singaporean (duh): career driven, ambitious, and with a desire to better himself. He once twisted his face when i talked about my future dreams for myself.

"I could see myself on a farm. Maybe a remote area where I could write. Either of those, or some kind of work involving helping people..." I had said semi-absentmindedly. His sharp reply came as a snap:

"Fucking American! Too much time spent in your idealistic bubble dreaming of bullshit."


Despite our different opinions on success and value, I felt a kinship with him that is hard to find. We shared Warhammer, Fallout, martial arts, physical training (to the point we and KC formed the Spartans), dark and twisted stuff (no not S&M), and a bunch of other nerdy/weird hobbies.

His time spent with us makes me wish he was back in Shanghai permanently; he is a very good friend who gets pleasures out of the simple things. I do not know what exactly he is doing back in Singapore, but I know he is hard working and this little, simple vacation back here in Shanghai has been great for him.

The night before he left, our good friend K. Masters, who has lived in Shanghai for almost 3 years, announced he had decided to go back to the Boston and study music production. He had thought long and hard about his decision, and told us it had come like an ephiphany to him the night before. He said that everything was clear for him, and that for the first time in months he was excited about moving forward with his life, and getting out of the endless swirl that Shanghai all too often becomes for expats.

While congratulations were on all of our lips, the feeling in the room was palpabally sad. We had been expecting him to maybe make the choice to go back home to the States, but when it comes it is hard to take. K. Masters is one of the nicest guys I've ever met, maybe even nicer than me. He has a beautiful, loving girlfriend, a great knowledge of drinking games, and a Wii. I am glad to have met him and wished he could stay. But no friend has the right to stand in the way of someone's goals and passions. I think we spend enough time searching for ourselves in these years, wondering where our potential should go or why the hell we studied international relations. He has found his, and I'm happy for him.

When you come to Shanghai, you meet a lot of friends. You party, you make new friends. You go to bars, to class, to dinners, you make more friends. Then they leave, and you are shellshocked a little. This happens a few times and you become wary of newcomers. You find a job, hang out with those who have chosen Shanghai for the medium-long term, and become close to them. They become more than drinking buddies or hunting parties or All-u-can-Eat Japanese comrades in arms. You start to feel like Shanghai is your home.

And then they leave, too.

In this city where stasis is a virtual impossibility for us, we all wonder regularly: "What am I doing here?"

an old school ost

I currently can not finish a blog (currently working on: Yunnan, starting work at a business in SH, family and friends) on anything.

For the hell of it, here is a post in the tradition of my old xanga ones. Totally inward-looking, diary style, full of raw emotions and some teenage angst stop plights, and guaranteed to bore you to tears. Well, it's my blog and I'll write what I want to.

Between a rock and a hard place. Last one to leave the office on a Friday night, make the commute that has become an always changing sea faces; changing faces that also always creates the same, gray mural.

Anger and disbelief, pride and a questioning of right and wrong. How far can I be pushed? Am I an angry person waiting to snap and hidden beneath a thin layer of the calmest frosted ice?

I am tired, semi-lonely, unfulfilled, and find it hard to believe I was happily talking with my Mom who is retiring today just a five hours ago. Hard to believe I was being doted on with fresh pasta by the beautiful girl I'm in love with just three hours ago.

Fulfillment is a day to day thing. It's in your plans you set for yourself. It is in the music you listen to and what you allow yourself to experience little by little. It is familiar often enough, but you will be surprised at how many familiar places, people, and things will brighten up your life and give you a nostalgic tug that shakes you out of the mundane.

I just chose a bad night to write about instead of a good one. Sounds like me.

Traveling to an Artist's Paradise

My friend H-dawg, who had lived in Shanghai for some four years, was once contemplating his next move in China. The night we met for the first time over beers (memorable not only for the conversation but because it was a rare instance I wasn't drinking Suntory or Tsing Tao) he told me he did not love Shanghai. He told me had a hard time seeing himself in China in the near future. The lifestyle is too fast paced, money oriented, and artificial, he said. In Shanghai, there is no nature. He was a guy who backpacked in the Northwest of the States, traveled alone throughout Asia, and who had a fresh outlook on life after spending years working for a big, multinational company. H-dawg admitted that night he was trying to figure things out, and I felt a bond between us form based on our viewpoints and circumstances despite the fact we were not peers. He would go on to give me a lot of advice about life in Shanghai and about life in general. One of these tidbits was to go to Kunming in Yunnan, his favorite place in China.

I had heard from friends about Yunnan, one of China's southwestern provinces known for its calm, chill atmosphere. I am one to happily dole out advice when I feel it will serve others the way it has served me; I recommend anything and everything that has moved me or helped me, from movies and books to basketball and traveling. Some movies, when the final song plays and the credits role, stir up enough emotion in me that I feel changed temporarily. With good books, the feeling is usually even stronger. (right now I have been getting my roommates to read The Road by Cormack McArthy, a book my father recommended to me).

But I am usually not the type to take a recommendation. I suppose this is not a very unique character trait or foible. Most of us require a trusted source, either a very established professional (i.e., Roger Ebert) or a friend whose opinion we listen to only because we know they have a similar taste. For me it is very hard. I can talk about the beauty of Guilin, the homeliness of Yang Shuo or Arizona and New Mexico, and I can go on all day about the bento box n' bonsai feeling of cultivated magic in Kyoto. But when people talk about places they've been, about the special people and sights they have seen, I hate to say that I automatically file their words away and forget about them.

I ended up traveling to Yunnan with my friend and brother, right before I started work. Originally, it was going to be the first stop on a longer journey, but because of the job that arrived rather unexpectedly, plans changed. Instead of looking at it as a shortened vacation, I approached it as a trip in between my idyll student days in Shanghai and what promised to be a 180 shift into packed scheduling. It was also a goodbye trip with my bro.

We were, and are, and always will be, very different. We both have given each other a lot of advice, and I don’t think it would be untruthful to admit that most of the time we did not follow it after it was given. Stored away like a file. But, often enough, while we may not have wanted to hear it at the time, we did reopen that file at a later date and tell the other that they were right all along.

Yunnan was as chill, serene, lazy, and interesting as it was described. The feeling of community was strong. The shop keeps didn’t haggle your head off trying to squeeze RMB out of you with a lemon juicer. The air was fresher. The families smiled more. And the foreigners, when asked what they were doing there, didn’t say “marketing, sales, import/export, trade, or take advantage of the burgeoning Chinese economy to squeeze dollars out of the situation with a lemon juicer. Chinese and Waiguoren hung out for coffee, listened to hip hop, played guitar, skipped stones, discussed books, and communicated in a natural fashion very hard for me to find in Shanghai. Certainly, it went beyond the young Chinese girl/old white man Corollary.

The foreigners we met were dressed like hippies: baggy jeans and track pants, hiking boots and backpacks, bright colors and beanies to stuff their dreadlocks in. Their style, and that of the local Chinese in Kunming City, was a stark contrast to sleek, sexy Shanghai.

We asked them what they were doing in China, what they were doing in Yunnan.

“I’m here working on my thesis.”

“I’m here on a Fellowship, studying the Hui Chinese Minority.”

“I’m on scholarship. Writing about minority populations in China and then a children’s educational book about them.”

“I’m studying Chinese and traditional Chinese music.”

“Philosophy.”

“Traveling, life, and writing about it in a book. That’s my goal.”

“I’m just chilling out, man. And there’s no better place than Kunming.”

There was a point in conversation at a small café/bar where I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I talked about love and life and philosophy and spirituality with people my own age. It reminded me of walks through China and Japan with P.Stone back in my senior year of college. It was the first time in a very long time the matter of conversation wasn’t tied to money, jobs, or a hot girl.

People find, form their own connections to places and people. One place in Dali was a great find-Joe’s Sandwich House. Soft lighting, wooden interior complete with a creaky staircase, and wi-fi high speed internet made it a pleasing atmosphere both quaint and modern. The menu had everything. I really mean everything. I was expecting sandwiches, wraps, and local Yunnan Chinese cuisine. But the scales were tipped with pasta carbonara, tacos and burritos, fudge brownies and Mango smoothies and wings and Indian curry. I was with my bro, a friend so close I had his name tattooed on my back. Everything was cheaper, too, and sometimes that is just enough icing on the cake to make it scrumptious.

Kunming, Dali, Lijiang…all in the Southwest Yunnan Region of China. With farmers, ethnic minorities, and down to earth people, this place suited me more than Shanghai. I think I came to this conclusion in my first couple of hours there. We slept on couches and in hostels. Thanks to Mike for his hospitality and guiding us around, Ahram for a late night philosophy session that made me generally intimidated by his intellect and beautiful ideas.

Perhaps I will try and go back to Yunnan for a few months on some sort of studying Chinese, reading, writing, soul purifying little journey. That area is a good one for soothing your soul, and I recommend it to you and anyone who wants to travel.

I felt like I was in…maybe not Heaven…but a mountain town not too far away. Thanks to H-dawg for helping me find it.