Saturday, April 4, 2009

Cheese; Vomit; Doodles; French Culture; Dead Boy, Dead Bird; Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

The Study of Chinese Breaks Good Minds, Part 2:
First, I should update you on last semester’s results. The good: I received the top score on the Oral Examination both for the midterm and final examination. Less good: I took the HSK test (standardized Chinese proficiency test) at the start of this semester. There are 11 levels. I got a 3, which is considered reasonable for the length of my formal study. Chances are that after this semester I’ll be able to get 4, maybe a 5. That’s considered good. One must get 7 or 8 to be considered excellent/advanced. That leaves 3 levels to make sure you know your Chinese is shit.

Have I dreamt in Chinese? Not really. Had one where somebody asked me the Chinese word for “cheese.” I couldn’t remember. Had another where somebody asked me the word for “vomit.” I told them the word for cheese.

Dictation Triumph: I’ve been struggling mightily to get a decent score on our weekly dictation tests. Basically, the teacher reads new vocabulary words and we’ve got to write them, fast. We’ll do 16 or 18 words in a minute, selected out of 50 or 60 new words. Well, I finally nailed it down, got myself a real fridge-hanger. Mama didn’t raise no fool!
*Note the smiley face. In Chinese it means, “Not bad.” (pictures are clickable)
The way one does this is by writing characters by the hundreds, every day. Below is a sample of what I do daily. This page represents 1/20 of the day’s repetitions.
Korean Meat-Water Update: Remember the Indonesian girl (speaker of 5 languages), the one who thought Chinese was easy? She told me she decided to (i.e. was forced to) repeat the course she just completed. She said, “I want to be sure I get it this time.”

On My Right:
Her name is Julia. Probably 19 or 20. She tells me she is from Sumatra…Sumatra…the trilled “r” sounds like “21” dealt from a rose-petal deck. Her mouth is always slightly open and curled into an expectant smile. A beauty mark above her lip serves as punctuation. Something is coming. Something good. Most probably delicious. Open up.

She has glorious silken-to-a-fault, deep-brown hair that falls just below her shoulders. It is shaped around her face television-style as if to emphasize that, at this point in her life, she is pure viewer—a spectator even to her own show. Today, she is wearing denim overalls and a black t-shirt that says simply, “Mango.”

She’s always late and gets drowsy easily. About 10 minutes into each class her lids fall to half-baked. The lashes approach and finally touch, but just. They never fully close. Through the still curtain of hair, her ears reach through like cupped baby hands, angled to catch quick-swimming things.

It’s almost decadent, this kind of sleeping: like Civil War spectators picnicking on the hills above D.C. to watch with opera glasses pitched battles on the open field. Here she is, having come from some remote island to the volcanic center of the world’s greatest experiment in human development to study Chinese, intensively. In the snarling teeth of 6 hours and 100 new words a day, she snoozes, undisturbed.

On My Left:
She’s from Belgium by way of China and England somehow. Her Chinese name is “An An,” which means “peace, peace.” Not. At all. She’s one of those privileged lost souls I think: her parents have given her what passes for “everything”—English boarding school, world travel, ample spending money and a kind of attention, but you sense she’s never felt truly loved. There’s a desperation to her persona—shrill, needy, domineering. The overall effect is like a succession of minor 7th’s played grandioso by some fever-stricken orchestra.

An An has a boyfriend several years her senior. This fact comes out early in her self-introduction. His name is Fred, or Freddy Baby, I’m not quite sure. Between classes, they shop: “Oh God Fred, the weather is just Awfullll! It’s making me all sticky. Oh look Freddy, chocolate, let’s buy some chocolate shall we Fred? Oh Freddy Baby, you do too love dark chocolate!”

But there are some wrinkles: “Freddy needs to move out for a few days. God! He’s such a pig, changes his underwear A-side B-side because he’s too lazy to do wash. Swine! You wouldn’t A-side B-side would you?”

For you Baby, it’d be all A-side, all the time.

She doodles a lot during class. Mostly she draws ponies, the formulaic side-profile kind that fade out at the shoulders—the kind girls make by the murder until they turn 11 or 12 and start texting naked pictures of themselves to classmates. Today she’s got three ponies going, all left-sided with identical bridles. Running between them in curvy block letters she has written, “Tra La La-Tra La La La!”

Doodle Dialectic:
An An’s doodles got me thinking about my own. In order to ensure the completeness and accuracy of the historical record, I decided to undertake a study of my doodles from last semester. Below is a composite picture of 600 hours in-class doodle time.

*Note: As doodling is known to be a semi-conscious dream-like activity, I cannot be held responsible for any nefarious content. This doodle archive is for research purposes only. Interpretive captions are read left to right, starting at the top left.


On the Effects of French Culture:
Many of my fellow schoolmates are ethnically Chinese girls whose parents or grandparents emigrated during the Cultural Revolution. So you can get a look at what becomes of a Chinese family stewing in foreign juices for a couple generations. Mainly you get meek, well-kept, classroom superstars. I would add also, sexually introverted, and however fashionably dressed, largely devoid of sensuality. They’re in their early 20’s and are still wondering what these fleshy fixtures are for. I remember on our train ride to Shanghai last semester, a group of them spent an hour poking each others breasts and trying to guess their cup sizes.

But there are some who immediately stand out, and alone. Amidst all the monochrome Asian goodness comes a pair a Parisian-Chinese girls gliding, nay, sashaying down the hall. The one on the left has close-cropped hair—dewy and matted like lambs wool and curling around her unpierced ears. She wears a simple necklace with a pearl resting comfortably in her cleavage. Her belly is bare, made so by a restless hand that tugs on the shirt hem, stretching it down and then up, then higher. When she gets it just so, she winds it into a cherry-sized spool and lets it go.

Her partner is wearing a crisp white blouse, loose and long. It’s unbuttoned far enough to let you know she knows. A tasseled red silk scarf spills over her shoulder and falls down between her legs. They seem to be more or less in love—with themselves, with each other, with life, with sashaying and soft bellies. Their skin glows; their eyes laugh and sparkle; all that. Something has gotten into them. A vapor. They drink it, eat it, smoke it, I don’t know, but it gets in. The sex gets into them. And France puts it in there.

Intriguingly, it also works for the French guys. But the sex only gets in so far, turns a corner and then sinks to the bottom, congealing between their toes. For a few it creeps up like hemlock tea—to the calf, maybe the thigh, but never does it reach the buttocks. So they gambol. Some manage to prance.

Dead Boy, Dead Bird:
I came out of the gym one day to find two boys sitting on the sidewalk spooning each other in the seated position. The boy in front has his arm curled languidly around the other’s neck. Odd for a sidewalk at midday…yet, this is China, wait, the boy in front is sleeping—no he’s unconscious. I realized the look on the other boy’s face was not pleasure, but panic. There was an older man standing to the side talking on the phone. He shook an open hand at the boys as if to scold them. Then he gestured toward the street and back to their position. I approached.

He was gray on the way to blue. I asked what was happening. The older man angrily waved me off. I turned to the conscious boy and asked him. He shook his head no and put his forehead on the other boy’s neck. I searched for the words…CPR, pulse, choking…I don’t know how to say those yet. But I do know how to do CPR and all kinds of first aid. I made some sort of pumping gesture and pointed at the blue boy. I said, “I know how to do that.” The conscious boy started to cry. I tried again with the man on the phone. He turned his back on me and waved me off. I caught the other boy’s eye and made my pumping gesture again. I told him I could help. I tried to loosen his grip and told him to let me check the boy’s heart. He gripped his friend tighter and hoisted him up a bit to keep his torso off the ground. He started to rock back and forth and nestled his forehead deep into the nape of his neck.

I stood up. I backed away a few steps. Then more. The older man cursed about me while talking on the phone. I turned and started to walk away. I had no power to fix this. Not here. Not now. “If only he stopped breathing 2 months from now,” I thought, “a few words, bit of grammar, could’ve saved him.”

As I walked away, I remembered a broken-winged bird I once tried to save. I was about 8 or 9. I found the bird squirming around on the ground under our pear tree. He was all sticky with hot, mashed-up pear-goo. I thought I’d wash his wings off. Maybe he flew into a really ripe pear and it just gakked him…nope, that’s a busted wing. I could see some hollow bones sticking out like straw. I just about cried right then. I don’t know, I guess I did cry—the kind I do, where no water comes out but it feels maximum sad.

Called my mother at work. She thought maybe I should take him down to the vet. I put some cotton socks in a shoebox and went out to the bird. He was huffing and puffing and beady-eyed with fear. I scooped him up gentle as possible and put him in the box. Then I ran, fast as I could down to Dr. Nichols’ veterinary hospital. It was a couple miles to the office and I got real tired, but I kept peeping inside to see if my bird was still alive. I felt like he knew, like he appreciated the effort—like maybe he was thinking if I pulled this off and got his wing all fixed up, maybe he’d be my bird, hang out in my room and eat peanuts or whatever they eat. I felt like we had an understanding. I ran faster.

By the time I got there, I was sure we had done it. I looked at him. He looked at me. He wasn’t even beady anymore. He was in good hands. He knew that. Get that wing rigged up, little rehab and we’ll get some kind of cage set up in my room, learn tricks. Yup.

I opened the box and showed Dr. Nichols. He peered in meaningfully. “Well that’s a beautiful little Robin you’ve got there Gary. Oh, now…now now, that’s a bad break isn’t it. Your Robin’s got a real bad break Gary.” He looked at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I afraid all I can do is make it so he’s not hurting anymore.”

That sounded pretty good to me. Some kind of medicine or doctor’s trick and at least the bird wouldn’t hurt anymore. “Well yeah,” I said, “that’s sounds ok. How much would that cost? When can I get him back?” Dr. Nichols pushed his glasses up and clasped his hands together.

Well, I couldn’t get him back. He had to go take the long birdie dirt nap, go meet Jesus in heaven, fly with the angels and whatnot. I cried all the way home, water included, carrying my box of socks.

Did more for the bird than the boy.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made:
Would you dedicate your life to a work of art that would be seen, but only if you remained anonymous and if you agreed not to know people’s reaction to the work? Some would say that whomever creates under these conditions is the real and true artist. Well, I found him. He goes to my school. I found his art in the toilet.

I had simply planned to render unto toilet what is rightfully toilet’s, but found it already serving a much higher purpose. Laid lengthwise back to front was an anatomically complete human phallus, rendered in fresh fecal matter.

Eschewing the modern practice of attaching some masturbatory “artist’s statement” to the work, our real and true artist left no clear word of his purpose. But I think I know what he wants to say: “Behold! I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). Know now that my organism—intricate, sublime and made in God’s very own image recently contained a vast amount of feces. See now the fuel! Feel my strength—the razored points of my gearing, Halleluiah!—That by these holy rods, sprockets and wheels I have brought forth in one discreet motion the likeness of a phallus, in toto. I leave it here for your scrutiny and consideration.”



Everylovingly Yours,
Temple