A Mingong Morning

This morning the rusted scaffolding that had been clanging and crunching on the pavement, manipulated by the gloved and calloused hands of migrants workers as they assembled the hulking trellis to scale the side of my building, reached its first pinnacle of construction. With the early hour came the skull splitting, sonorous sound of drilling into brick, that plangent drone of perennial construction that rocks across the middle kingdom, and bores a maelstrom into the temporal lobe of sleeping fools to rock them from their incumbent domains of sleep. Good morning Beijing.


Inscriptions of two and three wheels in Qianmen

The other day, a jaunt, a stroll, an aimless meandering through the lower hutongs of Qianmen, a Pekinese dérive from one microclimate to another, propelled by an uncertain impetus later framed by the symbol B-I-C-Y-C-L-E. Unsure at first of a theme I shortly found myself directed by the derelict, the discarded or neglected, the accumulating dust, the frames and wheels. Here are a few of the creatures I came across. Perhaps they have a story and a resonance, for they are denizens of Beijing’s history.