Cultured

I’m back from Hong Kong (as of yesterday). I am happy to say that during my trip I accomplished no word progress, but did something far more important: I got my architecture together, and I am nearly done tracing all 122 character relationships. As my story has that many characters and they are all related somehow to each other, this has been a very tricky process of figuring out how to go about writing a complete story while taking care to pay each character their own due during the course of the novel. This was accomplished by several steps, which are still in progress:

1) After the creation of the character pantheon (which I’ll call it from now on, to save myself from sounding too presumptuous), I set out a 122-stage timeline, and then filled in the blanks with various worldwide impacting events, which besides giving me a general outline of how the world is generally changed during the course of the story, is going to eventually give me the opportunity to flesh out each character without using the characters as a crutch to move the main plotline of the story forward, which is for most fantasy fiction, a huge and deadly pitfall most fantasy literature falls into.

2) Creation of the relationship map: by writing on a large sheet of paper (really large), I was able to finally draw out a lineage of relationships between characters visually. It’s incredibly hectic and busy, but finally finished. This has been important not only because I am able to see which characters have the most relationships, but also I have the “big picture” of how people are related to one another.

3) Finally, progress on the character path is being done right now. This is the most challenging, as it requires filling out 122 character leaves, which contain numerical accounts of which characters they are related to. After finished (I’m only halfway through now) the process becomes much like “Mexican Train,” in which the leaves are lined up one against another with matching numbers. The end product is a seamless line of characters, from one corner of the board to another. After that is done, setting up each character on the timeline is a cinch, and then brainstorming and production of their stories becomes the next and final step in the process.

I hope.

This project has been terribly influenced by the wuxia genre, as well as my own crazy desire to do something way different. It’s similar to Catherynne Valente’s Orphan’s Tales, except using a wider range of characters. I suppose the strongest link would be to the Arabian Nights, but again, as there is no central character (the story is about how all the characters end up influencing the force of the plot), it will be slightly different. My goal is to create a series of stories that reflect the inner turmoil of each character using an introspective point-of-view, while not falling prey to the fantasy genre’s pitfalls: typecast characters, the dungeon crawl plot, and the worst of all: managing plot through the character, while not allowing character to grow and explore the context of surroundings.

For those of you who have found this website through Google or some search engine after reading my article in Studio Classroom: welcome. This website though, is basically a repository of various writings over the years. It is not in the best of shape, is terribly haphazard, and the only continuity it has is that I have continued to write at least something over the many years it has been around (since I’ve graduated from college). Being an idealist, I always have the hope that I will hit on one of those “blogging goldmines” which do not actually exist (to be honest). I’m just not happy with talking about one thing enough to make a marketable blog, so this is the product. Nevertheless, I am proud of what has been put out, even if my readership wanes and changes over the years. I hope you enjoy what I’ve got on here.

Progress on the project has been slower these last couple of days. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because my mind is prepping for Hong Kong, or perhaps I’m running into the slump that the story is becoming too long, without any breaks. The idea is that the whole story is one long meditative piece, that flows and tries to explain what death is like for a dying man, going through various phases, but right now the piece feels very exaggerated and without a lot of focus. It’s going to need a lot of rewrites, which actually I’m looking forward to for the first time.

I’m going to take my computer and the project down to Hong Kong still with the same goal of meeting at least 1,000 words a day. Though I missed my count yesterday (which I feel like a gaping hole) I’m going to keep the minimum. I would love to be matching Jay Lake’s 10k per day, but at this point in my writing, that’s just impossible. My choice of words is too shallow, my ability to see the plot flow from my head to paper is not complete enough, and the lack of having finish a couple of projects and so not really understanding how I work best is yet to be seen. As my first hopefully finished product, cheers and prayers. I’m nearing the stopping point of my last project, except I’m now working with the understanding of what needs to be done.

WIP:
Death was approaching. Perhaps Ethic was singing his last song now, the final ballad of his life, and watched his livelihood descend into a mute realm. He had no lovers awaiting him outside, no family to his name. Only those people outside who cared nothing for him. And yet, somewhere inside he felt a distant hope, though he could not put it to words. Somewhere, he felt a soft glow cross over to him, but he did not know it, nor had no name for it. Perhaps he should give a name to it. Imbroglio embraced him. He was like a mass of wires tangled together, and as he crouched further down, crowding flesh to flesh, trying to discern something extraordinary within the nothingness that surrounded him, he felt only the beating of his own heart.

This morning I had a little freak out. I installed Darkroom on my main desktop, but because I don’t have a .NET installed on the laptop, I cannot use Darkroom there, so when I use the laptop I need to use MSWord to write, and save it as a .doc, transfer it to this computer, open it with MSWord, and then copy the text into Darkroom where I continue writing, and when I am finished, copy that text back to MSWord and save it. I have to do this because my desktop .txt files use Chinese character encoding (as the system language is Chinese), whereas the laptop uses Western character encoding. This seems easier than installing East Asian fonts onto the laptop, so I will continue with it and see where it goes.

I completed 1130 words on the project tonight. Overall, I was surprised with how quickly it went. I don’t feel a lot of it is quality, but then who ever does? I was following my outline this time, but strangely it seemed like I deviated from the outline fairly quickly into it. The character of Ethic is becoming larger, even though I am still having trouble pin-pointing his exact personality: at least his history is coming easier.

Tomorrow I will be attending lectures all day: in the morning about Tianjin’s geography (by Tim Nash), and then in the afternoon lectures at the Tianjin History Museum, which according to my teacher, isn’t really about Tianjin, and actually has very few exhibits. Nevertheless, tomorrow is gearing up to be a fun day. I probably won’t have a chance to write much until the evening though.

WIP:
He began to remember things now, of his life before. He did not know how it had been locked away. As the water continued to surge around him, he felt his willpower divide between staying alive and protecting a secret room locked deep within his mind. His body grew colder though, and with every shiver that slipped into his heart, the lock of the door creaked ever more open. He saw images of who he once was: that beautiful violinist, charismatically wailing his music to a raging sea. It was all very romantic, Ethic noted, and with a surprising thought, saw Demos walk up from behind him on the cliff and touch his shoulder admiringly.

“Who are you?” The young Demos asked him. “You play like an angel.”

Ethic saw himself smile at the young shadow. “I am the curator of the past, stranger. I am the Lord of this castle, Lord of the Last Music and the Caller of the Spheres.”

Demos’s face brightened with wonder. “You control the weather?”

Ethic smiled. “Yes, and more.” Ethic touched his strings lovingly. “Or this does. I am not sure exactly of its power, but with the right notes, the seas will rage or calm. It is a rather amazing instrument. Would you like to hear more? You should come to Havalas this evening, as I am playing in the concert.”

“I will come!” Demos smiled. “It sounds like a wonderful night.”

963 words on sf.Fable today. Breaking writing block is releasing. Knowing that I was 37 words away from meeting my daily goal on my first day is absolutely thrilling to me. The fact that at the school where I was writing I was not able to break 1,000 worries me little. The fact that I lost steam about 500 words into it, and then plowed on through with no outline to draw from, merely enjoying in the respite of the creation process was fantastic. 1,000 words seems doable for me. I am immensely happy that today was a success, and I am hoping that tomorrow in addition to matching that, but also cutting my gaming time down to a half-hour, will yet be another successful day. After thirty of these kinds of days, I will be blowing over in ecstasy.

It’s freezing today. I was standing near the basketball courts arranging events for the next few days on my cell phone (you try talking on your cell phone in commuter bike traffic when the air is able to freeze your nose off) and turning into an ice cube, and now that I’ve got things settled, I’m ready to have a nice relaxing night.

WIP:
In the distance, bobbing on the sea, was a large ocean-liner. It was a floating city. The crystalline hull sparkled dying sunlight off the pure sea. Fireworks and music poured out from the decks, and as it came closer, Ethic realized that the beach had disappeared and he was suddenly on board. He felt the sway of the waves beneath him, and then felt the sturdy wood of the top deck. Demos’s voiced pitched high above, like a sonorous cascade:

“Turgid we run, children, mentally clear from the music of the spheres. The music of the spheres approaches, and doom, children! Doom!”

His mad laugh creened.

“See in the heavens, the arch of Demos glows! The people are silent, they pray to us, their Lords, their Gods, their masters and idols. Live among the reefs of this illusory world, heed the calling of the siren who sings sweet to us all, and wait for the end of the world, my friends!”

I spent a good number of hours this morning searching for online word processors and re-found an old one I used to use and was quite successful with (Darkroom). For a couple of hours I dabbled with The Witcher, until I realized it was bad for my health, and so I got out of bed and I strategically planned out the next couple of weeks (until I go to Hong Kong), making a goal of writing 1,000 words a day, as well as spending two hours in the morning preparing for class.

I am also equally as excited about finding a little tool to use for keeping track of my word count for my project. I’m going to try and post updates on a daily basis (something I haven’t been able to do before for more than two weeks), so here goes. Of course, it’s not the tools that make or break you, but your dedication to finishing a project: that is something I will be working through in the next few weeks.

It doesn’t look like much at the moment, but those little number will be rising.

In addition, I’ve made a commitment to only playing games for a half hour per day. That will make a huge difference on my productivity levels.

Did some research on my project. Compiling labor statistics from the United States and United Nations websites is only slightly fun, when it does not end with you realizing your morning has disappeared and you now have to go to class, yet not having actually prepared for the class yet. Also did some blog reading, but my list continues to grow. Google Reader is hellish: one-click subscribe.

I did do better than yesterday though, as I’ve ended the morning work a half-hour ahead of what it was yesterday.

The Birds

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Today I leave for China. I’ve been home for three or so weeks, flitting around from store to store in search of Christmas gifts, taking my grandmother from mall to mall, parking lot to parking lot, searching through shelves of books and games and soaps and shampoos. I’ve eaten mountains of candy and tortilla chips and guacamole dip, cut dozens of roasted birds and drank gallons of cider and coke. In the end, I feel refreshed, though a little dizzy by everything, and knowing that I’m returning to China is a relief. That sounds funny, because China is anything from a relief, but the idea of coming home - albeit a strange one - is wonderful and relaxing.

I spent the last three days at Lake Tahoe getting pelted by snowballs, staying up red-eyed watching opera and playing Apples to Apples, and falling flat on my face at the Homewood Ski Resort, skidding down icy slopes like a madman, flipping onto my flat and flinging my skis into the air, groaning at the pain of my newly realized talent: getting beaten blue by Black Diamonds. This evening (or rather, this morning) my friend and I watched five hours of Firefly, and I said a goodbye to him in our strange, California cold. It seems odd leaving all this again, knowing I may not come back for quite some time. But altogether, I am at peace with it. Although today might become blurred with the haste of packing, I am certain that once I am on that plane my life will slow down considerably.

Christmas Skyscrapers

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

In Redwood City, we enjoyed a quiet Christmas. After a dinner of grilled steak and breaded shrimp, with Caesar salad and green beans (yey for traditional American dinners), we settled down for about an hour of opening presents. We took turns, one-by-one, until all gifts were opened. Afterwards, we turned down the lights, lit some candles, and listened to the second chapter of Luke, and then we had a short discussion about growth and our plans for the next couple years, as both myself and my brother are leaving in a week for who knows how many years. My grandmother shared some heartfelt stories (as she is so wonderful at doing) about her grandchildren coming to know God, and then we settled down on some small desserts.

It feels odd knowing this might be a last Christmas for me. However, it did feel wonderful, the small family, watching my family open the gifts that I brought all the way from China, seeing my father’s delight at the multitude of flashlights he received (only he would get that excited over flashlights), my brother get an armload of audio books, and myself, enough books to weigh out my returning suitcase to fifty pounds. I’ve made a decision this week: I’m done spending money. Living in China has given me an incredible sensitivity to money and how precious and fickle it is, how easy it flows in and out, and how subtle the abuse comes and goes. Coming home to this materialistic society, I am even more impressed with the fluidity of spending that happens in this environment, and although I am a little sad that I may not be returning for some time, I am happy that I will be back in my second home.

San Francisco from St. Mary’s

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

I am only home for eight more days, and these eight days will be likely the last I see of my home for a good year or more, as I am not returning home to California next year, at least not until next winter, if even then. The good news is my brother is moving to Hong Kong to work, and next spring, my mother will come visit China, and has even claimed that if Hillary wins the democratic primaries, will come to China during the election.

St. Mary’s is a gorgeous church, filled with sharp angles, dangling crystals, stained glass, and the silence that is so wonderful in cathedrals. It overlooks the city through huge plate glass windows. A couple weeks ago I was on the airplane from China to Japan, and I read that in Tokyo there is another St. Mary’s, the same kind, as the architect was Japanese. It makes me feel a sense of not only tradition (being in a cathedral) but also of continuity, knowing that on the other side of the world is an exact replica of the same legendary building. For some reason, that gives me spiritual reassurance.

Angels at Stanford

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Sometimes I feel as if the world depended on me, while other times (most of the time) I live in dreadful inconsequence, as if the littlest thing I do would make hardly any difference. Of course, everyday I hope that the actions that come from me create good, foster wonderful things, and not only grow me in faith with God, but help others grow that way as well, but so often the things that come from me seem so selfish, so personably presumptuous.

Angels remind me of the goodness present in us: as representations of us, yet purely created as servants, they have always stood to me as heralds of what we could be, not that we ever would be, only the mere possibility of beauty that they stand for having the option for us to carry on that same legacy: as stewards of hope. Whether they are myth, fantasy, or realistic speculation, I will not venture, but only that they exist for me as fantastic visions of the splendor and power of God.

Yokohama Foreign Cemetary

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Walking through those lanes of memory cause one to think back on things: to even consider for one moment that you may die in a country not your own, to live and pass your last in a culture that may never understand you - I suppose this is the sacrifice you make when you decide to give yourself to another country. For me, it’s not so much the sacrifice as the adventure (at least right now), as every morning when I wake up the whole world opens up like a new gift with new insights and challenges, that if taken wisely and hopefully, will only add to this wonderful tapestry.

The darkness of it for me lies in the facts of remembrance: that even if I did all I could, my own countrymen would hardly remember me. I think on the histories of all of the nameless teachers (as I will become soon) who prepare the world for the modern age, of the faceless ambassadors who prevent war abroad, and of the vanishing businessmen who set the stage for the new economy, and wonder if their legacy will in the end, only be enough for a small shadowy place in a country far away. But on the positive side, I suppose everyone dies in some small plot in some small country. Remembrance is overrated.

Christmas in Japan

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Christmas comes earlier it seems, when you are jumping between continents and countries. Just last week I was sitting on a futon under a heated blanket in Ninomiya, Japan, listening to the morning merchants blaring their fifties music through the neighborhood alleyways. My mind is still a bit on the blur, as I wander through the streets of my hometown, trying to focus on where I am or even more, who I am - the fatigue of a different time zone merely sifts like sand; I can feel myself slowly adjusting to life here.

Information overload happens with different cultures. In the merging between culture, one tends to lose focus (with not just the jetlag), and things seem strange: Christmas lines at bookstores, snaking around bookshelves. At the bookstore the other day were three ladies with three large greyhound dogs. Old breeds (yet young as anything I’ve seen), as the ladies were saying that when greyhound dogs stop running, they are put to sleep unless adopted. It’s about as strange as Santa Claus floating over a Japanese address. The lines are blurring.

The train, the train…

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

It makes me feel strange taking out a camera on the trains in Japan. It feels funny taking out a camera and pointing it in someone’s face anyways. For one reason, you wonder if you are actually stealing their soul, but also because of the fear that they will stare back at you and judge you for taking their picture. A slight third concern (I suppose) is you worry they might confront you about the very act of taking their image for yourself. There’s really no way to respond to that kind of challenge, outside of handing them a card that says you are making a not for profit documentary on the life of a certain society. Which of course, I always manage to forget whenever I bring my camera. If I even had one.

The JR is a particularly interesting enigma. Men and women stand silently, staring into their cell phones, covered books, Nintendos, off into the vacuity of space that exists within the intensely small amount of private space afforded to everyone here. Almost like people carry a flexible and clear rubber covering around themselves, to protect themselves, that constantly extends and rubs against other coverings, while the person within manages to remain totally overt, lost in their own mental world.

Symmetricity

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Writing from Japan about China about Japan seems like a strange thing. Even the act of meditating on a structure from another country, having to do with the country I am writing in, in which I talk about the duplicities of both, is a bit tiring on the brain. I took a walk tonight, just being pleased with the silence of the road. The lack of honking, the burning lights without sound, and the sound of my own footsteps, one, two, one, two, and so on. It was a strange experience, actually slowing down and listening to the world around you, without the flurry of Japanese society tottering on your heels, telling you to move faster and faster through this silent film of a country. There were certain quiet aspects in China as well, though they existed purely in nature, whereas here, one must dive into oneself and extract oneself from the madness of modernity.

Koi

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

Yesterday at the temple the koi were excited. As we passed over the bridge to their pond, their stopped swimming and looked up at us, our towering shadows pacing across their waters. They arched their heads towards us and opened their huge mouths. My friend told me they expected us to feed them. It is strange to think of fish being so intelligent, that to sense our presence and anticipate their dinner from us. It makes me wonder what else they are capable of.

Note to self: never make giant proclamations like: you are going to start blogging again, just because you’ve found a really neat gadget! Also, I have a habit of trying to make this blog more prolific than it actually is, which causes issues, especially when I make these giant goals and then waiting a week to actually post a follow-up!

On other matters, I’m going to Japan on Saturday. For a week! Yes, that’s a long time, the most time I’ll have spent in Japan thus far. I’m excited, but even more excited by the prospect that I have no idea what I’m going to do. A totally blank slate. Which means anything can happen…

Silk Factory in Xi’an

Originally uploaded by chinese.fish

This morning I set about creating a list of goals. I do this time to time, usually after feeling terrible for wasting time with watching too many movies or playing too many games, and so I toss everything up in the air and write down a list of everything I think I should be doing, and then paste it into MS Paint and make a snazzy little picture out of it.

One of the recent goals of mine has been to start blogging again, but I had little incentive to begin again because of lack of inspiration. I found this neat little feature in Flickr this morning that allows you to post pictures directly to your blog, with text. Which means I can finally do a respectable job of photoblogging, which means I can combine my love for photos and my love for words together without having to sweat over the code, which also means… well, one hopes it means I can start blogging again to some regularity. That is a special word though, that rarely makes headlines in my life.

Other goals have been to size myself up with my writing aspirations. I’ve begun writing for a few magazines recently, as well as working pretty hard on some novels.

When our school was in 西安 we had the opportunity to visit a silk factory. Actually, it was a mandatory stop by our tour service. I think only one or two students bought anything there, as the prices were so high. But we did learn about the process of making silk from the grubby silkworms, and we even got to try our hands at making silk ourselves. It brings a whole new paradigm to front: that our most beautiful clothes are made of bug larvae. Miles and miles of the stuff! I’m not sure whether there is an inlaid philosophical principle in that, light and dark, good and evil. Perhaps there may be.

Somehow, the stars have
re-aligned themselves, standing
face to face between waves,
minds locked in music only
they can hear.

Drawn lips lit to the sky,
the pale wash of the moon
among fog: we capture this
moment with a single touch,
lit by the sounds of the city
and our raging against the world.

Through the shadows of vines,
in the spaces of the arbor
we sit, carried to the lakeside
to watch birds light up the sky
with white, to disappear into
the night with a song.

*

Enclaved in a swollen womb,
fed by the fish beneath
those strong, steely waves -
I hesitate to mark my own fate,
listening to the wild call of birds
on a cold seashore.

Music comes from the sea,
lifted on a breeze of wings,
and the storm comes from the northwest,
dark, ominous, and beautiful.
Shapes within are discernible,
yet change form, moving to their own.

In the darkness of my mind,
above the shadows of my pen -
this remains, and I am content.
The shifting world passes by in a flash,
taken to mind as
crows prophesying a storm
of rainbow rain.

Scrunched up, recanting
my various vices in transcendent bliss,
the world - this flatland of terrestrial signs
and bulbous mechanistas, seems to be no
further from the truth than a minister fraught
with the peril of a past age: music pours down
from the clouds in a vast conspiracy of silence,
giving rise to the new men, those wretched
and shining beauties grown from the cracks
of a new age.

“Is it not delightful to have friends coming from distant quarters?”

They stand in the lobby of the hotel, and ask the American girls sitting on the chairs if they are ready to go. I myself am waiting for the dinner in the hotel restaurant to begin, and chatting a little with the girls before they head off for roast duck. The girls are being taken by some Tianjin locals to eat 北京烤鸭, or Peking roast duck, and they need to take at least a half hour to get there by cab. One of the hosts, a good friend of mine from this last year, asks me if I want to come with them, and in response I tell him it’s too expensive, that I’d rather have the free dinner in the next room. He laughs, and I laugh, though inwardly I shudder at my irony. Just ten minutes before I was handed an envelope with 4000元, the last chunk of my salary for the recent job I did for Tianjin University. I could, and if I were truly Chinese, should take THEM to Peking Duck. My friend offers to take me for free, but still, my thriftiness/stupidity wins me over. I trundle across the lobby, and take a seat at the free dinner table, blithely mentioning about how expensive their dinner is going to be, as if I had something stuck up a gentile orifice. You hypocrite, you.