Piles 02/13/2009
I've got a pile of half-finished blog posts ready to be unwrapped and exposed, but there is barely enough time to finish that half-eaten sandwich that's squashed in my bag, between my day planner, cell phone and nalgene. There's also that pile of semi-washed dishes in the sink, the pile of clothes draped all over my guest bed, that pile of trash bags that desperately needs to be thrown out, and that delicious pile of books I am eager to plow through. Such has been my life recently. I've got my workout and work regime almost to a tee, but the other piles just seem to be, well, piling up. Anyway - I WILL post something that is actually worthy of your time, soon. But first, I have to go not have enough time for that pile of to-dos on my piles of to-do lists. The First Ambiguous Rays 01/26/2009
 Last Wednesday, the storm passed. We finally took the magazine to print. This current company I am working for has the particular tradition of printing out the first draft in color and then laying it out on our conference table so that the entire team can scrutinize and practice their opinions. This was started by the previous Managing Editor, who didn’t know how to run a magazine anymore than his grim turtle face knew how to smile, but has since been promoted to Chief Editor, which just means he signs off on everything I do. I see him as sort of an antique decoration, maybe one of those tea-stained doilies, awful but permanent, since it was handed down by so-and-so’s great aunt Mildred, just there for the sake of tradition – shabby, stained, banal tradition. Many Chinese workplaces are this way: everything must go through a procedure, carefully guarded by the King of Procedure himself, crowned with the responsibility of reinforcing procedure because, well, it’s procedure. Keeps my head awhirl, anyway. Two problems with this tradition: 1) the entire team likes to comment on the magazine as if they are the designers themselves. However, none of them have the expertise to make this kind of judgment call. Plus, the Art Director and I have set standards, reading systems, fonts, sizes, spaces, and things don’t just change because some staff member didn’t like the spacing in line three, 2) It wastes a LOT of time. I’m the Managing Editor and Creative Director, therefore it is my job to take the “book” and make the final editions. But in an illogical, ironic twist that seems to frequent certain facets of Chinese companies, the reviewing process has become all too democratic in this otherwise communist regime. In order to retain some ounce of sanity, I have since given into the procedures that have laden this supposedly expat rag with a nice sharp, Chinese edge. But despite my hemming and hawing, giving in a little has made my job miles easier. Why fight the fight just to fight? A little forced inefficiency here and there can’t hurt that much; it’s certainly better than insisting on my way or the highway, then getting the boot because the cars they provided on my highway were all lemons. Needless to say – with my attitude adjustment, and finally, the print out of the first issue, Mr. Boss was tres pleased. Chief Dick didn’t say too much either, which is a good sign. So, after months of banging my head against the wall, and weeks of blogging about pain of the anal sort, I won the war. We even closed the deal with an evening out, gorging ourselves on baijiu (Chinese tequila – bottoms up! x10) and a banquet spinning in front of us on a giant, whirling, lazy Susan holding the girth of a baby Redwood. * It’s already been five days since the passing of the storm, but it’s taken me that long to recuperate from the aftermath, a serene period of blue skies and unbelievable nothingness spouting out of bosses’ mouths. And yet, after the rush of succeeding in something I’m good at, a moment when I felt like I could be the Managing Editor of this magazine forever, my mind was jolted with the flashback of a few weeks ago, when the very same people who praised me held my neck to the wire, fingers pointing, ready to make me the scapegoat. It isn't my bosses’ ability to blame and praise at the blink of an eye that bothers me. Rather, it is the realization this so called happiness is split in two, each with a tiny string that can be pulled until the rush is unraveled into nothing but a pile of caution and query. What I mean is this. It seems like a lot of people tend to mix up what they are good at with what they like doing. It might be true that one can be the other, but this is not always the case. Being a passionate artist may not get next month’s rent in on time; playing accountant may just kill the libido; whatever the excuse, there are plenty of real life reasons that have a way of subtly convincing people that success always equals what you should be doing, and therefore if you succeed at something, that something is what defines your happiness. This happiness, split in two: each side is separate with its own characteristics, though if we’re lucky, not always separate in form. As already established before, the first kind comes from being good at something, and the second kind comes from somewhere deeper, a place where love, passion, yearning, motivation and tenacity are born. It seems like the latter type of happiness is the one that is idealized, the one we think we should all be seeking. And yet, when it comes time to choose a career path or a role in life, our happy-nometer starts to go in circles. Take this magazine for example. After printing the first draft, happy boss=happy Jenny. My mood couldn’t have been further from several weeks ago, when I was near hyperventilation at my desk, ready to pack up and leave town. Because of the current and successful situation, my mind actually sees a future I can mold. But I am at unrest, because I can’t figure out if my happiness is due to the fact that I got a pat on the head for hard work on a product I am good at creating, or because I actually enjoy what I am doing. Too many people my age struggle to find their paths, torn between what they think they can survive on as a day job-possibly-turned-successful-career, and the love for a life that stems from the depths of their souls. This is worth thinking about because if the right choice isn’t made, one can end up bored and successful or passionate and poor – either leading to ultimate unhappiness. Anyway, I don’t have the answer. I figure I should just use what I’m good at to catapult myself into doing what I love, and maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll end up balanced. But I’m probably babbling, at best. A Second New Year 01/25/2009
It's 11:30pm and the firecrackers have been going on all day, except now they have changed to fireworks. Any planes flying over China would be greeted by a landscape of exploding bouquets of color confetti. The entire city of Beijing is aglow, bringing in the New Year - Chinese New Year, that is. This whole next week will fill the air with stagnant smoke from thousands upon thousands of mini explosives, reminding us that 2009 is the Year of the Ox. Chinese New Year is like our Western Christmas, except sans all that St. Nicholas stuff. Instead, train stations are bulging with passengers on their way home to family, banquets, and little red envelopes filled with the currency of hope. Since my own family is 8000 miles away, I'm using this week for contemplation and productivity, curious as to what this second New Year will bring. Syrup 01/23/2009
I'm going through a syrup phase, starting two minutes ago. I have this bottle of leftover Log Cabin Country Kitchen Original, from when B was here, and I am going to pour it over everything. It's going to be great. Corporate Face :-/ 01/20/2009
I have nothing insightful or even remotely interesting to say. Because anything that would fall under the latter category would require time, which I don't have. In the past two weeks, I have worked myself into an overtime tizzy. I think I have enough saved up for a week of vacation, which I'll just spend worrying about not being at work. God damn the corporate world. I TOLD you it wasn't good for me. But, Spring Festival is just around the corner. I plan on spending that week working out, eating well, drawing this good to God children's book, blogging up the wazoo, singing with my guitarist (and a possible harmonica player - more on the whole singing spiel later), and catching up - on sleep, on time, on friends, on life. But for now, here's some more blah to go with the blech. Day 2 01/06/2009
My cell phone woke me up this morning at 8am, the Liszt ring tone floating light, peaceful notes into the REM stage of my sleep cycle. Boxes Be Gone 12/18/2008
In honor of Jameson’s departure, I am holding a Winter Spring Cleaning. He was right (damn). I have SO much stuff. Not like I didn’t know that before, but now those boxes sitting in my living room are just starting to irritate me. Because they’re there, and because I have no idea where to put what’s in them. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to because I would know that there would be purposeful pockets of space everywhere in my apartment that I forced stuff into. Personal things should fit intuitively into a living space; there is a given place for everything, and I just don’t have enough surface in my figurative, intuitive counters and drawers and shelves and closets and corners. What Fun Did You Have Today? 11/14/2008
 Nostalgia 11/13/2008
 Today was the closest thing I have ever come to autumn in China. Traffic is always heavy in Beijing, which results in a lot of taxi waiting time (I am willing to give this time up since my elitist streak rarely includes the subway, despite the fact that it is literally three minutes away from my apartment). This morning, on my way to work, was no different. As I sat there in my normal taxi slouch, right side back seat, head tilted against the window pane, wishing it was a pillow, the road ahead of me was not in its usual dusty, bicycled form. Instead, a charcoal path lay before me, sprinkled with tiny golden leaf petals, flipping and turning in the light like sequins on a showgirl. Had there been music, I would have been in my own movie, like that scene in Pleasantville where they drive down the lane between the trees, peach blossoms falling and floating to Etta James’ At Last. In my movie this morning, the entire road shimmered and moved like a whimsical school of acrobatic fish. A wave of nostalgia swept me back to boarding school in Massachusetts, where I spent many an autumn day wandering about the deserted aqueduct in the middle of Wellesley. That place was like my own Bridge to Terabythia. From it, I could see an entire valley, wallpapered with leaves of crimson, ginger and russet, some sliding down the stream, some jumping from tree to tree. Today reminded me of then, and I was ecstatically happy. * This morning was worth cementing in words because nostalgia and ambience are not things easily found in Beijing. When you’re crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, you feel something. The city is more than just its buildings and history and fabulousness. It is a living being with a vigorous and profound pulse. Entering the city is enough to give me goose bumps every time. But Beijing, with its hugely creative architecture, widespread landscape and giant international presence, has never even raised the slightest of arm hairs. Sometimes, when I am missing America terribly, I cross the city in desperate search of a familiar feeling or hint of reminiscence, and the only places that resemble a fraction of the latter are shopping centers that have been modeled specifically after the Mall of America and Starbucks. And even then, they only exude plastic, muted versions of the real thing. This city (and country for that matter) has been so instantly saturated with modernity and foreign influence that it has yet to fully form a personality of its own. The States has had time to transition from the industrial to the information and now to the networking age. But China is a salad bowl, melting pot and street kabob of every age, which means, despite my crazy optimism, almost everything seems like a glass half empty. The surface is beautiful and offers a smörgåsbord of flavors, but go a little deeper and you’re greeted by florescent lighting and a ton of fake Louis Vuittons. Puerile materialism is fully present, but ambience is not. In America, ambience is really just a form of mature materialism, or what I like to call an extension of our immense enthusiasm for life. Fall isn’t enough, so we thought we’d go to Michael’s and buy some fake auburn leaves to wrap around the dining table centerpiece. Giving thanks doesn’t quite recreate the first meal, so we pop on a pilgrim hat, bake pumpkin pie and stuff cornucopias. Christmas is not just a familial celebration for the birth of a famous baby; it’s a regular shopping spree to extra-fy everything. Let’s redo nature with spray-snow, tiny cookie houses and ideas of crackling fires, jolly St. Nicks and Home Alone 4. But it works. It works so well that every year, particularly approaching holiday season, I yearn, from the depths of my goose bumps, for that fully mature materialism. I crave that cozy western atmosphere, hot chocolate, sleigh bells and all. Which is why on days like today, I get so excited, because finally I feel an inch closer to home. Views from a Blog World Newbie 11/11/2008
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