LUKE LIFE

Kristy Love

2012-01-26T12:45:00.000-08:00

I saw you standing in the church that day next to a man with tears.

Your face was as bright as the morning sun and your eyes were as blue as my seas.

You said to me: “I love you boy” and then came a rush from my fears.

Because I knew then that your lovely heart was far too pure for this man.

Come with me and we’ll travel the seven seas.

Oh my love I must demand that you stay with me through my years.

On that day near the iron bridge your hand slipped into my hand.

My heart was as fast as a moving train, my legs as sure as the sand.

I knew then like I know now you are the rose in my field.

Dream I won’t no longer my dear, wishes I have no more.

Come away, walk my way, and we’ll travel on the golden streets.

Oh my love, I must demand that you stay with me through my years.

And how I love you oh I need you and oh I want you close my love.

George

2012-01-23T18:13:00.000-08:00

* ( I first met George when he was a young 11 year old boy, begging on the streets of South Africa. When I returned home 1 month ago I met him as a man. He is one of my dearest friends.)

Do you remember me? My name is George, the one you used to ask to do somersaults in the sand. I saw your face in a photograph next to the credit card in your mom’s purse. You were brave like a soldier then. She told me you were coming home. I held onto her words like light holds on to a falling star.

The bodies that move on the pavement streets don’t see the struggle I’m living in. The burden of life tries to strangle me with the never-ending cycle of collecting money for paraffin, bread, milk and toothpaste. When you were here I was a beggar at the robots, not even a makweta boy. Today I am a man. I watch cars on Beach Road, fending thieves and bandits off, for a wage that hardly fills my pocket. My heart is heavy and my feet don’t seem light to carry me.

I am waiting. Not for taxis to Duncan Village or lifts from Martin in his bakkie. I am waiting for love. I am waiting for love that brings me life. The love you spoke about when you were brave.

You said I should wait. You said I should never let the ground fall beneath my feet. You said over the hills a better day will come around.

Your feet could not be further from my feet. Yet, I believe you.

Your house is made of mortar and brick with heat for winter days and cold for summer fire. Your lights are dressed in lavish covers and seals. Your floors are tile and wood. You cook from a frozen storehouse of chicken, fish and beef onto four burning plates, quickly, easily and regularly. You wake to the sounds of birds stepping onto twigs on the green grass you cultivate so religiously.

My house is made of aluminum sheets easily corroded by rust. My floors are soil and dust with a deep pit to hold a fire in the middle. My light is a bulb dangling from a frayed wire alone to brighten the room. My grandmother cooks a pot of beans when there’s money to strengthen the supply. I wake to angry drunkards and shouts of poverty, the sounds that never sleep in a squatter camp. I sweep the dust that blows in the night to clean our house for the morning.

And though your feet are far your words are close and true. They’ve built a bridge for me to use over the dark, swirling waters. I cross to a place where hope is a white, rushing river at my feet and peace is a deep canyon able to hold the seas. His kindness has always covered me like a kiss well before your voice in my ears. He was with me the night they stole Johnson’s eye with a stick. When they stabbed Peter in his stomach He was my heavy-metal protection.

Yesterday China reached for brandy to rest, but I found love in the poor places: where newspapers protect from summer rain, takkies with holes keep feet from blisters, and a warm loaf of bread from Spar is as satisfying as lunch from The Kennaway Hotel. He is very near to the lonely and He makes His home with the forgotten. He is an iron box for the orphan, a bulletproof vest for a makweta boy like me.

I remember you. I remember your words. I hope you remember me. Hurry home. I’m still strong enough to do somersaults in the sand.

The South African Road

2012-01-13T09:28:00.000-08:00

I met South Africa just the other day. I’d been away for four years, acquired a trimmed beard and business apparel: smart trousers, collared shirt and a belt to match my brown shoes.

Cape Town’s light swore me in. The neon orange from Mitchell’s Plain is almost blinding and a strange color for streetlights. Table Mountain, hidden at night, felt closer than the lint in my pockets. The Atlantic, ever cold, intruded the summer air with fresh shivers most welcome as my legs tugged my body through the confines of the airplane into the expanse of my homeland.

Smiles were warm and friendly at the customs patrol, security rather lax, and the Afrikaans too fast to register in my abandoned second language facility. The usual wait at the luggage carousel was a hive of swarming bees: anxious travelers looking for the sun.

One signature and a swipe of American plastic provided a matchbox rental car too small for a fishing trip down the coast.

In the dark working night, cars moved more recklessly than I remembered. The lane on my left, purposed only for emergencies, bred trucks loaded with fruit and ostriches, frantic taxis, chemist motorcycles passing at illegal speeds and wearied travelers finding relief from bursting bladders. I questioned my left-handedness, shifting gears, re-adjusting to the lines on the left-hand road.

My course was five hours east through a landscape of green fertile mountains dipping into the turquoise sea and flexing yellowwood limbs reaching into the untouched Tsitsikamma forest where I'd lay my head for the night. Well, perhaps a few nights.

Salt River (Samuel Yoder)

2011-10-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

I’ll wake up to that whistle blow

Stumble down the road, the misty road to Salt River

And ease my worried mind

You can carry your flag and you can raise it high

But all I see is an empty sky that shivers

But that river she shines

It’s ok don’t you worry none

For the government man he’s bound to run from salt river

With his war lords in tow

And the keepers of the cage raging from their tower

On principle are gonna call you a coward forever

But all you gotta do is flow

The only movement that I can see is

Salt river, Salt River, free and brave

She throws that rolling water to tease and tempt me

Salt river, Salt River, lure me away

Well the sound that lifts from a phonograph

Is an African river like a gypsy laughing and calling

Come let’s make a trade

With diamonds on her brow and crystals in her eyes

She will carry you along to that Indian tide, a bragging

Here fortunes are made

The only movement that I can see is

Salt river, Salt River, free and brave

She throws that rolling water to tease and tempt me

Salt river, Salt River, lure me away

When sun stretched fingers, strum your bronze waters

O rise, river rise

Drown my sins under, your rolling laughter

and rise, river rise

The only movement in this world I’ve seen is

Salt River, Salt River, free and brave

She swings her golden waters smiling past me

Salt River, Salt River, carry me away

The Apartheid

2011-10-07T11:13:00.000-07:00

Do you know the terrible time in our history? In South Africa, the gold and diamond land. The rich and poor land. The land of blacks and whites.

We were all so weak and grey when it was happening. Our mouths were like stocked up dams full of drift wood from upstream. Our eyes were like bats in caves screeching at the sight of light. We condemned ourselves and our brothers and our sisters. We were sin's passengers. We were criminals constructing cages.

It’s a pity I was only a boy when the apartheid was here. I’d like to think that if I was a full-grown man I’d have stopped it. Or at least put some weight into the African side of the tug of war. Although it really wasn’t a war. For in war there are two sides. The apartheid was a one-sided injustice to those that Africa belongs to.

Humanity

2011-09-26T20:56:00.000-07:00

Hunger evades us. We are bronze as brass, weary statues full of certainty for tomorrow’s need. Our souls are buried beneath cement ground or below the ships at sea. Ambition is poor and lost in ideas a simple fire could put out.

The black pool of our disease, the murky streams in our minds, the ghosts that never surface for air: these are of no consequence to the wakening of prosperity. They are only barking dogs in heavy metal cages.

But the forgotten ferries of yesterday wait to carry our hearts across wild tides masked in fear to a world we’ve never believed in…

Pacific

2011-09-14T19:11:00.000-07:00

I left my shores one month ago on a sailboat across the wild blue Pacific: current and swell beneath my bones, wind and mast above. My course fell towards the horn of Africa, a dark and gold land. I thought I’d move and settle through two seas for two months then reach the soil of my longing. Before lasting time the Pacific upset my pride: waters teamed with furious storms to send my boat wandering. Wave upon wave broke upon the starboard of my vessel turning me like the hands on a clock.

Apart from silver stars at night I could not tell my way, for it seemed as though by light of day sea would speak to sky:

“Don’t you let that boy see the sun or lest he find his path. I have him now for myself I’ll keep him in my deep. Meet with the darkened clouds by first light, move with shrouds of grey. At night we’ll see if he’s no more than a fisherman’s lonely boy.”

I kept a compass inside my skin and a map against my chest. And even though the sea and sky moved to halt my days, the sun behind the grey and black brought vision enough to sail. My compass, my battered map and my voice through open seas married the light of sun to keep from a careful trap.

By day three I’d fought the sky and held off the sea with more brute than a disciplined soldier. But the speed with which my feet were moving slowly began to fail. The dampened wood and rusty nails softened then pierced my flesh. Fabric from the sails above my head drooped like drunken sailors. Cords of rope parted, cracks on deck widened, sea and sky punished with brutal fury. The Pacific Ocean kept me. The deep blue sea shivered my hope.

Spring

2011-04-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

There’s a squirrel living outside my bedroom window. He rises with the sun then sprints up an old oak tree. Seems to me, he runs from the songs of birds or the light that gently follows. For now the blue above his head creeps into his shelter, made with leaves and sticks and things found when it was winter. But soon his shade will come again and stay for all of summer.

Blossoms near the tree breathe and color wood like children take their playgrounds: blue hats, and yellow socks, red ribbons waving at the wind. Young shoots stretch their legs deep into softening soil. The earth was cold a month ago and hard as tractor skin, before warmer air and gentle drops dressed the frost and snow.

The neighbor’s grass is on my porch, arrived by a red machine and thunderstorms. Green stains mark the wood, grasshoppers wrestle flies. Morning air is like the night’s, to keep bicycle wheels turning and dogs barking pulling old men on strings.

When I sleep I keep the windows open to hear the sounds of spring: collective songs and melodies sung by frogs in trees, babies and bees, and neighbors who’ve lost their watches.

The Fisherman

2011-03-06T19:23:00.000-08:00

Smells of rooi aas littered by your burly windbreaker keep a memory inside my head. And a black, gray beard mumbling to blacktail in the sea, and the octopus, you carefully tangled, painting the pool.

I see your shape at sinker point bending into dark blue streams, far from your little girl enchanted by her starfish. Mussels and cockles are the friends beneath your feet, a community of one. The swivel on your line is silver in the sea held by your favorite sinker, bridged to a jagged hook you carefully fastened on the patio at dawn.

Tackling your rod is as sure as Tex and Plain sooting your lungs in the afternoon. Swift, effortless hands, beading gut through eyes, breaking fast from black rock, teaming with wind and tide.

My walk is safe with you over the hose-pipe bridge, your body my heavy-metal protection. And at Salt River when talk of hammer head sharks settling the waters, you smile and say: “We’ll make soup of them my boy.”

You’re a fisherman: your hands, your bony limbs, your heart laid on heavy seas.

West

2011-02-14T18:27:00.000-08:00

In the early summer months of 1995, two brothers, Jimmy and Billy, quit their jobs, packed their bags and left for Wyoming. Chip said he’d meet them across the Ohio River past Louisville, Indiana side then take them as far as Colorado. Chip was tall as a gum-tree, broad like a tractor and wanted by the Kentucky State Police. The boys thought swell of him.

They reached Chip in Indiana; his tanned skin reflecting off the water, the hum of an old country song slipping from his mouth, his back stretched over the hood of an old Lincoln, and his eyes lost in the passing strangers walking across the iron bridge.

Chip’s double barrel shotgun protruding from the trunk of his car frightened the boys as they first approached. But soon his greasy familiar palms in theirs, quietly re-assured them of the friendship they had grown months earlier.

The white leather seats in Chip’s car were suffocated in smoke and postcards of California covered holes in the dashboard.

“Well boys here we are, the open road, the open sky.” And then Chip’s foot came down like an anvil on the pedal, distributing the gas, firing the cylinders.

MARS

2011-02-07T18:37:00.000-08:00

The winter wood beneath the bed kissed his feet as he surfaced from a world of dreams and warmth. Glowing rays of sunlight burned 7am reality into his eyes then mind. But toasty covers on frosty mornings are tempting even to the most controlled of Adam’s sons. Consequently, Mars was running behind schedule and the 9am tram was slowly slipping from his grasp.

The hospital delivery business was booming and although riddled with self-doubt, Mars felt fortunate to be a part of the team, carting consumerism to the dying. Innocent Givings was his boss, the man with only an idea in his pocket turned condo in Key Largo. The daily reaping of Mr. Givings was astronomical. Mars could have never guessed when landing the job that “Deliveries to your Deathbed” would eventually hold such gain in the market. And when the company went global, Mars had already invested more than half his savings into "DTYD".

Early years, training under Innocent had given Mars an extra step in the game, and by the time he was ready to leave, his resume was flawless. His last Christmas on the job, Mars delivered a figurine of a dancing Hula girl to a man riddled with cancer, assembled a mini aquarium for a shark attack victim, and loaded a pistol to a patient with rabies. All on the day of Christmas, before dressing up as Santa to meet the children in ward C.

Phoenix City

2011-01-24T18:09:00.000-08:00

Concerning the subjects mattering most in my life, I have always felt like a lost ship at sea: my dream job, the ideal type of woman to marry, the Pacific or the Indian to carry my salt. Issues like these have led to countless internal chasing and expedition, bringing fewer answers than a big foot hunter on a trail for a giant sasquatch.

There are those fortunate individuals however, that have carried the knowledge of destiny from the beginning. These victorious ones dream of being doctors and politicians from the very moment light invades their eyes leaving the darkness in their mothers’ stomachs. They keep the divine roadmap instructing every decision, promising prosperity.

I consider them a type of master race, possessing an evolution of the human mind, enabling understanding of acute desire and absolute certainty on how to meet it. You see, I had never walked in such confidence nor possessed such clarity in the decisions controlling my life.

But that was before it happened. Before the day I wandered into
Phoenix city.

December

2011-01-16T18:55:00.000-08:00

Frozen north you are a thief. Cold blue sky you're a man who keeps; fire in your winter, red shoes in your ice, green tires on Broadway, stealing from my books.

I saved for eight months you know? To buy that land. Well not the land. The gold below the ground, the bright silver in the hole of the kaffirboom.

You'll let me wait until I'm grey as you. Not cold, but grey. Then you’ll change in time. Perhaps. Perhaps not I'm sure.

I'd sell a thousand sailboats to hold what you keep then sail a thousand seas to kiss what you meet: in the early morning when the dark is on, before water runs through prison pipes to wake the sleeping animals.

I envy all the time you have to hold my sleeping sister. You dress the calendar in brevity, but keep for so much longer.

Now wait I must for warmer air, four months and then you will return. The friend I’ve found and love I’ve met in the cold, white, winter month of December.

A note for my favorite:

2010-09-23T13:29:00.001-07:00

Today I'd like to steal a car and bring you a shiny ring. Then put it on your finger while you listen to me sing about running to the mountains and finding the golden fountains.

Yesterday Southwest took you away. Southwest and May.

And the rain keeps falling here like water on the sea after a swell of high tide. I bet you're in the dust and rust of second hand America looking for a red ruby. How interesting and wonderful your movements in the far north are: driving in your green shadow, careful to keep gym memberships and food tests from falling out the empty windows catering fall air.

Your room is clean and your bed made, I’m sure. That's how you like it. You're an undercover A. I'd definitely pay a hundred, two hundred today. May feels like Jupiter, even December like Mars.

But the courthouse stays open till 5 and although my knee is swollen like a post box filled with shopping catalogues and unwanted flyers, my heart is floating like a hot-air balloon over green and blue, land and sea.

I fell in love over letters and across two oceans, on a plane from Kentucky, in a black Chevy filled with smoke from a lady who hadn’t paid her health insurance.

And now I wish my shape was north and west and south of Minnesota blue, to call you up at close and dark to rest, to play and woo.

You stole my eyes in a navy blue dress, whiskey breath and a lottery ticket, winless. Where you are I’ll always want to be even if the temperature falls to minus seventy three.

The Beginning of American Football (Part 1)

2010-08-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

One day in earth’s deepest jungle, animals of every kind gathered to witness the greatest race of all time. The Great Race was planned by Owl who loved investigating and questioning the happenings of ordinary life. His goal, as told by Owl, to the surrounding animals was to discover which animal the most glorious of them all. This was to take place through a series of events, testing speed, strength and mind. Owl announced that the winner would have to possess an acute combination of these characteristics forging a distinction that the animal kingdom could recognize and pay tribute to. What came of it, even Owl lacked the wisdom to foresee.

According to a series of observations and because of time restrictions, Owl picked only three animals to compete in The Great Race. He believed it unnecessary to test each animal if evidence displayed an obvious lack in their ability regarding one of the three skills to be tested. The primary way Owl ciphered out the weaker animals was by grouping each animal into different families then choosing a leader from each family. Of course this task was undertaken with Owl’s most careful wisdom along with his keen sensitivity so as not to offend any of the animals that did not qualify for The Great Race.

“Why should we let the lions and cheetahs enter the competition when it is clear to the entire animal kingdom that the black panther is the greatest cat of all?” And so Owl thought long and hard about which animals to include in The Great Race, consulting only the odd pigeon that would perch next to Owl’s home in the hollow of his willow tree. After two days of careful consideration Owl chose three animals whom he appointed to represent each animal family. These animals included: the black panther from the carnivore family, the white rabbit from the herbivore family and the yellow eagle from the bird family.

Before the commencement of The Great Race a surprising disclosure was revealed to all of the animals by Owl, perched high in his willow tree. “I was afraid that none of you would agree to participate in The Great Race if I declared the real reason for it's birth so I lied instead. It is not about finding the most glorious animal of them all. There is something much grander and more dangerous here.

Across the river where none dare to go there is talk of animals competing and joining teams, participating in activities with round balls and posts, maneuvers slippery as slugs on bedrock. To ensure our survival and our place in this jungle we must learn these games as to avoid oncoming advancement and possible plundering from the animals east, west, north and south of us. We will identify our most skilled animals and use them only where they are needed and where their abilities display unmatched competence. These three animals I have chosen will represent all of you. Their results in The Great Race will decide your place in the games to come."

The Bourbon Dog

2010-07-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

Relief has finally come! The tired, jobless, economically depressing days are over for the ingenious state of Kentucky! “Hooray for the Bourbon Dog, hooray!” is the anthem saturating the Bluegrass, in her concrete cities, as far as the deep woods of her farming communities.

“The Bourbon Revolution” is here to stay. Statistics hold evidence of financial rescue, unemployment decrease, and the escalating enjoyment and quality of life that is currently prospering Kentucky. Wall Street prophets predict the Bourbon Dog Industry to produce more jobs than the state’s coal mining, tobacco, and cattle industry combined, eventually trumping the Fort Knox Gold Reserve as Kentucky’s sole symbol of wealth and fame.

Furthermore, Kentuckians believe this to be only the beginning of a never-ending lucrative cycle, on course to rescue a nation, then the world of its economic disaster and sufferings. “Dickie Boy Fogler”, a small community handy man, is one of the movements leading protagonists. Yesterday he spoke to the Kentucky Journal, while Billy, his faithful hound, refilled Dickie’s silver flask with smooth, dark bourbon. “Eh Industry you see parduces jobs, jobs parduce money you see, and then money parduces more bourbon dogs.” – “A faultless argument” reads the comment under Dickie’s quote with a picture of him and Billy seeming equally as glazed in the eyes.

You may be wondering, as is the rest of the U.S.A, about the specifics of the Bourbon Dog Industry- “What is it exactly”? “How did it start”? Etc. At this stage the only information that can be disclosed is the identity of the man and hound behind it all. Soon enough, definitive details will be revealed to the general public.

In the meantime informants are sharing the identity of one “Captain Hawk” and his Bourbon Dog, “Fredrick”. The revolution began with this humble man, on a farm fifty miles south of Bardstown, Kentucky. Captain is a mystery farmer. Nobody knows the exact compositions of his trading. Whenever asked about his farming, he simply answers: “I farm that here magic grass.” The townspeople, lately however, have had no objections to any of Captain’s long suspected character flaws. Communities are hailing him and Fredrick as the great liberators of Kentucky, the redeeming duo.

The only real critics of Captain are the “Yimish Boys” whose moonshine business has taken a significant blow since the emergence of the Bourbon Dog. Captain swears up and down that he has offered to cut the Yimish Boys a deal, vowing to unmask his specific training techniques for the Bourbon dog. “If I can make a Bourbon Dog, by hell I can make a Moonshine Dog” says Captain with a violent lisp, which he claims as his only protection against newborn money-hungry women and their charms.

Suspicions are that in a week’s time negotiations and copyright laws between Captain, state distilleries and local home affairs will come to a close. This will enable a full disclosure of The Bourbon Dog tale and a mass production and breeding of the Bourbon dog for all of those who want a piece of the pie.

Captain Hawk and Kentucky are now sitting on one of the most profound discoveries of human history. The Bourbon Dog is on track to completely revolutionize the world. Stay tuned for what happens next.

Jane

2010-07-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

In the far north of Wisconsin where lakes and rivers kiss, I felt your hand and charmed your heart while you boiled tea and fixed a plate of fruit for us to eat.

The middle of July was demanding and your daddy had no reason to let me go; the grass too deep with thorns, livestock abandoned without daily rations, and I, the only one to iron out those horseshoes.

Summer slept in your eyes during the day and in the night love danced in your sun-bleached hair. The moon bent low for us, guiding our feet to the tree house we built as kids. Morning light crept through the wood like fire from hell burning my eyes and my hands wrapped around your shoulders.

I asked you to run away with me after the rooster woke the farm. His crow was like a starting gun at the races signaling a jump from the blocks. You were tired, or you were pretending to be, maybe to hear what kind of words I’d fashion out the burning bright and heat, dissolving early sweat.

I had never been so afraid to hold your hand so I bought it with a sly trick, writing on it, hoping you’d write back on mine: “Come away with me because life in love is a life we’ve always dreamed of.”

The whiskey I’d given you the night before was warm and violent, but so was the tobacco you packed under my tongue, making me dizzy. Perhaps your blue eyes caused my faltering and then the hurried splash of cold water on my face. The wet leaves were a cover for my affection. I’m sure you knew though as we haphazardly scratched lottery tickets, laughing into early hours, settled in joy.

I carved your name into the Carolina wood of my heart within a shape that looked like a pear. When the rain and lightning comes your initials will stay. In fact they’ll deepen with every flash and bury with time we spend.

The morning is here and I hope you’ll come near.

Jane, come away with me. Take my hand and come away with me.

Natures Valley

2010-07-03T12:08:00.000-07:00

Natures Valley is a paradise resting on the foot of the Groot River Pass in the Western Cape of South Africa. The river ends it's restless wandering from its mountain source under a little stone bridge. Then water swirls around boulders prominent and sharp. Like a black leather belt on blue jeans, the dark flow continues its course, circling a grassy island before vanishing into a violent sea.

The ocean is always losing itself across golden stretches of sand that are firmed by salt. Calmly looking on is the lagoon, formed by the river, offering a safer swim for the young and elderly.

Behind the waters, woven like embroidery around humble homes, the breathing trees of the Tzitzikama forest shade and shelter the valley in serenity. The forest’s bold presence sown on bending mountains always reminded my Grandfather of Switzerland in the summer.

My dad, uncles and I enjoy fishing off craggy rocks as the mercy of the tide accommodates our communion. In my younger years early mornings at the lagoon, with the help of rusty hooks, sinkers, and a patient father, were spent learning how to pump prawns and cast my line away from danger.

Uncle Tim and Rob are master divers; when the bay is still they collect seafood even Pirates would trade gold for. In the deep the coral hide crayfish, olichree, mussels, and perlemoen, all of which are uncovered by the keen eyes of the explorers.

Meanwhile, top of the water, dad and I collect bait for fishing: worms, redbait, octopus in murky pools, and prawns along the riverbanks. We remain ever observant and guarded over our collection of bait that we pile into old, cotton fishing bags. If we drop our guard crafty seagulls swoop down for a free meal with deafly shrills attempting to satisfy their hunger pangs.

On the sand we hear the noise of families in holiday cottages, breathing and living. Our home is a wild garden sleeping under tall mountains. Mornings here host wake up calls by a feathered orchestra frolicking on yellow wood limbs, sharing their joy. Sometimes shy buck wander through long grass or along the road where tar confuses their hoofs. Families of monkeys and red-bummed baboons are brave visiting kitchen tables for louquots and cherry-guavas while loeries display beauty with rainbow colored wings perched on tired branches.

Late afternoons empty the sea of bathers who have had their full of saltwater. The open blue is always talking to surfers: “West wind boys, shore break, c’mon, perfect lefts!” She is a gracious host of barrels and sets that repeat like a favorite song caught in one’s mind. We catch the waves either in a natural bay or where the water unfurls along sandy beaches. Time is in the sky when we’re in the water and only the descent of darkness can move our bodies to gravity on the sand.

The walk home is with the cool of day on graveled roads next to families and their dogs. Evenings turn responsible; men make fires and cook meat, women make potato salad and devilled eggs. Wood is gathered by young men, while fathers drink beer on brown benches steering passage for their sons, through the trees, from a distance.

The sun begins to rest its head and flames from fires partner with the moon to compensate the light. The forest is a fairyland of fireflies; glowing green and yellow lights speckle across dark bark and deep night. The lazy hazy days of summer are cherished and then buried safely in memories untouched by trouble.

As the fire wanes, bellies full and light from embers torch the path back into the house. Sound from the sea lullabies sleepy heads filled with wine and love while musty bedrooms close their doors and sigh with rusty fans that hardly bring relief.

We close our eyes with dark streets and strange nocturnal noises seeping from the forest. Our evening prayer is humble and offered in one chorus: “From creepies and crawlies and things that go boomp in the night dear Lord deliver us.”

And He does. With sleep and dreams as lovely as the valley, waking to the sounds of monkeys in the kitchen.

3 Advantages of being a foreign man in China

2010-06-24T18:54:00.001-07:00

3. Beard Confidence

Any self-respecting man knows what an asset it is to have a beard that resembles a bird's nest. If you're a man and you disagree with this statement it’s probably because you can't grow such a treasure. But don't worry there’s no judging here. In fact, if you saw the lines on my face you’d say that I’m part of the posse, maybe the leader of the gnome beard brigade. Some have it, some don’t. I most definitely don’t. Blonde hair combined with growth sporadic as shooting stars make for a beard that is worth only the time taken to shave it off.

Admittedly these were my former sentiments while living in the USA, the land of Jeremiah Johnson, where beards on some men provoke an impulse to call the animal shelter or local zoo. My thoughts have progressed since then, however, and my confidence in my beard has grown. One year in China has convinced me that I may have some Jeremiah blood running through my veins. It’s all about perspective you see and the mass of Chinese men that surround me each day have done more for my face than any beard dye or E-how article, explaining how to find the magical path out of beard blues.

Charles Darwin would have made better use of his life (in my opinion) if he had focused more of his time and research on the biology of beard growth variances throughout our different races. Instead he spent his time playing with wild birds on remote islands. It doesn’t take the brain of a biologist like Darwin, however, to recognize that Asian genes don’t have what it takes to cultivate a garden on the face. That’s not to say that there aren’t some Asian men who carry thick wooly mammoths, because there most definitely are. However, these men are few and far between and I can only vouch for myself here, but whenever I encounter such beards my brain is usually rattled in the anomaly.

Therefore after being surrounded for months by men who carry beards humble as a tomato patch, the foreign man is forced to think one of two things about the hair on his face:

1.“I have an estranged father who is actually a grizzly bear.”

2. “My beard is not so bad after all.”

Depending on the light reflected against my face and the length of gruff on any given day, my mind, while in China, has wavered back and forth between these two thoughts. Some days I peak into my reflection on the subway doors, catching a glimpse of the wonder on my face. I note that it’s a wonder because in that reflection there are normally Chinese men gazing with me, with little to no evidence of sprouting of their own. This contrast causes me to marvel and then get lost in the forest growing on my face.

Beard confidence recently, as you may tell, has been oozing from my stride like oil from leaking machines. I make no apologies here because it’s a victory that has come in a very vulnerable place. I have only China to thank for this. My students in particular deserve my gratitude. After growing out the beard a little, I would receive regular confidence boosters in the form of comments like: “Luke you are a wolf.” “Luke please shave, you look like a gorilla.” And my favorite: “ Luke you have more hair on your face than I do on my head”. Fuel to the fire, I tell you. And perspective changes everything.

As my time in China is almost up, I conclude my “Advantages of living in China for the foreign man” series with the advantage that has brought the most prosperity and change to my heart and face. I will do everything I can to keep this mindset while back in the West, but if I falter all I’ll need is a short trip to the East to regain my loss.

So if today you find yourself in the dark tunnel of beard depression I have the perfect solution for you. Flush the dye down the toilet, stop visiting those websites that promise you beard success and buy a one-way ticket to China. Don’t pack your razors; stay for at least two weeks and before long you’ll be king of the jungle!

3 Advantages of being a foreign man in China

2010-06-16T03:27:00.000-07:00

2. A friend in a thousand places

The western monkey is a wonderful attraction for Chinese locals and usually he provides high-class entertainment that even the strengthening Yuan can’t afford. Whether it the crumby sketches on napkins in supermarkets attempting to locate honey, or the ordering of meals at restaurants by means of pictures on the wall, most occasions prove to be a riot. That being said, patriotic natives feel the burden to educate the foreigner in Chinese culture, food, transport, and anything else that opposes traditional white ideology. The fortunate consequence for the white man is that he will find a friend in a thousand places or rather a thousand friends for every place.

On more than one occasion bus 852 has trampled me under its heavy roller of disorientation. The bus routes are more difficult to understand than the subway because, unlike the subway, everything on the bus is written/announced in Chinese.

About a month ago, before I discovered I could use my moped to cut out some of the journey to and from Wanging, I was on bus 852 heading home after a blistering day on the tennis court. Everything was dandy as we were passing stores and buildings that I recognized to be apart of my neighborhood. “Good on you Luke” I thought, “Way to show this city who’s boss. Way to stick it to the concrete jungle...” And in my pride I was informed we had 3 stops to go then to retire in my comfortable apartment, free from fumes and dust, polluting my senses. I began to turn off the navigation switch in my brain making way for mental relaxation when the bus driver, like a wild goose running from a farmer, took an unexpected right turn into what seemed like the “Chinatown” of Beijing.

The colors outside the window turned from rusty grey to bright reds and yellows and the people on the streets seemed caught in the age of China where Kung Fu was like breathing and chopsticks were not only used for eating, but also for undoing the scalp on a man’s head if caught in combat. I panicked, but had no room to move because the bus was packed, like a Big Mac on steroids. The main road I had previously recognized was now nowhere to be seen, hidden by old buildings dressed in black and red script, prophesying joy and good luck and gold and who knows what else. My instinct was to jump out at the next stop and back track towards recognizable sites, then catch a taxi home. I had one more option however, so I took a crack at the bus driver with my ever-increasing Chinese vocabulary, a desperate attempt to find solace.

His face curled up like a fold up bed when my words entered his ears. The noise of traffic seemed more soothing to him than the knife I was using to butcher his language. It was clear that his brain was as confused as mine, and all he could do was mutter sounds that were alien and wave his hands east and west. I agreed, smiled and settled to leave the bus at the next stop, once the glass doors caved in to let me out.

I pushed through people like water pushes through a river and had almost made it to the reclining doors when I heard: “Can I help you?” “Why yes, you most certainly can!” I responded enthusiastically. Cliff had overheard my conversation with the bus driver and was conveniently heading in the same direction I was. He carried on to explain that the bus takes a minor detour through the area that we were currently occupying, but then makes its way back onto the main road after a little while. He educated me on the rigorous activity of bus 852; it’s routes, times that were less stressful to board, and other variables that would perhaps serve me better to and from Wangjing in the future. His help proved priceless and saved me a sharp taxi fee, some unneeded walking and about 20 minutes of my time. As the bus slowed to let us off at Tiantongyuan Cliff gave me his business card and invited me for dinner the next day. I thanked him for his help then we parted ways, deep into the sea of vendors, pedestrians and carts pulled by mules.

A Chinese person who knows and understands English feels somewhat responsible for the survival of the foreign man in China. For this reason I have found friends in daunting situations and perilous places. I have at least a hundred stories like this that have taken place over my ten month span in Beijing, testifying to the hospitality and kindness of the Chinese people.

3 Advantages of being a foreign man in China

2010-06-08T06:16:00.000-07:00

1. Ignorance is bliss

There are about as many rules in China as there are people. Acceptable as these rules may be, it is no small task to maintain obedience while borrowing space, time and experience. Commands are broken everyday; in the subway, on the streets, in fact I’m breaking one right now by posting this on blogspot.

I’ve come to realize that ignorance is a foreigner's best friend and is the perfect remedy for rescue, when caught under the wrath of the Chinese code. Lend me your time for an example of this:

A few Mondays ago I rode my moped to a bus stop twenty minutes away from my house. Bus 852 would take me to Wangjing, where I had an afternoon obligation. Upon arriving at the bus stop, I noticed a handy parking lot, full of mopeds just like mine. “How perfect”, I thought. So I pulled in, ready to give my bike a temporary home. I found a quiet spot next to a rusty pipe on the wall, convened my kickstand, gathered my belongings and sprinted towards the approaching bus.

After my work in Wangjing I returned to a parking lot at dusk, emptying like the sea at low tide. Men and women were collecting their bikes and seemed to be stopping at a little office in front of the lot, settling their business. I had conveniently ignored this office upon entering five hours earlier, but now I was confronted with the uncertain responsibility of paying for my parking space. Money, at the time, was as scarce as my roll on deodorant supply, for I seldom like to carry money if I know I won’t be using it. Five minutes in the dusty line was time enough to think of an escape plan.

I noticed a small path for pedestrians, empty of foot traffic, adjacent to the row of mopeds. This path led straight out of the lot, by-passing the ticket officer, who was bound to make Egg-Foo-Young out of me after discovering I had no gold. So I waited, like a Montana hunter, for a clearing, to give me enough space and time to bamboozle my way out of the precarious situation. With a sharp jolt and subtle maneuvering I sped for the highway, leaving only dust behind. A racing heart and a tint of guilt forged my way out of the parking lot, five-finger discount, thanks for coming. My nerves began to settle making room for peace, but the calm was short lived as I noticed a raving Chinese man in my rear view mirror, chasing me with enough fury that made me wonder if I had somehow stolen his pet-dragon. Turning my head, I began screaming: 'wo tin bu don' which means 'I don’t understand' and with the combination of my third gear speed and his realization that I was as white as the rice he had eaten for lunch, he stopped chasing me and threw wild punches into the air.

I saw that man the following week; he recognized me and smiled. He didn’t ask for his money, and I didn’t park my bike in his lot. But we did shake hands and he laughed while muttering ‘silly foreigner’ in Chinese that only the locals carry. Ignorance + third gear jet speed saved me that day, but mostly ignorance.

Letters

2010-05-31T15:35:00.000-07:00

The bird is loud but it cannot drown the wonder in my heart. I’m thinking about your words tonight.

It’s marvelous what a letter can do for a man. Attached to each are emotions of their own kind. Some come with timers that upon opening provoke a frantic countdown. If the correct wire is not detached then doom explodes onto the floor.

Other letters are formalities: errands, reminders, and appointments.

When received with no surprise no abruptions occur. They’re perfect non-count nouns; one is the same as two, and three the same as thirty-three.

Recently I’ve held notes that make the trees outside my window dance. The syntax is coal, the words a match burning my days, fires of splendor.

Black and white words paint color on my eyes, make stillness move, dust on my windowsill magic sand from a kind universe. The sea is a ship carrying fondness to my port. I know there is mist between our worlds. It veils and keeps. It stores hope as a reminder of how things should be.

When they turn on the switch to open the doors I leave and remember you. The cars are fast asleep and the corner of my street would give you a place to sit and hear me say how lovely you are. The road to my house is damp, but alive from the lightning that parched the pavement.

Closing my eyes to say goodnight, I dream of a fair field with summer colors collecting near a blue sea, crisp and redeeming. You rest inside my arms: laughing, trying to undo me. But you cannot and you have not. Not yet. I’ll wait until you’ve seen my skin, and felt the life within me. I’ll keep until you’ve heard my voice and known my strength in thunder. I’ll hold until you’ve held my hand and moved with you through autumn.

The morning wakes with daylight and a river in my room. I dip my mouth, deep to drink, when inside I feel too dry. Today I swallowed gold and the yellow field saw me. Your thoughts and words confess your habit, I know you drink here too. In fact I saw your face beneath the marble blue as I was swimming to the other side. You were drinking but you weren’t dry and you did not swallow gold because you had no space to keep it. You gave your vision to the sun and the water sank the iron. Your barn was full of joy for the world and treasure for the poor kept falling from your pockets.

In a little while I’ll find you, resting on September. The leaves on trees will change by then, adjusting to the season. Perhaps you think I’ll do the same or fade out like a photo. If you do I’ll cover you, and call you out of winter. We’ll fall into the silver moon, dream onto the stars, then we'll drink deep of Him, gold from the living river.

Abundance

2010-05-25T05:21:00.000-07:00

*This is the beginning of an allegory based on the summer adventure of my good friends Mark and Sarah Tiu. They are cycling across America to raise money/awareness for "Kenya Kids Can". Check them out here- rideforkenyakidscan.blogspot.com

A four-day journey south over the Blue Mountains would have put you in perfect place to catch the scent of Moon River. One day against the water’s flow, a night’s walk through Fern Forest and there’d be breakfast cooking in the rural town of Abundance.

But things have changed now, for Abundance has disappeared…

Abundance was unlike any town in all the earth: every citizen agreed on this. Now they might have given different reasons to verify such a proud statement, but they would have all admitted every account was a sure one. James Dowey believed Abundance’s prosperity lay in the White River: the gushing water flew like a dragon just below his vegetable patch. Mrs. Frieda boasted in the perfect climate of Abundance- not too much rain, not too much sunshine and the evidence was in her award-winning flowerbed. Undoubtedly, Mayor Hewson would have presented the town’s unemployment graph: a straight line for fifty years never rising above zero.

Paradise or perfection may be unusual to the common man trapped in a polluted world, but the people of Abundance knew nothing else. The town prospered in every way. The land kept green all year long, the rivers, the woods, all teemed with life. There was harmony in every corner.

Nobody had ever dared to leave Abundance. And why should they have? What cause was there to leave Utopia? The far lands over the mountains seemed pale and grey, lost in brokenness and for ‘Abundancers’ the thought of leaving was a blasphemy against every cell in their body. From a young age, starting from enrollment at Tree Trunk Primary, ‘Abundancers’ were taught vigorously to ‘know no other, than Abundance’. This was the name of the city song, the city book, and the first sentence that parents taught their children. The outside world was as foreign to Abudancers as soil to sky.

There came a time, however, the townspeople will tell you, when Abundance lost her perfection. It was a gradual loss; the way one loses a memory or a love. The fault and burden responsible could be comprehensibly described as “The Turners.” Jack and Sarah Turner became for Abundancers, a tired suitcase, not worth carrying.

Before their marriage Jack was the “Gate Chief”, in charge of guarding and organizing guard for the Silver Gate, keeping the world from Abundance. No visitors were allowed in, you see, well except those few blessed ones who had been approved by Mayor Hewson. Jack was more than faithful in his duties of protection, and often risked his life to keep perpetrators at bay. Sarah was chief editor of the Abundance Chronicle, and paid close eye to each article submitted for publishing. She was not afraid to boot a story, or a report that contained information about the outside world. Once Julie Sleepstick got word of blue ice cream existing in a far country, and wrote an article on it. The next day Julie was fired, and Sarah replaced the report with a story about the high quality of ice cream that Abundance ice cream parlors produced each summer.

At one time the Turners were distinguished and favored citizens. But this was before their marriage, before the great dream. The cause of their sudden abandoning of Abundance and their undoubted belief in the dream that came to them, nobody will ever know. Their union brought the dream and with it, love and commitment. Then grew their desire and fantasy too bold for the people of Abundance to accept. Some say their marriage was steeped in magic, but in the end it was mere love. Love, you see, once soiled and managed in a garden well kept, begins to look beyond itself, it wonders to increase its beauty.

Empty Coke Bottles

2010-05-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

Mom and Dad had always tolerated my leanings of mercy towards the poor, but when rural men from ‘squatter camps’ started bustling into our streets my family grew wary. At the close of the 20^th century the business of suburban begging had begun in the neighborhoods of South Africa, and my folks believed that acts of kindness brought vulnerability and danger to our home. They made me promise to ignore every vagabond who petitioned for food or money at the rusty gate which guarded our property. Evidence swam in the streets: the remnants of apartheid were as real as the rising unemployment. The “New South Africa,” although free, was floating on a sea of tension between skins, mixed in color.

With these times came my reluctant agreement: to harbor no stranger, to acknowledge no cry. But men cannot force the hand of God, and so it was on a hot-tempered day that boundaries, etched in shameful history, collapsed under the weight of a friend who knows no color.

The sound of morning was littered with busyness: birds wrestling for seed in the bird-bowl outside, dogs barking at young boys playing with tennis balls in the street, kettles piping with gunpowder for early caffeine shots. The noise was soothing, and in it I considered my Saturday, which consisted of carefree gallivanting save for one task. The mustering of Saturday’s newspaper to be delivered to Dad’s desk was my burden, but hardly a job at all: simple and effortless as it was. Dad would spend most afternoons studiously absorbed in fiction and non-fiction while smoking stubby Camel cigarettes, much to the disgust of my mother.

On time, as usual, I heard the noisy motorcycle pull up next to our postbox, cueing movement for my lazy legs. Hot concrete, glued to the steep suspicious driveway, met my bare feet like a brand on cattle hide as I set out for the daily news.

The gate protecting our home was hardly a deterrent, and served only to keep Jessy in. Jessy, our vicious Staffordshire, was man’s best friend inside the walls of our property but once out she could tear a leg off. I held her excited tail and pushed her stocky body into the kennel before I opened the old gate, leading to the postbox in the street. The taste of fumes from the speedy Honda polluted my mouth and I caught a far sight of the driver as he sped away, anxious to empty his sack of black and white. Even the newspaper burned in my hands as I removed it from the crack of the box. I gathered some other mail. Mostly bills and letters addressed to my mom then turned in the direction of the house, ready to complete the remaining half of my expedition. That’s when I noticed him suffering in the shade of an oak tree.

His lips were cracked like a pile of broken machines in a junkyard and his eyes held chasms deep as the Kimberly mine shafts. The drooping body attached to his African head spoke of a tax collector named Poverty. Before my mind could relay sadness to my heart the man spoke, and gestured his open cracked hands towards me: “Please boss, please help me.” When the words came from his dry mouth, it felt like life had a limit, and his was being strangled by an invisible power, furious and deadly.

His lonely cry triggered the former command from my father, like an old memory forgotten then recalled in a photograph, “Don’t pay attention to any beggars near our home Luke, for it will only bring us problems.” But the only trouble I could see was a man suffering under a tree, waiting to die.

A lot of good men and women in the church at that time had been telling me what to do with beggars and street children that cried for paraffin at traffic lights. The poor haunted my thoughts. Their desperate condition cried for solution.

I considered the man in the shade under the old oak and voices were rambling in my head, instructing me on how to handle him. Dad’s voice was the loudest followed by pastors, church leadership then friends. None of the mutterings rang true for the sadness before me. I racked my brain for an answer but it was void. Helplessness was all I had for the anguish that lay in a glass cage. Then as I was about to reply to the man, “I’m sorry I have nothing” I heard a voice; strong as thunder, lovely as a Kentucky field dressed in dandelions.

“He raises the poor from the ash heap; he seats the them with princes and has them inherit a throne of honor” (1 Samuel 2:8)

“He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free” (Psalm 146:7)

“He who despises his neighbor sins, but blessed is he who is kind to the needy.” (Proverbs 13:23)

God’s voice ran through my mind like a white river flushing the world and its wisdom, emptying into a sea of hope. I had no money for the man, but God’s word promised vast provision worth more than sliver coins. I bent low to minister, strengthened by revelation.

“I don’t have money with me or in the house, but I have food and water I can bring to you.” My words slightly revived him, light entered his eyes, and I felt the compassion of Jesus settle into our meeting.

On my bolt up the sharp driveway I searched God for ways to help the hungry man. I moved into the kitchen and loaded two clear plastic bags with oranges, pears, apples and bananas. There was a fresh loaf of white bread, hiding in the bread bin, holding several hundred calories. I grabbed it as well as some water bottles kept cold and lonely by the refrigerator. Dad’s desk often had spare change resting on it, a constant temptation for my eyes. The heat must have melted it that day, because I found no money while rattling around his room.

The plastic bags, filled with water and food, were heavy and I felt like a cargo ship heading for harbor. On my way out the front door the glistening sun in the mirror of empty glass coke bottles distracted my eyes. They seemed magical, holding a kaleidoscope of color, allowing the light to paint their surface. The bags wouldn’t hold them so I snatched my sister’s backpack while she dreamt of Jupiter.

There were seven bottles collecting dust on the patio and though I thought they’d be a hassle for the old man to carry, their yield would buy dinner that night. Strange as it may sound, it felt as though these bottles carried a message. Their ordinary appearance, mystified and beautified by the burning sun, convinced me. Statues of gold I thought, barren bottles of light.

Caught up in this trance of glass turned wealth reminded me of the old stories of Jesus in the way he’d take nothing, or very little, and create something wonderful: the water to wine, the loaves and fish to a feast, the dead to life. And I attempted, in the small faith I had, to appropriate those stories to the story that was before me.

“God use this offering, depleted and miniscule, to provide for this man.”

Before I presented relief to the lonely man, I asked him his name and if I could pray for him. Henry seemed more delighted in my offering of prayer than in the gifts I was giving.I put my hand on his heart and proceeded to pray: “God you own the cattle on a thousand hills, provide a job for Henry, restore his life, give him money Lord, lots of it.” And after thanking me profusely, Henry left. He turned right at the Stop Street, not far from Eric’s Deli, where I was sure he’d cash in the bottles. I prayed once more as his body stole the horizon.

My steps back to the house were disappointing ones. Perhaps I was half expecting the empty bottles to fill with coke or turn into silver, or money to come out my ears, something like that. But none of that happened and I returned to the cool lounge, pleased that Henry had provision for a day, sad that the next day he’d fight an uphill battle all over again. I thought of Henry before I went to bed that night then he disappeared from my mind, replaced by fantastical creatures and stardust.

“Luke wake up! Wake up! Someone is at the gate for you.” The volume of my mom’s voice was frightening and dreadful at 6am. “What on earth was she going on about?” I wondered out loud, provoking her anger. “An old man has been calling for you for the last 10min. Hurry up. Go see what he wants.”

My dreams now drowned by light, water opened my sleepy eyes, and I knew it was Henry calling my name.

I sped out the door, half dressed, like a blue train off its tracks. And when I reached the gate he could hardly contain himself. “Boss Luke, Boss Luke I have some wonderful news! God has saved me! God has saved me!” And my ears became like satellites in space, searching for every signal and sound that was to come from his mouth.

“After you prayed for me yesterday I went to Eric’s and got money for those empty bottles. As I was about to leave with my refund, an “umlungu” tapped me on my back. I recognized him immediately. All you “umlungu’s” look the same to me, but this man has a nose I could never forget. He was my old boss from five years ago, when I was working at the West Bank Power Plant. He seemed more than excited to see me and concerned for my current condition.

You see Boss Luke, five years ago I was in an accident while on a work site and the company forced me to leave. They had no choice really. The accident caused serious damage to my legs, restricting much of my movement, preventing work. The insurance policy promised a pay out, but after two years of fighting and struggling in court they had given me nothing. So I gave up. The street became my income and has kept me alive for the last three years.

Clive, the umlungu at Eric’s, explained how he had been searching for me for six months, eager to share news that would bring deliverance. This is what he said boss.”

“Henry six months ago the insurance brokers granted a payout to our company for the accident you were in. This money has been apportioned entirely to your benefit. I thought you had disappeared. I thought something happened to you. They have agreed on the amount of $3000 Henry. $3000! It’s all yours!”

“Boss Luke I did not know what to tell him. I fell to my knees and wept, thanking Jesus, while onlookers bought milk and stared. Can you believe it boss! Not only did this happen, but Clive continued to tell me that there is a job opening where I could train men for the work that was once mine. I would be able to work from an office and my health condition wouldn’t be a hindrance. Jesus has saved me boss! All thanks to empty coke bottles and prayer.”

Tears settled on Henry’s face as he finished his account of the previous day. I opened the gate and embraced him then we sang an old African song, thanking God for the love and care He had shown Henry. Shirts became soaked with water from our eyes, running like streams to form a river at our feet. “God is good,” I declared and then Henry said something I will never forget: “Jesus is not black. Jesus is not white. South Africa is not black. South Africa is not white.”We parted with prayer, and promised to never forget what happened under the old oak tree when Jesus came around.

My paradigm for the poor has forever been inspired and changed by this day. This experience has become my standard, not my exception, for solution and recovery for those less fortunate. God will use the empty, the broken, and the worthless to bring rivers to the deserts, light to the dark places.

5 Tips For Hitchhiking In the USA

2010-05-04T07:16:00.001-07:00

Tired and beat, we settled onto green land, in clear sight of the busy highway, where a fortuitous ride would meet us in the morning. Although undisturbed, our first night under open sky was a twelve-round-fist fight with the elements of summer. The grass looked softer in the night, and the marsh seemed further from the sleeping bags by light of the moon. After six hours of tossing and turning in darkness, our bodies, covered in greasy slugs, rose to the cure of the morning sun. Hopes for the new day were high because of the success we had found the day before: Kentucky and Indiana had been humbled, with minimal walking, and 8 rides from strangers turned friends.

Hitchhiking is a drastic, but rewarding choice of travel. Often thought of as impractical and foolish, it is still a valid means of moving through the modern world. Before abandoning trusted constraints and conventional wisdom however, there is preparation and knowledge to be attained. Here is some basic advice towards that goal.

1. Avoid Hitchhiking Alone

Whether, man or woman, Hercules or Calypso, nobody should travel alone. Vulnerability and danger follow the lonely hitchhiker like black clouds follow thunderstorms. Are there people who hitchhike alone? Yes, of course there are, but they do it in the company of high risk and a strong possibility of getting mugged, kidnapped or beaten. Tag-team hitchhiking doubles the chance of safety.

Secondly, perhaps as important a reason for ditching the solo effort, concerns the wisdom found in a quote by Chris McCandless, the famed hitchhiker and vagabond, who inspired the book turned movie: “Into the Wild.” McCandless wrote that: “Happiness is only real when shared.” Towards the end of his life, and prolific journey into Alaska, he recorded these words into his journal. Little did he know they would be a gift to the world, especially to those people who secretly believe that life can be happily lived alone. Solitary hitchhiking is a feasible option, but those who choose the lonely road must do it with the knowledge that the experience could be far richer with a brother or sister at one’s side.

2. Carry only the essentials

Hitchhiking is opposed to the conventional traveling wisdom that says: “You can never be over-prepared.” The art of carrying the essentials is an acute combination of necessity and spontaneity. Before loading up the backpack with items that have a 50/50 chance of being used, think about the weight of the burden across sun-burnt roads, then ponder the chances of a car stopping, to offer a ride, when the backpack looks like a home for the New York Zoo.

People vary in opinion when considering the make-up of essential items. There are eight items that will only do you good, however, and should be carried by every drifter.

Always carry:
1. Water- to avoid dehydration
2. Sunscreen
3. A change of clothes- underwear included, unless “commando” is a preferred choice
4. A utility knife- for self-defense and odd jobs like opening a can of sardines etc
5. A cell phone with a charger- to charge at every gas station
6. A credit/debit card- for emergencies
7. A sleeping bag- for nights in open fields
8.A $10 bill- to offer the driver for gas payment, which might ensure a farther ride than anticipated

Food is readily and cheaply available on most interstates, whether by supermarket or McDonalds, therefore it is not necessary to pack. A couple of protein/energy bars is the most one should carry. Don’t waste space and calories carrying food, which will only sweat and wear out in the heat of the sun.

The items of preference that some may choose to carry include: an iPod, a book, and a journal. These are low budget when thinking about space. They are light, and can easily fit into an open crack, next to a pair of shorts, often making the journey that much more memorable.

3. Stay away from other Hitchhikers on the road

This may seem like an odd warning or rule to adhere by, but there is surprising truth and wisdom found in this decree.

Unfortunately there are a lot hitchhikers nowadays that are common riff-raffs: men who are running from debt or the law, drifters who have no place to go, and vagabonds who are looking for an easy way out. My friend and I experienced this first hand with a man named Charlie. We met him while waiting for a ride on an interstate in Kansas City. He seemed rough around the edges, but decent enough to travel with so we welcomed him to our adventure due west. Immediately our season of minimal walking and unlikely car hopping suffered at the helm of this middle-aged man, who carried only whiskey on his breath. We did not land a single ride while walking and waiting with Charlie: that is, until the cops came. His shaggy appearance on the interstate was like blood in the water for the Kansas City Police Department. Two police officers arrived on the scene. One car grabbed Charlie, another car us. Our police officer was unusually kind and gracious, offering advice on where we could legally hitchhike, while not losing the benefit and maximum amount of passing cars. He proceeded to perform background checks, and was pleased at our clean record. Charlie was not as fortunate however, and while we were being escorted to safer water, Charlie was on his way to prison, a wanted sex-offender in four states.

From then on we bolted at the sight of every hitchhiker, even those on the horizon.

Three’s a crowd. Stay in two’s.

4. Finding rest for the night

The night is the most dangerous time for hitchhikers. Visibility is strangled and cars are few. There are more drivers in the night that drive drunk or high, than there are during the day. Therefore it is wiser and safer to find rest for the evening than to persist in trying to find the next ride. Choosing a good spot to sleep will prove key in determining the longevity of each hitchhiker.

When deciding on a ‘bed’ for the night, look for dry, flat, grassland in perfect view of the interstate.

A nest that offers a good sight of the highway, while protected and veiled is a sound strategy for safety that even Zulu warriors could approve of. Sheltered, but in relative company of passing cars, is a sure way to avoid isolation and it decreases the risk of danger, imposed by angry land owners or territorial animals.

In hilly or mountainous country, flat land is few and far between. In this case be willing to scale medium sized walls, with gradients that are low enough for trail walking.

Flat, dry and out of sight are three golden rules to remember, while searching for a cozy den, to recover from a day’s hitchhiking.

5. Don’t be afraid to say “no”

The novice hitchhiker will assume every ride to be a gift from the hitchhiking gods. This idea could not be further from the truth. Ignorance, for the hitchhiker, is the acceptance of every lift offered, and it will only cost time, money, and in some cases, one’s safety.

There are no legitimate ways of determining which ride will be sure and which will be a deathtrap. However, there are alarms that should set off when faced by certain impending circumstances. “No thanks” is the only option in these cases.

A trusting guide to use when deciding on accepting a lift or not, is to ask two simple questions:

1. Is the driver sober and in his/her right mind?
2. Is the car roadworthy/trustworthy?

If the driver has replaced the steering wheel of the car with a wrench (which I have seen) then the answer to both questions is an emphatic “NO!” Bold judgment and responsible decisiveness must accompany every “yes” or “no” when accepting a ride offered by a stranger.

Despite the ever-increasing caution to avoid hitchhiking as a means of travel, it is a relatively safe practice in the USA. The likelihood of being killed by a coconut, falling from the sky, is still higher than that of being killed while hitchhiking on US soil. This is not to say that any fool with a backpack can grace the highway and expect clear skies, free of falling coconuts. Wisdom must be laced with thorough preparation before venturing out into safe passage.

These five tips offer basic, but valuable guidance for travelers, who have always wanted to hitchhike, but have been too afraid to try. For experienced hitchhikers, they offer reminders of why past hitchhiking adventures have been successful. They may also serve as private detectives, clueing mistakes of past unsuccessful trips, undertaken by those, already acquainted with Hitchhiking. Hopefully they will only acknowledge the former.

Happy Hitchhiking!

Golden Emory

2010-04-28T03:30:00.000-07:00

In the deep dark sea there lives a man. His name is Golden Emory. From another world he came to me, bold as light: in a dream where visibility died, strangled by murky black water.

Blue fire tumbled from his mouth, red lions lent shelter, and the green moon stole privacy.

“Come with me boy. I’ll show you a golden maiden.”

“Don’t lie to me Emory. Your words are red apples, bruised by deceit.”

“Come with me boy. I’ll show you a white river moving like a dragon.”

“Don’t lie to me Emory. Your voice is thunder hidden by rain.”

“Come with me boy. I’ll show you a far vision.”

“Don’t lie to me Emory. Your lips are silver foxes prowling on morning’s dew.”

“I speak only truth my son. I’ll show you your fair mother bent at my throne.”

“Then so be it. Lead me to your world Emory. I will say goodbye to mine tonight.”

At once soldiers, bronze as brass, brought me into the city of Golden Emory. Trees spoke like men and kept my bruise in the deep brown bark of their trunks.

On the white river lay a golden maiden reaching for a far vision. And behind Emory’s scepter, on a pearl, low and bothered, wept my fair mother.

A Letter to Penny

2010-04-20T04:49:00.003-07:00

Penny I heard you call today while I was listening to the radio, rolling stones to cover your fathers grave. Do you remember when I buried him, when we thought our days were old? You held my hand over your heart, and reminded me of the pledge to keep you safe. Although frightened, your beating pulse was consistent, like a grandfather clock. I knew you trusted me then. The words you spoke are still near, like your photo in my wallet.

This morning when I was cleaning the chicken coop the cattle sang. It was my first time to hear them. I confess, I never did believe in the sounds you heard. A farm is a factory of noise, noises that are impossible to identify. But I know now that what you said is true: “Listen with ears of the city and you will hear concrete, cars, and murder. Listen with ears of the country and you will hear animals sing, rivers dash, and the life that is constantly giving birth”.

On the day you left, record rainfall saturated our farm. I have no doubt that you felt it, curving “Meyers Bend”, as surely as the tires of the old Bantum did. I prayed for you, and asked God to keep you out of harms way, while feeling guilty for allowing those smooth wheels to last so long. The screaming water on your windshield did not convince you to turn around. Even it could not wash your fury and heartache. I am still haunted by the irony of that day, but with it came perspective and revelation. Our love or lack of it was hardly about the prosperity in our barns. You left, and the rain rescued our farm, and the rain drowned my heart.

Would it serve me well to tell you that I have changed? I disagree with the impersonal taste of clichés, but it’s all I know to write. I have become a man of substance. When you knew me I was the scarecrow in our cornfields. Today I am the feed in my hand, for our animals at first light.

Do the bright city lights cover the darkness? Do the busy streets and noisy engines silence the voices of regret? I stumble in the daylight and I live with a backwards clock. Our farm is sunless without you, and disappointment is laced into the wild dandelions that grow on lonely meadows. Neighbors frequently ask where I hide the light that was once in my eyes. Unfortunately I do not hide it; the light has disappeared. The green in my pocket does not hold it. The blue in my heart, stole it.

Penny, I will not bother to write you promises that fade in the sun. Words are only words, when held by paper. I have written you more letters than I can count. I have held more tears than the Atlantic holds salt. My love for you will only cease when my heart is buried, deep below the earth.

If these words find you well, then excuse them. If there is but an inch in your heart that keeps my face or memory then welcome them.

In the night I will continue to keep the front light on, and in the morning I will pour two cups of tea, like I always have, one with honey, one without.

City Life

2010-04-13T04:30:00.001-07:00

The April wind cuts winter clothing like a butcher cuts meat. Spring tries to make its way through dull concrete slabs, but the air is friend to cold. If another month of freezing temperatures persists, I will be tempted to believe that earth may be the furthest planet from the sun. Or that Beijing is an anomaly.

The way I leave for work in the morning is seldom my return. My feet are like people who cannot eat the same meal twice. Familiarity is an enemy and unexpected movement is a warm apple pie with thick cream and tender strawberries. My eyes do not mind the innocence of these vibrant wanderers attached to my ankles by strands and tendons. For they always bring me back to the place where I began, when the sun looked like an old man reaching for his memory in photographs.

The bridges that are used for crossing busy highways are more confused than the traffic below: school kids, businessmen, teachers, hawkers, food vendors, hairdressers, and policemen move like cluttered chickens at feeding. Everything is for sale here making me dread the money in my pockets.

I enjoy the tension in my calf muscles as I throw my feet onto the stairs, descending from the bridge. My mind’s eye sees the shape of the muscle, latching onto the bone, through the sensation of tight jeans squeezing my leg, like a murderer strangling his victim.

Enter the busy streets and find comfort for the lonely. Temporary relief comes in a gaze where eyes lock and settle like a farmer who finds gold soil. Smiles are exchanged and a greeting from a pretty face feels like a conversation with a love in an old shoe cupboard. Sounds are not shared, and provide chosen emotion for the passing scenery in private headphones. Every face tells a different story. Some carry light. Others drag in darkness.

When I look into the sky I see no boundaries. It is wild and free. There are no roads, or fences, or sweaty trucks that bully and push, and pollute. The blue is peaceful as it shelters white suspended droplets, gazing below like a first class citizen with box seats at a cricket match between Australia and England. The sky has no arms to steal or grab. It has no legs to bend or manipulate. Yet silver towers invade with elevators rising into the sun.

Although the cold still lingers, warmth is coming near. People are smiling and children are laughing, bouncing balls on busy roads. Food vendors, who were hibernating, working cold fields, are vaccinating neighborhood communities with fresh fruit and meat on sticks. There are new colors on trees to compliment the reds, blues, and yellows of western advertising. Men seem braver, holding their wives, as the subway moves them closer to home.

Today the dust in my pocket is dancing to the light that sees me. Complaint is gratitude and the passing time is a gift for those who are learning to use it.

Secret Kentucky

2010-04-07T03:36:00.000-07:00

Secrets have homes. Excellent secrets are protected, and speak only to the days that pass through them. There is one of these east of the Mississippi River, family to the infamous 'American South'.

Kentucky, “The Bluegrass State”, is famous for thoroughbreds, tobacco, and basketball. Hidden behind these riches however resides an enchantment few have laid eyes on.

The spring and summer months are Kentucky’s prize. April marks the first sign of relief as the ground warms, chasing the cold and dark away. Humble slopes lease their land to a kaleidoscope of fresh flowers: dandelions, blue-eyed grass, twinleaf, and orchids to name a few. The forests find splendor, and robe themselves with green gowns. Rivers dance to emerging colors, while animals wake from hibernation. Kentucky grows wild in the warming sun.

Louisville and Lexington holds city life that moves. Their streets are parks filled with people delighting: moms stroll their babies, runners find their legs, old men walk dogs, and teenagers kiss in the shade. The cities are simple here. Cement is green with grass, and highways intersect rivers and lakes. Tall buildings stand like statues, while trees, birds, and blossoms look on. The Ohio River runs part of its course through Louisville’s soil. It keeps concerts for people who listen on bright summer blankets. Kentucky is a storehouse for music. Local bands dress bars in utopian ambition, causing drinkers and dancers to forget that the world has problems. Late at night when the moon is watching, the remnants of guitars, banjos, and fiddles fashion the sounds of ‘bluegrass’ on friendly, neighborhood porches.

Culture sleeps and wakes again in Bardstown, Kentucky. Dark limestone water is cultivated to perfection in six distilleries, unfolding like tables, on crooked roads. The Bourbon trail is rich in story. For two hundred years family generations have carried time-tested recipes like the sea carries salt.

Travel twelve miles south after bourbon tasting and you’ll breathe holy air. 'The Abbey of Gethsameni' is one of the few remaining monastic communities in the USA. It has survived for 150 years. The ground is picturesque, surrounded by forests, and hills that rise and dip like a ship on deep water. Most people, who visit for the day, spend time walking trails, or tasting home made cheese that the monks have delicately crafted. Time at the Abbey is well spent and one will find that there is no shortage of natural or cultural beauty.

There are 120 counties in humble Kentucky, hiding small farming towns, too many to name. These communities are for the travelers and the dreamers. Rivers are borders, tree lines separate farms, red barns and water towers are landmarks for the lost. A summer’s day here is like staring into the sun at noon: you cannot understand its light. Take a drive on the back roads and you’ll catch a glimpse: brothers toil land, rivers refresh burnt bodies, friends talk amongst loyal limbs, eating corner store sandwiches on summer ground. The rural land is lively. The rural land is abundant.

It could take a lifetime to script all Kentucky’s acts, yet still be missing pages. Of falling stars kept in white, of fathers’ sons and mothers’ hopes. There are, of course, more than these, but secrets are better to be known and not heard. Breathe Kentucky air; taste Kentucky land. Hold Kentucky in your hand and she’ll travel to your heart.

Red Restaurant

2010-03-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

The smells that seep onto the gym floors convince me that life is better between the white, cardboard walls of the sticky restaurant next door. Chicken, bathed in peanuts, fired with red peppers and the vegetables, fresh as day provide aromas that lead me away from the hard floors of exercise.

I cannot tell you the name of the glorious restaurant I have come to love so much. The owner’s name is also a puzzle that I try to work on everyday. Most things are a mystery in China, for the white man, that is. The menu in this restaurant, however, is as comprehensible as the Ten Commandments. Bright pictures are glued to the wall, illuminating the ‘chicken scratch’ inscribed below. I am grateful for these pictures. Without them I’d surely be eating the neighborhood dog on a regular occasion. I usually walk into the restaurant, position myself in front of the picture I like, and hold my thumb towards the sky. You can always count on a ‘thumbs up’ to convey a simple ‘yes’. Despite the vast collection of food on the wall, I only eat, but three dishes: Kung Pao Chicken, eggs with tomato, and eggs with spinach. Upon taking my seat, the waitress usually guesses which dish I’ll be having that day, while I search my brain for the Chinese name of it. There are three ‘Chinese Princess waitresses’ that serve the meals: all of them dressed in blue, the blue you find in the sky. They are attentive: constantly bringing me hot water, a spoon when my chopstick skills are failing, and a good dose of Chinese language and culture lessons. The boss is in the background, fixing something or persuading me to take one of the waitresses back to America. Sometimes, with his broken English and vibrant body gestures, he asks if I’d like to do business with him. If I show the slightest interest here, he races to the back of the kitchen, grabs the merchandise, and begins to testify like a Southern Baptist. Meanwhile his wife sits at the cash register, counting reality.

The kitchen is a treasure chest. It remains hidden from the customers, save for a little hole in one of the walls. I love looking through this gap, to watch sweaty men in white, cotton hats, cook, like the Red Army depended on them. There always seems to be a substantial amount of fire in the kitchen. Bright flames accompany every order, whether it’s a plate of green beans or charred chicken. I imagine they keep an old Chinese dragon, locked in a cage, and take him out when the food needs cooking. I can’t think of a better reason for explaining the bright orange that ushers every meal.

Black eyes paste themselves to my western head, while whispers commentate on my every move. I am an alien from another planet. I am completely different from the humble people that fill the restaurant. My big nose, blonde hair, and hairy face, causes most of the excitement. But those that stay for a longer visit begin to notice my left-handedness, my tattoo, and my iPhone. For these fortunate viewers, who investigate a bit further into the case of the foreigner, both dinner and dessert are served. Once in a while a brave man will approach my table, strengthened by a couple of Tsingdao Beers, and his friends, nervously looking over their shoulders. These encounters are amusing. They range from prospective business opportunities to marriage proposals. Fortunately my Chinese language skills are poor and I have the excuse of not knowing enough language to proceed with the negotiations. You’d be surprised how helpful “I’m sorry I don’t understand, my Chinese is terrible” can be. Once these men become aware of my language insufficiencies they say goodbye, in English, and allow me to finish eating in peace.

My daily experiences at the greasy floored restaurant are nothing short of cultural enlightenment. The restaurant is a school of knowledge, educating me on Chinese food, culture and language. I meet new friends and learn fresh words, while satisfying my hungry stomach.

After finishing my meal I approach the cash register, to pay, and to give thanks for the good food. In English I bid them farewell: “I’ll see you tomorrow”. They smile and return the gesture using their Chinese mysteries: “Yes, tomorrow Luke”.

The Gym in Tiantongyuan

2010-03-21T17:12:00.000-07:00

At night when the streetlights turn on, the duties of my day go invisible. Responsibility softens its grip, and time is my own. I know only two ways to spend it: eating and exercising.

Not far from my house, close to that sorry subway, is a building I’m fond of. Here, I find recovery, from a day, that weighs as much as your head. My nurse is a dusty treadmill, a bench, and some weight. My doctor is covered with sticky peanut sauce and red peppers. His name is Dr. Kung Pao and he is adored by the neighborhood.

Pretty faces smile and greet me in language tonal and foreign, as I enter my eastern gym. Sometimes they offer me water for a quarter, other times they ask to be my girlfriend. Both are refreshing. I feel like a steam ship, navigating the Arctic Circle, as I move into the men’s locker room, white everywhere-The kind of white one never wants to see. Apparently shame never reached these men when Adam fell, long time ago, in Eden. They stare at me with bewildered faces. I imagine they are thinking: “Why don’t you join the party brother?” I pack my belongings into the locker and I refuse their invites by staring at my shoes, nervously walking towards the weight room.

In the weight room there are mirrors everywhere, reflecting men lifting their shirts, gazing into their accomplishments. These men are more concerned with their bodies than women are with their toenails, and they constantly look into the glass, making sure that their weight training is working. Some of these men re-adjust their hair, thinking perhaps that it will alter their body. I like to play a game with these guys: once I see a culprit locked onto his own beauty for a significant amount of time, I move to a standing place behind him, pretending to need the mirror. I watch the clock and time how long it takes him to notice me. You’d be surprised how oblivious these men can be.

The finest entertainers are the men that think weight lifting is synonymous with behaving like Rambo. These are the grunters, the ones that take an hour to load up the bench press only to press it one time, maybe a 5 second workout. Or they get some help, and the person helping, ends up getting a more rigorous back workout. These guys wear headbands, gloves, knee braces and all kinds of gadgets for the body. I think it would be cheaper to buy a Wetsuit, at least that way the entire body would be taken care of. In between their sets of lifting, they walk around with smug faces, punching and kicking the air. If you stare at them too long they direct their air punches towards your face. On one occasion there was a man, behaving like he had just come out of a cage fight. He was pressing a hefty weight, loving the attention. I waited for him to get water, then ambushed his bench press, loaded more weight, and sat under it, not attempting to lift it. As soon as he approached, I sprung up like a rabbit, and began punching and kicking the air like a maniac, as though I had just lifted all that weight. Upon seeing this, his hard face quickly lost its iron and it marked the end of his act for the day, humbled by my 160lb frame.

I normally mingle between the “Rambos” and the runners. The runners are more self -aware and enjoy the isolation on the treadmill. There are those occasional “Rambos” that like to run, but I can’t really justify calling them runners. You can spot them any time of the day. They are heavy on their feet, and make the treadmill sound as though a storm is coming. Their running session normally lasts five minutes, with speeds that only a cheetah can attain.

When I have finished exercising and observing my fellow gym-mates, I must face the locker room once again. Fright enters my eyes, and bravery is the only way out. I gather my belongings and make a dash for the greasy floored restaurant next door.

After placing my eastern gym under 5 months of scrutiny, it is my conviction that there are certain cultural aspects identical in every corner of the earth. “Gym Culture” is universal, and the only difference can be seen in the skin and eye color of it's members. For this reason, the gym in China has become a home away from home, a place where culture is familiar and accessible.

Colors at Night

2010-03-15T04:54:00.001-07:00

40 000 stars in the evening are hidden by fumes from the day. The common afternoon is a cargo ship, too ambitious, for the sea. Her burden is a populous unfamiliar to eyes that are blue, green, and hazel: citizens of chaos in the day, communities of calm at night. They are forced by fury to slippery floors, where dandelion love is grown by lager, cold as winter iron. Hearts grow merry as the fluorescent verve wanes with the clock and the moonshine sends stimulus to doctors, businessmen, and teachers.

Outside, in the courtyard below, the elderly dance with the rhythm of warriors. Their gray bodies move to sounds, old as earth, melting ice beneath their feet. Their stars are lamps, attached to white, stone slabs, and the moon is collected light offered by onlookers in the clouds.

The brave find charm in the residue of street vendors, selling dumplings, and kittens in cages. And the late night travelers, yoked to occupation, provide sounds from their silver feet, while birds fly north and south.

When the evening is high there are black mountains in the sky, and the darkness is plagiarized. Men of good accord leave their beds, overcome by bright, red, seduction in the teahouses that policemen have sanctioned. The dark is darker here, and the ignorance of man is testified by consequence that wakes him in the morning.

Before light, the night falls asleep to the silence in the street, confounding the day that will come. Naked heads, dressed by dreams, strengthened by sleep, move to windows, trapped by height, and draw the curtains over the colors at night.

My friend in Beijing

2010-03-08T02:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I met a man with a brown, plastic hand, walking east, across the dusty pavements. I ordered my time to visit, so my nights would be filled with the light of falling stars. The street I found him on had no goal, or strife, or beating sounds. Beside the street were walls of mud, where beggars and women ate and drank salt. I met a man, and he introduced himself. He said his home was here and there, but his house was on this street.

“I’ve seen silver moons fall from skies as green and gold as I. I’ve seen windows wide, and seas so deep eternity would struggle to reach”. And there I was, and he with me, north on dust and dirt. I’d follow him around, I thought, until these skies and seas unearthed.

His feet fell forward towards the bird that carries to and fro. His heavy hands were blue and black, bent and spent by children. He’d show them how to tie their shoes and kick a ball, until the sun was none, the night high, and the bird was off its track. I could not solve his peculiar ways and his riddles bothered my brain. Although I felt lost in these, his eyes said something else: “follow me and I’ll show you son, where the wind is gold and free”.

And there I was, and he with me, north on dust and dirt. The more we walked, the more we talked, and the world began to change. The concrete skies that knew no love turned into willow trees, and when he passed the silver cars, their smoke and noise began to cease. As people passed and stared at us, he began to sing a song. The melody left his lungs like rain from clouds, and drowned their empty eyes. The more they stared, the more they changed, and his song brought their relief.

By now the golden lights above reflected those below. All the dirt, and all the scum collected on his feet. And in that place, beneath the street, rivers began to flow. The dirt and scum that was before, now lost in whitened sea. “Where you are I’ll always be, and where I am you’ll know: silver moons in golden skies, windows open wide for these”.

The day was old, and time was gone, but the air was new and present. Then he looked at me as though I belonged to him, and said: “If you like, we could meet tomorrow”. “How will I find you?” I urgently asked. “Don’t worry boy, I’ll find you, like I always have, I’ll bring my world to yours”.

Hong Kong

2010-02-28T13:18:00.001-08:00

The blue water looked pregnant as the land rose sporadically from salty depths. Hong Kong consists of 235 islands and is the subject of the ongoing separate soil debate, which has been battled over by China and the rest of the world since Hong Kong’s independence from the British.

Chinese visa embargos required me to leave the mainland: a simple exit onto Hong Kong soil and a return to Beijing. The delay for my return flight back to Beijing was six hours. I determined to make the most of it.

Danny, a friend of my father’s, had a package for me and bus 21A to the Holiday Inn was his instruction for our meeting. I made my way through smiles and friendly greetings offered by airport staff and jumped onto the double-decker. The bus driver responded like an Oklahoma thunderstorm when I asked him which stop I needed off at, so I retreated to the back, like a sad dog. I nestled into a seat next to an Indian man, as dark as winter woods. I have always enjoyed conversation with Indians, as cricket is one of the many gods that they worship. I don’t worship cricket, but I do like the Indian cricket team: full of bowlers that can spin the head of an ox. It seemed as though the thunderstorm had moved to the back of the bus though, pulling words out of this Indian was as likely as finding an English television station in Beijing. I squeezed some thoughts from him, and a vital piece of information, the stop I was looking for. I continued to make small talk, while his spicy smell caked my nostrils.

The bus slowed to let me off at the Holiday Inn and the driver seemed pleased to be rid of my ignorant presence. The doors parted and I immediately became the victim of a Bangladeshi tiger. This odd looking man had been waiting for me all day and swiftly offered an array of goods: “tailor made suit, made vith finest material, exotic massage, bery beautiful, magic cookies, good quality”. “No thanks” I replied. “ I’m not a suit man, prostitutes scare me, and I’m watching my weight”. With that he smiled and headed back into the concrete jungle, while I navigated onwards to meet Danny.

Danny smelled like my dad, his short, brown neck bathed in Old Spice aftershave. His white hair teamed with dark, Indian skin made him look like a black and white photograph. “Follow me” he said, in a thick Indian accent, and shoved his way through crowds like royalty. My package was in his office, five minutes away, across streets filled with western and eastern tourism, imparting identity to the city. I gave him my thanks while taking hold of the package. In between a puff from his carefully lit cigarette, he bid me farewell and offered the name of a good restaurant to eat at.

The streets of the city felt post apocalyptic, smoke rising from the sewers, run down buildings with flashing lights and dressed up girls, desperate for money. Hong Kong was everything I expected it to be, according to imaginations in my mind, painted by old, Kung Fu movies. Dark, slimy side streets connected to the glamour streets and the West met the East in a compilation of herbal stalls, diamond shops, designer clothing, psychics and exotic dancers. I preferred the side streets. They seemed more hopeful and I couldn’t help thinking that if I followed one of them I would meet an ancient Dragon master, who could teach me the paths of the Raku warrior. I decided against it and made my way to the restaurant of Danny’s referral.

After surveying the menu I realized that Hong Kong was different to the rest of China, at least the China that I had experienced thus far. The food was foreign and the prices were high enough to touch the skyscrapers that guarded her limits, but I threw my inhibitions to the wind and ordered a curry lamb with a traditional tea, while opening my package.
The package was filled with South African delights: chocolate, biltong, pictures of the ocean, and words from my family. The lamb was tasty, but the package from home soothed and inspired like a favorite song, missed and cherished.

Lunch left me with a few hours to see the sights. As I turned left out of the restaurant I noticed an English bookstore, something I hadn’t seen in what felt like an eternity. I browsed through some books and picked up a collection of American short stories, which I bought for a bargain, considering that I had just bought a meal as pricy as a New York parking space.

I ventured into a traditional Chinese herbal store, and after browsing through some fish oil, vitamins, and amino acids I was confronted by the owner. “You must buy this! Rhino oil, make your girlfriend very happy!” And with that I was out of there like a blue train, gunning for the horizon. Perhaps I had been away from this kind of social freedom for too long, and I had forgotten the ways of the free world. It didn’t change the taste that it left in my mouth, however, and after one too many encounters I was ready to be back in Beijing.

I boarded the double-decker, 21A, thankfully at the helms of a different driver, and enjoyed the ride back to the airport, the sun fading into the mountains.

Survive Beijing

2009-11-18T00:40:00.000-08:00

You’re bound to encounter the Beijing blues if you end up living here or if you come for a short visit. Whether it’s the subway, the polluted air or the lack of space that has darkened your days, I offer some useful tips to beat the beast and ensure enjoyment in China’s capital.

1. Be A Peacemaker

One’s natural impulse is selfishness and the mentality that suggests: “the world revolves around me”. The fruit of this thinking proves nothing short of a catastrophe. A person cuts in front of you in the subway line (which they will), stands on your toes, or pushes you in the back. What do you do? If you allow your natural inclinations to dictate the situation, you won’t make it a week in Beijing. Peacemakers survive in Beijing, not those who retaliate or those that compete in the selfless rat race. Allow yourself to take one on the cheek now and again, and consider people above your own priorities. You will find this a huge help in reducing stress and tension that is created by the hum and drum of this fast paced city. If you find yourself on the subway give up your seat for someone else and be a peacemaker.

2. Carry A Book

The vast expanse of city that exists in Beijing makes for days that are filled with a lot of “downtime”. You have a business meeting at 1pm, but it takes you an hour to get there from the place you just had lunch at. You got word of a new restaurant in town, but it’s on the west side of the city, half an hour from your apartment. Reading a book during these times stimulates and refreshes your mind as opposed to the normal draining effect that transport usually has on people. What would normally serve as an occasion to suck the life from your day now exists as a time of solitude, rest and recovery. Carrying a book in Beijing, preferably one that you enjoy, is like having an oxygen mask on Everest.

3. Exercise

For the most part Chinese people are very health conscious. As a result a number of outdoor gyms exist throughout the neighborhoods of Beijing. These park/gym facilities are free and house basic machines that strengthen your back, chest, legs and arms. Even if you’re not a gym nut these parks are rather fun and the machines are enjoyable to use. Exercise is an important way to deal with stress and a way to release the tax of the day from your tired body. There are numerous indoor gyms that can be found in every neighborhood and if this is your preference, as opposed to parks, then go for it. If you prefer running, then look for some quiet side streets and begin each day with a gentle jog. Whatever your choice, make sure you exercise and stay healthy to battle the busyness of the city.

4. Develop A Routine

There is no better way to make friends and create allies than to have a good, consistent routine. Even though you want to maintain a heart of exploration and adventure, trying new things, seeing new sights etc, you must put down some roots. Whether this means eating at the same restaurant everyday, buying a pack of cigarettes from the usual street vendor or getting your groceries from that familiar shopkeeper. If you develop consistency in your day through certain activities then you will begin to make friends, blend in, and create allies that will potentially help you when you run into some trouble. Friends and allies come easier when regularity and routine exists in each day.

5. Be A Thankful Person

Chinese people respond to thankfulness. Wear a smile and carry a thankful heart. Always say “thank-you”, of course in Chinese, when receiving food, a subway pass, or paying for your groceries at the store. At the end of each week take a few minutes and record everything that you’re thankful for in the recent week that has past. Thankfulness is a catalyst for joy. If you are thankful when dealing with the Chinese people then you will find joy in things that most take for granted. If Beijing or China starts to get under your skin, take a few moments and write down everything you are thankful for and you will find it will help in easing the build up of tension and irritation. Thankfulness will carry you like a cloud. Be a thankful person.

Beijing is a beautiful city. But like all big cities it can be difficult for foreigners and locals to find their place, to find a rhythm and to find enjoyment. I offer these 5 tips as part of a map, a guide for you, to find fertile soil if you decide to visit or one day live in Beijing.

Kentucky

2009-11-11T04:24:00.001-08:00

Settled in my arms amid brevity of moons,

The days accost prosperity

In slight cast and canorous tunes,

The nights entreat temerity

Spring flowers, too innocent for thee,

Dress her hills with peace

Autumn blades fall cold and free,

While the sun appears to cease

Her soil carries no painful disease

Like the marred man so broken

Her golden fields and brazen trees

Believe in the secret promise spoken

Her Waters retain pardon for the bedraggled soul

Empathy for the crippled mind

Her Dark skies illuminate, burning fiery coal

Wonder for mankind

Man’s home alights on humble slopes

Where kindred hearts rejoice

Song and melody of risen hopes

Are dreams, are yearnings, are voice

Dark and cold are suffered and spent

By light of birth and warmth of clan

Hands grow empty from riches lent

Hearts repaired, redemptive man

Remember on those fields, many moons ago

You repaired an injured boy

Blood and tears were mine to flow

In the company of your joy

Kentucky love you’ve fathered skin,

Adopted Indian blue

No land recalled, no land within

That knows me like you do

Yangshuo

2009-10-14T08:19:00.000-07:00

My decision to spend my dream vacation in the corners of South West China, Yangshuo, felt similar to choosing exotic food on a menu, based solely on the name. I was spinning the wheel, randomly trying to pick the correct door behind which a grand prize might lurk. You blindly hope you’re getting something that doesn’t leave you disappointed, and the thought of bagging a pistol, well, isn’t that the motivation behind the risk? Simple probability says it’s likely you’ll miss that one, perfect choice. What are your chances of winning the lottery? Not very high, we’re told. But then, someone is going to win. Unimaginable odds are thwarted everyday by all kinds of people across the globe. One in a million is a flicker of hope: an occasion for the miraculous. These moments house the last minute touchdown to win the game, the lucky break for the aspiring actress, but we never have the vision to see these moments unfolding in our own lives.

I couldn’t deny it this time: the limestone peaks that rose as gods made way for the golden sun, burning awareness of the impossible into my mind. I chose wisely: “door number 3 please”.

A bus from Guilin is the most popular way of getting to Yangshuo. Some take the Li River by boat, but I didn’t have the time to invest in such a venture. The burly bus left me close to West Street where tourists furnish the roads like Indians at a cricket game. I immediately boarded a motorcycle taxi to the Yangshuo Snow Lion Riverside Resort, which rests perfectly on the Li River. As the motorcycle drew me closer to my lodging I felt the breath of Yangshuo slowly inhale my heart. The green land moved across my eyes like a time machine as I stepped into the stories and the lives of ancient China. The unpredictable Karst landscape testified to earth untouched, unharmed by the ticking of the clock. Rice paddies, green and yellow, proudly displayed China’s prize crop. Workers ploughed their fields. I was in a place that trumped any previous experience, reward for my risking. The short ride of shifting scenery had transformed me into a charismatic zealot, a testifier to land hidden inside borders of timeless symmetry.

I arrived at the resort with the company of a bleeding moon in the Li River. Tired, but excited I denied my alarm clock a role in the day to come. The luxury of a late morning was like having a drink with an old friend I hadn’t seen in ages. I was on holiday after all and rest was a gift delivered by the tranquility of my environment. The drifting river peacefully introduced the daylight as I awoke, ready for marvels.

Emptiness in my stomach led me to a place with the unlikely name of Kelly’s. I tucked into a world famous veggie burger hearty and palatable. It’s remarkable how food has the ability to connect strangers, and cross barriers inflicted by cultural or personal beliefs. Kelly’s was evidence of this reality: a hub for new friendships. I met Keith that morning, a capricious Aussie, subject to only the wind itself. We shared a meal regaling and laughing at his stories from Cambodia, Vietnam and a team of other nations. Keith was my senior. He desperately wanted me to lend my ear and draw from his fount. My favorite exchange was his instruction on the ways of women. He carried the expression “stay cool dude” and used it like a Swiss Army knife. “The woman loves a cool dude. If you act cool, then you are cool, then she thinks you’re cool, so stay cool dude.” All the while fixing his eyes on Yuan, our lovely waitress, hoping the shutters wouldn’t close on this one.

A stone’s throw away from Kelly’s was a bicycle rental store. I bargained for the fun of it and picked up a sturdy giant of a bike, not more than $5.00. The shopkeeper graciously offered a guide and a map for my travels. I took the map. The outskirts of Yangshuo are buried in deep farmland, dusty trails, and local villages. I’m sure a guide would have been of some use, but I wanted to breathe in the land, not live in its past. I leaned into the map, brave and independent on a quest for new horizons. At the front of my journey I was Christopher Columbus, navigating like a steamship. But as my tires sunk deeper into the dusty paths I had become Alison in Wonderland, swept away by a world that was not my own.

The map in front of me was full of wonder, dressed with destination. Dragon Bridge caught my eye: the 10km cycle path would lead me through local villages, parallel to the meandering Yu Long River. Wild land soiled my tires as I began to follow the path. The open sky was my canopy and the locals, my companions. My receding hairline and long blond hair falling across my neck summoned the people from their homes, excited for my presence: “Hullo! Hullo!” and for a moment I was famous. Smiles and greetings wrapped around me like a winter jacket as the coffee brown soil slipped beneath my wheels. Fresh fruit offered by farmers in humble displays beckoned a visit. A slight young girl gripped my hand and led me to her fathers stall. His face was beaming as I approached his stand. And I realized he wasn’t as interested in me as much as he was the company of his daughter. "This is Penny”, he said, as she bounced onto his lap, leaning towards his affection. Money meant nothing. His portion was buried in his arms. I bought two bananas from George, but left with pockets full of gold.

A fresh banana and a couple of hills later brought me to my destination. Dragon Bridge was serene: locals washing chicken, fixing bamboo rafts and little boys scaring girls with rotten fish heads. The bridge stood 10 meters above water, as deep as your grandfather’s pockets. I untied my shoes, displayed my chest to the world and made my way to the centre of the bridge. I waited for the perfect time as rafts were passing beneath like birds in migration. “All clear!” I shouted to the men at the bottom and jumped, like a man without worry, into the blue below. Ten meters was high enough to get my heart racing and low enough to close the gate on fear. The water was perfect besides the occasional glares from the left over chickens enjoying a swim. I bathed in the bliss until sunset, chatting with the locals, working up an appetite.

“Chur fan, chur fan” I began to sputter as I planted my feet on the eastern earth, exiting the water. This was about all the Chinese I knew. It meant: “food, food”. And who needed anything else in such a spot? A short, weathered man, bent like a tree heard my cries. He led me through barns, abandoned houses and deserted side streets. I silently wondered if I was going to make the news that night, betrayed by ignorance. The man must have read my mind as his next step led me to a rustic, secluded boat on the water, what the guidebooks might call a hole-in-the-wall restaurant if there had been a wall. I placed my order as the sunlight reflected off the water beneath. The movement and light gently soothed my anxiousness. A generous portion of egg, tomatoes and fresh green vegetables were presented for my enjoyment. I felt like a king, dining with my queen, the majestic beauty of the innocent land.

If you’re as benighted as I am then China has always been a symbol of fast pace living, cold ideologies and distant intentions. Yangshuo was serving me like a revelator, an iron scepter, breaking the stereotypes made by the ignorance of my western mind. What I was discovering was an invitation to a vastness I had never experienced. There on the river I was trapped in an age where electricity had not been discovered, where tourism was not invented, and where man governed the land with respect and not exploitation. It was a waking dream. And the night was still to come.

Nightime back in Yangshuo felt like a forest of fireflies. The city wore lights and laughter like a crown, as I enjoyed the humility of her cobbled streets, friendly restaurants, and fireworks that reflected her radiance. I drank a beer in a local pub, and enjoyed the camaraderie with travelers and locals, sharing dreams, stories and lives like all men share the night sky. Here I was told about a beautiful spectacle, a light show on the Li River. And so I partook of it. This event proclaimed China’s cultural heritage, in music, art and dance. The splendor of the twelve carefully lit peaks surrounding the river made me feel like a visitor to a distant planet in another universe. Romance breathed on the river the way God first breathed into Adam and the lights were like apparitions commanding an enthralled audience. The festivities continued as I moved my body back to my lodging like a bedraggled, old car. I was spent. I was sold.

Life is girded with the tension of wise decision-making and the unpredictability of circumstance. When it came time to part with Yangshuo I felt I was stepping out of a promise, leaving a love. My gamble to roll the dice moved me into a position to receive artistry and triumph from a gentle host. My daring venture brought me an inheritance of kindness, of grace, a gift, of rest, and joy. The best travel is always swollen with the unknown. Yangshuo was proof of this, a shot in the dark, a payoff to last a lifetime.

* This is a piece of writing I have submitted for a competition hosted by www.tripbase.com - a great website for traveling-

Crossing with Tao

2009-09-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

My cardinal encounter with a Chinese man took the form of a crossing with a chap named Tao. That Friday I bustled through the city, like a thoroughbred at the derby, gathering, buying, preparing for the week ahead. The clock was beat from the ticking of the day, so was I, as I seized the yellow taxi, offering a blue vacancy sign. "Tian Tong Yuan" I muddled as I sheepishly reclined in the frazzled back seat, hoping the driver wouldn't hear the squalor of my Chinese uttering. I pretended he understood me as the engine turned, easing my nervous heart. The artillery of Chinese words I carried was paltry and could only offer the name of the area where I lived. The sound of the moving wheels, stamping the scanty streets, continued to bring relief, in hopes of finding home. Before long this peace was replaced by suspicion as the pulsating turns down damp drives seemed to declare the drivers disorientation. Or so I thought. My surmise promptly precipitated when the familiar savors of my neighborhood streets kindly invited my stomach for a tuck. While the wheels of this weary motor carried me closer to comfort, I began surveying the back of the driver's head. His navigation skills convinced me that a frantic Chinese scientist had downloaded map quest, google, and GPS applications into his cerebrum. "This guy is the human IPhone", I thought to myself. I considered bridling his fare. "Who needs money when you have "bubble wrap" and "restaurant finder" wired into the back of your head?"

I painfully lugged my feet to the ninth floor like a tow truck carrying a bedraggled, old car. The halls routinely, reminded me of an age where dinosaurs roamed the earth and when light was not yet spoken into being. This recollection was brief as the glow of our apartment light rose over my eyes like a city over her trees. The customary “business card”, placed on our door handle, greeted me with a smile. This time it was “Susy”, offering her boisterous service, two blocks away. The deathly distribution didn’t seem to bother the government much. I speculated why circulations of life were such a dilemma for this upstanding people. Suddenly, I caught a revelation, like a baboon catching a mob of monkeys with his stolen bananas. “If I put “Susy’s” nectarous smile on a Jesus tract it might pass as tolerable to the officials in power”. I mulled over my evangelism solution for quite some time, while laboring to open my apartment door.

Earlier that week I received a painful tutorial about the mystery of opening my apartment door. “If I had just listened I would have this bledie door opened by now”, I thought to myself. I felt like Indiana Jones on a viperous mission, facing the impenetrable fortress of Vishnu. Recalling all that the key masters had shown me I entered into fierce competition, but none of their insight and revelation consorted me closer to this mighty Hindu god. At 1am I commended Vishnu, and declared him champion, his citadel was impassable.

Gathering my bags, I remembered a piece of grassland, not far away, that would suite well for a night’s rest. Sluggishly, I departed down nine floors, contemplating my peaceful sleep on Chinese soil. The biting odors of the garbage dump abused the receptors in my nose as I vacated the security of my apartment building. Streetlights and vagabonds punctured my eyes, pressing an inquiry, as I proceeded anxiously across their humble pavements. The trepidation in my treading communicated third world living to the members of my body. For the first time since my arrival to China, my entirety felt the loss of the U.S.A. I became fully aware that I was no longer in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I was five steps away from my pasture for the night, when a small angelic white, two door car approached. The driver seemed reckless as he planted his car in a parking space the size of a peanut. I mustered up the courage to approach him. It was either a sleep in the bush or a faint chance of help. The smoke that rose out of his car reminded me of my mom’s old kettle, steaming, whistling, signaling its dispatch. His hands were suffocated with ash and stained with marks from cigarettes. I urgently asked him if knew English, knowing full well that the answer would most definitely be “No”. This was the case, so I opted for plan two. Before I could progress, he launched off into Chinese mysteries, all of which sounded like heavenly tongues to my untrained ear. I nervously muttered “Woa ting ba don” which means: “I don’t understand”, the little pistol I had in my back pocket for occasions such as these. I reached for my key while he carried on, saying who knows what, and proceeded to mime the act of being locked out. Remarkably, he understood this at once, locked his car and reached for one of my suitcases. So here I was in the middle of Beijing, in the black of the night, with a Chinese man who I didn’t know from Adam. I wondered now if the grass would have been the safer option, as he motioned for me to follow him through the dirty streets.

The elevator announced our arrival on the 18^th floor with a sharp “ding” and a rapid opening and closing of its doors. The man silently steered me through a grimy, Chinese decorated hallway. His front door was burnished in red and gold, unlike the countless number of other apartments in the building. He was careful to undo his shoes as he introduced and welcomed me to his humble home. At once I bent low, to remove my shoes, but he stopped me the way you stop someone from paying for your meal. His home was spacious and welcoming apart from the smoke that had made its permanent address the walls of his house. As I sat down to rest, he presented me with a cold glass of wine. I pretended to swirl and smell it, like the champions do, inspecting, gazing, but I soon realized that this was no wine fit for such an expedition. The wine swam down my throat, tasting like the Amazon with Hepatitis B. I thanked him with a small bow, and tried to wipe the water from eyes that the insipid taste of the wine had produced. He rose like a guardian, appointed to take care of me for the night, and pointed his finger towards a bed. I gathered my belongings and placed them neatly next to the headrest, thanking him with gestures, English and white man Chinese.

Believing it was time for bed, I began to settle my pillows and blankets, while changing into my sleeping clothes. Out of nowhere, like a blue train, my host hurried in and called me towards his room. I only wondered what sort of discovery he had made. He motioned towards his computer where I could see “google translator” on the screen in front of me. We began conversing, I typed English, "google" magically translated it into Chinese and his Chinese to English. On the computer screen I discovered his name, his wife’s name, his job and a range of other details that filled his life. I could not stop thanking him for his kindness as I typed every kind of English “thank you” I could think of. Our computer conversation carried on for about an hour, and by 3am Tao and I had become good friends. We said goodnight, and allowed the goodness of our crossing to bathe our sleep with rest and recovery.

The Great Wall

2009-09-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

The pregnant soil of the country drove over our eyes as we deserted the sonance and labor of the husky city.

Staring hills revealed their homes, offering shade, leaning close, ministering pity.

The green heights were weary as the capital’s soot and smug, seeped through the city doors, deposits of death and dire

An hour drive though the willing paths moved us to the crippled wall, the mountains, the mire.

We threw our feet to the constricted road, brushing peddlers, taxing an escape from the afflictions of third world existence

Our intent was to meet the cable car, in tact, evading t-shirt and trinket vendors with little to no resistance

The beat to the crown was instantly displaced by what seemed like a late 4th of July celebration

Clicking, cracking cameras, nobly beaming light into the air, while owner’s swiftly seizing the imperial creation

Matured limbs rose to meet us, tickling our feet, as we inspected their lively settlement through the lamp of the car

The wall rendered speechlessness, the grandeur, the perfection, the cultivation and the community of mountains far

Toils of generations passed, kissed our feet as we marveled at the mortar, the tears, the blood, the silence of the Great Wall

Our eyes were starved for the lofty slice, readying our feet, fastening our camera’s we commenced for the grievous haul

Two hours later our steam had coated primal walls, our hearts engaged antiquity and our eyes had become civilized

Time was spent, our bodies weary, our hearts abounding, and our minds by the wealth of the wall, mesmerized

Day 1

2009-08-30T06:44:00.000-07:00

Thursday pronounced the beginning of my reign and rule in China. Jet lag was vacating, the realization that I was no longer in a Western land was settling in and I was starting to work out a way to use chopsticks without leaving Chifa on my clothing. The morning started early, a brief meeting at the “ control centre”, my working locus and a tour of the school. I felt famous and adored. Doors opened before me, photos were taken, hands were shaken and many promises were made to ensure that I received everything I needed during my stay. This included Chinese servant girls to clean my apartment, a magic subway card that would take me to any location in Bejing and a special $2 price that included lunch and supper each day I was at the school. I tried to bargain them down for a better meal price, but I thought $10 a week for food was doable, we will have to see though. After meetings and autograph signing (just jokes, but I did think that I might have to sign some faces because of how incredibly sweet and gracious the Chinese people were to us Westerners) we left for my apartment. The apartment is a 50 minute taxi ride from the school and at the halfway mark stands the glory of the Beijing Olympic Centre, which I admired like a bushman admiring empty coke bottles falling from the sky.

We turned left into a cluster of tall apartment buildings and a crew of Chinese woman cooking chicken heads on the roadside. The taxi forced his way into the parking lot through a foray of cars that had barred every entry into the parking space. My first impression of the apartment building was comparable to a hungry Arab on the brink of a humus and falafel feasting. The place looked first-rate, a continuation of the reward for “being famous”. I gathered my bags, looked a little bit like one of those Indian elephants, carrying more curry bunnies that he could handle, and made my way into my new home. As I entered in, I felt like we were mysteriously and sadly, transported into the Bronx, except there were no markings of local gangs on the walls and no reggies shouting for women and booze. The passages were somber, the paint job advocated China’s 10 000 year history, and I was dreading the arrival to my apartment. My pipe dream of having a capital caliber apartment had been splintered by the blues of the black passage ways, introducing my apartment on the ninth floor. It felt a little bit like a King’s sentence to the dungeon at the bottom of the castle, only this dungeon was nine stories up and came with chopsticks. I didn’t see a King, there was no moat, and I wondered what I had done to deserve this and who had sentenced me? To my surprise, my trembling quickly went “man overboard” and was swiftly swallowed up by the promise that lay in the avenue of my new living quarters. The apartment welcomed me with pure, virgin tiles that led me to a daring view of the Chinese markets beneath, bidding for an exploration. The first room was spacious and burly, however the paint job looked like an archaic cave painting. This didn’t bother me though, the retribution rested in the spacious layout of the kitchen, living room and the two bedrooms. The apartment's only real vice was the bathroom, a little dingy, and after a long day of work a man was prohibited to enjoy a peaceful excursion while taking a deep-six. The reason for this is that toilet paper resists the flush of this unworthy Chinese toilet. Due to this blunder, a small trashcan is located to the right of the pot, scenting the bathroom with the balm of far east waste- Made in China. Did I mention that two steps to the left of this aroma lies the shower. The pleasure and experience of washing off the dirt from a long day is hardly known in this sort of arrangement. A couple times I think I’ve come out of the shower with more crap on me than when I came in. Its okay though, it’s a time saver, besides I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to drop a load and wash off the day simultaneously.

My living space, for the most part, pleased me and I was grateful for the kindness of my new Chinese friends, this would now be my home for months to come. After sinking in to my new home we headed for the Great Wall, the supermarkets, and the restaurants. My Chinese experience was officially underway and it had been a good day, hemmed in with sensation and emotion, usual and surprising alike.

Boarding Pass

2009-08-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

With the accumulation of each new boarding pass, several parts of me continue to change, continue to develop, parts die, parts awake. Each new airport experience confirms the judgements made of previous airport experiences. In Louisville this morning, my check in bag weighed 95 pounds, mostly due to my collection of books to "save" me from the "dark" times ahead of me ( I don't really think that my times are going to be dark, but just in case I have a book for every trouble). Joyce informed me that my bag could not weigh more than 50 pounds. Thirty minutes until take off, I hadn't passed through security yet and I could feel the seas becoming heavy as the black storm of Airport nonsense approached. So in the middle of the airport I opened my bag, threw out some books, underpants with heavy skid mark stains on a few of them, and a collection of other clothing items. A kind black man, agreed to watch my bags as I ran to the luggage store to buy an extra bag. I tried to swindle the checkout girl by forcing my big, black beard in her face, hoping that the presence and profound stature of my true beard would cause her to flutter and give me a decent discount. To my surprise this didn't work, not even a little. As a result I paid 80 bucks for a piece of junk bag that my friend, Richard Fogler, could have crafted with the hair from a bushman's bum. I raced back to the skid marked underpants and books, gathered my things and put them into my new overpriced bag. Joyce was very kind, and let me by with my newly weighted bags- 55 and 38 pounds. I immediately sprinted to the death trap, the airport security line, and started to make my way through the gauntlet. Everything was going according to plan, no horrendous odors from feet, bags in the bin, kind smiles until the machine checking my bag started to make strange noises. Heavy seas, round 2- one of the ladies unpacked my perfectly packed back pack and removed some items that had to be confiscated, namely an energy drink I've come to enjoy- Bliksem. I moved on and boarded my flight to Detroit.
I am now in Detroit with higher hopes as I see that everyone boarding the flight to Tokyo city is Japanese, the perfect companion for a long flight with minimal space. I think that airplanes were built for the these guys, space is plentiful when you come from the land of the rising sun. I'm glad again- I think I will blow up the plane if I get seated next to a fat white guy though.
Tokyo city here I come!

Red

2009-08-23T21:54:00.000-07:00

Red is the color for this new while
Red is the river of a thousand mile
Red is the boundary for a land long
Red is the arrest of a freed song
Red is the reflex of a people down
Red is the ruler, red is the crown
Red is my heart, alive and sound
Red is the vein, my vital is found
Red is his blood, ready to defend
Red is his agony, a people to mend
Red is my strength thwarting the red of the land
Red is my gift through the red on his hand

Red is changing, red is leading, red is redeeming

Central Park

2009-07-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

Central Park is a promise, an escape from the concrete jungle, that is Manhattan.
Life and the hope of life are the pursuits of her passengers.
Bleeding into the warm, summer ground are dreams, fears, victories and losses, transported by the push of bicycles, roller blades, feet and taxis.
The tall, New York, skyscrapers stare jealously as the tired of the day find renewal and immunity from the beatings of the hard, cement yoke that controls nine to five.
Like a forest fire, Central Park burns the worry and stress of the cycle into dirt and dust preparing her friends for the tax of tomorrow.