Everything is beautiful.

A friend: 

I really like Seattle's landscape -- the trees and the hills and the mountains and the *lists on and on*
It's really prettyyyyy ~

and just like that I fell in love with a picture of Seattle. That wasn't good description; quaint but vague, adoring but kind of nothing, yet its enough for me to feel the summer air. Did I mention that I really like air? I love air. Air is the best.

Today I raced the sunset, even though my quads still don't allow me to squat without making an inhumane face. I was going to run 2.5 miles because sunset was reported to be 8:09, and it was, well, 8:09, and I thought I was afraid of the dark. But heck to the no. Heck no. One step under the paper clouds scattered around the setting candlelight fire bent my breath into the words "how good is God." How good is God. A glimpse of the sky against the wind's kisses really, really psyched up my legs. I ran so fast, gnats died on my face on impact. I found out when I looked in the mirror before my shower. So lovely, I know. Half racing the sun, soaking in the colors and swallowing too many gnats, half beating the darkness, rubbing off the closing navy. That's beautiful.

What else is beautiful. The beating sun in the saran wrap humidity. Cuddly winds. Tear drop rain and waterfall thunder. Dancing orange mist in the vanilla sunset. Purple Popsicle skies and the sheriff's whistles of birds. The morning scent of twilight dew and the tickle of the very, very wasteful sprinklers (do you know how much fresh water we waste on making our lawns look pretty? Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-enGOMQgdvg). Woodchips that bend under the weight of a bound and   sun scattered fields hidden behind the really, kind of huggable trees.

And that's just part of summer time.

London 2012

pluck the strings of my heart. I guess.

I'm just watching the rippling muscles and the agonizingly effusive howls and screeches of victory and the burning tears of defeat. World class.

When I watched the Beijing Olympics in 2008, I wanted to be part of the fanatical cries and bitter pain. I wanted someone to kill my body over and over until I became stronger than attractiveness allows. That was my secret dream, to compete for team that I love passionately in thousands of falls and hundreds of scars, losing for years until the great win, wrung out in exhaustion in a heap on the floor, sweat rushing from every pore into my eyes and onto the ground.

I gotta say, for the past two years, I haven't proved that much of myself. I was born to be a student. Bottom heavy torso, zero athletic talent, a shy teammate, and a really good sense for focus. I read books. I didn't think of my body as anything but a vessel to keep me alive so I can study.

Now I hate that life. I hate sitting in one place. I hate reading textbooks and taking notes. I hate that I have to stay in a lump called AP US History and AP Language and Composition, two ridiculous and useless classes that will teach me nothing but to hate it more (its actually not that bad... but I'm in a passionate mood right now). I hate the softness that I could feel in my legs and the easy flabbering of my arms. I hate the mindlessness and passiveness of SATs (I had to mention them somewhere...) and computer programming and the overrated security of desk jobs. I'm sick of doing things so I can money to live comfortably. Who the flip wants to live comfortably? I have very, very high doubts that God wants me to live in a $650,000 house with 4 bathrooms and a kitchen made of stainless steel. Look at the last tab in this blog... money is so superficial. I don't care if it will buy me bubble tea and a pass to the gym every day. I don't care if it will significantly reduce my stress when I'm doing taxes or something else about which America freaks out so selfishly. Dat healthcare. 

All I want to do is run and run on my sore legs and sweat on the dirty green floors of Midwest. My physical patience has been cut short this summer. Even if I happened to like a boy (le gasp...), I wouldn't stay to talk. I can barely stay to talk to my friends on my verge to run for the second time that day. I feel obsessed with the perpetual soreness in my quads and the clench of my knees in every step I lunge. The individual muscles in my forearm are starting to become prominent in hard light and my body is thickening in a way that isn't fat. There's a point where people workout so much that the opposite of supposed effects occur in sleep: sleep quality gets worse. It's worse. I sleep 6 hours a day so I have time to LoL (okay bad excuse) and run and bike and play. They say to exercise for 4% of your day. That's one hour. Screw that. I'm hooked on at least two and approaching four to five. 

Something might be very wrong. I've lost my focus for math, even the challenging problems that I used to love and kind of cherish because of the very limited access I had to them. Because I wasn't good enough, you know. I'm not a fast runner (working on it) and I'm heck to the no not a very good badminton player. I still play stupid shots and drop war until the point is lost. I still smash like a girl (a decent one, but still not manlike yet) and get nervous and angry at the wrong times. Sometimes I fall and throw my racket up too high and drop it like a fool. Sometimes, when I run, I walk because I'm tired and I hate myself. It happens.

You probably don't think I'm that good. From what you've seen, I'm very much a foolish girl with too big dreams and the biggest and most failing try hard ever. If you're one person, you saw a match that I won 21-19 when I should have won 21-0. You saw me barely cut a first place in 5th singles and bleed unnecessarily all over a court on which too many girls were too disgusted to play. If for some reason some guy who may know me stumbles upon this post, you REALLY think I'm an idiot because you have 9 times my testerone and at least three times my muscle mass. One of you owned me in a badminton match (I'm ashamed) and many of you have watched me flail like a worm who's never seen sunlight with a pulled buttocks (right). I had straight legs in the summit of losing the power I spent two months to build and really, my shots were out of wack. I played like a girl. Okay. I sucked. Thank you boys. 

I hate that everyone sees me this way because what I want to be is so far from that image. Its not like my eyes are set on the Olympics or world championships. Heck no. Nationals are the biggest competition at stake right now, and that's still junior nationals, and that only comes after state, which is really already a big dream that everyone will stick their noses up at me for dreaming of. This junior girl who talks too much about running and stomps too much in anger wants to go to state and place top 4. Lolz. 

It might not happen. But it could. You can feel my legs if you want (actally that's weird. If you do, don't say that I blogged about this and told you to, because that makes me look bad). I know and my club knows that my potential is exploding. In your eyes I will be a try hard girl again and again, and this year, I still be that for months and months and months. But I'm not even trying to prove people wrong. If this too-big dream were to happen, I wouldn't scream I told you so. I would probably scream something like GOD IS SO GOOD HE'S SO GOOD HE'S SO GOOD TO ME. OH GOD IS ABLE and then do some fist pumps and bear hug Coach and Stephanie and Ailynna and just fall. I got a try-hard label for a reason... I try hard. I'm not going to give up because my coach will beat me if I do and because he ordered us team shirts that  cost $25. Trust me. I'm not spending very literally 10% of my life just so I can prove some cocky faces wrong.

We're the best team ever. We're going to dominate. Watch for us. 

The funny thing would be if we got pitted against each other because we have really bad seeds.
Then we would smash drill and the winner will still go on to own in the finals. I know it.

Big dreams.

Retreat

I'm really excited.
Apparently the lake is beautiful.
Apparently its the best retreat among the churches.
Apparently the worship music is really good (not apparently, actually. I listened to some... its good.)
Apparently I don't hate myself so I can have patience to understand God.
Apparently I'm not an emotional freak so my heart won't be so hardened in every prayer.
Apparently I have friends now so we're going to grow together and have a good time.
All these expectations. Apparently they're still going to be fulfilled.

Big sidenote:
I love elite team. I have never met people who are so passionate about this sport and so restless about training to win. I have never made friends through a mingling of blood, sweat, and tears (mostly sweat). I have never soaked my clothing through twice and twice again in hours. I have never done really anything for more than 3 hours without wanting to rest, especially not in a gym where the only air conditioning in 96 degree weather comes from a big orange fan. I have never met a coach who was so encouraging and unmovable in his faith in us, despite our you know, feminism, and his ranking as #1 in the US and #47 in the world. I have never wanted to cry during a game or stumbled so unsteadily off the court, gasping for breath in a voice that is too high for my vocal range. I have never felt my legs become so powerful and I have never felt this close to flying. That sounds ridiculous because its just badminton, but that's what we call good footwork. Flying. I definitely have never felt my entire body turn to lead or the genuine hunger that makes me want to eat everything and never be full.

This was my wish two years ago. In some random street in Chicago, I told someone, "I want someone to train me really hard. I want to feel like I'm dying over and over, but I can't stop because my coach will push me until I collapse, but then I'll be REALLY REALLY GOOD and own people. Like those athletes, you know?" Of course I didn't think it would happen. I thought I'd just do amateur math and be a typical know-nothing socially defective girl who ran a lot but not very fast. Little did I know, I didn't even make math team that year and would in 14 long months, realize one of the greatest gifts God has bestowed on my sorry self.

I'm still not really really good. I'm not even really good. Or good, depending on your perspective. But sometimes, dripping puddles of sweat that would gross out any reasonable human being on every corner of the court while finishing 200 sets of footwork does something that makes me love being not that good anyway.

Social Anxiety

Sometimes I swear I have it. Man.
Once upon a time I biked past a group of white boys who turned out to be the Asian guys from my church, but they were balling and all that so I thought I could pass without their notice. But alas no, they noticed, and one idiot called my name, to which I responded by saying hi and immediately taking a 180, biking furiously in the opposite direction. Social anxiety: case in point.
Flustered, they say. Too obvious.

It kind of sucks. The people I've seen get nervous look like fools, giggling like freaks or coming to a standstill in original thoughts and creative commentary. I have a problem pacing my words to come in human pauses and losing my ability to respond with appropriate timing and saliva. The good thing is that I'm usually in a place where I can run away or avoid eye contact. And today I was sweating in 96 degrees so no one was looking at me. Hopefully.

And awkward hands of course. Ever wonder where hands go? Sometimes those extremities are the most regrettable flopping slabs of meat. These occasions are just one of many types of instances that I wish I could have boy hair and walk out the house with one swoop of a finger comb. Remember my post about never finding good pants? True story. That hurts at these times too.

In my case, I just try to ignore all of these things and just be a normal friend, but that's where my diagnosis comes in. If I truly have social anxiety, then I will never be able to help it. I will be stuck at laughing like Phil Wong and flailing for eternity.

Just kidding. I don't have it. I like people... I'm just awkward maybe.

Freedom

Did I already write a post about this? If I did, it probably concerned badminton smashing or trying to get away from some certain eating habits. Maybe about my physics grade. Let's have another go today...

A song to play with fake guitars and off-pitch voices: Freedom is Free.
Except its not. It's actually really expensive with soldiers and life and all those quite valuable things, in addition to a nice 14 trillion something dollar debt which I guess is partly health care's fault. WHICH IS WHY WE SHOULD ALL VOTE OBAMA RIGHT. Vote for him. He's in for the long run, not to make people happy. More on that later. maybe.

My point was supposed to be that the weekend is finally over. For the past year, weekends  have become less and less appealing. Saturdays are full of being in the same house as my family and a temporary release in badminton. Sunday is a lot of driving around with my dad to go to church, drawing, and badminton. Both days are encompassed by set meal times and apportioned bowls of Chinese food that I'm sick of. Even when we have sandwiches or baozi (who's with me here.... I love baozi so much. dat spiced meat) the table is awkward. I'm constantly on alert for nagging about SATs, some shallow complaints about something stupid like SATs, some atrocious manners from the male side, or even my own sickness of everything taking over my body. the usual. you know.

For five mornings and 3 afternoons I will have the house to myself. I can eat whenever and whatever. I can run as long as I want to and go wherever I can. I won't even touch my SATs and watch America's Next Top Model because I actually think it's interesting. I'll do my stats project because I want to, not because someone told me I have to do it to prove my worth. I'll waste time and talk to people and live contrary to the lies China put in my parents' heads. I'm done with that.

I don't want to have to win when I'm no good in the first place.

Today a dear friend (just kidding. he's ok) told me that I'm not that good. It was genuine, but not an accusation. There was no hint that I should be better, but a simple statement. I'm not that good, but I'm enough. It doesn't matter. I'm still a person, a friend, a whatever. a correspondent in a relationship, if you want (not the love kind. gross no.) Yeah. This is the community I belong to. Christ's.

773 Soviet Union Factory

Don't read this if you give less than two cares about historical sites. It's for safe keeping, because I wrote this beautiful essay for MY FAVORITE FUTURE CLASS APUSH and realized it was off topic. 

773 Soviet Union factory, Chengdu, China

Presently known as the Chengdu Eastern Music Park

I went to the Chengdu Eastern Music Park to see a traditional art gallery, not a festival of old men playing harmonicas and Michael Jackson poses frozen in stone. I saw both, along with a solid row of nightclubs, and I had the pleasure of getting a stuffed banana keychain and a shot of excitement when I realized that the visit would also fulfill part of this assignment – and so I began to actually pay attention.

The oversized walkway between two large, industrial-looking buildings held the décor - the wooden duck fountain displays and marble walled boutiques (and clubs) literally do not even scratch the surface of the dormant factory. Behind the quaint shops tower walls covered in graffiti, mainly Marxist propaganda, declaring “UNITY IS STRENGTH.” Suspiciously large pipes and valves crawl up and down the concrete, and a couple steps past them reveal … a refurnished garage.     

The garage is the factory museum, where Soviet history is preserved in a few poster boards and picture frames. The resurrection artists of the area called their project “Reincarnation 2012” and claim (on one of their poster boards) that the construction of the park over the exhausted remains of the factory is like a “phoenix from the ashes.” As any proud Chinese would have written, the people of this republic should be proud to “find the glorious dream and gain strength from the history.” Then again, at least in my experience, direct translations in China have never been entirely accurate.

What actually happened is described in Go China’s and Country Data’s websites. It is true that a dormant factory was transformed into a musical night party scene, but the bigger picture is not in the festive jazz bars. Under China’s First Five Year Plan in the 1950s, a Soviet aid program invested in intensive projects to develop China’s economy. Aid was provided to 156 major industrial projects, mostly directed to furthering production of coal, steel, military equipment, and basic chemicals. Apparently, the 773 Soviet Union factory was one of these projects.

The only things that strike me as worthy of deeming “emotional connections” are the cleanliness of the park and the legitimate art gallery. From my past three visits, I always remembered my motherland as a foggy land with too many people, and hence sanitation and basic hygiene were often lesser priorities than putting food on the table. When I spend the majority of my time in China smelling pee, poo, or stinky tofu, walking into a brand new park is both a pleasant surprise and huge relief. Even the museum-garage is scrubbed clean of rust. Also, for the first time, I viewed entire exhibits of art that had zero contemporary, abstract minimalism to which American museums seem to have a strong attraction. Being exposed to so much art that I always respected and followed made me giddy and appreciative to the disciplines of this country.

But that is as far as my appreciation can go. I might have felt a few sparks of awe that the escalator I lazily mounted might have been a staircase to a captain’s command platform, but I have yet to give many cares for history. I leave that to this class, which I heard could be pretty influential, especially under Mr. Eby’s direction.