old

I have definitely become a broken record. Upon moving to China my computer drank a beer, passed out, and hasn’t woke up.  Needless to say, I’ve been put back.  I did however do some writing,  below is a poem to tide you over while I get reorganized.

 

The trouble with heart attacks is their complete lack of poetry.

Given their name, a more innocent person might imagine

    hearts clad in iron and steel

    laying siege against the ribs

    which hold them like prison bars     

Or maybe:

    a cowardly heart hiding behind a wall ridden with holes

    from cupid and his poison arrows

But no, 

heart attacks aren’t such things.

They are a product of a cold formula

of time, sloth and lard.

Somewhere along the way, the heart is

stripped of its symbolism

and is left to its utilitarian purposes

Gone are the sexy and subtle hearts carved on trees

and tattooed around the word “Mother” on the forearms of 

the tough.

Gone are the hearts of lovers.

Gone are the hearts of every color,

save that of the greasy and grey.  

The heart both pump and piston

is left to beat away the seconds

like the last drummer of lost causes.

 

Then one day the elephant comes

and the drummer lays down his sticks

    at your daughters wedding;

    at Friday’s fish fry;

    at any place your feet take you.

Maybe it’ll will find your bed

and, interrupting your last cigarette, 

sit on your chest 

and flicks out your lights

with it’s trunk.

A good place to start the story of the last month since I’ve updated is with a phone call I received a few days after returning from Hong Kong.  It what was the Public Security Bureau (the PSB), the Chinese Police, and they wanted to sit down with me and have a chat. 

It wasn’t a fun chat.

Two officers came by work the next day, and for the next hour riddled me with questions. They wanted to know everything:

Where and when I was born.
To whom?
Where and what I studied, why.
When I came China
Why I came to China
How long I plan to be in China
You studied in China? Where?
The Southwest University for Minorities?
Do you have any Minority Friends?
What are they names? Where do they live? What’s their contact information?
Do they support China and the Olympics?
Do you support China and the Olympics?
Have you ever traveled to Tibetan areas?
When? Why? Who did you speak to? Where did you stay?
Are you planning to protest?

And so on and so forth. They wanted to know everything. A few things could have caused their suspicion, other foreigners living in the city had been contacted but never outright investigated. The PSB is now among the readership of my blog. Others got a phone call.  This was the only time I was bothered. Before they began their ceaseless inquiry, I showed them my flight itinerary. I was leaving China three days before the Olympics. Therefore, all their paranoia was miss-placed.

Flying back to Chicago was a long and tedious adventure. A 13-hour flight that takes off and lands at the same time makes a 37-hour day, and I didn’t sleep much. I landed at 330 on Tuesday the 5^th, and a good nine days later I’m still fighting jet lag.

Being home is strange. While living abroad I watched (or stalked if you’re going to be a jerk about it) friends and family. I kept little tabs on them. Across that timeline some people’s lives wound up exactly where they expected it to; others seemed to have turned to stone; and still others have found themselves in places both new and entirely unexpected. I am biting my lips to see what happens next.

My time at home is, unfortunately, an hour-glass.  I will be gone soon, back to life in Chengdu. To those of who read this that I know and love that I do not get the chance to see (for whatever the reason), god bless the life and the journey; somewhere down the line I will see, love, and embrace you.