Communism...Hardly...

Communism...Hardly...

It was a perfect day in the neighbourhood even though the temperature this morning was zero the significant factor was the absence of rain. It had stopped raining, there was no precipitation.  We could come out of our little hole and squint and marvel at the sun.  It was also scooter weather, but first coffee.  we had brought several pounds of black gold, President’s Choice coffee from far off Canada, Zehrs in fact.  Let me get ahead of myself, it is now evening and we are preparing a dinner of Mennonite smoked pork sausages from Detweiller’s.  We packed them frozen in a collapsible freezer poach inside Cheryl’s suitcase and lied to every customs official we could about not carrying any food across international borders.  “No Sir, no food, none, nothing, not a morsel.”  Off course when our tiny reserve of coffee and sausage runs out we may revert to primitive ways.  Have you ever seen that movie about the soccer team whose plane crashes in the Andes.  I’ll say no more. We also brought over spices, dried soup mixes, over the counter drugs, oven mitts, garbage bags, protein bars and protein shakes, DVD movies and much more.  Yes, the DVD pirated movies available also across the counter in China, although of relatively good quality are mainly action adventure movies with aimless chase scenes, gratuitess sex, no dialogue and lots of killing.  We are more into the “Sleepless in Seattle” theme and therefore the numerous downloads, hard drives and DVD’s in our luggage, if nothing else we watch lots of TV.  Okay so we had our coffee now when Matt, a teacher at CTC and his wife Van, ask us to meet them downtown in front of Walmart to go to a Japanese restaurant for lunch.  We quickly check our social calendar and see that it is blank for March and so quickly agree.  The sun is still shining and it is therefore still not raining.  This is after all a semi-tropical monsoon climate.  We bring our back pack, with reusable shopping bags, grab our yellow and orange helmets which are not CSA approved and head for the parking area below the building where our mighty SNOW brand electric scooter as been patiently waiting for the past month.  I fire up the engine and the many highly polluting lead batteries make not a sound, even in motion the scooter is like a stealth bomber.  As a pedestrian I tend to hate scooters because they can silently come up behind you and scare the hell out of you.  As a driver I love scooters because you can silently drive up behind pedestrians and scare the hell out of them. I have written about the zen of scooting before, but my ying and yang is out of sync with the universe because I have not driven for a month, none the less I soon learn to warp and weave and flow with the motion.  I am a molecule in turbulent waters and I feel free.  Best of all we did not have to have my secretary call a taxi for us to get down town.  the scooter is our freedom machine in china.  Unlike chinese I adhere to basic courtesy, random rules of the road and signal lights when in my favour.  We meet Van and Matt and they escort us over to the Japanese restaurant staffed by chinese and full of Chinese.  We are the only westerners and people briefly look up and stare.  Van is actually Chinese and she helps us order.  I go for the picture menu with Matt, who like me does not like fish, raw fish, the smell of fish, fish bones, or the sea.  food is placed on an assembly line and travels the oblong counter.  Van and Cheryl dig in and have squid, sea weed, octopus, eel, prawns, dumplings made with tofu and numerous other things I could not identify.  Matt and I wanted to sneak out to Pizza Hut but we had beef over fried rice and vegetables with onions.  It was a great meal after we went to and I am ashamed to admit that we shop with regularity at Wal Mart but we do, where we bought some groceries.  today we scored big and found cheese.  Yes, Jinhua, our city has no cheese, there are few cows in China, most of them defected or died on the long March with Mao.  We quickly phoned Mat and Van and told them to come to the dairy section to get some mild cheddar cheese as it was going fast, mainly because we were buying it all and if they didn’t come we would have it all.  The meat department at Wal Mart looks like a pet store mainly because everything for sale is still alive: eels, turtles, fish, frogs and other of God’s creatures that I have not as yet identified but may originated from the Galapagos Islands.  Cheryl got some fruit and it all has to be weighed.  Sadly this is a culture that does not know how to queue.  It is basically every man for himself.  I would have thought communism would have taught certain lessons concerning the greater good, but apparently this is but another urban myth, so Cheryl taught them lessons in Q etiquette. One man she noted had been waiting a long time to have his produce weighed while others pushed in front.  There was a pack of people with Cheryl in the middle. Like a traffic cop with white gloves she raised both arms effectively blocking the crowd and in particular a pushy Chinese women with water chestnuts and lotus root.  Cheryl pushed her bags aside allowing the first this lone outlier and his vegetables and cheryl to get her things weighed.  After followed a flurry of what may have been vindictive Chinese as the pack fell upon itself in a self destructive fury.  We paid for our groceries at cashier 12.  I always have to mime that I want bags and Cheryl always has to prevent them from over fillings the bags.  It takes two. It really does.  Walmart is a subterranean cavernous structure literally build underground and we take the escalator to the surface.  I often have a panic anxiety attack thinking what would ever happen to us if the escalator just stopped.  Think about it.  We got to our bike parked in an area with 400 similar looking bikes.  Here we reposition our groceries into the various compartments on the bike i.e. under the seat and the little truck behind the passenger, there is a bag holder and some things fit on the floor between my legs. 

China

The Sound of the Crickets

Sports Day is a big event at Jinhua No 1 High School, so much so that the Day is actually an event which stretches over a three day period.  The students have been in active training since early September when they jog past my apartment window at 6 o’clock in the morning in military precision before I have even had my first cup of President’s Choice coffee.  They catch me at a disadvantage even though I hold the high ground. 

In the spirit of camaraderie, brotherhood, solidarity and for the greater good I vow that (one day)I will enter into intensive training and prepare myself for the staff event at sports day.  It is incumbent upon me to bring honour to my country and show these little morning joggers a thing or two about running.  To my horror I discover that some of these students are near world class runners and can do the 100 m in under 12 seconds. I am relieved to know I will be running against only Chinese staff who live on nothing but rice and vegetables and have short legs.  

I cleverly begin my fitness regime after hours when the students are locked into their dorms and I have free and open access to the track and walkways where I can leisurely walk, go by the canteen, pick up an ice cream cone and work out.  I do this for three nights before the big race and am fairly confident of my level of preparedness. As I know I am fated to set a record of sorts on the appointed day.

When Harriet, our office secretary, placed the sign-up list for the race in the staffroom it remained ominously blank for several days.  No one was willing to pick up the gauntlet. Terence, a former high school football player was first to sign and so I quickly signed and encouraged the others to as well.  We had five runners.  The Chinese, as always, had us out numbered.  Terence planned to finish last.  I devised plans of intimidating our rivals through a series of false starts and screaming, “I float like a butterfly, I sting like a bee.”  

On the day of the race the stands were full.  I had on my Canada t-shirt (made in China) my Nikes (made in China) and my nylon super light running shorts (made in China).  Pius was running in bare feet.  He is from Nigeria and he says that’s how he ran as a child in the villages.  Terence had his football jersey from high school on and looked imposing, Melanie had pink tights and had more of a Tinker-bell air about her, like she would fly to the finish. 

I watched the first round, batch, heat, group of runners, whatever they are called, all staff, and I have to say lightening fast would describe them, especially the one who taught Phys Ed.  He travelled at warp speed.  I took an immediate dislike to him.

Our turn came. The anticipation had been intense.  I was well hydrated and confident in my training. My shoe laces were tied with a double knot.  I bent down, placed my feet in the starting blocks and nearly lost my balance.  I calmly looked up and down my row.  I breathed deeply.  As in e-biking, I was in my moment and found my focus.  I was one with my environment.  I could hear crickets chirping on a distant mountain top.  I was ready to rip.  

The starter raised his gun and I took that moment in time to I step forward.  I walked toward the crowd, jumped up and down, raised my arms and they stood and either cheered or jeered, there is a subtle difference, but the sound is very much the same.  I got back in line.  

The starter seemed to aim the pistol at my head this time.  I looked down the pebbled track toward the distant finish-line and imagined myself there.  The gun fired, the adrenaline rushed and I was off like Jack the bear in Disney land on the fourth of July.  It was exhilarating.  I was in the lead.  I could hear the deafening sound of the crowds, there were no crickets.  My mind and body functioned as a well oiled machine until the very moment, despite my training, the ice cream, my walks, when my legs turned to cement.  By sheer will power I forced my legs to keep moving.  Lift damn you.  Lift.  Move.  Move. My body was betraying my iron will.  I crossed the finish line mere strides ahead of barefoot Pius and meters behind every single Chinese teacher.

My heart was racing, but I shook each runners hand.  I checked my time and surely the Gods were with me as I had indeed set a record as the first “over 60’s western administrator” to do the 100 m dash in just over 20 seconds.  I turned my face to the sun.    I basked in the glory. I smiled at the adoring crowds and vomited. 

China

Raking

China:

young people rake leaves

in the late afternoon

with calm precision

year round

a monsoon climate,

using peasant brooms

slow and ineffective,

with many brooms

the leaves eventually

meet in communal piles

the evening is still.

Resting.

In Western yards

and temperate climates

old men

use plastic rakes,

electric, whine and

angry gas leaf blowers,

they lack tranquility

an absence of solace,

high tech procedures

for simple manual tasks,

the piles sucked up with giant

vacuum trucks

an aesthetic amputation.

Where is the progress?

China: E-Biking in China

The Fundamentals of e-bike Zen

Take a moment to look on “You Tube” at “scooters in Asia”.  Try any city from Bangkok to Beijing to get the feel of the road.  The electric, or motorized scooter is the family car of Asia. It is also the utility vehicle and pick up truck of Asia.  I have seen every manner of cargo both human and otherwise carried on a scooter.  To Westerners what should logically be a vehicle to carry one or two passengers, can carry a family of five in relative comfort because it is all relative.  As I drove today I saw a little Chinese boy look  out at me from under his mother’s legs as she drove her scooter through traffic with another child on her back. 

Call me a speed freak, or call me a dare devil, but I assure you I am not boasting when I say my e-bike reaches speeds in excess of 45 km/hr on a downslope, it struggles on an upgrade.  It runs on 6 motorcycle batteries in series circuit that can take me about 80 km if I don’t try to go at maximum speed and rapid accelerate at intersections.  It runs extremely quietly, at full speed it sounds like the high pitch whine of a mosquito. I often slap my face as I drive. The exhilaration of the wind in my face is only tempered by the grit in the air and the exhaust from the many diesel engines.  After a drive into Jinhua from the relative quiet of the suburbs of the campus I have to wash my face of the city grim.  Ironically, the brand name of my scooter is SNOW...pure and clean.

Chinese streets are generally wide and often have special lanes for e-bikes because there are so many of them.  In some places cars, trucks, people, dogs, kids, more trucks, bikes all have to merge into one chaotic melange and that’s where the challenge begins.  There are rules of the road, because I was told there are 1700 questions on the Chinese drivers license test of which at any one time the testee has to answer a random selection of 100.  There are standards to be met!

There are rules.  These rules are precise. They cover every contingence and are widely ignored.  From chaos theory to the reality of the conditions on the road comes a curvilinear flow of traffic that no simple algorithmic function could describe.  There is motion. It is constant, often random, but it seems to work if one is bold decisive and goes with the flow.  One can not hesitate, one, as Confucius once said of his e-bike experience, “Be one with the ‘e” there is motion in poetry.”  Luke Skywalker might have said that, but the point remains the same. This only works of course if you have your eyes forward, never look behind, as mirrors are meaningless because what is in the rear is the past, driving is about the here and now, it is in the moment, one must be in the moment, one must have peripheral vision that borders on 180 and have your thumb on the horn button, of which there are two, at all times, that is why God gave us opposable thumbs my friends.

There is a definite yin yang and zig zag when I drive.  I have gotten to the point to which Chinese are cursing me either for my zen of driving or my knack of passing on the right, fading left and driving for the middle, much like in football.  I figure if I can irritate the Chinese I must be catching on.  I keep my thumb on the horn to resonant with the cacophony of the urban symphony.  One must yield to the driver making the turn, red lights are discretionary, if they work, cars go in bike lanes, bikes go in car lanes, parked cars have open doors, everyone who has a cell phone at some point while driving will use it, pedestrians do not look before crossing, neither do most drivers, they are either blind or operate on blind faith.  They are all fools.  Yet they live to walk another day.  

I am not a super hero.  I drive an e-bike because I can, just as people climb mountains because they are there, the difference being is: I get horizontally from A to B and have the adrenaline rush to prove it.  Yes, I have safety consciousness at the fore.  I wore a Wal-Mart bike helmet size small until the tight strap popped off while I was in traffic.  I now wear the helmet that came with the bike, a cross between a construction helmet and a WW l helmet.  Although I have looked for the CSA approved safety label on the inside of my helmet I have not as yet located it. I will not give up.  I am not a quitter, but I do know signal lights are for sissies and headlights only wear down the batteries.

 If women ride side saddle with high heels, and children ride wedged between their parents, on the floor boards, in back packs and elsewhere  and as long as pandas eat bamboo, I guess I can drive as one of the few Westerners in Jinhua, riding as to war, or Walmart looking like Colonel Klink from Hogan’s Heroes with bugs on my teeth and a smile on my face as I cross the bridge into the city over the mighty muddy Quai River as a diesel truck careens into my bike lane honking his horn simply because he can.  It is all Zen and we are all in the moment.  

China: The Dry Season

Dry Season

A calming walk along the river bank exposed after weeks of no rain, a long continuous row of willow trees lines the length of the park, roots seeking moisture from deep below. Scooters, bikes, walkers, old, young, families, all walk the inlaid stones and view the sluggish brown river below. The constant fisherman, some on flat rafts, others along the receding shore, it is the dry season now and they spend the day in futile design.  Young couples hand in hand oblivious, men in tense groups thrust cards to a small table, two brown poodles play on the grass, an old man crippled and bent walks with his wife every night, small boys play with their bubble machines, they eagerly run past my bench and stare at my strange western face, soon distracted they run along the path. The evening cools, its been such a long hot day.  The gardener brings out his record player, opera transcends the willows.  The dancers will soon arrive.

Novel

The Nesting Practices of Orangutans 
and Other Primates

A Novel

Chapter One 

“ In the event of aggression chimpanzees have ways of reconciling their differences. They may, in some circumstances, kiss and embrace after a fight. While some chimps have been known to go into an unpredictable frenzy...”

Dr Frank Walters, Berkley “Correlations of Primate Aggression to Human Behaviour” (2002)

Disturbing Memories

The temperature plunged as the sun set over the Gulf of St Lawrence, his bentwood rocker creaked over the old and worn pine floor boards of his Port Hood home. An onshore breeze slid across the cold water invading the porch over looking the Gulf causing him a slight shiver. His body conceding to the temperature. He savored the first of the invigorating Spring weather.  Not much for meditating he did absorb the cleansing and tranquil feeling of detachment and the contentment of solitude. His thoughts lulled by the rocking motion of his chair reveled in the joy of simplicity.  His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his Blackberry.  He allowed the epeleptic device to bounce across the coffee table, observing it with disdain and resentment, as the persistent noise disturbed his silence. Unwilling to pick it up, but unable to ignore the plaintive sound, he reached for his cell. Koko, his Chocolate Lab, lay contentedly at his feet jumped up as Mark broke his rocking rhythm stretching his arm across to the driftwood coffee table muttering, who the hell is calling me now?”  He pressed the green button to accept the call.

“Hello Dad, It’s Sabrina calling.  How are you?

There was a long pause.  Mark had to muster his scattered and confused thoughts after this unexpected intrusion.  Sabrina, his eldest daughter, who he had not seen in over three years, the same who after “running away” from her mom came to live with him only to leave again simply saying that it wasn’t working out, the same who never wrote and wanted no contact because it was too upsetting to her and her mom, this same daughter was now calling.

“Hello Sabrina, this is a big surprise.” Mark held his breath. He felt the familiar overwhelming sense of lassitude invade his body and a foggy shroud enveloped his mind. This was always his experience when dealing with his two daughters. His therapist had explained that it was his psyches way of protecting him from excessive bad memories and emotional trauma. 

He heard Sabrina exhale a long deep breath before she plunged into her rehearsed speech. “ Dad, there has been a lot going on. I’m not even sure where to begin.”

“So why don’t you start at the beginning.”  Mark wanted to reassure his daughter but with such a gap since last he spoke with or had seen Sabrina he felt skittish, his efforts tenuous.

“It’s all about mom.  What else?” Sabrina said with frustration and more resolve in her voice.  She’s been out of control again.  I don’t know if you know or not but she’s got another new live in boy friend,” sarcastically adding, “they met on one of those true love dating sites.  They chatted.  They dated. They fell in ‘love.’  And before I knew it the guy was living in the house.”

Not that he really cared, but in an effort to keep his side of the conversation Mark asked, “ And how’s that working out for them?”

“You’re kidding Dad.  They’re drinking buddies.  A bottle of wine every evening and whatever else mom has stashed away and then the arguing starts.”  She paused as she tried to control her bitterness. “Anyway, during an argument or fight whatever you want to call it, Jim, this time its a Jim, tried to catch a vase about to tip over next to where Mom was sitting. In her typical over dramatic way she recoiled into a ball on the couch as if protecting herself from an attack.  It’s so pathetic and so obvious what she tried to pull off.  Mom astounds with the pathetic.  She use to be much better at it. It brought back memories of when you and mom were together and she tried the same shit on you.”

“Yeah, I guess I know exactly what you mean.”

“I suppose when she thought the danger was over from this so-called attack she uncurled and jumped up from her seat and lashed out at Jim. It was almost comically.  She was so drunk she could hardly get the words out. I don’t think he knew what hit him when mom accused him of assault.  She  actually used that word.”

“Yes, Sabrina, I get it. I know the drill. What are you getting at with all of this and why are you telling me now? This doesn’t have anything to do with me any more and nor does it really surprise me either.”

“I know Dad, but just hear me out okay.”

“I’m listening.”

“ Jim literally screamed that he had not tried to hit her. I mean they were both pretty drunk so they sounded pretty ridiculous.  Next mom screamed at me, trying to get me to agree with her that I had witnessed Jim trying to assault her.  The whole thing was so bogus.  Dad, she is so totally nuts.  I tried  reasoning with mom, tried to convince her that there had been no attack. She was making the whole deal up.  Dad, really, he was only catching the damn vase for Christ sake. But nothing I said seemed to calm her down.  Mom was totally convinced that she had been assaulted, end of story.  When I tried to calm her down she became more agitated and slapped me across the face. She then accused me of being a traitor and that I really didn’t love her.  It was all her usual shit! It was her own damn fault that the stupid vase tipped in the first place, she knocked the table with her chair. She was at the clumsy drunk stage in her own drinking. Mom’s such a total bitch!”  Sabrina sobbed.

“It’s okay Sabrina, you’re okay”, Mark tried to comfort his daughter, even though he wasn’t up to speed on what was really going on, and had no idea where the conversation was heading or really why she had even bothered to call about all of this. The fact that his daughter had even called was a complete surprise and totally out of character.  The phone call and all this new craziness was disturbing. He had lived through all that same craziness with Sabrina’s mom and had no need to hear any more. Mark felt detached from his daughter and her life because he had been pushed to the periphery of events with the exception of rare occasions when she wanted something from him. Sabrina was a master of playing one parent of against the other, when one didn’t produce what she wanted at the time she would switch to the other and than back again as the whim dictated. She had nothing to give, like her mom she was a taker and a user.  They were light years distant from one another and Mark was leery of anything she might now have to say.

“Dad, I’m sorry I ruined your life!”   Mark gripped his cell tighter.  “I’m sorry Mom made me lie on the stand and that I helped send you to jail.” Sabrina sobbed and made a snorting noise as she blew her nose into a tissue. She sounded like a wounded animal in its death throes.  She continued blubbering, “After this incident with Jim and mom at the house along with her stupid accusations, lies and manipulations all my court memories with you came flooding back to me.  I even downloaded some of the court transcripts and read them over a thousand times. What Mom said and what she had me say just didn’t make sense. Its all lies and bullshit! Dad I am so sorry!  I was so young then. I didn’t know what I was doing and I know now that mom used me to set you up and that’s how you ended up in jail all that time.”

Mark sat in a numbed silence thinking. He had many conflicting feelings, solace mixed with an instantaneous acid reflux based on his gut feelings of distrust for anything his daughter had to say. What did she really want?  What was her angle? Naturally, he had always wanted this confession and candor from his daughter. He had always dreamed of justice, if not in the courts at least with his daughter.  It was a vindication.

He was never sure how such a thing would ever come to be. He wanted acknowledgement that he wasn’t the sordid person that his ex-wife and daughters had made him out to be with their pernicious stories over the years.  He recoiled from their constant and vehement character assassination, at one time closer to the events vigilant and fearful that people would find out about his criminal record. A record that was unfounded. 

 Still silent he began to cry, his chest heaved with one level of the burden lifted. Sabrina sensed her father’s crying, prompting her to hyperventilate as her sobs escalated and mingled with those of her father’s. Father and daughter, flotsam and jetsam, swaying with the tides, rising and ebbing with emotion. They stayed that way for minutes until Sabrina broke the silence.  “I just wish things weren’t so crazy and complicated but please believe me, I do love you Dad.”  The mendacity of her words created a viseral reaction  resonated with a hollow empitness, clenching, twisting his senses that rocked him into a heighted awareness.  Be careful!

The years of betrayal left a hollowness that echoed in the connecting pathways of their relationship.  In the past they were lost in the complictated  intracies of the relational maze.  He attempted one pathway inevitable to be blocked, hurt and confused. In a father’s determination he retreated in order to attempt another in road hoping he made a right choice, but it was foreordained that his choices were always stymied with criticism and ridicule by Joanne his Ex.  He had begun to understand  that at the end of each path was a bottomless black pit, never to be manouvered, never to be traversed.  

Mark pondered, was trust usually taken for granted between father and child?  The trust had been chiseled away by deceit, manipulations, and a deep greed for control.  Long ago he had come to an understanding of the main rule of the maze, “Take care of the queen, or pay the consequences.”  What’s really changed?  I’ve been down this road before.  

“Listen, Sabrina its very late and I’m tired can we pick this up later.  I appreciate the call, but in truth I can’t help you with your mother.  All of that is over.”  He firmly pressed the red button on the cell to disconnect the  connection.

Koko raised his head and stared, as if in concern for his master’s emotional state and then plucked his head down with a great exhaltatation of air as if the effort was far too great  an under taking.  Rocking to sooth his soul and calm himselve Mark was fixated in his thoughts.  He couldn’t even escape to his isolated home on the Gulf.  He was still reminded of the betrayals that started right back at ground zero in Borneo where Joanne who had resolutely followed him, or stocked him is more to the point, as he did his early primate research in Borneo, as a young and very naive antropologist, to the mad thesis writing period at the University of Toronto and on and on to the present, that fucking narcissistic bitch just wouldn’t let go until she had destoyed both him and the kids.

Thunder sounded over the Gulf. Koko buried his head under Mark’s legs letting out a little whine.  “It will be okay old boy, gently panting the Lab’s head, we’ll weather this shit too.”

Narcissistic Relations

Loving Mind Games of Narcissistic Madness

and other Misdirected Road Kill

She loves her children 

truly,

dearly,

she does with all her heart and souless soul,

an abyss of conscience.

like a female preying mantas, consumates,

then consumes her mate

toxic, like the daily bottle of wine disolving

her liver.

Mother is happy. Her hands shake.

She delights to play the eldest against

the youngest one day,

the reverse, the next.

They are her  little play things,

puppets and mimes

speechless and helpless

competing for their mother’s love

trying to please

never quite perfect enough

never quite good enough

Mother laughed, always, unite

than divide and conquer.

Triangulate!

Yearning,

“She favoured me today

I’m the golden child.”  

“She knows I’m the special one,

not her.”

“She loves only me.”

“I love her. I hate her”

“We will never leave.”

The three musketeers, they smile,

they hate covered with a

veneer of emotions, 

a facade of joy

to the depths of deception.

The wealthy lawyer slyly got out,

another woman I’m told.

The teacher learned his lessons well.

Sadly, the retired bus driver,

well he

never really knew what hit him.