夭折

I am fast becoming one of those people that other people try to dissuade from persisting at a bad habit. They'd say, "quit your job," or "leave your man," or "stop doing coke," a truth so obvious, so plain as day that they secretly think you're an idiot for not putting your foot down and doing it, that you're in fact weak, afraid of change, or foster a fear for life itself. In a state of being where I'm without man and without coke, work consumes life like an abusive relationship. I'm almost physically suffering 65% of the time, and the rest of the 35% is spent between exhilaration and just being generally out of breath. Being abused makes those rare moments of triumph, of finishing a project, all the more meaningful, but at the end of the day when you take it all in from afar, you wonder if it's worth it. You wonder if this game of extremes is really just a bad habit that you need to scream against. My boss, a man I greatly admire and respect (as such, probably to a fault), notes jokingly when I tend to an after work late hour drink with friends that, "she never let drinking get in the way of work," but also that, "she also never lets work get in the way of alcohol," as if I could actually really drink, as if I enjoyed it. Drinking nowadays serves a double purpose, and the motivation is all wrong. 1) To decompress physically after work like a Japanese salary man 2) To decompress mentally after work like a Japanese salary man. After New York, after talks of dreams and needs and ambition, I've somehow occupied the mindscape of a Japanese salaryman. No matter how splendid the work is, no matter how meaningful I convince myself it's all worth it, no matter how much I'm learning, no matter just how happy I get when I accomplish something, at the end of the day I'm still drinking like a Japanese salaryman, an investment banker without the money and the bitches, instead of getting happy hour drinks and grabbing dinner with friends and dating successfully.

I want out. I want out but I'm living a dream like a woman who feels like she could conquer an abusive relationship, could change the man, and beat the system. I want life. I want to fall in love at first sight like the idiot I am, get hurt, and actually have time to dwell on the disillusionment instead of rushing home to collapse in bed and get pissed off that I jerk awake at 6AM in the morning because I was too busy dreaming about work in my sleep. I want it to be light when I get off work. I want to see my friends when it's light out. I don't really want to drink at all.

So dear work/life balance. What do you say, what the fuck do you say. Get a back bone. Wake up the American inside of you. Dare to live. Go at life. You fucking fuck.

Beauty & Cruelty

In China I'm slowly learning to build an armor of fortitude, and by fortitude I mean acute paranoia that govern the way I wade through crowds to meeting new people. Between work, malatang streets, mojito stands, neighborhood bars, friends of friends, and chance encounters, it's easy to meet new and likeminded people here, but they are harder to know and harder to keep. I'm tempted to sketch out a visualization of friendships if it weren't for the fear that it would crumble like a spider web in my hand. Beijing changes people. The transplants who pocket dreams and ambitions here are whisked away by an overwhelming sense of entitlement. We're young and suddenly rich enough for ayi-s. We do things here like it's a state of limbo with no consequences, because two, five years we'll be back in New York City, L.A., or London when the glamour wears off and our hearts grow numb. What a world. Don't forget to check the mirror once in a while to make sure you're not an asshole. Don't be too cruel and don't forget who you are.

Beijing is temporary. Going away parties are constant. Seems like every month someone packs their bag with a one way ticket out. You begin wishing every one of your friends could fall in love quick so that they may prolong their cameo. After too many "I'm leaving for _______ tomorrow, next month, July" on the first meeting, you learn to not fall in love, period. You learn to hug your armor tight and wave it off with a smile. In Beijing you learn to live with an indifference to protect yourself. Just don't be an asshole. Be kind.

Remember the people you meet here. Remember their faces, remember their names, remember the moments of empathy and the time you realize that wow, this one, this one I'm gonna keep.

Here's hoping almighty God keeps them from going to Hong Kong, Vietnam, New York,  L.A., London, or whatever backwash town there might be in the world. There really ain't no other place like the 'Jing. Don't mind me if I keep you forever. Most of all, don't be cruel.

More Oxygen, I said.

I wished I'd taken a photo of the CCTV tower that night instead of staring at it like an idiot. At one point I was craning my neck while walking, thinking Mass Effect III or some other sci-fi scene in my limited repertoire and really studying the shape and contours and the facade of the thing and it occurred to me that it was, maybe, in its own otherworldly way, a little breathtaking. In Beijing, I love the way the orange lights glaze over gray streets, climb onto overpasses and construction sites. The CBD is ugly. It rears its ugly heads through the hundreds of vehicles that get stuck here at rush hour, and I'm reminded of how much better the city can look when it's 12 o'clock and empty on the streets. We'd walked past two subway stations and I think that was the first time someone had actually walked with me through Beijing's iron-clad buildings for the sake of walking. I wish I'd taken a photo of his face instead of staring at the CCTV tower like I was about to be whisked away like an alien being. A picture to remember a moment under the iron skies, whisked, and away.

On Work

Giorno buon, dormito bene

New Year’s resolution, check. Not bad for March 13. Sense of accomplishment, almost none. Funny how life works. Lesson therein, if you’re going to have a New Year resolution anyway, at least set higher standards, make them count, make them the ones that take discipline, time, and commitment instead of a whimsy derringdo. Time now for a spring diet plan, say goodbye to the wine and dine and conversations made of riddles. Time to stray from the beauty, the decadence, the caprice. Bring out the austerity measures, the sun at seven in the morning, for kisses to mean something and to not stare despairing at the computer screen. Granted, tomorrow when I'm between traffic and four projects at once, I’ll say fuck all and go on my bumbling ways, but at least today, I say curse less and be more ladylike.

Hours in Moments

I'm losing myself in the hours: noon time at work on a Saturday, three in the afternoon, seven o’clock dinner, 10pm banter with co-workers, by the time 1am, 2am, 3am rolls around, things get a little quiet and everyone a little antsy. I play a sad, dream pop song from co-worker R for the 10th time and ask Q and Y if it’s driving them crazy. When I finally step out of the office, a feeling that I may have just stumbled out from hutong dance party flashes before me. That’s the story of late. After maybe two weeks of unsettling sanity at work, it's back to proposal madness, back to missing people. I think it's the opportunity cost that drives me from drifting party to party, people to people. In the end, the transformation of a girl who can’t hold her liquor and who loves those damned day activities in New York City is somehow morphing into a drunkard, junkie, a night-owl, and a little careless with people. None of the above labels are true, even if half of my friends half mean it, but it is what it is.

These obvious changes, on a superficial level, does unnerve me a little bit, like having everything you knew about yourself turn inside out, and you're looking into a world of yourself that doesn't seem quite you. Yet, underneath it all, I know I'm just fine because I still burn. I burn with a rage to succeed. To pull overtime for things that I care about, for people I care about. I just want it all. I want the rush of all nighters. The pride after a successful presentation. Friends who move me. Conversations that go deep. Dances on roofs. Beijing, and all that it stands for.

Mostly, I just want to calm down, do laundry, lay down on my bed, stay there, so when I wake up I'll have enough energy to love a great deal in an overly emotional, enthusiastic, thankful way.

Grapefruits, 10AM

“It’s like all you’ve ever known is a grapefruit, and grapefruits are great and delicious, but one day you discover cherries and strawberries, and you realize that hmm, they are pretty good too.” “What’s the other way of looking at it?”

“That I’m fucking awesome and irreplaceable.”

---

Everything is almighty weighty here. The pauses that go on and on in the dark, the stares quieter than silence, the heavy sighs and quick strides. It's easy to stuff hours into minutes, days into hours, weeks into days, and BOOM all of a sudden, three months gone, six months gone, and you feel like a lifetime has gone by. I love sitting in a cab, watching the city glitter by, talks of 1984 and how to tell a good story and moments of empathy. I'm beginning to think possession doesn't really matter. I think if anything, all we need to possess are moments like this: a city on the move, friends freaking out, boy drifting to sleep, grapefruits and gold.

At the end of the day, when I finally collapse in a disastrous heap on my own bed, listening to fucking "Careless Whisper," I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter at all.

2AM, Summer Night

My co-worker said: “You’re becoming a junkie.” I waited for the smirk to curl into a laugh, a statement to unfurl to a joke, but when there was none, when I think he’s half-serious, I could only sputter incoherently. He goes on to say, “see, no way are you an introvert” also in reference to my lifestyle habits.

I think of how I used to like cats until I started to like dogs more. I think of how I’d always get an “I” on my Myers-Briggs test until I keep on getting an “E” when I took it two days ago (ENFP!). I think of how I'm starting to like both cats and dogs now and what this all means to the universe. I don't see how any of this would result in a junkie comment, unless by junkie he means I'm gulping down as much excitement as I can. If by junkie he means I'm never home except between the golden time of 9-10am. If by junkie he means I'm alive with every fiber of my being.

Too much Cudi for my own good and raging. Just enough wine to rescue a kiss. When we take smoke breaks we end up hurling the butts from floor seventeen. Sometimes the pollution itself smells like smoke, and god knows how much worse the air here is than drugs.

On the uncertainty of life he says, “it's like having a monkey on my back.”

Better monkey than elephant.

The Aftermath of South

春风一舸绕明珠，雾作钗鬓浪作趺。 楼阁参差花正发，客来不复羡仙居。- 谢觉哉, 《乘轮绕鼓浪屿》

The aftermath of clean air, morning runs, meandering adventure, food and family, is the computer screen’s eerie glow, desperately trying to conjure productivity as the mind wanders to a certain island of the south.

We spent a total of no more than five hours on Gulangyu, a tiny island in Xiamen known as “Drum Wave Islet,” or alternatively “The Island of Music.” The ferry from Xiamen took less than five minutes, the additional half an hour we spent being shepherded with the rest of Gulangyu's hundreds of tourists waiting for a ferry. The island is home to about 20,000 residents, but during the peak tourist seasons, some 10,000 people visit it per day. This is precisely why I’d originally opted to douse my mind in tea and book at my favorite cafe, surfacing only for air and an occasional conversation with a stranger. But the island called in unexpected ways, particularly through a conversation with said stranger, who mused:

“It’s worth going after five, when tourists dwindle, and you can have a drink after dinner. It’s worth spending a night, and wake up before the herds arrive again.”

The stranger is a banker with the heart of a sensitive artist. He works every other day of the year with no weekends, and only gets four consecutive days off during the Spring Festival, where for the past three years, he spent traveling alone. He talked about politics, history, linguistics and how modern Chinese is like “grass grown on cement.” He made references to books I’ve never heard of, and spoke in idioms I didn’t understand. I’m sensitive these days when people ask, “do you understand,” or “does this makes sense?” but he only searched for simpler expressions to explain heavy ideas.

His advice seems to be the trick for successful sightseeing in China. Five years ago another traveler told me to see the ancient town of Lijiang, it’s best to wake before sunrise at five. Three months ago, a friend said the Forbidden City is ravishing at night.

When we made it to Gulangyu after five, I was faintly reminded of days spent on Governor’s Island, when friends would converge for art events and jazz emsembles. How far away those carefree days seem when I’d travel from D train to Court Street and waited patiently for the small ferry among bikes and strollers. In Gulangyu, no bikes or cars are allowed. When you get on the island, you’re almost immediately greeted by a labyrinth of windy paths, exotic plants, and gorgeous architecture.

We picked the route least traveled, ducking tourists left and right until by some miracle, an alley or nook seemed untouched. Father berated that I should “understand guoqing (the Chinese condition)” and I retorted that there should be limits placed on how many tourists can visit the island per day. I took photos of wrappers and garbage on an island that was renowned for cleanliness and father suddenly announced he wished he had a Weibo to post the photos.

But even among chaos, fruit hawkers, and tourists, Gulangyu threads beauty among its paths and plants, and when all is quiet, the stillness of this beauty consumes you. You begin hearing piano notes among the green, and the wind carry smells of eternal spring. Every photograph transforms to a painting, but no painting can capture the song of drums and birds, and longings of writers and artists who fell recklessly in love here. This is a place for die hard romantics, music fanatics, poetry lovers, and dreamers. This is a place worth living for, where dreams are stolen while you’re beating 9-5 in big cities. This is where you lose a little bit of yourself, and you keep coming back not for anything else, but to find that piece you lost, the part that means well and dream big.

My sister (cousin, who is like a sister) and I started the hike to the mountain peak after eight, when darkness wrapped its black silk around the island and not a soul was around. We passed the bell tolls of Buddhist temples and handsome rocks etched with calligraphy. My sister, a mighty professional tennis player, is somehow afraid of heights. So when we arrived on top of “sunlight peak,” she was on all fours while I zoomed around like a lunatic exclaiming “wow!” “wow!” I grabbed her by the arm until we stood together at the tallest point of the city.

She said, “let’s shout something together.”

We felt like nine-year-olds all over again, the days spent playing dress up, hiding go seek, and pretending we were characters from TV dramas.

On three, we screamed to the wind: “我们一定会幸福!!!” (We will surely be happy.)

When the echoes died, I added, 我们已经很幸福。

Far too full, far too cold

I have eaten so much food the past four days that the mere motion of opening my mouth, even for half a slice of grapefruit, makes me want to gag slightly. Eating during Chinese New Year is not only about the fish balls, the duck eggs, the crabs, the turtle soup, the swan meat, the snake soup, the snake gallbladder mixed with rice wine, it is also the endless, endless oranges, strawberries, cherries, watermelon seeds, peanuts, and candies that accompany every conversation and every bad Spring Festival tv program. True, I'm afraid I've had everything listed above in the past four days, served in large porcelain bowls, and in the case of the turtle, a gold plated ware that looks like a Tibetan singing bowl. I'm not one to feel guilty about eating rare and unusual species or indulging in extravagant affairs. Every bone in my body is hedonistic, but after a lunch banquet, hot spring, then dinner banquet, I was ready to die.

It's not that easy being an emperor after all. Can you imagine a life full of banquets, servants waiting on your every need, AND a harem of 3000 beauties?

How they must have had such self-control, I have no idea. All I know is, I'm having trouble with eating half a slice of grapefruit. I want to be a Japanese monk eating tofu and white rice for seven days to purge gluttony.

When the body dies a little, then will you feel its strength, its attachment to life. It's the feeling that consumes you after scaling a mountain in the south, careful to curse Beijing and its pollutants and unlivableness with every step you take. When you finally make it to the top, heart pounding, soles sore, dying just a little as monks waft on by in silence, then do you feel life bursting from your heart, your every vein.

Ah, what the hell. In short, we climbed two mountains in addition to eating a helluva a lot, and I'd take mountains over swan soup any day.

Hedonism is over. We head to Xiamen to break out the running shoes, to die a little more in a sprint to the ocean.

Onwards, lusty babes.

Roof Tops

I'm starting to miss New York. The carefree days spent before I packed my bags full of hopes and dreams. I'm starting to miss the days when we snuck to secret parties and slept together on roofs, when I was 20 and had no fake ID and had been kissed once by a complete stranger on the subway. True story. Sounds like an assault now if one had actually lived in New York long enough, but as a temporary girl in a city made of forever, it was just a great scene from a movie (speaking of which, saw a GREAT kissing scene between Gosling and Mulligan from Drive today). New York was full of romance. On Union Square, I saw every person with bright eyes and wide smiles and wished them the best. What luck that our lives crossed paths, even if only for a chance moment. Thank you New York, for all the moments you gave me.

As for this new beast, thank you too, for giving me every bit of anti-romance I need. For making it hurt and making it count. Beijing. You're just the pill I need, a pollutant down my heart, flooding my lungs and choking my arteries. Only, you won't kill me. You make me stronger, and brighter, and for that, I thank you, love you, and listen to Jonsi while dreaming.