(no subject)
We will be leaving for China in less than three weeks, on August 17. Apart from many things to take care of, such as selling all our furniture, getting the residency permit worked out, and trying to learn as much Chinese language as possible, I feel sort of in limbo. The future after August 17 is a black void, a cloudy crystal ball.
I've never been out of the country before. I've always wanted to, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I hate traveling. I don't like waking up in a different place every morning, or wondering where my food is going to come from and whether it will be up to my standards of edibility (I do not consider McDonald's to be edible. That's a whole different post, though). I tolerate camping because I desperately love plants, but my heart does not skip a beat when I think of the insects, the dirt, the weather, the dirt, the absence of air conditioning, or the dirt.
But on the other hand, I am a strange person who enjoys moving. What kind of person enjoys such a dismal and depressing act? When I open a neglected desk drawer, or set myself to cleaning out a disorganized closer, I have to stifle a grin as I throw things away. I feel like a king as I survey my possessions, cruelly deciding who stays and who goes. I want to cut it all away. When I feel too full, I want to be empty again.
It's also not just material objects. When I feel like too many people know my name, I begin to get uncomfortable. They have expectations about who I am. They have an idea of me in their mind, a version of me is stuck, static. Tomorrow I may be a completely different person. I don't want to be tethered to who I was today.
I really don't know anything about China, actually. When I try to summon to my mind an image, I see misty mountains where beautiful men in changshans practice Wushu. It's not exactly a romantic image I can take seriously. For me, China does not have any expectations to live up to. It must be new. And it must not have any expectations of me. I think if this happens, we will get along well.
I've never been out of the country before. I've always wanted to, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I hate traveling. I don't like waking up in a different place every morning, or wondering where my food is going to come from and whether it will be up to my standards of edibility (I do not consider McDonald's to be edible. That's a whole different post, though). I tolerate camping because I desperately love plants, but my heart does not skip a beat when I think of the insects, the dirt, the weather, the dirt, the absence of air conditioning, or the dirt.
But on the other hand, I am a strange person who enjoys moving. What kind of person enjoys such a dismal and depressing act? When I open a neglected desk drawer, or set myself to cleaning out a disorganized closer, I have to stifle a grin as I throw things away. I feel like a king as I survey my possessions, cruelly deciding who stays and who goes. I want to cut it all away. When I feel too full, I want to be empty again.
It's also not just material objects. When I feel like too many people know my name, I begin to get uncomfortable. They have expectations about who I am. They have an idea of me in their mind, a version of me is stuck, static. Tomorrow I may be a completely different person. I don't want to be tethered to who I was today.
I really don't know anything about China, actually. When I try to summon to my mind an image, I see misty mountains where beautiful men in changshans practice Wushu. It's not exactly a romantic image I can take seriously. For me, China does not have any expectations to live up to. It must be new. And it must not have any expectations of me. I think if this happens, we will get along well.