as queer as a clockwork orange

Yesterday during lunch, a woman sat across from me with a mango and a knife. After a quick inspection of the mango, she picked up the knife and started peeling it carefully from top to bottom. I watched as each slice of thin skin curled away from the hidden orange flesh underneath. She meticulously peeled off each piece of skin without a trace of flesh on them. I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of the stories a lieutenant told in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. It was the story of how he witnessed the skinning of his superior, Yamamoto, by the Mongols when they were discovered on enemy ground. Each Mongolian troop had a professional who possessed extremely high technical skill in shearing off every inch of skin on the bodies of their prisoners. “They can take a man’s skin off the way you’d peel a peach. Beautifully, without a single scratch.” The Mongolian officer started off with the left arm, skinning him carefully as Yamamoto burst in screams of agony. Soon, each piece of skin was sliced off and handed to the other officers, blood still dripping from it. What was left of Yamamoto was a bright red lump of flesh immersed in its own puddle of blood. Just like the bright orange mango dripping mango juice. My lunch didn’t look so appetizing anymore.

At first I found the early rush hour commute to work thrilling. Every day at eight in the morning I would squish into the overcrowded MRT (taipei metro) as the doors closed shut a few centimeters from my face. The distinct mixture of body odors and smells of freshly showered people would permeate the air. Everyone would be closer to each other than they wanted to be. Arms bumped into arms. Hair brushed faces. I wouldn’t need to cling onto anything for support. Human bodies were enough. If the MRT ever crashed, there would be enough people surrounding me to absorb the shock. It is interesting watching as people fill up the train. It is like water conforming to the volume of its container.

Though the train is  jampacked with people every weekday during rush hour, it is drenched with an artificial stale silence. No one talks. The train is merely a medium. It almost seems as if the MRT is just taking each person from one reality to the next. Home to work. Work to home. Home to school. School to home. Station to station. Everything else stops existing in the meantime. Life takes a pause in the safety of the enclosed carriage. A twenty minute escape from the stories of our lives. Everyone loses their personal identity for a moment and become insiginificant extensions of the train. Everyone stands still without flinching and is only barely breathing as the train travels at full speed. The silence is rudely filled with the overwhelming roar of the speeding rail.

There are all types of people on the MRT but the paranoid stand out. Masks cover their faces. Hands cover the masks, just in case H1N1 hops onto the train and attacks them. But they don’t realize there’s a more serious syndrome that eventually plagues all passengers. I’ll call it the MRT syndrome. When people enter the train, they take a quick glance of their surroundings, surveying the ever-changing crowd of people. Then, they slowly return their eyes to a blank forward stare, shrinking their perspective back into their own little world. Soon enough, the people around them become nothing but objects and they close their eyes as the monotony of the train lulls them to sleep. The weight of their bodies become unusually heavy and they sink into a shallow state of rest. Even though they may not feel tired, they feel a sudden sleepiness. It must be the unusual loss of order in thought and sense of time. At first, I thought it was just a way of coping with the urge to watch and stare at people. But after a week of using the train, I felt my eyelids becoming heavy. I felt myself sinking into the seat as a black background occupied my vacant mind. I contracted the disease without even knowing it. It must be airborne.

Attempting to rid myself of the syndrome and trying to stop myself from staring at people, I end up shoe-watching. Shoes make or break one’s outfit. Many people think shoes are minor and that the tops and bottoms are important, but shoes are the ones that hold the key to a complete outfit, a genuine style. I now respect people who take the effort to match their shoes with what they’re wearing. If the shoes don’t click with the rest of the clothes, it just feels like an awkward and forced date between two strangers. It never works out. The culprit is almost always a pair of clunky running shoes. Unless you’re out for a run or going for a workout, running shoes should be forbidden to be worn with casual clothing. The concepts already clash in the first place.  And then the fitted shape of the shoe in addition to its often colorful and metallic design makes it even worse when it is seen peeking out of a pair of jeans. A lot of the time, I see a very nicely paired and unique style of clothing on someone but when I reach the funky shoes I cringe a bit and then sigh in disappointment. What a shame.

Once when I was getting onto the metro, a sign on the inside displayed a set of cell phone etiquette guidelines and was followed by this statement at the bottom: “Good citizens create a happy atmosphere on the metro.” The metro is far from happy. Miles and miles away. I wouldn’t say it’s depressing either. It’s just kind of empty. It’s dangerously crowded, but every single person drains out their thoughts and succumbs their hollow minds to the MRT syndrome. It’s a kind of emotionless paradise where all we need to do is wait. It’s actually kind of nice traveling one hour to and from work. I have two hours of escape from life for shoe-watching. Who, I ask, would ever complain about something like that? It can’t get better than that.

The campus was still quiet. It was half an hour before people would start streaming in. The buildings were lifeless and cold but the heat of the sun shone down painfully on my exposed skin. Carrying my checkered Jansport backpack and wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and black converse shoes, I felt utterly out of place. I wasn’t sure if I felt more like an American or like an over-priviliged spoiled brat as I blindly navigated the large campus trying to find the right building.

When the other researchers saw me, I could feel their judgment immediately. Arrogant ABC. She must be Taiwanese but she’ll claim she’s American. When my Chinese spilled clumsily out of my mouth, it didn’t help much. I knew it would take some time before I would get the opportunity to break their first impression and share my 10 minute intro to my life. I find it amazing that even though I have lived in Taiwan all my life, I still can’t speak Mandarin as fluently as I would like to. I find myself unable to embrace the nuances of the language, so much so that I find myself reluctant to speak. During one of the institute meetings where all the labs gather to watch a presentation by one of the researchers, I couldn’t believe what I saw. All the students are required to deliver their presentations in English. Naturally, their English was heavily accented but they were able to speak correctly for the most part. Plus they were presenting some esoteric scientific concept. If I were required to present in Mandarin I think I would die. What’s interesting though is that if I had to present in Spanish, it definitely wouldn’t be a problem. So I can listen to Mandarin very well but can’t explain without tripping what my experience in America is like. But I can write analytical essays and speak fluently in Spanish. I wish I didn’t have these deficiencies in the languages I have acquired so far because they inevitably create a barrier between the relationships I really want to form. Even though the friendships I’ve made in the lab have been awesome so far, it’s been so slow and extremely difficult to express myself behind a generalized Chinese American exterior.

To be honest, it was actually more of a culture shock to be thrown into a completely Taiwanese environment than moving to the US for college. All my life, I have been immersed in a rich American culture having studied at an American school, so it wasn’t “shocking” at all when I got to the US where everyone was American and privileged. It was more just adaptation to the different lifestyle that college brings. In my lab, all the researchers have never visited the US. Some have never even traveled outside of Taiwan. Some are married and have kids. I’ve never felt so physically and intellectually young…and spoiled. I was definitely not expecting so many clashes from all these different perspectives. Culture. Economic status. Age. Language. But I’m sure science will bring us all together. That is, if I ever catch up with all the esoteric scientific concepts they have been trying to explain to me in Mandarin.

I would run thousands of miles to be back home right now. If only the ocean didn’t separate us.
Sometimes I wish I could just smuggle myself in a Fedex envelope and ship myself internationally back home. Overnight shipping. By morning, I would be waiting on the security desk. My mom would go down and sign for the envelope. She would open it. I’d give her a hug and snuggle into bed and sleep. What a dream.

I lifted myself up and slowly twisted my arm around. Right below my elbow was an unsightly mixture of pebbles and blood. The gravel path had completely scraped the skin off. The blood was seeping slowly out of the parallel cuts made by the rocks to form a uniform red patch. I looked at it closely and saw the different layers of skin that had been cut up. They were clearly visible under the bright afternoon sun. Bright red. But scar tissue will eventually replace the blood. A scar will gradually inhabit the scrape, covering up what used to be normal. A painful reminder of how fragile human lives are.

Our lives are continually scraped open by the sharp edges of conflict. Layer after layer of skin is peeled back as we observe the malfunctioning muscles and tendons of others and of ourselves. All our inner workings, our most hidden secrets are revealed. Painfully, we watch others as they shed the blood of their actions and beliefs but we can do nothing but wait for the scar tissue to form and the scar to heal. Physical abrasions. Abrasions to the heart. They all expose our fragility. But  all we need is some antibiotics, a few bandages, and a little patience. Our broken selves will heal themselves eventually. Just wait.

I want my Einstein bagels back. Companion bagels suck.

I have come to realize that over time my writing has become more and more like lists of complaints. And every sentence starts with “I”. Either I have lost my ability to express myself in a more sophisticated way or I am selfish as heck. Looking back at my previous posts, I have to admit I sound like a self-centered whiney kid trying to make life more dramatic than it is. Set myself on fire? Seriously? Sometimes I really take life way too metaphorically and everything becomes a symbol of everything. My thoughts start to tend toward constant superstition (e.g. “It’s raining. I’m going to fail the exam today.”) Note that my superstitions are always related to academics.

Talking of getting sick, I am actually physically sick now (cue in superstitious logic). It’s so interesting watching my own body malfunction. My nose is congested and I can hardly breathe. My lungs itch like crazy. But there’s no way to relieve the itch so I just have to cough it out. My head feels like a water balloon that is so filled up that one prick will make it explode. Having this virus feels like a prison you have no way of escaping. Just gotta swim in that virus until you conquer it. It’s also equally interesting to observe my defensive reaction when people say I don’t look sick. It’s like I want sympathy or something. If I really am sick, why the need to be so defensive?

Talking of lungs itching, I just read an article about a study that uncovered the secret to how scratching relieves itch. It’s interesting how people have managed to devise some of the most miraculous operations to fix messed up people, sequenced the entire human genome, delved into quantum mechanics, sent a lot of stuff outside of earth’s atmosphere, nuked so many places on earth, invented Google Maps…etc. and yet we have no idea why we scratch the mosquito bite until it bleeds. And when we do find out, we can always count on it being so scientifically complicated (ie “Spinothalamic tract (STT) neurons respond to itch-producing agents and transmit pruritic information to the brain. We observed that scratching the cutaneous receptive field of primate STT neurons produced inhibition during histamine-evoked activity but not during spontaneous activity or activity evoked by a painful stimulus, suggesting that scratching inhibits the transmission of itch in the spinal cord in a state-dependent manner” nature) that we realize we really don’t care what’s going on when we scratch a bite anymore.

The weather is extremely extreme. One day it’s warm enough to wear t-shirts and shorts and the next day it snows. And it’s supposed to be spring. Did I hear you say that’s weird? But how can it be weird when we humans aren’t faring too well in our own floundering economic state? I think there’s a direct correlation.

I miss home a lot. Sometimes I am just sick of watching time pass by so quickly. I cannot bear the thought of people changing. I am bitter for petty things. Extremely cruel and unnatural judgment runs through my head when things don’t go my way. I push away suffering and dwell on the comfortable. I hate myself for being so selfish. I despise my tired state. Light up. I need to be put on fire. Ablaze.

I am trapped by the sharp edges of my application. I have drained my whole life into these thin sheets of paper. I have drowned it with my desire and passion, filled it with black ink and perfectionism. I dissected my mind and carefully put on display the viscera of my thoughts. Each and every organ a vital part without which my identity would die. The heart is pumping slowly and steadily within these superficial forms, hidden between the dreams of thousands of other people. Waiting.

I want to scream and shout realizing the weight of this decision. I am the one! But my voice is muffled and muted. After all, to them, I only exist as an ID number. A name with no face. A girl with a passion. A passion with no mind.
Please let me in. Please keep me alive.

7:45 AM. She’s late again and her roommate is pissed. Again. Fifteen more minutes of sleep means fifteen less minutes of bathroom time for her roommate. She jerks out of bed, runs toward the bathroom and rushes through her usual morning routine in half the usual time. As her heart pumps harder, and her consciousness starts to catch up with her awaken state, the day before her starts to form in her head. Colors rush in to fill the images of the campus, images of herself walking to the library, images of her studying. And then the dark ink of unfinished problems starts to seep into the vulnerable fibers of the day. The colors are distorted and the tension created by the clash between light and dark deepens the perpetual anxiety she feels. The upcoming chemistry exam is no longer just an exam. It is the key to her parents’ hearts. Her performance in Spanish class no longer expresses her genuine interest. It determines her ability to communicate. Lunch is no longer lunch. It is composed of the completion of unfinished homework, visits to the office hours of professors, studying, sleep. Academics is no longer anything but a war to outdo the system of the school curriculum. Life is no longer life but an endless string of complications.
8:30 AM. She grabs her bag, shoves her earphones into her ears and starts the trek to the DUC. Music rushes through her head. Everyday, the ten-minute walk is her catharsis. The music submerges everything below the realm of thought and there’s nothing else but music.
8:40 AM. Taking one earphone out, she walks into the cafe and joins the short line of students. Same people, same time, same order: plain bagel, small coffee. She sits down alone at one of the tables and stares blankly at the silent news on TV as she takes a bite of her bagel. Problems everywhere. Isolated in her own little world, the debris of her broken world start to surface once again and embraces her so completely that she doesn’t notice when he sits down beside her.
Hey.
Suddenly her world reverses back into the transparent quotidian light as she realizes his presence. Two routine worlds have clashed to form the unexpected. Students pass them by, continuing on with their disordered lives. He talks as she listens.
And for a moment. An ephemeral moment of eternity. He takes her mind off the chaos she will enter in less than ten minutes.