i heart panda

For most of Panda’s life, the little black-and-white bear indeed also viewed the world in black-and-white.  In the early years, Panda worried that having such a colorless perspective was in fact restricting Panda from a true representation of reality, but the often perplexed bear resolved that it would be harder to be confused this way.

For example, on a childhood school trip to the planetarium when everyone ran into the alley behind the parking lot Panda was the first to identify an albino-panda-snake slithering over the harsh earth.

“Albino-panda-snake!” Panda shrieked and scared it away, while the other children were still staring, befuddled and slow, at the dangerous creature.

There were many times in the little bear’s life when the quick, precise naming of things helped save school children and later adult colleagues from harm:

Take threats like the rabid teeth of the dog-panda, or the fierce trampling hooves of the horse-panda, or the deadly hip-fattening properties of the panda-cookie:

Or perhaps the best case of how beautiful and terribly dramatic living in a black-and-white world can be is witnessed in the movie Gaslight, which Panda very much adores and often watches before bed so that Ingrid Bergman and Angela Lansbury may enter the chilly bamboo fields of Panda’s dreams wearing telltale dresses and fancy gloves.

But alas, Panda cannot deny that a sad gnawing feeling creeps up from time to time.

Am I not seeing the full spectrum of the rainbow, which perhaps may be the world’s greatest wonder?   Panda wrestles with this crisis more than you know.

Everyone was always telling Panda rainbows are not that special, but Panda knows this is not true: For why wish upon one, then?  Why not just wish upon a glass of milk or a tin full of tar?

The other evening, Panda pondered these very questions as the sky darkened and the stars grew brighter and sleep drew Panda’s paw to Panda’s side.

And indeed it was during a dream of a rainbow when first appeared Nite Lemon, the neon llama, who squeezed out between the yellow and green arches.

“Hello Panda!”

“It’s Nite Lemon, my trusty nightlight,” Panda thought silently in his dream.  “Except he is so big and strange.”

Nite Lemon only nodded.

And just then the electrifying yellow and green stripes of Nite Lemon’s sweater made Panda’s eyes pinch into stars.

For what is this?  Color?  Born out of a wondrous rainbow?  Why and for how long? 

Panda was so excited.

What does it mean, Panda thought, to suddenly see color?  Is it only for beauty’s sake, or will it help answer larger questions like…is Panda truly in love with Vincent D’Onofrio?  And if Panda were dating Vincent D’Onofrio but happened to trip onto Steve Buscemi’s lap at a party, would the little bear suddenly have a change of heart?  And other questions: Panda currently disapproves of spring, for attached to the season of flower-bloomings are horrid allergy attacks and bee stings, and furthermore, the temperature is pleasant only some of the time, and is rainy and cold for the remaining of the time (but you never know when).  Panda hates uncertainty.

And pertaining to uncertainty, will color now confuse Panda? Will the little bear fail at naming things?

Nite Lemon said he did not know, but in reality, Nite Lemon did know.

“Might you please name me this, Sir?” the neon llama said, and clicked his hooves, and up came this picture.

“Albino-panda snake!” said, Panda.

“Dog-Panda!”

“Horse-Panda!”

Whew.

By the end of the dream Panda and Nite Lemon were sharing a panda-cookie.

When Panda woke up, Panda was relieved to find the llama securely plugged into the wall.

Panda wiped a drop of sweat off a thick brow.

The little bear was overjoyed, for although Panda was no longer dreaming there were rainbows everywhere.

“Thank you Night Lemon!  You are truly my friend.”

Best Samurai Movie.  Ever.  Panda willing to be 14th assassin.

What is spring?  Is it not the season between winter and summer?  Does it not arrive when earth’s orbit reaches such a degree so that the North Pole points towards the sun and the sun too is at the midpoint in the sky?  More importantly, is it not the loveliest of seasons, Panda’s favorite to be exact, when the dizzying sensations caused by fragrant flower-bloomings overwhelm Panda so that Panda can barely distinguish between cherry blossom tinted daydreams and drowsy cotton-candy night dreams?

Was not the first day of Spring 2011, March 20^th – more than one whole month ago?

For where are the flower-bloomings occurring?

Not outside Panda’s dark window—that’s for sure—no, not outside this irritatingly dusty Brooklyn window, beyond which a cold, gritty evening mocks the little white bear’s black spots.

Panda paces in last year’s slippers.  Panda contemplates buying new slippers, but why turn over a new leaf when new leaves do not promise to grow?

Sigh.  And what of other emotions?  Thinks, Panda.

Panda has not been keeping up with this diary for nearly a year and a half, during which time Panda has been meditating and learning to levitate.  Nothing of obvious importance has come of this precious practice – meaning, no answers, and quite the opposite, only an endless list of questions Panda cannot reconcile about Panda’s life.

For instance, is Panda in love with Vincent D’Onofrio?

How many times is it natural for a Panda to watch the brilliant, and completely overlooked film, Staten Island: Little New York, in which Vincent D’Onofrio wears a fancy suit and the kind of sunglasses Panda would die to see Panda’s own reflection in—because surely that would only happen if the movie star himself were staring straight at the knock-kneed panda bear.

But what would I say?  Panda ponders, and then shakes.  Ugh!  This is not a pleasant spring dream at all!

A garbage truck noisily proceeds down Panda’s street.  Panda moves away from the window, thoroughly annoyed because the bee sting on Panda’s swollen nose is now again flaring up.

Brooklyn, you fail me!  Perhaps, spring is everywhere but here.  Could such a phenomena be true?  Panda thought, scratching a patch of matted fur behind Panda’s ear.

But of course, this is yet another question that will have no answer.  Not for Panda.  Not on this confusing night.

Nobuhiko Obayashi’s Hausu

After an unusually long hibernation that lasted nearly a year and a quarter, Panda awoke not to what should have been a soft, gentle song calling a quietly sleeping bear to a fall morning in Brooklyn, but rather unfortunately to a tornado of evil doings caused by Snowflake, the white Japanese cat in Hausu, who had invaded Panda’s latest dream.

Panda disapproves!

Snowflake! You dreadful cat, Panda gruffed, holding Panda’s paw against a heart beating much too fast. What a poor choice for a movie before bed!

Soon enough, Panda slipped on Panda’s robe and slippers, the soft fabrics needed to cushion the little endangered bear from the modern word, and shuffled across the apartment. Panda picked up the DVD which layed on the floor alongside the remains of a Capri Sun, the last snack drink before the natural weariness of hibernation had descended upon Panda unawares.

This is indeed all too much. Panda frowned and glanced again at the awful Snowflake and the swirling faces of the Japanese girls splashed on the DVD cover. The black patches of Panda’s eyes pinched into stars—for the displaced white-and-black bear was confused! Panda found Nobuhiko Obayashi’s cult classic horrific, yet strangely satisfying in a psychodelic way. How could this be? Shall I no longer know what I like or dislike? Hausu!

Panda slipped the DVD back onto a shelf which Panda had labeled “Fine & Rare Horror Flicks” and tossed the over-ripe Capri Sun out the window, for Panda was still groggy from the psychological tail-end of the state of hibernation (and would later regret committing this unmistakable act of littering). After pausing to enjoy the southward flight of a flock of birds from the window, Panda sat at Panda’s desk.

As Panda held a fountain pen over a calendar to mark a grand “X” on today’s date, Panda shook! Could it be possible that Panda woke exactly one week before Panda’s most disdained holiday, Halloween? Indeed it was true. Panda slumped in the squeaky IKEA chair and sighed. Was Panda giving into the suspicion and remorse of being cursed? For what do the split-feelings over Hausu mean?

No! I shall not give in! Panda recalled Panda’s once vigorous study of sword fighting and the chasing away of bad spirits with a deeply meditative pounding of the gord.

Panda drew the glowing red eyes of the deceptively cute fluffy cat with the fountain pen, no longer concerned whether Snowflake was friend or foe.  Panda’s skills will keep Panda safe.

It is also against Panda’s nature to hold a grudge.

When Panda spied this video during the afternoon hours of Panda’s boring day job on Wednesday, “hump day” as they say in the lunch room of the global corporation, Panda’s sleepy eyes widened just a bit as Panda continued to slurp a Venti Java Chip Frappuccino and stare at the screen. 

Train Pushers?  Really?  Panda thought, lowering the volume on a loathsome PC. That’s what New York needs!  Then I would get to work on time just like those who live in the LAND OF THE RISING SUN!

Could it be true?  That the marvelous country of Japan – the birthplace of the Casio watch and all those fancy pencil boxes Panda so enjoyed with their secret compartments that sprung out holding the most precious of tweezers and erasers and tiny scissors – would indeed employ watchful citizens as official “train pushers” to ensure that each person, large or small, has the equal chance of getting squished into a train car and shuttled to work on time.

Panda clicked open an Excel spreadsheet and glanced at the clock.  No amount of office tedium mattered anymore, not as long as there are train pushers in Japan.  Not as long as there is a place where Panda could someday move to and get a job that will allow Panda to wear a cool uniform and really help people.

Even though it was a hot and muggy day yesterday, Panda was resolved to stop lazying about in Panda’s nicely air conditioned apartment with Marcy the cat.  At 2 O’ clock Panda squished into a pair of classic Vans slip-ons, finished off the last drop of a 5-Hour Energy drink, and bounced down the steps of Panda’s Brooklyn brownstone and hopped onto the F train into Manhattan. 

Panda stared at the subway map bolted to the train wall and decided to get off in Chelsea and visit some art galleries. 

Before doing anything productive, Panda first stopped at F&B, a European Street Food joint, and for some strange reason immediately felt a heavy weight when bitting into a sausage roll.  Panda missed the refreshing taste of tender bamboo shoots once enjoyed daily in southwestern Sichuan province.  

You’re stronger than that, Panda said outloud, ignoring the short-order cook who shifted his hairnet and squinted at Panda from the deep fryer. Put on your mental cap of steel and wipe that tear from your eye!  New York is a tough city, but Communism was way worse.

Because of the late hour of when Panda actually left the apartment, most galleries were closing or closed.  But Panda hit the honey pot at 545 W. 25th Street where China Square Gallery was openned on the 8th floor!

There Panda was delighted to discover the work of artist Zhang Peng whose two photographs made Panda miss home, as well as the days when Panda used to draw the cartoon strip for the highschool newspaper.  China Square also featured the sculptures of Liao Yibai which reminded Panda of his best friend and pet from Sichuan province.  The gallery representative, Zoe, was very sympathetic to Panda’s nostalgic woes, and Panda appreciated the free catalogue and an invitation to next Thursday’s openning of a new show Zoe offered. I will be there!  What a great day indeed! Panda exclaimed.

Feeling emboldened by the wonderful experience at China Square, Panda headed over to Chinese Contemporary, 535 W 24th Street, and was futher entrigued by artists Xue Song and Wang Jin, whose work made Panda want to run home and read a lot of magazines with a kind of disgust and overwhelmingness and consider a new wardrobe made of PVC and fishing line.

The last stop, because by 5 O’ clock the doors were locked gallery after galley no matter how hard Panda struggled with the knobs, Panda stumbled into a place Panda can’t remember now.  But there, Panda found a cacoon sculpture that also reminded Panda of home, actually not quite the misty forest of southwestern Sichuan province but the home Panda dreams about for Panda’s fantasy of death is being lost in space in a white cacoon made of yarn.

Last night before going to bed after a long day at work, Panda’s warm glass of milk almost shook out of Panda’s paw when Panda’s last-minute websurfing landed on a video of the “Montauk Monster”

Really?  I’m not alone? Is what Panda first thought, gasping at the images of a bloated decomposing body of something that resembles Al Gore’s reoccurring man-bear-pig on South Park except for the fact that the monster is laying on its side and dead.  During a moment of chagrin, feeling a kinship with the pale mysterious creature for Panda understands being constantly misunderstood, Panda’s cheeks burned with anger when speculations from ridiculous amateurs spewed forth from the computer over the identity of the man-bear-pig look-a-like – “a turtle without its shell”… “a dead dog”… “a bloated pig”… “a whale fetus” (although this guess secretly intrigued Panda before Panda pushed the thought away)… “a gargoyle”? Come on PEOPLE how undignified!

Panda disapproves!  Panda mostly disapproves because the interview posted on Plumb TV with Rachel, Courtney, and Jenna, the officially recognized photographers of the Montauk Monster, is unfair.  Why should these all-around average Hamptonites be given all the credit for the golden discovery when in fact it was “a quartet of sun-worshipers from western Suffolk and New York City” who first discovered the washed-up carcass?

“It looked like nothing I’d ever seen before,” said Ryan O’Shea, of Brooklyn [One of the sun-worshipers]. “It looked like it died angry.”

Instead of listening to Rachel, Courtney, and Jenna, Panda reflected on the pearl of wisdom in sun-worshipper Ryan O’Shea’s words.

Many will sadly die angry.  But it can be avoided.  Panda did eventually manage to go to bed and dream of sugar plums and fairies (the wonderful visual mainstays of China’s Feudal Period), but it was hard. 

Panda is awake this morning.  Panda just rubbed one black eye, still mad at the various injustices unearthed by the poor Montauk Monster that may ruin Panda’s sleep later in the afternoon.