| Dreaming Eternal: In the Path of Righteousness |
[29 Oct 2005|08:55am] |
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Raging Ocean
2
The morning rises. The morning sets. Calamity spins on its great wheel, that ball of fire in the east. I look towards the west, for the setting of darkness, and it does not come. Something else – an ancient pounding, a sluicing of my soul – and I fall, I fall into the abysmal dwelling of mystery. There is a shrill, a cackle, and it rips through reality. I incline my ears toward this new sound, and realize I cannot hear. I clench my fingers to prepare for the fight, but I cannot move. I race through time, searching out my life, my understanding, my knowledge of the golden tree, but it never comes to me. The gold is blurred against the sky – as if I were dreaming a painting underwater. I cannot even think. Suddenly, I have arrived before this strange altar.
The time has come, I repeat to myself, unsure my words, which feel like iron weights, bear any consequence. I am as insignificant as I ever was – I see clearly, I see the formations of the world spin in locomotion, the small smattering of people scatter across the earth, raising stone, dreaming of coyote-men, sleeping amongst secret glades and praying to dragons. I see this all now, these ideas and figments as repeated oscillations, turning in a universe that makes no sense, or in one sense, that cares not to explain itself. There is a ceiling above, invisible and thick, and for all the mysteries existence has to offer, it remains locked.
My philosophy dances with regret. This form approaches me, this light, and I feel the weight of a voice upon me. Its sound is majestic and mighty, molded out of sunlight and starfire. It enwraps me totally, grips my fibers, transforms the substance of my stuff into something glorious, beyond recognition, something fit to wear only the most royal of minds, a kind of being so transparent that every thought spilled fro me, as if I were a cup tipped, and the water of my thoughts fell like a river into eternity, into the bosom of the voice.
It is quiet; it is still. The clouds fade away, to an infinite velvet of luminescence; to fall to dreams is tempting, but impossible. The anticipation of contact is here, and yet still, nothing is seen, only the soft blanket of the impassible universe.
And then I know – the intelligence I have thirsted for, the imagination withheld, returns like a frozen wind, and I see the inevitable. The glory of the heavens open; the golden hue and crafted thrones sparkle like cut gemstones – the vast crowds herald to me, and strangely, I am left without words. My life is a quilt, and I am the hand holding the edge. I stare into the pictures, reliving each scene: I am a child by the river, cupping my hands beneath the clear surface. My mother calls from the bank – there is a wilt in her voice, and although I have lived this time far too numerous to count, I had never noticed this before. It’s as if her voice was crying without the sobs or tears. It was merely wilting, like a dead flower, stripped of color.
There was a slight breeze, a murmuring in the sky. I felt it through the tunnels of the trees that sat beside the river. A sadness swept over me, nefarious and grim, for the wilting of a beautiful flower was not beautiful. Even as, the flowers beneath my legs (as I was crouched beside the quiet river) fell to the green earth, petals splayed and shriveled, and the stems sagged weakly, kneeling into sprigs of grass.
I withdrew my hands, now soaked with glistening river water, and touched the dying flower.
My mother called still. She was calling for me, unmelodious, frightened, and I felt a quaking from my feet. I stood upon the green earth, my hands dripping with slime, and I felt my ribcage implode as realization starkly hit me.
My brother is dead.
That sweet boy, with his dark curls, his fleshly human soul, his small boy hands, his innocent eyes; he now sleeps in an unfathomable place, dreaming of eternal things, singing songs without names or tunes, while I remain, the sole heir to his philosophy, his companion and friend, his right arm. He has passed, vanishing and leaving only the cold bones and dry skin of his earthly body behind.
I was stunned, I remember, and so I said nothing. It was then my mother broke down, and her steady, wilted voice shattered, and she stopped calling me and put her face in her hands. She was having her own battles then, her own harmonies and artistry in chaos within her. But I was much too troubled to perceive. My mind kept going back to moments of peace when we would play on mountains, unsling imagination from its rook and run as dancing hussars through the wild world. But now, even that strange solitude becomes hushed – those moments of tranquility, of embraced love, are dropped like heavy stones, and the boom resounds in my silent and stony face.
That was how it remained – unforgiving, timeless. I wanted to beat water from the stone, but nothing came. I could not cry, I could not weep nor wail. I was frozen in that moment, and it was then when I realized I would never be the same. I lost touch with the world. That sacred connection, like when two people touch and feel a spring of eternity well up between them – that essence was no longer there. I was distanced, put aside, flung to the far reaches of mortality, made into a stoic observer of the pain and suffering of the human race.
My mind flashes forward. Rings of light invade my vision, and I shudder, falling to my knees in gasps of failing breath.
I am older now. The quilt has changed – this must be a new memory. Perhaps, then, I truly am dead, and this is what they mean when they say to relive your life after you die.
It is a cold, November day. The frost is out, the morning air chill without pardon. The trees have shaken their leaves to dust replaced by crystals and memories of life. The heavens, I notice as I look skywards, are pale, boring, white, a dull pastel slapped on by an invisible God. He must be sleeping, I remark to myself, to let such a world come to be.
My fingertips are cold through the gloves. I remember now – it is Saturday morning. I am supposed to see a friend today, and go on a trip with him. We are going to California, where it is said the hills are beaten from gold and there is a breeze of salt and spice in the air all year round.
He drives up to the sidewalk. I notice there is a bag, brown, leather, boxy, beside me. And so, we are off, driving into the wind, watching as our lives and youth are abandoned beneath the wheels of an old Dodge truck.
It is like being reborn. On the road, and you can dream new dreams, forget who you are, invent new personalities, and try on new hats. We are two vagabonds, two thieves, two wandering heroes in search of the mystical land of gold. We cross ice-storm mountains, swim through lightning plains, and imagine worlds being born over and over again in the flashing clouds.
We slip into the slipstream, and time seems a little closer to reality – tomorrow is closer, tomorrow is here and now, a plausible thing to be grasped with unfailing hands, linked in that sacred connection which ties men to each other, and that bond grew between us. I forgot my past.
But we cannot escape our past.
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| Dreaming Eternal: In the Path of Righteousness |
[27 Oct 2005|12:06pm] |
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Raging Ocean
I
I have no name.
Perhaps I have never had one. I have memories, yes, memories that call to me in the darkness. When I open my eyes, they are there. I wouldn’t use the word ‘haunting,’ though. I remember them, and they frighten me, the images. But I know them, like everything else, except for my name.
I spin in a formless, changing void. Life, or is it life? It moves so fast here. Shapes morphing through thousands of forms with every breath I take. Ideas transforming into nightmares transforming into episodes of sheer ecstasy, and then repeating themselves. I am moving somewhere, but where? Time doesn’t seem to exist here. Old men turn into babies, and young trees explode into grass.
Perhaps this is the very act of creation? I have no assurance of even that. Of how long I’ve been here, that is hard to say as well. I remember falling, falling from very high, very fast.
I remember a life of pain, of hate, of apathy. Sitting alone, in the dark, singing without singing, staring at the joy of others. There was a great indifference that dwelt within me, an uncaring about the world. And at the same time, my heart went out to all people, and most of those, who seemed cold beyond touch. I was useless, my hands bags of flesh, my heart thorns and stone. Even touching my own heart, I could not do it. I had been hardened into something untouchable.
And then I fell, and fell, and now I spin. This void is maddening and delightful at the same moment. It is like tasting ice cream and dirt in your mouth. All of everything is here in this soup.
Perhaps I am dead, or perhaps, perhaps; perhaps nothing.
There is a bright light. I close my eyes; I open my eyes – it makes no difference.
Change is happening. I do not understand it.
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| Dreaming Eternal: a serial |
[27 Oct 2005|12:01pm] |
This will be the beginning of my first online serialisation of a novel. I hope it is becoming of something.
It is the story of a man who finds himself at the door of death, and his travels through a strange world.
I will try to update it every week, on Saturday. I'll put the first part up in a few minutes.
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| the lady at the end of time |
[23 Oct 2005|09:27pm] |
She sleeps on the eve of time,
her memories floating like clouds
above the barren earth,
the cold, frozen earth,
without life, without death,
an earth lost in the stretch of
darkness that has forgotten
it's own mind.
She wears the sun on her shoulder,
she is graceful, gallant and noble,
her proud visage haughty and troubling,
while below her, the world in
time unknown waits for the
neverending dawn.
She is the past, the waypoint
of the present, lost in the fogs,
the lone ship in the dark sea,
and the sailors aboard her cry out,
their skeletal voices like stripped roses,
the color drained to a dismal smoke,
and their voices are wisps in the salt air.
She waits in the park, in the shadows
of the trees, beneath the benches,
away from the light, afraid of the laughter
of children. She despises time itself.
She is the curse of the forgotten.
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| Romans 1:4 |
[22 Oct 2005|11:24am] |
What is in a name? By what glory
do you stand before me, and shout your
radiance? What right have you?
I am among the dead men; they
breathe and die, are reborn a second
time, and quest for the eternity of
the horizon. They smile plastic smiles,
pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles,
all the while counting their toes
and dancing on thin air. They suck up
the blood of flesh, and dry their teeth
on beggars’ rags. They know nothing, yet
everything. They chisel their name
on temples, and compose ballads to the sun.
The magnificance of the light beyond the sea;
we strive everyday, sacrificing our children,
like lambs upon the altar of dolls; we forget the
wisdom of our grandfathers, and in lieu,
we fight amongst the circles of time, believing
ourselves to be heralds’ of the coming age.
Our savior is a breath away. He dreams when
we are awake, and stirs us in our fantasies;
he has no tangible name - for it is impossible to
name love. It merely is, yet it is not dead,
like the sun or moon, with their lifeless shores;
it is alive, spinning, transforming, becoming, arriving;
we are poles to this grace; we fall into his arms.
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| dreaming beforehand |
[22 Oct 2005|08:51am] |
Dreams moving, dreams quiet,
dreams alive with gain.
They fish among unfished ponds,
the swim among unsung oceans,
they fly among cloudless skies.
They are filled with the errants
of a childhood lived to the full,
the slow, mysterious moan,
roaring to dreamlife, its fingers
opening like stars tearing apart.
Morning comes on the breath
of a freshly laid kiss.
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| Romans 1:3 |
[21 Oct 2005|11:02pm] |
Above the azure haze,
where the crown meets a maze of light,
little children sleep on beds of oak,
leaves browned by the summer sun
fly between shafts of light, raining
upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes,
and the little girl lying on the grass
with her heart in her teeth and
a blaze across her cheeks, her eyes
like the sun unclouded and her
laughter tolling across the green,
that glorious voice bounding across
the heavens, glittered with tyranny and
majesty, this little girl alls peacefully to sleep.
She is unaware, blisfully so, of sacrifice.
She dreams of golden stars and polished temples,
she fights off demons in her sleep.
The din and echo of mortality has
faded from her innocent face; she shouts joy.
The immortality blasted across the threads of hair,
chiseled upon her serendipitous nose; the etching
of time slowing in her silk-fed hands,
all of this she is unaware of the sacrifice.
Peace comes with a price; the falling of a
blade is heralded with gifts. Joy is not free.
When she wakes, the illusory world sways
before her eyes; filigrees of hair shield
the sun from her eyes. A bird calls out from a tree.
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| worship |
[21 Oct 2005|10:57pm] |
So fundamental, so minute;
(it disappears behind his shadow)
Pastor smiles – the mistman
cackles with a voice of clattering silver.
One is reminded of the modern world,
with her ivory towers, her infinite
dioramas, and each man and woman,
he and she twirls on his and her toes,
eyes closed, swaying to his and her own music.
below the foundations, below the
cities, below the houses, below
the beds, He is, He is above.
Our response is not a church, nor
the scintillation of our minds, nor
the martyrdom of our hearts, nor
the gathering of lights. Our
response is on our knees, broken,
weeping, fearful: full of joy.
Our response is worship.
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| Dreaming |
[18 Jul 2005|03:09pm] |
Poetry is as blind as an ass. It sings to the air, yet produces nothing.
It is as hollow as a dead tree. The wind sings through it and makes melodies,
more beautiful and more serene than the harshest words can play.
We are mortal. Our words fade into dust. Immortality is a lie.
What are words but the memories of ourselves, in a time that does not exist?
Yesterday, we did not exist. We believe, yet belief has only romantic colors,
shimmering ideals of the time before the last, when we dreamed and awoke.
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| Romans 1:2 |
[13 Jul 2005|09:15am] |
Did you forget, my son?
Did you forget when I held the sky
for you, and stopped the storms?
Did you forget when I blew the wind
to make you cool, and grabbed
a bit of the sun to warm you
on a cold night? Did you forget?
Do not forget, my son, of the birds
in the trees whose song I made for you,
of the rumble of the clouds to awe you,
of the beauty of scales, so when light
flashes across the surface of the water
the ocean is alive with beautiful,
moving stones. Do not forget, my son.
Long ago, when I held the first light
in my grip, when I carved the mountains
from my fist, as I watched the planets align
by my song, in the dwelling of your grottos
you slept, waiting until love came to grace
the earth and fill your belly with food --
Will you forget this, my son? I am a sad
one, for I see the oscillations, the mirrors
of the future, and you my son, will forget,
and so I will provide, giving you a field
to sleep in and wheat to harvest, animals
to sleep by your side and companions to guide,
and when the time comes, to give you rules to live
and prophets to speak - and you will remember.
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| Romans 1:1 |
[12 Jul 2005|07:48am] |
Barren woods,
the realms of lofty dreams all
measured next to nothing
when compared to the light
of the future; the light that
drifts from home to home,
carried by a star, carried by
a torch, carried by the glimmer
of a man's eye; he keeps this light
in his pocket, in his purse, in
the shelves of his wallet, waiting
for a sign, waiting for the star
that falls from heaven, all the while
his hand is burning.
While the slave, who sits among
piles of garbage and ruminates on
the shadows as stones of immaculate
grace, the star burns on his forehead,
the tempest blue, bright red, blazing
into a night sky filled with the horrors
of the day, trampled screams, fearful
hesitations, the drawing of the knife
and the wasting of the earth - he burns
through the night, and his voice is like
a field grown with honey and mint,
reaching into the folds of the soul and
measuring the wealth of a man not by
his pleasantries, but by his rule.
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[04 Jun 2005|09:58pm] |
I am the prince of tides,
the waves, crystalline, perfect,
sweep beneath my feet.
I care nothing for them.
The skies pronounce my name,
the clouds magnify my voice,
the stars bow down to me.
Tomorrow, the prince of tides shall nothing be,
a faint recollection, a dim memory
of when memories danced and love burned.
I care nothing for this.
The moment is eternal,
and I rule the world,
my hands and feet planted,
and the earth whirls.
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[04 Jun 2005|09:11pm] |
The sun on the rocks, glimmering, hesistant.
It resists, and resists, but gives way to the moon.
Why are we so concerned with this?
It is only the meandering moments of a time lost,
of hope regained,
and a future unleashed.
The trees in the park are as green as ever, and children play on the slides and swings. They stand over the fountain, the water splashing over them, coating them with the paint of irony. By morning, it will fade.
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| "I'm sorry, can you bark a little louder? Little Jimmy can't hear you from from kitchen, dear." |
[04 Oct 2004|09:57am] |
All Creatures Blessed at Grace Cathedral
Mon Oct 4, 1:42 AM ET Local - KPIX/KCBS
Joe Rogers for KCBS-740 AM
(KCBS) - The barking echoed through a famous San Francisco cathedral as pets great and small lined up for Grace Cathedral Church’s annual blessing of the animals on Sunday.
“People from all over bring their animals and have them blessed in the church and out on the courtyard,” Christina Campbell told KCBS reporter Ron Naso on Nob Hill.
She and husband Tyler brought their 6½ month sheltie puppy down the aisle they recently walked down themselves.
“This is our baby,” she said.
“I think it’s a great idea,” said husband Tyler, “We got married here a year ago and we’re blessed as well.”
Some walked on all fours, some were walked in pet carriers, and two San Francisco Police Dept. mounted patrol horses headed the procession towards the altar.
All animals are welcome to attend the annual service held in honor of St. Francis, reputed to have spoken with animals.
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| LJ Hold |
[05 Feb 2004|06:56pm] |
I was recently brought back here from a link to a fellow China blogger, and so I felt I should inform you of an update...
If you haven't read my user info recently, I've put a hold on putting up LJ entries. I've basically stopped until I get back to the states in August.
If you are curious for the reasons, I already have two China-related journals (http://cultured.fishspeaker.com and http://seeberger.greatestcities.com), which mostly saps my time, plus everytime I post here some numbskull asks me to remove them from my personal friends list... you can imagine how annoying that is after four consecutive posts, of having to go back and personally remove one person just because they've decided they don't like my name on their page.
I'll be back in August of 2004. Until then, I hope you all have pleasantries abounding.
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| At the Center of the World, V. 15 |
[15 Dec 2003|05:36pm] |
(originally written on December 14, 2003)
Hello, and many, many greetings.
Today is the beginning of my 24th year into life. Before you ask, no, I do not feel any older. I do feel wiser, and that is a good thing.
I now have a computer, on which I have gleefully installed my first Chinese games. Although one of them is entirely in Chinese, the other two I have had fun playing with during my free time this weekend. No doubt they will save my sanity, at some point in the future.
This issue of ACW is a special one, because I am going to give you a glimpse into a week of Ben. You see, the ancient Norse had a unique way of celebrating birthdays, which was not to receive presents, but to give them. And since I rather like that, this is my present to you.
Sunday, December 07, 2003 - Wooden Dolls and Disco
The room is dark, save for the red light in the corner. The red haze is painted across the walls of the little room.
I relax on the couch, folding one leg under my other, pulling my hood over my head, trying to visualize what happens in here at night.
The girl who brought me is speaking with her friend, who owns the disco. I can't help but wonder if they are going together, even though as soon as I think it I chide myself as being over anxious and sligtly silly. I tell myself it's a thought, anyways, and it's already happened, so there's no need for further negotiation with the forge of my mind.
On the table, between the couches, is my gift from a friend in Beijing. It's a little wooden doll: two coconuts, with one coconut cut in half so that it looks like a person. The inside is hollowed out, and a sprig of what appears to be broom material is tied at the top to look like hair. I'm told it is called a wei wei. I'm slightly amused.
Monday, December 08, 2003 - Number Seven Bus
My hood is drawn up again. It seems everywhere I go, this hood covers me, hiding me. People are never surprised to see me anymore, for even when they look into my face, they probably only see the cold wind. The surprise of a blond-haired, blue eyed young man has worn off, and been replaced by the reality of winter.
Chunks of blackened snow are thrown in a pile on the sidewalk. The winter wind burns. Behind me (I cannot see because of the hood) is a potato steamer, with her bicycle cart, her steam barrel, and seven steamed potatoes arranged on the edge of the barrel to show her expertise. A few people are crowded around the barrel, money withdrawn.
Two women stand next to me, waiting for the number seven bus. They look at my face, and then begin to talk. I do not understand what they are saying, but I know it is something about foreigners.
The purple bus arrives, and droves of people who one moment ago did not exist, shuffle from behind me, pushing past my big coat and onto the bus. I realize what is happening, and hurry, stepping in front of a young woman, my money withdrawn.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003 - The Child Within
They stand around me. They pull my untucked shirt, and then tug on my pants. They cling to my legs. They are laughing, and crying out "yingwen laoshi, yingwen laoshi!" I can hear the joy in the voices, and I wonder what it is that brings it out - is it me, some strange facet of my smile that makes them so happy, or it is the knowledge that I allow them to tug on my shirt? Or it is something more mysterious, something deeper that I could never understand?
I look around for their chinese teacher, but she has disappeared. I break away from the children, and find her sitting in a dark corner, trimming her nails. She looks up at me, palely smiling, and then turns back to her nails. I shrug, run back to my seat, sit down, and say in a loud voice, "Good morning!" And the children echo in response. I am delighted.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003 - Feasting the Mind
I listen to him speak.
He says that cartilege should be exercised, and he tells me that the best way to exercise cartilege is to do stretches in the morning and at night, for about ten to fifteen minutes. There is a Greek named Pilatus who makes exercise videos which are excellent, he says. And you can buy these videos at most American video stores.
I pick up a clump of mi fan with my kwaidze, and then use my spoon to dish up some of the peppered dofu. I worry about the sweetbread on my plate, because I forgot to dry the bottom of the dish before I put the bread on, and I worry that the sweetbread is going to be soggy on the bottom.
I ask him if cracking your knuckles is bad for your cartilege, and he tells me it is not. He explains that when you crack your knuckles you are releasing gas pockets in your body, much like popping bubble paper. He laughs when I suggest that it is bad for the body, and he reaffirms that to exercise the cartilege is the best thing you can do for your bones, in order to prevent the onset of arthiritis in old age.
Some of the teachers walk in the kitchen. They look at us sitting at the table, and I know they are thinking that we are slow eaters, because we are sitting at THEIR table, the one they usually sit at. But they smile, gather their bowls, and begin lunch.
Thursday, December 11, 2003 - Generally Speaking
She speaks to me and says, "Good evening."
I turn my head, a bit surprised, and wander into the store. She's never spoken to me before in English. Curious. I look at her, dressed in her all red supermarket uniform, and she smiles at me, and then looks away, back to what she was reading, one of the Chinese newspapers.
As I browse, a new supermarket worker follows me, eyeing me. He is a boy, which surprises me, because all of the other workers were female, at least, for the past two months. He seems to take his job very seriously, and his eyes are like two hawks circling a roving herd. I suppose then, that that makes me the herd.
I change aisles, and he steps away like a cat, avoiding to bump into me.
I try and move to the other side of the little store, but he follows me. I walk faster, but he follows. I finally resort myself to the ice cream freezers, purchase my food, and step back into the freezing air.
Oh well.
Friday, December 12, 2003 - Hanging with the Boys
My hands are freezing. I know I should run back to my room and get my gloves, but I am much too caught up with what I am doing. I can see the red on the tip of my skin, but my bones feel anything but cold.
I hold a sign in my hands. At least, it used to be a sign. The letters have been taken off, and the backside of the sign is filled with snow. I am running forward, one of my new friends at the school having hooked a shovel onto the sign. He is also running forward, dragging the sign, along with me.
We pile the snow we just shoveled into a gigantic mountain of dirt and ice. I shake my hands and try to get the warmth back in them, and then grip the wooden stick again for another round.
The men are speaking to each other, complaining that the work is so hard. I concur with them. This is hard work. I can hear them talking about me, saying "meguoaren," but I say nothing. I have learned that although it's not a complement when they speak behind my back, neither it is an insult, even if it is an insult. It would only be an insult if I recognized it as such.
And since I can't understand what they are saying, I really have no idea if they are saying anything demeaning. So I assume the best, and go for another round. The ice proves to be somewhat of a deterrant, but one of the men takes his shovel and cracks the ice, and then pushes it away with his foot.
Saturday, December 13, 2003 - The Chicken Who Crossed the Road
The little boy stares at me. I look forward, out of the window, watching the people stroll by the street, trying my best to look mysterious and wise.
I take a bite of my chicken sandwich.
The mother and her boy next to me stand up, and walk out of KFC. One of the workers comes by immediately and picks up the tray, and then disappears.
I recall that while in line two people cut in front of me, to get free food from their prize coupons. I, of course, did nothing. After the first lady stepped in front of me, I was a bit surprised, but I did not say anything. After the little boy cut in front of me, I decided that I would make this into a cultural experience, and experiment how many more people would cut in front of me while I was standing next to the register. No one did, but I think my experiment worked out just fine.
I move seats to get the glare of the sun out of my eyes. I look over to the boy, and his mother smiles at me. I smile back, and the two whisper something to each other.
I take another bite from my sandwich. It is good, but the mayonnaise is different, sweeter, and thicker than what I've known.
Sunday, December 14, 2003 - Cleaning
The machine rumbles like a rock tumbler. I know it's the American jeans inside. The plastic tub jumps and shakes, and then begins to whirr.
I hang some socks on a heater, next to a white button-up shirt and a grey sweatshirt. I look at my watch.
3:15pm. I remember starting this ordeal at 12:20pm. At home, it's so much simpler. Just toss your clothes into the big scary box, turn it on, and go out and rent a movie. After the car pulls into the driveway, you walk back into the house, pop the movie into the player, and start folding.
My hands have shriveled up from the cold water inside the washer. I breath on the tips of my fingers, suddenly imagining I am braving the cold at ten thousand feet, clinging to a pole that is pitched into the side of an ice cliff.
And then I realize I'm just washing my clothes.
And so, once upon a time...
These little images were taken from a new website of mine, which I call my "Travelogue," which is located here: http://www.greatestcities.com/users/seeberger/ There are more than that week on the website, and if you check it from time to time, you will notice that I am attempting to write one image per day. Note the word: attempting. So far, it has worked like a charm, and I have had beautiful results, and that is my plan, to continue as done.
Until next time,
Benjamin Seeberger
http://cultured.fishspeaker.com
The People's Republic of China,
Heilonjiang Sheng, Mudanjiang Shi,
Fuminjie dong xiao liu tiao Lu,
Dong an qu,
Jia Mei You Er Yuan
Cell: 011-86-1384-539-6271 (currently not working)
--
If you are going to reply with a request to be removed from my friend's list, then please read my user info first.
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| At the Center of the World, V. 14 |
[08 Dec 2003|06:12pm] |
Hello, and many, many greetings.
Today marks one week until my birthday, in which I will be a proper Chinese citizen, able to maintain responsibility and deserve much respect from the people I work with. There is a difference between the ages of 22, 23, and 24. 22 is still young, and the person is fresh, excited, but lacking in wisdom. 23 is a crossing, in which the 22 year-old begins to learn some of the basics of how to act like an adult. And at 24, you are ready to enter the world, many times given the responsibilities of telling others older than yourself what to do. Or so I have felt and observed. And on December 14, I will be 24 (in China, 23 in the United States).
The Winter Palace
Winter is more than a season here to the Chinese. It is more than a change of scenery. It is a change of philosophy, and a change of, most importantly, food.
On Saturday, I ate frozen fruit, sold off a sidewalk stand. The fruit was much like the little pieces of fruit you find in asian cracker snacks, but larger and put out into the air, so that it would freeze. Everywhere in this city, are stands with the same types of foods, frozen and icy.
Also, many of the shopkeepers put out their ice cream snacks to the sidewalk. This isn't difficult to imagine, as it would save on the electricity, but seemingly as a result, ice cream is a hugely popular snack here, and I know I'm not the only one who pays a little extra after a cold walk to eat some frozen vanilla ice cream buttered with chocolate and sunflower seeds. Another popular food here are tiny, candied apples, and tiny candied bread. Both are put onto a stick, and then dipped into honey, which hardens into a sugary coating.
Christmas Tidings
The school is preparing to celebrate Christmas. To ready themselves, they bought three Christmas trees, strips and ribbons for dressing, paper hangings for the walls, and ornaments for the plants in the school. Outside in the playground, a giant snowman with an oversized stomach and a round, Chinese hat watches over the school, and in the morning when the children play, they throw snowballs at it.
The children are being trained in two dances. They will dance at the Christmas celebration, which I suppose happens at the same time as Chinese New Years. I am preparing the students to sing several medlies of songs for this celebration, to show off the English they have learned.
The Authority
I witnessed a special event at the beginning of last week. One afternoon, after I had rested for about an hour, I walked back into the school, only to find that the teachers had all changed their clothing, and wore matching uniforms, of pleated skirts and sharp, folded jackets, with mock ties and mock scarves. That, and they were all standing in two lines, from the entrance of the building, to the hallway of the school.
This would not have looked so strange, had I not remembered that these girls usually wear jeans and bland sweaters to their classrooms, and are usually busy within their own classrooms at this time, trying to calm their children down.
About twenty minutes later, a van arrived carrying some officials from Mudanjiang. The girls were still standing in position when the van came. The authorities smiled at the gesture, and then briskly walked through the line into the hallway, without giving even one of the girls any kind of look. And then in two single lines, the girls followed the authorities into the hallway, and I remained in the lobby, my mouth symbolically held agape.
Packages
I received a package from my mother today. In the package was a CD, a disk, and a letter. The package took about 9 days to arrive in Mudanjiang, with all the proper papers.
There is something interesting that I have experienced in China, with anything official. Twice now I have shown my passport on articles which belong to me that I was claiming from an office (buying a cell phone and picking up a package at the post office), and both times my passport has been declined and the official asked for the identification card of someone traveling with me. After looking at the identification card, they copied down the numbers and name of that card, and gave me my package. And with that, they smiled at me, and I was on my way.
Oh well.
A Response to Response
I want to thank all of you who have responded to my letters. Your notes have given me a lot of happiness in the past few months, and now whenever I check my e-mail, I am thirsting for any new information I could read on how your own lives are moving along. I have enjoyed your stories, and especially your prayers and concern.
I try to make each letter work on its own, and provide a little of the culture over here. My meaning is to broaden the perspective that we have on life. So often, we become embroiled in our own affairs, and we have little time for much else, especially little time for trying to understand what lies outside of our own culture. And the fact that you may never meet these people in your entire lives is somewhat alarming, so I try to pick out a little bit of the world and send it on.
Until next time,
Benjamin Seeberger
http://cultured.fishspeaker.com
The People's Republic of China,
Heilonjiang Sheng, Mudanjiang Shi,
Fuminjie dong xiao liu tiao Lu,
Jia Mei You Er Yuan
Cell: 011-86-1384-539-6271
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If you are going to reply with a request to be removed from my friend's list, then please read my user info first.
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| At the Center of the World, V. 13 |
[03 Dec 2003|05:37pm] |
Hello, and many, many greetings.
This has been a week of perspectives, some renewed, some remembered, and some discovered.
As winter extends, the people here sleep earlier and earlier. Tonight I was told by the girl at the school that the room I was using was to be locked, and it is only 9:30pm here. Most of the people are asleep, and outside, the gates are locked, shops are closed, and cars, so few, wander the street. Dotted bikes glitter over the snow, and people in heavy jackets and scarves over their mouths scurry like lightning bugs through the sidewalks.
Just now the girl came to check up on me. She wants to close up the door. I told her it was too early, and she walked back into the hallway of the school without saying a word, only a silent expression on her face.
LOCK, stock, and two bolted doors
When I first came to this school, there were two doors, and three locks. The front door, which had one lock, and the backdoor, which had two locks, but only one of them was used. Today, they have added two more doors, and six more locks. Three of the locks are on the door I use to get into the school, and most hours of the day, that door is unaccessible for me. Two more of the locks are on a new door that has been added, a side entrance for the teachers in the morning, and one of those locks has been added to the front interior door (not exterior). I'm not sure what they are afraid of, so I'm still a little confused about all the locks, especially since they weren't here when I arrived. I still have a lot to learn about this culture.
OBSERVATIONS on the center of the world
On Saturday, I took an excusion to the center of the city with some new friends. I noticed a number of things that I had never noticed before. Upon entering the supermarket, I noticed that in the butchery area there were whole skinned pigs strung up on wires and posts, and behind the slanks were two giant posters of a cow and pig. The posters were divided up into sections of the animals, and numbers were placed on different part of the bodies. For ease of reading, so that you don't get confused when you buy the head or buy the rump?... And in the pharmacy (on the second floor of the supermarket) there was a nature scene with two stuffed deer on a fake landscape, and on the wall behind them was a giant photo of the Great Wall of China. A pharmacy?...
Outside of the supermarket, I saw the KFC, and a thought struck me. Most places in the world have a McDonalds, not a KFC. Even in places like India, McDonalds is pretty high on the list, but in China, KFC dominates. In Harbin, there were dozens and dozens of KFCs, but only one McDonalds and one Pizza Hut. And all the way out in Mudanjiang, a city many people in China have not even heard of, there are two KFCs. Why? And then I noticed the stark red sign, and put the pieces together. Most of the KFCs are near important government centers. And on Saturday, I saw a city-sponsored dance in front of the KFC. Connection? Perhaps.
Finally, upon entering the square my friend ordered an octopus-on-a-stick. So far in China, I've eaten everything from silkworms to pepperoni, hot dogs to mutton, beef to chicken, on a stick. And every week I discover something new.
ON restaurants
On Friday, I visited a patriotic restaurant. On the walls were pictures of important government officials at meetings. On the booths where people eat hung old relics of the military, with the star hanging in the center. On the upper floor of the restaurant was a picture of an old chairman of China. The entire front of the restaurant was covered in red hangings, the waitresses wore red tops, and I believe the people sitting in the booth next to me were of some importance to the city. They had on government uniforms and spoke far too loud to be ordinary citizens. The food was good, though, and the experience was interesting.
The restaurant also had a unique feature that in my experience, I have not found in any other restaurant in the United States except for that illustrious jungle restaurant, the Rainforest Cafe. The pipes in the restaurant were covered in green plastic, to make the pipes look like bamboo. Some of the eating stalls were made of bark, and under a glass counter by the front of the restaurant was a covering of artificial grass, with little plastic flowers popping out of the green. Flowers in different colors hung from the ceiling in crescents. And actually, this is quite typical for China. Even in the school where I teach, the pipes are made to look like bamboo trees, and the walls are covered in pictures of the outside. The same was for both schools in Harbin, the one where I lived AND the one where I taught. There is something integral in the culture here about mixing the natural with common life. It is a wonderful feeling, to know that although we may surround ourselves with the machina of the future, we do not forget the past.
NEW generation
On Thursday, I noticed one of the teachers showing her children some dance steps. And then I looked on the television screen, and they were dancing to Chinese pop. At first I laughed, because it really is funny to see preschoolers dancing to a guy who wears skinny tights and colored hair, but suddenly things came into perspective. The teacher was young, only about 20 years old, and I remembered the other day when I asked her to help me sing some nursery rhymes to the children, and she looked at me, then at the music, then back at me, and looked very embarrassed to be singing some music. And then on Thursday, I saw her dancing pop tunes with the kids.
This is a new generation, most defintely, because she is not the only one. Many times after school has ended, I wander into the different classrooms and often find them learning dance steps to pop songs, not nursery dances. This generation is fed on popular culture, through television, music, and the computer. I suppose some things even bind cultures on the opposite ends of the earth.
Nevertheless, there are still differences. The students are learning a dance for the Christmas concert, in which one of the children has the lucky chance to dance solo, and part of the dance step is to lose his or her pants so only the underwear is showing. Then this student dances as if they are trying not to fall, and all of the other children dance around him or her, pointing and laughing. When I first saw this, I was aghast that a dance would be so bold as to ridicule a little child with such a terrible prank. But no one else felt this way. Actually, they thought it was funny. And fun.
Until next time,
Benjamin Seeberger
http://cultured.fishspeaker.com
The People's Republic of China,
Heilonjiang Sheng, Mudanjiang Shi,
Fuminjie dong xiao liu tiao Lu,
Jia Mei You Er Yuan
Cell: 011-86-1384-539-6271
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| At the Center of the World, V. 12 |
[23 Nov 2003|03:39pm] |
The archive of the previous 11 entries can be found on my website.
I am in Mudanjiang, a city in north-eastern China, near the Siberian border. I'm a preschool English teacher, and I will be here for the next 9+ months. I have been writing a weekly update on my happenings here. I'll be trying to put them up on this site, as long as livejournal works out here. Sometimes livejournal has problems in China, but right now, it seems to be working fine.
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Hello, and many, many greetings.
WINTER'S bread and butter
Well, for those of you who think I'm in paradise, drinking tea, eating pot stickers, and being surrounded by lofty clouds, green hills, mountain fog, and cool air, a subtle reminder should be passed on. For the past two days Mudanjiang has been in a snowstorm, albeit a calm, polite storm. This morning on the way to breakfast, I noticed the water from the drainpipes froze so that cylinders of ice, fresh and pure, hung from the spouts of the pipes and looked like they had no intention of giving up their place. That, and I almost fell on my butt just walking to the bathroom. To the person walking beside me, I joked that perhaps I needed a new pair of shoes.
In Chicago, I remember the winters as slow, comely creatures, who snuck up in the middle of autumn and gradually grew. In China, the winter came swiftly, from one autumn day when there were still leaves on the ground, to the next morning when the ice froze and snow fell from the sky as if a bucket had been dropped.
Mr. Tau, a friend of the school, was to leave this morning for Harbin by bus, but when he left for the bus station he was informed the roads had iced so badly that he would have to wait and take a train tomorrow morning.
So far in these two days, I have seen three people "try" and ride their bicycles over the snow and ice. Of course, they fell. Those were the first three people I've ever seen in China fall from their bikes.
MOVIES for you, movies for me...
http://movie.mdj.cn/
Stunned would be a bad word to use. Aghast, flabergasted, ridden with disbelief, struck by light, hit by a train, grafted with iron... perhaps those would be better words to use, when describing this website. For me, an American, at least, because in America we take our copyrights pretty seriously. After all, if we come up with an idea and we patent it, its ours. Might as well get our name branded into the book of amazing imagineers. But a whole site, dedicated to streaming whole movies on the internet, free of charge? It's also Mudajiang's official movie website. Harbin has one as well, but the Harbin website charges a fee. This one is free. That's something else....
BABY pictures
On Friday, I was leaping up and down the stairs of the building (its a daily tactic I use to relieve energy and relieve boredom) when I had the opportunity to carry a two year old down the stairs. I was amazed, because she jumped into my arms without a hesitating cry or a fearful gaze. That, and she nearly fell asleep. I felt very special.
Later that day, I noticed a calender on the wall, and her picture was the central picture of the yearly calender. I felt like the king of the world.
Her picture is no longer there, but there are tons of really great Chinese baby pictures on this website. If you're a fan, I suggest you take a look. http://www.mdjlife.com/id/smile/index.htm
COMMUNITY and need
Over the past eleven weeks, my biggest need has been connecting with foreigners. Although being surrounded by people most of the day, the lack of similar culture is often lonely. Not being able to speak with someone who understands the concept of going out on a walk by yourself just for the heck of it, often has lead me to wondering why I was really here. It's immature, but also shows me how tied to my culture I really am.
When I do have the chance to speak with someone who understands my "being," then I am instantly revitalized. "Being," as in someone who understands where I came from, my American-ness, and my philosophy of humanism. It's all very subtle, but somehow, its been my biggest need.
JOKES on you, my friend
Cook John teased me today. He told me, over lunch, that today he was leaving for America. Susan delightfully partook in this tease, and told me he was going to Tennesee to be a cook at a Chinese restaurant. Because so much has happened to me in the small time I've been in China, I had no problem believing it.
This evening, I saw John in the kitchen, preparing dinner. I asked him why he hadn't left yet. I thought perhaps he was going to take a bus to Harbin to catch a plane, and he was still here because of the icy roads. But he told me he wasn't leaving, and then laughed. I still wasn't convinced, so I asked him when he was going to America. He told me maybe three, four years. To me, however, it's still perfectly reasonable that he could leave for America tomorrow morning, and I wouldn't be the least surprised. It seems to be the way of things around here.
PONDERING on things
I'm still in a pretty dour mood today. I watched this movie, Asoka, today. It's about an Indian Emperor who united India in what was one of the bloodiest wars in history. So I've been reeling in the question of why people even bother raising their fists against one another, when its so much easier to kiss and forgive. That doesn't have anything to do with China, persay, but as its a significant part of this letter's tone, so I felt like I should include it. But I don't want to end there.
FOOD for thought
For the past few days, I've found myself in a restaurant near the school, closing my eyes and pointing blindly to anything on the menu. I usually order a few sticks of mutton (which has become my favorite food, moving over the rank of Kansas steak), and then something random which I don't know the meaning.
The Chinese will cook anything that can be put onto a stick. And most things, they've shown to me in the past few days, can be put onto a stick. One evening, I ate sticks of pepperoni that had been cooked over an open fire, and then stuck horizontal onto two metal sticks with wooden handles.
The previous evening, I ordered what is called anchoun. When the waitress first brought out a tiny chicken stuck onto three metal sticks, with the head and feet and claws still attached, I was a bit confused. I continued to stare at the chicken for about three minutes before I finally gave up trying to maw through the skin with my teeth while the chicken was still stuck with metal, and pulled the creature off, and then used my hands, all barbarian like, until I had made a complete mess of a perfectly fine animal.
I never did eat the head.
Until next time,
Benjamin Seeberger
http://cultured.fishspeaker.com
The People's Republic of China,
Heilonjiang Sheng, Mudanjiang Shi,
Fuminjie dong xiao liu tiao Lu,
Jia Mei You Er Yuan
Cell: 011-86-1384-539-6271
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| Culture and Acceptance |
[22 Aug 2003|09:59pm] |
Culture and Acceptance
Benjamin Seeberger
SIT Entrance Essay
Friday, August 22, 2003
Culture and Acceptance
Since I was a little child, I’ve been surrounded by culture. For most of my peers, it would’ve been too much to handle. For nearly ten years almost every day I ate Chinese food for lunch and dinner. From age four, over eight different languages were spoken by people who lived with my family. My mother told stories of her life as a missionary in four different countries. While growing up, my videographer parents created missionary videos from countries like Zaire (D. Republic of Congo), Thailand, Japan, Indonesia, and the Philippines. My mother spoke three languages. Our favorite family dishes were fondue, potstickers, and ramen. We even had a Chinese thanksgiving once!
To the rest of our community, we were unique. In a plot of houses that looked exactly the same, in a classroom that boasted one Chinese girl and two African-American males as minority, in a city where the average income was $50,000 to $150,000 per year annual income, my family was a rarity. One day, on the bus coming home, I heard a peer share how startled he was that his friend was traveling to Oakland, a thirty minute car trip. He was surprised because it was so far away. By then, I had already visited five countries outside of the United States. I suddenly felt very different.
This isn’t to say my peers were ignorant. This is to say how extraordinary and different my life was comparatively. I grew up in a different world – a world where cultures were not just ‘those other people,’ but rather, where cultures had an impact on the world at every moment, regardless if someone thought he didn’t have to deal with the rest of the world. My home was a melting pot of people from around the world. Every word spoken and every action these people made in my home affected me and changed me. Every time they spoke to me, whether in happiness or in anger, I was stretched beyond the distanced suburbia where I grew up. Finishing high school, having visited twelve countries and three different continents, I had become impassioned to the world. At age five, I wanted to become a missionary. At age eight I wanted to work in Africa building dams and ponds. When fourteen, I wanted to join the foreign service. At eighteen, I was challenged by a man who had, as a westerner, developed a socio-economic program amongst the poorest of the poor in NE Thailand that produced results many times over anything the government ever hoped to do. At nineteen, I wanted to be a war correspondent. At twenty-one, I discovered the worldwide ticket of ESL teaching. And when I was twenty-two, I applied to the Peace Corps and the School for International Training, to specialize in sustainable development in the Master’s International program.
I have a passion and a problem. My passion – desiring people to come together harmonically making decisions that improve the lives of everyone around them. My problem is seeing people separating themselves from each other and then killing each other for lack of understanding. My life vision has ordered me, by the natural cause of all things, to become a bridge, so that people crossing this bridge respect humanity as life, which if treated without malice but instead with hope and love, may accomplish great things, together. I am looking at SIT to help me in this.
I will learn how to communicate with not only the people who surround us from day to day, but the geographically distant. I will learn to aid communities which struggle with simple things of life that people like me take for granted – that all people should enjoy.
Let me share with you my vision for the future, and how SIT, as a unique organization devoted to training leaders worldwide, can help. I envision a world populated by people not afraid of each other because of heritage, appearance, or action. I envision a world where citizens respect and love each other, not from extrinsic force, but because they understand in order to live life together, a sense of mutual respect and love is needed to live life fully. I envision a world where cultural stereotypes are the minority, and lifestyle is great. This world cannot be accomplished by fear, but rather by education, communication, and respect. I see SIT as not only the first step in this, but also the device by which I can learn valuable skills to aid me in this process. To live in a world where the living standards are high, and culture is no longer a division but a connection, isn’t that ideal? I’m not so blind to believe that I can create a utopic world. I do believe however, that with the proper training from the proper individuals, I can make the world a better place to live, and that is worth a lifetime of working.
I expect the program will teach me the theories, concepts, and analysis to aid me in helping communities that need basic food, shelter, and security. I expect the program will vigorously test me on these principles, so that once I leave the school, I will be well prepared to meet the challenges of the international world. As I outreach to other students, I will grow friendships with them. I will, as a member of a society that does not normally seek to spread their arms in open friendship, be a reminder of hope. Perhaps in the future, I will partner with them, because of the community that SIT offers.
But most of all, I will learn from them. I will be immersed in a world where truth is not seclusion, but connection. And I will grow from them, so that through them, I can help countless others. And perhaps, in the end the world will be a better place.
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