A new leaf

As you can see, I have changed a few colors on the blog. let me know what you think.

I have been writing for Antiwar.com again, have a regular column coming out, not yet sure exactly which days, but I will let you know. The first one I wrote in a while got me called an asshole and a racist. *yawn* happens all the time.

Things are good on the home front. Yushi is hating the way pregnancy is treating her body right now. she is a huge pumpkin. her hips are moving in weird positions and what hasn't grown is sagging. takes a lot of hugs to make a woman feel better.

The American Dream and the Written Word

So I am reading Daniel Boorstin, The Seekers, which is the third in a series that begins with The Creators and continues with The Discoverers. Boorstin is one of my favorite historians.

So in Seekers, Boorstin explores the philosophers and "idea-men" that helped to establish the foundations for Western political and social systems. What I found most interesting was the disdain the ancient Greeks had for the written word.

For Socrates, especially, the flame of understanding can only be passed through direct eye to eye mouth to ear contact between individuals. And have you ever noticed that the conversations you have with your brothers and sisters lead you to the Truth, but to write those conversations down is futile and silly? I have. It makes sense. Writing, for Socrates, impaired the memory, excluded dialogue and basically provided an inaccurate sketch of what it actually feels like when you make a breakthrough sitting around the fire with some friends, looking at the stars.

Socrates used the title "Poet" as an insult. I suppose he wasn't thinking about us, when he did all of his deep thinking about the Sage-King, Wisdom and Ignorance. If Plato and Aristotle hadn't written the "useless poetry" that survived the centuries, then Socrates' contributions would have drifted as far as the borders of ancient Greece and no farther.

Ironically, Islam's problems can be traced back to a related problem: Tyranny of the Written Word. Truly, Islam focuses the most upon the written word (Quran=Word of God=Law), but their great prophet Muhammad spoke to his people in Medina about Good and God. When he died, he did not leave written instructions as to how to lead the Ummah/Community. Only the Koran survived, along with an ever increasing collection of hadith, or lessons and interpretations. The wrangling over the written word led to the dissolution of the Community and wars between the factions and eventually war with anyone they met, including their cousins, the Bible worshipers.

**************************************************************************************

So, while I was listening to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings yesterday morning, I heard her rendition of "This Land is My Land" (awesome version btw) and It reminded me of a rambling post here about where America is headed and also about a conversation I had with a Chinese friend of mine the other day.

He asked me why Americans, who come from all sorts of different backgrounds, are willing to raise the red, white and blue and fight for a country they have no blood ties to. He said this in the context of the Mainland's view of all people of Chinese descent: that they are Chinese first and forever. For him, it was self-evident that any Chinese in the USA would betray the USA if it came to a conflict with China. This is a very typical sentiment in today's China. Now, I know plenty of Asian Americans who have a hard time when they go back to seek their roots and meet the ethnic nationalism of China, Korea and Japan. Its a weird place to be in, I am sure.

Anyway, my response to his "question" was, that being American is a state of mind, not a bloodline or an obligation. It is as close to a "choice" as one can get in terms of nationality. I tried to explain the Manifest Destiny as an example of this state of mind. Unfortunately, he wasn't trying to talk about being American as much as he wanted to assert his idea of being Chinese. So I have to carry on this thread of thought with ya'll.

The Mainland Chinese have a VERY hard time with non-Mainland Chinese who consider themselves American, French, Thai or whatever. These weird creatures are deluded at best, outright traitors at worst.

Reconciliation

So let me try and explain whats going on here:

My main woman Nicole went through several years of servitude and now, finally, the work she has wanted all her life has fallen like manna from the sky. She wants to be a freelance journalist on the move and that's what is happening to her. I saw what she was like as a slave, what it was like when those bastards let her go and her frantic weeks looking for a master to replace Fox News. Finally, she gave up and let Fate do what it will. And then manna began to fall.

So this inspired me. Because I am happiest on the road.

BUT, i am also aware that me and my Tribe are trying to build something and me traipsing off into the dusk might not help. I might not pull my share if i do take off for the summer writing about small town America ...

The tea business is more complicated then I imagined and I am coming up against both wisdom and obstacles. I am learning a lot. Basically it looks as if this type of thing cannot be rushed and my impatience to have a tea house by this summer might end up hurting me. My pops and a few other wise men cautioned me to write. Make some cash. Spend a year in the US. And work long and hard on a business plan. Then see if the tea house is what it is. This is wisdom.

I want them both ya'll. I want to write books AND have a tea house. And i am stuck in a limbo of waiting for one to facilitate the other.

So what i do is this: i apply for a scholarship (see Post below) and attend a seminar on Quickbooks and basic accounting principles. I pursue both and let Fate do what it will.

The pen is probably what I do best and the irony might be that me running off to write will be the greatest contribution I could ever give my Tribe. Cuz this is what drives me more than anything. Even if you can't see it, that's what motivates me to get up and do what i do. cuz i feel a duty to do so. If i didn't have tribe i'd probably be in a field staring at the sun waiting to get old.

So if it seems like madness dont worry, its just the madness of my method.

Peep This

Here are some stories coming out of Matador.com ... They are doing a great job with their articles and site and I am on board for the long haul so check them out and give some feedback ... holla.

Weird Hotels around the world

International Healthcare Options

How to Deal with Haters

Support yer broke writer friends!

Peep This

Here are a couple stories I have been writing for Matador.com:

This is my list of cities for singles and here is the "companion piece" about making love to natives in order to learn their language.

Here's what I have to say about late night food out there. Feel free to drop comments and enlarge my list of pimpin ass cities to be gremlins in ... you can't write them all down ...

Three God's Village and The Hakka - lil Update

I have gotten a glimpse of the historical record of the Hakka that settled in Three Gods Village where I live. They arrived in Sichuan during the reign of Kangxi -- first in Longquan (not far from where I am) then eventually in this village. The trip took 4 months from Guangdong where they are from and the original Li Clan is now split amongst 12 generations and "middle names."

The generation that has children now -- the adults of the village -- are Clan Li, middle name "Guang." My neighbors are Li Guang Wen and Li Guang Xi. Their older brother is Li Guang Cuan.

But the middle name only extends to the male heir, so any girls are "exempt" ... so Li Guang Wen's daughter is Li Tian Tian. And Li Guang Xi's younger brother eschews the whole thing altogether and named is son Li Chun Tao. They barely speak the old language -- they might claim to to impress visitors and emphasize being unique -- but the truth is that after 1949 the culture began dying and as of 1980 it was almost completely dead.

In 2007 one of the elders put together a description of the family history and laid out a map of their travels and pointed out the location of the grave of their common ancestor, near the Technical College in Chengdu.

I will meet him tomorrow and give you a transcript of his essay and a pic or two.

Hakka in Sichuan

Hey.

I am doing research on the Hakka people in Sichuan. The Hakka are sometimes referred to as the "Jews of China." They reportedly originated in the Yellow River Valley and migrated south to Fujian and Guangdong to escape wars and famines. They settled in and around the Pearl River for many centuries, retaining their unique culture and language. They are also known as "Kejia" which means guests or guest family in Chinese. They have been on the move for 2000 years.

They migrated across the globe after the Taiping Rebellion -- a Hakka led rebellion against the Qing -- and many of the Chinatowns we have come to take for granted were founded by Hakka people.

For me, the interest lies in their migration to Sichuan during the Ming and Qing Dynasties after Sichuan was decimated by constant warfare. Settlers were encouraged (8 pieces of silver for the men, 6 for women and children) to move across the nation to Sichuan and build a life here, in the "Land of Abundance." They did, and have flourished to this very day.

What interests me the most is the connection between the Taiping Rebels that were decimated at the Battle of the Dadu River in 1865 by Qing Imperial forces and the gong fu river lake people of today. Legend has it that the rebels fled into the hills and settled near present-day Yaan. Those rebels were trained in martial arts and passed on what they had learned, eventually leading to the school in Hanyuan that I train at.

My home is getting torn down next week, as some of you may know, and the village that is being razed is also an ancient Hakka village dating back at least 200 years. My neighbors are all Hakka and some of them still speak their own langauge. Almost every family has a book of records that details their migrations across China over the past 500 years. So the story of "farmers getting pushed off their lands" has now developed into something much more interesting: another move for the harried Hakka.

its not just how farmers adapt to the city, but how Hakka farmers stay Hakka in the face of urbanization and modernity. Its not just how gong fu adapt to the commercialization of culture and the dissipation of the "noble warrior," but about the legacy of Han-Hakka rebels reaching from beyond the grave to leave their imprint on Modern China.

Please, feel free to comment.

it just keeps gettin thicker

ya'll don't even know.

I went to Hanyuan the other day and just got back in the Du. I was planning on staying a month there, but things didn't work out that way. On the way to Hanyuan I got a call from my man Philly in Beijing and he said:

"yo, that security job you wanted for the Olympics? well its on. Git yer ass to Shanghai with a suit on for an interview pronto."

I hung up and looked at Fraggle Beanmilk -- my companion and right hand fraggle -- and was about to say somethin, when the phone rang again:

"Herro! Is thees Ma Shan? We have big job fo U."

Now i get to write 15 stories about Chengdu over the next five weeks. Word is bond. So i will be on the road, protecting the torch with my Master Li Cuan (Philly gave him a job a month ago) and writing stories about the Du all the way up till the O-limp-iks. I was about to let Fraggle Beanmilk in on this, when the phone rang again. (i ain't playin):

"Herro! Is thees Ma Shan? We have big job for U."

Now they want me to write a BOOK on the Du -- tentatively titled: Laowais See Chengdu! Now I will probably change the title and all ...

And this all happened on the road to Hanyuan, where I am researching for a book on (secret shit can't let ya'll know).

So i finally get to Hanyuan, and here's what's goin on:

"Wang Tao's in the livin room, eatin cherry pie
Gramma Gongfu's in the kitchen pluckin chicken up to fry
Shiye's in the courtyard beatin up some budding hoz
I'm out front with Beanmilk feelin good down to my toes ...

Justa swingin ... Swingin ..."

(name that tune, and i'll buy you a scepter)

So you know. things is gettin deeper. My man Big Tenz thinks that a broad conflict is about to go down between China and the rest of the world, cuz China is playin hell with anyone who wants to come in/stay by being real pricks about the visa. Plus, of course all this recent nationalism and such ... and we can't neglect the various disasters and heavenly portents that spell doom for us all in 08.

Seems like i'll be in the thick of it. wish me evasive tactics.

When I get to a safe spot with herbs and coffee, I'll give you the low down on Hanyuan.

my people

I was brought into a new community recently, Matador Travel Community and i must say i really dig it. i usually hate forums and communities because they demand much and they spring up like mosquitos in the night. Butthis one is filled with people like me so I am down. I put two stories up there the past couple of days, so you can go and check them out. But they are stories I have wanted to put up here as well.

you will have to go to Matador to check em out ...

I, like God, do not play at dice ...

which is a lie. I actually do roll the dice often and play cards most every week. But i still dont believe in chance. This may seem ridiculous, but i can see the cards in the deck sometimes. The only evidence I have for this very ephemeral ability is the plus/minus column. in six years or so of cards and dice, I am comfortably in the black.

I have been made the project manager for Odyssey's new Sichuan Guide, so today i meet with Kempinsky Hotels to try and get them to sponsor a bit of the cost. They have a new train service coming out soon, the Tangula Trains -- I will be struggling with the other kittens for a shot at the Tangula nipple: a five-day luxury ride from Beijing to Lhasa or Lijiang.

I may have to shave my mullet down for this meeting.

my revolution

Today was a very hectic day. i got up early and shaved my scruff and pinned back my hair like a girl, cuz its just long enough, just a bit too short. i went to the airport and welcomed 10 german tour operators to chengdu. i was quite nervous, because my german is spottier than it should be and i was expecting a barrage of questions that require answers fortified with cold hard facts. a conundrum for me. instead, i found they knew little or nothing about china and i am basically dealing with tourists. this, i can handle. The chinese were tiptoeing through the ceremonial minefield while the germans were fiddling with chopsticks.

I also got to hang out with an acclaimed author from England and a literary analyst who drops knowledge on wannabe writers like me. I submitted a story I'll paste here at some point. Anyway she dug it and said yeah kid keep scribbling. Me and the author got along real well ... he was real and chilled out, insightful and human. so it was smooth. Aside from feeding my insatiable ego, I got some wisdom placed in front of me. It is real hard to hold in my arrogant ass, the screaming id, the gibbering in my head.

its late as all hell and i need to be up and at em in 3hrs. rollin through the panda reserve and up the largest buddha in the world and one of the four great buddhist mountains in china. its all good ya'll.

childhood trauma

there are two songs which i feel may have traumatized me for life:

a lil jingle sung by good ole Goofy in the one about the ship they had just built, that falls apart when they smack a bottle over the hull. Goofy sings:

"Ohhhh, the world owes me a livin"

Shit stuck with me. Incidentally, when i was small, the whole bottle across the hull and Daisy Duck's aggressive sexuality scared me. The other jingle, well I am not the only one to suffer repeated intrusions into my psyche from this one here:

"I dont wanna grow up, I'm a toys'r'us kid, there's a million toys at toys'r'us that I can play with"

I still sing these jingles to myself softly when taking a shower, walking down the street or waiting in line for something.

late bloomers

i think i represent the peter pan element in all generations. there are many of us. and we are generally smiled upon from on high by those who have escaped never never land and found the path that leads them toward fulfillment.

Was peter fulfilled? He had an enemy, his crew, a fairy mistress and he was a prince with no king in a land of eternal adventure. There was no reason for Peter to grow up. He was a prince, much more than a mere man, and he was exultant and impetuous, yet reasoned enough to provide for his and keep the pirates at bay.

We will not mention the freak invasion of humanity into his world and the consequences -- let us just remember that Peter was pleased with himself and loved by his people for many eons, before mortality stole him away.

Although my choices were supposedly made long ago, it annoys me to realize that each day is a new and clean slate to make choices that radically change life and ultimately, memories are ours to do with as we wish. Old choices are playthings for our imagination, with no mooring in reality, but that which we give them. Choice rejoices, sending her people door to door, daily, flooding my mailbox with brochures and coupons.

So i find myself under siege, a soft siege, like monks with rose petals. This siege never breaks. The besiegers have no standard. It flutters for each wind, rises anew and mysterious with each sun. Perhaps my greatest mistake is to actually place put defenders on the walls. If i notice the monks, well then I am noticing the monks and something must be done about these monks! and their roses? where should they go?

Those that smile down upon me offer cohorts of ridalin, like US military and UN mercenary peacekeepers and the carpetbaggers that follow them. I naturally refuse. This is a domestic affair and I will tolerate no infringement upon my sovereignty. Besides, I have my own mercenaries that I employ.

I have only one true weapon. An electromagnetic pulse that eases the pressure for a moment, until the fluid builds up and i have to pop my knuckles again. It has taken me so long to develop this weapon. It is even now in its infancy and the scientists are unsure of themselves, checking and re-checking, seeking the advice of foreign experts who have developed the technology on their own -- to the eternal chagrin of the pols that sit in the back of my mind, runnin shit.

I bloom late like China, which has bloomed before.

How many times did peter escape back to never never land? after a tedious sojourn into a world with gravity but no Hook, smog but no fairies.

I refuse their mercenaries and i stubbornly persist in my belief in pirates (i've seen em) and fairies (i've chased em)!

its getting weird

Maybe I am bitter about China. Or just bitter about what I did and did not do and I blame it on China. Thats possible. I sway like wheat in the winds of perspective, words fly off like floating chaff. All seeds take plant and have as much right to live as any other. The first poem to affect me resolved: "I contradict myself? Very well then. I contradict myself."

And resignation is my greatest defense when my life is put into question. Kids broke into my house again and spray painted the walls. The landlord's wife wants more money. My roommate is looking for a way out where his wallet remains fat. When all i want is a cave with a fire, people ... those clingy, social creatures, cling and socialize and i find i need them. I feel ready to dissipate into dandelion fluff and float until i starve to death or land on a fertile patch of mud, or the back of a wandering dog. i sympathize with madness, shrink away from cowardly retreat into oneself. I want to wear sackcloth and wipe ashes on my head, i want to have flowers spring up where i walk.

Resignation is my cozy alcove when brainwaves collide in some gray wrinkle. I grabbed an Italian girl's arm and squeezed till she winced. She said, "its getting weird" and walked away, conspicuously ignoring me as i stood nearby. Another line that affect me, "Dream on, dreamer, life gets in your way."

I am alone in a sea of family. Contradictory dreams send us wavering past each other in unfulfilled quests, never-ending stories, frayed lines dangling.

I love this forum where i can type it all out anytime i want. I despise this forum: public nudity demanding polite praise.

I am disappeared, but in contact with whomever reads -- its a trip into semi-darkness with a safety line. But i know its deep sea silence that i seek. Cowardice ... saying the word with a hiss at the end is like casting a spell. Watch where you aim it.

The devil came down to Clifden ...

“The devil came down to Clifden, lookin for a soul to steal, he was getting kinda low and don’t ya know he was willing to make a deal …”

Johnny went through Clifden one day and listened to the Irishmen play, they hit their fiddles with a mighty cry and sang to the darkening sky. They brought tears to the old men and made the women flush, their voices held the longing of a race and the sighs of a million souls. The hills turned green as they strummed and drummed and the rain came down soft and light, the island misted over and the castles rang out, this is what Johnny saw …

He played them Red House, like they’d never heard before, he bent the guitar and stretched the sound and it was clear that he was throwin it down. Next he played Alligator Wine and that’s when he went to far, his good eyes shone like the slave in the song and his bad eye grew cold and hard. His face went pale and he started to sweat and he felt himself swoon and moan, that’s when he turned to the fiddlers in the band and this is what he said:

“Hey there fiddlers I’ma need yer help”
“At your service young man”
“I got the devil in me now and he’s got to go, can you play a Charley Daniels song”
“You mean the one with fiddles and the band o’ demons, lad?”
“Yep, that’d be the one.”
“You can count on us, boy, just turn to the crowd and let them carry you along …”

When it was all over Johnny was smiling again, the women came up and washed his brow and the young boys gathered around.

“Is it true what they say about the crossroads,” said one
“What is it they say,” said Johnny
“That you can sell your soul to the devil and learn to play like you …”

Johnny didn’t say nothing and just looked at the boy, his cheeks were red and his eyes were blue and he would have made a deal right then.

A mother came up and looked up at Johnny, askin when does the devil come

“Whenever I touch the guitar, good woman, whenever I sing a song. But the devil was an angel first, ya know, I’m just playing along.”

my tummy hurts

Friends and enemies alike, i wait with bated breath for the outcome of my latest missive. A plea have i tossed, into the ring, for the sages -- appointed by whom? -- to peer down upon, through their thick bifocals and to Judge! Shall i be anointed Worthy? Has the Universe listened to the arguments presented by my patron goddess, Providence, the lover of fools and bards, and found that Yes! this fool Sascha of whom you speak in such adoring tones is deserving -- although we know, friends, deserve ain't got nothin to do with it -- and as such, proclaimed:
"Indeed, I will deliver a mighty Bonk! upon his head and reality shall swoon around him and fall clutching at his tattered jeans. Where he treads, white flowers shall rush up out of the murky dark and sing to his passing heels! Where his gaze falls, the green moss shall multiply and wriggle itself ever larger and thicker upon the limbs of glowing trees! Whatsoever he touches, shall be living, breathing pulsing with the love that surges through the stars and Midas will consider himself a wee babe, for his touch brings a meek shine, a luster with no heartbeat."

Pray for me friends, in these hours, as this fool waits and sighs. For Providence is a woman.

and although Cito fit, quod di volunt.

yet also Varium et mutabile semper femina

naturally

last night i spent most of my time dreaming i was a stand up comedian. the audience was overwhelmingly black and i was in georgia. towards the end of the show i started overheating and sweating and i grabbed a hand drum and started playing, i then started freestyler preach-singing ... i think i also told them a story of how i recited the i have a dream speech for my chinese students back in 2000. the song kind of took hold of me, i was talking about a woman that i know, and all of a sudden i was in a trance and singing like i had never sung before and all i could see was red earth everywhere. i ended the song with a line from c-loo .. "there is no me if there is no you .." the crowd was touched by the presence of god and i had a vision of mlk's last sermon, where he preached the devil out of himself and collapsed.
i then switched to a dream of barack obama .. he was in chengdu on a tour and i had organized a basketball game .. his crew vs. mine and i walked up to him and shook his hand and said you are the leader of the free world, but i am going to take you to the hole. he smiled and said something like thank you for organizing this and making it all possible.. then he looked me in the eye and said low enough for his crew and me to hear i am gonna drop one in your eye. throughout all these dreams a cold voice told me i shouldn't be dreaming these things cuz i am a white boy and will never understand.

but i tell you what, i believe black people are the instrument for humanity's renewal ... suppression of soul is a human condition, manifesting in reality as the black rose, thrown down upon concrete america and ordered to grow. i had another dream, one that started after i woke up and went back to sleep. this one i took dmt and tripped out and followed the light till all became dark and a voice said do you want to go back, because i did. i was really scared in the dream and felt that i could not leave my people like that. could not go out on a drug overdose. so i said yes i still have work to do, cuz i figured that would be the right thing to say. and when i came back i woke up and around me where fairies and little people, the adults maybe as big as a hamster and the children tiny like bees. they were so cute and i laughed and laughed and they were so worried about me and had gathered around. also around me were three friends. they asked me who i was looking at and i told one of the fairies to go say hi to zhuang and she did, becoming a butterfly on his cheek. i asked him hey man do you feel that and he smiled and said in english, yeah i feel it. my other friend was covered in tiny little people all scrambling over him and hanging off of him. they appeared tro him as flies, that he swatted. i said man you are covered in them dude. the third friend, a girl, changed the entire dream, she turned the whole hillside we were sitting on into a butterfly convention and the dream kind of spiraled out of control with huge butterflies and fairy women with bug eyes hovering everywhere and one of them clawed out my left eye.

i am that i am

reading foucalt's pendulum has been a three month odyssey through umberto eco's dream library. i finally fell into the pace of the book, now, near the end. and everywhere i see lorenza, belbo -- i am belbo, no i am aglie ... the man with the scar was on my flight to chengdu. he chatted freely with belbo while lorenza smiled brilliantly. in heidelberg, i read of princess lizzie, and her love of butterflies and cherries. her husband, frederick the v, elector palatine, who started the thirty years war with a defiant run up white mtn. i looked down at the gardens that reflect the subterranean truth, conducting the starlight down to pools below. then while the lights went out on the flight back home, eco tells me who sculpted those gardens and why. in amsterdam, i remember, fleetingly, latin inscriptions on a doorway. the greater quest for christ. as they served breakfast, i reached the pages in foucalt's, dealing with struggles of the english, french and german arms of the templars. and the inscription jumped from the bricks of dutch buildings to the pages below me. i almost choked on my pudding. KLM food is the bomb. and the design is so apple. eco, as he admonishes admires and consoles the cowardly scholar during his one final attempt to seize the moment, speaks through Lia, the mother, of the threads that link us all, the umbilicus, the grail. i read the chapter and stood to look back several rows, where my belbo seethed, lorenzas multiplied, lias cooed to their children and i wrestled with a vision of myself as casaubon the addict, aglie the pretender. i shook my head as, once again, a book has found me just in the nick of time.

decompression

yeah i be trippin. but here with my bro in adam its all good. we toured the city and its beautiful, even the ancient hos flicking their thick swollen tongues at us from behind clean windows. red halos. the morrocans, adjusting their sneer to our knowing gaze. the dutch, happy to chat and interested. last time i was here, two dutch beauties rode by on a bike and yelled at me: fucking tourist! now i notice them peepin me. makes a brother smile to himslef. the tall skinny hosues leaning against each other, cannabis, funky and green, floating in the air like hazy pollen. i can only use cliches. they are cliches for a reason. we all know what they mean. it took all afternoon and several strolls and a good healthy mixture of cold heineken and frothy coffee to get me to breathe peacefully again.

when a man is not in control, he gets frustrated and angry. when his efforts seem to twist into strange unrecognizable shapes, a man gets depressed and questions meaning. rejects the power of will. a good stroll and jokes can help relieve all of this. beer helps. a girl, throwing a nervous look of interest. all these make a man remember the buddha palm. adam is a buddha palm, holding the putrid blooming flower of life.