I know. It’s been too long since I’ve blogged. Longer than I
intended or even realized before a few days ago when I committed to finish a
new post. I don’t have any proper excuses really. I’ve written a bunch of
stuff, just nothing comprehensive and often disjointed. There are several
contributing factors to my inactivity, but essentially, I’ve just
procrastinated settling down and committing to a post from beginning to end. In
the midst of the whirl-burl that grabs you when you’re leaving home to live
somewhere else for the first time, in a place entirely foreign, it’s much
easier to write - easier to sensationalize the world around you and submit to
the whimsical perspectives adopted by your bewildered senses when everything
seems out of place.
I’ve compared this adventure to diving off of a tall diving
board. Full of trepidation and anxieties when peering over the edge, knowing
full well that you could climb back down from where you came, turn your back on
the challenge and settle your nerves on familiar ground. Although I suppose
turning back is never really an option, for when you return anywhere, it can
never really be the same. Circumstances, perspectives, environments are ruthlessly
fluid. Although you may return somewhere familiar, inevitably, as sure as time
itself, something will have changed. So at the top of this diving board - like
every moment in life - you are embarked – the choice is only to either venture
forward – embracing the perpetual marching rhythm of life, or futilely refrain
from that unabaiting tide.
Not to say that I’ve always done so, but in the instance of
leaving to teach in China, I jumped. For myself, the free-fall was neither negative
nor positive, but much like a thrilling dream, it is swift, stimulating and
over before you know it. Continuing with the diving board metaphor, the real
challenge comes with orienting yourself once you’ve hit the water. I’m past
that point now. What was bemusingly unfamiliar has become regular. I’ve settled into a day-to-day, caught my breath and
returned to a familiar rhythm. I don’t feel like is a bad thing in any way - my
energies aren’t being wasted, just focused more on the consistent than the
irregular… maybe it is a bad thing. I don’t know – there’s certainly no black
and white about it. At least I know that stable state is only temporary, soon
enough I’ll find myself on yet another platform preparing to dive even further.
I suppose this is just a long way to say that it’s easier to write during
sensational storms rather than calm tides. Sorry for the delay.
Teaching, studying and drawing have been the prominent
occupations of my energies over the last while. I’ve always passively doodled
from time to time, but actively sitting down, finding a new album to listen to,
and drawing for an hour or two or three has recently been a common occurrence
in my day to day. It’s so meditative, but what’s more is that all my life I
have been a consumer of creative energies - channeling my own into this or
that, but usually only to personal ends. Being able to give something back into
the pool from which I’ve withdrawn so much from feels utterly fulfilling,
regardless of how minuscule my contribution may be.
My time for drawing these days has been
perpetuated by my domestic idleness on account of being sick for well over a
month. Between teaching and napping, I’m laying low trying to keep myself
rested. There’s some sort of chest infection, likely bronchitis, which has been
pestering me for over a month now. Its frustrating being unable to be as active
as I want, especially considering the catalogue of disabilities I’ve sported
over the last year and a bit. Some days when I’m reminded of activities I
shouldn’t do for the sake of recuperating, I feel resentful – as if my body has
neglected the terms of some unspoken contract. Of course, patience is
essential, but some days restlessness just gets the better of me. About a week
and a half ago I had one of those of those days. I awoke rather peacefully, as if overnight
my chest had exhausted itself from the war it was waging on my lungs. For weeks
it seemed it to have dedicated itself to the task of evicting my lungs
outright, but here I was, out of bed, mobile,
and as of yet no attempts of expulsion had rattled my frame. Delightful.
Perhaps hastily, I took the opportunity to break my spell of inactivity and go
explore a nearby mountain.
Only moments after the idea had come to my head, I was on a
community bike, riding along with the flow of mid-morning traffic at full
speed, loud and heavy music rapturing my aural senses. As it seems to be with any
exerting activity, such as writing this post, the real task is establishing the
initial thrust to set fourth the momentum into motion. In this instance, the
thrust was an impulse rather than a chore, so my mindset was resolved and any
moderate objections from my body was to be ignored. It wasn’t long until I had
arrived at the community bike station nearest the mountain, from which I
continued on foot, paced at a moderate sprint until I had reached the base of
the mountain. Being of an entirely anti-social mind at the time, I silently
paid the toll and continued down my intended path. I had taken the most direct
route to the top before, but this time I felt compelled to reach the eastern
(and lower) peak and then find somewhere to make my way to from there.
I continued up a wide ornament path, paved with multicolored
bricks in symmetrical design and marked by a traditionally large decorative
gate (páifāng) imposing itself over the width of the track and punctuated by a
giant iron cylinder resting dead center of the road, perhaps 10 feet wide and
five feet tall, covered with a collage of images embedded upon its surface as
if it was clay. Tall bamboo arched over each side of me as I jogged down this
long slightly inclined route. After a while I noticed that hidden on each side
of my road, shrouded in bamboo were two smaller parallel paths, paved linearly
with giant designed stone tiles. Utterly excessive considering this wasn’t
accessible by any modern vehicles, and there were no people in sight. While
trekking along, my thoughts from prior visits to this mountain echoed in my
mind – the recognition that there was a time that this installment, and the many
others constructed in the same grandiose vein belonged to a different era. A
chapter of history separated from the priorities, culture and administration of
today.
 |
| Engraved stone between the temple steps |
After perhaps a kilometer or two, the brick pattern expired
at the foot of a tall stone pagoda settled in the shadow of an empty temple
embedded in forestry and host to a vast spectrum of green, blue, yellow and
red. I took the opportunity to stretch for a while, absorbing the heat and
savoring the fresh air. My company consisted of small lizards scuttling around
me, searching cracks and crevices for a bug to eat and a silent, staring girl,
perhaps 20 years old - faithfully holding her post by a crudely placed tourist
kiosk. No solicitation, just curious observation. There’s a dignity to be
recognized in the commerce of China, no matter how arid a business may be,
you’ll never be hassled.
Although taxed by modern institution, this place is weighted
with a deep history. The pagoda is made of a natural dark stone, never painted
and likely the same shade as the day it was built. The tree to my right has a
slightly indented trench circling a consistent four foot radius from the tree,
telling of a time where something(s) was tied to the tree like a post, and
resisting the anchor tied to its neck, scared the ground through its anxious
pacing. This harsh hallmark of struggle was the only organic trace of prior
occupation, aside from this tree, these historic constructions held few
memories of a life now lost. Only the physical monuments left behind give testament
to the generations passed.
After a while I approached the silent girl, my composure
perhaps illustrated a lack of desire to interrupt the moment with trite
attempts at conversation, and so we both remained silent. I pulled out one of
my journals and showed her a drawing I had with me (poor girl probably thought
I was going to buy something). We both shared a smile, and I continued on. To
the left of the base of the temple I followed a steep set of stone stairs
traced alongside by a worn water-trench. Sprinting up the mountain in the heat
after weeks of inactivity quickly pushed me to the point of gritting my teeth,
consciously trying to maintain rhythm of my shaky breath and resisting mental
games urging me to stop. Seven, eight, nine, ten, and more long, steep flights
of stairs and finally a platform was in sight. In a final sprint I hurdled my
way to the foreseeable top, heaving deeply, each breath fighting against thick
cobwebs of phlegm excavated from the recesses of my clogged lungs. Two small,
elderly Chinese men seemed to entirely halt whatever they were occupying
themselves with at the time to spectate this shirtless 6 foot white anomaly
keeled over, heaving, gagging, spitting and drenched
in sweat (did I mention that it was 30°c without a cloud in the sky?). As I’ve
noticed people tend to do here, they watched passively until the show was over,
and then placidly continued about their business.
I caught my breath and noticed the platform made a T. On the
right stood an elevated, rusty and partially collapsed pavilion erected above
the remnants of a stone wall whose purpose had also expired long ago. On the
left, around a corner of bushes and down a shallow staircase easily forty feet
wide I was met by the back of a massive caped warrior mounted on a great granite
platform, unobscured he witnesses from above and afar the full bustle and
development of his 2500 year old city. In his left hand he grips a thick,
pronged staff and extends out his right as if to issue command. Forged with the same iron as the decorated
cylinder at the base of what is now clearly his
route, he stands firm and intensely vigilant - a permanent hallmark from a
time before our own. He is not a benevolent martyr, nor a reserved scholar.
This is the frame of a resolute and fearsome leader. Perhaps under the force of
his hand the ordinate brick road was cleared and paved, the treacherous steep
stairs were hauled and placed, and the monks were given a grand institution for
their study that has remained occupied and marveled for centuries if not
millennia. 
Standing between his feet and under his shadow, viewing
Shaoxing from his perspective, albeit at least 40 feet below, I wondered what
he would think of the sight before him – a culture of commodity and imitation,
yet also determination and pride. Often desperate to adopt so many elements of
western culture, while seemingly neglecting many of its own; a developing
society processing many growing pains as evidenced by mass censorship, hospital
riots, deserted unfinished skyscrapers and massive business turnover. Yet
wielding great might through sheer weight of influence that causes the world to
listen and oftentimes bend towards its will. A nation making use of aged
facilities, while constructing new ones and embedded in strong institution, not
without its flaws, but stable none-the-less. In his time, this warrior figure
undoubtedly saw the casualties of a developing kingdom as well. 
In my contemplation while standing in front of this figure
on a lowered balcony, as if orchestrated, a feeble old man, dressed in worn grey
pants, a tattered dark blazer jacket, marked with creases the size of rivers on
both his face and flaccid leather shoes, tiredly descended the left hand
staircase. Two empty 25-gallon plastic buckets hung on either end of a split
stock of bamboo oppressing the foundation of this mans kinked shoulders as he
slowly made his way to the stagnant fountain at the base of the platform. Filling
them with what I assumed to be residue rainwater, he stabilized the two
buckets, now full, on the short ledge. Squatting, he flexed his hardened shoulders
and heaved the great weight upon his burdened back, and then straightening, he
slowly and powerfully trudged up from where he came, with even greater weight
and effort bound to every aching step. 
Discretely, I followed. Compelled, I kept my distance and
followed him past the imposing perched watcher of Shaoxing, across the
platform, over the derelict stone wall and through the partially collapsed
pavilion; shattered tiles of carved stone littered the dusty floor. The path of
pavement had ceased and an inclined rockbed was now underfoot. Perhaps 200
yards across this exposed rockbed came to a short bushy trail, which shortly
led to another clean rockbed, yet not bare. At the mouth of
Not wishing to stir this peaceful scene with the commotion
of a foreign presence, I continued across this stone plateau until I found a
tight dirt footpath which winded its way uphill amongst vines and twiggy trees.
Lost in the nostalgia of my many wanderings amidst paths much like this, after
a while, I was caught off-guard to find myself again at the foot of stone
steps. Much like the set of stairs from before, only littered in leaves,
branches and twigs - clearly a neglected installment that had survived the
weathering of time, unlike other sections of this trail. I paced up its steep
steps, mounting again flight upon flight, until again my path plateaued upon a
tiled stone path, entirely canvased by arching trees and branches overhead.
Shortly ahead a clearing appeared. As I emerged I found myself at the edge of a
stunning circular platform. The foundation, composed of custom carved and set
stone, was patterned with intricate geometric rings extending from the central
fulcrum outwards, seemingly alike the contours upon astronomy charts I had
(hardly) studied in school. To encourage my suspicion, surrounding this curious
design with equal spacing, all facing the center stood the mounted sculptures
of a rat, ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog
and pig. Awed by this mystical discovery, I considered the ages passed, like a
rolling tide, faded and smothered by the inevitable wave of upcoming
generations, and the erosion of time. Not just in structures, but all things.
Money, sweat and most importantly thought was invested into the creation of this
now neglected, perhaps forgotten, installment embedded upon the absolute peak
of this mountain. Here I stood, on a physical testament of an intellectual
people now passed, shrouded within the mountain heights and unconstrained
vegetation. Left to witness the passing of seasons, and motions of stars in
solitude. Having played its part, this grand design now offered its utilities
to an empty sky.
 |
| Camouflage |
Perhaps half an hour and certainly hundreds of steps had
passed once this staircase expired. The end of this constructed stone trail led
to a much more narrow and exposed natural path that scaled the edge of a steep
decline into a heavily forested lush green valley. I continued, wholly ignorant
as to where it would lead, my only orientation was that I wanted to emerge
approximately on the “other side”. The trail twisted amongst the grass, bush
and trees, fell along with the cascading erosion, disappeared outright, only to
be found again diverging acutely from its initial direction. A kilometer or two
later the path collapsed upon a giant slab of concrete - crude and coarse
compared to the singular stone steps and tiles I had been trekking. The solid
mass lay spewed across the face of trees and dirt like a burn. Like the
malleable dirt trail it itself lay crumbled and subject to the motions of this
shedding mountain. Overhead spanned electric wire, bound to tall metal
skeletons now visible in distance. Perhaps this used to be the foundation of
such a tower. The base of the mountain was now visible as well, in which I
could see an industrial site, filled with stone and tall awnings. Climbing down
the concrete rubble on hand and foot, I found again the comfortable cushioning
of shaded soil. The trail was obscure, but I estimated my direction and soon
enough I found myself on another distinguishable, although degraded path.
Accelerating my pace on this flat traverse, I briskly passed
trees now drastically taller than only a handful of paces ago. Suddenly I stopped in my tracks, saving
myself from falling straight into what seemed at first to be a manhole, partly
concealed by fallen branches and overgrowth. Deep with a ridged perimeter, this
hole was clearly not the cause of natural settling of the soil. Rectangular,
perhaps two feet wide and 6 feet long, I looked into the hole that was easily
six feet deep, and determined that I was likely peering into the remnants of a
collapsed grave. Awoken to my surroundings I now scouted perhaps twenty similar
cavities amongst the trees and soil, directly within my proximity. I had
stumbled into a gravesite without my knowing and was now surrounded by the
derelict resting places of souls now passed. Maintaining my direction with
greater attention this number grew with remarkable consistency. Soon there were
no longer only fallen graves, but hefty stone tombs, powerfully mounted upon
and within the ground and guarded by tall arching trees. Again, upon finding
one, a multitude then appeared. All blanketed by expired leaves and twigs, all
but one. Just as the traversing trail began to descend again, I saw a glint of
colour ahead. Moving closer, I found one tomb, same design as the rest, but
swept bare of debris and with a bouquet of dead flowers set at the base of its
mantle, tied with colourful tinsel and decorative paper. Although there was
much more written on the tombstone, all I could recognize was the number
brushed upon the side of the tomb in faded red paint marking the number 186. 
With all the lives passed and forgotten, this one was not
only remembered, but celebrated. Like the zodiac platform, the stone pagoda and
this historic trail itself, the times of their existence had passed, and the memory
had soon after followed in turn. Each resting site represented a life, born
from womb, an individual who lived their life, whatever it may have been, then,
when their time was up, expired into ground. The eternal tide of our ongoing
history is a fleeting memory of passing accomplishments. Monuments raised as a
testament to our labours and as an inheritance for those whose time has yet to
come, generations who may learn and move forward from experiences of the dead
and dying. Once the time is served or the opportunity has passed, what remains
of our lives resign into the canvas of a constantly fading and flourishing
eternal nature - cascades of generations falling is like the shedding erosion
of the mountain’s soil: each layer giving of itself for the next to come. What
survives us is the purpose we fulfilled, for better or worse. Depositing what
we will into the basin we’ve taken so much from.
The memory of our lives is not eternal, but fleeting, all we
can do is push on with the moment we have, with hopes to better others and
ourselves in the moments to come. The cycle of life of the subjective
individual cannot be so different than the objective whole of mankind. Our
lives are not our own, but part of a shared existence of all lives past,
present and future. When our individual resigns from its subjective course, who
and what we were - what we are - fades into the blurring motion of a greater
collective existence - one organism, a countless myriad of regenerating cells
experiencing themselves subjectively. The core of existence that precedes circumstance,
materials, structures and systems is an essential pulse of a single enduring
organism made up of a plethora of individual cells all bound by the constant
sweeping tide of time. To celebrate even just one of the lives marked by these
lost tombs, seemed to affirm and celebrate the existence of all those passed in
conjunction.
I continued down the mountain. The decline was subsiding
swiftly and the trees were dispersing. Soon I found myself at a gaping stone
wall. Stepping through, I emerged upon the labour site. Late in the day it was
still bright, hot and dusty with a small radio crackling and squealing under
the task of projecting a faint distraction from its worn and tired speakers.
From afar I witnessed these men break apart large tiles of stone manually, then
loading the pieces upon two weighted plates and hauled the grueling load across
their shoulders, trudging it into an old and rusting pick-up truck, parked
perhaps 15 feet from what I would soon discover to be the laborers residence
quarters, each room crowded with scrawny bunk-beds. Understandably, as I passed
by these labouring men I was met by many astonished stares. Replying with a
friendly smile, the men all responded in turn with warm greetings and laughter.
God bless men like these. 
After passing through the construction site and an overgrown
park, I found my way onto a paved road, from which I walked along for perhaps a
hour, heading back into the city. Several times I had cars stop
alongside me
offering a ride. There have been many occasions over the last few months in
which I’ve marveled at how friendly and accommodating the locals have been to
Julie and I. Arriving at our little 6th floor home, I felt exhausted, but reinvigorated and relieved of my initial restlessness. I've returned since and explored even more of this beautiful landscape, discovering more hidden beauty and forgotten structures. Much like my domestic experience here, the more I venture and observe, the more I find. Inquiry into life is limitless.
Approaching five months now, it’s stunning how time has
flown by. Overall our experience has
been a thrill, and I’m excited to see how the next half of our stay in Shaoxing
plays out - lots of adventures ahead (and behind). In less than two weeks time
we’ll be off to Hong Kong for a week and then Shanghai after that. I’m sure I’ll
have a few stories from that as well. Summer semester will be starting once we
get back, which is supposed to be a month and a half grind – should be fun
though. Thanks for reading, ‘till next time.
Much love,
Cameron
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