dreams

Sometimes, it is in waking that I sleep.

Who has not felt it? I slough the dreamy fog of days and wake to worlds alive and bright. In my dreams there is a mission, a purpose, a gasp of breath, a shout. There is horror also, and fear, and hate. There is a darkness older than man, and I am let to wallow in it as I claw my way back to the world.

And in my dreams, too, there is a burning sun warming an endless sea. And there is hope. And there is love. And the bounds of earthly concern are loosed, and I am set upon the sky a constellation. And I am wrought of sterner, stronger stuff than in my waking dream.

I have lived full lives in my dreams. I have gone from child to man to old man in the space of a night. I have left the memoirs and testaments of lifetimes in the impression on a pillow, and I have seen those lives fade in my mind’s eye as quickly as their epithet.

Do they watch me from some other place, my dream selves? Old and young alike. Do they dream of me even as I dream of them? Or are they simply wisps carried on the breeze of imagination? Perhaps they live in me somehow, even as they fall victim to morning’s light. Perhaps they gain life eternal, locked in some small part of my mind that remembers their existence if not their stories.

What tremendous responsibility I bear, then: the weight of those thousand pasts all resting on my shoulders. Have those of me who have gone to pasture in my mind bestowed upon me their will to be? If I am their only hope, if only through me can they reclaim their forgotten world, then I am a scion to that forgotten pantheon. The one last hope.

And have I hoped, in my dreams, not to fade? When I open my eyes on a new day, and, for a time, look on the world with a mind not my own, but that of a dream-self clinging to life, I truly think so.

And I like to think there is triumph when trailing tendrils of sleep wrap themselves about me, and I am borne again to the sea.

Sino-Malady

I was told by many before I got here that the first thing that you are required to do upon arriving in China is to get sick. Every traveler I’d met told me to prepare for the worst; they told me that the mixture of smog, questionable drinking water, un-FDA-ified food products, and general filth was a sort of reverse catholicon, ensuring a uniquely horrifying sickness experience for one and all.

And so I arrived in Beijing determined not to succumb to that dreaded infirmity. At first, despite the mixture of jet-lag and confusion lowering my overall immunity, I felt fairly confident that I would make it. I was steered clear of shady food by my friend and temporary host, Chet, I felt none of the telltale signs of sickness that I have come to know so well, and I avoided tap water like the plague (which, ironically, it possibly contained).

But 5000 years of history and viral circulation was not to be denied, and on my 6th day I awoke well before dawn with the first of many hints that I might be succumbing: uncontrollable diarrhea. From approximately 3:30AM to 6AM, I made at least 15 trips to the bathroom, the last few during which I’m almost certain I evacuated several of my back teeth. At 6AM, however, I received a much needed reprieve as the flow of traffic suddenly reversed, and I, in the space of a few seconds, reenacted the entire consumption of my dinner from the previous evening in reverse. It was quite a show.

Exhausted by the performance, I curled up for a quick nap on the bathroom floor. After a few moments, however, the rumblings in my stomach suggested that I take that nap sitting up, which I did. Eventually I dragged myself back to my makeshift bed in Chet’s study, and sank into a deep coma-like sleep.

Around 7:30AM I received another clue to the origins of my ordeal as Chet approached my door, swaying unsteadily like a zombie, to inquire if I, too, was feeling ill. I informed him that not only was I feeling ill, but that I had been sharing some disturbingly intimate moments with his guest bathroom for the past several hours.

“Throwing up helped,” I weakly suggested to him as he staggered back to his room. Later, what sounded like a bear attempting to sing Pavarotti began to audition in the master bathroom. The most I could muster was a muted chuckle as I pulled the blankets over my head and was consumed again by sleep.

Apparently, the food that we had ordered delivered the night before contained traces of some nameless evil that rendered the two of us useless for the remainder of the day. I spent most of the day sleeping, and the rest waking up in strange places and wondering how I got there. For variety, I interspersed this with uncontrollable shivering and more bathroom escapades.

Curled up in the bottom of the tub with shower water beating down on me, lying prone in a patch of sunlight on Chet’s living room floor, sprawled across a wooden bench with a Tonka truck as a pillow, and sitting at the kitchen counter with my moist forehead resting perfectly in the rim of a lukewarm mug of tea were only a few of the strange places I regained consciousness that day.

Chet and I crossed paths occasionally, in our wanderings around the apartment. We would grunt what neither of us was sure was a greeting or a dry heave at each other and continue on our meanderings. We were much like the walking dead…only aimless as if all the humans had already died. Suffice it to say that we both eventually recovered. The next day we were both more or less convalesced, leading us to believe that it must have been one of those 24 hour poisonings.

In my errant anticipation, I had thought that the sickness would come for me from the skies in the form of bad air quality lowering my immunity. But, as if sensing my wariness towards that angle of attack, the insidious affliction hid itself in an unsuspecting carton of sweet and sour chicken. I almost wish that I had been less vigilant and let nature (well, actually, the opposite of nature) run its course, for in my futile calculations I failed to factor in the risk that my friend and comrade Chet might become the collateral damage of my initiation illness.

Hero

When I was a kid and every other kid started to become an enigma and every adult around me was an enemy or a threat, including my own parents …

When I was a kid and was lost in a place between boyhood and adolescence and the sweetness of childhood was leaking out through the cracks of the world leaving ever expanding drying pools of reality…

When I was a kid and the lines became blurred, and the blacks and whites swirled together into a tapestry of grey like a fog, and that fog was called the future and I walked towards it on tepid feet…

There was only one man. One man who I could always look up to. One man who knew right from wrong, who knew pain and loss and who, in spite of his fear, would never stray from the path he had set for himself. There was only one man who was strong, and kind, and good, and who, in spite of his recriminations and self doubt, always stood up for what he believed in.

I wanted to be that man.

I had his weaknesses, his fear, his uncertainty and his loneliness, but I wanted his strengths: His unwavering belief in the goodness of people, his inflexible sense of responsibility, and his ability to never back down…

And, of course, the proportionate strength, speed, and agility of a spider.

When I was a kid, Spider-Man was my hero.

I fancied myself a Peter Parker of sorts. Mild mannered, small and inconspicuous, but hiding in plain sight, waiting for a chance to be something more.

Pete was always a loner in the beginning, always outside the crowd looking in. Always silent and insecure. But when the mask went on, Peter Parker melted away. He became the joke cracking, high flying hero. A whirlwind, all bright colors and speed. Not only would he put the bad guys down, he’d do it while talking their ear off at the same time. He had so much to say, Pete did, but he couldn’t say it any other time. I don’t even think he knew he was so funny until he got bitten by that spider.

I loved that about him. Loved the fact that maybe, just maybe, what I was wasn’t all that I was. Somewhere beneath my mild mannered façade, maybe there too lived a hero, a funny guy. Someone people looked up to, someone they respected.

But I was a Peter Parker without a Spider-Man. I was just me. I couldn’t blow off steam by swinging around Manhattan or beating up bad guys, so I settled for reading about Spidey. I would daydream for hours that I could do all the things he could: dive between skyscrapers with confident abandon, dodge bullets like punches, smiling all the while. But when it came down to it, I couldn’t do any of those things. I was too young to even have control of my own life, and too unfocused to know what to do with it if I did. Heck, I still am.

So I played Spider-Man in my head. Always looking up, plotting the angles, always diving through the sky in my mind.

I’m older now, and while I still love comics, possibly even more than I used to, the world that Spider-Man lives in is just too far from my own to draw me in like it once did. I’m still like Peter in my own ways, but more like the older, grown-up version of him (minus the supermodel wife). No more glasses, no more awkward shyness, and more of that Spider-Man charm leaking through into his life than ever before.

I’m satisfied with that. Spider-Man got me through the hard time that all kids go through on their way to whatever they’ll become. He was an escape, sure, but he was also a friend and a role model when I didn’t know where to look for either. And while now I’ve got both, I know that I owe some of who I am to Peter Parker and his secret identity that I took for myself.

I don’t daydream nearly as much as i used to, but I still find myself watching the city skies hoping somewhere deep inside that I’ll catch a glimpse. Even now, despite all the reality I’ve been pumped full of, it’s hard for me to imagine a New York City without a Spider-Man.

He’s not out there in the real world, but he is in mine, quick with a quip and a web, as ever. So when I look up it’s not as mild mannered Peter Parker, it’s as Spider-Man, and the city is my playground.

And I’m a hero.

L2LB

绿茶 means green tea. Of this I am certain.

My pronunciation is perfect. My tones are correct; I even inflect the umlauts over the “U” in Lu, meaning green. I repeat it several times listening for mistakes, examining my words for possible mistakes. There are none. The waitress stares at me blankly. Finally, after the 4th repetition, her eyes seem to brighten and she turns and quickly runs off to the kitchen. Moments later she returns and places before me a tall cool mug of beer.

In the United States, there is no real frame of reference for this phenomenon. It brings to mind a scene from the movie Anchorman where Ron Burgundy fails to comprehend the English advice of his Mexican bartender responding with “What? Were you saying something? Look, I don’t speak Spanish.”

Despite the myriad cultures comprising the U.S., when addressed by someone there, it is almost always in English. We come to expect it; regardless of the apparent nationality of the person speaking to us, we anticipate they will speak the lingua franca.

Not so in China. Perhaps it is because there are many foreigners whose knowledge of Chinese is paltry at best; perhaps it is simply because the Chinese lack the national sense of entitlement that leads Americans to expect everyone to know our language. In any case, it gives rise to the “Level 2 Language Barrier” or L2LB as I call it: the inability of a native person to comprehend that the language they are being addressed in is their own. So intently are they listening for the signature lilt of whatever foreign language they expect, they simply do not recognize the fact that what they are hearing is Chinese.

It leads to situations like this one, where after a long walk exploring my new neighborhood, I enter a restaurant off the beaten path which likely does not often cater to foreigners. It is on the second floor of a building housing a small cafeteria and a supermarket in the basement and it is very prettily decorated. The staff is polite and courteous and seemingly of sound mind.

So while I know that the L2LB is likely the cause of the confusion, I can’t help but to question myself. Did I truly learn Chinese? Was it all just some cruel joke played on us hapless linguists by our teachers? Is it possible that I don’t actually know Chinese?! It doesn’t help that many of the words we learned as standard for everyday things like “bathroom” and “restaurant” actually turn out to be the most obscure way of saying them. So I can’t help but to wonder if I’m truly that inept, or if, perhaps, I am the butt of some colossal cosmic joke.

It’s finally starting to sink in now, after a few weeks, that maybe it’s not ALWAYS me. Sometimes my lack of Chinese practice over the years IS the issue, but other times, when I get that blank stare of utter incomprehension, I may just be dealing with a L2LB.
Still, it certainly affects the confidence level required to function here in Beijing. Language skill often takes a big backseat to the audacity of the practitioner. I’d like to say it doesn’t, but these little encounters still take their small and temporary toll on my morale.

I order the remainder of my meal by pointing at the little pictures on the menu. I sit and eat, and I think.

And I drink my beer in silence.

Secret World

The courtyard is clean and modern, a square of whitish stone enclosed on all sides by smooth faced buildings with empty windows like hollow eyes, guarding. There are two exits leading from this place:

One stands arrogantly, glass plated and new. It leads to the atrium of some office building where women with summer scarf wrapped necks, like 1960s stewardesses greet you with slanted smiles which clearly invite you to state your business or go. Beyond them is the street, all bustling thoroughfare, ripe with the working class. Looking in, they would see only the building’s front, clean and pristine, reeking of today.

But we are still in the courtyard, and behind us there is another egress.

There is a gate of rusted greenish grey. It sits on rusted hinges, slightly aslant. It is the color of a Great War tank and it opens to a world seemingly from that era. Through that gate lie the hutongs: the narrow alleys and streets which once comprised the whole of Beijing, and which now exist between the whispers of the city. They fully inhabit their niche, swelling with smells both sweet and sour, lined with vendors whose wares have not changed in scores.

The hutongs are the old men of China. The thin veins of their streets ill fit the cars which occasionally traverse them. The children playing, even, are children of another aeon. The old men and women, wizened, worn, and small, but stately in their way, hunching never at the shoulders, hands clasped behind decade bearing backs, pepper the hutongs like living reminders of all that was, and living denials of all that is. The hutongs are fewer with every passing year, victims to progress, and their swan song is as breathless as their unvoiced protest.

This, it seems, is the China of the day; perhaps the China of all days that have gone before; perhaps the world itself, reflected through an Eastern prism: the new and the old, the young and the aging, locked, not so much in struggle, but in constant change as the generations roll inexorably by and the children have their turn to shape the world.

The essence of China is not in the shining city, however, but behind it. Like the smog, which often hangs heavy over the city like a shroud, the bright lights and monoliths are a curtain obscuring the reality. This is a place which, 40 years ago, did not exist in even a semblance of the fashion it does today. In many ways it still does not exist.

The city has all the trappings of a contrivance, all the glamour of a façade. The fluxing reality lies hidden behind that front; a secret world trapped within an ever changing cityscape, and fading, slowly, into memory.

Tales of Embarrassment

I’m at Fordham Prep school in the Bronx and I’m about, oh, I don’t know, 12 or 13. Anyway, it’s a summer program of some sort, I don’t really know the specifics, but the main activity is basketball.

By this time in my life, for some reason, I had already developed a deep distaste for team sports. I think originally it was that I didn’t want to be depended on, and later in my life, probably for my ego’s sake, it turned into not wanting to depend on anyone else. Plus I hate losing… a lot. So much so that often, I’d rather not try than lose

Anyway, while everyone else is running up and down the court playing offense and defense and all that, I’m kind of trotting the baseline back and forth not making eye contact and hoping that no one will notice me and pass me the ball.

My main fear at the time was the possibility of shooting an airball. Independently, “airball” sounds pretty cool. It sounds maybe like a magical toy, or a game played in the clouds by angels, or like a marketing gimmick to sell balloons. But in basketball an airball is a mark of shame, an athletic scarlet letter, and I wanted no part of it. For the 45 minutes or so of that game, all of my self confidence and self worth was inversely proportionate to the distance of a ball shot from my hands to the basketball hoop. If the ball never touches my hands then the equation is null and I can go home free of self and peer inflicted humiliation.

So there I am, jogging up and down the court looking anywhere but at my teammates. Suddenly out of nowhere (nowhere, in this case, being the hands of my overzealous teammate) the basketball comes flying towards me. Having trained myself, over the course of the past half an hour, to not touch the ball or have anything to do with it, there was but one correct reaction: to duck, which I did almost reflexively. The ball shot over my head and out of bounds.

As it turns out, there are actually more embarrassing things you can do in basketball than shooting an airball.

---------------------------------------------------

I’m the best student in my Japanese class in my sophomore year of college. This is doubly impressive considering that I attend the class approximately half of the time. This percentage is actually considerably higher than for my other classes. I like Japanese.

There is a multi-school speech contest to be moderated by Tim Cook, the very teacher who starred in the video lessons I took in my senior year of high school as a part of its fledgling Japanese program. He is a celebrity to me. My teacher hounds me relentlessly to participate, and I finally give in. It’s not like I’m doing anything else.

I write my speech and my teacher helps me translate it. There are two weeks until the speech contest during which I must memorize it and work on my delivery.

I spend those two weeks doing everything but that.

Two DAYS before the contest my teacher calls me in for a 1-on-1 rehearsal. Two HOURS before the rehearsal I start to look at the speech. By the time I am to meet her, I’ve memorized about half of it. The next day at the final rehearsal I’ve somehow managed to temporarily jam almost all the words into my head.

The next day, the day of the speech contest, I enter the auditorium which is surprisingly and disconcertingly full. My classmates are looking at me like I’m Luke Skywalker come to save the day.

The rest of the day is a blur. I remember small snippets: students from other schools spouting the most eloquent and perfect Japanese I’ve ever heard; a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I’ve come to recognize as that of impending doom. And, of course, there was my inevitable performance.

I remember my nausea after finishing the first four sentences of my speech, the only ones I still had memorized. I remember glancing up occasionally as I woodenly read the rest of it off of some sheets of loose-leaf.

What I see: my teacher holds her head in her hands and is either laughing or sobbing uncontrollably. My classmates shuffle their feet and won’t make eye contact with me. Tim Cook sits at the judges table, a look of distaste and disdain on his face. Some girl mouths the words “my god” to her neighbor.

I drop out and join the Air Force. It was the only choice, really.

Rising Son

Konnichiwa, I am Japan.

Relatively recently in my history, in the midst of my transformation from a post-war pariah to a burgeoning economic empire, a child was born across the world. Despite my small stature, my shadow loomed large over this soon-to-be young man from a very young age; from books and movies and the study of martial arts, this youth was swiftly swept away by my legend, even as I left that legend further and further behind.

To this boy, the tales of Japan, told second and third-hand in manga, anime, and movies, were no more legends than were the daily news reports. They held the reality of story, which preys on youth, and they formed in his mind an idea of honor and a vision of strength that captivated and enraptured him. Their ideals became more real than reality, their stories became doctrine. These are tales I know well; the sound of their tread is as a heartbeat to me, as they have walked my shores for centuries in one form or another.

More important, by far, was beauty. To the child across the sea there was no greater beauty than the combination of form and function, the beauty of the dance of the fighting arts, and the spirit of harmony promoted by them. This ideal of harmony was absent from his life, and perhaps absent from the world, save for in his myths of me.

He longed to be that peaceful warrior, for whom fighting had become superfluous, a futile exercise, for when one harms others he also harms himself. Or the boy simply claimed to want this for himself, yet his fantasies, often played out behind glazed eyes in forgotten classrooms, were full of acts of savage violence, beautifully executed. In that way, I suppose, that spirit of harmony was absent from him, too. Is peace, then, a thing within the power of man to achieve, or is it simply a legend of a place that has never existed?

To this boy, Japan was the peace of the world.

Childhood ends. The boy is still there, but he is buried beneath layers of learning; the dust of his travels. His view of me, too, is filtered now through that silt, and I have become as grey as the rest of the world. My shores, which held such fascination for the child, seem just like any other now: full of people full of turmoil, restless in their hearts and foolish. His world had become a reflection of himself. The images reaching those child’s eyes were filtered through murky self doubt, and the Japan of his youth was lost. It was lost to me too as the world closed in. I can’t remember if it ever was.

Our stories intertwined for a time in the young man’s 26th year when he traveled, finally, to my shores, furiously lacking expectation but truthfully wracked by fear of disappointment. This is an old story for me. Foreigners approach on tender feet, cautiously feeling my edges, afraid and expectant. They who have made me in their minds are now afraid to meet me. I am the celebrity of the earth; the master author who, with a handshake and a greeting, may immortalize my works or tarnish them forever.

Our meeting lasted a month.

From Tokyo to Fuji to Kyoto to Okinawa he wandered, searching for an unknown thing as so many have done before and will, undoubtedly, continue to do in the future. At times he thinks he has found it. In a traditional Japanese home, in an old woman’s smile and slowly spoken question, in a rain dotted pool on temple grounds, in a child’s open stare.

But mostly he finds, as he expected to, that I am just a place like any other. People are simply people, the world over, surviving in the only ways they know how. The only place my legend exists is in the children of my heart. I am the ancestor of the storyteller, and the mist tumbling down from the mountains ensures that there will always be gods. And the kiai of a child ensures that there will always be bushido. There are no samurai anymore, no ninja, no bushi, no hitokiri. But my people are Japanese. And they are all of those things in their hearts.

If not them, then who?




Oh, I forgot. There was a moment when, in a Tokyo museum, the boy who was now a young man happened upon a spear blade crafted in the 16th century. I remember this blade well; It was mined from my heart, after all. As he stared at this blade, this perfect untouched needle of light, for a moment the murkiness of the interceding years cleared away, and I briefly met that child across the sea for the first time.