Doodles

I think being connected is the key to peace. Connected with a friend or two. Connected with a lover or two. Connected with a wife, or two. Connected with a city. Connected with a movement. Connected with the environment. Connected with yourself. Connected with your kids. Connected with your work. Feeling connected isn’t the same as being connected. At times I feel connected. And briefly I will feel at peace. For some, this is as good as good is. Some of us our broken, unable to connect in a sustained way. Unable to connect to anything that matters. We connect to books, movies, a piece of music. We connect to a tear. We connect to these transitory things just to feel connected. Some of us make many personal connections just to feel connected ourselves. Some of us make no personal connections; the fear of not being connected is too great. But feeling connected isn’t being connected. The other night I had a dream that made me feel connected. I have these dreams a half dozen or so times a year and I always wake up with a warm feeling. These connected dreams all center on a woman ¨C no not that wet dream kind of thing. It’s more about feeling. The other night I dreamt of her, she hadn’t been in my mind in that obsessive way in a while but I was having an intense conversation with a friend of hers in real life, so I guess it’s no surprise she showed up in my dreams that night. The dream itself was simple enough, as these dreams go. We were at a conference of some sort and ran into each other. It was not unexpected or a surprise. It just fit. We went to her hotel room where I knew two of her male friends had spent the night. I was relieved to see two sets of sofa beds appearing slept in. Made me think she didn’t have sex with them. Then somehow we ended up connecting, in a physical and mental sense, but not sexual. Oh, heck, there was a sexual element, but it was a secondary element. It was something else. We lingered. We whispered nice things. We acknowledged the moment and savored it. It was connection. I woke up feeling connected. But not actually connected. ...

For some time now he thought he was going to die. It was just a lingering feeling that his body was sick and it was only a matter of time. Maybe it was because his grandfather had a heart attack at 42 and his chest was starting to feel tight. Maybe it was because his liver labs have been so-so and that was before he started drinking so heavily. Maybe it was because he was so constantly tired, mentally and physically. Maybe it was guilt coming to get him and make him pay in kind. Maybe it was a simple case of depression and his pride was keeping him from the help he so desperately needs. But mainly he thought it just was his body winding things down. It’s another Sunday night, a typical day for him in Beijing. Lunch with folks he can’t talk too, dishes arriving that he doesn’t know the content of. It used to be an experience, now it’s just time to load up on the rice. Then an afternoon wandering the streets of Beijing, getting back in touch with himself, finding a sense of peace and rhythm. But all the while the sense of sickness was still with him. The lack of energy, the lack of pep. The knowing feeling that he is going to die. Soon. He’s tried talking about it to those close to him. Once. But who wants to here this talk. He looks fit enough. He looks bright enough. But if you probe a little deeper you see the shadows, his struggle to stay alert. But no one looks deeper. He takes solace in this. For he knows one day he will just up and stop and be gone. He thought that day might be today, he was walking along a tree lined northeast-southwest angled road ¨C so atypical from all the north/south, east/west roads here ¨C and he thought he was going to pass out. He quickly inventoried his belongings. Would the people who find him know who to call? Would it matter? Would anyone notice? Or would they just push him off to the side of the road and wait for the next bus. Or maybe all he needed was a new pair of shoes. He’s been thinking about getting a motorcycle, well a scooter if truth be told, but it’s hard to navigate the shops when you don’t speak the language. He’s been watching people on scooters around town and thinks it would be fun. He’s starting to feel a bit careless. It doesn’t cross his mind until someone mentions it that a driving scooter in Beijing would be really dangerous, maybe a car would be a better choice. He thinks of crashing and getting hurt and it doesn’t seem so bad. It seems kind of neutral. Then he thinks he has obligations and things to take care of and even if he feels these things would be better without him he knows it is not his choice. He really just thinks his body is about quit. One day the sun won’t rise. But it will set. ...

The Mom wakes to the sound of The Son asking for her. She stirs, pleased, ready to face another day. The Son said “cheerios, cheerios”, as The Mom pours the milk onto the cereal in the small plastic yellow bowl. The bowl came with the box of cereal, total cost 14 kuai. The Mom walks the bowl over to The Son, who sits transfixed on cartoons. She spoon feeds him, he without looking knowing exactly when to open his mouth to allow the food in. Her, knowing how fast to feed him. They do this every day and they have a rhythm. The Man walks into the room, points at The Son and laughs with him. He barely acknowledges her presence. He hasn’t touched her in weeks. Off to work The Man goes. After breakfast she gives The Son a bath, checking the water to make sure it is not too hot or becomes too hot. She washes him with care, keeping the soap out of his eyes, and letting him play with the little plastic duck. Yesterday it was a dinosaurs. Most days, if the weather was right, she will take him to Ritan park to play on the sides and such. Today is one of those days. It is a 15 minute walk and she carries him most of the way but she doesn’t mind. The Mom is doing her job. Its time for lunch by the time they get home. The old nanny has prepared dumplings. It’s The Son’s favorite, besides ice cream that is. He wants to eat in front of the TV and she has resigned herself to whatever works. Whatever works. The Son grows tired and asks for The Mom to hold him, to put him to sleep. She does, without complaint. While he sleeps she takes a break too, but only briefly. There are household chores to do and what better time than when The Son was sleeping. The afternoon found them at the indoor playground. Other mothers walking up to her saying how cute The Son was. Saying how a foreign baby mix was always the best. She could not disagree. She left him to play with his ultraman and dinosaurs, telling himself a story that only he knew, so she could concentrate on making dinner for the family. The Man would not be home for dinner tonight, stuck at work again. She did not mind much. After dinner and after desert, when the house was quiet and The Man still away, she grabs her cell phone. She has a text message from her father asking her to call. She does. Her father says her brother needs some money. He will open a small store in their home town. The Mom now The Sister wants to help, yet she is worried. How much money, she asks. The father tells her. She tells him, of course, she will help. This is family duty. But Father, that is more money than I make in a year. The father asks The Daughter to use her savings and ask her husband for his. Of course she will. Her family duty is clear. She text messages her husband and then calls him. He is not happy, they’ve been working and saving for a long time and they will have to start all over again. She persists. He gives in. She finds a new respect for him, holds the phone to her heart, then says thank you and hangs up. She hasn’t seen her husband for almost a year, just before she left that small town for the northern big city and he for the southern big city. She looks at the phone, sees the picture of her son on its display. Not as cute as that foreign baby maybe, but all hers. The Man sits in the back of the taxi, exhausted from work and reading a story from an expat rag that strangely makes him cry. ...

My son places his toy airplane (as opposed to his real one) on the keyboard while I type and then rolls over and continues his flight. I’m sitting in bed, HBO on because I couldn’t find cartoons for him to give me the space I need to wine down. My daughter is being walked to sleep down our apartment building hallway by the Ayi. Another plane crash on the keyboard and then he’s off again. I wonder if I ever played like that. I doubt it. And I mean I doubt it in a serious way. Another crash. I remember having toy soldiers as a kid and being excited by the idea of playing with them but when I actually did it I was bored. I am always bored and disinterested except by work and things that make me think of less interesting things. He’s now telling himself a story. It sounds like a real dogfight. Yesterday was my daughter’s birthday. I left home for work at 7am and returned home at 10pm. I did not see hew awake. Priorities outside of myself are not my strength. The nice thing about having children is you realize what it’s like to be one and what you missed. He likes to crash the planes. He’s asking me to crash the planes with him. He asks in English which is nice because I don’t understand it when he speaks Chinese. He’s now throwing the airplanes. He makes eye contact and smiles a lot. To be a child, for a day, if not less. ...

I’m walking down the hall at work thinking about my next meeting and how not to embarrass myself at it. How not to make a total fool out of myself. Again. It is just then that she walks by me and whispers “I know”. “What?”, I turn and say, but she is gone, down a hall, into the restroom, into thin air, I don’t know where. I wonder how she knows, but I think she must have known all along. It’s the crazy ones who get to me. Especially the crazy, hyper smart, hyper thin ones. I’m not sure why this is. I guess because I know the hyper thin is caused by the hyper smart and the hyper smart is just a façade for the crazy. This, and if they are crazy, then I will seem sane. So sane that I am interesting to the crazy ones. Until they get to know me and realize what you already know from reading this, that I’m the nut in the basket of eggs. Or perhaps, and I think this often, not that crazy ones appeal to me, it’s just than normal people bore me to death. It’s not that normal people are in black and white vs. the color of the crazy ones, it’s more like normal people are white light and I can’t see them at all. So, now it’s confirmed that she “knows” and I can’t live in denial anymore. I wonder why she felt compelled to tell me, this is the question. If I knew she knew and she knew I knew she knew, then what is the point anyway? I just stepped into the elevator. I’m looking down like I always do and I see her small shoes moving fast trying to catch a ride. Do I hit the close button, or open? I hit open, she angles in even though I’m the only other person in the elevator. I press P for parking and stand back. She turns, faces me, stands very close, and looks up at me. I feel her breath. I notice a tiny bit of facial hair. “I know about her”, she says, and she turns and walks out of the elevator. The door closes, I am still inside. Now, why did she have to go and say that? The elevator vaults upward, I exit on the second floor, and race down the stairs. I reach the garage and see just entering her white prius. Ugly car. “Wait!”, I yell. Well, not out load, that isn’t me. Rather, I run to her car and pound on the window. She lowers her window. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Just thought you should know since, you know, I’m one of them”, she says I do not need to look at her sunken eyes again, I knew she was one of them from the first moment we met. “How?” “The tape”, she says, and she backs up and drives away. Always that tape. ...

They say you should dance like no one is watching. Nice idea. People are watching. And judging. I don’t dance anymore. Save for the occasional wiggles tune with my two year old and the ultraman theme song with my three year old. And maybe the very rare caffeine induced shake to kid rock. When I was in the 7th grade, I was not afraid to dance. I was afraid of girls. Still am mostly. Anyway, in the 7th grade it took some courage for me to ask one to dance. So I usually found one I didn’t like that much and asked her. The dancing seemed easy. I few 360 degrees spins, a finger pointing to the floor, and then one to the air. Girls started to ask me to dance. I was cool. Or so I thought. Turns out they just thought the way I danced was funny. In my 20s I married a girl who met her first husband on a dance floor. So, I thought I should dance too. After a go, she decided dancing was no longer necessary for a relationship. When I was 30 and single again a woman asked me to dance. I told her I don’t really dance, but she insisted and I really liked her, so I went for it. A minute into the song I was feeling pretty good, that maybe my earlier self assessment was wrong. In my best self deprecating tone I said “I told you I can’t dance” and she said “now why is that”. She was not being sarcastic. The single life being what it is, I did not wait another seven years before dancing again. There’s this misconception, held mainly by married men, that single guys are getting hooked up every weekend. That they have to beat the women off with a stick. So many choices, so little time! But, the sad fact is, that a married guy getting his twice monthly bodily function action is doing better than most single guys. It is a lonely life. So, with that as a background you can understand why I tried another attempt. After 30 seconds the woman stopped dancing. At 45 seconds she walked off the floor without excuse or eye contact. At 32, one would think I would have learned my lesson, once and for all. I had a new age friend pushing me to dance “like no one is watching.” She was not convinced by my stories. She wanted me to dance. But I didn’t want to dance with her. She was ugly. Well, is ugly, ugly isn’t something you grow out of even if you are Nicole Richtie. So I danced with another girl, one I used to like but no longer did mainly because she no longer did and halfway through the song she said “Vince, what is wrong with you?” expressing real, sincere concern. She also was not being sarcastic. So, now, when I watch my two year old girl dance to the wiggles I just want to giggle. Why? Because, the dancing is hereditary. She dances like her daddy. But unlike him, she truly dances like no one is watching and her joy is unbounded. For now? ps: the only way to dance like no one is watching to make sure no one is. ...

Never wear white below the waist. Enough said. Never dress like euro trash unless you are euro trash. Always wear a belt. Especially with jeans. No exceptions. If you are over 30, never wear a black leather jacket. Heck, no matter you age, ditch the black leather. If you are short, never go with the long leather jacket. You will look even shorter. Never go half tuck if you are over 35. Don’t dress like you are 19 if you are 25. Don’t dress like you are 25 if you are 35. And never dress like you are a 20 if you are 40. It’s not cool, it’s absurd. Androgyny is for the young. Sexless is for the middle age. Don’t confuse the two. Ok, for the dense: ...

My subway stop is Chaoyangmen and this night is no different when I get off. I edge myself closer to the door and when it opens I push, slide, and sometimes shove my way out. I used to say “excuse me” but after a year in Beijing I realize there is no need for such niceties and they will just slow you down. And to be slowed down here means being pushed back onto the train by the oncoming passengers. I make if off the train, and head for the “wai” side of Chaoyangmen. I take the stairs instead of the escalators up three flights of stairs to the street. Very few people do this and I tell myself I do it for the exercise but maybe it’s just because I have no patience for the escalator. There is no down escalator and at this time of night I am greeted by a flood of people walking down the stairs. They make way for me as I climb up, an occasional bemused smile but mainly indifference. The stairs are a bit steep and to make eye contact going down means risking a fall. At the top of the stairs I emerge into the early evening twilight, like an old car reaching the top of a hill and feeling a momentary resurgence. It’s then that I see her, 150 meters away, but a vision. I see long flowing straight here, a lean look, outlines of a pretty face. At 100 meters shape starts to come. At 50 meters I am obsessed. At 25 I think she sees me too, but I cannot be sure. She’s about 5'4", with a round smooth face, young but not a kid, thin but hips, athletic in he walk, smart in her look. People think I have a “type”. The first assumption now is that I like Asian women because I am like in China and married to a Chinese woman. Asian women are the generalization because whites are assumed to make no distinction between the Asian races. It’s all the same to us, and it’s all good, or so the line of thought goes. While it is true that fairly late in life I discovered my, let’s say, aptitude for Asian women, it is not a “type” for me. It’s more like discovering I like vanilla ice cream too when all I knew before was chocolate. Chocolate can still be damn good. Some people who think the “know” me (all five of them) will presume that my type is “thin” or petite because I tend to go for the thin ones and once was with a way too thin one. I can’t say the thin thing ever appealed to me, but if I am honest with myself I will acknowledge that after the way to thin one became what she became I do notice the unhealthy thin ones in a disturbing way. But sometimes it is best not to be so honest with oneself. So, at 10 meters, I can see she is not looking at me. And as much as I don’t have a type, this woman is it. Everything is right. I want to trip her or something. Anything to get to know her. I can feel the initial pangs of a crush coming on. At 5 meters she stops. Makes a hacking sound with her nose. And spits a luggie onto the cement that would make a sailor proud. This is China. This is Beijing. ...

Jane read the letter for the second time. Dear Jane, It was so nice to have lunch with you today. I smiled the whole way home; I’m just so damn proud and happy to be your mother. When you were three, you used to do the cutest thing. We would be sitting on the coach, and then you would just get up and walk over to coffee table and have a conversation with an imaginary clerk. Some days you would be buying shoes, some days, apples, some days eggs. But you would always negotiate and right from the start you learned your lessons well. Never make the first offer and never accept their first. You were just so adorable then. And now, with a three year old of your own, I wonder if the scene acts itself out all over again. It’s hard to believe you’re 40 now. I must tell you, that was a hard year for me. I really felt a loss of energy and had a hard time finding my rhythm again. If you go through this, don’t worry, it will pass. You will find your step, your way again. And, how do I say this. Another big shift happened when I turned 40. I felt less attractive. The men who used to notice me, noticed me less. The side glances, the turned heads, the innocent flirtations, all seemed to evaporate at once. I adjusted, but it took some time. I had to rediscover your father again. Why am I writing all this doom and gloom? I mean you looked fabulous, you were simply beaming. Tell me, are you pregnant again? I can’t explain it, you just had that certain glow. I’m so glad to hear your new job is going well. It’s amazing they would promote you so fast. But I know you deserve it. From the day you were born I knew you were special. Are special. They say a son goes with his wife’s family and a daughter stays with hers. Well, that is certainly true in our case. You’ve taken such good care of me since Dad died. Can you believe it’s been 14 years? And here it is Mother’s day and you take me to lunch. Next week I’m taking you, it’s long overdue. I was reading the Wally Lamb book you gave me for Christmas. It ended with three things he knew to be true. First, god exists in round things. Second, mongrels make good dogs. And finally, love springs from the depths of forgiveness. May we all find a little forgiveness on this day. Love, Mom. Jane, put her pen down. Satisfied with her writing and the anger it released she tore the paper in to squares each smaller than the last. She took the remains flushed them like a dead rat. Her final stop for the night was the freezer and a pint of ben and jerrys. ...

It’s halftime of the Argentina vs. Serbia match and even though I don’t know much about soccer I know Argentina is playing damn good. They are my new favorite team. My wife likes the players with their flowing hair and clean shaven faces. A friend comments that it’s the beautiful team vs. the ugly team, and he’s right. The Serbians could use a little work on and off the field. Anyway, they have a beer chugging contest at half time. Five people compete to see who can chug a bottle of beer the fastest, the winner getting some meaningless prize ¨C maybe a new liver. It takes some work, but they finally get five contestants, three Americans and two Chinese men. It’s a little weird demographic wise as there are about 300 people in the audience, slightly more than half men, and only a handful of Americans. I can consume plenty of beer myself, but don’t chug. The contest over ¨C a Chinese man beat the Americans ¨C the second half proceeds with Argentina seemingly toying with Serbia. There is one play in particular. An Argentine player is closely guarded, so he kicks the ball through the legs of the defender, runs around him then sidesteps another defender, then curves the ball around the goaltender for a goal. It was pure magic. And, only their second best goal of the night. Game complete, the four of us head over to the Russian nightclub. I was a little hesitant to bring it up ¨C after last time ¨C but it seems the couple actually enjoyed the last time so we went. Besides, I had a bottle of vodka on hold there from the time in between the last time and this time. We arrive, and start drinking screwdrivers. The Russian hookers start to look good. After a few more drinks even my friend’s wife starts to move with the music which she’s never done before. I walk around to check out the scene. My wife is fascinated by some young Russian men at the table behind us. I remind her that men that age don’t even need 15 minutes between rounds. They just reload. This does not discourage her. They put on a dance show. A black man and female crew dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. Then a group of belly dancers one of which eventually makes her way to our table. My friend’s life is complete at this point. He could die at that moment and be happy. Me, I’ve died a long time ago as it is. Then we are treated to a Las Vegas style dance troop without the nudity. Eventually the dancers take a break and a live band comes on. They are pretty good, especially the male singer. They are Russian but sing most of their songs in Chinese. When the band is done, the dance floor opens up complete with go-go dancers. I pay particular attention to a Chinese woman dancing with her Chinese man but looking straight at a hot go-go dancer. My friend is standing directly behind the go-go dancer. Eventually he takes his wife on the dance floor. My wife and I don’t dance, can’t dance really, so we stay behind and just people watch. Feeling pretty wasted but frisky, we stumble home to our small condo. In our bed are our two children. In the tiny second bedroom are my wife’s nephew and her mom. Downstairs is the Ayi. Somehow we still manage. A young Russian man I am not, but I can pretend for¡well..two minutes at least. ...