Crossing the T

Writer's Block

I'm back.  It's been a long hiatus, and yes, I'm still writing that silly book. Up to 67,000 some words-- but it totally needs to be rearranged and reworked.  It has many characters as the D's - Dickens and Dostoyevsky -- but reads as chaotic as a Jackson Pollack painting; it will feel like a crime and punishment to read it!  Work unfortunately has been terribly demanding and exhausting.  Now they've added travel every week, so I'm in the sky every week, getting to work at odd hours.  I don't really have such a thing as writer's block. Except my job, it blocks me from everything except paying my bills.  I just want to be home writing my book, but in this economy I should be careful what I wish for. So I keep working like crazy, trying to crush that stupid dream since I don't think anyone will ever read my book anyway.  We all have our dreams.  It's tempting to crush them.  I wish I could some times.  But alas, that's why they are dreams; they just don't die. Just like love. The real kind.  But my o' my, but the world is full of distractions and fakes. You have to stay grounded to not be tripped up by it all. And even then, sometimes the fools knock you flat on your face. For a bit, anyway, before you get back up and take them out for the ride of their life. Then head out on your own, to make your dreams come true. The real kind.

When you've got the blues...

When you've got the blues, play it as beautifully as this. 'Cause when you do, the worlds blues fade away, far away. 

George Lewis, your Burgundy Street Blues still years later, takes the blues way far away.

With gratitude...

Their words are better than mine could ever be....I only say I do not forget, and many of us remember today with tears, with hope, with gratitude, with a flag flying as our deep-in-the-heart symbol of our debt to you.

http://fearless1stmarines.vox.com/library/post/mnf-w-commanding-generals-memorial-day-message.html

http://fearless1stmarines.vox.com/library/post/rct-1-hq-co-commander-letter-to-friends.html

A million flags, each holding one's heart for you....

Posing and Pausing...

Ok, I know I know, I'm a hypocrite. I complain of bloggers, yet I blog. ;-)  But the blogosphere is swamped with foul people who pose as writers, but are revealed to be liars -- like Michael Moore who steals other people's work and writes what is aptly termed war porn.  It's the many beautiful, inspiring stories of our troops, heroes and freedom that are left untold or less frequently told, which spurred me to write in the first place. I'm not sure I've done much good (but glad to have made some new friends which is always worth it!!)   

With regards to my blogging, I'm going to have to pause, take a hiatus until I finish my book.  And find a new job.  I can't promise that either the book or the next job will be worth writing home about.  In fact they probably won't be.  But they both need to be completed.  Quickly.

In the meantime, if I write here, it will be under duress -- about some topic that is causing me to lose sleep until I write about it.  :-) 

Fearless First...

It pays to be fearless.  I suppose none of us really are.  But I think our troops do qualify. Despite fear, they do put themselves in harms way.  Or more accurately, as I wrote before, they put harm on the run.   

Here's the Fearless First Marines, who write of progress, of good news, of dedication, of tough news, of sorrow, or hope, of people they have come to know, and some I'm sure they wish they hadn't. These guys have put together a great site -- and it's worth the read. I check in often.  It's good writing and informative. 

I have to admit, even though I write this blog, I'm not really a big fan of blogs. So many seem to rant unproductively. Or degrade into some sort of brain-dead sophomoric, adolescent stupor, as even Powerline's John Hinderaker does.

But the Fearless First site is well done, solid, accurate....consistently...

My next "vacation", North Korea Resort Life

I wouldn't mind going here for my next vacation, a resort in North Korea.  Just to help flood that crazy country with people who know freedom.  They can't stop the flood forever...

Here's a video of getting to the resort.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid86195573/bclid132209461/bctid1556110335

And a link to the article about the visit. The article shares the fact that you can take a picture of an image of North Korea's psycho leader, but the "authorities" will inspect it to make sure you didn't chop off his head. As the reporter writes, "One day, I saw a remarkable mosaic, a portrait of Kim Jong Il and Kim Il Sung composed of 250,000 tiny colored stones. Just as I snapped a photo, a whistle blew. Two hotel employees came over and asked for my camera. Later, a Hyundai Asan staffer explained my potential offense: Chopping off the leaders' heads. Fortunately, I had captured the whole mosaic and was allowed to keep the shot." 

It reveals rampant killers are paranoid that others will do to them, what they have done to so many.

Maybe I can sneak in some tricky little camera and take a picture of that mosaic with Kimmie Jong Il's head chopped off.  Then I'd post it here.

Not enough time...except for Mom

I have too little time this evening to write enough about all that I have felt, read, seen, heard in the last week.

The stories are dense and there is just not enough time to share it all. In these limits of fatigue, I am reminded that too many stories, so poignant, are often left untold. So although I wish I could write more, I have to settle for what little I can write. 

So tonight I write briefly, to hope for a friend whose boyfriend's affections are distracted, his fading tenderness I hope won't leave a hurtful ending. Another friend whose ex-boyfriend is calling with hurtful, abusive words -- why he wants to punch her in the gut even more I'll never know.  I heard stories last week to remind me that sorrows of broken affections sting deep - like jelly fish, broken loves can sneak up invisible, then paralyze you. Like I said before, we come with strings attached, gratefully.

Yesterday, I felt someone close to me whose life is fading, saw a wave goodbye even when the arm's muscles couldn't offer one. I saw so much frailty yesterday, and in seeing frailty, it makes me feel frail. Reminds me how fragile we all really are.  How life's journey goes too fast.  Yesterday I also heard the heart of an older woman, still in love with a man who caused her pain. Who, in all life's bitter struggles with rejection and loss had come to know forgiveness. In our frailty, it seems, God offers us our redemption. Yet, then, yesterday too, I felt a daughter's heart whose mother's forlorn and abandoned journey leaves a sting, even on a sunny day - and I wonder where is that mother's redemption when the evil of apathy and lies has come to roost to solidly?

In all this last week, I got a call from a number far away. A voice mail, telling me to call back. When I talk to this person, I get lambasted for still being single. For not visiting enough. For not calling back fast enough. Half the time, I can't even understand what this person is saying. But she always asks why I'm not dating, never taking the time to hear my story. This time I didn't answer. I ignored it. I couldn't muster the time, the energy. I couldn't take the time, wondered if I ever should. 

But today, Mother's Day, I took the time, I ate some waffles smothered in raspberries, syrup, whipped cream, with my Mom, my dad, my family, my adorable nephews. I am blessed to have a great family, to have parents whose love did mean love forever. A Mom who is a great Mom.  As a kid my friends often said to me they were jealous of me -- I had a cool Mom, nice parents.  I heard this from more than one friend, "Your Mom remembers more about my life than my own."  And today she proved again, why. My mom today came with flowers for me. I'm not even a Mom.  She knows my life has taken some unexpected turns in life and love, and she came with flowers for me. On Mother's Day.

Oh my word...

My last post was about my words when they go right, at least somewhat right for one person.

But tonight, I was reminded of when my words were all wrong.   

I have prayers for understanding...but I think on this particular story, I may never really understand.

Sometimes before life's story has all panned out we want our canvas painted with all the shadows revealed, all the inner secrets exposed, with the intertwined plots of our particular story played out in moving color. But instead, sometimes we are left with an ending and none of the chapters in between ever written. We're left with unsolved mysteries. A friendship lost. A goodbye we didn't think needed to be said. And no sure reason why. We beg, we pray, we plead to know the missing chapters. Instead, I think sometimes life can feel like a cover without a book, an ending without the middle.

It is that very mystery that inspired the fiction piece I'm working on --  lives and hearts crash together sometimes for reasons we may never even realize or know. But it is also that ending-without-the-middle that choked my creativity earlier this year.  Stopped the story in its tracks.

It is why we need, even in all life's victories and sorrows, the family and friends who, when the clock strikes twelve, push us forward. Help us write more and better chapters in our love and friendships, even when the pages previous seem snatched from our hearts.

Midnight Strikes Twelve (o' 2)...

Last August, I was in trouble.

By October, even bigger trouble.

When Midnight Stuck Twelve on December 31, 2007 -- I came up short of words in 2007.  I only had 35,848 words of the 90,000 target I had. I was way short. That's like thinking you successfully landed on an aircraft carrier because you only were a half a mile off when you tried to touch down.

But I sent it off to my "reader" -- the person who has encouraged me to write this novel. Who cornered me. Who triggered my start. He's not the man who fires the starting gun on the Olympic 100 meter dash, but the one that gives you the courage to get down on the starting block and take off running at times when you feel like you just don't have the guts, when you know everyone is already off and running, when so many have a head start on you, when some already sped across the finish line and are relishing the cheers.

My reader is a distant uncle. An Australian. A former professor.  An avid reader. A poignant speaker. With trepidation, I kept my bet and sent him what I did write, the 35,484 words. I knew I'd get positive thoughts (because he's just an encouraging man), but also a good solid dose of professorial grading reality, even the bad stuff.  He just left a message today that he thought it was STUPENDOUS.  That my writing put him in tears in a couple of places. 

He put me in tears. But I was bouncing off the walls too.

I had given up really.  I didn't make my goal in December and then was hit with the distractions of broken dreams earlier this year, and I stopped writing. Pursuing another dream when one dream is broken is tough. I didn't.  But that was stupid of me.

But today, he insisted, he wants the ending. He's hooked.

I'm sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo HAPPY!!!!

Of course, he is going to hit on the professorial critique too. I got home too late to call back, and hear a good dose of what needs to better than it is.  But I realized it was stupid to shut my word faucet off. Broken dreams are no excuse. Someone is asking me to write. I simply must.

I'll be picking up and finishing to the initial 90,000 goal. The book is about crashing destinies, that's all I'll say. The devil's in the details. And the details aren't for sharing, yet.

Butterfly Lovers

Jet lag stinks. It's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep, NOT AT ALL.

So I'm writing emails to friends, writing blog posts, reading...blah blah. Brain please turn off!

Anyway...

While in Beijing, during lunch, I asked my Chinese colleagues for a music recommendation. I love music, and that was the souvenir I wanted.

They discussed in Chinese what to recommend. There was a CD store across the street from the restaurant we were eating at. One programmer took me to the store, and picked out the two they most recommended.  One has Western tones, the other traditional Chinese instruments.

One is titled Butterfly Lovers.

The story, the programmer told me, is "...more sad than Romeo and Juliet. Much more sad."

So I had to look it up on Wikopedia when I got home (which I thus cannot guarantee is correct). But I find it interesting my new friends picked beautiful music for me that was once suppressed, and has now been set free:

The story is set in the Eastern Jin Dynasty.

A young woman named Zhu Yingtai from Shangyu, Zhejiang, disguises herself as a man traveling to Hangzhou to study. During her journey, she meets and joins Liang Shanbo, a companion schoolmate from Kuaiji (Kuàijī, now known as Shaoxing) in the same province. They study together for three years, during which their relationship strengthens. When the two part, Zhu offers to arrange for Liang to marry her 16 year-old fictitious sister. When Liang travels to Zhu's home, he discovers her true gender. Although they are devoted and passionate about each other at that point, Zhu is already engaged with Ma Wencai (Mǎ Wéncái), a man her parents had arranged for her to be married to. Depressed, Liang dies in office as a county magistrate. On the day Zhu is to be married to Ma, whirlwinds prevent the wedding procession from escorting Zhu beyond Liang's tomb. Zhu leaves the procession to pay her respects for Liang. Liang's tomb splits apart, and Zhu dives into it to join him. A pair of butterflies emerges from the tomb and fly away.

The Butterfly Lovers' Violin Concerto is one of the most famous works of Chinese music and certainly one of the most famous outside of China. It is an orchestral adaptation of an ancient legend, the Butterfly Lovers. Written for the western style orchestra, it features a solo violin played using some Chinese techniques.

Traditional Chinese composers often write in a different tonal system than western classical music. As a result, this can make the music sound constantly out of tune to some Western ears. The Butterfly Lover's Violin Concerto is written in the familiar western tonal system, but it utilizes many Chinese melodies, chord structures and patterns.

The Butterfly Lovers Violin Concerto was written by two Chinese composers, Chen Gang and He Zhanhao in 1959 while they were students at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. The music did not acquire popularity before the late 1970s, when China loosened its restrictions after the Cultural Revolution. Once released from censorship, it became an embodiment of China in transition. Today it is popular and is slated as part of the Olympics celebrations in 2008.

Here is one song from the CD, performed to ballet. A truly beautiful melody, and some incredible gymnastics to adjoin this version.

A fool were tempted...

To see the infinite pity of this place,
The mangled limb, the devastated face,
The innocent sufferers smiling at the rod,
A fool were tempted to deny his God.

He sees, he shrinks, but if he look again,
Lo, beauty springing from the breast of pain!--
He marks the sisters on the painful shores,
And even a fool is silent and adores.

Robert Louis Stevenson, 1889, after visiting the quarantined leprosy settlement in Kaluapapa, Hawaii

Picks of the Pics

The pics to go with the stories...

The modern Chinese, very hospitable, bright, talented, I look forward to working with them...

 

And the previous generation, a man with a mountain of memories.

An old woman from far off lands whose face showed her walk in life knew many sorrows, yet her feet decorated, hand embroidered with care...I didn't want to be obnoxious and get up close for a picture of her face -- would make me an obnoxious gawking tourist.  So I took these pictures without aiming, from my hip, camera slung over my neck. Her face, told of a thousand tragedies, perhaps her feet even more so. I followed she and her friends along, noticing that a few of them held their husbands hand, loosely, tenderly, as though love alone had pulled them through, together, through the passage of life, and burden.

The ever present troops.

Tian'an Men Square and the woman who ran up to me, put her arm around me for a picture, holding on to her hat in fierce wind.

The school girls before they saw me.

The girls after they saw me and screamed and came running. I am actually in this picture. Center. Also in orange. Maybe my orange shirt was the attraction? 

The Great Wall -- or the part that could be reached before road construction blocked our passage to the entry further down.

These next pictures show the climb, whereby everyone got sore knees and feet, as we had to race up for lack of time (but were later told that the discomfort was from liver failure or stomach ailments, requiring herbs)...the Japanese girl on the right wore Mickey Mouse shoes, and her toes were bleeding by the end. The Hong Kong woman (on the left above, middle below), who I'll stay in touch with. She and her husband were great, and very funny.

And the challenges of language:  (I certainly could never learn Chinese. How they read that script, I'll never understand!  If I tried, I can't imagine what errors I would come up with!!)

This was at Chinese Tea House, which includes performances of Chinese poetry, puppets, acrobatics, etc. Including a performance whereby a man dressed up to symbolize a bad monkey told a story. The bad monkey apparently made a MESS of Heaven, not a MASS.  But the Pope would be proud of the Chinese monkey.

I had some absolutely DELICIOUS food when in Beijing. Minus the Fido.  Most of it was incredibly, wonderfully good, presented so carefully. So this one is an unfortunate error...

 

All in all, excepting the Mad TV version of Great Wall tour guide and Chinese Medicine, the Chinese were so hospitable, caring, I made new friends, had delicious food, learned some history...a great visit. Now I gotta get rid of some jet lag!!

Random Musings Part Deux

The books I brought for my long flights were addictive, but both had horribly depressing endings. Depressing is different than tragic. Tragic doesn't have to be depressing. In fact, in tragedy there can remain the triumph of love and hope. An author who does not choose to convey hope is merely using fiction to dump their angst on the rest of us. Basically, when I finished the two books I wanted to chuck the best sellers in the trash.

But here is a quote that was quoted in one of the books, which I did like:

                      I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known--cites of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,-- 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravel'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "Ulysses"

All of China on the Wall

I think the entire country of China was on the Great Wall today. Seriously.  It wasn't peaceful, at least half the country of China was on it, and the entire world of tourists. Then every 20 feet, there is some middle aged man who thinks having a smoke is going to help his climb. So fresh air isn't even a plus. Claustrophobia on the wall is a very real possibility. Especially, when they close the main Great Wall section because of road construction, and cram all of us onto a tiny part. (In fact, most of Beijing in under construction -- Olympics.)

And somehow, my Great Wll tour ended up including a visit to some Beijing Chinese Medicine center, for a foot massage and a plug to buy Chinese herbs. None of us on the tour, including the Chinese people, knew we were getting a foot massage included in the price. In fact, it wasn't in the price. All 15-20 of us load on the small bus, got surrounded by Chinese foot massagers and had to shell out 20 RMB (a little over $2). In fact, there was so many other things packed into this tour, we had to run up the Wall and run back down for lack of time.

While at the unexpected visit to the Chinese Medicine Center we learn from the Chinese doctor, that apparently if your feet hurt, it's a sign you need herbs. Chinese herbs.  I think my sore feet had more to do with climbing the Great Wall steps for two hours straight, than a problem with my liver.  Half of us refused the Chinese doctor diagnosis (which was going to be a hard core plug to spend money on unknown chemicals.)  But the Italians, Europeans fell for it. The Chinese couple I befriended refused. The Japanese girl I befriended refused. The Westerners fell hook line and sinker.

At their diagnosis, I couldn't stop laughing. The Brits (who also refused) and I were exchanging glances -- the whole thing was quite funny.

I was listening to the half a dozen people getting a diagnosis.  They all got the same thing, at the same time. So they probably didn't here the chorus of Chinese medicine doctors saying the same thing to the weary hikers...here is the sample:

Chinese doctor (of which there were 12 or so):  Do you have back pain today?
Out-of-shape Italian Great Wall Tourist Climber: Yes!
Chinese doctor:  Are your bones sore?
Italian:  Yes! 
Chinese doctor: Do you get tired, are you tired?
Italian: Yes!
Chinese doctor: Let me see your tongue.
Italian: (sticks out tongue)
Chinese doctor: I think you have the early onset of liver failure.  I recommend this treatment. 
Italian: (Hands over credit card. Receives large bottles of pills.)

More on the Great Wall visit later. The best part was making new friends with a super nice couple from Hong Kong.  We exchanged addresses, and will probably stay in touch.  The humor today was NON-STOP, the three of us were laughing because of the goofiness of the tour, and the uselessly bad tour guide -- the husband of the couple from Hong Kong was hilarious about it.  The wife was amazing -- in her college years, she traveled by herself deep into rural China.  Truly amazing tales.

I have to wake up in 3 1/2 hours, so gotta log off.  Just wanted to type stuff in before I forget!

Just one closing question:  Has anyone else noticed, you can't walk down the streets of Beijing without hearing a Chinese men spit dramatically. A gutteral spit. Spit. Spit. Spit. Tonight, I saw a little boy spit into the alley.  They must learn young. 

Mobbed (by sweetness) on Tian'an Men Square

Yesterday, I toured The Forbidden City, with bird dung on my head (see prior post).  Then I went to Tian'an Men Square.

There are quite a few tourists on Tian'an Men. I wasn't the only Westerner; it's a touristy spot these days.

As soon as I got on Tian'an Men, I took a picture of the BIG MONSTROUS CHAIRMAN image. Why I took that picture, I don't know. It's not like I respect him, he's no Lincoln Memorial that's for dern sure. So I was just standing there looking around aimlessly, wondering why we gather to take pictures of that man. Then all of a sudden this woman gets all excited and comes running up to me, stands next to me, all excited, asks for a picture. Her husband takes the picture of her with me and she runs back to him all excited. 

Now, in Spain or Italy, someone scooting up to you is a sign you're about to get scammed for something bad.  She was so excited to take her picture with me, put her arm around me, and while her husband was taking a picture, she's treating me like a movie star and I'm thinking to myself, "What scam am I falling for here? Is there any one with their hand in my purse? Did I remember to zip it, yea I did. Is she really just taking a picture??...etc."  I looked around the square wondering, "Am I the only Westerner here?"  No.  "Are the other Westerners taking pictures with strangers?"  No.  Her husband took the picture, and she thanked me profusely, and ran off excited.  So I took a picture of she and her husband, at which point they looked at me like I was crazy  for wanting their picture. But who the heck are they?  And who was I to them?  Lord knows I don't look like Paris, nor Angelina, I wasn't accompanied by Kobe, nor Brad Pitt, and although one person on this planet thinks I look like Tina Fey, no one else will.

I dismissed it as encounter with quirky Chinese woman but then. . .

The wind was absolutely whipping that day.  When I say strong, I mean insanely strong.  You could hardly get through the tunnel archways in the Forbidden City -- I'm not kidding when I say, the wind pushed us all forward. It was so strong, this Chinese woman and I just had to stop in the middle, hoping it would abate, covering our eyes, she cowered against the wall. But it didn't abate, with our backs to the wind,  our weight leaning backward, she and I just started laughing. Other people were staying in the tunnels and playing against the wind, getting launched forward, etc.

So on Tian'an Men, the big RED China flags were absolutely whipping, straight out, so hard it felt as though they'd fly off like kites. There was a pack of teenage girls in their orange uniforms, under the red flags. The color contrast was quite cool, so I snapped an image. Then one of the girls saw me, and I took a picture of a few of them facing me. Then all of a sudden, they all went squirrelly. I'm not kidding when I say they went crazy about me. They ran over from every direction, crowded around me, squealing. They wanted their picture with me. A few screamed, and then all twenty or so of them came running. They squished against me for a picture.  Their teacher took a picture, and they were yelping in excitement.  Again, in Italy, packs of kids that squish up against you usually results in you having absolutely no worldly  possessions after except your underwear.  These girls were so excited, so sweet really.

I managed to get their teacher to take a picture with my camera -- as I figured no one is going to believe me that I got mobbed by teenage girls on Tian'an Men.  In rural Thailand years ago when I was there, the students would get similarly excited, but I was the only Westerner they'd ever seen.  But Tian'an Men isn't short of dazed white woman tourists with cameras.

Who the heck am I when I'm on Tian'an Men square?

But as my little notebook reminds me, Love will follow you wherever you go, To the sky, to the universe...

These girls had so much sweetness, excitement, anticipation...I don't think it was me per se, but their love for opportunity, for something new. They were a pack of smiles and hope, something China didn't have for a long time. To see hope and the extended hand of friendship beautifully alive on Tian'an Men was amazingly sweet, hopeful. It makes me have prayers that no one boycotts the Olympics -- there is a generation ready to Spring forward in China. . .

How much is that doggy in the window

Oh the jet lag. Here I am very early, wide awake.

On this trip, I have several coworkers with me, and on Thursday we went out to lunch with about 12-15 of our Chinese partner colleagues. They ordered many dishes.  The best English speaker was at the other table, with two of my colleagues. I was with the programmers and developers from Guangzhou.

Our meeting got out early on Friday -- way cool, as then I had more tourist time! But last night, I met up with my coworkers for Duck, where we sat next to a table of extremely drunk Chinese men. At one point, they nearly got in a fight -- three were trying to hold back big angry guy...I thought I was about to have a very  large Chinese man land on my plate of duck. 

While out for duck, my colleagues ask me with trepidation if during the previous day's lunch, I had tried any meat from the small bowl with the tiny bits of meat and peanuts?  I said that although I was a litle suspicious of the tiny bits of meat, but I took a small bite, mostly peanuts.

I apparently took a bite of Fido. My colleagues at the other table were apparently informed by the English speakers of the various meat types at the other table.  My table didn't provide the info session.

What Fido did I eat? How much is a doggy in the window in Beijing?

The next day I proposed an implementation solution to a technical problem we were facing, based on late night phone calls back home. My suggestion caused a ruckus of conversation in Chinese.  There was one programmer, very quiet. I had the feeling he was the brains of it all. He had an intriguingly quiet manner about him, but I think he's extremely perceptive.

While they were discussing, I said to my colleague, "I think they think we're crazy."

The quiet programmer, who was looking away from me towards the technical Chinese discussion, turned his head to me because he heard every word I said and chuckled, I think he was holding back an outburst. Probably laughing, because I was right.

Theat They Don't Give Up

While out walking today, I scooted into a small shop, on one of the streets of Beijing. It was a Chinese calligraphy shop, paint brushes everywhere, and beautiful hand made paper.  I have an affinity for paper, since I was a kid.  So I was in heaven admiring all the paper. As beautiful as it was, all of it has completely no use to me.  Then I saw some notebooks - I bought two. One was covered in beautiful light purple silk, for writing my musings.  Then another one, just because it reminded me of when I lived (briefly) in Thailand, and I liked it.

The cover of the notebook reads, misspellings and all: 

I CAN DO IT! 

people get success is theat they don't give up

Inside, each page has an image of a teacup, overflowing with hearts, and it reads in tiny print below the tea cup:

LOVE will follow you wherever you go...
To the sky, to the universe.

Today I went to buy water from a small street vendor.  The two very old men sitting on stools insisted I try a drink in a ceramic cup. It had a paper covering, with a rubber band. They insisted I try.  I saw that many had already been drunk; quite a few abandoned, empty ceramic containers were left on the little table. So I bought it one. It was absolutely delicious, some kind of yogurt drink. Loved it.  I have no idea who made it, or if it's fresh, or what. Then a couple of men came to buy the same drink -- I can understand why there were a dozen used cups on the table. But we'll see if my stomach likes it in a few hours!

Now I'm off to go eat some duck. I had to come "home" first before going for Duck, because before arriving at the Forbidden City this afternoon, a bird pooped on my head.  There aren't very many birds in Beijing. But one found my head to mark his spot.  I toured the ancient city with bird dung on my head.

More in a bit...life is a great adventure, and yes, love does follow us wherever we go...a story that came true for me on Tian'an Men Square, not long after I bought the notebook.

Story to follow soon.

Random Musings

Late at night. Waiting for emails for work. Stuffed on spicy chicken feet and duck foot.

Thought I'd post a few unusual quotes I encountered adventuring to Beijing...

What he taught me was to be reckless, taught me that if I let myself go, did not slow myself down by thinking so much beforehand I could achieve many things I would never have dreamt possible.

'OK. Ready, steady, go,' I said.

Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses

fugue [from French fugue, an adaptatation of the Italian fuga, literaly "flight"; from the Latin fuga, related to fugere, to flee]  1. A polyphonic composition constructed on one or more short subjects or themes, which are harmonized according to the laws of counterpoint, and introduced from time to time with various contrapuntal devices.  2. Psychiatry. A flight from one's own identity....

Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. (1989)

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

My coworker:  What kind of meat is this?
Chinese coworker: Um, Ah...meat cooked in a different way.
Coworker: Ah yes, I see, meat cooked in a different way.

Beijing Bound, Bound by Conscience

Leaving tomorrow, bound for Beijing. All ready to go.  After an all-day jam session, I have the tech specs ready -- my bag is jammed full of samples of the millions of daily messages that zing back and forth between travel systems. 

After two full days of meetings, I'll have 24 hours to bum around by myself, which I plan to jam pack with....something...

Because I spent yesterday biking, attending piano recital, having dinner with family, gabbing with friends, instead of planning my trip, I don't really have a plan.  (But seriously, who could resist that Spring weather?!)

Hence, I'll be following the "five minute" jam session ideas I got today from a variety of people who have been there, from there. A recommended restaurant lined up, if I can find it. Hoping I can actually stay in the hotel another night. Hoping to avoid Dog instead of Duck, something my coworker got mixed up last time due to pronunciation barrier. Etc.

But, the thing is, I usually find adventure, whether I seek it or not, this trip is unlikely to be any different. In the past, I've landed myself in an earthquake in the coffee region of Colombia. Ended up in the guts of a cod trawler in an Iceland port. Accompanied fish inspectors on the North Atlantic coast. Delivered mail in a small boat in what turned out to be a bad storm to a small island somewhere above the arctic circle. Ended up in a careening 60 mile-an-hour bus crash into rice fields in Thailand, climbing out of the windows to get out. After speeding 100 miles an hour through red lights at 3 a.m. in Cairo, found myself at an amateur belly dancing contest. (I wasn't driving and I didn't enter...) and so on.

So I know, after travel that is jam packed with adventures, I will be, as I always glad to be back home -- where freedom reigns, and where my comfy bed gives me a great long sleep.

But what is on my mind tonight?

Lately, as my friends and coworkers will attest to, I've been careening into the different sorts of jam sessions.  People whose conscience is jammed up, logger jammed, confused. We've all seen it before -- life is jammed packed full of choices of where to put our time, our heart, our energy. We all make those choices.  But the question is where in all that do we place our conscience?

In the end, our life is bound by our conscience. We break it, we will pay. Something we've all learned, and never stop learning.

Last Friday, I saw it played out at work. I held firm on something I believed was right on a matter of principle, of clarity.  The response was less than warm, hostile actually. Later that day, I got an email, an apology. I admire that person for it. Someone who can apologize, that's a strong heart. I really think there is nothing harder. It's easier to pretend. To ignore. To hide. To foist blame. It's brave to apologize, to say I'm sorry. It takes humility, guts, inner strength. If we go through life not apologizing, we will have lived in denial. We are imperfect. Our conscience is bound by the burning necessity to admit we screwed up. It's hard. We're trapped until we do. At the very least, our heart is. Our love definitely is.

This is one of the most powerful stories of an apology I have ever known. I wrote about him before. It's one thing to apologize about some silly work squabble, which I've had to do too. It's another to apologize about something that was truly about life, death, torture, evil.  Redemption, forgiveness and reconciliation -- the most difficult adventure one could ever ever embark on, as it is an adventure of the heart. The hardest kind.

The Melody of One's Heart

A while back I wrote From Russia with a Belly Laugh of Love about my friend's adopted Russian daughter, and her amazing belly laugh.

This little girl has a deeply musical heart, and love's my piano. She loves my metronome. She likes to open my Beethoven book and pretends to play. Then asks for my kids books. Goes giddy when I play.

I have a deep weakness for high quality musical electronics and recently purchased a fancy dancy extravaganza of a recording device, for my own boondoggle of music fun.  She loved it even more than I, singing, "Wheels On the Bus" into the recording device, while playing a surprisingly rhythmic accompaniment.

I haven't taught piano for a while and have actually enjoyed the break this year.  I taught for five years, and this year, I love having just my music. But this girl's love of music has won my heart. Her insatiable curiosity of music might pull be back out of "retirement" to bring melody to her life. 

The girl with the world's deepest belly laugh, and a shared love of melody, Beethoven her dream. . . I have prayers for her, and her equally amazing American brother who also has a smile and laugh to die for, and her older brother, back in Russia, who too also loves music. And always deep prayerful gratitude for their Mom, my best friend since I was two...

Oh baby....grand?

This weekend my upright piano is getting its guts pulled out of it. One of the low C's doesn't like to play. The hammers are off kilter. It's tuning didn't stick. The poor thing sounds sick. The "action" is deeply troubled. Not unlike my life sometimes.

But lately I can actually say that some of the really awful sounds emanating as I attempt to play Reflections in the Water are actually caused by my piano and not just my awful playing.  The otherwise wispy, dreamy song sounds like a bunch of rhythm-less frogs hopping and croaking. (Admittedly, a bit more practicing would go considerably far in solving the frog problem.)

But when it comes to pianos, I have a drooling problem.  My eyes cannot resist oggling a grand. I can't walk by one without dreaming, drooling. I drive by rich houses, look through their picture windows and see grand pianos standing idle like coffee tables. I'm deeply tempted to knock and let them know that I've noticed a dreadfully ugly space-hogging monstrosity thing in their picture window, and suggest that if they'd like that living room tumor removed, free of charge, I'd be glad to assist. My Russian tuner insists I have to get a grand. He gets grumpy when he comes to tune, and sees my upright still sitting there. He's not all that happy about repairing mine when I could have a grand instead. He's got brands picked out for me. I quite confident he's driven by the possibility of the commission, but I'm willing to ignore that point and be persuaded.

The problem? It's probably not going to fit through my door.  In fact, we're quite confident it won't.

And it probably won't fit through my wallet.

Certainly rebuilding a doorway to fit a grand entrance isn't in the realm of quick home repairs.

But this is my grand dream, in fact its specifically a concert grand dream...I suppose I can live without this particular living room for a practice-hall, but I'll take that Bosendorfer that's front and center.

zzzzz

 

 

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

zzz

zzz

More in my wallet range, is my baby grand dream. And this baby's been on the market for a while. I'm hoping this suburban owner will drop the price in desperation to unload it from their living room.  Or I'm hoping to find some random ignorant grandson who inherits his grandma's Steinway grand piano and finds it to be an over-sized elephant-heavy burden. I'll offer to unload it off his back free of charge.

Until then, time to go play Reflections in the Water...despite the broken keys, the sorrowful tones, and misplaced tenderness of my piano, its melody still dreams of passion of the best kind, of loves so far away, of love not yet in reach. In melody, dreams are born anew.

The Not-so-Secret Police

Unless my company announces its eventual disappearance within the next week, I am supposed to go to Beijing to chat with some Chinese airline employees.  The guy who is really the expert on the subject being discussed, doesn't like to travel. The other expert planned her vacation, and isn't budging on it. So the Chinese are stuck with me, the proxy. We'll be lucky if any of us understand each other.

So I had to race to get a travel Visa. At Kinko's getting the required extra passport photo, there were two guys interested as to where I was going. When they heard China, one asked  me if I'm going to wear a "Free Tibet" shirt all the time.  "Ah, no."

One of the Kinko guys talked about the dam, the infamously bad monstrous dam, that flooded entire regions, villages and treasures. One mentioned how China isn't exactly Democracy in action and was very oppressive.  I agreed, and mentioned how they don't really let folks talk to journalists...over there, if you get very friendly with journalists, it's often you get the 'secret' police down your back. But there the police really aren't so secret. They're everywhere.

The other guy was very confused about whose police force causes the oppression in China, "Whose police do that over there? The American police?"

Oh my.  Do people really think we station U.S. police deep inside China to prevent them from talking to a Wall Street Journal journalist? 

I got to thinking, maybe this girl isn't the exception. 

We not only need maps apparently, but a basic education.    The reality is why we need more people like Michelle Rhee - I think she is nothing short of incredible!  She's fixing a system that creates such educational output.

But how do our military folks come back after seeing the brutally oppressive regions of the world, and go to Kinko's and find out that the Minneapolis police are stationed in China preventing school girls from talking to the Wall Street Journal.  Talk about reverse culture shock! They must just shake their head and wonder how our nation got to be so naive.

The Wrong Words

There's no way to always get the words right. Sometimes we get the words jumbled and it is hilariously wrong. (A major journalist recently wrote that the thousands of Northwest Airline pilots "who are smaller", prefer a merger deal based on that fact. The writer intended to write smaller in number.)

Other times, when it counts the most, when the future hinges on what we say, we fumble horribly and life takes another turn.  (After college I sent out letters for jobs to the top places I wanted to work, mentioning my attention to detail and spelled my major, Mathematics, wrong - I forgot the "e".) 

Other times, and it is perhaps the worst, we are silent when we should have spoken. (Back in Junior High, I didn't say something. I regretted it for years. I finally admitted it recently to my dear friend - luckily for me, her heart was gracious and it made us even better friends.)

But this week, I got the words all wrong. When it comes to words, there is no eraser in life. What is said is said. I guess trying to say it right, is better than lying to avoid a wrong. I did try to say it right. The person is really a hero to me, deep down the core of my heart kind of hero. But something went all wrong.  He was angry, with even my compliments.

So I'm keeping it short today, I'm not on a roll this week.   I hope that even when we sometimes say it wrong, that somehow the person knows the deepest intent of our heart is nothing short of love and friendship, despite our dramatically awful verbal fumbles. Words are harder than they look.

Catching up after catching cold

When I was a kid, my mom told me that getting the flu acts as simply a good reminder of how lucky we are when we're healthy.  Lord knows, this week I know she's right.

Last week, I was flattened silly, like a bug on a windshield, with the flu. My last name at work is being replaced with Birdflu.

So I haven't written in ages -- too much work and that flu, but here's my thoughts for a gratefully blessed and wonderfully healthier Thursday.

Spitzered: To those of you who having loving, loyal husbands, hug him a million times closer, grateful he isn't one of those loser men who get the label "Spitzered". Last week collapsed on the couch, a thermometer in my mouth, nibbling crackers, drunk on cold medicine, I watched my share of the Spitzer saga. All I can say is, there is a God. There are good guys out there catching the bad guys. And I love it. I don't relish the demise of a man, nor his family. But I do relish when crimes are caught. It's freedom working. As no surprise, the prositute is a self-admitted victim of abuse as a kid. The men who purchase sex, not only are pathetically desperate, but they are generally in a long line of abusers. I cheer when they are caught. Get the bad guys out of power, and fight for dignity. 

Five Hard Years: Along that same line, there are a bunch of great folks in Iraq getting bad guys out of power. They've been doing it five years straight. I love 'em for it. Guys volunteering to sacrifice their comfort to corner, contain, curtail the villains of violence and anarachy -- they corner the bad guys, chase away the bad guys, catch the bad guys, stop the bad guys. And I love it. It's freedom working.

God Bless America, sing it loud: Lastly, I hope America isn't going to have rewrite the famous song, "God Bless America" to "God Damn America".  To that now-famous pastor who is yelling those revisionist themes from the pulpit, claiming America is the #1 killer in the world, I shake my head at his naivete. I suggest he try counting the Bobby Mugage massacre - that's thousands upon thousands. Try having tea with the gang leaders of Sudan -- that count is in the millions. Try expressing that kind of anger to that brutal Korean with bad glasses. Try yelling "God Damn Chávez" and see where that gets him. Lastly, I ask Obama's pastor to try even preaching in China.

There is absolute certainty that the pain of racism runs horribly deep, brutally deep - Obama's pastor speaks from a place of real pain - our country is not without its sin, its arrogance, its share of people who don't get things right. Yet our role is not to relish our own anger and hatred and thus destroy what is good, but to make things right, to inspire, to fight for reconciliation, to relay hope, to build anew where others before us have destroyed.

The Guts to Leap

Progress is risky. You can't steal second, and keep your foot on first. 

It's leap day. The day to jump it, run it, do it, say it, try it, ask it, otherwise, it's another four years for the chance.

They're Not Sluggards

The sluggard says, "There is a lion outside!" or "I will be murdered in the streets!" Proverbs 22:13

With gratitude, our troops aren't sluggards. Even while many back home are.

The Memory of Freedom's Views

About seven years ago, it was rainy, cold, windy and the North Atlantic sea, above the arctic circle, was stretching out ahead of me. On that trip, sea kayaking in Norway, I was a weak link, not a strong paddler, the other kayaks were ahead of me and my arms were giving out. Off to my right, up high on the barren yet defiant coast was an empty, abandoned old German bunker embedded into granite. Many years before a heavily armed German would have aimed and shot at me if he knew I was an Ally.

Northern Norway is unforgiving with its violent weather, its rocky coast, its tormentous storms. Back in World War II it was an extremely difficult place to live, in fact in many ways it still is. The area I was paddling in didn't have roads until the 1950's.

It's not likely many know today why the Germans needed to defend that sparsely populated rugged coast, why Hitler said about Norway in 1942, "Unqualified security in the Northern area is more important than a new spring offensive against the Soviet Union."

Before the U.S. was in the war, Hitler needed Norway's extremely far north warm water port to get access to Swedish iron ore. He went and got it. Chamberlain didn't have the guts to respond. He lost the port to Hitler, who spattered his crew of violent men down the coast. Killed Norwegians. Tortured them. Starved them. Forced them into labor.

Last summer I was with one of those Norwegians. This older man was part of the resistance movement in Norway, smuggled radios, information, but was caught and spent horrible months in Grini prison camp, tortured brutally, bled from his ears. Part of his story is here. Later in life, he worked with the underground resistance movement in the former Soviet Union. A dear Russian friend of his, another freedom fighter, was murdered brutally, stabbed, killed in a Soviet forest. 

Last summer, I was visiting this Norwegian. While out driving, he stopped his car on a long and winding road, at a beautiful overlook in the Norwegian fiords where the magnitude of the scenery feels as though prayers and strength cascade off the steep mountains, like waterfalls. The Norwegian scenery along the many miles of coast is unbelievably breathtaking - the photo does not capture the breadth nor depth of the coast's magnificence.  

After looking out over the view, when I got back in the car, I felt inspired, relaxed. The man was quiet, as he drove further down the winding, very narrow road, with cliffs falling deep below just outside my car window. Then he told me a story. "Back in the war, a bus driver was forced at gun point to transport German troops along this road to another village up ahead. He'd have been killed if he refused. When he got to that turn we were just at, he accelerated and drove full speed off the cliff, killing every single one of those Germans." 

My pictures taken from that beautiful spot don't tell that story. But I hope those of us who enjoy the beautiful views of freedom, never forget the sacrifice of those who gave it to us.

One minute longer...

Heroism consists in hanging on one minute longer.

Norwegian proverb

If the river cried ain't that long

Today I heard from a dear friend, whose boyfriend trampled on her heart - he didn't today specifically, it just hurts more today, Valentine's. 

I won't ramble the details, because we all know stories just like it-- two people enter but only one of the two puts their heart forward, goes 100%. And then, like a knife in the heart, the weaker one walks away from promises once said, for no good reason, in fact for bad reasons. In this case, the boyfriend spiraled downwards, derailed, crashed and burned, by choice. Like he voluntarily dove head first into an empty swimming pool, as if believing it had water. I don't get it, but he did. I can vouch for the fact he'll never get anyone as gorgeous as she is, as generous with her affection, and as dedicated to him as she was. Valentine's for her was not a big hearted day. Her heart got trampled on. And it hurts like crazy.

For those like my friend, who have been burned by deceit-- belt it out, as did this young woman who knows the same pain, and in doing so, hit the heart of millions of viewers.  She took the pain and launched it. In this case, that American Idol's Randy got it right, "she blew it out of the box," and even Simon kissed her for this performance. Not to mention, hundreds and hundreds of thousands have seen this video of this every-day-someone, a single mom, bank teller, not only because LaKisha Jone's voice is a powerful and talented one, but I'm guessing they know exactly the pain that generates the power of this performance.

I should have seen it coming when the roses died
Should have seen the end of summer in your eyes
I should have listened when you said good night
You really meant good bye
Baby, ain't it funny, how you never ever learn to fall
You're really on your knees, when you think you're standing tall
But only fools are "know-it-alls" and I played that fool for you

I cried and I cried
There were nights that died for you baby
I tried and I tried to deny that your love drove me crazy, baby

If the love that I got for you is gone
If the river I cried ain't that long
Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong, this ain't a love song

If the pain that I'm feeling so strong
Is the reason that I'm holding on
Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong - this ain't a love song

(lyrics "This Ain't a Love Song" BON JOVI)

Only fools are "know it alls" - especially in love. But when it comes to life and love, even with all its sorrow, you gotta claim your heart, own it, fight for it. And even on a Valentine's Day that you'd prefer to boycott, instead of jumping into the empty swimming pool too, leave 'em there, walk away and claim life's worth -- all of it. Life's worth is worth it. Don't let the fools play a fool for you.

Love on the Big Hearted Day

It's Valentine's week....find someone with a big heart, and thank 'em. They give of their heart more than others, give 'em a little piece of yours back. To the someone you love, hold them close. Even closer if they are far away. Find someone lonely and help them toss aside a bitter sorrow. Find someone with a Purple Heart and give them your big pounding heart thank you.  Valentine's, it's meant to be the big hearted day.

Shoot the Bad Guy or the Messenger?

An older woman told me the other day regarding the caucuses that she doesn't attend them. She's independent, and this year isn't certain which Presidential candidate she likes. But she is certain that she doesn't like people who use scare tactics about terrorism. She said, "Last time, they made us all scared to get our vote. And I don't like that. They tried to scare us with their talk of terrorism."

Her comments continued along that line and it all reminded me that there are those who think the threat of violence and the possibility of random yet calculated brutality in our own neighborhood, or inside our airplane, or at our shopping mall, or our child's school is all make-believe, merely the stories of the self-serving politicians on the right.

To those of you who have dedicated your career, long working hours, spent months away from home and risked your life and limb, or gave of life and limb, to prevent that all from happening, I am sorry to hear of perspectives that are so naive. You deserve our gratitude, instead of our shooting the messenger. Yet it is easier to shoot the messengers -- the people who come home with stories of a world of encroaching violence -- than to admit that the world has evil lurking in our midst and that we are called to fight it.

Our dedicated heroes deserve credit and deep gratitude for keeping us sheltered so that we can hold our naivete as though it were wisdom. I am sorry for what that naivete means for our nation. Our country and its freedom depends on the other kind of wisdom which is based on the knowledge that democracy is fragile, that it can break apart in horrible ways, that its survival requires our effort, constancy of purpose, our discipline, while always knowing that the loss of our safety and peace merely takes a tiny spark.