love letters from my 34th summer

Two questions. 1: How good is your Hainanese? 2: What kind of Chinese Drinking Game skills do you have? The things I can do with dice would boggle your mind.

This past week, while Alf was visiting, I ran into two friends I haven’t seen some time, Jersey Jake and Smoking Dave. It was refreshing to see both of them. Both are amazing storytellers, which goes a long way in my book; and both like to use obscure, smart references when telling a story. Jake hiked the Appalachian Trail this year and somehow, someway Smoking Dave has now found himself on the wrong side of the law. He became a police officer in the sleepy town of Montreat, North Carolina a couple of months ago. He may be the only decent human being/police officer I know.

But still, I have been home for over a year and have hung out with these guys less than three times total. And they are some good friends. But seeing them gave me pause. Why don’t I “keep up?” Why am I such a bad friend?

I am a strange bird, no doubt. Usually when I travel or live in a different place, after I leave that place, I break all ties cleanly. Why do I do this? Am I that lazy? Is that normal? I guess it is normal, but I know lots of people who stay in touch with a myriad of people. But it’s not like people are killing themselves to stay in touch with me. They do a little bit better than I, but overall most of my friends are lazy, no-good sacks like me.

I talk to one person (and to him rarely) from high school. The only friend I still have from college is Mike. I don’t keep in contact with anybody I have met in my other travels or the other places I have lived in America, despite the fact I’m sure I promised them I would. Most of my friends in Asheville, save two, are people I have known only since I have moved back home from China. It’s much easier to make new friends than to go back and try to keep up with old ones.

I’m a social butterfly. People love me, they really do. So making friends has never been a problem. Keeping them, evidently, is another story. One reason I think I have trouble keeping friends is that I am not trustworthy, so you can’t tell me secrets. While other friends will come running when there is trouble, I’ve managed to consistently let people down. And frankly, my whole wisecracking-about-anything-that-anyone-says shtick gets annoying after awhile. Also, I may hit on your girlfriend if you aren’t in room. (more…)

When I was twelve, and bearing freckles
and odd-shaped eyes bravely,
I sacked St. Petersburg,
stole the Neva River and
seventeen bridges. I keep them in a poached salmon
scented room behind a door with the letter “B”
for “borscht”.

And sometimes while I’m waiting–
while lounging on a greenish blue chair
at the dentist office, or for dark blue inspiration,
or for the pan to finish my pierogi–
I’ll walk by the room with the “B” and pause and inhale.

When I was twenty-eight, and bearing aching ankles
and thinning hair badly, I
limped quietly through the departure gate
in Guangzhou with seventy-five home-made birthday cards,
a comb still in its box from a hotel in Bengbu, a friend’s official license
to referee basketball anywhere in the province of Zhejiang, and the entire
Xi Hu in my gray messenger bag.
So whenever a well-meaning somebody with a
concerned look mentions something
about a career or future plans or “getting it together”
or settling down or saving for a rainy day
or finding meaningful employment,
I remember I have an entire lake to unpack and arrange just so
in a many-windowed room with a burgundy sheet for a door.

When I’m ninety-two, and bearing sickness
and bushy eyebrows boldly, I’ll laugh what others
will consider a decidedly sane laugh
at my hilarious fortune of having seventeen silver bridges from
Russia where I can read seventeen stories from Isaac Babel.
When my generous eyebrows begin to interfere with Babel
I’ll then sleep in rich, toothless wonder under spring blossoms lining a lake,
a lake that was once stuffed in a notebook and stored in a gray bag.

photo courtesy of Phil Lai