There is something beautiful about feeling displaced. The senses of fear and exhilaration, of being free to be whoever you want and just wanting to be whoever it is that people will like, they war within me, pushing and pulling me, stretching me taut, and in the discomfort I find a place of null value, a place of stillness.
I am in the living room of the largest house I have ever been in, owned by a man I have just met in order to interview with him for a job that I don’t know whether or not I got. All around me are question marks, shaped like couches and lamps and end tables and one in the shape of a decorative vase the size of a particularly tall midget, but question marks nevertheless. I am waiting for the others to come downstairs, and in the stillness I am still. As I purge my being of being active, there is a momentary void, and the space invites some long lost friends.
As my muscles relax and my mind clears, I shake hands with Random Observation, give a hug to Musing, maybe a peck on the cheek for Introspection. These are my oldest of friends, and I have missed them. Their quiet voices and gentle demeanor clash with my new crowd, the loud and assertive likes of Entertainment, Productivity, and the particularly pushy What Comes Next. I thought I would be a better person with my new friends, thought that they would spur me towards a happier and more meaningful existence. They haven’t.
So I sit here in my high backed chair like King David before Samuel, wishing I could take a few things back. I missed my old friends, but typical of true friends, the only condemnation came from myself. Eventually I got over myself and started thinking, about the size of the house, about how much I already respected its owner, about how my interview went and about how I would move the piano four inches to the left in order to center it in the arc of light from the recessed light. I thought about how I wish I could play piano like House, all sad and profound like, and I thought about Jamie, not because she is sad or profound, but because I’m always thinking about her. It’s embarrassing. Thankfully Sappiness fits in better with the old crowd than the new one.
I listened to the silence, filled myself with the emptiness, and tried as hard as I could to become a part of the stillness. I thought about a Winnie the Pooh quote that I couldn’t remember, but that seemed fitting, so it was all good. I missed this. I would never be able to do this in Beibei, I was too comfortable. There is always so much nothingness to do, but the bad kind, the kind of nothingness that makes you think it is somethingness. I was like this all the time in high school, but back then I carried the displacement with me, all angsty and misunderstood and all, and I don’t think that’s good either. But this, this is good. I listened to the silence, filled myself with the emptiness, and tried as hard as I could to become a part of the stillness.
Then they came downstairs, and I left my silence in order to eat Moroccan food, drink beer, and to lose at pool. But it’s OK. Stillness is transitory. The only time that it isn’t is when you’re dead. I wonder if there will be stillness in heaven? I hope so.
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Later on I went to find that Winnie the Pooh quote. “Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering.” I like Winnie the Pooh. There is something humbly profound about him, and I admire that. He is deep, but not like the Grand Canyon, because that is scary. He’s more deep like a mother’s love, or James Earl Jones’ voice. I want to be deep like that. But I don’t want my name to be Winnie.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Somewhere I Should Never Be
I am baffled. I am in deep baffle. Women’s fashion has always reminded me a bit of pharmacology: I am very glad it exists and personally benefit greatly from it, but couldn’t begin to explain how they pack all the good feelings into those tiny pills. Fashion is wonderful, mysterious, but ultimately, other. And in this pantheon (1), shoes remain the most mysterious and distant.
Which is why it is ludicrous that I am now sitting in my Auntie Caroline’s apartment, surrounded by women’s shoes, trying to decide which ones my girlfriend would like, trying not to get bogged down in how utterly confused I am.
My first reaction to the boots with all the zippers was to try to unzip them. They didn’t work. I have now exhausted my investigative possibilities. I have established that the only defining features of these shoes do not, in fact, function. But were non-functional zippers a good or bad thing?
Then there are the flats. You know, the kind that people are wearing these days that look like princess shoes. But these have large buckles on them. That don’t buckle anything. How about buckles? Were they good? The Puritans thought so…
And so it goes. I’m learning a lot about non-functionality, zippers that don’t zip, buckles that don’t buckle, tie straps that stay tied… I wonder how far away we are from shoes that don’t get worn. Actually, after I saw some of the heels, we might be a lot closer to that eventuality than I had previously thought.
The greatest irony is that in my most recent English lesson (body image), I played devil’s advocate and defended the similarities between high heels and foot binding. So, with that image fresh in my mind, I am now contemplating some 3 inch spikes that my Auntie Caroline described as “sexy dancing shoes.” It is a strange thing when one realizes that they are more of a feminist than their girlfriend. Hmm. So that’s a ‘no’ to the sexy dancing shoes then.
I feel much the same way that an electrician’s 5 year old child would feel, whose father sent him to the store to buy wiring. And so I will do what I think my fictitious counterpart might have: I chose the shiny ones (my budding feminist be damned). I figure that if people want to wear princess shoes, these were the most princess-y. Actually, in my defense, I have no delusions that she would actually wear them, but I do have absolute confidence in my ability mock her with them later.
(1) Along with:
- Armani, the Prophet god of clothing, whose power can reveal great mysteries or shroud all in obscurity
- L ‘Orial, the Trickster god of makeup, who oversees the realms of persona, theatre, and oddly enough, transvestitism.
- Prada, the Warrior god of shoes, whose vindictive nature exacts suffering from his followers in measure to their devotion.
- Denaros, the Allfather, who brought all lesser gods into existence
Which is why it is ludicrous that I am now sitting in my Auntie Caroline’s apartment, surrounded by women’s shoes, trying to decide which ones my girlfriend would like, trying not to get bogged down in how utterly confused I am.
My first reaction to the boots with all the zippers was to try to unzip them. They didn’t work. I have now exhausted my investigative possibilities. I have established that the only defining features of these shoes do not, in fact, function. But were non-functional zippers a good or bad thing?
Then there are the flats. You know, the kind that people are wearing these days that look like princess shoes. But these have large buckles on them. That don’t buckle anything. How about buckles? Were they good? The Puritans thought so…
And so it goes. I’m learning a lot about non-functionality, zippers that don’t zip, buckles that don’t buckle, tie straps that stay tied… I wonder how far away we are from shoes that don’t get worn. Actually, after I saw some of the heels, we might be a lot closer to that eventuality than I had previously thought.
The greatest irony is that in my most recent English lesson (body image), I played devil’s advocate and defended the similarities between high heels and foot binding. So, with that image fresh in my mind, I am now contemplating some 3 inch spikes that my Auntie Caroline described as “sexy dancing shoes.” It is a strange thing when one realizes that they are more of a feminist than their girlfriend. Hmm. So that’s a ‘no’ to the sexy dancing shoes then.
I feel much the same way that an electrician’s 5 year old child would feel, whose father sent him to the store to buy wiring. And so I will do what I think my fictitious counterpart might have: I chose the shiny ones (my budding feminist be damned). I figure that if people want to wear princess shoes, these were the most princess-y. Actually, in my defense, I have no delusions that she would actually wear them, but I do have absolute confidence in my ability mock her with them later.
(1) Along with:
- Armani, the Prophet god of clothing, whose power can reveal great mysteries or shroud all in obscurity
- L ‘Orial, the Trickster god of makeup, who oversees the realms of persona, theatre, and oddly enough, transvestitism.
- Prada, the Warrior god of shoes, whose vindictive nature exacts suffering from his followers in measure to their devotion.
- Denaros, the Allfather, who brought all lesser gods into existence
Flashback: Fire in the Hole
It was one of those times, the ones you fear but know are inevitable. No warning, no lead-up, just the immediate need for a restroom, RIGHT NOW. The worst thing? I was a long, long way from the nearest sitter. Some day, I am going to have to accept that squatters are as unavoidable as they are unfortunate, and embracing China means embracing the squatter (1).
The Chinese have a very pragmatic approach to bodily waste management, an approach founded on a negative answer to the most basic of hygiene questions, ‘Should a bathroom experience be a pleasant experience?’ (2) They tend to be cramped, poorly lit, infrequently cleaned, and most pertinent to this story, BYOTP (3). Unfortunately, while the first three characteristics are immediately and immanently clear upon entry, the final fact is something you all too often don’t find out until it is too late. As was the case with me.
And so it was that I found myself in a bit of a predicament, as it were. I have always been amazed at the clarity with which and the speed at which one’s mind can operate when in times of crises. Unfortunately, no amount of clear, fast thinking would conjure up any toilet paper. There was, however, a hose.
I’m doing my best to keep this PG, so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks. Suffice to say that there are all kinds of crazy angles and vectors to consider. In some ways it was like a strange game of air hockey, with very serious consequences. Never before in my life had I been forced to ponder the refractory angle of a buttcheek. My sincere hope is that never again would I need to repeat my calculations.
My personal trauma behind (4) me, life went on, as it so often does. Though time may have dulled the memory, one thing will always remain with me: My toilet paper.
(1) Disturbing imagery, I know. But it’s a disturbing thought. The plan was to compensate by having a virtual map of Beibei in my head, with little mental markers of every single sitter in Beibei. The reality was that my mental markers consisted of the international student dorms at the north end of campus, and the teacher apartments at the south end.
(2) I have heard that our society ladies powder their noses in luxury, surrounded by frills and couches and fragrant perfumes. Taking inspiration from the Chinese ideas about cosmic balance, one might say that the Chinese bathrooms are the yin to the aforementioned yang.
(3) Bring Your Own Toilet Paper. Really? You can’t figure that one out?
(4) Te he he.
The Chinese have a very pragmatic approach to bodily waste management, an approach founded on a negative answer to the most basic of hygiene questions, ‘Should a bathroom experience be a pleasant experience?’ (2) They tend to be cramped, poorly lit, infrequently cleaned, and most pertinent to this story, BYOTP (3). Unfortunately, while the first three characteristics are immediately and immanently clear upon entry, the final fact is something you all too often don’t find out until it is too late. As was the case with me.
And so it was that I found myself in a bit of a predicament, as it were. I have always been amazed at the clarity with which and the speed at which one’s mind can operate when in times of crises. Unfortunately, no amount of clear, fast thinking would conjure up any toilet paper. There was, however, a hose.
I’m doing my best to keep this PG, so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks. Suffice to say that there are all kinds of crazy angles and vectors to consider. In some ways it was like a strange game of air hockey, with very serious consequences. Never before in my life had I been forced to ponder the refractory angle of a buttcheek. My sincere hope is that never again would I need to repeat my calculations.
My personal trauma behind (4) me, life went on, as it so often does. Though time may have dulled the memory, one thing will always remain with me: My toilet paper.
(1) Disturbing imagery, I know. But it’s a disturbing thought. The plan was to compensate by having a virtual map of Beibei in my head, with little mental markers of every single sitter in Beibei. The reality was that my mental markers consisted of the international student dorms at the north end of campus, and the teacher apartments at the south end.
(2) I have heard that our society ladies powder their noses in luxury, surrounded by frills and couches and fragrant perfumes. Taking inspiration from the Chinese ideas about cosmic balance, one might say that the Chinese bathrooms are the yin to the aforementioned yang.
(3) Bring Your Own Toilet Paper. Really? You can’t figure that one out?
(4) Te he he.
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