Dimsum at the China Club - at random

There I was, young, ignorant and quite out of touch with reality, to be honest, striding with an air of determination and vigor towards the old Bank of China building. Head bent, knees awhir and heels clacking on the uneven Hong Kong pavement, I nodded eagerly to whatever nonsense a firm executive was half speaking and half spitting into my right ear. The sleek Coach briefcase I clutched tightly encased a handful of presentations still warm from the printer, presentations full of useful information that would eventually be yanked fresh from its fine carrying case and dutifully discarded into the trashbin under my desk, three and a half hours after the stress involved in proofing, printing, and binding them.

We hurried up the steps that led to the elevator lobby of the venerable and humble predecessor of the tremendous steel and glass giant looming close by that now represented the Bank of China. The elevator doors closed upon our party of four and reopened to a dimly lit, carpeted foyer. A sense of old Hong Kong suggested itself through the oak finishings, antique ornaments and plush armchairs that rested like distinguished elderly gentlemen lounging in an afternoon salon, a bit worn, a bit wrinkled, but with an air of history and refinement. We were conveyed by a pleasant hostess through heavy frosted glass doors, past the general sitting area humming with executives engrossed in high class dimsum and important conversation, and entered a private room in the back. The first thing I noticed about the well-lighted dining room were the rather anachronistic wall hangings. Large modernistic paintings in bold blues and reds hung against a backdrop of softly toned wallpaper, the most promininent being a juxtaposition of the old and new Bank of China buildings standing one next to another, a nondescript matronly form in the foreground dressed in what seemed like soft silk burgundy pajamas.

Two of the five invited guests had already arrived, and after a round of introductions and fumbling with namecards we were all seated at the round table, patiently engaging in polite conversation as we waited for the remaining guests to arrive. Mostly I attempted to appear as interested as possible, bobbing with a complaisant smile between two lines of conversation split across the table. Intently I stared at the quivering waddles of each person as he or she spoke, taking in the details of a tie, a gesture, a tone of voice and the range of accents that skirted the table. Perhaps I should be just as involved in the actual content of the conversation, I thought to myself as "content is king!" erupted from one particularly stubbly waddle in a rather predictable manner, commenting intelligently on the telecommunications industry. I couldn't resist taking the time to notice the China Club design that sprouted on the napkin and glossed the fine china. A small red star, overlaid by a large yellow star which in turn enveloped a smaller white star, suggesting what I could not begin to fathom. Just as I was happily surprised to find the same star logo embossed on the wet handtowel I was using, someone said something delightful and a round of chuckles and nods rippled around the table. I participated, of course, seemingly engaged and truly enthralled by whatever I had missed.

As the food began to arrive, placed neatly before each of us in nicely sized portions, the usual fear began sneaking into my psyche- will I make an absolute fool out of myself by dropping a chopstick, dripping a sauce or projecting some morsel, Pretty Woman-style? "Slippery suckers," I would say with a laugh to recover my composure. I wondered then if anyone else at this table harbored the same concerns. Glancing around the table I detected no visible traces of consternation within the animated faces of three high-powered executives from blue chip corporations, two partners from a renowned American law firm that dominated the Asia Pacific legal world, and four finance gurus from a struggling international investment bank. Ho-hum. Snapping back into the flow of conversation I abandoned the wanderings of my slightly neurotic mind and refocused instead on the dimsum. [tbc]

Silence Ajar - a poem

Wonder if I’ve felt like this before,
Standing about, talking nonsense.
The door to my heart ajar,
no welcome mat to greet.
Only periodic cries of silence,
Wafting from the windowsill.

And here I am, watching the clock,
Watching the door.
Watching my life like a movie reel,
Reality tepid brown and faded.
Heart’s grown bland,
No use for the door
Just no longer here anymore.

Shards of my heart,
Fragments of my mind,
What is it worth?
Palms on the windowsill,
Scream out into the night,
And silence retorts,
Sneers mockingly at me,
My mouth agape, face aghast.

Then turning once about,
Even silence disappears,
Slips ‘round the corner,
Sarcastic lips upturned.

And still, watching the clock,
Watching the door.

Herman's Birthday - a fragment

It’s Herman’s birthday today. I have not seen that guy in so long. It seems like ages ago since we sat on the steps of the Asian American Activities Center, puffing on cigarettes and sketching plot twists with dramatic, overkill enthusiasm and complaining, forever complaining, about the love or past loves that soured our hearts at that particular moment. How would we incorporate our own rich (oh, but rather trite) life experiences into a dramatic catharsis, shouted from the very rooftops of over-privileged college youths playing playwrights in between classes? But what a pleasure, what a thrill, truly, to eke a bit of drama from our daily microcosms, mold it into some metaphoric butterfly or melancholy melody, and send it fluttering from our souls to grandiosely greet the world, inevitably flying smack into the concrete wall of reality. Every event could be fodder filling a scene, every personality a character building a cast. So completely self-serving and self-indulgent and so completely gorgeous was life back then.

Perhaps this third post-collegiate year that I am now living has broken my optimism a bit. This rut that I have freshly dug for myself proves even more suffocating and unfulfilling than I predicted. So happily ambitious were these plans, to move on once again and start anew in a cosmopolitan urban sprawl, new position, new title, new team of happy investment bankers, new friends, new apartment, new neighborhood, new country. So long Midtown, Soho and my beloved Meatpacking District, sets once called home yanked across the plankway and off the stage during the second long intermission of life post-college, curtains opening to a freshly painted backdrop of Central, Causeway Bay and Midlevels.

And in all actuality it is a rather fresh new act that I’ve stepped into. Hong Kong is fascinating, there are roots here that have broken through the topsoil, entwining the core of who I am to the undercurrents of this city. My relatives, the language, the general Cantoneseness that pervades with its callousness, materialism, trendiness, all enshrouded in the sweet and sticky musk of money. But dramatization aside, career-wise I am definitely unsatisfied and stifled. [tbc]

Work - a fragment

So what is going on? Well, job-wise, such pressure, latent, hidden pressure, most likely one of the key molders of that horrendous knot lodged in my upper right shoulder blade. It is quite strange, the way that I have been handling the responsibilities, most of the time wondering how in the world I am at the fore of representing the company at these meetings with millionaires and their asshole lawyers, but then again looking around the room at these millionaires and thinking what a bunch of idiots, sniveling, is the word, sniveling idiots trying to underhandedly squeeze every drop from their “guanxi”. No, that’s a bit harsh, fine, skip the sniveling, just idiots does the trick. Guanxi, big fricking deal. It is rather annoying to sit there sometimes, as Mr. Millionaire Number One asks me if he is being too GREEDY. WHAT?!?!? “Um, yeah, Mr. Millionaire Number One, you are a greedy idiot bastard. Now back to the process…” Millionaire Number Two fills in with an aside, dramatically sprung in a lowered voice, “Yeah, I actually have the money to fund this thing, but we’re trying to get some legitimate support…” “You mean for this illegitimate bullsh*t guanxi-based bullsh*t operation?” Things not to say to clients. Hmph. So meaningless, but then what is? I like the fact that I am sitting there, rounding out the table with so few years of experience, as old as most of their daughters, trying to enforce some sense of credibility with nothing but ideas on organization. Organization, hah! It’s all a crock, really. Comical crock of sh*t.

I can sit here and lament and complain, but at the end of the day (banker phrase, beware) is there anything else that I could be doing with my life that would be more fulfilling? Writing, great. But who’s to say that what I write is trite stuff that will never be interesting to anyone other than my inner heehee self. Writing, great. But who’s to say that if I have a job that is writing-oriented I wouldn’t be bored out of my mind?? Doing interviews, seems fun. Reporting on restaurants, events, movies, even? Nah, I don’t think so. So then what? I don’t know if I have enough in me to create, to innovate writing that’s worth reading. Just don’t know.