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Play in the City 028

Flux Capacitor

My mother decided when directing A Christmas Carol that she was going to make it steampunk. Steampunk is essentially science fiction if it were written by Victorian-era people. Hallmarks include airships, things covered in gears, and unusual mechanics such as limbs. Since A Christmas Carol is set in Victorian times, my mother made Bob Marley an Industrial Revolution inventor and dressed her narrators in hats covered with gears, mechanical arms, aviator clothing, and more. She also gave the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present a time machine, and I was lucky enough to be cast as Present.

I.

Transcription of deeper meaning is so inadequate.  Unalterably uninterestingly incapable of capturing my true intention.  As if pouring out the most important, memorable, inexplicable moments of my life should easily flow from my fingertips onto the page.  Inability halts my progress but so too does my unwillingness to progress, to write down the personal instances of absolute understanding.  These are my spiritual beliefs; this is my religion.  It is not part of a holy book, a scripture written down long ago in the fleeting, ephemeral and already dying past.  It lives and breathes and insists on secrecy.  Because inclusivity would lead to nothing but misunderstanding; Misinterpretation of the profound intensity that permeates a select few of my most treasured memories.

So…no.  I will not be handing over a description of my “ecstasy”, because it would only be judged.  The intention behind the request and reading of my text simply does not matter because there is no such thing as a truly open mind.  Each perception is colored by the myriad of experiences that influence your every living moment.  There is no escape from the inevitable evaluation of my hard-won wisdom.  A biased measurement of the truth of my words as filtered through your inadequate understanding.  The psyche of the reader and the writer simply do not mesh as one might wish them to, and they each struggle vainly to understand and to make themselves understood.

A small stage in a crowded room, containing a piano, a drum set, and two seats; at the moment, those seats are pushed to the back behind a small brass ensemble. The restaurant is full of happy, idly chatting people enjoying their meals, listening to the jazz music; I’m next. My first jazz performance, and my first performance with vocal improvisation; my nerves had been bad all week, terrible all day. More than once my parents assured me that they would not think less of me if I were not to go, if I were too sick to make it, and how pale you look! Even my teacher had said she’d understand- I can only imagine how frail I must have looked, for them all to worry about my first public improvisation. Far too quickly, the ensemble group before me finished; it was just myself, and three instrumentalists I had never seen before in my life. The only one of them I could see was the pianist, and I was absolutely terrified. The song was Autumn Leaves, and I was to sing it straight once through, before improving it through and then singing it a third time. The music started; there was no going back. The first verse went off without a hitch. So did the second. By the third I started to worry again; next I was to begin scatting. Then the pianist caught my eye. I sang a few notes; not the straight melody, but not too far off. Playing it safe. He took the thread and spun it around, playing it back with a new twist; he was improving as well. Emboldened, I took his idea and ran it a little farther; he took it back, and we played tag with the melody throughout.

I have been to many of the traveling Titanic exhibits.  Different museums, different cities, even in different states.  Never before had I had this type of experience.

It was at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia and my family had a membership there so we had the opportunity to go to a special showing of the exhibit before it officially opened the next day.  We got there Friday night to a special reception in the Institute’s atrium, complete with actors and food that would have been served on the boat.  We mingled for a bit and talked to the actors and then it was our time to enter the exhibit.

I stay in the library on Friday night, with my computer. Silence is everywhere, and there is no one else in my eyes. Friday night, the wonderful night, because others take part in parties or play in their room, the library seems so spacious for me. I sip some hot milk and stare at my screen, there are massive codes here. Where is the position of the black ball? How can I move it? Can I try another structure to draw my picture? Why the light cannot turn on for some seconds? Which color is suitable? Is it beautiful my fish? At this moment, I know my spirit is concentrated in those codes. The spirit is so warm and strong to support me to continue my assignment alone in such a night. I do not care how much time I will spend in this work, and how difficult the work is. Time is passing, the milk is cooler. I just sit here silently, tapping on the keyboard. Sometimes people around me whisper to each other, chuckle to their computers or stand up to buy some coffee. The environment is not absolutely silent. But I do not care. I cannot hear anything when I am writing my codes and cannot move my eyesight away from the screen.

"This is much worse than what I thought it would be!" "Why is nobody else on the road?" "But it's actually better if no one is here. A stranger walking behind me would creep me out even more..." "No, this is too scary! I don't want to do this any more..." "Come on, you can do it!" My mind was playing wildly as I was walking alone down the downhill street, beside the stone wall, and below the Benjamin Franklin Bridge on my way to the "17 Border Crossings" performance. Since my printed Google map walking route included walking across the highway, which didn't seem accessible, a nice lady showed me the "real" way to Race Street Pier. Excited for the unknown and playful journey ahead of me and nervous for being alone, I set off my own little adventure, assuming the show was at the Pier and might be outdoor.

Following the lady's instructions, I found walking on a path with nobody around at night was terribly terrifying, especially because the other side of this down-sloping road was a high stone wall separating the highway. A voice was screaming "No" inside of me. But nothing kept me from walking ahead. Finally seeing the big "Race Street Pier" sign, I cheered for the almost end of my "misery". I didn't realize how courageous I was until on my way back to the train station with Tessa and Taylor, when they said "I would definitely go back if I were walking on this street by myself. How did you even do it? "

Pulling at my hair. Peeling the unruly dead skin on my hands. Biting my lips until they are perfectly soaked, perfectly smooth, perfectly bleeding.

A ray of pale white light exposes me. Am I on stage or in a laboratory room being observed and monitored and waiting for an anatomy? Not much of a difference here. I’ll do it myself.

I examine my body.

Female, 18, 5’’3, yellow skin, black hair, black eye. Oh, Asian. What does it mean to be Asian or Chinese? Traditional? Taciturn? Fortune cookies?

Two moles on my shoulder. One on the left, and one on the right. Ah, perfect symmetry! Is symmetry always perfect and harmonious and tranquilizing? I experiment with my brain. Two systematic and logical left brains, or two artistic and creative right brains? Not functioning very well.

My hand passes through my skin, my muscle tissues, my veins, and reaches my heart. Sadly, it’s not perfect. Some spots are darkened and hardened. Cut them out and start fresh.

According to Diane Ackerman, play requires “daring, risk, concentration, the ability to live with uncertainty, a willingness to follow the rules of the game, and a desire for transcendence”, and deep play “starts focusing one’s life and offering ecstatic moments”, is not always pleasant and positive, needs hard work and may not look like play.

Tonight, I am fighting for my own life. For some inexplicable reason, my family is trying to kill me. I run from one hiding place to another in my old house back in Switzerland until being cornered by my father. I launch at him and break his collarbone. I spot a broken window and crawl through it, watching the glass claw me but feeling only a tickle. I fall hard on the ground and melt into it. I fall again on my back and somehow I’m staring at a bunch of dark grapes. Guess I’m in a vineyard. I force myself up and start running through things. Through Westfield tube station in London. Through my mother’s office building and down the Rue de Marché in Geneva at Christmas. Nobody is following me. The gut-shrinking fear keeps me pelting through scene after scene until it settles on a damp country road at midnight. Someone is following me about two strides behind. Without looking back, I know it’s an old ex-boyfriend. I consciously think this is someone I should truly be afraid of. But the primal fear has waned into a sense of urgency to just keep going. We keep running. A pair of headlights light the pavement for us. 

Deep Play

  Play is an activity enjoyed for its own sake, while deep play is the ecstatic form of play, which is a fascinating hallmark of being human. (Ackerman) With my own experience, I state the definition of deep play as a kind of play that not only bring fun, but also express something deep inside the players.

  During most of my playtime, I just have fun—search the Internet, play games or do some sports without think deeply and express anything from my heart. However, when I played hide-and-seek, the common game which seems may not be consider as a deep play, I thought much more than the game itself and did a deep play.

  “Five, four, three, two, one …… I am coming!”

   I still remember that it was my first time to play hide-and –seek with my cousin, a five-years-old boy called Sam. I was a seeker and he was a hider.

  Actually, it was extremely easy for me to find him—he was hidden under the quilt and his back was like a little hill on the bed. Thus, I walked to the bed directly and opened the quilt quickly without any hesitation. I felt proud to be “clever” to find him while he looked a little bit embarrassed and upset. Looking at his bright eyes with depressiveness, I suddenly realized that I had made a mistake. I though of the days my parents played hide-and-seek with me when I was as young as my cousin at that time—

The top of the mountain is shrouded in fog, and I am all alone. My legs ache from the steep hike up, but pride swells in my chest. I’ve hiked 4.5 miles and gone up about 360 meters, mostly for the view, but despite my misty grey surroundings, I’m smiling ear to ear. The experience of walking all alone has given me the chance to really push my own boundaries, both physically and mentally. I set a challenging pace for myself, and spent the duration of the hike alone with my thoughts and the trees that surrounded me.