As far back as I can remember into childhood I was fascinated by Chinese dragons, mandarins with long moustaches and hands hidden in voluminous sleeves, and pretty girls in kimonos. I felt that I belonged in their world. I even used to walk around with my hands tucked into the opposite sleeves. It seemed the most natural thing to do.
And all through my subsequent life I’ve had frustratingly fleeting glimpses of somewhere in China. They’re too hazy to be called visions, but I know them to be in China. There’s something about the texture of the air that is undeniably Chinese. The only ‘solid’ one is of a ramshackle, wooden building – maybe a shop, or at least a place where some form of business is carried on. I feel as though it’s my reason for being there. It’s cold outside, and inside the room is lit by a single oil lamp hanging from the centre of the wooden rafters. The light is yellow and dingy.
And here’s a little story. Twenty four years ago this month I moved to a house in a district I wasn’t familiar with. To save cooking after the rigours of the move, I decided to go to the local fish and chip shop. I’d never been there before.
The shop was empty, and yet I felt that I had walked into old China. I looked around for clues. There weren’t any; it was just like any other English fish and chip shop. But then the proprietor walked through from the back. He was Chinese, and he said to me ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.’ I know I should have asked him what he meant, since we’d never met. I didn’t because the question felt redundant. Somehow I knew what he meant, I’d just forgotten.
I find that sort of thing intriguing.
2 comments:
That is intriguing! Maybe you were Chinese in another life, Jeff. How cool would that be? Except I wonder what made you turn Brit...?
Paying off bad karma?
Post a Comment