Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Up Emei Island
12/17/2000
The day started off with us rolling out of bed at the newest hotel. Cyn's uncle had been in a suit with the crazy driver friend. We went to eat breakfast and met up with the traffic cops. Only one of them dressed in uniform. We ate (I didn't because I wasn't hungry after the meal the night before). We went to the mountain following the police. When we got to a certain point, it was no longer safe to drive. We got out and got into a bus for free (because of the cops) and went up further. It kept getting colder and foggier until there was snow covering the whole road. We put chains on our tires and continued ahead up the mountain. We passed people walking in the snow that covered their lower legs completely.
The zig-zag upward continued for about 40 minutes or the length of a horrible Shanghi comedy which was showing on the bus. When we stopped for the second time it was snowing. Cynthia's mom threw a snowball at her dad. There were ice cicles that were three feet long hanging from a shelter in the pines. The trees looked thicker here, and gave the only relief to the eye from the exausting glare of white snow. This was a foggy winter wonderland.
The cops got us onto a gondola for free and we rode through the clouds. Trees appeared and disappeared covered in snow and fog. There were windows all around me, but I could not see even ten feet into the cloud surrounding our tiny gondola. And then...we were in heaven. The sun reflected off the tops of golden clouds at our feet. The mountain appears to be gold from the reflected light all around it. As far as the eye can see there are clouds underfoot, broken up only by peaks of other mountain tops perhaps hundreds of miles away.
As we reached the top of Emei, the trip has taken four hours from breakfast. Now the temperature is 70 degrees and a light breeze calms the soul. The older generations of people bow before the buddah in the temple, lighting insense and praying. There is a hollow bell behind the temple that draws my attention. An ancient commune of sound not unlike NASA's SETI in inspiration. It is ornately hung beside a wooden log that swings toward its side. As for me, I look out at what seems to be an eternal plane of cloud and light. This is What Genesis 1 calls the ferment. For the first time I am brought to the state of the prodigal son. A breeze blows over my goosebumped skin as I stare out into the mysterious waves and Islands and see creation again.
The day started off with us rolling out of bed at the newest hotel. Cyn's uncle had been in a suit with the crazy driver friend. We went to eat breakfast and met up with the traffic cops. Only one of them dressed in uniform. We ate (I didn't because I wasn't hungry after the meal the night before). We went to the mountain following the police. When we got to a certain point, it was no longer safe to drive. We got out and got into a bus for free (because of the cops) and went up further. It kept getting colder and foggier until there was snow covering the whole road. We put chains on our tires and continued ahead up the mountain. We passed people walking in the snow that covered their lower legs completely.
The zig-zag upward continued for about 40 minutes or the length of a horrible Shanghi comedy which was showing on the bus. When we stopped for the second time it was snowing. Cynthia's mom threw a snowball at her dad. There were ice cicles that were three feet long hanging from a shelter in the pines. The trees looked thicker here, and gave the only relief to the eye from the exausting glare of white snow. This was a foggy winter wonderland.
The cops got us onto a gondola for free and we rode through the clouds. Trees appeared and disappeared covered in snow and fog. There were windows all around me, but I could not see even ten feet into the cloud surrounding our tiny gondola. And then...we were in heaven. The sun reflected off the tops of golden clouds at our feet. The mountain appears to be gold from the reflected light all around it. As far as the eye can see there are clouds underfoot, broken up only by peaks of other mountain tops perhaps hundreds of miles away.
As we reached the top of Emei, the trip has taken four hours from breakfast. Now the temperature is 70 degrees and a light breeze calms the soul. The older generations of people bow before the buddah in the temple, lighting insense and praying. There is a hollow bell behind the temple that draws my attention. An ancient commune of sound not unlike NASA's SETI in inspiration. It is ornately hung beside a wooden log that swings toward its side. As for me, I look out at what seems to be an eternal plane of cloud and light. This is What Genesis 1 calls the ferment. For the first time I am brought to the state of the prodigal son. A breeze blows over my goosebumped skin as I stare out into the mysterious waves and Islands and see creation again.
Emei Island
Mt. Emei (UH-may) at the top of this mountain there is a wonderful temple with a golden buddah. Years ago the temple was gold and it shone down with the reflected sun upon the sea of clouds where only the tallest peaks at 14,000 feet appear as islands. This wonder was so bright that is cast a clean shadow far below in the summer. People who enter this temple seeking answers sometimes can see their own shadows far below. Some jump into that sea of clouds, believing that they are jumping into heaven itself.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Crossroads
12/16/2000
To you America, I can't imagine the look on your face if you were politely seated next to me right now. There are nine Chinese people speaking two different Mandarin dialects. Their words carry the air with enthusiasm. The circle we are sitting in is bordering a large wooden table clothed in white plastic. The plastic protects the furniture below it from the bubbling cauldron in the middle of the table. There are also plastic bags on our finely gold padded chairs. I am made to put my jacket under the plastic to protect it from the fumes of noxious gas that are let off from the fuel source under the cauldron.
And what a cauldron it is. The boiling, spiced water is full of wiggling fish, chicken blood (dried in blocks like jello), chicken feet, tofu, and many assorted veggies I have never seen, as well as animal parts. It seems the Chinese eat everything. Everything. Your FDA would not allow for things to come to this. All parts of all makes and models have equal opportunity to end up in line on the table. When their number is called, they assume position over the popping bubbles before sliding off their porcelain dish into the maelstrom of submerged biology below.
The little interaction I am allotted in English describes the "food" as organs that function unknown to the eyes of men. That is to say they reside inside animals that, while reasonably domesticated are left mostly unexamined for their insides. Even had they been to the extent of a High School Biology class, I could not have been made to recall their functions at this hour. The English breaks up and goes back to Chinese at these crossroads. It seems that the terms and functions of these organs are much more readily available to my Chinese friends at the table.
To introduce you to my new friends would be useless. I don't know their names. They practice saying mine and then give into calling me by a closely sounding Chinese name. A name is just a symbol anyway. China is full of symbols and names that don't always convert into English. The men are dressed as police officers. Their faces turn beat red against their conservative uniforms as they get really drunk on very strong rice liquor. The liquor tastes like fruit at first and then catches your throat on fire. I imagine men in America drinking hard alcohol like this in small shot glasses. These men drink from large cups.
One of the red faced men is very kind. He stood up to toast me. He says I am strong. Cynthia's mom doesn't allow them to fill my cup with their fire wine. They laugh and eat, poking their bamboo chopsticks toward the center of the table to pull out anything and everything from the cauldron. The men eat fish and spit the heads and tails on the floor. One fish wiggles off the plate and hits the floor prematurely. The floor is not refuge as it is washed off and then dropped into the pot. I am now given jokes about the freshness of the fish as they see the horror on my face.
I bring you up, America, and I talk about your food. One of the men said that the taste of pizza makes him sick. I will not mention you again, America, this is truly amazing. I remember Cynthia telling me that the Chinese have a joke about drinking too much, the face turns red like a monkey's butt. They keep toasting over and over and eating food so spicy it makes the lips numb. Their teeth seem to be rotting in front of me.
To you America, I can't imagine the look on your face if you were politely seated next to me right now. There are nine Chinese people speaking two different Mandarin dialects. Their words carry the air with enthusiasm. The circle we are sitting in is bordering a large wooden table clothed in white plastic. The plastic protects the furniture below it from the bubbling cauldron in the middle of the table. There are also plastic bags on our finely gold padded chairs. I am made to put my jacket under the plastic to protect it from the fumes of noxious gas that are let off from the fuel source under the cauldron.
And what a cauldron it is. The boiling, spiced water is full of wiggling fish, chicken blood (dried in blocks like jello), chicken feet, tofu, and many assorted veggies I have never seen, as well as animal parts. It seems the Chinese eat everything. Everything. Your FDA would not allow for things to come to this. All parts of all makes and models have equal opportunity to end up in line on the table. When their number is called, they assume position over the popping bubbles before sliding off their porcelain dish into the maelstrom of submerged biology below.
The little interaction I am allotted in English describes the "food" as organs that function unknown to the eyes of men. That is to say they reside inside animals that, while reasonably domesticated are left mostly unexamined for their insides. Even had they been to the extent of a High School Biology class, I could not have been made to recall their functions at this hour. The English breaks up and goes back to Chinese at these crossroads. It seems that the terms and functions of these organs are much more readily available to my Chinese friends at the table.
To introduce you to my new friends would be useless. I don't know their names. They practice saying mine and then give into calling me by a closely sounding Chinese name. A name is just a symbol anyway. China is full of symbols and names that don't always convert into English. The men are dressed as police officers. Their faces turn beat red against their conservative uniforms as they get really drunk on very strong rice liquor. The liquor tastes like fruit at first and then catches your throat on fire. I imagine men in America drinking hard alcohol like this in small shot glasses. These men drink from large cups.
One of the red faced men is very kind. He stood up to toast me. He says I am strong. Cynthia's mom doesn't allow them to fill my cup with their fire wine. They laugh and eat, poking their bamboo chopsticks toward the center of the table to pull out anything and everything from the cauldron. The men eat fish and spit the heads and tails on the floor. One fish wiggles off the plate and hits the floor prematurely. The floor is not refuge as it is washed off and then dropped into the pot. I am now given jokes about the freshness of the fish as they see the horror on my face.
I bring you up, America, and I talk about your food. One of the men said that the taste of pizza makes him sick. I will not mention you again, America, this is truly amazing. I remember Cynthia telling me that the Chinese have a joke about drinking too much, the face turns red like a monkey's butt. They keep toasting over and over and eating food so spicy it makes the lips numb. Their teeth seem to be rotting in front of me.
Snapshots of Time and Space
- 12/14 and 12/15/2000
- The train ride experience: 28 plus hours...snoring men above, sleeping parents below...lots of talking...cute women that clean everything...Food on carts..Fruit (Beijing Pears) being skinned with a knife by Xiangyuan...All one peal curling spiraling down towards her feet...beer...pictures of mountains and fog...lots of countryside...Zeppelin's Kashmir...ears popped...Tunnels in rythm to the steel track...more tunnels under, between, through sharp pointing peaks...snow...farmers... railroad workers dirty faces grin and eat noodles...Joy in new unknown love...learning Chinese... Chinese medicine technique has me fearing combs for the first time in my life.
Chengdu is the transport and communication hub city of southwest of China. Placed carefully in the fog of the high mountain basin, Chengdu is a cultural relic in wet grass. It is surrounded in every direction by mountains that meet the sky like high walls. This must have been one reason that the city was a capital to many dynastys as far back as 2,400 years. - Staying at the Tibet hotel (4 stars). Cyn's uncle set us up on the 11th floor with 2 rooms.
- On the train ride here, the subject of fair skin was raised. It is said that the people of Chengdu have fair skin because of the moisture in the air that adds to their skin and protects them from the sun.
I also learned on the train that Bush is the president of the U.S.
Cyn's father's family were all employed in the R.R. business. Now her uncle works for real estate. (note that is incorrect, I was very confused about Chengdu and the family situation there, her uncle is still with the railroad)
Too Tight
- Entry for June 20, 2008
- we are from the same latitude my love!
four seasons have we lived for this our life
we are from the same platitude my love
123456789strife.
we are of the same attitude my love，
all the symptoms and theories combat us
we are of the same gratitude my love
He speaks and lives redeemed is our trust!
Comfort on the Tracks
- 12/14/2000
- I am on a train, the toilets flush onto the tracks. I just ate a pidgin and washed it down with beer. As I have lost my reserved mentality, Cyn and I found each other. Finally...I am happy and comfortable.
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