Circus at the Center of the World

“Zzzzzrrrrrr…..whhhhhhrrrrrr….zzzzzzrrrrrr….whrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..” If I close my eyes and listen to the sound, I might think that I’m listening to a classroom full of hornets having a noisy conversation before the queen bee arrives to give a lecture. My eyes are not closed. They’re open and aware of everything around me. The buzzing and whirring sound comes from a diabolo^W, many diabolos in fact. There are about 10 elderly men and women practicing their diabolo techniques in Yuan Da Du Park, one of my favorite places in Beijing. They come here everyday at about 3 to 3:30 to practice and chat with one another. They come year round, riding their bicycles filled with diabolos, gadgets and toys that they play with to enjoy their afternoons of retirement together. Today I am the first one to arrive, waiting for the cast of characters to make their entrance.

The diabolo is a kind of juggling prop that has evolved from the Chinese yo-yo. I have seen diabolos in America, but if someone were to ask me, “do you know where I can get a diabolo?” I would reply with only a blank stare. We just don’t go around saying the word, “diabolo,” very often. A diabolo is quite simple in design, consisting of two sticks connected by a long string at the end. The player uses these sticks and string to spin and balance a kind of spool. There are a variety of tricks one can do with a diabolo, most of them too complex for my brain to have a clear concept of how they work. The basics are easy enough; mastering the diabolo can take some time, however. The whirring sound comes from the diabolo spinning, causing air to rush through it.The first time I saw the diabolo I knew I wanted to learn it, and I wanted to know the people who played it. They just looked so smooth and natural out there. All of these old folks in the park “playing” with each other like schoolchildren. It seemed so healthy and harmonious. I wanted to join them. They looked like they were good people to know. I thoroughly enjoy taking time to talk with senior citizens in China. China has a mandatory retirement age, 60 years old for men and 55 years old for women (sometimes 50 years old). Most of the people I see on the diabolo grounds still have the ability to work, maybe even the desire to work. However, they cannot work legally in China based on the policy. As with most rules and laws in China, there must certainly be exceptions and places where it is bent to those in power. For the most part, however, most people must cease working in order to make room for the vast numbers of youthful job applicants. When I talk with old folks in China I feel at ease. These guys aren’t after anything. They don’t have any ulterior motives. They aren’t after my money. They’ve had their day, and now they just want to enjoy their golden years. Spending time with the elderly is like a breath of fresh air to me. Sometimes life in China can seem rushed and hectic amidst the hordes of humanity and the honking automobiles, the markets teaming with their odors and shouts. Having a conversation joking around with an old man or woman can give me the same sense of relaxation that getting away from the city to climb a mountain can give me. I gain an entirely new perspective from these old friends. Life slows down and everything seems so simple to me. My worries disappear.

Curtain Up:

The Entertainer

The Entertainer likes playing to a crowd. As with most Chinese, the color of his eyes is brown. But when I see him smile and hear him sing I swear the only color I see is twinkling blue. When he is deep in thought his cheeks hang down from his face like a bulldog’s jowls, but when he smiles and sings he prances around like a schoolboy taunting his peers. His diabolo technique is not the most advanced of the group, but he definitely has some special tricks up his sleeves. He usually starts out the day with a durable plastic diabolo that he likes to toss as high into the air as possible with his sticks. He almost always catches it on its suicide descent back down to the earth. He has attached a small apparatus on the bottom of one of his sticks to which he can balance the spinning diabolo on. For this trick he uses a heavy-duty diabolo. He brings out the big guns. Tossing the diabolo into the air, he catches it, and balances it with perfection on his stick. After it’s securely balanced and spinning, he walks one lap around the perimeter of the diabolo grounds, singing a children’s song. Then he turns to me and gives me a curtain call bow. I applaud his performance. On some days he brings along his bullwhip which he has made himself. Swinging the whip over his head, he cracks it “WH-CRACK!”, making heads turn and birds fly. Our conversations are usually lighthearted. He asked me once, “in America, hugs are common, right?” I told him they were. Then I promised that every time we meet I would start by embracing him. Now I hug him every time I see him. Despite his 71 years, he seems eager to learn and ask questions. He talks about how “we all love peace,” and I can see that he enjoys reaching out to me, even if it is through his bullwhip.

Marlborough Man

Marlborough Man is a man’s man. As the name suggests, Marlborough Man likes his cigarettes. I rarely see him spinning the diabolo or cracking his whip (he has one, too) without a cigarette in his mouth. Not of big stature, his always baggy jeans are constantly on the verge of falling off of his wiry legs. His voice is gruff, and it booms in kind of a drunken slur whenever he talks, his cigarette defying the laws of gravity by somehow staying in his mouth. His smile is infectious and reminds me somehow of the gigantic tortoise that is a living island in “The Never Ending Story.” There’s a sinister, devilish, and playful quality about his face all at the same time. Something about his teaching methods for learning the diabolo always cracks me up. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He just seems so frustrated whenever he tries to teach me a new move, calling me names and threatening to hit my hand or ass should I make a mistake. “You’re still not doing it right!” “You’re cheating!” “I’m going to whack you in the ass!” Sometimes I bring my Korean friend, Min Zhi, to join me. She likes learning how to use the diabolo as well. Once, when she made a mistake, I joked that he should hit her. He just laughed and replied, “she’s only a girl now, we have to wait until she’s a woman…then we can hit her.” I know for a fact that he was joking. It’s the kind of joke you’d never hear back in the States. I once saw Marlborough Man use 5 diabolos at the same time.

The Smooth Scholar

When the Smooth Scholar arrives he doesn’t immediately rush to the diabolo grounds. He brings with him a large writing tool that he uses to exercise his calligraphy. The object is about 3 or 4 feet in length and looks like a gigantic brush. At one end there is a sponge. In the middle of the writing tool there is a plastic bottle that can be filled with water. If he presses the sponge to the pavement, it squeezes out water for him to “write” on the sidewalk with; thus making the tool seem like one large pen. He practices his writing strokes in this manner. I have seen these types of writing tools for purchase in other parks. It’s an environmentally safe way to practice one’s penmanship. After about 30 minutes of sidewalk calligraphy, the Smooth Scholar comes over and joins in with the diabolo. He is an excellent teacher, slowing down every motion for me to watch carefully. He gives me just the right amount of encouragement: “great job,” “great improvement.” He has a very different technique than Marlborough Man’s high blood pressure pace. His is all about being smooth, natural, and with finesse-like spreading the frosting on a cake. Every movement he makes is done with such ease. He writes an essay with each turn of the diabolo.

These are only three of the many cast of characters in the Diabolo Grounds Variety Show. I could go on at length to describe the many others who have made an impression on me. Each one of them delights me in a different way, and I always come away from every session with juicy bits of new knowledge, Chinese jokes, and a greater sense of myself as a lucky youth surrounded by wisdom. It’s not a very big area, but it holds a space deep in my heart. I love the feeling when I am out there, joking with them, trying to balance my diabolo and Chinese. I bring along my notebook and have them jot down new expressions that I think are interesting or useful. We talk about all sorts of things-politics, religion, friends, love-no topic is off limits. We may have different opinions, but we’re all friends here. No one is going to judge anyone; no one wants anything; no one is asking for any favors. We just come here to take some time to enjoy life together. The diabolo is an excuse. When we run out of things to say, we go back to spinning them. I look down at mine and try to get it going. It wobbles back and forth, looking for its own rhythm, unbalanced. These things need to spin with some speed in order to emit the buzzing noise. Slowly, it starts to smooth itself out, finding a rhythm, almost phasing itself into another state of being. It has a mind of its own. I feel entranced, almost hypnotized by the sound that comes out. I am at the center of the universe, inside of its buzzing hum, the walls of reality slowly starting to peel away. Everything around me disappears and I hear only the buzz of the diabolo. I can’t even remember where I am. I don’t think about anything else.

” Zzzzzrrrrrr…..whhhhhhrrrrrr….zzzzzzrrrrrr….whrrrrrrrrrrrrr….

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