Reflections and Surrealism

"I have climb'd to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past.

   Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire,

But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last,

   As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher."

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

“There are a hundred places where I fear

    To go- so with his memory they brim

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, “There is no memory of him here!”

    And so stand stricken, so remembering him!”

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

I know I'm not that old, but my time in Beijing has included significant reflection on my years.  And for the first time, I feel like I have a body of adult experience to draw upon.  The reflection itself is a natural byproduct of any major relocation.  Having no history with a place and its people forces you to think about those people and places you have known.  These comparisons are a well-documented psychological strategy we use when confronted with new information.  At home, truly novel experiences are limited (a new restaurant here, a new acquaintance there), and it is easier to live more wholly in the present.  But, ironically, in a new world, not only does it feel nearly impossible to escape your past, your history suddenly and dramatically becomes your life map and dictionary.  (See Millay’s frustration in trying to escape the memory of her absent lover.)  Everyone carries their past wherever they go.  When you travel alone, without friends who understand your past, these comparative memories both stack up quickly and remain wholly internal.  And so over the past 3 weeks I’ve been looking back on my life (and by extension, at all of you.)

 

Through my reflections, I’ve been learning a lot about how Wesley Jacks c. 2000/’02/’04 differs from who I am today.  Those of you who know me well can imagine how much fun I find these contrasts.  I love the pursuit of self-knowledge.  Egotistical as it may be, I firmly believe an awareness of where we came from and how we got to be where we are is essential to understanding how we can match personal strengths with external needs.  Plus, the pursuit for self-knowledge is endless.  I don’t think I’ll ever fully grasp all the influences that play into the decisions I make.  (This also makes the Biblical notion that there is a God who understands me better than I understand myself very comforting.)

 

This post is about a few of the reflections I’ve been engaging in which I thought were worth sharing (or at least worth getting down on paper.)  For obvious reasons, the most common, and salient experiences I draw on for comparative fodder are those from my time in Hong Kong in ’02 and in Kunming in ’04.  In addition to being my previous experiences in this country, these were also the last two times I kept a consistent journal and/or wrote mass e-mails about my experiences.  Having read some of these in the recent past, I’ve been able to look back on how I dealt with my first few weeks in each place.  Hopefully, these reflections on my initial aspirations and interactions will tell you something about me and about Beijing, Kunming, and Hong Kong.

 

I was 18 when I moved to Hong Kong for 2 months, and I was very excited and nervous about my first major trip abroad.  Ignorant of the influence of the past, I remember holding grandiose ideals about ‘recreating myself’ in a place where I had no acquaintances.  To be an ‘unknown’: this idea fascinated and intoxicated me.  For a host of reasons (almost none of which seem important now) immediately after high school, I had convinced myself I was very unhappy with several aspects of my identity, and I became determined that I should fundamentally alter my personality while abroad.  I remember committing to finding a church immediately, writing in my journal every day without fail, working out, reading esteemed works of literature, working hard on networking, etc.  It was an idealistic and naïve list.  When I arrived, I set out immediately trying to act older and more responsible around my co-workers (also internationals).  I think I held up the alterations for about a week and then went back to acting like myself.  My goals weren’t bad in any sense; they were simply tasks I felt I should be doing in order to be 'more mature.'  But in many cases, my goal was to appear like a mature adult.  I lacked the deep understanding and motivation that accompanies adult resolutions.  (i.e. I work out every day because I know it makes me feel happier, smarter, more well rested, etc.)

 

Now I’m 24.  I have some worse and some better habits than I did when I was 18.  I’m (sadly) more self-centered, and somehow, much less joyful than I was even as an occasionally self-doubting, self-deprecating teenager.  I’m not unhappy, just (as many of you can attest) not as outwardly joyful.  But I’m much much more comfortable in my own skin.  My list of goals upon arriving in Beijing was much different.  Instead of immediately setting off to find a church, I bought cleaning equipment for the bathroom (from the Wal-Mart that is one subway-stop away.)  Instead of committing to writing every day in my journal, I aimed for reliably heartfelt and reflective passages.  I do exercise virtually daily.  Although I began by hanging out in large groups with many of the other students, I’m settling down to a group of four or five that I spend significant time with.  In no social situation have I felt the need to perform, (a fact that has unnerved more than one or two people I’ve met).

 

Despite my initial comments about lacking friends who you’re your past, across all my trips, I crave solitude.  I’ve always enjoyed time alone.  Even in my very first trip overseas, to England and France in 2000, I sought out periods of isolation in the midst of guided, group tours.  These periods grew in length while I was in Hong Kong and in Kunming.  In both places, I spent hours alone walking around the cities at night.  Although ‘alone’ is perhaps unfair, I was always accompanied by friends with names like Paul, John, Joni, Peter, Johann, Foy, Franz, etc.  Their notes echoed.  I walked. 

 

The peak of these rituals came in Hong Kong.  The nocturnal splendor of that city and my rapid maturation combined perfectly, and I was hooked on the solitary nighttime stroll.  Again and again, I'd take the ferry across the harbor to Central, the city's main business district, and I'd walk on Harbour Road between the trunks of enormous, empty skyscrapers, past the huge convention center with its silver and blue roof that curved like a wave.  Walking between these huge, empty, internally-illuminated shells mesmerized me.  During the day, their insides swarmed with life.  At night, they seemed the epitome of absolute stasis.  Interior lights glowed between the horizontal floors and vertical columns like lanterns inside of giant skeletons.  

 

Most of the buildings were to the south of the road, and therefore backed by The Peak, a huge dark green backdrop in the middle of Hong Kong Island.  There were, however, a few structures to the north of the road, and backing these was the harbor.  Between trunks made of metal and glass, the black water reflected, in miniature swaying bowls, the red, blue, white, yellow, orange, pink, and purple lights of the hotels, restaurants, businesses, and cars of the Kowloon peninsula just a few kilometers north.  The view was stunning.  When I didn’t feel like traveling across the harbor, I’d go up to the roof of the YMCA building where I lived and reverse the view, taking in an unobstructed view of the Island skyline from 16 floors up.

 

A few nights ago, I was reminded how, in the country, the most impressive evenings are clear.  There, if the moon is full, the whole world shines silver, and if the moon is absent, the stars twinkle like tiny diamonds.  In the city, clear nights are the worst.  They just remind you that you can’t see the stars from here.  The dark hours are most beautiful when the clouds reflect back the glow of the buildings below like a flashlight pointed up at a quilt.

 

Kunming wasn’t nearly as picturesque as Hong Kong.  There were no big harbors or high vantage points where one could see the whole city.  But there was one beautiful park, and much like Hong Kong, I’d listen to music and wander up, around, between, and through the boulevards and alleys of my mind and the city.  Content.  For hours.  Somewhere in the last four years, that desire shriveled.  

I still like walking around Beijing at night.  But anything beyond a 30 minutes or so, and I feel like I should be doing something else.  Many things have changed.  My life is stable enough that reflection seems less vital.  And I’m busier.  Sometimes I think the true transition from adolescent to adult occurs when you are capable of finding more than a handful of truly productive ways to spend every hour of the day.  On this trip, I’m trying to learn a new language, broaden my knowledge of Chinese culture and history, and deepen my understanding of film history, theory, and practice.  In addition, my new roommate (switched from the 19 year-old from Barbados to a 29 year-old from Mexico City), is teaching me how to swim, where to find great tango and flamenco music, and how to cook.

 

I’ve changed in more than just my desire for solitary reflection.  Here in Beijing, I am way less phased by odd food, people staring at me, horrible taxi drivers, kids peeing in the street, suddenly smelling raw sewage as I walk along the street, etc.  At the same time, China is still capable of overriding all my reflective capabilities and thrusting me into fully surreal moments.  Four years ago, I remember being shocked by the country’s idealization of the American military.  There were fashion mannequins in store windows dressed in U.S. Army-stamped camouflage with ammo belts, and I will never forget one advertisement for a photography studio for children.  The poster was a large photomontage featuring one young boy in a number of poses.  In one he was wearing a soccer uniform, in another a Halloween costume, a third incorporated a tux and bowtie.  In the center of the montage was the boy, dressed in camo, wearing an American flag bandana, and smiling as he pointed a toy AK-47 at the camera.  Surreal. 

 

In this trip, these moments of near-impossible comparison still exist.  One came when I was walking around a nicer shopping mall in town, and I saw an obviously-wealthy young mother walking with her daughter.  The woman was probably in her mid 40s, the daughter in her early/mid-teens.  It was a perfectly normal scene except for the fact that the mother’s shirt and the daughter’s backpack both prominently featured the Playboy bunny.  In this country, Playboy is a very respectable clothing brand.  Another U.S. brand doing inexplicably well in China… Buick.  In a conversation with a local, a friend of mine was asked what sort of cars people drove around in the America.  My friend suggested that European cars (BMW, Mercedes, etc.) were more popular with wealthier Americans and that Japanese cars (Toyota, Honda, Nissan, etc.) sold well to the middle-class.  Stunned, the Chinese man said, “But you have Buick?  Why would people buy Japanese or European cars when they can buy Buick?”  Fun fact of the day, in 2007, Buick sold 330,000 cars in China, more than double the number sold in the U.S.  (Wouldn’t it be fascinating to learn how GM developed a successful PR campaign for Buick in China?)  Another surreal moment came a few weeks ago in my gym.  As in most gyms, music plays constantly in the workout room.  I was already aware that the Chinese tend to repeat the same cds more frequently than Americans, so I was prepped to be hearing the same songs over and over.  However, I was still stunned when, in the midst of a bench press set, I suddenly heard Silent Night over the speakers.  For the next hour, I pumped iron and listened to songs about Rudolf, Frosty, and baby Jesus in the mid-September.  Again, surreal.  Last example, I went to a Chinese rock concert yesterday.  (This will be the topic of my next, much shorter blog.)  At around 6 pm (because in China even huge rock concerts end before 9:30), I walked into a huge warehouse where a hundred or so young Chinese people listened to beats played by a DJ on the Electronic Stage.  Lights of all colors and sizes swept across the room.  There were two big-screens displaying repetitive shots of comic strips and small illustrations over colorful geometric patterns.  Typical electronic/rave setup.  Except that the musician onstage was a short French guy named Florian, and playing over the thumping beats was the spoken text of Obama’s speech ‘A More Perfect Union,’ which was delivered in March.  It is a phenomenal speech, but I never ever thought I’d hear it played over a techno beat by a French DJ playing at a Chinese rock festival in Beijing.

OK, this has grown far beyond its intended length.  I’m going to make later ones shorter and more frequent.  As I mentioned, I’m going to write about this rock concert soon.  I need to do it before the memory fades.

I’ll close with some musical recommendations.  All of which I’ve gotten into since I’ve been in Beijing.  For those interested in more of a folk tradition: Fleet Foxes.  If you like Flamenco: cds by Estrella Morente.  I’ve been listening to a lot of NuevoTango and ElectroTango lately.  On that front, get stuffy by Bajofondo (aka Bajofondo Tango Club) and Otros Aires.  Jazz: Stan Getz’s last album (with Kenny Baron) People Time is excellent.  Classical music/Opera: I deeply enjoyed Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess.

Oh, and please make sure you are registered to vote.