[These are collected funny moments that fit nowhere in the story today. I just want to share them out of context, or with as little context as possible.]
As Dave, Andrea, and I ascend the Circular Mound Altar, the spiritual center of the universe for Imperial China, Dave observes, “you know, we’re climbing the Stairway to Heaven!”
---
Victor wants to get a miniature set of Chinese Opera masks. He did not see them more than once today, and was quite disappointed. We did, however, encounter some very… enthusiastic sellers of what, frankly, was pure, unadulterated crap.
Victor: If they had masks, I would buy some.
Dave: If they had masks, it’d be a robbery!
---
An exchange between Victor and myself today:
Victor: Sometimes when you talk, you’re like a grown-up.
Me: Only sometimes?
Victor: Yep. But only sometimes.
Me: Is it good that I only sound like one sometimes?
Victor: Yep.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring.
I saw this on a sign on Legend Street between the Forbidden City and our restaurant for lunch:
Legend Street
Over 600 years of commerce.
Legend Street
Over 600 years of commerce.
...the old that is strong does not wither. Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
Religion bothers me. It’s purpose, as far as I can tell, is to suggest that the common person cannot understand the universe, and to understand it, somebody else must contact some additional plane of existence in order to give meaning to the common person’s actions, as well as to prescribe what those actions should be.
Hooey, I say.
And yet, when I walk through the gate with nine rows of nine raised, painted semicircles, I touch one in accordance with the belief that it will give me good luck (nine is the luckiest number in China. As if you couldn’t tell.). When we pass the Happiness Door, I touch the double happiness and make a wish. When we stand at the Altar of Heaven, where only the emperor went to communicate with the Heavens, I too pray for the good harvest.
Why is that?
I want to believe that these are low-cost superstitions, that any idea that required more devotion would be cast aside in favor of the scientific explanation. And yet I know that I, too, am the common person, and I want my life to have meaning. I want to commune with the Heavens, to plea on behalf of everyone for a good harvest.
---
Addendum
A similar problem arises with respect to my own work. Andrea read my entry on Caitlin’s orphanage. She points out that (1) Caitlin plays the cello, not the viola, (2) most boys up for adoption these days are healthy, and abandoned due to societal developments surrounding weakening marriages from long-distance relationships, (3) the cross-eyed boy had recently broken his nose according to the orphanage director, so he’s going to get better, and (4) girls have always been preferred to boys in international adoptions, according to international adoption agencies.
These things are all true, or very likely true, and yet I resented hearing them. Why? I suspect it is because I prefer my experience and the feelings it evoked to the data. Why is that? Why am I so willing to trust a sample of one person to the testimony of many? How does one overcome the bias towards one's own experience?
Hooey, I say.
And yet, when I walk through the gate with nine rows of nine raised, painted semicircles, I touch one in accordance with the belief that it will give me good luck (nine is the luckiest number in China. As if you couldn’t tell.). When we pass the Happiness Door, I touch the double happiness and make a wish. When we stand at the Altar of Heaven, where only the emperor went to communicate with the Heavens, I too pray for the good harvest.
Why is that?
I want to believe that these are low-cost superstitions, that any idea that required more devotion would be cast aside in favor of the scientific explanation. And yet I know that I, too, am the common person, and I want my life to have meaning. I want to commune with the Heavens, to plea on behalf of everyone for a good harvest.
---
Addendum
A similar problem arises with respect to my own work. Andrea read my entry on Caitlin’s orphanage. She points out that (1) Caitlin plays the cello, not the viola, (2) most boys up for adoption these days are healthy, and abandoned due to societal developments surrounding weakening marriages from long-distance relationships, (3) the cross-eyed boy had recently broken his nose according to the orphanage director, so he’s going to get better, and (4) girls have always been preferred to boys in international adoptions, according to international adoption agencies.
These things are all true, or very likely true, and yet I resented hearing them. Why? I suspect it is because I prefer my experience and the feelings it evoked to the data. Why is that? Why am I so willing to trust a sample of one person to the testimony of many? How does one overcome the bias towards one's own experience?
...not all those who wander are lost...
There I am, standing before the artificial mountain of the emperor, imagining what it would be like to have my own mountain (and my own concubi—er, loving wife. Yes. Loving wife.), when I realize that I have lost the children.
Ugh.
I find them hunched over a koi pond, gleefully counting fish. There we are, immersed in 600 years of history, and they’re counting fancy goldfish.
But I’m not sure they’re wrong. The buildings are dead. The fish are alive. Sellers of every item in the city approach us wherever we go, just as the fish rise to every crumb. Would I have noticed the parallel sooner if I paid more attention to what interests the kids?
Perhaps I should count more fish, too.
Ugh.
I find them hunched over a koi pond, gleefully counting fish. There we are, immersed in 600 years of history, and they’re counting fancy goldfish.
But I’m not sure they’re wrong. The buildings are dead. The fish are alive. Sellers of every item in the city approach us wherever we go, just as the fish rise to every crumb. Would I have noticed the parallel sooner if I paid more attention to what interests the kids?
Perhaps I should count more fish, too.
All that is gold does not glitter...
The Forbidden City and the Temple of Heaven are amazing places. Truly they capture the grandeur and decay of Imperial Chinese civilization, indicating both how advanced and how repressive (given the social system the architecture embodies) the empire must have been.
We approach the Forbidden City by first crossing the exterior moat. It is low, revealing the piping for the fountain system that now lives there. “The moat’s low, we can storm the walls,” jokes Dave. I ask him how much the emperors would’ve paid to make water shoot into the sky without letting outsiders see the mechanism. He thinks it would take a large fortune. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and magic can keep one’s palace out of the hands of invaders.
Immediately after entering the initial walls, Kina speaks. “There are stores over there. I want to go!” Of all I see today in Beijing, to me the most hopeful sign is the ubiquity of commerce. On Tiananmen Square, not less than two-dozen people tried to sell me something. Within every wall of the Forbidden City lurks no longer courtiers and concubines but now gift shops and coffee bars. The government can erase Tiananmen from the minds of the Chinese people; nothing can erase the human tendency to truck, barter, and exchange.
While the kids get waters and peruse the trinkets, I survey the first courtyard. It is wide and flat, lacking any shade or object. The stone paving on the ground is still the original, Zhou says, making it almost 600 years old. Why can’t ODOT build something that lasts more than a year, I ponder.
But I have little time to think. There is a military drill attracting a crowd. Row upon row of Chinese troops executes some series of… martial arts? Tai chi? I cannot place it. Then Dave helps us understand.
“They’re practicing crowd control,” he says wryly.
And he’s right. Each swings in such a way to strike a person in the gut, knock them over the back of the head once prone, and then move to the next protester. The troops indicate, in a not-so-subtle manner, what would happen to us if we got a little out of line.
All the same, I flip them the bird when none of my companions sees. The soldiers also don’t see. This is probably a good thing.
As we pass through the second wall, Andrea remarks on a library we visited on our last day in Ningbo. It was far more beautiful, she thinks, than this place, however grand it might be. I agree, but as I look around, I realize why. The walls, the moat, the flat, open courtyard. This place was not built for beauty; it was built for power. And it was very, very well designed. Dave and I frequently exchange comments on how defensible this or that position is, how the imperial guard would have used this or that tactic given the palace’s layout.
While walking, Zhou teaches us little facts about the Forbidden City and its customs. The center road of the compound, for example, is only for the emperor himself. At one point we walk on it. “Walk as an emperor!” Zhou exclaims. I do, but I do not feel more imperial. Zhou teaches us the meaning of the use of different colors. Blue, she says without irony, is for the heavens. I want to ask her if she’s looked up recently, but decide against it. We pass through the Gate of Moral Standards. Dave exclaims that Congress couldn’t pass through it without Heaven striking them down. I think about the rocks in my pocket, 600-year-old pieces of Chinese history. Heaven does not strike me; do the emperors approve my conduct?
The farther in we go, the more two things happen. First, we see much more renovation. The government prepares Beijing and all its history for the 2008 Olympics; the Forbidden City must get a makeover. Second, Andrea begins exclaiming, “this is so beautiful!” And she’s right. Everything is beautiful. The buildings, the tree groves, the small house built upon an artificial mountain in the middle of the compound (for the emperor and his concubines to climb up, and then for them to sit “and exercise”, says Zhou. Right. Exercise.). We have past the part of the City dedicated to projecting power; we have entered the part of the City dedicated to enjoying it.
But the Forbidden City is not China. It was China, and some of the ideas embodied in this building still reside in the minds of the Chinese. But this building and its contents are dead. Unchanging. Dead trees are propped up with painted lumber. Empty buildings lie full of covered artifacts. The scaffolding of the renovators mislead. It looks like growth, like life—the new paint, the reforged roofs. But it isn’t. It’s preservation, but each new coat of paint embalms the last. It's entombment. It is the last touches of a mortician, lovingly preserving an ancestor who will never live again.
We approach the Forbidden City by first crossing the exterior moat. It is low, revealing the piping for the fountain system that now lives there. “The moat’s low, we can storm the walls,” jokes Dave. I ask him how much the emperors would’ve paid to make water shoot into the sky without letting outsiders see the mechanism. He thinks it would take a large fortune. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and magic can keep one’s palace out of the hands of invaders.
Immediately after entering the initial walls, Kina speaks. “There are stores over there. I want to go!” Of all I see today in Beijing, to me the most hopeful sign is the ubiquity of commerce. On Tiananmen Square, not less than two-dozen people tried to sell me something. Within every wall of the Forbidden City lurks no longer courtiers and concubines but now gift shops and coffee bars. The government can erase Tiananmen from the minds of the Chinese people; nothing can erase the human tendency to truck, barter, and exchange.
While the kids get waters and peruse the trinkets, I survey the first courtyard. It is wide and flat, lacking any shade or object. The stone paving on the ground is still the original, Zhou says, making it almost 600 years old. Why can’t ODOT build something that lasts more than a year, I ponder.
But I have little time to think. There is a military drill attracting a crowd. Row upon row of Chinese troops executes some series of… martial arts? Tai chi? I cannot place it. Then Dave helps us understand.
“They’re practicing crowd control,” he says wryly.
And he’s right. Each swings in such a way to strike a person in the gut, knock them over the back of the head once prone, and then move to the next protester. The troops indicate, in a not-so-subtle manner, what would happen to us if we got a little out of line.
All the same, I flip them the bird when none of my companions sees. The soldiers also don’t see. This is probably a good thing.
As we pass through the second wall, Andrea remarks on a library we visited on our last day in Ningbo. It was far more beautiful, she thinks, than this place, however grand it might be. I agree, but as I look around, I realize why. The walls, the moat, the flat, open courtyard. This place was not built for beauty; it was built for power. And it was very, very well designed. Dave and I frequently exchange comments on how defensible this or that position is, how the imperial guard would have used this or that tactic given the palace’s layout.
While walking, Zhou teaches us little facts about the Forbidden City and its customs. The center road of the compound, for example, is only for the emperor himself. At one point we walk on it. “Walk as an emperor!” Zhou exclaims. I do, but I do not feel more imperial. Zhou teaches us the meaning of the use of different colors. Blue, she says without irony, is for the heavens. I want to ask her if she’s looked up recently, but decide against it. We pass through the Gate of Moral Standards. Dave exclaims that Congress couldn’t pass through it without Heaven striking them down. I think about the rocks in my pocket, 600-year-old pieces of Chinese history. Heaven does not strike me; do the emperors approve my conduct?
The farther in we go, the more two things happen. First, we see much more renovation. The government prepares Beijing and all its history for the 2008 Olympics; the Forbidden City must get a makeover. Second, Andrea begins exclaiming, “this is so beautiful!” And she’s right. Everything is beautiful. The buildings, the tree groves, the small house built upon an artificial mountain in the middle of the compound (for the emperor and his concubines to climb up, and then for them to sit “and exercise”, says Zhou. Right. Exercise.). We have past the part of the City dedicated to projecting power; we have entered the part of the City dedicated to enjoying it.
But the Forbidden City is not China. It was China, and some of the ideas embodied in this building still reside in the minds of the Chinese. But this building and its contents are dead. Unchanging. Dead trees are propped up with painted lumber. Empty buildings lie full of covered artifacts. The scaffolding of the renovators mislead. It looks like growth, like life—the new paint, the reforged roofs. But it isn’t. It’s preservation, but each new coat of paint embalms the last. It's entombment. It is the last touches of a mortician, lovingly preserving an ancestor who will never live again.
Mordor where the Shadows lie.
I was less than enthusiastic about visiting Tiananmen Square. It is the scene of a great evil, a dual reminder of the barbarism of imperialism and the barbarism of communism. Biblo wore mithral chain; I slip on my Amnesty International t-shirt.
There is no sign that anything took place in this area, any battle was fought. It was not, of course, a battle. It was a slaughter. But still, no plaque, no memorial, not even a sign exists to say of what took place here.
At least not what took place in June of 1989. There are several references to what took place in 1949 and 1919, though those events have a different interpretation than I would give them. What is most striking, however, is that the people who walk the Square itself do not seem to know its story.
As Mu Zhou begins to explain the various happenings of Tiananmen, Andrea asks her. “Shall we talk about 1989?” Zhou replies in the negative and smiles. She knows, I think. We might get her into trouble? Perhaps. I say nothing.
Andrea comments on the difference with Soviet Russia. “There are no soldiers goose-stepping around,” she notes. I see a column of five or so troops marching.
“There’s some.”
“Not really,” she says. “They’re not goose-stepping. They’re barely enthusiastic.”
“They’re not Marines,” says Dave, himself a former Marine.
“Not Jarheads.” Then Andrea thinks twice about her choice of verbiage. “Sorry, dear.”
But they are jar heads. The soldiers, the tourists, even our guide. They are empty, and the Communists have filled them, not with lies, but with ever more emptiness.
I contemplate this idea as we walk across the Square. Zhou asks me why I look so serious. “You don’t know, do you?” I reply. She looks at me quizzically. “You really don’t know what happened here?” She shakes her head.
I cannot restrain myself. I tell her of the students who protested, of how the Communist government sent not just soldiers but tanks to quash them. I tell her of the everyday people who gave their lives to delay those tanks and those soldiers. I tell her of the famous pictures that the West has seen and she has not. Of a student holding his hand up to a tank, of a woman, back from shopping, standing before a column of mechanized death to give the students more time to flee.
She stares at me blankly. It appears she does not believe me. “Google it,” I say. “You won’t be able to read any articles, but you can see the pictures.” I say this because I checked before leaving the hotel that morning. I know what is available, and what is hidden.
I know she has no reason to believe me, as no other tour group has ever mentioned this to her. And yes, I asked her. Not one ever brought it up. Andrea said it would be the politically correct thing to do, to remain silent. I disagree. It is not politically correct to ignore the wanton execution of hundreds of protesters yearning for liberty. It is shameful.
There is no sign that anything took place in this area, any battle was fought. It was not, of course, a battle. It was a slaughter. But still, no plaque, no memorial, not even a sign exists to say of what took place here.
At least not what took place in June of 1989. There are several references to what took place in 1949 and 1919, though those events have a different interpretation than I would give them. What is most striking, however, is that the people who walk the Square itself do not seem to know its story.
As Mu Zhou begins to explain the various happenings of Tiananmen, Andrea asks her. “Shall we talk about 1989?” Zhou replies in the negative and smiles. She knows, I think. We might get her into trouble? Perhaps. I say nothing.
Andrea comments on the difference with Soviet Russia. “There are no soldiers goose-stepping around,” she notes. I see a column of five or so troops marching.
“There’s some.”
“Not really,” she says. “They’re not goose-stepping. They’re barely enthusiastic.”
“They’re not Marines,” says Dave, himself a former Marine.
“Not Jarheads.” Then Andrea thinks twice about her choice of verbiage. “Sorry, dear.”
But they are jar heads. The soldiers, the tourists, even our guide. They are empty, and the Communists have filled them, not with lies, but with ever more emptiness.
I contemplate this idea as we walk across the Square. Zhou asks me why I look so serious. “You don’t know, do you?” I reply. She looks at me quizzically. “You really don’t know what happened here?” She shakes her head.
I cannot restrain myself. I tell her of the students who protested, of how the Communist government sent not just soldiers but tanks to quash them. I tell her of the everyday people who gave their lives to delay those tanks and those soldiers. I tell her of the famous pictures that the West has seen and she has not. Of a student holding his hand up to a tank, of a woman, back from shopping, standing before a column of mechanized death to give the students more time to flee.
She stares at me blankly. It appears she does not believe me. “Google it,” I say. “You won’t be able to read any articles, but you can see the pictures.” I say this because I checked before leaving the hotel that morning. I know what is available, and what is hidden.
I know she has no reason to believe me, as no other tour group has ever mentioned this to her. And yes, I asked her. Not one ever brought it up. Andrea said it would be the politically correct thing to do, to remain silent. I disagree. It is not politically correct to ignore the wanton execution of hundreds of protesters yearning for liberty. It is shameful.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I bet this happened to Galadriel all the time.
Today in Ningbo, I was stopped by a Chinese girl, perhaps a little younger than myself. She did not say hello, nor did she ask a question. She put her arm around my waist and before I could really react, her friend took a picture of the two of us.
I am not particularly attractive. I'm short, not very well built, and I have a geeky sort of look about me. Why me? I have blonde hair, that's why.
You know, the one time my hair would help me get the ladies, and I'm one ocean and one continent away from the only woman I'm trying to attract.
Eh, at least the girl was cute. That gets me some jealousy points, right? Perhaps I should start seeing how many people want pictures of my golden locks. And maybe some short guy will offer me the most powerful magical artifact on the face of the planet. That would be good, too.
I am not particularly attractive. I'm short, not very well built, and I have a geeky sort of look about me. Why me? I have blonde hair, that's why.
You know, the one time my hair would help me get the ladies, and I'm one ocean and one continent away from the only woman I'm trying to attract.
Eh, at least the girl was cute. That gets me some jealousy points, right? Perhaps I should start seeing how many people want pictures of my golden locks. And maybe some short guy will offer me the most powerful magical artifact on the face of the planet. That would be good, too.
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