Anna Karenina

In what seems to be a huge splurge in blogging, I can't help but write a little about Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, even though I've yet to plow through the rest of this gargantuan work.

I can't help sharing my admiration for his almost fearsome understanding of human psychology. I can't speak for his understanding of the female psyche, but I see fragmented reflections of myself when I read about Levin and Aleksey Aleksandrovich that leave tingles on my spine. Levin especially delights me as a character, frustrated with his own shyness and social awkwardness but noble, resilient, and tender.

I hope my words don't hold any more portent than simply highlighting minor similarities in characteristics, given that at this moment, Aleksey's wife Anna is in an adulterous relationship and he drowns himself in work to avoid dealing with it... and Levin renounces marriage. Hm. I suppose I could be a happy bachelor, but even Vronsky is really what started the mess... and is a romantic mess himself.

Psh. Good night, world.

Testimonies

After singing in an a cappella group called Testimony, I am stunned by the weakness of my own testimony and disappointed in my insecurities to share it.

Earlier this week at Tahoe, I indirectly asked if anyone was willing to share a little about their testimony. Like Levin in Anna Karenina, who in the rush of his convictions temporarily forgets about the social conventions, I suddenly realized how inappropriate the question was. My friends seemed to shift uncomfortably, and out of politeness, allowed me to continue before jumping in with random conversation-shifting quips to fill the awkward silence that followed. Allie mumbled some random words and Adam nodded and said thank you. It was like we all lost our footing and were stumbling about for something to bring us back to our comfort zone.

Except, in a room of Christian friends that I felt I could trust (Ha. Maybe not), I was also deeply disappointed. Most of my disappointment arose from realizing that I was hypocritical for bringing up a topic (it was really just a random thought) that I myself would never have not answered had it been posed to me. Part of my disappointment arose from knowing that I would feel ashamed. Ashamed of the self-same gospel that I, in my private hours and devotions, proclaim as true.

I hadn't imagined that sharing a testimony would be a large social taboo. A testimony, which in many ways is what makes us the "salt and light of the earth," is a dangerous thing. It calls for change, and it places the one who shares it responsibility for his or her words. In a funny ironic twist, a testimony can be shared to a large audience when polished and given a spin that fit the social framework (most conspicuously, at a Testimony show, for example), precisely because it releases the speaker from much of the personal responsibility that a testimony requires (it was only part of the show).

But over the course of my time in China, I've understood that Christianity is rarely socially acceptable, and it oughtn't be. Healthy churches are not those that blend in, but those that make you feel convicted to get off your bum. Whether or not we believe he is the savior of mankind aside, Christ doesn't follow convention. He really pisses off the leaders of the time by being a rebel, breaking the Sabbath, consorting with prostitutes, and working with lepers. I can't be a Christian by fitting in with the crowd.

How ironic that my convictions for social change can be articulated freely at Stanford, but my personal convictions as a servant of Christ are shrouded in a mist of social appropriateness, because Christ's proclamation that he is the way, the truth, the life seems inappropriate at a place like Stanford.

At the sermon at Grace Presbyterian this morning, I began to see that the story of Christ has been watered down to a meaningless goop. For me to nod off during a sermon on Christ's sacrifice for humanity strikes me as hypocritical. Ultimately, it's a matter of responsibility of my words. I think God would be more pleased if I simply renounced him and said Jesus Christ was boring (perhaps like Peter) rather than expressing my love and passion but betraying it with my actions (perhaps like Judas). Here is why I fear sharing my testimony: it forces me to take responsibility. I cannot bear being identified as a hypocrite even though I already am one.

I'm not usually comfortable posting such things on a publicly accessible blog, but the irony is that I shouldn't be.

So I take responsibility for my words: I am a weak hypocrite seeking change; a man--a boy, rather--searching for the strength to proclaim my convictions; a Peter that seeks to be reinstated, heartbroken and confused in equal measure.

**--EDIT--**
On the other hand (and yet another twist), as an a cappella group, Testimony has also struggled with "running with runners" and being tentmakers as per Paul. In some ways, there is a tension between proclaiming a testimony and making sure that it's done in a way that does not alienate others. Indeed, the group needs to aspire to musical excellence such that others are even willing to listen in the first place before any deeper message can be sent. I'm personally not a fan of signholders that tell others they are going to Hell for their sin (they're sharing a testimony... but probably not a shared one with me and definitely not in a proper way).

To be more circumspect about what I've written, I think the method by which a testimony is offered matters significantly (back to how form fits function, and how must fit what). Returning to the dinner conversation up at Tahoe, if I had known (as I was duly informed) that some at the table had former issues or reservations with people giving testimonies in such a fashion, I think a consciousness of social norms would be crucial.

My point isn't necessarily that I ought to ignore all social norms, only that Jesus' call and my convictions (if I truly believe them!) ought not be prioritized under them. Surely, part of my conviction is to love others, and that requires some sensitivity to those norms to ensure some degree of communication and comfort.

My apologies for rash thinking and writing.

Golden - Backpost

A boulder of granite with a golden furrow of sandstone rests across from the tree, whose roots stretch like a wrinkled carpet across the musky soil. A sky of azure hangs like a shroud.

Conflict is inherent for humanity as we attempt to draw together. Even the son from a mother’s womb, truly her flesh and blood, will rebel. Transience denies the very grounding that promises are made upon, such that lovers are autumn leaves that express a flurry of extravagance before withering. Why is it that we spread ourselves as far as possible when sitting in a subway train? Our privacy is sacrosanct, and yet we wallow in our loneliness, only to injure each other when we draw near. What a bag of contradictions, seeking meaning in achievement only to find them meaningless the moment they are achieved; abundantly enjoying that which is not in abundance.

A zephyr tingles the whispery air roots of the banyan tree, its leaves swaying in beat to a saturated sadness, suffocating.

Every civilization that has been, has ended, giving way to what we see today. For a little part of history we imagined an inevitable movement toward a historical endpoint, even a utopia blessed by the hand of technology. But lofty ideals usually topple toward the ground when they fly too high.

A raindrop, minute and mysterious, plops onto the sandstone furrow, a dark stain that for a moment seems to fuse with the color of the granite. Perhaps it is a bridge; or a tear in the rocky fabric.

The control that we so desire in our lives is an illusion, evidenced by our fragile minds and bodies that crumble to the fist of age and diseases. Granted, the control we do have has extended our lives and made us objectively healthier and safer. Nevertheless, our travels from birth to death are hardly free choices, and we take comfort in that fact. While we pursue control in our lives, we actually embrace the control of others. For, without control and limitations, we are doomed to be free.

Suddenly, the scuffle of sand punctures the silence. A gnarled tree branch creaks ominously.

Such philosophy wallows in its own depth, seeking to be consoled by meaning making.

A sigh and the... end. What now?

Half-Abashed By Interest in Anime

I've recently watched several anime movies and series, after having put away this interest for several years. Shortly after watching 風の谷, my mother borrowed もののけ姫 from her school video library. I've already done my rave review on both of these, so I'll avoid talking about them. I made a foray into Grave of the Fireflies, which cost me a bout of mini-depression and introspection... then I did the unthinkable:


I took a dive into the notorious "Neon Genesis Evangelion." Needless to say, this series was written after its director had walked out of clinical depression, and aside from the portions clearly marketed to pubescent teens, this is one of the most baffling and (if you can bear with it) intellectually rich series that I've found so far. The imagery is seriously disturbing, and at least in the anime subculture, its unresolved ending has had people bickering for ages. Its experimental nature makes it difficult to understand, but it remains a landmark work in the medium of anime.

Disclaimer: I'm about the trillionth person to write about this anime.

Here's the one sentence summary: a bunch of fourteen year old kids have to pilot mechas built by a secret society and save the world from a bunch of monsters invading earth. With a summary like that, I admit part of its intellectual richness is self-deception. The Judeo-Christian imagery is ridiculous in my opinion, because it goes nowhere. It's parallel to how American media sometimes use eastern philosophy in movies, but portrays it completely out of whack and then fails to integrate it meaningfully.

The redeeming feature of the anime occurs at the latter half, when it uncharacteristically collapses inward into the psyche of the three fourteen year old pilots and their adult guardians, dissecting their motivations for piloting. Here is a priceless moment where they come to life, recognizing the sheer ludicrousness of being mecha pilots who are needed to save the world. Most importantly, it makes unbelievably good use of anime as a medium.

Like Miyazaki, I believe the artists understood anime's advantage over movies as being a flexible medium. The images can be aptly "imagined," rather than constructed. Evocative, disturbing, and thought-provoking all at the same time, this series makes images that gets at essences. The essence of feeling abandoned by parents is captured by closed doors, dolls with decapitated heads... The essence of Rei's identity crisis is captured by the fact that she's a clone: with thousands of naked replicas floating in a chamber bathed in golden light. Freudian psychoanalysis is also rampant. The characters Rei, Asuka, and Shinji represent (I think) the Id, the Ego, and Superego.

Of the whole series, I recommend seeing the last two episodes. Mind you: it's disturbing and, without context of the rest of the episode, utterly unapproachable. Well, even WITH context of the rest of the episode, it's a depiction of clinical depression...

I raise these two as the epitome of what Evangelion set out to do: experiment. This was drawn on a short budget, but for once in anime history, a small budget helped to cut out some of the crap (if making the ending doubly confusing!). Reminiscent of La Jetee, it's a series of sketched pieces interspersed with bits of interrogation directed at the characters. It doesn't aim to provide a coherent picture, preferring to baffle you with bits and pieces: but this is precisely how one feels when you ask yourself questions of existence.

My absolute favorite part is when the anime becomes, well, meta-anime. With a sketched image of Shinji floating on a piece of white paper, he questions himself: "who am I? isn't this image just what I project to others?" In proper existentialism, uneasiness sets in. Without limitations, he is just floating in space: he is meaningless. Without a horizon, a context, a mecha, other people, needs, wants, desires: he might as well disappear. A line appears on the sketchpad, and Shinji suddenly figures up from down.

Another delightful piece is when Shinji discusses his own identity onstage. There's the clear allusion to "all life is a stage." Implicit question: "as a human being, everyone has a different image of you in their minds, aren't you just acting onstage?" Moreover: isn't this why you have meaning in your life?

I am left disturbed by the themes of this anime: barriers, the hedgehog's dilemma, meaninglessness... The ending seems to be uplifting, but then you turn in on yourself as well, and your crystal clarity begins to crack as well. Of all the themes, I was delighted how they semi-redeemed the parts marketed to pubescence by suggesting the conflict inherent in our sexuality: we seek to be completely united with those who are so utterly different from us (and fine... also because much of this was Freudian, and we know what he thought about sexuality).

I stop here because there's so much to analyze. But, as I wrote in the title: I'm only half-abashed by my interest in anime. Aside from (actually still a good many) pieces clearly used as marketing to earn cash, I think portions of this series is mature, philosophically rich, and artistically avant garde. The last two episodes are gems: not seen for pleasure but rather like watching La Jetee.

On second thought, maybe a little bit like Watchmen as well.

I recall grabbing a whole bunch of series from none other than James Liu (where are you, anyway?) when I was still in high school. Hilariously, it is the single most important reason that I've continued working very hard to consolidate my Japanese abilities. But little would I have known that I would be writing this about *anime* today.

Ludicrous. But isn't the whole world like that sometimes?

To the Lighthouse

As I finish reading Don Quixote, I wonder if my college idealism has gotten the better of me. Assuming that my own experiences are somehow new under the sun is a fallacy.

*-*-*

After we climb the stairs to pay a brief visit to Chiang Kai Shek’s memorial, my grandfather leads me through an exhibit in the Memorial Hall, situated in the center of Taipei. Grandpa stops by a large glass case, pointing out memorabilia that he also wore when a child. When he was in school, he was a generation that participated in the New Life Movement, an effort to encourage students to be thrifty, diligent, and clean. The movement, which had fascist undertones, was a clear reaction to communism in China. When he thinks back to this time, a brief, pained expression crosses his face, a mere ripple in a calm lake.

My grandfather was basically embroiled in war for the entirety of his life since he was three years old.

In 1921, my grandfather was born in Shanghai during the heyday of the Chinese Nationalist government, incidentally, also the year the Chinese Communist Party was formed. At the age of three, the government began an all out war (Northern Expedition) to unite the country by striking down warlords, starting military schools, and raising funds from abroad. With better equipped and trained armies, Chiang Kai Shek successfully consolidated the Kuomingtang’s power, something the founding father, Dr. Sun, couldn’t achieve. Success, in its usual fleeting form, vanished as World War II ravaged China after the Lu Gou Bridge incident.

My grandfather’s school was bombed when the Japanese invaded Shanghai, burning down parts of the city, and striking inland toward Nanjing. The family village was also razed. For some time, he moved into “loaned lands, or 租界区. Those affiliated with the Allies were either placed in detention or simply disappeared. With unusual resourcefulness for the age of 21, he eventually enrolled and graduated from a university program administered by the puppet government instituted by the Japanese. From a kindhearted lady, he learned basic Japanese language and customs to survive. Ironically, after the war, he never dared to declare his college degree, knowing that it would mean time in jail with the zealous right-wing Nationalists. Today, his ability to learn new languages is still frightening: almost in his nineties, he asks me how to say fresh in English one evening. The next morning, he pauses in front of a plate of fruit, and in perfect pronunciation declares it to be “fresh fruit.”

Political wars were not the only wars that were fought in his life. Bemoaning the fact that his own father married three women, my grandfather reckoned with having three factions in the same family. Each wife vied for power through subterfuge and webs of resistance and open attack, much like political parties would flicker amongst different alliances. Such wars continued to be fought even when he returned for the first time to his hometown decades later. The Communists had targeted his family for having reared a member of the Nationalists, and made short work of his other family members by deporting them to labor camps. The remaining family members were none to happy about the “escape” of my grandfather to Taiwan.

We walk toward the Taipei train station, a bustling hub of humanity, before turning a corner to visit a tiny ryokan renowned for housing Dr. Sun. In the sweltering Taiwan summer heat, we circle through the garden when suddenly my grandfather pauses. From the corner of my eye, I see as his features relax and the tip of his mouth slide into a gentle grin. There is a moment of silence as he soaks in the beauty and subtle fragrance of flowers, as if trying to pause at a fleeting frame of tranquility amidst a long, hectic movie. I’m tempted to ask him about his impression of Dr. Sun but catch myself.

He’s gone a long way for this quiet pause.

*-*-*


During my cross-Taiwan biking trip, I stop by Elanbi (鵝鑾鼻) lighthouse in the southernmost tip of Taiwan, now painted immaculate white. The lighthouse was designed and built by the British after an American vessel sunk off the coast of Taiwan. If you look closely at the architecture, you notice small holes in the surrounding walls and in the cylindrical steel sheet on the lighthouse itself. These were used by the lighthouse staff to defend against aboriginal raids. Oh, did I mention that this was where my grandfather first met my grandmother?

In 1949, Grandpa explains, the KMT troops heading over to Taiwan were hardly the best trained. The elite had gone north to fight Russians and Chinese communists from taking over Heilongjiang: a large portion of mineral resources is located in the Northeast of China. After World War II, Grandpa moved to Taiwan for a job as a customs officer, beginning a new chapter in his life. Around 1945, his mother warned him to take his whole family with him, in spite of having to live at a lighthouse. He never saw her again, only receiving a letter proclaiming her death. Death would visit another loved one: the sweetheart of his youth and first wife passed away from an illness. Almost all of the family savings were used to try to cure her illness, leaving my grandfather to raise my eldest uncle and two aunts alone.

As a customs lighthouse officer, he was rotated among different lighthouses. He eventually landed at Elanbi lighthouse, near a town that is now known as Hengchun, or “Eternal Spring.” My grandmother at the time was a young Taiwanese woman who had grown up on the island under Japanese colonial rule, knowing very little about the situation on the mainland. She likes to say that the Japanese came to Taiwan with boots and perfect uniforms, while the KMT soldiers came in tatters and looking more like farmers. In some cases, marriages with an outsider shamed families, accustomed to marrying off daughters to nationalists only when they were extremely poor. The details of how they met are unknown to me, but I listen as my grandparents relate the first years of their married life at the lighthouse.

First, the lighthouse served as the locus of central government authority in the area, so living conditions were comparatively good. While three or four lighthouse staff used to reside at the base of the lighthouse (a 6x6 meter space), my grandfather helped build a new structure that could house his whole family. Supplies were delivered by a boat traveling around the island to each of the lighthouses. Schooling was provided for the children in the family, and high profile visits, like the visit of the youngest of the Soong sisters Soong Mei-Ling, meant luxuries like a toilet were installed.

They had to keep the lighthouse impeccably clean, wiping down the steel plating on the lighthouse, clearing out the gunk in the gas lamp, sweeping the grounds, and repainting the walls. When the family decided to raise chickens, my grandfather joined with a few other lighthouse staff to punch a hole in the back wall. Because manure was obviously not allowed on lighthouse grounds, they built a small doorway to a pen. They were even called to rebuild the walls surrounding the actual lighthouse structure.

When my grandfather moved with his entire family to Penghu, a chain of islands off the coast of Taiwan, their two sources of sustenance were canned food and seafood. Here were stories of going out to sea in the middle of the night to catch squid, which could be cooked over coals or used for bait. Simply drop a net into the dark waters and burn a piece of magnesium, which bathes the ocean with incandescent white light. The squid swarm toward the light and, voila, pull up the net. Deep sea fish were also commonly eaten, where weary fishermen would land near the lighthouse to repair their nets or find medicines, trading a fish or two in return. Sometimes, they would even share a meal and share supplies… a can of beans for a whole, fresh fish boiled in a pot of water.

The same evening I’m listening to my grandparents talk about squid, we’re eating it. For some reason, it looks a lot more appealing than before.

*-*-*

Reading the newspaper with his glasses sliding lazily down his nose, my grandfather settles into the chair across from me. One thing that he’s taught me is how to appreciate a good meal, cooked slowly and thoughtfully.

During the Chinese New Year’s meal, he gingerly takes a sip from his wineglass, filled with golden whiskey. He pauses and raises his chopsticks as he considers what to stockpile atop his rice bowl. Then his hand dives gracefully through a web of chopsticks hovering over the food. While the other family members are almost finished with their meal, allegretto, he approaches his meal slowly, lento. His bowl, as a result, contains a treasure trove of selected portions.

Two nights ago, we asked my grandfather what the most meaningful thing in life is. His answer? My grandfather stops to reflect for a few moments before half-jokingly pointing at the food on the table. “Just remember to eat well and enjoy life.”