Going the Distance

The kolea are appearing a little more erratically each morning as I drive to work, either because of the ongoing "wintry" weather or more likely, because they are becoming agitated in preparation for their upcoming migration. No longer resembling nondescript heavy sparrows on long legs, they have been vividly color-corrected the way my Chinese painting master fixes my modest works, with bold slashes of white and black gouache, in their breeding plumage. Soon they will all take off, en masse, on or about April 25 for their long distance flight to Alaska. There they nest and raise young, before returning to Hawaii on or about August 25. In Hawaii they never leave their small grassy territories, except when they make that 5,500-mile non-stop round-trip* to Alaska. An enviable way to live really, a jet-set frequent-flyer lifestyle from one beach home to another, and their journey always astonishes me, much as I was impressed by someone who told me yesterday he'd shaved his head because he's in training to make a long- distance, inter-island channel swim, an equally daunting way to cross an ocean. (Curiously, now he looks just like Capt. Picard of Star Trek, another one who knows about long distances, albeit at warp speeds.)

The kolea's internal clocks are ticking just like the odometer in my beloved 1990 Miata, soon to make a serious milestone of her own. With 197,000+ miles on the dial, I believe she will make the magic 200,000 before my birds return. Not really paying attention at the time a few years ago, I missed the ritual I have enjoyed more than once in my life, of driving around in a parking lot until the odometer turns over to 100K and celebrating with a bottle of champagne. Although I did manage to have a drink with a friend when the roadster, as plucky and durable as a kolea, made 111,111 miles, my friend observing that TAO 61 had "achieved oneness."

I drive a little more than 200 miles Monday through Friday (rarely leaving home on weekends); that gives me about 15 weeks to make the milestone, maybe early to mid-July. By the time the kolea come home, I will have driven the equivalent of about eight times around the Earth, about 35 kolea roundtrips, or a good chunk of the distance to the moon (238,000+ miles), a new milestone to shoot for. All this with only one clutch replacement; my father would be proud of me! Although I did total the car once, and I blew a head gasket at 50K, but she still gets good gas mileage and runs as sprightly as a kolea across a field. And I can park anywhere, and I never have to pick up people at the airport; where would I put them and their luggage?

When you fly to Hawaii on United (and maybe other airlines too) from the U.S. West Coast, you can participate in a game to guess the halfway time based on calculations the airline gives you: airspeed, headwinds, distance, factors that kolea just know by instinct, but that actually bore me to tears. (I can buy my own champagne.) The closest winner, usually some honeymooning couple, gets a bottle of champagne, fresh from the first class galley.

Here's my game: to the person who most closely predicts the day I make my 200K milestone, I will send a bottle of champagne to drink in your own favorite parking lot in honor of TAO 61 -- and my faithful mechanic. I may even send you his phone number.

*Approximate distance, Honolulu to Anchorage and back; I don't know their individual itineraries.

Attention, Patience and Tradition

I was making panir (or paneer) last night and realized it's been a year almost since I first talked about this meditative cheesemaking exercise -- bringing a gallon of chilled milk just to a full boil without scorching or boiling over requires considerable attention and patience. It took me a long time last night but I didn't want to rush because that's what will cause the scorching. Gently stirring the pot feels like qigong, and the warm smell and consistency of steaming milk is comforting on a cool rainy night. After almost an hour of tending the pot, I added the lemon juice, and voila, it curdled perfectly. No scorching. So, tomorrow I will probably do spinach and panir. Not tonight though, I have my traditional Chinese painting class, another exercise in attention and patience.

I am making some small progress in this technique: in each painting, I accomplish one brush stroke or a tinted leaf that is almost right. Practice is required and it is the only creative thing I have ever done where copying is expected. (It is after all, Chinese.) This is hard: very often my first attempts at something are the best because they are concentrated but spontaneous; it is the duplication that is hard. When I used to play the piano, the first sight reading of a piece was often the best I ever did; the practice and perfection part was harder (boring really), and I never was very good at memorizing anything. And spontaneous "modern" sort of dancing is fun as well, without the difficulties of the precise choreography and perfection that qigong or t'ai chi demand. I should learn to apply my editing mentality when I do all these things.

I think we don't spend enough time in quiet attentive acts anymore. I finished Carpenter's old book on China, which ends with a discussion about Port Arthur, the bloody site of Russian/Japanese hostilities in Manchuria. He concludes the book:

"To day [~1925] Port Arthur is only a symbol of the tragic outcome of the clash between two great forces of the Far East. Its downfall marked the end of a chapter in the history of the struggle for supremacy in eastern Asia, and the next one is still unwritten. For me it marks the end of these travels, and I must leave it to others to tell the story of what is to come."

This kind of writing and commentary comes out of patient attention, and it makes me a little sad to realize he died not long after. And reading the book requires a little patience; it has a slowness of pace (and an early-20th-century American point-of-view) that suggests cozy evenings by a fire, cuddled under a lap robe, no TV, less radio, a book to pick up after you put down the evening paper. It's a quiet leisure that we have to consciously create today, with so much competing for our attention. Reading it was like stirring hot milk.

Holding on to History

How rich and interesting is the history of literature and publishing. I am thinking of this because a friend has just received her new Kindle, while I am reading an 83-year-old slightly worm-ridden book published in 1925 and having just ordered a Quality Paperback volume of the complete novels of Jane Austen. Another pound or so for my shelves, (to say nothing of the curious hard-to-find volume from 1988, so new, on Chinese brush painting I found on eBay.pn (Philippines) that I am having shipped, for something like 30 times my winning (and only) bid. Still, the total cost is about what I would have paid, had I been able to get it retail, except it was sold out. Two kilos from the Philippines costs a bundle. Bear in mind, I'm talking about a book.

Over the weekend I was sorting through my vast accumulated library of books about China and came upon a couple of tarnished gems, a travelogue from 1925,  discussed below,  and another from 1940, Through China's Wall by Graham Peck. I really must catalogue, or at least arrange, all these books by my own system...when there is sufficient accumulation, then a filing system makes sense. (I call it file by pile. I apply this system in my office as well. And when you have enough piles, some of them conveniently just go into the trash.) For my library, I have piles-- classifications and sub-categories-- of fiction, history, literature, art, language, culture, religion, philosophy, journalism, photography, travelogues, (Americans traveling in China, Chinese traveling in China), memoirs (of the Qing dynasty, of the Republic, of the Long March, of Westerners infatuated with the communist developments, of Liberation, of the Great Leap Forward, and those holocaust-like memoirs of the Cultural Revolution -- read two or three of those and you've read them all, and yet they all rightly demand to be heard).

One of the gems of my travelogues is China, by Frank G. Carpenter, (at right), an American who did a whole series of books, "Carpenter's World Travels," for turn-of-the-century armchair travelers. I had never read this 1926 volume, published just after he died and inherited from the Wizard's grandfather. With a sturdy binding embossed in gold with a proud steamship on the cover, it has 102 very fine black and white photographs with tales in a leisurely style that recall his several trips to China, over 40 years, from the demise of the Qing to the establishment and degradation of the early Republic. It's more than a little racist in that way of 1925: describing a visit to the "Drug Hall of Propitious Munificence," Hangchow's "drugstore like none other on earth," he discusses, and vaguely dismisses, Chinese medicine, commenting that, "On the whole, the Chinese are a healthy people...it is a fact that the Chinese are differently constituted physically from members of the white race, and are not nearly so sensitive to disease as we are...so adapted to their environment that they can survive living conditions and even disease that would bring illness and death in an American community." He uses the same arguments in commending the hardworking coolies and "jinrickisha" drivers, labourers "as good as can be found anywhere in the world."

Included also is the typical forecasting of the time -- China as awakening sleeping giant and market for the world, with a population of "400 million in a country that could easily accommodate 50 percent, or even 100 percent more than that" -- but he never foresaw SARS and bird flu, to say nothing of one-child policies and Mao's purges and reform-through-labor camps. Or the giant Wal-Mart in Beijing.

And yet, for all its turn-of-the-century mindset, it is much more sympathetic, and less narcissistic, if quaintly naive, than the currently popular Lost in Planet China or Nathan Gray's tale of walking the Great Wall, the style of travelogue that is all about "me." Carpenter loved China, he was not writing about himself, (although he frequently compares China with America for purposes of conveying an understanding of magnitude, politics or sociology). I suppose at the time, writing about a trip to China was sufficient; it didn't have to be about MY experiences in a strange land.

"I have often been asked," he writes, "what country I found the most interesting in all my travels over the globe. To me they are all interesting, and each has its own appeal, but regard for the truth has compelled me to answer 'China.' I have visited this Far Eastern land no less than five times, yet its fascination increases rather than grows less. It is a country with a most amazing past, and destined, I believe, to an even more amazing future." And such nice writing. No cursing.

Reading this musty old book is holding in one's hand a tangible, if subjective, interpretation of history. Of course, all interpretations are subjective. As Taoist Deng Ming-Dao says, "Everything is relative because we are each condemned to our own particular vantage points. Our minds know the world by constructing conclusions from the data of our senses." How lovely to have this book preserved, a conclusion from the data of Mr. Carpenter's senses. I don't know if it, or the Graham Peck which I plan to read next (or Jane Austen for that matter) would have the same appeal on a Kindle.

Les Operas Ont Finis!

The 2009 HOT season concluded last night, with a very agreeable Carmen. What a treat; I didn't realize it was in French. I actually understood some of it,  alors, un petit peu, without relying on the translation screen.  I bid a fond aloha to the now familiar couple in the adjacent seats; we look forward to seeing each other next year. We have much in  common with the Mrs., a delightful retired school teacher, and her husband, an avid hunter of pigs, goats and deer. We shared tales of the pet cats and birds we have loved, the chickens we have raised, the venison we have cooked -- sharing our mutual discovery that it is really much less messy to skin a chicken than to pluck it.  Not that any of us do this anymore.  And this at the opera, and a dramatic one indeed.  I don't know why I should have gotten so upset with Beyonce's "Single Ladies" video--opera is equally lascivious, albeit tempered with classical music. Of course, in Carmen, Jose actually did put a ring on it, but Carmen threw it back at him, fickle hottie that she was.  Carmen is just full of tunes you know in your heart, fado-like rhythms and melodies accompanied by sexy choreography. And of course, a downright lusty and foolish tragic plot.

Lust is a key element in opera. Two weeks ago, the second offering of the season was "The Abduction from the Seraglio," which I kept calling "The Rape of the Seraglio," thinking possibly of the Rape of the Sabines.  An early title apparently was "Rape in ...," but "Abduction from" turns the story more into a rescue operation, at least for modern ears to which "rape" only connotes sexual assault or violation.  This is the opera that was the source of the "too many notes" comment by the emperor who commissioned it from Mozart.  Our  HOT "Seraglio" performance  featured Hawaii's own environmentally correct Jason Scott Lee, in the non-singing, not-too-many-notes role of the pasha. He was good at the poses.  (I don't suppose it's any stranger to have this delightful Chinese-American playing a Turk than it was to have Richard Chamberlain star in The King and I, HOT's 2006 summer offering. What a lot of interesting talent we have in Hawaii!)   

Alas, in the not-so-bitter cold of a Hawaii winter, weary and busy with Chinese painting classes, opera-going, work (especially work) and social commitments,  I missed the Westminster Dog Show, where a stalwart old non-competitive spaniel won best-of-show.  I would like to have seen it. But dogs and opera will still be linked in my memories of this season: leaving the hall last night, we followed a young couple to the parking garage. He was carrying a nice Gucci tote out of which poked the head of a maltese or shih tzu, some fluffy toy purse pooch.  I didn't recall a dog in the cast (like the Barber of Seville's wayward bulldog in 2000, I think, has it been that long?  Or maybe it was The Marriage of Figaro).  We commented that the dog was really well behaved.  "Oh we always bring him, he loves the opera, the symphony and ballet too," the young woman confided.   

That's why I enjoy the opera -- you just never know what's going to happen.

Sin City?

After watching the terrific Hong Kong yin/yang cops and criminal film from 2002, Infernal Affairs, I was compelled to revisit photos from my brief August stop in Hong Kong on the way to Xian and Wudang. I surprised myself with this shot of Kowloon, from somewhere near Tony Leungs' (both Tonys) handprints on the Walk of Hong Kong Film Stars. Of course, the "SIN" in the photo is part of the signage of SINOPEC, the Chinese oil company, and has nothing to do with sin (unless you equate oil with sin.)

Infernal Affairs is a great movie, with superb acting and a thoughtful plot, (Tiny) Tony Leung Chiu Wai and Andy Lau giving a synchronized performance like Pacino and De Niro. I don't know why Scorsese had to remake it. But I also watched the same way Hawaii folks enjoy Hawaii 5-0, Magnum P.I. or Lost, to see the sets as much as the action. I was a little disappointed that in Infernal Affairs, the cops/criminals never took the ubiquitous Star Ferry (see below). In fact except for a drug deal gone bad, there weren't any at-sea scenes at all.  Some nice views of the harbor, though.

Maybe it was because the whole country was holding its economic  breath for the Olympics that I was blessed during my visit with a day of clear blue skies and fresh air. The last time I was in HK, in August 2001, I was distressed at the deteriorating air quality, although some of the sunsets seemed worth it.  In late August 2008, I enjoyed stunning views of the harbor, but just three weeks later, things had changed.  Maybe sin and oil are the same thing.

Late August

Late September

He jumped a string bean*

The Yellow Emperor has become a vegetarian.

Last night while I was preparing a nice dinner of marlin, some veggies, and rice, he leapt to the counter (he is the Emperor after all), I thought for a scrap of the fish. But he snatched a green bean and bounded off with it to his lair. He toyed with it all night, tossing it in the air, hiding it under things so he could find it again, laying on top of it. I think he mistook it for a lizard. The demure Fifi ignored him; she is content with her red and green and blue tiny fur faux mice that she brings to our bedroom in the middle of the night.

This morning he was still at it with the bean. It was ragged and the stem was gone. He's been a little off his feed of Fancy Feast (he is the Emperor after all) and since he seemed to be saying "Give me a string bean, I'm a hungry cat,"** I tossed a nice fresh one to him before I left for work. He pounced on it and resumed his bean-foolery.

All of the 11 cats of my life have had perverse little pleasures --one loved hose washers, another had a Santa that he would attack if you asked him to "Kill Santa," there's Fifi and her mouse preferences, the big silver tabby who had a thing for purple pom pons, the tuxedo cat who would knock over milk cartons, lick all the milk up and give himself diarrhea. And all of my male cats have liked to eat papaya and cantaloupe. (The Wizard thinks it's because these fruits smell musky, like female cats in heat. I don't know how he would know that.) But never before have I known a cat who liked to play with string beans. He may be channeling Bob Dylan. (See quote note below.)

The meal turned out great: I coated the marlin with a special hot curry mix and sauteed it, then deglazed the pan with a splash of vermouth to sauce the rice, a microwaved leftover mix of basmati and Uncle Ben's, weird and not half bad. (Someone on one of my China retreats was horrified that I might nuke leftovers--he said the microwaves "stick to the rice." He also lamented that during the retreat he was required to forgo his daily bong hit.) As for the string beans, I sauteed and briefly steamed them with some sliced pearl onions, a bit of red bell pepper, and seasoned with a melange of pepper and fines herbes. Delicieux!

Notes about the quotes: Bob Dylan refers to string beans twice on the "Freewheeling" album, in the sung (but not necessarily written) lyrics of *I Shall Be Free, and ** Talking World War III Blues. What's with Dylan and beans? Remember the great scene in "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid"? Knockin' on Heaven's Door is what everyone remembers from this movie, but I loved the scene with Dylan's character, Alias, reviewing the cans of beans while trying to ignore something really awful happening behind him. "Beans...beans...pork and beans...kidney beans...beans." This movie is worth it just for that moment.

La saison d'opera est arrivee!

Another one of those cyclical things: ce soir, nous allons a l'opera. That is to say, tonight we are going to the opera, joining what is usually a surprisingly large crowd of mostly gray-haired people and some younger artistic types, a multi-cultural horde of Hawaii folks eager for one of the world's original multi-media events. Puccini's Manon Lescaut kicks off the three-part season, the only theatrical thing that the Wizard will consent to sit through in an darkened auditorium with strangers. Our season tickets have us well seated every other Friday through the end of February. Live opera is enjoyable partly because it 's unpredictable: odd things can happen like during The Mikado when the Japanese Consul of Hawaii played that role and opened the second act with an unscripted aside to the audience: "I want you to know that this [the crazy opera] has absolutely nothing to do with Japan." Then there was the Barber of Seville in which a bulldog wandered around the stage aimlessly, stealing the show. And last season, another Barber who performed entirely on a Segway. Seeing the same opera again is always a new experience. (Although I think I could probably do without revisiting 2005's "Susannah." The Wizard's comment: "McCarthy has a lot to account for." It includes characters named Blitch and Little Bat.)

Speaking of dogs, somewhere in the middle of this season will also occur the Westminster Kennel Club Show, as scripted and yet unpredictable as an opera, with prancing and posing and critiques of performances. I'm really a cat person in that I prefer to live with felines and envy their lifestyle; though I like dogs, from a distance, especially other people's dogs. I always associate this TV evening with February in Hawaii. I cuddle up under a blanket with a cat on my feet and we watch the dogs. Scripted like the opera, with that same cultured-sounding guy who describes the breeds, there are still memorable surprises: the time a junior handler had to cope with her charge pooping in the middle of her promenade, on TV no less; the inspiring tribute to the 9/11 rescue dogs (stalwart retrievers and shepherds who must have regarded the poodles and shitzus the way construction workers or sailors look at models or TV news anchors); the best-of-show German shepherd of 15 years ago who had such poise, I thought he was going to make an acceptance speech: "I'd like to thank my handler, my groomer, and all the good folks at Ken-L-Ration."

The opera and the dog show are all about propriety and grace under pressure, similar to values that I'm seeing in the Jane Austen video fest I've been indulging in recently. Everyone in the 18th century knows their place, has impeccable manners and clear expectations (although sometimes people do lose it like the dog on promenade and other folks are just plain mean and stupid). Passion is balanced by modesty.

Maybe this 18th century mood is why I was a little startled by a news clip on Obama's nod to a Beyonce video. Beyonce is a beautiful woman, and clearly talented, but do Barack and Michelle let the girls watch "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)"? Is this soft porn or burlesque? Would Jane Austen do the single ladies dance? Would it fly in an opera? I guess I'm just behind the times.