My Time as a Human

Reva Patwardhan and Orlando Reyes called me out yesterday for leaving out the best parts of my China story. I think in particular they wanted to hear about (not quite) dying. I think it’s valuable for me to share this in a little more detail because it wasn’t what most people might expect. First, though, I’ll give a little context.

Sarita Chawla introduced me to the “Island Where It All Works Out”. This is the idea that if we work really hard, stay focused and don’t screw around we’ll wrap up our struggles and arrive, around age 65, at the Island Where it All Works Out, a beautiful place where we hang around swinging a golf club and playing with grandchildren until we die. Sadly, a lot of people don’t live that long, as someone pointed out by telling the story of their hardworking mother who lived for that dream but died in her mid fifties.

I never believed in that dream. I threw some money into an IRA and snuck onto the island early to get a peek. It was kind of boring, so then I ran around playing everywhere else. I made bargains along the way, mixing in hard work so that I could stir in an equal portion of joy and adventure during the time of life where I still had strong working legs and a sharp mind.

It cannot be said that I haven’t lived fully. But an interesting thing happened that, in part, lead me to China. I reached a point where I felt like I had done it all. Oh sure, there were still several businesses to start, hang gliding hadn’t worked out yet, and I had five unfinished book ideas. But I looked back and felt satisfied that I’d taken a good big bite of the cookie and shared it with a lot of other humans. I felt like an adult, like I’d made it, not in a way related to status or accomplishments but as a result of being aware and seeing and doing so much.

Before I flew to China I had reached a point in my life that I can only describe as the “bonus round”. I felt like anything else I took on was just for fun. Life had already happened.

By the time I reached Taiwan, the damage the carbon monoxide had done to me (summary) had me shaking, unable to walk in more than a shuffle, and in a deep fog. The world was a distant place that seemed to be slipping further and further away. I had all of the symptoms of advanced Parkinson’s disease and a general confusion. I certainly had moments of fear. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get to the hostel, or to the hospital. I wondered if I would ever be able to speak again. But the overwhelming majority of the time I was… exploring. My old instincts kicked in. I was in wonder at this new experience. The world was strange, which made it new and interesting. I made challenges for myself, like walking a block to the bank. I had to stop repeatedly to remember where I was and what I was doing, but I kept the hospital bill in my hand to remind me. Sometimes it was frustrating. I kept reminding myself to try to stand up straight. I would find myself hunched over, yet again, and snap at myself. Mostly, though, I laughed. I laughed at the absurdity of it all. I laughed at my enjoyment of the strange new experience and the new challenge.

I also felt thankful. Thankful to the many strangers who went out of their way to help me. Thankful for what time I had left.

Mostly, though, I felt thankful that everyone I loved knew I loved them. There were no loose ends. For years I had told my parents and sisters and nephews and niece that I loved them. I had hugged my friends and lovers and told them I loved them. I did my best not to let conflicts sit and grudges take root with my friendships. There was no desperate need to fix anything.

The only fragment, the one piece that emerged, was that there were still little things that could be done with the gifts I had been given for writing and working with people. Even as I struggled to get my tired, aching brain to focus and my words came out like slow, wet drops from a tightly closed faucet there were people who stayed with me for hours, somehow unable to go where they had planned, staying because they felt like they were learning to see themselves and the world in a new way. I don’t know what I was saying or what I was doing, but somehow my grandfather’s magic was still working through me, through those last thin threads connecting me to the world as they snapped and fell away one by one. I’m working on finding a way to make some use of this now.

I lived. I slept for several months. My brain is still slow. But there is a connection I have with still being here on the planet that has evolved. The idea of the bonus round is even more tangible. Where before every new project was a bonus, now every moment is a bonus. The moment I touch the waxy leaf of a jade plant. The moment I smell fresh basil. The moment I hear a deep, rich note hum from an acoustic bass.

A few months back I was walking in the hot sun, feeling a little cranky about having to go retrieve a car, and suddenly… something happened. I stopped. I straightened. Like suddenly noticing a note left by a lover… a thought appeared. “I’m Alive”. I held up my thumb and second finger and gently, quietly, slowly rubbed them together, immersed in the feeling of their touch. There was nothing else. Everything was in that touch, that moment. Everything that needed to be.

It’s all a bonus. And sometimes I still forget. I get nervous. I get angry. I wonder if I’m “doing it right”. And sometimes, I stop to just touch something near me. One more time. One extra moment. And a smile emerges, and I laugh at the absurd simplicity of it all.

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Living on the road my friend,
Was gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron,
Your breath as hard as kerosene.

- Townes Van Zandt, “Poncho and Lefty”

Since my sudden and unexpected return from China I’ve lived between the cracks. I’m not sure when, if ever, I’ll return to full strength and how long I should wait to see if I do. A majority of my recovery happened in Chicago and then a trip down south for my birthday seems to have evolved into several months of homeless wandering in Austin. Much as I’d hoped to on day do a stint as a couch surfing troubadour, so far I’ve been strapped to a software project. In a down economy, I can’t complain.

Regardless, I’ve found myself living this way for quite a few months now and, despite not being able to provide my hosts the joyful songslinging Kai I had hoped to offer, I have learned a few tricks on how to avoid a skin of iron and, most certainly, kerosene breath.

Be Awesome

None of this would be possible without a network of amazing, loving friends. You get those by years of being a genuinely caring person, knowing how to listen sincerely and attentively, and seeking to improve yourself every day. This happened to me by accident and, honestly, involved a fair amount of sacrifice along the way. Definitely worth it.

Acts of Service

Little things make all the difference. I wash every dish I see immediately after eating and try never to leave a house without cleaning even the dishes they’ve left out. I make beds. I neatly fold sheets I’ve used. I fix doorknobs. I install screens. I run vacuum cleaners when they’re not around. I clean toilets. You can’t always do everything, but it adds up.

People don’t always notice these touches, but they develop a sense that their houses are cleaner and nicer when you’re around. They’ll attribute it to your magical inner glow and charm. Don’t tell them.

And yes, if you’re not used to it, at first it feels like work. Now it’s so automatic I enjoy it and I’m humming and running through my next project in my head.

Grooming

The trick to being a homeless person in America is to not look like a homeless person. Even people on the street know this. The simplest trick is to shave your head and/or make sure you shave or trim up your beard every day (women get a free pass on this). Whatever you do, it just needs to look attended to and “on purpose”. It makes a big difference in how people see you. I can tell people over and over that I’m a jobless, homeless, loser without a car and they still fall in love with me. Mostly, it’s because I’m still clean and smell good.

Clothes

Clothes help too, and I’ve been loving the current scheme. I paid a lot for three really nice shirts and two pairs of pants that dry instantly and look good. I hand wash them in sinks and dry them overnight and they still look new seven months later. Worth the cash. (Details on exactly what I use and how my tiny collection of material things has evolved in a future post.)

Be Invisible

I try my best to be invisible. When someone comes home I want it to look as much as possible like no one’s visiting. My secret fantasy is that they’ll feel a little sad when there’s no sign of me and extra happy to see me when I’m around. I have no idea if this works.

The trick is to keep your bag small, organized, loaded and hidden. In the morning I usually have to pull out my clothes bag and ziplock of toiletries. Sometimes I have to spread things around a little to find what I need. When I’m done, I immediately put everything back into its place in the bag (which is automatic and effortless if everything has an assigned place) and tuck it away behind a couch, behind a door, in a back room etc. If I’m using sheets I fold or roll them and hide them as well. If I can’t hide them I try to make them look tidy in neat piles. If you’re really good (I do this when shooting interviews in people’s homes) you take quick photos on your phone of the space before you arrived and return it to exactly that state each morning. It’s more fun if you replace nicknacks at just the right angle and mush pillows exactly as they were.

The Secret House Rules

Everyone has secret rules about exactly how their house should operate. They usually don’t know what they are until they’re broken. You’ll discover most of them by “screwing up”. The trick here is to not take it personally, but apologize and make a note. I keep lists. When I leave a house I go through the list: red towel on the left, folded in thirds. Blue towel on right in halves. Window open in bathroom, only halfway, shower curtain open all the way to dry, drain closed to prevent monsters from coming up through the pipes. The AC is on super low, interior door closed to not waste AC. AC off. AC on high. One lamp left on to make it looks like someone’s home. Door ajar for cat. Door closed for cat. The laundry soap cup must be left full of water.

Kerosene

Avoid the Kerosene. It’s been easy for me, having nearly died from CO, to not do much drinking. I’d already decided to cut alcohol completely when I flew to China to become a superfit superhuman anyway. I’ve also been lucky enough to know better than to pick up any addictive habits over the years. All around this means that despite my injury I’m still smelling good, waking up at least as well as always, staying healthy and not getting distracted from a larger sense of purpose. Which leads to the penultimate point.

Purpose

Having passion and purpose will make all of this go. Why are you floating around instead of working a stable job and knowing you have a blender and soy milk in the morning? What are you going to learn, or make, with this time? That’s what people are going to want to hear about and support as you visit. And there needs to be progress so that the next time you stop by they can see how far you’ve come. This is your return on their investment.

Respect

Most importantly, respect the gift you are being given by your hosts along the way. You are living on other people’s hard work and generosity. Give them something in return: your enthusiasm, mission and joy.

Summary

So that’s it. Become a better person every day, pack a tiny bag of only what you need and start with a mission you are passionate about. Not a bad plan for life in general, really.

Having just written a less encouraging view of China, I want to follow immediately with a discussion of one of the things that makes me so eager to go back.

The number one reason to spend time in China is something that cannot easily be put into words. I’d love to find some foreign word that we don’t have in English like, “Fahrvergnügen” or even “Je ne sais quoi” (ironically) that perfectly describes it, but I want something that fits a little better, something that gives a real sense of the buzzing, buoying energy of the place, that magical charge that infects some foreigners for life.

Years ago my friend Vince Zappa and his wife (Americans) spent the first half of their honeymoon visiting some fellow Americans who were teaching in a small village in China. She had a decent time, but when the second half of the honeymoon arrived she was ready to head down to the resort in the Philippines. He was, however, entranced and had no interest in leaving a dirty little town to go to a fancy resort. Vince couldn’t get enough of just being in China. He got ripped off at a restaurant he liked and decided he didn’t care enough to stop going, that instead he’d just be more careful. He was willing to put up with hardships in this weird new place because something captured his heart.

When I first visited China many years ago, it was only for a few weeks but that was enough to trap me. Before we went I liked spending time around my Chinese friends in college and being around Weíshí’s parents and relatives. Weíshí’s second aunt taught me how to play Májiàng and I learned the numbers and directions. I liked the sound of the language, the beautiful characters, and the endless (and I do mean endless) “old Chinese sayings”. But something different happened when I arrived in Běijīng and later visited Xī’ān and Huángshān. I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough of the beautiful mountains, the scrappy street venders, the peach orchards, and above all the endlessly chaotic nature of everything around me. The magic hook is somewhere in that chaos and the way that people are so energized to make things happen. The Chinese people of today don’t bother with safety or laws or aesthetics: they charge ahead and build and make and haul and try.

When Weíshí and I visited the Great Wall we walked the whole length of the top of the restored wall. As we reached the far end, we heard grunting and whispers somewhere on the other side of the large stones that surrounded us. The sounds continued and got closer. The section of wall we stood on was a huge distance from the ground. We walked over just in time to see a hand grasp for the top. I leaned over and saw a series of people standing on each others’ shoulders and the person on top struggling to pull themselves up. Mystified, I grabbed onto his arm and helped him over the wall. He breathed heavily for a moment, then reached inside his jacket as a few more people pulled themselves up behind him. He fumbled a bit more and then, like a magician pulling flags from his sleeve, began heaving out pile after pile of “Great Wall” t-shirts. He immediately tried to sell me one. Apparently there was a fee to sell things on the wall, and they were either too poor or too scrappy and cheap to pay it.

Of course in the midst of this scrappiness and chaos there is still a swirling undercurrent of ancient history spinning through the signs, bricks, buildings, language and culture. It’s all still there, like the old tent that holds the circus. Something in the beauty of this whole mess is the China magic, the magic that entrances, lures, and captures the hearts of people like me.

Chinese people absolutely adore sappy, sweet, sad love songs and movies and if you ask any Chinese person for their favorite movie you’ll almost always get the same response: “Titanic“. Yes, the big cheesy American film. One of my Chinese kung fu brothers has watched this movie more times than he can count.

But the image of two young lovers leaning into the wind isn’t what stuck with me about my experience. Walking through China I felt like I was climbing on board the Titanic as the nose was plunging into the dark ocean. Every person I talked to was running past me, trying desperately to find a way off the boat. There I was, strolling around with my head up and an inflatable life boat under my arm asking, “hey, where’s this great band I’ve heard about”?

I asked about wéi qí (Go) playing. Some people had heard about it, but almost no one knew how to play. Traditional music? Maybe I could try the big theater in town. Kung Fu? I am training with an absolute treasure of China. Master Lǚ has incredible skills earned over a lifetime of intense practice and he’s one of the only heirs to a fascinating branch of Kung Fu. These skills can only be passed down orally and through direct instruction. The small group of people I train with, the people who will carry this knowledge to the next generation if it is to survive at all, are almost all foreigners: American, Canadian, French and Japanese students. His old Chinese students, from a time when his school was huge, are running businesses now. No one in China has any time to mess around with anything that doesn’t make money. They are running for the lifeboats.

It disappointed me greatly, but I can’t blame the Chinese people. Their lives have been wrecked by revolution, violence and starvation for decades. Now that they have a chance to get out, the air is thick with poison and the food and water are equally questionable. Money is the life boat that can literally save the lives of their family and they will stop at nothing to get it.

Fairness

But pollution and poisonous food aren’t the only reasons people want to escape. Even more so is the sense that there is a complete lack of fairness. No matter how hard you work, if you don’t have the right connections it means nothing. The people I talked to felt that in Germany, Canada or the US they would have a fair chance to earn a living through hard work without having to be related to someone in power. They felt like the laws would be fair. They felt like things that weren’t working could be fixed because they could gather with people and make change.

I grew up in a place where I’ve been taught to believe that if I don’t like something I can work to change it. That ideas is deeply, deeply ingrained in me. It’s still difficult for me to think about being completely paralyzed, as many feel they are in China. I’m not talking about petitioning a Senator to make big change, I’m talking about feeling like a street is dangerous and should have a stop sign, and knowing that I can get the community together to get that fixed. Or that I can get a group together and get some land to start a small community garden. If you can’t talk to the people in power (or they don’t have to listen) and you can’t form or gather in groups, there is nothing you can do that won’t get you shot or imprisoned.

In the end, I don’t think China will sink. Many will die in the icy water. The fortunate few will escape to western countries and live out the last days of prosperity there before those places sink. Ultimately China, like the US before it, will slowly make efforts to clean up the disastrous mess they’ve made while building the empire. In a couple of generations, the children or grandchildren of the people who escaped will be looking for a way to get back on board. If I’m still alive I’ll be happy to teach them all of the culture, kung fu, and wéiqí I’ve been saving for when they are ready.