The Dubious Monk

While my last Saturday was cold and rainy, my last Sunday was cold and windy, and more importantly, sunny enough to go on a picnic. We got PiJiu roasted duck which we ate with our fingers along with baozi and bings. Mmm bings.

We took all those goodies and a blanket out to the free lake at the mountain. It took a lot of looking to find the precise lake Holly wanted. We passed one perfectly acceptable lake/pond with ample picnic space only to wander by jackhammering beautification projects. In the end we found a good spot on top of a hill with a good view of the mountain and the (remarkably square) lake.

The bus out to the mountain had been packed with middle school students who’d gotten off a stop before the park, but we could hear them (or at least students in similar uniforms) marching and shouting their way through their outing. I wonder what percentage of them were having fun.

I’d been worried the pig brain might have instituted some sort of psychological block against and and all animal parts but I was fine with the duck (which Holly pointed out, does very little to disguise its duckishness). The wind was coldest when you sat up so we ended up lying down and talking with eyes closed against the sun. Zhao Xing called and if he were a jealous man, the way Holly said we were lying on a blanket outside could easily have been misinterpreted. But he was more concerned with discussing an article and video in regards to the whole current Tibet situation. The video (which we went to a WangBa to watch because Holly didn’t have the keys to the office) was very historical, no wait, hysterical and made many statements of fact regarding Tibet, China, the CIA and the Dalai Lama. I don’t even know where to start responding to something like that.

It was kind of a last kick at Holly’s talking out of her life these days. She was getting a bit self-conscious about all her complaining by the end, but really, what do I care? It was conversation. I’m good at listening to people talk. I should be a bartender in some local pub somewhere. Anyway. I guess that’s the kind of thing people do. Listen without offering much by way of practical advice. One of the ideas floating through my head for if Holly ever gets her organic farm/guesthouse set up is to use it as a writing retreat place sort of deal. I enjoy China as a writing place. It works for me; sort of inspiring. I mean, there are just people whose appearances stimulate questions. On the subway the guy with the Mao haircut and the horrible bit of a thumbnail and the dustiest shabbiest dress shoes I’ve seen on a (non bangbang) man. Not like Canada where it’s so much easier to attribute people to their categories without thinking, just cause I know the categories so much better.

We listened to my Circles Within Circles CD on my final evening. I tried to explain the story and its circling nature but I don’t think I was quite effective. That CD is a story I should write. It’s not an original story but it has that wood and rust coloration that I feel I should make some effort to capture. The story, the CD as a whole I should say, seemed a bit sad for Holly. Maybe just because it was my last night and she’s about as good as I am at saying goodbye. We’re both ignorers of the facts staring us down. Awkward glances at the clock. There were a couple of “Well. Back to Canada” comments that fell down a well while we listened to songs people sent her from across the sea. And brought her too, since mine made it into the mix. “I like this song because I like singing along to it. You probably like songs for other reasons.”